the Queer Bibliofile

Quiknote

2011-11-29T07:18:00.001-08:00

You've got to be kidding!
Wisconsin DA Lisa Riniker, according to a report on AMERICAblog, charged a 6 year old boy with a felony for playing doctor with a 5 year old girl. What has happened to this country? What has happened to common sense? Basta!

James Lear

2010-09-01T14:24:00.000-07:00

James Lear is the nom de plume of Rupert Smith. To Mr. Smith, I say: thank you for introducing Edward 'Mitch' Mitchell and Boy Morgan to the world. It is a hornier, funnier, and more delightfully decadent world with them in it.

Warning: reading these books in public might prove to be a wee bit embarrassing...

The Back Passage
The Secret Tunnel
A Sticky End

General John Sheehan's Bigotry

2010-03-24T07:20:00.000-07:00

The former Dutch Defense Chief-of-Staff General Henk van den Breemen has come out and denounced General John Sheehan's contention that having openly gay soldiers in the Dutch army had contributed to the 1995 massacre in Srebrenica during the Bosnian war.

Sheehan's testimony is shown to be what it really is: anti-gay bigotry based on nothing but personal animosity toward gays and lesbians.

Kerry Eleveld has the story in the Advocate.

Ann Coulter and Free Speech

2010-03-24T07:08:00.000-07:00

I find Ann Coulter and her inflammatory and irrational rhetoric abominable. However, the students at the University of Ottawa are mistaken if they believe that preventing Coulter from speaking was the correct way to assure a "safe and positive space" for students on their campus.

The best way to counter bigots' hate-speech is to have a rational debate in which their bigotry and hatred is shown openly to be what it is. The only thing that the students did was to give the arch-conservatives and haters more amunition that can be used by the right-wing against what they describe as the intolerance of the left.

Writing Again

2009-12-17T11:35:00.000-08:00

Writing is easy for some people; for others not so much. Some writers admit that putting pen to paper is an arduous and often frustrating exercise. Yet they write nonetheless, daily, with fervor and determination. They create. It may hurt. A day’s effort may prove to be dreck. But they write on.

I’m one of those determined but frustrated writers. I want to write. I want people to read what I write. But I can’t seem to relax enough to allow my writing to be spontaneous. I’m too self-critical, so I stop writing.

I started this blog to counter that tendency to over critic. I figured a blog would be a safe, less frustrating venue to hone my writing skills and maybe conquer or at least subdue my writing demons. After all, it’s pure conceit for many, if not most bloggers to believe there is an audience out there just biting at the bit to read their posts. The reality, for most of us, is that no one except a few friends and perhaps the occasional blog junkie will ever even find our blog let alone find it interesting.

But now I’m back with fresh enthusiasm and optimism. I can’t promise daily posts or wildly inventive reviews, but I can promise interesting posts, some honest self-reflection, and perhaps some fun.

Rant of the Day

2009-10-02T08:48:00.000-07:00

Chicago Out of Olympic Race - Obama Star Diminshed

Who is advising this man? Everyone on the planet seemed to agree that Barack Obama was taking a political risk by being the very first American President to personally advocate before the IOC on behalf of an American cities' bid to host the Olympic Games. Yet there he was, in Copenhagen, assuring the IOC that Chicago would make the world proud if it were to host the 2016 Games.

And when the very first vote takes place, Chicago is the very first city eliminated.

And now, Republican politicians, Rush Limbaugh, Hannity, Beck, Palin, - let's face it every wingnut and right-wing leaning pundit - will blast Mr. Obama for everything from wasting time and energy, to demeaning the office of the president, to pushing his "socialist" and "fascist" agenda.

Do we really have to endure this?

Rant of the Day

2009-10-01T07:34:00.000-07:00

I don't care how talented or vital to film-making Roman Polanski is or was, he is a pedophile who raped a 13 year old child and who has shamefully evaded punishment for his crime for 31 years. His arrest in Switzerland is justified and if he is again able to squirm his way out of facing the consequences of his admitted criminal actions, we should all be embarassed.

It doesn't matter that the then victim, Samantha Gailey now believes Polanski should be left alone.

It is ludicrous that 110 film personalities have signed a petition demanding his release.

He skipped out on his sentencing hearing and has never served a day in jail or of probation (other than the 42 days he was in prison for a psychiatric examination).

He should be required to stand before a judge, have his day in court and finally serve time for a crime he pled guilty to 31 years ago.

Holiday Gifts - Kindle

2008-12-27T17:54:00.000-08:00

Happy Holidays!

Despite Bill O'Reilly's annual screed on the war on Christmas by secularists and anti-Christianists like me, I have nothing against acknowledging Christmas as the topic of the season. But I also recognize that I have friends that don't celebrate the birth of Christ and yet do celebrate the season of good will and love. So Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all of my friends.

My wonderful husband gave me a Kindle for Christmas along with a huge gift certificate that should last me for a month or two. I hadn't had the chance to use it until this Friday when he and I and some good friends took off for the coast for a three day weekend. Other friends of ours have a beach rental that we love to use in Neskowin, Oregon. It's just off the beach and across the street from a creek (which by the way is really high and looks like another day or two of steady rain could mean trouble for the area). So for the last two days, I've had the pleasure of doing nothing but eat, drink, and read. I bought two books on Friday and have finished one already: IM by Rick R. Reed (see the review above). I've realized that the biggest problem with having a Kindle is the ease in which Amazon.com has made buying books for it. It's like an addiction. You're done with one book, and if you're bored all you have to do is go online and "buy" the next fix...I mean Kindle edition book and start reading. I'm going to have to control my buying habits or I'll exhaust my gift card too early.

The Kindle itself is quite a toy. I like it. There are problems and you can find out all about them online. There are an incredible number of reviews online for the Kindle and I read them before telling Santa I wanted one. Despite the negatives, the Kindle is a marvel and wonderful to use.

The most vexing problem I ran into immediately is the placement of the page turning buttons. There's no comfortable place to put your hands to hold the thing without inadvertently hitting the next page or previous page buttons prematurely. So finding that magic spot to hold the Kindle without hitting those buttons is difficult. I found the best thing to do is to use either the "cover" that came with the Kindle or one of the covers that are offered online for the machine. With a cover you have the left "page" that you can hold which gives you a better grip and something to hang onto other than the Kindle itself. Unfortunately even that made my hand cramp somewhat until I got used to it.

Once I got used to the electronic paper, I realized it was actually quite easy on the eyes. You do have to find the right light to read it comfortably, but you have to do the same with a paper book. You can increase or decrease the font size until you find the size that's easiest on your eyes. I increased mine to level 4 which made it a bit easier to read for me but it meant less text on the page and more page turning so I returned the font to level 3 (which I think is the default font size) and was quite satisfied.

But one of the great advantages of using a Kindle to reading a paper book is that you can look up words directly on the Kindle whenever you find yourself in that wonderful place where you aren't sure of the exact meaning of a word or phrase. Before, I'd have to put the book down, go to my dictionary and look it up. Now with the Kindle, I simply locate my cursor next to the line that has the word that I'm looking up in it and press Look up. Voila! The Kindle brings up a list of the words in the sentence and without having to interrupt your reading, you've got the definition and you continue reading. A wonderful invention. I love it.

The inventors of the Kindle also give us a wonderful set of images that pop up whenever you put your Kindle to sleep. Everything from illuminated pages from a medieval manuscript to pictures of famous writers like Brontë or Wilde.

I haven't had any problem buying books that I want yet. The gay mystery section in the Kindle Books list isn't big or comprehensive but I'm hoping it will get better. I've also found a couple of other free e-book sites that one can use to download e-books to your Kindle. One that is quite fascinating is http://manybooks.net or if you go to www.mnybks.net, which is an extension of Manybooks, you can access the books through the basic WebBrowser in Kindle and download Kindle books directly to your Kindle, the way you would an Amazon book.

Despite some basic problems that are supposedly going to be addressed with Kindle 2.0 the Kindle is fun and easy to use. It won't be the iPod of 2009 but it definitely isn't going away. Buy one and enjoy.

History in the Making

2008-11-04T07:18:00.000-08:00

I've been absent from blogging for quite awhile. I've been too busy following the election to be able to concentrate. This morning while listening to one of Barack Obama's last speeches before election day, I realized that we all are truly seeing history being made. For the first time in the history of this country, we had a man of color running for president on a major ticket. I pray to God that by the end of today, this country will have elected the first black American president. In January of 2009 I pray that we will see a black woman as First Lady.

But it isn't just because Obama is black that is important. This country needs a new leader that will restore to its own people a sense of hope and renewal. The world is also watching and hoping for an American leader who can bring the United States back to being a nation that not only leads but leads with compassion and cooperation; a nation that leads with thought and truth; a nation that leads with example and equanimity. Barack Obama can do it and will do it.

It is not hyperbole to say, as so many have said recently, that after eight years of Bush/Cheney and Republican non-leadership, the nightmare is almost over.

It makes me want to weep.

Growing Old with Dignity or NOT!

2008-07-16T12:32:00.000-07:00

I was sitting outside in the park blocks this afternoon, enjoying the cooler summer weather and listening to some rather mellow music that was being broadcast through some free standing amps. There was an assorted array of students lounging around, eating or studying for mid-terms (already!) and a number of other people just hanging around waiting for the regular live music to start. One older fellow started to dance to the canned music. He must have been in his 70s or 80s, dressed in bib overalls, a dingy old t-shirt and a baseball cap. He was having a great time girating, pulling up his bibs in time with the music, and strutting around doing his impression of an aged Michael Jackson. Some students watched him, amused, and smiling. Others turned away as if embarassed that this old geezer was unaware of how silly he looked. Some taunted him outright, telling him to sit down. He turned to them, smiled, doffed his cap their way and then kept on dancing. I had to smile and admire his spirit.

I used to think that the one final goal in life was to "grow old with dignity". It was a surprise for me to learn that there's a whole cadre of people out in the world who actually believe that dignity be damned, they aim to grow old and enjoy every minute of every day NOT worrying about embarassing themselves or by extension anyone related to them. What a relief that must be.

Nonetheless, I still hope that as I grow older, I can find a good compromise between maintaining some dignity and dancing in the park blocks with abandon - dignity be damned.

Selfish & Perverse

2008-01-15T07:38:00.001-08:00

Bob Smith is a seriously funny man. I've watched him do his standup routine on Logo and laughed until I had tears in my eyes. But I wasn't sure that a standup comedian could pull off writing a full-length novel.

Bob Smith is a seriously funny writer. Reading his first attempt at fiction, I laughed until I had tears in my eyes.

Let's face it. Anyone, gay or straight, who can write eloquently enough about Alaska to make an urban-dwelling gay man whose idea of roughing it while camping is having to stay in a two-star hotel think seriously about moving there is a seriously good writer.

Now before any Alaskans get upset, may I digress slightly to say that I have visited Alaska and yes, I loved visiting there. Hell, my husband drove tour buses there for a summer earning money for college. It is truly, one of the most beautiful and bucolic places on earth; serene, majestic, wild, exciting, cold, wet, isolated. Did I mention wet? Bucolic or not, it is not the first place that I or any of my gay friends consider a must-move-there destination. But when Bob Smith describes the landscape around Coffee Point, Alaska, he gives his readers a rare view of a place that transcends the ordinary and makes you want the life that his characters have.

As good as Smith is at using good prose to give his readers a sense of place, he is equally as good at character development. As the novel progresses, you get a definite feeling you know these guys, their foibles and their motivation.

A quick synopsis of the plot: Nelson Kunker, the main character, is a gay man who seriously has doubts about his talent as a writer. He is stuck in a dead-end job as a television script coordinator in LA until he's fired for smoking hooch with a hunky, handsome and sexy guest star (Dylan Fabizak) appearing in Aftertaste, the television show that Kunker writes for. At the same time, he's met Roy Briggs, a hunky, handsome and sexy Alaskan fisherman who's visiting the set of Aftertaste to see his cousin who is one of the regulars on the show. After a quick courtship and being unemployed at that point, Nelson goes to Alaska to be with Roy, his new boyfriend and hopefully to finish his unfinished novel. Complicating Nelson's search for love and inspiration is the appearance of Dylan, who insinuates himself into Nelson and Roy's life in the guise of character development for a film he'll be starring in as an Alaskan fisherman. The rest of the novel deals with Nelson's hilarious ambiguity about love, attraction, self-worth and talent. To find out who Nelson finally realizes is his true love, you'll have to read the novel. Let me just say that Bob Smith keeps you guessing until the final chapter. I had to resist an almost irresistable urge to read the last page to see how the novel ended. But I'm glad I did and I urge you to hold off. Don't succomb to the temptation no matter how much you want to know. You'll love the ending.

Donna Leon

2008-01-11T07:12:00.000-08:00

Back in 1982, while living and studying in Germany (I was 29 and spending my Junior Year abroad) I and a friend were lucky enough to experience Venice during Carnavale. Being in one of the most beautiful cities in the world during one of its most wild and fabulous festivals is something you never forget. I fell in love with Venice and its narrow, winding streets, small, intimate restaurants and feisty, friendly citizens. When a friend offered me one of Donna Leon's books, Death at La Fenice (1992) to read, I jumped at the chance. I am a sucker for good books that are set in locations that I've visited. I've been disappointed in some but Leon's descriptions of the city, its inhabitants, and the day-to-day bustle of the ordinary Venice proved surprisingly evocative.

From Publisher's Weekly:

"A breathless beginning and an unexpected lack of reference to the lush setting mark this lively launch of a projected series of Venetian mysteries. When legendary German conductor Helmut Wellauer is found dead in his dressing room two acts into a performance of La Traviata , police commissario Guido Brunetti is called in. Among those who might have provided the cyanide poison that killed the maestro, immediate suspects include the vaunted conductor's coolly indifferent young wife and those many in the music industry who are offended by his homophobia. Methodically probing into the victim's past, Brunetti also uncovers Wellauer's Nazi sympathies and a lead to a trio of singing sisters from yesteryear--one now destitute, one dead and the other missing. Though burdened by a dictatorial superior and two lumpen subordinates, Brunetti gets help from his aristocratic wife and her well-connected parents. The narrative's best moments involve Brunetti's wry exchanges with his colleagues and the cunningly masked, obvious solution."

Donna Leon's mysteries are not "gay" books by any means, but in this novel as well as in Acqua Alta (1996), a number of her characters are gay and she treats them with a high degree of respect. In fact, in Acqua Alta, the two main characters are lesbian lovers. There is no exploitation of this fact in Leon's writing but this bit of knowledge is integral to the mystery and to its resulting denouement.

From Publishers Weekly:
"In Leon's fifth Commissario Guido Brunetti mystery, the beating of renowned art historian Dotoressa Brett Lynch draws the contemporary Venetian police detective out of his warm and loving home and into the yearly onslaught of acqua alta, the torrential winter rains. Brett, an American who spearheaded a recent exhibition of Chinese pottery in Venice, lives with her lover, Flavia Petrelli, the reigning diva of La Scala. With his open mind and good sense, Brunetti finds himself more fazed by Flavia's breathtaking talent than by the nontraditional relationship between the two women. Brunetti's deliberate and humane investigation to uncover a motive for Brett's beating takes him to dark, wet corners of Venice and into a sinister web of art theft, fakery and base human desires. While there may be a whiff of stereotype in Brunetti's assumptions about a character of Sicilian heritage, the action builds to a dramatic and deeply satisfying climax. Intricate and intimate descriptions of Venetian life fill these pages and prove that Leon has once again created a high-stakes mystery in which the setting vibrates with as much life as the story itself."

For mystery fans and especially for those like me who love a good series, Donna Leon is a treasure. She draws Commissario Brunetti as a very human detective, who loves his wife and two kids and who, despite hordes of tourists, brutal winter rains, know-all neighbors and the annual acqua alta, loves his Venice. And it shows.

Gay L.A.

2007-12-05T15:25:00.000-08:00

Reading Lillian Faderman and Stuart Timmons' Gay L.A.has given me some new insights about the history of Gay Culture on the west coast especially in Hollywood and simultaneously it has re-wakened some old wounds long thought healed over. Reading history can sometimes be a very melancholic ritual. It is exciting to read about the Who's Who in Hollywood Gay History yet it is sad to vicariously re-live the horrors of a time when homosexuals, male and female, could be arrested, harassed, beaten, fired, and publicly humiliated by public officials with immunity.

Yet, these stories also prove once again that gay people can be strong, witty, righteous, loving, centered, and heroic in the face of overwhelming bigotry, irrationality, hate, ignorance and stupidity. This you can experience while reading Gay L.A.

Letter to a Christian Nation

2007-12-05T15:21:00.000-08:00

I have not considered myself a Christian since I was 14 years old when I was told by my confessor that I was an "animal" because I had confessed to masturbating. I walked out of the confessional red hot with embarrassment and anger. From that day on, my spiritual journey became a personal one that would in the end lead me away from Catholicism, away from organized religion and finally away from Christianity itself. In Letter to a Christian Nation Sam Harris finally gives expression to ideas that I haven't been able to put into words. LTACN is a brilliant indictment against the superstition, superficiality, and ignorance of the far-right's argument for a "christian" morality based on biblical inerrancy.

Mahu Surfer: A Hawaiian Mystery

2007-09-22T15:10:00.000-07:00

Synopsis (From the Publisher): Mahu is a generally negative Hawaiian term for homosexual, and for police detective Kimo Kanapa'aka, being gay doesn't make for an easy life. Especially when you're publicly outed. Now, semi-retired, Kimo must go undercover and stop a brutal killer. Already three surfers have been shot dead, and Kimo must infiltrate the close-knit surfing community, knowing his only way back to active duty is to catch a killer he may know all too well.

This is Neil Plakcy's second novel featuring Kimo Kanapa'aka. I haven't read his first one but I'm definitely going to Powell's Books and buy it.

From the very beginning, I found Kimo a fascinating and sympathetic character, especially because of the internal struggle that he faces while deciding if the price he has to pay in order to get back into the police force is worth the hurt it will cause his parents and family. Kimo is an honorable man. To lie to his father and mother is almost unbearable. But NOT being able to return to the work he loves and ending the murder spree that is devastating his beloved island home is almost as unbearable as the lie itself.

Plakcy has given us a wonderfully complex, likeable and human character that we look forward to getting to know even better in the future.

Buy this book. Read it. Give it to friends for the holidays; they'll love you for it.

Pawn to Queen Four

2007-06-28T19:08:00.001-07:00

Lars Eighner has written a very funny novel with a surprising cast of characters that include drag queens, evangelical Christians, gay motorcycle gang members, and a whole lot of other friends of Dorothy that surprise and delight throughout the novel.

I started Pawn to Queen Four with some trepidation. Novels built around drag queens tend to leave me a little cold, but always open to new adventures, I decided to try it. Eighner didn't disappoint. Not a deep novel, PTQF is however, a funny book that gives us a little peek into the intriguing life of imperial drag courts with some fast-paced action and well developed characters.

Definitely a "take to the beach" novel for light reading that will keep you entertained all the way through.

Portland's Own "Auntie Mame" Passes

2007-06-12T18:09:00.000-07:00

David James "Mame" Hamilton died June 4 of a stroke at age 72.

I met "Mame" in the early 70s through my boyfriend at the time, Ron D. who was involved with Portland's drag court. David was crowned Rose Queen VI in 1967.

Most drag queens tend to live life bigger and louder than most and Mame Hamilton was no exception. She lived bigger and brasher and louder than almost anyone, but she was also sweet and funny and had that infamous drag queen wit that could eviscerate with a single word.

Not a particularly pretty drag, Mame was tall and thin but when in full drag could be as elegant as Rosalind Russell herself. She stayed involved doing charity work for the gay community and the AIDS community until her death.

We'll miss her.

What Color is Your Parachute

2007-05-28T08:45:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I've posted and for those few readers that drop in on occaision my apologies. Lot's of exciting things have been happening in my life and I'm just beginning to catch up. For any of you that know the book series, What Color is Your Parachute, you might guess that one of the exciting things that happened is a change in jobs. I've been promoted to a position that I've coveted for years and finally captured. Unfortunately, the woman who I'm replacing retired suddenly and I won't be getting any support from her during my transition between positions. This will be difficult but not impossible. I'm looking forward to the challenge. I've been in my current position for almost 10 years and in the same department for almost 25. It's definitely time for a change.

Gay and Jewish and a Hero

2007-04-03T07:45:00.000-07:00

Gad Beck was born in Berlin in 1923 into a Christian/Jewish family. As the Nazis took power in Germany and the lives of the Jews became increasingly difficult his status as a mischling (having a Christian parent along with a Jewish parent) saved him from deportation and incarceration. Although suffering under the insults and humiliation of the Nazis Gad and his family, like so many Jews during this horrific time, tried to live with dignity and pride. He also chose to live openly as a Jew and reclaim his Jewish heritage while also acknowledging his homosexuality.

An Underground Life - Memoirs of a Gay Jew in Nazi Berlin is a short autobiography jam packed with details of bourgeois life in Germany during the Nazi era as well as intimate glimpses of what it was like living as a gay man in a world where your very existence was threatened hour by hour, day by day.

Yet, as hellish and schizophrenic as life must have been for Jews and homosexuals in a Nazi Berlin, Gad's narrative is almost serene in his descriptions of daily existance.

2007 Finalists - Lambda Literary Awards

2007-03-05T17:30:00.000-08:00

Finalists for the 19th annual Lambda Literary Awards were announced on March 1 by the Lambda Literary Foundation. Awards are presented in 25 categories, and winners will be announced on Thursday, May 31, at the Lambda Literary Awards Ceremony in New York City.

There are some exciting nominees and I'm happy to see that a couple of my favorite books and authors are included in the list.

Flight of Aquavit: A Russell Quant Mystery

2007-01-24T18:34:00.000-08:00

Let me get this out right away. I love Canada and Canadians. I am unabashedly in love with the psyche, soul and spirit of Canadians. And now, I've discovered another reason to love all things Canadian: Anthony Bidulka

Bidulka's Flight of Aquavit is his second Russell Quant mystery and according to reviews is as good as or better than his first. Unfortunately finding Bidulka's works in the States is difficult at best and I haven't been able to get his first book Amuse Bouche. So I started with his second in the series.

In Bidulka's Russell Quant mysteries, you not only get to know a very charming and witty gay private detective, but you also get a wonderful feel for life in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada. Mr. Bidulka is a wonderful writer and is quickly becoming one of my favorites.

SYNOPSIS:

"At the dead end of desolate country road, a late night meeting suddenly becomes an ambush. Gay private detective Russell Quant is faced with personal threats he can’t ignore, a friend who may be a foe and a cagey client with a treacherous monkey on his back. As Quant trails a menacing blackmailer known only as Loverboy, he finds himself immersed in the midnight world of e-dating and parking lot romance. Lured to New York City, Quant tests his wit, wisdom and wiles from the Old World grandeur of Fifth Avenue to the kaleidoscope world of Broadway’s electric nightspots.
The fast pace continues when Quant returns to Saskatoon where he grapples with decoys and deceit, realizing that no one is as they appear. Threat turns into deadly reality and the need to uncover the identity of Loverboy becomes increasingly desperate. Quant deftly maneuvers through the twists and turns of a perilous case and a personal life rife with its own mystique and mayhem."

I loved this book so much that I immediately checked my favorite bookstores in Portland for copies of his other three novels. Nada. Sometimes, I think Portland can be so damn provincial. So, thank heavens for Amazon.ca. I was able to order all three of his other books and they're on their way as I write.

Anthony Bidulka is a super writer. He fleshes out his characters with great finesse, entertains you with a charming and engaging dry sense of humor, and to top it all off gives you a crisp, well-constructed, thrilling mystery with utterly likable characters.

My partner and I are off to a week in Palm Springs in April. I'm saving Bidulka's third and fourth books Tapas on the Ramblas and Stain of the Berry for the trip. It's going to be hard not to jump in and read them now, but it will definitely be worth the wait. In the meantime, I'm going to "catch up" by reading the first of the Russel Quant mysteries, Amuse Bouche.

I recommend you do the same!"

Rick Copp's Newest Romp!

2006-12-27T13:35:00.000-08:00

I had the pleasure of quickly meeting Rick Copp and getting his autograph at gay pride in Palm Springs in November. I bought his newest mystery The Actor's Guide to Greed, in which one of the best and funniest gay amateur sleuths works his magic once again.

This time, our ex child star hero is finally offered a part in a real London production and snaps it up before the producer can change his mind. Leaving his hunky policeman boyfriend behind in LA (with serious injuries from a LAPD case) Jerrod finds himself in the midst of a highly unfriendly cast of characters who don't like him one bit. The one exception being the lead in the play, Claire Richards who ends up dead after the opening performance. Suspects in the murder include Claire's Irish boyfriend Liam; playwright Wallace Goodwin and wife Katrina; a drunken Brit theater icon named Dame Sylvia Horner; Bollywood star Akshay Kapoor; and sullen director Kenneth Shields.

The Actor's Guide to Greed is a light, hilarious murder mystery filled with great lines, fabulous characters, infidelity, double murders, and a highly likable albeit high maintenance actor/sleuth/boyfriend/hero. This third installment of Rick Copp's Actor's Guide series earns an Oscar for best murder romp by a gay writer.

Hot Sauce!

2006-11-13T14:51:00.000-08:00

Hot Sauce by Scott & Scott (Pomfret and Whittier) lives up to their new genre’s "romentics" hype. Hot Sauce is hot, steamy, romantic, and sappy but it is also fun and pure fluff.

My biggest complaint is the same as with so many other gay novels; the men are TOO hot, TOO perfect, TOO huge, and TOO rich. Can’t anyone find a winning formula for a gay novel that keeps the readers’ attention despite the fact that just maybe the men have average cocks, and are everyday guys who are madly in love and live in dumpy apartments with messy cat-litter boxes and dishes in the sink? I know, I know. . . nobody wants to read about their own lives, but surely if Troy Boston and Brad Drake, the two central figures in Scott & Scotts novel, didn’t have superbly hard bodies and huge dicks, we could still identify with their success and their love and their insecurities and the bitchy mother/mother-in-law and even with the ass-swipe who tries to break up their love affair.

OK, I know that Scott & Scott’s goal was to bring good gay romance to the genre and believe you me, they’ve definitely done just that. Their writing is smooth, natural and readable and when they get steamy these two have few rivals. Frankly, this book is definitely NSFYM (not suitable for your mother) – well at least not my mother.

If you need a light, well-written, lay-by-the-pool, woody-producing fantasy, this one will do it for you. I’m panting just waiting for the next installment of a Scott & Scott "romentic"!

Everyone’s Callous Dead But Us – A Tom and Scott Mystery

2006-10-10T09:59:00.000-07:00

Mark Richard Zubro is one of my favorite gay writers. The books in his Tom and Scott mystery series always make me smile and laugh. They are romantic (I can’t resist handsome, rich, gay characters that are madly in love), fun, and usually fast-paced romps that keep you turning pages well into the night. However, with Everyone’s Dead But Us, Mr. Zubro missed the high mark just ever so slightly.

With Tom and Scott finally married and taking a well-deserved vacation at a secluded resort that caters only to a super-rich gay clientele, our handsome couple find themselves enmeshed in a series of gory murders that leave the island resort almost bereft of any living guests other than themselves. One by one, the super-rich gay men and their respective lovers, boy toys, body guards, or call boys are summarily executed. Tom and Scott must find out who the murderer or murderers are before they too fall victim to the nefarious killers. To complicate the matter, the murders are committed under the cover of a typhoon that completely cuts the island resort off from the outside world. And no matter how gruesome the murder, no matter how obvious it was that each of the rich but absolutely clueless guests would eventually be targeted, these callous, arrogant and supercilious A-gays continued to ignore the reality of death surrounding them.

It was here that Mr. Zubro failed to keep my sympathies. Not one of the guests cum murder victims had a shred of empathy for their fellow human beings. I felt like Mr. Zubro had some sort of vendetta against anyone with money, which is ironic considering that Mr. Zubro’s own heroes, Mark and Scott, live lives that few of us can even dream about (except when reading our favorite escapist fantasies) yet were the only characters given the opportunity to be human in the novel. The others were characterized as heartless, pathologically indifferent human beings who cared more about protecting their own closeted insularity than in protecting themselves or any of their fellow travelers. It was as if Mr. Zubro had decided that each and every one of them deserved to die simply because they had money. Well, hello. Few of us may have the kind of wealth that these über-rich may have had or have the lifestyle that Mark and Scotty have, but a lot of us wish we did.

Nonetheless, I still enjoy Mark Richard Zubro’s style and ease of writing. His main characters are people I love to identify with; even fantasize about and his Mark and Scott Mystery series is one of the best out there. I look forward to his next installment and hope for a few more sympathetic victims that I can identify with and cheer when their murderers are revealed.

The Cascade AIDS Project

2006-10-06T07:55:00.000-07:00

I first heard about C.A.P. (Cascade AIDS Project) in April of 1984 when I volunteered with the Phoenix Rising Foundation's Phone-A-Thon. It was one of the few times I ever volunteered to make phone calls to solicit funding for an organization. This particular group, Phoenix Rising, was a counseling center dedicated to assisting gay men and lesbians. The efforts of all of the "callers" that evening netted the foundation $1000 in pledges. In 1984, we thought that was pretty damn good.

While volunteering in the Phone-a-thon, I met Bob Hulsey, who was not only a board member of the Phoenix Rising Foundation (and a professional counselor) but also a founding member of the board of directors of the Cascade AIDS Project. CAP had been founded a year earlier in 1983 by a group of incredibly dedicated gay men who very early in the AIDS crisis recognized the need to organize the gay community to fight the scourge of the "gay disease" that was spreading like wildfire.

After the Phoenix Rising phon-a-thon, Bob wrote me and the other volunteers a note letting us all know how much we had raised and thanking us for our efforts. On the bottom of the form letter he added a personal note thanking me for the time and energy I had given to managing the Phoenix Rising Foundation office. He liked my office skills enough that he eventually asked me to join him and his colleagues Reese House, Michael Kleinschmit and a number of others in working with the Cascade AIDS Project. By May of 1984 I was organizing and staffing a CAP booth at Portland's Gay Pride.

In 1984 CAP was a grass roots effort with a completely volunteer group of physicians, educators, and some non-professionals trying mainly to educate the gay community about this new and deadly disease. CAP's goals were four-fold: Education and Community Awareness, Prevention, Referral and Support. Through Education CAP hoped to maintain an awareness of AIDS within the gay community and the community at large via the mass media and through the distribution of informational materials. Prevention was to be accomplished by developing and implementing an agressive risk reduction program in the gay community. Referral meant maintaining resource and referral information that was to be available to anyone concerned about AIDS and Support was to be financial, social, or personal support to people with AIDS.

The initial board of directors of CAP recognized early on that in order to solicit grants for the funds needed to do their work, they had to have non-profit status or be affiliated with an organization that had it. So in 1984 the CAP board of directors approached the board of the Phoenix Rising Foundation, a gay and lesbian mental health/counseling organization with a plan to incorporate CAP as a committee under the Phoenix Rising Foundation umbrella. When the contract was signed between the two organizations, the new organizational model allowed each board to have representatives on the other's. CAP remained under the umbrella of Phoenix Rising for a couple of years until CAP and its mission grew large enough that it made sense for CAP to incorporate itself into an independent non-profit organization.

The founding members of CAP were a dedicated and optimistic group. In hindsight it seems pretty delusional but in the early 80s when the plague was in its infancy, we all were certain that discoverying the cause of the disease was just a matter of time and the cure would follow just as quickly. It wouldn't take long for our optimism to wane especially as we witnessed our own government's unwillingness to fund the needed research and as we buried more and more of our friends and families.

The foresight that these men had in 1983 is remarkable. Few gay men were willing even to admit that the "gay plague" existed. The CAP founders recognized that AIDS was going to kill thousands of their brothers before a cure was found. They pushed "safe sex" as a preventative measure while so many of the gay community not only refused to believe that unprotected sex was the problem, but actively fought any and all campaigns to convince gay men to protect themselves. In 1984 CAP was successful in convincing just a few gay bar owners to allow the organization to distribute "safe sex" pamplets and condoms on their premises. Few bar owners and even fewer bath house owners would return phone calls from the board as we tried different methods of promoting education and community awareness.

The apathy of the gay men's community towards AIDS in the 80s was widespread and pervasive. But it was understandable. The gay community was just beginning to enjoy the fruits of their political and social advances won after so many years of fighting for their rights. Today that apathy has returned and with dire consequences. More and more gay men are becoming infected with the HIV virus. There are some gay men who are choosing to become infected and there are those who no longer believe the disease is a killer and it can be contained and controlled if caught. Luckily organizations like CAP and others are returning to their roots and focusing on the gay community again. Some of the new campaigns aimed towards the gay men's community are controversial but nonetheless important. Gay men lost a whole generation of friends and brothers because we hid our heads in the sand and refused to see the truth. It is happening again and it must be stopped before we lose another generation to this horrible disease.

Miss Cleo . . . Lesbian . . . Clairvoyant

2006-09-26T07:49:00.000-07:00

Miss Cleo, famous for her TV psychic infomercials, has come out as a lesbian. In an interview Miss Cleo tells The Advocate that she has been afraid of coming out: "The reason it's scary is because in my personal experience, black cultures throughout the world have a more difficult time accepting homosexuality in their family."

...or with their friends.

In High School I had a couple of good black girl-friends; Wendy D. and Linda H. It was pretty damn clear that I and most of my friends were queer. It didn't seem to matter until it was said -- out loud. For Linda H. it wasn't a problem. For Wendy D., whose father was the pastor of a black evangelical church, it killed the friendship. I have to give it to Wendy though. She didn't just suddenly stop talking to me or ignore me in the hall. No, she was quite clearly distressed that I had chosen this lifestyle and was up front that she could no longer associate with me or my friends. She let me know that she was there for me, that Christ loved me and could change me and that I was welcome to attend her father's church anytime if I wanted to find Christ's love and redemption.

Pity. Wendy was one funny woman. Smart. Loving. Mistaken.

I don't know where she is today. I'm sure she's married and may even be a minister (she'd mentioned that she had been thinking about going into the ministry).

I wonder where she's at in the struggle for equal rights for ALL people.

My Life in France (How I wish!)

2006-09-18T13:06:00.000-07:00

I just loved this book. My Life in France by Julia Child and her adorable nephew Alex Prud'Homme is a veritable feast for the senses. This is the kind of "travel" book I love to read; full of character sketches, atmosphere, local color and mood.

Julia Child began her career in "cookery" and "cookbookery" with very little cooking experience. She and her husband Paul Child moved to France in the late 40s when Paul, a career foreign service diplomat was stationed in Paris. Julia found herself in a foreign culture replete with a language she didn't understand, strange customs she could hardly fathom, and food like she had never tasted before. She was smitten immediately.

What you find out about Julia Child is that she was a woman who could not stand to be bored. She was proactive in almost every part of her life. If she didn't know the language of the country she and her husband were stationed in -- she learned it. If she wanted to learn to cook, she went to "cookery" school. If the school proved to be less than adequate, she started her own. And when she couldn't find adequate recipes for cooking the foods she loved, she studied them, cajoled better cooks to reveal their secrets, tested them and then wrote her own. And that's how she (and her co-authors Louisette Bertholle and Simone Beck) finally succeeded in writing their seminal book on French cookery, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Volume One.

My Life in France is hard to put down. Every chapter holds little surprises about Julia and Paul's lives in France (as well as other countries) and just enough juicy tidbits of gossip that you find yourself relishing the tiny little details. Like the recipes in her cookbooks it's the details that make the final product a success.

Roni Lang 1931-2006: A reluctant hero.

2006-07-24T08:11:00.000-07:00

I didn’t know Roni well; I couldn’t even really call her a friend, but I admired her nonetheless. I met Roni in the early 90s when my friends and I competed against her team in Portland’s gay bowling league. She not only bowled well, but she always looked good in her wig, bowling shirt and skirt. There were a couple of drag queens who were regular bowlers but Roni was different. She never looked like she was in drag. She simply was Roni, with her perfectly coifed hair, simple make-up and buoyant personality. I later learned from friends that she lived her life as a woman. She hadn’t yet transitioned to being female but never the less led her life as the woman she knew she was in an elegant, dignified way. I later learned that she had been married and had grown children and she had served in the military during the Korean Conflict. She was a tireless advocate for both the transgendered and gay community here in Portland.

I’ve been blessed over the years to know and associate with a number of transgendered persons - some of the bravest men and women I have ever met. Yes, there are many brave gay men and women fighting for the gay community. But gay men and lesbians can choose to step away from the fray, stay out of the limelight and retire from the politics of sexual orientation if they choose to do so. But those women and men compelled by an inner need that can no longer be denied, who make the decision to transition to the opposite sex and live openly as that gender are the true heroes of the LGBT community. Once they make that decision, they are out there for life, on the front lines of the battle for acceptance, equality, and freedom.

So to Roni, my bowling colleague, to Terri, my friend since high school, to Joanne, my cousin, to Stephenie, my friend and colleague at work, to Chris, an acquaintance of many years, and to Charlotte von Mahlsdorf, an East German who beat all the odds, thank you for your bravery, your dignity and fighting the good fight.

Oh Brother Where Art Thou

2006-07-13T07:42:00.000-07:00

To Denise, Diane and Ellen: He was your baby, your rock, your joy. How lucky he was to have you all. Brother will be missed.

Goodbye Bodie.

I am Weary (Let Me Rest)

Kiss me mother kiss your darlin'
Lay my head upon your breast
Throw your loving arms around me
I am weary let me rest

Seems the light is swiftly fading
Brighter scenes they do now show
I am standing by the river
Angels wait to take me home

Kiss me mother kiss your darlin'
See the pain upon my brow
While I'll soon be with the angels
Fate has doomed my future now

Through the years you've always loved me
And my life you've tried to save
But now I shall slumber sweetly
In a deep and lonely grave

Kiss me mother kiss your darlin'
Lay my head upon your breast
Throw your loving arms around me
I am weary let me rest
I am weary let me rest

Sottopassaggio

2006-07-12T13:09:00.000-07:00

I have to admit that I haven't read Nick Alexander's first novel 50 Reasons To Say "goodbye" but I do plan to buy it this week. My partner and I and two good friends are off to the beach in August for a short vacation and I'm looking forward to some good uninterrupted reading.

Sottopassaggio is Nick Alexander's second novel and in it Mr. Alexander continues the life story of 50 Reasons' hero, Mark. The novel begins after the death of Mark's lover Steve, with Mark trying to cope with life and death in his brother's home in the English seaside town of Brighton. While there he reconnects with an old girl friend, Jenny, who turns out to be coping with her own tragedy of a physically abusive husband, falls slowly but inexorably in love with Tom, who is unavailable because he already has a closeted Italian lover and while trying to get out and actually begin to live again, has a few flings with some very fun, talented and ardent S&M devotees.

This is a fun, well-written and very satisfying second novel. It is easy to identify with both the gay and the straight characters. The sex is wonderfully nuanced, the dialog witty and the prose cleanly descriptive. This is a novel that will make you laugh but will also make you cry. It is a novel of hope and redemption. It is both optimistic and poignant. It is worth your attention.

Scene Outside the Book

2006-06-01T07:14:00.000-07:00

QUIRKY PORTLAND - GRANOLA CITY

Walking to work today, I noticed a group of about six male construction workers circled around another guy who had his head down as if in prayer. Not a daily sight in Portland, but I wasn't too surprised to see a group of people gathered together praying before setting off to do whatever they do do.

Wrong! They weren't praying at all. As I got closer to the group I realized the guy with his head down was actually leading the men in a morning neck stretching exercise. All of them were slowly bending their heads downward, then to the right, slowly moving the head backwards and left to the other side, breathing deeply...

Big burly bear types stretching before setting off to work on a construction site. Now that's granola!

Brunelleschi's Dome

2006-05-23T07:54:00.000-07:00

Brunelleschi's Dome: How a Renaissance Genius Reinvented Architecture by Ross King is one of those rare history books that despite being full of facts, figures, and citations is also a wonderfully satisfying read. Ross King brings both Filippo Brunelleschi and his incredible dome to life in vivid detail. King describes the structure of Brunelleschi's life through layer after layer of detail about Renaissance life, food, guilds, war, city rivalries, and brickbuilding while simultaneously deconstructing Brunelleschi's dome for us by exposing layer after layer of brick, rings, ribs, and herringbone patterns. We also witness the intense and life-long rivalry between two of the Renaissance's most brilliant and controversial geniuses Brunelleschi and Lorenzo Ghiberti.

I visited Florence's cathedral, Santa Maria del Fiore and saw Brunelleschi's dome up close many years ago and can still picture the cathedral in my mind. There is one particular viewpoint high on a hill overlooking the city that gives you an uninterrupted view of the city, some of its medieval wall fortifications and Santa Maria del Fiore. The cathedral and the dome dwarf the rest of the city. It stands tall and proud and dominant in a sea of smaller red roofed buildings that seem to serve as a mere anchor for the glory of Brunelleschi's dome.

Timothy James Beck Does It Again

2006-05-03T17:14:00.000-07:00

I took a couple of novels to Palm Spring last week with the intent to spend at least some time around the pool reading. The weather was so hot, though, that I ended up spending a lot more time in the pool than sitting in the shade reading. Luckily, Someone Like You, Timothy James Beck's newest novel was so engaging that I made sure that I found the time to do some steady reading. In fact, I ended up getting up every morning as early as 6:30am. I always do that on short vacations. My internal clock is permanently set for 5:30am so getting out of bed at 6:30 is actually sleeping in. Taking advantage of the quiet morning hours, brewing some hot coffee and sitting outside reading was a great way to start the day.

I'm unsure just how a ~~trio~~ quartet of writers actually co-writes a book but the intrepid talents of TJB have it down to an art. Their style is so seamless you'd never guess that ~~three~~ four different people were responsible for the final product. In fact this ~~trio~~ quartet has such an incredible ability to flesh out the personalities of their fictional characters you begin to forget they aren't real. Every so often I had to remind myself that I was reading a story and not a personal diary. It was as if these people were part of my personal circle of friends. I liked Derek not only for his naivete and romantic notions of love but also for his determination and guts. I even like Derek's sugar daddy/lover, Hunter, despite his aloofness and inability to profess his love for Derek and my own frustration with his neglect of his relationship. Christian is one of those types of straight men that so many of us gay men strive to emulate; talented, sophisticated and unflappable in a crunch. And as for Vienna, she's the type of woman that we all hope to have in our lives; nurturing, strong, candid and a fighter that will defend your back no matter what.

Even the bad guys are people you can recognize and identify with. You may not like them, you may want to kick their butts but when they finally get their come uppance you can only sigh and smile.

Knowing that I wanted something to read while flying home to Portland, I purposedly left the last chapter unread so that I could fill that two-hour flight with something interesting. So when the plane took off, I flipped open Someone Like You as soon as the plane leveled off and the flight attendants started the in-flight service. When the cute, male steward handed me my complimentary glass of red wine (don't you just love Horizon Air!) he couldn't gush enough about how much he loved the book and the other TJB novels. His only complaint and one that I echo: What took them so long!?

Girl Friends

2006-04-20T07:48:00.000-07:00

I just realized that despite being a Kinsey 6 (for those of you who don't know the Kinsey scale a 6 is totally, unequivocally, no-way-in-hell-would-I-ever-do-it-with-a-woman, exclusively homosexual) I actually had three girl friends in high school. You might say I was one of those serial monogomous types. Ha! But all three of these girls were wonderful friends and I loved being with them. All three of them, unfortunately were terribly disappointed that they held no sexual sway over me. I was just a confused little gay boy who loved being with girls and didn't realize that to girls at that age "going out" was a lot more serious than just hanging out.

Jeanette Gramlich was a svelte red-head with long luxurious hair. She was quite cute. We hung around together for about a year before she moved out of the neighborhood and had to change schools. She had a great personality and was definitely sweet.

Trudi Rich was the cousin of my friend Tom. She was a bit more lively than Jeanette and a bit more zaftig than Jeanette but still quite pretty. She got all serious about us hanging out together. She and I were hanging out together as I was coming out and eventually I was forced to tell her that I was gay. She was a good Catholic girl (as was I) and one of her best friends was a Catholic nun. She and Trudi hung around with all of us and we were all on good terms. But once I told Trudi I was gay, she dropped me like a hot potato which I certainly don't blame her for. She did go to her parents and complain though and her mother called me and told me to leave Trudi alone and not see her anymore. Well, that I could blame on someone. I have a feeling the nun had a hand in all of this but I could never prove it.

Finally in my senior year, I and some of my other friends starting hanging with Eileen Konetzky, an Oregon transplant originally from New York. She was quite worldly compared to the rest of the girls at my high school and had a great car. She was the one girl friend that was hell bent on getting me into bed. Well, it wasn't going to happen and at one auspicious day after a messy round of her trying to get me to make out with her, she guessed the truth and confronted me on it. We split up of course but she wasn't angry, just disappointed.

I don't regret my time with these friends. They helped me understand who I was and we had great times together. I'm glad though that I had my act together enough that I never used them as beards or tried to prove myself by going to bed with them. I still love to hang with women and have some great women friends today that I would be hard pressed to replace in my life. Life's good.

My Sister-My Mother, My Uncle-My Father – Fingering the Family Jewels by Greg Lilly

2006-04-13T12:34:00.000-07:00

Greg Lilly’s Fingering the Family Jewels is a wonderful, witty romp of a mystery with such an incredible twisted denouement you’re left breathless at its audacity. And it works.

Lilly gives us a wonderfully diverse roster of characters ranging from the very likable and sympathetic hero/protagonist, Derek Mason to a crusty, bigoted daughter-lusting Grandfather. Lilly can flesh out a character in a couple of pages better than most writers can do in a whole chapter. You can’t help but fall in love with Derek’s maiden aunt, lust after his new boyfriend, hate his mother, “the bitch” and be repelled by yet attracted to his handsome and sexy ex-lover-cum-cousin.

But it’s in his descriptions of the (dysfunctional) family dynamics where Lilly’s talent really heats up. Derek Mason is surrounded by a circle of women whose sole life-mission seems to be to protect him from some unspeakable family history - there’s his relentless and frigid mother, a feisty maiden aunt, the delusional but still matriarchal grandmother, and an overly devoted older sister.

On the other hand the male members of his family all seem determined to screw him at every turn (and in some cases, literally!); we meet the bigoted right-wing uncle who will do everything to keep his family in power, a closeted cousin who subordinates his sexuality and personal dreams for the sake of the family, and the family patriarch who’s motto seemed to be, if I want it I’ll take it.

Themes of sibling love, sexuality, hidden truths, family rivalry, race relations, and incest are all explored in this funny, sexy, fast-paced, and very twisted mystery. You’ll like it.

My Earliest Heartthrobs

2006-04-12T08:11:00.000-07:00

Ahhh youth! I was talking with a good friend last night about who our earliest heartthrobs were and even though I'm a bit younger than he we both started naming some of the same men. By the end of the evening we were laughing so hard, I couldn't stop coughing. Funny how a heartthrob in 1970 could cause a woody and today the same person can cause fits of hysteria.

In no particular order, here are some of those hunky men who caused me all sorts of thrills, chills, and embarassment (it's hard hiding a boner in your livingroom)!

Jack LaLane: Fitness guru and host of "The Jack LaLanne Show (1951)

Steve Reeves: Mr. American (1947, Mr. Universe (1950) and actor best known as Hercules (1957).

Lloyd Bridges: Actor and star of Sea Hunt.

Michael Landon: Actor and star of Bonanza as Little Joe.

Robert Conrad: actor and star of The Wild Wild West

Stereotyping

2006-04-11T14:02:00.000-07:00

Over the last couple of days, I’ve been giving career advice to my one and only nephew. The prodigy of my sister and her first husband (who is currently in a long-term relationship with a man named Steven), the Nephew is a nice guy (29 years old) who has never had a girlfriend, never talks about dating, only has ~~boy~~ guy friends, lived with his father or mother off and on until last year, and has never held a full-time job for more than 3 months in his entire adult life. Is he gay? I don’t know but suspect that yes, he probably is. Am I stereotyping him? Yes. Is it fair? Probably not. Do I care? Not really.

Stereotypes exist because they are a convenient way to shortcut the often long and tedious process of identifying the reality of someone's personality. It’s a lazy, simple way of sizing up people. Some people say that it's a demeaning and destructive way to categorize people and intellectually, I agree that at times that may be true. But not always. I don't stereotype people in order to justify discriminatory behavior (on my part or on others). Stereotypes can express accepted and benign group characterizations that mirror a given social group's reality.

Would I accept being stereotyped as being gay by others? It depends on who's making the comments and why. Gay men and lesbians use "gaydar" to identify prospective boyfriends or girlfriends all the time. Let's face it gaydar is nothing but our community's own form of stereotyping. But let's look at my background and decide whether I fit any "gay" stereotypes.

I have never been athletic; in fact to this day I "throw like a girl" (talk about stereotypes!);
I use superlatives like "fabulous" and "brilliant" to describe anything beautiful or fun;
I can name at least 12 different way to describe the color "red";
I liked to play with dolls when I was a boy (I DIDN'T play with dolls but I WANTED to);
My very first job was as a page in a library;
My second job was as a directory assistance operator with the telephone company;
I had female friends throughout grade school and high school but never had a "GIRL" friend;
I have a fetish for nuns...

Well you get the picture. I'm pretty sure that when my mother first met my future psychiatrist, she used a lot of those descriptors without ever venturing to utter the word "h o m o s e x u a l". See, stereotyping can make awkward situations so much more comfortable.

OK, I could definitely be stereotyped as queer. Am I insulted? No. It's true. If my friend Jeff had the nerve to stereotype me as a "Queen", I'd laugh and probably cry foul but if the tiara fits, it fits! Now if Senator Rick Santorum stereotyped me as a pedophile just because I'm gay, I'd sue the son of a bitch! See, it depends on who does the stereotyping and WHY!!

So, to my Nephew, yes, I'm stereotyping you, but I don't think it's an insult. If you're not gay, no harm done as far as I'm concerned. If you are, then know that your gay Uncle is here to support you with all his heart and soul.

Depressing Dungeons and Dreadful Drag Queens

2006-04-08T16:11:00.000-07:00

Do NOT, I repeat, do not buy this book. Thomas R. Filippi's initial foray into writing can only be described as depressingly dreadful. There are very few books that I have found so badly written that I could not finish them; Dungeons and Drag Queens is one of them. If Mr. Filippi had an editor, s/he did him no good. The premise for the book had a lot of potential; a murder, drag queens and dungeons had to be a potent mixture. Poison wasn't what Mr. Filippi had in mind, but that's what he ended up with. Badly written, even more badly edited, this book could not have been more disappointing. Don't bother.

Mardi Gras Mambo

2006-04-04T14:39:00.000-07:00

I like Greg Herren's writing style. He has a very natural and enjoyable way with dialog. His narrator disappears and you hear only the dialog. That's a great gift for a writer and believe you me not every writer has it. I can usually tell within the first couple of pages of a new novel whether or not I like the writing style. It flows naturally or its choppy and hard to follow. As soon as I read the first page of Mardi Gras Mambo I knew it was going to be a good read.

Scotty Bradley is one unlikely hero but the minute you meet him you not only like him but you want his life. Yes, he's too obsessed with New Orleans (he tells us how much he loves it every other page), his lovers (yes, he has two and they are both hot, hot, hot...) and drugs (if I heard one more description of how incredible it was to be stoned on Ecstasy, I was going to scream) but his obsessions turn out to be as charming as he.

The plot of Mardi Gras Mambo is so full of byzantine (or should I say a Russian Orthodox) twists and character revelations that even Scotty, our intrepid detective, needs a score card to keep track of who's who. I started to get a little confused when all of the revelations started but soon the plot settled down and I started to enjoy the experience.

The biggest problem with the novel is Greg's incessant description of how Scotty and his lovers felt on Ecstasy. The drug itself is an important part of the plot. But he should have given it up after the first couple of descriptions. I didn't want to know how incredible it felt to be on E and dance until your feet blister and night turns to day; what I wanted was more mystery, more who done it! I found myself skipping paragraph to paragraph looking for more of the plot whenever I hit these drug overdoses. But once he got back to writing about the murders and the Russian brothers, I stopped skipping and focused. When he focused his writing, I focused my reading.

Greg Herren has a true gift as a writer. When he hits his stride, you can't stop reading. When Colin (one of two of Scotty's lovers) reveals his past, I was as stunned as Scotty was. I was tearing up so badly, I had to stop reading for a moment. This is the kind of book I love to read; funny, moving, and engaging. Lots of good plot twists and surprises that can stop you in your tracks. Read Mardi Gras Mambo. You'll like it.

Vom Trümmerland zum Wirtschaftswunder

2006-03-31T07:40:00.000-08:00

I don't read Der Spiegel on a regular basis but the cover of the Spiegel Special on Die 50er Jahre caught my attention immediately. Germany's rebirth from a land of rubble (Trümmerland) to economic miracle (Wirschaftswunder) is truly an incredible story.

Particularly interesting to me are the stories describing daily life immediately after the war under the occupation forces. The Germans call those years die Hungerjahre (the hunger years). There is a myth that ordinary German citizens under Hitler and during the war years suffered great deprivation subsisting on rationed food and other necessities. The fact is during the war years there was rationing but nothing like they would experience after the total defeat of the German Third Reich and the occupation of the country.

It's a fascinating study on determination and moxy. I hope Der Spiegel comes out with an English translation. It's a story worth reading.

ROBBED!

2006-03-24T08:31:00.000-08:00

I'm always the first into my office. I work flexible hours and like to get in around 7am. When I arrived this morning, I noticed that I had dropped a bunch of pennys on the floor of my office, yet I couldn't remember doing so. I also noticed that I had left a blue bag hanging out of my left side draw.

When I opened the middle draw of my desk to get a pen, I realized that I'd been burgled. All of the pens that are usually in a specific spot had been thrown into the back of the draw and about 20 (new, shiny, collectable, state) quarters that I had accumulated were gone!

A couple of other colleagues of mine had also come in to work by then and they realized that a few minor things were missing.

Security was called and a report was made. He figured it was a quick run through since they had dropped the coins and left things hanging out of drawers. We were all rather relieved that it was a minor incident.

About an hour after security had left, I checked my clock radio that normally sits on my desk and realized it too was missing! Shit! I can't believe I didn't notice it before.

It was obvious that the thief had taken a bit more than we thought. So we started a thorough search on the ground floor of our building. Well, my losses were pretty minor compared to George's. They took his high-end Macintosh computer. Sad thing is that he'd been working on a lot of classes that will begin in two weeks and had been saving his work on his C: drive and not on the University's back up system. He's lost weeks and weeks of hard work.

UPDATE: George was checking around his desk to see if anything else was missing and found a cell phone that looks like the thief dropped while robbing the office. Security will have a ball with this. Talk about dumb thieves. I wonder if someone will come back and ask if anyone found a phone? Hmmmm.

Author Profile: George Nader

2006-03-23T07:50:00.000-08:00

George Nader's name is a familiar one to many cinema queens. A handsome man with classic looks, he was the heartthrob of many gay kids growing up in the 50s and 60s. I think he got sexier the older he got. I first noticed him in the 70s in when I started watching old sci-fi and horror films. The nicest thing about Nader's looks was his hairy chest, which unlike so many other "beefcake" actors, he refused to shave. At 6'1" and 180 pounds, George Nader was one hot actor.

He and Rock Hudson were boyfriends at one time, but his true love and life-partner turned out to be Mark Miller, Rock Hudson's secretary.

In the 70s, unfortunately, his acting career was sidelined because of an acident that left him with a permanent eye injury so he took up writing sci-fi novels. His one success was Chrome, published in 1978 and reprinted in 1995.

Chrome was the very first sci-fi novel that I read that actually dealt with gay characters. To this day, it is still difficult to find any good sci-fi writing that deals with gay men; especially stories with a positive slant. For an excellent review of the book go here. The book is still a good read and a great love story.

Thank God for Independent Bookstores

2006-03-20T08:10:00.001-08:00

I went shopping for some good reading material last week and ended up empty handed and frustrated. You would think that in a city like Portland, which claims to have the largest used bookstore in the world (Powell's) and a reading population that is supposedly the envy of the country, our larger booksellers would carry the newest in gay writing. Forget it. It's abysmal.

I shop at the larger bookstore chains only out of logistical necessity. I work downtown and that's where the larger bookstores are located and I was desperate. I checked Powell's, Barnes & Noble, and Borders and none of these megastores had one of the books I was looking for. Their gay selections were outdated (I've read most of what they have that interests me) and full of schlock (why do booksellers think that filling a bookshelf with gay erotica is the ultimate in giving gay readers a choice?).

I finally took the husband's suggestion and went online and ordered everything I wanted from a local independent bookseller in St. Helen's (that's where his rental store is). Within an hour, I'd received a personal message from the buyer with information on when the books would arrive and what discounts I was getting and not getting. The St. Helen's Book Shop has a great staff and excellent service. Despite the fact that they are 30 minutes from downtown Portland, they still have great authors come to their shop to autograph books (Chuck Palahniuk for one!) and have great prices and discounts.

Here's what I'll be reading for the next couple of months:
Timothy James Beck - Someone Like You (on order)
Greg Herren - Mardi Gras Mambo
Greg Lilly - Fingering the Family Jewels
Thomas Filippi - Dungeons and Dragqueens: A Tony Allegro Mystery

I've learned my lesson - desperate or not - I'm only supporting my local independent booksellers from now on.

You know you're irrelevant when. . .

2006-03-01T07:23:00.000-08:00

you no longer fit the demographics of your favorite men's magazine! While perusing an article on health issues for men in a past issue of GQ earlier this week, I couldn't find the section for men in their 50s. The story was sub-divided into sections for men in their 20s, 30s, and 40s, so I just assumed that I'd find my group at the end of the article. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Ah, I thought. It was a long article so they must have continued it in the back.

Nope! Not there.

50 year old gay men just don't read GQ, I guess. Sorry no one told me! My bad!

My Lucky Stars

2006-02-23T14:52:00.000-08:00

I haven't had a lot of time to delve into my blog these days with work at its peak and some really badly timed trips to Orlando with the husband but I just had to find some time to write about Joe Keenan's newest tribute to Hollywood and its STARS! His newest novel, My Lucky Star is a frenetic, riotous, paean to the joyous nature of gay men's hard-wired need for celebrity watching.

Along with well known characters Philip Cavanaugh, Claire Simmons and Gilbert Selwyn, Keenan's readers find ourselves reluctantly surrounded by handsome, horny, closeted leading men, fat, obnoxious, aging former has been child stars, and malicious, backbiting, devious divas that lead us through a wonderfully exciting and sometimes frustrating labyrinth of plots, sub-plots, and plot twists that would give even the most experienced mystery readers pause. Yet, as plot-heavy as the book is, Keenan manages to get us all through the maze with the consumate skill his readers expect from this very erudite and intelligent writer.

Reading any well-written book is in itself a true pleasure. It takes a truly gifted writer to keep readers on the edge of their seats waiting for another well-turned phrase and use of a word that yes, you know, but haven't heard or read for quite awhile. Keenan is such a writer. I kept running into phrases and words that made me pause and smile at the exactness of his usage; not enough to lose my place or interrupt the flow of the reading, but just enough to make me think, Oh yeah. Perfect.

I recommend any of Joe Keenan's novels to anyone looking for a joyous read and a fun time.

In Memoriam: Betty Berzon

2006-01-25T07:58:00.000-08:00

I was saddened to hear about the death of Dr. Betty Berzon, a legendary, lesbian pyschotherapist who had dedicated her professional life to uplifting the lives her lesbian and gay community.

I first encountered her in 1988 when I purchased Permanent Partners: Building Gay & Lesbian Relationships that Last. Even though I wasn't in a relationship at the time, I was preparing myself for such an eventuality (always the optimist!). Her insightful book was a joy to read, especially knowing that she was a lesbian and in a long-term relationship. She wrote about issues that actually transcended permanent partnerships - her insights were helpful in navigating the everyday life of a gay person, in communicating effectively, addressing power and control issues, fighting constructively and fairly and how change affected all of our lives.

In 1996, a friend recommended her book Setting Them Straight: You CAN Do Something About Bigotry and Homophobia in Your Life.

She reflected on the dilemma that I certainly ran into as I tried to live an Out and honest life as a gay man and fighting homophobia; how to confront homophobes or people who are simply ignorant about gay people while fearful for ones safety and security. It is not always easy to stand up to a person and let them know that what they have said or done is harmful or hurtful or bigoted. Dr. Berzon discussed strategies on how to get past the fear and knowing what and how to respond when the opportunity arose.

Betty Berzon is survived by her partner of 33 years, Teresa DeCrescenzo.

Men in Uniform

2006-01-18T11:18:00.000-08:00

If you've read my earlier posts, you know that I was outed by the police when I was in high school back in the 1960s. Over the years, I've had other events in my life that involved men in uniform; some fun, some funny, some more serious. Like a lot of gay men, I've always had a thing about men who fill out uniforms nicely. It hasn't ever reached the fetish stage, but my sexual fantasies haven't been totally bereft of them.

I've never been lucky enough to pick up a man in uniform, per se but I did have fantasies about my Uncle John who was in the air force in the 1950s. He was stationed in Kaiserslautern in West Germany. John was and still is a very handsome gay man who gladly and willingly served his country in uniform. My mother had a wonderfully sexy picture of John (her younger brother) in his air force uniform. Talk about a hunk.

In the early 1960s my family drove cross country from Oregon to Michigan for a family reunion. John was there, as were all of my maternal grandmother's seven children. I found myself trying to spend as much time with John as I could but I was a gawky teenager who had an obvious crush on him. He was kind but didn't spend a lot of time with me. But the day we left to drive home to Oregon, as everyone was saying goodbye, I was anxious to give Uncle John a hug and say goodbye. He was trying to get out early too and was in the shower when we started to leave. In a desperate but calculated act, I ran into Grandma's house calling his name, and ran into the bathroom to say so long. I caught him standing in the tub drying off. Naked. Plumb naked. I could hardly speak but managed to mumble goodbye and backed out of the room. I held on to that image for years.

Later on after we both came out to one another, I had the opportunity to visit John at his Ft. Lauderdale home. We had a great time visiting and he introduced me to a friend who rented a small apartment that John had converted from the garage. It was my first introduction to a real, live, hunky, bear cop. The day he appeared and John introduced us he was in full uniform. John had to poke me to get me to close my mouth and be polite. The Florida State bull was a gay man's wet dream and I was ready and willing to go to jail to see him naked. Unfortunately, since I wasn't into leather or the leather lifestyle, I was out of luck.

Back in Portland and a few years earlier, my underage friends and I were out late one night cruising for older men. One of the areas we liked to hang around was a block that held one of Portland's better bars, Roman's. As usual, we weren't having a lot of luck but it was close to 2:30am, bar closing time and we were hopeful. We were in Stanley's Buick and as we circled Roman's block one more time, we witnessed a couple of men smashing the front entrance to a jewelry store that was located on the NE corner of the block. The men, after smashing through the door, ran in, grabbed as much jewelry from a display window that they could, ran out of the store and literally dove into a waiting car.

All of this took place in split seconds but we knew exactly what was happening. As the get-away car took off, Stanley tried to follow it but was foiled at the first stop light. The car disappeared into the night. As we returned to the jewelry store, the cops had already arrived. The three of us in Stanley's car, jumped out and excitedly told the police that we had witnessed the whole thing. That was our first mistake.

None of us could agree on the color of the car. None of us had an inkling of the make or year of the car. We weren't even on the same page when it came to how many people we had seen. I'm not sure but I have a faint memory that we may have been stoned and should have just kept our mouths shut.

You could tell the cops were frustrated with us and it was clear they didn't think much of the veracity or clarity of our stories, but decided to take us over to police headquarters to look at mug shots to see if we recognized any one. We were ecstatic. How fun would this be?

Unfortunately, none of us could point to any of the mugs in the pictures and truthfully say we recognized them. But before we left that night, we did have a bit of a surprise. As we were perusing the mug shots, we did recognize two or three gay men who we knew from our time on camp. They weren't really friends but what a surprise to learn that men that we'd been hanging around with were known criminals.

In the late 1980s I had a small studio apartment in Vaseline Flats. It wasn't the nicest apartment but it was clean and had a view of of the street. I didn't particularly like the manager of the place but we got along well enough. He was a heavy smoker and reeked of smoke whenever I was near him. One night he fell asleep smoking in bed and caused a small fire in his basement apartment. He put it out before the fire department arrived but they still showed up. None of the renters, however, knew anything about the fire because the fire alarm never went off. We were roused from our beds by firemen going from room to room and telling people to evacuate the building until they could be sure there was no danger.

I woke up with a start when someone banged heavily on my door and yelled something about getting out of the building. I jumped out of bed and pulled a cover around me (I sleep nude) and opened the door to find one, gorgeous hunk of a fireman standing there giving me orders to get up and get out. He was everything I had always fantasized about when it came to firemen; tall, hunky, with short hair, a mouth breather, fat-free and in full fireman uniform. Baby oh baby, he could have put out my fire anytime.

But it was in East Berlin, in 1981 that I had a real run in with a fantasy inducing soldier. Luckily, I came out of the incident without getting arrested but it was close.

I was traveling with a good friend, Carol. We were both studying in West Germany at the time and had decided to visit Berlin together. She had a relative in East Berlin and we were going to deliver some paper diapers to her as a gift. Before we actually crossed into East Berlin at Checkpoint Charlie, we visited the famous Museum at Checkpoint Charlie and I rather naively bought some books on the "Wall" and famous escapes. Well, let me tell you right off, the east Germans did not like visitors to their country bringing in that kind of propaganda.

As I presented my passport to the butchest female guard I had ever seen, she asked what I was carrying in the paper bag. I told her and she asked to see the books. When she saw them, she looked at me, took my passport and the books and left the area. She had already let Carol go through and she was watching all of this on the other side of the barrier. Another east German guard told her to keep going and told me to step out of the line and wait. Carol gave me a rather weak smile and wave and mouthed that she would wait for me outside.

I waited for almost 15 minutes before the border guard came back followed by a male guard carrying a machine gun. He told me to come with him, pointing the way out of the area with the barrel of his gun. At this point, I started getting really scared. I couldn't see Carol anymore and I had no idea how long this scene was going to last.

I was escorted into a small interrogation room with no windows. There was another uniformed man sitting behind a small desk waiting for me. I was flabbergasted to realize that he was probably younger than me and he had one of the most beautiful faces I'd ever seen. Unfortunately, there wasn't anything beautiful about his demeanor. He ordered me to sit and to empty out all of my pockets. He examined everything I was carrying including a small notebook in which I kept records of all of the photographs that I had been taking since arriving in West Berlin. In fact, the last five or six entries were notes on pictures I had taken of the wall and the no-man's land that separated the Eastern sector and the Western sector of Berlin. The notations included descriptions of guard towers and the dogs that were tethered to wires so they could run lengthwise but not leave the area.

My baby-faced interrogator insisted on knowing why I had notes on the guard houses and the dogs. I kept telling him they were simply notes on pictures that I had taken the day before. He was also insistent on me telling him to whom I was taking the books that I had with me. I told him that they were for me and that I was sorry for bringing them in with me. I even offered to leave them with him so I could leave. This evinced even more beligerency on his part. Why would I spend such money and be willing to leave them behind? Well, by this time, I knew I'd better just shut up and let him do the talking. By the time he finally gave me back my possessions (sans the forbidden books) and told me that I could leave, I had spent more than an hour with this man. As I gathered up my stuff and started to leave, he came up behind me, patted me on the shoulder and told me to be more careful the next time I entered East Berlin. As I looked at him, he flashed me an absolutely angelic smile and winked. He'd been playing with me for an hour, giving me a hard time just because he could.

When I finally got outside of the guard house and found Carol, I was ready for a drink. She was almost hysterical, thinking she was going to have to go back to Tuebingen and tell the program director that I had been arrested in East Berlin. We made our way to the Rotes Rathaus, the East German city hall and drank ourselves into a stupor. She never forgave me for the fright I gave her, but we still laugh when we recount the story. For my part, I can still see the beautiful face of my interrogator and to this day relive the hour in his office with him wearing a few less clothes and with a really big gun!

Claiming Gay History

2006-01-11T18:32:00.000-08:00

All of the wingnut bullshit about Brokeback Mountain reminds me how so many of the right-wing, straight community deny the existence of gay history and when confronted with examples of it deny its legitimacy. Thank God for the many excellent gay and straight historians who have written or edited some really good histories of the gay community.

All gay men and women should support these great authors and in doing so increase their own understanding of our collective history. Fight bigotry and ignorance with facts.

Some histories I recommend:

Allan Berube - Coming Out Under Fire: The History of Gay Men and Women in World War Two

Cathy Crimmins - How the Homosexuals Saved Civilization: The True and Heroic Story of How Gay Men Shaped the Modern World

Hans-Georg Stuemke - Rosa Winkel, rosa Listen: Homosexuelle und "Gesundes Volksempfinden" von Auschwitz bis heute

John Boswell - Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality: Gay People in Western Europe from the Beginning of the Christian Era to the Fourteenth Century

Jonathan Katz - Gay American History: Lesbians and Gay Men in the U.S.A.: A Documentary

Magnus Hirschfeld - Von einst bis jetzt: Geschichte einer homosexuellen Bewegung, 1897-1922

Martin Duberman - About Time: Exploring the Gay Past

Mary Ann Humphrey - My Country, My Right to Serve: Experiences of Gay Men and Women in the Military, World War II to the Present

Randy Shilts - Long Road to Freedom: The Advocate History of the Gay and Lesbian Movement

In Jonathan Katz's groundbreaking anthology Gay American History: Lesbians and Gay Men in the U.S.A.: A Documentary, he publishes a Badger Clark poem "The Lost Pardner":

I ride alone and hate the boys I meet.
Today, some way, their laughin' hurts me so.
. . . . . . . . . .
I hate the steady sun that glares and glares!
The bird songs make me sore.
I seem the only thing on earth that cares
'Cause Al ain't here no more!

And him so strong, and yet so quick he died,
And after year on year
When we had always trailed it side by side,
He went -- and left me here!

We loved each other in the way men do
And never spoke about it, Al and me,
But we both knowed, and knowin' it so true
Was more than any woman's kiss could be.
. . . . . . . . .

What is there out beyond the last divide?
Seems like that country must be cold and dim.
He'd miss this sunny range he used to ride,
And he'd miss me, the same as I do him.

It's no use thinkin' -- all I'd think or say
Could never make it clear.
Out that dim trail that only leads one way
He's gone -- and left me here!

The range is empty and the trails are blind,
And I don't seem but half myself today.
I wait to hear him ridin' up behind
And feel his knee rub mine the good old way.
(From Badger Clark, Sun and Saddle Leather, 3rd ed. (Boston: Richard G. Badger, Gorham Press, 1919), pp 67-69.

So for all those homophobes in the West and Mid West who feel insulted because, God forbid, someone believes that cowboys could love one another "in that way", it's been going on since the earliest settlers started homesteading the red states.

Livin' la Vida Gaya!

2006-01-06T08:19:00.000-08:00

You'd never believe it, but Portland, Oregon (supposedly) had one of the largest number of gay bars "per capita" in any city in the country according to some study done in the late 70s. It did seem like we had a great selection to choose from back then. Still do for that matter. Portland's always been known for its hospigaiety and even today, when traveling when I tell people I'm from Portland, everyone seems to know about Portland and opinions generally are favorable.

As I and my friends were starting to live the lifestyle that our genes had basically committed us to, whether we knew it or not, we had a hell of a lot of fun. Sure, we made some mistakes. You should see some of the snapshots from then. Some of us should never have worn our hair long, no matter how "in" it was. I've got a picture of me in a lime green leisure suit that my mother picked out for me that still makes me blush with shame to this day!

Mistakes were made even with our drugs of choice. No matter what anyone tells you, Artane is not our friend! Used to control certain side effects induced by antipsychotic drugs such as Thorazine and Haldol, Artane was easily procured by a friend who was an orderly at the State Hospital. Taken in small doses the drug induced a wonderfully relaxed state of mind and a great "body" high. You just wanted everyone to touch you all over your body. But. . . where was I? Oh yeah. . . you'd end up. . . wait. . . it's coming to me. . . oh yeah, you'd forget what you were talking about in the middle of a sentence. I don't know how many conversations were suddenly cut short by an Artane hit. Of course, no one noticed since we were all too stoned anyway. Well, one evening of Artane induced euphoria and a completely lost evening was rapidly followed by a small gathering in a bathroom with the entire bottle of Artanes being unceremoniously dumped into the toilet.

The Night of Forgotten Conversations took place in one of Portland's early gay "discos". Up the Down Staircase was a pit. With a bar/restaurant on the ground floor and the dance floor with a small bar on the second floor, Up the DS was one of Portland's first efforts at bringing gay disco to the community. The fact that the music came from a juke box was of no consequence. We had our first gay dance club and we loved it! Disco was Queen and we had a place to strut and dance and show off our best disco clothes.

Now livin' the life style included wearing only the newest and hippest clothes: platform shoes, disco wear, bell bottoms, flaired trousers and cuffed pants were all in. Talk about fashion mistakes! I don't know how many gay men sprained their ankles wearing those ridiculously high soled shoes while wildly gyrating to the latest disco queen's music. Even cuffed pants, a seemingly innocuous fashion statement could be dangerous.

One night as friends and I were going up the stairs to the dance floor in Up the DS, another friend, Jack was being carried down the same stairs. It seems he had gotten just a little too high and was being taken out of the bar for some fresh air. What he and his friends had not noticed, however, was that at some point he had dropped his cigarette and it had landed inside of one of his pant's cuffs and it was smoldering. Thank God corduroy doesn't burn quickly!

Happy New Year! Joseph Hansen

2006-01-02T15:42:00.000-08:00

Thought I would start 2006 by re-reading a couple of past favorites. As I was finally finishing the cataloging of my personal library (1689 total books) I kept pulling out a book here and there with the intent of rereading it. Now I have 5 books on my bedside stand waiting patiently to be read. To start the new year, I decided to begin with one of my favorite gay detectives, Joseph Hansen's Dave Brandstetter.

A Country of Old Men, ironically is the "final" Dave Brandstetter mystery. Joseph Hansen brought him out of semi-retirement in order to solve the inevitable murder in the novel, but I believe also to bring closure to the Brandstetter series, once and for all.

As you begin reading the book, it becomes painfully clear that our hero will not survive the final denouement. Dave is feeling tired and run down. He meets "old" friends who are also slowly suffering the pains of aging. He is constantly reminding himself of his father's death of a heart attack and reminisces about his past lovers and friends who have died of either old age or AIDS. Hansen slowly but methodically and without mistake is preparing his readers for Dave's inevitable death.

Some reviewers have decided that Hansen should not have written the final episode of the Brandstetter series, but personally, I'm glad he did. Dave Brandstetter deserved to end his career not as an old man who could no longer do his job; someone who had to stay home and be taken care of, even if his caretaker was his lover. Brandstetter was an active, complex character who was proud of his life and his profession. He was a man who seldmon needed help but took it grudgingly when necessary. To die invalid and dependent was not the way he would have wanted it nor would his fans. I was saddened by his death on the last page of the book, but also pleased that he went with dignity and doing what he had loved to do.

I hope anyone who is a true mystery fan will read Hansen's Dave Brandstetter series. They will be pleased by the plots, the characters and the readability of the stories.

Sisters of the Vicious Victorian

2005-12-29T20:54:00.000-08:00

Founded by Sister Albertina Vestigial Organa in 1901. Rumored to be a bastard daughter of Edward, Duke of Kent and an unknown chambermaid. As an infant, the child was put in the charge of a Catholic order of contemplative nuns in India where the child was raised as a Roman Catholic. At the age of 21, she joined the order of Cormorinian Sisters. Through an accident of fate, Sister Brahmaputra (her contemplative name in religion) was chosen to be the Abbe of Cormorin in 1898 and going through old records found her own short but astounding biography.

Sister Brahmaputra immediately contacted Her Majesty Queen Victoria but despite all of the proof she had, Victoria refused to accept her as a sister nor would she even allow Sister Brahmaputra to enter Windsor Castle to visit her. In 1899, Victoria, tired of Sister Brahmaputra's insistence had her expelled from England and forbidden to return. In 1900, Sister Brahmaputra of Cormorin petitioned Pope Leo XIII for permission to found a new Order of contemplative nuns dedicated to the elimination of Victorian morals from India.

Upon receipt of Pope Leo XIII's permission, Sister Brahmaputra officially changed her name to Sister Albertina Vestigial Organa and founded the Order of the Vicious Victorian on April 1, 1901.

From The Official Life and Times of Mother Albertina Vestigial Organa, Foundress, Order of the Vicious Victorian by Evets Nomrah and Divad Regeart.

New York City, Part II: Ramblings

2005-12-28T14:15:00.000-08:00

Have you ever dreamed of a place that could offer you a smorgasbord of sexual delights and all alfresco? For me, in 1975 it was the Ramble in New York City's Central Park. The Ramble was designed by Fredrich Law Olmsted as a wilderness park within a park. It is an unpredictable lattice work of intersecting paths, hills, rocky cliffs and a winding stream. On a warm summer evening, the Ramble can be filled with strolling couples, gawking tourists and sex hungry gay men.

While visiting New York with Jeff, Dennis and David, our friend Clark took us all (except David, who was straight) to the park for a little evening cruise. After smoking one of the tightest and smallest pin-joints I had ever seen, we separated, naturally, each seeking his own fantasy hook-ups. I felt like a gay tourist let loose in a huge sexual theme park.

Entering the Ramble, the first man I saw was sitting casually on a park bench. As I glanced towards him, he slowly uncrossed his legs and separated them just enough to reveal that his jeans had no crotch to them and that he was wearing nothing under his jeans. I nearly dropped my teeth in surprise.

Further along, I saw a couple of men moving off from the paved path into a small opening in the thick bushes bordering the path. I followed discreetly not sure where this unexpected opportunity would take me, but curious none-the-less. As I slipped through the opening, I found myself in a large open area, completely surrounded by thick brush and trees. I was not alone. Not only were the two men who I followed there, but at least 5 or 6 other men were standing in a line seemingly waiting their turn to approach a rather hairy, nice-looking, naked man who was being serviced by a fully clothed younger man. After a few minutes, the man being serviced dismissed his current inamorato who noiselessly got up and left. He was immediately replaced by the next man in line who hungrily did the bidding of the buck in the middle.

As I later continued my wanderings in the Ramble, I could see a couple of shirtless men lounging at the top of a small cliff overlooking the paths that ran through the area. One of the boys beckoned me to come up, so I found the slightly hidden side entrance to the cliff and joined them at the top. They were, indeed, shirtless and wearing very revealing speedos to boot. We talked a little about how the cruising was, and they pointed out the advantage of their strategic vantage point. You could see all along the paths and into a number of hidden clearings.

My curiosity was piqued by a rather butch number standing alone on a small hill not far from the cliff. He was wearing what appeared to be a pair of black leather pants and climbing boots. He was naked from the waist up. Leaving the voyeurs on the cliff, I found the opening that led me to the black leather pants. When I got there the man was still alone and looking outward and away from the entrance where I had appeared. He refused to turn towards me or another man that had suddenly appeared behind me. He must have followed me as I looked for the opening. I realized that our leather man was sporting a huge hard-on under those leather pants. Before I could make a move, the man who had followed me into the area charged forward and dropped to his knees in front of Mr. Leather and began to polish the crotch of those pants with his tongue. Needless to say, I was superfluous at this point so continued on my way.

As the evening dusk began to seep into the park, I turned another corner and found myself again looking at a good looking man sitting on a park bench. He was rather swarthy and wore a very tight pair of blue jeans that left nothing to the imagination. Fascinated by such a luxurious display of manhood, I finally pulled my eyes up from his crotch to find him smiling at my obvious lust. He beckoned me over to the bench and after a bit of small talk, led me into a small clearing behind the bushes and the bench. My stallion turned out to be from Spain and very adept in a number of languages including french and greek. It was a glorious day in the Ramble.

New York City, Part I: Broadway Bound

2005-12-28T09:30:00.000-08:00

In 1975, the year before the bicentennial celebration that overtook this country, I and some good friends, Jeff, Dennis, and David, flew to New York City for a week of exploration and musical theater. Our adventures began almost immediately.

Not particularly flush with money, the four of us sharing a room was our only real option. The Abbey-Victoria Hotel (aka the Scabby-Icktoria) was situated in midtown Manhattan (51st and 7th) so its location outweighed its multiple flaws. The room was uncomfortably small but made even more so by the addition of a roll-away bed jimmied into the tiny space between the room's two doubles. The charm of the hotel's small in-house restaurant was matched only by the unsmiling, churlish attitude of our waitress, who after being asked politely by one of us hicks from Oregon to clean the table, complied by slapping down a nasty wet rag onto the table and wiping crumbs and all directly onto our laps. Ahhh. It was wonderful. We were in the Big Apple!

Our plans were simple; explore the city, visit an old friend who had moved back to NYC from Portland, see as many Broadway shows as we could cram in, visit as many museums as possible, and if lucky, experience the sexual side of New York City. It was 1975 for Christ's sake and we were going to experience it all.

The Best of All Possible Worlds

It was an incredible year on Broadway and it was an experience that none of us would forget. Our first musical was Candide, the musical version of Voltaire's masterpiece. Music by Leonard Bernstein and lyrics by John Latouche, Richard Wilbur and Stephen Sondheim. The stage was set up so that action took place all around the auditorium. An actor could appear on stage or end up standing next to your seat. It was a fast-paced, hysterically funny musical satire and a perfect introduction to New York theater.

The following night our theater experience went from the hysterical to the sublime. We had tickets to Peter Shaffer's award-winning Equus. The story of a 17 year-old boy brought to a psychiatric hospital for treatment because he had blinded several horses with a hoof pick. I remember Peter Firth playing the 17 year-old and seeing him naked on stage. He was so beautiful and his portrayal of Alan Strang broke my heart.

Then we saw the matinee performance of The Wiz with Stephanie Mills as Dorothy and Mabel King as the witch, Evillene. I had been a fan of The Wizard of Oz for years and was a bit apprehensive about seeing the Broadway version but I was not disappointed. Stephanie Mills was brilliant. The only flaw that afternoon was the noise being made backstage during the production. I couldn't believe that someone didn't put a stop to it. There was an almost constant sound of pounding and shuffling. As we exited the theater that night, we realized the noise hadn't been coming from backstage at all. The noise was actually thunder and wind from a New York City rain storm that had hit just after the start of the play. Naturally, it was impossible to catch a cab so we decided to run from marquee to marquee in the hopes of reaching the hotel without getting too wet. After the initial dash to the cover of the next marquee, we abandoned the idea and simply walked back to the hotel. We were soaked clean through in the first 30 seconds. I love electrical storms but I must admit it is a bit unnerving when you see lightening flashing between two skyscrapers in New York.

The production of Chicago that we saw that summer with Jerry Orbach, Chita Rivera and Gwen Verdon was wonderful but it gave me vertigo. I swear we were in the very last row of the 2nd balcony in the 46th Street Theatre. I could literally see the bald spots on some of the actors' heads. I'd never been that high in a theater before. As we climbed down the stairs to go outside during the intermission we saw Tottie Fields being engulfed by admiring fans.

The last show we saw that week was one of the most fun; Terrence McNally's The Ritz. The plot of this wonderful comedy took place in a pre-AIDS 1970 gay bathhouse and starred Rita Moreno, Jerry Stiller, and Jack Weston. It was a slapstick wacky comedy of errors and totally un-pc.

Broadway Theater in 1975 was brilliant, exciting, toe-tappingly fun and I was sated. Jeff, one of our travelling companions, however, couldn't get enough and would eventually leave Portland and move to the Big Apple in 1978. He's been there ever since; a devotee to all things New York and Broadway. His partner of 20+ years, Sal Mistretta, is a talented actor/dancer/singer who has appeared on Broadway and travelled the country in numerous musical and dramatic productions. You can't get much closer to Broadway than that!

Midnight Mass or How the Priest Stole Christmas!

2005-12-23T09:33:00.000-08:00

Christmas midnight mass was always a wonderful experience for me; the smell of incense, the soft lighting, the beautiful creche, the pretty altar boys and handsome priests. But the memory of one midnight mass always makes me smile and it had nothing to do with handsome priests. The story starts in a hospital room, with me and some friends visiting our friend Terry.

It was a few weeks before Christmas and Terry was in the hospital to have his wrist operated on. In high school Terry was a roller skating queen. He was elegant on the boards, zipping around with arms outstretched and wrists slightly limp. He could do anything on skates, jumps, turns, reverse. . . he could do it all. But one day Terry fell and broke one of those elegantly limp wrists.

So there we were visiting Terry the day before he was scheduled for surgery. The room was filled with gay boys; me, Jeff, and two brothers who I hadn't met before; Robert and Lloyd Carmack. We were having a wonderful time joking with Terry about his limp wrists and how the doctors were going to finally straighten them out. But in the middle of our revelry, the door opens and a priest in black suit and roman collar enters. The room went terribly quiet. He was certainly not someone any of us had invited in. You could tell immediately that Terry was not pleased that he was there. But, ignoring the obvious chill in the air, the priest asked us to let him have a few moments alone with Terry. Being the good Catholic boys that some of us were, we complied without arguement. We told Terry we would be outside waiting and would come in when the priest was finished.

It took only about 5 minutes alone with the priest before Terry was literaly screaming at the top of his lungs for the priest to GET OUT! It was a race between the gay boys and the nurse on duty to see who could get into the room first. The nurse won! By the time we got inside, the nurse was telling the priest to leave. She also kicked the rest of us out so that she could calm Terry down.

Outside of Terry's room, wondering what the hell had happened, we milled around waiting for the nurse to let us back in. The priest was also still there and in some inexplicable way recognized me as a Catholic boy worthy of exploitation. When he asked me if he could talk privately with me about Terry, I didn't have the intestinal fortitude (as the nuns used to say) to say fuck off, so I followed him into a small office about the size of a big closet. It was a small nurse station but with a door and no window.

Inside this tiny, confined space, this priest and I sat facing one another across a small desk. He began his interogation with questions about Terry and my relationship; how long had I known Terry? Were we just friends or special friends? I swear to God, that was the term he used. By this time, I was so embarassed and blushing so badly I was ready to pass out. I was so appalled by his questions, I couldn't even answer. I just stared at him. The final straw though was when he reached across the desk and took my hand in his. He covered it with his other hand and began to slowly caress it, softly but very firmly. The questions took an abrupt turn into an area that completely took my breath away. "Do you masturbate, Steve? Do you and Terry masturbate together? I can help you get through this, Steve. Let me help you."

But before this forced, pseudo-masturbatory confession could climax on its own, the door to the room was suddenly and unexpectantly opened by a nurse looking to use her office. Suddenly I was released from the hypnotic influence of this sick old man and jumped out of my chair and fled for my life. I grabbed my friends and made them leave with me. I couldn't stay and look that man in the face. I couldn't even stay to tell Terry why we were leaving. I just knew I had to get out of that hospital and away from that jaded old man.

The next day, after Terry recovered from the wrist surgery, he told us that the man was one of the priests that served the Catholic Cathedral in northwest Portland and that Terry's parents had sent him to try to "help" Terry through this homosexual phase he was supposedly going through. Terry had gotten hysterical because of the horrible things he had said to Terry about the evils of homosexuality and how Terry and all of his friends were destined to go to hell if they didn't repent.

We were all incensed at both Terry's parents and the dirty old priest who had obviously taken great libidinous pleasure in questioning me about my masturbatory habits. We figured we had to somehow get revenge on this hypocrite and come up with some sort of plan to get him.

We settled on going to midnight Mass at the Cathedral that Christmas eve. We knew that all of the parish priests concelebrated that particular mass and he would be there. We arrived early enough to assure ourselves of getting strategic seats in the very first row of pews so that we were very visible to the celebrants. When the priests and acolytes entered for mass, we were in luck. There he was. Our plan was simple: none of us would take our eyes off of him through out the service. We would stare him into shame. And it worked. Well, we're pretty sure it worked to an extent. He definitely noticed us and he knew who we were. You could tell he was somewhat discombobulated and uncomfortable. But whether or not he ever really felt our anger over his hypocracy and complicity, we felt we had done something to avenge both Terry and me.

Today, I think every single one of us would have gone straight to the bishop and cried abuse! But in the 70s, there was no way it would have helped. We would have been laughed right out of the bishop's office. Hell, let's be real. We would have never even been allowed an audience.

Grey Winter Reading

2005-12-20T10:47:00.000-08:00

Portland was hit with a one-day ice storm on Sunday night. On Monday, ice closed down most of the city including my office. So I had the rare chance of settling down with my four cats under a nice snug cover and reading for most of the day. I picked up Cobalt by Nathan Aldyne from my collection. This gay mystery was number two in a series of four: Vermillion, Cobalt, Slate, and Canary all published in the 80s and before the subject of HIV and AIDS became de rigueur in gay writing. I have all four books and because of Cobalt will definitely pick up the other three and reread them.

Nathan Aldyne was the pseudonym of a writing duo one of which has subsequently died, so the Daniel Valentine/Clarisse Lovelace sleuthing duo series died along with one of the authors. That was a shame, really, because the writers had really gotten into their stride with Cobalt. I believe the stories could have only gotten better if the series had continued. These mysteries are witty, tightly written and exciting additions to the “gay mystery” genre.

The series all take place in Boston and Provincetown and as one review on the back cover of Cobalt explains, gives a fascinating and “realistic” insight into gay culture in the 80s. I tend to agree; the descriptions of the bar scene, the “meat rack” and tricking in the stories ring very true for the times. Attitudes towards monogamy, (or serial monogamy), drinking, and drugs all are used effectively as background for the plot. Also surprising for me was the author’s inclusion of the “straight” sexual proclivities of the 1980s. It wasn’t just gays hopping from one bed to another but our straight heroine, Clarisse Lovelace, too tended to look for non-committal sex with handsome men. Perhaps she wasn’t as sexually active as the gay characters, but her attitude and behavior reflected the 80s ideals of sexual freedom and liberation for all including women.

At the time these stories were written, the whole “gay mystery” genre was in its infancy and as far as I know, there were only a few out there, including the Dave Brandstetter series by Joseph Hansen. Aldyne’s series is not in the same league as Hansen’s but they were never meant to be. Hansen’s Dave Brandstetter mysteries were gritty, serious, realistic stories with an unapologetic homosexual detective as the hero and even after thirty years (the debut novel was published in the 70s) the writing is as contemporary today as back then. Aldyne’s mysteries were written as witty, lighter fare but still with a sharp feel for the mystery side of the stories, but the Daniel Valentine/Clarisse Lovelace stories show their age a bit more than do the Dave Brandstetter stories.

I recommend both series highly.

Magazines: Reading for After Dark

2005-12-15T12:29:00.000-08:00

My friend Jeff in New York reminded me that books were not the only positive literary influence in many gay lives but that magazines, too, have been vital to gay people finding themselves. For our generation, especially in the 60s and 70s, gay-identified magazines were hardly ubiquitous. The early homosexual-rights organizations (way before our generation - just an FYI) offered broadsheets and an occaisional actual magazine but those publications were printed in very small quantities and disseminated to a very select audience. The Mattachine Society (founded by Harry Hay et al in 1950) had The Mattachine Review. ONE, Inc. (founded in 1952) had ONE Magazine and The Daughters of Bilitis (founded in 1955 by Del Martin and Phyllis Lyon) had The Ladder.

For me and my friends, the magazine of choice was After Dark (Magazine of Entertainment), a monthly publication that catered to homosexual men albeit without ever admitting to it. Although not an openly gay publication, when I look back at some of the issues published in the 70s, one has to wonder who was fooling whom. If the publishers weren't profiling a gay entertainer like Jim Bailey or writing about Fire Island, it was showing lots of good eye candy.

However, for me, the monthly that got my literary genes in an uproar was Christopher Street (published from July 1976-Nov/Dec 1995). What a revolution; a magazine dedicated to all things gay without "pink pages" and sex ads. Christopher Street actually printed book reviews and had articles on gay theater, AIDS, gay fathers, and gay relationships. It didn't titillate as much as After Dark but it still had its share of eye candy and fluff.

Daly City, California

2005-12-13T07:11:00.000-08:00

My partner and I flew into San Francisco on Friday just for the weekend. We had been invited down to celebrate our friend Ellen's house warming. It was an incredible weekend. Portland on Friday morning as we left was all of 38 degrees. San Francisco when we landed was a balmy 60. The entire weekend was clear, warm, and fog free. I mention the last because everyone in the City while we were there were surprised at how beautiful and clear the weather was.

Ellen is living in a wonderful little house in Daly City. The house actually belongs to our friend, Diane and her mother. Diane lived there as a child in the 1970s and her mother lived there until just last year when she fell and broke a hip. She is 75 or so and after the fall could no longer care for herself. Diane was forced to move her to a nice assisted living home where she has companionship and around-the-clock care. In the meantime, Ellen has moved in and spent the last year updating and renovating the house. It looks fabulous!

Visiting Ellen and her new home in Daly City reminded me how we are all surrounded by the unique. In this day of mega-stores and multinational chains, we can lose touch with the uniqueness of our friends and the places where we live.

However, my initial reaction to Daly City was, to quote Gertrude Stein, "There is no there there." Daly City is not the prettiest city I've ever been in. In fact, it's one gigantic subdivision with row after row after row of two story homes interrupted here and there by little malls with Target stores and Starbuck Coffee shops. How anyone can pick out their own house from the myriad of other cookie cutter houses is beyond me. The houses are squat but long with a garage on the ground floor, and a small window to the left of the garage. The entrance to the house is on the left side on the second floor which one gets to by a staircase and through a small gated porch.

From the living room windows in Ellen's house, you can look out towards the Golden Gate Bridge (yes, she has a view of the bridge from her house!) and see nothing but undulating rows of houses so close that at first glance they seem to be connected. Yet, with all of the similarity each house seems to have its own personality. So, in its own way, Daly City is unique. It has a unique character that is informed by its own style of homogeneity.

The Love that Dares Not Speak Its Name - Brokeback Mountain

2005-12-08T08:36:00.000-08:00

Brokeback Mountain, Brokeback Mountain..., it's on everyone's mind, in everyone's blog, and clogging up air space on the radio. So what's all the hubbub about? Why the intense spotlight on a movie about two cowboys finding love?

Before you see the movie, please, please read the short story by Annie Proulx. Thank you, New Yorker, for pulling it out of your archives. As Towleroad, my favorite blogger says, "its an amazing piece of writing."

Hustlers, Drag Queens, and Bashers, Oh My!

2005-12-06T08:46:00.000-08:00

Even though camp was more often than not pretty boring, it was still the only place that the out gay kids had to go to find one another and to have some fun. It wasn't until many years later that Portland finally opened up its first gay community center. Until that happened though, a lot of underage gay kids used camp as their own form of community center.

We had a lot of fun, meeting there and everyone pretty much got along. There were a few disagreements and some bitchiness between the hustlers and the rest of us. I wouldn't call any of the trade on camp "rough" by any means, but those boys were there to earn a living. Having a bunch of young chicken on camp that were not there to charge for services, did sometimes cut into the rent-boys' earnings. There was an unspoken rule that the kids hanging out just for fun stayed on the west and south sides of the block while the hustlers stayed on the north and east sides. The men on the prowl, would circle camp in their cars and shop. We usually snapped off the ugly trolls and those who were obviously looking for a quickie but sometimes, as I mentioned in an earlier entry, one of us would get lucky (?) and get picked up.

As in any tribe or community, and I think of the group that hung around camp as a small community, there are natural leaders and there are natural followers. Camp was no different. Our unofficial doyen was Miss Patton, an older queen who despite being of age, liked to hold court on camp. We were all in thrall of Miss Patton since she was older, more experienced and had a job as a catcher at one of Portland's preeminent strip clubs, Mary's! A catcher is an employee who sits in the audience during a performance and "catches" the stripper's clothes as she throws them out into the audience. Those skimpy outfits that the strippers took off during a performance, were damn expensive and they wanted to ensure that they got them back. Hence the use of the "catcher"!

Miss Terry was the lady-in-waiting, if Miss Patton was the queen. Miss Terry was one of my high school friends that came out along with Jeff, Jack, John, Stanley, and me. We had our own little gay clique in high school. But Miss Terry was special. While the rest of us were desparately trying to hide our queer sides, Miss Terry celebrated being who she was and in doing so was hassled less and actually embraced by more kids than the rest of us. One of her girl friends was one of the most popular girls in our class who would eventually be elected Rose Festival princess in 1970. While some of us dreaded every single drawn out second of PE class, Terry was excused from participating and was given the envious (to many of us!) job of handing out towels in the boy's locker room. But I digress.

On camp, Miss Terry was in her element. A flamboyant, larger-than-life, in-your-face fearless queen who took shit from no one. Had Miss Terry been at Stonewall in 1969, I'm damn sure that she would have been right in the middle of the brouhaha along with the other drag queens that started the whole revolution. She was about as effeminate as she could get yet she was as proud and defiant and courageous as any one I have ever met. Even queer bashers were no match for her courage and anger. And believe you me, we saw and experienced a lot of bashing on camp.

Safety in numbers was an unspoken motto for many of us kids hanging around camp in the 1970s. Queer kids were routinely threatened and beaten up but life had to be lived. Hanging around camp gave me a great insight into how courageous gay kids had to be to come out and form their own community. One summer night, Miss Terry, I and a couple of other friends were walking around camp when we saw a young queen surrounded by three straight punks giving her a bad time. Without hesitation, Miss Terry kicked off her high heels, grabbed them with the stilleto heels out like knives, and ran towards them screaming "Get 'em, girls!" We were all so stunned we followed without even thinking, screaming our own expletives at the bashers. As soon as they saw this group of screaming faggots running towards them, they took off like the cowards they were. Camp was safe and secure for another night.

Along with Miss Terry and Miss Patton, there was Miss Benny -- an underage, blond, skinny little queen who loved to traipse around camp in semi-drag. She would often wear some type of dress but never make-up or hair. Her crowning achievement was the day she wore her "wedding gown". None of us knew where she ever got the thing, but we all thought it was fabulous; a floor-length, white, tie-dyed (remember this was in the 70s) satin dress with a long train. She looked ever so becoming.

Miss Benny was so proud of the gown, she just had to show it off at some of the bars, all of which, were on the other side of Broadway, one of Portland's main downtown streets. In the 70s and 80s, Broadway on a Saturday night was where all of the straight kids cruised in their hot cars. It was lively, crowded, and sometimes rough. Walking from camp to Roman's or the Riptide or any of the other gay bars required us to cross Broadway. Normally, having a strong sense of self-preservation, we did it with some discretion, if not a little bravura. This night, Miss Benny crossed Broadway in full wedding-gown drag. Lucky for us we were all on foot and the straight kids, who in the 70s were not as tolerant as some are today, in their cars. It made for an easy escape for us and made it difficult for the straights to follow. They were hampered by one-way streets while we knew all of the dark side streets, where one can easily blend in or disappear. Later that night, we returned to camp sans dress. We loved to "ruin" straight kids, but we liked to do it on our terms and our turf.

Gertrude and Alice

2005-12-05T10:50:00.000-08:00

Yes, I have to admit that two lesbians were my first real literary heroines. Early in my reading life, someone (and thank you whoever you were!) gave me a copy of Gertrude Stein's, The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas. How could I not be enthralled by two women who, in the early 1930s publicly called one another Lovey (Gertrude) and Pussy (Alice)? The Autobiography introduced me to both women but most importantly turned me on to Gertrude Stein, her literary style, and her incredible life. What a hero for a gay boy who not only loved to read but loved art and history?

Reading about Gertrude and Alice's association with the likes of Paul Cezanne, Henri Matisse, and Pablo Picasso revealed all sorts of new subjects to explore and absorb. Stein's exploration of automatic writing and her experiments in recreating the grammatical rules for writing were fascinating and offered hours of new reading experiences albeit often difficult and obscure. Nonetheless, reading books on and by both women gave me a great deal of pleasure for many years.

The Alice B. Toklas Cookbook, which Alice published in 1954 even offered up some rare delights in the culinary arts. Ostensibly published as a cookbook, in reality it was a memoir of her life with Gertrude Stein. Let's face it, however, the Alice B. Toklas Cookbook became famous in the 1970s for its now signature recipe for marijuana brownies. The truth be told, for anyone who actually read the Cookbook the recipe was for "haschich fudge" and it wasn't even one of her own recipes.

The most revealing book on Gertrude and Alice, and for me the most emotional was Alice's own memoir Staying on Alone: Letters of Alice B. Toklas. To live for so long after the death of her true love was difficult, and I learned first hand about the vacuum that can be left by the death of your life-partner. Their's was a true love-story.

One negative issue did appear early in my exploration of the life and times of Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas. Spelled out in James Mellow's extensive biography of Stein, Charmed Circle: Gertrude Stein & Company, Gertrude did not particularly like what homosexual men did in bed. She felt that homosexual men were "disgusted" after sex where women making love had nothing to be "disgusted" about.

To be a saint, one must sin; to be a hero, one must have flaws.

Rose's and Christmas

2005-12-02T13:30:00.000-08:00

It's the Christmas season and I begin to wax nostalgic about Christmases past. In 1973, I began throwing an annual Christmas open house and party, called "Freund-schaft". My way of combining two German words Freundschaft (friendship) and Gesellschaft (party).

The first Freund-schaft took place in my apartment on SW Vista Avenue. It was a great apartment, with a balcony that overlooked the entry courtyard of the building. It actually had a separate dining room and living room with a small hallway that led to the bathroom and the bedroom. At one time the Fordham was an elegant building with parquet floors and paneled dining rooms. My apartment was a bit shabbier than some with beige painted rooms and the dining room walls denuded of any sign of paneling. But I lived there for nine years and still consider it one of my favorite homes.

That first party was a riot. I don't know how many people actually showed up that night, but it was so crowded that no one could sit down. Everyone got pleasantly snogged and had such a good time, friends pleaded with me to reprise the party the next year. I had already decided that it was to be an annual "champagne" party, so that tradition was set. But I wasn't sure about the food thing. Not being a particularly adventurous or even competent cook, I chose Rose's Restaurant as my caterer of choice.

In the 1970s, Rose's Restaurant and Deli on 23rd Avenue just off of West Burnside, was a favorite neighborhood institution established by Rose Naftalin in 1956. She retired in 1967 and the deli was then bought and operated by Max Birnbach. Portland's gay community was basically centered around the NW 23rd Avenue area which was affectionately called "Vaseline Heights" by many of the gay inhabitants of the area. For that and many other reasons, my group of friends and I loved to go to Rose's for lunch or dinner and later for drinks in the bar. After an evening smoking pot or doing other drugs, we might decide to go "ruin a few" at Rose's. Gay lib was flourishing and for us it meant making sure everyone knew we were there, we were queer and we were FABULOUS!

Our friend Terry, or Miss Terri as she preferred to be called, wasn't often described as demure and retiring in 1973 and when we went to Rose's no one messed with her or us. But, as obnoxious as we might have been, the staff at Rose's loved to see us. We always got seated quickly and the waitresses found Miss Terri a delight. We were even invited to a couple of Rose's staff parties where at one unforgettable soiree Miss Terri surprised the assembled guests by appearing in Rose's waitress uniform drag. She was a hit!

With Rose's catering Freund-schaft and me buying champagne by the case, the party tradition was well established. But something was missing, so in 1979, I started to design and send out actual invitations to the party. The first year, I had a small gay press do my invitation which had a reproduction of a picture of me in the 3rd grade at St. Mary's Academy, in O'Neill, Nebraska. I was standing on stage with 7 other kids all in bear costumes. I was dressed, however, in a Bugs Bunny outfit. They had run out of the bear suits and so I was the lucky kid who got to stand out like a turd in a punch bowl and have my first of many humiliating moments on a stage.

The Freund-schafts grew more and more popular with my friends. Eventually morphing into a bash that people liked so much they began to bring along friends without asking. At one party as I was walking around making sure that everyone was enjoying themselves, I ran into a couple of really cute boys that I didn't know. So expecting to have them introduce themselves, I said hello and asked them if they were enjoying the party. One looked at me and without blinking started to diss the whole evening because the "guy giving the party didn't plan well enough and had run out of champagne!" Well, this queen was already pretty well in her cups so I introduced myself as "that guy" and told them that they could leave since they obviously weren't enjoying themselves, nor were they invited!

In the 70s, we were also pretty liberated sexually and some of my friends weren't particularly shy about tricking while they were at the party. I walked into my bathroom at one party and found three guys in the shower have pretty raunchy sex. After I excused myself for interrupting, I asked them to be a bit more discreet and at least lock the bathroom door.

I can't remember how many times I went to bed after a party only to find men and women's underwear under the sheets. I even woke up one morning following the party to find a stranger passed out in my tiny bathroom. What a great tradition. Here's to many more Freund-schaften!

Camp II - United We Stand, Divided We Get Picked Up One by One!

2005-12-01T22:30:00.000-08:00

It wasn't hard to trick when hanging out at camp, if that's really what you wanted to do. The problem was getting guys to notice you. Unfortunately, if you were hanging around having fun with a group of other gay kids, few of the men cruising camp would stop to talk. In fact the unofficial motto on camp was "united we stand, divided we get picked up one by one." If you wanted to get laid that night, you didn't hang around with the group.

But normally, we met on camp just for kicks, to see friends, and to meet other gay kids. I ended up meeting both a future boyfriend and people who would eventually be life-long friends.

One night while riding around camp with Stanley and Chuck (Stanley was a high school friend who had come out by then and Chuck was another friend that I had met on camp several months earlier) we noticed a new face on the corner. Chuck, never shy about picking up boys, leaned out of the backseat window of Stanley's 1936 Buick and flirted shamelessly with the fellow. We cruised around the block several times before convincing the guy to get in the car with us and go for something to eat. Dennis turned out to be both cute (think of a young Omar Sharif) and sweet.

Dennis had just begun to come out. He was a college student, attending Reed College, and had had no idea where the gay bars were or where younger guys went to meet other homos. So he did what a lot of gay men do when trying to find other gays, he let his gaydar pick out a couple of guys he thought to be gay and discreetly followed them. They lead him straight to what turned out to be camp.

Dennis always said that he had felt a little awkward standing there on camp that night so he grabbed the first opportunity he could to get off that corner. Chuck's charming pick-up act finally convinced him to join us for the evening. Chuck and Dennis' affair lasted quite a while before eventually breaking up.

Dennis was a long-term survivor of AIDS until he succumbed to the disease in June of 1999.

December 1, 2005 World AIDS Day

2005-12-01T09:05:00.000-08:00

A Message from the Human Rights Campaign.

Today, December 1, is World AIDS Day. In recognition of the day, the Human Rights Campaign is issuing our second annual report card to America's leaders, grading their response to the AIDS crisis.

While some in Congress have been stellar in their support for addressing the HIV/AIDS epidemic in the United States and abroad, our overall national response has been guided by ideology instead of sound science and hasn't provided the resources necessary to adequately and appropriately address the epidemic, particularly within communities of color.

Take a moment to read America's report card, and then please urge Congress to reauthorize the Ryan White CARE Act in 2006. The CARE Act provides funding to states for critical services to people living with HIV/AIDS, and its authorization expired on September 30, 2005.

Though the CARE Act continues to receive funding, it urgently needs to be reauthorized in 2006 and funded at levels that are adequate to address the HIV/AIDS public health crisis in the United States. The Human Rights Campaign has graded the USA an "F" in Care & Treatment - a key area the CARE Act is supposed to address.
Thank you so much for taking this urgent action on World AIDS Day 2005.
Warmly,

Joe Solmonese
President, Human Rights Campaign

A Gentle Madness

2005-11-29T08:01:00.000-08:00

I have almost finished a project that I've been working on for at least a year. I finally found a great piece of software that allows me to record all of the books that I own. It’s designed for use on a PDA and called BookBag Plus (Ver. 4.1.0) by WakefieldSoft, LLC.

I can type in the ISBN number or the title and the software goes onto the internet, finds the book, downloads its title, author, publisher, publication date, the number of pages, the format (hardback, paperback, audiobook, etc.) and the current selling price. It will also download an image of the book, if it is available.

The software has both a PDA and a desktop component which allows you to add the information via a PC or laptop. This makes the initial input so much easier than trying to write it all via the PDA.

The software also allows you to import records (comma delimited or tab delimited) from other sources, which was a god send since I had tried to do this project with another piece of software that crashed and burned.

I've probably catalogued 2/3 of my collection and have 430 books on record at this point.

I chose to put the records on my PDA so that I can avoid buying duplicate books when shopping. I’ve bought duplicates way too many times in the past and as much as I love my books, I don’t need more than one copy.

It's My Party

2005-11-28T13:00:00.000-08:00

On Saturday, I watched "It's My Party" with Margaret Cho, Lee Grant Gregory Harrison (as Brandon), Marlee Matlin, Roddy McDowall, Oliva Newton-John, Bronson Pinchot, Eric Roberts (as Nick), a 1996 production about a gay man suffering from complications of AIDS. I tend to shy away from movies on AIDS, these days, but as I was watching and crying my eyes out (I can cry at the drop of a pin), I realized how many AIDS related movies, I'd seen over the years.

Here's a list of movies on AIDS that I have seen:

An Early Frost, 1985
Parting Glances, 1986
Longtime Companion, 1990
And the Band Played On, 1993
Philadelphia, 1993
Jeffrey, 1995
It's My Party, 1996
Love!Valour!Compassion!, 1997
Angels in America, 2003

Reflecting on them, I also realized how important they are in reminding people that the epidemic isn't over. As more and more people are living longer with HIV and AIDS, fewer people consider the disease the death sentence it once was. Unfortunately, even with the medicines that are out there prolonging the lives of people with AIDS and HIV, it is still a disease that we should be fighting vigorously and we should have no qualms about telling it like it is: AIDS is a killer. Life with HIV or AIDS is not the life you want to lead. Protect yourselves at all times. Live life safely.

Camp

2005-11-28T07:17:00.000-08:00

When I first came out and still underage, gay kids had two places to go in Portland: the Chicken Coop and Camp. The chicken coop was a small doorway with a stoop next to the entrance to one of Portland's first gay clubs, Roman's Riptide. It was there that we'd sit trying desparately to get picked up by an older man. We were completely oblivious to the danger, not to us, but to the older gay men who might end up picking up a piece of chicken and finding himself in trouble with the law. Needless to say, few of us ever got picked up.

When frustration or boredom finally set in, we'd head back across Broadway to meet with our other friends on "camp". Camp had a twofold purpose, really. It was the locale where a lot of the younger male hustlers hung around looking for paying tricks. It was also the place where a lot of underage kids congregated to dish the dirt, find some drugs, or again with hope in our hearts, get lucky for the evening. Of course luck is in the eye of the beholder. Sometimes, luck was against us and we ended up with someone less than perfect.

I'm not sure why the place was called "camp", but I wouldn't be surprised if it had to do with gay men's penchant to "camp it up". We certainly did our share of camping while we hung out with our friends.

Located across the street and just east of Portland's Pioneer Courthouse, camp took up the full block between Yamhill and Morrison Streets and 4th and 5th Avenues. The non-hustling kids normally hung around on the corner of 5th and Yamhill. This was the best place to hang around so that when the beat cop, Officer Murphy, showed up we could quickly run across the street to the bus stop on 5th Ave. on the east side of the courthouse. When Murphy harassed camp, the only thing that would save your ass from being majorly hassled was if you were "waiting for the bus". Officer Murphy wasn't fooled by our little ploy but if he was in a good mood, he hassle us for awhile then move on.

One of the first tricks I ever pulled off of camp (no pun intended) was a hairdresser who took me home for the night. I was in heaven. I loved older men and ending up in someone's bed for the night was a treat if not the rule. Unfortunately, when, in the middle of the night, I woke to find the guy scratching himself raw in his sleep, I knew I was in big trouble. Less than a week later, I found myself with a huge case of "scabies"; loathsome little mites that burrow under your skin and irritate your body to no end. It took me weeks to get rid of them. It was my first STD.

In Search of a Gay Identity II

2005-11-22T15:13:00.000-08:00

In those early years of discovering a sense of who I was, I read voraciously. It was a good time, in the late 60s and early 70s to be gay. Stonewall had jump-started the revolution and gay lib was flowering. There was a new and true sense of liberation for gay people which was heady in its breath and intensity.

All sorts of men and women were coming out and writing about it. Professionals in all types of fields were taking chances and creating a new emergent gay community; psychologists, artists, teachers, doctors, lawyers, nuns, priests – you name it and they were coming out! Those were the halcyon days of the gay liberation movement. Civil rights were no longer the privilege of the white, straight male, but all people, gay, straight, black, white, women and men: we were all entitled to the same civil rights.

New gay-friendly or gay-owned publishing houses were churning out gay self-help books, editions of gay poetry, anthologies of early gay fiction, and even books on how to have great gay sex. Most were good, some great, many mediocre at best. But all of a sudden, we had choices. We had books about us and by us. We no longer had to read between the lines to find references to our existence. We were no longer the antagonists but the protagonists and most revolutionary of all, we didn’t kill ourselves at the end of the novel, but could actually live “happily ever-after.”
I couldn’t get enough.

In 1975 I bought The Gay Mystique by Peter Fisher. Fisher writes in the first person, giving gay men advice and the benefit of his own experiences as a gay man in New York City. I didn’t agree with everything he wrote, but the book was enlightening and revolutionary. With chapters like “How do you know you’re not gay?”, “Can a homosexual get a fair trial?”, and “Should your son marry a homosexual”, Fisher delves into serious questions on discrimination, marriage, and sex with insight and humor. One of his most important messages he gives to his readers is to reject the straight world’s negative attitudes toward homosexuals. It gave me a real look at who was gay, how they fit into the world and how I could relate to them. The Gay Mystique is definitely a classic of gay lib writing.

Men Loving Men: A Gay Sex Guide and Consciousness Book by Mitch Walker was the first book that I ever bought that actually talked positively about and illustrated gay sexual techniques. First copyrighted in 1977, I bought mine in 1981. The author published a 2^nd edition recently with updated information and a newly designed cover showing two naked men in a sexually suggestive pose. The men obviously represent today’s gay male ideal; hairless with six-pack abs.

I find the 1981 edition's cover, which also shows two naked men, more charming and sexy than the new edition. These men have long hair, both with beards, one with almost no body hair while the other is actually hairy. Granted the cover shows its age but the men represent a time that celebrated a more natural ideal body type.

I also found the incredible poetry of Constantine Cavafy.

So much I gazed --

So much I gazed on beauty,
that my vision is replete with it.

Contours of the body. Red lips. Voluptuous limbs.
Hair as if taken from greek statues;
always beautiful, even when uncombed,
and it falls, slightly, over white foreheads.
Faces of love, as my poetry
wanted them.... in the nights of my youth,
in my nights, secretly, met....

Constantine P. Cavafy (1917)

Forays into Heterosexualism I

2005-11-22T14:45:00.000-08:00

Even though I was in weekly sessions with my psychiatrist who was constantly telling me that I could live a happy life as a gay man, I did give heterosexuality a try a couple of times.

For almost 6 months, I had a girl friend in high school. Eileen, who had moved to Oregon with her mother from New York, was a rather aggressive, but fun-loving girl who happened to have a car. I don't remember exactly how we met or why we started to hang around together but I do remember that I loved that car. I didn't drive. I had taken the test to get my learner's permit a number of times, in fact, but for some reason, I'd never bothered to actually get my license.

So Eileen and I kind of became a "thing." We'd hang out together after school with her best girl friend, whose name escapes me. I thought we were just friends. Frankly, it never entered my mind that she had the hots for me. I certainly never entertained any ideas of going to bed with her. But Eileen had other ideas.

We would often go over to Eileen's house and watch TV with whats-her-name and her boyfriend. Eileen's mother worked late so we almost always had the house to ourselves. One spring day, I, Eileen, and whats-her-name with her ever-present boyfriend were in the basement talking when Eileen's friend and her bf started making out quite heavily. They eventually went into the next room for some privacy. Eileen, who had been sitting with me on the couch all of a sudden got quite snuggly. It was quite obvious that she had arranged this whole show and was attempting to finally get some from me.

I was suddenly horrified to find myself in a situation that I had been unconsciously avoiding for years; sitting next to a horny, 17 year old, aggressive, high school GIRL, who was intent on deflowering her timid boyfriend. The only thing I could do was run for it! I fled upstairs to the safety of the back door stoop and some cool air.

I was absolutely dizzy with embarrassment and ready to flee, but unfortunately, was stuck there until Eileen was ready to take me home (now I hated that damn car!) I just knew that this was not going to end well. But, Eileen, being a blase, east coast sophisticate, turned to me, looked me in the eyes and declared, "It would have been a lot easier if you'd just told me you preferred boys!"

The irony of coming out to a girl that I hardly knew wasn't lost on me, but frankly, it was a lot easier than I had imagined. But I was lucky that Eileen was from New York. We talked quite awhile that day and it turned out she had known a lot of gay boys in New York and was cool with it. My only real concern at that point was whether she would tell everyone she knew at school. She turned out to be a true friend and kept it to herself.

Having a gay boy friend, though, was not in Eileen's plan. Understandably, we didn't see much of one another after that incident. She was intent on having someone take her to the senior prom, and I was no longer a viable candidate.

My only other brush with heterosex was with Vicki Childers, a friend of my sister Debbie. Vicki had been living with my family for a few months around my junior year in high school. She was an odd girl to say the least but always seemed to have the best looking boy friends.

One day I found myself in the back seat of a car with Vicki and one of her cuter boy friends. For some inexplicable reason, she decided she wanted to kiss both of us. Well, the idea didn't exactly appeal to me; Vicki wasn't exactly my type. However, the idea that she was kissing her boyfriend really turned me on, so I agreed. Every time she kissed him, all I could do was hold my breath wishing it were me with my tongue down his throat. But, perverse as it was, the idea that Vicki was sharing his saliva with me by kissing me after kissing him, was a real turn on.

We had only exchanged kisses a couple of times before she finally called a halt to it and bluntly told me that I was a terrible kisser.

Well, excuse me, bitch! I hated the way her mouth tasted; she kissed like a girl and she was way too aggressive for me. Besides. I wanted to kiss the boyfriend not her.

Much later in life, when I was working for the phone company, I did get so drunk on Mad Dog 20/20 that I ended up in bed with a female co-worker. But, both she and I knew as soon as we started to undress that it was a major mistake. I'm grateful to this day that she chose to "fall asleep" before I ever hit the covers. We didn't even kiss, but the next morning we had a good laugh. I was out to most of my friends back then but let me tell you, when we both showed up the next day at work in the same clothes that we had worn at the party, the gossip was hot and heavy. It didn't hurt my reputation with the women in my office at all. My gay friends were, however, afraid that an intervention might have been necessary until I told them the whole story. Sighs of relief all around!

A Thank You Note

2005-11-22T13:53:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Those Who Earned It

So, I’m an old softy at heart so bear with me while I give thanks during this Thanksgiving season.

Thank you, David, for giving me love and stability and respect for nearly 16 years.
Thank you, Jeff, for your indefatigable sense of curiosity and intentionality, and 40+ years of true friendship and support.
Thank you, Debbie for 50+ years of unconditional sisterly love.
Thank you, Thomas and Stephen, for our years of sharing, mutual respect and incredible discussions.
Thank you, Michael and Jason, for your generosity, and humanity, and your unquenchable sense of fun and joi de vivre.
Thank you, Bonnie and Mary, for adding such zest, trust and beauty to my life.

And to those who won’t ever read this but have earned my gratitude:

Thank you:
Mom, for showing me that despite the past, love can conquer all;
Mary J. who without ever knowing it, showed me how gentleness and love can create a true family;
Sr. Mary Michael Damian, wherever you are today, for showing me the incredible world that books can open;
And to all my true friends who make my life what it is today.

Love you all.

Getting Out but Not Coming Out

2005-11-21T07:08:00.000-08:00

All the while that I was seeing my psychiatrist, Dr. James Krause, I was trying desparately to blend in with the rest of my friends. I had never been in the "in crowd" in high school but I had a strong bond with a number of other kids; some of which I had grown up with in grade school and others who I had met at Franklin High School.

Getting out of Morningside Hospital was a mixed blessing. While I was there, even though feeling somewhat abandoned, I was also greatly relieved. I had been living in a very violent household for most of the years we had lived in Oregon. My mother had had a violent temper and my father and she fought constantly. I was quite afraid of my mother. It wasn't until quite a few years later, that I began to understand what had caused her deep anxieties and anger. But at 16, I only knew fear and distrust of her. So while at Morningside, I was away from all of the anger and fear and violence. When I was told that I was being released from the hospital after 31 wonderfully quiet and calm days, I became quite depressed.

The day after I left Morningside, a friend, Tom, gave one of his improptu parties which he sometimes threw while his parents were out of town. All of my good friends were there as were my sister, Debbie, and some of her friends. Tom liked Debbie and included her in some of his soirees.

I had not seen any of my friends for the entire preceeding month, which also corresponded with the final weeks of the school year. While I was in the hospital, my parents had spoken with my guidance counselor who arranged for Morningside Hospital to administer my final exams. I ended up getting great grades at the end of that year. I don't know what my parents told the school officials, but many of my friends and my family (including all of my relatives in O'Neill, Nebraska) had been told that I had had a "nervous breakdown" and had to be hospitalized.

At Tom's party, no one questioned that explanation and I was quite relieved. I may have been forced out of the closet by the police at least to my parents, but at this point I wasn't ready to announce the fact that I was queer to the rest of the world.

It was such a relief to be free from Morningside, but I was scared to death that some of my more inquisitive friends might end up forcing the inevitable questions of why I was really gone for a month. Luckily for me, but unfortunately for one of my sister's friends, the spotlight was unexpectedly shifted from me in a very spectacular way.

Vicki Childers, Debbie's high school friend who had been living with my family for a few months, had always considered herself irresistable to most men. For some reason, at this particular party, in a play for one of my friends, John, Vicki quite nonchalantly leaned onto Tom's kitchen stove, placing her hand directly onto a very hot burner. Someone had wanted tea and had just removed a boiling kettle from the stove. After the initial scream and ensuing panic, the palm of Vicki's hand, which now had the most awe-inspiring spiral burn on it, was quickly cleansed and wrapped. You can well imagine that at that point, I was no longer the center of attention.

It was that summer that I began to understand that almost all of my friends that I had grown up with in grade school and my new friends in high school were also gay.

Queer Priests

2005-11-18T14:59:00.000-08:00

Just as the Vatican is about to release its newest insult to queers worldwide, a group of Catholic priests has created a new support group for gay Catholics called Catholics Affirming Homosexual Leadership CAHL. Considering how vehement the Church is against homosexuals in the priesthood, this group is showing an incredible amount of guts and bravery.

It's about time the true magisterium (the people of the Church not the bishops and pope) rose up in indignant anger and took back the Church from these hipocritical, antediluvian, sycophants who have perverted the true message of Christ.

In Search of a Gay Identity

2005-11-18T13:45:00.000-08:00

"Who am I" is a question that we all ask ourselves throughout our lives. The question, however it is phrased, is one that motivates us and drives us to figure out how to live our lives. For our heterosexual friends, their schoolmates, teachers, parents, priests, neighbors -- all give off clues, subtle and blatant, daily as to how to comport themselves, how to view the world, and how their sexuality fits into the mould that society has setup for us and expects us to fit into.

For a queer kid at least in the 60s and 70s, the mould was not apparent. There were too many disconnects. There were few if any examples to follow. They were told both implicitly and explicitly that they didn't fit in. That's how I felt growing up.

So like so many gay kids coming out in the 60s and 70s, I spent my formative years looking for my identity through books and magazines. It was a fun search.

I had three places where I knew I could find books and magazines about gay people. First, was the library, which is where I worked. The main branch of the Multnomah Count library is a great building and has a wonderful selection of books. Even in the 70s, I was able to find good literature that gave me great insights about gay men. I remember two excellent books I found by surreptitiously searching the card catalog (no computers or internet then): Christopher Isherwood's A Single Man and Patricia Nell Warren's The Front Runner.

Second, across the street from the Multnomah County library in downtown Portland, was a small bookstore called Brian-Thomas Paperbacks. This was the same bookstore that I picked up my very first book on homosexuals. I don't know if the bookstore owner was gay or not but he certainly carried a number of gay books and alternative newspapers like the Berkeley Barb and the early editions of the The Advocate. I bought them not just for the stories but for the sex ads carried by both publications. The Advocate's infamous "pink pages" were full of personals from every possible gay sub-culture and I couldn't get enough.

Third, I had Rich's Cigar Store. After the demise of Brian-Thomas Paperbacks, I found that Rich's, too, carried many of the alternative newspapers like The Berkeley Barb and The Advocate. Rich's was a bit more of a challenge for me, though. It was a very popular store and I could easily run into people I knew or worked with and at that point, I just couldn't bring myself to buy a copy of The Advocate if there was anyone in the store that I knew.

Gay Pride in Palm Springs

2005-11-15T18:15:00.000-08:00

My husband, Dave, and I celebrated Gay Pride in Palm Springs on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday (November 4-6). They hold it in November because it's too damn hot in PS in June when most traditional pride celebrations are held. Many say that PS is one of the gayest cities in the country and I tend to believe it. It’s rumored that more than 50% of the permanent population of PS is gay. I certainly think it is one of the most democratic “gay” cities around. When you go to bars in PS, you see more older, retired gay men and women than you do in most cities but at the same time there is always a great mix of older and younger gay people celebrating together. It’s been a long time since I’ve been considered chicken but when I’m in PS bars, I feel like I’m one of the youngest guys there.

This was the second year that our friends Diane, Denise and Ellen invited us to stay at D&D’s condo (along with their Rottweiler, Bodie). The “girls” are always wonderfully attentive hosts and we always feel more like family than guests. Ellen always gives up her room for us and she sleeps on the sofa which really could sleep three people at once if needed. The girls all live in the bay area and drive down to PS; it takes almost 8 hours non-stop driving to get there. But they find their little home away from home relaxing and important.

We have another good friend that lives in PS – Eddie (aka Leopard Lady) who we had dinner with on Friday night. The girls had made reservations at Wang’s in the Desert, a very popular bar and restaurant. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a bar where I had to grease my hips to get inside. But that night, it was jam-packed, loud and festive. Gay Pride in PS is very popular with a lot of the west coast gay crowd and this city was filled with visiting gays and lesbians; Wang’s was a popular destination.

Wang’s turned out to be a lovely restaurant with a modern Asian interior to go along with its Pan Asian cuisine. You could choose to eat inside or outside on their patio. It was a beautiful evening so we chose to eat al fresco. The drinks at Wang’s were large and tasty but despite everyone’s predictions, the food was rather humdrum except the jalapeño calamari which crackled with heat and flavor.

On Saturday night we decided to try Boscoso which is owned by the same people who own Wang's in the Desert. The owners used some of the same interior design elements in the dining room of Boscoso as they did in Wang's. The feel was quite warm and inviting; the bar reminded a couple of our friends of the first starship Enterprise -- backlighted shelving behind the bar with monotonal orange glasswear lined up row upon row. Again, the drinks were fun and plentiful, the staff helpful and courteous but again the food lacking in umph!

We met some wonderful new friends while we were there; Harold and Ron who own a condo in the same complex as Diane and Denise. Wonderful couple, although we only saw Ron for about two hours on Saturday night. We hope to see them both again.

I always try to buy a book on the history of the cities or other places that I visit. Palm Springs First Hundred Years is a good historical read but doesn't give you the dirt on the city like some of the other current histories.

2005-11-14T14:14:00.000-08:00

And at last I know my love for you is here,
I can see it all, it is whole like the twilight,
It is large, so large, I could not see it before
Because of the little lights and flickers and interruptions,
Troubles, anxieties and pains.

You are the call and I am the answer,
You are the wish, and I the fulfilment,
You are the night, and I the day.
What else--it is perfect enough,
It is perfectly complete,
You and I,
What more --?
Strange, how we suffer in spite of this!

d.h. Lawrence, Bei Hennef

Numbers

2005-11-08T18:00:00.000-08:00

John Rechy’s 2nd novel, Numbers, published in 1967 had me enthrawed for years. Rechy was one of the first main-stream authors that I ever read that dealt with being gay honestly and explicitly. Granted, his character, Johnny Rio, may not be looked upon by many as being a particularly happy or healthy homosexual. He was the epitome of the narcissistic, obsessive, gay man who falls into the trap of fighting the inevitable; aging and the accompanying rejection by the younger, body-obsessed gay male community. Yet, Johnny Rio is, in his own way, a representation of the everyday gay man and our eternal search for love and acceptance.

This was only the second "gay" book that I found the courage to buy before coming out. I found it at the same small bookstore across the street from the library where I had bought my very first book on homosexuality. The edition that I bought had the most beautiful naked man standing sideways on a gray cover. The model had incredibly sultry eyes and even if the book had been worthless, I would have purchased it just for the cover itself. It truly was a very striking cover.

This is an important book for me because it is, forever, associated with my coming out. Yes, this is just one more coming out story but it's my blog and my story so here it is.

Here's the condensed version:

I was 16 and looking for love. I lived in a home filled with fear, anger, and physical abuse. My brother called me queer or sissy daily. I fell in lust over a male neighbor who lived two houses up the street from my family. I wrote him a couple of explicit letters pleading with him to take me away from my pain and love me with his heart and his body. I left the letters in his mailbox and his car, never signing them but being very clear about my age and that I lived near him. He panicked and called the police. The police took the handwritten letters to my high school and had a handwriting expert compare writing samples from all of the male 16 year olds at the school. They ID'd me and sent two detectives to my house to charge me with disturbing the peace, and harrassment.

Rather than take me off to the juvenile detention home, my mother persuaded them to release me to her custody. That night she and my father confronted me with the dreaded question: are you homosexual. I denied it.

The courts eventually required my parents to put me under the care of a psychiatrist. Approximately one month after the encounter with the police, my mother asked me to go on a ride with her, ostensibly to go shopping. She took me instead to Morningside Hospital, a private mental hospital on the eastside of Portland founded by Henry Waldo Coe. I was introduced to Dr. James Krause, a psychiatrist associated with the hospital as well as one of the company doctors for Tektronix, Inc., the company my mother worked for at the time. Dr. Krause and my mother spoke for about 45 minutes and then Dr. Krause called me into his office sans my mother. He asked me if I knew what a homosexual was, whether I considered myself one, and a litany of other questions, that I found hard if not impossible to answer truthfully. I was scared.

After our private conversation, Dr. Krause and my mother spoke alone again for another half hour. When my mother emerged from his office, I could tell that she had been crying. He called me back into the office again without my mother. He informed me that they had decided to have me spend a couple of nights at the hospital so he could run some tests on me. My mother had agreed and had already left to go home so she could collect and bring back some clothes for me. I was scared and now felt abandoned.

I was escorted to Ward A by an orderly in a white uniform and introduced to the head ward nurse and told that I would be sleeping in a small dorm room with four other boys. They were not in the room when I arrived so I was told to make myself comfortable in the common room and wait for dinner. Eventually the four other boys came back. One was a 13 year old who was in the hospital because he was a pyromaniac and had set his family's house on fire; the next boy must have been about my age and was there because he had a glue sniffing problem; the next one I was introduced to was named Fern and was unable to talk because he supposedly had had a bad acid trip and had never come out of it (he communicated by drawing beautiful pictures); the last kid was actually a man about the age of 25 but who had the mental capacity of a 12 year old. He had been a resident of Morningside hospital since he was 5 years old. This was the group that I would end up spending the next 31 days with.

31 days. I had been told "a couple of days for testing." After the first two weeks, my aunt and uncle came by to take me to a family picnic, but the nurse would not allow me to leave. When they contacted my doctor, we all found out that I had been committed to the hospital and could not leave without the consent of both my parents and the doctor. I felt even more abandoned at this point.

Eventually, after 30 days of testing, prodding, group therapy, in-hospital schooling, occupational therapy and some pretty interesting episodes with my fellow inmates, I was released back to my parents with the understanding that I would continue out-patient therapy. That lasted two years.

While I was in the hospital, my mother was told by Dr. Krause to go through my room and find anything that might be of help to him in working with me. She found a stash of pictures of semi-nude men and some relatively blase male porno (in today's standards), as well as some poetry that I had written and one book: Numbers by John Rechy.

Sex Takes a Holiday

2005-11-08T10:51:00.000-08:00

Despite the ubiquitousness of "Sex Takes a Holiday" as a title today, I first ran into it when I found a copy of an early 60s pulp fiction novel with the same name. I have to admit that I stole the paperback from the basement apartment (more of a room with a toilet and shower) of a boarder in my maternal grandmother's house. She had started to take in boarders to help pay rent. The one that had the book was in his 20s and as far as I was concerned, startlingly goodlooking. I had just started fantasizing about men and this guy fit every fantasy I had. Older (I must have been 13 or 14, so anyone over 18 was an older man), goodlooking, slender, and he wore tight blue jeans and white t-shirts.

To enter his room, you had to go through the basement door (which he kept locked) but you could also get to his room through my grandmother's kitchen. I would go down in the basement to help her with her laundry or get things for her. That's when I noticed him the first time. He was coming in and startled me. After that, I would find all sort of excuses to go over to grandma's and help her out. One day, I knew he was gone for the weekend so I snuck down into his room to check it out. I remember that I was struck by how neat his room was; even his bed was made, which surprised me. I figured bachelors wouldn't care how their room looked. He was different.

By the way, I confessed this whole incident to my confessor but even then, I knew I couldn't tell him everything. So I prefabricated a little of the confession to ease Father Thatcher's burden. I didn't tell him I stole a book. But I was given forgiveness for snooping in a stranger's bedroom.

While I was checking out the boarder's underwear drawer (that's another story), I noticed a whole stack of small paperback pulp novels. There had to be at least 10. I don't remember any titles except the one that I stole. Sex Takes a Holiday had cover art that puts the romance novels of today to shame. There was a beautiful, buxom red-headed woman standing on a beach in a skimpy swimsuit in the foreground. In the background there were four men, all drawn with tight bathing suits and big muscles surrounding another man who was wearing jeans and a shirt. The man in the middle was obviously scared and trying to get away.

I figured that the boarder would never miss one of the books, so I stuffed the paperback under my shirt, tucked into the waistband of my jeans and went home. Grandmother never suspected a thing.

Sex Takes a Holiday was filled with descriptions of the red-head having sex with every sort of man imaginable. She was at a beach resort somewhere on the east coast - on holiday. But the chapter that caught and held my attention was all about the "man in the middle" portrayed on the cover of the book. He was described as a smaller man, rather effeminate but not explicitly as homosexual. Nonetheless, one night while he was out walking the beach, in search of God knows what, he ran into a rowdy, drunken group of four men who started to taunt him. He tried to ignore them and walk away but they were emboldened by his unwillingness to defend himself. They began to physically push him around and calling him queer! At that point, he tried to run away which angered them even more. One of the men pushed him down and started to beat him up, but was stopped by one of the others. The group decided instead to strip the man and rape him. All four men eventually took their turn humiliating and abusing "the queer". They left him bleeding, naked on the beach.

I read and reread this chapter time and time again. I felt sick every time I revisited the humiliation of the men calling him queer. I was revolted by the violent and explicit description of the rape. Yet each and every time I read it, I couldn't help getting an erection and jerking off. My feelings were so conflicted I tried desparately to throw the book away and never read it again. But I couldn't follow through with it. I'd wrap the book in a newspaper and throw it into the trash can but an hour later run out and retrieve it. Finally after weeks of hating myself for enjoying the humiliation and rape of this man, I finally threw out the book and let it go.

The disgust with myself wasn't based on an early understanding of the horrors of rape or a budding sense of feminism, but instead, I think it had to do with a feeling deep inside, a recognition that that man in the middle, that queer, could easily be me someday. I knew even then that my desires to look at men and to physically touch them not only set me apart from the rest of my friends and family but could be dangerous.

This was the first book I ever read that made me realize that books could be used as weapons against people and especially against queers.

A Catholic Sex Manual

2005-11-08T08:15:00.000-08:00

Growing up Catholic in the 60s, it was a given that at some point in my life I would want to become a priest. Well I did, but being the neophyte homo that I was, my idea of the priesthood was a little scrambled. I was surprisingly progressive back then; I also wanted to be a nun. So mix the two together and I was in fag heaven. My favorite childhood dress-up game was saying mass dressed as a nun. A white t-shirt served as the wimple; with my face framed by the neck hole of the t-shirt and the arm sleeves tied together in the back, a light blue towel finished off the headdress nicely.

I was disappointed though that I didn’t have a tunic or dress to complete my “habit”. I tried all sorts of different ideas but nothing really worked until one day, while rummaging through a box of old fabric that was stored in an upstairs closet, I pulled out two things that changed disappointment into heart-thumping glee. The first was a fabulous blood-red, silk floor-length house-dress with a lighter toned red velvet collar. It was perfect for my habit!

Of course, once I put it on, along with a new wimple and veil (also found in the box of fabric) I wasn’t exactly sure if I was a nun, a priest or a cardinal. I ended up with another “scramble idea" and settled for popessa! I had fun with that habit for a year before my mother caught me in it. Although I explained that I was simply playing the role of a priest (the wimple and veil were unexplainable) the beautiful red silk house-dress disappeared into her closet. Later that week, she actually burned it in the backyard burn barrel. I watched her from my upstairs bedroom window. That was the end of my first home-made religious habit but it certainly wasn’t the last.

The second thing that I found in that stash of old cloth and house-dresses, was a book. As soon as I pulled it out, I rushed it to my favorite hiding place in my bedroom and left it there until I went to bed that night. With a flashlight illuminating the pages under my bed covers, I started to read what turned out to be a “how-to” sex manual written specifically for Catholics. I can’t remember the title of the book, but I can still remember it was a thick volume with a heavy brown cover. There were no illustrations and the writing was very matter-of-fact but it had chapters on “The Genitalia” and “A Woman’s Role in the Marriage” and “Talking with Children about their Bodies.”

It was this last chapter that ended up scaring me enough that I finally snuck the book back into the box where I found it and left it there. I can clearly remember how the author(s) advised parents to be forthright and clear about describing the body and the functions of the penis and vagina. They illustrated the dangers of being oblique with children by telling the story of a young pubescent girl watching his mother bathe her new-borne baby boy. When the girl child saw her brother’s penis, she was naturally curious as to what it was and what it was for. The mother, as mothers are prone to do, panicked and quickly told her daughter to never touch it, that it was bad and would hurt the baby. That night, while her parents slept, the young girl crept back into her baby brother’s nursery with a pair of scissors and snipped off the dangerous little appendage that threatened to hurt her new little brother… This little anecdote scared the living bejesus out of me (I was all of 11 or 12) and that ugly little book was one of the very few that I ever dropped from my personal library. I did replace it many years later with The Joy of Gay Sex by Charles Silverstein and Filce Picano.

The First Edition

2005-11-07T12:59:00.000-08:00

I've loved books since the 5th grade when Sister Michael Damian read to my class from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis. This was the first book in C.S. Lewis' Chronicle of Narnia series which I ended up reading annually for years.

I attribute my life-long love affair with books to this incredible teacher who someday I hope to reconnect with and personally thank for passing on her love of reading and learning to me and the other mostly uninterested kids at St. Ignatius grade school. Sr. Michael Damian would eventually leave the convent (after Vatican II) but her legacy is still very much part of my life. She was a member of the Sisters of the Holy Names of Jesus and Mary, whose provincial house is still serving the sisters at Marylhurst, just outside of Lake Oswego, Oregon. The Holy Names are a generous and loving community of sisters who have changed the lives of thousands of kids since their founding by Mother Marie-Rose Durocher at Longueuil, Quebec in 1843.

I believe you can find answers to any of life's questions in books. I rely on books to inspire me, to prove my points, to refute the arguments of others, to get me from place to place, to fill in my dreams, and to sustain me. I would be lost without my books.

When I was first realizing that I was gay, back in the 1960s, it was a book that brought me comfort and mitigated a lot of the confusion that I was feeling. Across the street from the main branch of the Multnomah County Library, there was a small independent bookstore. Somehow, I found the courage to buy a small book on homosexuality from the man behind the counter. I was sure he wouldn't let a 14-year old boy buy such a book, but sell it he did. I snuck the book home and read it cover to cover in one night. Luckily, for its time, the book was relatively progressive and explained a lot to me about being queer. It alleviated a lot of the pressure that I was feeling about being different.

Thankfully, today, I have a husband who understands my prediliction and seldom complains about the piles of books that cover our coffee table or the row after row of bookshelves lining our upstairs walls. So this blog will serve a couple of purposes for me; it will allow me to write about some of the books that I have read or will eventually read and give me the opportunity to link books and authors to the day-to-day issues I find interesting.