Men of the Skull Prologue Draft 2: Electric Boogaloo

Ok, thanks to input from viewers like you, I've revised the prologue a bit.

Opinions welcome.  Please.  

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Prologue 2025: 

Let me tell you a story. 

  

I’ve fought to save lives. 

I’ve knelt in kitchens, compressing chests that didn’t want to rise. I’ve crawled into wrecked vehicles trying to stop people from bleeding to death. Run into flaming infernos searching for anything living to save. 

But there was one life I couldn’t save — nor did I want to: my own. 

So here we are: the revised, updated, now-with-Pine-scent prologue to a book you never read in the first place. This book shows how I buried myself alive in brotherhood, beer, and basement dive bars. Somehow, decades later, I finally dug myself out. 

Everything you’re about to read happened. Or most of it did. The memories are real, even if the edges have blurred. The names have been changed — some out of respect, some out of mercy, and some to protect the guilty. Some people are composites of several personalities. I haven’t exaggerated. If anything, I softened it. Like Obi-Wan said: it all depends on “a certain point of view.” 

This is the story of my college years — two universities, two fraternities, two lives. One of them was real. The other was the one I tried desperately to live, with mixed results and regrettable wardrobe choices. 

In the 2008 prologue, I asked: 

"Why in the world would I write about my college years? Who gives a damn? Is it a therapeutic assignment? An attempt to exorcise demons? To recapture the 1980s of my quickly ebbing youth? Maybe all of the above. Mostly, I just wanted to get it all straight in my head. To learn from it." 

That was 2008. And it was true — or at least the truth I could admit at the time. What I didn’t admit then was that I was in Pain. A deep, howling, soul-level Pain I couldn’t name. I tried to drink it to death. Didn’t work. So I tried to write it to death. 

Then came Halloween 2008. 

I dressed as Lois Lane for a party — my wife as Clark Kent. I knew what was trapped inside me — my dark secret — but I’d managed to control it, erase it, for twenty-five years. I would be fine. Wouldn’t I?

 

Nope.

 

The psychic wall I’d built crumbled. Driving home after drinking way too much (Wife and daughter drove separately), I felt at Peace. All the pain, the anger, all of it… gone. I looked down at my chest, expanded by a birdseed-filled bra, and knew — I was in trouble. 

I finished the first draft in summer 2008, sent it to agents and publishers. Some were politely uninterested. Some not so polite. Mostly I heard nothing. Meanwhile, the Pain kept growing. Not even my newborn daughter’s smile could assuage it. 

My first trip to PSU as Sophie.  July 2013

Fast forward to March 2014. I’d been to therapy, support group meetings, thrown out of the house, lost a dear friend to suicide, almost followed her, stopped lying — and Lance died. What emerged from the ashes of a ruined life was Sophie — the person who had been silently screaming for decades. I’ve also done a lot of writing: a blog detailing my transition, online columns, even The New York Times. The voice I found writing this book was honed along the way. 

This isn’t a trans memoir in the traditional sense. I don’t come out in Chapter 3 with a triumphant montage and a power ballad playing in the background. There’s no makeover moment, no wise mentor (okay, there was one, but she doesn’t appear in this book), no tidy resolution. Most of the people around me back then would’ve laughed — or worse — if I’d said the truth out loud. So I didn’t. I joined a fraternity. I chased girls. I learned how to chug beers and bury feelings deeper than a Springsteen song. I tried very, very hard to be what I thought a man was supposed to be. 

Spoiler: I wasn’t very good at it.

I didn’t write this book to make myself look good. I couldn’t if I tried. I was insecure, needy, petty, cowardly, and cruel when I thought it would keep me safe. I hurt people. I ghosted people. I threw good things away because I was afraid someone would see through me. And I hated myself for it — for lying. To everybody. For my silence. 

  

I hated myself a lot. 

  

But that silence, that pretending — it’s part of the story. It shaped every relationship, every misstep, every small triumph. If you read between the lines, you’ll see the cracks. You’ll hear the longing. You’ll understand the “shame” I couldn’t name because I didn’t have the words. Or the courage. 

That’s the real reason I’m telling this story now — because it’s not just mine. It’s about being the outsider. About wanting to belong so badly you forget who you are. About regret, hope, and the small mercies that keep us alive. 

And if you were there — if you knew me then — I hope you’ll read with grace. I don’t write this to embarrass anyone. I write it because the past deserves to be told honestly. Because I’m tired of pretending. Because for all its flaws, this story is mine. And if you deserve an apology, as some do, please know how sorry I am. 

The story is about brotherhood. About desire. About trying to belong in a world that felt like it was never built for someone like me. It’s about growing up in the 1980s, under Reagan, AIDS, and the eternal war between cassettes and vinyl. “Tastes Great” and “Less Filling.” It’s about Skull House and Crow House, about parties, betrayals, and those tiny moments of connection that made everything bearable. It’s about the people who shaped me, whether they knew it or not — and probably wish they didn’t. It’s a love letter and a requiem to a decade and a place — both more magical as time distorts memory. 

It’s about a boy who thought he was writing a coming-of-age story searching for answers, and a woman who finally found her way back to finish it decades later.  As Dylan wrote “We always did feel the same we just saw it from a different point of view...” 

And yeah, there’s Music. Always Music. If you want to understand the 1980s, you need to hear the beat. The Devil Inside that moved us all. 

What you’re about to read is what I wrote Before, with a needed heavy edit, and with commentary and observations from After. That After solved the puzzle after buying all the vowels. That After has no more secrets. And between that Before — and that After — that’s where the Truth awaits. 

 

Let me tell you a story.

Men of the Skull Prologue 2025 draft.

 

Prologue (2025): “Let me tell you a story…”

Wednesday, July 2, 2025:  Trump administration restores $175 million to Penn after deal reached on trans athletes

 

Right.  This is the revised, updated, all-new, now with Pine-scent! prologue of a revised book you never read in the first place. 

 

Everything in this book happened. Or most of it did. The memories are real, even if the edges blur a bit with time. The names have been changed—some out of respect, some out of mercy, and some to protect the guilty. I haven’t exaggerated. If anything, I’ve softened some of it. It all depends “on a certain point of view.”

 

Last week

This is the story of my college years—two universities, two fraternities, two lives. One of them was real. The other was the one I tried desperately to live, with mixed results and bad hair.

 

In the original prologue, reproduced next, I wrote:

“Anyway, why in the world would I write about my college years? Who gives a damn? Is it a therapeutic assignment? Is it an attempt to exorcise old demons and ghosts and move on with my life? Is it an attempt to recapture the 1980s of my quickly ebbing youth?
Maybe a little of them all, I guess. I’m doing this because I think it’s a story worth telling- if only so I can get it all straight in my head. I want to learn from it."

        Well, that was Truth as I understood it in 2008.  I was in Pain- a deep, howling psychological pain- and I didn’t know why.  I tried to drink it to death.  Didn’t work.  So I’d write it to death.  I finished the first draft in summer 2008.  I sent it to editors, agents, and publishers and received some polite rejections.  Some were not polite.  Mostly though, I heard nothing.  I also circulated a few printed copies to friends for their feedback.  Still, there was that Pain I couldn’t drink away.  Not even my newborn daughter’s smile could assuage it.  (Ooo big word!) 

Then on Halloween 2008, it all changed.  Long story short, I dressed as Lois Lane (accompanied by my Wife’s Clark Kent) for a party.  I knew what was trapped inside me- my dark secret- but I’d managed to control it, erase it, for twenty five years.  I would be fine.

 

I wasn’t.

 

The psychic wall I’d built crumbled.  Driving home after drinking way too much (Wife and daughter drove separately), I felt at Peace.  All the pain, the anger, all of it… gone.  I looked down at my chest, expanded by a birdseed filled bra, and knew- I was in trouble. 

 

Fast forward to March 2014.  I’d been to therapy, support group meetings, thrown out of the house, lost a dear friend to suicide, almost followed her, I stopped lying, and Lance died.  What emerged from the ashes of a ruined life was Sophie- the person who had been silently screaming for decades.  I’ve also done a LOT of writing, for a blog detailing my transition, online columns, even the New York Times.  The voice I found writing the book was honed a bit.

This isn’t a trans memoir in the traditional sense. I don’t come out in Chapter 3 with a triumphant montage and a power ballad playing in the background. There’s no makeover moment, no wise mentor, no tidy resolution. Most of the people around me back then would’ve laughed—or worse—if I’d said the truth out loud. So I didn’t. I joined a fraternity. I chased girls. I learned how to chug beers and bury feelings. I tried very, very hard to be what I thought a man was supposed to be.

 

Spoiler: I wasn’t very good at it.

 

I didn’t write this book to make myself look good. I couldn’t if I tried. I was insecure, needy, petty, cowardly, and cruel when I thought it would keep me safe. I hurt people. I ghosted people. I threw good things away because I was afraid someone would see through me. And I hated myself for it.  For lying.  To everybody.  For my silence.

 

I hated myself a lot.

 

But that silence, that pretending—it’s part of the story.  It shaped every relationship, every misstep, every small triumph. If you read between the lines, you’ll see the cracks. You’ll hear the longing. You’ll understand the “shame” I couldn’t name because I didn’t have the words.  Or the courage.

 

And if you were there—if you knew me then—I hope you’ll read with grace. I don’t write this to embarrass anyone. I write it because the past deserves to be told honestly. Because I’m tired of pretending. Because, for all its flaws, this story is mine.  And if you deserve an apology, as some do, please know how sorry I am.   

 

The story is about brotherhood. About desire. About trying to belong in a world that felt like it was never built for someone like me. It’s about growing up in the 1980s, under Reagan, AIDS, and the eternal war between cassettes and vinyl. “Tastes Great” and “Less Filling.” It’s about Skull House and Crow House, about parties, betrayals, and those tiny moments of connection that made everything bearable.  It’s about the people who shaped me, whether they knew it or not—and probably wish they didn’t.

 

It’s about a college boy who thought he was writing a coming-of-age story searching for answers, and a woman who finally found her way back to finish it decades later.

 

And yeah, there’s music. Always music. If you want to understand the 1980s, you need to hear the beat. The Devil Inside that moved us all. 

 

What you’ll read is what I wrote Before, with a needed heavy edit, and with commentary and observations from After.  That After solved the puzzle.  That After has no more secrets.  And that before- that after- that’s where the Truth awaits.

 

Let me tell you a story.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Tom Said

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."  (Jefferson, Thomas, Declaration of Independence, 1776)

MAGA wants to, based solely upon my identity, deprive me of my life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness- preferably in that order.  If they can't kill transgender women, they'll jail us.  If they can't jail us, they'll make our lives miserable.  

 Last Monday

It's Snorton's transnecropolitics writ large.  We have value to MAGA for two things: money makers and as "the enemy."  Fascism requires an enemy to "rescue" the people from.  With MAGA, it's brown people and it's transgender women.  Also, the Enemy is necessary for fundraising.  "Look at these horrible things!  Only WE can save you- if you send money!" 

Will transgender women still be the primary target after (not if) they overturn Obergefell v. Hodges?  

"Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness

We fought for these ideals we shouldn't settle for less"

(Miranda, Lin-Manuel, Cabinet Meeting #1, Hamilton, 2015)

Later in that same referenced paragraph, Jefferson writes "That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it..." (ibid.)

The current regime doesn't care about poll results or opinions.  They care about power and money- the more the better.  They also don't care about protests- except for target practice.  

So, what can be done?  Unless the military remembers their oath and disobeys unlawful orders (or removes the problem from office), I don't know.  

Thomas Paine wrote "The cause of America is in a great measure the cause of all mankind" (Common Sense, 1776).

As this country falls into Russia influenced fascism, what can the world do?  No democracy is safe.  None.  Anywhere.

What a time to be alive.  

Snake Subaru Sophomore Summer Start

I don't remember if I've told this story before.  Heck, I've been telling you stories for so long that even I don't remember the beginning (which was December 2008, btw.)

I drive a lot to see Wife and Daughter in South East Pa (SEPa), so I listen to audio books.  I just finished Brothers by Alex Van Halen.  It was excellent and raw.  In any case, it reminded me of an event in my life that was more important than I thought at the time.

This happened in June 1982, on the last day of finals- the last day of my sophomore year.  I forget the exact date, and it doesn't matter.  The day was sunny and glorious.  

I had few friends at that time.  Two of those were the people that I played D&D with- Dr. Dave and Snake.  Snake obviously isn't his real name- it was a nickname given for a really, well, stupid reason, but it stuck.  Of the three of us, I was the youngest.  In June 1982, I was 15.  But Snake was 16... and now had a driver's license.  

Oh, to have a license!  To escape the confines of our small town- to go wherever we'd like: to the mall, get food, whatever... without having parents drive us!  THAT was freedom!  

Snake was allowed to drive his mum's beige '75 Subaru (which looks eerily like the photo below.)  Snake's dad owned a garage, and Snake was busy restoring an MG-A convertible.  I'll come back to that.  

1975 Subaru

That day, Snake had the Subaru.  Dr. Dave, Snake, and I had the same final exam.  As we all lived in Spring City, he offered to drive us home.  When we got into the car, Snake suggested we go to the King of Prussia (KOP) mall, which was like Mecca for teens of our area (and was, and still is, one of the largest malls in the world.)  Going there always meant parents driving.  But... not that day.

The first stop was my house.  We were listening to WMMR on the radio, and they were playing Van Halen Dancing in the Street (cover of the Marvin Gaye song made famous by Martha and the Vandellas).  The volume was turned WAY UP.  When I jumped out of the car to drop off my school stuff, the whole street HAD to hear it!

In a way, this was an announcement to all- I was no longer a Child, I was a Teenager!  I had no idea what that would mean, but there I was!  Loud and rude- like all the teenagers I'd seen on TV, movies, or in life!  Who cares if the music was too loud?  Or how annoyed the neighbors on the street would be?  It was like a Declaration of Independence.  

1962 MG-A just like Snake's.  Maybe it is his?

So we went to the mall.  I don't remember anything about that trip, but if it was anything like a typical mall trip from later high school, we walked around the mall (which, back then was an oval with a branch sticking out).  In the early 80s there had been an update to the mall as well as the construction of a new mall next to it: the Court, which opened in 1981.  That was the mall for rich folks- VERY 80s.  It's still there, but since another update on the original mall made it much fancier, it looks like the dated old part.  

While walking around, we always stopped at Allied Hobbies to look for new AD&D stuff, the Listening Booth record store (where I worked briefly), the food court, and, of course the arcade: Space Port.

I miss arcades- with their low lights to make the screen easier to see, and the great games.  True escapism.

So, what's my point?  Well, I really don't have one.  Maybe there's a metaphor to my "coming out" almost 32 years later.  After all, I was 'crossdressing' then- it was my Dark Secret.  My Shame.  But, you know what?  I think, that for that moment in time, that particular event- I felt accepted and Happy.  

Be well. 

March of Questions

The cold rain falls here in State College, flutily trying to cleanse the Earth.  Evil has gripped the US.  It was on full display the other night during a televised speech to Congress.

Rainy days always make me reflective.  Perhaps rain are the tears of God or the dead.  Perhaps they are a metaphor for renewal and life, as water evaporates, rise, condenses, falls back to Earth just to eventually evaporate again.  

Wow.  Corny metaphors... and I'm not even drunk.

In any case, In the past week, people asked me questions that really gave me pause.  I figure writing them down would help me think through and process my answers.  You lucky people.

Recent pic

The first was asked  to me by a co-worker the other day, then by a therapy student last night:  What would healing look like for you?

This first came up during a discussion about Justice.  My coworker (who is against carceral state) believes that punishment doesn't help the victim at all.  My counter-point was "so the perpetrator just commits a crime, and gets away with it?"  Their point was that these are two separate issues- that society cares more about punishment than restoring the victim.  The coworker was once the victim of a hideous crime (I'm not at liberty to say what) while living in Hong Kong, and said that the first thing the authorities there did was to help them recover from the crime.  (yes, the perp was caught and punished.)  Hence the question. 

My answer: Wow.  I really have no idea. I've lost so much and have the scars to prove it. Move to a different house with Wife and daughter and live as a family again?  (and drag Linda along as well.)  The issue here is that if someone comforts me (like says "I'm proud of you), I don't believe them.  It bounces off my armor and doesn't get through (just like compliments.)  I've thought of this for a couple of days... am I beyond healing?  I mean- there's no way to have my years restored to me.  Apologies, while helpful, don't restore.  The "plate is still broken" so to speak.  

Of course, I could just let go of the past, and all the Pain.  But that Pain defines me- drives me.  

Without the experiences that caused the Pain (and other experiences) that make me who I am, for good or for ill.  That Pain gave me my drive and passion for justice.  Would justice on those who hurt me long ago bring me healing?  Not now.  Justice must be swift to be helpful.  That said, there are some graves that it would me great pleasure to, ahem, defecate upon.  

This is a question I need to really consider.  A lot.  

I thought of the second the other night while watching Casablanca.  That's a movie about many things, with regret being a major theme.  I thought about the losses I've endured- the many regrets I've piled up in my life.  Then I asked myself: Is it worse to regret something you did or something you did not do?

I posted the question on facialbook and received some good answers.

My answer: Something I did NOT do.  It's the hell of "what if."  When I regret something I did, I at least tried and found an outcome.  For example: I transitioned, and the following happened: blah blah.  I maintain that those results are better than wondering where my life would've been had not transitioned, but still wanted to.  If that makes sense.  (I already know what the alternative to transition would've been: death.)  

The third question was asked to me at a presentation I frequently do here at PSU: it's a brief LGBTQ 101, followed by the stories of the presenters, then a Q&A.  Usually the audience are undergrads, as we (me and the other presenters) are invited to speak to classes by the professors.  An F2M person (they told me) asked me the following:  What is your favorite part of being a woman?

In my eleven years of presenting about transgender issues, no one has EVER asked me that.  A question I get frequently is "What do you miss about being a man?"  (I usually steal Jennifer Finney Boylan's answer to that: "Pockets.")  Yet never the opposite.  The student said they couldn't imagine wanting any part of being female.  I get it- that's dysphoria.  

The answer I eventually gave was the 'permission' to feel and express emotions.  Guys really aren't allowed to do that lest they be accused of being "gay."  (Masculinity is a rigid, narrow course.)  Now, if I wish, I can cry, laugh, express all the emotions I wish.  After all, there's no 'restrictions' on women for expressing emotions.  Also, the estrogen allows me to feel more emotions.  There are emotions I experience that I can't even name.  (Did I install an emotion chip?)

In any case, all three are questions I need to keep considering.  If nothing else, to take my mind off the hell on earth that MAGA has made the world.

Be well.

"Living the Dream"

 Yesterday, while preparing to leave for work, I was putting on my shoes and bantering with my roomie/bestie Linda as usual: a typical day.  She said "have a good day" and I replied "living the dream."

That's when my two remaining brain cells nudged me.

I was sitting on the couch while wearing a dress.  I was also wearing a bra which supported my own breasts, pantyhose (yes, I'm old), and pierced hoop earrings.  I was also fully made up and had styled my hair.  I was dressed as the woman I am.  

I thought for a moment about that.  For so many years, this WAS the dream- an impossible dream.  The idea of stepping out the door, never mind going to work, dressed this way, was so beyond possibility that I didn't dare even consider it.  

Yet I've been doing that very thing for almost eleven years.  

Yes, I've paid the very steep price (and will do so the rest of my life), but also yes- I guess I AM living the dream!

And so I went to work.

Be well.

February So Far

 I'm still here.  My existence is in itself an act of protest (or something like that.  Laverne Cox said it.)  I still haven't been sent to a camp somewhere.  Yet.  I'm still here, in spite of my Scottish cousin's repeated appeals.

Here we are on week 3 of the descent into fascism.  People far more informed than me have already written about all that's happening, especially to transgender people.  Here are some links:

Timothy Snyder (noted expert on fascism) on how the government is being dismantled.

Jessica Weingarten on calling out the Trump tax.

Heather Cox Richardson om Musk's government takeover.

Erin Reed who keeps her eye on transgender issues.

Melissa Ryan on multiple topics.  At the bottom of this one is an interesting news item, which I reproduce here:

"Declassified CIA Guide to Sabotaging Fascism Is Suddenly Viral (404 Media)

I read this guide when it first went viral in 2017 (and probably linked to it at some point). Amused that it’s going viral again, I assume it's being passed around at least in part by civil servants determined to hold the line."  

People who know me know I have a passion for history- in particular the history of resistance against the Nazis in WWII.  The headline above is inaccurate- when this guide was published in January 1944, the CIA did not exist.  This book was published by the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), whose brief was "coordination for the gathering of intelligence" (from the above linked article.)Yes, it eventually became the CIA, but it wasn't at that time.  

Nit picking, I know.

Since the beginning of the semester, I've put an effort into my appearance at work.  I've pretty much gotten my makeup speed back by keeping it simple.  That said, this morning I was enraged by my getting cover-up into my hair.  A lot of it.  After a lot of other small things that had gone wrong, that was the one that put me over.  I wanted to tear the room apart, rip out my hair, wipe off all my makeup, and just disappear.  Those who knew me before my transition knew I had a violent, hair-trigger temper.  Transition really helped calm that storm, as has decades of therapy.  However, since November, I find my patience is getting ever thinner.  I want to isolate myself from everything ("turtle" as I call it.)  Of course, not being able to afford a therapist (finding one that takes my insurance is hard) hasn't helped either.  Nor has medical bills piling up by four figures almost daily (my insurance really sucks.)  

Work Sophie Selfie

I know: wah wah.  Cry me a river.

Still, I'm not in a camp somewhere.  I'm still employed.  I can still fight the fascist take-over (as we all should.)  I guess all of those are something.

Be well.

Solstice Scribblings

As I type this, the sun has set on the shortest day of the year.  This entry will be a mish mash of bits I've written over the past few months, some stuff I'm just typing in randomly, and whatever I feel like.  Call it a "clip show" if you will, but without Commander Riker.  

Bonus tribbles for anyone who gets that reference.

I dolled up last weekend.

Anyway, as I mentioned, today is the winter solstice, also known as Hibernal solstice, and, to my friends of the Goddess: Yule.  The Yule celebration is where we in the US get most of our Xmas traditions.  I think I wrote about that once.  Oh yeah- HERE it is!  As to those friends:

"Wishing you blessings this yuletide and every day. This Yule, may you and yours enjoy the blessings of the season and the joy of rebirth. As the light is reborn this winter solstice, may your heart lift with the joy of new beginnings and nature's blessings."

I forget where I dug that up, but I like it.  I didn't write it.  Cut and Paste is your friend.

I'd love to report incredible progress on my PhD but nope.  Still stalled.  Still my fault.  Same reasons, really.  Depression.  Imposter syndrome.  In an effort to kick my ass into gear, I decided to apply for a post doc kinda thing.  

The good news is that I had a class with Dr. Hil Malatino, who is in charge of this.  The bad news is that I also had a class with one of the other professors on the team during my first semester of my PhD studies, and, well, we didn't see eye-to eye.  In any case, I spent several days updating my CV, filled out the application (which included two essay questions of at least 500 words) and submitted it last night.  Do I have a prayer of getting it?  Doubtful- especially since I don't have my PhD yet.  But I COULD have it by August if I get my ass in gear.  So there's that.

As I showed above, I dolled up a few times this month.  I guess I just wanted to feel something.  Maybe it was because it felt so good dressing up for the reunion.  A big reason was that I've lost a lot of weight due to Ozempic and diet change (diabetes sucks), and I was going through my closet trying on things I stopped wearing because I was too fat.  I found several including my jeans!  Another reason I dolled up was because I kept practicing with false eyelashes.  Again and again.  Eventually, I was successful.  So, I dolled up to celebrate.

Look at what I did!

Another piece I fit into was my fave purple sweater.  

Bathroom selfie!

So that was a good thing since my last blog entry.  

Xmas is next week.  Wednesday in fact.  I won't see Wife or Daughter that day, but I may see them on Monday.  I hope so. 

What else is going on?  The usual end of semester money woes which mean trips to the food bank.  Added to that was the fact that my roomie/bestie Linda was sick for 5 weeks and out of work.  My income barely cuts it when both of us work, so that was crippling.  To distract myself from concentrating on that and spiraling deeper into my usual holiday depression, I decided to help a Vampire bride.  She was in a nasty car accident, which totaled her car.  As she ran her own driving business, this is devastating.  Add to that her injuries and broken glasses... it was a stake to her heart.  Like me, she is too proud to ask for help, so I started a GoFundMe for her.  

Hopefully this link works.

Oh, why am I calling her a Vampire bride?  Because we met when we were both in Dracula together at the Forge Theatre.    (Hmmm I thought I had a pic of all four brides, but I don't.)

Two of the four Brides rehearse getting Harker all "bloody."

She has it worse than me.

Penn State won its first playoff football game at Beaver Stadium today against SMU.  It was 25 deg F with a windchill of 10 deg, which I'm guessing was far too cold for those Texans.  Also, it was a "White Out" so it was LOUD.  I didn't score tickets in the student lottery, so I watched it from my couch.  Oh, here's a bit of trivia: at PSU we say "WE ARE PENN STATE!"  This started because of our last game against SMU in 1948.  

Oh, back in July I wrote a blog entry wondering what I would do if fascism won the election.  It did.  And they've already started clamping down of TG people.  In any case, I decided what I'm going to do.  I'm staying here.  There are a few reasons.  The first is that Linda doesn't have a passport, and I won't leave without her.  Second is that I simply don't have the money to leave.  Third is that if I left, I'd feel guilty for leaving.  I can't leave and let my transgender sisters fight on without me.  I've fought all my life (and have the scars to prove it), and I won't stop now.  Fascists need to be fought.  To do any less is to dishonor everyone who fought it last time- in the 40s.  

In any case, that's all I have.  Enjoy whatever holidays you observe.  Be well.

40th reunion already?

On Saturday November 16, 2024, the Spring Ford High School Class of 1984 gathered at Copperfield Inn, Limerick, Pa., for their 40th reunion.

That's all you need to know.  Bye!

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Oh, ok I'll write more.  

Group shot from the Class trip.  I'm not in that photo

Wow.  Forty years in a heartbeat.  Heck, TEN years in a heartbeat.  Yet, in those ten, so much has changed.  I've gone from being new at transition to being a mentor: a trans "elder."  I've moved away from SEPa to State College, where I'm (supposedly) working on my PhD.  My daughter has gone from a child to a teenager.  The political scene has reached a boiling point.  I've made a friend or two but more than that have died.  The world survived a pandemic.

I have less years ahead of me than I have behind, and those years fly by.  I'd like to think that time has made me a better person, but I know that isn't true.  I've become more bitter and withdrawn.  I have gotten better at makeup though, despite rarely wearing it.

I wasn't going to attend this reunion.  It was $45 I didn't have. But, like the 30th, I was "bribed" by Eva, a classmate now in California.  She said she'd get me a hotel room for the night so I wouldn't have to drive back to State College that night.  Why she made me this offer, I don't know.  I still don't know why she offered to pay ten years ago.  

In any case, I made plans to get my hair styled near the hotel as I'm clueless.  It looked great for a while (until I started sweating.)  I then picked up wings at a local cheesesteak place that I must say were very disappointing.  I drove a backroad to the hotel that reminded me of what the area looked like when I was growing up- farms instead of strip malls and McMansion farms.

Limerick, PA

After meeting up with Eva (2 doors down in the hotel), she gave us both Korean facials (I have no idea what was in them- just that they were on plastic strips.)  She also wanted to do my makeup.  We settled on her doing my eyes and applying fake lashes which I simply cannot do.  She did a wonderful job on the eyes (I touched up one spot where there was a smudge) and I did the rest.  I wore the red dress I wore in Vegas with a bit of a push up bra.  Yes, I wanted the girls to shine!  I wanted to slay as best as I could.  That meant cleavage for miles, dammit!  

As I finished my makeup, the third of our group arrived.  She was my old friend Sue, who attended the 30th as well.  I went back to my room and watched the Penn State game as they changed and finished getting ready.  We rode over together in Eva's rental car, arriving just after 6.  When we arrived, we met a few other classmates in the parking lot.  We met another at the door.  Let's just say that back then, he and I didn't get along back in school.  Back then, we ended up in a fight which I handily won (remember- this is when I was still in the dojo.)  I did not introduce myself.  

I managed to reach some old classmates about this reunion.  One I hadn't seen (or heard from) in 30 years- not since the 10th reunion: Alecia.  She was #2 in our class (beaten by a razor thin margin) as well as an athlete.  Back then, we used to talk a LOT.  She was a sounding board after a couple of nasty events I will not discuss here.  When I first reached out to her (about the Scitman book) I wondered how she'd react to my transition.  I needn't have worried.  She took it all in stride, as I'd hoped (and rather expected.)  I'm guessing she googled me or something before responding, being a scientist and all.  Yes, she is a bionic scientist.  She can rebuild you.  She can make you better than you were.  Better, stronger, faster.  In any case, her husband was actually the one to talk her into going.  

With Alecia.  My hair already flattened.

She looked amazing (and yes, that's her natural hair color!)  We talked about old times, old friends, new times, her daughter's PhD... I always figured she'd become a doctor.  Nope- scientist.  Her husband was a delight as well.  He was content sitting back and watching people his wife knew from the day.  His opinion he kept to himself.

Eva, Thomas, Me, Dawn, Sue, Terri

I was surprised inside when I saw another old friend who'd moved to Houston: Dawn.  Dawn was a hairdresser by trade, and she was the one who did my makeup that Halloween fateful night in 2008.  Had I known she was in the area, I would've had her do my hair!  I was very glad to see her, and we sat next to each other at dinner.  (Dinner was nice, btw.)

As we're getting older, the number of "empty chairs" gets larger.  This time, there was a poster naming those who'd died.  It's missing a couple: John Cauffman and Don Schantz.  

Looking around, I noticed something: most of us looked our age.  Some looked younger.  Some looked FAR older.  Time had not been kind, and I assume neither had disease or such.  There but for the grace of God...  There were a couple of faces I hadn't seen at a reunion before this.  Alecia was one.  Another I will not name, but he was thrown out of the venue for being too drunk.  

Flat hair due to sweat- it was very hot in the room

I must say he wasn't the only one who made an ass of themselves.  I was standing in line for a drink when a slim, beautiful blonde and I started chatting.  I didn't recognize her, so I figured she must be a spouse.  She asked what I thought of the reunion, blah blah small talk.  She then asked what my opinion was of a certain classmate, whom I will call AH.  I didn't even think for a second as to why she would ask about such a specific person (who was in attendance) and said "He's an asshole. A bully.  He loved tormenting people smaller than him, thought women owed him sex then discarded them like toys, and all he ever talks about at the reunions is the spectacular football play he made our senior year.  (It actually was pretty spectacular, but still...)

I stopped myself before pointing out how, at the 30th, his wife wasn't there so he was flirting with many of the women.  Then I said, "Why do you ask?"  

She replied "Oh, I'm his wife."

Open mouth and insert leg!  I felt so incredibly stupid and apologized for my candor.  I bought her a drink.  She wasn't angry.  She explained that I wasn't the only one with that opinion.  Apparently, she knew very little about his high school days.  I said, "So you don't know about the 'the catch'?"  She rolled her eyes and said "oh believe me I've heard about THAT so many times..."  Anyway, she wanted to ask people about her husband to find out about his past from other people's point of view.  Perhaps she'd asked him and wasn't convinced by his answer.  In any case, she missed the 30th due to surgery.  I apologized again, and we parted.  We spoke again later, and she bought my last drink of the night (of 4).  

With Michele G

For the most part it was a quiet night, rather sedate.  I spoke with the people I expected/hoped to speak with, (including Michele G and Tony S) and that was nice.  My transition was old news, and only one person brought up the class trip (which was nice.)  That said, early in the night I had an affirming moment.  A female classmate (I won't say who) told me "I am so jealous of your tits!"  I thanked her and replied that I was very lucky.  

Still, that makes me smile, even as I write this.  At least SOMEBODY was impressed with my look for the night.  

After returning to the hotel, Eva, Dawn, a classmate named Al (who was very well dressed) and I hung out in my room, drinking and talking.  It was my favorite part of the night.  We learned things about each other and rehashed the events of the evening.  I finally went to bed at 3:30.  I was up at 8 to shower and go see Wife and daughter, followed by the long drive back to State College.  As you can imagine, by the time I arrived at the apartment I was exhausted.  I was really dragging at work the next day.  

I've had over a week to think about the event, of the people I saw, and where life had taken or done to us all.  After the thirtieth, I wrote "What brought me to this event?  What brought the others?  I think it's the need for Connection.  All we have in common is that we lived in the same area and were about the same age, so that made us classmates...  Connection.  We all need it.  Maybe in time all wounds heal, but they never heal alone.   Sometimes it takes Change... and someone extending their hand."  

That still applies.  I'd add to that these reunions also connect us to our long-lost youth- the halcyon days of energy, vigor, spectacular catches, and a life wide open with possibilities.  It seems that's all some people have.  That's not an indictment or a judgement: it just is.  I spoke to my dad about the reunion.  He had his sixtieth reunion several years ago- it was the first he'd ever attended.  He also said it would be the last held, as their numbers dwindle (they are all in their 80s.)  That's twenty years away for me- a heartbeat or last breath.  A wise friend once told me "Days drag, but years fly."  

They weren't wrong.  

Thanks again to Eva for her kindness in getting me a room for the night. 

Be well.

For Ty

On Wednesday November 6, 2024, Ty Torres died of head trauma after a surfing accident.  He was 55.  He leaves behind his wife, Robin, and his son, Coltrane.

Photo by Dave Sieling

According to a memorial site:

On the morning of November 5th, 2024, Ty Torres went for an early surf session, something he had done countless times before. However, this time, tragedy struck. Witnesses say that after riding a wave, he appeared to lose control and was knocked unconscious after being thrown off his board. Although lifeguards and bystanders rushed to his aid immediately, performing CPR and attempting to revive him, Ty was ultimately declared dead at the scene. The exact cause of death is believed to be related to a head injury sustained during the fall, although authorities are awaiting a full autopsy report to confirm the details.

His obituary.

The memorial is inaccurate.  He was taken to a hospital where he was declared brain dead, and his wife had him disconnected from life support equipment the next morning.  

Ty was a professor, artist, raconteur, polymath, father, brother, husband, and a great man.  He was also my fraternity brother, one of my closest friends from my undergraduate years, and one of the very few who stayed in touch.

1990

Many people are writing tributes to Ty which talk about his recent accomplishments- about the philosophy classes he taught, his art, his love of life, and his expertise at surfing.  Yes, he was an avid expert surfer.  He even appeared on the cover of a surfing magazine in his youth.  You could say he died doing what he loved.  One of his childhood friends wrote on facialbook "...great soul who understood people and found the salient part of every individual on Earth, never passing up a chance to make anyone feel good."  That really sums up Ty perfectly.

I met Ty in the Fall of 1987.  One of our pledges of that time went to high school with him, and invited him to our parties, eventually talking him into pledging as well in the next semester.  Ty had long, flowing black hair and an easy smile.  I'm not much into guys, but he was really good looking.  I knew he could seduce any person he wished.  

But here's the rub- while he KNEW he was hot, It didn't go to his head.  He was genuine, friendly, and CARED about people.  He actually listened.  He was easy to talk to and easy to like.  When he was "rushing," he and I drank together often.  He was amused that I'd never even tried drugs.  He didn't treat me like an outcast- he treated me like a brother: HIS brother.  He always had my back- and I had his.  There was never a doubt.

With Ty 1991

Ty pledged with the Spring 1988 pledge class.  His pledge class had several really good guys in it, but I think Ty was the engine that kept them going.  They became brothers in late April 1988- the week after the annual Toga party.  (They would've gotten in sooner, but we needed pledges to work Toga.)  

Fare you well, fare you well I love you more than words can tell.  (Grateful Dead)

As a brother, Ty was a phenomenon.  You couldn't ask for a better brother.  He was an incredible ambassador for the letters, and his hotness brought MANY women to our events.  

After I graduated, we stayed in touch.  He was kind enough to let me sleep on his couch a couple of times when I visited PSU before he graduated.  Eventually, he was elected vice president of the fraternity.  He also played "Sahntah" at the annual house Christmas gift exchange- which in our house was a great honor bestowed upon a senior.  When Wife and I visited California, we made it a point to visit Ty, his wife, and their newborn son.  He told me I'd gotten fat.  (He wasn't wrong.)

"Sahntah"

Then I transitioned.  Ty was one of the people I told via video (as I didn't have the money to fly out to California.)  He immediately gave his support.  He never dead-named nor misgendered me.  When my fraternity's 125th anniversary weekend came in 2015, Ty talked me into attending, as I wasn't going to do so.  He said he would walk with me to the House from the hotel to support me.  He also told me of pre-event happies in another brother's room.  At the event (which he helped plan and run) he was a dynamo of energy, and made sure to check in with me occasionally to make sure I was ok.  Seeing him, was really the highlight of the trip.  I told him his beard made him look old.  

The last time I saw him alive was last was at a mini-reunion.. 

With Ty 2015

We kept in touch, usually via text or facialbook.  We had fun destroying the arguments of 45 cultists on Ty's fb feed.  We talked baseball and Penn State football.  The last text I sent that he saw was a meme making fun of his Yankees, who had just lost the World Series.  

Then, the day after the election- a chilly, rainy day here in State College- I received a text from my dear friend (and fraternity little sister) Iva disclosing the horrific news.  I was downtown running an errand for work.  I walked back to work, stunned (I must've looked like a zombie.)  Once back at work, I went into the breakroom and broke down sobbing.  One of the undergrads I work with gave me a hug.  But my life and the world had changed.  

Ty was gone.  

I can't imagine how his family felt.  I can't comprehend the magnitude of their loss.  

His vigil

Soon, tributes popped up online- FB, Insta... all social media.  I knew Ty was popular and amazing, but I didn't realize how many lives he'd touched and changed. I shouldn't have been surprised.  People all around the world: former students, classmates from various schools, co-workers... family.  HIS family.  The family he created one smile at a time.  

Such a long long time to be gone and a short time to be there.  (Grateful Dead)

The following night was a candlelight vigil at Salt Creek beach (Dana Point, CA- south of LA) where he surfed, and a shrine created on the large rock that...  I saw pictures of the vigil.  So many people; so many candles; so many lives.

Ty was one of a kind.  He was a beacon of optimism and, yes, kindness.  This world has been around for billions of years, and may be here a lot longer, but I'm blessed to say that not only did I live at the same time as Ty, but I also had the honor of calling him "brother."  The world desperately needs more people like Ty Arthur Torres, but he was one of a kind.  He was one of the finest men I've ever known.

My deepest condolences to Robin, Coltrane, and his extended family.

May the four winds blow you safely home, Ty.  The world is lesser without you in it.