You never listen to me anymore

Emily Procter as Ainsley Hayes on "The West Wing"

I'm working my way through all seven years of "The West Wing" on Netflix; I think it's a great show, much of which I saw when it was broadcast live. It's fun to revisit this beautifully-written, willing-to-take-on-the-hard-issues show with one of televisions great ensembles. Allison Janey is phenomenal, as is Richard Schiff -- but in fact the entire cast is excellent.

Hard for me to like at first was Emily Procter as Ainsley Hayes, a Republican operative hired by a Democratic president because he thinks she is smart and capable. I warmed up to her pretty quickly because she, the actress and the character, is in fact very smart and capable -- and a real comedic talent too.

It strikes me that this is the way government, and society, should work. Smart, capable people should come together, whatever their views, and talk to each other. More importantly, they should LISTEN to each other. This seems so obvious, but it's not what happens. I ask you: when was the last time you changed an opinion you held after listening to someone argue the opposing view? If you're at all like me, the honest answer is that it's been a long time. Most of us don't listen when we argue; instead we wait til our opponent takes a breath so we can jump in and repeat our point.

I think this tendency has gotten worst over the years. Think about the State of the Union speech; look at the debate over health care; look at the rhetoric from the far right -- or the far left for that matter. We don't listen, we don't learn, we don't change, we don't grow. 

Not a very hopeful prescription for the future.

American Revolution, Round Two?

Throughout the last presidential campaign I was pretty much content to laugh at Sarah Palin and to stand mouth-agape at the stupidity of the Republicans for choosing her. I did find it hard to believe that so many average Americans liked her because she was "just like us." For my money I want someone a hell of a lot smarter than I running the country. But I couldn't get too agitated about her; she was a pesky gnat, not a threatening predator.

Now though she has become truly dangerous. Her admonition to her supporters to "reload" and her use of cross-hairs to indicate targeted districts on her Facebook page makes me realize just how serious a threat she is. Sure, most people will take her comments as rhetorical flourishes, but not everyone. I guarantee you that right this minute there are people out there -- very likely young males -- who are trying to decide just what exactly to do with the rifle that their heroine ordered them to reload. This is not far-fetched; this is real.

As he so often does, Frank Rich says all this better than I ever could. Speaking of men smarter than I, maybe we need to work on getting Mr. Rich to follow President Obama into the White House.

I wasn't around in 1776 but I'm guessing that a lot of what I might have heard in the taverns and kitchens of colonial America would have sounded like we're hearing today from the far right. Is another revolution brewing?

Coming Out, the Preamble

Me as a teenager

I had sex with a man for the first time when I was 16 years old. I had sex with a woman for the first time when I was 16 years old. Oddly, I don't remember which was first. Both experiences were during the summer before my junior year. With the woman -- girl really -- it was a make-out session that went a little further. Now don't misunderstand: we didn't "go all the way" (as we called it then). Hell no. I was a good Catholic boy. That was not about to happen. We just went further than I had ever gone; to, as Mick Jagger might say, "Satisfaction." With the guy I went just as far, though with a far different reaction afterward. He was my best friend and we were spending the night at his house. I was the aggressor, or perhaps it's fair to say we both were. At any rate we agreed that I would if he would...

He did. I didn't.

I freaked. I had loved it, but I freaked. I felt dirty and guilty and sinful and was sure I was going to hell. The next morning I knew I was in hell as we shared breakfast with his Mom and tried to act like everything was ok. I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I knew I would never see him again and it went without saying that "it" would never, ever happen again.

And it didn't.

For six weeks.

Then it happened again. With him.

Same reaction, but not as intense. Before we could resolve all this, or try a third time, he left town and I didn't see him for several years. In the interim we both came out and I came to prefer sex with men -- and in fact had several more encounters with women too. I even "went all the way," but that's another story.

The best part of this story is that the ending has not yet been written. He's still my best friend.

How do you (not) get to Carnegie Hall?

I wasn't sure what I was going to write about today, but then Carnegie Hall stepped in with an answer. This post is about how arrogant institutions lose their support. Here's the text of an email I sent them today:

"Dear Sir/Madam,

I am a first-time subscriber to the Orchestra of St Luke’s. I assume that, having landed me, you would like to keep me. You would probably be happy if I were to subscribe to even more events.

I also bought a single ticket to tonight's So Percussion concert in Zankel. You then changed the time from 7:30 to 9:30. I called the Box Office, where I was given a hard time. I was told a letter went out; I never received one, likely because I bought a single ticket at the box office. I was told I could donate the ticket. I was finally told --after being put on hold several times -- that I needed to call back tonight after 9:30.

Here's the deal: we entered into a contract; I gave you $37 for a 7:30pm concert. You then reneged on the terms of the contract by changing the time. I deserve my money back. Instead, you hassled me.

And you want me to renew?”

_______________________

I’ll be sure to let you know what, if anything, I hear back from them. Let me be very clear on one point: I fully understand that sometimes concerts have to be rescheduled; these things happen. I’m sorry I can’t go to a New York concert that late, but I am not angry about it; I am angry with the way I was treated by the box office.

I’ve been to several concerts there this year that were sold out, or close to it. But I’ve also been there when there were LOTS of empty seats. And they want to treat subscribers badly? Maybe it’s time they took lessons from another Carnegie; that would be Dale Carnegie, author of “How to Win Friends and Influence People.”

Man's law, not God's

So the scandal in the Catholic church continues and grows. I am not surprised, but nor am I terribly interested in writing about it. I will say only a couple of things: when you take high school boys, put them in an all-male seminary environment, teach them nothing about sexuality, ordain them and send them into the world, how do you expect they're going to act? Like children who never grew up, that's how. And when you force men into an unnatural state of celibacy and aloneness, how can you possibly be surprised when they act inappropriately?

The point I really want to make is that the Catholic church is not the problem; religion is not the problem; God is not the problem. The problem is that for centuries fallible men have made decisions on everything from the nature of God to the role of the clergy to the rules that govern the people. Fallible men -- men who make mistakes. Men just like the priests accused of molesting children. Men just like you and me.

We are all human, we all make mistakes. Some worse than others, yes, but all of us screw up. And yet the church pretends that "God said this" or "God said that." Hogwash. The church -- read a bunch of men -- said this and said that. The church decided on an all-male clergy; the church decided on celibacy.

Likewise, "it says in the bible" makes my skin crawl. What bible? In what language? In what translation? It says in the bible that a man who lies with another man has committed an abomination. Yes, it sure does -- Leviticus 18:22. It also says "For six days, work is to be done, but the seventh day shall be your holy day, a Sabbath of rest to the Lord. Whoever does any work on it must be put to death” -- Exodus 35:2. So you religious righters who call me an abomination, I ask you, should all the workers at WalMart who work on Sunday be put to death? Are you going to do it?

I am being neither clever nor original. I am just saying that most of what people hold as their religious beliefs are the beliefs of the winners in a debate that happened centuries ago. History, it is said, is written by the victors. So was canon law.

Not always a cynic

I think it was Myles Connolly who said that one of the minor pleasures of affection is the voicing of it. Maybe not his exact words, but that's the sentiment. I have long agreed with the sentiment. I just spent a couple of hours today re-connecting with an old friend by reading through his blog. His name is David and I am here to say to him and the world: I love you, David, and am honored to call you my friend. I am also moved by the depth of your soul and your willingness to plumb that depth.

Friends have always been extraordinarily important to me. David was an employee who became a friend. We live on separate coasts and since he left Yale I've only seen him once, at his wedding (picture above). But none of that matters because we touched each other's hearts. Once given, love can not be taken back. It can change, it can die even, but nothing can change the reality of the time that it was given.

Growing up an Army brat I faced a choice: to be friendly and try to get along with everyone but not get too close because soon enough they, or I, would leave, and the pain of separation would be too hard to bare -- OR -- to jump right in because we don't have a lot of time to waste, so let's start being friends right now, today. You can guess my decision. I have been blessed many times over: Ricky, Gary, Will, Don, Artie, Chuck, Charlie, Brian, Chris, Steve, John . . . and that's just in the first 18 years of my life. David is therefore one of many, but he is also very, very special.

A step forward

So health care reform has passed. I think this is a good thing, though I freely admit to not knowing exactly what the bill will do, and I am quite certain it will do some things that no one expects. That is the way of laws.

Personally, I am in favor of socialized medicine. The people of Scandinavia and the Netherlands tend to pay the highest taxes and are among the happiest people in the world. Got that? They pay the HIGHEST taxes and yet are HAPPY. They understand that only the government can equitably provide support for everyone. What's so wrong with that idea?

Now I know many people -- probably most Americans --  would shudder to read what I just wrote. But I see that as part of our century old "we are the best and everything we do is best" mentality. A mentality that brought us the Great Depression and the financial meltdown of the last few years.

Yes, we are a great country. Yes, we do many things right. But we have sacrificed our ideals in the pursuit of money. Greed motivates most decision makers these days. Greed motivates the insurance companies, the banks, Wall Street firms and, in truth, most of us. Me too. I stand guilty.

Only when we realize that we need to look out for each other and that helping mankind is more important than making money will things get better.

Why is this blog entitled "As a Cynic Sees It'? Because I don't think we'll do that. Things will not get better. Passage of health care is a good thing, but the bitter fight it entailed, and the fact that the vote was strictly along party lines, does not bode well for the future.

We are a great country.  But we used to be better. Our time as king of the hill is over. Sad.

Protecting marriage

Sally (my "best man"), me, Rev. Kate, Ransom, Jason (Ransom's best man)

Ransom and I were married on October 5, 1996, in a non-religious ceremony presided over by a minister and attended by all the parents, a couple of brothers, a couple of cousins and 30+ friends. We shared vows and rings and fêted everyone at a reception afterwards. It was everything you might want a wedding no be. Except legal.

Eleven years later Connecticut allowed same-sex couples to enter into legally binding civil unions, so we did that. In front of just a few friends we were civilly unionized (?) by one of the ministers at the church I attended at the time.

Two-and-a-half years later the CT laws had changed again and so we were officially, legally, married, again at our house. Sally, who had been my "best man" in 1996 came up from Virginia to stand by me again; her wonderful son Isaac was there too.

So I ask you: how has anything Ransom and I have done attacked the "sanctity of marriage"? We have demonstrated our commitment to each other over 24 years. We have three time publicly professed that commitment. 50% of straight marriages end in divorce. Tell me: who is in fact compromising the sanctity of marriage?

My husband

I met Ransom Wilson in Richmond, Virginia, on Feb 25, 1984.  I was the House Manager of the Carpenter (later Virginia) Center for the Performing Arts. He was the guest artist of the Richmond Symphony. People Magazine had dubbed him "Handsome Ransom" and I stopped by a rehearsal to see if they were right. They were. 

The next night, after his brilliant concert, I introduced myself at the reception. It was very chaste and very brief. Over the next several days I couldn't stop thinking about him so I sent him a note. I of course didn't have his home address so I had to send it to Columbia Artists and, not knowing for sure who else might see it, it was very proper.  The only thing I added that I hadn't said to him at the reception was my phone number.

I put the card in the mail -- remember the pre-email days of writing letters and notes? -- and almost immediately felt stupid. I felt like a 13-year-old girl writing to the Beatles.  But I got over it and forgot about it.

Til a month later. He called! I was surprised and very pleased. He was coming through Richmond again and wondered if we could get together. Could we ever! I met him a week or so later at his downtown hotel and we spent a wonderful evening getting to know each other. My office was right around the corner; in the morning I said my goodbyes and went to work; he was flying back to New York.

An hour later he called to say what a good time he had had. I was charmed and thought he was really sweet -- to say nothing of gorgeous and fascinating. He called again from the airport, just to say goodbye one more time. Wow.

I went up to see him in New York within a few weeks, but it didn't go so well. He was performing at Carnegie Hall and so was of course very focused on that. I was a distraction. Perhaps a welcome distraction, but a distraction nonetheless. I came back to Richmond thinking that was the end of that.

And it was, for over a year.

In December of 1985 I sent him a Christmas card. It was kind of a lark, but I was feeling warm and fuzzy. Ransom is not the most sentimental kind of guy, but he kept that card, so I can tell you what it said: "the candles are lit, the wine is open, there's red sauce on the stove and Mozart on the stereo.  Why aren't you here?"  Again, I did it lightly, thinking it might make him smile and that would be the end of it.

It wasn't. He called in February -- it took the card a while to catch up to him. We talked that first night for three hours. He called the next day. Several times. We talked for hours. After three days of this (he was in North Dakota) he decided to change his flight and stop in Richmond on the way to New York. My dear friend Sally took the last few hours of my shift that night so I could pick him up. Less than 24 hours later he was on his way to New York. Less than a week later I was on my way to New York. Both those visits were wonderful, so there was another trip to New York.

In April of 1986, less than two months after that first marathon phone call, I held a tag sale, emptied out most of my apartment and moved to New York. It was crazy. No, make that CRAZY! Aside from the impulsiveness of it all you should know that I was a well-paid restaurant manager, about to open a new restaurant at an even higher salary. My assistant managers had been named, construction on the new building was almost finished, we were ordering small wares (china, glasses, etc) and designing ads for waiters -- and I walked away from it all. Crazy! If I had learned anything over the years it is that you never move for love. Not for love only. And certainly not six weeks in.

But I did. That was 24 years ago. And here we are.

Best damn thing I ever did.

Atomic worries

from the book 100 Days in Photographs

I heard Secretary of State Clinton speaking recently and she said that while Iran was welcome to have atomic power the country could not have atomic weapons. Now I don't pretend to be an expert on international relations, and I believe that most world leaders don't want Iran to have the bomb, but I have to wonder: what gives us the right to decide how a sovereign nation defends itself? How would we feel if the EU decided that the US should not have the bomb?

Atomic weapons are terrible things, and their proliferation should be stopped, but isn't that a decision each country has to make? France has the bomb; why do we not care? Israel reportedly has the bomb but you don't hear Sec. Clinton railing against them. South Africa developed the bomb and then dismantled the project; can't we work toward that goal in Iran rather than rattle our sabers at her?

And can we please remember that the only nation to ever actually use an atomic weapon against a civilian population was, oh yeah, the United States of America. Such arrogance.

A dog's life

Tasha at the top of the frame; Cassie on the left, Lucky on the right

A friend points out that my posts so far have been sweet, not cynical. She's right. So it's time to begin to earn my stripes; it ain't for nothin' that this blog is called As a Cynic Sees It.

First though: the picture is of our three dogs. Ransom and I got our first dog, Brendan, a Sheltie, while we were still living in New York City, in 1986. He was soon joined by a lab mix, Toby ("the most wonderful dog there ever was") and by Misha, a beautiful Husky, courtesy of my cousin Meg in Rochester, New York. When Brendan died 11 years later we decided that two was easier and didn't replace him. After a few months though it felt weird. We had had three dogs for ten years; two just didn't feel right. So we got a third and have had three ever since.

The current three are Tasha, the oldest, a Chow-mix who is the alpha dog and quite the bitch. Cassie is second oldest and even at 10 romps like a puppy; enthusiasm is her middle name. Lucky is only five and is the most mellow; he's the only male but happily lets Tasha wear the pants.

I love dogs. I'm not a bumper sticker kind of guy but if I were I might choose "The more people I meet, the more I like my dogs."  I like dogs more than people because

- they don't drive cars badly and talk on the phone while doing so

- they don't write checks at the grocery store

- they don't watch stupid, inane TV shows like Fear Factor

- they don't know who Lindsay Lohan is

- they don't invade other countries

- they don't care about who's having sex with whom

- they don't think they're too fat, or too old or not attractive enough

- they don't talk in movie theatres -- unless they're actually in the movie, and even then, only rarely

- they don't wear t-shirts with stupid things on them

- they don't wear pants falling off their ass

- they don't go to birthday parties where every youngster gets a present lest he feel left out

- they don't expect that everyone wins; they know failure is part of life and they learn from it

- they don't think that American dogs are the best dogs in the world

- they don't avoid classical music at all costs

- they don't talk loudly on their cell phone in public

- they don't chew gum in public

- they don't expect the school bus to stop at their driveway even though it stopped at their neighbor's

- they don't hurt the environment and not care about it

- they don't think it's all about them

Well, ok, they do think it's all about them.  And that's ok with me.

The Mother

My Mom, brother Ray (on the right) and me.  1953 maybe.

Elva Iris Toro was born in Puerto Rico in 1917 to a family of Spanish and Puerto Rican lineage. She was the baby of the family, with two older sisters and four older brothers. Her mother lived into old age but she never knew her father; I didn't know this until ten years ago, but apparently he left with another woman, leaving Mom's oldest brother, Tony, to raise the family. From all accounts she had a happy childhood, though there was at least one more trauma I know of: while living in Chicago for a while her brother Gene was killed when he and his brothers were robbed.

Back in Puerto Rico Mom eventually came to work for the US Army during the war and landed a job as secretary to the commanding officer of the base. One of the great family stories is that in her position she was privy to the files of the incoming officers. She would skim through them thinking, "hmmm, married, no; Lutheran, no;  Jewish, no; ah, Catholic, single, 26, from Rochester, New York; sounds good." And so she made a point of checking out Lt. Frank Foery when he reported for duty and, well, you know the end of the story.

Another great episode in that story is that when Dad finally proposed, Mom looked at the ring wistfully, saying "Frank, I can't accept that." He was dumbstruck; he had been sure they were going to get married; what could she mean? "You have to ask my Mother," Mom added. So there's this wonderful scene of the entire family joining together to hear this upstate New York Army officer ask for my mother's hand. She was kept waiting in her room until all was settled. It was actually a foregone conclusion -- everyone loved Frank -- but it's a great story I think.

Mom died on November 21, 2001. I was holding it together at the funeral fairly well, but lost it totally when my brother, ending his eulogy, quoted one of Mom's favorite songs, one of the first songs I remember hearing on the radio: "Vaya con Dios."  Go with God, indeed.

Some of my favorite moments have been the number of times friends have commented that my parents obviously loved each other very much.  That was true on August 10, 1944, the day they wed, and it remained true for 53 more years.

The Colonel

After yesterday's introduction a good place to really start this blog is with the aforementioned career Army man, Frank R Foery, my father, affectionately known around the house as "The Colonel." Dad was born in Rochester, NY, in 1914, the second of four children to Olive Brauch Foery and Frank William Foery. Most of the rest of the family pretty much stayed in Rochester their whole lives; Dad left to join the Army, moving halfway across the country and then halfway around the world. He won a Bronze Star - and several other medals - for his service in Korea and elsewhere during almost 35 years in the Army.

Frank Foery was, I have come to realize, a pretty typical father in the 50s and 60s. He worked hard to support his family but left most of the child-rearing and child-handling duties to Mom. He was naturally not very demonstrative of his feelings and was dealing with his two sons before many of us had ever encountered the touchy-feely approach to family relationships. When I went to college I learned that there were dads who were much more "in touch with their feelings" -- and their son's feelings -- but that was not the Colonel.

He was a strict disciplinarian, though not to "The Great Santini" extreme. We were expected to do our chores and to behave properly; had you asked him, he probably would have agreed that children should be seen and not heard.

Still, there was plenty of love and laughter in the house and I grew up thinking we were a normal family; and we were normal -- I simply had not yet learned that normal means dysfunctional, to one extent or another. We were no more or less so than many families.

As I said, he expected us to be well behaved. Most fathers expect that from their children, but as Dad was an Army officer, this carried even more weight. The excellent documentary "Brats: Our Journey Home" addresses this issue. In military families kids grow up learning that their behavior can have a direct impact on their father's livelihood. Had Major Foery raised juvenile delinquents for sons he never would have earned the silver eagle signifying his promotion to colonel.

Dad taught me to do things right the first time. Just this morning I thought of him: I stepped out of the shower and needed to run downstairs to stir the oatmeal. I considered leaving the towel and mat on the sink, instead of hanging them in the their proper place. I could do that later. But no, that would take more time; makes more sense to do it right the first time. Thanks Dad, that's just one of thousands of things you taught me.

Frank Foery died on January 10, 1998.  By then he was much more comfortable with his feelings and he knew well how much his sons and his wife of 53 years loved and respected him. Next time I'll talk about that remarkable woman, known as "The Mother."

Always different

My friend Don suggested I start a blog; seemed like a good idea as I have long thought that the world would be a better place if only everyone thought as I did.

That's a joke.

Sorta.

So what do I mean by "always different"?  Well, the picture says a lot. Two of my favorite possessions: the license plate from my very first car, and the flag that covered my Dad's coffin when he was buried at Arlington.  Dad: an Army Colonel, decorated in Korea - notice the medal at the top of the case; me: a long-haired, hippie freak. Different.

Or take the fact that I was brought up a good Catholic boy, made mostly A's in high school, went to college at Notre Dame but never graduated and never had a serious career.  Compared to many of my contemporaries: different.

Or the fact that I love opera and dance, go to the theatre often and have never, ever watched a Super Bowl. Different.

Or the fact that I'm gay.

Or that I've never seen "American Idol" or any other reality show - except, I'm embarrassed to admit, the first season of "Survivor." Or I never saw ER, the Mary Tyler Moore Show, Dallas, Friends and countless other popular TV shows.

Or that I have a husband and three dogs.

Now of course I know there are plenty of gay men out there who never really had a career and love dogs and not football - but they, like me, are different.  Different from the "norm."  Just sayin' - I'm not a typical American man of the 20th and 21st centuries.

This blog will explore some of the history that makes me different, some of the thoughts that separate me from (some of) the rest of you - and maybe even some of the ways we are alike.  If I write well enough, I will make you chuckle, inspire you, make you angry or at least make you feel that you've spent a worthwhile few minutes with me.  That's my hope anyway.  I am many things, but few would say I am boring.  I think.

No, I know.