I Had a Casa Bonita Poster Over My Bed

When 90% of all the other boys my age had Farrah Fawcett above their beds, I had a poster of the divers at Casa Bonita.

My family thought I was interested in diving.

For you readers who may be too young, Farrah Fawcett was the arguably the most famous sex symbol of the 1970s. The poster of Farrah lounging in her red one piece graced the bedroom wall of every (straight) pubescent teenage boy of that era.  With her nipple so quietly poking out, her famously feathered blond hair (many girls at my school had that same style), enormous white smile, one leg up and the other down, Farrah no doubt caused a lot bedroom doors to close tight for a few minutes every evening in those days.

I, on the other hand, had a poster of the perfectly toned, speedo clad male divers poised over the waterfall at Denver's famous Casa Bonita.

I had nothing against Farrah.  I watched Charlies Angels, the TV show that made her famous. But I preferred Kate Jackson - the smarter angel. I have to admit, I was more into the cars they were driving.

To call Casa Bonita a restaurant is misleading. It's more of a theme park. To walk inside the old-world
Spanish colonial style tower topped villa on West Colfax is to enter another world. You find yourself in a "Mexican" village festooned with palm trees, caves, walking paths, and right in the middle, a huge waterfall plunging into a deep green pool. It's really quite amazing.

Locals look down their noses at Casa Bonita. It's true - the food isn't very good. There are approximately 1 million places in metro Denver where you can go for better Mexican food.

The exception is the sopapillas at the end of the meal. When you put the flag up at your table, a basket of hot, fresh, doughy, slightly sweetened pastries appears. You take one, tear it in half, pour honey inside, and let it melt in your mouth. When you want more, just raise the flag - it's all you can eat.

But you don't go to Casa Bonita for the food. You go to see the waterfall, Black Bart's cave, the roving mariachi singers, and of course, the divers.

When Casa Bonita opened in the mid 1970s, I was just becoming aware of my sexuality. While I
didn't self-identify as gay until 1980, I REALLY liked the divers at Casa Bonita years before. Back then, they were all male and because it was the 70s, they all wore skimpy speedos. During one of my family's occasional trips to Denver, after I observed their perfect forms fly gracefully into the emerald water, I made a beeline for the gift shop to purchase the poster, and my interest in diving commenced.

On a visit years later, I noted that young women had joined the ranks of divers. The grace and skill were the same, but something was missing - a little charge, a bit of fantasy.  Plus, I realized the divers were all probably 16 years old. No thanks! At least I could put the flag up for more sopapillas.

Huffington Post Adds Years

I realized things were changing recently when reading the Huffington Post. Instead of automatically clicking the Gay Voices section like I've always done, I started with the Huff/Post 50 section - you know, the one directed at old people.

This is nothing less than a seismic shift in my interests. I now relate much more to contemplating retirement than millennial celebrities getting drag queen style makeovers. Also, I'm really not interested in the different ways gay men are using dating apps. What's a dating app anyway? Is this that "Grindr" I've heard about?  In my day, you walked up to a guy in a bar and asked him to dance. What ever happened to that?

Reading about why women should date men in their 50s is much more interesting to me than James Franco's constant toying with us about his sexual orientation. Is he or isn't he? I don't care, James! Just take your shirt off and shut up.

Aging is inevitable, and it turns out, I'm kind of enjoying it.

For example, there are opportunities to save money. It hasn't happened very often yet, but occasionally a store clerk or ticket taker asks Clyde and me if we'd like to take advantage of the senior discount. Rather than standing there insulted, I calculate the savings and ask what age qualifies us. I'm usually not quite old enough (I won't speak for Clyde), but I'm looking forward to the day when I can save a dollar on museum admission.

And there is retirement to look forward to. Thanks to a couple of good investments here and there, it looks like I'll be able to do it.

The next decade and a half will probably fly by so some plans need to be made now. Like, if I want the mortgage paid off before I retire, I'd better plan ahead. How many new cars will I buy between now and age 65?

When the time comes and our fuzzy loved ones are no longer with us, should we adopt a new kitten who might tie us down 15-20 years from now when we want to travel? Ok, on that  topic, I have been informed in no uncertain terms, that yes, we will always have cats, no matter what.

In some ways, we're already plenty old. I'm a card carrying member of AARP. And Clyde and I are regular early bird diners. We like to get to Black Eyed Pea about 4:30, before it gets crowded.

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.

Anti-Gay? Are You Sure?

A recent Facebook exchange has been bothering me.

One of my FB friends declared that a public persona was probably a conservative Republican and therefore anti-gay.

It’s no great leap to make such a claim. One only need look at congress to see who votes pro-gay (Democrats, in case you were wondering), and who votes anti-gay (Republicans, duh). Yes, there are exceptions, such as Senator Susan Collins (R) from Maine who has, at worst, a mixed record.

Just to make my own bias clear: I am pro-gay and very wary (not to mention weary) of most Republicans, particularly conservative ones.

Another FB friend, however, defensively and angrily responded to the first FB friend that as a conservative Republican, neither she nor her other conservative Republican friends are anti-gay.

True – there are Republicans who are not anti-gay. The Log Cabin Republicans are largely gay and Republican. In fact, many Republicans are fiscally conservative (wanting to limit the amount of money government spends) and socially, well, moderate. Frankly, I don’t know of any socially liberal Republicans, but I could be wrong. Let’s stick with moderate.

I agree we shouldn’t paint any one group of people with the same brush. Don’t even get me started on the red-state/blue-state stereotypes that after the 2004 election cast everyone in the middle of the country as homophobic, racist, war-mongering fascists. Wherever you go, you can find people who are quite accepting of those different from themselves. And, everywhere you go, there are rabidly hateful and intolerant individuals.

What bothers me about my conservative Republican friend who is not anti-gay is the vehemence of her defensiveness. She seems quite sure that she has been unjustly attacked by our broad, sweeping generalizations. And yet, I doubt if she has ever lost a job because of her sexual orientation. I’ll bet when she’s sick, her husband is allowed into her hospital room, no questions asked. I’ll bet her very basic civil rights have never been subject to a majority vote. I’m sure that while she was growing up, she never ached to see role models in literature or on TV, or in her own family, who resembled herself. I’ll bet she never wondered, as a child, if there even was anyone else in the world like her. I’ll bet when she was asked to be on a committee at church, no one questioned whether her orientation disqualified her from serving. I’ll bet if her spouse died, his family would not sweep in, pretend that she didn’t exist, and claim ownership of all his belongings.

Really, who has the right to be defensive and angry here?

Here are some questions I’d like to ask of anyone who says they aren’t anti-gay.

1. Do you believe most people who identify as gay or lesbian can choose not to be that way?

2. Do you believe that lifetime commitments between two loving partners should be legally sanctioned with every benefit of a heterosexual marriage, no matter what their genders?

3. What would you do if you found out one of your children were gay?

4. Should patriotic gay and lesbian Americans who feel called to serve their country in the armed forces be allowed to do so without fear of expulsion?

5. Do you believe that a child can be healthfully raised in a loving home that just happens to be headed by a same sex couple?

I won’t bother to spell out whether how you answered renders you pro-gay, a little homophobic, or anti-gay. Just consider your answers and think twice before lashing out in anger at a GAY PERSON who may NOT completely understand YOU.

And if you answered the questions the same way I do, then I’ll agree you aren’t anti-gay, no matter what your political affiliation.

Queer Activism Evolving – National Coming Out Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Diatribe: Being Gay and Christian

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

To me, being a gay man means:

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

Being a gay man means:

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

To me, being a gay man means:

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

To me, being a gay man means:

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

To me, being a gay man means:

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

To me, being a gay man means:

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

To me, being a gay man means:

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

To me, being a gay man means:

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

To me, being a gay man means:

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

To me, being a gay man means:

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

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

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

To me, being a gay man means:

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

Finally, to me, being a gay man means:

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