Benedict portrait made from condoms

You can see the image here. Niki Johnson, the artist, calls the image "Eggs Benedict". It's a portrait of the popeyguy emeritus, made out of colorful condoms. She created it in response to Benedict's horrifying words when he visited Africa:

“I would say that this problem of AIDS cannot be overcome merely with money, necessary though it is,” Benedict remarked. “If there is no human dimension, if Africans do not help, the problem cannot be overcome by the distribution of prophylactics: on the contrary, they increase it.”

He actually suggested that condoms increase AIDS. That's our former popeyguy for you. Given his behavior, this is a fitting tribute.

Marijuana inhibits HIV in late-stage AIDS

Read the full story for the details, but it seems marijuana helps people with AIDS to fight HIV, at least in late-stage AIDS.

But I was taken by the usual drug lobby take on the phenomenon. Yes, it works but it:

"...causes the drug high associated with marijuana, making it undesirable for physicians to prescribe."

Because you know how undesirable getting high is, especially when you're really, really sick and looking for relief. They say they want to:

"...prevent further progression of the disease without the undesirable side effects of medical marijuana."

Damn those undesirable side effects! I mean seriously, people. They're talking about the high as if it's the bad part. Duh. This country has a bizarre relationship with marijuana.

Tommy's Tale, Part Three

Note: For some reason, Blogger isn't letting me link to parts one and two of Tommy's Tale. You'll find them in the December 2010 archives on the left. Below is part three, the conclusion of my true story about the death of my younger brother. 

I didn't want to know. 

Over a year passed and all the while I tried not to think of my brother. I'm good at compartmentalizing my feelings. People can hurt me -- for about five minutes. And then I put the part of them that lives inside me to sleep, and I never wake it up again. Poof, they're gone. You learn how to do things like this when you grow up gay. Rejection is always waiting around the next corner. You get very good at compartmentalization. At least, I did.

Thoughts of Tommy did enter my mind but I always pushed them away. He was fine. I'd have heard otherwise, right? I clung to this last point. Of course he was okay or someone would have called me.

Someone did call, but only about a year and a half after Tommy disappeared. It was a female relative of his, someone I didn't know. I don't remember her name and I never spoke to her again. She wasn't calling about Tommy. She had a question and thought because of my job, I might be able to answer it. So really, no one ever called me about Tommy.

During an otherwise innocuous conversation, she referred to my brother in the past tense. I think she said, "Tommy was such a good guy."  

My heart stopped. Time froze and the light in my office got much brighter. And then I took a breath -- perhaps I'd just heard her wrong.

"You just said Tommy 'was' a good guy," I said. "Past tense. Has something happened to him?"

She was horrified that I didn't know -- though how I would know without them telling me remains unclear. And finally she blurted out the details. I can remember every word of her description:

"Tommy died from that flesh-eating bacteria -- you know, the one that got Jim Henson. One day he was fine and then suddenly he was having trouble breathing. No one thought it was a big deal at first but it just got worse, so they took him to the hospital. But he was gone in 24 hours. It was that fast."

As I heard her words, I recognized that Tommy had died because of AIDS. Who is most susceptible to flesh-eating bacteria? The immune-suppressed. I've never wavered in my belief that AIDS took my brother from me.

I started crying while we were on the phone and I didn't stop for days, maybe weeks or months. I really can't say. The moment I hung up, I gathered my things and stumbled out of the office. I cried on the subway, cried on the streets between there and home, and totally fell apart when I got to my apartment. My brother was gone. Somewhere deep inside me, I had known for a long time that he was dead. But now it was confirmed.

That was the first day of the worst bender I ever went on. I didn't go to work. I just sat in my apartment, drinking around the clock. Everything went black, literally. I remember looking out the window and being shocked by sunlight. How could there be sunlight? It didn't make sense.

My life shattered into pieces and I couldn't put them together again. Tommy's death pushed me right over the edge. I'd only been hanging on, even before he died. But this set me adrift. I have never felt so lost in my life. 

Earlier, I said I was good at pushing my feelings away and burying them, seemingly for good. This technique works; I can assure you of this. But there is a stiff price to pay for slippery mental bookkeeping. When the feelings finally hit -- and they always do; make no mistake -- you are destroyed. 

All the pain you pushed away remains stored deep inside your mind. It waits for you to let your guard down -- and when it finally bursts through, that entire backlog of pain hits you all at once like an avalanche. I was buried in despair. I have never felt such pain at any other time in my life. My brother was dead. I felt so alone.

I can't say when I finally realized I needed to pull myself together. But one day I went to an AA meeting. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon and I knew there was a tiny meeting in the Village. I figured I could handle that. I hadn't stopped drinking yet. I wanted to but the despair was suffocating me.

I had never talked to a soul about Tommy's death -- not one person. I just sat in my apartment, drinking alone. But when I hauled my body to the meeting that day, the magic that sometimes happens in AA surrounded me.

When the meeting leader entered the room I could see that he was visibly shaken. After murmuring urgently with a few people in the room, he sat down and opened the meeting. 

He said he'd just learned that an alcoholic friend had died during the night. He was very emotional as he spoke of his sense of loss. And so it went around the room, each person sharing about a terrible loss and how they handled it. I was bathed by their words, purified, settled. As people continued to speak about their pain, I realized this was a human thing; it wasn't something confined only to me. Other people had experienced similar pain. Immediately I felt less alone and was able to take a long, deep breath. I could breathe again!

I couldn't say anything when it came to my turn. I knew I would break into sobs if I spoke and I was unwilling to do this in front of anyone. But I didn't have to. That's the thing about AA magic: you bump into what you need at meetings. It just happens. I don't know why.

I did get what I needed that day. I felt I had shared my loss with these people, even without saying a word. The healing began in that room and stayed with me when I walked out the door. Within a month I went at a gay rehab in Minnesota, and I found my life there.

* * *

Tommy's death wasn't his fault. I say this in case any reader thinks this is the case. HIV/AIDS doesn't work that way. It's a virus. 

But for years I believed his death was my fault. I had been a bad example. I hadn't properly drilled the facts of HIV into his head. It was my fault. It took me about a decade to get over my guilt for not saving him. And the sadness has never left me; it's still here. It peeks out less often as the years pass but I still cry about Tommy sometimes. I guess I always will. I just feel so damn bad about it.

Two of my longtime lovers died of AIDS and it killed a ton of my friends. But the death that hurts the most is my kid brother's. I miss him and I wish he could be around for this part of our lives. We could have had such good times. I figure Tommy would be sober by now, too. I'll bet we would have had an even better relationship now.

But I lost him and there's nothing I can do to change that. I lost so many people that sometimes this seems to be a world of ghosts. But we were all quite real -- those of us who lived and those who died. We were just living our lives when a virus came to visit. And it took some but didn't take others. That's just the way it is.

We learned a lot from those early days. Because science studied the experience of those who died so swiftly in the early 80s, today we know how to protect ourselves from HIV. The people who died back then didn't die in vain. They saved many people. We need to remember that.

I know that even now some folks find it hard to stay safe -- especially if they're in the throes of addiction. I know for a fact that it's impossible to remember which syringe is yours once you're high. And it ain't so easy to remember to use a condom when you're drunk and that guy is so damned cute. It sounds simple on paper but life is more complicated than that.

It happened to so many good people, and my brother was one of them. I miss him a lot and I always will. And I also know that in a very real way, Tommy saved my life. I only wish I could have saved his.

Tommy's Tale, Part One

I had a younger, gay brother named Tommy whom I loved dearly. When he died about 25 years ago it tore a hole in my heart. He was 30. The official cause of death was flesh-eating bacteria but I recognized it for what it was: he died of AIDS. Other relatives would tell you this isn't true but I know this in my heart.

In a recent post I mentioned my Italian mother. I also grew up with an Italian stepfather named Fred who was a wonderful man. My biological father, on the other hand, was an irresponsible Irish drunk who ran off as soon as I was born. So I never really knew the guy although he showed up to take me swimming a few times when I was very young. I remember this vaguely. After the last visit he said, "I'll see you next week," and disappeared for good. Not a reliable character, dear old dad. So I grew up not knowing what he looked like or who he was. In my early teens I found myself wishing I knew him. I became determined to find my father and get to know him -- whether he wanted it or not.

The only thing I knew was that his name was Bill O'Connor. When that's all you have to work with, there's only one choice: I called every Bill O'Connor in the New York phone books. Do you know how many Bill O'Connors there are in New York? A ton! I felt I couldn't make the calls at home, though I'm not sure why; my quest was a secret for some reason. So one evening I took a ton of dimes to a phone booth and went through every damn phone book, calling them all. It took several nights.

I really did this. I called all the Bill O'Connors. Usually a woman would answer the phone, which made it particularly awkward. "Excuse me, but did your husband ever have a son named Keith before he married you?" That's pretty much how I phrased it.

Not one of those women was mean to me, not one, which is a testament to the times, I think. They were all kind and helpful but the answer was always the same: "No. I'm sure I would know if he had. I'm so sorry." And they were. For some reason these women felt my pain and empathized

And then one evening I finally tried that tiny City Island phone book, and lo and behold I found him. To tell the truth, I don't remember anything about that conversation except that he invited me to visit him on City Island. On the walk home I felt like I was flying. I was going to meet my dad!

It was a tumultuous thing when we met. I loved the time we spent together but it also felt very strange. My father was sitting across from me! It was a heady thing. Right away, I learned that he was a drunk. In fact, he and his wonderful wife Mary (she was great!) were both drunks. It was morning when I arrived at their house and they were having Tom Collinses -- and offered me one. Sure.

We had great fun that day and it felt so good to be with this man, drunk or not. But the greatest surprise was that I had two half-brothers, Tommy and Billy. Tommy was the younger child, maybe 14 months or so, and Billy was about four or five. I played with them on the sunny floor for hours. It was wonderful. I couldn't believe I had two more brothers.

It was a beautiful summer's day and my father suggested we go swimming. He handed me one of his bathing suits (he called them "trunks") and told me to change in his bedroom. I said, "I'll wait for you." Who knew? This might be the only chance I'd have to see my father's body. As a son, shouldn't I know what he looked like? I also had some idea that by doing this, I would see the future of my own body. That was an interesting prospect.

He asked again a couple of times but I always gave the same answer: I'll wait for you. Finally we did change together in his bedroom. It was no big deal but my curiosity was satisfied. The image of him naked filled a daddy knowledge-gap, and I wanted to fill all of them that day. I had the feeling this might not last.

The swim in the bay or river, or whatever it was, turned into a nightmare. He suggested that we paddle out to a float and we did -- but there were lots of dead white rats floating in the water. You literally had to push them aside to make your way to the float. Nice place, City Island. But what the heck, I was swimming with my father.

We went out drinking that evening and I danced with Mary as my father got drunker and drunker. They invited me to sleep over and I agreed but by the time we got back to the house, Bill could hardly stand. When it was time to head for bed he announced to Mary that he was sleeping with me.

So first I didn't know him at all and then we were sleeping together in boxer shorts. It felt warm and comforting to me. It was a good day. I remember staring at him after he was asleep. I  tried to memorize his features. My father. How strange.

The big headline that day seemed to be, "I met my dad". But the lasting headline was that I met my brother Tommy. Soon afterward, my relationship with my father fell apart when I told him I was gay. Of course an Archie Bunker like him couldn't handle the news. But I never hid it from everyone, so he had to know. End of knowing my father. I'm told he drank a lot over it afterward. Like he wouldn't have been drunk all the time if I hadn't told him. Uh-huh.

I didn't hear from Tommy again until he was older. But as soon as we were back in contact we became inseparable. We loved each other instantly and that would never change.

Stay tuned for part two of Tommy's story. A new installment will appear here every Saturday until his tale is told.

World AIDS Day

(On my other blog, which contains graphics, this post is accompanied by a photo. To see it, go here.)

This is a photo of me with a friend in the 1980s. We loved coffee shops and smoking and talking. That's him on the right. His name was Paul Avery and we were extremely close -- not lovers but friends. In fact, he was my best friend. He was also my first friend to die of AIDS. I miss him a lot. Down the years, almost everyone I knew died of AIDS. Truly. 

At this late date, it's still out there. No matter who you are, you still need to use a condom if you have sex with someone other than a trusted partner. It worries me that there are drugs now that make people think that AIDS is less of a threat. It's not. It's still HIV/AIDS and it can still kill you or at least cause tremendous health problems.

Take care of yourself. Respect yourself and everyone you meet. Don't put yourself in needless danger. Always use a condom.

I wish Paul was still with us. He was not only a great guy but a tremendous writer and I could have used his advice at this point in my life. He worked for the Hearst organization and one of the last pieces he wrote was about a gala AIDS fund-raising event. 

Though he was incredibly sick at the time, his words sparkled with life and his own keen perceptions. He was brilliant and the article was grand. I remember reading it and thinking, my word, this man is even more talented than I realized. But his voice was soon silenced -- within days, in fact.

Let's try to make sure no other voices are silenced by AIDS. It's in our hands, you know. We can do this.