There's No Place Like SLO For The Holidays

Seasons of Love

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

Six hundred minutes

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

Moments so dear

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

Six hundred minutes

How do you measure - measure a year?

In daylights - in sunsets

In midnights - in cups of coffee

In inches - in miles

In laughter - in strife

In - five hundred twenty-five thousand

Six hundred minutes

How do you measure

A year in the life

How about love?

How about love?

How about love?

Measure in love

Seasons of love

Seasons of love

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

Six hundred minutes

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

Journeys to plan

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

Six hundred minutes

How do you measure the life

Of a woman or man?

In truths that she learned

Or in times that he cried

In bridges he burned

Or the way that she died

It's time now - to sing out

Tho' the story never ends

Let's celebrate

Remember a year in the life of friends

Remember the love

Remember the love

Remember the love

Measure in love

Measure, measure your life in love

Seasons of love...

Seasons of love.

December 24. The Grove may be crowded, but everyone is upbeat for Christmas shopping.

--Did I mention the Abercrombie and Fitch hunks at The Grove were cuter than their A & F counterparts at the Third Street Promenade? Especially one dark-haired puppy! The "Hunky Santa" at the Beverly Center... wasn't. There were plenty of shoppers that could have (and should have) put him out of a job. Maybe they rotate more than one actor/model/waiter/Hunky Santa. Likewise, today, perhaps due to the Santa Ana-induced summer weather, brought out the beauties to The Grove.

Could this movie [Brokeback Mountain] have been made earlier in the epidemic? I think not. As the film ended, I got hit with the memory of the AIDS Memorial Grove in San Francisco, Mike's and Dennis' funerals at the Higashi Honganji Temple in Little Tokyo, and catching the plane from Stockton when my visit to Albert was over, and other memories so obscured I couldn't picture them clearly enough to see what they were. I don't know if I'd've wanted to see this film for the first time with a big crowd as Dacarla had originally planned. A team of theatre employees earnestly thanked the last of us stragglers out of the theatre unlike any time I've left a movie before. They were almost like church ushers at a memorial. Was it akin to when the AIDS Memorial Quilt was first displayed around the country? No doubt this film has been sucker-punching quite a few patrons since it opened. I detoured into the restroom to try to let the tears finish; it didn't work. I thought I was okay, but I could barely keep it together as I crossed the huge lobby and exited the theatre.

As hot and summerlike as it was when I went into the theatre, it's dusk now, with a slight chill already in the air. "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas" sung by Bing Crosby pouring out of the hidden speakers so feels out of place for my state of mind -- yet The Grove is still filled with people caught up in holiday cheer.

...And it's everything I can do to keep from losing it in the middle of the crowd.

This is an aperture into a chamber of my subconscious that I have not visited for a very, very long time. I cannot run from it; it isn't frightening, other than the response in my gut similar to when a person choking runs from a restaurant from some innate fear of embarrassment or public impropriety.

I had forgotten, caught up with the swirl of feelings coursing through me, that it was Christmas Eve. This hardly seemed like the time or the place to unleash the pent-up tears that were hammering to get out.

How many other people viewing BM could say they were actually living in Wyoming in 1963? A disassociated part of me wondered how odd I must have looked to all those throngs of happy people strolling through The Grove.

Less than half an hour after I left the theatre, I was shivering by the time the bus came. Never mind the well-deserved buzz from the critics, the film made a deeper emotional impact that I couldn't possibly be alone in feeling. Time will provide us with the proper careful analysis of the movie's importance -- along with no end of shallow, ill-informed critiques, I'm sure. It would be too much to hope that people would allow others the right to their own emotional responses.

Circumstances have unfolded to make me a loner so much of time -- not that I'm antisocial or even prefer solitude to the company of others. All those moves when I was growing up, constantly dislocating me from my peers; sticking my head in a book; feeling so different and apart from those around me so often; perhaps there's something in my DNA that tilts me in this direction. I know well enough that I didn't deliberately cause it, nor am I likely to be able to change it at this point of my life. I can live with it, as best I can, since it's part of who I am -- but not all that I am.

Looking through my address book to see who else I should send cards to reminds me that I have been loved; I haved loved; I am loved. I should be grateful for having had so much more than most people could ever hope for (even if that doesn't include lots of money... at the present moment). Who knows, right? Like love itself, always maybe just around the corner.

I think I superimposed my life over that of the two main characters in the film for purpose of comparison. The endless discussions, debates and criticisms about the sexual orientation of Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal is not the point here that people ought to be focusing on. But for a twist of fate here or a lucky opportunity seized (or not) there, how do I measure the distance of my life experience from the two protagonists? Is this divine intercedence in my life that has given me a history of many and varied relationships --and my sobriety, that so rare gift that has been entrusted to my tending-- really possible to acknowledge and comprehend?

In diapers - report cards

In spoke wheels - in speeding tickets

In contracts - dollars

In funerals - in births

In - five hundred twenty-five thousand

Six hundred minutes

How do you figure

A last year on Earth?

Figure in love

Figure in love

Figure in love

Measure in love

Seasons of love

Seasons of love

December 25, Hollywood. Thick morning fog melted away by ten o'clock, leaving a hazy, warm sky. The trade-off for a window seat on the ocean-side of the bus is a guaranteed stream of sunshine. So this is Christmas morning, 2005, in the company of disparate strangers all with unknown destinations, unknown stories. The familiar California viewed through the window, hills and peaks rounded and jagged, covered with indigenous vegetation as opposed to the cities with non-native landscaping and ever more construction pushing the boundaries of urbanization.

From Camarillo on, though, the fog returns overhead. Out to sea a thin line of sunshine can be viewed on the horizon; the Channel Islands are for the most part obscured.

San Luis Obispo. The town is shut down tight. Even the air is... Christmasy.

2:30 a.m. Monday morning. Leave it to SLO to have the first political stickers I've ever seen on bottles of alcohol. I dunno -- maybe they've been doing that for a while. After all, booze and politics have a long and checkered relationship.

I was thinking of the song "When I Think of Home" from "The Wiz," to try to illustrate what it's like to have a family home that isn't technically my familial home where I grew up. Yet I'm no stranger to SLO, it having been part of my life for ...half my life now. I am at once the exile,, the immigrant, the migrant, and with family in as much as a home as our crazy family wanderings can allow for. When I read the lyrics to that song, though, it didn't fit my mood as much as "Seasons of Love," from "Rent" which has been haunting me for days along with Tevye's introduction to "Tradition" from "Fiddler on the Roof." It is the violin solo as much as the words that follows me around all day.

So now, Christmas is over... as soon as I go upstairs to bed. Tomorrow we'll head up to San Francisco and I'll get to see my littlest nieces and nephews. :)

For some years now, I've made a tradition of playing the greatest hits of the Fifth Dimension when crossing over the Bay Bridge into San Francisco or passing the San Mateo-San Francisco county line by Candlestick Park (of which now only the ghost remains) that harkens back to my fondest memories of my family's earliest days in California.

Et en Arcadia ego.

LA: 86 degrees Chicago 30 degrees NY 33 degrees

I think I can live with those temperatures... as long as I don't have to endure any long lines at the mall!

I need a scroll to go with the mezzuzah I got for my sister's new house--as soon as I find out what color they're going to paint the doorway.

At sunset, the little white lights on the palm trees in the median of Santa Monica Boulevard are shimmering (from the rising heat of the day?)... Neat.

I cannot get this song out of my head! It has been on an endless loop for two days now! They had Nina Simone singing part of her version on a perfume commercial that has been playing the last few days. It so happens that it was one of the two records I bought in Paris when I went for my 21st birthday (although that was the Santa Esmerelda version). It was the most popular song in Europe that week.

Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood

Baby, you understand me now
If sometimes you see I'm mad
Doncha know that no one alive can always be an angel?
When everything goes wrong you see some bad

Well, I'm just a soul whose intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood.

Ya know sometimes baby I'm so carefree
With a joy that that's hard to hide
Then sometimes it seems again that all I have is worry
And then you burn to see my other side

But I'm just a soul whose intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood.

If seem edgy,
I want you to know
That I never meant to take it out on you
Life has it's problems
And I get more than my share
But that's my one thing I never mean to do

'Cos I love you
Oh baby
I'm just human
Don't you know I have faults like anyone?

Sometimes I find myself alone regretting
Some little foolish thing
Some simple thing that I've done

I'm just a soul whose intentions are good
Oh, Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood.

I try so hard
So don't let me be misunderstood.

Not exactly your typical holiday carol.. but if I can find it at the mall (the first store I went to was sold out of the Nina Simone greatest hits CD) I'm gonna drive the neighbors crazy playing it, along with my other holiday favorites, "It's Christmas and We're Jewish," "Have Yourself A Drag Queen Christmas" and Rupaul's version of "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch."

...and we'll see if I get my hands on the soundtrack to "Brokeback Mountain."

Yes, it's official: I'm won over by "Brokeback Mountain." The state of Wyoming is already fending off rumors of a "Sideways" styled invasion of tourists to see the sites from the movie... which was actually filmed in New Mexico and Alberta, Canada. The towns of Sage, Lightning Flat, and Riverton, however, which figure in the original Annie Proulx story, are real. Sage is on one of main the routes from Utah into Southwestern Wyoming; Lightning Flat, however, the town where Jack was born, raised and buried, is on a little road to nowhere off a minor highway right up alongside the Montana border. Riverton is the one town from the original story that is actually a town with stores, motels, and somewhere to eat... and a number of grocery stores... (hint, hint).

The January 2006 issue of "American Cinematographer" has an interesting story about how Rodrigo Prieto shot BM. Look for a brief cameo of the cinematographer as the male prostitute in the street in Mexico that Jack meets.

Likewise, the Nov/Dec 2005 issue of "Script" magazine has an interesting backstory on the eight year journey of BM from Annie Proulx's short story to script to the screen.

Last post until after Ex-mash. Ho ho ho, and a bottle of mocha frappuccino!

Happy Winter Solstice (or "Midsumma," if you're an Aussie)

As my good fortune would have it, there was a loud, obnoxious drunk sitting next to me on the bus a few minutes ago finishing off his King Cobra, uttering homophobic threats and yelling at anything and everything. I'm still shaking a little, even though I'm safe and sound and will probably never see him again (I should be so lucky. I've a feeling, though, that this character may not make it to the rooms of AA.)

This morning's meeting had me feeling rather chipper, actually. The underlying theme was 'I'm not in the holiday spirit, and nobody can make me.' It was as if all the anti-Christmas people --some with good reason to hate the holidays, I might add-- were all tucked away in one little spot.

Before the meeting, I found the following in the Dec/Jan issue of Soul Brasil magazine:

Water or Coke?

Water

1. 75% of Americans are chronically dehydrated.

2. In 47% of Americans, the thirst mechanism is so weak that it is often mistaken for hunger.

3. Even MILD dehydration will slow down one's metabolism as much as 3%.

4. One glass of water will shut down midnight hunger pangs for almost 100% of the dieters studied in a University of Washington study.

5. Lack of water, the #1 trigger of daytime fatigue.

6. Preliminary research indicates that 8-10 glasses of water a day could significantly ease back and joint pain for up to 80% of sufferers.

7. A mere 2% drop in body water can trigger fuzzy short-term memory, trouble with basic math, and difficulty focusing on the computer screen or on a printed page.

8. Drinking 5 glasses of water daily decreases the risk of colon cancer by 45%, plus it can slash the risk of breast cancer by 79%, and one is 50% less likely to develop bladder cancer.

And now for the Properties of COKE

1. In many states (in the USA) the highway patrol carries two gallons of coke in the trunk to remove blood from the highway.

2. You can put a T-bone steak in a bowl of coke and it will be gone in two days.

3. To clean a toilet: Pour a can of Coca-Cola into the toilet bowl and let the "real thing" sit for one hour, then flush clean. The citric acid in Coke removes stains from vitreous China.

4. To remove rust spots from chrome car bumpers: Rub the bumper with a rumpled-up piece of Reynolds Wrap aluminum foil dipped in Coca-Cola.

5. To clean corrosion from car battery terminals: pour a can of Coca-Cola over the terminals to bubble away the corrosion.

6. To loosen a rusted bolt: Apply a cloth soaked in Coca-Cola to the rusted bolt for several minutes.

7. To bake a moist ham: Empty a can of Coca-Cola into the baking pan, wrap the ham in aluminum foil, and bake. Thirty minutes before the ham is finished, remove the foil, allowing the drippings to mix with the Coke for sumptuous brown gravy.

8. To remove grease from clothes: Empty a can of Coke into a load of greasy clothes, add detergent, and run through a regular cycle. The Coca-Cola will help loosen grease stains.

9. It will also clean road haze from your windshield.

For Your Info:

1. The active ingredient in Coke is phosphoric acid. Its pH is 2.8. It will dissolve a nail in about 4 days. Phosphoric acid also leaches calcium from bones and is a major contributor to the rising increase in osteoporosis.

2. To carry Coca-Cola syrup (the concentrate) the commercial truck must use the Hazardous material place cards reserved for highly corrosive materials.

3. The distributors of coke have been using it to clean the engines of their trucks for about 20 years!
Now the question is... would you like a coke or a glass of water?



You just know I'm going to answer that last question like the alcoholic that I am.... but can I get it with lime?

Happy Winter Solstice... now to look at pictures of Brasilian beach boys to get in the holiday spirit ;)

'twas the night before the Solstice...

First I lose my therapist. Now our favorite librarian is getting transferred to another branch. After dealing with the crazies of WeHo (undisputed champion of libraries for their assortment of local eccentrics) I suppose Laura is due for a less challenging post where she can relax a bit and catch her breath. After all of the machinations and oddities here, anywhere else could be considered boring. She might end up in a library where it looks and acts like... a library. Culver City is up-and-coming; but I doubt even for all the studios and galleries near her new library that they have as many screenwriters, actors, or real California fruits and nuts like in WeHo.

My sister closes escrow after New Year's (hopefully) on her new home in Concord. It's closer to the City, yet somehow manages to be smack-dab in the middle of nowhere, one of those areas that San Franciscans will think might as well be on the moon, even if it is BART-adjacent. Thus, there is the threat that the siblings may not get together for Christmas at Dad's, with Scott and Satoe fresh from the Florence biennial and Brice possibly working through the holiday... :( If I'm going to have my poor-little-match-girl/starving artist's holiday, at least I wanna get to play with my nieces and nephews! It just isn't Christmas if I don't get to chase the shrieking little monsters around the tree... It looks like my holiday is going down the tubes. :(

My favorite newsstand was playing the Gypsy Kings... a pleasant respite from the omnipresent "contemporary" Christmas carols that are just plain awful. I might just play my Halloween CD at full blast at home in my little artist's garret to drive the neighbors up the wall. That, or my Rupaul holiday CD. I think I have a classical/new age CD from Japan of the planets that ought to be sufficiently out there...

You gotta have hope

Just when there really seems to be no real logical point in our existence, some silly thread through a television program like last night's Sex in the City, or this morning's Saturday Survivor's meeting jogs the purpose back (somewhat) on track. Imperfectly, maybe even a little unsteadily, but just maybe we'll get a moment out of the day where we get the opportunity to make a small gasp at some unexpected beautiful vista, or be of service to another human being in some small way, that allows for a reason why we should exist, that there is a purpose for our being where we are, when we are there, that only we can experience... even if we aren't allowed to grasp the importance of our being chosen to be there at that particular time while it happens (or, perhaps, ever). Just to know there is some God given scheme to why the molecules and matter that we are made of is here, right now, being who we are, doing what we're doing....

Yeah, just maybe. That's a pretty big what if, ya know?

That moon is hangin' lower over my head like...

The Man That Got Away


The night is bitter,
The stars have lost their glitter;
The winds grow colder
And suddenly your older -
And all because of the man that got away.

No more his eager call,
The writing's on the wall;
The dreams you dreamed have all
Gone astray.

The man that won you
Has gone off and undone you.
That great beginning
Has seen the final inning.
Don't know what happened.
It's all a crazy game!

No more that all-time thrill,
For you've been through the mill -
And never a new love will
Be the same.

Good riddance, good-bye!
Ev'ry trick of his you're on to.
But, fools will be fools -
And where's he gone to?

The road gets rougher,
It's lonelier and tougher.
With hope you burn up -
Tomorrow he may turn up.
There's just no let up the
Live-long night and day!

Ever since this world began
There is nothing sadder than
A one-man woman looking for
The man that got away...
The man that got away.

A Full Moon Over WeHo

Moon River

Moon River,

Wider than a mile,
I'm crossing you in style,

Crossing you in style,
Some day,
Oh, dream maker,
You heart breaker,
Wherever you're going,
I'm going your way.
Two drifters,
Off to see the world.
There's such a lot of world
To see.
We're after the same rainbow's end--
Waiting 'round the bend,
My huckleberry friend,
Moon River and me.

I had a feeling it was going to be a weird full moon when someone tossed an egg at me while I was waiting for the bus. Fortunately, they missed, but not by much; I had a little egg shell on my pantleg. No yolk, though, so I lucked out. Then today I broke the fan in my bathroom. Maybe I should just be locked up 'til the full moon passes... and somebody gets hurt.

The Ghosts of Christmas Past

Let's see if I can go 24 hours without anyone talking about Tookie Williams or Brokeback Mountain...



I was up every hour last night from a weird dream about Christmas from about 1960 to 1965. Every gift I remember in our home that was in some fashion heterocentric, American or Western civilization-centric propaganda, homophobic, sexist or racist (including those by omission or lack of inclusion of people of color) from the era flashed before me.

We spent all of a half an hour in the mall after my nephew's birthday brunch, coupled with a holiday-themed episode of "Gray's Anatomy" that pitted the pro-holiday characters against the against-the-holiday or just-not-in-the-holiday-spirit characters. That's what I assume brought on the strange dream. America has a lot to hold itself accountable for, from what I could gather. It was my good fortune to have come of age during the golden era of the marriage of the American toy industry with the promolgation and promotion of so-called "American" values. In some ways, it was supposed to be bucolic, yet on deeper inspection it was an insidious brainwashing of children, a fraud perpetrated on the young impressionable minds of the time. Someone ought to be held accountable for it. All the body dysmorphia, low self-esteem, and inexplicable rage of young people of color can find some connection to the constant barrage of images and ideas that came at us: the first generation to have grown up in the televised era of mass media.

And among the crimes committed is an unwillingness by the perpetrators to see the damage that they have committed against America's (and the world's) future. The very existence of the species could be said to be tied to the undoing of the damage of a relatively short period of time in human history. It is probably as important as a solution to global warming or sustainable energy supplies. If we want to truly develop the minds that will be responsible for fixing the problems created by humans in the 20th century, we'd best work to undo the damage already done and stop heaping more harm on the minds of our youth.

Then, maybe we won't have any more Tookie Williams, or need for a death penalty; or Brokeback Mountain, or need to teach and preach tolerance and understanding among people.

Or maybe I just need some chocolate... and nobody will get hurt.

Enough with the cowboys already!

Something is up when even my lesbian friends are all running to see BM. Granted, a strong opening weekend will make it easier to greenlight projects more pertinent to me in the future, and chances are there will be lots of eye candy in the audience, too, and all teary-eyed in need of a supportive shoulder :) after the movie...

Part of me can hardly wait for the gay pc crowd to light into the film, magnifying every real or imagined flaw as much as possible. Might as well get it over with. The first wave of snotty WeHo "oh, I already saw a screening at the studio" queens have already been flaunting their exposure to Jake & Heath to anyone within earshot. Maybe the ending will go down in gay cinematic history alongside the scene of Leonardo sinking into the freezing Atlantic out of Rose's grasp...

No, I'm really not that cynical, but the whole issue begs to be parodied and gotten past... as one tongue wagged, "How long before a porn film comes out entitle 'Bareback Mountain?'

File it under, 'so, you call this progress?'

I have to remind myself, that if I'm going to be in a community overrun with folks who work in 'the industry,' I'm gonna have to learn to put up with their sense of all-importance. This is WeHo, and it's filled with WeHoids. Been that way since this town was a soybean field. Frankly, I am confused as to how this film is going to feed one more starving child in Africa, bring about world peace, or get me excited.

I have been wrong before, of course. Maybe I'll even be the one hogging the hankies on the way out of the theatre. And then again, maybe a cute latin gogo boy will drop out of the sky and into my arms. What store at The Grove does one go to get registered for that gift, I wonder?

Killing the Goose that Laid the Golden Egg

ABC is not doing right by its viewers. So I finally find out after searching through myriad ABS sites that 'Invasion' is on hiatus until January... so no Eddie Cibrian 'til then. Coupled with the way they tease their 'Lost' and 'Desperate Houswives' fanbase, watch 'em take a tumble in the '06-'07 year...

And I can't even get 'Miami Animal Planet,' so my Miami television addiction is sorely tested.

My brother Scott and his wife Satoe are getting ready for the Florence Bienniale. So big things are happening in the family.

...and it started out such a nice day, too

At the post office I received a package of books from Robert Manners that I'll either open when I get home as a late birthday present, or hold off until Christmas. Who am I kidding? I can't wait to see what's in it!

Outside the post office, though, the LaRouche people had set up their table again. I evaded them on the way in, but upon exiting, one of them tried to engage me in conversation. He was a [presumably] heterosexual black man. I had an impulse to grab him and shake him and ask him what he was doing working for such a racist, homophobic asshole as La Rouche. As I still remember the time during the Prop 96 campaign when I was surround by a bunch of them at the LA County Fair, I have since thought better than to engage them in any way or even acknowledge their prescence. At times I want to tell them that they have some nerve, coming right into the heart of the gay ghetto and getting unsuspecting people to sign their petitions and take their literature. The people working the LaRouche table might be doing it for nothing more than the pay check, and have no idea (or could care less) that he went to prison for fraud, or that he's nothing more than a brilliant opportunist.

Hmmm... I think I have a subject to send to Ryan at WeHo News in regard to this. It would be a lot more therapeutic (and with less chance of being charged with assault) than trying to confront them directly.

But why should I have to chop off yet another piece of my shrinking turf until there is no place left I that I can feel safe? Why should we be made to endure their presence?

AAArrrggghhh

a summer day in December...

Whoa... it is waaaaay hotter outside than the 60 degrees the news said it would be today. Blue skies, tourists everywhere assuming this is how it always is in California... to live here is to lose sight of all the hype and hoopla about it. After all, without unsustainable manipulation of the environment, this is supposed to be a semi-arid desert scrubland. Today, though, it is definitely paradise...

In her introduction to her book, The Faith of A Writer: Life, Craft, Art Joyce Carol Oates quotes Sigmund Freud,


"beauty has no obvious use; nor is there any clear cultural necessity for it.
Yet civilization could not do without it."







Thus it is that WeHo gets a reprieve for being what it has become. The beautiful, or wish for beauty, those who traffic in beauty, or seek to possess objects of beauty (both inanimate and human) all cross paths in this artificial oasis like the background characters in Rick's Cafe Americain in Casablanca. Like Rick, they are lured for the waters. And alas, they, too, are misinformed. Beauty strolls and struts up and down the boulevard, perches by the pool, showing itself off, but always just out of reach... It is not unlike going to Las Vegas, knowing that the house always wins, yet betting anyway on games of chance which in truth, offer little or no chance of bestowing those illusive riches upon the supplicant.

Yet, is the view not pleasing to the eye? Are not the melanoma-laden sun soothing to the skin? Is that the promise of attainment whispered on the breeze?

The carcasses and skeletal remains of those who sought beauty in vain are carefully out of view. The palm trees shield us from harsh realities of life. Fantasy is the chief industry here, and though of late they've been castigated for saying so, many of the early writers wooed to Hollywood tried to say as much.

And now for something completely different. I am enjoying my nightly television --even if I don't have an enormous, color flat screen tv like Dad-- and my various, for the most part harmless, forms of escape, perhaps in part because the alternative is just so damn unpalatable. Okay, so I live on the fringes of the Great American Riviera, yet am not of it. I am close enough to peer over the fences into the gardens of a life seemingly without care from my hovel with more than enough cares I'd like to forget. Such is our world. Such is my day.

And now, out into the gilded cage I wander, to get the room ready for my artists' meeting tonight.

Sunshine Saturday

So despite my feeling out of alignment with the standard WeHo crowd (like hearing those whispering voices in the jungle on "Lost", I get the word that this is not a place where I'm wanted or needed; I'm an interloper...) I stayed for the meeting last night anyway, and as always happens, it was the perfect share to hear (besides, some old rule from way back when says I'm not allowed to leave a meeting once I'm there; recognizing that a different meeting might be more comfortable or appropriate is another issue) and I was glad I stayed until the voices passed. Having time is weird, ya know?

When I was 20-something --even 30-something-- it was no big deal, but now I'm feeling more than the mere tyranny of youth that so permeates LA (especially WeHo). There is the palpable sense that most of my generation is gone... so few of my peers are left around whether in the rooms or around the neighborhood. That's part of why there seem to be so many of these young puppies around while I'm not a troll (I don't think so, at any rate) I out of sync with identifying with the other 40-somethings I see around. They all seem so much... older than I feel. Like fable of the grasshopper and the ant? While I wasn't looking, I got old. Yet, I don't feel old.

Granted, I like to carry on a conversation with someone in the English I was taught to speak, which seems a tad more formal than the standard twinktalk, and what I like to talk about --as well as what interests me-- seems a lot more grown up. Then again, in this neck of the woods, even those my own age have an inordinate amount of investment in vapid throw-away culture.

This town--this country--is so prepossessed with petty, silly stupid vain shit. When I was a shmata, the people who worked in the heart of the fashion industry understood that clothes were but mere rags; they didn't measure a person's real worth. Even within my own family, though, pop culture reigns supreme.

It isn't like I don't like to really, really laugh out loud and have a good time. Maybe out of the ruins of this morass there will arise those who have some sense and a few brains in their heads.

...and it's a beautiful day out, and I need to explore it, and embrace it, and enjoy it.

Siste viator

Well, the apartment next door is really empty. You have any idea how hard it is to find good neighbors (not to mention really cute ones)?

I'm still reeling over my television viewing of this week. Who knew that Oprah's appearance on David Letterman was "the television event of the decade?"

Wednesday night's "Lost" segued into "Invasion" without even a break in between. No time to even catch your breath! For a bona fide bookworm, I'm enjoying this television season thoroughly. My one bone to pick with ABC is that they promo'd "Alias" taking over the Invasion slot as well as implied that "Invasion" would be back next week without any mention of a day or time change. I'll just have to keep my ears and eyes open. The thing that really ticks me off, though, is this pattern of airing deleted scenes from "Lost" or "Desperate Housewives" on "Good Morning America." Hey guys, like, some of us are not glued to the tube morning, noon and night! That is so rude! Like charging over a hundred bucks for an ill-promoted fan convention (at the same hotel where AALA meets). Not a way to push brand loyalty. What, do they think we're addicted? Really, I can quit anytime I want! Like, say, every 108 minutes...

This business of the Catholic Church and gay priests is beginning to get under my skin. Mainstream media has been all over it. Even the "liberal" or "unbiased" television media have failed to talk about what's behind all this: THE GAY COMMUNITY AND GAY PRIESTS ARE NOT MOLESTING CHILDREN! Studies have repeatedly shown that the overwhelming majority of those who molest children are heterosexual (let's see the Church throw all of them out!) and most child abusers were themselves abused as children. I think I'm as worried about what would happen if the Church imploded in on itself when it runs out of clergy following their misguided stratagem since far more virulent fundamentalism sects are already hacking away at the (bloated) number of Catholics worldwide. That combined with the "stepinfetchit" mainstreaming of gay culture is going to be detrimental to the existance of gay life as we know it in the 21st century. It ain't gonna help our straight friends and family too much, either.

But enough doom and gloom... under all this crap, as the old story goes, there has to be a pony...

...and hey, John Stamos is coming back as a mid-season replacement. Yeah, it was far below the quality of my other favorite beefcake shows, but he did take his shirt off once or twice to show an impressive bod during his brief run last summer. Ah, Rebecca, please do tell us if the goods were as fun to enjoy as the package... or is it another case of mediocre performance in pretty wrapping? I try to remind myself that beauty isn't everything (outside of West Hollywood, that is), especially as I mourn the loss of The Boy Next Door...

I couldn't watch all of that alien attack of Deputy Lewis on "Invasion," as much as I wanted to. I'm a real wuss when it comes to that. What I did see as I peeked I must say was very well filmed. The murdering of the innocent deputy was a lot to take, though. And what will happen when Eddie Cibrian's kids eventually find out their mom is dead? Oof. Too heavy. What an adrenaline pumping show (and that's even without Eddie Cibrian walking around shirtless or in his shorts)!

So tonight, I'll go to my WeHo meeting, reminding myself what my primary purpose is there; and tomorrow the same. There's a holiday boat parade in San Pedro tomorrow night; maybe I'll go watch. As with the trailers for "Little Manhattan" though, I'm tired of going solo to events tooted as "perfect for dates." The ol' fifth wheel syndrome. arrrgh. At least the meetings in WeHo have eye candy ...and I'm not blind... and I will behave myself as befitting someone with as much time as I have.

Dec 1

Why is today unlike any other day?
A day to remind me of an individual's responsiblity to hold the whole of society accountable... sometimes not by shouting, but by our most seemingly benign actions...







I think part of the reason I was so down on WeHo the last few days is that...
I have a headache, sore throat and stuffy nose? Some Aleve, a nasal spray and some OJ will take care of that, for the most part (but WeHo will still be WeHo, and there aint no meds to fix that disfunction yet!)

Hmmm... is WeHo toxic?

So to make matters worse, I run into the Boy Next Door, who tells me that he's moving... today! He has a boy friend... :( with whom he'll be spending the holidays in Punta del Este! Sigh! :\ That's what I get for being attracted to the boys who can travel in those circles. Oh well. Nothing like a nice fantasy, at least, to give you some hope. I guess I'll just have to find another fantasy... or maybe a real boyfriend. Now, that would be a change!

Yesterday, I ran into a number of program people as I walked down the street, then a fellow walked up to me and said he remembered me from 10 years ago, dancing at the local clubs: "You had it going on!"

The pessimist says, yeah, that was then; but it was cause for speculation that, maybe, just maybe, I still got it going on somewhere, I only I could find it. The more I remember my youth, the more I'm shook by just how much I really got to see and experience of life that most people only dream about... and it ain't over yet!

When I looked up at the Stahl House, there was a photo shoot going on. I couldn't see the people, only the equipment and the flash of a camera every so often. It was rather fun to watch.

Last night, there were no stars to be seen in the sky; a far cry from the heavens above San Luis Obispo. One lone planet shone through, however. And how many lights in the sky does it take to hang one's hopes and dreams on?

Maybe next year, it'll be me going to Punta del Este for New Years with the man of my dreams. And I don't want to forget, today of all days, all the beautiful moments I was privileged to share with the most wonderful men one could ever want to know.

All said and done, I've been one lucky s-o-b, and I don't dare dishonor the memory of all those incredible people I've been allowed to know along the way by thinking otherwise.

I've had my Punta del Este... over and over again, dammit. Maybe moreso than most people could ever hope to dream of. That means not worrying about if I've already had my ration of life's experiences...

Maybe around the next corner... who knows?

Le vie en la cite

So much to do now with so little time to do it! The holidays are really, really here and I feel six months late getting ready for them (when I was a shmata I'd have all my holiday shopping done before the 4th of July... and at wholesale!)

I'm trying to reconcile my love-hate relationship with WeHo... somedays it acts like the best place to perfect the neutron bomb --the one that leaves the architecture but wipes out all the people. Other days, the boys are lovely to look at, but that's all... don't dare try to talk to one of them if you aren't in their cadre...

I'm getting used to the idea (if one ever truly does get used to it) that I'm aging in a fetid pool of youth that lowers the bar on idiocy every season. Other days, the sun is shining and all is right with the world.

It is a time of year when normal emotions are heightened, so the best I can do is keep close to my meetings, keep my chin up, and watch how I react.

...and it may not be a misconception that the lunatics are running the asylum. this is, after all, LA..

More of the same

Beautiful day in WeHo... still have a fridge full of leftovers from t-day with the folks. We had a great meeting last night, and I can see nothing but more of the same on the horizon....

We Are A Gentle Angry People

We Are a Gentle Angry People

We are a gentle angry people,

And we are singing,

Singing for our lives.

We are a land of many colors,

And we are singing,

Singing for our lives.

We are gay and straight together,

And we are singing,

Singing for our lives.

We are a peaceful, loving people,

And we are marching,

Marching for our lives....

lyrics by Holly Near, Arlo Guthrie, Ronnie Gilbert and Pete Seeger

The Night Sky Over San Luis Obispo

Wow! On the way back from downtown to Dad's house around 11 p.m., the sky overhead was a blue-black bowl filled with stars. The air was chilled; it was hard to believe that there was any night light pollution overhead. To the South, the Little Dipper and Saturn were among the stars that were crystal clear. This was a sight not to be had in LA or San Francisco. Had I forgotten how bright and numerous the stars could be?

By the time I got in the front door, I was well aware of just how cold it was outside. Oh, but the enormity of the brilliant sky was worth the shivering!

Tomorrow will be the anniversary of the assassination of Harvey Milk and George Moscone. I watch the sky for a moment in silent remembrance.

SLO Saturday

It was a great meeting; not the same as my normal Saturday morning meeting in WeHo, but that's the point. It was a real holiday meeting, plain and simple. Amazing-and then again not-how many folks remember me here from visit to visit over the years. Even more amazing (to me) is that I am afforded the very rare privilege of going to meetings literally at Ground Zero where I made that plea for deliverance 25 years ago...




The curved glass window was Dad's office at Cal Poly SLO School of Business before his retirement.







There's something about these SLO boys, I must say. That California surfer-laid back casual unassuming masculinity not overly burdened with wearing their testosterone on their sleeve is so appealling. Makes these local guys prettier than any porn stars--not that I'm into 'straight acting' men as a rule. As they say, NBFAWB (Not Bad For a White Boy; or, Nice Butt For a White Boy). It kind of ruins it for the over-affected LA guys, as goodlooking as they are, who too often are too self aware of their looks, as with Miami Beach, due to so many people being in the industry. LA does have more ethnic variety, though, as well as a diversity of looks. It is a blessing living in a city with people from all over the world; moreso than just about anywhere else. Ah, but those Miami boys... but that's a rumination for another day...

Or maybe it's just the coffee...

Sunrise in San Luis Obispo

Sunrise in San Luis Obispo is one of the most beautiful sights one can ever behold. Yesterday, the morning fog swirled around the Seven Sisters; today the sky is clear and blue. Out the window I can see Cerro San Luis and Bishop's Peak. There is still residual warmth (not as much as LA, but I'll take it) during the day; yesterday we had a light rain that bordered on mist. Quite atmospheric. From the Central Coast to Marin County, the California coast and woods are made for hiking; the meandering, meditative kind.

So far it's been a great little sojourn up to San Luis Obispo. Yet, while my little sister Courtney has a wealth of friends from her school days here, I really don't know anyone in the area. There is someone I met at the Western Round Up in San Francisco years back who lives in one of the other little towns in San Luis Obispo County; for community, though, I depend on the tightly knit local meetings. As they used to say, however, there are no meetings like the ones you first get sober in, so I know better than to fault them for not being LA. Family is the primary focus of any visit to SLO anyway. Someday, I'll get a chance to attend the one gay meeting they have here--a far cry from having three thousand meetings in LA with over three hundred gay meetings. For all its unwieldy urban sprawl, there are at least those pockets of nature and, yes, some real enjoyable urban enclaves, in and around Los Angeles.

Last weekend, I had a chance to do a little plein air sketching and photography around San Pedro, and even managed to catch the shuttle bus to Long Beach over the Vincent Thomas bridge; but the bus doesn't have regular stops on Terminal Island on the weekends, so I'll have to plan a sunrise trip down to do some 'sunrise at the harbor' drawing and photos--bearing in mind that folks are more and more nervous (and sometimes irrationally jittery) about terrorism. Given the high profile of the LA Harbor as a target, it isn't all that unexpected. More than once, I've had plainclothes or uniformed patrols watch me with varying degrees of subtlety. Just as long as I don't disappear with no one knowing where I am into the Terminal Island prison in some secret holding facility for Homeland Security, without anyone believing that I'm not a threat. My luck, I'll be at the right there at the water's edge the day something does happen (and like earthquakes, more and more people are saying 'when' it happens, and not 'if').

Not today. Today there is no hate, no worry, no terrorism, no looking over one's shoulder-- except to seek the wind chimes tinkling from damn near every front porch, or watch the birds sweep overhead or the canopy of leaves as one walks down the quiet streets.

Better get ready for the morning meeting... I really enjoy making the Melody Group whenever I can when I'm up here, and today may be my only opportunity.

not the best of days

During a google search of my name, I came across a url from David Ehrenstein that had a photograph of Lance Robertson and myself from our days at A Different Light. Only, when I clicked on the photo, I got a message laced with profanity that told me to f*ck off... among other things.

There are a number of people with the name Mark Haile out there, I've found over the years, including the person who stole my identity and went down to the Beverly Center once and spent a few grand in my --my-- name.

Not having my image on the web doesn't bother me as much as having the crap up there linked to my name. I've dealt with the Emperor Haile Selassie jokes since kindergarten, but this is a new wrinkle.

This is what I get for not being tech savvy and having my own access to the net at home.

Thanks to Towleroad for this memory...

I remember fondly Florent on Gansevoort in Manhattan's meatpacking district. Now that was a fun place to eat! And this was way before Sex in the City. If I recall correctly, it was at one time called "the gayest restaurant in America." And there was no muscle queen-Prada boy attitude, either. Why is it my favorite place to eat is always in another city? Of course, there is Nick's, my secret diner in LA. Anyway, it was great to be reminded of Florent.

You think I'd be grateful it's nearly 90 degrees today

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For D

Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi

Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love.
Where there is injury, pardon.
Where there is doubt, faith.
Where there is despair, hope.
Where there is darkness, light.
Where there is sadness, joy.
O Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek
To be consoled as to console.
To be understood as to understand.
To be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive.
It Is in pardoning that we are pardoned.
It is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Docendo Discimus

I'm a little surprised that there's been so little fanfare about "Commander in Chief" on ABC tackling HIV. The scripts have been rather two dimensional up to this point (maybe we've been spoiled by "The West Wing") and Donald Sutherland --until this week-- was a villian right out of "The Perils of Pauline." They humanized him-and in so doing, there's hope for the scripts to come.

I've seen nary a word in the blogs (other than the official site for the show) commenting on the episode. Not that it isn't out there... I just haven't had time to really look. What those who have commented have failed to mention (maybe they're too young to remember) is that President Clinton had both gay and HIV positive staffers in his administration. Even Bush Sr. kept a token gay or two around (the Log Cabinettes will probably chime in with a huff as to the total head count of G & L or HIV positive appointees by current and past Republican administrations).

For my money, Anthony Azizi, who plays Vince Taylor, is way cuter than Matt Lanter, who plays the president's son Horace (and so it would seem the odds-on favorite cast member of gay boys, in part to his role on a reality show last year). I do appreciate that they put him on the high school swim team, though, so we'll have lots of Speedo scenes. Somewhere in Nebraska --and the Castro-- men and boys of all ages will be recording those scenes. (yep-one site even had the video of the pool scene!) The official blog did have one correspondent who noted the legalities around firing a person with HIV. The issue is so 80s. How soon they forget...

The best part of Azizi's role thus far was a week or two ago when he had to repeatedly remind people that he doesn't speak Arabic (his character is supposed to be a Palestinian, which I thought was enough to lay the groundwork for future plotlines concerning him).

Given the shortage of openly gay characters on primetime television this season, at least we have one who won't be a comic foil.

Respice finem

So the Catholic Church is going to vet seminarians for signs of homosexuality. Good! Let's contemplate the out-of-court settlement for the first heterosexual falsely labeled as gay to be separated from the priesthood.

Of course, if I seem a little bemused by the church's intentions, it might be because my outrage at the church's inability to differentiate between gays and child molesters or acknowledge that lifelong celibacy by even allegedly heterosexual men is, well, unnatural, is more than compensated by the hastening of the end of the Catholic Church--in North America at least. To quote Jamie Fox from Jarhead, "Boo-rah!"

The Church can continue to exist in Rome for all I care--I've no problem with them there where no one pays them much mind anyway. Pancho Villa had the right idea when he castrated priests accused of abuse, saying in his defense that they've taken a vow not to have sex anyway, so they ought not mind he was helping them resist temptation.

Good day, sunshine....

The middle of November, and it's a glorious day out... the boys are probably all at the beach, seeing as how deserted the streets of WeHo are. I was so sluggish getting up, that now it wouldn't serve any purpose to head out there. By the time I got to the gay beach, everyone would have already left. Maybe after the morning meeting tomorrow, eh? Ah, Los Angeles... perhaps it got a few well-aimed zings in last night's SINC, but this is the place to be...

Last week, on Gilmore Girls, the scene between Jess and Logan was so fierce, I wanted them to end up making out together. Alas, since in real life Milo Ventimiglia is dating Alexis Bledel, slight chance of a menage a trois there.

Wish I'd remembered to bookmark the site where someone had an animation of Jake Gyllenhaal shaking his butt... I wasn't that into him before, but with his buffed torso from the impending Jarhead everywhere around town and all over the tube (unlike the extremely chaste and demure ads for Brokeback Mountain... hmmm; what could be behind that, I wonder?) it's kinda hard not to get, well, hard thinkin' about him. If only most of the real life Marines were as built--or articulate.

At the Brewery Artwalk last weekend (part of what has kept me away from the computer) there was a video/mixed media artist whose studio was almost entirely given over to his sentiments on the war in Iraq. One piece featured an everchanging montage of portraits of actual military casualties, with their hometowns and ages. They're all so fucking young. Too young--most were 18 to 27. I left the studio choked up and in need of air. We need something like that for December 1 (World's AIDS Day) to remind ourselves of another group of lost souls --especially since people seem to be oblivious to the actual human cost of HIV. I'm glad young people don't have address books full of dead people in them, but the complacency is unnerving for those of us who were surrounded by the epidemic in the 80s and 90s. We don't need to relive the loss of more than 20 9/11s so much as to make sure people will someday have the luxury of having to ask what life was like then while paying tribute to the very real lives cut short. By the same token, I get a deep-rooted resentment everytime I see one of the ads for the frou frou benefits of the Hollywood cognoscenti for any of the countless children with AIDS organizations. There is an unspoken subtext to these events, that these were the innocent victims of the epidemic, as opposed to those other people, who brought it on themselves somehow. Actually, it pisses me off. Yeah, many of the same folks go to all the local events supporting local HIV organizations, but the demonization factor--even if unmentioned--is louder than organizers of such soirees are aware.

If I hadn't read that excerpt from Andrew Sullivan's blog about the impending end of a gay community, I might not be as pissed. I was always polite when I spoke to him when I hosted his book signings back in the day, but sometimes that boy is off his rocker. He usually has a decent premise for his essays, yet he's such a self-hating homosexual who won't acknowledge it --with disproportionate influence among the straight literati-- that his Vichy-esque betrayal of his own people to go unchallenged is unfathomable. Betty Berzon stood up once at one of his readings, and gave him Hell--in a civilized, appropriate, respectful manner, of course. Michelangelo Signorile was the only person who took him on with any regularity. The way those two sparred I once joked that in a Hollywood movie they'd end up lovers by the final reel. Nobody pulls the goddamn mike on Andrew these days, that I see, with the same degree of public profile as ten years ago. The cap of it is, that if Sullivan got what he wanted, he should've been booted out of the country, since he championed the very people that made it illegal for him to have entered the US (much less become a US citizen) in the first place. Nobody every called him on that. He's one person I suppose I wouldn't mind our sending back to England in a pine box. Frankly, I don't care how he leaves, as long as he just goes away.

Okay, got that out of my system. It is far too beautiful of a day to get riled up over the likes of him. Off I go, to enjoy what there still is of the daylight out there. Guess I made up for lost time with this post, eh?

be sure to vote tomorrow!

The long season of political ads is about to come to a close... thank God. They've more than made up for any productions lost to Canada with the number of hit pieces for Ah-nold's initiatives assailing me on every channel. Someone at WB should have at least had the courtesy not to bombard Sex In The City with his smug commercials. But I guess with all the layoffs over at Warner Bros, they couldn't afford to turn down any paying gig, the whores.

The voter turn out is projected to be quite low tomorrow... and it might rain on top of that. I've never missed an election yet, though, and I'm not about to miss this one. It would be sweeter if they'd started the 'recall Arnold' movement in time to qualify for his f'ing special election. I'm so waiting for the day when someone gets their hand on his citizenship application and hopefully finds some inexecusable irregularity. Too bad he can't be deported for adultery. Every time something comes up about him, he manages to get it buried. I wouldn't be surprised if one of the old queens he used to prostitute himself with when he was a teenager is some powerful fucker in Malibu Colony who makes a convenvient call now and then on his behalf. The thought of him and Joe Weider together is enough to make me puke. But not out of the realm of possibility...

Maybe when he's forced out of political life, and divorces Maria, he can go bake to Austria with his tail between his legs and open an antique shop where he'll dispense steroids under the counter.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should point out that all of the preceeding rant about Ah-nold is all unsubstantiated hearsay (and wishful thinking). There exists the very real probability that none of it is true, nor will come to pass. Now, don't sue me, because my assets add up to a pile of broken furniture and clothes that wouldn't fit the governator anyway.

Other than that, it has been a beautiful day.... it was cloudy earlier, but the sun came out before Jean picked me up to go for coffee at the Starbucks at Westmount Beach. Here it is November, and still plenty of eye candy to enjoy on a sunny afternoon. Now that's a far more pleasant thought to ruminate on...

To see Nicholas Snow's Halloween photos....

http://www.notesfromhollywood.com

T G I F

So another Friday afternoon rolls around, with only a tentative plan for the weekend, other than to go to the "Best of Old Time AA" meeting tonight and the "Survivors" meeting tomorrow morning.

At this morning's meeting, with over a hundred-plus in attendance, I had the most time of anyone in the room (again) yet I sometimes feel rather anonymous there. To some degree, that's a good thing; that is, when it helps me keep my ego in check and be just another member among members, as responsible for putting away my coffee cup and chair as anyone else. At tonight's meeting, there will be at least four or five people with more time than me out of close to 200... a comforting feeling, to have some folks ahead of me. I do, keeping things in perspective, try to welcome the newcomers as is part of the responsibility of having time in the program. There's no denying, however, that there are some people in WeHo who just brush me aside aside as though I'm invisible. That's what I get for not writing screenplays, eh? As the saying goes, those that matter don't care, and those that care don't matter. It's just weird, is all, having time. There's no warning in advance of what it will be like. Blam! All of a sudden, you're one of the old farts instead of in the middle of the pack. It probably means I shouldn't wistfully check out the 20-somethings anymore... after all, I'm gonna be 40-something in less than two weeks. What? You thought I'd put my real age here in case anyone ever does read my blathering?

Yet, Mike insisted on giving me a ride in his Ford Bronco after the meeting this morning, only to find out that the Pearl Art Store wasn't open until 10:00, so he dropped me off at the Tar-jay at La Brea & Santa Monica. It was a hoot the way he roared around LA city streets as though we were climbing over unpaved hills. Maybe because we were in his big ol' truck looking down at the little compacts I felt safer than I would've had we been driving that way in a smaller car... The half hour or so of conversation we had over any number of inane and unrelated subjects was well worth the price of admission. It reminded me just how much human interaction I've not been engaged in of late. Yesterday, I ran into Nicholas on the bus, and we discussed, among other topics, the pros and cons of our increasingly online community and its' impact on the gay ghetto. On his recommendation, I viewed the many Halloween pictures he'd posted onto his site. I'm sorry to say that I did not see the cute lil' fireman he'd photographed while on the Boulevard Monday night. Cuter than any Dalmation, for sure! Not as cute as my favorite pick of the night in the Coco Cafe tee shirt advertising Cuban sandwiches (was it a real place, or one of those faux vintage shirts?) ...damn, now I'm in the mood for some plantanos, moros, and a cuban batido. Maybe I'll treat myself on my birthday with a long overdue visit to Versailles. Not exactly the trip to Vegas I'd wanted to go on, but a little bit o' Miami in L.A.... without the humidity. This is just the time of year SoBe would be jumpin', too... Guess I'll have to settle for WeHo., and remind myself of all the poor kids who can't even get here.

I'm Mad as Hell, and I'm Not Going to Take it Anymore

I have to really be judicious about reading about the religious right in the news with my breakfast. I'm apt to forget I'm a pacifist one of these days. What ever possessed us (as a society) to have this misguided sense of fairness in allowing Donald Wildmon and Lou Sheldon and their ilk free reign to wreak havok ...and enrich themselves in the process--at our expense--has to be subject to some kind of dialogue. It's one thing to allow free speech and tolerance in an open society, but another to let people dismiss entire groups of people as 'evil' or not worth living --or to actually call for physical harm in some instances.

There have been plenty of times I've had the satisfaction of watching them hang themselves from their own petard, but not nearly often (or quick) enough, thank you very much.

I just read how the effects of the religious right on science education are causing the United States to fall behind in the tech world. It isn't hard to imagine a world in the not too distant future where American women have to wear burkas as the Muslim world progresses into the future.

Dad had noted that while he was in the Kingdom, the Saudis were actively planning for a future after the last barrel of oil would be pumped out of the ground and they would be major players on the world economic scene. Would Europe or Asia shed a tear if the late, great American empire were to sink back into itself, leaving them to dictate the terms of the world's markets?

Just wait'll I get my coffee... then I'll really get started. Not exactly the meditative state I planned to be in before speaking tonight.

The Day After

To look at the street today, one would never guess that a mere twelve hours ago it was packed with nearly half a million people. The heart of Boystown was our very own Potsdamer Platz, full of life and gaiety, and alive with the promise of forbidden pleasures, just around the next corner...

Now, SaMo Blvd has been tidied up and sanitized for your protection; no hint of the night before remaining. It's as if when the revelers groggily came to this morning, they wanted nothing to remind them of their excesses of the night before...

The Halloween Carnaval was great fun, even for all the breeders. It isn't all of the straights that have changed the festivities--after all, my brother and sister were there with their friends. It was the presence of those teenagers who were more than a little rough around the edges, and by all appearances spoiling for a little mayhem. Each year, the homogenization and heterosexualization of Halloween continues. And the moreso it becomes, the more the gay boys stay away. It wouldn't be hard to imagine the day when all the hets arrive to ogle and discover that the gays have all gone elsewhere en masse.

Not nearly as many topical costumes this year... and the circuit boys stayed away in droves in comparision to years past. The warm weather allowed for the comfortable baring of skin--of which there was precious little. Oh well, maybe next year. The pendulum could always swing back the other way.

One sweet little puppy wore a kissing booth... I'll bet he more than paid for next month's rent from the proceeds. The hottest puppy wasn't in costume at all, but wearing jeans and a tee shirt from some cafe advertising Cuban sandwiches. I'll let you think up your own pun to go with that! He was adorable, for sure. I sure as heck couldn't afford to keep him in the style to which I'm sure he'd like to become accustomed to.

Marlon was dazzling as an Inca costume. He's one of the sweetest little studpuppies in the WeHo meetings. I wonder if he met up with the conquistador of his dreams last night....

For some reason, I'm as dehydrated as all get-out. As nice as a day as it is, I've a mind to get a Red Bull, go to the market for dinner, and just head right on home. After staying out last night, I'm looking forward to watching the Gilmore Girls and my fix of Sex in the City.

Tomorrow, I have to speak at the meditation meeting at the Cafe Tropical, and I only have the barest idea what I'm going to say. I'm still mourning the loss of my new moleskin notebook, which I'd barely used yet. The first thing I put in it, as a matter of fact, was an excerpt from Anne Lamott's "Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith" that I thought a propos for a meditation meeting. As divine inspiration would have it, I just found a corresponding excerpt from Natalie Goldberg's new book. My take on meditation is probably a little unorthodox-- but hey, the meetings at the Cafe Tropical are nothing if not a little unorthodox.

I need my Red Bull, and I need it now!

Next Saturday, I'll make a point of going down to the Pearl Art Store and getting myself another moleskin... maybe that will undo the spell I'm under.