Men of the Skull Interlude XI: Fingernails

 Second to last of the interludes for Men of the Skull.  This one is about Linda Lewis.

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Interlude XI: Fingernails

Saturday December 28, 2013  Judge Upholds N.S.A.’s Bulk Collection of Data on Calls

Well, I guess it should start back when I found out about her.  My femme side resurfaced in 2008- that is true- but I knew about trans sites before that.  Around 2001, I was doing an internet search for fiction sites so I could post my work, and Fictionmania came up: a transgender story site.  I remember starting to read a story there and I was hooked.  I couldn't believe that there was a site that had stories such as these- stories that spoke to something that I had long buried.  From there, I started looking up other transgender sites, and very quickly after I found Linda.

Linda ran a website at the time, with pictures and her interviews from various magazines like Ladylike and such.  She also has a Flickr page, where she has thousands of fans. She was amazing, gorgeous, and untouchable: an Icon.  And she still is.

Heck she even appeared in ads!  When I re-awakened in 2008, I started looking for things that would improve my figure etc.  One of the places I found made scientifically designed hip pads for Trans people.   A new one had just come out and there, on the ad, was Linda- sitting on a stool in a red dress looking absolutely stunning.  Later in my search, I found a site that sold breast prosthetics, and there she was again- modeling the breast prosthetics.  I was like "this woman is everywhere!" and again I thought she was some kind of Royalty.  In addition, she did transformation makeup in Hollywood at Jim Bridges’ salon near a place called the Queen Mary.

In 2009, that I sent Linda a Flickr message, asking her about the breast and hip prosthetics.  She kindly responded, and I felt I'd been touched by the hand of God. 

Years later, Linda posted something on social media.  I forget exactly what it was, but she seemed very down.  She had a health scare of some kind, which I later found out was a collapsed lung.  She needed financial help, so I sent what I could.  It was then that she and I started chatting online.  I found out that we had a lot of movies and music in common.  A tenuous friendship began.

I decided that I was going to go to the Southern Comfort Conference.  A few of us wanted to help Linda attend as well.  Now this is saying something because Linda is a very proud person and doesn't like asking for help.  We figured out a way to get her a hotel room- she would room with a friend I knew, and between us we paid for her transportation.  I didn't realize when this started that by the time Southern Comfort came around, my life would have completely turned upside down.

At a mall in Atlanta, SCC 2013

And it was there I met Linda, and we became friends… when I wasn’t making her angry.

A couple months later, she was supposed to move down to Florida.  The details there are personal, I’ll skip them.  However, she was delayed- she couldn't move down to Florida, but her lease was up in Michigan.  She had nowhere to go.  I asked my dear friend M, with whom I was staying, if she could put Linda up for a couple weeks.  She readily agreed, because she is the kind of person who Helps.  So it was that in late December 2013, I met Linda in her drab mode at State College, Pennsylvania, where we had agreed to meet. (Only a week before, I was headed this way during a snowstorm to blow my head off, but I turned around.)  It was a rainy, snowy, messy day, and she followed me from there back to the house where we would both stay for another six months.  I lived on the second floor, while she lived in the basement, but it was during that time that I got to know the woman behind the Legend. 

Tuesday, December 31, 2013.  Bomb Attacks in Russia Echo Threats by Chechen Insurgent

Sandy Empanada was coming north to go to the Raven on New Years Eve.   I didn’t want to go as my knee still hurt from a bone bruise suffered in a workplace accident a couple of weeks before.  But I wanted to be there for Sandy, as this would be her first New Years without Lisa.  Linda had settled into the house and was willing to go out.  I wanted to introduce her around to the Trans Community here.  That's one thing she didn't have in Saginaw, Michigan: a community.  So, I went. 

I wanted to impress her with my makeup skills, so I tried a few things I’d learned here and there.  I then waited in the kitchen for Linda to emerge.  She took one look at me and said “Oh HELL NO!  Sit DOWN!”  My heart sank!  She pulled a chair from the dining room as I went to get my makeup per her demand.  She completely redid my look while teaching me some techniques I never knew.  M teased out my wig.  Not just teased- she got absolutely sadistic with it!  And it looked great!  I received so many compliments all night.  Linda met many people of the Philly Trans scene.  And she danced the night away while getting rather tipsy.  I didn’t drink, as I was worried about all the other drivers and police.

Raven NYE 2013

I thought Linda would just be there for a few weeks.  However, she kept getting delayed through no fault of her own.  Eventually she gave up on Florida, found a job, and we decided to get an apartment in Pennsylvania.  We moved out, found a third roommate Zoey (without whom we would have been on the street- and we will be forever in her debt.)  We lived there for a year, then moved from place to place, hanging on by our fingernails as jobs for me were sporadic.  As of this writing, she is my roomie in State College.  No one will ever replace Lisa, but Linda has helped my soul heal.  And hopefully, I’ve been able to help her as well.

Old dreams

When I was young, I remember having pleasant dreams.  The ones I remember are when my toys were alive (like Toy Story) and we would talk and play together, and for those dreams I wasn't alone.

As I got older, Nice dreams became rarer.  As a teen and twenty something, some of the good dreams were, ahem, spicy shall we say.  Haven't had that kind of dream in forever.

In college (Summer 88), I remember a dream that was me going to the McDonald's down the street and enjoying a Big Mac.  I really don't like Big Macs, but that summer I was so broke I literally didn't have two coins to rub together.  Being able to afford such an extravagance was a dream come true.

Summer '88.  Living next to McD's didn't help

I've written several times that I almost constantly have nightmares now.  I don't remember my last pleasant dream.  That doesn't mean I don't have them- I just don't remember any. 

 

My dreams these days are usually me trying to go somewhere but I keep getting further away.  Others are sort of typical, taking tests after not attending class, or such.  In many dreams, I’m extremely frustrated or angry, and unable to make anything right.  Some are my being pursued by something I never see, but I know to be caught would be fatal.

 

Still, most are memories gone wild.  Rescue squad calls gone tragically wrong, or dead victims returning to blame me for their deaths.  Many involve being rejected by loved ones or abandoned by everyone.

The last ones are the worst, as I wake up exhausted, sad, or depressed. Sometimes that would last for days.  

The rescue ones tend to be the ones that repeat- frequently enough that I know what happens next but can't change it.  Like I'm just a spectator, or it’s a kabuki play.

I don't remember any good dreams since before transition.  Even before. 

 

 

I miss them.  

 

The First Call (another chapter)

This is another chapter of my book Men of the Skull.  It tells the story of my first rescue squad call, and first (no funeral) dead body.

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Chapter 2.104 First Call

            In this book, I’ve done the due diligence and made sure that all dates are accurate, etc.  However, I’ve obscured this date intentionally.  Do I know the exact date?  Yes, and it’s around this time.  And I still mark it quietly. 

            Some things you never forget.

Chapter 2.104 First Call

January 12, 1988 LCB says fraternities liable for serving minors

The new pledges had already gone home as study hours were over.  I pulled one of the big black leather chairs over to face the fireplace.  I was feeling a bit, well, depressed.  Melancholy.

            I had with me a bottle of Southern Comfort, from which I sipped as I stared into the fire, thinking.

One of the new pledges, Ty, came over and stood aside me next to the chair.  He was a surfer dude with long black hair

            He looked at me and said, "Hey Lens, like, are you okay?"

            I looked up at him without moving my head, and said "just a bad memory."

            "Want to talk about it? he asked.

            “Well, it's kind of gory. It was my first Rescue Squad calls as an EMT."

            Oh, that’s right- you're an EMT," he said.

             "Yeah, still am," I said, offering a swig from my bottle.  "This is back in 84 and today was the anniversary of that call."

            "Okay, tell me about it," he said.

Rescue Squad truck, 1984

            I smiled grimly.  "Well, it was a motorcycle accident involving three cars.  Morning commute.  And without getting into all the gory details, the biker, who had survived three tours of Vietnam, was knocked off his bike, hit by a second car, and dragged over a hundred yards face-down on the highway by the third.  We all hoped the impact killed him before that."  I took a swig and handed the bottle back to him.

Accident diagram

            "And we got there, the rescue squad, and after checking the other drivers for injuries, the captain told me to go over with a body bag to the biker, and to roll him into the bag, as a doctor had already declared him dead.  Don't ask me where the doctor came from. Didn’t see him."    

             Swig.

             "I said sure, no problem.  So, I...  I followed the long blood and shit streak up the highway to the body.  And there he was faced down- my first dead body.  No helmet, dark hair matted with blood.  Open leather jacket with Harley Davidson and Vietnam veteran patches.  Uh, blue jeans. Boots.

Swig.

            You want any more?  I asked.

            "Nah, got more studying to do.  Thanks though."

             "So, I set out the body bag, knelt down, and I put my one hand under his head and the other under his stomach to roll him into the bag.”  

I moved my hands to show him what I did.  The bottle sloshed in my grip. 

             “And I did.  Most of the intestines, they stuck… to the ground or to my hand, and his brain stuck… to my other hand.  Leaving a trail of entrails between that bag and the highway.  I still remember it as clear as day.  The brain was sticky in my hand.  Whole face and chest rubbed  away.  I also remember the smell.  The smell…”

             Finished the bottle.

"So, after I finish throwing up all over the side of the road, the captain, Don, put his hand on my shoulder and says, 'welcome to the rescue squad."

 

             Ty stood there for a moment as I stared into the fire, then looked at the empty bottle.

             "I'm sorry" he whispered. 

             "Yeah thanks.  Anyway, that was four years ago today.  Never even learned the guy's name."       

            I kept staring into the fire.  I have no idea how long he stood there before leaving.

            I didn’t cry. 

A Man doesn’t cry. 

Just… stared into the cleansing flames.

 

 *****************************************************************************

            Ty would become one of my best friends in the house.  He listened.  Cared.  About everybody.  He was among my biggest supporters when I came out as Sophie.  He became a college philosophy professor and youth baseball coach in California.

            He died in a surfing accident onelection day 2024.  Hundreds came to his memorial vigil on the beach where it happened.  There’s a plaque in Skull house now, dedicated to him.  On it is quote from Vonnegut, but encapsulated Ty perfectly: “And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.’”

A singular honor for a great man.

 

Burning

Interlude III: Burning

Tuesday, August 2, 1983.  Reagan Strongly Defends Policies On Minority And Women's Rights

I'd had enough.  I was done being a freak.  Goddamn it- I was a MAN (on the edge of seventeen!), and it was time I started acting like one!

Puberty finally kicked in about a year before, but I was still much shorter than my peers.  And still looked like I was twelve, which meant getting a date was all but impossible.  I used to go to dances with a friend named Cheryl, but I screwed that up a year before as well.  She'll probably never speak to me again.

Senior picture: July 1983

I was tired of being bullied by neighborhood kids, by my brother, by everyone.  So, I started studying martial arts in a dojo run by one of my mom's co-workers.  Beat the shit out of one of my bullies, and word got out.  His having a cast on his arm from a compound fracture was a good deterrent.

I would model myself after the men I saw in comics, but also after my dad and show no emotion, but Anger.  Endure no insult.  Defend.  Punish.

It was early afternoon when I started a fire in the backyard burn barrel using all my girl stuff: all the clothes, a wig I bought at Halloween in ’81, a little kindling wood, and lots of lighter fluid.  I put the makeup and shoes in a trash bag, and deposited it in the dumpster at Burger King, where I worked.  My family were all away in Delaware for the week, so no one would disturb me.

The hot, sticky sun beat down, as it had all summer.   As I watched and sweated, the flames rose to the music of my Sears boom box.

Since you've gone, I've been lost without a trace

I dream at night, I can only see your face.

 In the shade of the oak tree, our German Shepherd Sabre lay resting, indifferent.  He was an old dog at this point, and tired.  As the smoke and flames consumed my shame, I felt lost- Like I was burning a part of me I'd never get back.  I felt like a heavy veil descended over me.  Suffocating.  Drowning out all emotions.

Sabre.  1982

A week later, Sabre died suddenly of brain cancer.  

He'd been my confidante: the only one who I could talk to about all this.  I felt like he understood.  Or at least, didn’t judge.

Now, I had no one.

I spiraled into a depression that even my co-workers and few friends noticed. It's never left me, even after decades of denial and therapy.

No one could ever know.  After all…

Men don't share stupid feelings. 

 

 

 

 

            I saved Sabre’s dog tag and put it on my keyring.  It’s still there.

A month later, I started my senior year.  Priority one was applying to colleges.  Drexel University was my primary goal, but I also applied to Penn State, as well as Temple’s Tyler school of Art. 

Then in January ‘84, I met this girl from St. Pius high school at a school dance.  Her name (in my book) was Julianne.  A girlfriend would cure me of that… foolishness. 

Right?

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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. 

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.