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      We grumble (especially me) about changing the clocks, and there are many baseless folk "explanations" for why we do it: farmers/cows, energy savings, etc. Fact is, if we didn't drop back an hour each Autumn, it would allow the pedestrian herd to grow too large.

      Seriously: There's a significant spike in pedestrian deaths every Autumn directly coinciding with setting the clocks back, and the higher death rate remains until we set the clocks forward in Spring. See here for a very stark and immediately understandable plot of the effect.

      It's not a temporary blip and it's not primarily because people take awhile to get used to the change, it's primarily because during "standard" time there are more pedestrians and more cars on the roads in darkness. That is, there are more drivers and more pedestrians in the afternoon-evening than in the morning, no matter what the clocks say. When more of the afternoon-evening is dark, more pedestrians get killed. See here (fig. 1 & table 4 especially). One of the researchers, in discussing the study with me, said "The bottom line should be how early in the day people go about their activities. There is a lot more pedestrian activity in the evening than in the morning, so shifting all activity earlier relative to the sun (as DST normally does) brings a net benefit." Which suggests keeping DST year round would be a good idea, and moving the clocks forward from there in winter (to countervail the earlier nightfall) might be better still.

      But none of that's likely to happen any time soon, because…um…because…look, it's just not. So we have to deal with the reality we're stuck with: we are all at much greater risk to be hit while walking, and at much greater risk to hit a pedestrian while driving, until the clocks will change again in Spring.

      Pedestrians: You can see a car's lights at a far greater distance than the driver can see you. It is necessary to consciously override the automatic assumption that if you can see them, they can see you. They can't, so don't jaywalk! Wear light, bright colours and at least one reflector. Even just a simple hang-tag reflector is better than nothing; stripes along your elbows and knees are best. At the very least, don't do stupid things like going out at night in black or dark clothing.

      Drivers: See that all your car's lights are working, correctly aimed or adjusted, and in good condition—hazed headlamp lenses make you much more likely to hit and kill a pedestrian. Make sure you're using nighttime lights after dark; DRLs (daytime running lights) do not substitute for full headlamps with tail and side marker lights, and most modern cars have DRLs and always-lit instrument panels so yesterday's "Oops, can't read the dashboard, time to turn on the lights" incentive no longer exists. Even if you're sure you know, make extra-sure; spend 60 seconds re-familiarizing yourself with how your car's light controls work. You can do it at the same time you check the lights are all working. Get a fluorescent and reflective safety vest and stuff it under the seat; they're cheap and easy to throw on if you have to be outside the car near traffic after dark. And for reason's sake, stay off the phone while you're driving—even if you have a hands-free. The distraction of a phone conversation results in driving attention impairment much more severe than if you're talking to someone in the car, and hands-free is not a solution because the impairment is mostly cognitive, not physical.

      Bicyclists: Reflectorise yourself! Wear light and bright colours. Have white lights and reflectors to the front of your bike, red lights and reflectors to the rear, amber reflectors and lights to the sides. Blinking lights are a popular but unwise idea if they're by themselves; OK if they're right next to steady-burning lights.

Alexandra Bridge, off the Cariboo Highway in British Columbia. Click for larger.

      We grumble (especially me) about changing the clocks, and there are many baseless folk explanations for why we do it: farmers/cows, energy savings, etc. Fact is, if we didn't drop back an hour each Autumn, it would allow the pedestrian herd to grow too large.

      Seriously: There's a significant spike in pedestrian deaths every Autumn directly coinciding with setting the clocks back, and the higher death rate remains until we set the clocks forward in Spring. See here for a very stark and immediately understandable plot of the effect.

      It's not a temporary blip and it's not primarily because people take awhile to get used to the change, it's primarily because during "standard" (Winter) time there are more pedestrians and more cars on the roads in darkness. That is, there are more drivers and more pedestrians in the afternoon-evening than in the morning, no matter what the clocks say. When more of the afternoon-evening is dark, more pedestrians get killed. See here (figure 1 and table 4 if you don't want to read the whole thing). One of the researchers, in discussing the study with me, said "The bottom line should be how early in the day people go about their activities. There is a lot more pedestrian activity in the evening than in the morning, so shifting all activity earlier relative to the sun (as DST normally does) brings a net benefit." Which suggests keeping DST year round would be a good idea, and moving the clocks forward from there in winter (to countervail the earlier nightfall) might be better still.

      But none of that's likely to happen any time soon, because…um…because…look, it's just not. So we have to deal with the reality we're stuck with: we are all at much greater risk to be hit while walking, and at much greater risk to hit a pedestrian while driving, until the clocks will change again in Spring.

      Pedestrians: You can see a car's lights at a far greater distance than the driver can see you. It is necessary to consciously override the automatic assumption that if you can see them, they can see you. They can't, so don't jaywalk! Wear light, bright colours and at least one reflector. Even just a simple hang-tag reflector is better than nothing; stripes along your elbows and knees are best. At the very least, don't do thoughtless, suicidal things like going out at night in black or dark clothing.

      Drivers: See that all your car's lights are working, correctly aimed or adjusted, and in good condition—hazed headlamp lenses make you much more likely to hit and kill a pedestrian. Make sure you're using nighttime lights after dark; DRLs (daytime running lights) do not substitute for full headlamps with tail and side marker lights, and most modern cars have DRLs and always-lit instrument panels so yesterday's "Oops, can't read the dashboard, time to turn on the lights" incentive no longer exists.

      Bicyclists: Reflectorise yourself. Wear light and bright colors. Have white lights and reflectors to the front of your bike, red lights and reflectors to the rear, amber reflectors and lights to the sides. Blinking lights are a popular but unwise idea if they're by themselves; OK if they're right next to steady-burning lights.

Remembering my dead:

Edward W. Stern • Richard M. Stern • Michael Steeler • Daniel "Zapp" Zapata • Patricia S. Tomlan • Belle M. Stern • David A. Kosh • Zelda H. Kosh • Paul Todd • Mort Karman • Jacob "Jack" Rabinow • James Sharer • Sam Feldman • Irma Rogell • Qat Cat • Gulliver Cat

Click for larger in new tab.

Remembering my dead:

Edward W. Stern • Richard M. Stern • Michael Steeler • Dan Zapata (Zapp) • David A. Kosh • Belle May Stern • Zelda H. Kosh • Patricia Tomlan • Mort Karman • Jacob "Jack" Rabinow • James Sharer • Sam Feldman • Irma Rogell • Qat Cat • Gulliver Cat

As you can see in the photo here, Gaffer's using his hat—so instead I'm passing around this one. An irrascible landlord in Boulder is suddenly turfing him out. With help from you and you and you, I'll go to CO, rent a van, collect him and his belongings, and That Harp Guy will be settling in to his new home by around this time next month. Please spread the word, too, by sharing the link!

…Watching these for awhile helps.

The height the rich and powerful are allowed to soar to
says less about a society
than the depths they're allowed to stoop to.



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Tulip fields and crusty Gillig school bus #7480A at Roozengaarde
© Daniel Stern 2014

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Tulip fields and crusty Gillig school bus #7487 at Roozengaarde
© Daniel Stern 2014

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Tulip fields and road #7479 at Roozengaarde
© Daniel Stern 2014

I am so famous!

(…says Daniel Stern, a Vancouver-based automotive lighting expert who sits on several technical standards development boards in North America and worldwide…)

About thirty days ago our newest friend Dan died shortly after being sent home too early from some fairly major operations (score another one for American best-in-the-world "healthcare"). We'd clicked immediately and got to know him for all of three whole, entire months. »blink« Gone. Everything I should have been able to write here never got a chance to happen.

The day before yesterday I got word my longest-running friend Mike's gone dying, too. I'm told he'd been keeping a diabetes diagnosis to himself, and early last week started having blurry vision. He lay down for a nap on Thursday morning, and his wife couldn't wake him for his doctor's appointment. UPDATE: He was on a medication that built up to toxic levels. He didn't go and take an overdose, an overdose just gradually "happened". While he was alive, his doctor said they couldn't monitor blood levels of it, which of course explains why the coroner could do so (score yet another one for American best-in-the-world "healthcare") »blink« Gone. I met him a couple decades ago at the University of Oregon; we took some classes together. We also both were involved with campus radio: I did news, and he—an actual real hippie; the kind I'd only read about, in my cloistered whitebread suburban upbringing—did the late-late shows on Saturday Night: Infinity Time and The Stone Zone. Oh, that's why "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" is so long: plenty of time to get down to the parking lot, spend a few hours minutes grazing in the grass in his VW Microbus, and get back up in time to put on the next track. Our friendship seemed always to develop and deepen in directions I couldn't or wouldn't have predicted. Here's Mike when I visited him in 2009:



It's a one-two gutpunch to the heart. Both of them were pegs far too square heptagonal for this world's relentlessly round holes, and they had the scars to show for it. But they still managed, despite their relentlessly uphill slog, to make the world so much brighter and more colourful and more interesting. Now it's darker and greyer and more boring; they've both left big, jagged, irreparable holes. I hope they both have an easier go of it next time round.

1980, I'm 4 years old: John Lennon shot. Mother says he was a fag, then defines the term crudely in response to my query.

~1983, 7 years old: first memorable incidents of mother's nonspecifically directed venomous anti-gay screeds and fag jokes.

~1987, 11 years old: first inkling my perception of girls was nonstandard. At a synagogue function of some kind that involves a barbecue lunch, I see one of the congregants tending the oildrum-type barbecue out back. He looks very much like Tom Selleck; I hope I get to be as hairy as he.

~1989, 13 years old: first furtively obtained and stashed skin magazines and facsimiles thereof. First fruitless attempts to be turned on by the women instead of the men.

-1990, 14 years old: Phone call to a Denver gay community center's counselling line, placed when everyone else was out of the house: "I think I might be gay". Counsellor suggests I come to kids/teens discussion/support group. Eep! I hang up.

~1991, 15 years old: mother asks if I'm interested in any girls at school. No, not really. "But you're not interested in any boys, right?" No!

1992, 16 years old: mother finds "Men's Health" magazine under front passenger seat of my Valiant (Shit, shit!…she can do that?) I deny any idea how it got there.

1993, 17 years old: Overheard sneering rumours that two guys at school are gay: a bleachy-blond looking guy and a besideburned ginger with a workout body, a halogen smile, and a purple '65 Valiant with a 170 slant-6 engine, but I don't remember any details. We exchange a couple of words every odd and then, and I viciously stomp down even the shadow of a crush or any clever ideas about striking up an actual conversation; far too dangerous. Bleachy-blond guy walks past the school bus I'm on one afternoon—I'm not looking or watching, which makes it all the more terrifying when another bus rider says "Hey, Daniel, don't get a boner." I retriple my vigilance regarding everything I say (and how, and when, and where, and with whom) and everwhere I look, and strive to shorten my lag before laughing at jokes that aren't funny.

1994, 18 years old: I go off to University of Oregon. Math class taught by grad student: big arms, big chest, big calves, big permanent 5 o'clock shadow, big tufts of dark hair at collar and cuffs, big Liverpudlian accent. I have to use the washroom—again. Paying attention in class is hopeless, which means I have to go to office hours, which makes things worse, not better.

1995, 19 years old: I ask the library assistant for help with the persnickety scanners hooked to the persnickety Macintoshes. Somehow or other the subject of her website comes up—it's all about Pink Floyd. I've heard of them, but my awareness stops after knowing there's a band by that name. By and by (and by), we wind up spending a lot of time together. We have a lot of laughs, cook a lot of spaghetti, listen to a lot of Pink Floyd, have a lot of fun. But holding her hand as we walk feels…scripted. Obligatory. Pro forma. Fraudulent. We almost have sex one night after dinner. She's into it but to me it feels even more scripted than handholding—I'd read a lot of books and had a lot of theoretical knowledge. Lack of a condom and Spaghetti's Revenge derail things: whew. Someone I do news with on the campus radio station comes out to me as bisexual: Eep! Someone else I hang out with (she drives a slant-6 Duster) convenes a movie night; about 8 people in attendance including me. The movie: "Longtime Companion". Eep!

1996, 20 years old. Over winter break I go visit my sister who's working in England. We go from London up to Edinburgh for New Year's. We duck into a sweaters-and-woollens store and are looking around. A dark-haired guy strikes up a conversation with me, says he's studying massage, offers to show me. Sister whisks me out of the store before (several years before) I realise the guy was chatting me up.

1998, 22 years old: I'm growing increasingly bitter, sour, peevish, depressed, and socially desperate. I go home for October break, and start a big (no, really big) argument over who's going to cook the potatoes for dinner. Lots of ugly shouting and banging around. After a very unpleasant dinner I spend until late at night on the computer, in unix text-based chat with a then-friend in California—an unmedicated bipolar husband, father, and Pentecostal lay minister—trying to figure out why I exploded so spectacularly over such a trivial matter as potatoes. Sometime around 2 in the morning, he says, with tongue in cheek, "Wait, wait, I've got it: you're gay and cracking under the closet-stress! LOL." A few minutes of halfhearted textual tapdancing later, I type "Enough of this. Yes. I'm gay."

The next morning my sister's going out to walk the dog. I go with her on condition I explain the previous night's shenanigans. It takes me a trip and a half round the block, telling her I'm getting there and I'm working on it and I'll tell her as soon as I can. Finally I tell her. She swings into action pointing me at PFLAG, etc. I call my aunt (mother's sane sister), tell her she may be getting a freaked-out call from her sister, and tell her why. She's terrific about it, very affirming, wishes me good luck with mother.

At dinner that night I feel like a condemned man eating his last meal. Double helpings of everything, forestalling the inevitable. Finally there's no more ice cream. I set down my spoon and issue an unrehearsed, stilted, stiffly formal announcement that includes the phrase "my very unpleasant task to inform you…that I am gay".

Dad says "Hm."

Mother says "Y'know, I think I knew."

Dad says "No problem."

Mother says "Are you sure?"

Dad says "You lived with this by yourself for how many years?"

Mother says "Stay out of bars, don't get HIV."

Then one or the other of them tells me to resume breathing. Over the next while (days, weeks, months), mother asks a lot of questions, many of them thoughtless, some of them offensively so. Dad offers to tell her to knock it off; I thank him but I've told her I'll answer her every question in detail, so make sure she really wants to know the answer beforehand. This strategy sorta works.

Back to school—University of Michigan, by this time. My two (straight) friends Chris and Dave buy red shirts especially for Coming Out Day.

1999: In January I'm pointed at the bears (scroll back up to 1987—occasionally one gets one's wish). I've told the majority of everyone I interact with regularly. In April, in Seattle one morning at grandma and grandpa's house, I thoughtlessly wear a bear-themed shirt. Grandpa asks what it means. I explain. He asks for clarification on the term "gay". I explain. He says "Oh! Well, I hope you find a nice redhead at your bear party."

2000: May: rejected on coming out to an ex-Navy (now former) friend who's never had a girlfriend longer than a month or two, works hard to work strained boob jokes into conversation, and drinks himself unconscious each and every night. Gee…!

2000: I'm given Bill's phone number.

2013: Bill and I mark thirteen years.

It gets better, as it seems. Happy Coming-Out Day.

Click for larger:

Just recently I downloaded and watched a couple movies I haven't seen in a long time.

( The Jazz SingerCollapse )( Cold TurkeyCollapse )

I have been keeping my thoughts in re the US Supreme Court mostly to myself because immediately following a big win I might tend to sound like rain on a well-justified parade. But today's America Day (land of the freeHEEEEE, home of the brayeeyayeeyayeeyave, etc.), so:

There's a whole hell of a lot of poorly-informed babble about the Proposition 8 decision. It's really very simple: in US Constitutional law if a case can be soundly decided on grounds other than its Constitutional merits, it shall be. That's why the no-standing decision is correct. Beyond that, I think a judicial uptake and decision on Proposition 8's merits might very well've set a very dangerous precedent, particularly in context of "Citizens United", opening the floodgates to very efficient sale of the judiciary to the highest bidders.

As for the other one: contrary to far too many headlines, DOMA—the US "Defense Of Marriage Act"—has not been struck down. One section of it has been struck down, the one that preventsprevented the US Federal Government recognising same-sex marriages. Okeh, it's better now that's gone, and we're already seeing large and important changes—green card applications being approved, etc—so by all means let's celebrate. But the other section of DOMA still remains law: any and every state may freely regard legally-married couples as strangers. When I'm visiting the States, my marriage and all its legal protections evaporate like steam just by crossing from Washington into Oregon (for one of numerous border examples). I can get on a plane as a husband in Vancouver and land in Detroit as a bachelor. In most states—and therefore overall—I am still a 2nd-class citizen of my native country, pending the loftily-discussed national dialogue blah blah within, among, and throughout the states blah blah blah reasonable people can blahbitty blah agree to disagree blah blah. This is not good enough, and I will not put up with being called impatient or ungrateful. My legal equality wasn't "theirs" to withhold in the first place. There is nothing to be grateful for when something that was mine to begin with is belatedly, grudgingly, fractionally, incrementally acknowledged to be almost sorta mostly kinda mine, where permitted, subject to terms and conditions and change without notice.

There will of course be no reparations. We don't do that here. Fine, the activist judges say we can't exclude you, so we'll just all agree to pretend it didn't happen, all the lifewrecking and moneycosting that went before we were forced to fess up we were doing it wrong. And since I'm on the topic: that shitstain Bill Clinton applauded and held forth with selfgratulatory pontification at DOMA §3's strikedown. He needs to sit all the way down and shut the fuck up. His applause doesn't count, with or without the sincere apology he's never offered.

All that said, I could now sponsor Bill for a green card, which is new and nifty, but we would then be obliged to live in the US. Which is the point of a green card, and is just the same as for hetero spousal sponsorships—equality under the law—but there are the other recent Supreme Court decisions to consider: Justice Ruth Bader-Ginsberg summed the Voting Act travesty up perfectly: "Throwing out the Voting Rights Act because it's working is like throwing out your umbrella in a rainstorm because you're not getting wet." Yes, exactly. Texas is already rapidly moving to enact laws to combat "voter fraud" that's not actually happening except to those who consider it fraudulent for the wrong kind of people to vote. Money is speech and corporations are people, and they've exercised their "speech" to buy up the entirety of the government for the foreseeable future. The utterly dysfunctional Senate has allowed student loan rates to balloon, yet graduates can't get work because there are nice tax breaks to be had for exporting jobs. Meanwhile Wall Street, oil companies, tobacco companies, and banks continue to pull in record-smashing profits hand over fist without terms, conditions, limits or taxes, and without penalty for their crimes (obviously the infallibly divine invisible hand of the glorious free market unfettered by obtrusive government regulations has decided fracking is necessary and food is not). And oh, by the way, the government is spying on all of us all the time and telling infant-quality lies about it, which most of us seem content to shrug and believe because Shhh! "Everybody Loves Raymond" is on!, and then there's the relentless attempt to strip women of constitutional rights, et cetera.

So yeah, we could go live in the United States just in time to watch it proudly finish reversing most of what, in grade school, they taught us made us better than the Soviets. Whee!

Happy Independence Day.

This 2012 retrospective was "due" the end of December. Or the beginning of January, or not later than the 2nd week of February, or…well, here we are at the end of May-how-time-flies. But that's okeh, really, because the salient features I meant to write about in re 2012 continued strongly enough to make this ~16 month period pretty contiguous: 2012-into-13 has been a time of learning how to lose friends.

Let me back up (Beep BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEEP! BEEEEP!): I came to learn how to make and keep friends rather late; I didn't really pick up the skills automagically as kids are supposed to do (that's a stupid assumption). So okeh, later than sooner I got the hang of it and started applying the skills, and—lo, a flippin' miracle—I accumulated a group of friends. Fine, but my tardy arrival at that point sort of warped my perspective on friendship: I spent the first ~half of my life with few or no friends, so I tended to regard a friendship of any quality as precious and irreplaceable, not to be abandoned or discarded except in extreme circumstances.

This was transparent and inconsequential to friendships truly worthy of high value, but it made it seem wise and necessary to throw time, effort, energy, and emotion into low-quality friendships. So I carried on tripping over the same rocks and skinning my knees and bloodying my face in the same places and getting the wind knocked out of me again and again by the same disappointments not only when nominal friends put lower value than I on our friendship, but also when I assumed the fault was mine.

Some friendships ended abruptly; some gradually. Some ended unexpectedly; some of them I knew all along would end, at least part of me knew, even if I wouldn't admit it to myself. Some of them ended because I fucked up; some of them ended even though I didn't.

One guy I spent years cheering on through life's tribulations, and we were friends(?) for…geeze, I don't even know, twelve or thirteen years. Really a brother-from-another-mother, open-permit-to-talk-about-absolutely-anything, any time, I-gotchyer-back type of situation. His ugly marital strife, his brush with habitual excessive drinking, his long-overdue split with his wife. There were telephone conversations late (late!) into the night with me talking him down off of very-nearly-literal ledges and bridges, there were frank pep talks when his self-confidence faltered and he didn't think he'd make it through school. Then there was his successful completion of school (I knew it!), and then…sudden and complete silence. In eventual response to my "Please let me know you haven't offed yourself" email, he said: "I really have no time or inclination to expend the mortgaged energy it would take to keep in touch."

There was the fellow I got quite close with and supportive of over the years even though I pretty much knew from early on he would probably run because that's what he does. Sure enough, eventually he sent a farewell email in the stilted, detached style of a bank's loan rejection form letter: "We do not find ourself in a position to" et cetera.

There was the guy who only wants "friends" lousy and shallow enough to gobble up and validate his suicidal magical-thinking bullshit: "It's not 'unsafe' sex because I'm a healer so I can tell when a guy's poz/can tell when a guy's lying".

There were the couple with the divergent interpretations of their relationship rules and regulations. One said "it's don't-ask/don't-tell" and the other said "it's don't!". The former told me steamy tales of his dalliance; I told him to think with his big head rather than his little one. Then the latter snooped on the former's computer and was furious that I hadn't tattled to him on his husband. Kaboom, big messy hurtful end of friendship all around. Next time I see those stormclouds brewing, I'll know to back the hell out of there in a big hurry.

I'm sure I could come up with more examples, but these suffice. By and by, the repetition sank in so I could discern these disappointments and upsets as patterns rather than individual incidents—often pointing back to some of my oldest insecurities—and from there I could work on figuring out what I could do differently and more effectively; namely, a more thoughtful, appropriate, and adaptive job of prioritising my emotional output. It means more and better resources to devote to the solid, consequential relationships that really matter, and that's definitely all to the good.

I don't think there's anything such as perfection or mastery of this multi-axial balancing act. I'm sure I'm not done fucking up. And there are good people I genuinely wish I'd keep in better contact with, people I'd really like to get to know better, people I'd really like to meet. I'd probably have the time for more of that if I would get off my duff and make at least a minimal go of managing my time instead of vice versa. But the main thing is I've managed to plane down my warp. I am doing a lot better than I was, so…onward and upward!

Welp, here it is, 8 April 2013. Dad would've been 71 today. I had grand plans of spending today doing something meaningful and honorific here in the house he grew up in, but most of today's plans haven't fruited; instead I'm worrying about bills and taxes and expenses and costs.

The tree guy came and pollarded the old-old apricot tree and a big branch of the old-old apple tree in the West yard. The idea is that the apricot will send up a bunch of new shoots from just behind the branch cuts. And the lower plants under it will get more sun, so that's good. But no more mossy licheny branches of the old-old apricot tree; they're now a pile of wood chips to be used all around the grounds. So, local recycling, yay, but the untree is kind of jarring to see.

Here's a drawing I did of him in 1982 or '83; click for larger in a new window:



He sat across from the dining room table and I worked on the back of a sheet of University of Denver letterhead; mother was having her second fling at law school. My crayons were a splendid new set of 64 Prangs in a snazzy bright red plastic carrying case that folded out flat like a butterfly. Mother wouldn't buy them for me—STOP TALKING ABOUT PRANG CRAYONS!!! YOU CAN'T HAVE THEM!!—so I saved up the $6.27 by myself and got them. I think this was the first drawing I did with them, and I still have them (JKS:FU). See ~contemporaneous photos of him here and here; all things considered, I think I did pretty well.

I guess I'll roll up to the hardware store now and get a new piece of glass to replace the broken one in the frame holding this drawing. That'll suit.

The worst part isn't the waiting, but the prognosticating and prophesying and pontification. Fact is, while some Supreme Court justices are predictable (Scalia, e.g.), as a group they cannot be read any more accurately than tea leaves. We will just have to wait and see, and that is all. Que sera, sera; whatever will be, will be.

Oh, and about those paid linestanders who snapped up all fifty of the tickets to see/hear the proceedings in person: I'm agnostic on the question of whether these tickets should cost (with monies going to public defence or some other apposite and worthwhile public use) or be free. I also don't care if it's a FCFS or a lottery system to distribute them. This hired linestanding, though, is really inappropriate. The tickets ought to be valid only for whoever applies in person to receive them (or gets picked in the lottery). ID checked and recorded to receive the ticket, ID checked and compared to the records to enter.

Updated 2017

Most gun control discussions get as far as acknowledging that gun worship is deeply entrenched in US culture, then fizzle out with a shoulder-shrug of defeat and inevitability. This essay's author does one of the better jobs I've seen of framing the issue as a matter of public health. His main point is that cultural entrenchment is not immutable or permanent.

Nevertheless, I think his main analogy to cigarette smoking is faulty. He's right that a cultural shift, unimaginable not long ago, has radically changed the public perception, sentiment, and disposition toward smoking and its practitioners. And yes, the argument that antismoking measures constitute infringement of freedom, once a discussion-ender, is weaker than ever and continues to lose traction. And—again yes—the tobacco and gun industries and lobbies share basic similarities. But smoking involves a physical chemical addiction that is utterly impervious to any amount of evidence or intellectual babble or legislation. Guns don't.

I think his secondary analogy, to seatbelt usage, can carry a great deal more weight than he's placed on it. As recently as 1984, only 14%(!) of USAmericans used seatbelts. That is: less than 3 decades ago, most Americans refused to consider using seat belts despite educational efforts going back to the early 1960s. People seriously argued against seat belts because it was better to be "thrown clear" of the car in a crash—with exactly as much basis in fact, i.e., none, as present arguments that if only more people were armed, then mass shootings would be much less frequent or deadly. Attempts to pass laws mandating belt use were sporadic and halfhearted; there was a prevailing sense that such an effort was doomed because infringement of personal liberty and freedom of choice was unConstitutional.

To be sure, progress was hindered and delayed by clumsy early efforts. US automakers (egged on by President Nixon's view) acted in the late '60s and early '70s as though the notion of regulating auto safety design, equipment, and construction were a passing fad that would quickly blow over. They cynically complied with the requirements in cheap, nasty ways arguably calculated to spur public backlash and hasten the end of the fad. One such instance was the uncomfortable, difficult-to-use American seatbelts of that era. And then came the notion of mandating airbags, which automakers very much wanted to avoid (design restrictions, cost); that spectre spurred them to throw in first behind an ill-fated and short-lived 1974 mandate for ignition interlocks preventing the car starting unless everyone in front were buckled in, and then eventually behind seat belt usage laws. What it took was the legislative and political will and fortitude to see traffic deaths as a public-health issue, rather than an inevitable cost of personal liberty, and serve notice to the relevant industry that they would be responsible for the bulk of the cleanup, one way or another.

So progress was slower and later than it would have been without obstructionist automakers and uniquely American notions of personal liberty. Nonetheless, starting from that 1984 figure of 14% belt usage in the USA, five years later it was 46%. Five more years and it was up to 67%. Two decades on, it was 80%. In 2011, the figure was above 86%. There's an enormous, fast cultural change for you, recently dismissed as unachievable with a shoulder-shrug of defeat and inevitability. The culture is not immutable!

But wait, there’s more. Let’s take a quick ‘n’ close look at an analogy between gun control and cars & driving: The car and driver must be insured. The car must be registered, which can’t be done if its paperwork is out of order or the driver has outstanding offenses. There’s annual tax and fees associated with registration. The driver must be trained and licensed, and that license and insurance can be revoked for misuse. In 49 US states and most of the civilized world, all users of the vehicle must use their seatbelts. The car must be operated safely at all times, in compliance with numerous rules of the road, which the driver is held responsible for knowing and obeying. The driver must not drive while distracted, intoxicated, or otherwise impaired. Most states communicate about driving records, so there’s no moving across a state line to “erase” misdeeds. The car must be kept in safe condition. The car must conform to stringent safety, emissions, and theft-resistance standards; it is a federal crime to sell, import, or introduce into interstate commerce a roadgoing vehicle that doesn’t comply—even if its importer, seller, buyer, owner, and all drivers swear on a stack of bibles they’re only ever going to drive it on private property. It is likewise a federal crime to remove, disable, or render inoperative any mandatory item or design feature of vehicle safety, theft-resistance, or emissions compliance. Manufacturers and importers are held responsible for their certifications of vehicle safety, theft-resistance, and emissions compliance; false certification, improper certification, and inadequate durability of compliance are punished harshly with mandatory recalls and civil penalties (viz VW at the moment; GM and Toyota and Ford and Takata in very recent memory). Every vehicle bears its unique identification number (VIN), indelibly applied to numerous specified locations—some are public knowledge and others aren’t—and VIN tampering is an extremely serious crime. And the regulations aren’t static, either; they are upgraded in accord with advancing knowledge and technology.

Yet despite allllllllllll that regulation, only a few screwloose lunatics bleat and whine about their freedom being infringed by over-regulation of cars and driving, and only the lunatic fringe of that lunatic fringe call such regulation unconstitutional by dint of infringing the right of the people to travel unhindered upon the public rights of way. H’m.

Fontella Bass is dead at 72. Being black and female, as usual she got super double extra badly screwed by those running the record labels. Unlike many of her contemporaries, she successfully fought back—in 1990 Ogilvy & Mather blithely used "Rescue Me" in an American Express TV commercial without Bass' required permission. In 1993 Bass sued and won, and was then able to address the many needs of her dilapidated house. Some history in this badly-copyedited excerpt from somebody's MSU thesis.

In tangentially-related recent news, Jack Klugman is dead at 90; the actor well loved for his roles in "12 Angry Men", "The Odd Couple", and "Quincy, M.E." lost one of his vocal cords to throat cancer caused by cigarettes, but retaught himself how to speak (in a quiet, raspy voice) and carried on.

So marriage equality has come to WA, ME, and MD, and IL and MN are looking quite possible very soon. The usual suspects are bleating about the threat to their "religious liberty".

Fact is, their pearl-clutching isn't really about the "persecution" of some dweeb running a dippy trolley tour outfit in Maryland or the "forced" closing of Catholic adoption offices. Those are just the ginned-up exemplar martyrs. The threats they really quake about are two:

1. The loss of their religion's position of civil privilege (e.g., tax exemption, pastoral confidence in court proceedings, large extra helpings of presumption of innocence and benevolence, exemptive power of "sincerely-held belief"), and

2. Dissolution of their religion's image of authority, legitimacy, relevance, and rectitude borne of overlap between religious and civil law.

When civil law departs from religious law and the world doesn't end—and in fact things improve by objective measure for most people—it causes people to reconsider spending time, money, and energy on religion. That translates directly to less money and a dimmer future for those in the religious hierarchy.

Last month I posted a series of anecdotes depicting my mother. There's a link to another such post in the comments; I've posted a fair number over the years. One of the more pernicious things about living with that kind of crazy, of being constantly told by the primary in-charge authority figure that my perceptions and recollections were wrong—sometimes with bars on windows—is that it makes it very difficult (at best) to get a firm handle on reality. Every observation, every memory gets mucked up with lingering, nebulous doubt. Much worse was my utter powerlessness to do anything about it. Even at the worst of it, when I was almost sure this wasn't right, that things weren't really supposed to be this way, that near-certainty was to no effect. I was the minor child and she was the adult parent. She held absolutely every card; I had nothing. And so there were only three practicable options: bear it, kill her, or kill myself. I did the first, though I fantasized about the second and I thought about the third many times but never attempted it. Ironically, I was probably innoculated against it by the induced miasma of self-doubt: Surely I'm overreacting; she's well within normal parental parameters; she's right, it must be my fault.

Another thing I've mentioned about those years is how she shopped me round to expert after expert, an alphabet soup of -ologists, -iatrists, CSWs, PhDs, EdDs, MDs, Etc, making a big show of trying to help me with my problems, unquote. The pattern was clockwork: as soon as the expert would cast an eye momward, suddenly s/he went from being a shining-star red-letter expert to being a hack or a quack and »yank!» off to the next expert. It mirrored her own dalliance with therapists; each fired in his or her turn once past the getting-to-know-you stage and beginning to get down to work.

But one of my alphabet-soupers was more durable than all the rest. Doctor C. He was a highly regarded, very accomplished and friendly child psychiatrist-psychologist. I saw him for probably five years or so. The way mother tells it, he said "Five years and I can't make any progress at all with him"; I doubt he said anything of the like. Anyhow, about 12 years ago, not long after dad died and when I began giving up and pulling sharply away from mother, family members—aunts, uncles, cousins—started coming to me and all saying very similar things: they saw what was going on in our house, they couldn't do anything about it, and they were relieved I'd survived it. That went some way towards dispelling that lingering cloud of self-doubt about reality and perceptions and recollections and suchlike. I took a notion to send Doctor C an email and try getting a reality check and some insight into my parents and the situation in general; he and my father had become fishing buddies after I was no longer going for therapy.

I very quickly got back a preliminary email:

Dear Daniel, Thank you for your email. I have read your queries regarding what I knew of your childhood and issues regarding your relationship with your mother and father. I will answer these questions at some length in a subsequent and prompt communication. For now I there is one thing of which you can be sure: You did not cause the problems which existed in your family. I say again, DID NOT.

Four days later came a much more detailed one, the pertinent points of which I present here:

I'm not sure I can answer completely and as accurately as you or I would like because the emotional component of this business of living is complex and emotional states and issues mean one thing to one person and another thing to another. Your dad and I were more than just fishing buddies. He was one of the most erudite, idealistic and respectful human being I have ever known. My affection for him was both genuine and profound. I also can acknowledge that as you accurately described, he kept a lid on his emotions. I am not sure why this constriction of the expression of his emotions. Please note I said the constriction of expression. Not the constriction of emotions. Because on occasion Ed made me aware that he felt, and that he felt deeply. His love and good wishes for you, for example were poignant and deeply felt by him. Why this inhibition in expression was so pronounced, I can't say for certain. I know that it was there at least in part to keep from expressing angry, resentful, and perhaps destructive feelings toward your mother and toward his own mother. I think this inhibition started fairly early in his life and by the time you and I came to know him, it had become a way of life. Certainly, keeping his cool when Jen was blowing her top served to preserve the marriage and some equanimity in your family.

As far as your mother is concerned, I cannot be sure of the causes of her anger and disdain, but Jen, at least with part of her persona hated every man in family of origin and her acquired family. Another part of her loved and admired them too. She told me once that she expected you to make contributions that were comparable to those that Einstein made. I think she was hurt profoundly by her own father for some reason. In addition I believe that she felt that being a female meant being cheated out of recognition for her accomplishments, and denied her ambitions. In marrying Ed her ambivalence toward men came to the fore. The target that attracted the negative components of this ambivalence (and perhaps spared Ed and you from some of her wrath) was your Grandfather Stern.

I'm not at all surprise that you would be hurt and confused as a child. How can a child understand ambivalence, even if they experience it themselves? Couple this with Jen's demands that you perform constantly toward her goal of making you another Einstein according to her values and not yours must have made you not only confused but also angry. But please understand, Jen did not act in this way because she was or is vicious or evil. She is only helpless in the face of her hurt, anger and disappointment.

Interesting.

Stories not told before, at least not in this forum. You'll notice a certain theme, which is another way of saying this gets kind of heavy and repetitive. (Want more? Really? Okeh, here y'go, bars on the windows and everything: see here.)

One day in September 1981, I started kindergarten at Village Heights Elementary School on Colorado Boulevard in Englewood, Colorado. I was in Ms. Betty Lessig's class in Room 21, which had aqua low-loop carpeting and a yellow exterior door and shared a common wall with Room 22, that was Ms. Shirley Meyer's music classroom with pea green low-loop carpeting. The principal was Bob Morton, his secretary was Doris Johnson; the gym teacher was Rich Messerich, the lunch lady was Dorothy Wall, teachers' aides included Ms. Honn (or Hahn), Carla Hopp, and Arla Ayers; my school bus route was #2, and the bus—a 1975 IH Loadstar 1800 manual chassis with 66-passenger body by Blue Bird—was driven by Ed Simmock.

Why do I mention all these details and names? Well, because the librarian was Mrs. Burz. That was how her name sounded to me when she introduced herself to us on that first day of kindergarten during our walking tour of the school: "Mrs. Burz", or possibly "Burse". She didn't write it, so I didn't know how to spell it. But that didn't matter when I came home and told my mother about my day; I didn't have to spell it, all I had to do was pronounce it the way it had been spoken: "Missus Burz".

Except that was a terribly wrong answer. My mother's face did its dangerous thing and she towered over me and hollered "THAT'S WRONG! STOP SAYING 'BURZ'! HER NAME IS NOT MISSUZ BURZ! IT'S MISSUZ BURRIS! THERE IS NO 'BURZ', THAT'S NOT EVEN A REAL NAME, STUPID! [Your 3rd-grader sister] DEBBY ALREADY TOLD ME ABOUT HER, AND HER NAME IS MISSUZ BURRIS!"

I was terrorised, humiliated, and reduced to tears very similar to the ones early the next school year: one day I opened my lunch bag to find that my Fruit Roll-Up's laminated foil wrapper had been torn open and only half a Fruit Roll-Up lay within. The 1982 Tylenol scare was very fresh news, and I had been very carefully taught to pay close and skeptical attention to food wrappers, to watch out for tampering. Though that said, "carefully" isn't really quite le mot juste; mother explained that a bad person had put poison in Tylenol pills, then returned them to the store and other people had bought them, taken them, and died. That's why it was so important from now on to be careful and observant and skeptical. It all made sense to me except one part: We'd had a bottle of Tylenol in use since before, didn't that mean our bottle was OK? Her face did the dangerous thing. "WHY DON'T WE LET YOU BE THE ONE TO TRY THEM AND FIND OUT, STUPID?!" she screamed. "GOT A FEVER? WE'LL GIVE YOU SOME TYLENOL WITH CYANIDE!"

Oh.

Anyhow, back to the lunchroom in 1982: Half a Fruit Roll-Up instead of a whole one. Wrapper torn. Obviously this factory-sealed package had been altered, as had its content. It looked suspicious to me, and I couldn't explain it. So although I liked Fruit Roll-Ups (and this one had been strawberry, my favourite), I discarded it. Y'know that song about the bumble bee? "I'm <verbing> up my baby bumble bee—won't my mommy be so proud of me", et cetera? Well, that was me: I had remembered the warning, applied it in an applicable situation, and taken appropriate action. I rode the bus home—that year it was a 1976 Ford F700 automatic chassis with 66-passenger Blue Bird body, number 1117, driven by Bob Short—and told my mother what I'd done.

Oops. Wrong! Dangerous face thing. "WHAT?! WHY DID YOU THROW IT AWAY?!! IT WAS PERFECTLY FINE!!"

"Be…cause I thought it might…be contaminated?"

"YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT WORD MEANS, DO YOU?! DO YOU?!!! YOU TELL ME WHAT 'CONTAMINATED' MEANS!! YOU TELL ME RIGHT NOW!!"

I was reeling under the sudden attack, but obviously I'd done something stupid and wrong or I wouldn't be in such deep trouble. Even though I was only six, experience had already taught me the best thing was to go along and avoid digging myself any deeper: "I…I don't know."

YOU DON'T KNOW. THERE WAS ONLY ONE FRUIT ROLL LEFT! I CUT IT IN HALF AND GAVE HALF TO YOU AND HALF TO DEBBY, YOU DOLT!!", she screamed.

The only reply I could muster was "Wh…what's a 'dolt'?".

That was not the only time my ignorance of a word or name would blunt some of the impact of her attack. For some strange reason, I found comfort in food, and I ate too much. Too much "snack" (junk) food, and too much of the garbage they served at the school cafeteria. That and my ineptitude in sports meant by third grade I had developed a conspicuous paunch. Mother towered over me, hollering "LOOK AT YOU, FATTY! YOU LOOK LIKE ARCHIE BUNKER!"

Wh…who's Archie Bunker?

As I grew older, though, that shield stopped working; she knew I knew exactly what she meant when she called me a thorn in her side, a pebble in her shoe, a constant annoyance. And the hollering wasn't always the extent of it, either. I was about 11 or so, at home alone for the evening, when I finished my homework and decided to install a replacement upper heat element in the kitchen oven. She'd bought the element at the GE appliance parts center a few days before—at that time it would cost about sixteen dollars—but hadn't had time to do anything about it. I remember deliberately choosing between parking in front of the TV set for the night or doing the oven repair, and deciding that the oven repair would constitute participation in keeping the house in shape without being asked. I did the job correctly and neatly. Even put away all the tools. Mother came home and I showed her what I'd done (you'd think I'd have learnt by then, but no).

Wrong. Dangerous face. "YOU IDIOT! I HADN'T DECIDED WHETHER TO FIX THE OVEN OR GET A NEW ONE!!" She chased me up the stairs with a belt. I was duly terrorised; I ran in my room, slammed the door, called the police and told them she was going to hit me with a belt. They came, two of them in a Dodge Diplomat cruiser, talked to mother and then came upstairs and ordered me not to touch appliances in the house without permission. One of them commented on his way out about the pictures of engines I had cut out from manufacturer brochures and pasted on the South wall of my room.

Yes, you'd think I'd learn, but no, I surely didn't. When I was fourteen or so, having finished my homework, I pulled the fridge out of its cove and used the vacuum to clean the condenser coils. It only took a few minutes, after which I had to go to the bathroom. Just as I was washing my hands, I heard the car door slam in the driveway and footsteps on the walk. And I hadn't yet put the vacuum away or pushed the fridge back in place. Oh shit. Time became a thick molasses, like when you see the dropped plate doing lazy end-over-end flips as it drifts slowly to the floor. There was absolutely no way I could get to the kitchen before…

…and there was the key in the front door. And the latch. And the hinges. And the step-step-step into the kitchen, and I knew I was a dead man. I no longer recall the content of that night's screaming, but it went on for two hours and I wound up with my bedroom privileges revoked; I was sent to the basement to sleep.

When I was 16 or 17, I took an interest in the activities of the Regional Air Quality Council's activities related to pollution created by motor vehicles. I was on the phone to the administrator discussing an upcoming meeting in which I wanted to participate. I'd learned by experience to take the precaution of making such calls from the basement phone, out of mother's earshot, but she picked up one of the upstairs extensions, heard a short bit of my conversation, hung up her extension, and flew down two flights of stairs. She grabbed the phone out of my hand and at the top of her lungs, dripping with scorn and sarcasm clearly audible to the administrator on the other end of the line, she let fly about how I had no business with any regional council and they didn't need Daniel Stern to tell them how to run the government. Thus immediately were my credibility and opportunity to participate flushed right down the crapper. Double jeopardy on that one, too; I would later catch flak from her for not having impressive activities and involvements to put on my college applications. Gee…!

Not long ago I happened to run into the other librarian from my elementary school. In our conversation I mentioned Ms. Burris. "She pronounced it 'Burriz'", she said.

There are more—lots more. There were whackings with wooden hangers for not keeping my room tidy, threats of military school for questioning arbitrary orders. And I haven't even got into the repeated forced disposal of beloved pets.

(Yes, I did have to speak to her on the phone today and I did fail to resist her bait about "our relationship". No, I don't know and I'll never know why my father didn't intervene. Followup to this post is here.)

The Dart, I mean. The new owners flew in and came yesterday morning to pay the balance and drive it away, home to Wyoming. Here's a photo mini-essay. Click any pic for larger:

1980, 4 years old: John Lennon shot. Mother says he was a fag, then defines the term, crudely, in response to my query.

~1983, 7 years old: first memorable incidents of mother's nonspecifically directed venomous anti-gay screeds and fag jokes.

~1987, 11 years old: first inkling my perception of girls was nonstandard. At a synagogue function of some kind that involves a barbecue lunch, I see one of the congregants tending the oildrum-type barbecue out back. He looks very much like Tom Selleck; I hope I get to be as hairy as he.

~1989, 13 years old: first furtively obtained and stashed skin magazines and facsimiles thereof. First fruitless attempts to be turned on by the women instead of the men.

-1990, 14 years old: Phone call to a Denver gay community center's counselling line, placed when everyone else was out of the house: "I think I might be gay". Counsellor suggests I come to kids/teens discussion/support group. Eep! I hang up.

~1991, 15 years old: mother asks if I'm interested in any girls at school (No, not really). "But you're not interested in any boys, right?" (No!)

1992, 16 years old: mother finds "Men's Health" magazine under front passenger seat of my Valiant. I deny any idea how it got there.

1993, 17 years old: Overheard sneering rumours that two guys at school are gay: a bleachy-blond looking guy, but also a besideburned ginger with a workout body, a halogen smile, and a purple '65 Valiant with a 170 slant-6 engine, but I don't remember any details. We exchange a couple of words every odd and then, and I viciously stomp down even the shadow of a crush or any clever ideas about striking up an actual conversation; far too dangerous. Bleachy-blond guy walks past the school bus I'm on one afternoon—I'm not looking or watching, which makes it all the more terrifying when another bus rider says "Hey, Daniel, don't get a boner." I retriple my vigilance regarding everything I say (and how, and when, and where, and with whom) and everwhere I look, and strive to shorten my lag before laughing at jokes that aren't funny.

1994, 18 years old: I go off to University of Oregon. Math class taught by grad student: big arms, big chest, big calves, big permanent 5 o'clock shadow, big tufts of dark hair at collar and cuffs, big Liverpudlian accent. I have to use the washroom—again. Paying attention in class is hopeless, which means I have to go to office hours, which makes things worse, not better.

1995, 19 years old: I ask the library assistant for help with the persnickety scanners hooked to the persnickety Macintoshes. Somehow or other the subject of her website comes up—it's all about Pink Floyd. I've heard of them, but my awareness stops after knowing there's a band by that name. By and by (and by), we wind up spending a lot of time together. We have a lot of laughs, cook a lot of spaghetti, listen to a lot of Pink Floyd, have a lot of fun. But holding her hand as we walk feels scripted, obligatory, unright, fraudulent. We almost have sex one night after dinner. She's into it but to me it feels even more scripted than handholding—I'd read a lot of books and had a lot of theoretical knowledge. Lack of a condom and Spaghetti's Revenge derail things: whew. Someone I do news with on the campus radio station comes out to me as bisexual: Eep! Someone else I hang out with (she drives a slant-6 Duster) convenes a movie night; about 8 people in attendance including me. The movie: "Longtime Companion". Eep!

1996, 20 years old. Over winter break I go visit my sister who's working in England. We go from London up to Edinburgh for New Year's. We duck into a sweaters-and-woollens store and are looking around. A dark-haired guy strikes up a conversation with me, says he's studying massage, offers to show me. Sister whisks me out of the store several years before I realise the guy was chatting me up.

1998, 22 years old: I'm growing increasingly bitter, sour, peevish, depressed, and socially desperate. I go home for October break, and start a big (no, really big ) argument over who's going to cook the potatoes for dinner. Lots of ugly shouting and banging around. After a very unpleasant dinner I spend until late at night on the computer, in unix text-based chat with a then-friend in California—an unmedicated bipolar husband, father, and Pentecostal lay minister—trying to figure out why I exploded so spectacularly over such a trivial matter as potatoes. Sometime around 2 in the morning, he says, with tongue in cheek, "Wait, wait, I've got it: you're gay and cracking under the closet-stress! LOL." A few minutes of halfhearted textual tapdancing later, I type "Enough of this. Yes. I'm gay."

The next morning my sister's going out to walk the dog. I go with her on condition I explain the previous night's shenanigans. It takes me a trip and a half round the block, telling her I'm getting there and I'm working on it and I'll tell her as soon as I can. Finally I tell her. She swings into action pointing me at PFLAG, etc. I call my aunt (mother's sane sister), tell her she may be getting a freaked-out call from her sister, and tell her why. She's terrific about it, very affirming, wishes me good luck with mother.

At dinner that night I feel like a condemned man eating his last meal. Double helpings of everything, forestalling the inevitable. Finally there's no more ice cream. I set down my spoon and issue an unrehearsed, stilted, stiffly formal announcement that includes the phrase "my very unpleasant task to inform you…that I am gay".

Dad says "Hm."

Mother says "Y'know, I think I knew."

Dad says "No problem."

Mother says "Are you sure?"

Dad says "You lived with this by yourself for how many years?"

Mother says "Stay out of bars, don't get HIV."

Then one or the other of them tells me to resume breathing. Over the next while (days, weeks, months), mother asks a lot of questions, many of them thoughtless, some of them offensively so. Dad offers to tell her to knock it off; I thank him but I've told her I'll answer her every question in detail, so make sure she really wants to know the answer beforehand. This strategy sorta works.

Back to school—University of Michigan, by this time. My two (straight) friends +Chris Schooley and +Dave Jordan buy red shirts especially for Coming Out Day.

1999: In January I'm pointed at the bears (scroll back up to 1987—occasionally one gets one's wish). I've told the majority of everyone I interact with regularly. In April, in Seattle one morning at grandma and grandpa's house, I thoughtlessly wear a bear-themed shirt. Grandpa asks what it means. I explain. He asks for clarification on the term "gay". I explain. He says "Oh! Well, I hope you find a nice redhead at your bear party."

2000: May: rejected on coming out to an ex-Navy (now former) friend who's never had a girlfriend longer than a month or two, works hard to work strained boob jokes into conversation, and drinks himself unconscious each and every night. Gee…!

2000: I'm given Bill's phone number.

2012: Bill and I mark twelve years.

It gets better, as it seems.

I regard holidays as extensible and movable. That's my Sincerely-Held Religious Belief™, which places it beyond question or critique—very convenient! So even though Blasphemy Rights Day was yesterday, I'm posting this today: