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Disney, Darth, and Dubai

12/31/2015

I finally saw THE FORCE AWAKENS, and I have issues.
Here are the top ten:

1. Was that new Darth Vader dude *trying* to sound like Frank the Bunny from Donny Darko?
2. Are you really telling me that NO ONE in the Empire/Rebellion could figure out the rest of Luke Skywalker's map? That's like having a map of Europe, but not knowing what the big Germany-shaped hole is.
3. Yeah, it was sad when Han Solo kicked...but not nearly as tragic as Larry Hagman's death.
4. Having read all Michio Kaku's books, the speed of light really isn't that fast...so, what's the big deal about The Millennium Falcon? Did its manufacturer only make X number of models with that particular shade of bong water interior? Did it come with Highway Hi-Fi?
5. Poe Dameron reminded me of a sweathog.
6. Carrie Fisher reminded me of a Vagina Monologue.
7. Annnnnd, how much did Mark Hamill get paid for this film?
8. Id have thought Chewbacca would have more grey hair.
9. So, you're telling me that NO ONE in the Republic noticed the great big, planet-sized cannon pointed their direction? No one posted an Instagram comment, an intergalactic FaceBook post...or sent a droid with a scratchy hologram? Are the First Order Zindi?
10. Speaking of the First Order, their NAZI rally would have made Walt proud..

The Address Hotel, Dec 31, 2015

On the subject of sci-fi NAZIs, I came downstairs in the wee hours this morning to find my roommate in a cloud of cigarette smoke, Skyping some dude in Berlin. As many of you know, Radar (my roommate) is a 47-year-old goth who keeps the Internet running...and his jet-black hair, tendency towards severe clothing, and fluent German diction made him look like an SS officer, displaced in time. "If Hitler had a MacBook," I thought, grabbing a glass of water before returning to bed.

It's amazing at how small the world has become, and how technology has allowed us to grow interconnected. We literally have a Star Wars communication system in our lives right now, and our devices & Internet allow instant action to every information. I was thinking about this a few hours ago, while watching live coverage of the burning Address Hotel in Dubai. The news channel's primary footage wasn't from a camera or hovering helicopter rather, it was coming from a MacBook on a neighboring balcony, where a reporter happened to be staying a few buildings away - Skyping. Here I was, sitting in my living room in the chilly Midwest, watching a raging fire that was happening that very moment, in a desert on the other side of the world. The video was so crisp, you could almost feel heat radiating from the TV - and not just from the fire, but from the desert...and later, the Burj Khalifa celebration. A million people were celebrating New Years Eve, while a 60 story hotel burned to the ground just behind them. It was...surreal.

The foreground smoke is from the Address hotel fire, just across the plaza.

You can't see them in this picture, but 100,000 people are gathered below the Burj Khalifa.

Actually, the whole world felt surreal in 2015. From creeps like Cosby & Jarod Fogle (and apparently Mark Salling, as of today) to the brutal images of the Paris attacks (or the Chicago police officer who shot that kid 16 times) it's frightening how desensitized we've become to violence, sexual predators, and other occurrences that would have scared the hell out of us just a few years ago. Life has grown as convoluted as the 1985 film Brazil, and the only way that most find joy is to limit our focus to immediate lives, friends, and family. And I must say, there's nothing wrong with that; our close relationships should take priority. But as reality encroaches, ignoring events that seem far away has become unrealistic - and dangerous - isolationism. Those videos that we watch on TV are closer than we realize. A lot closer.

Instant communication shows that we're at an turning point in history, a time where social growth has fallen behind technology. The world is fast dividing into the "change" camp and the "keep things the way they are" camp. Militant Islam has learned to use social media to rally its followers hundreds of years into the past. China & Russia are fighting to return to regional glories from last century...but with next-gen weapons systems that will deliver their intentions world wide. North Korea's poking the South. Iran's poking the Israelis. Trump's poking Hillary. Madonna's poking Lady Gaga. And though the US is pretending to be engaged, our approach is so soft, it's silly - allowing dangers to grow. I'm trying not to sound like a vague political blogger here, but watching New Years in Dubai really gave me a chill. It's only a matter of time before some idiot with a nuke does something stupid. And it's just as likely to be a dude in a dorm as it is an Muslim in a Mosque, with both manifestos smelling like feet, incense, and gunpowder.

It's funny when you think about the big picture. What's happening with our upcoming presidential elections mirrors the excitement behind The Force Awakens, and the return of old friends & foes. The Big Bang Theory nailed it: Star Wars fans don't mix well with Star Trek fans, and the two franchises are as different as liberals and conservatives. Trekkies are the liberals, envisioning a future of unity and peaceful galactic exploration. Star Wars fans prefer a militaristic future, full of espionage & explosions...with entire planets getting destroyed, while warring races learn to get along with each other. Both scenarios are fun to watch in IMAX-3D, but what are we really watching? A fictional story with Dubai-like fireworks, or the instinctive aggression we hide in their hearts? I've always found Star Wars' conflict-focused stories to be repetitive, but you've got to admit that the reason Star Trek fizzled was because its plots had lost their teeth. When humans confront an enemy, we want to defeat them in First Order battle - not Federation diplomacy. In the conservative/liberal Star Wars/Star Trek approach, the Star Wars ideology is clearly the box office winner. Chuckling...and for all you folks who get bent out of shape when Trump talks about building walls, I politely remind you that the The Force Awakens' universe is conservative...and Obama's/Hillary's leading-from-behind approach is as weak as the first two seasons of The Next Generation. Are you reaaaally ready for another clean-shaven Riker? Or a shrill Doctor Pulaski, telling us what's best for us?

Anyway, as New Years Eve approaches, I shall close my own MacBook and enjoy the festivities being broadcast live from across the world. As of this moment, there are no burning buildings in Aurora, and I'll probably watch Ted for awhile, flipping over to the NYE parties during commercial breaks.

I'll spare you all the usual fuzzy New Years wishes, in leu of just saying it's been an interesting year - and I'm sure 2016 is going to be intense. I hope that Jarod Fogle gets a nice cell mate, that Craig Strickland learned his lesson from Shain Gandee's behavior, that Disney formally endorses a presidential candidate, and that someone turns ISIS into a puddle of radioactive goo before they take out the Olive Garden.

See you next year.

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The Devil in the Details

10/30/2015

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After a 11.5hr shift at the bookstore, I staggered into the house this past Thursday evening, coughing like a tuberculosis patient. We had started the holiday reset - the dreaded week in late October when the entire store goes from normal operations to balls-to-the-walls Christmas in just two days - and opening dusty, glitter-filled boxes had aggravated my bronchitis. I stripped, showered, and put on warm PJ's; I fell asleep within the hour, knocked out from antibiotics & codeine.

I awoke the next morning to the sound of someone else coughing. The TV news was replaying clips from Hillary Clinton's Benghazi testimony, specifically the moment when her own hacking spell temporarily delayed her statements. Radar, my roommate - disheveled from sleeping, and standing in front of the television with an unlit cigarette between his teeth - scratched his ass and made the following observation: "Hillary Clinton is like America's ex-wife. We had some fun, we made a couple kids...but now I'm just fuckin' sick of her, and I just don't want to see her anymore."

I laughed so hard, I started coughing again...

I'ver been thinking a lot about stereotypes lately, and the quick decisions we often make about people, based on their appearance or situation. I've admittedly never liked Hillary, but when asked to explain why, I tend to spout off a list of Republican talking-points: "Welllllll, Kyle's Mom's a bitch, she's a big fat bitch, she's the biggest bitch in the whole wide world, she's a stupid bitch if there ever was a bitch, she's a bitch to all the boys and girrrrrls..." Specific examples of Clinton scandal/corruption aside, I just...don't...like the lady. It's an instant reaction, the same as the concept of "thin slicing," described in in Malcolm Gladwell's book, Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking. And there isn't a single one of us who doesn't make snap decisions about people. We use our life's experience to instantly size up someone/something new, and we rarely consider the flaws in that process because - more often than not - we're right.

The process of "how" we make decisions was a topic covered in exhausting detail during my recent stint in rehab. There are many parallels to how alcoholics think and how normal people occasionally make bad choices...but most of those choices aren't intentional, they're the result of a flawed thinking process. A healthy person's ignorance can be just as detrimental as an addict's denial system, and both can cause decisions to be made that are more emotional than rational. And I'm not talking about big, life-changing decisions...I mean the little things, those decisions made every day without thinking - choices that reinforce each other, and become a quiet prejudice. It's like avoiding a restaurant because we heard that someone once had a bad meal there, or speaking cautiously around a conservative coworker because we're worried our lifestyle might offend them. Chuckling...I often dress like an ad for Kohls', but my humor could make Lisa Lampanelli spit out whatever black cock is in her mouth. Can't judge a book by its cover, I guess...

A thick fog of cigarette smoke hung in my kitchen a few nights back. Radar, Heath, and myself were sitting around the table, having a discussion about "sexuality," and how we each identified with our own, specific agendas. I'm a Leather Dom. Heath's a BDSM sub. Radar is, welllll... All of us were/are gay guys, dudes who identify with the homosexual lifestyle. But we realized that we all had our quirks - our specific ways of experiencing the world. And the kitchen conversation took an unexpected turn when Radar announced he was "asexual." I don't remember what my immediate reaction was, but Im sure I lit a cigarette.

Just like rehab's discussion of anger, human sexuality can be broken down into categories. First, there are the general categories: straight, gay, homosexual, lesbian, and transgender; but those are just the BIG classifications. No one is 100% this way or 100% that way. Even politicians like Clinton make decisions based on a deeper body of knowledge.

My own quest for answers regarding the understanding of mental illness has taught me that no one explanation adequately covers a total issue. Here's an example: people can be depressed, but their depression is often caused by other things...like social anxiety, the denial of addiction, or real mental issues missed by ignorant phycologists. The same holds true for sexuality: no one person is 100% one way or another. Sure, they might be gay or straight, but sexuality is nuanced - like one's hereditary history. "I'm part Polish, with a hint of German and Slovak." In the case of sexual identity, the same holds true: "I'm gay, but I love the leather scene. I'm a BDSM Dom, with a list of kinks that would scare a Criminal Minds guest star. But I am what I am, and I'm pretty damn proud of it." Everyone's sexuality has an asterisk. Everyone is more inside than they seem on the surface.

Im bringing this up because I've been thinking a lot about just how much we hold back when talking about ourselves to other people. We're all so scared, so insecure in letting other see the real soul we hide inside - and I believe that's the root that causes our depression, for those of us predisposed to suffer from it. Since my stint in rehab, I've been struggling to justify the choices I've made in my life. I'm an alcoholic. I admit that unashamedly. But addiction isn't "who" I am, and it certainly doesn't define me as a person. Quite the opposite, actually.

To fully explain my motives and intensions, I must again return to what I learned about anger in rehab: "Anger must be identified with specifics, and not glossed over with broad strokes of emotion." I fume with anger sometimes. I get so angry, it's impossible to know where it's coming from. But anger - like sexuality - can be easily explained, once you really get down and look at it. It's a carnal human emotion that happens when our needs aren't met. Or, more specifically, when we realize we aren't living up to our potential.

I'm torn with how much I want to share in this blog. My mind is racing - something that would stop immediately if I only had a drink - but I won't do that. I can't do that. Alcohol has caused too many problems in my life. Anger blinds me to making intelligent decisions, and drinking only makes that blindness worse. And though my anger is real, what hurts even worse is the knowledge that when I act out in emotion, no one can see the real person within. It all comes down to "talking," I guess...and to being as specific as possible with what's going on in my head. But addicts are no different than normal people: we all need to talk, share. And in the case of Radar - and when he finally fessed up his true sexuality - talking to others is the best possible thing.

When Radar announced his asexuality, the reaction around the table was MEH. Nobody was surprised. I'd heard Radar explain his feelings before, during many one-on-one conversations over the weeks before, at the same kitchen table. Radar had intended his proclamation to be earth-shattering to us, but in hindsight both Heath & I had known it was coming - like the inevitable Republican presidency, after eight years of Obama. Everyone drops hints of who they really are, and Radar had been no exception.

But the devil in the details came out with the talks I've had with both Radar & Heath - and numerous other people - since then. Radar's announcement opened a door within myself. Scratch that: it opened a goddamned bulkhead in my head, a personal transformation as intense as giving up whiskey. "Why aren't we more open with each other?" I thought. "Why do we put so much time and effort into hiding our real selves from other people?" I have no explanation for that, no brilliant AH-HAH moment (as my rehab counselor would say) that could explain everything in a single, simple sentence. "Fear" is the only word I can think of, and I see that fear in almost everyone I encounter. Fear is not only the enemy of recovery, it's the enemy of happiness - no matter who we are, inside.

Hmm...I wonder if there's a sexual sub-classification for THAT? Like Hillary's testimony, the answer would definitely require an ASTERISK ...

Cough, cough, cough..

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If You Write the Music, I'll Write the Lyrics

9/21/2015

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Radar, on his double-neck guitar
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It started with the perfect night, with the kind of setting that can't help but inspire the imagination. It happened on my porch on Friday, as thunderheads rolled in from the west - and the trees in my old neighborhood rustled ominously in the wind, making that steady Shhhhhhhh sound. Radar - my roommate - had just said goodbye to two British guests who had been staying with us since the previous Saturday. One of the visitors was James - a middle age Londoner, Radar's lifelong friend - and seeing James leave after such a long visit was so sad, it hurt. After watching the Brits drive away, Radar & I ended up sitting on the porch and smoking. My 112-year-old home has a high wraparound porch, so our vantage point was perfect to watch the rapidly-approaching storm. A few minutes before the sky opened up, Heath - a young buddy of mine - ran up to join us from his car. He was carrying his guitar, the sight of which was enough to make Radar forget about his missing friends. As the sky went black - and the rain fell in torrents - my porch began to smell like beer, cigarettes, marijuana, wet wood, and mud. And then the guitar came out...

I've never taken time to learn any instruments, so I admire anyone with that ability. Radar, a New Orleans native, is more than just a guitar player; he's one of those freaky-talented musicians who can play any instrument put in front of him. After a few quick strums to familiarize himself with Heath's guitar, Radar burst into an impromptu set of Bayou guitar favorites - blasting acoustics against the thunder, rain, and lightning. Over the next two hours, the instrument was passed back and forth between Radar & Heath, as I watched in amazement as two relatively unfamiliar men found commonality within music. At one point, Heath made a comment...something about writing lyrics while stoned. Shortly before that, Radar had played a melody he'd written himself...and when the two offhand comments joined in my head, I suddenly found a way to contribute to the creativity: "If You Write the Music, I'll Write the Lyrics." In the magic of the moment, while watching two men share both sadness & joy through music, I'd heard the voice of inspiration...and it gave me the title of my next book.

It made me feel small, but in the biggest and best way possible.

Radar, Heath, Myself, John, and James

You know, this blog is approaching three years old now - and I've learned a lot while writing it. When I first started this forum, I made an effort to keep topics light & silly - and I also posted far more often than I've been doing lately. My original pattern was two fun blogs and one serious blog, the serious typically covering depression, social anxiety, and alcoholism. But I stopped that approach as I watched my readership plummet on "heavy" posts; readers, I've learned - and through no fault of their own - shy away from topics that hit too close to home. I'm not complaining about that...but I'm also not going to hide what I'm thinking anymore.

Going forward, as I begin the 3-6 month process of writing a novel, I'll be using this forum to share my creative process. I get crazy when I write. I scare the hell out of people when the process is in full-force...and at times, I'm completely unapproachable. I wake up early - 3-4am - and type, pace, smoke, talk to myself...hopelessly lost in my head. I pride myself in the fact that most every part of my life is in order, but when I write that all goes out the window. I become, for all practical purposes, a crazy person. And I'm not going to hide that anymore, either :)

There are many things happening right now that I suspect are being caused by the emergence of thirty-plus years of depression. I've learned that depression has a specific name - dysthymia - a type of chronic depression that often lasts for decades, and becomes such a part of a person's life, sadness actually "becomes" happiness...that is, the person only feels "normal" when sad. Chronic depression is very similar to drug addiction in that addicts only feel normal when using - and depressed people only feel normal when sad. When Prozac hit the market in the 90s, there were many stories about this topic. People who spent a lifetime being quiet & reserved would suddenly come out of their shells while on the drug, sometimes becoming a completely different person.

My old psychiatrist - who helped put this all into perspective a few years back - told me of a woman whose life took an unexpected turn while taking modern antidepressants. The patient had clearly been suffering from dysthymia when marrying her husband, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with their relationship. The husband fell in love with what he thought had been a quiet, private partner, but after a few months on Prozac, her personality did a 180. She started exercising. She went back to school. For the first time in her life, the woman was experiencing the excitement that coincides with happiness - but that enthusiasm caused problems because her husband had married a depressed person. I don't know how their story ended - if they stayed together or got divorced - but the important thing to take from the case is that the real woman had always been energetic; it had just taken the right antidepressant for her to realize that. Emerging from depression is, quite literally, a life-changing experience. Or, as I've taken to calling it lately, "coming back to life."

The Community of Christ church, Lombard IL

Despite avoiding heavy themes, I have written - albeit a little comedically - about my struggle with spirituality as I've gotten older. A recovering Catholic, I've been searching for lost faith within several different church denominations...most recently within The Community of Christ Church, with a woman named Cheryl - a friend of mine from work. Cheryl was in her late 60s when I met her, during an interview for employment at Barnes & Noble. She was surprisingly tech-savvy - at the time, she ran a website called "Books Kansas" - and I recommended her hire because I thought she'd be a good fit for the increasingly-digital atmosphere of the bookstore. For her first few years of employment, I'd considered Cheryl a good work acquaintance. We had a solid boss/employee relationship, though because of her age I could talk to her more honestly than I could with younger booksellers. But we never crossed the friendship boundary until a few years later, when Cheryl went through a tragedy.

Three years ago, after a sudden leave of absence, Cheryl returned to work one morning, looking beaten and frail. Her son - a man she'd never really talked about before - had taken his own life after years of fighting depression. In an effort to find some normalcy in her life, Cheryl resumed her bookselling duties without the twinkle she'd had for years. We all knew what happened. But as mental illness is poorly understood by most, the topic was avoided in leu of the polite pleasantries that likely made her feel worse: It's good to have you back, Cheryl. You're in our thoughts and prayers.

A few weeks had passed when Cheryl came up to me for no apparent reason and asked, "Are you okay?" My heart hit the floor. I knew exactly what she meant. Having gone through the death of her son - and no doubt reflected on the signs she had missed - she recognized my own depression, and broke my silence. I remember telling her "No," but not going further. In the weeks and months that followed, the two of us shared our stories and eventually became good friends. As mentioned in earlier blogs, I started going to church with Cheryl - a batshit-crazy offshoot of Mormonism whose first encounter offered a transexual speaker. And I say that with love. The services I attended in the time that followed were always a blast - both funny and spiritual - a strange combination of Catholic ritual and uncomfortable scenes from Big Love. I liked to go on potluck days, not because of the food, but more to watch the congregation's social interaction after the formality of church service was dropped. These people were delightful. They genuinely cared about each other. It was during these Sundays when I saw Cheryl as she really was - happy, playful, a young woman in an older woman's body. Happiness, I realized, could be found without drugs. A few antidepressants maybe, but alas, the elephant in the room, holding a Manhattan in its trunk...

John, Me, and James

I recently told a friend about my terrifying experience of getting an HIV test in 2008. I'll spare the lurid details, though I will say that I had good reason for concern; I'd done something dangerous during a night of heavy drinking in 2005, and it had taken three solid years to overcome the anxiety surrounding it. Denial is a powerful force, made stronger when both addiction and depression intertwine like yin & yang. I completely fell apart during the 24 hours it took to learn my test results, but in true writer's fashion I channeled that terror into a brilliant query letter. It's opening sentence was, "So, I'm sitting here shaking...waiting for the results of my HIV test." That query succeeded in getting me read by a publisher, but even that success was in itself, a wicked example of denial.

Denial is a chilling defense-mechanism, especially when it evolves into its own form of dysthymia. I genuinely believe that denial is the root of addiction - whether addiction to substance, or addiction to depression - and it grows beneath the surface like a cancer of the subconscious, making behavior that would scare the hell out of most seem normal to an addict. Again, I'll spare the details...the blackouts, the hangovers, the waking up on an unfamiliar floor in an unfamiliar place. But what I will share is that after spending 14 years writing a book that I thought was a study in depression & mental illness, what I ended up doing was putting my denial system on paper...begging the reader to read between the lines, and to say out loud the words I couldn't say myself: Please help me. Ultimately, when those words finally came, it was as magical of a moment as a stormy night on the porch.

John, Radar, and James

After four months of being roommates, Radar & I hit the "best friend" mark this past weekend. We're both middle aged oddballs, gay men with pasts, freaky-creative in our own individual ways, and it's hard not to think that we each needed to meet the other at exactly the moment we did. Back in April, after an exhaustive 6-month roommate search on my part, Radar pulled up on his motorcycle to sign the lease and get a set of keys. What would normally have been an exciting moment for me was overshadowed by news I had gotten barely 20 minutes earlier: Cheryl had passed away, just three days after we'd spent the evening together. I was so lost in my head, I barely remember Radar's visit; I had been drinking the night before, and was on the verge of a bender with the news of Cheryl's death.

After Radar left (he didn't move in formally until a few days later), I sat alone on my living room couch, my mind as fuzzy as television static. I couldn't move. I couldn't cry. I couldn't even drink. My denial system - normally effortless - had absolutely no way to rationalize what I was feeling at that moment. There was grief, for sure - but also something bigger than that. The madness of drinking, the madness of depression, the madness of doing the same thing over and over and over again...something inside me snapped. I knew in my heart that if I didn't make the right decision at that very moment, I'd never write another book - and my life would have been for nothing.

So many alcoholics have gut-wrenching stories about how addiction ruined their lives, alienating friends & family. I have those stories myself, and I'll likely share them as appropriate; for now, I'm just putting the topic on the table...and formally changing the direction of this blog.

I'm not one of those dry-drunks who inflicts his recovery like a zealot witnessing Jesus. I'll share if asked - and my experience and thoughts in/post rehab are definitely incorporated into the plot of my next book - but I'll never be a man who wears recovery like a badge, or finds a way to work sobriety into every conversation. What I do want to share however, is the key to success in my own recovery has been the dogged, relentless pursuit of joy. In my 25 years of drinking, on the countless nights spent drowning in an ocean of Canadian Club, I was searching for a "human connection" - for the joy I saw within the lives of others. "Why is everyone else so damn happy?" I'd wondered. "What's the secret? Why does happiness come so easy for most people?" Social anxiety I've since learned was a big reason for my own struggle, but it wasn't the only reason...and drinking - itself a life-threatening issue - wasn't the only reason, either.

I've come to the conclusion that many of us are afraid of happiness, and showing our "real selves" to others. Society has trained us to doubt nearly everything we do, and it shouldn't take a Trump to call the obvious to our attention. We hide our insecurities behind our work faces, our friend faces, and our puffy, red intoxicated faces. It seems like we do everything possible to avoid connecting with other people - as mentioned in the documentary: Steve Jobs: The Man in the Machine. But avoiding others is where we screw up - and people prone to substance abuse screw up badly.

Joy is what matters, what really, really matters...and the pursuit of joy is how I've chosen to live the rest of my life.

Chuckling...on a completely unrelated note, on their last full day in Chicago, the Brits went to a gun range, in an effort to experience "real America."

I'm pleased they found some joy in their visit.

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An App For The Apocalypse

8/21/2015

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A still from the Nature Valley video.

I've often joked that like Neo from The Matrix, I sleep surrounded by screens. I'm admittedly a big tech user; I have an iPhone, iPods, MacBooks, iPad, and I'm looking to replace my iMac soon. On any given day, I pack more digital punch than a Terminator, and if I didn't have the sound turned down, I'd be R2D2...beeping, tweeting, and chirping with Fox, Facebook, and Recon alerts. Domo arigato, Mr Roboto. The problem's plain to see...and its me.

That being said, I'm apparently pretty old fashioned; I use my tech primarily for news, weather, and Words With Friends. I prefer to keep my music on a separate device. I don't like to Skype or a Face Time. I also don't care if I have the newest models on things, so I've never had to pay for an iPhone (Verizon offers older ones for free to existing customers). I spit out my coffee when people spend $600+ on the latest phone/tablet, especially when B&H Photo has such good prices on refurbished devices. It's not that I'm cheap; I'm just practical. Chuckling...and "practical" I've learned is just a nice way of saying old fart.

A month ago, Nature Valley posted a video that shows the growing technology gap between kids and adults. It's a pretty telling piece; three generations of people are asked the same question: "When you were a kid, what did you do for fun?" The answers ranged from the old folks' "picking blueberries," to Gen X'rs describing summer sports or going to the mall with friends. But the answers changed considerably when kids born in the last ten years were asked the very same question. Rather than traditional socializing, the children brought up online gaming, texting for hours, or giving several days in a row to Netflix marathons. Yes, I'm certain the interviewer encouraged the kids to make his point, but what came out unsettling was how none of the children preferred to interact one-on-one with their peers. Like, it didn't even cross their minds. Friends were texted, emailed, tweeted, & tagged...and occasionally blown up in post-apocalyptic landscapes. In short, these kids never wanted to leave the house...and preferred to live online. It would all be pretty sad, had Angry Birds 2 not been recently released.

For a man of 46, I'm frequently just as guilty as kids when it comes to choosing tech over people. Texting & emailing is so much easier than going through the small talk often involved in speaking on the phone with someone. I'm a bit impatient, and I've never been good with social niceties. "How are you? How are the kids? How's that bump in your ass? You know, speaking of asses, the reason I called is..." I typically don't want to know what's happening in your life. I don't care what your kids are doing in school. I have a quick question, I'd like a quick answer, and there's really no need for us to go any further. But despite living/loving communication apps, I recognize the danger of substituting digital interactions for real ones. Internet addiction is as real as substance dependency, and once an addict's "gene" is triggered, the abuser begins to isolate.

A week has now passed since I wrote the paragraphs above, and I'm going to go a different direction. I just finished the book One Second After, and the topic of this blog marks an eerie parallel to the novel. One Second After describes the worst case scenario if our country is hit with a deliberate EMP attack. An EMP (short for electromagnetic pulse) is a split-second burst of energy from a nuclear explosion (detonated above the atmosphere) that instantly destroys all the chips in electronic devices, within the blast's radius. An EMP doesn't demolish the buildings in a city, or contaminate the air with radioactive fallout. Rather, an EMP destroys everything electronic in/around our cities - starting with the electrical grid.

And the key word is "destroys," not "disables" or "temporarily shuts down." In an instant, we'd lose not only electricity...but nearly everything with a circuit board/microchip, including cell phones, computers, televisions, radios...even small appliances like coffee makers with digital displays. Most electronics would be ruined because the EMP - like a lightning strike - would send thousands of .... Through gadgets like pacemakers that use just a few....to run. Hell, almost every car built after 1980 has had increasingly intertwined electronics with its engine; take out even one system - like the fuel injection - and the car coasts to a stop, unable to be restarted. Now, imagine being at 3,000 ft, when the same thing happens to your Boeing 707. (Snapping fingers at the stewardess). "Drink, please!"

Of course, all that would be the perfect storm from the perfect EMP attack. Though the threat of an intentional EMP is very real, it's just as likely to come from the sun - one of many solar flares that hits Earth all the time. And it's also not something that's likely to knock out everything at once...that is, the power grid might go down, but most backup generators and vehicles might still work. No, society wouldn't collapse like One Second After...but life would instantly become much more difficult, remaining that way for an extended period of time. The power might be off for weeks or months. Entire networks of towers might have to be replaced before cell phones start working again. Water must be boiled before drinking. There would be no AC or heat in climate-controlled buildings. We'd also see significant disruptions in the flow of goods & services - especially refrigerated medicines - as "just in time" inventory can't exist without electricity, computers, and a delicate transportation network. In short, any EMP - even a small one - could set our world back a generation, or more...leaving us picking blueberries, ourselves.

One Second After is one of those books that sticks in your head long after it's read. The novel made me realize not only how dependent we are on technology, but how easy life has been for the last few generations - especially those born from 1990 on. We expect modern comforts because we've never known otherwise. The power is always on. There are thousands of TV channels. The car always starts. The stores are always open. Any given Piggly Wiggly has a hundred different soft drinks to choose from, and many of us waste more food than we eat. And why shouldn't we? Life has always been easy. In fact, things has gotten so cushy these past few decades, we don't even need to talk to each other in person, so we text, tweet, and tumbl.

But imagine for a moment what we'd do if our tech just stopped working. Imagine sitting on the sofa, playing Grand Theft Auto on a hot August afternoon, when everything...stops. Your TV's dead. Your iPhone, non responsive. Even your digital watch doesn't work.

Picture yourself looking out the window and seeing other people doing the same. Imagine having your life change in an instant, going from 24hr fast Wendy's & White Castle to wondering how you might feed yourself & family when the food runs out in the pantry. When I think back to that Nature Valley video, I can't imagine any of those kids being able to fend for themselves, which should make for easy pickins' when the cannibals take over <eg>. Although long before they get eaten, I suspect they'll all just stand around in silence, fingers up their asses, looking at each other awkwardly, and repeatedly tapping dead smart phones & tablets - as though searching for an app entitled "What Happens Now?" I can see Cartman starting a cult.

One Year After, William Forstchen's follow-up, hits bookshelves in September.

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To Kill a Mockingbird to Death

7/13/2015

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I swear to God this is the same illustrator who did "The Silent Age."

His bulging muscles glistening in the moonlight, Atticus wiped away the sweat from his brow and cocked the gun he once used to kill a rabid dog with. "The night is quiet...TOO quiet," he thought to himself, and with a hearty rolled cigarette clenched between his teeth, his eyes narrowed into slits - as he searched the night for more of those troublesome vampires. "First it was the zombies, and then it was those damn North Koreans," Atticus muttered, his face illuminated by his menthol's hot red glow. "And then came the aliens - Pleideans, old Ike called them - and after that, the CHUDS. And then after that the whole damn town got overrun by those poofy Too Wong Foo fellas. Holcomb-and-getcha', they called their act. And what kind of man drinks a Yager Cosmopolitan? Kinda' makes you wonder if the Confederate flag means anything at all anymore...?"

Lightning flashed as the thunder clouds rolled in suddenly. It was a dark and stormy night after all. In a heartbeat, the air went from thick and humid to hot, wet, and sticky. A wolf howled in the distance as sharp sheets of rain pounded the ground like an angry gorilla, a noise as loud as a truck full of pigs crashing into a concrete embankment - and plying the pavement with pork. But the night was still too quiet in the old lawyer's ears, and when the first fang'r popped up like a Whak-a-Mole, he...was...ready.

A second heartbeat later, Atticus sprayed the veranda with lead.

(Nervously clearing my throat.)

You know, with all the hoopla surrounding Go Set A Watchman's release tomorrow, wouldn't it be funny if the book was just...BAD?

I'll admit that it's hard not to get just a little excited over the discovery of Harper Lee's long-lost first book. I mean, between her published book, movie, and Pulitzer Prize, To Kill a Mockingbird still remains the very definition of the great American novel - a lit class requirement for almost 40 years. But even more than just being a candid historical read, TKAM has held our attention because of what became of Harper Lee, herself. The author became a recluse. With the exception of accompanying Capote to Holcomb - and spending a few weeks on Gregory Peck's movie set - Lee completely retreated from the public eye, and never wrote another thing of consequence.

Obviously, Lee's insistence for privacy has created an aura of mystery that's fueled To Kill a Mockingbird's longevity. "Why did Harper Lee stop writing?" we wondered. "Like Finding Forrester, was it really her intention to stop after a single book?" Author Charles J. Shields published a 2006 biography of Lee entitled Mockingbird, but as Lee declined to participate in the project (all of Shields' sources were Lee's friends/acquaintances), the biography offers more in third-party anecdotes than it does in concrete answers. Harper Lee stopped granting interviews in 1965, so for the last four decades, her readers have been left no choice but to speculate - leading to the preposterous rumor that Capote (not Lee) was TKAM's true author. From what we've learned about Capote's true character, I find it far more plausible that he helped Harper Lee write, rather than doing the writing for her. It's hard to believe that someone with Capote's ego would have been able to keep his ghost-writing a secret while inhaling lines with Halsten at Studio 54. No, TKAM is definitely Harper Lee's creation all right, albeit with some very-likely late-night Holcomb motel editing.

Capote & Lee

But getting back to topic, Capote wasn't around to EDIT Go Set a Watchman. And judging from the first chapter posted online by The Guardian last week, nobody else was there either. GSAW bares the telltale signs of a talented young author who hadn't quite hit her creative stride - but was very close to doing so. I read the first chapter this morning. And before I go further, please know that I'm not slamming the book. GSAW's opening pages proved a tough read even by 1950s standards - where even the best books tended towards sluggish beginnings. Well, maybe not Peyton Place...

Go Set a Watchman opens with a slow train ride that seems to set the tone for what's to come. When we first meet Jean Louise Finch, she's staring out a passenger window, watching the passing rural landscape and remembering numerous backstories that only seem to remind everyone how dull long train rides can be. Chapter One takes the reader on a lengthy expositional adventure, thumbing its nose at grabbing a reader's interest early on. Highlights include:

Scout drinks a cup of coffee with breakfast.
Scout reflects on reading the instructional signs on the walls of her sleeping compartment.
A lengthy paragraph describing the backstory of a thin book of poetry, kept on somebody's coffee table.
Scout drinks more coffee.
A hearty paragraph-long description of Maycomb, written in the style of a County Land Survey.
Whoops - make that three paragraphs.
Scout's a decent tipper.

Again, I'm not being snotty. Harper Lee is an amazing writer, and To Kill a Mockingbird is an amazing book. But almost no author hits a grand slam with their first project, and there was clearly a reason that Go Set a Watchman was passed on by its publisher. And remember: Lee's publisher didn't just flat-out reject the book. He clearly saw "potential" within the story, and on his advice Lee returned with a better project. And that was the story that went on to win the Pulitzer. Even Michael Crichton was smart enough to leave Pirate Latitudes in his desk once he realized the raptors would eat Captain Phillips alive.

You know, despite how all this might sound, I really have no problem with Go Set a Watchman being published fifty years after the fact. Despite all its flaws - and the fact that it's being packaged without the basic editing that's required for modern novels - the book will be an incredible backstory to one of the greatest American novels ever written. But the current marketing of GSAW is unfair to both author and reader. GSAW is not a sequel, no does it have TKAM's polish. And presenting it as such creates impossibly high expectations that are already causing harsh reviews. I can't help but think that the elderly Lee has been taken advantage of, like a family of losers circling a rich dying aunt. We've all heard the stories about Lee's recent battle with unscrupulous lawyers, and news of a possible "third" unpublished manuscript just hit CNN a few hours ago. This whole celebration - and midnight release, like a new Harry Potter - has the same Casey Kasem taste of very bad people taking advantage of someone beloved. I hope that's not the case of course, but when one watches all the hype...

I guess all we can do now is just wait and see how all this unfolds. Fingers crossed, Ms. Harper Lee. And your true fans will never forget that at the end of To Kill a Mockingbird, you chose to allow Boo Radley his privacy.

And by "privacy," I mean his dignity.

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Our House, In the Middle of the Street

6/23/2015

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If Ted Bundy had a Queen Anne...

"You look like a cross between the new Jan Brady and Hitler," I told my roommate as he stepped out onto my home's covered porch about two Sundays ago. And I wasnt exaggerating. He had slept funny. His Rustoleum-black hair - though normally swooshed to the side like a Manga character - was covering half his face in the front, but sticking out in barbed wired curls in back. The screen door slammed behind him as he held his MacBook and stretched before lighting his morning cigarette. He resembled the unholy offspring of Fred Gwayyne and Tommy Wiseau, and as he settled into the white wicker chair next to me, the two of us looked like the kind of neighbors that caused other neighbors to cross the street when passing by.

Radar & I stand out in our neighborhood like Jihadists at a church social. We both tend to look like SOA extras - him, with a Goth's love of black, and me, with a leather man's love of inappropriately long goatees. We tend to resemble two 46-year-old ghouls, perched in a Norman Rockwell painting, surrounded by red geraniums and cigarette smoke. I've often written about the past seven years of revolving roommates, but Radar seems to be a keeper so far - a New Orleans native, as batshit-crazy as myself. It's hard not to feel just a little sorry for my conservative neighbors, but hey - we don't sell drugs, host wild parties, or throw whiskey bottles at passerby. In deeply-Catholic Aurora, Illinois, in the land of big families and even bigger church-hats on Sundays, it's admittedly twisted fun to be the gay guys in the house at the end of the street. "No Señor, we no like your lifestyle...but Jesus give you pass because he like how pretty the jotos keep their yard." Chuckling...I've learned to pick my battles.

Chicago Pride, 2015

In addition to living in the heart of Jesusland, I've occasionally blogged about how difficult it's been to find/meet other gay dudes in the area. And that's surprising when considering that next to Chicago itself, Aurora is still the largest city in the Chicago area. We're bigger than even Naperville or Joliet, though it's often hard to see. Aurora is one of those towns that's so big we're actually made of other smaller towns. That is, we have "old" Aurora, "new" Aurora, rich Aurora & poor Aurora, Aurora with Spanish signs on its businesses (and a bigger celebration for Cinco de Mayo than the Fourth of July), Aurora that tries to pass itself off as Naperville, and countless distinct ethnic neighborhoods with clearly-defined boundaries. I often joke about my own circle of streets - an inner-city collection of historic districts, with whites, blacks, and Hispanics all participating in ongoing gentrification. Radar & I are not the only gays on the block, but all of us gays tend to keep low profiles in an effort to keep the peace. Flying a Pride flag here would be as inappropriate as lighting up in a non-smoker's house, so the price of living on a quiet suburban street means getting along with everybody. But getting along or not, us gays are still...here. And that's easy to forget until you see something big happen - like last weekend's Chicago Gay Pride parade. The jotos - literally - came out of the woodwork, filling the Metra's early morning trains to capacity. So much for low profiles.

The morning commute, minus the sedan.

Speaking of profiles, I was thinking about my own today as I watched Radar head off to work on his motorcycle this morning. A New Orleans native in town for two years, my roommate bought a bike before he got a car - without even thinking about the words "summer tornado season." For the past month and a half, he's been roaring through Aurora scaring the hell out of everyone - the neighbors in particular, who have long been frightened of me. He wears his leather jacket no matter how hot & humid, and like Lizbeth from The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, he's a tech-goth hired to shake up corporate America (only without all the blood, rape, and Enya). But there in lies not only the problem with Radar, but also with myself. We're both middle-aged fish out of water, stuck for the moment in one of Chicago's most conservative burbs. And Aurora isn't exactly Mardi Gras - or Pride/leather - friendly. Our social lives...suck. And not in fun Grindr way.

On the subject of Grindr, after my own self-esteem-crushing exploration with the app a few years back, I suggested to Radar that he try his luck on a dating website. I was surprised to learn that he shies away from social sites (a typical tech-geek quirk I've leaned, a reluctance to share too much personal information online), but between my blog, site, and other social-networking profiles, I'm just the opposite. "What can it hurt?" I asked. "It's the 21st century, for Christ's sake." After a few nights of prodding, I convinced him to begrudgingly set up his own OKCupid profile. I followed myself a few nights later, and over the past four weeks or so, we've been exploring the tragedy of mainstream online dating - with little to show for it but laughter.

And let's be blunt: it's hard not to laugh when watching all the commercials, late-night, side-by-side with Kevin Tudeau, especially Our Time and EHarmony.com. Those white-haired spokesmen - all of them male, and rejected by reverse-mortgage companies - promise that after answering just a few hours worth of questions, our soulmates will be waiting in our inbox, baldness & girdles be damned. "If you're ready to settle ... err, I mean settle down ... then, join our site where thousands of singles are waiting." The current crop of over-40 singles sites remind me of MAD-TV's Lowered Expectations Dating Service, only without the laughs. They're like those Israeli services that sell Purim baskets to terrorism victims - internet trolls making money off other's misfortune. And though OKC is technically free, I'll admit to paying for a month's trial subscription to get the best experience from the site. But so far it's been a bust. Not a soulmate in sight. Not even a smoking buddy for days like today when Radar's at work.

Sites like OKC are no different than hookup apps. They all draw from a small pool of local people, and they follow a similar pattern: you get lots of responses within the first week...you message a few folks, they message you (or visa-versa)...by the second week, interest quickly fades - and you're left looking at the same old profiles...by the third week, the site has run its course and no one wants to talk to anyone anymore. It's a predictable cycle, and it seems to apply to all social sites. At risk of sounding like a total sleaze bag, at least with hookup apps, you're likely to find occasional overnight company. I never thought I'd miss the days of cold-cruising a bar, but the plus-side to local taverns is that they provided real human contact, rather than a thumbnail pic - and cryptic online descriptions.

Again, in the world of over-40 online dating, we pick our battles...

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IML, 2015

5/25/2015

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Pretty as a postcard, but even Denny's looks clean at night.

The long, narrow shape of the metal passenger cabin caused the cries of whining children to bounce off the shiny steel walls. The BNSF Metra was at capacity yesterday afternoon, so much that the conductors even opened the cars that hadn't been cleaned. The Metra is a commuter train, with ten different lines which connect the outer suburbs to downtown Chicago. The BNSF line is the one I always take myself, a normally-pleasant hour-long experience which allows me to play Words With Friends on my iPad, or to grab a nap. But this was not one of those times.

As children whined all around me, I shrunk in my seat and tried not to lose my temper. I accept the fact that kids ride trains too, but I loathe any parent who doesn't prepare them for the journey - specifically, the need for proper behavior in a closed, social setting. My IML buddy was in the seat behind me as youngsters whined, bitched, wailed, shrieked, climbed over seats, and smeared spit & snot on the windows; the two of us were already in foul moods, cold and wet with water & sweat, having gotten drenched in a downpour during our race to catch the 2:40pm train. We stunk, the people around us stunk, and the air in the compartment smelled like wet dog & Doritos. It seemed like the whole fuckin' city had chosen our specific train to return to the suburbs, and the ride to Aurora took an extra 20 minutes because we had to stop so the police could remove a obnoxious passenger. That passenger had been two seats in front of me, btw...

In hindsight this was the perfect end to what had been a far-from-perfect IML weekend. IML - short for International Mister Leather - is a Chicago convention held every Memorial Day Weekend, an event that celebrates the worldwide gay leather community. IML attracts leathermen from all over the world, and generally offers a safe environment to meet & interact, and share the camaraderie that comes from joining likeminded souls. I think I've attended IML twelve or thirteen times over the years, a few times in the 1990s, and then almost every convention since my return to Chicago in 2006. I live so close, it's hard not to go. I've never stayed in the host-hotel itself, but I've always stayed very nearby - either with a local friend, or a hotel down the street within walking distance of the event. Chuckling...even for a guy with almost 20 years experience in the leather community, staying in the host-hotel can be overwhelming.

"Hotels" are what I'm going to talk about here, as this year's IML really caught me off guard. Before I go further, please let me say: I am not writing a Michigan review. If IML is to be reviewed at all, it's the organization of the convention itself that matters - not the amenities offered in a building. So long as sheets are clean, the rooms have WiFi, and the presentation halls have enough space for the market, IML can be held anywhere. Sure, a nice lobby is appreciated - and what guest doesn't enjoy the perks that come from a big-name property - but when it all comes down to a hotel full of flesh, nobody cares how many stars the restaurant gets. Besides, the longest-running joke at the convention is that whenever a particular hotel hosts IML, they're probably going to remodel soon afterward.

I can barely recall my first IML's, but I do remember that they weren't as big as today's. From what I've learned over the years, in order to guarantee that a host-hotel makes money, the convention must rent 90% of its rooms beforehand - enough to justify closing to the general public, and declaring the event a "private party." If an IML can't hit the magic 90%-mark, any family of four can rent a room. And as funny as it might be to imagine Pat & Adelia Robertson staying in the suite next to Chuck Renslow, their complaints would have to be taken seriously, should they see something offensive. So the trick for IML organizers is to find/book a venue that's likely to sell out. Early host-hotels were small, with few planned events & sponsors. As the convention grew with the internet, host-hotels got bigger. IML began to mature in the late 90s, commanding larger spaces and better backers. Host-hotels went from large lakefront brownstones to the modern towers of Chicago's big name brands like Hilton, Hyatt, and Marriott.

Though the Hilton was my favorite hotel (it's Beaux-Arts architecture is breathtaking - especially the foyer), I've always felt that the Hyatt hosted the best IML's overall. As "organization" makes/breaks the convention, the Hyatt had the event down to a science: windows were blackened, security was increased, and all their adorable God-fearing housekeepers were swapped with those from other hotels - maids who didn't cross themselves when finding dildos rinsed off in the sinks. When you see large hotels in action, it's clear that they've prepped their staffs in advance for IML's inevitable craziness. Those folks who can restrain from laughing when a shirtless daddy-bear in leather pants asks them for more towels will make bigger tips if they don't ask what those towels are for. "Need soap, Sir? Toilet paper? Dental floss to extract those pubes from your pearly-whites? No problem, Sir! Our hotel has been stocked with anything a dom-daddy might need...and that includes moist toilettes, so you can clean off those cum stains from the chin on your trick's leather hood!"

But the "security" is what I liked best about the Hyatt. Their dark suit-coats & walkie-talkies on their belts could be seen everywhere one looked. As the lobby filled with testosterone & flesh, the Hyatt security became as omnipresent as secret service agents. The only thing missing were the dark sunglasses as they oversaw the masses, smiling politely, allowing folks to have their fun, but also to intervene if necessary - should the intoxicated or excited cross the line of public decency. As with any convention - from corporate trade shows to ComicCon - once night falls and the liquor starts flowing, there's bound to be bad behavior from those who would normally know better. Most Doms can keep their submissives in line - even when without a leash & collar - but there's inevitably some jackass (or herd of jackasses) who'd behave so badly when they think that no one's looking, it ruins the moment for everyone. Good host-hotels never let that happen. And the Hyatt also never let that happen, but they also somehow managed to keep the carpets clean & dry. Now, that's a good host-hotel!

I mention all of this because 2015's IML had anything but a good host-hotel. The convention was at the Congress this year - one of the first big hotels to host IML, I'm told - but what could have been an awesome nod to Chicago's leather history felt like it had been thrown together last minute - and completely unprepared for the amount of attendees coming in and out of the doors. I hesitate to bring this up - I feel like in doing so, I'm betraying a longtime friend - but the once-great Congress failed on so many levels, I felt ashamed to show my convention buddy (an IML newbie) around. And again, this ain't no snobby review, but what I experienced in the Congress was no less than heartbreaking - and I will share a few observations from this weekend:

The hotel is in disrepair. I get that the place has been around for a century, but clearly no recent effort has been made to repair broken light fixtures, soiled carpet & ceiling tiles, and shopworn surfaces throughout its public areas - all issues that existed long before IML. In fact, the only "new" electrical work I noticed were the gas station-style fluorescent exterior lamps added like an afterthought to the lobby's street side canopy.
The building's exterior is filthy. I mean, inner-city alley filthy. Road soot, spiderwebs, cracked concrete, and sidewalks that haven't been power-washed in a decade...even Aurora's big halfway house (a repurposed, turn of the century hospital) has better curb appeal.
The Congress's interior was just as dirty, though much of that came from a lack of janitorial maintenance during the event, itself. My boots literally stuck to the floor in places, while other areas - especially the first floor hallways - had pools of liquid from spilled drinks, and the grime that came from walking through them. Litter everywhere - paper plates, paper napkins, plastic cups, and everything once contained on/in them.
Large events were crammed into small rooms, with the sounds of each event intruding on the next. And having the leather market - one of the convention's primary draws - spread out over multiple rooms/floors made visitors feel as though we were walking through a dead person's estate sale.
I'm probably making more than this than I should, but the fabric used to "dark out" first floor windows had been thrown up half-assed, and was falling down everywhere. Directional barricades, too. And there were many "staff areas" left unsecured, allowing the crowd access to restricted places without any supervision.
The hotel's service staff-temps (especially in the bar areas) were so overwhelmed and unfamiliar with their stations, it was hard not to jump behind the counter and help them.

But everything I've mentioned so far seems irrelevant when compared to the dangerous lack of security at this year's convention. I've described how the Hyatt handled its guests in previous years; the Congress was the opposite. I don't know if it was due to budget shortfall, lack of available/quality personnel, or just a terrible oversight - but the hotel had the feel of a rowdy college kegger on Saturday, and it only grew worse as the night went on. I did see a few "manager types" standing here & there, but with the exception of one man in a security shirt strolling obliviously down a wet corridor, the crowd at the time had no supervision - and many guests were behaving badly.

Even with many IMLs under my belt, I threw in the towel at midnight that night, opting to return to the Hilton, where I had planned to stay through Monday. I had lost my buddy in the crowd somewhere, and after several unanswered texts, I turned in. I was awakened at 2am, when he entered our room - shaking.

My buddy like me is a guy in his forties, a newbie to Chicago but experienced with the kink world. He had, up to that point, totally enjoyed the weekend...and as mentioned, we had plans to stay through Monday. But my friend had experienced something horrible at the hotel after I left - a situation that should have been stopped cold by even lax rented security. But it hadn't been stopped, and it continued into one of many unlocked, unmonitored staff-only rooms...like violence in a prison yard, ignored by oblivious guards. Adding insult to injury, the mood of the Congress offered no repercussions - causing us to cancel our hotel room and leave the next day. I apologize for vagueness, but giving specifics would only open doors that hurt to close.

This year's IML at the Congress Hotel was just...shameful.

The Nuns of the Congress - LOL!

Though 2015's convention had a shitty end for my friend & I, ultimately, it's still only one of many IMLs...and I will try again next year. I hope those responsible for the event have realized what a let-down this year turned out to be, and I hope that changes are already in the works...and that nobody else got hurt.

I was speaking to a new Recon bud this morning, a 25-year-old newbie who recently joined the scene. 2015 had been his first experience with the convention, and he excitedly told me: "IML was great! It was so sleazy!" It pained me to hear him say that.

Every year I see new faces in the community, online and in person, popping up at bars & events. There's a whole new generation of up & coming leathermen, and it's up to the older folks to mentor them for the scene. IML is to the leather community as Pride is to the gay one. We must never forget that.

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Air Crash Investigation: The Rapture

4/30/2015

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So, I finally got around to watching Nicholas Cage in "Left Behind" on Netflix. Though I didn't find the film as bad as critics say, I can understand why it got such harsh reviews: Left Behind took some of the greatest source material ever, and reduced it to a two-hour episode of Air Crash Investigation. I'm familiar with Jenkins/LaHaye's books - I actually read the first 6 back in the nineties - and though I disagree with their interpretation of the Rapture, it's great human drama. As frequently mentioned in this blog, I genuinely believe that within the next two years, humanity will experience an "event" that temporarily disrupts the flow of goods and services - and forever change the way we view our place in the universe. Prophecies like the "Rapture" are just religion's way of describing the same event. From aliens on the White House lawn to "Hi" McDunnough crash landing a plane after his daughter clears the runway of port-o-potties, it's all the same thing. The shit is going to splash the cockpit windshield, no matter who's flying the plane.

Galaxy Quest's "rock people."

Noah's "rock people."

Netflix rocks. It's the perfect place to catch all those movies that you didn't want to pay for in theaters. I'm a big Netflix "ironer" - that is, I love to stream films while I iron my work clothes. It makes me feel a little better for being such a television junkie. I never actually sit down to watch a show...rather, I multi-task...ironing, cleaning, doing dishes...and carrying my iPad from room to room, always with a video on in the background. Right now for example, I'm half watching/listening to "Noah" as I write this blog. After Left Behind, I'm in the mood for some world's-end Biblical bullshit, and Noah fits the bill nicely. It's funny. Having grown up Catholic - and having heard the Bible's stories since my days at Little Flower Parish the early 70s - I had no idea that the Rock People from Galaxy Quest helped Noah build his ark. Who knew?

The one thing that I've never understood about the Noah myth is the whole "one boy, one girl" animal concept. If the ark is meant to repopulate the Earth, then doesn't having only two of each species mean that life will start with incest? Though I appreciate Noah's efforts, the whole premise of the ark is a recipe for birth defects and peeing in the gene pool. I mean, why bother saving all the animals when they're just going to end up looking like something from the lab of South Park's Dr. Alphonse Mephesto? Seriously, I had no idea that the Darwin Awards started so early.

It's interesting to see the increase in religious-themed films that have been released over the past few years. From Left Behind and Noah, to productions like Mary released overseas...big religion has become big box-office, and at the very least, these movies are interesting because they're out of the norm. I'm an agnostic myself, but I have no problem with the resurgence of evangelical films; there's clearly an audience for these movies, and it's nice to see big-budget adaptations of stories without all the car chases. Whenever I think of religious flicks, I'm immediately brought back - again - to Little Flower Parish, 1975. My first exposure to Christ on the big screen was the film The Ten Commandments, chopped up into 20-minute segments and shown in religion class, on old projectors. I remember Yule Brenner riding a chariot, and Moses parting the Red Sea in the days before CGI. The Bible looked so "colorful" back then, mainly do to 1950s-era Technicolor, but Noah was just the opposite. Everything was bleak, brown, and Stalinist grey. At least Left Behind was smart enough to light its sets on fire, so even in the scenes where God wasn't so angry, like hell, something was always burning in the background. That's good TV.

Now, I know this might come as a shock to you, but I'm fairly certain that in the event of a Rapture, I'm going to be left behind. And it's because I ask too many questions, and have a hard time taking things seriously - particularly when people are panicking. Had I been on Cage's plane when the righteous disappeared, the first thing out of my mouth would have been, "God dammit. The Catholics were right." I then would have grabbed the drink cart as it rolled down the aisle (minus its stewardess who was wearing a gold crucifix only moments ago) and poured myself a stiff whiskey & Coke before starting with the questions: "Soooo...If we just hit another plane - and lost our elevators, vertical stabilizers, and half our fuel - then HOW the fuck are we still in the air? I watch Air Crash Investigation. I know that midair collisions rarely end well for either plane." I then would have banged on the cockpit door and demanded to know why Captain Steel was so calm. "Hey! Denzel Washington! Are you even awake right now?" Clearly, the Ghostrider had his own Big Gulp of vodka and OJ...but I just don't buy that NO ONE was available on the trans-Atlantic radio. I mean, if the Airport movies taught us anything, it's that most airline staff are just a bunch of godless heathens - and that was in the 70s. Somebody must have been monitoring the radio, at the very least, watching porn on another screen.

Sigh. We've covered Noah, The Ten Commandments, and the Rapture pretty thoroughly in major film...and that doesn't include all the forgotten movies from days gone by: The Robe, David and Bathsheba, Samson and Delilah, and Mel Gibson's splatterfest. God knows that Sam & Dean have been through Revelations for more than a few television seasons, and I'm still leading the charge for Shatner to play GOD on Supernatural's final episode. There's also a really cool FX show called Dig that explores the darker side of biblical prophecy. The Bible has no shortage of human suffering to base new cable pilots from...and neither do the Left Behind books, now up to 16 volumes. Jenkins & LaHaye sometimes remind me of V.C.Andrews - and I often wonder if they'll continue writing long after they're raptured, themselves.

But when it comes to new films that are based on the Bible, I might suggest that less is more - and remind everyone of the very first made-for-HBO movie: Glory! Glory! The film was surprisingly good - the Behind the Candelabra of 1989 - and it accomplished its goal without Nicolas Cage, and without the fire & brimstone of Heaven's special effects crew. Glory! Glory! is all but forgotten now. You'd be lucky to find it on VHS in a dusty e-bay auction. And that's really a shame because the movie proves that religion can be fun, especially when you embrace its quirks - and stop cramming prophecy down people's throats. Glory! Glory! is one of those little gems of the past, from a time when it was okay to make fun of religion. And LOOK who it starred: John Boy, for Christ's sake! And that chick who played "Audra" in Little Shop of Horrors.

Sadly, it seems that Nick Cage won't be returning for Left Behind Two - in the same way the entire cast ran screaming from Atlas Shrugged II, and later, Atlas Shrugged Part III. Such a pity. I was really hoping to see Ben Sanderson land a Boeing 747 under the red flaming skies of Baghdad around the ninth or tenth LB book. But there are other actors available. Richard Thomas comes to mind immediately. Shatner is too old of course, but maybe one of the newer captains - like Patrick Stewart or Scott Bacula. Chuckling. I'm sure Hollywood will make the end of times fun, whoever ends up flying the plane.

Unless, of course, it turns out to be Travolta - which means the Scientologists were right all along.

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It's Not Easy Being Green

4/24/2015

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So, I'm eating breakfast at my kitchen table this morning when I notice something that scared the shit out of me. From my vantage point at the table, I could see through my dining room - and into the living room, beyond. The lights were off in every room but the kitchen, so the rest of my house was shrouded in morning shadows. And there, in my living room, in the eerie start of dawn, I saw a gargoyle sitting on my love seat - and it was almost embarrassing how much it frightened me.

Of course, once my heart stopped racing I realized it wasn't a gargoyle - but rather my cat, perched on the edge of the armrest. My cat is black, and she was sitting near two throw pillows with lots of black in them. Between the kitty and the pillows - and the early morning lighting - the resulting silhouette created a dark, skeletal monster on the sofa. I chuckled at the tricks my mind played. I felt like I had seen an animal in the clouds, or Jesus on a piece of toast. But what really got my attention was that, even after I knew it just was my cat, when I purposely looked to find the "little being" again, I jumped just as hard. There is something inherently frightening about these figures - the gargoyles, ghosts, and Grays of folklore - and we human beings are hardwired to react to them negatively. And I say this because I consider myself a pretty intelligent guy, but when I mistook my cat for something more sinister this morning, all I wanted to do was to run from it. Or kill it.

Jeff Long's The Decent is one of my all-time favorite novels. It's premise mirrors what I felt this morning: the things we see as monsters have been ingrained in our DNA for a very, very long time. In Long's book, we're afraid of any creature that looks like a devil, gargoyle, or monster with horns - because since the beginning of time, unbeknownst to everyone, humanity has actually shared the earth with a second species of evil-looking (but benevolent) subterranean humanoids. Like the ghouls, ghosts, and grays that make us lock our doors at night, Long's cave-dwellers are root of almost all human superstition - and acknowledging their existence forever changes the way we see ourselves. I thought about this as I stared at my cat on the couch. The Decent nailed it: people are afraid of change. And by change I mean, learning with an open mind what exists in the heavens beyond today's blue sky - or coexists within other dimensions, sharing the same space as us. Suddenly, gargoyles seem a lot less frightening.

"Eck," from The Outer Limits

Different dimensions are a hard fact of science, but many scoff at their existence. Humanity lives within a three-dimensional world - a world with height, width, and depth - but science acknowledges five separate dimensions, with the possibility of many more. The movie Interstellar attempted to show what a fourth dimension might look like, but despite its best efforts (and great special effects), it fell short. Of course, it wasn't the film's fault. It's nearly impossible to explain a fourth dimension to those who live in the third. We can speculate and imagine. We can look at the stars and imagine our galaxy - and then a universe full of galaxies. But we can't grasp what's beyond our universe, or what type of "space" might hold millions of other universes. Our minds are too primitive. Human beings can't yet comprehend such incredible concepts. But still, those concepts are there - and even though we don't understand them, we know they exist. So it only makes sense that other beings exist as well, living within higher dimensions. I suspect that many "ghost" and "alien" sightings are actually inter dimensional beings that are momentarily visible within our reality. And I genuinely believe that these beings have been with us since the dawn of humanity. They're our gargoyles. And they're as real as a cat on a couch.

It seems like not a day goes by without some UFO story appearing on a credible news site. From John Podesta's devastating announcement on Twitter, to Fox/CNN video of craft over Phoenix, Seoul, and the Dome of the Rock, reports that stop short of saying "alien craft" are as common now as election coverage. This afternoon, I found this link on Drudge: "NASA Beefs up its Team of Alien Hunters and we may be on the Verge of Finding Extraterrestrial Life." NASA's original estimate (from an official July 2014 press release) stated that they anticipated finding alien life within two decades. But in less than nine months, that time was cut in half...and at the growing rate disclosure is appearing in the news cycle, it will probably be halved again before the end of summer.

Acknowledging the existence of extraterrestrial life is an important first step to understanding higher planes of dimensional existence - and our place in the galaxy. Once we accept that the universe is populated with many alien races much older than ourselves, we'll begin to open our minds to those superstitions that have always scared us...and we might stop jumping at the site of a cat in a dimly lit room. We'll realize that little green men are just a fraction of "unexplained" phenomena - from lights in the sky to ghosts in the attic.

And as we grow to understand our universe's dimensions, we'll learn to accept those beings who might not look like us - in the same way we grew out of our racism, and learned to coexist with people of every color. In this case, the little green men.

Chuckling...as Kermit the frog once said, It's not easy being green.

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Bond Villains, Riding on Horseback

3/19/2015

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Even as a Republican, I'd vote for Frank Underwood!

Show of hands: who's seen House of Cards on Netflix? More specifically, who's seen ALL of House of Cards - and binge-watched Season 3 the moment time allowed? Kevin Spacey has always been one of my favorite actors, and his role as President Underwood is fascinating - the very definition of how conservatives view corruption within the Democrat's leadership. I can totally see Obama pushing a reporter in front a moving train. I can also imagine Harry Reid demanding a better seat at the White House's dining room table. Had I been the FoxNews reporter at Hillary's first email press conference, even if I wasn't hand-picked by the staff, I'd have found a way to yell my question: "Mrs. Clinton - have you ever seen House of Cards?" Something tells me Netflix cuts her a royalty check.

He's the man with the Midas touch...

Over the past few weeks, I've grown convinced that James Bond villains really do exist, and have been working out some crazy-assed plot that involves the leaders of Russia, North Korea, and - chuckling - the American Democrat party. It could be spaceships orbiting with nerve gas like Moonraker. Or atomic bombs hidden in circus elephant shit like For Your Eyes Only. No Spectre plot is too far-fetched, especially after Putin vanished for almost two weeks, returning with a child and a big grin on his face. Perhaps Kim Jong Un birthed his baby? Alas, the real reason behind the year of Russian/North Korean friendship.

But Asia isn't the only continent full of ominous Bond-villain activity. The signs are there if you know where to look, and almost any given news story plays out like the opening to a recent Daniel Craig film. As jihadists gallop through the desert on horseback, it's unclear who might be carrying nukes beneath their turbans. Iran has these weapons. The DPRK has them also. Hell, half of the old Soviet Union had nukes before the USSR collapsed, and I seriously doubt that even today, all of those bombs have been accounted for. Netanyahu won reelection vowing to never support a Palestine state, making Iranian spin its centrifuges that much faster. I used to scoff at the idea of a Third World War, but our planet is glowing with an increasing number of frightening tinderboxes, and a careless decision is far more likely to happen in a small regional conflict than within a traditional power. But even if it's far away, any nuclear event is dangerous. The world's economy would destabilize, despots would escalate regional claims of territory, and worse of all there's always the chance that a large country would flex its muscle - invading Taiwan, or the remaining Ukraine. Kinda' makes one nostalgic for Goldfinger's Fort Knox Bomb that looked like a Mouse Trap game, doesn't it?

Waiting for Austin Powers #4!

I make no effort to hide that I'm Republican, and I definitely don't deny that I genuinely believe Obama's presidency has set our country back many years. When it comes to American leadership, my opinions are right there with Limbaugh: Republicans embrace national pride, while Democrats embrace their shame of it. I'll spare you the right wing diatribe, but I will say that even as a gay man - despite the alleged strides in social issues, I suspect that Obama has overseen a period of American decline - and that has made the world a more dangerous place. And I'm not talking about liberal entitlements or impeachable abuses of power/executive orders...I'm disgusted by the way we've allowed the world's bullies to thumb their noses at human rights - in wake of a weak administration. That's what I mean by James Bond villains.

Like Doctor Evil demanding a million dollars, the leaders of ISIS have been insisting the world convert to Islam, otherwise heads will - quite literally - roll. The same holds true for the Iranian Imams: let's wipe Israel off the map, like Moonraker's Drax plot to kill humanity. Putin is obviously "Kronsteen" from From Russia With Love, and China is like any given Asian mafia from any number of Connery, Moore, and Pierce Brosnan films. Everyone is rattling their sabers. Everyone is threatening disaster, like "Charles Dreyfus" from The Pink Panther movies. But what's really frightening is that these comedic Bond villains might have teeth, and as technology progresses, so does the opportunity for causing real damage.

"Hope," indeed.

It's no secret that North Korea is a big interest of mine. Honestly, if I had the status to be vocal with a cause, the DPRK would be my public interest crusade. We all know the story...we've read the books, we've seen the interviews, and we've seen the testimony given to the United Nations ' investigation on human rights violations. North Korea's status is grim; the country has committed abuses far beyond those done by the Germans back in the 40s.

But North Korea is the ultimate tinderbox. It's isolated, a stain in the world with a free-flow of information, and it's people have been trained to worship the Kims in the same way that Catholics are conditioned to accept the word of God - with shame as the punishment, for anyone who thinks otherwise. In the Hermit Kingdom, the Kims are publicly revered as Gods - and the state, like Orwell's 1984, is considered more important than happiness, marriage, family - or love. All eyes look towards the Great Leader. And that Great Leader is the scariest Bond villain ever.

So, what happens now? What would "Frank Underwood" do? Netflix's House of Cards addressed Vladimir Putin's war on gay people quite comically, but it failed to touch the larger issues - the tinder-boxes that have the potential do disrupt our daily lives...even our ability to watch House of Cards on Netflix.

"James Blonde"

I don't have an answer, here.

Typically, I'd rattle off on our place in the "galactic community" - another cause/passion of mine - disclosure, something I genuinely believe I'll see in my lifetime. But as it stands right now, I can't help but be worried. I fear that it will take some terrible event - some idiot detonating an EMP, or some outdated Bond villain clinging to the past and scaring the hell out of everyone. Humanity is so...close. And at the risk of sounding like a hippie, we need to learn to live with each other, and to work together - as a species, as a planet - to prepare for the next stage of human existence. But we have to extinguish those tinderboxes before the next stage happens. Anyone up for David Hyde Pierce as the next James Bond?

Or Hillary as the next Spectre villain?

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