Tag Archives: life

Why I hate hay fever reason #5852

I love the fall. First for all the cliché reasons: leaves changing colors, home grown veggies and fruit coming into season, et cetera. And also because I don’t like hot weather and I love fog, clouds, and rain. So fall is great.

Except that as it gets damp, while the pollen count may go down, the spore and mold count starts going up. My sinuses seem to react worst when something they haven’t encountered in a while shows up. So throughout the year as each species in its turn starts pollenating in earnest, I have an extra special surge in symptoms.

Waking me up in the middle of the night with throbbing sinuses, itchy eyes, and a headache that won’t let me sleep.

Though I blame myself. Just a few days ago I was explaining to someone why I never want to move back to the Rocky Mountain region. “If I never have to walk through snow before Halloween again, I’ll be just fine.”

I know that this is the price I pay for not having the live through harsh winters. But it’s hard to think about that when you’re just waiting for the tylenol to kick in so you can go back to sleep and maybe not be a zombie at work.

‘Fessing up, part 3

I attended a Methodist university that had rules calling for expulsion for, among other things, being an “unrepentant homosexual.” At the time I enrolled (back in the mid-1980s), I was still struggling with my sexual identity—I was trying to convince myself that I was bi, or if not, then maybe I could live my life as asexual.

Being in the closet was a survival necessity in my day-to-day life back then. Almost everyone that I knew, whether through school, church, or just in the community, thought that being gay was inherently wrong. The state-approved high school health class text had a whole chapter on abnormal sexuality, and it described kinky straight sex, homosexuality, pedophilia, and necrophilia as simply different stages of the same psychological disease, for goodness sake!

I’d seen high school classmates kicked out of school, then sent out of town by their shamed family after rumors circulated that they had been caught having gay sex, as well.

Whether one of the colleges I was applying to had harsher anti-gay rules than another didn’t seem like a significant issue.

So, yes, I have to confess that I applied to a university fully aware that not only were my religious beliefs not very closely aligned with theirs, but several things I believed were actually violations of their rules and code of conduct.

But that’s only the beginning of the story…

Continue reading ‘Fessing up, part 3

Sometimes I want to kick fate in the…

I didn’t know Bobbie really well. I mean everyone knew Bobbie. If there was a sci fi/fantasy/nerdie convention in the region, Bobbie had been on staff at one time or other. If she wasn’t on staff at a particular convention, she was either volunteering, or helping someone presenting at the con, or helping run someone’s table in the dealer’s den, or helping run someone’s fan club table, or she was running a fan table that was raising support for a WorldCon bid.

We were never on staff at the same convention the same year, but we interacted frequently. Either she would be in charge of a department I was interacting with as an attendee or a guest, or I was working in a department of another con where she needed to work with me as an attending or panelist or guest. A few years ago she wound up running a table in a dealer’s den selling artwork by a mutual friend, and it was the table right next to mine. So we finally got to have conversations that lasted more then a few minutes, and most of them weren’t about a problem that needed solving or an event that one of us was rushing off to.

So while I think it would be wrong to say we were great friends, we were more than merely acquaintances.

Of course, Bobbie was a very friendly person, so it was difficult to come away from the most superficial interaction without feeling you’d just spent time with a friend.

I mentioned that she often seemed to be working on a WolrdCon bid. WorldCon is the annual convention of the World Science Fiction Society, and is held in various cities around the world. Each con is run by a separate committee, and to get the right to host the con is a complicated process involving setting up a bid committee, drumming up support by selling advance memberships, and putting together a formal proposal which will be voted on at a WorldCon a couple of years before your proposed hosting date. It’s not a small undertaking, and you’re competing against other groups from literally all over the world (this year’s was in Texas, next year’s is in London, and recent cons have been in Japan, Australia, Canada…).

A few weeks ago the vote for 2015 WorldCon was held, and the Spokane committee was chosen. The co-chairs had subsequently been announced, and one of them was Bobbie.

It was a great triumph.

Then, this morning, my various social networks started sprouting mentions of Bobbie’s death. She hadn’t been sick, as far as any of us knew, so everyone was asking, “What happened?”

At the moment, all we know is that she died peacefully in her sleep, it was a complete surprise to her family. They aren’t going to know the cause for a while, and the family has asked that we all give them some space to deal with the shock on their own.

I was really looking forward to having a WorldCon practically in our backyard, and I was especially psyched because I knew several of the people who will be running it, so I was happy for all of them. Especially Bobbie.

Now, I just want to find Fate and give it a few swift kicks.

Update: File 770 has a nice article about Bobbie.

Fresh tomatoes

This year’s crop of tomatoes hasn’t been terribly spectacular.

I’ve only been trying to grow my own tomatoes for a few years. When I was a kid, we often tried to have a garden. The frequency with which we moved because of my dad’s work in the oil field (ten elementary schools, four states) often sabotaged such efforts. My grandparents and at least one great-grandmother always, always had a garden, so when I would visit in the summer and early fall we got to eat lots of fresh vegetables.

My first year I tried one cherry tomato plant in a planter. It allowed me to start it in the spring when the weather is liable to turn cold unexpectedly, so I could keep the planter next to one of the brick walls of the house for the early season (the bricks radiating heat throughout much of the night, you see).

It did reasonably well. There were a number of weeks where I could pick a handful or more of tomatoes every single night.

So last year I upped it to three plants, and since I quite enjoyed the bite-sized tomatoes, I got two different breeds of cherry tomato and one grape. That didn’t go so well. One cherry tomato produced fairly well, but the other two were quite disappointing.

So this year I got one cherry tomato, and two different small tomatoes. One is an heirloom yellow. Again, the cherry tomato plant hit a pattern where it has reliably had a handful or more of ripe tomatoes ready for me every night. The middle-sized tomato plant has given me about four (yes, total) tomatoes that made it to ripe (dozens of green ones that would fall off long before they got ripe, though).

And the heirloom? Well, just as each tomato starts to turn, a black fungus start growing on the tomato. I managed to pull three or four off of it before they got the fungus, and let them ripen for another bunch of days on my window sill inside.

The heirloom is clearly dying, now. Though we’re supposed to have a whole week of warmer than normal temps, I think it’s done.

Of course, the one faithful cherry has been quite good. And for the last couple of weeks, every morning on my way out to work, I’ve paused to pick one tomato and eat it. Fresh off the vine! Aaaaaaaah!

That’s pretty awesome.

So, I’ll almost certainly be buying some tomato plants again, next year. Nothing beats that taste of a fresh, really fresh, tomato right off the plant in the morning.

‘Fessing up, part 1

I was working on a post, in reaction to an op-ed I read last weekend, in which I was ranting a bit.

Okay, it was more than a bit. I was probably well into self-righteous smugness. I took a break to catch up on some news, and came across another story that, as I processed it, made me realize that I was being extremely hypocritical in my rant.

I will return to the topic, and try to write something perhaps a bit less sanctimonious, because I think I have something worth saying on the matter. But before I do that, I have to make a confession or two…

Continue reading ‘Fessing up, part 1

Speaking of pink boys, et al

I love Goldfrapp’s music, and this… this is just amazing:
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Also, if you didn’t read this already, go check it out:

My Son Wears Dresses; Get Over It “To me, loving a child who is different, a target and seen as vulnerable is my role as a father and decent human being.”

“The following contains…”

We put warning labels on all sorts of things.

I read fan fiction with some regularity, and it has been customary for some time at most places where one can post such stuff for the authors to include “trigger warnings.” Trigger warnings didn’t start on fan fiction sites, they were first used on forums where people discussed topics such as rape, rape prevention, domestic abuse, and so forth. The original intent was to alert people who suffer from psychological trauma that the story or commentary they were about to read contained intense and graphic description of one or more common areas of trauma. Psychologist refer to events that cause a person to relive a traumatic event a “trauma trigger.”

Now, one can understand that in a discussion dedicated to a topic such as domestic abuse, that from time to time descriptions of specific cases of abuse might come up. One can also understand that among the people who might be reading content on such a site will be people who have suffered actual domestic abuse, and they are seeking information, or recommendations, or just commiseration. So the original notion of “trigger warnings” in those sorts of places makes perfect sense.

One can also understand that in a fiction-publishing setting sometimes people will write stories which include the bad guys doing bad things to the hero, or to innocent bystanders who will need to be rescued by the hero. So if one is familiar with the notion of trigger warnings, it is understandable that one might decide such warnings are warranted on some stories.

But when you see a 700-ish word story sporting three dozen trigger warnings, one suspects that perhaps someone has lost sight of the purpose. I’m sorry, there is simply no way that in 700 words you can graphically describe that many different potentially traumatic events.

The problem is two-fold. People are worried that they’ll forget to warn someone about something, and someone will be traumatized, so they figure it’s better to be safe than sorry. On the other hand, a lot of people who don’t suffer from psychological trauma get all upset if they accidentally read something which is merely distasteful to them.

Now, I understand that people have a right to not look at anything they want. I have certainly gone on a rant or two about certain themes and topics in certain works of fiction. When I run into those topics, I may get angry or disgusted. I may literally throw the book across the room. But I do not have an actual panic attack. I do not relive an actual traumatic event.

I simply stop reading the stupid book.

That sentence right there is a great example of this phenomenon. There are people putting trigger warnings on stories merely because one character calls another “stupid” once. There are people who insist that trigger warnings are needed for one character calling another stupid once. There are people who insist that the word “stupid” is completely unacceptable in any civilized conversation—as unacceptable as reaching across the table and stabbing someone in the eye.

That is unintelligent, foolish, and utterly lacking in any understanding or sense of perspective.

In other words, that is a stupid.

Yes, it is extremely rude to call another person stupid. It is also true that one could write a scene where one character heaps a lot of abuse, including using the word stupid, on another character that could be intense enough to trigger a traumatic memory for a reader who survived an extended period of verbal and emotional abuse at some point in their past.

But if the word pops up in the dialog of a scene depicting two characters engaging in verbal banter, that story doesn’t deserve a trigger warning. What makes the other scene a trigger is not merely the inclusion of the word “stupid,” but the intensity of the entire abusive behavior of the character.

Getting back to a person’s right not to read something: such a right does not entitle you to a guarantee that you will never inadvertently see, read, or hear things that you find distasteful. You are not entitled to a world in which you only see what you want. Your fellow humans are not obligated to contort their own lives, words, or artistic expressions in such a way that your delicate sensibilities can never possibly be violated.

Courtesy dictates that we observe the niceties and comport ourselves in public and social situations in a manner that won’t cause harm or humiliation. But the obligation is to refrain from behavior and speech which could reasonably be expected to cause someone pain or embarrassment. Describing an autopsy at the dinner table can reasonably be expected to cause some people to feel nauseated, so it would be rude to do it. Telling that story of the drunken, debauched weekend you and some buddies had in college during the best man’s toast for one of those buddies, in front of parents and families of both the bride and groom, can reasonably be expected to cause embarrassment and perhaps instigate an argument between the couple-to-be, so it would be both rude and stupid to do it.

But mentioning that you are really sad that Dry Soda has discontinued their kumquat-flavored soda* in the presence of a friend of a friend who years ago had a beloved aunt die in a tragic kumquat-related accident, and mention of the fruit always makes the person break down into sobbing? It’s not at all reasonable for you to anticipate that, so you are not rude or insensitive for doing it.

And, let’s be real, here. Even if we accepted the notion that it’s reasonable to warn about a single instance of a single word, how could you possible do that? “Warning, mentions kumquats?” The warning itself would be the trigger!


* Seriously! I like the Blood Orange flavor which they brought out to replace it, but I really do miss the Kumquat Soda.

Sometimes I hate being right

I’ve written a few times about the troublesome, perpetually drunk neighbors whose lease was not renewed. They were supposed to be moved out by midnight Saturday. I had predicted, back in July, when we found out they had to leave, that they wouldn’t make it out in time…

Continue reading Sometimes I hate being right

Tossing the old pigskin

Sometimes we fail to defy stereotypes. I’m a gay man who enjoys live theatre, particularly musical theatre. I own a lot of purple clothes. I grow flowers. I cry at weddings (and some commercials, certain songs, et cetera). I love to dance.

And I’m a football fan.

I’m a football fan whose spouse really dislikes the sport.

My being a football fan surprises people, particularly after reading about the horrible “why don’t you play football” incident in eighth grade, and other things I’ve written about football culture. Well, my relationship with football is complicated.

Most of my childhood memories of football involve trying not to annoy my dad while he was watching his games. I remember once or twice asking him questions while he was watching a game, because I didn’t understand what was going on on the field, but he told me to stop interrupting him. In years since people have expressed surprise that a football-loving father wouldn’t teach his son the game. It’s entirely possible that he tried when I was younger, and I hadn’t been interested. Our relationship was rocky since before I can remember, so who knows?

The upshot was that I didn’t really understand the game. Being in band I had to attend games and we would march at halftime, but it wasn’t until my junior or possibly senior year that some friends sat me down and explained the game. Then I started enjoying it.

While I was attending community college and living with my maternal grandparents, I started watching college football with my grandpa on Saturdays. Then on most Sundays I would watch the Seahawks with friends.

I continued watching the Seahawks fairly regularly until Ray and I moved in together. Ray couldn’t stand football, so I only watched it occasionally while he was alive. Not long after I started dating Michael, he admitted he didn’t much care for the game, either (for instance, last week when I mentioned that kick-off was in 25 minutes, he sighed, rolled his eyes, and asked, “Is that some sports thing?”).

For many years it was easy to fall out of the habit of watching football. I would still occasionally talk about games with a few people. I would skim the news for information.

A few years ago, I wound up watching a play-off game, and I quite enjoyed it. I’m still not a hardcore fan, and we often have plans for Sundays. Fortunately, between TiVo and the ‘net, I can catch games I miss.

I’m still not a hardcore fan, but my TiVo is programmed to record games by my favorite team, just like last year.

See you at kickoff!

The limits of dreaming

It’s really easy to get caught up in our disappointments.

For instance, I’m one of the people who is very sad that the health care reform that is going into effect this October is not a real socialized medicine plan. I want a single-payer system, just like every industrialized country other than us. And saying that everyone can go to an emergency room regardless of ability to pay isn’t providing health care! I never want to read again a news story about a 12-year-old child dying of complications of a toothache because emergency rooms don’t treat ordinary toothache, and by the time the complications become life-threatening, it’s too late. I don’t want people to have to hold bake sales and kickstarters to pay for cancer treatments. We spend way more money on our medical system than any other country in the world and we have the worst coverage.

I’m disappointed that only 13 states (plus the District of Columbia and a couple of counties in other states) currently have marriage equality. I’m disappointed that we’re more than a decade into the 21st Century and there is controversy about the fact that courts say that the law ought to treat gay people the same as straight people. I’m disappointed that only two states have banned so-called “gay reparative therapy” for children. Further, I’m disappointed that kicking one’s children out of the house for saying they think they’re gay isn’t considered felony child abuse, subject to arrest, imprisonment, and having the rest of one’s children taken away.

I’m disappointed that I’ll never get to read that new Dirk Gently book (and whatever other books might have been written) because Douglas Adams died at age 49. And while we’re on the subject, I’m disappointed that Charles Dickens died before he finished the Mystery of Edwin Drood, and that Mark Twain died before he finished the Mysterious Stranger.

I’m disappointed that Doris Day has never won an Academy Award.

Not all my disappointments are big, societal problems, obviously.

My point is that it is easy to get lost in the weeds of disappointment. While some of our disappointments can be quite serious issues, even life-and-death issues, it’s good to take several steps back from those weeds to remind ourselves that there’s an awful lot of good and lovely stuff in the garden of life.

When I was a deeply closeted teen-ager, the very best future I could hope for was that maybe I could hide my non-heterosexuality and possibly find a woman who found me tolerable. I thought it much more likely that I would live out my life alone and unloved. I never dreamed I would meet and fall in love with a man who loved me enough to promise to stay with me the rest of my life (and did). Or that, after his death, I would meet and fall in love with another man who loved me as I was, and that we would not only be able to live together, but do so openly, and eventually stand in front of an assemblage of our friends and loved ones, exchange vows, and legally be pronounced married.

When I was in high school, two classmates who were accused (in separate incidents) of being gay were threatened with expulsion, kicked out of their homes by their parents, and wound up living with relatives in other cities. While many families still kick out their kids (or send them to therapy) if they admit to being gay, we also read stories of kids coming out in high school, junior high, and even elementary school with the full support of their parents. Many schools have straight-gay alliances and policies supportive of non-heterosexual kids.

When I was in my 20s, I was working on a science fiction story in which the President of the United States was an openly gay man, but I set it rather late in the 21st century, and even then, he had only become President because he’d been appointed a second-tier cabinet member, and in the course of a cataclysmic disaster, he was the only person in the line of succession left alive. We don’t have a gay president (and we don’t have any gay cabinet members), but we did have an openly gay man seeking the Republican nomination for President last time around. He appeared on the primary ballot in six states, and in some of them got more votes that candidates who got a lot more media coverage. More importantly, this last election cycle sent six openly gay candidates to the U.S. House of Representatives, an openly lesbian candidate was elected to the U.S. Senate (winning a statewide election), plus 74 openly gay, lesbian, or bisexual candidates were elected to state legislatures, and dozens were elected to city councils, school boards, and other government posts across the nation.

To sum up:

Just 40 years ago, the best future for myself I could imagine was I would be good enough at hiding my true feelings so no one would ever suspect I was gay. It was inconceivable to me that I could actually marry the man I love!

Just 35 years ago, it was inconceivable to me that ordinary schools would allow gay kids to attend openly.

Just 30 years ago, it was inconceivable to me that an openly gay or lesbian person could win elected office other than representing a “gay neighborhood.”

So, which thing that we thought was impossible years ago is going to happen next?