the storm is coming?

Gay Californians can get married today. I must admit that the thought makes me somewhat nauseous.

Not because I'm anti-gay marriage. Partner and I have been together almost 13 years. Anyone that knows us knows about how many struggles we've been through simply because we couldn't get a marriage licence. Anyone that knows us knows we would marry in a heartbeat if we could.

Yet. I'm nauseous.

I look around and I see groups like the Westboro Baptist Church, the Promise Keepers, the Focus on the Family, Exodus International, and many others and I think "WOW!" all these groups lining up on the other side of the fence ready to attack me? [Really, US, but politics are personal.]

And I get nauseous.

I think I see what's coming. Court battle after court battle. Demonstration after demonstration, all over the news. Shouting, finger pointing, moralizing, much done in the name of God -- on both sides -- a sort of mini-crusade -- with plenty of casualties. The world will watch and think: "Didn't they learn anything the last time they denied people rights?" The shouts will ring out: "This is different! These aren't people! These are just fags! [yes Matthew, I still remember]. Burn them! Burn them! Crucify!

After many, many years in Washington D.C., I've been jaded to the point that all I see is the fight and know it's going to be a long one. How many paintings will there be of gay couples being turned away at church steps while holding marriage licenses? How many post-hoc amendments will crush gay families? There are more of them than there are of us. And, we don't exactly have friendly courts on our side. At least not yet.

Surely, that wouldn't happen in today's society? Got to go, my stomach hurts.

on winning a tony

Look Mr. Sondheim, I made a hat where there never was a hat, and it's a latin hat at that.

Lin-Manuel Miranda.  Accepting a Tony for Best Score (In the Heights), in a shout-out to Stephen Sondheim.

straight civil disobedience

The gay people are coming! The gay people are coming! To arms! To arms!

After the Supreme Court of California, with a majority of Reagan appointees I will add, decided that it was right and just for gays to get married, it seems that not all of California is ready for this to happen. Imagine my surprise. Kern County's Ann Barnett has decided that she will stop performing all wedding ceremonies just so she doesn't have to perform the gay ones.

Fantastic.

The lengths some people will go to, to deny human rights to others. History will judge you Ann Barnett. You will be remembered, and it wont be fondly. You will be that woman (no, not Lewinski) in California who tried to stop love, and failed. I hope your proud.

Follow the link for more information:

http://www.iht.com/articles/ap/2008/06/07/america/NA-GEN-US-Gay-Marriage-Clerk.php

are Chris Matthews and Bill O'Reilly related?

Some people are starting to think that Chris Matthews is simply a conservative in liberal clothing.  What do you think?  Watch the video and think.  That's all I ask.

on choosing

I chose and my world was shaken,

So what?

The choice may have been mistaken

The choosing was not,

You have to move on.

Stephen Sondheim.  Sunday in the Park with George

vote Xanadu!

on friendship

If our friendship depends on things like space and time, then when we finally overcome space and time, we've destroyed our own brotherhood! But overcome space, and all we have left is Here. Overcome time, and all we have left is Now. And in the middle of Here and Now, don't you think that we might see each other once or twice?

Richard Bach. Jonathan Livingston Seagull

abominations - to name a few

Next time somebody tells you you're an abomination, let them know that in Leviticus there are a few more examples:

You have committed an abomination if you have:

Had sex with an animal (20:15-16)

Harvested your entire garden (19:9)

Consulted with a psychic or medium or had a tarot card reading (20:6)

If you're a man and have had sex without taking a shower and cleaning the sheets immediately after. (15:16)

Touched a woman while she was menstruating (19:19)

Had a juicy steak or hamburger (17:10)

Eaten pork (11:7)

Have a tattoo (19:26)

Stolen anything at anytime in your life (19:13)

Had a dog that produced a litter of mutts (19:19)

Worked on Saturday (19:3)

Eaten crab (11:10)

Talked back to your parents (19:3)

Said "I hate you" to a parent or sibling (19:17)

Unjustly judged your neighbor (19:15)

Kept something you found without trying to find the owner (6:3)

Eaten calamari (11:10)

Planted 2 different kinds of plants in the same pot/garden bed (20:19)

Worn a cotton/wool blend (20:19)

Trimmed your beard or the hair around your temples (19:27)

Gotten out of bed after either your parents or grandparents (19:32)

Not returned incorrect change (19:35)

Cheated on a test (19:35)

Eaten rabbit (11:6)

Eaten shrimp (11:10)

on death

Death is simply another way of being absent.

the unique status -- straight people are special

While on the Ellen DeGeneres Show, Senator McCain told Ellen that he believed in "the unique status of marriage between a man and a woman." Not earth shattering news. The "unique status" (or a variant thereof) catch-phrase is repeated time and time again by those opposing same-sex marriage -- including Senators Obama and Clinton. Watch them. I love how they say it. They rarely make eye-contact. Instead they look down (or up) and to the side, pause, get a concerned, reverential, and benevolent expression on their face, and whisper -- firmly but with conviction -- I believe in the blah blah blah. It's as if the Holy Spirit itself swooped down, engulfed them and made the point. My God, how is an interviewer supposed to argue with the Holy Spirit?

It looks like this year, at least on this issue, we're left with no options. Gay people do not have the right to get married, at least not according to those running for president. Although the position is clear enough, I have yet to hear a fully developed "why?" in defense that does not dissolve into a God-centered religious, baby-making, child raising, home creating, world-ending, discussion. Note, I am neither anti-God, nor anti-baby. Interviewers apparently do not want to press the candidates too hard on the "why" lest they should be seeing as dueling with the Holy Spirit. Once the candidate says something like "this is what I believe," the interviewer folds. God has been invoked. The interviewer can't go further. And, we're are forced to swallow whatever religious dogma the candidate is vomiting.

I know, it sounds like I'm anti-religious dogma. Maybe. I don't know. It's not religion however, it's how it's being played. It's politics. And, politicians. After much time spent in Washington, D.C., I am decidedly anti-Politics ("p" capitalized on purpose --the type of politics that panders, that specializes in which way the wind is blowing -- wait, we should always capitalize Politics). And, anti-Politician (capitalized for obvious reasons). These same individuals who claim Gays demand special rights because they want to be treated like everybody else argue that heterosexuals have the right to a unique status by virtue of some moral authority. Doesn't unique sound an awful lot like special? Not to a politician. Who else but a politician can make an argument like that -- and get away with it?

Call them on it. Make them answer the "why?" Don't let them obfuscate the issue. Let them know they are not special.

the open house

After almost seven years in this place, strangers will be walking through it tomorrow, judging every aspect, assessing whether or not they will want to make it their home. I am a wreck. I look around the place and I see our lives reflected in every corner. We bought the house after we were together for 6 years. We were in our early 30s, deliriously in love and ready to start the nesting process. Shortly thereafter, we got two dogs -- los ñinos, as we call them. We thought we would never move. We told the agent,"we love the neighborhood, we love this house, we can't imagine we'll ever leave."A new job in Mayagüez, Puerto Rico took care of that notion. And, although we do love the house, things at work (and in Washington, D.C.) have gotten to the point that leaving, at least for now, is really for the best.

Partner and I will be away with the dogs, hiding, for a few hours, while the real estate agent towers over the spectacle, perky as ever. "Yes, they've taken very good care of 'the property.' They've done some amazing things with the yard. Have you seen the Plum and Nectarine trees? What about the figs?" I remember planting each of those trees. I remember planting each bush in the front yard, each shrub, the crape myrtle, the spruce, the leather leaf. I remember each time we opened the earth to welcome a new resident. I remember doing it exactly as my father taught me all those years ago. It doesn't matter that the dementia may have taken the memories away from him. I remember.

"Make the hole bigger than the root ball. Make sure you loosen the roots before you put the plant in the ground. Throw some softener into the ground. Make sure to break any large roots from other plants that may be in the hole. Loosen the fill dirt. Throw fertilizer at the bottom of the hole. Lower the plant gently."

It was a mantra. The same words were spoken over and over again. I thought he thought I was stupid. After years of listening to the dribble, I began resenting the words. I resented him. We owned a Tropical Fruit Tree Nursery. I had put in more than one tree in my life. And, yet, he repeated the same words each time. I tuned them out. I had heard them since I was 12.

Seven years ago, we landscaped every inch of this place. I remember telling Partner, this yard looks like crap, my Father "will not approve." The process began.

We made the hole bigger than the root ball. We loosened the roots before we put the plant in the ground. We threw some softener into the ground. We made sure we broke any large roots from other plants that were in the hole. We loosened the fill dirt. We threw fertilizer at the bottom of the hole. We lowered the plant gently.

I guess I didn't tune everything out.

By the way, if you buy the house, please take care of the garden. Copies of my father's memories live there.

Plum Tree

Mercutio ©2008

for mother's day (5/11/08)

I remember entering through the loading dock. Immediately on the right, was the break room -- nothing special, just some cafeteria-style tables with folding chairs. The walls were institutional light blue. There was a huge picture window that allowed people to peak into the warehouse while on break.

Further up on the right was the time clock. The room was cavernous.

I could hear the clanking of dozens machines. A slow steady rhythm filled the air. An alternating 25 count. Overlapping. Overlapping. Over and Over. White noise everywhere. Black screeching every-now-and-then. Steam in the air. Or was it humidity? Whatever it was -- you could drink it. The smell of electricity and sweat. Dirt. Mechanical humming. And heat. Big windows near the ceiling at the back wall. The sun poured in.

Spread out to the left were work stations.

My mom worked at this factory. Every night from 11:30 p.m to 7:30 a.m. she would take her place at her designated work station. The huge plastic rolls would be processed through the assembler, cut into bags and thrown into the hopper. Mom would take the bags from the hopper, staple them together (using a cardboard holder), and throw them in a box until the box was full. She would then manually seal the box and throw it down a conveyor belt. She would average about 20 boxes an hour. On her feet. Average temperature, 85 degrees. She started doing this when she was approximately 45 years old. She did it for 12 years. Why? So she could send me to private Catholic school. After 12 years, they fired her because she couldn't keep up with the younger workers. No pension, no party, no nothing. She did leave with varicose veins, an enlarged heart, deformed-arthritic hands, and a full head of white hair.

One year during the holidays, Mom took a catalog of Christmas cards to work with her and sold them to her coworkers on my behalf. [Think of it as an an early precursor to Sally Foster.] She sold over 200 orders. "It's for my kid," she'd say. "He's going to be a lawyer one day," she'd smile. "That one is smart." The women would chime not knowing me from Adam. But, they knew what to do. They bought cards, they bought candles, they bought all sorts of shit from each other. Why? Because they knew that if they all pitched in, their kids would get prizes; prizes they would not otherwise get. Those women knew that in that factory they were all the same -- women from Cuba, Nicaragua, El Salvador, Mexico, and yes, even Florida, -- all mothers working feverishly to keep their families fed, clothed and above the water. They worked hard. These were not the ladies who lunched. These were the ladies of the lunch wagon.

I picked a primitive electronic keyboard as my gift from the cards my Mom sold. I learned very quickly that I could mimic a song I had heard simply by pressing the right sequence on the elongated keypad. Although I can't play the piano, I can plunk out almost anything. A gift I treasure to this day.

Thanks Mom. Catholic school was good. College was good. Law School was great. But, perhaps unknowingly, you also gave me the gift of music. Who would have thought that a plastic bag factory could have led to that?

the wheels on the skates go round and round

"He'll have such a girlish complex when he grows up," the camp counselor said matter-of-factly. At 5'8", with a short-cropped, bull-dyke hair cut, her pronouncement seemed rather ominous. The other counselor nodded and grunted agreement. He couldn't' have been older than 21 and was tall, with a lanky build. She, was clearly in charge. The lesbians always are. After all, this was summer camp.

Girlish complex, I thought. Because I'm crying, or because I can't roller skate? [Now I ask myself, was it both? Complex thought wasn't available then.] The thoughts were only fleeting. I was more preoccupied with the baseball-sized bruise that had formed on my left thigh, and the throbbing pain in my ankle. I had fallen at the skating rink, and I couldn't get up. "Buck up guy," Lanky said. "Yeah, don't you want to get back out there with your friends?" Bull Dyke urged. Friends? I was about 12 years old, at day camp, and I had circled the rink alone for the 45th time. Didn't she have a clue? Obviously not about a lot of things.

The bruises healed. All of them. Once in a while I still hear Bull Dyke's voice in my head and think, "hmmm, takes one to know one." I wonder how she's doing.

on love

You've been alone with your thoughts so long that you've lost all sense of proportion.

Spanish Candles at the Guard

Mercutio © 2004

send in the clown

My sister took me to the circus when I was 10 years old. At age 40, I still remember it vividly. A clown came up to where we were sitting, pulled me out of the row, took me down to the three rings and, suddenly, I was in the middle of all the action. No. I am not remembering a childhood fantasy. It actually happened. Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus was marrying off Michu, the world's smallest man, to his sweetheart Juliana. It was a grand spectacle. The parade went on and on. About 40 kids were selected from the grandstand. We paraded around the stage, waved, smiled and cooed. At the appropriate moment, we hit the button pose. The wedding was over. And, we were ushered back to our seats.

I thought I had been selected randomly. As it turns out, my sister had rigged the selection with a clown she had met earlier. A lovely clown. I wish I could remember his name. I think my fascination with clowns started then.

I got home, told my mom about my latest adventure. She smiled and worried about my foray into show business -- apparently, I lingered a little too long on the description of the circus performer who was herding us around (he was tall, gorgeous, chiseled jaw and I was a ten year old boy who hadn't quite figured things out yet). She didn't say a word, but even at age 10 I could read her face. She was concerned about something. I just didn't know what it was. At least not then.

Concerned or not, she walked me over to one of the curio cabinets (there were several all around the house) and showed me her prized clown collection. I had seen them before, without giving them a second look. There they sat, tall, glass-blown, intricate, colorful, delicate, and somehow, a bit scary. She told me how she had bought them in Venezuela before I was born, some 15 years before I was born. Because they belonged to her I instantly loved them. She promised they would be mine one day. I knew what that meant. I told her I was in no hurry to collect on the promise.

Mom died in 1999. The clowns sit in my curio cabinet now, next to my own dainty ceramic clowns. They watch-over my dainty ceramic clowns.