Learn From It

It's nice to be recognized at a distance.

In your own home town, which in a City such as San Francisco (as if there is another city such as this!), is really just your neighborhood, being known is being alive.

I was speeding down Bernal Hill on the Vespa—a sky-blue and battle-scarred old goat of a machine. My helmet is bright red, a full-head model (and that's saying something for me!), both qualities chosen for safety and nothing else. As I stopped at the modified traffic light at Virginia & Mission, I looked to my left and saw two familiar people pushing a familiar stroller. I suppose they heard something familiar in the sound of the two-stroke engine, or they just happened to turn around at the right time (though I won't call it coincidental: San Francisco blows right past coincidence and into some syncretic sensitivity), but turn they did. Together. And they smiled, and waved. S. & I. are two warm and magnetic personalities. I used to work with S. at a company in downtown San Francisco that was dot-bomb before dot-bomb was cool.

S.'s wife I met through S., long before they were even married, long before they became parents. Parenthood suits them; there's a lucky, lucky kid in that stroller over there, I remember thinking.

Now, when you're waiting for a traffic light, and there's the loud, choked and choking rumble of a two-stroke engine underneath you, and the world's sounds are dulled through Kevlar® and padding, there's no chance for nuance and little time for chatter. Dialog is reduced to stabbing at the basic nature of a friendship and letting history and implication do the heavy lifting.

“Jeff! What have you been up to?” S. yells.

“I'm at Apple now!” I respond with a big, big smile.

“I heard! You are a happy man!”

I nodded my even bigger, even brighter-red head and the light changed.

It's good to have a place in the world; it's good because you know you have the privilege of complete freedom in choosing that place. It's even better when you've chosen well.

In that hometown I grew up in I was, in retrospect, a bit of a paradox: I was fairly popular—popular enough to have become President of my Class—but I lacked, I think, so many of those qualities that both make someone popular and reinforce for the popular person the necessities and values of remaining popular. More simply put (someone write down the date!), I knew that none of the trappings of it were for me. Somewhere Else called.

I discovered a song by Mary Chapin Carpenter some years ago, and there are some lyrics in it I go back to often:

Now I knew girls when I was sixteen
Could make a smart boy stutter, turn a nice boy mean
And the boys made the girls into homecoming queens
Married each other instead of their dreams

Knowing that I was not intending to do as others intended for me with respect to marrying a woman (that would have been like forcing a left-hander to use his right hand) and settling down in a house in that little town, in that little state, surrounded by so many little thoughts, I didn't put the same value on things that others expected me to have. I appreciated the fact that so many people elevated me, but I was more proud of having elevated myself with my own genetic gifts.

I was expected to be beholden for things, but I wasn't. Gifts freely given, and all that stuff. I did not, in retrospect, let them attach strings.

But now? Here? In San Francisco? Home. The Home of my Heart and my Mindshare. Happiness for me is here not because of any laundry list, not because of any empirical for's-and-against's. I am reduced to admitting that I am, that my feelings are, and that's the end of it.

That evening where I was recognized, I was on my way to the other Hood, to the Castro, for a lovely dinner with my ex-boyfriend, Jerry, whom I adore as much as I've adored anyone. Yet another situation for which others would have intended an outcome different from what I chose and what Jerry and I earned.

I wonder how many of the friends I grew up with feel at all trapped by the trappings of lives that their parents and other friends intended for them. Sometimes I wonder how I would have deal with the same. And other times, the sun shines in the sky, the rainbow's end is just around the corner from any street in this City, and I know that I chose this. And I know that it chose me.

Posted by Jeff at 12:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

The story goes that a gay rights bill in Washington State was backed by various heavyweights, including Microsoft Corp. The story also goes that the bill was defeated by a single vote when it finally came up, and the results were due, apparently, in no small part to Microsoft Corp having withdrawn its support of the bill that would have officially banned discrimination based on sexual orientation. That means that as a gay man, if I lived in Washington State, I could no longer exercise my freedom as an American to fire someone's ass because they were one of those nasty breeders*.

Anyhow, Microsoft Corp withdraws its support. The bill fails. People investigate and discover that the Right Rev. Hutcherson—a man who used to sin against Leviticus and get paid for it and is now controls the spiritual lives of his sheep-like followers in a “mega-church” in Redmond—put pressure on Microsoft to back away from its support of the bill, saying, “I told them I was going to give them something to be afraid of Christians about.”

So, beyond the egregious sin of dangling his participle in front of people other than his wife, the Good Reverend clearly no longer needs to wield God as his weapon: now he wields his flocking parishioners.

Having been raised a Catholic, I had little exposure to the Christian Bible, but my favorite parts of it were always those times when Jesus, tired of cajoling, went around threatening friends, Romans and countrymen. Because, as Mark 29:1 states: And Jesus came to them and spake unto them, saying, 'show them the love of my Father, and if that doesn't work, a well-placed threat or two should do the trick.'

* and by breeders, I mean those evil heteros. And by saying 'evil breeder heteros', I'm being sarcastic.

Posted by Jeff at 09:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Prezzie Bush isn't having a very good time of it, lately. The numbers can lie, of course, but generally speaking they can't lie very big. Some of the interesting numbers so far:

• 66% of the public opposes the Republican attempt to change fundamental Senate rules just to suit their agenda...
• ...only 22% support it. That's a three-fold difference.
• 48% (vs 36%) think the Democrats are right to block some of the nominations
• 70% of all Americans think that judges are either too conservative or are just about right...
• ...while only 26% say that judges are too liberal. Is W. inhaling again?
• for privatization of Social Security, in mid-March, the numbers were 56-44 in favor of W's plan. A month later? 51-46 opposed. That's a 15-point loss, chil'ren.

There are a couple of spots where W. is still doing well-ish. The public still thinks he's doing a good job on terror (well, a against terror), but then again, terrorism is no longer the public's number-1 concern. So is it any surprise that there's a giant suckin'-sound with W.'s numbers?

There is one number, however, that's held steady as a rock so far: the number of WMDs found is still a big fat zero. And, apparently, will remain that way because they've finally decided to stop looking.

Posted by Jeff at 11:09 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

This morning I got up a bit early and went to the gym. After being cowed by Louk, a friend and trainer there, and by Frank and others for showing up at the gym every morning to hitch a ride to Apple but not working out, I did it this morning. Just cardio, but I've learned to ramp up when re-starting at the gym.

When I first got there, I saw our friend, James (as in, Sweet Baby James, the beautimous one) he said he'd hug me but he was all sweaty. Where is the downside, I ask you? Anyhow, when I was done with the cardio and got nekkid in the lockerroom with the other minz, there was a line for the shower.

“Guess we'll have to all double up,” I said, smiling.

Before James or any other other guys waiting could speak up—though they were all smiling as well—two shower stalls opened up. James took one, I took the other. Right away, he presses his considerably hot butt against the frosted glass partition and says, “Does this make my ass look fat?”

It was a beautiful moment.

As I was drying off, I looked over at the steam room door and thought, “It'd be nice to take a steam, but there's no time for makin' luuuv” (that was a little joke, friends).

I left the lockeroom, but not before giving James a big hug and smooch. Frank was standing next to Chip, who was on a stationary bike. Chip looked at my t-shirt and said, “'Muir Woods'? Look, Frank, he's the mascot: Stump.”

I love my friends.

No, I really do. And it won't be the promise of better health, a better body, that will get me back to the gym on a regular basis: it's the conviviality of happenstance and good folks.

Posted by Jeff at 09:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

We were sitting at Cafe Commons yesterday having lunch. We both were reading the SF Bay Guardian. I was looking over the voting form for their Best of the Bay annual thing, and Sam was looking over the ads on the backpage. I usually don't look there because it's all just stuff for mixology schools (those ads will lead with “BLOW JOBS”) and sperm banks.

Sam sees one entitled: “Gay sperm donors wanted by lesbians.” In response, he shapes his hand like a phone handset, puts it to his ear:

“Yo. Can I bust it up in ya, or you gonna make me use a cup?”

That's my boy.

Posted by Jeff at 09:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (1)

Today was the day for our fortnightly haircut appointments with Joe the Barber. I love going to Joe's. it anchors the quotidian march of days like going to church on Sunday used to do.

What I really love about going to Joe's is Joe: gifted, twisted, wry, intelligent, sardonic, sarcastic and irreverent as fuck. And very very good at bringing people together. That's the best part of experience. People who are customers, people who are friends, neighbor-hoodies from the Castro, it all keeps the barbershop busy, lively, full of good spirits.

I was sitting in Joe's chair, feeling of a cold straight-razor being dragged across my scalp, mirrors everywhere. Sam was reading a magazine, his haircut already done. Jeff, the other barber giving a high-and-tight to a bisexual lesbian with a face full of piercings while her lover, a man called Lance (who I believe used to be a woman) sat near Sam. Another man, another Lance, was there just to be there.

We were talking about Nazi's and Catholics. You know, typical shootin'-the-shit kind of stuff. And the Pope. And whether he was a Nazi, and methodology aside, whether their goals were much different to the goals of the Vatican. I'm not saying that I believe the Catholics are Nazi's, or even that Benny is a Nazi. It's about purity, about identity, about ascendancy.

But in the end, it didn't matter what was being discussed. It was the fact that everyone didn't know everyone and yet an involved discussion took place. Not everyone agreed on everything but to be honest, there was little dissent about the Pope Benedict the Arnold being a totalitarian jerk.

The whole scene—5 gay men and a woman, or 2 barbers, 3 customers, a catholic and a transsexual, or just six people sharing company—was oddly reminiscent of the local barbershop back in Luzerne, PA, or the coffeeshop down the street from there. Or the “milk bar” that my mom and dad grew up with in the 1950s. Or Cafe Commons down at the foot of Bernal Hill here.

My dad had his people; my parents had their group of friends and other students around; my grandfather had his coffeeshop.

We have our people; we have our Castro; we have our Joe.

Posted by Jeff at 11:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

“It is unsafe and dangerous to do anything against one's conscience.” — Martin Luther

“Hoe dichter bij Rome, hoe slechter christenen” — old Dutch aphorism
(The worst Christians are those closest to Rome, or The nearer to the Church, the farther from God)

First out of the gate, Love Papem #9 Benny #16 goes after Spain's civil government. So much for taking after Benny-the-Healer (#15). Now, this isn't unexpected. The Catholics, after all, at least officially must condemn the homosexuals, because let's face it, bureaucracies and democracies both require scapegoats in order to maintain the appearance of being effective. Homosexuals make a terrific scapegoat (and many, it turns out, can make a terrific coq au vin!). Very versatile (and not just AOL-versatile) buggers they are.

Anyway, what was unexpected was the level of vitriol hurled by the Papists towards the civil government of Spain. Popey went as far afield of sanity as to accuse Spain's same-sex marriage laws as “iniquitous”. Now, as God (of Biscuits)'s well-beloved flock, you all know I loves me my words, but even though that word had a rather ominous familiarity to it, I had to go look it up. The familiarity? It's the adjectival form of “iniquity”:

iniquity noun ( pl. -ties) immoral or grossly unfair behavior

Holy Hannah! as my younger brother would say. That's a lot of immorality and gross unfairness must be up in hrrrr with the Spaniards! Let's look closer at the beginning of the end of christendom, shall we?

• The same rights and conditions apply to all legally married couples, 'be the parties of the same sex or of different sex.'
• Couples of the same sex may inherit from one another
• Couples of the same sex may receive retirement benefits from their working spouses

Oh the horror! Oh the shame! Doesn't Jesus feel kicked in the nuts right about now? And by Jesus, of course, I mean Benny #16, because the Catholics believe that anything that Pope-eye says ex cathedra (they do love their Latin) can be assumed to come from Jesus Himself. Can you imagine the historical Jesus forcing his followers to kiss his ring? To have other human beings—often boys—act as his furniture? I sure can't. But that's how the Catholics see his Holiness.

My favorite piece in all of this comes from ABC NewsOnline quoting Cardinal Alfonso Lopez Trujillo:

“They should exercise the same conscientious objection asked of doctors and nurses against a crime such as abortion.

”This is not a matter of choice, all Christians... must be prepared to pay the highest price, including the loss of a job.“

Cardinal Trujillo insisted the Church did not discriminate against homosexuals, but said they needed help.

I'm at a loss to imagine the bloodsport that would be practiced by the Vatican if they actually did discriminate against homosexuals. The Popes have a glorious history of all manner of horrific acts, according to the Frontline Fellowship, including a bit on Pope Benny #5, described by a church historian as ”the most iniquitous of all the monsters of ungodliness.“

The Vatican never says Vati-Can't when it comes to their iniquities.

Posted by Jeff at 10:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

When I was a kid, I remember my mother being a fan of the books of Taylor Caldwell. I can't speak for her in her particular reasons for loving Ms. Caldwell's bible-character-based books, like Great Lion of God and Dear and Glorious Physician, but I can speak for myself: I read them.

I tackled each of these for the first time when I was probably twelve or thirteen. Having been firmly ensconced in the co-optive, enclasping Roman Catholi-cosm at that age, it was a natural choice. I was reading material well beyond my chronological age, and my mom was ok with me reading these books because Ms. Caldwell had set out to prop up the images of Saints Paul & Luke, respectively.

So I was happy because I got to read grown-up fiction without having to hide the fact. Mom was happy that I was investing my already-considerable brainpower in the Catholic Pantheon. Oh, and it satisfied that adolescent hubris of mine, the one that told me that I had the might of god behind my moralizing, that I had the rich history of an enduring institution to add weight to my judgments.

It was not until much later that I realized that the pressure on never wandering outside the intellectual/mystical ken of the Catholi-cosm was so great. Never dissent. Never truly question—oh, go as far as the “proofs” of Aquinas in your critical thinking, but never ask the truly meaty questions. Not until much later did it occur to me to see if there were some other opinions—based on more than just the Bible and the specific Catholic Tradition we were all spoonfed—of Paul, of Luke and of any of the other lesser gods in the Catholic Canon of Saints, that I might avail myself of.

Keep in mind that this happened fairly late in the game...I was already an adult, well past the age where most kids abandon religion as a reaction to their parents and to the establishment. I was, however, newly free in my own mind to explore dissenting opinions. And in my zeal, I learned that the zeal still had me. That's when the real sobering experience happened—not in finding that most people outside of organized christian (and catholic) religions think that Paulus of Tarsus was a complete asshole, but in discovering that only the object of zealotry had changed in myself.

To that end, I reread the two books I've already mentioned. And I remembered two other Caldwell books that I had read along the way but had forgotten about: The Listener and No One Hears But Him. In fact, it was these newly-remembered books that provided, ironically, the balance and cool distance required of me to move on past my history with the Catholi-cosm. Though both were specifically about the Crucified Savior, it came to me that all the hard work in revelation, in understanding, in forgiveness, in tolerance came from within each of the supplicating characters and the “graven image” forbidden in 2of10 [Commandments] was just a point of external focus and not magical of itself.

Today, right now, at 41 years old, I still think the historical figure of Saint Paul is an asshole. Luke has held up far better, partly because he has avoided history's glaring eye for the most part, but mainly, I would contend, because he embodied the nature of the christian ethic and not the moralizing pedantry of Paul. Luke was a healer and a demonstration of the goodness that the historical Jesus put forth. Paul was a heavy club, wielded in the name of a rather Romanesque version of God as Punisher (Paul was a Roman citizen, did you know that?)

I don't remember any of the Lectionary Selections mentioning Jesus as a militant anything, except for the money-changers in the Church...but that reads more like a bad hair day than an Eternal Damnation thing like Paul would have done. Luke would have stuck around to treat any injuries that results from the tables being flipped over the by Savior of Mankind.

Today, most would say that Luke was just weak. History has continually shown us otherwise.

Posted by Jeff at 09:45 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

At this rate, it won't even take until the end of this century for the Catholic Church to return to the Dark Ages.

Ratzinger is a tight-assed German (whodda thunk?) who gives every indication that he's a doctrinaire old coot who would prefer to walk beside humanity while criticizing its every step forward instead of just hopping in and participating in it with the rest of us.

I can't wait to see how much further this man can shove the stick up the collective ass of politically active conservative Catholics in this country. It's like they're building a hybrid Puritan-Catholic: rigidly strident martinets who know how to embrace-and-extinguish.*

*used without permission of Microsoft, Inc.

Posted by Jeff at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (23) | TrackBacks (0)

Today was a very good day. It started off with getting busy, then getting up. Then getting out to eat. Then out with friends. Mid-afternoon, we met up with my friend Buck, with whom I used to work at that great photo place in the sky (where sky == East Bay) and his partner. And then a cavalcade of folks landed at the Lone Star: Gary, Eric, the ever-beautiful James, the ever-patient and hot Nick, Noelie and almost everyone else I happen to know in this great burg of ours.

After a few Hefeweisens, we headed to Daddys' Bar, where Donovan's softball team was having a benefit. Fred was there, of course, my bestest friend in San Francisco. And Mike and Alberto, the two most affectionate buggers (literally) we know. And David. Don't get me started on that one.

The entire afternoon was one long moment...one of those moments where more things make sense. Things from the past, the presence of the present....where the bad stuff and bad people of the past weren't so bad, just wrong for me. Where the present is the only place I would want to be (and, by fiat and by definition, the only place I could be), and the future opens up to include a revisited past, a more promising present, and a more pleasantly anticipated future.

Posted by Jeff at 09:58 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I know that some people uneasy with the unknown. I should know, because I live with one of them. For some of those, this unease or even fear results in an attempt to know (and therefore control) their immediate surroundings or to redefine their surroundings as something so small and immediate that the Big Bad Out There virtually disappears—even for a little while.

Then there are others who set out to remake the world into something eternally known, eternally there, eternally bounded on all sides. Have an answer for everything, question nothing, except to question the sanity/morality/decency of those who do question, perhaps for no other reason than to shut down the questions.

It's quite seductive, if you think about it: never worry about the future, never worry about death because you've obviated it. Never worry about anyone other than those who are not martinets already marching beside you. Never worry about why you're here, never worry about how you got here. Never worry other than that you and your kind have escaped your biology to become the most sublime creations ever to populate the earth. Never worry about science intruding with 'fact' because you've already questioned and subsequently confuted them (probably because they dared attempt to confound you and otherwise disrupt your soul-soothed and psyche-somnambulated existence). Never permit dissension because it perturbs the perfection. And God is perfection, so what you're really doing is running counter to God. And that's a sin.

Everything except abject obeisance is, and it interferes, and thou shalt not interfere.

Living with the Unknown and living with the Possible are not easy. Again, it's seductive, addicting, bewitching to find a good vein in your soul and mainline the infinite or at least the case-complete, taking it into yourself the accelerated antidote to Time: God as NP-Completeness Made Manifest (On the upside, the needle-exchange programs offered are top-notch).

Nuance, complexity, subtlety, relativism, self-determination are where confusion, perturbation and therefore sin reside. And those who make their homes in those outer regions must commit the ultimate sin simply to survive: they question.

And so we go away from Now,
Not fixed: betwixt what is allowed.

To Future’s End, a toast to Time
Unstuck abstract, adrift sublime!

Posted by Jeff at 12:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

“Authentic people,” he said. “That's what they are.”

I smiled, nodded. Not out of politeness or decorum or even mild disagreement, but as a cover for a vague jealousy that the doctor across the table from me had just uttered the single finest description of my parents I had ever heard. I was jealous that I wasn't the one—wordsmith that I fancy myself to be at times—who had devised it.

Cafe Puccini in San Francisco's North Beach is a bright place, almost too bright for comfortable conversation. Walls cross into strange corners, at angles that don't make immediate sense. Or later sense, for that matter. A large and vaguely threatening portrait of Giacomo, the Maestro looms on the only wall big enough to accommodate it. Too-happy Max's Diner-style tables and chairs crowd the floor uncomfortably, but they are plentiful.

We arrived there after a visit to Caffé Sport, my single favorite restaurant on Planet Earth—so far—for a meal of garlicky prawn scampi and even more garlicky pesto. Eduardo was there, as always, grousing that it's been too long since he's seen me. He always does that, whether I'm there 3 times a week or 3 times in a year. No matter the frequency, he feels more like family than most of my cousins—or even nephews, at this point.

Doctor H. has never been to San Francisco before; I had never met Doctor H. until this very evening. It was obvious quickly that he is an impressively kind man, generous of spirit. It was also obvious that he was expecting quite a lot from me, that my parents had boasted generously (too generously?) of their middle son. He came into their lives not very long after I had moved away from my parents' home, so he's known them for a very long time.

Like my parents, he's very Catholic. Like my parents, his faith is important to him. Like my parents, he lives his faith instead of merely preaching its conscious and more contentious elements. He asked about the Catholic Church here in San Francisco, and how the Catholic Church fit or didn't fit into such a lively and progressive and decidedly not-necessarily-Christian place like San Francisco.

“Pragmatism,” I answered. “The Church seems to remain unyielding,” I told him. “A while back, the City required that all organizations that did business with the City—such as Catholic Charities and other social services—provide domestic partner benefits for their employees. The Catholics balked, refused. Eventually, though, they decided to offer benefits to each employee plus one 'dependent', and completely sidestepped the issue altogether. The City got compliance, and the Catholics didn't have to recognize that gay people formed real relationships.”

“Same in Boston,” Doctor H. replied.

“The priests here, however...I expect that because of exposure to gay people day in and day out, in social service to people with AIDS, in just plain being alive in San Francisco, I expect that individual priests are less able to speak in broad condemnations of homosexuality, because they see that it's not so easily pigeonholed.

He nodded, and asked about Sam. And he asked about me, about my job at Apple, then about Sam's school again. I asked him how many kids he had, how long he had known my parents. I let him know how highly they spoke of him. He smiled and suddenly looked 20 years younger.

”It's different here in San Francisco,“ I added. ”Different from, you know, out there. When it comes to same-sex marriages, I see gay people who don't give a damn about ever getting married. I see gay couples who worry that they'll be kept apart if one gets sick or hurt. But mostly I see gay people who just expect to be seen as equal to everyone else in this country. Then I see people out there—Right-wingers—who say we're trying to destroy marriage, that we have some sinister agenda, or that we think we're better than the rest of you and we're trying to co-opt society. How the hell does that happen? I mean, where you live [Boston], has same-sex marriage destroyed anything?“

”The Catholic Church will never get to certain points, you know?“

Not an answer, but also none of the awkward discomfort of an impasse. And it was just about time to call it an evening anyhow.

As I walked him to the corner of Columbus and Green and got him a taxi, Moon River was blaring from overworked speakers outside a different coffeehouse and I remembered how he had described my parents and I smiled again.

”'Authentic people',“ I muttered as I kickstarted the Vespa, and I smiled again. This time because it was just true, no matter who said it.

Posted by Jeff at 10:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

It has often been said that anything may be proved from the Bible; but before anything can be admitted as proved by the Bible, the Bible itself must be proved to be true; for if the Bible be not true, or the truth of it be doubtful, it ceases to have authority, and cannot be admitted as proof of anything.

-- Thomas Paine

1. I am the Lord your God, you shall not have other gods before me. Sloppy seconds is up to you.
2. That Leonardo was a fine sculptor, but ohh, what he did to my bust.
3. Not happy with 'in vain', but for a particularly well-executed orgasm, have at it!
4. Try to take the weekends off.
5. Your mom and dad are cooler than you think; cut 'em a break will ya?
6. Respect other peoples' existence, eh?
7. Respect other people's relationships, even if you don't understand them.
8. Don't steal music. [ok, that was actually Steve. — Eds]
9. Don't think I won't come find you if you make shit up and attribute it to me, mmmkay?
10. Try to be happy with what you have, and be happy for others when they have abundance.

God here. The Biscuit One. Now, I've been called a 'moral relativist', as if that's a bad thing or even a possible thing. As I've learned it, or figured it, or concluded it (I'm a known relativist, remember?), morals almost always arise from epidemiology. Something becomes a moral only after it's been elevated from a cautionary item (e.g., under-cooked pork is bad) to edict (e.g., God hates it when you don't keep kosher). Morals, in this light, are past-minded: codifications of learned prudent behavior.

Ethics, on the other hand, speak to positivity, to the future...be kind to a stranger and perhaps someone will someday return the favor one day. Honor, truth, decency. Things that, when above certain threshold, push us all into el mundo bueno and life becomes easier for all. A rising tide raises all boats, that sort of thing.

Watch for the change up, chil'rens. When Christians speak of this country being a supposed Christian Nation, they'll switch to the phrase “Judeo Christian Ethic” and away from “Christian Morality” because a) who could disagree with ethical behavior? and b) they've forgotten that once upon a time, their Commandments used to be just good advice.

Posted by Jeff at 09:23 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

In what very well may turn out to be a continuing series of real-world analogies, today I offer the notion that the current state of insanity-politics is like blogging. Unfortunately, the neocons control the entries, in part thanks to the so-called “liberal media”—you know, the ones owned by huge multinationals...freakin' hippies—while the progressives are limited to the comments sections.

I'll give the Christians credit...stealing a page (a violation of the 10 C's) from their soi disant enemies was something no one saw coming. Not even those of us who are suspect of such people. You know, those who put so much confidence in Someone Who can't be bothered to show His face directly to anyone and Who taught His followers that sex outside of marriage, surrogate motherhood and underage sex were evil (but only after He sired a Savior from a 13 year old). In fact, in this day and age, God would have to register as a sex offender in most states in this country, by current definitions.

Anyhoo...so the ends (theocracy, or at least theocratic domination) justify the means (stealing tactics from the less savory types). As long as they get what they want after they've taken it from someone else (and isn't that covetous behavior?): the limelight.

So they have it, and the Foxies and the Rushies and the Hannities and the Coulters in the halters and the delays caused by the DeLays all come together in three rings o' fun.

The neocons have the stage even though they don't deserve it and they certainly aren't very talented or entertaining. Shameful in their excesses of greed, xenophobia and the odd mix of half-assed science and even-more-assed faith, they're like a second-rate USO show, there only to drum up the troops that will march across the face of the earth bringing Jesus' message of peace poised primly at the tip of a government-issue rifle.

They're like the bully that shows up and takes the ball away from a group who was merely having fun sharing it amongst them.

Time to take the ball and the stage and the initiative back, don't you think?

Posted by Jeff at 02:56 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

In CRT technology (that'd be old-style computer displays and the lion's share of televisions still sold today) there is the concept of a refresh rate. An electron beam is aimed at the back of a screen containing phosphorescent material, causing that material to flash bright. The flash, however, lasts only a tiny fraction of a second before the brightness fades noticeably. So in order to give the illusion that it's a continuously-bright spot, the beam must pass over it at least 50 or 60 times per second, the more frequent the excitation, the more solid and less flickery the spot appears.

For most people, when given to their own devices, anger and hate are transient spikes of emotion. Oh, for all of us there are some things, some ideas, some people for which we have a low- or medium-grade slow-burn for or against, but for the most part, negative emotions are a reaction to things done in the immediate present or at least when the immediate present presents a particularly vivid and specific memory.

But there seems to be a chronic aspect to the continued pressing disgust that the neocons have for anyone who doesn't swallow the party line. This non-acute revulsion has to keep their tummies in an on-going tizzy, one would think, to the point where that vague, sad dyspepsia is taken as normal.

I'd love to help, but you know how they react to anything that they don't consider normal.

No, someone must be playing them...a trigger thread with a hook at the end of it, firmly lodged in the tentative tummies, ready to pull them into action, ready to tickle their “sensibilities” with a call to “moral values”. Such fine control over them that the desired effect can range from sour stomach to bilious projectile vomiting. How anyone can so desperately love a pre-person and also so despise fully-realized human beings at the same time is beyond me. But it's also beyond their own control, if I am to follow my own reasoning.

Now, should that be where my Liberalism steps in and decides that they need help and not discipline? That they need treatment and not just 'tough love'? Or should I steal a page from their bible handbook and just spout vituperations?

Or maybe I should get them some Pepto Bismol and ask them to turn off the Fox News Channel?

Posted by Jeff at 11:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Thanks to not being in the habit of going to see movies in theaters, I didn't see the remake of The Manchurian Candidate when it came out, but thanks to Netflix, we did see it tonight.

Not as good as the original, but pretty good. The new one wasn't about Communists, it was about a world-wide mega-corp. The new one unfortunately downplayed the incest angle. The new one didn't have Angela Lansbury in it, but it did have Meryl Streep.

The new one, however, had an optimism that the old one didn't. That was a surprise to me. It seems that every time someone tries for optimism and the future these days, it gets shot down by the conservatives...you know, those people who believe the past is better than any present (and certainly any future).

The new one showed that the marriage of strong belief and power never goes well, while at the same time showing that the marriage of strong ideal and power can accomplish the thought-to-be-impossible.

Things were more black and white in 1962. People are more savvy in 2005. I can see the desire to want things to be more cut and dried; after all, it takes a lot more effort to navigate the world when you have to consider pesky things like nuance and subtlety and complexity. Good, Evil and other Captialized Bugaboos find no purchase in complexity. This is the core of the tactic taken by the conservatives these days. Most of what they do can be captured in simple (read: simplistic) syllogisms:

Liberals appreciate nuance and complexity
Good can't exist in such a world.
Therefore, Liberals must hate Good and so must be Evil.

As I navigate through the nuances of relationship as well as the flat-out goodness and badnesses of our current situation—which, in turn, makes for complex dynamics—I remind myself that dogma is bravura, a haughty pose by those unsure or unable to navigate the changing seas of being alive. In other words, it's bullshit.

So I applaud Jonathan Demme in his remake, even as I miss the simpler, spookier, nastier, more incestuous story-telling of the past. And with clearer understanding of these interesting times of mine, with reminders that even the bad parts of my past (recent and distant)—while easier to remember as black and white—were just as nuanced as everything else in my life, it's quicker to recognize and reject the dogma-junkies.

And that makes life a little easier.

Posted by Jeff at 11:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Sam and I were at Guitar Center on Van Ness the other day—on my birthday, to be exact—after we went over to Point Bonita Lighthouse just to hang and swang and check out the views. This was only the second time ever I was to the Lighthouse and was Sam's first time. I hadn't been in a long while and thought it would be a nice thing to do as a special occasion.

Anyhow, we were back in the DJ section of the Guitar Center and there was a couple there also checking things out. Two men. Both gym-goers. One was more plain and handsome than the other, and more muscly.

And as they say, when he opened his mouth, his purse fell out. In other words, a bit on the nelly side. Which doesn't work for Sam, but is ok-dandy-fine by me. So long as it's not an affectation.

I'm sure I'll catch flack for that one more from the normal-gay crowd than I would even from the one-man-one-woman-gender-roles-go-with-biological-sex crowd, but who cares. Individuals in both crowds behave kind of stiltedly, possessed of that nervousness that suggests that their reach has exceeded their grasp. You know how it goes...anger at anything deviating from tradition because traditional gets confused with “natural” in their heads.

But me? I love 'em. Be you, gorl. Or Man. Or somewhere in between. Or whatever. Don't be a sister if you aren't a sister, but if you are....grrrrrrl, you're ok-fine by me. To say nothing of the odd at-odds pairing of 200 pounds of muscle and shoulders for days and a sssssssserioussss frequency of Ssssssss's emanating therefrom.

Hot.

An odd pairing of traits in a big man-girl? I'll call it syssygy.

Posted by Jeff at 12:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

It's Happy Camping Week in America, folks! Have you noticed?

Schiavo: dead. Pope JP2: dead. The Christian Right's very last shred of humility: dead.

Intendedly self-effacing displays of grief come across as rather self-abasing: the Abnegated rise and deliver Epitaphs from the Bully Pulpit.

The myopically self-appointed “Culture of Life” blesses a Pope whose passing he chose himself—to die in peace and dignity at home rather than be rushed to a hospital to be kept alive beyond his own time even as they stomped all over Terri Schiavo's right to the same.

I didn't know Terri Schiavo, but I feel for her husband. I even empathize with him, having had to give up on a partner. I once adored the Pope as every Good Young Calvinist-leaning Catholic boy does, but got over that when I emerged into the real world. I am neither sad nor happy that JP2 is dead. I would be sad if he were beloved to me. I would be happy if I didn't have every expectation that some other draconian bastard isn't going to rise and take his place.

The Worm turns and turns. One day, the Worms will have us all. For now, we just have to contend with these Weasels.

Posted by Jeff at 09:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

Promise me a Parade, Promise Me Today - B. Circone, R. Silk, G. Bartram, B. Mayo

I sit here at Golds Gym, my Big Gay Gym here in SOMA in San Francisco, waiting for Frank so that we can head down to the Mothership. Another day, another drive (well, another ride), another day of brilliant minds solving interesting problems, another day of a sometimes brilliant mind unable to solve his own problems.

Occasionally I consider that life would be simpler if I were strident and unyielding—what passes for “decisive” these days—barking orders instead of arriving at conclusions while disguising insecurity as dominant-pose. But there are so many of those people around already, leading lives of anything-but-quiet desperation, spilling dysfunction overboard in attempts to keep themselves afloat on ever-lowering surfaces.

They say that a rising tide raises all boats, but an ebbing tide grounds some boats before others. Those too close to the shore, too timid to venture into deeper waters go aground first. Those with too deep a hull scrape the bottom next, tipping much more quickly than others. Some survive, but everyone suffers when too much of the general good is wicked away from the sea of humanity.

So no, I won't be one of those people (if I can help it) who trusses up his insecurities in black attire and lashing hurtfulness in order to keep the bright light of vulnerability off myself. In my forty-one years of being alive, I've discovered only one way to not succumb to my own vulnerabilities: admit them.

The title, the tag-line and the first line of this entry are from a song called Promise Me a Parade by my good friends Brad, Rick, Greg and Brett, also known to most of the midwest years ago as The Toll. They appeared in our lives at the time when I needed them the most, although I don't think I ever told them that. I learned from Brad that being exposed isn't the same as being at a disadvantage, that friendship is more valuable than showmanship (no matter how spectacular) and that faith and grace are not solely the purview of religion.

Faith is small or large and you can never measure it truly. Grace is the only good answer to Greed. And it's only the small-souled that steal your energy and use it as a cheap substitute for either.

Posted by Jeff at 10:45 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I know a person—ok, a lot of people—who seemingly have lost the ability to confess or admit an “I don't know”. You know the type...they always have done a thing you've done and done it better, or they know someone (a very close and dear friend, to be sure!) who is better than you at it. They own every conversation that comes up, or, actually lacking the background to own the topic, will disrupt the entire proceeding and steer the whole mess into Known Territory.

Often the rigidly contrarian and pointedly doctrinaire adopt this pose, keeping the world for Jesus, or the American Right, or whatever....interrupting all else and steering every conversation, every dialog, every public effort, back into the Bosom of Jesus or George.

Many have accused me of being one of those knows a lot, who thinks he knows more than he does. What I have not been accused of, so far at least, is avoiding topics for which I don't have significant experience or knowledge. Still, those who don't know me—who, ironically, are out of their depths—seem to take it upon themselves to call me a know-it-all.

Well, I don't. I never claimed so. Here's a few, just for the record:

• I don't know if there is a god or not.
• I don't know what it's like to have sex with a woman.
• I don't know what it's like to be a woman (tho I do know what it's like to wear a dress).
• I don't know what I'd do if I were a woman who had to Choose.
• I don't know what it's like to suffer anything but sunburn because of my skin color.
• I don't know enough about String Theory to hold a meaningful conversation
• I don't know what my immediate future holds.
• I don't understand how other people's definition of friendship can be so different from mine.
• I don't know why people so often decide not to decide or otherwise prefer to follow.

What I do know: I know enough to know that I can't ever know enough.

I don't know how I could have been so trite right then.

Posted by Jeff at 10:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

Last year I started what I had hoped would become a tradition. As I'm not one of those people to throw a birthday party for myself, but because Sam was coming up last year for my birthday and I wanted to have a big event anyhow, I finessed a group birthday party. My birthday (which is today) last year was on a Saturday, so off we went and had a big party. I think there were about a dozen guys who were Aries and so it worked out well.

Last night's party at English John's house was for four of us in particular: Me (4/3), Fred the Plumber (4/12), English John (4/19) and Donovan (3/22). There were several others there whose birthdays were in the vicinity, so we celebrated those, too.

No presents were supposed to be given, but Mike & Alberto showed up with a little somethin'-somethin' (which they usually do, but this time their somethin'-somethin' didn't involve the need for condoms :). I ended up with a double shot-glass with the word “DIVA” on it. People seemed to think it apropos. Well, screw them, I'm better than that shit. Ooops.......

I like this idea of groups of birthdays celebrated in one sitting. At 41 years old, I suppose it's just a little too much to have all the attention heaped on me. Or, there's just so much loving attention to go around in my group of friends that sharing the wealth doesn't cost a thing.

Posted by Jeff at 10:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

• I coined the phrase “Culture of Life”
• I wrote about the dignity and rights of those who work
• I spoke out against the widening gap between the world's rich and poor
• I opposed the Gulf Wars—both of them
• I expressed my outrage at the abuse at Abu Ghraib
• I have spoken out against the death penalty, calling it “cruel and unnecessary”

Who am I?

Posted by Jeff at 09:22 AM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

The “Liberal” Media is at it again. Few big talks about quality of life issues, nowhere in plain sight any mention of personhood. And folly to expect any philosophical discussion on what constitutions a personal There Being There.

Instead, the Old Gray Lady spilling flashes of color in photographs of mourners spilling plaintive tears, in quotes of sorrowful wailing in plangent tones. Same with the SF Chron, that Blue State institution in the heart of our obviously morally relativist little bordello of a City, glowing with sin and depravity here at the tip of a peninsula at the end of the Rainbow.

Our Moral and Upstanding President Bush has an embarrassment of riches when it comes to defenders, legions of middle-class and lower-class panegyrists ready to embrace the so-called “Culture of Life” that Bush claims membership in. There's really no other reason for it than to set apart his enemies as the opposite: Members of the Culture of Death.

But it's easy to see how us progressive types are death-lovers. When we talk about freedom of choice, when we talk about equal rights, when we talk about the joy of living openly and honestly with those we love, when we talk about quality of life, we clearly demonstrate to the good, honest people of the Christian Right how much we hate life. Hell, how much we just plain hate anything to do with being alive.

So—by their crazy definitions—I must have decided to embrace the love of death. Consequently, I suppose, that's a bit of a misstatement: I have always embraced death.

When my grandmother—my mother's mother, Mary—died at the too-soon age of 56, I was six years old. My mother was inconsolable for several months after the fact. She'd close the door to the bedroom and soon after, there'd be sobs that carried through the wooden door inevitably crescendoing to such intensity that I wondered if the grief was simply going to break her body apart. She cried that she'd felt alone, leading my brothers—and my father—to conclude a hurtful exclusion or emotional unworthiness. As a child who felt close to both his parents, I knew I'd feel alone if either one had gone away no matter who else was around.

Years later, when my mother's father died and then soon after her brother as well, my mother again, understandably, was nearly irretrievable in her pain. “All alone now” she cried and again there was the opportunity for the rest of us to feel excluded.

Recently, on what would have been Allen's 47th birthday I spoke with my mom about death, about losing people. I reminded her of when her mother died and I explained to her that I knew even when I was six that what she said about being alone wasn't in any way a disregard for the rest of us.

A brief silence on the line, and then she changed tacks and asked me: “Do you remember what you asked me after Ma (her mother) died?”

“No, I just remember knowing that your loneliness had nothing to do with the rest of us.”

“It was about two months after my mother died and I was crying all the time and you said, 'Mom, do you want me to pray for you to die so that you can be with her again?'”

“I....I did?”

“Yes, and boy did I pull myself together after you said that.”

“I can't imagine—”

“You were a special kid.”

“Uhhhh...wow.” Then it was my turn to change the subject. “It's different, I think, to lose a spouse.” We were back in familiar, if not comfortable, territory.

“Losing someone you love is always hard,” my mother offered.

“It was like, after he [Allen] became unresponsive there, for the last two days, I knew it was over. I knew the important part was already gone.”

“He wasn't there anymore, it was just his body,” said the very Catholic old lady that is my mother.

“Exactly. The rest was just waiting for the rest to be done.”

“And you did a very good job with him. You were never too proud to call me up and ask me how to do something, or what you should watch for, the whole time you cared for him.”

At this point I was bristling at the praise because, well, Allen died anyway. Nothing I did changed the fact that he died. I knew he was going to die anyway. I knew it. Just as I knew he was already gone from us before his body was.

So, you see, when I hear these “Culture of Life” people implying that the rest of us are categorical death-mongers, I have to wonder at the quality of their own lives. Are they nothing more than the tedium of their own continuing pulse? I have to wonder at the implication that if they don't think about death, it won't ever happen. Are they that afraid of their respective and so-called afterlives that death is necessarily a bad thing for them?

I think it's well past science and into simple fact that the brain is the center of thinking, the center of emotions, of senses, of personality. I think it's a direct conclusion from the fact that when specific parts of the brain are gone, so is the personality and therefore so is the person.

A beating heart beats on its own. A body respires without conscious thought.

Man, you are dust, and unto dust you will return. I know I've read that somewhere...

Posted by Jeff at 12:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)