Mad Men

Paul has just picked me up from Logan airport and we are heading home on the Mass Pike when he says “You are going to love Brian’s wife; she is cute as a button. I invited them to Evelyn’s birthday party slash graduation party.” He says this in an upbeat way, as if he has just invited the neighbors to stop by for a drink, but Brian is Paul’s first boyfriend, whom I have never met.

“Why are you grimacing?” Paul says. “Oh, I’m not. It will be fine, the sun is in my eyes” I say. Paul looks suspiciously at me out of the corner of his eyes as he turns on the wind shield wipers. In my mind I am wondering if there is a previous boyfriend I can invite. But, I have no history. The time between my divorce and Paul was a period of five months and five one date disasters. I was looking for Mr. Right. They were looking for Mr. Right-now. And in a strange twist that often happens in the gay world, he dated two of those guys for a much longer time period than I did. I suppose I was incredibly lucky to find Paul so quickly, but now when I need to bring up the specter of a previous relationship, I’ve got nothing. And if I did bring one of them, they would have more to talk about with Paul.

“Ok” Paul says elongating the “k”, “I can un-invite him, but, the kids loved him”. Surprisingly, this does not make me feel any better. So I begin thinking about how much Jon Ham charges for an appearance fee. I imagine myself at the party saying “Oh, yeah, Jon and I go way back, long before Mad Men. I would help him practice his lines!” But then I picture Jon getting drunk and making a pass at my sister in law and the vision is shattered. “No, no, it’s fine!” I say to Paul.

I am surprised by my feelings and in a classic move, I keep this bottled inside of me, so that it can ferment and become toxic. Apparently, I have learned nothing from my previous life in the closet. I let it drive me mad.

Paul and I take great pride in our relationship. We trust each other implicitly and we never ignite each other’s insecurities by making comments about other guys that we see. We are the poster couple of maturity and respect. And this is why I say nothing until one week later when we are eating lunch in the park. Paul begins to speak, “So June 4th is Evelyn’s birthday and she’ll be graduating from high school….” And out pops the cork “And Brian will be there!” I say in a much more shrill emotion filled voice than I expected. Paul looks at me and smiles. “I mentioned it to him, but I won’t send him an invitation, he’ll forget about it”

Paul begins talking about something else that I can’t remember. “OK, so what about Brian, do you want to talk about this some more? I want to know what you are thinking” I say. “I thought we had moved on.” Paul says simply. It’s clear that I have made this a much bigger issue and Paul is now aware of it. “Oh, I forgot, you are the delicate one.” He says as he smiles and rubs my shoulders and looks at me like I am a wounded animal in a joking way.

Mistake number one: I thought I was being mature by not saying anything. Mistake number two: I expected Paul to read my mind. Suddenly, I really don’t care if Brian is at the party or not. The solution was as simple as it was difficult. Open your mouth and start talking.

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Under the bus

Bus people: I used to lump them into a category, the same way we lump carnival workers or ultra conservative right wing Republican senators into a group. They are a little off and they have a distinguishing characteristic that makes you want to sit somewhere else other than next to them, either because they talk too much, smell funny, or just plain give you the creeps. Even though I ride the bus, I never considered myself a part of that category.

As I was walking to my bus stop this morning I turned the corner just in time to see my bus pull away into the traffic. “Awesome” I thought to myself and checked my “Next Bus” iPhone app. It was off. It’s never off, but this morning it said my bus was still three minutes from my stop. That was my warning sign.

I was talking to Ella, a co-worker who lives in my neighborhood as we boarded the already crowded bus that arrived fifteen minutes later. The only available seats were at the back of the bus where we were met by a very outgoing bus person. “What’s your name?” he said loudly. I could see Ella scanning the bus for other seats and then see the resignation in her body as she slumped into one of the only two remaining empty seats next to the bus person. I sat next to her and heard the bus person ask her again “Hey, what’s your name?” Ella being the nice young lady that she is, said “Ella”. “What’s his name?” he asked pointing at me and I was somewhat horrified when Ella said “Bill” Why did we have to give a bus person our real names? Couldn’t we at least make it fun and be Angelina and Brad?

“Hey, is that your husband?” the bus person said pointing to me. Ella laughed nervously and said “No”. “Is he your boyfriend?” the bus person asked. Again, Ella said “No”. Then the bus person asked “Why not?” clearly not giving up. At this point the back half of the bus was becoming increasingly interested in this exchange. I thought it was pretty funny and leaned into Ella and said “Just tell him I’m gay”. Apparently, bus people have superior auditory capabilities. “Bill’s gay!” The bus person said, laughing and rocking back and forth. “Bill’s gay!”

“Holy shit” is what I was saying to myself as I felt the blood rushing to my face. As completely out and comfortable that I am with it, it’s still disconcerting to have a bus person “out” you on a hot bus packed with people and no clear exit strategy. Ella mouthed “I’m sorry” and proceeded with her exit from the situation, which was to put earphones in her ears and tune everyone out, leaving me in the dust. I was determined not to look up and was relieved when he shouted out “Next stop!” and hopped off of the bus as it pulled up to the curb.

At this point I was drenched in sweat and red faced. On the other side of me was a lady who was completely oblivious to the situation because she was basically unconscious, her head resting on the ledge behind my shoulders. I heard her make a coughing sound and soon realized that she was not coughing, because I could smell the vomit, somewhere behind me. When the bus person had hopped off of the bus, two young British men got on and stood in front of me, the only remaining spot on the bus. It took about ten seconds for them to pick up the stench and I could hear one whisper to the other “Oi, it smells like rubbish!” I had the distinct impression that they were staring at me.

I wanted to tell them that I wasn’t the smelly one and that it was the bus person next to me, but they quickly got off of the bus as it pulled up to the next stop, which is what I should have done and just walked the extra mile to work. But it didn’t matter, I was one of “them” now. After forty eight years, I am ready to admit it. I am a bus person, but not just any bus person. I am a bus person of the smelly gay variety.

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The joke's on God

At a recent family gathering in North Carolina, I asked my sister in law what she had been up to. Her response, “Getting closer to God every day!” struck me as funny. So, I responded while laughing out loud “What, have you moved to the second floor?”  I might as well have just strangled a puppy based on the reaction of the room. I can’t blame her, really. God is not a laughing matter in North Carolina.


I know this because I grew up there and still have scars on my arms from my mother’s talon like grip whenever my brothers and I would fall into a laughing jag at Sunday mass. But I happen to think that God has an awesome sense of humor as evidenced by the little jokes he plays on me from day to day.

Take today for instance. On travel days I worry inordinately about having overhead room for my carry-on luggage. I was relieved when my boarding pass said zone 2, seat 5D. Surely, my duffel bag would find a home ahead of the steamer trunks most of the passengers were lugging through the airport. But then God spoke through a ticketing agent named Consuela: “Today we will be a-boarding by rrrow, not zone number! First class passengers seated in rrrows one through four may a-board first. Then we will a-board from the back of the plane!” God was slapping his knee and laughing hard at that one. As payback, I make a mental note to move some of the bibles at my local Barnes and Noble into the fiction section.

I picture God sitting sideways on his throne saying to St. Peter and St. Paul “Remember how I put Bill and Paul in Mongolia in that last life?” and trying to stifle a laugh “And they froze their…” and St. Peter interrupts in a monotone “I’ve heard it a thousand times before voice”, “Yes sir, they froze their asses off.” And God starts laughing so hard that he is crying and says “Yeah, yeah, they froze their asses off! But men, this time I’ve got to up the ante. So” and God giggles “This time I’m putting Paul in Massachusetts and Bill in North Carolina and when the war starts” and because God has lived forever, his timing is a little off, so St. Peter looks at St. Paul with one of those It’s your turn to tell him looks and St. Paul says “Sir that war ended over one hundred years ago.” God looks at both of them incredulously and says “Jesus Christ, time flies! Well, it will still be funny, because they’re both going to be men and gay and get this, it’s the 1960’s and both of their families are Catholic!” He laughs as he slaps St. Peter and St. Paul on the back. St. Peter whispers to St. Paul, “He’s got to get some new material.”

But the joke’s on God. While he was waiting for the punch line, Paul and I managed to have five wonderful children, find each other, fall in love, get married and get this, the majority of Catholics now support same sex marriage.

So God is sitting there saying “Well I’ll be a son of a monkey! They turned the joke around on me. But stop me boys if you’ve heard this one. A Mormon, a beauty pageant contestant, a New York billionaire with a bad comb-over and an African American enter a presidential election….

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The "C" word.

I am directionally challenged. If you tell me to take two rights and then a left, my anxiety filled response would likely be, “Wait, what? Can you write that down?” I would then proceed to miss the first right, take the second left and then have a little melt down. It’s frustrating, because as a man, you would think that I would never ask for directions, but as a gay man, I can do it. I just can’t retain it. At a gas station, I can remember the exact shade of Martha Stewart robin’s egg blue paint on the walls, the sunglass display and which one would work best with my facial shape or the unfortunate pairing of shirt with slacks that the cashier is wearing, but not “Take two rights and then a left”.


I posted my dating profile online several years ago, and quickly ran out of viable choices within a five mile radius of Boston. After casting the net to include a 60 mile radius I figured if anyone did respond to my profile I would never be able to find him. And then I found Paul’s profile in Manchester, NH. He amazingly agreed to meet me in person, and left it up to me to pick the place. Thank goodness, because if it had been Manchester, I would still be in the car, possibly somewhere in Canada.

The other thing about driving that anyone who knows me will tell you is that I hate to commute. Anything longer than 15 minutes in the car is a torture worse than water boarding in my book. So, it was somewhat ironic that I ended up moving in with Paul after several months of dating. The commute to my job in Franklin, MA from our home in Manchester NH was 87 miles each way. Clearly, I was blinded by love. “Oh, it will be fine. I can brush up on my French by listening to those language CD’s, sing along with the radio. Really, it will be ‘me time’. You know, time to reflect and decompress”. I told my friends. The look on my friend Sam’s face was “Are you fucking crazy?” but the words out of his mouth were a peppy “Yeah, sure it will be great.”

After six months of commuting hell to Franklin, I found a job in Cambridge which was roughly half of the distance. I was thrilled. The first week of commuting was a breeze. Then suddenly, the cast of Mad Max returned from school vacation week and the 47 mile commute became a combat zone. My personality began to resemble those of soldiers that have seen horrible, horrible things. I would be quiet and pensive one moment then combative and hallucinatory the next. Instead of saying “Hello, how are you?” my greeting was “Two fuckin’ hours!! Can you believe it?” Fucking 93. My friends quickly began to avoid the “C” word. My friend Sam, who commutes one mile garage to garage and drives two blocks from his condo to his gym tried to be sympathetic, but eventually cracked under my constant regurgitation of commuting hell vomit. “Would you shut the fuck up about the fuckin’ commute, already?!” Sam said.

Something had to change. Paul, bless his heart, tried to make it easier for me. He would greet me at the end of each day with a homemade dinner, sparkling clean house and a glass of wine. I would down the glass of wine like a shot, grimace, and then quickly pour another while talking about the only thing in my life, the “C” word. Paul in a soothing, let’s talk you down from the ledge voice, said “Pookie, I know the commute is tough, but you have a fabulous home, a wonderful dinner and…” and before he could finish, I spit out words in a possessed Linda Blair animal voice “Fuck the fucking fabulous house, I’d rather clean the bathroom floor with my tongue and live in a crack house in the city!” The next weekend we went looking for a pied-a-terre in the city.

It’s been a year since we moved to the city. I don’t drive anymore. That horror is behind me now. I take the bus or the T and what others call the “Chariot of dirt” I call a God send. No more navigating or driving. The rage has dissipated. Sometimes at night I dream about driving up hills so steep that the car tips over on its rear wheels and then I wake up dripping in a cold sweat. I walk over to the open window of our small bedroom window and listen to the birds chirping at the early morning light and just under that is the soft electric whir sound of the T on Comm Ave. And though I can’t possibly hear it, I know out there on 93 is the rumbling sound of some road warrior hell bent for his destination in the city. But, it’s not me. It’s not me.

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Don't say Gay!

There is a “Don’t say Gay” bill in the Tennessee senate that prohibits K-8 teachers from discussing sexual orientation other than heterosexuality and you know what, dammit? I agree with it. No, no, hear me out. Hell, I waited until I was 42 to come out, these kids can wait until ninth grade! But, I don’t think it goes far enough. Really! I have read the bill and honestly, we need to be a little more specific here or some activist judge is going to rip through this thing like last week’s panty hose. No, we need to protect the teachers from accidently discussing anything Gay.

So in a show of bi-partisanship cooperation, big bow, I have graciously made a list of “touchy” subjects that might lead young minds to think of Gay or Homo things. And this list took quite a while. Have you Googled the word Gay? Yikes! There were some things that shocked even me. But let’s start.

Ok, the 1890’s are totally taboo as it was known as the Gay 90’s. 1890-1900 off the list, no questions. Gay Paris? Hello! France, no talkie. And anyway, we’re calling them “Freedom Fries” now. The 1930’s through 1940’s were full of the word gay in musicals; another decade that should not be tolerated. I’m afraid that leaves some holes in History, but we can’t have a teacher accidently discussing world word II and turning young minds gay. But, we still have Greece! Yay for Greece! Oh, wait, there’s that whole Lesbos island thing and I have seen Spartacus. You know what I’m talking about: wink, wink. And the original Olympics with all those oiled up muscular young naked bodies? Greco-Roman wrestling? No, that’s it! No history. We have to be serious now.

Alright that was tough, no history. Science should be OK, but let’s review. First, if someone says Homo, what do you think of? Am I right? Homogenization. And if you talk about that, you have to talk about Pasteurization. Slippery slope. Louis Pasteur. Au revoir! He was French anyway. Homo sapiens? OK, no anthropology. Prisms and weather gets tricky because you have to talk about rainbows and we all know the gays stole the rainbow and as soon as that thing gets projected on the board, they’re going to be singing Judy Garland show tunes and clamoring for a gay straight alliance group. There was this scientific discovery of over 1,500 animal species that practice homosexuality! Did you hear about it? Who turned the animals Gay? I’m going to get all Whitney Houston on your ass: Hell to the No for science!

History. Science. Gone! End of discussion. Literature? Every British poet gets tossed. And don’t get me started on Walt Whitman, “We two boys together clinging, one the other never leaving?” Literature, you’re outta here!

Current Events. OK, there’s this really bad stuff going on in Japan and when you think of Japan? That’s right, Geisha’s. Technically it has the word Gay in it. I feel bad for the Japanese, but if they’re going to turn my children Gay…Lebanon: Did you see Glee? Poor slow Britney calls Santana Lebanese, thinking it means Lesbian. Ha ha! And to lighten things up here, I have to tell you a funny story. I saw a poster advertising a “Lebanese food festival” and I said to myself “What are they going to serve, fish tacos?” Ok, that was crude. But you get my drift. No talk of the Middle East. That’s some f'ed up shit anyway and it’s too much for young minds to handle. Forgive my French. Damn, I mentioned France again. See how difficult this is?

OK, History, Science, Current Events. What’s left? Physical Education? Young boys and showers? Fuggetdaboutit! There is math, but honestly, I was never good in math and when you start talking about the “universal language” of math, some poor slob is going to think that “love” is the universal language.

Let’s bring back Religion! Screw separation of church and state. What we need are some good old fashioned God-fearing children. Oh crap, Leviticus. As they say, one bad apple. I am a father. If I tell my children NOT to do something, you know what they’re going to do, don’t you? Men lying with men. Can’t have it.

Whew! No History, Science, Physical Education, Math, Literature or finally religion (Like they would EVER let us talk about that…). Our children may be dim-witted, but thank God, they won’t be Gay!

p.s. If you want to thank the Tennessee Senator who created this bill, visit Stacey Campfield's blog here.   Really, that's his name!  I thought it was a drag queen's name too!

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The kids are alright.

Paul is shouting up the stairs. “Children, I mean nasty little creatures that live upstairs, time for lunch!” Evelyn 18, Nick 16 and Monique 13 come bounding down the stairs and join me at the table. I am busy working on two notebook computers. I am Repairing Nick’s laptop for the fifteenth time because he has contracted yet another virus and on the other obsessively connected to the Internet.

Paul surprisingly, is organizing photographs. I say surprisingly, because if you knew Paul, you would know that there is rarely a time when he is not organizing. As Paul places photos in front of me he says “Why don’t I have a pseudonym on your Blog?” I tell him that I am using the French spelling of his name and begin shifting through the pile of photographs in front of me.

I begin to convulse with laughter and suddenly, Evelyn, Nick and Monique are at my side asking what is so funny. “This picture of your father is priceless. I think the collar on that shirt is bedazzled!” Paul, feigning annoyance snatches the picture out of my hands and says “As you can tell, my mother went through a time when she loved to embroider”. I say, “Well, I have to thank your mother, because this is the blouse that turned you Gay. You could take that picture to a therapist and all you would need to say is ‘see’?”

Then Paul finds his driver’s license from twelve years ago in a folder and throws it in front of me. I pick it up and my laughter is suddenly silenced and replaced with a “Yes sir!” It’s the same handsome face, but with a beard. This is something I have not seen before and it’s doing things for me. Paul then grabs the license back and says "OK, you're enjoying this too much.  It's creeping me out."

Absent-mindedly, Evelyn asks “I wonder how long it would take to pass out if you put a plastic bag over your head?” Now, most parents at this point would A) Be alarmed that their child would ask such a question, B) Ask if there is anything they would like to talk about? And C) Make an appointment pronto with a psychologist. But I say “Let’s Google it.” After I have found the answer I say “Apparently, two to three minutes.” Evelyn replies simply with “Huh.”

Paul has ignored this entire conversation and is still hung up on the whole taking the photo to therapy thing and says “I’ll tell you why I need therapy. I don’t have any Gay children, they are all hopelessly straight.” Nick looks at me across the table and with mock shame says “Billy, I am attracted to girls” Monique rolls her eyes, smiles and while patting his arm says “It’s OK Nick, we’re all family here. No judgments.” Evelyn is done with lunch and says “Thank you parental units.” And Paul replies “You’re welcome straight child.” as he kisses the top of her head.

Now, I know how this must sound to the average person; Plastic bags over your head, therapists, turning gay? The simple answer is humor is our medicine.  We joke with our five children about being straight or Gay, because we know that we’re all pre-wired and the world is far too serious about it. In short, we treasure their strange little twisted minds and love all five of them with all of our heart. We love them enough to allow them free reign of their imaginations and teach them what a wonderful coping tool humor is. We also love them enough to set boundaries and impose discipline when necessary. We’re a typical family and really, the kids are alright.

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Down with That!

The other morning while Paul was driving me to work a man wearing a “member’s only” jacket with four strands of grey hair pulled over his balding scalp crossed in front of our car on Comm Ave. His step was sprightly, considering he must have been at least 115 year’s old. My husband Paul exclaimed “Look honey, that’s you in five years. At least you’re still thin!” Thin was an understatement. He was a pile of bones held together by skin.


I have come to expect these comments from Paul and they are full of love, believe me. We joke about our three year age difference because in the frenetic pace of the Gay world, gay years are like dog years. If you were to eavesdrop on a young gay couple’s argument, hypothetically speaking, you would likely hear one of them exclaim “Have the past 48 hours meant nothing to you?!”

Often, I wish that Paul and I had met earlier in life, so that we had more time together. I was dwelling on this when Paul and I took Tina, my new work BFF, out for dinner to celebrate her promotion. When I told Tina we were going to a place called “Cuchi Cuchi”, her response was “I’m down with that!” That’s Tina, she’s down with everything. I could say we were going to get on a plane, fly to Latvia and drink goat’s blood and she would say “Honey, we’re going to stirrrr it up and I’m down with that!”

Towards the end of dinner, our waitress informed us that there was a tarot card reader in the bar and she would put our name on the list if we were so inclined. I have never had a “reading” so maybe it was the three Acai-Blueberry martinis, or the celebratory feeling of the evening, but when I looked across the table at Tina and saw the expectant look in her face, I said “We’re down with that!”

We grabbed another round of drinks and huddled around a small dimly lit table by the bar. The card reader, Betsy, was a middle aged woman with long silver hair and piercing blue eyes. She performed a somewhat vague reading for Tina, telling her how interesting it was that she pulled three cards with African women on them. Paul mumbled under his breath, “Way to state the obvious”.

After Tina’s reading was complete, I was feeling somewhat dubious and Paul had completely checked out. Betsy asked who was next. I hesitated and looked at Tina. Her eyes narrowed and seemed to say “Baby, you’re gonna’ get your reading!” So I said “Deal me in”.

Betsy told me to hold the cards and put my energy into them. I felt silly, kind of like when the waiter pours a sample of wine and you’re supposed to perform all sorts of histrionics before accepting it. I pulled out three cards as instructed and Betsy was clearly impressed with my choices.

“This card shows that you are deeply in love, in fact this card shows you diving into a pool of love.” She said. Then she looked up at Paul. “You two are married?” I nodded yes, not wanting to give too much away. “This other card shows that you will be coming into great abundance and the final card shows that you and your ex-wife made a pact before you were born to have children together.” This was definitely more specific than Tina’s reading. She then closed her eyes and said “You and your husband were warriors in a previous life in Mongolia.” She smiled to herself and said “Yes, I can see it clearly. In fact you have spent many lives together sometimes as a man and a woman.” I looked at Paul and the smile on his face said “I know who the woman was.”

As we were riding home on the T Paul said. “Pookie, I would have given you a card reading for thirty bucks and I would have at least given you a former life somewhere fabulous and warm. Mongolia is not fabulous and warm. Heck, I’d do a lot of things for you for thirty bucks.” I looked at his handsome face, with its mischievous smile and hazel eyes full of our stories. Eyes that promised me love on that first night four years ago. Would I pay thirty dollars to hear that those eyes would find me again and again? I’m down with that.

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