J is Jaspar

Jaspar slapped his palm with his fetter, the Hickory. He has used it on the girls, so long ago, but it still felt new. Was that blood on the tip? On the edge there? He realized then, he lost focus and looked back at the men that had been delievered to him. On the new furniture.

Had they NO shame. They didn't scream. Further proof they had no penance. They were so far from God, they couldn't even cry out to Him.

They deserved to die. They were an abomination. The Bible said so.

There was that feeling again. The Son did not turn on those who laid waste to him. So perfect.

Jaspar shook his head. No time for such thoughts. Death was fortold by God. And God was using him as judgement. It's why he was immortal. To kill those.

The Parsonage was his home. He built it; he commanded it. These two young men, kissing, there in the workers' rooms. That was just wrong.

He heard their names in the din. The one was called Mikale. That's a colored name. The other was named Court. No good Christian would call a child that. Even their parents had forsaken them.

It was time for them to be punished.

The one called Mikale reached again for the latchkey and turned it again, with no fear.

Jaspar pulled the Hickory up and slammed it down the boy's head, making contact with his forehead, but the boy just shimmered. Beside his nose, another small cut formed, near where the Hickory axe handle came to a rest.

Reverand Jaspar yelled at them.

They stood up and ignored him, buckled from the little pain he had caused. They ran to the front door.

Jaspar wanted to stop them and found him shifted to the foyer between the stained glass door and the outer door.

He could see the young man struggle with the lock. One of them, blurred by the blown glass, squinted as if he could see Jaspar.

Jaspar had not been seen in years.

He dropped Hickory and bent at the waist to look at the two young men.

They backed up from the door.

I is for Injured Innocents

"I can't believe it was a man, just a guy, standing there!"

"Keith calls him 'Kirkman.' Guess he was the minister that built the place."

Makale shook his head and slouched further down the couch. The movement exposed his stomach as his shirt rolled up the back. Court leaned in and kissed Mikale's stomach and smiled at his face.
Mikale moved his head from side to side and placed his hand under Court's chin, bringing the young man's face to his own. He kissed it briefly. Court moved back to his side of the couch.

"I thought you, you know, wanted to see a ghost. You got you in here."

"I didn't realize it would be that intense. I thought like a flowing white sheet, floating down a distant hallway. 

"A mist. Not an angry dude just standing there in the doorway. It was wild and, I don't know, changed my perspective today."

Court rubbed his chest as if to alleviate heartburn.

"You aren't going straight, are you?"

Mikale laughed as a courtesy. "I think we're safe there. But, well, I hope this doesn't throw you too far back into the closet."

"No, we're good. There's always porn, right?"

"There's always porn, right."

"Do you want me to turn on the television? Or do you want to head out?"

Mikale pondered the comment and smiled. "I'm, well, I'm impressed," he rotated and leaned across Court, lying upon his chest and looking into his close face. "Most guys just want to get it on and get if over. If they didn't see one of the school plays, they'd never see me again. You are willing to risk that? You're willing to risk sending me home and not seeing me again? Just for my own comfort?"

"I did not see anything, but I trust you. I'm here for a week, I gotta watch the dog and the cat. Me? I'd prefer you stay. Heck, maybe I wanted you to crash here overnight, even if its a school night."

Mikale moved upwards.

"No, we don't have to do a thing, I can even sleep on the couch, if you're comfortable. I'd make breakfast. Which is more of a threat, since I'm a shitty cook."

"Whoa. You swimming boys are a worthy group."

"Thanks," Court demurred and looked around the darkening living room as he blushed. "Guess I didn't have it in me."

Mikale moved his hand across Court's midsection.

"Like the ribs or my awesome abs?"

"Neither. Both. There's, it's warm. Here."

"You're leaning on me."

"No, like really warm."

Court had felt it too, but dismissed it with the prize so close.  He moved in for further kissing.

But the pain twinged and pushed harder on his abdomen. 

Mikale looked down and pulled up his mate's shirt. Any other situation, this would have been exciting. 

But the rolled back shirt revealed the culprit. Five cuts, thin, but straight across his chest and stomach. Court pressed his hand down instinctively. 

"Oh fuck."

"Something on my shirt?  I must have cut you, with a button on my shirt or something," Mikale had moved back to the other end of the couch. With a quick tic, he put a hand to his cheek.

Blood came down between his fingers. 

"Let me see!" He peeled Mikale's hand back and looked.

More scratch marks. The lights dimmed slightly and went back to full. 

"Oh shit!"  As he leaned over his friend, he left the sting of another cut forming on his calf, exposed from his shorts.

"We're out of this."

"Let me get the animals."

"On it, I'll get the dog and you find the fucking cat!"

Another stream of blood formed on the back of Mikale's hand as it held his face.

The blood was not profound but in enough amounts to be noticeable n the two victims. Something was hurting them, badly.

Court tried not limp on his now cut calf. The wound was superficial but made him wonder what else the spirits of the house could do to him. He had stayed in the house numerous times prior. Keith never reported a thing of his magnitude. 

"Why is this happening?"

"I don't know, man," he looked out the back window, above the sink. The cat sat coldly, on the crossbeam of the high fence at them. As if the two men were on fire, the creature leaped over the side. The dog was digging nearby, trying to escape the back yard, burrowing to the open forest beyond.

"Fuck the cat, she'll be fine. Let's get the dog!"

They circled to the back door and reached for the deadbolt.

It clicked back into place. Court stopped his hand.

"Did that just lock itself?"

"Yeah. I'm going to go with we're totally screwed here, my fri..." another slight twitch and Court buckled over, but failed to drop.  "Bitch cut me again."

Mikale pressed Court upright and held him and reached for the deadbolt. With a flick, he unlocked it and moved his hand to the doorknob.  

The deadbolt clicked back into place. 

"Aw shit."

"Front door."

They both moved in unison.

H is for Haunted Housesitting....

   

     "That is one seriously big fence."

        "I know," Court responded, "Keith was telling me that the oldest daughter of the preacher who built this place had a tendency to pull all Lady Godiva."

        "Lady Godiva?"

        "We'll wiki it later."

        Mikale pulled the backpack out of the hatchback and slammed the trunk. The clink of the unhindered beer cans made him worry they might be worrying the evening's libations. He felt the bag and informally checked the temperature.

        "You know Keith Tremain? Is that who's house this is? I wondered why his mother was dropping him off every morning at school."

        "Yeah, Mizz Tremain," Court explained, emphasing the 'Z' sound, "didn't want him to change schools in the middle of his senior year, with being on the swim team and all."

        "Ummm. Swim Team."  Mikale rubbed Court's stomach. 

        "Dude, don't, wait until we're inside."        

        "You see people? There's nothing out here." 

        

        The inside of the house had settled some since Court got the grand tour last week.  Keith and his mom had trusted him with taking care of the animals several times before, the two boys were friends since elementary. No one was surprised at all that Court was willing to make the trip all the way out to the new house.

        And Court used the rumor of the house to be haunted to tempt the lead of the school musical for a night out. The ruse was great. Keith had said some weird stuff was happening, but Keith was never any good at texts and emails. If Court wanted more of a story, he had to sit next to Keith.

        Court lacked awareness that Keith suspected that he was dating anyone. The closet Court and Mikale had many layers. Surely, everyone at school knew about the male lead. He was not necessarily flamboyant  a talent one would suspect, but society had opened up to him and he was comfortable enough to be himself in the pressures of high school. 

        The beer was cleaned quickly enough and Court kept the lights low, in part for mood and in part since he was not sure where all the lamp switches were. They were old pieces of work, a press-button system and were just waiting to electrocute the next one.

        Court was not wasted on the details of the house; if this was a haunted place, it had all the trappings. Toile. Thick velvet drapes without pull strings. Furniture built directly into the walls. 

         And a strange attic with some round tower-y thing. 

         It would be fascinating to explore. 

         But Court's life was truly taking a turn for the better. The beer had worked its magic in less than three cans. The two had moved to the upstairs spare bedroom. He respected Keith and his mother enough to stay out of their rooms. The thought was creepy, besides. Boxes piled themselves mostly in this room, the necessities already being emptied out of the others. Here lay those things that held purely sentimental value, that would not be touched until they were remembered that they were needed. 

         Court bowed over Mikale and started to kiss his neck.  They both were new at this, so the pleasure decreased due to a bit of unpreparedness. Mikale but his arms back, supporting himself upright, wondering if they should take off their shirts or something. He wondered if thinking about what to do next was meaning that he was distracted. He wondered if being distracted meant that he was nervous. Was he nervous because they were meeting in secret? Was...

        ...he opened his eyes to glance at his lover's head, now nuzzled into his neck. The soft breath of the both of them was all he could hear and the moment dazzled.

        A man was in the doorway. He wore all black and had high cheekbones, as if he had never eaten any kind of food. He looked beyond the two lovers to something beyond the bed, something the two might have missed in their fumbling ecstasy f the moment. Mikale was taken aback and glanced over his shoulder to see what the stranger was staring at before his brain flipped towards focus. He snapped his head back, simultaneously pressing Court back up.

         "What? Did I do something wrong?"

         "Who the FUCK ARE YOU?"

         Court reeled to an empty doorway. 

         "There's someone in the house!" Mikale stood up and ran for the doorway. Court missed the action and headed out. He thought he heard footsteps and passed Mikale. 

         Mikale reached for Court's sleeve but missed and started to close the door and reach for his phone.

         Court got the nonverbal and looked down the hallway of the upstairs.

         Empty. Shadows. A small table with several shoe boxes. 

         The attic door creaked apart.

         "Aw, fuck. It really is haunted."

         "Get your ass back in here, I'm calling someone."

         "Who?" He closed the door behind him and leaned against it. 

         "Funny," Mikale panted. 

         "Can you even get a signal?"

         Mikale looked down. The battery, three-fourths full prior, was down to one percent. And no signal.

         "What did you see?"

         "Some pervert watching us. It was, not, not, not what I was expecting. I figured they'd wait until sundown. Not when we're getting out game on."

          "It's okay. Just calm down some. We're not alone."

          "Where's the dog barking? Where's the cat?  Aren't you worried about them?"

          "Keith says the cat leaves and the dog?" He walked over to the window. "The dog is, right, ah, there," he pointed, "hiding in the yard."

          "Yeah, ghosts kill romance I guess.  Can we head downstairs for a bit?"

          "Sure," Court opened the door and peeked out. More shadows. He opened it fully and stepped out. 

          Mikale did not follow.  

          "Dude, I'm not a romantic fellow, but I know better than to just leave you there. How about some television?"

          Mikale nodded from the spare bed.

          Court took a deep breath. He had prided himself on not needing the physical necessity of courtship. However, he remembered, others did.

           He put out his hand to hold.

           Mikale was not quite sure what to do with it. 

           Holding hands, they made their way downstairs.

G is for Ghosts

With this week, I'm electing to try a different approach to my blog posts. Wereas, last week, I did all nonfictional thoughts, this week, I'm going to post a story a day. I'm doing short fiction, just seeing if I can keep to a theme for a few days. Enjoy! If you hate it? GOOD! Tell me why....and I'll learn. If you prefer the nonfiction? Excellent...tell me that....



Peace!

      Lydia fidgeted with the lock and wondered if the reason the front door did not close totally was due to abuse from the movers all day or if it was jsut bad before she moved in. She used the key in the lock. The shiny gold key shone from non-use.


She was a new homeowner.


Only, it was an old house.


But new to her and her son.


Tiredness dug through her. Normally, her happiness of getting out of the rental would have appeased her more than focusing on the possibly broken deadbolt. She would be sore for days from the lifting and unpacking.


Frustration was mounting. And she did not need it.


She flicked the switch and noticed how old it truly was. The gold coloring had tarnished and did match the newly cut key. With a shrug she headed to the back of the house. She put down the keys next to her purse on the nook. She made a mental note to place key-bowl at the exact end of the long expanse of the counter, to make sure she never lost them again. Still, by the money was always a good second.


Keith had already dug out the laptop and had it switched to some annoying pop tunes on the kitchen counter. He was already bent over in the fridge, looking for food. The food was the same from the apartment, just moved in by herself not an hour before, from the cooler. He knew the contents. She did not know what could have stalled the decision making process when looking on the shelves.


"I thought you were going to use the shower? I made sure your had a shower curtain for your bathroom."


"I know, I know, but the growing man in me needed a snack."


He held up a pack of string cheese.


"There's apples over there."


"Yeah, but cheese heals, Mom. Cheese heals."


"You're silly. Get moving. Maybe I'll order us a pizza."


"No wifi yet."


"Where's teh music from?"


"Just downloads."


"Oh, okay, I can use the old fashioned method."


He looked concerned.


"Smoke signals?"


"The phone?"


"Oh. That."


"You have your father's lack of humor."


She knew she shouldn't have said it, after it had left her mouth.


Keith smirked and pulled his head back.


It had been a year since her husband had passed. But his history had not been erased from his sudden departure. She thought about him daily, usually at the most inopportune moments. She caught herself losing composure at the local supermarket. She burst into tears when his favorite songs came over the satellite radio in his little car.


She had made a promise to herself in honor of her son. Not to mention her deceased husband's name to her son during this move to the house. Not to aggravate her son any more than she had to with a new school and missing his friends. Keith was mature enough, but every little bit helped.


"Sorry, guess I had a lot on my mind, rigth?"


"Go down to your room. I'll give them a ring and get you"


"And..."


"And....I know what you like. They'll probably just repeat our usual order."



_________________________________________________________________________________

      She was too tired to be bothered. She walked to the top of the basement steps and yelled down to her teenager.

"All the drivers are busy at Tony's. I'm going to just run to the store and pick something up! What do you want?"

She could hear the drum of water from her son's old-new apartment in the basement. In fact, it was a selling point. Most of the house was from 1911, but someone put in an apartment in the basement. She doubted he would use the kitchenette, but the privacy of keeping a growing youth out of her hair worked.

It was also the only place with a working shower.

So far.

"WHAT?????"

"I'm going to run to the store and pick something up! Do you want something specific?"

"WHAT????"

The water did not turn off. She thought about spending further energy going down the steps, but knew that the eating machine that doubled as her son would probably eat whatever she could get regardless. She closed the door and headed back to the nook to get her keys and her purse.

The purse had been knocked over.

She imagined it must be her personal haze, a moment where she was so focused, she missed the details. She must have messed it up when she went for her phone.

But she thought she picked up the phone from the counter. Ten feet away.

The haze must have been pretty deep.

She fumbled up the collapsed side of the gray bag to where she did remember she placed her keys.

They were not there.

They were gone. A brief glance, coupled with a deep squat that popped both rotting knees, under the table.

Nothing.

The dog and cat where at her sister in law's house.

She looked to where the phone was.

Nothing. She heard the water turn off in the basement.

And a ping of the key chain coming to rest against the bevy of keys from her work.

The noise was louder than it should have been, as if someone purposely wanted her to her. It was not real, not like a normal sound that she encountered so much in her life. She left the kitchen with a hard right and glanced back to the front door. The sun had begun to set for the evening, a full day's work going to rest. The shadows desceded across the hall, but the only lamp had yet to be plugged in, still waiting atop drab boxes. She flicked the push button switch, another turn-of-the-century hold over and zero response was retorted. She moved to the door where her tired eyes could decypher a tan pile.

Her keys were in a heap, resting on the fold between the wooden floor and the scaled, white door.

The basement door opened slightly. Her son poked his head out. He was holding onto the door knob with one hand, his other held a large beach towel around his waist. Another mismatched towel was draped over his head, leaving the impression of a disheveled monk, arising from the basement.

"What did you say? Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Hey, did you throw my keys at the door on your way down the steps?"

"No. Why would I do that?"

"Exactly. Why would you do that?" She pondered, then,"Look, going to run to the store of the deli, you want anything?"
"Anything is great-just bring home some pop."

"Soda," she stepped out the door.

"Pop."

"Soda!" She closed the door behind her. Keith went back down stairs to find his suitcase of clothes.

          

        

F is for Fame

F is for Fame

I had an interesting conversation with a coworker about something we had both seen on E News Daily the day prior. I harangue her daily about her reliance on Faux (Fox) News; I was shocked to see that watched something related to entertainment, and not something the continued to mention that the Earth was flat and that anyone with free thought should be shot for their nonviolence.

But we had both watched E! News Daily.

And, strangely, they still play entertainment news and it's in their name, unlike MTV which has nothing to do with music any more.

And she tends to harangue me back-if y’all know me, I don’t really like to sit and watch television. It depresses me and makes me think that there’s killer bees everywhere and that if I don’t vote, I’ll have to where a chastity belt for the rest of my known existence.

I am in the Deep South, after all.

She surprised me; I surprised her. And we both agreed. Gerard Butler is hot, talented and should be more famous.

I may hate commercial television, but with my ongoing existence as a cineaste, I do like my entertainment news when I remember to tune it.

I have the right, I believe, since I watch such a decent amount of it, to call Mr. Butler, “Gerard.”  When Elizabeth Taylor, people noticed I called her “Beth.”

Like I had fucking coffee with her last week.

If I only had!

So, when it comes to fame, I probably should clarify:  my definition is a bit different than getting money for not working and people exposing their breasts at you and asking you to sign them.

However, that would be kinda cool, in its own right too.

What I mean by fame? That your name is so well known that you have several Facebook fan pages that fill up. That your name goes above Tom Cruise’s to get people to go it. That you can appear at the Oscars and not have to have previously won an award.

However, you do have to be somewhat pretty on the carpet. Sorry. If I’m buying your tickets, I need massively eye candy (or, as I like to say “eye-crack”) or massively talented.

I get upset when I see what audiences like and don’t like. It astounds me of the stupidity of the masses. But, then again, Bush was elected. People went and said, “yes, he represents my values. He’ll make me appear stupid.”

And people like the Kardasians are still drawing people to watch their senseless drivel.

I know this business, this entertainment crap

.

And I am surprised by who isn’t more popular some times. I mean, jaw-droppingly, surprised. I’ve seen talents that make me want to hit the average Joe for not liking them.

I also want to strike people for being conservative, but I digress.

I’ve even kept names on my Evernote app on my phone. I’ll be sitting there, fingers all greasy from popcorn, having just watched such a movie and I’ll want to smack myself as to why the other 100 rows are empty behind me.

And, no, I hadn’t farted.

Like at some of these names:

Benjamin Bratt-Every time I see this man on screen, I cannot take my eyes off of him. Here’s the thing, however, he’s hot, yes, to be sure. But, for example, he was in “LA Mission,” playing an ex-chicano gang member, and, well, he gave me the skivvies. I switched to a Law and Order, and he’s playing a cop. Totally different characters, and he held his own, but, well, here’s the thing—there was a physicality that I noticed. He was a piece of meat, violent man; but with compassion. The cop in Law and Order, so by-the-book, you start to dislike him. Why isn’t this man more famous (by my hideously narrow-mined definition?)

Jim Carrey-Mr Kaching? Yes, this many talks out his asshole and makes a billion. So what the fuck am I talking about? He’s famous, yes, I get that. However, I’ve noticed this is a highly underestimated performer. I saw him in the Majestic and he was awesome! He doesn’t have to do comedy. But people only like him in with the ha-ha’s. And that’s wrong. He deserves to be seen as the actor he really is. The comedy got him in the door. He can, however, actually act.

Sutton Foster-My issue with this young lady is that she’s a total theater baby. She has stage presence out the wazoo. I bet, even if you’ve never seen her perform, she walks into a coffeehouse, and her sheer personality is stronger than the java in the pot. She’s on a stupid little family show called “Bunheads,” and she’s not over the top, but, stuck in a stupid premise—but her conviction is so good, we buy it and want to take the journey with her. I can only imagine what she would be like in mainstream cinema. I love this woman. We need to see her more!

Ryan Reynolds-Okay, here’s another one where my perception of fame is different from yours. He has already opened movies as the lead performer. But his humorous reputation and his abs arrive on the screen before anyone takes the time to see-this is a likable ersonality who deserves more than being second fiddle to Sandra Bullock.  The biceps alone mean he is being cast as action heroes, coupling with the wise cracks from his comedic strengths. But I honestly see him like Jim Carrey. He can handle much more serious scripts. Where are they? Who is willing to take the risk and cast him?  He has Harrison Ford written all over him.

Alan Ruck—Poor Mr. Ruck!  I saw him in Ferris Beuller’s Day Off and noticed him more than the lead. In fact, he kinda looks like my husOtter. So, maybe this is just a crush I have. But he even played a captain in a Star Trek movie.  He is always playing second

fiddle to some other big name, but my eyes always gravitate towards him. You know what, fuck it, I have a crush on him. I’ll just move on and forget I said anything.

Channing Tatum—He’s becoming more and more a household name, but there’s a reason he kept his moniker off of the deplorable “G.I.Joe Retaliation.”  He is moving onto bigger things, and he only appears in the sequel due to contractual obligations. But seeing him make the fairly standard “Magic Mike” last summer into something slightly deeper tells me there’s a better performer under those steely blues. He reminds me, for some odd reason, of Paul Newman. I would love to see him do a remake of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof with Scarlett Johansen (she recently appeared in it on B’Way).  His star, it seems, is about to break free. He suffers from the Too Beautiful Syndrome. Too many Hollywood types are cast due to their looks. As soon as they get ugly, they get an award and/or recognition. You want evidence? Halle Berry in Monster’s Ball; Nicole Kidman in The Hours; George Clooney in Syriana; Charlize Theron in Monster; Jennifer Laurence in Silver Linings Playbook.

Jimmy Smits—Alright, I have to bring my mother into this one. She cried, for a freakin’ week when Jimmy’s character died on NYPD Blue. She was afraid that she was going to have to go into therapy. Smits was a replacement when the lead bowed out and totally took over. Smits has dominated television and every time I see his handsome face, I want to take a journey with him as well. But, we never see him in movies. Or, better, good movies. Sure, he was in the Star Wars prequels, and, luckily, those were so bad that everyone looks good next to Hayden Christensen.  But he had, what, four lines? How is this possible? He’s terrifically authoritative and  that was evident in the West Wing, when he ran for president. But…Jimmy…my mother’s dying here. You have to get back on a screen somewhere!

Alright, I have a good twenty more names, but, for now, I think I’ve made my point.

We need to see more of these people, period.

Peace!

Roo

E is for Education

Okay, I have to admit, I didn’t see this one coming, either, as it were.

Education is my life. You’d think I’d had seen this topic like I see the walls holding up the ceiling.

And I live to write, so, well, time for your education, my friends.

I could go on and on about my work, but, well, let me recall about my teenage years. Having to sit in sex ed classes with my brow furrowed, as if studying quantum physics for some kind enlightenment. Everything they talked about made sense, but then they talked about reproduction.

Wait. You lost me there.

Where was the guy with guy action stuff that’s going on inside my noggin?

From an early age, my thoughts did not match the world around me. I learned, quite quickly, that I was supposed to love women, not men. I didn’t learn this intrinsically. It was just from day to day life and the people I was with. They paired off. They dated.

But it wasn’t clicking. My education on myself was forthcoming. Thank Fate for the library.

If only google had been around then.

Now, believe it or not, I’m not bitter. I get it, things were different then; things are different now, and I have no concern about it. What’s done is done. Now? When I speak, my actions, I come to the world as openly as possible. Because, well, if I can show one kid that “it gets better” (to quip from Dan Savage’s terrific campaign), that’s one life saved.

Here is today’s topic brought before me-you may want to read it to see how it ties everything together:

All Out

A petition to not tell lies. I didn’t know this was going on in Alabama. I knew about Tennessee's stupendously idiot, “Don’t Say Gay,” bill, so I might have had my attention elsewhere. But I think about being a youth in middle school and high school, without role models, desperately aching for information about myself. Why I was different. Why all the controversy.

And the teacher, then, probably could say positive things way back then-but I didn’t ask. But think about it, even from being an awesome teacher, you still have squelch any moment of clarity for that student, gay or straight.

Oh. It’s in Alabama. What was I thinking?

I went to this presentation about the Body Farm once and the presenter made the quip, “well, as you can see, they didn’t have any teeth and the eye sockets were truly uneven. We figured them to be from the South. We were right.”

“I can’t believe he said that! That’s not how we be in the South!” Said the toothless woman next to me.

I was really surprised. If you don’t want to be seen that way, don’t be that way. Works out.

I digress. No coffee this afternoon, been giving me heartburn, so I’m rambling.

But my point? Education is several factors, many of which we cannot control. But, as educators, we need to lead kids to their future, not impart ours. Our true purpose is help everyone to seek their potential. This lie will provide for no one, telling them that their mere existence is illegal.

*) I fantasize a situation where a student raises his or her hand and I’m teaching the birds-and-the-bees. “Now what about homosexual behavior?”  “Oh? Well, the state requires that I tell you the lie that it is illegal to engage in homosexual acts in Alabama.” “Oh,” they’ll reply and then think,”that’s a lie?” “Yes, the state requires I tell you the lie and I just did that. Now, as for homosexual acts, what’s your question?”

Of course, my act of civil disobedience, I’d be thrown into the slammer and sit and rot. “I’m in here for murder one. Whadda you in here for?”

“Honesty.”

They back away.

Education is in turmoil, let’s not add to it. Let’s get this bill moving.

Peace,

Roo

Roger Ebert dead at 70 after battle with cancer - Chicago Sun-Times

 

D is for Death.

I had hoped against hope that I would not have to rely on a Sue Grafton quip for one of these letters. I even had a D already written when I got home from the workfront this afternoon and I stumbled across this tidbit.

One of my myriad of heroes had died. I remember smuggling myself to stay awake for SNL and Roger and Gene on Saturday Nights, so long ago. At the time, their At the Movies was only on select channels, and in our area, the program was banished to the neither regions of that particular night.

And on PBS no less.

But I was hooked.

My writing, the stuff you still here, was greatly influenced by this man. The only real critic to win a Pulitzer for telling people you suck at moviemaking, he had an opinion and he was totally ready to say it.

But the writing was incredible, truly a delight to read. In fact, I would like to think that many a movie selection somehow involved his thoughts on a given title.

In fact, in college, whilst managing a movie theater, I pulled double duty with the local independent ‘zine.’  I was their movie critic. No one was the wiser. Now you’d think I’d just write reviews to get people going to see specific movies and reap the profits. But Roger taught me something. Critics enhance the experience. You either agree with them or disagree with them-but it still involves you listening to them and pondering their points. You’re going to see the bloody movie if you want to.

And it didn’t matter what he said—we’d still go, but we’d always consider his wisdom.

I write so much with work and creativity, I eventually developed double carpet tunnel syndrome. I, quite literally, lost my voice. I was like a ballet dancer breaking her feet; a chef losing his sense of smell and taste. I was devastated.

I could nothing but whine.

Roger lost his chin to salivary cancer. But he didn’t crash and burn from the illness. He did lose his ability to physically talk. And is not writing mere talking on paper?

No. Your human voice and your author’s voice are very much aligned, but they are wholly different.

His writing became stronger. It was his combining the two. It was glorious.

Alas, his illness captured him. But it did not kill him. I still reread his best texts-his I Hated, Hated, Hated this Movie has a certain pull-meaning that his immortality is assured.

So death has arrived on my list. But we’ve not truly succumbed to it. For the writing-the writing is immortal.

He will be missed. By me.

Peace,

Bardy Roo

Roger Ebert dead at 70 after battle with cancer - Chicago Sun-Times

C is for Coffee

C is for Coffee

I used to be a smoker. Started, in secret, in the 8^th grade. I like to think it was because I’m of Irish decent and that I’m just genetically predisposed to addictive behavior, even at that young age. I see that I’m addicted to food, as is my mother. The difficulty with that is that you actually do need to eat, so quitting is a bit drastic. But smoking? You don’t actually need that. Or alcohol. Like many in my family, hitting the sauce is evident.

But the fact was, it was sheer stupidity.

Perhaps another addiction, if you will.

And I replaced the smoking.

With coffee. 

That's not really coffee, there, that's a mug, get it? But...oh..nevermind.

Coffee had been with me for sometime by this point. Yeah, there's a story in this. 

My father-

wait, did I actually say my father? This has been a bone of contention for me, especially as of late. As many people finally come to Florida to visit me, many of my biological father's family has been stopping by. I refer to my stepdad as "dad."  This screws everyone up, because, for so long, as a schmuckworthy teenager, I refused to acknowledge him. 

Of course, I also refused to acknowledge I was teenager at the time.

But my "real" dad's family keeps getting confused. Since the man I refer to as my "dad" is really my stepdad. He's the one who has been there most of my life. 

He looks nothing like me, so that's pretty evident. Many comments were made that I was related to the milkman or the mailman in college. 

So my STEP father didn't have the luxury of growing up with me and he didn't know the first thing about handling teens. He offered me coffee when I was 17 and my world changed. Now, you have to understand this. This was not a man I spoke with AT ALL. Fuck him. He married Ma when I was 12 and I didn't know him then. I wasn't into his world of cars and Denver Broncos. Or anything of that ilk. I just wanted to emo before emo was emo.

Ya know, like totally emo. 

And coffee was so totally emo. 

And he introduced it to me. 

Now, here's the catch--my stepdad was furthered distanced by the fact that I am a raging queer. Now, stop working with those stereotypes. Raging queer doesn't mean I was a screaming queen. It meant that I had that latent paranoia coming out of the closet brings forth; I figured he hated me because I was what I was.

And then there was coffee. (sidenote: he didn't hate me. I realize this now...)

Understand, this is like dinosaur times; like older than dirt's grandparents. But a Starbuck's opened in Boulder and downtown Denver. My stepdad asked me something that changed both of our lives.

And a church was born....

"You want to go and get coffee? Try out this new place?"

The world changed. Coffee was the gateway of our relationship. First? When he first asked? I shuttered. I figured, well, fuck, I'm going to have to talk to the old bastard for a few minutes and raging emo queer doesn't do conversations with parental units. 

Coffee is a gateway drug, and, luckily, is fully satisifying. THe pull of the bitter taste was much, much stronger than dealing with my stepfather. I was hooked. 

I could finally find a level playing field with my dad. We could have coffee. He'd go shopping and buy different flavors and ask for me to taste. He bought me a coffeemaker to go away to college with; he got me a cappuccino maker when I returned. We had lessens in the kitchen. We go to independent coffee roasters and see what the deal was. 

No, I still couldn't stand him, but, for some reason, through the haze of coffee, he seemed like a nice guy. I later realized that coffee mellowed us enough to be friends.

Coffee had improved my life. Sure, there was that thing about waking you up and stuff, but, yes, there are other benefits-one has only to look.

Why now? I think these blog topics are fascinating right now.  It's like crap I have to deal with or something. But my dad was just here, HERE, in my brand new house in Florida. And he made me coffee every morning. Not me making for my micro family, but him. Glorious Gloria Jean's. Starbuck's next sinful delight.  Tully's sexy aroma in my new home's kitchen. 

It must have been on my mind.

So? Do you have a favorite to imbibe? I'll say, given a choice of coffee or wine? I'll probably choose coffee. Go figure.

Peace,

Bardy Roo

B is for Blogging and for Bardbear

B is for Blogging and for Bardbear

I hate to admit my own selfishness.

But I’m doing this more for me than to announce to the world my opinion.

There, I feel better, don’t you? Coffee?

No, really, I am. For years, I’ve had this blog. I also have a journal and several unfinished books. What’s up with that? The fact is, I need to, well, bleedin’ WRITE.

And that’s the goal here, ultimately. Last summer, I did something quite similar, and started writing another book. I’ve done National  Novel Writing Month—but the books, well, they suck large moosepenis and just didn’t click.

But I did it.

This little blog, however, didn’t. It just sat in the corner like some unused exercise bike.

I have to admit my trepidation. At least with National  Novel Writing Month, there’s a certain privacy. I should write without thinking of an audience, to be sure, but here? Even keeping that mind doesn't mean I can hide any more.

And I can say thing like “moosepenis” and wonder what kind of reaction I’m going to have.

I noticed last night, after my first post, as soon as the first response came up, I was tweaking the edges of the blog—and I’m thinking that’s what this is all about. I’m supposed to pay more attention to this pseudo website and let it become something that works for me.

And, I suppose, save money on psychiatric bills. I’ll just spill my guts here. Heck, I might invent some angsty stuff too, just for the halibut.

I mentioned journaling, I do that daily too, but there’s something to be said about putting it up here, baring my soul. So? There you have it. I must have known today’s topic was going to be short one, an apology of sorts, for telling y’all why I started jumping on trampoline. I mean, really, is there a use for a trampoline? One can get fit, but, well, there’s not much else. 

You sorta just bounce.

 I’m writing completely for selfish means. To really get into developing my author’s voice with the help and thought of strangers.

Just like getting abs of steel going up and down and up and down on a trampoline.

But, someone asked me yesterday, what’s up with the Bardbear stuff and the Roo719 tags? I figured I’d go ahead and give you a clearer (clearerer?) picture of who I am.

You know, using my words and stuff.

Bardbear? Well, yes, that’s my nickname. There’s a subculture in gay circles called the “bears.” I know, how annoying is that? A group, repeatedly marginalized, dividing itself up. But, well, hear me out. This group, chubby, furry, masculine, everything the gays puts on the back burner. Remember those abs of steel? Bears, rarely, have them. They were born out of those men who were shuffled to back of the gay clubs of the 90s, ignored by the stand-and-models that lived life from when they were 21 to 22.

Bears created a pseudo movement to challenge others in the gay world, moving to the forefront, to give all different kinds of men, those who may not look like Abercrombie models, an opportunity to be just as annoying, drunk and yet somehow massively cute, to the front.

I applaud that and support the concept, even if the execution may be a bit confrontational. Bears, sadly, just sorta stuck to themselves, I’ve noticed. For all the feeling of exclusion they’ve suffered, they sorta excluded themselves. For example, I went to the Bears of Orange County meet-up and found them to be very unfriendly and a bit stand-offish. Perhaps it was borne out of fear of being hurt again or laughed at by the “popular kids” at the gay bar. And now? They’re the ones in charge. Maybe it was because my hair looked awful. But the feeling was there.

I like to think it was a fluke.

And I’ll accept (there’s that word again) them. In fact, I noticed I still tend to hang around men, gay or nongay, that define this stereotype.

Damn, I must be drinking some good coffee. Did you see that tangent coming?

I was supposed to be talking about nicknames.

I’m a writer. I’ve written a good 10 plays, and, as I’ve mentioned, several unfinished novels—all the trappings of the great Bard of long ago-Shakespeare.

And the name stuck.

As for the Roo719 part? What is they used to say? Always leave them wanting more—I think I’ll hold out on that one. Maybe for “R” in a few weeks.

So? There you have it—a smidgen (garsh I love that word) of my writing life, spotted on this page.

Peace!

Bardy Roo

 

A is for Assholes and Acceptence

This week, things got hot and heavy. I really do try to keep my nose clean over on the social media, I really do. But when it comes to marriage equality, I don’t see it as a political issue.  Or a social issue. For it’s my life.

And those who know me on Facebook, those who come into my house, those I work with (not necessarily the clients I provide to, however, because teaching English doesn’t always arise to coming out of the closet) all know myself and my husband. It was one of the myriad of reasons I left my first teaching position. They never knew the joys of my husband. They couldn’t even remember his name.

So here’s that Supreme Court discussion going on and all the yammering going on with that. I’d not felt the love from the topic in some long times. So it was good to be reminded of how many friends I do, truly have.

I’m a conundrum. I didn’t have many issues in high school because I, quite literally, played the field. I was in choir, which had, believe it or not, a bevy of athletes. I was in theater, which also, every musical, shared quite a few lacrosse players, gymnasts and a football player or three. I worked in the science club; I was on the newspaper. I did not participate in politics and popularity, but I seemingly was invited to many events, and, strangely, there was very little crossover. Friends I saw at a cast party where not at the drinking binge of the football team.

And, at both, yes, I sometimes was able to hit on a jock, a techie or an actor. It was glorious. I was still thin, even.

I digress.

However, this followed me to adulthood. I notice now that I still have friends on all sides of the spectrum. I know Buddhists; I know Christians. I know left wing bleeding hearts; I know right wing flat Earth society members.

I hate them and love them all equally. I like to think I practice the acceptance I want in my life. I will not put them down. I see it this way. Can I really, really, change their minds? If they’re that pig-headed, what’s the use of arguing? Will my friend who voted for Obama really just give up the argument that gun control isn’t the answer?  Will my friend at church suddenly be okay with my marriage to the greatest husOtter of them all?

I’ll accept them, even if they don’t accept me.

It’s on this final issue that I noticed a bit of an concern—and, strangely, it surprised me. I’m married. And when it happened, the Earth did not stop on her rotation; there was no Westboro Baptist Glee Club outside the courthouse in Iowa or the church in Colorado Springs.

One would say that was queer, huh?

Yet, STILL, we must be a long way from acceptance.

Why the hate?

And yes, it’s hate. Totally.  If it were the opposite of hate, which is what they want to others to believe, but hate is really,well, just another form of love.

They’re my friends—but do they think that, suddenly, I’m going to say I won’t have legal protections for my husband? That I don’t really need them, they’re correct? That I’m willing to play second fiddle to what they’re getting, just because I like men?

I’m surprised how assholish this was.

They even turned on people who agreed with them on my social media pages.

So? What does it fucking mean?

I’m not too sure.

Usually, I go with that the person is gay and has been living a lie. They’re at the point where they’re so jealous of what I’ve got and that I survived the process, that their situation, false as it is, is killing them in some manner.

But, no. That’s not acceptance. That’s me being an asshole.

If I truly accept them, even in their anger and hate and non-love, then I can rise above it. I cannot be like them. Even when they spit on me. I don’t believe they mean it. I don’t think they realize that what is a political hotpoint to them is my life.

Arguing, however, venting, doesn’t solve the underlying issue.

Acceptance comes from deep within. Assholes don’t.

Or something equally and yet disgustingly parallel.

So? I still love them. I will not spend the energy to fight them on their ground. Instead, I will smile, hug and offer pizza. I will show them that we can all dance before the castle at Dizzy Whirled. I will see them on the terms we are still equal. Nor will I play them down. If they feel so vehement, all the better. But I will not poopoo their opinions, nor will I ignore them.

But I will accept them. Even if I don’t like it.

Like health food.

In fact, I need to do something they’ll never afford to me.

I need to not call them assholes.