Archives for posts with tag: United State

Bearded Straight Man


Holding onto the past. Cluttering up the present.


I saw athlete Jason Collins on the TV. He was being interviewed by Oprah.

As I listened to him tell his story I thought a great deal about other people I had known who lived as adults in the closet.

Collins was not involved with a woman when he came out.

He was single.

For those gay men who are married or engaged to women when they come out the trauma this causes the woman cannot be underestimated, yet somehow their trauma is ignored.

The woman from Connecticut hoards craft materials she intends to use. She never uses it. Her house is uninhabitable.

Her husband left her for another man.

A lie is revealed. The life of the lie is shared. Often those who have lived unwittingly with a liar also feel that they have lived a lie.

My important gay writer friend mocked Collins ex girlfriend Carolyn on Facebook.

He made fun of her for ‘not realizing’ Collins was gay. Not realizing that she was living with a lying sociopath?

My friend is a gay man who has had sex with women and dated women yet he can barely disguise his misogyny.

Like so many gay men he is, whether he likes it or not, a separatist.

Carolyn is an intelligent, kind and articulate woman who was duped by a liar.

I listened to Collins wondering how this man was cast as the hero?

He’s not the first athlete to come out of the closet, many women came before him and some men.

The Collins cocktail of gay, black and startlingly good-looking is somehow more intoxicating than remembering that Martina Navratilova had come out decades before.

Collins hopes that his coming out will ‘make it easier’ for others to do the same yet… it seems unlikely.

Is his coming out really a coming out at all?

He will only really know how it feels to ‘come out’ once he is back on the team.

At the moment he is cushioned by celebrity and an American media fascinated by his ‘bravery’.

Is he brave?

He is not a normal black kid from the ghetto.

He is not the normal black kid at the local church.

He is not a kid. He is not normal.

Celebrity assures him of that.

If you identify as LGBTQ then every coming out is circumstantial.

There will never be an easier time to come out because most everybody wants to fit it. To fade away. To avoid the glaring spotlight even if that spotlight is no longer hostile.

No one wants to say: I am different. Not today, not in America… where individuality is scorned.

Jason’s parents look suitably loving on the TV. They know they’re going to ‘love him no matter what’, they’re going to ‘get through it’.

I wonder sometimes what the expectation is for those new, enlightened parents who suddenly have a gay son or daughter to dote on.

Judging by those who now look sweetly at me and my partner whenever I am brave enough to hold onto my lover in the street… their reaction may have changed but the feeling I have remains the same.

They look at us… like I look at a particularly fluffy puppy. “Ah, how sweet.” They want to say. “How fucking adorable.”

I know they want to stop us and tell us how fucking adorable we are.

Those people who gawp and smile supportively are just as irritating as those who glare disapprovingly.

I don’t want you to have an opinion about us as we walk in the street.

I have no opinion about you.

Jason Collins coming out also poses questions about others who have not come out sooner.

I mean, If Jason Collins can do it… why can’t you? Why is it an issue? How could you not tell us the truth?

But Jason Collins has The President, ex President Clinton (the DOMA signer) the President’s wife Mo to congratulate him.

They are ‘proud’ to call Jason their friend.

Well, Jason Collins and those other gay people I allude to… they are adults. They came out as adults.

They can control the outcome.

They are ‘straight acting’ there was ‘no clue’, no tell-tale fabulousness, no lisp, no prepubescent flamboyance.

He was never harassed, he was never told ahead of time what he was before he knew himself.

Jason Collins comes from a ‘close and loving’ family.

Like other gay men who came out late in life… if their family was so close, so loving…why couldn’t they come out sooner?

What did they think they would lose?

The closer the family the harder the riddle.

The fantasy that one has for ones children, the perfect future… the wedding, the christening… cannot include a same-sex partner?

Well, no… not if you have invested in the lies your adult child told… again and again.

Lied to those very same people who now bathe you in their unconditional love.

Obviously, my ‘coming out’ as a teen… was very different.

Having no real option… was all at once a blessing and a curse.

I was brought up in a different age.

My coming out was an act of terrorism.

I threw it at them like boiling water and told them to get used to the burns.


Meanwhile, there’s a teenager in Northern England struggling with his decision to reveal the truth.

He saw me on TV and sought me out.

He told his family he was gay… face to face.

He told his friends on Facebook

Tonight he told everyone how miserable he feels. How dark this place is.

Jason Collins has not helped him. He does not have the President of the United State to support him on Twitter.

Feeling different, facing a new world… not as an adult but as a child.

Things don’t get better… because he now has the prospect of British parochial gay life and all that entails.

He has predatory men to deal with at the local bar, he has rampant desires that remain unfulfilled.

I think he regrets not waiting.

It’s a big deal coming out when you’re a poor kid a long way from the big city.

It always will be… however many athletes steal the limelight from boys like him.

Fuck You John McCain for telling the world that the repeal of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell was a ‘sad day’. This is a small step toward equality for gay people in the USA. One Small Step.

The Senate vote is a vindication of Obama‘s decision to push for congressional repeal as opposed to unilateral executive action, though activists note he could have done both.

I am in Whitstable at my friend Carol’s house. She is having a huge party. It is thumping loudly in the cellar as I write. I know everyone in the house..everyone. This is small town living and I love it. Carol’s handsome son is a chef and has made delicious food.

They are downstairs drinking vodka and gin. They are listening to Senegalese music. They are eating the food and clapping and we are all wearing false moustaches.

I fell asleep.

At 5am I woke up and wandered downstairs to see what was going on and ended up with some good-looking 33-year-old. Really sexy eyes, hairy tummy.

I have been thinking a great deal about the life I left behind in LA. I wrote to a man I see around town called Dan Halstead..a manager. At his behest I wrote a little note explaining what has been going on with my health…sooner or later I will write in-depth here about the tumor..anyway, I wrote explaining everything and I received a two-word reply. I wondered why I even bother?

Before, before the show, before Jake, before returning to my home town..I would have been disappointed. Now, I just think it’s funny. His constipated reply made me laugh.

LA, NYC, LONDON…Sydney. The list goes on. I wish I could start again. Just like I did when I got sober. I started again and everything was new. Born Again.

The truth is: I am so disconbobulated that I don’t know where I should be.

Earning so much money these past months from selling art that I presently have no financial worries…but you know as well as I do…the drama, the interminable drama continues.

I could really do without what has been happening this past year.

Left a message for Phil to call me. When she returned my call I couldn’t bring myself to speak with her. It’s fucked up. Yet, I have held onto her for many years (for all the wrong reasons) so that she too becomes just part of the narrative.  The unfolding drama of my life.

On a good note I have been speaking to writers informally about our project. I think the majority understand what the film is about. Most of them get it but can any of them write it?

I am really enjoying watching British TV. Good political debate, fresh ideas and very little tabloid sensationalism. The news, when not competing for ratings, does as it is meant to: inform impartially.

Thinking a great deal about AA and my other 12 Step programmes and how much time I have wasted adhering to a programme that looks to all the world like some kind of white country club. There’s more to mine there, these thoughts about my cultish AA.

Really want to get back to a time where I was free of resentment. It is a gruelling, miserable state of affairs. Every fucking day my loathing is renewed.

Have a great deal to sort out and the only way I think I can sort any of it, overcome the profound sense of loss is to create..make something useful.

malibu viewThe photographs from the last depression: thin people holding onto life. Today’s depression: the morbidly obese-holding onto life. Jenny saw larger guests who couldn’t squeeze the turnstiles at Disney Land. She saw a woman dipping a huge turkey leg into a vat of mayonnaise. How are these people meant to survive or fight any revolution? They are already dead men walking. Like geese bred for foie gras but with no healthy liver to spread on brioche. These people have nothing, absolutely nothing to look forward to.

Loaded with anti depressants they smile haplessly-their lives stolen from them by corporation and successive governments. Looked upon by the rich as no more than deep pockets that have to be emptied at any cost. In Disney Land animated parlance these people are held upside down by a duck or a cow and shaken until every last penny is dislodged from the rolls of fat that keep these people slow moving and slow witted.

They are, as Chateaubriand said, no more than canon fodder-economic cannon fodder-regarded as expendable in the face of enemy fire. The enemy is the very government for which they proudly vote. They are at war with their own survival. Forced to deliberately fight against hopeless odds with the foreknowledge that they will suffer extremely high casualties.

These people are kept stupid, fat, fearful and in debt. Easy to control when (or if) they ever come to their senses. Feed them cheap food. Refuse to educate them properly. Tell them the terrorists are coming and hike their interest rates. Then, just when they think they have a Sunday moment to themselves hit them with religion: the easiest way to keep them in check. In shame. Shame, as the Catholics found out, is a wonderful tool to control those who will not bend to your will.

Even the middle class, with no more that 7 days of paid holiday per annum to look forward to, finally go insane and end up in rehab for 6 month having the time out they should have had incrementally as the years passed.

This lie of Eden, this garden of painted, plastic fruit and false promises. How delighted the bankers must be that they dodged the bullet, that no one is coming after them. They watch gleefully as the crumbs they leave behind are fought over by lawmakers for basic human rights like healthcare.

The banker is hugely paid to take risks with the money of those for which he has no regard. Why bother with healthcare? They don’t deserve anything! Those fat foolish fools. Go on..let them die young, die miserable deaths, send their sons to war. Force their daughters to suck on the cock of humanity. Take away any hope they might once have had and give them more pizza. Send them 5-foot sandwiches made of tasteless, mass-produced, processed ingredients. Pizzas the size of cartwheels. Over charge them for the pizza, charge them interest on their credit card used to buy the pizza and when it poisons them refuse to treat them and let them die.

Incidentally-it took me an age to understand why Americans thought we had lousy food in London until I realized that they didn’t mean the taste..they meant the size of the portion. The taste was meaningless. A hearty meal is a huge plate laden with food-any food will do.

I read today that there are more homeless teens on American streets than since the great depression. They are squatting foreclosed homes, they are selling their young bodies and they are numbing the pain with drugs. It could be Brazil or Romania but it isn’t it’s the country that genuinely believes that the rest of the world is jealous of it. Listen to Arni S, Governor of bankrupt California, brag about having the best fire fighters, the best hospitals, the best policemen etc. But, nobody is jealous of you. Not any more.

In London, whilst the economy roared, the government invested in roads and schools and hospitals so that now, during the down time, this prudence means that the people scarcely notice that times are tough. The British do not live in fear of illness because they have free healthcare and know that if they are unemployed we have collectively vowed to take care of them. The British are relieved that their children will and can go to any great university without being saddled with $500,000 of debt. They enjoy publicly funded art-of which the people are inordinately proud.

When I was last in London people briefly moaned that their house prices had gone down in value by 5%. I chuckled as my house in Malibu has devalued by 35%.

Meanwhile, the President of the United State-leader of the ‘free’ world and his First Lady are building a victory garden at the White House. Victory over what? Victory over the people who did not complain as the risk taking, MBA educated, Wall Street bankers who were rewarded for the greatest heist in US history? Hurrah! Victory! We got away with it! A double whammy. The hedge funders sing joyfully: We lined our pockets with war profits and then we just took what we needed when we became too big too fail. And, lol, we did it right under their big fat noses by threatening catastrophe on both occasions. First by the terrorists then a destroyed economy.

The bankers sing: Let them eat pizza, and 24-inch subway sandwiches and genetically modified, carcinogenic turkey legs dipped in mayonnaise and call it haute cuisine whilst you are at it.

They cry joyfully: I’m off to see Ivanka Trump get lavishly married in a dress styled after Grace Kelly’s in a marquee..a marquee that may be used in years to come to house some of the legions of placid, homeless obese standing in line to fetch water, food and anti depressants-unable to dream of better times-unable to dream at all.