Sing it, Pink!

Leave them both alone...

In order to appreciate the second video you must watch the first.

Remember. Always remember

Last night, returning to our apartment building, we saw this. It is a memorial by an artist that lives in our building. It sits in the hall with a candle at the base.

From the rooftop she screams

Photo by Amanda Friedman for Newsweek

From Newsweek:

By Loraine Barr

Sept. 3, 2007 issue - I was born at a time when to have romantic feelings for another woman was known as "the love that dare not speak its name." I first read Radclyffe Hall's "The Well of Loneliness" around 1938, in my impressionable teens. The book was a heartfelt cry for understanding and acceptance of the "invert." Now we say "gay" and "lesbian," and nobody faints, although we still lack the same rights as other citizens. In how many ways have attitudes changed? And how have they not?

When I went to college in the 1940s, the sex books were kept under lock and key in the UCLA library. I was too embarrassed to ask for permission to borrow those books.

Seeking enlightenment, I looked at young women walking around the campus engrossed in one another, and I thought, "Well, at least they have each other.

"
I did not realize that even I was judging them, while perhaps envying them. I was dating men regularly and enjoyed being thought popular. Nevertheless, when I came home after each date, said "Goodnight" and closed the door, I usually breathed a sigh of relief.

One eligible young man said, on leaving, "We'll get together soon." I said, "All right, but be sure to warn me."

"Warn you!" he exploded, slamming the door as he left.

And then I met a woman: a teacher on campus, who helped me see beauty in the whole world. At 28, for the first time, I was loved and knew love, for myself, for the person I really was.
But while glorying in my never-before-experienced happiness, I knew it had to be hidden. She was married. Often, the only way to see her was with her husband. I was also dating her brother, and we all would sometimes go dancing.

That relationship ended after a few years, when my loved one's husband intervened. I didn't see her until years later, when I stood in line at her book signing at USC. She was alone, cordial; she asked about my mother. But no, she couldn't join me for coffee afterward.

Now I write this after living for 44 years with the most loved and loving, giving, understanding and delightful partner imaginable. For all our time together, we were "in the closet."

For so long, if you were a known homosexual you could lose your job. We kept our relationship from our families—or at least we thought we did. After my partner died, her son told me that her family knew about us, but kept our secret because they believed our relationship was our own business.

But our silence for all those years was also partially a self-induced caution. Looking back, I think it's possible that as the world changed, we didn't change fast enough.

We knew a few other lesbian couples, and we were comfortable around them. But most of our friends were straight, so we had separate bedrooms to make it seem as though we were just roommates. On one occasion, when my partner and I were with cherished, straight friends, just the four of us after a satisfying dinner, sitting quietly in our living room, I thought how liberating it would be for us to tell our friends of our relationship. They must have seen it coming, for they quickly changed the subject. We four remained warmhearted friends, but we two never again tried to enlighten them or any others.

I never spoke about my sexual orientation with my mother, but she also must have known. When she died, the last thing she said to me was, "I never understood your way of life, but I do now." I didn't reply.

Finally, after almost nine years since my beloved partner's death, I am able to do what I could never have braved in earlier years: pre-sent myself herewith to the world as a lesbian, along with all the women who ask to be judged by the full facet of our characters.
Why am I now able to speak the unspoken? A friend at the retirement community where I live recently came out in the local and national newspapers. When I saw her do that, I thought, for heaven's sake, nobody can fire me, I'm 88 years old, my parents are gone.
Still, I was frightened. It took me several days to put this essay in the mailbox. I owe a lot of credit to people who are comfortable enough in their own skins to say, "This is who I am."
Shall I be haunted for trying to tell my story now, when many might still not wish to address it, or shall I, perhaps, be congratulated?

Flamer

At 3:30 this morning the alarms in our building began to blare. Ric went to check what was going on and quickly returned to say that we needed to get out of the building. Outside we noticed that a construction site next door was on fire and the flames reached at least a hundred feet in the air. There were eleven fire trucks, six police cars and countless firemen and policemen. I am thankful for those men who rushed to put out the flames. If weather conditions had been different and the wind was blowing, the fire could have taken out our entire neighborhood. This picture was taken by Ric on his phone.

Dig a little deeper senator

Which one of these is not like the other, which one of these doesn't belong?

Hat tip Good As You

Can she vote?

And she didn't win? What kind of world do we live in?

Great things for a great man!

Sometimes bad things happen to good people. Sometimes great things happen to bad people. Sometimes tragic things happen to great people. And sometimes great things happen to great people.

Yesterday a great thing happened in my husband’s life. I can’t get into the details quite yet but when the ink dries I will be sure to fill you all in. But nothing short of great happened to a great man.

The measurement of grace

As a child I would frequently spend the night at my grandparents’ house along with three of my cousins who were all are around my age. Every night after a day full of playing and surely some fighting my grandmother would give us all baths, dry us off and put us in pajamas. And the pajamas were of the super-hero variety.

They were not Batman or Superman or any of the others. They were my grandfather’s old shirts. And as she would pull them over my head I could smell my grandfather’s aftershave. There was always comfort in that smell. I was the biggest little boy in the world with his shirt on.

I always knew I was growing up simply by where the lower hem of his shirt reached my body. First down to the ankles, then down to the calves, then to the knees. I measured my growth as a boy by the consistency of his size.

And in the morning we would all assemble in the breakfast room where my grandmother would have put together a veritable feast (she always made us menus the night before and we each got to check off what we wanted. And it would always be made just the way we “ordered it. Every. Single. Time!) and there would be Granddaddy, in his chair, waiting for his grandkids. And when I would reach up to give him a morning hug I would notice just how strong my Granddaddy was. I measured my strength as a boy by the consistency of his embrace.

And on Sunday mornings when he would preach he would look into the congregation and find his family. And from the pulpit he would ask us to stand. As we stood I would well up with such pride. It was my Granddaddy taking time to say hello to me. To me! I measured my pride as a boy by the consistency of his acknowledgement.

And just after 9/11/01, I went to Texas for a three week visit. My grandfather asked if he could take me to lunch. He asked me to recount what that terrible day in September was like. He was the only member of my family to do so. And as I told him the horror he listened intently and said “You’re the only person I know who was there. That took a lot of courage son. You are a strong young man. I am so proud of you”. I measured my worth as a young man by the consistency of his love.

And somewhere in the not so distant future the memories will be all I have. And the day will come and he will leave. And the chains will loosen and he will be set free from the confines of his now frail body. And the man I adored all my life will be before the God for whom he lived his life. And the gates will be open, the angels will rejoice and my grandfather will enter…measured by the consistency of His grace.

A Text (and picture) from the husband

The text that accompanied this photo sent at 7:30 read: Groovin' to tunes on the choo choo

Tomorrow I will start a six part series dedicated to the six years Ric and I will have been together (August 12th)

The View From My Car Window

45th and Sixth Avenue at 6:45 AM on Saturday morning, after dropping Ric off at Grand Central

Wonder who the 25% that still support the shrub are? Wonder no more!

Rapture Ready: The Unauthorized Christians United for Israel Tour from huffpost and Vimeo.

Just blame me. It's easier that way.

Scream it, Keith!

Oprah and Me, we used to be so close

I am currently looking for a new job. Something in the area of publishing, entertainment or media since I have experience in those three things, primarily publishing. The other day as I was digging through my contacts I came across my International Radio and Television Society roster yearbook from 2001/2002. I forgot that Oprah and me were on the same page at one time!

It was the closest I will probably ever get to the Queen!

PS. Numbers are also listed in another area of the roster and Barbara Walters was in there so, just for shits and giggles, I called it and a lady at the other end answered “Barbara Walters' office” and I said “Sorry, wrong number" and hung up.

Beginning to Scream its Name

I will post soon about what has been going on in my life but for now I wanted to share this story from Andrew Sullivan. Please read it. It is a fear that every gay couple in the United States has, and yet it is something that a straight couple never thinks about. We are human beings. And our love is just as real and just as strong and, yes, just as valid.

Now to Andrew:

Some Republicans, including, sadly, all the presidential candidates, seem to think gay couples deserve no more protection than they can cobble together with private legal contracts. In Virginia, of course, even such contracts may be invalid. But they are also very perilous documents, especially in the kind of emergencies we all sometimes face. Here's a comment on Volokh from someone who knows just how tough it can be:

Even making the legal documents easier doesn't solve much. In my current state (Maryland), it's pretty easy to fill out an advance directive with a durable power of attorney for health care decisions - no notarization required, just a form you can get from the Attorney General's website. This doesn't stop hospitals from not only demanding to see the document before so much as permitting someone to visit his same sex partner, but from refusing to recognize it until their attorney and God knows who else reviews and verifies it to their satisfaction. One overcautious or homophobic nurse can seriously screw someone over even when they've taken all the steps they're supposed to take to ensure that their partner can visit and make decisions for them when they're incapacitated. And if a family member decides to make trouble, forget it.
By contrast, when I was seriously injured a few months into my marriage, all my husband had to say was "I'm her husband" and no one questioned his right to be there or to make decisions while I was unconscious. No one asked for proof. And we have different last names and (at the time) separate health insurance. "Husband" and "wife" are magic words in our society - all the well crafted legal documents in the world can't open the doors those simple syllables can.

The decision of any hostile family member to challenge the legal rights of a same-sex partner can be particularly brutal.

I remember a story told by a friend during the plague years. He was visiting a dying friend in hospital and a couple of beds down the ward from his friend, the curtains were drawn around a patient. From behind the curtains, he could hear a man softly singing a show-tune. "Well, at least that guy's keeping his spirits up," my friend remarked. "Actually," his dying friend replied, "the man in that bed died this morning and was taken away by his family. That's his boyfriend. The family won't let him go to the funeral or ever see his spouse's body again. They've kicked him out of their apartment. It wasn't his name on the lease. So he's just sitting there, singing their favorite song to an empty bed. It's the last time he'll get that close to his husband. The nurses didn't have the heart to tell him to leave yet. He's been there for hours."

You want to know why some of us feel so strongly about this? Remember that scene. We will - for ever. Civil marriage rights are indispensable. Gay people are second-class citizens and second-class human beings until we have them.

The Original Broadway Edna, Brilliant He

By HARVEY FIERSTEIN
Published: April 13, 2007
New York Times

AMERICA is watching Don Imus’s self-immolation in a state of shock and awe. And I’m watching America with wry amusement.


Since I’m a second-class citizen — a gay man — my seats for the ballgame of American discourse are way back in the bleachers. I don’t have to wait long for a shock jock or stand-up comedian to slip up with hateful epithets aimed at me and mine. Hate speak against homosexuals is as commonplace as spam. It’s daily traffic for those who profess themselves to be regular Joes, men of God, public servants who live off my tax dollars, as well as any number of celebrities.


In fact, I get a good chuckle whenever someone refers to “the media” as an agent of “the gay agenda.” There are entire channels, like Spike TV, that couldn’t fill an hour of programming if required to remove their sexist and homophobic content. We’ve got a president and a large part of Congress willing to change the Constitution so they can deprive of us our rights because they feel we are not “normal.”


So I’m used to catching foul balls up here in the cheap seats. What I am really enjoying is watching the rest of you act as if you had no idea that prejudice was alive and well in your hearts and minds.


For the past two decades political correctness has been derided as a surrender to thin-skinned, humorless, uptight oversensitive sissies. Well, you anti-politically correct people have won the battle, and we’re all now feasting on the spoils of your victory. During the last few months alone we’ve had a few comedians spout racism, a basketball coach put forth anti-Semitism and several high-profile spoutings of anti-gay epithets.


What surprises me, I guess, is how choosy the anti-P.C. crowd is about which hate speech it will not tolerate. Sure, there were voices of protest when the TV actor Isaiah Washington called a gay colleague a “faggot.” But corporate America didn’t pull its advertising from “Grey’s Anatomy,” as it did with Mr. Imus, did it? And when Ann Coulter likewise tagged a presidential candidate last month, she paid no real price.


In fact, when Bill Maher discussed Ms. Coulter’s remarks on his HBO show, he repeated the slur no fewer than four times himself; each mention, I must note, solicited a laugh from his audience. No one called for any sort of apology from him. (Well, actually, I did, so the following week he only used it once.)


Face it, if a Pentagon general, his salary paid with my tax dollars, can label homosexual acts as “immoral” without a call for his dismissal, who are the moral high and mighty kidding?
Our nation, historically bursting with generosity toward strangers, remains remarkably unkind toward its own. Just under our gleaming patina of inclusiveness, we harbor corroding guts. America, I tell you that it doesn’t matter how many times you brush your teeth. If your insides are rotting your breath will stink. So, how do you people choose which hate to embrace, which to forgive with a wink and a week in rehab, and which to protest? Where’s my copy of that rule book?


Let me cite a non-volatile example of how prejudice can cohabit unchecked with good intentions. I am a huge fan of David Letterman’s. I watch the opening of his show a couple of times a week and have done so for decades. Without fail, in his opening monologue or skit Mr. Letterman makes a joke about someone being fat. I kid you not. Will that destroy our nation? Should he be fired or lose his sponsors? Obviously not.


But I think that there is something deeper going on at the Letterman studio than coincidence. And, as I’ve said, I cite this example simply to illustrate that all kinds of prejudice exist in the human heart. Some are harmless. Some not so harmless. But we need to understand who we are if we wish to change. (In the interest of full disclosure, I should confess to not only being a gay American, but also a fat one. Yes, I’m a double winner.)


I urge you to look around, or better yet, listen around and become aware of the prejudice in everyday life. We are so surrounded by expressions of intolerance that I am in shock and awe that anyone noticed all these recent high-profile instances. Still, I’m gladdened because our no longer being deaf to them may signal their eventual eradication.


The real point is that you cannot harbor malice toward others and then cry foul when someone displays intolerance against you. Prejudice tolerated is intolerance encouraged. Rise up in righteousness when you witness the words and deeds of hate, but only if you are willing to rise up against them all, including your own. Otherwise suffer the slings and arrows of disrespect silently.

Harvey Fierstein is an actor and playwright.

"I can have oodles of charm when I want to"

1922-2007

The excitement was palpable. Everyone in the offices wondered if it was a big hoax. Could it be true that he was going to do a signing, give a speech or even darken the door of one of our stores?

It was true. He showed up and was as ornery as he was charming. And a boy, just 24 years old from Texas, was responsible for the whole thing.

There are moments in life that I will never forget. On a spring evening in 2001 Kurt Vonnegut gave me one of those moments.

"There is no beautifier of complexion or form of behavior like the wish to scatter joy, and not pain, around us."

I decided to title this post with a quote from Emerson. Last night, on the occasion of Ric’s 50th birthday, we “[scattered] joy”! Since this is the first significant post on my new blog I thought it would be nice to start on an upbeat note. Don’t get used to it though, because future posts are not going to be upbeat at all.

For my husband’s big day I decided to surprise him by taking him to his favorite restaurant and then to see Hairspray. My friend Michael (a Broadway, television and movie actor) arranged for one of his friends in the show to give us a backstage tour after the show.

All the pictures are pretty self explanatory except the first. I cut out the bottom of a hairspray bottle, put the tickets inside and put the bottle in a Duane-Reade bag.

The night was incredible.

Four Days to Nowhere Fast

“How do you not hate those who have loaded their bibles and armed their disciples, ‘cause I don’t know anymore”
Susan Werner from her song Forgiveness on her album, The Gospel Truth

This blog will begin on Wednesday, April 11. See you all then!