Now with More AIDS Monster Movie Posters!

Happy Halloween from Randy Boyd's Blocks and the AIDS Monster Movie Marathon, a story told backwards in a car driving forward, now and forever at Randy Boyd's Blocks.

*Now with more AIDS Monster Movie Posters!*

Poz People Magazine's Scariest Man Alive!

It wouldn't be Halloween season on the Block without the infamous actor who starred in most of the classic AIDS Monster Movies of yesteryear.

Take a journey with Count Randolpho De St. Mark Boyd. Find out how America allowed another wave of AIDS Epidemic II on the youth of today. That's right, the bitch is back. See what you can do about it. Unless you want a threequel.

Go there, if you dare, with the AIDS Monster Movie Marathon, a story told backwards in a car driving forward, now and forever on Randy Boyd's Blocks.

*Now with newly discovered AIDS Monster Movie Posters!*

Best News on Television

Enjoy hearing about your worst dreams come true? Like knowing who raped, robbed and cheated whom in your local area? Get a thrill out of the Crime Report? The Scandal Report? The Hollywood Report? The Court Report? The Accusation Report? The Gossip Report?

Need to know the latest, intimate details of a movie starlet's breakdown? Dying to hear the feelings of the latest person voted off Dancing with the Stars?

If the answer is yes to any of the above, this message is not for you. However, for anyone interested in the real “news” of the day--the events outside your world that are important enough to warrant consideration and thought--there's only one place to go: The PBS NewsHour, weeknights on PBS.

"A stimulus, not a distraction, for the mind."

For one hour, a small cadre of old school, professional journalists break down but a few of the days' truly relevant events. You won't be bombarded with promotion of a product by a pusher who is constantly telling you: you need to know this or you may die, so tune in later at ...

If something is so dire, why trust someone that promises to tell you later?

The NewsHour makes no promises, just observations about things that affect all Americans. You get a brief summary of the day's news, then a small handful of stories broken down into deeper exploration and explanation. Qualified journalists doing quality interviews, presenting two sides of anything worthy of an opinion. And no screaming pundits!

In this day and age of “modern, 24-hour journalism,” the PBS NewsHour is like pure, sweet poetry. A stimulus, not a distraction, for the mind. Try it. You just might find this one hour of news actually worthy of your brief time here on earth. Oh, and don't worry. They also thought Michael Jackson's death was news.

Kids, Ask Your Parents About AIDS

AIDS Night in America, 1985. That was the hot summer night most of America sat in front of the news and learned about the new terror threatening to kill more Americans having sex than Jason in a hockey mask on Friday the 13th.

July 25, 1985. That's when most of America first heard about AIDS and the most famous person dying of “the deadly disease” to date. What people saw on TV was actor Rock Hudson, the formerly virile leading man thought to be straight, fading away by the second. What people thought in their minds was: oh, fuck. Who have I slept with in the last 10 years and am I gonna end up like Rock?

"Who needs to acquire a disease, manageable or otherwise?"

Young America was scared shitless. The era of free love was officially over. The news stunned a nation, a Sexual 9/11 no one could ignore. Coverage of AIDS was endless for months.

Kids, go ask your parents! Really! Go talk about it with them. Ask them what it was like hearing that they could die from sex. Parents, share it with your horny teenagers, and the younger siblings who look up to them. Share with them how horrifying it felt hearing scientists tell the world, “there's not much we know or can do about this virus right now, but we do know it's sexually transmitted.”

80s babies: ask older people how it felt getting that wake-up call. America: remember the sexual terror, talk about it honestly and openly. Why? Then maybe, just maybe, America can begin to get a grip on the AIDS Epidemic Part 2, happening this very moment all over the United States.

It's happening again, in part, because a new generation has grown up clueless about safe sex and the consequences of not having it. AIDS is still around. Sure some now call it a manageable disease, but ignorance abounds, and infection rates are highest among young men and women, especially those of color.

Who needs to acquire a disease, manageable or otherwise?

America needs to deal with AIDS, only this time armed with two decades-plus of knowledge, experience and information. So, kids, parents, America: get with the program, and start by checking out the AIDS Monster Movie Marathon, a story told backwards in a car driving forward.

The alternative is a future going back to the past.

Bucky the Bear and the Albuquerque Newsboy

"Bucky the Bear and the Albuquerque Newsboy" originally appeared in the April 24, 1992, issue of Frontiers Magazine.


“Oh, and I can't wait to see Basic Instinct,” my friend Jeff cooed excitedly over the phone.

Jeff is black and gay like me, though he is not politically conscious. He rarely thumbs through a gay publication, was barely aware of AB 101 and couldn't begin to tell you which politicians want to put us away. Yet every Oz needs its good-natured fairies who are adept at spreading good cheer, and he is a true friend.

This, however, was difficult. “You would see that?” I bristled.

“Don't tell me you're one of those,” he said, informing me that all the uproar concerning gays in the movies was the sole product of “a bunch of rich white gays who have nothing better to do with their time and who want every film to portray them as perfect, like in Longtime Companion,” while they don't care one bit about blacks, which is why they didn't complain about Paris Is Burning.”

“You could just go to a doctor or something and say: 'I wanna start liking girls.”

I countered by saying that the world views each and every one of us as Jeffrey Dahmers, or close to it, and if he read something besides the personals in Frontiers, he'd see that Hollywood's depiction of us as weirdos, killers and people to be made fun of only reinforces those beliefs.

We got nowhere. Except on each other's nerves. Never mind that the ultimate message of Paris Is Burning is that these folks may be different, but they're striving for the same thing every soul wants, to be loved and accepted by someone.

Never mind that it's not so much whether a gay character is portrayed as queeny or a lesbian as butch---for these types do exist in real life--but Hollywood's glaring lack of gay characters, no matter how they act, whose lives, dreams, hopes and goals are real, valid and productive, just like Kevin Costner's or Bill Cosby's.

Never mind any of this to Jeff. Basic Instinct was the newest, latest, hottest, sexiest thriller, and he just had to see it.

The conversation left me empty and hopeless. If we can't even get our own people to see the light ...

A few days later I found myself in Albuquerque, New Mexico, for the annual college basketball tournament, jawing back and forth with three friends who were on hand to watch UCLA while I was there to root for my hometown Indiana Hoosiers.

“You see the movie JFK? I thought all gays were freaks like that."

The morning of the game, I stepped into the lobby of a roadside pancake house and was greeting by a tall, thin Latino boy selling the Saturday paper. “You play for a team?” he asked eagerly, his dark eyes as big as two moons. (At six-foot-four with black skin, I can't walk a city block without someone asking me if I'm an athlete.)

In a disappointed voice, I said, “No, sorry, I'm just a fan,” and he laughed. I bought a paper and while I waited for a table, we talked about the game, his job, his goal to become a pop singer. His name was Tony and he was 15 (half my age). Inadvertently he taught me the latest teenage slang: “That's sick,” meaning “that's cool.” He was exuberant and talkative, volunteering his life story and asking mine in return.

When breakfast was over, I returned to Tony's post in a secluded corner of the lobby, desirous of another dose of his youthful energy. As we said goodbye, he mentioned that when he became famous, he'd invite me backstage after one of his concerts so we could hobnob with the likes of Madonna.

“Except I don't know about her,” he said pensively. “She's a lesbian and all.”

I prodded innocently, giving him my theory that she was open-minded, if anything, which prompted him to further explain: “That kind of stuff, like gays and stuff, is against everything I stand for.” (News to me that you could stand for anything at 15.)

The lobby was sparsely filled; the only other human not just passing through was a bear. Or rather, a short person dressed in a bear outfit, the restaurant's idea of a promotion gimmick. Bucky was the name stitched across his chest, his big bear head 10 times larger than normal. And he couldn't have been more than five feet away when I informed my newsboy: “I'm gay.”

“What?” Tony uttered with staggering disbelief, and it took a minute or two to convince him I wasn't joking. “You're not gay,” he kept saying. “You couldn't be gay; you're not girlish. We've been talking all this time. You're cool. I didn't even know.”

Which is precisely why I told him.

“Why don't you just get it fixed,” he asked like a concerned friend, “go to a therapist? Tell him you wanna change?”

“It's not a choice,” I said.

“Yes, it is,” he insisted. “You could just go to a doctor or something and say: 'I wanna start liking girls.”

His reaction must have drawn the attention of Bucky the Bear, for he came over and plopped his squat body next to mine. “You're really gay?” Tony asked. For a moment I hesitated, but I couldn't back down in front of the bear.

“You mean to tell me my best friend could be gay?” How would I get him to admit it to me?”

“Yes,” I said, suddenly thankful Bucky was there to witness my lawful interaction with this minor.

“But you don't look gay,” Tony declared.

I tried to explain that all gays didn't look and act any one way, just like all Latinos and blacks didn't look and act any one way. He agreed with me on the Latinos and blacks part, even said he hated it when people expected him to act like a cholo; but the gay end of the deal was impossible for him to swallow.

“You see the movie JFK?” he asked. “I thought all gays were freaks like that. Man, they were doing all kinds of freaky stuff in that.”

Right then I knew I had to make a valiant effort to undo what Oliver Stone and Jim Garrison had done, and felt at that singular moment that if they had included one positively functioning gay character, or made some sort of creative disclaimer acknowledging that for every Kennedy-killing patsy, a hundred “good” gays existed, maybe I wouldn't be trying to convince this kid that I wasn't a freak by mere virtue of my sexual orientation.

I tried telling him gays were just like anybody else, that we were good guys and bad guys, that we were doctors, lawyers, teachers, friends, etc. “You make it sound like you're everywhere,” he said, eyeing me warily.

“That's 'cause we are,” I said.

“Not here in Albuquerque, huh-uh.”

It was about this time that Bucky the Bear gave up his silence. “Gays are everywhere,” he said to the boy. “And they're people just like you.” From underneath the costume came the voice of a 40ish white man with the calm resonance of a school teacher; like a well-rehearsed duo, we spouted off the virtues of not judging people by labels and stereotypes.

Tony debated us every step of the way, regurgitating his homophobia adamantly, proclaiming he'd disown a future child of his that ever “turned gay,” not caring if that child then turned to suicide. But in return, he listened to my side of the story with awe and curiosity, relentless in his adolescent pursuit of the truth.

“You mean to tell me my best friend could be gay?” he asked at one point. “How would I get him to admit it to me?”

“Do you suspect that he might be gay?” I asked.

“Kinda, sometimes,” he reflected. “Certain hints he'll drop, but I'm not sure. Could I just ask him?”

“I bet you go around joking about fags, don't you?” I asked; he fessed up to it with a sheepish laugh. “Well, even if your friend is gay, chances are he wouldn't tell you because he's afraid you wouldn't accept him.”

“I wouldn't,” he said flatly.

“Then you'll lose a friend.”

He shrugged as if to say, So be it; but in his worried face I saw him struggling with that one.

From an adult this kind of attitude would have ignited the angry cords of my soul. But in Tony's big brown eyes I saw a naïve boy grappling with territory he'd never dreamed of, territory that said gays were more than assassination-plotting freaks. He still couldn't get over the fact that he had talked to me for close to an hour and decided I was cool before finding out I was gay.

“I can't believe I told you I'm against it and you still told me,” he said half a dozen times.

“That's because I'm comfortable with who I am and I've got nothing to hide,” I countered.

“That's sick,” he said, using his teenage slang.

“Good sick or bad sick?” I inquired. He shook his head, staring out the window.

“Just astonishing sick.”

For Tony, meeting a tall black dude who he thought played for one of the teams in town and finding out he's gay and not girlish and not a freak was like an earthquake.

“This is really something else,” he said, dumbfounded. “I can't believe I”m going through this.”

He told me he had so many questions now and that maybe he would bring them up in Health and Safety on Monday so that all the kids in school could discuss it. (Yes, the young are that frank. Innocence still exists.) Yet I never got the feeling he was ready to change his homophobic ways, although it was evident that now, because of Bucky the Bear and me, he was going to think.

Before I left the pancake house Bucky wished me good luck. I patted him on his brown-carpeted arm and told him, “Keep educating thew world.” I never got a glimpse of his human face.

Tony was still processing as I parted, so much so that he barely said goodbye. But I walked away feeling that the religious experience called “March Madness” scheduled to take place at the basketball arena that afternoon was senseless in comparison to opening a child's mind concerning gays.

Yet I couldn't help wondering how much impact I'd had on Tony, and if anyone would hear his best friend's cry for help. And what about all the other young “future leaders of the world” who are more likely to be exposed to JFK and Basic Instinct before they get a chance to talk openly and honestly with a gay man or woman? Even if they do come face to face with someone gay, will they be as willing to listen and debate as Tony, or will the images of Hollywood scare them away?

Visual AIDS: Out of Sight, Out of Mind

“Anybody have anything else?” asked the person in charge of the Monday morning staff meeting.

“I do,” I said to my handful of co-workers around the conference table. I had been working with many of them for five years. Our job was writing and producing promotional material for one of the big Hollywood studios. It had been an uneventful meeting, but the department's only black employee was about to change all that. “I'm taking a leave of absence.”

The year was 1991. The life was being sucked out of me due to the AIDS virus. At the time, there was no medical hope and I was preparing for the beginning of the end, like so many others I had seen die of AIDS.

"No one dare eat a birthday cake on which a person with HIV/AIDS had blown out the candles."

“The reason is because I have HIV,” I told my co-workers. Stunned silence. White faces turning even whiter. Usually personal announcements were about weddings or newborn babies, but I was determined to go out on my own terms, not the subject of rumors and speculation, like so many others I had seen die of AIDS.

After the initial shock wave, I fielded questions about the virus within, patiently giving them a course in AIDS 101. After the meeting, it wasn't long before dozens others knew: Randy has HIV and is leaving at the end of the week. Secretaries, bosses, editors, production assistants, sound technicians, the voiceover guy.

During my weeklong farewell tour, I received tons of support in the form of pledges and promises, even offers for financial assistant. I'll call you for lunch sometime. We'll go to a movie. Let's not lose touch. I'll be there for you.

The week coincided with our monthly practice of “celebrating employees birthdays this month” with a cake at lunchtime. It was January, my lucky month. Midweek, we gathered in the conference room, unveiled a cake and sang Happy Birthday. When it was time to blow out the candles, I resisted. But there were only two birthday boys. I felt I had to go along with it.

"The longer I lived, the less interested those friends became in me and my journey."

After the candles were extinguished, the rest of my co-workers--more than a dozen people--stood against the wall, all refusing cake. There were excuses about diets and such, but the real reason was evident: no one dare eat a birthday cake on which a person with HIV/AIDS had blown out the candles.

Then Lisa, a well-liked female employee, entered the room. She was running late and had missed my “contamination” of the cake. Eagerly, she cut herself a slice. I watched the faces of my co-workers, all of whom seemed on the verge of blurting out: Don't touch that cake!

On Friday, I was outta there, finally free of a stressful job that was killing me, quite literally. In the subsequent weeks, there were a few well-intended phone calls, even a lunch or two. But for the most part, my co-workers faded from my life and I from theirs. That is, until Magic Johnson made his famous HIV announcement later that November.

Those calls, however, were not about me. They were about a celebrity and his breaking news. “What do you think about Magic?” asked my former co-workers, as if I had some great nugget of wisdom to help them process their shock and disbelief.

“What happened to all the love and support you had for me back then?”

In truth, all I had was my virus, my t-cell count, my fear and my journey, which, at the time, had little to do with a pro athlete and the compassion the world offered him. During those “Magic” phone calls, I received the same pledges of support my co-workers had given me some 10 months earlier. Promises left unfulfilled soon after Magic's journey faded from the front page.

Two years later, I had the opportunity to ask a former co-worker who had been a good friend of mine: “What happened to all the love and support you had for me back then?” His answer is what I remember most about that friend and our friendship:

“Out of sight, out of mind.”

It must be a sentiment shared by some of my friends. After leaving my job, it seemed only natural to tell them why. They, too, offered pledges of love and support. One even envisioned keeping a guest room in her home, just for me in my time of need, aka, my dying.

But the longer I lived, the less interested those friends became in me and my journey. By the late 1990s, it was beginning to look as if some people adopted me as friend because I had AIDS. As if I had become their personal feel-good project. They swore they'd be there for me when I was dying. Thing is, I've yet to play my part.

It's almost as if, because I didn't meet their expectations, because I'm still here, some friends no longer had any use for me. I couldn't play the role of the dying friend. I still have AIDS. I'm still gonna die someday. But when I didn't follow the script in the AIDS movie in their minds, I was let go, like an actor who is no longer needed on a soap opera.

It saddens me to think I wasted so much time worrying about the reactions of other people to my having HIV/AIDS. In reality, I didn't owe any of them any insight whatsoever into my personal medical information. You don't think about that when you're desperate and think you're dying. You just crave some small measure of comfort.

Now, my comfort comes knowing I'll never survived too long for me.