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(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4223051&forum_id=2#37945648)

https://www.nytimes.com/2019/03/15/nyregion/trump-preacher-magachurch.html?action=click&module=Editors%20Picks&pgtype=Homepage

Central to Beth Israel’s story is the unlikely rise of its pastor, a liberal Jew transformed into an end-times evangelist. The tale is also a step into a controversial and burgeoning layer of American religion, where commerce, supernatural belief and patriotism blend freely. Daniel Silliman, a Valparaiso University professor of religion, called Beth Israel and its pastor part of a long tradition of Americans “looking to prophecy as a way to absorb the chaos” of current events. “It can make someone feel that God is working through human history,” he said, “transforming anxiety into a sense of fullness.”

On a Sunday morning at Beth Israel Worship Center in Wayne, N.J., a bearded pastor named Jonathan Cahn stood on an elevated platform, gazing over a full house. Stage lights shifted from blue to white as the backing band played a drifting melody. Two men hoisted curled rams’ horns and let out long blasts.

“Some of you have been saying you want to live in biblical times,” Mr. Cahn said, pacing behind a lectern. Then he spread his hands wide. “Well, you are.”

Sitting at the end of a sleepy drive an hour from Manhattan, Beth Israel may look like any common suburban church. But the center has a highly unusual draw. Every weekend, some 1,000 congregants gather for the idiosyncratic teachings of the church’s celebrity pastor, an entrepreneurial doomsday prophet who claims that President Trump’s rise to power was foretold in the Bible.

After worship on a recent Sunday, in a roped-off section flanked by security guards, Mr. Cahn signed piles of his books before a small crowd. At 59, Mr. Cahn cultivates a refined demeanor, rarely appearing without a signature all-black suit and tie. He laid his hands gently on one man’s shoulders and offered quiet counsel. “Be patient,” he said. “Keep praying for breakthrough.”

Gail Greenholtz, an elder member, stood near the end of the line. “Many of us consider him a prophet of our time,” she said. “A visionary.”

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Michael Cooney, 58, had driven an hour to hear the pastor teach on politics and prophecy. “It’s all relevant for this moment,” he said. “He shows us that Trump was actually in the Bible.”

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4223051&forum_id=2#37946385)

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Brian Rea

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CreditCreditBrian Rea

By Andrew Rannells

July 28, 2017

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I don’t remember his last name. His first name was Brad, which is the perfect name for a relatively faceless memory from your early 20s. He was handsome, with a nice smile and startlingly blue eyes.

I had always thought that when the eyes got too blue it looked like a person had no soul. You’re seeing too deeply into their head, and there’s nothing back there. But I had never dated anyone with blue eyes, and it was springtime. Brad also had a nice body, muscled, but with extremely soft skin. And the sex was good, I think.

There is a great debate among straight women and gay men as to what counts as sex. Most of my female friends think oral sex doesn’t count. I disagree. I count it all. If someone has an orgasm, I count it. My female friends also hold a deeper misunderstanding that anal sex, for gay men, is like a handshake. News flash, ladies: Sometimes we don’t want to do it with our dates just as much as you don’t want to do it with yours.

This was only my second date with Brad. We didn’t know each other well. We never would. His haircut was fussy and his hands were a little feminine, but his cologne was appealing. I was 22 and hadn’t been on many dates, so this was one of my first forays into courtship. A bonus: He lived just blocks away from me in Astoria.

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If you have ever lived in Astoria, Queens, you know that getting people to go there at the end of the night is like asking a stranger for a ride to the airport. Brad was going to do for now. I was young and dating and independent, and I had highlights in my hair.

The conversation at dinner was dull but he laughed at almost everything I said, so for a comedy narcissist like me, he was an ideal companion. As we ate, my Nokia flip phone started ringing. It was my sister, Julie.

I declined the call. My phone was new and I was still getting used to it. I didn’t love that people could reach me whenever they wanted. I preferred calling my answering service, which made me feel like an old-time movie star. My father had shown me Doris Day movies when I was young, and she was always checking her service for messages from suitors or Hollywood producers.

After dinner we went to a gay bar packed with other gay people on dates, because what’s more fun than trying not to look like you’re checking out other people while learning about your date’s siblings?

Brad and I drank our Cosmos (it was 2001, and if Carrie Bradshaw was doing it, so was I) until his eyes looked less soulless and we started kissing.

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My phone vibrated again. Different sister. Becky. I ignored it.

Another round, more making out, another call, Julie again. My drunkenness, mixed with my desire to be present for Brad, made the calls easy to dismiss. Our making out turned a corner — we were now prone on a banquette — and I had just enough sense left to suggest a cab.

Feeling like a high roller, I offered to pay. En route to Astoria there was more groping, more kissing, more picturing him as Paul Walker. At my apartment we went straight to the bedroom. It lasted longer than it needed to. And then there was the cuddling and holding and sweating and panic and the falling asleep next to a basic stranger and waking up and thinking: “Do I like this?” “Does he like this?”

I excused myself to use the bathroom and opened my phone again. Six more missed calls. My stomach dropped. I was now sober enough to know that something was very wrong.

I started listening. Julie was in hysterics. Something about my dad falling and an ambulance. In the next message, Becky was calmer but shaken. A heart attack or stroke, they weren’t sure. Next: My mom telling me not to panic. Next: Julie telling me to panic.

I skipped to the last message, from Doug, my kind-of brother-in-law (they hadn’t married), from just 15 minutes earlier.

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I called; he answered immediately.

During my niece’s first birthday party, my dad had collapsed after handing off the hamburgers he had been grilling. The party was at my parents’ house, though my dad wasn’t living there. My parents were divorcing and my father, at 61, had moved into a depressing bachelor pad near his office.

The last time I was home, a month earlier, I had visited him with my youngest sister, Natalie. The walls were beige and so was the carpet. The furniture he had picked out was too large and too dark. The place was filled with stuff, yet looked empty.

He was trying to make it a home but didn’t know how. I went into his bathroom to cry. I didn’t want him to see me feeling sorry for him. He didn’t belong there; he belonged in his home.

I pulled myself together, and we ate sandwiches. He put out the plates and napkins and a canister of Pringles. When he opened his kitchen cupboard, I saw that it was stocked with canned stew. I had to clench my jaw to keep from crying again.

After dinner we watched TV.

“I want you to feel at home here,” he told us.

“I should stay here the next time I visit,” I said, which seemed to make him happy.

When Natalie and I left, my dad was standing at the top of the stairs. I turned and yelled up, “I love you, Dad.” It was the last thing I said to him.

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“I love you, Andy.”

And that was it.

Doug had tried to do CPR. The paramedics had used the paddles to get a weak pulse. Now my father was in a coma.

I imagined the scene: the party decorations, the yard full of toys, the deck where he fell, the potted plants my mom put out every spring, my mom crying, my sisters crying, the uneaten hamburgers, the little girl’s birthday cake.

It was all too much. I started to cry. Loudly.

Brad came out to see what was wrong. His hair was mussed and he was completely nude. He stood in front of me, his semi-erect penis at eye level, while I tried to get more information from Doug: What hospital? Should I get on a plane?

I gestured for Brad to sit down. He started rubbing my back, which felt like torture. I was embarrassed about crying in front of him but didn’t care enough to stop.

After I hung up, he tried to hug me. “What happened?”

I wanted to shout: “Clearly nothing good! Put on some pants!” Instead, I tried to explain.

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As Brad paced the apartment, still naked, suggesting plans of action, I felt a growing sense of disgust. I didn’t even like this guy. Why did I have sex with him? Everything seemed wrong. The apartment seemed cramped and dirty. I hated everything inside of it. I caught myself in the mirror and cringed at my dyed blonde hair. Why did I do that to myself? I looked like a fool.

I told Brad he should go, that I needed to make some calls. He sat and put his arm around me. “You shouldn’t be alone right now,” he said, kissing my neck.

I leaned into him. I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to be where I was. Everything felt off. Is this how my father felt in that sad apartment? Like everything was off?

I kissed Brad lightly. “I really need you to leave.”

He looked hurt, but he stood up when I did. Then he hugged me for way too long.

“O.K.!” I said. “Goodbye!” I walked into the bathroom and locked the door. I stared out the window listening to him get dressed. Then I heard the front door shut. He was finally gone.

Within a few days, my father was gone too.

Over the following months, Brad sent me text messages and a voice mail message that went unanswered. I had too much to sort out. And I was embarrassed, I suppose.

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About two years later, Brad walked past me on Ninth Avenue. We almost stopped but only nodded at each other, smiled awkwardly and kept going. I felt like I owed him an explanation, some ending to our story, but I just couldn’t do it. I had to keep moving forward.

I had straightened out much of what felt so wrong that night. I now had a job I was proud of, an apartment I was proud of. I had buried my father and in doing so had buried that whole chapter of my life. Which meant there could be no Brad, no trace of that time, of that night.

It wasn’t generous of me, or kind, but that’s what I did. Most importantly, I never got highlights again.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4223051&forum_id=2#37946292)

When manifesting a boyfriend, maybe don't start with the physical — or date the competition.

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CreditCreditBrian Rea

By Andrew Rannells

March 1, 2019

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My therapist believed that if you wanted to manifest something in your life, you needed to focus your energy on that thing. I decided to apply this to my search for love, so I made a list only a 22-year-old could make. I wanted the man of my dreams to be:

1. Taller than me (I’m 6-foot-2, so it’s a big ask)

2. Dark-haired

3. Fit, kind and funny (but not too funny because that was my job)

4. Social but not too social (I didn’t want to compete for attention)

5. Creative

Later that day I was on my way to the laundromat when I saw Todd. We had acted together in a Westchester Broadway Dinner Theater production of “Grease.” He was Danny Zuko. I was Doody.

He looked even more beautiful than I remembered. Except for being 12 years older and straight, he was exactly what I wanted. He was even two inches taller than I was.

“I just moved into the building next door,” he said.

I tried not to swallow my tongue.

Todd said he’d heard about my father dying and felt terrible about not calling. I knew he had gotten divorced, yet I hadn’t called either.

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In trying to comfort him about not comforting me, I actually said, “Oh, it’s O.K.!” about my own dead father. I was really nailing this interaction.

“You want to have dinner and catch up?” he said.

“Yes!” I practically floated to the laundromat. I knew this wasn’t a date, but I was still excited.

We picked a Greek place and ordered gyros and beer. I didn’t drink beer, but beer seemed appropriate for my non-date date with this straight guy. We talked about my father’s funeral, and I really opened up to him. Maybe because it wasn’t a date.

“It’s been a crazy couple of months,” he said. “After my divorce I really had to think about what had gone wrong with my marriage.”

I zoned out for most of Todd’s speech because I was watching his lips move and his pecs jump, but I became laser-focused when he said, “I realized I’m gay. So I wanted to tell you that, Andrew. I’m gay.”

You know those moments when time stands still? Like when you drive off a cliff or see your baby for the first time? (Neither of which I’ve experienced, but you know what I mean.) That’s what this felt like.

Eventually I said something supportive about being honored that he chose to tell me. Then we moved on.

I knew from my own coming out that it didn’t mean you wanted to belabor it, so I followed Todd’s lead, and the rest of the dinner was professional chitchat. We walked to our apartments, hugged awkwardly and then I went inside in a daze of anxiety and lust.

And then I wondered: Did I just blow it? Had we actually been on a date? The only thing to do was go back and ask.

Moments later, facing a shirtless Todd in his doorway, I said, “Were we just on a date?”

He smiled. “Get in here.”

I did as told and we proceeded to have the greatest sex I’d ever had in my life. I fell asleep in his arms and woke up that way. It was the first time I had slept through the night since my father died. Todd made me feel safe. And I made him feel safe. He was just out of the closet and here he had a man, albeit a young man, who was mad for him. It must have felt like he was dating a puppy.

That night began what I considered to be my first adult relationship. The intensity of my attraction also created an insecurity and mania in me that nearly destroyed us several times. I was both Sid and Nancy in the way I needed him and hated him for it. It wasn’t healthy, but it was exciting. And what did I know about relationships? All I had heard was they were a lot of work. And we were definitely working.

Shortly after Todd and I started dating, we were both given auditions for the new Broadway production of “Hairspray.” The show already had been cast, but at the last minute they needed a new men’s chorus member.

Although I loved Todd, I was out for blood at that audition. And I killed it. Todd did too, because we both got to the final four. We left in silence, imagining the launch of our new Broadway careers (at the other’s expense).

Two hours later we got our rejection calls. Todd was disappointed, but I was devastated. I was cheesy, white and could Pony my butt off. If I couldn’t land this job, how did I belong in this business?

I didn’t belong in it, apparently.

So I quit. I had been paying my bills with a day job — bland, pseudo-artistic work directing cartoons. Todd and I created a comfortable routine, going to farmer’s markets and flea markets, basically any kind of market, just to pass the time. There were weekend trips upstate and home repair projects.

The first time we broke up, we were on a cruise with another gay couple. We got into an argument because he “made me feel stupid” for ordering Riesling at dinner. This spiraled into a larger conversation about me feeling controlled and Todd feeling that I ignored him when we were out with friends.

The doors to the balcony were open and we could hear mariachis playing covers of pop songs. Our relationship ended during “La Bamba” when Todd shouted, “I don’t want to do this anymore!” just as the final note played.

This was midway through the cruise, with three more ports to go. We barely spoke.

Back home, though, we soon returned to our work and market-going and daily sex. And in this way, years passed.

Until one day, while completing yet another mindless but stressful office task, I thought, “I can’t do this anymore.” I had to give acting one last shot.

I managed to get a few minor jobs. Then one morning I got a call offering a Broadway audition. For “Hairspray,” of all shows. It was the exact role I had auditioned for years earlier.

I couldn’t do it. The pain and disappointment was just too much to bear. That show was my John Waters-shaped white whale, taunting me. But I also couldn’t not do it.

I didn’t tell Todd. He hadn’t been called in and I didn’t want to upset him. Also, I didn’t want to be embarrassed when I didn’t get it again.

When the time came, I was totally relaxed and did the material exactly as I wanted to. By the time I got back to my building, they had already called, saying I got the job. It was the happiest moment of my life.

Todd was inside, waiting to have dinner. When I told him, his face tightened. “You beat me,” he said.

“What?”

“You beat me,” he said, not warmly. “You got there first.”

He then pivoted, hugging and congratulating me, but the damage was done. I hadn’t known we were still competing.

We muddled through the holidays. At a raucous New Year’s Eve party, we kissed tentatively at midnight. “Can we leave?” he said. I wanted to stay, but we went home and lay next to each other in silence.

I wanted him to be happier for me. I fell asleep formulating the conversation we would have about how hurt I was. I knew it could be sorted out.

When I woke up, Todd was gone. On my phone was a voice mail message: “Andrew, I can’t do this. You are clearly on your way to someplace else, someplace without me. I’m happy for you, but that was my dream, too. I don’t think I can watch someone else do it before me. I’m sorry. I love you.”

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It was dark out. I sat on my couch, confused and lonely. He was the tallest man I ever loved (the first item on my list!), and I’d lost him. But there was also a voice within me, rising — the voice of my practical, stoic, rural ancestors. They may not have known much about Broadway, but they knew the value of hard work and of getting back up after you were dealt a blow.

The voice said: “You left Omaha and the safety of your family and it led you exactly where you wanted to be. You got it, Andrew. And you deserve it. Now find yourself a plot of land and a good woman and start spreading the family seed!”

Well, maybe that last sentence didn’t quite apply.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4223051&forum_id=2#37946303)

Yes, the women are making history. But the male candidates represent a historically diverse range of expressions of masculinity, and that’s good for everyone.

By Richard Dorment

Mr. Dorment is the editor in chief of Men’s Health.

https://static01.nyt.com/images/2019/03/17/opinion/sunday/17dorment/17dorment-superJumbo.jpg

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4223051&forum_id=2#37946825)

Before you roll your eyes at the prospect of a male journalist interrupting this momentous time for female candidates to remind people that guys are running for president, too!, consider the current and would-be candidates. There’s Cory Booker, with his bear hugs and his celebrity girlfriend and his veganism. There’s Pete Buttigieg, with his military stripes and his schoolteacher husband.

There’s John Hickenlooper, whom this newspaper recently deemed Colorado’s “geek in chief,” and there’s Bernie Sanders, patron saint of the dirtbag left. There’s Mr. O’Rourke, who is avocado toast incarnate — wholesome, trendy, Insta-friendly — and in the still-maybe-but-probably column, there’s Joe Biden, who is closer to corned beef hash.

There are a bunch of others that you’ll have to Google, but the point is, that from woke bros to Cold Warriors, bridge builders to bomb throwers, we have never seen so many different expressions of manhood represented among the top-tier candidates — mostly because Americans have historically been interested in only one kind of man becoming their president.

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In their 1976 book, “The Forty-Nine Percent Majority: The Male Sex Role,” the social scientists Deborah S. David and Robert Brannon laid out the cornerstones of “our culture’s blueprint for manhood:” Be a Big Wheel; Be a Sturdy Oak; Give ’Em Hell; and No “Sissy Stuff” (quotation marks theirs). And that, for the longest time, was what it meant to be a normal American man.

It meant domination. It meant solidity. It meant taking risks and holding back tears, and as a result, most of the men who ran for president fit some version of that mold. Sure, we’d see differences in background and temperament — the war hero (Dwight Eisenhower) versus the egghead (Adlai Stevenson); the outsider (Bill Clinton) versus the insider (George H.W. Bush); the everyman (George W. Bush) versus the elitist (John Kerry) — but by and large, they were white, heterosexual Christian men in pleated khakis.

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But men today live lives vastly different from their fathers’. They’re less likely to marry and have children, and when they do, they spend a lot more time with those kids than their dads could’ve imagined. They spend more time cooking and cleaning, and worry about work-life balance and spiritual fulfillment.

They are more likely to cry openly, as John Boehner used to do all the time when he was the House speaker, and they are more likely to practice self-care, as Mr. Booker does with his regular mani-pedis. (His 2013 Senate opponent, Steve Lonegan, tried to make a thing of Mr. Booker’s nail-salon habit. “As a guy, I personally like being a guy,” Mr. Lonegan said. “I like a good Scotch and a cigar.” The thing didn’t become a thing: Mr. Booker won by 11 points.) They are more likely to say “Being a man is, first and foremost, being a good human” and that making masculinity about dominating others is “an old view,” as Barack Obama did last month.

Politics has always been our national fun-house mirror, exaggerating the finer points of real life. And as our social concepts of masculinity have become more expansive and elastic, it was only a matter of time before our candidates began to break free from the Big Wheel model.

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This liberation should be celebrated: To see men who embody less traditional models of manhood competing at the highest levels of civic life is good for everybody. (Not that there isn’t still a ways to go: Lots of gender expressions remain unlikely to fly in presidential campaigns.)

It might even be good politics as well: In a Pew Research Center survey last summer, an overwhelming majority of Americans considered “aggressive” and “masculine” to be negative personality traits while “kind” and “responsible” were viewed positively. Which brings us to the current president.

“He is the almost cartoon of an alpha dog,” Glenn Beck said of President Trump recently. “And I think because we have taken alpha dogs and shot them all, when he comes to the table there’s a lot of guys that are out there going, ‘Damn right!’”

Mr. Beck has a point, and we don’t need surveys to tell us that many voters, men as well as women, revel in Mr. Trump’s strongman persona and throwback masculinity. (No diaper changing for that guy!) But we also don’t need surveys to tell us that many voters think he’s a bully and a brute, and when they go to the polls — in the Democratic primaries or in the general election — they’re going to think about what kind of man, and what version of manhood, they might want to see in the White House.

Do we want a man who has threatened to rough up an opponent, as Mr. Biden has done with Mr. Trump? Do we want a man who talks constantly about love, like Mr. Booker? What about a man who promises to stand up to bullies, like Mr. Hickenlooper? So many options, so many possible outcomes. And in the end, voters just might say they don’t want any man in the White House at all.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4223051&forum_id=2#37946830)