Gay Square Dance Conventions

It's true, square dancing has about taken over my life. This last week, Tim and I attended the International Association of Gay Square Dance Clubs (IAGSDC) 24th Annual Convention in Denver, Colorado. This is my sixth convention, and I'll be attending as many as I can. This year, my sister also attended, for the first time.

Basically, it's non-stop dancing for about four days, then several days of recovery. This year's convention was a little more challenging because of the altitude. But gay square dancers are nothing if not tough! In addition to the dancing, there are specialty tips (women, bears, redwoods, etc.). The most popular specialty tips are the leather and the "moonshine" tips.

I was going to the leather tip, but my sister walked in and was totally unprepared for the spectacle, which is okay - she's a 62 year-old straight grandmother. So we went to the Mainstream Hall and danced for an hour. I usually make it to the moonshine tip, as well. It's a naked tip, but I didn't go this year, because I was meeting a couple of friends for our own moonshine tip.

I've been going to these conventions long enough that I know a lot of people, and they know me. A lot of the fun is the camaraderie. And, well, I like the cute guys, and the cruising is always fun, too. I propositioned one guy, he said, "Yes," so I had to turn him down. Oh, well....

We had some great callers this year. Of course, I'd go just about anywhere to dance to John Marshall. Deborah Carroll-Jones was a big crowd pleaser. Tim Crawford cracked lots of jokes between calls. The Denver club caller, "Bear" also called quite a bit. I was mainly in the Advanced Hall, and had a great time there. Trevor from Gateway Squares livened up a couple of my squares. Also, Bill and Jim made me prance a little better.

Carr Manor

Sometimes you find a perfect place to spend the night. That's what happened to us at the Carr Manor in Cripple Creek, Colorado. Tim, Grace, and I attended a square dance convention in Denver, and now we're taking a few days, traveling around the Rocky Mountains in Colorado.

Cripple Creek is an old mining town and new gambling mecca, although the casino we were in last night looked pretty sad. The Carr Manor is an old high school converted into a boutique hotel. It's gorgeous. The rooms are beautiful, the atmosphere is friendly, and the couple who own it want you to have the time of your life. It's really a gem.

You should also take the train trip up the valley. The station is at the museum at the head of Main Street. When we went, it was chilly, so pack a jacket if the wind is blowing. If you are a railroader, you'll enjoy the experience.

Militant Atheism?

I read a review of Christopher Hitchen's new book, God is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything. The author was a little put off by the militancy of this era's atheists: Harris, Dawkins, and Hitchens were all mentioned by name. I'm almost convinced, though, that in today's climate, just being an atheist is considered militant.

I'm not a militant atheist. I consider myself a kinder, gentler atheist, something like Mother Theresa without the orphanage or the Roman catholic church, or Martin Luther King, Jr. without the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. By that, I mean I espouse worthy ideals, work for needed social change, but don't wrap it up in a religious blanket. I'm convinced we can be human without reflecting on the spiritual or religious failings of our fellow brothers and sisters.

Which brings me to the point that the real focus should be on the social failings of a society that accepts flawed religious thinking and teachings about poverty, sexuality, disease, education, guns, sex, minorities, relationships, military security - in short about nearly every public and private part of our lives. We are not served well by these teachings, nor by the politicians who slavishly cultivate the religious right and the religious middle.

The Founding Fathers had a reason for separating church and state. The movement of the religious into the body politic is dangerous. These are the real militants. Secularism is not the threat; it is religiosity that threatens our Constitution and our state.

If you are a calvinist, maybe you believe that poor people are stuck in their situation. God put them there, and there isn't a whole lot that the poor, or you can do about it. It's God's will.

If you are a Southern Baptist, you're probably appalled by homosexuality or transsexuality, and believe that laws should be on the books prohibiting sodomy, or preventing transgendered people from being protected from hate crimes. (Such legislation only encourages transsexuality, and it might interfere with a Christian's "free speech.")

Jerry Falwell once said that AIDS was God's punishment on Gay people. Of course if that argument were extended logically, you could say that birth defects are God's punishment on parents, or some equally offensive, unproven claim.

Of course, if you attend school in Kansas or Dover, PA, you know all about intelligent design cum creationism. Religion does intrude into the classroom, as Judge John E. Jones, III noted in his opinion.

I could go on. But what about the really big issues? Shouldn't we, as a nation, be questioning the morality and the execution of our nation's war in Iraq? Should our nation be supporting Israel because it is a Jewish state, or because it serves some important military and strategic interest in the Middle East? (I hope our support doesn't hinge on the breeding of a red heiffer.) Isn't fixing a broken health insurance system at least as important as the religious right stomping on the marriage rights of millions of gay and lesbian couples? Maybe establishing national priorities that focus on the causes of poverty should have as much room in the national debate as abortion.

The mistake of the poltically religious is that they wish to impose a moral vision on the rest of us, whether we are part of that vision or not. By grabbing and focusing the national debate on moral issues that rightly are for each citizen to decide for himself or herself, the Christian politicos have hijacked the legislative discourse, and have imperiled the traditional separation of church and state.

Militant atheism sounds like a downright healthy alternative.

When Your Hometown Hits the National News

I was surfing across CNN this morning when I saw a news link that said, "Police Shot in Shootings." I clicked on it out of morbid curiosity, and the location at the top of the story read MOSCOW, Idaho (AP). That was pretty startling, because nothing ever happens in Moscow. It's a quiet university town in the rolling prairie of northern Idaho.

The story has since been updated, but the original was full of preliminary mystery. A shooter had gained entry into the Presbyterian Church, and was evidently firing a semi-automatic weapon into the county courthouse complex across the street. The shooter fired about 75 rounds over the course of two hours. Two policemen and a passerby were injured. From the accounts, the passerby was in surgery and all the injured were taken to the local (Gritman Memorial) medical center.

Later reports stated that two people had been killed in the church, and the police believe the shooter was one of them. SWAT teams entered the church about 6 a.m. local (Pacific Daylight) time. Neither of the two people in the church have been identified.

I'm reading all of this just before Ron and I take off for the Silver Diner to have breakfast. I'm living in the big city, and I worry about my hometown. I wonder about motive, identity, gun culture. And I wonder if my Mom's neighbor, who is a policeman, is okay. In the big city, I expect people to be a little crazy, and I'm not surprised by reports of muggings or street violence. In my hometown, I expect people to be friendly and caring, and I'm shocked to read about a shooter trying to ambush police from the belltower of the Presbyterian Church.

Infamous and Capote

I have all the <meta> information I need about In Cold Blood. Toby Jones in Infamous and Phillip Seymour Hoffman in Capote bring to the screen a compelling story of Truman Capote. While neither movie is slapstick, both have a sense of humor and a sharp edge on the Capote character. He isn't the kind of person that you would confide anything to that you wouldn't want printed in the New Yorker or the National Enquirer.

Both movies provide compelling narratives to the writing of In Cold Blood, and each has its own perspective. It's a lot like having two storytellers recounting the same history. Infamous is more about Capote, and Capote is more about In Cold Blood.

I think Capote is the better picture, but Infamous is a better portrait of an artist who ultimately loses his way, sells his soul, and is enormously successful along the way. He never published another important novel, but he certainly became America's Greatest Living Homosexual, which is not a bad thing.

Jerry Falwell

Mr. Falwell died today. I'm not crying a lot of tears. I remember back in 1983. I was in bed on a Sunday morning with my boyfriend. We had just had some wild, hot, homosexual sex. In a post-sex fog, I grabbed the remote and channel surfed, running into Falwell's Old Time Gospel Hour. The Reverend was at the pulpit, fulminating about homosexuality, saying "The Moral Majority is saving America from a homosexual menace. We are like the Dutch Boy with his finger in the dike." We nearly fell off the bed laughing. I can't think of a more appropriate metaphor.

I Sent My Quilt Home

Many years ago, I designed a quilt, and my wife (at the time) pieced and quilted the design. We named it the Pythagorean quilt, because the design was based on the Pythagorean theorem. It's basically a Road quilt, particularly so because of the way Susan selected colors, then quilted it - a beautiful quilt.

When Susan and I divorced, I got custody of the quilt. I've had it for twenty-five years. It kept me warm on very cold nights, and I threw it off in the spring, only to retrieve it for winter. It's a very large and heavy quilt, and always reminded me of family, home, and love.

I loved the woman who created that quilt. I loved the two babies conceived underneath that quilt. I loved the boyfriends who slept under that quilt with me. I loved its weight keeping out the cold. It wrapped me in the life I love.

Now I've sent it on to one of the children created under the loving touch of that family blanket. Mary, it's now your quilt, and your loving story to create. I give it to you grateful for my family, and grateful for the bonds, whether tenuous or strong, that still move the human heart.

Way Back Home

Last Thursday I left work an hour early, raced to National Airport, and flew off to Spokane, Washington. I was a little frazzled when I got there, but not so much that I couldn't drive another hour and a half to get "home" to Moscow, Idaho.

The guys at the rental counter set me up in a Chrysler 300 ("you've earned a free upgrade!"). It looks like a Grandpa car, which maybe fits, although I hope not. In any case, it's a very comfy car, but I couldn't see all of its more useful features in the dark at the car lot. I didn't find the cruise control until the next day. The really nice thing about the car was that when I had to squire people around, it was very easy to get in and out of.

So I'm heading down the road (fast, but not criminally so), and start flipping through the radio stations. I finally settled on a contemporary country station (it was better than the preacher). I've decided I like country, because I can hear the words, and the lyrics are priceless, full of "I'm a mean, clean love machine," and "I'm wrapped around her pretty little finger." I never changed the station after that.

Friday, I headed up to campus because I wanted to visit the Women's Center, and if possible, talk with the staff. Over the years, I've contributed I'd guess about $20,000 to its programs. I caught the director just as she was leaving. She stayed and talked with me for about 15 minutes. We had a good chat, and once again, I'm assured that I'm doing the right thing at the University of Idaho. The Center is doing a lot of innovative work for the queer people on campus, and I'm glad to be part of that. The Director invited me back for National Coming Out Day, and I'm seriously thinking about it.

On my way home from campus, I stopped at the local computer store and purchased a laptop for my sister, Kat. She really needed one for herself. It was far more than I intended to spend, but it goes for a very good cause, and I think she'll be very happy with it.

In the late afternoon, Mom and I went to a show opening that had some of my sister's watercolors. One of her pictures was a bridge in north London, and it has a real romantic quality to it. I can imagine myself being there. The show featured the local watercolor society and pottery guild. There's a lot of talent in the Palouse Hills.

After supper, Kat came over, and I gave her the computer. She immediately burst into tears. I think that's okay. She'd actually had a pretty difficult day. It was her boss' farewell party, and she hadn't cried there, so I guess she had to for me. Believe me, Sis, I appreciate it, 'cause I think you're special!

Saturday, Mom and I got to Walmart early to buy some energy-efficient light bulbs. I warned Mom that it might make her and her guests look all washed out, but she said at her age, that didn't matter. On that note, we started replacing bulbs throughout her whole house, and twenty-three bulbs later, we were through. She gathered all the old bulbs up, and so we could take them up to Uncle Harry and Aunt Virgie Lee for his yard sale.

Around 4 p.m., my brother, Frank and his wife, Wendy showed up. They live in Boise and drove up to Moscow. Frank and I had a conversation about how to organize and distribute all of Dad's slide collection. We decided that he'll get them digitally scanned in Boise, then send me the files. I'll go and put them up on PicasaWeb. It is a web-based photo program that lets you organize, caption, and tag each image. It's a very powerful program that should solve our problem. The other project that Frank has is that he wants to transcribe Dad's sermons. He has a large box of them. We haven't quite figured out what to do about them.

Saturday night, Kat had all of us over for dinner. She lives in the same "land-lease community" that Mom lives in, but Kat lives in one of the newest additions. She has a reconditioned manufactured home (single-wide), and it's really nifty. She has a great view, and she loves it. It fits her budget, it's paid for, and it's home for her and her cats. She has lots of original art hanging on the walls, some really beautiful paintings from friends, teachers, and her own.

Dinner was chicken piccata, pasta, a green salad, some great bread, beer, wine, and German Chocolate Upside Down Cake for dessert. You can't really go wrong with that at all! We stuffed ourselves, than sat in the living room and talked for a couple of hours. What a delightful evening.

So Sunday was my last full day in Moscow. First thing in the morning, I snuck off to Walmart to pick up yet another pack of light bulbs. We had found an additional five bulbs to change out. Around noon, all of us headed up to St. Maries for an afternoon meal with Uncle Harry, Aunt Virgie Lee, Jeanne, John, and Susie. I hadn't seen Susie for many years. Uncle Harry had a cast on because he had just had knee surgery and had to keep it stretched out. Jeanne had a stroke several years ago, so she has some difficulty walking. Her speech is much improved, but she's definitely having a difficult time.

These family gatherings require consummate storytelling skill. Uncle Harry has it in spades. Mom is not far behind, and Aunt Virgie Lee has a few tales of her own. Jeanne was telling stories about her daughter Susie, and I remember being a kid and having my parents tell stories about me. As it was, Frank told some stories about me. I love these times. I hope that Susie is collecting her parents' stories, and her grandparents' stories.

We left late afternoon and drove back to Moscow through the little towns of Emida, Harvard, and Princeton. Emida is a small wide spot in the road (who am I kidding, they are all wide spots) where my cousins lived when I was growing up. It's in a wooded mountain valley, and the scene is beautiful, especially in the spring light with its athletic green. We drove south into the setting sun, over the timbered ridges, into the tiny towns of my youth. We drove through Potlatch. The old high school building (where I went to school) is now an apartment house. The school was raised in 1906, and I like the idea that it has a second chance.

The day ended with supper at Mom's (like we need another meal...), then goodbyes. I don't know when I'll see Frank and Wendy again, but I really enjoyed visiting.

So I got up bright and early yesterday morning, had breakfast with Mom, then drove back to Spokane. On the flight to Salt Lake City, I sat in the first row of the commuter jet, kinda cool. Only twice have I been the first person off the plane. I like that. I read Wired, the Harvard Business Review, and Country Boys* on the flights back. It made the hours go much faster, and made me horny, too. I like that.

*A collection of country gay erotica about strapping country boys.

Twenty-four Years and Counting

Ron and I had some friends over yesterday for a potluck. The occasion was, in part, to celebrate our 24th anniversary. Now, I know that there is lots of controversy in the gay community about what constitutes an "anniversary." We've settled on the first time we set eyes on each other, then went out to dance. We didn't even get into each other's pants that night.

Both of us think that the years have flown by. For that I'm grateful. The way the world is going to hell in a handbasket, faster is better than slower. The time has been well spent. Ron is a sweetheart, and I'm fortunate that he and I have a life together. We still surprise each other, and we're still finding out about each other. I guess you're never too old to be surprised.

So, I'm now looking forward to the next 24. We'll be very crotchety by then, but perhaps we'll still surprise each other. I'll only be 80, so I'll still be young. And I hope that he'll be at my side.

The Unspeakable

What happened Monday at Virgina Tech begs understanding, begs some insight, and none is had. We don't expect death in this way to happen here. In this moment nothing can be said, nothing can be felt or thought that grasps the essential nature of the act. Instead, we all got slammed. We all wondered how could this happen? How could a kid walk through a couple of buildings and kill thirty-two people, wound eighteen more, and kill himself?

The news reports are full of stories about mental illness, alienation, a search for a motive. The killer wrote in a note that "you drove me to this:" a Glock, a .22, and a lot of ammunition, and unthinkable, unknowable thoughts, a totally unexpected day in a college town.

My heart goes out to the kids, the parents, the families, the teachers, the emergency responders, the survivors, those terrorized, those scared and scarred.

My Adventures with Portuguese Continue

I took Spanish and French in high school and German in college. I was dismal with it, all the way around. I didn't apply myself all that well in school, and I find myself in late middle age, as frankly mystified by Portuguese.

It is a great adventure, though. I've always wanted to learn a foreign language, and I want to visit Portugal, so the two aspirations come together in a pleasing way. It's been a lot of work. I spend about ten hours a week on it, and I feel like I'm making very little progress.

Some finds: I found two Wikipedia links to Portuguese verb conjugations and to Portuguese grammar. No doubt, these will come in handy for me. I've been using Rosetta Stone software, and for the most part, am pleased with it. It's a little kludgy, but works well enough for me to use it and recommend it to others. Just don't have any hopes for a miraculous way to learn a language. Stick to it, because it's a long grind.

I mentioned in an earlier post that I was meeting with the husband of one of my co-workers. I'm helping him brush up on his English, and he's helping me with Portuguese. We got together for a study session, yesterday, and three hours went by very quickly. We drank some wine, and ate some pão de queijo, or something like that. Anything with cheese in it works for me!

Volver, See It!

Ron and I had another Netflix moment last night. We had just finished watching Almodóvar's Volver. The air was quiet; the credits were rolling on a black screen. "Quite a movie. What do think?" I said. He looked at me and said, "Quite a movie."

And it is. It's a compelling story of mothers and daughters, sisters, and aunts, and secrets, secrets, and secrets. It's also a story of desperation, friendship, abandonment, and family. I'm not going to give anything away to say that Penélope Cruz is completely believable as Raimunda, a working mother with a big secret. Lola Dueñas plays her sister Sole. The other leads are Blanca Portillo as Augustina, Raimunda's daughter, and Carmen Maura as Irene, Raimunda and Sole's mother.

The plot is over-the-top, but finally believable. The performances are all very strong. You should see this film.

Dave Boss

Sometimes a small town is rocked, and an ineffable sadness seeps into the early spring. Dave's friends wake up one morning, and a life is gone, a world is smaller than it was, and everything has changed.

Dave was a student, a history major, at the University of Idaho ready to graduate this spring. He was murdered in his apartment in Moscow Idaho around midnight on March 30. His alleged assailant, John Delling, evidently knew him, stalked him, then killed him with two gunshots to the head. A Boise State University student, Bradley Morse, was killed two days later, and evidence points to the same assailant, who has been arested.

I didn't know Dave. The only connection I have with him is that I attended the University of Idaho. I receive a weekly letter from the university, and it mentioned Dave's death. Although I don't know him, his death hit me in the gut. His murder was so senseless. I found a link to his MySpace page and read the comments of his friends, poignant, painful notes from the men and women who knew him and loved him. I hope they find rest and peace. I mourn for Dave.

Rate a Gay Date

Okay, I admit it, I go to those "men seeking men" Internet sites looking to get laid. I went today, made a "date" with a guy, and he was a total no show. I think the correct word for my mental state was "pissed," but it might have been "irritated." I'm not sure.

I gave the guy my phone number. He called me, and we made the necessary arrangements. Then he didn't show up, and he didn't call back, which I think is not only unmannerly, but cruel. I mean at my age, I'm grasping for any hope, and it gets dashed on a regular basis. I must have lost 50 self-esteem points today. So I guess I'm pissed rather than irritated.

So if he contacts me again, I'll make a date with him, and hope he shows up. He's half my age and very cute, so of course, I'll set myself up to be really pissed next time.

Travelogue

Happy at the Helm

Okay, I know it's been weeks since I returned from the Caribbean, but today in a fit of frenzy, I tackled adding pretty pictures to the prose, and my Caribbean travelogue is much better for the effort.

The sailing was wonderful, and I shared the boat with eight other fabulous guys (although Jeff is admittedly more fabulous than some of the rest of us). The trip had style, adventure, drama, and unrequited love. What more could you ask for on a vacation? I love these guys, and I didn't even get into their pants.

Some More Movie Reviews

I've recently seen a couple of movies, both years old, but hey, I only saw them last week! Netflix is one of the neatest inventions of the Internet Era; boy, am I dating myself on that observation....

For a year or so, one of my friends kept telling me to see the movie, Big Eden (2001), starring Arye Gross as Henry Hart, Louise Fletcher as Grace Cornwell, and Eric Schweig as Pike Dexter. It's a story about gay city boy, Henry, coming back home to take care of his ailing grandfather in the small Montana town of Big Eden.

There are a couple of reasons to see this film: the scenery is gorgeous. Most of the movie was filmed around Lake McDonald in Glacier National Park. No place on earth looks quite like this. Second, the movie has some wonderful acting. Nan Martin as the Widow Thayer is just a hoot, and a lot wiser than she lets on. Tim Dekay as Dean Stewart, Henry's high school love interest takes off his shirt and looks pretty good in his tighty-whities. The story is about love, place, family, longing, and tolerance.

The place is Montana, home of right-wing militias and strange religious cults with guns who probably don't cotton to homosexuality. But there's no evidence of those prejudices in Big Eden. In fact, this film presents a realistic face of the emotional West: you mind your business, and I'll mind mine. It shows a small town where people know each other's business, but don't intrude, and really care about each other, characteristics that ring true with my own experience growing up in rural Idaho.

The movie also shows a West with some sophistication - a modern hospital, and a cappuccino machine on the counter at the general store. Really, folks, you'll find these things in towns in the West, honest! And the movie is also grounded in the West's myth of the rugged individualist in the character of Pike. He struggles with that myth.

The movie is very slow going for the first half. It's not the most realistic portrayal of Montana, or of people, except that this movie is about myth, heart, and family, all of which are present in abundance in Montana. Watch out for the Thanksgiving Dinner scene. It's a feel good movie, so don't expect anything more.

Of course, everything works out in the end, and it has a happy ending. So I hope that this review doesn't spoil it for you.

Yesterday, Ron and I watched As Good as It Gets (1997). Jack Nicholson won an Oscar for Best Actor in his role as Melvin Udall, a romantic novelist who has OCD.

I've had bad neighbors before, but nothing even approach Melvin. He's awful. His next door neighbor is Simon Bishop (Greg Kinnear) who is an artist. Simon has the world's cutest little dog: Verdell, and Melvin hates the dog. In an early scene, he shoves the dog down the apartment house's garbage chute.

In addition to Verdell, three other characters round out the cast: Carol Connelly, played by Helen Hunt who is a waitress at the cafe where Melvin always eats breakfast, Carol's mother, Beverly, played by Shirley Knight, and Frank Sachs played by Cuba Gooding, Jr. Frank is Simon's art dealer, and friend.

A couple of things I really enjoyed about this film. In a Hollywood way, it shows how crippling mental illness can be, how it severely limits the horizon of the world that the sufferer is in. The movie also shows how effectively Melvin coped with it, and indeed he is a very successful author, in spite of his awful, miserable, and pitiable private life. The other truly enjoyable performance is Greg Kinnear as Simon. He comes across as a real gay man. His situation in the film may be difficult, but he has real in-depth humanity that is a pleasure to watch.

Carol as waitress is a little too earnest. As a lover, she's not believable for a moment. As the star of a romantic comedy, Helen Hunt is a whole lot of sugar for Melvin's coffee. Speaking of sugar, or at least a taste treat, Frank is a wonderful, frenetic, wild man as Simon's art dealer. Cuba Gooding, Jr. gets the performance exactly right. Of course, Jill the dog is priceless as Verdell who steals Melvin's heart, and moves the romance along during the movie.

Portuguese and More!

One of my co-workers is from Brazil, and it just happens that she and her husband live nearby. Yesterday, the three of us went to breakfast at a Brazilian bakery. The rules were that I was to speak in Portuguese, as much as possible, and that her husband was to speak in English, as much as possible.

He is learning English and needs help with his vocabulary and verbs. I am learning Portuguese, and I just plain need help with everything. It's been challenging for me, and the going has been very slow, partly because of the time, and partly because it's daunting. It's something I want to do.

I've never (successfully) learned a foreign language. I know bits and pieces of Spanish, and managed okay in Spain, but I want a bigger experience than that when my sister and I go to Portugal. The pronunciation is the most difficult for me. It twists my mouth all out of shape. I can hear it, but speaking it is another thing altogether.

Going to the cafe was fun, because I hear useful things in context. Of course a sentence sounds like one long word all run together, and there was lots of noise in the background, but the language was grounded there in the life of a bakery. I could make out some of the conversation, and I really enjoyed it.

The problem with my language course, is that it is not tailored to traveling; it's tailored to learning a language. Before I have another "live" language lesson, I'm going to take out my phrasebook, and memorize some nouns and verbs that will help me in a travel situation. I think I'll pursue both ways (conversation and the formal lessons) to learn the language.

Portuguese is not a big language around here except among the Brazilian immigrants. Brazilian Portuguese is somewhat different from what's spoken in Portugal, but it's the only form of the language offered around here, so that's what I'm going with. One interesting factoid is that more people around the world speak Portuguese than speak Spanish. I think if Brazil instead of Mexico were on our southern border, more Americans would speak Portuguese.

So when we left the cafe, my co-worker and her husband gave me two small loaves of bread. I ate one last night with dinner, and this morning, I prepared some French toast with the other. It was wonderful French toast full of memorable conversation in a Brazilian cafe.

Dating Tips for Gay Guys

A friend came over last night for dinner. He had just come from a JO club (if you don't know, don't ask), so we were talking about sex and dating, and got around to his love life. He recounted the following tale.

It had been a while since he had carnally known a man, and he was ready for that kind of experience. This is where the Internet, and Craig's List are nifty resources, perhaps too nifty. So my friend puts up an ad, and quickly gets responses.

He said you quickly separate them into categories. First of all, there are the crazy insane guys. You don't want to date these guys. All of us have our own definition of insanity, but I, for example, probably wouldn't date guys who were into one of several specialized fetishes that featured objects larger than a fire hydrant.

In addition, you eliminate the poseurs. These are the guys who just get off on getting email from you, but aren't going to put out. They will not send you a picture. They will not get specific. They are a lot like dealing with Tehran or Pyongyang, if you accede to a demand, you can be sure that their next email will have an additional set of conditions. This is way too much work, and there will never be a payoff, trust me.

You can also eliminate any guy who doesn't post a picture, who cuts off his head (eeekkk!) in his picture, or who has noticeably altered his picture to substantially misrepresent his assets. This is called being AOLed.

My friend tossed out these categories, and winnowed through the (few) remaining. One guy, in particular, was interested in my friend. The guy was a nineteen year-old (at this point, alarm bells would go off in my head, but my penis would overrule them) who really wanted to hook up. He lived in the neighborhood, and hey, what the heck, nothing like young adult spunk, is there?

So my friend goes over to this guy's house (luckily he lived in the neighborhood, you wouldn't want to put yourself out too much for sex), they guy is cute, is nineteen, has accurately represented his assets. They rip off each other's clothes, jump into bed and have at it! For ten minutes. The young one erupts, and even before the spooge has cooled, is pulling on his pants, and pointing my friend to the door, saying, "We should do this again, sometime."

So here's another Gay Internet Dating Rule: help your buddy out! If you've already spray-painted his chest, have the human decency to give him a hand, too. It's not just about you. Good dating is a lot like being a Boy Scout (in fact, I've had a few "dates" with former Boy Scouts): Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, Kind, Obedient, Cheerful, Thrifty, Brave, Clean, and Reverent. You wouldn't want to apply all of these in equal measure, but for the most part, if you behaved like a Boy Scout on a date, it would be a very successful date!

Incest in the Caribbean

One of the enjoyable aspects of the sailing trip was that it was clothing optional, at least while we were out of port and sailing. I like to sail with nothing between me and the wind, and although I got badly sunburned early in the trip, I was naked most of the time.

A couple of the other guys were also clotheless a lot of the time. And when you are among eight gay men, some of them bareassed, well, the conversation gets into trash talk and not a little innuendo. And with this group of guys, that's exactly where it ended.

I was puzzled by this. I think the incest taboo had raised its head. We were a small enough group, that if something hadn't happened immediately, it wasn't ever going to happen, because no one wanted to rock the boat. We became family very quickly. And it isn't even that we bonded or anything, but we were in a tiny space with little privacy, and everyone had some ties with everyone else.

We hardly even touched or hugged each other. I found the behavior odd, because we are a bunch of gay men, and I really like the feel of another gay guy (just call me old-fashioned). We got around to hugging an hour and a half before we left the boat on the last day of the trip, and that was to say goodbye.

I would have liked to have flirted more effectively. I wouldn't have minded a little less talk and a little more trash, but one of the guys reminded me that just because we don't wear clothes doesn't mean that we have sex with each other. I'm frankly curious why it has to mean that.

My Caribbean Adventure

Actually, it wasn't that adventurous, which is fine for me. At my age, I don't need a lot of excitement, just a whiff is fine.

Nine of us (well, eight landlubbers, and the skipper) set out on February 28 for St. Vincent and the Grenadines. It really is a country and it is far, far away. The main island is St. Vincent, which is basically a very large volcano in the middle of the ocean, a very warm and palm tree growing part of the ocean, featuring callaloo soup, Bitter Lemon Soda, and some of the best rum that you'll find anywhere. Who needs drugs when alcohol's so cheap?

We sailed on a TMM bareboat chartered 43-foot Catamaran, the Amaryllis. It slept nine very comfortably, had an adequate galley and salon, and worked out very well for us. Among the guys we had plenty of good cooks, and a couple of old hands at these kinds of sailing trips. For the most part we were compatible, and we threw the three guys overboard near Mayreau who weren't (just kidding...).

Our skipper, Captain Rick, hails from Hilton Head, South Carolina. He's also an American business tycoon, pretty much owning the manufacturing of kazoos made in the United States. His is a quality product, not at all like the cheap Chinese rip-offs. His kazoos are the kind that play in the Kennedy Center, you know - classy!

The second day out, I totally fried myself. Waterproof sunscreen does not mean waterproof. How stupid of me to believe the label. I was in pain for only four or five days, so it was nothing, really. That second day we snorkeled at Petit Byahaut. PB is an eco-resort on the southwest coast of St. Vincent. It has a beautiful bay and beach and some nice snorkeling. Dogs patrol the beach, though. I assume that they are friendly dogs that don't eat the tourists.

There is a bat cave at Petit Byahaut. Several of the guys snorkeled through the cave. I didn't go. I don't trust my snorkeling capabilities quite that much yet. The boys talked about the blue light, the bats, the crabs, well it sounded gothic if not Gotham. Maybe some experiences are worth dying for; I don't know.

From PB, we headed across the channel to Bequia. We went to the less-developed side of the island and anchored in Friendship Bay. It's the first time I'd been to Friendship Bay (I'd been to Admiralty Bay on the other side). Several other boats were in the bay. It was windy, but not unpleasant at all. One of the simple pleasures of this trip is that there is amazingly little to do.

The next day, we had one of the longest sails of the trip, all the way down to the Tobago Cays to Baradel. We wanted to be in the Cays for a total eclipse of the moon. We anchored on the backside of Baradel, many fewer boats on this side.

We went snorkeling on the reef. We had a very strong back current, which put you back at the boat fairly quickly. Again, since I don't quite know what to do when snorkeling, this is a good thing. The reef is amazing. I have no idea what I'm looking at, but I've never seen anything like it. It's an alien world full of beautiful aliens. Or maybe I'm the alien in a beautiful world. I was quite taken with it.

That evening after dinner, Captain Rick brought out the kazoos, and everyone played Happy Birthday for me, on my 56th. I was very touched. I really enjoy the company of these guys, and couldn't have had a happier birthday. The boys make a really great kazoo band!

So the next day, Yellow Man, one of the boat boy entrepreneurs in these parts sold Jim some baguettes. He owed Jim some change and said that he'd be back for it. Beware of promises made in the middle of the ocean! Jim was still waiting for change four days later, and Yellow Man was nowhere to be found. The bread was very good, though.

I think this is enough about this. Check out the full trip report, and take up sailing in the Grenadines!