It's Time

Here's a sweet treat for you, fellas. Yesterday, YouTube threw me something I'd never seen before:  a beautiful ad for marriage equality from GetUp! Australia that aired in 2011, starring actor and filmmaker Julian Shaw.  After years of debate and campaigning by both sides, the Australian federal parliament finally legalized same-sex marriage nationwide in December 2017.

And here is the making-of video:

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Sunday Drive: Words, Barry Gibb and Dolly Parton

Recorded in Nashville for Barry Gibb's 2021 album Greenfields:

The finished version:

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Waitin' for the Weekend

"Hims + Thems #4" by Clint Collide:

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In Memoriam: Dolly Parton, 1946-2026

America has lost a national treasure.  The incomparable Dolly Parton, singer, songwriter, actress, and philanthropist, died today at age 80 after a life well lived, rising from the hills of Tennessee to the summit of world acclaim, but never losing the common touch.  She will live on in the hearts of many millions whom she touched with beauty, joy, and a generous, loving spirit.  She was also a friend and supporter of the gay community.

1.  A message from Dolly's family:

2.  NBC News reports on Dolly's true-life rags to riches story:

3.  In this 2025 interview with Dan Rather, starting at the 4:00 mark, we learn the secret to her success:  she's not a floozy, she's a sharp, shrewd businesswoman:

See the full interview here.

4.  Dolly was also a deeply spiritual person who lived her faith, as she explains in this wide-ranging interview with Norah O'Donnell in 2024:

5.  I believe Dolly always closed her shows with this beautiful song:

Bonus: The Empire State Building was lit up in sparkling pink tonight as a tribute to Dolly.

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Sunday Drive: Once Upon a Dream

The unforgettably romantic theme from Walt Disney's Sleeping Beauty, 1959.  I never got to see the film until I was grown, but this little gay boy did play the song on a little yellow record over and over and over . . . .

The music is, of course, lifted directly from Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty ballet, 1889:

By the way, Resident Artist M.P. did get to see the movie as a little gay boy, and fell in love with the stylized artwork, which he still thinks is very, very cool. Check out this fascinating video about the artistic development behind the finished film:

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Waitin' for the Weekend: Friends of Walter F.

Beach forecast:  sunny, warm, and studly.
Kenneth Carson, Galveston, May 14, 1938 --
one of Walter's many friends.

Something different this week:  a poignant series of photographs of handsome young men at the beach and elsewhere, taken between 1937 and 1941.  The photographer, who appears in some of the photos, was one Walter R. Ferguson, who apparently had a job that enabled him to roam the South as "your TAFT representative," whatever that means.  He stayed in very nice hotels, too.

The photos record his travels, first to seaside towns, starting with Jacksonville, Fla., and westward along the Gulf Coast to Beaumont, Texas.  Next he shows up in St. Petersburg, Fla., and Miami, then travels up the East Coast all the way to Norfolk, Virginia.  The following year, he visits Charlotte, Birmingham, Jackson, and Dallas, then goes up to Memphis, Nashville, and Knoxville in Tennessee.  And meets studly guys everywhere.  And they gladly let him take their pictures!

It's obvious that Walter was good at striking up friendships wherever he went; he must have had a charming personality.  The smiling young men he photographed seem to be enjoying his company, too.  Apparently, nothing more is known of Walter and his friends, but the photos seem to tell a story.  What do you think that story was?

Part 1:

Part 2:

Part 3:

These vids were posted on the YouTube channel homosexualhistory.

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Memories of My Grand Tour, 1976 - Part 2

This post continues the travel saga that I began two weeks ago.  Unfortunately, my old passport photo hasn't turned up yet.  But here's a picture of me a few months later, with the same hair and stache that I had when I toured London and Paris in August of 1976.  

By the way, I was still closeted at the time; I knew very well that I was gay, but coming out was several years in the future.

Your Head Trucker was strictly au courant on this occasion with the big plaid, wide lapels, platform shoes, and polarized indoor/outdoor sunglasses.

This photo was taken early in 1977 at a country-club get-together thrown by the Business Department of the university I transferred to after I finished junior college.  That was a practical choice, but it wasn't right for me; eventually I went to another university and felt very much at home in the humanities.

Back to the travel story:  I won't bore my readers with details of all the famous places I visited in England and France, which every tourist could tell you about.  Sure, it was thrilling to finally see in person the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace (the Queen wasn't at home, alas!  Gone to Scotland for her summer vacation).  And there was Westminster Abbey, the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben (sadly silent - they were working on the bell mechanism); also, feeding the pigeons in Trafalgar Square, wandering through Windsor Castle (and enjoying a delicious afternoon tea at the hotel across the street), and Hampton Court Palace, and Kensington Palace, and walking the length and breadth of Hyde Park.

Unfortunately, Europe was having its worst drought in 300 years - nowadays, the British press refers to it as the heatwave of 1976, but at the time they spoke of the drought.  No fountains were running anywhere, and Hyde Park was one big carpet of dead grass, brown as toast - all except along the banks of the Serpentine, a lake that curves through the southern part, where the grass was thick and deep green.

I was there on a Sunday afternoon, when a military band played marches and popular tunes on a gazebo near the southeast gate, and you could rent a folding chair for, oh, maybe 25 pence or so.  It was lovely to sit under a shade tree and listen to the pretty music.  After the band finished up, around 4 p.m., I wandered over to a row of trees on a rise of ground paralleling the Serpentine and sat down on the cushiony grass.  There was a level field of the same grass about a hundred feet wide between the bank of the stream and where  I was sitting, and two teams of amateurs were having a jolly good time playing soccer - which the English insist on calling football.

It was a friendly, good-natured game that was pleasant to watch.  Those were the days when most young men sported long hair, moustaches, and beards, and I admired the hairy, sweaty guys as they ran to and fro, shouting and laughing, jumping up and falling down.  It made me a little sad, too.  Unathletic me doesn't give a damn about sports, but I would have liked to join in the game - to be one of the guys, for a change.  A wistful thought.  

A view across the Serpentine in Hyde Park, June 2007, via Wikipedia.

Most of those guys had very dark hair.  It seemed odd to me that there were few English people to be seen on the streets of London.  A great many Italians were working in small shops or cafes; the rest of the pedestrians were largely Indian ladies in their colorful saris or tall Africans in what we Americans called dashikis.  At least, that's how it seemed in the parts of the town I visited.

There was an Indian restaurant down the street from my hotel that I often passed on my way to the tube station (American:  the subway).  One day I stopped there for lunch - I had no idea of what Indian food was like, but in my naivete, I imagined that dishes from the exotic East must be something wonderful, like ambrosia of the gods, maybe.  The lunchtime crowd having departed, the nearly empty cafe was staffed by at least half a dozen young Indian men with thick accents, and it seemed half a dozen more were squeezed into the narrow kitchen, cooking food and washing dishes. 

The waiter brought me a menu, at which I gazed perplexedly.  I didn't recognize any of the items listed.  But hey, it's an adventure, right?  So I ordered Mulligatawny soup for the first course - that sounded vaguely Irish to me.  Then a main dish with chicken in it, and maybe some kind of vegetable.  What could go wrong?

I soon found out.  The soup was hot as blazes - both in temperature and spices.  The main dish was even hotter!  To my way of thinking, Indian food is very like Mexican food, nothing fancy but much hotter.  I didn't enjoy any of it, but I was too embarrassed by my stupidity to ask for something else, so I soldiered on through the meal, ordering Coke after Coke.  They had only the small bottles of Coke that we in America had long since abandoned for the king-size bottles.  They weren't cold, but even so, they gave relief to my five-alarm tongue.  I must have drunk six or seven bottles.

The waiters stood in the kitchen doorway, chattering excitedly and shooting glances at the crazy American who was drinking up their Coke supply.  I felt very conspicuous and foolish.  Somehow, I managed to down a respectable portion of what was served to me, paid my check, and left, faking aplomb outwardly, but inwardly vowing never again to order anything anywhere if I didn't know what it was.  

I tried a couple of other cafes in London, but the food wasn't to my taste, and the prices were higher than I wanted to pay, keeping a careful eye on my spending money, which had to last two weeks.  Fortunately, the answer to my food problem was near the tube station, under a pair of golden arches.  Who knew they had McDonald's in London, England?  Nowadays, it is common knowledge that American fast-food joints of all kinds have spread around the world, but it was a welcome revelation to me then.  

McDonald's was not my favorite burger joint - I was a Burger King man - but they kept me well-fed and happy, twice a day.  The amazing thing was that the burgers and fries tasted exactly as they did at home.  Only the drinks were a little off - I suppose due to the local water - but they were quite drinkable and icy-cold.  And the prices were cheap.  A tasty and most helpful discovery for this hungry young American.

To be continued . . .

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Sunday Drive: Luke Evans Sings

Luke Evans in 2018, from Wikipedia

We never heard of this studly Welshman until YouTube sent some of his videos my way the other day, and wow!  What a great voice, in a great package.  I guess it shows just how out of the loop we are here, as he has had an extensive career on stage and screen as a big, butch action-hero type.  I wonder how many of my truckbuddies have heard of him before now - and why you didn't tell me!

Here are three songs that showcase his powerful vocal range.  I hope you all will scroll down further to listen to his deeply moving coming-out story, which many of us can relate to.  BTW, your superannuated Head Trucker can remember when all of these songs were Top 40 hits, as noted.

If I Could Turn Back Time  (Cher, 1989):

The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face (Roberta Flack, 1972):

It's Not Unusual  (Tom Jones, 1965):

And here is Luke in 2024, discussing his upbringing in a homophobic church in a Welsh village, and reading a poignant selection from his memoirs.  You know, I think all gay boys tell the same story of growing up a lonely, miserable outcast, not knowing what to do or whom to ask for help.  Somehow, those who survive manage to achieve a reasonably good adult life.  Some do better than good - Luke is one of those who has hit the jackpot in life.  God bless him.

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Waitin' for the Weekend

"Just Passing Through #3" by Clint Collide:

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Sunday Drive: Tchaikovsky, Waltz of the Flowers

As performed by the London Philharmonic Orchestra:

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Waitin' for the Weekend

"No Shirts + No Shoes #1" by Clint Collide:

 

Oh, where have all the summers gone . . . ?

Où sont les sables d'antan ?

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