Farmboyz / Perge Modo

Who Would You Pick For HRC President?

2011-12-01T11:07:00.001-05:00

The search is underway. In this piece for 10thousandcouples.com, I review the job description, talk with some LGBT bloggers and highlight a few LGBT leaders who would be good choices. Agree? Disagree? Got a favorite?

Tales of the Canyon - Part One

2011-11-09T15:40:00.000-05:00

In South Florida Gay News this week - in print and online. The first of my 3 part series.

Bronson Lemer - On our first post-DADT Veterans Day

2011-11-03T21:02:00.003-04:00

Just your ordinary gay vet. One of many. Devoid of sound bites, Bronson was not my typical interview. Read about him and on Veterans Day, let's keep in mind that there are so many invisible gay vets to be thanked for their years of service under Don't Ask Don't Tell.

More Grand Canyon photos.

2011-09-19T15:08:00.002-04:00

Alyson Adventures' "Splash" gay tour of the Grand Canyon

2011-09-08T13:08:00.000-04:00

I had a blast. A dozen gay men, including a priest, rabbi, minister, banker and TWO dentists! Ages 30s-60s. I behaved like a Gabor sister throughout the 8 days, but I nightly stood naked in the cold Colorado River washing out my clothing before putting on a sarong for happy hour at the campsite. SFGN will publish my diary account in installments.

Here are some photos.

When you book your tour—and you seriously should—tell them who sent you.

This kept me busy for a couple of months

2011-08-12T22:49:00.000-04:00

and I want to thank my two excellent proof readers, Bird of Paradise and my husband the Baad Lamb,for their corrections and suggestions.

My article is From Rough Trade to Fine Art.

Actually, I have a second article in there but the moon is full and bright and my husband and I are going out to Central Park to observe it.

Everything flies by and the blinking does not slow it down.

Bear Hill - Year Six

2011-06-07T01:36:00.001-04:00

Memories. Tradition. Tribe. Friends. And my husband standing in the back in white tank and black cap.

Men with Rounded Corners - The Loren Olson Story

2011-05-04T07:33:00.000-04:00

I thoroughly enjoyed reading and reviewing Dr. Olson's new book Finally Out about coming out late in life. With many friends who found themselves in similar circumstances (kids and ex-wives), I was curious to see what he prescribes for such a man seeking personal happiness. His words are encouraging.

Hot Cop, Harrowing Story, Happy Ending

2011-04-26T20:28:00.000-04:00

Officer Mike Carney's Second Tour.

The Sweet Life of Kilwin's Stephen and Bill

2011-03-23T22:47:00.000-04:00

I thoroughly enjoyed receiving their story. It proves that you just never know. Unexpected happiness can overtake you.

Cazwell - Previewing his new video

2011-03-15T19:19:00.000-04:00

Marco Ovando, his director, started laughing during my interview with Cazwell, and he said "I really like your questions". I think he liked the fact that they made Cazwell wince. I had a great time.

Chad Richter - The Homeboy King of Gay South Florida

2011-03-08T23:30:00.000-05:00

and I cannot live with out Kiehl's Under Eye Depuffer.

In this issue of South Florida Gay News

Miami Beach

2011-03-07T23:37:00.000-05:00

Friday, Bass Art Museum, Miami Beach, Winter Party, with JoeMyGod.

EGRIFTA

2011-03-01T22:15:00.000-05:00

I was moved by being in the company of men who have been the HIV gladiators of my lifetime.

The Midlife Calm of Gregory Kabel

2011-02-23T08:24:00.000-05:00

I was delighted when he said that he used to be the one who had to respond to letters from old ladies enclosing photos of their cute grandchildren hoping to be the next Doublemint Twins. Gregory Kabel.

Queer Money

2011-02-16T15:41:00.001-05:00

Or, the lack thereof.

In Fred's Classroom, the Wallpaper is Vintage Gay

2011-02-08T16:22:00.000-05:00

I was astounded by how much I didn't know about the history of gay Florida. My interview with author Fred Fejes.

Fashion Fun in Miami Beach

2011-02-03T10:25:00.000-05:00

Yes, I've been lazy, but I'll be back to regular prattling really soon. Meanwhile:

John Allen and Island House: Almost Perfect. Never Normal.

2011-01-05T12:45:00.000-05:00

Can't wait to return. Here's the story in this week's South Florida Gay News online.

Today at the Beach

2011-01-05T02:20:00.002-05:00

Today on the beach a man squatted by my chair and said "Ah luuuv Eye-talians."I didn't reply, but he kept looking at me as if I were obliged to respond. Very slowly I said "I am half Latvian and half Creole. All my uncles have been executed by various governments for the crime of murder. We're an unrepentant lot. All I need to do is just look at a boat and it will sink."

He then said "I once had me an Eye-talian boyfriend. Wouldn't eat nothin but tofu and sprouts. Took me five years to get him to eat some dessert. Now he'll eat thet. I got him a puppy and I said 'Now Tommy don't you make this puppy eat none of thet junk. Well I went over there on Christmas and that puppy had broke its paw in two places and I said 'Tommy ah'm givin this dawg ice cream.'"

After an hour, I said "Please let your name be Lusitania, and if it isn't, please Jesus, let my name be Lusitania and let me see my reflection in your sunglasses."

In 2011, Let's Plan For The Past!?

2011-01-01T20:18:00.000-05:00

"You are the only young man that I know of who ignores the fact that the future becomes the present, the present the past, and the past turns into everlasting regret if you don't plan for it!"

-- Amanda Wingfield to her son, in Tennessee Williams' The Glass Menagerie.

Happy 2011!

2010-12-31T14:55:00.000-05:00

(photo by JoeMyGod)

My first year at SFGN

2010-12-30T13:50:00.000-05:00

Oh the people I've met!

A Cattelayan Showgirl

2010-12-04T17:30:00.000-05:00

I went to an orchid show earlier today at Fort Lauderdale's Bonnet Park where I acquired this gorgeous creature from among a crowd of almost irresistible offerings. At noon I attended a lecture about the care and repotting of orchids. I learned that it is preferable to collect orchids that are locally grown. The ones in Hawaii are tempting and inexpensive but they are grown thousands of feet above sea level and need much time to get used to their new homes. This means they may not bloom for a few years causing their adoptive parents much anxiety. A New York window is a fine place for many types of orchids. Be sure to read up on the light, moisture, growing mix and temperatures each variety prefers. (I love the true blue of the vandas, but they require more direct sun than I can give them.) If it's your first, start with the rugged phaleonopsis that will take much abuse and still rebloom more than once a year. Cymbidiums are also fairly easy to manage, but their sprays of tiny flowers don't thrill me like this showgirl.

World AIDS Day

2010-12-01T05:00:00.001-05:00

From my friend Mark King:

A Bad Wall Resolved

2010-11-30T14:06:00.000-05:00

The masonry wall of the kitchen was in bad shape where we removed the old cabinets. I decided to paint it with hopes that its imperfections might be muddled if I chose the right paint. In another house, we had used a Ralph Lauren paint called "Ambassador Silver" that worked well with stainless steel. Several coats later - and although this picture is charitable - the imperfections were even more pronounced in the areas close to the ceiling and the other walls.

This is a difficult paint. Home Depot is about to discontinue carrying this line. The color is good but my husband less than diplomatically suggested that perhaps we should have hired someone more skilled at plaster repair before we applied the paint. I had to think of a solution to what was being chalked up to the results of my own impatience, and I did. I suggested a perforated metal covering. Once again, it helps to have a husband in the biz. He designed a soffit covering that would be mounted about an inch off the wall. We played with a sample piece to determine exactly how far away from the wall it ought to stand to allow the right amount of light filtering. He made a support beam and applied the sheet of metal that he had cut and bent to fit exactly. (He had made the measurements himself because I tend to say things like "It's 87 inches and just two of those tiny lines.")

S hooks from The Container Store fit perfectly through the perforations (The ones from Home Depot were too fat.) I used those common spring clips that everyone has in desk drawers to hang the pot lids.

Some things don't become apparent when you design these kinds of things on the fly, like the fact that the support beam was unhappily visible through the perforated metal. To hide this - and also to soften the overly industrial effect of this installation - we added an oversized strip of oak egg and dart molding painted with the same Ambassador Silver. I was glad I had refrained from throwing out the little bit I had left of this annoying paint.

Feeling almost done with the kitchen, I announced that it was time to "trick it out" with some stuff we had in storage, like these industrial brackets from an old factory in Waterbury, Connecticut. A vintage washing machine agitator stamped with the endearing phrase "Spiral Dasher". Three white McCoy vases that I had kept in a box for twenty years. A Michael Aram trivet. A Bosch coffepot designed by Porsche.

We just about done with the kitchen.

Next up: that narrow tunnel of an entrance hall.

Meanwhile, in Fort Lauderdale

2010-11-29T13:37:00.000-05:00

My husband took this photo yesterday.

The Waldorf Salad

2010-11-25T15:16:00.000-05:00

Happy Thanksgiving!

2010-11-25T10:18:00.000-05:00

A good day to introduce you to two wonderful men of Fort Lauderdale, James and Jared of Sanctuary House.

metal radiators

2010-11-17T22:43:00.000-05:00

Turning to the eat-in part of the kitchen, I decided to refinish the built-in metal radiator. There is also another one nearby that got the same treatment. I don't think they are original to the building (1926) but I didn't see any reason to replace them. I doubt they were originally just polished metal but I didn't think I wanted them to be repainted. I removed many coats of heavy old paint. The Baad Lamb took the removable covers to his shop where he blasted them and clear coated them. I used an old issue of Details to cover the heating parts and I sprayed a glossy clear coat on the fixed parts and damn if they don't look swell in a butch kinda WW2 way.

Skip My Crash Course - Take Mike's Master Class

2010-11-03T23:58:00.000-04:00

Even if you don't live in south Florida, Mike Minutillo give us some good advice in my interview in the current issue of SFGN.

Kitchen backsplash

2010-10-31T09:36:00.000-04:00

I had been really looking forward to this part of the project given our success with the granite floor. With Chris at work, however, I'd be installing the backsplash solo. This means keeping all my "customers" (wetsaw, mortar, tiles) happy single-handedly to avoid a tour-de-farce mess.

We had ordered and received from Home Depot glass mini-subway tiles (1"X2") on sheets. The brand is Merola and the color is "ice." In Fort Lauderdale, I had watched the kitchen guy cut my glass tiles with a wetsaw so I knew how easy this is despite common assumptions that it is some kind of difficult craft that needs years of mastering. We had purchased an inexpensive wetsaw from the Home Depot and I took the time to return to HD to get a new diamond blade, one that specifically mentions its willingness to cut glass. This may not have been necessary but it always feels good to start something crucial with a fresh whatever. And I did not buy the most expensive brand they sell. I chose the mid-range brand.

Here's the most important secret to know regarding the installation of glass tiles on sheets. They are heavy and they will slide down your wall the instant you turn your back to sneeze. In order to keep this movement to a minimum, you will need to use a high performance mortar. This is where you have to read the labels very carefully. Most buckets of pre-mixed thinset mortar carry the not-for-glass-tile disclaimer. I found the bucket that did not carry those words which is about as strong a recommendation as the maker is willing to go with. I had done a considerable amount of research and had decided to mix the mortar myself, but HD sells nothing smaller than a fifty pound bag of it, and that is much more than I needed. Also, I had no appetite for carrying fifty pounds across the width of Central Park, a trip I feel guilty about doing in a taxi.

I also discovered I'd need a trowel other than the one I used to install the granite floor. This one would have to have shallow pointy triangular teeth. So now we own two trowels each costing $10. I'm not going to throw them out, but I doubt we will ever use them again. I should do a calculation to determine the annual cost of keeping them in a small coop NYC apartment given their size and the overall cost of a square foot of space in this neighborhood. Actually, that is a calculation I should do with everything I own. I'd sell them on EBAY but then I'd have to do the calculation of time, effort and postage that would surely outweigh a break-even. Maybe someday a friend will need them.

Gay men in cities treat tools as do straight married women treat baby clothes.

Having done a plan that would mean the least amount of tile cutting, I began to trowel on the mortar which is a fiesty white blend that is definitiely more muscular than the mix prescribed for the floor tile. I slapped on the first two sheets, determined the cuts I would need to make and ran to the saw. After repeating this pattern a few times, I checked out the lines of my rows and found that the sheets had migrated a bit in deference to gravity and in defiance of the mortar. Forewarned, I did not panic. I nudged them back into line, inspecting them from a variety of angles and rechecking them until the mortar had dried sufficiently to still them forever. There is something about setting tile in place that I find immensely pleasurable. Glass tile is particularly wonderful because it changes a flat and flimsy wall into a luminous and emotional surface that changes with the passage of hours bearing sun or shadow or rain or moon.

After giving this installation the time required to set, I commenced the grouting of it. Here's where I made a mistake. Wanting to avoid the dusty mess of a bag of grout powder, and because I was going for a standard color: pure white, I selected a bucket of pre-mixed grout. Never again. Pre-mixed grout is much more watery than it should be, making the grouting process one hell of a big sloppy mess. I spent more time cleaning up the far flung globs of grout than I did on the actual installation.

I'm quite happy with the backsplash, even where the rows went a little warbly, giving it a hand crafted look. Background music for setting glass tile: Michael Buble's It's a New Day, Miss Kittin's Frank Sinatra, The Spinner's Could It Be I'm Falling In Love, Lauren Bacall's Welcome To The Theater and a mess of stuff by Jackson Brown from the Pretender album.

Love our Bianco Antico granite - Hate the IKEA service.

2010-10-18T19:40:00.001-04:00

We drove to New jersey to "select the slab" (this is the name given by stone dealers to this part of the kitchen counter process. It is also a phrase that will resonate with anyone who has ever walked the halls of a bath house.) We purchased the granite through IKEA when we got the cabinetry. We did this because they throw in the sink for free if you buy at least 25 sq feet of counter top. (And the sink you get is a higher grade stainless than the weak and thin stainless that IKEA sells.) If we got to that threshold with our small galley kitchen, I can't imagine anyone else having a problem with this requirement. IKEA had a good selection of stone, some of which I recognized, including Bianco Antico which has a blend of whites, blacks, browns, blueish and smokey quartz and flashes of mica in undulating veins. Nice harmonizer to the stainless steel appliances, gloss white cabs and black granite floor. IKEA warns you that one downside to buying a stone countertop through them is that you will not be allowed to select the slab. Because I am not easily convinced that any policy established in this world is honorable or upheld or not circumventable with ease, I called the dealership that contracts with IKEA and set up an appointment to select the slab. When we got to the warehouse in New jersey, we found we had the option of picking out any stone we wanted, not just Bianco Antico (without forfeiting the free sink!). We spent a half hour looking at dozens of options, one or two of which would have meant an upcharge. When we settled on our original choice, the staff asked if we wanted to see the several slabs of that variety before picking one. We did! Amazingly, overhead rolling cranes and huge grippers on chains carried slabs above the shoppers. I crouched once or twice as a huge piece of Brazilian riverbed passed overhead.

A week later, I received a call saying that our chosen slab had been delivered from the warehouse to the shop. Time to schedule the making of the template. Two guys with many years of experience and glue guns showed up at the appointed time and had the templates done in an hour.

A week later I got a call from the stone dealer that made me begin to regret having made this purchase through IKEA. The dealer would not cut the slab until IKEA responded to them with the go-ahead. (The dealer had sent IKEA the exact number of square feet which is always slightly different from the estimate made at the time of purchase.) I made innumerable calls to IKEA about this and got a variety of answers from a variety of worthless people, some of whom claimed to be post-purchase customer service specialists. I got a call back from a guy who said my paperwork was lost. This call came one hour after I got a call from a lady who said she had my file and was ready to help me complete the transaction. I was finally able to pay the balance and then it took many more calls to get IKEA to give the green light to the dealer in Jersey. I advise you not to buy your counter top through IKEA.

Back on the phone with the dealer, I asked her if I could identify some sections of the slab that I really liked and one section that I did not like, so that the stone cutter could choose and avoid those sections. She said I would have to come to Jersey again to do this but reminded me that ordinarily this is not allowed because they have to cut the stone in the least wasteful way possible. I said that I understood this and that I had taken pictures of the slab and could send an email showing the parts I liked and the parts I didn't like. She told me that this would not be allowed, but I sent her the following two pictures. I kept the grammar simple because my interaction with the dealers at the warehouse, with the template makers, and eventually with the installers meant working with skilled people with limited English.

When I called her to ask if she had gotten my photos, she said "Yes, but I cannot do anything with them for the reasons I mentioned. You will have to take what you get or tell me not to cut the stone." I responded that I understood the policy and would accept the results. Just as I suspected, when the counters arrived, the cutters had honored my preferences exactly, proving that if you use just the right tone and approach to any negotiation, you will get what you want a percentage of the time even when stated policy gives you no control at all.

Kitchen update.

2010-10-01T17:06:00.001-04:00

With the new floor in, the next step was the painting of the old masonry walls we exposed when we tore off the metal studs and drywall a previous owner had put in place. Getting rid of those walls increased our number of square feet considerably but revealed a pipe originally used to drain the icebox (precursor to the refrigerator) and various sections of plaster buildup and peeling paint. It also meant having to get the electrician to cut channels in the masonry to run conduit to the outlets that had been mounted to the metal studs. In the process of doing this, he made a crack in our neighbor's wall. Luckily, the apartment is empty. The super repaired it.

I used a hammer and chisel to chip off the many layers of old paint on the top half of the pipe. Once sanded, it began to match the brushed stainless appliances.

Scrape. Spackle. Prime. Paint. On the back wall, we used The Ralph Lauren color "Ambassador Sterling". This is a difficult paint that requires many layers, but the softly metallic result is good.

The IKEA cabinets arrived in a flotilla of boxes.

Hanging the wall cabinets was not as dreadful as one might suppose. Everything rests on on crossbar, the key element of which is the prudent securing of it to the wall using ample and appropriate gizmos. On the old masonry side, we used blue masonry screws. (Surely they have a more technical name.) On the side with the functioning plumbing (we made a hole in the drywall and looking through it with a flashlight, found that it contained all sorts of chases and drains that go through all the floors. This meant keeping the drywall on that side of the kitchen and fastening the wall and base cabinets using drywall screws wherever we hit a metal stud, and toggle fasteners anywhere else.

We also had to saw a panel for the far side of the dishwasher and cut a backing board behind the dishwasher to help support the countertop. IKEA includes the panel when they help you plan your kitchen but they don't tell you anything about how to brace it to the wall. I found slotted angle at Home Depot, and husband had the right fasteners, washers and through bolts to secure it. Husband also had a stray piece of mahogany at his shop so I suspect we are the only kitchen in Manhattan that has an unseen mahogany backboard behind the dishwasher supporting the counter. I made shims for one base cabinet by breaking wooden paint stirrers into small pieces. Surprisingly, everything ended up perfectly level and flush with very little adjustment.

I am very much in love with the saturated Tiffany blue protective film covering the high gloss white cabinet doors. I've taken off only one piece of it. You are then supposed to let the surface "cure" for a few days before you touch it. And never clean them with anything stronger than mild soap and water.

The plumber has promised that when he returns to hitch up everything, he will replace the drain connector at the base of the old icebox pipe. This will allow me to back the fridge up closer to the wall. Here is what it looked like after we hammered off the old floor.

Resting on the base cabinet is the stainless steel range hood. The yellow packing tape holding styrofoam left some serious residue on the surface. Husband says a fluid called bestine is needed to remove this without scratches. He has it at the shop.

Meanwhile, I live in chaos and have lost a few pounds.

My First Go At Installing A Granite Tile Floor

2010-09-21T21:41:00.000-04:00

Taking up the old floor was a disgustingly messy job. I took up the linoleum and then spent a couple of days chiseling off a layer of concrete. Then I used a paint stripper to get through a few layers of paint and some well dissolved tar paper to get to the original poured concrete sub floor that was in excellent condition. I used a circular sander to get rid of the stubborn paint and filled in the two holes in the subfloor. For some mysterious reason, it has a top coat of red tinted concrete. It is scored, I think, to assist the tile installer.

The laying of the new tile floor appears to have worked. Everything is level. One minor crisis. As soon as I began to apply the thinset mortar, it became clear to me that we would not have enough to complete the job. Husband ran to the hardware store. They didn't have it, so he dashed across Central Park to the Home Depot and got back just as I was scraping the bottom of the bucket.

The spacers made such an eerie landscape. I didn't want to remove them.

I'll have to get one of those metal strips to bridge the gap between tile and wood. In two weeks, I will apply sealer to the grout. I have inhaled a wide variety of noxious fumes in this process. The garlic of omelets future will eradicate the scent of disturbed old surfaces.

Inauspicious.

2010-09-21T11:32:00.000-04:00

My film debut as a dancing extra in Bear City. At 1:43. Filmed at The NYC Eagle.

and the kitchen sink

2010-09-10T00:44:00.001-04:00

Here is why you haven't heard much from me of late. The arrogance and inflated proposal pricing of NYC contractors led me to decide that I could do this myself. So far so good. I gutted the kitchen and sent it out to the curb on the appropriate night for bulk waste collection. I have an electrician and a plumber recommended by the super so that the co-op will never say that I did the critical stuff myself. I had the super turn off the gas and I have yanked out the stove, dishwasher and kitchen sink. I have ripped out walls that covered the original walls, increasing our total square footage by approximately 15 square feet! In Manhattan, where real estate is typically $1,000 per square foot, this little increase is actually significant. We've been paying for that square footage but not using it because it was behind the walls. I chipped away a concrete subfloor over the original subfloor and this weekend we will lay a granite tile floor. I also tore down a closet and have patched the walls with Structolite followed by spackle and paint. Tomorrow, the Murphy bed, the mattress, the granite tile and the glass tile for the backsplash arrive. They better get here by 4PM because the co-op is strict about not allowing deliveries after that point. At 8:30AM, the electricians arrive to hammer-drill new channels in the masonry walls for the kitchen outlets. Oy. Then the new appliances will arrive (they haul out the old ones) and then they make the template for the granite counter tops (I got the cabinetry from IKEA and it is sitting in a stack of boxes that constitute my only furniture). Doing all this myself has saved tens of thousands of dollars and I have learned the anatomy of a New York City pre-war apartment. Valuable lesson. Meanwhile, I live on salads from the Food Emporium and I drink wine from plastic cups.

Today on Bilerico: She Prayed For Love, And Guess What?

2010-08-26T12:44:00.000-04:00

Loved receiving this letter:

Dear Father Tony,

My name is Karen. I am writing because you were recommended to me by a friend of mine. I have hit a spiritual crisis. I'll be brief. I am Catholic. I am bi-sexual. I am marrying a transgendered woman. I can't believe I just wrote that. I just wrote that. My family has been Catholic since the 1500's in France. I can't be anything besides Catholic. My greatest fear is that now it will be discovered, not by my family, not by my friends, but by a church. I ceased going to mass when our relationship began almost three years ago almost entirely. I think I've been a total of three times in as many years. I feel torn in half. I sound insane to people. I love God. I love the church. I love this woman. I can't, it seems have my soul and my heart enter a room without colliding....

For the rest of the letter and my response, head over to Bilerico.

All Christina Rodriquez Ever Wanted Was To Be A Cop

2010-08-25T16:02:00.001-04:00

“It’s all in my high school memory book where I said I wanted to become an undercover agent, a detective and a member of a SWAT team. I accomplished my goals. Now I’m 40 and things didn’t work out the way I thought, but I know who I am and I have never been happier.”

Christina Rodriguez is able to say this wistfully but without anger or bitterness while describing her life as a Hollywood, Florida policewoman in a profession that some might call a deck stacked against her because she is a woman, a Latina and a lesbian.

Originally from the Bronx and of Puerto Rican descent, Christina grew up in south Florida where she was a popular girl who had a passion for physical activity and for helping others. She did not realize her passion for women until she began dating one within the ranks in 2003.

Check out the rest of my article in the latest SFGN.

Practicing Safe Ex

2010-08-19T13:56:00.000-04:00

(A hat tip to a friend who suggested this subject and title but had only examples of horribly Unsafe Ex illustrating what to avoid but not what to practice.)

As the highest form of animal life on the planet, we ought to wonder why no species performs worse than we do at ending relationships. In our evolution, have our relationships become too complex for us to handle? Have our pairings evolved (devolved?) beyond our natural capacity to manage them? If so, we ought to do one of two things: improve the quality of our relationships (our general and ordinary preoccupation) or master the fine art of becoming an Ex, which is the subject of this post.

Here are my ten rules.

Today The Ocean Said

2010-08-16T07:52:00.000-04:00

Best Job I Ever Had

2010-08-13T14:06:00.002-04:00

1976. Paul VI created a batch of new cardinals. In that ceremony, I was given the best job I ever had, and one that made me so deliriously happy, I could barely keep from laughing even during its execution. (Please keep in mind that this was seven years before Vanna White. I had no role model.) I was assigned to carry a silver tray holding the scarlet birettas to be conferred upon the heads of the new cardinals. I had to make several trips up and down the steps to the throne to refill the tray. I had to kick forward with each step to make certain not to trip on my own cassock. ( I had, in my childhood, watched televised pageants in which contestants in gowns employed this trick.) One unforseen problem. That silver tray was extremely heavy. While I stood by Paulo as he emptied it and took his time whispering sweet things to each baby cardinal, my arms grew weak and I began to break a sweat. It took heroic efforts to keep from dropping the muffins or passing out. I managed because I am a trouper. As I glided to and fro, a verse from the Beatles' Penny Lane looped through my mind.

Behind the shelter in the middle of a roundabout
A pretty nurse is selling poppies from a tray
And though she feels as if she's in a play
She is anyway

He's Been In Our Bedroom For A Decade

2010-08-13T13:24:00.000-04:00

Reading this, reminded me of this.
We have had an Yvon Goulet painting for more than a decade. Hung on our bedroom wall. Straight visitors and relatives getting the house tour pretended not to see it. Two weeks ago, in front of an art gallery in Montreal, I met a man whose face is in our painting. The meeting and the conversation that led to this disclosure were entirely by chance. He is an acquaintance of someone we had just met. I think he's easy to spot in the painting. Also in the painting is the legendary Mado LaMotte whose annual outdoor extravaganza, Mascara - La Nuit des Drags we attended during that same trip. (Mado has just released a new album, Full Mado - Le Remix Album.) Everything is just as we left it.

Balkan Beat Box - What Kind of Music Is This?

2010-08-13T00:53:00.001-04:00

Over on QNY, The Baad Lamb takes you to Lincoln Center Out Of Doors for some incredible live music that defies definition. Is it Klezmer/Rap/World Beat? And you should definitely go past the break to watch the videos of The Balkan Beat Box led by hot Tamir Yosef.

Fortunato Depero

2010-08-12T12:30:00.002-04:00

Look at this collision of images arranged like postage stamps in an album and feel the euphoria of futurist Fortunato Depero. The one question we are usually incapable of answering about ourselves is why we are each drawn to a particular style or dialect or sound or color scheme. What is it about Depero's work that gives me that good feeling? What is it about the cadence of southern American fiction of the last century? Why the Mamas and the Papas more than the Beach Boys? Why Laura Nyro? Doctors can tell you why your head aches, but they can't tell you why your heart knows that the only place you'll ever get a decent night's sleep is in the impeccable feng shui of the attic of the Chrysler Building.

Why am I sure that no car is more beautiful than the 1964 Buick Riviera? In marlin blue, of course.

It is said that all artists inescapably fashion replicas of themselves. But if we are mystified by our own references and by our output, is it safe to conclude that we will never really know ourselves?

Everything is beautiful in Italian

2010-08-09T10:12:00.000-04:00

One of a series in which Italian dramatic actor Vittorio Gassman reads mundane things such as the menu, the phone book and the eye chart. He was briefly married to Shelley Winters in the 1950s. Their union disintegrated commensurate with the increase of their abilities to speak each other's language.

What You DON'T Need To Have Faith, plus my Montreal scuffle..

2010-08-09T08:34:00.001-04:00

There are several good ideas to take home from this NYTimes piece by Simon Critchley.

Can a non-Christian or a non-believer have a "Christian" faith?

He talks about the gospel account of the Roman centurion who had the sick child and asks Jesus to cure him, and Jesus says sure, let's go, and the centurion responds that he is a Roman soldier and therefore not worthy to have Jesus come to his house, but all he has to do is snap his fingers and the kid would get well, and Jesus is really impressed and says something like I've been all over the place and never met anyone with the kind of faith that this "unbeliever" has.

The centurion is an interesting character, and one who is in stark opposition to those who espouse what Critchley calls the "triumphal evangelical atheism of the age". I have friends who wish I were more of a triumphal evangelical atheist. Like them. Their zeal makes me uneasy. Wouldn't want to become the flip side of a coin I despised....

The true Christian might be the one who - maybe often, maybe rarely - has the faith experience, and is not necessarily the one who is baptized and participates in the routine of a church.

Critchley (and Soren Kierkegaard, the theologian about whom he is writing) also talks about the "rigor" of love. Love isn't really a coddling. It is more of a jolt.

But the rigor of love is not the rigor of church membership. It is a personal sentiment. It is not necessarily found in baptism. The centurion didn't get baptized in order to receive his kid's cure and Jesus didn't seem to establish or even imply that this would be owed as the price of the cure. (This, incidentally, is where I drift into the rapids of Catholic heresy. Fasten your seatbelts, even you Protestants. There's many a Christian church that would tell the centurion that unless he were to be formally baptized, yadda yadda fires of hell yadda yadda.)

I particularly like the invoking of Paul to the Romans 13:8 "Owe no one anything except to love one another". That is not a verse of Paul that is commonly quoted by evangelical right wing Christians. It's a little too freeing and precarious for them.

I am definitely like the centurion. Except that if Jesus had agreed to come to my place, I'd have said yes, cleaned up, taken photos and made video.

Speaking of video, our recent trip to Montreal was delightful with only one tense moment. On a pilgrimage to the gorgeous central offices of The Bank of Montreal to visit the account I had established there during the years of our residency in that city, we thought we'd inspect the interior of nearby Notre Dame basilica. An older man and his wife were ahead of me and were turned away because they could not or would not pay the five dollar admission fee. Much more timid than I about the situation, they mumbled something about being charged to pray in a Catholic church. And we were off to the races.

Canon law is either vague or specific about this depending on your read of Canon 1221: "Entry to a church at the hours of sacred functions is to be open and free of charge." This canon allows a pastor to lock his church when it is not in use, but this basilica trespasses church law by establishing an entrance fee to extract money from both Catholic and heathen visitors, proving once again that wallets more than souls constitute the appetite of Catholicism. There is no sign that says entry is free if you want to pray, or that a donation is desired but not mandatory. There is only one constricted entrance for the public and it is where you get fleeced. This church also makes a secondary misinterpretation of the canon when they make exception for anyone wishing to pray. The canon does not refer to private internal personal prayer. It refers to scheduled liturgical activities. Getting into legal squabbling is of no value. What is valuable is the fact that this entrepreneurial church recognized a way to derive money from Montreal tourism. Its hunger for money and its admission booth eclipses any obscure crucifix that might hang within.

What you don't see in the video is that the elderly couple followed me into the church on my heels without paying. Once inside, they thanked me for saying what they felt. I was, however, immediately accosted by two very large men who had been summoned by the feisty lady at the door. They had the nerve to say that since I had entered the church without paying and that since this would be permitted only if I were going to pray, that I now had to demonstrate my act of prayer to their satisfaction! They also asked me to follow them into a side chapel where I could make that demonstration of prayer! The ten minutes devoted to this encounter was about all I had appetite for. Point made, we left the church (which is really a squat and gimcrack cathedral not worth seeing and certainly not worth paying for) and walked out into the sunshine of the heathen but free Montreal streets.

The People I’ve Slept With – A Crayon Mona Lisa

2010-08-08T11:52:00.005-04:00

What is it about gay indie films that keeps us coming back despite frequent disappointment? Their style is usually not refined because their budgets are small and their makers are relatively inexperienced with the machinery of filming. Usually, their subject matter is naïve love and first awakenings because their makers are often young and inexperienced as lovers.

When I watch an indie film, my expectations are therefore low, but I always hope to find something of promise that will bode well for future viewing. I hope to be arrested by writing that is not studied in a popular style, by unsophisticated but clever cinematography, by surprising directorial perspective, intriguing new music and fresh artistry. I look for performances that are wise beyond the age of the actors delivering them.

The People I’ve Slept With is a charming romantic romp with some of those elements that I hope for in a gay indie film. It is about a young Asian-American woman named Angela who has a picaresque sex life and a best gay friend named Gabriel. Angela is an unknown/unshown artist who uses crayons and is a sexual conquistadora. Gabriel is sparkly cute guy with a winning smile and a twinkish mind that match like a sweater set on Archie’s Betty. Both of them change for the better in the course of the film. If the maturity lessons of the young are of no interest to you, you should skip this movie and rent Autumn Sonata, but I can give you several reasons for seeing The People I’ve Slept With.

(Read the rest on QNY.)

What Makes Steak Frites The Hottest Restaurant In Montreal's Gay Village?

2010-07-30T12:04:00.002-04:00

While exploring the summer-long-pedestrian-only stretch of Saint Catherine Street in the "Village Gai" de Montreal, everyone we met had the same eatery at the top of their list of recommendations, Le Steak Frites, 1302 Rue Ste. Catherine Est. How could we not give it a try?

Here's how to enjoy the best dining opportunity of the summer in Montreal's Gay Village. Exit the subway at the Beaudry station where you'll walk across Ste. Catherine Street and into the SAQ, the government owned liquor store where I'd recommend heading for the rack of Argentine wines. We are malbec fans, and SAQ offered us a few robust and inexpensive selections that would pair well with a good steak.

Bring your bottle one block down Ste. Catherine to the restaurant. (Steak Frites is an apporter votre vin restaurant. In other words, they do not sell alcohol but will serve you your wine. No, you can't bring any other type of alcohol.) Steak Frites doesn't take advance reservations, but when you arrive (earlier is preferable), you'll be told how long you'll have to wait for a table outside where you can watch the colorful flow of folks on the street, you'll drop off your bottle, you'll give the host your name and cell number and head down the street to popular SKY Bar for a pitcher of red sangria with the boys until you get your call.

We followed the recommendation of friends that matched our waiter's advice, ordering the steak-for-two ($60) which comes with a variety of sauces, salad and vegetable sides, some heavenly warm bread and all the French fries you can eat.

The chairs are comfortable. The service friendly, fast and efficient. The food superb. And if you are a Starbuck's addict, you can cross the street after dinner and continue your al fresco crowd watching from their opposing patio deck. Steak Frites well deserves its popularity.

Le Steak Frites St. Paul Village,
1302 Rue Ste. Catherine Est
514 439-1376
www.steakfrites.ca

How to vote for Tony Adams

2010-07-25T10:41:00.000-04:00

I appreciate the scuttled efforts of those who tried to support my run for gaytravel.com's travel guru but had trouble voting. Would you try once more? Here's the step-by-step:
(and remember, the system allows one new registration per email address.)

Go to gaytravel.com homepage.

In the upper right hand corner, click "join now".

fill out name, email, alias, password, country , agree to terms, and then click "sign up".

You'll get the confirming email and when you click on the link in that email, you'll see a message that you have activated your registration.

Now you go to the homepage,

Then go to "guru" under "meet new people", hit vote, find my application and click the little blue "vote for tony adams" letters next to my name.

Be sure to vote the full five points.

That's the complete and "road tested" map! Let me know if it works.

Have you voted yet for Tony Adams?

2010-07-23T18:17:00.000-04:00

One more week of this! (See my earlier post for details about this.)

It looks like I'm in second place, but a few dozen 5 point votes would help me zoom forward in the gaytravel.com gay travel guru contest.

I'd be deeply appreciative if you would you take a moment. If you have not yet registered on the site, you'll be asked to do so. Then comes the usual email verification that you are not a spambot. Then you log back in. Then you vote. Let me know if you encounter problems.

Here's the link.

And if you would consider Facebooking or Tweeting this, I get some points for that too:

http://www.gaytravel.com/guru/judge/app/application-14200

Thanks!

Tony

PS: Unfortunately, you can vote only once.

like a field of corn moved by an angry wind

2010-07-23T09:07:00.000-04:00

Your daily divine Dickens mega-sentence, from Chapter 50 of Oliver Twist. It becomes clear to me that had Dickens painted rather than wrote, we'd have had a second Pieter Bruegel.

The nearest voices took up the cry, and hundreds echoed it. Some called for ladders, some for sledge-hammers; some ran with torches to and fro as if to seek them, and still came back and roared again; some spent their breath in impotent curses and execrations; some pressed forward with the ecstasy of madmen, and thus impeded the progress of those below; some among the boldest attempted to climb up by the water-spout and crevices in the wall; and all waved to and fro, in the darkness beneath, like a field of corn moved by an angry wind: and joined from time to time in one loud furious roar.

"every repulsive lineament of poverty"

2010-07-22T18:22:00.006-04:00

In my role as Chief Living Adulator for Charles Dickens, I bring you this delicious single sentence from Chapter 50 of Oliver Twist:

Crazy wooden galleries common to the backs of half a dozen houses, with holes from which to look upon the slime beneath; windows, broken and patched, with poles thrust out, on which to dry the linen that is never there; rooms so small, so filthy, so confined, that the air would seem too tainted even for the dirt and squalor which they shelter; wooden chambers thrusting themselves out above the mud, and threatening to fall into it--as some have done; dirt-besmeared walls and decaying foundations; every repulsive lineament of poverty, every loathsome indication of filth, rot, and garbage; all these ornament the banks of Folly Ditch.

Guru Contest Update!

2010-07-21T20:43:00.000-04:00

Hey folks,
I'm the front runner but the competition is closing in!
If you haven't yet voted, would you take a moment?
Deeply appreciated.
Here's the place.
And here's the link, for Facebooking or twittering:

http://www.gaytravel.com/guru/judge/app/application-14200#vote

Thanks,
T

A Request For Help.

2010-07-19T10:58:00.000-04:00

Dear readers,

I'm in the running for a six month gig as the new "Gay Travel Guru" for Gaytravel.com.
I've made it into round two of the competition and now I need your votes. Here's the link. ( http://www.gaytravel.com/guru/judge/app/application-14200#vote ) In tiny blue letters next to my name, you'll see the invitation to vote for me. A "five" is the best rating.

The first video I provided is a compilation of fun moments from recent interviews. Making this vid made me realize how much fun I've had in the past several months. The guru gig is a paying one, an element not overlooked by my less leisurely husband, in which I'll travel and report.

Looks like their are six serious contenders against whom I'll need your boost.

Thanks for your help!

T

Sea Turtle Hatchlings On The Beach In Fort Lauderdale

2010-07-19T03:11:00.002-04:00

I finally saw a nest hatch out. Around 11PM. Nest #71. Stephanie the volunteer was there and one other guy who happened to be walking by. In just a few seconds, what had been smooth sand turned into a squirming heap. And then, as if somebody had given a signal, they all bolted. Stephanie told us what had to be done and she was well in charge of the situation - but in theory only. There is no way she could have dealt with what was about to happen if she had been alone, and when that became clear, she said something about the "Good Samaritan" clause trumping the usual prohibition keeping untrained people from participating in the process.

Two things happened simultaneously. All of the hatchlings (and I mean 100% of them) headed southwest rather than east into the sea, drawn by the headlights of the cars going north on A1A, and the lightning storm that had been percolating offshore arrived ferociously. The rain was so dense and wind-driven that it was very difficult to see anything - the other guy ran for shelter - and Stephanie, whose drenched t shirt had been both loose and white, kept saying "I'm supposed to count them! Can you help me count them?" (Not the usual beach script for someone in a girls-gone-wild outfit.) It became immediately obvious that we were counting some of them two or more times, and some of them not at all. It was very much like that Seinfeld episode in which George plays that old video game Frogger. She gave up and we started putting them into the two buckets. I have the feeling that a large number of them got away from us.

When the rain stopped five minutes later in true Florida fashion, we took the buckets down to the water and released them in groups of five. The downward slant of the smooth packed sand at the water's edge seemed to shield them from distracting light but some of them still wanted to head toward the traffic. Also, several of them headed back to the buckets, not out of any yearning for their childhood orphanage, but because the buckets are white and attracted their attention. I think the buckets of the volunteers should be painted black. One of hatchlings kept heading to my feet which Stephanie says are very white. We stood silently pondering her words for a few seconds both slightly off balance by the strenuous intimacy of a statement and an adventure shared by two who had before this hour never met. I considered naming him as he knocked his little head into my flip flop. I tried to think of a foot fetishist whose name I knew, and realized that I don't know any by name. I wonder if that fact is more curious than the whiteness of my feet.

Also, I think we should have dug a trench leading to the water as soon as the hatching began. Had they been in the bottom of such a trench, they might not have seen the headlights. They are cute little buggers. Some were feisty, lifting their heads up and looking about. Some were slow and plodding and would not be dissuaded from their misdirection (Republicans) until a good strong wave convinced them. Stephanie says that their march to the sea is a necessary exertion and that just dumping the bucket into the waves would cause some of them to drown.

We released exactly fifty from the buckets, and Stephanie predicted a second wave of hatchlings from the same nest perhaps before dawn. We released them in groups of five and when each group's members had been washed away (and some of them get tossed back onto the sand by smaller waves, necessitating more interventions, like relapsed addicts, the Lindsay Lohans of the brood destined for a hardknock life), Stephanie would draw a line in the sand. She made four parallel lines, and then crossed that set diagonally just the way prisoners mark their duration on the walls of their cells. She completed two sets before the tide took our records away.

We scouted the periphery for strays. We found only one. In the middle of the highway. He had not made it across.

I've had a lifetime of seeing roadkill through a windshield with absolutely no emotional reaction but this one got to me.

On my way back to my bike, I encountered a gigantic female sea turtle digging her nest fifteen feet north of the lifeguard station and I doubled back to let Stephanie know so that she could watch over her and mark the nest.

Stephanie says that the hatchlings will swim for two or three days before they reach an area of underwater vegetation where they will get their first food and find protection. Along the way, some will be eaten by natural predators. This is not upsetting because it is part of the balance. But the one that scurried eagerly toward the oncoming headlights on the highway should not have perished.

A Defiant Argentine Priest

2010-07-15T23:12:00.002-04:00

There is always one good apple in every Catholic barrel.

While on the other coast...

2010-07-15T17:50:00.001-04:00

While you may have been heartened by the previous post about Mark Foley, you'll be distressed by this video about the sea turtles in the gulf.

Update: Here is a very disturbing link about Corexit provided by Mark Foley. It seems that BP has dumped a toxic substance into the Gulf in an unbelievably disgusting effort to correct the damage they have already done.

What Makes Mark Foley The Hottest Guy On The Beach?

2010-07-14T21:15:00.001-04:00

(No, not that Mark Foley. This profile of another Mark Foley - an admirable one - will brighten your day. Getting to know him has made me aware of an entire world just below the surface of the sand outside my door. A world that needs our help. A version of this article appears in the current issue of South Florida Gay News.)

Mark Foley's niche in the pantheon of sexy Fort Lauderdale men is prominent. Many are the patrons of the Ramrod, a local leather/levi watering hole, who will head for his bar more for receipt of his shirtless attention than for the beer he hands them. He is also not hard on the eyes in the closely cut green uniform of his day job as a park ranger. While he measures up to both of these standard issue gay porn fantasy types, the sexiest aspect of Mark Foley is to be appreciated only on the beach after midnight where you will find him volunteering his little free time in pursuit of his deepest passions, our environment and the protection of endangered sea turtles. If your goal is to get him in bed, forget it. He does not seem to sleep.

Mark is originally from Arcadia, Florida and attended South Florida Community College before joining the Navy from which he received an honorable discharge after three years. Mark has this to say about his military experience and DADT. "That policy is certainly discriminatory, but I served in Clinton's Navy and maybe I was lucky but it felt really tolerant, at least with friends and peers. I wasn't outspoken, but I wasn't overly quiet about my sexuality. I was pretty tame but off duty and in ports, sure, sometimes I had some fun. My first experience in San Francisco for instance. I dared to go into a gay bar in uniform with two other gay sailors and the bartender gave me a beer in exchange for taking my shirt off, then going in the back and having some fun."

Restless and eager to travel after his discharge, Mark headed for Europe where he met a Spaniard. "It was quite romantic actually. A 'love at first sight' sort of thing. I ended up leaving to continue my travels and he chased me all over Scotland to find me again." They remain close friends.

Upon his return, Mark enrolled in the University of Florida Gainesville, majoring in Spanish, and teaching English as a foreign language. While there, he became involved with a group called Seraphim that he describes as "Pagan, earth-centered, intelligent and creative. Like the Radical Faeries." This triggered an awakening in him of a strong spirituality and concern for the environment that has become his life's focus.

Mark heard about the Estudios Hispanicos program at the University of Barcelona and enrolled, living in Barcelona with his boyfriend for four years before being overcome with a desire to return to the USA, to escape the noise of a hectic city and to listen to his interior spiritual voice. Even so, living in rural Tampa with his lesbian sister and her partner gave him culture shock after years of city life. He visited Fort Lauderdale on a whim and stopped by Ramrod where he struck up a conversation with bartender "Big Daddy John", asking him if they were hiring. The response was "How soon can you be down here?" He studied graphic design at The Art Institute, worked for David magazine and as a graphic artist and writer for 411.

"Through all of this I knew that I needed to work with the environment somehow. At heart I'm a rural boy from Arcadia so I went to our closest state park to see if I could volunteer. They seemed to like me because they suggested I apply for a position. It was like a dream. One of my visions as a kid, along with astronaut and pilot, was park ranger, so here I am five years hence and it's great."

Upon learning about the three species of critically endangered or threatened sea turtles that nest on the popular beaches of Fort Lauderdale, Mark became deeply involved in the volunteer efforts to protect them from extinction. He began with NOVA University's program to keep track of the situation, and is now a part of Sea Turtle Oversight Protection (STOP), the primary organization comprised of volunteers who patrol the beach at night, monitor nests, guard the female turtle from the interference of curious night strollers and their camera flashes while she digs her nest and deposits her eggs, and help hatchlings misdirected by bright lights find their way into the ocean.

Watching Mark train new volunteers on the beach at midnight, listening to him talk about coastal overdevelopment and laws that protect wildlife but are not enforced, while he points out hotels and condo complexes that have complied with lighting restrictions and others that have been careless, will show you the heart of a born ecologist.

On a dark night last week, while Mark sat cross-legged near three nests marked with stakes and yellow caution tape, a gigantic turtle emerged from the waves and slowly made her way across the sand, stopping less than two feet in front of him. She seemed to sense his protection. He remained perfectly still during the exhausting forty-five minutes it took her to dig her nest, deposit a hundred glistening white eggs, the size of ping pong balls, cover them and return to the sea. Without the privilege of seeing that, most Fort Lauderdale residents and visitors will not be aware of nor appreciate the precarious balance of nature that constitutes this beautiful place. In the 45 to 60 days before the eggs hatch, Mark and the understaffed team of volunteers will work to protect that nest and the dozens of others they monitor. They will be there when the hatchlings emerge, to guide the large percentage of baby turtles that, misdirected by bright artificial light, will be crushed on the adjacent Rt A1A or end up lost in gutters and yards, perishing without this intervention.

The oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico may wipe out the sea turtle population of that region, making Mark's efforts on Florida's east coast even more important.

Your help is needed. To learn more about this project and to become a volunteer or to add your support, visit http://seaturtleop.org/broward/.

PS: For a head-to-toe shot of Mark, go to SFGN, click over to page 8 and double click on the photo.

The Irritated Side Of Staten Island

2010-07-14T08:10:00.000-04:00

I bring you this report not only because it describes a possible hate crime but because of the fascinating comments it acquired. In addition to the usual gay/straight choosing up of sides, you'll find folks who say "They should have known better and just ignored that gang.", others who criticize the cops, others who are well acquainted with the turf wars that are raging on that side of Staten Island, others who make Lebronalogies, others who criticize the Gothamist reporter, and best of all, an extended and entertaining gripe-and-retort over local dialect and style of communication. This comment string has all the dirty dishes that one would find in a kitchen sink. On Staten Island. It does not, however, have the kitchen sink: better reporting (reposting?) about gay New York. I recently emailed the site owners about this. I have not received a reply. Gothamist claims six million monthly visitors. Unless that number is a vast exaggeration, they're big enough to to do better in their coverage of gay issues.

Also in Oliver Twist

2010-07-10T11:57:00.003-04:00

In addition to this, there are these two wonderful sentences in Chapter XLIII of Oliver Twist:

He found himself jostled among a crowd of people, chiefly women, who were huddled together in a dirty frowsy room, at the upper end of which was a raised platform railed off from the rest, with a dock for the prisoners on the left hand against the wall, a box for the witnesses in the middle, and a desk for the magistrates on the right; the awful locality last named, being screened off by a partition which concealed the bench from the common gaze, and left the vulgar to imagine (if they could) the full majesty of justice.

I don't know why I put Dickens and Faulkner on the same shelf in my head, but I do. Maybe it's just that they both use a similar color palette for London and The South (The colors favored by Andrew Wyeth who painted neither.) I hope you are reading the two sentences at a speaking pace because that is the only way to taste them, and it is why no one today writes in this style. Readers sadly can't be bothered to slow down.

The room smelt close and unwholesome; the walls were dirt-discoloured; and the ceiling blackened. There was an old smoky bust over the mantel-shelf, and a dusty clock above the dock--the only thing present, that seemed to go on as it ought; for depravity, or poverty, or an habitual acquaintance with both, had left a taint on all the animate matter, hardly less unpleasant than the thick greasy scum on every inaminate object that frowned upon it.

You'll Never Guess Who Said This

2010-07-09T10:26:00.002-04:00

"Over the pope as expression of the binding claim of ecclesiastical authority, there stands one's own conscience which must be obeyed before all else, even if necessary against the requirement of ecclesiastical authority. This emphasis on the individual, whose conscience confronts him with a supreme and ultimate tribunal, and one which in the last resort is beyond the claim of external social groups, even the official church, also establishes a principle in opposition to increasing totalitarianism."

The author revealed after the break

Pope Benedict XVI, when he was Father Joseph Ratzinger, in: Commentary on the Documents of Vatican II ,Vol. V., pg. 134 (Ed) H. Vorgrimler, New York, Herder and Herder, 1967.

"Don't Do Anything Stupid."

2010-07-08T13:55:00.001-04:00

When I got married, I changed my name. I had no idea that the promulgation of this adjustment – simple for straight couples – would be so outrageously difficult for me.

In strange Florida, where gay adoption is illegal and a closeted governor likes the rancid orange Kool-Aid of Anita Bryant, I began my odyssey at the Fort Lauderdale driver license office on Powerline Road, a part of town so desolate that its streets are simply named after features that have no choice but to traverse it. Mailtruck, Watermain, Sewerpipe.

On my wedding day, my wise lesbian lawyer had executed a “Certificate of Name Change”, knowing that our marriage certificate would not be recognized as valid in states like Florida. I made fifty copies.

In mid morning and armed with both documents, I approached the failed strip mall that contained this office. A line stretched around the corner of the building. The waiting began on an unshaded sidewalk. In this overheated line, people displayed their most distempered behavior, until we were allowed, six at a time, inside where numbers were issued and there is more waiting. After hours of this, some folks gave up and left with dramatic expressions of rage. When my number rose as the afternoon sun declined through the dirty Venetian blinds, I presented my documents and my request to a grim-faced lady at station 9 who scorned the marriage certificate and ran her fingers over the Certificate of Name Change. Feeling no raised seal, she said “I need more than this. I need a certified copy.”

I was willing to take the blame for thinking I should have known this, and left the building without a new license.

A month later I returned, armed with a certified copy.

I waited (this time with my laptop until the batteries expired) and then I presented my brilliance to equally grim-faced station 4. “Where is everything else? You need proof of identity and residence and here, read this.” A checklist was peeled off a block and shoved at me. My exasperated demand to know why this had not been given to me originally went unanswered. I was, however promised that if I returned that afternoon, I’d be put at the head of the line. I quickly went home and gathered passport, birth certificate, utility bills, Social Security card and other items that might conceivably be required but were not listed, such as a framed picture of my husband in case when my number came up, I’d be assigned to that obvious queen behind station 6.

On my way back to Powerline Road, a large white Ford truck driven by an unlicensed kid attempted a U turn and crashed into the driver-side door of my little Smartcar. Police, paramedics, towtrucks and insurance people occupied me for the rest of the day.

I returned two days later to Powerline Road where another grim-faced lady looked at my stuff and actually attempted to process the change. “This is being declined. You need to get your Social changed first. The system won’t let us do anything until that change is in it.” By this date, I had been online at the Florida DMV site, derisively laughing at the inaccuracies it presents, and I knew that this requirement had never been presented there. “How on earth was I supposed to know that? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” She shrugged. ”It’s new. They changed it in December. Our computers are linked.” I offered that one would think that six months would be long enough for someone to have updated the website. Her paused-chewing gum look at me over the top of her glasses said it all.

The trip to the Social Security Office on nearby Commercial Boulevard was a breeze. I think I could have showed them only my frequent customer punch card from the gay coffee shop in Wilton Manors and been given any name imaginable. During the brief wait, a hunky officer did a funny stand-up routine about identity theft that can happen when a stranger with a cell phone takes a picture of your driver license while you are holding it. He beamed as we applauded. I was informed that my new Social Security info would be online and linked to the DMV within 48 hours. It was.

I returned to Powerline Road armed with a satchel of paper and a special “preference” slip that a sympathetic employee had given me on my last visit. I avoided the line and had to wait inside for only one hour before I got to Station 7. (Yes, Catholics, this office is very similar in design to the dreadful Stations of the Cross that depict in graphic detail the mocking, torturing and crucifixion of Jesus.)

Despite the fact that on a previous visit I had been told not to show them my marriage license because it was invalid, this lady asked to see it and I gave it to her. She rose from her chair with that document and my Name Change Certificate and conferred with a supervisor who then came around to my side of the counter and declared that neither document was adequate or valid. That is when I decided to throw the fit that had been marinating within me for several weeks. I delivered the fit loud enough for the five rows of one hundred seated and testy customers to enjoy. I included the fact of the car crash. I got an applause bigger than that of the officer at the Social Security Office. The supervisor went off to make a phone call to someone with authority in Tallahassee, leaving me to stew. She returned proclaiming my Name Change Certificate to be valid. She actually smiled as if I would be joyful at this news, in the way that returning Hobbits get teary-eyed at the sight of the Shire. When she saw that I wasn’t playing along, she brought me to Station 11, shoved someone aside and instructed the lady behind the counter to issue me a new license. And she did. As God is my witness, I will never return to Powerline Road.

The next day, I went to the auto tag office on Federal Highway. I had called ahead to see what would be required to change the name on my car registration. “Just your license and registration” said a lady’s voice.

After taking a number and waiting in the restless throng, I was informed that I also needed to bring the car’s title. A very helpful lady named Ellen Mary said that she didn’t know who had answered the phone and had given me misinformation. I scanned the staff and fixed a hateful eye on the suspect. Ellen Mary told me to ask for her by name when I returned. She’d help me right away. She had reviewed my marriage information. I wondered if perhaps she was lesbian or trans. I wasn’t getting that vibe but the amazing size and color of her roller coaster hairdo made me certain that her hairdresser is probably named Randy and that she was going the distance with me for love of him.

I returned with the title and garnered hate from the crowd that did not see me take a number before I stood at Ellen Mary’s station. Some voiced protest. I faced the mob and instructed them that I had been waiting since before they were born, and that I had a number and that I had their numbers as well, so they should just chill. (I’ve learned that in these circumstances, it is best to behave as if one were a character in a hospital or police TV drama series. People understand that script and just pray that they don’t find themselves in the episode in which a lunatic sprays the room with bullets.)

Ellen Mary started to process my request while I told her the saga of my times on Powerline. She stopped to confer with the lady at the next station about the possibility that my certificates might not be valid. The other lady shrugged. Ellen Mary returned to her screen and then stopped. “Where is your insurance card? We’ll need to see that as well.” My look of shock was enough for her. She knew she had not specified this at my earlier visit. She placed on the counter a form. “Here. Fill this in for me. Just put in the name of your insurance and where it asks for the policy number just make it up.” I did this, and then she added “Just don’t do anything stupid.”

“That horse, Ellen Mary, left the barn when I decided to change my name.”

107 Years Ago

2010-07-06T12:03:00.001-04:00

In 1903, Cecil Hepworth and Percy Stow, two leaders of early British cinema, made the first film interpretation of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. All that remains of this destroyed film are some reassembled and restored fragments, but it is still superior to any subsequent film version of the book. Dreamlike, in ways that producers like Dreamworks could never achieve. What is it about the first attempt at something that usually makes it the enduring best?

Here's some of a 1988 version:

And here's the 2010 Disney/Tim Burton version:

In the Heat of the Moment

2010-07-03T11:16:00.001-04:00

You won't save the Gulf of Mexico, fall in love or find God if you are not drinking enough water. We are reminded that most people walk about in a state of dehydration, depriving their bodies - mostly composed of water - of a basic necessity. The result is irritability, dizziness and muscle cramps.

Unfortunately, people buy water to which refined and colored sugar has been added. This sugar is a bad hitchhiker, like those bedbugs lurking in the shirts you get at Abercrombie and Fitch.

In New York, the tap water tastes great and there is no reason to buy bottled water. The first or second question from a waiter's mouth is usually "Tap or bottled?" Unless you want overpriced bubbles in your glass, you should opt for tap.

In Fort Lauderdale, the tap water has a yellowish tinge and an odd taste by dint of treatment. It is potable but not pleasantly. I used to lug home huge plastic bottles of water from the supermarket. The logistics involved from aisle to register to car to elevator to door to fridge were more irritating than dehydration. I have replaced that business with the purchase of a Brita carafe/water filter. I change the filter once every two months. The result is crystal clear and tasty in a tasteless way. It's also economical and efficient.

All day long, I gaze at the ocean wondering why Florida is not entirely using desalinated water if not for drinking, at least for flushing. We are still a primitive people who in the address of our needs create more problems for ourselves. Another example of this is what I am guessing to be the cause of the universal backache suffered by civilized folks. I recently added some positions to my daily stretching routine that are variations of the basic squat. People do not squat enough. We avoid it because it is an unbecoming position and because our clothes are too tight and ill-designed for its execution. Plus, everyone looks slightly comique in a squat. Our bodies, however, are designed to squat. It is the natural position for defecation. Unfortunately, the design of the ubiquitous toilet bowl means that most people never squat. This is bad for the spine and the back muscles. Toilet bowls should be redesigned so that the rim occurs about a foot above the floor forcing the user into a healthy squat, perhaps with the addition of handles flanking the opening to help steady the wobblers. I suspect this one change in our culture would eliminate billions of dollars in medical treatments and related lost production. Also, if you add the squat to your daily set of exercises, you will derive an almost instantaneous improvement in mobility and strength in your lower back. This can only result in better sex which is an entire other area of popular behavior that has been screwed up by civilization.

Great Catholics

2010-06-29T22:27:00.000-04:00

I love these people. They are the real Catholics. The ones who have their heads and hearts and souls correctly formed and guided by something much higher than their stupid, misguided and fearful bishops. CNN covered this but when I met them, I was surprised to see that they were not just a group of young Catholic activist gays. They are the salt-of-the-earth Catholics who have spent a lifetime discerning the Spirit and understanding their faith. They are bigger than their bishops. They are wonderful. Their pastor is a great man.

In Pride Magazine

2010-06-28T13:02:00.000-04:00

By Tony Adams

This year's PRIDE, the official magazine of InterPride, is available all over the city. It contains an article by yours truly entitled NYC On A Dime in which I recommend packing only black t shirts, and staying at the Upper West Side Y.

Also in this year's issue, in the photo section that celebrates long-time couples, are our Montreal friends Serge and Richard whose venerable blog Tornwordo has been on the Perge Modo menu for years.

The Baad Lamb and I were in the couples section last year. Same great photographer, Marius Bugge.

Wisdom in The Rocks

2010-06-24T10:46:00.001-04:00

She was the mistress of her domain consisting of a modest colonial on a corner lot in an energetic post war suburb, with a husband and three sons, the oldest of which am I. She did not like the huge old tree in the center of the yard. Its gnarled and widespread apron of surfaced roots often wrecked the mower blades.

She recruited us and a wheelbarrow and a Saturday for the creation of a rock garden that would form a ten-foot diameter circle around that tree. We entered the adjacent woods where the old stonewalls of earlier settlers demarked neighborly agreement among farmers. We took rock with veins of mica and quartz and shimmering granite, and others slathered with lichen. The ghosts of the folks who built those walls seemed to have moved on or slept through our dismantling.

She directed the placement of the rocks and the filling of the circle with ten inches of dirt from those same woods simply dumped on top of the offensive roots. She purchased a variety of flowering plants and directed their festive introduction into the circle. Within two weeks, the flowers had died, starved for direct sunlight under the shade of the huge tree and thirsty for the water commandeered by its roots.

An odd thing happened. Sprouts and seeds that had come in from the woods with the dirt began to announce themselves. Indian pipe, cowslip, Jack-in-the-pulpit, ferns and fiddle heads, trillium, and a rampant blue myrtle, not native to these parts, that must have escaped from a neighbor's garden and wandered the woods until we found it and reintroduced it to civilization. Like a shipwrecked child rescued and given chocolate, the myrtle responded to us with energy and entirely overcame any competitors.

She would sometimes look at that garden through the kitchen curtains and express her disappointment, but I loved it.

I learned that some plants grow so swiftly that you could almost see their tendrils extend before your eyes if you had the patience to be still when your friends were calling you off to the ball field. Driven by an acceptance of one summer and one autumn and one winter, they yearned to be all they could in the brief time allotted them.

Some of the rocks held small red and green crystals. These I pried loose and brought to my teacher for inspection. She told me they were garnet, a semi-precious stone. She patted my head and said that I had a jeweler's eye and perhaps someday I'd be a jeweler. I bristled at the suggestion that I'd be stooped over a counter taking orders for other people's jewelry. I bristled at the semi in her precious.

I turned over rocks to observe the colonial working of ants. Small black ones at 3 o'clock in the circle. Small red ones at 9' o'clock. And at 6 o'clock, a tribe that was half red and half black. These I assumed to be the result of intermarriage or begrudged mating by dint of our tumbling of the rocks that carried the ants out of the woods. They were all so task-oriented. Each one seemed to have an innate assignment. That one tends the eggs. That one looks for food. That one clears a channel. That one is the queen. So different from the annual Miss America pageant that I would never miss watching on the television. The winner inevitably wept when crowned, her hands flying up to her eyes to wipe the rivulets of teary mascara from her cheeks. In our species, one could rise above. In our species, life held an element of surprise, sometimes reward, sometimes disappointment.

At the top of the circle was a nest of yellow jackets discovered by my brother during his turn with the mower. I kept my distance from them but not my fascination. I learned that they preferred dark hollow spaces beneath old roots and rotting things. Later in life, because of these secretive hornets, I'd perfectly understand the gorgeous men who hang about the stoops of abandoned Harlem row houses. I wanted to know everything they did within their exotic lair and to be accepted rather than stung. I wanted to see them sleep in their restless, humid and forbidden beds.

The old tree at the center of all this gave no indication that it noticed the new and complex civilization that flanked its roots. Immutable and ignorant as God, it would calm and quiet all the lively industries of the garden with a thick blanket of curly brown leaves in November. Greater gods would add a comforter of snow and sometimes a glaze of ice so thick you could walk upon it and dance safely above the land of the yellow jackets.

When we moved on, family heirlooms went with us, but the one thing I wanted to take along could not be boxed. I miss the rock garden in which I learned everything I'd ever need to know about work and control and nature and God and community and war and sleep and desire and time, but nothing of love which may be had only when you return to the woods with all you've learned from the rocks.

On CNN tomorrow at 8PM

2010-06-23T14:06:00.000-04:00

Joe took this photo and wrote about his impression of Gary + Tony Have A Baby on JMG.

On other sites that sometimes see injustice whenever a story told is not their own story or whenever a subject broached is not their own personal cause, you'll find the opinion that this show is puffery and reflective of gay white privilege. I think that is absurd. The two men at the center of this story could have done any number of self indulgent things with the money they inherited. They chose to have a child. I choose not to nitpick about their methods. Watch the show. Decide.

My photos from the screening are after the break.

Broadway Bares XX - Stripopoly!

2010-06-21T16:05:00.002-04:00

some pics (NSFW) Read more.

March With Us

2010-06-18T12:06:00.000-04:00

You are invited to march with the queer New York bloggers, writers and digital activists in the 2010 NYC Pride March on Sunday June 27. Let me know if you'd like to join us. I'm assembling an email list for last minute info.

Our group has been assigned an advantageous assembly point and a start time near the front of the march:

We are in Section Two, assembling on 40th Street between Madison Avenue and Park Avenue. We step off at 11AM.

Last year, in front of Stonewall:

The Feathering Of The Empty Nest

2010-06-17T12:03:00.001-04:00

I've known men who have dedicated their lives to cock. I've known others who have inadvertently serviced alcohol for most of their adult lives. Others plan their week around their perpetual search for love without ever reaching into the pockets of their souls where they'd find the note explaining why they'll never get it. Hamsters on a wheel, rats in a maze, stevedores on the clock, we all have our predisposed distractions that, unnoticed, chew up our lives. The problem with death is that there is no preview, no rolling of the credits before the final frame. We get arrested by death with no reading of the Miranda rights and no attorney to present the justification for how we spent our days. We fuss with our hair, oblivious to the percentage of our lives devoted to the maintenance of this excretion.

On Tuesday, I did get a preview of a show about priorities and choices, and these thoughts came to mind as I chatted with Soledad O'Brien of CNN, Jarrett Barrios President of GLAAD and two gay men, Gary Spino and Tony Brown, who spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to become the parents of a boy with the help of an egg donor and a surrogate mother. Soledad, Jarrett, Gary and Tony are all raising children - without sacrificing great hair. (The show Gary + Tony Have A Baby, reported by Soledad O'Brien in CNN's In America series will air June 24 at 8PM ET/PT. I highly recommend it.)

I began to wonder if there is not a nest being feathered somewhere in the heart of every queer. If not for children, for what?

Today I ran three miles in Central Park finding my usual route interrupted by the barricaded flow of thousands of energetic folks involved in a race sponsored by a bank founded many years ago by the venerable American financier J.P. Morgan. They were running in a direction opposite mine with IDs pinned to their chests and hoping for respectable finishes for some good cause. They were tiring themselves for a reason perhaps admirable. The women jostled hopeful eggs, the men bounced eager sperm and from heaven, the prosperous J.P. Morgan blessed their efforts.

Exiting the park, I passed a corner bodega where I inhaled the scent of banks of flowers in buckets on the sidewalk and I was reminded of the recent wake of the father of a close friend. He died in his 80s having raised a family and bested the drinking that had almost destroyed them. The white flowers I ordered to accompany his coffin paled in comparison. Suffocating is the thought of mortality before accomplishment. Dreadful, like the scent of carnations, is the possibility that you'll take a path into lifelong rambles.

I ran past a prestigious address, the Prasada, on Central Park West, where I dodged film star Antonio Banderas as he exited a cab and greeted the deferential doorman who ushered him into the emblem of his success. He'll sleep on an upper floor with a view of the park and all its fervent running, half way between me and J.P.

I ran down a side street where I passed a beige leather sofa and a heap of personal oddities put out for the trash collectors. Perhaps this was the detritus of someone who had died. I imagined the relatives fussing over the trappings of a life whose resolution saddled them. I could almost hear their murmuring voices deciding what of the man's life had worth and what was simply garbage. Did they even run their hands beneath the cushions of that sofa to extract what change may have slipped in? Or were they in too much of a hurry to erase him?

Some of me will eventually end up on the sidewalk. Some of all of us will eventually end up on a sidewalk.

A few days ago, my husband and I saw a potted plant on the sidewalk outside our building. A paperclip held a note to one of its thick deep green straps. "I am an orchid. Pretty! Please adopt me." We deferred our coffee gratification for the few minutes it took to return inside, wait for the elevator and place our adoptee on a window ledge. Its flower stalk had been clipped so we don't know what color or shape its blooms will take. I wondered if it might have roaches hidden in the mulch. Will we regret adding it to our plant family? Not so different a speculation from what Gary and Tony express as they select an egg donor and a surrogate.

I am a childless wordsmith. Although running out into the night in Manhattan may make me wonder about my personal race and my personal best, I have no regrets. My route is clear and filled with things I scoop up from the path. I wonder if eventually overburdened with what in love you've picked up in life, you eventually stop running. We'll see.

A Piece of Work

2010-06-16T10:29:00.000-04:00

Today, in South Florida Gay News, the expanded edition of my interview with Joan Rivers.

Benefitting New York Marriage Equality

2010-06-15T14:39:00.001-04:00

A delightful evening for a good cause. A star-studded collection of mini-plays on the subject of marriage equality.

And I was pleased to spend time with enchanting Fire Island drag legend Empress XIX of the Imperial Court of New York Robin Kradles (with New York Theater Workshop's Jeffrey Wallach).

Cry Me A River

2010-06-11T07:52:00.000-04:00

The Pope is begging forgiveness. Again. You want to believe that he is sorry for something other than having become unpopular, but his are the tears of a guilty man on the stand.

And his conclusion. So sad. Just a veiled way of offering his homophobic effort to drive away gay candidates for the priesthood as the solution to pedophilia.

He added: "We too insistently beg forgiveness from God and from the persons involved, while promising to do everything possible to ensure that such abuse will never occur again."

He also promised that the Church would enact stronger controls on choosing men who enter the priesthood.

"In admitting men to priestly ministry and in their formation we will do everything we can to weigh the authenticity of their vocation and make every effort to accompany priests along their journey, so that the Lord will protect them and watch over them in troubled situations and amid life's dangers," he said.

He obviously hasn't noticed that poor but ambitious gay Catholic young men who once needed the priesthood as their only route to community leadership now have many other and better options. There are no self-respecting gay young men left for the pope to weed out of his garden of bitter herbs. Compare the pope's strategy to the Old Spice ad campaign appealing to heterosexual macho guys. It's not as if gay men bought that swill anyway. (But don't go messin' with my Aqua Velva.)

The Life and Death of a Florida Queen

2010-06-10T08:56:00.000-04:00

Colonies are founded in the spring by a single queen that mated the previous fall and overwintered as an adult, usually under the bark of a log. Nests may be aerial or terrestrial, depending in part upon the species of the wasp. Some species may construct both types of nest. Regardless of location, each nest is a series of horizontal combs completely surrounded by a paper envelope. Initially, the solitary queen must not only construct the paper brood cells, but also forage for food, lay eggs, feed her progeny, and defend the next from intruders. When the first offspring emerge as adults they assume all tasks except egg laying. The queen devotes the remainder of her life to this task and does not leave the nest again. For most of the season the colony consists of sterile worker females which are noticeably smaller than the queen. Each worker tends to persist at a given task, such as nest building or feeding larvae, for a given day, but may change tasks if the need arises. Working habits apparently are not associated with age as they are in the honeybee. Workers progressively feed larvae a diet of masticated flesh of adult and immature insects, other arthropods, and fresh carrion. Lepidopterous larvae appear to be a favorite food. In autumn, larger cells are constructed for the crop of new queens. Larvae in these cells receive more food than do those in normal cells. At the same time, the queen begins to lay unfertilized or male eggs in either large or small cells. After emergence, the new queens mate and seek shelter for the winter. These will be the founders of next spring's colonies. The old founder queen dies, and the workers begin to behave erratically until social order breaks down. With winter's arrival, the remaining colony dies.

text from the University of Florida.

Touring Bushwick

2010-06-07T00:34:00.000-04:00

Multiple Marys

For the record,

2010-06-04T23:49:00.000-04:00

she thought my one liner, "Joan Rivers - The Face That Launched A Thousand Snips" was very funny and original. We talked for half an hour. I really like her. I gave SFGN the exclusive on the interview and they may hold it for the Pride issue. Stay tuned.

Later tonight my posse from Queer New York met at a gallery opening. We were photographed with John Waters. La vie en rose.

The Fairy Tale Life of Charles L. Ross

2010-06-01T00:28:00.000-04:00

There is so much more to his story, but here's the 950 word version.

Kate Clinton and Larry Kramer honored as Pioneers

2010-05-30T08:45:00.000-04:00

At the 22nd Annual Lambda literary Awards

The Face That Launched A Thousand Snips

2010-05-27T11:07:00.000-04:00

(My exclusive time with Joan is scheduled for June 4th) This is from yesterday's roundtable. She is beautiful even in close-up, and lively and intense and engaged in a way that few people are at any age.

In which you get to voice your opinion

2010-05-24T23:38:00.000-04:00

I've got an interview with Joan Rivers coming up soon in New York. Joan has a card catalogue that contains every joke, every one-liner and every zinger she ever wrote and delivered. It fills a wall in her home. She is a woman who appreciates a good line. With this in mind, I thought to come up with a good original line or two. Here's what I plan to say upon meeting her:

"So this is the face that launched a thousand snips."

What do you think? I've been trying out this line all over Fort Lauderdale.

So, dear readers, do you think it's a good line, or should I ditch it?

in 1837, Charles Dickens wrote

2010-05-22T12:19:00.000-04:00

in Oliver Twist:

There are some promotions in life which, independent of the more substantial rewards they offer, acquire peculiar value and dignity from the coats and waistcoats connected with them. A field-marshal has his uniform, a bishop his silk apron, a counsellor his silk gown, a beadle his cocked hat. Strip the bishop of his apron, or the beadle of his hat and lace - what are they? Men. Mere men. Dignity, and even holiness too, sometimes, are more questions of coat and waistcoat than some people imagine.

Been reading Dickens every day. Unlike most recent popular fiction, his words are meant to be savored at a speaking pace, as if you were reading them aloud. Very satisfying, like a juicy medium-rare prime rib with horseradish sauce.

Today on Bilerico: "Our Rentboy Deserves Better"

2010-05-20T19:25:00.000-04:00

I figured this one might cause a some lively discussion.

Father John McNeill

2010-05-18T12:54:00.000-04:00

In the latest issue of South Florida Gay News, I write about Father John McNeill.

Lest We Forget The Good Old Days

2010-05-11T09:12:00.000-04:00

My mother used to say that as a child I much preferred this TV show to a rival one on another channel featuring Milton Berle.

No Litmus Test For Catholics?

2010-05-09T13:50:00.000-04:00

This New York Times story about the ministry of the on-leave Father Robert J. Bowers perfectly describes the current situation in the American Catholic Church. Many Catholics, even the elderly ones, think they can be "Catholic" without participating in the regular sacramental life of the church that traditionally constitutes the litmus test of membership. Unfortunately, there isn't a single bishop, cardinal or pope who would agree with that, and if Bowers wants to return to the active ministry, he'll have to side with the hierarchy.

According to Bowers, obedience is a two-way street built on mutual trust. This instantly brought me back to my last meeting with my bishop almost thirty years ago. I sat in his office feeling very small on the visitor side of his enormous desk as I explained to him that I could not bring myself to accept the parish assignment he was offering me, and again pleaded with him to keep his promise to send me back to Rome to finish my studies. He became enraged and shouted "I am your ordinary! You promised obedience to me when you were ordained!" I was shown the door and told that I had no time to think about this and that I would be expected to move into that parish immediately. In the long hallway, embarrassed chancery staff looked away as I passed. I had become a problem. A willful child. Bold. Cheeky. Bad. I left the building realizing that for the first time in my life, I was entirely on my own.

I had to laugh when I read these words of Father Bowers:

He chuckled as he recalled certain aspects of his old life as a parish priest. “In almost 20 years, I never paid a bill, I never vacuumed,” he said. “Now I do all these things. There’s something very humanizing about cleaning the toilet.”

My husband says I still don't vacuum.

My Husband On The Campaign Trail For Gay Travel Guru

2010-05-08T13:06:00.000-04:00

Last night, my husband, the baad lamb, took time to support my campaign to become gaytravel.com’s “Travel Guru” by attending an event at Chelsea’s new sports bar, Boxers at 37 West 20^th Street.

He spoke with gaytravel.com’s cute Tommy about the site and the competition.

The baad lamb, who is much more shy than am I, and not inclined to shove a camera in a stranger’s face, does a swell job of covering the bases for me while I continue to lounge on the beach of Fort Lauderdale when not tracking down Rentboys and Rekers.

I hope gaytravel.com will appreciate getting a twofer when they hire me.

PS: Big thanks for all the hearts I've accrued on the site. I'll keep you posted as the contest moves into the next phase.

The Pope Song

2010-05-03T09:55:00.000-04:00

JoeMyGod alerted me to this in the wee sleepless hours when the mind gets silly. Ordinarily I might dismiss it as childish and vitriolic, but the fact is that everywhere I go, people are simply and repeatedly saying "Fuck the Pope" in such resounding numbers and with such conviction that attention must be paid.

I suppose B16 will never hear this song. Really, who's gonna show it to him? The Vatican spokesman Father Lombardi? Even if he does hear it, he'll feel insulted but he will have no sense of how these words are widely expressive of both Catholic and non-Catholic current sentiment. He won't understand that people don't like to be judged, and they really don't like to be judged by those who commit and cover up serious crimes. Even in traditional Catholic art, the shepherd is never depicted flogging the sheep or arrogantly ignoring the flock.

I'm guessing that there isn't a cardinal or bishop alive who isn't secretly hoping that God will soon call B16 to his heavenly reward.

This so much more than just a PR nightmare for the Vatican. This is a time of clarification. The hierarchy is squirming on a slide under the lens of a powerful microscope. They deflect this scrutiny with expressions of outrage at the affrontery of subjecting Jesus and his bride, the church, to hateful scrutiny. That old switcheroo no longer works.

If the pope were inconvenient because he tells us hard truths that are for our own good, I'd say we should gratefully take the medicine, but he offers no remedy for the human condition and he brings us no closer to the divine element in the human condition. When I hear the words "Fuck the pope", I am silent. Qui tacet consentire videtur.

The Fresh Bile and Sex Life of Larry Kramer

2010-05-03T01:19:00.000-04:00

Yup, I'm happy with this interview with Larry Kramer. It's out today in the South Florida Gay News. I do like going into the CVS and seeing folks pick it up off the rack by the door. Wanda Sykes bumped his photo:

The Human and the Divine

2010-05-02T09:08:00.000-04:00

The New York Times Nicholas Kristof delivers an uplifting view of the good Catholic Church as it slogs along in the persons of some very good nuns and priests. He puts a face to something we know is alive and flourishing: the missionary and selfless work being accomplished in the context of an otherwise unhealthy church.

Please watch the video that accompanies the article. I don't know much about Father Michael beyond what Mr. Kristof presents. I don't know his theology or his sexuality, but I agree with Mr. Kristof that he would make a fine pope. Most magnificent is his response to Mr. Kristof's request for a comment on the fact that there are "two churches": the one in which the hierarchy fails to deal with pedophilia, malpracticed celibacy, women's issues and AIDS; and the third world one in which Father Michael is working. This priest has no appetite for the bait. His response is simple. "There is the human and there is the divine."

Father Michael has endured malaria and intestinal parasites and waves them off as "normal". Meanwhile, in Rome, a thousand doctors would not be able to cure Pope Benedict XVI of the blindness and arrogance that infect him.

PS: Father Michael is a member of the Order of Comboni Missionaries whose founder, an Italian priest, said "The missionary will have to understand that he is a stone hid under the earth, which will perhaps never come to light, but which will become part of the foundations of something much greater." (I don't think the sleazy founder of the Legionaries of Christ ever said anything like that.) Read this letter from Father Michael on a blog maintained for him. He talks about having to dig his truck out of mud and having to clean up a bout of sudden diarrhea while arguing with a catechist. It makes me feel rather uneasy about the fact that I accomplish less tangible good in this world with much greater resources, including AAA.

Pope Takes Control of Legionaries of Christ

2010-05-01T13:49:00.001-04:00

B16 is taking over the Legionaries of Christ and will send a group of inquisitors an apostolic delegation to examine them.

This is an improved move, albeit too late to change public opinion which incidentally now involves a worldwide mass-exodus from The Roman Catholic Church if we can believe the reports and surveys.

This is certainly preferable to shutting down the order entirely which was an option. We should keep in mind that many religious orders get off to a rocky start with unsavory founders who manage to attract some good men and women into their ranks. The founder of the Legionaries of Christ, Marcial Maciel, was all about sex with almost anything on two legs. I'm pretty sure that the priests who had been pushing for his canonization have folded their tents and are crying into their Campari at Harry's Bar on the Via Veneto next to the priests working on the canonization of Pope Pius XII.

I think there is a place for insanely handsome arch conservative priests who didn't mind being woken up in the middle of the night to service their leader. They didn't need much beauty sleep.

Requesting a Favor

2010-04-29T14:55:00.001-04:00

Hey folks,
I'm in the application process to become the travel guru for gaytravel.com.
For the moment, one step of the application is to receive at least 25 "hearts" on a travel tip I've posted there.
Would you take a minute to follow the link below to my first travel tip, register on the site (this is cumbersome: register, do profile, get email verification, go back and login. I know.) and then click on the heart next to the title of the tip?
There's a lot more to the application process, but this is the first step.
Thanks,
Tony

http://www.gaytravel.com/guide-to/things-to-see-and-do/in/new-york-city/bear-hill-in-central-park/

The Balm Of Superiority

2010-04-27T23:42:00.002-04:00

That phrase is from this excellent piece to which my friend Jeff in Palm Springs alerted me.
As R. S. Hoffman suspects, the hierarchy will not hear him, but the rest of us will recognize the sound of truth in what he has said. Spot on.

The Fabulous Disease of Mark King

2010-04-26T12:06:00.000-04:00

I thoroughly enjoyed interviewing Fort Lauderdale's Mark King for SFGN. An amazing story of fast living, recovery and a great second act.

After you read the interview, check out his site. And don't miss Anita Mann's Youtube star turn.

Sharon Gless has a Message for the Pope

2010-04-25T13:33:00.002-04:00

With actress Sharon Gless in Miami Beach. She was raised Catholic and had this message for B16. (Sorry about the lighting which is beyond much correction. We were in Bar 721.)

For more about that evening, and the award given to Sharon Gless by the Miami Gay and Lesbian Film Festival.

In Bruges

2010-04-23T13:00:00.000-04:00

A Belgian bishop, Roger Vangheluwe, has resigned, admitting abuse. The translations are all over the place as to whom he abused. A boy? A young man? None of the reports indicate the victim's age or name.

Here are three pictures of the disgraced one street walking in lace, cradling a floral tribute and surrounded by boys while performing some sort of ritual involving a mountainous monument out of which is sprouting a blanched phallus.

The Fall Guy Gets Up.

2010-04-19T15:07:00.000-04:00

In a letter to a friend, Gerhart Gruber says he was made to take a bullet for B16.
The diocese of Munich denies it. We cannot at this time be sure who is telling the truth but I'm betting its Gruber.

Let's add this to the list of cracks in the walls of the Vatican.

If B16 felt that the list of pedophile priests was too long to be dealt with in a reasonable time, what ever will he do with the growing list of mutinous priests who are refusing to fall in line - or down - for him?

evasive - a new definition

2010-04-19T14:46:00.000-04:00

eva·sive (ē vā′siv), adjective: seized by the compulsion to appear digitally dissolved into the glaze of 20th century art deco pottery.

It would seem that I have time on my hands.

Attorney Elizabeth Schwartz - Q & A

2010-04-19T13:49:00.001-04:00

“I didn’t come out – even to myself – until after college. Sometimes when I come out to friends who knew me way back when, their reaction is ‘Oh we always knew you were a lesbian, but we never dreamed you’d be a lawyer!’”

The double L-worded Attorney Elizabeth Schwartz is a fascinating study in the twists and turns that life can bring even for someone as self-directed as she.

On March 26^th, she was named an honoree for this year’s Women Worth Knowing of the Miami Beach Women’s Conference. In her acceptance speech about the rights of unmarried couples, she spoke of being appreciative that the honor highlighted her work for the LGBT community and that discrimination is not acceptable. The award is now seventeen years old and Attorney Schwartz is the only out lesbian to have won it in recent years.

Did she always want to be a lawyer?

(You can read the rest of my interview with Attorney Schwartz after the break or head over to the current issue of South Florida Gay News)

“I’m a Broward girl, born in Miami Beach but grew up in Hollywood. I went to Penn where I got very involved in civil rights issues like race relations, pro-choice and homelessness. I was the kind of activist student who would do things like staple wire coat hangers to trees with signs that said ‘This is not a surgical instrument.’ Philadelphia was just too cold for me. I lived in Israel for a while after college before I came back to Florida.”

How did the legal career come about?

“I went to a jazz festival in New Orleans where I had an epiphany. I suddenly realized that as a lawyer I could still do the social work that attracted me. So I decided to go to the best school in my backyard and that was UM. I think I got in the day before classes started. I had always been very engaged in LGBT issues. Even when I had a boyfriend in college I marched for LGBT rights. Thank God I ended up being a gay lawyer or I might have taken some vow of poverty and worked for legal aid!

“My original plan was to be a journalist. I had a column in my high school paper. It was called LizBiz. I pretty much had the run of the paper. When I went to Penn, I wanted to write for their paper. The first thing I submitted was heavily edited and I was mortified! So instead of becoming a journalist, I married one!”

Attorney Schwartz and Lydia Martin who writes for the Miami Herald have been together for eight years.

“We are peers in life. We both had established ourselves in our careers. I think it is helpful if two people in a relationship are at the same point in life although I know that it doesn’t guarantee a successful relationship and there are plenty of examples to the contrary. I once had a relationship with a Starbucks barrista. I adored her and I still do. She was a person with great potential but it didn’t work out. We were at different places in life and they never met. Still, you never really know what makes a relationship work although when a couple comes into my office I can often tell immediately if the relationship will work or not.”

Attorney Schwartz calls her practice gay family law and she treats the law as a therapeutic profession.

“ The law had originally been a way to help people resolve conflict and close chapters that needed to be closed. Unfortunately, because of greed and shortsightedness on the part of both lawyers and clients, we moved away from that. I try to restore that in my practice. With my estate planning, I try to do that prophylactically. Sometimes it’s tough because I get a client who says ‘I want you to nail him/her to the wall!’ I try first to get those types into mediation.

“I firmly believe in the ‘hers/mine/ours’ arrangement. If a couple keeps everything jointly owned, it could cause resentments. On the other hand, if everything is separately owned, how is that a coupling? My idea of a good partnership is something that can grow together, with no bizarre power dynamics. Yes, I see a lot of bizarre power dynamics that cause problems in relationships.”

I wondered if men or women were more difficult clients in gay divorce.

“There’s no simple answer. In the gay community, we are harsher in divorce not because we are worse people but because we do not have the instruments of law to lean on. Straight people have the rule books. Sometimes I think what the gay community needs first and more important than gay marriage is gay divorce! That would solve many problems.

“A lot of times, gay men treat divorce as a business transaction. Women may be more emotional, but even as I say that I realize it is not a fair estimation. I am thinking of one male couple that had a terrible fight over which one was going to get the red Baccarat crystal Dorothy from Oz slippers!”

I suggested that they each should have kept one slipper.

“Look, I always tell my clients that I believe in the Belt and Suspenders Rule. Just because you are legally married in another state, don’t assume that your rights will be guaranteed here in Florida. Just because you had a good lawyer draw up wills and powers of attorney elsewhere, don’t assume they will work to your advantage in Florida. Get the protections you need drawn up specifically in the language of this state.”

Belt and Suspenders. Good advice that left this man who was married and well assisted by a very good lesbian lawyer in Connecticut wondering if he might need the additional help of the convincing Attorney Elizabeth Schwartz.

You may contact Attorney Elizabeth F. Schwartz at www.sobelaw.com