Category Archives: Article

Dean Koontz’s “Book Of Counted Sorrows”

Article, General Interest, Poetry,

For all those Dean Koontz fans, who always wonder about the snippets of poetry at the beginning of many of his books.

The Book of Counted Sorrows was originally a nonexistent book “quoted” in many of Dean Koontz’s books. Koontz subsequently wrote a book of poetry by the same title.[1]

The Book of Counted Sorrows was originally a nonexistent book “quoted” in many of Dean Koontz’s books. Koontz subsequently wrote a book of poetry by the same title.[1]

Non-existent book 
For many years Koontz fans everywhere searched for this elusive book.[citation needed] Many librarians were frustrated in their attempts to locate it,[1] because it did not exist. This was confirmed by a librarian from Cedar Rapids Public Library who corresponded with Koontz regarding this mysterious book. Koontz himself stated that he received up to 3,000 letters per year inquiring about it.[1]
In a letter dated August 10, 1992,m Koontz stated:
Actually, there is no such book. I made it up. The way you made up footnote sources for fabricated facts in high-school English reports. Oh, come on, yes, you did. Sometimes, when I need a bit of verse to convey some of the underlying themes of a section of a novel, I can’t find anything applicable, so I write my own and attribute it to this imaginary tome. I figured readers would eventually realize THE BOOK OF COUNTED SORROWS was my own invention, and I never expected that one day librarians and booksellers would be writing from all over the country, asking for help in tracking down this rare and mysterious volume![2]
Koontz went on to say that he would publish such a book in a few years, when he had enough verses to fill a volume. He included a history of the poems in the beginning of the book, followed by the poems, some having never been in any of his books.[1] According to Shannon Presley of Harvest Books, “Koontz himself wrote the poems, attributed to a Stephen Crane…you can find the collected poems at http://user.xmission.com/~emailbox/koontz/sorrows.htm#Sole_Survivor”

Second non-existent book 

In the beginning of a very few books (such as Odd Thomas), Koontz quotes from The Book of Counted Joys.

Actual Book

In 2001, The Book of Counted Sorrows was published in an e-book format offered exclusively through Barnes & Noble;[3] It was the first book published in Barnes & Noble’s launch of its first-ever list of books from its newly formed electronic-publishing division, Barnes & Noble Digital, and “quickly became Barnesandnoble.com’s best-selling e-books of the year.”[4] Barnes & Noble Digital’s premier 2001 edition is no longer available.

Later that year, Charnel House published two limited editions of the book: a 1250-copy numbered edition and a 26-copy lettered edition.[5] Both editions quickly sold out from the publisher.[citation needed] In the summer of 2009, Dogged Press issued a 3000-copy hardcover edition.

Sources

Greenberg, Martin H.; Gorman, Ed; Munster, Bill, eds. (1994). The Dean Koontz Companion. New York: Berkeley Books.

References

  1. a b c d Dean Koontz. Podcast Episode 25: Book of Counted Sorrows 1 (Podcast). Retrieved July 9, 2011.
  2.  Bauch, Chelsea (December 10, 2010). “When Real Books Inspire Fake Books”. FlavorWire.com. Retrieved July 2, 2011.
  3. “The Book of Counted Sorrows 1”. Retrieved 1 February 2013.
  4. DSN Retailing Today 40 (21). November 5, 2001. p. 6 http://infotrac.galegroup.com/itw/infomark/795/268/10838164w16/purl=rc1_PRS_0_A79867442&dyn=5!xrn_1_0_A79867442?sw_aep=frlopacplus. Missing or empty |title= (help)
  5.  Stefko, Joe (2001). The Book of Counted Sorrows. Retrieved July 2, 2011. Illustrated by Theresa De Perez
  6. Charnel House Press Ki

From Wikipedia – https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Book_of_Counted_Sorrows

               In the fields of life, a harvest 

                  sometimes comes far out of season,

                  when we thought the earth was old

                   and could see no earthly reason

                   to rise for work at break of dawn,

                   and put our muscles to the test.

                 With winter here and autumn gone,

                   it just seems best to rest, to rest. 

                    But under winter fields so cold,

                  wait the dormant seeds of seasons

                  unborn, and so the heart does hold

                   hope that heals all bitter lesions.

                    In the fields of life, a harvest.



               Life is a gift that must be given back

               and joy should arise from its possession.

                It’s too damned short, and that’s a fact.

                Hard to accept, this earthly procession

                  to final darkness is a journey done,

                 circle completed, work of art sublime,

                 a sweet melodic rhyme, a battle won.



                  Death is no fearsome mystery.

                   He is well known to thee and me.

                    He had no secrets he can keep

                   to trouble any good man’s sleep.

             
                 Turn not thy face from Death away.

                  Care not he takes our breath away.

                  Fear him not, he’s not thy master,

                     rushing at thee faster, faster.

                    Not thy master but servant to

                   the Maker of thee, what or Who

                     created Death, created thee

                       and is the only mystery                   

                   

                           In the real world

                            as in dreams,

                           nothing is quite

                           what it seems.

           

                         Life without meaning

                          cannot be borne.

                          We find a mission

                        to which we’re sworn

                         – or answer the call

                        of Death’s dark horn.

                         Without a gleaning

                          of purpose in life,

                         we have no vision,

                           we live in strife,

                           or let blood fall

                          on a suicide knife.



                      Nowhere can a secret keep

                    always secret, dark and deep,

                      half so well as in the past,

                      buried deep to last, to last.



                    Keep it in your own dark heart,

                     otherwise the rumors start.



                    After many years have buried

                    secrets over which you worried,

                     no confidant can then detray

                     all the words you didn’t say.



                      Only you can then exhume

                     secrets safe within the tomb

                       of memory, of memory,

                     within the tomb of memory

.
                          In the real world 

                            as in dreams,

                           nothing is quite

                           what it seems.



                         Vibrations in a wire.

                             Ice crystals

                         in a beating heart.

                              Cold fire.



                          A mind’s frigidity:

                            frozen steel,

                        dark rage, morbidity.

                              Cold fire.



                          Defense against 

                             a cruel life

                          death and strife:

                              Cold fire.



                      Living in the modern age,

                     death for virtue is the wage.

                     So it seems in darker hours.

                     Evil wins, kindness cowers.



                      Ruled by violence and vice

                     We all stand upon thin ice.

                     Are we brave or are we mice,

                    here upon such thin, thin ice?



                    Dare we linger, dare we skate?

                     Dare we laugh or celebrate,

                   knowing we may strain the ice?

                     Preserve the ice at any price?



                         Faraway in China,

                      the people sometimes say,

                        life is often bitter and

                         all too seldom gay.

                        Bitter as dragon tears,

                    great cascades of sorrows flood

                         down all the years,

                      drowning our tomorrows.



                         Faraway in China,

                         the people also say,

                       life is sometimes joyous

                         if all too often gray,

                      Although life is seasoned

                       with bitter dragon tears,

                       seasoning is just a spice

                      within our brew Of years.

                       Bad times are only rice,

                      tears are one more flavour,

                      that gives us sustenance,

                       something we can savor.

               Those who would banish the sin of greed

                embrace the sin of envy as their creed.

                Those who seek to banish envy as well,

                only draw elaborate new maps of hell.



               Those with passion to change the world,

                look of themselves as saints, as pearls,

               and by the launching of noble endeavor,

                  flee dreaded introspection forever.



                     Evil is no faceless stranger,

                   living in a distant neighborhood.

                Evil has a wholesome, hometown face,

                  with merry eyes and an open smile.

                 Evil walks among us, wearing a mask

                    which looks like all our faces.



                   Beaches, surfers, California girls.

                 Wind scented with fabulous dreams.

                   Bougainvillea, groves of oranges.

                  Stars are born, everything gleams.



                   A weather change. Shadows fall.

                  New scent upon the wind – decay.

                  Cocaine, Uzis, drive-by shootings.

                  Death is a banker. Everyone pays.



                 Under the winter moon’s pale light,

                   across the cold and starry night,

                 from snowy mountains soaring high

                    to ocean shores echoes the cry.

                 From barren sands to verdant fields,

                   from city streets to lonely wealds,

                   cries the tortured human heart,

                   seeking solace, wisdom, a chart

                   by which to understand its plight

                  under the winter moon’s pale light.

                   Dawn is unable to fade the night.

                    Must we live ‘ever in the blight

                  under the winter moon’s cold light,

                  lost in loneliness, hate, and fright,

                  last night, tonight, tomorrow night

                 under the winter moon’s bleak light?



                Winter that year was strange and gray.

                The damp wind smelled of Apocalypse,

                and morning skies had a peculiar way

                  of slipping cat-quick into the night.



               At the point where hope and reason part,

               lies the spot where madness gets a start.

                 Hope to make world kinder and free –

                  but flowers af hope root in reality.



               No peaceful bed exists for lamb and lion,

               unless on some world out beyond Orion.

              Do not instruct the owls to spare the mice.

                 Owls acting as owls must is not vice

.
               Storms do not respond to heartfelt pleas.

               All the words of men can’t calm the seas.

                Nature – always beneficent and cruel –

                  won’t change for wise man or fool.



              Mankind shares all Nature’s imperfections,

                 clearly visible to casual inspections.

               Resisting betterment is the human trait.

                 The ideal of utopia is our tragic fate.



               Those who would banish the sin of greed

                embrace the sin of envy as their creed.

                Those who seek to banish envy as well,

                only draw elaborate new maps of hell.



               Those with passion to change the world,

                look on themselves as saints, as pearls,

               and by the launching of noble endeavor,

                  flee dreaded introspection forever

.
                      All of us are travelers lost,

                     our tickets arranged at a cost

                   unknown but beyond our means.

                     This odd itinerary of scenes

                    – enigmatic, strange, unreal –

                     leaves us unsure how to feel.

                    No postmortem journey is rife

                     with more mystery than life

.
                     Tremulous skeins of destiny

                         flutter so ethereally

                     around me – but then I feel

                      its embrace is that of steel.



                      On the road that I taken,

                     one day, walking, I awaken,

                  amazed to see where I have come,

                   where I’m going, where I’m from.



                    This is not the path I thought.

                    This is not the place I sought.

                    This is not the dream I bought,

                    just a fever of fate I’ve caught.



                   I’ll change highways in a while,

                   at the crossroads, one more mile.

                    My path is lit by my own fire.

                    I’m going only where I desire.



                    On the road that I have taken,

                     one day, walking, I awaken.

                     One day, walking, I awaken,

                    on the road that I have taken.



                 Hope is the destination that we seek.

                  Love is the road that leads to hope.

                 Courage is the motor that drives us.

                 We travel out of darkness into faith.



                   Holy men tell us life is a mystery.

                 They embrace that concept happily.

                   But some mysteries bite and bark

                   and come to get you in the dark.



                 Darkness devours every shining day.

             Darkness demands and always have its way.

                   Darkness listens, watches, waits.

               Darkness claims the day and celebrates.

                Sometimes in silence darkness comes.

              Sometimes with a gleeful banging of drums.



                 We can embrace love, it’s not to late.

                 Why do we sleep, instead, with hate?

                    Belief requires no suspension

                   to see that Hell is our invention.

                 We make Hell real; we stoke its fires.

                  And in its flames our hope expires.

                  Heaven, too, is merely our creation.

              We can grant ourselves our own salvation.

                  All that’s requires is imagination.



                  Is there some meaning to this life?

                 What purpose lies behind the strife?

              Whence do we come, where are we bound?

                These cold questions echo and resound

                 Through each day, each lonely night.

                  We long to find the splendid light

                   That will cast a revelatory beam

               Upon the meaning of the human dream.



                      Courage, love, friendship,

                      Compassion, and empathy

                    Lift us above the simple beasts

                        And define humanity.



               To know the darkness is to love the light,

           to welcome dawn and fear the coming and night.



                 Night has patterns that can be read

                  less by the living than by the dead.



                      Where eerie figures caper

                       to some midnight music

                       that only they can hear.



                 Every eye sees its own special vision;

                 every ear hears a most different song.

              In each man’s troubled heart, and incision

                would reveal a unique, shameful wrong.



               Stranger fiends hide here in human guise

                   than reside in the valleys of Hell.

                But goodness, kindness and love arise

                 in the heart of the poor beast, as well.



                     Pestilence, disease, and war

                        haunt this sorry place.

                      And nothing lasts forever;

                    that’s a truth we have to face.



                    We spend vast energy and time

                    plotting death for one another.

                    No one, nowhere, is ever safe.

                     Not father, child, or mother.



                  Is the end of the world a-coming?

                 Is that the devil they hear humming?

                 Are those doomsday bells a-ringing?

                  Is that the Devil they hear singing?



                 Or are their dark fears exaggerated?

                  Are these doom-criers addlepated?



                Those who fear the coming of all Hells

              are those who should be feared themselves.



                          There’s no escape

                       From death’s embrace,

                        though you lead it on

                           a merry chase

.
                          The dogs of death

                           enjoy the chase.

                          Just see the smile

                        on each hound’s face.



                         The chase can’t last;

                         the dogs must feed.

                         It will come to pass

                        with terrifying speed.



                       The hounds, the hounds

                      come baying at his heels.

                      The hounds! The hounds!

                     The breath of death he feels.



                      Numberless paths of night

                      wind away from twilight.



                  Something moves within the night

                   that is not good and is not right.



                       The whisper of the dusk

                      is night shedding its husk.



                   Holy men tell us life is a mytery.

                 They embrace that concept happily.

                   But some mysteries bite and bark

                   and come to get you in the dark.



                 A rain of shadows, a storm, a squall!

                 Daylight retreats; night swallows all.

                   If good is bright, if evil is gloom,

                  high evil walls the world entombs.

                Now comes the end, the drear, Darkfall.



                 Darkness devours every shining day.

              Darkness demands and always has its way.

                   Darkness listens, watches, waits.

               Darkness claims the day and celebrates.

                Sometimes in silence darkness comes.

              Sometimes with a gleeful banging of drums.



                We can embrace love; it’s not too late.

                 Why do we sleep, instead, with hate?

                    Belief requires no suspension

                   to see that Hell is our invention.

                 We make Hell real; we stoke its fires.

                  And in its flames our hope expires.

                  Heaven, too, is merely our creation.

              We can grant ourselves out own salvation.

                  All that’s required is imagination.



                   To see what we have never seen,

                    to be what we have never been.

                    To shed the chrysalis and fly,

                    depart the earth, kiss the sky,

                    to be reborn, be someone new:

                     is this a dream or is it true.



                   Can our future be cleanly shorn

                   from a life to which we’re born?

                    Is each of us a creature free – 

                    or trapped at birth by destiny?

                   Pity those who believe the latter.

                  Without freedom, nothing matters.



                          In the real world

                            as in dreams

                           nothing is quite

                           what it seems.

                            

About Losing…Um…You Know…IT!

Article, Gay Interest, General Interest, Humour, , , ,

This article was prompted by a documentary on SBS by a woman who investigated the rather ridiculous over-emphasis we place on virginity. It set me thinking about my own unique journey, which was, in many ways, influenced by concepts of social “norms”.

“I didn’t lose my virginity – I know exactly who has it!”

If I have a singular regret about my life, it would be not having sex before 25! The sex act is not there to make life for shy, gawky guys like me an easy thing to approach. It can, in fact, be quite frightening.

Sex was NEVER discussed in our household, and going to school through the late 50s and 60s meant that no help was forthcoming from that educational institution. The only sex education I got at school was the smutty gossip and imaginings of other pre-pubescent boys! At one sports afternoon, whilst dodging said sport (thus making it an art form for me) I got into a discussion with another 10 or 11 year old, who informed me, in a whispered conversation – and fuck only knows how the subject even came up – that women got pregnant by hoys sticking their pee pees into womans woo woos! I was horrified at the prospect – after all, pee pees were for wee wees, and nothing else – told him, after a flustered “liar liar pants on fire” that it was a big fat fib, clutched my head with my hands, and ran screaming home. I wasn’t silly! I watched enough movies to know that kissing was the culprit (the man and woman in the movie would kiss, then things would fade out, then she’d be telling him she was preggers), though nature only allowed strangers you kissed to get pregnant – you were safe if you kissed family. I thought that boy was disgusting, and an idiot!

I was an early bloomer, and by the age of 9 I had not only started to get pubic hair – diligently pulled out by me, as I thought that seeing as no one else had it, I must have been a bit of a freak – but nightly emissions had started, both natural and induced. The mechanics of wanking off with my hand hadn’t occured to me at this stage, but the friction method on the newly starched sheets worked a treat. My poor mother must have been in quite a quandry as to what to do, as she must have known, being the one doing the laundry. After my nocturnal shenanigans had been going on for some time, I awoke one morning to find that Jesus had visited during the night, and had left me some nice Christian literature on sex and procreation! I read it, but all the biblical language of vaginas, vulvas, uteruses, urethras, penis & testicles – without a practical re-enacting of it – left me confounded, and I ended up none the wiser. So much for my sexual education. Is it any wonder I chose virginity for the next 14 years!

It was around this time that my brothe Kevin and I discovered that girls had different bits. Even at this tender age, I already knew that mens bits were much more interesting to me than girls bits, but I decided that the differences warranted further investigation, if nothing else. Diane Cliffe lived two doors up, and wasn’t adverse to a game of Doctors and Nurses, though we could have done without her telling her mother about it. It didn’t go down well, and Diane was banned from visiting (just as we were planning an appendectomy!), though, to give them their due, my parents just viewed it as kids indulging in kids natural curiosity. The subject was never raised, and I knew nothing of the outrage until many years later.

I do remember my first orgasm -which progressed to the nocturnal emissions stage (see above) – as it happened so unexpectedly during a 5th class lesson period. I don’t actually know what I was doing to bring it on, but I was gazing out the window when this wonderful feeling overcame me, and despite not knowing what it was, I knew it felt really good, if not a little messy. I was on my way! From 1967-1969 I was at a Catholic boarding school, and a life of guilt-ridden wanking continued (confession was an easy way to alleviate the gult – “I touched myself, Father”; “How many times, my son”; “A lot, Father!”; “For your penance 10 Our Fathers and 10 Hail Mary’s”, and we were ready for our next run of sinful pleasure). All the boys in the dorm must have been as frantically pulling-the-pud as I was, but I can’t recollect catching out one single person in my three years there. I did get groped in the pool on one occasion, and never let on about it – I sort of think I enjoyed it – as probably did the boy who grabbed it! Unfortunately, there were no circle jerks or sly assignations! My education was at a stand-still! However, it did encourage my fetish for Speedos – the swimwear of chouce in that period.

Things really didn’t improve a lot after I left school at the end of ’69, and started work.The only thing I knew for sure was that I was gay (a poof, to use the vernacular of the times), but this wasn’t a good period for coming out, which was an unlikely thing for me to do anyway considering my upbringing and naive innocence. I’m pretty sure many suspected, but no one tackled me about it. In hindsight, having a couple of the Grace Brothers rather non-discreet, effeminate window dressers in our social group, who were totally accepted,  should have hinted to me that nobody would probably have raised an eyebrow if I had outed myself. So, I put up a front, and dated girls. I never was good at the dating game, which probably explains why they never went past the first date. I felt awkward on dates, was never sure of what was expected of me, so it was a pretty well hands-off situation, and if the girls expected to get to first or second base with me…it never happened. I didn’t have a car, so all dating was done via public transport and cabs, which  probably didn’t help. But it wasn’t a one way street – I was a fairly good looking boy, and a fashionable dresser, so I had my fair share of girls pursuing me, but I managed to avoid most advances, and they usually gave up eventually. I did have girls as friends, and despite two awkward situations – Lynne Broome professed undying love for me, and Jo Conway…who was to out herself as a lesbian a couple of years later…tried to seduce me in my apartment after I left home, and was the first to see through my facade – I enjoyed their company, and I think that in many respects, they enjoyed a male interaction that was – pethaps oddly – non-sexual.

Jo and I often went out together – my father thought we were dating – and she introduced me…passively…to the sin and temptation of Oxford Street, Darlinghurst. I had at that time (the mid-70s) little idea of just what a huge part of my life was to be played out on this strip in years to come. She was someone I felt safe with, and I have often regretted how our lives grew apart.

By this time, I was living on my own in Allowah. Now, if you think that my apartment was a hot bed of sin and debauchery, with neverending sex parties and orgies, let me assure you – it wasn’t! The only person having sex there was me – with me! I hung out with a large group of straight people- at least, to my knowledge they were – and it had to have been obvious to them that I wasn’t quite on the same wave length as they were. I never turned up at any parties or restaurant meals with a girl/girlfriend in tow, nor did I join in any of the slap and tickle conversations amongst the boys. It was a life of quiet desperation!

There was one notable event around 1972…I would have been 18. It could have been a turning point, but if anything, it slammed the closet door tightly closed. It was a very daring act for me, and I gyess what should have been an eye-opener for me in being accepted for who I am, and that my work colleagues at E.L.Downes at aRoselands didn’t judge, but encouraged the action, so it wasn’t as though it was unacceptable. A much older man – though quite handsome – called Leigh worked downstairs in the Clarke Rubber store. We always smiled and waved to each other whenever I walked past the store, we’d chat, and usually caught the same bus to Kogarah after work. He was obviously gay. During one of our chats, he invited me out for dinner, and I accepred. I thought later that it may have been a rash decision on my part, a spur-of-the-moment thing that I may live to regret, but I went ahead with it anyway. On the night of the date, we got a cab into Kings Cross, and he took me to a very exclusive restaurant called Mrs Beeton’s Tent. My expectation was that I may have to put out, but part of the expectation was that he’d take me home for whatever dalliances were expected as payment. On the cab ride back to Kogarah he held my hand – the first time I had ever had an intimate touch with another man. But arriving back at Kogarah, we got out at a local park, where he informed me that he lived with his mother. The expectation on his part was – sex in the public toilet in the park. I was horrified! I mumbled something about my father expecting me home, and fled! For some reason, he never spoke to me again. Ah, lost opportunities! I may have become  a beat queen…

And so it went on until 1978. By this time, it was starting to cross my mind that perhaps – just perhaps – I was destined to never have sex with anyone…of any sex! My habitual reticence and almost obsessive shyness were personality traits that were proving my own worst enemy. By the time 1978 rolled around, I was living in a share house in Granville with friends. I knew Bede from the group I hung out with, and through him I met Sue. She in turn introduced me to Ronnie (Veronica) who was to have a more profound influence on my life than she could have ever believed possible. She was an attractive woman, well dressed, and a single mother. Her daughter Ann was just gorgeous, so it is perhaps not surprising that we hit it off. This was a bad period for me, as I was pretty sure I was gay, but had no idea what to do about it. It was doing my head in! And I was battling it on my own, with no one I could discuss it with, or get advice in regards to my options. So, I dated Ronnie, though only for two dates. I took her out for dinner one night, and getting back home some heavy petting ensued. She was the first person to give me a head job, but sex had to wait, as she wasn’t on the pill. As she was leaving, she asked me if I was a virgin! Fuck…is it stamped across my forehead! I admitted as much – like DUR – and pretty well screamed at her CAN I JUST GET RID OF IT!

I’d worked my way through “The Joy of Sex”, so knew all the mechanics of sex, all the ins and outs, all the do’s and don’t do’s. So, a week later, I went in with eyes open. I can’t recollect being all that nervous, and to my benefit I think I put on a pretty confident and impressive show. It was no Karma Sutra performance, but there was foreplay, I went down on her – which I don’t think she was expecting – and it was a substantial fuck session before I blew. But there was one very big problem, and that problem was to direct the way my life was to play out from that point! To achieve an orgasm with Ronnie…I had to fantasise that I was having sex with a man! If I had been unsure before, by the time she left that night I knew that I was definitely gay. I am still a bit ashamed of myself how I avoided her after the popping-the-cherry night, but there was no way I could have explained to her what was going on without her feeling used and demeaned, so I took the easy way out via avoidance!

In 1978, my father committed suicide, which on its own was a providential event. I was sent to Melbourne by my company in late 1979 to troubleshoot their retail businesses there. No further instances of sexual dalliances had occured over that time, but I went to Melbourne knowing that my path was set. It was just a matter of time, and circumstances. I am not going into my coming out here, as there is an article about it here on my blog, but suffice it to say that with my father dead, in a strange city, away from the prying eyes of family and friends, I was presented with the perfect opportunity to come out, and my desire to do something about it was set in stone. Within 6-months of hitting that city, I finally made my move. Now to lose my gay virginity!

But even that intention proved to be a very bumpy road! Naturally – well, to me, antway – my follow-on reading from “The Joy of Sex” was “The Joy of Gay Sex”, so once again I went into the arena fully prepared…and totally clueless! As noted in my coming out story, I joined Acceptance Melbourne, a group for gay Catholics, as a catalyst to smooth my way into the gay community, That I was no longer a practising Catholic didn’t come into the equation. Any port in a storm, you might say! So, I met Frank at a social, at the University Club (a gay venue on Friday & Saturday nights, in Swanson Street) after a First Friday Mass. He made the move on me, which was perhaps not surprising, being new to the group. He was older than me, and not my choice as far as looks went, buy hey…I was a virgin on several fronts, not the least being that ability to say thanks-but-no-thanks to people you don’t fancy trying to pick you up! It was a lesson I learnt quickly.

So, the end of the night found me in Frank’s car – much to the consternation of a couple of younger members of the group who thought they may have had a crack at me – being driven to some far-flung…literally…suburb of Melbourne. Frank had my cock out of my fly before we even got out of the car park, and proceeded to give me head at every set of lights – many – along the way! Being my first sexual encounter with a man, I think I would have been excited under any circumstances. And I should point out – no one knew I wasn’t a sexually experienced gay man! This was sort of stupid, as it came with the expectation that I knew what I was doing. Nothing was further from the truth! So the blow jobs on the way to Franks were to be pretyy well the highlight of the night. It was all down hill from there! Being a newcomer to the scene I wasn’t familiar with the concepts of a “top” (the active partner, or fucker), and “bottom” (the passive partner, or fuckee), and Frank evidently ex pected me to be the top. For my part, I expected him to guide the proceedings, but it didn’t pan out that way. The night finished with a mutual wank session, before he shuffled me onto the train back to Melbourne city. My first encounter with gay sex left me very disillusioned! Was this all it was about!

My subsequent next encounter with Fred wasn’t a hell of a lot more successful, but it taught me the necessity of taking opposing sexualities into account when interacting with other men on a sexual level. Fred was into light S & M…fuck, I was battling to lose my virginity, let alone take on a fetish…and was heavily into the beat scene. Our relationship was destined not to last. I starred hanging out at “Mandate” nightclub in St Kilda, and that started opening doors for me. I had my first encounter with public sex when I was given a blow job on the edge of the dance floor – yes, the guy was attractive – and I did start picking guys up. I adopted the clone look, and being relatively good looking I had no trouble getting regular sex. My sexual expertise improved, but I was always the one going top! However, all that changed at a First Friday Mass at my flat in West Brunswick. Kevin, a close friend of mine, bought a friend, Barry, with him…a very attractive friend! I was smitten! He stayed to help clean up…then right royally fucked me! I was so turned on by having such a hot guy topping me for the first time that I put on a performance that any porn actor would have been proud of. And it converted me from top…to bottom. My cherry was well and truly popped! I took to it like a duck to water.  From that point, I never looked back.

Despite coming out late in life, I’ve had a very interesting and diverse sex life. Despite jokingly calling myself a slut, I have slept with nowhere near the number of men most others I know have. Not being into beats, backrooms (I’ve done that 2-3 times), or saunas (I’ve done that once) my pick-up life has always relied on the pubs and nightclubs, which keeps it a bit under control. You learn to pick that fine line whereby a potential root has had enough to drink to get him interested, but not so much that they pass out. I’ve made a fool of myself a few times, had a lot of laughs, and a lot of great – and memorable – sex. Some of this time has been tinged with sadness, and there have been several “fireworks” encounters. I was flattered to find out that I was considered a good root. I’ve had five serious relationships – one of which lasted for 16 years. I’ve had 3 really beautiful fuck buddies; Paul – who I’ve always been in love with, but careers got in our way – for 10 years; Graham, who I met through a threesome (and who was in an abusive relationship) for 5 years; and Gregg – a married guy with two kids from Forbes, for 3 years. I’m comfortable with my fetishes – jockstraps, Y-fronts, and Speedo’s – and have met nothing but nutters through the sex apps. If this is the future of sex, it’s very sad!

In a way, I’m back to square one. I’ve even gone back to being a top.Except for the good old-fashioned hand jobs, I haven’t had sex with another guy for about 2 years. Being 63 and single, I’m really not expecting them to line up at the door. And if I have to be honest, I don’t really care. I like it that I do things just for myself now. If I slip into a jockstrap, it’s for my own pleasure; when I go to the gym, it’s done to impress me; I no longer have to ply myself with alcohol in a bar to get the Dutch courage to pick someone up; and I can sit in a cafe on my own and not feel lonely. It may have taken me a long time to finally lose my virginity, and there may have been some odd diversions along the way, but it’s been a great, fun journey. And though I may wish that I had started the fucking journey a lot earlier, it may not have been as interesting if I had. I look back on the abstinence years with humour now.

“We live in a world where losing your phone is more dramatic than losing your virginity!”

And that is as it should be!

Tim Alderman (C 2016)

Comment: Don Dale Disgrace

Article, General Interest, Opinion Piece, , ,

Don Dale Disgrace
The actions of correctional officers at Don Dale Correctional Facility in Darwin, as reported on the Four Corners program, Tuesday 25/7/2016 has – rightfully – shocked the nation. A greater travesty in the history of juvenile justice in this country (apart from sexual abuse) would be hard to find!
Watching the footage of what went on there was – for anyone with a conscience – ethereal, brutal, and traumatising! It raises many questions about institutional juvenile abuse, its length, breadth and depth. The PM has made the decent call for a Royal Commission into the Don Dale abuses, as this is the only way the true horror of this abuse of power can be exposed! I’m willing to bet that it has been ongoing for a very long time, and is endemic. 

These juveniles – many in their early teens, and primarily Indigenous – were locked in claustrophobic isolation cells – referred to as the Behavioral Management Unit or BMU – for 23 hours a day for up to 2 weeks. They were deprived of natural light, fresh air, accessto fresh   water, and left in totally squalid conditions. Malhandling, bashings, and unusual and unnecessary force were used to “control” these juveniles, and the litany of abuses is long…and disgusting. If this is how we “correct” our youth in these facilities, then we need to seriously rethink how we go about this. That the majority of the abuses – which includes tear gassing – was committed on Indigenous youth (already dissdvantaged as it is) makes it even worse. How are these kids ever to be given a chance! This sort of treatment just breeds – apart from the psychological damage – hatred, a lack of any respect for authority, a pure disdain of the “justice” system, a belittling, and cynicism of their worth as individuals, not to mention the total deprivation of basic human rights. Not even Alcatraz could have been this bad!

I would like to know how the powers-that-be at Don Dale allowed these abuses to occur! How easy is it to turn a blind eye to the actions instigated by your officers, under your watch? And at what point did this no longer matter! It would have been bad enough if this had happened to adult inmates – that the abuses were to teenage children defies belief! If these abuses had occured under any other circumstances, these juveniles would have been placed in protective custody. The images of that young boy venting his frustration after getting out of his (supposedly left “accidently” unlocked) cell; the tear-gassing; and that kid being hurled across a room, and that young boy shackled to a chair and hooded, are now  forever etched in my brain!

That these juveniles were guilty of crimes – many petty – no one is denying, but any semblance of “correction” or rehabilitation goes out the window after the onslaught of the footage from Don Dale. These kids just aren’t getting a break at all, are they! As an Australian I am appalled, disgusted and ashamed that children in custody could ever be treated this way. Nothing short of a complete expose of the practices at Don Dale, and severe disciplinary action against both perpetrators and authorities is acceptable! Perhaps locking the responsible officers in the solitary cells at the old Don Dale facility  would be a good and fitting start. Give them a taste of their own medicine!

Tim Alderman (C 2016)

“Correcting” juveniles at Don Dale Correctional Facility

Daily (Or When The Mood Takes Me) Gripe: Over-Reporting 

Article, General Interest, Opinion Piece, , , , , ,

You know what the biggest problem with the 24/7 news cycle is? That it is 24/7, that’s what! 

Once upon a time – yeah, back in fairytale days – you received your news (at least on television) at 6.00pm every night, whether it was a big thing like a terrorist attack, or something as trivial as political scandals. Now, you get the headlines at 6.00, then again at 6.15, again at 6.30, again at 6.45 ad nauseam –  including “updates” that are…well…often not updates because there is nothing else to tell! Often any empathy or sympathy you have for any single situation is destroyed within hours of the event happening. 

This isn’t to say I’m downplaying situations like Charlie Hebdo, the Paris massacres, Nice, the destruction of  Christchurch by earthquake, or the tsunami that hit Japan. These are all – singularly and collectively – dreadful, hope shattering situations, and your heart goes out to those affecred by these events – until the media decide to jam it down our throats as often as possible over the next two days, anyway! Scheduled shows are canceled, news reports are extended, special coverages are organised until we – the viewers – find ourselves reaching for the remote everytime the situation is revisited…which seems to be often, with no added information! 

The terrible events in Nice is a current example of media coverage going overboard. Not only were we inundated with the news reports, and seeing the same footage again…and again…and again, we were then subjected to endless intervuews by witnesses, who all had the same story to tell, just in different words. In many instances, the interviews just became lame as the reporters tried to extract some crumb of information that hadn’t already been given.24 hours after the Nice tragedy, I turned on the morning news programs to find that Karl Stefanovic had suddenly appeared there, still trudging over what was by then old ground. He had nothing to add, no “update”, no new insights!

And it would seem there is no accountability for how the media reports, often creating an overblown sense of fear, anxiety and often placing blame on assumed presumptions. We are all looking for terrorists under the bed these days, something outside the ordinary to attach blame to. We couldn’t just have a guy with no terrorist affiliations, but with some mental problems, who was undergoing a messy divorce and had just cracked, and was taking his frustrations out on anyone within reach (which would have been the conclusion in the past), but no, these days it has to be attached to terrorism, and the media go out of their way to find the links! This isn’t helped by a terrorist organisation – Islamic State – seemingly laying claim to any unclaimed events as a way of promoting their cause, and making themselves more powerful and far-reaching than they actually are! And don’t think this isn’t the case – it is! 

The nedia have a way of creating anti-heroes, and taking simple information and creating a mythos around it, often making what isn’t scary…scary! We live in a world of catch-phrases, and despite google being just a mouse-click away, there is often little, if any, research done into words that are currently being used to instill fear into an often misinformed, and scared-of-the-unknown public. I mean, just look at the words currently being used to create a sense of fear in many peoples minds – Muslim; Islam; terrorist; halal; burqa; sharia law; extremist et al – seems to be a common thread, doesn’t there! If we are looking for contemporary scapegoats – then this seems to be where we are concentrating. You want to know something – several centuries ago, it would have been the Catholic church copping this attention as they performed the same “terrorist” attacks on anyone who didn’t think the way they thought!

As individuals who can think and reason for ourselves, we owe it to ourselves not to get caught up in this endless stream of nedia beat-ups, distortions, and laying blame as an easy way to explain what are often horrific events. Religious nuts exist – and always have! After all, what else could the Crusaders, and the Inquistion be called! People cracking up and going berserk has always happened – and always will! Let’s ask the Cathars, and the Jews, about being scapegoats for the ills of the world! The media are trying to make us scared because it gives them stories to fill their 24/7 cycle. The humdrum of everyday life isn’t enough to feed this voracious animal! 

And we keep looking in the wrong places for the people who can give us “hope” in these scary times! The Pauline Hansons and Jacqui Lambies of this world don’t have the answers – they just add coals to the fires of fear! They are, in a way, media pigs who at the best are being given attention they don’t deserve, and at their worst are misinformed, and in turn are misinforming others. I have always admired the unsubtle hypocrisy of people like Hanson, who in a single breath can be a ranting racist – while asuring everyone she us nit a racist! Nothing like a thick hide to cover your true intentions!

We owe it to ourselves to return balance to our lives. We are allowing the media to bring fear into our lives, to make us all feel that we can’t go about our everyday business without constantly looking over our shoulder, that we need to shift blame, to point fingers. 

There is, in fact, a very simple way to break the 24/7 news cycle, to return balance, common sense and fairness to our lives ; 

Change channels!

Tim Alderman (C 2016)

Daily (Or When The Mood Takes Me) Gripe: Drugs in Sport

Article, General Interest, Health Information, Opinion Piece, , , , , , , ,

“A very cynical attitude is taken by sponsors like Nike. They pay for records to be broken, then when athletes test positive, instead of canceling their contracts, they carry on paying them! It’s as if the executives at Nike always knew what Marion Jones, Justin Gatlin and Marta Dominguez where up to! Nike sponsored them even after they tested positive! It gives you  some idea of Nike’s take on the doping problem”

I am watching this weeks “Four Corners” program on drug doping in sports, especially professional athletics. It really is endemic, and quite frightening in its length, breadth & depth! That drug doping of athletes was not only sponsored but encouraged in countries like Russia, and resulted in the banning of 4,000 Russian athletes after 2 whistleblowers – now exiled to Berlin due to being considered “traitors” – says way too much about how drug doping is rapidly taking over sports. That so few athletes were banned as a result of doping in the London Olympics is more a result of corruption in the Russian drug testing agency than actual lack of drug-influenced athletes. It is not just a disgrace, but very disillusioning and wortying. That the thinking surrounding drug doping is that of “well,everyone else is doing it, so why shiuldn’t I” shows a clear lack of personal pride and self-challenging in sports.

Lance Armstrong is a classic example, and one where one has to ask the question – was it a deliberate choice not just to take ut, but to admit to it? After all, as a professional cyclist, he earned $300,000 a year. He now has earnings of around $23,000,000. In reality, being banned from the sport has paid well! The World Ant-Doping Agency (WADA), after a year of investigations in Russia, delivered a slamming report at a recent conference “We have found cover-ups, we found destruction of samples in the laboratories, we found payments of money in order to conceal doping tests, among others. It’s worse than we thought. All this could not have happened, and continues to happen, without the actual or implied consent of the state authorities. So, their lab is gone, their national anti-doping organisation is gone. We have recommended that the Russian Athletics Federation be suspended, gone!”. State sanctioned sports doping…wow! That’s mindblowing. 

Personally, I don’t get it! I can’t comprehend how you can fill yourself with performance enhancing drugs, win a race, break a record…and feel you have done it by giving yoyr best, challenging and pushing yourself in a natural, physical sense! I would feel that I had cheated myself, and in many respects let myself down. One of the German athletes who had come clean about her doping experiences as a world record breaking runner stated that, on being brought into the Olymouc team for her country, she found herself in a culture of very average athletes, in many respects under-achievers. They didn’t have to have abilities or even ambition, as the drugs brought on those traits. To me, achieving anything in a sporting or athletic field is pushing yourself beyond your limits, challenging yourself at every step along the way, and when you win, it’s because of your own abilities, and doing it through hard work, training and the sheer will to win. If drugs were involved, I would actually feel like a cheat. That everyone else might be doing it is no excuse for indulging, and robbing yourself of the sheer satisfaction of having done it under your own steam. I can see the thinking – if everyone else is using drugs, then everyone is still on an equal footing. But are they? As drugs come and go, what’s to ssy they aren’t taking  something that you don’t as yet know about! Doesn’t that open all sorts of cans of worms! If everyone is going to be on an equal footing…why not a drug-free one? If athletes feel the need – or want – to deliberately cheat, doesn’t one have to question their motive, but more so their self-worth? And just as drugs change and become more sophisticated, so does the testing. Blood and urine samples are kept for 10 years, so in actual fact – due to future testing that can detect drugs that can’t currently be detected – we will not know the actual medal winners from the 2016 Olympics until 2026! Suely the ultimate humiliation as a medal winner would be to have it taken off you in 10 years time! Chez embarrassing!

Remember when our elite swimmers were wearing their specially designed suits? Okay, it’s not doping, but the principal is the same. It’s an enhanced way of winning that has no regard for the personal challenge. I remember saying to my partner that it just wasn’t right, and as record, after record, after record fell…that fact was just enhanced. Where was the challenge if a record eas that easy to break? Surely the swimmers themselves must have felt cheated, that despite having won, and broken a record – they really hadn’t. I was ecstatic when the suits were banned, as it put the challenge – and the interest – back into swimming. If you won or lost, it was always a fair win, whereby the time and work you had put in was on show for all to see. The personal satisfaction was obvious on their faces. I won because I deserved to, not because I had my abilities enhanced by technology. 

As a regular gym goer, I know that a percentage of the muscle-bound bodies around me are not necessarily naturally produced. Steroid use amongst body builders has always been a problem. At 62, for me it’s as much about fitness as building myself up, though I’m not adverse to developing some musculature. But I’m in no rush, and if it takes me months to start to work my way up through the weights, that’s fine. It is a challenge I set for myself, and there is no rush to get there. A chat with a mate recently – who looked really hot at the peak of his performances – revealed an insidious world of two to three trips to the gym daily, enhanced by pre-workout supplements, and other things. In his own words, it was an unhealthy obsession that made him a not nice person. If you are going to build your body up, you have to be able to maintain it with a minimum of work. These guys who build up huge bodies don’t stop to think of the factors that cause you to stop working out, or taking dangeroys substances to achieve your size – things like relationships, having children, illness, changed work curcumstances, or not living in close proximity to a gym. All that muscle suddenly becomes – fat! I don’t  get why, if you are in your 20s, there would be this great need to rush to build yourself up – after all, you have a lot more time than me!

But the steroid/performance-enhancing drug scenarios present what should be a light-bulb moment for all imbibers – the long term side effects of pumping this shit into your body. Liver, kidney, heart and skeletal problems will probably plague you for the remainder of your life – may, in fact, cut it short. 

We need to curb this insidious practice at a world-wide level. We need to create an environment where everyone is respectful of the exhilaration of winning something due to your natural abilities and talent – the setting of a personal goal…and achueving it! Yes, use technology, but use it to enhance your abilities, not to be the sole cause of you winning, or breaking a record. We need to re-establish personal pride in sport, that knowledge thathaving  won a nedal, you are going to keep it!

Tim Alderman (2016)

Family Historians – Don’t Copy! Research!

Article, Family History, General Interest, History, , , ,

I have just spent a whole day sorting out a family mess. It’s not that what little information I had added to my tree was wrong – it is that the information that everybody else had copied, then incorrectly added to, then put on their tree, was wrong – compounded by everybody copying everyone else without checking the facts.

In a roundabout kind of way, Ancestry have promoted a system that actually encourages the spread of inaccurate family information. By promoting themselves, and making tracing your family tree sound simple and exotic “just enter a name and all will be revealed”, they have inadvertently unleashed a monster. People are inherently lazy, and for the majority of these new “genealogists”, if there is an easy way out, such as just taking your information from someone elses tree, that’s the road they’ll take. It’s not that collating information from other trees is wrong – it’s just that you need to double check it. In other words, there is no shortcut! You still need to research. This is how todays fiasco played out.

I have a family member on my paternal grandmothers tree named Thomas Saville. Someone related to the Saville family had contacted me regarding him, and asked meto contact   her father, who was researching the same family. The initial information I had on this individual had been entered years ago, and was just sitting there waiting for me to get around to researching his family. I thought, to make matters easier, that before making the phone call, I would do some more research on him to see what I could find. My first port of call was the public family trees in Ancestry. The Saville family is large, and I found many trees with Thomas in them. The one thing they all had in common was that Ann Milligan was his wife. Okay, thinks I – I’ll check for a marriage record on one of the trees. Should be easy! Of the 20 trees I checked, NOT ONE had a document proving the marriage between Thomas and Ann Milligan. Further more, there was a discrepency with the number of children, and one tree included a second marriage. We know from records that he and his wife – and two children – arrived in Australia in 1842, and they both died here. However, a number of trees had children spanning from the early 1830s, then a huge gap of 20 years…and suddenly another batch of children appear in the 1850s!

Now, I don’t know about you, but that would have raised alarm bells with me – in fact did! I mean – children attributed to them in England at a time when they were living here? Clang! Clang! Clang goes the bell! What is wrong here? With so many trees having dodgy information, the obvious reason that it was all so over-the-shop, with inaccurate entries, and with all missing required documentation was that – they were copying each other! 20 trees with inaccurate information is frightening – because others are going to copy them as well, so we literally have a “pyramid scheme” of inaccurate information spreading like anoxious  weed through peoples family histories. 

So, off to research marriages for Thomas Saville and Ann. The marriage record was there – right at the top of the search results. A marriage for Ann Milligan and…Thomas SAVEL! Okay, inaccurate spelling of surname, but clerical errors are common, especially in a time where clerks often didn’t want to display their ignorance, and instead of asking for the spelling of a name, they used phonetic spellings. So, the document for the marriage was there, and a search of census records revealed that the only census they had appeared in was the 1841. However, the marriage records also revealed a union between a Thomas Saville and an Ann Ingham. There was no connection between the two marriages, and if people had checked the census records for Thomas & Ann Saville AFTER 1941, they should have noted a Joseph Ingham Saville listed amongst the children. Considering that children were often given their mothers family names as middle names, it should have raised a flag, and sent them researching further. However, they weren’t researching, so all the children were added to Thomas Saville and Ann Milligans line, and in some cases giving Thomas a second marriage to Ann Ingham. Some future researchers are going to be very confused about their lineage!

 The question one has to ask is – is Ancestry giving everyone a bum ride, by making family research sound a lot easier than it is? How many people are just looking at hints, and if the name is on their tree, they are just blithely adding the record! I did make the requested phone  call, and we both verified our information. Scott’s wife is a Saville, and he is researching her line. He informed me that he even encountered people researching this branch of the family in America, thanks to some Ancestry hints that had misdirected them! I still maintain – and have seen it for myself – that if people sren’t happy with their family the way it is, but want to spice it up with some convicts, or peers of the realm, or royalty…they will go out of their way to find the usually inaccurate records to prove it! I don’t get it…but there you go. Considering that to get records without paying a fortune for them you need to subscribe to Ancestry, it’s obvious who the people making money out of this – to the detriment of accurate family trees – is Ancestry! Even watching shows on genealogy like “Who Do You Think You Are?” gives a false impression on how easy it is to gather information on ones family. People watching don’t stop to consider that there is a host of professional genealogists working behind the scenes, who have probably spent months gathering information, before the show was recorded. However, having said that, it can also be excitingly revealing. In the episode with Jacqui Weaver, she was talking about her grandfathers family, whose surname was Onions. It is a very unusual name, and I knew I had some in my tree. I recorded the show, then traced the information they had against what was in my tree. Sure enough – I am distantly related, through marriage, to Jacqui Weaver. My flatmate loves to joke now, that whenever he sees her in a show he yells out “There’s your aunt!”…a bit of an exaggeration, but funny anyway.

But the message from this is – if you take your family history seriously, and not as a trend as many do, then do your leg work. There is no short-cuts, no easy way out. With the amount of inaccurate information out there on family trees (and with many losing interest after finding it is not so easy, and deserting trees), it is very easy to gather incorrect information, and take your family to places they have never been. If you are going to retrieve information from public trees, check the accuracy, and look for documentation. If in doubt, comment or contact tree owners for more information. I had someone contact me this week regarding my relationship to their family, as I had their photos on my tree (which had appeared through Ancestry hints). As it was, it is again my paternal grandmothers tree, and the person in question was my 1st cousin x 2 removed. I noted that there was no follow-on.

We owe it to our families to ensure that information is accurate, or at least as accurate as we can get it. It is better to leave a line dangling than to enter dubious information. If you are unsure of a records accuracy, hit the “Maybe” button, and research it at a later date. The one thing that I do know is that I like my family, both close and far distant. They have created me, here and now, and I owe them the respect they deserve by accurately recording their story, warts and all!

Tim Alderman (C) 2016

http://rootsrevealed.blogspot.com.au/2015/01/many-family-trees-are-wrong-as-two-left.html

On Being A Black Sheep!

Article, Autobiography, General Interest, , , ,

“Regrets? I’ve had a few! But then again…too few to mention! I did what I had to do, and saw it through without exemption…but more, much more than this – I did it my way!”

“In the English language, black sheep is an idiom used to describe an odd or disreputable member of a group, especially within a family.”

I never planned to be the black sheep of my family. Perhaps genes had something to do with it; perhaps environment; or we can poke a finger at the times we grow up in – all are likely causes! But sure as hell, life experience, that need to survive (stronger in some of us than others, I’ve noticed) is a very definite cause.
I’m not the first in my family. My Great Grand Uncle, George Rickinson Swan Pickhills, was another. For the times he grew up in (the mid-1800s up), he was not a conformist. Outspoken, openly critical of others including governing bodies,  had no tolerance for idiots, and went about things with an actions-speak-louder-than-words attitude that gained him respect amongst his peers, and set him firmly against the establishment. A true role model if ever there was one! My cousin Dianne was also one who bucked the fitting-in trend, and did things her own way. I think she saw aspects of me that no one else in the family noticed. 

Even for someone growing up through the 50s& 60s, I don’t think I ever really conformed. It wasn’t an obvious choice to not fit in, but more like a realisation that if I didn’t stand up for myself, I would always be doing that which I didn’t want to do. Surprisingly, I always seemed to be accepted as an individual, even in a world where individuality was not an accepred norm. Perhaps the most difficult aspect of it, and certainly would have caused the most frustration in my family – oblivious to me, of course – was that I had a definite leaning towards the more creative side of life, rather than a sporting or physically active side. This showed up in various ways in my pre-teen years – I avoided sports for starters, much to my fathers frustration. He tried initially to get me to play soccer – I loathed it, and did everything possible to avoid contact with the ball. After that…tennis – but no, not interested. I managed to avoid sports for the entirety of my school life – no mean feat – by hiding, wagging it with other boys who felt the same, or volunteering for other duties. Truth be told, I didn’t hate sports altogether. My experiences with softball were very positive – but it’s not an Aussie sport, is it! And I loved athletics. I was a fery good runner, triple jumper and high jumper, but no one ever offered athletics as a viable alternative within sports, nor offered any encouragement to be trained in or follow such a path, so it went by the boards. Over the years, I’ve had cause to reflect on that!

I had a furtive imagination, which showed itself in my essay writing, my love of reading science fiction, and my ability to invent games to play at home. I loved nothing more than to be tucked out of sight, in a quiet corner with my hound, devouring a book. In high school, I was active in the choirs, theatrical productions, and writing – successfully, and often  with hilarious results – my own twisted interpretations of Shakespearean classics, performed during parent & teacher occasions at the schools. 

But of all the driving forces that create black sherp, the three singular and most significent events were the ones that had the potential to destroy me, but instead hardened me, radicalised me, and instilled the survival instinct in me. The acquired abilities to see through all the bullshit of others around me; to cut those out of my life who either let me down, or disappointed me; to realise early in my life that I was different to most around me, to embrace the difference, and despite making some very bad decisions along the way, always remaing true to myself; going against the grain, which created its own sets of problems; defying authority – ditto for creating problems; and the ability to live alone, to be able to be a solitary individual yet never let it drown me, has served me well all my life, has given me a tough exterior (and often interior) that has helped ne survive even bigger issues as life has trundled along. 

The first toughening came when, in early 1965, with me at the grand age of eleven, my mother left home. I can’t say I didn’t understand why she left. I was an intuitive child, and had, on occasion, seen and heard things I oerhaps shouldn’t have, and drew my own conclusions on things happening around me. This created, at home, a first taste of independence. Years of watching my mother do things around the house paid off, and with the help of neighbours we scraped by. I learnt not to iron nylon socks. The second thing that happened – bringing Nancy Thompson in as a housekeeper – was a catalyst for the third – the death of my 7 year-old brother, Kevin. Nancy taught me real survival skills, however not enough to prevent my brothers fate. Enough has been written about his death – there is a long article on my blog here “Kevin Pickhills – The Unspoken Name” – for me not to go into it here, however the effects on my life from this catastrophic event were to have repercussions for decades to come. To stand up to Nancy, you had to be tough – she was a bitch of the first degree – and she unintentionally taught me mental toughness – something one really shouldn’t have to learn at 11 going on 12 – and to alienate myself from all that was going on around me. She was the first to publicly acknowledge – in a newspaper –  that there was an “effeminate” side to my nature. I don’t know how I would have reacted if I’d known of it at the time. Perhaps I would have breathed a deep sigh of relief! She taught me survival against all odds!

My relationship with my father – not the best at any time, as I and Kevin had both been bullied by his hair-trigger temper, and the leather strap he weilded in the name of discipline – was fraught with tension, distance and disassociation after Kevin’s death. My final toughening had been invoked, and from that time on, whatever was thrown at me rolled off…at least on the exterior. From that time on, I was at war with my father, his family, and the world. He hated rock music…so I played heavy rock. He told me not to drink…so I drank…to excess. He told me not to smoke…I smoked. He forbade me growing my hair…I grew my hair. He told me to finish school…I left at 4th form. He told me to get a trade…I ended up in retail. Whatever he wanted, I did the opposite. At one stage, he threatened to “knock my block off”…I left home, and never went back. When he committed suicide in 1978 (carbon monoxide poisoning, in his car, in the bushland around Vincentia) I went through the motions of grief, but inside I was glad. Not only had Kevin’s horrendous death been avenged, but I no longer had to fear whatever retribution would have happened by finally fully living my own life. I could publicly acknowledge my sexuality as a gay man, and get on with it! It was exhilerating! 

I don’t know that contracting HIV in 1982 really impacted my life as much as it should have. I have always thought that I had fought tougher battles, and indeed when asked about it in an interview in the late 90s, I stated that despite everything I had been through with HIV and AIDS, the death of my brother had impacted my life more. By this time, I had found ways to be a black sherp in the community. My years of managing a sex shop in Darlinghurst, my forays into “gutter” drag, my taking charge of many aspects of my health care, my defiance at taking drug regimes the way I want to take them, instead of how they should supposedly be taken, my refusal to allow HIV to be a “secret” part of my life, my refusal to see the negatives of a very negative disease, by empowering jyself by not becoming a victim, all pointed me in different directions to what most others were taking. I made one atrempt to return to jy old trade of retail, hut it felt like a step back, a return to a world that I had now left behind. I went to university, I went to TAFE. I started my own husinesses, took my life off into directions that I wanted…and fuck the world, and fuck anyone who thought they could tell me what to do! Even my vision-impairment has pushed me into black sheep territory. I learnt to use a white cane, then refused to use it because it can be as much of a hindrance as a help. I still do things my own way, and despite sometimes being my own worst enemy, at least I feel like an individual. There is not a single thing I do that my father – or mother – would approve of…but then, I’m happy. I don’t know that they ever were!

Back in the late 70s I reconnected with my mother. It was as much a curiosity thing as anything else. She had remarried, and I had a half-sister, with 18 years between us. I didn’t particularly like my step-father, but I didn’t have to live with him, so didn’t much care. With so much water under the bridge, my mother and I had little in common. By the time I reconnected, I was on the verge of coming out (after my fathers death), and by the time I returned from Melbourne in 1982, not only had some friends accidently outed me to her anyway, but I was well and truly an out gay man. She tried the “Oh, it’s all my fault” victimised mother line, but I told her to get over it. In many respects I hever clicked into her family (or her into mine, I have to say). She was hospitalised to have her bladder remived – due to cancer – in late 1997. No one rang to tell me she was in hospital. Being a bit peeved at not being notifued, I rang to enquire why. I was told that there just wasn’t time to ring everyone – though mind you, the rest of the family knew. Made me realise just how far down the pecking order I was in her new family. I rang her in Westmead Hospital on Christmas eve, wished her a happy Christmas – and that was the last time we spoke. She made no attempt to contact me, nor I her. The last I heard she was still alive, and in her 80s. When asked recently if I shouldn’t contact her, being as she possibly won’t be around much longer, and I might have regrets if I didn’t – I replied…no, and I won’t! We all make our own beds!

I’ve lived most of my life on the outer edges of things. I have no regrets about that. If being a black sheep makes me an individual; if it gives me unrestrained freedom to express myself; if it means I don’t quite fit in; that I can just be me – then I luxuriate in it. Life took the 11 year-old child, and bashed (figuratively) and moulded him into the adult I became, and the senior (who still refuses to be what society expects me to be) that I am developing into. Its led me down some dark allies, crossed some roads against the lights, and balanced on the edges of many cliffs – but at all times there was light, safety and balance at the end of it. I have walked in the illustrious company of others who also follow the outer paths of life. It us never the easy road, though perhaps the more satisfying. 

I don’t know that a black sheep can ever be white, or even a shade of grey – but then…perhaps we don’t want to be! 

Tim Alderman (C) 2016

Peter Pan Syndrome – I Don’t Ever Want To Grow Up!

Article, Gay Interest, Opinion Piece, , ,

“Puer aeternus

is  for eternal boy, used in mythology to designate a child-god who is forever young; psychologically, it is an older man whose emotional life has remained at an adolescent level. The puer typically leads a provisional life, due to the fear of being caught in a situation from which it might not be possible to escape. He covets independence and freedom, chafes at boundaries and limits, and tends to find any restriction intolerable.

Peter Pan syndrome

See also: Boomerang Generation

Peter Pan syndrome is the pop-psychology concept of an adult (usually male) who is socially immature. The category is an informal one invoked by laypeople and some psychology professionals in popular psychology. It is not listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, and is not recognized by the American Psychiatric Association as a specific mental disorder.”

We’ve all seen them, on our odd, occasional visit to a nightc lub. Guys we saw on the scene 20 years ago. As in the old days, shirts off, steroid-enhanced musculature, obviously on “something”, dancing around with a  botoxed, permanent I’m-having-the-time-of-my-life semi assinine grin on their spray tanned faces, making sure everyone is watching them, amyl bottle STILL being screwed into one nostril or the other. They know everyone, from the doorman, to the bartender, to the DJs, and every other individual who lives their life in this nighttime world. Our first reaction is “That’s a bit sad at their age!”, followed by a twinge of guilt that you may, perhaps, be envious of them. But the question lingers…is it just that they can’t let their youth pass them by, and settle into a time of their life that is easier to msintain!

As gay men, we have seen these guys around for what seems like forever, and wondered – just when are they going to grow up! These are not – as many inaccurately define them – gay guys who at 45, or 55, or 65, or older, throw som drugs down their throat and have a big night out at the pubs and nightclubs on an impulsive urge. That is just going out for a good time. For these guys, this is serious lifestyle, and one that they can’t give up. Like the recreational drugs that they need to prolong and enhance these nightly nightclubbing rituals…they are addicted to the life. It is not so much living life, as having to compulsively  go through the actions, and strive to maintain it, irrespective of the cost.

Life does have its stages, and how we live and interact with the world is driven very much by our attitudes, perspectives, and personality.  I have an inate fear of turning into what I call “a beige elder” whereby I suddenly throw all dress sense overboard and adopt a singular colour – usually beige- as my uniform of choice. To counteract this, I don’t go out and buy outfits that an 18 year-old would wear. That would be just stupid, and the old “mutton dressed as lamb” commentaries would follow me wherever I went. So, you choose the middle road, whereby you dress well, and fashionably, but keep it appropriate to age.

That’s the lesson the Peter Pan brigade haven’t learnt. The need to be seen, to be liked, to be seen as “younger than their years” is a driving force in their lives. It is a psychological need to be seen as young and vibrant, irrespective of anything. It is even a recognised anomalynin other countries – in Japan, for example, Pītā Pan Shindorōmu (ピーターパン♠症候群?, lit. Peter Pan Syndrome).

According to a 3007 article in “Science Daily” https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2007/05/070501112023.htm overproctective parenting can lead to children developing “Peter Pan Syndrome”. The syndrome is not currently considered a psychopathology, given the World Health Organization has not recognized it as a psychological disorder. However, an increasingly larger number of adults are presenting emotionally immature behaviors in Western society. They are unable to grow up and take on adult responsibilities, and even dress up and enjoy themselves as teenagers when they are over 30 years old.

Humbelina Robles Ortega, professor of the Department of Personality, Evaluation and Psychological Treatment of the University of Granada and an expert in emotional disorders, warns that the overprotection of parents can lead children to develop the Peter Pan Syndrome, given “it usually affects dependent people who have been overprotected by their families and haven’t developed the necessary skills to confront life.” The ‘Peter Pans’ of present society “see the adult world as very problematic and glorify adolescence, which is why they want to stay in that state of privilege.”
More men than women affected
Peter Pan Syndrome can affect both sexes, but it appears more often among men. Some characteristics of the disorder are the inability of individuals to take on responsibilities, to commit themselves or to keep promises, excessive care about the way they look and personal well-being and their lack of self-confidence, even though they don’t seem to show it and actually come across as exactly the opposite.
The UGR professor declares that these people are usually scared of loneliness, which is why they try to surround themselves with people who can meet their needs. “They become anxious when they are evaluated by their work colleagues or their superiors, given they are completely intolerant towards any criticism. Sometimes they can have serious adaptation problems at work or in personal relationships.”
Another characteristic of people suffering from the ‘Peter Pan Syndrome’ is that they are constantly changing partners and looking for younger ones. “Whenever the relationship starts to ask for a high level of commitment and responsibility, they become afraid and break it up. Relationships with younger women have the advantage of being able to live by the day without any worries, and they also involve less future plans, therefore less responsibilities.”
Other causes are:!Link with Narcissism. Peter Pan Syndrome is related to narcissism, but not in the egotistical sense. They tend to be absorbed with imaginative comfort in their minds which attractes them to introspection. This leads them to be imprisoned by childhood fantasy, not the realities and difficulties of life that they need to overcome.

Genetics. Peter Pan Syndrome is not a genetically inherited syndrome. It is acquired by: Environmental influences, in which an individual may inhibit it by how they were raised by their parents.

Factors such as the so-called “Wendy Syndrome”.(female Peter Pans).

To put a gay perspective on it, this article appeared in Gyguts.commin August 2014 http://www.gayguys.com/2014/08/gay-men-curse-peter-pan-syndrome/ and titled “Gay Guys and the Curse of the Peter Pan Syndrome – Gay Men are Great at Everything Except Growing Up” by Dalton Heinrich. “The gay community is great at a lot of things. We are experts at fashion, we are brilliant at design, we are flawless in social networking, and we are professionals when it comes to throwing a party. As a community we thrive under pressure. As a whole we have beaten the odds with almost everything thrown our way. But one thing I have realized in my social note taking is that we are absolutely horrible when it comes to growing up.

Since the beginning of my social existence a large portion of my friends had been older than myself. I had always just assumed that I was mature for my age when in actuality I think most of the gay men I associated with had never mentally passed the age of 25. From boyfriends, to just friends, to acquaintances, to people I would repeatedly bump into at gay bars; a large portion of them were at a dead end when it came to maturing.
Why is it a social norm of ours to be in our late forties and going clubbing and bar hopping multiple times a week? Of the hundreds of grown men I know, why are so few of them actually grown up? Was I doomed to a life of bottle service and boyfriends half my age because I couldn’t settle down and start a family at an appropriate time? Of all the scary turns my life could take, ending up as one of the middle aged party men cruising the night clubs for a one night stand that concluded with me having breakfast alone and hung-over the next morning, was by far one of the worst.
Is it a personal choice each one of us makes or do the majority of us just have no role model to push us in the right direction? As a young gay man whom does not have a single parental figure to aspire to be, I only have the wisdom of the adults around me to sway my decisions. Why are there so few gay men in my life that look at the next generation as someone to mentor and coach rather than a new addition to their dating pool?
Are Gay Men Cursed with the Peter Pan Syndrome?
It is as if all gay men are terrified to grow up. The abundance of thirty and forty something’s that attend nightclubs persistently and dress like they are going to a college frat party is astounding. Instead of the Botox, barhopping and H&M wardrobes; why as a culture, are the majority of us not having children and planning our futures.
This portion of grown men clinging to the wild nights and serial dating of their twenties seem to live in a secret Neverland. It is this category of men that I have personally diagnosed with Peter Pan Syndrome. These Lost Boys that are terrified of actually looking their age and are always fighting off time instead of aging gracefully and being something helpful for the young gay man to idolize?
Is it because so many gay men were robbed of a gay adolescence that they seem to never leave it once they are able to experience the youth they missed out on?
The sad, thirsty man haunting the shadows of 18 and up clubs is slowly killing our culture. When my generation of gays gets older are we going to think that is the normal thing to do with our nights? Are we all destined to be ghosts of our youth, dramatically hunting down a thrill rather than being man enough and brave enough to go toward the light and move on to actually being an adult?
I think it is time to fight off this trend of a permanent youth. We all need to realize how to act our age and how to play our part in our community. It is time to be a role model for the next group of young men. It is time to tell Peter Pan that you want to go home and as much as it may not be the funniest thing to do, it is time to grow up.
Young, lost, and cynical but still yours,” 
It all sounds very familiar, doesn’t it! Frighteningly so!

In a follow on article “Peter Pan: Deconstructed – Clearing Up the Confusion” http://www.gayguys.com/2014/08/peter-pan-deconstructed/ he goes on to say – after evidently received a mixed bag of comments on his original (and very good) article “I 

I would like to start this article off by thanking everyone who took the time to read my last piece Gay Guys and the Curse of the Peter Pan Syndrome, whether you agreed or disagreed. Knowing that so many people have seen my work is a huge and unexpected experience. I now would like to address the reactions I have gotten to my writing. Queerty and Instinct magazine are a couple of the main sites that have posted articles calling me ageist and telling everyone that I believe ‘Men over 30/Men over 40, should not be allowed in gay bars’.

When I read that I was fairly disappointed that such established and respected websites would have to resort to name calling and lying to create controversy. I never once in my entire article suggest that men of any age should refrain from going to bars or clubs; the focus of my article was how the men out at clubs acted. If I am to be expected to respect my elders, than I expect my elders to stop acting like my peers. My article was an opinion piece on lack of role models in the nightlife scene that I personally am a part of, not the entire gay world. Granted, the clubbing and bar setting is not the best place to seek out a role model, but my piece was based off the point that for a lot of younger guys it is their only outing to see older gay men before going back home to a very limited gay environment. It was an opinion piece based off personal experience. I understand if my harsh opinion hit close to home or if my few admittedly general statements pissed people off but both the articles that were about me only seemed to copy and paste my article and throw a few unimaginative lies in for color.
The definition of ageist is a tendency to regard older persons as debilitated, unworthy of attention, or unsuitable for employment. The closest characteristic I have to being deemed an ageist is my belief that men and women over the age of 70 should not be allowed to drive during rush hour for obvious traffic and safety reasons.
As a young gay man I absolutely respect and pay homage to my elders. I know the struggles and strength they have had to endure to make it possible for my generation of gays to be proudly gay and part of a community at all. The point of my article was not to alienate, attack, or insult men over any age and I honestly don’t think it came off that way. My opinion was merely focused on addressing the lack of social responsibility and good examples that I personally am subjected to along with other gay men my age in my community. I know that whom I surround myself with is my choice and not a representative of the entire worlds gay population. My article was not attacking any age of person; my article was displaying my disdain for the attitude of a portion of them.
Agree to Disagree
I stand by my opinion that in the nightlife scene the way a large amount of gay ‘adults’ act is a sad reflection of a culture. I know there are people who make a living off of the nightlife scene and there are successful and mature people who frequent it. There are bar owners, promoters, drag performers, bartenders, event hosts, and much more and I will absolutely admit that my post was NOT referring to them. It was referring to the men who make partying a priority in a desperate attempt to cling to a fraction of their youth and the men that portray immature social attitudes.
I have received an abundance of hate messages and personal insults via twitter and comments on my article from men all over the world. So many of these men were calling me stupid, ugly, badly dressed, and a handful of other petty insults. One of my personal favorites was a guy attacking the color of my roots. Ooh, you sure showed me buddy, kudos to you.
Of all the people who disagreed with me, not a single one of them reached out to me trying to show I was wrong with valid points, a calm reaction, an educated lecture, or even a rational attempt to clarify that I was mistaken. Instead, insecure grown men called me names, harassed me, and wished bad things upon me as if they were 13-year-old girls starring in a Lifetime original. If anything, this onslaught of middle aged cyber bullies only proved my point. There is no better way to judge someone’s maturity than to see the reaction they have to being called immature.
I find it sad that these men more than twice my age who no doubt are extremely well educated and hold wisdom that I could definitely benefit from chose to attack my appearance and throw insults my way rather than guide me back from the mistake they clearly think I have made. I have no problem with men of any age going to bars or clubs whenever they feel like it. I have no problem with large age gaps in gay relationships, since the majority of men I have dated were well over 30 I think my opinion on that is obvious. I don’t see any issue with men of any age group dancing on tables and enjoying life however they want. I not only support older men in bars, I endorse it. Most of you have had to fight like hell to be free enough to do any of that. My issue only lies with the fact that the younger generations of gay men who will one day be the adults in our community are watching you. We are looking at you and we are seeing your behavior toward one another and toward us.
You are in a sense our teachers and parents. Some of you may have not wanted the responsibility of having kids but it’s too late for that. Congratulations, it’s a boy! You are our teachers, you are our coaches, and you are our fathers. How you react to conflict is recognized, how you deal with issues is important, and what you do with your life is valuable.
The widespread, international reaction I have gotten shows that I have blatantly offended a large amount of people with my observations. If this many people are upset by the opinion of one person then doesn’t that suggest that there is something deeply wrong on a larger scale? If my article were just some bogus trash thrown onto the Internet by an uneducated kid, would so many people be offended by my words? If I am so off base, why are so many people retaliating on a personal level and if it did not ring even slightly true would it warrant a response at all?
Regardless of my opinion and personal beliefs every single one of you is blazing a trail that men my age will follow one day. Every single one of you is holding the steering wheel of our community. I understand you getting upset with me for saying that some of you can’t drive but for Christ’s sake, pay attention to the road. You have kids in the car.
Even when you don’t want me, I’m still yours,”
Gay men also like to run around with their heads in the sand, and any attemots to create humour, or to point out anomalous aspects of the community are always met with cries of internalised homophobia, or discrimination,mor misinformation. It’s time to face facts guys – we are not a unique species who are exempted from the problems and foibles of the general community. As a small enclaved community, there can be a tendency for conditions such as Peter Pan Syndrome to be more blatant and obvious. Like Dalton, I am not suggesting that guts of any age shouldn’t go out and enjoy themselves and party on in the bars and nightclubs. That us just having fun – it is not the addiction and personality disorder that this article is about. As a gay community, we need to recognise that these conditions exist, and that our very lifestyle actually encourages and exaggerates same. In a community of vibrant, colourful, creative people…the Peter Paners still stick out.

Perhaps we need to create a Neverland!

Tim Alderman (C) 2016

Henry Moorsom Pickhills (1840-1866)

Article, biography, Family History, General Interest, History, , , , , , ,

We kniw very little about our early family histories, other than what we can glean from records. From these, we have to try to piece together some sort of story of their life. Some records are too-the-point, others sketchy – but very occasionally they can be gems that give us very intimate glimpses into who they were. My Great Grand Uncle, Henry Moorsam Pickhills, is one such. He lived for a very short 25 years, yet I feel I know him well.

Henry was born in Halifax, Yorkshire in 1840, just in time to be included in the very first census held in England. The second-born son of Rickinson Pickhills & Elizabeth Appleyard, he was given his  Great Grandmothers maiden name – Moorsom – as a middle name. Apart from being included in the 1851 census, where he resided in Manningham, Yorkshire along with two additions to the family – Catherine, and Charles Edward, this is all we know of his first ten years of life.

We hear nothing more about him until 14 October, 1847, when he volunteered for service with the Admiralty. Getting Henry’s Admiralty papers was a true find for several reasons – it gives us a description of him,, tells us his ranking and ship, who the captain was – and a statutoty declaration from Rickinson & Elizabeth, written in Rickinson’s hand, giving him permission to join, Henry being only 16 years-old at the time.

We know from this record of 3 pages that he enlisted on HMS Hastings. He was born on the 19 December 1940. He was 5’43/4″ tall, with a fresh complexion, light hair, and blue eyes. He has a scar on his left temple. His ranking is Boy, 2nd Class, and he has joined for 10 years from the age of 18. The actual Boy Certificate is signed by Rickinson, Henry, the Captain and 2 medical officers.The statutory declaration gives the Captains name as Captain Mends (William Robert, as per research). It tells us, rather unnecessarily, that at that time the ship was lying at Rock Ferry near Liverpool. Rickinson had mistakenly given Henry’s birth year as 1842. Henry was born at The Fold, in Northowram (Yorkshire). Rickinson goes into quite a starement in legalese towards the end of the declaration. Was he showing off? As an Articled Clerk training to be an Attorney did he want the readers of the declaration to know that he was a learned man? The reasoning is unknown, though it seems a quite unnecessary addition to the statement.

Our next encounter with Henry is on the 19 December 1858, in the UK Royal Navy Registers of Seaman’s Service, where he is noted on the Hastings. 

We next hear of Henry at the 1861 census, where he is counted amongst those “at sea”. 

We finally encounter Henry on the 8th April 1866. He had died onboard the SV Aracan, from Cholera, at Calcutta, Bengal. He was buried on the 9th October 1866 in Calcutta. £3/13/1 is owing to the family. Other goods sold. He was 25 years-old.

Notes

  • Captain William Robert Mends GCB (27 February 1812 – 26 June 1897), was a British admiral of the Royal Navy, son of Admiral William Bowen Mends[1] and nephew of Captain Robert Mends. William Mends was born at Plymouth into a naval family. He married Melita, daughter of Dr Joseph Stilon R.N. on 6 January 1839. From 3 April 1857 to 1 February 1860 he was captain of HMS Hastings on Coast Guard service. He moved to take command of HMS Majestic on 1 February 1860 when she replaced Hastings on coast guard service and was then appointed deputy controller general of the coast-guard in 1861. He spent May 1862 to February 1883 as Director of Transport at the Admiralty. Mends retired at the rank of rear-admiral on 1 January 1869, was promoted to vice-admiral on 1 January 1874 and then a full admiral on 15 June 1879.
  • HMS Hastings was a 74-gun third rate ship of the line of the Royal Navy. She was built in Calcutta for the Honourable East India Company, but the Royal Navy purchased her in 1819. The Navy sold her in 1886. Hastings was built of the highest quality “saul”, “sissoo”, “Pegue”, and “Java” teak wood, following Sir Robert Seppings’s principles, which resulted in a vessel both longitudinal and transverse support. Her construction cost Sicca ruppees (Sa.Rs.) 8,71,406 (£108,938), which the merchants of Calcutta and other patriotic individuals subscribed via shares. The full cost of getting her ready for sea was Sa.Rs. 8,71,406 (£116,375). Captain John Hayes sailed Hastings from Calcutta on 28 March 1818. She reached Madras on 13 April, and Port Louis on 2 July. From there she reached St Helena on 15 September, and arrived at The Downs on 3 November. The Ship’s figurehead is now on display at the Merseyside Maritime Museum.
  • SV Aracan; nationality: British; purpose: transport; type: fully rigged ship; propulsion: sailing ship; date built: 1854; tonnage: 864 grt; dimensions: 56.8 x 9.8 x 6.6 m; rigging: 3 masts full rigged; IMO/Off. no.: 1080; call sign: HGMW H G M W; about the loss cause lost: collision; date lost: 09/03/1874; casualties: 0; builder: Whitehaven Shipbuilding Co. Ltd., Whitehaven; owner:   Brocklebank T. & J. Ltd. – Thomas & John; captain: Charles Hartwood. 
  • The Brocklebank family who owned the Aracan that traded between England, India and China from the opening of Chinese ports in 1858. She was sunk in collision with the SS American at 10 p.m. on 9th March 1874, 16 miles off Portland Bill, England, with 116 men on board. All survived and were taken on board the SS Syria that was being towed by the American on a 0.25 mile long hawser. I still have a presentation case containing two Worcester dishes, as was given to 1st class passengers, and a copy of the newspaper articles about the accident and the subsequent court cases that found the captain of the American solely to blame.The Aracan was for many years known as the unknown vessel as it took 18 years after the wreck was found in 1996 by diver Grahame Knott of Weymouth. The wreck is now a prime dive site and attracts many divers. Unfortunately it sits in the middle of a military bombing range and can only be accessed during cease-fire periods.

Photo curtesy of Jonathan Clarke-Irons

  • Rock Ferry is an area of Birkenhead on the Wirral Peninsula, England. Administratively it is a ward of the Metropolitan Borough of Wirral. Before local government reorganisation on 1 April 1974, it was part of the county of Cheshire. At the 2001 Census, the population of Rock Ferry was 13,676 (6,444 males, 7,232 females),[2] increasing to 14,298 (6870 males, 7,428 females) at the Census 2011.[3]. In the 17th century Derby House, an occasional seat of the Minshull family, covered most of the grounds covered by present-day Rock Ferry. Thomas Oakshott, Mayor of Liverpool, lived there in the 19th century. The house, located on Rock Lane West close to the New Chester Road, was demolished in the early 20th century. Residential building did not really happen until the early part of the 19th century, the rise of the ferry and the railway, and the establishment of the Royal Rock Hotel and bath house in 1836. Between then and 1870, the area received an influx of luxurious housing, the villas of Rock Park and many other large houses around the Old Chester Road making Rock Ferry one of the most desirable addresses in the North West.[citation needed] In the later part of the 19th century, Rock Ferry expanded due to the need to house the increasing population of workers, especially at Birkenhead’s Cammell Laird shipyard. By 1901, the population stood at 2,971. In 1910, the Olympian Gardens were opened adjacent to the Royal Rock Hotel. These pleasure gardens were considered a great attraction and customers travelled from the whole of Wirral and, using the nearby ferry terminal, from Liverpool. The gardens hosted classical piano concerts and also slapstick comedy shows, with performers including Arthur Askey and Tommy Handley. At times the gardens held a prestige similar to the more famous Vauxhall Gardens in London. Shows were held in a large tent set amongst the trees and shrubs of land owned by Charles Boult. The gardens closed in the late 1920s after Mr Boult’s death. The decline of local industries in the 1950s took its toll. Many of the splendid buildings were dilapidated and unrestored. This decline was reflected in the loss of the Royal Rock Hotel, as well as many of the shops in the Old Chester Road and Bedford Road; whereas before Bedford Road had supported a wine merchant, a jeweller, two tailors, three banks, and two bookshops, most shops stood vacant. Large-scale regeneration work in the 1990s, which involved the demolition or restoration of many such derelict properties, and the building of new housing, means that the area has improved considerably, although many buildings of considerable character have been lost.

Tim Alderman 2016


    Captain William Robert Mends
    Figurehead from HMS Hastings

    General Service Medal HMS Hastings
    HMS Hastings
    HMS Hastings
    HMS Hastings
    HMS Hastings
    Newspaper piece on the collision and sinking of SV Aracan

    Gay History: The UpStairs Lounge Arson Attack.

    Article, Gay Interest, , , ,

    http://www.patheos.com/blogs/friendlyatheist/2013/06/24/remembering-the-upstairs-lounge-the-u-s-a-s-largest-lgbt-massacre-happened-40-years-ago-today/
    The 24th of June in 1973 was a Sunday. For New Orleans’ gay community, it was the last day of national Pride Weekend, as well as the fourth anniversary of 1969’s Stonewall uprising. You couldn’t really have an open celebration of those events — in ’73, anti-gay slurs, discrimination, and even violence were still as common as sin — but the revelers had few concerns. They had their own gathering spots in the sweltering city, places where people tended to leave them be, including a second-floor bar on the corner of Iberville and Chartres Street called the UpStairs Lounge.

    That Sunday, dozens of members of the Metropolitan Community Church (MCC), the nation’s first gay church, founded in Los Angeles in 1969, got together there for drinks and conversation. It seems to have been an amiable group. The atmosphere was welcoming enough that two gay brothers, Eddie and Jim Warren, even brought their mom, Inez, and proudly introduced her to the other patrons. Beer flowed. Laughter filled the room.


    Just before 8:00p, the doorbell rang insistently. To answer it, you had to unlock a steel door that opened onto a flight of stairs leading down to the ground floor. Bartender Buddy Rasmussen, expecting a taxi driver, asked his friend Luther Boggs to let the man in. Perhaps Boggs, after he pulled the door open, had just enough time to smell the Ronsonol lighter fluid that the attacker of the UpStairs Lounge had sprayed on the steps. In the next instant, he found himself in unimaginable pain as the fireball exploded, pushing upward and into the bar.

    The ensuing 15 minutes were the most horrific that any of the 65 or so customers had ever endured — full of flames, smoke, panic, breaking glass, and screams.

    MCC assistant pastor George “Mitch” Mitchell escaped, but soon returned to try to rescue his boyfriend, Louis Broussard. Both died in the fire, their bodies clinging together in death, like a scene from the aftermath of Pompeii.

    Metal bars on the UpStairs Lounge windows, meant to keep people from falling out, were just 14 inches apart; while some managed to squeeze through and jump, others got stuck. That’s how the MCC’s pastor, Rev. Bill Larson, died, screaming, “Oh, God, no!” as the flames charred his flesh. When police and firefighters surveyed and began clearing the scene, they left Larson fused to the window frame until the next morning.

    This news photo is among the most indelible I’ve ever seen

    Thirty-two people lost their lives that Sunday 40 years ago — Luther Boggs, Inez Warren, and Warren’s sons among them.

    Homophobia being what it was, several families declined to claim the bodies and one church after another refused to bury or memorialize the dead. Three victims were never identified or claimed, and were interred at the local potter’s field.

    When the Rev. William Richardson, of St. George’s Episcopal Church, agreed to hold a small prayer service for the victims, about 80 people attended, but many more complained about Richardson to Iveson Noland, the Episcopalian bishop of New Orleans. Noland reportedly rebuked Richardson for his kindness, and the latter received volumes of hate mail.

    The UpStairs Lounge arson was the deadliest fire in New Orleans history and the largest massacre of gay people ever in the U.S. Yet it didn’t make much of an impact news-wise. The few respectable news organizations that deigned to cover the tragedy made little of the fact that the majority of the victims had been gay, while talk-radio hosts tended to take a jocular or sneering tone: What do we bury them in? Fruit jars, sniggered one, on the air, only a day after the massacre.

    Other, smaller disasters resulted in City Hall press conferences or statements of condolence from the governor, but no civil authorities publicly spoke out about the fire, other than to mumble about needed improvements to the city’s fire code.

    Continuing this pattern of neglect, the New Orleans police department appeared lackluster about the investigation (the officers involved denied it). The detectives wouldn’t even acknowledge that it was an arson case, saying the cause of the fire was of “undetermined origin.” No one was ever charged with the crime, although an itinerant troublemaker with known mental problems, Rogder Dale Nunez, is said to have claimed responsibility multiple times. Nunez, a sometime visitor to the UpStairs Lounge, committed suicide in 1974.

    The following Wikipedia article goes into more detail, and provides a huge list of references for anyone who wants to read more on this tragedy.

    https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/UpStairs_Lounge_arson_attack

    The UpStairs Lounge arson attack took place on June 24, 1973, at a gay bar located on the second floor of the three-story building at 141 Chartres Street in the French Quarter of New Orleans, Louisiana, in the United States.[1] Thirty-two people died as a result of fire or smoke inhalation. The official cause is still listed as “undetermined origin”.[2] The most likely suspect, a gay man who had been thrown out of the bar earlier in the day, was never charged.[3] Until the 2016 Orlando nightclub shooting, it was the deadliest known attack on a gay club in U.S. history.

    INCIDENT

    On Sunday, June 24, 1973, the final day of Pride Weekend,[4] members of the Metropolitan Community Church, a pro-LGBT Protestant denomination, held services inside the club, located on the second floor of a three-story building at the corner of Chartres and Iberville Streets. The MCC was the United States’ first gay church, founded in Los Angeles in 1968.[5] After the service, the club hosted free beer and dinner for 125 patrons. At the time of the evening fire, some 60 people were listening to pianist David Gary perform[6] and discussing an upcoming MCC fundraiser for the local Crippled Children’s Hospital.At 7:56 p.m., a buzzer from downstairs sounded, and bartender Buddy Rasmussen, an Air Force veteran, asked Luther Boggs to answer the door, anticipating a taxi cab driver. Boggs opened the door to find the front staircase engulfed in flames, along with the smell of lighter fluid.[3] Rasmussen immediately led some twenty patrons out of the back exit to the roof, where the group could access a neighboring building’s roof and climb down to the ground floor. The others were accidentally locked inside the second-floor club,[7] some attempting to escape by squeezing through barred windows. One man managed to squeeze through the 14-inch gap, only to fall to his death while burning. Reverend Bill Larson of the MCC clung to the bars of one window until he died, and his charred remains were visible to onlookers for hours afterwards. MCC assistant pastor George “Mitch” Mitchell managed to escape, but then returned to attempt to rescue his boyfriend, Louis Broussard. Both died in the fire, their remains showing them clinging to each other.[8]

    Firefighters stationed two blocks away found themselves blocked by cars and pedestrian traffic. One fire truck tried to maneuver on the sidewalk but crashed into a taxi. They arrived to find bar patrons struggling against the security bars and quickly brought the fire under control.[9] Twenty-eight people died at the scene of the sixteen-minute fire, and one died en route to the hospital. Another 18 suffered injuries, of whom three, including Boggs, died.
    AFTERMATH

    The official investigation failed to yield any convictions. The only suspect for the attack was Rodger Dale Nunez, a local hustler and troublemaker who had been ejected from the bar earlier in the evening after fighting with another customer.[3] Police attempted to question Nunez shortly after, but he was hospitalized with a broken jaw and could not respond. When questioned later on, police records show that he did not appear nervous at all. Nunez had a witness who claimed that he had been in and out of the bar during the 10–20 minutes before the fire, and that he had seen nobody enter or leave the building. Because police observed that the witness was stressed, and had lots of nervous tension, they dismissed the witness as a liar.[10]

    Nunez had previously been diagnosed with “conversion hysteria” in 1970 and had visited numerous psychiatric clinics. He had been released from a treatment facility in the year before the fire.[11] After his arrest, Nunez escaped from psychiatric custody and was never picked up again by police, despite frequent appearances in the French Quarter. A friend later told investigators that Nunez confessed on at least four occasions to starting the fire. He told the friend that he squirted the bottom steps with Ronsonol lighter fluid bought at a local Walgreens and tossed a match. He did not realize, he claimed, that the whole place would go up in flames.[3] Nunez took his own life in November 1974.[9]
    In 1980, the state fire marshal’s office, lacking leads, closed the case.[9]
    MEDIA COVERAGE

    Coverage of the fire by news outlets minimized the fact that LGBT patrons had constituted the majority of the victims, while editorials and talk radio hosts made light of the event.[6] No government officials made mention of the fire: as Robert L. Camina, writer/director of a documentary about the fire (Upstairs Inferno), said in 2013, “I was shocked at the disproportionate reaction by the city government. The city declared days of mourning for victims of other mass tragedies in the city. It shocked me that despite the magnitude of the fire, it was largely ignored.”[7]

    CHRISTIANS’ REACTIONS

    Reverend William P. Richardson of St. George’s Episcopal Church, agreed to hold a small prayer service for the victims on June 25. Approximately 80 people attended the event. The next day, Iveson B. Noland, the Episcopal bishop of New Orleans, rebuked Richardson for hosting the service. Noland received over 100 complaints from parishioners concerning the service, and Richardson’s mailbox filled with hate mail.[12]

    Soon after two additional memorial services were held on July 1 at a Unitarian church and St. Mark’s United Methodist Church, headed by Louisiana’s Methodist bishop Finis Crutchfield and led by MCC founder Reverend Troy Perry, who came from Los Angeles to participate. Mourners exited through the church’s main door rather than an available side exit, a demonstration of a new willingness to be identified on camera.[9] Several families did not step forward to claim the bodies of the deceased. A few anonymous individuals stepped forward and paid for the three unknown men’s burials, and they were buried with another victim identified as Ferris LeBlanc in a mass grave at Holt Cemetery.[5] LeBlanc’s family would not learn of his death in the arson attack until January of 2015.[13]
    In June 1998, the 25th anniversary of the fire, as part of Gay Pride celebrations, a memorial service was organized by Rev. Dexter Brecht of Big Easy Metropolitan Community Church (also known as Vieux Carre MCC) and Toni J. P. Pizanie.[7] It was held at the Royal Sonesta Hotel Grand Ball Room and attended by New Orleans Councilman Troy Carter, Rev. Carole Cotton Winn, Senior Rabbi Edward Paul Cohn of Temple Sinai, Rev. Kay Thomas from Grace Fellowship in Christ Jesus, Rev. Perry, and 32 members of the New Orleans community representing the victims. Carter then led a jazz funeral procession to the building on the corner of Chartres and Iberville Streets, the site of the club, and members of the local MCC laid a memorial plaque and wreaths. Among the attendees was the niece of victim Clarence McCloskey.[14]

    LEGACY

    • In 1998 the reconstituted MCC congregation in New Orleans (Big Easy Metropolitan Community Church, since renamed again to MCC of New Orleans) held a 25th anniversary service to commemorate the arson and its 32 deaths. This event is significant because, unlike the one it memorialized, the 300 members of the congregation refused to hide their faces and instead insisted on entering and leaving the event through the church’s front doors.
    • In 2008 The North American Convocation of Pro-LGBT Christians planned to hold its “Many Stories, One Voice” event in New Orleans to commemorate the 25th anniversary of the conference (and the 35th anniversary of the tragedy), but eventually canceled the conference for the year due to Hurricane Gustav.[15]
    • In 2008 local artist Skylar Fein constructed an art installation titled Remember the Upstairs Lounge.[16] The New Orleans Museum of Art has since acquired Fein’s art exhibit, which includes a reproduction of the bar.[7]
    • A TAPS group in episode 15, Season 8 of Ghost Hunters visited the lounge to encounter alleged ghosts of the fire’s casualties. The episode identified the event as the “Jimani Lounge Massacre.”[17]
    • In 2013, noting the 40th anniversary of the fire, the Roman Catholic Archbishop of New Orleans, Gregory Michael Aymond, issued a statement of regret that his predecessor, Archbishop Philip Hannan, and the local church leadership ignored the arson attack. Aymond wrote to Time magazine that “In retrospect, if we did not release a statement we should have to be in solidarity with the victims and their families … The church does not condone violence and hatred. If we did not extend our care and condolences, I deeply apologize.”[18]
    • In 2013, Royd Anderson wrote, directed, and produced a documentary about the tragedy titled The UpStairs Lounge Fire.[19][20][21]
    • Also in 2013, Wayne Self (a playwright and composer from Natchitoches, Louisiana), first presented a musical called Upstairs about the tragedy.[22]
    • In 2014, McFarland & Company released the Clayton Delery-Edwards-penned account of the arson The Up Stairs Lounge Arson: Thirty-two Deaths in a New Orleans Gay Bar, June 24, 1973. The book was selected as one of the Louisiana Endowment for the Humanities 2015 Books of the Year.[23]
    • In 2014, Melange Dance Company of New Orleans performed a tribute show as part of the New Orleans Fringe Festival. ‘The UpStairs Lounge’ show aimed to uplift with a combination of dance and film that celebrate the Lounge, its patrons, and the strides taken towards Human Rights since the incident.[24]
    • In 2015, Melange Dance Company of New Orleans presented an extended performance of ‘The UpStairs Lounge’ show originally performed as part of the 2014 New Orleans Fringe Festival.[25]

    RELATED

    • The space on the second floor formerly known as the UpStairs Lounge now contains business offices and a kitchen for the Jimani Lounge (established 1971), which is located on the first floor. The current owner, Jimmy Massacci, and his father, the former owner, personally witnessed the arson and its aftermath.[5] The third floor, then owned by the UpStairs Lounge, remains unused and partially damaged. The building itself dates back to at least 1848, when the earliest-known sale of the building is documented.[26]
    • The fire was the third arson attack to affect the MCC,[27] following a January 27, 1973, arson at the church’s headquarters in Los Angeles (resulting in the destruction and collapse of the building with no injuries) and another 1973 arson at an MCC church in Nashville, Tennessee (also with complete destruction of the church and its furnishings but no injuries).[28][29]

    REFERENCES

    1.  “Upstairs Lounge Fire Memorial, 40 Years Later – NOLA DEFENDER”. Retrieved September 21, 2014.
    2. “The Up Stairs Lounge Arson: Thirty-Two Deaths in a New Orleans Gay Bar. By Clayton Delery-Edwards. P.118
    3. a b c d Townsend, Johnny (2011). Let the Faggots Burn: The UpStairs Lounge Fire. BookLocker.com, Inc. ISBN 9781614344537.
    4. “The Tragedy of THE UPSTAIRS LOUNGE”. The Jimani Lounge.
    5. a b c Alyne A. Pustanio (2010). “The Haunting Tragedy of the UpStairs Lounge”. AlynePustiano.com.
    6.  a b Erik Ose (July 3, 2008). “Gay Weddings and 32 Funerals: Remembering the UpStairs Lounge Fire”. Huffington Post.
    7. a b c d Diane Anderson-Minshall (November 15, 2013). Remembering the Worst Mass Killing of LGBT People in U.S. History. The Advocate.
    8. Eric Newhouse, Associated Press (1973-06-25). “Arson Eyed in New Orleans Fire”. Abilene Reporter-News, Texas.a b c d Freund, Helen (June 22, 2013). “UpStairs Lounge fire provokes powerful memories 40 years later”. New Orleans Times-Picayune. Retrieved June 26, 2013.
    9. The Up Stairs Lounge Arson: Thirty-Two Deaths in a New Orleans Gay Bar. By Clayton Delery-Edwards. P.122
    10. The Up Stairs Lounge Arson: Thirty-Two Deaths in a New Orleans Gay Bar. By Clayton Delery-Edwards. P.127
    11. William P. Richardson – Profile – LGBN-RAN
    12. The New Orleans Advocate. Family solves mystery after learning uncle died in infamous UpStairs Lounge Fire 40-plus years ago in New Orleans. June 6, 2015. Retrieved June 20, 2016.
    13.  “The Upstairs Fire – June 24, 1973 – 25th Anniversary Memorial Service”. Retrieved September 21, 2014.
    14. “Pro-LGBT Christians to mark 35th anniversary of deadliest fire in New Orleans’ history”.
    15. Doug MacCash (November 2, 2008). “Skylar Fein: Installation reignites memory of a deadly fire”. The Times-Picayune.
    16. “Ghost Hunters – Season 8, Episode 15: French Quarter Massacre”. Syfy. September 19, 2012.
    17. “The Upstairs Lounge Fire: The Little Known Story of the Largest Killing of Gays in US History”. Time. June 21, 2013. Retrieved June 25, 2013.
    18. “Mass killing at New Orleans gay lounge remembered 40 years later”. Nicole, Erin. WGNO-ABC. June 24, 2013.
    19. “The UpStairs Lounge Fire (2013 trailer)”. Royd Anderson Productions. Retrieved June 16, 2013.
    20. “Acadiana Pride Festival, “a celebration of culture””. Berry, Brheanna. KLFY-CBS. March 29, 2015.
    21. Wayne Self. “Upstairs”.
    22. The Advocate: Book of the Year: Biography Documenting Worst Mass Killing of Gays in U.S. History
    23. “Melange Dance Company Events”. November 20, 2014.
    24.  “Melange Dance Company Events”. March 27, 2015.
    25. “The Building”. The Jimani Lounge.
    26. Vicki Lynn Eaklor (2008). Queer America: A GLBT History of the 20th Century. p. 136.
    27. Dudley Clendinen; Adam Nagourney (June 5, 2001). Out For Good: The Struggle to Build a Gay Rights Movement in America. Simon and Schuster. p. 181. ISBN 978-0-684-86743-4. Retrieved December 13, 2012.
    28. The Rev. Elder Troy D. Perry; The Rev. Elder Nancy Wilson (November 1, 1997). Report to the President for the White House Conference On Hate Crimes (PDF). UFMCC.