My Next Bright Idea

I'm in the midst of trying to create a web site manager for use with small groups. I've put pieces of it together on several different web sites, but I have never put a whole package together that would solve most of the management problems for a small, not-so-tech oriented group.

The impetus for all of this is my experience in working with small organizations. Most small organizations and boards lack the institutional memory and resources to remain effective over long periods of time. Each time the leadership changes, the new board starts from scratch and reinvents everything. Most records are kept in dusty boxes in board members' basements.

Also, in many organizations, members don't have good access to resources that their group might offer such as upcoming events, contact information, a directory of members, news, etc. So I've been working on a web-based application to do all that. And believe me, it's not been pretty.

So far, I've put together an authorization and contact module to track changes in a group's membership. My next task is to add a content module that will enable a group to build and maintain a website. The mechanics of doing all of this is relatively straightforward.

The challenge is to create a design that is simple for users, but also powerful. Many contact and content management programs are out there. Some of them are even free or open source. Most of them, though, are far too complex for a small organization to implement without significant technical help, and most small organizations would be hard pressed to maintain any such program.

So I'm continuing to work this. I'm trying to make something that a reasonably intelligent person who has some web experience could deploy. That's a very difficult task, because most developers, me included, assume that our users know far more than they do. But at least I know my goal: a simple software package that even my mother could deploy. I may not accomplish that, but it gives me something to aim for.

Square Dance Weekend!

Tim and I just got back from a square dance weekend - an Advanced program put on by John Marshall and Mary Hutchinson. The weekend was held in York, Pennsylvania at the Yorktowne Hotel. Tim and I both enjoyed ourselves.

Advanced dancing is a program that can separate aficionados from the social butterflies, and I don't mean to impugn anybody's character with that remark. In my own experience, the conceptual leap from Plus to Advanced is greater than from Advanced to C-1. Advanced really opened up my eyes to the endless possibilities of square dancing.

The other dancers on the floor, for the most part, had much more experience than Tim and I. Most of the couples were older than us, and the floor probably moved more slowly as a result. That's not a bad thing, either. Many of the couples do not have regular opportunities to dance Advanced, so they eagerly look forward to this weekend. The reach of square dancing is declining, and I keep hoping that something will happen in America to rekindle its interest in this folk dance.

John had a number of dance surprises for us. While the level of the dancing wasn't particularly difficult, his calling demands a focus on his instructions, and a strong grasp of square dance call definitions. John always means what he says, no matter how confused the dancers are. He had us do several calls from non-standard positions, and he taught us some new moves, too.

Tim and I danced together. We were the only gay couple, and we alternated boy/girl each of the five dance sessions. The women quickly got used to one of us dancing as a girl. The men were a little more challenged by it, but by the end of the first session, were not have any difficulty with it. A couple of times, a guy would mistake our "changed" gender, but that didn't happen very often. And to the guys' credit, almost all of them would swing us when we were in the girl's role.

The Yorktowne Hotel is a great square dance location. It has hardwood floors in the Continental and George Washington Rooms. The hotel has composite flooring for other rooms that have carpeting. The hotel features a four-star restaurant, but also has a cafe and a couple of bars. This being York, the bars close very early. The guest rooms and beds are comfortable. Eating opportunities outside the hotel are kind of sparse within walking distance; however with a car, there are many places to dine.

So that's my report: I'm hoping for more dancing at the Yorktowne.

Beware of Food Columnists Bearing Recipes

Yesterday, I had a dinner party at my house. I invited all the boys, and proceeded to prepare some recipes that David Hagedorn had suggested last Wednesday in the Washington Post column, "Real Entertaining." This month's column was all about chicken, and I saw that roasted chicken on the front page of the food section, and I was hooked.

I had to have a dinner party. I had to cook a chicken. I had to read the recipes. They were seductively simple: full of promise. Chicken in a Pot, how homey! French Lentils, peppery, flavorful! Saffron Fennel, oh exotic! and Peach-Apricot Cobbler, simple, tasty, easy. I thought.

The challenge was not in the fine print. I suspect that Mr. Hagedorn presented his recipes with the very best intentions to his readers. I imagine his kitchen is more suited to food preparation than mine.

My biggest challenges were the bird and the cobbler. The chicken is first seared, then roasted for 50 minutes in a 250ºF oven. When I checked the chicken at 50 minutes, it was no where near the necessary internal temperature. I baked the chicken an additional 20 minutes, finally raising the oven temperature to 350ºF for the last 10 minutes or so. That did the trick, and the chicken had a wonderful flavor. You should check Chef Hagedorn's method for carving a chicken. It's easy!

On to the Peach-Apricot Cobbler. The recipe indicates that the cobbler should be baked in a medium cast-iron skillet. I didn't know how big medium is, and I guessed too small. The resulting cobbler didn't look very elegant, but none of my guests seemed to mind, and ate the whole thing. It's a very tasty comfort food recipe. I realized as soon as I added the batter to the (9") skillet that I was courting disaster. I stuck a baking sheet under the skillet, and it caught the overflow batter, which my guests also ate. Next time, I'll bake this cobbler in my largest (10-1/4") cast-iron skillet.

The party was a success. The food was fantastic. The guests were sent home fat and happy. I'll continue to read the Food Section. And I'll continue to have dinner parties.

Odd 'n' Ends in Wheaton

It's potluck for today's posting. I apologize to all of my (seven) fans out there, but life is just too busy to keep this up to date in any kind of dependable manner. You're just going to have to put up with it. It sounds like this blog may be in its death throes, but that's JUST NOT THE TRUTH!

Jerry peddled all the way to Wheaton on Wednesday from Arlington. He came here for lunch at Woodlands in Langley Park. It's an Indian vegetarian restaurant, and the food is just plain wonderful. Of course, it gives me heartburn for the next day or so, and I always eat way too much, but that's my problem. You should go there and eat!

Jerry is taking an Indian vegetarian cooking course in Arlington, so we stopped at the Indian market next to Woodlands so that he could buy some black and green cardamom pods. Jerry cooks authentically. In fact, Jerry is about the most authentic guy that I know. He's getting ready for a cross-country bicycle ride. You'll hear more about that in this blog.

In other excitement around here, Ron and I are planning a road trip for May. We're going to a naturist gathering for a week in Alabama (yeah, I rolled my eyes in disbelief, too), then on to Mississippi to visit his Mom for a few days. It's the second road trip for the Prius (the first one was a square dance weekend to Poughkeepsie, NY). This will be a couple of thousand miles, and I have all the guidebooks and maps. I'm psyched.

I'm also making a quick trip to Moscow, ID the last week in April. The Women's Center at the University of Idaho invited me back to participate in an event on the 30th. I'm very happy to be able to do this. I'm very fond of the University of Idaho.

Yesterday Tim and I made a pilgrimage to Suburban Hospital. Tim needed some repair work done. I got stuck in a social faux pas (and in the aftermath, learned about Buridian's Ass, and indeed how I appear, sometimes, to be (actually!) an ass. Tim's looking good, and we got his prescription filled for happy stuff so that he's in no pain. He should be able to start drinking shortly.

And that's the news from Bucknell Terrace. Oh, I should add that I went square dancing last night with Marshall's Deputies. We learned all about "weave" from quarter tag, waves, and t-boned positions. I still do the call wrong, but at least I know that it's wrong.

The Facebook Life

I have a Facebook page, along with 175 million other people with too much time on their hands. I suppose if Facebook weren't around, the national productivity would improve by approximately 350 million person-hours per day. This works out to about 84 billion work hours per year, which doesn't include any weekends or vacation. Of course, some people, myself included, would consider the time spent on Facebook as time well spent. Right, Joe K.? Joe's also on Facebook, and one of my many friends, although I don't have nearly as many friends as Joe, which is kind of weird, because I'm retired and have all this time on my hands, and Joe isn't because he's managing my assets. I'm dressing in black these days, because it's slimming, just like my assets.

Joe and I have a mutual friend, Michael, who has 670 "friends." (You'll need to sign in to Facebook to see this link.) I'm not being ironic or scornful, I just think that Michael, a college student at St. Olaf, probably has too much time on his hands, too. For some reason, he "friended" me and I was quite taken up by the mystery of it all. When I mentioned it to Joe, he knew exactly who I was talking about. I'm thinking, Michael is awful busy.

Facebook is addictive for a couple of reasons: 1) So many people are now on it, that you can make connections that would otherwise be impossible to make. Because you can see the friends of your friends on Facebook, you can begin building a friend network, trawling all of your friends. Also, you can suggest other friends for the friends you already have, and this helps your friends make connections, too. My high school class of 1969 is having its 40th year reunion (which is about when Joe K. was born). I've been trying to connect up with my classmates, and it's been a wonderful and sometimes heartbreaking experience. I think all of us have matured, unfortunately, not all of us have survived. 2) You can peer into your friends lives in a small way, by looking at their walls, and reading their statuses. In fact little bits of their lives appears on your home page. It's a painless way to keep in touch, and a little mysterious, too. So I'll continue to tinker on Facebook. You should, too. Right, Joe?

25 Random Things Since I last Blogged Here

No, I didn't disappear, I just couldn't get around to writing in my blog for a month or so. I apologize to my blog readers, everywhere. So here's the scoop:

1. I bought a walking stick. My knee has been a problem, so I went looking for a walking stick. REI carries a sleek one that doesn't make me look too much like an old geezer. It's adjustable, and it fits into my carry-on bag.

2. Because I was going on a sailing trip. Except that the walking stick looks like a gun, so I had to check the bag, anyway. But it was a very nice sailing trip with six other guys. Three of the guys were pretty experienced sailors. I pretended to cook. Actually, I made the food list and helped herd cats while shopping.

We sailed on a 40-ft monohull, the Wombat, and that's about as technical as I get. The captain would start talking about lanyard and halyard and mainsail, and I would hyperventilate. I had a small library with me, and I was working on those menus....

3. In the Caribbean. Ah, yes, this all took place in the Caribbean, more specifically, the British Virgin Islands. They use greenbacks there, too, but they only seem to go half as far. Markets in the BVIs are interesting places. The range of products is somewhat limited, but the prices are not. Near the moorings and anchorages, the markets cater to the sailors, and the products have a peculiar skew to them. More particularly, sailors apparently have a huge appetite for potato chips and alcoholic drinks.

One of the guys on the boat mixed rum punches every afternoon. It's a very civilized practice, and quite in keeping with local custom. His recipe is 1 part rum, 1 part tropical fruit juice, 1 part whiskey sour mix, a few drops of grenadine syrup for color, and a couple of dashes of bitters. Stir and serve over ice.

This is my second trip to the British Virgin Islands. This is a beautiful place, and well worth the visit, especially by sailboat. Check out the Baths and Gorda Peak on Virgin Gorda. Enjoy the beauty and the beach on Sandy Cay. Sail around the Dogs.

4. With a side visit to Puerto Rico. Before we found ourselves on Beef Island, we spent a long weekend in Puerto Rico. This was the first time that I had visited Puerto Rico, apart from spending many hours in the airport. We stayed at the Luquillo Sunrise Beach Inn. One of the guys, Lee, had lived in Puerto Rico, so he was our tour guide. He used to live near Fajardo, which is near Luquillo, so he knew the local area, and took us to all kinds of interesting places to eat.

Luquillo is outside San Juan, on Puerto Rico's northeast coast. The beach is very pretty, and we had a nice hotel. Every night, the local caballeros would ride their horses down the street in front of the hotel.

Lee took us to El Yunque Rain Forest and Las Cabezas de San Juan Nature Reserve. We also visited an unofficial nude beach, Playa Escondida, which is near the nature preserve. To get to the beach, park in the Seven Seas Beach parking lot, walk all the way to the west end of Seven Seas Beach, then walk north along the shore to Playa Colora, then cross the neck of land (there is a trail) separating Playa Colora from Playa Escondida. Public nudity is not permitted in Puerto Rico, so we were discreet (and respectful).

5. Sometimes conch tastes good. I once ate a conch fritter in Key West, and it seemed like a vastly overrated dish designed to separate tourists from their dollars. So when I saw conch on the menu in Puerto Rico (in a sandwich!), and on Tortola (in a fritter!), I was skeptical. The sandwich was outstanding. The conch was tender and tasty, just like my men. I think I had conch on three different occasions, and I was very pleased. It may be a tourist treat, but it's a tasty one.

6. Ron and I hosted a MGMC Potluck. Ho Boy! What a starry social gathering of Montgomery County's Gay A-List! About 30 guys showed up with dishes in hand. I made my famous Scalloped Potatoes. They were finished in approximately twenty-five minutes. I liked James's lemon pie, which he says consists of lemon juice, condensed milk, and Cool Whip^®. I googled the ingredients. Tim (the other Tim) stopped at Whole Foods and brought some potato salad and some vegan General Tso's Chicken. I slapped them in some serving dishes to avoid potluck shame. They were both tasty, too, because it's okay to cheat at potlucks, as long as you don't serve it in the store container.

I provided half-time entertainment when I caught my pants on the arm of the couch, then stumbled and took a gracefully 2-1/2 reverse turn dive into the corner landing behind the China dogs, and missing the glass table with the cloisonne fish. The gargoyle was also unharmed. I ended up with bruises all over my right arm. I did not break anything, and my dignity remained somewhat intact. The guys enjoyed the party (so did I!), nobody got hurt, and nobody went away hungry.

7. I visited my dermatologist. She saw my peeling, sunburned skin and tsked a bit. Can't say as I blame her. I had a good excuse. She froze three spots, an old one and two new ones. She has a certificate hanging in the examination room that says she attended a workshop in 1994. Should I ask her about that? She's African-American, and I'm always the only white guy in the waiting room, usually the only male, too. I think she's a great doc. She asks lots of questions, carefully explains treatment options, and she spends time with me. That's my kind of doctor! She's already cleared up a nasty skin infection that I had had for fifteen years, cleared up a skin rash, and now we're working on those actinic keratoses that appear in fair skinned men of a certain age. She's using Solaraze on it. So far, I haven't noticed any difference in my skin color (it reddens and dries out the skin). But I've been on it less than a week.

8. A guy in the mall tried to sell me drugs. (I think...) I had gone to the mall for a haircut, but my guy, Joe, couldn't see me for several hours, so I thought I go to Bubbles, and check it out. I got an appointment there if I could just wait fifteen or twenty minutes, so I did. I sat reading in a public area of the mall, and this guy walks up and starts chatting, (which is annoying if you are trying to read The Economist) commenting on my clothes, the time, asking me what I'm doing. He finally says something like, "I could get something for you, if you know what I mean." I replied, "No, I don't know what you mean." He smiled and walked off, turned on by his cell phone. Yep, right here in downtown Wheaton.

9. And I got a haircut. Mai Li cut my hair at Bubbles. The salon has an astonishingly awful web site. It loads slow and the Flash just doesn't do that much for me. Mai Li gave me an okay cut. I think, though, she was probably more interested in pushing product. It's more expensive than the Hair Cuttery, but not much. Okay, I'm cheap. And what kind of name is Hair Cuttery, anyway?

10. I bought some jeans. My old pair has a hole in the crotch and is extremely thin in the butt. I've had to wear underwear the last couple of weeks. I got a pair of Wranglers, "loose" fit. Cambodian Made. They are a little bigger cut than I like, but I'll get used to it. The old pair was regular fit, and I think that caused them to wear a little faster in the aforementioned places. I'm a big boy! While shopping for jeans, I also picked up some $9.99 shirts (at Target), Woody Woodpecker, Superman, and Iron Man. I'm now girded with protection.

11. I've been square dancing because cortisone works wonders. It took nearly two weeks for the cortisone to fully kick in, but it has. The knee pain is gone, so I've been square dancing. John Marshall, Ett McAtee, Bill Harrison, if they call C-1, I dance! Tim's been quizzing me on definitions. At Ett's on Monday, I nearly lost it completely. Some of the dancers blamed it on the full moon, but it certainly was some gothic (horrifying?) dancing! Quantum physics came into play when one of the dancers created an indeterminate wave-field while attempting to orient her spin to a head or a side wall. Observation of the experiment didn't help as she hovered between the two positions. The field finally collapsed and she found herself in the wrong position, in a much lower energy state. Quarks at work. It happened at the Cherry Hill Campground.

12. I've been keeping my boys happy, at least smiling. I missed my guys! I'm glad to be back. I was kind of horny, too, because it is possible to be in the middle of the Caribbean, in one of the world's most romantic places with six other gay guys, and remain somewhat frustrated and randy all at the same time. I think this is only a guy issue. So I was glad to see the boys, and I'm making up for anything that I missed.

13. You can't buy a brief-styled swimming suit in the mall. What is the world coming to? Evidently, straight guys are interested only in board shorts. I looked at Macy's Penneys, and Old Navy. The sales clerks clucked at me, and told me to come back when the seasonal clothing was in. Yah! Every direction, nothing but board shorts. Unflattering! Hey guys, what's up with this? I found some online, but it's definitely not the same shopping experience.

14. I predict that the California Supreme Court will uphold Proposition 8. Ron and I took a walk earlier this week. We have a regular path through the neighborhood. We were talking about California, and the Supremes. I'm betting they will uphold "the will of the people" because the court is elected, and the voters will kick them out of office. An elected judiciary is a dangerous, sometimes timid creature. Ron and I often have really important discussions on our walks. Here are some possible outcomes: The court could overturn Proposition 8, which I think is highly unlikely. It may, however, leave the 18,000 same-sex marriages in California intact. I think there's a good chance of that.

My own personal druthers is to have the state offer civil unions that must be performed by civil officers, then let anyone who wants to, get married by their priest or rabbi. The church should not be validating civil contracts between people who want to establish a domestic or civil relationship with each other. Get the church out of marriage.

15. Scalloped Potatoes. I can't help myself. These potatoes are good. These are not your usual scalloped potatoes.

7 T unsalted butter, divided
2 lb Golden Yukon potatoes, pared and sliced (1/8")
1 medium onion, sliced (1/8")
1 small green pepper, chopped
1/2 lb mushrooms, coarsely chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
1/4 c flour
2-1/2 c milk
1/2 lb Gruyere or sharp Cheddar cheese, grated
1/4 t cayenne pepper
1/2 t Louisiana hot sauce
salt and pepper, to taste
1/2 c chopped parsley (optional)

In a large, heavy skillet, melt 4 T butter over low heat. Add the onions, green pepper, mushrooms, and garlic, and cook over low heat until the vegetables are cooked down and soft, about a half hour. Stir the vegetables occasionally, while cooking.

While the vegetables are cooking, pare and slice the potatoes into a bowl of cold water. Drain and rinse the potatoes in a colander.

Butter a 13" x 9" pan with 1 T of the butter. Set the pan aside.

Stir the flour into the cooked vegetable mixture (keep the burner on low). Slowly stir in the milk, and bring to a boil over low heat. If you haven't already done so, you should grate the cheese, now....

While the sauce is cooking, arrange one-third of the sliced potatoes to cover the bottom of the prepared pan. Salt and pepper to taste. As soon as the sauce boils, stir in the grated cheese, and stir until all of the cheese is blended in. Stir in the cayenne pepper, hot sauce, and parsley. Remove the skillet from the burner.

Spread one-third of the cheese sauce over the potatoes. Layer one-half of the remaining potatoes, and salt and pepper them. Top with one-half of the remaining sauce. Top with the remaining potatoes and sauce.

Mix the bread crumbs and 2 T melted butter. Spread the bread crumbs on top of the potatoes. Bake in a 350° F oven for 45 minutes.

16. Why being condo treasurer is too much like work. Well, for one thing, I have to fill out spreadsheets and keep records. Then I have to pay taxes. I send out late fee notices. It goes on and on. If I pick up a few more gigs like this, I'm going back to the office.

17. I'm so gay. I grew a beard before I went to the Caribbean so that I could look like a pirate. When I came home, I went square dancing (with a bunch of gay guys), and they unanimously agreed that the beard should stay. One of the guys even told me that I looked hot. My profile on ManHunt has also been getting comments like, "Woof" and "Hey!". I'm going with the flow on this one.

18. I fell off the wagon, but the horse hasn't run over me yet. Cleaning the office has turned into a joke. I can't face that room. Tim suggested that I post a picture everyday on Facebook of the office, showing what progress I'm making in its cleaning. I may be reduced to that very soon. Stay tuned. This could turn very ugly very quickly. I'm thinking about it.

19. Three issues of the Economist remain pretty much unread. I'm rolling my eyes and wringing my hands. I'm so far behind. But I have to at least read this week's issue because it's the technology issue. All kinds of interesting stuff to read. I also like reading the obits.

20. This blog and every blog must be fed. I haven't written in here for nearly a month. I went on vacation, then I suffered blog fatigue. For those of you who wait breathlessly for each installment of my blog, I apologize. I hope that you haven't suffocated. The fact remains, I have to come up with something to say, and often I draw a total blank.

21. What are we going to do about Mexico? Ron and I watched a program on CNN about the drug war in Mexico. The United States should legalize drugs and regulate them in a way that effectively changes the government drug policy from one of criminal enforcement to one of public health. Legalizing drugs, although an imperfect fix, should have the same broad social effect as that of ending Prohibition. In the long run, we'll probably end up with more drug addiction, but possibly at a much lower cost to our society in terms of cost for police and prisons. The current "war" model keeps people out of treatment, and only enriches the cartels. It promotes a prison industry in the United States, and encourages gang wars in Mexico and other production and transit countries. It causes a huge human toll (over 8,000 murders in Mexico last year because of drugs). The best way to help Mexico's law enforcement in its drug war is for the US to end its drug war.

22. Computer envy. One of my friends (Brian J. you know who you are), has one of those teeny laptop computers. I get hard just thinking about his computer. Sleek, powerful, but small is really big when it comes to computers. I lust for it. Captain Rick on the sailboat also had a mini laptop (his was an Asus). In the meantime, maybe I'll forgo the swimsuit, and get myself a sexy computer, instead.

23. The Spanish Civil War and other light reading. I'm reading Antony Beevor's The Battle for Spain, The Spanish Civil War 1936 - 1939. It's a slow, depressing slog, not so much for the writing, but for the subject. The Nationalists appear to fascist monsters who engaged in a policy of wholesale terror and killing, and the Republicans who were so factionalized that their response to the Rising was fatally weakened. Each page of this book is depressing, but I'm trying to continue through it.

24. Convention Insanity. Less than a month from now, hundreds of gay square dancers will be in Washington, DC for DC Diamond Circulate. The age of procrastination is at an end. The convention is already raising contention on the national list serve. I'm guessing we're in for a lot of griping over the next four weeks.

25. Reconnecting with high school classmates. I've been making friends on Facebook. Many of my new friends are from Moscow High School, classes of 1968, and 1969. The class of '69's 40th reunion will be this August in Moscow. I plan on being there. I'm trying to drag my twin brother along, as well.

I'm Falling Apart

In a half hour, I leave for the Dr.'s office to have him do something about a sinus infection I've had since Portugal. I'm getting tired of it. My right knee hurts, and this is after Dr. Bernstein stuck a 2-inch needle full of cortisone into it on Friday. I'm the other dwarf, today = Grumpy. I hate being ill. I don't do well with it, because I usually don't slow down, and eventually, the creeping crud catches up with me, and that's what has happened, three days before I fly off to Puerto Rico.

Okay, enough of the complaining. I'm through with it. I've acquired an interest in Bear Codes over the weekend. I devised a decoder, then discovered some others out there. The decoders are not "canonical," (in the NBCS sense) and the results from them can be variable. Just like all the bears that I know. Oh, it takes a cave to make a cub! (I am not a bear.... (sounds plaintively similar to I'm not gay)) Here's the Turkish canonical version. Isn't that amazing!

It's pledge week at WAMU, and that ALWAYS ramps up my Seasonal Affective Disorder. I get terribly depressed listening to Diane Rehm cajole extra bucks out of the listeners. "We have 11 hundred dollars to go - three minutes to go!" Oh, yeah, I'll make my contribution before the week is over, but it won't make the voices go away! I despise these pledge weeks. They are just a little lower in the universal order than pond scum contaminated with mercury.

Tim's to Blame for This Post

Tim's been out on the Internet Highway, discovering all kinds of anthropological gems. To wit:

I just found out my blogger and bear codes. This really isn't a good idea, but what the heck?

Bear Code (laughable?): B3 dvc-- e++ f- g- k+ q r s+ t

Blogger Code (I'm lying): B9 D+++ T++ K S-- F- I++ O++ X+++ E+++ L C-- Y1 R+ W P++ M5 N-- H--

Obviously, the Bloggers have it over the Bears in terms of technical innovation. After all, if you are a blogger, you only have to click a link! I guess the Bears are still in their caves, invading each other's personal space. Hello!! - it is winter here. Here, manually decode my bear code. You tell me, am I a bear? Both of these are so last century anyway, which only indicates how far behind the times Tim really is. And with a Mac!

Square Dance's Slow, Twisting Death Spiral

Tim and I were out dancing last night at a Challenge 1 club. I was talking with one of the oldtime dancers. He told me about dance nights twenty years ago when eight squares (sixty-four dancers) would show up for Challenge 1 dancing. We had two squares and two extra couples last night.

The square dance population is aging quickly. Since I started dancing with DC Lambda Squares eight years ago, I'm wagering that the average age of the club has increased eight years. And it's still a viable club. Elsewhere, it can be pretty glum in Square Dance Land. Many clubs have folded, or are down to a single square. Part of the cause is self-inflicted: many clubs have dress codes and are couples-only. When a partner dies, which is happening with increasing and heart-breaking regularity, the other partner, usually the wife often quits square dancing for good.

An old age square dance population also has other issues: mobility and focus both being challenging for older dancers. Thankfully, in the clubs I dance with, the dress code is relaxed, but it's still a couples world. Tim and I have been able to dance as a couple, but that would certainly change if we were dancing in a different part of the country.

In DC Lambda Squares, we have diminished numbers, too. Each year, getting new students for square dance classes is increasingly difficult. Because square dancing needs at least eight dancers, it is an activity that requires ample space, and a caller (it takes specialized training and knowledge to move square dancers around the floor). The expense of rent and caller fees looms large for clubs organized like DC Lambda Squares. Another kind of club arrangement is a caller club where the caller rents the hall, and charges a door fee to cover expenses. In either model, the dancers have to pay enough to keep the enterprise afloat. Lately, fewer dancers are doing that.

Can this downward trend be reversed? Probably so, but to do that will require some painful readjustment.

The biggest challenges for the activity appear to be its image, its learning curve, competing activities, and a viable support model.

Image may be the biggest public relations nightmare. Crinolines and cowboy boots keep people off the dance floor. People coming to the activity cannot picture themselves wearing the outfits, and in fact, more clubs are going casual except for regional square dance events. (My own aside, "They look so gay!") Frankly, the costumes are offputting for most people.

Has anyone noticed that square dancing is, well, square?

Other image issues include square dancing's rigid gender role prohibition about men dancing the woman's part, and to a (much) lesser extent, women dancing the man's part. One of the main reasons for gay square dancing was to provide a place where dancers could dance whatever they wanted, and in fact, many gay square dancers are skilled in both roles. Another image problem is that non-dancers remember their disastrous introduction to square dancing in grade school. Introducing children to square dancing when those kids are at an age where they *hate* the opposite sex usually means that they will never get over their aversion. And believe me, they always remember their square dance adventure in fifth-grade gym. It wasn't pretty.

Square dancing also has a big learning curve. It takes about a year to learn proficiently, the first couple of square dance programs (Mainstream and Plus about 100 calls or movements). Most potential square dancers don't feel they can commit to a year's worth of classes, before they get to dance. Instead, they would rather go to a dance, and simply dance! The learning curve is a killer! The square dance community is wrestling with this by offering ABC programs and other kinds of introductions to square dancing, but as long as square dancing remains an activity of aficionados rather than a social activity for dancers, those efforts are doomed to failure. In some ways, the ABC program hearkens back to country square dancing. In the old days, you came to the community dance. You didn't have to know the program, because the caller taught it to you as the night progressed. Dancing was a social activity.

Okay, I'm an aficionado. I like dancing on the edge - a program that challenges my skills. But you don't learn dancing in a class, you learn dancing on the dance floor, and maybe the square dance community needs to rethink completely its means of instruction and its daunting learning curve.

These days, square dancing has an extraordinary array of competing activities. Our society is rethinking what it wants to do socially. Square dancing not only competes with bowling or the Elks Club, but with the very notion about what people want to do with their "free" time. The demands on that time are increasing. People are working longer. Kids activities require more parental involvement. The internet has opened up new ways of social engagement that bypass old ways of getting out and socializing. This competition is real, and it's not only beating up square dancing, it's beating up all kinds of other socializing including bowling and the Elks.

Part of the solution is to identify social activities and situations that engage our society, and organize square dancing in those places. Saddleback Squares, anyone? (And I'm not kidding.)

So how can square dancing remain viable? The quickest way to turn it around is for clubs and callers to recognize that they will have to change radically their approach to the activity. The image has to change, and younger dancers have to be engaged in a manner that fits their lives: no long-term commitment to square dance classes, no outfits that make you feel like a freak, immediate gratification - if you come to a square dance you dance; no matter what your skills are, and great social and entertainment value for the money spent.

I think that can be achieved. It will be painful for the aficionados like me, but ultimately, it will save the dance. Our greatest challenge is to bring new people in the front door to enjoy our wonderful activity, because once they are in the door, they often decide to stay for the dance.

Member of the Pack

Obviously (if you read my last post), I'm not the leader of the pack. By this time, about 48 billion other facebook users have also posted twenty-five random thoughts about themselves. Of course, Dan Zak penned a snarky piece in the Washington Post about all of us losers. I was so depressed!

Now that I have that behind me, I can say that it was an exercise that made me think. Granted, it may come across as narcissistic or WTMI¹. I actually put some thought into it. I did some internal cringing, wondering what will my friends think, but most of them reported that this was not breaking news.

I like the creative(!) method. The method of listing x number of "random" items, then going back and fleshing them out was an effective way of getting something written down. When I write this blog, for example, I'm often stymied, intimidated by the empty screen and fearful that I have nothing to say (and maybe that's a fear to which I should pay more attention).

I keep at this blog because I believe that ordinary people have extraordinary stories. (My stories may be the exception.) I appreciated the experiment on facebook because it is another way for many people to tell their tales. I'm trying to walk that fine line between being self-aware and delusional. You're going to have to be the judge on that one. Just let me know before it's too late.

¹I first heard the expression WTMI at a men's gathering around an intimate camp-fire where some alcohol-induced disclosures were turning a maudlin evening into an uncomfortable social encounter. I'm not a pop or gay culture critic, so I had not heard the expression, but it was not being tossed about lovingly in our community of brothers. I asked one of my camp mates what WTMI meant. He looked at me incredulously, and whispered, "Way too much information." I'm not sure whether he was responding to my question or making a comment about my lack of cultural knowledge. I did hear some extraordinary stories that night, even by gay standards.

Twenty Five Random Things About Me

1. Harry Hay and John Burnside slept here. They actually slept in our bedroom during the gay March on Washington in 1993. Before the march, a friend of mine called me up and asked if Harry and John could stay with us, along with their minder, Stuart Timmons. My friend warned me that Harry could be a little irritable, and that John could be passive-aggressive. We had a memorable weekend, and my partner and I were honored to have them stay with us. Harry was a little irritable. He had no patience with people (like me) who wanted straight privilege and the gay "lifestyle." He also didn't particularly like lesbians with children. He urged me to wear pearls to work. In retrospect, I should have. John Burnside was a somewhat demanding queen, but fun to talk to about physics and life. Harry was into politics and sex - an excellent choice, and Stuart was into my partner. We had a wonderful weekend, and I got to dance with all the radical faeries on the mall, and had sex in front of the Museum of Natural History with one very hairy, somewhat smelly faerie from Tennessee. Life goes on.

2. I was the only person at a rail crossing in downstate Illinois to wave at Jimmy Carter when he was rolling through in 1976. He waved back at me. I also waved at Jerry Ford at the same rail crossing. He also waved back at me. Ultimately, Jerry got my vote, but thankfully, Jimmy won the election. I was a grad student attending Illinois State University in Normal, IL. Let's hear it for the Redbirds. It was a little weird. I was at a rail crossing just off campus. The crowds were further down the line in Bloomington. I had my own private moment with the candidates.

3. I was born in the only county in the United States that was created by an act of the United States Congress. I'm from Latah County, Idaho. It seems that the northern part of the county didn't like the long ride in a buggy to the county seat. Idaho's delegate in Congress, Willis Sweet, introduced legislation to separate the northern part of the county from the rest, and Latah County came into being. Latah is the dry split pea and lentil capital of the world. I grew up in Moscow, a small university town on a rolling prairie. It was a wonderful place to be a kid. My parents were college professors, and we lived in an old remodeled farmhouse at the (then) edge of town. The old house is still there, much smaller now, than I remember. We had a wood furnace and a woodlot, so I spent part of every summer that I was growing up in the woods, cutting wood for that damn furnace. I hated it. I was not big on physical labor then, and truth be known, not so keen about it now.

4. At any given social gathering, I can usually make a winning bet that I have more grandchildren than all of the other people present put together. Once upon a time, I was married to the neighbor girl just down the road. Although I loved her, and I think she loved me, it was a star-crossed match, but resulted in four children. All of them have provided progeny. I should have seventeen or eighteen grandkids before the end of 2009. They are all good Latter-day Saints, and I'm grateful that my former wife raised them to be good upright men and women. They are treasures, and I'm sure that all of those grandkids are treasures, too. My life is very different than theirs, but I love them dearly, and keep them in my heart.

5. My partner Ron and I have been together far longer than most married couples, but we can't get married. Harry Hay, I know that marriage isn't your gay issue, and it isn't necessarily mine. But this whole backlash against gay relationships is TRULY mean-spirited. Gay marriage is not a threat to marriage. DIVORCE is the threat to marriage DUH! I say that having been through divorce, and it is not pleasant. But if I had lived in a society that valued the happiness of all of its members, I might have married a guy to begin with. Now don't get me wrong, I don't regret marrying and having children, I love them all; I do regret the divorce. It seems to me that people should be free to forge meaningful relationships with other people, regardless of how those relationships fit in with religious doctrine. Furthermore, those relationships should be made by the state, not performed by religious groups as agents of the state. Churches performing acts of marriage really blurs the line between the recognition of the state and the blessings of the church. On the other hand, churches should be free to bless marriage in a manner that sanctifies that relationship for those being married.

6. I make bad, but potent, mixed drinks. A couple of years ago, I picked up a mixology book plus a cocktail shaker. What a potent combination. I'm not an alcoholic, but after 4:30 p.m., it's okay to mix a capairinha or a margarita. The nice thing about drinking at home is that I don't have to drive home, and it's certainly cheaper, and the drinks are stronger. What's not to like?

7. My favorite vegetable is the potato. Idaho is known for its Famous Potatoes. I am Mr. Potato Head's spiritual advisor. Do I have to say anything more about potatoes? I like them just about any way they can be fixed (including Ore-Ida's Tater Tots). My favorite salad is Potato Salad in initial caps. Potatoes, green onions, dill pickle, hard-boiled eggs, vinegar, oil, mustard, mayonnaise. Of course, if you add pickled beets and herring in sour cream, you get extra points. No kidding. I think potatoes are basically the perfect vegetable. I recently acquired a mandoline, and use it to slice and julienne potatoes so that I can fry them. You don't need a lot of grease, just an iron skillet, low-medium heat, salt and pepper, and patience. Mashed potatoes taste better with some garlic. Baked potatoes need sour cream. MacDonald's makes the best french fries. Scalloped potatoes are a great potluck pleaser. I worked on a potato farm in 1972, changing sprinkler pipe, near Ashton, Idaho. It was the summer before my mother died. I had broken up with my girl friend and had a crush on the farmer's son. George McGovern was running for President. I was moving sprinkler pipe in a potato field wondering what life would be like without my mom.

8. I have a twin brother (and lots of other siblings). I grew up a twin. He and I don't look a bit alike, but people always got us confused. He lives in Colorado. When we were in high school and college, we were very close. We've drifted apart, but we try to bridge the gulf of distance and religious belief that separates us. We love each other, but it's a difficult love to endure, sometimes. I've cried for him, because I'm afraid of losing him, and losing half of myself. I think he's afraid I'm going to hell, and he'll lose me, too. It's an uneasy brotherhood, but thankfully, both of us still try to make it work somehow. I have lots of other siblings: all told, two brothers, a step-brother, two step-sisters, and sister. Our family thinks it's close, and I guess perception is everything. I love them all. I worry about them. I wish, sometimes, that I didn't live 2000 or 3000 miles away.

9. I'm growing facial hair to match my religious avocation. When I grow up, I want to be a Pastafarian. Okay, I know, pirates and all that stuff. But it really makes sense, just as much sense as Christianity to Sikhs. To grasp a new faith, you need an open mind. Once you've found that faith, you need to close your mind, like a steel trap. That's why I'm a Pastafarian. Just open that mind of yours, and try it. You'll like it. Beer volcanoes....

10. I was at the organizing meeting for the activist group that began the fight for civil rights for gay citizens in Maryland. I think my efforts helped make a difference. I went to the meeting, because I had a crush on one of the other guys. Sexual opportunity is a great political organizing principle. In fact sexual opportunity is a great principle for just about any human endeavor, indeed, that's why we're all here. I never got in the guy's pants (well, only once), but we did change a lot of minds in Annapolis, Maryland. In the beginning, legislators would not even make appointments with us. Eight years later, they were calling us, asking us to organize fundraisers. I learned this: twelve determined people can make a huge difference. We took on the political establishment of Maryland, and we eventually won our fight. The fight goes on; I'm no longer active in it. But we made a difference.

11. My mother's name is Prudence and my sister's name is Grace. My name is NOT Chastity. Oh, what is in a name? What was my grandmother thinking? Someone once told my sister that my parents had a lot of nerve. My mom calls me John, and so do family members, and friends from work. Everybody else (thousands upon thousands of square dancers) calls me Happy. I've been that since coming to Washington. It's a collision of the worlds when I'm at a function where some of the people are calling me John and some are calling me Happy. I get confused very easily. You decide. Confuse me any way you can.

12. I was a liturgical assistant for five years at an Episcopal parish in downtown DC. I love the Episcopal Church. If I could leap across the chasm of faith I would be an Episcopalian. The liturgy is beautiful, and fills my heart like no other ritual. During the Eucharist, I really do feel the Holy Mystery of the presence of Christ. I just don't believe it, and that has caused a problem for me. I knew how to be a crucifer. I knew how to hold the alms basin, me standing on the chancel steps, flashing the reflected light from the brass basin across the gathering of congregants. The church secretary told me once that when I was accepting the offerings, that people gave more. As liturgical assistant, I was a master of ceremonies and a traffic cop. I took my duties seriously, and seriously loved what I was doing. One of the priests was a "dry" alcoholic, and couldn't help himself and always blessed far more wine than the parish could consume. He hated pouring it down the piscina, and always insisted that I drink the consecrated wine after the service. Maybe that led to my love of mixed drinks. He also had a warm interest in me that went beyond collegial. I kept our relationship professional. Closeted married gay men should not be part of the clergy. It can get in the way of their ministry.

13. Before that, I was a Latter-day Saint. My mom (who is also my aunt, no kidding) still thinks I'm a saint. Shortly after high school, I converted to the Mormon (LDS) church. I was in love with my high school sweetheart, who is Mormon. I took the discussions because of her. But I didn't convert because she wanted me to. I converted because I wanted to. At the time, I was restless with my Methodist upbringing. I wanted some answers, and the Mormon missionaries had the answers. I struggled with it for ten years, eventually leaving that church. All of my children were raised in the Mormon church, and are all active. It's difficult for me to talk with them about my faith or theirs. I would love to have the opportunity to know and hear about their faith.

14. I squeezed into seven years of college what most people expand into four. Okay, it took me a long time to get through college. I started in 1969, and finished in 1976, graduating from the University of Idaho in Moscow. I graduated from the same school as Sarah Palin (the School of Communications), just a few years earlier. I loved my time at the University, and continue to support it and its Women's Center. I worked my way through school as a warehouseman and truckdriver, and later a janitor. I graduated without any debt, and went on to graduate school. While in college, I got married, and by the end of graduate school, we had two kids, and another on the way. Moscow, Idaho is a beautiful college town. It's small, but a great place to live. It's also the most liberal town in Idaho, which may not be saying much if you live in Takoma Park, Maryland. In any case, I have very fond memories of college.

15. I was once a member of Young Americans for Freedom. I'm sorry for that. Oh oh. This happened in college. I don't know what came over me. I was a pretty conservative lad, probably more libertarian than conservative. By 1972, though, I was a George McGovern supporter. So something happened. I do find as I have grown older that I am more conservative, and I'm not sure that I like that. Oh well, the world is going to hell in a handbasket, and always has been. I'm for Young Americans. I'm for freedom. I'm not for Young Americans for Freedom. I should mention here one of my college professors, Tony Skrbek. He was a bird far from home when he flew to Moscow, Idaho. An alleged communist, and definitely of the leftist ilk, he taught American government. This was in 1970, right after the Cambodian incursion, and the whole campus was in uproar. I didn't like Tony's politics, but he forced me to think, and he forced me to question my assumptions and my values. That's the real gift of a college education.

16. I've been to 47 of the 48 contiguous states. Vermont is on my list of places to visit. Maybe this year. When I was a kid, most summers, Dad would load us into the car, and we'd drive somewhere many states away. As an adult, I've had the opportunity to do much more travel. As soon as I visit Vermont, I'll turn my eye to Hawaii. I'm not sure about Alaska. My nemesis, Sarah Palin lives there.... And it's cold, and I'm a wuss. I could always do the cruise thing, I suppose.

17. I love sailing in the Caribbean. I love being on the water. I go nearly every year, and love the water, the wind, the beaches, and my mates. We've had a lot of fun. It's not always the same group of guys, but always includes repeats from previous trips. It's a great way to get over winter's depression. I heartily recommend it. I love St. Vincent and the Grenadines. Climb up the volcano. Stay a few extra days at a cheesy resort. Eat the mussels. Drink the rum.

18. I love square dancing anywhere. I started square dancing in 2000. Since then, I've danced all over the country to some great callers with a lot of wonderful people. I'm not a social square dancer. I'm what's called an aficionado or a fanatic. Coincidentally, I'm having knee surgery on April 23. I could have had it a week earlier, BUT there's square dancing that night, and I wouldn't want to miss that, would I? I don't care how much the damn knee hurts, I'm going to be square dancing. The knee problem has been around just about as long as the square dancing, and they are highly corelated. I would have had the surgery much earlier, but I have too many other things going on, like a square dance weekend and a square dance convention. I just can't take off the month for recuperation. I tell this to my square dance friends, and they understand exactly what I'm talking about. For the record, I don't have a prairie skirt or crinolines, but I can dance either girl or boy. That kind of freaks out some of the guys when I'm dancing with other clubs. In gay vernacular, that's known as being "versatile."

19. I'm a sexual kind of guy. Those of you who really know me figured this out a long time ago. Sex, preparing for it, experiencing it, snoozing afterwards, its hormonal rush, the ecstatic feelings, the power, the lust, the messiness, the physicality of the act, the connection, the carnality, the intimacy, the shallowness and silliness, the reflection of me and the other, and that's just THINKING about it. I value sex. It's very important to me and the quality of my life. Even bad sex has its rewards, and good sex is a consuming, transformative awe full experience. I love my friends. I love having sex with my friends. I don't want to be delicate about it. Our society is squeamish about sex. I'm not interested in disgusting other people with my behavior, but I refuse to concede the moral ground to those who have a different view about it. The act created me, and in the act I have a profound connection with the men that I love.

And for those I don't particularly love, I check them out on SilverDaddies and ManHunt. Oh what the Internet has done for sex.

20. In 1968-69, I was student body president of Potlatch High School. My political career has stumbled badly since then. Being a homo probably won't help your political career. We're making progress, though. I don't think Barney Frank is going to be President in 2016. When I visited legislators in Annapolis, I learned that they are a species wired a little differently than the rest of us. We wonder why our political leaders behave the way they do. They are a self-selecting group of people who like power. And there's nothing wrong with that as long as the people who elect them know that. I discovered that our "public servants" often thought that because they made the rules, they were, somehow, above the rules, or the rules just didn't apply. When the rest of us read next week's scandal, whatever it may be, we will all be thinking "What was that politician thinking?" And the pol will be clueless. Their minds work differently than ours. So I discovered that I was not the political animal I had thought I was. I ended up being a technical writer and an analyst. That seemed to suit me better.

21. Growing up, I wanted to be either a medical missionary doctor or POTUS. This is something of a repeat of the last paragraph. I was really taken up with God when I was a child. I grew up in a religious home, though not onerously religious. My parents believed in service and taught all of us kids the same. Albert Schweitzer was one of my heroes. Or I could be President of the United States. I was not a very sophisticated little gay boy in Idaho. I finally gave up the medical missionary stuff about the seventh grade. POTUS went out the window when I recognized that I was the color purple.

22. I haven't cleaned "my room" since 1994. I've made several attempts. And I'm in the midst of one now. I'm not very proud of this unpleasant little fact. I don't know how to file anything. I'm horizontally organized, which means that I pile things on the floor, on the table, on chairs. It's not pretty. I've carted hundreds of pounds of paper out of my room, and much, much more remains to be done. It kills me.

23. I'm a geek, but not a very good one. I love my computer. I love gadgets. I couldn't program a DVR or run our DVD player without Ron's steady guiding hand. I know quite a bit about business requirements. I know how to design form interfaces. I can program in a couple of languages. I love my Blackberry. I'm just not real good at it.

24. I'm a good cook. My mother wanted my brothers and me to be good husbands, and to know our way around the kitchen. Cooking is a kind of recreation for me, when I'm in the mood to do it. I'm a throw something together, it'll taste good kind of cook. I've been stirring the pot since I was six or seven. I love soups. I love potatoes. I like to experiment. I make a fabulous Pad Thai. I'm pretty good at figuring out a recipe, although I consider recipes merely advisory. After all, it's my kitchen. So far, my cooking hasn't killed anyone, and I'm very happy when I cook.

25. I'm a cityfied Idaho Country Farm Boy. When I fell off the farm truck in downtown DC in 1983, I was one sorry hayseed, a hick from the sticks. I've kept the cowboy boots, but don't feel obliged to be the bumpkin anymore. My friends still think I talk funny after all these years, but I'm a Marylander now, through and through. I love the mountains and prairies of Idaho. I get back there once or twice a year. But my home is definitely on this side of the Mississippi River, and when I'm on the plane home, and am flying down the Chesapeake, I'm happy to be back home.

Night Angel

This morning in the filtered gray light of our bed, I looked over at Ron's sleeping curves, the line of his neck in light and shadow. He lay beautiful in the night, his cropped hair lightly on the pillow. I moved closer against his flanneled warmth, grateful for his love.

My Lame Life

Life really is lame. Honest! Early Christmas morning, Ron and I went for a walk, and ever since, life has been lame. Sort of. I went to my doctor, who referred me to an Orthopedist, who ordered an MRI of my knee, and I have some torn cartilage in there. Isn't that lame?

It doesn't hurt that much, but square dancing is a challenge. The pain is mainly caused when I pivot, and a lot of that goes on in square dancing. I've been wearing smooth-soled shoes (cowboy boots or bowling shoes) and a knee brace and they help a lot, too. Just plain walking can also be painful after 20 minutes or so of slogging. I haven't had enough nerve to try the gym.

Of course, the added lameness in my life comes from my PHP programming. I'm not the world's greatest coder, but I'm working on some civic software that includes a database backend. I'm learning more about SQL than I ever wanted to learn. You can teach an old dog new tricks, it's just not very pretty.

Winter on Bucknell Terrace

I suppose you could call our winter lame, as well. We had our first storm of the season last Thursday. This is how it looked a couple of days later. Our storms, here, are not like you would experience in Minneapolis or Chicago, but our storms have a peculiar twist: they often end up as freezing rain or ice storms. These really can lead to lameness. I fell on the ice Thursday night and poked a hole in my hand. There is no dignified way to walk across the ice. On the other hand, I do enjoy getting some winter. I enjoyed the snow shoveling, and I filled up the condo's sand buckets.

Happy's Mandoline

In the not-so-lame department is my new mandoline. I've been slicing up just about every vegetable in the refrigerator. This is one nifty invention. I haven't cut myself yet, either. That contraption on the right is the vegetable hold. You skewer the item to be sliced, and the Bionic Shield keeps all private parts from being sliced or julienned. So far, I've sliced or julienned potatoes, cabbage, onions, cucumbers, pepperoni (didn't work so well), carrots (didn't use the bionic shield for carrots), and I'm sure I've sliced other things, too, I just can't remember. Every time I use this little wonder, I wonder how I lived such a long and full life without a mandoline in my kitchen.

A Few Quick Observations

If you haven't seen Slumdog Millionaire, you should. This is a deeply moving film about hope and love against a backdrop of violence and unimaginable poverty. It's a fable and a metaphor for our time.

Late-breaking Square Dance Bulletin - Tim and I went to the DC Lambda Squares' community dance last night. It's theme was 50th Birthday Party. So I wore some original 50s gear that I acquired when the club danced at the Hillwood Museum and Gardens. I looked pretty good, and those fifty-year-old clothes were pretty spiffy.

Tim and I went to the Corcoran today, the last day of the Richard Avedon show. You missed it, if you missed it. Avedon captured the souls of the great ones for a couple of generations. Their ghosts come to life in this exhibition. As Tim said, "Beware of cameramen who want to take your portrait." The result isn't always a pretty picture. Why didn't Avedon ever take a picture of Annie Liebovitz? And if he did, why wasn't it hanging on the wall of the Corcoran... life's little mysteries? And why wasn't Avedon's image of Rudolph Nureyev's jewels pictured in the exhibit's catalogue? And why was Yeoman 3rd Class B. Murphy Stovie absent from the same book with his fabulous grin and his happy right hand? Does the Corcoran host a vast right-wing conspiracy that is out to censor homoerotic or gay-themed content from exhibition catalogues? Hmmmm.

Then it was on to the OAS to see an exhibition of art about the Desaparecidos. These were victims of the military dictatorships of Uruguay, Chile, Argentina, Guatemala, and El Salavador. The words somber and depressing pretty much sum it up, but the bones, the images, the stories are a grim reminder that when the state has absolute power, freedom is extinguished in violent and ugly ways. These regimes were not attempting to rehabilitate their critics. They were exterminating them. Of course, it makes me wonder who has disappeared in our own war on terror?

Finally, we ended up at the Katzen Arts Center at American University. We saw a disturbing exhibition of the work of Evri Kwong, Just Pretend Everything is Okay. Kwong's work is a polemic about our drugged out, consumerist, racist, mysogynist, violent culture. His paintings, his Sharpie doodles, are biting and satirical indictments of cultural values gone bad.

Well, after that downer, we headed back to Rockville for some hot sex, a nap, and two episodes of The Office. That was this month's attempt at culture.

Now the Real Work Begins

I'm listening to NPR thinking about yesterday's events. As Senator Feinstein said, it is a day that is "etched in the stone of history." President Obama told us that we were all in it together, and the real work begins.

We have put such a weight on our President's shoulders, and somehow we need to take some of that burden back. I want to get past my cynicism of the last 40 years and do exactly that. I need to believe that what I do will make an important difference, no matter how small that effort or difference may seem to me. 300,000,000 people each doing a small thing adds up to a very big thing. Small gestures add up to real substance. A dream, a thought, a purpose becomes real amplified through a personal commitment to change multiplied in the lives of millions of people.

I'm excited by the prospect of change. Scared that America's economy is going to get much worse before it gets better. Worried about the bad guys, foreign and domestic. Heartened by the change in national tone. Yes we can rebuild America one small act at a time. We'll get through this, too.

I Got Holes

Tim and I were in York, Pennsylvania for a Challenge-1 Square Dance Concepts weekend. We ate at the Farmer's Market on Saturday. It was a gay man's paradise.

"We Specialize in Holes" Photo by Tim Walton,
©2008 by Tim Walton, All Rights Reserved

My Dream House

Sometimes I wake up from a dream, and it is so vivid that it doesn't rapidly fade with consciousness. Early this morning, I dreamed of the house that I lived in as a child. It is an old remodeled farmhouse, and when I lived there was right at the edge of Moscow, Idaho. Today, that house sits well inside the town, next to the junior high school.

In my dream, the house's rear façade is covered with a thick blue-green stucco that's similar in color to the painted wood shake exterior of the house of my youth. The stucco rounds the angles of the house. I walk to the side. The stucco doesn't extend to this side of the house, and the clapboard siding has been painted white. I sit down on the grass and peer through an open door.

A child is running through the house. A woman follows the child, and they cross a short distance to an older farmhouse, the house the woman lives in. The child is one of my grandchildren, although I have no idea which one. The woman is my mother-in-law, but in my dream looks very different than I remember, but I know who she is. I'm well within the range of vision of the child and the woman, but they don't see me, and I remain sitting, taking in the scene.

Another woman comes bounding along the side of the house, on her way to the older farmhouse. She is vibrant, smiling, and happy, skipping down a path. She is my former wife. She, too, doesn't see me, although I'm clearly in the scene. I take all of this in, and I'm also happy and moved by this domestic picture.

Several things stand out in this dream. The first striking element is the stucco wall. It's presented to me in the dream from a low angle against a deep blue sky. The wall extends above the lower edge of the roof. Between the utility room and the shed, the roof has a curious cupola, for what purpose I don't know. The wall is solid and stolid, a protection against the outside. Curiously, it's only in the back of the house.

I see the child through an open door in the side of the house, which has angles and walls that don't exist when the dreaming ends. Yet, I clearly recognize this dream house as my own. The light plays in the shadows of the doorway and hall, and I can feel the life in this house. That life is also in the shadows, not unhappy, but full of concerns.

My mother-in-law represents those concerns as she follows the running child. She's dressed in black, and her face is strained with a weary anxiety. She is tired. Her house, Grandma's House, is a pure figment of my dream. I don't see all of it, only a corner along a path between the two houses. Her house remains hidden by a small grove of tall bushes, maybe lilacs or mountain ash.

My former wife skips along a path, happy. I hope so, from the fullness of my heart. She's an antidote to the shadows. Maybe she's rushing to catch up with the other two. I don't know. But she's radiantly happy, and her smile fills her face, as I have rarely seen it.

Finally, I sit quietly on the grass in the midst of this scene. It only lasts a moment, then it's gone and I wake up. Nobody sees me. I'm invisible to all.

This dream has so much going on. The stucco wall is on the side of the house facing Grandma's house. The wall sets the two structures apart. In the waking world, the path went to a pasture, and a barn across the draw. Where Grandma's house stands was a vegetable garden.

The child (my mother-in-law's great-grandchild) is innocence in the shadows, then running free in the sunlight. My mother-in-law, who in life always had a smile and a love for even me, the black sheep in the family, is troubled and vexed in her own dream home. She died two years ago about this time, and is buried in the Freeze Cemetery. She and my former wife were at odds with each other shortly before her death, and maybe her face reflects that sadness and weight.

My former wife is happy again. She's rediscovered herself. When we were married she was sad. When we divorced she was angry, and the anger simmered for a long time. But now, she's happy again, skipping after her grandchild, on her way to her mother's house, and I sit there, marveling, taking in this holy transformation of a family life so close to me, but untouchable, and invisible. This is my dream house.

A Flurry of Activity!

The New Year has picked up its pace, although the old year never really slowed down that much, either. Perry and I went shopping on Friday morning. We first went to the Container Store, because he wanted some magnets. Neodymium magnets. Really strong magnets. These magnets have an exceedingly strong magnetic force. They can cause irreparable damage to floppy disks.

From the Container Store, we ventured to Borders in White Flint. Oh, I love the joys and sights of Rockville Pike! Perry was looking for a calendar. I picked up a "calendar" that contains a recipe for every day of the year. Ron is already thumbing through it.

Saturday night, I made one of those recipes, Spanish Tortilla, for the Montgomery County Gay Men's Community potluck. It was held at a friend of Ron's, so we decided to go. Well, the house was about 7500 square feet or more, and fitted by what appeared to be a decorator from hell. The theme upstairs was Victorian, and downstairs an American diner. Let's say it was over the top, and not one personal touch in any part of the house that I could see: prints, no originals. I guessed no one lived here, they were just part of the display.

The food was good, although Ron and I disagree on how good. Ron's and my contributions were both finished by the boys. One of the hosts, John, made a meat and bean dish that was very tasty, and a cake from cornmeal that was very good, although Ron thought the icing was too sweet. Honey, I hate to break the news, but icing is supposed to be too sweet!

I also enjoyed the company. I had a nice conversation with Duane. I really need to be more social. I get shy (I know that's hard to believe) and stand around without talking to anyone. This time, I struck up a very "deep" conversation with Duane about the nature of belief. Duane wondered why one needs to believe anything. And my lame answer is because it provides a purpose-driven life. I'll have to think about that.

In the meantime, I've been working on my contact database throughout. It's not very exciting, but it contributes to my purpose-driven existence. Yeah, right!

On Sunday, January 4, Ron and I attended a party. It was a nudist event. Great food, and for once an occasion where I was not seeing iceberg-sized behemoths of jiggly flesh. Most of the men, while not gym-toned, had not gone completely to the dinner buffet for refills, year after year. What a relief for my sore eyes. I thoroughly enjoyed the company, and all that encompassed, as well as the buffet the host had set out.

Again, in this situation, I have to force my self to talk with the other guys. They proved very friendly. Two men from Alabama struck up a conversation with me, and I felt a lot like Scarlett O'Hara (even though, I know [rolling my eyes] that she's from Georgia). One of the guys roots for Auburn, and the other for University of Alabama. Seriously, gay men talking about football! Frankly, my geography gets mixed up anywhere South of the Mason-Dixon Line. I think I could grow to enjoy the company of some Southern Gentlemen.

So yesterday, I went to the doctor to clear up a nagging sinus infection that has dogged me since Portugal, and to figure out what's causing the really annoying pain in my right knee that has dogged me since Christmas. Some days have been miserable, and that's saying a lot from me.

I like my doctor. He's a DO who has been a very good doctor for me. His assistant cleaned the wax out of my ears. I've been very stuffed up, and my ears had clogged when I tried to clean them a week ago. I had been walking around in an echoey fog. The tinnitus is still pretty loud, but I can hear better; the fog is gone. She got a lot of gunk out! The doctor came in and gave me a pep talk. He's kind of hot with curly hair and a two-day growth with that lab coat! He told me to get off the Sudafed^® and start the Nasonex^®. He also prescribed some clarithromycin for the sinuses and meloxicam for the knee. Better living through chemistry, although NSAIDs do scare me.

In the afternoon, I went over to Tim's house. He had a plumbing emergency going on. I provided him with some plumber information, but I think he went with someone else. He had some lame, vague reason about wanting this plumber or that plumber. I hugely enjoy Tim's company, even if he is preoccupied with plumbing. (I'll do some plumbing!)

Last night, Ron and I enjoyed a PBS special about India. Like the nation, the special is a production, and will continue for many nights hence. I don't care much for the narrator (the story sometimes seems all about him), but the scope of the story and the images of a great and enduring nation are compelling.

At the end, I went to bed.

Scan It!

Ron and I were in Giant Foods during rush hour, and Ron was flying through the place, wanting to get to checkout before the hordes descended. I, on the other hand was dawdling, with a hand-held scanner, zapping each item Ron put in the cart. Wow! A new toy! I was having fun!

Here's the drill. When you enter the store, you scan your shopping card at the scanner stand and pick up a scanner. Then, as you shop, you scan the UPC code on each item you put in your cart. I was bagging as we went along. For produce, you weigh the item, print out a label, stick the label on your bag of produce, and scan the label. It sounds a little complicated, but it really isn't.

And it's fun to use that scanner gun, shooting up those UPC codes, and watching the cost of your purchases mount up on its bright and happy screen. The scanner also contains store specials that you can look through, then purchase. Nothing like advertising right at your fingertips, right when you are most likely to make a purchase!

At checkout, a "checkout" UPC code is displayed where you normally would unload your groceries. You zap the checkout code and scan your shopper card, and voila, your itemized list appears on the checkout screen. At that point, you simply pay and leave the store. Our wait in the checkout line lasted all of 45 seconds.

I think as I continue to use the hand-held scanner, the process will go a lot faster. The scanner is actually much more sensitive about picking up UPC codes than the scanner at the checkout counters. And think of all the labor costs this is going to save Giant shareholders! Giant can probably lay off some checkers, oh, the perils of technology.

Of course, the new technology does nothing for the lamentable quality and diversity in the Giant grocery offerings. For some reason, yesterday, the produce was completely sucky. Produce bags were hard to find. The parsley was limp (kind of like me without my blue pill). Parsnips were not to be found. Some of the bliss potatoes were rotting in their boxes.

Technology, like the hand-held scanner, may be a shining jewel in Giant's crown, but the crown is otherwise rapidly losing its luster.

2009 Is Not So Bad

Other than I have a sinus infection and a strained ligament, not too bad at all. It could be much worse. I might be living in the Gaza Strip, for example, or shoveling snow in Moscow, Idaho. Indeed, a sinus infection and a gimp leg seem like small peanuts compared to the $6.9 trillion meltdown on Wall Street. The fallout wasn't quite so bad on Bucknell Terrace, only one foreclosure so far. Not bad, indeed.

And I'm not being snarky, either. Believe me, I'm grateful that I'm only dealing with the small things, and I hope the Big Things never get around to arriving in my neighborhood. But that's probably hoping for too much. The economic wrecking ball is in full swing, and one of these days it will land in Wheaton with a very unwelcome thud, probably atop a couple of chicken restaurants and several clothing boutiques that were just hanging on, and then... no credit, no customers, just the ugly wreckage of bankruptcy and unemployment. But for now, it's not so bad.

My hope for 2009 is that we can all hang on, somehow. Whatever we have to do, we'll do it, and hang on, and maybe 2009 won't be so bad after all. Check back here for updates....