I seem to recall that in other Christian churches, priests and deacons are there to preach the Gospel. They are there to share Christ, confess their sins, love one another, and take Communion. Of course, Mother could not be bothered with anything like that. From what I observed, what mattered were the props and the costumes. Naturally, with my mother’s money all of that was easy.
Where I cannot find even a shred of respect for the ersatz religious hats my parents stuck akimbo on their swelled heads, I can admire the artwork provided by the supporting cast.
Kelson, my uncle Don’s gay lover and a phenomenally talented costumer, made splendid vestments for the new “church.” He also made five stained glass windows for the Temple: one for each of the four directions, and a gorgeous likeness of the Yellow Submarine for my father. These were not kits, they were not simple; they were masterpieces. I know what goes into making stained glass (copper binding, soldering all the edges, cutting every single piece of glass to size) because I had taken a class in it, and Kelson kindly let me help while he was making the Yellow Submarine window.
I knew Kelson from before: he had showed me how to operate my industrial sewing machine. It went 5000 stitches per minute and it absolutely terrified me. He also showed me how to work with leather. I had designed a cat o‘ nine tails whip with a dowel, a long strip of inch-wide leather which I ran diagonally down the dowel and used to cover the tails and make the handle. He showed me how to sew leather with the industrial and not hurt myself. I had a lot of experience working with leather lacing it up by hand, but only a very little bit of sewing: done with a triangular needle, waxed thread and an awl with a hammer. I can think of few people in my lifetime who I know who have come anywhere near to Kelson’s brilliance, talent, and vision. He died tragically young, also of AIDS.
Is God a shmoo?
Why am I talking about vestments and stained glass windows and Kelson’s brilliance? Because there was absolutely nothing of merit which went on in that “church” whatsoever other than yet another outlet for a most remarkable artist and artisan. A “Christian” “church” where Christ cannot be found, and where the Bible is merely a stage prop? Why not go to a restaurant and eat a meal of plastic fruit? What is the actual belief? Is God real, or did my parents believe that God was a “force,” and presume it would become whatever they liked, as though Divinity was a shmoo?
What is a shmoo? It is an imaginary creature, popularized by the ancient comic strip Li’l Abner, which will do and be anything you need. Via Infogalactic:
“Shmoos are delicious to eat, and are eager to be eaten. If a human looks at one hungrily, it will happily immolate itself—either by jumping into a frying pan, after which they taste like chicken, or into a broiling pan, after which they taste like steak. When roasted they taste like pork, and when baked they taste like catfish. (Raw, they taste like oysters on the half-shell.) They also produce eggs (neatly packaged), milk (bottled, grade-A), and butter—no churning required. Their pelts make perfect bootleather or house timber, depending on how thick one slices it.”
The upshot is this: if God is real, we do not have the ability or the right to decide what, or who, God is. If we are Christians, we do not have the ability or the right to decide that God is something other than what He has told us plainly that He is.
If people with no interest in Christian doctrine can be ordained as priests, our dogs also deserve ordination. After all, dogs live a life of service and poverty, depending entirely on their people from morning to night. They exhibit the qualities of patience, perseverance, unconditional love for all people, appreciation of the blessings in their lives, forgiveness, long-suffering, and wet noses. It is obvious that dogs possess Christian qualities and virtues in much greater measure than the ordained heretics found in my family.
The cake is a lie.
Imagine baking a chocolate cake, but you don’t really like chocolate, so you substitute prunes. Wheat flour is too high in gluten, so you substitute cornmeal. Sugar is unhealthy, so it is left out in favor of some molasses. Eggs are deemed undesirable, so applesauce is used instead. By the time the whole business is baked, calling it a chocolate cake doesn’t make a lot of sense, since the only resemblance to a cake is the general shape. If you bite into it expecting chocolate cake, it is not likely to be a pleasant surprise. Why not just call it a bizarre casserole, rather than pretending it is a chocolate cake?
Similarly, if you want to be a Christian, but you don’t like Christian doctrine and you substitute your own, are you a Christian or a generic mystic wearing a costume?
I had quietly become a Christian a few years before. When Jesus came to me speaking in a small, still voice, He told me that I was His and He would take care of me. I couldn’t tell anyone, of course. I certainly couldn’t go to church, let alone stop going to my mother’s “rituals.” One thing I do remember very distinctly is that I would get sick every single time I attended one of the rituals.
I would sooner have told my parents I had become a cannibal than admit I was a Christian. If my parents had found out, first they would have wondered who “corrupted me” and then they would have made merciless fun of me, possibly coming up with something more extreme. Both my mother and father had regularly railed against Christianity with many high-sounding intellectual arguments and condescension. I could not take the hours and hours of balderdash they would subject me to to talk me out of it, and I knew that they would view my conversion as a betrayal. I didn’t dare come out of that particular closet for a very long time, and I acted like a pagan all through my teens so I wouldn’t upset them.
It occurs to me that this is simply one more area of my life that they owned.
In any event, I make no claims of having been anything resembling a “good” Christian. It was more about what He did than what I did, because at that point I could do absolutely nothing. I am convinced He is the one who made it so that I became strong enough to speak out and eventually to bring my father to justice.
Where the “Priest Friends” had brought Barry and Gregg into the house, their pimping and pandering did not stop there. One day, my father’s friend Richard Kihlstadius told me that the reason I was so moody and angry all the time was that I was sexually frustrated. This was absurd and I did not give it another thought. I knew perfectly well that I was moody and angry because I was a teenager living in chaos, and the chaos interfered with my ability to get my homework done.
Then, Richard Kihlstadius brought a young man over to meet me. His name was Rick, and I found him to be frightening: He was a punk in leather and spikes, and he talked at length about how Sid Vicious had killed his girlfriend in the bathtub. Worse, he was in our bathroom doing something in the mirror when he was talking about that. I refused to talk to him and I left. I was not sure why he was there, or why he wanted to meet me if he idolized murdering girls.
The next time Richard brought a young man over, it was completely different. His name was Smiley. He told me as soon as we left the house that Richard had paid him to have sex with me, and I was aghast. He said he intended to give the money back and offered to take me out to dinner because he liked me like a girlfriend, not a friend or whatever Richard intended. Smiley even picked a place on Shattuck Avenue called “Omnivore,” and we walked right by it. I couldn’t make myself walk inside, though.
I really, really liked Smiley, and I was completely awkward and uncomfortable. Besides, my father had been telling me for ages that no man would ever want me and worse, that all women ever wanted from men was money. If I let Smiley take me out to dinner, I would just be one of them, those awful mercenary women. Was this a colossal joke with me as the butt of the joke? Was I being manipulated into acting like a normal girl so my father could become enraged with me for it?
Smiley and I walked around Berkeley, talking about everything for a long, wonderful time because I couldn’t go along with letting him buy me dinner. Eventually, he walked me home.
I suppose that was my first date.
By Nicholas Bosson
I was born in 1964, in the university town of Berkeley, California. By the time I had reached puberty, I had experienced the People’s Park riots (firsthand) dropped acid (age 11), and been tossed between my divorced parents’ houses a series of times. My mother left home when I was three; an act that my sister convinced me was my fault. I saw virtually nothing of her until the age of seven, when she rode in like an avenging angel and took me to live with my new stepfather. He had already raised three kids, and seemed to have felt he had had enough of raising kids.
When I was 12, I met Patrick Breen. An artist, like me, with a mystical bent. It wasn’t till a few years later that we became best friends. When visiting his house, “Greenwalls” I met his father; a man who welcomed me with open arms. He let me share his marijuana, something in short supply for a lad my age. The mother, Marion, was a kind enough woman to allow me to share their table. The family seemed to live on solely over-salted canned goods. She was so busy writing that a murder could have happened there without her knowledge. The entire house seemed to whirl about a center of fantasy and science fiction. I spent many hours with my mind in the clouds. I thought I had found home; a place where I could be who I thought I really was.
Well, that proved false. I was but one of the many young boys that Walter had “made comfortable.” Comfortable enough to let my guard down. I wasn’t an idiot, and neither was he.
He began with not so subtle comments concerning my physical beauty. I was an attractive boy. Having had some few dalliances at such an early age, I enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh; what teenager doesn’t ? But, they expect to experiment with others their age. At 14, a simple bus ride would give me an erection. I was the perfect target for cock-gobblers. Hell, if it was wet and warm, I would stick it in there, just to pleasure myself.
This must be a common tactic for child molesters, as most boys my age find themselves bereft of options. The girls, most of them, didn’t want to appear to be sluts. The boys were too hung up with being labelled a “FAG”. When Walter went down on me, without even asking, it felt good. Still, looking down, I realized what a repulsively ugly man was giving me head. I felt dirty. I wanted to hide this. But there were too many others that knew the truth for me to do that. It was not a secret what Walter was doing. He was akin to the Black Plague.
It seemed like many of the kids I had grown up with had been approached by him. Not just the kids knew about him, I discovered, a lot of adults did as well! Namely Marion, and her live-in girlfriend Lisa. I personally saw much of Marion. The thing that can be said in her favor was that she doted on Patrick. She loved to touch his hair. She would call him her “Prince”. Soon after, though, she would head back into her tiny study to write. Perhaps Patrick was her muse.
Dorothy, I remember, spent a lot of time upstairs when I first showed up. This became less and less as the years passed. Dorothy was a rambunctious kid with scarlet hair. She rarely left her room. I have to admit that I wanted to know her better. It was hard to get inside her armor, especially since I was dragged away by Walter each time we spent more than five minutes talking together.
Walter was…hungry. He craved attention.
I guess I should describe him to you, both mentally and physically. Please don’t judge me. He liked to think of himself as Santa Claus. A long grey-black beard that reached his swollen belly. Eyes, a bit piggy. He had false teeth. Though he would bathe in the hot tub often, he had a scent. An old man scent. Being overweight, sedentary, and lacking a healthy diet, (remember the canned foods) he smelled of what he ate…cholesterol. And YES; I know what cholesterol smells like. It is often a joke that fat people wear Muu-muus. Walter wore Muu-mus. He preferred to be naked. Display his hirsute belly without a tad of shame. Well, God bless him for that, but he did it for all the wrong reasons.
Walter would not have hurt a fly. He was a coward. His voice high-pitched, his giggle was girlish, and his demeanor fey. He claimed his staunchly religious mother had placed clothes pins on his member if it ever became erect. He said he was a bishop, but I never learned of which church he hailed.
One summer my mother sent me off to a horse summer camp in Montana while they toured Europe. I got kicked out three weeks in.
My father was far too busy with his “new” family; a purely Swedish bastion on the edge of Wildcat Canyon. Tom Fogerty owned the mansion at the top of the street. Nice digs. My half-sister Jenny consumed most of their time. She eventually has become a thoracic surgeon, so I guess they did right by her.
Kicked out of summer camp. No parents or home to go home to. I ended up on the porch of “Greenwalls” begging for a place to stay. This is where things got out of control.
My old friends from school barely saw me, as Walter demanded the full extent of my time. I felt imprisoned. I met with nobody, but that inner circle. A form of brainwashing, perhaps Walter intended, or just subconscious. I was daily indoctrinated into what Walter believed to be “MY” preferred way of life/sex. One problem, I truly loved women. They had everything I desired. I wanted their difference, their grace, their warmth. And I hated the feel of coarse hair! One night, Dorothy invited me into her bedroom. I reveled in her perfect form. I sucked her up like nectar. And thirty minutes later, I was back with Walter, and surrounded again by “that smell.” Thanks, kid.
A seed was planted. I had become so involved in a way of life I was no longer comfortable with, something that felt like a cat being petted backward, I drifted back to my old friends once again. But now there was a pall of distrust. “Is Nick trying to seduce us?” Most of the girls, —YES! But not so much the boys: I had had enough. Still, I was not trusted. My closest friends knew better. I was lucky to have found a group of highly intelligent people; ones who took me at face value. I felt it difficult to relate to my true friends at “Greenwalls” (those of my own age.)
Then one day, at the bathroom of Silver Ball Gardens, my friend injected me with methamphetamine. I wanted it. I loved it. Suddenly I had the ability to complete my very dreams, or so it seemed. This became a problem.; a problem that lasted 30 years. How can I explain this?
I was in a bubble. A steel bubble. One that I could escape at any time, but I was assailed by such feelings of guilt. If I were to not ever see Walter ever again, it would have been unfair to the others who were my true comrades. People like Patrick and Dorothy. I hung out with them and we played the games that teenagers do, like Magick, Role Playing games, (pre-video) drawing and painting. Dorothy began to slip away, perhaps because of an innate revulsion to what her father was doing?
At a certain point, Walter was forced to move out to an apartment on busy Telegraph Ave. I had started to go to a new school in San Francisco. There I met a young gay kid named Gregg. He had a lot of baggage concerning his mother. He loved me. I am afraid that I did not feel the same way, but I still introduced him to all of my friends, including Walter.
Soon Gregg was a fixture in Walter’s little crash pad. I deign to call it a home. Walter had a large bed in the central room where the sex happened. Two priests, Father Jim and Richard Kihlstadius, began to make themselves regular fixtures there. They had been at Greenwalls also. Both were on the edge, if not over, 50 years old. They began to prey on us young boys with an even greater lust than Walter had ever shown. They were thoroughly addicted to sex. They wanted to fuck all day long, even after their sagging scrotums were empty of cum.
It was at this point that Walter became increasingly paranoid about the police. There was one certain officer who he would always bring up. (name?) He complained vehemently that men should be able to have sex with kids. He cited NAMBLA tracts and other likeminded organizations, purporting that since man/boy love had been practiced throughout history… it must be OK, utterly ignoring all arguments that might counter his beliefs.
Gregg began to petition Walter to urge me to be more affectionate to him. Gregg, I think, had started to figure out that I wasn�
��t as into him. As I was now nearing 16, my life now extended beyond Walter’s apartment. Gregg took my place there, and soon made me out to be some kind of devil. I really didn’t give a damn. I had places now that I would rather be. Back with my friends from the underworld.
We were all interesting people. A lot of us were just teenagers, a few from “the older kids” (at that age, “older kids” were two or three years older than you). We had all met through friends, or chance meetings. The majority were enamored with magick, or languages, or art. We knew who was one of us at first glance. If you had seen us holding court in the back of a Berkeley cafe, you would have said: “Those kids belong together.”
It was a weird amalgam of children from different races, and economic levels. It was our shared alienation, I think, that brought us all together. My friends all knew what was going on with Walter; Berkeley is a small town where news travels fast amongst natives.
…we all know the seedy underbelly of this seedy little college town. The gossip of Berkeley’s teenagers could have taken down many respected academics. We had our fingers on the pulse of that town, as all of us kids were insiders. Dinner table conversations, parents fighting, sisters fondled, sons propositioned, etc… An endless dirty fountain of burbling excrement. Believe me, universities are rife with socially crippled intellectuals.
Walter was a numismatist, which, if you can believe it, is a field controlled by gnomelike men who would rather spend their time with coins in some dimly lit study, than having a merry conversation with their colleagues, or family. Marion, an author, had none of the charisma of other fiction writers I had met. Most of the best loved to amuse crowds. They tend to be storytellers. (duh). Capturers of others’ interest. Weavers of shared dreams. Walter’s charisma had none of this, his “wife’s ” either. It was more planned out. Charisma in the form of orchestrating the emotions of those around them. Still, even at this, they both lacked. The constant attempts by Walter to indoctrinate us into his felonious beliefs. Marion’s blithe ignorance of affairs that only Hellen Keller might not be aware of.
The Last Closet_The Dark Side of Avalon Page 23