My New Cyber Home + My Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone, and welcome to my new Blogger blog.

I made the change so:
a) you don't have to join MySpace to view Blogs
b) my "Notes" don't get lost in the madness on your Facebook homepage
c) I could give my old ramblings new hotness

My old blogs are also posted here. The important ones, anyways.

While you're reading this... I might as well renew an old request for any topics you'd like my take on. Or you can always send me a "Guest Blog" if you'd like to share an experience, a stance, a thought, et cetera: jarubenstein@gmail.com

* * * * *
MY THANKSGIVING

...was perfect. For most of the day, it was just Mom, Dad, Emy, me, and Sammy splitting his time equally on all of our laps. We had no energy to cook and would have been perfectly content with tuna fish and cheese sandwiches and football, but Gramma and some friends stopped by with an entire Thanksgiving dinner.

I've reunited with a lot of old classmates and friends this weekend so far. I've fielded more than my share of "I'm sorry"s. And I returned each with a Thank You and my best reassuring smile. But I'll tell ya what... I have so much to be Thankful for today. When I think back someday on the 5 of us together, I will never picture holiday/event dinners. I'll see us all sitting in a room talking about just about everything, giving each other crap for this or that, while Mom's doing a mailing, Dad's lying down watching a game with me while Emy and I are on each other's laptops and Sammy's hopping from lap to lap. And that's exactly what we did today.

I am Whole. I am so glad to be Home.
Here's to what we have, and whatever comes...

Have a great weekend. Thanks -as always- for reading,
Rube

Update

For starters, I'm no longer playing cribbage on the train. Two weeks into our game, my card partner suggested we hang out some upcoming weekend. I gracefully turned him down, asking that we keep our arrangement to weekday card-playing. He replied that the other players all socialized off the clock and that he took my refusal as a personal insult. I wished him all the best and walked away.

While it's no skin off my back, I was slightly saddened that people throw out perfectly good relationships because they try to make them something they're not. Now I sit across from a nice girl my age. Half the ride, we discuss our days, our friends, and how it feels to stare up the company totem pole. The half, she reads and I do Sedoku. Six straight weeks of reading up on the current of the American public education system will cause one to take up Sedoku for at least a month. That means I have another 24 days of Sedoku. This is not a bad thing.

* * * * *

My father is not well. A virus put him in the hospital for a week or so. He's home now. But again, he's not well. It doesn't seem like the January procedure did it's job. We think it's because, while scleroderma can be contracted from the environment, it's in Dad's genetic code. So I guess we took scleroderma stem cells out and put them back in. What can you do? The doctors have no timetables, no chances of this or that. They're only certain of one thing: the scleroderma is taking its toll. So we're rolling with the punches and making the most of this time.

I constantly remind myself certain things: 1) We've truly done everything we can. 2) Our efforts to save Dad simultaneously brought together friends and strangers, spread such awareness about this disease, and raised a significant amount of money for the National Federation of Transplants. 3) We all gotta go somehow. Death is part of life... this is what we signed up for. And that's why I'm honestly at a loss for words when people say "I'm sorry." Sure, many of you have told me that, and I do appreciate the sentiment. I've said "I'm sorry" too. But think about it. You're sorry someone's dying? If everyone dies eventually, we should be glad they lived instead. You might say "Well, I'm sorry he's dying young." That implies that we should have enjoyed more years with someone. To that, I'd say that with 7 billion people on this earth, let's focus on being grateful that we met that person at all. No matter what life serves up, there are at least two ways of looking at it. I choose positive. This is not a front. It's a choice, my lifestyle. I humbly offer these ramblings as a suggestion for another perspective that I've found quite comforting.

To be clear, I don't know if Dad's got days or years left. That's just the point... I don't know. So I'm making the most of it.

Let's see, now... (looks down at checklist)
Job's great. Still single. Go Pats. I think that wraps it up for now...

Rube

Jayme's Mind, Making All Local Stops

DRIZZLE

I was greeted by a light rain and a steady wind upon leaving work one day last week. I kept my umbrella in my backpack upon deciding the wind was too stiff and the mist was refreshing to walk through after a long day indoors. Halfway to South Station, a gentleman walked towards me struggling with his umbrella. He had a raincoat on, no briefcase or newspaper to protect, only his (likely involuntary) desire to not get wet. Ten feet away from me, a Harbor breeze rushed up behind him, and turned his umbrella inside out. The distance between us was just enough for me to soak in his priceless look of shear defeat, stirred with a dash of lamentation for the five dollars he'd invested in avoiding this very situation.

Two men, equally as wet. Yet, their moods are polar opposites, as are the potential effects on the moods of the next 10 people they meet, based on a single decision. One man decided to bask in his surroundings while the other attempted to deny them.

FIFTEEN FOR TWO

I decided a long time ago that I would spend at least a few days of my "Golden Years" playing chess in a park. Even as a child, I remember being struck by the thought that two people could know nothing about each other save for their mutual respect for a board game-- and that that's enough for them to spend time together.

Last week, my intentions carried me onto the third car to the back of the 4:58 Express. I intended to put a sizable dent in a book I'm reading for work. But I was distracted by the pleasure sight of four men playing cribbage at the table next to mine. I envied their child-like (not childish) comradeship, their playful jabbing, the shear fact that they were holding playing cards and I was not. Plus, the silent, brewing stares of every other passenger with which I had nothing in common seemed to push me closer to the table. I said hello.

It turns out the loudest player, Randy, started the cribbage game 18 months ago, seemingly as an alternative to thinking about the 30 years he's spent converting spreadsheets to pdfs for a bank he doesn't respect. He'd rather talk about it and, since it's not overly negative, I'm honored to listen. The latest of Randy's rosters includes Dougie, Ray, and-- for the past 6 business days-- myself.
Now each weekday, on the third car to the back of the 4:58, I play out a fantasy of my Golden Years. And most of my life is still presumably ahead of me. It's a very satisfying thought.

COFFEE

When I graduated from Syracuse, I shipped off almost immediately to Las Cruces. A friend of mine soon headed out to Klamath Falls, Oregon. Over the next year or so, we both became wiser, more self-sufficient and, I think, much closer together. We didn't talk as often as I'd like, but each conversation refilled my confidence (and hers, I hope) as well as strengthened another connection I had with Home.
Two and a half years and 3,000 miles later, we work 3 buildings away from each other. She had a bad day Wednesday and called me at 3:30 for a Starbucks trip to break it up.

The words "this too shall pass" are so much better said face-to-face over a lunch wrap and a warm frappa- whatever the heck she ordered than said over the phone in the glow of a muted tv and a dinner for one.

BEING MANNY

When a reporter asked Manny what would happen if the Sox lose the ALCS, Manny replied: "If it doesn't happen, so who cares? There's always next year. It's not like it's the end of the world."

Cue: Red Sox Nation erupting with anger. For 24 straight hours after Manny's quote hit the web, strangers were grabbing each other on the streets screaming: "Manny doesn't care! Manny doesn't care!"

I felt like (and may well be) the only soul in Beantown defending him. I actually liked that Manny said that for two reasons. 1) I knew he'd be relaxed during Game 5 (in which he went 2-for-4 with an RBI) and 2) Manny proved to me once again that he's a true professional who understands that all you can do is your best. Sometimes it'll pan, other times not. We fans want players to think like us, never admitting that those who do can't win. If we want to feel closer with our players, maybe we should think more like them-- take in the moments, appreciate the fact that we're enjoying October baseball, revel in the drama, accept that defeat can make us feel just as alive as victory.

Consider the last time the Sox came back from 3-1 down in an ALCS. 1986. Don Baylor and Dave Henderson both hit 2-run homers off the Angels' Donnie Moore. Donnie Moore "cared." For Donnie Moore, it was "the end of the world." Donnie Moore killed himself three years after that game. Baring this in mind, I'm glad Manny's got a level head. I hope the rest of our team has put the next two games in a similar perspective. And it couldn't hurt if we all did the same.

Landmarks

Hi all,
Welcome to another installment of "Guest Blog." Today, it's my pleasure to introduce a member of my innermost core of friends, Jess Williams. To know him is to love him. Take it away, Jess:

* * * * *

There are some things for which you simply can't adequately prepare yourself. I am not a Civil War buff, but I'd imagine that seeing Gettysburg borders on a fall-to-your-knees religious experience. I'm just guessing, because it's a landmark.

Landmarks.

I drove to League City, Texas, yesterday to see friends made in the early 90s who have migrated here. I got here early enough, however, to drive down the side streets in search of a stranger from the late 70s: Me.

League City today is not remotely what it was in 1979 when a 20-year-old closet case from Las Cruces, N.M., got his first co-op job at Johnson Space Center in nearby Clear Lake City.

I came to Clear Lake an emotional mess -- a kid struggling with who he was and what it meant. In the back of some local rag (the likes of which no longer exists, so far as I can tell), I found a notice for the Texas Bay Area Gays, who were having a meeting at a not-close-by-but-within-driving-distance restaurant. Everyone Welcome. Their logo was a tea bag, the string hanging from the rim of a see-through cup, steam rising from the top.

It was an odd assortment of men, and the leader of the group was a man much older than me and quite unattractive physically, but he had a quick smile, an easy sense of humor and -- clearly -- the love and admiration of these other men and boys who were in attendance, all of whom welcomed me to their group and each of whom connected in some way to my story: "Confused Kid from Rural America Seeks Answers and Self Realization in the Big Fucking City." (Footnote: Confused Kid is Not Really 'Confused' At All; He Just Needs Permission to be Him.)

Permission granted.

I probably can't name them all after all these years, but some stand out: Erwin Felscher; Chris C; Greg C; Dougie Turner; Jerry Starkey; Peter G.

Erwin was the older fellow, and the leader of the pack. Every story started with, "After I met Erwin..." and Erwin would smile and fill in the gaps of the story as it was spun. At various ages and stages of crises, Erwin Felscher rescued gay men and boys from the Bay Area and gave them social opportunities and a place to crash and party. When the group was lagging in energy, a notice would be placed in one of the area rags and the T-BAGs would descend on some restaurant, and new blood would be welcomed to the group.

Erwin hit on everyone, but he also accepted rejection graciously. His house was the default gathering and party zone each evening and weekend. There were always people at Erwin's house. Frequently, the two spare bedrooms were occupied for extended periods. I include this fact not for shock value, but simply as a statement of what was real, and what I remember. For the record, I remember it fondly. There was no shame about it. Think about that.

For the two and a half years that I lived in and out of the Houston area, Erwin's house was always Home Base. Through alliances and dalliances and parties and self-discovery, Erwin's place was the epicenter of my Coming Out. He and the others taught me to be proud and unapologetic. They talked me through bad spots and celebrated successes in love, career and other areas of a life in process. In short order, I became One of Them, and I helped others as they came though the maelstrom of T-BAG, just as I had been helped.

This was in the years before AIDS, but JUST before. Just barely. I remember the first Saturday night that the group caravanned into Houston to hit the bars and bathhouses. I loved the bars, but the bathhouse left me cold. It was anonymous and dark and seedy and smelly. Even in the storm of my Coming Out, it wasn't for me.

All these years later, I am the only one of them left alive. Jerry was the first to succumb, then Dougie. The rest fell by in syncopated order as the years rolled by; and depression and distractions grabbed hold of me, and I lost touch. I heard years later that Erwin was gone. I have never forgiven myself for not having remained close to him in some way. I'm sure he knew, but I wish I'd made it crystal clear how much he meant to me. I hope he knew (and knows) that he saved my life.

Yesterday, I drove the back streets of old League City. Each time I started seeing brick houses and wide streets, I turned back and went along the narrow streets lined with the moldy clapboard houses that looked like Erwin's. For two hours, I drove. At some point, I saw an old woman at an antiques and second-hand store, and I stopped and asked her if she had been here in the late 70s and early 80s. She was. I asked if she remembered Erwin Felscher. She did not. She made some calls, but no one she knew remembered him, so she recommended I drive to the library downtown. On the way, it occurred to me that, Duh! Old Baptist women are not likely to remember Erwin Felscher! I had to smile.

But the library was a good idea, so I did as recommended, and ran into another old woman and asked her the same questions, and she was likewise unhelpful, but she suggested I could go next door to City Hall and research the tax records. On my way to the City Clerk's office, I saw an office with a sign that said, "Public Information Officer."

The young black woman inside listened to my VERY condensed story about trying to find that house. She had been on the job less than two weeks, but she made some phone calls and sent me back to the library. Before I left, I gave her my card and told her I could maybe help her if she ever needed advice about how to transition from Journalism to Public Information. She smiled and took the card, maybe a little suspiciously. I went back to the library.

Sheila was the reference librarian, and she said the best she could do was show me some old phone books. In the 1987 edition, I found him -- E A Felscher at 419 Clear Creek Ave. 337-3737. I recognized the phone number even before I read his name. Sheila pulled out some maps and we cross-checked the streets and found it. The house I was searching for was a block from the library. I drove to it in less than a minute.

I am not a Civil War buff, but I'd imagine that seeing Gettysburg borders on a fall-to-your-knees religious experience.

I wept looking at the front of 419 Clear Creek Ave. I wept for an old man I should have loved better, and for a young man who came alive inside those walls. I wept for friends who have gone Elsewhere, and for a time that was simpler to navigate. I took a picture of the place, with its two cars in the drive and anonymous tennis shoes on the porch. I reconfigured the house from memory as it stands behind those shaded windows. And I drove off in search of a glass of wine and a deep breath.

You can't recreate the past, but you can find landmarks. Landmarks matter, whether they are people or places or memories or ghosts -- or some combination of all four.

I doubt that the people inside that house today know it, but to a small army of gay men in the late 70s and early 80s, their home is hallowed ground. It is a landmark, and I feel lucky to have found it. Again.