Sleeping with the Desperate

You can sense the deep despair as soon as you walk into the building. The front desk staff dispensed with the phoniness of business pleasantries long ago and seem irritated by my presence. The sickening smell of sweet curry, forbidden cigarette smoke and harsh chemicals permeate the hallways. Through the thin walls, you can hear the loud, stressful arguments taking place in foreign languages and even muffled sobs coming from some rooms. My room reeks of strong cleaning chemicals that make my eyes water and my nose run. I shudder to think what actual smells the toxic solutions are hiding. The guests walk around in a stupor, their eyes lost in past memories or trying to focus on the future. Where am I? In hotel with the damned and sick outside of Lourdes, France? Or with desperate pilgrims on their way to Mecca? Close, instead I am staying at the Extended Stay Hotel next to the Medical Center in Houston, Texas. People from all around the world visit the MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston, spending all of their resources, praying for a positive diagnosis or hoping to accept the inevitable. It’s a depressing place.

Nothing seems to go right on this trip…horrible hot and I have forgotten my toiletries bag. Not one or two items but ALL of my bathroom items, including my medications. The lap top computer I brought with me to work on my presentation for the next day does not have a PowerPoint application.

Only 6 ½ years until retirement.

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Despite everything working against us, we manage to put on a really good educational Hepatitis Summit. We had several physicians attend the event and they stayed throughout the whole day, and they gave us some positive feedback. We had a state representative who also attended. I switched hotels, picked up my toiletries bag at the bus station (my partner sent them overnight and it only cost $12.00, who knew Greyhound was still relative?) and suddenly this trip has gotten better.

Sanitized for Your Protection

Before anyone gets a huffy attitude about what I am about to write, let me reiterate that I am for the legalization of marriage between same sex couples. There shouldn’t be any law that prohibits two adults from entering into a contract that legally binds them to each other. If my fellow gay and lesbians want the right to participate in this patriarchal, archaic institution, I am in full support. However, I wish these couples would first seriously examine their real purpose for wanting to participate in this ancient rite.

I have been with my partner for twenty-five years and even though same sex marriage is illegal in Texas, I doubt that we would choose to marry even it were legal. I know there are several very good reasons for “legalizing” our relationship but there are several good reasons for not.

I don’t’ believe our union needs society’s sanction or recognition. We have considered ourselves a couple since the first day we agreed to mutually begin sharing our lives together. It makes little difference to us that we have official acknowledgment from the state Texas or the United States government that we have a “bona fide” relationship.

I resent the move to assimilate our lifestyle into the mainstream, in order to obtain legitimacy and respectability from society. To do so accepts the premise that the current state of our relationship is illegitimate or not worthy of respect.

The move to expand marriage also discounts the other options available to both gay and non-gay individuals, many who believe that choosing to lead your life alone without a partner, should also be supported. Mainstream society has a hard time accepting a single heterosexual or homosexual lifestyle. Their real fear is that these individuals may engage in extramarital S-E-X.

I never wanted to be normal or like everyone else. I don’t want our relationship to turn into Ozzy and Harriet. I like my subversive lifestyle. Besides, I want to fight and change the current systems of oppression, not fight to be part of system.

Besides, there are other LGBT efforts that are more politically viable and executable, with plenty of heterosexual allies. Ending employment discrimination is one. Working to prevent teen suicides and school bullying are two other issues that LGBT leaders should actively be involved in.

Instead, I find it ironic that the two institutions LGBT individuals are fighting to get into are two that I would never participate in: marriage and war.

Putting on (H)airs

It’s been fifteen months since I broke it off with him. I still get flashbacks when I smell his hair gel. I remember the way my dark hair seemed even darker in his pale hands. He had become complacent; taking me for granted. He should have seen this break up coming, but I think it took him by surprise. My first instinct was to just stop calling him, after all, I really didn’t owe him an explanation. So I like to think I did the noble thing by sending him an e-mail, which was quick and to the point:

Sorry, I won’t be seeing you anymore, I found someone else to cut my hair.

Ending a ten –year relationship with your hairdresser is rough but I had not been happy for the last 2 or 3 years of our affiliation. My hair styles had become dated and he had lost the passion he once had for cutting my hair. And within the last year he had double booked me TWICE, seeing one client on the side while trying to cut my hair at the same time.

And so he became the latest in a long line of rocky relationships I have had with hairdressers that began with a harrowing experience in the early seventies.

By 1973, man had traveled to the moon six times, abortion had finally become legal in the US and the Sears Tower in Chicago had become the world’s tallest building. And as a sign of true progress, the small city I was living in finally opened its first unisex hair salon called Capricorn. I knew that my life at age thirteen would change forever if I could just get an appointment to get my hair cut there. It was only a new hairstyle that was keeping me from becoming someone that was handsome, athletic, and popular.

The neighborhood barbershop I usually went to, Flores Barbershhop, only had two types of haircuts: a boy’s haircut and a man’s haircut. A man’s haircut was $3.00 and a boy’s haircut was was half that price. I would hop into his chair, he would point and tap at $1.50 sign posted and then he would cut my hair. No other words were exchanged, he neither received nor asked for any other direction.

It took me three months but I finally saved $5.00, the outrageous price of a haircut at Capricorn, and called to make an appointment.

Capricorn was located on the 16^th floor of the new American Bank Building. The American Bank Building was recently completed in 1972, thirty-one stories high. Lubbock had the measly twenty-one story South Plains Building (left empty and barely standing from the 1971 tornado) we had the American Bank Building. Lubbock may have had Texas Tech University and Prairie Dog Town, but we had Cadillac Ranch and the American Bank Building, the tallest building from Dallas to Denver (the townsfolk would repeat ad nauseam). Out of our way Fort Worth and Wichita Falls, we were on our way to becoming a real, cosmopolitan city!

On the day of my hair appointment, my mother drove me to the landmark building and insisted on accompanying me inside. We walked through the glass and silver polished lobby of the bank building full of well dressed men and women, and made our way to the elevators. We got off on the 18^th floor and the view through the floor-to-ceiling windows was worth the $5.00. Capricorn was decorated like a scene from 2001: A Space Odyssey. There were stark, white walls and white furniture and I was afraid to touch anything for fear that I might smudge or get something dirty.

A woman resembling Goldie Hawn from Shampoo led me to her station and instead of stopping in the waiting area, my mom followed me over to her chair. I had an ill feeling in my stomach, about the size of a grape. The hair stylist explained what she was going to do. The haircut would be $5.00 and the shampoo would be $1.00.

“Why does he need a shampoo?” my mother questioned, “Are you saying that his hair isn’t clean?”

“No”, the stylist explained, “this is standard procedure.”

“He just washed his hair this morning, there’s no need to wash it again.”

The stylist explained that the hair had to be wet when cut and styled.

“Well why can’t you just wet his hair?”

“I’ll pay the dollar”, I chimed in.

“A dollar to shampoo your hair? That’s ridiculous.”

By now the other stylists and customers began to take notice of our little drama.

“I’m sorry ma’am but we have to shampoo this hair.”

“Fine, we will go back home, we will wash his hair, and I will make sure that we leave his hair wet, will that satisfy you?”

We left the styling salon and the knot in my stomach grew from a grape into a small orange. My mother said nothing on the way home and I was hoping that she would forget about the whole thing. I would try again later, on my own.

As soon as we arrived home, my mom instructed me to wash my hair. If the snooty, professional version of Goldie Hawn could not wear her down, what chance did I have? After I washed my hair, my mom was waiting with a blue towel with loud pink flowers.

Dry your hair and put this towel over your head,” she instructed. She had become deaf to any protests I made and the small orange turned into a grapefruit as I looked into her eyes and knew that she would not be satisfied until she had her final confrontation with the Capricorn cosmetologist.

We parked in front of the building and I pulled the blue towel with pink flowers over my head as we walked through the glass and silver bank lobby, full of well-dressed men and women and made our way to the elevator. I was merely a walking shell of person, I had gone to my “happy place” a place no one had kinky black hair, a place where everyone had blond hair that was neatly trimmed.

The grapefruit was now a watermelon and when we arrived on the 16th floor, my mom guided me through the salon. Mercifully the towel blocked my peripheral vision so I couldn't really see, but could feel, everone's eyes on me. We arrived at the stylist’s station and she pushed me down in her chair.

“There”, she said, “Now cut his hair!”

I learned my lesson from this event, which is: No creerse mucho! Which roughly translated means: "Don’t go around thinking you’re all that because you will deservedly fall on your ass", or "Don’t think you are better than who you are". More directly, "Don't go around thinking that you're White, 'cause you're not. People visiting the Texas Panhandle wonder why there is a proliferation of Wrangler Jeans, drab shirts and sad, ugly haircuts. Well it's because all Amarilloans believe in this same conservative, Latino, Catholic, Texas Panhandle philosophy: "Don’t go around putting on airs".

Anyway, I’d like to report that my hair cutting experiences have gotten better since then, but I

have had some pretty bad stylists. Like the time I went to this one hairdresser who kept excusing herself to do lines of coke in the restroom and was so high she gave me a flat top haircut before I could say anything. Another burned my scalp with chemicals so badly its amazing I have any hair left.

ButI found a guy to cut my hair that has recently arrived from Iran and I think he is going to work out. He isn’t fancy and only knows one type of hair style but he does a pretty good job with that one style. He doesn’t speak English very well, so I hop into his chair, he points and taps at a picture of a guy with short hair and asks do you want this cut? I say "yes" and he proceeds to cut, no other words are exchanged, he neither receives nor asks for any other direction.

Tea Party Members Shout Racial and Gay Slurs and Spit on a Black Lawmaker

Can we now dismiss the Tea Party “movement” as a poisonous cocktail of angry xenophobes, homophobes and racists spewing hate under the guise of tax protests? And yet this fringe group still has plenty of supporters. I was reading some right wing, conservative blogs trying to spin the shameful event from this weekend and cannot believe their laughable excuses:

1) The MSM made up this confrontation with lawmakers. I know many of you probably think as I did that MSM stands for “men who have sex with men”. I kept seeing this code language showing up in conservative blogs and I wondered, “why are they always blaming us gays”. For those of us who need translation from Nazi-speak, MSM means the “main stream media”, which is any news organization that they don’t agree with. Anyway, many in the conservative movement believe that this unfortunate event didn’t even happen, that it was manufactured by the MSM to discredit the TP movement. So much like global warming and Darwinism, they choose to ignore reality and the facts and simply say, “Everyone is lying because no one likes me”. My eight year old neighbor tried this excuse when he accidentally threw a rock and broke another neighbor’s window.

2) The Congressmen are lying. The next excuse they use is to blame the victims. They say these Black and gay congressmen are lying about the harassment because that is what gay and Black people do. One blogger even went so far as to cite the Tawana Brawley case as proof that Black lawmakers lie. I’m sure they were dying to tie this episode to O J Simpson somehow. This excuse most conveniently plays into their pre-existing stereotypes, so it is probably the one that they believe.

3) The confrontation did happen but it was conducted NOT by TP members but by infiltrators to the TP whose purpose was to discredit the movement. This is the most fascinating and entertaining excuse but again it plays into the conservative’s wide-eyed belief in conspiracies. I, for one, think that this is once again the work of Mossad, stealthily sneaking into our country and masquerading as TP members only to create bad public relations by yelling disparaging remarks at lawmakers…uh huh….that’s what it was.

As long as we’re making up BS excuses, here’s another creative one they can use: the Congressman only misunderstood the TP protesters, they were actually shouting (if you listen closely) “Snigger” and “Saggot”. The were only encouraging the men to laugh along with the irresistible humor of Bob Saget. What's wrong with that?

The most rational, mature response would have been to acknowledge that any political movement has an extreme, fringe element and apologize for their actions. But I don’t think they can say that because this type of behavior does not represent only small, part of their movement and instead is a predominate theme. ________________________________________________

One of my favorite writers, Junot Diaz, a Domincan American, has a short story in this week’s New Yorker. I encourage you to check out his work. He is an amazing writer.

March Madness Indeed

Today, we sit on the verge of passing national health care reform and there is more name-calling, threats, and abuse in Washington than I’ve seen outside of a lesbian break-up. The legislation will come too late to help the vast amount of people whose lives have been ruined or lost because of a devastating illness. Working in HIV prevention and care for more than twenty years, I have seen many, many bankruptcies and financial ruin resulting from lack of access to health insurance. Even worse, I’ve seen those with health insurance come to an early, bitter end because of inadequate care and “cost savings” from health insurance companies. My hope is that in the future we won’t have to base decisions in our life (whether to take a better job, move to another state, etc.) based on whether we will be guaranteed access to health care.

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The chosen winners in my NCAA basketball bracket are once again doing poorly. This year I went for very conservative choices and still TEN wrong games. Damn Georgetown.

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Massa Harina

I gonna miss New York Congressman Eric Massa, now that he is fading from the media spotlight. He had so many entertaining, not-so-subtle, homoerotic comments, there is no way this guy can be straight:

"I am showering, naked as a jaybird, and here comes Rahm Emmanuel, not even with a towel wrapped around his 'tush,' poking his finger in my chest, yelling at me."

That's hot. I have had the same sexual fantasy about Rahm, as well. Get out of my head, Massa!!

"They're saying I groped a male staffer. Yeah, I did. Not only did I grope him, I tickled him until he couldn't breathe."

Rochester, NY, Classified Ads: Older GWM, kinky, abusive and into inappropriate horseplay, ISO young male staffer, must like watching Fox News and obliviously blaming others for your actions.

“I should never have allowed myself to be as familiar with my staff as I was," said Massa, who shared a townhouse with bachelors on his staff. "I never translated from my days in the Navy to being a congressman."

And finally from Larry King Show (3/10/10):

KING: “It may be silly, but I guess we have to ask it, --- are you gay?”

MASSA: “Well, here's that answer, I'm not going to answer that. Why don't you … ask the 10,000 sailors I served with in the Navy?”

*Sigh* I am going to miss you, Eric. You have a promising career writing gay porn.

Gay Award Winning Performances

As one of the unique rites of passage for lesbians and gays, “coming out” has become more celebrated, more common, but unfortunately has not become any easier. Most of the humor that accompanies “coming out” to our parents is not fully appreciated until years later. My mother, who has not had any theatrical training, presented one of her best performances the day I told her I was gay. All of the intense drama, the ranting and raving, the cursing and swearing, I am still in awe that she was never nominated for such a performance. 

Maybe awards should be presented for “coming out” performances, some examples of honors that could be bestowed on parents: Most Threatening “You’re Not My Son/Daughter Anymore” Speech, Most Creative Use of Biblical Curses and/or Religious Props, Record for Consecutive Days Without Sleeping/Eating, Best Impromptu Exorcism, Best Un-Supporting Role, and finally, Most Perverse Explanation of Homosexuality. 

Of course there would also be awards given to the courageous individuals who came out to their parents: Longest “Its Not a Phase” Explanation, Best Incorporation of Words from a Drag Song, Best Effort to Remain in the Family Will, and a Pink Heart to any physical injury incurred while coming out. The Best Use of a Recreational Drug award must go to my friend Gary. 

After Gary told his mom he was gay, she began to flail her arms in the air, as if shooing an invisible fly, then made the obligatory gesture of putting her hand on her forehead, and finally fell to the floor in a heap. Gary, who was inebriated and had just returned from the bars, revived her by waving under her nose his handy bottle of “poppers”. 

One of my favorite “coming out” stories is from my roommate Troy, who, at the tender age of seven, sort of “came out” to his second grade classmates and his Cub Scout Troop. He was at an age when many of us were stealing our sister’s Teen Beat magazine and secretly wishing we would grow up to be Marlo Thomas (okay, so maybe I was the only one who wanted to grow up to be That Girl). A time when we had hidden crushes on other boys that looked like Peter Brady. The year was 1968. 

“Mrs. Asbury was my second grade teacher,” Troy explained, “a large amorphous woman in my seven-year-old eyes. Our classes were held in those old barracks and I don’t remember much about my teacher only that the loose floor boards always squeaked and complained whenever Mrs. Asbury walked by. “We had just finished some tedious story about a girl and a handsome prince. I can’t remember the whole story, or even the plot. I can only remember the heroine was a young delicate thing, with long, curly blond hair, large, dark eyes, a mole on her chin, and she wore a lot of rings.” 

Oddly enough, this description could describe Troy, as well. 

“The teacher wanted to congratulate us for getting through such a lengthy story,” he continued, “so a party was planned and she brought some various items from home in order for us to dress up as characters from the story.” “I quickly raised my hand and went up to the front of the room. I surveyed all of the the items: an axe, a stick horse, bunny ears, a blond wig and some other bits and pieces from old costumes. Since the girl was the heroine and was rescued by the handsome prince, I wanted to be the princess, so I carefully placed the blond wig on my head.” Perhaps he was reacting to some kind of primal drag queen instinct long suppressed by some of us. 

Mrs. Asbury was probably terrified that Troy would break out into a drag song like “This Is My Life” and start taking his classmates’ chocolate milk money for tips. Troy remembered his teacher shaking her bouffant hair form side to side and trying to persuade him into choosing another character, but he was adamant. To the dismay of Mrs. Asbury, Troy refused to take off the wig and, to the horror of his Scout Master, he wore his new ‘do to his Cub Scout meeting after school. 

Troy remembered his fellow troop members purposely ignoring the wig. A nervous Scout Master made it one of their shortest meetings ever. My friend’s fledgling career as a female impersonator was cut short when his mother drove up in their blue Impala station wagon, shaking and white as a sheet. 

For that performance, he was awarded several years of therapy and he didn’t even earn a merit badge. Compared to other stories, my “coming out” story was fairly routine. 

It was 1980, I can’t remember the day or date or even the type of bell bottom jeans I was wearing. The day seemed predestined; every piece seemed to fall into place. Earlier that fateful day, my mother had asked to borrow my car to run some errands since her car was in the shop being repaired (if only she had bought a dependable foreign car instead of a Dodge). I had a love letter that was written to me stashed in the sun visor (if only I had hid the letter in the glove compartment, if only I hadn’t been such a sentimental fool). When my mom went to position the visor to shield her from the sun, the letter fell right into her lap (if only the day had been cloudy, if only her lap wasn’t so big). 

She read the letter addressed to me, as any mother naturally would, and it was signed by my lover – another male. She entered my bedroom just as I turned down Donna Summer on the eight track tape player. She questioned me about the letter. She said she knew the author of the letter was “that way” and then asked if I was also “that way”. I could have lied, I could have pretended to lose my hearing, I could have started singing the nonsensical lyrics to “MacArthur Park” or created any number of simple diversions, instead I looked at her straight in the eye and said, “yes”. 

She stared at me for a second, waiting for me to follow it up with something…anything like…"but I’ll change," or "I’m only kidding," or "but now I’m celibate, I’ve decided to become a priest…", anything to keep the facade alive. Instead, there was complete and awful silence. 

Suddenly, she didn’t know how to react. She became very animated, I believe she muttered a faint, “oh no”, walked a couple of steps to the bedroom door, then stopped, then walked a couple of steps closer to me. All of this incredibly fast, as if she were a wind-up toy. Next, she started crying and pleading to every saint she knew, and some names I’m sure she was making up. I then found her in the hallway, clutching some religious icons and squirting holy water at me from a plastic bottle. Then she let out this huge wail, dropped all of the religious items and darted towards the living room. I never knew my mother was so agile or athletic. 

My father was sitting in the living room and she went to tell him. I had to pass through the living room leave the house. They were both sitting in the living room, staring at me silently, as I slithered through the room. The door felt like an eternity away. My parents looked at me as if I were an alien from another planet, as if a stranger now inhabited the body of their son. 

Later that evening, I returned home ready to pick up my belongings and build my new life around those few possessions: a few polyester disco shirts, disco records and my blow dryer. To my surprise, my mom was miraculously over her seizure. In fact, both my parents seemed to be over the initial shock. She came over, held my hand and said, “I just want you to know that we still love you and we will always be here for you.” 

Years after this incident, karmic justice gave me the unique experience of having a close family member come out to me. I was out to my family for about six years when my youngest sister decided to tell me she was a lesbian. When she told me, I had to stop myself before I said the same lines I had heard others use: "Are you sure?" "Are you just trying to be trendy?" "How do you know it’s just not PMS?" I felt so awkward. I felt like putting by my hand on my forehead and pretending to faint! 

The problem was that I honestly did not feel happy for her. Instead, I felt apprehensive and concerned. After living a gay lifestyle for eight years, I had first-hand experience on how difficult this lifestyle could be. I knew that homophobia and prejudice still presented a real danger to any gay or lesbian. I worried about her safety from an ever menacing straight world. 

And honestly, it seemed fellow members of the gay community were not always supportive either. I’ve seen some of the most horrendous deeds committed against gays and lesbians perpetrated by others in our community. The gay world can be very superficial, leaving many of us struggling with low self-esteem. As a lesbian of color, she would have to face even more obstacles than I did. What about the high rates of substance abuse in our community? And the high suicide rates? As well as the other health and socioeconomic issues that disproportionately affect our community? 

No, I was not happy she was a lesbian, life would be easier for her if she were straight. Ultimately, I knew none of what I thought mattered. I knew she was destined to live her life as a lesbian regardless of my concerns. I held her hand and said, “I just want you to know I still love you and I will always be here for you.” Maybe not an award winning performance but definitely one worth repeating.

Refuge of Tolerance

Originally in the Austin-American Statesman, February 2007

In 1984, I moved to Austin from a socially oppressive land, a desolate place, void of any freedom to question authority and inhabited by dogmatic conformists. This place is known as the Texas Panhandle.

My move was really more akin to a ''pressured relocation.'' My suspicious neighbors in Amarillo had become more brazen. The glares and whispers I had become accustomed to had turned to name-calling and veiled threats. I wasn't flamboyantly open about my sexual orientation, but my reluctance to fully embrace Reaganomics, the Dallas Cowboys and, well, women, made me highly conspicuous.

In the 1980s, the Austin City Council passed an ordinance providing health benefits to domestic partners of city employees, including those in same-sex relationships. I remember a grim-faced TV anchorman in Amarillo announcing the item on the 6 o'clock news. I half-expected to hear, ‘‘coming up next, a perspective from Anita Bryant regarding a city here in Texas that has chosen to defy God and create a modern day Sodom and Gomorrah.''

That was when I seriously started to consider making Austin my new home. I had thought about moving to Dallas or Houston, both of which have large, visible gay communities. However, Houston's Montrose and Dallas' Oak Lawn areas are confined to only one section of the city. I didn't want to move to a gay ghetto, where acceptance was guaranteed only within certain street boundaries.

After all, choosing a new city was more than a matter of just counting the number of gay bars - it was a safety and security issue. I wanted to live in a place in Texas that would be tolerant to folks of my persuasion, a place where I wouldn't wake up in the middle of the night greeted by narrow-minded villagers wielding pitchforks and carrying torches. Or so it seemed to me at the time.

Upon moving to Austin, I discovered that it is not the queer community that draws gays to Austin, but instead the larger, accepting heterosexual community. The lack of an identifiable gay ghetto in Austin means that we can roam almost anywhere and don't have to confine ourselves to certain neighborhoods.

However, I had to make some serious adjustments to my ''gaydar'' in order to detect other gay men in Austin. It seemed that very handsome, well-dressed, slightly effeminate, cosmetic-wearing men (what we now call metrosexuals) were more likely to be heterosexual. And the T-shirt, Levis- and boots-wearing men were more often homosexual.

It was a ratio almost inverse to what I was accustomed to in the Panhandle. So when I met a guy, I had a hard time deciding: Is he really gay or did he just get here from Lubbock?

In Amarillo, I had tried to keep my homosexuality a well-guarded secret, to be shared only with family and close friends. Once I moved to Austin, I felt comfortable enough to begin sharing my sexual orientation with my new fellow citizens. Maybe too comfortable.

At first, I found myself coming out to just about everyone I met: the postman, bank tellers, employees at drive-up windows of fast-food restaurants, H-E-B grocery sackers. There were a few surprised or bewildered looks, but most responded by saying, in effect, ''OK we get it, you're gay.We don't care.''

Austinites, I learned, are a pretty jaded breed. It takes someone really bizarre or scandalous to get their attention, like a panhandling, bikini-clad cross-dresser or a state senator soliciting sex on Congress Avenue.

I, however, am just a run-of-the-mill, garden-variety gay man, homosexualus familiaris. To be viewed as unremarkable, really. Which is exactly what I was seeking: to be treated by my fellow neighbors as normal and ordinary.

Once I settled in, I reported my findings to friends in the Panhandle, and soon my Austin apartment had become a terminus on a gay underground railroad for queers who wanted to relocate here. Feeling safer in this environment, most decided to ''come out'' to their friends and family back home. Once, a straight friend of mine still living in Amarillo asked, ''Just what is it about that city? It seems like everyone who moves to Austin turns gay.''

I wanted to tell him that the his former Amarilloans were already gay and that they only felt comfortable enough in our city to express who they really are. I wanted to tell him that with given the opportunity to live in a place that tries not to judge you, you have permission to become whoever you want. But the cultural divide between us was too vast; I didn't think he would grasp what I was saying.

So instead I made a joke: ''It's the cedar pollen, the cedar pollen is what turns you gay.''

I had planned to move to Austin with my best friend from high school. For years, we had dreamed about living in a different place and wondered what it would be like to wake up in the morning and not smell cattle feedlots or the oil refinery. But when the time finally came for us to move, she abruptly did an about-face and decided to stay in Amarillo.

I wasn't really surprised, having sensed her apprehension days before. ''Not now, someday I'll move,'' she said.

It's been almost 25 years, and she still lives in the Panhandle. She visits me at least once a year, and every time she comes, she marvels at what a wonderful place Austin is and swears she's going to move here.

I like her annual visits - they serve as affirmations of my decision to relocate. Because despite the long lines of traffic, the increasingly high cost of living and the messy, loud scavenging invaders (the grackles, not Californians), this is still the best place in Texas to live.

Take it from a former Panhandle boy, happily living his own unremarkable life.