Things to Do Before I Die

I've reached the part of midlife where a man typically buys a red sports car, dates a teenager, and gets hair transplants in the futile attempt to recapture his youth.

I’m in no danger of doing any of those things. But between a recent birthday and the coming of a new year, I sense mortality creeping ever closer.

I have no desire to be young again but it has occurred to me that at this point there's more time behind me than in front. As a result, if there's anything I want to do I'd better get it done before it's too late.

So to commemorate the passing of another year, I set out to make a bucket list. In case you don't know what that is, a bucket list is a list of things you want to do before you die.

Turns out it isn't as easy as I thought.

It's tempting to write down the usual clichés, but most aren't things I really want to do. For example, I could list sky diving, but I'm not trying to speed up the end of my life. Another typical item for people in this part of the country is climbing all 54 fourteeners (mountains over 14,000 feet) in Colorado. I can't think of much I'd rather not do more.

I've really already done most everything I ever wanted to do. I've lived in some varied places. I've earned a Masters degree. I get paid to do what I love, which is writing. Granted, my technical and training materials aren't best sellers, but still...

Just surviving this long is quite an accomplishment considering how I spent my 20s. Some of my friends didn't make it this far. I'm a lucky guy.

So what is on my list?

I've always wanted to stay at the Brown Palace - Denver's finest historic hotel. It's luxurious, dripping with Victorian elegance, and expensive. It's also haunted. I've never been able to justify spending the money it costs to stay there. But one of these days, I'll just cough up the dough and go.

I would like to visit the three states I've never been to: Alaska, Maine, and Vermont. Saying I've been to all 50 states seems more doable and frankly more interesting than 54 mountains.

I'd like to learn Spanish. It's a prominent language in the U.S. and likely to become more so (in spite of the narrow-minded efforts of some who would like to legislate it away).

And then I'd like to go to South America and speak it. One fun fantasy is to walk down the Avenue de Mayo and sing, "I want to B A part of B A, Buenos Aries, BIG APPLE!" In case you're not gay, that's from the musical, Evita.

That's my short list. I guess I'm pretty lucky to have had such a satisfying life, or at least reasonable (low?) hopes and expectations. And upon reflection, I probably have plenty of time to do these things before I kick the bucket. But perhaps I’d better Google Spanish classes just in case.

A Huge Leap in the Right Direction

Today’s  65 to 31 vote in the U.S. Senate to overturn the misguided 17 year old compromise allowing gays and lesbians to serve in the military (NY Times story), but only if they keep it a secret, is a major step forward for our country.

There are times when I think we’re going backwards, what with all the political extremism and ignorance so evident among candidates in the recent election.

But today let’s put that aside and celebrate a huge leap in the right direction.

Yes, it shouldn’t have taken so long.

No, it’s amazing that we are so far behind other countries like Israel where everyone has to serve, without consideration of sexual orientation, and Canada, where in every province, gays and lesbians can get married.

Clearly we have a long way to go. But I believe we’re going to get there.

When I came out of the closet at age 17, the military was the furthest thing from my mind. I registered for the draft, but I had no intention of joining up, and I was quite relieved when I realized that they wouldn’t take me anyway. It never occurred to me that it should be my right to serve. I just wanted to move to the big city where the other gays were and live my life in peace.

Back then, I never would have imagined that legalized gay marriage would be the central controversy of the gay rights movement. We’ve come a long way.

Sure, I want things to happen more quickly, but this kind of change is hard fought. Women’s suffrage took nearly a century. Slavery required a bloody war. But eventually, missteps, battles, and all, we eventually get to where we need to go.

And of course there is still sexism and racism, and there will always be homophobia. But sexism and racism are fringe in the 21st century, unacceptable to the mainstream. Homophobia is now one step closer to the fringe as well.

Desegregation of the armed forces signaled the eventual end to legal segregation everywhere in the U.S. Today's decisive victory over "Don't Ask Don't Tell" signals the eventual crumbling of institutional homophobia. When the majority of military people think it's a non-issue, it’s easy to foresee that only the most die-hard religious fundamentalists who wallow in their own bigotry will be left behind.

We’ll need to keep fighting, but today, let’s stop for a moment and celebrate.

Making the Most of the Holidays by Doing Less

I didn't go to the company party this year. I just didn't want to. By the time Friday night comes around, I'm exhausted after a long work week. I don't want to dress up.

While I'm at it, I'm not sending out holiday letters this year. Scrambling for stamps and cutting my tongue while licking envelopes is a daunting prospect. Anyway, I suspect that Facebook, for better or worse, is making the holiday letter something of a relic.

I’m often called a grinch. I own that. I’ve been called worse.

I'm not putting up a Christmas tree for the second year in a row. My two year old cat, Charles, won't let me. I tried it. He wants to eat the branches. And I mean the plastic, synthetic branches of my artificial tree. I didn't even get the glass ornaments out. I'm sure he would make quick work of those.

General principle: if it causes more trouble than pleasure, or if the merriment is compulsory, then I opt out. It’s all about boundaries. My energy is limited.

I haven’t Christmas shopped for several years. Everyone I know has way more stuff than they need - including me. The last time I was in a mall at Christmas, I think Pat Schroeder was our Congresswoman and I saw her shopping at Niemen Marcus. Instead, I’ve made a practice of donating the money I would have spent on presents to the Denver Dumb Friends League (the local Humane Society). Family members seem to appreciate that as much as any doo-dad I could buy them.

Why do we drive ourselves crazy with activities that don't add to our or anyones’ enjoyment of the season?

I haven't gone to a New Years Eve party for several years. I don't drink and I can't stay awake late. I prefer to quietly reflect on the coming year and perhaps make a reasonable resolution or two. New Years Day, I want the flexibility to be depressed about the prospect of a long, dark winter without being forced into false cheer.

Don’t get me wrong. When I do elect to take part in holiday goings-on I will do so with relish.

Here’s what I plan to enjoy before the year changes:

• Lights. Lots of colored lights. Charles did allow a couple of strings at home, just not on a tree. Most years, I drive around the city looking at lights. There’s a house in my neighborhood which is loaded with illumination and even has its own radio station so you can listen to music choreographed with moving parts and sophisticated light shows. And in Denver, no tour of lights is complete without driving by the City and County Building, easily the most spectacular holiday display in the Mountain Time Zone.
• Dinner at Fresh Fish Company. Yes, for me, Christmas, New Years, and my birthday are all one big glop of holiday. Like many restaurants, if you sign up for it, Fresh Fish Company sends a postcard every year near your birthday allowing a percentage off your entre equal to your age. That grilled salmon and asparagus drizzled with hollandaise sauce with a side of garlic mashed potatoes is getting closer and closer to half price for me.
• Time with family. My family is a lot of fun and it just wouldn’t seem right to celebrate Christmas without them. This year, my siblings and nieces and I will converge on my dad’s house in Fort Collins. I’ll probably make corn chowder for Christmas Eve. Some of us will go to church, most of us won’t. I’ll drive home to Denver late so I can feed the cats and get some sleep. Christmas morning, I’ll rise early and head up there again.

So you see, I’m not a total grinch. I simply like to get the most out of my holiday by doing less. If you see me at a festivity this month, you’ll know I’m not faking merriment. If you don’t see me, well, happy New Year.

Traditions Bring Meaning to the Holidays

Ah Thanksgiving! When people of every faith (or none at all) gather with family and friends to reflect on the good things in their lives.

Many cultural traditions play out this week. It’s the one occasion when most of us eat turkey. It’s the busiest time of year at airports. It’s when we untangle the colored lights, plug them in, and check whether enough bulbs are burned out to justify buying a whole new string.

There are traditions unique to each family. Some like the cornbread Stove Top stuffing mix while others prefer the herb flavored. Others mix the turkey dinner with traditional ethnic food. Some, for example, garnish sweet potatoes with layers of brown sugar and thousands of mini-marshmallows.

And what would Thanksgiving be without the crystal dish holding the traditional jellied cranberry sauce in the shape of a tin can?

It’s these folksy customs which add color and distinctiveness to a celebration. We have a little gem in my family which is repeated every Thanksgiving.

At some point during the preparation of the traditional meal, the cook, usually the host, turns to the guests who have congregated around the food preparation area, and from the heart, with all the feeling a major holiday can inspire, says:

"Ok. That’s it. Get the HELL out of my kitchen."

The first year of this request to vacate was at my sister's house. Her mother-in-law, several guests, and her sister, brothers, and nieces were milling around half prepared dishes of food, adding chaos to an already chaotic situation. The noise level had risen to the point where the two inhabitants of the adjacent living room were unable to hear each other. Without warning, my sister cried the famous words which have so oft been repeated.

Experience had taught those of us related to her by blood to do what she said. Her brothers, sister, and nieces left the kitchen immediately. Unaware of the risk to their health and well being, the less-experienced in-laws and friends laughed and remained huddled around the counters. I was too afraid to peek in and see what happened next.

Kitchens are instinctive gathering places. It probably dates to those chilly Thanksgivings celebrated by early homosapiens who lived in caves. To escape the relentless cold, all the cavepeople and their families and friends gathered around the fire for warmth -the same fire over which the cavehosts cooked the traditional mammoth meat.

In the 21st century, the living room is also warm, but as the guests arrive, they intuitively migrate to the kitchen, chatting happily as the cook/host struggles to create counter space.

Meanwhile, the living room, where chairs are carefully placed to facilitate traffic flow and maximize social interaction, is empty - except for the cats who have discovered that the appetizers on the coffee table have been left unattended.

Does Martha Stewart ever have to deal with this stuff?

Don't get me wrong. I enjoy my guests and I'm happy people like spending this special day in my home. I like talking and catching up as much as anyone.

But it's stressful to coordinate a large dinner which you only prepare once a year, juggling an unnaturally large bird which was frozen just the day before in a floppy disposable foil roasting pan, monitoring several side dishes which need various amounts of heating, checking on rolls which can easily burn, and timing it perfectly so that its ready to eat all at the same time.

About the point where the turkey is done, the corn needs 30 more minutes, and it's time to start the gravy - a delicate and precision operation which could affect the outcome of the whole dinner - I wave my baster in the air and bellow the traditional holiday plea.

Stunned, most people back away, out to what's left of the appetizers.

Fortunately, my momentary lapse in hospitality is forgotten as soon as the steaming gravy flows over the mashed potatoes.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Postblog from the Virginias: George Washington’s Nephew Slept Here

I may write a blog about what happened at the actual retreat, but it really was intense and I’m still processing. As you can see below, just getting there was an experience in itself.

I knew there would be rolling hills and in early November, a variety of colors from light brown to deep red, highlighting the heavily vegetated landscape. I knew that it made sense to fly into Washington DC to attend a retreat in West Virginia, only 63 miles – but at least two worlds – away.

I’m not unfamiliar with the region. I did time in the Old Dominion back when I was young.

What amazes me about the east is that everything is so close together. Yet these 63 miles from DC to WV, the distance from my Denver condo to my dad’s house in Fort Collins, couldn’t be more starkly different.

And the differences are sudden. When you cross a border here, you have really gone someplace.

I’m glad I sprung for GPS with the car rental.

The Virginias were not built on a grid. No road or highway goes in a straight line. When driving through “The District,” as some call the city of Washington, you start on a parkway. The GPS directs you to exit onto a little two-lane road which takes you to a major highway. Turn off onto another parkway going into suburban Virginia where you zig-zag over to a toll way which twists and turns toward the mountains, which (being from Colorado) you suspect is that little ridge up ahead.

Northern Virginia, at least this part, is dotted with gigantic new mansions. There is serious money up here. Everyone has room for horses and every home seems to have a greenhouse attached. Three or four story houses sit on lush grassy acres, the cuttings of which must be used to feed the horses.

I have never seen so many vineyards. Is Virginia known for wine? Sign after sign beckons me to come in for a taste, but I continue my journey, eager to reach my destination before dark.

I have the feeling that when it gets dark out here, it’s really dark.

There is no sense of direction when you are used to always having the Rocky Mountains on the west. Without the reassuring instructions of the electronic GPS voice, I wouldn’t have any confidence I was going the right direction.

Sure enough that little ridge marks the border to West Virginia. The mansions with horses suddenly give way to ordinary houses featuring multiple pickups in front. Vineyards yield to bait and tackle. The only large new buildings are churches.

My retreat is in an historic mansion which sits on a 300 acre plantation said to have once been owned by George Washington’s nephew. I have no reason to doubt the pedigree, but it does seem that to give anything legitimacy in these parts, there has to be some connection to old George, or at least Thomas Jefferson.

The problem with this mansion, though it dates back to the 1820s, is that the GPS doesn’t know about it.

This remarkable feat of technology, in communication with satellites high above the earth, directs me to turn off the state highway onto a county road and proceed for 20 miles. I’m then told by the feminine GPS voice to turn at the corner where a paved road, one lane wide, circles some scary, rednecky looking mobile homes.

“Mabel,” I hear clearly in my mind, “Where’s the shotgun? There’s a stranger drivin’ on our land.”

The pavement becomes dirt by a wood where four deer leap in front of the car just as the road comes to a sudden end.

“You have reached your destination,” the GPS happily intones.

Uh, no, I haven’t. I have no idea where I am.

I consult the directions I printed out on Google-Maps before I left home. They make no sense at all. I am lost.

Long story short (too late, I know), I get Zelda (the name I’ve given the GPS lady – we’ve grown close over the past few hours) to direct me to a Pizza Hut in the little town a couple of ridges over. After driving back and forth around West Virginia’s Panhandle, taking many false turns but seeing lots of beautiful country, I finally arrive at George Washington’s nephew’s plantation.

It’s only 63 miles from National Airport, but look how far I’ve come. It must have seemed a universe away two centuries ago. I guess folks back then knew how to get around without help from Zelda. Or else they were smart enough to just stay at home where they belonged.

An Election That’s Out of This World

Every election cycle seems more excessive than the last. Candidates are more extreme. Commercials are increasingly outrageous and definitely more prolific. The public appetite for "change" is huge. Does anyone remember that the politicians they want to change away from in 2010 are the same ones they voted in just two years ago in the name of change?

Don't even get me started on the Constitution. Like the Bible, the Constitution is occasionally dusted off and conveniently re-interpreted in order to fit the immediate purposes of the user. Many of the obnoxious Tea Party people who want to "go back" to the constitution don't even know what's in it.

Ken Buck, Republican candidate for U.S. Senate here in Colorado, is all for the Constitution but is not in favor of the separation of church and state.

Huh?

Christine O'Donnell, running for Senate in Delaware, seemed genuinely surprised that the most sacred of our national documents contained such a clause.

Another odd thing about this election is that, in spite of a national tsunami of Tea Party activism, the TP (pun intended) chosen candidate for governor of Colorado (I can’t even remember his name) is trailing in third place, behind Democratic Denver Mayor John Hickenlooper and the American Constitution Party candidate, famous anti-immigrant, and let's face it, racist, Tom Tancredo. Guess which one I'm for.

But the most stunning thing I've seen this election season was the one that caught me off guard as I filled out my mail-in ballot last weekend.

Initiative 300 reads:

"Shall the voters for the City and County of Denver adopt an Initiated Ordinance to require the creation of an extraterrestrial affairs commission to help ensure the health, safety, and cultural awareness of Denver residents and visitors in relation to potential encounters or interactions with extraterrestrial intelligent beings or their vehicles, and fund such commission from grants, gifts and donations?"

Ok, my first observation is that it really is much too easy to get just any preposterous notion on the ballot. But this goes above and beyond.

I might expect such an initiative in a wacky place like San Francisco or even nearby Boulder, but here in the Mile High City where most of us live in "the real world"? I thought I’d seen it all when at least three marijuana dispensaries popped up within walking distance of my house.

Denver has its whimsy. There's a giant two-story tall blue bear, for example, looking into a window outside the convention center. Our local airline, Frontier, features a different animal character on each plane, every critter marketed with a distinct name and personality. And while we're at the airport, you may have noticed that instead of a regular roof, the terminal is topped by what looks like a circus tent.

But extraterrestrials on the ballot?

Local officials are embarrassed. Some fear it will scare away businesses looking to relocate. Apparently they think the big blue bear attracts business, but ET scares business away.

Personally, I don't see the harm. No public funds will be used. And isn't any publicity for the city good publicity? If I were in a colorless, depressing metropolis back east and looking to relocate, I think I'd be attracted to a whimsical town out west that has the imagination to anticipate possible contact with life from other worlds.

So I voted YES on 300. And while I’m at it, perhaps I'll make sure the guest towels are ready, just in case a little green alien stops by.

Here’s to Another Wild Weekend

Sunday Morning – I can’t move. I’ve stayed in bed long past the usual time. My head is pounding. The cats knock things over to get me up. Their breakfast is overdue. It’s 6:30 a.m.

You see, I stayed out much later last night than normal. I imbibed substances my body isn’t used to and I indulged in entertainment usually only enjoyed by a whole different strata of society.

It’s not that I did anything illegal. I was simply invited by some good friends to a fund raiser for the Rocky Mountain Arts Association.

The evening featured lots of movers and shakers, artists and patrons, Lesbians in all their finery, and gay men who probably spent hours getting that casual put-together look just so. Many were drinking wine and engaging in sparkling conversation. The highlight of the evening was a monologue delivered by Leslie Jordan, one of Hollywood’s most outspoken and notorious gay comic actors. You may remember him as Beverly Leslie on Will and Grace, or Brother Boy (channeling Tammy Wynette) on Sordid Lives. There was even a silent auction whereupon I bid, but didn’t win, a lovely hand-sculpted vase.

I made several trips to the bar and drank copious amounts – of club soda and diet coke. The worst things I consumed were scallions wrapped in bacon, runny brie baked in a flaky pastry, and little fruit tarts with the crust dipped in white chocolate (not my finest Weight Watchers hour …).

And the most shocking thing of all: I didn’t’ get home until almost 11:00.

What has happened to me?

Friday and Saturday nights used to be time out on the town. I never got home before 11:00.

In those days, it was only right to have some fun after a week of hard work. With Saturday and Sunday looming as relatively free days during which I could recover, I could stay up late and "PAR-TAY."

Most of the world seems to continue in this way. One only need venture down to LoDo, the district in Lower-Downtown Denver where every weekend, brew pubs and coffee houses are crowded to the point of overflowing. Partiers clog the sidewalks and horse-drawn carriages clop down the 16th Street Mall as taxis and pedestrians try to cross.

Or so I've heard.

I haven't been to LoDo after dark for maybe five years. And then I was only leaving Coors Field before the game ended so I could beat the traffic.

Nowadays, by the time I get home from work on Friday afternoon, I'm too tired to even think of going out. As I fold back the comforter around 8:30 p.m., I recall my youth when friends and I didn't even leave for the bars until 10:00. After last call several hours later, those of us who weren't lucky enough to hook up would head to breakfast at the White Spot, a 24-hour diner populated by drag queens which long ago disappeared under some of those fake new lofts in the Golden Triangle along Broadway.

Now, if I'm not too sleepy, I'll watch some recorded Science or History Channel documentary on my DVR until about 9:30 when I can no longer hold my eyes open. It's a good bet I'll be fast asleep by 10:00.

About 5:00 a.m., when in the old days I'd just be getting home (mine or someone else’s) to plop into bed, I now stretch, throw back the covers, and rise to feed the cats. The most thrilling part of the weekend is beating the crowds at King Soopers before the sun comes up.

I don't date much these days and I can't help but wonder if, in part, it's because I go to bed so early. If I force myself to be out at the bewitching hour of 8:30, my dinner companion observes me as I yawn widely, rub my eyes excessively, and jerk my head back suddenly as I fight off sleep. It's usually no reflection on him.

I suppose I’m just getting older. But I wouldn’t mind, say, a breakfast date every now and then.

There must be other single, middle aged gay men who engender the "early to bed, early to rise" lifestyle, but I can't figure out how to find them. They don’t hang out at King Soopers early in the morning, that’s for sure.

Lighter and Tighter – The Continuing Saga of a Middle Aged Man’s Quest for Physical Fitness

Why did I wait until so late in life to get into shape? Until recently, I never lifted a weight or performed a curl. The last big rubber ball upon which I balanced tenuously was a bouncing Romper Room toy with a rubber strap.

My new personal trainer, Rick, asked me at our first session what sports I played in high school. "Um," I stammered. "Piano?"

Rick has to teach me everything, I mean everything, from scratch. I don't know a crunch from a hole in the ground. When he says, "chin-ups," I break into a cold sweat - PTSD from high school when without any instruction or direction, we were told to do chin-ups, the number of which would determine our grade. I never did one. Not one. Looking back at "physical education" in school, I remember a lot of physical, but not much education. 30-some years later, in my advanced middle age, I am finally learning from Rick about correct posture, how my body works, and what is connected to what.

Rick is demanding, but also shouts encouragement and praise.

He is always yelling things like, "elbows in," or "shoulders back;" but most of all, it's "work your core."

The idea is - well, I'm not sure what the idea is, but I trust there's a good reason for it.

I've become very mindful of my core. Yesterday I had a little allergy attack. As I sneezed, I told myself to "sneeze from the core." When I empty the dishwasher, I concentrate on "lifting and reaching from the core." As I throw the trash bag over the edge of the dumpster, I'm "activating my core." I also think about my core during other, more personal activities.

Something must be working because I'm seeing results. My posture is better. I feel "tighter" around the middle. I've discovered muscles in my back. Today I felt a big muscle in my leg I've never felt before. For the first time in years, I can feel the bones in my butt when I sit down.

With the intense combination of working out and rigorous adherence to Weight Watchers (trademark R), I've lost 30 pounds since mid-July. Yea for me!

There are downsides to my healthy regimen. Getting up at 4:30 a.m. for personal training makes me tired and cranky. When I fainted on Rick one morning, he lectured me about the importance of eating before working out, necessitating the need to get up even earlier.

It is true that Weight Watchers is not a diet as much as a lifestyle. I can eat anything I want as long as I count it in my daily food budget. But realistically, there are some things I just don't eat. If having a brownie means I get less at dinner, I'll usually skip it. I crave chocolate chip cookies but limit myself to two every other week. I haven't ordered Papa John's pizza since I don't know when. DQ blizzards are few and far between.

I can't even be in the same room as potato chips. One serving is about 15 chips. Please! That's just a handful. If I open a bag, all contents are devoured instantly. At a party recently, a large buffet was spread across a counter, prominently featuring several open bags. In a cold sweat, I had the impulse to call my sponsor - something I could do if I was in Overeaters Anonymous, which I'm not. So I left the party, went to King Soopers, purchased some low fat popcorn, and returned to the party.

Hey, anyone who knows me knows I can't do this without drama.

The biggest challenge of getting in shape is staying that way. I hope to not be one of these people that loses the same 50 pounds over and over.

Can I keep it up (or down as the case may be)? The suspense is building: Will I buy another ten sessions with Rick or start working out on my own? How long can I avoid a hot fudge brownie sundae at Dairy Queen? Will I give in to one of those nacho Tuesdays at the office cafeteria? Will I ever again have the taco platter at Little Anita's (it's about two days worth of Weight Watchers points)? Can those low-cal ice cream bars really be any substitute for a “gotta have it” at Cold Stone Creamery? How will I cope with the coming holidays - all the cookies and the frosting and my sister's mashed potatoes with sour cream?

Stay tuned for updates.

At the moment, however, I’m going to go lie down. I’m feeling a little faint.



For some previous entries about my “getting into shape” saga, click on the links below.

Yoga for the Round and Stiff

Fitness Newbie Surrounded by Experts

Least Likely Passtime

Facebook Comment Stirs Controversy

I've written about politics, breast cancer, interpersonal conflict, obnoxious loudmouth media personalities, death, the relative merits of different regions of the country ... but nothing is as controversial as a statement I made on Facebook last week: that my Charles is the cutest kitty ever.

Turns out, lots of other people think their cat is the cutest ever. I was even chastised for not considering my other cats, present and past, in the comparison.

Ok, first of all, cut me some slack for hyperbole. There was never really a contest on which cat was the cutest. I’m not surprised that everyone thinks even their own butt-ugly cats are cute.

But when Charles jumped up on our visitor’s suitcase like he owned it, I knew, at that moment, that he was the cutest.

Charles is my performer. Of all the cats for which I've been guardian, Charles is the one that everyone sees. All the others fly into the closet or dive under the bed when a visitor arrives. Charles is the only one, who upon hearing a knock, runs toward the door instead of away. He gleefully accompanies guests into the bathroom and will often climb onto the shoulders of any human who happens to be sitting down in there.

Charles also chases the vacuum. I have to be careful about professional cleaners and repair people in my condo because he'll get right in their faces – and their tools. For example, Charles thoroughly enjoyed playing with the wires and equipment the cable guy brought with him when installing my new DVR.

Don't get me wrong - I love all my kitties. They all have moments where I swear each is the cutest ever.

Lily, my other current feline companion, is a lover. She sleeps with me, watches TV with me, and basically demands that I sit down and pet her when I'm not doing something more important. And there's never anything more important.

Lily actually sits on my wrists when I type on the computer. I’d be irritated, but when she does it, I swear she is the cutest cat in the whole world. So I have learned to work my fingers without moving my arms, thus accomplishing the computer task and also acknowledging Lily as the center of attention, a.k.a., the world.

Only a couple of humans know how sweet Lily is, however. She doesn't like to pose for pictures, and certainly doesn't come out for company. She is a more private persona where Charles is "out there," WAY out.

That's why you see his picture so much more than Lily's on Facebook. If she'd pose, she'd get her picture taken too. She just doesn't care.

I think people go way overboard about their pets. Does a dog really need a sweater in the fall? Would Facebook or YouTube even exist if it weren't for animals?

I'll patiently look at the pictures of my FB friends’ average dogs and cats (sometimes, I’ll even look at pictures of human children, but I only have so much time). To you, I'm sure, your kid or critter seems totally cute.

I'm just stating a fact when I say that Charles really is.

Muggy Night on the East Coast

Hannah’s Journey Stirs a Memory

If you’ve logged on for some of my weekly snark, sorry to disappoint. The changes that inevitably accompany September have me in a reflective mood.

August 1985

La Guardia’s runway steams as midnight radio plays from a previously distant city
A cool bath in rare silence offers momentary relief from a muggy New York night
Exhaustion
But who can sleep?
The future swells unending, limitless potential
Anything can happen
A whole life lies ahead

September Present Day

Open windows welcome breezes on a dry mile high evening
Yesterday I would be delighted – everything wanted then is now achieved!
Internet oldies echo from the past and a hot shower soothes stiff bones
Sleep looming long before midnight, fade to reflections of the past
Now is good but wanting something new
Excitement to look forward to

From a distance, I watch enviously as a new generation deplanes in the east
Unimaginable humidity forever marks this moment of infinite potential
Anything can happen
A whole life lies ahead

Wyoming May be Out to Get Me

Wide open spaces, mountain ranges coming and going in the distance. That endless highway so romanticized in the American mindset. The freedom of the road.

Then of course there is the relentless wind. Plus blizzards, sudden dust storms, and hail.

My first trip there as an adult was with some college mates, driving to spend a wild New Years in my sister's new home town. Suddenly, truly without warning, the clear dry pavement gave way to deep slush. I lost control and slid off the road - way off, out into a field where the snow went up to the window and scraped some necessary parts off the bottom of the car.

Since then, there have been multiple flat tires, numerous car-sliding-on-ice events, and several near misses with deer and trucks.

I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say that Wyoming is out to get me.

Because both my sisters live there, I've had the opportunity to visit many times, often over Labor Day weekend. I love my sisters very much and enjoy seeing them, but I have an uneasy relationship with the Equality State.

Home to some beautiful places such as Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming is, by population, the smallest state in the U.S. But when you're driving for hours through the endless, treeless plains, it's surely one of the largest. The great distances between towns make parts extremely isolated so if something happens, you might be stranded for a while. Cell phone coverage is sparse along some stretches, so you truly are at the mercy of the elements.

For example, with the nonstop wind, if there's any snow on the ground, even if it's sunny above, chances are you can't see the road because of ground blizzards.

It's not just the landscape and weather that make Wyoming a challenge for me. There seems to be some, well, bad luck whenever I go there. A couple of years ago my dad came with me. The Saturday night of Labor Day weekend, we had to rush him to the nearest hospital which was 70 miles away. He recovered. I was a mess.

Sometimes my health acts up as well. Another Labor Day, I had to pull off the interstate at Terry Bison Ranch near Cheyenne to deal with sudden and severe nausea and muscle pain. It was the first flair up of what turned out to be West Nile virus. I spent the next several months fighting fevers and holding ice packs on my arms to decrease the pain. I can't really blame that on Wyoming, but isn't it odd that the symptoms first appeared there?

I have to take full responsibility for some of the disasters I encounter, like taking a wrong turn outside of Lander and accidentally going hundreds of miles out of my way to Rock Springs, which is not the loveliest place to be.

Unusual things happen to other people in Wyoming as well.

My sister once hit a deer in the dark on the road near her house.

Let me make that a little more clear. She wasn’t in the car. She ran into the deer. In the dark. With her body. While she was jogging.

In addition to the plethora of wildlife on the road, domestic animals can also cause inconvenience.

A cattle drive blocking the highway is always fun to see - for the first half hour. Who says traffic jams are limited to urban freeways at rush hour? When stuck behind real honest to goodness cowboys on horses herding cattle, I struggle to repress my mile high road rage and focus on the natural beauty of muscular denim-sheathed legs firmly working a saddle. Sometimes they drive little 4x4s instead of horses and it’s not quite as sexy.

The locals aren't always friendly to people from Colorado. Their view is that we’ve ruined our state with population and pollution and now want to ruin theirs. I don't doubt they have a point. But I try to go the speed limit and dispel whatever stereotypes I can about my home. It’s unsettling to hear snarling behind your back along the lines of, "Greenie go home," while gassing the car or visiting a rest area. "Greenie" refers to the color of our Colorado license plates.

My mother was out walking one time when a neighbor of my sister’s fired some shots at her. To my knowledge, she’s the only member of my family who has ever been shot at, and some of us have lived in some pretty scary neighborhoods.

It sounds like I don't like Wyoming, but I do. The people who live there are generally warm and friendly (greenie-haters notwithstanding). The time we slid off the road, for example, a trucker stopped within minutes to tow us out. My sisters' friends are colorful and interesting and come from all over the world to live in the wide open west. My niece and nephew grew up trusting just about everyone in their community, absent of crime and urban misery. There aren't many kids who can have horses in their back yards or who can leave their belongings on the sidewalk in front of the local shop without worrying they'll get stolen.

I just personally don't have good karma there.

Next week I go up for a Labor Day visit. I have new tires on the car and snow is unlikely (but not out of the question). Dad's in good health. I'm in good health. Hunting season will have started, so most folks itching to shoot will be out in the boonies. I think it will be ok, this time.

Denying Reality – Revering Falsehood

So is President Obama a Muslim or not? I don’t know who to believe. Glenn Beck, or everyone else?

Of course the President is not a Muslim. It is a proven, indisputable fact. It’s been demonstrated over and over again that he is a practicing Christian and has been for a very long time. Yet, new polls this week show an increasing number of Americans believe he’s Muslim.

Let’s quickly brush over the question of whether it would be such a bad thing if he were. He isn’t.

What is wrong with people in this country? Are we that stupid or do we just believe what’s convenient to believe?

Selective knowledge is convenient. How easy it is to forget the First Amendment when a house of worship is being built in a location that makes us uncomfortable.

No matter how we harangue Supreme Court nominees about following the Constitution to the letter, it’s very easy to switch gears and casually suggest changing that hallowed document when it inconveniently challenges our prejudices about who should be a citizen.

We are the most information saturated people of all time, but so many of us believe incredible lies in spite of overwhelming evidence:

• Global warming is a hoax
• The holocaust never happened
• The earth is flat
• Evolution is just a theory
• Barack Obama was not born an American citizen
• FOX News is fair and balanced

Perhaps I’m overly preoccupied with the truth. I seem to dwell on scientifically viable fears that most people just ignore.

While most other American viewers were watching America’s Got Talent the other night, I watched a two hour program about the seven top ways the human species might be wiped out. Why I opt for this type of programming for my evening entertainment, I can't say. But that list included:

• Gamma rays from outer space
• Passing black holes
• Killer asteroids
• Viral pandemics
• Nuclear weapons
• The super volcano in Yellowstone
• And of course, climate change, which was number one on the list

The fact that I remember all seven off the top of my head tells you something about where my head is (I don’t even remember my own work phone number). But I will tell you this: that program was legitimate science and the evidence was presented by real scientists; not talk show drama queens (Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh) who never let the facts get in the way of a good story.

With all the information at our fingertips, why is it so hard for a technological population such as our own to separate the fact from the fiction?

Frankly, the facts are much more sensational. I lose a lot more sleep worrying about that super volcano than about the mosque in my neighborhood.

Howdy from Tourist Country

Colorado is a tourist destination. I know that surprises you enormously, but sometimes those of us who live here forget the close proximity of attractions that many others travel a long way to see.

A couple of weeks ago, for the first time in the 21 years I’ve lived here, I went to the top of Pikes Peak. If it weren’t for friends visiting from Georgia, I would have missed the bluest sky ever, a herd of bighorn sheep, and of course the home made donuts at the top. Pikes Peak was just one of many options within reasonable driving distance that I gave my guests for sight-seeing. Others included the Royal Gorge, the King Tut exhibit at the Denver Art Museum (DAM), and a hot springs near Winter Park.

I haven’t seen any of those other attractions either, and probably won’t unless more friends visit from the east.

I say the east because visitors from the west are generally less impressed with what Colorado has to offer. After all, California has better weather and beaches. The mountains in Washington and Oregon seem bigger (even though they really aren’t) because they rise from sea level. Also, those mountains are arguably more interesting because as volcanoes, they could blow at any time.

It’s the visitors from parts east that seem to enjoy Colorado the most. Families from Michigan, Illinois, and Nebraska plan their entire summer vacation around the chance to see a little scenery, touch some snow in July, and cool off at high altitudes. Iowans a little less so – let’s just say that you had better not be in a hurry if you get behind a car from Iowa in the mountains. At that speed, by the time they get to where they’re going, they’ll just have to turn around and go home.

Visitors from further east are really surprised by what they find here. One of my professors from graduate school heaped praise upon Denver by saying, “I was surprised to see such a bustling little city out there!” His impression was formed on the train from Concourse A to Concourse B while changing planes at Denver International Airport.

Easterners may insult us out of ignorance, but some westerners are pure snobs. While I personally like the Midwest and occasionally fantasize about moving back some day, Californians who think Colorado is part of that region are just asking for a pointy cowboy boot in the behind. And don’t even get me started about being described dismissively as “the great flyover.” Hey if that’s all this is to you, don’t visit. Just fly on over to the stinking cesspools of “civilization” and good luck trying to cool off there.

It’s the folks from the central and eastern time zones that seem to most appreciate being out here.

As one companion from Virginia watched a tumbleweed roll in front of the car near Boulder, he said he didn’t realize there actually were such things. Snapping a picture through the window, he explained that he thought they were just props used in movie westerns.

Years ago a friend visited Denver from New York City. He repeatedly declined offers to go to the mountains, but very much enjoyed what he called his visit to “the country.” I don’t think he left the city limits the entire time. It was enough for the Manhattanite to see green grass and trees through the Starbucks window.

Some friends’ relatives visiting from New Jersey bragged about catching bunches of trout in Estes Park. Turns out they literally stuck their rented lines into a crowded barrel of non-native rainbows. Hey, at least they had a good time and left some of their Jersey dollars here.

My favorite story is about taking a European to Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park. He didn’t realize we would actually drive into and up on top of the mountains. He was just expecting to drive around them, admiring from afar.

Yes, I’m poking fun at people who actually enrich my state by visiting. In fact, when I see Colorado through their eyes, I’m reminded of how great it is to live here. After all, when I lived in the east, where did I go for vacations? You guessed it.

Of course that was before I discovered how much I like San Diego.

Oblivious to Nature? Stay Inside!

Though there’s still plenty of heat left this year, mornings are cooler and the days are getting shorter. Some local schools are already in session. It’s occurring to people that summer is winding down.

This morning as I took my weekly 5:00 a.m. hike out at Cherry Creek State Park, there seemed to be more joggers and cyclists than usual. Surprisingly, out on the water in addition to the rowing club, speed boats with water-skiers and even jet skis were starting to pollute the otherwise peaceful morning quiet with their noise.

By 6:00 I heard booming announcements from a loudspeaker near the marina. Much as I wanted to continue my communion with the prairie grass, cottonwoods, and pelicans, I decided to hightail it back to the car before the race or marathon or whatever it was came my way.

I understand that I have to share the park. Situated smack in the middle of the metro area, CCSP is the most used state park in Colorado. Considering the miles of surrounding urban concrete, it’s remarkable that just 20 minutes away from my house (when traffic is light), I can be in the middle of a forest observing deer (today I saw a youngster with spots), or watching the breeze blow the rushes from side to side as all awareness of the city slips away.

Until about 9:00. Even when it’s too cold to water-ski, the shooting range is open. I’m not even sure where it is, but I definitely hear the “pop” and “boom” of individuals using that part of the park to exercise their second amendment rights.

A little later, a high-pitched whir can be heard. It’s the model airplane people, using their area to buzz and dip their miniature flying craft like prehistoric dragonflies.

Down the road a stretch, dogs joyously run, leash-free.

I guess it’s great that so many can use the park for such varying activities. If I finish hiking and meditating before 7:00 a.m., I can pretend I have the whole place, more or less to myself, and good for all those other people for using their state park the rest of the day.

I do have a question, however. Why do so many joggers and cyclists have headphones on? Why on earth would they listen to iPods when the distinctive sound of meadowlarks echo across the plains? Wouldn’t they be safer if they could hear me driving up behind them as they take up two thirds of the road?

Today I observed a couple run right by a startled deer. These people paid no more attention than they would to a squirrel in the yard.

I was raised to appreciate the sighting of a deer. All through my childhood, if one of us pointed out the car window and said, “Deer!” all conversation would stop. A couple of us would whisper, “Where? Where?” and everyone would look as long as the timid creature could be seen.

Now if one of us had to pee, good luck getting that car stopped, but I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, people wearing headphones out in the woods.

Here’s a thought. If you’re oblivious to nature, just stay inside so it’s less crowded for the rest of us.

What I Didn’t Tell Them

Is it impressive or is it sad that I recently summed up the past 25 years of my life in two paragraphs?

It was one of those wonderful Facebook moments where you suddenly find people with whom you long ago lost contact.

Though "virtual," the reunions were wonderful. I really enjoyed reading what my friends had been up to since 1986.

Of course I was expected to provide the same information. What aspects of a person’s life do others want to hear about? Personal? Professional? Marriage and children (or lack thereof)? Mutual friends and acquaintances? Perhaps I was over thinking it, but I decided to challenge myself as a writer and convey the most important things that have happened to me in as succinct a way as possible. With a sense of satisfaction, I summed up my career, family, and health in two medium sized paragraphs.

Then I got discouraged. You mean I can say everything important about my career, family, and health in just two medium sized paragraphs? I must be the most boring person in the world.

I’m sure my friends realized that what I told them was merely an outline. Many more interesting things have happened to me than that.

So I’d like to share with you a sampling of what I did NOT include in the two paragraph nutshell about my past quarter century. Since 1986, I:

• Replaced all of my LPs with CDs
• Cohabitated briefly with an artist
• Wrecked two cars (neither was my fault)
• Lived in four different regions of the country
• Wrote for a couple of local weeklies (all defunct now, of course)
• Sold my car and did public transit for a few years
• Remodeled my kitchen
• Lived with a total of four cats
• Pledged to my local public radio station, boycotted said station, then pledged again
• Complained about the new airport
• Developed an allergy to bananas
• Remodeled my bathroom
• Got laid off from three jobs
• Joined and dropped out of a queer square dancing club
• Replaced the VCR with a DVR
• Put all of my CDs on an iPod
• Remodeled everything but the kitchen and bathroom
• Bought a hybrid car
• Visited Wyoming several times
• Said every summer, without fail, "I really should spend more time in the mountains"
• Got irritated when the local public radio announcers mispronounced "Chez Artiste," one of the local movie theatres
• Thought seriously about moving to California
• Joined a gym
• Got on Facebook 
• Made this list

Well. Hmm. Maybe I’ll just stick to those two paragraphs. They were more interesting.

Disgusting Byproduct Helpful Supplement

I hate cottage cheese. It’s made of curds.

One friend insists that he loves it on a bed of lettuce with some pepper. I question his ability to enjoy food. The only thing more tasteless than cottage cheese is lettuce.

Basically a waste byproduct of milk, cottage cheese has lately become a prominent feature in my meals.

When I complain, something I rarely do, I am bombarded with suggestions from more experienced culinary savants. I've tried combining it with pineapple, mandarin oranges, strawberries, blueberries, and spices (such as pepper or basil). I’ve had it for breakfast and lunch, as a dip and a dressing. But it's still this lumpy curdy stuff.

Those little curds rub against your teeth, fill your mouth with the taste of disgusting milk-byproduct, and slide grudgingly down your throat.

But if you can choke it down, this milk byproduct has its advantages. It's filling, provides protein, and contains little in the way of fat or carbs.

If only it provided gastronomic pleasure.

Cheese is usually such a good thing. I like to go to Whole Foods and grab little scraps of exotic chesses for a dollar or two, take them home, and sample them on crackers. I love nothing more than a grilled cheese sandwich or a cheese burger. Extra cheese on pizza is a good thing. But I can't imagine putting cottage cheese on any of that.

You may be wondering why this is an issue for me.

For the past few weeks, I've been making different choices about how I eat in order to lose some excess poundage. Since joining the health club last fall, I have only gained weight, to the point at which my shirts are getting tight.

To give my new choices structure, I have enrolled in Weight Watchers (trademark R). I am not doing the "D" word. The "D" word is too extreme for me. People often end up gaining their weight back when the "D" is over. “D”ers often seem to hate their bodies and are frequently of the opinion that if they just lose a little more, they'll look perfect and their lives will suddenly turn awesome. I am not doing that. I am simply changing elements of my lifestyle to accommodate more healthy eating habits.

Tomato, tomahto - also frequently eaten with cottage cheese.

Unfortunately, I hate to be hungry, and I've learned that a good way to eat and be full without adding to the poundage seems to involve cottage cheese. It’s also convenient: I can easily take it to the office. And I'm allergic to so many other things that alternatives are somewhat limited.

Fries for lunch are no longer an option, at least on a daily basis. And chips are out completely until I learn to eat just a few instead of devouring the whole bag in one sitting. I'm not talking about one of those little lunch sacks either - I'm talking about the big, family sized bag.

Yogurt is good but not as filling. Raw vegetables only go so far with me. Too much fruit, well, trust me, I have to limit my intake.

Wow. I'm so grouchy, you'd think I was "D"ing. Truly, I'm usually not hungry as long as I supplement my eating with (ugh) cottage cheese.

I wonder if you can deep-fry it.

Coming Out of the Closet in a Most Surprising Place

Notable events in Indiana history:

• In 8000 BCE humans first came to Indiana.
• The first European, Rene-Robert Cavelier, Sieur de La Salle arrived in 1679.
• Indiana became state in 1816.
• In 1909 the Indianapolis Motor Speedway was founded.
• In July 1954, a record temperature of 116 degrees (F) was recorded.
• In July 1980, 30 years ago this month, I told someone, for the very first time, that I was gay.

I was 17 years old. There was no discernable gay community in Scottsbluff, Nebraska at the time and there was certainly no internet to help me connect to the rest of the world. What I did have were my dad’s psychology books and an ability to find every word written about homosexuality in the public library – not all of it, of course, encouraging, or for that matter, accurate.

Most gay people come out of the closet when they move to the big city or go to college. I traveled a thousand miles to come out in the rather conservative state of Indiana.

It was not my intention to come out that week. Between my junior and senior years in high school, I boarded a bus with bunches of kids from western Nebraska for the first ever Presbyterian Church Youth Triennium, a huge convention of young people from all over the world. Bible study, youth ministry, the cold war, evangelism, and social issues were among the topics addressed. New music was presented, concerts were performed, and friendships made. For many, it was an eye-opening time of discovery and a turning point in our lives.

My primary memory of the week, however, was sneaking into the workshop on the church and homosexuality. The card in my hand said I was supposed to go to something else. I didn’t know if I’d get away with it. But the room was packed full of people who didn’t have the right card, and the workshop leaders weren’t turning people away.

The presentation was rather radical. In 1980, LGBT issues weren’t as thoroughly discussed in churches as they are now. The workshop leaders talked about scripture, community, and the fact that gay and lesbian Christians did exist. Above all, we were assured that no LGBT person was alone. There were lots of us out there.

At the end of the workshop, I hung around until everyone else had gone. I approached one of the facilitators and said, very maturely, that I thought the workshop was excellent and thanked him very much.

He smiled and waited.

“That’s all,” I thought, backing away.

He smiled more and said very gently that if I wanted to talk, he was available the rest of the week.

The next day, I met him in a quiet area on the University of Indiana campus and poured my heart out. I guess I was pretty typical. Every session at that workshop had a boy or girl like me hanging behind, dying to talk. But what may have been typical for that wonderful man was a lifetime opportunity for me.

It was in that loving, accepting, Christian context that I first declared my sexual orientation. There was no judgment or condemnation. The Bible wasn’t used as a weapon to shame me into conformity. No one told me I was going to hell. In fact, I was told repeatedly that, paraphrasing scripture, love passes all understanding and casts out all fear.

Love was – is – what it’s all about. I’ve never doubted for a minute that God loves me. Angry as I’d always be with fundamentalist Christians who forget that love is the primary commandment of Christ, I never stopped believing that God’s love overcomes every kind of hate and fear. I’ve always believed, preached, and taught that if we love each other with integrity and justice, we are doing God’s will.

Coming out at the church convention in 1980 was such a good experience, that when I got home, I came out to everyone. While it took my parents a few years to come to terms with it, most everyone else I cared about, including my brother and sisters, accepted it and accepted me in the wholeness of the person I was.

In 1989, at the Presbyterian Youth Triennium, this time at Purdue University in Indiana, the workshop on homosexuality and the church was held again. As the workshop leader, I patiently waited for those kids who were hanging back to come and talk to me if they wished.

Secret Life 30 Years Ago Comes Back to Haunt Me

An unfortunate scandal was uncovered during my otherwise successful venture into the Midwest last month. A nostalgic picture of my old college dorm in Lincoln, Nebraska, innocently posted on Facebook, sparked conversations online and off between people who "knew me when" and those who only know me now. A secret from my past was uncovered which I would have preferred stay hidden forever.

I think I should be excused for some youthful indiscretions. After all, everyone experiments in college, don't they?

There I was, my first week on campus, free of the constraints of home and parents for the first time, eager to fit in, hormones running wild, and all these attractive young men trying to recruit me. Though it was basically against my values; though members of my family would ridicule me; though I knew it would only lead to trouble, I couldn't help myself.

I joined a fraternity.

In my defense, I didn't last long. The guys who worked so hard to recruit me lost interest after I joined, and I just couldn't believe the ridiculous ceremonial tradition and other B.S. I had to put up with. So I quit.

The second frat was a little better.

I know what you're thinking - didn't I learn my lesson the first time?

Let's face it, I knew I didn't belong in the Greek system; I just wanted to be around the guys.

The second frat was nicer - that is, the guys were nicer. The atmosphere was more easy going and there was a high level of acceptance of the considerable number of us who were gay. I made some good friends there, some of whom I even see on Facebook now.

But it was still a frat. The silly ceremonies and overly close living conditions were just too much for me.

Six of us shared a filthy bathroom. We had rice for dinner every night (I didn’t start eating rice again for 10 years). Dozens of us shared a phone and had to pick out our own calls home from the long-distance bill. This was in the days before everyone had their own cell phone.

I will say the parties were fun. It was during one of these when I first made out with a girl – pretty much the only time, actually. We didn’t get very far because my gay roommate walked in on us. Like I say, everyone experiments in college.

Most objectionable to me, however, the solemn pledging and the ceremonies and the robes and the candles struck me as, well, idolatrous. If I was going to put all that effort into sanctified chanting and solemn tradition, I'd rather do it in church where it might mean something. See, in addition to being a lustful, out-of-the-closet gay college student, I was, like now, a rather committed Christian. The progressiveness of my views and my liberal theology didn’t stop me from feeling guilty about participating in the veneration of a godless fraternal society. The secrecy was cult-like. I didn’t care if the others found friendship and brotherhood this way, but it really wasn’t for me. I was much more interested in the gay bars on “O” Street Saturday night, and First Plymouth Congregational United Church of Christ on Sunday morning.

As soon as I could, I went back to the dorm with my own room and variety of bad food which included chilli frito, chicken a la king, and hardly any rice.

My frat brothers were very understanding when I moved out. I actually appreciated them more for that.

So, my secret is out. I feel kind of relieved. No more lies. No more deception. And no more housing-neutral language when I describe my college experience.

I wonder if that girl I made out with is on Facebook. I should look her up.

Postblog from Home: Final Thoughts on the Excellent Adventure

My goal was to spontaneously travel to someplace different, by car. I almost succeeded. The spontaneity fell by the wayside early in the trip. Hopefully planning ahead isn’t such a terrible character trait after all.

My selection of destinations may seem a little odd: a tour exploring the haunts and homes of Abraham Lincoln seems like the trip a couple of elderly geography teachers might take. Hodgensville, Kentucky, Springfield, Illinois, and of course Lincoln, Nebraska are not “hot” destinations for the typical single gay man. But can you see me on a gay cruise in the Caribbean with all those shirtless posers? I might enjoy watching, but I’d be too self-conscious to talk to anyone.

I certainly didn’t mind traveling alone, but I would have enjoyed a companion who would also nerd out about the park ranger presentation at a national historic site.

Why can’t a tour company offer a gay bus tour of presidential museums and libraries? Now that’s something I could get into, and there would be something to talk about with the other gay nerds.

The good news is that I enjoyed myself thoroughly, and as should happen after a trip away, I’ve returned with a renewed appreciation of my home. In fact, driving into Colorado at dusk was breath taking with the sun setting behind the mountains, and the air dry enough to crack the windows open and smell the fresh cut hay along the South Platte River. It was the perfect way to end a trip in which every state was beautiful in its own way.

Be sure to check out my pictures on Facebook. While not National Geographic worthy, they’ll give you a taste of what I saw.

Meanwhile, I’m starting to think about where I should go on my next excellent adventure.

Postblog from Nebraska: Subtle Distinctiveness - and Food.

Though very much at home in Colorado, I am Nebraskan to my bones. Here’s one indication: at each stop during the past week’s road trip, the first thing I wanted to know was the temperature and the humidity, and whether there was a chance of thunderstorms. No one is more obsessed with weather than a Cornhusker. Driving across Missouri today, I also noted standing water in the fields and tried to ascertain the condition of the crops. Though I’ve never even planted a garden, it’s all about the crops when you’re from Nebraska.

Another indication has to do with sports awareness: while I have next to none, what little I do have is related to Nebraska University football. I almost instinctively know who they’re playing some weeks, and I secretly delight in their wins. I laugh at the big rivalry between NU and CU which exists only in the minds of Coloradoans. Ask any Nebraskan who their rival is and they’ll tell you it’s Oklahoma. Colorado is barely a spec on the radar. Of course the reorganization of the conferences (big 10? big 12?) has messed that all up, so Colorado will have to find some other pretend rivalry.

Nebraska is a quirky state and requires a different kind of appreciation. Anyone can “ooo” and “ahh” at the mountains – that’s so obvious.

The Cornhusker State is a place of more subtle distinctiveness. I felt it today as soon as I crossed the Missouri River from Iowa. As if on cue, bugs started to smash into my windshield at such a rate that the wiper fluid couldn’t keep up. Why are there so many more bugs here than in all those other states I visited?

I was barely into Lincoln before I came upon an Amigos restaurant. Amigos, a Nebraska based chain, is home to the cheese Frenchie, which used to be served at the old Kings restaurants. Let’s see, there’s also Runza for those unique enclosed sandwiches and fabulous fries, and Valentino’s pizza of course – I could just eat my way from Waverly to West O Street and back again.

Oh yes, and on a side note, Lincoln is also the capital city of Nebraska and home to many institutions of higher education.

But the food, really, is what I plan my visits around.

Postblog from Illinois: The More Things Change the More They Remain the Same

After just over a year in office his presidency seems doomed. No one is happy with him. He doesn’t go far enough. He goes too far. He compromises too easily. He’s cold and distant. The country has polarized to a point where reaching out to both sides seems an impossible and thankless task. The President lacks the necessary experience and worldliness to get the job done. He actually appointed rivals to his cabinet. Many citizens unrealistically look to him to solve all of the big problems. Others deeply hate him. Many fear for his safety.

I’m sure that it isn’t easy to be President Obama. He has a huge job. I myself get frustrated that he seems to drag his feet on, say, “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell,” the policy which prohibits gays and lesbians from serving their country in the armed forces. I wanted to throttle him when he kept compromising on health care reform. And the news this week reports criticism that he seems restrained in his reaction to the Gulf Coast disaster. His practiced and tempered language doesn’t reflect the outrage of the nation.

I hope President Obama takes some comfort in knowing that all of the statements above were also bestowed upon another President, Abraham Lincoln. As I wandered through the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Museum in Springfield today, I kept seeing Obama as a similar recipient of the vitriol heaped upon Lincoln. For example, discussion of allowing African Americans to serve in the army alongside whites mirrors “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell”: there was intense fear that the morale and discipline of the troops would erode so much that national security would be threatened.

The museum does a terrific job of presenting Lincoln in the context of the politics, events, and even technology of the time.

Often, the flesh and blood part of Lincoln’s life is overwhelmed by myth. It behooves us to remember that while he was indeed a very great President, he was also a human being. He suffered nightmares and the deaths of his children. He was regularly exasperated with his wife. He had a wicked, even lewd, sense of humor. He was a brilliant politician who could spin the truth in order to appease rivals. We conveniently forget that some of his views were uncomfortably different from our own. For example, while he advocated the abolition of slavery, he didn’t view African Americans as truly equal. His thought was that after emancipation, it would be best if they all returned to Africa.

Abe Lincoln is a little like Jesus Christ in that everyone wants to remake him in their own image. Just take your predetermined beliefs and justify them by telling everyone how Lincoln would agree with you. 21st Century discussion of Lincoln reflects our current concerns rather than anything he would have thought about. Anti-abortionists claim him as an emancipator of the unborn. Lincoln is said to have suffered from depression or bipolar disease (clinical terms which weren’t in use at that time). I’m amused at the vehement discussion about whether he had sexual relations with other men. Why is it so important to assure ourselves either way? In fact, though he did share a bed with his friend Joshua Speed, we will never know for sure what, if anything, happened between those sheets and frankly, what difference does it make?

Abraham Lincoln, Barack Obama, and the rest of us are reflections of our own times and cultures. But while the issues change from decade to century, we continue to struggle with how to be a nation of free people.

Postblog from Indiana: Random Observations

• Local TV news is the same everywhere – except in Denver they don’t report the temperature-humidity index which, by the way, was over 100 degrees Sunday in Louisville. At 11:00 p.m., the temperature cooled to a manageable 85, the humidity 75%. At the same time, I noted on the Weather Channel that Denver was at 51 degrees with rain.
• Remember Stuckeys, the once ubiquitous gas, snack, and tacky souvenir places in the middle of nowhere along the interstates? They are mostly closed now, but you’ll be glad to know that many of the buildings are still in use – as adult sex toy shops. I imagine that since they are outside city limits, municipal regulations don’t apply.
• So far, Colorado has the worst rest areas. Illinois has the best. In Missouri, I took a nice little nap on a picnic table in the shade. A few Zs make driving safer – as long as you’re not at the wheel when you catch them.
• BP is thick in these parts. Fortunately I have been able to find alternative places to spend my fuel dollars.
• Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, and Kentucky drivers all follow the speed limit better than those in Colorado. I’ve only been tail-gated once by an impatient speed maniac. The obnoxious vehicle was from, you guessed it, Colorado. I try to positively represent my state by driving with patience and consideration. But it’s tough when you have to pass those damn slow Midwesterners all the time. It doesn’t help that the speed limits are lower in the east.
• You can pick up NPR everywhere. What’s more difficult is avoiding The Car Guys. Every time I changed stations on Sunday I caught the beginning of their annoying show and had to switch to the country music countdown. It was either that or fundamentalist “Christian” radio. No thanks.
• I thought gas was expensive in Illinois – until it occurred to me to drive into the towns to fill the tank. Service stations gouge interstate travelers.
• Rivers are a lot bigger east of Kansas. Mountains are bigger west of Kansas. Pickups are the same size everywhere.
• Yogurt doesn’t explode when you open it at 1000 feet elevation.
• Kentucky bluegrass grows naturally in Kentucky – in fact, their natural landscape is what people in Denver’s suburbs spend a lot of time and money to create artificially.
• If you order iced tea south of the Ohio River, beware – it will be sweetened before you get it.

Postblog from Kentucky: Distilleries, Abe Lincoln, and Shoney’s

Instead of going to California or staying home like I usually do when I have time off work, I decided this summer to just get in the car and drive - destination unknown. I tried very hard not to plan this trip (except for a stop in Nebraska) and to be honest, it wasn't easy. But the following postblog is a written snapshot from my travels.

“The sun shines bright in my old Kentucky home
'Tis summer, the people are GAY …”

June 13, 2010 - Leave it to my friend Frank to include the second line of the state song. Actually, until 1986, that was a very racist second line and they changed it. I don’t know how that “gay” reference passed notice.

I’ve been to Louisville many times, but usually I’ve flown in and out, missing the surrounding area. There is history here, and character like crazy. For example, some of the earlier local residents were real hillbillies who supplemented their incomes by making, uh, “spirits” or “hooch,” and selling it, um, beneath the radar of the law.

Mammoth Cave is near where I’m staying in Elizabethtown, south of Louisville. The Nebraska Wesleyan choir once sang in the huge, dark cavern many years ago. Today I settled for singing in the car with the Dixie Chicks at full volume.

I think that those of us who pride ourselves on living in such a spectacular state (I’m talking to the Coloradoans now) forget that there are other amazing places in this country. Many of us ignore the “flyover” in favor of either coast. But we miss a lot that way. Driving through Missouri, Illinois, and Indiana today, I saw beautiful rolling farmland, magnificent mountains, and even the awesome Hoosier National Forest. That’s right: a national forest in Indiana.

Tomorrow I will visit the National Historic Park where there is a log cabin reconstructed, as near as can be surmised, like the one in which Abraham Lincoln was born. Finally an historic home I can visit without reflecting on how small my condo is. According to the AAA book there are organized nature hikes too. Just my things: history and hiking.

My other thing, of course, is food. I spotted the first Bob Evans restaurant in Missouri today and several more after that. I think tomorrow I’ll be visiting Bob for some of his famous soft, hot rolls.

But that’s not all. Near my hotel here in E-town is a Shoney’s – a southern chain where in my Virginia days I used to savor the most wonderful strawberry pie. Guess where I’m going for dinner.

On a less enthusiastic note, I have to confess that I freaked out last night in KC about getting the last available room in the hotel. Because of that, I had a slip in my plan not to plan and, I’m a little ashamed to say, I made hotel reservations for the next few nights. It is too stressful to worry about getting a room, particularly when just breathing in this humid country works up a sweat and I really want a shower at the end of my drive. But first, pie.

Postblog from Missouri: Is This Oz?

Instead of going to California or staying home like I usually do when I have time off work, I decided this summer to just get in the car and drive - destination unknown. I tried very hard not to plan this trip (except for a stop in Nebraska) and to be honest, it wasn't easy. But the following postblog is a written snapshot from my travels.

Saturday June 12, 2010 - Listening to a Tom Shane ad on The Fox radio station made me think that there isn’t much left in the world that is unique. I listen to the same ad on the same station at home in Denver, only today the station’s number on the dial and the Shane Company address were different. Kansas City doesn’t look like Denver. It’s older, for one thing, and its downtown buildings are more interesting. But as everywhere else in this country, the next WalMart is only one exit away.

The first day of my “excellent adventure” took me through Kansas where billboards reminded me regularly that Jesus is the real deal. The sunflower state probably has the same number of fundamentalists as the Pakistan-Afghanistan border. Instead of the Taliban, however, Kansas has Fred Phelps, leader of the gang that pickets funerals and carries a sign that says, “God Hates Fags.” As I neared Topeka, Phelps’ home base, I drove a little faster with the idea of leaving Kansas behind as quickly as possible.

Being gay, though barely according to some friends who question my decorating and fashion abilities, I thought today of Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, going from black and white to color as she left her home state, and saying innocently to her dog, “Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

And now I’m over the rainbow, camped out at a Missouri Quality Inn near the stadium where the Royals play. (Is that the first sports reference I’ve ever blogged?)

It’s fun to see the Midwest again. There are lots of trees, and it’s so green! Before dinner, I drove and hiked through a huge park complete with trails and campgrounds, and enough foilage to really get lost in. Living in Colorado, I’m not used to forests that aren’t in the mountains. And when the sun went down, I saw the strangest thing: little bugs that fly around and light up! We sure don’t see fireflies at home.

Keeping true to my goal of not over planning this trip, I can’t say for sure where I’ll be tomorrow. I am looking forward to seeing more of the beautiful Show Me State and following the call of the open road.

Frequently Asked Questions:

Why are you doing this? Every year I take a week off in the summer. Usually I just stick around home, perhaps driving to the mountains once or twice. This year I wanted to do something different. Realizing that when I do go places, I get a little OCD and plan everything out to the greatest detail, I decided to challenge myself. I took off this morning from Denver with no plan (almost) and an open mind about where I’d be going and what I’d be doing. This risk taking did spawn a thrill: I got the last room available at the Quality Inn. Whew! That was close.

Are you really doing this alone? The implication of this question is that it’s odd, even sad, to be traveling on an adventure alone. I assure you, I’m enjoying myself very much. The news today tells of a 16 year old girl who attempted to sail around the world alone. Well if she can try that, why can’t I do this? Besides, if I waited until I had someone to do things with, I’d never do anything!