Thursday, December 02, 2004
Not Surprised
...to live in a country where television shows like "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy," "Will & Grace," and "Queer As Folk" are ongoing hits bringing in buckets of money, and yet the same (well maybe not the same, I don't watch enough to know) tv networks refuse to air an ad showing the acceptance of a gay couple in church.
I went to church very rarely when I was a kid, but for awhile regularly, and you won't be surprised I never much took to it. Even today, I could tell you more about the building's architecture than any of the hooey from the pulpit or hot air in the sunday school. (I remember enough about the pulpit and the sunday school to tell you it was hooey and hot air.)
My parents still go there; they started going more after the nest got empty. Once, a long time ago now but still when I was probably close to 30, I asked them what denomination it was. No, I couldn't remember.
United Church of Christ.
Here, I'll say it for you: Hugshyhermit is pretty nasty when it comes to organized religion.
A slight change of subject...
I have to conduct a lot of meetings. Hear tell people like me conducting the meetings, because I'm upbeat and funny and can keep the agenda on track. I'm what BIPC calls "a consensus-builder."
Whatever. Boss thinks I'm a consensus-builder; that's what matters.
And I'm certainly conducting more and more meetings, sometimes three a day. (No matter that I have to gear up ahead of time and skidaddle somewhere quiet as soon as they're over.) Gosh darn it, people seem to *like* me!
So I am perplexed over these recent state constitutional amendments, etc. that are so hateful. Somebody voted for it -- a large majority of my coworkers among them if the statistics are right. It's not quite accurate for me to say "my feelings are hurt", but if my coworkers feel threatened by gays then that means they are threatened by Me.
Don't they know I just want to be left alone?
I went to church very rarely when I was a kid, but for awhile regularly, and you won't be surprised I never much took to it. Even today, I could tell you more about the building's architecture than any of the hooey from the pulpit or hot air in the sunday school. (I remember enough about the pulpit and the sunday school to tell you it was hooey and hot air.)
My parents still go there; they started going more after the nest got empty. Once, a long time ago now but still when I was probably close to 30, I asked them what denomination it was. No, I couldn't remember.
United Church of Christ.
Here, I'll say it for you: Hugshyhermit is pretty nasty when it comes to organized religion.
A slight change of subject...
I have to conduct a lot of meetings. Hear tell people like me conducting the meetings, because I'm upbeat and funny and can keep the agenda on track. I'm what BIPC calls "a consensus-builder."
Whatever. Boss thinks I'm a consensus-builder; that's what matters.
And I'm certainly conducting more and more meetings, sometimes three a day. (No matter that I have to gear up ahead of time and skidaddle somewhere quiet as soon as they're over.) Gosh darn it, people seem to *like* me!
So I am perplexed over these recent state constitutional amendments, etc. that are so hateful. Somebody voted for it -- a large majority of my coworkers among them if the statistics are right. It's not quite accurate for me to say "my feelings are hurt", but if my coworkers feel threatened by gays then that means they are threatened by Me.
Don't they know I just want to be left alone?
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
World AIDS Day
If my memory isn't too faulty, someone somewhere created World AIDS Day in the late 80s. Maybe it was the ACT UP people. It sort of arrived around the same time as National Coming Out Day and The Quilt. Sobering days created out of sobering times.
When I think about World AIDS Day, I think about Protease Inhibitors. They gave me back my life. No bloggies, I am HIV negative -- or at least was when last tested. But in the late 80s and half of the 90s, I lived with someone who was HIV positive.
That didn't make a difference to me. I was in love and his HIV status was a minor thing. He was healthy and vigorous and taking an AZT cocktail and love would overcome all. We were careful, but no more than otherwise. This was to be my longest relationship.
But by the mid 90s, things were rocky. Not sure if I've written about any of that before. Not much to tell. I don't think he was happy with the path his life had taken, and I had problems of my own.
He and I tried a few things to make it work, things like couples counseling. Sometimes these things would work -- temporarily -- but then old patterns would reemerge and we'd be right back where we were before. Like a toilet that refuses to fully flush. I had made up my mind to leave.
And then he started to get sick. His T-cell count, always relatively stable, began dropping quickly. Along with his weight. He tossed around in bed and sweated so bad that the dye from the sheets leached on to the mattress. He was scared and I could tell that in his eyes. I couldn't leave.
He got into a clinical trial for a new set of drugs. They were shots that he had to administer himself into his stomach. He taught me how to do them in case he got too sick. It should be easier because I didn't need to worry about finding veins, these shots needed muscle or fat. I wouldn't leave.
These new drugs had immediate, if eery, results. His color came back, he began gaining weight. After two months, he had a t-cell count nearly equal to that of a healthy person, a t-cell count he had himself not seen in twelve years.
He was a minister; he praised god for the miracle.
Before I could see or know the results, I walked in a permanent smog. I thought, I have to get through this somehow. I went to a psychiatrist, I got anti-depressants. And whether it was the situation or some weird side-effect, I was getting panic attacks.
They would rush up and suddenly I'd be drowning without water. Maybe I would be out driving or sitting at my desk and everything would be fine. And then something -- a passing reflection, hearing a dog bark, anything -- would bounce off the wall or glint in a mirror and I'd be yanked in a dark undertow, fighting like hell to get back.
He traveled a lot and one day I met him at the airport. I came upon him at the gate, his old weight back, his old color back. Without looking at his watch he said, you are seven minutes late. And I thought, that's it, it's over.
A few years later, when I was dating again, I met a real neat guy. He was a computer programmer and way into the amateur rodeo scene. I have something to tell you, he said on our first date, I'm HIV positive. That doesn't matter, I said and what I remember is the look in his eyes. We had nothing in common but when I visit out west, we still meet for drinks.
So those are my World AIDS Day stories. I could spout off some statistics and talk about how it's still a world threat, perhaps more so because of the lull of these new drugs. But you can read about that on a thousand other sites.
When I think about World AIDS Day, I think about Protease Inhibitors. They gave me back my life. No bloggies, I am HIV negative -- or at least was when last tested. But in the late 80s and half of the 90s, I lived with someone who was HIV positive.
That didn't make a difference to me. I was in love and his HIV status was a minor thing. He was healthy and vigorous and taking an AZT cocktail and love would overcome all. We were careful, but no more than otherwise. This was to be my longest relationship.
But by the mid 90s, things were rocky. Not sure if I've written about any of that before. Not much to tell. I don't think he was happy with the path his life had taken, and I had problems of my own.
He and I tried a few things to make it work, things like couples counseling. Sometimes these things would work -- temporarily -- but then old patterns would reemerge and we'd be right back where we were before. Like a toilet that refuses to fully flush. I had made up my mind to leave.
And then he started to get sick. His T-cell count, always relatively stable, began dropping quickly. Along with his weight. He tossed around in bed and sweated so bad that the dye from the sheets leached on to the mattress. He was scared and I could tell that in his eyes. I couldn't leave.
He got into a clinical trial for a new set of drugs. They were shots that he had to administer himself into his stomach. He taught me how to do them in case he got too sick. It should be easier because I didn't need to worry about finding veins, these shots needed muscle or fat. I wouldn't leave.
These new drugs had immediate, if eery, results. His color came back, he began gaining weight. After two months, he had a t-cell count nearly equal to that of a healthy person, a t-cell count he had himself not seen in twelve years.
He was a minister; he praised god for the miracle.
Before I could see or know the results, I walked in a permanent smog. I thought, I have to get through this somehow. I went to a psychiatrist, I got anti-depressants. And whether it was the situation or some weird side-effect, I was getting panic attacks.
They would rush up and suddenly I'd be drowning without water. Maybe I would be out driving or sitting at my desk and everything would be fine. And then something -- a passing reflection, hearing a dog bark, anything -- would bounce off the wall or glint in a mirror and I'd be yanked in a dark undertow, fighting like hell to get back.
He traveled a lot and one day I met him at the airport. I came upon him at the gate, his old weight back, his old color back. Without looking at his watch he said, you are seven minutes late. And I thought, that's it, it's over.
A few years later, when I was dating again, I met a real neat guy. He was a computer programmer and way into the amateur rodeo scene. I have something to tell you, he said on our first date, I'm HIV positive. That doesn't matter, I said and what I remember is the look in his eyes. We had nothing in common but when I visit out west, we still meet for drinks.
So those are my World AIDS Day stories. I could spout off some statistics and talk about how it's still a world threat, perhaps more so because of the lull of these new drugs. But you can read about that on a thousand other sites.
Monday, November 29, 2004
Ticket For One - Part II
Oh, I'm so irritated. The blogger update somehow ate my Ticket For One - Part I entry! Maybe I'll rewrite it ... or not.
Being single gives a lot of freedom. I can do what I like when I like, and one of those things was driving two weeks ago to Akron, to see one of my all-time favorite bands, The Pixies.
When I first heard the Pixies were doing a tour after elevensome years, it seemed to be already too late to buy a ticket: their concert dates were selling out within minutes. But after a few weeks and on a whim I clicked on a ticket purchase site -- and ooh! One was available!
It was true; once I found my nose-bleed seat, if the venue wasn't sold out, it was nearly sold out. In my section, the only empties were the seats to either side of me (which was fine by me!). And the second I heard the first guitar and drum riff, I was out of that seat whooping.
Although I think the Pixies are amazing, I don't understand why the concert was sold out. The crowd -- average age 19 -- didn't seem to know the music. I realized after a few songs I was one of the few people standing, and everyone around me were not only just not standing, they sat as if nailed in place, not nodding their head, not waving or tapping their feet or... anything. Between songs, there was a respectful clapping. It was like we were at the symphony or something. Kids these days!
And this was surprising -- and very disappointing. If you are unfamiliar, the Pixies' music alternates from crunchy chords and blaring melodies pierced out on three electric guitars down to a full-out screaming punk and either way they are far, far from elevator muzak. Saint Kirk Cobain is only one of many to credit the Pixies with influencing his music. Even my cheap ticket was $45.
Not surprisingly, a lame audience meant the Pixies stopped breaking between songs and the end chord of one song would immediately give way to the first of the next. If I had one complaint -- uh oh, geezer alert! -- was that it was sometimes Too Loud. If I were a Pixie (note: who are all about my age) there were times when I wouldn't have known what notes to scream, with those competing guitars and drums blasting.
On the drive back from the concert, I had a breakthrough about my writing. It's a secret, but it's a really good premise for the ideas I've been collecting all along. I just hope I can keep with it...
Being single gives a lot of freedom. I can do what I like when I like, and one of those things was driving two weeks ago to Akron, to see one of my all-time favorite bands, The Pixies.
When I first heard the Pixies were doing a tour after elevensome years, it seemed to be already too late to buy a ticket: their concert dates were selling out within minutes. But after a few weeks and on a whim I clicked on a ticket purchase site -- and ooh! One was available!
It was true; once I found my nose-bleed seat, if the venue wasn't sold out, it was nearly sold out. In my section, the only empties were the seats to either side of me (which was fine by me!). And the second I heard the first guitar and drum riff, I was out of that seat whooping.
Although I think the Pixies are amazing, I don't understand why the concert was sold out. The crowd -- average age 19 -- didn't seem to know the music. I realized after a few songs I was one of the few people standing, and everyone around me were not only just not standing, they sat as if nailed in place, not nodding their head, not waving or tapping their feet or... anything. Between songs, there was a respectful clapping. It was like we were at the symphony or something. Kids these days!
And this was surprising -- and very disappointing. If you are unfamiliar, the Pixies' music alternates from crunchy chords and blaring melodies pierced out on three electric guitars down to a full-out screaming punk and either way they are far, far from elevator muzak. Saint Kirk Cobain is only one of many to credit the Pixies with influencing his music. Even my cheap ticket was $45.
Not surprisingly, a lame audience meant the Pixies stopped breaking between songs and the end chord of one song would immediately give way to the first of the next. If I had one complaint -- uh oh, geezer alert! -- was that it was sometimes Too Loud. If I were a Pixie (note: who are all about my age) there were times when I wouldn't have known what notes to scream, with those competing guitars and drums blasting.
On the drive back from the concert, I had a breakthrough about my writing. It's a secret, but it's a really good premise for the ideas I've been collecting all along. I just hope I can keep with it...
Ticket For One - Part I
Well, how was everyone's long Thanksgiving weekend?
Mine turned out alright, thanks for asking. Grace and I drove 4-ish hours through slick rainstorms to Cleveland where my parents live and we spent a couple of quiet days. We all read together in the Living Room (me, a chunk of 'Tom Jones' by Henry Fielding), and we watched a movie ('Chaplin', er, 'Richard Attenborough's Chaplin,' starring Robert Downey Jr. in his very first comeback. A clunker -- that script needed a serious rewrite or editing or both -- but Downey's good: a good vid rental.)
Then I drove back and spent a couple of quiet days here. Maybe the highlight was having dinner with a few friends and watching a bad 70s flik, 'Sisters of Death', starring nobody. A drive-in movie make-out special and a prime candidate for Mystery Science Theater 3000 if that still was on the air. *sigh*
On my drive back from Cleveland, I met someone for coffee.
Sometimes I go to a place where, well, let's just say that it's a private men's club. To my friends, I call it 'the gym.' (And it *is* a gym, clean and well-stocked with the latest equipment, although I'm probably in the minority of folks who actually use them). Lately when I've gone, I've been collecting phone numbers. That's a recent trend and I hadn't called any of those numbers until I met this guy. We had struck up a conversation in the jacuzzi and he had given off a good vibe (and no, those are not euphemisms). He just seemed like a nice guy.
"Why did you say that you don't usually call anyone?" he wanted to know as we were sitting down. And so I explained that I wasn't looking for a relationship or even anyone to date, that I also wasn't wanting to hook up, and that I could well be wasting his time. "You just seemed like a nice guy and I thought why not give you a call."
"Have you given up on dating?" And so I told him that I really had had it with all of that. I talked about my longest relationship with the minister, and how my thinking has by turns gradually and drastically changed in the last eight or so years.
"But don't you miss the intimacy?" he asked and I told him No, not really. I have some pretty intense friendships, two of them ex-boyfriends. What's more, it's gotten to the point where I can take being around people only so much. I can do very well thankyou at parties and social settings, but I'll start wigging if socializing involves making up chitchat for extended periods beyond a few trusted people. Especially if they're in my car or my house or something. Get out, now! I want to shout.
As for 'cuddling' or whatever passes for intimacy these days, I have had enough of that for a lifetime. Certainly enough to know guys (myself included) can fake it. It can be painful even if you consider yourself strong. Weird? Maybe. But there you have it.
The Blog That Is Luscious Desert began in August 2003, a month or two out of the last time I 'dated.' Sometimes back then I whined about being alone and woes woes me. But even since then, I think my point of view has changed. Or maybe it's been changed, ha ha.
Oh sure, there are times. I had that 'date' a couple of weeks ago with that married guy -- what a let-down! But I was over it as quick as it took to tap out a blog entry. A day or so later, we had an e-mail conversation in which he told me breathlessly (if you can e-mail 'breathlessly') about finally telling his counselor, but nothing since then. I had thought about dropping him a note -- "hey dude, everything goin awright?" -- but then... why?
For about a year now, since moving back to Dayton, my personal ad has been set for 'friendship and dating.' But after that 'date', I looked through all the responses and recalled some of my experiences. Almost all of them were lame. The exceptions were folks who became friends: Dr. Freud -- who has moved away, hah! -- and 911 Boy, who in the end turned a bit freaky after all, what with all his bipolar medications.
So I revised the language; my ad is now for 'friendship' alone. (I thought about deleting it altogether but it is free.) Now there will be no hints of anything else to cloud the horizon. A small change in the wording, but I felt serene seeing it go through. I used to get about one response a week. The 'in' box has since been empty. Not a problem.
My coffee date told me he's new on the market, his partner of a dozen or so years having died of cancer (also not a euphemism) just a year ago. His eyes started glistening, but he seemed in control and I wasn't too worried he would break down sobbing or anything. Basically he's just wanting to meet guys again for the first time in awhile.
And so our meeting seemed to go just fine.
Mine turned out alright, thanks for asking. Grace and I drove 4-ish hours through slick rainstorms to Cleveland where my parents live and we spent a couple of quiet days. We all read together in the Living Room (me, a chunk of 'Tom Jones' by Henry Fielding), and we watched a movie ('Chaplin', er, 'Richard Attenborough's Chaplin,' starring Robert Downey Jr. in his very first comeback. A clunker -- that script needed a serious rewrite or editing or both -- but Downey's good: a good vid rental.)
Then I drove back and spent a couple of quiet days here. Maybe the highlight was having dinner with a few friends and watching a bad 70s flik, 'Sisters of Death', starring nobody. A drive-in movie make-out special and a prime candidate for Mystery Science Theater 3000 if that still was on the air. *sigh*
On my drive back from Cleveland, I met someone for coffee.
Sometimes I go to a place where, well, let's just say that it's a private men's club. To my friends, I call it 'the gym.' (And it *is* a gym, clean and well-stocked with the latest equipment, although I'm probably in the minority of folks who actually use them). Lately when I've gone, I've been collecting phone numbers. That's a recent trend and I hadn't called any of those numbers until I met this guy. We had struck up a conversation in the jacuzzi and he had given off a good vibe (and no, those are not euphemisms). He just seemed like a nice guy.
"Why did you say that you don't usually call anyone?" he wanted to know as we were sitting down. And so I explained that I wasn't looking for a relationship or even anyone to date, that I also wasn't wanting to hook up, and that I could well be wasting his time. "You just seemed like a nice guy and I thought why not give you a call."
"Have you given up on dating?" And so I told him that I really had had it with all of that. I talked about my longest relationship with the minister, and how my thinking has by turns gradually and drastically changed in the last eight or so years.
"But don't you miss the intimacy?" he asked and I told him No, not really. I have some pretty intense friendships, two of them ex-boyfriends. What's more, it's gotten to the point where I can take being around people only so much. I can do very well thankyou at parties and social settings, but I'll start wigging if socializing involves making up chitchat for extended periods beyond a few trusted people. Especially if they're in my car or my house or something. Get out, now! I want to shout.
As for 'cuddling' or whatever passes for intimacy these days, I have had enough of that for a lifetime. Certainly enough to know guys (myself included) can fake it. It can be painful even if you consider yourself strong. Weird? Maybe. But there you have it.
The Blog That Is Luscious Desert began in August 2003, a month or two out of the last time I 'dated.' Sometimes back then I whined about being alone and woes woes me. But even since then, I think my point of view has changed. Or maybe it's been changed, ha ha.
Oh sure, there are times. I had that 'date' a couple of weeks ago with that married guy -- what a let-down! But I was over it as quick as it took to tap out a blog entry. A day or so later, we had an e-mail conversation in which he told me breathlessly (if you can e-mail 'breathlessly') about finally telling his counselor, but nothing since then. I had thought about dropping him a note -- "hey dude, everything goin awright?" -- but then... why?
For about a year now, since moving back to Dayton, my personal ad has been set for 'friendship and dating.' But after that 'date', I looked through all the responses and recalled some of my experiences. Almost all of them were lame. The exceptions were folks who became friends: Dr. Freud -- who has moved away, hah! -- and 911 Boy, who in the end turned a bit freaky after all, what with all his bipolar medications.
So I revised the language; my ad is now for 'friendship' alone. (I thought about deleting it altogether but it is free.) Now there will be no hints of anything else to cloud the horizon. A small change in the wording, but I felt serene seeing it go through. I used to get about one response a week. The 'in' box has since been empty. Not a problem.
My coffee date told me he's new on the market, his partner of a dozen or so years having died of cancer (also not a euphemism) just a year ago. His eyes started glistening, but he seemed in control and I wasn't too worried he would break down sobbing or anything. Basically he's just wanting to meet guys again for the first time in awhile.
And so our meeting seemed to go just fine.