Top of the World

This almost literally gave me a heart attack. I have a thing about heights. Not a major thing. I can go up to the top of the Empire State Building and look down at the city below. But this? This is insane. Beautiful images, mind you, but my God I'd be afraid my klutzy self would miss a step and plummet to my death capturing the whole journey on a Go Pro.

Why the Queer Community Is It's Own Worst Enemy Sometimes

One of the major stories in queer news this week is the gay couple who was attacked in a BBQ joint and had a chair thrown on their heads. Anti-gay violence and hate crimes always draw my attention. They make me both angry and desperately sad at how far we still have to come as human beings as far as love and equality goes. But this morning, this story took a strange turn when it was revealed that the man who threw the chair (he is black and the couple are both white) is also gay. Despite the fact that he shouted "faggots" when throwing the chair, word is that this suspect is also a gay man which troubled me deeply if only because it glaringly points out one of the major problems we as a queer community have faced from the very beginning of our civil rights struggle: A community at war with itself cannot effectively wage a war on somebody else. If the blacks and their allies on that fateful bridge in Selma, Alabama all those years ago had been busy arguing over who was going to march in the front, males or females, young or old, they would have much more easily been swept under the rug of history and not made the long term difference that they did. They were unified, at least in so far as their immediate goals were concerned. Unity is something that can be quite hard to find in the LGBTQI ranks. I can personally testify to having walked into several "lesbian bars" unknowingly in my day where my friends and I received a rather chilly reception because we had dicks between our legs. I was always mystified by that. As a community our main struggle is to make people accept us as equals so that we can be treated with the same rights as everyone else. But if we can't even see each other as equals, how far do we really expect to carry this fight? Just to finish off the impetus for this post, apparently the white couple called the chair throwing suspect both "trade" and "nigger". All of this is hearsay at this point. I wasn't there so I don't know what really went down, but it certainly wouldn't be the first time I've seen either a white queer calling someone a nigger or a black man violently beating up a gay man.

     The movie Milk features a telling scene about the early days of gay liberation which still resonates today and concerns this very same issue. One of the power gays in San Francisco, the editor of the Advocate magazine, tells Harvey he is far too "out" to be elected. He also blasts the area where Harvey lives and works, The Castro, for being a den of sin where drugs and sex are copious. Harvey, as we all know in real life, was not one to be an apologist about who he was and what he did. He demanded acceptance because its what was right, up until the day he died. I've always hated this outlook, usually coming from rich Conservative gays in power, that the community as a whole has to homogenize itself lest it be denigrated in the public eye. You see it every year at Pride when there are arguments about whether or not to allow leather dudes to wear assless chaps in public. It sounds silly when you put it that way, and obviously you want to maintain some sense of decorum when there are families involved, but the idea that the community as a whole has to deny that we're still lustful beings who yes sometimes smoke pot or visit a tearoom seems ridiculous and hypocritical to me. Even in my early twenties I could read between the lines of The Advocate which is why I've never been a regular reader of that magazine. There were countless ads for Rolex watches and Armani suits and extended European vacations. It always seemed to be promoting a life I knew nothing about, and sadly probably never will. But beyond that, it also made me feel invalidated in a way. Like if I COULDN'T manage to buy or do those things I somehow didn't measure up to what a mainstream queer was supposed to be. I digress, because lets face it, I will NEVER be a mainstream queer. I'm a sexed up liberal white trash anarchist queer, thank you very much, so admittedly, not many magazines personally speak to me. But a gay magazine should be inclusive to all in its community as I see it. The same thing applies to interviews with celebrities either gay or straight in queer media. They sometimes bend themselves over backward NOT to ask any questions about being a gay icon or having gay fans or, God forbid, if they've ever had a queer experience themselves. Its disingenuous to me. That's why I've always loved Attitude magazine. I certainly don't expect an interviewer to ask Tom Daley when was the last time he had bum sex, but I don't expect them to actively suppress Tom's opinion about what straight celeb he'd most list to shag either. The myth is that once we reach a certain age, we should be married with kids and leading a lovely but boring life filled with expensive clothes and material possessions. Which can be quite fulfilling for some. But certainly not for everyone.

     The same can be said for gay black men. I've dated several, never to the point where I would have to deal with their families and friends on any kind of extended level, but enough to see just how abusive they can be to one another, whether it was straight peers doing the abusing or fellow queers. In some respects its still considered much more acceptable to do the whole "down low" thing and get married and have kids instead of actively calling yourself gay and marrying another man. I find it incredibly sad. In a community that's already gone through so much as far as civil rights is concerned and considering recent events in Baltimore will no doubt continue to do so, its almost like queer men of color have to face a double identity crisis.

     Consider the average gay dating app. Perusing several profiles will undoubtedly uncover a phrase that goes something like this: "No Asians, fats, or fems." Disregarding the fact that this is a disgustingly racist statement, its also far too prevalent in queer life. And look, I understand everybody has their likes and dislikes. Even Stevie Wonder on LSD could figure out that I usually go for skinny dudes, but I would never, ever dream of putting a sentence like that in a dating bio. Least of all because its hypocritical since I am a fat guy, but even beyond that, because I would never want to limit myself in that way. Perhaps the soulmate of the dude who wrote "No Asians" in his Grindr profile happens to be Asian, but because he is a prejudiced asshole, he will never find him. Further, the whole "No fems" thing belies a self-loathing quality about most gay men that I find pitiful. Again, I understand it to some extent, I wouldn't want to find myself dating Richard Simmons because he's just not my type. But crossing ALL men off the list who can't one hundred percent pass as straight seems ridiculously self-defeating. There's far too much exclusion and in-fighting in the queer community at times. These are only a few small examples of a much bigger problem. But it highlights why I love Pride so much. Usually, at least for that one day, all barriers are broken down (usually with the help of alcohol, or fancy dress, or drag, or confetti, or whatever) and we can all celebrate the one thing that unifies us and our straight allies. Community can be an overused word that sometimes doesn't live up to its hype. But on those rare occasions when it actually does happen, its a truly magical thing. I think we still have a long way to go if we ever hope to fulfill the promise of that word so that we can truly hope to live up to it. But I'll keep my fingers crossed in the meantime.

Boy Interrupted - A Truthful Look at Suicidal Impulses

I saw this film several years ago and obviously it affected me very deeply, not only because it is a very sad movie (be warned before you watch it), but because it spoke to me on so many levels. The highs and lows, being brought low to your darkest place and then recovering and seeming healthy only to have that dark place beckon every so often. Its one of the most truthful films I've ever seen about suicide. A stark reminder that even people who seem to have everything (and the boy in the movie is from a well to do family, was getting good grades, was good looking, and seemed to have no shortage of dates and/or friends) can succumb to suicidal impulses. It will definitely move you if you choose to watch it, and probably be very insightful. Especially if you've never had to face these issues before. But yes, make sure you have a comedy prepped to play afterward. It can be a rough watch.

It's Simply Sex

Notice I didn't title this post "only" sex, or "just" sex. Because that would be a misnomer. I hope sex is never "just" anything to me. Sex was, is, and hopefully always will be something that can be exhilarating, magical, beautiful, life affirming, and yes downright deliciously filthy and animalistic. Sometimes all at once. But I got the idea about writing some of my general views on sex recently, when my young step-niece followed me on one of my social media accounts which is devoted solely to porn. I became alarmed. My first thought was how did she find me? My real name isn't even on it. But thats the insidiousness of technology these days. All of these accounts can be easily linked, sometimes without even realizing it. My second thought was Holy shit my account avi is a big close up of my cock! and how that was a great deal more than any family member ought to be seeing. So I sent her a message. "Please stop following me on here as I only use this account for porn. Thanks." Short and sweet. A few days went by and she didn't stop following me (which I still don't want to think about the implications of). My third thought was Well maybe she's just very fond of cock like I am. But I don't want to be a purveyor for her, so I blocked her and continued about my merry way, alarmed that she had found me but otherwise unmoved. It was shocking enough for me to want to tell my friend, however, who was supremely embarrassed for me and surprised at just how blase I was about the whole thing. "Aren't you upset?" he asked me loudly. I shook my head. "It's a little weird. But its simply sex. Its not like she doesn't know it exists." His eyes bulged. "I wouldn't even want my parents knowing that I have a porn page! You definitely have a more comfortable attitude about it than I do."

And I had to smile at that. Because I had never really thought of myself as having a particularly comfortable attitude about sex. But after I thought about it for a few moments I realized that there is a marked difference between being comfortable with your body and with your own sexual prowess than there is with your attitude about sex in general. And I was glad, for once, that I hadn't come up short. And to be honest, I didn't come to that attitude easily. It was hard fought and won. The first sexual interaction I had was so traumatizing I'm surprised I ever wanted to touch my dick again. But c'mon, it IS a dick after all. There's no leaving it alone. Unless you're dead. And maybe not even then. We just haven't seen those particularly inclined zombies on The Walking Dead yet. But when I was 6 the little neighbor girl and I asked each other how we went to the bathroom. Since we didn't really understand, we decided to show each other. We were caught butt naked with me whizzing away by our parents, who proceeded to scream and shout so loudly that we both became shrieking, inconsolable messes. There may have even been some slaps. I don't remember, honestly, I just remember her Dad carrying her, half-dressed and still screaming and crying, down the stairs and out of my life. I never played with her again. I often wonder if my Mom remembers that and if she worries that it might have "turned me gay" as some confused parents often do. Its silly, but writing that now I realize just how negative that situation was. Not that I'd let my kids experiment unfettered if I was a parent, but there was certainly a better way to handle it than getting physical and terrorizing us both. But perhaps thats why I am so comfortable with sex in general. I learned from the mistakes of my elders. In any event, 4 years later we had moved to a new house and both my parents worked a lot and I had found a new cute little female neighbor willing to get undressed for me so we could examine each other's private parts. Outside yet! In the front yard! I was comfortable but I obviously wasn't smart. I guess its human nature though. And as a male, lets face it, if we can find something that our wiener will fit in, no question that shit is getting filled. Not that I had sex with her. I was inquisitive, but I wasn't a little lothario. Its funny that all of my early experiences were with girls. I often wish I could go back and tell my little 9 year old self to own up to who he was because it would make the next decade a whole lot more fun for him. I'd already begun having lustful thoughts for my male friends. And a certain Jim Morrison poster that I bought in a head shop on the Wildwood boardwalk the following summer would turn a switch in my head that, even though I didn't acknowledge it publicly, made me very aware that girls were not in my future, at least in a sexual sense.

But there were many frustrating, closeted years ahead. Until finally, inevitably, I admitted to myself, and slowly but surely everyone else afterward, that I was gay. I think a lot of that wasted time fighting against who I was inside is partly what drives me to be so comfortable about it today. Life is far too short to worry about something natural. Even when some kitchen utensils or a Mickey Mouse costume is added to help make it sort of unnatural. Its simply sex. We all do it. When I find out that people AREN'T doing it I usually believe THEM to be unnatural. So I don't worry, as my friend does, that my mother might find out I have a porn page. I'm not going to invite her to use it. But I wouldn't deny it either. I have to say, however, that I'm pretty much over family members following me on my porn pages. Once was more than enough for that circumstance.

The Black Hole

There is a black hole. You may not see it. But it is there. Trust me. Some days it will keep its distance, allowing sunlight to coat the surroundings. But it is never far, and always within reach. At times, I can hear voices beckoning from inside. Sometimes they are cruel, reminding me of every foible and every fumble I have ever taken. Other times, they are comforting, assuring me that they only offer help in healing what has been broken. I want to listen to them. I would give anything to make the pain dissipate just a bit. But often it is hard to concentrate on them. I will find myself humming a lovely new song. Or laughing with a friend. Or smiling as someone who has touched my heart takes hold of my hand. And the voices grow dim. And the black hole becomes shadowed as sunlight shines brightly but ever briefly. But always before long, the black hole will return to prominence just beside me. It is a cunning sycophant, constantly offering an end to suffering. But sunlight and music and love are powerful motivators. They bolster me. And mostly keep me smiling. But it has been a long struggle. And I have grown weary. And often I find myself pondering the ease of simply closing my eyes and falling backward into the ever waiting black hole. It is the one thing which will always be there for me when everything and everyone else might be taken short. And there is something to be said for reliability. For the moment, I am looking into the sunlight. It feels magnificent on my face. But the voices are quietly noticeable behind me. And my eyes are growing heavy with despair. I leave it to them as to who is a more powerful ally. Just a few moments to rest my eyes. I can still feel the heat of the sun caressing my cheek. For now.

The Realest Shit on Suicide

I didn't want to include this clip in my last post about Chris Hardman because it hasn't been said whether or not he actually did commit suicide but his passing and just the possibility of it reminded me of one of my favorite indie movies, and this little scene in a mental hospital between several characters who have attempted suicide. Its hard to explain to others why it rings so true, but its probably some of the realest shit I've ever heard in a movie about this topic. Seek the film out if you want to watch a very moving film about a family in crisis. In the meantime, let this resonate :)

The Lonely Death of Chris Hardman

Full disclosure: The cause of Chris Hardman's death has not been revealed as yet. The rumor mill seems to be slanting towards suicide because he was only 24 and because he suffered from chronic depression. This post is coming from someone who contemplates suicide a lot, so it is definitely going to be slanted in that direction as well since its almost goes hand in hand with the processing of grief to me. Hopefully I don't disrespect his memory with this post. No matter how he died, the fact remains that he is gone and will be missed.

I was scrolling aimlessly through my Facebook feed today only to see something that made me sit up in shock and exclaim loudly "Oh no!" So loudly, in fact, that my niece who was doing her homework in the other room asked "What's wrong?" "Someone I like died." I said, unsure how to word to a child the feeling of a celebrity you admire passing on. When her brother asked what happened, she told him "Uncle Steven's friend died." which struck me funny in the moment only because it hit the nail on the head about how odd it is to be sad when someone you don't know personally dies. Technically, you really shouldn't be mourning them since you didn't really KNOW them to mourn them. But celebrity is funny like that. It gives us a certain sense of knowing somebody even though we only know a certain aspect of them or simply what they chose to share with the world. But when people touch you with their words, or their songs, or their acting they sometimes feel like they become an extended part of your family. I am a fierce fan in that respect. And I am incredibly loyal. Once I become a fan of somebody, I am with them for life. My interest may wax and wane if they're a hard rock artist and they decide to do a polka album one year, but I will never desert them. So I know about feeling bereft when a stranger you happen to admire dies. I can remember crying inconsolably when Princess Diana's funeral took place. She wasn't even a figure of particular importance in the states. But her humanity had touched me. Sometimes that is all it really takes. I corrected my niece, telling her "No its not my friend it was a musician I really liked." and they accepted that but seemed very concerned which was touching. Kids have an amazing knack for being very intuitive and trying to help you but then fucking off when its required and doing somersaults despite the grief in the room. But I was left with the headline. Chris Hardman was dead. Most people in the US probably have no idea who the fuck Chris Hardman was to be blatantly honest. But then thats probably true for a lot of the British musicians and actors I follow who never seem to cross over with Cumberbatch like ease. But I had followed him from the beginning. He started out on Gene Simmons' Rock School which I didn't even watch at the time but remember seeing clips of and being blown away by this kid's talent with a guitar and his attitude. Shortly after the series went off the air, Chris released his first album. He was known for his backwards snapbacks and his punky (but never rude) attitude. The music was almost like All Time Low with more piss and vinegar, as my Dad used to say. Chris had personality to spare. The album didn't do great but produced several minor hits and garnered him a pretty big following on YouTube and MySpace. A few years passed between that and the second album, which featured more writing credits from Chris and an even punkier attitude but weirdly features my favorite song by him a cover of the old Jermaine Stewart classic We Don't Have to Take Our Clothes Off. I say weirdly only because I know in defense of his writing I should pick a song he co-authored as 1 of my faves and also I really really really don't want to defend the meaning of not taking your clothes off to have fun since I believe the exact opposite I want nudity at every turn if possible. But the catchiness of that song is undeniable. That album never really took off virally like the first one had, and after that I'm guessing, though I never heard him say for sure, that he and his record company parted ways as happens with many artists who burn brightly one day and mellow to a glowing ember the next. But I stayed with that ember. Shortly after that Chris was given his own talk show on UK television. As it never properly aired here and you can only find clips on YouTube, I've never seen it in its unadulterated form and I know nothing about how it fared in the ratings or with critics. I believe it lasted for 1 or 2 seasons. But I remember when watching the clips how natural a host he was. Most talk show emcees always strike me like a used car salesman. I particularly hated Jay Leno in that respect. He would throw a few softball questions, plug the person's movie, and voila you had a show. An incredibly bland and boring show, but there you go. Chris wasn't like that, either because he never really attained a level of stardom where he was afraid to lose it all or simply because he was a genuinely nice but interesting person. I remember thinking "Wow these are pretty good questions!". Even if he didn't write them (though I have a feeling he at least had a hand in what was asked) he seemed very confident and honest as a host. He asked what I wanted to hear, he was cool, and I never got the sense that he was trying to sell me a twenty year old Dodge Dart for thirty percent over blue book value. After the show Chris disappeared for a while, presumable to finish school and try to go back to a normal existence. Twitter had become a thing in the intervening years and YouTube had become even more powerful, and I followed Chris on both sites. He was always saying something real or funny. Occasionally he would post songs he was working on. He had a few more brushes with fame in recent years. He performed in the Welcome to Loserville stage play at one point. He did an Attitude naked shoot to show that he had grown up into quite the sexy dude. Ran his own humorous social media campaign to unseat the Simon Cowell Christmas Number One tradition (you probably have to be British to grasp this concept though I sort of understand) with his own song (which I bought though it didn't). He put together a small tour a few years back and played to what seemed like small but adoring crowds judging from the pictures. And he always acknowledged and appreciated the fact that he had gay fans which made me like him even more. He played the infamous G-A-Y nightclub in London and seemed to be thrilled that people of all walks remembered and still enjoyed hearing from him. There were quiet periods in between these career arcs, but he never stopped making music or wanting to share his talent. To be honest, I never really knew about his battle with depression. I wish that I had. Not that I, as a fan, could have done anything, but it would have been nice to know we shared that issue. It must be incredibly hard to go from being on tv all over the world one day to several years later not being able to get record companies to even listen to songs you put your heart and soul into. If that attributed to his depression it makes me sad. Especially since this is a new era for music and the music business where artists can pretty much self-release albums and build a fanbase all on their own.

Here are several clips of Chris performing in recent years, first a beautiful acoustic version of We Don'r Have to Take Our Clothes Off with his friend Tom Mann (who wrote and performed on the Christmas Number One single with him) followed by a lovely solo acoustic number Chris wrote all on his own:

This was the last photo Chris shared on social media several weeks ago. Though he doesn't look ecstatically happy, he certainly doesn't seem like somebody in a deep depression either.

But that is what is so insidious about depression. It makes you put a false smile on your face so that no one else knows your pain. Or it makes you avoid people altogether because you are feeling hopeless and simply don't want to be helped. Despite whatever personal pain he might have been going through, Chris was always quick to make others smile, as evidenced by this tweet from several weeks ago:

But then there was this tweet shortly after, which at first I wasn't sure should be taken seriously since Chris always did have a sarcastic sense of humor:

I did take it seriously, and this was my response to him:

It may seem weird words of comfort and support coming from someone who worries endlessly about what others think and whether or not I matter in this life. But if there's one thing I know how to do it is try to remind others bereft of hope why they should continue to hang on. Its a strange psychosis. I can very literally contemplate and formulate a suicide plan in the morning and in the afternoon try vehemently to talk a friend or loved one out of doing just that. I guess it boils down to not wanting to see people you care about hurt the same way you are. I have no way of knowing whether or not Chris saw my tweet or even cared that it was sent since he didn't respond in any way. But in light of his death, I'm glad I sent it. The outpouring of love from celebrities and fans alike on social media has been lovely. No matter how Chris died, there is a loss. Whether a loss for what might have been, what at one point was, or simply the extinguishing of a light much too bright and far too early is up to you to decide. I feel for his family and friends. For myself, I'm going to take my melancholy and listen to his music tonight. Rock on, Chris, wherever you are. I hope you are finally at peace.