High Tech, Low Touch

This afternoon I stood in the aisle at Barnes & Noble, next to the New Fiction table, despairing.  The world was changing and in a direction I didn't like.  There was nothing to be done.  It was progress.  This is how it would be, and people would adjust, or become dinosaurs.


I had just discovered that the CD section had moved from the back wall of the store to a smaller section along the side.  Further, DVDs and Blu-Ray discs now took up half the space, with CDs squeezed into the other half.  Genres of music were much less obviously marked, and the racks of "NEW RELEASES" had disappeared.  CDs are going the way of the cassette tape.  Most music is now digital and virtual and intangible and is purchased invisibly through a keyboard.


I had a brief nostalgic moment remembering the excitement I used to feel walking through the vast inventory of CDs at Borders, wondering what new music I might discover.  Would it be an older release that I somehow missed of a favorite artist?  Or would I, on a whim, put on headphones at a "listening station" (what a fantastic service!) and discover someone new?  I spent a lot of time at Tower Records before it died at the hands of iTunes, making such discoveries of world music artists.


Sometimes I even went to Borders on the day a long-awaited CD was to be released and asked for it since it was not yet on the shelves.  Now, that was exciting: when a staff person disappeared into the back room and brought it out to me, fresh from the box, not even priced yet!


Those days are long gone.  CDs now sit in a small, sad part of the store, still there only to pacify those of us who have yet to make the jump to the newest medium and trash our jewel cases and cumbersome CD racks.  (Who keeps their music in furniture anymore?)  They will soon disappear unnoticed as DVDs, in their only slightly larger packaging, take over the space completely.


On my way out of the Barnes & Noble, I stopped for a moment at the large display, sitting front and center, showcasing B&N's electronic reader, the Nook.  It's B&N's answer to the Amazon Kindle and the Sony Reader.  I stopped to touch it.  It's cold metal parts struck me as exactly diametrical to the warmth I supposed its name was meant to evoke.  It made me sad.  It did not make me want to find some cozy nook and read a book on it.


That is when I found myself standing in the store aisle, full of anti-electronic angst.  This was the "high tech, low touch" dichotomy predicted and decried back in the '70's by those who studied the future.  Advances in technology, they said, would result in less touch and a distancing from the things which make us human.


When the tide of digital photography broke over the beach of picture-taking, I transitioned from film consciously and with minimal tragedy; the issue was forced when my partner gave me a digital camera for my birthday, and I was quickly running out of storage space for my many bulky photo albums.  I also felt relieved that I would no longer have to spend a lot of time mounting developed photos and handwriting captions for them.  Nor would I have to order reprints and mail them to people any longer - I could just email them!  And since taking pictures was all electronic now, I stopped hearing ka-ching! every time I hit the shutter and could take and erase as many photos as I wanted - and the ones I kept I could edit after downloading them to my computer.


So while I was reluctant to give up the tactile experience of pulling out an album and flipping through the pages or bringing the album out to the living room to share with a visitor, all the practical advantages of digital photography more than made up for it.


But with music it's harder.  I've always loved the little booklets that come with CDs.  I enjoy the art, photos, lyrics, and liner notes.  Reading the artist's thoughts and thank-you's adds to my emotional experience of the music.  (Granted, I now need a magnifying glass to read the tiny print.)  Before CDs, when I was growing up, I used to love slitting the plastic wrap of an LP, sliding the record out of the cardboard cover, and seeing what was on the paper sleeve.  I would turn the record on and lie on my stomach facing the speakers, reading the album cover and sleeve.  (We're skipping mention of that deplorable phase of the cassette tape and of the 8-track, which I never experienced.)


Yes, space is an issue, even though CDs greatly reduced the storage necessary for vinyl.  But downloading music creates its own storage issues.  And I don't get art or lyrics with it.  Nevertheless, I acknowledge that it's only a matter of time until CDs are no longer sold.  It's hard to deny after seeing Virgin and Tower Records close and watching the ever-shrinking CD sections at B&N and Borders.


But considering the demise of the printed book is not something I'm ready to do.  When it's a cold and rainy Saturday in November, I don't want to curl up in a big chair under an afghan with a mug of hot chocolate and - power up my Kindle.  At the end of a long day, when I want to escape into a story world before going to sleep, I don't want to climb under the covers and settle in - with my Nook.  I want my book, with its cloth cover and deckle-edge pages, or my paperback with its somewhat worn cover, evidencing the many hours I've already spent with it, complete with the notes I've written in the margins, the underlined passages which struck me in a special way.  


And when I go to a reading and stand in line to meet the author, and when I finally reach the table where they sit, pen poised and ready to ask my name, where exactly on my downloaded book should they write the inscription?


When we are finished with printed books, their lives do not end.  Many people bring them in to work and contribute them to a lending library or book swap.  Some people release them "into the wild," leaving them in airport waiting areas, cafes, or public parks.  Electronic books are - deleted.


Again, storage is an issue, admittedly.  But those of us who love books - beyond simply loving to read - don't mind.  We just use them to decorate.  Even if we can't display every book we own, we can't part with a special book that has made us cry or has moved us or made us think in a way we wouldn't have found on our own.  And we've spent so much time with it, how could we just get rid of it?


The writing is probably on the wall with newspapers shutting down right and left and surviving rags losing more and more weight, resembling skinny small town papers rather than the hefty, two-pound parcels that used to take us a couple days to get through.  People already enjoy listening to the audio versions of books.  And you can't beat the convenience of purchasing and consuming e-books wherever you are.


Nevertheless, I am heartened when I consider that books don't seem to be going away.  Not yet, anyway.  The way that books are sold has changed drastically, but books themselves don't seem to be less available.   Many people, after acknowledging that bookstores (at least brick-and-mortar ones) are probably on their way out, assert that books are going to stick around for a while.


I myself will be doing my share to ensure that is true.

What Aisle is Just For Men on?

I've always maintained that I would not be one of those aging men who go kicking and screaming. I was going to grow old gracefully. My hair was going to go from black straight to white, and it was going to be striking. I would live through a period in which I would be seen as experienced, savvy, and handsome in a worldly sort of way.

We seem to be skipping that phase.

Not only do I no longer get carded when I buy beer at the grocery store - it's been a few years - but today the checker finished scanning my items and then asked, "You're not a senior citizen, are you?" Oh. My. God.

After recovering, I exclaimed loudly, "Not yet!" I didn't know whether to laugh or slap her.

She said, "I didn't think so. Just wanted to be sure." You didn't think so, but you couldn't be absolutely certain. Again: Oh. My. God.

I'm 48 years old, but she thought there was a chance I could be 65. Or at least 55, going by the restaurant menu standard. Do I look like I would order dinner at 4:30? I mean, come on, maybe 5:30, but give me a break!

I did join AARP in my early 40's, but not because I felt old - I just wanted to get discount movie tickets (which don't appear to be a benefit of membership).

I caught a glimpse of my hair in the rear view mirror on the way home. It was a little shocking, I had to admit - you know, seeing an image of your outsides that doesn't match what how your insides feel.

But maybe it's time to face the truth. When meeting friends at a night spot a couple months ago, I stood in line at the door. They carded everyone in front of me. Then they waved me on and carded everyone behind me. How mortifying! I could just hear them going, "Whose dad is that?" And in fact, I mysteriously experienced a moment of looking for a son I don't have.

I now think maybe they card me every time at my favorite bar only because they're bored.

What happened to middle age? Maybe someone should have told me the exact age it started and when the cutoff was at the other end so I would have been better prepared and self-aware enough to enjoy it while it lasted. As it is, the next thing they are going to do at Harris Teeter is meet me at the door and ask if I want to shop using one of their scooter carts. Then when I finish they will offer to call the Sunrise Retirement Home shuttle.

Just out of curiosity, I recently asked our 24 year-old contractor at work how old his father was. Bad idea. Turns out I'm older than his father! I knew there was a risk that I would be, but I thought it was a negligible one. I can see being older than the father of a baby or a kid with a sippy cup. But how can I be older than THE FATHER OF a person who analyzes and organizes things at work, shares a boss with me, and pays his own way through life?

The signs were already there. For a while (too short), I had a dentist who was ten years my junior. Young people have been calling me "sir" for a while. About the only time I have to dig out my driver's license now (besides the occasional outing to my favorite bar, which doesn't really count anymore - see above) is in the security line at the airport.

Ah well, at least there are perks for seniors.

• You have a party and the neighbors don't even realize it.
• Things you buy now won't wear out.
• In a hostage situation, you are likely to be released first.*

Now, where did I put those movie tickets?

* Perks courtesy of: www.llerrah.com/seniorperks.htm

Pulling the Plug

I'm not the only one who refuses to pay exorbitant cable bills. Apparently hundreds of thousands of people are unplugging and relying on Hulu, Netflix, iTunes, and DVD sets for their TV fixes. (And of course there's my rabbit ears!) Over 9000 comments have been posted in response to that story on Yahoo News.

I've actually adjusted to my limited channel access (now down to just two channels after my most recent auto channel scan). I no longer feel a compulsion to channel surf until I'm sure I'm watching just the thing I'd rather watch over all other possible choices. It no longer matters whether I hit the Channel Up or Channel Down button, since it only alternates between two channels. I'm enjoying the very easy decision of which channel to watch, especially since 95% of the time channel 20 isn't worth watching.

Which leads to the surprising finding that there are some pretty good shows on 5! Who knew that I would be watching so much FOX? I wouldn't yet call them my favorite shows (and does the word "favorite" mean anything in the absence of choice?), but I readily admit to liking them a lot. Human Target (impossibly handsome, hunky Christopher Chance, always cool and physically capable in the face of hopeless odds, and nice as can be), Bones (the comical but tortured dance between Bones and Agent Booth as they solve forensic mysteries), and House (the inappropriate, abrasive, brilliant Gregory House) all keep me interested. And I have become addicted to American Idol for the first time, too.

Life without premium paid TV isn't impossible - which is a good thing, since Verizon has apparently abandoned plans to expand its FiOS fiber optic network into Alexandria. With the exception of missing the winter Olympics, I don't feel I've suffered much at all. And without a way to record (not that I can watch anything I'd want to record now), I just shrug when I miss a show I'd wanted to see, rather than getting upset.

I've always lamented the loss of simpler times, and now, in a small way, I have rediscovered them.

Let's Hear It For the Boy!

Ricky Martin has "finally" (according to many) come out of the closet in the climactic ending to a deeply thoughtful piece on the homepage of his website, proclaiming to be a "fortunate homosexual man." Hallelujah!

It's about time, right? What took him so long?? Everyone knew that already, so what was he waiting for?

I just read a Washington Post article that detailed a 2008 study showing that both gay and straight people are very good at guessing sexual orientation. People correctly guessed 87% of the time when shown videos of straight people and 75% of the time with videos of gay people. My own gaydar has never resembled a spinning weathervane when considering Ricky Martin, but apparently I'm in the minority.

Speculation has been wild and sporadic over the years, certainly fed by Ricky's declining to answer Barbara Walters' needling questions in an infamous interview in 2000, which Walters now regrets. The persistence of the rumors alone was enough to make some believe them. Certainly people were more than ready to hear him confess that the rumors were true. So why did he wait ten years after evading Walters' question on national television?

As I came out to friends and family over several years, various people tried to make it safe for me to do so. Some cracked the door open just enough for a little light to enter, while others tried to reach in and pull me out. A dear friend invited me to a dinner party, adding, "You can bring anyone you want - ANYONE." A co-worker made reference to going downtown, dramatically winking with a knowing glance. Another co-worker noted the rainbow on my birthday cake and said, "Mark likes rainbows - RIGHT, MARK?"

My sister in-law, after the fact, told me she had wondered and had wanted to just ask me point-blank, but my brother had advised her to hold her question. Whether he was offering wise advice or simply exercising our family's talent for avoiding uncomfortable issues, he was right; depending on when she had considered asking me, I would have either denied it or become paralyzed and speechless with mortification.

In the years immediately preceding my coming out, I had been deeply involved with an "ex-gay" ministry (in fact, I was in leadership) and considered myself fundamentally straight. I was not ready to come out even to myself. And the years immediately following my coming out were uncertain and a little scary. I was in my 30s, and it was tricky navigating such a total change in my life. Coming out to others was a slow, gradual process and depended on my relationship to each person I told.

The right time for me to have come out was not when everyone was ready to hear it; it was when I was ready to tell them.

Ricky Martin was not ready to tell the world in 2000, or at any time during the next ten years. Ricky Martin was ready last week. Yes, it might seem like "finally" to the rest of us. But when he came out on his blog, he was able to do so with dignity, grace, and pride, on his own terms. And that is what I'm celebrating.

Potomac Winds Blowing Sweet Sounds

I help keep the rhythm going on my djembe* as each flute player in the circle takes a turn allowing his or her spirit to lead in song. I'm glad I spent time on the Web learning the basic strokes, and I try to incorporate tones, slaps, and basses in my drumming. Finally, recording artist and world flutist Suzanne Teng takes a turn with her flute, dancing in the middle of the circle as she plays. She gets closer to me, and then for an instant our eyes meet, and we are playing to each other. I was drumming for Suzanne Teng!

Never mind that someone else was playing a djembe, and on the other side of the circle someone was playing a doumbek, and over there was Gilbert Levy, percussionist extraordinaire and her partner in music and life, leading us all. That moment was still mine.

It was the final workshop at the 7th annual Potomac Native American Flute Festival in Arlington, Virginia, and the climax of a great weekend of flutes and friends. For this festival, my fourth, I accepted an invitation to serve as what would come to be known as an "uber-volunteer," basically being available to help for the entire festival, rather than just a few hours here or there. It was well worth the long hours to become much more a part of the festival than ever before.

Mostly I helped with food service: keeping the snack table stocked, making urns of coffee, putting large trays of sandwiches out for lunch, taking meal tickets, and generally keeping an eye on things. But I also sat at the information desk, sold CDs, took tickets at the Saturday night concert, and helped vendors move their wares.

In between shifts I had ample opportunity to try out flutes from the various vendors - always a high point of the festival. It's just amazing how different a flute made by one maker sounds from one made by another. Discovering each flute's unique voice is one of the greatest pleasures a "flutie" can have.

Every year we are blessed by having some of the finest flute makers in the country here: Colyn Petersen, Brent Haines, Brad Young, Hawk Henries, and several others. We are also lucky to have some newer, perhaps unfamiliar makers come to the festival to expand our flute world.

Last year I decided my next flute would be a high Hawk Henries. He had one I really liked, but since I had just dropped some serious money on a custom flute by Brent Haines, I waited a whole year, just thinking about that flute. And I'm glad I did, because now he had a gorgeous spalted birch version of it with an Alaskan yellow cedar bird and endcaps. I knew as soon as I saw it and blew my song into it on the opening day of the festival that it was mine.

Every flute Hawk makes is stunning in its simplicity and natural beauty. He adds no decorative frills, and that somehow allows the woodgrain of every flute to be the star of the show. The bird (totem) is typically small and flat - again, simple and

unobtrusive, pleasing to the eye but not calling attention to itself. The leather ties securing the bird to the flute are thin and unadorned with beads or feathers, simply enhancing the overall look.

He uses only hand tools to make his flutes, and yet each one seems perfect and exact. When you pick one up, you are struck by how silky it feels under your fingers.

Hawk Henries' flutes are a perfect reflection of the quiet, gentle, unassuming, beautiful man he is.

My new flute, however, has to be a cut above all the other flutes Hawk brought this year. The spalted birch is fascinating and beautiful to look at, and the Alaskan yellow cedar complements it perfectly. And its aroma is intoxicating.

But let's not forget its sound! While it's definitely beautiful enough to serve only as a decorative piece, it is ultimately its voice which brings it home for flute players. And this flute has a high, distinct - forgive me - bird-like sound. It chortles and barks, too, so there is plenty of interest in what might otherwise be a limiting range.

I had a golden opportunity to become familiar with other makers' flutes as well, while sitting at the information desk. Right across from me sat more than a dozen flutes donated by their makers to be raffled off throughout the weekend. They just begged to be played, so of course I obliged! Here was a Colyn Petersen, always reliably clear and resonant. Here was an interesting cane flute by Geri Littlejohn, who often makes flutes in their natural state, like actual tree branches. Here was a Leonard McGann, a Brent Haines - and here was an incredible raven's head flute by Brad Young. It became the flute I couldn't stop playing. The sound was just beautifully clear, and it was so easy to play well. By the end of the afternoon I had become quite attached to it, though I knew someone else would probably win it.

Later in the day, I found out I had won a flute! It wasn't the Brad Young, but rather the river cane flute by Geri Littlejohn, also one I liked playing, so I was very happy.

The cane comes from the coastal areas of the Southeast, and Geri gave it an interesting finish by burning it in places and then applying a coat of oil. This also gave the flute a wonderful smell which reminded me of a campfire.

Of course the best part of the festival was sharing my interest in and love of the Native American Flute with other like-minded people and making new friends in the process. I am struck by the wonder of being in such company, sharing in our unspoken understanding of the captivation we feel with this incredible instrument, and laughing at the "sickness" we all have in common, the inability to stop buying more flutes. (Nobody's trying to get well, either!)

After the excitement of playing my djembe with Suzanne Teng and Gilbert Levy at the final workshop on Sunday, I talked with Gilbert for quite a while about drumming. ("It all boils down to boom-chic.") The last event was an Open Mic, and then we tore down, packed, and cleaned up. My new friend Jeff from upstate New York sat tapping out his Sunday festival report for the online Flute Portal on his iPhone. Debbie swept the now-empty vendor area with a broom. Vendors trickled out, hugging and saying goodbye until next year.

I was sorry to see the festival end, but I felt re-energized, and that was my hope for attending. What's next? Attending the Northern Virginia Flute Circle, for sure. Considering making the trip to Musical Echoes or Native Rhythms in Florida, or the Pacific Northwest Flute Quest. Going to a drum circle to play my djembe. And of course throwing my name in to serve as on-site staff at next year's Potomac Flute Festival!

*African hand drum

Photo credits: 1) Suzanne Teng playing flute, me directly behind her playing djembe, photo courtesy of Jefferson Svengsouk; 2) Night Writer, 3) Night Writer

Ski West, Young Man!

I've finally been skiing in the West. Not only that, but in Utah, where the snow is supposed to be the best (according to friends in Utah and confirmed by still sober folks in the hot tub).

After a rather dubious start on the Chickadee beginner run (there are no bunny slopes at Snowbird), I got my sea legs back - twenty years after my last ski trip - and began enjoying myself. A few inches of fresh snow had fallen the night before, the air was pristine, the evergreens and mountains majestic around me, and traffic on the

mountain light, being a Tuesday. Many times I had a run almost all to myself.

My plan to confront potential altitude sickness, beyond obtaining a pre-trip scrip for acetazolamide, was to take chair lifts to increasingly higher elevations and possibly end the day by reaching 10,000 feet with a breathtaking view - hopefully speaking figuratively - of the valley below. The base at Snowbird is around 7900 feet, so I started with lifts that got me to 8400 and 8600 feet.

At some point the fog started rolling in - or, as I saw it, the clouds began dropping down. During one specific stretch of the run it felt like it was raining. Visibility dwindled to 30 or 40 yards. At that point, skiing was difficult but not dangerous, as I could see just enough to complete the next couple turns.

After lunch I took a lift that got me to 9200 feet and an intermediate run called Bassackwards. It was quite challenging, but I did all right, especially considering the worsening conditions. It was now snowing and accumulating quickly.

The afternoon was waning, though, and I had a few more runs on my agenda, so I got on the Gadzoom High-Speed Quad chair lift and reached 9700 feet. My plan was to take Bassackwards all the way down, get on the Gadzoom lift again, ski halfway down, and get on the mid-slope lift that would take me up to 9800 feet, and ski down across the mountain back to Snowbird Center. Then I would end the day by taking the Peruvian Express High-Speed Quad up to 10,500 feet and skiing down Chip's Run back to Cliff Lodge, where we were staying.

That didn't happen. As soon as I got off Gadzoom I could tell conditions had seriously deteriorated. Wet snow fell heavily, ice pellets battered my face as I skied, forcing me to stop, and my wet glasses cut my visibility even more. Not only that, but they suddenly developed a fogging problem that would not go away. Wiping them only helped until I put them back on my face, when they immediately fogged up again. I had no choice but to take them off and put them away.

Now everything was out of focus, but at least I didn't have to fight fog on top of the mist and snow.

Looking up the run, I could hear voices but couldn't tell where they were coming from... until people materialized from the mist. Looking down, skiers traversed the run and then disappeared. "Wait!" I wanted to shout, but they were gone, and though I waited, no one else came after them.

I wondered if I were the last one left on the run.

With no other choice, I skied down into the blurry whiteout and quickly encountered a new problem: snow flying directly into my eyes. Though it forced me to blink rapidly, I kept going, gaining a sense of what it must be like to ski blind.

I became disoriented, as the ground and air became one, all the same whiteness and mist. With no depth perception and no other people in front of me, I couldn't judge the slope of the ground, couldn't tell where anything was, couldn't make the split second adjustments necessary for successful turning, and I lost control and fell repeatedly.

It was no longer fun.

All I wanted was to get to the bottom, get on the shuttle back to Cliff Lodge, and get out of my wet clothes. But it seemed I would never get to the bottom, since I couldn't see it. Nevertheless, I knew I would be closer with every turn, and I blinked hard against the wet snow, straining to focus on keeping my weight forward and carving turns (or at least skidding) aggressively, while praying no trees would suddenly appear in front of me, like goblins in a fun house ride.

Eventually the lifts emerged at the bottom, and I relaxed. The chairs hadn't even stopped for the day yet, and yes, unbelievably, some intrepid skiers were riding back up for one last run. I shared a shuttle ride with two guys from New Orleans, one of whom had never skied before and who had twisted an ankle at the end of the day. And I was worried about fogged up glasses?

Later, sitting in the hot tub while kids played in the pool, all of us in the middle of what Washington would call a "blizzard," I noticed that snow was piling up on the heads of my tubmates. And while it had been quite an afternoon, and while it seemed crazy to go right back outside into the same weather, only this time in just a swimsuit, I had friendly conversation around me, the spa jets warmed my body in no time, and all my worries of the day evaporated as quickly as those skiers disappearing down the slopes in front of me, chatting unconcerned to each other, as friends do.

Photos: (1) Beautiful weather on March 8; (2) Clouds dropping on the Peruvian Express Quad Lift (10K feet) on March 9; (3) Decreasing visibility at the top of a run; (4) Looking up the mountain, three skiiers (center) emerge from the mist. This is how it looked facing downhill, too. (Funny how a dangerous situation always presents a good photo op.)

Mom, I've Found Her!

I've found the perfect girl! She's cute, intelligent, driven, passionate, has a good heart and beautiful smile, and can light up a room with her laugh. She's taken more than one leadership role at church after being around only a couple years. She listens well, is compassionate, and cares about her family and friends. She's fit and loves frozen yogurt. Any guy would jump at the chance to snap her up.

There's just one problem: what would her boyfriend say?

Or, more to the point, what would mine?*

R and I had the beginnings of a great relationship - lunches, plans to discuss great literature, heart-to-hearts at Mr. Yogato - until what's-his-name came along. I'm not jealous, exactly... I just miss spending time with her. Under different circumstances (for instance, if I were straight), I would definitely pursue something more meaningful with her - although under those same circumstances I might be considered a dirty old man, since I am technically old enough to be her father. Indeed, maybe the love I feel for her is in a way paternal (which would explain the urge I've had to meet this boy she is dating and see if I think he is good enough for her).

But I suspect that a kernel of what I feel for R is the same kind of thing a lot of gay men have felt for women they married (and eventually divorced). I've known many such men who felt it was just the next thing they needed to do in life, who felt pressured by society and family or maybe the woman in question, or who thought perhaps it was the way to escape bothersome, frightening urges they didn't want to have.

I am just happy that I don't bring any of that to my friendship with R, that I have been through the self-discovery and process of coming out of shame that is necessary for reaching a point of happiness and yes, pride, at being gay, so that no confusion entwines itself around the interaction we have as friends.

Gay men have had a long history with straight women (though the women may not have realized it). Will and Grace. The hapless gay guy and sharp-tongued gal pal in most gay comedies. Rock Hudson and Doris Day. In my own life, I have a long list of close female friends who have sustained me over the decades, and who continue to do so.

It is such a blessing to have had such wonderful and unique friends, to be able to relate to women in a way that straight men cannot, and to be the kind of man a woman can feel completely comfortable with, in a way that she cannot, or does not often, feel with a straight man. Sometimes what a guy needs is a person who is Other, and fellow men, whether gay or straight, cannot fill this role (although straight men sometimes seem enough like interplanetary travelers that they might come close).

Even though I will never marry R - and wish her all the very best in her budding relationship - I will enjoy our continuing friendship and the realization that I finally found the woman I would, in another life, take home to meet Mom.

* (if I had one)