Mr. C

As I was settling into the end of my Saturday, I was trying to find something to watch on TV. I've come to be a big fan of the Investigation Discovery (ID) channel; it's got lots of interesting programs about real-life crimes and how the bad guys (and gals) ALMOST always get caught in the end. It also has stories about people wrongly convicted of crimes, too. I really dig the titles of some of their regular series: I (Almost) Got Away With It, Who the (BLEEP) Did I Marry? (that's the REAL title, by the way! Also, in the commercials they had for this relatively new show, they actually used the wonderfully-gay John Waters--yes, he of Hairspray fame--as the preacher conducting the marriage ceremony...that always gave me laugh), Very Bad Men and (just to be fair, I suppose) Wicked Women.

Anyway, today I turned to ID and saw that they are running an episode titled, 48 Hours on ID: The Untold Story of Caylee Anthony, (this is a link to the promo commercial for this program, if you're interested) and I felt a familiar pit in my stomach.

I'm not sure how many of you are familiar with the story of 2-year-old Caylee Anthony and her mother, Casey Anthony, who is suspected of killing her daughter, tying her up and placing her into two garbage bags (I shudder to think why there were TWO garbage bags) and dumping her body in a swampy area east of Orlando. That's what this program is about.

I don't know how many of you are aware but I live in the Orlando suburb of Altamonte Springs. The pit in my stomach comes from remembering when the initial search for Caylee was going on. People from all over the central Florida area (and probably outside the state altogether) converged on Orlando to not only help search for Caylee, but to also hold protests at Caylee Anthony's maternal grandparents' home, where Casey was living at the time with Caylee. There was/is a feeding-frenzy about this sad story, and back in 2008, there was near-constant news coverage locally, nationally AND internationally, and--until Casey was arrested for her daughter's death--the home of the grandparents was Ground Zero. People who didn't even know the George and Cindy Anthony (Caylee's grandparents) would come right up into their yard and yell and curse them for what they saw as the grandparents' willingness to defend and protect their daughter, Casey. It was all so ugly, and surreal, and so very, very sad.

I'm not writing this post today because I know what happened or because I have any theories on who killed little Caylee or why (though I'm probably the ONLY one in the Orlando area who doesn't). I'm writing this because--as with so many things nowadays--I am reminded of the almost circus-type atmosphere that was created by the news of Caylee's death...and that STILL EXISTS TODAY (at least here in Orlando)! I know I may be in the minority, but I am so tired of watching and listening to people who are so sure they know what happened and how they can't wait til Casey is convicted and sent to fry in Florida's well-used electric chair.

I'm not saying that Casey is innocent...I truly don't know (all I DO know is that Casey didn't report Caylee's disappearance until a month after she disappeared...there may be a reason for the delay, I suppose, but I really haven't paid that much attention after what I saw in the beginning), but the biggest reason I DON'T have an opinion is that the whole Barnum & Bailey sideshow aspect of the death of this poor, sweet little girl has truly sickened me. Even though I also have no idea how or if the grandparents were involved in this at all, or covered any of it up to protect their daughter, Casey, I can't help but have my heart go out to George and Cindy Anthony. Every time I've seen them (which you can't avoid in Orlando, unless you've had your television and/or computer shut down for the past 3+ years), the grandparents were wearing their Caylee t-shirts, searching as hard as anyone to find the little girl (of course, while the search was still going on), doing interviews with any and every TV station and network who would listen, trying to get the story out about Caylee when they still thought she was alive.

George and Cindy have had their lives destroyed already with the loss of Caylee, and now they must endure the real possibility that their daughter may also be taken from them, and either jailed for life, or murdered by the Sunshine State, if Casey is found guilty...and don't ask me where they will EVER find an impartial jury to try Casey Anthony; that'll be an "interesting" process.

Aside from my abject sadness at the unbelievable cruelty perpetrated against this innocent little 2-year-old girl, and what I see as the sinful mistreatment of these grieving grandparents, I am just shocked at how many people are nearly drooling over the details of this sad saga. I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose, at the blood-thristy-ness of the masses in a titillating story like this, but I am. These disgusting voyeurs living for the next ugly fact or piece of evidence against Casey, because they've already convicted her in their own minds, just makes me shake my head and wonder about the condition of the human race, and then I remember all those people from all over the state (and even from other states and countries--Orlando, as you know, being home to Disney World, has tons of international tourists, some of whom took time from their vacations) to help find this little lost child, hoping and praying in many, many languages asking God to bring Caylee home. To me, that is the most inspiring part of this whole drawn-out tragedy.

I pray that it's not the freakshow atmosphere surrounding Caylee's untimely demise that lingers in our minds and in our hearts, when we look back at this heartbreaking episode, but, instead, that one moment of coming-together of all kinds of people from all kinds of places who may not have known one another or even have spoken the same language, but who all share those most honorable of human traits: compassion and love for a fellow human being.

As for the many prayers said for Caylee, I have no doubt they've been answered: Caylee's home now.

I have been sort of stuck at home the past couple of weeks recuperating from my first-ever bout with acute viral bronchitis (which, as you may know personally, is NO fun...NO FUN AT ALL!).

I take 3 prescription medications on a regular basis, but for the past couple of weeks, I've had FOUR MORE prescriptions to take to help fight the bronchitis. Since 3 + 4 = 7, as you can imagine, I've been busy (legally) pill-popping left and right! The prodigious pile of prescription pills may have helped improve my health, but paying for all those meds has left my poor bank account with a painful case of anemia...but nothing that 40 or so hours of overtime at work can't cure! :-/

Anyway, because one of the effects of bronchitis (for me, anyway) has been lethargy, I tried keeping myself busy. Of all the things I have talked/written about here, I don't think I've ever mentioned that I am a Microsoft Excel fan (I know, it's an odd thing to be a fan of), and I love building charts and tables and figuring out formula using Excel. Now, I've never had any formal training in Excel, so you can call me a self-taught dude where that subject is concerned.

I don't know what brought this to my mind (except boredom), but I started thinking about the 2000 U.S. Census that was the first (and ONLY, as far as I know) that asked about married AND unmarried couples living together--couples of the opposite gender AS WELL AS of the SAME gender. I searched the Internet Superhighway and found the results of the 2000 Census showing the number of unmarried same-sex couples for each state.

With this info, I plugged the numbers into an Excel spreadsheet & created a couple of formulas, just to see what kind of info I could derive from the official government numbers.

Below the cut (if you're interested), I have included information I've collected about each state, using the Census 2000 data.

Now, there are a couple of caveats that should be pointed out about these numbers, which most of us probably already know, but which still bear noting:

(A) Being that the life-sucking closet was as "alive & well" back in 2000 as it ever had ever been, there's just no knowing for sure if all same-gender couples responded truthfully about the composition of their households/families. If I had to guess, I'd say that it's a near-certainty that the number of same-gender couples was UNDER-reported for closet and/or other personal reasons (though, since I was still with my partner in 2000, he & I reported ourselves as being a same-gender family...just like now, we lived in Florida then); and,

(B) The 2000 U.S. Census was set up in such a way that the same-gender couples could include households where the two people were entirely unrelated by blood (like the situation of me & my partner or, for example, two men who lived together for financial and/or other reasons--to help in paying bills, etc.--but who were not necessarily romantically-involved) AS WELL AS couples who were biologically-related, such as an elderly mother and her daughter living together, or two brothers who shared the same household.

So, obviously there are limitations as to the conclusions that can be drawn from these numbers, but still, I thought it would be interesting to see what they showed.

With that said, my ENTIRELY UNPROFESSIONAL, UNSCIENTIFIC FINDINGS FOLLOW ( BELOW THE CUTCollapse )

I am not entirely sure if it's "cool" or "hip" admitting that I am a huge fan of the old TV series, I Love Lucy, but--cool or hip or not--I really am, and I know I'm not alone.

Such a fan am I that, even though I've probably seen EVERY episode of I Love Lucy at least 4 or 5 times in my life (and according to Wikipedia there are nearly 200 episodes), when I had the chance to procure the entire series on DVD, I shelled out nearly $200 to have it for my very own! Considering how many episodes there are, that's about a dollar per episode; such a bargain!

Anyway, though I DO love I Love Lucy, there were a couple of things that have always sort of bothered me about it.

Now, I know that the show was filmed in the 1950's, and societal attitudes toward the roles of men & women were strictly defined and most people never questioned those attitudes, even though--in my opinion--they were just a step above the cavemen (and cavewomen) days.

At the risk of sounding uncouth, during the time of the original run of I Love Lucy, men--by mere virtue of their genitals--were the unquestioned "head of the household"; they were generally the sole bread-winners and the "girls" were the bread-makers.

As they always have, television & movies usually just reflect & depict the life & times of the "typical man on the street". In the 50's, men worked 9 to 5 and nearly always went to work in a suit & tie, only after having a perfectly prepared breakfast by an adoring wife who was dressed as if she were going out to a fancy dinner, instead of slaving in a kitchen. Women, however, were either these dutiful if ditsy housewives, or widows, or divorcées or (God forbid) "old maids"!

Though--as I noted before--I am a great I Love Lucy fan, it always makes me cringe when Ricky scolds Lucy for one wacky thing or another. Even more dismaying is to hear Lucy say "Yes, sir!" to her husband when he's wiggling his finger in her face.

A few times, I recall Ricky threatening to put Lucy over his knee (NO, that's not a euphemism) and spank her for being "a bad girl"! I can't remember exactly, but there may have been an episode or two where he actually did spank her!

Since I'm getting it all off my chest, I really thought it was pretty crappy that Lucy usually had only the "allowance" that Ricky, in his infinite mercy, would toss her way--like a bone to a dog. When Lucy wasn't begging to be in one of Ricky's shows, she was having to panhandle him for a little extra cash to buy a new hat or dress.

In an episode I saw today on the Hallmark Channel, Ricky was secretly trying to buy Lucy a surprise anniversary gift (you know how hard it is to keep a secret from Lucy! :-), so he contacted one of his neighbors, Grace Foster, who worked at jewelry shop to see if he could buy a genuine pearl necklace on the cheap (Grace had a 20% discount as an employee, ya see). Well, Fred Mertz--who had been looking for Ricky--finally found him & asked him where he had been, and Ricky told Fred that he was downstairs in Grace Foster's apartment (while Grace's husband was away), but before Ricky could tell Fred why he was there, Fred was already giving him a 50's version of a high-five, as if encouraging him to cheat on Lucy.

Now, anyone who's read this far couldn't be blamed for asking me--considering the things that bug me about that show--why I love I Love Lucy, and I must be honest & say that I ask myself that, too! The best answer I can give is that I grew up watching the show and was a fan before I even thought of the things I wrote in this post. I really find Lucy's uber-wackiness quite endearing & her resourcefulness in the face of "Cuban Pete's" penny-pinching ways simply inspiring.

In addition to the above, any of us who've seen other shows from around that time know that I Love Lucy was not alone in being so male-centric. In that way, it was just another face in the 50's TV crowd. I suppose that, for me, in spite of all I've written here, I could tell that Lucy & Ricky loved each other very much. In "real life", being that Lucy & Desi were obviously quite adept at determining what their public wanted, and seemed to understand instinctively that they could only get viewers to regularly tune in week after week, if there was something to which their fans could relate in their own lives.

In a real-life world with a cold war raging, the "red menace", "Hollywood blacklisting", the A-bomb, and racial tensions preparing to come to a head, even if the viewing public couldn't find anything in their own lives to laugh about, they could always take at least a 30-minute break from the problems of their times, and step out a moment from the roles in which society had placed them, and laugh at someone else.

And the Reader's Digest is right, Laughter Is The Best Medicine!

I know there is a lot of writing on this sign, but when I saw the original pic whilst cruising the information superhighway, I just couldn't resist snatching it for one of my LJ avatars. I've included the original pic below, so you can see the writing on the sign better, but I'm hoping that, even in the 100-by-100 avatar-sized version, you'll be able to read that it says:

I was in my early 30s before I got my first tattoo.

If that sentence doesn't tell you that it wasn't a decision I made easily, I guess nothing will, right?

Yes, it is true that I am no fan of needles or pain, but I also had to consider more than just how much it would hurt; even more than temporary pain, I also had to consider carefully exactly what my first tat would be. Most importantly, I knew I had to find the strength to answer the inevitable question: What is it?

I know that I am probably starting this post in the middle instead of at the beginning, but I just wanted to let whomever reads this know what was going through my mind, and that I didn't get any of my tats on the spur of the moment. Most of my (thus far) 7 tattoos all have a special meaning to me. I suppose that's true for most of the tattoos that most tattooed people have.

Anyone who has read any of my other posts on other subjects will note that a lot of what I write about here is pretty "gay"...I don't mean that as a slur; I mean that quite literally. I've been accused of being a "Johnny-one-note" where writing is concerned, and while I don't think that's ENTIRELY true, my sexual orientation does comprise quite a bit of what I feel lead to write about.

I used to think that I'd run people off from reading my tomes by so often writing about The (Gay) Story of Me, but then I came to understand that my writing isn't necessarily for the benefit of "the world" (though, I always hope that someone out there in this big, wide world who has lived a life like mine and somehow finds my words might not feel so alone, and too-painfully unique--a snotty, ignorant comment here and there is more-than-worth-it if just one someone somewhere can see through my words that life is so much more than what "the world" tells us is "normal"); it's something productive that I do as a catharsis, a way of healing long-unattended hurts. For me, tattoos are part of that healing. Funny how you have to go through pain sometimes before you can feel better, isn't it??

Anyway, after I decided to leave that infamous suffocating closet where I had lost so much of myself, I knew that I wanted to do something that was the OPPOSITE of what the closeted me would have done. I didn't want to shove my life onto anyone else, of course, but I also wanted to slam that closet door so hard behind me that the hinges would fall off. Finally, I decided I needed to get branded.

Together with my partner (whom I considered my husband--at least in my heart, if not in law), I went to a tattoo parlor in my new adopted hometown of Orlando, Florida. Because of my being nervous (though completely dedicated to the tattoo idea), and because I wasn't sure how much it would hurt, I started with something relatively small on a part of my body where the pain might not be so bad, so on the right side of my right calf, I got a simple pink triangle (which--just in case a potential reader is not aware--was the symbol that the Nazis used to identify homosexuals in the prison camps in World War II--and which the GLBT community has co-opted in order to draw all the poison, ugliness, hatred and death from it, and which is now one of the symbols of "gay pride") with interlocking male symbols in the middle of it. By putting it on my calf, I thought, when I was at work or when I didn't feel as if I wanted to share my life story with someone I could wear pants instead of shorts, so it was a pretty safe tattoo while--for me anyway--still being a tad radical.

I will remember the day I got that tattoo for as long as I live...for a couple of reasons.

One: my first tat. Hey, you never forget your first, right????

Two: it did hurt some,but--since it was relatively small--the pain was not intolerable at all. It kinda felt like a cat scratch afterward.

Three: the guy who did the tat was on the phone with his girlfriend and arguing with her the whole time he was doing my tattoo! I remember thinking that I didn't want to complain or do anything that might make him even more upset than he already was, and cause him to use a heavier hand than he was already employing. I am just so grateful that my love was standing beside me holding my hand, and that he didn't complain as I squeezed his hand pretty intensely! I don't think the guy said a single word to me after he found out what I wanted and after his girlfriend called. The most important thing is that it didn't take too long as I was happy with the results.

A few years later (after I had had a few other tats added), I did have to go to another tattoo artist and have him redo the pink inside my triangle as it had faded. The new tattoo guy had told me that the guy who did the original work didn't really put much effort into doing the color correctly. Considering the situation back then, that didn't surprise me.

One of my most favorite tattoos is one I see every single day. I'll warn you, it's going to sound "cheesy" to some people, but--as I said before--my tattoos are meant for me, not for body art critics. It's the Chinese symbol for truth written on my right wrist in my favorite color, purple. It reminds me every single day that there is nothing about who I really am that I ever have to hide or lie about again. No matter how bad a day I have now, I can take a look at that tattoo and remember that things could most certainly be worse...because, for a very long time, they WERE worse.

The way I see it, coming out & tattoos have at least a couple of things in common: they both are terrifying when you first begin to think about them, and they both hurt sometimes in the beginning, but the permanent beauty of what comes after makes it worth every moment of ephemeral pain.

I will spare you the details of my other "gay" and "non-gay" tattoos (for now), but--like most people who have tattoos--I don't regret ANY of them. The only regret, where my tats are concerned, is that I waited so long to get them.

The same way I feel about how long it took me to finally find the strength to be myself...my TRUE self.