Author: phoyle

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.” He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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SPECIAL EDITION: PRIDEFEST 2013

Today’s Special Edition presents stories by three authors. 

One Summer Afternoon 
by Ray S

“What are you doing, father?” It isn’t quite summer, but almost. And this afternoon the question was voiced by one of a couple of gay revelers passing by as I waited for the next #10 bus.

“Waiting,” I replied and then quickly added, “for the next bus.” Then it struck me, the title by which I had been addressed and then my prompt reply.

First, I am a father and today is the national holiday honoring fathers. Just coincidently Denver’s Gay Pride Sunday. There certainly are statistics establishing how many gay fathers there are. Guess this is our special day as well. One never knows who will turn up a father; do you?

Second, I thought after the boys passed by that the word “waiting” looms either ominously or in joyful anticipation for all of us, and in my case—for what or whatever the future may hold.

Besides the initial carnival character of the setting at Civic Center and then the Pride Parade, I was aware of the general ages of the celebrants. Don’t gay men grow beyond downy-faced Peter Pans that will never grow up or full-blown bronzed Adonises with such an abundance of self confidence and arrogance? This question was haunting and even more so after countless hours of observing the beautiful, bizarre, minimally-attired populous. Was this whole charade dedicated to the Fountain of Youth and the exciting discovery of carnality? Here is a parody of the song. “Old Soldiers never die,” etc. that goes “Old Trolls never die, they just fly away.” Is there nothing to look forward to besides a good book, getting fat from countless dinner parties, recounting lost opportunities with other disappointed brethren, indulging in the occasional gay porn DVD in the lone comfort of your bed, and on and on, so be it?

Then like the first blush of the sunrise my eyes were opened wonderfully to the real world of beautiful, crazy, happy, gay attendees of this huge street party celebrating many other positive aspects of the right to be who we are and equal to all the rest of the seemingly God’s chosen.

The exterior physicality has a way of transforming. The ultimate result is the chance for a real inner beauty to emerge, if it hasn’t been there already. The value of friendship, companionship and love beyond the flesh core. The truly life-sustaining elements of all GLBT relationships. And of course human nature will see to the sometimes overarching flesh thing.

Waiting one summer afternoon. Well just relax, breathe deeply, look around you, see the beauty and love in all of us, and eventually that bus will come.

© June
2013

About the Author

One Summer Afternoon
by Merlyn

Pride Sunday 2013 was the kind of summer day that will always be special. Michael and I walked in the Pride parade along with the color guard with Ray S; Cecil and Carl rode in a convertible  At the end of the parade Cecil and Carl joined us on the corner of Colfax and Broadway for awhile to watch the parade pass. We had fun looking at all of the people. Carl stood up and watched as the green Rolls Royce drove past that Cecil and he had ridden in last year.

We spent 8 hours helping out in the Prime Timers and The GLBT Center’s booths on Saturday and were planning on enjoying Sunday.

We would have to leave around 3 to go over to his daughters house for a father’s day dinner for Michael at 5pm.

After the Parade was over we had about a hour to walk around before Michael was supposed to work at his church’s booth. A storm went though with strong wind but no one cared. I was planning on checking out the four Prime Timers booths to help out if one of them needed help for a couple of hours.

Everything was under control so I decided to enjoy myself. I walked by Michaels booth he was wearing the red hat with flowers all over it, he was having a ball putting stickers on the people that went by. It was crowded and I was in the way, so I decided to walk around.

I saw a bench that was in the shade and sat down. I really enjoyed being able to sit on the bench and not do anything but watch and talk to some of the people that stopped for a break.

Two men in their 30s feel asleep in each other’s arms laying on the grass 20 feet away where I was sitting and no one cared. When I was in my 20s or 30s I could never have imagined a world where it would be OK to do the kind of things that seem so natural today.

We made it to dinner a few minutes late, had a real good time and came home around 9PM. We laid down to relax awhile before we watched the end of a movie we had started Saturday night. Both of us fell asleep, We woke up just in time to go down to and go to bed around midnight, but that’s another story about a different day.

© June 2013

About the Author

I’m a retired gay man now living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for the unusual and enjoying life each day.

One Summer Afternoon 
by Phillip Hoyle

As a dedicated people watcher, I sat alone on a coffee shop patio watching the parade go by in front of me. The East Colfax show was endless, varied, noisy, quirky, clean, stylish, unwashed and in rags. With loud sirens blaring, Denver Fire Department trucks sped by. Cars stopped to parallel park; other vehicles impatiently continued up and down the street. I watched a never ending flow of people and automobiles loving what I saw. Then I thought of the parade I’d see on the following Sunday, the Parade for Denver PrideFest 2013.

I first attended PrideFest in 1999. I wanted to go but realized I might not get to do so since my son Mike and his wife Heather and their four young kids were staying at my apartment. They were slated to leave Sunday afternoon to return to western Colorado where they lived. Early that morning one of my granddaughters asked to go to the playground she remembered from an earlier trip. “We can’t,” I explained. “The playground is closed because a parade is lining up in the park.”

“A parade,” she responded with excited eyes. “We can get candy!”

I told her I didn’t know if they’d have candy, but there would be lots of clowns. We did go down to Colfax to watch the events, and the children got much more candy than they had ever gathered at a parade. Back then few children attended the parade, so the candy givers were quite excited to see the stair step youngsters seated in a row on the curb and quite generous with their portions. So I saw my first PrideFest parade through the eyes of my grandchildren who loved not just the candy but every minute of the spectacle. Together we saw floats, dykes on bikes, bands, drag queens, politicians, dancing boys, and leather men. I thought how differently the world presented itself to my grandchildren when compared with what it showed me or my children.

Pridefest 2000 added a new perspective for I was in love with a man who was dying from the ravages of HIV and his anti-AIDS medications. I was dedicating much of my time to be with him for doctor appointments, chemotherapy, clinic visits, yard work, and socializing. I wrote in my morning pages on Saturday that I was going to meet Tony and Roy the next day to see the parade no matter what Michael, my partner, wanted. I wrote: “I’m going to be at Marion and Colfax and cheer on the troops.” I did see the parade all the while knowing that the two men I had been deeply in love with both wanted too much to fit in. The first one wanted to fit in with the beautiful; and this one, Michael, with the ordinary. When Michael said he was just an ordinary guy, I suggested to him that he was just an ordinary Queer! The differences these men represented helped me realize how much I was thoroughly queer and queerly individual.

I don’t recall anything particular about PrideFest 2001—perhaps I didn’t attend it due to my too-recent loss of Michael to AIDS—but in 2002 Mike and Heather and kids were back visiting and my life was once again changing drastically. The plot was that we attended Buskerfest on Saturday and PrideFest on Sunday, the former as a family, the latter accompanied by my wild friend Dianne and her boyfriend Craig. The subtext of the story was that a man I had become obsessed with but had not yet spent any time with—Rafael—was now, just that weekend, entering the main stage of my interest. The family met my good friends Roy & Richard as well as Rafael, my new flame who was setting off Roman candles in me both Saturday and Sunday nights. I left him early Sunday and Monday mornings to rush home and make breakfast for my family. I don’t know if I even slept for three days. Again I was seeing my changing life through the eyes of my children and grandchildren, and my friends. I was extremely attentive to the grandkids at PrideFest where Kalo, then nine, disappeared. I spotted him sitting on a high vantage point watching the nearly nude mob of gay guys dancing. He saw me looking at him and smiled and waved. Still he watched. Oh my, I wondered, do we have another generation of queers in the making?

The next year, 2003, Kalo was back but without his parents. He was spending a week with me in an improvised urban survival art camp. Sunday featured PrideFest. This time, with me coping with my loss of Rafael to death a few months before, Kalo and I joined Roy and Richard and Tony to view the parade. We also spent time that day with a group of body-painting lesbians. I wondered at the child’s perspective but saw him be very mature around the girls, wide eyed during a drag show, and worldly wise in the way he reported all the things to his parents. Kalo also met my next partner, who did not choose to join us at the festival.

But in 2004, I announced to him—Jim—I’m going to the parade. He accompanied me.

In 2005, I met a long-time drag queen friend of Jim’s. He’d never mentioned he’d even seen drag shows let alone knew and really liked Scottie Carlisle, a long-time drag queen, once Empress of the Royal Court.

In 2006, I met the author of the first gay novel I ever read recalling how important that book was to my development as a gay man.

I don’t recall what happened in 2007.

In 2008, I was in the Rockies on retreat where I read my short story about the parade and PrideFest adventures of Miss Shinti, a white miniature French poodle. The week before I went on retreat, I had urged my friends Roy and Richard, “Make sure Jim goes to the parade. Call him. Insist.”

“Why?” Richard asked.

“Because I don’t want his condition to become terminal.”

“Huh?”

“He has CEATTG,” I informed him. Richard looked concerned. “Chronic Embarrassment At All Things Gay,” I clarified.

The 2009 parade brought me insight into pride, politics, and church. It also introduced me to parties surrounding the festival. I made a record of all these things with my new camera. For me, the highlight of the parade that year was the stilt-walking drag queen Nuclea Waste, festooned with multi-colored long balloons, surrounded with a consort of adoring Speedo-clad dancers, each in similar fashion but decorated monochromatically.

2010, and 2011 provided more insights into my own gay life. In 2012, I loved it when the walker-toting elder brigade from SAGE made their way down the street, and I got all teary-eyed when a group of young GLBTs reminded us not to forget about AIDS.

And now in 2013 I am at yet another PrideFest. I want to know more about my world and my gay self and am delighted that what I really appreciate this time is how much the festival attracts straight folk and how, beyond the extreme costumes and hype, the most queer thing there seems not queer at all: men holding hands with men, women holding hands with women, hand holding that seems not at all self-conscious. And many children are here with their parents. How I wish my own kids and grandkids were here this time. It all seems so normal, except that I never once hold hands with my partner. Drat. What’s wrong with me?

Oh well, Happy PrideFest 2013. What a wonderful summer afternoon.

© June
2013

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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SPECIAL EDITION: PRIDEFEST 2013

Today’s Special Edition presents stories by two authors.

Pride 2013 
by Donny Kaye

As we drove south on University Boulevard we passed the church. A flood of memories overwhelmed me as I recalled the rehearsal the night before the wedding service and the actual wedding that followed the next morning, Flag Day 1969. The years that have passed have been filled with a lifetime of experiences, all of them memorable and significant to my life at this moment. There were times of closeness and the experience of love. There were children and the challenges as well as gifts that only parenting can bring. A career captivated my attention for 30+ years. Aside from the day-to-day challenges of being a father to three incredible individuals and a career there were vacations to remember, family outings to recall and the constant attention of a life complete with the demands of aging parents who required care themselves. And ever present in those days that flowed into years that quickly became decades, there was always a sense of aloneness and difference that I tried to understand and yet was fearful to confront. 

As the theater darkened I felt the presence of being surrounded by family. The one I sat closest to and I held hands as the performance of Elton John’s music was performed by the Denver Gay Men’s Chorale. The rhythm of my heart kept beat to the melodies and lyrics that are the songs of life that this masterful talent has created and was now being performed by the men of the chorale. The warmth of the hand of my companion allowed me to relax into knowing in my heart that this life journey is precisely on path. 

As I sat amidst family, holding the hand of the man who stirs my heart and soul in this moment, I couldn’t help but recall all that has transpired across this lifetime I call mine. Stonewall, only a few weeks after that wedding day in June; the demands of my brothers and sisters across this nation and the world for equal rights; AIDS; the continuing invitation to step out of the closet, a closet filled with fear, judgment, shame, dread, isolation and separation. All are memories I have moved beyond and yet they remain as colorful and essential threads of the fabric of my life. 

As the concert ended I stood with a profound awareness of the PRIDE that I hold in being me, finally, me. The one who can once again can love himself; the one who can genuinely extend unconditional love to another. 

We stepped into the night air, and I danced to Rocket Man playing in my mind as we moved across the grass. I declared that this year’s PRIDE celebration had officially begun!

©  June 2013

About the Author

Donny Kaye-Is a native born Denverite. He has lived his life posing as a hetero-sexual male, while always knowing that his sexual orientation was that of a gay male. In recent years he has confronted the pressures of society that forced him into deep denial regarding his sexuality and an experience of living somewhat of a disintegrated life. “I never forgot for a minute that I was what my childhood friends mocked, what I thought my parents would reject and what my loving God supposedly condemned to limitless suffering.” StoryTime at The Center has been essential to assisting him with not only telling the stories of his childhood, adolescence and adulthood but also to merely recall the stories of his past that were covered with lies and repressed in to the deepest corners of his memory. Within the past two years he has “come out” not only to himself but to his wife of four decades, his three children, their partners and countless extended family and friends. Donny is divorced and yet remains closely connected with his family. He lives in the Capitol Hill Community of Denver, in integrity with himself and in a way that has resulted in an experience of more fully realizing integration within his life experiences. He participates in many functions of the GLBTQ community.

One Summer Afternoon 
by Michael King

After the walk down Colfax with the Color Guard and other veterans while wearing my red hat with all those polyester flowers attached, we watched the rest of the Pride Fest parade. It was over at 11:30 and we had an hour and a half before I was due to be at the Center for Spiritual Living’s booth. I had put the hat back into the bag and along with the other bag with the sandwiches we hadn’t eaten we dropped the two bags off at the booth and wandered around Civic Center Park. By noon we were sitting on a bench in the shade and observing the crowd.

Observing, watching, sometimes making comments about the more outrageous or unusual and occasionally speaking to someone occupied the afternoon. I arrived back at the booth about a quarter to one and Merlyn went to see if he could be of help to the Prime Timers.

I spent the next couple of hours passing out stickers that read “Shine your love. Love your shine.”

One observation that really stands out is how many people are obese. Of course with the costumes it was often emphasized in an especially unattractive way. Sadly there are so many children and young people that will soon be on disability as a result of the stress put on their bodies from all those extra pounds. Another awareness I had was how many men and women were so heavily tattooed and/or had multiple piercings. It’s not that I don’t see this every day; it’s just that the percentage of those attending Pride Fest was so high. I wonder what many of these people do to earn a living and how many are receiving SSI and Medicare.

There were a large number of beautiful bodies also with lots of scanty and sometimes stuffed underpants, naked boobs with hearts or tape on the nipples, a few bare asses, masses of bare bellies hanging out, many queens in drag, the leather crowd, lots of dogs suffering from the hot pavement, babies and young children being pushed or dragged along, some drunks, some stoned, lots of holding hands, some intimacy, way too much bad music and often too many people in one place.

The most unforgettable T-shirt was worn by a very petite and vivacious young lady; it read “Sorry fellows I only suck pussy”. There were many ways people expressed themselves and a few surprised even me.

I had spent Saturday at both the Prime Timer’s booth and at the GLBT Centers’ information center. So this was my second day this year to do the kind of people watching that can only be done at Pride Fest.

I really enjoyed putting stickers on the hairy chests. Of course the majority of people got them on their shirt, arm or bare skin. One cute guy took his off his chest and put it on his nipple and asked for another for the other side. I put it there and he gave me a big hug. I got and gave lots of hugs. I know a lot of huggers and a few I didn’t remember even though they seemed to know me. I was of course getting a lot of attention and having my picture taken because I was wearing the red hat and my Tibetan beads hanging off my ears.

Every year I get to have many special summer afternoons. In fact practically every afternoon, morning and evening is special all year long. And every year I get to spend two days enjoying the eye candy, the misshapen bodies, the costumes and the nice hairy chests.

After Pride Fest we went to my daughter’s for a Father’s Day dinner. My grandson MR B gave both his father and myself a card. Here is mine. I’m one hell of a lucky gay granddad.

© June
2013

About the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities,” Telling your Story”,” Men’s Coffee” and the “Open Art Studio”. I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.

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SPECIAL EDITION: PRIDEFEST

Today’s Special Edition presents stories from three authors.


Breaking into Gay Culture

by Michael King

It was a little over 4 years ago that I got the nerve to go to the Gay Pride activities at Civic Center. I had gone about 15 years ago and ran into someone that I knew and at that time I was so far in the closet that I couldn’t admit even to myself that I was fascinated and curious about the gay culture. Having seen someone that recognized me freaked me out. So after all those intervening years, I finally got up enough nerve to check things out again. My problem wasn’t with being gay, but with other peoples’ reactions. But now I was retired and my only concern would be my kids’ reactions. I figured it didn’t matter much at this point in my life now that they were grown. But I saw no point in saying anything unless I had a lover. I didn’t know much about gay culture and was uncomfortable with going to bars, straight or gay. And for the most part I was unaware of the gay activities and groups where I might meet others and learn about these things.

So I leisurely strolled around Civic Center Park and observed, but without much understanding of the goings on. I was approached by this elderly man who handed me a green card about a luncheon held on Wednesdays with a group of gay men called the Prime Timers. The little gentleman I later got to know. His name was Francis Acres and I credit him with opening the door for me to discover a part of myself that was yearning for expression and acknowledgement. At the time I thanked Francis for the invitation and stuck the green card in my pocket fully intending to trash it when I got home. However just as I was about to throw it in the garbage I looked at it again. Suddenly it seemed like it was the thing I had hoped for. I called the telephone number on the card and left a message for someone to call me with more information. I didn’t get a response. On Wednesday I called the 20th St Cafe where the “Nooners” luncheon was held and found out the time it started. Not knowing how long it would take by bus, I got there quite early. Don Harvey and Jim Michaels were there, greeted me and explained the procedure for buying the lunch and some information about the group. I watched as the members came in and had my first exposure to a gay activity. By the third Wednesday I joined Prime Timers and have been going to events and activities ever since. I started going to the Monday “Coffee Tyme” where last year, I met my lover. Slowly I was feeling more and more comfortable with the group activities and discovered that many older men had also been married, raised children and came out late in life. Others have always been gay while a couple of the guys I met were not only out, but still married. I was no longer the only one with a family and straight friends. I got involved in The Denver Church, later to be known as The Center for Spiritual Living-Denver. And about 2 1/2 years ago, I started going to activities at the GLBT Center. 

         When I met my first lover at “Nooners,” I finally told my kids. A surprise to me, they all said that they had always known. My oldest daughter said, “I knew you were gay before you did! Ha, ha, ha.”

          Now on Mondays we go to the Telling Your Story group, of which this writing is for this week. On Tuesdays is the Men’s Coffee group. Wednesdays is “Nooners,” Thursdays I go to The Open Art Studio and on Fridays I volunteer at the front desk.  “Nooners” on Wednesday and The Center for Spiritual Living on Sundays are the only regular activities not at the GLBT Center. Of course there are other activities now and then, some monthly, others only one time events, others a few times a year. We also belong to the Colorado Front Rangers.

          I’m now experiencing one of the most rewarding and happy periods of my life. I am very comfortable being myself and doing things I would never have done in the past. I went to the celebration of the repeal of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” with my two lovers dressed in drag, fulfilling a fantasy I have had for a long time. I rode sitting on the back of convertibles in two Gay Pride Parades, waving like the queen that I have become. Last month I had 4 outfits, including 4 wigs and 3 pairs of shoes as I participated as Queen Anne Tique in The Gray Stocking Review. I am recognized by people that I don’t remember meeting because I’m almost always wearing large and often unusual gages. Gages is the name the kids use for body jewelry worn in piercings. Many of mine are 0 gage. I only wear 6 gages in my nipples. I also have a few tattoos, even though there is nothing particularly gay about that.

          A comment that I make perhaps too often is, “I was born a king, but it took me 70 years to become the queen I am today!”

          When interviewed by Channel 4 after the vote to repeal “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” I looked so gay, it even surprised me when I saw it on the news. The anchor introduced the interview with this statement, “Michael King, a gay activist.” When I heard that remark, I realized that I now have a mission. I will let everyone know that I love being myself. So I guess that by now, I’ve truly broken into gay culture almost totally and feel so wonderful for having done so.

Except for Sunday, Thursday and Friday, while I am either at one or the other Centers and while Merlyn is at the Gym, both of us are always together.

About the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities,” Telling your Story”,” Men’s Coffee” and the “Open Art Studio”. I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.

Exaggeration 

by Pat Gourley

In thinking about this word I realized that it is something that I have many times been accused of when acting my most “queenly” and uninhibited. I do though think that exaggeration may be an innate queer quality that has certainly in the past and continues today to serve us well. I am not sure that what is really happening in my more exaggerated moments, and this would be true for the queer world at large, would not more accurately be described as exuberance.

If I might take the liberty to use an example I see often around this [storytellers] table it would be Michael’s earrings. One could easily view these wonderful adornments as certainly exaggerated and quite over the top. I choose to view them as an example of his exuberance for life.

[Editor’s comment: Refer back to the picture of today’s first author above to see Michael’s earrings.]

Early on especially for young gay men and women it is often exaggerated tones of voice, hand gestures, clothing choices and body English that seem almost to be expressed unconsciously that attracts the attention of the straight world. It is viewed as something quite queer by our hetero parents, siblings etc. but for us most often it is something arising from our very souls and seems to us to be quite a natural expression. Something not contemplated or premeditated but simply expressed spontaneously.

What is “reparative therapy” for example in part but the attempt to squash our innate sense of exaggeration or our true sense of exuberance for life? Usually it is men who fall into these programs and are encouraged to be aware of speech and hand movements to tone it down and present themselves in more manly and subdued fashion.

A personal example of my own “exaggeration” I suppose could be the gardens I have planted over the years, often over the top and full of color. If you knew what you were looking for you could simply walk down the block and spot the queer house many feet away. I wasn’t trying to exaggerate but merely was expressing my exuberance for brightly colored plants and lots of them. Oh, and I have an extensive collection of purses that I hope I still carry most often in a very fey manner.

How else but through exaggeration do you breakthrough the soul-crushing curtain of heterosexuality that smothers us all from cradle to grave? Particularly, the exaggeration of difference becomes vital in forming our queer identities. Subtly does not get one very far.

A perfect example of productive exaggeration to refer to this month is our annual celebration of the Stonewall Riots. This momentous event of course occurred at the Stonewall Inn in Greenwich Village NYC in the early morning hours of June 28th, 1969. This action was started and sustained for three days by the most exuberant members of our community, drag queens. Wikipedia defines a drag queen as: “…males who dress and act in a female gender role, often exaggerating certain characteristics (such as make-up and eyelashes) for comic, dramatic or satirical effect.” (Emphasis mine)

One of the most poignant descriptions of that event is in Larry Mitchell’s iconic tome from 1977 The Faggots & Their Friends Between Revolutions.

Action Fierce Against the Men

One warm and rainy night, the faggots and their friends were gathered in one of their favorite cellars dancing and stroking each other gently. Suddenly, the men, armed with categories in their minds and guns in their hands, appeared at the door. The faggots, true to their training for survival, scrammed out the back windows, up into the alley and out into the anonymous night. The queens, unable to scram in their gold lame and tired of just surviving, stayed. They waited until boldness and fear made them resourceful. Then, armed with their handbags and their high heels, let out a collective shriek heard round the world and charged the men. The sound, one never heard before, unnerved the men long enough for the queens to get into the streets. And once on the streets, their turf, mayhem broke out. The word went out and from all over the devastated city, queens moved onto the streets, armed, to shout and fight. The faggots seeing smoke, cautiously came out of hiding and joyously could hardly believe what they saw. Elegant, fiery, exuberant queens were tearing up the street, building barricades, delivering insults, daring the men.

So they joined the queens and for three days and three nights the queens and their friends told the men, in every way they knew how, to fuck off.

(Larry Mitchell, The Faggots and Their Friends Between Revolutions, 1977. The book is long out of print but a few used copies can be found and a PDF version is available on line.)

Let’s not forget this Pride 2013 as Larry Mitchell so eloquently states in his book; “it’s been a long time since the last revolutions and the faggots and their friends are still not free.”

Denver, June 2013

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 am currently back in Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.



Gay Pride 

by Phillip Hoyle

Kalo sat cross legged watching the Gay Pride Parade on East Colfax as GLBT floats, dancers, marchers, banners, balloons, and bands made their way from Cheesman Park to the Civic Center. It was his third Gay Pride Parade, the event his dad claimed to be the best parade he’d ever seen, combining the intimacy of small-town acquaintance with the glitz of big-city resources. This time Kalo was alone with his grandpa and a few of his grandpa’s friends. It was a new adventure, the capstone to a week of art experiences in the big city. While making plans for the week I, his grandfather, told his mother we could include the gay parade. She said that was just fine. Kalo agreed, so he and I joined the crowd to see the spectacle and to visit the festival on the mall below the Colorado State Capitol building.

Ten-year-old-cool-man Kalo experienced a day of surprises that he watched with fascination, yet without alarm. His perfect visual memory recorded events and impressions that he seemed to treasure. When Kalo returned to Missouri, he told his parents a number of the highlights—the diverse crowd, the gathering of punk-rock lesbians, the woman who wasn’t wearing a shirt, the body painting, the drag queens, and more—but when his dad asked about the parade, Kalo said it wasn’t as good as the other ones he had seen.

“Why?” his dad asked.

“There were too many beer ads.”

Beer was there—everywhere—in the parade, along the route, and at the festival; everywhere folk slurping, swigging, sloshing, and spilling beer. Whether or not the kid saw all the full and quickly emptying cups I don’t know. He did notice the floats with fifteen-foot-high pitchers, enthusiastic dancers, beer banners, and loud music.

When my son relayed his son’s evaluation, I laughed and said, “He’s right. One of the main sponsors of the event is CoorsLight! They had several floats.” Of course, Coors looks at Gay Pride as effective advertising. They know how many gay bars, if not individuals, purchase their products across the West and value the important gay market. So they cooperate in order to stimulate corporate profits. They can also claim a liberal and open attitude.

I’m not proud of the alliance although I have no real objection to beer drinking. Archaeology clearly demonstrates that humans were brewing and drinking it thousands of years ago in the Middle East. They probably did so everywhere farmers raised grain. They still do, both where they have little advertising and where the market is hyped with the latest media technology combining pro-suds and pro-sports.

Yuck. I just spilled beer on my leg. The kid was right, at least to my sensibility; the Parade does have too many beer ads and way too much beer. Perhaps I am just not that much into the Dionysian revels, being too much Apollonian to simply laugh it off and lap it up. Of course, I too can down my beer even if I prefer another brand. But I don’t feel any pride over it; nor do I feel shame, guilt, or degradation.

Pride and lack of pride stem from a popularized psychology of minority concerns. I’m not into the slogans, but I do value gay pride. By contrast, I know many gay men and lesbians and others who are pleased as punch to be who and what they are but who want no identification with the rollicking groups of dancers, drag queens, leathermen, Dykes on Bikes, and such. But they do benefit from the hard work at The GLBT Community Service Center of Colorado where the festivities are planned, from the public profile of PFLAG members who proudly march for their kids and friends in this public display, and from the quiet work of lobbies for human rights within American law. We can be proud of that. I am. I’m happy to be at the festival drinking a beer or two, eating a sandwich, looking at the booths, watching performances, hearing music, and laughing with friends and acquaintances at this annual family reunion of sorts. It’s nice. I like it.

I’m proud to be here because I know at base it’s political. This mass of proud folk has a voice. Legislators and administrators admit it although sometimes with great reluctance due to their fears of not being reelected. Businesses recognize it with big buck grins. I’m not proud of the shenanigans of some of the revelers here, but I recognize the power Gay Pride represents and its balancing effects in Denver, in Colorado, and in the good ol’ USA. Show your colors, Denver; wave your rainbow flag, Colorado. Be proud enough, USA, to change a few more policies, even some in the military.

Dance, shout, celebrate. Okay, drink a few; even a few too many if you must. Take the bus home or stay over at the close-by apartment of a friend on Capitol Hill. I like our Gay Pride Festival and just hope all of us proud gays will get home safely, meaning without STDs, DUIs, ODs, or DTs.

Denver, 2010

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.”
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SPECIAL EDITION: PRIDEFEST

Today’s Special Edition presents stories from two authors.


How Queer Is Queer: Just Being Me

by Donny Kaye

“SOME DUDES MARRY DUDES.  GET OVER IT”
“I HAVE A PHD. Pretty huge dick”
“BEST LICK ON A STICK”
“I LIKE GIRLS THAT LIKE GIRLS”

     These were some of the t-shirt messages I enjoyed while interacting with participants in this past weekend’s PRIDE celebration.  And the t-shirts?  The t-shirts don’t hold a candle to some of the titillating visual experiences of viewing participants in various costumes throughout the weekend.


     So, just how queer is queer? Can you ever be too queer? Is there an option to be or not to be? How Shakespearian!

     Yes!

     I am! Queer that is!

     It’s Friday night of PRIDE weekend and I’m walking down Colfax headed into the action, as it were. My youngest daughter has just text me saying “it’s your first dad” referring to it being PRIDE weekend. Actually last year [2011] was, she just didn’t know it!  Then, that is. And yet when I came out she was the one of my three children who said “I’ve always known dad”. In that instance I must’ve been too queer.

     That warm sunny Sunday afternoon in April over a year ago when I had my “I can’t stand it any longer” conversation with my life partner, she said “I wondered when I first met you”.  There must have been something there, I mean, like over-the-top in too queer.

     When I had breakfast with my dearest friend Grett who I’ve known since she was two years of age, amidst the tears and in the sense of shame in revealing to her that I kept the secret for far too long, she said “I’ve always known”. 

     There seems to be a pattern; partner, daughter, best friend, all seemed to have known. In fact when I consider the many coming out conversations I had with my “then” circle of friends” not too many were surprised. It was the confirmation that sent them scrambling! 
I don’t know if that was about me, or them, but definitely it was too much!

     And so this Friday afternoon as I walk through the cloudy streets in Denver headed into Friday night PRIDE celebrations I wonder about too queer and it being too much! In the question of too queer it seems more about them than it does about me, after all, I’m just being me.

     Yes, I do have an eye for design and color. I’ve always searched for just the right things to put together, like in clothing-wise and decorating-wise and in every-other-way-wise!

     If not HGTV and the shows on design always (or most of the time) presented by recognizably gay men, I enjoyed the food channel. Could that possibly be a tip-off, in terms of being too gay?

     Yes, I’ve always been on the sensitive side as my mother used to say. Even when I announced to my mom that I was getting married her response was, “Why do you want to get married? There is so much of life for you to experience!” I have an ability to listen to people and to intervene on others behalf as they need me. I sit and cry with them. I’ve always been able to put my arms around someone consoling them in their upset, doubt or grief.

     So, there you have it; my attention to design, my interest in food, the emotional sensitivities and then you add the fact that I’ve never liked sports, and I happened to choose a profession where I worked with women all the time–what else could you expect. Even before I began my career in education when I worked in the factory, I was one of the only stockmen who could keep all of my dyke female machine operators happy!! 

     Certifiably queer! I am just me! 

     The questions and the discomfort around my possibly being too queer really do rest with everyone outside of me and not really with me.  As I exist in that realization, I wonder if the pushback is about their doubt about themselves and the possibility that they are too much, in one way or another. Possibly at some point in their lives they’ve considered a variant sexual experience too! One thing for sure, I’ve certainly gotten their attention, if gaining attention is what the t-shirt slogans and the unique dress (or undress) are all about.

     When considering the question of “too much,” the actual realization is that the quality of being too much exists in the eyes and mind of someone outside of myself and then gets projected back onto me, making me wonder if I am too much!  Those dirty rascals!

     And so I ask you my dearest of friends am I “too queer” or might I just be BEING ME?

[The above story references PrideFest 2012.)



About the Author

Donny Kaye-Is a native born Denverite. He has lived his life posing as a hetero-sexual male, while always knowing that his sexual orientation was that of a gay male. In recent years he has confronted the pressures of society that forced him into deep denial regarding his sexuality and an experience of living somewhat of a disintegrated life. “I never forgot for a minute that I was what my childhood friends mocked, what I thought my parents would reject and what my loving God supposedly condemned to limitless suffering.” StoryTime at The Center has been essential to assisting him with not only telling the stories of his childhood, adolescence and adulthood but also to merely recall the stories of his past that were covered with lies and repressed in to the deepest corners of his memory. Within the past two years he has “come out” not only to himself but to his wife of four decades, his three children, their partners and countless extended family and friends. Donny is divorced and yet remains closely connected with his family. He lives in the Capitol Hill Community of Denver, in integrity with himself and in a way that has resulted in an experience of more fully realizing integration within his life experiences. He participates in many functions of the GLBTQ community. 


Queer, Just How Queer
by Phillip Hoyle


      I love to use the word queer, the term brought into gay prominence in political and academic queering movements of the 1960s through the 90s. I also like it for the memories it raises of my grandma Pink, who in old fashion used the word for anything odd. I like it for its political symbolism and for making positive a word too long used as a pejorative. I like it for its strength. I like it for its inclusive quality covering the bases of LGBTandQ concerns. I like it for its exclusive quality, as in not too many people I run into want to be called by this moniker. I especially like the discomfort its use raises among some of my gay friends! It’s a word of wide potential and great humor. So just how queer am I? It’s a fair question. I’ll try to answer it once and for all.


     This morning I looked through the photographs on my digital camera that included those I took last summer at Pridefest Denver 2012. I was surprised to find there quite a few more images, ones I thought had been erased when I uploaded them into my computer. I flipped through frame after frame and saw so much of my life there, even photos from Pridefest Denver 2011. First I saw a photo of my partner’s 90-year-old mother, sitting at the kitchen table drinking her morning coffee. I often kid her about all her gay sons although only one of her offspring turned out to be gay. Her multiplicity of gay sons is made up of all of Jim’s and my gay friends. I call them her growing family of gay kids. She smiles for me and takes delight in these others who bring her presents of chocolate, humor, and unaffected affection. She represents in this picture a nine-year connection I have with her son and the growing numbers of her other gay sons. The photo reveals layer after layer of queer experience and relationship, but it’s just the beginning. I did mention two sets of photos taken at Pridefest, but I haven’t yet told of the hundreds of photos of the family of plastic pink flamingos that live in our yard shown standing alone and together among a variety of ferns. I took these and many more in the past couple of years, the queer obsession of a queer artist! I also haven’t mentioned many photos of flowers, of my artwork, of self-portraits, of extreme Christmas decorations at a local gay bar, of the bunch of men I run with at parties, in restaurants, and on the street. I haven’t told you of pictures of an art display, of drag queens, of small, large, and supersized lesbians, of gay architects and engineers, of employees of Chipotle restaurants, of young people polling for the Obama campaign, of great arches of rainbow colored balloons, of a guy wearing fairy wings, of a barely-clad muscle man standing by a muscle car, of the model in a platinum blond wig and red bikini sitting in a red convertible advertising At the Beach, of a parade on-looker smoking a huge stogie, of people dancing, of a young drag queen posing sexily for me, of a young man in shorts sitting on the curb with his little dog watching the parade, of political signs urging the election of sane officials, of leather studs, of a drum and bagpipe band in their smart kilts, of religiously motivated anti-gay protesters, of two young guys in interestingly revealing slacks, of Senior Citizens doing a dance routine with their walkers, of youngsters calling attention to Rainbow Alley, of the prominent landmark The Center makes along the route, of the partiers on its roof sometimes watching the parade passing by below, of the poignant reminder of the ongoing presence of AIDS among us, of wild hairdos, of the Imperial Court, or of the leathery Uncle Sam who stopped to ask me, “Where’s the free beer?” I haven’t said a word of many other pictures of musicians, dancers, activists, on and on. These photos are my people whom I celebrate with my little digital camera as passionately as Walt Whitman in the nineteenth century celebrated the democracy of America, the endless variety of life, the human body, his own body, and his sturdy comrades with whom he liked to lie in Leaves of Grass. 

     So just how queer am I? Really, really queer. I’ve been trying to tell you just how queer in my stories! In summary of all I’ve said to you in the past, hear this: 

* I’m as queer as the little boy who wanted to wear both cowboy and Indian costumes in public.
* I’m as queer as the boy who donned his great aunt’s wig and sister’s skirt and went to the family grocery store to show himself to his dad.
* I’m as queer as the teen who used to lie in bed next to his dad, not only to read alongside him but also to smell him.
* I’m as queer as the teen who bragged to another boy about marking his friend with hickies.
* I’m as queer as any teen boy singing in the school choir and more than most of them.
* I’m as queer as the high schooler who looked forward to each issue of House Beautiful.
* I’m as queer as the boy who ordered prints from a NYC art print company and treasured the company’s catalogue with its variety of homoerotic images.
* I’m as queer as the young man who discovered the striking 
International Male ads and catalogue.
* I’m as queer as the young man whose first male friend in adulthood was homosexual.
* I’m as queer as the young man who read all the homosexual-theme books in the public library.
* I’m as queer as the young man with wife and children who at age thirty fell in love with another man.
* I’m as queer as the young man who reveled in the idea he was bisexual.
* I’m as queer as the young man who discovered that his homosexual proclivities lay at the center of his sexuality.
* I’m as queer as the middle-age man who had sexual affairs with other men.
* I’m as queer as the writer who when he was asked to include cultural diversity in an adult religious education resource anthology quoted gay writers and HIV-related themes alongside many other cultural writings.
* I’m as queer as the middle-age man who left his wife to live as a gay man in a large city.
* I’m as queer as the old man who snapped photos at Pridfest knowing he was as queer as anyone there and loved the notion and the reality of it.

     I am the old man who says all these things proudly and with love, deep love for all my companions:
* Male and female
* Educated and uneducated
* Professional and worker
* Wealthy and dirt-poor
* Crazy and sane
* Chic and tasteless
* Laughing and crying
* Hale and exhausted
* Living it up and overwhelmed
     
     So, how queer am I? Pretty darn queer and happy as a lark about it.
     And now, if you’ll pose, I’ll take even more pictures with my camera, snapshots of the folk who add so richly to the queerness of my existence and the joy of my gay life. 

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.”

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Proud to Be by Phillip Hoyle

My Gay PrideFest begins when Jim and I meet two friends at their Congress Park house. The four of us make our way through Capitol Hill, walking down Thirteenth Avenue with a side trip into Cheeseman Park where the parade is lining up. The air is cool, the sun warm, our feelings high. At the park, queer life pulses with enthusiasm as gay men, lesbians, cross-dressers, transsexuals, children of gay couples, elderly, young, Whites, Blacks, Hispanics, Asians, and more make ready to ride motorcycles, scooters and roller blades, to wave at the crowd from floats and convertibles, or simply to walk carrying logos, banners, and signs explaining their commitments.

At a park-side mansion we attend our first party of the day. Our tie-dye-tee-shirt-clad hosts welcome us and encourage us to meet other revelers. We eat sweet rolls, bagels, and more continental fare washing down our choices with coffee or Bloody Marys. I make conversation with folk I haven’t seen for months and, in one instance, years, conversations that feature great intensity and loads of laughter. When we say goodbye about an hour later, our hosts encourage us to return for brunch after the parade.

We hurry to Sixteenth Avenue to find the address where the second party we hope to attend is in progress. Our companion who most wants to attend this bash also most dreads it saying he’s afraid we might walk in on an orgy or a drug fest. I suggest that if it is either, he doesn’t have to have sex with anyone or take drugs, even if they are free. Laughing, we find the restored townhouse, enter, and greet our host who is genuinely happy we have stopped by. Our friend’s fears are unfounded. Still, a couple of people there are seriously drunk. One greets me a second time with open arms, not realizing he has already done so. It’s fine with me; I like his hugs.

We haven’t been there long when someone shouts, “The parade is underway.” Moving down the alley, I am pleased to discover we have missed the Dykes on Bikes, my relief not due to prejudice but, rather, because of the racket! We cross Colfax to get to the shady side of the Avenue just as PFLAG (Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays), this year’s honorary parade marshals, are coming down the street. As always, I appreciate their friendly smiles and good cheer. Chapters from around the Denver area wave signs that read, for example, “I’m the proud mom of a proud gay man” as they graciously receive the crowd’s enthusiastic affirmations of their important work on behalf of the community.

We join a fifth companion near Charlie’s of Denver, a long established gay club that serves as the parade’s official center with bleachers and an announcer introducing each group as it approaches. I turn my attention to the parade watchers, snapping photos of interesting hairdos, outfits, facial expressions, and of course, my companions. But I itch to join some other people I know at another location and eventually excuse myself. My friends agree to catch up with me later.

Taking pictures left and right I move west along the sidewalk dodging people coming east, dogs on leashes, and dense knots of parade onlookers. I click my digital record of a Black angel whose right wing looks like it may have broken when he fell to earth. I see a bear of a man on a motorized cart, my attention drawn by his garb, a profuse white tutu that strikingly contrasts with his worn out black leather shoes. He sits there topless except for a black leather dog collar and leash, black sunglasses, and a black and white Holstein bull motorcycle helmet sporting real cattle horns. I stop to take several shots of this man who is thoroughly enjoying the parade, shouting his delight as floats, cars, and marchers pass down the street. He cheers loudly for some dancers spinning by as if he remembers the days when he, too, could shake his booty at The Broadway, The Triangle, or Denver Wrangler.

When I look up from my snapping mania, I see my destination looming over the street ahead: the high towers, nave, and transepts of the Roman Catholic Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception. I take pictures as I approach the proud building with its high arches, elaborate spires, stained glass windows, triple entry, and prominent location near the Capitol building. Watching the parade from my vantage point just across the street clarifies for me values so important for gays and for all Americans. I watch the interaction of the crowd of onlookers along the street, gay marchers in the parade, protesters against gays, protesters against the Catholic Church, protesters calling gays to repentance, and the police who are alert to the possible need for crowd control in the dynamic environment. I greet the folks I hoped to meet there. They seem to be enjoying the parade. I snap their pictures and watch the drama.

I feel like I’m attending a medieval European Feast of Fools as the parade passes in front of the Gothic façade of the Cathedral. The juxtaposition of worshippers inside and revelers outside sets the scene. Folk inside searching for salvation, showing contrition, and carrying out pious acts seem such a contrast to folk outside enjoying the expression of liberation and impiously displaying pride. But the situation is much more complicated than that. I know that in the Cathedral gay worshippers gather alongside straight worshippers at every mass. I know that not all worshipers are pious or contrite and that not all gays are proud show-offs. I recall that religious leaders of Jesus’ time found him intolerable, given that in their opinions he was drinking too much and eating with the wrong sorts of people. I know that today the most intolerant and puritanical of church leaders often praise the ministries of gays in their choir lofts. The spirits of Church and Pridefest do contrast but not in a simple right and wrong sense. Both reveal great diversity; both reveal tolerance and intolerance. Well, of course, for both spirits are expressed by groups of people. We should expect friction when they rub shoulders on Gay Pride Sunday.

And here at the Cathedral corner come gays parading their diversity: a dozen or so royal families of drag queens and kings; the bars that have been oases for gays and lesbians for many years; the largely Gay churches such as the pentecostal Pillar of Fire and the almost mainline Metropolitan Community Church; several gay-affirming Unitarian, Lutheran, and United Church of Christ congregations; the domestic beer companies; a huge group of young people encouraging the parade watchers to get tested for HIV; the leather men; the dog owners; the bicycle riders; the club bunnies; the leathery skinned, sunburned old man in his thong and sandals; the politicos who affirm gay rights and seek the gay vote; a group of students from Denver Metro area’s Vantage Point alternative high school; the Stonewall Democrats whose presence reminds us that Gay Pride events across the country this year commemorate the fortieth anniversary of the Stonewall riot that gave such willpower to the gay liberation movement; the Transsexual community; the Gay Band; the Gay Choruses; the Gay square dancers; the Gay football league; the Gay swim team; the Gay Indians; and of course, Nuclea Waste, the drag queen on her high stilts, this year complementing her usual ensemble with a multi-color backpack of long balloons in neon colors exploding from her shoulders like a star burst. She is accompanied by several cute gay guys in tennis shoes and Speedos, each one also sporting a similar, but monochromatic, neon backpack—blue, green, yellow, orange, red, and purple—a cavorting rainbow of the brightest colors in the parade. But that colorful claim is challenged soon by a huge rainbow arch of balloons, a monstrously large rainbow flag, a Carnival of colors displayed by the Hispanic court of drag queens with their headdresses of dyed ostrich plumes, their supreme ruler surrounded by hundreds of peacock feathers, and finally, near the end of the parade, a hot pink feather boa measuring at least a quarter of a mile in length carried aloft by a couple hundred young people dressed in matching light blue shirts. The parade’s prismatic array surely stands as the ultimate symbol of Gay Pride and human diversity.

And me: I am here snapping shot after shot of diversity, enjoyment, exuberance, serious intent, history, love, and pride. And I do so proudly while myriad thoughts buzz through my consciousness.

Here, I think, power seeks to assert itself: secular power, religious power, democratic power, hierarchical power; powers moral and visionary. For years I heard the adage that politics and religion make strange bedfellows. Today I think the saying points to religious institutions vying for power within political structures. For example, maneuvering within the Republican Party resulted in a strange mix of secular and religious power brokers. Perhaps the coalition has now run its course, but one must understand as its background the establishment of religion in most of the Colonies and the history of assumptions of political power within the old Congregational churches—both Trinitarian and Unitarian. The eventual compromise necessary to unify colonies into a national government necessitated the separation of church and state but did not end the power of religious assumption. For Congregationalists, American democracy was an instrument of God, one that gave them community responsibility. Their mission was a pious and puritanical assertion of democratic power within their towns, states, and nation. We shouldn’t forget that the nineteenth century vision of Manifest Destiny had its origins in the preaching of biblical images. When religious conservatives in the late twentieth century began to assert political power with their values, religious liberals who had long done the same got worried, some even resentful. But what did they expect with the continuing success of several conservative denominations and the emergence of new evangelical independent churches? The neo-com religious powers’ interest to improve the country shouldn’t surprise anyone. Me? I’m liberal. I value the secular state, but I also realize the country has to guarantee both freedom of religious practice and freedom from religious tyranny.

The open sexuality of some dancers on a float going by reminds me of other strange bedfellows connected to American churches and to American political institutions. Sometimes such folk sleep over, and when the press reports it, American gays as well as American straights respond as if each affair is something original. We cluck-cluck and tsk-tsk shaking our heads at the impurity and hypocrisy while relishing and continuing the gossip. Like children taunting their siblings, American political leaders sometimes say “Shame on You” to American Presidents, Senators, Representatives, Judges, and Governors while the accusers are guilty of the same misdeeds. I hope that American attitudes will someday catch up with changes in American activities.

So here I am watching the parade—another dramatization of American life that for all its color is no more and no less sinful or righteous than any other public demonstration for civil rights based on truths self-evident. Its educational and celebrative purposes are noted, sometimes appreciated, and of course, derive their power by contrasting democratic principle with hierarchical assumption. Thus I love my corner view at Logan and Colfax where edificial security watches a free flow of traffic, of contrasting protests, of subcultural celebration, and of so much more that daily passes by its doorway.

The march goes on. One float invites onlookers to join them at the Civic Center PrideFest where they can get married! I don’t know what the legal outcome of their actions will be, but I do know what it symbolizes—the striving for civil rights. I applaud something I don’t seek for myself but do believe should be available in this American democracy even if the Roman Catholic Church, and many others, will never allow such ceremonies to be held within their hallowed walls.

I applaud. “Yes, America, march.” I want to shout, “March on, you Revelers for freedom.” I feel so Walt Whitman-ish but finally calm down when the parade ends. My four other companions join us here across the Avenue from the church. We enjoy more talk and good times. Then the five of us leave and return to the first party to have our fill of food and drink, and the good feelings of friendship, love, and pride—all in gay style. I tire of my picture taking and when I get home realize why. I have taken nearly 250 photos of my people, of my celebration, of my life.

Denver, 2009

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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Statues, Art, and Sensuality by Will Stanton

Michangelo’s David

An art teacher in Dallas, Texas, took her class for a tour of the local art museum.  One statue was nude.  One student mentioned it at home. The mother complained to the school.  The Dallas school board fired the teacher.

Loveland, Colorado, is noted for its sculpture park.  In addition to displaying a few pieces of statuary throughout the grounds, annual art shows and sales are held there and have proved to be both popular and profitable. Unfortunately, a number of very righteous citizens complained.  Apparently, there was one statue depicting a mother holding her child that they considered to be obviously obscene and a corrupting influence upon the youth of Loveland.  Despite the fact that the statue was not highly detailed because the artist stylized it through simplified lines, the statue was removed and placed in a far corner of the park, unfrequented by most visitors.

Apparently, these events are just more symptoms of skewed concerns and perhaps even rampant insanity in America.  “Of course, I realize that God abhors human nudity.  That is why we are born fully clothed and without genitals.”  I did not find this to be so in many of the older, more mature countries that I have visited in the past. 

I not only appreciate all forms of beauty including sculpture and the human form,  I, of course, am referring to the most admired examples of the human form, not those images that I receive on-line showing Wal-Mart shoppers in Tennessee.

Actually on the contrary, sane theology scholars (including relatively recent statements by Pope John Paul II) make quite clear that nudity in Christian art is acceptable when purposeful, done so with an element of philosophical modesty, and not solely to cater to the prurient interests and desires of the viewers.

Personally, I would have to have a brain of a brick and a heart of stone not to perceive the physical beauty in the David statues of both Michelangelo and Donatello.  I realized that, long ago, that David had become somewhat of a gay icon, an archetypal form of beauty often found in cheap, miniature imitations displayed in apartments and homes.  I had the good fortune to admire both in their original forms.

Michelangelo’s Renaissance masterpiece was created between the years 1501 and 1504.  The fact that it originally was destined to be but one among a series of monumental statues to be placed along the roofline of the Florence Cathedral accounts for its seventeen-foot size. The statue was placed instead in the public square near the seat of civic government and later into the Accademia Gallery. The strong, athletic build of this David, along with the steady gaze of his eyes, became to symbolize the strength of the Florentine city-state and a warning to stronger, contiguous cities.  The fact that this David also resembles a young, Greek god, does not hurt its aesthetic value either. 

What a different response Donatello’s David provides us.  This is no macho David, reliant upon his own physical power to vanquish the giant Goliath.  On the contrary, had Goliath captured David, Goliath might have been more prone to bed young David than to slay him.  If they had lived during Florentine times, this most likely would have been the outcome, and not to anyone’s surprise.  

Donatello’s David was created in bronze somewhere between the years of 1430 and 1460.  This five-foot bronze with gilt accents is said to be the first fully nude, male statue since the Greco-Roman times, although David’s wearing a cute hat and boots are anomalous.  Viewers with admirable sensibilities cannot help but admire this astonishing, artistic creation.  One would have to be a real “Bible-thumper” or a member of the Dallas School Board to be outraged and disgusted by this work of art. 

Admittedly however, there are some aspects of this David that might create confused feelings in male viewers, and quite possibly extremely disturbed feelings among homophobes.  To begin with, it is an understatement that one can not claim this David to be “macho” and physically powerful.  On the contrary, this adolescent, male form is notably androgynous, even to some degree feminine, and peculiarly sensuous.  Why so?

For the casual observer who has a rudimentary knowledge of Florentine history, one might conclude that this high degree of sexual sensuality merely reflects the pervasive tastes of the population at that time.  There is more truth to this than many people realize.  Sexual attraction and relations with young men were so prevalent that one cannot declare the practicing population to have been a “sub-culture.” One might almost conclude that they were the culture of the time.  But, could there have been a symbolized message within Donatello’s statue beyond the possible homoerotic interests of the artist and the person who commissioned the work?

I suggest that it does not take a Tom Hanks to figure out the meaning of the statue.  To begin with, young David did not rely upon his own powers and physical strength to vanquish the giant Goliath, nor was a single stone aimed at Goliath from some distance a sure thing.  Art historians state that, quite possibly, Donatello was expressing the belief that the power of God slew Goliath, not the physical prowess of an ephebe.

But why the sensuality, and that silly hat, and those little booties?   And even more so, why is there a long feather from Goliath’s helm riding up David’s thigh?  And what about that soft tuft of Goliath’s beard wrapped about David’s toes?

Donatello’s David

Ah ha !   A well known custom of Florence was for men to steal the hats off the heads of comely lads and to refuse to return their hats until they agreed to be the recipients of the men’s advances.  A good looking youth still wearing his hat meant that he had shown enough moral fortitude not to lose his hat and that he had been vigilant to protect it. Donatello’s David still wears his hat. David could not be vanquished!  Could this be the possible answer, or is this explanation a stretch?

So, what response does each, individual viewer derive from these nude statues?  Are these Davids simply expressions of Christian themes? Or, is it that some people simply regard these statues as just rather sexy ?  

© 08 April 2011

About the Artist

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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Getting Caught by Ray S

What a vast subject–depending on what you get caught at or doing. Certainly someone will recall, as I did, the old saw “getting caught with your pants down.” (Don’t you wish.) Caught by the boogy man in a bad dream when you were a kid. You remember. Running, running, running, and the harder you tried the more your feet were stuck in the mud-like glue on your path. Finally kicking and screaming you wake up escaping a horrible fate.

There were numerous times when you thought you didn’t get caught only to live with lingering pangs of conscience. With effort and appropriate therapy this too passed.

Then there were those delicious times when you were engaged in an activity in which you were tempting fate at getting caught. Those are the memories of “caughtness” that enrich our life experiences.

It all boils down to caught-positive and not caught-negative, so for me and maybe you I’m still out there catching that falling star.

2-4-13

About the Author

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Cookie Monster by Phillip Hoyle

     During my rather long life I have tasted an endless assortment of cookies. They cause me to smack my lips, salivate, and obsess, so much so that I freely identify with Cookie Monster of Sesame Street. I smell cookies; I see cookies; I want to eat cookies. I do eat cookies, way too many of them. But every so often I seek to stem the cookie tide in order to gain control of some little part of my life. Then I quit eating cookies along with other wonderful desserts in hopes of stemming my appetite. Cookies, you see, serve me as a stimulant for further eating. Cookies turn me into a ravenous food monster that isn’t pretty or couth or sharing. So every once in a while, Cookie-Monster-me wants to give it a break so I can enjoy some other possible satisfactions such as easily fitting into my clothes, having more breath, saving money, and not getting so exhausted when simply walking through a day.

     After feasting on cookies all year long and sometimes using them as a substitute for getting anything done, I have, this year, set aside my cookie pleasures. I’m doing well but my thoughts sometimes turn towards cookies. I’ve asked Ruth, with whom I live and who herself is a Cookie Monster albeit a dainty one, to quit leaving cookies in plain sight. Too often they sit in translucent boxes on the round table in the breakfast room. When I see the box, I have to run upstairs to fetch some chewing gum to keep my mouth busy and cookie free. Also, I shun buying cookies at the 7-11 across the street from work or the tea shop down the block or one of the many coffee shops I tend to visit. I’m cookie free (for several days) but my mind has turned towards them with such great force, I am going to list the cookies that have most preoccupied my eating habits during the many years from childhood to older adulthood. Perhaps the imagination of their flavors and textures will suffice for me, at least today. Here, according to my taste buds, are some of the very best, both commercial and homemade:

Hydrox cookies
Pecan Sandies
Wedding cookies (with pecan bits and covered in confectioner sugar)
Toll House cookies
Black and white sandwich cookies (the cheaper the better)
Macaroons
Peanut butter blossoms (with their big chocolate centers)
Snickerdoodles 
Shortbread cookies
Raspberry filled sandwich cookies with chocolate drizzled on top
Myrna’s Power Cookies (big oatmeal cookies with raisins & chocolate chips)
Ruth’s frosted sugar cookies
Ruth’s Cry Babies (soft ginger cookies with icing)
Lemon bar cookies
Seven layer bar cookies
Key Lime bar cookies (I used to get at Alfalfa’s bakery)

     In conclusion, I must admit I always return to Toll House cookies when my taste changes. I like cookies. I hope to lose enough weight to make a moderate return to cookies, but being the Cookie Monster I am, I find it hard to imagine life with such advanced self-control. If you ever see me reaching for the cookie jar, simply clear your throat and raise an eyebrow or, better yet, join me for an ultimate cookie pleasure.

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.”

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Memorials by Ricky

In Memoriam of Sandy Hook Elementary Victims
(14 December 2012)

          One of my early girlfriends narrowly missed being a casualty of the sniper at the University of Texas–Austin on 1 August 1966.  Thus, I find the topic “In Memoriam” depressing when I think about it too long, or in too much detail (like trying to write this life memory story).  Since 1981, my blocked negative emotions are returning and I am increasingly more sensitive and emotional over sad and tragic incidents and events.  Undoubtedly, at some point while writing this, I will stop to regain composure and dry my eyes.
          There are individual and personalized types of memorials.  To honor our mother after she passed away, my brother grew the fingernail on his left little finger to a little over ¼ inch in length.  He kept it that way right up to his passing in 2011.  At his death, his twin sister installed a flagpole in her front yard and placed an engraved plaque on it to honor him.  His ashes are on top of our mother’s grave and a Veterans Affairs plaque marks his location.  I occasionally wear a violet wristband in remembrance of the slain Matthew Sheppard, a hate-crime victim.
          The most horrific memorials to my mind and causes me a great deal of sobbing, are the ones dedicated to those senseless killings of innocents attending colleges and schools.  Since that August 1966 sniper in Austin, the shootings at schools and colleges did not stop and governments did nothing effective to stop the violence.  What is worse is the voting public did nothing to force legislators to act.  Living in metro Denver, I clearly remember the Columbine shooting (20 April 1999) and I have been to the memorial. 
Columbine Memorial – Never Forgotten

           No government did anything productive to prevent future violence.  Between the Columbine killings and the recent murders at Sandy Hook Elementary, there were 55 additional school shootings in the US (including three in Colorado: Bailey (Platte Canyon High School), Littleton (Deer Creek Middle School), and Aurora Central High School).  Neither governments nor the people did anything effective.  After the Sandy Hook shootings (as of 2 November 2013), there have been 18 more school shootings with 16 more fatalities and 21 more injured.¹  Perhaps governments and the populace will take effective action this time.

          Why did it take the mass killings of 6 and 7-year olds to motivate Congress to try and solve the problem?  Is Congress not concerned about the adult and teens that died at Columbine (or for that matter anywhere else since the 1970’s)?  Do members of Congress place their highest level of concern, and highest priority, on staying in office and increasing their party’s political power over serving the nation?  Do they even care about what is good for the people and nation?  In my opinion, their inaction cheapens the value of the lives lost.  [NOTE:  On 17 April 2013, Republican and Democrat members of the U.S. Senate once again turned their collective backs on the safety of the citizens by “killing” a bill to close background check “loopholes” in firearms law.] Since inaction speaks louder than words, it appears they really don’t care about us or US.
          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 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

¹ For a list of school shootings in the U.S. from 26 July 1764 through 2 November 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 and 9 November 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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Memorials by Gillian

In the UK there is an expression, the Fortunate Fifty, referring to only fifty villages in the country, which did not lose even one man to the horrors of the First World War. Every other village has a war memorial, portraying a long list of those from the village killed in World War One, with a sad addendum below of those killed in World War Two. The second list is, thankfully, usually much shorter than the first.

The First World War was one of the deadliest in the history of mankind, with estimates of total deaths ranging from ten to fifteen million. In small villages it was so devastating because at that time all the men from the village served together, and frequently died together, so in many cases a village’s husbands, sons, brothers, sweethearts and neighbors all died on the same day, leaving the village essentially bereft of an entire generation of young men.

I was walking past one of these ubiquitous memorials one day, in some village in the north of England, I don’t even remember where I was or why.

Tudhoe Village War Memorial, United Kingdom
Photo by Peter Robinson used with permission.

I glanced at the tall granite pillar with the usual almost unbelievably long list of names, and an old farmer shuffled up to me. The tip of his gnarled old stick bumped down the names engraved in the stone.
“Aye, but we showed the buggers!”

He stabbed his cane at the more recent list below,
“And then we showed the buggers again!”
He stomped off with evident satisfaction.

My mind turned to those old, grainy, jerky, black and white films taken in the trenches.
Did that young man, so fresh from his father’s farm, now lying in agony over the barbed wire of no-man’s-land, gasp with his dying breath,

“Aye, but we showed the buggers!”

I doubt it.
Nor, I imagine, was it the last thought of the pilot of that Spitfire, plummeting to the ground in flames; he too injured to bail out.

In the nineteen-fifties I was on a train crossing northern France. We passed rows of identical white crosses. For miles and miles, they flowed up the hillsides and into the valleys. I had never seen such a sight. Nor have I since, come to that; just some of the countless dead of the First War. A French couple in the seat across from me waved their hands and jabbered animatedly. My French wasn’t good enough to get it all but I got the gist; a French version of,
“Aye, but we showed the buggers!”

When I spent some time at a volunteer job in St. Petersburg a few years ago, my young interpreter took me to the Siege of Leningrad Piskariovskoye Memorial Cemetery. Half a million of the estimated 650,000 people who died during the 900-day blockade, are buried here. From 1941 to 1944 the population, cut off from supplies and constantly bombarded by planes and ground guns, starved to death.

There are heartbreaking photographs from that time, and stories which my escort, visibly puffed up with patriotic pride, translated for me. Of course she had not even been born then, neither come to that had her parents, but that fervor burned from her eyes.
“Mother Russia will never give in!”

I pictured the starving mother, huddling in the corner of the cellar in the bitter cold of a Russian winter, cuddling her starving children. Did she feel that? She, and the other 650,000, were given no choice.
Katya was waving a dramatic arm and saying something in emphatic Russian.
Clearly some approximation of, “Aye, but we showed the buggers!”

It never fails to sadden me, this surge of patriotism that seems to overtake so many people, of any generation and gender, when contemplating memorials. How will we ever see an end to the need for memorials for the war dead, when, instead of shedding sufficient tears to make Niagara look like a trickle, we continue our attitude, in any language, of,
“Aye, but we showed the buggers!”

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.