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
Posted on

Going Green by Betsy

     My Daddy was in the lumber manufacturing business. He cut down the trees, took them to the mill, and made boards out of them, then sold the boards to those who use them to make things that people buy; i.e, furniture manufacturers, construction companies, etc. He knew his trees. It was said of Charlie Mac that if he were blindfolded and transported and dropped anywhere in the U.S., he would know where he was by identifying the trees surrounding him.

     It must be in the blood. I love trees, too, although I can’t identify the different species like my dad could. But I do believe they are among my favorite plants. And amazing plants they are. Here are just a few reasons we all should appreciate trees.

     It is widely accepted that the aspen grove is the largest living organism on earth. A single grove of genetically connected trees can cover a mountainside.

     Trees are among the oldest living beings on the planet, too. The bristlecone pine often lives longer than 4000 years.

     Trees can be beautiful as well. We have all seen the vibrant colors produced in the fall by many of the deciduous trees as well as the blossoms in the spring. Trees have provided us with some of nature’s most spectacular shows of color ever seen anywhere. Driving through Utah and western Colorado recently I experienced a visual feast of mountainsides of yellows, reds, and oranges which took my breath away with their spectacular beauty.

     Trees provide us with a renewable resource whose value is beyond calculation. We love trees for all of these reasons, yes. The main value trees have for humankind, however, is their ability to absorb co2 and produce oxygen and to help keep the atmosphere clean.The Amazon rain forest produces more than 20% of the oxygen of the planet as it performs its service of recycling co2 into oxygen.*

     Consider, however, that just as we are beginning to appreciate these forests and their true value, we are losing them at an astonishing rate. There was a time when rain forests covered 14% of the earth’s land surface. Currently that coverage is down to 6%.*Every second another one and one half acres of rainforest is lost to agricultural development, logging enterprises, mining operations, and even tourism.*

     The greatest misfortune is that when the forests are clear cut, burned and bulldozed, the trees, other plants, and indigenous people are gone forever. The plants are no longer the renewable resource which were of much more monetary value than the farm, ranch, or whatever entity that replaces it. Medicinal plants, fruits, nuts, oils and other resources can be sustainably harvested for generations with a much greater economic return when the rain forest is preserved. Such operations provide employment for entire communities of indigenous inhabitants who then earn five to ten times more money than they can earn by chopping down the forest for timber and farming.*

     My dad who ran logging operations for his lumber mill also lamented the disappearance of the rain forests of the world and clear-cutting practices in this country. He knew better than most that the lumber could be harvested without destroying the entire forest. Proper forest management is common practice, yet shortsighted governments, greedy corporations, and unknowing individuals prefer to by-pass these practices for their own purposes–another example of entitled indifference, greed-driven shortsightedness, ignorance, total disregard or denial of the consequences for the future and the good of the whole.

     Perhaps a lesson could be taken from the aspen grove. While the trees within the grove are interconnected through their shared root system, each tree stands as an individual and at the same time is connected to the whole. The trees as individuals are allowed to thrive while connected to and dependent on the survival of the whole grove. At the same time each individual tree contributes to the whole while enjoying its own well being. Is it possible that humankind could do the same?

*http://www.rain-tree.com. Update January 29, 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.

Posted on

I Did It My Way by Phillip Hoyle

     The hit song from old Blue Eyes made a new impression on me the first time I heard it played at a gay bar. That night at the Bailey Street Where House the song caught my attention due to its stylistic contrast with several disco songs played, pieces by the Village People, Bee Gees, and Donna Sommers. In the context of a gay bar, the song seemed an anthem or hymn of those gathered. I duly noted its inclusion as one among many indications of community for the qualitative research project I was pursuing in a course “Community Contexts of Ministry.” In this way my theological education at Texas Christian University’s Brite Divinity School brought me closer to the gay world and to my eventual inclusion within that community. 

     I had chosen the gay bar setting from a suggestion list, noting at the time that one other person had indicated his intention to do the same, a guy I had recently met at a gathering sponsored by the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) in the Southwest. Four seminarians went that evening to observe and, of course, to drink a few beers. I got my hazel eyes full of interesting sights, signs of community as I interpreted them in my field observation report, and my ears full of other indicators that something fine and interesting was going on in this bar. I made several return trips that semester and learned things I wanted to know about gay life and, furthermore, came away with the impression that while my friend seemed defended against what the place represented, he also seemed comfortable and interested. I had no plan for his and my interests to converge at a personal level but was acutely aware of the attraction of gay community I observed there and my own comfort within the setting.

     That semester I also observed a community organizing project and reported it with the same fascination and detail as I did in my description of the gay bar. I didn’t feel like I had to cover myself. I already knew my interest in men, my feelings of sexual attraction to some men. I was fine with the feelings. My life was headed in a family and career direction that I was not going to forsake. But like a cat, I tend to be interested in what is going on around me. I’m curious and entertained by happenings in my peripheral vision, especially if they seem novel. Seeing lots of guys dancing together in a bar certainly was novel and having the luxury of a plausible excuse for watching the show let me feel its deep fascination. The date: fall 1978, before the AIDS crisis, a time of nearly unbridled passion that was easy to see revealed in that bar. I saw and liked it, but I saw more.

     I was watching the world in which my good gay friend Ted lived. He too, had a career in music and church but lived single. I knew he was sexually promiscuous. His attempts to marry had ended in disasters to both the intended relationships and his mental health. I filtered my observations through what I knew of his experience. I also had my own gay feelings in a couple of developing friendships, feelings I knew I wouldn’t pursue. Still I wanted to know these things for myself: the actuality of man-to-man love and sex; the possibility of men loving and living together; the acceptance of such persons in society; and the embracing of same-sex love within a religious community.

     At that point, some churches had declared homosexuals should be guaranteed equal civil rights related to the United States Constitution and to a general sense of morality. The arguments of the details were under scrutiny and becoming a dividing issue in most denominations and the larger community. I saw that churches were entering an era of anxiety when that question and others would be faced openly within congregations. Gays would expect inclusion in the local churches and would want leadership. Then there was the larger issue of relationships. Already marriage as an institution in America was showing severe weaknesses. Parental fears and warnings did little to prevent young couples in college from living together and having loads of sex without the convention and support of marriage. Free love had been a counter-cultural doctrine for over a decade. Eventually the issue of gay marriage would split the churches and become a problem for general society. 

     I felt I needed to know and understand. I had experienced sex with males. My closest adult male friend was gay. I was sitting in a gay bar enjoying myself. I was writing reports of my excursions. I was learning not to fear. I was hoping to learn to be an effective minister. I was evaluating myself at age thirty, in my tenth year of marriage to a loving woman. What would be ‘my way?’ I really wondered.

     By the end of the semester, I had seen a lot of city life and written a short book of field observations and reflections. I’d witnessed gay bar life. I’d sat in the county hospital emergency room late on Friday nights. I’d attended quite a few meetings of a community organizing effort. My professor returned the report congratulating me on my work, both observational and written. He also warned me about the problem of writing candidly and subjectively about my experiences. “One can lose control of a written document,” he warned. His sensitivity to my personal process led me eventually to destroy the manuscript, but I didn’t lose the impressions or self-realizations that arose from the experiences. I came away from the semester with a knowledge of gay bars, but also with the perception that gay folk had lives away from bars, that they often lived in fear of police, that they had great fun together, that they sometimes partied too much, that they helped out friends in crises, that they experienced life with the same grace and awkwardness as anyone else in society. I’d gained a glimpse of a life with traditions, institutions, and history; a community of importance and, for me, appeal.

     I had no idea I’d ever be meeting on a weekly basis with a group of gay storytellers in a gay community center, that I’d be going to happy hour every Friday night at local gay bars, that I’d regularly circulate with quite a few gay couples and their single friends, that I’d survive two gay lovers who died from AIDS-related causes, or that I’d live over nine years with the gay man I’m paired with now.

     But these days I tell my gay story and have to conclude, that even in embracing this new gay life: “I Did It My Way.” 

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.”

Read more at Phillip’s blog  artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

Posted on

Going Pink by Gillian

I used to blush very easily.
“Going pink” simply wouldn’t do it justice, though; rather “glowing crimson’’ or “flowing vermilion.”
I would feel this rising tide of burning glowing lava climbing up my neck and spreading voraciously across my cheeks to turn my ears into pulsating heat sinks.
Embarrassment engendered this rush of hot color, and so did anger, and in my younger days I’m not sure which came upon me more frequently.
I often found myself embarrassed, and often lost my temper, and it was often ugly.

Over the years I guess I got my emotions under better control.
I rarely lose my temper these days, having discovered better ways to channel my energy.
I rarely feel embarrassed, probably because I have become immune to it after making an ass of myself so many times in so many ways over so many years. Also, quite honestly, the older I get the less I care what others think of me and if sometimes there are some laughs at my expense, so what? Enjoy it as my gift, freely given.

But I’m left with a guilty secret, which I have shared with very few people.
I rarely blush visibly any more, yet sometimes I still feel that hot red flush, but confined on the invisible inside of me rather than on the visible outside.
So I’m the only one who knows that I have once more embarrassed myself.
Because I do care what I think of me, of my internal thought processes and reactions.
And the terrible thing about thoughts is that you absolutely cannot unthink them.
No matter how hard you try, no matter how loudly you say to your self, oh how could I have thought that, it doesn’t evaporate.

Less often, I’m proud to report, but still occasionally my gut reaction is completely mortifying to me. It may be racial, ageist, sexist, and yes, homophobic. How can that be? I consider myself a totally inclusive person completely free of all prejudice.
Sometimes my unbidden thoughts are superior, scornful, mocking, derisive. How can that be? I consider myself a totally inclusive person completely free of judgment.
When these unthinkable thoughts leap up in me, I feel an embarrassment before myself so much worse than any I ever felt before others and that invisible red-hot lava curls around my guts.

Where do these thoughts come from? It’s as if some prehistoric part of me remains deep inside my psyche, some part which did not evolve along with the rest of me, thinking things which not only would I never dream of saying now, but I’m sure I never in my life would have said.
I doubt I will ever understand why this happens, and I guess the fact that I find it repulsive and horrifying says a lot in my own defense.

But going pink, or glowing crimson, has a whole lot deeper, scarier meaning to me than frequently flushed pink cheeks.

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.

Posted on

Queer, Just How Queer? by Ricky


     I am not the pejorative “queer” in any way, shape, or form. I may be a bit eccentric or odd to some people, but “queer,” never!


     I believe in God, America, and mom’s apple pie, that’s not “queer.” I believe in freedom, the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and mom’s homemade ice cream, that’s not “queer.” I believe in the Scout Slogan, Scout Oath, and the Scout Law, that’s not “queer.” I believe in baseball, basketball, football, and John Wayne, that’s not “queer.” I believe in hamburgers, hotdogs, and yellow potato salad, that’s not “queer.” I believe in Cheerios, Wheaties, and Baseball Nut ice cream, that’s not “queer.” I believe that love conquers all, that good triumphs over evil, and that much harm is caused by people who do not understand and do not live their professed religion, that’s not “queer.”


     I believe that my children love me and that they know I love them, that’s not “queer.” I believe that God loves me in spite of my shortcomings, that Jesus Christ died for my sins (yes, I do have some), and that I might live to see His return, that’s not “queer.” I believe in the King James Version of the Bible (as far as it has been translated correctly) and The Book of Mormon, that’s not “queer,” that’s religion. I believe in the inherent goodness of men, women, and friends, that’s not “queer,” a bit naïve maybe but not “queer.” 


     I am physically 64, psychologically 12, and love “G” rated movies, that is odd, but not “queer.” I believe that in spite of my foibles and shortcomings, I am a good person, that’s not “queer,” that’s confidence. I believe in Classical Music, Santa Claus, and Peter Pan, that’s odd or even eccentric maybe, but not “queer.”


     I believe in Superman, Batman, and in “fighting” for freedom, justice, and equality under the Law for everyone. I believe the Constitution exists to protect The People from the Government and the minority from the tyranny of the majority. None of this is “queer,” but it is Americanism. I believe that all elected officials convicted of crimes should be permanently ineligible to hold public office and I believe all stockbrokers, CEO’s and board members of corporations that engage in fraudulent activities or that go bankrupt should be held financially accountable to pay back stockholder losses from their personal accounts and the corporations dissolved, that’s not “queer,” that’s justice. I believe in honoring, obeying, and sustaining the law, that’s not “queer,” that’s good citizenship.


     No. I am not the pejorative “queer” in any way, shape, or form. I may be a bit eccentric or odd to some people, but “queer,” never! 


     However, I do have a penis fetish.


© 21 June 2012

About the Author
Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA

Ricky was born in 1948 in downtown Los Angeles.  Just prior to turning 8 years old, he was sent to live with his grand-parents 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”.

Posted on

Pig Latin by Will Stanton

Parvulum hoc porcus abiit ad venalicium.
Parvulum hoc porcus mansit domi.
Parvulum hoc fuerat porcum assaturam bubulae.
Parvulum hoc porcus nullam habuit.
Parvulum hoc porcus exclamasse: “Wee, wee, wee !”
Omni via domum.

© 24 September 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.

Posted on

Queer? Just How Queer? by Colin Dale

     This question is so obviously a scientific one, although it goes against my nature, it’s only fair I give it a scientific reply. I did a little checking, and I see there is a Queer Scale, or Queer Magnitude Scale, just like there’s the Richter Magnitude Scale for earthquakes and the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Scale for hurricanes. And just like with these other two scales, there are numbers indicating severity. For example, with the Richter Magnitude Scale you can have a 4.Oh to 4.9 earthquake, which, according to the Richter Scale, means a light earthquake, with noticeable shaking of indoor items, rattling noises, but no significant damage. With the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Scale, you can have a Category 2 hurricane, which means winds of 96 to 110 mph, winds strong enough to lift mobile homes and snap the anchorages of small craft; extensive to near-total power outages are likely. Similarly, with the Queer Magnitude Scale, or QMS, you can have a 4.Oh to 4.9 queer, which means a light queer, with noticeable shaking of indoor items, rattling noises, but no significant damage. Or a Category 2 queer, strong enough to lift mobile homes and snap anchorages, but people living in brick homes or well-built high risers are probably okay.

     Now I’m going to take a look at my life–to see if I can answer this question: Just how queer am I? And for simplicity’s sake, so we don’t keep having to go back and forth, let’s just put the QMS (remember, that’s the Queer Magnitude Scale) up against the Saffir-Simpson hurricane scale, Categories 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5–5 being the meanest, toughest, most destructive.

     I started out like most of us, at puberty or maybe a little before, as a Category 1 queer. Now if I’d been a hurricane, that would have meant, as a queer just starting out, there would not have been much structural damage. Maybe a few shingles blown off, a few crushes on boys that made no sense, but that’s about it. According to the QMS, life, as a Category 1 queer, is almost always survivable.

     When I was a teen growing up in The Bronx, I got my first job: Christmas part-time in a suburban Macy’s; men’s dress shirts. There was this guy, my age–let’s call him Nicky B.–working the same evening shift. One night going home in a lightly falling snow, me to the elevated subway, Nicky B. to his home, which was within walking distance, Nicky B. grabbed my hand and led me into an apartment building and into a deserted stairwell where we had a little fun. That was my first time. And even though it was my first time, I liked it enough to know that I was now a Category 2 queer. If you recall, a QMS Category 2: small craft snap their anchorages. My anchorage had been snapped, all credit to Nicky B.

     I remained a QMS Cat 2 queer all through high school, all through my undergrad years, but then came Army and graduation to Category 3. Between the stairwell and the Army there had been a couple of Category 2.2’s and 2.6’s, but I can’t boast making it all the way to a Cat 3 until the Army. And Mark C. The setting is South Korea. Winter. Christmas Eve. (I’ve made it a practice to always upgrade my QMS at around Christmastime.) The officers’ club: a jumbo Quonset hut overlain with snow. Night: late enough so that all of us junior officers are morosely shitfaced . . .

     Before I bring Mark C. into the picture: according to the Saffir-Simpson Scale, a Category 3 hurricane is described as a “major hurricane,” capable of inflicting significant damage to a building “lacking a solid foundation,” to include the “peeling off of gable-end roofs” and the “penetration of inner curtainwalls.” Damage, according to Saffir-Simpson, can be “irreparable . . . “

     Enter: First Lieutenant Mark C., Alpha Battery commander, gruff, tough, recruiting-poster good-looking. He sits down next to Second Lieutenant Ray K., battalion adjutant (adjutant? that’s what they do with guys with English Lit. B.A.’s)–Second Lieutenant Ray K., self-conscious, mild, rapidly balding. A few whiskeys and First Lieutenant C. invites Second Lieutenant K. back to his hooch (hooch: Army lingo for quarters; quarters: regular people lingo for bedroom) to admire his new Samsung Acoustics Subwoofer Speaker System. We spend a quarter-hour tasting Wild Turkey and looking at the subwoofers; then turned–to my woozy surprise–to peeling off gable-end roofs and penetrating inner curtainwalls–definitely Category 3 stuff.

     I left the Army after Korea, Missouri, and Vietnam (Missouri being the most terrifying of the three). Toss in a couple of Category 3-point-this & that’s before I got to my QMS Category 4 level. Those point-this & that’s all happened after I’d moved to Colorado and was going to grad school: Western State in Gunnison, and, after that, D.U. . . .

     In fact, it was in the D.U. Theatre Department where I met Jake. No last initial needed. Jake was one-of-a-kind. The singular love of my life: five years younger, red-headed, perpetually cheerful, a fine actor and a frighteningly good cartoonist. You could say, when I met Jake, right then and there I applied for promotion to Category 4. Saffir-Simpson warns: “Category 4 hurricanes tend to produce more extensive curtainwall failures . . . ” (un-huh) ” . . . with some complete structural failures: some homes are leveled. There may be extensive beach erosion, with terrain flooded far inland. Total and long-lasting electrical and water losses are to be expected.” (un-huh) Jake and I were a couple for a long, long time. We were definitely QMS Category 4 queers. Had we the chance back then, we would have become Category 4 married queers. But we didn’t have that chance. We’d become QMS Cat 4’s about three decades too soon. But we had a good life together, Jake and I: Denver, New York, Denver again, San Diego, Seattle, and San Diego for a second time: a good, happy life.

     But, just like with hurricanes, the one-of-a-kind loves of a guy’s life–even Category 4 loves–sometimes move inland, their fierceness dissipate, their strong winds subside. Jake now does motion-capture animation with a film studio in Tel Aviv. He’s alone, living singly, and I’m genuinely sorry that’s true.

     I’ll stop here. I’ve never been a QMS Category 5 queer. I’m not sure what that would feel like. I know Saffir-Simpson says: “Category 5 hurricanes are the highest category of hurricanes. Complete building failures are a certainty, with some buildings totally blown away. Only a few types of structures are capable of surviving intact.” To be honest, I’m not sure I’d ever want to be a Category 5 queer. Katrina was a Category 5 hurricane. I’m afraid if ever I had a chance to be a Category 5 queer, I’d find myself, years–after my Mother of All Loves had moved inland–I’d find myself still waiting for some relief from the damage done to me, inside and out, still living among the debris of a Cat 5 relationship that was too wild, too strong, too indiscriminate.

     And probably still living in a F.E.M.A. trailer.

About the Author

Colin Dale couldn’t be happier to be involved again at the Center. Nearly three decades ago, Colin was both a volunteer and board member with the old Gay and Lesbian Community Center. Then and since he has been an actor and director in Colorado regional theatre. Old enough to report his many stage roles as “countless,” Colin lists among his favorite Sir Bonington in The Doctor’s Dilemma at Germinal Stage, George in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Colonel Kincaid in The Oldest Living Graduate, both at RiverTree Theatre, Ralph Nickleby in The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby with Compass Theatre, and most recently, Grandfather in Ragtime at the Arvada Center. For the past 17 years, Colin worked as an actor and administrator with Boulder’s Colorado Shakespeare Festival. Largely retired from acting, Colin has shifted his creative energies to writing–plays, travel, and memoir.

      

Posted on

Prisoner C.3.3 – A True Queer Irishman by Pat Gourley

“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself.”

Oscar Wilde from The Picture of Dorian Gray – 1891

     March 17th is the day many celebrate all things Irish and it has often been said that everyone is Irish on that day. It certainly has evolved for many into an excuse to get royally pissed, often on green beer. Though the exact year of St. Patrick’s death is somewhat a matter of conjecture there seems to be some historical agreement that the actual day was March 17th sometime in the 5th century.

     Snakes and shamrocks are often closely associated with Patrick. He may have actually used the shamrock to teach the mystery of the Holy Trinity, i.e. three-in-one. The shamrock was certainly a pagan symbol and as with so much of Christianity was co-opted by the new religion probably to enhance recruitment.

     The snakes are a bit more of a shaky matter. Post-glacial Ireland never had any snakes but Patrick gets credit for driving them all out of Ireland. One account relates that he may actually have hallucinated being attacked by snakes after completing a 40-day fast and then defeated them. That sounds about right to me. After a good night sleep and some real food and water the snakes were all magically gone.

     One thing historians agree on was that a young Patrick, a Brit actually and not Irish himself, was captured by raiding Irish pagans and hauled off from Roman Britain to Ireland where he spent several years as a slave. Eventually he did return to Ireland as a missionary. I think we can give him at least some credit or blame for converting Ireland to Catholicism although even this is contested by some. He certainly has become the patron saint of Irish Catholics.

     As a young Irish Catholic lad my coming out as queer was in retrospect heavily influenced and directed by that peculiarly intense version of guilt inducing religiosity, Irish Roman Catholicism. St. Patrick then for me represents in some ways a stifling religion that has done more than its share of oppressing Queer people.

     Though certainly not unique to Ireland or the Irish the whole messy and very sad kettle of fish that is clergy sexual abuse has really come home to roost in recent years in Ireland. The far-reaching tentacles of this perversion are currently in the press in the form of Cardinal Keith O’Brien and his resignation for inappropriate sexual advances. Cardinal O’Brien is Irish and was born in Northern Ireland. He recently resigned as the religious head of the Catholic Church in Scotland because of “drunken fumblings” of a sexual nature towards several other much younger clergy and students.

     This was apparently not a case of serial pedophilia and perhaps could even have elicited some sympathy for a man only able to address his gay sexual nature when drunk. An unfortunate but not infrequent manifestation of internalized homophobia still today. However, this guy’s self-hatred manifested itself only just a year ago in a public diatribe condemning the “madness of same sex unions and the tyranny of tolerance.” Sorry, no sympathy here, only pity.

     So on this St. Patrick’s Day I prefer to celebrate a different Irishman. Not one of the O’Brien’s of the Church or an old and largely mythological saint of a religion that is rapidly imploding into irrelevance. Rather I prefer to honor the legacy of a much more honest and open queer Irish man, Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), dramatist, novelist and poet.

     I acknowledge that what got Oscar in so much trouble, ending in a severe two-year prison term at hard labor, was in part the result of “yielding to his temptations”. Oh yes and then taking very queenly umbrage at being implicated as a sodomite by the father of one his young lovers.

     He decided to sue this man for libel. Obviously Oscar was not openly embracing his inner queer here, but it was the 1890’s in Victorian England. At trial things didn’t go so well. Wilde eventually ended up being charged and convicted of “gross indecency” and the charge of libel against the father of his lover dropped. Sodomy in those days in England was a felony. In the English penal system Wilde was Prisoner C.3.3.

     I would like to end with a couple more delicious quotes from Prisoner C.3.3:

“ Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative.”

“We are all in the gutter but some of us are 
looking up at the stars.”
“Scandal is gossip made tedious by morality.”

     Happy St. Patrick’s Day everyone and don’t forget to lift a pint to Oscar! His life I think on balance was a positive way to yield to temptations in a manner that keeps one’s soul from growing sick.

For St. Patrick’s Day, March 17, 2013

Oscar Wilde’s grave in Paris, France
Photo by Pat Gourley

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 on an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

Posted on

Cooking by Michael King

     One of my favorite things is to fix a nice meal for Merlyn. I like assembling various ingredients to create a flavorful and satisfying and attractive as well as a nutritious and healthy meal. I suppose I have a general recipe idea but seldom measure or even use the same combination of ingredients in my concoctions.

     I often fix eggs, potatoes and toast for breakfast. One of my challenges is how many different ways can I cut up a potato so it has a different appearance and texture. It has a different flavor too. Do I add other ingredients such as onion, cut according to the way the potato is sliced or diced or julienned, green or red or orange or yellow peppers or all the above cut to blend with the potato and onion shapes? Do I add chili flakes or dill with salt and pepper? Maybe I’ll add no other ingredients, just plain potatoes. Maybe I’ll fix a scramlet where I add bacon bits, toast cut in small squares, onions, peppers, add the eggs, stir and top with cheese and maybe parsley flakes; each time fixing a slightly different meal with a little difference in taste.

     If done just right it should be beautiful, delicious and presented on a plate with colors and patterns that shows it off perfectly. On days that I’m not fixing an egg breakfast, about half the time, I usually fix oatmeal or granola. Of course I have to add walnuts, dried cranberries, with one or more fruits, bananas, peaches, pears, apricots, apple, dates, figs, kiwi, etc. I once put thinly sliced celery and apple with the walnuts and oatmeal. Since the celery leaves were on the stalk I added them too. It was very attractive and I thought delicious. Merlyn said he didn’t eat lettuce with oatmeal so I’ve never fixed that again. The only other time he complained was when I fixed oyster stew. He informed me he didn’t eat oysters. Considering that I’ve only had two complaints in aproxamently the 1100 meals that I’ve fixed since we met,

     I feel OK with my food fixing obsession which gets even more complex with lunches and dinners.

     When we invite people over which is rare, but does happen occasionally, I like to make sure it’s a memorable event.

     We once invited our friends Jack and Glenn over. I fixed Cornish hens with an orange sauce, dressing and vegetables on a bed of sliced romaine and tomato pieces on red patterned Chinese plates. The table looked beautiful and Jack and Glenn wouldn’t let us eat until they had taken photos. Then they raved about everything. A couple of days later we receive a nice card with the comment that they felt like they had been transported to another time and space of magic and wonder. I like it when a meal comes off like that, a real ego boost. As with a lot of people who really like to cook, I can go on for hours discussing food preparation, ingredients and techniques.

     When my daughter was diagnosed with terminal cancer she was told that if she didn’t have a hysterectomy immediately she would only have about three months to live. She said no.

     She then went to a healing center where they told her she had a gluten allergy which had caused the tumors. She was given a very strict diet, nothing with gluten which is added to most prepared foods to improve the texture and smoothness and to prevent separation of the ingredients, no eggs or dairy products, no meats except for turkey which is anti-carcinogenic, and no fruit and vegetables like corn and I forget all the other forbidden foods. I got a call for help. Neither she nor her husband knew where to start with fixing foods she could eat. I was also at a loss, but since I was retired and had the time I started studying the problem. With a list of what she could eat I fixed her a variety of dishes like vegetarian split pea soup, vegetable and turkey stew, etc. 

     About a week or so later I was told that she now could have nothing cooked except the turkey. My concept of food preparation had always been to cook everything except for salads and a few fruits and vegetables, and starting with what meat was being served. Now what’s with this raw foodist diet? I had never heard of that and was completely at a loss as to where to begin. Everything had to be completely “natural” and “organic.” I got a few books on raw foodist food preparation which then required a dehydrator and all sorts of possible gadgets for grinding, slicing, processing, etc. To my surprise the best book on preparing a raw food diet with recipes was written by someone I had known for 30 years. I then fixed an assortment of meals that got us through the first couple of months. The tumors started to diminish in size and my daughter was feeling better. She was now allowed to add some fruit and more vegetables. After five months she was completely tumor free and by now could fix her own diet. Shortly after that they moved to Africa. She then got pregnant, had her first daughter, moved back and is due with the second around the first of the year. Had she not listened to her inner voice and had followed the medical advice; she would be living a very different life. Instead she took control of her health and her future.

     I had the opportunity to fix uncooked meals which was at the time a totally foreign concept. Now I get to cook whatever I want to. I can plan and shop and spend hours in the kitchen. I get help cutting and chopping. I get to do what I really enjoy doing and the greatest reward is to be able to do that for someone I love.

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.

Posted on

Cooking by Merlyn

     I don’t like to clean up the mess In the kitchen when I cook so only fix food that doesn’t make a mess.

     If you open my refrigerator you may find a jar of peanut butter, some kind of butter, a package of sharp cheese, beer and loaf of bread in the freezer.

     I only cook two meals when I’m by myself.

#1
Take one slice of bread.
Put it in the toaster.
Cut a slice of cheese big enough to cover ½ of the slice of toast.
Wash the knife while the toast is toasting.

Put the toast on a piece of paper towel.
Add cheese.
Fold the toast over the cheese.
Leave the kitchen.
Toss paper towel.

#2
Open one can of hot Chile with beans.
Dump it the small blue bowl.
Add about ¼ cup of water to can rinse can and add water into the bowl.
Add a pinch of hot pepper and stir.
Put bowl in microwave push pizza wait 1 ½ min.

When I get tired of hearing the microwave beep I take bowl out 
Stir Chile push pizza button again.
When I get tired of hearing the microwave beep again I take bowl out and eat the Chile.
Wash bowl and spoon and leave kitchen.

   Any kind of food that I put in the oven will someday turn into a house full of smoke. I used to want something to eat so I would put something in the oven, get busy doing something and forget about the food,

     I learned a long time ago that I should never use the oven.
I only use the microwave and toaster.

     The first thing I do when I get a new refrigerator is buy a small carton of milk, place it on the center shelf and keep turning the temperature control colder until the milk freezes. Toss the milk. The beer will be ice cold but it will never freeze. It stays fresh until I want to drink it even if I’m out of town for a while.

     I like my kitchen to be clean with everything out of sight in its proper place.

     Michael’s a good cook and loves to make a big mess in his kitchen; he always asks me what I want to eat. He loves it when I ask him for something that he doesn’t know how to make just the way I want it. I do help him whenever he asks me to do something like cut up food but he is happiest when I leave him alone so he can concentrate on cooking two or three meals at a time.

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.

Posted on

I Can’t Change it, Can I? by Gillian

TV images double time on the screen.
Grainy monochrome figures rushing to trenches,
cheering and laughing and slaps on the back.
Scrambling now into no-man’s-land,
not laughing but screaming, hanging on wire.
Then hobbling home, shell-shocked and shaking,
the lucky ones.

Well I can’t change it can I?
It’s all time gone by.
Have some more chips and dip.

TV images now retouched and colored.
Tough young GIs run and fall on the beaches
screaming for medics and mother and home.
Gazing now in horror at Auschwitz
turning skeletons free to a horrified world.
We must never forget we say and we mean it.
How soon we forget.

Well I can’t change it can I?
It’s all time gone by.
Let’s have some more popcorn.

TV images now moving in real time.
Countless dead in Rwanda and raped in Darfur
screaming for help while the TV world watches.
Is this now, is it real? We’re not quite sure.
I send ten dollars to an 800 number
that lies on the screen in the blood and the gore.
I can do no more.

Well I can’t change it can I?
It’s too far away.
Let’s have some more pizza.

TV images now look quite ordinary.
Our leaders all lie and our bankers are crooks
our country is broke, all except for the rich.
Gazing now in horror at Congress,
they fill their deep pockets, care nothing for us.

All that they want to do is what’s best for them.
I just ignore it.

Well I can’t change it can I?
It’s all gone too far.
Let’s have one more beer.

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.