THE RETARDED TOURIST ----- Australia part 2 of 3

     When I told my ex Grant that I was traveling to Australia he immediately asked if I was going to The Great Barrier Reef. He assumed I was planning on it because, as I realized after ten other people asked me the same question, a person would have to be retarded to fly half way around the world and not see the world's biggest and most beautiful coral reef. Even the woman from Bank of America who I spoke with over the phone to verify I would be using my debit in Australia told me she snorkeled in the Great Barrier Reef and that it was 'must-do for anyone who lives on this planet'. Grant couldn't believe I was not going to try to take in as much of Australia's natural beauty as possible, something he and his boyfriend Mark, being consummate outdoors men, would naturally do.
     Even in the most urban environments, Grant and Mark search for pockets of natural beauty.When they went to New York last year they rented bicycles and for two weeks rode around every part of the city, even on the bridges. In 14 days Grant learned more about New York than I ever did in the 35 years I lived there. No doubt they would do the same Down Under, driving and pedaling and rowing and climbing and backpacking and swimming all over  Australia. This rugged country is the perfect place for people with adventurous spirits like them, where staying inside on a vacation is a punishment. 
   I felt as if I had already failed as a tourist even before my plane landed in Sydney. In all honesty, I am embarrassed of my apathy about all the outdoor sight-seeing that is such an integral part of visiting Australia.  Have I gone half way around the world just to see Sydney's gay version of Mardi Gras?  Michael V better take some of the blame for this. Did he mention the Great Barrier Reef to me one time? No, the closest thing he's mentioned is the Great Bare-ass Briefs he bought for an Underwear Party.
    The first thing I did after unpacking my suitcase at Michael's was to ask him what bus or ferry I would take to get to The Great Barrier Reef. " Maybe I could go to it for an afternoon while you're at work."
   "Have you even looked at a map of Australia before coming here? It might be an island but it's also a continent. You just can't pop! over to the Great Barrier Reef, he explained, gesturing his arms like Endora. " It's four hours away and takes two planes to get there. It's like being in New York and saying 'I think I'll drop by Disneyworld'."
    "Really?" I said almost joyfully. " That means at this point even if I wanted to go, it would be almost impossible to plan out everything it would take to get there. I would say that falls under the category of circumstances out of my control. Now I have the perfect excuse for not seeing it."  I fell back onto his bed and let out a big sigh of relief. "You won't believe how many people made me promise to see it before I left here. Of course no one seemed to care if I get eaten by a Great White after I cut myself on the coral. I haven't felt such pressure to do outdoors activity since I was ten in sleep-away camp when they forced me to play baseball."
    " If you want to impress everyone with your athleticism you can try the Sydney Harbor Bridge climb. It's the new thing to do. But let's get one thing clear right now--if you fall into the harbor you're staying there. It will be a burial at sea. I'll tell everyone in San Fran that's how you wanted it," he nodded somberly with  a mournful face and his hand on his chest.
    " Climbing a bridge actually sounds like something I would enjoy."
  " Of course you would, darling. All apes love to climb. That reminds me," he added, pointing a shoe tree at me. " We need bananas for breakfast. We're going to need some healthy food for our recovery after the Harbor Dance tonight."
       The bananas we bought turned out to be the only nourishment, along with yogurt and Gatorade, that I put into my body for an entire day after the Harbor Dance. I was pretty wiped-out for the next day also, suffering from jet lag plus Gay Circuit Party lag
     which can be more exhausting than a 14 hour airplane flight.
    By Tuesday though,  I was ready to face Sydney again. The first thing I did was, of course, go to the gym that Michael bought me a week's membership. Going to the gym on your vacation might seem like a strange concept to some people but it is something I've always done. It's essentially going to a completely different place but doing exactly the same thing, only around people with an accent.
   It has always been my way of rebooting myself emotionally and to get things moving again. It's also something I do that is highly active and good for my body. For myself, I define activity in terms of what I do indoors, not what I do out of the gym. Doing cardio on a machine with my headphones as I'm looking out the window is my way of engaging with the environment. The closest thing to outdoor activity I get is walking stroke, spinal and brain injured patients around the hospital sidewalks during the community reintegration part of their rehab program. Taking into account the amount of time I do spend exercising inside, you can even say I'm much more active than most people. The only difference is that my activity doesn't involve fresh air or catching any kind of ball. The only thing I can catch is the occasional STD from someone I meet at the gym.
   With all of this said, I still knew I had to start doing something outdoorsy that Australia was known for. I kept hearing Grant's voice repeating 'Great Barrier Reef, Great Barrier Reef...' over and over in my head. If I wasn't going to swim in the reef at least I would climb a bridge. But then I found out it cost three hundred dollars and took a whole day of training, and according to Michael's newly ex-boyfriend, Lee, who did it, the actual climb was painfully slow and boring because of out of shape people in the climbing group he got stuck with, and that it needed to be booked weeks in advance, especially right before Mardi Gras.  
  With my bridge plan thwarted, I was back to square one on my desperate search to prove that my trip to Australia was not just one big gay Circuit Party event. I was determined to swim in or hike to or climb up something in Sydney. So far, the only thing that comes close is helping my dear friends Ron T and Michael P who live here carry an old washing machine down their warm staircase to the sidewalk and carry up a new one. At least I can say I was somewhere that made me sweat and take my shirt off with Australians besides a dance floor.     
                 

  
     
    

DOWN UNDER...the harbor ----- Australia part 1

    No one comes to mind more than my dear, dear, dear Australian friend, Michael V. He is grossly over-paid and strangely under-wrinkled.  He has a very senior position in Human Resources for a huge company and is responsible for occasionally hiring but mostly firing people, a job perfectly suited for someone as proudly vile and contemptuous as him. I've been anxiously waiting for him to age but he’s had the same baby face for 15 years.  Last time he visited San Fran I still had a gray beard and he made sure to point out my aging.

"Thank you for getting old enough for the both of us, darling. It's very thoughtful of you," he pecked my cheek and patted my back." It's amazing how every time I see you Gary, you get older, and grayer, and balder, and poorer, and I think even shorter."
     " I don't understand. How do you look the same year after year? What are you having done?"
    " Everything you can't afford." 
    " You can't keep it up forever"
    " As long as there's white rhino horns and blue whale blubber left in the world I can."
                                                              
                                     ---from PORTRAIT OF DORIAN BROWN  part 2, 3/27/11



    The airplane I'm on heading towards Australia has just taken off, so there's no turning back. My dear, dear, dear friend Michael V has paid for my entire round trip flight and has also completely  furnished the second bedroom of his new swinging singles pad only a week after he signed the lease just so I would have a comfortable room for myself.  I consider this an amazing gift. I also consider it the prize for  surviving as the victim of his brutal humor longer than any other human being. My only real competition was a friend of his named Trevor, another person Michael loved to make fun of. Unfortunately Trevor died very unexpectedly last year, strangely enough, from causes unrelated to Michael. 
    The same thing can't be said about another coincidentally deceased friend of Michael's named Paul. Paul was a fellow Australian who rented a room in Michael's apartment back when he lived in San Francisco. He was a tall, blond trainer at Gold's Gym who just happened to be a little overweight and was havng a difficult time getting new clientele.
   "Paul, it's simple. No more biscuits and milkshakes everynight. If you want to increase your business, you first have to decrease your waistline." Michael burrowed his way into Paul's mind like Hannibal Lecter until he convinced Paul to have liposuction. Paul had the procedure and, to the total shock of everyone, died of complications from the surgery a few days after. At Paul's funeral all eyes were on Michael as if he was a murderer.
  " It wasn't my fault. He asked me if I thought he was fat. Was I supposed to lie?' Michael tried defending himself to his accusers. " I was just giving him advice. It was part of his business plan."  We got out of the funeral parlor just in time, right before Paul's mother arrived. " I can't believe Paul did this to me! Next time I'm accused of killing someone, I'm  coming in disguise. Something with a black veil," he said as we hurried to his car.  
    With Trevor and Paul both dead, I am the last of his favorite targets still standing. I'm also one of his favorite people in the world, and he is one of mine. I realize as I'm writing about Michael I should try to make you also see his good qualities, which he usually hides for entertainment sake. He is so much more than the vile person he claims to be. First of all, he votes much more liberally than he makes people believe. He is also one of the most loyal and dependable friends I've ever had, and is one of the two most generous people I know ( My ex Alex being the other). He doesn't care about getting gifts in return as much as he values kind gestures that show extra effort. Michael has always been hard-working and full of energy, and is annoyed that he has to waste time sleeping. Michael is also fearlessly outspoken and lies much less than other people.  He is astute and perceptive, and is level-headed when giving advice to others and making decisions for himself. He is a man of his word and tries to be as fair as possible when he makes any kind of deal( Just don't ever try to get the upperhand on him. You'll regret it). Above all, Michael V is hilarious. He makes everyone in a room laugh even if they don't want to. He skewers himself just as much as he makes fun of other people, and is comfortable enough to sometimes be as queenie and outragious as everyone hopes he'll be.    
  To downplay his own kindness, Michael has been trying to convince me that the reason why he is flying me half way around the world is to see how much more I've aged in a year, and to laugh at how much older I'm going to look than all the Aussie boys at the events he's taking me to for Sydney's gay version of Mardi Gras. 


" Mirror, mirror on the wall,
will Gary be the oldest at the Ball? "

" Yes, my queen, that is true, but Gary will still find a date faster than you"

  " We already have tickets for The Harbor Dance for when you arrive. You'll surely to be the oldest and hairiest man there. It's the most superficial, young, beautiful group of bitches I've ever seen. They make me sound like Mary Poppins. Wait to see how they run screaming from you. They'll jump in the harbor just to get away," he cackled over the phone a few days ago.
   " Michael, there's always guys who love my type. And there is no one who does the bald and hairy thing better than me. I stand alone," I told him with my unflappable confidence that always eggs him on.
   " Oh believe me, you will stand alone. ALL alone."
  We both laughed and described how we each envisioned The Harbor Dance. His vision was, of course, more brutal.
   " I better doublecheck to see if  'the handicapped' are even allowed in. I saw a group of gorgeous boys with their shirts off push a man in a wheelchair right into the harbor last year. Thank God you can hide your hideous handicap, at  least until you open your mouth."
   " Isn't it strange that both our handicaps are obvious when we open our mouths. Mine is my stutter and yours is your personalty. How do you plan on hiding that?"
    " The only thing I'm planning on hiding is my wrinkles. A person is allowed to be a bitch at The Harbor Party, but not a wrinkled bitch. The problem is you're not even a bitch. You're just wrinkled. That has to be worse," Michael pointed out. " And just to be sure I look my youngest when I stand next to you, I've scheduled another Botox appointment for Friday before your arival."
    " What happens if standing next to me actually makes you look older instead of younger, and we become 'those two old guys standing over there'? " 
    " Then I'll push you into the harbor faster than the guy in the wheelchair."
   My 23 year old friend Zel, who for the past few months I've been playing 'Big Brother plus' with, has been hearing my wild Michael V stories and listening to Michael and I carry on over the phone as my departure date got closer. A few hours before I left for the airport, Zel insisted that I get extra travel insurance just incase something strange and unexpected happens while I'm with Michael. I let him sign me up for it just because his concern was so sincere and sexy.
    I am now the proud holder of a $98 policy that covers me for emergency dental work up to $3000, emergency surgery up to $25,000, emergency medi-copter transport up to $100,000, including injury caused by a nuclear incident, a terrorist attack, or an act of God. Unfortunately there was no policy that covers me specifically against an act of Michael V, but I think I'll still be fine.

Michael V's ass blocking the view of

The Sydney Opera House AND The Sydney Harbor Bridge 

at the Harbor Dance

THE RISE AND FALL OF THE MIDDLE CHILD

My older brother Mitchell, my younger sister Missy,
and me wearing a Thurston Howell III ascot.

      The middle child, which I proudly declare myself to be, began appearing in large numbers throughout The United States after WWII. Americans were fucking like crazy, especially Jews who were having sex more than anyone else, trying to make up for the 'recent dip'  in numbers they had lost in Europe. All this sex paid off, and by 1959 the average (and loud)  American household had 3.7 children.
    But by the early 60's, the number of  new babies slowed down. The birth control pill made its debut and became almost as popular as the Beatles. Also contributing to the slowdown was the fact that Jews finally started to trust that the Nazis might actually not be coming back again, which allowed them to relax a little and not frantically fuck to save their future. By 1965 when my baby sister, Missy, was born, the average number of children in U.S. households dropped to 2.6. That number has continued to drop every year since, and now stands at 1.8 children.  0.2 percent shy of having a second child who has all his body parts.

2.6 CHILDREN

1.8 CHILDREN

     As shocking as it might sound, this steady decline is bringing about the end of the middle child. Yes, the middle child is becoming extinct faster than the Humpback Whale. There are less of my kind now than there has been in 60 years. Now, the second child who in the past would have very likely grown up as the middle after the next sibling was born, is ending up being the last child, better known as the youngest. The middle child slot is getting cut out of the equation. The majority of kids under ten don't even know a middle child in their age group. We are becoming something that mothers only in the past gave birth to, kind of like the Thalidomide 'flipper' babies who aren't seen anymore. 
    When I write about the middle child, I'm referring to the true middle, who only exists in a threesome. Technically, if there are four siblings, the second and third ones are in the middle. But a middle shared by two is overpopulated. They divide the position and diminish the impact their family has on them and that they have on their family. Also, a true middle can only be at most  3-4 years, preferably 1-2 years, apart from both the oldest and youngest.  This way, the three can closely interact with each other and any adult who is helping to raise them. Only then can a middle child's personality take its full functioning form. And don't think for a minute that you can become a true middle by default. If the second child of that family of four teenage siblings has the bad luck of being crushed to death in her car by a gigantic display soccer ball, the third born does not automatically become a true middle. The order changing later in life doesn't change how a child learned to deal with life. So it's impossible to all of the sudden turn yourself into a middle child.   
    I realize that not too many siblings have fantasies about being the middle child, and there are probably not too many children who are hoping a sibling dies just so they can claim the middle thrown.  Even at the height of our popularity when we were in almost every household, the middle child has always been considered by people who study the chronology of siblings to be ' the second-class citizen of the birth order'. The assumption made by some birth order experts is that the middle child suffers from a terrible identity crisis. This is based on the premise that being the first child  and being the last child are the only viable two positions to hold. 'Middle' isn't even considered an actual position, it's more the lack of a  position.
     To make a comparison, all you have to do is think of  New York as the first born and San Francisco as the last born, and what's left in between is the entirely-less-important 'middle of the country'. Pointing this out does not mean for a moment that I'm defending the middle states. With all the guns and bibles being stockpiled, they can surely, and unfortunately, defend themselves. I am, however, here to defend the word 'middle' and to help define its glory.
     I will admit that the 'middle' can sometimes be a bad thing, like  the middle of a brawl, the middle row of teeth on a shark, the middle of a quicksand pit, middle-school gym class, the Middle East, the middle seat during a car crash, the middle finger, middle-age onset dementia, middle-of-the -road, and the proverbial 'middle of nowhere'.
   The word 'middle' is at its best when it is the connection between two hard- to-reach places, or people. Every bridge built and every road laid is the middle between two points, as are all the oceans and seas. It's what we have to travel through, over, on, or in to get where we want. And wherever the middle might be is always where two opposing sides demand to meet. It's the ethereal place where deals and compromises are made, a murky marshland that only the middle child has the tools to navigate. We can read signs and signals better than our siblings. We can also survive rough, lonely voyages if we have to. Though we really don't want to.
   The identity crisis the middle child supposedly suffers is actually nothing more than the 'crisis' of having to create our own role in the family.  Something that has already been long-defined for both the first-born and the last-born child. They have a specific place; we instead have a specific job.  Parents don't quite know what to expect from a middle child, and have a more difficult time defining us in simple terms, especially if they are not middle children themselves. Figuring out the other two children takes much less thought and skill. We usually end up figuring out our role by ourselves without our families really ever understanding the complexity of the job we do. The other family members have only one role that they play over and over, like Carol Channing in Hello, Dolly! The middle child, on the other hand,  is like an understudy who can jump from role to role. It keeps us fluid and in a constant state of adjusting ourselves when a situation calls for us to.   
   It sounds exhausting, but it's not if you are a middle child. Our need to connect  is one of the driving forces of our lives, and the energy we have in reserve to do so is one of our greatest resources. Personally, I have put an amazing amount of energy into maintaining my connections. If the amount of energy I have spent just making sure my ex-boyfriends and I remain close could be converted into electricity, there would be enough to light up The Castro Theater for a year.  I have spent my entire life making deals and striking bargains to give people what they've wanted and to get what I've needed, raising the act of compromise into an art form. 
    To me, and most other middles, coming to a compromise is a natural and simple act.  One of the easiest things in life to do. For some people though, it's one of the hardest, and they see it as failing instead of succeeding. Hearing about the ongoing Israeli -Palestinian conflict and about the stonewalling stunts of the Republicans drives me particularly crazy as a  middle child. It goes against the essence of who we are. Being unwilling to compromise on even a single detail or make trades for things you want or need is one of the most arrogant postures a person can take, especially for a politician who's personal life in all probably isn't even effected by the outcome. I seriously doubt that there have been a lot of middle children involved in the Peace Process over the past decade, and I wonder just how much more peace we could actually bring. 
     Being in the middle has always made me feel more special, not less. It has also made me feel safe and loved. And when I'm in the middle my gravitational pull is at its strongest. So be careful not to let me squeeze in between you and someone else, or you might end up being sucked into a world you can't get out of...    

I was only 8  here but already my brother and sister didn't stand
a chance. I stuck myself right in the middle with my striped pants
and big crooked smile. My mother Priscilla was obviously trying to
get better picture placement as well in that fabulous Ann-Margret outfit

This was taken back in our twenties
when Scott and I were breaking up
and Pepe and I were starting to date.

  Our friend Mark, who was an amazing artist, made us pose like this. He was painting a mural and needed three male bodies  so we volunteered. This is not how we normally sat hanging out on a relaxing afternoon. Somehow I wound up in the middle.

Even in group shots I managed to get close to middle.

This shot from last year
is my most recent 'middling' I could find.
I promise I will stop thrusting myself
into the center, at least in front of a camera.

                       

                         

MUSHROOM MUG

     Last year, my dermatologist made the big mistake of telling me that there is only a 2% chance of my precancerous Actinic Keratosis, or AKs, actually turning cancerous, and that he could freeze off the ones on my head. He should have lied and told me they were all melanomas, and that if I went to the tanning salon again I would end up with a hole in my skull the size of a moon crater. I'm sure he regrets showing me just how quickly and easily the freezing works. It is the perfect remedy for someone like me who has always believed more in damage-control than in prevention when dealing with skin issues. Simply put, " If those AKs start a showin', get that liquid nitrogen a flowin'."

  While I was waiting for him in the exam room, I  stretched out on the motorized examination table in my underwear and made myself comfortable, pressing the buttons on the hand control until the table looked like a lounge chair at a pool. For a joke, I got my sun glasses out of my jacket and turned on the bright circular examination light that looked like the sun, then positioned myself on the table to look like I was suntanning just as my dermatologist came into the room.

     "Michael, this is better than a tanning booth," I said, looking up at him through the sunglasses without moving my arms or legs.
     "This light won't tan you but it can probably blind you if you look at it too long," he laughed.
      I sat up and took off my sunglasses. " You know me, I'll try to get a tan from any light bulb I can."
      " I should just put your name on this bottle," he said, holding up his trusty, little blue canister of liquid nitrogen and shifting his focus to the top of my head. "Let's see the damage you keep on insisting to do to yourself." At 6' 4", Michael could have looked down at the top of my head even if I was standing.
     "Before we start the cancer hunt, could you take a look at this redness in between my eyebrows and over here," I looked up and asked, pointing to the edges of both my nostrils and around my beard. 
    He put down the canister and sat on his stool so we could be eye-to-eye while he examined me.
    As he assessed my face, I couldn't help assessing his. Besides being taller than me, he is also younger than me. There had been a time when I was younger than all the doctors I went to, but the scales started tipping around ten years ago, until I now I find myself being older than most of them. Michael's baby face makes it especially hard to figure out just how much younger than me he actually is. There's no denying the fact that, whatever his age, he protects his skin better than I do. I'd rather this be the case than having a dermatologist who didn't have healthier skin than me. It would be like going to a Speech Therapist who stutters worse than I do.

    A dermatologist is a walking advertisement for himself, a book that always gets judged by it's cover. Most other kinds of doctors don't get judged by their appearance as severely. Dermatologists are the only doctors who aren't allowed to have a suntan. It's certainly frowned upon, and could cost them a few potential patients. People want their dermatologists to have good skin, and are generally put-off by ones who don't. And as Botox treatments become more and more the norm, patients will expect their dermatologists to be wrinkle-free. Soon, aging dermatologists aren't going to be allowed to wrinkle even if they want to.
     Exactly how direct is the correlation between how much dermatologists are able to take care of their own skin and how much they will be able to help yours? To be fair, shouldn't we make the same correlation about other kinds of doctors, and demand to see their body parts? And maybe MRIs of their brain and organs too? Would it make a difference if you knew your cardiologist has a faulty heart, or your psychiatrist had a traumatic brain injury, or if your proctologist has an abnormally shaped asshole? Usually, we only learn these kind of things after they die, or, after we sleep with them. 
     Michael held my jaw and tilted my head side-to-side and up and down, then brushed my eyebrow hairs forward with his thumbs and parted the short hairs of my beard with his index fingers.
   "You've got three conditions going on, but none of them look too bad. The flakiness is a little bit of psoriasis and the redness under it is probably a combination of seborrheic dermatitis and tinea faciei, which is just a fancy word for fungus," he explained as he went to the sink and washed his hands.

   " I have fungus on my face?"
   " It's just like athlete's foot."
   " Then why isn't it called athlete's face? And isn't 'psoriasis' dandruff?"
    " Basically."
    " How do I have dandruff it I don't have hair? Isn't not having dandruff one of the benefits of being bald?"
     " It's pretty common in the eyebrows if the skin is dry."
     "  I see. God makes me  bald but still insists on me having dandruff. That's really fair," I smirked. "So, I 've got dandruff AND fungi on my face. Is there anything else? Are mushrooms going to grow out of my nostrils, or any other crops? "

This skin condition, known as Fungus Face,
has been in my family for centuries. It can be
traced back to my ancestor Romeo Glassman,
depicted here by the 16th century
Italian artist Giuseppe Arcimboldo. 
This same artist's series of yeast-inspired
portraits of baked goods growing out of
vaginas were not as well-received.

       He laughed and told me not to worry about it.  "I'll write a script for 2 ointments, and for a shampoo that you rub into your eyebrows and around the red areas at your beard. It should be gone in two or three weeks. Let's give the rest of you a look-over." He picked up the nitrogen canister and adjusted the angle of the examination light over me, then rolled over the huge magnifying glass attached to a metal pole with a wide wheeled base that I've nicknamed 'Cyclops'.
    The examination always begins at the top of my head. I call this 'the bald man's bull's eye'. It seems to be a landing pad for cancer. As a matter of fact, being bald increases the risk of skin cancer almost as much as smoking an entire pack of cigarettes every day increases the risk of lung cancer (bald smokers are really screwed.) 
   Michael moves his finger in slow motion to make sure he doesn't miss any small mark or bump. He only found one AK to zap with the nitrogen, which impressed both of us. After he went over the tops of my shoulders, I laid down on the table so he could have a complete frontal view of my entire body. This includes Michael lowering my underwear, which, though done only for a few seconds without any sexual overtones or even undertones from him, is usually my  favorite part of the cancer hunt. If I'm not naked at some point during a visit to a doctor, I feel I've not gotten my money's worth. But after finding out my face was filled with dandruff and fungus, I wasn't feeling particularly attractive. All I could think about was getting that face shampoo as quickly as possible.
   When I flipped over for Michael to get a back view, within a few seconds I felt his finger going back and forth over two small areas in the middle of my back.
    " AKs?" I  asked with my head to the side, still laying on my stomach. 
   "No, not these," he said with some concern in his voice. " Stay right there. I just want to take a scraping of them." He put down the liquid nitrogen canister and got an instrument that looked like a thin box cutter which he used to take a sample of each.
  " What are they?" 
  " Well, they could be nothing or they could be melanoma."
   "Isn't there anything in between?" I asked, only half jokingly.
    " Let's see what comes back from the biopsies, and then we'll know. Let's not worry too much right now," he said as he sealed the samples in two small vials  and then continued the cancer hunt until my whole body was checked. 
    As I was getting dressed I asked Michael how much of a factor does hereditary play.
   "It definitely is a strong factor. But it's not the only one. Suntanning plays a much greater roll. Like I said before, this is one of the only cancers that you can easily prevent."
   " I know, I know," I said.
   "I'll get the biopsies back in around a week. At least stay out of a tanning both until then."
    " It's only once a month in the winter, don't worry."
    We gave each other a friendly hug, and I waved goodbye as he left the room.
     I wasn't worried for one reason. I was banking on the fact that my mother Priscilla is almost 72 years old and still regularly tans with baby oil, and has not gotten skin cancer yet. And there's no way in the world I'm getting melanoma before she gets it. It has to be genetically,and cosmically,  impossible. 
    Michael called me a few days ago to give me the results. He started off by telling me the cells looked strange.
    " Strange in a good way?" I asked optimistically.
    " I guess so," he chuckled. " Both biopsies came back negative."
    

 I guess that sometimes it pays off swimming deep in Priscilla's gene pool, especially on very sunny days.

   
   
 

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!

Hey- I want to write a few words directly to everyone who has been reading my blog. This week marks my one year anniversary of writing it.  As of this moment, I have gotten 5,152 hits, which means either my best friend Scott has gone to this site 5,152 times, or there are actually people out there reading Stutterpuss. The tracking map shows readers in the U.S., Canada, England, Australia, and Russia, but I have no idea who anyone is. I realize this is part of the deal I agree to as a blogger, that I don't get to know who you are, so I will never ask. It's a wonderful mystery to me, one that is better left unsolved.  
  I can just imagine all the stutterers who searched for the word 'stutter' and ended up at this blog. If you're one of them, I'm sure this has been more than you ever bargained for, but I hope the blogs have kept you entertained and interested enough to keep on reading. Same goes for everyone who doesn't stutter. Same goes for everyone who is gay and everyone who isn't, and for everyone who is Jewish and everyone who isn't, and for everyone who is dealing with aging and for everyone who isn't(yet), and for everyone who is not a Republican and for no one who is one, and for everyone who is a parent and for everyone who doesn't have children, and for everyone with the same one partner for years and for everyone with a growing list of ex's ( 6 and counting..), and for everyone with divorced parents and for everyone with parents still married(unbelievable), and for everyone who thinks their mother is crazy and for everyone who is crazy for thinking their mother is crazier than mine, and for everyone else who is reading...
   I'm dedicated to writing this blog and keeping within the time frame I have committed myself to. I take the two week deadline as  seriously as someone would who is going to be to be fired for not having it done on time. I promise to keep writing, and I hope you'll keep reading. I'm at the point of enjoying it so much that I think I would keep on writing even if no one else was reading it.( I'd rather not test this theory).  


                                                       Truly,
                                                       Gary Glassman
                                                       aka Stutterpuss    


    My very first blog at the end of January last year was about my visit to the dermatologist, so it is only appropriate that I begin year # 2 with another visit to see him...
                                                  

THAT DRAG QUEEN HAPPENS TO BE MY MOTHER!

     I know, I know. Every young gay son starts out thinking his mother is the most attractive and the smartest out of all the mothers in the neighborhood until he realizes she's not.  In my case, it was clear early on that my mother, Priscilla, was no Madame Curie. She wasn't good at helping me with book reports and math made her cry. But it was also clear to me that my mother was definitely more attractive than all the other mothers, even the ones with smaller noses. I knew this was true because of all the attention she got, especially from men, whenever she entered a room. 

 OK, everyone calm down. The leopard was placed on The Endangered Species List in 1972 and this photo, of my mother wearing one of her coats from my father's second-   hand fur store, was taken in the early 60's. After she realized wearing it would be illegal, she did what any law-abiding citizen would do - -she had a big chair and a footstool  in our livingroom  reupholstered  with it.   I must admit she does look fabulous .              .

    Throughout my childhood I was always aware that mailmen, maintenance men, cab drivers, bus drivers, doctors, pharmacists, butchers, tailors, and male teachers stared at her a little longer than they looked at the other mothers. When I began junior high, I started to hear comments about how sexy she was from boys around the neighborhood and in school. There wasn't a term back then for what she was, which was actually an earlier version of the present-day MILF. I was strangely proud of this, and enjoyed the extra attention it brought me as her son. Classmates would ask me if she walked around our house naked, and some even offered me money to consider taking pictures of her in the shower.
    After my parents divorced and my brother Mitchell, my sister Missy, and I had all moved out of the house, my mother had actually became a MILF for a few of Mitchell's old high school friends. They would ring her doorbell late at night and leave with Pop-Tarts in the morning. This coincided with the period that my mother also became a MITS, which stands for Mother with Increased Tit  Size.

    She made a special trip into the city to show me her new boobs, and though it was almost 30 years ago, I unfortunately remember it clearly. If I close my eyes I can still see her boobs floating in front of me. They looked like two short bald men banging their heads together.

    My first boyfriend, Scott, remembers my mother's boobs too. He was introduced to them at the same time he was first introduced to her. She came through the front door and immediately lifted her blouse in front of us. Her old bra was having just as hard a time containing the bigger boobs as my mother was having trying to contain her excitement.

      " Aren't they great?" she asked Scott, who was staring wide-eyed at the two boobs like a deer in headlights. Poor Scott nodded, not knowing what else to do. He didn't want to seem rude by looking away so he kept looking at them.

   " Ma, pull your shirt down!" I cringed, holding my hands up to block my view.

   "Oh Gary, don't be embarrassed. I'm very proud of them," she said, pointing her boobs at me.

   " I haven't even introduced you to Scott yet and you're already acting this way! This is exactly why I haven't let you meet him."

   "Hello Scott, I'm Gary's mother Priscilla and these are my new tits, and we're all very happy to meet you,"  she turned back to Scott and said before lowering her blouse to hug him. " You should tell my son he ought to be more appreciative of how hard I try to look good for him. He hasn't even noticed what else is different, " she said, turning back to me.
    I looked at her confused, not knowing what she was talking about. Then I saw it. 
     " Oh my God!" I gasped with my hands up to my mouth in shock." Your nose!"  I'd been so distracted by her boob-job that I didn't notice she had a nose-job too.

       "That's my other surprise," she said, stepping back from Scott to give me a better view of her smaller nose. " It took me 40 years but I finally did it. I think he did a great job. Didn't he, Pooh?" 
     I was absolutely stunned. Because of her, I grew up thinking that big noses were beautiful and having one made me more special. I had always respected how she never cared what some people said about the size of hers, and how she used it to her advantage. 
    "Ma, your nose was such a part of you. You made it work for you all these years. This is the one thing I never thought you would do, " I said with great disappointment.
   " You don't understand certain things, Gary. You don't know what it feels like getting older. it gets harder to look as good. I needed a little help now, that's all this is."
  " You know what you've done, Ma? You've betrayed all people with big noses. Especially Barbra."
   "If I had her money, I wouldn't care how big my nose was either. Barbra Streisand doesn't need to find a man to help her.  I have to. And speaking of that, you can blame your father for this." She turned back to Scott and continued." I'm sure you've met Bernie already. Gary likes to introduce him as his favorite parent now. He doesn't remember what a terrible father and husband he was in the past. Bernie is the one who always said my tits were too small and my nose was too big. Like he's one to talk with a penis like his. It's funny how someone can be such a big prick and have such a small one," she smirked.
    My mother always did her best to degrade my father in front of anyone, even someone she was meeting for the first time. Nothing was ever too personal for her to say, especially if it made my father look bad. I grew up hearing how small my father's penis was, and so did the rest of the kids in the neighborhood. She would drive around Great Neck in our Cadillac yelling out the window, "Bernie Glassman has a small prick!" while Mitchell, Missy and I sat in the backseat. It felt like we were in one of those cars that drive from block to block on Election Day blaring a candidate's name over and over. Sometimes she would even yell it from the passenger window while my father was driving. All he could do was smile and wave out his window like he was the candidate.
    "Now Scott knows how small Dad's penis is and how big your breasts are. Is there anything else you would like him to know before you leave? " I crossed my arms and asked her.
    "Yes, one more thing," my mother said, turning back to Scott. "Bernie's mother Sally has cobwebs in her cunt."  With that said, she told Scott how nice it was to meet and gave him a kiss good-bye.

                                                 *
     By now, my mother's new boobs would be considered old new boobs. But because she had them lifted again, they can technically be considered new new boobs.  No one knows exactly what other plastic surgery she has had done, nor how much money she has spent on it. Her hair weaves alone must cost more than what my father paid her in alimony for the past 25 years.

PRISCILLA WITH HER
 OLD NEW BOOBS.

PRISCILLA AT 71 YEARS OLD 
WITH HER NEW NEW BOOBS

     Priscilla has a unique power to stay remarkably the same. She has managed decade after decade to remain strangely unchanged, both emotionally and physically. Women her age keep growing old around her, which she doesn't particularly feel the necessity to do. She is as original and as creative and as crazy as ever. Hopefully, I've inherited more of her bone structure than her insanity. 

AT 73. GO PRIS!

INVASION OF THE BLUETHERS

    

       It used to be understood that anybody walking alone down the street having a conversation with themselves was crazy. That was before Bluetooth complicated the matter. Now when I see someone alone talking and gesturing to themselves, I have to ask myself are they crazy, or just teleconferencing.  Bluetooth users, or 'Bluethers', are triggering my internal radar that lets me know a crazy person is near. I haven't learned to differentiate between the two yet. The last two people I've seen having fits of stomping and yelling at the empty sidewalk in front of them ended up being Bluethers. A Bluether in a bad mood can be scarier than any crazy person. 

     The only way to know for sure if someone is in fact a Bluether, and not a random crazy person talking to themselves, is to look for a Bluetooth headset. It's usually looped over the ear on the right, but if the Bluether is left-handed, it will be in that ear instead. The headsets are being designed smaller and smaller every year making them harder for me to spot. It's almost impossible to see when someones hairstyle is covering their ears. Occasionally, I've had to get dangerously close just for a glance.

     When I look with odd curiosity and confusion at the Bluethers, are they looking back and pitying me for still being shackled with my cellphone to my ear? I have to admit they do look like the superior being, with two hands free instead of only one hand like me. I'm basically an amputee when I'm holding up my phone. I only have one free hand to unload my shopping cart, carry groceries, do  banking, fold laundry, slide money into automatic fare-collectors on Muni, cook dinner, and clean the dishes. Being in the health care field, I also have to admit that a headset makes more sense ergonomically, and it probably won't give me brain cancer as fast as my cellphone is reportedly doing. 

     Seeing people around me enjoying this new freedom of hands-free phone calls is still a bit disconcerting. It's like seeing someone ride a bicycle without holding the handlebars. It's just going to take a little more time until the Bluethers become less unnerving and more immediately recognizable. They are going to become such an ordinary sight that no one talking to themselves will look crazy anymore, not even crazy people. Crazy people will just have to find other ways of looking crazy. Or they could wear a Bluetooth headset too, and look like they're talking to someone else even when they're not. Bluetooth has the unique ability to make sane people look crazy and crazy people look sane. 

   There's no denying that this technology is on its way to becoming the standard way we will all communicate. Eventually everyone who has a cell phone, including me, will be a Bluether. Streets will be filled with people talking to the air in front of them, and we'll all look normal. Bluetooth devices will become so commonplace that holding up a phone to your ear will be as laughable as rotary phones attached to the wall.

    For now, I'm sticking with my cellphone.The tipping point hasn't happened yet. I'll know when it's time, just like I knew when it was time to get a cellphone. That was after bad-mouthing cellphones of course, which I usually do to something before I totally embrace it. 

   A few days ago, I was given a sign from God that He agrees I should wait.

   I was walking home behind Safeway on the side street where homeless men and women line-up a few times a week to cash in bottles and cans at San Francisco Community Recyclers. On the sidewalk right next to me was a stylish guy probably only in his late twenties dressed in a business suit, with great shoulder-length hair half-covering a very small Bluetooth headset he was talking into. I was holding my cellphone up to my ear and having a conversation too. One of the women with an unlit bent cigarette dangling from her gray lower lip stepped out of line and positioned herself on the sidewalk right in between us. As we approached her, she made eye contact with me first, but I quickly pointed to my phone at my ear, letting her clearly see I was busy talking. She immediately turned her attention to the other guy and interrupted him to ask for a light and money.

     "Why are you bothering me? Can't you see I'm on the phone!" the guy barked at her.

     " No I can't. Where is it? Up your ass, asshole!" she yelled back at him. 

  I smirked to myself and walked away pressing the cellphone affectionately against my ear.

TEATH & CRUMPETS

    Two blogs ago I dragged  you on  a journey up my colon from which I trust you all returned unharmed. I must again ask you to join me in a visit to another one of my body cavities. This time it's only my mouth. Specifically, there's a few things about my teeth and gums I would like to discuss.  It's certainly not as offensive as discussing my colonoscopy. (The irony of this is that my mouth and the words which come out of it have been much more offensive to people than anything that has come out of my ass). 

    Please don't think now that I'm 50 these blogs are turning into a medical journal to chronicle my various doctors appointments. It's just coincidence that my dentist appointment was a week after my colonoscopy. I had no idea that as the hygienist was cleaning my teeth a blog would start uncontrollably forming in my head. That's how it seems to happen with me, when suddenly something becomes blog-worthy.
     My dentist's office is in the 450 Sutter Building. If an earthquake knocks it down, half the dentists in San Francisco will be knocked down with it. It would deliver a fatal blow to oral care in the city, leaving us with even less dentists than there are in England. I sat with my legs elevated and my head tilted back in the high-tech automated examination chair that looked like it was designed by NASA. I imagined the earthquake flinging me and the chair out of the big tinted window, and a parachute built into the chair opens to glide me safely down from the 21st floor as all the other patients in cheaper chairs from different offices zoom passed me and crash onto the sidewalk below.
      Everything in Dr. C's office is custom-built and state-of-the-art. The sleek, long-armed  X-ray machine instantaneously develops the images of my teeth onto a flat-screen attached to the wall, and I am given a power-point presentation of my decay. The expensive machine emits much lower doses of radiation than the big old clunky ones, but all the female employees of child-bearing age still run out of the room before the X-rays are taken. Even with the leadspread always covering me, the amount of radiation from all the dental X-rays I've been exposed to in my lifetime must by now equal the amount released by one of the reactors at the Fukushima Nuclear Power Plant after the tsunami. Luckily my sperm is just for show anyway, so I nonchalantly sit back as the machine zaps me.
     The office has been renovated twice since I started coming here when I first moved to San Francisco 17 years ago. I met Dr. C. on the beach as he was jogging in a Speedo, which is the way all his patients wished they met him. I was even more under-dressed for our introduction, only wearing my headphones. We started talking and I found out he was a dentist and he found out  I needed a dentist, which for both of us immediately cancelled out ever having sex with each other.
    He is Greek and so good-looking that I'm sure at one point he had to decide whether to be a dentist or a movie star. His eyes are the blue that you wish the water in The Bay would be, and his hair is the blackest thing on a sunny beach. And no matter how long you went to him as your dentist your smile would never be as beautiful as his. Some beautiful smiles are merely white blinds that hide what's going on inside, but his smile glows from a genuine warmth and generous spirit. He could be much more intimidating to people if he chose to be, but instead he's made himself as welcoming as possible. After our conversation ended and he jogged away that day on the beach, I watched as he stopped to speak to someone he knew every 50 feet. Each person got the same big hug from him no matter what they looked like. An old man in a thong and a pale obese man in a sarong got the same amount of attention that he had given to a tanned body builder. I remember being impressed by it back then, and I'm still amazed at how effortlessly he can speak to all different kinds of people and make each one feel special. He treats his patients more like guests and his workplace more like home. Understanding this about Dr. C. helps to explain why his is the only dental office in the whole building that serves biscuits, baklava, cookies, and crumpets along with fruit juices,coffee, and tea in the waiting area. Everything else about his office is about the betterment of your teeth except for this last minute sabotaging right before you are seen, which I always fall victim to. 

     Every time I get my teeth cleaned by a different hygienist, I have to sit through her shock when she rolls back my lips and sees my receding gum line. Emily, who I was seeing for the first time, is too young to have any of the teeth problems she sees in patients my age.   " Wow Mr. Glassman. Has anyone spoken with you about your gums? Are they very sensitive?" she asked me with great concern.

    " Physically or emotionally? " I ask back " They're only sensitive when people gasp at them."

      " I didn't mean they're all bad. It's only in some spots," she quickly added, trying to lessen the blow.
     " Don't worry," I've been getting that reaction for years," I smiled up at her.
     " Has anyone ever spoken to you about dental floss?"
      " Is it something new on the market?"
      She looked at me in disbelief for a moment then smiled when she realized I was joking. Poor  Emily. She was new and so enthusiastic. As she gave her flossing speech, I could see her belief in the power of it, and she wanted me to believe in it too. But she had no idea how many hygienists before her had tried for decades to get me to floss. It's like hearing about safe sex. I've already heard all there is to know about floss and condoms, and I've obviously made my decision not to listen. No amount of educating me seems to make a difference. I am thoroughly education-proof on these two subjects. There are the condom wearers and the non-wearers, and there are the flossers and the non-flossers.This is not to say that condoms and floss are that much alike. One could save your life and the other can only save a tooth or two. The one thing they do have in common is their unimportance in my life. To be honest, I can explain why I don't use condoms much more easily than why I don't bother to floss. For some inextricable reason I've not been able to find the two extra minutes a day it would take for the past 30 years.
    To make Emily happy I promised I would try harder. Proud of herself, she moved on to scraping the tartar from what she described as deep pockets, which always makes me think of pants. Along with the tartar she scraped out a remnant of food, which I insisted was baklava. After all the scraping and polishing was finished, Emily went out of the room and  Dr. C came in. He always looks just as good covered up in a shirt and tie as he did in a Speedo.
      I sprang up from the examination chair with my spit bib still on." Hi Honey. Great to see you, " I said as we hugged each other. " Don't be mad at me but I think I frightened Emily with my gums."
   " I wouldn't be surprised if she quits after seeing them, Gary."
   " I'm beginning to question if I even need gums. Look at this gorgeous smile still, " I said pointing with both hands at my mouth as I flashed him a big one." That's without ever flossing."
   " I will never understand why some of my patients refuse to floss."
  " I am not refusing, I'm forgetting." I corrected him.
  " It's the biggest mystery to me how that happens."
  " Well it's the biggest mystery to me why you serve baked goods in a dentist office."
   " Leave my baked goods alone. That's how my mother raised me. When people come over, you give them food."
   " I can't leave them alone. That's the problem. Emily pulled out a chunk of baklava between my teeth. I was going to make her keep it so I could show you."
   He rolled his eyes but couldn't help laughing. " Come on, let's see what's going on in your mouth," he said, motioning for me to sit in the exam chair again.
    He looked at the X-rays then did a few tests in my mouth with a sharp stainless steel pic. Even though I love to see him, having him examine my teeth is when I always get the bad news. It is usually a bad sign when he spends more time on one tooth than on the others, and when he asks for more X-rays it is even a worse sign. And when he says he has to show the X-ray to the periodontist, I know I'm really screwed. Even with the $2000 my dental plan gives me every 12 months, I still usually wind up owing money by the end of the year.
    By some stroke of luck, 10 months have passed already and I only spent $500 so far. I never had so much left so far into the year. I was waiting for him to ask Emily for more X-rays on something but he said that my teeth look fine. 
   " That means I've got $1500 of insurance still left," I  raised my head and excitedly said.
    " That's a good amount for an emergency if one happens in the next 2 months.  You never know, Gary."
    " Screw the emergency! I'm going on a shopping spree!" I swung my legs off the elevated chair and sat facing him. "What can I get for $1500? Tell me, tell me," I said giddily as I quickly tapped my feet and clapped my hands.
     We decided the best idea was to spend it on a new bonding procedure that fills in any gaps where the gum line is too low.  I had until December 31st to spend it, and I was determined to use every dollar I had coming to me. " Try to get it as close to the fifteen hundred as possible. If  it goes over a little I'll take care of it. Just don't let  it go under." The secretary calculated how many appointments I would need and then scheduled them. I usually only take the 8:00 AM ones because of my work schedule but I had to take whatever times were available to squeeze in the number we needed before the end of the year.
    The secretary called out to me just as I was leaving the table with the baked goods and heading for the door. " Gary, we forgot! When do you want your next cleaning appointment!"
    I turned around to face her with a huge slice of baklava in one hand and some crumpets in the other and two almond biscottis in my chest pocket of my scrub top. I looked down at all the sweets I was carrying and then back at her. " Probably in five minutes!"