The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade – brought to you by the NRA?

Ever since I can remember I have watched at least some of the Macy’s parade on Thanksgiving morning – or I have forgotten to and then regretted it. Since the arrival of TiVo – the best invention of the last hundred years if you ask me – I have often recorded the parade and then skimmed through it, pausing to watch the people I recognized.

Those people have grown fewer and fewer. This year I think there were two: Renee Fleming and Idina Menzel. Macy’s lists the following personalities:

The Big Apple Circus, Before You Exit, William Blake, Sabrina Carpenter, Cirque du Soleil, Hilary Duff, Renee Fleming, Becky G., Lucy Hale, Nick Jonas, KISS, Sandra Lee, The Madden Brothers, Idina Menzel, Miss USA 2014 Nia Sanchez, MKTO, the cast and Muppets of Sesame Street, NEEDTOBREATH, NHL players John LeClair and Pat LaFontaine, Pentatonix, Romeo Santos, Cole Swindell, Meghan Trainor, The Vamps, Quvenzhané Wallis, and more.

OK, I’ve seen the Big Apple Circus and Cirque du Soleil; I know who Nick Jonas is; I know Kiss, but not their music – and that’s it. The rest of those people? No clue. I checked in on a few of them but fast forwarded almost immediately. (I do know this guy on the left though).

Missing from that list are the real stars of the show: the Radio City Music Hall Rockettes. I watched and loved them, as my Dad did before me. You can see their routine here. I do have to say though: what’s with one -- 1 -- black Rockette? One? That’s the best they could do? A sea of white bodies and one set of dark legs? Just because turkeys come that way, does our entertainment, in 2014, have to?

But, moving on: I did also stop fast forwarding as many of the marching bands came into view. Don’t ask me why – maybe because I went to Notre Dame – but I’ve always liked marching bands. The athleticism of those toned young bodies, the precision of their steps, the intricacies of the patterns they form, the height the twirlers throw their batons . . .

Ok, wait a minute; so what if the kids are not all svelte and fit like they used to be – I’m not either. And so what if their routines sometimes come undone on the cold concrete of Manhattan? But I put my foot down when it comes to rifles replacing batons. OK, fake rifles if you will, but what’s up with that? Nearly every band I saw had young women (I don’t think I saw any young men) twirling fake rifles. Band after band. Had I inadvertently tuned into the National Rifle Association parade?

Sure as hell seemed so. Not something I’ll be doing next year I’ll wager.

The Strangest Phone Call

New York City has just announced a plan to install almost 10,000 free Wi-Fi kiosks, most in spaces currently occupied by defunct phone booths – though booth is really a misnomer if you know anything about New York public phones. The kiosks are said to broadcast a Wi-Fi signal for 150 feet and CityBridge, the company hired to install the devices, claims that up to 250 users at a time can use each kiosk without diminishing the service. (We’ll see about that; “up to” are the keys words here).

For reasons not clear to me, the city has also promised to maintain three currently working phone booths on West End Avenue. And these are truly booths; in fact, they are called “Superman pay phones” because they’re the old-fashioned type, large enough to accommodate flash clothes-changers. Or amorous couples.


Which brings me to my story. It was likely the Fall of 1970 when I was crashing at a friend’s apartment near Columbia University. I worked at Steak and Brew in the theatre district and would sometimes ride my bike there. One night while I was heading home the telephone was ringing in a booth at 88th and Riverside. Intrigued, I got off my bike and picked up.

“I want to fuck,” said the male voice, clear as a bell.

Still, I replied, “Uh, what?”

“I want to fuck,” he said, a bit slower and an octave lower.

“Um, do you know where you’re calling?”

“Yeah, the phone booth at 88th and Riverside.”

“Well, yeah, ok. Where are you?”

“Turn around.”

For a moment I panicked, thinking I was about to face a crazy man who didn’t want to have sex with me but was instead going to kill me. This was an irrational fear since we were decades away from cell phones, but I clearly remember thinking that.

“See the building across the street at the corner? Count up six floors and then over four windows.”

“Damn, “ I said, “there you are.” All I could see was a shadow but it was clearly a man and only one thing extending from his body was a telephone.

“So, are you interested?” he asked.

The truth is, I was. I was also scared as hell so I said no, but couldn't resist asking, “How often does this work for you?”

“You’d be surprised” was all he said.

We hung up and I pedaled to Claremont Avenue, repeating every word we had spoken so I would be sure to get it right when I told this most New York of stories. As you would expect, it was a great hit, with half of my friends telling me I was a fool not to at least go up and meet the guy. The other half cringed, knowing I would have died had I done so. For my part, I wondered for years what would have happened.

I passed that phone many more times that year.

It was never ringing.

Hibernophobia and Homophobia

British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli (1804-1881) reportedly said

The Irish hate our order, our civilization, our enterprising industry, our pure religion. This wild, reckless, indolent, uncertain and superstitious race has no sympathy with the English character. Their ideal of human felicity is an alternation of clannish broils and coarse idolatry. Their history describes an unbroken circle of bigotry and blood.

That is about as clear an example of Hibernophobia, anti-Irish sentiment, as I can find. A more succinct example is in the sign pictured right, something that was seen in many shop and factory windows in nineteenth century America and the UK. Another example, below, meant perhaps to be funny, shows more Irish racism.

For years I’ve thought about anti-Irish sentiment whenever I’ve passed a sign advertising a blood drive. I’ve wanted to grab a felt-tip marker and write across it “Gays Need Not Apply,” because ever since 1983 gay men who have ever –EVER! -- had sex with another man since 1977 have been barred from donating blood. After 9/11, after Katrina, after the Boston Marathon bombings, as calls went out for blood donations, gay men were turned away.

I have complained bitterly to the Red Cross, but they say they are only following federal guidelines. Those guidelines were put in place when we knew very little about AIDS, its transmission and its course. You may remember that, at the very beginning, it was sometimes referred to as the “Gay Plague.” It was understandable, though misguided, that public officials, seeking to protect the blood supply, limited donors.

Very soon, after a blood test identifying tainted blood was introduced, it was obvious that this blanket refusal to accept blood from gay men was misguided and based on homophobia, not science. But the policy remained in place.

To this day, I cannot donate blood unless I lie about my sexual history. I have been in a monogamous relationship with Ransom for over twenty-eight years, but I cannot donate blood. It’s unbelievable, as well as humiliating and counter-productive.

Today, finally we learn that this hateful, homophobic policy may finally change. Bloomberg reports 

A U.S. advisory panel is poised to recommend for the first time that the 31-year ban preventing gay and bisexual men from donating blood should be partially ended, placing the nation’s policy in line with other countries.

Men who had sex with men anytime since 1977 are barred from giving blood in the U.S., a policy that dates back to 1983 because of concern that the AIDS virus could be transmitted through blood transfusions. Groups like the American Red Cross say that risk is infinitesimal in many cases, not enough to justify a full ban that prevents much-needed donations.

AFT!