Almost Hell

Is Rich Rodriguez's decision to abandon West Virginia for Michigan the most devastating betrayal in college football history? I think it is. Rodriguez, a native son, essentially dropped a nuclear bomb on his alma mater, shattering both a Top 10 program and the psyche of an entire state.

An exaggeration?

Unless you have ties to West Virginia -- my dad was born and raised there, and I'm a WVU grad -- it's hard to explain how much the Mountaineers' rise to national prominence meant to the state. Yes, major-college football is hypocritical, corrupting and even absurd. But it also unifies like no other sport. Go to any town or holler in West Virginia, and I'll bet you'll find people wearing blue-and-gold.

So what, you say? Every college has fans, often equally as passionate. True, but the difference is that Longhorn fans or Buckeye fans or Hokie fans or Nittany Lions fans or 99 percent of the world's fans live in places where they are inherently respected, where simply saying the name of their state doesn't prompt sneers or snickers.

West Virginia -- the state -- has always been the nation's stepchild, lacking in pedigree and respect. Out-of-state companies stripped it of its coal and timber for decades, leaving behind denuded hillsides and sludge-filled rivers. Today, West Virginia's people are portrayed as hicks, hillbillies or rednecks. Demographically, nobody wants the place -- its poor (50th in the nation in median household income), under-educated (50th in the nation in the percentage of college graduates) and old (3rd in the nation in the percentage of senior citizens). Worse yet, most of its people speak with country or mountain accents, no doubt provoking jokes -- ironically enough -- in places like Boston and Brooklyn.

Statistics, of course, never reveal the whole picture. Years ago, the federal government declared Pendleton County -- near where I live in Harrisonburg, Va. -- a poverty area. It came as news to the folks there. They felt no more poverty-stricken than Bill Gates. Yes, their incomes were low, but their back yards were groaning with garden-fresh vegetables and their housing costs were minuscule.

Is West Virginia sophisticated? No. But neither was much of America when America became a great nation. West Virginians are salt-of-the-earth people, friendly, helpful and country-smart. They also know what the rest of the nation thinks about them. That's why the WVU football team's ascension meant so much. For once, West Virginia had produced something that not only equaled the best in the nation, but something that was cutting-edge. You watched the Mountaineers and you saw the future of college football. And they looked damn sharp, to boot. WVU was actually become trendy.

For people who are used to being made fun of, who crave the respect of their countrymen, WVU's football team was an in-your-face retort to their critics.

"Pride" is such a cliche, but it fits this situation perfectly. Check out youtube videos of Mountaineer fans singing "Country Roads" en masse after every home football game or at the Sugar Bowl two years ago. It'll put a lump in your throat.

Which brings us back to Rich Rodriguez. By bolting West Virginia for Michigan, Rodriguez gave currency to the people who patted WVU on the head and said "nice little program -- but don't think you're more than you are." Here's what CBSsportsline.com columnist Dennis Dodd wrote after Rodriguez left: "West Virginia is still West Virginia, an amazingly overachieving program tucked away in the Allegheny Mountains. A charming little program that channels the coal industry in that both work damn hard to produce something good for the state."

That's light years from the rhetoric columnists and broadcasters were spouting three weeks ago when WVU was about to play for the national championship. Such has been the regression in image for the program because a home-grown coach decided the Mountaineers weren't good enough for him.

And that's what hurts West Virginians about this whole affair. It's not like when John Beilein left for Michigan after five seasons as basketball coach. Nobody expected him to stay at WVU; he wasn't a native. But Rodriguez was born and raised 35 minutes from Morgantown, he played football at WVU, he married a West Virginia cheerleader. A year ago, he promised to be at WVU "a long, long time" after turning down Alabama. To keep him from leaving for the Crimson Tide, the university gave him a 70 percent pay raise (he became the 17th highest-paid coach in college football at age 43 after just six seasons as a Division I coach), bumped his assistants' salaries, built an academic center and began work on new locker rooms. There was no doubt among fans that his love for West Virginia was as great as theirs and that he would remain at WVU for years.

Then came the loss to Pitt, setting in motion a chain of events that led to Rodriguez's betrayal -- or, from another viewpoint, career move.

Looking at it objectively, Michigan is Michigan. Next to Notre Dame, it might be the most spine-tingling job in college football. Even though WVU has a better chance of winning a national championship in the next couple of years than the Wolverines, even though Rodriguez made more money at West Virginia than Lloyd Carr did at Michigan, even though the old royalty is being shoved aside by the nouveau riche. Also, there's the kid-in-the-candy-store factor: Rodriguez had to be intrigued by how his dynamite offense would work with world-class recruits at every position rather than world-class recruits at only a few positions.

And let's not forget WVU's reactionary administration. Rather than being pro-active and giving coaches lucrative new contracts on its own after mega-successful seasons -- like Beilein's NCAA runs and Rodriguez's No. 1 ranking this year -- West Virginia waits until richer schools swoop in with offers. That's no way to make a coach feel loved. On the other hand, WVU isn't in the Big Ten or SEC, meaning it isn't wealthy. Fiscally, I'm sure it does the right thing. But in this case, nobody was more valuable to the state's morale than Rodriguez. Even if it meant boosting the taxpayer portion of his salary significantly, I think West Virginia should have made him a $3 million coach on Dec. 2, the day after the Pitt loss. (And, yes, I know how corrupting that is to the university, but if you're going to play with the big boys, you have to act like a big boy.)

There is a chance, of course, that WVU could land on its feet. Rodriguez was a brilliant coach, but so perhaps is a Jimbo Fisher. And, regardless of who gets the job, the Mountaineers will be a national-title contender again next year, which might generate enough fairy dust to keep the program humming. More likely, I think, a program that was poised to be a perennial Top 10 occupant will sink back into the pack after the next couple of seasons.

Regardless, West Virginians won't forgive Rodriguez. If there's one thing people in the Mountain State know, it's a blood feud. And this is one.

Need proof? Check out this guy:

MerryFreakingXmas

There's a Russian gay ecard site -- ripped off stuff, I think -- that includes this absolutely fantastic Christmas card:

Unforgettable TV

I think this is one of the most brilliant moments in television history. It was on the "Andy Griffith Show," circa 1960. Here's the setup: Ben, the Scrooge-like character in Mayberry, wants a mild-mannered family man jailed on Christmas eve for making moonshine, seeing how Ben sells liquor legally at his own store. The family man explains he was just making some holiday cheer, and Andy -- of course -- is reluctant to lock him up over Christmas. But Ben insists, so Andy decides to bring the guy's family -- and his own -- to the sheriff's office for Christmas Eve. Ben climbs on a stool outside and peers into the jail, secretly longing to join in the spirit of the holiday. He even tries to get himself arrested, to no avail ... And then this scene ...

You'd Have To Be Crazy Not To See This Film

Please, dear God, don't let me wet the bed again. Please, dear God, don't let me be soft. Please, dear God, don't let me be gay.

If you think you've seen all the coming-of-age films you need to see, you're wrong -- unless you've already watched "C.R.A.Z.Y.," a twist-your-heart-until-it-bleeds French-language flick that floored critics with its passion and wisdom.

Set in Quebec from 1960-1981, "C.R.A.Z.Y." injects you into the membrane of a tight working-class family whose five sons include a drug addict with a temper, an egghead, a jock and a fattie. But the movie revolves around Zac, who spends his adolescence suppressing his homosexuality out of deference to his conservative father. Played with astonishing skill by the stunning Marc-Andre Grondin, Zac represents every kid who has to endure an assault by his parents on his orientation. In this case, Zac -- with a few detours -- finally accepts and embraces his sexuality.

"C.R.A.Z.Y." -- the title is an acronym of the five sons' first names -- doesn't paint black-and-white pictures. Every major character -- except for perhaps the saintly mother -- is complex. The lunch-pail father, for instance, is a sympathetic figure, a loving parent who simply can't cope with the notion of a gay son until tragedy shakes him out of his bigotry.

While the film's theme is a gay coming-of-age story, "C.R.A.Z.Y." also is a powerful tribute to family and spirituality, subplots that will bring you to tears. At the same time, the humor is razor-sharp and the music -- Patsy's Cline's "Crazy" in a recurring theme -- makes the flick wholly entertaining.

Every straight person with a brain should see this film. How good is it? Rottentomatoes.com's analysis of reviews gave it a 100 percent positive rating.

And, finally, from a gay guy's point of view, Marc-Andre Grondin is as close to perfection as human beings come. Watch him lip-sync to David Bowie's "Space Oddity" (you know, "Ground control to Major Tom...") and you'll fall in love instantly.

SIDENOTE: I downloaded "C.R.A.Z.Y." from netflicks and watched it on my computer. The downloadable movie selection is limited, but the platform was satisfactory. It wasn't high-def, but the netflix media player was large enough and sharp enough to make the experience enjoyable.


The two pictures show Zac's progression from his kid-next-door phase to his Ziggy Stardust phase. The first part of the movie actually deals with his childhood years and is skillfully played by a boy actor.

I Love You, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah

Some of you might remember what a hard-on I got for Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. Well, my new musical lust is Vampire Weekend, a bunch of recent Columbia grads who just signed with a label (meaning, it seems, that only two of their songs are available for download now). The music's been described as preppy with a strong dose of Africa. Yeah, these are white kids. But they're good. Call it alt or rock or whatever, but basically it's pop in its purest, best form. Sort of like the Beatles -- in genre, not sound.

http://www.myspace.com/vampireweekend

Snow. Yay.

We had our first few snowflakes yesterday.
Not a fan.
I used to get butterflies in my belly at the first sight of snow.
No more.
Snow before Thanksgiving was a treat; snow before Christmas was mandatory.
Now?
Now, I want warmth and life year-round.
Maybe it's age.
Maybe I don't want to be denied the pleasures of spring and summer and early fall.
Or maybe I just don't want slush in my shoes.

10 Q's For The Gay Sports Editor

So, a friend who has a well-read blog wants to interview me about being a gay sports editor. Not a bad idea, except I've never publicly revealed that I'm gay. A lot of people know, but it's never been a topic of conversation at the paper. That raises a question: Am I a "gay" sports editor if I haven't told my readership or bosses that I'm gay? I see myself as a journalist who happens to be a vegetarian, who happens to be way left politically, who happens to have a German-born mother, who happens to have a West Virginia-born father, who happens to be gay. Nevertheless, I can see how it might intrigue people. Here are some of the questions I'd ask myself if I were blogging on the topic:

1) What's it like going into locker rooms full of naked men? It's gross. Locker rooms are as sexy as used jock straps. Especially in football, they're smelly and full of hairy-assed guys OD-ing on testosterone. Beyond that, when you're writing a story, you're concentrating on journalism -- not on human anatomy. Sadly, many college football and basketball locker rooms are now closed to the media (largely because of the increase in the number of women sports writers). I say "sadly" because you get the best gut reactions in the locker room. Typically, athletes are brought into formal interview rooms, killing almost any chance of a spontaneous -- read: honest -- comment. On the other hand, I don't miss the awkwardness of fully-dressed middle-aged men interviewing naked 20somethings as they dress or pad to the showers. Having said all of that, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I've seen guys in locker rooms whom I found sexy. It's just that you don't get a chubby over them because you're working and it would be highly inappropriate to shift into sex mode.

2) Does being gay influence how you cover sports? I'm not sure it's so much being gay as being metrosexual. If you have a sense of style -- and many gay guys are more into that than straight folks -- it influences the topics you write about, the descriptions you include in stories, the questions you ask during feature interviews. I like to write about guys' tattoos -- they often tell a story that strips away the subject's veneer -- and I often include some description of the guy's body (the "sinewy tailback," "the skinny-as-a-net-cord point guard," the "zero-body fat cornerback") that you might not find in a non-metrosexual (or non-gay) sports writer's stories.

3) As an editor, does being gay influence your story and picture choice? Sometimes. For example, I used a shirtless picture of David Beckham with a story on his appeal as a pitchman in the United States, simply because I found the photo sexy. A straight and non-metrosexual sports editor might not connect the dots like that. Usually, though, the types of stories and pictures I use won't be any different than what you'd find in any other fairly sophisticated sports section.

4) Do you think parents would worry if you revealed you were gay and covered their kids? Some would. I don't cover high school sports, so that would never be a direct issue. But it would be an indirect issue, with less enlightened parents questioning whether a gay man should be involved to any extent with teenagers. Attitudes like that, of course, reflect willful ignorance and rank prejudice. Ask yourself this: Does anyone question it when straight men cover girls' sports? Of course not. But, our neighborhood homophobes might argue, those men don't have access to girls' locker rooms! True, but I don't think many reporters go into boys' locker rooms, either. So it should be a non-issue.

5) Why don't you tell your readership that you're gay? Because I don't see any point in stamping a rainbow tattoo on my forehead. My sexuality, just like my race and gender, should be irrelevant as a journalist.

6) But aren't you doing a disservice to fellow gays? Wouldn't you be a good role model for young gay sports writers? Touche. But you have to be reasonable, and I live in a conservative area that would see any disclosure of my sexuality as in-your-face rather than refreshingly honest. Maybe I'm rationalizing, but I don't think my most private traits should have any bearing on my job as a journalist. On the other hand, if I were in NYC or San Fran or Miami, would I be more vocal about my sexual orientation? Almost certainly. Hmm, I'm not liking this answer.

7) Do you think your staff has a right to know? My writers speculate among themselves endlessly, or so I've been told by guys who come to learn about my sexuality. And if they can't figure out that I am indeed gay, they should find another line of work. But I don't see how announcing to each one that I'm gay would be relevant to my job as their editor/supervisor. On the other hand, I never lie when asked. Plus, if I socialize with a staffer or former staffer, I tell him, simply because at that point he has a right to ditch me if he's not comfortable drinking a glass of wine (how gay is that?) or downing a few brews (trying to be macho) with me.

8) Have you known any gay athletes who would make good stories? Not many, but at least two come to mind. One is a high school basketball player who I think is too young to approach about that. The other was a college soccer player whom I asked for an interview (but was eventually rejected). Ethically, I wouldn't be able to write a column about a gay athlete without disclosing that I too am gay. I don't think that would be necessary in a feature story.

9) If you could date one sexy, mega-star athlete, who would it be? Tony Parker. He's cute and his accent would be a HUGE plus. ;) But T.O. is sexy as shit, as is A.I., Vince Carter, A-Rod, Jeter, Beckham, Dwyane Wade, Gilbert Arenas, Carmelo, Tiki ... and the list would take up the Internet. ;)

10) Which genre of athlete has the best and worst bodies? Shooting guards and small forwards in the NBA are at the top of the pecking order. They're leanly muscular and in peak condition because of all the running. Tennis players and sprinters are tied for No. 2. Obviously, NFL linemen are at the bottom of the list, though -- surprisingly -- NFL quarterbacks aren't much better (too lumpy). Most gays, I suspect, would say swimmers are No. 1, but that's because of my community's fixation on white guys with totally smooth bodies. I find them pretty but not particulary sexy.

Any other questions?

Sex? Good GOD, No!!!

Saturday night -- or, more accurately, in the wee hours of Sunday morning -- I got an IM from Gabe. He had just gotten home from partying and wanted me to come over to his apartment for some "fun."

Intriguing, no? I mean, Gabe is a handsome 20-year-old student at James Madison University. And -- down, boy! -- he's a Latino. From L.A. no less. Well, L.A. via the D.C. suburbs. But still.

Did I mention he's also smart? Gabe's on a full scholarship at JMU to study international relations.

So let's recap: Good-looking. Latino. Smart. Young.

No-brainer, right? You would think so. But for the second or third time this semester, I rebuffed Gabe's attempt to hook up. In fact, we've never met face-to-face. I've asked him probably half-a-dozen times to meet me for dinner, but he keeps putting me off. We know each other through -- what else? -- gay.com. I was in a D.C. area chat room last summer and Gabe popped up to say hi. We had a cool chat, and he appeared eager to meet. "I can't believe you live in Harrisonburg," he said. A friendship was budding. Or so I hoped.

Why, then, hasn't it happened? Two reasons, I think. From Gabe's end (no pun intended), he usually contacts me when he's a little drunk and wants to "hang out" at his apartment at 2 or 3 a.m., which I assume means he wants to have sex. (In fairness, though, he did ask in September whether he could do a brief internship at my office.) From my end, I want to get to know the kid's heart and soul and mind, not his dick or butt. Don't get me wrong. Sex with a 20-year-old Latino would be sweet, but there's a hitch: I'm three decades older than Gabe, and slam-bam-thank-you-ma'ams with college guys violate my behavioral code.

That doesn't mean having sex with Gabe would be immoral. If we got to know each other and the "moment" occurred, sex would be perfectly fine. (I've slept with my share of 20somethings.) And I have no problem with other older guys boinking 20-year-olds just for the carnal pleasure. (Or, if you're Bill Clinton, getting a blow-job, albeit with a chunky woman, rather than a cute guy, but you get my point.)

So here I sit, rebuffing Gabe -- and wondering if I'm a fool for complicating a simple, good act: s-e-x. And don't even ask me about Allen, another JMU student I've rejected. Shoot me, please.

Cool Artist

Check out this young artist from ... well, from all over. He graduated from NYU and now lives in L.A. His name is Ian Kim. I love the pop flavor of his work.



http://www.ikplay.com/

If You Want To Understand Gay Men, Read This

At times while reading John Weir's very funny, very sad "What I Did Wrong," you might find yourself flashing back to Al Pacino in "Angels In America." In this case, the guy dying of AIDS is much younger and much less political, but equally bitchy as life seeps out of him. It's a memorable portrait in a book full of memorable people and moments.

Set in New York, "What I Did Wrong" deals with a 42-year-old Queens College professor's relationship with three people: Zack, his dead sort-of boyfriend; Justin, one of his students; and Richie, his best friend from high school. To simplify, Zack represents reality (AIDS, death), Justin hope (a potential lover half the prof's age)and Richie a combination of innocence, normality and inertia (the straight guy who ends up not far from home, physically or psychologically, in Long Island).

Don't run your fingers across the pages of this book. Weir's writing is so sharp it'll make you bleed.

I'm A Phenomenon!!!

In perhaps the most priceless quote ever uttered -- well, supposedly uttered -- by a Middle Eastern leader, Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad denied the existence of gays in his nation.

"In Iran we don't have homosexuals like in your country. We don't have that in our country," Ahmadinejad told a hooting Columbia University audience in response to a question about the persecution of gays in Iran. "In Iran we do not have this phenomenon. I do not know who has told you we have it."

As happy as I am to be a phenomenon, I must say I doubt that Ahmadinejad actually said that. Yes, I know, it was on TV. I watched it. But Ahmadinejad was speaking in Farsi, and I'm thinking the translator blew it. My best guess is that he was speaking about the persecution of gays, not the existence of gays. Otherwise, he is indeed a complete dope.

Of course, either way, he was lying. Like many a Muslim nation, Iran treats gays despicably.

Food For Thought

First, let me stress that I love farmers markets. I love local vegetables. I love local maple syrup. I love local jams and jellies. Whenever possible, I like to eat and cook food grown fresh locally.

Having said that, I think localvores are crazy.

In case you don't know, a localvore is somebody who insists that all of your food should be produced within your extended community -- defined, apparently, however you choose. Some might say a 100-mile radius; others might say an entire state. The reasons for the movement are threefold: 1) environmental (it uses too much oil and other resources to transport food thousands of miles), 2) health (locally produced food is more likely to be organic or at least less drastically sprayed) and 3) lifestyle (local food tastes better because it's picked when it's ripe).

All good reasons.

But to suggest that we should restrict ourselves to those foods represents a pitchfork mentality. Not only would dismantling the national (and international) food system eliminate a huge number of jobs, but it almost certainly would jack up prices and lead to shortages of quality foods for working-class people. In other words, I doubt if there are enough tomatoes or apples being grown in Virginia to feed the people.

Beyond that, quality is important. Personally, I don't want a local cantaloupe or watermelon. Compared to the Deep South variety, they're insipid. As much as I enjoy local apples, I also like varieties from the West Coast. Ditto cherries. Not to mention bananas and every citrus fruit on the earth. The list goes on and on, from avocados to jalapenos. And, yes, I do enjoy Spanish clementines in December.

I also am not willing to give up fresh tomatoes or mesclun mixes in winter. So why not grow them locally in greenhouses? As a Wikipedia article suggests, some believe it is more environmentally taxing to do that than to ship tomatoes from southern climates to northern climes.

I think the logical solution is to eat locally as much as you can. For instance, it makes no sense to buy a cardboard supermarket tomato in summer when the farmers markets are groaning with great-tasting local tomatoes. But if you want a Rainier cherry, for God's sake, buy them.

YAY! He's GAY!

It's always a good day when another right-wing hypocrite is outed. Larry Craig, the icky senator from Idaho, is the latest -- assuming things are as they appear. Making it even more delicious is this clip that surfaced on youtube. My GOD, this guy is a creep:




OK, beyond Craig's apparent rank hypocrisy, I've got a question: Is this fucking 1975? Have these people never heard of the Internet? I mean, good God, who goes to toilets or parks or dirty book stores to find sex nowadays? Just click onto gay.com and you can hook up in a nano-second. Jesus.

Critics All Wet

The most annoying thing in the world right now? All of the people who are urging us not to drink bottled water. Their reasoning: Bottled water is environmentally unsound because it uses plastic bottles and needs to be transported -- both of which require oil.

OK, I agree that drinking Fiji water is idiotic. Or Scandinavian water. Unless those sources have special minerals that turn gray hair black or erase wrinkles or add 3 inches to your dick, there's no need to drink them. In fact, I chided one of my writers the other day when I spied his square bottle of Fijian H2O. The oil consumed to ship it to Virginia constituted environmental rape.

But is it so bad to drink Deer Park if you live in Virginia? Or Poland Spring if you live in New York? Both are drawn from sources nearby (usually Pennsylvania and Maryland for the Deer Park sold here in Virginia, and Maine for the Poland Spring sold in NYC). Yes, they're in plastic bottles. The solution, though, is to recyle the plastic, not to discourage people from drinking bottled water. Because, I guarantee you, almost nobody is going to carry around a refillable bottle full of warm tap water. If anything, they'll turn to soft drinks or fake "juices."

So why are the anti-bottled water people annoying? Here's why: I'm guessing many are upper-middle class folks who live in sizeable houses and drive SUVs. That's just a guess. I've done no studies on the matter. And I'm not talking about the activists who spend their lives on these issues. I'm talking about the do-gooders who've taken up the cause. Perhaps they should downgrade to a VW before yapping about water.

(Sparkling waters such as Perrier and San Pellegrino -- which, along with Deer Park and Poland Spring, are owned by Nestle, by the way -- probably are OK to buy, even though they come from Europe. The market for sparkling water, I think, is a fraction of that for flat bottled water, so they're a luxury we can afford envrionmentally.)

Think, Not-So-Think

I watched two gay coming-of-age films recently -- one American, one Swiss. I liked both, but as you might suspect, the European movie was far more layered, far more thought-provoking than the American one. And, as you might suspect, the American flick was more fun to watch than the Swiss one.

"Garcon, Stupide" is about a 20-year-old kid who works at a chocolate factory in Bulle, a small town in the French-speaking part of Switzerland. He's an uneducated lad who relies on a slightly older woman to help guide him through life. The director, Lionel Baier, does a nice job of "growing" the kid -- showing how a handful of people enter his life and change him. Baier also touches on issues that all gay guys deal with: obsession, suspicion that everyone you meet wants sex, the desire to be "normal" (in this case, to have a wife and family).

"Dorian Blues" focuses on a teen-ager's coming out story. It's funny and touching, though sometimes a little too bitchy. The best part is Dorian's relationship with his ultra-loyal, straight, hunky, football-playing brother. It's a nice film about how tough it is for gay people to have relationships -- with everyone from family to friends to lovers.

Oh, Yeah, It's Working

I keep reading that the "surge" is working -- and not just from the dumb, demented or diabolical. Neocons aside, people like Hillary Clinton (please, Barack, find your voice quickly) also are acknowledging that the injection of more American soldiers in Iraq has pacified parts of that nation.

My reaction: So what?

The salient points remain the same: 1) Was invading Iraq worth -- at last count -- 3,725 American lives and tens of thousands of Iraqi lives? 2) Was it worth weakening the United States both militarily and morally? 3) Was it worth setting the stage for the election of an Islamic government once the Americans slink home? 4) Was it worth -- again, at last count -- nearly half-a-trillion dollars ($454,818,446,792)?

It doesn't surprise me that parts of Iraq are safer because more soldiers are patrolling them. It would surprise me if the end result was any different than I think it's going to be: that the Americans are going to withdraw (claiming victory, but -- in fact -- having been defeated), the Iraqis are going to suffer a period of turmoil (where fewer people die than have perished because of Bush's policies) and that Iraq will have a fundamentalist Islamic government in league with Iran.

Meanwhile, the whole adventure had zilch to do with combating terrorism. Well, almost nothing. As study after study after study has shown, Iraq was not a factor in terrorism before the United States made it one by its invasion and occupation -- thereby playing into the Islamic militants' hands. Read Lawrence Wright's "The Looming Tower" -- this year's Pulitzer Prize winner -- and tell me that Osama bin Laden isn't cackling in his cave at the sight of America bogged down in a war against Muslims. It's exactly what the terrorists want -- and, as luck would have it, a stupid president and his arrogant neo-con advisers accommodated that goal.

So, perhaps the "surge" is succeeding in quelling the violence in parts of Iraq. Unless you're willing to keep American troops there forever, though, it means little.

(The photo was taken by David Leeson of the Dallas Morning News)

Oh, I'm Gay?

It took me a long time to figure out 100 percent that I was gay. I mean a l-o-n-g time. But that speaks more to my naivete than anything else, because I certainly had clues.

For example: As a seventh-grader living at Eglin Air Force Base on northwest Florida's sugary-white Gulf coast, I'd go to youth-league baseball games with my dad -- not because I was remotely interested in the sport, but because the local team had a cute pitcher who always threw himself out of his shirt. Those glimpses of skin -- along with the Pixie Sticks I'd buy at the concession stand -- sustained me for weeks.

Of course, there were other clues in my early teen years. When pink bellies became a fad, I was in absolute heaven. And what budding Baby Boomer queer can forget TV shows like "Flipper," where kids our own age were running around shirtless for 30 minutes.

Still, I put those feelings on the back-burner. Not only did I have no idea what a "homosexual" was -- though I can still picture the precise moment I asked my parents about the word, which had just come up on a TV show (a rarity in the '60s) -- but I figured I would grow up like everyone else in the official version of Mainstream America and settle down with a wife and children.

Boy, was I stupid.

It began to dawn on me that I was gay -- though, again, that was such a foreign concept in my world that I didn't really understand it -- when I was a junior at Baumholder American High School in Germany. My best friend was a smart, witty, slightly stocky kid named Rich. Never once in the year or two we spent together at BAHS did the words "gay" or "homosexual" cross our lips. But even then, I suppose, my gaydar was finely tuned: I knew he was gay from Day 1. He, on the other hand, apparently was clueless about my orientation. It wasn't until about five years ago that I told him I was gay, too.

Anyway, I remember us going to bars in Baumholder (there was no true drinking age in Germany at that time) and getting plastered. Weekend after weekend. Once, when I stayed over at his house, we were stumbling home and I pretended to be drunker than I was. The reason? Simple: I wanted him to have to half-carry me home, knowing there was no way he could avoid skin-to-skin contact, thanks to a particularly loose shirt. It worked. One of his hands kept me from falling to the sidewalk -- pulling up my shirt in the process -- while the other wrapped around my naked waist. It was a total turn-on for me -- and, I'm guessing, for him.

Pretty strong clue, huh?

Idiotically, I continued to ignore the obvious for years after high school. Now and then, I'd "date" girls. The dates, needless to stay, never ended in sex, unless you consider a back rub to be sex. I think the reason I was so naive was twofold: 1) Although I was a media addict, newspapers and TV in those days pretty much pretended gay people didn't exist, so I wasn't exposed to issues like gay marriage that are now so commonly discussed; neither was I exposed to channels like MTV, which portrays gay folks as completely normal (not to mention trendy); and I wasn't exposed to the Internet, where chat rooms would have shown that there were millions of people just like me around the world. 2) I was scared. The little I read about homosexuality suggested it was a bad thing done by weird people. I was deeply into politics and journalism at the time, so I didn't spend much energy researching the topic. Call me a Sexual Capitalist: My attitude was laissez-faire -- whatever I would become, I'd become. Eventually, of course, it dawned on me that the mainstream media's portrayals were simple right-wing and Christian propaganda.

Slowly, I understood who I was. Slowly, I began dating guys. Less slowly, I began sleeping with guys. And I'm now who I am. But, as a 20something gay pal once told me with deep pity: "Oh, you missed out on things when you were young and cute. " Ouch. So, um, gay kids, don't put off your coming-out parties. You'll never regret being honest with yourself.

The Kid and the Kid

I absolutely love this photo of Roger Maris with the 19-year-old kid, Sal Durante, who caught his 61st home run ball at Yankee Stadium on Oct. 1, 1961. Doesn't it connote an infinitely more innocent era? Maris looks like the quintessential baseball-playing boy of postwar America. Contrast him to the steroid-built bodies of Mark McGwire and Barry Bonds.

As for Durante, Maris told him -- a la Bonds to the guys who caught his home runs -- to keep the ball and cash in. So Durante, a truck driver from Brooklyn, sold it for $5,000 to a restaurant owner in California.

"People say I was crazy for selling it for $5,000, but that was a lot of money back then," Durante, now 65 and living in Staten Island, told the New York Daily News recently. "That was a year-and-a-half's salary for me - I was taking home $60 a week back then. I have no regrets."

The restaurant owner eventually gave the ball to Maris.

Cool, no?

(Sources: New York Daily News and Time.com)

Of Cherries and Watermelon

Cherry season is over. Actually, it ended a week or two ago. The Rainiers that I craved 24/7 disappeared; the remaining Bings became subpar. If you haven't had a Rainier cherry, you cannot possibly understand the gap that now exists in my life. Firm, juicy and uncommonly sweet, they're to a typical cherry what Myrtle Beach is to Miami Beach. With one, you get putt-putt golf and taffy. With the other, you get palm trees and gelato. Soon, sadly, sweet watermelons, too, will be gone. Nothing -- absolutely nothing -- compares to crisp, sweet, juicy watermelon on a hot summer night. The only thing that keeps me going is the certainty that come June 2008, the cherries will be back, along with the melons. Hope. It's what makes life worth living.

Fratboy Flaks

Does anyone else wonder why major news organizations constantly quote spokesmen whenever politicians get into spats? I'm not talking about background information from campaigns, which no doubt is invaluable. I'm also not talking about substantive points from aides. I'm talking about the stupid, predictable "sound bite" quotes that come from PR people.

An example from the AP, quoting a Romney flak: "While we'd all like to be able to join Mr. Edwards and laugh off $400 haircuts, Mitt Romney believes that working families should be able to keep more of their money," Craig Stevens said.

That's like Swift Boat Lite. It allows the candidate to appear "presidential" while his people take jabs at opponents. Had Romney brought up Edwards' haircuts -- something that would never happen -- it would be newsworthy. To quote the aide is idiotic.

I know the rationale: Reporters can't always reach candidates, so they take what they can get from PR people. Even in my role as a sports editor at a college-town paper in Virginia, I understand how difficult it can be to get a hold of, say, a university president. But I would never quote his spokesman taking a cheap shot at somebody -- and not because of some holier-than-thou attitude. I just think it's dumb. The quotes add nothing to the public discourse and nothing to our understanding of the candidates (if only because they all do it). They just give one side a giggle and piss off the other side, like frat boys playing pranks on each other.

Hot Streets

For some reason I love this street scene from NYC. Yeah, yeah. I know. The guy is sexy as shit. But beyond that, it captures the city's feel on a sizzling summer day, I think. I took it in mid-July on the West Side. (You need to click onto the image to get the full effect.)

Yum July 27: Fresh Summer Pasta

This only works if you have fresh summer tomatoes -- like out of your garden or from the farmers market. It's a raw "sauce" that gets heated a little by the cooked pasta. A very summery flavor.

1) Chop some fresh summer tomatoes into a bowl (mix in some heirlooms, if you have them).
2) Chop in some fresh basil.
3) Mince a few garlic cloves and throw them in the bowl.
4) Add a splash of balsamic vinegar.
5) Drizzle generously with good olive oil.
7) Add salt and black pepper (I use sea salt and freshly ground pepper).
7) Add some pine nuts if you choose.
8) Mix everything together and let is sit while you boil water and cook penne pasta.
9) Drain the pasta and add it to the bowl.
10) Top with reg-parm (I use the cheaper, less-aged wedges).\
11) Mix it all together.

Quick and good.

The Sexist Billboard Ever

Armani Exchange has this billboard up all over NYC (top). It absolutely oozes sexuality, I think. Of course, the gay world's favorite shop doesn't ignore the homoerotic, either, as the ad below shows.

Yum 3

Here's a really good summer dish I concocted -- it's especially good if you have access to home-grown vegetables:

1) In olive oil, saute a small leek, a few cloves of garlic, two-thirds of a diced jalapeno pepper and about half a sweet bell pepper (red, orange or yellow) for a few minutes.
2) Add thinly sliced zucchini and yellow squash (a couple of medium ones, or four small ones). Sprinkle with salt and lots of freshly ground black pepper. Let it fry until you have to scrape the skillet.
3) Add a few fresh tomatoes, fresh parsley, a little fresh basil and some tomato juice (like from a can of diced tomatoes) and one-third to one-half a can of cannellini beans.
4) Add a few shakes of low-sodium soy sauce.
5) Cook on medium-high heat for a while, stirring occasionally to keep it from sticking (though the tomato juice also does that).

When it's done, serve over rice (which, of course, you should have started cooking before the main dish). I've used brown (tastier and more nutritious) or white (quicker). Top with shavings of parm-reg cheese.

For a salad, I sliced some strips of not-quite-ripe avocado, some strips of ripe papaya and a couple handfuls of mesclun lettuce sprinkled with salt and pepper. The dressing: the juice of two limes, a slurp of olive oil and a slurp of maple syrup.

Why Gay.com?

Guys have three reasons for logging onto gay.com: 1) they're horny, 2) they're lonely, or 3) they're socializing. Each is a perfectly good excuse for clicking onto a Web site that has both taken the toilets out of cruising and become the 21st century gay man's version of a town square.

Clearly, the cruising role is fundamental, but it isn't necessarily primary. Yes, gay.com is sex driven. Hang out in a big-city chat room for a few minutes and you're virtually guaranteed a quick hook-up -- assuming you want one. And lots of guys DO want one. But plenty of others are there just to chat, either because they're lonely or because they like the company. I've made lots of cyber friends and a handful of flesh-and-blood friends thanks to gay.com, and they're always mega-interesting people.

Of course, you do have to pick and choose. For me, a "way left" under the politics portion of the profile is a huge turn-on. So is a cute wit and sense of humor. Turn-offs are multiple, too. Among them:

1) A picture of your dick. You know, certain things should remain a mystery. I guess some guys get insta-chubbies when they see a penis staring at them. For me, it's just a total yawn. Not to mention classless.

2) A butt spread out like a filleted chicken breast. Again, not my cup of tea. I mean, a little butt is fine, but I can do without the visual anatomy lesson. If you insist on displaying your butt, please be under 30. A kid's butt is inherently cute; an older guy's butt is borderline gross. (And, for the record, I'm 20 years over the limit.)

3) Screen names of guys in their 30s or 40s that include "boy" or "kid." Um, here's a little piece of intelligence fresh from Bush's covert NSA spy program: You're NOT a kid anymore. Now, let me stress that I like guys who retain a young demeanor, be they 30 or 50 or 70. Too many "adults" become boring, closed-minded and humorless. BUT that doesn't mean you're a "boy" or "kid," so stop the subterfuge, please.

4) Guys whose first question is: "What do you like to do?" Answer: "I like to X you off my screen."

5) People who don't have enough balls to post a picture of themselves. These guys may be great folks, but you've gotta have some guts. I assume they're staying anonymous for one of two reasons: 1) they're unsightly, or 2) they don't want people to know they're gay. I do have sympathy for Reason No. 1. If a guy is fat or thinks he's unattractive for another reason, the only way he might be able to chat with people is by hiding his appearance. His goal, I suppose, is to get his foot in the door -- to get to know a guy, mesh personality-wise and then hope that looks don't matter. (Yeah, right. This is GAY.com, remember?) Reason No. 2 is just stupid. I mean, first of all, if you're on a gay site that requires you to register, your straight boss or straight brother or straight arch-enemy isn't likely to find your profile. And, second, nobody wants to chat with a blank face. Grow a set of balls and post your picture.

6) Guys who talk about nothing but sex. Usually, these are older people, like 40 and over. Why I don't know. Maybe because they're jaded and don't want to "waste their time" making friends with someone. Maybe because they've been cruising so long they've lost all sense of romance. Sad really.

Anyway, gay.com is cool. You just have to know why you're there and why the guy you're chatting with is there.

Random Thoughts on a Friday Night

1) I was startled to see a Virginia license plate here this week that read: "NOMOMEX." Offensive? Unless I'm reading it completely wrong, I think so. But, then, I also for the first time saw a Sons of the Confederacy plate with a tiny Rebel flag affixed to it. For a minute, I thought I'd been flushed into Mississippi. I wonder if Virginia would allow the Human Rights Campaign or PETA or NORML or a pro-abortion group to have special plates. I know, I know. The Sons of the Confederacy represents part of the state's heritage. So does a noose. Doesn't mean I want it on license plates.

2) Queen Anne's Lace might be my favorite weedy flower. It's no tulip, but there's something wonderfully egalitarian about this plain-jane white flower. It seems to grow anywhere. I've seen it in the high mountains of West Virginia, and I've read that it's also common in Sicily -- meaning its habitat includes both northern and Mediterranean climates. Today, driving through Harrisonburg, I saw a clump of them growing out of a mound of dirt at a construction site. Cool, I thought. Even its fragrance is down-to-earth -- a very faint sweetness if you put your nose directly on the flower. Ironically, the English -- supposedly so frilly compared to Americans -- have a different name for Queen Anne's Lace: wild carrot. How perfectly egalitarian.

The Gong Show -- American Democracy At Work

American presidential elections jumped the shark in 1988. Remember Michael Dukakis in the tank, looking like a Tonka Toy puttering around the yard? Or Willie Horton, a Massachusetts criminal whom the Republicans twisted into a symbol of Dukakis' supposedly squishy soft record on crime? Or the clinical answer Dukakis gave when asked during a debate what he would do if his wife were brutalized and raped? Or Lloyd Bentson eviscerating Dan Quayle?

Such is how we select the leader of the free world.

Ensuing elections weren't quite so comically idiotic, mostly because they got slicker. Bill Clinton stands up and walks toward the audience during a debate, and the people cheer. George The First glances at his wristwatch during a debate, and the people scowl. An uncommonly bright man, Al Gore, is ridiculed, while an uncommonly dumb man, George The Second, follows his handlers' script straight to the White House. John Kerry, a decorated war veteran, is trashed for his service, while a chicken-hawk, George The Second again, is portrayed as a man of courage and vision.

Out of this come the candidates who, presumably, possess the intellectual firepower and intellectual honesty to deal with Islamic terrorism, dwindling oil resources, China's emergence as a superpower, global warming, the potential of a society-crippling flu pandemic, the changing face of America and a cruel megalomaniac in a nuclear-armed North Korea. Not to mention health care and the environment and social issues like abortion and gay rights.

The platform we've chosen to test these men and women adds insult to injury: two rural, white states that reflect American society as accurately as a carnival mirror.

Having said all of that, I'm utterly addicted to the entire stupid charade. I'm glued to CSPAN this time of year, watching the candidates' antics at diners, parades, businesses and rallies throughout Iowa and New Hampshire.

With that in mind, here's my thumbnail views on the men and women who would lead us:

DEMOCRATS

Hillary Clinton: I respect her command of issues and her experience. I think she was wrong on Iraq for way too long, but I also don't think she would have launched a "preemptive" strike. I also think she would do almost anything to become president, which isn't necessarily a deal-killer. And, hey, we'd get Billy Boy back.

Barack Obama: I really like his brain-power and his thoughtfulness. I really don't like his lack of fire. Overall, though, he's my man. Being black and multi-cultural is a huge plus, simply because it brings a mindset that whites rarely can match. He was right on Iraq from the beginning, though I'd like to see him be more radical in his exit plan.

John Edwards: Man, that youtube video of him preening is devastating. He looks so fake. But I think that's just because he's been a lawyer and politician his whole life, meaning a degree of subterfuge is ingrained in him. I do believe his views on two Americas -- rich and poor -- are sincere and correct. And I respect his forthright acknowledgement that he was wrong to vote for the Iraq invasion. I'd enthusiastically vote for him, either for prez or veep.

Bill Richardson: The man should have more gravitas than he's given credit for. Nobel Peace Prize nominee, cabinet member, governor. He's got credentials. But ... he lacks "it."

Joe Biden: OK, he is gabby, but articulately so. He's extremely reasonable -- if that's possible. But he seems like yesterday's news.

Dennis Kucinich: Gotta love Dennis The Menace. Not only is he dead-right on almost every issue, but he's also a vegetarian. Sadly, he looks like Alfred E. Neuman (the Mad magazine guy) and is totally unelectable.

Chris Dodd: The former party animal is a very likeable candidate. But he completely lacks presidential presence.

Mike Gravel: A gruffer Kocinich. Plus, he looks like a libertarian.

Al Gore: Not a candidate. Not a chance.


REPUBLICANS

Rudy Giuliani: How weak are the Republicans? Look who's leading the polls. My god. This guy's personality would kill him before Labor Day. Yes, he was a profile in courage during 9/11. No, that doesn't qualify him to be president.

Mitt Romney: It's become politically incorrect to mention that Romney is a Mormon. But he is, and a devout one. That's a legitimate political issue, just as Joe Lieberman's extremely conservative Judaism was in 2000. Why? Simply because both men have made a point of wearing their religion on their sleeves. And, it should be noted, the question isn't one of faith; it's how closely Romney would adhere to Mormon doctrine on social issues.

John McCain: I have no doubt McCain would melt down under the glare of a national campaign. Give him credit for standing tall on issues he really believes in -- immigration reform and campaign finance reform, both anathema to the right wing -- but I question his stability. And he's delusional on Iraq. (Remember the infamous stroll through the market in Baghdad?) Plus, he looks like 100 rather than 70.

Fred Thompson: He was a lousy senator and he'd be a lousy president. He's definitely positioning himself on the rabid right. Earlier, I thought he was the biggest threat to Democrats. I still think he has the charm and acting ability to fool America and get into the White House. But I'm hoping his extremely conservative views will eventually sour the public on him.

Tommy Thompson: I've seen way too much of this clown on CSPAN. He's the most awkward, annoying campaigner in history. Zero chance.

Sam Brownback: I respect Brownback. I think he's genuine, and I was impressed that he spoke at one of the memorial services for -- I think -- Coretta Scott King. He's a thoughtul guy who's just too damn religious. Hence, he's wrong on every issue.

Jim Gilmore: Please, get this nobody off TV. He has the charisma of a doorknob, and his legacy in life will be cutting the car tax as governor of Virginia. Yay. And doesn't America really need a former party chairman as its leader?

Tom Tancredo: The good thing about him is he's helping ensure that the Democratic Party will get the lion's share of Latino votes for decades to come. His anti-immigrant rhetoric is disgusting.

Ron Paul: OK, I love his views on Iraq. But he's a libertarian, so there's the wacko factor.

In short, I don't think there's a winner in the Republican field.

Yum 2

This is vegetarian version of Brazilian stew. I checked out various recipes, using one in Vegetarian Times as a rough base. But instead of tempeh or potatoes, I used mushrooms to give it a hearty taste. It ain't bad.

1) In a skillet with onions and olive oil, saute a box of sliced mushrooms (I used baby portabellos). Sprinkle them with salt, pepper and low-sodium soy sauce. Toss in some freshly chopped parsley.

2) In a deep skillet, saute a red onion, three-quarters of a jalapeno pepper and a sliced celery stalk in olive oil and the juice of one lime.

3) After the onions have cooked for a few minutes, add 1 cup of vegetable broth, a can of black beans (or, if you have the patience, uncanned black beans), some fresh chopped tomatoes, a couple cloves of minced garlic, a half of a minced chipotle chile in adobo sauce (weird little things), the previously sauteed mushrooms, some dried italian herbs, a few minced basil leaves, a dash of Saigon cinnamon, a small slurp of maple syrup, the juice of another lime, salt and pepper. At the end, stir in some freshly chopped parsley.

4) Simmer for 20-30 minutes, covered (or uncovered if you want it to be crispier).

5) Serve one of two ways: a) as a soup that you can dip crusty bread into (I used a walnut-raisin bread), or b) as a stew on top of rice (delish). Toss in some cheese chunks if you choose (anything from cheddar to mozz).

Thoughts on a Summer Night

Random thoughts on a Saturday night:

1) I think I have a new favorite Edward Hopper painting. I still love "Nighthawks," the stark, lonely diner in Greenwich Village. But I think I like "Gas" even better. It reminds me of my visits as a kid to my grandmother's house in the mountains of West Virginia.

2) Nothing -- nothing -- smells worse that rotten tomatoes. Unless it's rotten bananas.

3) After five decades, it's official: my two favorite fruits (shut up) are cherries (especially Rainier) and watermelon. I eat them non-stop from June to August.

4) I continue to think Obama would make a fab prez. But he isn't catching fire, I think, because of his low-key rhetoric and because of his extreme caution. His cat-and-mouse game with Hillary on the Iraq vote a few weeks ago was disgusting. It was a great opportunity for him to demonstrate leadership, regardless of the fallout. Instead, he played crass politics.

5) A friend showed me a study by a University of Virginia prof on how most straight guys have a visceral repulsion toward gays. The reason: Gay sex disgusts them. No duh.

6) If you had any doubt that Dick Cheney is an evil puppet-master, read the Washington Post series on how he helped steer America into the Iraq war, how he made sure the U.S. was allowed to torture prisoners and hold them indefinitely without charges, and how he helped circumvent environmental safeguards. That is one son of a bitch.

7) Do your brain a favor and read "Looming Tower" by Stephen Wright. It's a fascinating account of the rise of Islamic extremism. Regardless of your political beliefs, you'll come away with a far better understanding of Osama and his crowd.

8) I played Gay Gumshoe the other day. (It seems, by the way, that nobody under 40 knows what a "gumshoe" is; it's a private eye.) A straight friend asked me to check out his 18-year-old cousin's myspace page to see if I could detect his sexuality. The reason: the kid had asked somebody else about ways people commit suicide, and my friend was worried about him. After 20 minutes or so, I concluded, with near certainty, that he was gay -- newly minted, though, and worried about the consequences of his orientation. I asked a college-age friend in Houston to check it out, too. It took him maybe 25 seconds. Verdict: gay. Anyway, I passed on the info to my pal. I hope he talks to him. Soon.

Um, Yeah, He's Sexy

Ronaldinho

(AP Photo -- click for hi-res)

Funny, But ...

Being gay, I hate religion. I don't think there's an alternative. That doesn't mean I hate the idea of a god. On the contrary, it would be great it there were one, if there were an afterlife, if we were reunited with our loved ones in bliss. But religion and god aren't synonymous. Far from it.

I've never understood why rational men and women subjugate their minds to the Bible or the Quron or other holy books. I can see using them as a resource, just as you would use another philosophical tract. But to take it as gospel baffles me.

Anyway, I got to thinking about this again when I stumbled across a Muslim comedian named Baba Ali. His stuff is on youtube under ummahfilms. It's very funny and sometimes thought-provoking, especially his explanation of why he converted to Islam.




Did you watch it? Funny, no? But also sincere.

As a gay person, of course, Islam is abhorrent to me. While Christians consider us sinners and abominable, most don't want to execute us. I believe the same could be said of most Muslims. BUT there are theocracies -- Iran and Saudia Arabia come to mind -- where gays have been killed for being gay. Sometimes beheaded. Sometimes hanged. All in the name of Allah. Want proof? These hideous photos from the Iranian Student News Service, published worldwide two years ago, show two gay teenagers -- one 18, the other 16 or 17 -- being executed. Gay rights advocates said it was simply for having gay sex; Iran said they "raped" a third boy. Because the third boy was 13, it was considered rape whether or not he consented.




Photos of gay teens' hanging in 2005 by ISNA



Obviously, there are tolerant Muslims and intolerant Muslims, although I'd use "tolerant" carefully. The tolerant ones might throw gays in jail rather than hang them. The Quran, after all, makes it clear that homosexuality is evil. Even Iran, according to one activist there, doesn't aggressively pursue gays for punishment. But it happens. Legally. Because of religion.

I'd love for a converted Muslim to explain to me the appeal of his new religion.

Dick Naked

Koji looked like he had just seen Dick Cheney naked.

His face twisted ever so slightly, eyes narrowing, lips struggling to smile.

Apparently, I wasn't his type.

"Hi. How are you?" I said, emerging from the tiny foyer at the Chelsea Savoy Hotel on 23rd and 7th.

"Good, good. And you?" he replied, his stricken gaze still on my face.

Oh god, I thought. Keep the meter running.

Koji and I had made arrangements to meet after talking on-line and on the phone for hours over several weeks. He was 34 and reviewed Broadway plays for a publication back home in Japan. I was a 49-year-old sports editor from Virginia. Somehow, we clicked.

It was a gay.com success story. Or so I thought until that cold April night when we met at the appointed hour for dinner.

"Hangawi OK?" I asked, thinking he might suddenly develop bronchitis and beg off.

"Yes. Should we take a cab?" he said.

A cab? Good grief, no. He could stare at me all the way to Midtown.

"Let's walk," I suggested, wondering if my salt-and-pepper hair looked more black or silver under the neon lights.

By this time, Koji was politely masking the biggest disappointment of his dating life. We had a nice chat as we walked briskly to Hangawi, a soothing Korean vegetarian restaurant on 32nd Street. Dinner went smoothly too, and he even took me to a theater district joint for strawberry shortcake afterward. We parted with a generic peck on the cheek outside of his subway stop at about 11 -- four hours after the date began.

Obviously, Koji's good manners had taken over. But, just as obviously, it was the last time we would see each other. I think we chatted on-line twice afterward -- briefly -- and then he and his gay.com nickname disappeared forever.

It's the nature of cyberspace. Hope fading into reality. Budding friendships dying like too-early crocuses in the back yard.

Koji was an extreme example, simply because we actually met face to face. Other friendships on platforms such as gay.com vanish with less trauma, less personal capital spent.

I still wonder what happened to the Vietnamese-American from the East Village with the Ivy League degree and quick wit, to the Hell's Kitchen Filipino who was almost an icon on gay.com until he too faded, to the Indian dorm-keeper at a New England college, to the Latino in Queens with the keen social consciousness, to the black kid from U.Va. who was trying to make it as a software developer on Long Island, to the Russian economics grad from Columbia, to the 40-year-old from Brooklyn with the taut body who still danced professionally, to the Virginia boy transplanted to South Beach, to ... well, the list is endless.

But another list, a shorter list, exists, too, a list of cool guys who were fun to hang out with, fun to meet face to face. That's what makes cyberspace, specifically gay.com, a lifesaver for gay men. It's a safe, energetic place to meet guys, and not primarily for sex, although -- clearly -- gay.com is sex-driven.

Why Koji and I didn't mesh is anybody's guess. No doubt, he pictured me as far better-looking than I am -- pictures do sometimes dissolve into fantasy -- and found the skin-and-bones version repulsive.

Oddly, though, the incident didn't enter my mind when I dated other guys afterward, guys who never looked like they had just seen Dick Cheney naked.

MySpace Tombstones

People go to MySpace to flirt, to chat, to check out pictures, to catch up with friends.

More and more, they also go there to mourn.

Many American soldiers have MySpace profiles, a comforting reminder of home, of normalcy, of sanity. And when those soldiers die in Iraq, their sites stay active, unspeakably sad ghost pages in cyber space. Usually, there's a picture of the soldier, sometimes trying to look tough, sometimes trying to look cool, sometimes abandoning all pretense and simply smiling a kid's disarming smile.

Friends migrate to the dead soldier's page to say how much they loved him, to thank him for his heroism. To say goodbye.

If virtual tears exist, these pages are soaked.

It's difficult to look at the ghost pages, and I've done so rarely, in part because I wonder if I'm violating a dead kid's privacy by doing so, in part because they shatter my heart. But, sometimes, you need a reality check. You need to shake your head and forget about a delusionally evil president and his handlers. You need to forget about the politics. You need to forget about the big picture and zoom in on the people, the hundreds of thousands of Iraqis and the 3,454 Americans whose lives have been -- as the now justly marginalized and ridiculed John McCain said in an unguarded moment -- wasted.

So today I typed in the name of an 18-year-old soldier from Montana -- Matthew -- who was killed by friendly fire a week after arriving in Iraq. His mentor, another young soldier, died with him -- on perhaps his final day of combat duty. Time magazine reported that the Montana kid had been rushed into combat with inadequate training.

For those who knew and loved Matthew, of course, politics means nothing.

Their messages on his MySpace page are heartbreaking. One example:

OMG, MATT, IM SOR SORRY i GET TO SAY GOODBYE IM REally sorry, you'll be really miss now more than ever,since theres no goona be more chances for us to see each othere again I'll miss you budy, RIP,

In his boy-next-door profile on MySpace, Matthew wrote in the "Interests" section: "A happy life at my home and hopfully i can have children soon." He described himself -- with a smile, I'm sure -- as a "swinger." He was 5-foot-8 and "slim/slender." His education level: "High school." His occupation: "Army."

I'm reluctant -- out of respect for his privacy -- to put his picture here and to post more of his friends' anguished goodbyes. But, obviously, this was as typical a kid as you're going to find in the Army. A kid who no doubt believed his country would never spend his life recklessly. It's important to see his face and his heart.

Skin

Nothing is more sensual for me than when I first catch a glimpse of a sexy guy's skin, be it his side, his back, his belly. To pull up his shirt and lay my hands on his bare skin is electrifying.

Why, I don't know.

Skin, after all, is almost devalued now. Exposed flesh is more common than Big Macs. Girls, especially, have decided they have to show off their guts and backs. Fat chicks -- "It's my body, and I'm proud of it!" -- seem to take special pleasure in unburdening their shirts. Gobs of flesh droop over their pants as they thunder past in low-rise jeans licking ice cream cones. Guys are less obvious about it, opting for one-size-too-small T-shirts that hug the contours of their muscles while also offering peeks of skin here and there. But television makes up for any lack of male flesh in the real world. MTV is a swirl of hips, backs, nipples, belly-buttons, chests, sides and abs. So is every other youth-oriented channel.

Yet, somehow, the heart-pounding mystery of skin persists. Will it be dry or oily, smooth or hairy, darker or lighter? Will it be freckled or flawless, bony or muscled? Will the nipples be flat or pointed? Will the navel be a swirl, a plug, a simple indentation? So many possibilities, so many little surprises when the moment arrives. Unless, of course, you've seen the guy shirtless. Then, the mystery is gone, replaced perhaps by something less romantic -- lust.

Rubber Necking at Walmart

Come gather round, people, wherever you roam -- the times they really are a changing.

I was walking through the main aisle at Walmart -- the one in front of the cash registers with the constantly changing array of merchandise to entice weak-willed shoppers -- when my eyes spied ... are you ready? ... condoms.

Or c-c-c-c-condoms, as Kramer might say.

And not some will-it-be-a-boy-or-a-girl brand straight from China, but honest-to-penis Trojans. In Harrisonburg, Va., of all places. Yes, we're a college town -- metro population: 115,000, I'll have you know -- but we're also Church City, USA. Mennonites, Brethrens and evangelicals are big influences here, and they absofuckinglutely hate sex.

Yet, there they were -- condoms.

Walmart frequently surprises me. For all its flaws, it has been progressive on gay rights among its employees, it's becoming a major force in organic foods and -- in a nod to the environment -- it's now pressuring suppliers to significantly cut back on packaging.

But condoms! Up front! Right where little Melody and Jeremiah can see them! Fuck.

The Fem Boy

A kid walked into the Nepalese restaurant in Harrisonburg this evening. Obviously gay. Mod haircut. A tight shirt revealing the countour of his chest and belly. A peek of skin when he leaned against the counter. A man's purse strapped around his back.

He walked like fem gay kids walk -- fast and scared. His face was blank and tense, almost unnervingly so. No doubt he's been the object of ridicule most of his life, so I assume he's put up an emotional shield.

When he entered the restaurant, he glanced quickly at me -- my table was directly beside the door -- and I smiled. I hope he saw the smile. And I hope he knew the smile was meant to convey love, not scorn.

Even in the gay community, you still see warnings on guys' on-line chat-room profiles: "no fems." In a way, it's our version of the dark-skinned/light-skinned black conflict. The "straight-acting" gays feel superior to the feminine gays.

I find the "no fems" admonition offensive, partly because it tries to marginalize a group of people -- something gays should be familiar with -- and partly because those guys face enough daily trauma in the straight world without being ostracized by their gay brothers.

But to be honest -- and it hurts to be honest -- I sometimes wince when I see "flaming fags." I absofuckinglutely hate having that reaction. But it's there. Why, I don't know -- I assume it's something middle America taught me as I grew up -- and I'm determined to fight it.

So I strip away the pretense and look into the eyes of those fem guys. Try it. You'll see a scared puppy. And you'll see another human being, a human being longing for the same things you want: love, companionship, respect and security.

I hope I see that kid again. I hope he looks at me. I hope he sees me smile. And I hope he smiles back.

(Another post from my other blog, but I think the sentiments are worth repeating now and then.)

10 Things

OK, being old and wise, here are 10 things I've learned in life:

1) Seize the moment. I've mentioned Robert Frost's poem, "Wind and Window Flower," in an earlier entry. It's the one about a winter wind that flirts with a flower in a windowsill. The flower can't decide whether it wants to hook up with the winter wind. By the time it makes up its mind, the winter wind is a hundred miles away. Believe it or not, life's short. We live only 2.5 billion seconds, and they go oh-so-quickly. Don't let life -- and all of its adventures, carnal and otherwise -- slip away.

2) Be generous. Money ain't shit. Spend it on your friends. And never ever ask a friend to pay you back.

3) Don't be coy. Paul McCartney was right: It's a fool who plays it cool by making his world a little bit colder. In other words, be eager. If somebody you like asks you out to dinner, go for it -- enthusiastically. Don't hide your emotions. And don't downplay your love or lust.

4) Read until your eyeballs drop out. I spend much of my life around 20-something guys, so I know that's an alien concept to most people under 40. But if you don't read after you get out of school, you'll stop growing. You'll become one of those old farts whose cultural tastes are frozen in their youth, who grow increasingly narrow-minded as they age, who find new ideas more frightening than exhilarating. Read at least one great newspaper every day -- meaning the New York Times or Washington Post -- to get a quick snapshot of the world each morning, however imperfect that snapshot might be. Read the New Yorker every week to remain culturally literate. Read novels now and then to nourish your soul. Read non-fiction books to give your opinions enough depth to be taken seriously. Do that, and you'll never stagnate.

5) Love people before you love your country. Love an Iraqi kid as much as you love an American kid. Because we're all the same -- we all want love, we all want security, we all want respect. Doesn't matter what color, ethnicity, religion or social class you are.

6) Be extremely skeptical of anything you're taught in school. If they tell you that the American criminal justice system is fair, think of O.J. -- think of how anyone with enough money for a brilliant lawyer can beat a murder rap, and how anyone with a court-appointed attorney is fucked. If they tell you that the high courts are blind to political considerations, think of Gore vs. Bush -- think of how the federal government's Republican Supreme Court tried to secure the 2000 election for George Bush and how the Florida government's Democratic Supreme Court tried to secure the election for Al Gore. If they tell you that American democracy is a beacon for the world, think of that same 2000 election -- think of how the people's will was circumvented in favor of the ruling class' preferred candidate. If they tell you that America is morally superior to other countries, think of atom bombs falling on Japan, think of napalm melting the skin off of Vietnamese peasants, think of the elected leader of Chile being overthrown, think of the Pentagon's glee at "shock and awe" in Baghdad. If they tell you that the American press is completely independent, think of Iraq -- think of how papers fell in line like tin soldiers when Bush was whipping up support for the war, think of how we never see pictures depicting the real horrors of war, think of how papers cozy up to the Washington establishment at things like the Gridiron Dinner. If you're got two oil men running the executive branch and they tell you that oil has nothing to do with a war, think only one thing -- impeach the motherfuckers.

7) When you become a boss, bend over backward to respect your workers. It took me awhile to learn that. But I now understand the importance of listening to them and consulting with them rather than barking orders at them. For one thing, they will be much better employees if they feel they have a direct stake in the everyday product. For another thing, they almost always deserve to be treated kindly and with respect. If I were to yell at one of my guys, he'd be in turmoil at least until he saw me again, probably a day later. That wouldn't be fair. Everybody in the world has an inherent right to be happy. At the same time, you need to push your workers to be the best they can be. But they need to know you're doing so only because you care about both their careers and personal lives. When I criticize one of my writers, I often preface it by saying, "You know I love you like a brown-spotted banana, Javy, but ..."

8) Always remember: You only live once. So if you want a bottle of wine, buy it. If you want a fancy meal, get it. Don't pinch pennies. You might be dead tomorrow.

9) Don't hurt people's feelings. Little white lies aren't sins. I mean, if your mother gives you a pie and it sucks, tell her how much you enjoyed it. She'll feel great, and so will you.

10) Make your body a priority. Whether you're 20 or 60, go to the gym. Keep yourself toned, build up your stamina. Don't put things in your body that will hurt you -- like Hostess Twinkies or cocaine. I shop for a lot of my basic groceries at Wal-mart. Which is good, because Wal-mart has more fat butts and guts per capita than any other location in America -- and all I have to do is look around and any urge I have to buy ice cream or doughnuts will evaporate.

My Cool? Va-po-rized.

So, I'm curious: How long will it take before other guys interest me? You know, what with the love thing. Which I still absofuckinlutely hate, by the way. I mean, it vaporizes your cool in an insta-second. You're bitchy, you're jealous, you're mopey. It's disgusting. I freakin hate myself right now. I'd chop off my dick if I wasn't so attached to it.

Anyway, as I was implying, other guys still don't interest me at all. Cutest guy in the world could wag his butt in my face and I'd yawn. Just because of this love shit. And, as you probably know by now, I have zero chance with the guy I'm ga-ga over. I mean, he's straight, or at least he thinks he is, which at this point is just as bad. And there's a gazillion other reasons why I need to erase the dude from my memory banks -- all of which come down to one bottom line: It's consuming every spare second of my rapidly ticking life.


(I wrote this last year on another personal blog. So far, nobody else has caught my eye. But I'm at least dating again. Baby steps? Yeah, but that's better than nothing, no?)

He Pays WHAT!?!?!

One of my former writers -- a Manhattan native whose father once owned a Times Square restaurant called Hamburger Harry's -- returned to New York City to attend grad school after leaving Harrisonburg. While doing so, he applied for a housing lottery. The lottery was open only to people who met certain criteria, low income among them. He won.

The reward was a loft in the Financial District for, at the time, less than $300 a month. He also had to put down a $16,000 deposit, refundable if he moves out. Sixteen-grand sounds like a lot until you consider that he, essentially, made it back in a year because of the absurdly low rent. Since moving into the loft two or three years ago, he's gotten at job with a Time-Warner magazine and is making more money, so his rent is now just below $500 a month -- still a steal in Manhattan. How much of a steal? Check this out (from the New York Times):

The rents for one-bedroom apartments in Manhattan average $2,567 a month, and two-bedrooms average $3,854 a month, according to data from Citi Habitats, a large rental brokerage company, but rents tend to be far higher in coveted neighborhoods like the Upper West Side and TriBeCa.

Because landlords typically require renters to earn 40 times their monthly rent in annual income, renters of those average apartments would need to earn at least $102,680, individually or combined, to qualify for a one-bedroom and $154,160 to afford a two-bedroom.

I have no moral qualms with any of this. Manhattan is an island. Space is precious. Prices reflect that. Ideally, of course, people of all incomes could afford to live there -- ideally because diversity gives places character. Fortunately, there are enough dumps in the East Village and Lower East Side to keep the place honest for a while longer.