Summer Sentiment

“You should mix with people,” says my therapist.  “You become normal by doing normal things.” --Romy Hausman, SLEEPLESS 

Okay, it is time to focus and recap a b it as I have a new journal book and I want to improve the picture of it all with more heartfelt, thought-provoking words. Summer is here.

I turned forty under the Caribbean sun, surrounded by warm air, whitewashed shutters, and the sea whispering a hundred years of salt and soul. We were staying at Villa Mawar in Jamaica, and I let myself do something I hadn’t done in a while—I let myself glow. 

Alan handed me a card on the morning of my birthday. It read: 

"On the days that are summer-sweet and full of a thousand dreams, I will love you." 

It was one of those cards where the message and the moment converge so perfectly that it almost feels like the world has slowed down just for you. I smiled. I believed him. I still do. He made me glow. And he still does. 

It was the year 1999, and my life, like everyone else's, felt on the brink of something. Not just a new decade, not just Y2K panic, but something more personal—something interior. Turning forty does that to you. It has a way of showing you the mirror without asking your permission. 

And the cards came flooding in. Grace Reyes sent one with a note that made me chuckle and melt in the same breath: 

“After the initial shock—you’ll love being 40. (Trust me!) Happy 40th! I couldn’t let your special day go by without recognition. And wow—what a way to celebrate—Jamaica! I’m certain it’ll be unforgettable. May your birthday-vacation bliss last all year long. Because like you, on my next birthday, I’ll still be in denial about turning 31. Yikes!” 

Love always, Grace 
P.S. I wasn’t sure if you liked traditional black, or cool-max blue. I decided: simply cool. 

Barbara’s card was short but classic: 

“Happiest #40 BD. Guess this will help you travel to Y2K. XO —Barbara.” 

And Carrie Freiman wrote: 

“Happy Fortieth Birthday, Michael. You're a great guy—caring, compassionate, generous. You're someone I admire and enjoy. And someone I’m proud to call a friend. All the best today and always. With love—Carrie.” 

These weren’t just words on cardstock. They were pieces of my life reflected to me through people who mattered. 

Then there was my niece, Ashley—sharp-tongued, hyper-aware, and as Gen Y as they come. I saved our online exchange because, well, it said more about our relationship than a hundred hugs ever could. 

JULY 1, 1999 – Online Dialogue with Ashley (age 15) 

ANFMike: Is Grandma cooking dinner? 
NSync4AshA: Um, I don't know. If you call Top Ramen dinner. 
ANFMike: You're too funny. Should I get my mom a cookbook for her birthday? 
NSync4AshA: Yeah, right—like she’d cook though, except for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and when the almighty Uncle Mike is here. 
ANFMike: Well… she only cooked for me because I encouraged her. She seemed more relaxed when we went shopping. I bought salad stuff. And I sent her that BBQ sauce from Jamaica. She always says she hates to cook, but I think she enjoyed it when I was helping. Why don’t you surprise her and create something new? 
NSync4AshA: Oh yes, that would be exciting now, wouldn’t it? With my passion for being a Jamaican chef and all... 
ANFMike: I bet Top Ramen gets old. Try a new dish. What kind of chef would you want to be? French, Italian, Chinese, Indian...? 
NSync4AshA: If it was a contest, dear Uncle... I don’t want to be a chef of any kind. I don’t mind that we have Top Ramen though. 
ANFMike: Oh… another website for you. If you want a summer job for teens, go to: www.nationjob.com. They always have listings. 
NSync4AshA: I’ll put it in my faves for next year. 
ANFMike: Is Grandma watching her Spanish stories? Or watering the grass? 
NSync4AshA: No, she was watching TV—I don’t know what show though. 
ANFMike: You think you’ll go to Reno with Lauren and Leigh? 
NSync4AshA: I can’t ski either. 
ANFMike: Join the club—it’s all about balance. Can you skate? 
NSync4AshA: Um yeah. 
ANFMike: If you can skate, I’m sure you can ski. You probably just need to practice on the Dottie Hills (aka Bunny Hills). 
NSync4AshA: hehe 
ANFMike: OK... my love. I’m signing off now, but I enjoyed this. I’ll get on AOL more often and maybe I’ll run into you again, kay? 
NSync4AshA: Kay. Bye Uncle Mike! 
ANFMike: Stay NSync. 
Sync4AshA: LOL. Dork. U too. 

I wrote beneath the printout of that conversation: 
“Clearly a statement that shows she’s jealous of me and my relationship with my mom. She’s young. She’ll get over it… won’t she?” 

Back in Los Angeles before the trip, I got my new California driver’s license. The DMV labeled me a “good driver,” which felt oddly satisfying for a man entering midlife.

When I glanced at my old photo, I laughed. I was more tan than usual, and I had what I now call, with some fondness, the most sculpted shape I’ve ever had. 

Alan and I had spent the previous days sipping coffee and thinking of birthdays past, laughing about foam—yes, foam. I wrote in my journal, “I still like Peet’s Coffee best—they do much better FOAM!” Sometimes, it’s the little luxuries that feel most revealing. 

I also splurged on a moody chamber orchestra CD called The Eternal – Variations on Joy Division. The music was haunting, elegant, and theatrical—a perfect backdrop for turning 40. I wrote in my journal that it “reminded me of a new Dark Shadows theme.” A bit gothic, a bit beautiful. 

We drank coconut water and talked about our investments. I scribbled in a line: “Time to review my Schwab accounts to see my liquid net worth: — OK, I’ll manage.” Alan rolled his eyes when I read the figure aloud. 

There was a part of me that laughed nervously at that line. Because turning forty was, in truth, terrifying. Not for the age itself, but for what it represented—choices, paths taken and not taken, and the haunting question: Am I where I’m meant to be? 

The answer, at least in Jamaica, felt closer to yes than ever before. 

And as we looked out toward the edge of the bay on that final night, Alan turned to me and said, “You know what the best part of turning 40 is?” 

I didn’t answer. 
He grinned. 
“You’re still here. And you still love.” 

Los Angeles in July. The sun shimmered off pavement like celluloid burning too hot through a projector reel, and I was walking toward the Director’s Guild Theater for another day of Outfest. It wasn’t just a film festival—it was a proving ground. A spotlight on stories that had, for too long, waited in silence. It was a festival filled with gay-related storylines.

I had already circled half the screenings in my program weeks in advance. I remember writing: 
“All four French gay films are playing tomorrow night. I’ll see how I feel. If I’m burnt out, I’ll just see Garçon Stupide. Maybe Suddenly too. And then there’s that short film about that little gay Mexican boy with the abusive mom… I must see that one.” 

What began as a simple curiosity turned into something much more. That summer, I wasn't just watching films. I was witnessing myself on screen. For the first time. 

The cinema that year was rich with queer coming-of-age tales, foreign gems, and gritty truths that didn’t bother to apologize for their gaze. There was Show Me Love, which hit me harder than I expected—a Swedish film that said more in silences and sideways glances than most Hollywood dramas did in full monologues. 

I wrote in my notebook: 
“The blonde girl—gorgeous in her discomfort—reminds me of that girl in my high school geometry class. She always stood outside of herself. Like she didn’t belong to her own body yet.” 

Then came Run Lola Run—not a queer film per se, but an adrenaline shot to the brain. I saw it three times in the same week, just to absorb its pulse. That red hair flying through Berlin streets, defying fate, made me believe we might all rewrite our endings—if only we could sprint fast enough. 

The crowd at Outfest had its own rhythm. Older men in crisp linen shirts next to girls with pierced lips and glittered cheeks. Couples who had weathered decades and fresh-faced young guys still learning how to flirt. I loved observing them all—their discomfort, their style, their quiet need to be seen. 

On one ticket stub, I scribbled: 

“There’s this boy—probably no more than twenty—dressed in Calvin Klein everything. I watched his fingers twitch during the final scene of The Edge of Seventeen. That moment when the lead character kisses his crush and doesn’t apologize… I swear I saw this kid bite his bottom lip like he’d just been kissed too.” 

That’s what Outfest was: a mirror for those who never had one. 

After a day of films, I’d often find myself at Peet’s Coffee in Westwood, people-watching and scribbling thoughts that would never make it into any screenplay: 

“We are all actors auditioning for a role we’ve already been cast in. The trick is to forget you’re acting at all.” 

At Borders Books, I flipped through pages of Truman Capote’s letters and found one I copied down: 

“Failure is the condiment that gives success its flavor.” 

That line stayed with me. It explained so much about what I was feeling at 40, watching these films that reminded me I hadn’t missed the boat—I was still on the dock, barefoot, waiting. 

One night stands out. I had just seen a short film called Don’t Tell Anyone about a closeted father trying to connect with his son. It wrecked me. Not because it was masterful—but because it was real. 

After the screening, a man sitting two rows ahead turned back and looked directly at me. No smile. No nod. Just a recognition. That strange acknowledgment between strangers who’ve both been cracked open by the same story. I never saw him again. 

But I remembered him. 

Later that week, I found an old Calvin Klein cologne ad tucked into a magazine at the screening lounge. It featured a brooding, shirtless model, his arms draped around another man’s neck—but both gazing off in different directions. I tore the page out and wrote: 

"If longing had a scent, it would be this.” 

That was the other thing Outfest gave me—permission to desire. Fully, foolishly, beautifully. No excuses. 

By the end of the festival, I had watched 23 films. My notebook was filled with notes like: 

"Art is not meant to comfort. It is meant to wake you up"

“Why do the French get coming-of-age so right?” 

“I want to kiss someone in the middle of a theater and not flinch when the lights come on.” 

I didn’t kiss anyone that week---well, maybe Alan got a peck on the cheek. But I did come to terms with the idea that my life—like these films—was still unfolding. Still evolving. 

The best stories weren’t the loud ones. They were the quiet, lived-in moments of becoming. Of risking. Of sitting in a darkened room with strangers and seeing, finally, the truth of who you are reflected at you. 

They never tell you that love, when it’s real, often arrives in fragments—not in sweeping declarations or cinematic crescendos, but in glances across a room, casual errands, and half-written postcards never mailed. 

With Alan, it began quietly. And somehow, that quiet became the most reliable sound in my life.  I remember clearly the exact moment we met. But I remember the feeling afterward—that strange, subtle shift in my internal weather. Like something had been recalibrated. Not everything made sense, but everything suddenly felt possible.  I kept remembering his answer to my question, “Is there a future in a man-to-man relationship?” 

One of the notes he gave me read: 

“Michael— When I think of you, I smile. You’ve made a strong and positive impact on me. I’m learning more about you and want to keep discovering. You’re warm, intelligent, complicated, and funny. You carry stories in your eyes.  —A” 

That note stayed tucked in my desk drawer for months. I’d re-read it whenever I doubted whether I was still lovable, still captivating, still… enough. 

Alan had a way of being present without being overwhelming. He didn't flood the space. He filled it like morning light. Gently, slowly, insistently. 

We started collecting moments—on drives down Pacific Coast Highway, in quiet bookstores, in cafes where we never finished our coffee. He loved antique postcards and would often pick them up at flea markets, not for the artwork, but for the faded messages on the back. 

“Imagine writing to someone you miss that way,” he once said, flipping over a 1910 card with the line:  'The weather is kind. Are you eating enough?’ 

It broke my heart in the most exquisite way. 

So, we started our own tradition—leaving each other postcards around the house.  It was just ‘us’, having fun. 

There was one day—early in our relationship—when I felt distant. Unsure. That creeping self-doubt that tells you you’re too much or not enough. I had avoided him all day. 

That evening, I found a folded note under my pillow: 

“I don’t need you to be perfect. I need you to be you. That’s why I’m here.” 

That was all it said. And it was everything I needed. 

“Love is not blind. It sees more, not less—but because it sees more, it is willing to see less.” 

We fought, of course. Once, over something stupid about the thermostat and again about whether love notes should be written in pen or pencil. But we always came back—usually with laughter. Or a peach tart. Or silence that said, I’m still here. 

Sometimes he’d say something that sounded like, “I don't want grand gestures. I want real ones.” So, I’d fold his laundry just the way he liked. He’d wash or press my shirts before meetings (by way of the Dry Cleaners, of course).  

One weekend, we went away to a quiet spot in Carmel. He packed a few old postcards and handed me one each morning. 

The first read: 
“Dear M, I like waking up beside you, even when you snore.” 

The next: 
“Some moments don’t need photographs. This is one of them.” 

And the last: 
“You’re not just a chapter in my life."

Love stories don’t need perfect timelines. Ours is told in fragments, layered between ticket stubs, coffee spoons, and words never spoken aloud. What matters is that we live it. Fully. Honestly. Beautifully. 

Even now, if I hear a certain song, or catch a scent that reminds me of his cologne, I smile.  I like it when he splashes a bit of cologne.  

Sometimes love doesn’t need to explain itself. 

In every family, there are conversations that happen with words… and others that only unfold through glances, letters, or what’s left unsaid.  Ours was a family of both—of laughter and layered tension, of traditions passed down and secrets passed over. 

My niece Ashley and I once had an online chat that summed up generations in contrast. She was bright, quick, both sweet and slightly cutting, like a Gen Z Dorothy Parker. I had typed something impulsively, a response to her light teasing about turning forty. And she zinged back: 

Ashley: “Whoa. You typed in all caps. I feel like I just got yelled at by the almighty Uncle Mike.” 

I laughed. She had a point. 

Me: “I just typed fast. I didn’t even realize it.” 

Ashley: “That was scary. I could feel it vibrating.” 

Me: “Sorry… I never knew all caps had high impact.  Now I know.”  

She responded with a heart emoji and something about needing to make sure I got a hug next time we saw each other. It’s funny. In a moment where I felt misunderstood, she made me feel seen. Not through advice—but presence. That's family too. 

There were others—birthday cards from Barbara, Jan, Grace—tucked in a drawer from my fortieth. I reread them more than once in Jamaica. 

Barbara had written: 

“You’ve grown into a man we all admire—strong, kind, hilarious, resilient. Keep aging in reverse.” 

I somehow created my own Summer Sentiment from movies, conversation, writing and emails, cafes and walking near the shoreline. I started listening to films more intently for specific lines that I loved and would write them down. I even did it inside dark movie theaters, writing on a small tablet so that I could remember the lines that struck a chord for me.

Hollywood wasn’t just a location in my life. It was a mood. At times, even a menace.  In my twenties, I thought Hollywood was a destination. But by my forties, I realized it had become a backdrop—like a familiar prop in a play where the script kept changing, but the stage remained the same. 

Hollywood was never just about fame or film for me. It was about feeling—intensity, longing, reinvention. And bookstores? They were my refuge.  Oh, and people watching at a cafe, writing a letter gets a high score, too.  

July 12, 1999: This is where I leave these words—in my journal, for anyone who still believes in memory and the unexpected beauty of old bookstores and new beginnings. 

Because somewhere, someone will read this and whisper, 
“Me too.” 

And that is enough. 

“You keep searching, I suppose.  That’s all LIFE is anyway.  It’s one great SEARCH for whatever it is we want--Love, Money, Fame, Recognition, Security—all of those things. It’s the degree of importance which varies in each individual.” --Eric Van Lustbader, THE NINJA, 1980