The Bad Thing

Well, I did finally get confirmation last Friday: it is definitely cancer in my liver. One tumor is about 4cm in diameter; there are at least 4 tumors, although they appear fuzzy & indistinct in the imaging. They are metastatic, meaning they came from somewhere else. We don't know where "somewhere else" is, yet, though.

More tests this week: PET/CT scan on Wednesday and an MRI on Thursday. They are going to be specifically looking at my pancreas. From what I remember, if it's pancreatic cancer, I'm pretty much dead in months. I guess I could go confirm that on the web somewhere, but the thought of doing so turns my soul to jelly.

Planning on driving to Oklahoma & then to Yellowstone (Cliff nor I have ever been there) very soon, assuming I can put off treatment, whatever it may be, until after such a trip. Work has already said yes, I have a funding plan, plans for somebody to house sit & take care of the Anipals. It will be kind of a grind, but I'm really looking forward to it, and I think Cliff is too. Need to have some kind of happy short-term goal right now to cut through the bleakness.

One of the hardest things for me right now is to tell people. I've told a handful of people, as has Cliff. But how do I spread the word to the dozens of friends and hundreds of acquaintances? Or do I even do that? Should I just let the few key people I know do the heavy lifting there? Is that fair? Is it proper? I wish Miss Manners had something to say about this.

Being all emo

Feeling mighty down tonight... it's embarrassing to me to whine like a little bitch, but odds are nobody's going to read this, at least not until some time much further down the road, when hopefully I'll be more emotionally stable.

I'm waiting, as I have been since Monday, for the results of my liver biopsy, which in turn I had to wait to come to pass, after about a month & counting of jumping through hoops. My doctor thinks I probably have liver cancer. This conjecture was made shortly before Memorial Day, and my time since has been a series of trying to get tests scheduled, getting the tests, waiting for results, and moving on to the next test. So I'm going on a little over a month of not knowing for sure if I have cancer. My patience is pretty thin, and I caught myself tonight, at several points, losing it with Cliff, and barely pulling myself back. This is not acceptable.

Just ain't happy. Feel like shit. Can't really talk to anybody about it.

Is Your Husband Gay?

Apropos of absolutely nothing of value, here is a simple three-question test, guaranteed accurate, to tell if hubby is batting for the other team:

1) Does he suck dick?
2) Does he like to get fucked up the ass?
3) Does he get an erection when he watches WWE?

If you can answer yes to any of these questions, consult a marriage counselor immediately!

Jefty Landrigan

Hi folks. This is a post I promised to write to several friends about my visit to go see Jefty on Death Row (for background on Jefty, see (good summary of original cases) here, here, (of particular political interest) here, and here (and there is a lot more out there, google "Jeffrey Landrigan" if you really want to dig deep).

The Visit
Our visit was scheduled for 1:45PM at the Browning Unit of the Arizona State Prison Complex - Eyman, located in Florence, AZ. We met in an visitation area, separated by a pane of glass; except for us and the guards, the area was empty. Everybody else's scheduled visitations were moved to another area, as they keep Jefty segregated from all other prisoners now.

Realize that I did not know Jefty very well prior to the visit; we'd run into each other a few times as kids in Junior High & High School, and otherwise hadn't talked in the last 30 years. So my plan for the visit was to just be a human being and talk with him about whatever came to mind. And that's pretty much what happened. He started out by asking me why I came in the first place (which I'll talk about below), then we just chatted about various topics, including his case, the various appeals, people we knew from High School, my dogs, his kids, cars, dope, his tattoos (very nice work, btw, especially for prison tats), an upcoming visit from his sister (scheduled for next Saturday), and a couple other things I'll get to.

I read him all the messages that some of you were good enough to pass on to him through me, which he appreciated very much. He gave me some replies for most of them, which I'll pass on to you personally soon. I do want to emphasize that he was very grateful to know that people were thinking about him, it meant the world to him, so on his behalf, thank you all very much. I did in fact pass on every message I got, except for one very negative one which was, in fact, much more directed at me than him.

For those of you who are curious: No, I did not bring up the fact that I'm gay, nor did I bring up my partner Cliff. Yes, part of me feels like a coward for this. However, this was about Jefty, not about me, and I didn't want to risk setting him off (if you've read the links I provided, or other information about the Arizona case, you will understand my concern). I didn't, & still don't, think it would have been appropriate for me to have an agenda of trying to teaching tolerance to somebody who is going to die in ten days. And I didn't want to give him a reason to regret my visit, or to cut it short.

Also, sorry folks, I did not spread the good news about Jesus, either. I did pass on the Jesus-based messages that some of you sent, but again, not only did I think it was inappropriate to do so, I wouldn't have done it anyway. If you want a missionary for Jesus, always know that I am not your go-to guy.

For what it's worth: he does maintain that the killing of Greg Brown was an act of self-defense. He also shared some stories of Greg bullying Jefty (and others), often as a way to try to impress women. I personally neither believe nor disbelieve his account, and am just reporting it to you.

I tried very hard not to manipulate the conversation in any way, except to keep it going, and so I don't have any answers for those of you who are wondering about his stories about other crimes, feelings or lack of feelings of regret, etc., with one exception: I did ask him how he managed to escape from prison at McAlester (That's the Oklahoma State Prison, for those of you who wouldn't know such things). He said it was actually pretty easy; it was a low-security environment, and he and another prisoner were working on "perimeter maintenance", which basically means landscaping between the inner and outer fences. He and his partner cut a few holes in the wires securing the fences to their posts; later that night, the two of them just went out, pulled the fences apart where they'd cut them, and got into a waiting vehicle. And that was that. Except that he did share that, 100 miles away from the prison, the car broke down, and that they were assisted by an officer from the Oklahoma Highway Patrol. Interestingly enough, I have a similar story in my past that I shared with him, and we both had a good laugh.

The conversation was unusually (for me) non-awkward, although it did stall about three times. We visited for an hour and 55 minutes before I ended the visit 5 minutes early (we had hit another stall point, and it just seemed like a natural time to end our chat). Two officers in full-blown riot gear led Jefty away from the visitation area. On the way out to the parking lot, I chatted with a woman who was visiting her husband, who is also on Death Row, and she said that her husband had been good friends with Jeff for years. Her husband was very happy that Jeff had gotten a visitor, she told me, even though it did inconvenience all the other prisoners who had visitors that day.

Why did I visit, and how did it come about?
I had found out that Jefty was on Death Row in Arizona about 10 years ago, when I was browsing through a web site. I had thought about writing him at that time, but never did, partly out of sheer laziness, partly out of a doubt that he had any idea who I even was. About a month ago, I ran into an item in our local paper that alerted me to his upcoming execution. I posted a link to that article on Facebook, on the chance that other people from Bartlesville would be interested.

They were. You were.

As I've mentioned, I didn't know Jefty very well, but we'd talked a few times, and he'd been nice to me. This was at a time in my life when I didn't have much self-confidence, or social skills, and, well, it meant a lot to me that a hood like Jefty didn't put me down or beat me up, that he was actually nice to me. Yes, I have issues, and I certainly had issues when I was a teenager. Hell, I didn't just have issues, I had a subscription. Regardless, the fact that he'd been kind to me once, and that he was in imminent danger of execution, and the fact that he didn't (as far as I knew) have anybody in Arizona who would visit him, tugged at my emotions. I think the most prominent thought I had about the idea was, If I were in prison about to face death, I'd sure want somebody, anybody, to come see me. So, you know. Simple Golden Rule stuff. I do like my ethics simple & easy to navigate, and, for me, everything pretty much comes from the Golden Rule.

After discussing it some with people on Facebook (especially Kandace), I decided to go ahead & post an application to visit him. I had doubts about whether it would be processed in time, or whether Jefty would even welcome a visit, so I basically I thought that I would just post the application and then leave it up to fate to determine what would happen after that. Another simple principle I follow, and it's rarely failed me, is: When in doubt, let the universe decide.

Here's what the universe decided: First, having posted the application online on a Friday night, I was visited, at work, mind you, by an investigator for the Federal Public Defender's office. He wanted to know why I wanted to visit Jefty. I told him basically the same stuff I just told you. He told me that PD's were going to visit him the next day, and that they'd be happy to pass him a message from me. So, I sent along a note that said, in short, You barely know me, if at all, but if you'd like a visit, I'll come.

The next week, I got a call from the Arizona Department of Corrections. They had approved (which also meant Jefty had approved) my application, and I'd passed the background check they'd run on me. So, several bureaucratic maneuvers later, I wound up with a date & time to visit.

I would not have done this without the full support of my partner, Cliff. He was in fact very supportive, and actually drove me up to the prison in Florence (which is about 70 miles from Tucson) for the visit, waited around, in freaking Florence, for two hours, and was there waiting for me in the parking lot when the visit was done.

I also would have had much more worries about whether I was doing the right thing had I not had the support of so many of you on Facebook. So, thank you all very much.

And, finally, I would not have done this at all had I been in possession of a factoid that I didn't find out until last night, from talking with a dear friend in Oklahoma. After turning it over in my head for the last, oh, 18 hours or so, I've decided I'm not going to share that factoid with anybody until Jefty is executed or is granted clemency <edit> ever </edit>. It doesn't really make a difference, ultimately, to his case, one way or another, and I guess that as a good bleeding heart liberal, it shouldn't make a difference to me. But it does. Dear Lord, it does.

Some Final Thoughts
Several of you are very concerned about my mental state at this point, and I don't blame you a bit. There is every reason in the world for anybody who knows me to think that I would be totally spun at this point. Nevertheless, I am not, or at least not yet. I feel pretty good about having seen Jefty, and, well, to be honest, I am very relieved that it is done with. I am making a point of taking care of myself physically, even pampering myself a little. I don't have any desire to drink or use. I am very grateful for many things right now, especially that Cliff & I no longer lead a life that might land us in prison. I am very grateful to have been able to bond with so many of you, although I do wish the circumstances were different.

Jefty has done some terrible things in his life. He undoubtedly deserves to be in prison. But does he deserve to be put to death by the State of Arizona? Even if I were in favor of the state executing prisoners for their crimes, I would have to say, absolutely not. The deck was stacked against him every inch of the way. He was dealt a crappy hand, and he played it very badly. He killed one person, and probably killed another, and deserves to be punished. But neither cases rise to any reasonable standard in use today for application of the death penalty. He will (probably) be executed because of bad lawyering and some incredibly stupid behavior of his own in court, not because the magnitude of his crimes required it, or even suggest it.

But, as it happens, I don't believe the State should be executing people in the first place. It is in fact cruel, obviously does not provide much if any deterrent, and is a barbaric practice that makes us, collectively, a barbaric people.

What Can You Do?
If you are interested in writing a letter to the Arizona Board of Executive Clemency, you can do so via the Federal Public Defender's office. Here's the address:
Federal Public Defenders
ATTN: Lisa Eager
850 W. Adams St., Suite 201
Phoenix, AZ 85007

If you're going to do it, you need to do it right now, and you should probably Fed-Ex your letter. The Board will take letters up until Thursday, I am told, but you are running out of time. Tick-tock.

You may also want to write to Amnesty International, and ask them to intervene (although they already have, but more won't hurt). I don't know if it will do any good, but it certainly won't hurt. Amnesty International is a good organization that fights for justice in countries around the world, and, imho, it would do you some good spiritually to be involved with their struggles. Go visit them.

If you're the type that prays, please do so, for Jefty's victims, and for Jefty himself.

I am not any kind of saint, nor am I especially brave, although all of you who have suggested so are lovely people indeed, and my overlarge ego is satisfied and full! You can of course do anything I've done, or find other ways to make the world an easier place for somebody else. Just go do something. That's it. And that's what it's all about, friends. We're all in this together, you know.

What is "Community Organizer" in Dog-Whistlese?

Watching "Real Time with Bill Maher" Friday night, I was struck somewhat by the exchange where Rosanne told John Fund that she heard racism in the calling out, at the Republican Convention, of Obama as a Community Organizer. This remark (at the convention) certainly was a popular one, and brought a big laugh when Palin whipped it out. But why did Rosanne see racism in it?

Watching the rerun tonight, I got it.

The spark was Bill's comment to Fund after Fund said (maybe not in so many words) that most Community Organizers were in fact white; Bill's remark was (again, not an exact quote) that not everybody thinks so. And suddenly, I remembered one of the ugliest words I ever heard growing up, and it all made sense, and I was once again ashamed of myself, my kin, and those I grew up around and once called my friends.

OK, thanks for following along so far. Allow me to give you some disturbing and embarrassing background to my point:

When I was growing up, in Oklahoma, in the 1960's, racism was not only accepted, but expected. If you weren't racist, you didn't fit in most places. Those of you over a certain age already know this, of course; to the "youngsters" here, it's probably shocking. I certainly hope so; it is shocking. I am embarrassed to admit, though, I too was racist in speech, and, eventually, in thought. That I was not one in action is really only a lucky accident; had there been an opportunity, I'm pretty sure I would have acted on it (yes, dear friends, race riots on scales small and large occurred in such parts in such days).

If I tell you that I knew I was queer when I was eight years old, I do not expect you to think I mean to excuse my past racism. I certainly was terrified of being outed (I did not come out until the 80's), and thought that going along with the prevailing sentiment would provide some cover (yes, I was outwardly homophobic too). My racism was a moral flaw in myself, no question, no excusing it. I knew it was wrong, and yet I spoke the racist words, and laughed at the racist jokes, and told more than a few myself, and at a certain point, I even believed in it. If I have gained a little moral courage since then to allow me to stand up for what's right, it still doesn't excuse my childhood and my youth.

I'm not telling you this because I'm some sort of masochist, or for Twelve Step reasons, or because I think it makes an interesting story. I'm telling you this because I want to establish that I do understand the mindset of racism. I do remember the old words. I do understand the concept of the dog-whistle, and what certain whistles mean in Ye Olde Racist American English. The Old Southern Racist still lives in my mind. He is hidden, shunned, ignored, feeble, and, I hope, too far gone to ever influence my thought & speech, but to my dismay, he just won't go. I don't think he ever will, until I am dead or lobotomized, and the best I can hope for is to not contaminate any young minds with exposure to such psychic poison.

So: we all know the horrible "N" word, which was used to denigrate blacks. And in the place and time of my youth, its use was universal, and, bless our little rotten hearts, wasn't always consciously intended as an insult (although to be sure, subconsciously we meant it as such). Blacks couldn't help being black (we "reasoned"); they just were. Not that that made them any less repugnant in our sick worldview.

But: White Folk who sympathized with Black Folk, who tried to at least make their world a little easier to bear; who sometimes even socialized with them; who didn't wear their hatred of them on their sleeves; who eventually were the ones who went to Mississippi and Alabama and other places and helped the Blacks organize, registered them to vote, helped them to gain their civil rights (the phrase we used at the time was "stirring up the n*****s", as though they were a nest of insects). The word we used to tag these people? Well, it was the deepest insult we had; worse than "n****r", worse than "c***sucker", worse than "motherf****r". This word meant you were a race traitor. Such a person was more often a target of violence than an actual black person; after all, black people couldn't help being black, but these people represented the absolute repudiation of white superiority; they turned their back on their fellow whites; they were, above all, The Other.

The word spat at such people, (and I am afraid that I am obliged to spell it out, only once though), dear friends, is:

Nigger-Lover

And when I heard Bill Maher tell John Fund that there was a perception that most community organizers weren't white, I thought "but that's not true, I think most people think that they are white, but they probably think the people they actually organize might be black."

...and then, and then and then and then... the ugliest word I can remember from my childhood leapt into my mind... and I was ashamed... and I was shocked... and I thought "holy shit, I don't have as much control over my brain as I thought..." and I was ashamed again.

So, is that the dog-whistle translation of "community organizer" when whistled to a bunch of old white men in a hall? I am afraid that, to a lot of them, it sure is. In fact, is it possible that they won't vote for Obama, not because he's a "n****r", but, far far worse, he's a "n****r-lover?" As are all of his supporters?

I honestly don't think that too many old white folks were actually thinking that word on a conscious level. I don't want to believe it anyway. But under the hood, that's the concept that was touched, that concept that's been the cornerstone of thought in some quarters for hundreds of years, that only in the last quarter-century became taboo to speak openly. That concept, and that word that I hope to God I never utter again in my life.

I don't know for sure. The fact that the word came into my head, after I've spent so many decades trying to repent for how I thought as a child, after believing that my old racism, if not fully extinguished, was at least just fading embers... after moving away from where I was raised when I was 18, specifically because the old racist ideas there were fading away far too slowly for my tastes... after such constant vigilance in my own thoughts, following every racist thought that came up with an analysis of why I thought that way and why it was wrong... after spending my adult life trying to be the man I knew I should be and not the animal I was raised to be....

That goddam word is still in there. Does it still lurk in other minds of a certain age, from a certain subculture? Can the dog whistle still bring it running? Does it call enough people to throw this election to Yosemite Sam and Caribou Barbie? And how do we get these people to vote with their good nature, and not the snarling dogs hiding in the depths of their (our) old, damaged minds?

About that whole Ann Coulter thing...

Yes, Ann has a bit of a flair for the inappropriate, but I'm sorry, I just can't work up any more outrage for that trailer-park transvestite junkie hooo-er. So today, let's look at:

The Light Side of Ann Coulter

First item: Ann's buddy Cpl. Matt "Rod Majors" Sanchez, right-wing gay porn (washed-up, but once upon a time) star.

Second item: (and this is not really work-safe), some political satire for your warped selves.

OK, that's all I can do, I have to go throw up now.

Name Change

I changed the name of this blog to "Beekman Place," in reference to the location of Auntie Mame's Manhatten apartment when little ten-year-old Patrick was delivered to her. Auntie Mame was one of my favorite books as a pre- then full-blown-adolescent. Many other queers of my acquaintance also hold Mame in a special place in their heart. The whole idea of living with an eccentric-but-loving adult, I think, appeals to the outcast kid, especially those of us who grew up with psychotic-but-distant parents, which describes about 90% of the homos I knows.

I found this book probably right around the time that I was starting to figure out that I liked boys more than I liked girls as objects of romantic... fancy, ahem, and probably my only disappointment with it was that Patrick didn't grow up to be a big ol' queen (However, the real-life Patrick Dennis was a mostly-gay switch-hitter, a fact barely mentioned in his Wikipedia entry). But, for me, at the time, Auntie Mame not only gave me clues towards my future love life, it also made me feel like I wasn't the only weirdo in the world, and that somewhere, sometime, that weirdos could find other weirdos and live happy, weird lives together.

And I think that's what I want to concentrate my intellectual energy on at this point in my life. Yeah, sure, I'm a bitter, cynical, Bush-hating liberal and just reading the paper on a bad day is enough to make me want to end it all (in a tasteful-yet-dramatic fashion, of course), but maybe if I make myself push the same vibe that saved me as a young strangeling, I can work some positive something-or-another back into my life. And who knows, maybe some little gay weirdo of the 21st century will read some of this and find a clue that he won't always be alone.

Yep, it's worth a shot.

Too Dependent on Maricopa

Bought tickets online to go see “Brokeback Mountain.” The annoying part is that we’re gonna have to drive up to Scottsdale to see it. No matter. I really want to see it, and it’s not going to be in Tucson until the middle of. At least it’s coming. It will, of course, be playing at The Loft when it gets here, because, I’m sure, none of the chains will touch it.
Tucson’s a pretty damn liberal place, especially for Arizona, but it is still pretty damn provincial in a lot of ways. Don’t get me wrong, I love me my Tucson a whole bunch and there’s not any other place that I’d want to live (that I could afford, anyway). I told a friend a while back that the scenery is such that you are constantly reminded that there are powers greater than mere mortals, and that alone is enough to keep me here. But we’re also a liberal city in a liberal county in a state that’s not too terribly liberal. And we’re not quiet about our politics, we talk about it, we get involved, we get our asses out on the street when it’s time to do so, and we’re usually pretty quick about tossing our crooks out of office (unlike Arizona as a whole). Then there’s the music scene, which is pretty decent for a city this size (yeah, we gave you Linda Rondstadt, but I like to think we made up for it with these guys and these guys too) (awright, there’s us guys too, shameless whores that we are).
Yet, yet, yet… the town rolls up the sidewalks early, unless you’re into bar-hopping, and I don’t get to do that anymore. We’re not on the itinerary of most touring bands (to be sure, there are always exceptions). We don’t really have any good record stores (although in this wonderful world full of internets, that’s not as big a deal as it once was). And, as I alluded to earlier, there’s only one theater that dares show pictures that aren’t sanitized for your protection.
And, we’re not gonna get us any “Brokeback Mountain” until January.

Brokebrain Mountain

You’ll have to pardon me; I’m in the middle of another chemical mistake. Yep, brain chemical mistake, from a brain chemical experiment. Now, I do want to point out that this is different than a lot of my past brain chemical experiments (and mistakes) in that the drugs in question are legal, prescribed to me, and that there really was a lot of discussion between me and my shrink on the wisdom of this experiment.

So, anyway, I had a heart attack back in early November, and, as I’m sure will surprise no one who understands how mammalian bodies function, I was told to quit smoking, start eating right, and start exercising. Well, my friends know that I might as well have been told to start fucking women. Nevertheless, I am trying really hard (the stakes, ya know… they’re high; I’m scared).

Now, I’ve been on Bupropion (same thing as Wellbutrin) for years, but about a year ago, I cut back for a couple reasons, the biggest one being that I was starting to have these weird anxiety attacks. My shrink thought the Bupropion might be the cause, and we decided I was gonna cut back. And I did. And, voilá! away go the anxiety attacks!

So, back to the shrink’s office a couple weeks ago, and I tell him I’m desperately trying to quit smoking, and, well, the subject of Wellbutrin comes up. We weigh the benefits (might actually quit smoking!) vs. the costs (might hate life!), and, silly me, decided to go ahead & up the dose.

One week after starting the new dose, I’m nervous as shit, obsessing over the most mundane things, and am generally scaring everybody around me (“shit, are you having another heart attack?” “no, just anxiety.” “are you sure, cause you look pretty FUCKED UP!”). Most amusingly, I want to smoke worse than ever.

So, one of the things I’m over-obsessing on is the new movie “Brokeback Mountain,” which came out last Friday, and which I really want to see (obsessively so now, mmm?), but which hasn’t made it to the Baked Apple yet. Almost every thought I’ve had for the last four days has somehow led back to some aspect of what I’ve read about the movie. I’ve read about thirty reviews; I found the Anne Proulx short story online & read it. I’ll probably write more about this after I see it, but I already know it’s gonna, uhm, resonate with me in a big way. Reminds me of my origins, my severely-homophobic-while-closeted days, what I thought, for a decade or so, was gonna be my fate. Such a lot of emotional response to a movie I haven’t seen yet, eh? A little creepy, mmm? I guess I’ll be stalking Jake Gyllenhaal momentarily.

The bitch is, even if it shows up in Tucson Friday, I won’t have a chance to see it until Monday at the earliest. Hopefully, now that I’m going back to my “saner” dosage of Bupropion, the obsession will retreat a little, and instead of being consumed by my desire to see the movie, I’ll just want to see the movie. That’d be pretty helpful. Especially at work.

The Start of Nothing Beautiful

Someday, perhaps I'll post something wildly amusing (in spite of myself), and it will be widely circulated. Then, somebody will decide to check out the rest of this blog. And they'll find this first post.

I'm depressed already.