Yesterday morning found David and me at the church his mother recommended ("sort of affirming" she said). It was a large Presbyterian church in Ashland. The morning was beautiful and warm. Pentecost Sunday (though I didn't remember that until I got there—otherwise I would have worn red). I had done my research otherwise, though, and knew that blue jeans wouldn't work. Definitely no shorts. I cautioned him not to wear a severe black suit, or they would think we were Mormon missionaries or undertakers.
I loved the church. My background is Presbyterian, and all the little things felt so familiar (including the unique Presbyterian variant on The Lord's Prayer). The choir was robed. The music was pipe organ.
I told David that he got the full Presbyterian blast. A baby was baptized and we re-enacted the solemn dance that is a Presbyterian communion Sunday. The preacher was a woman, a General Presbyter, and the whole thing was sprinkled with little special terms.
I think David was less enthralled. After all, the choir was robed and the music was pipe organ. And I did agree with him that a Michael Smith song ("Great Are You Lord") done in a full choir style was a little funny. He was really tickled (we both were) when the preacher told a little story about another church she had been in. Seems they had an idea about youth ministry and all their leaders began getting sick, really sick. One guy had cancer, so they prayed for him. Never expected him to get well (She pointed out that they were Presbyterians, after all—people don't just get well when you pray for them.). That cracked David up.
I think we'll go back. It was impossible to form an opinion about the "accepting and affirming" issue, because the preacher was a guest and there was no way to really chat with people. I'm sure there's more to see there.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
What IS all this stuff?
Cleaned out the dashboard of my car today (we used to call that space a "glove compartment," but I've never heard of anyone ever putting gloves in there). Among the things that went away:
I'll bet I get better gas mileage since I'll be carrying less weight now.
- Three Ohio maps
- Two Pennsylvania maps
- A complete set of car registrations dating back to the day I bought my 1996 Toyota Tercel (which I sold in 2002)
- Ditto for insurance ID cards
- A bill for $3 for car insurance because I bought my new car just a few days before the end of my policy.
- Several sheets from my car insurance company saying, "This page intentionally left blank."
I'll bet I get better gas mileage since I'll be carrying less weight now.
Review—13 Rue de l'Amour
I've been visiting mom in Washington, so we did our usual thing and hit the theater. In the past we've been kind of eclectic--all the way from Greater Tuna Christmas to A Body of Water. This time it was 13 Rue de l'Amour—the sort of door-slamming sex farce that the troupe was trying to produce in Noises Off. I was a little uncertain what to expect, since the theater's publicity compared it with the Marx Brothers and mentioned "partial nudity," while a local reviewer thought it was stiff and unfunny.
Off to the theater. I remember Olney, Maryland, as a sleepy one-horse town that had a combination hardware store and gas station. Now, of course, it's a glossy suburb of Washington, where the BMW's outnumber the Fords. The Olney Playhouse has been there since the 1930's (when it began as a summer stock theater in a roller skating rink), and I love going back. One reason I love it so much is that I get to have dinner at the Olney Ale House (go for their home-made beef stew and house brand of beer). And summer stock, even in suburban Washington, is an excellent excuse to spend a pleasant evening strolling about between supper and curtain.
The play, first published in 1892 as Monsieur Chasse! (a classy little double-entendre because one character keeps telling his wife that he's going hunting for the weekend) is one of those delightfully shallow things that plays best on a Vaudeville stage. To make it work, you need a beautiful young woman, a handsome young man, her older and slightly pudgy husband, a slim young male college student who isn't afraid to strip nude on stage (rear view), identical suits cut from ghastly red plaid fabric for the young man and the portly husband, two police officers and an idiot police inspector, and an overweight (and incredibly made-up) German concierge who used to be a countess until she fell in love with a muscular lion-tamer. Get the picture? People hiding in closets, doors slamming, an incriminating note that is stuffed in a trousers pocket (and of course the trousers get traded about from character to character). Sight gags that any teenage boy would understand but most middle-aged women don't get (or at least pretend they don't).
Loads of fun. The reviewer was right, though. Wrong too. This is vaudeville, not high theater. The actor is supposed to deliver a line, mug for the audience, and pause while we get it. We're never supposed to believe those things in the basket are actually meat pies—they looked like they were made of plaster and painted pink. We never forget that this is a play—sort of a long, sophisticated joke.
The playhouse was just made for this sort of production. It's brand-new, but has a period feel to it. Close, intimate architecture, a thrust stage, FOOTLIGHTS, and tableau curtains. The sets looked like a collision between Toulouse Latrec and Sergeant Pepper. Once again, we were reminded that we were part of a 100-year-old French joke.
I'm glad I went. Glad, too, that I opted to avoid the heavily political one-man play on the other stage (I am my own wife). This was an evening for laughs. If the standard for a good evening at the theater is a house full of smiling patrons, this one made it.
Footnote #1 That tableau curtain gave some trouble. As the second act opened, the drawline let go (just as the German concierge entered to give her "two maids dusting" plot exposition). As it descended, it wiped out a small table with a bottle of wine, a vase of flowers, and two wine glasses. To her credit, Madame Spritzer (yes, that was really her name) sort of ad-libbed and acted around it as desperate techies attempted to fix things. One young man ended up simply holding it back for the entire second act. The intermission was a bit long, as more desperate techies struggled with it. When the third act began and the curtain opened flawlessly, the audience burst into applause.
Footnote #2 I'm not sure what sort of clientele I was expecting. I was surprised, though, that almost the entire audience was well over 70 years old. Mom wondered if maybe a sex farce (with partial male nudity) was just a bit too tame for today's generation.
Footnote #3 The next day, Mom and I were in a greeting card store miles away and one of the ushers accosted us. We spent several pleasant minutes talking about the theater and the show. Not exactly what I think of in suburban DC.
Off to the theater. I remember Olney, Maryland, as a sleepy one-horse town that had a combination hardware store and gas station. Now, of course, it's a glossy suburb of Washington, where the BMW's outnumber the Fords. The Olney Playhouse has been there since the 1930's (when it began as a summer stock theater in a roller skating rink), and I love going back. One reason I love it so much is that I get to have dinner at the Olney Ale House (go for their home-made beef stew and house brand of beer). And summer stock, even in suburban Washington, is an excellent excuse to spend a pleasant evening strolling about between supper and curtain.
The play, first published in 1892 as Monsieur Chasse! (a classy little double-entendre because one character keeps telling his wife that he's going hunting for the weekend) is one of those delightfully shallow things that plays best on a Vaudeville stage. To make it work, you need a beautiful young woman, a handsome young man, her older and slightly pudgy husband, a slim young male college student who isn't afraid to strip nude on stage (rear view), identical suits cut from ghastly red plaid fabric for the young man and the portly husband, two police officers and an idiot police inspector, and an overweight (and incredibly made-up) German concierge who used to be a countess until she fell in love with a muscular lion-tamer. Get the picture? People hiding in closets, doors slamming, an incriminating note that is stuffed in a trousers pocket (and of course the trousers get traded about from character to character). Sight gags that any teenage boy would understand but most middle-aged women don't get (or at least pretend they don't).
Loads of fun. The reviewer was right, though. Wrong too. This is vaudeville, not high theater. The actor is supposed to deliver a line, mug for the audience, and pause while we get it. We're never supposed to believe those things in the basket are actually meat pies—they looked like they were made of plaster and painted pink. We never forget that this is a play—sort of a long, sophisticated joke.
The playhouse was just made for this sort of production. It's brand-new, but has a period feel to it. Close, intimate architecture, a thrust stage, FOOTLIGHTS, and tableau curtains. The sets looked like a collision between Toulouse Latrec and Sergeant Pepper. Once again, we were reminded that we were part of a 100-year-old French joke.
I'm glad I went. Glad, too, that I opted to avoid the heavily political one-man play on the other stage (I am my own wife). This was an evening for laughs. If the standard for a good evening at the theater is a house full of smiling patrons, this one made it.
Footnote #1 That tableau curtain gave some trouble. As the second act opened, the drawline let go (just as the German concierge entered to give her "two maids dusting" plot exposition). As it descended, it wiped out a small table with a bottle of wine, a vase of flowers, and two wine glasses. To her credit, Madame Spritzer (yes, that was really her name) sort of ad-libbed and acted around it as desperate techies attempted to fix things. One young man ended up simply holding it back for the entire second act. The intermission was a bit long, as more desperate techies struggled with it. When the third act began and the curtain opened flawlessly, the audience burst into applause.
Footnote #2 I'm not sure what sort of clientele I was expecting. I was surprised, though, that almost the entire audience was well over 70 years old. Mom wondered if maybe a sex farce (with partial male nudity) was just a bit too tame for today's generation.
Footnote #3 The next day, Mom and I were in a greeting card store miles away and one of the ushers accosted us. We spent several pleasant minutes talking about the theater and the show. Not exactly what I think of in suburban DC.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Killed the Geezer
My youngest son has, for at least ten years, loved terms for me like "Geezer" and "Old man." I sort of bought into it too. When he put "The Old Man" on my cell phone screen, I let it stay there. I came up with usernames all over the internet that stressed my age.
Time to end that. You've probably noticed that my username here doesn't stress age, and I'm changing e-mail addresses and such to get rid of that reference. Just not a positive way to think about myself. Maybe I'll never pass for 18 again, but I don't have to prepare for the boneyard just yet either.
Time to end that. You've probably noticed that my username here doesn't stress age, and I'm changing e-mail addresses and such to get rid of that reference. Just not a positive way to think about myself. Maybe I'll never pass for 18 again, but I don't have to prepare for the boneyard just yet either.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
So How Did I Get This Isolated?
And what can I do about it?
One of the fascinating/depressing things about getting old is that I have gotten perspective. How on earth did I get here? Specifically, how did I get to a place where I find I'm unable to even think of ways to contact people? When I discuss dating, younger online friends usually say, "well, you just go out and find someone else if your current relationship doesn't work out." Maybe it's not quite like buying a box of corn flakes, but it's no worse than buying a new car or computer. If the current model quits or I don't want it, there are dozens and dozens out there waiting—so they say. And I respond (with all the good will of a bear that's been awakened too early) that I've actually met both of the over-40 single gay men within a 50-mile range of my home, and neither worked as a date.
I can blame lots of minor causes for this isolation.
One would think that teaching in two universities and one college would give me lots of time for interaction with intellectual people (I like to imagine C.S. Lewis going down to the pub for a pint with a couple of bright students and a fellow faculty member). The true picture, though, is that neither Ashland nor Akron has anything resembling a faculty lounge (Ashland doesn't even have offices for adjuncts like me), and "intellectual interaction" means a five-minute chat with my secretary. We adjuncts aren't even welcome at faculty meetings. But lots of people (truck drivers, for example) work in places where they don't get interaction with fellow workers.
Modern culture? I spend a lot of time at a coffee house in Akron, and the most usual sight there is half a dozen people with their laptop computers open, presumably deep in an IM session with someone elsewhere. In four years or so, I've only had half a dozen conversations there. But, realistically, who goes out to a place like that to meet people? And the computer does work to bring people together (though I do yearn for close friendships that don't require me to keep track of time zones).
I think it's deeper.
When I first really understood the Christian faith, all those years ago in college, I tended to phrase it very much in an "us versus them" rhetoric. Later, I drifted into a church that stresses isolation—not just from the outside evils, but from other Christians. When I was married, raising children, and working as hard as I could, I didn't really understand my loneliness, but since then I've seen that for years my only real interaction was with people I could claim on my income tax form.
I think being gay is part of all this too. Being a Christian sets one up for "us against them." Being gay does. Being a gay Christian certainly does. Being a gay Christian who reads and thinks analytically certainly does. It's not snobbishness so much as a feeling that there certainly can't be anyone at all like myself anywhere.
I've lost the skills too.
Last week a pleasant stranger struck up a conversation in a gas station, and I struggled to figure out what to say. A year ago a younger friend flirted with me (pretty much asked for sex), and I didn't even figure out what he was getting at until a week later. When I meet someone socially and my gaydar goes off, the best I can do for a conversational opener is "Ummmmmm."
Prescriptions for fixing all this? Well at least I'm going to actively look into churches that don't discourage interaction between congregation members. Ashland promises a spiffy new building with a faculty lounge and a microwave—and I'll see if there's a way to strike up ordinary conversation there. And maybe I should just accept the idea that for most older folks, friends have been dying and moving away, so the circle of social contacts will naturally shrink. Maybe the natural course of humankind really is to move from dozens of school chums to one or two good friends in later adulthood.
One of the fascinating/depressing things about getting old is that I have gotten perspective. How on earth did I get here? Specifically, how did I get to a place where I find I'm unable to even think of ways to contact people? When I discuss dating, younger online friends usually say, "well, you just go out and find someone else if your current relationship doesn't work out." Maybe it's not quite like buying a box of corn flakes, but it's no worse than buying a new car or computer. If the current model quits or I don't want it, there are dozens and dozens out there waiting—so they say. And I respond (with all the good will of a bear that's been awakened too early) that I've actually met both of the over-40 single gay men within a 50-mile range of my home, and neither worked as a date.
I can blame lots of minor causes for this isolation.
One would think that teaching in two universities and one college would give me lots of time for interaction with intellectual people (I like to imagine C.S. Lewis going down to the pub for a pint with a couple of bright students and a fellow faculty member). The true picture, though, is that neither Ashland nor Akron has anything resembling a faculty lounge (Ashland doesn't even have offices for adjuncts like me), and "intellectual interaction" means a five-minute chat with my secretary. We adjuncts aren't even welcome at faculty meetings. But lots of people (truck drivers, for example) work in places where they don't get interaction with fellow workers.
Modern culture? I spend a lot of time at a coffee house in Akron, and the most usual sight there is half a dozen people with their laptop computers open, presumably deep in an IM session with someone elsewhere. In four years or so, I've only had half a dozen conversations there. But, realistically, who goes out to a place like that to meet people? And the computer does work to bring people together (though I do yearn for close friendships that don't require me to keep track of time zones).
I think it's deeper.
When I first really understood the Christian faith, all those years ago in college, I tended to phrase it very much in an "us versus them" rhetoric. Later, I drifted into a church that stresses isolation—not just from the outside evils, but from other Christians. When I was married, raising children, and working as hard as I could, I didn't really understand my loneliness, but since then I've seen that for years my only real interaction was with people I could claim on my income tax form.
I think being gay is part of all this too. Being a Christian sets one up for "us against them." Being gay does. Being a gay Christian certainly does. Being a gay Christian who reads and thinks analytically certainly does. It's not snobbishness so much as a feeling that there certainly can't be anyone at all like myself anywhere.
I've lost the skills too.
Last week a pleasant stranger struck up a conversation in a gas station, and I struggled to figure out what to say. A year ago a younger friend flirted with me (pretty much asked for sex), and I didn't even figure out what he was getting at until a week later. When I meet someone socially and my gaydar goes off, the best I can do for a conversational opener is "Ummmmmm."
Prescriptions for fixing all this? Well at least I'm going to actively look into churches that don't discourage interaction between congregation members. Ashland promises a spiffy new building with a faculty lounge and a microwave—and I'll see if there's a way to strike up ordinary conversation there. And maybe I should just accept the idea that for most older folks, friends have been dying and moving away, so the circle of social contacts will naturally shrink. Maybe the natural course of humankind really is to move from dozens of school chums to one or two good friends in later adulthood.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Advantages of Being Single
Yes, I know the standard ones—you can wander around the apartment in your underwear, you don't have to tell anyone where you are or what you are doing, and you can eat ice cream for breakfast.
There are others, and I'm not sure whether I'm being cynical or not. My elderly mother was sort of musing about Dad, who has been gone for about ten years now, and I remember some of my sister's comments too. I'm not sure whether my parents had the hot love affair of the century, but at least they were there for each other and my mother felt very cared for. Now she feels very alone. And I've talked with younger friends who remember the joy and comfort of being loved and having a physical relationship with boyfriends or girlfriends. One said he thought the cuddling was better in some ways than the sex. I'm sure there are other advantages, whether it's having someone to hold the other end of a large box you are moving or someone to bounce ideas off of.
Of course, we chronically single people don't have any of that, but I'm not entirely sure it's a bad thing. There seem to be only three ways a relationship can end: You die first, you die last, or you two split up. Sure, if you die first, there's no emotional pain of losing the relationship, but either of the other two result in pain of separation, whether you were together half a year or half a century. In a way, I'm much better equipped for the pain of elderly loneliness. I don't have the sense that I've lost something (or someone). My mother can't get over the anger at her situation, and some of that (irrationally) is directed toward my father. Yes, I'm angry that I'll never have a lover, and I direct the anger against God, but in my quieter, saner moments, I realize I'm sort of like Popeye. I am what I am, and that's all that I am. It's like an anger that I was never tall. Irrational. And I truly don't know what I'm missing. I've read about and briefly experienced, but that's not the same. The intense passion of lovemaking. The long-term intimacy of simply knowing each other for years. I miss it and daydream, but I really don't know what either is like, except for brief previews and second-hand glimpses.
So a weak cheer for being single. I can run around the apartment in my underwear. I don't have to conform to anyone's schedule. And I'm most definitely prepared for the inevitable loneliness of old age.
There are others, and I'm not sure whether I'm being cynical or not. My elderly mother was sort of musing about Dad, who has been gone for about ten years now, and I remember some of my sister's comments too. I'm not sure whether my parents had the hot love affair of the century, but at least they were there for each other and my mother felt very cared for. Now she feels very alone. And I've talked with younger friends who remember the joy and comfort of being loved and having a physical relationship with boyfriends or girlfriends. One said he thought the cuddling was better in some ways than the sex. I'm sure there are other advantages, whether it's having someone to hold the other end of a large box you are moving or someone to bounce ideas off of.
Of course, we chronically single people don't have any of that, but I'm not entirely sure it's a bad thing. There seem to be only three ways a relationship can end: You die first, you die last, or you two split up. Sure, if you die first, there's no emotional pain of losing the relationship, but either of the other two result in pain of separation, whether you were together half a year or half a century. In a way, I'm much better equipped for the pain of elderly loneliness. I don't have the sense that I've lost something (or someone). My mother can't get over the anger at her situation, and some of that (irrationally) is directed toward my father. Yes, I'm angry that I'll never have a lover, and I direct the anger against God, but in my quieter, saner moments, I realize I'm sort of like Popeye. I am what I am, and that's all that I am. It's like an anger that I was never tall. Irrational. And I truly don't know what I'm missing. I've read about and briefly experienced, but that's not the same. The intense passion of lovemaking. The long-term intimacy of simply knowing each other for years. I miss it and daydream, but I really don't know what either is like, except for brief previews and second-hand glimpses.
So a weak cheer for being single. I can run around the apartment in my underwear. I don't have to conform to anyone's schedule. And I'm most definitely prepared for the inevitable loneliness of old age.
Monday, May 21, 2007
YMCA Thoughts
When the Village People sang their hit "YMCA" I was so naive that I didn't quite realize it was about being gay. (But then, I never did understand that Scooby-Doo was really about pot. I'm just sort of numb, I guess.)
Anyhow, after my Christmas break, I looked in the mirror and realized that I really had to do something about my middle. So I joined the Y. I really was a bit afraid. After all, I was going to be spending time with all the muscular young hunks, right? I wasn't worried about lust so much as embarrassment—this soggy old body and all those fit young things. I needn't have given it a thought. I'd forgotten that I live in one of the fattest counties in one of the fattest states in the country.
So I've been really regular, right up until this trip back to my mother's (and all the good food and lack of exercise). My wrist has given me some trouble (something called a "Bible Bump") and I am certain I look better to myself than to others, but it's been really good. I'm now part of the exclusive fellowship of extremely annoying people (like ex-smokers and ex-drinkers) who will bore you for hours with tales of personal achievement, etc.
Now I need to work on my sense of snobbery and my sense of entitlement when someone uses a machine I had obviously been thinking of.
After Memorial Day, it's back to the gym, and I can't wait. But I'll try to be less of a bore about it this time.
Anyhow, after my Christmas break, I looked in the mirror and realized that I really had to do something about my middle. So I joined the Y. I really was a bit afraid. After all, I was going to be spending time with all the muscular young hunks, right? I wasn't worried about lust so much as embarrassment—this soggy old body and all those fit young things. I needn't have given it a thought. I'd forgotten that I live in one of the fattest counties in one of the fattest states in the country.
So I've been really regular, right up until this trip back to my mother's (and all the good food and lack of exercise). My wrist has given me some trouble (something called a "Bible Bump") and I am certain I look better to myself than to others, but it's been really good. I'm now part of the exclusive fellowship of extremely annoying people (like ex-smokers and ex-drinkers) who will bore you for hours with tales of personal achievement, etc.
Now I need to work on my sense of snobbery and my sense of entitlement when someone uses a machine I had obviously been thinking of.
After Memorial Day, it's back to the gym, and I can't wait. But I'll try to be less of a bore about it this time.
The First Post
I keep restarting this project. Maybe this time will work. I'm a writer, after all, and I have an incredible internal monologue going on all the time—and this is a good place to let it all (or almost all) out.
OK, so I'm still a bit closeted. Lack of nerve, maybe coming from being old or something. Anyhow, this blog is mainly for my GCN friends and fellow travelers. Some of you who are on my more general mailing lists can recognize that hideous green as a near-match to the templates Apple gave me for my other web excursions. And you do know how to get back in touch with me. Friends can e-mail me. GCN folk can use the forum board's IM function. I'd love to hear from you.
OK, so I'm still a bit closeted. Lack of nerve, maybe coming from being old or something. Anyhow, this blog is mainly for my GCN friends and fellow travelers. Some of you who are on my more general mailing lists can recognize that hideous green as a near-match to the templates Apple gave me for my other web excursions. And you do know how to get back in touch with me. Friends can e-mail me. GCN folk can use the forum board's IM function. I'd love to hear from you.
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