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December 27, 2005

You can't always get what you want

The Rolling Stones and a similar Hole song keep running through my head.

This past week has been okay. And by "okay" I mean it sorta sucked. There were some good things - I spent time with my family, enjoyed watching my nieces and nephews open their gifts, had good conversations with other relatives, and went to a friend's annual sober Christmas event.

But about the sucky part. Since the day I stepped out of treatment nearly 2 years ago, it's been a goal of mine to open a sober living home - a safe living environment for a group of recovering people. Generally people move into one after treatment or completion of a halfway house program. Others elect to live there just because they're a good option for affordable housing and a good source of support for those in recovery. The concept has always clicked with me as being something spectacular. There's a certain degree of magic that emanates from sober houses that you just don't find elsewhere. They're a place where a group of people in similar situations try to help each other out.

This past week I had made plans to move into such a place as the resident house manager. I thought it would be a good opportunity to take an interim step into a sober housing venture - a chance for me to learn the business of running a sober house. Along with that, I thought it would be a great exercise in humility, service work, and a chance to be a part of that magic that happens in these places. I was preparing to move out of my condo, possibly put my things in storage, attempt to rent out my place, and change my life.

When I was reviewing the contract to move in, it occurred to me that something in my personal life was in direct conflict with one of the house rules. I disclosed the fact, and as it turns out, the conflict was too large to let go of, and me moving in was not going to work out.

I'm disappointed with the outcome of the situation. It makes me sad that I can't participate. I have to believe that there is a reason things happened the way they did, as I cannot afford to carry any resentments.

Looking towards the future, I'm going to continue my quest to open a sober home. I'm unsure when it will happen, but I will keep taking steps to get there.

Posted by SparklesMpls at 11:53 AM | Comments (15) | TrackBack

December 18, 2005

Progressive, yet drunken, Mayor of Duluth

If you live within driving distance of Duluth, it makes a great weekend getaway destination. Canal Park is a quaint neighborhood containing restaurants, bars, boutiques and parks. Downtown is a short jaunt up the hill. Mansions line the road to the north, lakeshore properties along the largest lake in the world.

Duluth is a relatively small populous, ranking 137 in the Nelson Media Market index, but their politics are quite progressive. Case in point: it was the first city in Minnesota to ban indoor smoking in bars and restaurants.

Herb Bergson has been the mayor of Duluth since he was elected in 2003. He made headlines this summer when he became the first mayor of Duluth to walk in the city's gay pride parade. Many of us in the Minneapolis area took note of our smaller city sibling to the north - looking up at them with pride.

Then came the firing of the city's top administrator, Mark Winson. Bergson taped a pink slip to Winson's door and then left town. Winson had served the city for many years. The dismissal was made public shortly afterwards and many believed Bergson had exercised poor form.

Bergson is most recently in the news for personal reasons - a drunk driving accident in which he crashed his vehicle into a a highway median barrier. His blood alcohol content was measured 30 minutes later and registered at 0.16.

He claims that he was headed to Eau Claire for the night on his way to Chicago. Driving from Duluth to Eau Claire is a 154 mile drive, estimated at 4 hours by Google.

Bergson has publicly apologized for his behavior and vowed to never drink again. He denies that he has a problem with alcohol.

This makes me sad. Sad that a guy who's had the courage to stand up for us gays, when other politicians avoid the subject, or take the (current) popular right-wing viewpoint, doesn't have the courage to admit that he's got a problem with alcohol.

I've been there. I thought that it would be weak of me to admit I had a problem. Little did I know that the real courageous thing to do was admit my problem and accept help from others. That's the hard thing to do.

Would a non-alcoholic attempt to drive for four hours with a BAC level that's twice the legal limit? Would a non-alcoholic, former police officer attempt it when they've seen the results of drunk driving time and time again? Does a non-alcoholic look like this?

Please, Mr. Bergson, do the courageous thing and accept some help.

Read more at the Startribune. And, because the Strib's stories eventually expire, I've copied it into the extended entry below.

Can Duluth mayor pull himself out of his recent tailspin?

Successful careers as a cop and mayor of Superior, Wis., have been eclipsed by erratic behavior and, earlier this month, a DWI.

Larry Oakes, Star Tribune, December 17, 2005

DULUTH -- He's made enemies, as any aggressive cop or ambitious politician will, and he's been both.

But until recently, Duluth Mayor Herb Bergson's worst enemy was never himself.

In 2003, the 49-year-old Bergson became the first person to have been elected mayor in both Duluth and neighboring Superior, Wis. (in 1986).

Since taking office, he's pressed slumlords to clean up their act, celebrated with Duluth's gay community and vowed to put a roof over the head of every homeless citizen within 10 years.

But suddenly the biggest challenge of his life may be salvaging his own reputation.

Last week, Bergson made an emotional apology for driving so drunk that his blood-alcohol level registered at 0.16 -- twice the legal limit -- a half-hour after a single-vehicle accident that led to his arrest Dec. 9.

Some city leaders say they had hoped he would announce he was going into treatment for alcohol abuse, because at least then some of his recent behavior would make sense.

"Some questions have clouded his history, and not just on this incident," Council Member Jim Stauber said.

Instead, Bergson, his face still stitched from hitting the windshield, did another puzzling thing: He denied having an alcohol problem but vowed never to drink again.

"I feel very humiliated, very ashamed and stripped of my dignity," Bergson said. His wife, Jacqui, stood by his side.

'Officer Friendly'

Bergson was born in Duluth but moved with his mother to Superior at age 3, when his parents divorced. He's said he was a shy kid with a club foot, though you'd know neither from watching him now.

When he was 13, his uncle, a part-time deputy sheriff, was murdered by the estranged husband of a woman he'd tried to help. Bergson later said it was a defining event that helped lead him to a job in the Superior Police Department when he was 20.

He became the police liaison to schools and hosted an annual Halloween party for kids. They called him "Officer Friendly."

He and Jacqui surrounded themselves with children at home, too. They've had more than 25 foster kids over the years and adopted two boys, now 18 and 16.

In 1986 he parlayed his popularity and strong union backing into a stunning upset of three-term Superior Mayor Bruce Hagen by 137 votes. Bergson was 30.

He served two terms. During that time, the gritty port town got a new library, senior center and ice arena. He was praised for those but blamed for spending down the city's reserve fund and hurting its bond rating.

In 1992, arson destroyed the mayor's house after a series of break-ins and other frightening incidents. A criminal that Bergson had pursued both as a cop and as mayor was suspected but never charged.

The next year, a wiretap was discovered on Bergson's private office telephone. Police couldn't determine who tapped the line or why.

After failing to generate enough statewide support for a planned run for lieutenant governor of Wisconsin, Bergson announced he was dropping out of politics to spend more time with his family.

That lasted a year.

Crossing the bay

In 1995, Bergson moved his family to Duluth and began running for mayor.

Some saw him as a carpetbagger, but in industrial west Duluth, which has more in common with Superior than Duluth's wealthier eastern neighborhoods, Bergson already was well liked.

His real-estate-agent father, Herb Sr., was active in the DFL and ran for the Duluth City Council in the 1970s.

Bergson the younger lost to two-term Mayor Gary Doty in fall 1995. Undaunted, he worked as a Superior police detective but kept living in Duluth and got elected to the City Council in 2001.

From that platform he ran again for mayor in 2003. This time, with Doty not running, Bergson beat conservative business owner Charlie Bell by a large margin.

"We finally found a job in Duluth," he joked in his victory speech, to cheers.

He began with big public flourishes, launching an initiative to make Duluth a wireless "e-City of the North," and spending every Friday touring neighborhoods with department heads and news cameras in tow.

And he drew attention, both in praise and derision.

• He became Duluth's first mayor to welcome and support the city's gay community and its annual pride festival.
• Warning that retiree health care would eventually bankrupt the city, he drew a hard line, instituting a hiring freeze and advocating a hefty tax increase.
• Critics began complaining that he was too often missing in action -- out of town or unavailable during key events.
• Finally, in September, Bergson did something that embarrassed the city. He fired Mark Winson, the city's top administrator, by taping a letter to his office door one night, then leaving for a nonessential trip to San Diego.

Winson had been the City Council's go-to man on the city's most pressing issue in decades -- the crushing debt from skyrocketing retiree health-care costs.

Bergson answered critics by saying on TV that he'd defend the firing "to the death."

He later explained that Winson had disregarded too many of his instructions.

But even those who buy his explanation say Bergson shot himself in the foot with the note on the door. On Dec. 7, comedian Al Franken ribbed Bergson about it when the mayor was a guest on Franken's nationwide Air America talk show.

The drunken-driving arrest came two days later.

Locally, the police mug shot of his battered face eclipsed a flattering image of him that appeared in the New York Times the same day, with a story about local officials tackling the health-care issue.

Even Bergson's detractors on the City Council say they need his leadership on that issue and are ready to follow him, despite his recent behavior. They hope he can conquer whatever is making him stumble. They note that his history is on his side.

"Herb can be pretty incredible at pulling himself up by the bootstraps," Councilmember Stauber said. "I think he can do it."

Duluth's Mayor

Name: Herbert William Bergson Jr.

Home: Riverside neighborhood in west Duluth.

Family: Married since 1986 to Jacqui Bergson. Two sons, many foster children.

Early Life: Born in Superior, Wis., Sept. 16, 1956. Raised in Duluth and Superior.

Education: Superior Senior High, class of 1974. Attended University of Wisconsin-Superior but didn't earn degree.

Work: Stint as a railroad worker. Superior police officer, 1977-1987, and 1995-2004.

Politics: Two terms as Superior mayor, 1987-1995. DFL-endorsed Duluth City Council member, 2002- 2004. DFL-endorsed mayor of Duluth since 2004.

Posted by SparklesMpls at 01:04 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack

December 16, 2005

Mary is coming

It's official - Minneapolis is getting a Hamburger Mary's! I've never actually been to a HMs before - just heard about them. My friend Justin actually works at the one in Vegas and he's loving it. I had signed up to receive updates on the restaurant many moons ago and had forgotten about it until this email came in the other day.

Hi Honey,

I am sorry I haven’t written sooner, but I’ve been working my little tail off looking for the most absolutely fabulous space to have Hamburger Mary’s in Minneapolis! I won’t rest until the deal is done, and don’t worry – you’ll be the fist to know as soon as I’ve signed the dotted line!

I can’t wait to see you in my restaurant. The burgers and fries are outta this world – and don’t worry if you’re a vegetarian or a vegan, I’ve got great food for you too!

But I’ve been saving the best for last. Hamburger Mary’s Mpls isn’t just a restaurant – we are also Bar Stiletto where you’ll encounter the best and most diverse entertainment in the Twin Cities! And don’t even get me started on cocktails – delish, Honey, just divine!

Gotta run now, Sweetie – talk to you soon!!

Love,
Mary

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December 15, 2005

Pay It Forward

Pay It Forward makes me cry every time I see it. Okay, so I just saw it for the second time - but this makes twice.

The concept is simple. Do something nice for three people. Eventually it'll come full circle and somebody will do something nice for you.

I won't tell you why it makes me cry, because I don't want to ruin it for you. However, the other really sad part about the movie is that it presumes, and I think correctly, that it's a foreign concept for people to do something nice for anyone. That's the sad truth. So do something nice for someone. Not because you want something in return, just make a habbit of it, and you'll see positive change in your life.

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December 14, 2005

Grattitude

I'm happy to report that my father is doing well today. Though they're still not certain what actually caused his "cardiac incidents" they have inserted a permanent pacemaker / defribulator to address the symptom - his heart stopping. Thank you all for the kind words through this. I was really taken aback from all of the comments my last post received - it's been my most popuplar post yet! I'll likely be bringing my parents home today or tomorrow.

Posted by SparklesMpls at 08:39 AM | Comments (13) | TrackBack

December 11, 2005

What really matters

I got out of my Thursday night Men's Big Book Study meeting in St. Paul and checked my cell phone. 4 missed calls. All from my mother. Mom's a little OCD, but this was a little out of the ordinary, even for her. Something had to be wrong.

I checked my voicemail. Mom calling. Sounds frazzled. "Call me right away." Next message is more of the same. The third one I can hear that she's in a car. "Get to Abbot Northwestern Hospital. It's your father. Hurry."

Two months ago my father celebrated his 70th birthday. Something my mother has since told me that he never thought he'd be able to do. He's had heart problems since he was in his mid fifties. Triple bypass, artery replacements, valve replacement, etc., etc., etc. Thing is, he hasn't had anything act up in years. In hindsight, we should have been paying closer attention.

Heading west-bound on I-94, driving as fast as safely possible, my mother calls. She's sobbing, can barely speak, but she manages to convey that Dad had gone under but they'd been able to revive him.

We meet in the emergency room. I arrive shortly before my mother and uncle do. She comes in as fast as she can, looking for anyone with answers. We're instructed that he's doing okay and that we can see him shortly.

Calming down, my mother tells me the details of what happened. How they were sitting down to watch Survivor. Dad was tired and sat in his chair, tipped his head back, and momentarily fell asleep - something he's been known to do now and then. My mother tried to wake him, but he didn't respond. She went over to him and he was stiff. And not breathing. With no pulse.

She called 911. They instructed her to lay him on the floor. She rubbed his chest and opened his mouth, trying to ensure his airway was opened. He suddenly begun breathing again. Frightened, not knowing what happened, he pushed her away. The paramedics arrived, put him on the stretcher and carted him out.

In the ER, ironically at the same time ER was airing on NBC, the doctor explained to us the results of the tests. The EKG showed that his heart had been somewhat strained. They transferred him up to the Intensive Care Unit.

We arrived up on the second floor ICU five minutes later, standing in my father's room. He was conscious and alert. Though he still didn't remember what happened in the living room, he remembered eating dinner and everything leading up to that.

The doctor came in and asked us a few questions. The nurse got him situated, feeding various bottles up into his IV.

We left the room to head down to the family lounge. A monitor began to beep erratically. I didn't pay any attention to it, because there are beeps coming from any number of machines from any number of rooms - how can you tell where they're coming from? Unfortunately, this one happened to be my father's heart monitor - it had stopped again. They pulled out the paddles, positioned them on his chest, and shocked him back to life.

This happened five or six times before I fell asleep. I found out later that it continued to happen - roughly 10 - 12 times throughout the night.

I awoke in the morning and they were transferring him up to surgery to do an angiogram and insert a temporary pacemaker and defribulator, after which he was transferred again upstairs to the Cardiac-ICU.

He's still there. Rarely awake, recuperating. He hasn't had any more incidents, but there have been a few spikes in the monitor. Every time I hear one of those beeps go wild I get a little nervous. Tomorrow he is going into surgery to have a permanent pacemaker / defribulator inserted. This is supposed to be the cure-all for him.

I am grateful I have been sober through this. People contacted me when they found out what had happened. They offerred help. They wanted to make sure that I was okay. It was truly wonderful.

I'm grateful I was able to make amends with my parents. Because of that, I felt no shame with my father. I didn't know what would happen, but I knew that I had made my peace. At one point my father looked up at me, grabbed my hand and told me he was glad I was there. That meant a lot to me. It was as if he was trying to comfort me instead of the other way around. Still providing, still being the parent.

I'm grateful I've been able to be there to comfort my mother. To make sure she's not alone during this.

And most of all, I'm glad I haven't lost it yet. Sobriety has allowed me to be present.

Posted by SparklesMpls at 09:48 PM | Comments (28) | TrackBack

December 04, 2005

The Metrosexual Movement

There's a social force at work in the world today - some may even call it a conspiracy. It's only subtly present in urban areas, and likely nonexistant in rural ones. It makes brief appearances in suburbia. It is something we must all take a stand against. Our identities, once hidden, are now being stolen from us!

Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger claim that Brokeback Mountain is not a gay movie - just a love story (that incedentally involves two men). Bullshit! [Pun intended]. We live in a world that accuses gay people of trying to impress the "Homosexual Agenda" upon children. WTF is the homosexual agenda? Nobody told me. I didn't get a brochure at the latest Pride parade.

So if a movie is released that depicts two men participating in anal intercourse together, it's a gay movie. End of story. It cannot be argued. Yeah, sure, you can try to wrap it up and present it as foremost, a love story ... it's only coincidental that the primary characters are both male. In fact, I wish that were the case, and that it were that simple ... that people didn't care what the sex of the characters were. But that's not the case. This is a gay movie.

And just tonight, I'm sitting at Vera's - a gay coffee shop in south Minneapolis. There are about 20 gay men here and a handful of women. Then in walks a strapping and handsome young man. He is the epitome of sex appeal. Following him in the door is his date - a woman.

At this point I'm angry. I'm mad because he is taking his date here to show her that he's okay with "the gays". He's not one himself, of course, but he's comfortable with them. In fact, he even dresses like us. He's also taken up an interest in theatre and literature. He's dressed well. AND, he knows how to order something other than black coffee at the counter.

I grew up trying to hide the same traits this straight man is so freely exhibiting. I hid them because they weren't accepted. It's taken me years to feel comfortable in my own skin, and now the latest generation is taking its lead from us. What gives?

TMM must be stopped. We cannot allow our identities to be stolen from us! Stand up, take a stand. Tell these guys to butch it up! Tell them to spit. Chew tobacco. Drink budweiser. Wear dirty wifebeaters and Lee jeans. Drive jacked-up trucks. Watch football. Whistle at hot women. These are the qualities that make this country's men great - cherrish your own god-damned qualities!

Don't sing. Don't dance. Don't go to the theatre. Don't dress well. Don't shop. Don't get your hair done and your nails manicured. Don't go tanning and bleach your teeth. Don't talk about your emotions. And don't, DON'T go in drag for Halloween. These things are reserved for the ten percent club, so back off and give us back our Details Magazine, damnit!

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December 02, 2005

Keeping up 4th Grade Appearances

I began my obsession with looks during the summer before 4th grade. I'm not sure what triggered it, but when shopping for school clothes that year, I knew that I had to be very selective about what I picked off the racks at J.C. Penny's.

My mother took my younger brother and I to Penny's every summer to pick out clothes for the approaching school year. On special occasions we were allowed to go to the Young Men's section in Daytons, at the other end of the Burnsville Center. There, you could find Girbaud jeans, and if I was really lucky, I'd get a pair.

But the majority of the outfits were purchased at Penny's. This was the year I became smart about my wardrobe. I made sure to buy tops and bottoms that could be matched with many other things so that to the lay person, it would appear as if I was wearing many different outfits, even though I had just outwitted them by changing it up a little.

It was also this year that I began "doing" my hair before school every day. I wanted to look good in front of everyone else. I'd assemble my Bugle Boy outfit of the day and march down to the bathroom to begin prepping my hair. I watched my mother do this every morning and figured that it couldn't be that difficult.

Mom always had dry hair, styled it, sometimes with a curling iron, and then picked out one of those large aeresol cans from beneath the sink and covered herself in its mist. That smell was always awful. If I was present in the room at the same time it would make me gag.

I decided to do things a little differently - I was going to wet my hair down to make it look sleek. So, after getting dressed for the dressed for the day (you had to get dressed before you did your hair, for fear that you would mess up your hair by putting your clothes on), I would make my way down to the bathroom.

Our bathroom was massive. I grew up in a log house that had 12' tall vaulted ceilings that angled down at the sides of the house. The bathroom was smack-dab in the middle of the house, sot he ceilings created an airy feeling - that is, unless my mother was covering herself with Aussie Moose hairspray - you know, the purple bottles with the kangaroo.

The countertop stretched about 8 to 10 feet long, with two sinks and plenty of mirror space (even for my big head). I'd wet my hair down, spend about 20 minutes trying to get the part just right, or, as I began doing later, created the "side-spike" that I held onto for 8 years. Afterwhich, I would do exactly as my mother did - covered it with hairspray.

Every day, around noon or so, my hair would begin falling out of place. They just didn't make hairspray like they used to. So every morning I would put more on, in the hopes that the hold would stay longer. No luck - every day around noon, the hair would fall down. It usually happened around the time that my hair became completely dry after my morning style-wetdown.

Over and over again, I'd try putting more hairspray on every morning, but nothing seemed to work. A couple of times I tried styling my hair while it was dry, but that was nearly impossible to keep the part, and proved to be even more of a disaster than my wet look.

Around the 3rd quarter of my 4th grade year, about 6 months into the school year, my mother joined me in the bathroom. I normally tried to avoid her, so as not to poison my young lungs with her Aussie Moose, but I was running behind and decided to risk the lung infection in favor of doing my hair along with my mother.

I was a pro at styling my hair by this time. I could do it in approximately 10 minutes, plus an extra 2 or 3 minutes to apply the hairspray.

As I was misting myself down with the aeresol can, my mother looked at me and said, "Daniel, what are you doing?"

"Putting on hairspray. You do the same thing every morning."

Having a hard time holding back her smilke, she replied, "Yes, but that's lysol! I was wondering how on Earth we were going through that stuff so quickly!"

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