Still in Good Hands

Thank you, every single dead soul who endured unimaginable hardship to make [Barack Obama's] historic inauguration day possible.

The Africans who were kidnapped from their villages, marched across Africa, ferried across the sea, unloaded off the ships and sold into a life of slavery in America, those Africans are all dead; but they're descendants are now in good hands, and life is only going to get better from here to eternity.

—from Africans In America In Good Hands Now

The Only Reason I'm 'Gay'

This ‘gay’ community I see in the early part of the 21st century is nothing that I can personally identify with or relate to.

Somebody hijacked the word gay. Now it means you’re a Queer Eye Guy, or Will or Grace. If that’s what being gay is, I’m no longer a homo.

Not knocking anyone. We all should be who we are. But when I signed on to this whole gay thing, I did so with the understanding that it was an easy way to convey to the world my number one draft pick for the gender of my sex partners and eventual love of my life, nothing else.

Sex life and love life were the only things I signed up for.

No behavioral tendencies, no special icons and divas, no particular clothes or labels or activities or lifestyle—although I must say, I’ve probably tried them all on for size in the name of finding who I really am.

And this is who I really am: the only reason I’m gay is because there are certain things about a man that I don’t wanna live without. Daily, preferably. The first of those is another man’s soul. After that, everything else is details.

That’s the only reason I check gay on the census form, so to speak.

And as far as labels, I learned a long time ago to let ’em go. So the Queer Eye Guys can keep gay. And I hope all their dreams come true, just like mine. But I’ll just say ... I’m sexual ...

—from Walt Loves the Bearcat
by Randy Boyd
A Lambda Literary Award Finalist for Best Romance
Available wherever books are sold
Get Walt Loves the Bearcat now at Amazon

Thankful for My Trikke

Let it be known: I'm thankful for my Trikke. For my Trikke has given me a new life, the life I always dreamed of living, starring the person I always dreamed of being.

Confident. Fit. In better shape than I ever imagined.

Alive. Athletic. Muscular. Athletic. Yes, I said it twice!

Thank you, Trikke, for coming along just when I needed a miracle like you.

Thank you for being the wings that take me to the furthest reaches of my dreams.

Look, mom, I can fly!

I can Trikke every day for the rest of my life and I'll be a happy man.

Thank you, Trikke, for the ride of my life.

For the best exercise that rarely seems like exercise. For the easiest way to be in the best shape of my life. For being the most fun thing in the whole wide world. For giving me a growing community of Trikkers, all giving birth to a Trikke-filled world.

Trikkers rock! (and roll).

Thank you, Trikke.

Thank you, trikkers.

Retard

There were six basketball games going on at the six goals of the gym. I can still see the hazy thickness of the sweat-drenched air filling the gym, still hear the chaotic rumblings of about eighty ninth-grade boys all dressed in the same blue gym shorts and blue and white reversible tank tops.

I was ecstatic and terrified that I ended up in the same game as Robbie Roberts. We'd never said a word to each other, but my crush on the ninth grade quarterback was at its peak. I was determined to play my heart out, desperately wanting to impress him so we could talk afterward and embark on our wonderful lifelong friendship.

"I died but couldn’t let the rest of the gym class know it."

Early in the game, the ball fell into my hands, my chance to dribble and shoot and dazzle him. The next few seconds happened in a blur: swarming hands surrounded me, bodies bumped against mine, legs tangled with my own. An arm broke through and stripped the ball away from me.

Then he said it: “Jesus, another Bubba.”

Bubba Brown, who was also black, was the joke of my high school. He had the size and strength to be a good athlete, but Bubba was born with some kind of physical defect.

No one at school knew the exact nature of his problems, but what we did understand was that he was partially deaf and couldn’t speak like the rest of us. The ninth grade class assumed Bubba was retarded. Everyone made fun of him.

“Jesus, another Bubba,” Robbie Roberts said in the flurry of action after the ball was taken from me. He didn’t say it to anyone in particular, really just to himself, his voice a mix of shock and disgust, as if he really couldn’t believe that in his world of perfectly graceful athletes, that, of all things, another clumsy dope like Bubba existed.

"I rode home on the school bus feeling apart from the others."

To everyone else, the comment most likely blew carelessly through the stale gym air, becoming lost in the clamor of excitement. To me, a shrill siren had sounded. The end of the world had come.

I died, but couldn’t let the rest of the gym class know it. I went through the motions and played out the rest of the game, trying my best to remain as invisible as possible, clinging tightly to the emotions inside me lest they come bursting out uncontrollably.

I rode home on the school bus feeling apart from the others. They were laughing and making jokes with each other. They didn’t have to dream about having friends. Robbie Roberts hadn’t called any of them Bubba.

I got home and dropped my books on the table next to the door. No one was home. Like a zombie, I walked to my room and collapsed on the bed. I lay on my back, feet propped up against the wall, and cried for the next two hours.

My life was over. Robbie Roberts was never going to be my best friend. I hated the world. I hated Bubba for coming to our school. I hated myself. I was never going to be anything special, never going to be liked by anybody, never going to have a best buddy.

Robbie Roberts had made it official: I was just another Bubba.

• Excerpted from Bridge Across the Ocean by Randy Boyd, a Lambda Literary Award Finalist for Small Press Title.
  

When I Played Basketball

Yep, I got hoop dreams. They happen while I'm sleeping. Usually, I'm playing for Indiana U., my beloved hometown Hoosiers.

In my unconscious hoop dreams, everything I've learned about basketball flows through my veins easily, smoothly, naturally. I'm in a Kobe-Jordan zone. I'm Magic. I'm unstoppable.

I grew up in a basketball family. Fathers, brothers, uncles. People in Indianapolis knew us a ballers, past and present. Is it any wonder I can ball so well in my sleep?

"How might my high school teams have benefited from having a six-foot-three, 200 pound black athlete like me?"

Awake, basketball is more complicated. There's the shit that happens off the court, the shit that fucks with your mind. However I did have my moments on real life courts.

My first memorable milestone: scoring six whole points in a game when I wasn't much older than six. I was so excited after the third basket, the ref threatened to hit me with a tech if I reacted that way again.

Later, I played on a junior-AAU-type all-star team that traveled to Illinois and won a regional tournament. I was around age 12 and the big man. In the semi-finals, I scored a career high 17 points and had a ton of rebounds. Dare I say, I dominated?

I was named to the all-tourney team, my first and only individual honor in ball. Next, we traveled to Lexington, Kentucky, and played at UK's old Memorial Coliseum. We didn't fare so well in the national tourney, but the experience of playing in a college arena as a kid was unparalleled.

"Why are you friends with Boyd? He doesn't play any sports?"

Next step: starting for my junior high team at a mostly white private school, no less. Like the main character in my fourth novel, Walt Loves the Bearcat: "I was the player who started but was his team’s equivalent to the underachieving big man on an NBA team with two stellar athletes who also happened to be black at my 99.99% white private school.”

For ninth grade, I returned to the public school system, but my privatized, confused adolescent self was not prepared. The ninth grade coach wanted me on the team, but in my young little mind, I had to make a choice: play sports or be a fag. I chose the option that was choosing me.

By the time I got to high school, the high school athletes saw me as a nerd, a brainiac, a fag. In retrospect, I was all those things, but so the fuck what? I still should've had the right to ball and be me.

In truth, I did have the right. I just didn't know it or have to guts to exercise it in the mid-1970s.

Makes me wonder: how might my high school teams have benefited from having a six-foot-three, 200 pound black athlete like me, no matter my sexual orientation? A black athlete who's smart and knows the game of ball inside/out?

A friend from high school who played sports recently told me about a comment his jock friends made to him while we were all in high school: Why are you friends with Boyd? He doesn't play any sports?

Perhaps my friend knew something those guys still don't know: Boyd is a good person, and if you take the time to get to know him, not only might you see that good person, you just might benefit from having a good teammate who can help you win.

Later in life, I did exercise my right to hoop while being homo. Played in the company league at Walt Disney in my twenties. Started every game for the league champions one season. Scored a new career high 21 points during another season.

In my thirties, I played in a couple of gay leagues and gay basketball tournaments. What I lack in skill I make up in basketball smarts. And I'm very proud of my left hand's ability to block shots seemingly out of nowhere.

Now in my forties, I like to shoot hoops just for fun. Not many actual games, just shooting around. The goal is exercise and fun. Oh, and to see if I can mimic any of the moves in my unconscious hoop dreams.

Faggot

Scott (last name withheld) made it official when he called me faggot.

That was the only word the blond basketball jock ever uttered to me in high school. Faggot.

We were alone on a walkway, two students passing in the light of day. Faggot. I idolized him and his balling skills, thought he had one of the best asses in our class. Faggot was all I knew about how Scott (last name withheld) felt about me.

They called me faggot in high school.
They were right.

One day, the basketball jock showed up to school with bruises all over his face. A short timelater, he transferred to another school. Faggot.

My socially retarded mind created an entire mythology based on my lone interaction with Scott (last name withheld). I dreamed of a novel where a blond basketball jock calls a black nerd faggot, but what the blond jock really means is, “can we be faggots together?”

The two lost souls drift through life until reuniting as adults. The story ended with the black character dying tragically. Faggot.

They called me faggot in high school. They were right. I was, still am and always will be a faggot. But never again will I ever be a faggot who believes that men like Scott (last name withheld) are better or better off than me.

And never again will I conceive of novels where the black heroes of my dreams die tragically. Faggot

When I Played Football

If only I had a dollar for each time someone asked me, "You play football?"

Before I was a college cheerleader at two major Pac 10 schools, yep, I played football.

Played pee wee football for a few years; got a pee wee team photo to prove it.

Started both ways for my junior high team. Big man on the line, but I wanted the rock. To get my cooperation, coach let me be backup QB.

"Boyd, take over!" Coach would yell when the regular QB got hurt.

Just like that, I had to morph into the leader of the team. Usually, it all happened so fast, I barely had time to catch my breath, let alone make a play.

More reps, needed more reps. lol.

I wrote about my junior high football daze in my fourth novel, Walt Loves the Bearcat. Would you believe a former black college cheerleader who thinks of himself as a clumsy Jerry-Lewis-type throws the winning pass at the Super Bowl?

Favorite football highlight: Junior high. Late in a losing season. We play a team that's apparently worse than us. We start piling up points; the rout is on.

Early in the game, while on defense, I swat the ball out of the opposing quarterback's hands, picked it up off the bounce and stampede a good 10-20 yards into the end zone. Touchdown, me.

As the game ended, coach had tears of joy in his eyes. That day, we were the champions and I scored my only touchdown.

Over the Bridge

Two months after testing positive for HIV/AIDS in 1988, I took off for the warm, sandy beaches of Cancun, Mexico, for some much needed R&R. While there, I met two straight white teenage brothers who were on vacation with their single mom.

What happened in Cancun changed all our lives forever and served as the inspiration for my second novel, Bridge Across the Ocean, a Lambda Literary Finalist.

Bridge Across the Ocean is the best selling Randy Boyd novel to date and has generated the most fan mail. Many men have written to me, telling me how much they bonded with the characters while enjoying their youthful adventures. Many have shared their own stories of adolescent longing and friendships with "boys you can never hold onto."

As an author, knowing my novel has touched so many hearts is one of life's biggest rewards. Equally satisfying is the fact that I've crossed enough bridges in my own life, from childhood to manhood, to better reflect on that uniquely special summer two decades ago.

Take the journey with me in a four-part retrospective about the once in a lifetime experience that became a novel that became a Lambda Literary Finalist. Bridge Across the Ocean @ 20, now and forever at Randy Boyd's Blocks.

Part 1
Bridge Across the Ocean @ 20
Part 2
Bridge to Somewhere: Where the Boys Are Today
Part 3
What Is a Lesbian? 1988-2008
Part 4
Young Jock Offers Oral Sex for Magazine Subscription

PLUS: Get Bridge Across the Ocean now at Amazon.com

Becoming the Man I Am

When I speak, some people ooh and ahh and talk about how articulate I am. What they're really wondering: How I Became Educated.

I love writing. And storytelling. And entertaining. It's my childhood, I tell ya. Surviving that childhood is How I Became a Writer.

Being a wordsmith wasn't the only talent I honed in my youth. See how one fateful moving day became the key to How I Became a Male Cheerleader.

Am I really gay? Or just pussy-challenged? Here now, my theory as to How I Became Homosexual.

The AIDS virus became part of my body one month after graduating college. Go back in time and find out How I Became HIV-Positive.

Grumpy Old Dogs

Boomer and Max have been buds since they were puppies. Moments after first getting a whiff of one another, their eternal wrestling match was on.

Max, a chocolate lab, was only a handful of weeks old, Boomer, my golden mutt, was a little over a year old. Their significant size difference meant nothing. They went at one another like two WWE titans. This was for the ultimate prize: top dog of the pack.

The humans in the pack were my mom and me. Boomer was the first canine to join up. Mom adopted Max a year later. Their bond was instant; their intentions evident. Each dog wanted the other to know this was going to be a lifelong wrestling match.

By virtue of his early size advantage, Boomer won top dog honors. He sealed his fate one day while eating the new puppy's food. As Max approached the bowl, Boomer let out a beastly growl that said: Back off or I'll chew your head off: I'll eat your puppy food anytime I want!

That settled that. Boomer won. Max became his loyal sidekick. They couldn't be more different. Boomer is sensitive, moves like a panther. Max is a bull in a China shop.

Over ten years later, the two dogs still wrestle when given the chance, usually egged on by me shouting “wrestle!” They've spent many years together and many years apart, but they're still wrestling buds.

Nowadays, Boomer's age 12 and Max is age 11, meaning both dogs suffer from the aches and pains of growing older. Max's 100-pound tank of a body is showing its age more. His limp is more frequent and more noticeable, his breathing often hampered by some kind of internal pain.

Boomer still retains much of his lighting quick agility that reminds me of a graceful running back, but my golden mutt is a great athlete who's visibly past his peak.

Despite old age, their spirits are willing. Boomer still gets feisty and revved up after dinner, ready to take on all comers, especially his loyal sidekick. Max is always up for whatever's Boomer's up for, even if Max has to fight while lying on the ground.

Anymore, their wrestling has been downgraded into a lot of woofing and barking, like two elderly boxers who used to spar ferociously, but are now reduced to sparring with words, gestures and blows that only land on thin air.

Still it makes both dogs happy, which makes me happy, and a little less worried about getting them some exercise. For even though they're only shadow boxing, wrestling still wears them out, something that always makes me a little less grumpy.

Note 2 Self: You need to write a whole lot more of When In Doubt, Pet the Dog, a periodic blog column or journal thingy, now and forever at Randy Boyd's Blocks.

Too Sexy for this Blog

When's the last time you heard anyone say, "I just need to find the right black gay guy living with HIV/AIDS to settle down with?"

Chances are, you've never heard anyone say such a thing.

That's because most people have a hard time imagining that a black gay guy living with HIV/AIDS is worth loving.

Fortunately, they don't have to. I'm going to imagine it for them--on my whole other blog, the one I like to call my sexy blog. lol

Tea Party Rock

Ain't no party like a tea party, so raise your hands in the air like you just don't care.

About angry, home-schooled, hetero-sexist republicans on steroids trying to take America back.

To a time when Negroes, queers, Mexicans and Muslims were not part of the real America.

Ain't no party like a tea party, so raise your hands in the air like you just don't care.

But if you do care, imagine the future If the Tea Party Ruled the World.

God Don't Bless Un-America

American Values. American Tradition. Will of the American people.

What values and traditions are American and not French, British, or Peruvian?

Do the American people have one single will?

A lot people are basing their public crusades on what is and isn't American, and conversely, what is and isn't un-American.

Confused? You won't be after reading Un-American Acts in America: a Brief History.

Reaching Randy

Question? Comment? Click here to contact author Randy Boyd.
Randy who? Click here for Randy Boyd's bio.
Author of what? Click here for Randy Boyd's novels.

Are You a Kennedy Baby?

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.

Hear us roar: We are the Kennedy Babies.

President Obama's Faults

The home foreclosure crisis is President Obama's fault.

The drug war in Mexico is President Obama's fault.

The fallout from the Great Recession is President Obama's fault.

The next tsunami to hit Asia is President Obama's fault.

Washington gridlock is President Obama's fault.

The fact that I'm still single is President Obama's fault.

The billions spent to wage war in two Middle Eastern countries is President Obama's fault.

The terrible record of the Dallas Cowboys is President Obama's fault.

The polarization of America is President Obama's fault.

High unemployment is President Obama's fault.

Brett Favre sexting is President Obama's fault.

The rise of Tea Party witches is President Obama's fault.

All bad weather this winter is President Obama's fault.

The decline of America is President Obama's fault.

The record number of threats to the life of the first black leader of the United States is President Obama's fault.

The fact that you won't get everything you want for Christmas is President Obama's fault.

The fact that one in five Americans believe Obama is a Kenyan born Muslim is President Obama's fault.

Steve Carell leaving the Office is President Obama's fault.

Life is President Obama's fault.

Scariest Halloween Trikke Ride Ever

Last year's treat: the Best Halloween Trikke Ride Ever. This year's trick: the Scariest Halloween Trikke Ride Ever, so far.

Picture it: Halloween 2009. A dozen or so trikkers have the audacity to show up for something called the Trikke & Treat Halloween Trikke Ride, sponsored by SouthBay Trikke, Southern California's largest and leading local Trikke dealer.

The Trikke is the freaky-looking, three-wheel carving sensation that's taking the world by storm, making it a natural for freaky-looking Halloween fun.

Last year's ride happened on a perfectly warm and sunny Southern California day, the kind that reminds local residents why they live there.

"'Twas the night before Halloween Ride II and the weather was trying to be a killer."

Many trikkers, including this reporter, were giddy with excitement: our first group Trikke ride! The perfect weather made for a perfect day that turned into the perfect first-ever Halloween Ride.

Would SouthBay Trikke try to produce a sequel this year? You bet! These local Trikke gurus have been putting on events all over So Cal, including the Labor Day Ride of Long Beach, another perfect day.

But as Halloween Ride II neared, so did terrifying news of a trikker's ultimate nightmare: rain!!! (Cue the lighting, the thunder, the screams, the horror!)

Almost as bad, if not worse, another terror was predicted by the weather witches: COLD! (Cue the screams, the shrieking, the shrinking of private parts, the horror!!!)

Would Halloween Ride II even happen? Or would the weather slay the day like Jason or Freddy or Chuckie?

'Twas the night before Halloween Ride II and the weather was trying to be a killer.

"There's something about seeing all the fun people are having on a Trikke and wanting to be a part of it."

SouthBay Trikke and its loyal followers were haunted by the prospects of a hellish sequel, driven to madness by the uncertainty, brought to the brink by a deluge of rain that poured throughout the night, each drop melting away the dreams of every trick or treating trikker, from Ventura to Pasadena to Long Beach to Escondido to Tustin to Venice to a rain soaked Torrance Beach, site of Trikke Off at 10am, or so it was hoped.

After the terrifying night, dawn broke. The light revealed a Torrance Beach that was still rain soaked, but a little less than expected. Things were beginning to dry out already. The weather witches had flow away, off to terrorize elsewhere, but the South Bay was beginning to see a better day.

The Clarion call went out: Halloween Ride II was going to have a happy ending. Trikke Off is at 10am as scheduled; it's gonna be another day in paradise in Southern California!

Instead of a dud, SouthBay Trikke pulled off a fantastic sequel. Nineteen trikkers showed up for the second annual Trikke & Treat Halloween Ride. And by this Trikker slash reporter's estimate, 10,000 people enjoyed the show along the beaches of Torrance, Redondo, Hermosa, and Manhattan.

"That looks like so much fun! I want one of those!"

For a day that started out with wicked weather, Halloween Ride II turned into a feel-good action thriller, so to speak. The action: trikkers rockin' and rollin' in packs, capturing the attention of walkers, bikers, volleyball players, beachgoers, kids, everyone at the beach for what turned out to be a warm and sunny day.

The action: trikkers dressed as sexy witches, salt-and-pepper shakers, Robin Hood (winner of best costume), Medusa, the Mad Hatter, Uncle Sam, Elvis!

The audience reaction: that looks like so much fun! I want one of those! Look at that! So cool! Where can I get one? Can I try?

There's something about seeing all the fun people are having on a Trikke and wanting to be a part of it. Maybe it's human nature to want to join a Trikke party. It's safe to say it's the human nature of this reporter, now a veteran of two Halloween Rides.

The nineteen trikkers were young and old, large and small. short and tall, male, female, different skin tones, different backgrounds, but the diversity is almost invisible when everyone's there to Trikke. It's as if we're all kids meeting at the playground, ready to play. So let's Trikke!

And Trikke we did at the second annual Trikke & Treat Halloween Ride, sponsored by SouthBay Trikke. I can hardly wait until Halloween 3-D!