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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