Taking All the Fun Out of Halloween

With the exception of The Simpsons’ Treehouse of Horrors specials, I really don’t get the appeal of Halloween. Why do people go out of their way to be terrified? What’s so fun about that?

Death seems closer this time of year. In colder climates, the leaves have fallen, giving the trees a more skeletal look. The crops are in so the fields are barren. It’s getting darker and darker. The world seems to be passing from the warm, vibrant life of summer into a cold death-like slumber.

Without looking it up or actually doing any research, I think Halloween must have originated in relation to traditions like Day of the Dead and All Saints Day. These customs, rooted in ancient cultures from around the world, are an opportunity to remember and in some cases, communicate with loved ones who have passed. In Mexico’s Day of the Dead, it’s often a happy, funny celebration where people cross that line between this life and the next. In the Episcopal church where I attend, All Saints Day is a somber occasion where those who have died are solemnly remembered.

People used to be closer to death. They would watch loved ones die at home and spend time with the body afterwards. Families did the washing and burying themselves instead of hiring a funeral home. Sometimes after a flood or landslide, because of more primitive burial practices, bodies reappeared revealing decaying flesh and skeletal remains.

We don’t often see that any more, but we recreate the visions of dead bodies and live ghosts every October 31. Why? To laugh at something we fear?

Haunted houses are big business. So are slasher movies. The louder some people scream, the more fun they are having.

Not me. I avoid going to a scary movie at all costs. I have enough fear in my regular life. And because I’ve faced the real prospect of death, my own and others’, I just don’t think styrofoam gravestones in the yard, or plastic skeleton hands sticking out of the ground are funny.

But don’t let me spoil your fun. This year I’ll be helping my sister hand out candy to trick-or-treaters up in Cheyenne. The scariest thing there will be her dogs happily barking every time the doorbell rings.

Fitness Newbie Surrounded by Experts

I am in pain.

My shoulder is killing me. The spasms in my arm are excruciating. My elbow is doing that funnybone thing.

No doubt this is a result of a recent lifestyle change. A month ago I joined a health club and I've been working out nearly every day, lifting, squatting, doing pull ups and push downs on a fancy machine (don't ask me what it's called), and working "cardio" on a treadmill. I also avail myself of the health club's whirlpool because it's, uh, therapeutic for sore muscles. I tried the steam room, but fainting from the heat draws too much unwanted attention from the other guys.

I wrote a few weeks ago about working with a personal trainer, Eric. Because he doesn't come cheap, I don't want to call him again until I've "mastered" my routine. Then he can move me on to something more advanced.

My goal is not to become a gymbot, but to improve my overall health, stamina, and perhaps, hopefully, lose a little weight.

So far, I've gained three pounds.

Free time at home is spent with a hot pad on my shoulder and an ice pack on my tingling elbow.

Yes, I've overdone it. Eric said to work out three or four times a week. So I figured seven would be better. I think I injured myself trying to overachieve in an area where I've never achieved at all. I am now struggling with a concept we in the fitness world call "moderation."

While Eric is expensive, I am fortunate to have many willing consultants eager to advise me on my workout. Many. Like, almost everyone I know.

The problem is, their advice is not always consistent. Some say to take it easy, others say to power through the pain. Some advise working a different muscle group every day while others advise doing cardio only every other day.

My boss is ordering me to start consuming protein shakes in order to make my muscles stronger. She's even scheduled a mandatory lunch (she is the boss, after all) for us to go to her favorite nutrition store and purchase some of that appetizing powder mix. She has coupons.

A good friend says, however, that protein shakes have too many calories and I'll end up gaining weight.

The expert I most trust is a coworker who used to play football for CSU. He knows muscles and he knows pain. He says what I'm going through is perfectly normal for someone using certain muscles for the first time. He says not to overdo the workouts and limit Eric's routine to every other day. He promises the pain will gradually subside.

I seek and take advice from a football player. Who knew?

In my condition, typing this blog is agony. I'm sure it doesn't help that I'm flat on my back with a cold pack to the side, a hot pad underneath, and a laptop angled over my stomach.

Wait - I just felt something I've never felt before. A kind of lump in my arm. Cancer? No, I think it might be a muscle!

The Little Girl in the Well Syndrome

So what is it about this kid who was supposedly trapped on a large balloon that got away and flew up to 9,000 feet that so got the world's attention? Not only did it get the Local TV News Chopper Live treatment here in Colorado, but was broadcast instantly all over the world. Even the BBC Radio World Service, which doesn't usually cover dramatic sensationalizm of questionable news value, did a story on it.

We daily hear about lives lost in Afghanistan, crushing poverty in the world's slums, convenience store shootings, and weepy breast cancer stories - all tragic, often involving frightening death, but none of which capture our attention like a six year old who may be trapped in an escaped home made flying saucer.

It's that little girl who fell down the well syndrome. You know the story. A little girl is playing near an abandoned well and falls into it. The next 48 hours, the hole in the ground is surrounded by frantic family members and emergency equipment. All television news networks park their satellite trucks nearby. Voyeuristic townspeople watch from behind police tape, waiting to see if she'll survive.

The phenomenon is so powerful that it is captured in fiction. In Woody Allen's 1987 movie, Radio Days, a World War II era family tensely sits by the radio for hours to see if a little girl they don't know survives the fall down a far away well. Atrocities in Europe which affect even this family's relatives don't merit such attention.

The Simpsons spoofs these types of events in an episode where Bart drops a walkie-talkie down a well and pretends to be a little boy who fell in. In addition to the media circus, law enforcement, and general mayhem, hucksters sell "I was there when Timmy fell down the well" T-shirts. Truly funny satire as only The Simpsons can do it. When it's discovered that it was only Bart's prank, the disgusted townspeople quickly leave the scene. When Bart really falls down the well, no one pays any attention.

I suppose nothing unites us like a helpless child caught in a perilous situation. Everyone wants the outcome to be happy, regardless of our separate religious and political views. One thing a businessman in India and a housewife in Canada can have in common is the fervent hope that the child will survive.

And, just like on The Simpsons, our concern turns rapidly to cynicism and disgust. When little Falcon turned out not to be on the balloon, but hiding in his Fort Collins attic, all that good will from around the world evaporated into accusations of publicity stunts.

Meanwhile, how many people died in Afghanistan yesterday? I don't know either.

Queer Activism Evolving – National Coming Out Day

A toddler shaking hands with a drag queen changed my whole perspective on activism, though it barely merited any attention except my own.

By contrast, President Obama’s speech last night to the Human Rights Campaign, the nation’s largest gay rights lobbying organization, received lots of attention. CNN, NPR, and others are joining some gay activists in asking, what happened to those campaign promises?

Today a massive National Equality March for LGBTQI rights will take place in Washington. Openly gay Congressman Barney Frank is critical of the march, saying it’s a waste of energy.

I disagree with Frank about the value of these marches which not only garner needed media attention and public awareness; but spur networking opportunities and generate energy which fuels lobbying and other involvement.

I attended the marches on Washington in 1987 and 1993. Times change. In 1987 it was all about AIDS. So many of us were dying and the federal government, led by the oblivious Ronald Reagan, was doing nothing. At that point, I don’t believe the president had ever acknowledged that HIV existed. I’ll never forget venting my anger as I marched by the White House shouting, “Hey Hey! Ho Ho! Ronald Reagan has got to go …”

The march in 1993 was different. Colorado had just passed the hateful Amendment 2, denying rights to gays, lesbians, and bisexuals. The fear that it could happen everywhere was palpable. When I visited the Holocaust museum later that year, I saw how easily a law here, a law there, with a little indifference, could lead to freight trains carrying whole communities to death camps. One notable proponent of Amendment 2 had been heard to say, off the record, that gays should be shipped off to concentration camps. Amendment 2 was eventually overturned by the Supreme Court.

We seem to have shifted from fighting for primary rights to insisting on things that in 1987 I never dreamed of, such as the right to get married. Obama is pressured now to lift the federal ban on same sex marriage as well as the ban on gays and lesbians in the military. The shift in times is notable in local Pride marches as well.

A couple summers ago, I stood along East Colfax in the heat, watching thousands of Gay Men, Lesbians, Bisexuals, Transgendered people, and their friends and families march, dance, ride (on cars, floats, motorcycles, horseback), waving and smiling their way down to Civic Center for the annual Pride celebration.

Next to me under the blinding sun, was a family of four: young father and mother, preschool-age son, and a toddler daughter who jumped in and out of her stroller depending on her interest in the passing action. In years past, no one watched the parade. The only people interested in the parade were in it. That is no longer true. Now it’s an event to bring the children to watch.

The youngsters next to me giggled as waving drag queens stopped to say hello or shake their hands. I worried that anyone six feet tall with giant hair, dressed in heels and sequins might frighten the little ones, but I supposed they looked something like clowns or cartoons - not quite real. Some of the more playful marchers squirted water guns as they passed. The kids ran into the street and begged to be drenched. The parents seemed to enjoy it as well.

In my own prejudice, I wondered what that "traditional" heterosexual family was doing watching "our" parade. Did they understand what they were seeing? Did they really want the kids exposed to all those queers? My logical self knew these must not be the stereotypical suburbanites who fear everything that they might see on East Colfax.

Many parade participants stepped out of line to say hello and hand out candy or stickers. It dawned on me that many GLBTQI folk, denied ordinary proximity by biology, prejudice, or circumstance, crave the opportunity to be near young people, even if for just a moment like this. I thought of how often I have avoided friendliness to a child for fear of being accused of something improper just because I'm gay. How unfair this is to us, and to the children who could benefit from our positive, loving attention. And here I was, vicariously enjoying the parade through these children I did not know.

Gay and lesbian parents marched in the parade as well: those who have made the decision and taken steps to rear their own children - dads holding hands with dads as they pushed a stroller, moms arm in arm with moms while supervising a tricycle. Little ones marched and waved and held balloons, excited to be the center of attention and walking in the middle of a big street.

Suddenly the two children I'd been watching leapt from the curb and ran shouting into the middle of Colfax. I glanced at their mom and dad to see if they realized what was happening. They were all smiles as their offspring greeted and hugged some marching children, jumping up and down, bringing that whole group of families temporarily to a stop. The youngsters obviously knew each other, perhaps as neighbors or from a play group. I understood why that family of four was at this parade. They were there to see their friends, who just happened to live in households headed by same-sex parents.

It was one of the most touching things I've ever seen. It reminded me that changing hearts and minds isn't done on television. It doesn't depend only on what the president says or what laws are passed. It isn't done just by the ranting of pundits like Dan Savage or the endorsement of religious leaders. It's done through children becoming friends and bringing their parents along. It's done one person, one family, one coworker, and one interaction at a time.

National Coming Out Day is October 11. It’s a day to remember that change happens between individuals. When our lives are real and visible to those we live and work with, including our joys and sorrows, the love we have for our children, and our day to day struggles of working and living, we are seen as fellow human beings, not just some group of strangers marching in far away Washington.

Working Out an Unlikely Pastime

I recently asked my sister what she would least expect me to do.

"Join a gym," she said.

Well, guess what. That's exactly what I've done.

I've never been what you would call the athletic type. I can't throw anything except a tantrum, and I can't catch anything but a virus.

P.E. class was always miserable. I was picked last for every team. "Coach" would order us to climb the rope or do a pull-up without the least bit of instruction. I could never do it. As soon as I could, I got out of P.E. by joining the marching band.

No wonder I've never been interested in any type of organized physical activity (except square dancing - but I quit that when it got too competitive).

So what happened? Well, I'm staring down the barrel of my 47th birthday in a couple of months. I've reached my maximum acceptable (to me) weight of 200 pounds. And a coworker 15 years my junior made me climb four flights of stairs to the office with him one day instead of riding the elevator. I panted and wheezed for a half hour afterwards. Preparing to dial 9-1-1, he asked if I was ok. Breathing too hard to answer, I smiled and waved as if I were having a good laugh.

Clearly it's time to do something about my body.

So I started looking around. The first place I went to was a cheap and bare bones gym. The cheap I liked, but the strip-mall store front was too public for me. I couldn't work out among young muscle-heads when people could stand on the sidewalk outside and watch. Plus, there wasn't a shower. I was going to need a shower.

One of the advantages of middle age (if you're childless and employed like I am) is that you can afford to spend a little. I went from the strip mall directly to one of the most expensive gyms in town. Actually, it's not a gym, it's an "athletic club" where in addition to working out, you can swim in one of three pools, get a manicure, have a massage, take a steam, and grab a smoothie on the way out. That this club has "Cherry Creek" in its name is almost too much (if you don't know Denver, Cherry Creek is the premiere neighborhood for shopping, fashion, spas, restaurants, art galleries, and boutiques - in other words, it's wealthy and pretentious). This club is the kind of place where guys read the Wall Street Journal while using the treadmill. What kind of hybrid driving, Starbucks drinking, NPR listening, Landmark Theater going, overly educated white urban professional would I be if I spent my hard earned money on this expensive, luxurious, state-of-the-art athletic club? Answer: the kind who would get up at 5:00 a.m., drive with radio tuned to NPR, carry his work clothes in a bag as he crosses a dark parking lot into a large brick building with no windows, and whip his flabby body into shape.

I've been there almost every day for two weeks now. I've spent most of my time swimming, but finally met with a physical trainer (a chipper young lad named Eric) to start a workout routine. Eric is teaching me how to do pull-ups and other sweat-producing stuff.

In addition to techniques, Eric shares his passion and philosophy about working out. I am learning that it is better to work your whole body, not just your biceps or your chest in isolation. It's fun. I'm enjoying myself. And in the winter, when it's really cold, there will be a sauna I can use to warm up.

Freshly showered and shaved, sweaty workout clothes in the bag, I drive my hybrid away from the club. There's a very convenient Starbucks on the way to the office.