I went to a conference in Dallas last week, and as I was driving to my hotel, I passed a billboard for the convention center, which was breathlessly promoting the upcoming GUN AND KNIFE SHOW.

This couldn’t have made me prouder, of course, since I’m all for killing things for no better reason than the thrill of it, or for the feeling of complete and utter control over the life of another living being.

That’s just good fun.

But as a longtime aficionado of the standard GUN SHOW, where one can purchase enough firepower and ammo to blow up a BET convention or the parking lot of a Home Depot – often without the inconvenience of either a license or a waiting period – I had to nonetheless congratulate the sensitive, self-aware individual whose idea was it to add knives to the mix.

I mean, it only makes sense. We live in a crazy world where technology is splintering our connections with others. We text rather than talk, email instead of visit, and “check in” at glamorous locales for no other reason than to make others jealous.

These are not real connections. Clearly, people are longing for a true sense of community and oneness. What better way to re-establish a sense of actual, physical connection than by killing things in an up close and personal way? And what accomplishes this better than a blunt knife?

Sure, some might argue that Texas is a state where the mascot is a bullet wound. And that the only reason they’ve added knives to the gun show is because once you own a rifle, a shotgun, a semi-automatic pistol and an AK-47, you go looking for a new high.

But I believe that this is about the all-too-human need to connect with someone or something else; to see the terror in the eyes of the person or animal you’re offing. Shooting something from a secure location a hundred yards away does not give one the sense of attachment and kinship that plunging a hunting knife into its jugular does.

And in support of this mission to bring souls closer, I encourage the creators of the GUN AND KNIFE SHOW to go one step further, and add even simpler items to their line-up of murder weapons – things we all have lying around the house. Things that will make it a snap to just up and kill and thus, commune.

I would suggest ice tongs.

Or a garden rake.

Or maybe some pinking shears. 

Items like these would not only invoke that simpler, more connected time, they would insure the necessity of real hand-to-hand combat, mere inches apart, often for impossibly long and uncomfortable and messy periods of time.

Which would provide you, the compassionate and deeply connected human being, the opportunity to come away from this event a changed person; made just a little bit better by having to kill that deer, or that guy who cut you off, or that neighbor who plays the drums at 2 a.m. by ripping open their intestines, painstakingly and personally, with a plaque scraper.

It is, quite simply, a killing that says, “I care.”

A friend of mine at work just announced that he is leaving his job at the TV network we work for and moving with his partner to Palm Springs.

Who DOES that at our age? Who just quits their job and moves to a retirement community like Palm Springs? It’s like a driven, fortyish New York Jew moving to Boca. Is he also planning to start driving a ’72 land yacht and eating dinner at 4:15?

Don’t get me wrong – Palm Springs is awesome. In fact, it’s the ultimate goal for lots of us gay folk. It is often portrayed as nothing more than a hot, desert wasteland with a little taste, a sort of Hell with Architecture. But it’s actually a spectacularly beautiful resort community with small-town quaintness and an overlay of swank sophistication. I call it Gayberry (like the old Andy Griffith town of Mayberry, but with a lot more homos).

The thing is, it shouldn’t be someone’s ultimate goal in their early 40’s.

In our 40’s, we should all be working our way up the ladder, accumulating cars and houses and stuff to put in those cars and houses. We should all be stressed because we have to work insane hours in order to afford all those cars and houses and stuff to put in those cars and houses. We should live in large cities and require constant stimulation and wake up each morning wondering whether any of this has any meaning.

We should NOT be uprooting ourselves and moving to a quieter existence in a town where we actually have time to think. Nor should we be downscaling our monetary ambitions and finding ourselves satisfied with less. That is, as far as I’m concerned, just crazy talk.

What good can possibly come of such a life? He’ll be disconnected from the glamorous life in LA, where you can go to dinner at any one of a hundred five-star restaurants, assuming the traffic isn’t bad enough that you go on a shooting rampage (that often delays dinner). He won’t get invited to glitzy premiere parties, where you can eat artichoke-stuffed dates while you’re bum-rushed off the red carpet in favor of the latest hair-pulling reality star. He won’t have easy access to the beach that no one goes to unless they can’t afford air conditioning or they live on it.

In Palm Springs, he’ll be forced to go to the same restaurants over and over, where people will learn his name, which is clearly an invasion of privacy. He’ll have to deal with CostCo lines which, although quicker because there’s about 5% as many residents, will be filled with walker-laden geezers complaining about their bursitis while they fumble for coupons for what feels like minutes. And he’ll have to sit by his pool, where the sounds of nothing but the breeze and the spa waterfall will force him to think – really think about what he’s done.

And I hope that, when he realizes exactly what he’s done, he feels absolutely, unforgivably terrible – that he didn’t take me with him. Thoughtless bastard.

My mother passed away last Saturday, which is the kind of thing that doesn’t really lend itself to amusing blog posts. But if you’ve read any of my writings about her, you might know that she’s given me a lot of material to work with.

And since we elected not to have a public ceremony, below is the eulogy I would have given had I had the opportunity.

_______________

For those who know, I wrote a book about my childhood in which my mom was not always painted kindly. Calling your mother “General Patton in pedal pushers” would, in most cases, probably result in gunfire and a grand jury…but to her credit, Mom was never anything but 1000% supportive. Even when the spotlight that I shined on her was a little bit harsh.

But, you see, I had a very good reason to be judgmental. You see, when I look at the people my sister and I have become as adults, and I see the lives we find ourselves saddled with, it’s very clear that it was all our mother’s fault.

Here, then, are 5 Reasons Elaine was a Bad Mother:

She worked nonstop – at her career, and at home taking care of us – and took very little time to relax. Watching this growing up, it taught my sister and I the importance of responsibility and hard work, which, let’s face it, are a big, fat bummer. I, for one, am a creative person – I should be all “Oh, I don’t have time to pay the electric bill, I’m busy being inspired!” But mom did not nurture our inner lazy, fat slob, like any good mother would. Instead, she made us into these responsible, reasonably good citizens. Uggh.

She read Time Magazine cover to cover every week, and took us to church every Sunday and Wednesday, and chattered endlessly about the state of the world. This blather about politics and Christian values and how to make society better made us more concerned about contributing something positive to the world than in taking advantage of people for our own gain. And had we learned how to screw other people, we’d probably each have four homes now.

She was extraordinarily generous – Christmas at the Poole house was a cavalcade of gifts that made it look like a Macy’s had exploded in our basement. And whether it was presents for the family, or flowers for someone who was sick, or graduation gifts for umpteen distant relatives and friends’ kids, or cards – all handwritten and full of the kindest expressions of love and concern – it made the rest of us look bad. I have never been as good at all these kinds of generosity as she was – my sister Valerie is much better – and trying to live up to a standard this impossibly high just made me feel like a loser. So, once again, you can see why she was just a terrible mother.

She had an amazing gift for being interested in others. If you encountered her at church or a dinner party or the office, you came away feeling as if you were the most important person in the room. Needless to say, my sister and I watched this – and have tried to mimic it ever since. And you can imagine how dangerous and irresponsible this kind of activity is, since giving friends and family unrealistically high self-esteem just sets them up for a fall, right? I mean, I’m only thinking of others when I say that this type of overly thoughtful and supportive behavior makes Elaine a very bad role model.

I’ve always wondered if maybe our mother didn’t really want kids when she first had us – I think she really wanted to be Gloria Steinem, but without all the protesting and ponchos. Now, I have no idea if this is true, since Valerie and I preferred to speculate wildly rather than ask. But when we were young, it wasn’t really clear whether she wanted us around. There were a lot of tantrums – usually related to her amusingly OCD need for a perfect house. But as Valerie and I became young adults, and she became middle-aged, everything changed. I think we all grew up.

And this is the last reason she was a bad mother. When we were young, she set up an expectation that she wasn’t gonna be the greatest mom a kid could ask for. And then she turned that expectation on its head. Because she became the most supportive, the most loving, the most accepting mother Valerie and I could have ever asked for. And trust me, we gave her a lot of things to have to “accept”.

Don’t get me wrong, up to the end she was still a little OCD. When she was in the hospital, recuperating from heart valve surgery, she fell while trying to CLEAN the floor of her room. IN ICU.

A few months later, I was visiting her in rehab, and she hadn’t walked for months and was very weak. We were sitting outside in this gazebo on a beautiful day, and I said to her, “What’s the first thing you’d like to do once you’re well?” She paused and thought about it for a moment, and then replied, “Just walk around the house. And dust.”

Mom, I know you’re dusting that giant living room in the sky. And I’m sure it sparkles like it never has before. And I can’t wait to pick up a dustrag and a can of Pledge and join you.

Either I’m a giant Scrooge, or this is a giant racket.

Can someone please explain to me why, because somebody chooses to get married, or have a kid – two undertakings that are, with a few notable exceptions, elective activities – I am required by law to shower them with gifts?

Where is it written that I am compelled to reward people for managing to turn 13, or for getting through high school with that impressive 1.7 GPA, or for deciding to produce a short film about gay rodents? Aren’t these activities that should engender their own sense of internal pride/joy/accomplishment, and not require commemoration with online donations, Chipotle gift cards and training bras?

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not always this cranky and cheap. Contract a disease, get hit by a bus, lose a loved one, find your home burned to the ground by a chain-smoking hobo, and I’m your man. I will throw money at you like twenties would smother the flames. People who are suffering through no fault of their own deserve all the love and support – financial and otherwise – we can give them.

And I can even get behind two twentysomethings who are coming together to form a household for the first time and really, truly need things like duvets and crock pots.

But this whole, “We’ve decided to have a mini-me and now you need to reward us for bumping uglies til the job was done” business, or the “This is our third wedding but, for gift purposes, let’s just pretend the first two didn’t count” nonsense, or the “Please give us money so we can do a project to further our own careers, but don’t expect to own a piece of it or anything” schemes are a crock.

I recently went to a gay engagement party for a friend and his partner. I love these guys – they’re funny, charming, kind people who I’m sure were not at all aware that their gift request could be construed as mercenary. But they do not plan to actually get married. They are in their 40’s. This is not their first time at the relationship rodeo. They both make six figure incomes. They already have two homes together. And yet, they asked that, in lieu of toasters, we give them money so they can make another $8,000 trip to the South Pacific – like the one they just had three months ago.

Several friends have asked me to contribute money to their personal creative projects – short films, web series, that sort of thing. In theory, supporting someone’s creativity is a beautiful thing. But I don’t ask people to donate money so I can take six months off to finish my second book.  Is it really appropriate to expect others to pay for your dream? I have a dream for ya – a dream that one day, I can give all my spare money to people with tumors, and crime victims, and families whose houses are currently floating around the Pacific ocean.

Oh, sure, I DO reward all these things. I buy wedding and baby and graduation gifts, and I give to people’s creative projects, and I do it all with love and good wishes and hearty congratulations.

At least, to their face.

But I’ll tell you, it makes me NOT want to invite any of these people to my bookstore events when my second book comes out. It makes me NOT want to ask them to take time out of their busy lives to come sit through a reading. And then stand in line for half an hour to have me sign the book. And pay $24.95 for the hardcover when they could get it for half that through Amazon.

It makes me NOT want to ask them to repeat what they all did, so very thoughtfully and generously, when my first book came out.

Oh, hell.

I sure would like to buy a graduation gift right about now. Is somebody looking to get hitched?  Anybody got a kid being bar mitzvahed?

Is male menopause a thing?

I had one of those mornings earlier this week where any sane person would look at me and say, “You best be havin’ a hot flash ‘cause child, you’ve lost yo’ mind!” (Apparently, all the sane people around me are Southern black maids from 1964.) I was cranky, spiteful and snippy.

Mind you, this unpleasantness was all happening in my car on the way to work, and I was alone and my windows were rolled up, so no one was the wiser unless they could lip read at 40 miles an hour.

But still. I was in a foul mood, and I not generally one to be grouchy.

You see, I’ve always been in the “You get more flies with honey” camp, although I would personally prefer a Shell No-Pest Strip with a bunch of dead flies stuck to it. My motto has always been ““Smile, and the world smiles with you”, even if I have encountered a few people who, while you’re busy smiling, try to wedge a turd into your mouth. 

So when I’m around other people, I always try to put on a happy face. But sometimes, when I’m alone, I just find myself in a really lousy mood.  Maybe I’m actually a horrible person, and this is some sort of chemical reaction to spending my public life trying to be nice all the time. Or maybe I just have stresses, like everybody else – a lawsuit that has dragged on for three years, an ailing mother, the feeling that an alternate me is living a much more glamorous life on another plane of existence – you know, the usual stuff.

But whatever the case, I gotta drag myself out of this sporadic morning morass.

Yoko Ono was on the radio the other day. She wasn’t singing – to the delight and gratitude of Americans everywhere  – but rather, talking about how she pulled herself out of her desperate sadness after John Lennon was killed.

My first thought was that she drove out of DespairLand the way most people do – via fistfuls of colorful anti-depressants. But they weren’t really a “thing” in 1980. No, the way that this BeatleBuster managed to climb out of the dumpster of depression was – I’m not kidding – by smiling.

Every day, she’d drag her ass out of bed and stand in front of the mirror…and smile. At first, she said, it felt super phony (of course, when you look at yourself in the mirror after age 40, what smile isn’t fake?). But as time went on, grinning into the mirror helped to genuinely lighten her mood. And she began to discover the enormous power of a smile.

Maybe I should try this in my car. Maybe, if I can smile for everyone else, I can smile for myself. Maybe, just showing a few molars in the mirror could lighten my heart and remind me how fortunate I am and how trivial my problems are in the grand scheme of things.

And most importantly, maybe then I wouldn’t have to worry that I’m undergoing male menopause. Because I’m way too young and moist for that.

Shut up.