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.

December’s Delight

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Nature’s mid-century palms rose early without caffeine’s jolt. The quartet whisked breakfast into curls of golden cotton candy best consumed in a wondrous hush.

Perched on sprinkled pavement and slanted roofs, a mix of mourning doves, misplaced pigeons, and I marveled at December’s delight beyond distant flurries.

***

To enjoy more of my poetry, buy my latest book–A Path I Might Have Missed–on Amazon.

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.

Because I Still Remember

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Dear Dad,

Thirty Thanksgivings have come and gone. You wouldn’t recognize the world now. It’s not the one you left on November 26, 1993–much less the country you helped defend during World War II.

Despite some steps forward, life in 2023 is far more complicated, contentious, and fragile for most people.

Nonetheless, I count myself as one of the lucky ones. Thankful to be alive. Thankful for the love of family and friends. Thankful to remember you.

I met Tom about three years after you died. In my thirties, I didn’t imagine this sense of companionship and contentment in my later years … able to marry another man with a similar worldview and creative disposition.

Nor did I imagine living and writing in the warmth of the Sonoran Desert. Creating a life far outside the bounds of the Midwest existence I called home for nearly sixty years.

Over the past three decades, I’ve often reflected on your life, your troubles, your good intentions.

Whenever Tom and I watch the film, I Never Sang for My Father, I am reminded of the deep and treacherous waters fathers and sons navigate together.

We had our share of those moments, but I don’t see a huge resemblance between our relationship and the conflicts facing the two lead characters–frail father (Melvyn Douglas) and his writer son (Gene Hackman)–who never find common ground or the language to make their relationship whole.

There is a profound line in the movie that resonates and always leaves me in tears.

“Death ends a life. But it does not end a relationship, which struggles on in the survivor’s mind toward some resolution, which it may never find.”

Thirty years later, I feel at peace as I recall our relationship in some unnamed, spiritual way. I feel it on certain occasions with my sons. Or when Tom and I commiserate over our personal losses.

Or as I consider my book of poems, which I published earlier this year. Or when I sing on stage with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus and sense a ripple of emotion charging through my heart and lungs.

I can imagine how proud you would be to see how far I’ve come. You were always the first one to stand and applaud when I sang in high school and college. Thank you for that.

I never told you that I understood your struggle to be heard, even when your depression caused me pain. I observed both your successes and failures–your hopeful exuberance, love of family, health challenges, and bouts of unhappiness.

They have shaped my odyssey as a writer and given me greater compassion and empathy for the plight of the disenfranchised.

In 2023, I live about fifteen hundred miles west of St. Louis, far away from your grave at Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery. So, I won’t be able to visit your marble slab today, but this letter is better.

Rest assured–long after your final breath the day after that big meal with your sisters on Thanksgiving 1993–our sometimes-messy-sometimes-sweet bond still exists.

We will be father and son forever. That will always matter to me. Because I still remember.

Love, Mark

My father’s final resting place at Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery south of St. Louis.

Thankful Every Day

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Today in the United States we celebrate Thanksgiving. It is easy to become consumed by the preparations for this holiday. To focus on the feast we will consume, while many in the world aren’t as fortunate.

But there is greater meaning–in our bodies, hearts, and minds–when we pause and recount what makes life satisfying beyond the things that adorn our days.

I am thankful every day for the love of family past and present, friends and neighbors near and far, good health and the ability to write and sing, gorgeous trees and furry critters that grace our lives, and most definitely the world Tom and I have discovered and created together inside and outside our Arizona home.

Wherever you live, thank you for joining me on this journey. I am thankful for the ability to connect with you–for this opportunity to share my voice through words, images, ideas and memories–every day.

Thanksgiving in the Desert

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Grief is a strange, but reliable, motivator.

With Thanksgiving 2013 approaching, Tom and I knew we needed to change things up after my mother’s slow-and-painful exit the previous January. We decided to escape our suburban Chicago home.

In the wake of our significant loss, we wanted to create a new tradition and plan a week-long Thanksgiving holiday in the desert (in our cozy Scottsdale condo) with my twenty-something sons Kirk and Nick, and Nick’s girlfriend Stephanie.

Early November came. Each of us cleared our schedules. About ten days before our flight from Chicago to Phoenix, Tom developed pneumonia. He was hospitalized for a few days, but insisted he would be well enough to make the trip.

Remarkably, Tom recovered enough for his doctor to clear us for take-off. When we landed at Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix just west of the Papago buttes, I felt relief.

Over the next few days, Tom’s health continued to improve. We even climbed a portion of “A” Mountain in Tempe near the ASU (Arizona State University) campus.

On Thanksgiving Day 2013, Tom, Nick, Stephanie, Kirk and I dined outside under an orange tree on the patio of Mission Palms hotel, also in Tempe.

In those cool-but-sun-soaked moments–still a year before Tom and I would marry and four before we would move to Arizona permanently–I realized that the space created by my mother’s passing would mean more than a horizon shrouded in tears.

It would mean new possibilities … new chapters … for all of us.

Why We Live Here

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The longer, hotter summer of 2023 in the Valley of the Sun claimed countless trees and plants–not to mention hundreds of human lives.

Now that November has settled in, we are reminded that cooler mornings and evenings–with warm, sunny afternoons sandwiched in between–actually exist in central Arizona from October through May. This is why we live here.

Unlike most of the United States, fall is a time of renewal in the Sonoran Desert. It is more like spring with an autumnal twist–minus the crunch of rotting leaves underfoot.

We desert rats can now focus on revitalizing our gardens and spirits. Perhaps a Barbara Karst or Torch Glow bougainvillea here–or a crested cactus there–to dress up the back patio in time for Thanksgiving.

Whatever your potting preference, it is growing season despite the advancing darkness. While old plants and trees lick their wounds, new ones pose with the promise of buds to endure winter–a foreign concept for most of the Northern Hemisphere reconciled to the shiver of ice and cold.

Our New View

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Trees connect us to the earth and sky. They adorn our natural spaces with character, continuity, and shade. Though they never speak, trees–if we listen–whisper wisdom in the wind.

***

Tom and I have missed the presence of a tree in front of our Scottsdale home for nearly six months.

In May, carpenter bees sawed our fifty-year-old fig tree, selected and planted by Tom’s grandfather in the early 1970s.

Sadly, it split in two and tumbled down in the darkness. Only a stump remained for nearly six months.

During the long, hot summer of 2023, I missed the solitude and protection of a tree outside our north-facing window.

Each time I walked past our fig tree’s stump, it reminded me of other recent losses: our friend Dave last December; Frances (my mother’s sister) in July; then another friend Chad … suddenly in September.

Strange as it sounds, the space where our fig tree once stood felt like an open wound or incomplete canvas. But that changed in September when Tom and I shopped for a new tree.

I felt the exuberance of nature’s possibilities as we walked through Moon Valley Nursery in Phoenix–sizing up the options: Hong Kong Orchid (flowers in the spring); Chinese Elm (strong shade tree); Ficus (evergreen and can be trimmed to stay small); and Red Push Pistache (drought-resilient with a pop of color in the late fall).

Jonnie was our escort and sales rep. She helped us compare and contrast the leading candidates. By the end of September, the choice was clear for Tom and me.

We picked the new tree of our dreams, a hearty Red Push Pistache. It is best known for the vivid red color it produces in late November.

In that sense, it will remind us of the Burning Bush we planted in the front yard of our home in Mount Prospect, Illinois in the summer of 2013.

It turned blood red every October (and still provides a splash of color though we left in 2017), after the Blue Spruce that preceded it died in the spring of 2013 … a few months after my mother left this earth.

***

On November 1, a crew from Moon Valley Nursery arrived to remove our fig tree stump. As they dug up the remaining gnarly and decaying roots and hollowed out the hole, Tom and I could feel relief pour in.

The following afternoon, our new, mature, Red Push Pistache tree arrived on the back of a long, flatbed truck. A team of five men from Moon Valley maneuvered it through the gate and down the sidewalk. Moments later, the crew enlarged the hole to accommodate our new tree’s three-foot ball of roots.

By five o’clock they had anchored our durable-and-drought-resistant shade tree in the ground in front of our condo. Soon after, they left to deposit another tree for another customer.

I imagine, in a few weeks–as Tom and I prepare to sit down at our kitchen table and give thanks on a Thursday–our new tree will lavish us with a blaze of red leaves.

But even before the redness appears, it feels as though some semblance of balance, normality, and renewal has returned to reveal our new view in south Scottsdale outside our north-facing window.

A Ticket to the World Series: Part Two

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Here in Arizona, the Diamondbacks’ dream of winning the World Series in 2023 faded more quickly than a fleeting November sunset. But life goes on in the Valley of the Sun. Congratulations to the Texas Rangers for winning the World Series for the first time in their fifty-two-year history.

In my previous blogpost, Dad and I failed to secure bleacher tickets to the 1968 World Series. However, we did discover a parking ticket flapping on our windshield when we returned to our car. Now, as promised, on to part two of my story, also an excerpt from Tales of a Rollercoaster Operator.

***

Fourteen years later, the 1982 Cardinals returned to the World Series to face the Milwaukee Brewers.

I was living in the Chicago area and working as a copywriter at Sears Tower. My boss Dave–Sears national retail advertising department head–called me into his office late one afternoon. That had never happened before.

He told me he knew I was a die-hard St. Louis Cardinals fan working alongside dozens of Cubs and White Sox fans, who had long since lost interest in the pennant race.

Because of his position and advertising influence, the powers that be at Sports Illustrated had given Dave one complimentary ticket to game four in Milwaukee, which he couldn’t use.

When Dave handed me the ticket, my jaw dropped to the floor and out poured a stammering stream of thank yous. He told me to enjoy myself, but to keep my mouth shut.

I’m sorry Dave. I managed to keep this secret for thirty-four years (note: I wrote this in 2016). Somehow, I feel the statute of limitations on this must have expired. I hope you don’t mind that I’m breaking my vow of silence after all this time.

The following Saturday morning I headed north to Milwaukee and made my way into County Stadium. Of course, I wish Dad could have joined me. He was back at home in St. Louis and ready to watch the game on TV, while I–wearing my Cardinals cap–was seated among a sea of Brewers fans in another beer town four hundred miles north of St. Louis.

The Cardinals lost 7-5 that afternoon. They were the victims of a dramatic seventh-inning surge by Harvey’s Wall Bangers. (Harvey Kuenn was the manager of the Brewers.)

During the rally, I was doused with suds by Brewers fans sitting in the grandstands above me. They were tired of hearing me chirp about the Cardinals. Even so, I finally saw my team play a World Series game in person and a few days later got my revenge.

Led by manager Whitey Herzog, the ’82 Cardinals–Willie McGee, Ozzie Smith, Lonnie Smith, Keith Hernandez, Tom Herr, Bob Forsch, Joaquin Andujar, Bruce Sutter, and the like–won it all in the seventh and deciding game.

Win or lose, after a fourteen-year wait I could finally say I stood in the stands and watched my team play in the World Series on a crisp afternoon in Milwaukee.

Moments before the first pitch, I placed my hand on my heart and sang the national anthem with about fifty thousand Brewers fans I didn’t know … and one weary World War II veteran back at home in St. Louis.

I knew Dad would be standing in his living room, belting out the Star-Spangled Banner in front of his TV. Knowing that made it all the sweeter.

***

After sharing this story from my World Series vault with you, I can now say the 2023 baseball season is over officially. Sports allegiances are like the roots of family trees … they run deep. So, you can be sure I’ll be rooting for the St. Louis Cardinals to rebound in 2024 and add a new chapter to their rich history.

If that isn’t in the cards, maybe the young, talented Arizona Diamondbacks can produce another magical run next year to capture the crown.

A Ticket to the World Series: Part One

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The St. Louis Cardinals finished with a 71-91 record this year, landing in last place in the National League Central Division. With a thud in early October, my favorite team–rich with winning tradition that decorated my 1960’s childhood memories–ended the season with its worst win-loss record since 1990.

However, as luck would have it, the Arizona Diamondbacks (D-Backs)–my second favorite team now that I live in the Valley of the Sun– blind-sided all prognosticators.

Against all odds, this young, exciting, resilient team defeated the Milwaukee Brewers, Los Angeles Dodgers, and Philadelphia Phillies in previous playoff series and advanced to the World Series to play the Texas Rangers.

As I write this, the Rangers and Diamondbacks have each won a game in this best-of-seven fall classic. Beginning Monday, the teams will play the next three games in Phoenix at Chase Field.

The stadium is about ten miles west of our home in Scottsdale, but Tom and I have no inclination to spend thousands–or even hundreds of dollars–to sit in the stands and cheer for the team. Instead, we will watch the action and results unfold on TV–or the “tube” or “idiot box” as Dad would have called it.

Speaking of Dad, the timing and topic is right for me to share an excerpt from Tales of a Rollercoaster Operator, my book of stories from my Missouri youth. I hope you enjoy this tale about the baseball bond he and I–two Cardinals’ lovers–shared.

***

With Dad as my ever-loving companion, I hoped we would someday see a World Series game together in person. That possibility seemed akin to flying to the moon and back. But, in October 1968, we tried to make that dream a reality.

I was eleven years old. That summer the Cardinals clinched the National League pennant for the third time in five years on the strength of a 97-65 record. They would defend their 1967 World Series crown and face the Detroit Tigers in the Fall Classic.

On a crisp October morning, as I munched on stale Apple Jacks and Dad drained the contents of his saucer back into his coffee cup, I cupped my left ear toward the kitchen radio speaker.

The KMOX announcer provided details of when and where fans could line up that day to buy bleacher tickets for games 1, 2, 6 and 7. The Cardinals would host those four games in St. Louis.

I turned to Dad. He had the same “let’s do it!” look on his face. We were about to embark on an important mission: landing two World Series bleacher tickets.

With a surge of adrenalin and spontaneity that swept us off the front porch, we grabbed our jackets, hopped in our ’65 Chevy Biscayne, and drove ten miles into downtown St. Louis (a few blocks from the Gateway Arch).

I had a grand illusion that we would drive up to the ballpark, step up to the ticket window, plop down some cash, grab our newly minted tickets, and be on our way.

But, when we arrived, a stream of Cardinals fans snaked around Busch Memorial Stadium and down a few blocks. I soon realized this game of standing in line for tickets was likely to go extra innings.

Our first step was to find a parking space. Like a miner searching for gold nuggets, Dad circled the stadium two or three times for that elusive spot. Just as we were about to abort our mission, we hit pay dirt.

Dad landed our boxy craft in an unmarked open space, in the shadow of dingy, abandoned brick warehouse several blocks away. From there, we hoofed it and found our way to the end of the elongated queue of ticket-hungry spectators.

Minutes and hours passed, but the line stood still. As darkness descended, fans all around us unrolled sleeping bags to ride out the night rooted in cement.

Except for our jackets and a few snacks, we were unprepared for the madness, but managed to buddy up with a few of our neighbors. Between sighs and “what if” scenarios, we borrowed a square or two of an old quilt to sit down and wait out the marathon.

Dawn broke after a sleepless night with relative strangers and policemen hovering nearby. So did the veritable ticket-hungry logjam. We moved slowly at first. After a few hours, we could see the progress we were making.

Without warning, line jumpers cascaded in from all directions. We felt our tempers rise and wondered what happened to the cops from the night before. Even so, we were close enough to feel an ending was in sight.

That’s when several ballpark personnel strolled by to announce the most dreaded five words: There are no tickets left. With the ticket window closed, our mission was over.

Our tempers were in tatters. Our spirits were shattered. We crash landed. We left the line ticketless and turned around to make the long walk back to the car.

Maybe the walk was exactly what we needed. Dad and I were able to burn off steam and warm up after our long, empty sojourn on St. Louis streets. But there was one more surprise in store–a reminder of our overnight, urban odyssey.

When we arrived back at our car, we found a St. Louis parking violation flapping in the breeze under the worn wiper blade on the passenger side of our windshield. Technically, we had secured a World Series ticket after all. Just not the kind we imagined.

As it turned out, the Cardinals lost the World Series that year, thanks to Mickey Lolich’s pitching heroics on behalf of the Tigers. So, I suppose Dad and I didn’t miss much in the way of celebrating in October 1968.

***

If you follow my blog, look for part two of this story in the coming week.