Participer à La Royale

It was basically a diner, La Royale. The sign said café, but it reminded me of a diner in NYC. The menu layout, the offerings, the tables. One difference was the active bar. That’s not necessarily like an NYC diner. Basically…well, you get the picture. My first meal in Paris was in a diner that offered entrée and dessert specials and called itself a café. I think it was the comfort of familiarity in an unfamiliar place.

There were a few things that troubled me as I prepared for this trip: 1) Would my debit card work to withdraw Euro’s from an ATM? (It did). 2) Would I be able to navigate myself from my hotel to where ever “there” was during the day then back to the hotel again? (so far so good, but the Metro will be the real test). 3) Would I have any problems dining? 

I know that may sound silly -- maybe even absurd -- but as I wandered around my temporary neighborhood, The Marais, today, salivating at times at the thought of bellying up to a bar to enjoy a glass of vin rouge or sitting outside in the crisp, jacket-wearing-weather air at a café table and enjoying a café crème, I passed them all and walked my timid, lily-livered self around and around the winding blocks of a small vicinity in Paris. Looking. Observing. Breathing. Smiling. Finally with hunger and thirst gnawing at my stomach and throat I made the decision to take myself inside La Royale and sit down. I'm trying to speak the language, what little of it I possess (Bonjour, Merci, Oui, S'il vous plaît, Au revior, etc.) — pleasantries — but I have yet to relax and proceed with speaking the French niceties without fear of ridicule or mockery. I mean really, I'm not French so why am I so worried. The point is I find it exciting to speak pleasantries in French. There's no reason I should let my own insecurities stand in my way of meeting new people...or eating. 

I observed myself as I ate. Almost like I had moments of out-of-body-ness where I actually saw myself. Timid, reserved, not wanting to draw attention to myself. I was a far cry from the girl sitting outside with her boyfriend laughing, drinking red wine, smoking a cigarette, and checking herself out in her reflection every chance she got. She was a French speaking Parisian girl without the appearance of care or concern and she was putting me to shame with her abundance of pleasure while I sat my reserved ass in a café chair and tried to remember how I was supposed to eat according to the guidebooks instead of just relaxing and being me…in Paris.

This is the only picture I've taken so far in Paris, but it looks like quintessential Paris to me. 

I’m telling you, people, I have a long way to go to get to the place of not appropriating the ideals that I think others want me to appropriate and of not caring what other people think. As long as I’m kind and courteous, I should just be me. I should demand it of myself. This is my trip to Paris and being afraid of a language barrier (that I’ve yet to encounter) or of looking like a tourist (I AM ONE) is not going to cut it. 

I can’t be anyone else but me and the sooner I realize that the better this trip will be.

BTW, I recommend the white fish in tomato sauce at La Royale. Also, the Chardonnay. It was dry and worked beautifully with the fish. Upon leaving the café I said "Bon soir" (good evening). A French customer of saying goodbye when you leave the business much like saying Bonjour or Bon soir (depending on time of day) when you enter. Participation can be fun.

Voler à Paris

There was no more leg room on this flight than on a typical domestic flight. There was, however, a television on the seat back in front of me. Bonus. Movies! I've only experienced that one time before. When I flew JetBlue to Nashville, Tennessee one Thanksgiving to surprise my family before their feast of turkey and dressing. I watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade then entire flight.

The aisles on this massive plane weren't wide. The seats weren't any wider than any other flight I've been on before either. I wasn't exactly cramped in my seat, but I want exactly spreading out either. The man next to me in his Seersucker suit, although not a fat man, and actually very kind, could be considered "spreading out" as he took up both arm rests at various times during the flight. But I digress.

The airplane, a Boeing 777-200ER operated by Air France, was the largest plane I've ever been on. I know from domestic-sized planes, and I know from small planes — those 25-32 seat puddle jumpers connecting from Memphis (formerly) or Chicago to Paducah. It's quite a different experience to be on a plane that seats more than 300 people. A small city soaring through the air, across an ocean. In my section of Economy there were three seats then four seats then three more seats dissected by a couple of aisles. A, B, C (aisle) E, F, G, H (aisle) J, K, L. I've never had that many letters across. 

The announcements were made in French then English with flight attendants representing Dutch, French, and Italian descents. If there was an American he/she was well hidden. 

The people around me all spoke French. Even the small child two seats away. Are they returning home from holiday in America? Are they going on holiday to visit family in the France? Maybe they're just bilingual and choosing to practice the language for a holiday, like mine, in Paris. I'm in the minority here. 

The lights dim in the cabin. It's slow like the romantic dimming of a chandelier but not nearly as sexy sitting in a plane full of people. 

I want to watch a movie. Cinderella to be exact. Or maybe Insurgent. Two movies I never saw when they were playing in the movie theatre. I also want to fall asleep or order a glass of wine. As we taxi I want us to be in the air already. I want us to be halfway there by now. We're not. The wheels have yet to lift off and I still lack patience after all these years. 

It's about the journey: the take off, the flight, the landing, the arrival, the breathing and existing in the French air. These are all things that are part of the journey. The journey is to be savored; enjoyed. Not rushed. I've read about the Parisians. They don't rush. They savor. They sip. They sit. They enjoy. 

With wheels in the air I sat back to enjoy the flight and anticipate the fragrance of the Parisian air.

I chose Cinderella. "Have courage and be kind," Cinderella's mother said to her. Courage and a bit of friendly persuasion is what it took for me to make this journey. Now to find the patience to savor and courage to enjoy my brief respite in France before if becomes a memory.

Départ pour Paris

It still feels unreal. Even as I sit in terminal 1 in JFK airport at gate 3 amidst all the people who will be on my flight. I am flying to Paris. It's already Monday there. But for me Sunday night will give way to Monday morning in a matter of hours and I will be on the ground in France before 1pm (CEST).

This trip has been a long time in the dreaming and wishing but a short time in the reality of its actualization. Almost two weeks ago to the hour of departure I booked the trip. And now the time is here. That didn't give me too much time to anticipate, but enough time for the emotions of fear and excitement to duke it out for the top spot in my chest and in the pit of my stomach. 

I still can't believe this is happening. I can't believe I booked the trip. I can't believe I'm going to Paris. I can't believe I'm going to Paris...alone. These are the thoughts that run through my head as the Air France attendant begins pre-boarding my flight with infants and the rest who get to pre-board. 

A sense of peace washes over me...occasionally. This is happening. When the sun rises in America tomorrow I will be in France, probably in a car on my way to my hotel. 

Bonjour!

The Republican Presidential Pageant...er...Debate

As I waited for the pageant to begin I couldn't help but be surprised by how many people were in attendance. The Quicken Loans Arena in Cleveland, Ohio was packed with a cheering crowd that became even more rapturous in their applause and vocalizing as the contestants finally made their way to the stage. Ten men ranging in age from 44 - 69. Wait? What kind of pageant is this? Then I remembered what I was actually watching was the Republican Presidential debate on Fox News Channel and the only beautifully coiffed female on screen was Megyn Kelly. 

As the contestants started to answer questions posed by the moderators I quickly felt I was watching a debate between junior high schoolers who happened to be using big words to rile the crowd. However, these school boys didn't always answer the questions posed to them. Like beauty queens vying for the top prize, these male counterparts had their agendas and their talking points. And they tried to work them in in a roundabout way, pushing that square peg answer into that round hole question, all the while continuing to smile at the moderators and in some cases wink at the crowd.

Below are some things I took away from the torturous two hours that I didn’t want but knew I had to sit through:

Donald Trump thinks we're too politically correct in this country. I'm not sure I disagree with him. But he's cocky; an instigator. He seems to take pleasure in being politically incorrect and by the sounds of the cheering crowd he had them eating out of the palm of his hand. Sadly, I was afraid he was feeding them his own special brand of candy and that led me to wonder: With him in charge might the inmates truly be running the asylum. As the debate wore on, the cheering in respect to his comments and outbursts diminished giving me hope that many fingers had been put down many throats and that small piles of candy-colored vomit were beginning to soak into the carpet.

Scott Walker often looked like he was deigning to be a contestant. One had to get past his condescending facial expressions before his answers and comments could even begin to be heard. 

He said that God hasn’t given him a list, a 10 Commandments if you will, to enact on his first day should he be elected President, but he says that God wants us to follow his will and that’s what he’s going to try to do. That separation of Church and State line continues to get thinner and thinner with this Party.

Mike Huckabee erased the line between Church and State by calling for our country to recognize that the Supreme Court is NOT the Supreme Being and that the 5th and 14th Amendments should be used effectively to protect a child at the moment of conception. He's pro-life, and that's his prerogative, but his beliefs should not be thrust upon the women of this country who do not believe as he does.  It’s their bodies after all, should’t it be their choice?

When asked how he would handle transgender people serving openly in the military he responded, “The military is not a social experiment. The purpose of the military is to kill people and break things.” (The crowd cheers) “It’s not to transform the culture by trying out some ideas that some people think would make us a different country and more diverse. The purpose is to protect America.” So, Mr. Huckabee, are you saying that transgendered people can’t kill people, break things, and protect America like any other person serving in the military? He then spoke of how the military has been reduced under President Obama and how we should be able to help where ever the help is needed and then talked about the age of and number of B-52’s we currently have that are combat ready. Because that’s on trans topic.

I’m pretty sure he didn’t answer the question of what he would do as Commander-in-Chief re transgender military personnel, but from his body language and the light-in-the-loafers tone he took when talking about ‘transforming the culture’ and ‘making us more diverse’ one could tell he is adamantly opposed to transgender people serving in the military.

Ben Carson thinks that we should change our taxation plan in this country by using the biblical blueprint of tithing. Each person pays 10% of their earnings no matter what those earning are. 

He’s no fan of Hillary. 

He made a smart point of saying as a neurosurgeon he operates on the thing that makes people who they are—their brain. He went on to say it’s not their skin color or their hair that makes them who they are and, “It’s time for us to move beyond that because our strength as a nation comes in our unity. We are the United States of America not the Divided States of America.” Smart point, but not going to be President.

Jeb Bush, as much as I hate to say it, gave some pretty decent answers. Of course, I don’t want another Bush in office even if he does look more like Barbara than George H. W.  

I’m unsure why he thinks President Obama doesn’t give people hope.

Ted Cruz is a President Obama hater and thinks new leadership is needed. He is especially disappointed in the Obama Administration’s Foreign Policy. 

He is for religious liberty and against Planned Parenthood. There goes the gay and female vote. Not that he was every going to get either anyway.

His final statement began like this, “If I am elected President lemme tell ya about my first day in office. The first thing I intend to do is to rescind every illegal and unconstitutional executive action taken by Barack Obama.” (The crowd cheers) 

Marco Rubio says God has blessed the Republican Party with some very good candidates and that the Democratic Party can’t even find one. (The crowd cheers). 

Wow. I’m pretty sure I saw President Obama singing Amazing Grace at a funeral recently. We may have different ideas about how God works. I mean, just because he doesn’t do it like you think it will be done doesn’t mean he hasn’t blessed us.

Chris Christie thinks we need to start working on rebuilding our military immediately sending a clear message to the world that we’re a strong country. 

Rand Paul doesn’t want his guns or his marriage registered in Washington. He said, “When the government tries to invade the church to enforce its own opinion on marriage, that’s when it’s time to resist.” Yet I’m left to wonder why so many of these would be leaders so quickly bring God’s word or God into the conversation, when God’s word and God should have nothing to do with government. 

If the government should stay out of the church, as Mr. Paul suggests, then the church, religion, God should stay out of government. You can’t have it both ways.

John Kasich was a misappropriation of a podium. He’s a nice man who’s done a lot for the state of Ohio. He believes in traditional marriage. He says he’s old fashioned. But he also believes the simple fact of the matter is to give everyone a chance. If one of his daughters happened to be a lesbian he would love her and support her. He believe’s the Lord wants America to lead and to succeed. Nothing’s more important to him than his family, his faith, and his friends. Chris Christie or Rand Paul would get the nomination before this kind, grandfatherly type man.

Many of these contestants mentioned President Ronald Reagan in their answers, comments, or rebuttals. I was 17 when Ronald Reagan left office. I wasn’t very politically inclined back then. What I do know about him as a gay man doesn’t make me look at him as such a wonderful leader or political role model.

When the contestants began to talk directly to each other the claws came out. I half expected someone to throw off his heels, ask his trying-to-stay-poised neighbor to hold his earrings, and take out his bumpit. 

I can’t imagine what it must be like to be the President of the United States. I can’t imagine the pressure and stress of leading a country. I think it’s easy to stand behind a podium and point out what one thinks is wrong with the Obama Administration or what’s wrong with Hillary Clinton. But until any of these men happen to have the title of POTUS, no one, including themselves, knows what they will do or be able to accomplish with that power. Personally, I can’t imagine any of them being my President.

Root & Bone NYC

In the summertime the kitchen is the last place you want to be, right? It's hot in there. And that heat can be oppressive. Your hair sticks to the back of your neck. Sweat trickles down the center of your back. You need a separate dish towel just to wipe your forehead and the back of your neck...over and over. You can fan yourself but all that does is circulate the warm air.

Now pretend that kitchen is grandma's. Same summertime heat. It's steamy; made even more humid by the mixing of vapor rising from the pots on the stove and the heated oven where biscuits are baking at 350°. Lawdy mercy it's hot in there. But the swelter that comes from that kitchen is somehow comforting.

The kitchen is the center of the house; the hub. There's a flurry of activity--from checking the pans on the stove, to cutting up the garden fresh vegetables, to gossiping about the latest goings on about town. There's a sense of being part of something and you never know what stories you might hear. And then there're the smells. They make your mouth water in anticipation. As for the heat, well it's nothing a glass of ice cold lavender lemonade can't squelch. Or if you're feeling more spiritedly adventurous, try a Sweet Grass Gin with honey green grape & field greens. Ice cold of course.

That's just what my companion, Mandy, and I did on a recent evening. Mandy and I have dinner together every week. We both write and we use these weekly get togethers to read whatever's new that the other is working on or to catch up on the week. We often like to get out of our neighborhood rut and try something new. Twice a year over 300 restaurants participate in what is known as Restaurant Week. It's an affordable way to eat at what might otherwise be an unaffordable restaurant. Us taking advantage of our desire to find a new neighborhood and experience a new restaurant is what led us to pay our first visit to Root & Bone on Avenue B and 3rd Street in NYC's Alphabet City.

The place is small; the heat and the kitchen equally felt and on display. Don't let any of these things deter you. When you're sitting at your table, or at one of the bars, you might feel like you're at a family reunion. Everyone is sitting closely next to everyone else and all the conversations are happening at once creating a sound that, while less pleasant than a cicada symphony, is much more harmonious than traffic sounds and car horns.

Root & Bone has a menu of easygoing southern food dressed up with city personality. It knows where it comes from but it fits right in with the tastemakers and foodies of NYC.

In the south the evening meal of the day is called supper and that's exactly what Root & Bone calls what many New Yorker's call dinner.

1st course
From the Restaurant Week prefix menu I chose for my first course: Grandma Daisy's Angel Biscuits. Two small homemade biscuits served on a small wooden cutting board with a bowl of honey roasted chicken jus. Jus is just a fancy way of saying juice or gravy. There was a sprig of thyme and small mound of benne seeds and sea salt. For full effect the biscuit should be dipped in the jus then dipped in the sea salt and seeds then savored for all the unadulterated flavor that floods your taste buds.

Main course - Supper
Braised Short Rib Meat Loaf. This is not your grandma's meat loaf. In fact this meat loaf was like no other meat loaf I've ever eaten. For one thing it was texturally not what one would expect of meat loaf.  Meat loaf that is made from ground beef, ground turkey, ground pork, etc., all kind of looks the same. Like it's made from ground meat. This meat loaf had the structure of rib meat that you would eat off the rib. It wasn't ground. The tomato jam and mashed roots that decorated and paired with this meat loaf by design accentuated the flavor. The accompanying green beans and broccoli were seasoned to southern perfection.

Dessert
This is where I wanted to lose all my manners and decorum and lick the tin pan. I ordered strawberry shortcake. I was hoping that it would be made with a biscuit instead of the sponge cake I grew up calling strawberry shortcake. I was not disappointed. The biscuit was similar in size to one of Grandma Daisy's Angel Biscuits. This biscuit however was so much more. The bottom half was sitting in strawberry juice and topped with whipped cream and fresh strawberries. The top of the biscuit crowned the berries and cream. The 'so much more' of this biscuit was the sea salt that topped it. Salty and sweet like I'd never tasted it before. I'm aware of the chocolate and popcorn type of salty sweet, but this was so much unexpected goodness that I seriously was sad to take the last bite and made myself put my napkin in the tin pan to prevent myself from lapping the juice up like a dog.

At the end of supper I met chef Jeff McInnes. I'd had the pleasure of watching him work all evening--standing on the sidelines calling out orders, making sure things moved along. He mopped his brow in the heat. I told you that separate dish towel would come in handy. I watched as he mingled with his patrons--inquiring about their meals, making sure they knew exactly how to eat Grandma Daisy's Angel Biscuits. He seemed to have grace under pressure (some people thrive on that pressure) and was kind on top of that. In my observation, he genuinely wanted his guests to enjoy their experience. 

"How was everything?" he asked me.

He's a creative artist, after all, and like other creative artists who infuse there work with a part of their soul--a painter in his brush strokes, a writer in his narrative, a dancer in his dance--there's a part of a his soul in his recipes. Don’t we all want our supporters to enjoy our art?

My response, "So good. Oh my God!"

I know that’s true of everything I write. I want each piece to find its audience: those people who identify with, or laugh at, or cry over the tale. But even when I prepare a dish of food that might be new to its consumer, I desire to please them. I hope they love it as much as I do. There’s a sense of pride in blending the spices and marrying the flavors. From discerning palettes to non, one wants to thrill the tastebuds and excite the senses.

"I'll take that 'Oh my God,'" he smiled.

As we continued to chat beyond my exaltations of the meal, I learned that Jeff is from Alabama. I told him I'm from Kentucky. He was very personable. I told him that I'd been in the City for 18 years and that it's always nice to find a restaurant that offers southern cooking with a twist.

The oh-my-God summed it all up. The food was amazing. The atmosphere may have been hot, the ambient noise more foreground that back, but none of that mattered. The experience at Root & Bone is one that I would gladly repeat. As for the heat, maybe the air conditioner was out. Or maybe it's all just part of the experience. Regardless, I would go back in a heartbeat. Only next time I would hope to greet Jeff as less of a stranger and more of an acquaintance after all I've met him now and as Will Rogers said, "A stranger is just a friend I haven't met yet." 

Ruby: The IT Girl of Fire Island

I had to laugh. I mean it was the biggest joke, right?

I’m a 40-something, single gay man who, for 4 years now, has rented a cottage on Fire Island in Cherry Grove for a week. I take myself on vacation. For many gay men those stats (GWM, single, 40s, non-share rental) might lead to nights of debauchery and the kissing of strangers in the privacy of his rental. (That’s not really my M.O., but still.) This season’s trip, however, (and here’s the joke), I was to be joined by a baby. Every man needs the right accessory.

Some things have changed since I first started vacationing on Fire Island. The previous three years, I’ve asked my two best friends if they could to join me for a day (or two), the weekend, a beer, or a frolic on the beach. Neither have taken me up on the offer. It's understandable. One lives in Boston, so getting to Fire Island is not the easiest commute for him. The other is self-employed and loses money if he's not working. I've always understood their inability to join me. That said, I didn't ask either of them this year. You might say I've gotten accustomed to their answer and just didn't want to put myself through the disappointment of the declination of the offer.

Here’s what changed. The self-employed bestie has become a father. He asked me what my dates were for this season. Then miracle of miracles asked if he, his partner (girlfriend?), and their baby, Ruby, could join me for a day. I was overjoyed. Seriously. Then I started making my joke.

I began to tell my friends, “I'm going to Fire Island with a baby this year.”

Everybody, including me, laughed. And why not, it’s funny. Fire Island does not evoke the image of a single gay man and a baby. It evokes the image, for me at least, of scantily clad men on the beach, sun-drenched bodies lying on beach towels, drag queens performing in the bars, hosting bingo, entertaining you while you drink. It evokes images of porn stars stripping then fucking in a bar that’s so packed with men standing around (huddled actually) watching, that one can’t see the action if he’s too short or too far from the stage. Where in any of these scenarios does a baby fit into the life of a single gay man on Fire Island? 

She fits in pretty well with someone who actually goes to Fire Island and spends most of his time observing rather than participating. 

The fact is, none of my friend-set are as young as we used to be. Sure 40-something is not old, but we're not 20-somethings. We're not heavy drinkers, or partiers, or drag show attenders that stay for the after party. We're bourbon sippers and red wine drinkers. Sometimes we enjoy a gin martini (instead of vodka) just for the throw-back vintage feel of it. We're card players and sit-around-the-living-room talkers. It makes sense that my friends and I would be a little more settled even if that includes one of them being a first time father, which is about as far from settled as you can get.

I am not one to run around with my dick out while I'm on Fire Island. Don't get me wrong, I've spent many a day sitting around nude on the beach. I've walked my naked body to the water and enjoyed its polar-till-you're-used-to-it chill. I've thrilled as the waves nearly knocked me over, then walked my shrunken-by-the-cold-water manhood back to my towel to dry off and warm up in the sun. I've had day drinks and hook ups. I’ve flirted and been cruised. But I've never been accompanied on these sacred shores of gay frivolity and hedonism by a baby. And yet I was excited when Friday arrived. I went into “town” to meet the 1:50pm ferry and watched as they disembarked—my best friend, his girlfriend, and the Ruby of my eye.

It was so good to see them. This was the first trip to Fire Island for all three. What I remember most about greeting them was that all the shirtless boys and their dogs, all the lesbians and gay men, all the other families that were disembarking that ferry faded away when I hugged and kissed them and received my first smile of the day from Ruby.

When you have a 4-month old to attend to she goes everywhere with you. No one left behind takes on a new meaning on Fire Island (i.e. no one stays at home). If we went out to dinner and drinks, we all went out to dinner and drinks. If we went to the beach, we all went to the beach. Ruby did not see her first drag show, but she did attend her first tea dance.

Yes, you read that right. On Saturday we made our way to Fire Island Pines. I don’t much enjoy the Pines to be honest. In my 3 previous summers of vacationing on Fire Island I’ve been to the Pines twice. Both times I couldn’t get back to Cherry Grove fast enough. The energy is different. The best way I can describe it is: in Cherry Grove almost everyone you meet says “hello” or “good morning.” In the Pines that kind of pleasantry, openness, friendliness is not on display. On my previous two trips I felt like an outsider among my own kind. But I digress. My guests wanted to see the Pines so I sucked it up and took them there. And wouldn’t you know this year I got cruised by more men than ever. I wasn’t holding the baby (she was in her daddy’s arms), but I wondered if she was like the cute dog that garners so many cute men the attention of other cute men. Ruby might have been my good luck charm by sheer proximity. At one point (during their stay but not on this trip to the Pines) I made the joke of wondering if people thought Matt and I were a couple and Michelle was our surrogate. Nah. I’m going to chalk it up to the sexy white beard and the leaner body…the blue eyes and the willingness to smile back. This trip to the Pines was proving to be worth the walk down the beach.

After pretending I knew where I was going and leading us in the wrong direction I sucked it up once again and asked a couple of guys directions toward the Pavilion.

Once there we meandered around the marina, went into a shop then an art gallery. Then the decision was made to have a drink. Remember, no one left behind. With Ruby in tow we made our way to the Blue Whale.

There was that moment when I thought everyone around us might either be judging us for bringing a baby to the outdoor bar or secretly begrudging us for the mere presence of the baby. It seems I was the one with the insecurity and the fear. These thoughts were all in my head and no one seemed to really care. Yes, people noticed Ruby, but not in a smirky-mouthed, these-people-with-their-baby-are-interlopers kind of way. More like an aww-look-at-the-cute-baby kind of way. Then Ruby found her groove. Madonna’s “Girl Gone Wild” began to thump across the sound system that filled the outdoor space with dance beats and Ruby found the rhythm. She immediately began to move her legs, lifting her knees high, kicking, bouncing joyfully. She did this, to comedic effect for all of us, through the entire song. She was one happy girl. There’s video to prove it. Just ask her mamaw.

Having finished our cocktails we decided it was time to head back to Cherry Grove. The outdoor deck of the Blue Whale was beginning to fill up. It was then that we realized we had just taken Ruby to her first Low Tea. 

Low Tea at the Blue Whale is a tea dance where one goes to see and be seen; to mingle and chat; to drink. It’s a gathering. Tea dances are usually held in the late afternoon and last for 3-4 hours. There’s typically a DJ and cocktail specials. It’s a chance to get together with your friends or meet new friends; to socialize. The tea dance is very much a part of gay culture especially in gay resort towns like Fire Island Pines and P-town. As we were departing the Pines, walking against the convergence of gay men flocking to tea, Ruby was the IT girl. She received more attention and garnered more endearments than the latest starlet to prove she’s not only beautiful, but a great actress too.

Ruby is too young to remember anything about her first trip to Fire Island. But I remember. I remember the dissipation of weirdness that I felt about having a baby with me on vacation. I remember the joy of spending time with my best friend, his girlfriend, and his daughter (his daughter!) I remember Ruby smiling, laughing, crying, dancing to Madonna. I remember watching as her daddy dipped her feet into the ocean for the first time. I remember after two days together Ruby suddenly starting to cry when she looked at me. (Insert catty remarks here.) I don’t know what that was about. Maybe she saw devil horns or a scary clown face. I remember us discussing how Ruby was going to grow up in a world where same-sex couples had the freedom to marry. How she would one day see in her history book the time prior to the SCOTUS decision and wonder what that must have been like. Ruby’s mommy and daddy won’t conceal from her that her guncle Michael is attracted to men. For her it won’t even matter because it will merely be something that is. She’ll go back to Fire Island one day and there won’t be a flinch or a question when she sees two boys or two girls holding hands or kissing. That will simply be life.

“Thanks for the memory…” Hope we do it again sometime.

I Am a User of Words, A Teller of Stories; A Writer

Those closest to me know that I find it difficult to call myself a writer. It feels false, fake...sacrilegious toward those who actually make their living as writers. There is evidence to the contrary however. On my own blog (you know of it if you're reading this) I write about my life--the exciting, the boring, the funny, the past, the present, the NSFW. On this same blog I've even published fiction. Some of it (both fiction and the non) goes over with a bang. Some of it fizzles. I keep writing. I have something to say. I am a user of words, a teller of stories.

There there's the more than two years worth of blog entries on my Huffington Post author page. That sounds weird to say out loud and looks even weirder in print--'my Huffington Post author page.' The truth is, it exists. Here's the link: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-rohrer/. Check it out if you haven't already. I've been published on HuffPost over 30 times. There's no pay from contributing to the blog on HuffPost, but it's a chance to get my opinion, my take on a subject, my life experience (good or bad, funny or sad) out there for others to read. And you know what, people actually connect. People can identify with me. People reach out to me either through the comments section or through Twitter. I am never more moved than when someone says to me that they feel exactly the same way and they're so glad someone put it into words.

There is strength in knowing that someone out there is feeling same way you do; is experiencing the same challenges in life. I've never pretended to myself or others that what I'm experiencing is unique to me, but there's such a sense of community when you find other people who've been there done that or are still there doing that.

Religion throws the most fuel on the fire when I write. I'm homosexual and have very strong feelings about my religious upbringing. In the two years that I've been submitting my story to HuffPost I've grown stronger as a person. I've found more courage to speak openly and unfiltered about my feelings regarding my religious past. Writing has provided me a way to work through some of my issues--confront them head on--that even talking to my therapist couldn't accomplish.

Yesterday I published a piece titled I Will Never Repent for Being Homosexual on Huffington Post. I struggled with the title of this piece. Much like I struggled with writing it. During the process of putting my thoughts and feelings into words I found myself unable to sleep twice. My thoughts, feelings, emotions, experiences continued to swirl through my brain. Even with the help of a sleeping pill I couldn't resist the pull of this piece. At 3am one morning I was awake thinking about my life and the piece. Thanks to the help of a few people who read the initial drafts I managed to craft a strong, passionate piece about being raised in a world where just being born homosexual was considered a sin. Thanks to the collaborative help of an editor at HuffPost I was able to give the piece a strong title.

The piece was published on the front page of Huffington Post. That's never happened to me before. Those are my words. That's my story. That's my opinion. I wrote that. It came from my childhood fear and my adult frustration.

This morning I took a moment to engage with those who had taken the time to comment on the piece.  I expected that the conservative religious right readers would be the ones commenting and condemning me, but what I found was people thanking me for putting there story into words, people supporting me, people telling me to be happy, love my neighbor and I'll be fine. For the first time in many posts, I engaged with my readers. I took the time to thank them, to write back to them, to show them my appreciation for supporting me. I even took the time to write back to those who, through carefully chosen words, suggested I continue to live in fear.

I'm still finding courage every day to live my life; to create the life that I want to live. But I'm tired of being afraid of other people's opinions and I'm tired of being afraid to give mine. As a writer I've been able to express myself more freely than I ever imagined. My gift is my ability to tell my story.

I am a writer.