SHAVINGS FROM MY HEAD

The parade of nearly naked go-go boys goes floating by…..

…Happy, Gay and Pride all dancing side by side…

…why do I feel so straight?…..

Canned expressions, caffeinated aftermath

Gay boys will be gay boys.

Sight unseen?

….or perhaps, visionary….

Voting booths or bathroom stalls

Personals on Craig’s List.

How shall I cast my vote?

…All signs point in the proper direction.

 The chance to relieve your manhood.

Which to choose when you’re a fag?……

…times of unrest, our democracy hangs by a thread…

should we hang around?

or keep building?

   When I was small, too small to fend for myself, like most children I relied on my parents for guidance and protection. Thus, whenever I got into scuffles with my brothers over who would sit in the front seat during a car trip, or whose television program would trump other preferences, I logically accepted statements like “Because I said so” or “Because I’m your mother/father”. But, like most developing offspring—while in the midst of sibling rivalry—eventually I caught on to the concept of independence.

By the time I was ten or eleven, the jig was up.

Armed with my newfound liberty, once I joined the ranks of psychological emancipation, there was no turning back. I’d have sooner given up my Helen Reddy album, my gigantic round brush (for straightening my then curly hair) and even….my banana-yellow corduroy bellbottoms, before I’d relinquish any portion of my freethinking ways.

From that point on, I blossomed into a determined adolescent, and eventually (much to my parents relief) a self-sufficient adult. I never looked back. Never again did I question what was rightfully mine. Even as a quizzical young homo, did I ever feel as if anything (reasonably obtainable) should not or could not be mine.

Now, at 48, with the passing of proposition 8, I am faced with being thrust back in time—to the closeted, uninformed ways of my youth. Any hope of a wedding march has been (sadly) replaced with a march of protest.

As of late, while I stomp the streets of Los Angeles, chanting in unison with my fellow protesters, I’m (actually) speechless that I’ve landed in such a position. Independent, proudly gay, middle-aged and rapidly wrinkling, it’s as if I’m reliving my childhood: a small boy, too insignificant for a seat at the coveted “adult table”. Only allowed a view from the card-table, the children’s table. Only to be seen and not heard. 

What was once the natural progression of acquiring my independence, my equality, my life, has now been deemed a character flaw; a mark, not only on my constitution, but that of this country. A country, like my childhood, built on independent thinking. And sadly, now the variations in which people might freely develop, has buckled under the pressures of the church and brought not only me, but a good portion of the country to its knees—and not in prayer, but in sadness and division.

While marching, when I hear statements touted like “Yes on 8 to protect our children”, I am reminded of “Because I said so”. And then, yet again, in the face of discrimination, I am reminded (by signs like the enclosed snap—from last night’s march) that it is the gays who make the neighborhoods better. We do this while applying the same fearless abandon, the same independence we have always accessed. We do it naturally. We do it with humor and style.

So now…as I replenish my stock of throat lozenges and concept new signage (be prepared—I have some good ones coming), I think to myself, if I’m going to get propositioned, stuck behind the 8 ball, I refuse to be exiled back to the card-table. Back to insignificant. Back to underdeveloped. Why? Because….like all good gay boys, I listened to my mother. Why? Because she said so!

“No dolls! Only trucks…

 ….you’re a boy not a fruit!

If only I’d known I could mix cement. 

Too old for children’s parties, I inflate your day.

Where’s my dollar?

Blow me….

 Sitting at the intersection waiting for the light to change, frustrated with my commute, I began fiddling with the car CD player.

While song searching, out of the corner of my eye, the morning sunlight cast a chrome slash across the windshield. Like a crow attracted to a shiny object, my eyes followed the gleam across the street, along the curb and up a lamppost—eventually landing on a grocery cart with a suitcase inside. Being a big fag, naturally I became attracted to the pink fuzzy object fastened to the handle of the suitcase. Next (I’m assuming) a homeless man, dressed as you would envision a homeless man—big overcoat, tattered hiking-boots, baggy clothes—sauntered by my car window with a cardboard sign that read Feed Me in one hand and a coffee cup for donations in the other.

Repelled, I rolled up my window and sighed with relief when the light changed and I could drive away—accompanied by Annie Lennox. But as I drove on in my air-conditioned car en route to my job, I began to feel bad…and then, I felt worse.

I began to wonder who was really free, him or me? He had no mortgage, no car, no job, no financial responsibilities to worry about—just a pink fuzzy bear. And I thought, at 47, I’ve spent half my life working the hallways of various offices to feed myself, and the rest of the time working the streets attempting to find the companionship of a BIG PINK BEAR! Maybe he’s the one who has it right—by putting the cart before the house payment. But…what do I know…I’m in debt.   

…with the anticipated buzz of the movie—Sex and the City—I must have the perspective settling back into my thoughts. These four ladies were strolling in front of me and “just like that”, I thought, The L.A. version. oops…..