Political Pissing Contest, Anyone?

His opponents continue to used the term Obama Care.

Does that mean the two nearly-decade-old military conflicts in the middle east should forever be known as the Bush Wars?

The Obama Files, now and forever at Randy Boyd's Blocks.

My Whole Other Blog

Where can you find images of HIV-positive people being happy, sexy and healthy?

One of the reasons I blog is to help the world dream a better dream about HIV/AIDS. It is helping? I can't speak for rest of the planet, but it does make me feel good.

To see my sexy side, check out my whole other blog.

Tales of a Black Male Cheerleader

How does a young black boy from Indiana wind up cheering for both USC and UCLA? Without any previous cheerleading experience?

He has an older sister who teaches him how to be a cheerleader at age seven. Then he practices, practices, practices, if only in his mind.

Whatever happened to that black male cheerleader who once cheered for the Trojans, then the Bruins? He's now blogging about it in the blocks labeled Cheer Up, now and forever at Randy Boyd's Blocks.

Could the Right Be Right About Gays?

"This is everything the Right needs to put gay culture in the grave. The National Enquirer couldn’t make up a story more ridiculous if the whole staff smoked crack at the next editorial meeting.

To paraphrase REM, it’s the end of the gay world as we know it. We might as well all take a shot of extra-strength HIV and die within 48 hours of this story breaking.

How could we ever recover from something like this? How could we ever convince ourselves that they were not right about us all along?"

—from The Devil Inside,
the Suspense Thriller
by Randy Boyd

A Lambda Literary Award Finalist for Best Sci Fi/Horror
A Gaylactic Spectrum Awards nominee for Best Sci Fi Novel

A psychotic little pulp novel." Unzipped Magazine

Available wherever books are sold
Get The Devil Inside now at amazon.com

We Are the Kennedy Babies

We were born during Camelot. We were the little cheeks he kissed and welcomed into the world. We were born in his America. We are now running America.

We are the Kennedy Babies.

We are the children born during the 1000 days of the John F. Kennedy Administration.

We were in our mothers' arms, by our fathers' side, in our cribs, getting our first glimpse of the world, between the time President Kennedy was inaugurated and assassinated. Too young to understand but not for long. Our mothers and fathers and the world would fill us in soon enough.

"... being in my mother's arms while she watched coverage of Kennedy's assassination."

President Barack Obama is a Kennedy Baby.

Any child born in America between January 20, 1961 and November 22, 1963, is a Kennedy baby.

I am a Kennedy Baby, born in 1962, the only full year of his administration.

By the time I understood that there was something called a Catholic person, it made no matter to me. Yet it had been such an issue at the time of JFK's election. By the end of my first decade, I saw man land on the moon six times, unaware a young president had once made a promise.

The first Kennedy who garnered my young soul's attention was Bobby. My brother and I were playing in Tarkington Park in Indianapolis. The year was 1968. I was age six. Suddenly, a motorcade passed by. Red lights swirling on top of police cars! My brother, age eight, put it in context: a man named Bobby Kennedy was running for president and campaigning in Indianapolis.

A handsome tan white man sat high atop a convertible, waving to onlookers on the sidewalk. We probably looked on until the motorcade passed, then went back to playing in the park.

Later, I learned of Bobby's brother, who had been president when I was born. More than once I heard the story of being in my mother's arms while she watched coverage of President Kennedy's assassination.

It was only much later in life that I learned that childhood moment with Bobby Kennedy happened in the same year he spoke to a mostly black audience in a inner-city Indianapolis neighborhood, urging calm, the night Martin Luther King was assassinated.

I've come to know much more about the Kennedys in the nearly half century since I was born. The longer I live, the more I witness their legacy, and the more I'm proud to have been born under their watch, especially during that bright shining moment that was Camelot.

Thank you, JFK.,
A Kennedy Baby

Bye, Bye, Bike!

When's the last time you smiled riding a bike? When's the last time worked up a good sweat riding a bike? When's the last time you got excited about riding a bike?

Bikes are a cool invention of the century before last. The 21st century is the century of the Trikke.

What's a Trikke? Find out in the blocks labeled Trikke Randy, now and forever at Randy Boyd's Blocks.

One Unforgettable Summer in Cancun

There is a time in every boy's life when he is open to the world and all its infinite possibilities.

There is a time in every man's life when he longs to reconnect with his youth and all its hopes, promises and dreams.

For two teenage brothers, straight, white and all-American, and a 26 year-old man, black, gay and HIV positive, those two worlds are about to come together during one unforgettable summer vacation in Cancun.

And their lives will never be the same.

Bridge Across the Ocean
by Randy Boyd
Inspired by a true story
A Lambda Literary Award Finalist for Best Small Press Title

"A great escape and very important work." —XY Magazine

Available wherever books are sold

Get Bridge Across the Ocean now at amazon.com

Why I'm Happy Living with AIDS

If I weren't living with AIDS, I wouldn't be alive to witness the first black president in action, or write the Obama Files.

If I weren't living with AIDS, I wouldn't be the proud papa of Boomer, who has taught me When in Doubt, Pet the Dog.

If I weren't living with AIDS, I wouldn't the author of four novels which have been nominated for a total of five Lambda Literary Awards, and tell the stories of HIV-positive men who dare to dream.

If I weren't living with AIDS, I wouldn't be alive to say, Dear Magic Johnson, Thanks for Saving My Life.

Essentially Essex

Essex Hemphill is the late poet whose musings about race and sexuality resonate well into the 21st century. Perhaps the best evidence of his legacy is the numerous times his name appears in online profiles under favorite authors.

All the more reason it gives me great pleasure to digitally preserve my 1992 Q&A with the poet in Interview with Poet Essex Hemphill.

Giving Birth to Fags

Were you born liking pizza? Were you born liking the Boston Red Sox? Were you born liking pussy or dick?

No. You were born. And when your dick started getting hard, it ping-ponged you around to different people that showed you the "most productive and least disruptive" way to get your nut.

See how I was born a girl, which helped me become a fag, all because of the First Lie About Me, Told @ Birth.

No 3-D Glasses Needed!

Think you could survive living as your generation's worst nightmare for twenty-five years?

Walk a mile in my shoes in the blocks labeled HIV-P.O.V., now and forever at Randy Boyd's Blocks.

Un-American Acts in America: A Brief History

When America gained its independence from Great Britain, America became the land of the free.

Free, that is, for white, male property owners, the only people allowed to vote. America was theirs. They were America. USA! USA! USA!

A few decades after the American Revolution, a few more common folk earned the right to vote. Oh, you still had to be white. And male. You just didn't have to be a wealthy property owner.

“This is un-American!” some rich white men cried. “They'll destroy the America we know and love!”

Several decades later, even more folks got the right to vote. Oh, you still had to be male. But if you were a male of color and wanted to risk your life, you were welcome to try 'n' cast a vote.

“What's happened to the America we know and love?” some rich white men cried (before they went out and starting lynching would-be voters).

Several decades later, even more Americans got the right to vote. First women, then Native Americans, then the very poor. Then the black people who previously faced death squads for exercising their right to vote were given armed backup.

“The America of today is not the America I grew up in,” some rich white people cried each and every time other voices were allowed to speak up.

Today, whites, blacks, women, Latinos, Native Americans, Asians and other Americans rich and poor have voted into office the first black president, who isn't doing anything all that different from most of the white presidents before him.

“He's a socialist Muslim destroying the America we know and love,” some rich white people cry with each and every un-American breath the black president breathes.

This concludes this brief history of un-American acts in America.

Welkomme to Amerika.

The Sins of Big Government

For most of history, there was no government. First there were wandering clans, then tribal leaders, then feudal lords and kings and queens. A short time ago, government was born, at first as a mediator between royalty and the rest of us.

Eventually, government became big enough to topple the power of kings. Let's see what big government and all that red tape has done with our lives ever since:

Big government created laws ending child labor, freeing up thousands of American kids from dank, dangerous mines and factories.

Big government created public schools for those newly unemployed kids to attend, and for their kids to attend, and their kids, and their kids and your kids.

Big government created all those roads and highways Americans drive on, complete with stoplights, speed limits and maintenance (ever since the US auto companies convinced said big government to build paved roads for the newfangled horseless carriage).

"Big government is the only way to get your money back when a bank folds."

Big government keeps the drug war that's happening this-close to our southern borders--the war that's killed over 20,000 in the last few years--from spilling over to a neighborhood near you. So far.

Big government locks up pedophiles.

Big government gives you access to a list of said pedophiles.

Big government locks up killers, Bernie Madoffs, Timothy McVieghs, shoe bombers.

Big government is responsible for most older Americans having money every month, or medical care when needed. Or wheelchairs. Or home nursing. Or nursing homes.

Big government gives us the military, a place where many a wandering young soul has found his or her purpose and way in life.

"Big government makes mistakes, like any human endeavor."

Big government keeps your food safer. When's the last time you died from eating something?

Big government makes it possible for most Americans to go to college.

Big government is the only one who has a newly unemployed person's back.

Big government is the reason your home is built better and safer than homes in places like Haiti and Mexico.

Big government is the only way to get your money back when a bank folds.

Big government is the only entity capable of granting and enforcing the rights of peoples that would otherwise have no rights: blacks, Native Americans, women, gays, Latinos, atheists, dissenters, people who don't own property, and so on.

Big government is the engine that makes possible the electricity in your home, the water coming out of your faucets, the stop sign on the corner, the park your dog poops and plays in. Try getting those things without big government.

Big government makes mistakes, like any human endeavor, but big government is the thin line between modern civilization and living in a lawless land. Take your pick.

Long live big government.

Where to Buy a Randy Boyd Book

My novels are like my kids. I'm proud of the way they turned out. To date, my four novels have earned five Lambda Literary Award nominations. You can see their pictures, er, book covers on the sidebar of this blog.

All my novels are available wherever books are sold. If a store doesn't carry it or have it in stock, they can look it up and order it.

Randy Boyd's books are also available at amazon.com. Clicking on the book covers on the sidebar takes you to each book's page at amazon.

Enjoy and thank you!

A Little Death in 9th Grade Gym Class

"I had a crush on Robbie Roberts from the moment I laid eyes on him sitting atop Mr. Duffman’s desk in the gym teachers’ office.

"One look and I was swept away by his wavy, honey brown hair, his penetrating, deep blue eyes, his smooth yet confident face. My heart beat faster than I ever thought possible. I lost my breath and thought I would collapse from weakness."

See how a crush, and an comment, can change a life forever in The Day I Died in 9th Grade Gym Class.

Dog Over Troubled Waters

Boomer likes water, but not to the point of obsession, like some dogs. He doesn't live for it, nor does he go charging into unknown depths, selling out his entire body in the name of retrieving. Oh, he'll “go get it,” but he's not obsessive/compulsive about it.

I guess I should be thankful my dog likes water at all, what with the ways I introduced him to it.

Take his first bath. Cut to our backyard on a warm summer day and me, the perfect but stern dad, dragging my boy across the yard towards the inflatable kids' pool, saying, “This is what we call a bath. Bath, Boomer, bath. Time for bath. If you're going to live here, you're gonna have to get used to taking a bath, so it may as well be now.”

"I set out to be the perfect 'father' raising the 'perfect' dog."

Boomer was quite reluctant to get into the inflatable kids' pool. It took a lot of coaxing. And a little dragging. And finally, the perfect but stern dad putting him in there myself. The bath itself didn't turn out so bad, well, compared to Hurricane Hair Dryer that came next.

Then there was the time I introduced Boomer to swimming, or rather, “swimming or drowning,” as in, now that you've been thrown off the dock into this big body of water, whatcha gonna do? Got swim gene?

Boomer did have swim gene, but it was somewhat distracted by dad's drama, so his first swim was not what you'd call ... a good swim.

Since those early days of “parenthood,” I've learned better coaxing skills, like using an excited voice and letting nature take its course.

At first, I set out to be the perfect “father” raising the “perfect” dog. I read books, took him to obedience school, set out to "do this right." Boomer was going to be the dog I always wanted slash perfect child I never had the chance to raise.

Then came life. And his infallibility. And my infallibility, like me using some of the ineffective techniques used by my own father so ineffectively on me and my siblings.

Cut to my childhood bedroom on an early weekend morning and my father saying, “This is what we call a work. Time for work. If you're going to live here, you're gonna have to get used to work, so it may as well be now.”

The dragging was figurative, the outcome equally ineffective.

I'm pretty sure Boomer's glad I outgrew those habits. He definitely likes frolicking in the ocean waves now. A bath, however, is still up for debate.

Note 2 Self: Remember to add these little Notes to Self at the end of each and every installment of When in Doubt, Pet the Dog, a memoir or column or periodic blog thingy, now and forever at Randy Boyd's Blocks.

Breaking News: There's Good News on TV!

Once upon a time, television news gave us important information, thoughtful opinions and intelligent analysis.

Then came the modern, 24-hour-cable-news-era, with its "breaking news" about car chases, celebrity breakups and "tonight's special episode of Dancing with the Stars."

Believe it or not, there still exists one newscast that gives us important information, thoughtful opinions and intelligent analysis.

It's newest name is the PBS Newshour, but their game is the same as it ever was: simply the best news on TV with the least amount of celebrity hype and hyperbole.

Want better TV journalism? Check out the Best News on Television.

Black Teen's Tough Choice: Play Sports or Be a Fag

"I grew up in a sports family, so I had my sports dreams. I played the big three--basketball and football, from little league to junior high, baseball just in little league.

Then in my late teens, I dabbled in soccer and tennis. But I never got that much joy from actually playing sports. There was always something in the way, my body, my mind ... I was six-four, 215, when I was six.

One time, I was at an alumni function as a cheerleader and this UCLA recruiting coach told the audience that it was all about getting guys with prototype bodies like mine. I always had the form, just none of the grace. When you’re a kid, that means they stick you underneath the basket in basketball and on the line in football

"It was all looking like a train wreck with me as the only victim."

Call it what you want, but I never wanted to be on the court or the field and not have a legitimate turn in the spotlight. I was not born to block for somebody else. Or to attack somebody on defense.

I was born to carry the ball, maybe not literally, but I was born to be ... center stage, at least for part of the time, in the game of life. I warred with my coaches over it, especially in football.

I finally gave up trying to fit into the ‘team’ concept in junior high, coincidentally around the time I was getting a major jones for this very tall, hot blond guy trying out for the 9th grade basketball team.

The coach had envisioned us as twin towers. Between the blond kid and my exploding feelings for guys in general, it was all looking like a train wreck in the locker room with me as the only victim.

Instead of risking my life as I knew it, I quit basketball. Forever. I joined this peer tutoring program where I got paid helping other kids do their homework. I had served my official notice to the world--my basketball family included--that I was no longer a jock-in-training.

I got out of sports because I was scared of everyone finding out I was starting to become a fag"

—from Walt Loves the Bearcat
by Randy Boyd
A Lambda Literary Award Finalist for Best Romance

"Warm-spirited ... resonates with soulful queries into the nature of love and life." Bay Area Reporter

Gay Listed in the NBA

A fictional list of gay ballers in the NBA generated quite a stir in 2001 and again in 2007 when one of the players on the list admitted he was gay. Also on the list was a former player who caused a stir of his own by saying he hated gays.

What does the creator of the infamous list know about ballers? Find out in the Man Who Pegged Amaechi and Hardaway as Gay Speaks Out.

College Basketball Players: Lighten Up on Your Gay Teammates!

Dear College Basketball Players:

You've already lifted weights with a gay teammate. You've already done wind-sprints and lay-up drills together. You've already eaten together, showered together, traveled together, dreamed of a great season together.

Your dads' generation couldn't bear to think about the subject of gay guys, let alone talk about it. But that's not you, young baller of the 21st century. You've grown up with gay characters on TV and porn on the Net.

"How do you support your bros? Your dawgs? Your teammates?"

The jig is up. No married couples in twin beds for you! You've seen it all. You know that any kind of man can be the kind of man that (fill in the sexual blank).

You've already survived practicing, studying, laughing, smiling, growing, indeed, living with and dreaming with men who think of themselves as gay, bi, homo, swingers, undecided, and so on.

Fags, gays, bi's, down low, drunk one night, broke one month, horny one minute, talked into it by your girlfriend, whatever.

None of the labels really matters. What matters is your teammates being able to focus on ball, their studies and life in general without feeling lost and alienated because of their sexual journey.

You know how fucked up your mojo gets when your girlfriend is trippin' and the next thing you know, you're in a crazy argument? You know the madness of a really bad breakup? Your gay teammate could be going through some of that same drama. Think it would help if he could acknowledge his life the same way you do when you're bullshitting over beers?

"You can do better than your fathers and their fathers."

Which is doing better by your teammate? Ignoring who he his? Refusing to accept who he is? Not permitting him to talk about who he is?

Or are you being a better teammate by acknowledging him for who he is? Accepting him for who he is? Allowing him to be who he is in the exact same ways that you allow your other teammates to be who they are?

How do you support your bros? Your dawgs? Your teammates?

You are part of a new generation who views sex and sexuality in a whole new light. So lighten up, dudes, about your teammates traveling their own unique path through the Sexual Universe.

I was once a young man gifted with a body built for athletics. Unfortunately, from the moment I identified myself as a lover of men, I thought my only choice was to quit playing sports.

To the young men now playing basketball: you have a choice. You can do better than your fathers and their fathers. As the world evolves, you can put your true and lasting stamp on sports history by being the first college basketball athletes to lighten up on your gay teammates.

The power to change the sports world is in your hands right now.

Dear Oprah: Waiting Is the Hardest Part

How does a little known black author let Oprah Winfrey know about his little known but wonderful novel? He contacts her through Oprah.com like billions before him.

What does a little known black author say in a one-page, one-shot letter to the goddess who could make his little known but wonderful novel a little more well known?

If the letter had room for only one passage from that little known book, what passage would the little known author choose? Find out in Dear Oprah: Please Read "Walt Loves the Bearcat"

What Is God?

"God is like a mind. A great, powerful, super-intelligent mind.

The mind is the only thing that exists in the entire universe. There is nothing else outside this mind. The mind is all there is and knows it is All There Is, therefore the mind knows it is all-powerful and can be anything.

But what is there to be? There is nothing because there is nothing else. There is only the mind and the darkness inside.

"Go make something of yourselves, so that I may know what my mind is capable of."

But the mind wants to know more about itself than the mere fact that it is All There Is, so the mind summons up all its power and explodes into an infinite number of pieces that are off in search of whatever the mind can think of and create, all so that the mind may know itself and what it is capable of.

The mind called these pieces energy. And the mind told the energies:

‘Go make something of yourselves, so that I may know what my mind is capable of; and what I am capable of, so that, by separating myself into pieces, I may know myself, and myself in relation to another form of me, which is merely a reflection of myself, the mind, God.’"

—from Walt Loves the Bearcat
by Randy Boyd
A Lambda Literary Award Finalist for Best Romance

"Warm-spirited ... resonates with soulful queries into the nature of love and life." Bay Area Reporter

Two Best Books on Religion

We don't stop believing in Santa Claus because we realize he doesn't exist. We stop believing in Santa because we realize others don't believe he exists.

In life, there's the stuff we can pretty much all agree on. The sun gives off light. If you throw something in the air, it falls to the ground. The earth is round. We grow old. We die. There is no Santa Claus.

A lot of really great stuff can be done with all this common knowledge. We can build buildings, fly airplanes, avoid poisonous fruit, come in out of the rain. Why, we've even learned the rain isn't personal

"Religion serves a good purpose, right?"

Then there's the stuff we can't agree on. The biggest of which being: what happens after death. We humans just don't know. Yet religion is based on answering this question and others that are equally unknowable and unprovable.

In today's world, were a new idea to circulate with religion's accreditation, it would be taken as seriously as the latest psychic hot-line or star-bound cult. But because religion has been rooted in our brains since Early Man's first panic attack, it's going to be a long, long time before God becomes socially demoted to the same status as your basic daily horoscope.

In the meantime, religion serves a good purpose, right? Not if you take into account the views of two different authors who object to this notion at great risk to their personal safety. (If a truly religious person believes in their religion, why not let God take care of it?)

The End of Faith by Sam Harris and God Is Not Great by Christopher Hitchens are firm in their assertion that the gods are wearing no clothes.

Their argument in my nutshell: We've come way too far to still believe in the hearsay of ancients. Moreover, the world would be a better, calmer, saner, more peaceful, more functional place if we only stick to the stuff we can all agree on. That is to say, if the only acceptable behavior is acting on that which we can all see, hear, touch and experience right before our eyes. Like math. And gravity. And anything that can be tested and replicated over time by anyone, more or less.

Example: If you inhale and exhale, you have a better shot at staying alive. Everyone agree? Great, let's keep living.

However, if you have a belief about what happens after someone stops breathing forever (and you base your entire life on that unknowable, unprovable, unreasonable belief), stop right there. You have just been deemed a danger and a threat to society, like anyone who acts on behalf of their invisible friend(s).

To someone who doesn't believe in Santa Claus, that's the end of the argument about god, greatness and faith.

Halftime Show

The following essay appeared in the April 2008 issue of Poz Magazine.

Twenty-three years ago, at the age of 23, I was a closeted cheerleader who’d just graduated from UCLA and discovered I was HIV positive.

Recently, I celebrated my 46th birthday. The scoreboard now reads: half a life with HIV, half a life without.

In the first half, I felt like a big black unathletic fag, a disappointment to my sports-loving family. In the second half, I evolved into an openly gay author living with AIDS, using the gift of writing to tackle homosexuality in sports.

The second half has been much more enjoyable and educational. I learned that my mom can sometimes be right: She never stopped dreaming of medical advances keeping me alive.

I learned I can survive nightmares, hospitalizations, coworkers not eating my birthday cake because an openly positive man blew out the candles. I learned friends don’t always stick around. I learned I could love a dog beyond all measure.

The same spirited moves I’ve done since childhood—the dancing that made me a cheerleader (and fag) —are now called “street dancing,” a cool unisex craze for kids today.

The “young, gay and horny” behavior that made me “sick” to my peers now gets equal time with the “young, hetero and horny” stuff on MTV.

By living long enough to witness subsequent generations, I see their behavior in my own and think: The first half of my life, I lived in a world where I felt wrong for being who I am. The second half, I’ve realized: There’s nothing wrong with who I am, and the world is catching up to understanding that same idea. Now back to the game.