Happy Birthday To Me

I went to the store earlier (Monday afternoon) to get some cake and ice cream for my upcoming birthday. I’ll be 51. They were playing the Backstreet Boys’ “I Want It That Way.” Maybe not the greatest pop song of all time, but I felt washed in the cuteness of young men. I was probably unable to stop myself from smiling faintly. Then I started thinking about how the song came out in the late ‘90s. I wasn’t a kid anymore, but I was still in my mid 30s, still young. Funny how, for a brief moment, the song made it seem like time had stood still. Then it reminded me of how much time had passed. I wonder what pop song I’ll hear when I go shopping for birthday cake in 2030.

The Debate

I watched the debate. It was painful. Sort of like giving birth to a porcupine. Neither candidate came across as very personable or inspiring. However, I can not imagine any sane, sensible person calling it for Trump. He was terrible. So terrible.

Clinton dodged and weaved a bit on the issue of trade. Then Trump proposed giving massive tax cuts to rich people like himself. He made excuses for not releasing his tax returns. When accused of not paying taxes, he didn’t deny the charge but said that would make him smart. When accused of not paying for the goods and services he received from small business people, Trump rationalized. When asked how he would heal racial divisions, Trump’s answer was “law and order” and “stop and frisk.” So I guess his solution is to treat young men with darker skin tones as a suspect class even more than we do already. Trump also said something about taking the oil as a way of dealing with ISIS. It sounded like he was proposing theft. So I guess part of Trump’s foreign policy would include pillaging. Maybe we should change our name to the United States of Pirates.

Perhaps one of these candidates wouldn’t be all that inclined to get down in the floor to help you play with your basket of puppies. But the other one… I wouldn’t be surprised if he drowned your puppies. When you confronted him, he’d tell you some bullshit story about how he was out all night with Sean Hannity siphoning gas. Just call Sean if you don’t believe him.

Albert

Albert was in charge of tending the boiler at the Overlood Hotel back in the ‘30s, and one night, a United States Senator had his way with Albert in one of the guest rooms. He also promised Albert that he would take him back to Washington, set him up in an apartment and send him to law school. Albert had a good time even though the Senator wasn’t exactly his type. Most of the men Albert had been with up until that point were farmhands and cowboys his own age. He had never made it with someone old enough to be his father, much less one of the swells who stayed at the Overlook, but the Senator really charmed him, and he convinced Albert that all of his dreams were about to come true.

But the next day, when Albert saw the Senator was checking out of the hotel without so much as saying goodbye to him, he confronted the older man. He was so upset that he accidentally implied right in the lobby of the Overlook, with a number of guests looking on, that he and the Senator were lovers. The Senator’s expression turned to stone, and he accused Albert of lying and trying to extort money from him. He told the manager that he should fire Albert at once.

The manager herded the furious young man into his office and demanded an explanation. Albert insisted that the Senator promised to pay to further his education and improve his prospects. The manager informed Albert that the Senator could destroy the Overlook’s reputation and that he would have to let him go. The manager went on to say that if anyone asked about Albert, he would be forced to claim the young rogue was a blackmailer, or a homosexual prostitute or possibly both.

Moments later, Albert hanged himself in room 237, the room where the Senator used Albert and tricked him into believing that he was special, that he was loved and that someone was finally going to look after him.

The Klemp Brothers

Blaise and Cyril Klemp were just eleven years old when they were accused of murdering their family, but no formal charges were ever filed. They lived out the remainder of their days as recluses in their ancestral home on the Hudson River. It was rumored that during the war years they shared a lover, Ida Hadleyburg, who was a relatively famous circus performer at the time. Miss Hadleyburg didn’t have any arms, and she could carry out the most amazing feats with her feet, including playing cards, smoking cigars, knitting sweaters and boxing.

Cyril Klemp passed away at the age of 87. He called 911 just before he died complaining of chest pains, but the paramedics were unable to get to him in time to save his life because a padlocked wrought-iron gate barred their entry from the Klemp estate. Once authorities gained access to the mansion, they discovered that Blaise Klemp had died decades before and that Cyril had preserved his body and dressed him in a red Speedo and a bathing cap.

Dancing Naked

I knew I was gay when I was 11, and when I was about 12, I invited a boy who lived near me to spend the night. When we were in my room getting ready for bed, I did a little striptease for the boy. I wanted him to like me, and I wanted that kind of attention from him. My father must have heard our giggles and thought that something was up, so he came into my room without knocking, and he caught me standing there in front of the boy completely naked. I’ll never forget the look on his face. He was shocked, disgusted and disappointed. Without saying a word, he shut the door. I was so humiliated. I never felt so ashamed or so worthless.
 

If that’s all there was to it, it would have been enough to haunt me until the end of my days. But later that night, my father told my sister what had happened. My sister is three years older than me, and at 15, her sibling rivalry was still in high gear. She teased me relentlessly, and she did so regularly for several years.

My sexual feelings at that age were tender and delicate. I had no one to talk to about them. I couldn’t even engage in the rude, explicit talk with other boys because I liked boys. I felt so vulnerable and alone. I didn’t feel like I could trust anybody enough to tell them what I was thinking about boys, least of all my family. And when my father caught a quick glimpse of the private feelings I had been working so hard to hide from him, he confirmed my worst nightmare. And then let my sister in on it so she could mercilessly bully me.
 
It was like the two of them together were ripping into me like wild animals. And my self-esteem was so low, I couldn’t even find the will to be angry with them. For years, all the way up until I was in my late thirties, just recalling that incident would cause me to blush so much it felt like my face and whole body were on fire.
 
I was given the impression that my sexual desires were funny, and strange and embarrassing, and that there was something wrong with me, and that I was different, and that not only would no one ever return those feelings but that if anyone ever found out, they would mock me and ridicule me, exclude me, abuse me, and reject me.

Watching Boys in the Sand

Last night I watched the legendary 1971 feature length gay porn film Boys in the Sand with a running commentary by the director Wakefield Poole. I had never seen the film. I first became aware of it in the early ‘80s when HBO aired a documentary on homosexuality. Given the heavy-handed tone of the documentary, you might have thought gays were an alien species secretly living in our midst. One of the gay men featured had a copy of Boys in the Sand, and the doc showed a brief clip of Casey Donovan running nude out of the water. After all these years, I finally understand the context.

Poole’s goal was to display gay sex as something beautiful and natural. Even though Poole was an amateur filmmaker, and the film has low production value, I think he succeeded wonderfully. The Fire Island locations were gorgeous, and the actors were stunning and enthusiastic. According to Poole, he used a handheld camera, which allowed him to move around the actors. So he merely set up the scenes and allowed the actors to do what they wanted to do with one another with minimal direction from him. The result was it didn’t feel like you were watching a scripted film when the sex was taking place. It was as if you were there in the bushes spying on these guys.

Not So Blue Boy

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Yosemite, Sept., 2016

I’m exhausted. I’m sore all over. I have blisters on my feet. My face is red. My white sneakers are now a dusty brown. My knee is swollen, and I’m nearly penniless. But I had quite an adventure. I can say, without fear of contradiction, that I got out of the house. I saw some great scenery. Saw a lot of people from all over the world. Heard many different languages. And I saw quite a few attractive, athletic young men without their shirts on.

Things got off to a shaky start when the Yarts bus driver refused to drop me off in front of Housekeeping Camp, which was where I had my reservation. She insisted she couldn’t pull over there, even though Yosemite Valley shuttle buses do it all the time, and the Yarts driver last year did it. She dropped me off at Curry Village…which is now Half Dome Village because the North Delaware Company stole the damn name. Any other time, I could have gotten on a Yosemite Valley free shuttle bus and headed back to Housekeeping Camp, but because of road construction, the routes were out of sorts. In order to get back to Housekeeping Camp, I would have had to take the El Cap shuttle bus, and that would have taken over an hour. So I walked the mile back to Housekeeping Camp with all my stuff. My back and arms were already hurting by the time I got there. I thought I’d save money by taking food with me. That’s great if you have a car, but carrying groceries along with everything else for a mile...  I’ve been walking, so I’m up to walking, walked quite a lot while I was in the park, but I’m not up to carrying a bunch of crap while walking. And I didn’t even need the electric blanket or flannel sheets because it never dropped below 60 at night. Next time, I’m going to stay at Curry Village—screw you, NDC, it’ll always be Curry Village to me—and I’m only taking a change of clothes, a couple extra pair of underpants and socks, my camera and my Kindle.
 
On Wednesday morning, I discovered that I had locked my keys in my bear locker the night before. This was not an auspicious time to have a senior moment, but a maintenance man was nice enough to come and break the lock for me without making me feel like too much of a fool. A rather attractive young man, too. I should have given him a special reward, but I was too nervous and keyed up.
After the bear locker ordeal was taken care of, I headed to the Mist Trail. My goal was to walk up to the bridge. It’s a 400 feet steep rise in elevation. I got about half way. People began asking me if I was okay, and I started to worry about myself, too. Although, Yosemite is a great place to buy the farm, I didn’t feel much like having a heart attack. Besides, given my condition, climbing 200 feet is pretty darn good, and I saw some wonderful views. Took lots of pictures. Another reason why I didn’t continue climbing is that I began to worry about going down such a steep hill if I managed to climb up. I have balance issues due to my head surgeries, and that trail is narrow and very crowded. People going by me in both directions. I’m arthritic now, too, and going down hill isn’t so easy on the knees and hips. It actually took me longer to walk down than up.
 
I was so tired and sore after that, I was in no mood to walk to Housekeeping Camp from Curry Village…sorry, Half Dome Village. So I took that El Cap shuttle. It was late in the day, and there were only two other people on it. The bus driver was nice enough to stop several times and let us get out. I took lots more pictures. It was like a free tour. I loved it.
 
On Thursday morning, I decided I should walk an easy trail, and preferably a quieter one. So I took the shuttle bus up to Mirror Lake. Didn’t actually go up to Mirror Lake though. Instead, I took a trail I’d never been on. It went along a creek, by the stables, by Lower Pines Campground, by a backpackers camp, and then to the Ahwahnee, which is also being called by a different name. (Damn the North Delaware Company.) From there, I walked down to Yosemite Village. I still hadn’t recovered from the day before, and I was so tired that I sat at a table in front of the Village Deli, put my head down and fell asleep. I have PTSD and extreme social anxiety. You know how tired I’d have to be before falling asleep with a million people walking around me? I just couldn’t move another inch without some rest. Once again, people were asking me if I was okay. When I gathered enough strength, I walked back to Housekeeping Camp. I had to walk. The shuttles were still all screwed up, and it was either walk or take that hour trip down to El Cap again. I finally made it back to my camp, flopped down in my bed and slept a couple of hours. I woke up feeling much better. I felt well enough to take a short walk so I could take some late afternoon/early evening pictures. The light is very good then, and I was anxious to give my new camera a workout.
 
This morning, I got up early, packed, and managed to catch the Yarts bus back to Merced. I was almost home free, but then I slipped in a mud puddle, and down I went. I was soaking wet, and my knee was banged up. At least I didn’t break anything. But seriously, a mud puddle…in Merced? Did hell freeze over, too?

Despite all the craziness, it was a great trip. But I’m glad to be home. I might be ready to leave the house again in a few years.

________________________________

My next door neighbors at Housekeeping Camp were two cute lanky, nerdish young men, one white and one Asian. Yes, they caught my eye a few times, but I tried not to stare. They always wore matching short outfits, and both always appeared fresh and clean despite the fact they were camping. They were both quiet and civilized. In that respect, they were unlike many of my other neighbors who didn’t seem to give much thought that not everyone would care to hear their conversations or their music. Many young men and women visit the park to engage in challenging sports such as mountain biking, high country backpacking and rock climbing. These two guys looked like they came for the gentle pursuit of bird watching. I don’t know if they were a couple or if they were gay, but I like to imagine these two buttoned down boys let their freak flags fly when they went into their shelter at night and pulled the curtain.





________________________

One morning while I was waiting for the shuttle bus, two women showed up. I assume they were mother and daughter. They seemed quite familiar with one another, and there was a significant difference in their ages. The younger one was about my age, 45 or 50, and the older was about 70 or maybe a little past. They both carried a pair of walking poles. The mother was by far the more outgoing, and she appeared to be in better physical condition. The daughter seemed a bit depressed, withdrawn and gave the impression she was already kind of tired even though it was the start of the day.

The older woman was bright, open and eager to talk to me. Most sense my social unease and leave me alone, but this woman was having none of that. She asked me where I was from, what I had been doing while in the park, and how often I visited. I told her about my attempt to reach the Vernal Fall observation bridge. Her smile, which was already quite broad, got just a little bigger, and she informed me that they were going to walk to the top of Vernal Fall. The longsuffering daughter suggested that they merely walk to the bridge, but the older woman quickly shot down that idea. “Oh, no. We’re going for the full experience.”

I think my mildly sunburned face reminded the older woman, who was pretty fair skinned, that the sun can be rather intense on that trail because it was about that time she proclaimed she forgot her sunscreen. The daughter said in a slightly panicked voice, “The bus might be here any minute.” The mother said that she would simply have to tell the driver to wait, and off she ran to their tent-cabin as quick and spry as a squirrel. The daughter clearly dreaded having to ask the bus driver to wait, but luckily she didn’t have to. The older woman was back within a couple of minutes.
 
I wondered about their relationship. Of course, I related to the daughter, and I imagine she feels like she has lived in her mother’s shadow her entire life. I imagine she sometimes resents the way her mother pushes her past her comfort zone. And I imagine the daughter has grown used to using her mother as a kind of social buffer. I wonder how hard life will be when her mother is no longer here to guide her and spur her on.

Woman Up!

I’ve always hated the expression “man up,” as well as the accompanying implication that being a man means you’re not allowed to be vulnerable or delicate in any way. Even as a toddler, I realized I was different from other boys, and that cultural attitude instilled in me a deep and profound sense of inadequacy, and I was afraid I would be found it, that it would be revealed I wasn’t a “real boy.”

What nonsense all that “man up” bullshit is. We’re all vulnerable and delicate in our own ways. Some are allergic to bee stings, and others are terrified of flying. And we all die eventually.

I understand that sometimes we have to be tough and make hard decisions, but that’s true of all of us, not just those of us with penises. It might be true that men, generally speaking, have more upper body strength, but being able to lift heavy furniture isn’t the only way to be tough or strong. And not all men have that kind of strength and some women do. I’ve never been strong in that way. I’ve never been able to lift heavy stuff, or run the fastest, or knock the ball out of the park. But so the fuck what? I’m strong in other ways. I’ve certainly done things that were difficult. I let strangers cut my head open…twice. I stood beside both of my parents as they died. Those things were hard, but I believed they were the right things to do, so I did them.

Women do hard things all the time. On top of everything else, they’re the ones who have the babies. And they have to put up with the insufferable vanity of men. The idea that men are the strong ones… That’s nothing but vanity. Maybe when we need someone to do something difficult, we should start telling them to woman up.