Str8 Prom D8

Via Huffington Post:

As a student council member at his high school, Anthony Martinez is often tasked with planning school dances. But the 17-year-old, who is gay, says that he “never [gets] asked.” Until now, that is. Martinez, who attends Desert Oasis High School in Las Vegas, Nevada, shared on Twitter this week that he was asked to prom by someone entirely unexpected. It was his best friend, Jacob Lescenski -- who is straight. Lescenski told New Now Next that he had decided to surprise Martinez with the promposal after seeing his friend tweet about wanting a date for the event. “I decided on going to prom alone because my original date idea didn’t work out so well,” he said. “Then one night I saw Anthony, who is my best friend, tweeting about wanting a date. So, I came up with the poster idea, asked my friend Mia to make it and asked him that next day … It was a giant surprise to everyone, especially Anthony!” A thrilled Martinez expressed his gratitude to his BFF on social media.

Hella cute.

I Will Hold You Ten Times

As longtime readers know, there are four or five JMG entries that I repost every year. This is one of them. My dear friend Daniel Johnson, who threw the most kickass Groundhog Day birthday parties for himself, would have been 58 years old today. His was a life that burned brightly and I am illuminated still. Daniel Johnson, 1957-1997.

I Will Hold You Ten Times

1. I will hold you, Daniel.

2. The lesions don't bother me, I will hold you.

3. I will pretend nothing is wrong when you want me to pretend and when you want me to hold you, I will hold you.

4. I will make plans with you to go to your favorite places that we both know you can no longer go and I will sit with you and look at your pictures of these places and I will hold you.

5. I will ride with you on the train to your doctor's office and when you get sick in the station, I will hold you.

6. I will see the Post-It notes you put all over the house reminding yourself to do everyday things like "Turn off stove" and "Lock front door" and I'll pretend the disease isn't robbing your mind and when you tell me something for the third time in ten minutes, I won't let you know, I will hold you.

7. I will go to Safeway with you because you need to get out into the world and when the diarrhea overwhelms you and you shit your pants in the middle of the store, I will call us a cab and in the cab, I will hold you.

8. I will make you mix-tapes of our favorite songs from last summer, just like you asked me to, and when the memories make you sad instead of happy and you throw the tapes in the trash, I won't get angry, I will hold you.

9. I will sit up all night with you because the fevers and night sweats won't let you sleep. In the morning, I will change your drenched sheets and help you out of the shower and when you weep from the sight of your withered body in the mirror on the bathroom door, I will hold you.

10. I will hold you, Daniel.

Sad News: Beloved JMG Community Member Betty "Birdie" Salwak Has Died

It's my heartbroken duty to let you know that beloved JMG community member Betty Salwak, known to many of you here as Birdie, passed away today of the breast cancer she battled for the last several years. As some of you know, Betty served as JMG's volunteer behind-the-scenes copy editor, cheerfully correcting my typos, misspellings, and inelegant syntax, for which I thanked her profusely in my New Year's posts every year.

Betty fought her illness with extraordinary candor, optimism, and humor - even in the face of the recent unanticipated setback that surprised everyone. Evidence of that can be found on her Facebook page, where her profile photo today is a bald Mona Lisa. When it became apparent that further hospital treatment would be useless, early this week Betty decided on in-home hospice care after being told she would have 30-60 relatively pain-free days until the end. That end, tragically, came after only two days.

As you can see by the photo above, Betty was a straight Christian, but as rare as our allies in that world seem to be sometimes, Betty was no mere keyboard warrior. She served as the secretary for the Indianapolis PFLAG chapter and as the coordinator of children's ministries at her local LGBT-welcoming Presbyterian Church. In addition, she was an ardent supporter of the Indiana LGBT Youth Group, for whom she battled as anti-gay factions fought to prevent them from issuing a fundraising Indiana state license plate. When that fight was finally won, Betty was ecstatic. And I'm told that she was thrilled on Monday when marriage equality came at last to her home state.

Betty was first directed to JMG about eight years ago while searching for stories about the early years of the plague, as it had taken her own brother many years ago. It was her brother's treatment by some members of her family that initially fueled Betty's activism and she and I shared many stories about those dark, dark years. Five years ago Betty became an occasional writer for the Bilerico Project. Her first post there revealed her passion. An excerpt:

I came to realize that it was time for me to step up and stand against what I knew was a gross injustice. I was seeing people who claimed to be Christians spewing hateful invective in the name of God against people who were gay. Those malevolent tirades are far and away the loudest shouts being heard by the LGBT community. The only other voice nearly as loud says there is no God.

Those people have nothing to do with the loving God I know, the One whose grace and unconditional love is for all people, just as they are, just as he made them to be. Unfortunately, the voices with that message have been a mere whisper in the wind. It was time to stand and be heard. But how could I get anyone to heed me? I had a lot to learn. I needed to know more about the gay community.

About three years ago a gay friend linked me to my first blog; it was by some guy who called himself "Joe.My.God." Well. Joe's blog was (and is) intelligent, moving, funny, informative, and very very angry at Christians. Links from his blog led me to more, and over the past three years I have developed some genuine and important friendships with gay, lesbian, and even a few straight bloggers. Those Internet friends have been wonderful in sharing their wisdom, insights and feelings. I feel privileged to know them and have been lucky enough to meet a few.

I have learned of the anguish of rejection and the stinging betrayal experienced by those raised in churches which call them "objectively disordered," sinners, even abominations. I've read far too many times of self-destructiveness and even suicides by young people who could not reconcile their faith with the person God made them to be. This has to stop.

I am convinced that the vast majority of straight Christians are ignorant of the terrible impact of their silence, that they would speak up about their support if they knew it would literally save lives. I am doing everything in my power to tell them that this is the time. It is my fervent hope that the civil victory that is imminent will eventually be shared by most churches during my lifetime.

Betty leaves a husband, two adult children, and hundreds of friends in our community, both in real life and online. Many here on JMG became her Facebook friends, proof of which was clear tonight as so many of you wrote to share your grief at Betty's passing. Please consider dropping by her Facebook page. I will let you know if the Salwak family is directing donations to any of Betty's favorite causes.

Our own Father Tony was particularly close with Betty and I'll close this sad, sad post with the portrait he made during her Fort Lauderdale visit with him in March while enjoying a period of remission. Thank you, Birdie. This world could use a few million more of you.

I Will Hold You Ten Times

As longtime readers know, there are four or five JMG entries that I repost every year. This is one of them. My dear friend Daniel Johnson, who threw the most kickass Groundhog Day birthday parties for himself, would have been 57 years old today. His was a life that burned brightly and I am illuminated still. Daniel Johnson, 1957-1997.

I Will Hold You Ten Times

1. I will hold you, Daniel.

2. The lesions don't bother me, I will hold you.

3. I will pretend nothing is wrong when you want me to pretend and when you want me to hold you, I will hold you.

4. I will make plans with you to go to your favorite places that we both know you can no longer go and I will sit with you and look at your pictures of these places and I will hold you.

5. I will ride with you on the train to your doctor's office and when you get sick in the station, I will hold you.

6. I will see the Post-It notes you put all over the house reminding yourself to do everyday things like "Turn off stove" and "Lock front door" and I'll pretend the disease isn't robbing your mind and when you tell me something for the third time in ten minutes, I won't let you know, I will hold you.

7. I will go to Safeway with you because you need to get out into the world and when the diarrhea overwhelms you and you shit your pants in the middle of the store, I will call us a cab and in the cab, I will hold you.

8. I will make you mix-tapes of our favorite songs from last summer, just like you asked me to, and when the memories make you sad instead of happy and you throw the tapes in the trash, I won't get angry, I will hold you.

9. I will sit up all night with you because the fevers and night sweats won't let you sleep. In the morning, I will change your drenched sheets and help you out of the shower and when you weep from the sight of your withered body in the mirror on the bathroom door, I will hold you.

10. I will hold you, Daniel.

I Will Hold You Ten Times

As longtime readers know, there are four or five JMG entries that I repost every year. This is one of them. My dear friend Daniel Johnson, who threw the most kickass Groundhog Day birthday parties for himself, would have been 56 years old today. His was a life that burned brightly and I am illuminated still. Daniel Johnson, 1957-1997.

I Will Hold You Ten Times

1. I will hold you, Daniel.

2. The lesions don't bother me, I will hold you.

3. I will pretend nothing is wrong when you want me to pretend and when you want me to hold you, I will hold you.

4. I will make plans with you to go to your favorite places that we both know you can no longer go and I will sit with you and look at your pictures of these places and I will hold you.

5. I will ride with you on the train to your doctor's office and when you get sick in the station, I will hold you.

6. I will see the Post-It notes you put all over the house reminding yourself to do everyday things like "Turn off stove" and "Lock front door" and I'll pretend the disease isn't robbing your mind and when you tell me something for the third time in ten minutes, I won't let you know, I will hold you.

7. I will go to Safeway with you because you need to get out into the world and when the diarrhea overwhelms you and you shit your pants in the middle of the store, I will call us a cab and in the cab, I will hold you.

8. I will make you mix-tapes of our favorite songs from last summer, just like you asked me to, and when the memories make you sad instead of happy and you throw the tapes in the trash, I won't get angry, I will hold you.

9. I will sit up all night with you because the fevers and night sweats won't let you sleep. In the morning, I will change your drenched sheets and help you out of the shower and when you weep from the sight of your withered body in the mirror on the bathroom door, I will hold you.

10. I will hold you, Daniel.

Membership

ABOVE: At the 1985 Xmas party described below: Me, Michael, and Barney. I also wrote about Barney here.

Originally posted May 2004. Reposted for World AIDS Day.

Membership 

Michael didn't look good.

We were at his annual Christmas Luau party. Tons and tons of people in the house and the backyard. Standing in his kitchen, wearing a grass skirt and a ridiculous Santa hat covered in sequins, he was acting like always...all flamboyant and silly and adorable.

But he didn't look...right.

It was 1985.

My boyfriend Ken and I stayed until the end of the party to help clean up. I busied myself in the kitchen, washing glasses and cleaning ashtrays. Through the kitchen window I watched Ken and Michael in the backyard where they were stacking up the chairs and dousing the dozens of tiki torches, the trademark of Michael's party. When we were finished, Ken and I stood for a few minutes on Michael's front porch to review the party: who came, who didn't, who shouldn't have come.

Finally I yawned and stretched and nudged Ken. "C'mon babe, let's roll. Michael, lots of fun as always. Try and get some sleep, you look like you need it."

Ken shot me a scowl.

I tried to recover. "I mean, you must be exhausted from getting the party ready."

Michael laughed and lit a cigarette. "Oh, you know me. I'll bounce back. Nothing that can't be cured by cigarettes, coffee and cocaine!"

We giggled and waved and headed down the driveway. When we reached our car, I looked back at the house. Michael was struggling with the garbage cans, then broke into a hacking cough.

For the first few minutes of our ride home, Ken and I didn't say anything. Then at a traffic light, I looked over at him. "Didn't you think Michael..."

"He's FINE!" Ken cut me off.

"You didn't think he looked kinda thin? And that coughing..."

"Well, you know he smokes too much. And you'd look worn out too if YOU threw a Christmas party for 100 people."

"Yeah, I guess."

Ken knew what I was talking about, even if we didn't actually talk about it. For two years, maybe three, we'd been following the developing story about AIDS. At first, the press was calling it "gay cancer." Then GRID. Gay Related Immune Disorder. Then AIDS.

We lived in Orlando. Almost all the cases were in New York or San Francisco and that made us feel safe in a strange way. Neither of us had been in either place, except as children. And we didn't have any friends from either city. Then Miami began to report cases.

Michael was from Miami.

A week after his Christmas party, on New Year's Eve out at the club, Michael uncharacteristically left early. Before midnight. He said his hip was bothering him. Our friend Jack teased him as he was leaving. "Oh, is Grandpa having some problems with his rheumatiz?"

Michael just smiled and blew us kisses from across the room and limped out.

A few weeks later Ken called me from his office. He was going to take Michael to the hospital. His hip was terribly infected, and he couldn't walk. I didn't ask him what was wrong, by now we knew. And Michael knew that we did.

Waiting for Ken to come home, I watched a TV report on AIDS. Specifically, it dealt with how funeral parlors were sometimes refusing to handle the bodies of AIDS patients. Fear of infection. Fear of loss of reputation. The narrator made a comment about the families and friends of those killed by AIDS. He called them "this new and modern group" of grievers. When Ken got home, I told him about the story with indignation.

Over the next few months, Michael was in the hospital quite a bit. Ken got into the habit of visiting him on his way home from work, something I could rarely do since I worked nights. When I did see Michael, he looked progressively worse. Skinnier, more pale, his skin patchy and scaly.

But he always had that bitchy sense of humor and that chicken cackle. I'd hear that laugh from down the hallway as I approached his room, which always seemed to be full of friends.

Florida started its state lottery that summer. On the first night of the big drawing, I tried to stay awake for the results but I fell asleep with the tickets in my hands. I was awakened by Ken sitting on the bed.

"Hey." I rolled over and looked at the clock. Three in the morning?

Ken still had his tie on. My throat clenched. I don't know why, but I pushed the lottery tickets over towards him.

"So, um...are we millionaires?"

Ken didn't answer me.

"Where have you been? At the hospital? How's Michael?"

Ken leaned over and started untying his shoes. He pulled them off and finally turned to face me. He looked so very tired. He laid down next to me and hugged me, then spoke softly into my ear.

"We've just joined that new and modern group."

Swag Tuesday

Courtesy of SUNY Press, today's Swag Tuesday prize is the new book by Bryant University's Dr. Tom Roach, Friendship As A Way Of Life, which is now available at online booksellers.

Friendship as a Way of Life explores the vital role friendship plays in gay history and community. Emphasizing the openness and richness of gay friendships, Roach contends that friendship networks form the backbone of gay culture and politics. This is a timely reminder about the most serious political stakes of a relationship so often taken for granted. Borrowing its title from a 1981 interview Michel Foucault gave to a queer zine, Friendship develops the philosopher’s late work on friendship into a novel critique of contemporary GLBT political strategy. Roach brings to life Foucault's scant but suggestive writings on friendship (some translated here for the first time), emphasizing their ethical implications and advancing a new and politically viable concept—friendship as shared estrangement. An original and colorful interdisciplinary work of cultural history, critical theory, and textual analysis, Friendship as a Way of Life balances scholarly rigor with an accessibility that should appeal to researchers and non-academic audiences alike.

We have three copies of Friendship As A Way Of Life to be given away. Enter to win by commenting on this post. Only enter once and please remember to leave an email address you check frequently. Entries close at midnight on Thursday, west coast time. Publicists: If you'd like to take part in Swag Tuesday on JMG, please email me.

RELATED: Three days ago I posted an excerpt from Roach's Provincetown speech about his book. Bryant University recently posted a podcast interview with him.

HomoQuotable - Dr. Tom Roach

"One of my biggest fears as a gay kid was that I wouldn’t find that 'special someone,' that one person who was supposed to complete me, fulfill me. We’re all in one way or another trained to believe this is the apex of human relationships. After learning more about gay history and politics, after reading brilliant feminist and queer critiques of marriage and romance, however, I came to understand gay friendship networks as a viable and perhaps more fulfilling relationship alternative to marriage and family life.

"This is of course not to say that I’m against love, romance, or coupledom; this is not an either/or debate about friendship versus love, or friendship versus marriage. That’s silliness. Instead I ask readers to take seriously gay friendship networks as a unique cultural innovation, legitimate and gratifying in their own right. In recent years, as we all know, gay rights organizations have sunk enormous amounts of time, money, and energy into securing marriage and family rights for lesbians and gays. One of the main points of my book is to remind the gay community that friendship is the bedrock of all gay politics, of all gay rights struggles.

"If it weren’t for networks of friends: friends who marched in the streets together in the 70s, friends who cared for one another during the AIDS crisis, friendship networks that historically offered an alternative to obligatory heterosexuality and compulsory coupling, there wouldn’t be much of a gay community to fight for." - Dr. Tom Roach, speaking at the Bear Week launch for his new book, Friendship As A Way Of Life: Foucault, AIDS, and the Politics of Shared Estrangement. Roach's book is now available at online booksellers.

UPDATE: Roach talks about his book in this podcast.

I Will Hold You Ten Times

As longtime readers know, there are four or five JMG entries that I repost every year. This is one of them. My dear friend Daniel Johnson, who threw the most kickass Groundhog's Day birthday parties for himself, would have been 55 years old today. His was a life that burned brightly and I am illuminated still. Daniel Johnson, 1957-1997.

I Will Hold You Ten Times

1. I will hold you, Daniel.

2. The lesions don't bother me, I will hold you.

3. I will pretend nothing is wrong when you want me to pretend and when you want me to hold you, I will hold you.

4. I will make plans with you to go to your favorite places that we both know you can no longer go and I will sit with you and look at your pictures of these places and I will hold you.

5. I will ride with you on the train to your doctor's office and when you get sick in the station, I will hold you.

6. I will see the Post-It notes you put all over the house reminding yourself to do everyday things like "Turn off stove" and "Lock front door" and I'll pretend the disease isn't robbing your mind and when you tell me something for the third time in ten minutes, I won't let you know, I will hold you.

7. I will go to Safeway with you because you need to get out into the world and when the diarrhea overwhelms you and you shit your pants in the middle of the store, I will call us a cab and in the cab, I will hold you.

8. I will make you mix-tapes of our favorite songs from last summer, just like you asked me to, and when the memories make you sad instead of happy and you throw the tapes in the trash, I won't get angry, I will hold you.

9. I will sit up all night with you because the fevers and night sweats won't let you sleep. In the morning, I will change your drenched sheets and help you out of the shower and when you weep from the sight of your withered body in the mirror on the bathroom door, I will hold you.

10. I will hold you, Daniel.

Membership

ABOVE: At the 1985 Xmas party described below: Me, Michael, and Barney. I also wrote about Barney here.

Originally posted May 2004. Reposted for World AIDS Day.

Membership

Michael didn't look good.

We were at his annual Christmas Luau party. Tons and tons of people in the house and the backyard. Standing in his kitchen, wearing a grass skirt and a ridiculous Santa hat covered in sequins, he was acting like always...all flamboyant and silly and adorable.

But he didn't look...right.

It was 1985.

My boyfriend Ken and I stayed until the end of the party to help clean up. I busied myself in the kitchen, washing glasses and cleaning ashtrays. Through the kitchen window I watched Ken and Michael in the backyard where they were stacking up the chairs and dousing the dozens of tiki torches, the trademark of Michael's party. When we were finished, Ken and I stood for a few minutes on Michael's front porch to review the party: who came, who didn't, who shouldn't have come.

Finally I yawned and stretched and nudged Ken. "C'mon babe, let's roll. Michael, lots of fun as always. Try and get some sleep, you look like you need it."

Ken shot me a scowl.

I tried to recover. "I mean, you must be exhausted from getting the party ready."

Michael laughed and lit a cigarette. "Oh, you know me. I'll bounce back. Nothing that can't be cured by cigarettes, coffee and cocaine!"

We giggled and waved and headed down the driveway. When we reached our car, I looked back at the house. Michael was struggling with the garbage cans, then broke into a hacking cough.

For the first few minutes of our ride home, Ken and I didn't say anything. Then at a traffic light, I looked over at him. "Didn't you think Michael..."

"He's FINE!" Ken cut me off.

"You didn't think he looked kinda thin? And that coughing..."

'Well, you know he smokes too much. And you'd look worn out too if YOU threw a Christmas party for 100 people.'

"Yeah, I guess."

Ken knew what I was talking about, even if we didn't actually talk about it. For two years, maybe three, we'd been following the developing story about AIDS. At first, the press was calling it 'gay cancer'. Then GRID. Gay Related Immune Disorder. Then AIDS.

We lived in Orlando. Almost all the cases were in New York or San Francisco and that made us feel safe in a strange way. Neither of us had been in either place, except as children. And we didn't have any friends from either city. Then Miami began to report cases.

Michael was from Miami.

A week after his Christmas party, on New Year's Eve out at the club, Michael uncharacteristically left early. Before midnight. He said his hip was bothering him. Our friend Jack teased him as he was leaving. "Oh, is Grandpa having some problems with his rheumatiz?"

Michael just smiled and blew us kisses from across the room and limped out.

A few weeks later Ken called me from his office. He was going to take Michael to the hospital. His hip was terribly infected, and he couldn't walk. I didn't ask him what was wrong, by now we knew. And Michael knew that we did.

Waiting for Ken to come home, I watched a TV report on AIDS. Specifically, it dealt with how funeral parlors were sometimes refusing to handle the bodies of AIDS patients. Fear of infection. Fear of loss of reputation. The narrator made a comment about the families and friends of those killed by AIDS. He called them "this new and modern group" of grievers. When Ken got home, I told him about the story with indignation.

Over the next few months, Michael was in the hospital quite a bit. Ken got into the habit of visiting him on his way home from work, something I could rarely do since I worked nights. When I did see Michael, he looked progressively worse. Skinnier, more pale, his skin patchy and scaley.

But he always had that bitchy sense of humor and that chicken cackle. I'd hear that laugh from down the hallway as I approached his room, which always seemed to be full of friends.

Florida started its state lottery that summer. On the first night of the big drawing, I tried to stay awake for the results but I fell asleep with the tickets in my hands. I was awakened by Ken sitting on the bed.

"Hey." I rolled over and looked at the clock. Three in the morning?

Ken still had his tie on. My throat clenched. I don't know why, but I pushed the lottery tickets over towards him.

"So, um...are we millionaires?"

Ken didn't answer me.

"Where have you been? At the hospital? How's Michael?"

Ken leaned over and started untying his shoes. He pulled them off and finally turned to face me. He looked so very tired. He laid down next to me and hugged me, then spoke softly into my ear.

"We've just joined that 'new and modern' group."

Winter Party 2011

Yesterday Father Tony and I were joined by my dear Orlando friend Thomas for the 16th annual Winter Party on South Beach. This (I think) was my 11th time attending and once again the National Gay & Lesbian Task Force and their volunteer staff delivered a flawless event. Huge kudos to Task Force head Rea Carey, Winter Party event chair Chad Richter, and their army of smiley helpful volunteers. And we loved the trampoline stunt show.

I was especially pleased (of course) by the high turnout of bears this year and made it point to get some of their photos for those who complained yesterday about the smooth aesthetic of Saturday's pool party. Hit the slideshow at the bottom of this post for photos of many, many hotties of all ages, races, body types, and fur distributions. Full-screen versions here.

I Will Hold You Ten Times

As longtime readers know, there are four or five JMG entries that I repost every year. This is one of them. My dear friend Daniel Johnson, who threw the most kickass Groundhog's Day birthday parties for himself, would have been 54 years old today. His was a life that burned brightly and I am illuminated still. Daniel Johnson, 1957-1997.

I Will Hold You Ten Times

1. I will hold you, Daniel.

2. The lesions don't bother me, I will hold you.

3. I will pretend nothing is wrong when you want me to pretend and when you want me to hold you, I will hold you.

4. I will make plans with you to go to your favorite places that we both know you can no longer go and I will sit with you and look at your pictures of these places and I will hold you.

5. I will ride with you on the train to your doctor's office and when you get sick in the station, I will hold you.

6. I will see the Post-It notes you put all over the house reminding yourself to do everyday things like "Turn off stove" and "Lock front door" and I'll pretend the disease isn't robbing your mind and when you tell me something for the third time in ten minutes, I won't let you know, I will hold you.

7. I will go to Safeway with you because you need to get out into the world, and when the diarrhea overwhelms you and you shit your pants in the middle of the store, I will call us a cab and in the cab, I will hold you.

8. I will make you mix-tapes of our favorite songs from last summer, just like you asked me to, and when the memories make you sad instead of happy and you throw the tapes in the trash, I won't get angry, I will hold you.

9. I will sit up all night with you because the fevers and night sweats won't let you sleep. In the morning, I will change your drenched sheets and help you out of the shower and when you weep from the sight of your withered body in the mirror on the bathroom door, I will hold you.

10. I will hold you, Daniel.

Membership

ABOVE: At the 1985 Xmas party described below: Me, Michael, and Barney. I also wrote about Barney here.

Originally posted May 2004. Reposted for World AIDS Day.

Membership

Michael didn't look good.

We were at his annual Christmas Luau party. Tons and tons of people in the house and the backyard. Standing in his kitchen, wearing a grass skirt and a ridiculous Santa hat covered in sequins, he was acting like always...all flamboyant and silly and adorable.

But he didn't look...right.

It was 1985.

My boyfriend Ken and I stayed until the end of the party to help clean up. I busied myself in the kitchen, washing glasses and cleaning ashtrays. Through the kitchen window I watched Ken and Michael in the backyard where they were stacking up the chairs and dousing the dozens of tiki torches, the trademark of Michael's party. When we were finished, Ken and I stood for a few minutes on Michael's front porch to review the party: who came, who didn't, who shouldn't have come.

Finally I yawned and stretched and nudged Ken. "C'mon babe, let's roll. Michael, lots of fun as always. Try and get some sleep, you look like you need it."

Ken shot me a scowl.

I tried to recover. "I mean, you must be exhausted from getting the party ready."

Michael laughed and lit a cigarette. "Oh, you know me. I'll bounce back. Nothing that can't be cured by cigarettes, coffee and cocaine!"

We giggled and waved and headed down the driveway. When we reached our car, I looked back at the house. Michael was struggling with the garbage cans, then broke into a hacking cough.

For the first few minutes of our ride home, Ken and I didn't say anything. Then at a traffic light, I looked over at him. "Didn't you think Michael..."

"He's FINE!" Ken cut me off.

"You didn't think he looked kinda thin? And that coughing..."

'Well, you know he smokes too much. And you'd look worn out too if YOU threw a Christmas party for 100 people.'

"Yeah, I guess."

Ken knew what I was talking about, even if we didn't actually talk about it. For two years, maybe three, we'd been following the developing story about AIDS. At first, the press was calling it 'gay cancer'. Then GRID. Gay Related Immune Disorder. Then AIDS.

We lived in Orlando. Almost all the cases were in New York or San Francisco and that made us feel safe in a strange way. Neither of us had been in either place, except as children. And we didn't have any friends from either city. Then Miami began to report cases.

Michael was from Miami.

A week after his Christmas party, on New Year's Eve out at the club, Michael uncharacteristically left early. Before midnight. He said his hip was bothering him. Our friend Jack teased him as he was leaving. "Oh, is Grandpa having some problems with his rheumatiz?"

Michael just smiled and blew us kisses from across the room and limped out.

A few weeks later Ken called me from his office. He was going to take Michael to the hospital. His hip was terribly infected, and he couldn't walk. I didn't ask him what was wrong, by now we knew. And Michael knew that we did.

Waiting for Ken to come home, I watched a TV report on AIDS. Specifically, it dealt with how funeral parlors were sometimes refusing to handle the bodies of AIDS patients. Fear of infection. Fear of loss of reputation. The narrator made a comment about the families and friends of those killed by AIDS. He called them "this new and modern group" of grievers. When Ken got home, I told him about the story with indignation.

Over the next few months, Michael was in the hospital quite a bit. Ken got into the habit of visiting him on his way home from work, something I could rarely do since I worked nights. When I did see Michael, he looked progressively worse. Skinnier, more pale, his skin patchy and scaley.

But he always had that bitchy sense of humor and that chicken cackle. I'd hear that laugh from down the hallway as I approached his room, which always seemed to be full of friends.

Florida started its state lottery that summer. On the first night of the big drawing, I tried to stay awake for the results but I fell asleep with the tickets in my hands. I was awakened by Ken sitting on the bed.

"Hey." I rolled over and looked at the clock. Three in the morning?

Ken still had his tie on. My throat clenched. I don't know why, but I pushed the lottery tickets over towards him.

"So, um...are we millionaires?"

Ken didn't answer me.

"Where have you been? At the hospital? How's Michael?"

Ken leaned over and started untying his shoes. He pulled them off and finally turned to face me. He looked so very tired. He laid down next to me and hugged me, then spoke softly into my ear.

"We've just joined that 'new and modern' group."

Ricky Loved Madonna

As longtime readers know, there are a handful of short stories from my archives that I repost annually. Today is Madonna's 52nd birthday and this story makes its fifth appearance in memory of a departed friend.

Ricky Loved Madonna

Today is August 16th. It's Madonna's 48th birthday. That's not something of which I'd ordinarily make note.........

Twenty years ago today, August 16th 1986, I was a few months into a new job with AMC Theatres, a job that I would hold for seven years after having spent a few years after college drifting around bartending, waitering, and DJ-ing. After burning through three terrible DJ gigs in about a year, I took the management position with AMC almost in desperation, happy to finally have a regular paycheck. I bought my first brand new car. I had several dozen underlings. I had a business card. I felt like a grown-up, almost.

Twenty years ago today, it was a Saturday. As the assistant manager, I had to be at the theatre at 10am, even though I had closed the midnight shows the night before, not getting home until almost 4am. I stumbled through the still-unfamiliar opening procedures. My mind was on Ricky. I took the cash drawers out to the concession stand and the box office and turned on the air conditioners and lights in all the auditoriums. The first movie, a Disney cartoon, started at 11:30am and we had hundreds of people in front of the box office before I even rolled up the mall gates.

Twenty years ago today, the night before was a Friday. It was the opening night of the remake of The Fly, starring Jeff Goldblum. My six-plex was jamming. The Fly sold out at every show, driving the overflow audiences into Top Gun and Aliens, which were still doing decent business on their own. All six auditoriums sold out by 8pm and I rushed to get that show's money counted before the first of the auditoriums began to let out and we had to start the process all over again. I pushed into the counting room inside the manager's office and dumped several thousand in $20's onto the countertop. The intercom buzzed.

"Mr. J., there's a man here to see you."

In the lobby was my friend Todd. "Joe, I'm on my way to see Ricky. Can you come? He's worse."

I looked out into the mall where hundreds of teenagers milled around in front of closed storefronts. The Interstate Mall was on its last legs. All that was left was the theatre, a pinball arcade, an adult novelty shop, and the driver's license bureau, which was closed at that hour. The teenagers roamed the broad unswept avenue of the mall in swirling, shrieking packs, anxious for the late show to begin.

I shook my head. "Todd, I'm the only one here. I have the late show and then the midnights. The last movie doesn't let out until almost 3am. I have to lock up." Todd nodded and made a movement like he was going to hug me, then realized that a dozen of my employees were watching. Awkwardly, he stuck out his hand, as if that's what he'd intended all along. I shook it and he left. I had never shaken Todd's hand before.

Twenty years ago today, one week earlier, Ricky went into the hospital. He'd had a seizure on the bathroom floor of his sister's condo. Todd and I went to the hospital the next day and found him lying unconscious in his bed, unattended, in a pool of feces. Todd staggered into the hallway and tried to control his retching while I looked for a nurse. At the nurses' station, the stout Jamaican woman behind the counter nodded curtly but didn't get out of her chair when I asked that Ricky receive some attention. I went back to find Todd sitting out in the lounge, smoking.

"Joe, I can't be here. I'm freaking out. Do you know we walked right in there without a mask on?"

"I think the mask is more for him than us....so if..."

"I have to go."

We stopped at the Burger King a few blocks away and washed our hands. Even though we hadn't touched Ricky or anything but the door of his hospital room, we scrubbed the front and backs of our hands like we'd seen surgeons do on television.

Twenty years ago today, two weeks earlier, Todd and I had dropped in at Ricky's sister's condo. Ricky had been forced to move in with her. He'd lost his job at the giant hotel near Disney where he'd been training to be a pastry chef. For a long time he'd managed to keep his illness a secret, wearing long shirts even in the hot kitchen so that nobody saw the lesions that were growing inexorably from his wrists to his elbows. A lesion appeared on the back of his hand and that one he covered with make-up, but when a lesion appeared right on the tip of his nose, the head chef and head of human resources had called him in on his day off to fire him. Surely he understood, they told him, that they couldn't have him handling food.

When Ricky's sister opened the door of her condo, she made a face. "He's not feeling well." She'd already made it clear to Todd on his previous visit that she did not like her brother's "friends". Todd said quickly, "Oh, well, we just wanted to drop off a present for him." I had Madonna's latest release, True Blue, on CD in a sparkly bag. We knew that he'd gotten the vinyl album earlier in the summer, but since he was such a big fan we knew he'd like to have the CD version too.

His sister led us into the bedroom where we found Ricky watching television. He was cranky and inattentive to us, but momentarily brightened when we gave him the CD. He examined the cover. "It's the same as the album, just smaller." He didn't have a player, hardly anyone did yet, so he laid the longbox reverently on his nightstand, propping it against the lamp. His sister hovered in the doorway smoking, anxious for our departure, and we soon obliged her.

Twenty years ago today, three months earlier, I met Ricky for the first time at a party thrown by Todd. I'd heard from Todd that Ricky was "sick", but he seemed fine to me. We stood outside on the patio and watched guys jumping into the pool.

Ricky said, "So what do you do, Joe?"

I said, "Well, I just started working for AMC Theatres."

Ricky screamed a little bit. "Which ONE?"

I stepped back. "Interstate Six, why?"

"Because I am in there ALL the time. I saw At Close Range about five times just to hear Madonna's song in it!"

"She wasn't in the movie, was she?"

"No, but I'm just a freak for her." He paused, then added dramatically, "We have the same birthday!"

"Oh....really." I began to look around for Todd.

Ricky began to get very animated and his words tumbled out. "Yes!. Same day, same year. I was born exactly at midnight and my mother always said I could have August 15th or August 16th for my birthday. It was my choice and for the longest time I had it on August 15th cuz that's Julia Child's birthday and she's a chef and I'm a chef and she was like, my idol when I was little. Such a fag, right? Anyway, when Madonna came out and I found out her birthday, I was all...that's IT. I'm August 16th from now on!"

Ricky continued professing his undying love for Madonna until I was finally able to make a graceful escape. Later, Todd told me that Ricky had dressed as Madonna for the previous Halloween and belonged to her mail-order fan club and we laughed a little bit at his adorably nutty fandom.

Twenty years ago today, August 16th 1986, was a Saturday. The theatre had brisk business for the morning show, selling out the Disney movie. After all the houses were rolling, I pulled the money from the box office and sat alone in the office to count it. I turned on the radio so I could hear Casey Kasem counting down the Top 40.

Todd called. "Well, the hospital just told me Ricky died around midnight last night."

"Oh, no. Did you get in to see him...before.....?"

"No, his sister and mother were there, so I just left without going in."

"Right." That's how it usually went back then.

Todd hung up and I sat there finishing up my money counting. I didn't know how to feel. I really couldn't call Ricky a friend. I had to count and recount the money several times. I kept losing my place. Then I heard Casey Kasem say, "Hitting number one today is Madonna's Papa Don't Preach."

I called Todd back. "So, did they give you a time of death for Ricky?"

"Yeah, midnight."

"Right, but is that today or yesterday?"

"What?"

"Well, today is his birthday and it's Madonna's birthday and I just heard that she's number one today...and.....it would be, you know, sorta nice if it was today."

"What the fuck is nice about dying on your BIRTHDAY?"

We never talked about it again. I never did find out what day was listed for Ricky's death. As the years went on and Madonna's fame increased, the press began to note her birthday. And ever since that started, I think of Ricky on August 16th. I never knew Ricky's last name. He wasn't a close friend. But he has stuck with me over these two decades.

I know that writing these stories about dead people is rather maudlin. Melodramatic. In a way, a story about a stranger's death is always going to feel melodramatic, I suppose. I've written stories like this a half dozen times over the two years of this blog's existence, and I've got many more, more sad stories still untold. I think I get feeling scared that if I don't get the story out there, I'll forget it. Forget how it happened. Forget the person.

Twenty years ago today, Ricky, aged 28, died on his birthday. I will always hope that it was his August 16th birthday. Ricky loved Madonna.

Afternoon View - Tranquility Base

We had a relatively quick exit from Manhattan this morning on our way to Hillside Campground in the Poconos Mountains of eastern Pennsylvania, where today I begin my tenth consecutive summer of Hillside weekends. After our traditional lunch at the fab Jefferson Diner in northern New Jersey, we arrived more than an hour earlier than usual. No traffic, no thunderstorms, for once! Aaron and Chris are fussing with the tent and shortly after set-up we'll be down at the rec hall for the nightly bonfire party. Ah...Hillside.

I Will Hold You Ten Times

As longtime readers know, there are four or five JMG entries that I repost every year. This is one of them. My dear friend Daniel Johnson, who threw the most kickass Groundhog's Day birthday parties for himself, would have been 53 years old today. His was a life that burned brightly and I am illuminated still. Daniel Johnson, 1957-1997.

I Will Hold You Ten Times

1. I will hold you, Daniel

2. The lesions don't bother me. I will hold you.

3. I will pretend nothing is wrong when you want me to pretend and when you want me to hold you, I will hold you.

4. I will make plans with you to go to your favorite places that we both know you can no longer go and I will sit with you and look at your pictures of these places and I will hold you.

5. I will ride with you on the train to your doctor's office and when you get sick in the station, I will hold you.

6. I will see the Post-It notes you put all over the house reminding yourself to do everyday things like "Turn off stove" and "Lock front door", and I'll pretend the disease isn't robbing your mind and when you tell me something for the third time in ten minutes, I won't let you know, I will hold you.

7. I will go to Safeway with you because you need to get out into the world, and when the diarrhea overwhelms you and you shit your pants in the middle of the store, I will call us a cab and in the cab, I will hold you.

8. I will make you mix-tapes of our favorite songs from last summer, just like you asked me to, and when the memories make you sad instead of happy and you throw the tapes in the trash, I won't get angry, I will hold you.

9. I will sit up all night with you because the fevers and night sweats won't let you sleep. In the morning, I'll change your drenched sheets and help you out of the shower and when you weep from the sight of your withered body in the mirror on the bathroom door, I will hold you.

10. I will hold you, Daniel.

Happy 2010, Y'All

It was a year of homophobes and haters, but also one of heroes, milestones, and some pretty terrific victories. I cranked out about 6000 posts on this here website thingy and you folks responded with over 300,000 comments as traffic more than doubled. JMG got some great notice from the Anti-Violence Project, the Advocate, Instinct Magazine, and After Elton, although I'll admit that I took special pleasure from that whole FBI terrorist threat nonsense.

I marched in the NYC Pride parade for the first time (with 50 other LGBT bloggers) and covered many marriage rallies, protests and celebrations, Broadway fundraisers, and other LGBT charity events. And sadly, a sobering number of hate crime vigils. On a more personal note, accompanied by two dozen dear friends, I had an unbelievably great 50th birthday trip to San Francisco, where I was stunned with the city's Joe Jervis Day proclamation, then followed that up with a fabulous week-long press junket to Key West. And wahoo, my interview with Rachel Maddow made the cover of the national Pride Magazine.

So, yeah, it was an exciting, aggravating, fun, angry-making (but overall groovy) year here on JMG and for me personally. I humbly thank all of you for being there for the ride. Here's to 2010! Raise up our heroes and screw the asshats!

Membership

ABOVE: At the 1985 Xmas party described below: Me, Michael, and Barney. I also wrote about Barney here.

Originally posted May 2004. Reposted for World AIDS Day.

Membership

Michael didn't look good.

We were at his annual Christmas Luau party. Tons and tons of people in the house and the backyard. Standing in his kitchen, wearing a grass skirt and a ridiculous Santa hat covered in sequins, he was acting like always...all flamboyant and silly and adorable.

But he didn't look...right.

It was 1985.

My boyfriend Ken and I stayed until the end of the party to help clean up. I busied myself in the kitchen, washing glasses and cleaning ashtrays. Through the kitchen window I watched Ken and Michael in the backyard where they were stacking up the chairs and dousing the dozens of tiki torches, the trademark of Michael's party. When we were finished, Ken and I stood for a few minutes on Michael's front porch to review the party: who came, who didn't, who shouldn't have come.

Finally I yawned and stretched and nudged Ken. "C'mon babe, let's roll. Michael, lots of fun as always. Try and get some sleep, you look like you need it."

Ken shot me a scowl.

I tried to recover. "I mean, you must be exhausted from getting the party ready."

Michael laughed and lit a cigarette. "Oh, you know me. I'll bounce back. Nothing that can't be cured by cigarettes, coffee and cocaine!"

We giggled and waved and headed down the driveway. When we reached our car, I looked back at the house. Michael was struggling with the garbage cans, then broke into a hacking cough.

For the first few minutes of our ride home, Ken and I didn't say anything. Then at a traffic light, I looked over at him. "Didn't you think Michael..."

"He's FINE!" Ken cut me off.

"You didn't think he looked kinda thin? And that coughing..."

'Well, you know he smokes too much. And you'd look worn out too if YOU threw a Christmas party for 100 people.'

"Yeah, I guess."

Ken knew what I was talking about, even if we didn't actually talk about it. For two years, maybe three, we'd been following the developing story about AIDS. At first, the press was calling it 'gay cancer'. Then GRID. Gay Related Immune Disorder. Then AIDS.

We lived in Orlando. Almost all the cases were in New York or San Francisco and that made us feel safe in a strange way. Neither of us had been in either place, except as children. And we didn't have any friends from either city. Then Miami began to report cases.

Michael was from Miami.

A week after his Christmas party, on New Year's Eve out at the club, Michael uncharacteristically left early. Before midnight. He said his hip was bothering him. Our friend Jack teased him as he was leaving. "Oh, is Grandpa having some problems with his rheumatiz?"

Michael just smiled and blew us kisses from across the room and limped out.

A few weeks later Ken called me from his office. He was going to take Michael to the hospital. His hip was terribly infected, and he couldn't walk. I didn't ask him what was wrong, by now we knew. And Michael knew that we did.

Waiting for Ken to come home, I watched a TV report on AIDS. Specifically, it dealt with how funeral parlors were sometimes refusing to handle the bodies of AIDS patients. Fear of infection. Fear of loss of reputation. The narrator made a comment about the families and friends of those killed by AIDS. He called them "this new and modern group" of grievers. When Ken got home, I told him about the story with indignation.

Over the next few months, Michael was in the hospital quite a bit. Ken got into the habit of visiting him on his way home from work, something I could rarely do since I worked nights. When I did see Michael, he looked progressively worse. Skinnier, more pale, his skin patchy and scaley.

But he always had that bitchy sense of humor and that chicken cackle. I'd hear that laugh from down the hallway as I approached his room, which always seemed to be full of friends.

Florida started its state lottery that summer. On the first night of the big drawing, I tried to stay awake for the results but I fell asleep with the tickets in my hands. I was awakened by Ken sitting on the bed.

"Hey." I rolled over and looked at the clock. Three in the morning?

Ken still had his tie on. My throat clenched. I don't know why, but I pushed the lottery tickets over towards him.

"So, um...are we millionaires?"

Ken didn't answer me.

"Where have you been? At the hospital? How's Michael?"

Ken leaned over and started untying his shoes. He pulled them off and finally turned to face me. He looked so very tired. He laid down next to me and hugged me, then spoke softly into my ear.

"We've just joined that 'new and modern' group."

Evening View - Call PETA

Remember The Party 2009

Today I was finally able to sit down and sort through a few hundred photos and put together a slideshow and upload a couple of videos from Sunday's epic Remember The Party event in San Francisco, where as you can see above, the event's promoters even tipped my birthday on a banner over the dance floor. What an incredible night!

Big huge thanks to my dear friend Leif Wauters for organizing things and for the delicious mirror ball birthday cake! And teary teary hugs to all my boys for coming from all over the country: Mark & Tim, Doug & Bill, Father Tony & Chris, Ken & Jim (Philly), Ken & Jim (Los Angeles), Little David, Nick, Little Tom, Aaron, Chris C., Craig, Ned, Jerry, Aaron, Matt & Frank, Lee, and Zod help me if I've left anybody out. At the party, Matt Foreman's husband Frank had "I (Heart) Joe" stickers for everybody, in case you're wondering what those little JMG heads are on everybody.

The music, as always, was incredible. As I've said here before, Gay Disco Rule #1 is "Sylvester will never be topped." Gay Disco Rule #2: "DJ Jerry Bonham does not fail." (I thought LA Ken's head would explode when Jerry played M's Moonlight And Musak.) Here's the setlist, I'll have a link to purchase the evening's complete box set as soon as it comes out. The Remember The Party team put on a completely amazing and fabulous evening - I even got to meet and hang out a bit with UK nu-disco star Shena Winchester, so cool. (It's "Shen-nah", she let me know.)

The sound quality isn't perfect in the two clips below, but you'll get an idea of explosive joy provided by DJ Jerry Bonham and the party's fantastic light crew. As for the slideshow, it's safe for work, provided you can look at photos of half-nekkid furry menz. Thanks again to everybody for the kind of 50th birthday party an aging disco queen can only dream of. My chiffon is wet, my chiffon is wet, darlings!