After Fred's family farm was destroyed by a tornado this past spring, we've made several trips to Northwest Kansas to help his parents try to piece things back together, clean up, and relocate. We've been out there for a few days on this trip, and I have to get back to work in Kansas City. We've decided I will take the Greyhound back to Kansas City, Fred will stay on at the farm to help with the (massive) cleanup for another week or so.

I have a brother in K.C. who will pick me up at the bus station when I get in, about 9:00 in the evening. The station is located in a particularly seedy part of K.C., but my brother is a life member of the NRA, always packs heat, and has no problem meeting me among the winos, hookers and street urchins. I decided it would be better to inconvenience my brother than my elderly father to pick me up, as my dad would be passing out cigarettes, sharing sips of bad liquor in paper bags and making new friends with the homeless while waiting for my bus. My brother would just shoot them.

The bus station closest to the farm is an hour's drive away in Colby, Kansas. As it turns out, the «bus station» is in a McDonald's restaurant. At the counter I ordered my ticket to Kansas City along with a Big Mac. I'm one of the last passengers to board the bus. The only seat left is directly behind the driver, beside a kind of skinny guy wearing a straw cowboy hat. He's eating something from McDonald's also. Half of the bus seems to have picked up something from McDonald's. (It's good the bus station wasn't located in a furniture store.) I plop in the seat and say hello to Skinny Cowboy. He smiles and says hi.

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My son, Dan, is now 24 years old. Amazing. Especially considering I'm only 35. (Believe that? I've got a bridge to sell you.) He has his own car, works two jobs, and is generally a great young man. He's a little shy, but has a good sense of humor and a lot of insight. I have no idea how, but we've done a good job with him. (Thank you, God!) He's responsible, for the most part, doesn't do drugs, (as far as I know, anyway) hasn't gotten anybody pregnant (as far as I know, anyway) so I figure that's damned near perfect. He still lives, «at home,» and probably will for quite some time. And that's fine with me.

The kid has a wonderful work ethic. He's worked part time since he was 14, has NEVER missed even an hour of work, and is often called in on his days off if someone else doesn't show up. He never refuses.

A few years ago, when he didn't have his own car, I would take him to and from his jobs. I would leave my work at 10:00 in the morning, go home to pick him up, take him to work and then come back to my work. Sometimes he'd work a split shift and I'd pick him up from work at 2:00 in the afternoon, take him back home, then take him to work again at 5:00. I'd pick him up at closing time, usually around 10:30 p.m.

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My father and I are in Branson to see my brother and his wife, and to celebrate my father's 86th birthday. They tell us an old friend from New Jersey will be joining us for part of the weekend—a guy named Joe.

They have told me about Joe in the past. He's a great big Italian my brother worked with for a time in New Jersey. They've stayed in touch over the years, seeing each other and respective families a couple of times a year. My father has met Joe also and speaks highly of him.

Maybe I've watched too many Godfather movies, or have preconceived notions of what New Jersey Italians are like. I picture a guy with no neck, a broken nose, and an accent thicker than San Francisco fog. He's GOT to look like someone right out of the Sopranos.

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My father is 86 years old this month. He?'s in remarkably good shape for a man his age. He'?s always looked much younger than he is ? still as slender as he was in college, has all his teeth, beautiful thick salt-and-pepper hair, and his choice of widow women, if he wanted them.

He doesn't.

My mother died 14 years ago. Dad has been taking care of the house and living alone since. Taking care of the house except for cleaning, that is; 51 years of marriage to The Cleanest Woman On Earth had no effect on his inability to wipe the kitchen counter or vacuum the carpet.

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I haven?t been to a movie in quite a while. I like movies, I just don?t go much any more in my old age. I prefer to rent them and watch in the privacy of the not-so-great room at Hell?s Half Acre. Some movies lose a lot in the transfer from large screen to small, but the popcorn is cheaper at home. I don?t have to listen to people cough and babies cry, and I can mash the little ?pause? button whenever I want. So I generally avoid theaters.

I did go to see ?Brokeback Mountain? in the theater. (I had to in order to keep my Homosexual Agenda membership card.) That was the last movie I?'ve seen in a theater.

The other day I was thinking about the first time I ever went to a theater. I couldn'?t have been more than 5 or 6 years old. My mother took me to downtown Kansas City, on the streetcar, to the picture show. Yes, I?'m old. Back then they were ?picture shows?, ? at least in my family, ? and Kansas City still had streetcars.

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Saturday night, Diversity Weekend in Eureka. There are so many things to do, and so little time. Fred and I are lounging at the New Delhi, listening to live music and eating sandwiches. We're having a two-person committee meeting to decide where to go and what to do. It's dark, the evening is speeding along way too fast. Fred's never been to the Tiki, and wants to check it out. The Tiki it is!

Meeting adjourned.

After eating we wander up the hill toward the Tiki. Fred has to pull me up the steps outside. Too many cigarettes and middle age have taken a toll. The place is crowded, but not uncomfortably so. We grab a drink and head for the back where some folks we know are holding court at a large round table below the d.j. booth.

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I wasn't lucky enough to be born with it. I hang around with a lot of gay people, but the gene doesn't transfer to me. I've tried rubbing against gay men who have a talent for decorating (and other things) but osmosis doesn't work. You either get it – along with straight, white teeth, thick wavy hair, and the gene to make you tall – or you don't.

I didn't.

I don't know what kind of gay man I am. I have absolutely no clue when it comes to decorating, clothing styles, the latest dance craze (I can't dance anyway), antiques, the cocktail simply everyone is drinking today. (I've heard of a Cosmo, but couldn't tell you how to make one.) I don't put «product» in my hair. I wouldn't, even if I had hair.

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May 2007 - Fred has to go back to northwest Kansas to help his parents in the cleanup of the family farm destroyed in a tornado two months ago. This is the third time he's been out to help, staying anywhere from a few days to a few weeks. I've been out there twice, getting in the way more than helping, but at least I can drive his elderly mother the 45 miles to the nearest Wal-Mart for the essentials it takes to run a home. Starting all over isn't easy, especially for a woman of her age. For me, it's more like babysitting than anything else, but I like to think it helped a little.

I've told Fred I would be happy to go with him. They're my in-laws, so to speak, so I'll help if I can, as long as I can have liquor. In a town with a population of about 350, counting the dogs, I need liquor, damn it! A gay bar? I don't think so. Denver is at least a four hour drive away, and in the outback of Kansas, it's not a good idea to be caught gazing longingly at a cute farm boy's crotch. Since I can't do that, a bottle of hooch is mandatory. Fred agrees.

I can't take off work for an entire week, so we decide Fred will drive out by himself, I will fly from Kansas City to Hays, Kansas, a few days later. We're amazed to find that there actually ARE scheduled flights from K. C. to Hays! Who knew?! He'll pick me up at Hays International Airport for the 3+ hour drive to his hometown. After a few more days of cleaning and salvaging, we'll both drive back home to Kansas City.

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