Month: December 2013

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Patriotism by Jon Krey

THE 14 CHARACTERISTICS OF FASCISM or 
WHAT CANNOT HAPPEN IN THE USA

Political scientist Dr. Lawrence Britt (“Fascism anyone?” Free Inquiry Magazine, Spring 2003, page 20) has studied the fascist regimes of Hitler, Mussolini (Italy), Franco (Spain), Suharto (Indonesia), and Pinochet (Chile) and found they all had 14 elements in common. I believe any country can fall into such an abyss, often unaware, especially when in a crisis of magnitude. We are not there at this point but we must be aware that making ourselves vulnerable through lack of present awareness and overlooking history could provide a dangerous precedent through which democracy could fall. Those of us who are aware should begin educational processes to prevent such. The characteristics listed below are a warning only. Let us be ever mindful as a nation to stave off such a calamity.

1. Powerful and Continuing Nationalism

Fascist regimes tend to make constant use of patriotic mottos, slogans, symbols, songs and other paraphernalia. Flags are seen everywhere, as are flag symbols on clothing and in public displays.

2. Disdain for Recognition of Human Rights

Because of fear of enemies and the need for security, the people in fascist regimes are persuaded that human rights can be ignored in certain cases because of “need.” The people tend to look the other way or even approve of torture, summary executions, assassinations, long incarcerations of prisoners, etc.

3. Identification of Enemies/ Scapegoats as a Unifying Cause
The people are rallied into a unifying patriotic frenzy over the need to eliminate a perceived common threat or foe; racial, ethnic, or religious minorities; liberals; communists, socialists, terrorists, etc.

4. Supremacy of the Military
Even when there are widespread domestic problems, the military is given a disproportionate amount of government funding, and the domestic agenda is neglected. Soldiers and military service are glamorized.

5. Rampant Sexism

The government of fascist nations tend to be almost exclusively male-dominated. Under fascist regimes, traditional gender roles are made more rigid. Opposition to abortion is high as is homophobia and anti-gay legislation and national policy.

6. Controlled Mass Media

Sometimes, the media is directly controlled by the government. But in other cases the media is indirectly controlled by government regulation, or sympathetic media spokespeople and executives. Censorship, especially in war-time, is very common.

7. Obsession with National Security

Fear is used as a motivational tool by the government over the masses.

8. Religion and Government are intertwined

Governments in fascist nations tend to use the most common religion in the nation as a tool to manipulate public opinion. Religious rhetoric and terminology is common from government leaders, even when the major tenets of the religion are diametrically opposed to the governments policies or actions.

9. Corporate Power is Protected

The industrial and business aristocracy of a fascist nation, often are the ones who put the government leaders into power, creating a mutually beneficial business/ government relationship and power elite.

10. Labor Power is Suppressed

Because the organizing power of labor is the only real threat to a fascist government, labor unions are either eliminated entirely, or are severely suppressed.

11. Disdain for Intellectuals and the Arts

Fascist nations tend to promote and tolerate open hostility to higher education, and academia. It is not uncommon for professors and other academics to be censored or even arrested. Free expression in the arts is openly attacked, and governments often refuse to fund the arts.

12. Obsession with Crime and Punishment

Under fascist regimes, the police are given almost limitless power to enforce laws. The people are often willing to overlook police abuses and even forego civil liberties in the name of patriotism. There is often a national police force with virtually unlimited power in fascist nations.

13. Rampant Cronyism and Corruption

Fascist regimes almost always are governed by groups of friends and associates who appoint each other to government positions and use governmental power and authority to protect their friends from accountability. It is not uncommon in fascist regimes for national resources and even treasures to be appropriated or even out-right stolen by government leaders.

14. Fraudulent Elections

Sometimes elections in fascist nations are a complete sham. Other times elections are manipulated by smear campaigns against or even assassination of opposition candidates, use of legislation to control voting numbers or political district boundaries, and manipulation of the media. Fascist nations also typically use their judiciaries to manipulate or control elections.

REMEMBER, GEORGE- GOD DON’T LIKE UGLY

“There are six things which the Lord hates, seven which are an abomination to Him:

1. Haughty eyes

2. A lying tongue

3. Hands that shed innocent blood.

4. A heart that devises wicked plans

5. Feet that make haste to run to evil

6. A false witness who breathes out lies.

7. A man who sows discord among brothers.”

–The Book of Proverbs—

© 13 November 2013

About
the Author

“I’m just a guy from Tulsa (God forbid). So overlook my shortcomings, they’re an illusion.”

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Eerie by Gillian

Cats.

It’s all about cats.

I love cats, but, face it, they are not completely of this earth. They inhabit a slightly different plane, or at least they see this one very differently. Anyone who has spent much time in the company of a cat knows this. They sit completely still and stare fixedly at something in the corner that none of us can see. They wake from one of a dozen daily dozes to rush off into another room for no reason that we can comprehend.

Growing up as I did in a farming community, everyone had cats. Mostly they were of the marginally domesticated kind who lived in the barns and sheds and fed primarily on the other critters living there. Before the days of spaying, they reproduced prodigiously and the kittens were traditionally drowned as soon as they were discovered.

My mother discovered Delilah with her latest brood, burrowed into a pile of leaves under a hedge, and my poor father was summoned to do the dastardly deed. A gentle, kind-hearted man, he hated this job, which always fell to him. He waited until Delilah had temporarily vacated her position, scooped up the kittens and did the dirty deed. A couple of days later we discovered Delilah, again, half asleep and purring lazily behind a hay bale, curled lovingly around a single kitten.

Had she known what was about to happen? Had she figured one was better than none? And how did she know that not one of us could even begin to think of depriving her of her hidden child? The Mona Lisa look she gave us, an extraordinary yet eminently decipherable mixture of triumph and challenge and love, seemed to answer all our questions.

    
My Mother with Delilah

When I was married we had a huge war-torn, old, yellow cat called FatCat. One day he jumped up onto my lap, nothing unusual, then pushed under the book I was trying to read, lying flat on my chest. He purred loudly, also nothing unusual. He pushed himself further up towards my face, with front paws on either side of my neck, and stared into my eyes.

I couldn’t say why this was so unnerving. There was simply something about the intensity of those eyes peering searchingly into mine as if trying to see something there, or perhaps actually seeing something there. Or yet again, it was more as if he was trying to tell me something. I threw him roughly off me, at which he and my husband both gave me a surprised look. 
“He was staring into my soul.” No of course I didn’t say that. “He was digging his claws in my neck,” was all I actually said, feigning nonchalance.
FatCat gave me a disappointed look like a parent might cast upon a child who has let him down, and stalked off. A few hours later I received a phone call that my mother had died, peacefully in her bed as the saying goes but in my mother’s case it was true, in England. When I adjusted for the time difference, my mom had died right around the time that old FatCat was peering into my eyes.
OK OK it’s all coincidence and a product of that kind of overactive imagination that kicks in around the death of a loved one.

I knew that.

I know that.

But there’s a tiny spark in me that still somehow manages to wonder.

FatCat
© 5 March 2012

 About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

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Sandy Hook Elementary Victims (14 December 2012). Gone but Not Forgotten — by Ricky

          I hope the following photographs forever haunt the dreams of our Congress’s heartless, soulless, and cowardly elected members who voted down (or blocked) the firearms background checks bill. May they never have another peaceful night of sleep! 

In Memoriam of Sandy Hook Elementary Victims
(14 December 2012)
The Adults
Rachel D’Avino (Teacher’s Aid with her dog)
Dawn Hochsprung (Principal)

Nancy Lanza (Mother of the murderer)

Anne Marie Murphy (Teacher)

Lauren Rousseau (Teacher)

Mary Sherlach (School Psychologist)

Victoria “Vicki” Soto (Teacher)

The Children
Charlotte Bacon 6

Daniel Barden 7

Olivia Engel 6

Josephine Gay 7

Dylan Hockley 6

Madeleine F. Hsu 6

Catherine V. Hubbard 6

Chase Kowalski 6

Jesse Lewis 6

Grace McDonnell 7

Ana Marques-Greene 6

James Mattioli 6

Emillie Parker 6

Jack Pinto 6

Noah Pozner 6

Caroline Previdi 6

Jessica Rekos 6

Avielle Richman 6

Benjamin Wheeler 6

For a list of school shootings in the U.S. from 26 July 1764 through 13 December 2013 visit:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_school_shootings_in_the_United_States

© 29 January 2013, revised 18 March 2013, 27 April 2013, 5 May 2013, 9 November 2013, and 14 December 2013. 



About the Author

Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA

Ricky was born in 1948 in downtown Los Angeles. He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA. Just days prior to turning 8 years old, he was sent to live with his grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years while (unknown to him) his parents obtained a divorce.

When reunited with his mother and new stepfather, he lived one summer at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife of 27 years and their four children. His wife passed away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

He came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. He says, “I find writing these memories to be very therapeutic.”

Ricky’s story blog is “TheTahoeBoy.blogspot.com”.

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Feeling Loved – A Love Chronology by Betsy

I feel loved when I am being cuddled in my mommy or daddy’s arms.

I feel loved when my mommy comforts me when I am sick or unhappy.

I feel loved when my daddy reads me a story.

And when my mommy and daddy keep me safe.

I feel loved when my big brother takes my hand to help me get safely to school.

I feel loved when friends stand up for me and believe in me when others do not.

I feel loved when my husband and best friend of 25 years ever-so-gently but with profound sadness releases me to follow a different life path separate from the one we have been traveling together.

I feel loved when my son calls me on Mother’s Day to tell me he loves me.

I feel loved when my granddaughter and I go on the ski train to WP and play together in the snow.

I feel loved when my grandchildren call me to say, “I love you G’ma Betsy.”

I feel loved when my sister travels half way across the country to help me recover from surgery.

I feel loved when a daughter travels even further to be there when I am having surgery or to share a holiday.

I feel loved when a daughter travels across the country to be with me in time of need or in time of celebration.

I feel loved every night when I go to sleep next to the one I love and every morning when I wake up next to her.

I feel loved when the woman I love marries me

I feel loved when friends want to share our joy.

I feel loved when my life partner wants to grow old with me
and spend the rest of her days with me.

I feel loved when I know that love is who we are.

© 21 October 2013

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Breaking Into the Gay Culture by Will Stanton

Breaking into the gay culture. I have no idea what that means. I suppose one first would have to define “gay culture.” I’m not sure what that is, either.

Does that mean living in San Francisco and being 99% nude in a parade? Does it mean hanging out in gay bars and trying to pick up tricks, perhaps even resignedly going home with a nameless body at 2:00 A.M.? Does it mean late-night roaming of Cheesman Park, or hanging out around men’s restrooms? Does it mean wearing rainbow colors, or lots of gay bling announcing to the world that my orientation may be different from yours? Is this that “gay culture,” especially as defined by uninformed or homophobic people?

On the other hand, could it mean that wealthy, cultured, and well educated gentleman who is bored by the bar scene and, instead, sits in the balcony of the Met Opera with a group of black-tie friends and then throws exclusive after-opera parties at his magnificent home? Or, does it refer to someone like billionaire, arms-industrialist Alfred Krupp enjoying the view of a dozen naked, young boys splashing in his swimming pool, flaunting the draconian anti-gay laws of early-20th-century Germany?

Or finally, can it mean a bizarrely inverted and destructive so-called “un-gay culture” populated by outwardly-straight army generals, fundamentalist preachers, homophobic Republican senators, or “pray-to-cure therapists,” anyone who fears or denies his own orientation that he does not understand or is willing to accept?

One obviously visible part of gay culture that I certainly respect is those persons who work for gay civil rights and to educate the otherwise ignorant public. Such work may expose them to ridicule or worse. Or at least, that dedication may dominate their lives and take up most of their time, possibly denying them the opportunity to pursue other, more personally rewarding directions.

For those gays, however, who may have realized their orientation but who have not found much of a of a life beyond it, I would hope that “gay culture” is not defined by unproductive pursuits for frequent sex partners, short-term relationships, beer-busts, and constant gay social events. Human lives should mean much more than that.

It seems to me that the natural, healthful approach for viewing one’s orientation is that it is simply one element of a person’s personality and thinking, that it does not have to dominate one’s mind. Consequently, choosing friends, joining clubs, selecting careers, interests, and hobbies does not have to be determined primarily upon whether they are considered to be gay or straight activities. After all, any psychologist or biologist worth his salt now knows that sexual orientation is not binary, not black or white; it is fluid, running the spectrum of thinking, feelings, and behavior. I could be mistaken, but perhaps some individuals think of Story Time more as a gay writers’ group. I chose to join because I prefer to view it simply as a writers’ group. The human experience often contains universal elements not limited by gay or straight.

© 22 August 2012

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Patriotism by Terry

America is a lot of country to love. Patriotism is love of one’s country. So here are a few things I love, or recall loving about America.

I love America The Beautiful as opposed to the America of The Battle Hymn of the Republic.

I love that first job I got at age thirteen in Minot North Dakota, coaching 4th and 5th grade girls in softball and volleyball. I loved the look on my players’ faces when they got their first hit.

I loved my job as usher at the DCPA where I got to listen to The Brahms Requiem, and to witness performance of The Buddy Holly Story.

I loved my job at Sylvan Lake in The Black Hills. I loved honeymooning at one of its cabins three years later, where my new husband and I shared the same dream. I loved our family reunion forty years later where I met the twins, my grand Nephew and Niece, who rode peeking out from their grandparents backpacks most of the way on our hike up Terry Peak, memorably curtailed by a sudden thunderstorm that we mostly outran.

I love the freedom to risk, to make honest mistakes. I am thinking of my marriage that also found its final chapter at that same little Eden in The Black Hills. Where the emperors clothes no longer covered a young couple that grew apart in what felt like tragedy.

I loved the fields of North Dakota where I chased many a Monarch butterfly, so long unaware that I could neither reach nor outrun them in their high reels across the plain.

I loved the psychodrama plays at The Moreno Institute, its the stage with its balcony and colored footlights. I loved my International friends there who taught me French tongue twisters and who acted out their life’s stories in role plays or dramas based in their real worlds.

A lot of people mistake patriotism for unquestioning nationalism, my country right or wrong. I do not have any idea how to love all of fifty states, most of which I have never seen. It is a strange feeling to realize what abstractions replace a sighting of The entire South, not to mention Indiana, Kansas, Maryland Washington DC West Virginia., Nevada Utah., Hawaii, and Alaska.

I loved joining the Great Peace March across America in what year I forget, though I was probably the only person there where someone actually tried to start a fight with me for some unknown affront. Happily I escaped unscathed in time to head on to The Women’s Music Festival in Michigan, which I definitely loved until I fell asleep in the middle of the outdoor premier of Desert Hearts. I do however, own my own copy of the video.

I love teachers, music teachers, art teachers, I love learning and still do love teaching, my way of working to enhance my pupils and clients ability to enjoy their lives in the face of childhood mental illness, drug addiction and Alzheimer and dementia. I love that I was able to pursue that calling.

I love doctors and nurses who keep trying to pull rabbits out of hats, like the sorcerer’s apprentice trying to mop up the continual distresses of humans, each one of whom is destined for a tragic end.

I love the builders who raise schools and airports and hospitals from flat earth, I love astronauts and actors, their sense of adventure.

I love painting for several hours per creation. I love when I hear people express their in-loveness with my paintings. I love to write exactly what I want to convey, a story or essay or poem and when someone connects.

I love Carmel Sutra Ice Cream (Ben and Jerry’s).

I love talking or chatting online into the wee hours of the night with long-time friends who live far away.

I love playing Scrabble with two friends, one of whom grew up loving to read the dictionary, I don’t think I have won against her yet.

I do love women who love women. I love their wittiness and laughter, their wondrous sexiness.

I love good men with their spirit, generosity and pride and such widespread handsomeness of soul.

Lastly but not least, I love my cats, Charley and Star for as long as they are with me and I with them.

I guess you could say I am in love with my own world, but then, who could possibly get their arms around a whole country? Well anyway I’m imagining a gigantic hug.

© November 2013

About the Author


I am an artist and writer after having spent the greater part of my career serving variously as a child care counselor, a special needs teacher, a mental health worker with teens and young adults, and a home health care giver for elderly and Alzheimer patients. Now that I am in my senior years I have returned to writing and art, which I have enjoyed throughout my life.

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It’s a Drag by Ricky

No, really; this topic is really a drag, a downer, a disappointment, a travesty, a calamity, a disaster, a catastrophe, a cataclysm, a … well, you get the idea. The only “drags” I attended were the stock car drag races near Carson City, when I was a young teen. I didn’t care for them because they were so loud my ears hurt and they smelled bad and so did the dragsters.

In my 50’s, a friend and I went to another drag race, this time in Utah at a track just outside Salt Lake City. We were there specifically to see a jet-powered dragster known as “California Smoky”. Once again, I learned how loud the drags were. In order to take a photograph as the vehicle sped by, I had to use two hands on the camera. Even after spending 16 years in the Air Force, I failed to remember exactly how loud a jet engine is at full throttle and full after-burner. I think my ears are still ringing.

I’ve never been to a so called drag-queen show so my experience with that is limited to the late-night so called “documentaries” about the “profession”. Of course, I have seen male movie actors playing female characters in some parts of movies as an “all-male-review” type of comedy. In addition, I can remember TV performers doing the same thing; most notably Milton Beryl.

When I was about 13 or 14, I tried on my mother’s panties to see what the material felt like; nylon panties vs. cotton briefs. I preferred the cotton.

Although, it’s not related directly, this topic reminded me of the pop song, Kind of a Drag, by composer Jimmy Holvay and sung by the group known as “Buckinghams”. So, I won’t drag this out any longer. I’m done.

© 12 September
2011

About the Author


I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

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Solitude by Ray S.

“Hear that? It’s Debussy’s Le Mer.” How appropriate for the moment. Sounds just the way I feel. It is so hard to get started in the morning, the prospects of managing another day’s routine and decisions nagging at my subconscious.

“Subconscious, why do you command so much energy of my old mind? We are always at swords point or you’ve taken over completely. You’re the victor and I’m the defeated. You revel in the worst negative. O, these quiet hours of solitude.”

And then I said, “Well, how did you know when your retreat into self-imposed isolation would result in the discovery of your real self.” Did it settle all of those damning self-doubts? I guess it did, it is hard for me to imagine you any different than you are now. How long did it take in meditation or whatever to lift that millstone from your back? Can you show me how? I don’t think I have the will or discipline to beat my evil twin.

The music swells and I envision a soul departing this vail of all it demands. See it rising into the sky like a balloon, oh feel the relief from escaping everything earthly. What an adventure. The vastness of the universe beckons. Maybe this soul will be drown to all the other family of soul that took this trip earlier. How about that. A family reunion. It might be crowded.

OMG. Will this all end up the same old, same old? No, remember you left all that sub conscious junk back there. You’ll just have to be patient.

Sounds like the sea has crashed it’s final crescendo and the two battling sub-consciousnesses have given up until tomorrow morning, ready for another go at whatever.

How do you know anything, when, how, where, why? Solitude can be so tired, deadly and lonely.

And then there comes another melody with words:

“Never treats; me sweet and gentle, the way he should.
I’ve got it bad and that ain’t good
Lord above me make him love me the way he should
I’ve got it bad and that ain’t good!

I end up like I start out,
Just crying my heart out.
I’ve got it bad and that ain’t good.

(With apologies to Earl Father Hines.)

© 30 September
2013

About the
Author

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Coping with Loved Ones by Phillip Hoyle

Coping with loved ones is not really my topic although I do face some such challenges, challenges I’ve settled by maintaining distance. Still my experience is not so much coping as simply living away from the people whom I seem so much to bother. I don’t expect them to change in their attitudes. I keep my distance. I have done so for fifteen years.

When I told my sisters that my wife and I were separating, that she was going back to Albuquerque to work and I was staying in Tulsa, that we didn’t know how to solve the difficulty two sexual affairs I’d had with men had created, and that I bore the responsibility for our problems, one of my four sisters was stricken. Sometime later, after I had moved to Denver to live my life as a gay man, I received a letter from her and her family that she, her minister husband, and their two young adult daughters had signed, a letter that separated them from me with its condemnation expressed in biblical language. I read it—a letter her husband had written—and felt sadness. I felt especially sad that they had involved their daughters in the act of rejection. I felt deeply sad for my sister. I did not respond to their communication. I have not seen my sister or her family since then.

Each March I send my sister a birthday card. Each December I send her family a Christmas card. That’s it. That’s enough for me. I feel sad for them all. I did send her husband a get-well card when he was being treated for cancer. I sent him my congratulations when he retired. I don’t know to do more than that. I hope my sister has a sense of peace in all this. That’s my best wish for her.

My other three sisters have been open, loving, and including, whatever their thoughts about homosexuality, sin, and salvation. I appreciate their attitudes. I treasure them all, even the rejecting sister who once had been one of my closest friends. I suspect this story would be more interesting if it had been written by my rejecting sister. She’s surely the one who has to cope. She’s the one who holds out for me to change. She’s the one who believes I’ve committed some unpardonable sin. She’s the one who has to deal with the embarrassment of having a sinfully gay brother who probably does all kinds of horrible things decent people must protect their children from, must rid their society of, and must enact laws to limit. She’s the one who fears that civil freedoms for the pursuit of happiness or simply the right to work, marry, and live in peace give too much to homosexuals. She’s the one who has to cope with too much. So she does cope; she prays every day of the week for my repentance. I keep my distance so she doesn’t have to cope with me close up. Face to face might be too much provocation.

My coping strategies: distance and separation. Perhaps they are too much a habit I’ve cultivated. I see they may present a problem on the horizon. As we age and our health deteriorates, a thing well underway with this group of siblings, I am sure I will need to be face to face with members of the rejecting family. Then I’ll have something more to write about! Then I’ll know more about coping like people in small towns have to cope with their families! In the meantime I’ll send my cards and best wishes for these folk who find me to be so evilly unrepentant.

© 14 October 2012

About the Author


Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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My Favorite Fantasy by Pat Gourley

I suppose some might say my fantasy life is sorely lacking in imagination and creativity and my opening lines to this piece might just reinforce that since it begins with yet again another Grateful Dead reference. The phrase that might be thrown at me here would be along the lines of “get a life”. Sort of like the bumper sticker that appeared shortly after Jerry Garcia died in 1995: Jerry is dead, Phish stink, Get a job. Despite the validity of this self-criticism here I go again. The topic of fantasy was brought to my mind as the result of the current four night run by Furthur at Red Rocks and their opening the second set on the 3rd, Saturday night, with the old Traffic tune Dear Mr. Fantasy.

Dear Mister Fantasy play us a tune
Something to make us all happy
Do anything take us out of this gloom
Sing a song, play guitar
Make it snappy
You are the one who can make us all laugh
But doing that you break out in tears
Please don’t be sad if it was a straight mind you had
We wouldn’t have known you all these years

Traffic – Winwood, Capaldi & Wood, 1967.

These are lyrics from a song made popular by Traffic in 1967. Their music was certainly within my sphere of listening influence if not when it actually was released certainly a few years later. This tune though made no lasting impression on me until the Grateful Dead resurrected it in the mid- 1980’s. The tune was brought to the band for then keyboardist Brent Mydland, who was one of a string of key board players for the Grateful Dead over thirty years. Several of them met untimely deaths, Brent included, who did himself in with a speedball in 1990. I suppose shooting a combination of cocaine and heroin is one way to attempt creation of a fantasy or perhaps facilitate fanciful escape. Several other much better known celebrities, based on an Internet search, have blasted out of this life with speedballs most notable perhaps were SNL greats Chris Farley and John Belushi.

What is music but one way to make us all happy and to take us out of our gloom? I am going to veer away from music as facilitator of fantasy though and take fantasy into the realm of Queerdom. Particularly the role fantasy plays in the lives of gay men. The proposition here will be that the creation of fantasy worlds is one of our special powers, one of our great gifts to the larger society and ourselves. We hone our skills at fantasy often in our early masturbatory and sexual daydreams, which we often have to create on our own since the dominant society, provides us with very little sanctioned sexual guidance.

                             

Our fanciful thumbprints are all over many facets of societal escape well beyond the sexual realm from personal grooming, art, film, classical music, show tunes and theatre to fashion and drag of all sorts to name but a few. I am not meaning to say that lesbians, bisexuals and trans folks are not also fanciful just that gay men seem to have really cornered the market on escapism. Fantasy I suppose has a downside as well as its many up sides, especially the social safety valve it provides. An example of the downside, and I am making this up pretty much as I write, is that our desire for escape often goes beyond harmless fantasies and too often gets goosed along with drugs and alcohol. Jerry Garcia once said people do drugs because they make them feel good. Going back to the Traffic lyrics again many of us gay men have certainly used substances to take us out of our gloom.

In order to fulfill many of our adolescent and pre-adolescent fantasies of being swept off our feet by Mister Right and then sexually ravaged until we nearly explode, drugs and alcohol are often used to help us to get over the initial and very powerful societal taboos involved. There has been some speculation over the years that gay men are perhaps more prone biologically to an over use of tobacco, drugs of all sorts and alcohol. I would argue that we are more prone biologically to fantasy.

Certainly not every gay man is into getting fucked though it is something most at some time or the other do fantasize about. This has got to be first explored in the realm of fantasy. Nobody wakes up one morning and out of the blue says ‘gee I think I’ll get some dude to fuck me today’. Any form of physical and emotional intimacy with another man is still so taboo that this remains a real test of character to get over it and move into the realms of positive gay intimacy despite the current minimal societal sanctioning of gay marriage.

There is much more run up psychologically, emotionally and physically to letting a man screw you than for a straight guy to have his first sexual encounter with a woman. The sexual signs posts are everywhere in our society for heterosexuals but don’t exist for gay men outside the realm of fantasy often times. Our sexual fantasies these days are and for decades really have been supported by gay male porn. Inadequate access even in 2013 to peers knowledgeable about the ins and outs of gay sex make the often totally fanciful world of gay male porn very attractive. Gay male sex education even in the world of the relatively tolerant Public Health environment rarely goes beyond the vapid message of “play safe –use a condom.”

In answer to the original question what is my favorite fantasy I am left at a bit of a loss on how to pick one. I sometimes think my entire life is a fantasy or perhaps worse a total illusion. I do think though that one’s favorite fantasy should be something that gets the blood running. I suppose I do also at times confuse my dreams with fantasy or maybe my dreams are pure fantasy. I dream of a socialist utopia where everyone is treated equally, has adequate food, clothing and shelter, the planet is healthy and the whole world is infused with a queer sensibility.

Well enough with taking the high road around my favorite fantasy. Being brutally honest I am going to base my favorite fantasy simply on how often I engage in it. That hands down would be my nearly daily masturbatory fantasies. These are often ignited with a bit of Internet porn but usually reach fruition by recalling a past sexual encounter that ends in my imagination the way I would have hoped rather than how it actually did. I must say though that most days that works just fine.

In closing I’d like to say that in doing these writings for this group I occasionally stumble on a thought that I think deserves much more exploration than I give it. For example the whole idea that the nonsexual fantasy worlds of gay men are actually great safety valves for society in general. I don’t think many would argue that without show tunes the world would be just a bit sadder place. Being the lazy fuck that I am though I rarely delve deeper but too often of an afternoon get distracted into the fantasies at hand.

©
October 2013

Photos from Author

About
the Author


I was born in La Porte Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.