jAzZblOg

DeAd jaZzBloG

This blog is now dead. I won't be updating it. I will leave it up for a month, probably until August 1, but then it will disappear forever. I've transferred all of the files to my new site, www.jazzding.com and have been blogging over there exclusively for about a week. The new site is on GoDaddy and supports the blog with Wordpress. It's a very different look, but one I rather like. Migration wasn't easy and I'm still adjusting, but all in all I'm happy. So, if you are a regular, kill your old bookmark and plug in the new site, ok. Dios lo Bendiga.

My-Gration

I'm moving this blog.  I'm importing it into Wordpress and hosting it on my own Godaddy website.  It will become a part of jazzding.com.  It's been an interesting week of stolen moments here and there, doing and tweaking and rearranging and photoshopping.  Though the site is not quite done, you are certainly welcome to check it out and give me feedback.  You'll find it at:

www.jazzding.com

The Dreaded Credit Card Payment Allocation Rip-Off

So, here's the deal:  I was in Guatemala last December, in a town called Leon, I think.  I needed cash and had little so I found an ATM.  Unfortunately it wouldn't take my debit card because it is a MasterCard, so I had to use my Visa .  I wanted $100 but then there were a ton of fees on it when I got back home, so the total was just under $130. 

Now, six months later, I happened to look carefully at my statement and noticed that my regular balance was paying at 7.9% but that rotten $130 was at 25%!  Obscene, right?  Sure, but to put it into perspective, that's less than $3 a month.  So I'm paying $3 a month for a mistake I made last December in Guatemala.  That's in addition to roughly $30 in fees I've already paid for the same mistake.

'This is stupid,' I thought, and I called the customer service line for the credit card.  It's through AAA, but is administered by B of A.  I got Erica on the line and told her I wanted to pay that off.  She told me that all payments I make would be applied to the regular balance before applying to the cash advance balance.  In other words I would have to pay off the card before I could retire that stupid $130 which is billing at 25% interest!  Erica had been to customer service school so she knew only how to recite the policy and say no, but I eventually succeeded in getting her to pass me on to her supervisor, Thoreau.

Thoreau was a little less passionate in his recitation of the policy and was sympathetic to my plight when saying no, but the results were the same.  I kept at him, however, and after several requests, he put me on hold for a long time and then handed me off to an Assistant Vice President, Michael.  Now, what the heck is an Assistant Vice President?  Anyway, Michael was even more calm in reciting the policy which I could now recite verbatim myself (I'm very quick with scripts). 

'Michael,' I said, 'I wasn't stupid when I got this credit card and I promise you I was aware of the 25% cash advance rate.  But I'd never gotten a cash advance in my life and knew I'd never have to deal with that.'  I was building a case, point by point.  'I probably was stupid to use the card as I did in Guatemala and I am certain I never even thought about the rate when I was pulling the cash out that machine.  Nonetheless, I signed the credit card agreement and I don't contest that per the terms and conditions, I am liable for the 25%.'  Points one and two were all about admitting my mistake and acknowledging that I should have known what I was getting into. 

'I have no problem with any of that, Michael,' I went on. 'What I'm having a problem with is the fact that it is impossible for me to retire that balance until I pay off the credit card.  That's about $5,500 and if I have to pay off the card to get rid of the 25% charge, I'll do it by transferring the balance to another card and closing the account.'  There.  Logical.  Putting consequences right up front.  There was a pause . . . then Michael began to quote policy again. 

'Wait, Michael,' I said.  'Do you have my account open in front of you?'

'No . . . wait just a minute.'  The sound of clicking computer keys sang in the background.

'Got it?' I asked.

'Yes . . . I see you've been with us for some time . . . '

'Almost four years,' I said, ' But what I want you to notice is that every single month for that entire time you've gotten $800, like clockwork before the due date.  That's because I have it on bill pay and it happens automatically.'

'Hmmmm.'

'Now, my question to you is this:  what is your job?  Is it to enforce a stupid policy that makes the company less that $3 a month or is it to hang on to a good customer?'

'Well, both, really.  I'm supposed to satisfy the customer while preserving profit.' 

'So what you're telling me is that I'm not worth $3 a month to you guys?'

'Well, no, I'm not saying that . . . .' he was faltering.  'Can you hold on for a minute?  I want to look at this account a little further.'

So I listened to cool jazz for about 3 minutes.  When Michael came back, he said he would try to get the thing paid off.  He made no promises and told me straight up he thought his chances were nill, but he was going to give it his best shot.  I ended the call by telling him what a great job Erica and Thoreau did in enforcing the policy and saying no.

We'll see . . . truth is I'll be surprised if he does get it done.  And if he does'nt, I'm not going to leave.  I mean, that card is at 7.9% and the best deal I've seen lately is about 9.5%.  Still, if was a fun morning of negotiating.

How to Get to The Best Body Shop in Tijuana

I continue to get many hits and lots of questions about my experiences with Saul Sandoval's auto paint and body shop in Tijuana.  He's an extraordinary man and has a great business -- and will save you money.  Read more:  HERE and HERE. Finding him is not easy, so here are a couple of maps that will help.  These are thumbnails, so if you click them they will open bigger.  Then you can right click and either save or print them. 

 

The map on the left shows the area where the shop is located relative to the border crossings.  If you print this it should get you close.  The one on the right is a detail of the specific area.  Show these maps to anyone and they should be able to direct you.  By the way, it probably won't help you but here is the actual address:

Sandoval Carroceria y Pintura
Saul Sandoval, Propietario
Av. Baja California #304 Col. Durango
Tijuana, BC
Phone (from USA): 011-52-664-261-83-72

Nextel: 152 15 11264

Get Ready: I'm Moving

Sometime in the next month I will be migrating to a self-hosted blog in Wordpress.  I'm in the design and import phase right now and the purpose of this post is to

Get enough empty space so that I can screen capture my Typepad background and transfer it to WP!

How to Catch a Man (not)

Rosann Rosannadana was right:  it's always something.  If it's not one thing then it's another thing, but it's always something. 

So I'm a single man, right?  Finally.  And I'm doing what all recently single men do:  I'm fixing myself up and putting myself out there and making an effort to connect with people.

An now I have a few flirtations going on.  I'm after this one who's in a bad relationship but likes having sex, and I just met that one who kidnapped me with is eyes but who hasn't called (I don't have his number) and there's that other one who is almost ready to walk down the aisle.  And I can see it coming:  I'm going to be in a quandry very soon.

I have been single exactly three times in my life.  I was single until I married my wife at age 30.  I made a conscious decision to find a woman and get married and within a year and a half I had accomplished both.  Don't get me wrong, I had a magnificent and wonderful wife.  But she was essentially dependent on me.  We kinda had an unspoken deal: I take care of her, make her the center of my universe and enable her to explore hers and she'd tolerate my seeming lack of passion. 

After 10 years we divorced and then, within a year, I was moving my next spouse in.  This was Robert number 1, a huge Puerto Rican with a heart of gold and tons of boyish fun in him.  He also only worked spradically and then for peanuts.  He was honing his nightclub singing act in preparation for the inevitable stardom that would fall on him if he ever got a gig.  I paid the bills, and it lasted 3 years.  Again, don't get me wrong:  I adored that man and I am enriched for having known him.

Within a year of our break up I was moving another Robert into my bed:  Bob.  I was smart this time, though.  I didn't love Bob and was very up-front with myself about that.  I'd go through the motions as necessary but all I really wanted was the sex.  I loved sex with Bob.  I was a little sex starved after Robert number 1 (he just wasn't into it that much), so I gave myself permission to ride Bob until I got bored and then cut him loose.  It's now 14 years later and I emotionally walked out about 6 months ago.  See, the damn thing is: the sex continued to be good for 13 of those 14 years and somehow I never got arround to getting bored.  I got pissed occasionally when I realized I was paying for everything -- although to be fair I must admit that Bob did a much better job of bearing some of the burden than the other two.  And any resentment lasted only until we'd get all sweatty in the bed and then the endorphins would wash those thoughts away.

So, do you get the pattern?  I find less than fully functioning adults and move them into my life, somehow thinking that if I take care of them they will not leave me.  A fully functioning adult would leave me as soon as they realized how empty my lile is.  In fact, I get frightened by the emptiness of my own life unless I have a big project to distract me.  Each of my spouses started as a project, something to fix, to nurture, to guide . . . oh it just makes me want to puke!

So here's the quandry:  I'm connecting with the world in an available way and I feel the pull to jump into yet another relationship as quickly as possible.  i want to be strong enough to NOT do that.  I want to work on friendships, sometimes with benefits, for awhile and maybe forever.  It's a lot more work than simply moving another person into your life.  I mean:  you have to be available to your friends (not like when you're coupled when all of your friends take a back seat to your partner).  You have to see them and talk to them on the phone and take them places and since there are more than one of them, that's a lot of time.  It would be so much easier to just find some guy, move him in, put a check mark in the box next to the line in my to-do list that says:  connect with other people, and disappear once again into a life of taking care of another human being. 

I just re-read that paragraph.  It's right there in the second sentence:  I'm connecting with the world in an available way.  What do I really mean by 'available?'  Does it mean that I am broadcasting my need for a spouse?  Am I walking around with that hungry desperate vibe like a big 'Room for Rent' sign tied around my neck?  I think I am to a degree.   

The Cure for Depression

I've been thinking a lot about depression lately.  I've had to.  Bob - my former spouse (oh how I love that word former) - is horrendously depressed.  I mean:  in bed for days depressed.  He's been depressed (though not so completely) for 6 years, or so -- starting about the time his mother died.  Day before yesterday I made him go on a bike ride with me.  Yesterday I made him get up and take the dog for a walk.  I was rewarded (as usual) with a screaming tirade that ended with, 'You are the reason I'm like this!'  Uh huh.  Let me translate:  'I'm all fucked up and it's all your fault.'  Yup.  Most of what I've written here is what I have said or wanted to say to him.  It's going to sound very harsh, I know, and in these days of Zoloft, and Paxil and Welbutrin it will seem very politically un-correct.  Nonetheless:  there's still truth here. 

Depression is a very selfish state of mind. 

OK:  let's get this over with as quickly as possible.  Conventional wisdom says that depression is a disease, a chemical imbalance in the brain.  It's something the depressed cannot help, something they cannot do anything about and something for which they must drug themselves day after day.  I'm not saying that's wrong,  I have known a couple of people for whom that was probably correct.  But by and large, most depression is just a lazy and self-indulgent habit.

Depression is an obsession with 'I':  I feel so down, I don't want to get out of bed, I feel so bad, I hurt all over, I'm just so tired, I can't, I don't, I won't, I'm not able and on and on. 

Depression is what happens when your eyeballs get turned around backwards so all they can see is . . . YOU.

The cure for most depression is simple:  do something.  Anything.  Just do something.  In other words:  If you have a problem with your emotions, then get your ass in motion.  Move.  Force your eyes to look out at something else.

Oh but I just can't.  I try and I try, but I just can't get up and go do.

Bullshit.  Get up off your ass right now and go do the hardest one of these things you can handle:  Take a briskwalk, ride your bike for an hour, go for a jog, play with your dog outside until he gets bored.  Something physical, something outside, hopefully something in a setting that is new and interesting to you:  the park you've never visited, the path through the woods you've never taken.

But I just can't!  I can't go outside!

Well, that's crap, too:  if someone was holding a loaded gun to  your head, you could go outside.  But just so you don't think I'm a total hard-ass, do this:  close all the doors, windows and curtains in your house so that it's just like a coffin and then put your IPod on and dance to up-tempo music until you collapse, exhausted in a sweaty ball. 

Will you help me get going?

Hell No!  That's what I've been doing for years and all it's done is to sap my energy, consume me with worry, and provide a basis for you to interact with me.  And yes, if I hadn't been driven to help you, there'd have been much less interaction.  I'd have had little to do with you.  Your depressed self is so self-absorbed and unpleasant to be around, I'd have found much better things to do with my time.

I just feel like I'm lagging behind and I can't catch up.

Then stop it.  Stop giving your feelings power over your actions.  Instead of feeling like you're lagging behind, start thinking about what needs to get done right now and then go do it. And oh, by the way:  if you feel like you're lagging behind, you probably are.  It's the choice you made when you disengaged with life and turned your focus inward.

Have you ever bothered to ask yourself what you get out of being paralyzed?  What do you get to avoid?  What do you get in return? 

It's just too hard . . I just can't do it . . . I just want to die!

Are you talking suicide?  There is nothing more selfish than taking your own life.  It is the ultimate victory of self-absorption.  You say: I'm so down and I can't get up and nobody understands so I'm just going to kill myself.  Then everyone will see me as a tragic hero, they will finally understand my truth. Horse shit.  Off yourself and everyone's going to be colossally pissed at you.  I, for one, won't even come to your funeral.  Your final selfish act will be an attempt to take charge of the people around you and I won't play that game.  I'll go to the beach or on a hike or a bike ride or dancing or something else that will keep me feeling good about myself and engaged in life. 

Let me bottom line this for you:  You chose depression at some point in time because it satisfied some kind of need you had.  Maybe it was sympathy you were seeking or the concerned attention of others.  Maybe you wanted to punish someone who cared about you, or maybe you wanted to punish yourself. 

Though the original motivator may still be present, by now your depression is just a habit, like smoking.  You can't imagine life without it.  You've beaten habits before, haven't you?  Remember when you quit smoking?  It seemed almost impossible and you probably failed a time or two until you simply and finally chose not to smoke.  You can do the same thing here . . . if you choose.

Oh, you don't understand!  I'm depressed because my mother died or my cat got run over or I failed my history test, or I was robbed and beaten almost to death 4 years ago!

Oh, that's too bad.  I'm sorry to hear it.  But once again:  are you going to choose to make the story of your life about that one incident you're clinging to as if it were life itself?  Or are you going to choose to let it go and get on with living? 

I've had it with your depression.  If that's what you want, you can have it; but you won't have me.  You are like a stupid man dying of thirst on the bank of a pristine mountain stream.  Get the fuck up and take a drink.

Social Networking?

A man I met in Puerta Vallarta last year, a Mexican who now lives in Washington State, asked me to join him on a social networking site called Hi5.  I've seen MySpace and decided it was like Trix:  for kids, and I've seen Facebook and decided it's what kids graduate to after 10th grade.  Ok:  that's a little harsh, and there are some serious and thought provoking things going on there, but it wasn't enough to make me invest time and energy.  But when Felipe asked . . . well, let's just say Felipe has a certain amount of influence with me.

So I did it.  I went to Hi5.com and created a profile, even uploaded a few pictures (one a llittle risque) (Ok:  it's me in my new body, shot last week).  In a day or so I had a number of requests from people who want to be my 'friend.'  I started reading profiles and looking at pics and once again, I felt ancient.  I have 21 year olds from Sri Lanka wanting to be my 'friend,' 19 year olds from the U.K. wanting to be my 'friend,' 24 year olds from Columbia wanting to be my 'friend.'  Again, I am adrift in an ocean of kids. 

And this after I purposefully ended my profile with the statement:  'By the way, I'm not interested in friendships with really young people, so if you're not at least 21, please don't message me.'  Of course, I did that for 2 reasons:  I think it gives notice to the world that I'm not a predator (which I'm not) and because it's true.  I'm am utterly unattracted to the very youthful.  I've met a few guys in their 20s who have some scars on their faces, so to speak, that I have found attractive, and a few more in their 30s (although that decade seems to be reserved for the most narcissistic and self-absorbed among us), but when I am turned on, it's usually by a man 40 years old or more.  Hell, I have a 'date' Friday night with a guy who I'm guessing is in his mid 60s, who has a big scar down the front of his chest where he's had bypass surgery, and who sports a snow white beard.  He's also an architect, an engineer, an artist, and has been all over the world.  In addition he's got a twinkle in his eye at all times, is very well read and of course, intelligent, and is great fun to talk with. 

What's that got to do with attractiveness? you ask.  Everything.  If you just want to have meaningless, anonymous, recreational sex, then almost anyone will do and I'd recommend going after the most physically beautiful guys you can find.  Who cares what they think or who the are, right?  But that's not really about attraction and intimacy.  It's about adventure, the hunt, power and yielding.  It's great fun, but pales in the shadow of a good friendship.  My geezer date Friday is with a man I find very attractive on many levels . . . and I suppose we'll share a little sex at some point, just as I'm sure we'll share a good bottle of wine and some fine conversation.

But I was talking about social networking, right?  Here's the deal:  I'd love to find social site where mature (like 25 and up) guys could hang and get to know each other.  There are a few that purport to do that but they are really just places where guys 'hook up' for sex.  They are new millennium dating sites.  One that gets close to what I want is jaketm.com, but it is based in London and is almost entirely focused on the UK.  I guess I'll just have to create the site I want to visit. 

And I'll let you know what happens on my 'date.' 

Utah on Acid

Stupid Fun Fotos

So . . . you know how we usually ridicule working guys when they bend over and expose their ass-crak?  Well, this one's got that knocked!

And here is our Great President George W. Bush!  What an asshole.  I know this photo is made-up, but I do believe this actually expresses what he thinks about us all:

And then there's there's the real reason women should never be allowed to drive.  Of course, it's all a man's fault!

And then my personal favorite.  This is how I feel most of my days . . . except I haven't earned my sombraro yet. 

Robert Rivera

Damn!  I miss you soo much!

Mod Mona Lisa

I just love Photoshop, don't you?

   

The Uncontacted: An Indigenous Hoax

Well, the news was full of a story out of South America this week.  Some Brazilian Indian group, flying over a remote area of the jungle near Peru, spotted what they thought were a group of people who had never had any contact with the outside world.  As they flew over in their aircraft, the startled Indians took up spears and rocks to make war on the offending metallic bird.  Here is one of the photos:

Amazing, isn't it?  The poor villagers are probably terrified by this unknown bird full of thunder in their sky.  But that's just the first glance.  With a little magnification and some enhancement of the original photo, a different story arises.  Check this out:

A satellite dish is visible, though partly obscured by the thick jungle growth.  In what appears to be a thatched roof garage sits a 1959 Cadillac El Dorado, apparently lovingly restored and pink in color (a Mary Kay vehicle?).  To the right, laying unnoticed on the jungle floor is a bag from fast food giant, McDonald's.  The bag is more visible when we zoom even more: 

I am sure the group that took the photos would have enlarged and enhanced them to see what was hidden there.  Surely they would have seen what I was able to see with just a little manipulation.  So, why would a non-profit organization so obviously cover up the truth?  Simple:  Money.

Picture it:  your foundation is garnering less and less funding every year.  People don't understand what you do and most could care less.  You've been squeaking by for years, and your directors could all make more money selling shoes or vacuum cleaners.  But what if you released startling images of the uncontacted, the disconnected, the hitherto unknown people?  I bet they have been flooded with donations -- from individuals and corporations -- to fund their continued work.

It made me wonder:  what would be seen in a similar photo of, say, my house?  I went to Google-Maps and found the satellite photo of my place.  This is it here:

And now, with a little zooming and some enhancement, you can see a whole new picture emerging:

There is the flying saucer that moors in my backyard during the day under cover of the high wall that surrounds the property.  The aliens are probably in the family room watching The Young and The Restless on TV (They love soaps).  There is Jimmy Hoffa's body, which  has been buried in my backyard for years.  Unfortunately I have never been able to break the dog of digging it up over and over.  Finally, (I know it's hard to make out) there is the secret recipe to Kentucky Fried Chicken.  Here, let me blow that up a bit: 

So you see, we all have secrets in our lives and in our back yards.  Instead of hiding them or trying to cover them up to increase the possibility of financial gain, I say:  tell the truth and let the chips fall where they may!

Postscript:  Two days after this post appeared, the aliens left and have not been back.  A black Escalade full of somber men in dark suits and sun glasses came to the house and hauled poor Mr. Hoffa away.  And and angry mob of apron wearing fast food chefs, waving tongs and spatulas stormed in and spirited away my secret recipe.  Sigh.  Maybe truth is not always best.

Dog Tail

Three dogs, a German Shepherd, a Lab and a Chihuahua, are hanging out on a warm and wonderful summer day.  They are just settling in for a snooze in the shade of a big maple tree when they spot a beautiful white poodle, all dolled up from a visit to the groomer's, coming out into her front yard.  Immediately they all get the same idea -- and they race as fast as they can to the poodle, each thinking whoever get's there quickest will have the first crack at her. 

Of course, the little Chihuahua is the last to arrive and when he gets there the poodle is already holding up one paw and saying, 'Hold it, Fellahs.  I'm not like the other bitches on the block.  I'm picky.  And I only go with one guy at a time.'

The guys were a little stunned.  After all, the other girls in the neighborhood would go with anybody who showed up, sometimes going with several, even many guys at the same time!

'So which one of us are you going to go with?' asked the Shepherd.

'It will certainly have to be the smartest one of you,' answered the poodle.

'Well, I'm certainly the smartest of the three of us,' replied the Shepherd.

'You may be the most arrogant, too,' the poodle responded.  Then a little smile began to crawl along her jowl.  'Tell you what:  I'm going to give you boys a puzzle to solve and whoever does it best, wins me!'  Then, turning to the Lab she asked, 'Tell me, Mr. Labrador, what is your favorite snack food?'

The Lab didn't hesitate.  'Cheese, o cheese, o how I love cheese!'

'Great,' said the poodle,' I like cheese, too.' And then, turning to the shepherd, 'And you, my German pal, what is your favorite snack food?' 

The sophisticated Shepherd thought for a moment and replied, 'I don't often eat snacks, but when I do, I prefer liver.'  He saw himself as the most interesting dog in the world.

' Wonderful!'  giggled the poodle. 'Now, I want each of you to make a sentence using both of those words, Cheese and Liver, and whoever makes the best sentence will be the winner.' 

She gave them a moment and then turned to the Lab.  'So, what is your sentence, Mr. Lab?'

The retriever was dancing around and turning circles in his excitement.  He had a sentence, it had a subject, a predicate and a verb and he knew he was going to win!  'I love to eat cheese and liver together!'  he crowed.

'Really?' said the poodle.  'That's the best you can do?'  The Lab was crestfallen. 

Turning to the Shepherd, the poodle asked again, 'What is your sentence?' 

The Shepherd, bred to be naturally smarter than any other dog (or so his breeders told him) had watched the Lab crash and burn and he was certainly not going to make the same mistake!  'I don't like to eat cheese with my liver,' he calmly replied. 

The poodle just sighed and shook her head side to side.  The Shepard felt a stab of panic in his gut.  Had she not heard him correctly? 

Then she looked down at the Chihuahua who had been patiently sitting in the shadow of the Shepherd, waiting for his turn.  'And what about you, little man?  What is your sentence,' she asked.

The Chihuahua looked up at the Lab and then up at the Shepherd and said:

'Liver alone, cheese mine.'

How To Tell If Your Son Is Gay

I may be the only person in America, but I love Vista.  It is so far and away better than XP.  I have none of the irritating crashes and lock ups I used to have.  Of course, I understood going into it that many of the applications that filled my hard drive on my old machine would not work and I judiciously chose the programs I wanted to replace when the change was made.  I went into it with my eyes open -- so I didn't feel blindsided like many of the early adopters. 

One of my favorite Vista features is the Gadget Sidebar that can occupy the right side of your screen and on which you can display any number of gizmos, from clocks to performance monitors to headlines and so on.  The only Gadget I display -- and I display 2 of them -- is the slide show.  I have both instances of slide-show pointed at my large photo file, the one with thousands of images from the nearly 60 years I've been alive.  I set them to shuffle through the images at random, allowing each to be on the screen for just 5 seconds before fading on to the next image.  It has given me a wonderful memory rush as each time I end up back on my desktop, I see a picture from my past. 

What's really intrigued me are the photos of me as a kid . . . up until about my 20th birthday.  There is a freakish consistency in those photos.  They all seem to be pictures of the same thing:  a gay kid trying desperately at times to conceal that fact.  Let me show you what I mean. 

First from my early years:            And from a few years later:

 

 

I'm sure my mother must have dolled me up in the first photo . . . but I'm also sure she did it only after I begged her.  It reminds me of a possibly fabricated memory I have of my father telling me they were expecting me to be a girl and had planned to name me Karen.  The second picture was taken at a Cub Scout play.  All the roles were boys except for one (thank goodness!) and I rushed to be the odd man out. 

This photo was taken on a family vacation in West Virginia.  Though I don't remember it at all, I'm sure the purpose was to visit some of my mother's family.  I included this one, not because I look so gay (well, I don't know about that . . . check out the hands) but because I'm just so damn pretty! 

A little later on, I'm on a catwalk, I think through the Everglades.  It's a wild guess, really; my dad's family lived in South Florida and we did go down for visits, so the Everglades seems right, but it could have been anywhere.  Again, cute kid; but if that little wiggle in the hips and tilt in the knee doesn't tell you something . . .

Here I am with my father.  We were both enjoying this picture taking event so much!  By the time I'd gotten to this age and had distinguished myself only in areas usually reserved for girls, my dad was essentially done with me.  I embarrassed him.    He despised the person I was and prayed that I could be different.  That expression on his face was there every time we were together.  You can almost see the steel wall I was erecting between us in self-defense.  Having said all that, when I step back and take myself out of it, I look at this photo and see a gay kid. 

Now, here's a fun picture: Another family vacation . . . or another photo from one of the ones already mentioned.  This was taken somewhere along the Blue Ridge Parkway.  Here, my dad and brother are leaning slightly toward each other, wearing matching clam-diggers . . . and then there's me:  odd, slouched, not cooperating, clowning to mask the discomfort of the whole situation.  Just compare me to my brother.  He is a swaggering, tough kid; a boy's boy, and the apple of my father's eye.  Me?  I'm a Nancy-boy. 

Have you noticed a pattern here?  Oh, not just in the photos, in my descriptions as well.  I'm guessing about all of this because I remember none of it.  I have a moment here and an instant there filed away in my accessible brain, but by and large, everything prior to my tenth birthday (that was the year I started having sex with other boys) is gone.  I don't think I lost it all because it was so awful.  Once it was clear that my father despised me and my mother would protect me as long as I kept myself tucked in as much as possible, it was ok.  We were able to appear to be the happy Cleaver family down the street, which was all she wanted.  But the strain and energy drain of having to keep your guard up against your father and against yourself (so that nobody would see who you really are), made hanging on to memories impossible. 

Finally, we have one in Living Color!  My brother and I (and a bit of our dog, Big Jock) in the back yard all uni-ed out.  Guess which one is me!  Yup, I'm the one on the left.  My bro is all butch and poised to  leap into manly action on the gridiron.  I'm posed to fall down on my side as soon as the ball is snapped.  The helmet and pads (I think we're wearing pads) were a complete waste of money in my case.  I only wore them twice:  once for this photo and then on the day my father literally fought me into them and marched me down the street to the elementary school where Pop Warner football tryouts were in session.  I spent the afternoon sitting on the sidelines watching the other boys rather than doing anything.  So my poor old dad, who thought that once and for all he'd force me into being a real boy, was thwarted once again.  He could drag me to the field but he couldn't't make me play.  It was after this event that our little battle turned into a cold and silent war of subterfuge, sabotage and manipulation. 

Here's the funny thing about the whole football incident:  I really liked the game and was quite good at it.  But I had no interest in doing it seriously, like with pads and helmets on a real field with adults and other kids looking on and evaluating the play.  I'd play with a gaggle of kids from the neighborhood in shorts and bare feet in the vacant lot next door.  I couldn't't throw the ball and rarely caught it, but when it was given to me I was nearly impossible to bring down.  I remember dragging three boys with me as I chugged step by step across the field.

Now let's fast forward about ten years.  My father is nearing retirement.  He worked for 30 years for the gummint, mostly for the IRS, in a job that he hated and where he was neither liked nor appreciated.  My mom, queen that she was, rules the roost through treats and manipulation.  She keeps her men orbiting around her like planets around the sun.  Nothing matters more to any of us than the happiness and approval of my mother.  Well . . . that's not entirely true.  My brother was too into himself to ever play that game.  In fact, his relationship with her was not unlike my relationship with our father.  So it was Dad and me, not father and son, but rival suiters, competing for the approval of the empress of our universe.  It was a role she loved.  This photo is another attempt to capture the perfect family we were always to portray, at Christmas time.  It seems to come off too . . . until you look at me.  Still flopped out and different, a little tilt of the head and dip of the sholder . . . and the gayest gleam and smile!  I am truly a Fairy!  And I knew this in my heart at the time.  Unfortunately, it was 20 more years before I would allow that truth to manifest in my life.  Afterall, there was no way I could withstand the constant assaults of my father if I admitted  this essential fact to the world.  I'd lose the support (and protection) of my mother. And then it would be all over. 

So, how do you tell if your son is gay?  Get out the family photos and look at them, not as a loving parent, but as a detached, dispassionate neighbor.  Does this kid make you wonder?  How does he hold himself?  How does he move?  I believe that most times the camera finds clues we often don't want to admit seeing on our own. 

What To Do If You Think Your Son May Be Gay

So, you do this little experiment and conclude that, yes, he may be gay.  Now What?

My advice would be to NOT force the issue.  Chances are this is a demon he's wrestling and your early, unexpected intervention may drive him into fear, denial and shame.  Just leave it alone.  But DO work hard to make a safe place for your kid.  Let him know regularly that you think a lot of him, that you love him for who he is and though he may stumble or make mistakes from time to time, it would be impossible for him to disappoint you as a person.  Let him know that he is perfect and special just the way he is, that you will always love him and support him and cheer him on every step of the way.

Understand that this is something that is out of your control.  He's going to be whomever he's going to be.  You don't get a say in that.  What you do have a say in is whether he's going to be healthy and happy no matter who he is.  You'll teach him the values that will guide his decision making.  You'll teach him to respect and honor himself.  You'll teach him to know his heart and to follow it.  You'll teach these things through demonstration, by doing them yourself. 

Probably the worst thing you can do is try to change him.  You won't.  What you will do in the process is to teach him to be ashamed of who he is and to hide.  The best result you'll ever get is to send his true self into exile, replaced by a shamed, angry man incapable of loving anyone because he has learned to hate himself. 

Whether he tells you or not, if he is gay, you're probably going to come face to face with it some day.  You'll come across the magazine or the website or the photograph or maybe even the other boy (I can't tell you how many of my friends were 'walked in on' by their Mom or Dad).  I would tell you to do your best to control your surprise, put the offending item back where you found it (or close the door -- and don't forget to say 'excuse me'), and go about the important business  of making a safe and healthy home for your family.  He's going to know you found or saw whatever it was, and seeing you unruffled will do wonders in letting him know he is in a safe place, that he is loved and respected, and that he can share anything with you.

All of this loving support is essential, but it doesn't mean to quit being a parent.  It doesn't matter if your kid is gay, straight, or even Canadian:  If he or she is out partying in to the wee hours, cursing you, disrupting classes, or just being a pain in the ass, you have to deal with it.  Don't use his gayness as an excuse: 'Oh, my son is gay and that just means he's going to be a little wild and do some dangerous things.'  Uh-uh.  Bad behavior does not go with the territory.  Again, if you've raised a strong kid this won't be an issue, but if he does slip into anti-social or dangerous behavior, you have to reach in, drag him out and start building the values, self-respect and self-esteem that will enable him to be a happy and effective Fairy. 

And how do you do that?  Well, I used to teach "emotionally disturbed" adolescents.  'Emotionally disturbed' was a label that usually meant their parents were so inept at parenting that the kids developed self-destructive behaviors in reaction.  My approach was always the same.   It always took a little while to chip through the crust, to let the kid know he was fine just as he was, that I wasn't going to make him be a different person; we were just going to explore a more effective way to live.  Then, through conversation, I'd find something the kid was interested in:  skateboarding, dogs, drag racing, body art, a particular style of music.  Then I'd create a task involving that interest.  It could be as simple as reading a particular book or as complex as doing in-depth research and writing a theme, citing references.  The task had to have small, well defined chunks or steps so that the student could experience success regularly and in small doses, thus developing a succeeding 'I can' attitude. I'd coach the kid through the task; coach, not teach, lecture, push, coerce or cajole.  Coaching is collaborative, an entirely diffent approach than 'teaching,' . . . and it's too big a topic for this post. 

My point is, rather than punish your kid for behaving badly, why not create a task around something he's interested in and see to it that he finishes it.  For example, your gay son comes home late and drunk and you learn that he and his buds stole into a gay bar where some older guys bought them drinks.  A little grounding is ok, but add something to it.  Maybe your kid is a guitar player.  Go get the lead guitar tablature for some huge rock hit (I'd say Quicksilver Messenger Service's 'Who Do You Love', or Eric Clapton's  'Crossroads', but these may not be contemporary enough for your kid).  Set an attainable but ambitious goal:  in ten days, you will play this for me from beginning to end without stopping. By day after tomorrow I want to hear the first 16 bars.  Then, 2 days later I want to hear 32 bars and so on.  His 'punishment' is something that he's going to be proud of, that's going to give him small doses of success over a period of time, and that nurtures his interest.

Now here's a nuance:  what if your son is a flamer?  What if he's effeminate to a fault?  If he's irritating the other members of the household with his flamboyance, you can bet he's creating bigger problems for himself everywhere else. He's probably not being treated nicely by his contemporaries. 

I'll never forget James Duryea.  That's his real name.  He was in my Senior High School Classes.  James was tall and thin and, well, gay, gay, gay.  I mean, he just oozed it.  And you could tell he was trying hard to tuck it in, but there was just too much of it!  He was literally terrorized until he graduated.  I remember sitting at my desk in English class one day before the teacher arrived.  James came in and took his seat across from me.  Meanwhile, I noticed Tom, the boy sitting behind him, untying his shoe.  He took the shoe off, and gripping it by the toe, pummeled James about the head and shoulders.  Nobody did anything to intervene, not even me.  This kind of humiliation was a daily event for that boy. 

Don't let that happen to your kid.  Help him understand that one of the keys to living well is to know which person one needs to be before going out the door.  It's like dressing appropriately for the situation.  Here at home, the 'safe house,' everyone can wear (and be) whatever he likes.  For example, to you (the parent) that might be tee shirts, gym shorts, old jeans.  But when you head out the door to go to work, you have to put on your armor:  Your suit and tie, your shined shoes, your carefully groomed face. You don't wear that stuff because you like it (although you do look hot in a suit) but because it enables you to navigate your life with maximum effectiveness and minimum hassle.  He has to do the same thing.  Here at home, he can be just as fabulous as he wants because everyone loves him no matter what. But when he heads out the door to school, he must suit up -- which means to put on a new face, assume a new way of being.  He can't give the other kids a club to beat him with.  For him that means to tone it down just a bit. 

Finally, if your son actually does come out to you, please be prepared to put your arms around him, hug him close and kiss him . . . and then say this one magical word: 

'So?'

Because that's what being gay is in the overall scheme of things:   it's a 'So?' It's irrelevant to who you are in your soul and how well you live your life.  Some people never really come out and live cramped in the closet; sad.  Others come out with a vengeance, screaming from the tops of buildings and covering their universe with rainbow flag stickers.  Being gay becomes the biggest, most important aspect of their lives, of who they are; and that's almost as sad as being stuffed in a closet.  You don't want either of those.  You want a happy, well adjusted person who has marvelous talents and interests and who, oh by the way, just happens to be gay.  If you make the right environment and react in the right ways, that's what you'll get.