Category: LGBTQA

Momentous Marches

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In late March of 2015, we visited the Painted Desert in northeast Arizona.

Tom and I weren’t yet full-time residents of the Grand Canyon State. We were Illinoisans, traveling on I-40, passing through the desolation and grandeur of the American southwest.

Fortunately, when we saw the sign for the Painted Desert, we had the gumption to exit the highway and soak up the scenery.

I don’t know what I was thinking at the moment Tom snapped this photo. But I imagine the experience of gazing out over the majestic landscape of this geological gem inspired me to keep writing, keep exploring.

I was nearing the midpoint of constructing my first book, From Fertile Ground, trying to maintain my creative momentum and find an ending to my grief-induced story of three writers talking to each other across the generations.

A September 2015 trip to North Carolina would provide the inspiration I needed to cross the finish line.

In 2016–on another momentous late March day–my book went live. I remember the giddy feeling of amazement … holding it in my hands when it arrived in our mail in Arizona.

Somehow, buried in the fog of my mother’s passing, I had unearthed my story, discovered an avenue for my artistic passions, and found my voice.

Since that time, the first half of each year–with March as the centerpiece–has become a catalyst for my creativity. I have published all five of my books (and launched my website) spread across the months of January through May.

This year, March has presented me with a new opportunity, a new wrinkle … and a new voice. Let me explain.

Up until recently, my books have been available in paperback and Kindle formats, but not as audiobooks.

A few friends and family members have encouraged me to pursue this additional option, but the cost and the time required to “give voice” to even one of my books felt prohibitive.

However, recently I learned of a viable option through Amazon, whereby I could select a computer-generated “virtual voice” to tell one of my stories.

I was skeptical at first. The concept felt mechanical and scary. How could a computer-generated voice capture the emotion, description, and intent of my words?

But after doing some research and listening to various options, I found a voice that resonated with me.

It captures the essence of An Unobstructed View, the personal (but strangely universal) story of Tom’s and my circuitous journey–physical and metaphorical–to carve out a new life in the Sonoran Desert of Arizona.

Thanks to computer technology, readers (or I shall I say listeners?) can now feel the sense of possibilities and uncertainties we experienced in 2017–remembering the seminal moments of our past Illinois life while forging ahead (on the other side of trauma) to create a home in Scottsdale.

I hope you’ll listen. Allow yourself to be transported through the theater of the mind. It’s a unique experience–possibly more powerful, like tuning in to someone else’s serendipitous story–to hear the words I composed spoken by a “virtual voice.”

https://www.amazon.com/Unobstructed-View-Personal-Journey-Illinois/dp/B0CY941CS5?ref_=ast_author_dp

At any rate, I know many people prefer to consume their books that way through their devices, through their ear buds, as they navigate the trail of life.

Now, one of mine is out there for you–and all the world–to hear.

Twenty-Three Minutes Until Midnight

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January 1984 felt promising, but exceptionally cold, in the Chicago area.

Jean was due to deliver our first child on January 17. But that day–and several more–passed with no consequential developments. Just a few rounds of snowfall.

Late on January 23, Jean went into labor. When we arrived at Lutheran General Hospital in Park Ridge, Illinois, the nurses examined her. They told us it would be several hours before our child was born.

Jean and I weren’t prepared for the day-and-night-long ordeal that followed. After twenty-three hours of labor, Dr. P pulled me aside.

At that point, he was worried that a traditional delivery would place Jean and our unborn child at risk. He recommended Plan B: an emergency C-section.

Jean was scared; I was worried about her welfare. I insisted on staying during the operation (masked up on the other side of a curtain, away from the medical staff, while they performed the procedure). The doctor agreed it was a good idea for me to be there for emotional support.

A short time later, at 11:37 p.m. on January 24–twenty-three minutes until midnight–our son Nick arrived intact. Jean was okay, too, but totally spent. We both breathed relief.

Our newborn son wailed as the nurses wrapped him in a blanket. His head was slightly misshapen from the birthing process, but they told us not to worry. They laid Nick across Jean’s chest. We had a healthy son.

Jean and Nick stayed at Lutheran General for a few days, which was protocol for the time. Several days later, we signed a few papers, and prepared to leave the hospital.

Jean cradled Nick in a wheelchair that morning. A nurse pushed them down the hall. I pressed the elevator button, carried flowers, and juggled a few possessions as the doors opened.

An older man already onboard smiled as we descended to the ground floor. He wished a good life for our newborn son.

We exited the building. I walked ahead in the cold to bring our car around while Jean and Nick waited with the nurse at the curb. The sun shimmered on a dusting of snow from the night before.

Day-old Nick and me at Lutheran General Hospital on the morning of January 25, 1984.

***

When Nick was born in 1984, I didn’t expect his mom and I would split eight years later. But we did in 1992, just three years after Kirk (his younger brother) was born.

In the aftermath, my sons spent Monday and Wednesday nights–and every other weekend–with me (Tuesday and Thursday nights with their mom) until they were teenagers when they each opted for a home base with Jean. Thanksgivings were with me; Christmases with her. Two vacations occurred every summer. One with her. One with me.

On “Dad nights and weekends” in the early 90s, my boys and I devoured pizza in our cramped apartment in Arlington Heights and on cold, gray days swam in the indoor pool. It was a cheap way to have fun and burn off energy.

During the school year, with their backpacks in tow, we grabbed donuts downstairs in the apartment lobby on the way out the door.

I dropped Nick off at Kids’ Corner (before-and-after-school program), then hustled Kirk off to preschool before I commuted into Chicago’s Loop for work.

Looking back, it was a tumultuous period of disarray, intimacy, and estrangement for all of us. Nonetheless, somehow, we survived. We found our rhythm as a family straddling two homes.

In 1996, I saved enough for a down payment on a modest three-bedroom home nearby. Nick, Kirk and I played catch in the backyard and tossed the football on the open field across the street.

That same year, I met Tom and introduced him to my sons. I know that Nick–particularly as a teenager–felt uncomfortable with having a dad who was different. But, in spite of it, he knew I loved him.

We weren’t your prototypical American family, but with time we found our stride and Nick and Kirk accepted Tom and me.

At first, our basset hound Maggie (we adopted her in 1998) was the comic-relief glue that adhered us.

With time, that connectivity broadened. We found more in common: birthday celebrations; grounding visits with their wise and supportive grandma in St. Louis; fun and thought-provoking movies with Tom and me in the Chicago suburbs.

Not long after Nick–and then Kirk–graduated from college, Maggie died. We all mourned her loss in 2008.

Tom and I knew at the time that our parents wouldn’t be far behind. The nest emptied quickly. They were all gone by 2015.

That same year, at age thirty-one, Nick asked if he could rent our Arizona condo while he looked for a job out west. He needed a change. He wanted to chart his own course, away from the cold, heavy responsibility of the Midwest.

Nick began a new life that January (two years before Tom and I made Scottsdale, Arizona, our permanent home) when he landed a job with a technology company in March.

Over the past nine years, I’ve watched my son’s confidence and self-esteem multiply. He has a good life here.

Of course, during that period, he’s changed jobs and apartments, discovered new loves and suffered a few losses.

But Nick is happier in the sunnier Southwest. And I’m happy that I get to see him occasionally.

After I suffered a heart attack in July 2017 on the way west, Nick helped Tom move some of our bulkier pieces of furniture.

It gave me solace seeing them bond more deeply as I struggled to regain my strength and equilibrium.

Life so far in 2024 is good for all of us. Kirk is planning to visit us in Scottsdale in March. He lives in Chicago and has found a rewarding life as a trauma counselor. He needs a warm escape now and then to stay sharp.

In spite of the vast distance, my younger son and I have managed to deepen our relationship and stay close. As Kirk quarantined in his Chicago apartment during Covid, Tom and I played Scrabble with him online and Zoomed from time to time.

We talk frequently now. Whenever we do, I realize how lucky I am to have two smart and compassionate sons who are contributing members of society.

A few weeks ago, Nick stopped by and watched Oppenheimer with Tom and me. On other occasions, we’ve shared ballgames and dinners or picked ripe citrus fruits off our condo community trees (Nick loves grapefruit).

Next week, Nick and his girlfriend Anastasia will join Tom and me for dinner to celebrate his birthday at a local Scottsdale restaurant he’s been wanting to try.

No doubt, we’ll raise a glass. We’ll toast his first forty years. We’ll recall Nick’s journey west to discover a warmer life of promise.

As a dad, I will always be there for my sons. I’m glad I stuck it out during those trying years in the 90s, because seeing them become who they are–full-fledged adults–is the most gratifying part of fatherhood.

I wonder where their lives will lead them next.

Ten Things I’ve Learned This Year

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From time to time, it’s important to take stock of where we’ve been and how we’ve grown. In that spirit, as December’s light wanes, I look back over the fence at 2023.

Here are ten important things–in no particular order–I’ve learned (or been reminded of) this year. Each is connected to one or more blog posts I wrote in the past twelve months.

***

#1: Creative opportunities are rare butterflies; grab them when they appear.

#2: Music transforms the human heart with joy and hope.

#3: Cats are resourceful, cuddly, and conniving characters.

#4: Losing someone you love to suicide is devastating.

#5: Trees keep us rooted to the places we love most.

#6: Good poetry simply IS; no explanations are required.

#7: My husband is a sweet guy, who really knows his movies.

#8: Carol Burnett is a national treasure and a kind human being.

#9: You can’t replace your mother or father, but you can remember them fondly.

#10: We all need a sense of community to connect and nourish our souls.

***

Join me on my blogging adventure in 2024. Just fill out the information on my Contact Me page. I will be sure to add your email address to my subscriber list.

That After-Concert Feelin’

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My friend Adele Singer captured this glorious musical moment during the second act of Thanks for the Memories: A Gay Christmas Carol, on Saturday afternoon, December 16, 2023.

Today I find myself straddling two worlds: the joy of what was (three fabulous, sold-out holiday concerts last weekend with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus) and the reality of what is (a post-concert malaise and head cold).

Minus the minor illness, this is a feeling I’ve become accustomed to as a writer and performer. You work tirelessly to tell your story, edit it, publish it, and wave goodbye as it bobs on the waves of readership.

Or, in the case of a stage performance, there are the weekly (and then daily) rehearsals that crescendo on opening night–and all the behind-the-scenes machinations of memorizing notes, lyrics, and choralography at home in your robe or underwear.

Then, standing on stage with your chorus mates. All of you wearing black accented with a sparkly, sequined, rainbow-colored vest–mine was blue–waiting with anticipation for the curtain to rise before the opening number–That Christmas Morning Feelin’–and the applause of a full house that followed.

Then, ninety-minutes later, realizing the show is over. Making your way to the lobby to hug and thank loyal friends and family who attended and (based on their enthusiastic response) were most-definitely entertained.

Even listening–as a total stranger who smiles through her tears–grabs you, looks directly into your eyes, and tells you how moved she was by the music and the transformative holiday tale.

She told me it was something she and her partner desperately needed to experience–see, hear, and feel–away from this frightening world.

For me, there is also the added component of savoring my libretto. Remembering when it was a kernel of an idea. Developing characters (three flamboyant-and-visionary Celestials who would visit one lost-and-misguided protagonist).

Then, writing lines of humorous and topical dialogue–that cascade like a string of colorful Christmas lights connecting the branches of each song–in July and August when it was 115 degrees outside in the Phoenix area.

These are the memories I savor on a post-concert Wednesday, five days before Christmas.

***

It rained in Scottsdale early this morning. Heavily. That’s a novelty in the Valley of the Sun, but we’ll take the moisture whenever it comes. More is expected Friday.

As Tom and I sipped our coffee in our den, I read an article Making Space, written by poet and author Christopher Soto, in the November/December issue of Poets & Writers.

In it, he artfully acknowledges the act of fully embracing the process of letting go, once your creative work has landed. In his case, he traveled to Joshua Tree and the desert of Southern California for a farewell ritual for his debut book of poems, Diaries of a Terrorist.

After considering the success of his book, he pulled out his journal and began to write something new.

I haven’t read his book. Maybe I will in 2024. However, his story certainly resonated with me–now that this latest libretto/performance–and my five books that preceded it–has sailed away.

The best thing all of us writers can do as 2024 approaches is to set our sights on writing another story, essay, poem, or libretto.

After all, the world–especially now–needs its artists to step forward and paint a picture of what the world is and what we hope it will become.

***

P.S. I’ll be taking a break until early January. To join me on my blogging adventure in 2024, send a message via my Contact Me page and I will add your email address to my subscriber list. Happy Holidays!!

Tom snapped this photo of me outside the Herberger Theater in Phoenix after our final performance of Thanks for the Memories: A Gay Christmas Carol on Sunday, December 17, 2023.

One Less Hateful Human

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Gifts come in small, medium, and large packages.

When the gift is musical theater–when the right notes, lyrics, blend, dialogue, choreography, and staging surround and transport the spirits of the audience and performers in a positive, fun, and meaningful way–its dimensions, ripple effects, and entertainment value can’t be measured or quantified.

That’s the transformative mission of the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus this weekend at the Herberger Theatre. We will perform our holiday show–Thanks for the Memories: A Gay Christmas Carol–twice Saturday, December 16, and once Sunday, December 17.

What’s my involvement in the concert? I’ll be singing second tenor alongside about eighty of my mates. I also wore a second hat in preparation for the shows. I wrote the libretto for the program and am proud to report that all three performances are sold out.

To say that I am fully vested in the outcome of this program–and brimming with excitement–is an understatement.

My journalistic impulses prompt me to preview the show for you, since few of you reading this will be in the room. Here’s the scoop.

Our concert will be a parody of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol with an array of significant topical and cultural differences.

As the curtain opens, the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus is busy in their holiday workshop. Their mission is to select, influence, and transform one person–Lance, a fictional, homophobic sports figure and Scrooge-like character–into “one less hateful human.”

In the first number, That Christmas Morning Feeling, the audience meets a trio of divine spirits called Celestials: Starina (with their magic wand); Dione (with their rainbow fan); and Stella (with their shiny tiara).

Over the course of the next ninety-minutes, these wacky, playful and somewhat visionary Celestials and the spirit of Dirk (Lance’s Marley-like, ex-publicist colleague) visit Lance.

They lead him on a part-serious-part-campy personal journey of discovery through his past, present, and future holidays.

By sharing scenes of his life, told through music and images, they shine a light on the mistakes he’s made and encourage him to take a more productive path.

Ultimately, they help Lance realize the positive “ripple” effect he can have on the world by opening his heart and mind, correcting the error of his ways, loving himself and his gay identity, and embracing the cultural diversity of his community.

In the process, he repairs an important lost relationship, and even ends up committing to “doing a little good” in the world.

That’s a lot to accomplish in less than two hours, but I believe those in attendance will be moved, inspired, and maybe even dazzled this weekend.

Now, in order for that to happen, I need to get some rest. So, it’s time to take a power nap to recharge my battery between last night’s four-hour rehearsal and tonight’s reprise.

You won’t be surprised to learn that my energy-recouping strategy includes naps Thursday and Friday before our technical and dress rehearsals. Then, I will break a leg (or two) this weekend.

Look for a recap story next week–long after I recover from whatever happens on stage and Sunday night’s cast party.

World AIDS Day

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Since 1981–the beginning of the epidemic–about 40.4 million people have died of HIV/AIDS, according to the World Health Organization. Another 39 million were living with HIV at the end of 2022.

These are staggering numbers, especially when you consider the emotional and economic ripple effect across all the families and loved ones of the victims, who have suffered along the way.

Tonight–on World AIDS Day–I will join other members of the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus at the Parsons Center in Phoenix. We will sing as part of a vigil that will remember those lost … and provide encouragement for those who live with HIV every day.

We will be surrounded by the quilts you see here–just a sampling of those created in the 1980s and 1990s–which pay tribute to victims of this horrible disease.

Ironically, this is also the space where we rehearse every Tuesday night, as we continue to prepare for our holiday concert, December 16 and 17 at the Herberger Theater, and a weekend of holiday musical fun and inspiration.

Still today, the quilts prompt a sense of sadness and reverence for lives snuffed out. For people we will never know and never meet. For people we loved and lost. For the beauty they brought and the art they never created.

From my spot on the back row of the tenor two section, I captured fellow members of the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus–surrounded by AIDS quilts–rehearsing on November 28, 2023.

My Way Out

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In this world of perpetual social upheaval, being who I am-openly gay–isn’t always easy. But I persist.

I decided more than twenty-five years ago that coming out was the only healthy way to live.

With the assistance of two amazing therapists (thank you, Barry and Valerie!) and the love of a small circle of friends and family, I discovered that authenticity was my way out of denial, depression, and anxiety.

Over the years, I’ve written frequently on this topic in my books and here in my blog. Today, on National Coming Out Day in the United States, I’m here to remind you once again that I am a proud gay man.

This one aspect of my identity–the fact that I am attracted to the same sex and married happily to another man–certainly defines the way I see the world. It gives me compassion and empathy for others who are different … no matter their skin color, religious beliefs, economic status, or capabilities.

All my life, I have been protective of those who are disenfranchised and less fortunate. I came from a modest background and have survived personal and family hardships.

As a teenager and young man, I didn’t understand or love myself, but now that I do I feel it is my obligation to remain visible. To pave the way for queer teens and adults who may not yet feel comfortable enough to come out.

In 2023, I think most Americans are supportive of their gay friends, family members, and neighbors. Of course, there is a vocal minority that would prefer we don’t exist. I have no control over their beliefs.

No doubt, a handful of haters will be demonstrating at the end of the Phoenix Pride Parade route on October 22, when I sing and march with my friends in the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.

But they will be overshadowed by the thousands of LGBTQ supporters–gay and straight–who will line the parade route with their parents and children, cheer, and wave their rainbow flags.

We are a country that was founded on the notion of “liberty and justice for all.” At times, we have failed miserably at fulfilling our mission as a democratic society.

But I’m not ready to give up. I still have hope–as a sixty-six-year-old gay man, husband, father, brother, writer, singer, friend, neighbor, voter, and citizen of the United States–that we will find our way out of the political divisiveness that exists.

I’m not sure how we’ll get there, but today–and everyday–all of us who are different must continue to come out, be ourselves, love each other, and remind the world that LGBTQ citizens are valuable, kind, contributing, and responsible Americans. We will not be denied.

Christmas Creep

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I know. It’s odd for me to write about Christmas in August. Particularly because the temperatures outside in Arizona are oven like.

However, today–like a kid on Christmas morning ready to rip open presents–I jumped out of bed at 6:30 when I heard the thunderclap. I raced to the window, threw up the sash, and pressed my nose against the glass.

I didn’t see Santa or a team of reindeer but witnessed the next best thing. Actual rain drops pounded the sidewalk. They pinged on the top of our metal carport and disappeared into the thirsty mouths of malnourished cacti.

Get this. In addition to forty days of 110-plus temperatures so far in 2023, we hadn’t seen rain in Scottsdale since March 22. (Okay, evidently there was a brief storm here on July 26, but Tom and I missed it. We were in Flagstaff.)

The lack of moisture falling from the sky has led some of us in the Valley of the Sun to refer to the summer of 2023 as the year of the non-soon versus the monsoons that generally produce a few gully washers. Typically, they account for much of our annual rainfall.

Back in the winter wonderland of my creative mind, over the past month I’ve been channeling the holiday season. Why is Christmas creeping into my psyche? Because I’ve been writing about it.

I’ve just completed a draft of another libretto for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus (PHXGMC) 2023 holiday show. This one is titled Thanks for the Memories: A Gay Christmas Carol.

In addition to writing for PHXGMC, I will be standing on stage, performing in the concerts December 16 and 17 at the Herberger Theatre in Phoenix.

It will be a musical mash-up–nostalgic, glitzy, whimsical, and spiritual–embedded in a story of a Scrooge-like character, who is transformed by the power of beautiful music, personal truth and a trusted community.

It will also be the final holiday concert for Marc, our artistic director for more than twenty years, who has decided to move on to pursue other creative endeavors when his contract ends next July.

Tonight, is our first rehearsal for the new concert season. There will be old and new members to greet and new music to hand out.

Of course, it’s just the beginning. But whether I’m concocting a story or singing the first notes of an unfamiliar tune, it is the creative process that has always captured my joy and attention.

Most of all, I am thankful for every magical moment that lies ahead with my friends on stage and off as we create another batch of musical memories.

One Step Closer to Midnight

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At six, I ducked. I covered. When Cronkite broke the news, I grieved for JFK. I wondered what might have been. I watched John-John salute his dad’s horse-drawn casket as it passed by.

At sixteen, I drove and grew. I discovered the stage. My long hair hid my face, but through the blond strands I watched the lies and disgrace of Nixon and Watergate unfold and consume our nation.

At twenty-six, I cradled my first-born son. I played ad man in the tallest building in the world. I watched the AIDS epidemic rage without relief. Reagan stood by to pontificate.

At thirty-six, I grieved for my father and raised two little boys–alone. Clinton signed Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. In short order, I watched the military expand its closets. Meanwhile, I found a way out of mine.

At forty-six, I climbed the ladder, fed our dog, and paid more child support. I watched my weight escalate. My blood pressure and responsibilities soared as George W fanned the flames in Iraq.

At fifty-six, I grieved for my mother. I shed my corporate skin. I wrote. I sang again. I photographed dragonflies. I watched Obama change course and support marriage equality. I felt hopeful.

Now, six days before my sixty-sixth, I cleave to my husband and pray that the masses will continue to support Biden–our buffer from total mayhem–while insanity lurks on the horizon.

We watch and sigh as another wave of misguided declarations from the misnamed Supremes–and their perpetrators–land on the doorstep of freedom and turn back the clock on once-protected classes.

What has become of our red-white-and-blue country? The country I still love–that beacon of hope–no longer exists. Now we are black and blue. Punch drunk from the previous administration. Bruised from an insurrection that took us to the brink nearly thirty months ago.

Still, we watch and wait for justice and accountability. Will it ever come? Or are we simply poised for another distraction? Another round of fireworks to illuminate our darkness and denial?

It certainly feels like we are one step closer to midnight.

***

If my poem moved you, check out my latest book A Path I Might Have Missed on Amazon.

Blueberries for the Brave

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Life gets messy at times. For instance, Tuesday morning Tom and I were grocery shopping at Fry’s near our home in south Scottsdale. We picked up a pint of blueberries and placed them in our cart.

As we turned the corner and left the produce section, the container popped open. Half of the contents spilled out and tumbled to the floor. Some smashed and splattered. Others rolled fifty feet away.

Of course, accidents happen. We apologized. We helped a few kind Fry’s employees clean up the mess.

On the other end of life’s spectrum, there are spectacular moments that produce a cascade of love and joy. Crescendo moments we imagine and envision on paper, which work out better than we had planned. Seminal moments that transcend our dreams.

Last weekend was filled with those moments–standing on stage at Tempe Center for the Arts with about seventy of my Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus mates, manufacturing an amazing blend of transformative music and stirring stories for three appreciative, enthusiastic, and occasionally tearful audiences. (They were simply responding to the heartfelt, emotional, honest Born to Be Brave moments that revealed themselves on stage.)

From stage right on the top riser, I sang as a chorus member and watched as a writer. With style, panache, and musicality, five of my chorus friends embodied and embellished a quintet of LGBTQ characters I created months before.

Over the course of the past few months, I’ve observed as they’ve evolved: Bry, a trans character from Idaho who found their voice with the support of friends; Toni, a bisexual artist with an unruly heart of gold; Gregory, a wise-and-resilient survivor of the AIDS-plagued 1980s; Les, an ultra-available, funny and sexy accountant; and Q, a young, flamboyant, energetic, queer leader who owns the stage and won’t be denied.

The premise? In an ode to A Chorus Line, they all audition for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus in Act One. Ultimately, in Act Two, they each grow and join the group. They take the stage. They sing and dance. They find their voices and a new community of friends. In the show’s finale, they perform with the chorus and realize they were born to be brave.

***

Now, a few days have passed. The show is over. The blueberries at Fry’s have been cleaned up. I’m enjoying the high of a successful performance and artistic experience … the creative aftermath … but also recognizing the lull that comes after.

I’m beginning to regain my energy. (I left a lot of it on stage last weekend.) I’m also realizing the power of music and theatre. Friends who attended the concert have told me how much they enjoyed the show, and what a positive emotional impact it had on them–seeing and hearing the triumphant stories of five LGBTQ characters told through music in a world and community that needs love in all its forms … in all its splendor.

It gives me solace to know that — maybe — all of my chorus members and I have helped to create and produce sweet, luscious blueberries for the brave. To help nourish all of us on the rocky road of life.