Halloween Humor by Will Stanton

Thirty-six Halloweens have come and gone since I first came to Denver, yet in those many years, I have attended only a few parties and hosted even fewer. Those parties, however, are, for various reasons, rather memorable.

The first large party that I attended was filled with truly creative people who thought of, and made, their own costumes… no rented or purchased costumes there with people saying, “How to you like my costume?” If you remember the old TV ads for Fruit of the Loom underwear, several people showed up as those advertisement characters, a bunch of grapes, etc. One man made an authentic replica of a Roman legionnaire’s armor.

Ever since I was a young child and attended local children’s parades and costume contests, I thoroughly subscribed to that tenant that my mother taught me, “create your own costume!” Yet at times, coming up with a fresh ideas may not be the simplest task.

About 4:00 in the afternoon of the day of that party, I still did not have an idea for myself. Then, I read an article in Time Magazine that provided my idea. The magazine article spoke of the scandal in the Olympics with the Eastern-Block countries apparently posing men as women in several events. I went to a T-shirt shop and had them make a red shirt with a big CCCP (for USSR) on the front and back. Then I picked up a wig and bra from ARC. The rest of the costume was easy, simply using gym sox and shoes and small gym shorts. In those days, I did sixteen hours per week of heavy-duty sports, so I was very buff and had big shoulders and chest. You can imagine what I looked like. To my surprise and pleasure, my costume as a “Soviet woman-athlete” was a big hit. A friend who took a photo promised to give me a copy, but he never did. I wish I had it to show people.

Another party with especially creative attendees occurred a few years ago. I have known for many years a remarkably talented man who has been a successful artist, craftsman, writer, and editor. In his line of business over the years, he has made a point of connecting with many other talented people. For his party, he announced a theme: leather. For a moment, I wondered if he was alluding to the gay interpretation; however, then I concluded that his suggestion was more broad, considering that his friends are of mixed persuasion.

I decided that, in keeping with the dark atmosphere of Halloween, I would go as a Russian KGB general. I had a cheap Russian military hat that I easily spruced up to resemble the required Soviet officer’s hat. I borrowed a huge black-leather coat. The rest was easy: black boots, black trousers and belt, black shirt and tie. The effect on the other guests was dramatic, and I shall not exaggerate in my telling of it.

The home was packed with interesting people, and it was not easy to move about. Throughout the evening, however, whenever I walked throughout the house, people instinctively stepped aside to make room for me. This phenomenon never changed; it continued until I left at 2:00 in the morning.

Even more curious was the fact that three people tried to pick me up all throughout the evening. The second woman was even more persistent than the first, and her husband was right there at the party. Someone had stood up to permit me to sit down on the coach, and this determined lady knelt next me for 45 minutes, chatting me up, and making quite clear that she “would really like to get to know me!” The third interested party was a young man half my age.

My being a very self-effacing person with little belief that I possess irresistible charisma, I was quite surprised and puzzled by all this attention. Then the words of Mark Twain came to mind and possibly explained it: “Clothes make the man!”

Regarding Halloween humor, I always have enjoyed a truly good joke. I recall how fun the popular Irish humorist David Allan was. When I could, I would try to catch him on TV and hear his wry humor. One of my favorites has remained with me to this day. The joke is set in an Irish pub on Halloween night:

Shawn O’Leary, having consumed several pints of Guinness and a few shots of Cutty Sark, comes stumbling out the door into the stormy night.

“Cor!  What a terrible night, with the wind and rain a’blowin’!  It’s a night for witches and banshees

and things that go Bump in the night!  I better take the shortcut home…through the graveyard." 

So, Shawn stumbles off through the grave yard from tree to tree and grave to grave until he comes to a fresh-dug grave; and Plop!, he falls in.  Shawn looks up, shakes his head and starts to try to climb out.  The earth, however, is loose from the rain and crumbles.  He keeps sliding back down into the grave.

So finally, Shawn hunkers down in the corner and says,”Oh well, I might as well make a night of it.”

About this time, Bryan O’Casey stumbles out of the pub and says, “Cor!  What a terrible night.  It’s a night for witches and banshees and things that go Bump in the night.  I better take the shortcut home…through the grave yard."

So Bryan heads off into the graveyard and stumbles into the very same grave.  Looking up, Bryan starts to climb out, but he keeps sliding back down into the grave.

All this while, Shawn O’Leary is watching him.  Finally Shawn speaks up and says, “You might as well give up trying to get out of this grave tonight.  You’ll never make it.” 

He did! 

© 18 June 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.

Facts by Michael King

I am more aware of my memory than when I was younger. I have become increasingly conscious of how the things remembered are isolated pieces of time, interaction, momentous events, strong emotions and other seemingly significant events in my past. Sometimes I will recall something of no particular importance with any particular feeling attached. It is from this awareness that I approach the topic for Monday, “Facts.”

It is my understanding that in a trial there may be numerous witnesses that observed a crime. Without coordination they may tell very different stories about the event. There is no reason to question their honesty, but what are the facts? Facts seem to be an elusive kind of reasonable makes-sense explanation regarding any given situation. It seems the mind will interpret experience in a way that seems plausible. If that is the case then facts are something that seems to be the most probable rather than the actual reality.

In “Telling my Story” I am usually aware that my memories are the perceptions that I now have of people and events in contrast to how I might have perceived those memories 25 years ago, 50 years ago, 70 years ago or even yesterday. What are the facts? Usually the date, the people, the place and the event are factual. Then are the particulars as to the surroundings. And becoming more vague would be the probable small details if recalled at all and then in the interpretation of the facts are the more distortive emotions and feelings. All these factors contribute to the probable facts related to any situation.

It amazes me that there are people that will respond to a question with the word “absolutely.” Either they are conning someone, trying to sell something or are unaware of how ludicrous their comment is. I’m convinced that being factual is not very important to some people and not particularly expected. There are many examples where people aren’t even aware of their distortions or perhaps don’t care if there is accuracy in either their thoughts or comments.

My conclusion is that to be factual is variable to the persons, events, memories, observations and philosophies. Perhaps more factual would be scientific evidence. Even then there is much room for interpretation. That is a fact.

Now, after that disclaimer, I’ll share a few facts about me. I am a 73 year old male humanoid mortal living on my planet of nativity. I was twice wed and divorced, fathered four children and am the grandfather of two men and a woman and two very young granddaughters. I live in Denver, Colorado with my partner Merlyn. I am an active openly gay eccentric who wears ear bobs, sports tattoos and piercings and has fairly colorful wardrobe. I paint and do sculpture, write stories for “Story Time,” help set up for the Prime Timers’ “Nooners,” volunteer at the GLBT Center, go antiquing and visit thrift stores, cook, eat, drink vodka, go to plays, stage performances, ballet and opera, exercise at the Y, walk, ride the bus and Merlyn’s Suburban, watch movies, porn and TV, talk to my family and sometimes get together with them, And then there are those other facts that shall go unsaid.

© 23 March 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.

Coming Out Spiritually by Merlyn

I have never come out spiritually, I look inside of myself, It's the only place I have ever found the spiritual answers that are so important.

I was born into a family that faithfully attended The United Brotherhood Church in Beach Park, Michigan. Everything we did was a sin so we had to be saved over and over again with tent revival meetings, church camps and temperance meetings.

On Sunday mornings we would all show up at the church, stand up with a Jesus loves me look on our faces and sing the songs, drink the blood and eat the body of Christ, leave the church and start sinning again.

I realized there wasn't any point in living in fear of going to hell and feeling guilty all the time.

When I was around 10 years old I stopped believing in organized religion, the Bible, God and Jesus. I refused to go to church after I turned eleven. I don't think I have been in a church more than 20 times on a Sunday morning in the last 58 years.

One of the best things about being a nonbeliever is I don't have to try to fit any new beliefs in with my old beliefs. I have had a completely open mind whenever I have studied any of the great spiritual teachings that millions of people believe in. I have never found any of them that I can believe in.

I know a lot of people that will never be able to find peace and understanding because they have so many hang-ups brought on because of their religious convictions.

The only time I ever think about religion is when I'm around other people that bring the subject up.

© 1 July 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.

Thoughts on SAGE Queens and SAGE New York by Louis

This past Tuesday, I left from my apartment in College Point, Queens, New York and got on the nearest bus, the Q-65 and went to the next town over, Flushing, to the intersection of Roosevelt Avenue and Main Street, where I boarded the elevated number 7 train, the Flushing local which I rode west for eight stops to the intersection of 74 Street and Roosevelt Avenue in Jackson Heights, Queens. Jackson Heights is the main gay neighborhood in Queens – the “ghetto”, so to speak.

I was accompanied by my New York “boyfriend” of sorts, Kevin. I signed in and listened to the discussion of the meeting, led by John the Director. They have a restaurant club, a walking club, a new camera club, an art club, etc. They had already had their annual trip to Fire Island where this year they had a memorial service for lovers who had recently passed away.

One member of this club, a black man, and a veteran I think, named Claude follows the same itinerary as Kevin and I. After this meeting at Sage Queens in Jackson Heights, Queens, the three of us walk back to the 74 Street stop on the number 7 train and continue further west out of Queens and into Manhattan. We take the number 7 train to the last stop, Times Square at 42nd Street, where we transfer to the downtown (that is south) IRT local two stops to 28 Street and 7th Avenue. When we get off, we come up right by the famous gay landmark, the Fashion Institute of Technology (which, by the way, is bad English, it should be the Institute of Fashion Technology, that’s really what they mean). We cross the street and enter the building at 305 7th Avenue and take the elevator to the 15th floor.

Recently, I was chosen to be interviewed by a representative from Fordham University where the Social Work Department is trying to improve services for SAGE New York. I told the interviewer, among other things, that, like many seniors, I need affordable dental work, a hearing aid and a new pair of glasses. Medicare does not pay for any of these items. More importantly, I said there should be a gay and Lesbian French club. I noticed that some woman was holding a 6-week Italian course at Sage New York, a step in the right direction. And lo and behold, a few weeks later, I noticed that, on Friday evenings, from 6 p.m. to 7 p.m., there is a French Conversation meeting at SAGE New York, another step in the right direction, in my opinion. When I get back to New York City in a few weeks, if it is still meeting, I want to attend the French Conversation hour, held Friday evenings. Why not a Spanish language club?

This past Tuesday, when we arrived, in preparation for senior dinner, which is served at 5 p.m., we said hello to a group of Japanese students who were “teaching” Origami. I remembered Betsy and Gillian who went to the gay Games in Vancouver, Canada a few years ago. My point is “Think international!”, especially nowadays, when we here about the persecution of Lesbian and gay people in Russia. The Japanese students helped serve dinner. It was all quite interesting.

After dinner, Kevin and I went to the nearby Long Island Railroad station, located in Penn Station and bought 2 discount senior tickets to return to Flushing, Queens. Well, actually, Kevin is not a senior, is too young, but he is disabled so qualifies for a discount ticket. We returned to Main Street and Roosevelt Avenue in Flushing, NY where we boarded the Q-65 and returned home.

© 10 September 2013

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA's. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

Magic by Lewis

Do you believe in magic? Yeah.

Believe in the magic in a young girl's soul
Believe in the magic of rock 'n' roll
Believe in the magic that can set you free
Ohhhh, talkin' bout magic....

So goes the lyric by the smooth and silky Lovin' Spoonful. According to Webster's, "magic" is "the use of means (such as charms and spells) believed to have supernatural power over natural forces" or "an extraordinary power or influence seemingly from a supernatural source" or "the art of producing illusions by sleight of hand."

To answer Lovin' Spoonfuls' question, yes, I do believe there is power in music to set one's soul free, so to speak, and it isn't limited to rock 'n' roll or the soul of a young girl, for that matter. What Lovin' Spoonful is singing about is the magic that is part of ordinary, everyday lives, not the magic of Webster's dictionary. And, when push comes to shove, isn't that the only kind that really matters?

I would like to tell you a story of how magic has affected my life. It begins shortly after my ex-wife, Jan, and I were married in 1972--six weeks after, to be precise. It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving. I was working in the front yard of our home in Detroit. It was a warm day for late November. Jan came out of the house, obviously upset. She was bleeding rather heavily from her vagina. She had talked to her gynecologist, who recommended taking her to Brent, a private hospital, immediately.

What happened thereafter must be weighed in consideration of the fact that it was two months before the U.S. Supreme Court's decision in Roe v. Wade. It was less than a mile to Brent but for Jan it was as if she had stepped through a portal to hell. I did not witness any of the events I am about to describe. I only learned of them from Jan.

Within an hour of my leaving her off at the hospital, the orderlies were transferring her from the gurney to the examination table and dropped her on the floor. To add insult to injury, their main concern was for the well-being of the fetus; Jan was first-runner-up.

By this time, she had passed tissue as well as blood and was convinced that the fetus was not healthy. Nevertheless, she was instructed to lie perfectly still in the hospital bed. The doctor prescribed a sedative to calm her down but she only pretended to swallow the pill. When the nursing staff had left her room, she got out of bed and did push ups on the floor, hoping to abort, which, eventually, she did. The staff was none the wiser.

About a year later, Jan was pregnant again. As before, at about six weeks gestation, she began to bleed. That pregnancy also resulted in a miscarriage. Tests disclosed that Jan had a bifurcated uterus--a membrane separated it into two parts. That didn't leave enough space for the fetus to develop normally. The doctor's recommendation was surgery to remove the membrane. The odds of success were 50/50. We decided to go ahead with the procedure. Two weeks before the surgery was to happen, we learned that Jan was pregnant again, despite her being on the pill. We decided to take a wait-and-see approach to the fetus' development.

This is where the magic began. Not only did the fetus go to term but developed into a 9-pound, 5-ounce baby girl, Laura. The delivery was not exactly "normal", however. Yes, we had taken the "natural childbirth" and Lamaze classes but there is no way to plan or prepare for an umbilical cord that is wrapped around the baby's neck. The obstetrician decided to induce birth early and use forceps. We had chosen a hospital, Hutzel Women's Hospital in Detroit, that allowed the father to be present for the birth. I had planned for it but had not a clue as to the role I was about to play.

The birthing table, upon which Jan lay, was massive. I think it was made of marble or something equally heavy. The doctor was at one end, his forceps clamped on the baby's head, a nurse was lying across Jan's abdomen and I was holding onto the other end of the table. Nevertheless, the doctor was dragging the table with its cargo of three human adults across the delivery room floor by our daughter's neck while Jan pushed as hard as she could. (Incidentally, my wife was about 5'8" and 160 pounds.) I was afraid that our baby was going to be born in installments. But, no, she came out in one piece, her head a little flattened on the sides, slightly jaundiced, hoppin' mad, and gorgeous to both her parents.

On my first visit to mother and daughter in the hospital, I donned the required gown. You know the type--they cover the front of you completely and tie in the back. Laura had been in an incubator for her jaundice. The nurse brought her in and handed her to Jan in the bed for feeding. After Laura had nursed for a while, Jan asked if I would like to hold her. I said "yes", even though I had little-to-no experience with holding a live baby, especially one so small. After holding Laura to my shoulder for a few minutes, I handed her back to Jan.

As I was leaving, I removed the gown. There, near the shoulder of the dress shirt I wore to work, was a pea-sized spot of meconium, a baby's first bowel movement. True, it's sterile and has no particular smell, but I knew that I had been branded. My daughter had found an "outlet" for her anger at having to undergo such a rigorous birth and I knew she would have the upper hand for as long as we both lived.

On the night of Laura's birth, as I drove home at about 5:00 AM, I turned on the car's radio to WDET-FM, the public and classical radio station at the time. The streets were empty and as I merged onto I-75 for the 10-minute ride home, the interior of the car was filled with the sounds of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, Fourth Movement. In the last section of that movement, the massive choir of over a hundred mixed voices rises to sing "Ode to Joy" in concert with the musicians. You have only to hear it once to know that MAGIC is happening. Only a genius who could not hear the sound of his own voice could have composed such glorious sounds. My heart, already swollen with pride, nearly burst.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. But even better than Santa Claus, there is magic all around us all the time. It speaks to us only if we open our hearts to it and believe--believe that there is always light at the end of the tunnel, that we are given love in proportion to that which we give to others and that, above all, we must never lose faith either in ourselves or the blessed and precious world we have been given.

[P.S. Just a brief afterthought about the "magic" of childbirth.

I see nothing particularly remarkable about the male role in this process. The job of the sperm is two-fold: a) engage in the singularly manly pursuit of trying to outrace the other 100-200 million sperm to the egg and b) equally as manly, be the first to penetrate the hard outer layer of the egg, thus reaching its nucleus where the sperm's genetic content merges with that of the egg. The life of the sperm thus reminds me of nothing more than of the leeches who attached themselves to the main character's nether regions in the movie, Stand by Me--neither ennobling nor romantic.

What transpires within the uterus of the woman, however, is simply one magic trick after another. Nine months is longer than most men remain faithful. It's uncomfortable enough that most men wouldn't endure it unless they were being paid tens of thousands of dollars per month and on network television. Many of them are nowhere to be found when the nine months are up. Yet, they think they are entitled to make the rules as to whether the fetus must be allowed to go full-term. It's as if the leech had a nine-month, no-breech lease on your groin. All of a sudden, the "magic" is gone.]

© 26 August 2013

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn't getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband's home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

Three Little Words by Gillian

The first three little words that I remember having any effect on my life were "Digging For Victory" although, born as I was in Britain smack in the middle of World War Two, I can’t really have been old enough to comprehend the significance of that slogan except in retrospect.

"Digging for Victory" encouraged turning all private lawns and flower gardens, and all public parks and sports fields, into vegetable plots or small animal farms, in order to make Britain self-sufficient in food rather than importing food via merchant sea vessels subject to German attack.

The program in fact probably saved the British population from starvation as the war lengthened and the attacks on shipping became increasingly successful.

It also continued for years after the war ended and I guess that is when I remember it from; the songs, the posters, the pamphlets lying around the house and everybody digging, digging, weeding, hoeing, bartering a basket of potatoes for a pitcher of goats’ milk.

Of course, to me, there was nothing different; life had always been like that. We had goats and chickens and pigs in our back yard, and no flowers grew except for a tiny plot behind the house where it was essentially hidden from view and over which I know my mother struggled with considerable guilt, but she could not bring herself to abandon her beloved roses.

In those days I think every back must have ached, and just occasionally I still recall, mainly when my back hurts, a ridiculous line from a Digging for Victory ditty.

"And when your back aches, laugh with glee, and keep on digging."

A “V” for Victory campaign, another three-worder, was launched in 1941, though this was more one of signs than words. People were asked to demonstrate their support for the Allies by flashing the Churchillian “V” hand signal and chalking up the letter “V” wherever and whenever they could. People all over occupied Europe were urged to display the letter “V” and beat out the “V” sound in Morse Code (three dots and a dash.)

It was soon realized that the three short notes and one long at the start of Beethoven's Fifth echoed the Morse code for "victory". Those notes probably became the most played music in Europe during the war years.

"Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament", formed in the U.K. in 1957, is definitely not three small words and its slogan became Ban the Bomb.

Every Easter weekend while I was in college I traveled to London on a chartered bus overstuffed with students and righteous zeal, to take part in the annual peace rally. There was a wonderful camaraderie at these gatherings, but whether they actually changed anything, who knows. And whether it would have been better if they had, who knows.

Maybe we had it all wrong.

Perhaps it was simply the balance of nuclear weapons on both sides that kept the Cold War cold, and all of us from descending into some nuclear winter.

By the time I became settled in the U.S., the Vietnam protests were getting underway.

It was all “Stop the War and End the Draft”. Again I joined in marches, and eventually our wishes were met, though not until we had ruined a whole generation of young men. The term Vietnam Vet rarely conjures up a positive picture.

Ending the draft meant people no longer having to live in fear of themselves or their loved ones being sent off unwillingly to yet another Hell on Earth – three more little words that are not, in fact, like all these other examples of three little words, small at all.

But perhaps we got that wrong, too.

Now we still manage to create new slices of Hell, but those who go there are overwhelmingly the poor and uneducated whose best, perhaps only, chance of employment is the Military. Those with more to lose, are protected by those with little or nothing.

Hard to celebrate.

“Stop the War “ protests will probably, sadly, never disappear because the wars never do. Just the names are different.

Along came Iraq. More protest marches.

Two sets of three little words that I much appreciated when used together were “Support Our Troops – Bring Them Home”. And finally, as we hear the sabers rattling over Iran, they are home, at least from Iraq.

And maybe even that was nothing to wish for.

In Vietnam 2.6 soldiers survived their wounds for every one battlefield death. The ratio is now 16 to one.

Wounded veterans have completely swamped the VA system with a backlog of almost 900,000 disability claims. Almost one in three returning vets suffers from physical and/or mental injuries, many of them catastrophic. And one in three recently returned vets between the ages of 18 and 24, is unemployed.

Colonel Michael Gaal, who served in Iraq, said it’s always easier to leave than to come home, one of the saddest statements I have ever heard.

So in truth, by bringing them home, we have done them no great favor.

It seems that all my three little word slogans that I got behind, those peacenik causes I espoused, have questionable results.

As long as we have wars, there will never be a “right” outcome.

So my current three little words express what I wish for myself and those I love.

Go With God, whatever your own vision of ‘God” might be, and Live With Love.

With those I don’t see how we can go far wrong.

© 13 February 2012

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.

Culture Shock by Betsy

It does not take an extraordinary imagination to paint a picture of a rather battered human race populating the planet earth in the year 2100. Scientists are coming up with computer models almost daily depicting a much warmer, weather-beaten, very watery, world.

Consider what some of the models are telling us. This past summer was the warmest on record. June being the 378 consecutive months in which the temperature exceeded the average of the twentieth century. The odds of this happening are astronomically small, yet it happened.*

The temperature of the planet is expected to rise 8 degrees by the turn of the century according to one recent study. This may not seem like an eventuality that could end life as we know it, however, some speculate the planet will become uninhabitable by humans if this much of a rise in temperature becomes a reality.

Ice sheets are melting. Already sea levels are showing a rise as a result. It is estimated that by 2100 some island nations will have disappeared entirely. Coastal cities all over the globe will be under water or threatened by the encroaching sea and millions of people will be seeking higher ground.

Because of increasing amounts of carbon pollution in the atmosphere we are experiencing record, heat, floods, drought, wildfires, and violent weather. Surely everyone is aware of this. We have only to pay attention to the daily news or observe with our own eyes. Still, many of our political leaders choose to deny what science tells us is true. The fossil fuel industry has such a strangle hold on our policy makers that they have been rendered mute.

The last global conference on climate change for world leaders was not even attended by the U.S. president or a representative. It is true. There are some very pressing issues of major importance which need to be dealt with immediately; such as, the economy, unemployment, federal revenues and the fiscal cliff, regulation of Wall Street, etc, etc.

However, it seems that climate change has to be the only issue that really matters.

Would this not be a culture shock from which humankind will not recover?

If the planet becomes uninhabitable by humans or barely habitable by humans in the next century or two, does anything else really matter?

*Bill McKibben, Rolling Stone, July 19, 2012

© 26 November 2012

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

Eerie by Ricky

The eerie thing is that I'm fairly certain that someone besides me in our group will write about or comment on the Erie Canal or Erie, Pennsylvania so I'm not going to do that even though my first thought was to muddy-the-waters doing so. No, today I'm going to try and stick to the topic.

For me, “eerie” has several synonyms that come to mind and trigger memories; and are in more common usage. Weird, spooky, creepy, scary, and the phrases gives-me-the-chills or gives-me-the-willies or it-gave-me-goosebumps are some of these.

When I was just a young Tenderfoot scout, the sounds of the forest at night, when all of us boys were still and quiet, were spooky and scary. The ghost stories told during the evening campfire didn't help calm my mind for sleeping. The quiet hooting of owls; the creaking of the trees; the rustling of leaves and pine needles as the light breeze disturbed their rest; the chirping of crickets and croaking of frogs when suddenly stopped; and the howling of coyotes all combined to make the unfamiliar sounds of the nighttime forest a bit spooky and scary. No way was I going to leave my tent for a 3AM trip to the nearest tree urinal under those conditions. Somehow I just knew the crickets and frogs went silent due to some larger than me predator of the forest being nearby.

Then there were the times when I was alone in the daytime forest armed with a .22 rifle hunting squirrels or birds and the woods would go silent. But I knew I was the large predator so I was only frustrated until I learned to stop moving and sit still until the noises came back. The spooky and occasionally scary times were when in the daylight I was unarmed and the forest went silent. I would again sit still until sound returned but was unnerved for awhile because I was sure the forest creatures could tell I was no threat being unarmed so I did not know why they went silent. I imagined mountain lions, tigers, and bears (Oh my!) to be nearby. I finally became educated enough to remember that tigers were only in zoos or India so that left me with imaginary mountain lions and bears to worry about. Once I learned that lions and bears were relatively rare in the Tahoe Basin, I stopped worrying so much about them. After arriving in Colorado and reading about the people killed by mountain lions near Boulder and elsewhere, and the bears along the Bear Creek Greenbelt, those fears have resurfaced somewhat. And, now even within the city limits of South Lake Tahoe, bears regularly raid the residential garbage cans as the city refuses to keep bears out of the city.

Perhaps the eeriest experience I ever had was between me and my fiance. At the time, I was living in Marana, Arizona and she was living in Salt Lake City. I was watching a TV talk show where an author was “plugging” his newest book titled, Open Marriage. I thought it might be interesting to read and discuss its concepts before we married so, I wrote her a letter and mailed it that day. The next day in the mail, I received a package from her. When I opened it, the package contained the book Open Marriage. She had sent me the book before I had even heard of it and before she had received my letter.

Ever since that day, until the day she passed away, we were constantly being connected by some type of a psychic “link” at unexpected times; for example, one of us would call the other just as the recipient was reaching for the phone to initiate the call or writing and receiving letters that crossed-in-the-mail answering questions that the other person had asked in the letter we had not read yet. (Now that is eerie.)

The most wonderful and life effecting eerie experience I had was when I was reading the Book of Mormon, and asked in my mind, “Could this possibly be true?” Instantly I had the most intense “spiritual” experience of my 20-year old life as I was filled with pure love and the warm feelings of being loved completely and also filled with the knowledge that the book was true.

Sometimes weird, eerie, and spooky things are not scary, but uplifting.

© 13 March 2012

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.


I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com. 

Ever Neverland by Phillip

I live on an island at times, one I visit when I need space, need to be away from responsibility, or need to exercise my imagination. I’ve gone there many times, flying away from my peers, my family, my school, and my work. I have been aware of such flight since childhood.

Was I a flighty kid?
Was I lost in dreams?
Was I?
Am I now?

I know my dreams have been important, especially the daydreams that tend to take me away into adventures I could not in any other way experience. But once I entered a dream that endured and became real.

I had a dream of love, a dream of love shared with a man. A dream of love discovered. I shared and cultivated a relationship with another man who also needed and desired the same. A dream of love that transforms to the depths and heights and that still occurs daily, feels grounded, and fulfills common needs. I entered this Neverland holding hands with a man.

There was no map. Oh, if you compared the plats, you might think you were in Denver, but that’s not really where this story occurred. No pirates lived there. Perhaps some Indians did and some lost boys! I loved the place. I’m pretty sure there was buried treasure; I’m sure I found it. The cast of characters: only two mattered then, Rafael and I.

Awaiting the arrival of the No. 10 bus I met a younger man named Rafael. I didn’t ask for his last name as I proffered Phil from my end of the pleasant conversation. (I wonder now if I had, would he have said Martinez or Pan?) We boarded the bus; that’s when we began to fly. We talked together as we rode about a mile, then he—this cute, warm, smiling man—got off to make a transfer that would take him to work. The contact seemed to me so much more than a bus ride. It was more like freedom of movement, even flying as we talked and laughed and studied one another. The experience happened again the next week—same place, same bus, but more information, more smiles, more laughter, more looking into one another’s faces, and less awareness of others who didn’t even seem to be present. A third experience seemed to establish a yearning for more, much more, but my Rafael Pan didn’t visit the nursery of my infatuation. I started searching for him—walking the streets near the bus stop alert to every biped in pants, wondering where this young man could be. Finally I met him again. We talked. I touched him, I touched him again. I gave him my phone number and an invitation to get together. Then two months (they could have been years) of no contact convinced me I needed this man in my life. I wanted his friendship, his presence, his charm, and his love. I would survive without him but kept alert to the possibility of seeing him again in some unexpected place. There and then I wouldn’t be as casual in my conversation. My friends were amused. One thought I was giving the situation over to the universe. I had a different thought. Finally Rafael phoned leaving a message. That next day and for many days to follow we flew together.

We met by happenstance the morning we waited to board a bus. A few months later we connected with a passion that was so total as to make us two the only occupants of my Neverland. Rafael Pan and I played house, played lovers, played sex, played decorator, played god. We came together in our fantasy island with an intensity neither of us had ever experienced.

Rafael was living alone when I met him and not doing very well. He was always late, always short of cash, always in crisis. His crisis was much larger than he could imagine. He was dying from hepatitis C, a disease that had reached full term (over fifteen years) and that was having a devastating effect on his liver, spleen, and brain. Already it had ruined his life. Already it had robbed him of much of his cognitive function. What I met was a dying man out of control, a beautiful, sweet man with a funny voice and endearing misuses of English who seemed to like me, a younger man who was lively, conversational, warm, loving, needy, sweet, open, vulnerable, and who became an obsession for me.

I lived there in Neverland with a double life. So did my Pan. We both worked daily but found great relief when we got home at night. Rafael greeted me with open arms then as if we had never before met but had known each other for millennia. Some of my friends got to meet my charmer, eat his cooking, and enjoy his warmth. For awhile life seemed good.

Although life in Neverland thrilled me, it wasn’t perfect. Its ATM was flat broke. There were money problems, clinic appointments, and a court appearance for a problem that only slowly revealed its true parameters. The clock inside Rafael’s bad-health crocodile kept ticking away towards its pursuit of dominance. But Pan transformed it with his own enfolding heart. In the extremity of his life I watched as he reached out with strength and love to a nurse, to his parents, and to me, his lover.

I worked through it all knowing I needed to keep a passable bridge between my worlds, knowing someday I would have to leave this fantasy place. I spent a huge amount of time helping his family cope with his homosexuality and eminent death. Finally I lost Pan who flew away from our love nest on the summit of the Hill. Unable to fly, I trudged home along the streets of Denver, the city to which I had moved in order to rebuild my life. Of course, I was sad, sad, sad as I reentered the life I had never really left. The going there now seemed difficult, the letting go painful. Where did my Pan go? Of course I don’t know, but he left me with a fantastic treasure of love I keep warmly nurtured in the innermost sanctuary of my heart. Our brief life together changed me, and I am determined to keep alive the treasure I discovered forever in Neverland.

Denver, 2012

© 23 November 2012

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

Favorite Place by Pat Gourley

I actually have many favorite places currently and have had many different ones over the years. Implied in a favorite place for me is the component of safety along with joy and contentment. Unlike many in the world now, into the future and certainly in the past, being able to experience safety, joy and simultaneously contentment is illusive much of the time. For many of us I imagine our most favorite place often exists in our head and we find ourselves trying to go there often.

The trick for me is to make where I am at the moment, which is always an undeniable reality that should be honored, my favorite place. There is often no other choice. I rarely succeed at this but am getting better at it than I was for much of my life. Before I wonder too deep into the woods with Eckhart Tolle’s Power of Now or Ram Dass and Be Here Now or the Buddha’s timeless invocation to simply sit quietly with the breath, I need to acknowledge many places cannot be called “favorite”. Like being stuck in traffic on a hot day, or on an airplane next to a screaming kid or driving across southern Wyoming or recently having to be with a good friend who has shared he may have metastatic prostate cancer, this after decades of HIV.

I also have to acknowledge that I have really led a pretty privileged life. I have never been in a crowded jail cell, tortured or worse perhaps put in solitary confinement. I have never been in an abusive relationship and my childhood was pretty idyllic despite the stifling reality of the Catholic Church. I don’t live with the constant sound of an American drone hovering above and the horrific but occasional blasting of relatives into oblivion as unfortunate collateral damage. I always felt safe with and experienced endless unconditional positive regard from my parents. I can only imagine the constant horror and struggle of trying to get to a favorite pace if you are a child in an abusive and unsafe environment.

I imagine nearly all people have a favorite place the trick is just being able to get there as often as possible. So should we all be trying to cultivate this “favorite place” as somewhere we can go to mentally rather than always be physically present there? How often have we all imagined if only I was there it would all be perfect? Once we got there however it soon became boring and we wanted to be onto the next favorite place. That certainly has been my M.O. Craving is the ultimate cause of all suffering according to some guy called the Buddha.

So I have a basket full of real favorite places ranging from the Japanese Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park to my own small patio in the early morning hours with that rare east breeze carrying the scent of fresh mown alfalfa. The smell of freshly cut hay particularly when mixed with the scent of a recent rain has been and remains like mainlining Valium for me invoking my best childhood memories. So in those situations I guess that makes my favorite place an olfactory one. Another favorite place is hearing and dancing with 9,000 of my closest friends at Red Rocks as Furthur launches into a favorite tune like Golden Road to Devotion or Franklin’s Tower. Oh and of course that favorite place of savoring the taste of a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Karamel Sutra on my living room couch and sharing licks of the vanilla with my one cat, Cassidy, who eats dairy. These days a favorite place are the Capital Hill neighborhoods I walk through on my way to the gym and taking in the rainbow of flowers blooming this time of the year and enjoying the daily changes in the many small vegetable gardens popping up with more frequency. And of course a very favorite place is the state of sexual arousal leading to orgasm, that one never seems to get old. It seems perhaps that favorite places vary with the senses and a key for me is to focus on the one sense being stroked most intensely at the moment.

Not to be greedy or in a terminal state of craving but how wonderful it would be to be sitting in the Tea Garden with a pint of ice cream while being jacked off by George Clooney with my ear buds in listening to a recent Furthur jam in the Fall right after a nice rain shower and the Japanese Maples in their brilliant red glory in full view. But really I suppose my head would then explode and it would all be over rather abruptly. To be fully appreciated perhaps it really is best to take my favorite places one sense at a time.

© 28 August 2013

About the Author

I was born in La Porte Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

Memorials by Michael King

My first memory of a memorial was when I was four or five. In rural Kansas there would be a fenced area with trees on the side if the road surrounded by wheat fields. Sometimes headstones could be seen. The one I remember was overgrown with tall grass and weeds when we arrived on Memorial Day.

It was the custom for families of those buried there to come, clean away the weeds, cut the grass and place flowers from their flower gardens on the graves of their relatives.

It was a beautiful day and I was unhappy to have to stay in the car while my parents and older sister were outside working on making the graves nice and neat. The reason I had to stay in the car other than insuring that I stayed out of the way was that I had asthma and my parents tried to avoid anything that might cause an attack. I’m sure that included an excuse to prevent me from running around like a normal boy of my age. I felt fine.

I looked out and noticed a child’s grave next to the car. It was a much smaller area covered with tall grasses and weeds. Since no one was there to properly groom the area I felt sorry that no one cared and wanted to do something about this sad situation.

I lowered the car window and got my sister’s attention, explained my concern, and convinced her to trim the grass. She got a sickle and was busy swinging it back and forth cutting the grass when I managed to open the car door and got out to watch. I got too close and on a back swing the sickle caught the skin along my eyebrows and tore it to about the center of my scalp.

Dr. Whalan in our little town had reattached my thumb when my father cut it off when I was two. I had stuck my hand out to touch the pretty blade he was potting in the mowing machine. Dr. Whalan later treated me when I was bitten by a spider and was in a coma for days. Now after I got scalped he gently worked the scalp and forehead skin back in place and told my parents that it would heal with less scaring without stitches. He was very skillful in that regard and over the years treated numerous face wounds that would have left me with some horrible scars. Most of the scars I have hardly show for which I can thank the country doctor.

After that first experience having to do with Memorials and Memorial Days I recall many: the poppies representing Flanders’ Field, many funerals, watching the laying of wreaths, standing by friends as they watched their loved ones being placed in a crypt or in the ground, and more recently when funerals have become celebrations of the lives of our friends.

The following is what I read at Bobby Gates Memorial celebration.

After I retired I found myself with no particular activities, no friends, as most were from work or lived far away, and I didn’t even have a plan or a direction. I attended the PrideFest and was given a card about the Prime Timers luncheon. I went and began my first association with a gay community. Bobby was the president of Prime Timers. Among the many things that he sponsored was the “Coffee Tyme” at Panera’s. Soon we became friends and when Bobby found out that I was almost totally un-knowledgeable in practically everything, he became my mentor. Of course at the time I wasn’t that aware, but looking back practically everything I found out, every activity I got involved in and most everyone I met had a connection to Bobby. I think he had been that way with many, many others. He organized activities, coordinated events and invited participation and friendship, thoughtfully sent birthday cards, etc., etc.

For me he introduced me to many restaurants, always surprised that I had never been to any of them. He introduced me to Front Rangers. He introduced me to movies. He was one in the coffee group that introduced me to the Denver Church and Jim Chandler. And he introduced me to my partner, Merlyn. Often he’d call me about an activity and asked if I needed a ride. I can’t imagine how my life would have been without Bobby.

I honor one of the most compassionate, thoughtful, and generous friends anyone could ever have. I feel that I have truly been blessed by his friendship, his kindness, his nurturing, and the love that he bestowed on everyone.

Even though Bobby didn’t have financial wealth, a couple of weeks ago Bobby’s son Marc and I were talking about how rich Bobby was in friendships, activities, experiences, and attitude.

I expect that we’ll meet again and that our friendship will continue. In the meantime I will continue to be thankful for the many ways he touched my life and continues to be an inspiration and an influence

I give thanks for Bobby

© 28 January 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.