No Good Will Come of It by Michael King

I don’t think that statement, title or subject is true. My philosophy is very different. I think that given the really, really big picture that good comes from all things, all disasters, all terrorist activities to name enough to get a few raised eyebrows and a few smirks. In all the happenings including the most horrific, there will be those whose lives will have been changed or redirected thus having the potential to influence others with the growth promotion and maturity that comes with life changing experiences. Good has a way of accompanying all experience. Humans can profit from others’ experiences.

Now from a narrow perspective, as the mortals on this planet have such a long way to go to actualize the idealism that might resemble the potentials of a perfect world, we see evil and iniquity, graft and corruption, lies and propaganda, dirty politics and corrupt corporations, vice and prejudice, hatred and subjugation; I could go on. From this perspective there is great difficulty to see where good can or will come of these kinds of effects on people’s lives.

We seem to think that the victims of this world are deprived of something. They are, however in the larger picture, there is only good. There is only the eventual achievement of perfection.

And I will define the perfection that I am talking about. I was an art therapist at a residential treatment center for asthmatics and had as many as 110 kids doing arts and crafts at any given time. One day the kids were working with clay, this is probably the best therapeutic tools for hand-eye coordination an area where many asthmatics as children didn’t develop as other kids did. In child development in which I had much training, this deficiency is very common with childhood asthma.  Using clay to create an image of one’s desire is the challenge.  This was a very successful program of which I am very proud. The results were life changing for those residents. As I observed a room full of kids working with clay to achieve an imagined result there was total silence. I saw that every child was in a state of perfection relative to his or her ability and capability to visualize and each of them was totally focused on the desired result. That was a moment that brought about a major revelation in my life. Perfection is relative.

I know that it may take an eternity to understand that there is only good, only truth, only love, only beauty, therefore as we have a challenging experience or see the reports of disasters, etc. I have to see that in the long run eventually only good exists and only for the growth potential that is the purpose of all experience.

So you now see why only good will comes of it. I am not without having had numerous disastrous and greatly challenging experiences. I only see the goodness, the truth, the beauty and the superficial ugliness around me. I see those who struggle without hope. You see reports of disasters on almost a daily basis.  No good will come of it is a pessimistic and unrealistic way to look at things when a much higher and more optimistic opportunity is staring us in our face. I now have only good in my life. Where I came from was quite the opposite and so were my confused beliefs.  Previously I never thought any good would come out of it when I was totally devastated. That happens but it is always temporary. Right now is the opportunity to be the most positive and to claim superb self-respect, the secret of maturity, happiness and maturation. In all situations good will always come of it, we need only to view from that perspective and develop that outlook. Our experiences will then have a depth and meaning that expands our consciousness, enrichens our lives and gives meaning to existence. 

© 6 May 2013

About the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities," Telling your Story"," Men's Coffee" and the "Open Art Studio". I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.

Memorials by Merlyn

My life has been a series of what I think of as turning the page, leaving the past behind and moving up to a new level trying to learn more about life and how to be a better person.

The people I left behind were and always will be a part of my life. I do hold a special place in my heart for them and the time we shared together. I realize that they are not part of my life now and would not even know the person that I’m today.

My way of keeping memorials has been to make a word document, paste whatever I found out on line about someone from my past and how and when they died, into a doc and saving it in a folder called old docs with their name on it.

The last time I talked to my Mother was in 1965, It was during one of the only times that I ever really needed help, I talked to her and she told me I was on my own.  A year later when she called me  and told me she wanted me come over and fix her car I told her no and she let me know if I did not come over right now I would never be welcome again. I hung up. And I turned the page.

In 1996 I got on line and looked up my father he died in 93 and is buried in a veteran’s cemetery near Detroit. I did not go there the last time I was in Michigan.

When I looked up my mother the only thing I able to find out was on a state of Michigan’s web site that said the state was holding money from a life insurance policy waiting for someone to claim it. She died in 1995. There were eight kids in my family and the last time I checked no one had claimed it. That money would not bring anything good into my life.

Bobby G was a friend of mine He is the only friend that was still a part of my life when they died. I met bobby on line on a men s social web site. He introduced me to Michael at a coffee shop on a Monday morning when I was passing though Denver a year and a half ago.

My way of saying goodbye to Bobby was going on line, reading his profile and sending him a short message even though I know no one will ever read it. I copied his profile, pasted it into word and put it into my old docs folder. My message and his account will be deleted after 90 days of inactively from the web site. But I have his Memorial.

Bobby left a will; he had a lot of stuff that he wanted to give to his friends.

After his memorial service, his son opened his apartment for people to come over and take anything they wanted. Michael wanted a statue of two naked men wrestling. I was not going to take anything. Bobbie’s son let us in and told us to please take anything we wanted. Anything left was going to go to the goodwill.

I had been shopping for a new vacuum cleaner the day before and right next to the front door was a newer yellow vacuum cleaner. For the first time in my life it felt like it would be OK to take something from someone who died. I know Bobby would be happy if he knew that I had it. I will never see it or use it without thinking about him. It reminds me that the people that really knew who Bobby was are better people today because of him.

© 28 January 2013

About the Author

I'm a retired gay man now living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for the unusual and enjoying life each day.

All About the Wonderful World of Fact(s) by Jon Krey

To begin with I’ve never seen a fact that is, in fact, a fact. Factually there are always questions about facts and that’s a fact.

As a matter of fact I dealt with facts back when I was working. Facts are a necessity in my former fact laced field.

However, I’m never sure about the facts either. Once while depending on some facts to be sent by fax I found that the fax didn’t get… the…facts….to me in time to present the… uhh…facts… printed by the fax. This didn’t sit well with the court who needed the facts from the fax factually so I could present these….same …facts….to the court since those…. facts …which determined the factual decision made by the  judge…who…would…judge the…facts…

He already knew that most facts are NOT factual anyway and so when the fax failed to submit…these….facts for me he’d already made up his mind based on what he knew about…the… facts…and made the proper decision based on the facts, or lack of facts as he knew those… facts… to… be?!

Therefore, in the end not having the facts because the damned fax machine didn’t work…was, was …….faxually…nonfactual…….

Oh, factity factity, factity, fax! I’m losing my faxing mind so JUST FACT or FAX IT! I don’t care!!!!! I’m sick to death of “facts” sent by fax and nothing but the….f,f,f,f,f.

Forget it! I already have.  Shit!

© 29 April 2013

About the Author

"I'm just a guy from Tulsa (God forbid). So overlook my shortcomings, they're an illusion."

A Busload of Insanity by Gillian

I have never forgotten the stench of that smoke. I suppose I never will. It permeated everything and everyone. Clothes, hair, air. It was as if it emanated from our very pores. Even the cat, and her kittens so recently arrived in this world, stank of it.

England in 1952, when the dreaded Foot and Mouth Disease necessitated the burning of over 30,000 cattle and 32,000 sheep carcasses, many animals having been destroyed ahead of the disease, to prevent it’s spread. Rather like setting a fire ahead of a fire, to stop it. 

Or not.

I sat up in the front of the school bus with my friends, as far as we could get from the older tougher boys in the back, loud with bravado, outbidding each other for the most gory descriptions of the ongoing mayhem.

The rest of us were curiously silent. We sat pale-faced and pinched lipped, hunched into ourselves, staring mutely at the floor so that we didn’t have to look out of the windows at the black palls of smoke rising from our own or our neighbors’ farms.

I was a teacher’s child so not directly affected.

It didn’t feel that way.

Even those not old enough to understand the reality of the economic disasters afflicting their families were struck as dumb as those of us only too aware. Parents were inexplicably gruff and angry. Many kids suffered a cuff up side the head for some miniscule or completely imagined infraction.  The very young ones cried over the sudden disappearance of Bessie, Rose and Mabel. This was a time and place of tiny farms where the few milk cows were often christened, and treated almost like family pets.

A strong wind was blowing at right angles to the road, and suddenly the bus was engulfed in a stinking black miasma. With whoops of delight the hooligans in the back began opening windows. For some reason the rest of us seemed propelled into action. Ronnie and Derek from the Barker Farm, seated immediately behind me, started a steady drumming of their feet into the back of my seat. The Llewellyn twins began an endless rendering of Ten Green Bottles. Little Lucy Jones droned through her seven times table over and over again.

I almost let out a scream but managed to swallow it back. I felt trapped, imprisoned, those burning creatures following me wherever I went, blocking my eyes and rushing up my nostrils, clinging to every inch of my being. I couldn’t breath.

And in the black swirl of mass destruction, little children sang ditties and chanted numbers.

A busload of insanity.

By some nasty stroke of fortune I was back in England when the next intense attack of FAM hit in 1967 when almost 100,000 cattle and 200,000 sheep bodies were burned. Thankfully I missed the last and most devastating event in 2001 when the numbers soared to 3 million sheep lost and over half a million cattle. The very idea of all those carcasses burning numbs my brain, fortunately, but sadly not my senses.

That ghastly smell is sometimes so real to me that I sniff at my skin, my clothes, amazed that others seem so blessedly oblivious.

Forty years later finds me wandering about in a daze of horror at Auschwitz.

I didn’t expect it to be a barrel of laughs, but the place affected me even more deeply than I had ever anticipated. Vast piles of hair, thousands of pairs of shoes, mounds of gold teeth, and most pathetic to me all those battered old suitcases complete with address labels.

Had their owners truly believed they were going somewhere? Other than to their deaths, that is. Or was it simply a last desperate clinging to make-believe?

But the worst was the smell. That god-awful stink of burning flesh. Did no-one else smell it? I think not.

It was January. A cold slushy snow covered the ground; a bitterly cold wind forced its way out of Russia.

I tried to block those scantily dressed half starved prisoners from my mind and decided a hot cup of coffee was the answer.

Or not.

I simply could not go into the Visitors’ Center/café/bar.

What was it doing here, for God’s sake?

How could you stuff down a burger and fries, kielbasa and sauerkraut, in this place of starvation? How could you send postcards to loved ones back home of this place of torture and death?

How could I even think of finding warmth for my body and solace for my soul in a hot steaming cappuccino?

Most visitors to Auschwitz are quiet and respectful, but suddenly some people streamed from the Visitors’ Center to board a huge multi-colored tour bus huffing and puffing in the parking lot. I don’t know where they were from, this group, but they laughed, they slapped each other on the back as they shared comradely jokes, they chugged their Cokes and Heinekens and munched on candy bars.

I walked away into the slush, now being enhanced by wind-propelled sleet.

A busload of insanity.

© 29 January 2013

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

Mirror Image by Donny Kay

When I look in the mirror at this time in my life I recognize someone that I've not acknowledged throughout most of my life experience. Yes the image in the mirror reflects someone who is maturing in age with lines surrounding the eyes and furrows across the receding hairline depicting the experiences of a long and arduous journey. The weathered skin, giving evidence to the effects of the brutal Colorado sun.  The hair has turned white. 

And yet as I look at my image I see someone vibrant and alive with desire, passion and energy expressed in the radiance of the eyes and smile, as well as the demeanor that is reflected.  It's no longer difficult to view my image without seeing qualities that I've refused to consider in times past.  I gaze with honor and respect for my courageousness to not have given up on this journey.  It's easy to extend love and acceptance to the one looking me squarely in the eye.  I find me desirable, not in a conceited way but in a way that allows me to wink as I glimpse at the image, welcoming the one who knows me inside out, as I step into the reflection that is me.

The one who gazes back at me in the reflection is the one who has journeyed this entire life experience with me. The one in the mirrors reflection is the one who knows me better than anyone else.  It's this one, the one in the mirror that has been present in each moment of life's experiences, like a truly devoted and loving friend.  It is the one in the mirror that some spiritual teachers refer to as the Beloved, who has always loved me.  It is the one in the reflection that I have rejected time and again and yet, he is always present, matching my gaze.

The images I was more customary to witnessing in the reflection in the mirror were not positive.  I would wonder how anyone could ever see me as handsome or remotely desirable.  I saw myself as a phony and imposter.  There were times when I would look in the mirror and loathe the reflection that stared back.  

Six years ago I stood in front of the mirror in a locked bathroom. The shower was running, the faucets at the sink had been turned on along with the fan that whirred as the steam was drawn from the enclosed space. As the sound of the toilet marked its return from a recent flush, I whispered to the one in the mirror, "I think I'm gay". 

Tears formed in the eyes of the one looking back. I think I even detected an affirming wink. For the first time ever there was a sense of safety and acceptance as our eyes exchanged views. We looked at one another for a long time, afraid to break the intimate exchange that was ours alone to experience. If ever I was to experience a homecoming, it was in the moment of that exchange. 

Six years ago, as this confidence was shared with the Beloved, this life journey changed course allowing me to finally love again the one who has always loved me. And in the experience of love, forgiveness and compassion take back my life. 

What was required was that I be willing to get rid of the life that I had planned so as to have the life that was waiting for me.

© 1 April 2013

About the Author

Donny Kaye-Is a native born Denverite.  He has lived his life posing as a hetero-sexual male, while always knowing that his sexual orientation was that of a gay male.  In recent years he has confronted the pressures of society that forced him into deep denial regarding his sexuality and an experience of living somewhat of a disintegrated life.  “I never forgot for a minute that I was what my childhood friends mocked, what I thought my parents would reject and what my loving God supposedly condemned to limitless suffering.” StoryTime at The Center has been essential to assisting him with not only telling the stories of his childhood, adolescence and adulthood but also to merely recall the stories of his past that were covered with lies and repressed in to the deepest corners of his memory.  Within the past two years he has “come out” not only to himself but to his wife of four decades, his three children, their partners and countless extended family and friends.  Donny is divorced and yet remains closely connected with his family.  He lives in the Capitol Hill Community of Denver, in integrity with himself and in a way that has resulted in an experience of more fully realizing integration within his life experiences. He participates in many functions of the GLBTQ community. 

SPECIAL EDITION: PRIDEFEST 2013

Today's Special Edition presents stories by three authors. 

One Summer Afternoon 
by Ray S

“What are you doing, father?” It isn’t quite summer, but almost. And this afternoon the question was voiced by one of a couple of gay revelers passing by as I waited for the next #10 bus.

“Waiting,” I replied and then quickly added, “for the next bus.” Then it struck me, the title by which I had been addressed and then my prompt reply.

First, I am a father and today is the national holiday honoring fathers. Just coincidently Denver’s Gay Pride Sunday. There certainly are statistics establishing how many gay fathers there are. Guess this is our special day as well. One never knows who will turn up a father; do you?

Second, I thought after the boys passed by that the word “waiting” looms either ominously or in joyful anticipation for all of us, and in my case—for what or whatever the future may hold.

Besides the initial carnival character of the setting at Civic Center and then the Pride Parade, I was aware of the general ages of the celebrants. Don’t gay men grow beyond downy-faced Peter Pans that will never grow up or full-blown bronzed Adonises with such an abundance of self confidence and arrogance? This question was haunting and even more so after countless hours of observing the beautiful, bizarre, minimally-attired populous. Was this whole charade dedicated to the Fountain of Youth and the exciting discovery of carnality? Here is a parody of the song. "Old Soldiers never die," etc. that goes “Old Trolls never die, they just fly away.” Is there nothing to look forward to besides a good book, getting fat from countless dinner parties, recounting lost opportunities with other disappointed brethren, indulging in the occasional gay porn DVD in the lone comfort of your bed, and on and on, so be it?

Then like the first blush of the sunrise my eyes were opened wonderfully to the real world of beautiful, crazy, happy, gay attendees of this huge street party celebrating many other positive aspects of the right to be who we are and equal to all the rest of the seemingly God’s chosen.

The exterior physicality has a way of transforming. The ultimate result is the chance for a real inner beauty to emerge, if it hasn’t been there already. The value of friendship, companionship and love beyond the flesh core. The truly life-sustaining elements of all GLBT relationships. And of course human nature will see to the sometimes overarching flesh thing.

Waiting one summer afternoon. Well just relax, breathe deeply, look around you, see the beauty and love in all of us, and eventually that bus will come.

© June 2013

About the Author

One Summer Afternoon
by Merlyn

Pride Sunday 2013 was the kind of summer day that will always be special. Michael and I walked in the Pride parade along with the color guard with Ray S; Cecil and Carl rode in a convertible  At the end of the parade Cecil and Carl joined us on the corner of Colfax and Broadway for awhile to watch the parade pass. We had fun looking at all of the people. Carl stood up and watched as the green Rolls Royce drove past that Cecil and he had ridden in last year.

We spent 8 hours helping out in the Prime Timers and The GLBT Center's booths on Saturday and were planning on enjoying Sunday.

We would have to leave around 3 to go over to his daughters house for a father's day dinner for Michael at 5pm.

After the Parade was over we had about a hour to walk around before Michael was supposed to work at his church’s booth. A storm went though with strong wind but no one cared. I was planning on checking out the four Prime Timers booths to help out if one of them needed help for a couple of hours.

Everything was under control so I decided to enjoy myself. I walked by Michaels booth he was wearing the red hat with flowers all over it, he was having a ball putting stickers on the people that went by. It was crowded and I was in the way, so I decided to walk around.

I saw a bench that was in the shade and sat down. I really enjoyed being able to sit on the bench and not do anything but watch and talk to some of the people that stopped for a break.

Two men in their 30s feel asleep in each other's arms laying on the grass 20 feet away where I was sitting and no one cared. When I was in my 20s or 30s I could never have imagined a world where it would be OK to do the kind of things that seem so natural today.

We made it to dinner a few minutes late, had a real good time and came home around 9PM. We laid down to relax awhile before we watched the end of a movie we had started Saturday night. Both of us fell asleep, We woke up just in time to go down to and go to bed around midnight, but that's another story about a different day.


© June 2013

About the Author

I'm a retired gay man now living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for the unusual and enjoying life each day.

One Summer Afternoon 
by Phillip Hoyle

As a dedicated people watcher, I sat alone on a coffee shop patio watching the parade go by in front of me. The East Colfax show was endless, varied, noisy, quirky, clean, stylish, unwashed and in rags. With loud sirens blaring, Denver Fire Department trucks sped by. Cars stopped to parallel park; other vehicles impatiently continued up and down the street. I watched a never ending flow of people and automobiles loving what I saw. Then I thought of the parade I’d see on the following Sunday, the Parade for Denver PrideFest 2013.

I first attended PrideFest in 1999. I wanted to go but realized I might not get to do so since my son Mike and his wife Heather and their four young kids were staying at my apartment. They were slated to leave Sunday afternoon to return to western Colorado where they lived. Early that morning one of my granddaughters asked to go to the playground she remembered from an earlier trip. “We can’t,” I explained. “The playground is closed because a parade is lining up in the park.”

“A parade,” she responded with excited eyes. “We can get candy!”

I told her I didn’t know if they’d have candy, but there would be lots of clowns. We did go down to Colfax to watch the events, and the children got much more candy than they had ever gathered at a parade. Back then few children attended the parade, so the candy givers were quite excited to see the stair step youngsters seated in a row on the curb and quite generous with their portions. So I saw my first PrideFest parade through the eyes of my grandchildren who loved not just the candy but every minute of the spectacle. Together we saw floats, dykes on bikes, bands, drag queens, politicians, dancing boys, and leather men. I thought how differently the world presented itself to my grandchildren when compared with what it showed me or my children.

Pridefest 2000 added a new perspective for I was in love with a man who was dying from the ravages of HIV and his anti-AIDS medications. I was dedicating much of my time to be with him for doctor appointments, chemotherapy, clinic visits, yard work, and socializing. I wrote in my morning pages on Saturday that I was going to meet Tony and Roy the next day to see the parade no matter what Michael, my partner, wanted. I wrote: “I’m going to be at Marion and Colfax and cheer on the troops.” I did see the parade all the while knowing that the two men I had been deeply in love with both wanted too much to fit in. The first one wanted to fit in with the beautiful; and this one, Michael, with the ordinary. When Michael said he was just an ordinary guy, I suggested to him that he was just an ordinary Queer! The differences these men represented helped me realize how much I was thoroughly queer and queerly individual.

I don’t recall anything particular about PrideFest 2001—perhaps I didn’t attend it due to my too-recent loss of Michael to AIDS—but in 2002 Mike and Heather and kids were back visiting and my life was once again changing drastically. The plot was that we attended Buskerfest on Saturday and PrideFest on Sunday, the former as a family, the latter accompanied by my wild friend Dianne and her boyfriend Craig. The subtext of the story was that a man I had become obsessed with but had not yet spent any time with—Rafael—was now, just that weekend, entering the main stage of my interest. The family met my good friends Roy & Richard as well as Rafael, my new flame who was setting off Roman candles in me both Saturday and Sunday nights. I left him early Sunday and Monday mornings to rush home and make breakfast for my family. I don’t know if I even slept for three days. Again I was seeing my changing life through the eyes of my children and grandchildren, and my friends. I was extremely attentive to the grandkids at PrideFest where Kalo, then nine, disappeared. I spotted him sitting on a high vantage point watching the nearly nude mob of gay guys dancing. He saw me looking at him and smiled and waved. Still he watched. Oh my, I wondered, do we have another generation of queers in the making?

The next year, 2003, Kalo was back but without his parents. He was spending a week with me in an improvised urban survival art camp. Sunday featured PrideFest. This time, with me coping with my loss of Rafael to death a few months before, Kalo and I joined Roy and Richard and Tony to view the parade. We also spent time that day with a group of body-painting lesbians. I wondered at the child’s perspective but saw him be very mature around the girls, wide eyed during a drag show, and worldly wise in the way he reported all the things to his parents. Kalo also met my next partner, who did not choose to join us at the festival.

But in 2004, I announced to him—Jim—I’m going to the parade. He accompanied me.

In 2005, I met a long-time drag queen friend of Jim’s. He’d never mentioned he’d even seen drag shows let alone knew and really liked Scottie Carlisle, a long-time drag queen, once Empress of the Royal Court.

In 2006, I met the author of the first gay novel I ever read recalling how important that book was to my development as a gay man.

I don’t recall what happened in 2007.

In 2008, I was in the Rockies on retreat where I read my short story about the parade and PrideFest adventures of Miss Shinti, a white miniature French poodle. The week before I went on retreat, I had urged my friends Roy and Richard, “Make sure Jim goes to the parade. Call him. Insist.”

“Why?” Richard asked.

“Because I don’t want his condition to become terminal.”

“Huh?”

“He has CEATTG,” I informed him. Richard looked concerned. “Chronic Embarrassment At All Things Gay,” I clarified.

The 2009 parade brought me insight into pride, politics, and church. It also introduced me to parties surrounding the festival. I made a record of all these things with my new camera. For me, the highlight of the parade that year was the stilt-walking drag queen Nuclea Waste, festooned with multi-colored long balloons, surrounded with a consort of adoring Speedo-clad dancers, each in similar fashion but decorated monochromatically.

2010, and 2011 provided more insights into my own gay life. In 2012, I loved it when the walker-toting elder brigade from SAGE made their way down the street, and I got all teary-eyed when a group of young GLBTs reminded us not to forget about AIDS.

And now in 2013 I am at yet another PrideFest. I want to know more about my world and my gay self and am delighted that what I really appreciate this time is how much the festival attracts straight folk and how, beyond the extreme costumes and hype, the most queer thing there seems not queer at all: men holding hands with men, women holding hands with women, hand holding that seems not at all self-conscious. And many children are here with their parents. How I wish my own kids and grandkids were here this time. It all seems so normal, except that I never once hold hands with my partner. Drat. What's wrong with me?

Oh well, Happy PrideFest 2013. What a wonderful summer afternoon.

© June 2013

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

SPECIAL EDITION: PRIDEFEST 2013

Today's Special Edition presents stories by two authors.

Pride 2013 
by Donny Kaye

As we drove south on University Boulevard we passed the church. A flood of memories overwhelmed me as I recalled the rehearsal the night before the wedding service and the actual wedding that followed the next morning, Flag Day 1969. The years that have passed have been filled with a lifetime of experiences, all of them memorable and significant to my life at this moment. There were times of closeness and the experience of love. There were children and the challenges as well as gifts that only parenting can bring. A career captivated my attention for 30+ years. Aside from the day-to-day challenges of being a father to three incredible individuals and a career there were vacations to remember, family outings to recall and the constant attention of a life complete with the demands of aging parents who required care themselves. And ever present in those days that flowed into years that quickly became decades, there was always a sense of aloneness and difference that I tried to understand and yet was fearful to confront. 

As the theater darkened I felt the presence of being surrounded by family. The one I sat closest to and I held hands as the performance of Elton John's music was performed by the Denver Gay Men's Chorale. The rhythm of my heart kept beat to the melodies and lyrics that are the songs of life that this masterful talent has created and was now being performed by the men of the chorale. The warmth of the hand of my companion allowed me to relax into knowing in my heart that this life journey is precisely on path. 

As I sat amidst family, holding the hand of the man who stirs my heart and soul in this moment, I couldn't help but recall all that has transpired across this lifetime I call mine. Stonewall, only a few weeks after that wedding day in June; the demands of my brothers and sisters across this nation and the world for equal rights; AIDS; the continuing invitation to step out of the closet, a closet filled with fear, judgment, shame, dread, isolation and separation. All are memories I have moved beyond and yet they remain as colorful and essential threads of the fabric of my life. 

As the concert ended I stood with a profound awareness of the PRIDE that I hold in being me, finally, me. The one who can once again can love himself; the one who can genuinely extend unconditional love to another. 

We stepped into the night air, and I danced to Rocket Man playing in my mind as we moved across the grass. I declared that this year’s PRIDE celebration had officially begun!

©  June 2013

About the Author

Donny Kaye-Is a native born Denverite. He has lived his life posing as a hetero-sexual male, while always knowing that his sexual orientation was that of a gay male. In recent years he has confronted the pressures of society that forced him into deep denial regarding his sexuality and an experience of living somewhat of a disintegrated life. “I never forgot for a minute that I was what my childhood friends mocked, what I thought my parents would reject and what my loving God supposedly condemned to limitless suffering.” StoryTime at The Center has been essential to assisting him with not only telling the stories of his childhood, adolescence and adulthood but also to merely recall the stories of his past that were covered with lies and repressed in to the deepest corners of his memory. Within the past two years he has “come out” not only to himself but to his wife of four decades, his three children, their partners and countless extended family and friends. Donny is divorced and yet remains closely connected with his family. He lives in the Capitol Hill Community of Denver, in integrity with himself and in a way that has resulted in an experience of more fully realizing integration within his life experiences. He participates in many functions of the GLBTQ community.

One Summer Afternoon 
by Michael King


After the walk down Colfax with the Color Guard and other veterans while wearing my red hat with all those polyester flowers attached, we watched the rest of the Pride Fest parade. It was over at 11:30 and we had an hour and a half before I was due to be at the Center for Spiritual Living’s booth. I had put the hat back into the bag and along with the other bag with the sandwiches we hadn’t eaten we dropped the two bags off at the booth and wandered around Civic Center Park. By noon we were sitting on a bench in the shade and observing the crowd.

Observing, watching, sometimes making comments about the more outrageous or unusual and occasionally speaking to someone occupied the afternoon. I arrived back at the booth about a quarter to one and Merlyn went to see if he could be of help to the Prime Timers.

I spent the next couple of hours passing out stickers that read “Shine your love. Love your shine.”

One observation that really stands out is how many people are obese. Of course with the costumes it was often emphasized in an especially unattractive way. Sadly there are so many children and young people that will soon be on disability as a result of the stress put on their bodies from all those extra pounds. Another awareness I had was how many men and women were so heavily tattooed and/or had multiple piercings. It’s not that I don’t see this every day; it’s just that the percentage of those attending Pride Fest was so high. I wonder what many of these people do to earn a living and how many are receiving SSI and Medicare.

There were a large number of beautiful bodies also with lots of scanty and sometimes stuffed underpants, naked boobs with hearts or tape on the nipples, a few bare asses, masses of bare bellies hanging out, many queens in drag, the leather crowd, lots of dogs suffering from the hot pavement, babies and young children being pushed or dragged along, some drunks, some stoned, lots of holding hands, some intimacy, way too much bad music and often too many people in one place.

The most unforgettable T-shirt was worn by a very petite and vivacious young lady; it read “Sorry fellows I only suck pussy”. There were many ways people expressed themselves and a few surprised even me.

I had spent Saturday at both the Prime Timer’s booth and at the GLBT Centers’ information center. So this was my second day this year to do the kind of people watching that can only be done at Pride Fest.

I really enjoyed putting stickers on the hairy chests. Of course the majority of people got them on their shirt, arm or bare skin. One cute guy took his off his chest and put it on his nipple and asked for another for the other side. I put it there and he gave me a big hug. I got and gave lots of hugs. I know a lot of huggers and a few I didn’t remember even though they seemed to know me. I was of course getting a lot of attention and having my picture taken because I was wearing the red hat and my Tibetan beads hanging off my ears.

Every year I get to have many special summer afternoons. In fact practically every afternoon, morning and evening is special all year long. And every year I get to spend two days enjoying the eye candy, the misshapen bodies, the costumes and the nice hairy chests.

After Pride Fest we went to my daughter’s for a Father’s Day dinner. My grandson MR B gave both his father and myself a card. Here is mine. I’m one hell of a lucky gay granddad.

© June 2013

About the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities," Telling your Story"," Men's Coffee" and the "Open Art Studio". I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.

The Party by Colin Dale

     

It is not enough to be busy.   So are the ants.
The question is: what are we busy about?   –Thoreau

      Today's prompt is the party, not a party.  The party to me means a special party, a party to end all parties.  We've all been to many a parties.  But to satisfy today's prompt--the party--I felt I had to go into the crawlspace of my memories to see if I could find some party I'd been to that was the Mother of All Parties.  Luckily, I didn't have to spend too much time in the crawlspace.

      Not only did I find my personal Mother of All Parties without a lot of rummaging around but also I found, in remembering my one and only the party, the baseline from which I've taken the measure of the last three decades of my life.

      Go back with me for a moment to February 1980.  Jimmy Carter's in the White House.  When not trying to figure out how to send this thing called a fax, we're playing an addictive game called Pac Man.  In bookstores, it's Sophie's Choice.  On Broadway, it's Evita.  In movie theaters, it's Raging Bull.   But join me on the 10th floor of the Coachman over on Downing across from Queen Soopers.  It's a little after 8 and I'm coming home, tired, from somewhere.  I walk into my apartment, the one I share with my partner Jim to find the place usually dark--not one light left on.  That's unusual.  I know something's wrong: there's a kind of creepy aliveness in the dark--like stepping into a lightless grizzly den.  But then lights throughout the apartment go on.  I'm standing inside the front door looking at a place packed to the sidewalls with people, all looking at me and yelling, "Surprise!"

        It's my 35th birthday and Jim has schemed the Mother of All surprise parties for me.  When I say the apartment is packed, I mean it is PACKED.  Jim and I work for one of Denver's now-long-gone Capitol Hill theaters and here in our apartment is the acting company, directors, staff, costumers, carpenters, and crew.  Jim's day-job is with a 17th Street bank; I know Jim's co-workers and they're here, too.  My day-job is with a medical supply house; Jim knows my co-workers and he's invited them as well.  Add to the mix other assorted friends, spouses, partners, Coachman neighbors, and maybe--who knows--a half dozen off-shift Queen Soopers' employees with nothing better to do. 

      The morning after my the party when Jim and I step out of the bedroom and out onto the battlefield to look over the wreckage, he tells me I had--not all at once, of course--eighty-one people stop by my birthday party.

      Eighty-one.

      Now let's look in on an evening in February of this past year.  It's my 67th birthday.   No surprise party.  I'm celebrating not at home but at a restaurant, and not with eighty-one people but with three.  And I'm feeling good.  Not because I'm drunk--I gave that up in '98--but because I'd recently broken my arm and I'm floating nicely on an och-see-COH-dun cloud.  I know even without the narcotic I'd be feeling good, because I'm celebrating my birthday in the way I've come to enjoy celebrating birthdays lately--for that matter, all get-togethers: with a few good friends.

      Remember I said in looking in the crawlspace of my memories I'd found not only my one big the party but also how that one the party has remained a baseline from which I've taken the measure of the last three decades of my life.  You might guess that when I would look back over the years--at birthdays in particular--I would get a little upset to see the attendance shrink--from eighty-one in 1980 to three in 2012.  I did the math: that's a loss of 2.4375 persons per year.  (I only had three friends at my last birthday party.  If the average holds, I should look forward to only a partial person--a .5625 person--this year.)

      It bothered me--once--this decline in attendance.  Worse yet, back when I was drinking, I stupidly interpreted the numbers as a decline in popularity--and that didn't just bother me, it depressed me.  What I could possibly have done to scare away people, at the withering rate of 2.4375 persons per year?

      The truth is in 1980 I was the victim of what I now call my stupidly busy days.  Between my day-job selling bedpans and syringes, my night-job at the theater trying the best I could to be someone else, working in my off-hours to honor a grant I'd received to write a half dozen children's plays, striving to be attentive to what was then a fairly new relationship with Jim, making sure I logged enough hours at the Foxhole and at this new place called Tracks, serving on the board of the alphabet-spare GLC, helping to put together a fundraising footrace for the then-fledging AIDS Project, and drinking way, way, way too much, my life at 35 was a runaway train.  I was living the illusion of multi-tasking before anyone had even coined that fanciful term.  I was having fun--but of course I was much, much, much younger.

      I was having fun, but I was also going crazy.  My stupidly busy days.  Days, as I look back on them now, with a mirage of significance but without much lasting substance.

      It's now 2013 and I'm still busy, but looking in from the outside you'd never guess it.   I call these days my wisely busy days.   I'm out with two or three friends.  Or I'm home. Out or home, I'm happy.  My the party of 32 years ago, when I think about it, was not a slow descent into unpopularity, with unpopularity's nasty side effect loneliness.  Instead, my the party of 32 years ago was the beginning of what I like to think was my ascent to maturity, with maturity's priceless bonus feature solitude--elective solitude.  With maturity has come enough contentment sometimes to choose solitude and sometimes to be with friends.  In yesterday's stupidly busy days I was exhausted and my senses were blunted.  In today's wisely busy days I'm alert.  It's much better now.

      And so there you have it: my the party.  Today's prompt has given me a chance to take a break from making up silliness and to stick close to what good storytelling can and maybe should do and that's to share a little bit of the private me.   Today's prompt has given me a chance to tell you about my the party of long ago, an evening I continue to think of as the beginning of the best days of my life--my wisely busy days--and why, when yesterday afternoon I typed the first sentence--"Today's prompt is the party; not a party"--I thought of my hero Thoreau and his saying:

It is not enough to be busy.   So are the ants.
The question is: what are we busy about?

© 7 January 2013

About the Author

Colin Dale couldn't be happier to be involved again at the Center. Nearly three decades ago, Colin was both a volunteer and board member with the old Gay and Lesbian Community Center. Then and since he has been an actor and director in Colorado regional theatre. Old enough to report his many stage roles as "countless," Colin lists among his favorite Sir Bonington in The Doctor's Dilemma at Germinal Stage, George in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Colonel Kincaid in The Oldest Living Graduate, both at RiverTree Theatre, Ralph Nickleby in The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby with Compass Theatre, and most recently, Grandfather in Ragtime at the Arvada Center. For the past 17 years, Colin worked as an actor and administrator with Boulder's Colorado Shakespeare Festival. Largely retired from acting, Colin has shifted his creative energies to writing--plays, travel, and memoir.

Mayan Pottery by Will Stanton

Dear Son,

I hope this email gets to you right away.  We don’t know much about the jungles of South America and what kind of communication set-up you might have at this moment.

Your father and I are so proud of you and your recent success.  We’ve read all about it in the newspapers, and it even has been on the TV news this week.  

I have to admit that, when you graduated from high school and told us that you wanted to study anthropology and specialize in Mayan culture, we had our doubts about your earning a living.  I guess your years of study have paid off, now that you have discovered a Mayan temple that has alluded explorers for so long.  They were showing on TV some of the Mayan pottery that you found.

I can’t say that we know much about Mayan pottery; but when we heard the news story, I searched on Google and found some pictures of it.  It’s pretty, but I am not sure what all those designs mean.  The newscast said that you have found a lot of it in very good condition and are having it transported back to the museum for study.

We truly admire how you have grown up and become so determined and hard-working.  I have to say that, ever since you were a little boy, your father and I worried about you.  You didn’t seem to be like other boys.  You didn’t play sports with the other boys, and you avoided the rough-housing and wrestling we saw with the neighborhood boys.  And, you never seemed interested in going to school dances or dating.  So, we are impressed that you have been able to put up with all the physical hardship hiking through those deep jungles and how you have kept up your spirits in your long search.

I guess our taking you to church every Sunday, having you enroll in Sunday school, and our reading the Bible together every evening did what we hoped and prayed for, making you a strong, God-fearing man.  Your father and I were so thrilled that you said that you owe it all to Jesus, that you have put your complete trust in Him, that He is with you at all times, day and night.  We have told all our friends, and your father stood up in church and told all the congregation about it.  We are so proud of you.  We eagerly are looking forward to your return next month.  I would like to have a party and invite all of your friends.  I’m sure they all would love to talk with you.

Sincerely,
Your adoring parents.

Dear Mom and Dad,

Yes, I did receive your email.  Everything has gone well, and I am planning to return next month.  I’ll be glad to see you again, but you don’t need to go to all the trouble of organizing any parties.  By the way, his name is pronounced “Hay-soos,” and he has been my guide all these months.  Yes, I owe him a lot.  He has been with me constantly, day and night, and we are deeply in love.  When we return to the States, we plan to get married; and you, of course, are invited to the wedding.

Best wishes,
Your loving son, Tim.

© 15 December 2012

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.