A criticism is just a really bad way of making a request. So why don’t you just make the request?
In April, Honey and I stopped by a local Honda dealer and purchased our first new car – a 2016 Civic. We went knowing which color we preferred (Cosmic Blue), but the dealership didn’t have one in stock with the package we wanted. After driving an identical car of a different color and settling on a price, they placed an order for one and told us it would be built the first week of May.
I received a call on my birthday telling me the car had arrived, but since we were out of town on vacation, it was a few days later before we were able to pick her up.
She is exquisite. We chose the upgraded package which included aluminum wheels, a large touchscreen control panel, a sunroof, better sound, and an advanced safety system called Honda Sensing that utilizes multiple cameras to avoid rear-end collisions, prevent lane and road departures, and keeps our car at a safe distance from others when we are using cruise control.
We are thoroughly enjoying our new ride, and the fact that she is getting around 37 mpg is an added bonus.
We named her Luna.
I just spent a couple of hours scanning some old photos, and looking at pictures of myself from 20+ years ago always leaves me feeling a little depressed.
I look at that young, innocent face and I feel a mixture of jealousy and remorse because he has his whole life in front of him and doesn’t even grasp the significance of it. He doesn’t understand how beautiful he is, and how much his life will change over the next few years.
He has no idea that twenty years later he will be staring at his own photo thinking about how fast the time goes. Or how quickly looks fade and bodies fail. Or how he might have done this thing differently or that one the same.
He is just thinking about how the photo will turn out, or some boy he likes, or what he’s going to do tomorrow.
If I’m fortunate enough to get another twenty years, I’m sure I will look back on this time in my life with the same envy and the same feelings of melancholy.
I guess I’d better start posing for more pictures.
The first time I walked into a gay club, I fell in love. Not with a person, but with the realization that I had discovered a place outside of my own home where I could really be myself, completely uninhibited by the expectations of the straight world.
And let’s be honest, there isn’t anything much better than being totally present and comfortable in your own skin.
I could wear makeup and tight clothing without anyone batting an eye. I could hold hands with and kiss whomever I wanted without worrying about offending the sensitivities of a heterosexual. I could follow my female friend into the ladies’ room simply because she didn’t want to go alone. I could lose myself on the sunken dance floor as the pulsating beat of “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails and the flashing strobe lights hypnotized me.
After two decades of learning that I needed to be on guard almost every moment of every day, I had finally found a place to relax and just be. In this sacred place, we were normal and fear was a distant memory.
Most people recognize the horror of what happened in Orlando last weekend when a heavily-armed shooter massacred 49 young men and women at the gay club Pulse, but I am not sure many understand the impact this will have on the gay community at large.
The survivors of this unimaginable event will probably never feel safe no matter where they are, and although the LGBT population in this country is know for being resilient, I would venture to say we will never feel completely at ease in a gay establishment again.
Terrorism won’t win. We will still gather for our parades, our drag shows, and our Saturday evenings with friends, but the one public place we could be completely ourselves has been violated, and our fearless refuge is no more.