Deep, or at Least Random, Thoughts for the New Year

Suddenly, we've arrived at the end of 2012. Because I’m too exhausted to party after last week’s celebrations, I’m sitting here in my jammies waiting to ring in the new year with Anderson Cooper and Kathy Griffin on CNN. I have my celebratory Diet Squirt ready to pop at 10:00 p.m. mountain time when that ball drops in NYC.

Some random thoughts cross my mind:

• I have turned 50. 50! I don't know quite what to do with that, except maybe take a nap. I'm told that the 50s are a time to give back. Hmmm. Wait, was that give back or get back? Perhaps it is time to get back at people for all the stuff they've done to me.
• Just because I live with cats, doesn't mean I'm not also a "dog person." Why do you have to be one or the other?
• I like kids. Just not the ones that throw rocks at my windows.
• Money does not buy happiness, but it sure makes some things easier.
• Nothing enlivens the middle of the night like an anxiety attack.
• With my father's passing, I am now part of the oldest generation in my family. Whether this renders me a wise sage guiding the younger folks through the life's bumpy paths remains to be seen. More likely, a niece or nephew will be wondering whether they should invite old Uncle Bill to Sunday dinner this week, or could they put it off until later. I have started to practice asking my niece, Hannah, "Can you take me back to the home now? Matlock's on at 10:00."
• Buying that new (TV, computer, blue ray, etc.) didn't solve all my problems.
• It's difficult to be philosophical about vacuuming when the cats regularly throw up hairballs onto the newly cleaned carpet.
• One of the cats, Charles, will not allow the litter box to be clean. If I scoop the poop out, he immediately uses it. I don't get to enjoy a clean litter box even for a minute.
• Cooking at home saves money but sometimes the food isn't very good.
• Things are, over all, getting better. Sure, we have to deal with climate change and that supervolcano in Yellowstone is going to blow any time. But Obama was re-elected in spite of the typical Republican shenanigans. Technology, while challenging, really does improve our lives. Homophobia is in decline. The crime rate (high profile murders not withstanding) is falling to the point where they are even closing prisons in some places.
• Sometimes the only reason you do something is because it's the right thing to do.

Happy New Year.

Perky Coworker Reminds Me I'm Old

She sings a chipper "Good morning!" to me every day. I grunt in reply.

She literally texts her friends while she works, with no apparent distraction. I have to wear headphones so I'm not distracted by her giggling with other twenty-somethings nearby.

Either I'm too old or she's too young. She's 24. I'm 50 next week.

When she was born in 1988, I was older than she is now.

I have t-shirts that pre-date her. Most of my pots and pans were purchased before she existed, with S&H Green Stamps no less. I guarantee she doesn't know what Green Stamps are. If you don't know, Google it - it's how we used to get free stuff before credit card rewards programs.

In 1988 I was in graduate school, already jaded and cynical.

In 1988, Star Trek: The Next Generation debuted. I'm just now getting around to watching it.

I did watch a show called Thirtysomething, about some old people in their 30s.

In 1988 I also watched the Golden Girls. They were funny old ladies back then. When I watch the same episodes now, they seem much younger - how did that happen?

The youngsters I work with don't seem much bothered by our age differences. It's my hang up. They, like I, work hard and are deserving of respect.

Meanwhile, I'm thinking I should clean out my spice cupboard - some of that ground basil may remember the 1980s as well.

Dental Care a Harbinger of Change

I noticed at once that everything was different. The receptionist was a different woman. So was the hygienist. It was she who told me that my old dentist had sold the practice and with no warning, I was to be in the care of a new dentist.

I've been in the same dental practice for many years. But this is the fourth dentist in that same time period. The practice keeps being sold.

I originally chose Dr. Coveyduck because he was so good with a friend of mine who lived with special needs. No sooner did I get established as his patient than Dr. Coveyduck decided to retire, leaving me in the hands of a stranger. The new dentist turned out to be ok, but it was only a matter of luck.

As a whole, I've had mixed luck with dentists. My teeth are excellent. I didn't have my first cavity until I was 40 or so.

My perfect teeth didn’t stop one dentist, a flashy, good looking blond who I chose because he was gay, from trying to hard sell me cosmetic dental work. I had previously thought I looked just fine but apparently I had a gigantic space between my front teeth.

The next dentist I tried 10 years later put a big red X on my file and refused to see me except at the last appointment of the day, so the instruments could be sterilized. I told him that I thought they should sterilize after every patient, not just the ones that fit my particular demographic profile. That's when I went looking for Dr. Coveyduck.

Now I'm on Dentist number four in the same practice. It reminds me of when I had the one checking account which rode through multiple corporate consolidations resulting in my unintentional patronage of five different banks. I finally switched to a credit union.

Nothing is as constant as change, they say. I still call that big department store May D&F (others know it as Macys).

I  don't care how many people live in the Stapleton part of town - to me it will always be the old airport.

The bookstore may have moved north years ago, but that building at First and Milwaukee is still the Tattered Cover building as far as I'm concerned.

Is it a sign of age that I can't adjust to the changes around me? No - my mother accused me of resisting change when I was in my 20s. She claimed they had to trick me into accepting a new teddy bear when I was a toddler and the old one disintegrated because of over-use.

I'm pretty much set in my ways. My neighbor saw me carrying a bag into my condo the other day. "Sunday," she said. "Must be bar-b-que."

Servers Regan and Betty don't even bother to give me a menu at the Village Inn any more. They know what I'm going to order.

When I took a week off from work recently, everyone in the office just assumed I was going to San Diego because that’s where I always go. Ha! Fooled them! This time I went to Minneapolis instead.

See, I can vary from my norm once in a while. I might even have bar-b-que on Saturday this week, just to shake things up.

The Hate State

As I bask in the glow of such great election results - the re-election of an excellent president and the surge of support nationally for gay marriage, just to name a couple - I can't help but reflect on elections past which didn't leave me feeling so positive. The most striking example is what happened in 1992. It was 20 years ago that Colorado voters approved an amendment to the state constitution which systematically denied equal protection in any form to Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgendered persons.

This wasn't, like today, a disagreement about gay marriage, but was a referendum in which the majority got to vote on the fundamental rights of a minority.

Amendment 2's passage sparked shock and outrage at home and prompted a nasty boycott of the whole state which ironically put many LGBT establishments out of business. Think about it: all that LGBT money which was not spent in Colorado, was also not spent at LGBT businesses which depended on that money.

I took Amendment 2 personally. How could my adopted home state betray me so profoundly? As I grew up on the plains of Nebraska, Colorado represented openness and diversity. If I sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," which I didn't very often, I was thinking of that colorful state on the horizon where I wanted to live when I grew up.

I moved to Denver as a 27 year old in the late 1980s. I was very much at home in the thriving mile high gay community. Denver had (still has) a huge annual pride parade. I was able to join a gay friendly church and I could go to a gay doctor and a gay dentist (I don't now, but it seemed important at the time). There was a large population of other gays in which I could find friends and dates. I could be out of the closet and free.

When Amendment 2 reared its hateful head, our first mistake as a community was to believe that it really didn't have that much of a chance. After all, a similar local measure had failed in Denver the year before.

But we did what we could. We attended rallies, marches, and fund raisers. We went to the places like the state fair and campaigned. We spoke to church groups and put up "No on 2" signs.

As the election got closer, the hate grew uglier. Right wing churches practiced chanting anti-gay slogans. Hate crimes increased. One of the backers of Amendment 2 was overheard to say that if he had his way, all the gays would be gathered up and shipped out by rail, much as the Nazis disposed of the Jews in the 1930s and 40s. The fact that he was absolutely serious was chilling.

The night Amendment 2 passed, the same night Bill Clinton was elected President, my partner and I were at a campaign party in Capitol Hill. When the TVs announced the passage of the Amendment, a sudden quiet descended on the hall. Shock quickly turned to palpable fear. The fear threatened to combust into rage.  A speaker suggested that queer bashers now might think they had open license to attack.

My partner and I decided to head home before a riot started. From our living room, we watched television images of angry crowds gathering downtown, reportedly heading for other campaign parties where could be found elected officials to hold accountable. As TV reporters harassed dazed individuals, Mayor Wellington Webb finally appeared and tried to calm the crowd.

The next morning, amid talk of a boycott and news of celebrities canceling their visits to Colorado, the newspaper announced that a new nickname was catching on: The Hate State. Grimly, I wondered if we should put that on our license plates.

It was tempting to move after that. But where would we go? The backers of Amendment 2 promised to carry their crusade to other states. We decided to stay and fight. But it wasn't easy. As the rest of the world boycotted Colorado, I refused to spend money in any county where Amendment 2 had passed. That pretty much limited my shopping to Denver and Boulder. To this day, I still have misgivings about going to Colorado Springs, the political epicenter of homophobia, though I do understand that not everyone there is homophobic.

Amendment 2 was eventually declared unconstitutional by the U.S. Supreme Court. The 1990s saw whole new waves of activism and LGBT community development across the state. Equal rights advocates learned to cultivate relationships and education in the suburbs as well as in the city. Entities like the Gay and Lesbian Fund for Colorado strategically donated to causes of broad interest in order to create positive visibility. It took a while, but my trust and faith in Colorado returned.

Fast forward two decades. Colorado is a progressive state, one where discrimination against LGBTs is against the law. The new speaker of the house is openly gay. Colorado, happily, voted for Barack Obama twice, and was the first state (along with Washington) to vote to legalize marijuana.

Lots of people don't even remember that Amendment 2 happened. I think we should remember in order to see how far we've come, and also to see what can happen again if we aren't careful.

The Best Dog

When I was a kid we had a couple of dogs. It was mostly my responsibility to care for them, particularly Gypsy, the poodle. I don't remember my dad being particularly interested one way or the other in Gypsy, but I adored her. My mother didn't care for Gyp. She always claimed that a puppy was more work than a human baby, and as soon as we grew up, there were to be no more dogs in her house.

In retirement, my parents disagreed on the issue. Mother won. With the exception of occasional visiting grand-pups in later years, there were no dogs in the house.

But upon Mom's death, after a suitable period of perhaps a month, my dad adopted Peggy.

Peggy was a huge, black lab-shepherd mix, as good natured as could be. She had a fierce bark when the doorbell rang, but we always said that she'd probably end up licking the burglar's hand as he picked through the jewelry.

Peggy was devoted to my father. She kept track of his movements through the house. She woke him up when it was time to move from the chair to the bedroom. She never jumped up on him as he tottered with his cane because she wouldn't want to knock him down.

She was a good dog. The best dog.

She was always happy to see me. I think it's because when Dad had some heart trouble while we were visiting Wyoming, I took care of her. Peggy slept on my bed in the hotel and lived in my car while I sat with Dad in the ICU. I would walk her up to his window to look in so they could see each other. I bonded with Peggy that week and we were best friends from then on.

When Dad died earlier this year, the first question asked by many friends was, "What's going to happen to Peggy?" Our question wasn’t, “What shall we do with her?” It was, “Which of many good homes being offered would be best?”

Peggers was as much the center of conversation as arranging the funeral and other details the week Dad died. At the funeral home, my sibs and I got into a somewhat lengthy conversation about whether Peg should attend the service. Would it be appropriate? Where would she sit? The funeral director finally, tactfully asked, "Who is Peggy?" It must have sounded like Dad had a mistress hidden away and we didn’t know what to do with her.

Last week, after 11 years of bringing happiness to others, Peggy's hip gave out. Surgery, with its inherent discomfort and recovery time seemed a dubious option. Her pain was great and wouldn't respond to medication. Suffering was not to be an option for Peggy and she was released from this life. I don't know exactly what happens to us when we die, but I do believe something happens. And I like the idea of Peggy being reunited with my father, wherever they may be. Mom will just have to tolerate it.

 

(Thanks to Anne Talbot for the photo of a resting Peggy.)

Surprise! People Actually Read This!

In the middle of a recent medical appointment, my doctor looked up from his notes and mentioned that he'd enjoyed several entries of BillsWeek, the blog which you are currently reading.

I was a bit nonplussed. After all, the man who has examined some of my most private places may have inadvertently learned something personal about me.

I was in a meeting at work recently when a manager casually mentioned that she, too, had read BillsWeek. After a moment of surprise, my mind quickly reviewed all content from the last several months to see if there were anything I didn't want people at work to see.

Ooops - should have thought about that before.

That's the thing about putting stuff on the Internet. While odds are slim that any one person will actually see it, chances are good that someone will, and it's unfortunately not going to be the people we want. For example, I wish a certain neighbor would see what I wrote about her unsupervised child throwing rocks at my window a while back, but I'm fairly certain she doesn't read BillsWeek, or anything for that matter. My doctor, however, now knows, whether or not I want him to, that I have a problem with the way children run wild in my neighborhood.

Nothing on line is private. As I have said to many new employee classes: don't post anything that you wouldn't want your mother to see. One only need recall that photo of former Congressman Anthony Weiner's wiener to know that even sending "private" text messages is risky.

The Internet is like a tattoo. When you're young, it's fun to do something outrageous in the spur of the moment, just for shock value. But do you really want that future hiring manager to see it?

I'm careful not to write about some personal things in BillsWeek. It's not that I'm ashamed of much. It's just, unfortunately, not in my best interest to give some people information they may use against me later. I'm also careful not to complain about my job (not that I ever would, of course) or trash individuals that I know personally - with one or two exceptions, such as neighbors' children, one of whom will probably be my boss someday.

With All Eyes on Colorado, I'm in Minnesota

It's fun to live in a swing state.

Make room, Ohio. Colorado's electoral votes are hotly contested and could be pivotal in this year's presidential election. As a result, the candidates visit often. Disrupted traffic is a regular event as motorcades transport President Obama to and from Air Force One which is usually parked out at the local air force base.

The first debate between the President and that other guy will be at the University of Denver this Wednesday. The national press will descend upon the Mile High City like they haven't since the Democratic National Convention in 2008, which nominated Mr. Obama for his first term.

When you watch the focus groups and pundits and analysts and news anchors in Denver on October 3, just 10 minutes away from my home, don't worry about me being stuck on I-25 - which will be closed in the middle of town at rush hour. 

I'm 900 miles away in Minnesota. Can I time my trips or what?

I haven’t been here for several years, but Minneapolis is still a progressive, beautiful, northern city. Is Michele Bachmann really from around here? No, I am told. This is not her district.  

Minnesota is a blue state, radical right-wing congresswomen notwithstanding. It’s not a swing state so things are a little quieter here, though a hotly contested anti-gay marriage amendment and an anti-immigrant voter ID amendment are on the ballot. So I am reminded that you don’t have to live in a swing state to have a contestable, divisive election.

I’ll be watching the debate on TV with Minnesota friends, who like me, are cheering for the President and hoping the challenger will really blow it. In addition to the usual comments and zingers from the candidates, I’ll be listening closely to what the national media are saying about my home town.

Meanwhile, though far from I-25, I suppose I could still get caught in a Minneapolis-St. Paul traffic jam.

I Like Autumn - Now

It has finally rained. All summer long, we begged for a break from that record heat. Fires burned out of control as temperatures soared. The relief was palpable this week when, finally, mornings were chilly there was a little moisture in the air.

Autumn is truly a lovely time. I used to hate it.

I think it's because I really, intensely, hate winter. I hate having to wear a lot of clothes. I have having to put a coat on just to take out the trash. I hate the prospect of driving through ice and snow. I hate the endless darkness, long nights, and general absence of sun.

The fall used to remind me that an awful winter was sure to follow. But something's changed the past couple of years.

Winters are shorter than they used to be, or at least because of my advanced age, everything goes faster.

I've also developed some winter coping strategies such as going to Southern California during the worst of it. Joining a gym so I could exercise inside no matter what the temperature also helped - though I have to pile on the layers of clothing just to get there.

 Winters are also not as cold as they used to be.  Climate change has raised the average temperature. Not that I'm in favor of climate change, but can I help it if I like the occasional warm winter day?

Should I buy an e-reader?

When it comes to technology, I'm no slouch, but I'm also not the first on my block to try the newest electronic anything. I didn't get cable until about 20 years after everyone else and that was only basic. My phone is only of reasonable intelligence (it's not smart, in other words), and I don't have an iPad. I do have an iPod, but it's big and clunky compared to the kind they make now. I only just got digital TV and blue ray. I still don't know what blue ray is, but I have it.

One area where I'm decidedly low tech is the books I read: traditional paper bound volumes. I should get some tech credit for searching for and reserving books from the public library on line. But I still cart around one to three heavy tomes in my back pack on any given day.

I always have a book with me. I'm terrified of being someplace where I have to sit with nothing to read. What if I take someone to the dentist and have to wait? What if my car breaks down and I have to sit in a garage for hours? What if the electricity goes off and I can't watch TV or go on the net?

Naturally I've noticed the growing popularity of electronic reading. Kindle and Nook readers are everywhere and people swear by them. So I'm starting to consider getting one.

The advantages are obvious: carrying around multiple books without being weighed down, downloading books practically anywhere you can connect wirelessly, lower cost per book, and the availability of newspapers and other reading material.

Of course one must consider the downside: I would surely drop and break an ereader and the cost per book is still more than the library, which is free.

But the biggest argument against it for me is this: If you have a Kindle, you must buy all your books from Amazon and if you have a Nook, you have to buy all your books from Barnes and Noble. I'd rather buy books from a local independent bookseller such as The Tattered Cover (three metro Denver locations). I think you can buy from TC using a non-affiliated ereader, but see, it's starting to sound pretty complicated.

A lot of people say they'd rather feel the weight of the book in their hand and turn the paper pages. That's not me. I'd be fine not having to turn the page of a book only to discover a ketchup smear from a long forgotten fast food lunch.

Many people pride themselves on having book covered walls, in owning millions of books. I used to collect books, but found that they collect, in turn, dust.

I imagine I'll eventually make the leap to paperless reading. It just takes me longer than some. And once I figure out how to download material from the Tattered Cover, I'll be more than half way there.

10,000 is a Lot of Steps

My new doctor is medically up to date, knowledgeable about all of my pre-existing conditions, and seems holistic in his outlook. He has a plaque on the wall from 5280 Magazine honoring him as a top Denver doc. And I'm really annoyed with him.

I figured I'd go see the primary care physician initially to get established in his practice, and then once a year for physicals and the occasional virus. My intake visit was supposed to be routine and quick; my insurance card would be copied, he would look in my ears with that pointy ear thing, I'd cough once or twice while he listened to my lungs, and I'll be on my way.

Not so fast.

After asking about my family history, checking my weight and waist size, and delving into my age (old), life style (sedentary), occupation (sedentary), and habits (sedentary), my new doctor decided I was at risk for heart disease. Long story short, I need more exercise than my four weekly gym visits, and I need to follow a stricter diet than my already established Weight Watchers inspired regime. He scheduled a follow up and gave me a month and a half to lose 10 pounds. So much for that perfunctory annual visit.

The good doctor also prescribed fish oil, a daily aspirin, and a pedometer which counts steps. I have to walk 10,000 steps each day.

The first day I had that little thing in my pocket, I conscientiously did my treadmill routine at the gym, parked further away than usual in the parking lot at work, took the stairs to my office instead of the elevator, walked to the bathroom countless times, hoofed it to the local BBQ place for dinner (I know, but I'm focusing on one goal at a time), took out the trash twice, and still barely cleared 9,000 steps. My god! What does a person have to do? I'll never make it! 

I don't really blame the doc. He's doing his job, and according to 5280, he's good at it. It's just that (and now we come to the whiny part of the blog) I thought I was doing pretty well. I don’t smoke or drink. I exercise a lot more now than I did a couple of years ago and I've been disciplined, sort of, on Weight Watchers. But when age 50 rapidly approaches, health is apparently a moving target. Just when you've got a good routine down, you get a little older and you have to do more.

I Think I’d Rather Take the Train

If we are what we drive, what is a person who takes public transportation?

 What we drive says a lot about us. We might be economical and practical, or big and flashy. It seems that guys who take up more than one lane in their huge pick-up trucks are the same ones who take up extra space by spreading their legs when they sit down.

Uh …

What were we talking about? Oh, yes.

I don't know if what I drive says all that much about me. I've always liked trains. When I was a kid, I had lots of toy trains, including an HO gauge model railroad around which I built an entire town with trees and a lake. Now, I get a little thrill when I'm on my way to work and the highway aligns with an RTD light rail train full of commuters.

RTD is the Regional Transportation District - metro Denver's public transportation system.

The irony of admiring the sleek light rail from inside my car isn't lost on me.

I like my car too. I sometimes think of my silver Altima as a high speed bullet train, gliding at super speeds between my home in Denver and my office in Highlands Ranch, with Mount Fuji looming nearby (hey, it's my fantasy). Until, of course, I have to brake for wall of stopped traffic caused by the woman in the left lane who is too busy talking on the phone to pay attention to her speed, or what lane she's in.

When I lived in New York City way back in the previous century, I didn't need a car. I almost always took the subway to get around town. It was fast and cheap. It also smelled like urine and sometimes broke down, but several decades later I choose to remember only the good things.

Early in my Denver days, I sold my car and moved around exclusively by RTD. That was before light rail was on the scene. I saved a bunch of money and lost a lot of time. Unlike NYC subways, the busses in Denver were agonizingly slow. While light rail is faster, it usually doesn't go exactly where I need to.

To get to work on RTD, I either have to drive or take a slow bus to the train, after which I transfer to another bus. It takes an hour and a half, one way. That seems even longer when there's a cold winter wind blowing through my coat while I wait between rides.

Mass transit saves money, is better for the environment, cuts down on traffic, and engenders a sense of community by enabling people to interact. But I'm pretty typical. For all my bluster about riding the rails, 98 percent of the time you'll find me alone in my automobile.

Parents Leave Us Many Things

The note on the counter said, "12 lis tgs." It was in my late father's handwriting. It freaked me out a little bit. When did he write this? Then I remembered. The reminder to get my 2012 license plate tags had been written the night before - by me.

Last week, my family and I combed through 50 years of my father's and mother's belongings. Since Dad's death in April, we've been trying to sort out our inheritance - investments and property, and less valuable items such as dishes and photos and Christmas decorations.

We inherit a lot of things from our parents, some of it material, some not. My handwriting is a genetic inheritance - perhaps the shape of my hand bones and the way they hold a pen.

I like to think I have the best traits of both my parents. From my mother, I have a sharp sense of justice and a deep well of common sense. From my father, I have a love of teaching and reading, and I can cook pretty well. From both of them, I have a good sense of humor.

Inherited traits are not always something to be proud of, however. For example, I have received my dad's total lack of athleticism, stunted mechanical ability, and general absent-mindedness.

Some of my traits I don't think came from either parent. For example, neither would ever forget to renew their license plates.

Sometimes, we go out of our way to be not like our parents. The worst thing you can say to a spouse during an argument is, "You sound just like your mother." I took great offence once when this insult was hurled at me. I am way more reasonable than she was when arguing.

I don't have any grand conclusions to make from this, except that inheritance isn’t just about money and stuff. You also get the benefits and pitfalls of someone’s genes - and if you're lucky, a sense of humor.

The Get Off My Lawn Guy

When I was a young man, I was the cool gay guy. People would ask me how they should decorate their homes. I never had any idea, but it was nice to be asked.

Now, I've become the older, less attractive, "get off my lawn" guy. You know - the grumpy old man who lives on the corner and has a fit whenever neighborhood kids cut across his lawn while they are playing. No matter how much he yells, the kids ignore him and keep running across his grass while he grumbles about the downfall of society.

Ok, I live in a condo instead of a house, and I'm not on the corner. But I still seethe just inside the screen door until I can take it no more.

I hear the whispers of the children. "Stay away from that door. That guy doesn't like kids."

In my defense, I don't hate kids. Or more accurately, I like most kids but not all - just like other people.

It's not the simple act of children playing and laughing outside that sets me off. A happy child is a joyous thing to see.

It's when, for example, they start screaming that I begin to get irritated. Here's a question: do little girls scream all the time because they are socially conditioned to or is it somehow biological in nature? In any case, during all the running around, there's always one little girl screaming her head off. It literally hurts my ears.

But what really gets me out of my recliner and on the front step is rock throwing. Thanks to brilliant landscaping around the condo, the bushes are planted amongst decorative stones which fit perfectly in a child's hand. Most conveniently, these bushes are right outside my ground level, breakable, windows.

Aside from being grumpy, I really have no recourse with the children. Their parents aren't supervising and I'm not allowed to. After I recently advised a herd of young people that throwing rocks at my window is not ok, I was visited by an angry mother who felt compelled to protect her child from me. I don't know where she was during the actual rock throwing.

Maybe she was supervising some of the other neighbors.

Warming Climate Increases Fire

When I first moved to Colorado, back in the last century, forest fires were rare, and they didn't start breaking out until July. Now, they seem to break out just any old time of year and several can burn at once. There are currently so many burning around the state that they aren't even saying how many any more.

Wildfire is licking at the outskirts of Colorado Springs. The High Park fire, the second largest in the state's history and the most destructive in terms of property, burns just outside of Fort Collins. Many homes are destroyed. Domestic animals are homeless. The Larimar County Fairgrounds have become a shelter for displaced horses. Evacuated humans haven't known whether their homes are still standing.

Those of us living in city limits often fancy ourselves immune from wild fires which generally happen way off in the mountains. While the flames generally don't get into the city as far as my house, the effects of the fires occasionally do.

It's one thing to see aerial views of 100 foot flames on TV. It becomes more real when your eyes sting from smoke and you actually see ash blowing around in your parking lot. People with respiratory ailments really suffer, even 60 miles away.

One reason the fires are more serious now than in years past is because of the massive kill off of trees due to the mountain pine beetle. Huge swaths of forest have been reduced to the skeletal remains of dead trees, just waiting to be ignited by lightning or a careless smoker.

The beetles are so deadly because winters are no longer cold enough to kill them off, enabling them to thrive on a massive scale. With a temperature today of 104, I'm inclined to believe that the climate is indeed getting warmer.

 Fire suppression over the last century has changed the natural cycle of fire into potentially huge, deadly super-fires. Add global warming, a pine beetle disaster, and more people living in the mountains and you've got a recipe for trouble. Kind of makes me long for the past. 

Botched IPO Does Not Affect Cute Animal Pictures

Facebook has been in the news for its botched IPO rollout. It seems potential investors and advertisers have a few reservations about the popular social networking tool.

I'm not an investor in Facebook but I am a user. And I think Facebook is a good way to keep in touch. I'm get daily news from friends, family, classmates, and colleagues, and some people who I'm not sure I ever had any connection with.

Facebook is also a great place to see cute animal pictures. Many cute animal pictures. A constant stream of kittens, puppies, giraffes, rabbits, and turtles. I take some responsibility for this. I, myself, have posted pictures of my cats, but they are exceptionally cute.

Of course, Facebook also serves as a dumping ground for political views. It's as if people believe that when they post this stuff, readers will instantly change their minds.

I wonder if anyone's mind has been changed by seeing an unflattering picture of a politician with a caption describing his or her extreme views about a controversial issue. While my mind has not been changed by reading something on Facebook, I have unfriended a few people who post nothing but regurgitated political rhetoric. One person's constant anger was so toxic that I felt the heat from over a thousand miles away. While I agreed with her views, I couldn't stand to face her wrath in the daily postings.

I'm more interested in the joy of a friend who unexpectedly became a grandmother. I like seeing the progress on the pond another friend is building in his back yard.

Though it may be trivial, I like knowing what Peggy the dog is up to. Peggy does, indeed, take the cute animal thing a step further by having her own Facebook account.

I hope people will keep posting news of themselves or I'll have nothing to read about but the outrageous shennanigans of the "republican'ts" and the socialist leanings of "Obamacare."

Fortunately, today there's a picture of a baby rabbit sleeping on top of a dog's head with the caption, "You've got a FRIEND!" Very cute!

Is It Real? Does it Matter?

Does the grape flavoring in candy and pop resemble in any way the actual flavor of real grapes? Does Olive Garden have anything in common with real Italian food? When someone says, "Have a good day," do they really mean it?

What can we depend on to be real in this world? Or does it matter? If you like Olive Garden (which I do), does it matter if it's authentic? If wishing someone a good day might possibly increase feelings of positivity and good will, what's the big deal whether they mean it?

During the events surrounding my father's recent death, my siblings and I continually encountered strangers in public who either told us to have a nice day, or worse, asked us how our day was going. Each time, we cringed and joked that they wouldn't ask if they only knew. One waiter at an Olive Garden competitor was so insistent that we have a "fantastic evening," that one of us finally replied that we really couldn't do that because our father had just died. They peppy young man awkwardly expressed his condolences and turned to leave, but not before one last cheerful wish that we have a terrific night.

 I suspect wait-people get evaluated by how much they say that stuff to every customer, kind of like the number of "flair" items Jennifer Aniston is required to wear in the movie Office Space. (If you haven't seen Office Space, stop reading this, open up a new browser for Netflix, and put it at the top of your queue. Then resume reading this.)

I suppose the have a nice day habit is so ingrained, and in some cases, so required by the corporate script, that such wishes are unavoidable. And truly, there's no way to know whether a patron is having a day so terrible that a cheerfully expressed verbal wish would actually make it worse.

The alternative, I suppose, is that no one would ever wish anyone a good day. I think I'd rather risk being greeted with poorly timed, insincere good wishes than encounter deliberate surliness or indifference.

On Grief

Grief is disorienting. Something is missing. The world is off-kilter, like Earth's axis is tipping. It is not the same as sadness, though sadness often accompanies grief. Sometimes it's like shock. Numbness. Emptiness. Other times, there's a rush of memories, flashbacks, and the desperate thrashing feeling that something which was always there is now gone forever.

Grief is messy. It often produces tears and snot, and throws life into disarray.

Grief is not a disease. It's not an illness for which there is or isn't a cure. You can escape it for a while, but it will always return to run its course. Like a cloud, it hovers above, momentarily forgotten, until it starts to rain.

Grief isn't a bad thing. It helps us adjust to unwanted change.

Grief can be silent. It can be very loud. It can be lonely or it can be shared.

Grief lasts longer than most people think it should. When life calms down into a version of normal, others act like grief should be over. But you don't snap out of grief. There's no set amount of time and then it's over. It doesn't occur in five even, synchronous stages.

In fact, it could be argued that grief never totally ends. It may lessen in intensity, ebb and flow a little further away, but when that anniversary comes, or that reminder of the loss, the cloud hovers again.

Grief may slow us down, but it doesn't stop us permanently. We go on because we have to.

If we grieve, it's because we are capable of love. Love continues beyond grief and finds renewal in its wake. 

Bob Calkins, 1925-2012

Robert Calkins passed away in his Fort Collins, Colorado home on Thursday, April 19, 2012. 

A family physician who later became a psychiatrist, he was an active teacher and community volunteer right up to the end.

Born in Beatrice, Nebraska in 1925, Bob served as a medical officer in the U.S. Navy during the Korean war. He married Harriet Rickertsen in 1955 and they remained together 50 years until her death. In Kimball, Nebraska he practiced general family medicine until 1970 when he pursued a degree in psychiatry from the University of Nebraska Medical Center. From 1973 to 1988, he practiced psychiatry in Scottsbluff, Nebraska, followed by a brief period in Cheyenne, Wyoming, before retiring in Fort Collins, Colorado.

In Fort Collins, Bob was active in many community organizations, including the Kiwanis; Front Range Forum (where he both attended and facilitated classes); Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays, Bisexuals, and Transgendered Persons (PFLAG); and the local senior center. He served on the ethics committee of Poudre Valley Hospital, was on the board of Northern Colorado Hospice, and was a very active member of Plymouth Congregational Church (UCC).

He is mourned by his children, Susan Bodar (Jerry) of Dubois, Wyoming; David Calkins (Anne Talbot) of Scottsbluff; Bill Calkins of Denver; and Carol Calkins (Mike Moyer) of Cheyenne, Wyoming; three grandchildren, Justin Eckland (Heidi) of Sterling, Colorado; Hannah Calkins of Washington, DC; and Brooke Bodar of Dubois. He also has one surviving brother, Raymond Calkins, of Lincoln, Nebraska, two great grandchildren, and a beloved dog, Peggy.

Music was one of his life’s greatest pleasures. He listened to the Metropolitan Opera on the radio every Saturday for years, and eventually attended the live broadcasts of the Met at the local movie theatre. He was, himself, an accomplished musician, performing as a tenor in many venues. He was very fond of organ music and delighted in the performances of his own children.

Bob will be remembered for his kindness and infectious sense of humor. He was a loving and generous father, husband, mentor, and friend, and a long time advocate for the sick, injured, and mentally ill.

In lieu of flowers, his wishes were for memorial donations to be given to PFLAG Fort Collins (305 West Magnolia, PMB 117, Fort Collins, CO 80521).

A memorial service will be held Saturday April 28, at 2:00 p.m., at Plymouth Congregational Church (UCC), 916 West Prospect, Fort Collins, Colorado.

Go to www.goesfuneralcare.com for an extended obituary and to sign the guest book for those that cannot attend the service.

Resistance to Change in a Chaotic World

I recently returned to work from a week of vacation only to learn that my department had moved to a different part of the building while I was gone. I trusted that my coworkers would make sure my stuff was moved, but the prospect of not being able to find my new office, wandering among cardboard boxes in half empty cubicles looking for familiar objects like my picture of Scottsbluff National Monument and hoping that someone remembered to pack that extra stash of paper clips I had been hoarding, was stressful enough to undo all the relaxation of my time away.

On my weekly visit to Village Inn, Betty, the server, asked me if I needed to see the menu or would I have the usual. As if I order the same thing every Wednesday morning when I’m there. My coffee and large water were already on the table before I arrived. I may just surprise her and order something different someday.

It's been implied that I am resistant to change! Can you imagine? Why just yesterday, I was telling someone how flexible I am. This was after I told them about my 12th annual vacation to San Diego.

Is it so bad to be set in your ways? Perhaps I'm not as adventurous as some people, but I like knowing what to expect. It's a chaotic world where sometimes traumatic change is thrust upon us. My preference is to not be surprised.

I tried to explain that to a guy I've gone out with a few times who was thinking of different date activities we could try. It seems he was worried that we would get bored by always having lunch and watching a movie on Saturdays when we get together. Perhaps we might, he suggested, go to the zoo or take a drive in the mountains, and maybe we could meet some other day besides Saturday. But I like lunch and a movie, I explained. I know what to expect on Saturdays that way.

Lest you think I'm not flexible, I'll have you know that I'm getting ready to replace my entire home entertainment system with a better one. I've been talking about it for a year or so and I'm just about ready to start to think about ordering the components and changing the furniture to accommodate the new system. On the other hand, what's the hurry? What I have works just fine. So what if the TV is not HD and I can't read subtitles on the old glass screen?

I admit I am a creature of habit. Perhaps I could challenge myself a bit. Perhaps I'll think about it over dinner from the chicken teriyaki take out place - where I order the number one every Monday night. But see, sometimes I go on Tuesday or Saturday, so there.

Dreams Interrupted

Dreams can give lots of insight. In the drives for passion and food, for example, what do you suppose my dreams say about me?

I am standing in line at McDonalds contemplating the consumption of a big mac, fries, and a diet (of course) coke. Suddenly, a sexy man cuts into line in front of me, turns around, and, well, let's just say that, as usual, I wake up before it gets really good.

What sticks with me is not just the vivid nature of the dream but the utter disappointment which occurred when a cat's cold nose entered my ear and woke me up. Most of the frustration was not that the man part of the dream was interrupted, though it was certainly vivid and ended prematurely. Instead, I was distressed about waking up before I got to eat that food.

You see, it's been over a year since I've eaten a big mac. Since starting Weight Watchers 18 months ago, I've only been to McDonalds once and that was because I was stranded at an airport for several hours and had a voucher to use.

 I know that McDonalds is not on anyone's list of fine foods. Even among fast food and burgers, it doesn't measure up to finer chains like Fat Burger and Five Guys and Smash Burger. Colorado may soon have In-N-Out Burger, but big macs are here now. You can find McDonalds virtually everywhere, and the quality is consistent - you know what you are getting every time.

When I used to eat approximately one big mac every ten days, I'd remove the pickles and the excess lettuce and squeeze on a single packet of ketchup. I'd hold all the layers in place as I took that first bite. Exquisite.

Big macs are probably the single worst thing you can eat. Well, it's probably worse to eat a whole pizza at a single sitting, which I also used to do, but I'll save that for another essay. Besides, I don't dream about pizza. I dream about those two all-beef patties, special sauce, and all that other stuff.

Occasionally, I consider splurging on a mac, but I'm kind of proud of my months of denial. Plus, if I have to blow that many Weight Watcher points, I'd rather really go all out on something spectacular like, well, a Fat Burger.

I'm sorry, were you hoping for more about the other part of the dream?

Episcopalian Update - Or is it Episcopal?

Even after a friend clearly tells me when it is correct to say Episcopal versus Episcopalian, I still can't remember which is correct.

Why can't we be referred to as Anglican, like all the other offshoots of the Church of England around the world? To that question, actually, I do know the answer. It goes back to the American Revolution when all ties to England were severed, including ecclesiastical ones. Now, of course, the Episcopal Church of the U.S. enjoys a good relationship with the world-wide Anglican Communion.

In just a couple of weeks, I will officially be part of that communion. During the traditional Easter vigil on Saturday April 7, I will be confirmed into the membership of Saint John's Episcopal Cathedral in Denver. I will officially be Episcopalian. Or Episcopal.

In any case, I've gone faithfully to the classes since September, participated regularly in worship, made a financial pledge, and can spout off a pretty good Episcopal(ian) party line. Go ahead. Ask me anything. Except the proper usage of Episcopal versus Episcopalian. And don't ask why Episcopalians wear black so much of the time. I still don't have an answer to that one.

The biggest challenge so far has been documenting my baptism, which occurred approximately 48 years ago, in a Presbyterian church so small that no one answers the phone. Episcopalians believe that only one baptism is necessary, but you'd better be able to prove that it happened.

I've been a member of many congregations and several denominations over the years. I've been a member, lay leader, youth minister, religious educator, musician, and preacher. I won't say that I've finally found the "right" denomination. There's no such thing. But I feel at home for now, worshiping in high church style, with that combination of ancient tradition and modern theology which affirms deep spirituality along with intelligent discourse.

In other words, in the Episcopal (?) Church, you don't have to check your brain at the door in order to engage in serious spiritual practices.

So think of me on April 7 as I step into the newest chapter of my long faith journey, a fully fledged Episcopalian (I think that's it).

Reader Comments

Sometimes the most interesting part of a publication is the reader mail. As a veteran blogger, I am, myself, the grateful recipient of notes from readers. For every BillsWeek entry, there can be anywhere from one reader comment to, oh, more than one. Most come through Facebook, some from the little comment box on the blog itself, and others come in regular email. While I try to respond to each individually, the BillsWeek staff is sometimes a little overwhelmed and I don't always succeed. Plus some are anonymous so I can't respond directly. A sampling follows. In the interest of full disclosure, some of these are paraphrased, a few are combinations of multiple messages, and some I just made up. So here we go.

What advice would you give to an aspiring blogger?

The amazing thing about our internet age is that anyone can publish just any crap they want to, without regard to quality or socially redeeming value. So if you want to blog, go ahead and do it. There's nothing to stop you but shame.

Why do you always write about your stupid cats? Don't you have a life?

Well, to the later question, that's debatable. The answer to the former is that my cats are the cutest and the prettiest, and they are the pillars around which the whole world revolves. If you don't believe me, just ask one of them.

When are you going to go on another extended mystery road trip? It was especially fun to guess where you were by the clues you put on Facebook.

I very much enjoyed my 2010 summer trip through Kentucky, Illinois, and points Midwestern. I hope to do another like it, perhaps up north somewhere. Meanwhile, there are other mysteries I could write about. What will I have for dinner? What's that spot on my neck? Will Jules really marry Grayson?

I'm not so sure we need to hear about all of your deviant life-style choices.

You mean my decision to become Episcopalian? Hey, I don't write about half the deviant stuff I do.

Do you have a good recipe for meatloaf?

Yes.

Why do you always assume that all Republicans are bad people?

I try to avoid using words like "always" and "never." Not all Republicans are bad, just the vast overwhelming majority of them.

Why don't you publish new entries in BillsWeek more often?

I appreciate that you want more. Thank you for the complement. I'll try to do better.

When can we do lunch?

Call me.

I disagree with your assessment about the number of cats portrayed on TV. Please cancel my subscription immediately.

Um... BillsWeek doesn't really have subscriptions, but, uh, I’ll give your request all the consideration it deserves.

Mr. Calkins: Thank you for having your car serviced at Tynan's Nissan. Please click below to take a customer satisfaction survey.

Done.

I notice that you sometimes end sentences with a preposition. That is improper. You need to set a better example.

Language is a tool that helps us to communicate, and it is best when communication occurs in a standard form so that we can understand each other. Sometimes, however, the tyranny of the language experts who delight in correcting what everyone else says becomes oppressive and even interferes with communication. Perhaps, more succinctly, I should just say, bite me.

You often say that we are living in the future. What does that mean?

Ah, young readers, what times we live in (yes, I wrote that for the benefit of the previous commentor). Imagine a world where we carry our phones with us everywhere we go. From a 1970s perspective (the 1970s were my formative years), that's pretty futuristic. In other words, I'm old. I came of age in the last century. The year 2012 was once impossibly far away, and now, amazingly, we are here.

 So there you have it dear readers. I hope you are as stimulated by this exchange of ideas as I am. Keep those comments coming! You never know - you might see yourself in the blog someday.

TV Families Not Representative

I admit it. I watch a lot of TV. And I have to say, most of the families on the tube don't look like mine. An entire population is severely underrepresented, rendering some of the best shows difficult for me to relate to.

Unlike at my house where they pretty much rule, cats are notoriously absent from TV shows. For that matter, so are dogs. I'm not talking about those old Disney movies where the animal wins the national ribbon or dies at the end (I'm still upset about Old Yeller, 40 years later). I mean animals that are just regular members of the family, like those dogs and cats (and in a couple of cases, birds) who live with me and my friends.

According to the Humane Society of the United States, dogs live in 39 percent of all U.S. households. Cats live in 33 percent. Doesn’t that equal 72 percent? I was never good at math. But at least some number of families on TV should have at least either a dog or a cat.

Take that family on ABC's The Middle. A dog would add a lot of color to that chaotic household. Of course, the mom, played by Patricia Heaton, would be the only one who remembers to feed the dog, let him or her out, and so on.

I recently watched all five seasons of Brothers and Sisters - one extended family made up of five individual households. A number of times, I thought, “This is just like my family,” except there was not a bit of animal fur among them.

Currently on Netflix, I'm watching Kyle XY, a sci-fi drama that explores the meaning of family and belonging. It's a great show - sweet and touching as well as suspenseful, but it lacks any sort of animal presence. I often think the agonized protagonist and his angst-ridden teenaged siblings would benefit from the calming influence of a cat, but there isn't one.

I suppose cats are hard to train and, well, control on the set. Dogs are a little more trainable, and thus, visible.

The sitcom Whitney recently featured a dog adopted from a shelter. The poor fellow died in less than one episode.

One of the families on Modern Family has a cute little mutt. Gruff old grandpa/stepdad Jay, played by Ed O'Neil, takes an abandoned pooch to the shelter in one episode but can't go through with it. The dog has become a regular cast member.

There used to be more animals on TV but they were pretty unrealistic. Lassie was always getting Timmy out of some trouble or other by barking and barking until the humans finally understood. In reality, any dog that barked like that would be banished to the back yard or at least given the doggie version of Prozac.

Flipper, the dolphin, always knew everything in spite of being limited to the water. I don't know any dolphins personally, but I was always surprised that Flipper didn’t just get in the truck and drive.

At this point, I feel like I should comment on Tiger, the shaggy dog who lived with the Brady Bunch. But I really don’t have anything to say about him.

Animal companions are a little better represented in cartoons. The Simpsons have Santa's Little Helper and Snowball, a skinny dog and mangy black cat respectively. In spite of the animated nature of the show, this is the one that best represents pets as a regular, integrated presence in the family.

Ok, now that you know how much TV I watch, I'll bet you aren't surprised to learn that my own cats, Lily and Charles, usually watch with me. You’d never see it on television, but I'm often sprawled horizontally on the sofa, the two of them curled up on top of or beside me. That's what my family looks like.

What Does a Single, Gay, 50 Year Old Look Like?

So Michelle Obama has turned 48. It's kind of shocking to be older than the First Lady. I mean, Barbara Bush and Nancy Reagan with their old lady hair seemed much more advanced in years. But the current occupants of the White House are practically peers. At this rate, in the next administration, I'll be complaining that the President and First Spouse are too young to have a clue about what they're doing and that in my day ...

You get the picture.

I have to admit that this last birthday rattled me. I'm now just one year away from the half-century mark. It's not that I'm afraid of death or being unattractive. I treasure each and every gray hair. It's more that I don’t know how I should act.

What does 50 look like? The image that first comes to mind is of active grandparents. But I'm not a grandparent, nor are there prospects for becoming one.

I sort through my mind's database of images for living as a nearly 50 year old single, childless, gay person: Eccentric uncle. Spinster aunt. Confirmed bachelor. Gay divorcee. Pathetic looser. Crazy cat lady. Hmm. The closest one that fits is crazy cat lady.

It's not about how I look to others, but rather how I see myself. There's a shortage of helpful role models for people of years, in general, let alone single ones. Add gay to the mix and, well, I might as well be the only one. 

The best older role model that comes to mind is Betty White. She's beloved, respected, active, funny, and she's 90. Doesn't help me much right now.

A role model for the unmarried, in my mind, is single gal Doris Day in the 1960's movie, Pillow Talk. She's strong, beautiful, busy with her career, and has a housekeeper. Of course, in spite of fiery independence, she settles down in the end with Rock Hudson. Needless to say, she's not old in the movie, and gay didn't exist on the screen then.

It's pretty gay that I use Pillow Talk as an example. It's pretty gay that I vividly remember Rock Hudson in the bathtub scene, but I digress.

I don't sit around and pine for a husband, like Sally Rogers on the Dick Van Dyke show (another fairly gay reference and dubious single role model), but neither do I commit eternally to my singleness, forever free from the bonds of husbandly attachment. I simply want to know how I'm supposed to act now that I'm approaching the AARP demographic.

This just in. Rosie O'Donnell, I'm observing as she talks to Piers Morgan, is exactly my age. She's gay. She's engaged, but single for now. She looks fabulous. Maybe I just need to look around a little more.

Third Wheels Provide Balance

As a pretty much confirmed single individual, I've had a lot experience as the third wheel. “Third wheel” is the designation usually given to that extra person society traditionally looks down upon because she or he is not attached to another.

Well I have news for society. Recent studies indicate that unmarried people are likely to be in the majority soon.

Only 51% of U.S. adults are currently married, an all time low (I don't remember where I heard the statistic - for all you know I just made it up). This is mostly due to people waiting until later in life to tie the knot, but I'm sure divorce and economic changes play a part – to say nothing of those who live as coupled without the legal sanction.

So for now, the norm continues to be going through life in pairs. Since my friends are way beyond trying to "fix me up" just to even out the number at dinner parties, this means that when we get together, I'm the odd one.

While society prefers couples and all the symmetry they bring, I relish my role as "extra." Third wheels provide balance. We keep couples from falling over.

With this power, of course, comes responsibility. When a couple seems about to topple over as a result of conflict over a minor item, such as whether to put cilantro in the salad, I'm often looked at to settle the disagreement. It's kind of like being Vice President, casting the deciding vote in the Senate.

During more significant arguments, such as in what religion to raise the children, I'm more cautious. Tempting as it is to blurt out what I know to be the correct answer, I make it a practice to never take sides in the biggies.

If you piss off one person in the couple, you've lost both friends. And most seriously, if the couple starts to break up, be careful. Now more than ever, do not take sides. They may reconcile and when they do, the pair will remember everything you said about the one you sided against and in a united front that only a newly reconciled pair can muster, the third wheel will be spun off to search of other couples to balance.