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ABOVE: At the 1985 Xmas party described below: Me, Michael, and Barney.

Originally posted May 2004. Reposted for World AIDS Day.

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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 Ken what was wrong, by then 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."

BELOW: Barney died four years later. Here's his NAMES Project quilt panel.

Membership

ABOVE: At the 1985 Xmas party described below: Me, Michael, and Barney.

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."

BELOW: Barney died four years later. Here's his NAMES Project quilt panel.

Today: Transgender Day Of Remembrance

Find events in your city with this list. New Yorkers: There will be an observance tonight beginning at 6pm at the LGBT Community Center in the West Village.

Quote Of The Day - Laurie Anderson

"We were at home – I'd gotten him out of the hospital a few days before – and even though he was extremely weak, he insisted on going out into the bright morning light. As meditators, we had prepared for this – how to move the energy up from the belly and into the heart and out through the head. I have never seen an expression as full of wonder as Lou's as he died. His hands were doing the water-flowing 21-form of tai chi. His eyes were wide open. I was holding in my arms the person I loved the most in the world, and talking to him as he died. His heart stopped. He wasn't afraid. I had gotten to walk with him to the end of the world. Life – so beautiful, painful and dazzling – does not get better than that. And death? I believe that the purpose of death is the release of love. At the moment, I have only the greatest happiness and I am so proud of the way he lived and died, of his incredible power and grace." - Laurie Anderson, writing for Rolling Stone's upcoming tribute issue to Lou Reed.

Sad News For JMG Community: Longtime Commenter Beeblemeyer Has Died

JMG reader Tone writes with the very sad news that longtime commenter David Lee Beebe, known to most of you as Beeblemeyer, has passed away from kidney disease. David was one of the earliest readers of this site and often sent kind emails and news tips, although those came far less frequently in the last year as he struggled with his advancing disease and his lack of insurance.  David was also a big fan of Jonathan Mann, YouTube's "Song-A-Day Man", who wrote today's song for him.

VIDEO: It Could Happen To You

Andy Towle writes:

Shane Bitney Crone has marked the one-year anniversary of his boyfriend of six years, Tom Bridegroom, with a devastating video, It could happen to you, chronicling what happened to him after Tom's sudden death. If there's anyone in your life who doesn't understand the familial rejection, the institutional discrimination, and the bias that gay couples face every day, here's one man's account.

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."

Tears And Rage

The post below this one reminds me of one of the very first I wrote for JMG. Originally posted here on June 8th, 2004.

Yesterday I watched Ronald Reagan's body being ceremoniously placed for viewing in the Presidential Library in Simi Valley, California. The honor guard, comprised of all military services, moved with stiff dignity while placing Reagan's flag-draped coffin on its pedestal. The Marine Corps band played Hail To The Chief then My Country 'Tis Of Thee.

Tiny Nancy Reagan was lead in, followed by her children. Other military and governmental dignitaries filed in and were seated behind the Reagan family. And as the service began, as the religious figure began his familiar droning, as the mourners held each other and dabbed their eyes...I found myself....weeping. But I wasn't weeping for Ronald Reagan. I wasn't weeping for Nancy or her kids.

I was weeping for my friends. Friends that died of AIDS during Reagan's presidency. Friends that never had the slightest chance of surviving their illness because Reagan refused to even speak the word AIDS until many years into the epidemic.

I wept for Barney. Barney the party-thrower, the generous host, the bon vivant. Barney, who could make a stranger feel comfortable in a room full of a hundred new people. Barney, who actually got me to climb up and dance on a nightclub's speakers with him. I wept for Barney who died choking from pneumocystis, in the middle of the night, alone.

I wept for Peyman. Peyman, the Iranian student left stranded in Florida when the Shah fell from power. Peyman, the fashion plate with his beautiful black hair and flashing brown eyes, who wore Parachute and WilliWear and always looked fabulous. Peyman, who taught me that Iranians were not Arabs and how to curse in Farsi. I wept for Peyman who died blind, paralyzed, shrieking and demented.

I wept for Nathan. Nathan, the shy Southern boy with the Star Trek obsession. Nathan, who finally afforded me an understanding of the infield fly rule. Nathan, who had an adorable habit of taking a short jump in the air when something pleased him. I wept for Nathan, whose family refused receipt of his remains.

I thought about my little black address book with 'D' for 'deceased' next to so many names. I've had friends tell me it's macabre to keep using it. I don't care. This is all so fucking unfair. I should be sending those guys silly birthday cards about being middle-aged instead of wondering who has their ashes.

As Reagan's funeral proceeded, my tears to turned to anger and back to tears. This was so not fucking right! I wanted this man to suffer more! I wanted his mind fully engaged and aware of every diaper change. I wanted him to endure endless indignities and know the same fear and ostracism and neglect that my friends had. Knowing that his mind had escaped its physical prison, I felt cheated. My revenge was incomplete.

And then I felt shame for thinking that, even about Ronald Reagan.

For the first time that I can recall, yesterday I felt my absence of faith. It's hard to invoke the satisfying image of somebody burning in hell for eternity when you don't actually believe that hell exists.

I finally turned off the television. I thought viewing Reagan's funeral would bring to me a sense of finality. Instead, I was surprised to learn that I can still cry. I didn't think I could anymore. Not like that.

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.

Celebrity Deaths Of 2010

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.

Love Will Tear Us Apart

Joy Division lead singer Ian Curtis committed suicide 30 years ago yesterday. Here's the band's iconic single, Love Will Tear Us Apart. This version is slightly different than the one most of us remember, but the audio is great. Some of you tender kittens won't know this track, but it's the one that diverted many of us from disco into a more rock-oriented dance sound.

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.

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."

Transgender Day Of Remembrance

Today is the 11th annual International Transgender Day Of Remembrance.

The Transgender Day of Remembrance was set aside to memorialize those who were killed due to anti-transgender hatred or prejudice. The event is held in November to honor Rita Hester, whose murder on November 28th, 1998 kicked off the “Remembering Our Dead” web project and a San Francisco candlelight vigil in 1999. Rita Hester’s murder — like most anti-transgender murder cases — has yet to be solved.

Although not every person represented during the Day of Remembrance self-identified as transgender — that is, as a transsexual, crossdresser, or otherwise gender-variant — each was a victim of violence based on bias against transgender people. We live in times more sensitive than ever to hatred based violence, especially since the events of September 11th. Yet even now, the deaths of those based on anti-transgender hatred or prejudice are largely ignored. Over the last decade, more than one person per month has died due to transgender-based hate or prejudice, regardless of any other factors in their lives. This trend shows no sign of abating.

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 51st birthday and this story makes its fourth 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, propped 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. "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.

Ashes, Part 2

Continued from last week's reposting of Ashes, Part 1.

When Gary died, we scattered his ashes into the Gulf Of Mexico off Pass-A-Grill beach. That was the gay section of the beach in St. Petersburg and Gary had stipulated that we release his ashes in that place where he'd spent so many languorous afternoons with his best friends. Then we went to T-dance at the nearby club and got spectacularly drunk on a bar tab that he had pre-paid for us.

When Michael Paul died, his friends scattered his ashes off Haulover Beach, the nude/gay section of the national seashore near North Miami Beach. Then they all got stoned out of their gourds on some killer weed that Michael had been hoarding for the occasion.

When Martin died, his lover Angelo placed his ashes in their prized Baccarat crystal decanter, from which Martin used to serve his famous "Martin-eees". The decanter sat right on their antique serving cart, because as Angelo put it, "More than anything in his life, Martin hated to miss a good party."

Naturally, all these ceremonies made us all contemplate our own disposal. It was a common topic in my circle, sometimes discussed with silliness and frivolity, sometimes with sincerely delivered drunken pledges to honor each other's plans.

For myself, I gave everyone instructions that if I met an untimely demise, I was to have my ashes fired out of the confetti cannon at the Warsaw Ballroom, on a Saturday night, over the packed dance floor, at the precise peak moment of The Communards' cover version of Never Can Say Goodbye. And the crowd would squint and spit out the ashes and say, "Ew, yuck! Tastes like.....Joe!" When the Warsaw fell out of favor, I changed the location to Paragon, then to Amnesia, then to another club, then another, and so on, for several years.

Sometime around 1993, my roommate Jim had his boyfriend Jeff move in with us while they looked for a place of their own. The first time I visited the house that they eventually found was when I arrived for Jeff's memorial about a year later. At the door, I was handed a Florida Lottery scratch-0ff ticket, because Jeff so loved his scratch-offs. Similarly, only Miller Lite in the can was served, along with Skittles and Cool-Ranch Doritos. Jeff's ashes sat on a shelf in Jim's closet, where they still were ten years later when I asked Jim about it.

Ask any gay man over 40 and he'll likely have a couple of ashes stories for you. I suppose the fact that so many gay men are cremated, rather that buried, is a function of several influences. Among them are a lack of interest in religion, a disconnection from biological families, and in the early years, an unwillingness of funeral homes to handle the bodies of AIDS patients. And certainly, the cost of burial was/is a factor, as AIDS impoverishes almost everybody it touches.

I have friends who have the ashes of lovers, the ashes of roommates, and in one case, the ashes of a lover's roommate. These ashes are sometimes prominently displayed in tasteful urns, positioned in places of honor. Sometimes these ashes are quietly stored out of sight in a closet or in a box under a bed, their caretakers unwilling to dispose of them, yet unable to cope with a constant visual reminder.

My friend David F. used to say that gay men tend to create such ceremony over these ashes because it's part of our new and still-evolving unique tribal culture. Some cultures create funeral pyres. Some float their dead down a river. Gay men largely ignore the physical body after death, it seems. I can't remember having been to a viewing or a burial. But we do sometimes turn the ashes into ceremonial props, potent visual effects best used in celebrating love, or so we try to convince ourselves as we force ourselves to forget the suffering and remember the smiling. And sometimes we turned the ashes into potent weapons of dissent, hurling them onto the lawn of the White House.

After David F. died, his lover David R. and group of their friends, myself included, scattered David F.'s ashes from the back of their boat just offshore Miami Beach. We were each given a small portion of the ashes, which were divided into fancy individual fabric bags. It was beautiful, it was heartwrenching, but above all, it was David F. entirely. Martha Stewart had nothing on David F. when it came to fabulous event planning.

One by one, we untied the ribbon around our bag of ashes and said a personal farewell, all as stipulated by David F. As I tossed the contents of my bag into the breeze, I said, "David, even from beyond the grave, you are a drama queen. And I will always love you."

It was one year and one day later when we repeated the ritual for David R.

Originally posted September 2004.

I Will Hold You Ten Times

As longtime readers may 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 52 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 your 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.

(Originally from a journal I was keeping in the 90's. Special thanks to my SF pal Robert for reminding me of today's date.)

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, 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, reviewing 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 that 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. 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 Michael 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, 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."