"Why are you wearing girl's shoes?"

Just yesterday, I was climbing the outdoor human Habitrail - the "MonstroCity" at the St. Louis City Museum.

For more info https://www.citymuseum.org/ , or Google "St. Louis City Museum" for more images.

A little (8 yr old!) girl: "Why are you wearing girl's shoes?"

Back story:
I have very few pairs of shoes.  To make a long story a little longer, I was born with an oddly clubbed foot (as opposed to 'normally clubbed'! )  My foot didn't point out laterally or inward - medially, as 'normal' clubbed feet do, but, instead, my foot pointed straight up in front of me, in the shape of a safety pin. I have a surgically reconstructed foot that - before it was all said and done - had an accidental maggot infestation.  My foot has been put through the ringer.  Shoes are made for people with predictable feet.  At least one of my feet will not be appearing in anybody's crystal ball any time soon.  My man-made ankle does not reside in the same space as a normal ankle. Mine is a little closer to the floor, and a bit more forward on the foot.  Thusly, nearly any and all shoes will rub the wrong way, and depending on the resilience of the shoe's material, I will have a bloody blister on my ankle (the side of my foot that is medial - closest to the center of the body) within seconds, minutes or hours.  When I wear dress shoes to funerals, etc, I have to wear 3 - 4 socks on one foot AND several Band-Aids on my ankle so I won't be limping in pain before I get out of the house, and to avoid bloody blisters that seep through my socks.

Anywho.... For that reason, it is difficult for me to find a pair of shoes that I find 'friend' instead of  'foe'.  I wear toed socks that I hand-knit year-round with sandals, with the exception of during the few deeper winter snows that the St. Louis region may or may not get.  Even so, I usually wait them out, refusing to leave the house even to go just a few feet to the mailbox until the snow has melted off all sidewalks, roads and parking lots.

If I absolutely must get out of the house before the snow has adequately melted, I have a pair of Zoe thick-soled Doc Marten shoes that I can wear if we have only a couple of inches of snow on the ground.  If the snow is deeper, I do have a pair of snow boots, but in the 12 years that I have owned those boots, I can count the times on one hand that I have worn them.

I also have a pair of shoes that I wear when I ride my bicycle, and when I explore the City Museum (wearing sandals to that attraction would mean definite foot suicide!)
These shoes were purchased from a mall store - the "Journey" shoe store.  They are MEN'S All-Star Converse tennis shoes.

Please note the available 'Men's' sizing:

Yes, they are Hot Raspberry pink glittered men's shoe.

(Those of you that know me on a personal level will readily admit that if I wanted to wear a pair of 8" stiletto platform Lady Gaga-inspired pumps to a local mall at 3:00 PM in the afternoon to do some shopping, I'd do just that very thing with no hesitation.)

Years before I knew the most famous drag queen on the entire damned planet - RuPaul - I used her mantra:

"What other people think of me is none of my damned business."

(Translated:  What they think is a problem in their head, and in their own self-imposed prison.  It has nothing to do with me or my head.)

I asked this little girl - sporting a very safe / tame Page Boy haircut, "Why do you think that my shoes are 'Girl's shoes'?

Her answer, "Because they're pink!"

(Mind you, her parents were standing immediately behind her during this entire exchange.)

I asked her, "Then what color are boy's shoes?"

Her answer "Blue!"

My response, "Then, pink is for girls, and blue is for boys?"

Her response (with such an authoritative, "I'm smarter than you" look on her face that definitely would make you want to pop her upside her head!) :  "Yep!  Those are girl's shoes!"

(About that time, her parents knew she was going to lose a battle against someone old enough to be her grandfather, and they said to her, "Oh, honey! I love those shoes!  Men are wearing pink these days!")

I looked at the little girl (who, thankfully, was wearing a blue top!), "Then, if that were true, do you know that you're wearing a boy's shirt?"

Girl: "NUH UH!" (Translated:  "No, I'm not!")

Me: "It's blue, isn't it?  You said yourself that pink is for girls and blue is for boys.  You're wearing a boy's shirt!"

At that point, I decided that she was already filled up to the top by her starchy parents, and that it would take more power than I had and more energy than I ever wanted to devote to her cause to make her more malleable, and to enjoy the world as-is, rather than try to run it from her own little corner of Ladue, MO. (We were in downtown St. Louis, but - you will have to trust me on this one - I KNOW THOSE PEOPLE LIVE IN LADUE!"

My final statement to her was:

"You're much to young to have already collected the number of double standards that already you possess!  But - in your short years, you have really worked hard. You've already changed yourself from a free, malleable and creative mind to a controlling, self-imposed prison!"

I then looked up at her parents and said,

"Congratulations!  When she grows up, she'll fit right in with the rest of the Republicans!"

Then - I went on about my way, exploring the fantastical St. Louis City Museum, freeing my mind and my body then more than I did before.

- Michael

Good for you, Honey!

Mark and I were shopping at a local Schnuck's grocery store (old Ladue, MO ladies get horny, too!)...

An obviously well endowed gentleman turned in to the isle that we were in, and this gent's blessings were apparent, most likely, even to Helen Keller.





There was an old woman in the same isle.  She looked down at his...er....stuff... and she gasped slightly.  At the same time, a young woman walked around the corner of the isle and joined him. 

The old lady (probably in her 80's) walked up to the young lady, she fervently patted the young miss on her shoulder, and the only thing she exclaimed was:

"Good for you, Honey!  Good for you!"... and the older lady went on about her business!

I almost wet myself right then and there in a grocery store!

 I had to sit down in the deli until I could get the tears out of my eyes from laughing at her honesty and frankness.

- Michael

That's What the Dr. Said!

Hold your breast - err.... I mean... Your Breath! The ensuing saga isn't short, but it's worth reading. At least I think it is.

When I was in my early 20's, I made a fool-hardy attempt at 'quitting caffeine.  You see, genetic heart disease runs in my family, and I thought I was doing my heart a favor by eliminating caffeine from my diet.

Two days after my last cup of coffee, I went to the Emergency Room with a particular migraine that was so bad that the nurse in the ER had to put me in a separate, very dark exam room. They put me in a Geri chair (old person's nursing home chair!), restraining me so my flailing wouldn't injure myself, put an ice pack on my forehead, and she told me that 'The Dr. will be in soon to see you." Keeping the light OFF, she closed the door as she left. When Dr. came in the room to see me, he forgot and switched on the overhead light in the room.



I am here to tell you; Linda Blair's projectile vomiting had nothing on me! From across that small room, my spew hit the ER Dr. right in the chest. He went running back out the door. He came back in a few minutes later - wearing a new, white lab coat - and carrying a small pen light.

He learned that there was a reason that I as sitting in the dark.

Migraine + light = projectile vomiting.

He finished his examination using that pen light. Occasionally, the sill man got too close to my face with that damned pen light, and my instant heaving told him that perhaps, he should move that tiny - but bright! - light farther away from my face before I made his new lab coat look like another Jackson Pollock painting!

All of those events happened because I thought I was doing myself a favor and and I should quit caffeine.

After TWO Imitrex (Migraine) shots, and another 2 hours of observation, as I walked out of the exam room, the Dr. pointed in the direction of the hospital cafeteria and said, "Go. Get. A. Cup. Of. Coffee. Now."

HOWEVER.... that does seem to be the pattern in my life.

My Dr. urges me to keep bicycling, because that is the only exercise my body will allow me to do (long story!)..... She knows I can't wear a bicycle helmet because it causes the psoriatic arthritis in my neck to act up, giving me severe headaches. She gave me the "OK" to bicycle without a helmet, saying, "You can't stop bicycling. Your legs will do down-hill quickly. Please keep bicycling - but PLEASE BE CAREFUL!"

and.... I have psoriasis. Seven yrs. ago, I had over 300 lesions the size of half dollars - on my legs alone. I had not seen the skin on my elbows in 20 years, and my stomach was one huge bloody, scaly mess.

(NO.... !!!  You don't have 'just the right cream for that!', either.  It's a genetic autoimmune condition - and lies in every cell in the human body for your entire life.  At best, any cream on the damned planet will turn this stuff from a red, dry, scaly, itchy mess to a hot pink, shiny mess - but creams can't eradicate it.  I can't possibly relay to you the number of times people have looked at my lesions - before tanning - and said, off the cuff and without additional thought, "Oh, you need to use lotion!" or "I have the perfect cream that you need!"  I just look at said individual, roll my eyes, and I say, "Oh, really?  If there was a cream that would totally eliminate psoriasis - which is a genetic condition, and it's DNA code lies in every fricken cell of the human body, then there would be a line around the block at every pharmacy on the damned planet!  Such a 'miracle cream' does not exist!"

Do you, dear reader, think they got my message?  I think not.  :) )




The medicine that the dermatologist wanted me to use is $600 / month, and it is extremely toxic to the liver. He told me to 'put rubber gloves on, and then put this stuff all over your body!" My answer to him: "WHY THE SAME HELL USE GLOVES? TOXICITY IS TOXICITY!"

He answered me, "Your only other choice is to go outside as much as possible. If you don't have that much time to spend in the sun, go to a tanning salon. If you don't have time to go to a tanning salon at least 3 times a week, buy your own tanning bed."

For two years, I spent $70 a month for a membership to a tanning salon. Faithfully, I drove 3 times a week to tan. Within two weeks, every lesion I had on my body was *gone*. My skin was 100% clear.

That was 7 years ago. Spending the money, taking my time to drive to the tanning salon, etc, quickly 'lost any original charm that it might have held', and I bought my own professional-line, full-size tanning bed.


I don't mean to be grody, but Psoriasis is a genetic condition that will attack any area of the skin 'where the sun doesn't shine.' When I'm in my tanning bed - every day - I have to remove the plugs from my ear piercings while I tan, AND, for the first 15 minutes of the half hour that I spend in that tanning bed every day, I have to *SIT* on it.... you know... to tan 'where the sun doesn't shine'!

Otherwise, I will get psoriasis lesions THERE - if you know what I mean.

(During the St. Louis franchise of the annual World Naked Bike Ride, I have never been more glad than I am at this moment to have a genetic skin disease! There are a *LOT* of pasty white people that are naked on bicycles, and because of psoriasis, I don't have one square inch of white skin on my body.

I had to make a choice: 1) Look like a leper or 2) Look like George Hamilton and Moses' love child.

I chose the 'George - Moses' thing. It looks better on me!

Now..... If I could only find a Dr. that tells me to drink and smoke!

:D

- Michael

Say CHEESE! Re: My smile and why you seldom see it.

Re: My smile and why you seldom see it.

Yes, it's a small book, so hold your breast - I mean your breath, brace yourself, and read on:

During my *entire* grade school AND high school experience, I absolutely and positively loathed 'picture day' to the point that - honestly - I damned near had panic attacks on every picture day of every school year that I ever attended school - from Kindergarten through 12th Grade.

In an on-again and off-again fashion, my mother would yell at me (as she was so good at) for 'not smiling' in my school pictures AND she would yell at me for smiling in my school picture poses! 

It was to the point that when my class' pictures would return from the school photographer, I would hide my large envelop for DAYS in my school desk or in my hall locker, and lie to my mother, telling her "My class' pictures haven't come in yet." (Even though both my brothers brought home their pictures on the same day!)

Ultimately, I knew that I was going to have to face her, and I bit the bullet and brought them home. 

My mother would yell at me 1) If I smiled in my pictures. and 2) If I didn't smile in my pictures. 

The sub-plot of this saga is this:

I will NEVA, EVA "Smile" when somebody has me pose for a pic and says, "Smile!" or "Say Cheese!" I won't do it - so don't ask me to. When I WAS forced to smile when posing for pictures, my smiles looked horribly contrived and fake. Horribly. 

I strongly advise any and everybody that wants a picture of me smiling to snap that shot when I am completely unaware that my pic is being taken - when I am smiling naturally. THOSE smiles, my friends, are absolutely beautiful. I get my share of compliments on my beautiful smile when I am out and about - especially since I have a mouth full of dentures. (I've had full dentures since I was 29.) Compare and contrast that to the contrived smiles that look twisted and wrong. Just wrong. 

The above 2 pics are examples of smiles that were caught off-guard. In the photo with Mark, I was setting my camera on 'auto', and posing - with no smile - for my own 'selfies'. I have 10 seconds from the time I click the shutter button until it actually takes the pic to get my pose just right. Mark stepped in and squeezed me about 1 second and a half before the shutter automatically snapped. I was laughing at his antics, thusly, the smile was organic and not contrived. 

In the above pic, I was 18, and had been out of high school only a few months. For ONCE in my life, I wanted to pose for my own pictures the way *I* wanted to pose for them. Before I even got in front of the camera, I told the photographer at the front desk of Olan Mills, "Don't say "Smile", because I won't do it. Don't even try it. If you want a natural smile out of me, start telling me jokes. Tell me something FUNNY! THEN - you will get the smile you've been looking for. When you do - don't tell me when you're going to click the shutter - just do it!" He did just that. He started telling me jokes, and I started laughing, because he was actually funny. 

The shutter snapped. The rest is history. I will not, however, smile on command for posed pictures. In fact, as you can see from my profile pics, I have learned how to turn a 'stern' face in to an art form. 

When people approach me at events and functions, and Hell, when they approach me every day in WalMart, malls - even the grocery store - for a pic, without exception, I give them a ready-made, stern-faced pose. I have mastered that one. And it works for me. 

Actually, posing for *every* profile pic that has my very familiar stern-faced pose is very easy and effortless to pull off.  This is how I do it with predictable results every time:

1) I have my camera on its tripod.  
2) I have my lighting already set up.
3) I click the 10 second timer on the shutter.  I know exactly how many warning beeps the camera will give me before snapping the pic. 
4) I get my body into the position that I have planned.  
5) I usually have just a couple seconds to spare, so I look DOWN at the ground until I know the last beep / second is up.  THEN, I quickly look up and directly at the camera lens.

In that fashion, I don't have time to pull a contrived or posed look.  I don't have time to get my face 'set' in that "Come on, damn it! Click the shutter!" pose.  "Mr. Stern Face" arrives at the party a fraction of a single second before the shutter clicks.  Even though it's a serious face, it has a natural, organic quality that I couldn't hope to achieve if I stood there with a silly grin plastered on my face, waiting for what seems like an eternity for that damned shutter to do it's job and to end my merciless suffering.  he he he

This is the results of that small effort:




- Michael

I won The Battle of the Non-fertile Zucchini Plants

The area we live in is famed not only for it's snooty people, but it is also well known for it's poor soil quality and heavy shade - and abundant, damaging - HUNGRY! - vermin, including, but not limited to: rabbits, squirrels, voles and hordes of chipmunks and more deer than you would believe that would care to venture this close to the center of a major metropolitan area.  

Vegetable gardens in Lade, MO (St. Louis burb) are virtually unheard of for many social and economic reasons (most residents choose to buy their produce from the market, and / or hire a professional gardener!

Combine the vermin and poor geological factors, you end up with a lot of Ladue, MO  (and Frontenac, Town & Country, etc) well-groomed lawns with plantings that are especially and specifically selected to be unattractive to vermin that get a weekly visit from a hired, well paid, professional lawn care company.

That doesn't leave much hope for the rare Ladue home gardener guerrilla vegetation vigilante, does it?

Most plants absolutely hate the Ladue soil and heavy shade, but I do have a few that love this area.  Oregano will grow vigorously, as will Curry Plant (a straw flower relative, and not actually 'curry') will grow happily if it is given a sunny, well-drained slope.  With bare minimum lighting requirements, I can get most herbs to live happy and prosper less than 5 feet from our front door.

The only way I can get a tomato to SLOWLY mature to a complete and finished stage is to completely surround the plant with both green mesh fencing AND thick layers of very fine black bird netting.  In fact, I keep every plant that is not in a tall pot surrounded by both methods:  The black bird netting and the green plastic fencing.
(I am a living testament that a chipmunk will eat a tomato much more efficiently than a much larger squirrel!  A squirrel will take the tomato, eat half of it, and leave the rest to rot beneath the tree that he just scampered up.  Not Mr. Chipmunk!  He will eat the whole damned tomato!

While most people believe that a chipmunk is a 'ground squirrel', they are the most clever, adept climbers.  You can stake up an unprotected tomato plant, thinking that if you get the developing tomatoes high enough off the ground, they will be safe from vermin.  Rabbits. Maybe.  But ALL the vermin that I previously listed till readily eat a huge tomato vine right off at the bottom, where the vine meets the ground, and leave the entire plant to die.

(You don't know how many times I have prayed for owls and hawks, and proportionately to those prayers, I have heard and seen both owls and hawks in our area!)

Both chipmunks and squirrels can easily climb up a staked-up tomato plant, and you won't have a single tomato - not even green ones - left on the vine.  I have even heard chipmunks scurrying up our drain spouts, only to see them peeking over the lip of the gutter from our rooftop at me.

Because of piss-poor natural lighting conditions and even worse soil conditions, I bought and assembled two 4' x 4' raised beds from Home Depot (foolishly thinking that the raised beds would not only solve the poor soil conditions, but that it would also deter the voles and the chipmunks.  Nope. They said to each other, "Ok, look!  daddy added on a second floor to our house!", and they very adeptly tunneled up and through the raised beds, completely bypassing the green plastic fencing and black bird netting.

Back to the squash:

I reserve one of the 4' x 4' raised beds for squash plants and patchouli (yes, the 1960's - 1970's fragrant oil!) plants.  

Due to heavy vermin attacks, I don't get many squash that survive to maturity, but I have had several large, mature butternut squash, a couple acorn squash, and a few huge zucchini to grow to a fully mature stage.  I have also successfully crossed a zucchini and a butternut to get a "Bikini":

A Butternut squash (left) a Zucchini (Middle) and my home-grown "Bikini = Zucchini x Butternut"  on the far right.
The Butternut and the "Bikini" were grown on the same vine.  When cut open, the 'Bikini' is all Butternut inside!

Add caption

This year, however, we have a new complication added to the bad growing environment.

When I went to the Missouri Botanical Garden this past Wednesday to do one of my weekly trips, I noticed a young lady that was gently pulling back the leaves of several squash plants in the Kemper Center Home Demonstration Gardens.  It was not difficult to tell that she was actually looking for something.  She was on a mission.
I asked her, "Are you looking for mature fruit / squash?"

(First and foremost, I was completely blown away by the fact that this young lady - less than 25 yrs old, and looking VERY cosmopolitan / hip would even know what a squash plant was, much less care about whether or not that it was producing viable fruit.)

We both noticed that that particular plant did have a couple maturing spaghetti squash on it.

She confided in me that she had planted some squash plants *from seed*, and that to this point, she was getting only male flowers - and no female flowers or maturing squash.  She lived in an area with much better growing conditions (better soil, better light and no vermin) than we live in, and she was still having the same luck - none at all - that we were having with our zucchini plants.

For the uninitiated, I was raised in the country my entire childhood, and until I moved to the 'big city' on my own.  I don't remember a single summer growing up that we didn't have a garden, and I will spare you the even longer story that it was my duty to work in those gardens every year that I was physically capable of doing do.  I planted   I cultivated.  I harvested. I also can't bring to the forefront of my memory a single season that we didn't have a bountiful crop of both HUGE, mature zucchini AND thousands of male zucchini blossoms (and male pumpkin blossoms!) that are great when dredged in a cornmeal (or flour) batter and deep fried.  Sprinkle on a little salt and VOILA!  Lunch or supper!

Anywho, the moral of that chapter in this increasing book is that I know my way around a garden, and that I am no stranger to growing anything in a midwest garden.

THIS YEAR:

I bought three "Black Beauty" zucchini plants that were already several inches long (the plants - no fruit yet) when I planted them.
I also planted the seeds from a couple of my previous year's crosses.  I fertilize weekly - and I fertilize well.  The lack of fertilizer is not a problem in any of the plants that I parent.

As of this writing, on any and ALL of my squash plants - both the purchased plants and the ones that I planted from seed - have produced nothing but mature MALE flowers.  It took me a couple weeks to realize that I actually do actually get an occasional female flower (with the swollen base (ovules) beneath the flower), but this flower, oddly enough, will never mature enough to open as it should, and after a couple days, the the entire structure will wither and die away.

What the Hell is up with that?

A couple days ago, I had my fill of non-maturing female flowers, and I decided to take action.  (Remember the "Bikini"?  I love garden freaks!)  I took a pair of scissors out to the garden, and I cut open a non-maturing female flower.  I took one of my African Grey parrot's molted feathers, and I transferred copious amounts of pollen from a male flower to the immature female stigma that I had exposed. I know that there is a reason why flowers open when they do:  They are mature and ready to open.  A flower whose parts are not developed for the next stage of reproduction will not open until those parts have properly matured.  But....had grown impatient from losing so many female flowers that wouldn't mature and they wouldn't open under their own power, so I decided to take action.

The parts of male and female squash flowers

Even thought the stigma had not reached a fully matured state, I was going to give the flower a helping hand.  I hand pollinated an immature female flower. 
(Much to my astonishment, the next day, the few remaining parts of the flower that I hacked with scissors the day before actually opened the next day! Cut and hacked as much as it was, the remaining parts of the orange corolla opened as much as it possibly could, and in addition to my hand pollination,  bees were visiting this flower, too.)

Just this morning, I noticed that the swollen ovules had developed into a tiny zucchini.  How big it will actually grow remains a mystery, but, one way or another, this little girl is going to grown into a full-fledged woman! he he he

This is how she looked this morning:

Note the small, unopened flower and dying ovules above this developing zucchini.  ALL the other female flowers on every squash plant in my garden - this year - died before developing in the same manner.

(You can also see the remnants of the flower that I hacked to get to the female stigma.)
Stand back! I have scissors and I will use them if I am forced into action!  :D

I will hack every one of these female flowers if that's what it takes to get a full-sized zucchini.
- Michael

Keeping in contact.......

I've worn contacts for 28 years.

Actually, I'm blind in my (left eye in my pictures), and I only wear one contact. No eye surgeon in STL will do surgery on me based on ethics. They all tell me that if something goes wrong with the surgery in the only eye that that has vision, my vision could be screwed up forever - so they won't do it.

(Likewise, they also say that they shouldn't prescribe me a contact, and that I should wear glasses to protect my eye from damage that could leave me blind. Have any of you EVER seen me in glasses - even though I own a pair of $$ Fysh glasses? Nope. And you never will.

Fysh Frames:
http://www.bing.com/images/search?q=Fysh+UK&FORM=HDRSC2

Anywho - I can wear a contact wrong-side-out for an hour before I realize that 'it just isn't riding right', and I take it out and fix the problem.

(But then again, I have also had a piece of potato chip fly up and stick in my eye for an hour before I looked in a mirror, and saw it wedged in he corner of my eye!....

...and there's the story of the day that I thought I lost a contact while I was putting it in.... I have NEVER lost a contact in 28 years. I looked all over my bathroom for that damned thing before I got a new contact and put it in. FOUR days later, I was walking across a parking lot, and I thought I had a bad stroke. I suddenly saw eight of everything. I managed to find the door to my apt, and when I took my contact out of my eye, I had TWO in my eye, one on top of the other. Apparently, I never lost the first contact 4 days earlier. It slipped behind my eye, and decided to make a surprise appearance as I was walking across a parking lot. (I'm glad that it didn't make that appearance when I was driving down the interstate just minutes earlier!)

My prescription is a +5.5, so you know that these things aren't thin and easy to hide! he he

- Michael

Servanthood: Dedicating your life to somebody that never deserved it in the first place.

True suckership is servanthood.

I'm putting the interests of ME at the center of my decisions, and others can go do thou likewise.

When I was 19, I realized that "When that times comes, I will be the one to do the dying for myself, because nobody else can or will do it for me.  Those people that thought I should live my life for THEM, instead of FOR ME will be glaringly and obviously absent at that moment. 

In like fashion, I am also going to be the one to do the living for myself. I will not let anyone even attempt to do that for me, either.  Those people that can't and won't die for me will not be allowed to do the living, or to make life choices for me, either.

A month ago tomorrow, I had to drove to Hannibal to bury the #1 music mentor in my entire life. I have known this man since my birth (45 years), He was 12 when I was born.

To make a long story a lot more longer and tedious, we lost contact of each other in adulthood when his family moved from Hannibal to Chicago, where he had a Hammond organ business (both selling them and playing professionally) - for about 15 years - but became reacquainted and close friends again 15 years ago.

In adulthood, he had long, platinum blonde hair. and was a loud, boisterous little shit. I **very** incorrectly assumed that, like myself, he was at the helm of his ship, controlling every aspect of his life, and doing a good job of it.

In 2008, I made the trip from STL to Hannibal to go to his grandmother's visitation and funeral. This woman was the one that planted the music seed in my friend's mother (her daughter), and in Phil, himself. His grandmother was also the minister's wife. I remember when she rocked me in the cradle in the church nursery, and when she rocked me when she held me in her arms when I was 18 MONTHS old. I remember those moments because I felt a warm love from her that I never got from my own mother / family.

Anywho, back to Phil. I went to this man's grandmother's funeral in 2008. We were in the funeral home, and walked several feet from his grandmother's casket. His mother (her daughter) was standing at the head of the receiving line, at the head of the casket.)

In passing, and as we were walking by - SEVERAL FEET AWAY! - I casually mentioned some superficial gay issue that was so trivial that I can't even remember the subject of the actual conversation. (and if I have memories back to when I was 18 months old, memories made in 2008 are recent history!)

As soon as I made that light comment, Phil whirled around on his heel, looked at me, and quickly put his finger to his lips and hissed, "SHHHHHHHH!" at me. I was momentarily confused. I whispered back to him, "WHAT???? What did I say that was wrong?" He answered me back, "We don't talk about that (being gay.)"

I stopped for a moment in my tracks, letting the reality of the events that just occurred sink in my skull.

I'm fairly quick on the draw, and not more than a second of time passed before I grabbed him by the arm, and I yanked him in the hallway of the funeral home, and I let out this acidic hiss:

"Oh, Hell to the power of NO, Phil! You are a 50 year old STRONG man with your own business and your own life, and you STILL have not told your mother that she can love you for WHO you are, or she can go straight to Hell?"

That was just the tip of the iceberg, as I quickly found out.

This VERY GAY MAN actually got married. To a female - when he was much younger. He has a daughter that is almost 30, and 2 grandsons.

Was his 'wife' at the funeral of this family matriarch?  No.  Was his daughter?  No.
In fact, the first time in my entire life that I had ever seen his wife was at his OWN funeral.

Another clincher:   Phil's #1 worry was that he would die 'alone, at home, and that nobody would find his body for days or weeks.'

I have a very important question / interjection:

"How does one die 'alone and at home, an nobody would fine your body for days or weeks' when one is 'married', with a wife 'at home?'

The answer.  While I believe that they were truly legally married, this entire fiasco was a 'cover up'.  It was a bad, put-on front.  You see, his family is very religious (ALL of them are First United Pentecostal people that went non-denominational, but they still harbor the evils and the bigotry that comes along with being past-Pentecostal.

I about shit myself when, at the graveside, Phil's brother listed ALL the surviving relatives during the committal service, and was several sentences away from that train of thought when he FINALLY remembered to mention Phil's 'wife'.  The brother said, "I want to thank Tilly, his wife, for standing by his side all these years!"  My sister was at this service with me.  I whispered in my sister's ear, "She wasn't standing by his side!  She was standing across Chicago, because they never lived together!  It took Andrew several sentences past the listing of the family before he even remembered to include her!"

Why did Phil's brother forget to mention Phil's wife?  Because she was a 'wife' in name, only, and was there only to serve as a cover-up because Phil was gay, and this family is chock-full of bigots.

I was, and I still am, floored beyond belief.

Granted, this man had HIDEOUS health habits.

(Further proof that he was a gay man lies in the  few next sentences.)

You see.... Phil was the blackest white man you have ever seen.  From the age of 9, he played VERY heavy, multi-national-award-winning black gospel music in an all-white Pentecostal church that had never heard a single note of black gospel music in their entire lives.  Phil was arguably one of the best gospel organists in this entire country, and most likely, in the entire world, for that matter.

Along the lines of playing all-black gospel music, Phil LOVED black men. When I say LOVED, I am talking about in both a very physical AND a relationship / romantic sense.  I have proof of that fact that I good taste and decorum will not allow me to write in this space, so you will have to trust me on that one.

Not only did Phil think he was a black man, but he also lived like one.  If you have ever heard his organ playing style, you would admit that the influence is 'thick and undeniable'.  Phil was also a non-denominational minister.   If you ever heard him preach or sing, and you closed your eyes, you would be most certain that you were listening to a LARGE black man, rather than a small, white man.  Not only did Phil play like a black man, but he also sang and spoke like a black man, too.

Phil smoked.  Heavily. Sorry, folks. It's the truth.

The only physical exercise that he EVER got was sitting on a Hammond organ bench.  

And, if there was ever a part of a diet that is associated with black culture that is bad for you, Phil found it, lived it, and loved it.  I'm talking about much more than 'soul food', which he loved and relished, I'm talking about fast food, and tons of it.

There is one HUGELY important factor in Phil's death that his 'loving' family never considered:
(I am a nurse, and I am a damned good nurse.  I have 20+ years of astute observations under my belt.)
Granted.  Five years from now, Phil would have died from the heart attack that did actually kill him - in the parking lot of a tanning salon! - as a result of his hideous health habits, and ignoring what he was doing to his body.  He would have been in his 60's, rather than in his 50's when he died.

** IN A VERY REAL SENSE, STRESS KILLS! **

This is jus a tiny fraction of a list that contains major life stressors:
* Minor violations of the law
* Major holidays
* Vacation
* Major change in number of family get-togethers
* Change in eating habits
* Major change in sleeping habits (a lot more or a lot less than usual)
* Taking on a loan (car,etc.,)
* Major change in social activities (clubs,movies,visiting,etc.)
* Major change in usual type and/or amount of recreation
* Major change in church or temple activity (i.e.. a lot more or less than usual)
* Major changes in working hours or conditions
* Changes in residence
* Changing to a new school
* Trouble with boss
* Revision of personal habits (dress manners, associations, quitting smoking)
* Major change in living condition

Living your entire life as a huge lie, just so your 'loving family' won't alienate you is a huge stressor that, by far, trumps any and all on the above list.  As was clearly demonstrated in Phil's case, living such a huge lie will knock many years off your already miserable life. 

Phil died at the age of 57 due to a hideously cat-boxed lie.  Period.

I will agree with you:  It was PHIL'S responsibility to 'politely' tell every member of his family:

"I can love whoever the Hell I damned well please.  I can be physically attracted to whoever the Hell I damned well please.  I will not make excuses for who I am or for what I do.  There will never be any need for me to do that, so don't wait around for it."

"What I do in my bed - or in my entire life, for that matter - is none of your business or of your concern.  I am not a "What", I am a "Who". You will love me for WHO I am, not for WHAT I am.  I don't want mere 'tolerance' out of you, either.  'Tolerance' means, "I don't like what you are doing, but I will deal with it, in order to keep the peace.".  No. I can do you one better than that.  If you are going to be in my life *at all*, you are going to absolutely love me for who I am.  I don't want to burden you with 'tolerance'.  Get the Hell out of my life, and get the Hell out now."

"While we're on the subject, where the Hell do you get off thinking you have the authority to judge me at all?  More than just a little pompous and self-important, are we? Your life is no more valid or authentic than my own life, and the fact that you think you have been given a position to just, put down or persecute people for living their own lives just might lower your own life a peg or two."

I am proud - nay - down-right THRILLED to love and to live my life to the fullest extent that I see fit.

You are not welcome nor allowed to do so for me, so get the Hell out and get the Hell out now!"

(Trust me. The liberation that follows is the most cleansing feeling that will ever flood your soul.  I did the same thing to my entire family, and like Lot's Wife who is in that Bible that those people think they have the right to hurl at me, I have never looked back, for fear of turning into a pillar of THEM!  It worked for me!)

EVEN THOUGH.... Phil had the responsibility for setting those fools on the correct course, they should have had the wherewithal to NOT be royal jackasses and tell him that he is going to Hell for being a gay man.  He was gullible and vulnerable, and they took advantage of those huge weaknesses that he harbored and allowed to grow quickly out of control.

Come, now, people!  Which do we think will send you to Hell the quickest:

1) Living an HONEST, AUTHENTIC life that is based on LOVE for another individual or

2) Wasting your entire life while fabricating lie after lie and living an ENTIRE lie until the day you die, thus living miserably until the day you die. (And usually having a separate relationship with a person who you were INTENDED to be with in the first place, thus 'stepping out' on the fake relationship that you constructed as a cover-up.

(You do know that I could go on for another couple chapters of this 'book' on #1, but, in the immortal words of Sophia Petrillo from The Golden Girls.... "But, I digress."

To recap:

I will not live nor die like Phil did.  I have heard SO many people comment, "I love Phil!  He always spoke what was in his heart and what crossed his mind!"

The truth:  UH.... NO, HE ABSOLUTELY DID NOT!

I have also heard people say, "Phil was such a strong man!"

The truth:  NOPE.  NOT TRUE, EITHER!

(How the Hell strong exactly was he, when he wouldn't even allow him to life a fair, justified life, and in fact, he lived it for others, which ultimately killed him?)

Again...."When that times comes, I will be the one to do the dying for myself, because nobody else can or will do it for me.  Those people that thought I should live my life for THEM, instead of FOR ME will be glaringly and obviously absent at that moment. 

In like fashion, I am also going to be the one to do the living for myself. I will not let anyone even attempt to do that for me, either.  Those people that can't and won't die for me will not be allowed to do the living, or to make life choices for me, either.

It is a very sad fact, indeed, that **I** lived the life that Phil preached.  **I** practiced his preaching.  He did not.  I live happily.  He never did.  Was his sacrifice worth it?

If you answer 'yes' to that question, you need:  God, Jesus, Allah, Ganasha, Shive, Krishna, Rama - somebody, damn it! - but the help you need is beyond the scope of my skill set!

(The really scary part of this deal is that I know at least 5 very gay men that are in 'straight' marriages, or they are very gay men that call themselves 'straight'. All 5 of those people are truly and obviously as miserable as miserable can get, and most of them ooze that miserableness onto anybody that is unfortunate enough to be close enough to the afflicted individual to get some of that nasty ooze on them!)

- Michael