have ya seen this story?

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i dunno if your adolescent daydreams were anything like mine--more often than not, i'd find myself sitting in class as the teacher droned on, slumped in my chair and casting surreptitious glances around the room, thinking, "i'd do him...and him...and him...oh, definitely him...and him...and him...damn, i wonder what he looks like naked?....oh, and please, god, him..."

anyway, you get the idea. sometimes i'd even construct elaborate scenarios in which the guys in question were forced in some exotic way or another to submit to my will. it was fun, passed the time, but that's all it ever was--hell, i knew the closest i'd ever come to having sex with all the guys i lusted after in high school was in my own mind.

can anybody relate? i'd be more than willing to bet the answer to that question is "yes."

now, let me ask you another question: what if, back in those horny, hormonal days of your youth, you had come up with a way to make those fantasies come true--would you have done it?

well, tony stancl sure as hell did--and if he hadn't been stupid, he probably woulda gotten away with it.

* * * * *

picture it: tiny little town of new berlin, wisconsin. kid emails a bomb threat to his high school and is almost immediately caught. as the authorities go through his computer, they come across a folder in which are nested thirty-nine subfolders, each (a) bearing the name of one of his fellow male students, and (b) containing still images and/or video of said student, naked.

as said nakedly-depicted students are questioned, a pattern emerges. seems ol' tony had set himself up a fake facebook account, posing as a luscious young female, complete with pictures. he then, in the guise of said female, contacted the objects of his desire, expressed interest, and promised 'em nude photos of "herself"--if only they'd send nude photos and/or video of themselves first.

amazing how many of these boys--ranging in age from 15-18--fell all over themselves doing just that.

at which point it got interesting--once he had the incriminating photos, our boy contacted the marks, revealed the scam and told 'em that if they didn't have sex with him, he'd broadcast their nude photos to the whole student body and/or their parents.

at least seven (and, the authorities suspect, many more) of the boys did exactly as they were told.

* * * * *

you know, sometimes i just sit here, sip my cocktail and shake my head.

how bout a little heresy with your coffee?

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[something to keep in mind while reading the following post: if all the faggots i'm about to rail against were like me, we would probably all still be hiding behind our closet doors--don't think i don't know that, ok?

as always, i seek the elusive middle ground.]


until now i've been uncharacteristically silent on the issue of prop 8 (the california proposition to strip gays of their judicially-granted right to marry), not because i don't have an opinion, but more because (1) i see things different; (2) like not being able to get married should be my biggest goddam problem; and (3) having been preoccupied with other, more pressing things, i haven't been in a sufficiently shit-stirring mood since the whole thing came up to comment.

this has changed. in the aftermath of the election, i have sat and watched in disgust as self-righteous gays-on-the-warpath have (a) characterized any position other than theirs as nothing less than "hate" and "homophobia;" and (b) undertaken a witch-hunt to flush out and attempt to ruin the lives of anyone who dared contribute even a dime to the passage of prop 8 [and jesus god, spare us all if these seekers of "tolerance" and "diversity" ever fully gain the reins of power, because their recent actions make it clear that anybody who doesn't fall into perfect lock-step with their views will be burned at the stake--and this no doubt includes me].

in other words, here's the new thing: anyone who objects to any aspect of the gay agenda, for whatever reason, is now routinely branded a homophobe and a hater, whether it's true or not.

and you know what? this is one faggot who is goddam sick and tired of it.

when prop 8 failed, i wasn't angered, nor was i in the least surprised--in fact, i wish it hadn't come up at all, because the last time this issue reared its ugly head, it put george fuckin' bush in the white house for a second undeserved term.

simply put, this is an issue whose time has not yet come.

a little history: faggots have spent the last 40 years rubbing in straight america's face the fact that they're here, they're queer, and to hell with tradition; it's their right to fuck anybody and everybody they want whenever and wherever they want, and if strait-laced straight america doesn't like it, they can eat shit and die--oh, and while we're at it, how dare you straight homophobic assholes imply that AIDS is a behavorial disease?

and then, all of a sudden, a left turn: now we wanna go all traditional on your ass and get married just like you (not monogamous like you, of course--we still reserve the right to fuck anybody and everybody we want--we just want the perks). and we wonder why joe and ethel in toledo (or in this case, temecula) have a problem with this scenario.

do you see what i just did? i just compressed the entire post-stonewall history of the gay movement in america up 'til now into a couple poorly-written paragraphs--a bit jarring to read that way, isn't it?

well, just imagine how jarring it would be to live, especially if you're a clueless traditional-values straight person born, say, pre-1964, who doesn't understand any of this shit--i mean, what the fuck do you do?

what do you do? hell, you do pretty much exactly what i (and any rational, thinking person) would've expected you to do--you vote "yes."

does your "yes" vote on 8 automatically mean you're a loathsome, disgusting, homophobic hater, as the leftist-faggots would have the world believe? maybe--but the more likely explanation is, you're just some schlub who can't wrap his/her mind around this much radical change in his/her lifetime this fast; i.e., you're human.

look at it this way--can you imagine if the civil rights act of 1964 had come up for a vote in, say, 1904 (i.e., 40 years after the emancipation proclamation)? of course not, because it wouldn't have happened--and if it had happened, not only would it have not stood a chance, but nobody woulda been surprised at its failure.

understand: social shifts of the swiftness and magnitude we've undergone in america in the 20th century are unprecedented in the history of mankind--shit like this has never happened this fast before.

and if it took a mere 100 years for america to grant constitutional parity to black folk (and another couple generations for it to actually start to take), are you faggots really expecting it to happen for us in a mere 40, especially with the way we're carrying on?

bottom line: at least one generation of old people--maybe two--will have to die off and be replaced before gay marriage will be readily accepted in america. and it doesn't necessarily mean they're evil; it just means they were born in a different time and place, and have different values than you do.

deal with it and shut the fuck up, ok?


sober update: pugnacious last night, wasn't i?

mkf revealed (sort of)

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[it hadn't occurred to me to post this until just now, seeing as how i have this ultra-important secret identity to protect and all, but then tonight i was looking at it whilst sipping my first vodka/7 in over a week and i figured, what the fuck--i haven't posted in ages and this one's an easy slam-dunk]


my guy v surprised me with the following image last week--it's an obamization of a recently-discovered passport photo from my long-ago past that i'd forgotten i'd even sent him.

two things come to mind when i look at it:

1) i obamicize nicely (or at least i did back then); and

2) all that ripe, juicy hotness gone to waste in 1978 (because trust me, back then i wasn't fucking anybody, and wouldn't for many years to come*).


_____________
*probably explains why i'm still alive, but still...

i know i promised to give him a month's grace, but that was before i knew it was gonna get so bad so fast

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my job brings me into fairly regular contact with several movers and shakers in the political arena, most (ok, fine--all) of whom are insufferable, self-important windbags, but one of whom--a seasoned veteran of many political wars who in the course of his career has scaled the heights, been everywhere and met everybody, and whose last campaign was one of the slickest, shrewdest and most effective i've ever seen (hell, it almost got him elected)--i actually like; this is one of those guys, you put a nickel in, you always get a dollar back.

anyway, back during primary season last year i ran into him in the break room one night and said, "ok, so tell me--what's the deal with obama?"

he snorted and said, "obama? lemme tell you about obama--he's a punk."

"a punk?" i asked, amused. "do tell."

and, boy, did he. turns out a "punk," in political parlance, is a neophyte who expects to reach out and grab the brass ring without having any idea of what he's doing and/or paying his dues first.

"look," he says, animatedly [and i'm paraphrasing here, because it's been awhile], "i know barack obama; i met him years ago and yeah, i was impressed--he's a very glib, charming, book-smart guy. but so what? here you have a guy who comes outta nowhere and manages to parlay some success in local chicago neighborhoods into a state assembly seat--which doesn't amount to shit, trust me [and, since he's been there and done that, i do]. then, after one lame-ass term of voting 'present,' he decides he's now ready to run for congress. which is one thing if he'd been running against somebody ordinary, but he--this ivy-league outsider--goes up against fucking bobby rush--four-term incumbent, former black panther, chicago homeboy, everybody in the district loves him.

"and what happens? he gets his ass handed to him as he damn well should have--but does the loss humble him, give him some sense of perspective? hell, no--next thing you know, sumbitch is running for the goddam senate--the senate, can you believe it?! and then, fifteen minutes after he gets there, instead of thanking god for the lightning strike that got him there, he's running for the presidency of the united states like he actually deserves it?! give me a fucking break."

at which point he crumples his coffee cup, tosses it in the can and strides disgustedly from the room.

* * * * *

flash-forward several months later (i.e., three weeks ago). i run into the guy again--he's been outta the country and it's the first time i've seen him since before the election.

and i ask him, "so, obama--he still a punk?"

and he looks at me, his body language totally changes and he says [and again, i'm paraphrasing], "forget everything i ever said, mike--this guy's the real deal. i've never seen anybody run a campaign like he did; it was almost flawless. and even under pressure, he never cracked--unlike any politician i've ever known, he's the same in private as he is in public: always cool, calm and collected. i'm tellin' ya, this guy's gonna be our generation's roosevelt." [this last said without any trace of irony]

as he walked away, i tried to keep in mind that of course he had to say this shit--like all the other early hillary supporters in our government department, he'd had to do a quick, backpedaling reverse-field and change allegiences once the tide had turned.

but i hadn't seen any reluctance in his eyes (and trust me, i looked for it); on the contrary, i'd seen a cynical, hard-bitten politician turn to mush at the mere mention of our new president-elect's name.

"holy shit," i remember thinking then, "when a punk can fool even the pros, we're really in trouble."

the road from there to here (part 2)

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[if you haven't already, you might want to read part 1 first]

schizoid?

scary-ass word--conjured up all sorts of images from the three faces of eve and sybil--which is probably why whenever i ran across the term in my early, obsessive searches for what the fuck was the matter with me, i always skimmed past it in search of more promising leads.

turns out had i bothered to delve into its meaning way back when, i could've solved my mystery long ago.

see, i had confused the term "schizoid" with "schizophrenic"--an easy mistake, since both words have as their root the greek word schizo, meaning "split." difference is, schizophrenics are split from reality, whereas we schizoids are merely split from...well, humanity.

still confused? can't blame you; it's not like oprah's ever done a show on the subject [that could change, though--hell, with the right marketing, i could totally see this becoming the new bulimia].

anyway, here are (a) the definition of, and (b) the diagnostic criteria for the condition that so opened my eyes that day (along with my personal assessment of where i rate on each):

schizoid: a pervasive pattern of detachment from social relationships and a restricted range of expression of emotions in interpersonal settings, beginning by early adulthood and present in a variety of contexts, as indicated by four (or more) of the following:

1. neither desires nor enjoys close relationships, including being part of a family. on a scale of 1-10, i'm at least 7 (and probably higher) on this one--i.e., sufficiently aloof to find relationships painful, yet not enough to erase the knowledge of what i'm missing and the pain i'm causing the people who love me.


2. almost always chooses solitary activities. yup.


3. has little, if any, interest in having sexual experiences with another person. for the first thirty-four years of my life i was a virtual monk; for the next eighteen, i fucked anything that moved. didn't matter much either way--i was always by myself.


4. takes pleasure in few, if any, activities. wait--you're tellin me there's people out there who actually enjoy shit?


5. lacks close friends or confidants other than first-degree relatives. it is understood among my relatives that mkf is "different," but they put up with my standoffishness because they have to; conversely, i can count on one hand the non-relatives in my life who haven't finally thrown up their hands and walked away.


6. appears indifferent to the praise or criticism of others. this, believe it or not, actually intimidates people.


7. shows emotional coldness, detachment, or flattened affectivity. if i work at it (and it's hard work, trust me), i can fool most people into believing i give a shit. it's a pretty good show, but don't try to go backstage.

needless to say, i scored myself high in every criterion save maybe the last--and that, only when i actively resist it.

* * * * *

anyway, back to the story--having digested all this information, next time the good doctor paid a visit, i asked him if, as in my case, schizoid and depression always went hand in hand.

he replied, "not at all. hard-core schizoids are often perfectly content in their solitary little worlds; it's the borderlines--the ones like you, who can't live with people yet can't give 'em up, either--that have so much trouble with the condition."

and in answer to my next question, he said, "no, personality disorders by their very nature tend to be treatment-resistant--once you're there, whether you were born that way or acquired it through trauma or loss, you're pretty much there for life."

"so," i said, "what you're telling me is, i can never, ever, hope to regain the feelings for people that i had before all the trouble started."

"i'm afraid that's it, mike" (checking his watch, checking his pager). "i'm sorry, but i have to go."

and there you have it--more useful truth from a tactless, competent psychiatrist in two fifteen-minute sessions than i'd ever gotten from a lifetime of compassionate, incompetent therapists.

it was shortly thereafter that i began my serious drinking and found, to my surprise, that the good doctor was, at least in one respect, full of shit--given sufficient alcohol, many of those good feelings for people that i'd been told were irretrievably dead came roaring back with a vengeance--but at a price, of course.

four years in, it's time to find a less lethal trigger, if such a thing exists; i guess we'll see.



[in case you're wondering what the title of this thread has to do with its content, i had originally intended to get all this background covered in part 1 (what can i say--i got tired), and then trace my trajectory from open, happy kid to shut-down, schizoid adult in part 2. i have since changed my mind about that (the history's not that interesting, really, and certainly not deserving of a part 3), but since it's out there already i'll let the title stand.]

the road from there to here (part 1)

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a few years ago i came down with a serious illness and was hospitalized for several weeks. once it became clear i was gonna live, my doctor (who had become concerned about my mental state after my prolonged confinement) had a friend of his, a prominent psychiatrist, drop by a couple times a week for a little chat.

[i was touched by my doctor's concern--gee, he sent so many specialists over to check on me--until, that is, i got the bill and realized that all those specialists, including said psychiatrist, dinged my insurance company an average of $400 for each of their 15-minute visits, but my outrage at doctors feeding like pigs at the insurance trough is a story for another day]

point is, this guy was good. after laying out the long-practiced patter of my background, i asked him one day, "so tell me, doc--what the hell's the matter with me?"

understand: i had asked this same question of every mental-health professional i'd ever encountered and gotten nothing back but bullshit, so i wasn't really expecting anything different from this guy; i was just askin for the hell of it.

but he surprised me; without hesitation, he replied, "is that all you want to know? that's obvious--you have a personality disorder; more particularly, you're schizoid."

"schizoid?! fuck you, i'm not schizophrenic--there's just one of me, thank you very much."

he smiled, shook his head. "schizoid is worlds away from schizophrenic, mike." he then pointed at the laptop on my bed, said "google it--i think you'll find it interesting," and left (my 15 minutes were up, you see).

i did just that, and in a flash my whole life was explained.

[and you can google it for yourself, and/or wait for part 2]

machine of wonder

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so i'm outside the rite-aid with my three-gallon jug, fishing in my pocket for change for the usual biweekly refill, when out the door spills a noisy gaggle of kids, each clutching a hand-packed ice-cream cone (this being the beverly hills rite-aid, it still features such amenities).

they spot me and i'm immediately surrounded--"hey, whatcha doin?" i look up at their accompanying adult--they couldn't possibly all be his kids--and he shrugs, like, "go figure--they get excited by the strangest things."

i tell 'em i'm getting water from the machine; i open the door, place the bottle inside and explain how it works--you put the money in, push the button and voila!, water. electrifying, huh?

well, it is to them--they're totally in. and when i ask if they wanna help, pandemonium breaks out--you'da thought i'd made 'em honorary teenage mutant ninja turtles or something. i line 'em up, they each get a coin to insert (three gallons means three quarters and three nickels and there's six kids, so that works out) and, after some discussion, the three necessary button-pushes are each delegated to teams of two.

the process goes relatively smoothly, with great suspense at the end--"how does it know when it's full?" i tell 'em, "it just knows--watch." they do, breathlessly, and when with less than an inch to go before overflow the water magically stops, there is much jubilation.

when it's all done, i cap the bottle, thank my helpers and reach in to grab it, but i'm beaten to the punch by the oldest boy, who wraps his arms around it, pulls it out--it's almost as big as he is and i just know he's gonna drop it but i resist the urge to help him--turns with a stagger and hands it off to me with a proud grin as the younger kids ooh and aah at his strength.

and then, wham! quick as they came, they're gone--racing off across the parking lot to their next thing. i watch them go, then shlep my water bottle back to my truck and head home.

i long ago came to terms with the fact that i'll never have kids and it's definitely for the best, and i'm totally ok with it.  most of the time, anyway.