Point No Point

Phil's folks were in town this past week. We took the Edmonds - Kingston ferry to the peninsula and saw the tiny Point No Point Lighthouse in Hansville then drove on to Sequim to be let down by the much larger, but less accessible New Dungeness Lighthouse.
My favorite part is always the ferry ride.

From Phil's Family

From Phil's Family

From Phil's Family

From Phil's Family

Mom day fun

I love this picture from Saturday. Its my mom getting her Mother's Day gift at Sunset Foot Massage. I don't think anything else I could have gotten her would have made her this happy.

Thanks mom

So . . . I buy my mom gift cards and jewelry and accoutrements from Chico's.
If you're not familiar, I'll wait for you to come back after you've perused the above link. Ok, now that you've poked around some there, I'd just like to point out that the target customer's age is significantly older than models on the web site. Anyway. . .
I used to get her discount. Now I get my discount . . . and a quarterly mini-catalog.
There is something humiliating about a catalog of flowing women's clothes delivered in my name.

I am emailing them today to make certain that no more flyers, catalogs, or mailings of any sort arrive in my name at this address . . . you know, for the environment.

(They are, however, welcome to contact me at my email address with any sales, discounts, or merchandise that might interest me.)

And, no, I don't my mom's name is not "Bonnie."

You're my double shadow

The long nights and cold weather has made me hunger for comfort food. First was the navy bean soup, then the Frito pie. I realize the latter may not be familiar to many of you. I have my youth in Texas to thank for acquiring that taste.

I think the psychological underpinnings of needing comfort come from learning how to share space with the guy I love. Phil moved in at the beginning of the month. Some of his stuff is still in boxes, but most of it unpacked. Half of the bedroom closet contains his clothes now. The laundry pile in the bedroom has (more than) doubled.

We need a bigger bed. Luckily (or unluckily) my graveyard schedule and his swing shift schedule means that he sleeps when I'm at work and vice versa. So its not a pressing matter . . . yet.

I need to say "our" more.

I want him to be comfortable, too.

The broader, social context of needing comfort comes from the residual Prop 8/Rick Waren madness that is nearly inescapable. In my 16 plus years of being an "out" gay man, it hasn't been until recently that I feel the societal ill-will toward my natural proclivities. The latest attack comes from the man that I helped elect to the presidency.

Last week the snow came and justified my agoraphobic tendencies. I had two extra days off work. This city does not handle snow well, which is fine because we only see it every few years.

I played lots of Warcraft. I looked outside to see if the snow was still falling (most of the time it was). We downloaded movies to Tivo. Movies we generally wouldn't watch, and definitely won't watch again.

Trivia:

What movie stars Academy Award winners Kathy Bates and Kevin Spacey, as well as Academy Award nominees Paul Giamatti and Miranda Richardson?

If you answered Fred Claus, pin a rose on your nose!

So that was one of the movies, along with the simply atrocious Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.

So all this comfort has got me lazy. And all this being attacked has made me feel victimized.

Guess I'll just have to turn all this shit around in 2009. Who's up for being active and pro-active?

You're out of touch, I'm out of time

I saw The House Bunny starring Anna Farris this weekend. Phil and I had talked about going to see it. He likes Anna Farris quite a bit, and I like her well-enough especially in Gregg Araki's Smiley Face. [This scene rules.] I had other movies on my 'To See' list that ranked much higher, and probably would have opted for an Unbox rental or Netflix of The House Bunny. However, Friday morning I became the guardian of my 13 year-old niece, and since I am the reed that bends in the wind when my niece is around, we saw the movie.

Some of you know that she was in town for the week. Her 81 year-old great-grandmother lives in West Seattle, so Lauren and her aunt and uncle from Fort Worth came to spend a week with the octagenarian. I had planned to keep her occupied on Thursday.

So I picked Lauren up from the airport on Saturday. She was an unaccompanied minor. USAirways managed to keep me detained at the kiosk check-in for over an hour. I didn't have a confirmation number or pass because I was picking up a minor, so the ticket agents kepts shooing me away. My niece called me agitated--was I ever going to come to the gate? After the two ticketing agents checked in three flights, they asked me if they could help me. Yes, I informed them, my niece is waiting at the gate for me to come get her.

"Really," asked one of the ticketing agents, "Why didn't you just tell us that you were picking up an unaccompanied minor?" I muttered under my breath that I had, and that this "service" cost my brother and sister-in-law two hundred dollars.

After standing another half hour or so in security, I made my way to the gate where my niece was waiting. She was wearing the same outfit that she wore to my aunt's funeral. It was very formal and, I later learned, very uncomfortable. She had her iPod and issues of MinX, Seventeen and Cosmo Girl.

We descended to the baggage claim as the piece of luggage that read, "Final piece for USAirways" made it way onto the carousel. Of the luggage still in rotation, none belonged to my niece. This put her nearly over the edge. "It'll be fine," I told her. "It probably just got on the next flight. We'll go to Target and get you some sweats, pjs, and a toothbrush." And that's what we did. I left her with her great-grandmother, and returned home for a few days of work.
I met Lauren, her great-grandmother, her aunt, and her uncle for lunch on Wednesday everyone's favorite, Blue C Sushi.
Thursday, I came over around noon and Lauren and I bussed into the city. This was my day to show her the city. We got sandwiches at Salumi and took them to the UPS/Waterfall park. Then we went to the library, and then we made our way to the Seattle Art Museum. Her fingers were rarely away from her phone, furiously texting a battery of friends back east. I showed her her first Warhol, Rothko, Pollack, Manet, Monet, Degas and others. Between pieces, she texted.
Somehow, I doubt the texts looks like this, "omg! pollack sux da big one!!!1! lol!" or "rofl warhol wtf?" or "manet ftw!!1111!!!!"

Then it was up to Seattle Center where she had been before, so I didn't have to waste precious money on a trip to the top of the needle. For dinner, we went to one of my favorite places, 611 Supreme. Lauren only had soup. The topper for the evening was the world-premiere of Shrek: The Musical at the 5th Avenue theater. The show is Broadway bound and I was happy that my niece and I could see it together.

Needless to say, Thursday really wiped me out. Her great-grandmother had mentioned taking us to Tillicum Village on Friday, but I told Lauren to get me out of it. So when the phone started ringing on Friday morning, I ignored it, rolled over, and went back to sleep.
I could not, however, ignore the knocking at my door Friday morning.

Lauren's aunt was standing at the door with Lauren. "Guess what! You just gave birth to a 13 year-old girl," she said as she pulled Lauren's suitcase onto the porch. I was still out of it and didn't really understand what was going on. It turns out that Lauren's great-grandmother had a bout with dementia and accused all of them of stealing from her. There was name-calling, and overall it sounded like a pretty crummy time.

I removed The Big Penis Book from the coffee table and tidied up as best I could in a short amount of time. So I got to spend a couple extra days with niece. My niece who likes Guns'n'Roses and Marilyn Manson and Celine Dion and Shania Twain. We talked about video games and I let her play some of my World of Warcraft characters. She's the first member of my family to meet Phil. "Phil's really great," she told me on our car ride to the airport on Sunday.

"Yeah, he is, isn't he," I replied. So maybe this is that summer for her--you know the one like in those coming-of-age stories--the kind that change your life. Maybe its that kind of summer for me.

Round on the sides

When I learned my aunt had pancreatic cancer, I resolved to go and visit her. To pay my respects. My aunt named me. If my mother had her way, I would be Curtis Carver. If my father had his way, I would be Travis Austin. I had to, at the very least, tell her thank you for sparing me either of those atrocities. (Can you imagine how horrible my young Texan life would have been if I had been named Travis Austin?)

So I packed my bag, bought the issue of the New Yorker with the David Sedaris article on quitting smoking, and left for Cleveland.

My mom had flown in the day prior, and she and my aunt picked me up at the airport. If I didn't know differently, I wouldn't have thought that my aunt was wearing a wig. If I didn't know differently, I wouldn't have thought that she just finished her 6th round of chemo the previous week. She looked good.

I had considered writing her a letter and leaving it for her to find after I left, but instead, I played it by ear, hoping I would be able to find the courage to verbalize my thanks to her. The first day my mom, she, and I played Blokus and Skip-Bo. We laughed. We reminisced. My aunt asked me about Phil.
What's he like?
What's he studying?
Where does he work?
How long have you been dating?
My mom, I think, didn't want to seem out of touch with me, so she acted like she knew things about Phil--about his work and school schedule, about how much time we get to see each other. Maybe its my fault, I thought, Maybe my mother is truly curious about my life and not ashamed of it. But there has already been so much damage to our relationship. I destroyed any trust and hope my mother had in me. She destroyed the safety and security I felt in my family. So my aunt, who has never been encumbered by the dynamics of my relationship with my mother, was able to sidestep those land mines and just show genuine interest in my life.

The next day my father and uncle arrived. My uncle works out of town and comes home on the weekends. My father came to see me. We made small talk. My uncle told me the "What's better than roses on your piano?" joke. When a commercial for National Treasure 2 came on, my dad told me he had seen it with the grandkids. He liked it--"You'd like it, too," he said. Then, realizing who he was talking to, he added, "I think."
I found it interesting that the men seemed the least well-equipped to handle the situation. They go stir-crazy quickly and look for any excuse to leave the house. I went with them once on an outing to get snacks before dinner. We didn't go to the grocery store around the corner. We took a twenty minute drive to a mom and pop place that sold "trail bologna." I would have rather spent the time sitting in the same room with the person I came to see, even if she were sleeping.

Every night I rubbed my mom and my aunt's feet. Both appreciated it, but my aunt, who uses crutches because the cancer is now in her legs and the chemo causes numbness in her legs, would close her eyes, lay her head back, and sigh. Those sighs, to me, held the secret of how much pain she was actually in. In fact, by the time I left, I got the impression that most of her behavior was just show--she was in a great deal of pain.

Sunday was the Kentucky Derby. We all picked a horse. I picked the longshot. My mom picked the surefire thing. My dad and uncle went for ones that had decent odds, but weren't supposed to win, place, or show. My aunt picked the only filly.
When the race was over, the filly was in second. As she crossed the finish line, two of her ankles shattered and she had to be euthanized.
It was moments like that acted as the counterpoint to any normalcy we felt. The spectre of death that was biting into my aunt's femur shattered the ankles of that horse--he wasn't going to let us forget that he was there.

Sunday night brought the shows they all watch--"Desperate Housewives" and "Brothers and Sisters." I watch both shows at work. "Brothers and Sisters" was the episode where the gay guys get engaged. It was torturous--sitting in the same room with my mother and father watching two men kiss on TV. And not just kiss, but full-on, spit-swappin' kiss. Everyone was silent.
"Chuck and Donna, friends of ours, have two sons--both are gay, and they introduce their partners as 'husbands'," my aunt said, "Do you think that's strange? I mean, I always hear 'partner' but 'husband' sounds like a man and a woman to me."
"Well, most of the people I know," I answered, "Use the term partner."
My father almost doesn't squirm at talk like this any more. Recently he told me that he really liked Ellen DeGeneres. Some progress is better than none (and dude is 71).


Monday morning everyone left--mom and dad for Texas, my uncle for work. My flight wasn't until the next day. I had an entire day with my aunt, and I knew what I wanted to say. I didn't know if I'd find the right time to say it.
So she and I played Skip Bo. We sat on the porch as yet another rain storm came through. She told me how angry she was. How she's played over and over in her mind things that she might have done differently to avoid this impending painful death. I told her that my mom had always wanted to grow old with her--even moreso than my dad. She said that more than anything she wanted to see her grandchildren grow up and get married. I told her that she would, but she wouldn't be in pain.
And I don't remember exactly how it came up, but the moment presented itself.
"Out of all the members of my family--your daughters included--you are the only person who never made me feel less than or different because of my sexuality. You always welcomed me and had a place for me at your beautiful Thanksgiving table. And I just wanted to say thank you for that."
Maybe it wasn't exactly as eloquent as that, but I told her most of what I wanted to tell her.

Light flow days

Off to Ohio for a bit.
Yeah!
Watch out Cleve, here I come!

Might have time to post. Might not.

Biscuits, gravy, and cruising

The newest cruisey spot in my neighborhood on Saturday afternoons is clearly the Original Pancake House.

Go for the carbs, stay for the eye candy.

Seriously, I thought I was the requisite homo up on Crown Hill. Earl and Bucko get Ballard, I'm just north of 85th, so I'm Crown Hill. Turns out there's lots of 'mos amblin' around Crown Hill. At least six, not including servers, were making eyes at Phil, Matt, Bird, and myself on their way to the bathroom. Matt and Bird were straight-ly oblivious, but I had to put arm around my man's shoulder to mark my territory.

So back to politics because that stuff is always on my mind.

My mother, who would have voted for John Edwards for President, is backing John McCain--but only if Barack Obama runs. If the vote comes to Clinton and McCain, my mother will skip her first election in a very long time.

My mother is one of those women who holds Hillary up and pastes stories onto her as she sees fit or as suit her political needs. She is worried, she says, about just who Hillary has for advisors and who she would choose to fill her cabinet.

Then I asked my mom the tough questions--can you name the positions in the presidents' cabinet and who currently fills them?

Silence.

Well, she has faith in her president, and that is what really matters.



My mother and faith. If wonder if she recognizes how restricted and small her life has become because of her faith.

Faith in the president.

Faith in the south beach diet.

Faith in Jesus.

Now, back to my complete disillusionment with the DNC. Change is just sloganeering and Clinton is just beaten down.

Sara Whitman over at the Huffington Post puts it best.

The message of hate is getting through to our kids, loud and clear. It's okay to
kill someone who freaks you out because they don't fit a gender role to your
liking.
That is, if they haven't killed themselves.
Ten years old and
full of so much shame he hung himself. Is anyone listening?
In my LGBT
community, we argue about who is more pro LGBT rights, Obama or Clinton.
It's been days since Lawrence King was shot dead. Neither candidate has
issued a statement or said a word. The national media has done a complete pass
on the story.
Both candidates make me sick. Don't worry. I get the message,
loud and clear.
Just one more dead faggot.

American politics while I am alive will always be about straight men.

This is what I wrote to my mother regarding the film Brokeback Mountain:

I also thought I'd tell you why Brokeback has been getting such
acclaim. You saw it, however, when it was super-saturated by the media.
First of all, the film is part-Western (screenplay by the guy who wrote Lonesome
Dove) and Hollywood's love affair with the Western is well-chronicled. By
showing the love between Jack and Ennis, we finally get to see what movies like
Red River (with Montgomery Clift) only hint at. Secondly, the film is
unbelievably subtle. Normally, Ang Lee, the director, is ham-fisted with
his symbolism, but he was pretty restrained in this film. The real
centerpiece of the movie is living life in the closet and how it ruins
lives. The end of the film (which is actually the climax) has two literal
closets--Jack's boyhood closet which contains the two shirts from their time on
the mountain, and Ennis' closet where he keeps the shirts. The latter
closet also has a window in it which looks out onto a field of yellow
flowers. This is the visual contrast Lee has constructed for the film.
Visually, the movie contrasts openness and nature with structures and
society--which is exactly the struggle every gay man must face. Lots of
critics say that this film could be about people of two different races or two
different religions who are star-crossed lovers, but realistically, it couldn't
be. If it were about religion or race, then the audience would be allowed
to feel outrage that the constructs of society are what is keeping the couple
apart. The couple would never despise themselves or their love. The
tragedy of Ennis and Jack begins before either of them meet. We learn that
Ennis was shown a man who was beaten to death because he was gay. He was
taught early on to despise his very nature. Heath Ledger, the actor who
played Ennis, said of his character, —"Fear was instilled in him at an early
age, and so the way he loved disgusted him." He shows that in every frame
of the film, with every mumbled word and every silence. The way their lives fall
apart and the way they hurt those around them (unintentionally or otherwise) is
directly a result of their inability to understand the way they feel. So really,
even though the movie is unbearbly slow at times, it is definitely
intentional--Lee wants the film to sink into the audience's subconscious the way
that the image of a man beaten because he was gay must have stuck in Ennis'
psyche. Also, the fact that the film is about cowboys serves to both
Americanize and de-stereotype the lives of gay men. So that's why its getting
all of its praise.

I'm not gonna lie--I'm sure that I pilfered a line or two of that directly from a couple other sources. This was a letter I was writing to my mom, so forgive me the occasional plagiarism. My relationship with my mother has been strenuous since I came out to her, but occasionally we are afforded moments of understanding. Brokeback Mountain provided one of those moments for us. Since the heart of the film lie in Ledger's performance, I just wanted to take this space to thank him.
Rest In Peace

It's a family affair

First of all, I wanted to thank everyone who has expressed concern and sympathy for my aunt's illness. Last week was very rough. A week ago Wednesday, my aunt recieved impossibly good news. The tumor, the doctor said, was benign. That euphoria quickly gave way to resignation when she learned on Friday that the benign result was from a fat deposit around a much larger cancerous tumor.

My aunt is the member of my extended family to whom I am the closest. I would not be who I am if it weren't for her--when I was three days old, she gave me the name Jeremy. I will choose to look at her illness in the best possible light until all avenues of treatment have been exhausted. Thanks so much for your kind words and prayers, she can most definitely use them in this trying time.

So, speaking of family, this weekend I saw 'For the Bible Tells Me So' at SIFF. It's a documentary that chronicles five families who have grappled with their faith when one of the children comes of the closet. The film hit very close to home, and tears were literally streaming down my face for at least the last half hour. The film is never condescending, but definitely looks down on biblical literalism. It features some great interviews with some of the world's most progressive Christian thinkers, including Nobel Peace Prize winner Desmond Tutu, Peter J. Gomes, and Rev. Larry Keene. They are beacons of sanity making the rational counterpoint to the hellfire and brimstone that Jimmy Swaggart, Jerry Falwell, and their ilk espouse.

I truly feel that the reason I exist on a plane that is "less than" in my family structure is because of the church. My parents cannot reconcile my sexuality with their religion, and, as a result, I am not as worthy of their love as anyone else in my family. I have always placed the blame for this separation squarely at the feet of religion. This film helped me to remember that not all organized religion demonizes gays, and, in fact, the Episcopalian church recently confirmed a gay bishop.

I will be buying a copy of this film for my parents when it released on DVD--chances are they won't make it through the whole thing. They'll shut it off and consider it left-wing propaganda, but this film gave me hope that one day, I will be considered equal to my brothers. That's a hope I haven't felt in a very long time.

(Pictured is me and my niece at my dad's 70th birthday.)