Like a Moth to a Flamer

Some gay men state that they have always known they were homosexual, others say they figured it out later in life and still others deny it all together. My own story is rather dull and anticlimactic as I don't know for sure when the realization occurred. I suppose I had yearnings as a child, but I also yearned to be a fireman and to eat my weight in s'mores, but those things never came to light. Regardless of how it happened, I grew up to be an out and proud gay man who pines after fireman but who has no desire to become one.

I figure all us homosexuals begin life as little hunks of gay coal, then, with a lot of training, we become big flaming homos and later, as we discover the identity beneath the sexuality, we turn into queer burning embers trying to live a well adjusted life in a world still trying to figure us out. As I search for the answers to life's little mysteries and my light begins to dim I have to wonder if I will be remembered as the hunk of coal who turned into a dazzling diamond, or if I will become another pile of ashes left behind by those in search of hotter fires. Is it possible memories of me will stoke the fires of eternity or is life simply ashes to ashes and dust to dust?

Slip Sliding Away

Having slipped on the ice and bumped my rump, I entered the warm embrace of my house, bolted the door behind me and called Jodi to tell her of my horrible evening. Not only was I going to have a bruised tailbone caused by my own neglect, I was certain to be lectured by my editor to whose wife I let slip his exact whereabouts last Thursday evening between, "I'll be home late," and "I've got a meeting," neither of which involved the bar on 10th street. Those're the dangers of gossip I guess.

As I continued to prattle on about my day I became sidetracked by a news story about a young girl who had been injured when the airbag in her sports sedan deployed after she knocked over a No Parking sign. I got to thinking about all the hidden dangers in our everyday world where even the ground we walk on is unstable and safety devices turn bad. How is it most of us can roam about without a piano falling on our head, but still it must happen to someone? And if we child proof our homes, why do we still need emergency childcare facilities? How can we feel safe in an unsafe world?

Trash Talk

When you are growing up in a certain environment you never know you are a part of it until you are much older. I know now that I was a member of a select group collectively known as "white trash." As a child I assumed everyone had a couple of rusty old hot water heaters, Buick bench seats and miscellaneous metal items in their back yards, but one should never assume. As I began my ascent into adulthood and made out in Buick bench seats rather than receiving tetanus from their dislodged springs, I became increasingly aware that my life left much to be desired. So I moved on. I bought my own house with its own hot water heater and filled my backyard with patio furniture and plants. I feel as though my white trash days are behind me, though I must confess, I bought my patio furniture at K-Mart and my water heater is rusting around the edges. I I have to wonder, is this new life simply a thin veneer covering the fact that I am still trash at heart? Will I ever be any thing other than my beginnings? Can we ever escape our pasts, or will they always be there lurking in the back seat?

Childish Games

When I was a kid I loved to dress up in my neighbor's pearls and high heels then pretend to vacuum or cook or perform one of the many household chores ascribed to the lady of the manor. When I got bored with that I would get out my nylon doctor's bag and perform plastic surgery on Cabbage Patch. When the poor baby completed her rhinoplasty / liposuction two-fer special I'd tuck her in bed and let her rest while I went outside to wreak havoc on my Huffy. Oh, the days of youth. . .

As an adult I am freakish about a tidy house (though I prefer to clean in pants not pearls), and anal about yearly check-ups. I chalk this aptitude up to my early childhood games. The things I am inept at are considerably less fun -- arguing with my partner, dealing with death. When one of these predicaments arise I tend to smile and act as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening. When we are young we are encouraged to play house or doctor, and from this we learn our roles as functional, happy adults. But what about our roles as the betrayed cancer patient? We, as learners, are not shown how to deal with ugly divorces or terminal diseases. So, how do we know how to play the game of difficult situations when we were never taught the rules?

Sweet Treats

I, as a health conscious aging adult, am a compulsive FDA label reader. Every time I go grocery shopping I have to build in time to scan and compare the health benefits of product "A" to product "B." Once I've weighed the pros and cons of each I happily place my wisely chosen food item into my cart, check it off my list and move about four feet down the aisle to repeat the procedure again. Over and over I do this until I have obtained every item on my list. It's grueling, but worth it -- I think.

This being said, I am a sweet treat freak. Cakes, pies, cookies and pastries of all shapes and sizes leave me salivating like Pavlov's dog upon hearing a tuning fork. To avoid avoiding my cookie cravings I simply purchase my pastries at the bakery where they don't list fat grams or calories. I figure if they're not printed in black and white, they must not exist. A pretty sweet deal I think. I'm aware that my little scheme is, in all likely hood, completely false, but I figure if I've been good all day -- in diet and in spirit -- then I deserve a treat. With all this justification flying about, I have to wonder, in life, is it really sweets to the sweet, or do we all get our just desserts? Will my goodness pay off, or will I wind up alone and fat with just a plate of crumbs, a salivating dog and a fork by my side?

Mixed Messages

After a particularly grueling yoga session, I headed across town avoiding the construction on 42nd street and arrived just in time for my psychiatrist appointment. We discussed my usual personal foibles and anxieties -- I assuring Dr. Help Me my liver could handle a higher dose of medication, he cautioning I could not. He recommended I try to get more sleep, I scoffed and told him I'd get right to it as soon as I picked up my dry cleaning, had my oil changed and wrote my personal memoirs. Then I tried to regain my composure before humbly asking if he had any free samples of my prescription I could have since I was trying to save my money to purchase a new pair of "come hither" jeans that fit me like a too tight leather glove. He begrudgingly acquiesced so long as I tried to find a balance between my work life, my social life, sleep and mania. No problem. I headed "Downtown" where, according to Petula Clark, "You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares." But on the way, I had an aching feeling I was supposed to be someplace. Then it dawned on my -- happy and successful. . . oh well, numb and medicated often do the trick. As I drove around aimlessly somewhere between inner peace and out-of-body experience I wondered, how can we be all things to all people? How can we be all things to ourselves? In a world that sends mixed messages and dictates what life should be like, is there any way to know which messages are meant for us?

Choosing Books

It is said that everyone in the world is connected to everyone else by a series of six people. It is also said that when you sleep with a person, you sleep with everyone he or she has slept with. I guess this means everyone has theoretically slept with everyone else. This could be considered a good thing when you think of all the good-looking people out there. The opposite also holds true. We must take into account all the less than beautifully blessed, not that looks are everything, but they certainly do help.

Scientists tell us there is chemistry involved in attraction -- that it's not all just random. Pheromones and moon cycles tell us who to date and when to date. All this cosmic hoopla is meant to get us in bed together so we can procreate, but sometimes you big, bang, boom your way to the bedroom just as Mother Nature planned and nothing happens.

They say you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, but can you judge a lover by what happens under the covers? I have had my fair share of hotties and luke warmies and have learned a thing or two from each. Sometimes hotties fizzle and some warmies sizzle. So how do you know if a person is romantically right for you? Do we put our trust in science and hope our chemicals don't send mixed messages, or do we trust in nature and hope she'll set the mood? Or, should we put our faith in ourselves and trust we know a good book when we read one?