Dorien Grey and Me

Thursday, November 27, 2014

Thanatophobia

What? You know what "thanatophobia" means and you're still here? And what the hell are we talking about death for today? It’s Thanksgiving! Could there possibly be two less compatible topics? But the fact is that the greatest thing we can possibly give thanks for today and every day is…being alive. Taking a moment to realize that we won’t always be should only increase our gratitude!

The very subject of death any day of the year sends 99% of the population mentally heading for the hills. Of all the astonishing number of fears afflicting mankind, surely the fear of death is far ahead of whatever might be in second place.

We go to great lengths to throw a sheet over the elephant in the room. Uncle Charlie didn't die, he "passed away," or "passed over." Uh-huh. Our grotesque funeral rituals--painting and primping Uncle Charlie's corpse so those passing by his open coffin can pretend he's just taking a nap--are a case in point. I love the lines from Oklahoma's "Pore Jud Is Daid": "Poor Jud is dead,/poor Jud Fry is dead;/he's layin' there so peaceful and serene..../He looks like he's asleep;/it's a shame that he won't keep,/but it's summer and we're runnin' out of ice."

I find it fascinating that thanatophobia covers both the fear of death and the fear of dying, and to me, they are two quite separate things. I'm not afraid of being dead, but I am more than concerned by the process of passage between the two. Though it is impossible to know, I’m quite sure that most people are as unaware of crossing the actual line between life and death as they are aware of crossing the line between being awake and asleep. Except for those relative few who experience a sudden trauma resulting in their death and are conscious of what is happening up to that very instant, most people first lapse into a coma. Few, I suspect, experience real fear.

I know that, for myself, the "fear of death" lies primarily in the reluctance to give up life...to imagine the world going on without me, and most specifically the thought of all the wonderful things I will never get to see or do once I am dead: all of which is counterbalanced by the simple fact that once I'm dead, I won't be aware of what I'm missing. I've never considered this to be morbid; quite the contrary. There is a wonderfully calming sense of peace in wandering through a cemetery, reading tombstones and thinking of those who lie beneath them. Try it sometime, if you don't already understand what I'm saying.

I am firmly convinced that organized religion came about as a cultural reaction to our fear of death. The idea of a heaven and a hell (the latter created largely to keep the living in line) and the concept of an afterlife ("Oh, don't worry: when you die you will move on through the Pearly Gates and live forever.") may be comforting in theory, but crumble like a waters-edge sand castles at high tide. Far, far, too many questions and far, far too few answers. Logic, so vital to our culture, civilization, and human existence, utterly vanishes.

And it has always struck me as wonderfully...well, perverse...that those who so strongly proclaim the glories of heaven very seldom seem to be in any hurry to get there.

As a total romantic, I would, truly and with every fiber of my being, love to believe that there is a heaven. I would also truly like to believe in a hell, for there are a large number of hate-mongers and bigots I sincerely believe richly deserve to suffer the flames of hell throughout eternity for their cruelty to their fellow humans. But I simply cannot believe, no matter how hard I try.

I always remember a discussion I had with a friend on the subject many years ago. As to heaven and hell, he said, "I believe that if, at the moment of death, you can look back on a good life, that is heaven. If you can't, that is hell.”

But for right now, I am truly thankful for being alive.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday and Thursday. Please take a moment to visit his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, you might want to check out Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1), which is also available as an audiobook (http://www.audible.com/pd/ref=sr_1_1?asin=B00DJAJYCS&qid=1372629062&sr=1-1).

Monday, November 24, 2014

Moments and Times

Each of us has indelible memories of events in our life which stand apart from all the others, and which shape and mold not only how we view the world, but who we are as individual human beings.

I was thinking today of the moments and times in my life that I consider to have had the deepest and most lasting effects on me. In my mind's eye, I became like a gold miner in a rushing stream, swishing memories around in a mental sieve, and carefully picking out the ones which remain. I hope you won't mind my sharing some of them with you. And while they are indeed mine and not yours, I hope you might see why I chose them.

1) Hearing, while eating dinner with my folks when I was around four or five, the ringing of the bell on my tricycle, which I'd left on the sidewalk, realizing someone was stealing it, and my father—who had not heard the bell—refusing to allow me to leave the table to go save it. I'm sorry to say I think it negatively affected my entire relationship with him for most of the rest of his life.

2) Being asked by a stranger, at around the age of five, why I was singing Christmas carols in July. For some reason I was humiliated and I look on it as the moment when my tendency toward shyness turned to stone and put a wall between me and being able to express my emotions freely.

3) Attending the funeral of my beloved Uncle Buck in 1953. I had never before experienced such wrenching, unbearable grief.

4) As a Naval Aviation Cadet drinking beer with a NavCad friend and eating pizza at a little bar off Pensacola Beach while the Everly Brothers' "Unchained Melody" played on the jukebox.

5) Soaring alone in a huge valley surrounded by clouds, doing acrobatics and looking down at the green patchwork quilt of the earth far below.

6) Diving off a quay in Cannes into the crystal-clear Mediterranean with Marc, Michele, Gunter, and Joachim as part—though I did not realize it until later—of one of the happiest and most memorable weeks of my life.

7) Driving with my then-partner (the word "lover" has fallen out of fashion in the gay community, I fear) Norm back to Chicago from my parents' cottage in my new, bright red Ford Sprint convertible, watching from the corner of my eye as Norm studiously rummaged through a large bag of potato chips, finally pulling out the perfect chip, and handing it to me.

8) Being awakened at 6:15 on February 9, 1970, by the deep, ominous and absolutely unmistakable rumbling of an approaching earthquake.

9) Driving my mother back to the hospital from which she had just been released earlier in the day, after subsequently suffering a minor stroke which left her only able to point to things and say "What's that?" I was in anguish, and she reached over and patted my hand. I still cry when I think of that.

10) Leaving the theater after viewing Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake for the ninth time and suddenly realizing that my obsession with it was that, to my mind, I was the Prince and Ray, the love of my life, was the Swan—goodness and sweetness and kindness when sober, and incomprehensibly cruel when under the influence of alcohol, which eventually killed him.

11) The true sense of shock and sadness I experience every single time I look into a mirror or accidentally see myself in a reflective surface.

These are only a few of the many, many memorable moments of just one life out of billions. I know you have your own, and I hope you join me in the appreciation—hard though that word is to use with some experiences and memories—of each and every one of them. Gather all of yours together, then step back to get a better perspective, and what you see is...you.

Thursday, November 20, 2014

Rules to Live By

I am nothing if not a strict adherent to the set of rules I have painstakingly established for myself throughout my life. I fully acknowledge they may not work for everyone, but they are my rules applicable only to myself.

First and foremost among these: Anything worth trying is only worth trying twice. If it does not work the way I want/fully expect it to by the second try, I give up. I know most people go along with the old "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again" nonsense, but not I. This is a ridiculous premise fostered, I suspect, by cardiac physicians who make huge fortunes treating the resulting apoplexy induced by the frustration of trying and trying and trying and failing miserably every single time. I have learned through long, hard experience that if something that has not worked by the second time I've tried it, it's not going to work. Ever. And by throwing my hands in the air and screaming "F**K IT" after my second attempt, I am spared the mounting frustration and fury of trying it a third and fourth and seventy-fifth time, each and every one of which I know to the depth of my being will turn out exactly the same way as the first.

Secondly, time is an infinitely precious commodity not to be wasted by thinking before acting or speaking. I call this the "knee-jerk" response. There is little point in reading an entire e-mail, letter, or article if I disapprove of what’s in the first paragraph. That any question may very well be answered or the point addressed two paragraphs further on is beside the point. It should have been answered/addressed before it arose, and I am not responsible for the poor planning of others. React first and immediately is my motto. There is plenty of time for regret later.

Never bother trying to remember names, or dates, or numbers. They can always be gone back to and checked again if and as often as necessary--a point proven over and over and over again, sometimes up to ten times on one name or set of numbers. They're always there...somewhere. Going back time after time is much easier than going to the bother of remembering them.

Housecleaning is vastly overrated. Quentin Crisp's profound observation that dust never gets any thicker after three years is a good one to live by. Living alone is a plus in this regard. There is no point in washing dishes as long as there is still one clean plate, knife, fork, spoon, cup or glass remaining. When they've been used, then do all the dishes at once. Making the bed is totally pointless, unless you're expecting company or hoping the people from House Beautiful might stop by for a photo shoot.

Never pass up the opportunity for self-deprecation. It's a dog-eat-dog world out there, with everyone just waiting to pounce on your every flaw and failing. By constantly running yourself down, you beat them to the punch and let them know you are perfectly well aware of what a loser you are.

Organization of any sort is a huge waste of time and never works. "A place for everything, and everything in its place" is laughably unrealistic. And just think of the hour upon hour of fun looking for car keys or glasses or billfolds or cell phones provides. And there is no need. When I set my glasses or keys down, I know exactly where they are and, sure enough, when I finally find them again, they are exactly where I left them.

Never make lists. Chances are excellent that if you do make one, you won't be able to find it when you want it, or you're going to leave several important things off. So why bother? Grocery shopping, for example, is much more fun when you go to the store specifically for a gallon of milk, a dozen eggs, and a loaf of bread and end up coming home with a ton of things you hadn't intended to buy, but without the milk, eggs, and bread. This only provides you with the opportunity to return to the store soon and buy still more wondrous things you hadn't thought to put on your list.

There's that old saw that "Rules are made to be broken," but if you adhere strictly to those rules outlined above, I can guarantee you that the danger of breaking them will never be a problem.

Monday, November 17, 2014

Stranger in a Strange Land

I was born to a long line of heterosexuals, going back to Adam and Eve. I was raised and nurtured by heterosexuals whom I loved deeply, and have lived among heterosexuals every day of my life. And yet I have never understood them, or felt I really belonged in their world—understandable, I think, when I was constantly bombarded with messages which made crystal clear that homosexuals are beneath contempt, damned to burn forever in the flames of hell, and definitely less than human.

It is often said that one is more than one’s sexual orientation, and while I readily agree that being homosexual involves far more than the sex act, my being gay is and always has been a fundamental part of who I am, and has influenced every aspect of my personality and my dealings and interactions with other people. I am who I am because I am homosexual. This doesn’t mean that I see being gay as superior to being straight; I honestly think of us as being simply two variations on a theme…like oranges and grapefruit are simply two varieties of citrus.

I’ve heard heterosexuals ask, “Why do gays make such a fuss over this Gay Pride thing? Heterosexuals don’t celebrate being heterosexual!” No, they don’t. Because they don’t have to. They’re the vast majority and directly or indirectly they never let gays forget it. Gays are proud not so much of the fact of being gay as having managed to survive the discrimination and hostility of the majority. No one who is not a member of a persecuted minority can possibly fully understand.

I must hasten to say I have never experienced the violence so often and still suffered by gays, nor have I been the target of much overt prejudice from “straights.” (I find it interesting that while heterosexuals have a wide litany of epithets for gays, the only term of approbation I can think of that gays use against straights is “breeders.”)

All my life I have stood in awe of how African Americans/blacks/negroes—choose the term of political correctness you prefer—possibly could have endured what they have endured for centuries. It is totally beyond my comprehension. It’s impossible and pointless to “compare” the sufferings of blacks, jews, and gays. On the one hand, gays and jews have the “advantage” that at least most cannot immediately be spotted in a crowd. On the other hand, simply being black or jewish in the United States was never a codified crime.

As far as I know, I am the only homosexual in my family, though for some reason I suspect that my mother’s uncle, Peter, who died of tuberculosis at the age of 20 shortly after the turn of the 20th century, may have been gay. Sadly he did not live long enough to confirm or deny my suspicion.

I’ve said often I was truly blessed with the family I have. My mother’s side of the family, the Fearns, always instinctively knew I was gay, and their love and support has been unconditional. My father’s side of the family defines the word “dysfunctional” and I was never really close to them. My father, who also knew I was gay before I had a word for it, almost came to blows with his half-sister’s husband for suggesting that I was a faggot.

I think a great many gays share my disillusion with the world as it is, and seek reassurance and comfort where they can find it. Gays are “known” to love musicals, for example. Is it any surprise? Musicals, books, and movies represent an escape from the harshness of reality, and I am not the only gay man to take shelter there. I am, in fact, firmly convinced that I became a writer as a way of countering reality. If I didn’t and don’t care for the world into which I was born and in which I live, I could and do create my own worlds.

Though it has taken far too long in coming, we are currently in an accelerating state of profound social change, as heterosexuals increasingly if slowly acknowledge our basic human rights and recognizing us if not as equals, then as oranges to their grapefruits.

Thursday, November 13, 2014

The Learning Curve

I know, I know, I too often despair (and one of the things about which I despair most is the mounting evidence that I'm turning into a grumpy old man), but let's face it…there's a lot to despair about.

Remember courtesy? Good, old-fashioned common courtesy? "Thank you" and "You're welcome" and "After you," and "Can I help you with that?" You still run into it occasionally, but it does seem in distressingly short supply. Rudeness and insensitivity and ME seem to be the norm in today's society.

We learn from what we see, and take our cues as to how to react to others from that.

The commercials we're exposed to 18 minutes out of every hour we watch TV foster these norms. What lessons are we...or more importantly our children...supposed to learn from the pain reliever commercial where a woman is putting six boxes of one brand into her shopping basket while a voiceover tells her she can get the same effect from one box of the sponsor's brand. And what does she do? She picks up the sponsor's product, puts her basket with the obviously inferior product down on the floor in the middle of the aisle, and walks away! (Don't bother putting the other stuff back, lady. Just leave it for somebody else to do.)

Or the oft-referred-to-here commercial with the frizzy-haired blonde who, checking her sales receipt as she leaves the checkout stand, assumes the store has made a mistake. Does she ask the clerk if there was indeed an error as basic common courtesy would dictate? Hell no! She races out of the store, yelling to her husband to "Start the car! Start the car!", absolutely giddy in the belief that she has gotten away with screwing the store out of something. What a message that sends!

The prevailing attitude seems to be, if you're stupid enough to fall for whatever con I'm trying to put over on you, tough cooky. You deserve whatever you get. (And, frankly, I must admit there is merit in that belief.) The ubiquitous spam messages that flood cyberspace are not only aimed at those too naive or trusting to know they’re being preyed upon, but at those who know damned well that “the $10,000,000 award we talked about” was never talked about, or the “I need your help in getting $30,000,000 out of Iran” proposals are obviously illegal, but the spammers count upon the recipient’s greed.

Those few of us who were born in a time before mass media infiltrated every cell of our being can recall a time when we learned from our parents and relatives and friends, and those to whom we related on a person-to-person, face-to-face level. Now we live in an often sickening world of Ted Cruz, Fox News, and a legion of hate mongers and mean-spirited, rude, sub-humans interested only in furthering their own warped agendas. Being exposed to this uncivil, uncivilized donkey diarrhea every time we turn on the TV or read a newspaper or a magazine eventually affects even those of us who know better. And for those who are not old enough to remember a time when people were respectful of others, I shudder to think of what they will become.

Why do we expect from others things we are ourselves not willing to give?

Where, along the way, did the concept of making someone else feel good, or appreciated, without there being something in it for me disappear? I don't recall ever having received a bill for smiling or saying "hello" to a stranger. How did we become so selfishly insular? Rudeness breeds rudeness; incivility breeds incivility. Where did we ever get the idea that we should be treated with the courtesy and respect we are not, ourselves, willing to show others?

But you see, here I go again, despairing. I can do nothing at all about the lack of courtesy, respect, and common sense in others, but that does not mean I have to be like them or follow their lead. I don't, and won't, and fervently hope you might feel the same way. There is truth in the old saying "It's you and me against the world.” Maybe we should actively recruit others to join us? Oh, and thank you for reading this.

Monday, November 10, 2014

Cassandra and Me

I’ve always been fascinated by Greek mythology and identify strongly with some of it. I find the parallels between the prophetess Cassandra and myself, for example, to be downright eerie. Consider the uncanny similarities between us: Cassandra was the daughter of Priam, king of Troy. I am the son of Frank, factory worker of Rockford, Illinois. Both of us carry the gift of prophecy and the curse of those prophecies being believed.

A few more parallels should you not already be convinced: the god Apollo became smitten with Cassandra and gave her the gift of prophecy. I have, when younger, been the object of brief bouts of smitten-ness and received the gift of free drinks in bars and could instantly prophesize the outcome. When Cassandra rebuffed Apollo’s advances, Apollo was in something of a quandary: a gift once given by the gods cannot be taken away, just as a drink once given in a bar can’t be taken back even if the sender and recipient don’t get together. But Apollo was able to amend his gift to make it so that while Cassandra could still prophesies the future, no one would believe her.

And somehow…I’m not sure how, exactly…I acquired both the above-mentioned gift of prophecy and the curse of never being believed.

For literally years now I have been trying to convince scientists and anyone who would listen that wedding rings cause a wide range of medical problems. The proof is overwhelming and clearly laid out on television literally hundreds of times each day, but no one but I can see it! And what is this proof, you will undoubtedly ask, not believing me when I told you? Every single male shown in an ad for erectile dysfunction is wearing a wedding ring! Every. Single. One!!! (It is fascinating to note that gay men seem immune! Even though an increasing number of them wear wedding rings, have you ever seen an erectile dysfunction ad featuring gay men?…I rest my case!) The same is true of arthritis. Have you ever seen an arthritis ad where the victim was not wearing a wedding ring? I think not.

For years before the repeal of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” I prophesized that gays would be allowed to serve openly in the military…a fact vehemently and continually denied by the likes of such renowned military experts as Senator John McCain and vast numbers of the military hierarchy, who were absolutely convinced that opening the doors to acknowledged homosexuals would utterly destroy civilization as we know it.

Gays allowed to marry? I knew it was inevitable but stopped even mentioning it to avoid an avalanche of vehement denial.

Perhaps the most frustrating thing about the curse of not being believed is that, once something I’ve predicted comes true, the reaction is not “Amazing! You were right!” but a casual “oh, yeah, I knew it all along.” Those who screamed and shouted and dug deep trenches in the group with their heels as history dragged them along are suddenly absolutely silent. Has anyone…anyone…asked John McCain and the spittle-lipped naysayers if they regret their stupidity? Of course not. Scream and outrage immediately becomes “yeah, okay,” and the screamers are off on another rampage on something else that they will inevitably have to accept.

I do wish Cassandra were around today. I could use a little moral backup.

Thursday, November 06, 2014

Remembering the Future

My mind is nothing if not...uh..."untethered," and it far-too-frequently just wanders off from the path I've chosen for it. Such is the case today.

When I lived in L.A. and was with my partner, Ray, whenever we'd go out where there were jostling mobs of people, Ray would grab the back of my belt so we wouldn't get separated. So I invite you to do the same, here, so you don't get lost trying to follow me.

I find myself--as I have since I was a child--fascinated with pondering the imponderable. While it is admittedly rather pointless, it’s fun, every now and then, to just let your mind take a tiny molehill of thought and turn it into a mountain of wonder. The fact is, of course, that no matter how much time or effort we put into pondering questions which have no answers, absolutely nothing changes, and the universe is exactly the same when we stop pondering as it was before we started.

Being human, we are always seeking simplistic answers for infinitely complex questions. The mystery of time, which rules my existence, is always a rich source of speculation, and the relationship between past, present, and future...between then and now...is an endless source of wonder. The subject lends itself to endless analogies, similes, and metaphors in attempting to explain it. One I use frequently is of time being a speeding train, on which we all ride facing backward. We catch each second of our life as if it were a telephone pole flashing past the train's window, and we no sooner see it than it is gone. The present lasts less than a nanosecond's nanosecond, and “Now” turns future to past. That every instant of our past was at one time our future is intriguing to contemplate.

And typical of my mind's workings, as I wrote the above (still holding on?) another analogy suddenly presented itself to replace that of the speeding train: Time as a zipper, with “Now” being the fastener that joins past and future. Unfortunately, the zipper only zips up, not down.

Time abounds in paradoxes. We've all seen movies and TV programs and read dumbed-down-for-the-layman articles detailing the flexibility of time; how it can move and bend and bow and turn into itself. But in the real life of humans, time is inflexible: it moves in only one direction and it does not stop or slow down at our command.

While so many of us...me included...would like to travel back in time and change those things we so desperately wish we could change, logic dictates that were we able to do so, the “Now” from which we began our journey back in time would cease to exist, replaced by a new series of “Nows.” Which sets off all sorts of interesting speculation on alternate universes, an utterly fascinating topic in itself.

And, when all is said and done, if you will allow me one more analogy, all this speculation, fun as it maybe, is not unlike being in a hamster cage in which no matter how fast our minds run, it really gets us nowhere.

So while we cannot know the future until it becomes the past, we can be free to contemplate it and do our best to manipulate our Now toward what we want our future memories to be.

Or, we can just sit back, not bother about contemplating anything at all and let time take its course and bring us whatever it may bring us. Given we really don't have that much of a choice, it's probably the most logical option.

You can let go of my belt now.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday and Thursday. Please take a moment to visit his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, you might want to check out Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1), which is also available as an audiobook (http://www.audible.com/pd/ref=sr_1_1?asin=B00DJAJYCS&qid=1372629062&sr=1-1).

Monday, November 03, 2014

Beyond Understanding

Please believe me when I say I sincerely do not understand how I have survived this long in a world that is all but incomprehensible to me. Technology. People. Instruction manuals. Myself. All are and have always been great mysteries to me. Just when I think I might be getting a handle on something, something else will step in to totally contradict whatever I thought I had figured out.

Why do people do what they do, say what they say, believe what they believe? Is there no such thing as logic? How can they possibly be so willfully ignorant, or viciously cruel? It is true that, while we hate to admit that Man is an animal, he is…and a predatory one at that. Still, after thousands of years of struggle to rise above the other animals, we have not overcome our basest instincts. Why does it take horrendous events to draw us together and display those traits for which we have striven so long and hard? And why, after these events, do we quickly regress to our self-centered, selfish ways?

How can people so easily become the pawns of duplicitous, power-hungry, hate-and-fear mongering politicians, pundits, and zealots? How can we keep re-electing people to represent us who have proven time after time that the only interests they serve are their own? Why are humans so willing to simply accept whatever they’re told rather than think for themselves?

I am a Democrat. I always have been. Possibly because I was brought up during the presidency of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, but mainly, I think, simply because I sincerely believe that it is the government's duty to protect the people--and especially those who, for whatever reason, cannot protect themselves. Why does the Republican party seem totally devoted to obstructionism and negativity? I honestly cannot think of a single positive proposal they have made for the good of the majority of the citizens of our country. They do not smile, they sneer.

What perversity dictates that people devote intense fascination to things which really, in the overall scheme of things, are utterly inconsequential, and have not one whit of effect whatsoever on them personally or on their lives...while at exactly the same time refusing to give a minute's serious consideration to things which are vital to their very existence. They will stand on the street corner and smoke three cartons of cigarettes while utterly engrossed in deep conversation about Justin Bieber's tattoos. We go into the equivalent of national mourning when some celebrity dies, yet read of thousands dying of hunger every single day with little or no reaction. More than 26,000 Americans die each year from influenza, yet four people with ebola send us running off in all directions, screaming in fear.

Grown men go absolutely berserk with excitement watching athletes running around throwing and catching balls while they themselves sit on barstools chugging beer and eating fried butter. ("We're Number One!" No, you're not. The athletes are Number One—you’re just fat and lazy.)

My incomprehension of course extends to myself. How can I possibly so frequently say and do such egregiously stupid things? Why do I seem incapable of thinking before I act or speak? I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to undo things which cannot be undone, with the result that I surely come across as an idiot to those aware of my gaffs, most of which could have been avoided had I thought first.

The fact that I may be expecting much more from my fellow human beings…and definitely from myself…than is, well, logical, unfortunately does not stop them or me from expecting it. Strangely enough, given everything just said above, I think it’s called “optimism.”

Thursday, October 30, 2014

Commercially Speaking

I love TV commercials. One of my current favorites is, "Tell your doctor if you've been to a place where certain fungal infections are common." Like I'd know?

And I'm impressed by the number of commercials--I see at least a dozen every night--that say, "Ask your doctor if (whatever) is right for you." So I am supposed to take time away from whatever I'm doing to schedule an expensive doctor's appointment, for the sole purpose of asking, "Hey, doc, is Barf-Ex right for me?"

I delight in the ubiquitous Erectile Dysfunction commercials. I remember when it was just called what it is: impotence. As a gay man, I find a certain reassurance in these commercials because obviously "E.D." affects only heterosexuals. I can't help but wonder, since the guys featured are always wearing a wedding ring, if perhaps their problem might lie in their having opted for the wrong sexual orientation.

I'm sorry that I don't see quite so many loan company ads as I used to, perhaps because it may finally have dawned on people that borrowing money not only does not resolve the problem of not having enough money, but that the money borrowed must be repaid with interest and therefore only adds one more bill to be paid.

I am deeply touched by the diligence with which advertisers adhere to the principle of Truth in Advertising. And right up there near the top is "Free Credit Report dot Com" which says you can go to their site and get your credit report absolutely free, and that's exactly what you can do. Apparently they just forgot, in the ad which lured you to their site in the first place, to mention that in order for the "Free" to kick in, you first have to pay out the nose to join something or other.

That so many commercials use exactly the same words and phrases is no coincidence. Though little known outside advertising circles, all advertisers rely heavily upon the Dictionary of Advertising Terms. A few of them follow, for your edification.

"Piled High!" means you can slip it under a closed door.

"Emerging science suggests" means they don't have a shred of actual proof of whatever they're claiming.

"New and Improved!" means they have added half a teaspoon of something to the 500 gallon vats from which the product is taken.

"For Well-Qualified Buyers" means you don't qualify.

"You must call within the next five minutes" means you can call whenever you want, day or night, and you'll still get it.

"Strict limit of 5 per customer" means if you are stupid enough to want 3,000 of the things they'll be delighted to sell them to you.

"Not sold in stores" means that no store was willing to carry it.

"Comes with a Certificate of Authenticity" means it comes with a worthless piece of paper with some words on it.

"Money Back Guarantee" means you're welcome to send it back at your own expense and see if it reaches the company before it goes bankrupt.

"Satisfied customers" means people who did not demand their money back.

Well, it's time for another richly rewarding evening of commercials. I just wish they'd stop trying to insert those annoying "programs" between them.

Monday, October 27, 2014

Little Boxes

I am a hoarder of memories. I keep them all in little boxes stored in a special Closet of Time in the attic of my mind. I carefully pack the good/happy memories in sturdy boxes wrapped in special mental wrapping paper tied with bows, the elaborateness of the paper and bows indicating their relative value. The unpleasant/painful memories are hastily thrown into plain cardboard boxes with the flaps overlapped to close them. Unfortunately, they keep popping open unexpectedly and for no apparent reason other than to remind me…unnecessarily…of my flaws and insecurities. There are also a great many more-securely closed boxes containing snippets of memory…distinct incidents from my life which for some reason have had some indirect influence on my life.

I know exactly what is in each of the gift-wrapped boxes: holidays and family and lovers and vacations and friends and good movies and good books and laughter. I don’t need to open them to know exactly what pleasures they hold. And, to be honest, I deliberately avoid opening them because I know that to do so would force me to acknowledge that the memories they hold are just that…memories…and cannot be relived.

The plain, securely closed boxes hold a vast assortment of random memories which obviously if not specifically affected my life, such as shopping for a throw-rug with my mother while very young and, in response to being asked which of two possibilities I preferred, refusing to say for fear of hurting the feelings of the other; of being in my beloved Aunt Thyra’s kitchen and, on seeing a bunch of bananas and wanting one, being too painfully shy to ask; of leaving a May Basket at the doorstep of a little girl classmate…second grade, as I recall…on whom I had one of the very few (and fleeting) “normal” crushes of my life: of riding my bike home down the hill from Harry Morris school….

It truly disturbs me to realize that it is the flimsily-closed cardboard-box memories which seem to vastly outnumber the others. I think it says more about my personality than I would prefer to have known. They contain vivid, painfully sharp-edged memories of stupid mistakes, unintentionally hurtful things I’ve done or said, missed opportunities, and regrets. Whenever they pop open, they are like reopened wounds, and the pain they cause is very real.

Walking down the street with my dad with a bag of candy he’d bought me and not offering him a piece; forgetting the name of a young man with whom I’d been to bed two nights before when I ran into him on the street with a friend and being unable to introduce them by name; making my mother cry by snapping at her while returning from New Orleans while I was in the Navcads. (And even in the relating the contents of this one box, other, vastly larger and more painful boxes spring open—not telling the doctors to stop all attempts to prolong her life when she and I both knew it was hopeless, and after I’d promised her that I would do so.) I would give anything to go back in time and NOT do/say these things, but I cannot.

We all, I suspect, whether we acknowledge—or are even aware of—it or not, have our own little Closet of Time filled with our own assorted boxes of memories. But it is the ability to acknowledge their existence which makes a huge difference in the course of our lives.

Thursday, October 23, 2014

Ursula's World

I've long ago given up wondering what triggers my thoughts and memories, but for some reason I found myself thinking of my friend Ursula. I'd never in my life met anyone like her before, nor have I since. And doubt I ever shall again.

I met Ursula while I was living in a very small town in northern Wisconsin. She was well-known in the area as being an eccentric rock of a woman who, in her 70s when I met her, lived alone on a 20-acre farm on which she raised sheep. She also sheared them and spun their wool into yarn, from which she made mittens, scarves, and various other items. She had electricity but no running water and no toilet.

I’d heard Ursula was Jewish before I met her…there were very few Jews in the area, most of the residents being either Finnish (to work the forests) or Italian (to work the mines).

For a time, I worked part-time at a supermarket, which is where I first met her. She had come into the store during Rosh Hashanah, and I wished her a happy holiday. She took a liking to me, and we became friends.

She did not willingly talk of her past, and even then only in small bits and pieces, over time. She was born in Germany of a Jewish mother and a non-Jewish father, and she had one older brother whom she adored. When the Nazis came to power, she and her family were shipped off to a concentration camp for "half-breeds." Though spared the gas chamber, their life in the camps was incomprehensible to those not experiencing it.

At some point during or immediately after the war, her beloved brother was beaten to death by a group of Nazi thugs.

On February 13, 1945, she was on a prison train which was stopped at the outskirts of Dresden as the infamous firebombing of the city began. Over 100,000 people died in the firestorms. Ursula and others on the train were forced to go through the destroyed city retrieving bodies.

When her camp was liberated at the end of the war, her mother and father left the confines of the camp for the first time to go for a walk. Her father was shot and killed while on that walk…she never said why, or by whom, but it didn’t matter. Murder is murder.

Somehow finding her way to the U.S.—again, I have no details—-Ursula married a Serb emigre and had two daughters. The marriage was a disaster, and they were divorced after Ursula moved to Chicago. She managed to buy a small house and raise her daughters. The riots of the 1968 Democratic Party convention in Chicago terrified her, convincing her that what had happened in Germany in the 1930s was happening in America. She sold her house and fled to northern Wisconsin, where she bought her farm. She became estranged from her daughters, who moved away as soon as they could.

I would visit her frequently, and she would call me to ask to pick up a few things from the store for her. She had a large garden, and always kept me supplied with vegetables in season. She mowed her own lawn, using a scythe and a push lawnmower.

She, I, and a gay mutual friend (one of only about 10 gays in a 100 mile radius) built a 30 x 60 foot barn for her sheep, largely out of materials salvaged from the various collapsed buildings around her property. She was fiercely, fiercely independent and resourceful.

She was also literally paranoid in her fear of any form of authority.. When the government installed an "ELF" defense tracking system throughout northern Wisconsin, every low-flying plane or passing helicopter became an omen of danger.

She did not have many friends. She did not trust people, as a rule. However, she had two women with whom she grew quite close. And then, suddenly, one by one, she abruptly cut off all contact with them for some inexplicable-to-me but unforgivable-to-her transgression.

We talked every day on the phone, and she would always say "We have to watch out for one another: you never know what might happen."

And then one day I tried to call her. That there was no answer wasn’t surprising: she was always out of the house tending to chores. But when after five or six calls with no response, I began to get concerned. She usually told me when she was planning to go somewhere, and she’d mentioned nothing. Finally, after about the eighth call, I was truly concerned. For some reason, I was unable to drive over (it was about a 20 minute drive) to check on her, and so I called the Sheriff’s office and asked that if they had a car in the area, they might stop and check to be sure she was okay.

I heard nothing further, and later that evening, I called again. Ursula answered the phone. I asked what had happened, and she said she had just been outside working. She then said: "You had no right to call the police. I do not want to talk to you anymore." And she hung up, and that, despite my efforts to explain that I only called the police because I was concerned for her, was, except for a few cursory accidental meetings at the store during which she was obviously painfully uncomfortable, the end of our friendship.

I was truly sorry to lose her as a friend, but I realize that in her eyes, I had done the unforgivable: I had called her to the attention of the authorities.

After moving back to Chicago, I heard from a Wisconsin friend that Ursula had died. Though she no longer considered me her friend, she was still mine. I miss her, and hope she finally has the peace that eluded her all her life. Shalom, Ursula.

Monday, October 20, 2014

When "Then" was "Now"

Every now and then I like to go back to the letters I wrote to my parents so very, very long ago, when I was a wide-eyed kid stepping out into the big world for the first time as a sailor aboard the aircraft carrier USS Ticonderoga. I consider it a form of time travel and marvel at how different yet how much the same I am. And suddenly 59 years ago is yesterday afternoon.

Sunday, 18 September 1955

Dear Folks

Here it is Sunday again―another week gone almost completely to waste. We are now scurrying away from Norfolk, hotly pursued by Hurricane Ion, which is a mere 1,000 miles to the southwest of us. Oh, well, they say an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. I honestly can’t see why we have to run, though―almost all the other ships are remaining in port. The United States Navy, like God, moves in many mysterious ways.

Before I forget, which I have in the last three letters, I meant to tell you (mom especially) that Bill DeForest and one of my other roommates, Carl Hinger, got their commissions, and are now officers. A guy from my old pre-flight class is now here on the Ti―he washed out, too. That makes about six of us on here, now. And some of the guys in my battalion in Pre-Flight are just about ready to get their wings. Ah, such is life on the planet Earth.

They have movies on board every night, but I almost never go (“almost never”???) Either I’ve seen the picture, or we’re working, or I’m just too lazy to go and put on a pair of whites.

After being at sea all week, we pulled into Norfolk about 4:00 Friday afternoon. For some reason, we couldn’t get a pier and had to anchor way out in the harbor, on the outermost edge of a cluster of ships. In order to get from the ship to shore, we had to use the ship’s power lifeboats. Now, there are 3,000 guys on this thing, and about 1500 were given liberty. We have three power lifeboats, each with a seating capacity of about 65; two enclosed 40’ launches with capacities of 24 each, and two officers’ boats, which needn’t interest us at the moment. After waiting three hours Friday night, I finally got ashore. After the first hour and a half, I didn’t really want to go, but I was so mad by then that I swore I’d go ashore even if I had to turn right around and come back again, which is practically what I had to do. They have a very clever way of doing it around here―officers first, Chiefs next, first-class POs next, then second class, then third, and finally us peons. And naturally, everyone at the head of the line have five or ten buddies at the back of the line, and they generously let them in ahead. Then, too, everyone jams toward the exits for the boats. The MAA’s (Masters At Arms―ship’s police, more or less) come and make us all fall back into four ranks. The first rank goes first, and so soon there is no second, and third and forth ranks―just a big mob in the first rank. You fight your way to the exits again―back come the MAA’s; back you go, further behind now than you were when you started. The guy who was in front of you a minute ago is now fourteen guys ahead of you. The MAA’s with their “God damn you, get back―ain’t nobody goin’ no place till you get back.” Ah, such fun―such good, clean American sport―I’m going to make the Navy my career (as it says on the posters in front of the Post Office). Well, I’ll tell you what―when I get out, I’m going to make it a point to go to the Post Office once a week and throw rocks at the Recruiting Station. And then I’ll stand outside the office and catch prospective enlistees and give them the scoop. Somebody evidently has already been doing this, as I see the Navy is going to have to draft 10,000 guys this November!

Just been out on the fantail watching the waves. They are getting bigger. I’m hoping we’ll be in for a real violent storm, but the guys who’ve been in them say no. They say a hurricane can swamp a ship, but this is too big to imagine it sinking.

Sorry I didn’t get a chance to call Sunday (today) but they just don’t have phone booths in the middle of the ocean. I wonder how far out we are?

Enough for now. I’ll write more the first chance I get.

Regards to All

Love

Roge

For anyone who might be interested, all my navy letters have been published as A World Ago: A Navy Man’s Letters Home, 1954-1954 in Kindle and other e-book formats. I’d be pleased if you’d check it out.

Thursday, October 16, 2014

The Bouncing Ball

While it is unlikely that you are of a sufficient age to remember when movie theaters, as part of their programs, would include an assortment of "short subjects" along with the feature film. "Sing Alongs", in which the audience was encouraged to...well, sing along with some well known old song, were popular. The words would appear at the bottom of the screen, and a little ball would appear over the first word of the song. The audience would be invited to "follow the bouncing ball," which, with the start of the music, would then bounce along over each syllable of the song as it was sung.

Today's entry is something like that, except that neither you nor I know the words, and there is no music. I just basically hope you'll be able to follow the bouncing ball.

If you've read these blogs for any length of time, you know that how I ever manage to get anything done, let alone complete a thought, is a constant source of amazement to me. I've used innumerable comparisons in various blogs to try to explain how my mind works--raging rapids; a pinball machine; a 4th of July fireworks display; a popcorn popper; a roller-coaster ride; an exposed live wire, tornado debris, and now a bouncing ball. All true but no single one definitive.

So...ready? Cue the music, and begin.

This morning in the shower, it occurred to me--you know better than to ask why, I'm sure, since I have no idea myself--that I had not heard from a loyal reader, John Bidwell, in a while. "That does not bode well," a mind-voice said, having majored in Clever.

A chorus of mental groans was forestalled by another thought: "Exactly what does 'bode' mean?"

"Foretell." (A later check of the dictionary shows I was right: Origin: Old English bodian [proclaim, foretell,] from boda [messenger,] of Germanic origin; related to German Bote, also to bid 1 .)

"Then what about 'forebode'? If 'bode' means 'fortell', how did 'forebode' come to mean 'warning'?"

After pondering this for all of twenty seconds, I opened the shower door to grab a towel. As I did so, I noticed my cat Spirit was not sitting there, eager to run into the stall and start licking the beads of water running down the wall. I did not see him until I returned to the computer to try to come up with a blog subject for today, and was a bit startled to see him curled up behind my laptop, his head using my internet modem as a pillow. This was a first, and as I watched him, he began making odd little sounds...also a first; I'd never heard him make any sound in his sleep, and it occurred to me that he must be dreaming.

What in the world do cats dream about? I wrote a poem once called "Dreams of a Calico Mouse" about a calico cat. But since we do not have mice in my building, and Spirit is not a calico, I was at a loss as to the possible subject of Spirit's dreams.

By this time, the peripatetic nature of my thought processes over the preceding twelve minutes or so had given me the subject of this blog. “"Peripatetic" (peripatetic |ˌperipəˈtetik| adjective: traveling from place to place, esp. working or based in various places for relatively short periods”), by the way, is on my rather long list of favorite words, both for its sound and its meaning. I wonder what your favorite words are?

Well, time for the feature film to start. Thanks for following the bouncing ball.

Monday, October 13, 2014

The Sound of Laughter

Laughter is one of the greatest gifts bestowed on humankind. And while certain other animal are capable of it, laughter is part and parcel of what makes us human. The sound of laughter is often associated with our warmest memories. (A teacher once asked her students to describe the most beautiful sound in the world, and one little boy replied, simply, “My mother’s laughter.”)

The gift of laughter is lavished on the young, and is an invaluable asset throughout life. It has been scientifically proven to actually improve one’s health. While exactly what it is that triggers laughter may vary from individual to individual, almost all laughter is positive, and has its roots in surprise and incongruity: something said or done in a totally unexpected/unforeseen way can triggers a physiological reaction of delight. The ‘funny bone’ is the only ‘bone’ located inside the brain.

Laughter can be visceral…the reaction to a pratfall, for example…or intellectual, as in puns and when the expected is suddenly turned on its ear. Irony, satire and even sarcasm can provide fodder for laughter. While there is such a thing as derisive laughter, it lacks the basic element of humor and therefore doesn’t truly count. To laugh with someone is positive; to laugh at them is negative. And laughter not based in positivity is not truly laughter.

I’m honestly sorry that I do not laugh nearly as much as I used to, or want to. I would give anything for a good, old-fashioned, scrunched-face, unable-to-stop, tear-streaming, gasping-for-breath belly laugh. I truly miss it terribly. I’ve given a considerable amount of thought to why such laughter tends to diminish to some degree as one grows older. One obvious reason is that because one of the most common triggers of laughter is surprise, the longer one lives, the fewer things are surprising. A second reason is that repetition tends to dull the sharp edges that jab the funny bone to invoke laughter. The toddler’s giddy delight in a rousing game of “Peek-a-boo,” diminishes with repetition, which eventually dampens both the surprise and the delight.

A very funny joke is of course repeated. But the more often one hears it, the less it “tickles the funny bone.” Common situations which lend themselves to jokes also are muffled by repetition. Once wildly popular sitcoms have the tendency to become “less funny” as time goes on. Often I suspect, it is not the show that has been dulled so much as the viewer’s automatic reactions. The older one gets, the more one hears the same—or only slightly modified—joke until the factor of surprise is totally diminished.

A shared a sense of humor is often one of the key elements of friendship. It was a major factor with two of the best friends I’ve ever had. When I was a teenager, my best friend was Lief Ayen. Had it not been for our identical senses of humor, we were so different I doubt we ever would have been as close as we were. To our parents’ dismay, we would spend hours on the phone laughing hysterically.

Later, in college and beyond there was Russ Hogan, whose intelligence sparked a caustic wit which never failed to have me doubling over with laughter. Both Russ and Lief are now sadly gone, but just remembering the laughter we shared still warms my heart.

College was, by itself, one of the happiest times of my life, and happiness inevitably produces laughter. But it was the laughter shared with friends which enriched the experience exponentially.

Because I have reached an age where surprise is harder and harder to come by when it comes to humor, I find of late my sense of humor has taken a more caustic turn, as demonstrated in many of my ubiquitous posts on Facebook. However, I still delight in the incongruous and the bizarre. And the antics of children and animals still seldom fail to provoke it.

The world would be a far better place if the sound of good-natured laughter could increase to the point of drowning out currently overwhelming hate-filled babble of politicians and pundits.

Okay. So, two penguins walk into a bar……

Thursday, October 09, 2014

Ah, If Ye Only Knew....

While I don't often presume to speak for others, I think I'm on safe ground here by making an exception and speaking not only for myself but for every other writer I've had the pleasure of knowing over the years.

This blog was prompted by a totally-unexpected e-mail I received from a reader saying how very much he enjoyed my work, and it occurred to me that my reactions to it would quite probably be echoed by any writer who received it or anything similar to it.

I did not recognize the name on the email. The heading was "From a Fan of the Dick Hardesty Series," which of course got my attention, and it began, "Dear Mr. Grey."

I am always absolutely delighted to receive a note from a reader, though a little embarrassed to be called "Mr. Grey." To one who has always suffered from serious low-self-esteem issues, the email was what a tire pump is to a flattened tire. For I’m sure the majority of writers, any positive note from a reader defines the word "validation."

For some unknown reason, readers tend to be intimidated by writers (and having so said, I must admit that I am, too, by writers I consider far better craftsmen than myself). I suspect part of the reason may be that perhaps they assume all writers are F. Scott Fitzgeralds who live in a different world than mere mortals. And while there may be a couple of writers who dwell in marble mansions high on Mt. Olympus, most of us are just average people who happen to write books. (I can’t add "who write books for a living," for very few writers can actually live off their writing income.)

Like any reader hesitant to contact a writer, I too, often feel intimidated anyone I consider more learned or successful than I. So when, in the course of reading the reader's note, he mentioned casually that he was a television writer and producer, I was more than a little flattered. And when I noted that his signature line included the information that he is also communications professor at a well-known east coast university, I was close to euphoric. I did a Google search on him and discovered his television credits include several Emmys. That someone so eminent actually took the time to write me to say he enjoyed my work made me feel like a little boy who has just been given a wonderful present.

Most writers' worlds are fairly insular. We pour ourselves into our work for months and years at a time. From the moment the manuscript goes off to the publisher, we're more or less left dangling. Few publishers have the time to let the writer know how the book is selling, and our only real way of knowing whether what we've written is good or bad, other than the always-too-few reviews and too-infrequent royalty statements, is what we hear from our readers. And in the end, it is how the writer’s work is received/perceived by the reader than matters.

So whenever a reader is kind enough to take the time to contact a writer directly to say something nice about his or her books, it quite literally fulfills Clint Eastwood's famous request to "make my day." I have never heard a writer say he or she was less than delighted to hear from a reader. To hear someone actually say that the writer's words may have brought someone a degree of pleasure is a special form of validation.

I've always consider every book I write to be a one-sided conversation with the reader. To actually hear back from a reader is, like the credit card ad says, "priceless."

Please keep this in mind, and the next time you read a book you enjoy, don't hesitate for an instant to drop the author a note. It will be immensely appreciated.

Trust me.

Monday, October 06, 2014

Hourglass

Each human life is an hourglass filled with a specific number of seconds/minutes/hours/days/years, and I, for one, am excruciatingly aware of each one that passes from the top of the glass to the bottom. Since they are numbered, they are precious, and the waste of a single one of them is an irretrievable loss.

It is my deep and sincere belief that we emerge into life from the nothing of eternity and return to it at the moment of our death. The nothing of eternity does not disturb me, but doing nothing in the infinitesimally short existence available to us does. I can't stand to do nothing; I must always be doing something. I grudgingly admire those who can sit motionless for hours on a park bench on a warm summer's day. I am sure it gives them immense pleasure. If that is the way they wish to use the grains of their limited time, that is their choice. But I am incapable of doing so. Even as a child, when I would lie on my back in the grass and stare up at the clouds, I was doing something by searching them for—and finding—ships and clowns and elephants and faces. I love being on a beach staring at the waves, but I can't just sit quietly on the sand and observe for more than a few minutes; there is the whole beach to explore; so many colorful pebbles and seashells and bits of unknown things to see and contemplate.

To me, motion—doing something—is life; physical, and worse, mental inertia is somehow something less.

I probably spend nine or more hours of every day on the computer, but am compelled at some point to get up and go for a walk, not only for the exercise but to experience something of the world outside my apartment and outside my mind. I'm sure many would argue, with some justification, that much of my computer time is “wasted”; the equivalent of a car spinning its wheels without getting anywhere. I would disagree. I do emails, and write blogs, and engage in exchanges on Facebook and other sites, and too seldom work on my next book, all because with every word, every idea, every thought transferred from mind to monitor I am leaving a record of myself which hopefully will be around long after I am physically gone.

I have no way of knowing how many, if any, others see life the way I do, or are as compelled to hold nothingness at bay by doing something. I know there must be some. You, perhaps?

There are so very many things in our individual lives of which, if we consider them at all, we never speak, ironically because no one else speaks of them; thoughts and feelings we think of as being so personal that we feel no one else could have experienced in the same way, or be expected to understand. I am thoroughly convinced that those who think that are wrong. Which is why I have often described myself as being like a frog on a dissecting table, with all my emotional and mental innards laid out for anyone to see. I would hope that in doing so, others may say, “Hey, I can identify with that. That's me he's talking about! I thought I was the only one!”

Which brings us back to the hourglass. Man seems to be the only animal consciously aware of the passage of time, and the fact that it is, for each individual, finite. There are billions upon billions of things we will never know, books we will never read, places we will never visit, adventures we will never have. We can't possibly do/experience it all. But we can try to do/experience as much as possible in the time we do have before the last grain drops from the top of the glass.