Tag: Culture and Current Events

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Culture Shock by Will Stanton

The day was sunny and fairly warm for November, so I took a stroll through the park, occasionally having a seat on one of the many benches to soak up the sunshine and to watch the hundreds of geese on the lake. The benches came in handy, considering that it has been a very long time since I was able to take twenty-mile, mountain hikes. My hips were speaking to me, so I sought out another bench to rest.

The only bench close by me at that moment already was occupied by one older woman. I correctly guessed that she was babushka, a grandmother from Russia. She appeared to be friendly, so I asked if could join her. She seemed glad to have the company and someone to talk to. With her heavy Russian accent, the conversation was more “talk to” than “talk with,” for she did the majority of the talking. That was OK with me because everything she had to say was quite interesting.

It turns out that she is seventy-six, although she could pass for fifty. She lived most of her life in Yekaterinburg, the fourth largest city in Russia with quite a history. Situated in the Urals on the border of Europe and Asia, it perhaps is best known as the location where, tragically, Czar Nicolas II, his wife, and all his children were murdered and then buried in the forests nearby.

Yekaterinburg also is known to be a highly cultural city with ample opportunities to engage in the arts. In addition to all of its educational facilities, it has more than thirty museums, plus several theaters, concert halls, and opera houses. Several world-famous operas singers got their start in Yekaterinburg.

This loquacious babushka explained that society there just assumes that good culture should be part of everyone’s life. Consequently, children are brought up to appreciate and to participate in music and the arts and to be familiar with great literature. As it turns out, these pursuits are not just simple hobbies; the families take them seriously. Before she acquired a degree in architectural engineering, she first acquired a degree in classical piano performance. Now that is dedication!

She went on to talk about her family: her husband, her daughters, and her grown granddaughters. Yes, her daughters also acquired degrees in music before pursuing degrees in their chosen professions. Now her granddaughters just have completed their music degrees in Boulder.

Babushka says that she very much misses her home and all the cultural opportunities left behind, but she came to America because of her family. Her husband was offered a good job opportunity as an environmental planner here in America. He accepted it and moved here by himself. His wife chose to remain behind at home. Eventually, their daughters joined their father in America, and Babushka was left alone. Family is most important to her, so finally she joined the family here.

There are many things that she likes about America; however, she has noticed a major difference in culture here. There are some of the same cultural advantages here as in her homeland, but at a very reduced scale and with fewer and fewer people who truly are interested. There appears not to be the same society-wide appreciation of the arts among the population or understanding that incorporating arts and music into one’s life not only enriches human life but also, as proved by several psychological / educational research studies, enhances the ability to learn other disciplines, a concept apparently lost upon school districts that eliminate the arts first from their school programs as “non-essential.”

I understood what she was talking about. Since my childhood, the vast majority of classical music radio stations in America have been disbanded because of rapidly dwindling listenership and advertising income. Throughout America over the last generation, the country has lost dozens of symphonies, theaters, opera companies, ballets companies, and school arts and music programs.

A few years ago, the Denver Symphony could not afford to keep going and was disbanded. Apparently, Denverites will pay hundreds or even thousands of dollars to go to football games and rock concerts, but many far-less pricey symphony tickets were left half-unsold. World-famous musicians would arrive on stage to the embarrassing view of oceans of empty seats. The failed symphony finally was replaced with the Colorado Symphony. Then just last year, most of the board left out of frustration, and the symphony again came close to closing. It is keeping barely alive by cutting the number of concerts, minimizing salaries, and traveling to other venues with small groups of musicians to perform for a handful of listeners.

Other societies have a far different view from America. For example, Germany funds their national arts programs at a rate of dozens of times higher per capita in contrast to America. They give government funding to symphonies at a rate of 25 times that of America and opera companies at 28 times. In contrast, Romney said that he would eliminate all government support for the arts in this country, and he’s not the only one to say that. Like many politicians the past thirty years, he believes in so-called “small government” – – except of course in the cases of increasing military spending, intruding into people’s private lives, dictating women’s health choices, pushing religious beliefs into school science programs, gutting the worker’s unions, and suppressing the right to vote. Within the total military expenditures for each year, a tiny fraction of goes to supporting military marching bands; yet that amount of money is so huge in contrast to what is provided currently to the National Endowment for the Arts that this sum could resurrect and support twenty full-time symphony orchestras at $20 million a piece plus give 80,000 musicians, artists, and sculpture an annual salary of $50,000. But, the “cut-the-budget” power-brokers in Congress never would do that.

During World War II, Britain’s finance minister recommended to Winston Churchill that they cut arts funding to better fund the war effort. Churchill’s response was, “Then what are we fighting for?” There are numerous sociological and psychological articles written and available for reading about the essential need for the arts to develop and maintain a civilized nation with civilized people.

Another example of how culture has declined in America can be seen in what recordings the majority of Americans choose to buy. Just ten years ago, the local Barnes and Noble on Colorado Boulevard carried, in a large percentage of the media room, hundreds of classical recordings on CDs and DVDs; and their staff were graduate students from the D.U. School of Music. That large display area continually shrank until only one small area by the back wall contained classical music, and the only clerk was a high-school graduate who admitted that she had no background in music at all. With the recent renovation of the store and the reduction of the media area to a minor space off to the far side, the stock has been minimized to virtually nothing.

Then I recently stopped in Target just to check out their DVDs. They had only about a half-dozen of real quality and interest to me, five of which I already had, and absolutely no classical CD section at all among the rap, heavy-metal, hip-hop, country-western, pop, rock, and TV soundtracks. That is what sells in America with recordings, live concerts, radio and TV, and even the music chosen for background noise even in so-called good restaurants.

Quite obviously, our country has developed different priorities and values from that of many other advanced nations. I recently finished watching the BBC production of John Carré’s “Tinker, Taylor…” One particular quotation caught my attention. In questioning one of the characters in his story as to why he was so unhappy with America, the man replied, “Do you know what the problem is…? Greed, and constipation…morally, politically, aesthetically.” If that statement seems extreme, the sad fact is that many people hold the same feelings. Unfortunately since the book was written around forty years ago, a similar view of America has persisted among many foreign nations in particular. This cultural difference between the grandmother’s home and what America has become has not been lost upon her, either.

So, the grandmother, obviously proud of her family and all their accomplishments, laments the culture shock that she has experienced. She appreciates her chance to come to America and to be reunited with her family. Yet at the same time, she speaks with fondness and nostalgia of her once having lived in an environment of great cultural opportunity.

I was sure that she had much more to talk about, and I would have been glad to have heard more; however, the sun was going down, and the air quickly was becoming chilly. Even my personal, extra insulation was not enough to stave off the growing cold. So, I thanked her for her conversation, bid her farewell, and headed home, all the time weighing the possible social and personal implications of her reported culture shock.

© 20 November 2012

About the Author

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

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Depravity by Betsy

We have heard (from others) that  common usage of the word depravity refers to
morally corrupt behavior; even though it 
be behavior  as viewed by some
offended individuals who choose to judge. Do we queers have a monopoly on
depravity?  I don’t think so.  If we are referring to morally corrupt
behavior regardless of who is doing the judging, and if we take the concept a
step further, I suggest that a state of collective depravity exists throughout
the land.
Consider the lack of compassion present
in our world today.   Take the US for
example, which in recent memory actually was the wealthiest nation on
earth.  There is enough wealth in this
country to go around.  Yet, in this land
of plenty today many people are suffering. 
It is estimated that one out of 5 children lives in poverty and 1/2
million children are homeless. Today the bottom 50% of Americans control just
2.5% of the entire nation’s wealth. 
It seems that some–not all, but
some–who have wealth feel compelled to promote a system of government whereby
that wealth stays in the hands of the wealthy only.  What is that if not moral corruption, that
is, depravity–call it group depravity. 
Those who have not are on their own, must fend for themselves, and in
the end must always be struggling and must stay in their current level of
income or their current level of deprivation so that a few may have more than
anyone ever needs, more than they even know they have.   There is a fear on the part of some that, if
the government mandates that we take care of those in need, the wealth will
become so diluted that NO ONE will be wealthy.  
In my opinion those people have lost sight of the real meaning of the
concept of wealth; namely life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, and they
have lost their compassion.  The result
is rampant depravity.  That’s right!  Moral corruption is alive and well in the
U.S. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours is the order of the day for
many–not all–of our law makers and other leaders. It is no secret that there
often are millions even billions of dollars involved in those back scratching
deals.  It seems that some of our leaders
have lost sight of what’s good for the country; or, their vision has become
skewed.
So let’s look at wealth as something
other than millions or billions of dollars. 
Life is full of riches.  Let me
name just a few: loved ones, family, friends, a quiet walk in the woods, a
brilliant, glorious sunset or sunrise, the mountains, a beautiful work of art,
the list goes on and on endlessly.  One
can enjoy all of these riches. EVERYONE can enjoy all or at least some of these
riches IF, and only if, they know that their basic needs will be met–food on
the table, a roof over their head, basic health care, education.  The resources exist for those needs to be met
for everyone in this country.  But our
societal depravity is a block against even considering reaching this Utopian
concept.  Societally and governmentally
our collective eyes are closed even to the concept.
What really is the fear when it comes to
promoting a better distribution of wealth?  
Loss of power over others? 
Maybe.  One needs only to take a
fleeting glance at history to discover that, the wealthy taking more and more
power leads to revolution.  In the end
the people have the power.  Power to the
people. Isn’t that what our Democracy is supposed to be about? And I thought we
gave up the notion of Social Darwinism –survival of the fittest–over a
century ago.  Yet, in spite of all this,
we seem to be going in the wrong direction. 
Those who have a fear of spreading the
resources around so that everyone has his or her basic needs met–those who
have that fear, in my opinion, are entirely focused on their fear.  The result is rampant greed.  Perhaps it’s time for all people to look into
our individual and collective hearts and focus on what we see there, or figure
out what is absent there.  It seems to me
that compassion and a basic love and respect for humanity is missing in some
individuals, but certainly in the collective psyche–I believe that these
qualities, that is, compassion and love, exist in all human beings.  But so does depravity.
Can we not create a system to make it
possible for all people to meet their basic needs on their own as most people
want to do; and for those unable to do so share the resources so that they are
cared for as well?   And yes, some who
are fortunate, enterprising, smarter, harder working, or just plain lucky can
have more than others and enjoy their wealth, but not to the point that those
with less are wiped out?  I do believe
that, globally, humankind can find a way to do this.  I certainly hope so.  Am I an optimist, or what?  Oh well, better an optimist than being
totally lost to depravity.

© 5 December 2011 


About the Author 



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

When I was an infant, the scientists–physicians and psychologists–who knew everything there was to know about mothering, all proclaimed that holding your baby too much was not a good thing. The consequences of this seemingly natural human behavior was, in fact, risky. Babies could grow up expecting to be held all the time. They would become dependent on being held, they would become “spoiled.” Also at the time cow’s milk or cow-milk-based formula created by humans and promoted by the forces of capitalism, was better for a human baby than human milk which was, after all, only poor mother nature’s formula for what is best for a newborn.

Years later when I became a mother the same thinking was prevalent–except for the milk ideas. There had sprung up in recent years a group of rebel mothers called Le Leche League. The group promoted breast feeding among new moms. They had a book which described the benefits of not only the milk, but also the process of delivering the milk, not the least of which was to hold your baby close while feeding him. They held the notion that there is a reason the female human body is configured as it is. That properly and naturally feeding your baby required holding him close.

I actually heard many mothers at the time say “The problem is that if you breast feed your baby, you will become completely tied down to him/her.” When I told my doctor husband this, he had the perfect answer. “Well, a mother SHOULD be tied down to her baby. That is how a baby survives and thrives.”

My oldest child did not have the benefits of breast milk for very long. The pediatrician instructed me, a very insecure novice mom, to begin supplementing the breast milk with formula after two months or so. Why? Well, baby needs more milk and it was believed baby could not get enough milk from its mother alone. I soon learned that once you start the process of bottle feeding, baby learns really fast. It’s much easier for her to suck milk from a bottle than from a breast. It flows much, much faster out of a bottle and, well, they don’t have to work so hard to get it. Then, of course, they don’t want the breast milk, demand for the rich liquid plummets, and the milk-making machine quickly becomes non-productive.

I later learned that breast milk is the best, there is plenty of it as supply usually meets with demand, and it works perfectly for about one year, longer if one wishes, and if the feeding is supplemented with a source of iron.

Actually, in a society driven by corporate profits the truth is the main problem with breast feeding in that the milk is free, so long as the mother is properly nourished and hydrated. No one is buying anything. No one benefits monetarily from that method of feeding, no one except baby and mother. No corporate profit is to be made. Baby and mother alone benefit.

It seems that to be held IS important–not just for babies but for children and adults as well. Being held promotes healing, comfort, security, well being of all kinds. It is hard to imagine how it ever came to be regarded as detrimental. Yet the notion continues in some minds.

One of the first complete sentences my oldest child ever uttered was, “I want to behold.”

Of course when we first heard this we asked, “behold–behold what? A star in the East.

What do you mean, “I want to behold? Oohh! You need comforting and reassurance. You want to be held.” we said, realizing that our brilliant three year old was not familiar with the passive form of the verb to hold.

Holding in a loving way and being held is loving behavior. What adult does not want to hold a kitten or puppy immediately when he or she see it. I think holding each other as an expression of love is something we learn or at least become comfortable with early in life. I think we could use more of it in this troubled world of ours. I’m all for it.

Denver 2013

About the Author

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

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Multi Racial by Michael King

Diversity is the characteristic of life. This is true of humanoids as well as all other life forms. Creatures that are similar tend to group themselves and are often defensive or even hostile toward beings that are different. The early humans dating back a million years seldom came into contact with the various subhuman groups that hadn’t developed the brain capacity to express wisdom and forethought and eventually became extinct. It is the focalized bones of these subhumans that have been found and incorrectly labeled as ancestors. Present day humans are in the ape family as were the various groups of unrelated subhumans.

The true humans continued slowly to evolve for about five hundred thousand years when the racial diversity occurred. There were the primary colored races, red yellow and blue and the secondary colored races, orange green and indigo. When the colored races mated with the precolored peoples the dominant genetic makeup of the colored parent was always passed on to the children. Only one group of the precolored peoples still exists as the Eskimos of northwestern North America.

The natural animosity toward beings who are different kept the racial groups somewhat separated and often in conflict when small bands encountered each other. Intermixing was rare but did occur. The half-breeds were usually discriminated against as were the captive slaves from warring groups. Trade brought together dissimilar peoples more peaceably and when the differing humans were in close contact interbreeding occurred more frequently.

Over the last five hundred thousand years the green and orange races were wiped out or to a minor extent absorbed into the more blended groups. The indigo race for the most part became isolated in sub-Saharan Africa but in northern Africa and around the Mediterranean there has been much intermixing of most of the colored races

The red race settled in northeast Asia until somewhat displaced be the yellow race, although many remained in what is now Mongolia. The Japanese is a blend of red and yellow and some of the red peoples migrated to North America. Most of the blue peoples settled Europe with considerable blending. Around thirty eight thousand years ago the violet race emerged and became blended with all but the red peoples of the Americas and the Indigo peoples of sub-Saharan Africa with the majority in northern Europe.

There are mostly multiracial peoples now on the planet and the blending of races is increasing at a rapid rate. Differences in skin color still bring about conflict when ignorance, prejudice and hatred is taught to children who pass it on to succeeding generations. In recent history there have been many examples of ethnic cleansing, vicious slaughtering and gross mistreatment of fellow humans. Greed, power and prejudice pathetically have not diminished.

I am probably as multiracial as anyone however since my more immediate ancestors came from Europe the mix of red, yellow, blue, violet and possibly orange and green mixed with the precolored peoples is also the multiracial blend of most European peoples and a large percentage of immigrants in North America. New DNA testing is showing that besides the red race there are traces of most of the colored races in the indigenous peoples of South America precluding the arrival of the Spanish five hundred years ago. The Cherokee have some of the same DNA as the Hebrews and the Incas contain DNA similar to northeast Asians. Only a small percent of DNA can be presently understood. We will have a much clearer perspective when the other ninety some percent can be analyzed and so much erroneous theories can be corrected. Most of my encounters with follow humans have been cordial and I have had warm friendships with the individuals from most racial and ethnic groups. It has been a joy to travel and in the process connect with people from a different culture and racial blend.

It is my hope and the hope of most people that we can learn to accept, respect and enjoy one another. No matter how diverse we appear we all share some of the same ancestry and exist on the same planet where we can still become ecologically kind and appreciate the magnificence of all existence.

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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The Rise of the Guardian Angels by Louis

From September 1962 to June 1966 I attended Flushing High School in Flushing, Queens, NY. There were 3 types of preparation regimens one could follow. First there was the academic or college preparatory. I was in that group. Most of my classmates were Jewish. Then there was the commercial course, consisting primarily of teenage girls preparing to become secretaries. The boys in the commercial course studied woodworking and some English. The commercial course people were primarily white. Then there was the General Course leading to a minimal type of high school diploma. This was almost exclusively black and Hispanic.

The first year I attended, I was assaulted a few times by some white gang members. Even back then they called themselves the “Aryans”. They were mostly Germans from my home town of College Point. Then there were the Amazons, the girls’ gang. They invited me to join their gang. I agreed. They knew I was gay and said I was their type of client. They attacked members of the Aryans, and I was never bothered again. Once the Amazons wanted to attack a certain girl named Monica. Monica was very refined and soft-spoken. The Amazons were heavily made-up and somewhat aggressive. I beseeched them not to beat up Monica. So they spared Monica. Once the Amazons wanted to attack a small-statured Jewish boy, Charles, who read a lot of books. I again beseeched them not to attack him. So Charles was spared.

Once, before I went to high school, I was in the local park, Chisholm Park, in College Point, and I was sitting with my brother Wally, who was reading The New York Times. For some reason this enraged one of the local Aryans, who came over and set fire to the paper with a cigarette lighter. We were more amused than intimidated. We also had an Italian-American friend, Patsy (at home Pasquale), and he liked to read books and poetry. So the Aryans used to bully him too. I guess College Pointers were expected to stay away from books.

Although I was spared being bullied any more, the gangs still made life unpleasant in High School. One of the Aryans told me that, in their meeting, they really wanted to attack the black gang, the Panthers (or what have you), but they couldn’t because the Panthers were too numerous. So they decided to attack the Hispanic gang, well more precisely the Puerto Rican gang, the Borinqueños. Gradually, Flushing High School became a police state. Sections of the school were separated by large metal gates manned by policemen sporting well-displayed pistols.

The friction between the Aryans and the Borinqueños intensified, and a “rumble” was declared. The rumble or “armed” confrontation was planned for a summer evening on Main Street of College Point. The Borinqueños had machetes while the Aryans had heavy-duty chains. The rumble started by both gangs breaking out the front windows of almost all the stores on our Main Street. No gang member got killed, but many were injured and hospitalized. When the police first showed up, they could do nothing because they were outnumbered. Reinforcements did not show up for another couple of hours. By then most of the gang warriors had disappeared. They were particularly proud of the damage they had caused and of the injuries they had inflicted on members of the opposing gang.

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

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Weather by Ricky

When I came up with this response to the topic “weather,” there was a large heat wave in Colorado and several major forest fires burning out of control throughout the state.

Oh the temperature outside is frightful,

And the wildfires are so hurtful,
And since there’s no cold place to go,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! I Want Snow!

The heat shows no sign of dropping,

And I’ve brought some corn for popping,
The shades are pulled way down low,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! I Want Snow!
When we finally wave goodbye,
I’ll be going into hot weather!
But if you’ll give me a ride,
We can beat the heat together.

The fires are slowly dying,

And, my friends, we’re still good-byeing,
But if you really love me so,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! Wait! 
 I don’t want snow. I really want Baseball Nut ice cream and an ice-cold Dr. Pepper.*

Baseball Nut Ice Cream

*Lyricist Sammy Cahn and the composer Jule Styne created Let It Snow in 1945 and is used here under the fair-use provisions of copyright law. Baseball Nut ice cream is a trademark flavor by Baskins-Robins. Dr. Pepper is a trademark drink by Pepsi Co. 

© 1 July 2012

About the Author

Ricky was born in June of 1948 in downtown Los Angeles. He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA. Just 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 his parents obtained a divorce; unknown to him.

When united with his mother and stepfather in 1958, he lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife and four children until her passing 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 therapeutic.”

Ricky’s story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

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Snapshots [Le Flaneur] by Nicholas

The French, they say, have a word for it. In fact, the French have words for things that nobody else even knows exist. Le flaneur is an example. I don’t know how to translate that term into English because the object—in this case, person—it describes doesn’t really exist among English-speaking people. He is found only in France and, really, only in Paris.

Perhaps, boulevardier comes close but you can’t define one French term with another. A flaneur is a man of the streets but not what we would call a street person. He is not a bum; he is a man of leisure and some elegance. Not ostentatious American elegance but that quiet Parisian elegance. And I’m afraid I must use only the masculine pronoun here because I don’t think there is a feminine equivalent. Lady of the streets means something completely different.

Le flaneur has been translated as stroller since the word comes from the French verb “to stroll.” Edmund White even wrote a whole book about Paris using the perspective of the stroller. Le flaneur, he writes, “is by definition endowed with enormous leisure, someone who can take off a morning or an afternoon for undirected ambling, since a specific goal or a close rationing of time is antithetical to the true spirit of the flaneur. An excess of the work ethic inhibits the browsing, cruising ambition to wed the crowd.”

I like to think of myself as somewhat of a flaneur even though, Americans are particularly unsuited to flanerie, says White, and I am probably guilty. I admit my ramblings are usually not purely aimless. I usually have little stops to make, things to do, like go to the bank or something. But surrounding my points of busyness, I wander. I do “wed the crowd,” as he puts it, which is simply to be part of the multiplicity and anonymity of a group of people on the street going about their business, hurrying to appointments, running to catch a train, doing some errand, or just walking.

Denver isn’t Paris and it can be difficult at times to find a crowd to amble with. San Francisco and New York are the best USA cities that allow such socializing. But I manage.

Setting out, I hop onto an RTD bus—driving would be counter to le flanerie—and head into the city center. Whatever Monsieur Le Flaneur does, he does in public spaces. In fact, it was while riding the #10 bus, a route running often enough that you can use it spontaneously without a schedule, that I realized that that was what I was about. I like to spend my free time rambling about the city just to see my city. Many times I will have some errand to run but I mostly wander to a set of favorite spots, noticing what’s on the street from those awful paving stones on the 16th Street Mall to new destruction or construction. I spend hours reading or writing in a warm café on a cold day. Common Grounds coffee house is one favorite, Tattered Cover bookstore is another, The Market café is a frequent breakfast stop as is Udi’s for lunch.

The other day found me heading over to Platte Street across the river to drop in on the Savory Spice Shop. I needed some herbs and spices and they have the best Vietnamese cinnamon in town. I also like just to breathe in the aromas of all the spices and herbs and blends they have. On that clear, crisp winter day, I strolled over the pedestrian bridge over the river and through the park, this bit of nature slicing through the heart of urban pavement. I ambled into downtown admiring the views, the fresh air, and all the people out jogging, bicycling, or just walking from where they were to where they would soon be. Each moment of observation was like a snapshot of this city. I ended up near Union Station, presently under construction and soon to be a hub for commuter trains. I was watching the city being built as Denver creates more spaces for itself to live in.

So, that is my goofy tale. Rambling through the city, noting all the variety of activity as my urban cohorts—workers, students, shoppers, diners, fellow travelers—go about their day. A tale of goofing off—an Americanized version of a little bit of Paris.

© 11 April 2013

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

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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.

Posted on

The Facts by Merlyn

Americans live in a world where the facts don’t mean anything.

I have finally realized that people don’t want to know the facts about what is really happening in the world and choose to believe the lies they see on FOX and CNN.

When Iran, Germany, China, Russia, Asia times and Australian web sites all have the same story and that story isn’t even mentioned on American TV or web sites, I tend to believe the foreign news.

I’m not going to say anything about what is going on today in the real world because I don’t think anyone really wants to know about things that they can’t do anything about.
I used to spend hours every day looking for the FACTs.

For the last two years I have stopped looking at American TV news. I’m down to about 15 minutes a day reading the headlines on the foreign web sites.

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

Scouting for Fun by Ricky

(Three tales filled
with truth, wisdom, courage, and humor.)
Click on the image to enlarge.

     Some adults have memories of their time in the Boy Scouts. Like always, there are those memories which remind us of good, bad, embarrassing, and funny incidents occurring during campouts and even the weekly troop meetings. The following are three of my favorite memories. All these events occurred from 1963-65, while I served as the Senior Patrol Leader of BSA Troop 456 of South Lake Tahoe, CA (Golden Empire Council) where I pretty much ran the troop under the guidance of the Scout Master, Bob Deyerberg. 

1.  One of my responsibilities as the Senior Patrol Leader was to ensure that the Patrol Leaders were properly training and testing their assigned scouts in the requirements for rank advancement. One night I was sitting-in on an oral test of a second class scout working towards his first class badge. The scout, Paul, was doing very well answering the questions correctly until he was asked to name ten edible wild plants. Paul named off nine very quickly and then (like many of us presented with the task of naming ten items on a list) he had a “brain lockup”. After much silence and some very minor harassment (I mean encouragement) by his patrol leader, Paul finally and confidently blurted out—“road apples”. After the rest of us finished laughing and explained to Paul exactly what a “road apple” was (horse droppings), he managed to name a correct one and passed that test.

2.  One summer campout, we were camping near the ruins of an ore crushing stamp mill along the Carson River in the desert near the eastern edge of Carson City, Nevada. During the second night, all scouts were gathering around the fire pit for our campfire activities. Bob, our Scout Master, was acting strange which is to say that he had a shopping bag with stuff in it but would not let us see what was inside; very mysterious and so unlike him. After we had held our fire starting ritual and finished our singing, it was time for stories. A few scouts told some simple ghost stories while others told funny ones in their turn.

     At last it was time for Bob to reveal the contents of the bag he was guarding. The contents were: an enameled bowl of a size used to water a pet dog; a short length of cotton clothesline; and stick long enough to span the diameter of the bowl; and a block of paraffin. While telling his story, Bob placed the paraffin in the bowl and set the bowl close to the campfire so as to melt the paraffin; then cut the clothesline into three ten-inch long pieces and tied the tops to the stick with the center piece in the middle with the others a short space on either side.

     This is the “Reader’s Digest” version of his story. In ancient times a large tribe of Indians lived in this area; on the desert of the Carson Valley. They hunted in the desert and also in the Sierra Nevada Mountains for game to feed and clothe the tribe. One year the desert game became scarce and the mountain game was virtually non-existent. Hunting parties returning from unsuccessful hunts reported seeing the tracks of some gigantic beast. They believed that this beast must be either killing the game or scaring the game away. The tribe brought the matter to the attention of the tribal chiefs.

     This tribe was lead by three chiefs of equal rank and authority. Each chief contributed his talent to the group of three and thus they led with confidence and the tribe prospered. The chiefs were named: Brave Eagle, Wise Eagle, and True Eagle. The three chiefs concluded that they were the only ones who could defeat this beast so they set out alone into the mountains to hunt it down. Several weeks passed before they found the beast sleeping. After locating the beast, the chiefs set up a relay as each of them in turn acted as bait for the beast running themselves nearly to death as they tired the beast. Finally, the last of the chiefs to run, Brave Eagle, led the beast onto a thinly frozen lake; the beast broke through the ice and drowned.

     The chiefs had been gone much longer than the tribal members had patience so after two weeks the tribe sent their fastest runner, Swift Eagle, to go find out how the hunt was going and if everything was alright. In spite of being fast, Swift Eagle could only but follow the trail signs left by the chiefs who were quite swift themselves. So, he could only slowly catch up to them. When he finally realized that the beast was chasing the chiefs, Swift Eagle tried to run even faster. At last he found the first of the three chiefs, Wise Eagle, on the verge of death. Swift Eagle began lamenting the impending loss of the chief saying what would the tribe do without his wisdom. The chief told him to cut some hair of the back of his head to burn at council fires so his wisdom would always be with them. So he cut the hair and the chief died.

     Swift Eagle came upon the other two chiefs in turn and those chiefs also had him cut off some of their hair before they also died. Swift Eagle returned to his tribe, told them of the chiefs’ fates and their command about what to do with their hair. The tribe obeyed and they once again prospered.

     By the end of the story it suddenly became clear to me what Bob was intending to do. He placed the stick with the pieces of clothesline across the bowl of the now melted paraffin and announced that we were all going to put some hair from the back of our heads into the bowl so we could burn it at every one of our “council fires” at the close of each troop meeting. As I was the oldest and the “leader” of the troop, Bob selected me to be cut first to set the example. (At the time, I was a sophomore in high school and really didn’t want to explain why I was missing hair on the back of my head to my peers, but I couldn’t “wimp” out.) Then one by one, every scout present had a fifty-cent coin size of hair cut by Bob from the back of their head. Bob went last and I got to do the honor. Bob was cut and cut and cut. I didn’t go overboard but his cut spot was larger than a fifty-cent piece.

3.  That same summer our troop was camping along the Carson River but about 25 to 35 miles east of Carson City. George was an 11-year old, fair skinned, short, skinny boy with “toothpick” arms and legs and was completely ill equipped for his first scout campout. George’s biggest problem was what some swindler sold to his parents as a sleeping bag. Desert nights can be very cold and George’s sleeping bag was not designed to be used in temperatures under 70° and George did not appear to have even an ounce of fat on his frame to help keep him warm.

     Ultimately, to keep George healthy and not to be so discouraged that he would quit, Bob swapped sleeping bags with George. As a result, Bob spent the night sleeping next to the campfire he had to keep refueling throughout the night until he moved into his car to escape an early morning cold breeze.

     George did not appear to be your run-of-the-mill boy. His interests seemed to center on bugs, little critters or creatures, and aquatic life forms. Even so, no one treated him disrespectfully or made fun of him behind his back; at least I never heard of any.

     The next morning after sleeping in his car and around the campfire, Bob was not in the best of moods (understatement). About mid-morning he had to keep telling some of the scouts to stay out of the water. One scout had discovered crayfish in the river and soon several scouts were trying to “harvest” a few for lunch. Some “fished” with strips of bacon, but some waded right in and came out wet into chilly air; hence the stay-out-of-the-water order. Nonetheless, about an hour later, Bob looked about and spied George up to his knees walking in the water wearing his socks and leather shoes. Bob told him to get out and when George complied Bob asked him, “Why were you walking in the river?” I suspect George was simply pursuing his interest in aquatic life, but his reply was, “Well, I’ve always liked water sports.”

I’m the boy wearing a hat.
At the time, none of us knew Jim Nabors was gay.
Boy Scout Memorial in Washington D.C. — Notice the naked adult male.
The BSA prevented me from becoming a delinquent.  I thought the program was to create good citizens, not to teach discrimination.

© 7 March
2011





About the Author


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”.