lxskllr
No Lifer
- Nov 30, 2004
- 57,423
- 7,605
- 126
You're either dead or alive. Neither is a problem unless you dwell on it. You gotta keep going til you don't.
Classy is relative. The piano is a backdrop to lively conversations that include much of that I'm sure.Mom was more a fan of ribaldry, she would have suffered through the classiness to get to the piano bar interaction
Oh, you're straight? Well, so is spaghetti until it gets hot and wet.
https://onelinefun.com/gay/
Rock on!
Last Song -
Yesterday you came to lift me up
As light as straw and brittle as a bird
Today I weigh less than a shadow on the wall
Just one more whisper of a voice unheard
Tomorrow leave the windows open
As fear grows please hold me in your arms
Won't you help me if you can to shake this anger
I need your gentle hands to keep me calm
`Cause I never thought I'd lose
I only thought I'd win
I never dreamed I'd feel
This fire beneath my skin
I can't believe you love me
I never thought you'd come
I guess I misjudged love
Between a father and his son
Things we never said come together
The hidden truth no longer haunting me
Tonight we touched on the things that were never spoken
That kind of understanding sets me free
Written by Elton John, Bernard J.P. Taupin • Copyright © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc, Universal Music Publishing Group
Bernie and my mom! (again)
[edit: sometimes I entertain delusions of grandeur. Wouldn't it be cool if mom had mentioned her concerns about me to Mr. Taupin who then spoke to his partner? The dates work, and mom was always very truthful - an endearing quality, and dad was accepting me at the time, and it's not possible, but I dream.]
Last edited:
lxskllr
No Lifer
- Nov 30, 2004
- 57,423
- 7,605
- 126
I dated a guy named Buck. I'm not sh%tin' you. Another tall one. And Brock, another blonde. He had a 626. Our wallets got stolen out of it while we were body-surfing at the Wedge. He told the cop his birth date. He had lied to me, but only by two years.
I turned 18 in 1980. The experience of widespread AIDS in this country was a few years away. Heady times. Some acceptance for the gays, some pushback unlike (mostly) now. I'm glad I got to see this. [P] Too bad the Vice President is not, the last one seemed to start it all because he couldn't keep his big mouth shut.[/p] Seething truth.
Mr. Hudson didn't get to see it. When he kissed Linda Evans everyone knew he was infected. It wasn't talked about openly. He tried to carry on. In 'Giant' he played hate then enlightenment. What a role!
Wow. Sorry I missed this one earlier, I can't stop reading it now. Beautiful souls are visible in so many ways. Love in words is timelessly priceless, much like the Bard's were.
Will you go on, I pray? This is the night
That either makes me, or fordoes me quite.
Are you leeching or are you falling into a net made of velvet supported by empathy? Remember the bounces?
I've had two seizures (so did Eljon while I knew him - hyponatremia) My mom was epileptic. She had a seizure in The Treasury department store when I was alone with her when I was about six. Seeing a loved one go through something like that shakes you. Storms in the brain. Love grows.
My heart goes out.
Your sorrow is heartening, and not necessary. Sadness for another is perhaps the most human emotion. Appreciation is a salve, maybe some for your hand.
The serene, empty spaciousness on the other side sounds marvelous compared to this place (sometimes). Eljon and my mom and..... got to let go of suffering.
skyking
Lifer
- Nov 21, 2001
- 22,017
- 4,784
- 146
On your sig:
After my father died, I went to visit a catskinner he worked with up in the mountains near home. Verlon fondly recalled my dad by the moniker "windy Bob"
Years later I worked with another catskinner that the crew called "windy Bob". It brought a smile then, as does your signature now.
After my father died, I went to visit a catskinner he worked with up in the mountains near home. Verlon fondly recalled my dad by the moniker "windy Bob"
Years later I worked with another catskinner that the crew called "windy Bob". It brought a smile then, as does your signature now.
Here’s the story of the wheelchair (it’s HIV related), it’s a bit sordid, that’s a warning to the squeamish.
Although I crushed those three vertebrae (OP), after wearing a back brace for about nine months it healed. No incursions into my spinal cord. I was walking fine in early ‘94. My first partner (we had ended things amicably about a year earlier while I was still down south) had come up to Fremont to support me through the depression I was having.
He saw me have the seizure in late ‘93, and called 911. I will always know him as my lifesaver.
After, he helped me move back south around my family as “full blown” AIDS was taking hold (I’ve never felt more fully blown), we tried to make a go of it. We were better as friends. He suggested an HIV support group. I didn’t know of such things, and found out there were local ones, one just a couple of blocks from home held in a UCLA mental health extension location.
It was a bit weird, but very inviting. We’d talk about our struggles. One guy was eager to make introductions. We talked and later he asked me on a date. He became my second partner (before Eljon the magnificent). He was kind and handsome. I met his ex who lived in an apartment on Orange right around the corner from Mann’s Chinese Theater on Hollywood Boulevard. We’d drive to rural Washington where his family lived on Puget Sound and Vashon Island. The ferries. Mount Rainier and all the other snow-packed peaks in the distance. Visits to amazing Seattle, Vancouver, Whistler. Leavenworth aka Christmastown, snow and lights and holiday cheer, not the prison.
I knew he drank, but I didn’t know how much. Early on we went to the always outrageous West Hollywood Halloween Carnaval. We met early at The French Quarter (with the cute, kitschy shops upstairs - easy to imagine Paris) with some friends, including the lady with the tarantula (above in thread). I had bought a Navy sailor’s white hat at a uniform shop to go with some white trousers and a white shirt with a broad, long collar, and a navy blue, narrow scarf tied at my chest. If I say so myself, I was pretty convincing as it appeared that fleet-week had arrived.
My new boyfriend was dressed as a woman, makeup, hair, heels, and all. He was less than a convincing female, too masculine to pull it off. As we sat and gabbed, I saw another gender bending costume coming through the front door. I said to my boyfriend, “Look, finally some competition!” (on this festive night I had strangely seen no other transvestite costumes - yet). I was trying to be funny.
The next thing I knew, his open hand struck my cheek really hard with a loud whack. Everyone at our table stopped talking. I held my face with an intent look at him and said, “Owww!” An omen for what was to come.
I saw that he drank like a fish, and finding one who didn’t was like finding the proverbial tiny piece of a needle in a 100 acre field of hay. I tried to accept it. He also smoked weed. I had done so when I was younger and took it up again with him. It became a way to cope, and it helped the AIDS symptoms of low appetite, nausea (partly from the AIDS drugs which also made much worse the constant diarrhea), pain (neuropothy - above, from one of the meds.), and sleeplessness.
He was lying to me about things and obviously cheating on me (why do they always reveal their own deceit?).
I had had that gut surgery (above), and after his second strike with his hand, I knew I had to leave. I foolishly told my parents of my plan to get out. They saw him as my savior, someone to take care of me as I declined. He was anything but. They covertly went to my doctor to tell him of my crazy plan to get out, no confidence in me taking care of myself. It was ‘96. So after signing some forms at a hastily scheduled doctor’s appointment like you regularly have to do (I didn’t read them, they were so long and I am a slow reader, I didn’t want to hold people up - stupid, one was a release into madness), my dad drove me to a local hospital (that is going to be torn down since it was built on an earthquake fault - justice*). I didn’t understand, but dad said I needed help and that they were going to give it. I was led to the mental ward. A strange place with heavy metal exterior mesh over all the windows. I remembered One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.
My dad left, and I was a crazy among crazies. I didn’t have a penny to my name despite the income from SSDI, my boyfriend had access and always spent it all (at the new Best Buy store, booze, and God knows what else - later having multiple “payday loans” at 400+% interest), so when I went to make a call, I found out that only payphones were available to the crazies, better to not have them connect, or talk about the elderly naked man who always tried to climb into my bed in the middle of the night.
I played along with their activities and a support group held by a doctor who kept looking at me inquisitively after every time I shared. I made a trivet out of clay and little multi-colored tiles. It held together after the kiln. I threw it away when I got home as if I could discard the memories. The inquisitive doctor pulled me aside after the group and asked me my understanding of why I was there. I told him of the events leading up. He thanked me.
He and about five others (doctors?) met with me the next day. He explained that he didn’t think I needed to be there, and that he understood my parents’ concern. I told him the frustrations of living with a lying, cheating, abusive alcoholic. He said he couldn’t help there, and suggested I seek counseling.
After that my boyfriend brought a guy home to be our new roommate. It was very fishy. This guy just looked deceitful with his darting eyes, I later found out that he had no home and was a gay prostitute tired of living in a garage. I remembered the hospital and tried not to seem unwelcoming. I found myself cooking for them both, and staying in another room so they could have privacy. Such a life.
I got a bit angry after a truly unspeakable event, but I was rational. Then another call from my boyfriend to my dad. “Brad’s going crazy again.” A 5150 was my ticket back to the hospital. Punishment for speaking up to a monster. I didn’t resist; I remembered Mr. Nicholson and the movie. The staff saw me again and empathized, and I could tell they were getting frustrated with my case. One doctor met with me and told me if I returned again, they could no longer justify the visits to insurance without doing medical intervention. He told me they’d have to give me electro-shock treatments. I knew about them from the movie and my mom’s stories about working in a mental hospital (that were common back then) before establishing herself as an opera singer. A way to electrically erase memories, trauma. That didn’t sound too bad compared to the horror I was living at home. Scrambling my brain could be a path to peace.
After that trip I never rocked the boat at home again. Wild orgies became the norm in my living room. I stayed in the bedroom with headphones on listening to the classical music I grew up with. (My boyfriend said, “It makes my ears bleed.” Too bad for him, and Madonna was good too.)
I also sought counseling as the first doctor suggested, but was only eligible for a psychiatrist’s nurse case manager, the doctor was back east somewhere - Boston?
After speaking mostly with my parents and partner she prescribed a “medication.” Zyprexa. I looked it up on the amazing Internet I had available at home. According to the manufacturer’s slick website, it was for tourettes syndrome in children. F#ck, damn, sh#t, you f#cking bitch - not really, but I learned about tourettes on LA Law. I didn't have it.
I looked at the alarming side-effects. I failed to lookup one - ataxia - it sounded unconcerning, probably some rare exotic condition. But it defined the fact that my cerebellum was losing mass (I learned later from an MRI - thanks Dr. Aranow! He went by Aaron, his middle name - cool. A truth telling doctor with a very alliterative name. He now works at the amazing Desert AIDS Project, helping the affected in the Palm Springs area where all the fabulous desert denizens live). I started losing my balance. I needed a cane at first, then a walker (at 35). After falling a couple of times with the walker I needed the wheelchair. I figured out how to scoot around, stairs no longer an option. Thank god my legs still worked, making transfers easier (especially later into my vans). The nurse case manager blamed my marijuana use for the gaining imbalance. Other professionals I knew disagreed, one asking, “Do you know pot-heads who smoke more than you?” I said, “Oh yes.” She said, “Are they in wheelchairs?” I had my answer.
The med. also made me zone-out, but not like marijuana, I was emotionless. My mom died while I was on it. I didn’t even care (at the time, but mustered some words at her memorial where I was told they were touching, but I felt so distanced from my love of my mom, anything really, the curtains rarely parted, but did at my mom’s musical wake - above in the thread). When I told my boyfriend that I was going to stop taking it, he threatened to keep count of the little devastating pills and report any discrepancies (my word) to the doctors. I dutifully swallowed.
I forged on very carefully. I endured a lot, until I realized I could get my finances back if I called my bank and cancelled my debit card that my insignificant, potently controlling other (not unlike my dad) had control of. Another call to my dad, “Brad’s going crazy again.” A call from my dad while the man holding my strings was at work. I explained everything calmly, from the prostitute to the payday loans. He finally empathized. I got out, a little wounded, but out. A new life more wary of drinkers than before. Where was my brother in all this? Oh yeah, he and his new lushy GF were partying with my AH while I was in the mental ward. No one visited me there, not even my family.
A new life that included Alanon with understanding, compassion, and empathy for the alcoholic. And learning that sometimes you just have to escape. I had done a right thing. Then Eljon…
*After one of Eljon’s hyponatremic seizures, the ambulance took him to emergency at that same hospital with the mental ward. I was so scared as he was totally disconnected from reality, his neurons unable to fire properly without sufficient electrolytes. A tall male nurse with an eastern-European accent started poking Eljon in the chest pretty hard, saying twice, “What’s wrong with you?!” I wanted to jump out of my wheelchair and choke the giant out. I just said, sheepishly, “He had a seizure.” He looked at me as if I couldn’t comprehend his job’s challenges.
I’m not unhappy that that hospital is closing, and I empathize with (most of) the employees. OK I can be a little sadistic.
We all have a twisty path, trying to steer around the pitfalls. They can be deep, but not inescapable. The brake is my friend.
So many great memories to fall back on. Handsome Brock looking over at me in the break of a wave as we rode it in, sharing the rides of lifetimes. A powerful oceanic force made incredibly fun. Tucking-in in the common shorebreakers at the Wedge just before the big wave you’re riding crashes you into the sand. You have to be brave sometimes to see your abilities and have fun with them.
Mom and Eljon might be watching, best to be good to myself.
Gotta love sailors in their hats. If only time could be turned.
Everyone must stand alone.
Although I crushed those three vertebrae (OP), after wearing a back brace for about nine months it healed. No incursions into my spinal cord. I was walking fine in early ‘94. My first partner (we had ended things amicably about a year earlier while I was still down south) had come up to Fremont to support me through the depression I was having.
He saw me have the seizure in late ‘93, and called 911. I will always know him as my lifesaver.
After, he helped me move back south around my family as “full blown” AIDS was taking hold (I’ve never felt more fully blown), we tried to make a go of it. We were better as friends. He suggested an HIV support group. I didn’t know of such things, and found out there were local ones, one just a couple of blocks from home held in a UCLA mental health extension location.
It was a bit weird, but very inviting. We’d talk about our struggles. One guy was eager to make introductions. We talked and later he asked me on a date. He became my second partner (before Eljon the magnificent). He was kind and handsome. I met his ex who lived in an apartment on Orange right around the corner from Mann’s Chinese Theater on Hollywood Boulevard. We’d drive to rural Washington where his family lived on Puget Sound and Vashon Island. The ferries. Mount Rainier and all the other snow-packed peaks in the distance. Visits to amazing Seattle, Vancouver, Whistler. Leavenworth aka Christmastown, snow and lights and holiday cheer, not the prison.
I knew he drank, but I didn’t know how much. Early on we went to the always outrageous West Hollywood Halloween Carnaval. We met early at The French Quarter (with the cute, kitschy shops upstairs - easy to imagine Paris) with some friends, including the lady with the tarantula (above in thread). I had bought a Navy sailor’s white hat at a uniform shop to go with some white trousers and a white shirt with a broad, long collar, and a navy blue, narrow scarf tied at my chest. If I say so myself, I was pretty convincing as it appeared that fleet-week had arrived.
My new boyfriend was dressed as a woman, makeup, hair, heels, and all. He was less than a convincing female, too masculine to pull it off. As we sat and gabbed, I saw another gender bending costume coming through the front door. I said to my boyfriend, “Look, finally some competition!” (on this festive night I had strangely seen no other transvestite costumes - yet). I was trying to be funny.
The next thing I knew, his open hand struck my cheek really hard with a loud whack. Everyone at our table stopped talking. I held my face with an intent look at him and said, “Owww!” An omen for what was to come.
I saw that he drank like a fish, and finding one who didn’t was like finding the proverbial tiny piece of a needle in a 100 acre field of hay. I tried to accept it. He also smoked weed. I had done so when I was younger and took it up again with him. It became a way to cope, and it helped the AIDS symptoms of low appetite, nausea (partly from the AIDS drugs which also made much worse the constant diarrhea), pain (neuropothy - above, from one of the meds.), and sleeplessness.
He was lying to me about things and obviously cheating on me (why do they always reveal their own deceit?).
I had had that gut surgery (above), and after his second strike with his hand, I knew I had to leave. I foolishly told my parents of my plan to get out. They saw him as my savior, someone to take care of me as I declined. He was anything but. They covertly went to my doctor to tell him of my crazy plan to get out, no confidence in me taking care of myself. It was ‘96. So after signing some forms at a hastily scheduled doctor’s appointment like you regularly have to do (I didn’t read them, they were so long and I am a slow reader, I didn’t want to hold people up - stupid, one was a release into madness), my dad drove me to a local hospital (that is going to be torn down since it was built on an earthquake fault - justice*). I didn’t understand, but dad said I needed help and that they were going to give it. I was led to the mental ward. A strange place with heavy metal exterior mesh over all the windows. I remembered One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.
My dad left, and I was a crazy among crazies. I didn’t have a penny to my name despite the income from SSDI, my boyfriend had access and always spent it all (at the new Best Buy store, booze, and God knows what else - later having multiple “payday loans” at 400+% interest), so when I went to make a call, I found out that only payphones were available to the crazies, better to not have them connect, or talk about the elderly naked man who always tried to climb into my bed in the middle of the night.
I played along with their activities and a support group held by a doctor who kept looking at me inquisitively after every time I shared. I made a trivet out of clay and little multi-colored tiles. It held together after the kiln. I threw it away when I got home as if I could discard the memories. The inquisitive doctor pulled me aside after the group and asked me my understanding of why I was there. I told him of the events leading up. He thanked me.
He and about five others (doctors?) met with me the next day. He explained that he didn’t think I needed to be there, and that he understood my parents’ concern. I told him the frustrations of living with a lying, cheating, abusive alcoholic. He said he couldn’t help there, and suggested I seek counseling.
After that my boyfriend brought a guy home to be our new roommate. It was very fishy. This guy just looked deceitful with his darting eyes, I later found out that he had no home and was a gay prostitute tired of living in a garage. I remembered the hospital and tried not to seem unwelcoming. I found myself cooking for them both, and staying in another room so they could have privacy. Such a life.
I got a bit angry after a truly unspeakable event, but I was rational. Then another call from my boyfriend to my dad. “Brad’s going crazy again.” A 5150 was my ticket back to the hospital. Punishment for speaking up to a monster. I didn’t resist; I remembered Mr. Nicholson and the movie. The staff saw me again and empathized, and I could tell they were getting frustrated with my case. One doctor met with me and told me if I returned again, they could no longer justify the visits to insurance without doing medical intervention. He told me they’d have to give me electro-shock treatments. I knew about them from the movie and my mom’s stories about working in a mental hospital (that were common back then) before establishing herself as an opera singer. A way to electrically erase memories, trauma. That didn’t sound too bad compared to the horror I was living at home. Scrambling my brain could be a path to peace.
After that trip I never rocked the boat at home again. Wild orgies became the norm in my living room. I stayed in the bedroom with headphones on listening to the classical music I grew up with. (My boyfriend said, “It makes my ears bleed.” Too bad for him, and Madonna was good too.)
I also sought counseling as the first doctor suggested, but was only eligible for a psychiatrist’s nurse case manager, the doctor was back east somewhere - Boston?
After speaking mostly with my parents and partner she prescribed a “medication.” Zyprexa. I looked it up on the amazing Internet I had available at home. According to the manufacturer’s slick website, it was for tourettes syndrome in children. F#ck, damn, sh#t, you f#cking bitch - not really, but I learned about tourettes on LA Law. I didn't have it.
I looked at the alarming side-effects. I failed to lookup one - ataxia - it sounded unconcerning, probably some rare exotic condition. But it defined the fact that my cerebellum was losing mass (I learned later from an MRI - thanks Dr. Aranow! He went by Aaron, his middle name - cool. A truth telling doctor with a very alliterative name. He now works at the amazing Desert AIDS Project, helping the affected in the Palm Springs area where all the fabulous desert denizens live). I started losing my balance. I needed a cane at first, then a walker (at 35). After falling a couple of times with the walker I needed the wheelchair. I figured out how to scoot around, stairs no longer an option. Thank god my legs still worked, making transfers easier (especially later into my vans). The nurse case manager blamed my marijuana use for the gaining imbalance. Other professionals I knew disagreed, one asking, “Do you know pot-heads who smoke more than you?” I said, “Oh yes.” She said, “Are they in wheelchairs?” I had my answer.
The med. also made me zone-out, but not like marijuana, I was emotionless. My mom died while I was on it. I didn’t even care (at the time, but mustered some words at her memorial where I was told they were touching, but I felt so distanced from my love of my mom, anything really, the curtains rarely parted, but did at my mom’s musical wake - above in the thread). When I told my boyfriend that I was going to stop taking it, he threatened to keep count of the little devastating pills and report any discrepancies (my word) to the doctors. I dutifully swallowed.
I forged on very carefully. I endured a lot, until I realized I could get my finances back if I called my bank and cancelled my debit card that my insignificant, potently controlling other (not unlike my dad) had control of. Another call to my dad, “Brad’s going crazy again.” A call from my dad while the man holding my strings was at work. I explained everything calmly, from the prostitute to the payday loans. He finally empathized. I got out, a little wounded, but out. A new life more wary of drinkers than before. Where was my brother in all this? Oh yeah, he and his new lushy GF were partying with my AH while I was in the mental ward. No one visited me there, not even my family.
A new life that included Alanon with understanding, compassion, and empathy for the alcoholic. And learning that sometimes you just have to escape. I had done a right thing. Then Eljon…
*After one of Eljon’s hyponatremic seizures, the ambulance took him to emergency at that same hospital with the mental ward. I was so scared as he was totally disconnected from reality, his neurons unable to fire properly without sufficient electrolytes. A tall male nurse with an eastern-European accent started poking Eljon in the chest pretty hard, saying twice, “What’s wrong with you?!” I wanted to jump out of my wheelchair and choke the giant out. I just said, sheepishly, “He had a seizure.” He looked at me as if I couldn’t comprehend his job’s challenges.
I’m not unhappy that that hospital is closing, and I empathize with (most of) the employees. OK I can be a little sadistic.
We all have a twisty path, trying to steer around the pitfalls. They can be deep, but not inescapable. The brake is my friend.
So many great memories to fall back on. Handsome Brock looking over at me in the break of a wave as we rode it in, sharing the rides of lifetimes. A powerful oceanic force made incredibly fun. Tucking-in in the common shorebreakers at the Wedge just before the big wave you’re riding crashes you into the sand. You have to be brave sometimes to see your abilities and have fun with them.
Mom and Eljon might be watching, best to be good to myself.
Gotta love sailors in their hats. If only time could be turned.
Everyone must stand alone.
Last edited:
- Oct 9, 1999
- 46,042
- 8,741
- 136
There is a violent beauty in heart-rending truth, unblinkingly told. You are taking the many broken shards of your life and with your words, fashioning them into art. That is the alchemy of art, to take the very worst of life and by holding a mirror to it, magically beaming beauty from its reflection.
I can't stop.On your sig:
After my father died, I went to visit a catskinner he worked with up in the mountains near home. Verlon fondly recalled my dad by the moniker "windy Bob"
Years later I worked with another catskinner that the crew called "windy Bob". It brought a smile then, as does your signature now.
[sorry, reply #2]
It's weird, maybe I'm going crazy. It seems like there's a newer place in my mind. It's spacious, filled with words and thoughts interconnecting somewhat differently, apparently brought on by posting here, I'm not afraid to say things that I believe (see P&N), and I've bared it all here, there's no skin on my onion. There's very little light needed on the truth when the opposite is trying to force its way down your throat, its habit of always doing that. Truth hums along at a less feverish pitch.
Moonbeam says that thought is the scourge of man and everything else, and I totally agree, look what we've invented, the machines of death, the slow death of an atmosphere at the hands of travel, stuff, industry... It took a lot of thought to get me off of my legs, and other thoughts to invent and develop the pretty slick machine I could push myself around on with my arms. Government insurance paid - such empathy (thanks guys! Too late, I already had dibs on your cash
), and it had to be special ordered because of my height. I could choose its color. I said, "Can you gay-up a black one?" -not really, but I chose this. It's more subtle than the swatch in normal light. I still use it close to two decades later. It's been my unceasing rock through much of this. It's a Quickie GP.I'd gladly give up the wheelchair for less war, less environmental rape and spoiling it for the future with the wrong molecules.
More thoughts, just a network of neurons and electrons, mental is physical, layered according to evolution. It remains to be seen if it was a good, advanced(?)-simian era. We're the first to choose.
Thoughts of fab. Eljon being pushed along by fab. Elton. Fabulous.
Last edited:
- Oct 9, 1999
- 46,042
- 8,741
- 136
Bradly, your prose often dances with the beauty of a young ballerina. So fine! Thank you for sharing your unbowed and unbroken heart with us!
Toe shoes can hurt, but they lift you the highest while keeping you grounded. Excuse me, that's my cue, Nureyev awaits.
"The reason why Nureyev had not gone public with his "AIDS" diagnosis was quite simple: a number of countries, including the United States, refused entry to individuals known to be HIV-positive."
The family (I'm the littler boy):
https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.108767132549382.16809.100002482877186&type=1&l=6b59375cb0
https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.108767132549382.16809.100002482877186&type=1&l=6b59375cb0
Through the pain, gay parades can be blissful.
https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.294573027302124.68468.100002482877186&type=1&l=288457272d
https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.294573027302124.68468.100002482877186&type=1&l=288457272d
A magical trip to Yosemite. Snow, mid-week, it was gloriously empty.
https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.105875722838523.11108.100002482877186&type=1&l=4db8541c12
https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.105875722838523.11108.100002482877186&type=1&l=4db8541c12
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