Birthday wishes for an angel.

Just about the turn of the century, Gawds, I’ve always wanted to say that, I made some very good friends: Scott McDowell, Chris DiPiero, and Tom Walker. We were in a play and together with Nichol Rodriguez, Willie Medina, and others I can’t seem to recall anymore, we had so much fun doing a production of “A Comedy of Errors.”

                Little did I know that these guys (Scott, Chris, and Tom) shared an interest in gaming. It wasn’t until Scott mentioned it that we all revealed that we were gamers too! I seem to recall us quickly putting together a group to play a rousing game of Dungeons and Dragons. It was then that Friday night gaming became a standard in my life—a standard that is still exercised today though not as enthusiastically as it used to be and not always on Friday.

                We gathered at my house where we cobbled together folding tables to fit five of us and play for hours on end. Now, if you have never met Scott McDowell, you are missing out on a natural storyteller. He can spin the most routine and boring narration into a yarn of high adventure! I am certainly not saying that my adventures in Dungeons and Dragons are either routine or boring but if he could spin the mundane into extraordinary tales, imagine what he could do with an exciting one? Well, unbeknown to me, he was doing exactly that at the restaurant he was working at on Sunday mornings. He would show up extra early to recount his gaming adventures to the cooks and other wait staff before the day began.   Shortly after the campaign was in full adventure mode (much like a novel, a D&D campaign has an introduction and character establishment period before the novel moves into  the adventure),  Scott showed up with another  in tow as his retelling sparked interest from other gamers looking for a campaign or new players wanting to learn to play.  Our ranks began to swell. From five we went to seven and from seven we went to ten! I think at one point we actually had fourteen players!!!  It wasn’t always Scott who brought in players; Tom introduced us to legendary Clayton—but that’s another blog.

                Sometime along the way (perhaps the second or third newbie), Robert showed up. He was a manager that worked with Scott and was intrigued by this game he only heard about recently. Scott had mentioned that his interest in the game was merely curiosity and more than likely he would only show up for that one night and never come back again. Boy, how wrong he was. 

                I have been Dungeon Mastering since high school.  So since this was not my first day at the rodeo (ro-day-O: as the brits say), I knew exactly what to do. With players that plan to make a brief stop before moving on, I like to do something a little different. Whereas all the other players are playing elves, dwarves, humans, and the like, I set up Robert with a deva.  Deva is a Hinduism term for supernatural being, in Dungeons and Dragons they are a race of angels. Since Robert was planning on just a one-night stand play session, I let him play this angel as a messenger to the party to relay that there is something much more sinister at work in the world than just the political mischief they found themselves embroiled.  By the end of the session, Robert looked at us (Scott and I) like we had just showed him something akin to some sort of salvation. I still recall him staring at his character sheet and asking, “So what happens now?” He was concerned about his angel. He didn’t want anything to happen to Dezmael—Dezmael was the name he came up with for that character.

                He left completely invigorated by the game and I was glad to a part of that experience. Nothing could prepare me for what happened next. During the middle of the week (during our rehearsals), Scott asked if he and Robert could come by for another session before next game session. Robert wanted to learn more. Evidently, he kept talking to Scott about it and even went so far as to buy the Player’s Handbook.  He was hooked. Over the course of the next two years, the length of the campaign, he was a regular player and we became good friends.

                Alas, as time marches on, so do the course of our lives and fate has a way of directing us in different directions,  last I heard, Robert moved to Houston and despite all the social media that is out there, we sort of lost touch with each other.  Yesterday was his birthday and my computer reminded me with a pop up.  Of all the players I have met over the years, Robert will always have a special place in my heart because his love for the game reminded me of my initial love for the game when I was introduced to it as a Freshman at Central Catholic. I miss his zaniness; his love for life translated well with the game.

                Happy birthday, dear friend, I hope your life is still filled with adventure and riches.

Blazon of Arms: Cardona-Cortez

            We had been talking about building a coat of arms to represent us for a while now. So I finally sat down and did some research on heraldry and coat of arms symbolism.  It was an interesting endeavor though not entirely gratifying. Turns out that heraldry is not entirely standardized—despite the consistency that does exist! So for the most part, it’s anything goes! I am writing this up to explain the details of our crest—such a write up is called a “blazon of arms.” With that said, let us begin at the top:

According to www.fleurdelis.com, “a ‘coat of arms’ consists of several parts: the shield, the mantling, the helm, the wreath, charges, and the crest (note that not all arms have crests).”

Our crest is the Annulet, the three interlocking rings above the helm. This signifies fidelity; commitment. Above all things, we must have a commitment to each other in order for this coat to exist! The three rings themselves represent three supports: physical, spiritual, & financial.

The Helm represented here is merely a placeholder for the helms that will be placed here later. The two I have in mind are from my creation:  The Montarsis Knights and the Black Montarsis Knights. These symbolize the potential to bring out the best and worst in each of us. The Montarsis Knight helm will sit in front of the Black Montarsis Knight helm in a symbolic gesture that we strive to always keep the darker aspects of ourselves in check.

Though the mantling around the helm and shield should reflect the colors of the design itself, I chose to use our favorite colors: Blue & Purple (Azure & Purpure as they are called in the classic heraldry terminology.)  It just so happens that Blue is the symbol for truth and purple is the symbol for royal majesty, sovereignty, and justice. Though we can be a bit full of ourselves, I would like to think the purple does reflect our desire for justice in all affairs. Though I am more than certain Isaac would prefer the majestic definition apply to him.

The shield is quartered with a chevron placed atop. The colors of the shield, Red (Gules) and White/Silver (Argent) represent military strength and peace/sincerity. By military strength I allude to our gaming ability as formidable foes on the playing field. Despite, Isaac’s ravings, we do desire peace in our house. The green (vert) chevron represent hope, joy, and loyalty in love. Since we constantly strive to make each other laugh and seek each other's best interest, this color is befitting our love for each other. 

The top of the shield (chief) bears a black crow. This symbolizes our love for our friends and support of them in their endeavors. (This surprised me at first—the symbol, that is, not the fact that we love our friends. But after thinking about it for a bit, it kind of makes sense in that crows do tend to flock together.)

The left side of the shield (dexter) is the small bear. Bears, as a heraldic symbol, represent strength, cunning, and ferocity in the protection of one’s kindred. As a symbol in the gay lifestyle, a young bear (or younger bear in a relationship) is called a cub. Isaac embodies all these elements. This is his symbol. My symbol can be found on the right side of the shield (sinister) as I am the bear of our relationship and also seek to extoll the virtues of the bear.  I think everyone agrees I tend to overprotect at times.

The morning star, found at the bottom of the shield (base), represents armor and strength of crushing force. We use this symbol to further represent our commitment to our resolve. Once we have made up our minds regarding a plan of action, we can be hard pressed to change our direction. We consider this a virtue.

Last but certainly not least, our motto: Est Adversus Vos Mundi.  

This has been our motto from the very beginning of our relationship though we didn’t know it at the time. We certainly do not say it in Latin, but it is still very relevant. The figurative translation being: “It is you and me against the world.”

The Prism (pt. 1)

 

 

The Prism is home.  Not just for Mark but for many of those who do not feel comfortable in just any bar. “When in Rome…” His friend, Lalo, always said.  Mark’s teenage friend was full of old clichés.  Now, many years later and having gone separate ways, the cliché belongs to him—locked in Lalo’s voice as it chases forever in Mark’s memory.  The outside of the home is simple enough—Four non-descript tin walls with a dark roof and a single lamp over the door.  Making his way from the gravel parking lot to the bar, he hears the jukebox muffled by the walls.  He looks around and counts the cars in the parking lot. 

“Fourteen. Not too shabby.” 

            He walks along the building towards the door noticing the newly installed lights under the roof overhang. 

“Hmm.”

He is even more shocked to find the door outlined in marquee lights, chasing around the otherwise plain off white frame and a canopy over the sidewalk leading up to the door. Mark chuckles.  Gripping the handle firmly, bowing his head, he pulls the door open and goes in.  He always bows his head when he enters the Prism.  Not out any reverence or silent prayer but to shield his eyes from the glaring lamp over the door. The lamp makes everyone squint when they enter the bar and screw up their faces as they try to focus quickly in the dark—everyone except Mark. Once he steps in, the heavy beats of a club song, grossly out of place here, wash over him; he takes in the scene completely unaffected by the switch from extreme light to dark and the jukebox plays, “Where are you my love, where are you my love, I want to know you…”  The bar is as simple inside as it is outside.  A single pool table surrounded by four men—all looking at Mark—sits near the door.  A fluorescent lamp lights the table as trails of smoke snake through the air.  The men wear jeans, baseball caps, t-shirts, and leather—leather vests amid leather worn faces.  In the middle of the pub, a bar with a single attendant dominates the front room.  The bar itself seems swollen against the limited space.  It leaves very little room for people to navigate back and forth. The back room has a much smaller bar and several dartboards.  Mark never cared for such things and consequently found himself in the back room only when he was with his friends.  Tonight, he is alone.   

            “Mark!” calls out Pete, the Bartender. Mark smirks.  Years of coming here has certainly left its mark—like “Cheers,” the sitcom, everyone knows Mark. Everyone?  No—just the bartender.  Mark is a quiet man.  He makes friends easily enough but no more than any other guy. Pete on the other hand, has a following.  Growing up in the height of the racial and sexual revolutions left its impression on him.  Emulating his heroes, Pete has won many a pageant as Tina Turner or Diana Ross but everyone jokingly refers to him as Rosa Parks which isn’t far from the truth in a small-minded town like San Antonio in the 70’s. 

            Climbing onto a barstool, Mark begins the game.  Shifting eyes, fleeting glances, subtle innuendoes—looking for someone interested in passing the night and if he is lucky, maybe a while longer.  Pete places the rum and coke cocktail in front of him.    Throughout the bar couples and groups litter the pub like animals at a watering hole.  His glance takes him into the fixated eyes of another, who happens to be looking his way, jarring Mark to quickly look into his drink. He takes a sip.  Like the sleek wisps of smoke weaving in the air rising to dissipate amid the rafters, Mark feels his courage leave him.  It is so hard meeting anyone.  Outside is even worse.  As Mark stirs his drink, he catches the red light of a neon sign bounce out of his glass.  “Lalo,” he says to himself.  About fifteen years since last he saw Lalo.

 

                        

“Hey lets hide,” Lalo said to Mark with a hint of excitement in his voice. Lalo’s hair could never stay back or rather a lock of it couldn’t.  It always fell forward and curled under his left eye. He wore his favorite run-of-the-mill red jersey with a big blue star outlined in white and faded blue jeans.  He would have made a great lineman.  Not too fat but enough to take the hits and give a few as well. A grin over took Mark’s face as he nodded his approval watching the lock of hair swing about.  Lalo took the lead.  He ran down the street to the corner of the block in a Southside neighborhood, where the Puma St. Automotive Shop lay dormant in the night.  It wasn’t always a shop though; once it was a lot with abandoned cars thrown about.  It wasn’t an official dumpsite but the city had other things to worry about at the moment.  That moment turned into days followed by weeks and then months.  Until one day someone called it the Puma Drive Dump and it kind of took. Finally, when the lot went out of control with cars everywhere, Mr. Zamarripa, the neighbor who lived across the street from the eye sore, bought it out and converted it to his own automotive yard. 

                    Running along the broken curb, Lalo and Mark found the loose board in the fence that the large Honeysuckle bush hid from the rest of the world.  Only the kids of Puma St. knew where to find it.  It was Tino’s turn with the flashlight and he had already counted to a hundred.  Making his way from the corner of the street, he began his hunt for the other players.  The game was an upgraded version of hide-and-go seek.  Except it was played at night.  The seeker, armed with a flashlight, was charged with finding everyone within the confines of two restrictions: the seeker had to stay on the street and had to call out by name whoever he spotted.  Mark held the loose plank as Lalo scurried into the automotive yard.  Mark followed.

                    “You know this is against the rules,” Mark commented, “we can’t hide indoors or behind anything larger than a parked car.”

                    Lalo fell to one knee and began to whistle, “It’ll be our little joke.  If he can’t find us or anyone else, then he’ll be hunting all night.” Lalo’s voice betrayed his mirth at the idea of Tino searching all night long.  From around the corner charged Max, the Rottweiler custodian of the Puma Drive Dump.  However, Max knew the boys since before he was weaned from his mother so he dashed without malicious intent instead, with high-pitched whines and pawing.

                    “How’ya doing Max?” Lalo rubbed his hands over the dog’s floppy ears. 

                     “So where are we gonna hide?” Mark inquired making it a point to rub the dog’s ears as well.

                    “Up there!” Lalo pointed to five cars stacked on each other.  The pinnacle of the metal mountain was a beat up ‘79 Monte Carlo with a purple front end against a brown body.   

                    “Terry!” shouted a voice from up the street.  The boys quickly scrambled to the top car. They jumped in the back seat and ducked down.  Mark lay pinned under Lalo as they both struggled to hear Tino.  Silence followed. 

                    “I think he’s still lookin’,” commented Lalo, “we better stay here just in case.”  Mark didn’t protest.  As far as he was concerned, he never wanted to move from this spot.  He realized his feelings for Lalo when during a game of football, on an ordinary afternoon, Lalo tackled Mark and Mark felt a tingling sensation where Lalo touched him.  Even Lalo jumped back rather quickly as if he had been shocked.  Neither one of them ever spoke of it.  The young age of fifteen brought awareness to Mark that hit most children his age, but his desires did not lead him to Dona, Michelle, or Destiny, instead they led him to Lalo.  Now Lalo was lying on top of Mark and almost instantly, the craving began.  The hot, torrid desire to reach out and touch Lalo was almost overwhelming.  The hair on the back of Mark’s neck stood on end as Lalo’s breath bore down on him.  “Just lay still,” Mark told himself. The seconds turned to long minutes that stretched into hours as he tried to soak everything he felt from Lalo’s body into his memory.  Then his ears rang.  A buzz sounded as comprehension dawned on Mark.  Lalo was touching him!  Along his side, Lalo stroked his flank moving his hands up and down becoming more confident in his actions.  Mark turned himself around to face Lalo.  Lalo lifted himself up so Mark could move but then settled down again once Mark rolled over.  Lalo’s hair covered his face and hid his eyes in darkness.  They both lay motionless for a moment waiting for the other to respond.  Lalo’s breath was tight and controlled. 

                    “Destiny, is that you,” Tino called out from up the street. 

                    Lalo reached up to Mark’s shirt and began to unfasten the buttons.  He pulled the shirt away.  Lalo then sat up and pulled off his own shirt.  Dropping it to the side, he settled on unfastening his belt buckle. 

This Funny Little Thing Called Love...

Nothing could have prepared me for Isaac. Not the person, per se, but the relationship. Nothing could prepare me for this disrobing that we are going through. At first, I did not understand what others, that are in relationships, meant when they told me we have a lot to go through and even though we have spent over a year and half together, we still have so much more to go.

It’s like trying to explain the color red to a blind person or sound to a deaf person. Yes, they can still perceive red or sound but not the way we would ever think to explain it.  It’s not until now, going on two years, that I am beginning to understand. Before it was on the fringes of my reality—my consciousness—but as of late, I am becoming more aware of it. What I am alluding to is my pride and, by the same notion, to his pride.

At first, my pride seemed like a thick sweater but now it has become a heavy overcoat and I am wearing my overcoat and Isaac is wearing his. Sometimes we take it off and sometimes it goes back on. Sometimes, I have mine off and he has his on and then he takes his off but then I put mine back on.

We get into these bicker sessions that seem to really stress us but then, out of the blue, one of us yields and then we both regret saying things. Isaac makes me apologize and then I make him apologize.  I know he loves me. I certainly do love him. I don’t know what to think about this revelation I am going through but I will continue to try to remove this overcoat from my shoulders when it comes to Isaac.