Tag: Ray S

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Movies, by Ray S

Last week, well for Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and finally Thursday nights I went to the movies. It was one of the longest horror stories I’ve ever witnessed. It all took place on my TV screen rather than the screen at the Mayan or Esquire Theatres.

What I watched made watching the horrors of Atlanta burning during “Gone with the Wind” or the horror of Marlon Brando chewing the scenery in “Apocalypse Now” seem comparable to Judy Garland’s rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” There was no comparison.

In other words the apotheosis of Emperor Trump at the Republican National Convention was scarier than hell and totally demoralizing. What was even more terrifying was to see and hear all of the great unwashed reaching orgasmic nirvana in the middle of Cleveland, Ohio, and with the world watching. “Have they no shame?”

To some it may be reassuring that our nation will be elevated to its rightful place in the world on January 20, 2017. No longer will the USA remain the weak, second-class rubbish heap of corrupt Democrat despots that have destroyed everything our country stood for. Quote: “Leave it to me, I’ll take care of everything MYSELF or maybe one of my very photogenic progeny;” even that lost lamb on Thursday who couldn’t seem to find a place to stand. A nice touch at the end through was when the child received a light nudge from our soon-to-be king. The royal family stood together along with Mr. and Mrs. Pence. Makes one wonder if the government will have to outdo Harry Truman and add a bedroom wing to the White House.

This may not be popcorn in theater # 2, or the main floor seating with your own recliner, but it promises to be one hell of a Movie.

Remember to paraphrase Margo Channing in “All About Eve”. “Fasten your seat belts; it’s going to be a bumpy ride tonight”!

© 23 July 2016

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Public Places, by Ray S

How very clever the person who suggested today’s topic
must think he or she must be. Even smug when he or she imagined how much
control he or she would have over all the Storytime minions. It is positively
evil, but still waters run deep and we will get you in the end.
Now, we have the opportunity to rise to the challenge.
Are you enjoying this imposed agony? Perhaps you have already determined the
muse I rely on is not trying nor inspired. May be the time of day, lack of
sleep or absent inspiration.
Perhaps ‘Public Places’ brings to mind somewhere that
you discovered true love, or the golden splendor of a South Dakota wheat field.
California Highway #1 and the first view of the Pacific Ocean, or the enfolding
serenity of Big Sur, or the majesty of Muir Woods.
Another discovery is the beauty and charm of the city
of Savannah with its 200-year-old array of parks that seemed interspersed every
other block.
Then you mustn’t overlook the public places resorted
to for various nefarious reasons, but we don’t put them in the same box with
Mt. Rushmore or the steps of our Capitol the day same sex marriage was
celebrated.
My muse has finally surfaced and brings our minds back
to the NOW: to kick start an important PUBLIC PLACE where all are welcome, and
the beautiful celebration last Friday of two of our most beautiful compatriots.
On a wonderful sunny morning on the rooftop of our Center was a validation of
the right place for all of us to be.
[NOTE: Two SAGE members were honored for their GLBT
work.]
© 6 June 2016 
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At the Snug, by Ray S

Dear Friends,
I come to you empty headed and
weary of heart. Truly I bless the imaginative amongst you that brought today’s
meeting to pass. Yea verily I say unto you, I am truly joyous to be “What e’er
thou art” or something to be within the embrace of my dear compatriots.
I hasten to explain about my joy
regarding the recent Feb. first and Feb eighth Telling Your Story subjects. I
found last week’s explanations of the quote attributed to Bobby Burns fascinating,
especially the scholarly interpretation of that foreign language. This was
enlightening and “Sad but True.”
So, what about today’s Irish Snug
venture? Will the change of environment bring forth new muses with beer on
their breaths?
I am afraid that I have imposed my
empty headed meanderings on all of you, probably to the point of, “Will he stop
whining and let us move on to some meaningful stories?”
Sorry, friends, but I wanted to be
here with you, even if I haven’t enlightened you with some grand inspiration.
“Sad but True” and better luck next week.
© 15 February, 2016 

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Slippery Sexualities by Ray S

This could be a chapter heading in a seventh grade sex education textbook. You can take it from there.

While wondering what on God’s green earth the author of today’s title had in mind, the thought transferred to what all of this group will conjure up! Do you recall the biology class that introduced you to a slide with a single amoeba slipping about in some medium creating a duplicate self—sort of like Narcissus if he could have had his way with his reflected image?

The single word slippery brings to mind all sorts of accidents wherever there is water or ice concerned; or perhaps the perpetrator who slips away with his/her criminal act, whether heinous or simply stupid. I suppose you could recall some sexual acts too, but I don’t want to open Pandora’s Box (no pun intended). I assume someone of this august literary meeting will have attempted to address “sexuality” with the birds and the bees, while others will have dived headfirst into the more prurient aspects of this title. I plan to pay rapt attention to your offerings and surely take notes for future application.

As I reach to the bottom of this page, I am aware that I can stop all of this pointless rambling and simply stop searching my imagination for something intelligent or just amusing about “Slippery Sexuality.”

Oh, an afterthought, picture a large vinyl sheet, eight to ten garmentless gay and merry celebrants, an ample supply of baby oil or chocolate sauce or whipped cream. Now that would fill the bill for today’s assignment. Have fun; don’t slip!

© 11 April 2016

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Security by Ray S

About today’s subject, did anyone else have the immediate mental flash of little Linus (I think) and his ever-present blanket?

Sometime in the past century my security blanket took the shape of a warm fuzzy Teddy Bear. And like Mary’s little lamb, Teddy was sure to go wherever I went.

One day I was watching my paternal grandfather working in the garden. He was hoeing the rows of beans and I was inspired to get my hands in the s oil too. Next thing you know I had excavated a nice little grave. I hasten to tell you I may have been reacting to the experience of having to attend a recent funeral of a distant relative of our family. (It’s never too soon to be exposed to grown up customs, mores, and folk traditions, or so our family thought.)

You guessed it. Teddy suffered a sudden demise and fit in the hole I had dug, snug as the proverbial bug in the rug.

After several days, maybe even a week, I missed the security and companionship of Teddy, which led to his exhumation. There he lay patiently waiting, soggy and his brown fur turned prematurely gray. But his eyes were still bright and shining and his smile was still happily stitched in place.

A few days on the clothes line in the sun and a god grooming with mother’s hairbrush, my security, not too much worse for wear, had returned from as they say, a fate worse than death.

So much for a child’s imagination, curiosity, and innocence; it was good to have Teddy’s love and security back again.

© 21 March 2016


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Memorial Day, by Ray S

It is hard to remember the real
reason for this national holiday, especially considering all the events that
have been tacked on to this Monday celebration. Originally a day of remembrance
of Americas’ war veterans and families, was simply called “Decoration Day.”
But, due to becoming a three-day
holiday by US Government decree, it soon became a day of numerous other
activities. No longer just an annual trip to the cemetery but a stop at the
shopping mall, used car lot, picnic and/or campgrounds, beach, and of course
sporting events, most importantly the Indianapolis 500.
So here we gather to celebrate
besides all of the above, also each other’s friendship and sharing so many
diverse stories. “The best of times is now.” And right now is the time to
remember all of our fallen comrades for their sacrifices in the name of
patriotic cause, whatever that may be and according to someone’s needs or
belief.
In light of that, probably each of
us can recall a friend, family member, or loved one lost in one of our
country’s causes or conflicts, whether self-inflicted or in self-defense.
The
question that keeps growing larger and more insistent in my mind is WHY MUST IT
BE?
Certainly our nation’s graveyards
record the names of our forefathers and foremothers. But why must the
cemeteries and memorials be filled with men and women sent to their graves by
war? It is an unanswerable question that humanity has pondered forever. The
seeming obvious solutions are, as we have seen, impracticable. What a waste in
the name of nationalism, religions, or some sociopath’s conquest of the masses’
minds.
These are the very many colors of
my Decoration Day: a time to remember and again as I have written, a time to
rejoice in one another. Submitted humbly and with love to all of you, I remain
sincerely ME.
© 30
May 2016 
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Strange Vibrations, by Ray S

Muse, where are you now? I couldn’t sleep last night when we
were in bed together because you refused to be still. Now you want to play hard
to get.
Quickly like the dawn of a new day my tardy Muse returns
upon our decision to go to the basement storage locker in search of some long
forgotten item that has suddenly become indispensable.
Muse distracted me from my mission by a strange change in
the atmosphere of the room. No, lights didn’t dim, floors and walls didn’t
creak, and there certainly were no vibrations. Nothing so spooky and corny,
just a compulsion to look into some old boxes filled with three generations of
family memorabilia, treasures and trash. Some best left to rest in dusty peace,
but the decision to dispatch some of it, as always it is, is more convenient to
ignore the stuff—out of sight out of mind.
A high school diploma, class of 1943—the prize from
surviving four traumatic years at four different high schools.
A 100-year-old, or so it seems, photo album with many faded
sepia photos labeled by my mother identifying people I never knew.
A picture of my father with some of his army buddies at
camp, pre-World War One. Looking closely, I could hardly recognize this pretty
young boy, but it was reassuring to have met this man in his early days.
Then a letter addressed to my mother from a dear friend
expressing her condolences when learning of my parents’ divorce. It was an
intrusion on my part to have read the letter to its conclusion, especially when
the friend indicated that the woman my father later married had been a mutual
acquaintance of all of the parties. Sometimes you learn more than you needed
to, but it did answer some questions and left more to remain unanswered—which
is just as well.
Reminiscent of this bit of drama, up from the depths of
another musty file of memories came the vibrations of the summer two weeks that
conveniently located me at YMCA camp, circa 1939. Oblivious of nothing more
important than trying to avoid getting knocked down with a mouth full of Lake
Michigan sand while playing King of the Hill, my parents took the opportunity
to drive up to camp for an unannounced visit whereupon they broke the news of
their decision to divorce. And this was the beginning of my new life as a kid
raised only by his mother and without the presence of a father to show him how
to be a man or something other than the pansy they were blessed with.
Hindsight being the disaster that it is, the vibrations of
all these many years have had their good vibes too. After Uncle Sam’s
contribution to my higher education, the ensuing attempt at a good middle class
married life with a wonderful wife and family, followed by my very own debutante
coming out part and joining the real GLBTQ world, the boxes can continue to
mustier or be more musty until little old Muse and I make another trip to the
strange and scary land of TMI [Too Much Information – ed.].
So much for the strange vibrations that result in too much
navel gazing and self-indulgence; it wasn’t fun while it lasted.
Fini.
© 23 May 2016 
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The Men in My Life, by Ray S

Where do I start? Don’t expect a laundry list of passionate trysts or deep meaningful relationships. Conquests? If there ever are any, much less worth sharing with you, I have acute memory loss. Must be the latent Puritan coming to the surface!

What a question to put before a gay man or a lesbian, the latter could more be interesting, the first could be redundant, to say the least. Of course, it is every man to his own.

Moving on to the more intellectual and cerebral evaluation of this subject one can’t overlook memories, fond or otherwise, of the cause of our being her today, namely our fathers and mothers (Whoa, I am back to biology again), male family members, the teacher or professor, perhaps a priest or rabbi, a man of a particular political persuasion, even Presidents Washington and Lincoln. I must confess that long, long ago I was smitten for a few years with Jolly Old St. Nicholas. Some of us had a thing for “older men.” Now that I’m in the same stage of my life, I’ve found that I lack the girth an temperament—and besides I don’t look good in red!

Alas, as time slips on I find I am still available and waiting for that special gay knight riding the white unicorn to come and swoop me up into his arms and carry me off to the land of cupid where we will live forever in a state of gay bliss.

Aside from all that foolishness, our subject has happily brought to my recollection the many wonderful men that have contributed to my well being, with their friendship and love. Last but surely not least the same goes for the beautiful lesbians I have been blessed to know.

© 28 March 2016

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Raindrops, by Ray S

Splat, splat, splat—

The sky is almost black, the wind is howling, and that is the sound of the rain drops hitting my window panes like raindrops morphed into water-born missiles. 
Splat, splat, splat—
And as I gaze out on the almost blank glass immersed in an angry sheet of water, a ghostly vision emerges from my deepest memories.
Splat, splat, splat—
A radiant bride dressed in a white lace wedding gown comes down the stairway to meet her father waiting to escort her to her betrothed. That day it rained too.
Splat, splat, splat—
The vision fades into an aspen grove golden in the September sun. There’s a rushing mountain creek, there is a gathering of family and friends. The ashes are silently scattered. That bride has found her way home.
Splat, splat, splat—
Another vision momentarily fades into view. The raindrops scream as they pound the windows’ glass. There is a bed now with only one grieving man restlessly tossing and turning. Aloneness is the only bed partner.
Splat, splat, splat—
The torrential tide begins to recede and in the faint new light a wonderful phantom moves out of the ether, and I can sense the warmth of strong arms embracing me. I am no longer alone; there is a new love next to me in OUR bed.
Splat, splat, splat has transformed into a symphony of raindrops.
© 4 April 2016

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Olden Times, by Ray S

Who makes this stuff up?

“With a Song in My Heart”

Being of aged mental capacity it is very difficult to recall any olden times, especially when, if I can recall the times, they not so worth dredging up.

But, the key word did ring a bell and sent me down memory lane to another time and place called “Tin Pan Alley.” You know the stereotype that claims many of us always love show tunes and some even know all of the words.
The key word is “olden” and with homage to one of my 20th century musical heroes, namely Mr. Cole Porter, I offer up this bit of rhyme:
“In Olden Days a glimpse of stocking

Was simply shocking, but heaven knows,
Anything Goes.

Good authors who once knew better words
Now only use four letter words writing prose,
Anything Goes.

If Mae West you like or me undressed you like
Why will nobody oppose—when every night
Anything Goes.”

Hope this has jostled your musical library enough to remember your own oldies but goodies,
For instance:

Remember Maurice Chevalier singing on the streets of Paris “Thank heaven for little boys.”

Or poor misguided Nelly Forbush singing “I’m in love with a wonderful guy.” When it really was a wonderful girl, and yes a wonderful guy, only he was singing about another he.

Last but not least I offer the old blues number “Love for Sale” which noted in fine print BOGO free.

Happy Olden Trails.
© 16 May 2016

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