From the Archives - Game Show Addict

As both long term readers of this column know, I am genetically predisposed to addiction. Certainly I cannot be blamed for the Capri Menthol Ultra Light years. I only deserve credit for having overcome my programming by having quit. Few people can rewrite their DNA and give up the nicotine. I can, and have several times.

As the person who proof reads this column knows, I am perhaps a little obsessive compulsive in that I find new passions, suck them dry and then move on without an explanation. That would explain decoupage, several poorly chosen boyfriends and all the lost mornings spent playing cribbage on Pogo.com.

    

Clearly I lead a very rich life full of rewarding pursuits.

But all these phases, all these pastimes, are meaningless now. I have found my true calling, my home if you will. Gone are the homemade greeting cards I used to think about making, the searching for ladies head vases on EBay and the hours spent trying to find the cheapest gasoline in town. I have found a true love and this time I know it is forever.

The Game Show Network is my new favorite thing. It is fun and educational. Not only do you learn things in a high energy, lights and buzzers environment, you also get to feel superior while yelling at the television. It is my belief that those people in danger of choosing the wrong answer can hear me and that I might be able to help them get the bigger prize, perhaps the Amana Radar Range or the fur coat from Dicker and Dicker of Beverly Hills.

You see, as the friends I force to read this column at Watermarkonline.com or at GregTriggs.com can tell you, television has always been my role model. GSN as we true fans call it, is a chance to see the celebrities that shaped my sense of self lo all those years ago back home in front of the color TV in the Mediterranean Carved Walnut Cabinet in my parent’s living room.

If I could rewrite the history of my life and change the rules of biology I think I would be the love child of Charles Nelson Reilly and Paul Lynde. They would be my dad and dad and we would live in a fabulous ranch style house full of mod furniture from the Spiegel Catalogue.

I used to think that the Nelson Rielly Lyndes were the Gaymos and Andy of a bygone era, but in hindsight I could not have been more wrong. They gave hope to all of us kids out there who would rather go see a play then play in the little league. They reminded us that people could think you were fabulous and fun and play the game you chose to play.

And so I am thankful to channel 117 on Manhattan Cable for the chance to visit with these old friends. I don’t know how long this obsession will last. Perhaps the next new thing is just around the corner. But until then I am enjoying the ride. We already have our tickets to Brett Somers Cabaret Show next month and I can’t wait.

Perhaps there will even be some lovely parting gifts!

From the Archives - My Dad

Ray Triggs, my father, was a sexy guy -- in a fish camp, Jack Daniels kind of way. Even at seventy-five years old, crippled from several strokes, breathing raspy from a three pack a day habit, he was sexier than I was on my best day. He just had that air about him.

I think it was probably because my Dad was controlled by sex in a way that I never have been. That might be because I am smarter than he was or it could be that he was more secure than I am. At any rate, his record and his actions speak for themselves. By the time he was forty he had eight children, six his, two step, with four different women. I have a brother that I have never met and one that I didn't meet until I was almost thirty.

So, my Dad had two children that he all but abandoned. Learning that helped explain why he was comfortable with our relationship. It wasn't perfect, but we were living in the same house. That was something, right? He was doing better by me than he had done by two of his other sons. For my Dad, sex was more about power and getting off than it was about love or consequence.

Sometimes you learn things like that about people because of how they treat you in regards to the same subject. That was made obvious when I came out to my parents about ten years ago. I sat them down in our living room in Wisconsin - the epicenter of style in my hometown of Madison. Mom was on the inherited plaid couch and Dad was sitting in his Lazy Boy recliner when I dropped the news. There was an inevitable silence and then my father said: "How many other people know about your sex life?" That was the first thing he thought of. This man who had been unfaithful, this man who had illegitimate children, this man who had been arrested and thrown in jail was worrying about what other people might think. That's funny. That's the power of sex.

In hindsight, he provided a powerful lesson about how many straight people look at us. They think it is just about the sex. The minute my Dad knew I was gay, he visualized some sweaty boy toy plowing the back forty.

Let's look at this behavior from our point of view shall we? Imagine every time you met some woman and found out she was married to a man. "Oh, MRS. Milbauer, is it?" Immediately you start seeing her, prim and proper, living up to the stereotype of a heterosexual woman we grew up with. Her flannel nightgown is pushed up around her hips, with Mr. Milbauer on top of her in the traditional missionary position. He thinking only of his own gratification while Mrs. Milbauer plans dinner menus and grocery lists for the next week.

It would be foolish, limiting and downright unfair to define the Milbauer's marriage that way. But I honestly think that is what a lot of straight people do to gay people everyday. I think that's what my Dad was doing.

But every once in a while God gives you the right words. I've never forgotten what I said that night when my Dad asked me, "Who else knows about your sex life?"

I said, "I haven't told you anything about my sex life. I told you that when I meet someone that I want to spend the rest of my life with, it's going to be a man. That's all you know. The rest is none of your business."

By that time, my Dad was very sick and I wasn't sure I would ever see him again. So I tried to make our time together meaningful and profound, in that way too earnest way that borders on annoying. He wasn't interested. He was distant and more isolated than he had been in years. But on that trip home, I finally figured out that he was the parent. Not me. It was his job to fix this.

So, I left. I didn't call. I didn't write. And then one day the phone rang. It was my Dad. I didn't even know that he knew how to use a phone. He had never called me before. We chatted, there was a pause, and then he said, "So tell me about this guy you've been seeing…"

Raymond and I were closer until he died about five years later. I am thankful for that. Perhaps it was a direct consequence of my coming out to him. Maybe he figured out we were more alike than either of us had realized. We both chose, good or bad, to live life on our own terms and that gave us unlikely but common ground.

Memories of Pie Past

There is a certain kind of restaurant that is, in my mind, unique to WI. Inevitably it is named after the owners, by first names such as Lena and Ole’s or by surname, The Nyborg Family Restaurant. The décor always represents a compromise, the cheapest building materials possible to satisfy the man, with poorly executed feminine touches to give the woman a sense of stylish ownership.  

Hello powder blue geese.

The faded, somewhat dirty wallpaper has dried flowers on it. The plywood moulding is battered by abuse from the metal chairs that are stacked when the gray indoor/outdoor carpet is being vacuumed at the end of the day. At the non-computerized cash register there is a cardboard cut out with holes for quarters you can donate to the Lion’s Club.

I recently ate at such a place in Winneconne, WI, near the Wolf River which is part of the Fox River system near Oshkosh and Green Bay. Houses there are unpretentious, with manicured lawns and firm foundations. The people are well fed having never met a carb they didn’t savor. I had an open faced pork sandwich with real mashed potatoes. The waitress gave me a, “okay-Mr.-Fancy-Pants,” look when I asked for the gravy on the side. My chicken soup was made from scratch, but the dressing for my small salad came in a plastic bottle with a grocery store sticker on it.

The homemade desserts on the counter went unordered by me for I no longer indulge. There was however a chubby boy reading a comic book enjoying a piece of rhubarb pie. I can only assume his name was Greg.

Greg Triggs - Boy Receptionist

My father ran his business out of our home. The staff meetings were held in our kitchen. I’d come down in my pajamas to several siding applicators, a roofer and a carpenter.  They were drinking coffee and eating donuts while they smoked and got their assignments for the day. I'd breakfast in the living room in front of the television. I ate with Mr. Rogers, Ray Rayner or Captain Kangaroo.  

There was no room for me at the staff meeting. I was just the part-time receptionist.

My mother ran errands everyday. She liked to get out of the house. The C & P Grocery Store, Rennebohm's, Ben Franklin Five & Dime, they were all on her usual route. She’d take my brother Butch with her because he loved riding in the car and going to stores.  
I stayed behind to answer the phone.   Customers, current or potential, expected the phone to be answered by an actual person during business hours. Very often that was me.

As an 8 year old gay boy I was blessed with a lilting feminine voice. Very often callers would assume I was a woman, which bothered me until I realized that in the 1970s receptionists such as myself were supposed to be women. So a woman I became.

No longer did I announce, “Triggs Home Improvement Company, Greg speaking. May I help you?” Now I played up the feminine quality and dropped the name. Let Joe Customer think what he wanted. In my mind I wasn’t the kid gorging on Twinkees between phone calls. I was a shapely young woman with frosted blonde hair styled in the smartest salon in Madison, WI. I wore a cobalt blue skirt and matching jacket with a demure blouse underneath. My manicured nails looked very professional as they grabbed a Triggs Home Improvement Company ballpoint pen to write down messages on the three carbon pad.

My inner-receptionist saw this job as a stepping stone. Soon I'd marry one of the eligible bachelors I was sure to meet thanks to my high profile position. The boss was a insane, but he wasn’t going to be part of my life forever. Triggs Home Improvement Company was the first step on a path to bigger and better things.

But something funny happens when adults don’t realize they’re talking to children. They become less diplomatic. They become less kind. The truth spills out along with their frustrations.

“I paid for a job and the crew never showed up. I’ve been waiting a week!”

“You tell that asshole you work for I am going to sue him unless he gets out here to fix this roof.”

“Mr. Triggs he isn’t fooling me. He called to say he couldn’t stop by today but I saw his car out in front of a bar on Cottage Grove Road.”

And so on and so on; all of which can weigh on a receptionist’s mind.  

It’s not like I could leave it behind at the end of the day. I went home to it. Quitting wasn’t an option, so I withdrew. I became less polite. I dropped the, “May I help you?” from my greeting. My imaginary nail polish chipped. You could see the brown roots poking through my frosted hair. Sometimes when customers assumed I was a woman I corrected them.

And I quit promising things would get better.

Butch Triggs - Soviet Spy

My brother Butch is mentally challenged but that wasn't something we always knew. That had to learned. To me he was a little brother and no different than any other but then the day came when he was to be registered for school. My mom was gone for a long time. When she finally returned she stayed in the car looking off into the distance. I started to go check on her, but my Grandmother told me to leave her be. 

Mom stayed inside the Buick for a long, long time.

Over the next few days there were many whispers about what had been said at the school meeting. My Dad came over to talk about it.  He didn't even have our phone number at the time.

Slowly the picture came together. New words - hyperactive. seizures. brain-damage.  Clues. I was a smart little boy. I figured it out rather quickly once the implications were out in the open.  It was almost like the dot-to-dots I loved doing in school.

Butch and I shared a room.  He went to bed earlier than I did. At night, waiting to fall asleep, I would stare at him.  I wanted to figure out how his mind worked. I couldn't. So I decided it wasn't true. God wouldn't do that to my little brother. There was something else going on.  

Obviously Butch was smarter than all of us. He had us fooled. Butch was a Soviet spy spending reports about the Triggs family back to the motherland. Hidden somewhere in the house was a secret spy room like the Batcave on TV.  

I don't know when I accepted the truth. The fantasy just faded away as I got used to the idea and finally accepted Butch for who and what he was - the best little brother in the world and perfectly himself.

Report from the Dessert

I find myself very aware that in Doha I do things I would never consider doing at home. Walking through Times Square I really get annoyed when people shove postcards and flyers in my face. Two nights ago I was one of those handout people … at a mall. While Andy and Daniel hosted a kids crafting party near the Virgin Megastore, the name of which surprised me each time I passed it, I handed out Family Day flyers.

Andy and Daniel were supervising children’s paper plate masquerade masks and cleaning up what we hoped was only spilled corn. I was walking the mall having nice conversations with friendly strangers. It shocked me but the people of Doha seem to enjoy getting stopped at the mall to hear about free events for their families.

A typical exchange:

“Next Friday DFI and the Film Festival are hosting a Family Day.”

“A family day?”

“Yes, we’re going to have stilt walkers and flying circus acts, live bands, face-painters, dancers, and Qatari games. We’re building a giant sand-castle on shore of the Arabian Gulf. There will be puppets and storytellers, all sorts of fun things.”

“How much does this Family Day cost?”

“It’s free.”

“No really. How much does it cost?”

“Nothing.”

“This is not heard of here … how long have you been in Doha?”

“Two weeks.”

“What … you come here from the US to put on this free party?”

“My friends and I … yes. That is why the film festival brought us here.”

“Well I will be there. Thank you for telling me. Thank you!”

I need to be nicer to street teams in Times Square.

The other night we were treated to an incredible meal at a place called (I won’t attempt the Arabic) Fish Market. Thank you Peter! The restaurant is covered in incredible blue tiles and mosaics that I wish Matt could see. There are meters and meters (notice I’ve temporarily gone metric) of exotic fresh fish … kinds of which I had never heard, beautifully presented. Anything you wanted could be ordered in any combination you desired. The food was almost as good as the company. We followed that by a night of shopping and shisha at the Souk.

I thought the night couldn’t get better but it did. I finally got a hold of Matt via Skype. I was so happy to talk to him that I forgot to mention the tiles.

We have finished the school outreach. The Family Day team has distributed over 60,000 units. Along with the Mall and Community initiatives I think almost 75,000 Family Day flyers will have gone out. Big shouts out to Amy (who started the Family Day outreach program), Amber, Andy, Canedy, Carolyn, Daniel, Danielle and Ali and Vineeth our drivers. They all managed to make a lot work a lot of fun too. We averaged one laugh per flyer.

Mr. Neefe of my seventh grade Social Studies teacher taught us that culture is often shaped and defined by climate and geography. I thought of him while watching men and women work outside during sandstorms which seem to be fairly common here. Winds swirl and kick up the top layer of sand, like microdermabrasion from God. My skin looks terrific but the grit gets in your eyes and mouth unless you cover your face, as the workers do.

After September 11 we were often told by the media and the oh-so-responsible users of the internet that Arabs covered their faces because they were terrorists. I think most of the time the covered face belongs to a guy who doesn’t want to swallow a belly full of sand. Climate and geography lead to that choice. Mr. Neefe was right … score one for Wisconsin-style liberal public education in the seventies!

Later that same day, I taught an interviewing class to students facilitating some the youth programs during the festival. A 15 year old Saudi boy asked me (in English better than my own) what I’ve learned in the Middle East. My first instinct was to talk about September 11 but I was in a room full of cultures I didn’t completely understand; there were people in the room from Qatar, Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, Iran and Italy.

I had just told them to trust their instincts and first thoughts. I encouraged the students not to be controlled by the fear of making the wrong choice; rather to trust their ability to read the signs and recover. So I took a deep breath and started talking about post September 11 fear, the covering of faces and media manipulation/misinformation. They nodded and it led to some good discussion. One of the students thanked me for being open and saying what was on my mind, which I thought was kind of her. A fifteen year old said both sides should ask more questions and then listen, the way a good interviewer should. They seemed to understand more deeply than I could have as a teenager or a week ago for that matter. I was proud of myself and them. I wish politicians could do the same thing as well as those kids.

The next day we had a rehearsal with more student emcees. I was teaching interview techniques again, this time to a group of five teenage girls wearing Abaya. One of the girls asked me about my family. I mentioned that my brother Art had worked in television. She asked what he did now and I had to explain that he passed away 25 years ago. What happened next is a bit of a jumble in my brain because it was so unexpected.

The girl said something like, “We must applaud Brother Art and remember him and his family in our prayers!” The girls started clapping and then one of them said, “What a blessing to know that Greg walks on Art’s path. It led to us being together tonight.”

For a second it really felt like Art was there. I felt his presence more strongly than I have since his funeral. They’re Muslim and I’m Christian but I really felt that God was in the room with us. It was overwhelming.

My time with God was brief.

I stayed up writing scripts. Just before going to bed I smashed my toe into the living room wall. I think the smallest toe on my left foot might be broken … so the next email could be about Qatari emergency rooms. Either way it has been an awesome couple of days and writing these updates makes me feel like you’re all here walking the path with us … even though right now I can’t walk that well.