Tag: Goofy Tales

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Goofy Tales by Gillian

I bet I could have given each of you a hundred guesses and not one of you would have come to the conclusion that my goofy tale would be the story of cashing in a savings certificate. Neither would you have been thinking North Dakota! Those of you who know that part of the world well are in for a special treat. Those of you who don’t will see how much you have missed, and want to jump on the next Greyhound bus to Fargo.

In 2010, Betsy joined friends for a week’s cycling trip around northern North Dakota. I, as usual, went along in our camper van. It so happened that I had a CD coming due at Bank of the North* while we were away so planned to liquidate it at the branch in Minot, a town of almost 50,000 people at that time, and so quite the Big City by North Dakota standards.

The planned morning found me in line at the branch bank somewhere near the town center. The line was slow, with only one teller, and it was no secret to anyone that I was a stranger in town. So of course the questions started. Where was I from and what was I doing in Minot? Every time they said Minot I had a terrible urge to say why not? but managed to control myself. Since then I have discovered, somewhat to my disappointment, that it is not an original response, and in fact there are actually t-shirts with the logo,

MINOT
Why not?

Anyway, these were nice, friendly, people, who looked in horror at me and each other when I explained about this group of cyclists pedaling fifty to a hundred miles each day in the August heat. They shook their heads and said ‘oh no!’ a lot.

Fueled by these reactions, I recounted how this group of friends had originally met while cycling across the country; 3200 miles from ocean to ocean. This was very satisfactorily greeted by more head-shaking, tut-tutting and and many an ‘oh no!’

The line was moving, if slowly, as I told my tales, and eventually I found myself facing a dismayed teller.

‘Oh no!’ she waved my papers sadly at me.

‘We don’t have that kind of money here.’

She glanced fearfully over her shoulder lest some armed bank robber was creeping up behind her, just waiting for her to produce this king’s ransom. I hadn’t thought of it as a huge amount, but this was a tiny one-room bank.

Shaking her head fervently, she repeated, in case I had missed it the first time,

‘Oh no!’

As she picked up the phone receiver she explained,

‘You need to go to the Main Branch,’ (definitely capitalized)

‘I’ll let then know you’re on your way. That’s your white van isn’t it?’

She nodded, all knowing, at my camper van outside the window. Without needing any acknowledgement, she continued,

‘So … go the way you’re headed, turn left at the next street by the Conoco station and ……’

‘Oh no!’ came two voices in unison from behind me.

‘No. Oh no!’ one continued. ‘She’s not from here. She’ll get lost if she goes that way. She needs to go down to the church and turn there …’

‘Oh no!’ the other rejoined. ‘She’ll have to deal with the one-way streets then. And the flea market. She should go …’

Other voices joined.

Completely ignored in the heated discussion, I suddenly noticed the old woman at the end of the line, which by now was at a complete stand-still, waving me over in her direction. Warily, I left my coveted spot at the head of the line and moved back.

She lightly touched my shoulder, directing my gaze out of the window, and pointed a bony old finger. There, not more than three blocks away, stood a tall brick building proudly bearing, in bright red lights, the words,

BANK of the NORTH

I whispered my thanks and slid silently from the office while those inside continued the hotly-contested argument. I have often wondered how long it took them to notice I was gone.

In the event, the journey was very simple, but as I approached I was amazed to see a young man in a dark business suit leap off the sidewalk and wave me joyously into one of several available parking spaces. He gallantly opened my door. When was the last time anyone had done that, I tried to remember.

‘Found us OK then?’ He beamed a congratulatory smile.

‘Didn’t get lost?’

‘Oh no!’ I replied gravely.

The bright smile faded as soon as we settled at his desk and he studied my letter.

‘Oh no!’ He shook his head sadly. ‘This is not our series of numbers. This is not a Bank of the North CD. Oh no!’ he repeated firmly.

Patiently I pointed to the large Bank of the North letterhead.

He simply stared, too confused even to say, oh no!

‘I originally bought it at Bright Side Savings and Loan. That got bought out by Belvedere Bank which then was swallowed up by Bank of the North. It’s a five-year CD,’ I added kindly, ‘and a mighty lot can happen in the banking merger business in five years.’

I almost added an oh yes! for emphasis, but managed not to.

‘So actually, you see,’ I continued, as he still seemed in need of clarification, ‘It is yours. Now.’

The poor man loosened his tie and took off his glasses.

‘Oh no,’ he regained his voice, ‘I have never seen one of these. Please excuse me for one moment.’

He almost bowed before scuttling off to a glass-enclosed office where I could see him gesturing emphatically to an older man in a pinstriped suit which made him, obviously, senior to my poor young man is his plain and rather well-worn black. Pinstripe picked up the phone and shortly they were joined by an elegant older woman. They waved my letter about and talked animatedly on the phone and to each other. A young woman arrived at my chair with coffee to keep me happy while I waited. It was served in a flowered cup with gilt edging and came complete with shortbread cookies resting in the matching saucer, an ensemble to make my grandma’s heart sing.

At last all three emerged from the glass office and headed my way en masse, pushing their triumph before them.

‘We have it now,’ the woman gushed. Not an oh no! in sight.

‘If you would just step over to the counter with me …’

‘Can I get two hundred of that in cash?’ My horrified brain heard the words running out of my mouth before it could stop them.

‘Oh no.’ She sounded very distressed. ‘That would be ….’

My brain rushed to get my mouth under firm control.

‘Never mind,’ I hastily assured her, ‘It’s not important. I don’t need a thing. Oh no!’

A few weeks ago I was in a Denver branch of Bank of the North, arguing over a ten dollar charge with a teenage manager with spiky hair.

Had he said oh no! just once, I would have given him the damn ten dollars.

But he didn’t and so I didn’t.

Oh How I sometimes long for North Dakota!

* There is no such bank. Nor do the other banks mentioned exist. I do not wish to identify the actual bank involved, which is in fact a large and well-known bank with branches all over the country.

© 2013

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 been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

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Goofy Tales: Draggin’ Main by Lewis

Draggin’ Main Street is a uniquely American teenage ritual. At least, it was in my home town of Hutchinson, Kansas. It didn’t matter whether you were male or female, drove a new Corvette or Thunderbird or your grandfather’s 1951 Plymouth. The main point was just makin’ the scene.

Of course, there were rules of decorum. If you were a boy-becoming-man, you were expected to look like Marlon Brando in The Wild One, aloof and unapproachable. Above all, you had to appear the master of all you surveyed, most especially, your “wheels.” “Goofiness,” meaning any mistake as insignificant as forgetting to put your tranny in a lower gear at a red light or, heaven forbid, stalling your engine on a jackrabbit start, was certain to make you the subject of an urban legend that would shame your progeny for generations.

Such was the milieu within which the story of my most embarrassing goofiness unfolded.

I was about 20 and the season was summer. My “baby” was a British racing green 1958 Ford Fairlane 500 convertible. Ensconced within, loosely speaking, were I and three long-time best buds. The Main Street run extended from downtown to a Sandy’s (nee McDonald’s) restaurant near 27th Street—a distance of about 2 miles. Just past the restaurant was a gas station.

On this particular day, my attention was captured by something other than the rapid approach of the driveway into which it was customary to turn to make the southbound leg of the Main Street Drag. Realizing my predicament, I attempted to compensate by making my version of a ‘J Turn’ which, as every bootlegger knows, involves a skillfully coordinated application of the brakes combined with a violent spin of the steering wheel. As executed by me, however, it resulted in a yawing, skewing slide across three lanes of opposing traffic, up the drive of the gas station, and coming to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke within arm’s reach of the first pump.

The looks on my passengers’ faces reminded me of the time I had taken a group of friends to see Psycho at the South Hutch drive-in. Wanting to set their minds at ease—and mine, as well—I said the first thing that popped into my head, “Fill ’er up!”

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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Goofy Tales by Will Stanton

When it comes to goofy, I suppose that all of us act goofy at various times and to varying degrees. If each of us were to document all of our goofiness and write it down, it would take up as many volumes as the 1911 Encyclopedia Britannica. Goofiness may become a problem only if it is extreme or if the number of goofs outweighs the more constructive behaviors. Sometimes, we become so used to our own goofiness that we fail to notice it. We become more aware of behavior and situations that appear to us to be goofy when they are from other people or from different cultures.

Speaking of different cultures, it used to be said in Britain, “The sun never sets on the empire.” I once saw in a movie a character of a patriotic teacher pointing to a large world map on the wall, and she said, “Here’s a pink bit. There’s a pink bit. See all those pink bits? That’s all ours.”

Well, it isn’t any more. Yet for years, patriots stubbornly clung to the illusion of empire long after the Victorian age, long after the devastating Great War. My being a Yank in the U.K., I saw much evidence of this fact when I was attending university there in years gone by.

Apparently, all universities and colleges harbored Oxbridge delusions, tattered remnants of traditions long outmoded. For example at dinner in our all-male dormitory, we were obliged to wear cap and gown. What for? Did doing so make us any more scholarly? Any more mature and well behaved? Well, I suppose that traditions might have their place, but I thought that this one was goofy because it did not.

In this country what we refer to as “RAs, dormitory residence assistants”, the Brits called “tutors.” One such tutor had, what we might call, a “special friend” who frequently was in his company. Their companionship was not unobserved among the students. All it took to reveal the lack of gravitas and decorum among the gown-clad scholars was for the tutor to enter the dining hall, to be pelted with buns, and be subjected to catcalls of “Batman, where’s Robin?” Those scholars could act goofy at the drop of a mortarboard cap.

The antiquated concept of social class remained ingrained in many people’s minds, including the college hierarchy. There was in the dining hall, what they called, “high table” which literally was built to be higher than the main floor where most of the groundlings sat. The dorm proctor there was called by the ominous title of “warden.” He always sat right in the center seat at high table. In descending order of importance on either side were any guests of rank, followed by a few selected students (who naturally felt obliged to show their deep appreciation for having been invited), next the tutors, then Miss Prem the resident nurse (yes, the dorm had a nurse, just like British public schools such as Eaton and Harrow), and finally the woman who ran the “buttery,” that is, the little shop of sundry supplies.

Of course, the residence porter, who carried luggage and whose tiny office guarded the dorm entrance, and the maids who made up our single rooms, never were invited. To have included them would have been terribly déclassé.

If any student received a cherished invitation to sit at high table, he soon found that the evening’s fare was of higher quality and greater variety than the that of the lower tables. If the students were eating cod, then high table was served better haddock. Those at high table afterwards walked with a sense of entitlement to a special room upstairs that was referred to as “The Senior Common Room.” Once inside, one was confronted with trays of fresh fruits and cheeses. And of course, any English gentleman would expect to have sherry on hand, and it was…in several varieties from sweet to dry.

I discovered why the Brits refer to dessert as “pudding.” It often was just that, pudding poured over a bit of sponge cake. And do you know why they called their sausages “bangers?” Their contents consisted of so much fat and grain filler, rather than meat, that the contents would expand when heated, and the natural casings would explode. At first, my being used to American food, I thought that they tasted like a combination of fat, dryer lint, and sawdust. By end of term, I actually looked forward to having them for breakfast because they were not too bad in contrast to some of the rest of the food served to the students. At times, I felt like Oliver Twist regarding Mr. Bumble at high table and wondering what he was being served. That’s why I occasionally made the trek to the nearby fish-and-chips shop or the Chinese restaurant for a welcome variety. I never did understand why the Brits were proud of their cooking; but, then again, I never did eat at a five-star restaurant in London.

To borrow a word that, over time, has become less shocking to Brits, everyone and everything was so bloody formal. When we attended lectures, we sat in 19th-century halls usually limited to the viewing by us Yanks when portrayed in period-piece films on “Masterpiece Theatre.” Seating consisted of ranks of increasingly elevated rows. The professor (or “don”) would arrive with only a curt “good afternoon,” formal in his cap and gown, walk in a dignified manner to a podium, grandly open a folder with his prepared lecture, and read it to the students in impeccable English. (Actually, it would be nice if American teachers would learn good grammar and diction in addition to their own subjects.) Then he would close his folder with finality and stroll out of the room without a further word. The don did not expect the students to ask questions or to engage in any dialogue whatsoever. So much for an exciting, motivating lecture session.

In retrospect, I recall one day when I must have appeared to be goofy because of my ignorance of English culture and terminology. One local lad invited me to “tea.” I did not understand that, at the time he designated, he meant “high tea,” that is, dinner. Had I known, I would have brought a small gift for his mother, as was traditional. I would have been more at ease and better prepared for table conversation. His father was absent, and I sensed that he had been lost during the war. I later realized why the student had invited me and also why he had been rather quiet and self-conscious during the dinner, which did not help my own unease. He was attracted to me. I wish I had known better how to have handled that situation. For some time afterwards, I did feel inept and goofy.

I recall looking out the window of the main common room to the street below and seeing preparations being made for some minor construction project, perhaps for patching a pothole. In the U.S., that would have been done in five minutes and the crew gone. Instead, I saw a couple of workmen set up a work shack to store supplies and to provide shelter should the infamously frequent English rain occur. To my bafflement, that shack and, at times, one man were there for several days without obvious evidence of progress. I did see on one occasion, however, the lone workman, wearing a threadbare, cheap black suit and vest, preparing a pot of tea. No wonder it took so long to get anything done.

I imagine that a good percentage of university students prefer to drink and to drink a great deal, whether or not it technically is illegal, as it is in the U.S. for underage students. Well, the scholars there certainly liked to do so during their off-time. They might be serious in their studies, but when they came back from the local pubs, they put a new light on goofy. It was quite a site for me to see two sloshed scholars, arm-in-arm, dancing an Irish jig around and around on the commons green, singing at the top of their lungs.

The first student whom I met and one of the most memorable for me was the fellow whose room was on the floor above me, Ian from Edinburgh, Scotland. He said that he was a descendant of Cromwell. I first met him when he came flying through the French doors from the upstairs balcony into my room and gave me a hardy, “Hello!” He had just climbed down the face of the building. He took for granted the fact that he was a natural acrobat and the most lean, limber person I ever have known. That must have attracted his round-faced, pudgy girlfriend (that seemed to be a typical appearance of many local girls), because they spent every weekend together in his room, and they kept busy the whole time. I guess that opposites do attract. Ian was shocked and dismayed when Gupta, the East Indian student, read his palms and declared that Ian already had used up his sex life. His palms did look terribly old and creased, which was in marked contrast to his otherwise boyish looks.

I suppose that, somehow, the students I met did spend enough time and effort to acquire their sought-after degrees and, perhaps, make something of their lives. They could be quite serious when they wanted to, but at other times, their behavior suddenly could change. My whole time in Britain and at college provided me with many memorable experiences. Some of them were significant. Other experiences were just plain goofy; and, in some ways, I must have fit right in.

© 11 January 2013

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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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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Goofy Tales by Ray S

Ten A.M. and it is getting hot already. Today is a holiday and the Eda M. Fisher Junior High School is closed. I am home alone at our one bedroom studio apartment. Mom and Sylvia are at work even though it is Washington’s Birthday holiday.

I am trying to figure out what I can do with the day besides make up my studio couch bed, clean up the kitchen, and squeeze some fresh Florida orange juice.

Too early to go to the movies at that big theater on Collins Avenue with the funny name, CINIMA, and I am so new to that school I do not know anyone to pal around with.

Instead of getting dressed for school, I just put on my bathing trunks, and with that, the idea surfaced that it could be interesting to investigate the roof top deck of this modest two-story apartment. I could check out the hot water solar heat apparatus; see what the place is like where I’d heard people went to sun bathe.

The more I thought about this adventure the more possibilities crept into my imagination. What if I decided to take a sunbath and if no one was around why not risk being discovered doing so nude? What a wickedly wonderful thought for a lonely 14-year-old boy whose thoughts were now soaring into unknown territory. I couldn’t understand why the idea of being discovered by another like-minded but older man came into my head.

Up the stairs, beach towel in hand, and on to the threshold of the unknown. The rooftop was divided into an area of solar heat water pipes and then a space with a privacy fence and benches all around for socializing and sun bathing. Quite nice and a degree of privacy.

Anticipation, being the dominant emotion, the thrill of doing something forbidden, the possibility of discovery and whatever would or could follow, seemed to move me magically into some other world.

Beach towel in place on the deck in a seemingly remote corner, I dared to slip out of my trunks and exposed myself to dear old sol and whatever might transpire. I became aware that all of this activity was causing a pleasant feeling of arousal, and as I lay there with my eyes closed basking in the warmth of the sun, my hand helped with this newfound feeling of well-being. The day was off to a good start.

“Hey, Kid! What are you doing?” The jarring voice of a would be teen Venus standing over me in the altogether called. When I came to my senses I was confronted with, “that’s what girls looked like without clothes.” It certainly wasn’t anything like the showers at boys gym class.

If in retrospect I had any knowledge of a Botticelli nude–female, that is–this specter looming over my prone body would have fit the bill. She knelt down beside me and whispered, “Here, let me show you what we can do with that.”

Perhaps 15 minutes later Venus was joined by a boyfriend. I imagined his name was David. They spread their towels on the deck, he slipped out of his bathing suit and suddenly the spirit of Eros overcame me again.

It was at this moment I realized that I could and would wait for my David to come and carry me away to somewhere where the gods know how to play anyway they want to, and Venus, lovely as she is, could climb back into her clam shell.

© 23 February 2013




About the Author








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Cops in the Sky and the Tale of the Best Little Boy by Donny Kay

I’ve always thought that there existed someplace in the sky a special police force. I’ve referred to that agency as the “Cops In the Sky”. I’m confident they exist for the sole purpose of taking away my status as the best little boy and in so doing heaping their judgments on me and confining me in a prison greater than the prison that I’ve created for myself in this goofy tale of the “Cops In the Sky and the Best Little Boy.”

Let me tell you a tale, goofy though it may be…

When I was born my oldest brother was 22 and his first child was only months away from being born making me an uncle before I was a year old. My nephew Jerry was my best friend as well and together we joined the Cub Scouts and my brother was the Den Daddy. I’ll never forget our first camping trip when we loaded our camping gear as well as that of several other boys in the back of my brother’s DeSoto Suburban.

On the way to the mountains we were playing in the back of the car and I snagged off a tag from a sleeping bag I had borrowed for the camp-out. Just barely being able to read I was able to figure out the message on the tag which I was then holding in my hand which read, “Do not remove under penalty of law.”

What’s really goofy about this tale is that somehow at the age of seven I envisioned that there were cops-in-the-sky whose job it was to come after little boys like me who removed tags from sleeping bags in the back seats of family cars on the way to the mountains. My upset continued into the night and was the source of my not being able to fall asleep, confident if I didn’t remain watchful the cops in the sky would come out of the forest of trees and take this seven year old away to some kind of prison for those who removed “do not remove” labels from sleeping bags!! Plus, how would I ever explain to the people my parents borrowed the bag from how such a good boy could have put them in possible jeopardy as well with the cops in the sky.

What is even goofier about this tale is that I was the little boy who never got in trouble! And, here I was, the one most likely to be arrested and taken away to prison before the dawn of my first overnight camp out! I still have reservation whenever I purchase a new pillow or blanket and remove the label, confident that someone’s watching over me and an alarm someplace is going off! And this was happening to me, the little boy who was such a good boy, not to be confused with a goody-two-shoe. I felt like such a phony!

In addition to the incident with my sleeping bag my anxiety was compounded as a child hearing that Santa Claus always knew who was “naughty or nice” and that God knew all of our thoughts and actions, especially the naughty ones. I was doomed because some of my thoughts weren’t always nice and certainly bordered on naughty especially when I fantasized about cowboys, and duos like The Lone Ranger and Tonto or Batman and Robin. How could I, the little boy who was always so good ever be found out for naughty thoughts like those!

Growing up as the youngest child of older parents created circumstances for me where I was required to spend a lot of time with my parent’s friends who were all older and whose kids were grown. By the time I was eleven or twelve I was already thinking I’d make a better older person than a kid! Typically, there were no other children around. I would need to sit and read or color or play with my toys in a corner until I went home with my parents. What I often heard was ” Donny is the best little boy!”

I remember once hearing this comment just as I was removing the lid from a crystal candy dish in an adjoining room. I then heard the host commenting that “as the good little boy that I was I would only take a single piece of candy from the dish”. How could the best little boy be thinking my thoughts at the time which were to load my pockets with the entire dish! I saw myself as a fraud. I was such a phony.

The more I lived with needing to be “the best little boy”, the more I was conflicted by the judgments of me being phony. I soon realized that if others ever figured out how or even worse, who I was as a little boy who liked cowboys, I definitely would be taken away forever by the Cops in the Sky!!

Looking back I realize how formational these experiences were, especially when it came to my sexual orientation. How could “the best little boy” ever be a homosexual. I have lived confident that the Cops in the Sky knew and were watching every time I hurriedly pulled onto 13th avenue, merely having driven through Cheesman Park or when I would buy a men’s magazine; expecting that the same alarm that went off when I pulled the tag from the sleeping bag as a seven year old was going off somewhere signaling I was about to get caught by the Cops in the Sky and it would all be over for the “best little boy.” My reputation ruined. Cast away by any and everyone who ever had known the “Best Little Boy.”

In looking back on my life there is a continuing theme in terms of the tale of my life. The fear of being caught by the Cops in the Sky and then judged and condemned created a paranoia in me that hasn’t served me in the best of ways in terms of living in integrity with myself. Coupled with the notion of being “the best little boy” kept me in the closet far longer that I should have ever agreed to. After all, several of the family and friends I’ve come out to have said “I always knew you were gay”, and not once have those legendary cops that existed in the Tale I created ever seemed to notice my actions. As well, life was intended to be lived and not restricted by living up to expectations like being the best little boy.

So you see, even though the Tale has been exposed, it has not lost its influence in this boy’s life. Just this morning when my shelf installer drilled through the wall for his anchoring screws, and a neighbor commented on the holes in the hallway, the best little resident went running to the manager to confess his error, not the error of the installer, confident that my status as “Best Resident” in my new condo was in jeopardy. Oh, the saga continues…

© 1 April 2013

About the Author

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

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Goofy Tales by Michael King

It seems that many tales including goofy ones start with “Once upon a Time” Continuing “In a Land Far Away” Then “There Lived a —–“
In my goofy tale I’d like the characters to have detailed and explicit X rated interactions. Of course that’s not the goofy part. The goofy part is when the superhuman abilities and equipment leaves my personal imaginary participation feeling inadequate. And yes, I can be that insecure. Fortunately, I can accept being more average when I feel accepted by others.

Now, since my once upon a time fantasy is my experience on a regular basis, all the goofy parts of the tale that I am living are the fantasies that I never expected to come true. The goofy part is that two or more grown men can giggle, snicker and laugh uproariously over the introduction of silliness, childish humor and gross descriptive imaginary scenarios.

Now, why am I not telling about the details of these goofy tales? Simple, they could not be printed due to the sensuousness and XXX ratings that can finally be enjoyed without embarrassment or apology, but none-the-less censorable content.

Yet to occur is: “And They Lived Happily Ever After.” I’m still living in the wonderful, but really quite goofy present. It’s so nice to be retired, have no real obligations or commitments to preclude my being outrageous, silly, maybe a little funny and a lot eccentric.

I guess that if I were less subjective I’d look somewhere outside of my personal experience for the goofy tales, however I find that my own life is so exciting and spontaneous I don’t need to look elsewhere, I only need to appear to others as reasonably sane. That in itself is pretty goofy.

Writing a story about goofy tales is also pretty goofy. I’m glad I allow my imagination to explore all the juicy unmentionable and provocative details that I only dare to share with my closest friends and my companion until some porn magazine offers to pay me handsomely for disclosing how goofy a seventy-three year old sex symbol can really be.

1/3/13




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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Goofy Tales by Merlyn

     This tale starts on a cold windy and snowy Friday night in Jan 1979. I was driving truck hauling meat out of Denver. To the east coast, there was a big storm passing east of Denver.
I had a load that wouldn’t be ready until 6 pm; around 5pm Colorado closed all of the main roads going east out of Denver.

     At 6 pm I went down to Curtis picked up my paper work, fueled the truck, hooked up to the loaded trailer and did the pre-trip inspection so the truck was ready to go when the roads opened. There wasn’t any reason to go thirty miles and sit in the truck waiting for the road to open so I went back home.

     I always liked to have some kind of music on when I was driving and there were so many places that you could not pick up anything that I would recorded my favorite radio station on tape while I was listening to the road reports, I would play the tapes when I got tired of listening to the tapes that I had owned.
Around 5 am they opened I 70 and I got out of Denver.

     A few weeks later I was on the last leg of an east coast run. I had made my last fuel stop in Omaha, ate a good meal, It was a beautiful clear moonless night, the road was dry and the sky was full of stars life was good. I was less than nine hours from being home and I was looking forward to having a good time in Denver before I left out again.

     It was around midnight when I pulled back onto westbound I 80. I only had to make one more stop at the scales entering CO for my port slip. Nebraska was one of the best states to drive across at night back then, I 80 was in good shape and late at night then the cops would see a bunch of trucks running together driving in single file doing around 72 -75 mph they would leave us alone and let us go about our business.

     I could hear a couple of drivers talking on the CB. One of them was telling a story, now being a good story-teller is a skill that carries a lot of weight on (CB) Channel 19.

     The driver that was doing the most talking was a good old southern boy with the kind of voice everyone likes to listen to. I caught up with them slowed down and fell in about a block or so behind them.
He was headed for Seattle I would be dropping south on I76. When you drive coast to coast it’s not unusual to meet someone and spend a day or more running together.

     We would spend the next 5 hours 350 mile with him doing most of the talking.
At some point I changed the tape in the radio, and someone came on the CB and asked me what station I was listening to. I told him it was a station in Denver. The CB was quiet for a while then someone came back on and he said he could not pick up anything but though he heard something about the roads being closed around Denver on my radio when I was talking. I decided to have some fun. I said I wasn’t paying attention it.
I waited a while backed up the tape turned the volume up and keyed the mike so everyone could hear them reporting about I 70 I 25 and I 76 being closed.

     You never know how many people are listening on a CB but all of a sudden we had 5 or 6 drivers talking about if the roads were going to be closed ahead maybe we should stop somewhere before we got stuck in a snow storm waiting for the roads to open.
As we went past an exit a cop turned on his blue lights for a second and told everyone to drive carefully when we got to the storm. He knew there wasn’t any storm ahead of us.

     Since I was the only one picking up the Denver station I was telling everyone that the snow was letting up on I 80 and I 76 and they may be open for a while before the worst part of the storm got there.

     Three of us turned onto south on I76 the weather was clear and nice, it was warm when we got to the CO scales. I waited until then to tell everyone about how I had recorded the radio station and we all had a good laugh.

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.

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Goofy Tales by Colin Dale

It’s probably true for each one of
us, we sit down a few days before Storytellers, or the day before, or the
morning of, look at the topic and think, What the hell can I say about this
one?  I’ve said just about every other
Monday about how I had to scrounge for inspiration.  Somehow, though, sometimes with only an hour
to spare–and sometimes thanks to the dictionary, a memory, or
Google–something would suggest itself. 
Looking at today’s topic, Goofy Tales, right up to this past Saturday
morning I was thinking maybe I would just skip today, or take a pass and just
be a listener.  But then on Saturday…
I went to the first meeting of a writers’ workshop I’d
enrolled in.  The instructor had warned
us by email the previous week, in addition to the usual first-day
stuff–introducing ourselves, talking about our individual goals, and laying
out a plan for the coming four weeks–we’d do a half hour or so of free writing.  The topic would be revealed to us on the
spot.  So last Saturday morning, we met
at the appointed hour, did the go-round of introductions–seven women and
me–stumbled through defining short literary nonfiction, when the instructor
said, Okay, it’s time for some free writing. 
The topic is guilty pleasures.
“I want you to begin,” she said, “by thinking of one of your
guilty pleasures, and remembering one particular time when you were really
enjoying it.  I’m going to interrupt you
several times to redirect your thinking, but I want you to start by telling
us–in the present tense, create a scene, use dialogue if you like–what it
feels like, this guilty pleasure, to be really, really enjoying it.  And then, without warning, you’re
interrupted.  What do you do?”
Each of us pulled back into our own private worlds–the
seven women and me–and began scribbling.
Three, four minutes of head-scratching and panicky
scribbling and the instructor said, “The interruption is over.  You’re free to go back to enjoying your
guilty pleasure.  What do you do
now?”
A few more minutes of wild writing and the instructor
said, “Now think back to one time–an earlier time–when you were caught
in the act of your guilty pleasure-absolutely
caught.  Again, create a scene, but now
using the past tense, tell us what that was like.  What did you say to the person who caught you
in the act?”
Heads down, scribble, scribble, and we were done.  The reason I’ve mentioned already that the
workshop was made up of seven women–the instructor was also a woman–and me,
is because of what these other students had come up with for their guilty
pleasures, and what I’d written.  We
started around the table clockwise, reading aloud our free writing.  Denise–and here I’m using phony
names–Denise, a bank manager from Louisville, confessed her addiction to dark
chocolate.  Tessa, a Montesori teacher
from Golden, opened up about her secret love for reality TV.  Joyce, who introduced herself as “only a
housewife,” revealed her passion for celebrity gossip magazines.  The youngest workshopper, Karen, a sophomore
at Metro, said something about not being able to pass up Starbucks lattes.  Then they all turned to look at me.  The instructor said, “Well, Colin, what
have you written?”
I thought: dark chocolate, reality TV, celebrity
gossip, Starbucks lattes.  I looked down
at what I had written, with no time to change anything, looked up at all the
women–who all now looked like my mother, even Karen–and began:
“I have it in my hand
when they come in.  Surprised like that,
there’s no way I can put it away quickly. 
I do the best I can, though, and press it into my lap…

Back to the workshop. 
There were a few uneasy coughs around the table, and I could hear
folding chairs squeak–but I knew there was no turning back, so I read on…

“Luckily there is a copy
of Westword next to me, which I quickly slide over, making of it a sort of
paper apron.  ‘You didn’t knock.  You scared me,’ I say, joking.

“‘Yeah, boo,’ Gerry, the
jock asshole says, screwing up his nose. 
‘You got the paper upside down. 
Whatcha hiding?'”

“Tony, the assistant
asshole, who hangs back by the door, says, ‘We’re gonna go workout.   Wanna come?’

“‘Let’s see what you got
there,’ the jock asshole says, and grabs for the Westword.

“‘Nothing,’ I say,
letting the paper get taken, knowing in the split-second I had had I have moved
it deep down and out of sight.  ‘See?’

“‘Yeah, well, thought you
were hiding some good shit.’

“‘Let’s go,’ says the
assistant asshole, and they disappear as abruptly as they appeared.
Back when I’d been doing the free writing, this was
when the instructor broke in: “The interruption is over.  What do you do now”?  Now, reading what I’d written, I looked up at
the women, each one with an expression of Oh, no, am I the only one who thinks
she knows what Ray is telling us? 
Confident my salvation is just ahead, I go back to what I’d written and
read on…
“From where I’m sitting
I’m able to lean forward and reach the door without standing.   Turning the twist-latch I feel a return of
reasonable privacy.  I reach down between
my legs, around the curve of my inner thigh, lift it into the light of day and
hold it with both hands: The Oxford Book
of English Verse.  My breathing
quickens as I open to Coleridge–back to The Ancient Mariner:

                 Like one that on a lonesome road
                 Doth walk in fear
and dread,
                  And having once
turned round walks on,
                  And turns no more
his head;
                  Because he knows,
a frightful fiend
                  Doth close behind
him tread.

“My guilty pleasure (I wrote) in this freshman land of asshole jocks is 19th-century romantic poetry. My 1942 Oxford goes with me everywhere.”

I got that far Saturday in my free writing about guilty
pleasures and I thought, Good Lord, this is silly.  And then, driving home Saturday from the
workshop, I also thought, You know, the story I just free wrote and then had to
read aloud–it wasn’t just silly.  It was
goofy!  But back again to
Saturday…  
Back to when we were free writing.  The instructor interrupted for the last time
and asked us to recall an earlier time when we had been caught–in no uncertain
terms–in the act of our guilty pleasures, I wrote:
“My father, who had no
interest in literature, and who was outspoken especially in his contempt for
poetry–fag lit, as far as he was
concerned–threw open my bedroom door, making the big posters taped over my
bed–my unframed Virginia Woolf and Walt Whitman portraits rattle like paper
flags.  And there I was, spread-eagled on
my bed, the Oxford in my hand,
savoring again my Ancient Mariner. 
Caught dead to rights in the act.

“‘Damn it, son,’ my
father said, a look of deep disgust on his face, ‘I’ve told you what that
shit will do to you.’

“‘But, Dad…

“‘Give it to me,’ he
said, thrusting his hand toward the Oxford. 

“‘No, Dad!” I
yelped, recoiling against the headboard. 
‘Please!’

“‘Stop with that shit
now, son.  Hand it over.’

“‘No, please, Dad,
no.  Please let me read my
Coleridge.  Please.  I promise, Dad, I really do, I promise I’ll
stop before I go blind.”
Here endeth the free writing.
And here endeth today’s goofy tale.

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.