Statistics 101

 

Bear and Buster are social creatures. They particularly love interacting with our collegiate neighbors next door at Western Washington University. College girls love sloppy dog kisses, and college boys share leftover junk food. After months of lonely frolicking on the empty quad, Bear and Buster were glad to see a few students return to campus last month. 

 

So far classes are mostly online. Faculty and staff are still working from home, and only one of the dorms is inhabited. The dogs usually have the lawn to themselves. Nevertheless, these days as we walk through campus we often encounter a handful of students doing student things. Bear and I already have gathered enough data to make some observations.

I can report that Western has successfully socialized members of the community to follow at least two of the three “Ws.” (I can’t speak to their hand washing.) We’ve definitely watched a high proportion of earnest social distancing and mask wearing.

 

For example, if Bear and I time our evening walk correctly, we will encounter a jazz combo jamming on the plaza in front of the library. (Look, a tuba – that’s how you can tell you’re at Western.) 

Note the drummers have their masks on. And all the musicians are at least six feet apart.

The compliance rates for masks and social distancing remain high even when students engage in vigorous activities. Almost everyone wears masks as they walk through campus. In fact, we counted over 80% of cyclists and runners wearing masks. The number for trapeze stunts and games of “Four Square” approached 100% masked.

Of course, millennials are still millennials. If they’re not actually touching a ball, they’re touching their phone.

 

As Bear and I walked through campus on our last sunny warm day, we saw twenty or thirty students hanging out together or lying on suitably distanced blankets. Alone or together, busy or relaxed, at least half of them were staring at their smart phones.

 

I surreptitiously took the next photo at the park. As you can see, the masked photographer is taking a picture of the picture of the sunset on his phone.

Even at earnest WWU there are outliers. Me, for example. I have my mask ready in case Bear and I stop at a coffee shop, pub, or bookstore. However, because of the cumulative damage to my nose from PTSD and trichotillomania, I can’t breathe if I wear my mask while walking the dogs. 

 

Occasionally on our maskless walks through campus I’ll get confused glares from brainwashed students. If anyone asks, I tell them about my disability, and explain the situation would be different if I were indoors, or bunched together in a group. When I see others outdoors without masks on, I try not to judge. Unless they’re wearing MAGA hats. 

 

One final piece of data:  last week Bear and I saw a student zipping by on his skateboard. I wanted to flag him down and ask why he was wearing a mask but not a helmet. But he was too busy listening to his phone. 

Set Theory

Everything I ever needed to know I learned from Anne of Green Gables.

Of course, the question is which Anne of Green Gables – the original novels by Lucy Maud Montgomery? Or the classic CBC miniseries from the 1980s that I’ve already gushed over?

For example, in the television show Anne’s delightful schoolteacher mentor Miss Stacy is the one who delivers this inspirational line:

“Tomorrow is always fresh with no mistakes in it... well with no mistakes in it yet.”

In the 1908 novel, however, the corresponding dialogue actually occurs after Anne serves a fresh-baked cake to the new minister’s wife. Anne accidentally replaces the vanilla called for in the recipe with arthritis rub. 

Even though the scene isn’t in the television series, when I run the dialogue in my head I nevertheless hear Megan Follows playing Anne and Colleen Dewhurst as foster-spinster Marilla:

“Marilla, isn’t it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?"

“I’ll warrant you’ll make plenty in it,” said Marilla. “I never saw your beat for making mistakes, Anne.”

“Yes, and well I know it,” admitted Anne mournfully. “But have you ever noticed one encouraging thing about me, Marilla? I never make the same mistake twice.”

“I don’t know as that’s much benefit when you’re always making new ones.”

“Oh, don't you see, Marilla? There must be a limit to the mistakes one person can make, and when I get to the end of them, then I’ll be through with them. That’s a very comforting thought.”

Like classic children’s literature, the sporting world provides a variety of mixable metaphor alternatives. When do our missteps haunt us forever? Or when can we cut our losses, close the books, and make a fresh start? 

In most ball games, like basketball and football, scoring is cumulative. When you’re down 50 points at halftime, they still make you slog through and finish the game – even when everyone knows you’re never going to catch up. This is one of the many non-gay reasons I abandoned Little League and turned to the theater at a young age.

On the other hand, sports like tennis offer a stark contrast to cumulative-scoring ballgames. 

A tennis player who wins a substantial majority of individual games or even most of the individual points can nevertheless lose the match. Regardless of whether the score is 6-0 or 7-6 with a three-hour tiebreaker, all that counts is the up or down thumb at the end of each set. That's the elegance of Set Theory for English Majors.

This week a friend noticed I’d been writing about AIDS and HIV, and asked what today’s blog essay would be about. I realized the answer was simple:  it was time to come out as HIV negative.  

I became an activist in an era when HIV was associated with brutal medical outcomes, horrific discrimination, and crushing stigma. I don’t think I’ve internalized that hostility myself. To the contrary, I’ve always been surrounded by friends on both sides of the HIV divide, regardless of where we landed by “luck or circumstances,” as David France puts it in How to Survive a Plague. I’ve dated men with either sero-status. I am always honest. But I seldom discuss HIV publicly, mostly because I’m burned out. Plus I’m actually quite shy. (Strangers reading this blog might be surprised by this assertion.)

One of the overarching themes of my writing is the tyranny of the closet – regardless of whether unhealthy secrecy involves sexual orientation, mental health, or other important aspects of one’s identity. Various recent experiences have chipped away at another layer of writer’s block. So when I was inspired to write about AIDS, I knew I couldn’t approach the truth without addressing this particular issue.

Once in a while, life offers you a new beginning. You can fake your death, transition genders, or join the French Foreign Legion. Bankruptcy lawyers like Nevada’s “Fresh Start Law Firm” can help you crawl out from under a hopeless mountain of debt. Perhaps this is the year when Valentine’s Day or the arrival of spring will usher in your personal season of renewal.

In my gay life, the most vivid experience of closing the books has come from regular and sometimes irregular HIV testing. As I recently wrote in “OK Boomer,” my generation of gay men was the first to come out into a world where we knew AIDS was waiting to kill us. We were years away from an effective treatment for the virus. Untreatable opportunistic infections still ravaged weakened immune systems. All we had was a primitive blood test for HIV antibodies, an inexhaustible supply of condoms, and a deafening safer sex message.

I got my first HIV test in the late 1980s, at a public health office in New Haven, Connecticut. I still hadn’t had “sex” yet (at least as the word would be used by a gay male epidemiologist, then or now). But I was very earnest, the counselor was very polite, and none of us knew very much about how the HIV virus works. 

Back then they sent your blood sample out to a laboratory, which added two or three weeks to the process. Half of the people who chose to test anonymously never returned for their results.

My most remarkable HIV testing experience occurred in Chicago in the mid-90s. Three weeks after getting tested at Howard Brown Health Center, I received the result:  “indeterminate.” At the time, that essentially meant a 50/50 chance of either a recent HIV infection, or a lab error. The “expedited” follow-up test involved a mere 48-hour wait. Interestingly, during those two days I experienced all the nasty flu-like symptoms that most patients get when they seroconvert. My symptoms disappeared as soon as I got the reassuring results. Hmm, perhaps my melodramatic hypochondriac daughter has inherited something from her father after all – a heightened placebo effect.

Nowadays my Bellingham physician Dr. Heuristic usually just includes an HIV test as part of my routine bloodwork. But I prefer to also make an appointment with the excellent STI folks at Seattle’s Gay City. As soon as you arrive, the punk receptionist sends you to a interactive computer terminal. You get to answer nonjudgmental questions about what you’ve been doing since your last visit. (Try not to fudge your numbers too much, it messes with their statistics.) I usually get the same experienced counselor. We chat about life, then take some samples. He puts a drop of my blood into the well of the plastic rapid test device. We watch together for the unsurprising but nevertheless reassuring result. 

I’ve never been Catholic. But every time I walk out of Gay City to finish the rest of my Seattle errands, I feel like I’ve been to Confession. And received gay Absolution. 

Previously: “A Lifelong AIDS Walk and Picnic”

Next: “After the Fall” 

I am a Sitcom Dad

Three actual father-daughter dialogues, on the occasion of my first Sehome High School Homecoming football game

[in the living room]

ELEANOR:       I have a headache.

PAPA:                I have a sinus infection. 

ELEANOR:       Don’t give me MRSA.

PAPA:                Do you know the difference between a “malingerer” and a “hypochondriac”? Why can’t we both go to bed now?

ELEANOR:       Homecoming.

PAPA:                I’ll grab my keys and change out of my sweatpants.

[in the front row of the minivan]

ELEANOR:       [suspiciously] Papa, are you writing?

PAPA:                Why do you ask?  

ELEANOR:       I can tell. 

PAPA:                How? [wondering if anyone else has noticed his perpetually beatific expression lately]

ELEANOR:       Your nostrils flare.

[approaching Civic Field]

PAPA:                Did I tell you Vancouver Men’s Chorus has been invited to sing the national anthem at a major sports event? We have a lovely new a cappella arrangement. Unfortunately, I memorized “Oh, Canada” when I was in elementary school in the 1970s, so it’s much too late for me to learn the new inclusive language.

ELEANOR:       Will you be televised?

PAPA:                Maybe on cable somewhere. It’s the International Gay Curling Championships.

ELEANOR:       Grandpa will watch it. He loves curling.

Click here for more episodes of Gay Sitcom Dad

What Happens at Retreat

Numerous studies establish that singing in a community chorus is one of the best ways to improve your mental health. Especially if you're gay.

I joined Windy City Gay Chorus twenty-eight years ago. Like Seattle Men’s Chorus and Vancouver Men’s Chorus, Windy City Gay Chorus was founded at the beginning of the 1980s. They’re all part of the first wave of gay choruses, whose organizers were inspired by the pioneering San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus’ successful national concert tour. Today the international LGBT choral movement includes hundreds of choruses, from Beijing to Newfoundland. 

So far, I’ve spent five years in WCGC, fifteen years in SMC, and three years in VMC. For the last three decades, escaping with the chorus to our annual out-of-town Retreat has been one of the highlights of my year.

The only time I’ve ever been to the state of Wisconsin was for Retreat with Windy City Gay Chorus. Each year we stayed off-season in a rustic lake resort. From Friday evening to Sunday afternoon we rehearsed, schmoozed, ate, drank, and pampered each other.

One longstanding tradition of many gay choruses is the ironically named “No Talent Show.” On the Saturday night of retreat, chorines perform for each other. At Windy City, our No Talent Show revealed all kinds of hidden talents – singing, dancing, guitar, harmonica, puppetry, you name it.  

The comparable talent shows at some other choruses’ retreats are a little edgier, with lots of biting commentary directed at their conductors and others. In contrast, Windy City’s Retreat included a little gentle satire, but mostly we used the No Talent Show as a supportive showcase for each other. 

Statistically, Wisconsin is both the gayest and the most loving place I've ever been. 

This is a picture from the No Talent Show at this year’s Seattle Men’s Chorus Retreat, held last Saturday evening. Even though I left SMC a couple of years ago, I still make an appearance at Retreat. Before you’re impressed by my sacrifice, you should realize that for the last seven years, SMC has held its Retreat at the Sheraton hotel in Bellingham. Which is located 2876 feet away from my house.

Seattle Men’s Chorus, together with its fifteen-year-old sister Seattle Women’s Chorus, is the flagship of the LGBT choral movement. It’s one of the most successful arts organizations in the country, with a $3 million-plus annual budget, a dozen fulltime professional staff, and a sterling reputation in the community. Shortly after I left Seattle Men’s Chorus, longtime conductor Dennis Coleman retired. Unlike many nonprofit organizations, SMC successfully handled the transition. The new conductor came from Windy City Gay Chorus.

As you would expect from SMC, this year’s No Talent Show was professionally produced. Many of the acts were amazing. Even after a couple of years away, I still got 80 percent of the jokes. As usual, I was appalled by the brutal digs. But not surprised. Years ago, another Windy City alumnus who moved to Seattle was traumatized at his first Retreat by his brutal treatment in the No Talent Show. (His ears should be ringing from the comments this year.) Fortunately, Canadians are much too nice for a Seattle-style roast. 

When I joined SMC in 2000, the Retreat was at Fort Warden, in Port Townsend. It’s a decommissioned army base that the state now operates as a conference center. (The movie An Officer and a Gentleman was filmed there.) Fort Warden has a charming little USO theater where we mounted the No Talent Show each year. 

Eventually, the economics at Fort Worden became impractical. For a couple of years, SMC held Retreat at a hotel on the Hood Canal, similar to Windy City’s Wisconsin location, before the hotel’s incompetent management drove us out. Since then, Retreat has been in Bellingham at the bland but welcoming Sheraton.   

Last weekend after the No Talent Show, several of my SMC friends were kvetching about the impersonal vibe at the Sheraton. I agreed that I preferred the officer houses at Fort Warden. Then one of the old timers nostalgically pined for the rustic retreat location of his youth. Stumped, he asked “What was the name of that place we used to go for Retreat before Fort Warden?”

I reminded him of the name of the original Retreat site, an old Baptist camp in the woods on Vashon Island. I never went to Retreat at Camp Burton myself. But I feel like I miss it.

Vancouver Men’s Chorus still retreats into the woods. In fact, for almost thirty consecutive years, VMC has held its Retreat at the same environmental education center halfway between Vancouver and Whistler. (If you watched the television show Legion on FX, you’ll recognize our Retreat site as the good guys’ hideout.) We’ll be back again in April.

VMC is the oldest, largest, and most successful gay chorus in Canada. Unlike Seattle Men’s Chorus, other than the conductor and accompanist, VMC relies on an all-volunteer model. Lenny has been the board president off and on for longer than many singers have been alive. Our conductor Willi founded the chorus in 1981, and he's still here thirty-seven years later. Like SMC, VMC benefits from its extraordinary stability. When Dennis retired from SMC, Willi became the gay choral movement’s longest serving conductor.

All these factors combine for a fun Retreat, filled with chorus traditions. On Friday night there’s a welcome social and drag contest. Each night we stay up till the wee hours for s’mores and sing-a-longs at the Firepit. Eventually it will be late enough to burst into Willi’s cabin and serenade him with his least favourite song, “Amazing Grace.”

Last year the Squamish conference center’s longtime manager retired. He visited us at rehearsal for a tearful farewell, telling stories about the chorus’ positive impact on himself and his conservative family in Saskatchewan. VMC is like that.

Instead of a No Talent Show, on Saturday night we have “Skits.” Each of the four sections prepares a skit using themes based on our current concert season. The trophy for the winning section looks like the Stanley Cup, and is more coveted. Last year the baritones undeservedly won. 

I’m still not ready to perform in a skit myself. But I did provide a couple of nautical props for the Second Tenor skit, including my son Oliver’s pirate chest. In my rush to depart Squamish, I didn't realize someone had mischievously put an extra prop in the box: a lurid red oversized sex toy. I immediately took it out of the chest. I didn't want to forget it was there when I got home to Bellingham, and accidently put it back in Oliver’s room unopened.

Unfortunately, when I picked up the kids, my daughter Rosalind opened the car door and immediately saw a strange red object in the back of the minivan. She said “Papa, what is this?”

I am seldom rendered completely speechless. As I stammered about not being sure where all the other props from the skit came from (I try to always tell my kids the truth, in an age-appropriate way), Rosalind answered her own question: “It’s a mushroom, isn’t it?” I shrugged. That counts as telling the truth.

Then Rosalind, who is very artistic, said “I would have painted little white dots on it. To be more realistic.”

I met most of my friends in Seattle through the chorus. Like SMC itself, we have our own traditions. For the last six years, at lunch on the Saturday of Retreat we’ve gone out for Mexican food at the same place. Last year we discovered Dos Padres was under new management, and the food was terrible. This year at my parents’ suggestion we went to El Gitano, where the food is excellent and the margarita goblets are the size of beach balls.

Most of our group happen to be rabid sports fans. Other than my father, they’re the only people I watch football with. This year the University of Washington’s game against Stanford preceded the No Talent Show, so I went over to watch. When I left home, the Huskies were up 21-7. By the time I arrived, it was a three-point game. Fortunately, UW won in a nailbiter.

I brought Trader Joe peppermint creams and a bottle of red wine. Shockingly, no one had a corkscrew. Rather than go ask someone to lend us one, John took the bottle and a pair of scissors into the bathroom and closed the door. We heard a loud noise, then John said, “Don’t come in yet.”

Undeterred, Mark peeked in the bathroom, where he saw what appeared to be spattered blood stains. John came out and grimly poured everyone a glass of wine.

I won’t say any more. What happens at Retreat stays at Retreat.

All three chorus Retreats include gratuitous nudity. As with so much else, SMC’s nudity is bigger. For as long as I can remember, a gaggle of exhibitionists and their enablers have organized a show-stopping number with multiple chorus members on display.

After I moved to Bellingham three years ago, I commuted to Seattle to sing one last holiday show. Compared to the Vancouver drive, the trip to Seattle was miserable. I knew there was no way I could keep doing it.

The finale of the No Talent Show at Retreat in Bellingham that November was the traditional exhibition of naked boys singing and dancing. Fortunately, the performers included the one guy in the chorus I’d always wanted to see naked.

I knew I could finally move on.

Someday I will write a more detailed comparison of my experiences with all three of these exceptional choruses. For now, here are some closing observations from almost thirty years of Retreats:

·     As the No Talent Shows and Skits confirm each year, each chorus is blessed with a staggering array of gifts. You could never assemble such a dream team of performers from any sample of the general population. It’s like a Nazi eugenics experiment gone totally right.  

·     The only times I appeared on stage, I portrayed a Mormon missionary or a lawyer. Typecast.

·     I’ve never had sex at Retreat. But I’ve drunkenly made out on the dance floor.

·     Every chorus has the same mantra: “What happens at Retreat stays at Retreat.” 

·     There are a lot of bitchy queens out there.

·     Nevertheless, Retreat is a loving space. Over the years I’ve watched the men of each chorus welcome everyone who felt the call to join – regardless of age, race, disability, gender identity, or sex. Even as we carve out a magical space for “Us,” chorus teaches us there's no need to reject anyone else as a “Them.”  

Sporting News

Any dream of a social life usually bursts as soon as I get the question: “So when will those adorable kids of yours finally be gone?” 

During the school year, we switch kid weeks every Friday. By 8:24 am, the last child is out the door. In theory, that means I am now available for parties, weddings, bar mitzvahs, you name it.

In reality, my friends all know I’m completely useless on Fridays. If they invite me to anything – a hot tub party, a book signing, a gala ball in my honor – occurring any time before Saturday at midnight, I’m going to flake. (New friends have to learn this fact through bitter experience.)

After a week with the kids I am so drained I cannot leave the house for at least a day. Actually that’s a big improvement over last year, when I was lucky if I got out of bed by Monday. Now I enjoy my apres-kid Fridays. Visualize me at home writing, cleaning, working, reading, watching TV, listening to jazz. What’s not in the picture? ANYONE ELSE.

So where was I a few Fridays ago? Sitting on an uncomfortable chair in the middle school gym, watching the seventh grade gymnastics championships. Next to my ex-partner’s visiting mother-in-law from Peoria.

Just a few years ago, I would have been voted the least likely person to spend his Friday evening in a crowded gymnasium watching young girls (including his own daughter) promenade in leotards of various sizes and shapes.

Conversely, who is the most likely person to fit that description?  Donald J. Trump.

It’s amazing how sports can unite the most unlikely people.

Gratuitous picture of gay Olympic figure skater Adam Rippon at the Oscars

Click here for more episodes of Gay Sitcom Dad