Tag: Ray S

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True Colors, by Ray S.

Long ago in the days of
Tin Pan Alley—that was when popular music lovers were still buying sheet music
and the latest 78 RPM records. Our subject “True Colors” reminded me of a song
titled “The Night that You Told Me Those
Little White Lies.”
Here, today we have been
able to hear your thoughts (and/or maybe confessions) about True Colors.
Certainly there may be a
liberal (no pun intended) number of patriotic red, white, and blue references
as well as our tribe’s Rainbow flag palette.
Shame and guilt-ridden as
I am, my dominant thoughts promptly unearthed a lifetime of lots of little white
lies and a few under the heading shady black. So many that it is very difficult
to recall when and if any true colors of virtue stand out. I can’t recall when
I had occasion to show those True Colors. I don’t believe I am alone in this
category.
Think which were the true
colors when you were confirmed in a faith and didn’t really know what all of
that stuff was about, but maybe you were cleansed of everyone else’s sins, or
swore secret allegiance to some quasi lodge, fraternity, sorority, high school
clique. Mind you, I do not disrespect the various Orders’ goals; it is just the
way we obey. True Colors where are you when needed?
Of course true colors are
always subject to slight adjustments or reinterpretations as the times and
circumstances demand.
Did you have your fingers
crossed way down deep at your wedding? True colors prevailed with pride
(depending if it was unintended) and love upon the arrival of the baby girl or
boy. Color me pink or color me blue—lavender came later.
Final reason for the
showing of true colors, one of celebration and liberation, after a long
struggle finding our way out of the blackness of many closets, the Coming Out
we all rejoice in, with the True Colors of the beautiful rainbow.
© 29 February 2016 
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A Defining Word, by Ray S

Words are wondrous. They can say very much or they will tell
nothing. For instance:
Perhaps
Maybe
No or yes
Why, when and where
Radical and conservative
Gay and straight
Bi- and trans
Black and white
Under the heading of often used four-letter words:

Love
Lust
The “F word,” short for fornication,
sin or fun
The “S word,” short for natural
fertilizer
Did you ever wonder about the people locked up in windowless
padded cells that invent the pretentious words to the different brands of
automobiles? What is a lexus, elantra, exterra, ultima, infinity, passat,
tourage, cayenne, cayman, etc., etc.
What about all of those wonder drugs?

Cealis or Viagra
All the antacid remedies
Sleeping pills with names that are unpronounceable along with all their side effects
Call your doctor if it lasts longer than four hours or
doesn’t solve your distress in four hours.
I have fallen in love with that good looking everyone’s, man
or woman, hotel bedroom partner especially when the sponsor’s name flashes on
the TV screen.  No, it isn’t Viagra, but
something else like Chivgro??? Never mind, the sponsor’s name; just see if we
can get the number of that vitally mature handsome senior citizen.
This list could go on forever, but I’m afraid there is far
too much for me to define for you, so when you’re completely out of anything
better to do, you can take my place and define whatever you may choose to, and
“Happy trails” oops that has eleven letters. Better try “ciao,” (definition, good
bye.)
© 22
February 2016 
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What I Did for Love, by Ray S

As far back as memory reaches the euphemism “passed away” was a familiar phrase in polite society. As a little child I was expected to attend the services, another euphemism, of family and those who had passed on. At that age I just accepted the story my parents told me, and just understood I was included among the mourners as an act of respect and/or love. That kind of death and funerals were to say the least, remote in the perception of a six year old. It was a time of observation and learning, not a sense of loss.

Of course, with the passage of time the reality of what all of this meant to the adults and me as well, became evident. In retrospect I see it as preparation emotionally and intellectually for dealing with custom and the loss of a loved one. The loss of parents you loved and family members, too, have been peaceful or tragic, but the inevitable had to be accepted and one could only rely on the everlasting love that memories held.

Nothing seems to compare in what I did for love as the experience of having to decide that it was time to take our dying family cat to the vet for his final rites. I had never sat by anyone’s deathbed, but this was as close to it as I had been. I could guess you might feel this is quite trivial in light of the beginning of this story, but it is a different kind of personal tragedy; only to be followed by a second trip to the vet’s a couple of years later for the euthanasia of our good buddy and constant buddy and would-be guardian, Harvey the cat. This time my wife chose to remain in our car after saying goodbye to Harvey; she just couldn’t make the trip into the doctor’s office. As the saying goes, “You have to do what you have to do.” And that is what we did for love.

Denver, © 16 November 2015

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Depressed, by Ray S

Now, class, in order to understand better the many words that begin with the 4th and 5th letters of the alphabet please open your Depressed dictionaries to page number—oh no, you figure the page number with all of the clues I’ve already given you.

We need to start a list of the words that either begin with the 4th and 5th alphabet letters or sound almost like them and your interpretation:

Depressed—getting down low, or is it low down?
Digressed—not concentrating on your homework
Disappointed—oh well, better luck next time
Diverted—keep your mind on the ultimate climax
Demented—what happens when you have too much fun
Devoted—when you’re fortunate enough to find a loving partner
Demanding—watch out for those dominatrixes
Dormant—sorry, the wrong letters and a sign of my depressing condition
Distraught—at least I got the letter ‘D’ in there, and this word is more than enough to describe my depression
Depraved—well that is a matter of which way the pendulum swings when it comes to opinions and teachings of a lot of people about the Gay Way when in reality it is simply (though not always simple) another version of the Gods’ and Demigods’ way of varying the mix of the earth’s beautiful creatures. Also there is the constant reality of the depressing state of world and national affairs.

And then you could touch upon the despicable: like Donald Trump or guns in hands and who and what they kill, and of course, the Democrats and those elephant worshippers.

My, my, Class, you’ve done quite well with this exercise in DE words. For your next week’s lesson, I want each of you to choose one of the DE word subjects and prepare an essay to be read in class—no more than 965 words each.

Class is dismissed and perhaps Depressed.

© 7 December 2015

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Queer as a Three-Dollar Bill, by Ray S

Possibly
this has happened to you at some time. You go to the storage room in search of
some sort of old legal paper stored for safety because you couldn’t tell when
you might need it.
The
other day this became my mission. So I was buried in a collection of storage
boxes and file boxes searching for a copy of a paid mortgage.
Of
course, I became completely diverted by a box of old photographs: portraits and
snapshots. At the bottom of this box I found a thin blue book titled “Our Baby”
complete with faded pictures and notes.
Curiosity
got the best of me, so I settled down to read the writer’s detailed description
of the baby’s arrival, weight (7 lbs.), length (21”), etc, as well as the
mother’s pleasure about the food and rest she’d gotten in the hospital. Then
there was the list of gifts and their donors, and a ribbon-tied bundle of
letters and cards.
At
this point I decided the latter was too much a tackle and put it back into its
niche. At this point I saw a yellow envelope that had been hidden by those
cards and letters.
The
printed name on the envelope read “Western Union Telegraph” and was addressed
to Mr. J. W. Wulf, Cleveland, Ohio. It was a copy for the sender’s file. Of
course, I had to read the enclosed telegram.
The
message stated:
Ray
Wulf arrived 11:35 AM
Oct
19, 1926, Berwyn Hospital
Berwyn,
Illinois
Baby
and mother doing fine.
Signed
Homer E. Sylvester
It
was the everlasting three dollar bill, where or from whom it came from, but it
has lasted for 90 years.
© 14 March 2016 
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Where Do We Go from Here? by Ray S

Where Do We Go from Here? (or something like that)

“What are you thinking about?” my drinking partner Jack inquired. My mind wondered: this may be the last time we’ll get together here in the rosy glow of the pink neon—the trademark of the famous art deco watering hole. Everyone owes it to themselves to visit this Denver landmark in the equally landmark Oxford Hotel. The post-Prohibition décor is purported to be an architect’s interpretation of a cocktail lounge on the HMS Queen Mary. Enough background history.

“Well,” I replied, “you’re leaving for Phoenix and a new home and a new life.” I thought to myself, as long as he can keep the cancer at bay. I wanted Jack to be my friend from the first time we met, and he is that, but now he is slipping out of my life as effortlessly as he slipped in. Where do we go from here? With that, Jack excused himself to go to the Men’s.

Almost magically, Harry the bartender set down two new Martinis—each a one olive and Tanquary up. My thoughts moved from the loss of my friend Jack to the last part of my question, “Where do we go from here?” Jack knew and I realized, like the rest of my past life, I had not inkling. If I woke up in the morning, I only knew to make a pot of coffee—from there on it was up for grabs—once I finally gained consciousness. Unless someone had engaged me for some sort of business, it always was me on call or demand. That is the way I was, am, “housebroken or trained.” Seemingly never having to make an important decision on my own—someone or circumstances always did that for me. When my Day Timer was full each day I could just move from one hour to the next until the dance card was filled—no thought, just move on.

Lost in thought, I stared at that olive at the bottom of its sea of gin and willed it to come up and jump into the little bowl of munchies next to my glass. Better drink some so I can save that poor olive from a possible drowning.

The other day a friend was telling me about discussion with his son the subject of always looking ahead and having a goal, and then go for it. Easier said than done for me, especially when one’s parents hadn’t alluded to any such philosophy—let nature take its course, and I have stumbled on in the realm of being the reactor, always in the state of “ignorance is bliss,” but at this age and the advent of another year to what kind of bliss? Seek a goal seems much too late, besides I don’t think I would be able to recognize a goal, even if that olive made its trip.

Where do I go from here? It is like standing at forks on this road of NOW. The signposts are myriad.

The Yellow Brick Road—but I never got Over the Rainbow.

The Road Home—You Can’t Go Home Again.

The Primrose Path—not all it’s crocked up to be.

The Road to Shangri-La—no way, it’s too cold a trip.

The Road to Mandalay or to Loch Lehman—don’t like to travel abroad

There’s a Long, Long Road a ‘Winding—now there’s one I’ve been on, and haven’t come to its destination yet. Not certain when, but this I am sure of: it will end when you’re not planning for it. You see someone else will make that decision for you.

The hotel restrooms here are a long way too, but Jack made the return safe and sound. “Did you notice the original antique features? Part of the ‘charm’ of this old place?” Those urinals were built for some by-gone giants. You had to be careful; you were a goner if you fell in!

While my friend began a detailed description of what he had learned about the old place, my mind wandered to my recent escape from my self-imposed closet. Finally, a decision I made of my own volition. Ironically, along with the joy of liberation, discovering a loving community, finding and acknowledging the real me, the monkey on my back, self loathing, is still with me.

The Gay Road was a good choice, now which road leads to this self love/hate resolution?

“Hey, snap out of it, you’re missing my Cook’s tour of this place, and put that olive back in the glass.”

© 4 January 2016

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Alice’s Adventure in Purple Passionland, by Ray S

The question had been looming in my frustrated mind for at least forty-five minutes. Where the hell am I, and what can I do? In my haste to leave for this dinner date I neglected to confirm the specifics like apartment number. When I had confirmed that I was at the right building, I was unable to find their names on the directory much less their apartment number. This occurred after mindless wandering between a couple of other similar high-rise buildings. In case you wonder why I failed simply to use my cell phone to let them come rescue me from the street people, I couldn’t remember their number. Would the papers announce: “Little old man found comatose under a loading dock; Doctors suspect senior molestation.”

At that moment I looked up to see two men approaching. Who else but Marty and Bob, one of my hosts and the other dinner guest whom I hadn’t seen for at least a year. I dropped my bag and almost floored them as I threw my arms around them and kissed my saviors. “We thought you had forgotten about tonight,” was all they could say in disbelief, probably thinking, “He really must be slipping.”

As dinner was about ready friend Bob produced a small box of hors d’oeuvres and invited all to sample freshly made brownies. They were made by him and Betty Crocker with the addition of Bob’s own prepared formula of something with the unfamiliar name “Lower List” and “Purple Mist.”

Then Marty’s husband Tucker inquired, “Haven’t you ever smoked pot?” He was incredulously amazed that it was possible that pot wasn’t a part of everyone’s life.

Bob allowed as how just a crumb of the “edible” would be okay. “Go ahead; take this chocolately bit. It won’t hurt.” I later learned that all three of the boys were tripping along nicely. I am reminded of Alice and the bottle with the inscription: DRINK ME.

Sometime between the soup and salad courses I began to wonder at Marty’s mastering the kitchen activities, but the plated dinners made it to the table perfectly. About part way into the salad course and then to entrée, I became aware of a soft haze dropping down over the dinner guests. Having my trained eye for color I can describe for you that it was soft and transparent and in shadings of lavender edged in the finest corona of deep purple no more than a thirty-second of an inch wide. I had been told that that little crumb MIGHT start to react but not to worry.

Dessert was a luscious apple strudel a la mode. I looked down at it on its dessert plate, and it looked up at me as if to say: TRY ME, you’ll like it.” I’d heard that before.

I was enveloped in that Purple Mist when I heard the other three discussing:

What can we do with his car?

It’s parked on the street.

Well, he certainly can’t drive it.

They decided to see if I was able to walk. So Tucker decided to see if I could walk twenty feet. Success! So I could accompany Bob to show him if I could find my car, and then he would drive it into the garage. Then what are we going to do with him besides an anti-climax of strong coffee—as if it made any difference.

What fun I was having wallowing in all of this attention. Yes it was another time and place.

Dear Bob had done wonderfully guiding the old sedan to the garage, after which he took leave of our jolly band. For the next three hours some sort of trigger activated my talking machine. Marty and Tucker kept an eye on their errant guest by sitting up and encouraging other-worldly philosophies on how love prevails.

About 3:30 AM Marty pointed me to the guest bedroom with the firm suggestion I fall into the bed. Tucker said “Good night or morning.” and the two of them offed to their own bed, with the assurance I’d be wakened for breakfast.

After some coffee and fruit I found a good degree of sobriety and lots of sleepiness. No more ethereal lavender-purple mist. As I set about the trip back home, I reviewed this most recent TRIP and what gratitude I had for my two Fairy God Fathers.

Pulling out of the garage, I stopped at the gate and looked up to their balcony and there the two of them were waiving their magic wands in a farewell gesture with one hand while holding onto their diamond tiaras with the other.

“Adieu, my two Fairy queens, with love and appreciation for the finer joie d’vie.”

Alice

Denver, © 7 March 2016

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What I Did on My Vacation from Story Time, by Ray S

Some time ago I met this
lovely Brit on the Waterloo Bridge in London. She had transported me there
through the medium of Story Time at the GLBTQ Center. That is when I fell in
love with her and also her equally lovely partner.
Since then we have
enjoyed a warm friendship. You can imagine what a pleasant surprise it was when
I answered her phone call. Her message told of the distressing news that due to
the impending blizzard and snowstorm, we wouldn’t be able to meet for Story Time
that day.
Thus all of the storytellers were left to their own devices. That opened a can of worms for so many
worms. I’d guess it was very dangerous for some. For me, I was reduced to doing
the laundry.
But what a chance to break
the routine and not do a darn thing—except all of the stuff in the
procrastination file.
Low and behold the snow
didn’t quite live up to the weather man’s expectation—nothing new there—and I
didn’t have to get dressed or undressed for bed. I never got out of my robe all
day. What luxury. All of that and a good book that saved me from another
edition of the Antiques Road Show.
© February 2016 
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Three Dollar Bill, by Ray S

Possibly
this has happened to you at some time. You go to the storage room in search of
some sort of old legal paper stored for safety because you couldn’t tell when
you might need it.
The
other day this became my mission. So I was buried in a collection of storage
boxes and file boxes searching for a copy of a paid mortgage.
Of
course, I became completely diverted by a box of old photographs: portraits and
snapshots. At the bottom of this box I found a thin blue book titled “Our Baby”
complete with faded pictures and notes.
Curiosity
got the best of me, so I settled down to read the writer’s detailed description
of the baby’s arrival, weight (7 lbs.), length (21”), etc, as well as the
mother’s pleasure about the food and rest she’d gotten in the hospital. Then
there was the list of gifts and their donors, and a ribbon-tied bundle of
letters and cards.
At
this point I decided the latter was too much a tackle and put it back into its
niche. At this point I saw a yellow envelope that had been hidden by those
cards and letters.
The
printed name on the envelope read “Western Union Telegraph” and was addressed
to Mr. J. W. Wulf, Cleveland, Ohio. It was a copy for the sender’s file. Of
course, I had to read the enclosed telegram.
The
message stated:
Ray
Wulf arrived 11:35 AM
Oct
19, 1926, Berwyn Hospital
Berwyn,
Illinois
Baby
and mother doing fine.
Signed
Homer E. Sylvester
It
was the everlasting three dollar bill, where or from whom it came from, but it
has lasted for 90 years.
© 14 March 2016 
About
the Author 

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Believe, by Ray S

Dear Friends,

I come to this meeting in hopes to gain some insight into what you have to write about this subject. For me “seeing is believing” is irrefutable.

But, then when we are so often confronted with America’s bumper sticker mentality “BELIEVE,” dare we ask in what? There are the declarations of the drivers’ school, fraternity, fish sign or amphibious fish, sexual persuasion, political beliefs, etc., etc.

Now this is where BELIEVE becomes nebulous, it’s every man or woman to his/her best. Watch out as this can sometimes be disastrous, and sometimes mind enlightening—depends on which side of the bed you got up on and sometimes with whom.

I expect to hear some inspiring and personally emotional beliefs. Thinking about how much of a private belief one owns can often be so much so that it is never shared or open for inspection.

The beliefs worn on the sleeves are far too often imposed on us by the “true believers.” They are the ones who are enlightened and always available for an opinion or argument—that is one of the negatives that arise more times than you would wish for. On the positive e side as is evidenced here we or most of us do have some self-evident beliefs that we share when the appropriate time shows up. These are the spiritual beliefs, not the ones you see, except in the responses by your friend or neighbor to your actions. This action has many names, but can be consolidated with the word LOVE. 

Denver, © 2016