The February Issue

"Oh, but don't worry. Yet. It's going to be the biggest in our history."

The search for acceptance and validation may be the most kindred and evil of spirits. Something we all need. The kindness of strangers; not so much. The realness of our friends; Amen.

We live in a world confined by fear. Trapped. Forever searching for the next thing that will make us whole. Or less.

I look to my partner, Tom, to provide me with the solace of relationship that gets me through. He nearly, always, does. Escape. I know: I am blessed beyond believable.

There is truth in the passion of our life together. Counted not so much by years; but by days and weeks and every September Issue that we have been blessed to publish.

Anna Wintour has not been hovering over our every photo or sentence, pose or phrase. Editing us down to TomandMichael, or MichaelandTom.

A power more so than She, has.

Our friends. Our faith. Our knowing, that every month, there is more left on the Editor's floor than can ever be published.

1/2 m v^2 + p + m g y = energy = constant

I could not for the life of me get the entire Bee Gees album "Spirits Having Flown" out of my head late last week. Like a bad dream or nightmare. We know that all it really takes is telling another, or others, about these kinds of things to let them escape. But then, THEY are left with it. I chose to keep this particular earbug to myself. Because, I'm just that generous of heart. Like my Tom says, I'm a Keeper.

This, of course, led to me living with the particularly rancid "Tragedy" for days. And in THIS weather.

Then, at a particularly delicious gathering of souls this weekend, I was able to once AGAIN not mention my 1979 malady with which I was contending. Instead, I held my head high and got involved (read: needle my way) into other sensoral conversations. Music I really like was playing in the background, and sometimes foreground. There was talk of buttercream. There was ACTUAL buttercream (these people walk the walk). No one in this crowd even mentioned Hopscotch, but it made me dance to think about what if they did. I'm fairly certain if a pair of dice had appeared, the doctors in the house would have taken to placing bets and raising money for the Woodford Humane Society.

Before I knew it, after some discussion of Bernoulli's Equation, the Brother's Gibb competely left my mind. Or at least "Tragedy".

Unfortunately, Barry, Robin, and Maurice Gibb have now moved on into my head with "Too Much Heaven."

But you know what? I can deal with that, much more than Tragedy. Nobody gets Too Much Heaven no more.

Private Dancers

My sister, Vicki, is one of those special sisters that lives up to her name.

Our Dad, Vic. Got his name right up IN there. The very elements of Victor Leon Miller, our dad. No special vowel "e" added to her name: Just Vicki.

The "e" at the end of Vicki_ would have made it, somehow weak. Cutesy, even.

Not her.

Strong: this woman.

Watched, as her older brother (me) got kudos on EVERY side of our family. Golden Boy. Watched as the other male brother, Jon, got blessings throughout the journey of our sibling-family-life. He, at age 14, dealt with our Dad's passing, before his eyes, on the couch of our family home in Ravenna, after an especially specially wonderful tennis practice. Made the horrible call. Gone: Dad.

She: Took into her home our mother, Janice, in the early days of her Alzeimers and beyond. Not so much love from our Mom, who had so much love to give, but didn't know how to deal with her.

But now: It is her, this blessed Sister, who cares so much for my mother and checks on her at her special place at a place in Richmond, KY amid the business (busy-ness) of our daily lives.

I listen.

As Vicki deals with her teenage daughter and son. My nephew at Asbury, doing well, I hear. My neice, her daughter, still clinging to the hope that may be the next Cheerleader championship, or at the very least, not to be let down once again by yet another foiled BoyFriend.

Vicki's husband, William: devoted. Loves her. He and she have been through various moms and dads Goings-Away. I know that Bill loves her and that is ONE thing I don't have to worry about. I think he kinda loves me and Tom, too.

My Mom, Janice, instilled in me a pride that what she and Vic did. He was proud of us. She is proud of us. As the oldest son, I feel a need to put down in words:

I am proud of both of you: Vicki and Jon. Simply, holy, proud. We are Family. Private dancers.

He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

Tonight: He calls to ask Tom about the appetizer we served them the last time they were here, in our Gay House, for family Christmas.

"It was a bacon wrapped something. I want to make it for SuperBowl tomorrow. What WAS it?"

Hand the wePhone to Tom.

"Fig, maybe, but I only do fresh, not sure, this was years ago. Fresh figs are hard to find"

Jon: "So, an apricot might do? I want to IMPRESS."

"Yes," Tom said, " you can place an almond in the apricot, or whatEVER you can find, and wrap it around the one-third slice of bacon."

"But what made it MAGIC," our Brother asked. Something was different.

"Teriyake," Tom suggested, " marinade ANYthing in teriyake and people will be happy. Top with sesame seeds for extra crunch."

Then, my favorite part of this story. He texts later and his wife is at their (Meade Co.) Kroger and he says: Jen is at Kroger and can't find them. We don't HAVE a Disco Kroger in Meade Co."

We result to actual phone call (like an ANIMAL) and I share with him these golden nuggets:

1. Disco Kroger is a legend, they don't have ANYTHING.

2. Don't expect your spouse to be able to find what you really mean on your list, even if she IS the Food Nutritionist for Meade County Schools (see @Jupiter2012 blog.)

3. ANYTHING you wrap in bacon will be ALOT of trouble, in the wrapping alone, but you at least are trying. The WOMEN in the SuperBowl house will be, at least impressed, at most JEALOUS, which is VERY important.

AND, thank you for calling, @jboygolf brother.

You love Palin, and I love you. Above and beyond politics: We are KIN.

Baby brother calling Tom for FoodGay advice from my quarter of a century partner, with whom he played tennis when he was but a tween.

There are Saints in the Superbowl tomorrow, I hear. And Colts, willing to run wild in the fields of self discovery.

I don't see how I can lose on any account, with a brother like Jon, and a partner like Tom.

Avoid contact with the eyes

The thing about $ocial Stimulus with our Fair Lady Debra Hensley.

"This is not so much about me," she said, on Her Stage tonight at an event I was more than happy to attend, "but about US, the community. This is not about ME. This is NOT about me. This is not about Me..."

I get nervous when anyone goes out of their way to proclaim as much.

This was my first. My partner Tom and arrived. We planned to socially connect in the Spirit of the evening.

Let's get to know the local Manchester Street market that makes very tasty chili. Yum. Let's celebrate the local Mission that does God's work and provides undeniablly needed social services. Let's have Mecca dance and provide ART.

Let's know that this city is about to completely raze a neighborhood so that the upperclass might have another brilliant place to party.

I'm among you, elite, don't get me wrong. The Neuropeptide Facial Contour I used on my face to get me ready for tonight's elite event to make my face "ready". Label said: Avoid contacts with the eyes.

Let's not avoid contact with THEIR eyes.

Just a Picture of a Person I Don't Know

I lived life as a elementary school teacher before what I am now. The only adult male in the building, save for the itinerant Arts teacher, who came to us twice a week when he wasn't on service to the National Guard.

It made for good stories. I used it for ever. Bluegrass Writing Project Friday readings, you know the drill.

Lynn S. Hightower even interviewed me and I became Keaton Daniels, for a moment, in her 1995 thriller Flashpoint.

That's me on page 118 of the Harper-Collins hardcover edition:

"You know how women, when they work together, their periods synchronize? How'd you like to go to work in a building with forty-five women all having their period?" Sonora coughed violently. Keaton leaned over and patted her on the back.''

Lynn signed a copy for me with this: "To Michael Miller- I could not have done this without your help-"

Without an appropriate transition, then, there's this:

My Grandfather, Douglas Miller, Baptist minister, former Supt. of Estill Co. Schools and author of a vanity press publication, Rain in Lyle Hollow, signs an edition of his novel with this, in his brilliant, elderly handwriting that I cherish:

"To my grandson, Michael J. Miller who is a good teacher. He is also a good singer, an outstanding actor, and an excellent dancer. He can go to the top if given a chance. My hope and prayer for Michael is that the Movie industry or television systems or both will find him and give him a chance to show his talents to the world. signed Douglas Miller"

Who am I, anyway?