I’ve never been very handy. When it comes to home repairs or assembling gadgets and electronics, I’m not your go-to guy. Some men truly enjoy getting their hands dirty, digging in and accomplishing a task. They get a thrill from the challenge and a sense of accomplishment when the task is completed. Not me. I’d much rather pay someone else to do it for me.
For some reason, I never acquired the desire to learn how to replace a shower head, repair a broken light switch, hang shelves, set up an entertainment system or even replace a light bulb. To this day, I still have to remind myself “lefty loosey, righty tighty” whenever changing a bulb.
My best friend, who will tackle any home repair, task, or challenge and who has completed plenty for me in the past, can’t seem understand why I have absolutely zero desire to learn a new skill or challenge myself. It’s just not part of my DNA, what can I say? But feeling guilty, I recently decided to challenge myself and attempted a few home repairs myself. I settled on two tasks, re-caulk my bathtub and replace the nozzle on my bathroom faucet.
First task, the tub. After asking three people for advice, I finally settled on a razor blade and a screwdriver to peel and pry away the old caulk, then scrubbed the tile down with Tilex and a sponge, let it dry for a few hours and then squeezed the new caulk into the cracks. I used my index finger to even it out, and after about an hour – the task was completed. (I know, the use of an index finger is probably not the professional way of doing things, but it’s fully sealed, clean and looks great.)
Next, the bathroom sink. Getting the nozzle off was the most difficult part, but once I purchased a pair of pliers at the 99 Cent Store, viola. Then it was off to my local hardware store for the replacement part. Thank God I brought the old nozzle with me; there were more options offered than at Baskin Robbins. I quickly tracked down a salesman and had him locate the proper nozzle for me. (I know, you think that’s cheating, but I see it as being resourceful.) Two dollars and thirty-five cents later, I was back home screwing in the new nozzle. Done.
Now, I must admit - both tasks were easier than I originally anticipated, and not very time consuming, if you don’t count the three trips to the store for caulk, pliers and a nozzle. But did I experience an overwhelming sense of accomplishment upon completing these tasks? Certainly not. Did I have a sense of pride in my work? Maybe just a little. Did I enjoy the process? No, not really. Will I conduct future home improvements? Hell no!
So what does get me excited or make me feel like I’ve accomplished something? Knowing I put a smile on someone’s face, making their day brighter, or making someone laugh, cry or think twice about a story I told or an essay I wrote. That’s what makes me feel proud, not a freshly caulked bathtub. Lesson learned - paying someone else to accomplish a task for me - priceless.
Friday, April 08, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Inspiration Comes In Many Forms
In an attempt to kick start my writing, a friend recently emailed me an article on best-selling author David Sedaris. This wasn’t the first, and I’m sure it won’t be the last time Sedaris and his words offered some much needed inspiration.
I was first introduced to David Sedaris by my ex boyfriend, Eric. He was my first love and seemed to fulfill all my boyfriend requirements - blue eyes, a great smile, mid-west upbringing, creative, passionate, oh and let’s not forget - a cheater. (That last quality I was neither seeking nor aware of at the time.)
Anyway, on the ride back from Pismo Beach to Los Angeles, I guess my gift of gab became a bit much, as Eric suggested we listen to a book on tape.
“A book on tape?” I mockingly inquired. “What are we eighty years old?”
This was the most ridiculous suggestion I’d ever heard. I had never listened to a book on tape before. Talk about a snore fest. What were we supposed to do, drive in complete silence and just listen to a book?
Eric said it was his favorite author, David Sedaris, whom he discovered on NPR. Again, I asked with a hint of annoyance, “NPR?” When Eric informed me it stood for National Public Radio, I rolled my eyes thinking dear God; I’d fallen in love with my father – a man who liked boring talk radio. How the hell did that happen?
Immediately I began dreading the two hour drive, although the title of the book did at least pique my interest – Naked. As Sedaris’s monotone yet infections voice engulfed the car and our ears, I instantly became captivated. Within mere minutes, I was laughing out loud, taking pure pleasure in listening to his antics and true tales. By the end of the first chapter, I realized, this is what I wanted to do. I wanted to tell stories, to make people laugh; I wanted to be a famous storyteller.
That was 1997. Ten years later, I finally found the courage to enroll in my first writing class. During the first class, the instructor offered numerous examples of personal essay, which thanks to Sedaris, is now one of the most popular forms of literature. As class was ending, the instructor asked who would like to present their work during the next class. Determined to get my money’s worth, I immediately rasied my hand. Besides, I already had a few stories written, and figured I was way ahead of everyone else.
The following week, there were three of us prepared to present; one female student, another male student and myself. Being perfect gentlemen, we allowed the lady to go first. Well, not only was her work eloquently read, but also impeccably written. She used words I’d never even heard before or understood. Suddenly, I had flashbacks to all those SAT words I wished I had learned. Her essay was so good; I swore this bitch tore it directly from the pages of the New Yorker.
As sweat began dripping down my spine, I gave the other guy a glance that said, “No way in hell am I following her.” He took the hint and presented his essay next - a short story about the pressures of living up to the standards set by his alma mater, Harvard University. Now, I was even more distraught. First a New Yorker linguist, followed by an Ivy League graduate, followed by my dumb ass.
As it came time to present my essay, I offered a disclaimer to all not to judge my third grade writing abilities, and then began reading my essay - a piece about my jaunt to the batting cages as an adult and encountering an overly intimidating team of Little Leaguers. The more I read, the more the other students laughed. When I finished, I looked up to find a room full of smiling faces and promptly felt relieved. It may not have been the best written piece, but it certainly received the best response.
Eight weeks later, when the course ended, the teacher pulled me aside and gave me some life altering advice. She told me to stop worrying about whether or not my writing was smart enough and start submitting my work. With that advice in mind, I sold my first essay a few months later and was officially a published writer.
Today, I still struggle with what to put on the page, and although I am years away (hopefully) from the stature of David Sedaris, I would not be writing if it weren’t for him, the advice of my writing teacher, and that cheating ex of mine who changed my life with a book on tape.
I was first introduced to David Sedaris by my ex boyfriend, Eric. He was my first love and seemed to fulfill all my boyfriend requirements - blue eyes, a great smile, mid-west upbringing, creative, passionate, oh and let’s not forget - a cheater. (That last quality I was neither seeking nor aware of at the time.)
Anyway, on the ride back from Pismo Beach to Los Angeles, I guess my gift of gab became a bit much, as Eric suggested we listen to a book on tape.
“A book on tape?” I mockingly inquired. “What are we eighty years old?”
This was the most ridiculous suggestion I’d ever heard. I had never listened to a book on tape before. Talk about a snore fest. What were we supposed to do, drive in complete silence and just listen to a book?
Eric said it was his favorite author, David Sedaris, whom he discovered on NPR. Again, I asked with a hint of annoyance, “NPR?” When Eric informed me it stood for National Public Radio, I rolled my eyes thinking dear God; I’d fallen in love with my father – a man who liked boring talk radio. How the hell did that happen?
Immediately I began dreading the two hour drive, although the title of the book did at least pique my interest – Naked. As Sedaris’s monotone yet infections voice engulfed the car and our ears, I instantly became captivated. Within mere minutes, I was laughing out loud, taking pure pleasure in listening to his antics and true tales. By the end of the first chapter, I realized, this is what I wanted to do. I wanted to tell stories, to make people laugh; I wanted to be a famous storyteller.
That was 1997. Ten years later, I finally found the courage to enroll in my first writing class. During the first class, the instructor offered numerous examples of personal essay, which thanks to Sedaris, is now one of the most popular forms of literature. As class was ending, the instructor asked who would like to present their work during the next class. Determined to get my money’s worth, I immediately rasied my hand. Besides, I already had a few stories written, and figured I was way ahead of everyone else.
The following week, there were three of us prepared to present; one female student, another male student and myself. Being perfect gentlemen, we allowed the lady to go first. Well, not only was her work eloquently read, but also impeccably written. She used words I’d never even heard before or understood. Suddenly, I had flashbacks to all those SAT words I wished I had learned. Her essay was so good; I swore this bitch tore it directly from the pages of the New Yorker.
As sweat began dripping down my spine, I gave the other guy a glance that said, “No way in hell am I following her.” He took the hint and presented his essay next - a short story about the pressures of living up to the standards set by his alma mater, Harvard University. Now, I was even more distraught. First a New Yorker linguist, followed by an Ivy League graduate, followed by my dumb ass.
As it came time to present my essay, I offered a disclaimer to all not to judge my third grade writing abilities, and then began reading my essay - a piece about my jaunt to the batting cages as an adult and encountering an overly intimidating team of Little Leaguers. The more I read, the more the other students laughed. When I finished, I looked up to find a room full of smiling faces and promptly felt relieved. It may not have been the best written piece, but it certainly received the best response.
Eight weeks later, when the course ended, the teacher pulled me aside and gave me some life altering advice. She told me to stop worrying about whether or not my writing was smart enough and start submitting my work. With that advice in mind, I sold my first essay a few months later and was officially a published writer.
Today, I still struggle with what to put on the page, and although I am years away (hopefully) from the stature of David Sedaris, I would not be writing if it weren’t for him, the advice of my writing teacher, and that cheating ex of mine who changed my life with a book on tape.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Forty days til 40!?!?!?
In 40 days, I’ll be 40-years-old. I remember my mother’s 40th birthday like it was yesterday. I was 10 at the time. There were balloons, cards and signs everywhere that read “Over the Hill.” I thought she was so old. Well now I say, to hell with that – 40 is the new 25.
Forty? How can that be? Age is just a number, a state of mind. That’s what I’ve always told myself and strongly believed, but that belief system is now being majorly tested as this milestone quickly approaches.
Forty. It just sounds so mature. So established. So set-in-your-ways. Yet, I’m none of those things.
When my father was 40, he had an established career, owned a home, and was married with four kids. My career – well, let’s just say it’s currently in a transitional phase, shifting slightly, but with great potential. I still rent. I’m single, not married. And as for kids, well, let’s face it – inside I’m still just a kid myself.
Is this where I imagined myself at 40? I don’t really know. Truthfully, I never gave it much thought. But these days, the clock and calendar constantly nag at my thoughts, wondering what I’ve done with forty years of life. Contemplating the choices I’ve made and reevaluating their outcomes. No wonder I’m developing gray hair.
I guess you could say I’ve taken the road less traveled. I’m a dreamer, a trait which has greatly influenced my life. Over the years, my dreams may have changed slightly, but they are still very much on the horizon. It’s never too late. Dreams do come true. Life can change in an instant. Those are sentiments I still firmly believe in.
Am I content with turning 40? Hardly. Do I have any regrets? Honestly, no - not really. Other than not having sex in college, that I definitely regret. (I was a late bloomer.)
Could I compile a list of all the things I think I should have achieved or obtained by now? Certainly. Like a million dollars in the bank. Or that Pierre Koenig case study home in the hills. Or a successful relationship with the man of my dreams. Or becoming a Carrington. (I told you I was a dreamer.) Maybe I haven’t achieved much in forty years? Or maybe those should be my goals for the next forty years?
Do I wish I had accomplished more and achieved more? Absolutely! But what I have achieved during these first forty years of my life, are truly the things that matter. Like an honest, loving, deeply-connected relationship with my family. A supportive, nurturing, caring circle of friends. Fulfilling my passion project – launching my one-man show Becoming Butch. And living my life openly and honestly, without shame or regret. To me, that’s what spells success.
And when I think of the moments that define my life, the moments I’m most fond of – they never have anything to do with money or material possessions. They are the look of unconditional love on my parents' faces when I informed them that I was gay. The smile on my niece’s faces as we sang and danced together to Beauty and the Beast when they were kids, and now to Lady Gaga as adults. The drive cross-country with my cousin. The adventures shared with my best friend in Italy, Greece and here at home. Officiating my friend's wedding as she married the man of her dreams. The first time I fell in love. The first time I heard my writing made a difference in someone else's life. Those are the moments that define a rich and successful life.
My first forty years have been pretty spectacular; the next forty are going to be even better.
Forty? How can that be? Age is just a number, a state of mind. That’s what I’ve always told myself and strongly believed, but that belief system is now being majorly tested as this milestone quickly approaches.
Forty. It just sounds so mature. So established. So set-in-your-ways. Yet, I’m none of those things.
When my father was 40, he had an established career, owned a home, and was married with four kids. My career – well, let’s just say it’s currently in a transitional phase, shifting slightly, but with great potential. I still rent. I’m single, not married. And as for kids, well, let’s face it – inside I’m still just a kid myself.
Is this where I imagined myself at 40? I don’t really know. Truthfully, I never gave it much thought. But these days, the clock and calendar constantly nag at my thoughts, wondering what I’ve done with forty years of life. Contemplating the choices I’ve made and reevaluating their outcomes. No wonder I’m developing gray hair.
I guess you could say I’ve taken the road less traveled. I’m a dreamer, a trait which has greatly influenced my life. Over the years, my dreams may have changed slightly, but they are still very much on the horizon. It’s never too late. Dreams do come true. Life can change in an instant. Those are sentiments I still firmly believe in.
Am I content with turning 40? Hardly. Do I have any regrets? Honestly, no - not really. Other than not having sex in college, that I definitely regret. (I was a late bloomer.)
Could I compile a list of all the things I think I should have achieved or obtained by now? Certainly. Like a million dollars in the bank. Or that Pierre Koenig case study home in the hills. Or a successful relationship with the man of my dreams. Or becoming a Carrington. (I told you I was a dreamer.) Maybe I haven’t achieved much in forty years? Or maybe those should be my goals for the next forty years?
Do I wish I had accomplished more and achieved more? Absolutely! But what I have achieved during these first forty years of my life, are truly the things that matter. Like an honest, loving, deeply-connected relationship with my family. A supportive, nurturing, caring circle of friends. Fulfilling my passion project – launching my one-man show Becoming Butch. And living my life openly and honestly, without shame or regret. To me, that’s what spells success.
And when I think of the moments that define my life, the moments I’m most fond of – they never have anything to do with money or material possessions. They are the look of unconditional love on my parents' faces when I informed them that I was gay. The smile on my niece’s faces as we sang and danced together to Beauty and the Beast when they were kids, and now to Lady Gaga as adults. The drive cross-country with my cousin. The adventures shared with my best friend in Italy, Greece and here at home. Officiating my friend's wedding as she married the man of her dreams. The first time I fell in love. The first time I heard my writing made a difference in someone else's life. Those are the moments that define a rich and successful life.
My first forty years have been pretty spectacular; the next forty are going to be even better.
Saturday, January 01, 2011
2010 - A Great Year!
Before I set my goals for the New Year, here’s a look back at the Top 10 moments/events that shaped my life in 2010.
10. “A goal a month” was my goal for the year. January – I vowed to not wear the same outfit twice and discovered I have way too many clothes, not to mention 40 pairs of underwear. February was credit card free and really didn’t bother me; April was alcohol free – I think I succeeded, and May marked another run of my one-man show Becoming Butch.
9. P90X – my latest workout adventure - 12 weeks, 6 days a week – it was absolutely brutal. I lost about 10 pounds, but only lasted about 8 weeks. (Maybe I’ll revisit in 2011 – God help me.)
8. Oprah & I celebrated my birthday together at the Kodak Theatre. Well, she was on stage with the 2010 Academy Award winners, while I was sandwiched between a bunch of desperate housewives in the mezzanine section, but at least we were in the same room.
7. “Whatchoo talkin’ bout Willis?” – Poor Gary Coleman – my childhood hero passed away. It was a sad day.
6. “Baby, I’m a firework” – with lyrics like, “Do you know that there’s still a chance for you, cause there’s a spark in you” and “Maybe your reason why all the doors are closed, so you can open one that leads to the perfect road” Katy Perry’s Firework officially became my theme song.
5. It Gets Better – with the tragic loss of so many young lives this year, the It Gets Better campaign rasied awareness about the struggles gay youth continue to face and urged many of us to come forward offering advice and hope.
4. Pushing the envelope – my latest personal essay, published by ENR – Engineering News-Record - was a short story about my relationship with my father and our differences. Who knew the word “gay” would stir up so much attention and cause quite the controversy in this rather conservative magazine?
3. Becoming Butch 2010 – my one-man show had another successful run at the Celebration Theatre (thanks to all who attended) in May of 2010, and even earned me the title of Outstanding Solo Performance by StageSceneLA.
2. Setting Sail – After that successful run, I was asked to perform Becoming Butch aboard the Celebrity Equinox cruise ship for Atlantis Events. 17 days at sea, 13 cities, 6 performances, and countless memories. It was the opportunity of a lifetime!
1. Family & Friends – None of my goals would ever be achieved if it weren’t for the love and support of my family and friends. One of the year’s biggest highlights was performing my show while my mother, sisters and nieces were in the audience watching and supporting me. I’ve been blessed with a supportive and loving family and an amazing group of friends, who are now part of my extended family. Thank you all for your continued love and support – I couldn’t do it without you.
10. “A goal a month” was my goal for the year. January – I vowed to not wear the same outfit twice and discovered I have way too many clothes, not to mention 40 pairs of underwear. February was credit card free and really didn’t bother me; April was alcohol free – I think I succeeded, and May marked another run of my one-man show Becoming Butch.
9. P90X – my latest workout adventure - 12 weeks, 6 days a week – it was absolutely brutal. I lost about 10 pounds, but only lasted about 8 weeks. (Maybe I’ll revisit in 2011 – God help me.)
8. Oprah & I celebrated my birthday together at the Kodak Theatre. Well, she was on stage with the 2010 Academy Award winners, while I was sandwiched between a bunch of desperate housewives in the mezzanine section, but at least we were in the same room.
7. “Whatchoo talkin’ bout Willis?” – Poor Gary Coleman – my childhood hero passed away. It was a sad day.
6. “Baby, I’m a firework” – with lyrics like, “Do you know that there’s still a chance for you, cause there’s a spark in you” and “Maybe your reason why all the doors are closed, so you can open one that leads to the perfect road” Katy Perry’s Firework officially became my theme song.
5. It Gets Better – with the tragic loss of so many young lives this year, the It Gets Better campaign rasied awareness about the struggles gay youth continue to face and urged many of us to come forward offering advice and hope.
4. Pushing the envelope – my latest personal essay, published by ENR – Engineering News-Record - was a short story about my relationship with my father and our differences. Who knew the word “gay” would stir up so much attention and cause quite the controversy in this rather conservative magazine?
3. Becoming Butch 2010 – my one-man show had another successful run at the Celebration Theatre (thanks to all who attended) in May of 2010, and even earned me the title of Outstanding Solo Performance by StageSceneLA.
2. Setting Sail – After that successful run, I was asked to perform Becoming Butch aboard the Celebrity Equinox cruise ship for Atlantis Events. 17 days at sea, 13 cities, 6 performances, and countless memories. It was the opportunity of a lifetime!
1. Family & Friends – None of my goals would ever be achieved if it weren’t for the love and support of my family and friends. One of the year’s biggest highlights was performing my show while my mother, sisters and nieces were in the audience watching and supporting me. I’ve been blessed with a supportive and loving family and an amazing group of friends, who are now part of my extended family. Thank you all for your continued love and support – I couldn’t do it without you.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Like Father, Like Son
My father and I are two very different men. Although we share the same name and I inherited his cerulean eyes and dare I admit it - a glimpse of his temper - the similarities end there. We rarely agree and almost always end up in an argument. Our relationship is a complex one, but underneath it all – we are a father and son who also share a deep love, respect and admiration for each other, not to mention a piece of steel high atop the Manhattan skyline.
See the link below to read my latest essay published in the December 20, 2010 issue of ENR magazine.
http://enr.construction.com/opinions/viewpoint/2010/1215-SteelInscribed.asp
See the link below to read my latest essay published in the December 20, 2010 issue of ENR magazine.
http://enr.construction.com/opinions/viewpoint/2010/1215-SteelInscribed.asp
Friday, November 19, 2010
Unconditional Love
Last month, a mother allowed her five-year-old son to dress as Daphne from Scooby-Doo for Halloween. She then documented the reaction her son received at his Christian pre-school on her blog, and the discussion began. Should she really have allowed this? He’s five. What message does that send? But it’s his favorite TV show. Daphne is a girl, he’s a boy. But it was Halloween.
Maybe she should have encouraged him to be Scobby instead? Been there, done that. Okay, well then what about Shaggy? Maybe the goatee proved problematic. But Daphne? A female character for a five-year old boy? It’s not like his mother painted his nails or put him in make-up. It was just a simple costume. So why all the controversy?
She’s his mom; it’s her responsibility to protect her child. It’s her responsibility to set an example. Yes, but it’s also her responsibility to raise her child with unconditional love. After all, that’s what really matters – unconditional love and acceptance. Aren’t we all entitled to that?
I spent so many years of my life fearful of what my parents might think or say if they knew I was gay. They were and still are devout Catholics, staunch Republicans, and fairly conservative. A gay son? Their church says it’s wrong. Republicans don’t support that “lifestyle.” It’s undeniably liberal. They’ll never accept it. Yet growing up, my parents walked a very fine line between allowing me to be myself while steering me in the so-called “right direction.”
As a child I played with Barbie dolls, had my own baton, participated in cheerleading practice with my sisters, and even learned how to make hook-rugs and pillows – a craft my mother taught me and one I absolutely loved. When I was ten-years-old, I danced around the house re-enacting scenes from my favorite film Fame (yes, it was rated R, but I so desperately wanted to see it, my mother finally conceded and took me) and became an avid fan of soap operas, obsessed with General Hospital and Dynasty. Not once was any of this ever frowned upon. (Okay, well maybe the dancing was, considering it was usually accompanied by me singing at the top of my lungs.)
On the other hand, they did persuade me to partake in traditional masculine roles as well, such as Little League. Okay, truth is my father forced me to play. I had no say. But I hated it so much that after three torturous seasons, he finally let me quit. Then a year later, my parents bought me a hockey stick to play roller hockey with all the other boys in our neighborhood. I hated that even more. So, then they bought me a pair of bright yellow headphones so I could just roller skate up and down the street bopping back and forth to my favorite music. That I totally enjoyed.
By my teen years, it was obvious I was not an athlete. My parents accepted that and accepted me, but along with puberty, came an understanding that I was definitely different. This was a side I didn’t share with my parents though, because different was certainly not accepted.
At twenty-nine, I finally mustered up the courage to come out to my parents. I had no idea how they would react. My assumption was my mother would start crying; my father would start yelling and maybe even throw me out of the house. Instead, as soon as I uttered those two little words – “I’m gay” – two words that took more courage, strength and energy than I had ever required, my mother immediately responded by saying, “So?” and my father instantly followed with, “So, what do you want money?”
That’s unconditional love. It was always present, has always been and still remains today. It took me almost thirty years to realize that, but I remain forever grateful that my parents didn’t care what their church preached, what their political leaders advised or even what their neighbors would think. They loved and still love me unconditionally, no matter what. So what’s wrong with another mother demonstrating unconditional love for her five-year old son and letting him dress as Daphne for Halloween? Absolutely nothing at all.
Maybe she should have encouraged him to be Scobby instead? Been there, done that. Okay, well then what about Shaggy? Maybe the goatee proved problematic. But Daphne? A female character for a five-year old boy? It’s not like his mother painted his nails or put him in make-up. It was just a simple costume. So why all the controversy?
She’s his mom; it’s her responsibility to protect her child. It’s her responsibility to set an example. Yes, but it’s also her responsibility to raise her child with unconditional love. After all, that’s what really matters – unconditional love and acceptance. Aren’t we all entitled to that?
I spent so many years of my life fearful of what my parents might think or say if they knew I was gay. They were and still are devout Catholics, staunch Republicans, and fairly conservative. A gay son? Their church says it’s wrong. Republicans don’t support that “lifestyle.” It’s undeniably liberal. They’ll never accept it. Yet growing up, my parents walked a very fine line between allowing me to be myself while steering me in the so-called “right direction.”
As a child I played with Barbie dolls, had my own baton, participated in cheerleading practice with my sisters, and even learned how to make hook-rugs and pillows – a craft my mother taught me and one I absolutely loved. When I was ten-years-old, I danced around the house re-enacting scenes from my favorite film Fame (yes, it was rated R, but I so desperately wanted to see it, my mother finally conceded and took me) and became an avid fan of soap operas, obsessed with General Hospital and Dynasty. Not once was any of this ever frowned upon. (Okay, well maybe the dancing was, considering it was usually accompanied by me singing at the top of my lungs.)
On the other hand, they did persuade me to partake in traditional masculine roles as well, such as Little League. Okay, truth is my father forced me to play. I had no say. But I hated it so much that after three torturous seasons, he finally let me quit. Then a year later, my parents bought me a hockey stick to play roller hockey with all the other boys in our neighborhood. I hated that even more. So, then they bought me a pair of bright yellow headphones so I could just roller skate up and down the street bopping back and forth to my favorite music. That I totally enjoyed.
By my teen years, it was obvious I was not an athlete. My parents accepted that and accepted me, but along with puberty, came an understanding that I was definitely different. This was a side I didn’t share with my parents though, because different was certainly not accepted.
At twenty-nine, I finally mustered up the courage to come out to my parents. I had no idea how they would react. My assumption was my mother would start crying; my father would start yelling and maybe even throw me out of the house. Instead, as soon as I uttered those two little words – “I’m gay” – two words that took more courage, strength and energy than I had ever required, my mother immediately responded by saying, “So?” and my father instantly followed with, “So, what do you want money?”
That’s unconditional love. It was always present, has always been and still remains today. It took me almost thirty years to realize that, but I remain forever grateful that my parents didn’t care what their church preached, what their political leaders advised or even what their neighbors would think. They loved and still love me unconditionally, no matter what. So what’s wrong with another mother demonstrating unconditional love for her five-year old son and letting him dress as Daphne for Halloween? Absolutely nothing at all.
Thursday, November 04, 2010
Halloween Jock
Growing up, I always hated Halloween. (Okay, well maybe I enjoyed it up until I was six when I dressed as Howdy Doody, but after that, it became a nightmare, and not a ghoulish enjoyable one.) Between the mysterious faces disguised by horror masks and teenagers running rampant through the streets, it was the scariest day of the year. Our neighborhood literally turned into a war zone on Halloween, but instead of bullets and bombs, we dealt with eggs whizzing through the air and shaving cream sprayed everywhere and on everyone.
But since moving to California, far away from the shaving cream wars and salmonella slime, I’ve actually begun to enjoy Halloween again. And it seems I’m not the only one. Over the years, Halloween has become bigger, better and bolder. Every adult I know now hunts for the perfect costume, spending way too much time and money on just the right outfit to enhance their physique, and of course, the gays have taken this to the extreme, going all out, while usually letting it all hang out. The more flesh you flash, the better your costume.
Well, I don’t normally show much skin considering my six pack of abs and perky pecs are still a work in progress (they’re coming along), but lately I’ve noticed a trend in my costume selection. My need to become butch, or at least be perceived that way, seems to rear its head every Halloween as I embrace my athletic side.
Two years ago, I eagerly made my entrance at a Halloween party dressed as a soccer player. It was the first time I showed interest in anything remotely related to soccer since David Beckham posed in his Armani underwear, but I must admit - I looked great and felt great. Then last year, I opted for a football player. I mean, my costume was that of a football player. Although come to think of it, I did hook up with a guy who was also dressed as a football player, so yes, I certainly scored in that costume. So this year, I once again found myself embracing both my athletic and masculine sides and went as a wrestler. I’m not so sure how masculine a skin tight singlet is, but it certainly did showcase my assets.
Well, as I was waiting in line for the bathroom at a bar this Halloween, a self proclaimed straight man confessed to me that he wrestled in high school and wanted to know if I did as well. I said no, admitting I was never an athlete in high school, that’s why I dress like one now. And then it dawned on me - that’s exactly what makes Halloween so much fun. For one day, we get to live out a little fantasy, play a different role, step into someone else’s shoes and become someone or something we’re not. And I really enjoy playing the part of a jock for a day, or maybe I just really enjoy wearing a jock. Who knows, but either way, it works for me. I get to play the part and sometimes play the field without all the hard work - it’s perfect. So now I’m thinking baseball or rugby for next Halloween.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
You Light Up My Life
One of the first records I ever owned (yes, I know I’m dating myself) was Debbie Boone’s debut hit You Light Up My Life. (My first record was actually Glenn Campbell’s Rhinestone Cowboy - I know, for a kid from Queens, I had very eclectic taste in music.)
Anyway, yesterday Debbie Boone appeared on Oprah and sang her once ubiquitous smash hit single, which back in 1977, spent a then record ten weeks at number one on the Billboard charts. Well, as soon as Oprah started showing clips of Debbie from the 70’s, I had an immediate flashback to my childhood and the day my mother purchased that record for me.
One afternoon, after school, we crossed the street and stopped in Woolworth’s, and there in the front of the store, was a glass case with all the 45 records on display. I was only six or seven at the time, but I was old enough to read and promptly spotted a stack of You Light Up My Life records. I was so excited, I begged my mother to buy me one. I think back then a single only cost about 99 cents apiece, so mom was happy to oblige. As soon as we got home, I raced downstairs to our basement, plugged in our electric red plastic jukebox, carefully removed the record from its sleeve so as not to scratch it, and gently placed the disc on the turntable. Nervously I placed the needle on the edge of the record and instantly heard Debbie singing, “So many nights, I sit by my window…” Well, from that moment on, that song played over and over again for so many days and so many nights, with me singing along each time. God, I LOVED that song.
My older sisters actually liked the song at first as well, but then again, who didn’t? But in our house You Light Up My Life was heard day in and day out for weeks on end. If it wasn’t being heard on the radio or played on our jukebox, I was singing it at the top of my lungs. I knew ever word, note and dramatic pause. (But of course.) It eventually got so bad, my sisters banned me from singing the song and whenever we heard it on the radio, much to my disappointment, they immediately changed the station.
I actually forgot about the significance of You Light Up My Life in my own life until yesterday’s episode of Oprah. It truly was my first favorite song (sorry Glenn). And as the lyrics state, “It can’t be wrong, when it feels so right, cause you light up my life” - Debbie Boone and her hit single certainly lit up my childhood.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
There is hope!
As someone who was routinely harassed for being gay in high school and commonly endured derogatory statements about gay people throughout my college years as well, it deeply saddens me to learn that almost 20 years later, this behavior continues with dire consequences. Within the past month, four teenage boys in the US have sadly taken their own lives as a result of being ridiculed in school for being gay.
As a young boy growing up in the 80’s in the masculine suburbs of New York City, society constantly confirmed for me that being gay was possibly the worst thing imaginable. I was teased in grade school for the way I walked and talked and upon enertering high school – an all male private Catholic prep school – the teasing and taunting grew even worse. During freshman year, I was continually called a faggot both behind my back and directly to my face.
Fear overtook my thoughts and actions – I never once fought back or stood up for myself, because deep down inside, even though I hadn’t admitted it, I knew I was gay. The name calling and harassment ravaged my self esteem and my pride. I shut down, desperately tried to go unnoticed and fortunately found an escape in my favorite TV shows. Thank God for my deep-seated fear of death, otherwise suicide could have been an option for me as well.
In college the taunting subsided, but the sense of feeling like an outcast remained. The badgering took on a different tone. Instead of being called a faggot, my fellow classmates would just condescendingly ask; “You’re not gay are you?” Once again, fear controlled me, always responding with a stern no.
That was almost twenty years ago, unfortunately it seems little has changed in our school systems since then. Earlier this month, after experiencing endless harassment and bullying during his freshman year at Greensburg High School, 15 year-old Billy Lucas of Indiana hung himself in his family’s barn. Classmates openly admitted that students continually bullied Billy, calling him “fag and stuff like that” even though he never admitted to being gay. On September 19th, 13-year-old Seth Walsh of California, having experienced endless anti-gay taunts from his classmates, hung himself from a tree. He spent nine days in a coma before passing away. A few days later, another 13-year-old eighth-grader, Asher Brown of Texas, took his own life by shooting himself with a pistol. He endured endless torture from four fellow students at Hamilton Middle School simply because he was gay. Asher’s parents complained to school officials about the situation, but now it appears those complaints fell on deaf ears. And now 18-year-old Rutgers University freshman, Tyler Clementi, whose college roommate secretly broadcast images of him kissing another boy over the internet, took his life by jumping off the George Washington Bridge.
This teasing, taunting and subsequent torture needs to stop. How many more innocent young lives do we need to lose as a result of this type of bullying? How many more families need to be destroyed by the ignorant actions of others? We must establish policies and procedures in every school across the nation so that kids who are being harassed, whether for their sexuality or other reasons, have a place to turn to for comfort, solace and most importantly safety. A dialogue needs to be established. Action needs to be taken. School administrations must recognize that every child has the right to feel safe at school and deserves protection regardless of their race, religion, sexuality or sexual preference. And we as a society must step forward and let this generation of gay and lesbian youth know that suicide is not the answer.
As someone who has been through the trenches and back – I know first hand that there is hope. As a teenager, I never imagined living the life of an openly, proud, gay man – but here I am – happy, healthy and surrounded by friends and family who love and support me. There is indeed hope. We must find a way to let these kids know it, prove it to them and protect them. We must take action now and honor Billy, Seth, Asher, Tyler and all those who came before them, by putting an end to these unnecessary losses once and for all.
As a young boy growing up in the 80’s in the masculine suburbs of New York City, society constantly confirmed for me that being gay was possibly the worst thing imaginable. I was teased in grade school for the way I walked and talked and upon enertering high school – an all male private Catholic prep school – the teasing and taunting grew even worse. During freshman year, I was continually called a faggot both behind my back and directly to my face.
Fear overtook my thoughts and actions – I never once fought back or stood up for myself, because deep down inside, even though I hadn’t admitted it, I knew I was gay. The name calling and harassment ravaged my self esteem and my pride. I shut down, desperately tried to go unnoticed and fortunately found an escape in my favorite TV shows. Thank God for my deep-seated fear of death, otherwise suicide could have been an option for me as well.
In college the taunting subsided, but the sense of feeling like an outcast remained. The badgering took on a different tone. Instead of being called a faggot, my fellow classmates would just condescendingly ask; “You’re not gay are you?” Once again, fear controlled me, always responding with a stern no.
That was almost twenty years ago, unfortunately it seems little has changed in our school systems since then. Earlier this month, after experiencing endless harassment and bullying during his freshman year at Greensburg High School, 15 year-old Billy Lucas of Indiana hung himself in his family’s barn. Classmates openly admitted that students continually bullied Billy, calling him “fag and stuff like that” even though he never admitted to being gay. On September 19th, 13-year-old Seth Walsh of California, having experienced endless anti-gay taunts from his classmates, hung himself from a tree. He spent nine days in a coma before passing away. A few days later, another 13-year-old eighth-grader, Asher Brown of Texas, took his own life by shooting himself with a pistol. He endured endless torture from four fellow students at Hamilton Middle School simply because he was gay. Asher’s parents complained to school officials about the situation, but now it appears those complaints fell on deaf ears. And now 18-year-old Rutgers University freshman, Tyler Clementi, whose college roommate secretly broadcast images of him kissing another boy over the internet, took his life by jumping off the George Washington Bridge.
This teasing, taunting and subsequent torture needs to stop. How many more innocent young lives do we need to lose as a result of this type of bullying? How many more families need to be destroyed by the ignorant actions of others? We must establish policies and procedures in every school across the nation so that kids who are being harassed, whether for their sexuality or other reasons, have a place to turn to for comfort, solace and most importantly safety. A dialogue needs to be established. Action needs to be taken. School administrations must recognize that every child has the right to feel safe at school and deserves protection regardless of their race, religion, sexuality or sexual preference. And we as a society must step forward and let this generation of gay and lesbian youth know that suicide is not the answer.
As someone who has been through the trenches and back – I know first hand that there is hope. As a teenager, I never imagined living the life of an openly, proud, gay man – but here I am – happy, healthy and surrounded by friends and family who love and support me. There is indeed hope. We must find a way to let these kids know it, prove it to them and protect them. We must take action now and honor Billy, Seth, Asher, Tyler and all those who came before them, by putting an end to these unnecessary losses once and for all.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Getting Pumped with the P90X
Since the start of the New Year, I’ve been taunted and tormented on a daily basis by body transformations, sculpted ab muscles and the belief that in 90 days, I too could transform my 5’7” frame from flab to fab all thanks to a program known as P90X. Yes, the ubiquitous infomercial featuring fitness trainer Tony Horton has appeared on my television set almost every morning since January 1st.
As I lay in bed, slowly trying to muster up enough energy to rise from under the security and warmth of my down comforter to begin my day, I grab the remote, click on the TV and regardless of the channel – I’m greeted by Tony and his crew of sculptured clones. “Before and after” photos jar me awake offering plenty of inspiration, especially given the fact that when I do finally remove myself from the mattress, my image in the bedroom mirror resembles a carbon copy of the “before” images just witnessed on screen.
Weighing in at 142 pounds and standing at just 5’7”, most would consider me already in good shape. But the roll of flab around my stomach and the love handles that no one seems to be grabbing these days except for me - need to go once and for all. Besides, my desire for sculpted abs, bulging biceps and prominent pecs recently became even more pressing given the number of candles that graced my birthday cake this past March. So after years of working out with minimum results, I figured it was finally time to get serious and resigned myself to the fact that this was certainly more than just a coincidence – the universe and Tony were clearly trying to tell me something. “Get out of bed, get off your ass and get going.” So, that’s exactly what I did and started the P90X program.
Day 1 – Monday morning, 7am sharp – Chest and Back. (Ugh, I am so not a morning person!) Out of bed and onto the floor of my apartment, I laced up my sneakers and pressed play on the DVD player. With my chin up bar securely in place, a glass of water on the bed side table, and my inner voice asking “why?” - I was begrudgingly ready for one hour of pure hell. Surprisingly, I survived - though while Tony and his team knocked out 20 wide grip pull-ups with pure ease, I struggled to complete a mere 4. The push-up portion proved much more successful and after 50 minutes, I actually pounded out a variety of 160 push-ups. I know; I impressed myself as well.
Day 2 proved a bit more challenging – Plyometrics. No, this is not a physics lesson, just an hour of endless lunges, squats and jumps. This was indeed “the mother of all workouts” – as it’s so aptly refereed to by Tony Horton himself. My legs were literally on fire, once they finally stopped trembling.
Day 3 focused on arms and shoulders. Thanks to a few bootcamp classes, this hour seemed to fly by since I was already familiar with most of the routines and shockingly survived the workout quite nicely. With my confidence boosted a bit, I examined my shirtless torso in the mirror - not bad I thought. Only three days in and already I’m feeling great, looking good and ready for my “after” photo. Oh, did I mention the “after” image doesn’t come for another 12 weeks?!?! Yes, 12 weeks. 6 days a week. Welcome to the P90X workout.
I was actually feeling pretty optimistic though about my prospects, until day 4 arrived – Yoga Extreme. Now, I’ve taken a handful of yoga classes in my lifetime, and survived each of them - until now. Yoga Extreme is meant to last an hour and a half, well my workout came to a crashing halt at the 20 minute mark. I literally collapsed and crumbled into a ball on the floor of my apartment as every muscle in my body, and some that I never even knew existed, ached in pain. I was completely defeated and if I heard Tony utter the words “downward dog” one more time, my fist would have gone through the television screen, if only I had the strength. Desperately, I reached for the remote with every ounce of energy I had left, shut the TV off and rolled right back into bed. I was P90X’d out!
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Me and The Boys of Baseball History
While recently watching a Dodger game on TV, a friend inquired: “What’s this - another attempt at trying to become butch?” I was highly insulted. Although I may not enjoy playing baseball, truth be told I’m terrible at it; I actually really enjoy watching the game.
As a teenager I basically grew up in a ballpark. My family had season tickets to Shea Stadium, home of the New York Mets. From age 13 to 18, I attended every home game the Mets played. My older sister, Jacqueline, was a huge fan and got me hooked as well. She was madly in love with outfielder Lee Mazzilli, while I had my eye on second baseman Wally Backman, who possessed the best buns in all of baseball. (Backman’s bubble butt aside, I really did enjoy the sport though, honestly!)
As season ticket holders, we were fortunate enough to secure two highly coveted tickets to Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. My parents made the ultimate sacrifice and let me and my sister attend the game, but we never imagined we would witness history being made that October evening.
With the Red Sox leading the series three games to two, Game 6 was crucial. At the bottom of the 9th inning, the score was tied at 3 forcing the game into overtime. During the top of the 10th, the Red Sox pulled ahead and took the lead, 5-3. But the Mets were not about to go down easily, and rallied in the bottom of the 10th to miraculously tie the game 5-5. With Ray Knight on third base representing the winning run, Mookie Wilson stepped up to bat. Shea Stadium was literally rocking as Mookie, with a full count, faced another pitch and hit a slow infielder grounder up the first base line. It looked like an easy out and the end of the inning, but Red Sox first baseman Bill Buckner misjudged the ball. As the ball rolled under Buckner’s glove, Ray Knight jubilantly crossed home plate and scored the game winning run.
Fans erupted in joyous mayhem as the Mets pulled off a miracle. Like most in the stadium that evening, my sister and I experienced a surge of elation knowing we just witnessed one of the greatest games in baseball history. Two days later, we watched the final game of the series from our living room sofa as the Mets won and claimed the title of World Series Champs.
New York City hosted a ticker-tape parade the next day to celebrate the Mets victory. After hours of pleading with my parents, they actually agreed to let me cut school and attend the festivities. I was shocked yet thrilled; this was as miraculous as the Mets victory.
The next morning, my mother, sister and I boarded the M train from Queens for downtown Manhattan. We arrived to a delightful disaster as thousands of people crowded the narrow, congested streets of lower Manhattan. Police barricades lined the sidewalks in an attempt to contain the crowds, but served little purpose. As the procession of cars began heading north on Broadway, fans poured into the street for a closer look at their World Series Champs. My sister and I were right there amid the congratulatory chaos, snapping photos and calling out to our favorite players. Covered in white streamers and paper that endlessly cascaded down from every skyscraper above, we felt like we were in heaven.
Later that evening, back home in Queens, reality reared its ugly head. Tomorrow, I would have to return to school and face the wrath of Brother Roy, the Dean of Disciple. I told my mother I needed a note stating I was sick and explaining why I missed school, but she refused to lie. So my father wrote the note instead, which simply read: “Please excuse my son, Vincent James Arcuri II, from school yesterday as he had to escort his mother to a civic function.” Seriously?!?
When I arrived at school the next morning, an announcement was delivered that anyone who missed class yesterday was to report to the gymnasium. There, some 350 proud, teenage boys – all Mets fans, all still ecstatic from our team’s victory - assembled to face Brother Roy and detention. I felt an overwhelming sense of camaraderie and for once I was “one of the guys.” So I tossed that embarrassing note my father wrote, joined my fellow classmates and gladly served time for my team.
Finally Fitting Into My Past
As young men dressed in oxford shirts and ties roamed the hallways, hormones and testosterone raged through their pubescent male bodies causing facial hair, deep manly voices and uncontrollable erections. That was life at Archbishop Molloy High School, an all boys’ private Catholic prep school in Queens, New York. Like most high school settings, those corridors were crammed with cliques – from jocks to stoners, preppies to rockers, and hipsters to geeks. Where did I fit in? I didn’t.
With my 80’s bouffant, perfectly parted to the side courtesy of a mound of mousse, paisley tie and Bass Weejuns, my fashion style was an amalgamation of The Preppy Handbook and Greenwich Village gay. No, I wasn’t out, but even completely closeted, it was still pretty obvious. As a result, I felt isolated, tormented both inside and out. If I wasn’t called a faggot behind my back, the question was raised rather rudely right to my face: “You’re not a fucking faggot are you?”
At Molloy, you could be smart or stupid, fat or skinny, popular or a geek, it didn’t matter, you’d still find your place; but the one thing you couldn’t be was gay. Out of a class of roughly 320 students, I had the distinct disability of being one of the rare few.
During my freshmen and sophomore years, I felt completely alone, an outsider, lost. I hated high school and dreaded each day as I entered that brick façade adorned with its gigantic cross that was supposed to represent comfort, yet offered little to no solace from the verbal taunts of faggot, fairy and fruitcake. All of which left a scar on both my pride and my self-confidence.
By junior year, I solidified a friendship with a guy who also happened to have the biggest muscles in the entire class. Okay, so maybe I did have a slight crush, but his friendship shielded me from the wisecracks which were now kept at bay or at least out of earshot. And although I now had my own circle of friends, there was still no one quite like me, until I met Sean.
While I roamed the halls with my head down, desperate to avoid conflict or confrontation, Sean, with his punk rocker hair and Buddy Holly glasses, held his head high with an air of confidence. I admired his bravado, but envied it at the same time. (How was he pulling this off?)
Together, we shared a secret kinship, an unspoken understanding, yet we kept our friendship at a distance. In fact, the only time we ever hung out was when we cut gym class together at Sean’s urging. (I usually forged a note from my father claiming I sprained my wrist and couldn’t participate.) But even then when it was just the two of us, our friendship remained strictly on the surface, never a mention of our silent bond.
That was almost 20 years ago; I hadn’t seen Sean since until he recently tracked me down through a networking website. Upon receiving his initial e-mail I was thrilled to discover he too now lived in Los Angeles. Through the years Sean had always remained in the back of my mind – wondering where he was and what became of him.
We e-mailed back and forth for several days, quickly relying on old habits, never mentioning or even broaching the subject of sexuality, yet once again we shared an unspoken knowledge. After a week of e-mails, we met for brunch. Our mutual anticipation and excitement was obvious as we greeted each other with a hug, both visibly elated to finally express ourselves. We spent the next three hours speaking openly of our lives and our loves. Sean even pulled out our senior yearbook and instantly we digressed to high school boys (okay, girls) pointing out all the cute guys and bonding over our mutual adoration for Chad Hamilton.
Grateful for our reconnection, we also shared regrets – wishing our friendship had flourished 20 years earlier. Sean revealed he also faced humiliation during freshman year, but his older brother quickly helped alleviate the situation and confessed that his so-called air of confidence was strictly an act. I wondered why we couldn’t have shared these insights and this connection back in high school.
We talked about it at length, but never concluded our conversation until a few days later when Sean e-mailed me with an apology. When I asked why he felt the need to do so, he confided that he was fascinated by me in high school, (his words, not mine) but needed to keep me at arms length. He was sorry we couldn’t have been friends, because God forbid we were, we would have once again been targeted as faggots and freaks and faced even further ridicule and humiliation. Sad, but true.
I responded candidly that I couldn’t care less about what happened in high school, an apology wasn’t necessary because I realized in reconnecting with Sean, I wasn’t alone. Knowing that he experienced all the same conflicts, issues and struggles that I had at Molloy, altered my entire perception. I did fit in – with Sean. Together, we went through the trenches and came out survivors, and now we could be true friends. And unlike the rest of our graduating class, we both still have full heads of hair, 30-inch waists, and are completely content – it’s good to be gay!
With my 80’s bouffant, perfectly parted to the side courtesy of a mound of mousse, paisley tie and Bass Weejuns, my fashion style was an amalgamation of The Preppy Handbook and Greenwich Village gay. No, I wasn’t out, but even completely closeted, it was still pretty obvious. As a result, I felt isolated, tormented both inside and out. If I wasn’t called a faggot behind my back, the question was raised rather rudely right to my face: “You’re not a fucking faggot are you?”
At Molloy, you could be smart or stupid, fat or skinny, popular or a geek, it didn’t matter, you’d still find your place; but the one thing you couldn’t be was gay. Out of a class of roughly 320 students, I had the distinct disability of being one of the rare few.
During my freshmen and sophomore years, I felt completely alone, an outsider, lost. I hated high school and dreaded each day as I entered that brick façade adorned with its gigantic cross that was supposed to represent comfort, yet offered little to no solace from the verbal taunts of faggot, fairy and fruitcake. All of which left a scar on both my pride and my self-confidence.
By junior year, I solidified a friendship with a guy who also happened to have the biggest muscles in the entire class. Okay, so maybe I did have a slight crush, but his friendship shielded me from the wisecracks which were now kept at bay or at least out of earshot. And although I now had my own circle of friends, there was still no one quite like me, until I met Sean.
While I roamed the halls with my head down, desperate to avoid conflict or confrontation, Sean, with his punk rocker hair and Buddy Holly glasses, held his head high with an air of confidence. I admired his bravado, but envied it at the same time. (How was he pulling this off?)
Together, we shared a secret kinship, an unspoken understanding, yet we kept our friendship at a distance. In fact, the only time we ever hung out was when we cut gym class together at Sean’s urging. (I usually forged a note from my father claiming I sprained my wrist and couldn’t participate.) But even then when it was just the two of us, our friendship remained strictly on the surface, never a mention of our silent bond.
That was almost 20 years ago; I hadn’t seen Sean since until he recently tracked me down through a networking website. Upon receiving his initial e-mail I was thrilled to discover he too now lived in Los Angeles. Through the years Sean had always remained in the back of my mind – wondering where he was and what became of him.
We e-mailed back and forth for several days, quickly relying on old habits, never mentioning or even broaching the subject of sexuality, yet once again we shared an unspoken knowledge. After a week of e-mails, we met for brunch. Our mutual anticipation and excitement was obvious as we greeted each other with a hug, both visibly elated to finally express ourselves. We spent the next three hours speaking openly of our lives and our loves. Sean even pulled out our senior yearbook and instantly we digressed to high school boys (okay, girls) pointing out all the cute guys and bonding over our mutual adoration for Chad Hamilton.
Grateful for our reconnection, we also shared regrets – wishing our friendship had flourished 20 years earlier. Sean revealed he also faced humiliation during freshman year, but his older brother quickly helped alleviate the situation and confessed that his so-called air of confidence was strictly an act. I wondered why we couldn’t have shared these insights and this connection back in high school.
We talked about it at length, but never concluded our conversation until a few days later when Sean e-mailed me with an apology. When I asked why he felt the need to do so, he confided that he was fascinated by me in high school, (his words, not mine) but needed to keep me at arms length. He was sorry we couldn’t have been friends, because God forbid we were, we would have once again been targeted as faggots and freaks and faced even further ridicule and humiliation. Sad, but true.
I responded candidly that I couldn’t care less about what happened in high school, an apology wasn’t necessary because I realized in reconnecting with Sean, I wasn’t alone. Knowing that he experienced all the same conflicts, issues and struggles that I had at Molloy, altered my entire perception. I did fit in – with Sean. Together, we went through the trenches and came out survivors, and now we could be true friends. And unlike the rest of our graduating class, we both still have full heads of hair, 30-inch waists, and are completely content – it’s good to be gay!
Can I Be Brief?
What made me gay? Was it nature? Nurture? Did my mother have a stressful pregnancy? (A theory I once read.) Or was it the fact that I had three older sisters, who influenced everything from my TV viewing habits — General Hospital — to my musical interests — The Go-Go’s — to my taste in men — Scott Baio. (The Charles in Charge years of course, not the present!)
Who really knows? And until scientific research unmasks the genetic code that predisposed me to an affinity for the same sex, we may never know, but I have a theory: it was the International Male catalog!
At the impressionable age of 12, this mail—or rather “male”—order catalog arrived on my family’s picture-perfect suburban street in Queens, New York and landed in our mailbox. We were quite accustomed to receiving catalogs. My mother, Lois, was addicted to catalog shopping—JC Penney, Lillian Vernon, Spiegel—you name it, we received it and she ordered from it. But never before had we received anything that resembled the International Male catalog. Page after glorious page, a plethora of gorgeous, muscular, male models appeared dressed in skintight clothes, flamboyant “pirate” shirts, and overtly revealing exotic and erotic underwear. This was definitely not the Sears catalog.
About a month later, a slightly different version arrived, titled UnderGear. HELLO! This was a gay boy’s dream come true. It was nothing more than forty pages of scantily clad, perfectly tan, toned, smooth men, provocatively posing in everything from boxers to briefs to jockstraps to thongs. Everything was on display, and I mean everything—biceps bulging, pecs popping, bare bubble butts in abundance and packages protruding. You could tell exactly who was circumcised and easily decipher the “growers” from the “showers.”
Although Lois never placed an order from either of these catalogs, a new edition seemed to arrive month after month, year after year, taunting me, teasing me, and titillating me with boys in briefs. I felt embarrassed as I casually perused these pages of soft-core porn in front of my parents, while plotting a way to sneak the catalog upstairs to my bedroom for closer inspection. I was like one of Pavlov’s dogs, foaming at the mouth with excitement. No wonder the sight of a man in a jockstrap still intrigues me.
All my gay male friends shared similar experiences; from Massachusetts to Florida, New York to California, we all received our copies of International Male or UnderGear. One friend discovered the catalog in a pile of magazines at his grandparents’ condo, which instantly became his new favorite place to visit. Another friend described the UnderGear catalog as his first Playgirl. He too would sneak away and stash it under his bed.
The masterminds behind these two publications must possess some intense honing device that can sniff out fey little boys across the country, captivating and corrupting us with their cotton couture collections and hypnotizing us with their hip-hugging briefs, ensuring our imminent gayness. Maybe this is why our culture has become so obsessed and intoxicated with perfectly smooth, buff boys in high fashion briefs.
Still to this day, both catalogs arrive in my mailbox several times a year. In fact, a new edition of UnderGear just arrived last week, the cover graced by a sweaty, perfectly chiseled chap wearing nothing but white boxer briefs, seducing me to turn the pages. And after all these years, I’ve never once ordered a single mesh bikini, sheer thong or padded butt brief, yet somehow they still find me. (Okay, well maybe once I ordered a pair of Onionskins—these super skimpy running shorts—as a gag gift for an ex boyfriend. Now you know why he’s my ex.)
Today, the collections are even more provocative and revealing with the emphasis on maximizing and enhancing. There are more bulges and bare asses on display than I could even count—I became way too distracted by the stud on page two in the Heaven Maximizer Bikini. But I’m sure, much like me and my friends, this tradition continues. Hundreds, thousands—who knows, maybe even millions of young, innocent boys across the country—are coming home from school and discovering these catalogs in their mailboxes and one by one, they turn the pages, mesmerized by the maximized and are instantly converted to queer.
Who really knows? And until scientific research unmasks the genetic code that predisposed me to an affinity for the same sex, we may never know, but I have a theory: it was the International Male catalog!
At the impressionable age of 12, this mail—or rather “male”—order catalog arrived on my family’s picture-perfect suburban street in Queens, New York and landed in our mailbox. We were quite accustomed to receiving catalogs. My mother, Lois, was addicted to catalog shopping—JC Penney, Lillian Vernon, Spiegel—you name it, we received it and she ordered from it. But never before had we received anything that resembled the International Male catalog. Page after glorious page, a plethora of gorgeous, muscular, male models appeared dressed in skintight clothes, flamboyant “pirate” shirts, and overtly revealing exotic and erotic underwear. This was definitely not the Sears catalog.
About a month later, a slightly different version arrived, titled UnderGear. HELLO! This was a gay boy’s dream come true. It was nothing more than forty pages of scantily clad, perfectly tan, toned, smooth men, provocatively posing in everything from boxers to briefs to jockstraps to thongs. Everything was on display, and I mean everything—biceps bulging, pecs popping, bare bubble butts in abundance and packages protruding. You could tell exactly who was circumcised and easily decipher the “growers” from the “showers.”
Although Lois never placed an order from either of these catalogs, a new edition seemed to arrive month after month, year after year, taunting me, teasing me, and titillating me with boys in briefs. I felt embarrassed as I casually perused these pages of soft-core porn in front of my parents, while plotting a way to sneak the catalog upstairs to my bedroom for closer inspection. I was like one of Pavlov’s dogs, foaming at the mouth with excitement. No wonder the sight of a man in a jockstrap still intrigues me.
All my gay male friends shared similar experiences; from Massachusetts to Florida, New York to California, we all received our copies of International Male or UnderGear. One friend discovered the catalog in a pile of magazines at his grandparents’ condo, which instantly became his new favorite place to visit. Another friend described the UnderGear catalog as his first Playgirl. He too would sneak away and stash it under his bed.
The masterminds behind these two publications must possess some intense honing device that can sniff out fey little boys across the country, captivating and corrupting us with their cotton couture collections and hypnotizing us with their hip-hugging briefs, ensuring our imminent gayness. Maybe this is why our culture has become so obsessed and intoxicated with perfectly smooth, buff boys in high fashion briefs.
Still to this day, both catalogs arrive in my mailbox several times a year. In fact, a new edition of UnderGear just arrived last week, the cover graced by a sweaty, perfectly chiseled chap wearing nothing but white boxer briefs, seducing me to turn the pages. And after all these years, I’ve never once ordered a single mesh bikini, sheer thong or padded butt brief, yet somehow they still find me. (Okay, well maybe once I ordered a pair of Onionskins—these super skimpy running shorts—as a gag gift for an ex boyfriend. Now you know why he’s my ex.)
Today, the collections are even more provocative and revealing with the emphasis on maximizing and enhancing. There are more bulges and bare asses on display than I could even count—I became way too distracted by the stud on page two in the Heaven Maximizer Bikini. But I’m sure, much like me and my friends, this tradition continues. Hundreds, thousands—who knows, maybe even millions of young, innocent boys across the country—are coming home from school and discovering these catalogs in their mailboxes and one by one, they turn the pages, mesmerized by the maximized and are instantly converted to queer.
Don't Call Me Queen
Back in the late 1980s (dare I admit it?) when I attended high school, masculinity reigned. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I attended an all-boy’s school, but the “butcher” you were the better. We as a student body revered our athletes—one of whom went on to reach major heights in the NBA—and admired and respected any guy who was muscular and masculine. It was a true sign of manhood.
Tolerance was not something we were concerned with or taught. You either fit in or you didn’t. Heavy guys were fat, unpopular guys were nerds, and any guy that didn’t conform to the mold of masculinity was a faggot. There was no class offered on tolerance, differences were not generally applauded, and race was not much of an issue either, considering 90 percent of the student body was white.
Gay kids like me often felt isolated. There was no place to turn for guidance, no role models to emulate, and certainly no gay/straight alliance or LGBT organization—like those that exist in metropolitan high schools today—to offer solace. But I survived, developed a solid circle of friends and, by senior year, all was well—even if I did have to hide my true identity.
Do I wish I could have come out in high school and lived an open and honest life? No, I don’t, because I’m certain it would not have been accepted. My high school experience would have been drastically different, with even more obstacles to overcome and opposition to face. But the fact that gay students today have an available network of resources such as gay/straight alliances and other school organizations that create an environment conducive to coming out is remarkable and represents enormous advances in society and our educational system. But I wonder, are we becoming too accepting, almost to a fault?
Take for example, 18-year-old openly gay senior, Sergio Garcia of Fairfax High School. Garcia wanted to be a part of his school’s prom court—not as prom king, but as prom queen. He ran against a handful of female students and, after his peers voted, was shockingly crowned prom queen. In a recent Los Angeles Times article, he was quoted as saying he “felt invincible.” Fellow students expressed what incredible progress this was—a gay student no longer ridiculed by his classmates, but revered and awarded the honor of prom queen. Gender bending is hip with the lines of masculinity and femininity becoming blurred. But is this really the progress we as a gay community want? Did this unconventional act move us forward or just drag us backwards?
Traditionally, the role of prom queen has been synonymous with the female gender and the role of prom king synonymous with the male gender. But because Garcia is gay, this places him in the feminine role? Are we expected to accept and align “gay” with “girl”? I’m sorry, but this is not progress. Had Garcia been crowned prom king that would have been progressive.
Having an openly gay man earn the title of prom king and stand proudly in front of his peers would indeed represent true growth and a huge stride forward for gay teenagers across the nation. It would boldly redefine what it truly means to represent the traditionally “masculine” or “butch” role and solidly confirm that one’s manhood or supposed lack thereof is not defined by his sexuality. But crowning this young man as the prom “queen” only conveys the wrong message, one that accepts and perpetuates an archaic stereotype of homosexuality and reinforces an inaccurate portrayal of gay men as feminine, girlie caricatures.
I’ll be honest—I never had a desire to be prom king, but if I did, I’m certain I would never have received that title, simply because I was gay. I’m incredibly proud and thankful that a young man like Sergio Garcia is growing up in a much more accepting society, and that today’s teenagers comprehend that being gay is not abnormal or offensive. But by crowning this young man queen we are not only doing him a terrible disservice, but the entire gay community as well. And I certainly don’t want this “queen” representing me or my lifestyle. For once, let’s not settle for the term “queen,” but rather continue to fight to be “kings.”
Tolerance was not something we were concerned with or taught. You either fit in or you didn’t. Heavy guys were fat, unpopular guys were nerds, and any guy that didn’t conform to the mold of masculinity was a faggot. There was no class offered on tolerance, differences were not generally applauded, and race was not much of an issue either, considering 90 percent of the student body was white.
Gay kids like me often felt isolated. There was no place to turn for guidance, no role models to emulate, and certainly no gay/straight alliance or LGBT organization—like those that exist in metropolitan high schools today—to offer solace. But I survived, developed a solid circle of friends and, by senior year, all was well—even if I did have to hide my true identity.
Do I wish I could have come out in high school and lived an open and honest life? No, I don’t, because I’m certain it would not have been accepted. My high school experience would have been drastically different, with even more obstacles to overcome and opposition to face. But the fact that gay students today have an available network of resources such as gay/straight alliances and other school organizations that create an environment conducive to coming out is remarkable and represents enormous advances in society and our educational system. But I wonder, are we becoming too accepting, almost to a fault?
Take for example, 18-year-old openly gay senior, Sergio Garcia of Fairfax High School. Garcia wanted to be a part of his school’s prom court—not as prom king, but as prom queen. He ran against a handful of female students and, after his peers voted, was shockingly crowned prom queen. In a recent Los Angeles Times article, he was quoted as saying he “felt invincible.” Fellow students expressed what incredible progress this was—a gay student no longer ridiculed by his classmates, but revered and awarded the honor of prom queen. Gender bending is hip with the lines of masculinity and femininity becoming blurred. But is this really the progress we as a gay community want? Did this unconventional act move us forward or just drag us backwards?
Traditionally, the role of prom queen has been synonymous with the female gender and the role of prom king synonymous with the male gender. But because Garcia is gay, this places him in the feminine role? Are we expected to accept and align “gay” with “girl”? I’m sorry, but this is not progress. Had Garcia been crowned prom king that would have been progressive.
Having an openly gay man earn the title of prom king and stand proudly in front of his peers would indeed represent true growth and a huge stride forward for gay teenagers across the nation. It would boldly redefine what it truly means to represent the traditionally “masculine” or “butch” role and solidly confirm that one’s manhood or supposed lack thereof is not defined by his sexuality. But crowning this young man as the prom “queen” only conveys the wrong message, one that accepts and perpetuates an archaic stereotype of homosexuality and reinforces an inaccurate portrayal of gay men as feminine, girlie caricatures.
I’ll be honest—I never had a desire to be prom king, but if I did, I’m certain I would never have received that title, simply because I was gay. I’m incredibly proud and thankful that a young man like Sergio Garcia is growing up in a much more accepting society, and that today’s teenagers comprehend that being gay is not abnormal or offensive. But by crowning this young man queen we are not only doing him a terrible disservice, but the entire gay community as well. And I certainly don’t want this “queen” representing me or my lifestyle. For once, let’s not settle for the term “queen,” but rather continue to fight to be “kings.”
Man's Best Friend Indeed
Despite my mother’s inability to realize or accept that her only son was a homosexual, she had no problem declaring that our dog, Thumper, was gay. Now, I’m not absolutely certain he was — my gaydar isn’t very attuned to animals — but he was definitely a conflicted canine.
Thumper was the most adorable white and beige spotted puppy, with long, crimped ear hair and a miniature black mustache. We noticed him almost immediately. His shy demeanor seemed tortured by the conditions and confinements of the cage that housed him at the North Shore Animal League America. My mother, my sister and I each took one look at him and knew we had found the perfect pet to adopt, instantly smitten by what appeared to be a precious puppy cocker spaniel.
He was so small, he could barely even walk; instead he appeared to bounce around like a rabbit, hence the name Thumper. He was a charming, playful pup, but it wasn’t long before we discovered behind Thumper’s innocent appearance lurked a darker side. After a visit to the vet, it was determined that Thumper was actually a springer spaniel—a hunting dog—who required at least three miles of running a day. Well, we lived in a residential section of New York City—there were no back woods or fields for Thumper to run freely in. As a result, he would often have sudden outbursts of energy and would frantically run around our dining room table. He also despised cats, and would leap into a fit of rage at the sight or sound of any pussycat. (How ironic.) It was so bad we couldn’t even say the word; we had to spell it out as if he was a child and we didn’t want him to understand what we were saying.
Then he started chewing anything, everything and everyone. Our brand new coffee table now had a lovely new trim—teeth marks. Almost an entire wooden arm of a chair went missing altogether. Plastic CD covers were rendered unrecognizable. Magazines and books were chewed, with pages and entire chapters missing (maybe he just didn’t like what we read?). His favorite delicacy proved to be paper products, especially tissues. Used or unused, it didn’t matter; he’d scarf them up like an addict inhaling a drug.
He would sniff through the wastebaskets, hunting for tissues. If the box were left on a table, he’d literally lick the tissues out one at a time. If you left a tissue in your pants pocket and just so happened to toss those pants over a chair at night before heading to bed, you’d awake in the morning to discover a half eaten pocket and a missing tissue. Nothing was safe.
One time during Thumper’s midday walk, he did his business as usual, but something wasn’t quite right. As I began picking up after him, Thumper appeared in pain as he scurried around in circles dragging his bottom on the pavement, desperately trying to dislodge something that remained. Fearful, I quickly held Thumper down on the pavement, reassuring him all would be fine—and then used some paper towels to grab hold of the problematic poo. As I began pulling, a long, flesh-colored object appeared, growing longer and longer. Instantly I panicked, horrified that I may have been removing Thumper’s intestines when all of a sudden —snap! It was released, and there in the paper towel appeared a knee-high stocking. Apparently, Thumper also had an affinity for women’s accessories.
As the years passed, Thumper continued to become a handful—his demeanor consistently irritable. He didn’t interact well with the women in our family at all, often snapping at them or attacking their shoes if they came too close to his long, feathered tail. At one time or another, Thumper’s teeth went through every female family members’ shoes. (Maybe he was just an envious, bitter queen?)
My father and I were the only ones unscathed, proving to be Thumper’s trusted companions, but Thumper definitely had a deeper affection for my father. Maybe even a little too deep. Day in and day out, he would sit directly at my father’s feet, incessantly trying to lick Dad’s hands, legs or feet. When Dad stood up, Thumper would follow him wherever he went. If my father went outside, Thumper would sit by the door, literally crying and whining to follow. He never left my father’s side, and it drove my mother crazy.
When Dad came home from work and greeted my mother with a hug and a kiss, Thumper would jealously jump up on my father’s leg and start whining and barking for his attention. Well, my mother couldn’t stand this and would repeatedly yell, “Thumper, you gay dog, get down.” I know it sounds odd—a gay dog—but I think my mother might have been right.
After surviving a stroke and numerous other ailments, Thumper died at age 16. As far we know, he died a virgin—his sexual preference never truly realized or understood. But during his 16 years, he provided us with plenty of laughter and bizarre behavior, ample amounts of adventure and anguish, but through it all, we still loved him. He was family no matter what. And, in a sense, Thumper paved the path of acceptance within my family, while also providing plenty of companionship—well, at least to the men in his life.
Thumper was the most adorable white and beige spotted puppy, with long, crimped ear hair and a miniature black mustache. We noticed him almost immediately. His shy demeanor seemed tortured by the conditions and confinements of the cage that housed him at the North Shore Animal League America. My mother, my sister and I each took one look at him and knew we had found the perfect pet to adopt, instantly smitten by what appeared to be a precious puppy cocker spaniel.
He was so small, he could barely even walk; instead he appeared to bounce around like a rabbit, hence the name Thumper. He was a charming, playful pup, but it wasn’t long before we discovered behind Thumper’s innocent appearance lurked a darker side. After a visit to the vet, it was determined that Thumper was actually a springer spaniel—a hunting dog—who required at least three miles of running a day. Well, we lived in a residential section of New York City—there were no back woods or fields for Thumper to run freely in. As a result, he would often have sudden outbursts of energy and would frantically run around our dining room table. He also despised cats, and would leap into a fit of rage at the sight or sound of any pussycat. (How ironic.) It was so bad we couldn’t even say the word; we had to spell it out as if he was a child and we didn’t want him to understand what we were saying.
Then he started chewing anything, everything and everyone. Our brand new coffee table now had a lovely new trim—teeth marks. Almost an entire wooden arm of a chair went missing altogether. Plastic CD covers were rendered unrecognizable. Magazines and books were chewed, with pages and entire chapters missing (maybe he just didn’t like what we read?). His favorite delicacy proved to be paper products, especially tissues. Used or unused, it didn’t matter; he’d scarf them up like an addict inhaling a drug.
He would sniff through the wastebaskets, hunting for tissues. If the box were left on a table, he’d literally lick the tissues out one at a time. If you left a tissue in your pants pocket and just so happened to toss those pants over a chair at night before heading to bed, you’d awake in the morning to discover a half eaten pocket and a missing tissue. Nothing was safe.
One time during Thumper’s midday walk, he did his business as usual, but something wasn’t quite right. As I began picking up after him, Thumper appeared in pain as he scurried around in circles dragging his bottom on the pavement, desperately trying to dislodge something that remained. Fearful, I quickly held Thumper down on the pavement, reassuring him all would be fine—and then used some paper towels to grab hold of the problematic poo. As I began pulling, a long, flesh-colored object appeared, growing longer and longer. Instantly I panicked, horrified that I may have been removing Thumper’s intestines when all of a sudden —snap! It was released, and there in the paper towel appeared a knee-high stocking. Apparently, Thumper also had an affinity for women’s accessories.
As the years passed, Thumper continued to become a handful—his demeanor consistently irritable. He didn’t interact well with the women in our family at all, often snapping at them or attacking their shoes if they came too close to his long, feathered tail. At one time or another, Thumper’s teeth went through every female family members’ shoes. (Maybe he was just an envious, bitter queen?)
My father and I were the only ones unscathed, proving to be Thumper’s trusted companions, but Thumper definitely had a deeper affection for my father. Maybe even a little too deep. Day in and day out, he would sit directly at my father’s feet, incessantly trying to lick Dad’s hands, legs or feet. When Dad stood up, Thumper would follow him wherever he went. If my father went outside, Thumper would sit by the door, literally crying and whining to follow. He never left my father’s side, and it drove my mother crazy.
When Dad came home from work and greeted my mother with a hug and a kiss, Thumper would jealously jump up on my father’s leg and start whining and barking for his attention. Well, my mother couldn’t stand this and would repeatedly yell, “Thumper, you gay dog, get down.” I know it sounds odd—a gay dog—but I think my mother might have been right.
After surviving a stroke and numerous other ailments, Thumper died at age 16. As far we know, he died a virgin—his sexual preference never truly realized or understood. But during his 16 years, he provided us with plenty of laughter and bizarre behavior, ample amounts of adventure and anguish, but through it all, we still loved him. He was family no matter what. And, in a sense, Thumper paved the path of acceptance within my family, while also providing plenty of companionship—well, at least to the men in his life.
Whatchoo Talkin' Bout Vincent?
While home for the holidays, I once again found myself nestled on my parents’ sofa, surrounded by an array of old shoeboxes packed with endless family photos. It’s a favorite pastime of mine — reliving and recalling the moments that define our lives: photos from past holidays, family vacations to Florida and California, summers at our beach house, my three older sisters’ weddings and my mother’s surprise 50th birthday party with Dennis, the half-naked male stripper. It’s an incredible journey through old memories, new discoveries, lots of laughs and a few tears. This year, though, I discovered something different while digging through those boxes—a letter I had written to Santa Claus.
The envelope was addressed: Santa Claus, The North Pole, New York, New York. No street address. No ZIP code. No wonder it wasn’t mailed. (Besides, when was the North Pole ever located on the island of Manhattan?) The haggard envelope had clearly seen better days and now included a recipe written on the back, but its contents were thankfully still in mint condition. In the upper right-hand corner, the letter had been dated 11/16/79. My rather impressively neat cursive handwriting revealed the thoughts of my then 8-year-old mind.
The letter began: “Dear Santa. I want to be on TV, but my family does not think I will make it on TV. My favorite TV star is Gary Coleman.” As I read it aloud to my mother, I couldn’t help but laugh, recalling my preoccupation with Gary and how I so desperately wanted to be him. It’s true—as a child I dreamt of growing up to become a pint-sized, black sitcom star.
I was obsessed with Gary from the minute he first walked through the doors of Mr. Drummond’s penthouse apartment back in 1978 on Diff’rent Strokes. He was adorable, made everyone laugh, was the center of attention, caused plenty of mischief and mayhem and always had a smile plastered across those cherubic cheeks of his that just begged to be squeezed. Yes, I was enamored by Gary—not in sexual way, but more as a role model.
I begged and pleaded with my parents for months, asking to write to Gary in hopes that he would help get me cast as one of his friends on the show—but we didn’t have an address. Then one afternoon, while eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwich at our kitchen table, the phone rang. My mother answered. It was obvious it was my father calling, but I quickly deciphered from her tone that this was a conversation I should pay attention to. As she grabbed a pen and paper, she looked my way with a gleam in her eye and then repeated very slowly and pointedly. “3000 Alameda Avenue in Burbank. That’s in California, right?” I jumped out of my seat in a jiffy with joy; my father had finally tracked down Gary Coleman’s address.
That evening I composed my very first fan letter and mailed it the next day. My mother gently, yet firmly, informed me that Gary probably received thousands of fan letters and maybe I shouldn’t expect a response. As the days, weeks and months passed, I grew more and more impatient and less and less expectant. Then, one day, about three months later, a small manila envelope arrived for me in the mail, the return address read NBC Studios. My heart pounded in my chest as I tore open that envelope and pulled out a black and white 5-by-7 postcard. I almost died with delight.
The front of the card contained that signature image of Gary, hands folded, devilish grin on his face, and the words, “Sincerely Yours, Gary Coleman.” On the backside it read, “Thank you for your letter. Please keep watching our show.” I swore it was personally hand-written by Gary himself as I studied the ink for hours trying to determine whether it was real or printed.
I couldn’t believe it—Gary Coleman read my letter and was kind enough to send me a response. Well, this marked the beginning of a very long mail correspondence and the receipt of several more postcards, some with different images, but all with the same message. I soon realized Gary probably never read my letters, but it didn’t matter—those postcards were prized possessions. I framed two and hung them on my bedroom wall to complement the full-length poster of Gary that already hung above my bed.
Today, we’re all far too familiar with Gary’s sad fall from stardom. Unfortunately, the only time he attracts attention now is when he’s fighting with his fellow residents of Provo, Utah, or marrying a much younger and much taller 22-year-old woman. But Gary will always hold a special place in my heart and in my life, and every time I pop in a DVD of Diff’rent Strokes (yes, it’s another favorite pastime of mine), it’s always a magical journey back to my childhood—a time when a young, impressionable boy first became enthralled with the concept of entertaining others and believing that anything was possible. If Gary Coleman could become a star, so could I.
Well, I’m much older now, my dreams have changed slightly, and Gary’s no longer my idol, but there’s one thing I’ll never forget: “The world don’t move to the beat of just one drum.” And thanks to Gary Coleman and Diff’rent Strokes, I found my own beat.
The envelope was addressed: Santa Claus, The North Pole, New York, New York. No street address. No ZIP code. No wonder it wasn’t mailed. (Besides, when was the North Pole ever located on the island of Manhattan?) The haggard envelope had clearly seen better days and now included a recipe written on the back, but its contents were thankfully still in mint condition. In the upper right-hand corner, the letter had been dated 11/16/79. My rather impressively neat cursive handwriting revealed the thoughts of my then 8-year-old mind.
The letter began: “Dear Santa. I want to be on TV, but my family does not think I will make it on TV. My favorite TV star is Gary Coleman.” As I read it aloud to my mother, I couldn’t help but laugh, recalling my preoccupation with Gary and how I so desperately wanted to be him. It’s true—as a child I dreamt of growing up to become a pint-sized, black sitcom star.
I was obsessed with Gary from the minute he first walked through the doors of Mr. Drummond’s penthouse apartment back in 1978 on Diff’rent Strokes. He was adorable, made everyone laugh, was the center of attention, caused plenty of mischief and mayhem and always had a smile plastered across those cherubic cheeks of his that just begged to be squeezed. Yes, I was enamored by Gary—not in sexual way, but more as a role model.
I begged and pleaded with my parents for months, asking to write to Gary in hopes that he would help get me cast as one of his friends on the show—but we didn’t have an address. Then one afternoon, while eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwich at our kitchen table, the phone rang. My mother answered. It was obvious it was my father calling, but I quickly deciphered from her tone that this was a conversation I should pay attention to. As she grabbed a pen and paper, she looked my way with a gleam in her eye and then repeated very slowly and pointedly. “3000 Alameda Avenue in Burbank. That’s in California, right?” I jumped out of my seat in a jiffy with joy; my father had finally tracked down Gary Coleman’s address.
That evening I composed my very first fan letter and mailed it the next day. My mother gently, yet firmly, informed me that Gary probably received thousands of fan letters and maybe I shouldn’t expect a response. As the days, weeks and months passed, I grew more and more impatient and less and less expectant. Then, one day, about three months later, a small manila envelope arrived for me in the mail, the return address read NBC Studios. My heart pounded in my chest as I tore open that envelope and pulled out a black and white 5-by-7 postcard. I almost died with delight.
The front of the card contained that signature image of Gary, hands folded, devilish grin on his face, and the words, “Sincerely Yours, Gary Coleman.” On the backside it read, “Thank you for your letter. Please keep watching our show.” I swore it was personally hand-written by Gary himself as I studied the ink for hours trying to determine whether it was real or printed.
I couldn’t believe it—Gary Coleman read my letter and was kind enough to send me a response. Well, this marked the beginning of a very long mail correspondence and the receipt of several more postcards, some with different images, but all with the same message. I soon realized Gary probably never read my letters, but it didn’t matter—those postcards were prized possessions. I framed two and hung them on my bedroom wall to complement the full-length poster of Gary that already hung above my bed.
Today, we’re all far too familiar with Gary’s sad fall from stardom. Unfortunately, the only time he attracts attention now is when he’s fighting with his fellow residents of Provo, Utah, or marrying a much younger and much taller 22-year-old woman. But Gary will always hold a special place in my heart and in my life, and every time I pop in a DVD of Diff’rent Strokes (yes, it’s another favorite pastime of mine), it’s always a magical journey back to my childhood—a time when a young, impressionable boy first became enthralled with the concept of entertaining others and believing that anything was possible. If Gary Coleman could become a star, so could I.
Well, I’m much older now, my dreams have changed slightly, and Gary’s no longer my idol, but there’s one thing I’ll never forget: “The world don’t move to the beat of just one drum.” And thanks to Gary Coleman and Diff’rent Strokes, I found my own beat.
A League Of My Own
In the suburbs of New York City, boys are raised with an edge, taught to be tough, to never shy away from a fight, to always act like a man. I, on the other hand, was nothing like that at all. While the other boys idolized athletes and action figures, I idolized pint-sized sitcom star Gary Coleman. While they played roller hockey, I reenacted scenes from Xanadu. And while they hung out perfecting their sporting abilities, I spent time with my mother practicing my crocheting skills. I didn’t partake in the same activities as the other boys in the neighborhood, but there was one exception I was forced to conform to—Little League.
By the time I was 6 years old, my father must have realized he needed to toughen me up. Since every other little boy in the neighborhood played Little League, he assumed I should too. One Saturday afternoon, while holding my father’s hand as we prepared to cross the street, I recognized the Little League office facade; instantly comprehending my fate, panic immediately set in. We had driven past the storefront numerous times, my parents always pointing it out to me and saying, “There’s the Little League office, maybe we should stop in there someday and sign you up. That would be fun, huh?”
“Um, no that wouldn’t be fun,” I thought.
But the McLaughlin brothers who lived across the street from us—and who were within two years of my age—both played Little League. So did the Fisher boys down the block, as well as the Gambino twins from around the corner. Everyone was doing it, so it was just natural that I should as well. They were boys; I was a boy—perfect!
But it felt far from perfect as I stood across the street from the office. As my eyes fixated on the door, I watched another father exit with his son, paperwork in hand, overjoyed that his little guy was finally going to play ball. I desperately tried to pull away from my father pleading, “No, I don’t want to, please don’t make me.” But Big Vince ignored my pleas as he held a vice-like grip on my dainty little hand and literally dragged me across the street straight into the Little League office. Within minutes, I was officially registered as one of the Giants, though I felt decidedly small.
I had no clue how to play, was deathly afraid of the ball and had zero skills! I couldn’t catch, hit, throw or run. The bat was too big, the glove was too loose and the cup was way too small. (Just kidding.) But seriously, there I was suddenly thrown out on the field with balls being thrown and hit at me, while my own were tucked behind a little plastic cup stuffed inside my Fruit of the Looms. I was completely frightened and petrified.
The coach would constantly yell at me to “get under the ball and catch it.” Well, back then I was too afraid, I never got under any balls. (Today—well, that’s a whole different story.) I usually played centerfield and always prayed for no fly balls, but inevitably some superstar slugger would swing for the fence and my prayers would go unanswered. The crack of the bat would jar me from thoughts of starring in one of my favorite TV shows or from admiring the second baseman’s curly blond hair. I’d look up to see a hard, round lump careening towards me while another one lodged in my throat.
As I stood there frozen, deer in headlights, hoping the ball would either curve to left field or fly over the fence, my teammates would start yelling at me to catch the ball. So I’d act as if I were tracking the ball’s trajectory, take a few steps forward, pretending I had every intention of getting under the ball, and then I’d gradually sneak back a half step or two, fearful of actually coming close enough to catch it. Then, I’d stick out my glove, hope for the best and close my eyes. As I heard the thud of the ball hit the grass, I’d think to myself; “Yes, I missed it!”
All the other boys were so into the game—running, catching, diving for the ball. Me, I tried to stay as far away from it as possible. When my time at bat came, I stood so far away from the plate I might as well have stayed in centerfield. But after a year of continued badgering from my coach, my teammates, my father and practically everyone else I knew, I finally moved in closer, nice and close, so I could hit the ball. The only problem, the ball hit me instead, right smack on the elbow. It hurt like hell and although I tried my best not cry, I couldn’t help it. (Tom Hanks would have been terribly disappointed in me.) Miraculously, I managed to escape with no broken bones and finally made it to first base only to discover that first base wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be. So bucking tradition and finally refusing to conform, I quit, thus saving myself and my father further humiliation.
By age 8, I was already a Little League dropout and I couldn’t have been happier. Now my afternoons were free to focus on my favorite activity—watching soap operas with my sisters.
By the time I was 6 years old, my father must have realized he needed to toughen me up. Since every other little boy in the neighborhood played Little League, he assumed I should too. One Saturday afternoon, while holding my father’s hand as we prepared to cross the street, I recognized the Little League office facade; instantly comprehending my fate, panic immediately set in. We had driven past the storefront numerous times, my parents always pointing it out to me and saying, “There’s the Little League office, maybe we should stop in there someday and sign you up. That would be fun, huh?”
“Um, no that wouldn’t be fun,” I thought.
But the McLaughlin brothers who lived across the street from us—and who were within two years of my age—both played Little League. So did the Fisher boys down the block, as well as the Gambino twins from around the corner. Everyone was doing it, so it was just natural that I should as well. They were boys; I was a boy—perfect!
But it felt far from perfect as I stood across the street from the office. As my eyes fixated on the door, I watched another father exit with his son, paperwork in hand, overjoyed that his little guy was finally going to play ball. I desperately tried to pull away from my father pleading, “No, I don’t want to, please don’t make me.” But Big Vince ignored my pleas as he held a vice-like grip on my dainty little hand and literally dragged me across the street straight into the Little League office. Within minutes, I was officially registered as one of the Giants, though I felt decidedly small.
I had no clue how to play, was deathly afraid of the ball and had zero skills! I couldn’t catch, hit, throw or run. The bat was too big, the glove was too loose and the cup was way too small. (Just kidding.) But seriously, there I was suddenly thrown out on the field with balls being thrown and hit at me, while my own were tucked behind a little plastic cup stuffed inside my Fruit of the Looms. I was completely frightened and petrified.
The coach would constantly yell at me to “get under the ball and catch it.” Well, back then I was too afraid, I never got under any balls. (Today—well, that’s a whole different story.) I usually played centerfield and always prayed for no fly balls, but inevitably some superstar slugger would swing for the fence and my prayers would go unanswered. The crack of the bat would jar me from thoughts of starring in one of my favorite TV shows or from admiring the second baseman’s curly blond hair. I’d look up to see a hard, round lump careening towards me while another one lodged in my throat.
As I stood there frozen, deer in headlights, hoping the ball would either curve to left field or fly over the fence, my teammates would start yelling at me to catch the ball. So I’d act as if I were tracking the ball’s trajectory, take a few steps forward, pretending I had every intention of getting under the ball, and then I’d gradually sneak back a half step or two, fearful of actually coming close enough to catch it. Then, I’d stick out my glove, hope for the best and close my eyes. As I heard the thud of the ball hit the grass, I’d think to myself; “Yes, I missed it!”
All the other boys were so into the game—running, catching, diving for the ball. Me, I tried to stay as far away from it as possible. When my time at bat came, I stood so far away from the plate I might as well have stayed in centerfield. But after a year of continued badgering from my coach, my teammates, my father and practically everyone else I knew, I finally moved in closer, nice and close, so I could hit the ball. The only problem, the ball hit me instead, right smack on the elbow. It hurt like hell and although I tried my best not cry, I couldn’t help it. (Tom Hanks would have been terribly disappointed in me.) Miraculously, I managed to escape with no broken bones and finally made it to first base only to discover that first base wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be. So bucking tradition and finally refusing to conform, I quit, thus saving myself and my father further humiliation.
By age 8, I was already a Little League dropout and I couldn’t have been happier. Now my afternoons were free to focus on my favorite activity—watching soap operas with my sisters.
Me And My Manly Tools
A bright, neon-orange envelope arrived in the mail recently with the following question printed on the outside: “Will you do us a favor and test tools?” Perverse thoughts immediately entered my mind as a surge of excitement pulsed through my veins contemplating the word “tools.” Then I noticed the return address—unfortunately it read, “The Handyman Club of America.” Disappointed and flummoxed, I thought this must be a mistake. The only tools I’m interested in certainly wouldn’t arrive from the Handyman Club of America.
There must have been some confusion between my father and me. Even though he lives in New York and I live in Los Angeles, we share the same name and, after all, he earned his living working with tools. My father spent 45 years in the construction industry and recently retired as senior vice president from a major construction conglomerate. Clearly this must have been meant for him, because I certainly didn’t inherit any of those genes. Unlike my father, I’ve never had the desire to get my hands dirty, engage in any form of manual labor or build anything more than a substantial wardrobe. And whenever I’m faced with the tedious task of replacing a light bulb, I still have to remind myself, “Lefty loosey, righty tighty.” Truth be told, I don’t even know how to read a ruler. Honestly.
When I was 16 years old, my mother wanted to install a tin ceiling in our kitchen but didn’t want to pay the price. So my father had the brilliant idea of creating the appearance of tin by covering the ceiling with three-dimensional wallpaper. Since I was the only boy in the family, it was my duty to help dad hang the wallpaper and measure out the pieces. As he stood on a ladder at one end of the kitchen, I stood on the faux wood formica countertop at the other end and read the measurement.
“Sixty three-and-a-half inches and three little lines,” I confidently declared.
Chuckling with amusement my father responded: “Alright, don’t joke around, just read me the measurement.”
“Sixty three-and-a-half inches and three little lines,” I repeated once again, slightly hesitant.
“Come on, stop busting my chops and just read me the measurement,” he responded, his patience rapidly wearing thin.
This went on several more times before my hot-headed Italian father completely lost his temper and roared; “Stop acting like an asshole and read me the goddamn measurement!”
In an angered attempt at precision, I snapped back; “Sixty three-and-a-half inches, two little lines and one medium-sized line.”
The fact was I didn’t (and still don’t) know how to read a tape measure or a ruler. Sure, I know how to measure an inch or 7 or 8 or 9, if I’m really lucky, but who knows what all those little lines are in between. A third? An eighth? A quarter? I have no clue, and no one ever taught me, either.
But let’s be honest, sixty-three-and-a-half inches and three little lines weren’t that hard to comprehend. I found it to be a perfectly accurate measurement. My frustrated father, however, felt otherwise and immediately dismissed me from my duties. (Thank God!) But as the years passed, I never did learn the rudimentary task of reading a ruler and now, 20 years later, the Handyman Club of America expected me, of all people, to test their tools?
In fact, the only tools I own are a hammer and a set of screwdrivers, which sit in my forest green, metal Restoration Hardware toolbox, along with masking tape, Elmer’s glue, a ruler—go figure—some leftover holiday ribbon and a Magic Eraser (the greatest tool ever invented!). But that might change as the overly bright orange envelope promised more tools in my future and included several free gifts.
First, there were the free utility box labels, which were a complete waste since I don’t even possess a utility box in my miniature apartment. (Unless that’s what that metal box in the wall of the closet was that I covered with a picture frame when I moved in?) Then there were the free address labels, which would definitely come in handy (pun intended). And finally, there was a thin rectangular piece of plastic riddled with little holes, which apparently was my free drill bit guide. A drill bit guide? I don’t even own a drill or know what a bit is. I mean, sure I’m often been described as a “bit” much, and I use a “bit” of pomade to style and mold my hair. The hot straight guy at the gym who I have a major crush on—and who always holds my gaze a little too long—might be a “bit” gay (I can only hope), but I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen a “bit” before.
The accompanying literature went on to promise even more exciting tools in my future including a circular saw, a tape measure (great) and a three-piece damaged screw extractor set. Well trust me, the last thing I needed was a damaged screw.
The introductory letter stated that I’d been nominated to become an “official member of the club” because it’s no secret among my friends and family that I’m an outstanding handyman. Oh really? Who have they been talking to?
As a club member, each month I would receive a copy of Handy magazine along with a new tool to try around my home, report my thoughts on and then keep the tool for my own use, completely free of charge. It only cost a dollar a month to join the club and, well, I figured sooner or later I’d want to drill, hammer or screw something or someone, so I signed up. Let’s just hope one of those free gifts includes a tool belt to showcase all my manly tools.
There must have been some confusion between my father and me. Even though he lives in New York and I live in Los Angeles, we share the same name and, after all, he earned his living working with tools. My father spent 45 years in the construction industry and recently retired as senior vice president from a major construction conglomerate. Clearly this must have been meant for him, because I certainly didn’t inherit any of those genes. Unlike my father, I’ve never had the desire to get my hands dirty, engage in any form of manual labor or build anything more than a substantial wardrobe. And whenever I’m faced with the tedious task of replacing a light bulb, I still have to remind myself, “Lefty loosey, righty tighty.” Truth be told, I don’t even know how to read a ruler. Honestly.
When I was 16 years old, my mother wanted to install a tin ceiling in our kitchen but didn’t want to pay the price. So my father had the brilliant idea of creating the appearance of tin by covering the ceiling with three-dimensional wallpaper. Since I was the only boy in the family, it was my duty to help dad hang the wallpaper and measure out the pieces. As he stood on a ladder at one end of the kitchen, I stood on the faux wood formica countertop at the other end and read the measurement.
“Sixty three-and-a-half inches and three little lines,” I confidently declared.
Chuckling with amusement my father responded: “Alright, don’t joke around, just read me the measurement.”
“Sixty three-and-a-half inches and three little lines,” I repeated once again, slightly hesitant.
“Come on, stop busting my chops and just read me the measurement,” he responded, his patience rapidly wearing thin.
This went on several more times before my hot-headed Italian father completely lost his temper and roared; “Stop acting like an asshole and read me the goddamn measurement!”
In an angered attempt at precision, I snapped back; “Sixty three-and-a-half inches, two little lines and one medium-sized line.”
The fact was I didn’t (and still don’t) know how to read a tape measure or a ruler. Sure, I know how to measure an inch or 7 or 8 or 9, if I’m really lucky, but who knows what all those little lines are in between. A third? An eighth? A quarter? I have no clue, and no one ever taught me, either.
But let’s be honest, sixty-three-and-a-half inches and three little lines weren’t that hard to comprehend. I found it to be a perfectly accurate measurement. My frustrated father, however, felt otherwise and immediately dismissed me from my duties. (Thank God!) But as the years passed, I never did learn the rudimentary task of reading a ruler and now, 20 years later, the Handyman Club of America expected me, of all people, to test their tools?
In fact, the only tools I own are a hammer and a set of screwdrivers, which sit in my forest green, metal Restoration Hardware toolbox, along with masking tape, Elmer’s glue, a ruler—go figure—some leftover holiday ribbon and a Magic Eraser (the greatest tool ever invented!). But that might change as the overly bright orange envelope promised more tools in my future and included several free gifts.
First, there were the free utility box labels, which were a complete waste since I don’t even possess a utility box in my miniature apartment. (Unless that’s what that metal box in the wall of the closet was that I covered with a picture frame when I moved in?) Then there were the free address labels, which would definitely come in handy (pun intended). And finally, there was a thin rectangular piece of plastic riddled with little holes, which apparently was my free drill bit guide. A drill bit guide? I don’t even own a drill or know what a bit is. I mean, sure I’m often been described as a “bit” much, and I use a “bit” of pomade to style and mold my hair. The hot straight guy at the gym who I have a major crush on—and who always holds my gaze a little too long—might be a “bit” gay (I can only hope), but I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen a “bit” before.
The accompanying literature went on to promise even more exciting tools in my future including a circular saw, a tape measure (great) and a three-piece damaged screw extractor set. Well trust me, the last thing I needed was a damaged screw.
The introductory letter stated that I’d been nominated to become an “official member of the club” because it’s no secret among my friends and family that I’m an outstanding handyman. Oh really? Who have they been talking to?
As a club member, each month I would receive a copy of Handy magazine along with a new tool to try around my home, report my thoughts on and then keep the tool for my own use, completely free of charge. It only cost a dollar a month to join the club and, well, I figured sooner or later I’d want to drill, hammer or screw something or someone, so I signed up. Let’s just hope one of those free gifts includes a tool belt to showcase all my manly tools.
Baseball & Twinkies: The All-American Male
Every June, I travel home to New York for my annual family reunion. It’s an event I eagerly anticipate and wouldn’t dream of missing, even if it includes numerous sporting activities, all of which I completely suck at, except for one.
The reunion is for my mother’s side of the family — the Millers — and although my mother only had four siblings, the Millers definitely don’t lack an ability to procreate. This year, we reached a total of 75 in attendance and of this extended family, I’m the token gay.
I came out to my relatives in my early 30s, here and there over the course of a few years, and just in case I missed anyone, I even declared my sexual preference on national TV. To my relief and delight, the entire family—and I mean everyone—collectively accepted me with open arms and rather than ostracizing me or treating me like an outcast, the opposite occurred. Once my sexual preference was established, they respected and admired me for having the courage to live my life truthfully and, more importantly, to share it with them. I’m one of them; no different, no better, no worse—and their love, much like their sense of humor, is abundant and endless.
Due to the sheer volume of participants, the reunion is held in a public park on Long Island. We arrive early on the designated Saturday morning, gather around 10 picnic tables, form a large circle and claim our territory for the day. Each family brings their own food and beverages, as well as a game or contest for all to participate in.
As we arrive, hugs and kisses are dispensed at a rapid rate. We mix and mingle in cliques either within the circle or just outside its perimeter. The kids run amuck playing games, while the adults catch up and dish the dirt on who’s lost or gained weight; who we suspect will marry or divorce next; whose spouse we like or dislike and whose kids are most likely to be arrested, gay or to have lost their virginity since last year’s reunion. You know—standard family fare. Then once lunch is finished, the activities begin.
The softball game is one of the most competitive events of the day, second only to the egg toss. (My uncles, Cliff and Rich, both in their early-70s, still try to achieve success each year by playing with a wooden egg. They’ve yet to succeed!) The softball teams are organized by birth date, odds versus evens, so we’re pretty much guaranteed the same team year after year. The batting order is arranged according to height, and since I’m a whopping 5-foot-5 and three quarters (that’s without shoes), I end up right behind all the kids ranging from ages 2-12. They, of course, all manage to hit the ball or swing until they do. Then I step up to the plate, swing three times, miss three times and I’m out. As if that’s not embarrassing enough, there’s always Uncle Cliff to deal with, who lovingly refers to me as Hollywood and is always the designated pitcher for the opposing team.
“For Christ’s sake, Hollywood, if you kept your eyes open, you might hit the ball. You’re worse than the little kids. What the hell’s the matter with you?”
Uncle Cliff’s comments are never meant to be malicious, but rather to amuse and always arouse a round of laughter. He could easily pass for Johnny Carson, and his comedic style consists mainly of one-liners, double entendres and the occasional “pull my finger” joke. When he and my other uncles, Rich and Don, get together, it’s like spending time with Moe, Larry and Curly, but with a lot less hair.
While almost every male over the age of 21 belts the ball out of the park, I’m lucky enough if I manage to graze it and claim a single. When that happens, one of the uncles can usually be heard muttering; “Jesus Christ, Hollywood, it’s about goddamn time.” But I don’t allow their humor or my lack of skills to upset me, because for the past seven years I’ve been victorious at another game: the Twinkie eating contest.
The concept is pretty simple; the first person to consume the entire Twinkie wins. You don’t even have to eat it; just get it off the table and in your mouth without using your hands. We break it down into age groups for the kids, but when it comes to the adults, we all just dive in, literally.
The first year, the participants consisted of me and seven female cousins. We all sat around one picnic table, four on each side, Twinkies lined up in front of each of us. The women began tying their hair back, licking their lips and stretching their jaws in preparation, while nervously looking my way as I sat there calmly with my hands tucked under my legs. I was all set.
My sister Pamela gave the official countdown, and then in one full swoop, I went down on that Twinkie. Taking the entire thing in my mouth within seconds, I leapt to my feet victoriously. I’ve never seen such a look of shock, horror and sheer amazement on the faces of so many of my relatives before.
The women, with their mouths full of half-eaten Twinkie, faces covered in cream, were appalled at how quickly I consumed an entire Twinkie and with such precision. The men were horrified at first, and then in utter awe as my cousin Mario asked me to teach his wife a trick or two.
That was eight years ago, and although several of my cousins, both female and male, are determined to take me down and steal the title away from me, I was once again victorious this year. Eight years straight, the undefeated Twinkie champ. As I began my victory lap around our circle, Uncle Cliff pulled me aside and said, “Congratulations, Hollywood. Now if only you could learn to play with balls.”
The reunion is for my mother’s side of the family — the Millers — and although my mother only had four siblings, the Millers definitely don’t lack an ability to procreate. This year, we reached a total of 75 in attendance and of this extended family, I’m the token gay.
I came out to my relatives in my early 30s, here and there over the course of a few years, and just in case I missed anyone, I even declared my sexual preference on national TV. To my relief and delight, the entire family—and I mean everyone—collectively accepted me with open arms and rather than ostracizing me or treating me like an outcast, the opposite occurred. Once my sexual preference was established, they respected and admired me for having the courage to live my life truthfully and, more importantly, to share it with them. I’m one of them; no different, no better, no worse—and their love, much like their sense of humor, is abundant and endless.
Due to the sheer volume of participants, the reunion is held in a public park on Long Island. We arrive early on the designated Saturday morning, gather around 10 picnic tables, form a large circle and claim our territory for the day. Each family brings their own food and beverages, as well as a game or contest for all to participate in.
As we arrive, hugs and kisses are dispensed at a rapid rate. We mix and mingle in cliques either within the circle or just outside its perimeter. The kids run amuck playing games, while the adults catch up and dish the dirt on who’s lost or gained weight; who we suspect will marry or divorce next; whose spouse we like or dislike and whose kids are most likely to be arrested, gay or to have lost their virginity since last year’s reunion. You know—standard family fare. Then once lunch is finished, the activities begin.
The softball game is one of the most competitive events of the day, second only to the egg toss. (My uncles, Cliff and Rich, both in their early-70s, still try to achieve success each year by playing with a wooden egg. They’ve yet to succeed!) The softball teams are organized by birth date, odds versus evens, so we’re pretty much guaranteed the same team year after year. The batting order is arranged according to height, and since I’m a whopping 5-foot-5 and three quarters (that’s without shoes), I end up right behind all the kids ranging from ages 2-12. They, of course, all manage to hit the ball or swing until they do. Then I step up to the plate, swing three times, miss three times and I’m out. As if that’s not embarrassing enough, there’s always Uncle Cliff to deal with, who lovingly refers to me as Hollywood and is always the designated pitcher for the opposing team.
“For Christ’s sake, Hollywood, if you kept your eyes open, you might hit the ball. You’re worse than the little kids. What the hell’s the matter with you?”
Uncle Cliff’s comments are never meant to be malicious, but rather to amuse and always arouse a round of laughter. He could easily pass for Johnny Carson, and his comedic style consists mainly of one-liners, double entendres and the occasional “pull my finger” joke. When he and my other uncles, Rich and Don, get together, it’s like spending time with Moe, Larry and Curly, but with a lot less hair.
While almost every male over the age of 21 belts the ball out of the park, I’m lucky enough if I manage to graze it and claim a single. When that happens, one of the uncles can usually be heard muttering; “Jesus Christ, Hollywood, it’s about goddamn time.” But I don’t allow their humor or my lack of skills to upset me, because for the past seven years I’ve been victorious at another game: the Twinkie eating contest.
The concept is pretty simple; the first person to consume the entire Twinkie wins. You don’t even have to eat it; just get it off the table and in your mouth without using your hands. We break it down into age groups for the kids, but when it comes to the adults, we all just dive in, literally.
The first year, the participants consisted of me and seven female cousins. We all sat around one picnic table, four on each side, Twinkies lined up in front of each of us. The women began tying their hair back, licking their lips and stretching their jaws in preparation, while nervously looking my way as I sat there calmly with my hands tucked under my legs. I was all set.
My sister Pamela gave the official countdown, and then in one full swoop, I went down on that Twinkie. Taking the entire thing in my mouth within seconds, I leapt to my feet victoriously. I’ve never seen such a look of shock, horror and sheer amazement on the faces of so many of my relatives before.
The women, with their mouths full of half-eaten Twinkie, faces covered in cream, were appalled at how quickly I consumed an entire Twinkie and with such precision. The men were horrified at first, and then in utter awe as my cousin Mario asked me to teach his wife a trick or two.
That was eight years ago, and although several of my cousins, both female and male, are determined to take me down and steal the title away from me, I was once again victorious this year. Eight years straight, the undefeated Twinkie champ. As I began my victory lap around our circle, Uncle Cliff pulled me aside and said, “Congratulations, Hollywood. Now if only you could learn to play with balls.”
Friday, October 26, 2007
Show Me What You're Made Of - The Story
While my father dreamed of my growing up to follow in his footsteps and work in the construction industry, I dreamed of growing up to be more like my mother—a housewife. As a child, one of my favorite pastimes was hanging my sister’s doll’s clothes on my very own clothesline in our backyard. I was three and no one in the family suspected it was that big a deal; after all, I was just assisting Mom with her daily chores. Besides I had three older sisters; dolls were hard to avoid in our household. However, my father’s brother Vito felt my penchant for dolls was a huge deal and his animosity towards the situation grew even worse once I began to cheer. 
All three of my older sisters were members of the St. Pancras School cheerleading squad; my mother was the cheerleading coach. As a result, I spent almost every afternoon in the school gymnasium with Mom and the girls, intently listening to and learning all the cheers. I was good, I mean really good. My limber little legs allowed me to perform perfect splits, cartwheels and aerials. I knew every single step, beat, bounce, clap and cheer, which everyone praised me for and thought was adorable, except for Uncle Vito.
Uncle Vito was short and stocky, gruff and tough, with a sour look on his face and a receding hairline. He resembled Burt Young’s character Paulie in the Rocky movies, fedora and all. He never smiled, was always grouchy and yelled more often than he spoke, constantly clearing his throat mid-roar and hacking up a wad of phlegm without apologies and/or hesitation.
He would arrive at our modest two-story, semi-detached home in Queens (think All In The Family) about once every three months, usually on a Sunday evening shortly before dinner, in his white van accompanied by a middle-aged woman named Peggy, whom he referred to as his “lady friend,” and a massive man who must have been his bodyguard. (Or maybe he was the chauffer since he was the only one who ever drove? I don’t know exactly.) I don’t even remember his name, but then again I don’t think Uncle Vito ever knew any of our names because he always referred to my father as “Bro,” my mother as “Sisa-in-Law,” and I was always “Nephew” or “Neph” for short. My sisters were usually referred to collectively as “the girls.”
Vito never arrived empty-handed, and since I was the youngest, he always had gifts for me but for some reason he never bothered to wrap them. It was usually a metal Tonka truck or a football or something quintessentially masculine, yet nothing I ever seemed to really want. My mother would always warn me to be careful as she snidely remarked to my father how they “must have fallen off the back of a truck somewhere.” Anyway, Uncle Vito absolutely detested it when I cheered. The few hairs that remained on his head would rise as his anger erupted. As soon as I began clapping and shouting out my favorite cheer: “Action, action, we want action, A-C-T-I-O-N,” (a cheer I’m still extremely found of today) he would immediately start yelling in his gruff, gravelly voice for me to knock it off, act like a man and drop and give him twenty.
I was only four years old; I barely knew how to do a push-up. As my arms wobbled and my body arched and ached, Vito would yell, “Come on, show me what you’re made of, Neph.” Well, I wasn’t made of much, but Uncle Vito was determined to change that.
One Sunday evening, he arrived at our house as usual with his posse in tow for dinner. I don’t remember the meal that evening, probably standard fare—my father insisted we always have a traditional Italian Sunday meal of pasta—yet I do remember quite vividly the events that unfolded afterwards.
I was nestled on the sofa with my sisters, watching TV, most likely charting the hits on the latest episode of Solid Gold, Uncle Vito summoned me to the dining room. To Uncle Vito’s left stood a brown leather punching bag about three feet high atop a metal spring secured to a plywood platform. I’d never seen anything like it before and wasn’t sure exactly what it was or where it came from.
As I stood there perplexed and leery of what was next, Vito began manhandling me with his robust hands, forcing my small frame onto the platform, pulling my legs apart and posing me in preparation to punch. Once my feet were solidly planted, knees bent, he impatiently tried to demonstrate how to create a fist, eventually forcing my fingers into formation and demanding I begin punching the bag.
“Come on Neph, punch it like a man. Hit it with your right. Now punch it harder!”
The room became a blur as voices urged me to punch like a man, to hit it harder, throw a right, then a left. I felt disoriented and uncoordinated. I barely even made contact with the bag, but once I did, the stitching clawed at my delicate, dainty hands, scratching and scraping them because Uncle Vito forgot to bring the boxing gloves. (I guess they never made it off the back of that truck.) After a few pathetic attempts, my hands began to swell and my eyes began to shed tears. Uncle Vito could care less though, as he continued to berate me and educate me on the sport of violence.
My mother appeared from the kitchen at once, drying her hands with a dish towel, demanding he leave me alone. My father attempted to make light of the situation, but Vito grew even more irritated and went off on a tirade about how my father should handle this situation. “When he’s old enough Bro, you gotta ship him off to Parris Island, they’ll make a man out of him.”
Although Uncle Vito meant well, his attempts to butch me up left me feeling frightened rather than encouraged. Luckily, my parents did their best to ignore his insults and archaic advice, understanding that Barbie dolls and cheerleading were both simply a phase I would soon outgrow.
And I did. Once they purchased me that red, white and blue baton, I left the cheerleading and dolls behind and began marching up and down our street pretending I was leading a parade…but only when Uncle Vito wasn’t visiting.
All three of my older sisters were members of the St. Pancras School cheerleading squad; my mother was the cheerleading coach. As a result, I spent almost every afternoon in the school gymnasium with Mom and the girls, intently listening to and learning all the cheers. I was good, I mean really good. My limber little legs allowed me to perform perfect splits, cartwheels and aerials. I knew every single step, beat, bounce, clap and cheer, which everyone praised me for and thought was adorable, except for Uncle Vito.Uncle Vito was short and stocky, gruff and tough, with a sour look on his face and a receding hairline. He resembled Burt Young’s character Paulie in the Rocky movies, fedora and all. He never smiled, was always grouchy and yelled more often than he spoke, constantly clearing his throat mid-roar and hacking up a wad of phlegm without apologies and/or hesitation.
He would arrive at our modest two-story, semi-detached home in Queens (think All In The Family) about once every three months, usually on a Sunday evening shortly before dinner, in his white van accompanied by a middle-aged woman named Peggy, whom he referred to as his “lady friend,” and a massive man who must have been his bodyguard. (Or maybe he was the chauffer since he was the only one who ever drove? I don’t know exactly.) I don’t even remember his name, but then again I don’t think Uncle Vito ever knew any of our names because he always referred to my father as “Bro,” my mother as “Sisa-in-Law,” and I was always “Nephew” or “Neph” for short. My sisters were usually referred to collectively as “the girls.”
Vito never arrived empty-handed, and since I was the youngest, he always had gifts for me but for some reason he never bothered to wrap them. It was usually a metal Tonka truck or a football or something quintessentially masculine, yet nothing I ever seemed to really want. My mother would always warn me to be careful as she snidely remarked to my father how they “must have fallen off the back of a truck somewhere.” Anyway, Uncle Vito absolutely detested it when I cheered. The few hairs that remained on his head would rise as his anger erupted. As soon as I began clapping and shouting out my favorite cheer: “Action, action, we want action, A-C-T-I-O-N,” (a cheer I’m still extremely found of today) he would immediately start yelling in his gruff, gravelly voice for me to knock it off, act like a man and drop and give him twenty.
I was only four years old; I barely knew how to do a push-up. As my arms wobbled and my body arched and ached, Vito would yell, “Come on, show me what you’re made of, Neph.” Well, I wasn’t made of much, but Uncle Vito was determined to change that.
One Sunday evening, he arrived at our house as usual with his posse in tow for dinner. I don’t remember the meal that evening, probably standard fare—my father insisted we always have a traditional Italian Sunday meal of pasta—yet I do remember quite vividly the events that unfolded afterwards.
I was nestled on the sofa with my sisters, watching TV, most likely charting the hits on the latest episode of Solid Gold, Uncle Vito summoned me to the dining room. To Uncle Vito’s left stood a brown leather punching bag about three feet high atop a metal spring secured to a plywood platform. I’d never seen anything like it before and wasn’t sure exactly what it was or where it came from.
As I stood there perplexed and leery of what was next, Vito began manhandling me with his robust hands, forcing my small frame onto the platform, pulling my legs apart and posing me in preparation to punch. Once my feet were solidly planted, knees bent, he impatiently tried to demonstrate how to create a fist, eventually forcing my fingers into formation and demanding I begin punching the bag.
“Come on Neph, punch it like a man. Hit it with your right. Now punch it harder!”
The room became a blur as voices urged me to punch like a man, to hit it harder, throw a right, then a left. I felt disoriented and uncoordinated. I barely even made contact with the bag, but once I did, the stitching clawed at my delicate, dainty hands, scratching and scraping them because Uncle Vito forgot to bring the boxing gloves. (I guess they never made it off the back of that truck.) After a few pathetic attempts, my hands began to swell and my eyes began to shed tears. Uncle Vito could care less though, as he continued to berate me and educate me on the sport of violence.
My mother appeared from the kitchen at once, drying her hands with a dish towel, demanding he leave me alone. My father attempted to make light of the situation, but Vito grew even more irritated and went off on a tirade about how my father should handle this situation. “When he’s old enough Bro, you gotta ship him off to Parris Island, they’ll make a man out of him.”
Although Uncle Vito meant well, his attempts to butch me up left me feeling frightened rather than encouraged. Luckily, my parents did their best to ignore his insults and archaic advice, understanding that Barbie dolls and cheerleading were both simply a phase I would soon outgrow.
And I did. Once they purchased me that red, white and blue baton, I left the cheerleading and dolls behind and began marching up and down our street pretending I was leading a parade…but only when Uncle Vito wasn’t visiting.
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