If life has taught me anything, it's When In Doubt, Pet the Dog, a periodic column or feature or journal or blog thingy now and forever at Randy Boyd's Blocks.
My life is now divided into two parts: BT and AT. Before I discovered Trikke and after I discovered Trikke. That's because my life will never be the same after finding my Trikke, or is that, my Trikke finding me?"Is the Monster Trikke strong enough for my 'prototype athlete body?'"
Well, I'm no fool, no-sirree! I'm gonna live to be a hundred and fifty-three! Or more! Even though I've got HIV! It can really happen, believe you me!"Yes, I named my Trikke! If boaters can do it ..."
Dear Magic Johnson, Thanks for Saving My Life.
Yes, I named my Trikke! If boaters can do it ...
light. As per the recommendation of the ad, I went with the T-8 model. With the help of the instructional CD, I was up and Trikking in a few days."When I first stepped onto my new T-12, I felt like Tom Hanks in Big."
SouthBay Trikke, was there for me each and every time, fixing her up, getting her going again.
Thankfully, my visits to SouthBay Trikke exposed me to a Trikke better suited for big boys like me."The T-12 lets you manhandle the road."
my feet. The T-12 far surpasses the T-8 in sturdiness and power. At first, the T-12 was kicking my ass, not the other way around as it had been with the T-8.
more. Rough terrain? The rugged wheels are up for the challenge. More speed? Got that, too. The T-12 lets you manhandle the road.
8. Even though “looks like a lot of hard work” is a comment often heard while riding, trikking never, ever, ever! really seems like hard work.
riding on this newfangled, extreme-athlete-looking, 21st-century, three-wheel-bike-thingy in what is still most definitely a bike world.
Randy Boyd is the author of four novels, several short stories and many essays, all from the unique point of view of a black man who has been living with HIV/AIDS for more than half his life. His novels have been nominated for five Lambda Literary Awards, including his latest release, Walt Loves the Bearcat, a Lambda Literary Award finalist for Best Romance.
Blade, The James White Review, The Gay and Lesbian Review, The Lambda Book Report, BeyondChron.com and the anthology Friends and Lovers: Gay Men Write About the Families They Create (Dutton). Randy is also a contributor to Outsports.com and the publications of the Black AIDS Institute.
He did it! What no other black man before him had accomplished. He achieved the unthinkable. He became president of the United States of America. He did it again! What no other president before him had accomplished. He achieved the unthinkable. He made universal healthcare the law of the land of the free.
He was brave enough to stick with his convictions and face his oppressors. It's done. They'll try to undo it, but it's done. It's done.
"Obama has something few men possess."
When the white man mandated auto insurance, home owner's insurance, driver's licenses, social security, Medicare, some protested, but they got over it. That's because it wasn't personal.
When a black man mandates anything, it's personal. It's personal. It's personal.
So how does this black man, whose middle name is Hussein, keep defying the odds and doing crazy things like winning the presidency and achieving healthcare reform in the blink of an historic eye?
"The president's secret weapon is so innate, it's invisible."
Barack Hussein Obama has a secret that's more like a secret weapon. He has something few men possess, a trait that allows him to outlast the blowhards and remain calm amidst the yelling, screaming and temper tantrums.
It's not his brain, albeit he's one smart man. It's not his charm, although he's quite charming. 
The president's secret weapon is so innate, it's invisible, so ingrained, it's in his nature, so elusive, it would take Jedi-like training from an early age for an ordinary man to grasp and master.
Barack Obama's secret weapon is patience. He has the patience to pause before reacting, the patience to listen before speaking, the patience to give his brain some perspective. Got an insult? A lie? A spin? An epithet? An accusation? Give it your best shot.
President Obama has the patience to let other reveal themselves for who they are, then reply with a well-thought-out response. By not letting his testosterone run the show, his highly talented brain is better prepared to spring into action. You might say, our president is a James Bond of the mind.
In this day and age, Obama's patience is not only a virtue, it's a must for the survival of America and the world.
President Obama and the democrats make a final, weekend push for healthcare reform. To bring America a step further into the modern world when it comes to universal healthcare. To eliminate the right of insurers to drop people from coverage "just because." To help the millions of disadvantaged Americans who turn to the ER for basic medical care.
had for the first black president, oh, circa, fourteen months ago? Where's that support now? Where are those voices? Why are so many so silent on such a critical issue for the president? An issue so critical to black people?
The deadly disease. That's how the media described HIV/AIDS in the 1980s. The tag-lines haven't gotten much better since, not to mention America's dreams of everyday people living with the virus.
"It's my parents' anniversary. I'm flying back home to Indiana for the weekend.”That was my excuse for getting out of the upcoming road trip: USC @ Oregon State. Football season, 1981. The yell leaders were at practice, getting a secondhand reprimand from our yell captain because our yell coach was upset.
None of the yell leaders had stepped up to fill the vacant slot for the road rip. For some reason, no one was eager to travel to an easy win at a win-challenged school in a remote location (where just two yell leaders--the captain and the chosen one—would cheer in a hostile environment with no band, little fan support and perhaps most importantly, no song girls).
"So that explains all that hostility, that resentment."
Longtime USC Yell Coach Lindley Bothwell thought the lack of volunteers showed a lack of commitment and had let it be known: somebody had better man up or else.
“What about you, Boyd?” asked the other yell leaders after they themselves had excused their 
way out of the trip. I was the last option because two weeks earlier, I had been “chosen” to cheer at the USC @ Indiana game (same two-man deal).
I had been “chosen” for the Indiana road trip because I was from Indianapolis and cheering for USC at ole IU was like my very own personal homecoming. We stayed at the Indianapolis Hyatt and ate at my mom's house. At the game, IU's student section was full of kids who had been my classmates two years earlier at Indianapolis North Central High School.
A good chunk of my 1980 graduating class (circa 1,000 students) had 
gone to IU for college. In 1981, a good chunk of them saw me cheering at the USC vs. Indiana football game in Bloomington, Indiana.
Perhaps it was those festive mini-reunions with my former classmates that fostered such good spirits between the Hoosier cheering section and the two USC yell leaders. At one point, the females in the IU band's flag corps kidnapped us both and carried us to the student section.
"The same guys who constantly made 'black' jokes surprised me by standing up for me."
SC won the game 21-0 and the road trip was one of my all-time college cheerleading highlights, which was exactly why I now was the last candidate for the vacant spot on the Oregon State trip. I had already gotten mine.
Moreover, I had only “gotten mine” because some of the other yell leaders had lobbied for me to 
go on the Indiana road trip, seeing as how it was my homecoming. To my astonishment, the same guys who constantly made “black” jokes surprised me by standing up for me. If only I had remembered that before telling a big white lie.
“What about you, Boyd?” asked the other yell leaders, desperate for somebody to volunteer for the Oregon State trip.
“It's my parents' anniversary,” I said hastily. “I'm flying back home for the weekend. Sorry, already have the reservations, been planning it for weeks.”
In truth, there was no anniversary. My parents split up 
around junior high. I lied because I was tired and needed the rest, not another road trip.
Eventually, another yell leader caved in, went on the trip and saved all our asses, allowing us to finish out the football season as unfired SC yell leaders. The Trojans went 9-2 in the regular season, highlighted by Marcus Allen's Heisman Trophy and John Mazer's great comeback win in the Oklahoma @ SC game.
A late season loss at Washington dashed SC's Rose Bowl hopes, then the Trojans' George Achica block UCLA's last-second field goal attempt and knocked the Bruins out of the Rose Bowl. New Year's Day, the Trojans lost to defending national champs Penn State in the Fiesta Bowl, where I was USC yell leader with a love hangover.
Some time later, after my SC yell career was over, I learned that some of the squad had been 
angry with me for going on the Indiana road trip with the full knowledge that I was returning to Indianapolis a few weeks later for my parents' anniversary.
Upon further reveal, my lie had sealed my fate, unbeknownst to me.
So that explains all that hostility, that resentment, that distance, thought my newly-informed self, reflecting on a year's worth of ill-will.
My fellow yell leaders thought they had stood up for me for no reason, since I was apparently a rich kid who could jet back to Indiana at will. In reality, we were anything but rich. But I lied, not even realizing how much I had poisoned my world.
By the time I found out, it was too late. The school year was over. My next stop was UCLA. If only I had been honest, my USC yell leading experience might have turned out quite differently.
If only I had remembered that before telling a big white lie.
In 1992, One Life to Live dared to tell the biggest "gay" storyline in the history of daytime television. At the center of that story was a young gay teenager, played by a 17-year-old newcomer named Ryan Phillippe.
What be on the blocks? Provocative creations from the mind of a black author. Like a child who puts blocks together to make words that say something. Here are some of the blocks that are, now and forever, at Randy Boyd's Blocks:
athletes finally admit to being like most men, meaning: they've fucked around with other men. Only then will the world lighten up about Homos in Sports.
I like white skin. And black skin. And red skin. And brown skin. And yellow skin. And olive-skinned skin, and so on. Still, most of the world, myself included, is not colorblind. And so we're still Race Relating.
can be found in my bio, but the actual stories are scatted about the universe. Now my previously published stories are available in the blocks labeled Randy Reprinted.
He's my pride and joy and my constant companion. His name is Boomer, named after my hometown Indiana Pacers' mascot. If nothing else, daddy's special little buddy has taught me, When In Doubt, Pet the Dog.
wheels. Trikking is like skiing on land. It puts ye ole bicycle to shame in the fun department. Trikke fever is catching on. It's given me a new identity and a whole new column on the blocks: Trikke Randy.
My sister taught me cheerleading when I was age seven. By the time I got to college, I was a cheerleading aficionado. It's no wonder I tried out five times and made it five times, at two rival schools no less. Find out what it was like, cheering for USC, then UCLA in the blocks labeled Cheer Up.
remember what it was like, not being my generation's greatest nightmare. Walk a mile in my shoes in HIV-P.O.V..
As a child, I imagined books and movies about someone like me. Rarely did I see images of people who thought like me, acted like me and with whom I could identify. And that was just in real life! On television, in novels and in the movies, I simply didn't exist.
A young black man living with HIV/AIDS dreams of an alternate life where he is HIV-negative and lovers with pro football's greatest quarterback. Or is that, a young black man who is HIV-negative dreams of an alternate life where he's living with HIV/AIDS and never meets pro football's greatest QB? Your ticket is your imagination. Walt Loves the Bearcat, a Lambda Literary Finalist for Best Romance.
A famous but closeted black pop singer tests positive for HIV and plots to assassinate a homophobic US Senator, while a straight white FBI agent goes undercover, as a gay activist, to stop him. Which side will you be on? Uprising, a two-time Lambda Literary Finalist for Best Mystery and Best Small Press Title.
An HIV-positive, black gay businessman must save his business and a friend's life by uncovering a sinister plot to demonize all homosexuals. The mind is a terrible thing to fuck with. The Devil Inside. A Lambda Literary Award Finalist for Best Science Fiction, Horror, Fantasy, and a Gaylactic Spectrum Awards nominee for Best Science Fiction Novel.
A young black man tests positive for HIV, then escapes to Cancun, Mexico, where he meets two white teenage brothers who idolize him, not knowing he is living with HIV/AIDS. It's a friendship that will change all their lives forever. Bridge Across the Ocean, a Lambda Literary Finalist for Best Small Title.
Some are blaming the brutality of the game. Others are blaming the mentality of the athletes. Some are blaming testosterone. Still others are blaming man-made facilities, like locker rooms.You can call someone a fag a lot of ways. You can call them a fag aloud. Or you can deny them access to any particular slice of the American Dream, the one that’s supposed to be pre-ambled with “liberty and justice for all” and “all men are created equal.” Either way, and no matter who and what you"Please stop killing the spirits of little boys."
blame, you’re still calling that someone a fag. You’re still telling them they are worth less than you. No matter all else, you’re still killing their spirit.
heartless souls who treat you like crap and that’s just the way it is. You and your dreams aren’t important enough for me to imagine a better-case scenario or effect change.
himself at all times, you’re telling the little boys and girls of this country that their sports dreams don’t matter, that preserving an environment encouraging behaviors and attitudes unacceptable in the majority of American settings is more important than the spirit of any boy or girl who dare to dream of finding their soul through sport while also daring to dream of loving another of the same gender. You are making a choice to prejudge the situation and the person without a single thought to that person’s ability, that person’s dreams, that person’s feelings. The very definition of killing the spirit.
“I confessed to one of [my roommates] that I was--I don’t even know the word I used--but we both understood it as gay. Or he probably understood it as queer, since he was from the South.“Anyway, I told him I was queer and in love with him--again, in whatever inarticulate words my 23-year-old mind used. He moved out the next day, breaking my very adolescent heart and leaving me without a good friend and a roommate.
"The beloved roomie had ratted me out as a fag."
“It all happened toward the end of February. The basketball team was in a heated battle for a berth in the NCAA. After I got home from cheering at the greatest USC-UCLA basketball game ever, the apartment was eerily quiet. Next thing I know, I’m sitting at the kitchen table and reading this very long and angry letter on yellow legal paper.
“The note was from the other roommate, the one I hadn’t been in love with. He wasn’t even a student, just a Hawaiian guy on some Christian missionary-type voyage. Our apartment had been his temporary harbor.
“Turns out, the beloved roomie--who had already moved out--had ratted me out as a fag, so the 
evangelical roommate moved out while I was at the basketball game, leaving me a vitriolic note telling me all the reasons I was going to hell.
“Life became a blur. I had literally days to come up with all the rent, and before that, coming up with my third was already a monthly challenge. From the moment I read that letter until I graduated a few months later, I went into survival mode.
“My landlords were an understanding elderly couple. They gave me a few extra days to pay the rent and I recruited two strangers who each needed a mattress on the floor--same arrangement, different cast. This time, I kept my mouth shut and concentrated on surviving until graduation.
“The UCLA basketball team’s NIT title run was a godsend, a place to live the last of my boyhood dreams. After the climax of the hoop season, the faculty advisor wanted us to cheer at some volleyball games. I didn’t even bother responding.
“My work was done. I’d given two major universities my life and times and my heart and soul 
for five years, all while searching for one other male student who thought like me, felt like me, and was compatible enough to be my buddy-for-life.
“The closest I ever got was a guy at USC who once told me he was gay when he was drunk, then later told me he had no recollection of that disclosure when he was sober; and a guy at UCLA who was from the South and thought so much of me that he moved out the day after I told him I was in love with him and very confused about it all.
“I don’t blame him, mind you. He did what he had to do to move on, and eventually, so did I. I spent my last months of college making sure I passed my classes so I could get out of there and never, ever have to look back."
—from Walt Loves the Bearcat
