This I Have Learned – 2008

I don’t make New Year’s resolutions. I believe that a change in behavior (the basis for most of these empty self-promises) can start as easily on a Tuesday in the middle of June as it can on January 1st – or 2nd… we usually don’t count New Year’s Day in our New Year’s resolutions, do we...

Since I am far better at predicting the past than the future and somewhat of a master of the obvious, here is my 2008 “This I Have Learned.” Most of this is not new, profound, nor will it provide any great epiphany - but here are things that encapsulate, for me, the year nearly past. Most are original (unless I am having plagiarized original thoughts) and the couple that are borrowed are duly noted:
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This I Have Learned – 2008

These days, it is far less important to like your job than to have one.

The dinosaurs didn’t see the asteroid coming – why should we have been expected to foresee the financial downturn? BECAUSE WE HAVE BRAINS BIGGER THAN A PEA!

Never plan more than four days in advance (thanks, Jim).

Never underestimate the stupidity of the masses (Prop 8 in CA, Amendment 2 in FL)

Never give up hope – meaningful, positive change is possible when people can no longer deny great stupidity.

Of intelligence, good looks, a sense of humor, integrity, courage, compassion, and strength, the most important is a sense of humor. It should be tempered by integrity and compassion, it takes courage and strength, it requires intelligence, and distracts people from your looks.

You can’t choose your biological family. You can either embrace them or move 1500 miles away… the 1500 mile thing is still working for me.

There is no problem so great that it cannot be resolved by a new pair of Pumas.

Life is empty without friends. Friendship must be cultivated. Not all that is cultivated survives.

Grow older gracefully, and then tell me how you did it.

While you are busy showing compassion for others, remember to save some for yourself.

Of sex, love, and rock & roll, none are overrated.

Giving a shit is hazardous to your health.

If you are deciding whether or not to toss the Holiday leftovers, get naked and look in the mirror.

What you have accomplished is far less important than who you have become.
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And with that little bit of witticism, cynicism, and observicism (I know it’s not a word, but this is my blog, damn, it) we close with a quote from a genuine wit, cynic, and keen observer of human nature – my mother:

“People are funnier than anybody.” Rosemary Helen Fanning Dezaio Palumbo -1920 - 2007

Time Will Tell

I received a rather remarkable email today. It was from my father. While for most people that may seem rather unremarkable, for me it is akin to a Christmas miracle.

For most of my life, my father and I never spoke to each other very much, and when we did, it usually was not good. There was a period when I was married where things improved – mostly because he adored my wife. When my marriage broke up, things started falling apart. When my mother passed nearly two years ago, they fell apart altogether. I did not travel for the funeral, nor could I, had I wanted to – but I did not want to because, to me, it was a violation of her very clear wishes.

Attempts at phone calls, gifts sent for Holidays… all went with no response – So I gave up. When I heard that he moved and did not tell me that he was moving or where he was, I was convinced that he wanted nothing to do with me.

Then I received an email today. I had to read it several times, but even though it said “Dad” at the end, it did not read like anything I have ever heard from him. For the first time in my life, he was reaching out to me. He wants to start anew. He even included the word “Love” in the closing – a word I have never heard from him. I don’t know if it is because of the Holidays, I don’t know if he was visited by three spirits in the night, I don’t know if he suddenly realized that he is growing older and he has no communication with his only son… but he sent it.

This presents a dilemma.

My father is probably the only person in the world (well, my world) who does not know I am gay. It is not because I am afraid of him, or ashamed of who I am… quite the opposite. It is because I know the reality of how this would hit an ultra-conservative, right wing, uber-Catholic who believes that the decline of the Catholic Church is the result of the “god-damned homos” rather than twisted pedophilic priests… plus he has a heart condition. I don’t want to be the one to push him over the edge. I also know how it would hurt him and in spite of our difficulties and differences, I do not want to cause him any hurt. But he reached out. If I am not to respond and reach back, it would go against everything I believe to the core of who I am. But I know if we begin a new relationship and if we are to achieve any closeness, the subject is inevitable unless I lie. After going through the process of coming out in my late 40’s, I am finished with the lies for this lifetime.

It was easy to avoid the subject when there was no communication. Sometimes it is easier to be angry with a difficult person because then it is their fault. But now, the ball is clearly in my court.

I wrote a response. I welcomed his note and said that I would like to start anew… and then I stared at the message for several minutes before I hit the “send” button. I did this fully aware of the implications and how his first attempt at reaching out to me could end with a lot of hurt. I don’t know what comes next.

Only time will tell.

A Christmas Story

I wrote this exactly five years ago. It was written long before my blogging days, but I am not quite sure why I never posted it. It was a time a change – I had come out just a year earlier, I was recently divorced (the two events may be related), it was my first Christmas alone… and little did I know that less than two years later, I would leave the place I was finally calling home…

Merry Christmas – may you find Home wherever you are.


Christmas In Maine December 25, 2003

I should continue wrapping gifts. The hour is late and I feel the lure of sleep, but I should put tape to paper, add bow, ribbon, and tag with some little clue of the contents before I forget what is inside the package that I just wrapped. I hate when I do that.

The soft patter of Christmas Eve rain matches an unusually pensive mood for such a festive day. I proudly convince myself that I don’t really care if it is raining - White Christmas, and all that. I suddenly realize that “White Christmas” is playing on my little radio, and shrug my shoulders in acknowledgement. Living in Maine, one has their fair share of White Christmases. I also know something of the real meaning of Christmas, and snow has very little to do with a child born over 2000 years ago in a desert. Why don’t those little glass balls with the tiny Nativity scene contain sand instead of whatever it is they use to resemble snow? When was the last time it snowed in Bethlehem? Why are they in water anyway? It’s the kind of thing that can keep me up at night…

Having wrapped all that I can with 11:00 PM drawing near, I realize it is time to leave the warmth of the fire and head out into the rain. I promised myself that I would go to Midnight Mass this year. It would be nice to say that this is some grand or noble gesture on my part, but truth be told, I really want to be as lazy as possible in the morning. I lock the front door behind me, quite unnecessarily in this sleepy bedroom town, with my usual Christmas Eve headache – a mixture of fireplace smoke and the smell of all of the boxes marked “Christmas” brought up from the basement each year with some new and exotic mold growing in them – or the same old mold… hard to say. The walk is only a few minutes; I could probably count the steps, and frankly I am surprised I have not during one of these long Maine winters.

The Church is lit from the inside looking like a life size Christmas ornament. All of the colors glowing from the stained glass windows appear as a watercolor wash through the rain, especially without my glasses on. I begin to think that Impressionistic painting was the result of bad vision. I really can’t see much without them, but I have this thing about getting my glasses wet. I can squint and stumble around well enough, so they stay stuffed in my pocket until there is no chance a stray droplet will threaten them.

Pulling open the very large and heavy wooden doors, I wonder how most of the congregation ever gets in. At 48, I am usually the junior member in attendance, and I have to give the door a good tug. Tonight, there is a much broader range in age than usual, with some considerably younger then I. It is nice to see the turnout, especially with so many younger people. Odd for so late in the day, but then again, as a child I could never sleep on Christmas Eve. As soon as I sit down and try to get handout, prayer book, and hymnbook organized so I am not hopelessly lost as usual, the music starts.

Oh my, the music. Two flutes play with a timid start, and then grow slowly bolder with the screeches that remind me of my early attempts at the flute. There are harmonies, well intentioned, with the happy accident of occasional moments of accuracy. A guitar joins in, then the piano. The piano player is clearly more skilled, to the obvious chagrin of the other three. Giving his best don’t shoot me, I’m only the piano player look, he is a polished jewel among some diamonds in the rough. I can’t help but smile.

This is pure delight for me. Coming from the highly polished, well rehearsed, and fully choreographed church services in New York, here is all of the small town Maine charm that one could ever hope to witness. The feeling is what I imagine it would be like to look through a jungle blind and be the first to see some aboriginal tribe that is yet unnamed, performing one of their ceremonies, and appearing both odd and somewhat frightening to western eyes. That is not a bad analogy for what it is like to make Maine a home when you are “from away” as they say. A charming and quirky sub-culture with its own vocabulary and a distinct way of letting you know that you are not now, nor will you ever be, like them - you will always be “from away.” Well, that’s OK; I look different too. I still dress for church as I have since childhood – I just can’t bring myself to embrace the more casual look and feel of the area. Old habits die hard and it will take a lot more than a figure of speech and the occasional sidelong scowl to kill my sartorial sensibilities.

With one chime of a single bell and soft notes from the pipe organ, the mass begins. The pastor is clearly “from away” as well. No hint of a down-east accent, his hair neatly trimmed and combed, he has a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye. He’s not dressed like anyone else either, but I suppose that doesn’t count. If he has any sense of not belonging to this tribe, he doesn’t let on. He greets the sea of scowls with joy in his heart and a message to match. I can’t help but think, “This poor guy really has his work cut out for him.” Through the mechanical lay readings, through all of the mispronunciations and skipped words, he keeps his smile. It’s infectious for me. Looking around, I see that this is not the general consensus. Somehow, that makes me smile even more.

Father John gives an articulate and inspired sermon. I smile and nod in assent with the parts that speak to me, which makes me an island in a sea of stoic stares. He makes it through the entire Christmas Eve mass with aplomb, and I can’t help but feel like I am the only one who gets it. Either that or the rest are smiling in some very subtle Maine “secret handshake” kind of way that I have not been let in on. Quite unlike the “Type A” cosmopolitan crowd from my own personal “away,” this group does not race for the door when the mass ends.

Suddenly, the congregation engages in what appears to be a spontaneous social event; right there among the pews. Miraculously transformed, here are the smiles, the camaraderie, the questions and answers about loved ones, the whispers of gossip, and all of the Christmas cheer I never would have seen had I not come tonight.

Father John, still smiling, is standing by the back door ready to greet the assembled townsfolk as they exit, but it looks like it may be some time before that happens. I put on my coat, remove my glasses for the walk back through the rain, and head for the door, now a bit out of focus. I try to think of something clever to say to the pastor, but as I approach, the thought vanishes in his arms reaching out for an embrace.

I struggle to know this town, and I am just coming to know Father John. I believe that all clergy deserve a hug for what they do, and I have never been refused. Clearly, by initiating a warm hug, Father John has come to know me. The good people of this town may never understand my strange dress and habits, but it doesn’t stop them, on what has just now turned to Christmas Day, from wishing a total stranger a sincere “Merry Christmas” on his walk home.

Even one “from away,” wet and squinting through the rain.

Rabbit in the Headlights

It seems that in most of my childhood pictures, I have that same expression on my face… and why not? Look at what they did to us. My sister looks like something out of “A Christmas Carol” (ghost of Christmas past?) and I look like Ralphie from “A Christmas Story.” Note the oversized, rather pale carrot (as opposed to the rather pale me) in its little holster. Oy…

I am guessing that this picture was taken sometime around 1959. Yes, I know… I’m old… Well, never make fun of old people – someday you will be one and I will make fun of you.

Looking at the picture made me come up with a list of:

You Know You Are Old When:

Your early life in pictures is in sepia tones

The Christmas tree has lead tinsel, big lights, and that scrunchy metal garland

You don’t remember the picture being taken (of course, this could be the result of too much fun during the late 60’s and early 70’s)

You remember the music from the Firestone Christmas Albums (yes, mes enfants, there were these things called record albums…) AND you remember your parents getting them from a gas station, when they used to pump gas for you AND at no extra cost

You like the music from the Firestone Christmas albums

You know who Mahalia Jackson is, and you know her wonderful version of “Holy, Holy, Holy”

You remember the Andy Williams Christmas Specials

You actual saw Bing Crosby and David Bowie singing “Little Drummer Boy” when it happened

You would have to wait to see if “A Christmas Carol” was on TV because there were no such things as DVD’s, VCR’s, or DVR’s

You lived through real trees, artificial trees, silver aluminum trees with color wheel (remember that?), back to real tree, back to artificial tree… let’s hope the silver tree never returns

I could go on… and I probably would but there is Cheer to spread and Merry to make…

Happy Holidays!!!

Humbuggery

Hmmm… I am sensing a lack of genuine Christmas Spirit lately. In fact, there has been outright hostility expressed about the season in general. I daresay that there is an air of humbuggery about (look it up… it’s a real word).

Sure, the economy sucks. We’re all getting older, things go wrong, blah, blah, blah… Even I (yes, it’s true) have experienced moments of “why bother.” But then it kicks into gear – my need to express exactly the opposite of what everyone else is saying; my own little oppositional defiant disorder (yes, sadly those words are real too).

Just one more negative things and I am going to… I swear… I’ll do it… OK, I was just pushed over the edge – you made me do it. You only have yourself to blame. You have gone and made me pull out one of my song parodies – and not just any song parody, one of my really, really, bad Christmas song parodies.

Vixen has made her annual appearance under our tree, so do you recall, my most infamous parody of all?


Vixen, The Drag Queen Reindeer

You know Santa’s a daddy with taste for young reindeer;
A nasty old top in a suit of red cashmere…
But are you aware
of his infamous Christmas affair?

Vixen, the drag queen reindeer
had some very shiny bling,
and if you ever saw it
you’d know she is Santa’s thing.

All of the other reindeer
used to laugh and call her fag;
they never let poor Vixen
get too close to Santa’s bag.

Then one foggy Christmas Eve
Santa gave a grin:
“Vixen with your bling so bright,
won’t you light my sled tonight?”

Said, all the other reindeer,
spying Santa’s after glow,
“Vixen, the drag queen reindeer
your daddy is a ho-ho ho…”

tjp 12/17/06


Now get out there and grab some Holiday Cheer! If not, I may have to post another…

‘Tis the Season

I love Christmas, but even more, I love the Christmas season. I love the smells, sights, the music, the decoration, the presents (giving and getting), even the crowded stores. The world always seems a little brighter, yet softer this time of year.

But… you knew there was a but… there is the work aspect. Since we close between Christmas and New Year, it is a short month. I am happy for the time off, and I am happier still that I get paid for it, but all of the work still has to get done. When you work in finance, there is a monthly cycle and payroll still has to happen, bills still have to be paid, financial reporting still has to be completed… add to that every cold caller trying desperately to drum up new business before the end of the year…

So when I hit a normal amount of hours for a work week sometime on Wednesday, I realized why I am so tired. I was told I could take the day off today, but if I am going to make payroll next week, someone has to do bank deposits – that would be me. I worked five hours, finished all of the processing and entry necessary to do a bank deposit, and then called it a day. I think there is a nap in my near future…

It is not going to get any easier for the remainder of the month, but I do have that time off as a light at the end of the tunnel.

I really can’t complain (although, I spent the last couple of paragraphs doing just that). I have a job, a nice place to live, a functioning car, and a wonderful, supportive, loving partner. Not everyone is so blessed.

‘Tis the season to remember these things.