Tag: Ray S

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One Summer Afternoon, by Ray S

[Editor’s Note. This story was previously published in this blog. It is a reminder that this weekend is Pridefest Denver!]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© June 2013

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My Favorite Childhood Hero, by Ray S

The Millennials have their “E” social network. The “Hip” generation had its rebellion and protests and rock and roll. The Baby Boomers had post-war back to the normalcy of the establishment, the Eisenhower years, Big Bond Era, “Leave It to Beaver” and “Ozzie and Harriet.”

So much as I’ve tried, it has been with “tremendous” (a Trumpian term) effort that I have been able to resurrect any memory of my onetime childhood, much less a hero.

I am of a time influenced and resulting from the inventions of Thomas Edison, Alex G. Bell, and Mr. Marconi. By the time I arrived on the scene all of these scientific advances were well established, in the early 20th C. So instead of TV or the internet, I lived in a world of radio and black and white moving pictures, including “talkies” by the 30’s.

“Heroes”, depending on your interpretation of the term, lived in the air waves. Little Orphan Annie and her dog Sandy every weekday at 5:45, just after Jack Armstrong—the All American Boy. Jack didn’t thrill me, but secretly I did wonder about Annie’s beau, John Corntassel.

There were a bunch of potential heroes on serials like Mary Marlin, Mr. Keen, Trurser of Last Persons, John’s Other Wife, and One Man’s Family. Life was so much more exciting in never never radio land with Ovaltine, Wheaties, The Singing Lady, and the Lux Radio Theater.

Then there was Saturday afternoon at the Roxy to catch the continuing serials: Tom Mix, the Lone Ranger and Tonto, Flash Gordon, etc.

Sundays I was sometimes deposited at the little movie house in the next door village when they were going out and just had to get me out from underfoot. Then I danced the afternoon with Fred and Ginger as we all flew “Down to Rio.”

All of this “KULTUR” may have been stultifying for a young child, but it made for some character framing personality that is hard to erase once imprinted on the psyche.

Still no specific childhood hero or heroes—unless you count the moment I discovered how I would like to be Randolph Scott.

© 26 March 2018

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Mothers Day, by Ray S

On Mothers Day
We lock all children far away,
It’s only fair for us to say,
So all those mothers can go out to play.

Do you know what is a limerick?
It must have four linking lines,
And they all have to rhyme,
So if you take the thymes, you have a limerick.

What is hot and certainly arousing?
Many a lass 
And boys with that kind of class
That’s what leads to intimate carousing. 

There is a cute fellow from Pawtuckit,
Who believes he can always luck it
’Til along came Ella, 
Who said “No,” to our fella 
Not without a raincoat and umbrella.

Until today we were limerick ignorant
To know what that is or why could it be signiforant?
So you find it’s a four line thing that rhymes on its ends
And is a county in Eire where they all talk different.

© 15 May 2017

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Sea Shells, by Ray S

While ending our vacation when our grandchildren were less than ten years old, we were shopping for souvenirs to bring home to them.

Our trip had taken us to the shores of the Gulf of Mexico and thus the gift-souvenirs shop sported all sorts of nautical toys and trinkets.

It wasn’t too difficult to decide on a Buccaneer’s eye patch mask with a kid-size plastic sword for our grandson; and he was delighted to be able to be a pirate swashbuckler like Capt. Hook. This was easy, but what could we find for our granddaughter? It ought to be something a little girl would enjoy and something to remind her that Grandma and Grandpa had been to the sea shore. We found the options very limited. No childrens book, no soft water taffy, no picture postcards of downtown Biloxi or the casinos at Gulfport.

Then the idea fairy led us to a display of all sorts of sea shells, most of them too large to put in a suitcase and certainly not something that might delight a ten-year-old girl once she might have hauled them over to show-and-tell.

Maybe we should get another pirate kit. Finally in desperation and guessing that beyond her knowing she had been remembered with a gift, we purchased a little basket all wrapped in cellophane with a pink ribbon bow—chuck full of little and varied—you guessed it—sea shells.

It wasn’t too long after we came home and distributed the gifts that the other grandmother in a fit of pique let us know in no uncertain terms that she was the babysitter who had to collect and throw away all of those hand-sought—you guessed it—sea shells.

© 12 March 2018

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Maps, by Ray S

I believe that along with counting all the fingers and toes and necessary plumbing each one of us is issued a map. This is a map that charts out the many roads we may or may not venture onto. There will be the inevitable dead ends, forks in the road leading to where? Most of we dreamers look for the legend marking the Yellow Brick Road, and occasionally it is found. Then there are a good number of us that don’t study our map or perhaps never open it. We just head for the dark woods and wander aimlessly through life gathering rosebuds where we may.

If there is a goal, it just happens as we trudge on through the expedient trail or path.

It can happen to a fortunate select group that broke the seal on their maps to plan their routes to health, wealth, and of course, happiness. We’ve all met one of those hims or hers.

All of the roads on your map will lead to great and small adventures, and ultimately end at the same destination.

© 25 March 2017

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Delusions, by Ray S

A good way to begin would be “when the curtain went up on the 1st Act of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.” Only there was no curtain. Just a dark stage that became visible revealing and focusing on the beautifully endowed—depending on how one looks at it—nude body of Brick the first half of Tennessee Williams’ couple in the play. The second half being the character Maggie who commands the whole 1st Act once the audience recovers from Brick taking a shower on stage. She too is beautiful to behold with or sans clothes.

This is not going to be a review of the performance, although it was very well done! But, I do want to point out for those of you who might not remember or have never seen or been familiar with the play that the premier revolves around the male character finally forcing and coming to terms with his probable homosexuality and that of his closest boy friend. All of this rebounding on to his wife Maggie and their dismal if not nonexistent sex life.

I am not telling how all of this is resolved. Read the book!

To add to my cultural stew, presently I am reading a book I should have read when I was a good deal younger and a good deal very ignorant. Chalk this up to a delayed adolescence, overwhelming naiveté, and not emotionally developed beyond the birds and bees lore.

Quote: “If I knew then what I know now.” Nevertheless, my literary friend D. H. Lawrence has succeeded in introducing me to Lady Chatterley at this late date, and so far there has been only one reference to homosexuality, and that was in minimal clinical capacity.

The author rewrote the book three times and was condemned for the explicit immorality, frank and descriptive adventures of the Lady and her man. So much for hetero sex.

Here is my problem: why didn’t Lawrence’s version of hetero sex even rear its beautiful head when I was misguidedly flirting with that genre?

At the cumulative age of this group of say 750 years, and knowing that sexual endeavors of many stripes have been pursued by the lot—not unlike the Will o’ the Wisp in some dark moment I wonder what the hetero road more travelled or travailed would have been like?

Rest assured like that Will o’ the Wisp it has proven unlikely, and as Mr. Webster writes it is just another “delusion,” a “false belief” and maybe persists psychotically.

Returning to reality, our road is the best road, so travel it happily and gaily.

Will-o-wisp

1 a light seen over the marshes at night, believed to be marsh gas burning

2 a delusive hope or goal

Delude

1 to mislead or deceive, (delusion, to mislead or deceive), a deluding or being deluded

2 a false belief, specifically one that persists psychotically

© 26 February 2018

 

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Setting Up House, by Ray S

I am reminded of an old saying by today’s topic: “A Home Is Where Your Heart Is.”

When I take stock of the stuff I’ve gathered over the years it seems like just so much acquired materialism. Then after closer reflection every bit of the “stuff” sparks a memory. A memory of a friend, a memory of a particular time of your life, time place, or something that says “Hello, you’re home again and this is your place to be.”

Yes, it’s just stuff, some even qualifies as junk, but no matter if it is an accumulation of a lifetime or not more than a few surviving photos, it is what makes a house a home—no matter where or whose house you finally land in. Hang on to some sort of stuff, even if it is only in your heart and mind.

© 12 September 2016

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Figures, by Ray S

It’s 6 AM, my eyes creep open, throw back the covers, swing my legs out of bed, checking to see if I can stand surely enough to hit the head.

Ah! I made it and as I addressed the American Standard porcelain I wondered what “Figures” of mine would be interesting to my woman- and man-kind enough to avail them with. I began to list some in my mind. To me the word Figures means the visual arts, Michael Angelo’s David, Winged Victory, the Statue of Liberty in NY Harbor, the acropolis, Mona Lisa, Rodin’s sculptures, something you can see, feel, or imagine.

What about numbers? Well, look how our fearless leader spurts out the “thousands, “millions” and “trillions” at the drop of a twitter, yet stumbles on into one of his own cowpies after another. That’s some American First figure.

Numbers, numbers everywhere, if I could only translate them in my mind into something meaningful. Having limited mathematical skills from a bout of childhood dyslexia, I could visualize the measurements of a yardstick, but talk miles or heights of mountains, depths of the oceans, and those figures escaped me. I was and still am proud that I mastered my 3rd grade times tables.

Today, figures like names of places and people escape me. Is it a sign of dementia or just plain forgetfulness? You know! I just can’t figure all of this out, so I’ll simply continue to count the petals on the daisy and not figure how many there are. Life’s too short, or too large; go figure.

© 5 June 2017

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Assumptions, by Ray S

Over some 90 decades my life has been one assumption after another, some good, but the majority not so. I recall another old adage, “Never assume; it can make an ass of you and me.” So be alerted. Assumptions can not only be habit forming but lead to some curious circumstances the result of our own making. Again, some good, some not so.

That day I stood on the Capitol steps looking west across Lincoln Street at the Gay Pride celebration in Civic Center Park. It marked the time and place that I committed, after years of stealthy hiding in my hetero-closet, that I joined the tribe. My assumption being that a place called the GLBTQ Center would have room for one more late-blooming queer Troll—a popular term for active geriatrics. That was a good assumption.

It felt so wonderful to be out to family and the three very close straight couples who responded happily for me with the classic rejoinder, “We always knew.” There’s another assumption—who me?

Naively, upon one impulsive search for an evening’s recreation I ventured into the local gentlemen’s athletic club—no, not the DAC or YMCA, but maybe with that song ringing in my ears, Y-M-C-A. This club sported both outdoor and indoor swimming pools and was noted for its hospitality and comradeship. There. ASSUME on that while I commence to relate what followed after I was buzzed in through their hallowed gates.

Many years had passed since my first impromptu visit to these premises, and you guessed it, I assumed nothing had changed but perhaps some twenty-five years on my shoulders. Well things did change that evening. The gate keeper “regretted” to inform me that under new management they had chosen to limit their clientele to what I would call (in the gay vernacular) “Twinks” (free lockers 18-20 aged, and no one that even neared the appearance of being over 32 years of age. It may have amounted to gross discrimination to any gay man even edging the neighborhood of geriatric maturity, no how much dignity and class and elegance a bit of seniority would have leant.

“Sorry, sir, why don’t you try the Uptown on Zuni Street.” Head unbowed I followed his suggestion, no assumption.

I offer this bit of history to those that assume we’re never too old to dream, or assume. As I stated at the beginning of this tale, life is just one big assumption after another until the coroner assumes for you.

I leave you with a very sage assumption by one poet laureate Robert Frost:

“Forgive me, O Lord, my little jokes on thee,
And I’ll forgive thy great big one on me.”


© 27 March 2017

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Fitness, by Ray S

To hear today’s Story Telling challenge word, “Fitness”, is the main reason I have come here today. That, and of course the opportunity to be with my friends, and as always to learn how they might deal with the weekly word-subject.
But first, I must acknowledge the previous week’s referral to the usage of the adjunct “ness,” by a highly revered member of this group. I wonder how the term “gayness” is so cliché and the other word encumbered with that addition. And then to find today’s subject standing proudly with its “ness” hanging out for everyone to address. However, did this come to pass?
Personally, after reading the current title, besides being quite uninspired (as is evidenced herewith) the best I can offer is—“I was fit to be tied.” Is that cheating? Or perhaps, it was neither fit for man or beast.” Note the absence of “ness.”
With due respect for my compatriots’ sincere efforts, I look forward to how you have fittingly risen to this occasion.
Meanwhile, I will obediently find a dark hiding place to fit my “ness’s.”
© 31 July 2017 
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