June 23, 1998 * Tuesday, 10:05 pm

I took a week off. Truth is, not much happened. A little work, a little business travel. School’s out for the summer, but swim team and tae kwon do continue. Turns out my son didn’t make the “A” team in swimming after all. Even though I’ve never seen more than 5 boys in the 9-10 age group at swim practice, there are apparently 25 signed up for the team, and additional time trials were held sporadically throughout last week. After all the time trials were tallied, daVinci jr. didn’t make the cut. Therefore, he’s on the “B” team. Which is okay (it's his first year swimming competitively and a lot of these kids swim year-round), but he was disappointed (thanks to me playing up his success at the time trials a week ago Saturday). Anyway, he had his first meet last night and came in second in both of his events, missing first place in 50 meter freestyle by .01 seconds and first place in 50 meter breast stroke by 1.5 seconds. Not bad for a kid who still can’t start and turn very well. I’m very proud of the little dude. Btw, I get to be a timer at the meets (I’m a parent “volunteer”), and no, I didn’t time my own son. Oh yeah, we won both meets this week (the “A” team swam on Saturday morning).

========== Flashback

Ok, time to write a bit more of the autobiography. Now, this may take a while. So go to the bathroom, get a cup or glass of your favorite beverage, and set yourself down for a spell. (Btw, Scott and rotti, you’ve already read a version of this, so you can go on to the next journal on your list if you want.)

I was born in Brooklyn, N.Y. on January 3, 1949, to a very Italian Catholic family (familia and religious guilt, a lifetime of neuroses). We lived in an upstairs apartment in my grandparents’ house, who shared the downstairs apartment with my aunt and uncle and their two (younger) boys. Literally dozens of other family members (aunts and uncles and cousins and their family members) lived all around us. Talk about not being able to get away with anything. But I loved it. I was a beautiful little kid (I’ve seen the pictures, it’s true), blond and blue eyed, unlike all my other cousins. The old women in the neighborhood treated me like a little prince (lots of pinched cheeks, but lots of candy, too). It was a good life.

Unfortunately, when I was 5 years old, we moved out of Brooklyn to Northport, Long Island. (Actually, Brooklyn and Queens, two of the five boroughs that comprise NYC, are physically on Long Island. But when people talk about Long Island, they are usually referring to the two non-NYC counties that comprise most of the island, Nassau and, furthest east, Suffolk. Northport is in the western part of Suffolk County, on the north shore, physically located about mid-point on the island.) The move was only about 60 miles east of the old neighborhood, but it was another world entirely. Northport itself is a beautiful little village on Long Island Sound. In fact, it was featured in the movie “In and Out” with Kevin Klien and Tom Sellig. All of the scenes in the movie showing the town of Greenleaf, Indiana, were actually shot in Northport, including the diner scene between Klien and Sellig. The village hasn’t changed much since we first moved out there, but the areas surrounding the village have. Potato, sod and duck farms south of town gave way to thousands of new houses built to satisfy the post-WWII housing crisis. Soon to follow were mile after mile of strip shopping malls, churches and schools. And soon, there it was in all its 1950s’ glory, suburbia.

At first, I hated it. I missed my cousins and the old women with their (my) candy. But soon I began to forget the old neighborhood and I fell in love with the new one. All in all, I had a great childhood - loving (if strict) family (two parents, one brother, no pets), lots of relatives back in “the City” and, eventually, on “the Island” (also known to the natives as “Lon-Guy-land”), good friends (more girls than boys, I never understood that), several girlfriends (mainly the same one from jr. high through high school, but we never went all the way because we were "good" kids (yeah, right)), loved school (good-to-great grades, sang in chorus, chorale, madrigals - shit, we even used to go caroling at Christmas (which I guess is a good time to do that given the nature of the songs and all, ... sorry, I'll be serious)), was even a devout Catholic (I walked 3 miles to church every Sunday through the rain, ice, snow, etc., …honest).

There was just one little problem. I always knew I was different. I was comfortable around girls, and nervous around boys. Making out with girls was fun, but not that much fun. I hated gym, but took my time in the locker room. Well, you get the picture. I finally figured it out in my junior year of high school (and I thought I was a fast learner). I was a pervert, a fag, a queer, a fairy, a god-damned homosexual (the word "gay" was not in our vocabulary). Note the adjective "god-damned." I would burn in hell as an abomination in the eyes of god, my god (why me, god?). My family would throw me out, disown me. My friends would desert me, even my girlfriend would dump me (I actually worried about that). Please remember, mine was a very traditional (and protected) upbringing in a very conservative community. There were no alternative lifestyle choices on display. Even though I lived 45 miles east of Manhattan, it might as well have been on a different planet. And even though this was in the late sixties, the free-love generation did not extend such freedom beyond the heterosexual norm. There was no internet on which to surf with other gay kids my age (and I certainly didn't want to seek out any older homosexuals for quidance or help, god knows what those perverts would try to do to me), there were no gay youth organizations (hell, there were no gay organizations, period (at least, that I knew of)), and there was no XY magazine (it was tuff enough trying to get your hands on an occasional Playboy (I was gay, not dead)).

Anyway, I slowly freaked out. Italian and Catholic. La familia and religious guilt, a very potent combination. The first time I tried to kill myself was just before the start of my senior year of high school (with sleeping pills swiped from a friend’s mother), but I was found by another friend and had my stomach pumped. I was able to convince my parents it was an accident (society was different back then, teen suicide was not an issue, or at least not widely known). The second time was two years later, at the end of my freshman year in college (a state school, further east on the Island). I was in love, for the first time in my life, I was totally, completely and helplessly in love. With my roommate Mike, my very st8 roommate, with whom I had been sleeping in the same 10'x20' room all year, he on the top bunk and me on the bottom bunk (do you know how difficult it is to, ... well, you know, satisfy the little guy without your top-bunk roomy getting wise?). Anyway, we ate together, played games together, went drinking together, hell, I even used to cut his hair (long, fine and reddish-blond (damn, I can still feel it)). Occasionally, he and I would spend a weekend at my parents' house and my then sometimes-girlfriend would fix him up and we would double date (when I moved out, my brother got my room to himself, so Mike and I had to share a fold-out sofa in the finished basement (*vgeg*)). I spent spring break at his parents' house in upstate New York (where we slept in his room, together in his double bed (*VBEG*)).

Of course, nothing ever happened, he was my best friend, and I wouldn't do anything to risk that relationship (although, I came very, very close on several occasions). Did he know how I felt? No, but someone else did. We had another roommate, John (we all lived in an three-bedroom, living room-plus-bath suite, overcrowded with eight guys instead of the designed-for five guys). I did not like John (probably because I resented the time he spent with Mike - they shared most of the same classes and would study together), and he did not like me (I have no idea why, I'm such a wonderful person). At the very end of our freshmen year, John and I had a fight. That in itself wasn't unusual, but this was a major eruption (and, of course, I haven't the foggiest idea what started it). At the height of the shouting, John called me a "fucking faggot" and said he was going to tell Mike what I was and that I had the "hots" for him (he actually said that, the "hots"; come to think of it, the word was pretty descriptive). Well..., I lost it. I jumped him and we fought. It was my first real fight and I beat the shit out of him (we were about the same height and weight). I literally knocked him through our bedroom wall and into the adjoining living room (true, I swear, but remember, ours was a brand new dormitory built for a state school by the lowest bidder *g*). I thought I had killed him (but found out later I only broke his nose and cracked three ribs), and probably would have except for the intervention of some of our other roommates (Mike wasn't there, he had already left for home for the summer).

I ran out of the dorm and into my car (a 1964 MGB convertible) and took off. I was so scared. I didn't know how he had figured it out, but I knew John would tell everyone I was a faggot (looking back on it and how I acted around Mike, I now wonder how anyone didn't know). I would lose Mike (what little of him I had) and I would lose my family and friends. My life was over. The police said my little MGB was going about 95 when I lost control on a curve on the parkway and plowed into a pyramid of sand-filled oil drums, thoughtfully placed in front of a bridge abutment by the state highway department. It was, of course, ruled an accident. I was lucky (again), nothing more serious than a broken wrist, a concussion, and lots of cuts and bruises. I lost the MGB, of course, but I also lost something else that day, something infinitely more precious.

I decided I didn't want to die, that I wanted to live. But I just couldn't destroy everything I had (or, what little I had) for the perverted lifestyle of the homosexual, always an outcast, always despised. I refused to allow myself to feel for another man what I felt for Mike. It hurt too much. So I shut it all down and packed it all away, my heart, my soul. I would live in and become part of the str8 world. Oh, there were a few missteps during the next couple of years (tales to be told anon). Eventually, however, I found myself a nice rent-controlled closet and moved in. It's been thirty years since that fight and car accident. I didn't return to that school in the fall, but rather transferred to another school, one that was out of state. My family never understood why I transferred schools (and were completely dumbfounded when I dropped out completely three semesters later). Did John tell Mike about me? I don't know. I never saw or heard from either of them again. But I still remember Mike, and the feel of his long, silky hair.

It's ironic, thirty years ago I decided to stay in the closet because I didn't want to lose what was precious to me, my family and friends. Over time, however, I lost them anyway. No, not entirely, but bits and pieces. While I was "livin' the lie," they were living their lives, making friends (true friends, the kind to whom you can tell anything), dating (as couples, not in a group), getting married, having kids, getting divorced, growing old with a life partner. The "lie" became a distorted window through which I viewed the world, preventing me from really touching others (and others from touching me), and causing me to be slightly out of sync with what was happening around me. ... Don't get me wrong, I've had a good life. And certainly not the typical life of a closeted gay. For one thing, I have a ten-year-old adopted son. One day, however, he will leave my home and I will be alone again. I finally decided that was unacceptable, that was not the way I wanted my life to be. So I decided to change it. And that’s what I’m doing.

July 14, 1998 * Tuesday, 11:30 pm

========== Slacker

Yup, that’s me. Truth is, I’ve been too busy with work (more one- and two-day business trips presenting a tax seminar to clients than I care to count) and helping with my son’s swim team to do much of anything else, neither of which I expect would be of much interest to my legions of readers (well, the counter’s gone over 500, but it’s probably the same five people checking over and over again for an update). The only good thing I can say about the business trips is the frequent flyer miles I’ve been accumulating. The goal is two round-trip coach tickets to Hawaii, with a stopover in Seattle. With any luck, that goal may be reached by next fall. Of course, there are a couple of people who I’d like to visit along the way. *g* As for the swim team, both the team and my son have been doing very well, with daVinci jr. improving his times at each swim meet. The refrigerator door is disappearing under a rainbow of first, second and third place ribbons.

========== Rant

I was going to do another update to the bio in this entry, but in catching up with my journal reading, a series of entries by another journalist awoke a pet peeve of mine that has been smoldering for a while now. That journalist did not originate the theory of non-accountability described below. And to his credit, he questioned its validity even as he attempted to apply it. No, the origin of the theory long predates its latest appearance and has been applied by a number of journalists, some on more than one occasion. I didn’t have a forum to respond to its use in the past. I do now.

So, this rant is intended to educate, show sinners the error of their ways, and provide solace to the righteous. It is in no way a personal attack on any individual, group, or royal family. If you disagree with anything you are about to read, remember that this is my journal. I can write whatever I want. I have to be true to me. If you don’t like what I write, then don’t read it. ...

“She was dancing,” the child said. “Dancing?” “In her room. She was all by herself, too, in her room with the door locked and the curtain drawn.” “If the door was locked and the curtain drawn,” said the colonel, “then how could you possibly have seen her?” “Maybe I was wrong and the door was open,” Millicent suggested. “And maybe it wasn’t,” Carolyn said. “Maybe you looked through the keyhole.” Millicent giggled. “Maybe I did.” “I say,” the colonel said. “That’s no way to behave, young lady.” “I know,” she said. “But I’m only ten years old. It would be a lot worse if a grown-up did it.” (“The Burglar in the Library” by Lawrence Block)

There are obvious differences between off-line and on-line journals. Perhaps the most significant is that an off-line journal is private. Disregarding the occasional snoop, it is unlikely to be read by anyone other than the author. Not so with an on-line journal. By its very nature, the on-line journal is available to be read by any and all who may stumble upon it (limited, of course, to those who have nothing better to do than surf the net in search of such entertainment).

And my point? That the off-line journalist can write whatever he wants in his journal and no one has the right to comment or criticize its content. An off-line journal is a private record created by the author, for the author. Can the same be said for the on-line journal? Very simply, no. You disagree, you say. Well, you’re wrong.

Is this refrain familiar?

This is my journal and I can write whatever I want in it. No one can tell me what I can and cannot write in my journal. I write this journal for myself, and no one else. I have to be honest and true to myself in my journal. I am not responsible to my readers; I am only responsible to myself. If you don’t like what I write, don’t read it.

There is a technical term used by psychologists to describe these statements: bull shit.

Yes, you can write whatever you want in your journal. I agree wholeheartedly. It is your right and no one, least of all me, has any legal or moral basis for saying otherwise. And I wouldn’t. And I don’t. You can write whatever you want. You can be vulgar, graphic, mean, petty, racist, or sexist. I don’t care. You can be yourself, someone else, or no one at all. I don’t care. You can be politically correct, politically incorrect, or completely non-political. I don’t care. Honest.

But listen up, boys and girls (well, I doubt we have too many girls reading along, but you’re welcome if you are), if you put your journal on-line, I have a few things I’d like to point out to you (non-judgmentally, of course).

First of all, don’t tell me you write your journal only for yourself, and no one else. That’s bull shit. If you’re writing only for yourself, why is your opus on the internet? Whatever happened to putting pen to paper? Or paper in a typewriter. Both are a hell of a lot cheaper than a computer, and they don’t tie up the phone line. If you put your journal on-line, it’s because you want people to read it. If you want people to read it, then you’re not writing just for yourself. You’re also writing for your readers. And guess what? Readers have opinions, and access to e-mail. You know what that means, right? Feedback, some good, some not so good. You’re in the kitchen, baby. If you don’t like the heat, go back to your bedroom and start hunting for one our your old school notebooks. I’m sure there’s still a few around somewhere.

Second of all, don’t tell me you write what you write because it’s your journal and you have to be true to yourself. Again, that’s bull shit. Maybe, MAYBE, if it were an off-line journal, you would be completely honest. But it’s an on-line journal and no one is going to be completely honest when the world (and maybe their mother, or lover, or friend) is reading along, taking notes as they go. We all reshape the truth to our advantage, some more than others. And no one forces you to write what you write in your journal. If you write it, if you post it, it’s because you choose to, not because you had to.

Third of all, don’t tell me you are not responsible for what you write, that it’s your journal and its content is no one’s business but your own. Once more, that’s bull shit. When you write on-line, you are writing for public consumption. And you are accountable for everything you do and say in public. That’s the way it is in a civilized society. It’s the price we pay for being part of a community. Not to put too fine a point on it, the right to speak freely carries the obligation of accountability. The only people excepted from that rule are children and the mentally impaired. I assume most on-line journalists fall into neither category (but I could be mistaken on this point).

Okay, let’s sum up, shall we? If you’re writing an on-line journal, it’s because you want to share some part of your life, your experiences, your opinions, etc., with the world at large (or at least with those who surf the net). You are free to share whatever you like, write whatever you like, and post whatever you like, subject only to your own sense of propriety and your service provider’s TOS. But understand this, you are accountable for what you write in your journal. Period. End of discussion. So, when something you write pisses someone off, or offends them, or shocks them, or otherwise causes them to take fingers to keyboard to lash out pointedly in your direction, suck it up big boy. Your public is responding to what you wrote. Right or wrong, they’re telling you how they feel. Don’t try to weasel your way out by claiming it’s your journal, you only write for yourself, you only write the truth, you’re not responsible to anyone, the rules do not apply to you. Guess what, babe. That’s bull shit (and really annoying whining, to boot). The rules do apply to you. If you stand by what you wrote, fine. If you can actually justify what you wrote, even better. Say your piece and move on. If the flood of mail has convinced you of the error of your ways, admit your transgression, throw in an apology or two, and move on. Life is too short.

Ok, I’m done. Put away the soapbox. The e-mail address is on the home page. Let ‘er rip.