First Comes Love, Then Come Alternative Relationship Models, Then Comes Marriage

I'm just boomer enough to have spent my life questioning the established norms and mores of marriage. Who needs a piece of paper to prove their love or commitment? And the "wedding-industrial complex" - what a racket that is with it's tens of thousands of dollars of required dresses, fancy invitations, a huge reception with an expensive band or DJ, and the Chicken Dance. Oh my god the Chicken Dance!

Yes, in the old days, gay people were often the ones who questioned traditional marriage. They, we, espoused loving relationships in different forms. Let each person, couple, or group decide for themselves what kind of relationships they will form and leave traditional, permanent, monogamous marriage to unimaginative straight people.

Later on, some of us tried having commitment ceremonies which resembled weddings, but lacked legal teeth. None of the approximately 1,000 rights that go along with marriage applied.

Fast forward to the 2010's. Turns out that LGBT people are the ones most likely to champion legal, traditional marriage. While marriage rates in general are plummeting and the number of  single person households is rising, LGBT couples are falling all over themselves to get down to the courthouse for that marriage license.

Someday it will only be gays and lesbians trumpeting traditional values in congress.

So everyone pretty much agrees that gay marriage is here to stay and that soon it will be legal in all 50 states.

The most important part of this whole discussion is, how does it affect me? Do I just toss aside my old convictions that alternatives to traditional marriage are valid and preferable? Do I now embrace the "wedding-industrial complex" and (when the time comes) hire a wedding planner who will facilitate the spending of much money for that special day? What about wills, pre-nups, gift registries, and china patterns?

I'm won't even mention all the children that LGBT people are having.

That still leaves us with one question. If we are to conform to traditional models of marriage, must we also embrace the Chicken Dance?

Dangerous Cake Obsession Causes Loss of Control

I have no control when it comes to cake.

Seriously.

At the office, if I hear there's cake in the break room, I single-mindedly zero in, nearly knocking people over if they get between me and that moist, spongy confection with sticky, sweet frosting. After I chow down (think Cookie Monster without the blue fur), I'm immediately overcome by regret. I don't recognize the obsessed person that I temporarily became. In shame, I slink back to my desk.

It doesn't matter how full I am, or if I'm on a diet, or already had dessert, if there's cake, I'm there.

When I was a kid and my grandmother served cake, I'd boldly ask her if I could take some home. My parents were appalled at my audacity, but we always left with cake in hand.

Sometimes coworkers, who I suspect of secretly being vegan, bring a plate of fruit to celebrate a birthday instead of cake. What kind of birthday is that? I like pineapple and strawberries as much as the next person. I can live without honeydew. But who prefers fruit to cake? Certain members of my family always request pie instead of cake for their birthday. That's only marginally better than fruit.

A coworker recently got married. I asked about the cake at the reception and he said they didn't have one. It took a moment for that to sink in.

Wedding receptions are a place where I expect to have cake. Preferably, white cake with white frosting and little soft, flower shaped candies on the side. If you have to make your wedding reception different, skip the hokey pokey. But for God's sake, give your guests cake.

Cake is not only good to eat, it is versatile. Cake can be designed to look like anything. It can be made to look like a football, cartoon characters, even scanned photographs.  One of my earliest memories is a cake someone made in the shape of our church. Even now, if I go by my childhood church, my mouth waters.

When I was on Weight Watchers, I was appalled to learn that cake was one of the worst things I could eat. It has more fat and calories than almost anything else I love. Only pizza is worse. Life is hard.

My favorite cake in the world is the Chantilly cake from Whole Foods. A white, moist cake interspersed with strawberries and blueberries, it is infused with a light whipped creamy frosting. Note, there is room for fruit with cake, just not instead of cake.

Perhaps sometime I will write about frosted sugar cookies. How can you have Christmas without them?

Coping With Depressing News

On the verge of paralyzing journalism induced depression, Clyde and I have gone on a news diet.

World events seem more depressing than usual lately. For a time of year that media outlets usually feature shark attacks because there's not much else going on, we seem now to be bombarded with news of unthinkable violence.

We no longer want to be constantly upset about Gaza, Syria, Iraq, Ukraine, and Missouri, just to name a few. Al Jazeera and BBC no longer play on our TV all day. When you take in the same depressing stories multiple times in an endless 24 hour news cycle, it starts to get to you. Research shows that watching the same traumatic footage over and over affects you as if it were happening multiple times, even though it really only happens  once.

Instead of watching the endless looping on cable news networks, I'm getting information about world events  mostly through public radio where repeating footage is minimal. The Daily Show and Colbert Report round out how informed I am, if they're not on break. I catch the local TV news occasionally, but there isn't much information there, unless you want lots of weather and local crime.

I used to get a daily newspaper. It came to my front step early in the morning and kept me well informed without the disturbing video overload. I read the articles one time, occasional cutting out the ones I wanted to send to friends - sort of an old fashioned way of sending a link, and then added the leftovers to the recycling bin. I was fairly well informed during those years. But like many people, I quit taking the paper when the price went up and the quality went down, a victim of electronic media.

In spite of information overload, it's harder now to be informed than it used to be. Studies show that with so many news sources these days, people usually only pay attention to the ones which reinforce their world view. In other words, we no longer learn anything from news outlets. We just get our existing opinions reinforced. This is why the Republicans and Democrats in Congress and elsewhere are moving further and further apart.

We should know what's going on in the world. Informed citizens make for intelligent voters.

Do you value being informed? How do you digest information in the 24 hour news cycle? How are you coping with the summer's endless stream of bad news? Just leave a comment, here or on Facebook. I'll follow up in a future BillsWeek.

Taxi Companies HATE Uber, and Other App Tales

I recently downloaded an app called Waze (pronounced "ways") to my iPhone. Waze gathers data from hundreds of users via their smart phones and converts it into traffic information that guides you to your destination using the quickest route possible. For example, I usually take I-25 home from work. But when there's a traffic jam, as there often is, Waze knows about it ahead of time and directs me to a different route. It's a-MA-zing.

Another great app I recently discovered is Uber. Uber, like Waze, gathers information from drivers' smart phones and directs them to passengers who have requested a ride. In other words, I push a button on the Uber app and minutes later a car comes to take me where I want to go. Payment is done via a credit card you enter into the app ahead of time so there's no cash and no tip to mess with. It's so much faster than a taxi which can take up to an hour to arrive after you call for it.

Taxi companies, by the way, HATE Uber.

Everything is an app these days. Doing things from a website on your desktop or laptop computer is so 2000s. Anything you need to do, you can do from an app on the phone in your pocket.

I assume that app is short for application, but it also brings to mind the iPhone's maker, Apple. But that's neither here nor there.

I have relatively few apps on my phone but I've come to depend on them. I have an app to read the local paper, a camera app, an "organizer" which keeps me on task, and a calendar. I have an app which tells me what time it is in any city in the world. I can listen to music via the Pandora app and I can even watch movies on the little tiny screen using the Netflix app. Though I've stopped using it, again, there is also a Weight Watchers app on my phone. I even have an app which tells me whether I've used the allotted monthly amount of data on my phone plan.

There is an app which tells you at what altitude you are, which can come in handy in Colorado. Though I've never used it, there's an app that gay men use to find other nearby gay men. There's probably something comparable for lesbians and straight people, but I wouldn't know about those.

Facebook and Twitter have apps. I haven't fallen under the spell of Twitter yet. Is it something that could benefit me in any way? What would I tweet about? Who would want to know when I go to the bathroom or some such other personal and mundane activity? But I digress.

There are a few things I haven't been able to find an app for. House cleaning, for one. Wouldn't that be great? An app to weed the garden would also be nice. Is there an app that would help me give pills to my cat? Hey, not long ago I would have joked that I wanted an app to avoid traffic jams.

The What's Not Here Anymore Tour

When visiting a new city, it's sometimes fun to visit the most impressive, unique sights. In Denver, you might take in various landmarks such as the state capitol, for example, or the Museum of Nature and Science. Coors Field could be of interest, and you might even swing by the Denver Mint, though it's not much to look at from the outside.

I have an alternative tour. I call it the What's Not Here Anymore tour. After 25 years of living in the Mile High City, I know more about what a location in the city used to be than what it is now.

Though I didn't move here until I was 27, I grew up in Denver's orbit of influence. Denver was where we went to the airport. Denver was where all the TV stations came from. Denver was culture and theatre and shopping. Denver was fancy restaurants like the Spaghetti Factory where we ate whenever we came to town.  Hey, it seemed fancy at the time. Casa Bonita was also a regular stop - yes, I know the food is not that good, but for a kid just discovering his sexuality, those cliff divers were amazing to watch.

The malls in and around Denver were exotic because before 1980, my hometown didn't have one. There was nothing like that first sip of Orange Julius or an ICEE at Cinderella City.

The first traffic jam I remember was in Denver. My father drove the RV as my friend John and I watched from the overhang above the cab. We had to turn the radio off so Dad could concentrate while all those crazy freeway drivers tried to get around us. Naturally, the doors were locked because we were in the big city.

The first time I ever saw a gay couple making out, my family was driving through Cheesman Park on the way to my brother's apartment on High Street. My  parents pretended not to notice. Slack-jawed, I silently vowed I would return to explore this fascinating phenomenon and by golly, I eventually did.

When I moved to Denver, May D&F was the region's primary department store. The downtown location was an interesting paraboloid shape where the gigantic Sheraton now stands.

When I moved to Denver, Denver International Airport was still a massive construction site. Though the old crowded Stapleton Airport hasn't existed for two decades, I miss it. Oh sure, it was unnerving to land on parallel runways, two planes' wings nearly touching as they simultaneously approached the ground. But it only took 10 minutes to get from the end of Concourse E to my apartment on Columbine street. And I continue to be embarrassed by that circus tent that passes for the DIA roof.

It pains me now to see the wasteful demolition at the old University Hospital site, though we are promised new opportunities for housing and retail in the future, I'm starting to wonder if I'll live long enough to see it.

Try as I might, I can't exist totally in the past. I do appreciate the Denver of now.

• The blossoming of Lower Downtown (LODO) over the past two decades has really enlivened the city. 
• I love those whimsical dancing sculptures at the Denver Center for the Performing Arts. 
• The Tattered Cover continues to shine as a literary beacon, even though it's moved around a bit and opened multiple locations. 
• Our Civic Center is second to none when it comes to gigantic holiday light displays. 
• The light rail system and Union Station redevelopment illustrate that people here have enough vision to invest in a bright future.

When all is said and done, however, nothing caps off the day like a visit to the Spaghetti Factory. It hasn't changed.

Tales of the 4-Plex

With the warmer weather this time of year, and with daylight continuing past dinnertime, our windows and shades are wide open so that we may enjoy the benefits of summer. Our senses are engaged by evening breezes, the occasional smell of a rainstorm, and as we move closer to August, the sounds of crickets.  Open windows blur the lines between outside and inside, and as you fold laundry or watch TV, you can't help but notice what some of the neighbors are up to. For example, the couple on the north end has new twin babies. The guy who regularly walks his dog in the yard doesn't always pick up the poop. The little girl across the way enjoys wearing princess dresses, predominantly pink, while her father favors tight fitting bicycle lycra.

Clyde and I are most entertained by the college students who rent the middle unit. We have no idea how many live there, because there is an endless stream of young faces going in and out. We are especially intrigued by two attractive young men who regularly hold hands as they come up the sidewalk. It's great that they are comfortable enough with themselves and their housemates, not to mention the neighbors, to openly express their relationship. Times have certainly changed.

This past week, the students welcomed yet another couple of housemates.

We know because we overheard them through the open windows. One of that hand holding couple stood on the front walk and gave the tour to a couple of newcomers. He indicated their patio and grill, pointed out the hose, discussed street parking, and described a couple of neighbors by name as he pointed to the different condos. When it came time for ours to be pointed to, we very clearly heard him say, "And two older men live there."

Ouch.

He didn't say it in a mean way. He wasn't disrespectful. He just said it as if it were a fact.

Olympia Dukakis as Mrs. Madrigal

I realize we are, in fact, older than he is. I also understand that our actual ages are way beyond his youthful comprehension. Who at 23 can accurately comprehend what it is to be in your 50s?  It's not that I expected he would describe us as "two hot guys," or anything like that. I might have hoped he thought of us as the nice "gay couple next door." I may have even fantasized that I was Mrs. Madrigal in Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City books, inviting the tenants in one by one, lighting up joints, and exuding a nurturing, sage-like wisdom as I listen to their problems.

I don't suppose he would think me younger if I walked up to him, shook my finger in his face, and lectured that not long ago, I was his age. I was hot. I stayed up late. I had boyfriends. I militantly came out to my friends and relatives. I went to marches on Washington. Hell, because of me and all the generations of lesbians and gay men before, he is free to hold hands with his boyfriend outside. I wonder if he's ever even heard of Tales of the City.

Don't worry. I won't say anything. I have to face it. My bald spot is older than my neighbor. I go to bed at 8:30 when he's just on his way out. I couldn't live his life if I wanted to, and in fact, I don't really want to. I am comfortable as one of the older men next door. Now what can I do to get that guy to pick up after his dog?

So Many Passwords, So Little Brain in which to Store Them

It has come to my attention that we are using more passwords than ever, but the space in our brains isn't growing to accommodate them all.

I have passwords for my computer at home, my computer at work, and voice mail systems at each place. I use a password for online banking, to select Netflix movies, and to access a range of accounts from the power company to my credit card. I even have a password for making insurance premium payments online, something I do twice a year.

Why do I need a password to make insurance payments? If someone else wanted to pay my insurance premium, I wouldn't have a problem with that.

I don't think I should need a password to look up information about my gym membership, benefits at work, or the cat's microchip.

The only institution that hasn't made me use a password is my church, but I'm sure we're getting closer to collection plates with keypads on them, a safeguard from tithing hackers.

And how are we supposed to remember them all? If I don't use a password very often, I forget what it is. When I need it I have to click on the "forgot password" link and have yet another one emailed to me. Of course, to get the email, I need, you guessed it, a password.

Passwords are also getting harder to remember because they come with so many requirements. In some cases, you must use a combination of capital letters and small letters, a mixture of letters and numbers, and/or symbols that aren't letters or numbers. God forbid they make any sense so you can remember them. To ensure security, don't use the name of a family member, a city, a pet's name, or your birthday. And for God's sake, don't write them down because a crook might steal them.

It's worse when the password is assigned to you. Our new wifi came with a password that has approximately 27 random letters and numbers. I guess the neighbors won't be piggybacking for free on our internet.

Meanwhile, the worst finally happened. I walked up to an ATM machine and inserted my card. The screen prompted me for a PIN number. I reached for the key pad and my hand froze. I drew a complete blank. To save my life, I couldn't remember that number, one I've been using for years. Nothing.

Like the hard drive on an old, overloaded computer, my brain had crashed.

I didn't get any cash that day. I didn't even get my ATM card back because the machine wouldn't release it without a password. But my account was safe, gosh darn it.