Thursday, August 27, 2009

A Visit to the Breast Center

Like Christmas, the hoopla for Breast Cancer Awareness Month (which actually isn't until October) comes earlier each year. As we gear up for another season of pink t-shirts, teary-eyed testimonials on the news, endless "Race for the Cure" promotionals, and at least one Denver office building that puts a giant pink ribbon on its side, I would like to add some awareness of my own.

Though the rate is only 1 in 1000 (American Cancer Society ), men fall victim to breast cancer too. Survival is thought to be lower for us because of ignorance about the warning signs. Men also have less tissue in their breasts than women, usually, so once cancer spreads, it doesn't have far to go before reaching other parts of the body.

Naturally I was concerned when I noticed something growing in the right side of my chest. I asked my doctor to take a look during my bi-annual physical and he sent me to the Rose Hospital Breast Center for tests.

It just happened to be Breast Cancer Awareness Month (2007). The whole city was festooned in pink ribbons. Television and radio trumpeted the annual fundraising "Race" and reminded us constantly that this could affect our wives, sisters, mothers, and daughters. It felt like the there was yet another major holiday crowding the fall schedule.

I'm not hung up on my masculinity. But it was a challenge to walk into the Breast Center. Most people in the waiting room sat in pairs, two women or a woman and a man (presumably a husband). Every single one of them looked scared to death. As I reached for a magazine and sat down alone, I could feel their eyes upon me. "What is that guy doing? Where is his wife?"

Even I, a cynical consumer of medical services, was impressed by the compassion and reassurance of the place. The receptionist greeted regulars by name. The waiting area was comfortable and roomy enough to allow for some privacy as patients processed the implications of their predicament. A television unobtrusively played in one corner, something about a world series, distracting the husbands and minimizing the need to talk.

After a few long minutes, I was called to the more clinical back rooms. Shown into a cubicle, I was asked to take off my shirt and put on a gown. I waited several more minutes behind the ubiquitous hospital cloth partition before the technician came to get me.

All business, she led me to the big machine. Having never seen one, I nevertheless knew it was the device where women have their breasts squished in search of unusual growths. Seriously, I thought, you mean I'm supposed to put myself between those two flat, metal plates?

As I stepped up close and leaned in to have the delicate tissue of my chest region uncomfortably pressed into the cold mammogram apparatus, I made a lame comment about the challenge of having to squish a man between the metal surfaces.

"Oh," she remarked, "we get a lot of women in here who are smaller than you."

I didn't say a word for the rest of the exam.

Long story short (too late I know), I did have a growth. It required a couple of return visits and some painful biopsies which consisted of long needles being plunged deep into my apparently fleshy man-breast.

Everything finally turned out negative, much to my enormous relief. But every Breast Cancer Awareness Month, which started in mid-August this year, I feel just a little more aware than the average guy.

Which reminds me, I'd better start getting ready for HIV/AIDS Awareness Month. December will be here before you know it.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

The Ups and Downs of Hair

My father recently remarked about how pleased he was with length of my hair. I remember when the same length provoked a very different reaction.

Like most boys in the 1970s, I argued endlessly with my parents about hair length. Everyone who was cool had hair down to their collars and over their ears. Dad never seemed to understand that. He just didn't want his kid to look like a hippie. Short hair cuts were mandatory. They were also $2.50.

In the 1980s, short hair became cool again. Through college and graduate school I conformed to the popular clean-cut, conservative look with locks just touching the tops of my ears.

In 1986 after frolicking in the waves of Fire Island, New York, I became vividly aware, through a severe cranial sunburn, that I was losing hair on the back of my head. The awareness intensified when the middle school girls I worked with started to sneak up from behind and trace my bald spot with their fingers.

In the mid 90s, I de-emphasized my baldness by shaving my head really short, almost to nothing. My father was appalled. He begged me to grow it longer. I looked like a skinhead.

But I loved driving with the windows down and not worrying about messing it up. I didn't comb or brush for several years.

And now, this year, I'm letting it grow out. It's down to my collar and over my ears. It curls slightly. I had to find my comb and buy a brush. I'm using "product" to keep it under control. There are lots of complements. My dad loves it.

And I'm paying $20.00 for a haircut at one of those chains - "product" sold separately.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

That Bicycle Isn't Going to Ride Itself

In my living room, a cushy sofa folds out into a bed for company. A large pillow sits atop the wooden entertainment center, a throne for kitten Charles. Knick-knacks are few. Remotes on the coffee table are plentiful. And beneath a colorful painting of Ghost Ranch, New Mexico, a mountain bike leans against the wall.




The 10-speed Kona Lanai symbolizes the active Colorado lifestyle. One might assume I spend weekends on high-country trails, pedaling up steep inclines without regard to the mud on my stylish form fitting polyester outfit.

Perhaps after the ride, I climb a fourteener (a mountain over 14,000 feet) before settling down to a healthy dinner of brown rice, tofu, and fresh vegetables for which I jogged over to the farmer's market early that morning.

It's not for nothing that Colorado boasts the slimmest of state populations. People here are acutely active. I have an elderly neighbor that hikes up mountains several times weekly and then walks her dog to the park – not the park across the street, but the bigger one several neighborhoods away.

In contrast, my helmet hangs from the handlebars enveloped in dust. The tires sag slightly. I'm not sure I even have the key to the lock.

I parked the bike after an old lady roared out of the Baptist church parking lot and nearly killed me as I bounced over the curb to avoid a face to face encounter with the grill of her Buick. She never did see me, nor did she hear my very un-Baptist verbalizing as I picked myself up and brushed the rocks off.

I started walking instead – good exercise, but not "EXTREME" in the Colorado tradition. I trudge through the neighborhood, appreciating flowerbeds and trees and trying to peak inside houses while crickets and birds cheer me on; less hurried, more to see.

Perhaps I'll sell the bike. It isn't going ride itself, and I really have no interest.

A couple of my friends are preparing for a triathlon. They both look terrific and very, well, EXTREME. Many Saturdays after they complete their jogging, biking, and swimming, I peal myself off the sofa and join them for a serious, carbo-loading breakfast. It's my way of showing support for their regimen.

Does anyone want a used mountain bike?

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Denver: 20 Years, 20 Changes





I was recently asked if I'd be willing to relocate to Chicago in a year or two. I surprised myself by not saying no. I arrived in Colorado two decades ago hoping to settle down - plant some roots if you will. Well, like airports, convention centers, Frontier Airlines, and sport/concert venues, my roots have gone deep, been dug up, replanted, and dug up again. Nothing stays the same long in this town. Why should I? Here's a sampling of the changes I've seen since 1989:



  1. May D&F department stores - GONE
  2. Cinderella City, once the ultimate in malls, THE place to go see Santa - GONE
  3. Convenient local airport - GONE - replaced by a more modern, state-of-the-art version way out on the plains (no pun intended). One of the world's most sophisticated airports, the circus tent-like roof tears under heavy snow.
  4. Elitches amusement park - GONE - I'm talking about the real Elitches, the one that was in northeast Denver forever; the one where my grandparents married in 1910.
  5. Celebrity Fun Center - GONE - a Home Depot has replaced the billiards, games, and indoor pool with a slide - a great place to dump the kids on a cold day.
  6. The old Tattered Cover bookstore- GONE - but now there are three new Tattered Covers.
  7. Light Rail Transit - the opposite of gone.
  8. Union Station - still here, but that was a close one ...
  9. The Art Museum used to look like a prison. Now it looks like – I don't know what it looks like – a boat that fell over or something.
  10. LODO is transformed and trendy - LOwer DOwntown used to be a vast and vacant warehouse district. It's now home to Coors Field and lots of popular breweries, lofts, galleries, and trendy hangout type places.
  11. Cherry Creek Mall - here, again (there was an old one in the mid 20th century that featured a Sears instead of Saks Fifth Avenue).
  12. The Mousetrap - rebuilt; doesn't look as much like a mousetrap as it used to; now more often called the intersection of I-25 and I-70.
  13. Architecture is more interesting now: for example, the renovated Denver Public Library (main branch).
  14. Frontier out - Continental out (mostly) - Western Pacific in then out - Frontier back in - Southwest in - Frontier probably about to be out again.
  15. The Denver Country Club has had its first African American member - Former Mayor Wellington Webb, only because the mayor automatically becomes a member.
  16. Television: Channels 7, 9, and 4 are all affiliated with different networks now. Channel 2, once known as Channel 2, is now "The Duce."
  17. Toll roads. TOLL ROADS for crying out loud!!
  18. TABOR*
  19. The fall and rise and fall again of the Republican party, and right-wing extremism - not that those two are necessarily linked.
  20. And finally, the biggest change to hit Denver in the past 20 years: I'm here now!
* Tax Payer Bill of Rights - a tragic over-reaction to wasteful government spending which actually harms education, law enforcement, transportation, and other publicly funded necessities.


So I didn't say no, but I have to think about my price.





What would it take to move me to Chicago? Perhaps that's the subject for another blogcast.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Angry Personal Ad

46 year old, light brown hair, medium height with pounds to spare, and somewhat furry GWM seeks other men for friendship and/or dating.

If you must have my other "stats" before we meet, forget it. Go away right now. If the size of my anything matters, we don't have the same values. All you really need to know is that I'm well groomed but not especially fashion conscious.

I'm interested in casual dating and if it turns into more, that's great. But I'm not really looking for a husband. I think it would be more romantic to meet and fall in love naturally, if it's meant to be. I'd certainly rather be single than waste time "looking for Mr. Right." His very existence is debatable (I dare the universe to prove me wrong).

My attitude is sex positive, but if you think that just because we have sex means you can start moving your boxes over, just go away.

To get my interest you must be 1) a man; 2) a GAY man; 3) an adult -in chronology and maturity; 4) and if you aren't a person of faith or crazy about cats, you must at least respect the fact that I am. Last but not least, you must have a sense of humor - at least enough to laugh at my jokes occasionally and crack one of your own now and then.

Dating activities which I enjoy include: movies, walks, hikes (the easy relaxing kind, not the kind where you rappel over the continental divide before breakfast), drives in the mountains, movies at home, and having dinner. I love to eat.

Warnings: I don't stay up late very often, I don't care for bars, and I make terrible fun of vegetarians. Approach me cautiously if you are a Republican. If you are a racist, don't even come near me. I've met quite a few gay men who are, and I really can't understand why someone who is discriminated against by society would make ignorant comments about other groups.

Finally, I maintain an attitude of cheerfulness at all times. I love to spread sunshine.

So if you're interested, drop me a line!

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Diatribe: Being Gay and Christian

I go to work, do laundry, have dinner, watch TV, and pay my bills. But of course, I am gay and that affects who I am.

To me, being a gay man means:

Contentment when my boyfriend puts his arm around me on the sofa. I love to sit in the driver's seat, with him as the passenger in my car, and rest my hand on his shoulder. There's an electric charge when our two pairs of lips touch ever so casually. Being gay is awareness of being sexual. It means being capable of firey attraction and heart-pounding lust and powerful love with other men. But there's more.

Being a gay man means:

Appreciating bright colors. Delight at the newest line of kitchen gadgetry at Crate and Barrel. Being able to tell my coworker that the song, "June is Bustin' Out All Over," is from the musical Carousel, not South Pacific. But I don't fit every stereotype. I'm the only gay man I know who doesn't own an iron. I spend about 5 seconds on my hair every day. And yet I'm gay.

To me, being a gay man means:

I can stand in a long line at Arby's and be unconcerned as strangers watch my gay friend fix my shirt collar.

To me, being a gay man means:

The sweetness of new love, the promise of a long term relationship, commitment to having a life together. Then, bitterness at the failure of a relationship. And the comfort of being reminded that I have just as much right to be divorced as a straight person.

To me, being a gay man means:

Beaming with pride when family members who 20 years ago couldn't say the word gay, not only belong to P-FLAG, but stand as activists and counsel others who suffer the same struggles they once did.

To me, being a gay man means:

Remembering how I couldn't communicate with grandparents about the truth in my life. The closest they ever came to discussing it was once asking of a same sex couple, "which one of you does the cooking?"

To me, being a gay man means:

Having to think about relationships in ways that most straight people just take for granted. Who leads while dancing? Who pays for the date? What are our roles with each other? Should we try to achieve something like marriage or define something new? Should we try to have children? We can't accidentally have them - we have to really want them first, work hard to get them and be committed to them because we can't take for granted that they won't be taken away.

To me, being a gay man means:

Being active in church my whole life. Getting a seminary education. Using my training and talents to teach, write and preach, working like a dog to help the church change the world. But not feeling like I could take my boyfriend to the Sunday School picnic. Realizing that no matter what I've done for the church, my gifts were considered invalid because I am gay. Finally leaving that church behind. Living without church. But yearning for that community. Believing in that vision. Continually called by God to find a new niche where my gifts and training are welcomed and affirmed, my relationships not only acknowledged but celebrated.

To me, being a gay man means:

Driving along a busy street, windows down in the perfect sunny weather, a car full of boys pulling up, yelling "faggot" and worse. Driving faster to get away only encourages them. To shout back could be dangerous. But to then go to church and tell my congregation what happened and to feel their shared outrage and support is to know that there might be some sort of holy redemption and hope.

To me, being a gay man means:

Living with HIV and AIDS, regardless of whether the virus resides in my own body.

I had this conversation on a date: He says,"This is my favorite restaurant. My first boyfriend took me here." I ask, "Do you ever run into him here?" He replies, "No, he's dead." We don't talk about it much anymore, but many of our friends and lovers are gone.

There is grief when AIDS takes loved ones away. I have fear when my own body is weakened by HIV - my energy compomised as a virus tries to undo my health. There is pure rage when families (and for that matter, churches and governments) will not support, care for, or comfort those sick with HIV. But just as often, I see HIV bring out the goodness in people. I'll never forget how proud and touched I was as I watched my mother step in to attend the hospital bedside of a person very sick with AIDS when his own mother would not.

To me, being a gay man means:

Living and loving, as fully as possible, knowing that I am a whole, valued, child of God. I am more aware of my sexuality than nongay men because I have to affirm it regularly. Slowly, gradually, the majority of society ceases to fight me on this. Whereas I was once challenged to educate every single person about myself and my orientation, I now almost take it for granted. Straight people may not approve or understand, but the responsibility is now on them to deal with it. And gradually, I think they might just be starting to get it after all.

Finally, to me, being a gay man means:

Pride. Every last Sunday in June, thousands and thousands of people of all orientations walk, sing, dance, and flounce down East Colfax Avenue. I feel absolutely exillarated because I belong in this diverse community of lively, colorful people.