A favorite of your Head Trucker's since the first time I heard it on the radio - performed here by the Byrds on the Ed Sullivan Show, December 12, 1965:
The lyrics are, of course, taken from the book of Ecclesiastes, chapter 3, modified slightly for the song:
Not my favorite group, but they had a memorable sound that calls to mind the jingle-jangle days of youth, when the endless road of life seemed to lead everywhere but the grave.
The last month or so, your Head Trucker has felt a bit listless and unfocused. Can't seem to get my head around the things I want to post here. I chalked it up to this godawful heatwave that's afflicting the whole country, maybe the world - but earlier this week, M.P. insisted I go get checked out, and made the phone call over my protests. I just felt a little dizzy with the heat, that's all. No need to hit the panic button.
Now your favorite blogger has never been on any kind of daily medication - you know, like all those silly old people in the Geritol ads - and why should I? I feel fine. It's just too hot to move around much. But the doc thought it was time to start me on some daily meds. Stuff and nonsense, I said - I'm healthy as a horse - just a tired old queen, and your dadblame pills won't change that. Besides, I've never been a druggie or a pill-taker - it's against my principles.
But M.P. thought it was a Very Good Idea and pleaded with me to be nice and cooperate with the good doctor. I was too tired to argue, so to make a long story short, she put me through a little tune-up, and sent me home with a laundry list of high-powered scrips. A hundred bucks' worth, in fact, and that was at the discount pharmacy - highway robbery - what a racket.
When we got home, M.P., pleased as punch, declared himself Supreme Dispenser and Grand High Caretaker, and told me from now on I would have to do whatever he said. Hmmph! We'll see about that - but what the hell, I will let him have fun for now. And kick his ass later if he goes overboard. *Grin.*
M.P. has been on daily meds himself since his surgery a few years ago. I suppose misery loves company. Now we are both on the same schedule of noon and midnight pills, though not all the same ones. I can't tell you I feel any peppier yet, but my vision seems slightly more blurry than usual, and I find I am making more the usual number of typos an leaving out words when I try to write an email or a blog post. The docs never warn you about the side effects, do they? Just take your pills and STF up about it, says M.P., relishing the moment.
Ah well, another day, another stage of life begins. Surely all this stuff will even out in due course but in the meantime please forgive me if I dont' sound to postworthy the next few weeks. Damn keyboard keeps messing me up here. I hope to keep the men and music and beach cams coming, thought. Thanks for riding along with me in the Blue Truck. Y'all take care and stay cool, fellas. Check you later.
I'm still meditating on that big essay I mentioned last week. It's harder to write than I expected; I can't seem to focus on a single, coherent theme out of a large grab-bag of memories, comparisons, and opinions. M.P. has given me a good suggestion, though, which I am mulling over. So maybe next week. Meanwhile, enjoy the cool breeze on the beach.
I have had it in mind for a couple of years now to share some thoughts about the world we live in today by way of memories of the world as it was fifty years ago, when I was young and fancy free - or should have been. Fifty years ago! It seems incredible that I can even say that phrase, that I have lived so long.
Fifty years before 1973 was 1923, which seemed almost antediluvian to my generation, as no doubt the seventies do to the current crop of youngsters. There are college graduates now who never lived in the 20th century, strange to say.
Sorting through a half-century of mental archives is not a simple task, however, and I may have to write this memoir in weekly parts. And to keep the narrative simple and protect my own privacy, I tell my loyal readers up front that I will sometimes obscure and conflate names, dates, places, and situations, while still conveying the real essence of what happened.
In any case, you must not expect an exciting story; it's more of a psychological one, a slow awakening to liberation and sexuality and adulthood. Of no real interest or importance to anyone but me, I admit, but it's my blog and that's what I want to write about. You can always turn the dial if you get bored.
While I get Part I ready to post here, be my guest at the lovely beach seen above, complete with the live sound of breakers rushing to the shore. The drinks are on me - so have a pina colada or two, and just chill until I return.
And for your entertainment, here's Tony Orlando and Dawn singing their smash hit song of 1973. (This lackluster lip-sync does not begin to convey how wildly popular it was.) Tony was the model of fashion at that moment in time - the hair, the stache, the clothes, the high-heeled platform shoes. That was the look of the day for young men in this pre-disco era - a blow-dryed, high-styled evolution of the rag-tag hippie look, sublimated into the wider culture.
I was no entertainer and not exactly studly, but I so wanted to look like him, to dress like him, to be in the mode - but though I was old enough to do whatever I wanted, I didn't. I will tell you why in due course.
Update: Sorry, guys, looks like it will be next week before I get my essay written. Hey, it's hot AF here in Texas and I can't concentrate. Meanwhile, just chillax and keep cool at the beach.
Lord, make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is discord, harmony; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy. Grant that I may seek not so much to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.
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We cannot all do great things, but we can do small things with great love.
and welcome to the Blue Truck, a blog for mature gay men with news and views on gay rights, history, art, humor, and whatever comes to mind. Plus a few hot men. The truck's all washed and gassed up, so hop in buddy, let's go.
CAUTION: For mature gay men only beyond this point. Some posts and links may not be suitable for children or the unco guid. You have been warned.
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My Story
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Churches say that the expression of love in a heterosexual monogamous relationship includes the physical, the touching, embracing, kissing, the genital act - the totality of our love makes each of us grow to become increasingly godlike and compassionate. If this is so for the heterosexual, what earthly reason have we to say that it is not the case with the homosexual?
It is a perversion if you say to me that a person chooses to be homosexual. You must be crazy to choose a way of life that exposes you to a kind of hatred. It's like saying you choose to be black in a race-infected society.
If God, as they say, is homophobic, I wouldn't worship that God.
Note, 9/15/26: For the past week, Blogger has not updated most of the posts in this sidebar. I don't know what to do about it. You can still access the websites below by clicking on the titles of each one.
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