A Writer’s Diary Entries From Mid-October, 1998

Sunday, October 11, 1998

6 PM. Jeff Baron phoned last night after I’d fallen asleep and again this morning while I was out. When I finally spoke to him at 4 PM, we had a nice chat.

Jeff comes from a lower middle class family in Jersey, went to Northwestern and Harvard Business School, and worked at “typical MBA jobs” at Coca-Cola and AmEx before turning to screenwriting.

In a decade, he sold enough screenplays so that he was a success without any of these movies being made, and then he moved back to New York and worked on Visiting Mr. Green, which has been very successful. He’s polishing the first draft of another play now.

Jeff is 46, but unlike me, he seems like a real adult. I’m embarrassed about living with my parents, of course, and I don’t have that stable gay marriage that he has – nor do I have anything resembling financial stability.

Well, I shouldn’t get so down on myself, and I have to take responsibility for the choices I’ve made in my life, and really, I don’t regret them. Hey, everyone feels a little lost sometimes.

It’s always hard to fight the tendency to avoid change. I accomplished a lot this year just by living in different parts of the country even if I didn’t challenge myself the way I could have in terms of my writing. I’m sure most people who know me see me as a classic underachiever. I’m restless.

Jeff said that for once, he decided to follow up a success in one field with something else in the same field rather than try something new, so I guess restlessness must be a temptation with him as well. It was kind of Jeff to say he’d like my stories, after all.

Anyway, I do feel like kind of a mess: professionally, personally, in all ways. But I’m aware of what I can do to change, and I will change.

In less than seven months I’ll be in Maryland, embarking on a new adventure, and if that’s just another piece of a pattern of disjointed excursions into different fields, at least I’ll be learning a lot – not just about journalism, but about myself.

I’ve been in worse spots than this in my life. Eight years ago I was here with my parents, working at Broward Community College and about to go bankrupt. But I was also going to law school the next year.

And I’ve got to remember to be grateful that my health is great. I can’t take that for granted.

Tuesday, October 13, 1998

2 PM. Tonight’s my first class in Boca Raton, and as usual, I’m a little anxious. Because I haven’t been to the Rexall Sundown campus before and I’m not familiar with the room – supposedly a large auditorium with no blackboard – I’m going to eat dinner at 4:30 PM and leave before 5 PM.

(Last year when I had to get to FAU in Boca to teach at 7 PM, I’d leave after the start of Broward’s rush hour.)

Once I get started teaching, I’ll calm down, and by the time the class begins writing their diagnostic essays, I will be fine.

Last night I was too sleepy to call the guy who answered my ad, but I left him a message this morning saying I’d phone him tomorrow night.

Up at 5 AM, I exercised, had breakfast and left for Nova at 7:30 AM. They finally fixed the adjunct office computer, so I was able to check my email and write Tom back.

I told Tom that I’m glad NOCCA is running smoothly again with him back in the helm. I said I was in awe of his ability not only to keep writing fiction but getting his work published.

Teresa wrote that even Jade admits her reaction to her friend’s overdose death is more intense than that of the kid’s other friends. Jade goes to the cemetery every day, and Teresa says that “if she keeps that up another week, I’ll insist that she go into therapy.”

Jade is talking to her counselor at Purchase, a woman who’s also her Psych teacher and “a friend.” They’re trying to get Jade into the dorms for the spring semester. Hopefully she’ll come out of this funk. Teresa said she’d like Jade to investigate spending her junior year abroad.

My Language 2000 class went all right although there seemed to be lots of yawning. Afterwards I came home to lie around and read the papers.

Matthew Shepard died in his coma six days after the homophobes beat him and left him tied to the fence in Wyoming. But at least his murder has led to cries of outrage.

Both the New York Times and Miami Herald ran editorials about Shepard’s death, and the Herald had four inside stories, two with a local angle.

The Times’s front page story detailed memorial services and candlelight vigils “from Denver to the University of Maryland” – which makes me feel even more comfortable about going there next summer.

I got a letter pleading for contributions from GLSEN, the group helping gay students in schools. Once I saw this quote from a 16-year-old boy about being beaten, kicked and spat upon, of course I knew I had to send them money.

I got a lot of mail today, but the only wonderful item was a letter from Gianni in Spain. It was so well-written and intelligent that it made me remember why I not only loved Gianni but could relate to him in a way I haven’t been able to relate to other guys I’ve met since.

He’s glad I’m moving to Maryland and said it will be “refreshing for you because it’s a little more real than life in South Florida.” College Park and D.C. have good cultural activities, a large gay community and good public transportation – all things Gianni says will make me happy.

As for himself, Gianni writes: “It is still hard to believe that I am 5,000 miles away from life as I knew it. But I am really glad that I made this decision.” He loves Spanish culture: “People here really have an appreciation of life and not just material things.”

He struggles with the language pridefully and his only complaint is that the phone system is ridiculously expensive.

Gianni has joined a running group and an English-speaking theater group and says the school is small, quaint and conducive to learning. He goes to the Prado a lot.

Gianni says he and Alejandro are doing fine together “and we are a good team.” Alejandro’s Mom is trying to fatten Gianni up and “his family has become my surrogate familia. I enjoy their company.”

Gianni likes the tapas bars and has finally developed a taste for beer. In Barcelona he saw the equivalent of New York City’s Fashion Week, and they stated the Hotel Arts, “which is like a Ritz-Carlton.”

He closes by saying he’s become more spiritual by relying on himself more and walking a lot. But the weather in Madrid is already too cold for him.

“I miss spending time with you,” Gianni concluded his letter. “You are a wonderful person and I am fortunate to have met you. I mean it.”

The letter made me feel good.

Wednesday, October 14, 1998

7 PM. It was a good thing I left at 4:40 PM yesterday because it took time to find the building where I was supposed to teach. I was unfamiliar with that part of Boca Raton, and Broken Sound Parkway is a confusing complex of corporate buildings.

I went to two other Rexall Sundown buildings before I drove half a mile and found the corporate headquarters, where I signed in at the security guard’s desk and went to our “classroom,” an ornate conference room with tiered rows of seating.

I have to teach on a raised wooden platform on what I can only describe as a pulpit. It’s all quite formal and unsuitable.

But Alison Smith, the coordinator, was very helpful. This cluster has their classes two nights a week rather than one night a week and every other Saturdays.

Of the 18 students in attendance the first night, only about half worked for Rexall Sundown. There was also a more informally-dressed contingent from the Boca Raton Fire Department and students from Sensormatic and other local corporations.

I tried to be myself – which is to say friendly, relaxed, informal and a bit disorganized, relaxed – and I think I got their comfort level up by the time they started on their diagnostic essays.

On the drive home, I felt tired, and after getting in at 9:30 PM, I fell asleep soon after watching the Yankees win the pennant.

In my dreams, I was apprehensively cross-country skiing over the Golden Gate Bridge. Although I was still tired, I somehow got up at 5:30 AM.

After breakfast, I revised my article on why uncontested candidates for Congress should still have their names on the ballot in Florida. At Nova by 9:30 AM, I printed out the piece and sent it to the Sun-Sentinel’s Monday op-ed South Florida Forum.

But they didn’t take my Revision 13 article, and I don’t expect them to take this, so I’ll wait a week and then shop it around elsewhere – although it’s timely now, before the November election.

I’ve decided that my piece on the New York lieutenant governor primary can’t be salvaged, not even as a letter to the editor of the Times, even if I’m sure I was making a relevant point.

I get really upset when I read so many newspaper articles about this country’s spate of recent homophobic incidents or just people expressing anti-gay views. In the light of the Religious Right’s campaign against homosexuality, Matthew Shepard’s death now seems like it had been inevitable, that it was bound to happen somewhere.

That crazed homophobe, Reverend Phelps of Topeka, is planning to pick it that poor boy’s funeral with the Westboro Baptist Church’s usual cruel signs.

And even as Matthew lay dying in the hospital, a scarecrow in the Colorado State homecoming parade had “I’m gay” written on his face: a gruesome – if apparently funny to some sick college students – reminder that Shepard’s pinned body initially appeared to be a scarecrow to the jogger who found it.

The same “moralists” who despise Clinton are responsible for this climate of hate. Things may only get worse if the economy tumbles.

While I’d like to believe that “the American people” will react to homophobic hatred the way they have to the excesses of Starr’s inquisition, but I wouldn’t bet on it.

Gianni rightfully wrote that Europeans are “so much more centered than Americans.”

Today I had my noon class write – and tomorrow I’ll get yet another batch of essays – so I’ll probably be grading forever. But this afternoon, and following lunch at home, I decided to relax and read for pleasure at the Plantation Barnes & Noble.

Marc sent me his old pager from Phoenix. When I get it activated, I can have a number where I can be reached and not be so dependent on my parents’ phone.

The Off-Campus Housing Office at the University of Maryland at College Park sent me a package today that I will look at later. Maryland is starting to seem more and more real.

Marc spoke to Danielle in Los Angeles, who told him that her father had a heart attack a few days ago. After an angioplasty, he’s still in the hospital.

It’s almost exactly a year since Dad has his heart attack. I hope that Danielle’s father makes a similar recovery.

Tonight I’ll call that guy Scott who answered my ad, though I don’t expect us to click. Earlier, I looked at the Yahoo personals, and they really are dispiriting: lots of guys looking for sex and “discretion” (with the latter word invariably misspelled).

There don’t seem to be many guys who want to date and have relationships, but then ads may not be the place to find them.

I’ve been trying to find a flu shot somewhere, but apparently this year’s vaccines are late while the flu epidemic is early.

Right now I’m in my t-shirt and boxers and ready for bed.

Thursday, October 15, 1998

4:30 PM. For the past 45 minutes, I’ve been off in a demi-sleep, lying with half of the cover over me, my brain in an alpha state.

I guess I needed the rest: I had nothing caffeinated today, and last night I slept well but only between 10:30 PM and 5:30 AM, not enough to be fully rested.

In a dream, I was being followed by a guy who had a gun, and unlike most of the time, I didn’t awaken when I felt in danger. Instead, I stayed in the dream after being shot. The gunman sneeringly accuse me of being “natural,” and I remember picking up the phone and frantically telling the 911 dispatcher, “Please send help. I’ve been shot and I’m going to die.”

Only then did I wake up. I relate the dream to my revulsion over the Matthew Shepard murder and the fears of violence it has engendered.

This morning in the office, printing out a letter to Gianni, I noticed that Professor Lindley had printed out an email from someone who knew Matt from AOL. The person showed his member profile, and it all seemed so sad.

The Times had a spate of letters on the killing, and of course one of them had to say that “gay activists” were making hay from the “tragedy.”

But you know, I should be grateful to the bigots of the Religious Right because, four years ago in Gainesville, they helped turn me into a gay activist.

On the computer before class, I emailed Mark Bernstein and read a note from Teresa.

A surprise visit from Jade’s mother plus counseling at school seems to have gotten Jade over the worst of the crisis following her friend’s overdose. Now Teresa is pushing Jade to do better than her 2.5 GPA. I think that’s a mistake and that she should probably let up on Jade for now.

Teresa reported that Pam had an interview at a Bronx elementary school, and it looks as if Pam is finally going to get her wish to be a teacher.

While my students wrote in class following a brief lesson on mechanics, I graded a few more papers from the Boca class.

Some of the firefighters are very poor writers who should be in a remedial class, but a number of the workers at Rexall Sundown and Sensormatic write effective prose. It’s a typical BPM program mix.

This afternoon I went to the Pines Boulevard Barnes & Noble and drank decaffeinated mango Ceylon iced tea while reading the paper.

Back home I got a call from the secretary for Mary Becht, the head of the Broward Cultural Affairs Council. They want me to attend their noon meeting on November 5 – that’s three weeks from today – “to honor you for your grant.” They asked me to read from or talk about my work. That’s the second nice thing that’s happened as a result of my fellowship this week.

I grated a couple more papers and picked up my paycheck – for about $1,532 – and took it to the NationsBank ATM. (The bank is now Bank of America, but they haven’t made the name switch yet.)

I recorded a new greetings for my New Times ad – not that I expect any more responses. As I told Mark B, I can accept being celibate for the next six months. Right now I have other stuff – work, mostly – to keep my brain occupied.

*

8 PM. After dinner, I took a long walk. It’s pledge week at the local NPR station, so I turned off my Walkman. Today was breezy and less sultry than usual although we’ve probably still got a month before it gets really pleasant here.

I moved quickly, walking down Nova Drive to Pine Island Road past 30th Street and into the entrance of the Forest Ridge development.

Then, instead of coming back to this subdivision the way I usually do, I took off towards the Ridge and went out over it all the way to Nob Hill Road and back, probably a good three and a half miles.

At 7:30 PM, I finally got Scott in West Palm Beach on the phone and we talked for an hour. He said he was born in Borough Park, but as a child, his family moved to Atlanta, where he went to high school and college, so he considers Atlanta “home.”

Scott seems close to his family and he has a dog he inherited from his parents. He must like old people because he works all day in Palm Beach County nursing homes with his portable x-ray machine.

He likes Barbra Streisand a lot and got picked on as a kid for either being effeminate or the only Jewish kid in his high school. I suspect he’s a domestic type, a homebody who wants someone to settle down with – and of course that’s not me.

When I told him about my recent travels, he seemed amazed that I could just move from place to place like that. We actually had a lot to say to one another, so I’ll give him a call again.

While I’d like to meet him, I doubt I’d be attracted to him and he probably doesn’t need another friend. It sounds like for me, seeing him would be like being with Justin or Elihu.

Sunday, October 18, 1998

4:30 PM. I marked the 18 papers written in class on Thursday and the remaining six papers from the Boca class. The day students are far better writers than most of the adults, who probably aren’t used to writing essays for school. But the grading was not all that painful.

At 1 PM, I met Igor at the bookstore, and he gave me a copy of the latest Koja, his literary magazine, which looks so handsome that I didn’t realize it was photocopied and not done with offset printing.

Much of the magazine is not really stuff that interests me because I’m more focused on traditional or experimental narrative rather than what looks to me like easy Kostelanetz-type wordplay with graphical touches.

Igor has put together a group of people he’s met at open mic poetry readings, and one, a Russian visual artist, has arranged a show at a big South Beach nightclub on Saturday night, November 7. He’s calling them the Rush-Ins.

“I can’t just sit here and do nothing,” he said, so I think it’s good that he’s gotten together some guys  who are writers – but I’m not really interested in hearing their work.

I’m sure Igor finds it disappointing that I have little interest in a “literary scene.” Even twenty years ago, when I really was literary, I just stayed home and wrote and sent out my stuff to magazines. For me, going to readings is almost a form of torture.

I don’t think I have a right to complain about being left out of any “literary scene” when I have little desire to be part of one – but of course, that doesn’t stop me from complaining in my mind about not being asked to read or whatever.

I told Igor my stories from my trip out West, which were probably more interesting to me than they were to him.

At seven months, Igor’s daughter is doing well, but their live-in babysitter, a fortyish woman from Kazakhstan, is moving to New York where she can be part of an emigre community, so he and Violeta have to find another live-in through a Russian agency – which is how they brought this woman over.

Violeta’s optometry studies at Nova costs them close to $20,000 a year, Igor said. I couldn’t believe that the tuition was that expensive! No wonder Nova can afford all that new construction on campus. Igor says they’ll be in debt forever.

Around 3:30 PM, after we parted 3:30 PM, I went first to Nova to check my email (there were letters from Sat Darshan and Mark B) and then to Wendy’s, where I had a baked potato and skimmed the Sun-Sentinel.

I still have more papers to grade, but at least I completed the tasks I absolutely had to do today. Right now I’m going to make myself dinner and then take a long walk.