Dude.

Father's Day — in the US, at least — is quickly approaching. So it's somehow appropriate that I've got a hankering to talk about men. Nothing salacious, mind you … just a post on the enigmatic state of being a guy today.

I've said it before: men and women are different creatures. I know this, perhaps, better than I know most anything. As a gay man, I am inexplicably drawn to that elusive quality that makes men … men. It's certainly not anatomy; nor our job or the way we dress; nor our mannerisms or the roles we play in life. But there is something — something preternatural — that resonates within us, Male and Female.

So if it's not any of that — if our eternal gender is something so obfuscated by culture and genome — why care? Why all the fuss? I can't speak definitively, of course … but I've got a hunch.

Culture, in many ways, is part of a complex survival mechanism. It gives us the tools to both survive and thrive within a given context. Sure, it's imperfect, but it's powerful all the same. So being able to internalize and transmit ones culture is a sign of ones spiritual/psychological fitness in much the same way that symmetry in physique is a sign of ones genetic health — and it carries with it the same heady allure.

But something happened over the last century. Culture became unhinged, in many respects, from reality. The feedback loop which kept most aspects of a given culture intimately connected to its milieu was co-opted by technology and our own counter-culture drive. For the time being — blessed, as we are, with practically free energy and blinded as we are by technology — culture isn't a matter of survival. It's an accessory like shoes or cufflinks. So now we pick and choose from myriad cultures the shiny bits that intrigue us, while ignoring the repercussions.

Men no longer enjoy the confidence of living within a cohesive culture.

Sitcoms tell us that men are buffoons. That we are hapless, witless, feckless creatures — outshone in every respect by women (which, I suspect, is equally annoying to women). We're told that we think about sex constantly and engage in sex at such an early age that by junior high, the virginal male is social equivalent of a third nipple: pathetic and ineffectual. Other players tell us that average men sport genitalia of equine proportions and are either bronzed and polished gods or hirsute demigods. Still others feed on our sartorial sensibilities and dress us up in costumes unbefitting men who actually work and live in anything but Second Life™. I could go on … but you get the idea.

And that's just in secular life … General Authorities and their comments about the spiritual superiority of women and the odd and pervasive comments about wives always being right are as emasculating as the sitcoms. Moreover, the rhetoric of role-playing and stewardship — which I believe obliquely addresses eternal principles — is stuck in Mid-century America. With the Beavers.

But there's hope.

A nascent man movement in the US — which has roots both in religious circles and the secular world — seems to be scratching at the surface of the problem … and blogs such as The Art of Manliness and Rules for My Unborn Son are fine products of this renaissance. It's a hard thing, though, to refashion something so complex and nuanced as culture from scratch. It's a bit like the scientists of Jurassic Park fame attempting to recreate dinosaurs from incomplete DNA, spittle, and hubris. We're bound to create a few monsters along the way. It's not a natural process, after all — cut-off as we are from the bright and instructive light of life outside our technology-induced stupor. Which is why I think that the Church's role could prove pivotal. And the Proclamation on the Family is a good start. But I fear that we won't really understand the value of that document for some time — burdened as we are by the muddy mandates of memory.

So that's it. Like so many things in modern life, what it means to be a man is much less clear — but if we're careful and given to inspiration, we'll exit the other side of this fog better men, better sons, brothers, and fathers. Which is to say, in so many words, happy Father's Day (whatever that means).

NB: This post is cross-posted from Dude, please join us over there to comment!

A Very Gay Transcript

A heads-up: a web/e-mail friendly transcript of the Very Gay Podcast is available at my YouPublish site: A Very Gay Transcript. It’s available (like the podcast itself) for anyone to use, under a Creative Commons license.

That is all.

A Totally Gay Podcast

I was recently interviewed by Nine Moons founder Rusty Clifton about my being gay and active in the church — and about California's Proposition 8. If you've got 45 minutes, give it a listen…

Listen to the podcast…

NB: This post is cross-posted from Nine Moons: A Totally Gay Podcast, please join us over there to comment!

For all My Friends with Offspring

Oh man … I wish I had had this when I was loosing my teeth — check out this fancy-schmancy Tooth Fairy kit.

Que C'est Mignone!

Once upon a time... from Capucha on Vimeo.

What Goes "In" Must Come "Out"

For your reading pleasure: another wonderful snapshot of family life at Samantha's home. Thank you Adam. Thank you Samantha.

:)

And here are a couple of stories (I & II) that sound like Adam in 30 years.

What Is Modesty, Really?

I think we understand what the standards of modesty are in the church. Cover your garment if you where one or dress like you wear one if you hope to some day. And when modesty is discussed at a BYU campus, it's almost entirely framed within the context of the Honor Code — and the Honor Code Office's delightful, quirky, and just a little creepy advertising.

But what is modesty? What are we trying to achieve?

It can't just be about dress and appearance, can it? Sure it's hard to not dress your daughter like a floozie — but is that the length and width of the issue? Aren't we really just picking at the surface of a higher law — a body ethic?

What might that ethic include — what would it look like, how might it behave? And what would its scriptural underpinnings be — or would it come from somewhere else?

NB: This post is cross-posted from Nine Moons: What Is Modesty, Really, please join us over there to comment!

Vegas > Los Angeles | Part II of Driving to London

I woke-up Friday morning and dawdled at my sister's place for an hour or so — breakfast, a couple of games of sudoku, and then a shower — before hitting the road.

It was early, and the roads were pretty clear, heading out of town. Down to Primm, then up and over the mountains to Baker. It's a lovely drive with good roads, little traffic, and expansive views of the desert. I called a few friends to make-up for the radio that had been stolen when my car was broken into a while back… and I helped a business partner with some tech question or other.

A quick stop in Baker for a little breakfast, and then a quick stop in Victorville for gas and a car wash before descending down into Los Angeles. I was in Pasadena before I knew it — just 3.5 hours from Vegas. Another hour to cross town, and I was at the hotel.

It's strange for me to be in a hotel of any particular quality, as I've always preferred to stay in smaller one-off establishments and bed-and-breakfasts. I'm just sleeping there, so I can never justify paying for prestige or pampering. In Boston, I stay at the College Club. In DC, I stay at the Tabbard Inn. In NYC, I've stayed at the Y. Each place just a bed, a shower, and a friendly face at the front desk. I like it that way. But this place had a concierge, and complimentary drinks (I got orange juice) upon arriving.

Eh. I think I'll stick to small.

The big reason for flying out from Los Angeles instead of Salt Lake, was the wedding of an old friend and roommate… I couldn't make his wedding because it would have meant leaving for London way too late, but I could make it for his bachelor party. So I did.

It was great... he, and I, and five or six of his closest friends all descended on Medieval Times for an evening of Campbell's soup, chicken, knights, horses, and lots and lots of laughter. Even with the cost of entry set at the astonishingly high $50 per person, the evening was a complete success… and I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

We're all Mormons, so the evening ended at a respectable hour, and I was dropped at the hotel with hugs and promises of seeing each other again, soon.

Next stop: The Airport!

__________________

Photos from this leg of the trip can be found at my flickr account... starting with this photo I took of three of us at Medieval Times.

Salt Lake City > Vegas | Part I of Driving to London

My trip actually started the week before Valentine's Day, when I took the beast (my 1994 Saturn SC2) in to get a new water pump. I had had a coolant leak in it for a little over a year, but hadn't found a mechanic I trusted. When I finally found the great guys down at Airview Texaco (1700 South, 1100 East — and they're full-service!), I was just too busy to leave the car for a day... but this trip was important, and I didn't want a failing water pump to keep me from seeing my sister, wishing my old roommate well on the eve of his wedding, or catching my plane. So I took her in... and a few hours later, she had a new water pump and coolant reservoir — and I had the confidence I needed to drive to London.

Instead of going out on the town, like I did last year, for Valentine's Day, I stayed home and packed... Then on Thursday morning, I hit the road.

My plan was to stop-in at BYU and have Reid — my barber — cut my hair for the trip. Then a breakfast date. But the breakfast date fell-through, so I stopped-in at the BYU Museum of Art to check-out their Beholding Salvation exhibit. Very very nice... and I was happily snapping photos of my favorite works until I was informed that photography wasn't allowed — though no sign said as much — by a surly she-guard.

* mumbles about the excesses of copyright *

But the exhibit was nice enough to inspire a visit to the museum store, where they had a lovely book for sale — with most, though (infuriatingly) not all the pieces featured. I also grabbed one for my sister.

After that, I hit the road in earnest and arrived in Henderson (Nevada) at 4pm. Right on time. It was good to see my sister and two of her three children. And after I passed-out some gifts that had been accumulating — including a hoodie for Chael from War Regime — my sister and I headed-out for dinner at Kona Grill. Tasty food... neat ambiance... smelled weird in the back. But a wonderful evening when all was said and done.

Next Stop: Los Angeles!
__________________

Photos from this leg of the trip can be found at my flickr account... starting with this photo I took at the museum.

Back from London

So, I've just returned from a short vacation across the pond in London. It was a wonderful (WONDERFUL!) trip... and I can't thank my bud Gareth enough for hosting me nor Mihaela enough for taking time off here-and-there to play.

The trip, strangely enough, began by driving to Los Angeles — with a stop-over in Las Vegas to see my sister and her family — to wish an old roommate well on the eve of his wedding. I then took-off from LAX for a flight to London with a stop-over in Chicago. I had hoped to attend church with Mihaela Sunday morning, but snow delays in Chicago and two hours spent in London customs (good GRIEF) nipped that in the bud. Instead, I went straight for Gareth's and a short nap. After that, I walked the city a bit and then met-up with Mihaela to show her around a bit (this wasn't my first time to London, and she hooted that she should be showing her around... but she enjoyed getting the night off from playing tour guide). The plane ride wasn't all bad, of course... I met a delightful woman named Felicia, on her way to London with a pal before heading to South Africa on Fullbright.


MONDAY

I woke well-rested and set-out to see some more of the city. I focused on the book sellers of Charing Cross Road, and picked-up tickets to see the London production of History Boys, that night. Lunched at a wonderful little tandoori restaurant called Saint Martin's Spice, then headed over to the London Business School to see Mihaela before returning to Covent Garden for the play.


TUESDAY

Slept like a baby again, and woke to Gareth fumbling with his keys as he returned from his week-end out-of-town. I had accidentally locked him out. I was installed comfortably in his bed, so he crashed on the couch for an spell before he headed in to the office (OUCH!). After my morning routine, I set-out to do a little food shopping for a dinner party Gareth and I were hosting that night...

The whole day was a lot of fun — shopping, cooking, and chatting the night away.


WEDNESDAY

Wednesday morning, I took it slowly — I hate to rush while on holiday — and didn't get out of the flat until after one. From there, I hoofed it up to the New London Architecture... and shot plenty of photos on my stroll. After drooling over all the amazing maps and maquettes, I hopped the tube back over to Baker Street to catch-up with Mihaela. We chatted, then took the tube out to Notting Hill, where Manu (her amazing boyfriend) joined us for a walk up to this amazing little book store that specializes in food literature and cookbooks. I'd found it on my last trip to London, and was determined to return.

From there we headed down to Victoria Station and the Apollo Victoria to see Wicked. I flirted with Adam, one of the theater workers while they ran-off to find some pizza for Manu (no complaints), and then we settled-in for a delightful evening of song, dance, and deciphering.


THURSDAY

My last day in London wasn't as sunny as the rest of my trip... but no bother. I packed in the morning, then walked over to St Jermyn to do some clothes shopping, and then up to the Marlybone high street to window-shop a spell. Gareth met me there for dinner at Fish Works — and he treated, which was especially nice.


FRIDAY

Breakfast at Paul with Gareth, then a tube ride to Heathrow and my 11am direct flight to LAX. The plane ride was nice... no new friends made, but I did catch edited versions of Running with Scissors and Little Miss Sunshine. So no complaints... landed in LAX and spent 15 minutes in customs (way to GO!)... and then six HOURS snarled in LA traffic. Ugh. I had hoped to sleep at my sister's in Las Vegas, but I was full-on hallucinating in Victorville, so I got a hotel.


SATURDAY

Got into Las Vegas at 9am and spent the morning with my sister, my niece, a nephew, and one of his best friends. Sissy treated us all to lunch at PF Chang (I had never been before) before I hit the road one last time... and I finally collapsed in my very own bed last night at 10 pm.

That's not all I have to say, of course, but that's enough for now... pictures and more stories to follow!

:)


PS... Now that I'm back, I can let it out of the box that the poem The Frail Light of Light is a short homage (no pun intended) to the men of London... which means I've changed the word "subway" to "tube".

Poem: Grandpa's Garden

Grandpa's Garden

In his garden
clean and neat,
my grandfather
his vigil keeps.

The faeries in
the rhubarb patch
know his gait,
and await the latch
to unlatch the gate —
for it's grandpa they await.
His smile,
his laugh,
his love-torn hands
work the soil —
soothe the land.

So when grandma
beckons him
to leave the work
and come on in,
it's with a tear
they see him go
and close the gate.

But don't you know?
Grandma thinks
them happenstance
the things that
beckon grandpa back
down his cobbled
garden path…
like unleashed vines,
misplaced rakes,
garden boulders,
fallen grapes.

For the faeries in
the rhubarb patch
know his gait
and await the latch
to unlatch the gate —
for it's grandpa
they await

Harvest time
comes and goes —
the faeries move south
with the snows.
South, right into
grandpa's home
to take-up
residence downstairs
or behind the
'clining chair…
quietly anticipating
grandpa's timely
dinner nap
when they can curl-up
on his lap —
or better yet
near his heart —
so big and soft
( until he starts
to heave and snore ).

But they don't mind:
they love grandpa
( and so do I ).

____________________

I wrote this for Grandpa, on his 80th birthday ( Halloween, 1991 )... and meant to post it on Halloween, on his 95th birthday a few weeks ago. But I completely spaced it. Good thing he doesn't know what the internet is.

:)

A Rose by any Other Name

This is a post about my brother.

You see, I realized a while back that he didn't know about this blog, but thought he'd enjoy seeing me in this setting, so I decided I should send him a couple links... but I got caught-up in work and whatnot, and didn't get around to it until a day or two back... and that's when it hit me: I don't think I've ever mention him here.

It's not strange, really: I live in a small universe of family, friends, loved-ones, and pretenders... so I couldn't possibly be expected to mention everyone. But he's my brother... and you'd think he'd come up more often. But that's just it: as much as I love and respect him, our planets swing wide of each other... We're Saturn and Jupiter: coming into each other's lives infrequently but not insignificantly.

Anyway.

But now that he's here... what shall we call him? The Crow's Nest is nony-less, so he definitely needs a nick. Sure, my sister T is just "T"... but that wouldn't do for him. Nope: he needs a full-on handle.

So I call T, and ask if he had any nicknames growing up.

[ Pregnant Pause ]

"I don't think so."

We laugh.

"Why don't you call mom?"

"Okay... I'll call you back with the scoop!"

[ Hang-up ]

[ Dial Mom ]

"Hey mom... "

[ Pops the Question ]

Mom then proceeds to give me a nickname that I'm pretty certain had never seen the light of day until that very moment. Mom's funny that way.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Just curious... T and I were talking and we couldn't remember if he ever had a nickname..."

Mom said something and I returned: "Well, he was always grown up."

"That's not true! Why he had asthma when he was a kid and he decided to join track ( "Track?!" T would later exclaim "He was never in track!" "Yes, he was... I remember the pictures, and thinking how cool it was that he was in track..." "Oh. I don't remember any of that..." ) and he would come in last during every race... and I asked him why he stuck with it, and he told me that 'someone has to come in last and it might as well be me...'."

[ Pause ]

"Mom: that's the definition of being grown-up."

[ Pause ]

"A'ight, mom, I've gotta jet... and you're driving... talk to you later, love you!"

So yeah: no childhood nicknames to speak of.

Of course, I could mine our lives for something...

I don't know how your mind works, but mine is filled with two types of memories: the crystal-clear snapshots/videos of moments or recordings of things said; and then the vague collections of sentiments ( "I don't remember what happened, but I remember feeling... " ).

Of the latter sort, I "remember" how much I looked up to him growing up, and feared him... not the fear you have of an enemy, but the fear you have of a parent or an authority figure: he was the Hand of God ( T, by comparison, was always the tender embrace of a savior — when she wasn't pushing me down stairs ). I also "remember" how much I stood in awe of him. I "remember" how much I bragged about him to my friends. I "remember" thinking how brave he was — that he was the paragon of manhood.

Of the former sort, I have maybe a dozen memories from my childhood: a winter ( back when it actually use to snow ), when he built a "pillow" of snow that we all jumped into from our second-story deck; he and his friend teasing me as I tried frantically to get a pre-pubescent itch in my shorts taken care of; him playing catch with me in the backyard and me wincing, closing my eyes, and squealing when the ball hit me... and him saying that I'd do better if I opened my eyes, with me replying that I'd open my eyes if he'd stop throwing things at me; him "stress testing" my Lego creations and then teaching me about sound building processes, until — once mastered — I could barely get them apart when I wanted to; him out in the back yard, chopping the heads off of scores of chickens, with the occasional one running about ( lurp! lurp! lurp! ) without its head — leaving a trail of blood in circles behind it on the lawn; him teaching me the difference between being "scared" and being "startled" — and that men got "startled"; playing hide-and-seek with him ( oft-times without his actually knowing ) by hiding in the middle shelf of the linen closet, or on the top bunk under a sheet and practicing breathing without moving my chest; and, finally, a wonderful road trip when he drove me from Spokane to Pasadena to see T... with lunch at a hat-shaped A&W on a bluff overlooking the Columbia River Gorge, a stop to take a picture of a sign declaring that we had just passed the half-way point between the North Pole and the Equator, waking-up in the middle of the night in a blizzard in a forest and him telling me that he thought it would be cool to show me Crater Lake but that he hadn't expected the late spring storm, driving through the wasteland of Klamath Falls, and then dropping into Sacramento Valley and seeing the smog and thinking we must be really close to Los Angeles.

( Okay, I take it back: I apparently have more memories than I thought... they just needed a little prodding. But I'll stop here, as I'm considerate of my audience. )

But someone is not just a tangle of memories — sweet, sour, and occasionally just-plain-odd ) — they're also the echoes of those memories: the tug-and-pull they have on you when they're nowhere to be seen. My brother is no different... he's the voice in my head urging me beyond mediocrity... my cupid when I first fell in-love with computers ( though his love was always computers-as-puzzles, and mine was always computers-as-tools ). In fact, I credit him as a very real contributor to my current life as a former software company co-founder, and now a computer-aided designer.

So this brings me back to the beginning... what shall we call him?

Flash? Jupiter? Coach? Jove? ... Nah.

I think I'll keep it simple...

"Brother" ... with a capital "B".

So welcome to my blog, Brother!

Meme: My Last Day

Over at Zachv's blog, he ponders his last day... which got me to thinking: If I knew that today was my last day to live — and with the constraints of my current reality (what's in my bank account, and who's in my life currently) — what would I do?

Assuming that I learn of my fate early in the morning, so that I have the entire day:


MORNING

I'd take a personal day at work... but would e-mail my business partner my computer's password, so that he could get to everything on the hard drive. I'd set-up a delayed e-mail to everyone in my address book with the news of my fate, my testimony of the Restored Gospel, and my appreciation for the myriad kindnesses that I've enjoyed — and I'd ask forgiveness of anything I may have done to hurt their feelings. I'd make sure that my mortgage insurance was in order, and that my sister was the beneficiary. I'd call-up Boy Wonder and insist on an early-evening date to the Kyoto restaurant for sushi. I'd clean the house and do my wash and fold everything... and I'd order flowers — a large arrangement of white star-of-bethlehem or a few dozen orange gerbera daisies — to brighten-up the condo. I love flowers.


AFTERNOON

I'd visit Åse and her husband from the ward. We'd talk about her family and I'd try my hand at a crossword puzzle... then I'd call Captain K and see if he was free for lunch. He probably wouldn't be, but we'd chat for a while and joke about stuff going on in the ward. I'd then go up to the H-House. It would probably be empty... but I'd let myself in and I'd look around for Daniel or Bryan or Sameth. They're all normally busy during the day, so I'd leave each of them a note on their beds. Op! Time to get home and let the flower boy in.

After that, I'd go for a drive — probably around by Park City.


EVENING

Date with Boy Wonder... afterwards, we'd talk and snuggle for a while, then I'd send him home.

Call mom, sis, bro, and grandpa. We'd talk about nothing, and I'd be sure to tell each of them how much I love them. Call Steve, David, and Adam... we'd also talk about nothing, and I'd be sure to tell each of them how much I love them — how each of them made my life so much the better. Then, in the morning, they'd get the news that I'd died... and our last conversation had been happy and not filled with all sorts of weirdness.

I'd write a short note and leave it on my bedside table.

Shower and change into fresh bed clothes. Read a little from the Book of Mormon. Say my prayers, crack the windows open and go to sleep.

If today were your last, what would you do?

A Letter to My Sons Nephews

A powerful letter from a mom to her two sons... to be opened in twelve years.

Don't wait that long to read it.

Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

* sigh *

Well, word has come through the grapevine that my mother is saving my copy of Harry Potter (which she mentioned she had picked-up on the day of its release) for an extra-special Christmas present.

Yeah, I know... Mom doesn't understand my mania.

But I love her, so I'll wait.

Guess I'll have to wait until I get back from Cairo to read this (certain to be) fine discussion of the book.

Good thing Eldest is coming out, soon.