three gay stories

By Fred Owens

Three Gay Stories

A Gay Teenager in Wilmette, Illinois, 1963

Cary Ross killed himself with a shotgun at his home out by Indian Hill. He was 17. He was my good friend in grade school when he lived across the alley. We lived on Forest Ave, and I would cross Forest Avenue, go through the Tuttles' yard, cross that alley, through O'Rourkes' yard, and over to Cary's house.

His mom, Betty, and my mom were pretty good friends. Anyway, Cary was gay from the gate -- talk about wired from birth! This kid was SO very interested in everyone's penis, and this was when we were 11-years-old and the only fun thing we did with our dicks was make yellow patterns in the snow... But Cary was different, we kind of laughed at him, but nobody really cared. Otherwise we had Boy Scout camping and ice-skating after school -- just regular kid stuff.

Fast forward. Cary's family moved out to Indian Hill, then he went to the public high school and the rest of us went to Catholic high school. We didn't see him much, but we heard things about who he was spending time with and it didn't sound good. It didn't sound bad either -- but strange. So he killed himself, and what I remember most was the look on his mother's face at the funeral.

A Gay Newspaper Publisher in Rural Texas

Bastrop, a small town in central Texas, the summer of 1986. I was working as a reporter for the Bastrop Advertiser, the local newspaper. My boss was Jack Fraser. He was gay. Jerry Appel, the business manager at the paper, was his partner.

Everybody in Bastrop knew Jack and Jerry were gay. This was the heyday of Don't Ask, Don't Tell, so it was all right as long as nobody said anything about it. Also Jack did not live in Bastrop, but lived in the next town over, closer to Austin. Jerry maintained a separate, probably fictional, residence in that same town, but it was likely that they actually lived together.

The Bastrop Advertiser was one of the best newspapers in Texas. Jack Fraser was a hard-hitting, outspoken liberal and he took on all the powers that be in that very conservative small town. Fearless, I called him. But he had a very courteous manner about him, so some outraged reader would storm into the office, and Jack would hear him out but hold his ground, and so he was respected.

But far worse than being liberal, and even worse than being gay, Jack and Jerry came from California. Can you imagine that? Two gay men from California, with liberal politics, move to a small town in Texas, buy the newspaper, make a good living, and nobody really cared. Except, you know, not talking about it.

A Gay Barber in Zimbabwe

So if a gay barber gives you a haircut and you don't mind, does that make you gay?

No, its doesn't mean you're gay, it just means you don't mind.

In 1997 I was living in Zimbabwe, in Bulawayo the regional capital of Matebeleland, a city of 500,000 people -- all black, but with maybe 5,000 white people here and there. I used to walk down the street, hundreds of people, all black, and I would look around -- I'm the only white guy!.... But I got used to it and no one molested me.

After I'm living in Bulawayo for a while I need to get a hair cut, and this is a problem because you can say anything you want about black people, but they have different hair -- totally different hair and I was not going to chance it -- having a black barber touch my head.

So I asked around, with a direct question, "Where do the white guys go to get their hair cut?" Well, everybody knew where that shop was, so I went over to get my hair cut by a white man, and he was gay. You know, like the way you can tell these things, telling me about his interests in theater and pornography, and just general demeanor. He kind of hinted about things, as if I might be interested, but I wasn't. I mean, he was a nice guy, and he gave me a good haircut, but that was all.

In1997, there were hardly any white men in Bulawayo, and far fewer gay white men, so this barber probably had about three friends in the whole town.

Notes.

Obituary. Cary P. Ross, 17, a senior at New Trier High School, died last week in his home at 216 Summerfield road, Northbrook. He was the son of Carleton P. and Roberta Schilbach Ross, both Wilmette natives. Other survivors are two brothers, Jeffery and Ward; a sister, Linda; and a grandmother, Mrs. Clyde P. Ross of Evanston, formerly of Wilmette. Published in Wilmette Life, a weekly newspaper, in November, 1963.

Jack Fraser. Jack Fraser sold the Bastrop Advertiser a few years later and moved back to California.

The Gay Barber in Zimbabwe. Being Gay in Zimbabwe is not easy. Excerpt from this Wikipedia entry: Homosexuality is highly taboo in this socially conservative country and Mugabe's anti-gay stance resonates with many Zimbabweans.

Life is hard for gay people in Zimbabwe. Life is hard for everyone now.
Purging the Mailing Newsletter. If you have received this week's newsletter, you have survived the purge -- 75 other people were deleted.... My hope is to send the letter only to people who actually want to read it. The typical Frog Hospital reader does not read every word of every issue -- that's not required -- but they do seem to enjoy the mix.
Most of you do not pay for a subscription. But some of you do pay and that makes it work for everyone.

After you pay the rent or the mortgage, after you've bought the groceries, after you've put a little money away for your children's and grandchildren's education -- after taking care of these necessaries -- then why not send a $25 check to Frog Hospital.

Subscriptions. Your subscription money keeps the editor from getting cranky and self-righteous. Your check for $25 helps me maintain a degree of detachment. I do not support a cause on these pages. And I am truly grateful. Please go to PayPal at the Frog Hospital blog and contribute $25.

Or mail your check for $25 to

Fred Owens
35 West Main ST
Suite B #391
Ventura, CA 93001

Thank you very much,

Fred Owens

Facebook. Some of best stuff is on Facebook. Go to my page, Fred Owens, and friend me.

--
Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My blog is Fred Owens

send mail to:

Fred Owens
35 West Main St Suite B #391
Ventura CA 93001



--
Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My blog is Fred Owens

send mail to:

Fred Owens
35 West Main St Suite B #391
Ventura CA 93001

We are all artists now.

We are all artists now.

Unfortunately we all get paid like artists.

Marshall McLuhan said all this would happen. He said that in the 1960s. I knew him personally because I went to St. Michael's College at the University of Toronto, where McLuhan taught on the English faculty.

McLuhan described the future -- "we won't have jobs anymore, we will play roles, we will all be artists and actors, not wage earners" -- so he said.

Incredibly, that happened, There are no jobs anymore, jobs went out with objectivity. Now we play roles according to our body types and habits. The horror is that's how we get paid. When we had jobs we all got paid, some more than others, but we all got paid. But now we are all artists, so we are paid like artists -- one-tenth of one percent makes millions, and the 99 make close to nothing.

McLuhan saw this coming. He was detached. He said, "I see the future, that doesn't mean I welcome it personally. I would prefer to have lived in the time of the Middle Ages." -- Really, he said that.

I shoulda never went to his class. McLuhan had tenure, he kept HIS job all along. But role playing? McLuhan famously played himself in a cameo appearance in Annie Hall, predating Steven Colbert by 30 or 40 years. But who the hell is going to pay you for playing yourself?

The jobs are gone, my friend. They're not coming back. You're on your own, like a rolling stone (Help! I'm having flashbacks!)

No jobs, unless you move to Midland, Texas, where the shale oil economy is booming and Wal-Mart is hiring warm bodies at $17 per hour.

Back to McLuhan. He described the global village, he didn't say he wanted to live in it.

I was his student, I didn't say I understood him. Nobody understood McLuhan, not even McLuhan. I am also good friends with his biographer Philip Marchand....... McLuhan, in his personal habits, was quite conventional and conservative -- as well as being a fairly traditional Catholic.

A friend of mine in his class submitted a paper in a multi-media format, partly taped recorded and partly illustrated -- thinking McLuhan would like that, but McLuhan rejected the submission --- stick to the standard format he told my friend.

The lecture I remember the best was McLuhan on TS Eliot the Wasteland. This was given in the Elmsley Lounge as part of an overall celebration and bounteous sherry was served to students and faculty alike. I don't actually remember anything he said, but we drank a lot of sherry and had a wonderful time.

After that lecture they stopped serving unlimited free sherry to undergraduates.

..........................................................................

President Obama recently visited Israel and Jordan, while John Kerry was in Iraq. Here is my reaction:

I found this poem in a drawer,
Labelled 1954.

"No breathing allowed," said the Iranian priest.
"Israel does not have a right to exist."

But we grew these oranges, we built Tel Aviv,
Our children were born here, we're not going to leave.

"You can go back to Europe, to Spain or Morocco,
Go back to the shtetl, the shul, and the ghetto.

We don't want you here......"

But this song, can't you hear?

Jerusalem is golden, isn't that true?
The color of our flag is white and blue,

We welcome the green of your Islamic faith,
We will live together until our last breath,

Breathing is living, we breath and exist,
We are you, and you are all there is.

Jerusalem of Gold

This uplifting song ends Schindler's List. Spielberg's film and this song have the flavor of 1954 -- the rhythm of Golda Meir, Abba Eban, and Herman Wouk, with notes of triumph and hope. Imagine the shining look in Sal Mineo's eyes in the 1960 movie Exodus.

Israel

I'm not a big fan of anyone's historic claims, but I do recognize existence when I see it. Israel -- there it is. It gets quickly complicated after that. Do people who exist have a right to continue to exist? You could tell them that they have no right to exist, and yet they are still there.

This analogy may not spring to your mind, but I think of plants -- weeds, native species, invasive species, plants growing where you want them to, plants you wish were not growing there.

But it really helps if you first acknowledge the existence of same. You can't get rid of something by saying it doesn't exist. Unless it doesn't exist, in which case you don't have to do anything.

Excuse me, Martin Buber just called collect, gotta run.

Baby Boomers.

We are a generation distinguished by the fact that we exist -- going to the grave and still celebrated for our collective birth -- you can't brag on that.

Our numbers cause a bulge in the American population. We are in that human age which is naturally conservative -- old -- so the whole country is old right now.

We out-sourced pregnancy and child-rearing to Mexico and points south. Those young brown men and women are the babies we didn't want to bear, and the children we didn't want to raise, so we hired it out, and then they grew up and were mystically drawn to the US.


I Wish

I wish I was John Steinbeck,
With his mice, his men and his truck.

I wish I was Ernest Hemingway,
He had all the luck.

He made his days in the sun,
Then he killed himself with a shotgun.

I wish I was TS Eliot,
He came from St. Louis , you know,
Then he worked in a bank,
And became Anglican,
Writing poems with his elbows and toes.

I wish I was a Buddhist or a monk,
Or an acolyte,
If that's all right,
Anyway to escape this funk.

Subscriptions. Your subscription money keeps the editor from getting cranky and self-righteous. Your check for $25 helps me maintain a degree of detachment. I do not support a cause on these pages. And I am truly grateful. Please go to PayPal at the Frog Hospital blog and contribute $25.

Or mail your check for $25 to

Fred Owens
35 West Main ST
Suite B #391
Ventura, CA 93001

Thank you very much,

Fred Owens

Facebook. Some of best stuff is on Facebook. Go to my page, Fred Owens, and friend me.


--
Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My blog is Fred Owens

send mail to:

Fred Owens
35 West Main St Suite B #391
Ventura CA 93001

Terrible Poems

"Gun Control." This is a meaningless term and it leads to the silly question of whether you are for it or against it. Consider my suggestion for better language. The debate focuses on gun ownership -- who may legally own a weapon, and what type of weapons might be legally owned.

That's ownership. Possession means you have it, whether legally or not. "Use" means firing the weapon, but it can mean displaying the weapon with an intent........ but "control" doesn't mean anything.

We can make better laws if we use better language.

If you own a weapon and you loan it to your friend, then he possesses it. If he then uses that weapon to commit a crime, are you responsible? To what degree?

We can make better laws to govern this behavior if we make the effort to speak clearly.

Charlie Krafft. Charlie is still in the news. Yesterday I was interviewed by The New Yorker, concerning my objection to his words, which I consider to be anti-Semitic. This story began with the Frog Hospital letter of January 11 and then spread to national media websites. It should be ending pretty soon, one hopes. Anti-Semitism is not only shocking and evil -- it also gets very boring.That's one of it's tell-tale signs -- the banality of it.

I have objected to Charlie's words, not his ceramic art. But I will say this -- displaying the swastika in art is not a good thing, it scares people. No, not now, but maybe a hundred years from now it might be all right to use this symbol.

The New Pope. We can dispose of one problem quickly. The media cries corruption and scandal at the mis-use of money and power within the Curia -- the governing body of the Catholic Church. Where is the Vatican located? In Rome, in Italy. So, like, duh, to use California jargon, the Church is not corrupt, it's Italian.

The sex abuse situation is another matter. It's not funny -- they have to do better.

Pope Francis says he will help the poor. I'm glad he said that, but how will he do that -- give out food stamps?

I like the Catholic Church and the ruling papacy. It is the largest and wealthiest organization on this planet without a standing army. The Pope may cast you into perdition, but he cannot invade your country. As such, this makes him more useful than the United Nations -- he might be able to persuade or influence national leaders in a good way.

You Can Thank Me. I got up at 5:30, drove to the beach and took a sunrise walk. The fog was thick, the sound of crashing waves was muted, the light emerged quietly. I had the sand to myself, except for one surf fisherman. During this 90 minute walk I composed the outline of a 5,000 word essay on culture and politics. When I got back to my car I realized that I would not have the time to write it. This depressed me until I realized that you wouldn't have time to read it either. So it is much better for everyone if I just give you two short poems.

A Short Poem is a Good Poem

A Baptist and a Buddhist walked into a bar,
But I haven't gotten very far,

In writing this poem
In yellow and chrome
In pale-green sea foam.

The Buddhist said Save Me,
I'm scared half to death.
The Baptist laughed and said
Save Your Breath,

Cause I'm going to visit the Dalai Lama,
And tell him that it's time to stop this drama.

This is an old story, it might not be true,
Of a Baptist, a Buddhist, a Catholic, a Jew

In the LaConner Tavern in 1982,
Sonia was making crab-burgers for a select few.

That was back in the day when you could run a tab.
You could get drunk and walk home, you didn't need a cab.

Dirty Biter was scrounging,
Clyde Sanborn was lounging,

Robert Sund was sponging,
While he chalked up his cue.
And tourists came in for the view

Of Swinomish Channel,
The log rafts, the sea gulls,
The herons, the eagles,
And derelict hulls.

(Dirty Biter was a well-known dog-about-town at that time)

The Lion of Cambridge

I saw Harvey Blume
Arise from his tomb.

I am not dead, he lamented,
Only pickled and somewhat demented.

Dill pickled? I asked.
No, bone-weary, bare naked, un-masked.

That was in Cambridge in Harvard Square
Where Harvey played chess with devils and bears,

Bears of uncertainty, wild and free,
While the Red Line rumbled underneath on its way to the sea.

Does a bear shit in the woods? Harvey joked.
No, the bear took the Red Line to Quincy and croaked.

You can Thank Me. Frog Hospital is still surprising after 15 years. You still don't know what to expect from one issue to the next. We only have two rules. Tell the truth and don't waste anyone's time. Please consider buying a subscription, and I thank you in return.

Subscriptions. Your subscription money keeps the editor from getting cranky and self-righteous. Your check for $25 helps me maintain a degree of detachment. I do not support a cause on these pages. And I am truly grateful. Please go to PayPal at the Frog Hospital blog and contribute $25.

Or mail your check for $25 to

Fred Owens
35 West Main ST
Suite B #391
Ventura, CA 93001

Thank you very much,

Fred Owens

Facebook. Some of best stuff is on Facebook. Go to my page, Fred Owens, and friend me.
--
Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My blog is Fred Owens

send mail to:

Fred Owens
35 West Main St Suite B #391
Ventura CA 93001

I Hope, The New Pope, Isn't a Dope

I Hope,
The New Pope,
Isn't a Dope

Let us pray,
He might be gay.

New red shoes,
For the man they choose.

They sit in pews,
And share their views,
Then send up smoke,
But not a toke.

Women are watching,
But they can't vote.
"We can't even send in a post-it note!"

The cardinals are celibate,
But just for the hell of it,
They watch women peeling,
On the Sistine ceiling.

But leave the boys alone,
Or we'll never atone,
Said the men in red
-- we'd be better off dead.

There was a papabili,
Who only spoke Swahili.
He said we need a man,
With an African plan,
But the Italians said don't be so silly.

The Argentine threw his red hat in,
but he could not speak medieval Latin.

You can't use a condom,
Non est disputandum.

We're catching up with modern times,
But slowly, slowly, let the bells chime.

Retrospective -- A letter to the Frog Hospital in 2006, from LaConner's Indomitable Mayor, Wayne Everton, regarding the future of the oil economy.

Dear Fred,

It's been my experience that we find solutions when we need to and not before. All of the various substitutes for petroleum will, I believe, be invented or found or discovered about 10 years before the crisis gets unmanageable.The fall out, of course, won't be the lack of oil but the lack of the money that oil produces. Will the new substitutes produce income for the plastics manufacturers? The tire manufacturers? The Middle East countries? The auto makers of the world? All the others who are dependent on the income?

I doubt the end of the oil age will be sudden and dramatic, as the film seems to predict. It will be slow and evolutionary, like the end of the steel age, or the iron age.

I assume we will not only find substitutes for petroleum but also for the by-products..... like war. There are so many other reasons for countries to annihilate each other I feel confident we will find one, or more, that fills the need. Non-existent weapons of mass destruction comes to mind but there must be others at least as imaginative. Mel Gibbson proved, I believe, in his great historical "Braveheart" that there is no need for massive weapons. Stones and arrows will probably be used in WW3 so oil won't be needed, either as a necessity or a pretence.

Revelations, I've found, work best in retrospect. It's easier to say "I knew that was going to happen" than to say "I know what's going to happen". Christians are like Republicans and Republicans are like the oil supply. Some day they'll all be gone.

You seem happy where you are, Fred, and I'm happy for you.

Wayne

FROG HOSPITAL REPLIES: Dear Wayne, it's been seven years since you wrote this and two things have happened. First, you are no longer with us, gone someplace in the spirit, and we miss you -- most of us do. Second, we haven't run out of oil yet -- the fracking technology has turned it all upside down and, ignoring the environmental problem, we seem to have a surplus rather than a scarcity.

But the best part of your letter is the opening sentence, and I repeat with emphasis your own words:

It's been my experience that we find solutions when we need to and not before.

That's actually a very hopeful statement.

If you've been fortunate, you may have known one or several beautiful women

I deny everything. I regret nothing.

The Astonishing Debbie Rosenblatt. I forgot the promise I made to myself. After I met Debbie Rosenblatt from a personals ad in the Boston Globe I said I would never, ever do that again – because she was such a winner.

It was like hitting the $10,000 jackpot on a slot machine. Take the money and never go back to that casino again – after giving everybody working there a nice tip, of course. But don't go back to the honey pot. Good luck is a moving target. Wherever you found it, it won't be there the next time.

I called her up after I read her ad. She lived in Framingham, an outer suburb. She was a widow. She told me her age – she was seven years older than me. Then she said, "I'm probably too old for you." But she was fun to talk to. I said let's meet. She suggested this old-fashioned watering hole in Wellesley. I thought – what the heck.

I got there a little early, to make sure she wouldn't have to wait for me. I am compulsively punctual anyway. But it was when I saw her walk into the room, making an entrance – that's when I called her astonishing.

She was five-foot ten and she had legs up to here, a long, elegant neck that would put Audrey Hepburn to shame, and longer arms that waved in the air like a flock of snow-white geese, and sparkled in the light with dozens of gold bracelets and scarlet red, red, red polish on her exquisite fingernails.

She just said hello and "you must be Fred," but to me it sounded like "How are you, handsome?" Such enthusiasm and zest, pitter pattering – she loved jazz and dancing and her precious daughter and those special, darling children of mine – she asked me about them, and was sure they would grow up to be famous and wealthy.

I took her dancing, to the rooftop of a Boston skyscraper, valet parking, Cole Porter, and she was lovely and smelled so good. We made love and we were so hot.

Debbie and I had a fling. Nothing as good as a widow – she loved her husband, but he was gone and buried. All she wanted to do was have a good time and enjoy herself again with her new lover.

For a season, not more than a month. Truth is, I couldn't afford it. I was the sole support of those two kids. Valet parking was something I couldn't keep up, and I only had one sport coat and a few good shirts.

Debbie was completely innocent in her needs, which were expensive. So we called the whole thing off. Oh, I forgot about the grand piano in her living room. She could be so ecstatic just to hear me stumble through a few chords of Gershwin. The room would have been garish with color and crystal, but it was so like Debbie, so completely true to her nature.

She had me over for a seder, with a few friends and relatives who enjoyed complaining about everything. I felt at home and smiled.

No, my life was too serious. But a woman so sexy and so virtuous and honest too. I can see her shining in the sky, and hot and grabbing my hair on her bed.

We called it off. We became friends – this was a new idea to her. Everything was new. She had lead a sheltered life and married her first boyfriend, and he was a good husband and all her needs were provided for. She never had a job, a merry widow she became and I was her first man. There were others after me. We talked on the phone sometimes.

But it's been years, I had forgotten. These computer dates are weird. The meetings are hollow and so un-fated. I have met several women this way, nice enough, but now that I remember Debbie, I know that I won't ever do that again.

Subscriptions. Your subscription money keeps the editor from getting cranky and self-righteous. Your check for $25 helps me maintain a degree of detachment. I do not support a cause on these pages. And I am truly grateful. Please go to PayPal at the Frog Hospital blog and contribute $25.

Or mail your check for $25 to

Fred Owens
35 West Main ST
Suite B #391
Ventura, CA 93001

Thank you very much,

Fred Owens

Facebook. Some of best stiff is on Facebook. Go to my page, Fred Owens, and friend me.


--
Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My blog is Fred Owens

send mail to:

Fred Owens
35 West Main St Suite B #391
Ventura CA 93001