You could say Chuck Oxley and I "met cute" …
It was the beginning of the ‘92 Fall semester at SF State and he was standing in front of the Humanities Building. Normally I don't go for red-heads, but there he was, this stocky, masculine bear of a man, a good 'ole boy with a sly smile and great, quick laugh standing there in plaid shirt and black jeans.
What the hell was the Brawny Man doing on campus?
Turned out, he was also majoring in journalism. We made small talk about the program and after a few minutes, I asked him on a date. “Thanks,” he said, “but I’m straight.”
“Oops, sorry about that.”
“No problem,” he laughed. “I was a bouncer South of Market for a bit. You get used to it. Got a cigarette?”
“Sure.”
We’d been friends ever since.
When I became editor of the school paper, the Golder Gater, I asked Chuck to be my Op-Ed page editor. (What else are you going to do with an opinionated bleeding heart liberal?) At that time he was married to Beth and we we went out a couple of times with my then-boyfriend, Bob Bedolla. We once dragged them to a
Lypsinka show (a post-modern drag queen with a wicked sense of humor and irony), and spent most of the rest of the evening explaining the subtle (and not so subtle) differences between kitsch and camp.
Chuck and I became friends because we loved journalism; we saw it as a public duty as great as serving in the military or in law enforcement. Sometimes it takes more than guns and force to protect the Constitution; sometimes you just need to pick up a pen to defend an idea. Chuck had actually been in the Air Force, so he had an insight into the value of service (though he was the first to admit he wasn't actually cut out for military life).
We also loved the romantic notion of journalism: the hard-drinking, reckless way of life it fostered, though we both were old enough and smart enough to know that way of life was fast fading into mythology. Still, it didn’t stop us from drinking to excess, smoking too much and making a general nuisance of ourselves with our respective partners.
I think that's why Chuck and I became close: we were Romantics with idealized visions of what we wanted the world to offer; where we wanted our careers to go, what kind of people we wanted to be.
One night, after the paper had broke a story about a pedophile group attempting to legitimize itself through the publication of a “scientific journal” — a journal with ads for trips to Thailand. Hello?!? — he and I went for dinner and drinks at a brew bar in the Embarcadero.
I have to admit, we were both in a rage. One of SF State’s professors was an advisor to the journal, Dr. John DeCecco, and if there was anything Chuck and I hated about San Francisco was the empty-headed liberalism that would legitimize the worst behavior in the name of identity politics. (I had not spoken with Chuck in recent weeks, but I know he and I would have had a field day with the Roman Polanski arrest. Chuck, the father of a beautiful 10–year-old daughter, Susannah, would have no mercy.)
Anyway, we had gone on plenty of late-night benders before, mostly after putting the school paper to bed. Hell, sometimes we were hammered while we put the paper to bed! But this night was different, I think we believed the paper had struck a blow for justice and reason and responsibility. We were the good guys.
Chuck was in a hyper-inquisitive mood and over a couple of pitchers of beer and a pizza he peppered me with all kinds of, well, really uncomfortable questions: When did you realize you were gay? When did you first do "it"? Why do you think you're gay ... ? It was relentless. I think it was because of my relationship to the gay community.
I had been able to get a copy of the journal from a local bookseller who specialized in all kinds of books and magazines concerning human sexuality. It was the only copy in the city and when the story went national, both the SF Examiner and Newsweek had to credit our school paper. I think he thought I was some kind of gay Philip Marlowe with access to the seamy side of gay San Franciscan life. I just knew a bookseller.
Maybe it was the beer talking, but I answered all his queries and the night devolved into a series of ribald tales of sexual conquests, confusions and catastrophes which left both of us laughing so loud and uncontrollably the waitress came over to make sure everything was OK.
Finally, after a little reflection, Chuck just simply said: "Huh. You're just like straight guys. I don't know what the big deal is." And that was pretty much Chuck for you. He would listen, gather the information and make up his mind. I realized I could tell him anything, and he wouldn't pass judgment. And I could do the same for him. I could call him on his bullshit and he, mine.
But the problem with trying to live in a romantic world is that there is often no room for compromise. Whether it's work or relationships or just getting along in the day-to-day.
Upon graduation, I took a job with the Miami Herald. Late one evening while living in Fort Lauderdale, Beth called. Chuck had asked for a divorce. He began seeing Jennifer Gallagher; she'd been the managing editor of the school paper while I was editor. She and Chuck had worked closely together. I guess I had been wearing blinders at the time.
Chuck and Jennifer dated. After graduation, they followed the jobs like a lot of journalists do, and finally put down roots in Idaho where Chuck worked as an editor at the Idaho Statesman, a reporter for Idaho's AP bureau, eventually moving into politics as the media director for the Idaho State Democratic Party.
We hadn't seen each other in more than a decade. Still, we followed each others' careers and spoke on the phone and emailed when we could. We both enjoyed the hell out of the Larry Craig incident. It had followed so quickly on the heels of the Mark Foley affair that I'd called Chuck up to suggest that GOP actually meant "Gay Old Party".
During the '08 election season Chuck called and asked if I could talk down the angry lesbian who chaired the Gay, Lesbian, Bi-Sexual and Transgender caucus of the Idaho Dems because she kept calling to complain the party wasn't exploiting Larry Craig's problems enough. We both agreed that the nation's problems were a lot larger than some closet case's bad judgment; besides, Craig was a pitiable character.
However in July of 2008 Chuck called to ask for advice: there were problems at home and in the office. He needed a break, he needed someone to listen, so I invited him out to NYC for a weekend.
It was a
great time. My partner was visiting with his son’s family in Michigan at the time, so Chuck and I fell easily into old bad habits. The weather that August weekend was awesome. We walked everywhere, from the apartment in Midtown down into Soho and back.
We’d both become a lot thicker around the middle, his copper-red hair had all but gone completely gray, but the same quick smile was there, the same romantic notions. While picking up the car to drive over to Brooklyn for dinner, a homeless guy took one look at both of us and said, “Good evening, officers.”
When you only hear one side of a story, it’s difficult to see the big picture. His marriage was winding down, he was not seeing eye-to-eye with his bosses. Part of me knew that Chuck’s romanticist dissatisfaction played a part in these conflicts, but his depression seemed so deep, I didn’t want to push it. He didn’t need to hear me point out his faults, he seemed painfully aware of them.
As we wandered through Manhattan, Chuck ogled the city girls in their summer dresses, tapping into my latent heterosexuality so much that at one point I found myself pointing out hotties he might have missed.
“I’d like to rest my head on those,” he grinned as one stunning brunette in a yellow summer dress, cinched at the waist with a gold belt, walked briskly into a gallery.
“Nice,” I replied. “But what was she thinking with those shoes?”
“DUDE!” Chuck moaned. “You were almost there! Really, for a moment there, you were THIS close!”
The problem with romantics I think, is they try to grab onto emotions that are at best brief and almost always elusive. The emotion of being in love or being happy or doing the impossible, that’s the high they want to possess. What’s not so easy for romantics is the actual mechanics of making a love affair work, or realizing that joy is fleeting and what most people really want is to just be content.
Chuck was troubled. His childhood had not been without problems. He had made some bad decisions in life. At home, at work, in love. He was often depressed. A back injury led to constant pain.
But there was one thing that I know brought him joy: Susannah. He talked about his daughter with a pride, devotion and love that just blotted out everything bad in his life.
He had recently got a job after being unemployed for almost a year, as managing editor for the Blackfoot Morning News. With his career back on track, he had decided to learn to fly, and friends and family could follow his progress on Facebook.
Chuck
died suddenly in a one-vehicle accident last night while driving with Susannah. According to Jennifer and news reports, both were strapped in his pick-up truck with seatbelts, but Chuck was partially ejected from the vehicle at the moment of impact. Susannah was asleep at the time, Jennifer said. But she crawled from the scene back to the road and hailed down a car to call 911. She is as smart and brave as both her parents.
Earlier this week, Chuck had sent an email out to his family and friends, describing how the movie “Flyboys”, a World War I drama, had inspired him during a dark time in his life to get out and learn to fly. He seemed genuinely happy. He had got over a hump.
“ … There are several items on my "bucket list" that I probably won't get around to doing,” Chuck wrote. “But I will learn to fly, I will slide on the ice sheets with penquins in Antarctica, I will climb Mount Borah, the tallest mountain in Idaho, and bury a secret wish there. The point is, I will keep going on. I will be at my daughter's ice skating show this December 19th. I will give her away at her wedding and dance with her at the reception. I will re-connect with old friends and make new ones along the way. But I must say, the older the friends, the deeper I feel our connections are.”
When I told Chuck I wanted to leave journalism, he was livid. He thought I was giving up, that “they” had beaten me down. I like to think maybe “they” had just beaten the romance out of me. Fifteen years in New York media can do that, you know.
But Chuck, even right up to the end, believed in the future. Maybe it was naively romantic, but he wanted to believe in it. He would be beaten down by doubts and mistakes and depression, yet he kept getting up and kept setting new challenges for himself.
If there was any gift he left for us, his family and friends, something beyond the love and friendship he offered in life, it was his romantic belief in the future. In doing things you only ever dreamed of doing.
Thank you, Chuck. I love you very much and I will always miss you. You’ll always be the cutest guy on campus.
I know he's wonk-ish and sometimes his experiments fail, but Thom Yorke never seems to run out of ideas.
ttempted a news satire show, The Half-Hour News Hour, it failed even though it pandered to the very audience it was created for. Why? It failed to grasp that ALL politicians can be deceitful hypocrites and fools. By just being 30-minutes of obvious anti-liberal name-calling, you don't really make the salient points.
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