Hello From the Flight Deck

Good afternoon folks, I’d like to welcome you all aboard our flight today.  First let me apologize for the rough takeoff out of Seattle.  Seems that steering a 737 with the feet going 185 knots down the runway is harder than expected. And those big dips we took shortly after takeoff, well a 737 climbing under power takes a lot of muscle to maneuver up and down. A few inches with the steering yoke too far and the plane goes the other direction.  And those unexpected turns we made a few minutes ago accompanied by the rocking motion was just a test.  Pay no attention to the alarm signal you hear in the background, its just a little reminder to fly the plane at the proper attitude.  We appreciate your business and hope that you will fly with us again soon, enjoy your stay in Seattle or wherever your travels take you. 

On our trip over Christmas break to Tempe, AZ to watch Michael play in a B-Ball tournament I visited with a church friend, Ed (he is actually my godson) who works for America West as a pilot and administrator in their flight simulator program.  Ed gave me a tour of the facilities and we spent about a hour or so in a Boeing 737 simulator, what a blast.  It feels so real, the landing and takeoff from the cockpit is incredible.  My attempt at flying the plane was a disaster as noted above.  It is very difficult as you can imagine, thankfully Ed took the controls and got us back on the ground.  Steering on the ground is done with the feet but more precise steering required to get up to the gate is done with a small wheel located on the pilot’s left which controls the nose wheels.  The trouble is it only requires small movements to make the plane turn with the nose wheel.  I was all over the place causing me to start feeling sick from the jerky movements.  Now I know why they tell you to stay seated until the pilot turns off the seatbelt sign.  Ed reports that many pilots get sick learning to steer the plane on the ground.  I guess I’m in good company. 

Its December So It Must Be…

No, not Christmas, solstice, Hanukkah, New Years.. its the start of the Metropolitan Opera Broadcast season. Although the Met’s season is well underway the Saturday matinee (10:30 PST) broadcasts start in mid-December and run to the end of the season in the first week of May. The Met broadcasts have been bringing world class opera to opera fans for 75 years.  While the broadcast brings outstanding opera to a listening audience who may never get a chance to see the productions live, for many it is the intermissions that are truly the most valuable and enlightening, particularly for an opera novice like me.  Regardless of the topic or feature I always seem to learn something new or expand my understanding and appreciation of this fabulous art form. 

The first opera of the broadcast season was Rigoletto featuring Anna Netrebko as Gilda.  Ms Netrebko is a risng star and a welcome departure from the “big soprano” we have come to associate with opera divas.  I was anxious to hear her in this role since I’d seen the opera twice at Seattle Opera and was very familiar with it.  While I was not disappointed I have to say that the Seattle production was just as good if not better in many respects.  Ms Netrebko’s singing at the end of Act 1 of Gualtier Malde...Caro nome (Real Media) was very good demonstrating she can do coloratura with the best of them.  My favorite section Ancor Ce Mezz’ora near the end of Act 3 was fair, much better in Seattle but my perception is a bit skewed since I learned the opera listening to the spectacular Sutherland, Pavarotti, Milnes, LSO, Bonynge recording.

The Met broadcast is perfect backdrop for working around the house on a Saturday morning.  You will note in the photo I’m still in my bathrobe, headphones on, busily baking prosfora.  One down, twenty one to go!

Oh…Fruitcake..Gee Thanks!

Let’s face it fruitcake has a bad rap. Like many others I looked askance at this holiday heavyweight for years.  About fours years ago I got the idea to start making them.  Don’t ask me why, since I’d never been much interested in the stuff.  Perhaps its like my sudden interest in opera at age 48, it is just something that you grow into.  I wonder what will be next:  NASCAR, gambling, QVC?.  Perhaps it is the byproduct of advancing age, the rigid mental barriers breakdown and one can’t recall longtime biases and habits; “Humm..  haven’t I always loved fruitcake?  You know I really should start making it”.

A local cafe makes an “all natural” loaf, that is with real dried fruit, that I had many years ago and found to my liking.  That kind of cake fits more with my approach to food than the candied varieties that we are all familiar with.  I began to look for recipes.  I eventually found one that looked promising in the “Joy Of Cooking” pg 977.  I modified the recipe slightly and of course use dried fruit rather than candied, its fabulous.  The combination of intense spices (nutmeg, cinnamon, mace, cloves), dried fruit, molasses and brandy produce a marvelously complex taste sensation.  As the cake ages it gets even better as things start to mingle and interact.  I’ve never been able to keep mine for more than a few months (I’m very undisciplined) but I have eaten one year old cake made by a friend and can report that they definitely improve with time.  They are reputed to last for years with enough alcohol in them and under proper storage.

Over the years I’ve given them away as Christmas gifts to family and friends.  Last year I overcooked almost the entire batch (dark pans, avoid them if possible) and didn’t give many away, consuming them at home (they are too expensive to just throw away).  I took a couple of loaves to Mt Athos and they came in handy on a number of occasions. 

It is very rewarding to make something and give it as a gift at holiday time yet, at the same time there is a certain pleasure in watching people squirm when I hand one over.  Sometimes it is a look of panic or dread, as if I just asked them to hold a bag of dog poop.  “Oh my God, what am I going to do with this thing?” they must be thinking.  “I hope he is not going to ask me to cut it up and eat it now!”

When I bring a cake to Christmas parties there is a similar reaction, people eat around them at the cookie table.  Since mine don’t quite look like the typical fruitcake there is also the basic instinct to avoid the unknown.  Sugar cookies with silver beads and green and red sprinkles, now those are safe to eat.  I go on the offensive and immediately starting eating some encouraging others around me to do so.  The few brave ones are pleasantly surprised to discover that the lowly fruitcake is perhaps the only item at the desert table of any substance and tastes great.  There are even a few folks now who look forward to them. 

Watch out the fruitcakes are in the mail!

November 23, 1992

My dad suddenly appears in the doorway, "you better get down here, I think this is it" he exclaims and disappears. Tim and I weary from a long night on “death watch” and three weeks of all night shifts watching over him have been taking a break, dozing in the visitors’ lounge.  The fear that he would die on someone else’s watch has been nagging at me from the start.  Now the time had come.  We stagger to our feet and dash down the hall bursting through the room’s double airlock doors.  I sit at his feet on the right side of the bed.  I’m not really sure why but I put my hand on his chest.  My mother holds one hand (as she has done most of the night), Eddie, his partner, the other. My father is at the head of the bed close to his face.  Tim is on the other side of the bed across from me.

The haunting drone of spastic breathing of the past 12 hours, as he lay comatose, is now replaced by what must certainly be the “death rattle”.  In a matter of seconds his chest heaves reflexively, he gasps, pulling his hands out of Eddie’s and my mother’s grasp. His face ashens as the warmth of the human soul departs. His entire body seems to deflate.  Life is leaving him and we collectively cheer him on.  In an instant he is gone yet, surprisingly we are not distraught. In fact I don’t believe any of us even shed a tear.  We had shed many tears over the past weeks, had many close calls, now we were exhausted and numb. The long night, the many years of worry were over. 

My last look at him in that terrible room is from the hallway. His cold lifeless body, once so strong and agile is bathed in sunlight beaming through the window like a spotlight… his final curtain call (oh.. he would not be happy with the hairdo!).  Bravo my dear brother!  Good show!

Over the 13 years since my brother David’s death of AIDS I have been trying to figure out how to talk about it.  From the very moment of my arrival in NYC in early November, until we buried him back home, it was as if I were in some kind of scripted drama, in a movie. Over and over I found myself stepping back and thinking how surreal the given moment was, how vivid, how rich. “This can’t be happening like this” I would think.  My difficultly over the years lie not in coming to grips with the loss but in finding a way to convey what I can honestly say is the most incredible three weeks of my entire life. I’ve never felt so alive; nothing remotely compares, not even the birth of my children. 

What better setting for drama than NYC, hold up with my brother and his friends. Gay men and drama just go together. I had made many a trip to NYC in the years leading up to his death, unfortunately often as the result of some health crisis and had gotten to know many of them quite well.  Spending time with them was like being in an episode of “Seinfeld” and “Will and Grace” all rolled into one, it was a laugh a minute!  The love my brother’s friends had for him was astonishing, particularly that of his best friend Tim.  For me being in this loving open environment was liberating. We laughed, we cried, often it seems in the same breathe. David was in there right along with us (in between visits from our departed grandmother Coles and Marilyn Monroe) laying in bed, blind, fighting for his life cracking jokes and dissing with the best of them.

A week or so earlier he asked Eddie and I to go make funeral arrangements for him, I broke down and lay at his side weeping uncontrolably.  When I composed myself he promptly directed us to pick out a simple casket… “something in mahogany” he said and .. “see if we can get the Judy Garland Room” at Frank Campbell ( the funeral parlor where she was laid out).  We all busted out in laughter!

We were all there for David, to help him come what may. Little did we know that in the process he was helping us, helping us let go of him. 

Nowadays the life and death struggle of AIDS seems very distant from our awareness.  Back in the late 80s and early 90s suffering and death was a regular part of life in the gay community. The drug cocktail that now allows many to live relatively normal lives was years off. Then the struggle to find treatments for the many diseases of AIDS was literally a battle waged against the government and drug companies. David and a number of his friends were on the front lines of that battle, fighting to survive and fighting so that others might live as part of the controversial activist group ACT UP

David’s personal battle with AIDS was a difficult one marked by many horrific illnesses that ultimately left him blind. When I couldn’t reach him at home I’d call Lenox Hill Hospital (see my rolladex card to the right) to see if he was there.  It was at Lenox Hill 7th floor, the AIDS ward, that he spent his final days. 

With this entry I hope to begin recounting this tale in more detail not so much for the reader’s benefit but for my own.  I miss my dear brother terribly (that’s us together in the header image at the top of this page just behind the word “counting").  His death was a life transforming event. I pray that telling the tale will perhaps complete the transformation.