Will Stanton – Page 11 – Sage Telling Your Story

February 4, 2014February 26, 2019

Getting Caught by Will Stanton

Have you ever been caught…caught looking? I have, and a lot of my friends have, too. Sometimes, we just can not resist looking. What is it that makes one human face more
attractive than another? What is it that
makes someone’s appearance so astonishingly beautiful that it even can take
your breath away? Believe it or not,
studies have been conducted on this question and some answers found.

Regardless of race, it has been discovered that there are
common factors among all that help to determine beauty. Even babies were tested to observe their
responses to a large variety of faces and which ones they were most attracted
to. All of the preferred faces had
features in common. Of course, as we
grow older, we develop various preferences based upon our own ages,
circumstances, psychological needs, and experiences. Our preferences often vary from the ideal
elements of human beauty.

Some of the elements of idealized beauty are obvious, such
as youth, good health, fine skin, and luxurious hair. Then there are finer points, such as the arch
of eyebrows implying openness and friendliness, the wide spacing of eyes and
their bright clarity, and the youthful blush of cheeks and lips, attributes
that contributed to the origins of lipstick and rouge for the aging to imitate
youthfulness. Another facial factor is
symmetry of features, that is, each side of a person’s face being identical in
a mirror-image manner. This gift is more
rare than one might think. Sometimes for
fun, pictures of people have been split down the middle, a right-side matched
with a right-side mirror-image, or a left-side matched with a left-side mirror-image. The results can be surprising. They may look like two different people. I have noticed with one highly successful news
anchor than his face is remarkably asymmetrical. One eyebrow slants somewhat
down, the other dramatically down; his nose is not centered and curves to his
left, his jaw sits slightly askew, and his mouth is not exactly horizontal. As a person, he is attractive, but I would
not call his physical appearance ideally beautiful.

Along with an attractive face, being physically fit and having
a well proportioned body certainly help.
Just look at the advertising posters outside Charlie’s. These physical gifts have been noted for
centuries. All those Baroque painters, along
with those Greek and Neoclassical sculptors, can’t be wrong. Of course, non-physical factors can influence
our perception of how attractive a person is, such as brightness of spirit, charisma, intelligence,
and personality.

What nature intended by attracting one human being to
another may have to do with assuring reproduction and the continuation of the
species; however, that factor may not account totally for same-sex attractions
nor beauty so intense that it creates an adrenaline rush and butterflies in
your stomach. That experience can, at
times, prove to be embarrassing, especially for shy gays encountering good
looking guys. There always is the risk of
being caught when engaging in surreptitious, prolonged glances. Sometimes, we may be caught off-guard by a
sudden appearance of someone, and our startled responses may alert him to our
reaction. You run the risk of being
caught. A glazed look, panting, and
drooling are dead give-aways, too.

I’ve mentioned before a college friend whose roommate was
drop-dead gorgeous, and his big, blue eyes could melt any heart. Supposedly, the young student was not aware
of his impact upon other guys until gay roomy explained it to him. From then on, this freshman had his radar
turned on, and he soon detected every time that a gay guy was looking at
him. He became quite adept at catching
them, and he enjoyed seeing their blushing embarrassment when he suddenly
turned toward them and looked into their eyes with those blue eyes of his.

Another gay friend was standing outside the gym when he
noticed, some distance away and coming down the sidewalk, a jogger in gym shoes,
little blue shorts, and nothing else but his wonderful self. He was described to me as being like a young
Greek god with remarkably beautiful facial features, well defined chest, a
half-ounce of excess weight on his sculpted stomach, and skin like honey. Some description! Happening to have his camera with him, my
friend aimed his camera from some distance away and took a picture. At that distance, he was sure that he was not
noticed, safe that is until the jogger came near, at which time he said, “Thank
you.” The jogger immediately caught what
my friend was doing. At least the jogger
appeared to accept and to appreciate the admiration directed at him. I certainly admired him, once I saw the
photo. Of course, he was only mortal,
and he may look like us now. Too bad.

Getting caught can be rather dramatic when the encounter is
sudden. On our campus, there was a very
long flight of concrete steps leading up a hill. Impatient students would dash up those steps,
keeping their eyes trained on the steps rather than looking ahead. Another friend of mine, Jim, nearly collided
with one of these young Greek gods coming down the steps. When Jim suddenly looked up and came
face-to-face with this vision of loveliness, he exclaimed, “Shit!” The startled student responded at first with
surprise but quickly gave Jim an understanding grin.

For those who are familiar with the remarkable film “Death
in Venice“ and
the character of “Tadziu,” who was the object of von Aschenbach’s fascination,
we also had a “Tadziu” on campus, albeit a few years older; and his name was
Peter, not Wladislav Mose. Peter was so
astonishingly beautiful that even the homophobes stared at him, and that is no
exaggeration; they did. Some gays on
campus were beaten up, but Peter never was.
Straight guys seemed to be far too fascinated with Peter to ever
consider harming him. On the contrary,
Peter once shared expenses with two straight guys in a van going to Florida for spring
break. When Peter came flouncing down the
front steps to the van, and his house-mate called out, “Have a good time, and don’t
get any nice boys into trouble!,” their jaws dropped. Apparently, the two guys overcame their
initial surprise, for by the time they pulled over in a rest stop for the
night, Peter ended up being, as he described it, “the meat in the sandwich.” From what Peter told me, I don’t think that he
minded traveling with straight guys.

Peter also was an unabashed flirt. He always knew when people were staring at
him; it was obvious. He caught them all,
but he did not leave it at that. He
deliberately would embarrass the observers by sensuously sideling up
uncomfortably close to them, pretending to be doing something else, but
obviously teasing the viewers. He
occasionally would smile at them and not leave until the observers, now
beet-red, were thoroughly upset with themselves for not being really macho,
that is, not having had the strength and presence of mind to ignore Peter’s flirtations.

Like Tadzio, Peter had long, golden hair. Between that and his good looks, some of his
friends thought it would be a fun idea for Peter to go in drag to a big party
full of straight people to see how they would respond. At first, he resisted, but eventually he
agreed to do it. As it turned out, his
appearance was so stunning that a lot of the guys abandoned their dates, went
over to Peter, and were trying to chat him up.
Their dates were furious. Peter
was so convincing that he never was caught.
He may have been, by nature, flamboyant, but he did not care for
drag. He never did that again.

Of course, there are some people who have so much
experience, so much self-esteem, and maybe so much money, that they seem
invulnerable to embarrassment. Instead,
they see what they like, and they go get it.
This happened with Peter in Florida
at least once. The first morning that
Peter was in Fort Lauderdale,
he deliberately took a graceful stroll along the beach, wearing a flowing
caftan, and with the sunshine glowing in his golden hair. He was fishing, and he immediately caught a
big one. And, that is how Peter had room
and board for his entire stay in Florida. The host’s name, however, is too famous and
prominent for me to mention it in writing.

I guess that whether a person is embarrassed or not depends
a lot upon his own nature, his upbringing, perhaps his religious or social
background. For gay guys who were taught
that being gay is a terrible and unforgivable sin, or for gays who still are in
the closet, getting caught can be emotionally devastating.

There is a scene in “Death in Venice” when Gustav von Aschenbach enters a
hotel elevator; but just before it ascends, he suddenly is joined by an
exuberant group of youths including Tadzio.
Von Aschenbach vainly attempts to maintain his artificial image of
disinterest; however, his eyes betray him.
The lads pick up on it; they sense it, he is caught. To his consternation, they begin giggling and
whispering among themselves. As the
elevator door opens, von Aschenbach flees toward his room, thoroughly
mortified. His emotions are so
overwhelming that he hurriedly packs up and heads for the train station to
leave Venice. Of course, he is obsessed with Tadziu. When delayed at the train station, he jumps
at the first excuse to turn around and come back. Apparently, he subconsciously concludes that
repeating the opportunity to see the object of his fascination is worth being
caught.

I suppose that some habitual observers eventually may have
become insensitive to embarrassment themselves and choose brazenly to gaze
unabashedly as long as they wish. They
should, however, be courteous and not make the objects of their admiration uncomfortable
by endless, rude staring. My late
partner once said that he could not wait until he became old because he had endured
so many years of people staring at him.
I never have had that problem.

© 3 February 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.

January 23, 2014February 26, 2019

The Party by Will Stanton

The Party, Part 1 of 2

My 16th birthday.
No mention.
No gifts.
No guests.
No party.
No recognition.

No love.

The Party, Part 2

Later, a different time, a different place.
My partner arranged a party.
A celebration in our home.
A dozen friends attending.
Birthday cards, some affectionate, some humorous.
All dressed up, dinner for all at a French restaurant.

Camaraderie, friendship, and happiness.
A gift presented.

And the greatest gift of all, love.

About the Author

January 10, 2014February 26, 2019

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.

About the Author

December 30, 2013February 26, 2019

Details by Will Stanton

There is an old saying “It’s all in the details.” That is, it is good to have grand designs in mind, but one cannot neglect the details if you want to succeed with your plans. Neglecting the details can come back to bite you.

A few years ago, Lockheed Martin spent millions on an aerospace project. It was launched but failed. In reviewing the plans, they discovered that there was a misplaced decimal point.

In the 1980s, the NASA space shuttle Challenger blew up, killing all the crew. Apparently, the engineers ignored the fact that the outside temperature was lower than in usual launches, and the O-rings failed, leaking fuel out of the booster rocket.

Anyone who is familiar with the Titanic disaster knows that the engineers overlooked the fact that extremely cold water weakens metal, an especially critical point considering the primitive production methods of the time. Also, they did not stop to think using cheaper iron rivets instead of steel was of particular concern. The Titanic’s hull was not punctured. Instead, scraping along the iceberg popped open the rivets, letting the icy waters rush in.

During the heyday of steam locomotives, the crews always scrubbed down the drive rods every time that they stopped for refueling and maintenance, Cleaning the drive rods was not meant to make them pretty. The crews regularly looked for possible cracks. If a drive rod broke, that would derail the loco and possibly kill the engineer and fireman. This procedure still is done today with tourist trains like Union Pacific’s big Number 844.

In the late 1940s, the crew on a huge C&O Alleghany locomotive outside Hinton, West Virginia, apparently did not pay attention to details. The fireman did not concern himself very much that the water level had run low. The crown sheet overheated and ruptured, instantaneously turning the remaining water into steam. The huge explosion obliterated the most powerful steam locomotive ever built, blowing to pieces the crew, and scattering torn steel shards hundreds of yards away. The tower man in the signal tower next to the track was unhurt but probably had to change his pants.

I’ve never been much of a detail man. My mind is tuned to view the big picture, to dream of the grand design. Details are such a bother, especially if I am not particularly interested in what I should be doing as opposed to what I want to do. I spend far more attention to details when I am dealing with my hobbies and interests such as my music-video productions or my Story-Time presentations. Then I look carefully at the details. But, when it has come to taking care of my self, looking into the future, and planning for financial security, personal care, retirement, and so on, I seem to have been too bored with those concerns and, consequently, ignored the details.

So, here I am, late in life, discovering that there is a crack in my drive rod, and I have let the water run low in my boiler. I’m just hoping that the rest of my life is not derailed.

About the Author

November 26, 2013February 26, 2019

A Letter to My Younger Self by Will Stanton

I have pondered this, on and off, for a long time. If I miraculously could go back in time, start over, but know what I know now, would it be so different? Of course, such speculation is a moot point, for I doubt that there is much chance of my having that opportunity. But, the main question is, “How much difference to my life would knowing more make, versus how dominant would my innate nature be? Which would hold sway?”

If I sequestered myself from the intruding world, thought long and hard, and wrote a series of letters to myself at various early ages, letters containing every scrap of learned wisdom from my years of experience, would that information prompt me to make significantly different decisions and choices in my childhood? Would I more fully comprehend much earlier how challenging the real word is and how well one must be prepared to live successfully in it?

Would I have chosen a totally different course for my life, picked early-on a future profession, studied much harder? Would I have realized how essential it is to master good people-skills so that I could understand and relate better to my family, my friends, school-mates, teachers, and my work-colleagues?

In addition, would I have realized that childhood is a brief period when one truly can be a child, to play, to have fun? It seems in retrospect that I was expected to be the “young gentleman,” to behave, not to explore or experiment too much. I sometimes feel, as apparently a few friends of mine feel, that somehow I missed that period of being a child.

Then, there is my own nature. How much of that was in-born, and how much of that was learned from early childhood? I seem to have been hesitant, lacking spontaneity. I was not blindly self-confident, a risk-taker. I was more of the observer than the doer. I thought extensively about what I observed, wondering, reconsidering.

I was a bit of a dreamer, too. I think part of that came from my sense of incompleteness with my family. I began to dream of being someone else, being somewhere else, being part of a truly supportive and loving family. Despite my having had many varied and pleasant opportunities not always available to others, they were of relatively lesser importance. I do not recall ever having had truly practical guidance or advice from anyone, not from my parents, not from teachers or school counselors, not from caring mentors during my adult life. Many highly successful people have stated that an essential contributing factor in their success was having had a mentor who could help teach them and show the way to success. I never had that.

For some time now, I have sensed that what was lacking in my life has weighed heavily upon me. It has been like heavy baggage, dragged throughout my life and misdirecting my energies away from pursuing practical goals that could have enhanced my life.

Perhaps, in theory, if I could provide informative letters to myself that I could read at various points in my early life, I could, in a sense, be my own mentor. Maybe that would make a worthwhile difference in my life. On the other hand, would my dreamy, artistic nature and my natural aversion to taking risks have negated much of that advantage? It is an interesting question but not worth devoting much time to. My formative years were a very long time ago.

About the Author

November 8, 2013February 26, 2019

Singing by Will Stanton

Singing can be a lot of fun, whether alone, with a few friends, or maybe even in a huge choir like Norman’s Nabertackle Choir. Of course, that all depends upon whether the people sound like crows or nightingales. Psychologists, as well as simple music-lovers, have learned that music also can be a very healthful activity, sharing with friends, relieving stress, and even building new brain cells.

When I was very young, I heard a lot of classical music and folk music. My first exposure to live singing was when I was three and in nursery school. We had a visit by the legendary Woody Guthrie. He had created a series of children’s songs that he called “Songs to Grow On.” Even now, I remember some of them, such as his “Jig Jig Jig Jig Jig Along Home,” and the line, “The momma rat took off her hat, shook the house with the old tomcat; the alligator beat his tail on a drum. Jig along, jig along, jig along home.” While Woody sang and played his guitar, we all joined in on the refrain. And, there was the song about taking a bath with the line, “Oh Daddy, oh Daddy, come smell of me now. Don’t I smell nice and clean-o.” Each line substituted another person to “come smell of me now.” Not exactly a Handel oratorio, but it was great at age three.

My elementary school had a music teacher, as had many grade schools of the time. (I know that, since then, many schools have eliminated art and music as supposedly “non-essential” programs.) In my case, the teacher was Miss Morley, a rather matronly woman in her sixties whose hair-rinse turned her hair blue. I know that she was well intentioned, but her understanding of youngsters was not particularly developed.

At the beginning of each class, role-call was taken through her singing out each name, and each student would answer by singing “I’m here.” This practice continued when we also had student-teachers. Most student-teachers, as well as grade-school teachers, were women; however, we once did receive a male student-teacher. He, also, was obliged to call out the role through singing. Now, I have to explain that, for some reason unknown to me or my parents, I already had begun to develop a lower voice by fourth grade. As a consequence, I proudly responded to the man by singing “I’m here” in the same register as the man. For some peculiar reason, Miss Morley thought my response was rude. She punished me by having me sit in the corner, facing the wall. So much for masculinity.

By the time we moved to the public junior high, many of us already had begun to take interest in other students in a more personal manner. As a consequence, I noticed that the most handsome boy by far in the whole school was Walter. I tried to keep my admiring glances to a minimum, but I’m sure that they did not go unnoticed. What I did not realize was that Walter apparently had made similar glances toward me. In retrospect, I wished that we had clarified our mutual attraction more privately than Walter chose. Here we were in seventh-grade choir, sitting on metal folding chairs, when Walter suddenly threw himself across my lap. Walter lying in my lap was just fine with me but not in a class where both teacher and other students could observe and possibly embarrass us. I let Walter slide off my lap onto the floor. Afterwards, I felt like a fisherman in a contest who has caught the championship fish but deliberately let the prize escape. Ah, life’s missed opportunities!

Some of us remember a time when singing together around camp fires, either in Boy Scouts or summer camps, was a common form of entertainment. Not all of those songs were “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” either. Some were cowboy songs, Civil War songs, and British or Appalachian ballads. Undoubtedly, my interest in genuine folk music grew out of my early exposure to recordings by Burl Ives, Susan Reed, Tex Ritter, John Jacob Niles, and Richard Dyer-Bennett. I’ll always remember a live performance by the legendary Pete Seeger. As he sang and played his banjo, he would tap his left toe, then his right; and as his enthusiasm grew, he tapped both feet together.

I recall once when camping in New England with my family, a group formed spontaneously around an evening camp fire and sang songs to the accompaniment of a guitar. One of the group was a young fellow by the name of Jay Rockefeller. I heard recently that Jay will be retiring from Congress. How time has passed. I suppose that, now days, youngsters are too sophisticated and too modern to care about doing such things.

During that summer, my family stayed in Waterville, Maine. Nearby was the New England Music camp. Naturally, I joined the choir. Very early on, my ears detected a most astonishing voice, a tenor worthy of a professional choir or even an opera company. That remarkable voice belonged to young but very large fellow who came to be known by the campers as “Paul Bunyan” because of his size. His voice was strong, focused, and quite beautiful. He also surprised me; for, when the tenors’ part had a rest, he would start singing the soprano line. His soprano was so good that it did not sound like falsetto. I had to guess that Paul just had a unusually wide range.

Well, Paul’s voice did not go unnoticed among the camp staff. One evening, he was asked to stand on the shore by the lake and sing “The Lord’s Prayer.” While he was singing, we all noticed that the lighted boats on the lake all stopped. Not until Paul’s powerful notes finally ended did the boats start up and resume their travel. The last that I heard of Paul was that the music staff took Paul to the Metropolitan Opera for an interview. He was rejected, however, when everyone discovered to their surprise that Paul could not read a single note of music. All that time, he had been singing only “by ear.”

When I was sixteen, I won a modest scholarship to the prestigious Interlochen Music Camp in Michigan. Among the many activities there were various choirs. One of my greatest pleasures, next to being in the same cabin with Hank, was being in the high-school choir. I made a point of always being on time for the start of practice and never was late except for the one time that Hank sat next to me on a bunk and held me so tightly that I just could not escape…or maybe I just did not want to escape. His caresses were too inviting. Later, when I returned to the doldrums of my unloving home, I fantasized that, maybe I should have run away with Hank at the end of summer camp. I don’t know how we would have survived, but the idea still was attractive.
Being in the high school choir entitled me to also join the combined festival choir. That huge choir of teens and adults was so large and impressive that we were able to perform choral works for eight parts rather than a mere four. The sound, for me, was so wonderful that it gave me an adrenaline rush, a tingling that was almost as exciting as Hank’s caresses.

During my teens, I continued my interest in singing by collecting traditional folk ballads and occasionally singing them for myself. I entered a few contests and won some prizes; however, I never again had the pleasure of participating in a choir. In my late teens and into my early-twenties, I collected folk ballads into a notebook, but I found very few people who had an interest in such music.

Unfortunately, the only person I found who enjoyed singing with me was my friend Dee. Sometimes while we walked together, I would strike up a song, and she would join in. Until then, I always thought that the term “monotone” simply was a term, not actually a precise description of how some people sing. Dee, however, dispelled that misconception. She sang everything literally on one note. She did sing, however, with great enthusiasm, although I would have preferred a melody to go with it.

At least, Dee’s monotone was not so disturbing as the voice of a more recent acquaintance. He is totally tone-deaf; but in addition, his voice sounds like a crow with laryngitis. He informed me that a church-choir director once told him that he is “not a true monotone because his voice wavers so much,” which I thought was terribly funny.

When I went to England, I imagined that I would learn more wonderful ballads. After all, I was going to the home of the English-minstrel tradition. Of course, I was naïve, for no one I met had any interest or knowledge of such music. They all were into pop.

The closest I came to encountering folk music was on just one occasion when I first arrived in Southampton. My parents and I sat in a small restaurant for a late lunch and to make our travel plans for the day. There were no other patrons at the time. While my parents were busy in discussion, I looked about the restaurant. I noticed a bartender nearby polishing glasses. Apparently, he noticed me, too, and liked what he saw; for he softly sang a verse of a sea-chantey that I was able to hear but, fortunately, my parents did not hear. To this day, there is no way I could forget what he sang. His lines were, “Oh Robin Roy, the cabin boy, was a dirty little nipper. He stuffed his ahss with broken glahss and circumcised the skipper.” Obviously, that was not choral music, and it was just as well; for can you imagine the huge festival choir, in front of all the adoring parents, belting out, “Oh, Robin Roy…?!”

About the Author

October 31, 2013February 26, 2019

Halloween Humor by Will Stanton

Thirty-six Halloweens have come and gone since I first came to Denver, yet in those many years, I have attended only a few parties and hosted even fewer. Those parties, however, are, for various reasons, rather memorable.

The first large party that I attended was filled with truly creative people who thought of, and made, their own costumes… no rented or purchased costumes there with people saying, “How to you like my costume?” If you remember the old TV ads for Fruit of the Loom underwear, several people showed up as those advertisement characters, a bunch of grapes, etc. One man made an authentic replica of a Roman legionnaire’s armor.

Ever since I was a young child and attended local children’s parades and costume contests, I thoroughly subscribed to that tenant that my mother taught me, “create your own costume!” Yet at times, coming up with a fresh ideas may not be the simplest task.

About 4:00 in the afternoon of the day of that party, I still did not have an idea for myself. Then, I read an article in Time Magazine that provided my idea. The magazine article spoke of the scandal in the Olympics with the Eastern-Block countries apparently posing men as women in several events. I went to a T-shirt shop and had them make a red shirt with a big CCCP (for USSR) on the front and back. Then I picked up a wig and bra from ARC. The rest of the costume was easy, simply using gym sox and shoes and small gym shorts. In those days, I did sixteen hours per week of heavy-duty sports, so I was very buff and had big shoulders and chest. You can imagine what I looked like. To my surprise and pleasure, my costume as a “Soviet woman-athlete” was a big hit. A friend who took a photo promised to give me a copy, but he never did. I wish I had it to show people.

Another party with especially creative attendees occurred a few years ago. I have known for many years a remarkably talented man who has been a successful artist, craftsman, writer, and editor. In his line of business over the years, he has made a point of connecting with many other talented people. For his party, he announced a theme: leather. For a moment, I wondered if he was alluding to the gay interpretation; however, then I concluded that his suggestion was more broad, considering that his friends are of mixed persuasion.

I decided that, in keeping with the dark atmosphere of Halloween, I would go as a Russian KGB general. I had a cheap Russian military hat that I easily spruced up to resemble the required Soviet officer’s hat. I borrowed a huge black-leather coat. The rest was easy: black boots, black trousers and belt, black shirt and tie. The effect on the other guests was dramatic, and I shall not exaggerate in my telling of it.

The home was packed with interesting people, and it was not easy to move about. Throughout the evening, however, whenever I walked throughout the house, people instinctively stepped aside to make room for me. This phenomenon never changed; it continued until I left at 2:00 in the morning.

Even more curious was the fact that three people tried to pick me up all throughout the evening. The second woman was even more persistent than the first, and her husband was right there at the party. Someone had stood up to permit me to sit down on the coach, and this determined lady knelt next me for 45 minutes, chatting me up, and making quite clear that she “would really like to get to know me!” The third interested party was a young man half my age.

My being a very self-effacing person with little belief that I possess irresistible charisma, I was quite surprised and puzzled by all this attention. Then the words of Mark Twain came to mind and possibly explained it: “Clothes make the man!”

Regarding Halloween humor, I always have enjoyed a truly good joke. I recall how fun the popular Irish humorist David Allan was. When I could, I would try to catch him on TV and hear his wry humor. One of my favorites has remained with me to this day. The joke is set in an Irish pub on Halloween night:

Shawn O’Leary, having consumed
several pints of Guinness and a few shots of Cutty Sark, comes stumbling out
the door into the stormy night.

“Cor! What a terrible night, with the wind and rain
a’blowin’! It’s a night for witches and
banshees

and things that go Bump in the night!
I better take the shortcut home…through the graveyard.”

So, Shawn stumbles off through the
grave yard from tree to tree and grave to grave until he comes to a fresh-dug
grave; and Plop!, he falls in. Shawn
looks up, shakes his head and starts to try to climb out. The earth, however, is loose from the rain
and crumbles. He keeps sliding back down
into the grave.

So finally, Shawn hunkers down in
the corner and says,”Oh well, I might as well make a night of it.”

About this time, Bryan O’Casey
stumbles out of the pub and says, “Cor!
What a terrible night. It’s a
night for witches and banshees and things that go Bump in the night. I better take the shortcut home…through the
grave yard.”

So Bryan heads off into the graveyard
and stumbles into the very same grave. Looking
up, Bryan starts to climb out, but he keeps sliding back down into the grave.

All this while, Shawn O’Leary is
watching him. Finally Shawn speaks up
and says, “You might as well give up trying to get out of this grave
tonight. You’ll never make it.”

He did!

© 18 June 2012

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.

October 10, 2013February 26, 2019

Dance by Will Stanton

When the movie “Alexander” was written, directed, and filmed, was Oliver Stone — stoned? Did he have absolutely no idea what he was doing? Or is there a pornographic element to his nature that he finally revealed in how he chose to film the dance scene?

If the reader does not know what the heck I’m talking about, then he apparently never bothered to see “Alexander,” which possibly is strange — or even unforgivable if the listener is gay; for Alexander and Hephaestion must be the most stunning gay love story of all times. Lovers since age thirteen until the end, no deeper love has been known. And then there was young Bagoas, who entered into the scene when he was sixteen.

Who was Bagoas? Of the great Persian king Darius the Third’s 30,000 slaves and concubines; Bagoas was his favorite, the one he kept by his side — and very often under him. Yet, Bagoas was far more than a concubine. He was from an aristocratic family, cultured, highly educated, and talented in music and dance. And dance — dance in reality and dance as portrayed in the movie — is what I’m talking about.

When the Persian king disgraced himself by fleeing from Alexander, he irrevocably shamed himself. He no longer was truly a great king. His general Nabarzenes perceived Alexander’s greatness and went to swear fealty to Alexander and to offer rich gifts. Among them was Bagoas (his having persuaded Bagoas that he was meant only for great kings) who, reportedly was “the most beautiful boy in all of Persia.” Bagoas was no mere servant. He knew the most intimate details of the Persian court, who the military leaders were, their personalities, Persian protocol, and a wealth of other information very useful to Alexander. As a consequence, Bagoas became an indispensable advisor, as well as an additional partner for Alexander.

Where does the dance come in? After surviving the trek across the great Gedrosian desert, Alexander and his troops held a celebration in Susa, during which they included a dance contest. Individuals performed traditional Persian dances and were appraised by Alexander and the troops. According to Plutarch and other contemporary writers, an episode documents that the love between the two was common knowledge among the troops, and much appreciated. At the dancing contest, Bagoas won the honors and then went to sit by Alexander’s side, “which so pleased the Macedonians that they shouted out for him to kiss Bagoas, and never stopped clapping their hands and shouting until Alexander took him in his arms and kissed him warmly.” (Plutarch, The Lives).

But what kind of dance was it? If Oliver “Stoned” and his writers had done the most basic research, they would have found that ancient Persian dances employed very traditionally structured, formal movements. The traditional dances often celebrated the sun-and-light god Mithra or some momentous event. Even to this day, traditional dances from the Mideast to Japan are very formal. If you saw, however, the ludicrous dance scene in the movie, you immediately would have noted that there was no semblance of reality or common sense. Filmed inside a set of a steamy palace and with Alexander supposedly drunk on wine, the revelers are entertained with Hollywood-1950’s-style movie-music. Several adult, semi-nude men dance all at the same time and with bizarre, willowy, supposedly sensuously suggestive movements. Some soldiers shout encouragement, while others find the scene distasteful. The dance culminates with Bagoas and a second dancer implying a sexual act. I suppose the point of the scene is to show the disgust on the faces of some of the Macedonian officers. Frankly, I probably had the same look on my face when I first saw it — not because I’m prudish, but because the writers were so profoundly ignorant and the scene so far from the historical truth.

If I were to fire up my time machine and bring back Alexander, Hephaestion, Bagoas, and Plutarch for that matter, and showed them the dance scene from the “Stoned” movie, I feel that they would be rather dismayed. Alexander, as a matter of fact, might be tempted to have a face-to-face conversation with Mr. Stone and, perhaps, provide a rather convincing example of the fate of those who dishonored Alexander or those whom he loved. And had I fired up my time machine, I would have brought Alexander, Hephaestion, Bagoas, and Plutarch here today and had Bagoas perform for you — dance, that is. And, you would have seen what I mean.

About the Author

September 25, 2013February 26, 2019

Mistaken Identity by Will Stanton

“Look! It’s George Clooney!” I was startled and quickly checked to see where the speaker was looking. There was no third person present. He was looking at me! A case of mistaken identity. The very next week, a trio of ecstatic teenage girls screeched, “Justin Bieber!” Again, I immediately looked right and then left, astonished that Justin Bieber would actually be in my presence without my having noticed. He wasn’t there; the girls were looking at me. Again, mistaken Identity!

No, of course that did not really happen. No one ever has mistaken me for someone famous. I don’t resemble any of them. Instead, I probably look more like the fictional person Dave Letterman jokes about, the old curmudgeon who shouts at the kids, “Get off my lawn, and take that mangy dog with you…and that dump that it just left on my grass!”

Instead, let me tell you about a remarkable story of truly mistaken identity, one that has been made into an excellent quality film and subsequently released on DVD. I have shown it to friends. I’ll tell you just enough of the story’s background, but I’ll leave the best bits for you to see for yourselves. It’s title is “AKA,” that is, an assumed name, an assumed identity. This actually did happen in 1978, and it is an autobiographical tale by writer and director Duncan Roy.

The main character is named “Dean” rather than Duncan. His advantages are that he is a very handsome seventeen-year-old with high intelligence, capable of being a fast study, and he possesses a quiet, pleasing personality. His disadvantages, however, are several and profoundly debilitating. He comes from a very poor and poorly educated home with an unseeing, ineffectual, dysfunctional mother and a father from hell who intimidates and abuses both mother and son but, also, who has had a history of frequently raping the boy even to the extent of occasionally allowing a buddy to engage in the abuse. The sad and painful consequence is that Dean’s feelings and thinking become severely distorted to the extent that he cannot relate emotionally or sexually to either females or males. If people express sexual interest in Dean, he equates that interest with rape, whether he allows them to proceed or not.

Two other points influenced Dean’s personality and his future. He had hoped to be somebody, to go to college and to make something of himself, although this was disdained and unsupported by the working-class father. The other influence was that his mother’s employment was as a waitress at a trendy London restaurant frequented by Britain’s aristocratic élite. His mother provided Dean with a daily run-down of which celebrities had appeared at the restaurant, and she would sit at the kitchen table with him, pouring over the gossip magazines, pointing out pictures of various aristocrats including a Lady Gryffoyn, who ran an art gallery as a hobby.

To prevent the mother’s belated discovery of his sexual abuse, the father throws Dean out of the house without money or any place to go. Dean wanders about Lady Gryffoyn’s up-scale neighborhood, hoping to find her and ask for a job. Instead, he is picked up by an aging ingénue who sees Dean as obviously quite young and very innocent. Dean stays for dinner, meets other guests who turn out to be outrageous queens who adore him for his youth and good looks. They make quite a fuss over him. He consequently feels appreciated and accepted for the first time in his life. This is the beginning of Dean’s transformation.

Dean tries for a menial job at the art gallery. On one hand, Lady Gryffoyn is an arrogant bitch, not used to doing anyone favors; however on the other hand, she had a reputation for enjoying the company of very young men. He lands a job, gradually is accepted more and more by Lady Gryffoyn to the point of being allowed to hang about the house and to meet her aristocratic friends, and even at times to wear her son’s clothes while there. Dean acquires bank credit and a credit card, privileges that he has no experience or desire to handle responsibly. In this pre-computer age, he is able quickly to run up a large debt, acquiring the clothes and accoutrements of a gentleman.

Eventually, Dean meets Alexander, Lady Gryffoyn’s son, who is the same age as Dean. Alexander is even more arrogant and disdainful than Lady Gryffoyn and verbally abuses Dean. Dean quickly learns that this gentrified class habitually identifies their own kind by expensive, tailor-cut apparel, posh accent, sophisticated demeanor, how much money they are willing to throw about without the least concern, what private schools the young have attended, and whether the lads will be attending Oxford or Cambridge, at least to receive an easy “gentleman’s degree.” They cruelly disdain everyone else. Dean is painfully ill-at-ease and unsure of himself, but he quietly watches and listens. His ability as a quick study begins to pay off. Briefly left alone in the house, he explores Alexander’s suits, photos, along with anything he encounters that deals with Alexander’s life. He loses his identifying working-class accent and gradually learns to imitate the sophisticated accent of British élite.

Not permitted to remain at the London house and having attracted the attention of the fraud squad, Dean takes the advice of a young American gigolo to go to Paris. The major turning point of Dean’s story is when he attempts to gain a job at a Paris art gallery but has had little experience and does not speak French. He is dismissed with the polite but not encouraging statement, “I’ll take your name.” After some hesitation, Dean finally says, “Alexander Gryffoyn.” The gallery owner immediately springs to his feet and, with a great smile, welcomes Dean with open arms. The aristocratic name works magic and opens all doors.

Step by step, with the right clothes, the appropriate accent, and occasional little white lies, Dean is introduced to the crème de la crème of Continental élite. This cream of society, however, is repulsively curdled. These people are the sort often referred to as “Euro-trash.” Some of them are British tax expatriates, avoiding paying taxes on their fortunes. Others are remnants of European nobility, people with money but with no purpose in life other than to feel important and to party endlessly. Alcohol flows, and cocaine is consumed as a matter of course.

What continues to happen in Dean’s life for more than a year becomes even more remarkable and fascinating. Popular, adored, catered to, Dean loves being, as his embossed invitations read, “Lord Alexander Gryffoyn.” To his sorrow, however, he never has been accepted and loved as Dean, his real self.

He eventually goes back to Britain to face the music. His identity theft makes the news, replete with many photos of himself posing as Alexander. Despite his having lived for a while under an identity that was false and not his true self, Dean ironically concludes that, in contrast to that snobbish SOB Alexander, he, Dean, had been a far better “Lord Alexander Gryffoyn” than the real one ever could hope to be.

This is all the teaser that I am going to give to you. For you to enjoy all the most remarkable bits of the story, as well as see the more intimate scenes, if that is your “cup of English tea,” watch the DVD. It is an amazing story of mistaken identity, well worth seeing. And frankly, Dean himself is worth seeing. I wouldn’t mind being mistaken for him.

About the Author

September 11, 2013February 26, 2019

Culture Shock by Will Stanton

The day was sunny and fairly warm for November, so I took a stroll through the park, occasionally having a seat on one of the many benches to soak up the sunshine and to watch the hundreds of geese on the lake. The benches came in handy, considering that it has been a very long time since I was able to take twenty-mile, mountain hikes. My hips were speaking to me, so I sought out another bench to rest.

The only bench close by me at that moment already was occupied by one older woman. I correctly guessed that she was babushka, a grandmother from Russia. She appeared to be friendly, so I asked if could join her. She seemed glad to have the company and someone to talk to. With her heavy Russian accent, the conversation was more “talk to” than “talk with,” for she did the majority of the talking. That was OK with me because everything she had to say was quite interesting.

It turns out that she is seventy-six, although she could pass for fifty. She lived most of her life in Yekaterinburg, the fourth largest city in Russia with quite a history. Situated in the Urals on the border of Europe and Asia, it perhaps is best known as the location where, tragically, Czar Nicolas II, his wife, and all his children were murdered and then buried in the forests nearby.

Yekaterinburg also is known to be a highly cultural city with ample opportunities to engage in the arts. In addition to all of its educational facilities, it has more than thirty museums, plus several theaters, concert halls, and opera houses. Several world-famous operas singers got their start in Yekaterinburg.

This loquacious babushka explained that society there just assumes that good culture should be part of everyone’s life. Consequently, children are brought up to appreciate and to participate in music and the arts and to be familiar with great literature. As it turns out, these pursuits are not just simple hobbies; the families take them seriously. Before she acquired a degree in architectural engineering, she first acquired a degree in classical piano performance. Now that is dedication!

She went on to talk about her family: her husband, her daughters, and her grown granddaughters. Yes, her daughters also acquired degrees in music before pursuing degrees in their chosen professions. Now her granddaughters just have completed their music degrees in Boulder.

Babushka says that she very much misses her home and all the cultural opportunities left behind, but she came to America because of her family. Her husband was offered a good job opportunity as an environmental planner here in America. He accepted it and moved here by himself. His wife chose to remain behind at home. Eventually, their daughters joined their father in America, and Babushka was left alone. Family is most important to her, so finally she joined the family here.

There are many things that she likes about America; however, she has noticed a major difference in culture here. There are some of the same cultural advantages here as in her homeland, but at a very reduced scale and with fewer and fewer people who truly are interested. There appears not to be the same society-wide appreciation of the arts among the population or understanding that incorporating arts and music into one’s life not only enriches human life but also, as proved by several psychological / educational research studies, enhances the ability to learn other disciplines, a concept apparently lost upon school districts that eliminate the arts first from their school programs as “non-essential.”

I understood what she was talking about. Since my childhood, the vast majority of classical music radio stations in America have been disbanded because of rapidly dwindling listenership and advertising income. Throughout America over the last generation, the country has lost dozens of symphonies, theaters, opera companies, ballets companies, and school arts and music programs.

A few years ago, the Denver Symphony could not afford to keep going and was disbanded. Apparently, Denverites will pay hundreds or even thousands of dollars to go to football games and rock concerts, but many far-less pricey symphony tickets were left half-unsold. World-famous musicians would arrive on stage to the embarrassing view of oceans of empty seats. The failed symphony finally was replaced with the Colorado Symphony. Then just last year, most of the board left out of frustration, and the symphony again came close to closing. It is keeping barely alive by cutting the number of concerts, minimizing salaries, and traveling to other venues with small groups of musicians to perform for a handful of listeners.

Other societies have a far different view from America. For example, Germany funds their national arts programs at a rate of dozens of times higher per capita in contrast to America. They give government funding to symphonies at a rate of 25 times that of America and opera companies at 28 times. In contrast, Romney said that he would eliminate all government support for the arts in this country, and he’s not the only one to say that. Like many politicians the past thirty years, he believes in so-called “small government” – – except of course in the cases of increasing military spending, intruding into people’s private lives, dictating women’s health choices, pushing religious beliefs into school science programs, gutting the worker’s unions, and suppressing the right to vote. Within the total military expenditures for each year, a tiny fraction of goes to supporting military marching bands; yet that amount of money is so huge in contrast to what is provided currently to the National Endowment for the Arts that this sum could resurrect and support twenty full-time symphony orchestras at $20 million a piece plus give 80,000 musicians, artists, and sculpture an annual salary of $50,000. But, the “cut-the-budget” power-brokers in Congress never would do that.

During World War II, Britain’s finance minister recommended to Winston Churchill that they cut arts funding to better fund the war effort. Churchill’s response was, “Then what are we fighting for?” There are numerous sociological and psychological articles written and available for reading about the essential need for the arts to develop and maintain a civilized nation with civilized people.

Another example of how culture has declined in America can be seen in what recordings the majority of Americans choose to buy. Just ten years ago, the local Barnes and Noble on Colorado Boulevard carried, in a large percentage of the media room, hundreds of classical recordings on CDs and DVDs; and their staff were graduate students from the D.U. School of Music. That large display area continually shrank until only one small area by the back wall contained classical music, and the only clerk was a high-school graduate who admitted that she had no background in music at all. With the recent renovation of the store and the reduction of the media area to a minor space off to the far side, the stock has been minimized to virtually nothing.

Then I recently stopped in Target just to check out their DVDs. They had only about a half-dozen of real quality and interest to me, five of which I already had, and absolutely no classical CD section at all among the rap, heavy-metal, hip-hop, country-western, pop, rock, and TV soundtracks. That is what sells in America with recordings, live concerts, radio and TV, and even the music chosen for background noise even in so-called good restaurants.

Quite obviously, our country has developed different priorities and values from that of many other advanced nations. I recently finished watching the BBC production of John Carré’s “Tinker, Taylor…” One particular quotation caught my attention. In questioning one of the characters in his story as to why he was so unhappy with America, the man replied, “Do you know what the problem is…? Greed, and constipation…morally, politically, aesthetically.” If that statement seems extreme, the sad fact is that many people hold the same feelings. Unfortunately since the book was written around forty years ago, a similar view of America has persisted among many foreign nations in particular. This cultural difference between the grandmother’s home and what America has become has not been lost upon her, either.

So, the grandmother, obviously proud of her family and all their accomplishments, laments the culture shock that she has experienced. She appreciates her chance to come to America and to be reunited with her family. Yet at the same time, she speaks with fondness and nostalgia of her once having lived in an environment of great cultural opportunity.

I was sure that she had much more to talk about, and I would have been glad to have heard more; however, the sun was going down, and the air quickly was becoming chilly. Even my personal, extra insulation was not enough to stave off the growing cold. So, I thanked her for her conversation, bid her farewell, and headed home, all the time weighing the possible social and personal implications of her reported culture shock.