Life on Celluloid

Recently, I read a blog where the author did not want to remember the past and I remember thinking what a shame it was to have that point of view. Despite the pain and sadness of whatever the memory, the past should never be swept away and unacknowledged. I know first hand, because for years, I was running from that very outlook  – leaving my childhood, my family and shamefully, some of the memories far behind me. I let the appreciation of my relatives fall silently by the roadside as I reinvented myself over and over again. As I’ve gotten older, my connection to the past has been one of almost zealous proportions. I’m like a fresh paper towel, absorbing every story I can find before being ringed out and seeking more. I’ve hunted for pictures of relatives, asking family members to id the black and white photographs, picking their memories for the sliver of stories they can recall.

It’s come into focus for me even more as recently, all the home movies my father recorded when were young were transferred to DVD. Over twenty reels of 8mm film capturing birthdays, holidays, weekend barbeques, walks in the parks, trips to amusement parks and more are now there, not only for me, but also for generations to come.

As I watch, I can still smell the cake that my mother is cutting at my fifth birthday and the cacophony of voices from my cousins, although silent on film, still echo in my ears. The scene envelops me and is my own personal time machine to the past. The movie starts a dialogue with my brother. Does he remember this day – that present? We laugh at how crazy Julia was always in the same seat, smoking a nasty cigarette in the kitchen at every celebration and the sheer size of my mother before her thyroid was under control. And then my aunt – my godmother – with her glamorous up do and sparkling earrings, eating cake and laughing with everyone at the table. And, then, the person I’ve been waiting to see – my father’s mother. She sits at the end of the table, smiling, laughing and grabbing my arm. Her touch is as real for me now as it was then. I watch the recording of our walk in the park, wishing I could recall the feel of her hand in mine as she guides my little stubby legs across the grass.

For anyone who’s met me or read my stories, it’s no secret how much I loved my grandmother. She was pure and simply, my entire world. In 1974, ovarian cancer ravaged her body and took her from me - from all of us - when I was only eight years old. But today, I can look at her smile and see her as if she were waiting for me in my old home, and despite the sadness – I am filled with comfort and happiness.

I was hesitant to show the films to my aunt – my grandmother’s youngest sister – thinking that perhaps it would make her too sad seeing all the people who are no longer with us. But today, when we talked, she was as happy to have seen the movies as I.

“You looked just like Dom when you were born, “ she laughed referencing the fact that I resembled my father’s oldest brother.  For sure, there is no mistaking that I am a Tella.

Together we remarked at the beauty of her sister-in-law Angie and reminisced about her own 25^th Wedding Anniversary movie. There was no distant longing in her voice, just a tilt of joy at seeing everyone who has made our family so special.

I spent some time this weekend watching the movies, escaping into the past and letting all that love and happiness wash over me. Perhaps it has been growing older in a state far from the rest of my family that has taught me all of this. Although California is the place I belong, where I came from and who made me the person I am is just as important in my life. To not want to look back and remember would be a disservice to everyone in those movies. I’m grateful to my father for everything he has taught me and for spending countless hours documenting the good times we all shared.

I’m more than ever, so in love with my family, and today, I embrace the generations before and the ones that have followed. When I get lonely and want to see the love that was all around me, I can watch these movies. And somehow, as crazy as it may sound, I know my grandmother is still right beside me. No matter where I walk or if my still stubby legs will falter, although I cannot feel her, she is still holding my hand.

Making The Happiest Place on Earth a Little More Gay

Walt Disney World was in its infancy when I first walked through the gates of the Magic Kingdom. It was the country’s bicentennial - 1976 – a year that also marked the first and last vacation the family Tella ever took together as a complete unit. Alas, getting to the house of Mickey Mouse was not going to be easy, as back then, my mother was far from the world traveler that she is today. For a day and a half, we were stuck on an Amtrak train, seeing parts of the country that to this day, I have no desire to ever see again. It is without a doubt, the reason I am no fan of road trips. If it takes longer than two hours to get somewhere, then I’m logging onto United.com.

There was only one park then, for the theme park behemoth was in its infancy – its current massive Orlando footprint a far off imagination. Growing up, my brother and I were never allowed to stay up late – so you can picture how exciting and wonderful it was that during that week, we were allowed to stay up until the park closed its gates at midnight. Midnight. I was able to pass twelve o’clock – the time Cinderella had to be home after dancing with her prince or her coach would turn into a pumpkin and she once again would be clothed in her tattered rags. For an eleven-year-old boy who dreamed of a world where imagination was limitless, it was the ultimate high. And to make it even more special, my father had gotten us all “E” tickets. Alas, if you don’t know the history of the lettered tickets, there’s no Disney hope for you.

Even back then, I was the one in charge. I determined where we ate lunch, what rides we went on and where in the park we should be at the proper time to see the parade or the characters.  If we got lost or separated, my brother and I were told simply to meet in front of the post office on Main Street. There were no mobile phones and no worries about being kidnapped by pedophiles. Looking back, I miss those times. Where did the innocence disappear?

During our quest to meet every single character in the park and get their autograph (don't ask), the one who stands out the most was Tigger. I can only imagine the worst now about the feisty person in that costume. He pawed at us  – it was an innocent time, remember? Of course, it probably was nothing – for I was hardly a slim and handsome little boy that would cause anyone to think lascivious thoughts. Thankfully, I grew out of that awkward stage and today, when I seek out the characters, I can only hope for the opposite truth. Especially since the gay days at Disneyland Resort in California are now one of the best times of the year for me. 

It was 1990 when I first walked into Walt Disney’s original creation and eight years later, I was one of the about 2,500 people in attendance at the very first gay days event. Now, over 30,000 descend upon the park every first weekend in October. If you didn’t think the Disneyland Parade was gay before, then you should watch it among the sea of red shirts gathered outside of It’s a Small World. No matter how many words I write to describe it, I couldn’t do it justice. What always causes me to laugh, however, is just how many straight men like the color red. It takes them some time to figure out just what is going on during this particular day and the result is always priceless.

This year, my friend Josh is flying out from Boston to join me and just like that first and only vacation visit, I am still the one in control of the path we take through the park, where we eat and where we go to find our favorite characters for pictures. I avoid Tigger since I don’t know who’s inside that costume and set my sights on the princes. After all, we’re going to be up well past midnight and if I can score a date with a prince, real or Disney-fied, finding my clothes in tatters would be a whole different fairy tale. 

A Crystal Blue Sky

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sky as blue as I did the morning of September 11, 2001. It had been a year since I strangely decided to move back to Boston after spending ten years in San Francisco and I was quickly becoming the lay off queen of the world. With my job terminated in California, I came back to the place I’d left when I was 24 years old. After countless interviews, I landed a horrible job at Akamai software where two very large fat girls made my life miserable. Searching for a new job to be my savoir, I thought I found it at an advertising firm, only to fall quickly back in the unemployment line. And then, that crystal clear day, I was temping for a telecommunications company in a windowless basement, shut off from the world save the time snuck on the Internet. I can still recall looking up at that gorgeous blue, cloudless sky as I walked into the office that day - thinking how beautiful it all looked so early in the morning.

Someone said one of the towers was on fire and everyone still went about their mindless routine, whipped back to the task at hand by some nameless worker bee exerting his perceived power over the temps. And when I heard that one of the towers had collapsed, I thought it must be an Internet hoax. How could the tower come down?  And when we were finally released from our working jail cell – the mass pike was eerily vacant of cars. I made it back to my condo in what seemed less than 20 minutes. Was I speeding or just going the normal limit?

I sat in front of the television, holding the phone and listening to my mother crying as we watched the images of that day over and over. It was impossible to not imagine what the passengers on those planes felt. I learned that one of the founders of the Cambridge technology firm I briefly worked at was on board one of the planes and that American Airlines flight 11 was a flight I had once taken to go back to California for a visit. In the days that followed, I had an interview at Fenway Community Health and worked there until they, too, laid me off, which finally was the hint I needed that I was meant to live nowhere else but California.

Has the patriotism that filled the country slipped away from us since that terrible day? Where are all the flags I saw outside every neighbor’s house? Why has the bickering and finger pointing in Washington reached new heights? I must shamefully admit, that often times, I have forgotten as well, but in my defense, perhaps it’s simply because, as much as it seems unfair, life moves on and we need anniversaries to remind us of what’s important. Whether it’s a wedding anniversary that forces a married couple to look back at what first made them fall in love or a move date that causes a young man to remember why he left the city he grew up in – everyone needs to look back and remember. Everything we touch and witness touches our lives, forms our beings and ultimately shapes us.

I can remember that summer, before the world turned upside down, my once and forever almost boyfriend and his partner had come to visit me. We spent a week in Provincetown – drunk on good times and great friendship. There wasn’t a care in the world except how to avoid the hangover, which went away by eating the horrible yet strangely appetizing Spiritus pizza at 1 a.m. The world was now simply defined as before and after the terrorist attacks.

It’s impossible to ask, “what if?” Living is full of the outcome of choices and actions by you and others in your past. Remembering makes you stronger. Despite the tears that stream down your face and the tug on your heart that makes you gasp for air, you must continue to live, you must never give up on the hope for the future. Remember that your actions do affect others, and despite the uncertainty of what lies ahead  – never forget to stop and look at a crystal blue sky and remember how beautiful it all looks.

The Labor of Friendship

Since it’s labor day, it seems a good time to reflect on how much work goes into being a friend. Over the years, I've had a lot of jobs that have introduced me to some of the most bizarre people I have ever met. Some have tried to take me down their path of crazy, while others who might have been a blip on the radar of my life have remained some of my greatest friends. 

Back at the start of last century’s last decade, I started a job answering phone calls when the world of customer service was still firmly planted in the United States. The queue was backed up for hours and there we all sat with our headsets and phone consoles being listened to and monitored by those who acted better than the rest of us behind the glassed in wall. The motley crew of employees on the floor were tethered to their phones answering call after call from people seeking credits for wrong numbers (does this even happen any more?) to long distance conversations made to Asia with denials that anyone in the Asian family knew a soul in China to make such a long call.

In this cesspool of craziness, the pied piper of children came into my life. Together, we have survived earthquakes, lay offs, love, marriages, divorce, death and a million other acts of nature the world has thrown at us. I can still remember the looks and attitude all the others gave us over the course of our employment. From the woman with the perfect marriage and family to the lesbian sharing her world with the love of her life, to the girl so in love with her fiancé who was going to have the perfect life - all of them befriended us but beneath their smiles, the look of pity and sadness directed at us was all too evident.

Deep down, I knew the piper was forever. There were no red flags with anything she asked of me, and as the year played out, the two of us were the only ones who could smell the stench of hypocrisy that surrounded us. When the call center folded and the slow truth about our co-workers leaked out, we still remained true to ourselves. It was our turn to shake our heads. From that woman with the perfect marriage who sent herself flowers to the office and signed them from her husband to that lesbian whose partner beat her while she covered up the bruises to that very perky blond who moonlighted on the sex toy phone lines to make money for her wedding that ended in divorce, all of them kept their blinders on as our jobs disintegrated. 

Over the years, there have been many jobs and an even greater number of people I often thought would last forever in my life. The occupations threw us together and gave us a common bond - but it’s so much more than just a job that keeps true friends together. It’s what they see reflected back - what they don’t ask of each other that is willingly given that matters and makes all the labor they share worth it.

Each year, new faces came into my life as the piper and I grew older. There was yet another lesbian, one who asked too much of me and was unable to face the truth about the alcohol that consumed every dinner party and night out. There was the redhead who expected me to be her husband in every way but the bedroom and fought for the spotlight in a friendship that had no stage. They were more labor intensive than the birth of the child I watched come into the world. I walked away from the jobs that brought the drama into my life and left the friendships in the rear view mirror, but not without high speed road kill to stain my tires and dirty my car. And as this labor day continues, I spend it with a blue-eyed friend who asks nothing more than to share the new world I have yet again created for myself.

I have chased the sun until it warms my very soul and it gives me hope for all that’s ahead in life. And through it all, the piper’s song still plays and we skip down the path of true friendship. Many have followed us, but when the music stops, they have fallen back and disappeared. Yet, the piper and I continue because the music that plays is in our souls.

Of Dogs and Men

 

If my friend Josh were to buy the puppy he’s always wanted, it would no doubt be the kind of dog that approaches any breed, regardless of its size or intimidation factor. He would wag his tail, threaten to jump up on your lap, but not quite take that next leap, and given the chance, beg to be taken on a hike through some god forsaken mountain trail on a sweltering hot summer’s day, stopping to pee every five minutes.

I’m sure Josh would agree with me because, one night last week, we both came to the same conclusion after watching the boys of the South End walking their dogs: the man you may be interested in dating is best understood by spending five minutes with his four legged companion. The two may not look alike, but their personalities are directly and inexplicably linked.

Dog number one was a black lab puppy. Four months old, still a bit tentative on his paws, but willing to walk over and let us pet him. The tall, young twenty something who controlled the leash stood just off to the side and smiled, answering only the questions we asked about the puppy, never venturing any more or less. Though it would be a one-sided conversation with him in a bar, we agreed that the boy would no doubt get the attention of all of your friends.

Dog number two was a boxer regulated to the window of an Audi A4. Its owner, instead of inconveniencing the drivers along Tremont Street, pulled into the Doris Day spot in front of us. He left the dog inside with the window rolled down just far enough to prevent escape from the front seat.

“We’ll watch him,” Josh offered, to which the boy smiled and hurried off to the corner liquor store. And there the boxer sat. Not a sound. No barking. No whimpering. Just staring down the street, patiently waiting for his owner.

“He’s cute,” Josh ventured.

“A little nelly for me,” I replied. “I don’t think he’s worth waiting, all happy and obedient for. Though he does have nice tastes in cars and clothes.” Josh made no comment and rolled his eyes at me.

Then the nelly boy strolled back with his brown bag. Josh motioned to the patient boxer, not panting in anticipation of his owner’s return.  

“He’s still in there,” Josh chuckled. “Didn’t go anywhere.”

“Oh,” said the well-dressed owner. “She’s a good girl.”

Josh turned to me and whispered. “It’s a girl.”

I have to admit, female dogs are my favorite, and not because I get to call their owners the same slang term. An acquaintance of mine, Devin, owns one of the cutest dogs I have ever met. Of course, she’s cute despite Devin’s fur dying her any color that sparks his fancy. Pink. Blue. Green. Color combinations that even rival the gay flag during pride. It doesn’t matter, he says, since she’s colorblind. My friend David loves the dog more than I do, and takes her out running whenever he can, but he’s always prepared with his usual statement lest he be mistaken for her crazy pent up cosmetologist owner.

“She’s not my dog.”

He says it very emphatically and articulates every word so he doesn’t have to repeat it, which would mean that if you dated David, he’d take care of you no matter who you belonged to and what shape you were in. He’d just add the disclaimer to someone else that you were definitely not his boyfriend and was available to date. You can guess what dating Devin would do to you psyche, let alone your hair color.

Of course, my favorite dogs of that milkshake drinking night were two miniature Jack Russell Terriers. Without hesitation, and not even waiting for an invitation, or allowing me time to put my drink down, that bundle of energy pup was on my lap and licking my entire face. The other sat watching, wanting to join in, but not quite ready for a group scene. The two owners laughed, loosely yanked on the frisky terrier’s leash, at which point, he jumped quickly jumped over to Josh. Once they left, I turned to my friend.

“Now, they’d be fun. Couldn’t commit, but fun.”

And then, the two of us stopped slurping our shakes when we saw the beefiest boy of the night. He emerged from the brownstone next door, dressed in eye-popping color sweats that were loose, but tight enough to wonder what good was imagination? Following him were two lumbering bulldogs. They finally reached the sidewalk, and all three bowlegged, walked in the other direction. Ten minutes later, the three made their reappearance from around the block, the two grumpy bulldogs, without a leash, taking a wide berth and moving like sloths across the sidewalk, out of our reach. 

“They just love taking their time, don’t they?” Josh laughed.

“Huh?” replied the beef, his feet dragging along the pavement in his flip-flops.

Josh tried again.

“Yeah,” came the mumbled response from the beef without even a show of teeth. Josh shrugged his shoulders, and I slurped the rest of my milkshake, taking the top off the cup and greedily spooning the chocolate chips into my mouth.

“You pig,” Josh said to me. Then he shook his head. “I have to pee.”

Reflections on LA at 40

I'm no longer forty, but I found a story I wrote back when I entered a new decade. It still has a lot of truth in it.

Lots of things were different when I was 24. Cruising men meant picking up a boy in person. No Internet fees, no online profiles with stats and codes that needed a gay dictionary to decipher. It was face to face and the decision if this one was it was made in less time than it took for microwave popcorn to pop and burn. I also believed that sex would lead to dates that would lead to the perfect relationship with the man who held my number in his hand and whose apartment door just closed behind me. The Castro district had no chain stores; getting drunk was easy and cheap at $1 beer busts; and in Los Angeles, one of my favorite places, the Abbey, was a small and quaint coffeehouse. 

Today, realizing the man on the other side of the door won’t call you is a good thing, getting drunk on a Sunday afternoon will set you back a few twenty bucks, and the Abbey has somehow taken steroids and expanded like the boys of the very town it inhabits. One look and you hardly recognize the quaint gathering place it used to be. It was where you could once meet a cute boy reading his newspaper while he sipped a double mocha. Now you go out of you way to avoid the quintessential bitter queen who’s smoke escapes from his curled lip in a snarl of smoke that matches the look of disdain he throws to the crowd packed in shoulder to shoulder on a Saturday night. If the bar were in San Francisco, everyone would have a coat to keep them warm from the relatively cool temperature. But this is LA, and displaying your pumped up and expanded body is what sets it apart from the rest of the world. 

So what is it about LA that I love? There’s a thrill to this town. It’s been written about, been photographed, documented and broiled to a crisp by the Southern California sun. But it’s the money and the power — or perhaps the illusion that you have one or both that gives the city its life.  But sometimes I think it’s as simple as the weather. Growing up on the East Coast one would never step foot out of the house in January without seven layers of clothing to keep you warm. And in that same month, here I was standing among the beautiful people with an outfit that would have caused me to catch frostbite within seconds. With one shrug of my shoulders, my coat slips off my shoulders without my spilling one bit of my $11 cocktail. I turn my attention to my small circle of friends, keeping the bitter cowboy in the corner behind me. 

One boy more beautiful than the next passes me every second and I find myself exhausted from the sight of them before I’m even drunk. My friends crack a joke and I smile.

My smile was once my fortune, and since smiles are as rare in an LA bar as an unattractive boy, I could take anyone by surprise and put them at ease. But this night, not even the bitter cowboy in the corner would give me the time and getting drunk was getting me broke.

A round of drinks and with my wallet fifty dollars lighter later, we were leaning against the corner vacated by the bitter cowboy queen. 

“I think half these boys don’t even know how to start a conversation,” my friend said.

“Hey, you got a cigarette?” I asked.

“I stopped smoking four months ago, missy. Or haven’t you noticed?”

“Of course I noticed. But you always have a pack when we come here. Come on. Give me one.”

He sighed and reached into his jacket pocket. “Why aren’t you working your mojo tonight?” he asked as he handed me a Marlboro Light. “You didn’t slip that wrap off your shoulders to talk with me all night.”

I lit the cigarette, careful not to curl my lip as I exhaled. “I’m a bit out of practice. I think I’ve forgotten how it all works in person.”

“You? Forget how to pick up a boy? That’s like me forgetting how to be cheap.”

“Very funny.”

“Have you seen me pay for a round of drinks?”

“Point taken.” The smoke circle I attempted folded sadly in the air in front of me. “There’s no one here I want.”

“Bullshit. Get out there and meet someone. Take them home and put your legs in the air.”

“It’s their legs in the air, dear.”

He grabbed my cigarette and took a puff. “My, times have changed, haven’t they?”

I looked around the Abbey as the crowd got bigger and bigger. “They certainly have.”

It’s not that I didn’t want to try my luck with the LA boys; it’s just that I hadn’t forgotten how the taste of rejection tasted, even after five vodka and cranberries. I’d gotten complacent, content at how much easier it was to cruise the Internet than it was to smile and strike up a conversation. And most importantly, it was simpler to just close the chat window and plop myself in front of my television. Ironically, that all changed the next day at the gym.

Although pick-ups at the gym are stereotypically porn, I couldn’t resist when I saw the boy across the floor. Endless hours with my personal trainer would only cause me pain rather than results of looking like him. For the first time in my life I was nonchalant in my approach. I picked machines close to him, but not too close and managed a closed smile the few times his eyes glanced over at mine. No need to flash full force so soon, I thought.

When he finished his work out and headed to the showers, I was right behind.  I turned the cold water on to relax and calm down. And then I followed him into the unbearably hot steam-room.

After fifteen minutes of feeling as if I would evaporate from the heat, the object of my steam got up and headed towards the showers. Not caring what the other towel wrapped sweaty boys next to me would think, I wasted no time in following him. I felt rejuvenated and just like old times, my heart was racing and the anticipation of what would happen was exhilarating. As the cruise gods would have it, his locker was next to mine and I flashed my full smile and uttered a pick up line that never failed me.

“Hi.”

The boy looked up. “You didn’t melt in there? I thought I was going to die.”

“I would have rescued you.” Okay, so that was corny, but it just slipped out. 

“Would you now? I’m Chad,” he greeted and offered me his wet hand.

“Jim. Nice to meet you.”

And with that, our dance of small talk began and being this close to him, I realized he must be extremely young. Nobody my age had zero percent body fat and an ass that was quite that round.

As the conversation progressed, I became more and more relaxed and in the back of my mind I wondered why I didn’t do this more often. It was a refreshing change from the computer screen and the endless nights spent chatting with faceless men. And, I admit, better than a vodka and cranberry.

“Do you live around here?” he finally asked.

“Oh, no. I’m staying at a friend’s house, I just walked here while they went to the movies.”

“You walked?” He sounded as if someone had punched him in the stomach. “If you’d like a ride I can drive you back to your apartment. You can’t walk in LA, people will think your either homeless or a hooker.”

And for a second I thought should decline and take my chances at gaining some unexpected income. But I’d picked him up the old-fashioned way, surprised that my once flawless skills still worked. And although I was dying to know, I didn’t dare ask him his age before we’d finished what I set out to start.

On the ride back, we made mindless conversation about the weather, the difference between San Francisco and Los Angeles and the type of boy that frequents either city or both.

“I’m not sure why I love it,” I answered after he asked about my attraction to the city. “I’m in love with the sun in January, I guess. Or better yet, it’s just a place I can skip out of town and not go very far or spend much money. Though I’m beginning to be an old face in town and that’s never a good thing.”

He laughed at that and I realized then he had no idea how old I was.

“Are you sure your friends aren’t home?”

“Positive.”

Whatever nervousness I sensed from him was gone the second we got back to the apartment. And before the gym bags hit the floor I was lost in his kiss, and as quickly as it started it seemed to end just as fast.

Afterwards, sitting on the edge of the bed, I rustled his hair.

“I have to ask how old you are.”

“I’m 21.”

 I laughed.

“What’s so funny, you’re only what? 28, 30?”

“Bless your heart,” I smiled. “I’m turning 40 this year.”

“Oh that’s a great age. All the guys I meet are these young and immature snots. They’re too flighty for me. It gets so old, you know?” He reached for his pants and threw on his shirt. “It was great to meet you.” 

I stood up, hugged him and then I felt that familiar something slip into the palm of my hand.  I kissed him again and took another look at his sweet face.

"It was my pleasure.” 

“I’ll be in San Francisco in March for a few days on work," he said with just a hint of an unfinished question.

“Stay out of trouble until then,” I joked as I closed the door behind him. 

I turned the lock, balled my hand into a fist and slowly crumpled the business card in my hand.