Tag: Ray S

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Dancing with the Stars, by Ray S

Thursday morning, God or the Gods in the heavens had their priorities set for the occasion and the sun shone mightily.  
The “house” was packed, it was SRO. The devout, the devoted, those titillated by remembered “tittle-tattle”, all gathered for the celebration of a good friend who had found another path to follow, an everlasting journey, more than likely in a bright red Mercedes with a WARHOL license plate.
The paraphrase of an old Tin Pan Alley tune, “the hip hooray, the ballyhoo, that’s the lullaby of Broadway.”
It was solemn godly, holy, prayerful, and joyous at St. Andrews house this day.
For those of the uninitiated, the opening production was splendid theatre; for the true believers, it was as it should be: elegantly proper and appropriate. It was like an opening night and a closing night combined, and the star was taking his curtain calls.
Memory time recalled a fascinating career in so many public endeavors, the many people and places of a life well lived. A loving family and, of course, the names (and sometimes even the addresses) of scores of friends and their circumstances.
The remembrances offered by friends at Telling Your Story were so very heartfelt. To me, none could have been more poignant than Orville’s “Amen.”
The pomp and circumstance concluded. The mourners are left with their thoughts and grief, or loving joy. On this latter note, I know that there now is a shining new star “Dancing with the Stars.” The houselights have dimmed, the curtain has fallen, this show is over, but his star sparkles brilliantly in the firmament forever.
Goodbye, dear friend.
(Author’s note: Irreverent as I may appear, no disrespect of the Church and its traditions and dogma are meant. It’s just that I knew Randy Wren as a happy, wonderful showman and sensed his love affair with the theatre. Amen.)
© 24 Jul 2017 
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Evil, by Ray S

At the table and waiting for our lunches to arrive, my partner asked, “What is the subject for next week’s Telling Your Story? Seems he is always curious about what literary creations result from those Monday afternoons in the “upper room” at the LGBTQ Center.
“It’s EVIL.”
“Okay, but what is it—the subject’s title I mean?”
“Evil is the subject’s title,” was my response, and I’m not sure what to write about it. I’m guessing there will be moralizing and maybe some Judeo-Christian “prophesizing.” Perhaps some references to how well we as humankind have succeeded in messing each other up and the world in general as well. It is hard to know where to begin, so what else is new?
Our food arrived and we began to eat. After his first bite—he had been quiet up to this point—I guessed deep in thought—he looked me in the eye from across the table and said, “Good and Evil are arbitrary.” It is a matter of one’s judgment. End of the discussion.
With this in mind, what had been a daunting subject was reduced to a minimalist one word. EVIL. One can’t discount it, but as my friend said, it is arbitrary. So, “go figure”!
Webster’s dictionary:  Evil; adj. (OE, yfel) 1. Morally bad or wrong; wicked, 2. Harmful; injurious, 3. Unlucky; disastrous. Noun-wickedness; sin 2. Anything that causes harm, pain, etc. Adverb-evilly.
© 20 Jul 2017 
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Shades of Winter, by Ray S


During the past thirty years archaeologists have reconstructed important areas of the city of Ephesus in what was Asia Minor, now western Turkey. Although ranked a secondary discovery by comparison to the major art work, the so called Winter Shades have an importantly obscure presence to a small group of art historians. These scholars are referred to by their academic name of Winterous Shaditis.
This small group of long-buried paintings and mosaics are remarkable due to their very limited palette of neutral to very dark colors. There is little evidence of any warm hues. Theory has it that it is the celebration of the pagan Autumnal Equinox. A very cool time of the year.
Beside the almost colorless landscapes there is pictured a series of erotic celebrants surrounding a large fire pit—only instead of red hot flames there appears an ethereal cloud against a pale blue sky. The flesh tones of the nude women and men stand out against the soft gray and blue shades. Thus, the name Shadites.
Since this discovery, the temple of Winter Shades has become a very popular tourist attraction, to rival the other majestic remains of the city Ephesus, especially at the Autumnal Equinox when hotels and other accommodations are fully booked by new celebrants of the “Winter Shades of the Goddess Artemis”. There are many smoking pots now and luxurious warming rooms segregated for all persuasions. The holiday lasts for about ten days and then the ethereal clouds subside and collapse from exhaustion.
Make your reservations at least a year ahead for the Shadite lecture series to be followed by the circle celebration.
Temple of Artemis, Ephesus, 6th Century BCE
This concludes my Winter Shades lecture; but review your notes and do further research as there will be an exam next week.
Anyone interested in a practice circle may attend rehearsal on next Saturday at the university gym, 8 to 12 pm. Clothing not optional.
© 13 March 2017 


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I Still Get a Thrill, by Ray S


As usual my mind drew a blank when the idea of a thrill was confronted.

It occurs to me that the word thrill, like many other descriptive terms, is a matter of relativity. I suppose it depends on how easily one is excited and that of course depends on one’s frame of mind at a given time.

How thrilling was a sunset? How thrilling was last night’s romance? Or how did that hot shower feel this morning? How much of a satisfying semi-thrill was it to find you hadn’t run out of dry cereal or toothpaste and hadn’t forgotten to feed the canary?

I would have preferred to “thrill” this assemblage with some sensational revelation about whatever would prove thrilling to you—this if you were even the least bit interested, much less thrilled.

But in retrospect I do need to acknowledge to you that I am just a wee bit thrilled to be here with all of you today and have you share my pretty un-thrilling trivia.

P.S. just remembered how thrilled I was with the chocolate cup cakes I made and how they tasted. It is another semi-thrill, give or take.

© 25 September 2017

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My First GLBT Acquaintance, Ray S

In my Book of Standards, little boys were supposed to
have sports heroes, like baseball, football, Jack Armstrong, and the guys that
had their pictures on the Wheaties box.
No, not me. My heroes and role models were male movie
stars. At the time in my adolescent years I wasn’t aware that these crushes
were the signs of my beginning acquaintance with what became of my life’s
journey on the road to homosexuality. Little did I know, nor did I question,
why I found these men appealing and attractive, but these acquaintances lived
quietly in my pre-teen subconscious.
There was Franchot Tone, Clark Gable’s second mate on
Charles Laughton’s “Bounty.” Never did care for Tom Mix or Gene Autry, but give
me Randolph Scott anytime. Then there was a guy named Lou McAlister—“the boy
next door.” By this time I was beginning to wonder: did he like boys too?
All this time it was my imagination creating these
illusions that did not register as latent gayness. That developed shortly
thereafter, upon the arrival of slow but sure puberty.
“First Acquaintance.” Looking back so many years, it
is hard to remember which “first.” This is like so many other impertinent
questions posed to a newly “out” GLBT person—and you want to reply with “None
of your damned business” or proceed to bore the questioner with your life
story. TMI.
Let’s see, does First Acquaintance mean actual
physical contact or maybe talking about IT with a like-minded shy and timid boy?
All that fooling around with your cousin of the neighbor boy when you were 6 or
7 years old doesn’t count. It wasn’t’ a heart to heart talk with the priest or
some other spiritual counselor. In fact, the first instance may have been your
“first” but I avoided clergy at all costs, and the same can be said for Boy
Scout leaders.
There was a chance encounter at a movie house in
Richmond, VA. I was stationed there during the war, after I had finished basic
training. A teenaged U. S. Navy boy sat next to me in the darkened theatre and
I noticed somehow our knees began to become acquainted.
As I stated before the rest is none of your damned
business!
© 17 July 2017 
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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 America 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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Mothers Day Take Five, 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 Pawtucket,
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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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.

© 27 March 2017

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I Still Get a Thrill, by Ray S

As usual my mind drew a blank when the idea of a thrill was confronted.

It occurs to me that the word thrill, like many other descriptive terms, is a matter of relativity. I suppose it depends on how easily one is excited and that of course depends on one’s frame of mind at a given time.

How thrilling was a sunset? How thrilling was last night’s romance? Or how did that hot shower feel this morning? How much of a satisfying semi-thrill was it to find you hadn’t run out of dry cereal or toothpaste and hadn’t forgotten to feed the canary?

I would have preferred to “thrill” this assemblage with some sensational revelation about whatever would prove thrilling to you—this if you were even the least bit interested, much less thrilled.

But in retrospect I do need to acknowledge to you that I am just a wee bit thrilled to be here with all of you today and have you share my pretty un-thrilling trivia.

P.S. just remembered how thrilled I was with the chocolate cup cakes I made and how they tasted. It is another semi-thrill, give or take.

© 25 September 2017

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Anxious Moments, by Ray S

Will I be the first of us to say, “My whole life has been one blinking anxious moment for as long as I can remember”?

Instead of my 2nd birthday party, it was the awakening to someone standing over my baby bed or crib and gently, I imagine, fondling the unknowing occupant. Some moment, and I too young to be anxious. The matter of anxiety about this moment didn’t materialize for some fifteen years later.

Meantime some other more routine moments developed and were overcome, such as fainting while the children’s choir I was a member of angelically sang the “Hallelujah Chorus” for some high holiday at an Episcopal Church that my 8th grade music teacher had recruited me for. Needless to say, I resigned choir and since our family didn’t frequent Sunday services, the Episcopalians lost a dubious potential convert. But I’m sure I looked cute in that choir uniform.

Many anxious moments transpired due to becoming a high school freshman and adjusting to the surprise divorce of my parents. So much for the nuclear family.

Age 17 and the Army and my discovery of boys and men instead of the fairer sex. College days, I was too unconscious to worry about studies, I just did what I was told to do and managed a mortar board and piece of sheepskin. But, the really anxious moments came when I was desperate to be accepted by a Greek club I needed, needed, needed. And then found out myself over my head when my then lady friend announced it was time for some sort of commitment about our, or her, intentions.

You’ve heard this one before, but this was my very own “A” moment, March 31st 1951, our wedding day and all I recall is my stomach kept telling me, “Do you really think you want to do this?”

For the following years there were many more anxious times: finding a career, raising two wonderful kids, trying to make love, trying to keep the closet door closed, etc., etc., etc.

Now, the family’s grown and gone, my good and I think suspecting wife passed on, and my awakening to how very many of my new gay friends shared similar stories. Were all of our anxious moments so bad or good? Who says you can’t have your cake and eat it too?

© 12 June 2017

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