“You can kiss my decision as it walks out the door.” ~ Rayna James, lead character of Nashville, the ABC hit drama series of this past season. She sure hit that high note with me!
Words should fall from one’s fingers like water vs. stymied by consternation, a constipated rhythm far from fascinating. I am in awe of those who have and continue to achieve this. They are the ones I salute tonight, an unconnected assortment of friends I fortunately befriended through bravery and now hail for their long overdue and mightily deserved recognition. They have been published! I pray what binds us shall not evaporate — for the emotions will dry up sooner than the ideas yet to take shape. The writer plays with words, sometimes tortured by the presumed expectations of others before they see the page. Those worth their paper are regaled by those who acknowledge them, their readership. The bond must never be broken. Congratulations my dear G.S. I’m sure cabs are for kissing. And you’ve earned one big buss.
I look back 45 years to someone who inadvertently affected my life. Someone who was so inconsequential. He wasn’t a guy I had a crush on. He wasn’t someone I admired. He wasn’t smart nor terribly funny. He was sort of a class clown who wasn’t in my class, school or social. He was the son of my mother’s then best friend, a sort of Kevin Arnold who, as in the series*, wasn’t very wondrous either. Alan Rider**. Kinda cute. He would lie on his back in his carpeted living room, pull up his shirt and tell his dear sweet dog, “Bully, lick my tummy.” I think he was 13 by then. Alan, that is. Bully, short for Bullet, a shepherd collie mix, wasn’t anywhere near there, and he had far more sense than to tongue Alan’s pudgy navel. Looking back on this pubescent ritual, it amazes me that I, or anyone else for that matter, could take Alan’s opinions seriously. But that is just what I did the day we tried to form a social club. We – Alan, Iris, her brother Stuey (rhymes with Suey) and me – were batting around tightening up our little bowling group when I saw how hopeless it all was. As with most things nowadays, there was no leadership! And for the first time in my short life, I rose to the challenge, only to be swatted down by The Tummy Titillator. (Oh wait, that last word probably came into play a good year or decade later for the young master.) Alan boldly announced that no one had put me in charge, immediately snuffing out my just-struck candle. (I hadn’t flicked a Bic yet.) And that was the end of that. I left with an omelette on my face. I guess I should’ve left when Iris arrived, as she was so fond of her “eckies,” a food I’ve always deplored. Allergic to sulphur, two strikes were already against me. Most fortunately, Bullet wasn’t. I learned that day to never appoint yourself anything without putting it to a vote. And now I realize how that philosophy held me back my entire life. Bless the write-in presidential ballot.
* The Wonder Years
** name changed to protect identity
I am a HUGE General Hospital fan. No, it’s not that I’m actually all that size-wise, though that’s fine if your body can carry it. It’s just that my love affair with this soap knows no end. Even if ABC cancels it I’ll be viewing episodes in my mind’s eye. It doesn’t matter that the plots have been recycled ad nauseam along with the roles. It’s the talent the directors, writers, other crew and, above all, fellow cast members elicit. And the sexuality. Maybe that’s why they called them “soap operas” in the first place (not): one had to wash those thoughts from their puritanical pantalones. As they say on the current Progressive [Insurance] commercial, “No mas ….” Someone must’ve been watching a soap when they created that one. Hope it wasn’t some hipster type!
Wherever you go, there you are. Old nouveau philosophy à la 12-Step. Does it really matter that you moved there and I moved here? We took ourselves and our personalities. We have the task of being the light in our own dark room; we just must strike the right match.
I basically believe in the concepts of karma and dharma. What we put out, we get back, and, We have a path to follow that is preset, based on the past, and we must overcome certain obstacles or we are doomed to encounter them over and over, until we master that path, possibly beyond death and into a new life. One must find the initiative without anger or frustration, but harboring kindness for everything. Exuding kindness is easier than being nonjudgmental, isn’t it? Put out warmth and you wrap yourself in it. If no one else warms up/to you, you are insulated and have lost nothing. If they play cold, don’t give all your warmth away. You’ll always need some for a rainy day.
Ultimately, if we all stayed where we were, we would not have grown as human beings. We had to separate from our parents, our comfort zone, and go our own ways. When I lost both of mine, I finally grew up. Just remember, each of us is struggling with something, and each of us is being tested. What doesn’t kill us truly does make us stronger, and we wear those battle scars with pride. I still choose to be a warrior.
You’re gay … and you love it. You don’t give a flying fig that others don’t. But you have a secret: You are just like Them. “What!” you exclaim. Well, you’re judging everyone else too, condemning them for not looking/acting a certain way or being a certain weight, or patronizing non-gay establishments when they have “a choice.” In fact, “choice” shouldn’t even enter into the picture; it’s a dirty word in the “community” unless it’s about birth control among bisexuals. And as we all know, that’s (still) mainly a women’s issue. Wait, that must be “womyn.” Where are all the lesbians anyway?
Sitting here watching mindless tv, the kind put out by execs who pay the more polished types (hipsters) to emit endless drivel which dumbs down doze to the lowest common denominator, and thinking, What about some new shows? Maybe …. “Let’s Hear It For the Has(s)ids!” or “Cab Couples”? How many of you out there know all that much about those guys in black long cloths (not loincloths) on the subway, the people you liken to Rasputin? Heck, I rode them (the subways, that is) for over 30 years and can’t tell you a thing about these folks. My parents had a strong dislike for their alleged body odor, while Charlotte on Sex And The City really cut loose with one. Nothing like the forbidden. Anyone ever “go to town” with some Amish dude? Now there’s fodder for yet another series … comedic, of course. And while we’re riding on my prescient words, some are probably doing a pas de deux or singing a duet A Lewd Wetta in the back (or front) of a new mellow yellow … that’s “taxi” baybee. Andja don’t gotta be a NuYawka. Not yet, anyway.