Skiing at Crystal

Since I got over my blood clots a couple years ago (no more blood thinners for me!), I have been doing a lot of skiing. I went skiing in Argentina in August at a great resort in Patagonia called Bariloche. It was with a NY gay ski group called Ski Bums. Lucky me, I got to sleep with the only straight man on the trip. The hotel room we ended up in only had one queen sized bed. He was cool with it. I was cool with it. No, for the dirty minded, nothing happened (aside from sleep).

Yesterday I got back from skiing at Crystal Mountain, about 2 hours south of Seattle. Below is a video of me at my most graceful (ummm....not that graceful).

I Just Wish You Wrote Better

Since I started this blog, I have received several compliments on my writing. Those compliments are more appreciated than you may realize.

When people find out I was a professor at Wharton for a time (untenured, assistant), they are usually impressed. When they find out I left Wharton voluntarily, they are usually surprised. When I explain why I left, they are usually appalled.

When I joined the faculty at Wharton, I knew that it would be challenging. I had never taught before. I was no longer in the insulated cocoon of graduate school. My research was unusual to say the least. It would take a long time to explain it, except to note that it applied graph-grammars (huh?) to the problem of formally specifying graphical user interfaces. I started at Wharton in 1985. The Macintosh was just a year old, and graphical user interfaces were in their infancy.

Not only was my research outside the mainstream, it required writing a ton of computer programs to demonstrate the concepts. Computer programming takes a long time, requires lots of resources, and for a while, I had no idea how to implement the ideas in my research. After a lot of effort (over 2 years of programming), I had built a prototype system, and had submitted the fundamental paper to a well-respected journal for possible publication.

Since it was taking so long to write the code so that I could write a paper, I had received worried yearly reviews from the more senior faculty. They had noted the small number of publications to date and the unusual nature of my work. I told them that I was working hard on the key part of my research, which I believed would pay off. I suggested, wait until you read the paper. 

I would have had a safer, simpler time in academia if I had simply pursued more traditional research. Naively, I clung to the ideal that academia would welcome the pursuit of novel, non-traditional ideas. 

One faculty member---let's call him "Rod"---would play a key role. When I was an undergrad at Cornell, he was a visiting professor, and I enjoyed his class. Rod and I both had the same PhD advisor, though he had earned his doctorate many years earlier. He was likely instrumental in my being offered a position at Wharton. He was a very colorful character, funny, articulate. 

Before I walked into the review, I had some very positive feedback under my belt. The editor of the journal to which I submitted the paper said that he felt the work was "seminal." Another academic, extremely well respected, former president of the professional society of my field, called the work "pioneering." I pointed all this out to my colleagues, but it didn't seem to matter.

Rod's comment on my paper? "Well, it reads like a great survey paper, but we can't see the contribution." In other words, the kiss of death.

I was frustrated and angry, since this paper represented my absolute best, and had received glowing reviews. I was younger then, I suppose, and stubbornly proud of the work, so I directly informed the committee that if they could not understand the work, given that others had, there was little I could do. Not the most effective strategy, in retrospect.

This pissed them off, of course, especially Rod. He pleaded, "Work with me. I'll help you get a grant from the National Science Foundation. I'll teach you how to write."

I had seen him "work" with others; although he is a wildly entertaining and effective teacher, as a faculty member, he was widely known as a jerk, horribly insecure, taking out his insecurities out on colleagues and graduate students often in ways that were publicly humiliating (e.g., "great survey paper"). When he "worked" with others, he also added his name to the papers as co-author. That was credit that I felt he didn't deserve.

Declining his offer of help, of course, just insulted him. Perhaps I was too proud, but I had evidence to support my position.

At the same time, unbeknownst to the rest of the review committee, but known to Rod, I was also dealing with the aftermath of Stewart's death from AIDS. Such personal struggles carried no weight at Wharton. Another untenured assistant professor was dying of cancer. After they denied her tenure, Rod came to me very pleased that at least they had decided to extend health benefits to her until she died. But they still had to deny her tenure. She died a few months later. How generous.

Six months later, I presented a shorter version of the "survey" paper at a well-recognized conference. The paper tied for best paper in its area, among over 70 papers presented in that area.

When I got back to Wharton from the conference, Rod stopped by my office.

"Congratulations. The faculty are going to think that's great."

"Thanks, Rod."

He was not quite done. "Of course it doesn't mean very much."

"I just wish you wrote better."

Huh? I just was awarded irrefutable outside evidence that I wrote very well, thank you, but Rod was not buying any of it.

Actually, I apologize. I took Rod's comments out of context. It turns out that Rod presented a paper at the same conference that I did. His paper was in a different area than mine, but, of course, Rod's paper didn't win. Moreover, papers are presented in sessions of two to three other papers. At that conference, the chair of each session is responsible for submitting a nomination of one of the papers in their session for the best paper award. Rod's paper was the paper nominated from the session he chaired.

Before I went to that conference, the much longer paper I submitted had been accepted for publication. Actually, I was asked to expand the paper into 2 parts, since they felt there was so much useful material. I was informed during the conference where I won best paper that my NSF grant was funded---the grant that I wrote all by myself.

Given the handwriting on the wall, however, I found another job. It was at Simon Fraser University in beautiful Vancouver, British Columbia. Not nearly as prestigious at Wharton---most people I knew had never heard of it---but I had always wanted to live in the Pacific northwest, I liked the faculty, and I knew I would succeed there. I eventually got tenure, was awarded a teaching award one year, and became an area editor of that excellent journal.

Before I decided to leave, I met with each of the members of my review committee for one last chance. They knew about the award-winning paper, the acceptance (and expansion) of the "survey" paper, the NSF grant, and the fact that I had an active job offer. Here is what they said:

Rod: "Don't buy a house."

Member 1: "The committee was pleased that after our negative feedback, you seemed to turn things around." I calmly replied, "I had completed and submitted all those positively received papers before the committee even met."

Member 2: I mentioned to him that I didn't believe the faculty paid much attention to Rod's opinions (I wanted to say, "since he is such a jerk," but didn't). This faculty member replied quite simply, "don't make that assumption."

Lots of enthusiasm there for having me stay.  Rather than wait around for the inevitable, I chose to leave, a year before the tenure decision was going to be made.

In retrospect, I realize first that I don't deal well with bullies like Rod. Although I have had a successful career as a professor (tenure at two universities, wrote a book, many publications), and a successful career as a software developer (now at Amazon), when a bully has power over me, I have to move on to another position.

Second, Rod was regularly put down by the rest of the faculty in the department. He seemed to transfer all that hurt onto others, including me. We were at a standoff, but he and his colleagues had the power.

Except that I could pick myself up and leave.

My low tolerance for bullies arises perhaps from being a geeky gay kid, like lots of other gay kids, I was picked on pretty often. not beaten up, humiliated, which is more like being beaten up mentally. When someone tries to bully me or others, therefore, I become enraged. Perhaps if I had accepted Rod's offer of help (I felt it would be sucking up), I would now be a respected member of the faculty of the Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania. On the other hand, my dear, recently departed Dad, was a man of strong opinions, who stood up for principle, even at his own expense. I am proud to have taken my Dad's example to heart.

Two years later, I was back at the same conference where I had won the award. A new paper of mine was again nominated for best paper (I didn't win). 

Of course, I ran into Rod. He complained about the tone in my old department at Wharton, how the rest of the faculty did not respect his research. I guess it's not uncommon for people to project the pain they have endured onto others. I think he tried to patch up any bad feelings by saying, "you would not have been happy there." 

If he was trying to make some form of peace with me, I didn't realize it at the time. When he asked me how I liked my new institution, I had a response well prepared, one that I had practiced many times in my head. It was great to finally let it out. "Well, Rod, Simon Fraser University does not have the resources or reputation of the Wharton School, but at least when a paper of mine wins an award, nobody on the faculty congratulates me by saying, 'I just wish you wrote better.'"

About a year later, Steve, a good friend and colleague of mine in my old department at Wharton, told me there was a position open. I responded, "I have grave doubts as to whether I would ever want to return." He urged me to reconsider, as he would push strongly to bring me back. OK, I would keep an open mind.

I saw Steve soon thereafter at another conference. He was embarrassed.

"Chris, it doesn't look like we'll move forward with bringing you in for an interview." 

"No worries, Steve.  I think I'm probably more relieved than disappointed."

Then Steve added, "you can probably guess who killed your chances." 

"Ummm...yes I can. " 

Thinking back on all of this, however, I think I can appreciate at least some of Rod's hurt and anger. I felt hurt and angry too. Although he was a major cause of those painful feelings, I would hope that I would now be better able to rise above it. I don't know if I really could, but I'd like to think so.

In the end, I hope I was able to explain effectively why I left Wharton voluntarily. If I haven't, all I can say is, I just wish I wrote better.

Flaming Car Wreck

I was driving back from skiing at Stevens Pass with my lawyer and her son. Cold at zero degrees Fahrenheit. Came around a curve and saw the following flaming car wreck. No one was inside, but I could feel the heat through the car. The son took these videos with my Flip Mino HD pocket high definition video camera.

Viruses

In the early 80's, some of my blood was used to verify the accuracy of the HIV antibody test. No, I am negative. I was part of the control group. Before they even knew that HIV caused AIDS, researchers from New York City came to Cornell, where I was getting my Ph. D, to conduct a study on a group of gay men who did not live in a big city. We were the control group in a larger study that compared us to gay men from large cities. Cornell is located in Ithaca, NY, a 4 hour drive from New York City, in the middle of rural, upstate New York, an hour from the nearest interstate.

Every three months a team of doctors collected 13 test tubes of blood, plus samples of urine, saliva, stool, and, yes, semen. Two semen samples each time, collected an hour apart, kept sterile, and refrigerated until delivery. There was a page and half of instructions on how to collect the semen samples. I had multiple offers to help.

The researchers took the samples back to their labs in New York and conducted who-knows-what tests on them. If they ever found something unusual, they would let you know during their next visit.

On their next visit, they told me, "Chris, you've never had chicken pox."

"Oh, really? Is there a vaccine?"

In the early 80's, no vaccine was available, though there is one today.

Two weeks later, I was having a great time at a going away party for a friend of mine. We were playing charades. The kids at the party would whisper the clues in everyone's ears. Midway through the party, the host said, "oh, by the way, my kids have chicken pox. I hope nobody minds."

Two weeks after the party, it was Cornell graduation day at the end of May. I wasn't graduating for another six months, though I had accepted a position on the faculty of the University of Pennsylvania. The weather was beautiful, not too hot and a perfectly clear sky. Walking past the football stadium where the ceremony was held, I just didn't feel right. Sometimes I get allergies which give me a headache, so I went home, took some pills, and went to bed early.

I woke up at midnight and could feel a fever coming on. When I went to the bathroom, I saw a festering red bump in the middle of my forehead, right between my eyes, oozing a clear yellowish liquid. Oh yeah, I was exposed to chicken pox. Oh well.

When I woke up the next morning a swarm of pox had marched down my forehead, marking my face, neck, arms, chest and back. My legs were next. At the height of the horror, I had pox on every identifiable body part. No semen samples that week.

My fever raged at 102 for over 5 days. I would take a pill to reduce the fever, but when the fever broke, I would awaken lying in a puddle of sweat. The sheets were not merely soaking wet. It was a pool, as if the roof had leaked into my bed. I had to change the sheets at least twice a day.

The disease is highly contagious, so I was quarantined in my apartment. My poor roommate, Scott, came home to his pox-coated roommate greeting him at the door. Scott didn't know if he had chicken pox before, so for two weeks, he worried he might get it (luckily he didn't).

You're warned not to scratch; otherwise you leave permanent scars, but the itch is irresistable. I poured bottles of calamine lotion over my head to try to control it, but still ended up with a few scars.

On the worst day of the entire ordeal, in the evening, I dragged myself out of bed to watch Dan Rather on the CBS Evening News. In his distinctive baritone, he intoned:

"The University of Pennsylvania today announced the development of a chicken pox vaccine. It will be available in 2 to 3 years."

In a few more days, the fever broke, the pox scabbed over, and I was able to get out of the house. I hadn't shaved in a week; in fact I ended up growing a beard because it was impossible to shave with all those scabs on my face.

I learned a lot about humanity when I was finally able to end the quarantine. As I walked down the street people would obviously cross to the other side to avoid this scabrous spectacle.

Because of this ordeal, I learned first-hand the power of viruses. These tiny bits of DNA and RNA possess such power. I thought I was going to die. lesson I learned made me very cautious. It's one reason why I am still HIV negative.

Living Will

On July 3, 2008, I got the call. It was 6PM, I was in my car on my way to dinner with my friend Janice. Adi, one of my Dad's caretakers was on the phone. He had fallen and badly hurt his leg.

I got there in 15 minutes, and it was clear he had broken his hip. I knew that at 87, breaking a hip is serious, often fatal eventually. The broken hip doesn't kill directly. It's more insidious. Not being able to get up to walk makes the person a lot more susceptible to pneumonia, and that's why falls are so serious in the elderly. So, I was expecting a long lingering death.

Given that my Dad had Alzheimer's, I had to make all the decisions. That role reversal had occurred several years ago as his mind deteriorated.

After calling 911, the ambulance took him to the hospital, less than half a mile away. He was in a lot of pain, and it took too long for them to finally give him morphine, but, finally, that did the trick. He was at least comfortable. Thank God for morphine. After a painful X-ray they formally diagnosed the broken hip: it was broken in 3 places.

By 4:00AM, they finally admitted him to a regular hospital bed. My Dad was exhausted and so was I. I should have stayed through the night, since he pulled out his catheter when I was gone, but I was back by 9:00 AM with about 3 hours of sleep.

The standard treatment for a broken hip is surgery to pin the broken bones so they have a chance to heal. Given my father's advanced age I asked the doctors a frank question: is it worth it?

My Dad had made it very clear that he wanted no heroic measures when the end was inevitable. For example, when my Mother was dying of lung cancer, he committed a felony for her. He stole a prescription slip from a Doctor, forged a prescription for barbituates, and got it filled by a pharmacy, just in case she wanted to end her suffering early. She never took the pills. After she died, he kept them in his freezer, wrapped tightly, just in case he wanted to use them. Often he would bellow to my sister and I, "you know, I have the final solution in my freezer and I plan to use it when it's time!" He never did, but simply having that option seemed to give him some comfort.

Of course, he had a living will. He drafted it by himself almost 20 years earlier, though he got his lawyer to review it. He was adamant about no heroic measures if the end was inevitable. The third paragraph read:

In addition, I request that the executor of my Will refuse to pay any bill demanded from anyone who violates my wishes above. Indeed, I would hope that my executor would sue such violators; however, I leave this to his discretion.

I made certain every caregiver at the hospital read it.

With a broken hip, though, he likely was going to face exactly the kind of death he didn't want, long and tortuous. The doctors said that the surgery should reduce his pain, compared to doing nothing. If you don't set a broken hip, the bones will eventually knit together crookedly; therefore you'll never walk again, and it will be very painful. After discussing the options with my sister, we both agreed to the surgery, since it had some hope of reducing his pain, but we both believed he would never walk again. Surgery was scheduled for Saturday, July 5.

My sister and I spent July 4th with him in the hospital. Every 2 hours he got another shot of morphine to keep him comfortable. At one point, one of the attending doctors came into the room and asked my dad, "Mr. Jones, how are you doing," to which my Dad simply replied "I'm doing great!" He really was happy and comfortable. Mostly he slept a lot. Again, thank God for morphine.

The hospital had food service at any time. You could just call up and the food would arrive in 30-45 minutes. My Dad's favorite foods were salmon and chocolate. So that's what he had for dinner. Not the most balanced meal, but he ate all the food.

My sister and I arrived early the next morning for the surgery. Since it was a holiday weekend, the hospital was very, very quiet. They wheeled my dad into the empty surgical preparation area. We were the only people there. Finally we met the surgical team. There were three surgeons on the team, an older, experienced surgeon, 2 fresh residents, plus an anesthesiologist. They explained the procedure, discussed the risks, and I signed the consent form.

Then, it was time. My sister and I told My Dad that we loved him, as they wheeled him into surgery.

The surgery took a couple of hours. My sister and I waited in the waiting room reading some books, grabbing a bite in the cafeteria. Waiting like that is awful.

The surgical team finally came back. In retrospect, I realize that they don't tell you bad news directly. They don't tell you straight out that your father is dying. Instead, they said that there was a problem with the anesthesia. They couldn't keep his oxygen level up, and worried that he had gotten some blood into his lungs. So they had transferred him to intensive care.

My sister and I rushed to the ICU, but they wouldn't let us in immediately. The attending physician there spoke with us in the waiting room. He repeated what the surgeons had said and then asked, "he's 87. This will be tough. Had he discussed with us what he wanted to do in this situation?" Thank God I had the living will with me. After reading the will, the doctor almost smiled when he said, "he really thought it out, didn't he?"

Then they brought my sister and me into the ICU. My Dad was still under anesthesia, on a respirator, turned up to the max. Each time the air was pumped into him, it was like a seizure. His body jumped with every breath. There was a tube coming out of his nose, filled with blood, emptying into a large container above his head. There were several IV's, one in each arm, and a couple in his chest, if I recall correctly, with several IV bags hanging above.

It was clear it was time.

The nurse was phenomenal. Did my Dad like music? Yes, classical. Magically some sweet music started playing.

The respirator was slowly turned down and the tubes removed, one step at a time. My sister was on one side of his bed, myself on the other.

There was another patient in that ICU room. Although I never saw her through the curtain, I heard her. Another nurse was encouraging her, "you need to get out of bed and start walking." To which the old woman angrily replied, "I'm not doing any thing until I speak to Dr. Thomas." The frustrated nurse huffed, "well, he will be here shortly." While this minor drama was going on, life was flowing out of my father.

My Dad's nurse asked us about our memories of him. We told the story about the letter to the University of Michigan, the Viagra story, and amazingly, we were laughing, at least a bit, despite the fact that our father was dying in front of us.

One of the young surgeons who performed the surgery on his hip came by. Let me call him Dr. Pitt, Dr. Brad Pitt, since he was that damned handsome. He didn't realize that my father was almost gone, and apologized. He then put his hand on my shoulder, and said, "I don't know if this helps, but my father passed away a couple of months ago too. My heart goes out to you." I was able to choke out "I'm sorry for your loss."

Uncontrollable tears, laughter, and now, lust, all while my father was dying in front of me. My lizard brain was not going to be appeased until it felt every strong emotion known to man.

Then the sweet, beautiful nurse softly said, "he's gone."

I had watched my father deteriorate for years. I had thought I was prepared. You are never prepared for that moment. The pain hits you in every cell of your body. It happened so fast.

I had never seen a dead body before. His body was completely still, though still warm. His mouth was frozen open as if in a big snore, or maybe a silent scream. His color slowly became grey. I guess this is what they mean by "deathly still."

The nurse whispered, "you can stay as long as you want."

When do you leave your father after he dies?

Through continuous tears, of course I told him I loved him. I hoped he was proud of me. I knew that he was in a better place. Over and over.

Eventually, all of a sudden it hit me in the center of my soul. I needed to kiss him on his forehead, say I loved him, wish him goodbye, and then it would be time. Kissing a dead body on the forehead seemed just horrifying, but exactly the right thing to do. So that's what I did.

My sister stayed a while longer. I waited in the waiting area.

When she came out, we stayed there thinking there must be some papers for us to sign. Finally the nurse came out and said, "there's nothing more for you to do. You can go home."

Somehow we got home.

He gave us so many gifts during our life. As horrific as it was, I was glad that, as much as possible, he didn't have a long lingering death. My sister and I were able to give him something like the kind of death he wanted.

Baseball

Where are you going, Dad?

"I have to check on my car!"

My Dad was struggling to get up. He hadn't owned a car in 10 years. He could barely walk, even with a walker. The Alzheimer's was stealing his mind. Old age was stealing the rest of his body.

"Where do you want to go, Dad?"

"I'm going to play tennis with Ken Winetrout."

He used to play tennis every weekend when I was growing up in Massachusetts, but Ken Winetrout had passed away a few years before.

For over an hour, he insisted he was on his way to play tennis. "But you don't own a car Dad." "I really thought I did. Are you sure?"

In the past year, his physical and mental condition had reached the point that my sister and I put him into an adult family home. An adult family home is a great alternative to a nursing home. It's an actual home, staffed 24/7, but with at most 6 residents. My Dad's place had 1 other resident with an actual family taking care of both.

Mengistu (Dad) was an Ethiopian refugee married to Adi (Mom), with 3 kids, Kaleeb (10), Betty (8) and Favin (6 months old). They all took great care of my Dad. People with Alzheimer's often don't sleep well, so my father was often up all night, keeping Mengistu, Adi or other caregivers awake to make certain he was safe. Usually at night, he insisted that he had to go take care of his car.

Although my Dad couldn't play actual tennis, I owned a Nintendo Wii, and wondered if there was any chance he could use that for simulated tennis. Maybe he could sit in his chair, swing the remote control and hit the virtual ball.

I brought my Wii in and hooked up the cables. I put the control in his hand and showed him how to swing it. Over and over, I demonstrated how to swing the remote. Over and over, I held his hand and swung it for him. No matter what I tried, his eye-hand coordination just wasn't fast enough.

Oh well, it was worth a try. Betty, the 8 year old lady of the house, and I played Wii tennis while my Dad watched. He had a big grin on his face, and was engaged in the action as if it were a real tennis match. He had so few pleasures, it was great to see him smile. So, a partial win, but he wasn't playing tennis.

When I visited my Dad the next time, though, he had an even bigger grin on his face.

"Chris! I was always good at football and tennis when I was younger."

He played varsity football and tennis in high school.

"I was never very good at baseball, but I was playing baseball!"

He could barely believe it. Neither could I. I thought that my Dad playing baseball was as real as his car.

"I was playing baseball with the boy."

It turns out that Kaleeb, the 10 year old boy, taught my Dad to be a pitcher in Wii baseball. I couldn't believe it, but I turned on the Wii and we played baseball. The pitcher swings the Wii remote downward, as if you are hammering a nail. My Dad could manage that motion. He was the pitcher, and I was the batter. I was never any good at real baseball, likely worse than my Dad ever was, but here we were, my 87 year old father and his 49 year old son playing baseball together.

Kaleeb bounded in a few minutes later.

"Kaleeb, I just have to say, that was so awesome. It was beyond awesome. I can't thank you enough."

Kaleeb just glowed. There was such a great family in my Dad's adult family home.

My Dad died 2 months later.

Montezuma Pass

Jeff and I had chatted online for a long time, over a year, maybe two. At the time we were both involved with someone else, so it remained just chat, though the chat always made me laugh. He told me the dirtiest, most disgusting joke I have ever heard. There was a strong mind behind all the banter. And we seemed to be compatible in the bedroom.

It came to pass that we were both available. Jeff was a decorated veteran of the second Iraq war, was leaving the military in a couple months, had some free time, and asked if he could fly to Seattle in mid-May for the weekend to get some time in a civilized part of the US.

When he landed that Friday night, the connection was instantaneous. If this were a movie, at this point a montage with sappy music would show us holding hands doing goofy things seeing the sights of Seattle (even though some homophobic homeless person yelled at us). Jeff was especially amazed by the statue of Lenin that sits in the Seattle neighborhood known as the people's republic of Fremont.




The weekend was so magical, that when he left, I knew I had to see him again, and soon. So I arranged to fly two weeks later to southeastern Arizona where he was stationed, Fort Huachuca in the town of Sierra Vista.

When I landed in Tucson, he met me at the airport in his full battle dress uniform. I could barely walk he was so damned handsome. The magic from the first weekend continued that weekend. He took me to Bisby, AZ, an old mining town now gentrified into a tourist destination. We hopped into a Mexican border town for a couple of hours, and then headed back to Sierra Vista.

Jeff fed me at this steak house in the middle of nowhere, or it seemed like it to me. Apparently it had been owned by a gay couple, one of whom was a drag queen, but it had been recently sold to new, more traditional owners.

After a great dinner, it was starting to get dark, but Jeff said, "I have one more place to take you." We started driving south, almost back to the border, it seemed. The road got rougher and rougher, finally turning to a dirt road that climbed and climbed, taking several switchbacks finally arriving at Montezuma pass national monument, at over 6500 ft.

The sun was a blazing ball of fire, and a desolate desert valley opened to the west, burning red from the sun. Jeff took me in his arms, and said, "I know it's way early, but I'm falling in love with you."

A tear came to my eyes, and I replied "I'm falling for you too."

If this was a movie, the helicopter filming the shot would take off and swoop around the pass as we embraced, the sun setting in the distance, the camera flaring as it pointed directly into the sun.



It was the most romantic moment of my life, shot in glorious Technicolor.

This was not a movie, however. It ended a couple months later. I still don't fully know why, but I have some pretty good ideas. Jeff was in transition, leaving the army, going back to school in the midwest. There was an age difference, and we were facing a long-distance relationship. Mostly, I'm sure he saw aspects of my personality or some bad habits that simply turned him off (email me for the list, as it's too long even for a blog).

A month after my trip to Arizona he flew to Seattle for the 4th of July weekend. As soon as I met him at the airport, it was clear he had grown distant. Something had happened, but I didn't know exactly what. I tried to create as magical a time as we had in Arizona. A friend of mine owned a multi-million dollar home on a lake at Whistler. The house was empty and amazing. We mountain biked on the trails, canoed on the lake, ate too much, fooled around in the bedroom, but it was not the same.

By the end of the weekend, I'll never forget, I finally said, "Jeff, you're about to engage in an amazing new chapter of your life. Whatever happens, I wish you all the best."

The wave of relief that flowed over his face was palpable. It was so sad for me, but I was happy to show him my love the best way I could, by letting him go.

We continued to talk on the phone regularly, but by September, when he was in college, he stopped calling as frequently. After I hadn't heard from him in several days, I called him, pissed off, and confronted him. Mistake. That's the last I ever heard from him. I emailed him a couple of times and tried to chat with him when I saw him online, but all I got was silence. It sure hurt like hell. It still hurts. I still see him online sometimes.

If you're reading this Jeff, I hope you're doing great. I'm OK too.  I don't understand why you couldn't have just simply told me, "I'm sorry it didn't work out. I wish you all the best." 

I'm sorry it didn't work out. I wish you all the best.

As Bob Hope says, thanks for the memories.

---

Update

A very tiny miracle occurred this Christmas. I was fiddling with my iPhone, and turned on my chat program. Jeff was online. I debated whether or not to send a simple "Merry Christmas." I expected it would be unwelcome, but, then again, in the spirit of the holidays, I wanted to send him good wishes. By the time I made up my mind, he had signed out, but I sent the greeting anyway.

The next morning, I was amazed to see an email in my inbox from Jeff. Yes, he was annoyed that I contacted him. But he also said some beautifully kind things, about how he respected me, offering condolences about the recent loss of my Dad, and wishing me happy new year. Evidently, Jeff had read this blog. The internet is impressive.

I wrote him back, with profound thanks. It was beyond wonderful to get some closure. It was all I ever wanted; I was not looking to restart a romance. There was far too much water under the bridge for that.

It's been a couple of days now, and Jeff, not surprisingly, did not respond, and that's fine. I get it. Jeff is more of a don't-look-back kind of guy when it comes to things like this. I am different in that I generally, though not always, maintain ties with the guys I have dated. Some people like vanilla ice cream, some people like chocolate.

If this were a movie, it reminds me of the final scene of the "The Way We Were," a movie which is a known cause of hypoglycemia. The character played by Barbra Streisand runs into an old flame, played by Robert Redford. The scene is almost wordless, the scene purposely played awkwardly, filled with sadness for what used to be. Streisand reaches up and touches Redford's cheek, with a tear in her eye, clearly knowing that they can't go back. 

Of course I won't contact Jeff again, but there is a permanent soft spot in my heart that he created. My hand in friendship will always be extended to him.

Jeff, live long and prosper. You deserve it.

Mel will be so happy

I was visiting my Dad at his condo in Enfield, Connecticut one summer. After my Mother died in 1987, he moved into the condo from the home I grew up in Wilbraham, Massachusetts. Very soon after she passed, he took a long trip to Australia and New Zealand. He had always wanted to go there, having been denied leave at the last minute while he was serving in the Navy in the south pacific during WWII.

Well, he came back with a wonderful Australian lady named Mel. They had a glorious 15 years together before she passed away. When it was winter in North America, they would stay at Mel's beach house north of Sydney. When it was winter in Australia, they would stay at my Dad's condominimum in Connecticut. Such a tough life.

At one point during this visit, my Dad and I ended up alone.

"Chris, I'm so excited. Mel is going to be so happy."

"What about, Dad?"

"Well, I saw my doctor, and he said I was healthy enough. So he prescribed some Viagra. Mel is going to be so happy."

"Too much information, Dad!"

As best I can tell, evolution has selected human children to be disgusted at the thought of their parents having sex.

The next day, Mel and I were alone. She was angry.

"Chris, do you know what your father did?!?"

"No, what did he do?"

"He got Viagra. That's the last thing I need!"

Candlelight Salad

When I came out to my Mother, it wasn't pretty.

A synopsis of the opera: My nosy Mother forced me out by opening a personal letter sent to my parents' house instead of directly to me. After her tears stopped, she said that it was worse than when my brother died of cancer at age 14. She said that it was worse than if I had died. She begged me to go to a prostitute, since I had never been with a woman. My mother the pimp generously added, "I'll pay."

I'll pay. Indeed.

Thanks, but no thanks, Mother (she was always "Mother", never "Mom"). Lots of support there for me dealing with coming out in the early 1980's, staying healthy during the AIDS epidemic (and I'm still healthy).

In retrospect, it would have been best for me to have made a clean break, but I never did. A good son doesn't abandon his mother. She died of lung cancer 6 years later. Chain smoking has a cost.

Until she died, for Thanksgiving and Christmas, I would still go home, smiling, talking about the weather, my studies at school, my new job. Anything other than what was really important to me. Heaven forfend.

Mostly it was all fodder so that she could brag about me to her friends. PhD at Cornell! In less than 4 years! Now assistant professor at Wharton! Being gay was just, oh, one tiny little chink in her perfect son.

On most of these holidays, for the big meal, in addition to my Dad and Mother, we usually invited my parents' sweet friend May, recently widowed, and my almost-certainly-gay-but-closeted uncle Bill. At one of those Thanksgivings or Christmases, in either 1983 or 1984, my mother prepared a special appetizer that I have never seen before or since.

Candlelight Salad (1 serving)

1. On a small plate, place a large lettuce leaf.
2. On the lettuce, place a ring of canned pineapple.
   
3. Peel one banana and cut it in half.
4. Place the blunt end of the cut banana in the center of the pineapple ring, forming a candlestick.
5. Use a toothpick to attach a maraschino cherry to the tip of the banana, forming the flame.
6. For candle wax, dribble some mayonnaise or white salad dressing down the side of the banana.
7. Serve chilled.
   

What was my homophobic mother thinking? Yes, just the thing for your holiday table, ladies, banana phalluses with mayonnaise ejaculate oozing from the tip! Perfect for your gay sons and brothers this Thanksgiving!

Seriously, what was she thinking? At the time, I thought she was sending an olive branch in the form of a banana, trying to make light of her way over-the-top reaction to my sexuality. Candlelight salad definitely is spit-up-your-milk funny. What a "cool" Mother!

Now I believe, though, that the gesture was basically hostile, but with a smiling face, sort of like the church lady from Saturday Night Live. Maybe it was an attempt to use humor to laugh me out of "the gay"? See? Liking male parts is so silly. It's just a shaft with mayonnaise.

Even if candlelight salad was an olive branch, it did not bring about real peace. Before she died, she told me how much she loved me and I told her I loved her. Then she told me how much she hated my being gay. And she repeated what she said when I was dumped by my first real boyfriend, "you need professional help."

If she was willing to literally try anything to "save" her son (would you like a blond or brunette hooker, sweetie?), candlelight salad was just another attempt, albeit ridiculous, to flank the enemy. I think my mother viewed herself as a lioness protecting her cub, but her roars had the opposite effect. Instead of helping, they hurt. In essence, I was the enemy.

Yes, I'm still bitter, but, so to speak, "it is better to light one candle than to curse the darkness."

Rest in peace, Mother.

Perhaps some of you reading this story might believe that I "cooked" it all up (sorry, bad joke). You require proof. So be it. After my Dad recently died, our family friend May, now nearly blind, as sweet as always, sent me a picture of my Dad. That's May seated in front of him. On the table is one serving of candlelight salad.



Here's a picture of my Mother and Dad together. My sister says this picture always creeped her out.

For Thanksgiving this year, to exorcise the ghost of my Mother, I made Candlelight Salad for my friends. Here's a video of the ceremony.

The Card

It finally arrived.

What, you ask?

The Card.

Those bastards.

My AARP card arrived in the mail, uninvited, today. I turn 50 at the end of this month. I thought they sent the card at age 55 and had 5 years to live. Nooooooo...you become officially old at 50, apparently.

I'll take comfort in all the senior discounts I now qualify for.

May the jokes begin.

Whistler

It was January 1989 when Stewart passed away. He had been sick for a long time. We had just gotten back from a Caribbean cruise. He worked for a cruise line and managed the bookings for one of the ships in the fleet. He had never actually seen his ship before, but he got to cruise on it 2 weeks before he passed.

He only had one KS lesion on his face, thank God, but the rest of his body was pretty well covered. The radiation reduced the lesion on his feet that had caused him so much pain. At least, that allowed him to walk onto the ship under his own power. Since this was 1989, the ultimate outcome was pretty clear.

I was asleep when he died. He lived in NY; I lived in Philadelphia. His father called me at 5:00 AM with the news. I was not awake even though I answered the phone, and I had to be told twice that he had died.

We started dating three years before. That first November, Stewart came down with a cold that turned into pneumonia and then was diagnosed with AIDS. The same week as his diagnosis, the doctors told my mother there was no hope for her lung cancer. That week also happened to be Thanksgiving week. And it turns out that I am a Thanksgiving baby. I didn't celebrate my birthday for several years thereafter.

After he had recovered from pneumocystis, Stewart and I went on a trip to Whistler, 2 hours north of Vancouver. In 2010, the Winter Olympics will be coming to Whistler. Then it was much less well known, but still an incredible ski resort.

What shall I say? We were noticed. Me, the shy, white geek and Stewart the gregarious, black man. Stewart spoke with a perfect British accent, better than the Queen's, even though he grew up in Queens. Working for British Airways for a time, Stewart affected a British accent and never let it go. He never let someone by without making them laugh, one way or another. By the end of our trip, all the lifties at Whistler were calling out "Hey Stewart" as we got on the chairlifts.

In the picture below, Stewart is upside down on the right; I'm holding his legs.



After he died in January, his parents had a memorial service. Prayers were said over the metal urn containing his ashes. At the end of the service, his parents amazed me by asking if I would scatter his ashes for them. Stewart loved to ski; no one else in his family knew how to ski, and they wanted his ashes scattered at the ski resort in upstate New York where he learned how to ski.

Soon after, on a cold winter weekend, his parents and I drove to the mountain. How do you scatter ashes unnoticed on a crowded ski hill that is covered with white snow? I had bought a red backpack to carry his ashes up the chairlift. Since I had never skied there before, I did not quite know where to scatter the ashes, but I managed to ski to a beautiful spot with a view under a cliff. Waiting for a moment when no one was around was excruciating, and at best I would have just a few moments. Finally the time was at hand. As rapidly as possible, I scattered his ashes beneath the cliff.

Unfortunately, there sure were more ashes than I expected. In my haste, I am embarassed to say, some ashes were "left over" both in the tin and in the red backpack. By then, however, the crowds had returned, and I had no ability to do anything but ski down, with my face wet, and not from falling snow.

What to do with Stewart's remaining ashes? In time, a solution came to mind. I was going to be in Vancouver for a conference the first week in May. I could take the two-hour bus ride to Whistler and scatter his remaining ashes there, on our favorite trail. I could think of no more fitting place.

The road up to Whistler, the Sea-to-Sky highway is engraved into the side of steep mountains rising up from shore of a fjord extending to the town of Squamish. Squamish is a former mining and logging town. These days it is becoming a bedroom community for Whistler, which has the priciest real estate in all of Canada. At that time, Squamish was a dingy town nestled in spectacular scenery. From Squamish, the highway rises over 2000 vertical feet to Whistler. The views from the road can be both breathtaking and vertigo inducing, but my thoughts were only about Stewart on the ride up.

It was the last weekend of skiing that year at Whistler. The weather was clear and warm. The snow had melted from the lower slopes, but luckily our favorite slope, starting at 8000' still had plenty of snow. I had the red backpack, and the tin of his few remaining ashes. Since it was the end of the season, there were very few skiers. The ride up was long, first the gondola then the peak chair to the very top of the mountain, then a quick traverse to the start of our trail. Dammit if there wasn't someone sunbathing right there, given the warm weather, but I was able to move behind a rock, say my piece, and quietly scatter all the rest of his ashes. My face was again wet, despite the sun.

I don't know how I skied down, but I managed, and got back on the bus for the ride back to Vancouver.

Then, on the bus, I swear, I heard Stewart's voice.

He was laughing.

Uproariously.

"Christopher, how could you?", he scolded, in his best British accent.

I didn't understand. What did I do?

"Christopher, how could you?", laughing louder, he repeated.

And then it hit me. From deep inside, laughter erupted and would have splattered all over the bus if it had physical form. I had planned this trip for months. It was meant to be a tribute to his memory. But even with all that careful planning, I hadn't realized.

The name of our favorite trail at Whistler was, and is, "Burnt Stew Basin".

Knowing Stewart, I can think of no better tribute.

The University of Michigan

"Chris! I want you to write a letter!"

Whenever my Dad got a bee in his bonnet, he started bellowing. This would not be simple.

"OK, Dad, who do you want to send a letter to?"

"To the University of Michigan!"

Huh?

"You may not know this, but when I was a sophomore, I took a Physics exam and got a 96, but the grade got recorded as a 69 and the professor REFUSED to change it! I want you to write a letter DEMANDING that the grade be changed!"

Since my Dad graduated from the university in 1943, I knew this was the Alzheimer's talking. My sister and I had recently moved him into assisted living because of it.

I tried to buy time. "OK, Dad, I'm busy with work right now, but I'll get to it." Given his Alzheimer's, I hoped he would forget all about it.

He didn't.

Every time I saw him, he would bellow, "Chris! I want you to write a letter!" He forgot that he had asked me to write the letter, but he didn't forget that he wanted that letter written.

This went on for weeks.

Finally, I drafted a letter. When I showed it to him, it was wonderful to see him so engaged. He toughened the language, added additional supporting arguments (he had been a debater in school).

Of course, I never sent the letter. But soon thereafter, it was Christmas, and thanks to my color printer, he received a letter from the University of Michigan changing his grade. I strove for the utmost authenticity. At the top was a big blue and gold M. It was "signed" by the actual chair of the Physics department, Professor Tim McKay.

In my 47 years, I don't believe I had ever given my father a better gift. His face melted. I was so happy for him.

Given his Alzheimer's, I left the letter with him, as he would likely forget he had received the letter.

Two weeks later,

"Chris! I want you to write another letter!"

Oh no.

"I want you thank this Tim McKay for changing my grade."

"Of course, Dad. I'd be happy to."

"But now that my grade is changed, I believe I'm entitled to more benefits. I think I now deserve to be on the Dean's list and also to become a member of Tau Beta Pi (the engineering honor society)".

Oh no.

"Dad, I'll get to it, but I'm busy at work."

That weekend I was on a date; my cell phone rang. It was Dad. At that point he was still able to use the telephone, barely, to call me. Thinking it might be an emergency, I took the call.

"Chris! I just got off the phone with Tim McKay, and he doesn't know anything about a letter changing my grade!"

"Dad, how did you get hold of Professor McKay?!"

"Well, I don't know. I first spoke with his wife."

Apparently, thanks to a helpful telephone operator, my Dad was able to contact Professor Tim McKay, the actual chair of the Physics Department at the University of Michigan, at home, on a weekend.

I ended the date immediately, headed over to my Dad's place, confiscated the letter, and calmed him down.

"Dad, professor McKay is a busy man. I'm sure his secretary wrote the letter, and he just signed it. I'll call him on Monday to verify."

I was utterly terrified that Professor McKay or the university would---I don't know---charge me with identity theft or forgery or worse. The next day, I wrote a very long email to Professor McKay explaining everything, and waited nervously for his response.

The mornging after, I saw that I had an email from Professor McKay waiting in my inbox. Since it was going to be a long day at work, I waited until that evening before reading the fateful email. How angry was he? Was he referring the matter only to his personal lawyer or to the entire legal department of the University of Michigan?

After thanking me for my email, Professor McKay said he had "sort of figured out what was going on" during the phone call with my Dad.

And then he amazed me. "I'm traveling right now, but when I get back to the university, I'm going to ask the university to provide some kind of recognition to your father."

I was utterly speechless. It was not at all what I expected. My dear, demented father had bothered this poor professor (and his wife!) at home, and all he wanted to do to us was help.

I wrote back thanking Professor McKay profusely. But I declined the offer. All we needed was his understanding.

When I told my father that I had spoken with Professor McKay and that Professor McKay had confirmed that the grade had been changed as indicated in the letter, my Dad replied, "Good! Because that should have been corrected a long time ago."

Here's a picture of my Dad in his last year of life.