Archive | June, 2011

Post-wedding party


So last weekend, just hours after New York state became the sixth in the union to recognize same-sex civil marriage, we attended a straight one which could just as easily have taken place in any of the fifty states. I know, funny, right? LGBT Pride weekend, and we go to a straight marriage. Whaddaya gonna do. Love, apparently, is love.

Fortunately there was a really nice Pagan overtone to the event, a simple and relatively succinct affair which took place in the back yard of a family friend of the bride’s, not far from Point Reyes Station in West Marin County. This is as picturesque a locale as you’re going to find in rural Northern California. God’s country, if you can call it that as a Pagan sympathizer.

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Weekend bonus shot, 06.27.11 (Monday edition)


Pride brunch toast, Berkeley, CA.

Not a Bloody Mary to be seen. This here is Pride, the parents-of-young-children version. Coffee for the grown-ups, hot chocolate with marshmallows (it’s Pride, after all!) for the younger set. Can you make out the weathered rainbow flag down there as our table cloth?

This year, for the first time in over 25 years of Prides, (that number sounds appalling but it is indeed accurate), I didn’t march, rabble-rouse, party, boogie, or even stroll. The beloved had a bum ankle from a backfired dance move demo she’d delivered to one of her theater kids (JC Superstar: not for wimps!), and our own kids were so-so about the Parade (“It’s fun but it’s too hot and noisy,” said the girlie, pretty much nailing the characterization).

We had long planned a Post-Pride-Potluck-Picnic-Party chez nous, and this year we leaned heavily upon it for our mellowed-out dose of queer (family) love.  A baker’s dozen friends, old and new, each with a kid or two in tow, came to chillax in the back yard, swing on the swing, bounce on the trampoline, and wag the jumbo “Go Marriage Equality” foam hand one of them brought back from Pride (what will they think up next?).

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What my phone looked like in the wee hrs this AM, at the end of my date night. Text came in from a New Yorker chum at 7:53pm Pacific Standard Time (at which point my phone was off & in my pocket).  He sent the same text to my beloved (his old old friend), and probably to everyone in his damn phone (hi, Joseph! I KNOW you’re dancing your ASS off RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE).

And here’s what my inbox looked like:


I’d have images of immediate elation to share, rather than elation media-ated, if our date night was in the Castro. (I know! shocking that we weren’t! That’s what decades of being out and nearly 17 years together will do for ya! Sometimes you just go to a Sondheim show your partner’s music director did in a refurbished movie house that you watched all those Erroll Flynn movies in as a kid, 4.5 whole miles from the Castro in a totally straight part of town! Go figure!)

No analysis or commentary here tonight, though. Just a big wide smile for all the hard work folks done did out there. You deserve all the relief and joy you’re feeling. Happy Pride.

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Wordless Thursday

At The Palace (Hotel, that is), San Francisco, CA.


Wordless Wednesday passed, well, wordlessly.

This moment above lasted about a split second, as the girlie was cracking herself up and sticking her scarf in every imaginable position on her head (including covering it entirely). Speedy Baba had teacup in the left hand so’s to keep her camera at the ready in the right.

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Baba’s Day: Quickie Dispatch


“It’s okay to hav a Baba,” (sic) from the girlchild, Kindergarten year (2010).

The sun still hasn’t set on Baba’s Day this year, and I can’t pause long, but do want to leave a little something here for the occasion, in solidarity with any other comrade who happens by. The only way it’ll happen is with bullet points and incomplete sentences, so! Herewith:

    • Talked at length to my Pops this morning about fatherhood, lesbian and otherwise. His loving support and openness to my whole self has a value beyond words. It is anointing, validating, liberating, inspirational. He essentially gets it, which is about as much as you want from anyone, especially a family member, particularly a parent.
    • There’s much to say about our conversation, but not on the fly on the day itself. In short, we concur: when you disengage the clutch and allow your gears to coast unhindered by the space stamped out for them (allotted movement, only here and only in this way), all sorts of stuff that might otherwise bamboozle begins to make sense: masculine femininity, feminine masculinity, the fact that each of us who fights for more space for ourselves, who elbows more elbow room for a fuller, truer self, makes more space for others.
    • We have more allies in this process than we know. Specifically, women trying to make space for parenthoods like mine have allies in gay men fathers and straight men fathers who themselves want company as they, too, expand the notions of what’s possible. I think my father appreciates my parental/gender journey because he’s just such a man. Either one (gay man father or straight). He’s 90 already, so if I don’t know now, I’ll probably never know which. His favorite answer to questions he can’t quite hear: “Probably.”
    • Before I return to my day, here are some ditties from years past of topical interest:

Things I have in common with dads, from 2006,

A Baba’s Day Proclamation, from 2007, and

A Baba’s Day pictorial, from 2009

Happy day, to one and all.

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