My Twentieth

This past week marked a milestone in my life. Twenty years since I met Ed Briggs. The most amazing many I have ever met.I am happy to say, now husband. I am looking forward to the summer with the Supreme Court makes us legal across the land.I met Ed in 1993 at the National March on Washing for Gay and Lesbian Rights, Or the March. Although he had been at a party I hosted the night before, so were 1800 other men. When we did meet, it was literally a one in a million chance. According to estimates there were a million people on the Mall that day to march for GLBT equality.

There were groups marching representing differing geographic locations, fetishes, sports and gender preferences. I was looking for people with the leather community when I ran into some men that I had met at a FFA party on Thursday night. Although hot, hot, men, by the time Sunday rolled around I was just plain wiped-out . That along with the fact that I had a dozen people staying in my small basement apartment meant no privacy.

In an attempt to make a graceful exit, I notice a cute little stud on the hill about 50 feet away. Feigning surprise I told the guys that I just spotted a friend that I had net seen in years. I made a bee-line over to him, gave him a hug as I whispered in his ear; “I’ll give you $20 bucks if you pretend that you know me and walk out of sight of the guys behind me. He did, we walked away together and have been walking together every day for the past 20 years. He never did ask for the $20.

The funny thing is that later when Going through pictures I had taken that day, I found a picture of him from before we met.

We spent the rest of the day together having dinner at Mr. Henry’s on Capitol Hill. In one of the first signs of Synchronicity,  one of the people staying with me during the march had been dating Ed’s friend he came to the march with. Having spent almost 19 years with this man I will have more to write about and the things I have learned. But as a quick introduction, when we met Ed was active with the Spartan Wrestling Club in Philadelphia where he lived. For the first year, one or the other of us made the trip to Philly or DC every weekend. We finally moved into together in Philly then a year later moved to Florida.

To celebrate the occasion, We spent a week in Spain. Maybe it’s a sign of age, but I preferred the city of Madrid to Barcelona.

Dave and Ed at Gaudi Park in Barcelona

Bromance

This morning was my weekly head shrinking. One of my greatest fears is becoming addicted to therapy. How do I know when I am all-better, cured. I’m happier. There is no doubt about that. More stable but how do I know when my mood disorder is over? Thoughts? I am in a better mood.

My therapist relayed a story from when he was in school and was told by a professor that they were not allowed to judge anyone for any reason. My thought becomes that if we as a society do not point out unacceptable behavior. I am a much bigger believer now in the “social contract”. I believe as a society we have let too many people off the hook for their actions whether it be obesity or living off the government dole on manufactured disabilities. Unless people are held accountable for their actions this kind of behavior will continue. My therapist calls this being judgmental. If so then I guess I always will be judgmental. I do now wonder whether this is healthy for me or not. I don’t see it changing. Thoughts?

Anyway, enough psychoanalyzing myself, I’ll save that for the professionals. I’m going to count down to Toronto. Two more days and Ed and I actually get to spend time together. He’s been working so much and so hard for so long it’s going to pleasant to be off the grid. Save for a few phone calls or Skype calls to my mother the following six days will be off the grid. I will however try to keep people posted through the blog and Facebook as Internet allows.

Weekend on Broadway

This past week Ed and I celebrated our anniversary. 19 years ago we met in Washington DC at the March on Washington. One year ago on the same date, we got married and the US Courthouse in Washington DC. A more in-depth revelation of the day we met can be found here.

There is a certain synergy to this weekend in New York. The connection is Ghost.

I am writing this today while flying to New York to see a few shows for our anniversary. This brings full circle the “incident” on our wedding eve that almost derailed the wedding.
Last year as we prepared to actually get married, Ed and I decided that we would write vows. Not to be used in place of the ceremony used by the Clerk of the Court, but to exchange between ourselves. We both spent time, energy and heart writing them. I thought, since we both have a love of good movies, that mine would have a theme. I tried to incorporate as many movie lines into mine as I could remember.

The night before we got married we sat in our hotel room in Washington DC, Ed in my lap, and I gave him my “vows”. He read them, a little misty eyed, looked at me, and said ditto. I started to fume.
Is that is? Ditto? I poured hours into this and all you can say f@*kn say is ditto?!?!
I was pissed, or hurt, or just flummoxed. Any sense of romance was gone. My mind was racing trying to convince myself not to totally blow up and cancel the wedding. It took 18 years to get me to the alter and all he could say was f@*k ditto! I could not believe that Ed could act so callous. It was so out of character for him. Maybe it was just nerves hitting. I could not understand. I was nearly ready to head out the door for a long walk before he realize that I was truly upset and not projecting faux pain and indignation. Then he ask – “have you never seen the movie Ghost?” “No, I hadn’t! And I hadn’t seen Porky’s 3 either.” (see above comment about love of “GOOD” movies).
Since that night, I have come to find out that I am one of the few dozen people in the industrialized world who had not seen Ghost. Every person that weekend and after I went to for reassurance that I had been wronged squealed that that was the perfect response. Even our straight, 6’4″ 290 pounds of muscle, trainer congratulated Ed on a great response. I had been wronged damn-it and I kept looking for someone, anyone, who would back me up on that. Finally, four months later I found someone who had not seen ghost. They were from Europe but none the less she had not seen ghost. However once Ed explained the reason for his response, she “awww, that’s so sweet.
Today, after a year of trying to find someone who would let me play aggrieved victim or romance, I give up. I concede that that was a great response and I was really upset that I didn’t think of it first. Let me be clear. What Ed had written was beautiful and made me misty (actually I tear up at McDonald’s Olympic ads).
All that is a prelude to this weekend. For our anniversary, Ed is taking me to Broadway to see “Ghost the Musical.” I’ll let you know later how many Kleenex I go through.
As for the rest of the wedding eve, I calmed down and we headed out to the DC Eagle for our bachelors’ party. And no, you can’t see those pictures!

The other show we are seeing Saturday is Spiderman! Cannot wait!

Is There a Complete Guide to Happiness for Gay Men at Midlife and Beyond

I had hoped to get back to regular blogging about the Exquisite Fuckery that is the Republican brain. Alas, I am back to suicide.

This past week the New York Times carried an in-depth piece on the recent (New Years Eve) suicide of self-help guru/therapist Bob Bergeron, age 49, who was writing “The Right Side of Forty: The Complete Guide to Happiness for Gay Men at Midlife and Beyond.” He left behind a suicide note written on the book’s cover page: “It’s a lie based on bad information.” An arrow pointed to the book’s title, according to the report.

At first I laughed at the sardonicism of the circumstances. Here is a man who had it right and couldn’t accept his own teaching. The NYT author mentions In Dancer From the Dance. Dancer was one of the first gay themed books I ever saw or read. Unlike today, when I was coming of age the only out(ish) gays were Paul Lynn and Liberace. The only stories about gays were depressing and fatalistic. Portrait of Dorian Gray or Dancer.  In Dancer, the main character commits suicide “rather than facing getting older and watching his beauty fade.” Bernstein asks, “Had Mr. Bergeron made the same decision?”

I personally find it irritating when people tell me 50 is the new 30. NO 50 IS 50. 30 is 30. Don’t confuse the two. The other day some butt-wipe made a comment about me being old. I turned and in my best daddy voice said, “I have been your age. I had fun! It was the age when sex didn’t kill and when drugs were recreational. There is no guarantee that you will ever be my age. I have the advantage.” For the two years before I turned 50 I started telling people I was 50. That was number to be proud of. I survived the early days in the trenches and front lines of AIDS and Anita Bryant and all the craziness that was the 80’s and the Reagan error. I earned my scars, physical and emotional, and I am proud that what I did – what we did. We helped created a climate where kids in Bumfuck Montana can take same-sex dates to the prom.

I wouldn’t go back in time if you paid me. To me the joy in life is incorporating all you learn and moving it forward. There is nothing more silly that a forty something year old man trying to act 20. It just screams insecurity. The only time a hat should be worn backwards is when he’s giving head. I am not saying we should be wearing golf shorts and argyles up to our knees. But nothing is sexier that a secure man dressed confidently and age appropriate. Men like Tom Ford, Daniel Craig, Anderson Cooper and George Clooney are all examples of men acting their age. There is no sin in that. The whole inner beauty cliché is over used, but the mature man just knows. The young set may always be randy and ready to screw. It’s just a shame that they lack the necessary skills to actually please someone else. Or even last long enough to make it interesting. Most importantly to me, is that they keep my interest long enough to get home. I wonder if my generation was as shallow as todays 20-30 year old set.

There is a reason every story about people attempting to hold on to youthful beauty ends poorly. The Evil Queen in Snow White and Dorian Gray lose everything in their pursuit of youth. Peter Pan who never grows up, goes back to face his empty life. There is a reason young people are pretty. They have to have some positive asset something to attract a mate.

Just saying.

MARRIAGE EQUALITY, RICK SANTORUM AND THE REALITY BASED WORLD.

I am getting more and more upset by the constant flood of crap that is frothing out of Rick Santorum’s mouth on a regular basis. His ass must be getting jealous of the crap that mouth has seen. The worse comes when he speaks of “Gay Marriage.”

Now people tell me I should not get upset and that he has no chance of winning the nomination. I say BULL! He is giving voice to millions of Americans. Americans who will continue to harass, beat and kill gay men and woman because they are genetically different and they do not understand that difference.

First I have to say that I despise the term “Gay Marriage.” This past year, on our 18th anniversary, Ed and I got married in Washington DC where we first met at a political march. We did not get gay married any more than we had a gay lunch after the wedding and gay parked our gay car (ok it was a Chrysler Sebring but you get the point). We got married in Washington DC pursuant to the laws of the Federal District of Columbia and the rules of the United States Congress. It is Marriage, not gay marriage. We are fighting for Marriage Equality not something new and different.

Second, Santorum’s stump speech says that; “Marriage is not a right.” “It’s a privilege that is given to society by society for a reason…. We want to encourage what is the best for children.” That statement is wrong on so many levels when examined. First, Santorum and I were in law school about the same time. When I was in school, Creighton, a Jesuit Law School, We learned about a case called the Loving Case. (LOVING v. VIRGINIA, 388 U.S. 1 (1967)). Many states, including Florida, through the 1960’s had Anti-Miscegenation laws on the books outlawing interracial marriages. The Supreme Court declared that these laws were, “designed to maintain White supremacy”. The Court stated in no uncertain terms,
“Marriage is one of the ‘basic civil rights of man,’ fundamental to our very existence and survival…. To deny this fundamental freedom on so unsupportable a basis as the racial classifications embodied in these statutes, classifications so directly subversive of the principle of equality at the heart of the Fourteenth Amendment, is surely to deprive all the State’s citizens of liberty without due process of law. The Fourteenth Amendment requires that the freedom of choice to marry not be restricted by invidious racial discriminations. Under our Constitution, the freedom to marry, or not to marry, a person of another race resides with the individual and cannot be infringed by the State.” I am not sure where Santorum got his information but marriage is not a privilege and equality is not a privilege. It is a basic right.

He and his ilk, the evangelical Christians, talk about the sacredness of marriage. I will point out that government sanctions marriage. There is NOTHING that a government in this country can do, under the Constitution, that is “sacred.” The government issues a license to get married and to have certain benefits and obligations bestowed on two people. The government cannot issue a sacred document. It is at its’ base a contract between two people for mutual support. Marriage has not been between one man and one woman since time immemorial. Not until the very recent times did it morph into that. Before that it was between and man and his property. One man bought a daughter from another. The payment took the form of a dowry. As an attorney, I still deal with divorces of marriages performed in other countries that require the return of goats and such.

The last part of his statement is equally absurd. “We want to encourage what is the best for children.” Does that mean my brother and sister-in-law, married for over 20 years having no children, are not really married. The other possibility is even more absurd and point out why Christians find science to be the enemy. It is highly unlikely that a marriage of two people of the same gender will produce children. When I was in catholic school, in the sixth grade, I learned that it takes and x and y chromosome to produce a child and to get the right combination requires people of two different genders. Maybe they have discovered something new in genetics that I missed. As to the need to protect children, protect them from what? Priests? “Youth counselors?” Michelle Bachman’s husband? I will let Zach Wahls close for me. He is a 19-year-old University of Iowa engineering student and Eagle Scout whose parents are lesbians. Wahls gave a three-minute speech Tuesday before Iowa legislators urging them not to pass a constitutional amendment that would ban gay marriage and civil unions.

His words went viral across the Internet and had nearly a half million hits on YouTube in a single day.

Happy Birthday Patti Smith – I Screwed Your Boyfriend

This week Rock (or Punk) icon Patti Smith turned 65. Although she spent the past twentyish years in “retirement”, some would say she made a career out of being the last woman Robert Mapplethorpe screwed. The past year has been a banner year for her. Smith was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, presented with an honorary doctorate in fine arts from the Pratt Institute and awarded a National Book Award for her memoir, “Just Kids.” Just Kids was her second book published capitalizing on her time with Mapplethorpe. The first was a release of photos of Smith taken by Mapplethorpe.

I have never been a great fan of Smith although I do love the song she penned with Bruce Springsteen, “Because the Night.” The closest I’ve come to meeting her was when I was a bouncer at the 930 Club in Washington DC and she came into to see a show. We do however share a connection and that is Bobby Mapplethorpe. I met Mapplethorpe several times and in different environments. Two times will forever be etched into my mind. The first was through a friend and former roommate. He was the man in the polyester suit.

We worked together doing catering in Washington DC working both for Glorious Food and Design Cuisine. The first time I stopped by his apartment to pick him up for an event, I saw the print on his living room wall. I commented on it something to the effect that it was an expensive piece on a waiter’s salary. He proudly me told me the story behind it. A really funny side story about this picture is fodder for a post later this week. He spoke about meeting Mapplethorpe (in a rest room) and the shoot. He also invited me to meet Bobby who was in town then doing a shoot. I spent the better part of an afternoon watch him set up a shoots and deal with models and scenes.

The more interesting meeting was the next night when I ran into him at a SM play party in Washington. He did not recognize me at first, mostly because of the blindfold he was wearing. We ended up playing a few times later that week and again in New York. I have several pictures from that period including a picture of Bobby and Sam.

I suppose that I shouldn’t dislike Patti. Maybe I’m just jealous of her relationship with Bobby and with history. I am especially envious of her relationship with those at the center of the Woodstock event. I will say that I toughly enjoyed the book Just Kids. Read it cover to covers in a couple nights. If you get a chance grab it! Also, I am convinced that every person that comes in and out of our life does so with good reason. She help form Bobby who in turned inspired my love and respect for photography. I only regret that I did not become more of a groupie when I had the chance. I missed a great opportunity to learn and be a part of something greater than I could see at the time!

 

Happy Holidays

Happy holidays and sorry for the lack of blogging. Between cleaning and shopping and depression writing has been thin. There are several things about this time of year that make it my least favorite. The first would be my birthday.

My birthday, celebrated last week, has always been a time of angsts for me. When I was young, my friends and family would say that they got me one big present instead of two little ones. They would try to get out of buying me both a Christmas present and birthday present by trying to sell me a load of  bull. I knew, kids know when you are feeding them crap. I knew what they spent on my brothers’ presents and saw what they got him for Christmas. I was getting short changed. Damn it, I was the oldest, I should be getting more, not less!

Then the actual birthday celebrations always seam to fizzle. Our family would go get a Christmas tree on my birthday and that would be part of the tradition. It never failed that there would be some argument about the size or cost or type of tree that killed the “festive” mood. Then there was the year that my father was going to pick me up after school and we were going to Shakey’s for pizza. It was pouring rain and cold so that was a great relief to me. I waited at the school and waited and waited. After about an hour I started walking in the cold rain. My dad finally found me and I crawled into his car. He was soaked too. He had a flat tire and had to change it in the rain. We got back to the house, cold, wet and miserable, only to find my mother emptying the contents of the refrigerator into coolers and moving them downstairs to the garage. The refrigerator had died and the garage was the coldest place to store food until a new one could be delivered.

When we entered the house and shut the door, the vibration caused the top shelf in the living room to fall on to each of the shelves below leaving a huge mess. My brother (who had stayed home sick that day, my birthday, while I had to go to school) dealt with that while my parents handled the kitchen.  After all of that had been dealt with and we started to relax, and got ready for pizza, we realized that the dog was missing. We though that maybe she walked out the garage while the doors were open. My dad and I got in the car to drive around looking for her. My mom found her deep under the stairs with a new litter of puppies. Only one made it. We named him Jinx.

As I got older things did not get much better. In 1980, I spent my birthday being poke and prodded at the National Institute of Health with what I later learned was my sero-conversion of HIV. Other years my birthday usually fell during finals week and such. In the past few years’ things have gotten better though, although the last two years they were spent in the ER with friends. Even if the day itself is pleasant, to me it is the official beginning of the Christmas push.

The Christmas push is the window where presents need to be mailed and final gifts need to be secured. I always worry that I am not going to make the impact I want with a gift. Something special that is remembered. I know I create a lot of the stress myself but I don’t know how to not worry.

Then there is Christmas day itself. When I was younger and then in my “religion” stage it held a magical time. Now it’s just another day. I was talking with a friend last night about Christmas. He is going to spend it at a casino with an ex-girlfriend from 25-30 years ago, his sister-in-law and her sister. Scott, much like myself, enjoys solitude. For some reason however we are both putting together “family  groups” that would not normally be people we want to spend time with, because of some deep seeded need to find a community or place to belong.

Ed is working on Christmas day although we will have Christmas Eve together. He said that on Christmas day, the ER fills with lonely people from the nursing homes who want company and the suicide attempts of the more mobile members of the lonely community.  Why on Christmas do we feel this need to be around friends and family more so than other times? Is there something deep in our soul or have we been so brainwashed by media, movies and Kodak advertising to feel that we are lees than normal if we cannot recreate a Norman Rockwell print. I don’t know. Maybe we always have hat need and the seasonal displays make it harder to mask. Sound good to me.

Law School Part One

This past week I have been skiing for the first time ever.  Another item off the bucket list! One of the more interesting events of the week had nothing to do with skiing but was a friend request on Facebook. The request came from a law school classmate who I have not spoken with in over twenty years. I have not written much about law school except for my reasons for applying. One reason for why I ignored those three years is that they were hellish.

Creighton Law School - 1987-1990

They were not hellish in the “always studying, never playing, never socializing way”. I could live with that. They were hellish in the “having a horrible relationship while doing experimental drug protocols and living in a backwater hell hole called Omaha while going to a conservative Jesuit law School and trying to keep it all hidden from public view while living with a selfish stoner of a boyfriend” kind of way.

What made the friend request interesting was that it was from a classmate whom I had little interaction with, but carried a schoolboy crush for. Attached to the Facebook request he indicated that although he married out of school he and his wife had split and he had “come out”. He explained what triggered his search for me was reading a book that mentioned the Bowers v Hardwick decision (A case involving criminalization of homosexual activity). He remembered an incident in Constitutional law class when Professor Shugrue, after deriding the legitimacy of gay relationships, asked for my reaction.

To understand Professor Shugrue think Hobbit meets The Paper Chase. He thought of himself as a modern day Charles Kingsfield but looked like a hobbit with a skin condition. The first day of classes we were to be ready to discuss the classic case of Marbury v. Madison. True to the Socratic method of teaching, Shugrue called on me to analyze the case. I cannot remember what I said exactly but I’m sure it was insightful and elegant. I did however say Marshall instead of Justice Marshall. Shugrue jumped all over that omission saying, “Although you may be on a first name basis with the Justices, in the class we will refer to them as Justice Marshall or Chief Justice Marshall. I found out that Shugrue was on the admission committee and was privy to my application and personal reference letters. Justice Thurgood Marshall, Justice Byron White and Senator Tom Harkin (D-IA) wrote the personal reference letters. I had worked for all three in one capacity or another. Apparently I intimidated the good professor and he was going to try to put me in my place. We spent the next hour in a spirited discussion and in the end I had established myself as one who could not be intimidated and come hell or high water I was going to piss high than him!

Moving forward a couple months the discussion was about the Bowers/Hardwick decision concerning sodomy. Shugrue took the position that sodomy was not natural and should not be given protection and other conservative-babble not related to the law. I realize that this probably not his true position on the matter since he did not include any legal arguments in his discussion, but at 8 AM on a Monday morning, after a weekend of partying and fighting with Steven, I was in no mood. I raised my hand and went into a full throttle defense of gays, gay life styles, bath houses, leather and SM and relationships finally closing by saying that my other half and I had been together 6 years at that point (five and a half to many) but that we were more long term than most of my fraternity brothers from undergrad. Many of who were already on their second marriage. I kicked open the closet door and came flying out like the Tasmanian Devil. There appeared to be a stunned silence in the lecture hall. I think many expected me to go storming out of the room but I stood defiant, arrogant and emotionally drained.  After a bit the discussion continued. Shugrue moved on to another student and I sat. I soon saw the fallout. Many of my classmates who played racquetball with me or studied with me now avoided me. Small-minded America had reared it ugly face. I did however find a circle of friends. They included the few progressives in the school, and surprisingly, a couple of Mormon students who were incredibly nonjudgmental.

The isolation was actually a godsend in that I did not feel the need to integrate myself into the typical student social scene. Although the gay scene in Omaha was abysmal, I made due with it and the bookstores across the river in Council Bluffs IA. I also had the Iowa caucuses to keep me busy. I helped organize for Senator Paul Simon of IL, the bow tie guy, and did advance for him in Iowa.  A picture from one of my events was featured in Time Magazine. I had a great eye for photo ops. It was my second political campaign in Iowa. The first one being the Harkin Senate race in 1984.  Although I was out of the closet as a gay student, I still hid my medical secret close to my vest. If anyone at the school found out that I had AIDS I probably would have been separated from the rest of the students. I continued my bi-weekly visits to NIH for lab work and follow-up while testing new drugs. I was emotionally and physically a wreck. I stayed in a relationship with Steven because I thought it better to die in a miserable relationship than to die alone. It did not dawn on me that the relationship was doing more to kill me. We finally parted ways a couple months after graduation.

I’m sure there were some good times in law school. But right now I can’t really think of any. Well except my first jailhouse sex. But that’s a story for another day.

Free Association – Jimmy to Barry to Barney

One of the biggest quarks I have is “free association.” My mind with connect all sort of dots before I come to a complete thought. That is the foundation of this post.

This past week a friend posted a music video on Facebook that took me on a trip down memory lane. As I get older I now realize the allure of music stations that focus on a certain period. As I listen to the Communards version of “Don’t Leave Me This Way” (extended mix), I could close my eyes and clear as day see the dance floor at Badlands in DC or the Saint in New York. I could smell the poppers and I could see the fear in the eyes of the living. Many of us were dancing and focusing on the lights and sounds. Focusing on every thing and anything in order to escape thoughts of the plague. We tried to remember faces that had disappeared in the past months. We memorized the faces of friends still with us. So many songs came out that registered the desperation of that period. “Who Want to Live Forever?”, “Forever Young” and in my case, “Don’t Leave Me This Way”. Enter Barry.

Barry and I had met during this period. I think when I bar-tended, but even that was a blur. We dated for a brief time but decided that we made better f*ck buddies and BFF’s. I have searched for a picture of Barry but the only one I could find was a picture of his AIDS quilt panel. I lost a lot of pictures when I tried to purge my memories of that time. It didn’t work.

Now abandoned, this was the second location for the Exile. An old poultry processing warehouse.

We would meet late at the Exile in DC to dance and play. The Exile was an rehabbed chicken processing plant in NE DC. The back room was one of old refrigerator rooms. We’d dance for a while, grab a drink then head back to the dark room. If there was nothing going on we would start something with each other. If there was already action we would go different directions, every so often meeting up to compare notes. I am certain we had dated in a past life. Or at least been siblings. God we loved Jimmy Summerville. We would dance and sing to every mix until the gay plague finally came to claim Barry.

I am not sure who was more distraught over his diagnosis, me or Barry. During that time we all believed that we were living on borrowed time. A diagnoses meant the waiting game was over. Barry was in many respects the stronger of us emotionally. I became a defacto “AIDS buddy”. It was one of the hardest points of my life. I was loosing a best friend and at the same time I thought I was witnessing my own future.

I would visit Barry as often as I could. Sometime to play cards, sometimes to listen to music (he had a top of the line sound system) and sometimes to just sit in absolute quiet and hold hands. He was deteriorating quickly. He eventually moved back home to Chapel HIll NC to spend his final weeks with his parents. When that happened almost all of his friends were cut off by his family. I remember laying in obed with him shortly before he left. He wanted to be held and at the same time his body, his skin hurt to the touch. I tried to be as close as possible with out hurting him. It is amazing what memories a song can evoke. Now what does this have to do with Barney Frank?

During this time I actually, formally, met Barney Frank. Barney lived in the apartment directly adjacent to Barry. At first I just nodded to him as we passed. After a few regular visits We would chat about Barry’s condition and soon Barney was involved in the care of Barry to the point of taking out his garbage when time allowed. I had “interacted” with Barney on several occasions but this was the first time we operated as equals. We were both loosing a friend. We remained friends for some time.

When I was in law school in Omaha Barney invited me to Chicago for a weekend as his date to a huge HRC fundraiser (No the trip was not financed by the tax payer). After I got back to DC after law school, I found out that I was not the only law student Barney had “encouraged”. I guess along with some of his kink fetishes, the primary fetish was cerebral. He really enjoyed being challenged intellectually. This is not the venue for the sordid details of a tell all queen. But then I was never a tell all queen. Only tell enough to keep them interested and guessing. That brings me back to Jimmy Summerville. His song “Small-town Boy” always touched me. The need to keep things hidden and realizing that the love and life I sought could not be had in a small town or with “small town” people. And now that circle is complete.

PS This is the first of my posting where I actually had to stop to cry. Very embarrassing on an airplane.