Call me old fashioned, but I like History the old way.

I remember Britney Spears being hauled off to the loony bin in the middle of the one of the most important presidential debates in history. It was a split screen on all the networks....Obama talking about the economy in financial free-fall on one side and a helicopter view of the drug addicted pop-star strapped to a gurney. Except for Chris "leave Britney alone" Crocker, it was hardly worth breaking into a Presidential debate for.

So yesterday, I sat rapt as Congress prepared to make history. I watched the votes were counted that would truly change my life in a very personal way. I held my breath waiting for our collective ADHD to kick in. I was waiting for the networks, the Democrats, the nation to be pulled away from this important business at hand and be drawn to the "shiny object" or distraction. Fortunately there was enough ADHD going on in the house to keep everyone in the House Chamber focused on the circus inside and not be distracted by any potential celebrity melt-down or outside distraction.

The crawl at the bottom of the screen informed about bananas stopping HIV and the death of Peter Graves. His most famous line from the movie Airplane! "do you like watching grown men in the shower?" was repeated over and over during the break. I'm sure he wants to remembered for a role as a pilot with pedophilic overtones. Titillating isn't it? Bananas and pedophilia....that's the liberal media for you.

After the "news break" we get back to history in the making: a Democratic congressman who is pro-life was called a "baby-killer" by a pro-life Republican. The minority whip promising "Armageddon" if this bill passed. At this writing its been 16 hours Mr. Boehner, and there have been no reports of the four horsemen in the news today....not on MSNBC, CNN or CBS, ok maybe there was something on the crawl on Fox. Calls that this would end the "American Experiment" and usher in "fascism and communism" (wtf?) . These tactics and tea-party antics did nothing to stop the Democrats from doing the right thing.

I guess I remember my history being uninterrupted and commercial free. It was boring and drawn out but I knew it was momentous and important. I guess that just how I like my history....without news breaks, celebrity tidbits and news crawl. Call me old fashioned.

Inner peace is not all its cracked up to be.

At last I have achieved inner peace. Just now, right after I had lunch. I figured I'd write about it now cause it probably won't last more than another 15 minutes. I'm totally in balance right now. It feels nice, I'm not fearing the future, not regretting the past. Its a cool sunny day. I am not taking any mood altering medications.

It important I mark this moment in my life because it took me a hell of a long time to get here. Wow, feels good.

Ok, now I'm bored.

I Don't Really Do That So Well

There's a point in life where you know more or less what you're good at and what you suck at. By your 40's you know that you can say "I'll try, but I really don't do that so well." My problem is that I suck at something integral: I suck at work.

I'm not saying I don't like work, or that I don't work hard...but I'm just no good at it. I recently tried to count all the jobs I've ever had, whether it was working for one day at Burger King or several years at Children's Home Society, the number I came up with: 27. Considering that I've been working for 26 years I can only come to one conclusion: I suck at work.

Amazingly, I am extremely adept at getting work. That the longest time I've been unemployed was three months (even in this economy) shows that I have some mad interview skills. In fact, I love interviews. I love to dress up. I love to talk. I love to talk about myself. So, in an interview I can shine on about my skills at the BK broiler steamer or how I reduced asthma rates in inner-city San Diego while wearing my newest pair of Cole-Haans. Yes, I buy a new pair of shoes for each interview. Good investment? I've got 20 jobs on my resume to prove it.

So what to do? I mean in this society where you are defined so much by how you earn your living. Too bad success couldn't be redefined by how many friends you have on Facebook. I don't even have to steal Facebook friends, people "friend" me. I guess the job I most want to be paid for is "lovable loser." but it seems I'm not fat enough to get that job.

Worse yet, I don't give off loser vibes. I act competent, happy, accomplished; because I am. I shower every day and try to maintain a certain age appropriate style. I am an athlete. I am a generally happy guy. Just not too much into the work thing. Don't get me wrong, I don't feel like a failure. I've accomplished everything I've ever set out to achieve. I've got a successful marriage, a happy son, lots of friends, a well appointed home, a nice car and a caring family. I even have a job. By almost all measures I'm successful. Yet, I really don't do the career thing very well.

Somebody asked me what would my dream job look like. It might have been a parent, a guidance counselor, several therapists or a personal coach and I always reply the same way: "I want to be paid to be me."

Now I don't know what that entitles but I know it means naps, the ability to be inappropriate at any time and to able to stop whatever I'm doing to post something on Facebook. Maybe be like Sarah Palin or something.

So maybe I'm not into work, but I think all the other things should count for something.

Dirty Old Man

When I was 25 I promised myself I would give up dancing on a box in a nightclub by 30. I officially gave up dancing on a box at 32. To me the is just something so demoralizing to see somebody who is 35+ wriggling their tired middle aged ass for all to see. At some point you just got to get some pride and dignity and act your age. By that age I had become a dad, and I couldn't imagine explaining to my son what I did on a Saturday while he was at a sleep-over. So now that I'm 42, I'm finding myself becoming a dirty old man.

I see a future ogling at younger men, making extremely "off color" comments and just grossing them out. Don't get me wrong...I am not in the least, not at ALL interested in younger men...in that way. I just have this sort of Tourett's syndrome where I just give out this low growl, and say things like: "damn boy, I'd like to slap that ass" or "what kind of snake do you have in that bathing suit." I can't help it. It gets out before I even realized I've said it.

I've always had a low brain to mouth filter. Its as if I need to take a thought out of my brain, put it out there for all to see, and let the public decide if it was inappropriate or not. The next day, I'll feel terrible. I once told a boss who had a weight issue, "you're a little more fat today" and another "what were you thinking when you put on those shoes"(it was her only pair). I once told a teacher, but I really was kidding ; "you have nice bone structure, but you're really not a very pretty girl." She never let me forget that remark.

So now as my brain ages, my witticisms are becoming reduced to dirty remarks about the male and female anatomy. Worst of all, I do it to people who hardly know me. Later on I feel so ashamed. What they must think? I've always believed that as you age, you must work on becoming dignified, respected. Churchgoer, board member, manager, husband , father...all these titles I've earned, and worked hard for all can be undone with a dirty leer and a comment like..."hey baby, if that ass was any higher, you could pull your wallet out over your shoulder..."


P.S. Lisa: I'm sorry I said your hands smelled like vagina last night. I sure its sweet just like you said.

A dirty world of cock-fighting, unpasteurized eggs, and chicks dyed pink at Easter.

This weekend my partner, being a good Cuban, was taking care of his 92 year old uncle in one of Miami's more distant suburbs. Even though we were close to the edge of the city (just a few miles east of the Everglades), we were still in what would pass as a typical suburb. Many rows of split ranch homes built in the very late 20th century style, double doors, split levels, kitchens with an "island". Yet lurking behind these bland facades is a world of illegal chickens. A dirty world of cock-fighting, unpasteurized eggs, and chicks dyed pink at Easter.

I once saw a movie where a bunch of chickens built a plane and escaped. I know for a fact that the plane landed at Opa-Locka Airport. Since then this city has been overrun with chickens. Normally, the sight of feral chickens doesn't bother me. Once I was eating at an expensive bistro on Brickell Avenue, Miami's international banking district. I was eating with a chic young executive from D.C. As we nibbled on our chicken wraps a bantam hen strolled through the crowd of bankers dressed in their Brooks Brothers suits and power ties. She came up to us and asked if we were almost finished, because she needed the table. I see chickens at the supermarket, not in the poultry section, but running free in the parking lot. I see them on the street. I see them at the gas station, Costco(they prefer to buy in bulk), and the library.(WTF?) In fact I've seen a cute chicken family move in just six blocks away.... and there goes the neighborhood. But after this weekend, I am OVER the frickin' chicken.

So as I slept uneasily in this suburban quiet, I was yanked from my alcohol enhanced slumber with the shrill cry of the early morning. 3AM to be exact. Cock-a-fuckin'-doodle-do. Mr. Rooster crowed on exactly the same timing as a snooze button on an alarm clock. Starting at 3:00AM, 3:23AM, 3:45 AM, 3:46 AM, 4:30 and on a seemingly random non-random interval. An interval designed to interrupt REM sleep just as it was beginning. Each call spaced far enough apart, so as soon as you drifted off, you'd be awoken once again.

You know, it could be very easy to target specific minority groups about the chickens. I know people use them for many purposes: as pets, for stews, making feather boas, ritualistic sacrifices...or all of the above. I used to think people kept them for food to save money. It was for poor people. My mother is a millionaire and keeps chickens. She gives them all Mexican names.(?) So there's really no rhyme or reason as to who might have an illegal coop in their back yard. In my opinion, its for people who hate their neighbors but can't afford a loud bass stereo system to piss them off with.

So I say: no more, NO MORE to the chickens. My 93 year old Grandma Fran doesn't eat chicken. When I asked her why, she replied; "they eat their own shit." 'nuff said.

Current Gay Events - my take

Ok Its February 2010 and gayness is all over the news. Don't ask Don't tell, gay bashers, and police brutality (against gays) on South Beach. That somehow the steady drumbeat of homophobia ebbs and flows, but never seems to go away. But I do find one common thread through all of these stories...young straight men.

I was listening to a reporter on NPR interviewing several young Marines in a town adjacent to Camp Lejuene. The reporter approached several and asked about their opinion on Don't Ask Don't Tell. While they all stated that they would follow the orders of their commander in chief, each and every one stated how it would "undermine unit cohesion" and that they couldn't trust trust an "openly gay soldier". Yet somehow they could trust a closeted one. So this raises two questions for me: First, I know from plenty of experience that nobody trusts a closeted gay man, period. Why? Because a. they are not fooling anyone; and b. nobody trusts a person who is hiding something. So its a catch-22 for a soldier, I can't trust you one way or another. My second observation from the interviews of the soldiers...who don't you trust? The gay man who you've trained with, served with and has put his life on the line for you or yourself alone with a gay man. Its bullshit, because they've been serving in the military along side each other all along.

So two undercover police officers beat the crap out of some gay man in Flamingo Park. Another man calls 911 to report the assault, they see him, beat the hell out of him, and arrest him for "breaking into 6 cars". Two men's lives are disrupted by two: yes that's right, two young, straight men in uniform. No investigations, no allegations, until a lawsuit by the ACLU finally takes the two young straight males, off the street.

A rash of attacks on gay men, by bullies and police on South Beach. Who knows why, but in each case no arrests, cursory investigations. Why, because straight young men hate "fags". Why? What is the root of this mistrust, hate? In contemporary culture we are cast as the "predators". We are the "molesters". (Of course child molestings only count, if that child is male, the 50,000 annual molestations of little girls don't really matter). That somehow, in a foxhole, with lives at stake, some gay soldier is going to "rape" another.

I think as Americans, since we don't have any borders with any potential enemy, we find the enemy within. The natural male inclination to"protect the tribe" doesn't really have an outlet so let's go "beat up some fags" because they're "molesting all those boys" and "trying to see my penis". Whatever, I do notice that women don't really hate gays as much as straight young men do. Oh well.

South Beach Redux

When I was 20 I moved to South Beach. At the time it was a budding gay community that celebrated every new "gay" that moved into the neighborhood. South Beach was an interesting phenomenon because it kinda turned Miami's and the world's gay community on its head. Why? Well Miami's gay community lived dispersed throughout the city with its center of gravity located in the "funky and bohemian" community of Coconut Grove. Again an area of historical significance, unique historical properties, and a flavor all its own. "A Gays" lived along Tigertail Ave, Coral Gables and in South Miami. These "A Gays" earned that distinction primarily for two reasons: money and to a lesser agree...looks. However, money was the true source of their influence. These were professionals, old money and the like. They were mostly local boys and girls and Caucasian.

So what happened? How did South Beach change it all? Interestingly a series of unique events occurred that upended the old order. Those events happened nationwide, but were magnified on South Beach. First it was the fashion industry discovering "the male form". Second it was the AIDS epidemic.

Lets begin with the discovery of the male form by advertisers. Up until the late 70's sexualization of the male form in commerce was pretty rare. Men in ads were cowboys, businessmen or playboys. The idea that a young man, with six pack abs and a large endowment would be the image to encourage women to buy Calvin Klein underwear would not only shatter the taboo of male (semi)nudity but reinvent gay men's own self image. This is where South Beach turned the gay pecking order on its head. All of a sudden, the currency of power in the gay world was no longer based on money, it was purely physical. The beautiful boy with the six-pack abs was infinitely more "A Gay" than the attractive thirtysomething doctor with a manse on a canal in Coral Gables. The Coconut Grove and South Miami crowd were seen as dowdy and irrelevant in this new gay nirvana.

The AIDS epidemic. Countless articles describe South Beach as "heaven's waiting room" at the height of the epidemic. Young men from Northern cities with generous disability and unemployment benefits could live cheaply and well in a boyish twilight of beach during the day, partying in the evening. Again, in a world that is coming to an end, why would accomplishment be important? Nobody expected to live long enough to accomplish anything.

Well, the deaths abated. The boys grew up. The boys died. The boys moved on. What did the ghetto offer? Well on some level it did offer a level of security. To see gay people interacting with each other on a variety of levels: economic, social, politically was an important lesson. All these things were not reflected anywhere else in the culture. Despite all the partying there was all of the other stuff going on too. Group identity is empowering, ghettos give you that in huge doses. So its sad to see it change. But again, change is inevitable.

Gay Exodus from South Beach

Recently an article in the New Times described the exodus of Gay men and women from South Beach. While regrettable, its understandable. Gay ghettos, regardless of where they are, tend to be transient in nature. They are transient for a number of reasons. Firstly, unattached men are by nature, transient. Secondly, the economics of a Gay ghetto works against it remaining so, and finally South Beach, like the geography it sits on, is at the whims of winds and tides provided by nature.

Let me start with my first point; gay men are transient by nature. Sometimes, Gay men are a bell-weather of what is going to happen to the nation as a whole. Americans are a transient people, from the earliest settlers, to the population of the American West, the shifts from the Rustbelt to the Sunbelt. So it can't be hard to understand that gay men, with the fewest attachments will be the first to seek that newest fertile ground. These men and women who often feel a disconnect from their biological families either because of religion or culture being incompatible with homosexuality will find it easy to just "pick up and go."

My second point is that the economics of a "Gay Ghetto" will work against the actual "establishment" of a gay area for a long period of time. At most one and a half generations will be able to sustain a "gay identity." Why? Because Gay men are "gentrifiers". Gay men will enter a depressed community, usually an inner-city one, and fix it up. Why do they do this? Because Gay men, in general, are men, and as men, they don't really go around being too worried about being assaulted or raped. Another factor is that Gay men don't have children, so when they're choosing where to gentrify, they don't take crappy inner-city school districts into consideration. So they move in, beautify the neighborhood, push out the poor and raise the price of the real-estate. Straight yuppies move in. "New" Gays can no longer afford to live there and go find another area to gentrify. Former gay ghettos abound: The Village in New York, Coconut Grove in Miami, Victoria Park in Ft. Lauderdale, Midtown in Atlanta, etc, etc. Gay ghettos tend to be populated by single, beautiful young men. Young men who are told by society that their relationships have "no value" or are "not real". Many gay men internalize this attitude. The last thing you want is your 30-something boyfriend being hit-on by a hot 24year old, or worse a whole community of hot 24 year-olds. When you tell him "we're a couple" all he sees is a potential "threesome". Gay ghettos start relationships, they don't nurture them.

So lets talk about South Beach. Miami Beach is an anomaly in South Florida. It is densely populated, in fact it has the second highest population density in the nation, after Manhattan. It is truly an urban island in a sea of sun kissed suburban Florida bliss. While many people love a truly "urban" existence, the vast majority of Americans are very happy in their "tiny boxes made of ticky tacky" to quote a popular song. So after years of a condo existence many can hear the siren song of lawn mowers, green grass and big-box suburban living. South Beach is crowded. It is full of tourists who, while greatly appreciated for their contributions to the local economy, tend to pee in the alleys, get drunk, ignore traffic laws and look down on the locals. Tourists are also a magnet for criminals who don't discriminate from the locals. So while its beaches are beautiful, its architecture enchanting and its nightlife exciting, expecting the gay ghetto to last was wishful thinking.

Today I Bear Witness

"May you live in interesting times" is as much as a Chinese curse as it is a blessing. Today on Martin Luther King's birthday I think about my own life and my own experiences as a gay man living in a time of rapid social change. That this battle for the full participation of African-Americans in the American experience continues as well for all minorities in their quest for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Today, I feel its important to bear witness to what gay men have endured in their own battles for equality. As reflect back on my own youth, my own "history", I can see how many of my experiences are vastly different from what young people may live today. Now, I can look back and see the systematic oppression perpetuated on gay people, gay men in particular. I can understand how hate crimes work, what bullying really is about and how legal codes were put in place to systematically intimidate and extract a price. Most importantly I can look back at age 42 and remember the death toll of the AIDS epidemic and the governmental apathy that lasted until the death toll reached of 50,000 men before the leader of ALL American's could even say the word AIDS.

I remember clearly in 9th grade at the "gay boys" who were systematically hazed and tortured. I saw a kid stuffed into his locker. Another beaten up every day after school. I don't know if these guys were gay or not, but they were different and it was made clear that they didn't meet the standard of "masculine". Nobody came to their defense, not the administrators, not the teachers, nobody. Slowly but surely they disappeared into the shadows of school life: sneaking out during lunch breaks. Working the school schedules so they could leave school early or wait till Senior year to take gym with the Freshmen, so they could avoid both physical and psychological torture. Or they just dropped out altogether. Today I want to bear witness to the lost potential of these boys. To the ones who dropped out or committed suicide. I want to bear witness to the years of pain they endured. This is part of my civil rights struggle.

When I was 20 I was arrested for "battery on a police officer" when I grabbed the ass of a undercover police officer wearing a red Speedo at a gay beach. He was muscular and male model handsome. He flirted with me. He invited me back to his place. We turned to leave and when we got to his car he arrested me and put me in a van with 20 other unfortunate individuals. Over the course of the day 50 men were arrested on various trumped up charges from battery to lewd activity. In each case the police officers entrapped the beach goers. We were offered a deal: $1000 fine or they would call the newspaper and print our names and the charges. For eight hours work, the police department made $49,000. I was the only one who fought the charges. Today I want to bear witness to unjust treatment of gay men by the authorities. This is part of my civil rights struggle.

Few outside the gay community care to remember the AIDS epidemic. Sadly, 300,000+ gay Americans perished in that epidemic. For men my age, the medical breakthroughs ended the previous decade of deaths. To this day, gay men in their late 40's and 50's are a very rare breed indeed. Today I want to bear witness to these men who died pointlessly because the larger society felt they were not worthy of one penny of additional funds for research and care. This is part of my civil rights struggle.

Of course its important to understand that much has improved in my lifetime. I just want to bear witness that the oppression was real. That many of my gay brothers never reached their potential for happiness and success because of it. That we as gay men, should never forget that we too have fought, sacrificed and died in the battle not just for equality, but for our very lives. That is part of my civil rights struggle.

I have fun there.

Recently I was having lunch with my colleagues and the topic of religion came up. Almost all of them had negative comments about organized religion. While I tried to explain my attachment to my church, which I love deeply, I was at a loss to defend my need for it. I couldn't express how I had found my church home, and that most of my interactions there brought me deep satisfaction. The best I could do was say "I have fun there."

Yes, I do have fun there. Now "fun" might be a bit trite for something as portentous as faith. Some might say you get "joy" or "deep satisfaction" or "peace" from church. I have fun.

Church fun? My church is about fun because for me there are some prerequisites for fun:
1. Safety, you can't feel fun if you don't feel safe. My church lets me be me, and trust me, that is a LOT of acceptance. My inappropriateness, my diarrhea of the mouth. My unfiltered comments, tight clothes and six inch heels. (sometimes I can't get home to change after the clubs - just kidding)

2. In the moment; you really have to be present to have fun. Yeah church is about being present: mentally and spiritually. Its working both your intellectual abilities and your spiritual self. You have permission not just think, but feel.

3. Connection, to have fun you're really connecting on a human level. You can have fun alone, but its like that tree in the woods, if there's no one to hear it, did it really make a a sound?

So yeah its fun. I enjoy the beautiful sermons while at the same time checking out my pastor's heels.....(there is a gay contingent at church that won't let her wear cheap ones). Losing control of the Sunday school with thirteen year old boys throwing Bibles, Bibles! at each other. Watching that stranger walk in on one Sunday and having a laugh with them, as a friend, a year later. Oh yeah, and the gossip, there's nothing so rich and satisfying as church gossip.

So organized religion, church, can be a good time. It can be fun. And that ain't a bad thing at all.

I am a member of Coral Gables Congregational Church.

Coral Gables Congregational Church

www.coralgablescongregational.org

3010 De Soto Boulevard
Coral Gables, FL 33134-6317
(305) 448-7421









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Descent into Madness

I guess it would be entertaining to recount office madness at the expense of a boss nickenamed "the beast" would be fun, I don't think it would really be a great way to advance my career in the local non-profit arena. Oh well, let's have some fun.

"The Beast" is a real life person. In the caricature of bosses she might defined best as "a screamer" or "the bully". As I mentioned in a previous blog my early days at the TV station were fun and rewarding. As a temp I had been separated from her and her staff and placed in the center hallway of the executive suite. I was told to whisper when I spoke and not look any of the Vice Presidents in the eye. I was told to have as little interaction with them as possible. So I focused on the task at hand and ignored their gestures of friendliness. I was told to be "invisible". If you know me even a little, invisibility is not really a trait that could even remotely be me. I am a big ol' muscle queen queer. So trying to be unobtrusive at 6 feet, 210lbs in the middle of an executive suite is just not going to happen. Yes I tried to be subtle, but I've got feathers, and sooner or later they're to fall out of my mouth, pocket or...well you get the picture.

I could waste thousands of words describing her: lonely, middle aged, homely, muscular. Yes she was muscular. You know she could hurt you. When she walked; no stomped, through the office, the floor actually shook. Not like the clacking of high heels on terrazzo, but a muted thump, thump, thump as she crossed the threadbare industrial carpet. You could hear her coming. She was a swimmer (like me) and had the shoulders, traps and lats of a swimmer. Yep, there was a muscular physical presence. She was crazy too. I've found in my experience in social work, crazy usually comes strong. She was strong.

So I guess the turning point came in August. My "golden boy" status had officially ended. I knew it wouldn't last but I had this fantasy about a career in TV. By that point I had ingratiated myself to the whole staff, and I got some very positive feedback. Ah, the higher we fly....

So in August came the new "Golden Boy". Chaz was a very cute, very smart summer intern. Not a college intern mind you, a high school one. Besides who the fuck isn't cute at 15? He was an eager beaver, making some extra cash and building up his resume for college. He was a big boy, 6'2" 230lbs. A nice Jewish boy who played on the football team, probably a linebacker.(I'm sounding a little butch here but I just watched Sandra Bullock's the Blind Side). I liked him. I'm a father, this is his first time in an office, so I gave him some advice like: get a profession, don't waste your time on a Liberal Arts degree(like me), go to a good school.

The Beast took this as idle talk, and had convinced herself that I did not have enough work to do. So she made me write out by hand about 75 thank you cards. Each had to be identical. Of course my face was disgusted, here I am 42 years old with 20 years experience writing grants and proposals and I am writing out thank you notes for the staff.

"And Chaz, I want you to supervise Kirk, if I find one mistake, you're in trouble young man." So imagine, a 15 year old high school summer intern is supervising a 42 year old man with 20 years experience. I was humiliated. Of course writing 75 thank you cards, by hand, there are going to some descrepancies. She checked each one and berated Chaz for "not being a better supervisor." He was almost in tears. I didn't quit that day, this was just too rich.

Disgruntled Employee

Well, as this year draws to a close, I guess I should sum up this year's employment highlights and, better yet, lowlights. In full disclosure, the nature of my employment in the non-profit healthcare arena tends to be grant funded so I am what some people might call a "job hopper." I prefer to call myself a "grant gypsy".

As a grant gypsy I work until the grant money runs out, then its time to move on, either within an agency or to a new one. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy what I do and I like the variety of people and experiences I encounter. Plus I know practically everyone in non-profits in Miami because I probably worked with them or for them a some point in my career.

This year was especially interesting because I had a "dream job" which ended due funding cuts. It was a research study on gay men who were addicted to sex and drugs. Talk about fascinating. I mean talking about sex at the water cooler was one thing, talking about sex all day was quite another. It was absolutely fascinating. I also worked with very hip grad students who were talented and as social science majors were well on their way to becoming jaded liberals who believed that everyone has some sort of pathology and given enough time it would reveal itself. Of course it was too good to last, and as America spiraled into financial turmoil, the Feds cut the funding to the project and also my job.

I mentioned this to friends at the dog park and a week later, pow, I am in SHOW BIZ. Yes I got a job at a non profit TV station and managed to break a personal record in unemployment...10 days unemployed. I had planned a nice vacation, perhaps train for a triathlon, but no. My friend and future supervisor gave me a quick interview with a manic person who after asking my name and about my previous employment hired me on the spot. It was a four minute interview. I was soon at a cubicle using my people skills for the TV On-Air Auction.

You know, a four minute interview is usually not a good omen. I mean the pay was meager, barely a quarter of what I was making before, but it was a job and it still paid more than unemployment. Plus with such low pay, I really didn't have a lot of ego invested in it. And, of course it was SHOW BIZ. 10 days after I was hired, my immediate supervisor walked out the door, never to return, not even to the dog park. That left me in the direct line of supervision of a crazy, frothing of the mouth, manic woman.

Having dabbled in various aspects of the non-profit world I have had the opportunity to pick up a plethora of medical terms, both physical and psychological. I've become intimate with the DSM diagnostic manual and happily play the "what the fuck is wrong with that one?" game. My frothing at the mouth boss is what psychologists or social workers would call a "borderline personality disorder." Which is pschobabble for "really, really fucked up".

I realized this pretty much from day one, and I knew that my stint in TV undoubtebly end badly. But because all crazy people like shiny new things, I was the "golden boy" of the development office. Granted at 42, I'd passed 'boyhood" long ago and really resented it, I went along with the general patronizing because, A. I needed a job, B. it was showbiz, C. I really get off on being a "golden boy."

But as all of us who deal with bi-polar personalities know, shiny objects lose their luster and golden boys get long in the tooth. Also golden boys, tend to be easy targets in the cross hairs of a crazy boss.

Next: Descent into Madness.

Home Office

I guess as a chronic "job hopper" it was only a matter of time before I job hopped right into my own bed, which according some evil gossipers, is exactly where my career began. Finally, after struggling to reach the corner office, I've finally got one, in the corner of the bedroom. I can't complain though, I can look out on the roses, gardenia and jasmine in the back yard.

As I complete my second full week at my new office I'm noticing a slow and steady degradation of several important habits that one would say are the very basis of group living, or perhaps the foundation of civilization itself. I remember when my Father started his consulting practice from home, he would say things like: "I still put my suit and tie on to go the office." or "its important to dress like you're working". I'm finding those adages really hard to live up to. In fact, my Grandmother used to warn me about leaving the house without clean underwear on, "in case you're in an accident. " How many accidents do you have between the kitchen and the bathroom? You can probably see where this is going.

Yes, I am a people pleaser. I realize my only motivation to shave, shower and shine is the prospect of seeing people and having people see me. The only person who sees me is my husband, Alfredo and he doesn't seem to care if I'm in boxers or less. Scruffy the Poodle, my office assistant, is happy to see me anyway I look. However if I'm nude he hides because he's afraid that I'll take him into the shower with me. Which at this point is an irrational fear since I didn't shower today till 1:00PM. Yes, higiene is the first thing to go when you work from home.

I am more fortunate than most home office dwellers. I have the joy of hearing my husband on the phone working in his office. He actually has an office! With computers, servers, blinking lights, a printer and a fax. He's a techie so its like having my own personal computer support just a holler away. "HONEY!!! the system is down!" Unlike my previous job this techie is nice to me or he goes without dinner or...other stuff. I will explore this constant togetherness and see how our relationship will flourish in future blogs.

I have very large mahogany desk that was a dining table in a previous life. On it you will find the same things found in your typical cubicle: tape dispenser, computer, overstuffed in-box, stapler, etc. Of course there also the comforts of home: many pictures of my 14 year marriage to my husband Alfredo and our son Alfy. Included as well are my collection of Star Wars action figures from the 70's, little Mexican Day of the Dead skeleton figurines and a miniature Asterix and his companion Obelix. So I'm quite content to play escape from the Death Star on my desk during webinars and conference calls.

I've noticed small things that go on around your home that you miss while you're at the office. One of them is the parade of people that knock on your door: Postmen, UPS, Telephone book (WTF!?!) delivery, cute Mormons, Jehova's Witness(not so cute), neighbors, etc. All seem to break up the day. I've noticed that the leaf blowers drone on for hours. That the dog really doesn't do anything but sleep all day. Despite my declining higiene, my hunger is on a schedule as strict as a Swiss watch.

My fear as I see fewer and fewer people, I will become a pitiable Howard Hughes figure. I'll have long curling nails and hair, wearing hospital gowns, scraggly beard and hairy ears. Of course I will document all of this here and on Facebook. My postings will begin with phrases like: Did you know you can still use the keyboard with 5 inch ragged fingernails?

So this is my newest adventure into "inner space". Just me, Alfredo and Scurry the Poodle. Wish us luck.

Commicating

Its interesting how quickly we are drawn to short cuts. How my rants and rambles started out as an e-mail to friends, then a blog, then down to two snarky sentences every few hours on Facebook. Yes, I do post every few hours. Surprisingly, people make fun of me as being a "Facebook addict". However, they're reading my postings.

Recently I celebrated my 42nd birthday and invited everyone through Facebook, with the exception of my Dad because he just has e-mail. Although he has just begun to text me. He is 74 and I feel very awkward texting a 74 year old man. I feel awkward texting him the same way I feel awkward texting my 20 year old son. It seems strange to me that they both communicate with weird text abbreviations and both have no compunction about using curse words in text. (My son feels no compuction using curse words during "polite conversation") But then again I'm still reading Jane Austin and I wait in vain by the mailbox for handwritten letters from Pemberly or Longbourne.

My older brother has used text to completely renew our relationship. He sends me a "funny" every so often via text. For example instead of a call asking me if I was coming for Thanksgiving, he sent a text-photo of an erect penis being inserted into an uncooked turkey. He sends me a variety of inappropriate, un PC photos that if I left my phone sitting on my desk at work, I would be sent to HR. I thought the Thanksgiving one was pretty appalling. My "Christmas" text was an animated Grinch "giving it" to a real Santa who was unclothed from the waist down.....classy. However, I feel that the fact that my brother even recieves these photos via text, I feel he is giving me insight into his active inner life. It makes me that much closer to him.

So for now I will just have settle for "tnx for the xmas card," from my Dad pornographic photos from my brother and "want $$$ for bday" from my son. I know that hidden between those short abbreviations are beautiful sentiments of fatherly pride, brotherly love, filial obligation and deep gratitude that just can't be expressed on the screen of a cell phone. In text they are all saying: "thkng of u" .

The Winter of Our Discontent

As a gay man at 41 I've lived through my share of natural disasters, human epidemics and panics. An earthquake in '76, Hurricane Andrew, AIDS, and the Y2K bug. I am proud to say that I've survived all of them. As a child I moved to a new country about every 3 years, so I am quite accustomed to collapse,change, starting over, rebuilding.

So when I got laid off last month, I took it rather well. While there was no particular warning, I could feel it coming, like a shark swimming in the gloom, just beyond the field of view. So with as much dignity I could muster I picked up my office and left. Painful yes, but not devastating. I counted my blessings, cursed my bad luck and spent a week being pampered and consoled by family.

Today, less than three weeks later, I have new job. Not bad for the worst economy in 60 years. Of course its for less money and no benefits, but there is an opportunity for growth and change. Besides, its at a TV station, I guess I can say I now work in Show Business!

Resolution to do something about HIV

Friends:

Among one of the things I am committed to doing this year, aside from blogging is recommitting myself to fighting the spread and assisting in some way the battle against HIV disease. These things need to be done in January or the resolution doesn't count.

To satisfy this desire to address the HIV issue I decided to join one of the committees of the Ryan White Care Act here in Miami. I haven't been to one of these meetings in many years mainly because of their political nature and the intense decisions involving milions of dollars for care, treatment and prevention. One of the places where lives and health are at stake.

I was pleasantly surprised by what I saw. There was a healthy representation of Miami's diverse population and the group to a degree matched the epidemic. What I had expected to see was a room dominated by people who were either too sick to make a meaningful contribution or not smart enough and overwhelmed by the complexity of system. What I found instead were Gay men, African-American women, and others who were competent enough to understand what was at stake in my community and seemed to be able to make good decisions. It was reassuring to say the least.

Of course as a gay activist I did bemoan a speech made by a staff member going on about the trajedy of African-American women getting infected at higher and higher rates. I bemoan this because she didn't seem to think that anyone getting infected was a tragedy. In my gay-o-centric world I think its a tragedy when anyone gets infected with HIV. To make a speech about the rising infection rates of one group while saying nothing about the others really makes it clear, again, that Gay men are really not valued at all. That all we've suffered, that hundreds of thousands of us who died really don't add up to a hill of beans compared to that heterosexual woman, regardless of race, who in effect is an "innocent" victim.

Maybe I sound bigoted in this writing, but what I'd really like to see is a mourning for everyone who gets infected and that every group is worthy of prevention and treatment. That we should be angry about every new infection regardless of race, gender or sexual orientation.

Today's Haiku

HIV Session
People sick, people alive
A community

Pink is the New Black

Pink is the New Black. This is just a polite way of saying something I overheard the other day: "Gay is the new Nigger". Now I never believed that I would ever write that word in anger, let alone say it, let alone apply it to myself. But yes I finally understand, really, what it's like to have 62.8% of my neighbors say: you and your people are not worthy of what I have.

Not only are you not worthy, I have judged you, restricted you, condemned you to the life of inequality. These laws are clear and unequivocal, you are not worthy of humanity. A black comedian(DL Hougley) on CNN called me "a lucky bastard" for not being able to get married. Maybe white people thought the same of his grandfather because he didn't have to worry about deciding his future.

I should just be happy we got Obama. That's what they tell me. Great, we have someone who is president of all citizens, both first and second class ones.

Is Marriage a De-fabulization of Gay life?

Lets face it: Being gay is fabulous! We work hard at creating environments that are unique. We live in cool neighborhoods with old houses, industrial lofts, and in remodeled factories. We drink cool drinks, wear nice clothes and faithfully go to the gym. We visit fabulous places: Palm Springs, South Beach, Bali, Provincetown, Malibu. And the parties, are just the best. Why would we want to trade in all that in for a Volvo wagon, two kids and a split-level ranch in the 'burbs?

So why? What is the sudden attraction to a ho-hum existence like everyone else? As someone who did trade in the jeep for the station wagon for 12 years, all I can say is that it is great to focus on my fabulousness again. However, after almost 13 years of being with my partner I still find that many people, straight and gay still don't see us as a couple. That somehow the years we've shared, the hard times, the heartbreak and joys don't add up to a "whole." That if you hurt one of us, that you won't be contending with both of us. Far too often we feel that we are not seen as spouses, but as something less, something approaching a marriage, but not quite there. Also internally you doubt whether what you have is on par with what "real" marriages have. In fact I've often encountered gay men who feel somehow that we don't need or deserve the same rights as others. I mentioned to friends that we were going to California to get married and they perplexed by my lack of enthusiasm. I should be "thrilled" said one, and another was really happy for me. Of course, feeling tension I played it down by joking that we would have the reception at Burger King. As if acknowledging this moment in my life would be anticlimactic and somehow as a gay man I am not worthy of that "special day".

So we're going to do it. My mom is coming down, our Son will be there and we'll do it in a simple but romantic way. I guess 13 years together is fabulous enough.

You're all invited.

Today's Hiaku
Something Borrowed
Something Blue, Something New
Gay California Marriage

Out of Character?

Last night I was scolded by an officious 25 year old, red headed lesbian. I was taken into a back room and told to "behave and do my work". I was told "not to be late again, and stop talking to the others in the room." When I got up, handed her the phone, and papers and told her I was leaving, I was told to "grow up". This whole interaction happened within a span of 10 minutes. This was my volunteer experience.

So I screamed "YOU ARE A BITCH" at the top of my lungs.

Yes, I lost it.


Today's Hiaku

Volunteer for cause

Gift of time, deeply caring

better things to do

Gay Swim Team

As part of this jouney into middle age I've committed myself to trying new things or perhaps trying out things that didn't work out the first time I tried. Being on a swim team was one of them. Don't get me wrong, I really enjoy swimming. In fact I could probably live on, or in, water. However, I remember not enjoying being on a swim team. Why? Because of the bathing suits. Not about the way they look. I think they look great! Its just the way they made feel....down there. Yes, I quit the swim team because those Speedo's gave me a boner. Of course being surrounded with very cute guys in similar suits just added to my embarassment and arousal. Nope, a swim team was just not going to work out.

Flash forward 29 years. I was invited to Miami's local gay swim team; the Nadadores. Better known as the "nads" (as in gonads, as if I had to explain it to you). Anyway I decided to "take the plunge". I've recently lost weight so I felt confident in my ability to wear a pair of Speedos. Besides, being gay means you HAVE to wear them or you're not "officially gay." The "erectile disfunction" I suffered at age eleven has gone from one extreme to the other so now I can just relax and focus on my swimming and not worry about what happens...down there.

I get to the pool and jump in. Not completely familiar with the routine I ask a few questions. I am not familiar with an 800IM or a 300free or a 100fly. I just kind of follow the swimmers and hope I do as many laps as they do. Swimming was fun. I'm swimming right along and keeping up, more or less, with the other two guys I'm sharing the lane with. I was really getting into the sensory deprivation of swimming, limited sight and hearing but being totally aware of your body and its suspension in water. I was in some cases swimming faster than other people in the pool.

I would ask questions like "how many times across the pool is 300? Is it six?" "Is it three?" As I grew more exhausted from all these laps, my ability to multiply was rapidly diminishing. I also noticed that the other swimmers were getting tired of doing my multiplication for me. After about 50 minutes of continuous laps I lost my ability to do any type of multiplication whatsoever. Finally the guy next to me said the other swimmer in my lane:

"Bonito pero bruto." Which translates roughly to: "cute, but total, complete, moron."

You know, I really love Miami. Speaking Spanish and Portuguese and being bicultural allows me to fully experience this city in a way someone who is not bilingual can't. Not being bilingual in Miami is like missing a sense, or limb. In Miami I am the epitome of a white boy. People assume I don't speak Spanish. "Bonito pero bruto" reverberted in my head after every stroke.

As a gay man, its hard not feel ambivalent about a remark like that. I mean in gay culture, cute trumps smarts every time. Plus, I was really fucking tired from all the swimming. Of course my concentration was shot. There was no way I could multiply now. If I swam any more, "bruto"would far exceed any "bonito". I got out of the pool, convinced that my second attempt to join a swim team in 40 years was a disaster. I went to the locker room and changed. Two hot guys asked for my number.

The next practice is on Thursday. I better get some multiplication flash cards and a speedo.

Today's Hiaku:

Swim silly gay fish

hot freestyle in tight speedos

The water is so nice

Amendment 2 and the Rotarian 4 way test

For years my Dad tried to get me to join the Rotary Club. Instead he recruited my husband, Alfredo. Alfredo asked me to write this for the Rotary Club of Coral Gables.

Does Florida’s Amendment 2 stand up to Rotary’s Four-Way Test?

In November of this year Floridians will be asked to vote to amend the state’s constitution to define the meaning of marriage. The ballot initiative, known as Amendment 2 on its face seems quite simple and reasonable:

This amendment protects marriage as the legal union of only one man and one woman as husband and wife and provides that no other legal union that is treated as marriage or the substantial equivalent thereof shall be valid or recognized.

So let’s see if this amendment stands up to the Rotary 4-Way test.

Is it the truth?
The truth is that in Florida marriage is already defined as between a man and a woman. It is the second part of this proposed amendment that has many concerned. It calls into question the protections offered non-married partners have acquired in the last decade. Miami-Dade, Broward, Palm Beach, City of Gainesville, Miami Beach, and other municipalities offer limited protections for domestic partners such as visitation rights in hospitals and official recognition for employers which offer benefits to non-married partners.

Is it fair to all concerned?
Amendment 2 is unfair to the many couples in Florida who choose to live together but for a myriad of reasons can’t or don’t want to marry. Whether straight or gay, amendment 2 is about removing legal protections, denying health insurance from families and denying hospital visitation.

Will it build goodwill and better friendships?
Amendment 2 is not about goodwill, it is about discrimination pure and simple. It seeks to remove protections from unmarried couples. In 27 states where similar amendments have passed, proponents quickly sued to take away health insurance, domestic partnerships and other benefits from unmarried couples. How can an amendment designed to prohibit one group of people from getting health insurance, visiting a loved one in a hospital, or getting some kind of limited legal recognition show the goodwill?

Will it be beneficial to all concerned?
This is an initiative to take away benefits: insurance, legal protections and societal recognition. Who benefits when people are denied health insurance? Who benefits when people cannot properly care for loved ones? How does Florida benefit when discrimination is enshrined in the state’s constitution.

The Ask

The ASK

The best thing to do when you’re unemployed is get involved, network, and meet as many people as possible. Being a professional community organizer/volunteer coordinator it was not too hard for me to do. I love to talk, gossip, and fight for a cause. Sadly, I find it difficult to say no to any worthy cause.

I invited myself to a gay leadership forum that would be addressing the passage of a domestic partner law for Miami-Dade County. All of the executives of the large gay service organizations were there.

During the meeting somebody joked about how busy we all were and that weren’t just sitting around eating bonbons. I glanced at my husband, who was attending with me and chuckled, knowing full-well that I wasn’t working and that, in-fact, I had eaten a bon-bon earlier that day. The Chair of the local gay-rights organization saw our little interaction and approached me after meeting.

"Kirk, I need you to help. Could you work on an event committee on my behalf?" Not really having much on my plate, I agreed.

Fired

“Well what could you offer if I decided to resign today?”

She was your typical HR functionary, doing her job and trying to analyze whether I would (a) resign, (b) sue or (c) go postal.

Her response: “Well, Mr. Arthur, considering your short employment here, the most we could offer is one month.”

Shit, I thought, a month’s pay is a lot of money; in fact it was a helluva lot more than I would get with unemployment. I knew deep down I wasn’t really worthy of making all that money. I knew within a week of being hired that making $75,000 was sooo not worth all the trouble. The job had been a nightmare from the first day and never improved. They weren’t even nice to me. Not that they were mean, they were just….indifferent. Screw it; let’s make this woman work for her pay.

“I’m sorry I don’t feel that resignation is an option. I feel that I’ve been unfairly treated by this institution”

“Well Mr. Arthur, I’m afraid we’re going to terminate your employment effective immediately.”

I drove home in a daze. I mean it wasn’t the first time I had been fired, if fact, I’ve been fired from more jobs than I cared to remember. Each time had been painful and traumatic.

This time had not been any different.

Dog Park Confessional

There should be rule that whatever is said at a dog park, stays at a dog park.

First, one must understand that proper names are never exchanged at the dog park. Eveyone is an alias: Scruffy's Dad, Beenie's Mom, Violet's Owner. It is understood that names will not be remembered and that dog park relationships rarely, if ever, go beyond the boundaries of that park.

The bond between man and dog is a uniquely intimate one. Perhaps more intimate than any other. On many occasions your dog is witness to things that you probably wouldn't do in front of another human being, at least not on purpose. For example; my dog insists on sitting on my lap when I'm on the toilet. Often in the throws of passion I have glanced to his doggie bed to see him staring with disgust at our nocturnal activities. In the movie Best In Show, Parker Posey's Wiemaraner had a breakdown witnessing just such an event. My dog even knows what websites I visit.

Given that so much intimacy is shared with our four legged friends its not hard to understand how a simple conversation about fleas can rapidly progress to squeezing anal glands. Next thing you know you're discussing your checking balance and medical history. It's amazing how someone can confess about sleeping with thier dog and ten minutes later you find out they're having an affair with thier boss, who, by the way, was also catergorized as a dog, so it may not seem quite a stretch.

Our culture's conditioned us to need shake and bake intimacy. We seem to a have post-Catholic need to confess to a stranger the wierdness about our lives. At least at the dog park the therapists all have referrals: four legged ones.

Todays Haiku:

Run Spot go catch boy
Bad Dog, Good Dog Come here now
Follow me room to room

Diabetes Class

Hello:

Ah, the joys of diabetes! Who knew that having a potentially fatal disease could have so many side benefits for a gay man. I mean Viagra, and induced rapid weight loss by just eating a sugary food for a day or two. Three days of M&Ms and my abs are cut for a circuit party. First, I want to say that I'm not a typical diabetc. That is to say if the typical diabetics are the people in my diabetes class. As part of my new diagnosis I was sent to a series of classes of how to manage my new disease!

I was quite distressed about my new diagnosis. I found little compassion from anyone in the medical field. There was this nonchalance about the whole thing. Like a I was a lung cancer patient who refused to quit smoking. "Its your fault" I read in thier eyes, "you shouldn't have eaten those sugary orange slices". In fact I was eating those with an Orange Fanta just minutes before I had my blood sugar measured. My blood sugar: 1000+. Ten times the normal level.

So I went to the class. I was running late and I passed a rotund woman struggling up the stairs. I got into the class and looked at my classmates. Before I tell you about them let me describe myself: I'm 5'11, 210lbs, 32waist, 36 chest. I'm fit and trim. I workout a lot, I like what I see in the mirror....naked. So here I go into this class and I look at the students. Fatty McFatfat, Rotunda and the circus fat man were seated around the room. I asked timidly: "is this the obesity class?" Angry looks shot at me thenI realized I was in the right place. Just then, the plus size woman I passed from outside came in huffing and puffing, she was sweating and looked like she had just run a mile. Genuinely concerned, the diabetic nurse asked if she needed water or CPR.

"I'm sorry I'm late" she said in a sort of guttural wheeze. "I had to climb all those stairs"

There were four stairs.

The trim, pert diabetes instructor began her lecture. She emptied out her bag which was full of fake food. The same kind of food that comes with that child sized Barbie Kitchen I never got. I watched the others drool over the rubber food. I could swear they were salivating and licking thier chops at a simulated peice of cake. The instructor discussed exercise and diet, yeah whatever, I'm a health instructor tell me something I wasn't doing or didn't already know. I was angry. I work really hard to keep in shape. I look good, naked even! Now diabetes is making me sit in a class full of hungry fat people. I was thinking: diabetes sucks, I want some candy.

I never returned to that class. Maybe there's a diabetic class for fabulous people.

Today's Hiaku:

Candy is poison

You'll go blind, lose a toe

Diabetes sucks