Rising Up Over Gay Racism

Author Randy Boyd is away authoring his next novel, The Bearcat Boyz on the Road of Life. Thanks to Freaky Deaky Technologies, the author's characters are doing it for themselves in Guest Who?

Our guest blogger today: Othello, better known as the crazy-ass, closeted pop star who tries to assassinate a homophobic US Senator in Uprising, the suspense thriller by Randy Boyd ...

Hey, blogosphere,

My creator, Mr. Boyd, hasn't given Uprising much props so far on Randy Boyd's Blocks, even though Uprising, starring me, Othello, was the author's first novel. In fact, Uprising was published in 1998, so 2008 marks the 10-year anniversary of Uprising, the suspense thriller by Randy Boyd. That means that Uprising is 10 years-old, like his dog Boomer.

Does Othello and his Uprising get a whole blog column with a cute title, like, When In Doubt, Pet the Dog? No.

Does Othello and his Uprising get a special blog feature called Uprising @ 10, like, say, a certain special blog feature known as Bridge Across the Ocean @ 20? No. Is Bridge itself twenty years old? No.

Does Othello and his Uprising get the one lil' Happy Birthday blog post celebrating the 10th anniversary of Randy Boyd's first published novel? Not to mention his first novel to make a best seller's list? Not to mention his first novel to be nominated for a Lambda Literary Award? Not to mention the only Randy Boyd novel to be nominated for two Lammys, best men's mystery and best small press title? No.

But Othello and his Uprising are not here to hate.

Othello is on the Blocks to help an author out by guest blogging about hot topics in the world today, so here goes ...

I wanna sequel!!!!!!

Picture it: Uprising 2 ... Othello, that's me, is an out and proud homosexual mega pop star who's topping the charts. He's Prince, Madonna, Timberlakeland and Diddy Cool J all wrapped into one. But somebody's out to kill him! And they know what Othello did last novel (plotted to kill a white man, a US senator at that!)

Once again, Othello, that's me, must team up with Raider, the hunky hetero FBI agent, this time with Raider's young son in tow.

Join the adventure as two and a half men fight for survival and gay rights, Rambo-style!

Now that's a hot topic!

However ... Othello, that's me, was only “let out” of my author's brain if I agreed to blog about current events, so ... speaking of gay rights.

In Uprising, I was just as pissed off as the queers of today, you know, the ones who are protesting and demonstrating in the streets about gay marriage and anti-gay pastors and proposition this and that. When I wanted my civil rights in the suspense thriller, I thought I had to put a bullet in a US Senator's head, thereby gettin' all y'all fags to take to the streets. Holla!

Of course, as author Randy Boyd would have me, the feds sicced a hot blond, homophobe undercover agent after my ass, well, not my ass, but ... what I mean is, he was out to nail me, and not in a good way. Ultimately, I ended up nailing him, but that's besides the point.

My plot to kidnap two other equally-closeted celebrities, a legendary baller and a media mogul, and recruit the ultimate queer warriors to be the foot soldiers in my deadly plan of assassination gave me pause, and that was before the harrowing chase sequence through the parade at gay pride LA.

Sometimes, there are better ways of getting what you want than acting up. For example, have you tried tearing down your own walls before tearing down the walls of other people?

During Uprising, I was too famous and closeted to roam around West Hollywood as my mega pop star self, so my creator gave me Hollywood makeup that turned me into an ordinary older black man, though handsome in my own eyes.

When I was in my Tom-Cruise-Mission-Impossible-type, old-black-man mask, not one of you faggots (of any race!) looked me in the eye. In the gay world, I was invisible to you. Or you feared me. Couple of you did speak from time to time, maybe when I was sittin' at a bar.

You packing, old guy? You a top, sir, how big are you?

From the looks of it, nothing's change. Randy Boyd's nightmares about his Racist Gay Life are constantly waking my ass up in the deep space of his dreams. And that takes a lot, seeing as how Othello and his Uprising feel like the author's neglected oldest kid (although he has given one of the Bearcat Boyz my FBI buddy's last name. You go, Kincaide!)

So to help an author out, Othello and his Uprising are gonna tell it like it is, people to people:

You nigger-fearing faggots need to get over y'all'selves and wise up. And rise up over the sick ideas you have about all black people. That's just yo' dumb-ass, great-grand-pappy talkin', spinning racist tales that over the years filtered into your small little brain before you knew shit about the world, which you still don't, by the way, as obvious by the pathetic way you advertise yourselves on the internet.

The most popular phrase on the gay internet: WHITES AND LATINS ONLY, aka gay racism spelled out in ALL CAPS in case a nigga who's hard of reading logs on. Do you have a fucking brain? Or is it all fried out by drugs and all that sex with thousands of different men? Yep, thousands. Or are you just a stupid-ass monkey in a man suit?

Maybe I tried to rise up against the wrong, narrow-minded pea brains in Uprising. Maybe Senator Jimmy Herman, the bastard I tried to off, was right. Maybe faggots really are a bunch of mutants incapable of a positive contribution to the world.

If Senators Jesse Helms and Strom Thurman were still alive, they'd be proud of you fags, living up to their stereotypes and upholding their racial values. They led the WHITES ONLY brigade before you, you know. Who did you think you were monkeying with all your racist ideas and justifications?

Jesse Helms is the grandpa of your dreams, faggot. He's your pappy's pappy, fool. Say hello to Grandfather Jimmy Herman, the homophobic Southern Senator in Uprising. You may vote for a biracial brutha who's your only light in dark times, but remember this:

You yourself have not come a long way. Your WHITES ONLY “preferences” are keeping the legacy of slavery alive and well, faggots of America.

Does it mean anything to your logical, white American mind that white Canadians and white Europeans are not as racist as you?

How many white Canadian, Australian and European men have online profiles that say WHITES AND LATINS ONLY? Far fewer is an understatement. You still believe your white, all-American racist mind is of its own free will? Or was it born before you were because you were born in a country built by nigger slaves? Ma niggas.

That's Grandpa Helms talking from your brain, boy. The same man who deemed you faggot and said faggots are sick sinners is the same man who taught you, WHITES ONLY, NOTHING PERSONAL, JUST A PREFERENCE.

Looking for an all-American blond boy, or Mediterranean. Or Latin. Or Asian maybe. But no nigger dare touch my private parts or get that close to me. Nothing personal, just a preference.

Don't take it personal if I rise up and act out your worst nightmares about niggers, right in front of your face, you racist fools. Nothing personal, my great black ass.

How's that for a hot topic? I know Othello and his Uprising are pretty jack up right about now.

Now where's my sequel?!?!?!?!

Uprising
The Suspense Thriller
by Randy Boyd

A Lambda Literary Award Finalist for Best Mystery and Best Small Press Title

Get Uprising at Amazon.com
Read an excerpt from Uprising

The First Randy Boyd Book

Three closeted celebrities
One homophobic US Senator
A deadly plan of assassination
A straight FBI agent out to stop it

Othello is a black pop star who wants to start his own gay rights revolution. Raider is a straight white FBI agent who goes undercover to bust up the "gay goodfellas."

A deadly game of cat and mouse ensues, from the mansions of the Hollywood Hills to the casinos of Atlantic City, from the NBA playoffs to the back roads of the Deep South.

Which side will you be on?

Uprising, a Lambda Literary Award Finalist for Best Mystery and Best Small Press Title

Get Uprising at Amazon.com
Read an excerpt from Uprising

Reviews

"A provocative compelling tome that is decidedly not politically correct. The story, part thriller, part love story, adds up to a morality tale that basically asks the reader: is violence ever justified?" IN Los Angeles

"Not only is Uprising thoroughly entertaining as a suspense thriller, [it] deals frankly and directly with some of the most important issues of our age." The Blade Newsmagazine

"A striking, exciting and thought-provoking thriller. Though it works effectively as sheer entertainment, Uprising also raises questions about activism and how far the queer community should go in responding to the radical right." Zenger's Magazine

"Randy Boyd is a book-smart brother to watch out for. Uprising offers a surprise at every turn." Kick Magazine

"I hope Randy Boyd's rowdy political thriller is flattered by much imitation, since it's one of the best adventure reads I've encountered in many a year. And certainly the most original." Richard LaBonté, currently with Q Syndicate Bookmarks.

Happy Holidays, WHITES AND LATINS ONLY

When I see online ads that say WHITES AND LATINS ONLY, it hurts my feelings each and every time.

Happy Holidays, WHITES AND LATINS ONLY.

Need to Write the Writer?

Click here to email author Randy Boyd

Young Jock Offers Oral Sex for Magazine Subscription

Bridge Across the Ocean @ 20, Part 4
Young Jock Offers Oral Sex for Magazine Subscription
The fourth of a four-part blog series on Bridge Across the Ocean, Randy Boyd's second novel and a Lambda Literary Award Finalist for Best Small Press Title

“Even when I didn’t want to admit it, I was beginning to understand the limitations of my friendships with young boys whose hearts and impulses changed like the wind. For you can never hold onto them. You can only dance the dance of life with them a little while, and hope the difference you’ve made in their lives is but a fraction of what they mean to you.”

—from Bridge Across the Ocean

One black gay man. One straight white boy. Two lives forever changed by an offer for a blow job in exchange for a magazine subscription. Another boy, another bridge.

The cover of my second novel Bridge Across the Ocean reads: one black gay man, two straight white boys, three lives forever changed. The story was inspired by my platonic friendship with two teenage brothers during my “getaway from AIDS” vacation in Cancun in 1988.

The trip turned out to be anything but a getaway, what with coping with a death sentence, my attraction to a heterosexual minor, and my serving as the introduction to black people, gay people and people with HIV/AIDS for two straight white teenage brothers out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Yep, the movie in my mind was rolling from the moment I knew what I had gotten myself into ...

However, the cameras in my brain were not rolling one quiet September afternoon in 2004. The storyteller was on break. Time for lunch and some All My Children. I had just sat down in front of the tube, plate of juicy burgers in one hand, remote in the other ... when there was a knock on the door.

The solicitor was too gorgeous to simply dismiss. I think it was the eyes, hopeful and radiant. He was a young white man in his early twenties with a body by sports. He lit up when he saw me. I lit up when I saw him light up at the sight of me.

Still, lunch and Erica Kane were waiting. She was up to something that held my interest. But so did the young man at the door. The soaps could wait. The burgers could cool.

I stepped outside and listened to the young man's pitch about magazine subscriptions I knew I'd never buy. Did I listen? Or did I simply gaze into his eyes, soaking up the light emanating from his youthful core?

The security guard inside my brain was distracted from his responsibilities. Next thing I knew, the young man and I had agreed that he might as well come inside my house, where it would be easier to finalize my new subscription to ESPN the Magazine. The justification department's verdict: hey, I'm a writer about homos in sports. This is money put to good use.

He sat at the computer desk in my living room and we chatted as he wrote out the receipt. He told me he was 21 years-old, played soccer and had a girlfriend.

“What do you do?” he got around to asking, eyes fixed on the monitor in front of him. On the screen was a mockup of an early draft of the book cover for Walt Loves the Bearcat. The graphics were crude, but he could tell the subject was football.

“I'm a writer,” I said.

“I wanna read it,” he said eagerly. I told him it was only a work-in-progress, which brought up the subject of my other novels. My books are like my kids, so I proceeded to tell this curious, 21-year-old kid about my offspring: my novels based on my dreams as a black man who is also a lover of men.

Did he flinch? Not so much. Run? Nope. He held his ground, well, except for swinging side to side in my office chair.

“Oh, yeah?” he said, casual but anxious. “I'm bi.”

“Oh, really?” Cut to the life of a 42 year-old black man blurring into a Matrix-like sequence of slow motion chaos in his head.

“I like sucking off black guys,” mouths the white kid, his voice deeper than deep, his words drawn out.

“You do?” mouths the black man. Images swirl inside his head, flashes of a future with a cool young friend, perhaps with benefits this time!

The black man's brain begins speaking of hanging out together, beers, sports, being buds! But the kid is more focused on the present. Kids live for the Now, especially in Matrix-like sequences.

“Cool,” mouths the white kid, then laughs and imagines: “my dad would go crazy if he knew I was hanging out with a 40-something-year-old black man.”

Somehow, we make our way back to the subject of my books. To escape the Matrix-like mind fuck ...

... I disappeared to another part of the house, to catch my breath ... steady my nerves and retrieve a copy of Bridge Across the Ocean. When I returned to the living room, the world was once again running at normal speed and the young white jock boy salesman was still seated at my desk.

“That looks like me!” were his first words when he saw the cover of Bridge Across the Ocean. He was pointing to the artist's rendering of the fictional teenager Rob on the warm sandy beaches of Cancun. He was right. The boy on the book cover had materialized and was sitting at my desk. Rob, Jr.

We were too astonished to truly appreciate the moment.

After all, this was a boy who had magazines to sell. And more than just my one little subscription. That was chump change. What he really needed was a bigger deal. More subscriptions meant more reward for him. He explained all this while eyeing his likeness on my book cover. Shortly thereafter, he offered to suck my dick if I agreed to the bigger subscription deal, leading to his bigger reward from his employer.

But I thought having an intelligent older black man for a friend was the bigger reward.

Sex for subscriptions is not a deal I'd make or take. I tried to have a discussion with him about ethics. He turned it into a debate. Scamming his employer and sucking my dick for profit didn't seem to bother him at all.


However, this kid's indecent proposal bothered me, all the more because he was an impressionable young soul. I imagined basking in his sunlight, not stealing it. I envisioned being a cool-older-bro type, not an enabler to a lesser version of himself. And we hadn't even broached the subject of HIV/AIDS and safe sex, which was possible between us, not today, but perhaps sometime in the future, when we're better—

He was still sitting at my desk, waiting for an answer: blow job for bigger subscription, deal or no deal, sir?

I looked him in the eye and told him I was HIV-positive. I had envisioned teaching him about safe sex, for his own sake, but life turned into a blurry dream again.

I can only remember the fear in his eyes. It was the same kind of fear I saw in people's eyes in the 90s when I told them I was positive, the kind of fear that reads: I could have made a horrible mistake, getting to know you better.

The offer to suck my dick was never revisited. Ditto for any talk about hanging out, watching sports and being friends. We talked a bit more, but it was getting late. He had to get to soccer practice after all. Plus, his policeman father would be wondering where he was, the same dad who “would go crazy if he knew I was hanging out with a 40-something-year-old black man.”

I made a different deal with my highly-efficient young salesman that day. I went along with his scam for his bigger reward (subscribe, then cancel), but only if he agreed to read a complimentary copy of Bridge Across the Ocean. At the very least, I dreamed of him learning what the young boys in the book learned about a black gay man living with AIDS.

The young salesman said he planned to read the book regardless of the deal. He also said he'd call me sometime and we'd hang out, even gave me a cell number. Then he said he was really, really running late now. I wanted to believe that was the only reason for his nervousness and rush to get out of my home.

I never heard from Rob, Jr., and yet, I still feel as if I failed him, and therefore, myself. He charmed me into scamming his employer, and in doing so, I failed to live up to the standards and expectations I create for myself. But if I failed Rob, Jr., he also failed me. Turns out, he lied about living nearby, playing soccer nearby, and who knows what else.

I wonder how his father would feel about his son lying and scheming his way through life, and causing just a little bit of heartbreak in mine. I wonder if Rob, Jr. ever read the copy of Bridge Across the Ocean I gave him. I wonder if he ever sees me as more than an AIDS monster he almost touched.

But I thought having an intelligent older black man for a friend was the bigger reward.

• The fourth of a four-part blog series about Bridge Across the Ocean, Randy Boyd's second novel, and a Lambda Literary Award Finalist for Best Small Press Title
  

More Bridge Across the Ocean @ 20:
-Bridge Across the Ocean @ 20, Part 1
-Bridge to Somewhere: Where the Boys Are Today (Part 2)
-What Is a Lesbian? 1988-2008 (Part 3)

Get Bridge Across the Ocean now at Amazon.com

Dear Barack Obama, From a Non-Angry Homo

Dear President-elect Barack Obama,

The media is reporting that a lot of gays and lesbians are angry with you for choosing Pastor Rick Warren to participate in your inaugural.

I just wanted to let you know: I have been a homosexual for most of my life, and I say: you go, Mr. President-to-be!

You're the Man now. It's your presidential prerogative to invite whomever you choose to your inaugural. I also applaud your continued efforts to engage with people you may not always agree with. It sets a wonderful example. You go, Mr. Obama, Sir!

Thank you.

Sincerely,
Randy Boyd

Gay Is the New Old South

More on My Racist Gay World:
Gay Rights and Civil Wrongs
The Hypocrisy of Gay Civil Rights
Poll Dancing with Blacks and Gays
Update from the Unlovable Nigger Faggot
Racial Profiling for Love

Dear Queers, Give Black People Blue Jeans!

Author Randy Boyd is away authoring his next novel, The Bearcat Boyz on the Road of Life. In his place, the Randy Boyd's Blocks is proud to present Guest Who?

Thanks to highly exclusive, massively encrypted, Y3K software by Freaky Deaky Technologies, we can now tap into the digital minds of the analogue characters who previously only existed on the pages of Randy Boyd's novels. That's right. The author's characters are doing it for themselves in Guest Who?

Here now, our first guest blogger: Hail Larry McPherson, white heterosexual pro football player who catches the greatest touchdown pass of all-time in Walt Loves the Bearcat by Randy Boyd. (Hail Larry also stars in The Bearcat Boyz on the Road of Life, coming soon).


Memo to the Homos and Dykes of America and Those Who Want Them Married Off:

I have bitched and moaned about this whole same-sex marriage deal being a little freaky deaky from time to time, but now I get it. Yes, that's right.

Since I've been hanging around my white homo QB teammate and his Bearcat of a black boyfriend (with my hot wife, mind you), I see gays marrying in a whole new light.

I, heterosexual wide receiver Hail Larry McPherson, now think that homos deserve the right to marry.

You go, queers, get married and live happily ever after. Or unhappily ever after. Your choice. Your dream. Your right. It should be anyway.

"Kinda seems to me like a battle of Pink vs. Black."

But there's just one thing. Recently, I was made aware of a weakness in your strategy for winning these marriage rights and I was hoping you wouldn't mind my giving you homos a bit of advice. I actually think it might help you get to the alter sooner. It's kinda like a secret weapon, you might say.

Statistics show that it's mostly socially-conservative black people that are ruining your gay wedding plans, always voting you down at the polls. I'm guessing by all the shouting and protesting, you already know this. Kinda seems to me like a battle of Pink vs. Black. So herein lies Pink's secret weapon in all this poll dancing between blacks and gays.

"Queer America, get to know Black America."

Do something I haven't seen many homos do in this crusade of yours: get to know more black people! Infiltrate their ranks. Befriend them!

I once read somewhere: America conquered the Soviet Empire by giving them blue jeans, and that if we gave Cuba blue jeans, the culture would follow and the walls would come crumbling down. Begin integration

You queers have to give blacks blue jeans! Give them who you are, show them your culture, your families, your children, your homes, your dreams.

Let black people know you're more than just pink people with frilly frills, leather, parades and a whole lotta anger. So far, they haven't seen much else from you.

Even the blacks inside your homo world haven't heard much dialogue from you, except, of course, those warnings on Internet dating sites. You know the ones: WHITES ONLY, WHITES AND LATINS ONLY. NO BLACKS, NO ASIANS, NO OFFENSE.

My black football coach once said:

“If you want anybody else to see you as something worth civil rights, you got to show them some civility. You got to be humane to other humans. You got to see them as more than a stereotype, and show them you're more than a stereotype.”

Right on, Coach!

Blacks protested mighty fiercely for civil rights, but Coach says, it was Sports that ultimately uplifted us all: “seeing Black and White play together, grow together, dialogue together, win together. Politics followed. The military, the workforce, neighborhoods, television, marriage and all the rest followed. Why? Because America integrated Black, and Black integrated America.”

Thing is, Pink has not integrated Black, and Black has not integrated Pink, so black people see pink people as freaks and weirdos who shouldn't be legally married, if black people have anything to say about it.

And they do, because, let's face it, bitches: no politician is pronouncing any homo or lesbian, “man and man,” or “woman and woman,” without a comfortable majority of voters.

As such, I, straight guy Hail Larry McPherson, suspect Pink ain't gonna get very far in the polls by stoning the gods of Black and shutting out black homos with online language, like, WHITES AND LATINS ONLY. NO BLACKS, NO ASIANS, NO OFFENSE.

So, queer America, you have a choice:

You can find out who black people really are behind their skin color and stereotypes, and show them who you really are behind your rainbow flags and sexual segregation, and integrate yourselves.

Or you can stomp up and down like a child who can't get what they want until the world lets you have that candy bar.

It's simple, Queer America, get to know Black America, accept them in your home, your hearts and especially in your minds. For gay marriage's sake, give them blue jeans!

Sincerely,

Hail Larry McPherson, the hot Italian (and heterosexual!) stud receiver from Walt Loves the Bearcat and the upcoming Bearcat Boyz. You know .... McPherson catches it! McPherson catches it! McPherson catches it! Teammates hug, fans sob, players thank their gods!

P. S., Man, I love women!

The Biggest Fag in the 8th Grade On Men

I grew up in a second generation sports family. Sports was my second language. Sports was our family's metaphor for life, what brought us together, what tore us apart, what made us who we are.

It was through sports that I first learned I was a fag, a term first assigned to me by a basketball player in junior high. "To the biggest fag in the 8th grade," he wrote in my yearbook. Eventually, I learned that being a fag and playing sports were incompatible, so I quit sports.

In my adult years, I realized that I had it twisted. Being a faggy fag who was open about it was what was incompatible in the minds of those in the sports world. Had I suppressed my faggy side and kept my mouth shut, I could have played sports forever, gotten married to a woman and had all the sex I wanted, with my wife, with other men and women, and best of all, I could have enjoyed more sex with equally "straight" athletes than I ever dreamed possible.

Oh, to have been a man who knew he had the option to lie ...

Oh, to be a man who helps to expose the big fat lie. Men fuck around with men! Call it what you want, men fuck around with men: when they're horny boys, when they're horny teenagers, when they're horny men.

Gay, straight, even bisexual, those are words people use for convenience. Men fuck around. Men get drunk and fuck around. Men wrestle one another and fuck around. Best buds bunk together for the night and fuck around. Husbands get sucked off in bookstores. Married men go to bathhouses. Restless dudes post online ads saying, "my girlfriend's away, I want to try some dick up my ass."

Athletes are no different. We've all sucked dick. We've all had our dicks sucked by other men. The sooner we can accept this truth, the sooner we can get away from the stereotypes that hold society back.

I'm a 6'3", 225 pound big black nigger buck with a prototype sports body. I come from a sports family and love to play sports! Think my high school, the North Central Panthers of Indianapolis, Indiana, could have used a body like this in football or basketball?

By high school, I killed my sports dreams. The reason: I didn't want to face more of the already harsh treatment I was getting from the jocks. They were on to me; they knew I was a fag.

But I could have been a fag who plays sports, had I the courage to face the abuse. And I could have been a fag who plays sports had the jocks not regarded fags as something worthy of abuse.

I'm determined to get the word out: men fuck around. Every sporting event ever held has included men who have had sex with other men. Call it what you want, men fuck around. I know. I'm not a scared little kid anymore. I'm a man and I've seen men in action. Men fuck around. All men, including the men who play sports on every level. I know this to be true with every fiber of my being. Men fuck around.

More Jockin': Homos in Sports ...
NFL Coach Dungy's Homophobic Dreams
The Man Who Pegged Amaechi and Hardaway as Gay Speaks Out
Homophobia in the NBA: Who’s To Blame?
The “Out” Pro Athlete Dream
Dear NFL Players: Tear Down This Wall

Even more Jockin': Homos in Sports ...
College Football Players: Lighten Up on Your Gay Teammates!
Fields of Better Dreams
The Grapefruit Theory, or What Men Really Do
How Much Is Your Homophobia Worth?
Men Are Fags

Bio, Dude

Click here for author Randy Boyd's bio

Niggas, Please

If my DNA has “black” blood, “white” blood and “Native American” blood, what race does that make me? What race should I identify with? How about the race of my romantic partners?

Some black people have tried to tell me who I should love and fuck. Funny, not one of those same black people has ever offered to love me or fuck me. And I'm a man, believe dat! Gotta get my nut and search for a buddy to keep my heart warm at night.

So who should it be? Should the objects of my affections have to come with ethnic credentials? And which credentials? See how one mutt of a man feels about Racial Profiling for Love, part of the blocks labeled Race Relating here at Randy Boyd's Blocks (.com).

Plus, more Race Relating:
Gay Rights and Civil Wrongs
The Hypocrisy of Gay Civil Rights
Poll Dancing with Blacks and Gays
Update from the Unlovable Nigger Faggot

What Be This Thing Called "Natch?"

It's not a bird. It's not a plane. And it sure ain't Superman. But it is mighty super, man, especially if you're in the loop. Are you in the loop?

Do you know what be this thing called "natch?"

Follow the trail, if you dare, in search of ... Natch, now at Funky Black Poz Jock (.com), the blog for my body!

CAUTION: To the minds of the world that, for any reason, cannot imagine a black man loving himself and dreaming of loving other men: my whole other blog is not for you!

Natch!

Could You Fall in Love With This Face?

My fellow Americans,

In my American Dream, anyone can achieve their ultimate golden dream come true.

No matter who you are, where you came from, the color of your skin, your religion, your background, no matter any of the things that enslaved the dreams of peoples of the past ... no matter any of that, as an American, you can achieve your dream. Right?

My American Dream is a simple one. True love. As defined by every American that's ever dreamed of having a romantic partner, a husband, a wife, a spousal equivalent, a civil unionist, let's not get bogged down by the terms. A boo.

"I want what the Obamas got."

What good is any American Dream without an American dreamer to live the dream with you, mind, body and soul? Would the first black president's story be as compelling without a first black president's soul mate? Heavens, no.

I want what the Obamas got. No, not the presidency. The bond. The partner in peril and triumph. The boo. But I've never had a boo, just meat. All the flesh you can eat but rarely breakfast.

So far, I've been single for life, a co-creation of nightmarish dreams by myself and the world. But I no longer believe in nightmares. I believe that dreams come true. Black men can be president of the USA. Surely, a black man can find true love, at least for a little while, right? Don't I deserve a taste of Happily Ever After with an Asterisk like every American?

Thing is, the first half of my life, I was a closeted basket case who pretty much felt like an unlovable nigger faggot. The world was pretty good at confirming my suspicions, too. Yep, y'all played along real good, give yourselves a hand!

"I'm available to both HIV-positive and HIV-negative people, right?"

The second half of my life, however, has been quite different. It started out kinda rocky. There was the AIDS baby I got preggers with in 1985, a month after graduating UCLA (where I was a cheerleader). That was a pretty big hit. But here I am, miracle of miracles, alive in the two oh, oh, ohs! And I'm happy to be living with AIDS! I even write novels where the main characters are black and HIV poz like me; and my boys have been nominated for five Lambda Literary Awards!

But, world, there's just this one thing ... I still ain't found no true love, and I don't know if I still believe my American Dream can come true. Can I be loved for all that I am? Can I be loved no matter the color of my skin or what lies underneath?

The world has come a long way since the AIDS Panic of the last century. People with AIDS have babies now, oftentimes with people without AIDS. Science has gotten a good handle on what is and what isn't safe sex. HIV-negative folk can get all the safe nut they want with HIV-positive folks.

So I'm back on the American Meet Market, right? I'm available to both HIV-positive and HIV-negative people, right? Whether or not I find true love is all about who I am, how I took, how I take care of myself, my ambitions, my goals, my values, my beliefs, my ability to be a great lover, the content of my character, stuff like that, right? We all have an equal opportunity to be loved in America, right?

Is my American Dream possible? Am I living in the same America as my fellow Americans? Is there anybody in America who could fall in love with this face and make my American Dream come true?

A Dog with an Ear for Cell Phone Signals

The other day, my friend Teri (not her real name) was visiting Boomer and me. Boomer likes Teri. He met her when I was in the hospital, trying not to die of AIDS-related complications. Shortly thereafter, I myself met Teri when she came to my hospital room to meet the owner of the dog she agreed to take care of as part of her volunteer duties with PAWS.

PAWS stands for Pets Are Wonderful Support. The organization was started during the AIDS Panic in the 1980s as a way to assist pets living with people with AIDS. Two decades ago, I attended the Louise Hay Hayrides in West Hollywood, where a gymnasium filled with mostly gay men petrified of dying of AIDS tried to heal themselves with love. A woman named Nadia Sutton spoke often of her dream to help the pets caught in the crossfire of the epidemic. Her dream became PAWS. In the 21st century, PAWS was there for me when I needed them most, dispatching Teri to help me out when a doctor's visit turned into “9 Daze in Hell” in a hospital.

It's a couple of years after that hospitalization and Aunt Teri is visiting us. She's family now, not just a volunteer. During the visit, she gets a call on her cell, takes it, has a brief chat, then says goodbye and hangs up, ready to resume our visit. But I'm too busy busting a gut, mostly on the inside.

Boomer, who had been sleeping, was now alert and at Teri's side, ready to bounce. My dog knows a bugle reverie call when he hears it.

“Okay, see you later ... bye.”

It was then I realized: it didn't matter who in the room was hanging up the phone, especially if they were sitting in my favorite chair. A simple human ritual had burrowed itself into my dog's brain as cue for what was coming next.

“I gotta go, time to walk the dog ... okay ... talk to you later ... bye.” Hang up the phone. Get up outta the chair and go walk the dog.

“Okay, I'll be there ... see you soon.” Hang up the phone. Get up outta the chair and get ready to go somewhere.

“Great chatting with you, too ... okay, you, too ... bye.” Hang up the phone. Take a breath, decide what to do next, like get up and feed the dog.

“Okay, mom, love you, too ... bye.” Hang up the phone and find that my dog has abandoned whatever he was doing and is sitting beside me like an anxious soldier at attention. What's next, Sir? What's next, Sir? Sir, what's next, cause it must be about me and a walk or food or playing with a toy and I'm gonna explode!

Or maybe it's like gangsters in the hood. What's up, who dat? what now? It's going down like what ...

Whatever cliché analogy I use, my dog's habit has become quite annoying, especially for a human who just wants to get back to his soap opera on Tivo. I've even tried altering my language and tone at the end of phone calls, which must sound pretty strange on the other end of the line. Still it doesn't seem to lessen Boomer's call to action. He's on to me. He's had ten years of listening to me hang up the phone.

In fact, the day Teri was visiting us, sitting in my chair, talking on her cell, Boomer and I had been together ten years and one month, all of it spent with mobile phones and my favorite chair. It's no wonder Daddy's Special Little Buddy knows what's up. He's a dog of the cell phone generation. Phat Dawg knows exactly how we humans roll. And Teri's part of the pack now. She can sit in my chair, come over when she wants. She even knows the secret bugle reverie call. She's in.

People can be wonderful support, too.

Note 2 Self: Soon on When In Doubt, Pet the Dog: Boomer Loves the Bearcat, featuring Boo's literary debut.

Men Are Fags

Fags watch sports, too. They play sports. They don't play sports. Fags do everything non-fags do, only sometimes, we forget. That's because our brains have been trained to only sees fags as one or two things in life: dancers, decorators, dick suckers.

Truth is, fags are way more than that. Fags are people, too, people who do everything non-fags do. Matter of fact, sometimes, fags do the exact same things non-fags do. And this is where it gets kinda tricky: sometimes, non-fags do the exact same things fags do, like dance, decorate and suck dick.

Sometimes, it's hard to tell the fags from the non-fags, so our brains rely on our training. He's a football player. A football fan. A dad. A husband.

In reality, he can also be a fag. Is not fag a person who sucks a dick? Does it truly matter if the fag sucks dick every day of his life or one day of his life? Does it matter anywhere else but in your mind? Is not a fag a fag a fag?

Fags watch sports, too. They play sports. They don't play sports. You never know who's been a fag in their lifetime. Chances are, wherever you are, most men have known what it's like to be a fag.

Life After Me

Someday I'm gonna die. I admit it. True, I've managed to survive beyond the life expectancy science created for me in 1985, when at the age of 23, I realized: I've got AIDS ... but I'm still gonna die.

The day Rock Hudson, the famous actor, gave the Sexual Revolution its 9/11-style wake-up call in '85 was the same day I realized that I, too, had AIDS and could expect to live another 12-18 months before dying of a mysterious illness the media instantly labeled the “deadly disease.”

But I'm very happy to announce: I'm so fucking glad I've lived this long!!!!!!

Still, I know I gotta die someday. Like every descendant of the great apes before me. I'm not that good. I got skillz, but believe me, I know I'm gonna die. Hopefully much later than sooner. Anyway, I'm glad and fortunate to have survived 46 years so far, 23 of them living with AIDS. And I'm very happy that I've survived long enough to create a Museum of Me. LOL

"If by chance, there was 'life after death' how great could it be?"

Thanks to modern day technology, I can leave as much of myself as possible on the field after I'm done playing the game of life. Let the world do what they want with me, but I was here: Randy Boyd, the boy, the man, the nigger, the faggot, the retard, the reject, the little league athlete, the junior high and high school athlete, the high school actor, and so much more.

Like the high school newspaper feature editor; the high school newspaper editor-in-chief; the high school choir member; the guy who landed the Sidney Poitier role in “Lilies of the Field,” the school play; the co-creator of “News, Weather, Sports” in the big high school musical known as Junior Spectacular, a blockbuster of an annual production involving the entire junior class (jocks and geeks included).

The honor roll student; the guy who gave Junior Achievement a shot; the North Central High School Class of 1980 graduate; the lifelong cheerleader; the USC yell leader (1980-1982); the UCLA spirit leader (1983-1985); the 1985 UCLA graduate; the lone black brother of Phi Kappa Psi (UCLA); the freelance promo producer for network and cable television; the author of Uprising by Randy Boyd, Bridge Across the Ocean by Randy Boyd, The Devil Inside by Randy Boyd, Walt Loves the Bearcat by Randy Boyd; the author with a bio featuring several published short stories and essays; the author of other works in progress at press time; the author who blogs with his brain at Randy Boyds Blocks .com, and with his body at Funky Black Poz Jock .com.

The 46-year-old black man who's lived half his life (and counting) as his generation's worst nightmare (death by AIDS); the guardian of a beautiful golden mutt named Boomer, after the mascot of the Indiana Pacers; a man who at 46 (and counting) has never experienced a long-term relationship; a man who has had as much sex as any male but has slept alone most nights; a man who is, to date, a 46 year-old virgin when it comes to women; a man who has often fantasized about eating women out; a self-described buttman of any gender, but especially men; a man who has never identified with the terms “gay” or “straight.”

A kid who was born into black family in urban Indianapolis, Indiana, on January 17, 1962; a child who had no idea the other black families in the city knew of his family the way a television audience knows the backstory of a modern day soap; a boy who was an infant, then a toddler, then a young child, then a prepubescent boy, then a teenage boy, then a college boy who only knew the public version of the backstory; a boy whose family was proud of the high moments in the backstory; a boy who caught up with the private version of backstory late in life; a boy who was psychologically damaged by the real version of the backstory, not the actual events, but the secrets kept and the lies told in place of the truth; a boy who rose above the lies, loved his family as best he could, and tried his best to practice what humans called forgiveness.

A man who dreams of his tombstone reading, Disease-Free At Last.

A man who doesn't believe any human version of “life after death.”

I believe that when we die, we simply cease to exist, like all living things. Sure we live on, as decomposed matter that eventually returns to stardust.

Consider this: if by chance, there was “life after death” how great could it be? Seeing previously dead relatives would be similar to running into old friends from, say, school or an old job. If one was able to experience anything resembling an all-knowing, all-being, never-die state, that would mean one lives forever and experiences All There Is. According to science, which all of rational life is based on (plane flights, television, your medications), All There Is is now up to one whole infinite universe. That's a lot of All There Is, or heaven, or whatever name you give it.

Point being: if you were around for billions of years, what's the significance of a human being you knew for, say, 90 years, several million years ago? If you lived for 13.5 billion years, running into a relative might give you a rush comparable to a high school reunion.

Humans know as much as koala bears know about life after death.

I could be wrong, this much is true. But I believe all's I got is the rest of this life to live. So for better and worse, and for as long as this particular rendition of an intelligent species keeps itself and the Internet alive, hello, Robo Sapiens, this is me (to date)!