…so why was I single my whole life if this is true?

I guess my sort of weirdness just wasn’t compatible with anyone…

One of these books is not like the other.   Can you spot which one?

Next: In The Closet verses In Denial…how to tell the difference…

To Whom It May Concern: I am not a prude.   I just happen to find your steady stream of arrested adolescent sexual innuendo very irritating.

A tip…hehheheheh…he said give the singer
a tip…heheheheh…a tip…hehehheheh…

You’re no Mae West.   You’re not even a Redd Foxx.   Now kindly shut the fuck up Beavis.

Why am I here?   What is my destiny?

We ask these questions naturally.   And as we grow up we are given answers.   We sit in our parents laps and we are told how it was the family came to be where it is now.   How it was mom and dad met.   How it was we ourselves came to be.   And when we are young, we do not question them.   They become unconsciously part of the bedrock of our lives.

And sometimes…sometimes…some few of us when we are older, look back upon those answers and discover that they make no sense.

I was born in California, to a mother who had traveled there shortly after her father had passed away. That is the basic fact of my life.   Mom grew up, was born and raised in Greensburg Pennsylvania.   But I was born in Pasadena California, and raised in Maryland after mom divorced dad and moved here.   And it’s only been recently, now in my fifties, that I’ve looked at that and wondered.   She was born and raised in Greensburg, and yet suddenly her and her mother uproot themselves in the late 1940s and move clear across the country to live somewhere they knew practically nobody.   And when she divorced dad, her and her mother moved back across the country again.   And it wasn’t back to their childhood home they moved, but once again to somewhere else that they knew practically nobody.

Well even when I was a small child I often wondered about that.   And always when I asked, I got the same story.

Mom’s father had died she said, from a series of massive strokes, back in a time when medicine could do little for stroke victims.   The event had disturbed her deeply.   She moved to California she said, because she could not bear to live in the house she had grown up in, because the memories of the events of her father’s death were too traumatic.

Mom’s emotional life during that period was rough.   Before her father died mom had loved a man, a navy man, who had gone to war.   It was world war II.   He was Jewish and, she told me, her father had not particularly liked Jews.   But, she said, he had come to know the man she loved and that had changed him.   He had eventually come to like this man, Morris she said his name was, and as time went on approved of their love.

Then one day, so she always said, he had come back from the war changed, disturbed.   Her beloved sailor had been on a ship that was ordered into Nagasaki harbor after the war ended.   His ship she said, became trapped in the harbor briefly due to all the bodies floating in it from the atomic bomb.   She said the sight of it had driven him mad.

So her relationship with her sailor came undone.   Morris’ family, she said, had taken him off to a mental hospital.   She never saw him again.   And then her father had his stroke.   He lingered horribly, for months incapacitated, unable to do anything for himself, unable to speak or even feed himself.   After six months of it he had another stroke and died.

Mom said that afterward her dreams tormented her.   In the way people did back then, before the funeral his body had laid in rest in a coffin situated right in the living room of the house.   Family and friends had held the service for him right there in the house.   That was common in those days.   Mom said that afterward she had dreams of her father rising out of his casket, and walking up the stairs to her room.

After her father was laid to rest, her mother sold the house, and also his nice cabin in the woods in the hills of Pennsylvania.   That cabin was a special memory of hers….of summer months spent there with her father and the family, her dog Jigs, and all her childhood friends from Greensburg.   Sweet childhood memories.   She would tell me fondly of the summer months spent there.   She loved that cabin, and was for the rest of her life sorry that it had been sold.   The new owners had left a fire burning on a stove…the cabin had no electricity…and it had burned down.

But they had to leave Greensburg, mom always said, because she could no longer bear to be in the house she grew up in.   During the war her younger brother, Dean, had found work in California, and so mom and grandma left Greensburg and traveled to California to live near him.   Grandma bought a house in Pasadena, presumably with what she had gotten from the sale of the house and the cabin.   They moved close to where her brother lived.   And one day they traveled to Catalina Island, and there, on the pier in Avalon, she met dad.   They married, and soon they had a son.   Me.

That is the story I was always told.   It is the story of how I came to be.   And now I look at it, and it makes no sense.

My grandfather, who I never met, who mom always told me because I took an interest in electronics and technology that I took so much after him, had two nice homes, and a business.   And after his death they sold it all, and simply left everything they had, everyone they knew, and moved across the country to a new place where they knew nobody but her brother and his wife.   Because mom could not bear to live in the house where she grew up.

Really?

I’m fifty-eight years old now, and now I look at this story and it makes no sense.   Maybe everything happened just for the reasons she said it did…but now that I look at it with the experience of my own adulthood I can’t escape the feeling that some important piece or pieces are missing.   Perhaps to understand my doubt you need to understand something I do and maybe you don’t: what the distances we’re talking about here seemed like back in the day before cheap jet air travel and the Internet.

I am old enough to have glimpsed the last days of the great passenger trains.   When I was a kid, most people didn’t travel by air…that was for rich people.     And in their day passenger air travel would have been burdensome even if you were rich.   Before the first Boeing 707s passenger airplanes were propeller things that took much longer to go from coast to coast.   Nearly everyone back then traveled by bus or by train.   Train mostly for the longer distance trips if you could afford it.   It took days, not hours, to go from coast to coast.   So any sort of travel from the east coast to the west wasn’t just a trivial thing back then.   If you traveled far away, let alone moved, you just about fell off the planet as far as your family and friends back home were concerned.   You might send a postcard or two back home…   Having a wonderful time, wish you were here… You sure wouldn’t phone home.   Way too expensive.   Back then long distance phone calls were an expensive luxury.   Postal mail had two grades…regular and air mail.   You sent letters by air mail if you wanted them to get there in a couple days.   Otherwise it might be weeks to get something from clear across the country.   The highways and the rails where how most people and everything including mail traveled.

So if you went on a cross-country trip you were on another planet until you came back home.   And then it was everyone gathered around while you showed your snapshots and told your stories of the far away place you’d been to.   To actually go live on the other side of the country, well, you might as well have moved overseas.   It’s hard to grasp now, but that is how it would have been for my mom and her mother back then.   When they left Greensburg they didn’t just go move to a neighboring town…they didn’t even move to a neighboring state.   They moved about as far away from Greensburg as they could and still remain in the lower 48.

Now I’m grown up and I look at this and wonder…did she not have any roots there?   I know she had a job there for a brief period at an architectural firm…she used to tell me about working with the ammonia stench of the old blueprint machines.   And…she had friends there.   I know because he spoke of them, but not often.   There were a few she kept in correspondence with.   They were friends she never saw again.   After mom passed away I was given a stack of her old correspondence, but there were no letters to her from her Greensburg friends among them.

And there is this…as I grew up I just accepted the constant tension that was in the family.   It was just part of the background noise.   But she was the apple of her father’s eye…daddy’s girl.   That is the one thing everyone seems to agree on, even the ones who later cut her out of the family.   I have albums of the photos her father took of her…he was, like me, an amateur   photographer.   The photos all show a beautiful young girl, posed in various scenes in and around the house and the cabin.

He loved her very much.   And she loved him very much.   If there is anything I am certain of it is this.   But throughout my own childhood there was tension between her and the rest of her family…all except her younger brother Dean and one cousin.   It was a tension I always put down to her marrying my father, who they all despised.   But looking back on all of it now it just seems to me that the tension had to be caused by more then that.   Something more must have happened to her to make her mother take her away from the town they both grew up in, and had spent their entire lives in.   Whatever caused the friction in that side of my family tree, it started well before mom met dad at the pier in Avalon.

I’m fifty-eight years old now, and while I don’t think of myself as worldly I am old enough now to understand some things better that I could not have while I was growing up.   She had a life in Greensburg.   She had friends, family, community.   And so did her mother.   Greensburg was their home.   They were both born and raised there.   It was where everything and everyone they had ever known was.   And I was told they sold everything, their house and the cabin, and left it all for California.   Because mom could not bear to stay in the house she had grown up in after her father had died.

It makes no sense.   They could have bought another house.   Surely whatever trauma mom experienced she’d have needed her friends.   Surely grandma would have had friends of her own there as well to help her through the death of her husband.   In an age before cell phones and cheap long distance, when letters took days to arrive from the next state over, let alone clear across the country, and when long distance cross-country phone calls were so expensive people would gather around the telephone at the appointed time to wait for the call, to move from one end of the country to another would have been like moving to another planet.   They’d have both given up everything they knew, everyone they knew, to literally start life all over again in California.   Because granddad died of a stroke?

No.   Just…no.   It makes no sense.

I am not on friendly terms with that side of the family anymore…not that I ever really was.   Except for uncle Dean nobody was really nice to me.   I was my father’s son, and they despised him and I was living evidence of that marriage they all hated.   I had his face.   At various times when it was useful to them, and particularly to grandma, I was told I had all his bad traits too.   Did I talk too much?   Well he’s his fathers son isn’t he.   Did I forget to do my homework?   That’s his dad in him.   Was I too proud of something I had accomplished?   A piece of artwork?   A good grade in school?   His dad was vain like that.   Did I a get a bad mark in class?   His dad was shiftless like that.   Stubborn?   His father’s blood obviously.   Whatever I ever did that was wrong, it was always because I was my father’s son.   I got used to it.   By the time I was seventeen and began to realize my homosexuality, I already had a lifetime of training in coping with being hated for something I was that I couldn’t help being. So it wasn’t all for nothing.

The only one who really took an interest in me was uncle Dean.   Mom and he always got along great, and I have lived to regret I grew up on the east and not the west coast where I could have been near him and away from the others.   Whatever it was that was the cause of so much tension in the family, her brother Dean was never bothered by it, or blamed her for it.   Shortly after mom passed away, I took a trip out to California and visited my aunt Cleone, uncle Dean’s wife, and she told me something that shocked me enough to make me pretty much divorce myself, finally and forever from that side of the family.   She said one of my cousins, a daughter of mom’s oldest brother Wayne, an uptight right wing jackass, had told mom after Wayne passed away that mom would not be allowed a grave in the family plot in the Greensburg cemetery.   I put it down to their hatred of dad, but it made me furious.   It still makes me furious to think about it.   So I’ve pretty much disconnected myself from that branch of the family tree entirely.

Whatever they thought of mom, she was a good mother to me, and a thoroughly decent person.   She set a good example for her son.   After she passed away people in the town she had retired to would come up to me…people I didn’t know from Adam…and tell me what a ray of sunshine she was everywhere she went.   That wasn’t an act…I grew up with it, it was her.   It made me absolutely furious how that side of the family treated her…all except her brother Dean and her cousin who lived in the small Virginia town she retired to.   He cousin also loved her very much.   Her older brother and the rest of that family, not so much.   And me…I’m living evidence that mom married a man they all hated.   So I can get no answers from them, and I wouldn’t trust any I got now if I asked.

I had always, until now, put the family static down to her marrying dad.   But now I look at it and it just seems so…wrong…so incomplete an explanation.   Was that really all of it?   I don’t know, but I am certain now that there is something that I was never told, because the story makes no sense.   You just don’t pack up and leave everything, even over such a traumatic experience as your father dying of a lingering illness.   Something happened.

Dad, let it be said, had…issues of his own.   The marriage didn’t last.   Mom loved him to the day she died, but the marriage didn’t work.   Mom divorced dad when I was two, and she and grandma took me and moved back across the country…but not back to Greensburg.   They moved to Washington D.C., to live near mom’s cousin, who was living there at the time.   She got a job as a clerk for the Yellow pages.   We lived in a series of small apartments.   Whatever money they had from the sales of the house in Greensburg, the cabin, granddad’s business, and the house in Pasadena, somehow was all gone.   I grew up in a very low budget household, being raised by a single working mother, in a time when women made about 60 cents for every dollar a man doing the same job made.   Mom’s family in Pennsylvania made no effort whatever to help her out.   It was something I took for granted as a child…but now it really stands out.   I’m having a hard time now believing that was all because of her marrying dad.   They basically shut her out.

But not grandma.   Someday maybe I’ll write about what growing up was like with that cold constantly angry, fire and brimstone Yankee Baptist women in the house.   Somehow she remained a bridge between mom and I and the rest of that side of the family, and a powerful force in it.   She stayed by mom’s side from the time granddad died to the day she died, but at times it seemed to me more to punish her daughter then support her as she tried to raise a kid by herself in a 1950s/1960s world that regarded single divorced women with children as less worthy of respect then prostitutes.   I never saw grandma smile, unless it was at the misfortune of others.   When bad luck struck other people it always seemed to satisfy her somehow.   And I remained a favorite target until the day she died, because I had the face, and the last name, of the man she hated.   Stinking Rotten Good For Nothing Garrett Just Like Your Pap was her favorite name for me.

And me…I grew up with next to nothing, but I never really noticed that until I got older.   I was fed on a bland, low budget diet but I never went to bed hungry.   I often wore hand me downs but I never left the house in dirty clothes.   I never saw mom cheat another person, lie to them or say anything about them behind their back that she wouldn’t have said to their face.   I never once heard her utter a curse word or saw her take a drink or light up a cigarette.   When I was a kid the first time I ever saw someone else’s mother smoking it shocked me…I didn’t think mothers did that.   Mom sat down with me and my homework, tried her best to teach me right from wrong, and always encouraged my creative impulses.   We didn’t have much, but I had what I needed to grow up on:   I never doubted mom’s love.   Never.   Grandmas hate, and the disdain of most of that side of my family, I just accepted as part of the background noise.   The love of a good mother can give a kid all he needs to stand up to whatever static life brings his way.

How her older brother, various other members of that side of the family, and especially her own mother treated her is something that some days makes me livid to think about, and others completely baffles me.   She really was that ray of sunshine everywhere she went, a completely decent person and a good mother.   Some of my childhood friends had horrible parents.   Everyone told me how nice mine was.   Everyone.   It wasn’t an act.   Yet her own family, with one or two exceptions, treated her miserably.   I never once heard her complain.   At least, not when I was there to hear it.   Mostly the family tension was just there in the background.   Always there.   Something I just shrugged off whenever I thought about it.   Mom loved me, that was all that mattered.   The only time it burst out into the open in my presence, was when I was 16 and they discovered she had started seeing dad again.   It was like being in the center of a nuclear blast.     But that incident centered on dad.   That they hated him does not really explain it all.

Something happened.   Something more then just her marrying dad.   Something that made them leave Greensburg and everything and everyone they knew, and when her marriage failed, prevented them from returning.   Something her family, other then her brother Dean and her cousin, never forgave her for.   Probably I’ll never know what it was.   Mom never strayed from the story.   Nobody else did either.

[Edited some for clarity, and add a few details that I missed occurred to me…]

From Sullivan, who posts on the heterosexual version of Grindr…

Marshall Sella went undercover to understand the allure of the gay-cruising app. After interviewing the men who met up with him, he applied his knowledge to Blendr, the straight version:

In large part, human interaction is irrational or it is nothing. This is especially true with dumb sex. Dumb sex makes a fool of logic. If you’re the man who has a “type” in romance, you probably also have a “system” at cards. Blendr is built on these insights into our silliness and our strangeness, and instead of finding you the person you think you’re looking for, the software opens your eyes to the people around you.

The person you think you’re looking for… No jackass.   I have a type in romance…which is to say I know what my libido is sexually attracted to and what it is not, and what sort of person I am emotionally attracted to and what sort of person I am not.   Combine sexual attractiveness with emotional attractiveness and you have your romantic type.   That is, if you are even the type who is into romance.   A lot of people aren’t.   If you aren’t…look…don’t even think for one second you grok those of us who are.   You don’t.   You can’t.   Clearly, it isn’t you.

Dumb sex makes a fool of logic… Well no…actually the fool is you.   Knowing what works and what doesn’t work for you romantically isn’t the same as thinking you have a system for playing cards.   You might have a system for finding and dating your romantic type that works as well (or not) as your system at cards but that is a separate thing from who you are, and who you are not attracted do.   And you almost get it when you say that sex can make a fool of logic.   It’s making a fool of yours right now.

Yes…libido has its own separate and relentless logic and you just have to accept that it will want what it wants.   It isn’t something you can switch on and off, it isn’t a blackboard you can wipe clean and scribble onto it whatever you’d rather have there.   It is what it is. Your gay neighbors understand (or they damn well ought to) how that is…

This switch does not exist

We learn to deal with it.   You can too.   But that’s just the desire part. Then there is this thing we tend to refer to metaphorically as the “Heart”.   It has its own logic too.   My libido may or may not tick like yours.   Likewise for my heart.

You may think the heart part doesn’t matter, or isn’t important, or it always gets shoved into the car and taken for a ride to the nearest motel by the libido part…but that’s just how it looks to you. A lot of people probably share your point of view.   A lot of people don’t.   We’re not naive. You are, if you think your point of view is the only realistic one.

It’s like the lady said:   Some people are settling down, some people are settling and some people refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies. But also like the man said:   When you die you’re going to regret the things you don’t do. You think you’re queer? I’m going to tell you something: we’re all queer. You think you’re a thief? So what? You get befuddled by a middle-class morality? Get shut of it. Shut it out. You cheat on your wife? You did it, live with it. You fuck little girls, so be it. There’s an absolute morality? Maybe. And then what? If you think there is, go ahead, be that thing. Bad people go to hell? I don’t think so. If you think that, act that way. A hell exists on earth? Yes. I won’t live in it.

If Grindr is your thing then go for it.   If random casual sex is your thing, fine.   Be that.   If you wake up next morning in bed with a total stranger and you’re feeling ashamed like you always do when you do that then stop doing that.   If a new conquest every night makes you feel like you’re on top of the world then bask in the glory.   But don’t fucking tell me that something like Grindr “opens your eyes to the people around you.”   Hahahaha….that’s bullshit.   It’s the kind of bullshit people tell themselves because they’re afraid of being called pigs and sluts.

Look…admit it…Grindr just a goddamned sex park and if you’re there then clearly it’s because you want to be an item on somebody’s menu.   Fine.   No, really.   It’s Okay.   If that’s you, then go ahead and be that.   If you think all that dating and romance stuff is for children and arrested adolescents who still cry when Rick tells Ilsa they’ll always have Paris then so be it.   Life is short.   As long as everyone knows what they’re in it for and they treat the people they take into their arms honestly and decently then for god’s sake go ahead and just whore around if that’s what you want.   Sex is wonderful!

Life is good.   Don’t end up on your death bed with a lot of regrets about everything (everyone) you didn’t do when you had a chance to.   There’s nothing to be ashamed of here.   Admit it: you don’t actually want to get to know any of those people, just fuck them.   Grindr is telling you everything you want to know about them, and nothing you couldn’t care less about.   Are they sexy…yes or no…are they close at hand…is there someplace nearby I can get them alone and horizontal…

I am not being cynical here.   This poor angry world, I am convinced, would be a much nicer, more peaceful and productive place, if everyone was a bit more sexually fulfilled.   What we all need to understand in the pursuit of that great big beautiful tomorrow however, is that one person’s paradise is another person’s trailer park.   I get that.   You need to get it too.

Now kindly get the fuck off our backs.   You don’t get romantics.   You never will.   Now go away.

[Edited a tad for clarity…]

If you really think having sex is like farting, might I suggest you’re doing it wrong.

Or…to put it another way…

They don’t fly very well either…

From the man I once wanted to see locked up for what he was doing to gay kids…

Former Ex-Gay Head Now Says Change In Orientation Is Impossible And Change In Relationships Are Unnecessary

The former head of one of the nation’s most prominent ex-gay ministries now says that homosexuality is something that cannot be “repented,” because “repentance from something means it has to be something you can control, like actions.” John Smid, the former director of Memphis-based Love In Action, the country’s largest ex-gay residential program, now says that homosexuality is “an intrinsic part of their being or personally, my being. One cannot repent of something that is unchangeable.” He also says that in all of his years in ex-gay ministries, he never met a gay man who became heterosexual, and that he now considers himself homosexual “and yet in a marriage to a woman.”

I don’t hate you anymore John Smid…not after I heard you speak in Morgan’s documentary.   It isn’t my place to forgive you for what you did to others, but I don’t hate you anymore.   And I could find it even less in my heart to hate you now that I read this.   I had a conversation with A Happily Married Man just the other day.   I’d have to hate him too and I can’t.   We have all been wounded by this lie, even those of us who never embraced it, but especially those of us who did.

At least you also lived the life you preached once upon a time.   You walked the walk, even if it didn’t lead you to where you though it would.   You practiced what you preached.   So many others simply wanted to make the gay kids suffer and bleed so they could be righteous, so they could pave their stepping stones to heaven with our hopes and dreams of love.   The day you manage to forgive them for what they did to you, to all of us, maybe you could show the rest of us how that’s done.

Are there no prisons?   Are there no workhouses?

Okay…now it’s making some sense. Today is National Coming Out Day. Which I guess is proceeded by National Life In The Closet Weekend. Sorta the reverse of how Mardi Gras is followed by Lent.

The Scene: A table in an upscale restaurant located in a trendy vacation resort.   Two old friends are sitting across from each other.   One openly gay since he was seventeen, the other a Happily Married Man having long since overcome the unwanted same-sex attractions of his youth.   They are discussing Openly Gay Friend’s problems finding someone to love and settle down with. Happily Married Man is finding it hard to believe that Openly Gay Friend has been single and struggling all these years.

Happily Married Man: Don’t you have any gay friends?

Openly Gay Friend: Oh yes.   About half my friends are gay.   I have a regular Happy Hour crowd I try to go out with every Friday.   It gets me out of the house.

Happily Married Man: How long have you known them?

Openly Gay Friend: Oh, most of them since the mid-eighties…

Happily Married Man: Wow…I can’t believe they haven’t tried to hook you up. Didn’t they ever even try?

Openly Gay Friend: Oh get me started…there was this one time…

Happily Married Man: You need to get some better friends!

Openly Gay Friend: They’re nice people. I think they just don’t get me…they just don’t get romantic types. They think I should just go get laid and that’ll make me feel better. They don’t get how random loveless sex might make someone like me feel a whole lot worse afterward, not better.

Happily Married Man: You need to get some better friends!

Openly Gay Friend: I want you to understand something…that isn’t just a gay thing. If I was straight and my happy hour group was a bunch of other straight guys I’d be getting the same advice. Just go get laid and you’ll be fine.   The cure for every lonely heart is to just get laid.   The popular culture pays a bunch of lip service to the idea of love and romance, but it’s all about just having sex in the straight scene too.

Happily Married Man: Sex is overrated…

Openly Gay Friend: I’m not saying that…

Happily Married Man: It’s just a bodily function.

Openly Gay Friend: Uhm…

Happily Married Man (emphatically): When you’re on your death bed it won’t be the times you had sex you’ll be remembering, but all the people you loved.

Openly Gay Friend: Yes…absolutely! That is so very true. But I would want my last memory to be the times I spent laying down with the one I loved. That one special body and soul relationship…that’s what you would be remembering. At least I would…if I’d ever had that. (looks wistfully at Happily Married Man, then looks away) But your life is what it is…

Happily Married Man (rolling his eyes): Stop whining….

Openly Gay Friend: I’m not whining…

Happily Married Man: You’re whining. You have to work with what you’ve got to work with and accept that. Stop thinking about what ifs. Sex is overrated…

Openly Gay Friend: Well yes, I agree completely that it isn’t all there is to life, but it’s still important…

Happily Married Man: It’s like a fart.

Openly Gay Friend: I’m sorry?

Happily Married Man: This may sound strange but think about it. It stinks for a little while, and then it’s gone.

(Openly Gay Friend looks blankly back at Happily Married Man)

Happily Married Man: Sex is like that.

Openly Gay Friend: Uhm…it helps if you’re having sex with a person you’re sexually attracted to.   (ironically) Then it’s actually a lot of fun…more engaging…more satisfying…(looks Happily Married Man in the eyes) and it makes a whole lot more sense that way.   You kinda understand then why everyone else is so into it.

Happily Married Man: You’re a piece of work…you know that?   Well it’s getting late and I have to go home now.   I’m a happily married man.

Openly Gay Friend (unhappily): So I see.   And I’m still single and unhappy.   And for gay men of our generation it will always be a time before Stonewall won’t it?

Happily Married Man: Stonewall?

(This was mostly a real conversation.   Some lines were edited for brevity, and Openly Gay Friend didn’t actually say his last two lines to Happily Married Man because just then his head was spinning.   But now he wishes he had.)

Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life.   Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become.

-Steve Jobs

Answer: Their mouth is moving.   This, from Joe. My. God…

Yesterday we enjoyed the evisceration of anti-gay NC Sen. James Forrester at the hands of Michelangelo Signorile, who got rather incredulous at Forrester’s lack of HIV knowledge, especially considering that Forrester claims to be a Fellow with the esteemed American College of Preventive Medicine. As it turns out, THAT WAS A FUCKING LIE.

Pam Spaulding has the delicious dirt via contributor Scott Rose, who got this response from the ACPM:

Thanks for bringing this to our attention. The quick answer to your questions is that Dr. Forrester is not, and never has been, a member of ACPM (much less a Fellow, which is our highest designation of membership). However, this is troubling to us, too, that he’s apparently claiming to be a Fellow of ACPM, and we would like to know where Dr. Forrester is making these proclamations so that we can approach him and demand that he cease falsely using ACPM credentials in his campaign or wherever else he’s using it. If you can point us to some places where he’s using those credentials, we’d be most appreciative. Many thanks.

This you may recall, is the Upstanding All-American Heterosexual Christian Pillar Of His Community…

…who   introduced the current anti same-sex marriage amendment in the North Carolina Senate, and whose rational for doing that was in part, his longstanding work as a physician and Fellow at the American College of Preventive Medicine dealing with the medical problems of homosexuals.

When all is said and done, the only problem I have with bigots who live in their own alternate reality is they can’t actually go live there, they have to keep inflicting their fantasy world on the rest of us in the reality based community.   That said, it is occasionally sweet to watch reality bite them in the ass from time to time.   I stopped waiting long ago, for any of them to learn anything from the experience.   I just bask in the schadenfreude.   Can you at least take that little tin North Carolina Flag lapel pin off your jacket while you’re looking your fellow senators in the face and lying through your teeth?   Try to be respectful of your state flag man.

Continuing our gallery of morose, possibly horror story grade film or novel scenarios, here’s another based on the stream of thought I had contemplating the plot device in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. That’s the one you may recall, where the two lovers break up and one decides to undergo a procedure which erases the other from their memory, and the other, sad to learn of it, does the same.   Then they reconnect anyway which only goes to show they were really meant for each other to begin with and love isn’t always a fairy tale but a lot of hard work for both people. Yes, yes…so very romantic. Actually, I love that plot device. But somehow it always turns a tad dark in my imaginings…

I have an idea. It’s a story about a heterosexual man…

When he was a teenager he was well liked by his teachers and friends. He’s very open minded, somewhat more so then his parents who are mostly liberal, but with some hang-ups about class and gender and race. They’re not raving prejudiced, because that isn’t fashionable, and they try, really try their best, to teach their kid not to be that way.

In school he befriends a gay kid and right away they start to get along really well. He defends his gay friend from bullies and takes his part in political arguments about gay civil rights and same-sex marriage. They become very close friends. Brothers almost. But as often happens, not just in gay/straight relationships either, he finds his perfect girlfriend, and the gay kid finds a nice boyfriend, they slowly begin to drift apart.

The gay kid’s boyfriend turns out to be a real jerk, and as he grows older it becomes a pattern with him. He falls into a bitter cycle of one disastrous affair after another. Nothing seems to work for him.

The straight kid’s girlfriend on the other hand is his perfect match. They have a lovely, almost fairy tale romance that grows ever more beautiful over time. They marry, have beautiful kids, he finds the career of his dreams, they settle down in a nice suburban community with good schools and decent shopping.

Fast forward. The straight guy is in his late middle age, and he is reflecting on how happy his life has been. Especially compared to most of his classmates from way back when. Many of them have had it really hard. One day, he reconnects with his gay buddy from back in the day. His gay buddy has had it hard. Very hard. He’s still single, and bitter.

They have lunch together one day and they instantly reconnect like old and dear friends. The gay friend is happy that his old pal has had it so good and it is obviously sincere joy. Seeing how happy his old friend from high school is makes him a bit happier too, brings him out of his gloom and lifts his spirits. It makes him believe once more, after so long, that life maybe doesn’t have to suck after all. It can get better.

He decides to tell his straight friend that he’s re-considering something his parents tried very hard to talk him into back when they were teenagers. There’s a procedure…it’s frowned upon in more liberal circles, but not illegal…that can change a person’s sexual orientation from gay to straight. It’s just been so hard living my life as a gay man, he says, so lonely, so terribly terribly lonely... For all his accomplishments as a gay political activist, his private life has been completely miserable. I’m not sure I want to go on the rest of my life like this, he says. His straight friend is appalled. He urges his gay friend not to do it, it would be a sell-out, not just to the cause he’s long fought for, but to himself, to his soul. Yes, says his gay friend, but…it’s so hard being so alone. At least as a heterosexual, I’d have more of a chance at finding the kind of life you’ve had.

It is a sad conversation, but by the end of it the straight guy has mostly convinced his gay friend to hang on, and live an authentic life. Even if you change he says to his gay friend, how do you go on knowing that it isn’t really you, but something that was done to you? Then his gay friend lays one more thing on him. The procedure can be coupled with a memory wipe, so you never know you were once gay. New memories are introduced to make you believe you were always straight. That’s completely outlawed now against children, but he says, even on adults it’s a lot harder to do that to someone our age. Too many memories…the risks of complications are much higher. No…he finally says, it isn’t worth it.

They get up to go their separate ways and now it seems the gay friend has had a definite change of heart. No…it’s too late now to even think about changing. Better he had done it back when he was a teenager. But really…better still to live an authentic life. And anyway he says with a shy smile that takes his straight friend back to their school days, the worst thing would be having to forget you.

They part ways. The straight guy had always known his gay friend had a crush on him, and for his part he was always very fond of his gay friend. Back in school they were almost inseparable. Brothers almost. But it was always clear to both of them that it could never be. He is thoroughly heterosexual. He has always liked women. And now he has a wife he loves very much, and even at their age they still have a great sex life.

But now something is bothering him. He does a little digging into this ex-gay procedure. It was something he’d never really looked at before. He’d always opposed it, had always spoken out against it. There had been attempts to outlaw it completely that he had supported.   But activists had only succeeded in outlawing the practice on children.   Mostly he avoided the issue altogether.   And now that he thinks of it, that seems a little strange.   In his own low key way he is actually very politically aware and active. But his style was more behind the scenes then his gay friend’s upfront activism.

It quickly falls entirely out of his mind. Then he gets an email from his gay friend thanking him for the visit after all these years, and the encouragement. He writes that he’s redoubling his efforts to find a mate after all, and getting back into the fight for full gay equality. He would still like to see the ex-gay procedure completely outlawed, and he tells his straight friend he’s getting back into that fight now.

Oh yes…that. Now it begins to bother him how uncharacteristically he’d just put it all out of his mind. It was something that should normally still bother him about the world he lived in. His parents had raised him to be tolerant and progressive, even if they’d had their own repressed doubts and prejudices. Homosexuality wasn’t something they’d ever much discussed when he was a teen. But as an adult, often while remembering his gay schoolmate, he had always worked for the better, more inclusive world.

Now he looks more deeply into it, forcing himself at times, posting reminder notes just to make sure he follows up on things he finds out about the ex-gay process…its invention, its history of usage…the patterns of its use…the political controversy. Sometimes it’s a struggle to maintain an interest…he has so much else he’s busy with in his own life. But soon his wife, also very much the progressive and pro-gay rights person, gets involved and begins helping him with it. He has told her the story of his gay friend’s struggles and she is very sympathetic, and as disgusted by the very existence of the ex-gay clinics as he is. With her help, he maintains focus.

So he digs for information and learns more and more about the procedure that turns gay people straight and wipes their memories of ever having been gay. What he learns appalls him. He periodically writes his gay friend back and tells him about what he has uncovered…much that was never really fully aired in public. His gay friend is overjoyed to have his old pal back in the fight.

But at night the research is also causing him very unpleasant dreams…dreams about sudden violent arguments with his parents…or someone’s parents, he is not sure. He wonders if they are real memories or just his own projections of what his friend’s home life must have been like.

One morning, saying nothing to anyone of his plans, he goes to a private investigator, someone who he has read about, who has done much of the main investigation for various gay rights groups concerning the ex-gay clinics. This man has a reputation for uncovering secrets in not always legal ways, but his revelations were crucial in getting the procedure against children stopped. He asks this man to check to see if anyone in his high school class had been taken to one of the ex-gay clinics, and then had their memory of being gay wiped.

The investigator takes him into another room, stacked with filing cabinets, some bulging. Through various court cases, and a few not completely legal methods, he has acquired tens of thousands of what were once secret files, documents, recordings, some he is still not at liberty to disclose the contents of publicly. These files have proven critical in the search for victims, the investigator says, and the prosecution of some of the people who ran the clinics, as well as the outlawing of the procedure against children.

Tell me a little about the school you all went to, says the investigator. Tell me about the neighborhood, the area churches, politicians, community leaders. Certain ex-gay clinics were intimately connected to certain churches, and certain politicians. Tell me a little more about the students…and…about yourself… The whole sordid story of these clinics is in these files. Tell me what I need to know, and I can give you the information you are looking for.

He spends hours talking to the man, who all the while is entering data into a small computer. Then the investigator gets up, walks over to a filing cabinet, and after a little flipping through the files inside, pulls one out. He hands it to him. In it is a name and a case history. Somehow he is not completely shocked to learn that, yes, there was one kid from his high school that got sent to an ex-gay clinic.

Him.

He reads. The evidence in the file suggests it was done to him against his will. His memory of ever being gay, of ever even suspecting he was, was completely wiped. He checks the dates. It had to be he realizes, very soon after his parents found out about his gay friend.

And then and there in that office, reading the notes on his case for himself after all those years, he remembers it all in a sudden rush…about when his parents first learned about his gay friend. They had turned suddenly angry and suspicious. They’d had an awful argument. The next day some men had entered his bedroom in the middle of the night, and taken him to a place…somewhere…somewhere dark…

He can recall no more then that. But it is enough.

He walks back home in a daze. He loves his wife. Really deeply and truly loves her. And without a doubt she loves him. Their sex life is great, even in late middle age. They have beautiful kids, grown now and pursuing their own careers and love lives.

But…he loved his gay friend too. To his gay friend he has always been a straight buddy. Yes, his gay friend had a crush on him…that was always something they both knew, but it was always clear to both that it could never be, because he was straight. Except he wasn’t. At least, not born straight. He looks back to their teen years together and sees it clearly. They were always more then just friends. They were soul mates.

I…I loved you…

And he sees the life his gay friend had…his very lonely, bitter struggle…and sees now, clearly, the life he could have had…the life they could have had.

But…what does he do? What Can he do? Who does he tell? What good would it do to say anything to anyone at this point? His parents have both passed on…he, his wife, his gay friend, are all at the doorstep of old age. What good would it do to tell anyone? But there is more. The last words the private investigator spoke to him before he left the man’s office echo in his brain: You know don’t you, that the procedure can be reversed. You can be the man you were born to be again. If you want. Others, many others, have had the procedure reversed.

But could he really, after so much time has passed? And what would happen to his family then? What would they have? He loves them very much.

It’s not true that there is only one perfect soul mate out there for each individual. His gay friend still has a chance to find someone to love, and be loved by. They both know this. He decides to say nothing. The investigator had assured him that nothing would be said about him unless he specifically authorized it. Privacy laws forbade it. When he gets back home he finds an email from his gay friend telling him he’s dating someone new now, hoping that this time it would be different.

He agrees to meet them both for lunch somewhere, he and his wife and his gay classmate and his new boyfriend. And at that pleasantly cheerful little gathering of old friends and their lovers, he sees that this new guy is nice on the outside where it doesn’t count, but isn’t any better deep down inside where it does then any of the other guys his friend has hooked up with in the past. He can see another broken heart coming for his friend all over again.   And it makes him angry, angry at the new boyfriend/creep, angry in a deep dark place inside where he had never been angry before.

His wife sees the broken heart coming for his gay friend too. He’s such a beautiful spirit, his wife says to him later. It’s so tragic he never found someone. I hate how this world treats people like him. Not just that he’s gay, but that he’s such a beautiful spirit. It’s so hard for people like that to find love. So hard for everyone really. I’m so glad I found you.

Not all horror stories have blood splashing everywhere.

“Evil enters like a needle and spreads like an oak tree.”
-Ethiopian Proverb

Another one of the Big Three major loves of my life finally decided to get himself a Facebook account recently…I discovered during another of my periodic name searches.   I mentioned on my status update that I wished there was a Forget You pill I could take, but that I’d only take it for one of the Big Three (Hi Keith!).   A friend then directed me to the film, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

I was already aware of that film, although I haven’t watched it yet.   But the central plot device is a beautiful one for a romance story: Two people who choose to undergo a procedure that makes them forget about each other, who then hook up again later anyway, which means they were really meant for each other to begin with. Yes, yes…a very lovely tale of true romance. And one I’d happily read myself, if it were presented to me in a gay context.

Writing it myself is another matter, and not just because I’d have to copy it outright from somebody else, a thing I regard with distaste when I see other would-be artists doing that.   On the other hand, Picasso himself said a mediocre artist copies and a great artist steals.   And this plot device is just brimming with possibilities.

Unfortunately for you dear reader, those possibilities always seem to take a dark and morose turn with me.   I can’t imagine why that is.   But in the interest of getting some of this stuff that has always been percolating in me ever since I can remember…I seem to be able to think up more ideas then I ever have time to follow through on…let me belabor you with a few scenarios for a novel or movie.   Go ahead and use them.   If they flop and everyone hates you for making them sit through it, you can always blame me.

Here’s Scenario 1…there isn’t much to it.   Call it, The Good Life…

It’s about a gay guy who tries all his life to find his soul mate.   Comes out to himself as a teen, but instead of going through fear and loathing about his sexual orientation, he accepts it, and tries extra hard to make himself worthy of a nice boyfriend.   Gets good grades, graduates near the top of his class, never cheats or lies or steals.   He’s no cardboard prude by any means, but he tries extra hard to be a worthy lover, so he can attract the man of his dreams.   Unfortunately for him, all he ever gets are the boyfriends from hell…the ones attracted to Nice Guys because they’re easy to manipulate and fun to cheat.

That’s his life.   One bad, failed romance after another after another after another.   His gay friends are no help either.   Oh they believe in love all right…but they think our hero is a tad childish to believe in Romance and finding that man of your dreams.   Better they keep telling him, to settle for Mr. Right Away instead of Mr. Right.   Who knows they say, that sexy rent boy you purchase for an evening might turn out to be a steady thing.   And if not, hey, he’s affordable at least.   Time and again, though he never finds out what the audience does, they fail to connect him to other guys who might actually be right for him.   Romance is for daydreamers.

Eventually he’s a very old man.   And one day he realizes this is all that will ever be.     He sees that he will never find that love of his life after all, that he is going to die alone and loveless, never having been loved, never having had that life affirming body and soul relationship with another person, never known that quiet peaceful joy of holding, and being held in the arms of the one you love.   Now, at the twilight of his life he sees, finally, the reason that there are so many beautiful love stories out there isn’t because there really are so many beautiful love stories out there, but that so terribly many people are like himself, lost and lonely and aching for a love that will never come.   He wishes he had never been born.

But all is not hopeless.   Modern technology has an answer for everything.   He takes the last little bit of his life savings and goes to a clinic, where they replace all his bad memories of failed romances with a fake memory of meeting his soul mate when they were both teenagers and they have a happy life together and then in their shared old age his soul mate dies (peacefully of natural causes) and he morns.   But then he goes on with his life because they both promised each other that they would if one of them died before the other.

He leaves the clinic knowing only that he had checked himself in for a very normal and natural case of depression after his one true love had passed away.   The doctors and nurses there he remembers, were all very kind to him, and all said he’d been a very lucky man to have found such a beautiful meaningful love, and he left the clinic feeling a little sorry for them, because they were still searching for it.

He spends his last few years peacefully remembering his lover, spouse and soul mate, and dies one day a happy man, knowing he had lived life to its fullest.

You see?   Even horror stories can have happy endings.

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