Gay, not Gay

Primarily because my children tend to believe that I’m intolerant of alternative lifestyles, I will again attempt to address this topic in writing as I did several years ago in the Texas Instruments newspaper “The Dallas Site”.  The title of this one, “Gay, Not Gay” refers to a radio segment on 1310 “The Ticket” during the midday Bob and Dan Show.  Ironically, Dan sounds Gay to me.  Whether it be right or wrong, popular culture now extends the term “Gay” to mean more than one’s sexual orientation.  It tends to be a catchall term for all things uncool.  Listeners pose actual or hypothetical scenarios to the hosts for them to bat around before making their assessment as to “Gay, not Gay”.  For example, one of the scenarios includes friends who wear matching workout clothes to the gym.  Unanimously Gay!  Not to be confused with Ace and Gary, “The Ambiguously Gay Duo” of SNL fame.

This is funny and not unlike the style of many comedians.  One such comedian, Wanda Sykes scolds us on a public service spot not to use the term Gay to mean stupid.  This is possibly the most hypocritical thing I’ve ever seen.  She makes her living making fun of people, taking no prisoners.  The public service announcement is the epitome of political correctness gone gay (stupid).  The radio show is funny, because it focuses on awkward situations that many of us have faced and/or wondered about.  We’re really taking shots at ourselves because we don’t know how to deal with odd circumstances.

 

I’ve had a couple of funny moments, made more so, because of the “Gay, Not Gay” influence.  On one occasion, Mark and I left work together during a pouring rainstorm.  Yep, he had an umbrella and I didn’t.  He reluctantly offered to share it as he said, “…but that’s probably Gay” as I echoed his sentiment and decided to run for it.  That being said, I also once declined a female coworker’s offer to share her umbrella, which would have also probably been Gay.  Another time, Mark and I went to lunch and stopped at Kohl’s because I needed underwear (kinda Gay).  When we checked out, we found out he could use his Senior Citizen discount, so he paid (definitely cheap, probably Gay).

Of course, the scenarios themselves are the most humorous part of the program.  I’ve heard so many, but can’t remember the verdicts.   The very fact that program has more to do with one’s actions in a social context and not their actual sexual preferences suggests the single most important point in my essay some twenty years ago, that defining oneself based on sexual orientation is so myopic.  Of course it is a part of you, but there is so much more to a person than the proverbial team on which they play.  Again, Seinfeld is the go to source of pop psychology.  “Not that there is anything wrong with that” is the punt of choice for us who want to dismiss the topic or avoid offending anyone.  This may be the second most used phrase among my friends, just after wanting credit for the big salad.  The phrase itself sounds like a bow to political correctness, but the way it is uttered is a nod to the absurdity of such.

I must admit to being tired and frustrated of being thrown into the gay basher or homophobic camp just because I’m not totally on-board with Gay Pride.  I am actually offended that someone might think that I would be mean or unjust to anyone because of their race, gender, beliefs or lifestyle.  I am, however, still perplexed how so many could vote without, at least their fiscal brain, in the most recent presidential election and am trying to forgive and forget, lol.   Of course, all are entitled basic human and civil rights.  What I am also offended by is the political influence wielded by those who feel entitled to special rights or privileges.  Having definite Libertarian leanings, I feel the same way about the religious right.  I’d rather see people living by their own morals and values without having to project them onto everyone else.  I’m all for standing up for what you believe in, but the best way to do it is by example and by not infringing on others’ rights.

I have often joked that I wanted to start an Employee Resources Group (ERG) at work for Nose Pickers.  This is in particular reference to the GLBTA initiative that my company funds.  I enjoy picking my nose especially when I have boogers, so it must be okay.  OMG, no one wants to hear or see that.  I should use a tissue.  That is disgusting!  So I will make you a deal.  Respect my right to pick my nose and I won’t try to tell you that it is good manners.

To be sure, I am not, but the presumed justification that one is born that way, doesn’t stand up as such for me.  A lot of folks are born with serious issues of one kind or another.  Some become extraordinary and yet others are institutionalized to keep them from infringing on the rights of others.  Pedophiles may be born to their hell, but no one thinks that is acceptable.  So I guess I wouldn’t hang my hat on that line of thinking if I were looking for justification.  We all try to justify things because they feel good or seem natural to us.  Heterosexuals with the supposed predilection towards propagating the species struggle with preserving fidelity.  Sadly, it is still more socially acceptable in most cultures to irresponsibly spread your seed than to be Gay.

I don’t care whether sexual preference is innate or whether it is learned, homosexuality is clearly not the ideal state our creator intended.  None of us are ideal, lest we forget we are far from it.  We are imperfect, hypocritical human beings who fall short of any absolute state. That doesn’t mean, though, that we shouldn’t aspire to such a model.  I will repeat from my earlier essay, what I hope will be remembered by my boys as my final word on said topic.  In this seemingly messed up and confusing world in which we live, I sincerely believe that the Spirit works through us all for good.

Rock of Faith

Although I know it to be an unrealistic pursuit, I am continually frustrated by not being able to connect with everyone on every level.  I even miss the mark with my soul friends on occasion.  I was lamenting such the other day when my wife Bobbi reminded me that that’s why it’s really special when you do actually connect.  Of course, she is right as usual and in my head, I hear my 15-year old son Danny saying “Holy Connections, Batman.”  Then there are those times when it goes so horribly wrong.

Individuals are so complex, multifaceted and ever changing.  What does that say about family dynamics?  Holy shit, Batman, it seems a miracle that we communicate at all, let alone connect on any higher level.  Think of how many violations are called in an NBA game.  Then think of how many are committed and go uncalled.  You may be familiar with the “make-up” call which is where the referee unofficially acknowledges a prior bad call, by giving the other team a gift call.  This should be referred to as affirmative whistling, ha!  My real point is that everything affects everything.  You can quote me on that one.  Nothing happens in this world that does not eventually have some direct or indirect effect on us.  Greg Lake says it well.  “Just take a pebble and cast it to the sea.  Then watch the ripples that unfold into me.”  So it is that sometimes these tiny waves don’t produce positive feelings.  This could be intentional or otherwise, but seems a shame when one’s intentions are misunderstood.

It is indeed a shame to argue about small things.  A la ripples, these small things are usually related to a whole bunch of other, sometimes bigger things.  The Animals song, Please Don’t Let Me Be Understood comes to mind. (I’m now hearing in my mind, my nephew Josh telling me that my whole life is a song).  I usually make mistakes by being either too honest (edit mode switched off) or by completely confusing my audience by developing my actual feelings as I speak.  The latter is extremely satisfying, but means maneuvering in the danger zone.  It’s is somewhat easier to edit my blog.  Occasionally I never get to a point, as was the case a few days ago.  My friend Sher was listening so intently to me and I’m thinking to myself, I have no idea what I’m talking about and finally admitted so.  At least she got a good laugh.

I believe, for the most part, I communicate my intentions regarding small things well.  I sometimes wish I had not said them, however.  I have been encouraged to be less honest about certain things in order to be a better person.  I have embraced this idea, but struggle with the implementation of it.  Because I have given some constructive criticism in the past, my boys know that when I tell them they’ve done well, that I am sincere.  There is obviously a delicate balance to find.  The ultimate truth, the one of how we really feel about one another, is the most important part of a relationship.  I’ve not always made this clear or said it enough to those I love.  Another song comes to mind.  Imagine that.  Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young’s Teach Your Children implores parents to teach their children well and for children to teach their parents well; ………and know they love you.  So it should be, whether it’s a teenager fighting with her father or a 53-yr old arguing with his mom.

I am eternally grateful for my ideal childhood, due in no small part to my mom’s consummate love and devotion.  Now that I am older I realize how special my relationship with my mom was and is.  Not every mother possesses the motherly instinct.  Mine has it in spades.  In fact, if they did such things in the non-sports world, she’d probably be tested for performance enhancing drugs for being too momly.  Momly is a clever adjective coined by my son Mike to describe his mom.  As a small child through early adulthood, I possessed the closest bond any boy ever had with his mama.  She will still tell you how extraordinary I was as a child, even though she now wonders aloud, what happened to me, ha!  She was my confidant.  She was my Rock of Faith!  As I grew older, I started to question her unwavering faith.  I challenged her on nearly every point, because in my mind, it just couldn’t be that simple.  You know how it works though, I can talk about my mom, but no one else can.  About the time I’d think she was really out there, she’d be exactly right about something.  She may not believe this, but as much as I have disagreed with her, I didn’t necessarily want her to change her mind about certain things.  Her faith in God and family has been my peace and, in strange way, has given me the freedom to think more critically.  Sometimes when I do have a different perspective about a topic, I believe my subconscious might be thinking “geez, I really hope Mom is right about that, because I don’t want to be.”

As I have alluded, relationships change for a multitude of reasons.  Different is not necessarily bad, it’s different.  However, more often than not in recent years, neither of us has practiced much patience.  Certainly my attempts at being a better person by leaving things unsaid have been lame.  Despite the uneasiness that presided during our visit to Arizona last Christmas, I was encouraged how she lit up when I asked about certain specifics of her childhood.  It was truly great to both hear the stories and to see how enthused she was to tell us.  We connected.  It has been postulated by my sister Dianne, that Mom and I don’t always see eye-to-eye because we are so much alike, specifically that we both have to have the last word(s).  So here they are……..

Know that I love you.  Thanks for being my Rock of Faith.  Have a great Mother’s Day!

The Treasure of San Pedro

J. Edgar S.

I suppose it is finally time to capture the infamous Mexican hunting trip in writing as I have related specifics to many over the years, especially the one event for which I shall forever be burdened.  Some memories are too vivid while others tend to be a bit fuzzy.

It was Christmas 1986 and I was staying with my folks in Sierra Vista, Arizona.  Art, Dianne and Josh were there and my best friend Paul also made the trip down from Tempe to spend a few days.  This may have been the Christmas that I gave Josh that huge blow-up Gumby.  I can still hear him swallowing his words as he said “Big Gumby” as soon as he came into the room.  I remember thinking then how children help keep the magic of Christmas alive for all of us.  It was perhaps a couple of days later that we embarked on our journey across the border into Sonora, Mexico.  I had made previous treks to Mexico to fish and hunt, so I knew the drill; apparently not as well as I should have.

Dad, Art, Paul and I piled into the 1981 GMC Vandura early in the morning and headed toward Naco, the nearest port of entry to Mexico.  Like duh, when did we ever go on any trip that didn’t start @ O’ Dark Thirty?  I always thought Naco was a funny name because Dad used to buy cheap gas there and well I assumed the quality was probably that which would cause the engine to knock.  Since Dad had both of his shotguns already registered in Mexico and we all had our proof of citizenship in hand, the entry process was uneventful.  Just the way we like it!  Often the process is expedited by tipping (nice word) members of the Mexican Army twenties.  The disparate affluence between the corrupt controlling army and the town’s common folk was frighteningly evident then and I am sure much worse today.  Dad recounted that on one particular trip, how he saw a desperately poor little girl, dirty and wearing rags for clothes, have the biggest smile on her face as she was enjoying a Coca Cola.  It all depends on your perspective. 

Re-entry, on the other hand, has not always been so smooth.   I have been a part of three episodes in Nogales which were nonstandard.   There were two separate incidents involving a Volkswagen Beetle; the other due to a minor miscommunication by my eccentric Aunt Jenny.  It was probably 1967 when my family drove our Bug across the border to see a bullfight.  The bullfight was a pathetic display of inhumane torture which was particularly traumatic for my sister and me.  On the way back across the border, we were behind an ice truck which evidently was using the clutch and gas pedal instead of brakes.  Just before making it across the border, the truck backed into the front of our tiny car.  The calculated risk of not buying insurance was unfortunately realized.   Then in about 1979, I was in Nogales with some crazy friends, Louie and his cousins Gilbert and Michael.  Gilbert was insistent on trying to bring back a case of tequila.  I can’t remember whether the limit was 2 quarts or 2 fifths, but obviously a case was more than you could legally take back across the border.  We put it under the back seat of the beetle next to the battery.  Someone, perhaps the seller, must have contacted the border guards.  I was rightfully afraid as I’d recently seen the movie Midnight Express.  They did nothing but take away the booze, an expensive lesson for Dr. G.  In retrospect I should have walked across without the other three (And I thought the hunting trip incident was embarrassingly stupid).  Sometime in between these two incidents was when we walked back across the border and the officials, as is practice, asked if we were U.S. citizens.  Aunt Jenny who apparently didn’t grasp the seriousness of the correct answer replied to the question by saying “I think.”  Dad finally got that one straightened out and it is now a funny story.

This particular day was not about traversing borders, however, but perhaps about discovering new things about ourselves and others.  To calibrate, our version of duck hunting is a bit different than the norm.  First of all, we don’t sit behind a blind nor do we use decoys or calls and the biggest challenge is not having four-legged retrievers.  There is also the fact that we only had two guns for all of us to use.  This was not thought to be a major issue though because Paul stopped just short of declaring himself a pacifist and was only along for the ride.  As always, Dad was focused on everyone else having a good time, so he didn’t figure to shoot much either.   Both shotguns were Remington’s, an almost brand new one at the time (model 1187) and a much older 3-shot autoloader. 

Paul H.

After crossing the border and heading south for a couple of miles, our route took us back west by northwest such that we were very close to the US border as the crow flies.  Primitive roads and the San Pedro River crossing in our battle tested van led us to a rugged expanse of private ranches, owners of which were friendly to the likes of American hunters.  Paul amused himself by reciting infamous lines from the Treasure of Sierra Madre; “Badges?  We don’t need no stinking badges!” as we weaved our way in and around hills and canyons.  Our MO was to get just close enough to one of several cattle tanks such that we could see with binoculars whether there were ducks on the pond.  If there were, we’d use our stealthy skills (Oh geez, pretty sure I was wearing red sweat pants. Really?) to get as close as possible before they took to the air. If we were successful in hitting any, it was preferable that they didn’t land in the water.  Otherwise, the rod and reel with a huge lure was our best shot at retrieving the bird(s).  There were also a few spots that Dad suggested we approach on foot without being able to see and be prepared to shoot as the ducks scattered.  Art and I snuck up on a small body of water covered with bushes and trees.  I landed my first shot at a Mallard in flight and we were able to retrieve it on the other side of the water.  I can still see Art shaking his head as if to say “that lucky shit did it again”.  Art is without question a much better outdoorsman than I, but for whatever reason I’ve had a penchant for stealing his thunder on occasion.

As you might imagine, traveling on a ranch or between properties, requires negotiating a number of gates.  The unwritten rule of any rural area is “leave the gate the way you found it”.  Being a farm boy himself, my dad strictly adhered to such rules.  Literally my job was the gate keeper and I had figuratively been down this road before.  The fencing and the associated gates were as primitive as the lands they parsed.  Not one was constructed, nor latched like another.  I struggled with nearly every gate.  Closing the gate exactly the way I found it was particularly frustrating and then I would be critiqued on my performance when I got back in the van.  In looking back, it was rather like Harry Potter trying to solve a new riddle for each test he went through in the Goblet of fire.  It was funny, but I was also determined to be more efficient in carrying out my duties.  I felt the respect of private property was warranted, but also started to wonder about the rhyme or reason to what I perceived as less than classic use of knots and hitches.   

Quail were also on the menu and Dad spotted either some Gamble or Bobwhite running in and out of the sides of the canyon road we were on.  Paul got out with Dad and Art and somehow Dad convinced Paul to carry a gun.  Paul and Art chased the covey up the canyon.   I can’t remember if they got anything, just that Paul came back with a crazed look in his eye and it was clear that he wasn’t giving up any more turns.  I just wondered if we would have enough ammunition for the day.  I envisioned him like Kwai Chang Caine, with a bit of blood in the crease of his mouth, saying that he was a priest and then kicking everybody’s butt.  I swear my dad tried to take the gun away from him so we could continue down the road and he pulled it back to his chest with a very tight grip.  So Paul was in all the way now.

As I mentioned, Dad had been teasing me about how long it would take me to close the gates.  As we pulled through one particular gate, I was as determined as ever to quickly and accurately close and latch it exactly as it had been found.  I pulled the gate shut dragging the flimsy wood and barbed barrier to the hitching post.  I quickly retied the knot such that the gate was taught.  I almost thought to myself “that wasn’t half bad”.  Then I looked up.  Oh Shit!  I had latched myself on the wrong side of the gate.  I could feel the heat of my embarrassment prickle the hairs on the back of my neck as I gave the van a quick glance.  It was bouncing as if the van itself were laughing. It might as well have been.  Oh man!  Perhaps because I didn’t want to feel the laughing eyes from the van as I unlatched the gate, I tried to squeeze between the post and gate.  As I did so, I caught my leg on barbed wire and was left with about 4 inches of ripped pants and flesh.  The literal scratch was not that deep, but the emotional scar lingers today.  You’ve heard of adding insult to injury, well I did the opposite, injury to insult.  I sheepishly climbed back into the van and my dad said “you’re not my son” as the other two, especially Paul broke into uncontrollable laughter.

I don’t really remember what I said after that but do recall eventually laughing at myself.  What else could you do?  I’ve used this story as an example to my employees and my kids.  You’ve got to keep your eye on the big picture and not get buried in the weeds.  I also point out that locking yourself on the other side of the gate could have much greater negative consequences.

We did rock the van at least one more time as all three passengers sat in the back and jumped up and down so we could get enough traction to make it to the top of one hill. We stopped at the crest and looked though the binoculars.  Dad says “I believe that is a goose!”  “I just might crawl on my belly for a few yards for a goose”.  There were also several ducks on the pond.  Art and I went far to one side of the pond where there was a spillway.  We crawled for several yards with our weapons riding on only our arms, being careful not to get them in the mud.  As we peered over the edge of the tank, to our dismay there were no birds of any kind.  Somehow they had left without us seeing them.  I guess we weren’t that good at stalking our prey.  It must have been the smell of dumbass that chased them away.  Disappointed, we started walking back from the dam, skipping a bit to avoid muddy areas.  Art suddenly lost his balance and fell into the mire.  He and the new shotgun were completely covered in mud.  It looked as if he might have hurt himself, but his primary concern was the condition of Dad’s new gun.  I felt terrible for him being cold and embarrassed.  On return to the house, he painstakingly took every piece of the gun apart and cleaned it.

I’m sure Art remembers our trip fondly despite the swan (goose) dive into the mud.  He can always think of me on the other side of the gate.  I know Dad also remembers the trip with a smile and a chuckle.  I miss you Paul.  I can still see you with that crazed look of a blood thirsty hunter and then how you laughed your ass off at me and teased me mercilessly by telling the story to our friends.  The Treasure of San Pedro is our memory of a great adventure.   

Partners in Crime

For a few years now, I have resisted the pleas of others to join facebook.  I just recently did so at the request of my friend Mark, who suggested that if I wanted him to know that I had a new post to my blog, that facebook would be the perfect method of communication.  Little did I know that my sister Dianne had loads of photos to which I could now be tagged.  I also started looking for old photos already on my hard drive that I could post.  I ran across one of my favorites, one of me with three of my buddies at Dianne’s and husband Arthur’s wedding reception.  Of course many comments followed on facebook which rekindled the memories and antics of that momentous evening.

I was truly honored to be an usher and frankly did most all of the ushering as Art’s three brothers were more than willing to let me earn my spot in the rotation.  Dianne and Art had tried to have a dual or combined ceremony where both Catholic and Protestant clergy would preside.  It is my recollection that our long-time pastor declined to participate so Dianne agreed to be married in the Catholic tradition.  While she did not convert to Catholicism, she did commit to rearing her children that way and I must say they’ve turned out awesome. 

At the time, the Catholic thing was kind of big for our family.  Despite my protestant perspective that grace cannot be earned versus the Catholic tenants of faith and good works, the long-term impact upon our family dynamics could not be more benign.  I was thrilled that Dianne and Art chose each other and am still proud of how well they have made things work.  As I recently wished them congratulations on their 28^th anniversary, they are our inspiration.

If I remember correctly, I only made one potentially disrespectful move (in the church that is).  Prior to anyone else being in the church, I asked my cousin Tim to take a picture of me with my arm around the Virgin Mary.  Tim thought better of being connected to my immature stunt so he refused to do so.  His judgment would get far worse as the night progressed however.

They were married on December 17^th, 1983 and had both graduated from Arizona State the prior day.  Joshua David would be born nine months later.  The pair also experienced the typical whirlwind of activities as family and friends had come from across the country to help them celebrate.  I also had come home from Dallas and was excited to be part of the experience as well as seeing my family and friends.  Dianne and Art were kind enough to invite my friends Paul H., Mike B. and Paul G., a move they are probably still questioning.  In speaking with Art recently, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t in on the Paul G. thing:).

After the wedding, the reception was held at the Holiday Inn.  I had no mischievous intentions whatsoever until Mike B. kept bugging me to find out where they were spending the night so that we could do something fun (for us I guess, mean to them).  Mike was next to youngest of eight brothers and sisters and had lots of wedding prank experience he was more than willing to unleash on our innocent newest of newlyweds.  The rest of us, including a surprisingly party ready Tim, were feeling pretty good or at least on the way there, so we put our/Mike’s plan into action.

It was not a stretch to assume that the couple was staying at the Holiday Inn.  It only took a ten spot to buy off the bell hop and he obliged us by even letting us into their room.  Apparently the last trick Mike had been a part of entailed tearing the bed down and putting it in the shower.  Okay, well that’s exactly what we did.  Then we, mostly me I think, drank the bottle of champagne intended for the couple.  I left something like a five or ten dollar bill, like that would have bought a replacement bottle.  Dianne still claims this was the worst thing I did.  We all signed our names as though we were proud of our handiwork.  However, I am pretty sure by this time that the Paul(s) were working on just being able to stand upright.  I probably had their delegation authority. 

We joined the party back at Art’s folks’ place as the couple opened gifts.  Only two things stand out during that time as we were hyper-focused on when the bride and groom would return to their presumed refuge.  One is that I remember Art’s brother (Martin I believe) serving me a White Russian, perhaps an omen.  I don’t drink those any more, I prefer Swedish vodka:).  The other memory was a lowlight for Paul G.  As I was most recently reminded of by Dianne, the spirits Paul had imbibed earlier were exorcised onto the hosts’ lawn.  So Paul H. checked him backed into the rehab facility (his parent’s house a few blocks away). 

We raced back to the hotel without the Paul(s) to watch the couple go to their honeymoon suite.  They got to their room as we peered from behind a nearby bush.  It was a short stay.  Minutes later a hotel manager came.  We stayed long enough to see them move to another room.  After a few minutes, we had Tim, who had probably not participated much up until now, knock on their door and wish them congratulations.  It was our thought that having Tim be the one to represent us was a way of shielding ourselves from any wrath.  No 

one could get mad at Tim.

I wasn’t done with the mischief.  I stayed at their house while they were on honeymoon.  A lot of uncooked pasta was distributed.  I believe this was spearheaded by my mama who actually taught me about putting spaghetti in the sheets as well as short-sheeting the beds.  I was most proud of the pasta I strategically placed on top of the ceiling fans.  They didn’t receive that surprise until summer.

Bobbi and I were on the receiving end of the pasta and other funny things in 1991.  Dianne’s and Art’s retribution was substantial.  Although Paul and the gang tried to find out where we were staying, I learned from others’ mistakes.  We did find cat food and pasta in our ice cubes and wine glasses well into the next year following our wedding.  Then there was my 40^th birthday surprise which Dianne trumpets as one of her biggest achievements.  She might be the master, but I was first:).

Happy Anniversary Art and Dianne!













P.S. Dianne found the original note.  Unbelievable not that she had it, but that she found it.  Clearly PVG was not present during the act and Joyce R. was.  How could I forget her?  I think we danced until the next day and I can't even dance.