Leonard Berstein, Aaron the Rabbi's Son, and a poem about masks on the verge of coming out

 

Sorry for two autobiographical stories in a row, but I'm trying to build up my Fiction/Travel Index

When I was a kid, my church had no problem with classical music, but my parents hated "that longhair stuff," so there was none in the house.  My first exposure to Bach, Berlioz, Beethoven, and Mozart came through a series of Young People's Concerts  which appeared occasionally on Sunday afternoons, hosted by famous composer Leonard Bernstein.

Later, when I joined the school orchestra, I learned more about Leonard Bernstein.

I saw his gay symbolism-heavy musicals, On the Town (1949), starring Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra, and West Side Story (1961), starring gay actor George Chakiris and assorted high-stepping hunks.

And his Symphony #3, Kaddish, named after the Jewish prayer for the dead.

He appeared on tv, conducting Gershwin, Mahler, and Beethoven.

No one ever mentioned that he was gay, off course, and his works revealed nothing, except maybe the Serenade for Solo Violin, Strings, Harp, and Percussion, after Plato's Symposium (1954).  The Symposium contains Plato's famous defense of same-sex love.

In the spring of my senior year, Aaron, the rabbi's son who was gay (but didn't know it yet), invited me to a performance of Bernstein's Mass, a musical theater piece based on the Latin Mass.  

"Wait -- isn't Bernstein Jewish?"

He nodded.  "That's what makes it interesting."

Nazarenes weren't supposed to associate with Catholics, or have anything to do with Catholic music, so of course I wanted to go.

 There are three acts.

Act 1: Devotion and Celebration.  The celebrant invites the congregants to worship.  They begin authentically, but then doubt creeps in.  Nazarenes were told that it was a sin to doubt the existence of God, the inerrancy of the Bible, or the fundamental beliefs like the Virgin Birth: the Devil's primary temptation was not to do bad things, but to doubt. But here it is celebrated as part of the worship experience.  How can God be with us when there is so much suffering in the world?

Originally the congregants mentioned war, but in more recent versions, they mention racism and homophobia.

Act 2:  Crisis and Collapse: The anxieties and doubts of the congregants take their toll on the celebrant, who has a spiritual collapse, breaks the sacred objects, and screams in rage against God.

What  I say -- I don't feel.
What I feel -- I can't show.
What I show -- isn't real.
What is real?  Oh Lord, I don't know.

Suddenly I realized that he was mirroring the interrogation that I received constantly from parents, friends, teachers, my brother, the preacher at church,  "What girl do you like?  What girl?  What girl?  What girl?" 

Every boy has discovered girls at your age.  Every boy has experienced True Love, that fills "the hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame."  If you haven't, you must pretend.  Smile, grin, flirt, talk about how much you long for feminine smiles, every day, every hour, for the rest of your life.

In the third act, Resolution, a boy emerges from the congregation and sings "I will lift up my eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help," offering hope in the midst of despair.  The celebrant is restored, and the Mass continues.

But I wasn't paying attention.

More after the break

Dad throws away my Book of Cute Boys

 

Are you checking out this guy's dick, or trying to read the titles in his bookcase?

I'm reading the titles.  

I love books.  I love browsing through used bookstores, driving home from the mall with a Barnes and Noble bag beside me, checking my recommendations on Amazon.

And reading every night before turning out the light, unless I'm on a date.

Well, sometimes the guy I'm dating has a well-stocked bookcase that distracts me from the bedroom stuff.

I've been buying at least two books per week since college.  That adds up to nearly 5,000,  but actually I have only about 2,000.  Every time I move, I pare down my collection.

Where did this bibliomania start?  Maybe with my parents, who disapproved of books.  They were at best a waste of time, and more likely sinful.  The only way I could get away with reading was to claim that it was a school assignment (evidently my teachers assigned a lot of science fiction and fantasy novels).

Or maybe it's all due to a traumatic incident that happened when I was about four years old, when we were still living on Randolph Street in Garrett,  Indiana.

 I had a Little Golden Book  I couldn't read most of the words yet, but the front cover showed two boys hugging and waving.  So I called it my Book of Cute Boys.

I think it was a retelling of the Disney movie The Swiss Family Robinson (1960), starring James MacArthur (left) and Tommy Kirk. I would not see the movie or read the original novel for many years, but I could tell that it was about a family living in the jungle.

One day we were driving somewhere on a scary country road, and I was reading in the back seat (this was before car seats, or even seatbelts).  Dad yelled back, "Don't read in the car!"  

He was afraid that I would get carsick and throw up.  It happened once, but I was never allowed to read in the car again.

More after the break

Dad buys me a naked man for Christmas

 

Not a real naked man, of course.

When I was a kid in Rock Island, three local celebrities were praised in the media, advertized in bookstores, and assigned by teachers: 

1. Jazz musician Bix Beiderbecke

2. Poet Carl Sandburg

3. Sculptor Isabel Bloom.

Born Isabel Scherer in 1908, she grew up in Davenport, across the river in Iowa, and studied at Grant Wood's Stone City Art Colony, where she met and married fellow artist John Bloom.  In the 1950s, she began producing distinctive sculptures carved out of Mississippi River stone or molded of mud mixed with concrete.  

They were absolutely atrocious. Angels, fairies, hugging children, mothers hugging babies, cats, doves, bridal couples, snowmen, Santa Clauses, the most maudlin, sentimental, and heteronormative dreck ever imagined.

But everyone in the Quad Cities loved them.  My parents loved them.There were two or three in every room.  Dozens more crossed the state with us to give to our Indiana relatives for Christmas presents.  When an out-of-town friend visited, they always went home with a Isabel Bloom fairy or hugging child.

So I should have anticipated what would happen.

I had just discovered Greek art -- rather, statues of muscular Greek gods, so for Christmas in ninth grade, I  asked for "a statue."  

I meant a desk-sized statue of a naked god, like the Belvedere Apollo, but Dad said, "Sure -- let's go down to Isabel Bloom's, and you can pick out the one you want."

I couldn't tell him "No, no...I wanted a naked Greek god, not some stupid boy holding a frog!", so my boyfriend Dan and I had to fake-grin our way through a mid-December visit to the crowded studio in the Village of West Davenport, as we sorted through Angel with Wreath, Unconditional Love, Lovebirds, Boy with Flag...

Eventually Dan wandered off, but my torture continued: Girl with Pumpkin, Newlyweds, Boy Offering Girl Flowers, Baby in Crib, Sleeping Cat...  

Left: The grown-up Dan, hopefully.

Then Dan came running excitedly from a side studio.  "Hey, what about this one?"  It was a nude male figure, seated, his arms around his knees.   Stylized, not muscular, but a heck of a lot better than the other stuff.

"John's Thinker, " he read from the bottom. 

"Must be a statue of her husband," I said, carefully taking it from his hands.  It felt warm to the touch.  It was thrilling to think that I might be holding an exact likeness of a real naked man.

"No, she didn't do this statue, her husband did," Dad said, frowning.  "John Bloom.  It's not a real Isabel Bloom."

"That's ok.  It's different from the others.  I'll take it." 

He looked at me oddly.  "The others are lots nicer ones.  How about First Kiss?"  He held out a statue of a little boy kissing an embarrassed little girl on the cheek.

"I don't want any statues of girls."

"It's a boy and a girl.  That's like two statues for the price of one!"

Was he objecting to the price of John's Thinker?  No, First Kiss cost twice as much.  "This one's cheaper."  

Left: John and Isabel

"But..you could use it as a kind of model, you know.  When you want a girl to let you kiss her, just show her the statue."

"Gross!" Dan exclaimed.

"After you discover girls, I mean."

"John's Thinker, please," I said firmly.

Dad shrugged.  "Well, if you're sure that's the one you want.  But I don't know what you're going to do with it, Skeezix." 

 Later I figured out that he always called me Skeezix, after a character in the old Gasoline Alley comic strip, when I expressed same-sex desire, something bizarre and beyond imagining at the time.

I still have the statue.  And someone put an Isabel Bloom angel and cat on my father's grave.

More after the break

A high school boy gives me his underwear

When I was growing up, we visited my parents' home town in northeastern Indiana about twice a year, at Christmastime and during the summer.  My favorite part of the visit was when Grandma announced "Let's go to Fort Wayne!"

When we were very little, Mom and Dad came, too, and when we were older, my baby sister came with us, but for about five yeares it it was just Kenny and me, fighting over who would get to ride "shotgun" in Grandma's brown Chevy Impala as she drove down country roads through Butler Center and Laotto and Huntertown, and finally  Fort Wayne:

The biggest, brightest, most exciting city in the world.

It was unimaginably huge, bigger than Rock Island, Moline, and Davenport put together, and it had the most fascinating places I had ever seen.  There was always something new: a gigantic County Courthouse; a candy factory much nicer than that scary one in the Willy Wonka movie; a Children's Zoo with its own train; an art museum; the history museum at Old City Hall; Kern's Toy Store; a memorial to Johnny Appleseed.

Somehow Grandma always knew where there were a lot of cute boys:  playing basketball in schoolyards, crowded into booths at the soda shop, building snowmen at Lakeside Park,  running around in groups at street fairs.  Sometimes she let us play with them, while she sat on a bench, reading a magazine.

We usually stopped for lunch at the Famous Coney Island on Main Street: hot dogs with chili, cheese, and onions, and steamed buns.   Plus french fries, onion rings, and root beer floats (vanilla ice cream floating in a gigantic mug of root beer).

And a never-ending supply of cute high school boys in white shirts, black pants, and black bow ties who brought out your orders.

On a cold day just before Christmas in fourth grade, we were having lunch at the Coney Island, and my brother and I were rough-housing, stealing fries off each other's plates, shoving each other, and laughing.  Grandma Davis told us to settle down, so I stopped and picked up my root beer float.

Then Kenny shoved me again.  I dropped the heavy mug onto my chest, drenching my shirt with root beer.  More root beer splashed onto my pants, and the clump of melting ice cream fell right onto my lap.

Gross!  Cold and wet!  I pushed it onto the floor.

Kenny laughed and pointed.  "You peed your pants!"  

"Oh, no, you're soaked!" Grandma Davis exclaimed.  She grabbed some napkins and tried to dab me, but the root beer and ice cream had already soaked in.  "You can't ride all the way back to Garrett like this -- it's freezing out!"

A high school boy came running up: short, compact, muscular, with brown hippie-hair and a bright smile.  He was carrying a little pad and pencil.  I don't remember his name, if I ever knew it, so I'll call him Jim.

"Don't worry, Ma'am, I'll take care of your grandson," he said.  "Come on, champ, let's get you cleaned up."

 He took me by the hand and led me past the staring patrons to a little door marked "Employees Only."  Inside it looked like a kitchen, with tables and chairs and a little refrigerator.  There was a bank of lockers on on side, and a rack with a lot of coats hung up on it.

More after the break

My 24 favorite autobiographical stories: gay hints, sausage sightings, a wiener, a goblin, the Pentecostal Porn Star, and Kevin the Vampire

 I've posted dozens of more-or-less accurate autobiographical stories here and on Tales of West Hollywood, moving from my fundamentalist Nazarene childhood through high school, figuring it out, college, grad school at Indiana University, a horrible year in...ugh...Texas, and on to the heart of the Gay World.  Some of the stories are minimal -- I was trying to cover every gay hint, boyfriend, hookup, and sausage sighting  -- but some are well-written, insightful, humorous, and occasionally erotic.  Here are my 24 favorites.

Childhood

I Fall Asleep in a Sailor's Arms.  On the train on the way back from visiting South Carolina.  He warns me about making friends with "sissies."

The Face of Pure Evil.  The Old Lady Schoolteachers' grandson, who may not have looked like this, rescues me from the Maniac who stalks the hallways of Denkmann Elementary School.

The Answer to the Naked Man's Question. A psychedelic Alice in Wonderland on tv on a golden afternoon, and a naked man who asks a question that I still can't answer. 

Comic Books and Cocks at the Furniture Store. Cousin Buster pranks me by claiming that you can get comic books at the furniture store -- and the delivery guys take off their shirts.  And sometimes their pants.

Grandpa Prater's Banjo  On the day after Christmas, Cousin Buster and I sneak into Grandpa Prater's room to borrow his banjo.

My Wild Night: Pancakes, Massage, and a Wiener.  I broke like six of my parents' rules that night, and was grounded for two weeks.  But at least I got to feel a...

High School

On My Knees in a Cute Guy's Bedroom.  When we went on vacation, we had to go to a local church, where they mistook us for sinners and tried inept soul-winning lines.  But once it worked to my advantage: A cute boy invited me to his bedroom "to pray."

The Preacher Pops a Boner.  Our Bible College invited prospective students to a weekend of campus tours, ball games, nature hikes, classroom visits -- and the boys' dorm lounge, where the only couch invisible to the monitor got quite busy.

Augustana College

The First Gay Rights March in Iowa. Passersby pull their friends out of stores to gawk.  The police watch closely, eager to arrest us if we happen to touch another marcher's hand

I Cheat on My Boyfriend with a Goblin.  The Goblin's name is Dale Schafer-Shit.  But Fred was cheating with him first.  Every friggin' day.

Sharing a Bed with Mary's Brother.  My friend Mary invites me to her horrible house in the suburbs for spring break.  But at least I get to share a bed with a cute bo.

More after the break

Comic Books and Cocks at the Furniture Store. With bonus Desi guys

 When I was a kid, we drove to northeastern Indiana to visit my parents' relatives at least twice a year.  I loved it: haunted houses, hidden rooms, long-ago ghosts, endless fields and country roads, magic, glamour, the rough cold beauty of my uncles going hunting, the sleek shivering beauty of my cousins in the swimming pool, the delight of cuddling against Cousin Buster as we fell asleep in his narrow bed in the Trailer in the Dark Woods.  A sense of almost mystical belonging.

But as I grew, the sense of belonging faded away.  I began to find the visits boring or uncomfortable,  the world of northeastern Indiana more and more alien.

It wasn't just that I couldn't go home again.  What really hurt was, I didn't want to go back.

All tied up with that world was Harvey Comics  -- the ghosts, witches, devils, and other paranormal beings in the bucolic Arcadia of the Enchanted Forest.

You couldn't get them in Rock Island.  I had only the few that my Indiana relatives gave me, and memories of reading as many as possible in Cousin Buster's room while spending the night.

It never occurred to me for an instant that the stories were supposed to be funny.  I found them deadly serious.  Casper, Spooky, Wendy, and Hot Stuff fight space aliens, mad scientists, evil wizards, save their friends or the whole world countless times.

But really, the stories were irrelevant: it was the comics themselves, the physical books that I could hold in my hands and remember what Indiana used to mean.

One day when I was about ten years old, I asked Cousin Buster where he got his collection of Harvey Comics.  Were there stores with huge racks of them on open display?

"I get them at the Walgreens."

"We have Schneider's Drug Store in Rock Island, but all it has are Gold Key and superheroes.  Anyplace else?"

"Whenever I go to a movie, I check the comic books at Manuel's Newsstand next door."  

"No newsstands in Rock Island.  Where else?"

He thought for a moment, and then said "The furniture store."

"Furniture? Like davenports and dining room tables and junk?" 

"They have comic books, too."

It didn't seem logical, but Cousin Buster was two years older than me, and not a Nazarene, so he knew about all sorts of "worldly" things that I was kept from.  

"When I was a little kid, I didn't know that you could actually buy furniture," I told him.  "I thought it came with the house.  How could a store be big enough to display it?  What car could big enough to carry it home?"

"It comes in a big truck."

I started to fume.  Of course I knew that now.  Did he think I was a baby?

"And the guys who unload it -- they take their shirts off," he said in a low conspiratorial voice.

I was shocked.  Where did Cousin Buster get the idea that I liked looking at guys with their shirts off?  Only my boyfriend Bill knew about that.  It was shameful, a sissy thing, just for girls.    

I had to deflect, restore my masculinity.   Maybe with wieners?  Everybody liked looking at them.  Cousin Buster and I once climbed up into the loft in the barn to peek down at my uncle as he "cleaned his gun." 

"Do they take their pants off," I asked, "So you can see their wieners?"

He shrugged.  "Sometimes, if they're big enough."

So I could get Harvey comic books and see some wieners at the same time?

But how to convince Mom and Dad to take me to a furniture store? I couldn't say that I wanted to buy comic books there.  Or see naked men.

I had to talk them into buying a piece of furniture.

A new bed!

"I'm getting too big to sleep in the same bed with Kenny," I told them.  "I have a later bedtime, so every time I go to bed, I wake him up.  And he kicks!"

"Maybe you're right," Mom said.  "Boys your age shouldn't sleep together.  We'll go pick out two twin beds for you on Saturday."

Uh-oh.  Mom and Dad never took us shopping, except to buy new school clothes every August.  They left us with the neighbors, or one went shopping and the other stayed home.  But I had to actually go to the furniture store to get my comics and see the naked men!

"No!  We want to pick them out!  Me and Kenny.  To see..um....if they're cool enough."



I spent the week imagining the furniture store, with its racks of Harvey Comics, Casper, Spooky, Hot Stuff, Ghostland, Devil Kids, Witch World, an endless array of intriguing, brightly-colored covers and evocative stories.

I didn't spend any of my 25 cent allowance all week, and there'd be another 25 cents on Saturday morning.  Plus I found a dime on the floor, and I borrowed 50 cents from Bill for a total of $1.10.  I'd be broke for nearly a month, but I could buy 9 comic books!

On Saturday after breakfast we drove to a place called Carson Piri Scott, in Moline.  I remembered their ads on tv.  It was huge warehouse like structure with entire living rooms set up, like a hundred houses all crammed together.

"The beds are on the second floor," Mom said, steering us toward the escalator.

"Wait -- um...." Where were the comic books? The huge display case must be against an outer wall.  "Um....I have to go to the bathroom."

"Ok.  Do you want Dad to take you?"

"No, I see where it is.  I'll be up in a minute."

More after the break

Stranded on the Isle of Dogs, and Other Hassles, Horrors, and Hookups of My First Visit to England

 

Sorry if you love London, or call it home.  I'm not a big fan, in spite of the architectural marvels and fascinating history.  I always get lost.  It's cold.  The streets are all dirty.  Everyone is rude all the time;  I've never seen anyone in London ever smile.  And the food's not great.

In 1993, my partner Lane was a delegate to the World Congress of GLBT Jews, to be held in London.  He invited me along as his guest.

This isn't him.  I have lots of pictures, but no nudes.  But he was (and still is) a husky, hairy bear with nice arms, like this guy.

I had been to France, Spain, Germany, and the Netherlands, and Lane spent a year in Israel, but for some reason neither of us had ever been to Britain.  So we planned lots of sightseeing: The Tower of London, the Sherlock Holmes Museum, Stonehenge, The Rude Man of Cerne Abbas, Canterbury Cathedral.  Not to mention the Gay Village of Soho.

Customs

The problems started the moment I arrived.  At customs I was questioned extensively about my reasons for coming to Britain, who I was staying with, did I know anyone here, and again, why did I come here????  He wouldn't believe that I was a tourist.  No one ever came to Britain as a tourist.  It was a tiny, backwater country with absolutely no sites of historical or artistic interest!  I must be planning something criminal.

I still wonder why he was so suspicious.  Do I have the same name as a terrorist?  Was it my leather jacket?  

The Isle of Dogs

If you were planning a World Congress with delegates from all over the world, most of whom have never been to Britain before, wouldn't you pick a hotel that was centrally located?

Nope: The Royal Britannia Hotel was on the Isle of Dogs, an industrial sleugh on the East End of London, surrounded by the Thames on three sides.  No pubs, no shops, nothing but block after block of dark industrial buildings.  

And no subway.  You could catch a bus into town -- about six miles to the Tower of London -- but it stopped at different places, depending on the whim of the driver, anywhere between six and twelve blocks from the hotel.

So you were standing at a bus stop, and it would drive past you and stop two blocks away.

On Thursday and Friday, while Lane was busy with meetings, I chased after a bus getting into town, visited the Tower, the British Museum, the Sherlock Holmes Museum -- and Clapham Common, because I took the wrong metro and ended up in the far south.  

Saturday was Shabbat, so no meetings were scheduled.  Lane and I returned to London to visit Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, a science fiction bookstore, and  a gay sauna (for a gay conference, there was very little hooking up).  

We missed the last bus, so we had to take a taxi back to the hotel.

On Sunday the buses didn't run, so another taxi into London, where we found almost everything closed, and a taxi back (straining our resources).  

The Gay Jewish Conference

I didn't realize that by signing on as a guest, not a delegate, I was forbidden to go to any of the meetings, or any of the dinners.  

On Thursday night, there was an evening boat tour of the Thames, with box dinner provided.  Except for guests.  I stole one to avoid starving to death.

On Saturday night, they held a dance for conference delegates -- no one else, not even the partners.  I spent the night watching television -- the "Crazy Americans" hour, with four episodes of a tv sitcom that I never heard of (and don't recall the title of; it takes place in an office, but in one episode they're on a life boat for some reason).

On Sunday night they had a dinner -- for delegates only.  I'd have to make do with the hotel restaurant.  Whoops, it was closed on Sundays.  I would have starved to death again, but someone with a car drove into town and brought me (and the other guests) some fish and chips.

Is this any way to run a gay Jewish conference?

At least Lane brought a hookup back from the dance, so I got a little cock action.

It gets better after the break.  Sort of.

The Face of Pure Evil at Denkmann Elementary School

This is the Face of Pure Evil
 

And the House Where Evil Dwells.

When I was a kid, it was painted grey, and that attic window had bars on it.

I lived on 41st Street, the the north side of Denkmann Elementary School  My boyfriend Bill lived two blocks north, by 18th Avenue -- a busy street that I was not allowed to cross.

To the east was Darry's house (we hadn't met yet), and eventually  Country Style Ice Cream.

To the south was Dewey's Candy Store, Gary's house, and  eventually the Nazarene Church.

To the west was Schneider's Drug Store, where you could buy comic books. 

But we never took the direct route to Schneider's.  We walked all the way up to 18th Avenue and around to the back, to avoid The Maniac and his house.

There were lots of Mean Boys at Denkmann who would steal your lunch money, call you names, or pound you for infractions of the rules of grade school behavior. Like Dick, who hung out by Dewey's Candy Store and pounded you for being a "girl."  Or Mark, who hung out by the south door, and challenged smaller boys to fight him.  But The Maniac was by far the worst.

Most bullies choose one or two victims to torment; everyone else is safe.  But the Maniac was indiscriminate, targeting everyone except girls and bigger boys.  He interpreted the most innocent statement or gesture, even standing too close to him, even looking at him, as an insult that must be redressed: "Now we have to fight!"

If you refused, he attacked on the spot, or if you were inside the school, ambushed you on the way home.

If you agreed to fight, you met your doom later, on the west side of the school yard, a desolate space of dead trees and yellow grass across the street from his house.

Snarling like a rabid dog, The Maniac punched and kicked you everywhere, in the face, the chest, the belly, the balls.  When you collapsed, bloody and sobbing, he poured dirt on you, spat in your face, and moved on.

When you tried to tell teachers, they simply said "No one likes a tattle-tale."

When you tried to tell parents, they  simply said "You have to learn to fight your own battles."

The only escape was to avoid the Maniac: don't sit near him in the cafeteria, don't stand near him at recess, run home as fast as you could after school, and at all costs stay away from the House of Evil.  Don't go anywhere near 40th Street.

But one day during the summer after third grade,  I was stupid.  Mom asked me to return a cake-decorating kit that she borrowed from the Old Lady Schoolteachers for some PTA event.  They lived on 40th Street, two houses south of the House of Evil.

 

I should have walked all the way around Denkmann School, but it was hot, Cartoon Showboat was coming on soon, and besides, the Maniac might not even be home.  So I cut diagonally across the parking lot and the schoolyard and came to 40th Street exactly parallel to the Old Lady Schoolteachers' house.

(Model is over 18).

I peered at the House of Evil -- it looked deserted -- took a deep breath, and crossed the street.  I was in the yard -- almost up to the screen porch.  Almost safe.

"Hey, Fairy!"

More after the break

Oliver!, the Boy with Soft Hands, and "Cocks, Glorious Cocks"

 

When I was growing up in Rock Island, Huey (not his real name) was one of my brother Kenny's friends.  Short, brown-skinned, a rarity among the pale Swedes and Germans of Rock Island, chubby, with black hair and soft black eyes, soft all over.  I especially remember his square soft hands with stubby fingers.

My brother was 2 1/2 years younger than me, and three grades below (so in 9th grade when I was in 12th).  His best friend was Todd, a sports nut with sandy brown hair and blue eyes.

Huey was in a grade below them, so three or four years younger than me, a kid who they tolerated because he was funny.

He told knock-knock jokes.

While eating orange sherbet, he stuck out his tongue to demonstrate that it had turned orange.

He made his belly talk, long before Jerry Seinfeld did it.

On cool autumn afternoons they played baseball in the school yard, and then burst into the house for snacks and sodas, sweating, laughing, gossiping.

At least once, maybe more, Huey exclaimed "Feel how cold I am!", and lifted my shirt to press an icy hand against my belly.  I jumped back, and he laughed. 

Once I tried to retaliate by tickling him.  He grabbed my hands with his hands, and we did a sort of struggling dance.   Suddenly we were rolling on the living room floor.  But the dog started barking, thinking that I was being attacked, so we had to stop.

I remember them pretending to do kung fu moves. Huey was shirtless, his belly bouncing as he jumped around yelling "Hai-ya!"   It must have been during a sleepover, but I don't remember the rest.

One spring when Kenny was in high school but Huey was still at Washington Junior High, the whole family went to see him in Oliver!  He was in the chorus of orphanage boys.  During "Food, Glorious Food," his comedic mugs and pratfalls stole the show.

Food, glorious food!  Hot sausage and mustard!

While we're in the mood, cold jelly and custard!

Peas, pudding and saveloys!

What next is the question?

Rich gentlemen have it,  boys:  Indigestion!

The whole family went to see Kenny's friend, who was just in the chorus, not even one of the stars? Why?

Was he closer to Kenny than I thought?

More after the break.  Caution: Explicit

Christmas on the Square: Be thankful that you haven't seen this movie. With Josh Serrano, Treat Williams, and random nude dudes

Brax Alexander is promoting his 2020 movie, Christmas on the Square.  Usually I stay away from Christmas romcoms that preach how wonderfully fulfilling small towns are, as opposed to those soulless, heartless monstrosities, big cities, because I grew up in a small town.  My parents rhapsodized, almost daily, about my destiny: find The Girl of My Dreams,  get married, go to work in the factory, buy a house, have kids, die.  There were no other options.  

There was no such thing as same-sex desire or romance.  You spent time with boys in order to talk about girls or strategize on how to get girls.  When you found Her, you would abandon male loves, instantly and without hesitation.  They were trivial, steps on the road to the Girl of Your Dreams destiny.

I kept looking for a place where I could escape, where I could go through an entire day without the "What girl?  What girl? What girl?" interrogation.  Where people cared about beauty, wisdom, and love, not just reproduction.  Maybe even recognized the existence of men loving men. 

After college, I lived in West Hollywood, New York, Fort Lauderdale, and Minneapolis: Bookstores, art museums, cathedrals, Ethiopian restaurants, Thai restaurants, stores with rainbow flags in the windows, guys holding hands as they walked down the street: heaven.    

Oh, sorry, you wanted me to review the movie.  

Christmas on the Square was written by gay icon Dolly Parton, and stars gay icon Christine Baranski, plus Josh Segarra (top photo and left), who has played gay characters several time (he even played RuPaul's boyfriend). Furthermore, Dolly promotes the movie in an interview in Pink News, the gay magazine.  Surely this is a gay-positive Christmas romcom.  So here goes:

Scene 1:  A sound-stage town square in the town of Prairie View, with folks making merry.  Some very hot guys rush past, doing a high-step dance number -- but they ruin it by double-taking, en masse, at the hot girl who walks by.  At the end of their dance, they pair off, each guy with a girl.  Yuck!  This is the same brainwashing  I grew up with: "Every boy will fall in love with a girl!  There's no way out, no escape!  You are doomed!" 

A car drives past, with the evil, sunglasses-wearing Christine Baranski.  She sings: "Forget the past, be free at last, gotta get out of this town."  I like her -- she's the voice of thousands of LGBT people growing up in homophobic small towns, longing for a place where they can be free.  Of course, she's the villain. 

Amid the dancing, frolicking characters, the white-haired guy who runs the general store, no doubt Christine's Love Interest (played by Treat Williams, left) sings that "lovers walk in pairs." We only see male-female lovers.

 Focus character Felicity drives up and greets the stereotyped 1950s mailman.  She's the assistant of evil Christine Baranski, who continues to sing: "I know in time I'll lose my mind, if I don't get out of this town."  I had the same thought many times, back in Rock Island amid the "what girl do you like? what girl? what girl? what girl?" interrogation!

I'm getting angry.  They should have a trigger warning for all LGBT people who get trapped into viewing this thing.  I won't last much longer.

Left: Treat Williams' butt.

Christine passes out eviction notices.  She's going to tear down the whole town.  Good! 

 

More nude dudes after the break, if you dare to continue. Caution: Explicit.

Big Boys: A gay university freshman tries to make friends, get laid, and find his tribe. With a lot of Dylan d*cks

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