The Chandelier

Once upon a time in the early 70s in a place far from here, a little boy fell under the spell of a beautiful object that held its beauty in teardrops of dangling glass.

I don't really have a first memory of it; it’s more of an awareness. I was younger than seven when it shined its way onto my radar and bedazzled me with its glittering prisms that created sparkling rainbows. I know this because when I was seven-and-a-half my grandparents moved from the "old" house into the "new" house (more than 30 years later and we still differentiate between the two houses like that). Anyway, I remember it hanging in the formal living room of the old house: a grand room full of furniture that was different from all the other furniture in the house; that room you weren't allowed to enter unless it was a special occasion like prom night or Easter morning, and you were in there to have your picture taken.

Isn't it funny what we remember? I remember my grandmother's house always being clean and in perfect order--both the old one and the new one. As for the old one, it truly was an old house complete with crumbling front porch that was closed off and to be avoided at all costs lest you fall through the rotting wood. It had been my granddaddy's grandmother's house. Once inside, however, it was grandmother’s house. No crumbling porch or sagging roof mattered. It was easy, magic, bliss. It was perfect to me. Being at her house always made my heart leap with happiness. 

My child self was first mesmerized by this hanging light and its shimmering teardrops of dangling glass in that old house. It was unlike anything I had seen in anyone else’s house. It was so grand. I had no understanding of the words opulent or extravagant when I was young, but as an adult looking back on it, that’s exactly what I think of the chandelier hanging in that formal living room. It was, to me, the utmost in opulence. I’m fairly certain I thought my grandparents were wealthy. They weren’t. They were middle class with good taste and that chandelier was the grandest of accessories.

When their new house was ready for occupancy, the chandelier made the move. It was hung in the new formal living. The same furniture from the previous formal living room was arranged in the new formal living room, the aesthetic completed with white shag carpet and a window treatment that Scarlett O’Hara would have been proud to take down and have made into a dress. I was old enough to be aware of beautiful things by then and seeing the chandelier hanging in that room was when my fascination with it really took root. 

I used to sneak a stroll through that room when no one was watching just so I could feel for a moment like I was transported to another place--say a room in the Carrington mansion on Dynasty or the Chancellor mansion on The Young and the Restless. I have always had a vivid imagination and that room became the setting for my fantasies when I could actually find a moment to tiptoe into it: moving nothing yet touching everything; absorbing the atmosphere. If I listen hard enough I can hear my grandmother calling my name from the den asking me what I was doing. She knew when I was being too quiet that I was in that room.

I loved to play dress up as a little boy and nothing was better than having a large "diamond" hanging from a chain around my neck. I was so excited when I got tall enough to reach the lowest hanging teardrops on the chandelier. (It ranks right up there with my feet fitting into my mother’s shoes, but that’s another story.) When I found myself in the house alone I would trespass into that room and take one of the teardrops down and hang it from a necklace that I had managed to secretly take from my grandmother’s bedroom. I remember the heart-racing fear of getting caught and the heart-pounding race against time to get that teardrop looped back into its slot when the back door opened. I remember exiting the room at the end farthest from the back door turning as I did to make sure there was no evidence that I'd been inside it at all.

Now the grand, opulent, extravagant, shimmering light is mine. I own it. It glimmers and sparkles in my bedroom. I washed, dried, and painstakingly hung each of the 69 glass teardrops. It was like decorating a Christmas tree. You know how that is: you hang a few ornaments then step back and look. Well, that’s exactly what I did. I hung a few teardrops then stepped off the chair, looking up and marveling as the bare bones of this light fixture began to take shape with each new ornamental embellishment. At least there were predesignated holes for all these “ornaments.” The bygone era sounds of “Moonlight Serenade” filled my apartment creating the perfect ambience as I incorporated into my own home an object that had so fascinated me as a child. The nostalgia factor was overwhelming.

It’s surreal to see it hanging in my bedroom. I can’t seem to stop staring at it. I walk into the room and stare at it. I lie on my bed and stare at it. I can see it so clearly hanging in my grandparents house. I find my mind awash with memories, my face covered in a smile. Of course the downside of it hanging in my house means my grandparents are no longer alive. That means there’s a bit of sadness attached to the happiness it brings me. Still, there are more smiles than tears when I look at it. It brings with it good memories of family dinners and laughter around the dining room table. 

That little boy who used to thrill at the stolen moments of hanging one of those teardrops around his neck grew up to be the man who couldn’t resist hanging one of those teardrops around his neck before placing it in its rightful slot in its new home. 

We can't stop time from passing. My adult self cherishes this memento from my past. I’m so proud to have it. I feel I’m the perfect guardian of The Chandelier. 

Self-Absorbed (Or General Dumbassery)?

This piece also appears on HuffPost Comedy

Are we all so self-absorbed -- our attention span like that of a toddler -- that we can't pay attention to the announcements continually repeating the same information? In an age where we can't seem to do anything without our smart phones how dumb have we all gotten?

I recently had to report for jury duty. There were wall signs all over the juror waiting room stating: No Cell Phone Use In This Room. We were verbally instructed that if we needed to use our phones we were to step out of the room to do so. We were instructed that we weren’t to tweet, play games, check our email, take pictures, or record video. We were instructed to turn them off, not just silence them. These verbal instructions were announced over the loud speaker. An excuse of not hearing didn’t apply.

I sat judgmentally (I know I know, judge not lest ye...yet there I was unable to follow that easy instruction) shaking my head at the number of people that had to be told repeatedly to turn off their cell phones. I’m guilty of being addicted to my twitter feed, checking my email, and playing too much Words With Friends, but I powered down when I was told to do so and settled in for the hours of waiting that were ahead of me. It was almost a relief of sorts to be unreachable. It’s kind of like when I’m at the gym. The phone is locked in my locker and I’m on my own time. With my phone powered down in the jury room, I was free to sit with my own thoughts; initially taking interest in the process happening around me then later, focusing on a magazine to relieve the boredom.

I watched in amazement as one of the perspective jurors in the jury room stood talking on her phone merely minutes after a security personnel team member made yet another announcement about NOT using cell phones in that room. When the security team member saw the woman, she asked, "Ma'am are you talking on your cell phone?" The question went unacknowledged. The woman on the phone gave no indication that she was the person being asked the question. As the security team member approached her she quickly ended her phone conversation and smiled at the woman. Her smile was one of those Oops-I-didn’t-think-No-Cell-Phones-applied-to-me-Sorry smiles. The security team member wasn’t amused. She had the patience of Job, but she didn’t care about anyone’s excuses and as nicely as possible I heard her tell people so. I loved her.

It is the smallest thing to turn off your phone (or to silence it if turning it off is too anxiety inducing for you). You don’t even have to remember it outright. When you go to the movies there’s a visual on the screen with an announcement. When you attend a live theatrical performance a bodiless voice fills the theatre instructing you to turn off your phone (and unwrap your candy). When you’re sitting in the court room before starting voir dire a person standing in front of you reminds you to turn off your phone. All you have to do is pull it out of your pocket or purse and turn it off (or at least silence it). That’s all. In that moment when cell phones are mentioned, you check yours and make sure it’s off or set to silent. But inevitably an obnoxious ringer rings or clangs or beeps or chirps. 

I was sitting in voir dire (the examination to ascertain a juror’s competence) when that inevitable happened -- the unique, muffled sound that has become so familiar when someone’s purse starts ringing. The judge’s instructions were interrupted. Concentration was broken. All eyes tracked toward the sound. Frustration was writ large on many faces. It’s understandable. We are connected to the world, but not to what’s happening in front of us. We don’t think those posted placards and announcements apply to us. 

Sitting on a jury panel, instructions are of the utmost importance. One has to pay attention, listen to the details. Can we pay attention enough when we’re dying to check Facebook for the latest cat video? Can we take the fate of someone else’s life into our hands when we’re so self-absorbed that we need to check-in via foursquare? I’m being dramatic, but I’m being dramatic to make a point. As a juror, we have to be able to discern between true and false. If we can’t be bothered to follow the simple request of turning off a phone, how can anyone expect us to follow all the information being given to us via testimony then use that information to render a decision of guilty or innocent.

We will walk down the sidewalk (or into the street) texting or reading on our phones expecting every one around us to move out of our way because we’re too busy in our own world to be bothered with our surroundings. During the opening monologue on the May 15, 2013, episode of Jimmy Kimmel Live!, even Jimmy Kimmel mentioned how texting-reading-emailing while walking is a normal action that takes place on the streets of New York City. His joke: he wants to develop a car made from Nerf material so he can “bump” these oblivious, self-absorbed people and give them a scare. Sounds good to me. I myself want to run into them on the sidewalk more often than I want to move out of their way. I walk and text myself, but I am constantly looking up to see where I’m going and more often than not I’m walking along the curb when doing so as opposed to down the center of the sidewalk. These texting-reading-emailing walkers are like people with huge umbrellas that have no idea how to maneuver in New York City. I made a decision a long time ago that I was tired of bending my umbrella to accommodate theirs. Now I just let the umbrellas collide with no remorse and no decline in my stride.

Our phones have become an extension of our hands. We don’t know what to do without them. I can’t tell you how many times I have had to rewind a scene I missed in an episode of one of my favorite television shows because I was checking my twitter feed or looking at Instagram. So many times that I’ve started trying to leave my phone across the room or in my bag when I’m watching television. And God forbid I forget it at home: let the anxiety begin. I’ve been late to work before because I chose to walk the 7 minutes back to my house from my subway stop after realizing that I didn’t have it. This is because I didn’t want to miss anything -- texts, tweets, Facebook comments -- not because I felt I needed it in case of an emergency. I’m shaking my head at myself.

For those brief periods when we’re asked to turn off our phones (at the movies, at a Broadway show, in the jury box) we should do it. Detach for those few hours. Focus on the reality of the present moment. It ain’t deep. Don’t panic. All the voicemails and texts and tweets will be waiting for you when you get the chance to power up again. It’ll be like Christmas morning. 

My Grandmother and Katherine Chancellor: Restless No More

It’s common knowledge in my family that for all the years she worked, my grandmother took her lunch break from 11am to 12 pm. The town fire alarm would sound (as it did every day back then) announcing the arrival of lunchtime. She would drive the half mile home, make herself a quick lunch, sit down in her chair and watch her “story:” The Young and the Restless.

In the late 80s early 90s, Y&R had some of the most outlandish, creative, edge-of-your-seat story lines I’ve ever had the pleasure to get sucked into. I loved it. I couldn’t wait to see how Sheila Carter was going to torment Lauren Fenmore next. And when David Kimble awoke from anesthesia and looked in the mirror to see his new face, the reveal of the word “killer” carved into his forehead by his plastic surgeon was shocking and unexpected. Those story lines have stuck with me all these years. None were more exciting, however, than the ones that included Katherine Chancellor. That woman was feisty to the max. She didn’t take shit from anyone, least of all Jill Foster, the former manicurist who slept with, and got pregnant by Katherine’s husband. That rivalry produced some of the juiciest scenes and verbal smack downs I’ve ever seen in daytime drama, and at one point or another I’ve sampled them all (’85-present).

Katherine Chancellor was the epitome of a Grande Dame. She was elegant, sophisticated, and glamorous. (That’s how I always see my grandmother in my mind -- sophisticated, perfect hair and make-up, elegant.) One thing I seem to always remember about Katherine is her accessories; her diamonds to be exact. She often wore a large clustered diamond ring on her index finger. It was oblong and reached to the knuckle. It seemed so out-of-the-ordinary, yet exactly right for her.

Fearlessly portrayed by Jeanne Cooper for 40 years, Katherine symbolized to me the vibrant, active, older woman. Like my grandmother, she had the love of her family, but she had a mind of her own and wasn’t afraid to speak it. Well, if I’m being honest, she was more outspoken than my grandmother, but she had writers that my grandmother didn’t have so that kind of puts my grandmother at a disadvantage.   

To read that the character of Katherine was controversial is not surprising. This was after all a character that went through the same facelift surgery as the actress. Jeanne suggested and allowed footage of her own facelift to be used for Katherine. I did not see it first hand, but I’ve had the pleasure of watching it on YouTube. The idea and the execution was nothing short of groundbreaking. Jeanne made Katherine seem real; she made her human. She wasn’t afraid to show her worst side -- honest, ugly, and venerable. 

After I had moved away from my hometown, I used to call my grandmother sometimes to discuss the day’s goings on in Genoa City, the setting for The Young and the Restless. I really missed those phone calls after my grandmother passed away in 2004. Katherine Chancellor was my connection to her. There were many times I wanted to call and ask her what she thought of the current story line or what she speculated might happen. I continued to watch The Young and the Restless just so I could feel close to her. As with many people, I am fickle and eventually gave up watching Y&R. The writing got bad -- characters doing things that were out-of-character. But even as I would tune in from time to time while eating my own lunch I always felt an immediate connection to Katherine.

With the passing of Jeanne Cooper, and by extension Katherine Chancellor, my heart aches. The connection that I always felt to my grandmother by watching this character is now gone. I’m saddened by her passing. I wish I could talk to my grandmother about it, but short of sitting at her graveside and talking to myself, I don’t have that option.

I hope I never forget the conversations I had with my grandmother about Katherine and her doppelgänger, Marge. I hope I never forget the times that I would make sure to be at my grandmother’s house at 11am so that I could watch her “story” with her. We didn’t talk except during commercial breaks, and she didn’t like questions. If I didn’t know what was going on, I had to wait until an appropriate moment to ask. No interruptions tolerated.

It’s hard to separate the characters in daytime from the actors who play them. We get so involved in their lives that we forget they aren’t real people. Thank you, Jeanne, for bringing to life one of the best character’s daytime television had the pleasure to offer us. You and Katherine will be missed. If you see my grandmother up there, don’t be surprised if she calls you Katherine. Introduce yourself. She’s a nice lady. Her name is June.

Another Gay Man's Reaction to Chris Broussard

This blog also appears on HuffPost Gay Voices

Words affect us. They can hurt us. They can give us strength. They can positively reinforce or negatively tear us down. They can inspire us to action or cause a reaction.

Positive Reinforcement. “I'm a 34-year-old NBA center. I'm black. And I'm gay.” In a country where many place professional athletes on the highest of pedestals, NBA Basketball player Jason Collins did a brave thing when he said those words. We have yet to see the impact they will have on his NBA career, but regardless, it took courage, especially when he has so far to fall. In a society that is fickle enough to love you one minute and turn on you the next, Mr. Collins faced his fear and embraced his life. Hopefully, his coming out will be an example that living in truth is better than living in fear of truth.

Negative Tear Down. In our slowly evolving society we still have too many people willing to publicly denounce homosexuals with verbal criticisms. On the program “Outside The Lines,” ESPN reporter Chris Broussard became another to voice his opinion on the matter. He said, “Personally, I don’t believe that you can live an openly homosexual lifestyle...if you’re openly living that type of lifestyle, then the Bible says ‘you know them by their fruits’ It says that, you know, that’s a sin.” He went on to say, “And if you’re openly living in unrepentant sin, whatever it may be, not just homosexuality--adultery, fornication, premarital sex between heterosexuals--whatever it may be, I believe that’s walking in open rebellion to God.” 

The day after making the above statements, Mr. Broussard spoke via phone with the hosts of the radio program “Breakfast Club” on New York’s Power 105.1. As a basis for his beliefs he cited Biblical passages from First Corinthians and Romans in the New Testament, as well as, from the Book of Leviticus in the Old Testament. He did make a point of saying that not all Old Testament laws (e.g. not wearing blended fabrics, not eating shrimp) carried forward in the new covenant made in the New Testament. To which I had to question, Why cite Leviticus at all in this matter? Then I remembered we’re dealing with people who have their go-to passages for proving homosexuality is wrong.

Mr. Broussard must not have a problem with those NBA players who have tattoos. I mean the Bible does state in Leviticus 19:28 “Do not cut your bodies for the dead or put tattoo marks on yourselves. I am the Lord.” That looks like a direct quote from God himself. Then there’s Leviticus 20:10 “If a man commits adultery with another man’s wife, both the adulterer and the adulteress must be put to death.” We wouldn’t even consider doing that today. As for First Corinthians, in Chapter 7:32-35 Paul suggests we stay single so we can focus on God without the distraction marriage brings. Paul’s words, not God’s. I’m not using these verses to make fun of Mr. Broussard, I’m using them to point out that we can’t pick and choose what we’re going to follow then ignore the rest.

With the right afforded every person who lives in this country to speak his mind, I acknowledge that Mr. Broussard has every right to speak his. He can do so privately or publicly if he desires, but come on. To quote “Aibileen” from the film The Help “Ain’t you tired, Miss Hilly? Ain’t you tired?”

Reaction. To all those out there who sometimes act like superior human beings I ask, “Ain’t you tired?” I’m tired. I’m tired of conservative, heterosexual Christians like Mr. Broussard saying they’re okay with gay people, but think we should constantly fight against our same-sex attraction. 

When I began to experience attraction, I was drawn to men. It’s wired in my DNA. Fighting those feelings would be like fighting the urge to drink water when I’m dehydrated. I can’t accept that the God I believe in wants that. Homosexuals are born. We’re not recruited, or converted, and we don’t make a choice. We exist as homosexuals from birth; trying to understand our feelings as we hit puberty in a society that often tells us we are not normal. If it’s not normal for homosexuals to be born homosexual, then why does God allow us to keep being born?

I refuse to believe I was born with a disadvantage; expected every day to fight against my same-sex attraction in order to please God. This expectation that I should fight my attraction to men comes from members of society who fear what they don’t understand. I’ve never once thought I should be disappointed in God for making me gay. I've questioned it, yes, but I haven't been disappointed, and I don’t think God is disappointed in me. I also don’t think I’m living in open rebellion to him. God is the higher power with understanding beyond that of the human mind. 

Heterosexuals are not the chosen few who get to participate in and enjoy a sex life. We gay men are not supposed to be sitting alone in a corner somewhere crying, wishing we could be dancing with the hot guy sitting across from us. We’re supposed to be dancing with him. 

Every gay person who continues to come out and live their lives, regardless of the threat of discrimination, hate speech, family rejection, and condemnation based on religious laws, is braver than anyone who will quote the Bible as their reason for stating another person’s life is wrong. We’re supposed to love our neighbor as we love ourselves and loving ourselves starts with accepting ourselves. If that includes being gay, then we have to strive to be true to ourselves, love ourselves, live our lives, and love who we love.

Thank you, Jason Collins for being another man to show us that living our lives in our truth is important; you’re an inspiration. And thank you, Mr. Broussard for showing us, once again, the hypocritical side of many of today’s Christians. 

Coming Out as a 'Side.' Guilt Free.

This piece appears on HuffPost Gay Voices

Have you heard the one about the teapot? He sings, “I’m a little teapot short and stout. Here is my handle. Here is my...” He looks to the place where there should be a spout, but there’s another handle. Over and over he repeats his song until finally he gives up saying, “Damn it. I’m a sugar bowl.”

At some point the little sugar bowl convinced himself he should be one thing when actually he is another. Why am I talking about teapots and sugar bowls, you ask? It’s a metaphor for those pesky “top,” “bottom,” “versatile” labels we gays like to put on ourselves and others. We’re not always what we think we are; or the way other people see us and expect us to be.  

I recently read an article by Dr. Joe Kort in The Huffington Post titled “Guys on the ‘Side’: Looking Beyond Gay Tops and Bottoms.” I found it both interesting and enlightening. Dr. Kort defines a “side” as someone who prefers, “to kiss, hug and engage in oral sex, rimming, mutual masturbation...practically every sexual practice aside from anal penetrations of any kind.” I love the idea of a side. I’m totally a side.  

Full disclosure: I've had anal sex as both a top and a bottom. It’s fine. I’ve enjoyed both positions at various times, but I don’t love either. I know men who do, and that’s great for them. But what’s best for me is being relaxed with the other person and comfortable with what we’re doing. I know I'm not the only gay man who enjoys using his mouth, his tongue, and sensual touch. There's more than just pitching and catching. There's connecting in a way that can often be more intimate than the actual act of anal sex. Why do you think Julia Roberts’ character in Pretty Woman didn’t kiss? It’s more intimate than intercourse.

I found myself in a friends-with-benefits situation once that lasted for about four years. I was the top. Things were great until they weren't. It was empty. The sex--both anal and oral--left me dissatisfied. Sure I got my rocks off, but he wouldn't even kiss me. It wasn't fulfilling. I like to kiss. I need to kiss. For me, it’s sensual and erotic.

Seriously. I may watch--and get off to--a power bottom taking it balls deep in a porno, wishing in my fantasy life that I was him. (I watch too much porn.) But in reality, I’m more confident being a side. People have always tried to label me as a bottom. Maybe I am. I’ve been known to wish aloud that I could let my inner bottom out. But I’m skittish about the pain and paranoid about not being clean enough. And you know what? I’m the one who has to be okay with my choices, likes, and dislikes. Not identifying as a top, bottom, or versatile doesn’t make me less attracted to men, less of a sexual being, or less of a gay man. And it doesn’t have to make my sex life less exciting either. I’ve been punishing myself for years for not being what I’ve been convinced I was supposed to be when in reality all I needed to be was content being who I am. 

What I continue to recognize in my own life is the struggle I have with caring what other people think e.g. will this guy leave my house disappointed if I only kiss, suck, rim, touch, etc. It’s time for me to get over that bullshit! Trusting someone enough to put a part of his body inside mine or vice versa is not something I’m apt to do with a stranger, and there’s nothing wrong with that. So until I meet someone who makes me feel comfortable enough to go there, I’m going to stick with what I am comfortable doing. Judgements be damned.

The sugar bowl is just as necessary as the teapot to the entire tea service and is no less important than the saucer of lemon or creamer. They all fit together in one way or another. One just has to find the right combination. It takes all kinds of us--top, bottom, versatile, and side.  

I’m embracing my sideness. I’m a sugar bowl, damn it! At least for now.

Religion and Politics: A Combustible Concoction

This piece also appears on Huffington Post Religion.

In the 80s, I remember my preacher at the time warning the congregation of Madalyn Murray O’Hair and her attempt to get all references to God removed from public schools. I remember the word atheist being bandied about, as in “Madalyn Murray O’Hair is an atheist, pass it on.” What that told me was she didn’t believe in God, and not believing in God was a ticket straight to Hell. I remember us as a congregation praying she wouldn’t succeed in her quest. I was a child: naive about compromise, unquestioning the reasons, simply following along. That makes sense to me even as I think about it now. The pastor of the church is the Shepard and the congregation is the flock of sheep. We listened to our leader, and did what he said. People still do it to this day.  

I’m not suggesting that I agree with what Ms. O’Hair wanted. My normal is saying, “One nation under God” in the Pledge of Allegiance and seeing “In God We Trust” on my money. That’s because I believe in God; the Christian God. What I am suggesting is that no one should be made to pray to or believe in a deity that is different from their actual beliefs. This creates a sticky situation in our politically correct times of trying to please everyone. We’ll never be able to do that. 

America is a country founded on freedom. That includes religious freedom--freedom of religion and freedom from religion. That means we all have the right to believe or not believe if we so choose. Why then is the line separating Church and State increasingly blurred? When I read of the proposed bill to create a state religion in North Carolina I was momentarily speechless. But only momentarily. The idea of declaring a state or national religion has been churning in my brain almost every day since.

The reason for the drafting of that bill was to address a lawsuit filed by the ACLU in North Carolina’s Rowan County. The lawsuit was filed against the county commission to attempt to block the commission from starting its meetings with a Christian prayer. The key word here is Christian. Maybe it doesn’t seem like that big of a deal, but what if you serve on the commission and you’re Muslim, Jewish, or Atheist? You don’t believe in the Christian God? Should you be subjected to that prayer? It’s an honest question. Should a verbal prayer be removed from the beginning of the meeting, perhaps replaced with a moment of silent prayer? Should the prayer be removed altogether? What if that prayer made those non Christians on the commission uncomfortable? Does that matter to anyone?

The bill was killed in the North Carolina House of Representatives. That’s good news for a country with such a diverse religious canvas. One religion should never be chosen as superior above all others.

The Establishment Clause followed by the Free Exercise Clause that appear in the First Amendment to the United States Constitution states: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof...” 

Believing in God is a personal choice. One should be able to display it or not. Much the same as there are people who don’t feel comfortable with public displays of affection, there are people who don’t feel comfortable participating in public displays of religious beliefs. 

Everyone knows that religion and politics are two topics to avoid discussing at a dinner party. If you want to clear the room, ask a question involving one of them. You’ll either have a heated discussion on your hands followed by storm-outs or you’ll have a quiet exodus of those who suddenly have somewhere else to be. Either way, you’ll be left to clear the half empty wine glasses to the kitchen. 

Just because people don’t want to talk about it doesn’t mean they don’t believe in God or a higher power. It means that it is a personal choice and something they honor in private. And before you start asking how I can profess to believe in God and not stand behind a national religion I’ll tell you: I’m trying to put myself in someone else’s shoes. I’m trying to imagine how I would feel if I didn’t follow the beliefs of the proposed religion of Christianity. I’m trying to live in the gray area instead of the black and white of “my way or the highway.” Some days I feel this country is so divided that we’ve forgotten compromise is more than a word. It’s an action. I’m guilty of it myself.

As a gay man who finds many organized religions less than welcoming to my community, I question what a national religion would change in our country; how a national religion would redefine the already thinning line separating Church and State. I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. I also know that those who oppose my views may criticize me as too liberal or too far left; possibly even morally bankrupt because I’m a gay man. To each his own. My relationship with God is mine and as Matthew 7:1 says, “Do not judge, or you too will be judged.”

We have the privilege of choice here in America. We don’t have to follow any one dogma or doctrine, and politics has no business in the middle of it. 

Oh, the Addictive Powers of Those Pretty Little Liars

This piece originally appeared on Huffington Post Entertainment

If you’re a TV junkie like I am then you live for good television A series that entertains, challenges, and whets your appetite for more as each episode ends. I love a densely woven serial like Lost or a juicy prime time soap opera like Revenge or the revived continuation of Dallas. That said, almost every part of me feels I should hang my head in shame at this confession. I’ve got a new addiction, and I can’t seem to feed it enough. My name is Michael, and I’m addicted to Pretty Little Liars. I have fallen under its spell completely.

It’s a whodunit story that reminds me of the first season of Desperate Housewives crossed with the texting, fashion, and snark of Gossip Girl splashed with a smattering of Twin Peaks; a teen-bent soap opera filled with secrets, forbidden love, and teen angst. It brims with beautiful girls wearing beautiful clothes and hot guys who find themselves shirtless--if you're lucky. It's also a creep-fest filled with shadow lurkers and dark, stormy nights. Who you can trust is constantly changing, but betrayal is always on the agenda. The cliffhanger is alive and well and perfectly executed at the end of each episode.

On a recent trip to Boston, I found myself with a free afternoon. Flipping through the channels, I discovered a marathon of PLL airing on ABC Family. I decided to watch. That decision proved to be one that would hook me and reel me in. When I returned home from that trip I promptly bought seasons one and two. I devoured them. I’ve been eating, drinking, breathing the goings on in Rosewood, Pennsylvania. The backlog of ignored recordings on my DVR stretches back four weeks.

On the outside the fictional town of Rosewood looks exactly how you might expect a quaint Pennsylvania town to look--white painted churches, manicured lawns, pristine town square. But under the cover of darkness, the shadow of secrecy seems to be twisting its tendrils deeper into this town, entwining the residents in an endless search for a murderer. The victim, poor little mean girl, Alison DiLaurentis. It seems many had a grudge against her, but the finger-pointing to her killer is in constant flux. Aria Montgomery, Spencer Hastings, Hanna Marin, and Emily Fields are the friends Alison left behind; the girls most devastated by her death, and the ones working overtime as amateur sleuths to solve the crime.

The secrets extend farther to include more than the ones surrounding Alison’s murder. Each family has secrets--each girl has secrets--and the mysterious “A” knows them all. Does God have a rival in the omnipresent department? We all have secrets, but in Rosewood the secrets are under constant threat of exposure and always seem to get revealed.

I admit the conclusions reached by the Liars can often be predictable, but let’s face it, the girls are in high school, (albeit unlike any I went to high school with) and they’re quick to assume the wrong answer. We all know what they say about people who assume. I’ve had many an eye roll moment as I watched them get it wrong time and again. The plot twists, however, are consistently surprising. Honestly, the show is a lot of fun. As the series progresses the dialogue gets sharper, the one-liners funnier. If you give it a chance you might find yourself thoroughly entertained. And that’s what it’s all about isn’t it, entertainment? Don’t give up on it. Embrace it as a guilty pleasure. Just get ready for the withdrawals because when you have no new episodes to watch, waiting is an itch for which there’s no fix.

Stop hiding in the shadows PLL junkies. Somebody out there probably knows you’re watching anyway. As the theme song says, “Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.” -A