Whine and Cheese

I went to the grocery store tonight. Traffic was a mess, mostly due to the main bridge between Covington, KY and Cincinnati, OH being shut down and everyone taking the side roads around.

The grocery was busy, but I managed to find everything I wanted and few things that caught my eye along the way. The one thing that caught my attention was the toilet paper aisle, as it was nearly empty again. With the governors of both Ohio and Kentucky making more serious lockdown arrangements, I assume that everyone is going back into hoarder mode. You'd think they'd have learned from last time, but apparently not.

After getting home and unloading the groceries, I made dinner. Tonight's dinner was a variation of what we in my family came to call "Poor Man's Pizza." When I was a kid, we really couldn't afford to order pizza often, but often craved the flavor of it. So we kids came up with making our pizza by putting spaghetti sauce and American cheese on white bread and toasting it in the oven. We often had the fixings for it, so it became a staple among the kids. My folks didn't seem to mind.

My variation tonight was low carb -- Low carb wheat bread toasted with Velvetta cheese, dunked into pizza sauce with garlic salt. I admit that it tasted pretty good, almost as good as the version from my youth, back when "low carb" had no meaning.

I don't have a set date for the anniversary of my coming out. As I have posted before, I came out to myself when I turned 30 years old and started the process of coming out to others very soon after. I have never regretted it for a moment.


Yes, I have this many colors of these shirts...

A couple of weeks ago, I was having a conversation with a co-worker about visiting family for the holidays. I don't recall exactly how, but the discussion came around to him asking me if my parents ever tried to "correct" any obvious gay traits (OGTs) that they may have seen in me.

Being non-athletic and a tad histrionic, I was often labeled as a sissy by other kids, including cousins and even siblings. I know my dad often shut me down whenever things got a bit over the top. I remember that he bought me and my siblings glossy tee-shirts, the kind you saw in the 1970s where a thick, photographic transfer was on the front. My sister had something girly, with a horse on it or a kitten (I think). My brother had the "General Lee" car from "The Dukes of Hazzard." Mine was "Daisy Duke" from the same show, played by Barbara Bach, sitting seductively on her jeep. I tried to find a photo of it online and I couldn't. While I would enjoy the shirt for its kitschy nature now, at the time I was unimpressed with it. Looking back, I see it for what it was, something with a hot girl on the front that I could be seen in by others.

When we would watch the show, there was a scene in the opening credits with Barbara Bach in a red bikini. If I hooted and hollered at it, my dad would laugh proudly. It was all for his benefit and in a house full of kids, I got dad's attention for a few seconds, so it became a weekly event.

My dad signed me and the twin up for football in 3rd grade without asking, that I recall. If he did, it was probably phrased "Do you guys want to go play football? It'll be fun!" without telling us exactly what was involved. I just remember being taken to a locker room one day and fitted with ill-fitting pads and pants, saddled with a helmet too small, and then dragged to a field for my first practice. It wasn't fun. I hated it. When I quit after two weeks, my dad was disappointed in me, giving me dirty stares and not speaking to me for a month after. At 8 years old, that was rough. Again, I'm sure it was done to try to butch me up, but luckily my mom said I didn't have to do it if I didn't want to.

On a side note, my sister took this same approach with her kid that Mom did. If my nephew didn't enjoy sports, he didn't have to play them. I often wonder if she doesn't remember my horrible foray into football as part of her decision-making process.

My folks always said I was the quiet child of their brood. The reason for that was that after being shut down so much for any dramatic behavior, I found being quiet got me less correction. Once my siblings and I hit our teen years, Mom and Dad had to give a lot more attention to my more rebellious twin and sis than me, so I was often left to do whatever I wanted.

Today, there is the movement for gender neutrality, no pushing boys toward boy-things or girls toward girl-things. Some (mostly conservative) folks hate it because it fights the comfortable norm they grew up with, while others love their kids no matter what and don't believe it's necessary to push them toward things they may not want.

So did my folks try to correct my behavior, yeah, but mostly my dad. I've heard and read horror stories of others' experience, so mine pale in comparison.

I miss video stores. Back when I was a teenager, they were everywhere. Not just Blockbuster Video, but a legion of mom-and-pop independent video stores. Walking through the aisles looking for a movie to watch was fun. The box art was often beautiful and it was a mix of blockbuster films and independent (sometimes just plain "cheap") movies.

One of the movies that I remember renting over and over was a 1988 horror movie called "Slaughterhouse Rock." A handsome, furry guy with big mullet hair has horrible dreams of a monster and he and his college friends go to Alcatraz Island to find out why where most of them get killed. It's full of 80's fashion, hair, and musical styles. In fact, the biggest star in the movie is Toni Basil and the soundtrack was written and performed by Mark Mothersbaugh and Devo.

The acting in this flick is average at best. The lead actor is the cutest, but he's also the worst actor in the bunch. He's not the only furry man in the movie either and all of them are shirtless at least once in the film.

Being a closeted gay teen, all that shirt-free furriness was intoxicating to watch. Whenever I had a spare dollar or two, I'd rent the movie over the weekend again. The movie crossed my mind earlier this week, so I checked to see if it finally got released on DVD via Amazon and was surprised that it had been. So I ordered it and it arrived today.

I watched it tonight and while the furriness held up, the movie is far more campy than I remember, but then it is 30 years older now. Still, it'll be fun to watch now and then.

I was acting branch director today. It was a busy one, but it flew by for the most part. I came home with the plan of going for a run. After I changed out of my work clothes, I laid down on my bed for a brief second. The next thing I knew, three hours had passed. Naps are becoming common for me, but they trash the night for me, especially when I have things to do.

The dreams were pretty cool though. For some reason I was dreaming of my old elementary school, East Ward. Because my grandmother was the head cook there, she took me and my siblings to school bright and early every day. I was there at 6 AM, long before anyone else was at school, so we were left to our own devices until around 7 AM.

Normally, we stayed in the lunchroom/auditorium. On one end of the room were the lunch tables and benches, which could be folded up into the wall, leaving the area huge for indoor recess when it rained.

On the other end of the room was the school stage. The stage was open, but had stage doors to the side, as well as steps up from the lunchroom floor. There was a piano that always needed tuning, tables and folding chairs, and rolled up mats for tumbling for rainy-day recess. The best part of the stage was the slight upper area to the left next to a very large window that let you look out over the playground and the nearby creek. I spent many hours sitting on that window sill, staring out, and daydreaming.

I don't remember the specifics of the dream, but I remember the setting well. It made me sad that I never got to take photos of the school, as a lot of details are getting lost to me as I get older. The school was remodeled in the last couple of years, turning it into affordable apartments, so the stage is now history, as is the big daydream window.

I really need to force myself to stay awake and work out.

It is that time of year again. While I never remember the exact day, I know it was mid-January of 2003 that I looking into a mirror and finally admitted to myself that I was gay. I'm surprised that I don't recall the exact day. You'd think something so monumental would have branded itself in my mind. So, I'm thirteen years gay, I guess.

There are days I look back on things and I often wonder how my parents or my siblings didn't figure it out first. I wasn't great at hiding it, as evident from the teasing I encountered in junior high and high school. Often I wonder if I wasn't the invisible kid in my own house, the teenage antics of my sister and twin brother, both good and bad, garnering so much of parents' attention that they didn't have to spend much on me.

There were many instances of my admiring the hairy and/or bearded in TV shows and movies. I sometimes drew such men, but made sure to rip up and discard them before anyone else saw them. If anyone paid close attention they could have figured it out. I tried hard not to make any public demonstrations of my desire for these guys, but there was one good instance I recall where I slipped up.

I was the 5th grade and my mom and sister loved to read horrible rags like "The National Inquirer" and their ilk. I admit that I enjoyed reading them at times too. One such "issue" had a story about a pencil drawing that was being circulated publicly of Tom Selleck, that he supposedly didn't want seen. He was in all of his shirtless glory, chest hair for days, and that wonderfully wry smile front and center. From an artistic perspective, it was absolutely spot on (I tried to find it online and couldn't... drat). I used to stare at the drawing with the intensity of a stalker, admiring every curve, every shading, every nuance, getting a pre-puberty boner in the process every time.

One day in class, our substitute teacher was giving us a biology lesson. It basically was talking about how animals tend to have fur, which thickens in the winter time and thins in the summer. She was explaining how the fur helped keep the animal warm in the winter time. In the midst of the discussion, the teacher had said this didn't happen in people.

As if on cue, I raised my hand, asking "What about Tom Selleck? He's pretty furry!"

I felt it was on honest question, but I recall wishing I hadn't asked it almost immediately. The class turned and looked at me with this "WTF" stare and the teacher stammered that she didn't think it was the same thing. I clearly caught her off-guard. It seriously embarrassed me, which is why I remember it so vividly.

At least now, I can openly admire such furry beauty and make these comments without worry for the most part. And obviously, I draw what I like and post them publicly.

It's a good place to be.

One of the things that came up during my 25th high school reunion is how the twin and I ended up in separate grades. It made some people automatically assume I was older (more than the three minutes I actually am). If folks knew about me and my twin brother, they appeared to assume that the twin flunked a grade. One of my classmates admitted that she thought he had failed and fell behind. Ironically, her grandmother was my first grade teacher, the grade I skipped, and was one of the people responsible for sending me forward.


The Devious Smile of a 1st/2nd Grader


The twin and I started together in Mrs. Breeding's first grade class in the Fall of 1979. If I recall correctly, the school day consisted of the typical "A is for apple" criteria, to teach students the alphabet. We'd print the letter and then draw the corresponding object that started with that letter. Our math work was done through a large workbook with tear-away sheets that you would turn into the teacher. We'd read aloud from the "Dick and Jane" series. The best part of first grade was the naps.

Thanks to my watching too much television, a large chunk of it consisting of "Sesame Street" and "The Electric Company," I already knew how to read, drawing was fun, spelling was a competition, and basic addition/subtraction was easy. When we had time to do math work, I would do the sheet assigned and move on to the next, then the next, and so on, until I had the whole book finished the first month I was there. I would tear out the sheet to turn in, have nothing else to do, and become a complete nuisance to Mrs. Breeding. I don't recall specifically what the twin was doing during all of this, but it probably consisted of playing and being a smart@$$.

About six weeks into the year, Mrs. Breeding told me that I was going to be going to Mrs. Moore's class in the afternoon. Mrs. Moore taught second grade. So for a couple of weeks, I spent mornings in first grade and afternoons in second. I was learning handwriting in second, which I didn't particularly care for, but everything else seemed to fall into place. At the end of two weeks, Mrs. Breeding told me that I was supposed to go to Mrs. Moore's class all day from that point forward. I didn't really question this. I wasn't asked, I was told to do it. I just thought it was normal. What I didn't know was that the teachers had been talking to my parents and they had all agreed to push me to the next grade.

So, now in second grade, we were still reading, still doing the spelling words, still doing math in those tear-away books, doing the practicing of writing (also in booklets), and odds and ends. Then the same thing started happening. I finished all the math in the tear away books, began turning the long-completed sheets in when asked, and started bugging the crap out of Mrs. Moore while everyone else was working. From what I remember, I also started working ahead in the writing book too.

Mrs. Moore sent me to the "special" reading class in the afternoons. I was the youngest kid in there. The rest of the kids in there were in the next couple of grades ahead of me. I knew a couple of them were not the brightest kids in those classes, so I think it was a mix. I now get it -- I was reading ahead of my class, they were reading below theirs, but at the time we were reading at the same level collectively. We read comic books, worked on writing assignments, etc. It was strange to be pulled out of class like that, but again, I never questioned it.

From that point forward, my siblings were staggered one class apart -- my sis a year ahead of me, my twin a year behind. A few years ago, my mom told me that the school had actually come to her and Dad to discuss pushing me from second grade to third that same year. Because I had repeated the behavior of working ahead in my class work, the teacher had wanted to move me on. I guess she could also have gotten tired of my being bored and being a pain in her butt. Because of my age and concerns about my maturity, Mom and Dad decided that a move to third was not a good idea. I'm also guessing that they didn't like the idea of my sis and me being in the same class.

... And I still love reruns of "The Electric Company." It served me well.

As I was digging around in photos last week looking for something to post, I came across this photo. At first I didn't think it was THAT old and then realized that it was from 1998, some ... wow... 16 years ago.



I was living in Overland Park, KS, working as a chemist for Uncle Sam in a food testing laboratory where I did metals and pesticides analysis on the stuff everyone loved to eat. It was a dreadfully boring job at times, but it kept me busy. Being in the closet and having no real interactions with people outside of work, I decided to stretch myself and volunteered at the local county library. I had a disastrous first day shelving books. An angry circulation desk witch, who mistakenly thought I was a criminal working off some community service, lambasted me for not having my "papers" with me. After I flipped her the metaphorical bird, I went to the volunteer coordinator who moved me to a volunteer-run used bookstore in one of the other branches.

The bookstore was operated by a diminutive, elderly spitfire named Opal and her henpecked hubby "Shorty." My job was to empty the garbage cans that were full of unsellable books, sort donated books, restock the shelves, and run the cash register. Usually around 7 PM to closing, I was on my own in the shop. I bought a ton of books from them over the two years or so I volunteered there. I helped out during the annual book sale, even taking off work to do that. And there were a couple of hottie regular customers who came into the bookstore that I often fantasized about.

Opal and I got along for the most part. She showed me the proper way to box the books so they'd stack without crushing. The problem is that there was no method to her madness and every time I boxed them, even if I followed her directions perfectly, I never got it right in her eyes. At first, I was fine with that, as I was sure my main job was to move things and babysit the shop at night.

My tenure as a volunteer came to a conclusion after a bi-monthly book sale in 1998. I was boxing up books after a long day with all the other volunteers. Opal, being ever the control freak, started shrieking from behind me "NO! NO! NO! LET ME SHOW YOU AGAIN!"

Being chastised like a naughty child in front of everyone embarrassed me. I remember my face feeling flush and my anger rose. I knew that no matter what I did, I'd never have it packed to her satisfaction.

"You know what," I growled, "I don't want to be shown how to box books again, now or ever, as I'll never do it right according to you! So you and the rest just box them up and I'll do what I'm good at, hauling the heavy things back to the storeroom!!"

And that's what happened. They packed the boxes and I dragged them away. Everyone was a bit stunned into silence by my outburst, but I suspect they'd all felt Opal's fury at one time or another. As I recall, I didn't speak to Opal before I left. I was angry. Opal was a library employee, I was a volunteer and I didn't like the condescension.

I went to the volunteer coordinator the following week and gave her two weeks notice. Honestly, I was getting tired of it anyway and the incident was the last push I needed. From what I remember, the coordinator did not seem surprised, so I believe she had been informed by other volunteers about what happened. Opal never apologized. Sweet as she could be, she was never wrong. Never. I said my goodbyes to her and her husband two weeks later on my last night in the bookshop. No fanfare or anything.

After finding this photo, I decided to look on the web to see whatever happened to her. Opal passed away back in 2004 at the age of 75. I imagine she passed away while sorting books, likely after she hurled a 3-inch 2001 tax law book into the trash can from across the room. She had great aim and rarely missed, her last bit of moxie used up doing something she enjoyed doing.

In addition to my liking horror movies from the 1970's, I happen to be a fan of 1970's television. I was a television junkie from the get-go, whining so much about being able to watch what I wanted that my parents bought me my very own 13-inch, black & white TV at the age of three. I developed the skill to tell my parents what channel the TV was on based solely on the amount of static the channel had. Yeah, I watched THAT much TV.

So this weekend, I watched a fair amount of 1970's TV shows. Friday night, I watched an "The Incredible Hulk" episode on Netflix. I'd forgotten how cute Bill Bixby was and the amazing hotness of Lou Ferrigno. This particular episode was the one starring MacKenzie Phillips as the glam rocker who tried to commit suicide on stage because she felt guilty about her music and its influence on her audience. Bill changed into the Hulk twice during the episode, which, like Wonder Woman's costume spin, were very exciting moments. It wasn't well-written, but none of them were particularly deep then. I threw the show in my queue so I can watch more of them.

Today, while folding laundry, I found myself watching "The Brady Bunch." I admit that I was never that big a fan, but my sister was. I watched a lot of episodes to appease her. This particular episode was special because it was their trip to King's Island here in Cincinnati where Jan's Yogi Bear poster got swapped for her dad's plans for the park. Hilarity ensued as the family raced all over the park to find it. This episode was filmed in the summer of 1973 when I was only a few months old. I went to the park myself for the first time in 1977 when I was four. The park hadn't changed much by then, so it was fun to reminisce (for what little I could recall) about the park during that time frame. The Eiffel Tower and fountains were there, as were the Racers roller coaster and some of the smaller rides. The pizza place is still there too. A lot of the older rides were a bit carnival-like compared to what they are today. I do miss the Hanna-Barbera characters walking around. In 1977 I got a hug from Scooby-Doo and it was a thrill for me.

So, I'm sure I'll be back into the horror movies this week. Hope everyone had a great weekend!

"... God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson, Heaven holds a place for those who pray..."

The Mrs. Robinson in this instance wasn't a seducer, but a math teacher, my math teacher from 7th grade Geometry. Her name was Alex Robinson, which was probably the first time I encountered a woman with a man's name. In my mind she was old, but then I was 12 and she was in her early 50's. It's always the perception of the young.

A shorter lady with dark short hair and glasses, she was funny, but stern; witty, but explosive; good natured, yet terrifying. Her class was often fascinating to sit through. Not only did you learn, but you were entertained by her. If a student turned his or her back to her to talk to the person sitting behind, the room would get silent. She was like a tiger ready to pounce. Her favorite schtick was to throw chalk or a dust-filled eraser at the student. She would get in this stance, check third base over her shoulder, wind up the pitch, and let it fly. With the keen instincts of a military sharp-shooter, she rarely missed her target. The overall effect drew shock from the student and laughs from the class.

Nowadays, she'd be up on charges of assault and possibly harrassment, but that's just how times have changed. No student was ever hurt, just a bit humiliated, and even then not always. Some wore the chalk dust impression on their clothes as a badge of honor, like a war wound you couldn't help but show to your friends.

Sometime during junior high I made some wise@$$ crack to her in an effort to be funny and Mrs. Robinson got mad at me for a little while. I don't recall what I said, but I have always regretted getting on her bad side, even for a little while. Kids do stupid things, and I admit that I learned a valuable lesson from it. And maybe that was her point in being angry with me.

I read on an online blog from my hometown last night a story of how a student's mother had gone to her and complained about her son's grades. "How could he have gotten a 'C' on this test?" the mother asked. Mrs. Robinson took a step back and exclaimed, "Well, what do you expect!!?" I wish I had that on tape to show some of the parents I know who would have foolishly asked the same question.

A couple of years ago, I saw her at Wal-Mart. She looked very much the same as I remembered her, a little grayer maybe. She told me of her grandkids, her sons, etc. She seemed to be a very happy person. Ironically, my brother and I were reminiscing about her to his neighbor just last week while I was home.

I'm sad she's gone, passing away last week from cancer. It's a sign of getting older, I guess, when the fanciful people from your past start to fade away. I am proud to say that I was one of her students. I wish I could throw chalk at a young person right now in her honor.

God bless you please indeed, Mrs. Robinson.

When I was five, my older cousins Stephanie and Debbie bought me my first comic at a grocery store, a Wonder Woman comic that my brother and sister eventually turned into kites. However, this one comic started the collecting that has now gone on for more than thirty years.

This ad appeared in the comics for one of my first Justice League comics (JLA #166). I remember the ad vividly because of the placement of favorite heroes, the look of terror on their faces, the list of the members names at the bottom, the 40 cent price, etc. The issue has always been one of my favorites. Last night, I dug out my older copy to re-read.

Chris (chrisglass) asked the other night if I collected comics and I told him I did. He then asked if I actually read them and I do. I don't think I could just wrap them away and never look at them again. They are for enjoyment, not for museum purposes. I'll never get rich from them as they are in a "well-enjoyed" state for the most part.

On a side note, I will confess to what happened to my very first stack of comics. One Saturday morning in 1979 (I think) I got up and thought of how cool it would be to have superheroes on my wall. So I removed the glossy covers from several of my comics, cut out the heroes, and taped them to my bedroom wall. When Mom woke up and saw what I'd done, she wasn't pleased with her six-year-old child. Sadly, my first copy of JLA #166 was one of the victims. Luckily, I now have two other copies to enjoy with covers attached.