Brrrr! It's only 60 degrees outside!

I happened to find a painting of the New Upper Terrace Market in San Francisco by artist E. Dale Erickson. It really captures the building and it's setting marvelously.

Now that is San Francisco. I've only seen a few other works depicting scenes in the City by the same artist, but if I had to live with this one... life would be good.

It might be noticed that for the San Franciscan, most familiar points of reference contrast quite a bit from those the tourists know. It really is a shame that most people scurry to and fro to all the tourist traps and don't experience San Francisco. Of course, those who remember the City from the 30s and 40s and 50s are fond of saying (like the residents of Miami Beach), "ah, but you should have seen it back then..."

And it is true, that since the early 1960s when my family first came to the Bay Area that the City has changed a great deal. The number of Victorians homes, for example, has shrunk from 18,000 then to about 14,000 now. Fortunately, the 60s brought about --along with all of the very significant change to the skyline and the psyche of the City-- a very strong sense of public stewardship in the protection of the cultural heritage of San Francisco... in far more than just the skyline.

If you should ever be so fortunate as to have the chance to visit San Francisco --or for that matter, return for a repeat visit or even live there, do your best to look at the City through a different perspective. It amazes me that not until years after I left did I ever wander around the ruins of the Sutro Baths, or see the Golden Gate Bridge from the walkway mid-span, or from the ocean-side view in Lincoln Park.

Part of the little ritual I do upon entering San Francisco that I've described before is a silent thanks that I have one more chance to see the City. It makes me look at where I live at present with an entirely different perspective and appreciation as well. Not that any other place could ever be San Francisco.

Be patient... God isn't finished with me yet....

I've flown around the world in a plane,
I've settled revolutions in Spain,
The North Pole I have charted,
Still I can't get started...

with learning some of the basics of how to post links and so on. Given that I have but a few minute of the day to spend online, it'll be a while yet before I get up to speed.

...so if a hyperlink doesn't work, or takes you on a hunting trip with the vice president instead of where I was trying to send you, be kind. I'm getting there... I'm not sure where there is yet, but I'm getting there...

Thanks for understanding-- and if I make a gaff, please let me know.

Tomorrow They Will Kiss

Eduardo Santiago's first novel, Tomorrow They Will Kiss, will be out this July. He passed around the postcard of the bookcover and it is drop-dead gorgeous. This will be the one time in recorded history that you can judge a book by it's cover. If I only had a way to scan it! The cover graphics look so good it should be up for as many awards as the book. Of course, having already read excerpts of the book, I can say that.

Everyone is really happy for Eduardo--this has been a long time coming. His website (http://www.eduardosantiago.com) isn't up yet. We like it when good things happen to deserving people.

I like it, too, when the guilty get what's comin' to them. The Cheney hunting jokes have been better on the web than on television (although Letterman was good). One blogger (sorry--I've already forgotten who) however added the sobering reminder that this is the number two man in charge of the largest nuclear arsenal on the planet. Gulp. As the bumper sticker says,

IMPEACH CHENEY FIRST

Two Days After The Day After tomorrow

If Jake Gyllenhaal and Dennis Quaid show up in New York ...it's time to evacuate New York!

I almost felt guilty (but almost isn't good enough!) that the temps hit 90 degrees again in LA while the New York Times reports the storm across the eastern seaboard was 1200 miles by 500 miles...

I remember sledding at recess in kindergarten behind our one room school house (can you get more f-n American than that?) the winter of the big blizzard in Cheyenne. Yes, that was 1963. I think our family went through Sage (the home of Ennis del Mar in the original Annie Proulx story of Brokeback Mountain) in order to get to Utah, as it was on the main highway. I'm pretty sure though that we never made it up to Lightning Flat (the hamlet where Jack Twist was born and raised).

Sunday was the 30th anniversary of Sal Mineo's murder. I recall one night about 10 years ago walking down Holloway Drive and realizing it was Feb. 12th. It was creepy enough that I'd never do it again. I'm not one for those macabre 'graveline tours' of the sites of Hollywood tragedies that have become so popular in recent years. The traffic jam to get around the Hollywood Forever cemetery on the nights of their movie series are bad enough.

It was fun back in high school to drive with my friends up Sunset Plaza Drive to Wonderland Avenue in dense fog while telling ghost stories. For atmosphere that will electrify the hairs on the back of your neck, nothing in my book beats a nocturnal foggy drive on either Highway One through Big Sur or along the lanes through Golden Gate Park.

Oh, how my mom could read "the bogeyman will get you if you don't watch out!" She was a one woman old-time radio show, breathing life into every character in every bedtime story she ever read. I've heard literally thousands of writers read over the years; while their delivery may have been eloquent or mesmerizing, they could never hold a candle to Mom. My love of literature --both reading and writing-- I owe to her. It's things like that I think of now, on the day before what would have been her birthday on Feb. 15th.

Well, whatever else I was going to write was lost as my mind drifted back in time. I wanted to search for the best hunting-with-Dick Cheney jokes, but I'm just not in the mood now.

Bad enough, I have to get around town with all this Valentine's Day crap everywhere. Whoopee. I regaled my neighbors with Billy Holliday this morning singing "Good Morning, Heartache." Funny thing though... before I left home, I found myself putting on Vince Guaraldi's "Linus and Lucy" --what I refer to as the 'Snoopy dance song.' It has to be about the most subconsciously uplifting song for those of us baby boomers who came of age back in the day. It's pretty hard not to be assailed with a barrage of happy memories of childhood and an outpouring of hope from some unseen source while listening to that song.

I wonder which one drives the neighbors crazy more...

Given that you can see where Peggy Entwhistle took her leap off the Hollywood sign back in 1932 from the window at the end of the hall, the Snoopy dance song is pretty cheap therapy if you ask me-- although I don't know what all that thumping around may sound like to the poor folks in the apartment under me.

Anyone up for golf with Dick Cheney?

Seldom have I so looked forward to Jay Leno's monologue (not to mention Saturday Night Live) as this week...

What do you suppose the poor fellow said before Cheney shot him?

"Sir, thank you for being so understanding about me not voting with the Party on this matter...."


What people ought to be concerned about is that the White House tried their darndest to keep this story under wraps. They're more than happy to tell you how the VP likes his eggs cooked, but when he shoots a fella, well, heck; that's another matter that's just too insignificant for the public to know...

LA: 90 degrees Minneapolis: 28 degrees NY: 35 degrees!

I don't trust the ratings system that the networks use that lets shows I like be kicked to the curb while television is awash in @#?! reality shows. I guess I'm just not your typical viewer. Bad, bad, American, me.

I don't spend a lot of time (any, as a rule) on industry gossip (a crime punishable by death --or worse-- social exile) but I'm surrounded by the aftershocks around WB and UPN and this new CBS Warner venture. I'm relieved that Veronica Mars is already assured a slot; the Gilmore Girls may safe as well (even if does seem to be nearing the end of it's natural life cycle. It's still written better than most of the stuff on the screen.

Last night's Love Monkey was funny, intelligent; maybe not as tight as the premiere, but still well done.

And how cheeky was it calling that the "season finale" of Surface; as much as I want to see more of it, I don't trust the network to continue it in the Fall (nothing is sure in this town, except that the ground will shake underneath you at some point). In that final scene where the four heroes were running through downtown Wilmington away from the tsunami, I focused on the Princess Street sign they passed under, near the site of my great-grandfather Alex Manly's newspaper, the Wilmington Record, destroyed by a lynch mob on Nov. 10, 1898. Freaky. Then that last shot when the camera pulled away with them atop the church steeple, the whole town underwater. Cool. Cheesy CGI (like I could even tell --that I only had a 72" plasma screen to really see how cheesy!) but still it was cool nevertheless.

_________________________________

On page 31 and again on page 78 of the Feb. 20 issue of IN Los Angeles, there were two attacks on GLAAD questioning whether it was an organization that had outlived it's usefulness. Yet on page 20 of the same issue, no less than a half dozen incidents of antigay violence or hate speech were documented. It would seem most of those who think GLAAD unnecessary are less than willing to risk their own necks along with whatever tenuous status they have with the majority at the expense of the gay community as a whole. Hmmm.

It may seem cruel to say this, but forest fires make for spectacular sunsets. Of course, the wind has to blow just right, or you can't see it. This afternoon, downtown LA was clear and windswept clean with the strange gray mass in the sky making a great backdrop. The drifting smoke made for all manner of pinks and oranges once the sun lowered to the horizon, with the silhouettes of the palm trees pillars of black.

The falling ash recalled the nuclear fallout that never came during the Cold War. Jim took me to see "It Came From Beyond" last week, a musical spoof of those drive-in movies of the 1950s. It mostly worked; one number in particular included 'duck and cover' choreography familiar to any baby boomer. Today the ash was less benign (for those of use who don't live near any of the fires). What's really scary: the first of the boomers are turning 60! That's news I just do not want to hear!

Another 400 more homes were evacuated, and there are more fires in Malibu and Santa Clarita. So very Nathaniel West.

Ashes From the Fire Land in My Coffee

It was more than a little annoying at first, being unable to avoid the swirling little bits of ash that were coming down all around me. There was the realization that I was inevitably going to end up with ash in my coffee, and there was nothing that I could do about it. I'd not watched the news, so I wasn't aware of the extent of the fire to the east in the Cleveland National Forest that had caused at last count the evacuation of at least 2,000 homes.

Today the fire continues unabated; but the wind seemes to have changed direction enough so that the ugly, ominous cloud was no longer hanging overhead and the heat of the day could be enjoyed in full. Ironically, it's the first day in weeks that I'm not sneezing my head off incessantly.

The sidewalks of West Hollywood seem largely deserted; Ginger Rogers Beach is in all likelihood packed with anyone who has the time free to enjoy it. Perhaps I'll head out there tomorrow. The November before the Northridge earthquake, you could watch the Malibu fires burn from the shore. I watched the lines of fire marching like Sherman to the sea flames late at night from the end of the Santa Monica pier, warmed by the same Santa Ana winds that fanned the flames. It was quite the unexpected sight for the tourists. When Yuki came to visit the following summer, after we'd recovered --emotionally, at least-- from the quake, I took him on a tour of the Malibu area to show him the houses without chimneys and chimneys without houses.

Sean Penn was camping atop a mountain in a trailer on what had been the home estate he'd shared with Madonna when they were married. He had the money to rebuild, but his smoldering rage at the loss left him sitting there alone sucking on beer after beer staring at his ruins, frightening away any and all offers of help from his friends and family. The recent death of his brother makes me wonder if his family is afflicted with that curious Irish disease.

Just as the victims in most horror flicks tend to be white, so too, many of the victims of this fire, as with the last one and the one before that, were people trying to escape the hordes of darker skinned people who made up the masses of LA. It tended to temper my sympathy a bit, as beautiful as the mountains are.

Of course, a number of retreats and artist's colonies were lost in the last fire, too.

Oh, goody! My books have arrived!

I have only just finished David Rakoff's new book, "Don't Get Too Comfortable." I got his signature on his first book "Fraud" at Vroman's in Pasadena a while back and have been content (not) with his occasional contributions to "This American Life." You could get locked up for laughing out loud so much... that's how wickedly funny he is. He's a compatriot of David Sedaris, need I say more?

Speaking of appearances, Sarah Vowell, a friend to both Rakoff and Sedaris will be at Skylight Books in Los Feliz Thursday, Feb. 7 ( http://www.skylightbooks.com) and I will do my best to get to hear her read.

Meanwhile, I've just started Tom Corcoran's new mystery, "Air Dance Iguana" (finally). He is the absolute required author for getting a Key Wet vibe. No one does the Florida Keys as he does.

"You gotta give them hope" --Harvey Milk

I watch as two young men walk hand in hand down San Vicente Boulevard, immersed in their own private world. So easy is it to bash this town, to dismiss it as trite and given over to surface as opposed to substance.

So simple a scene cuts through all the hype and pretense as I not only consider a world where such is possible, but I am able to witness it first hand.

Spring is still a long way off; though here we're blessed with the warmth of a hazy sun today, much of the country is slushing through rain, snow and frigid cold. Here in this oasis, there is calm and an imperceptible cocoon of safety. The wounded are here, true, masking their pain in arrogance and pride in such numbers that at times one cannot see the beauty of the moment or that the very ointment for what ails us all and would sustain us exists, and is present and bountiful enough for us all.

The young couple amble out of my line of sight. It does not matter if I will ever see them again, if they are attractive or unformed and inarticulate in their ambitions and goals or engrossed in the mindless pursuit of that which is so fleeting in our lifetime.

There is the promise, such as I get when I climb to the top of Corona Heights and gaze down at The City, close my eyes and feel the gentle warmth of the sun on my skin. We are certain to be nurtured by the proof that we cry out for, and yet so often refuse to see is right at hand.

I might think myself alone, but I am not. You may look at the gym bunnies with their supposedly flawless physiques and feel hopelessly inadequate. We may be surrounded by so much illusion of the plentiful possessions of others and feel only the emptiness in our pockets. Truth is, we are all in equal measure filled with all that is truly needed to sustain us; to give us true worth and purpose. And to become aware of this gift we need merely be ready at a moment's notice to give it to those in need; for it comes from an inextinguishable source.

I need not be somewhere that I am not or with some one that I am not or have that which I think I do not possess to feel right and in the right place and alright with myself.

I can take a solitary stroll up the boulevard by myself with my thoughts and not be alone and be happy. I need only take a step, breath, smile, be aware... of the colors and sounds and all that surrounds me. I will share this with anyone I see who does not have it, for there is no impediment to anyone being able to receive it if they want it. It is my duty to give it away in order to keep it, to be willing to share it in order to have it always with me...

Resquiescat in Pace, Dr Betty Berzon & Coretta Scott King

I'd no sooner read that Dr. Betty Berzon had died on Jan. 27 than I heard on the radio that Coretta Scott King died last night in her sleep.

No listing of their achievements is necessary here. The impact they each have had on the lives on millions can not be described, much less contained here.

Dr. Berzon, through her tireless work on behalf of gays and lesbians in psychology in general and her dedication to LGBT youth in particular will never be equaled. She was a pioneer, an activist, an educator, a leader, a survivor and veteran who challenged those who would harm us; she not merely supported the community but created many of the organizations and devised the strategies to strengthen us and combat homophobia. I have witnessed her take on homophobes and gays wracked with their own self-hatred who offered support and comfort to our enemies and bring them down; discount, debunk and disprove the notion that gays and lesbians are any less human beings with worth and talents to benefit all humankind. She provided real avenues for gays and lesbians t heal, to love and to grow. Not only did she assemble the curricula for us to learn how to lead our lives, when none existed she created the essential texts and guides for us to utilize.

Mrs. King moreso than any other woman in my lifetime, personified justice and dedication to ideals and perseverance in the face of very real danger and adversity. She was dignity; leading by example that taught us courage with unwavering commitment. As she lived, so should we live; as she continued even through her --and our-- unspeakable grief and shock, so should we continue. Her commitment was a model for us to follow just as our struggles she took on as part and parcel of her own.

Burns Night: Haggis and Tatties and Neeps, oh my!

No, this doesn't refer to James Frey's butt after his grilling by Oprah. I think I recall he tried to dissuade her from choosing his book in the first place, but, what the heck; I understand it makes for a pretty good read as fiction anyway. And with all the #@?! coming out of Washington these days, it isn't the worst thing to be "embellished" or "passed off as the truth," eh? It isn't like he told the CIA where to aim that missile in Pakistan or anything. Where is the outrage over that? Oh yeah, outside the U.S. I understand the president's State of The Union has his handlers reaching for their vicodin refills.

If you haven't donated the cost of a martini at the Abbey to the New Orleans Gay Community Center yet, what are you waiting for? We know that the administration in Washington is already jockeying to downsize what aid they said they were going to provide to the people along the Gulf Coast. Alito may be a done deal, but let your Congressmember know not to abandon the victims of the hurricane. And I'm not just saying that just 'cuz I live near the San Andreas fault, mind you... anyone could be next, and with this culture of denial of responsibility at the federal level, let's just say we're sliding down a slippery slope.

Another way you can help (if you can't do without that one $17 martini) is to donate books to the New Orleans Public Library. The state and local librarians are co-ordinating an incredible effort to replace all the books lost in the disaster. You may send books to :

Rico A. Trigs
NOPL
219 Loyola Ave
New Orleans, LA 70112.

They will sort through them and distribute them throughout the area affected by the hurricane. I don't know about you, but the thought of entire libraries being wiped off the face of the earth is a scary one... not that libraries get the support they deserve as a whole nationwide as it is.

Now that would be a fine way to honor Robert Burns, eh?

Truditor Dies Die

So a beautiful day it is; after I log off, it will be off to Malibu to meditate and contemplate and pray a bit. I picked out a recent Paul Madonna comic to leave at the labyrinth, a generic San Francisco street corner, yet beautifully rendered. I think in part because he chooses not to put people in his images of The City, as well as how he captures the many ways how light affects the view make his drawings so spiritual.

I thought I ought to pull out an old column I wrote about seven or eight years ago. I use it often as a starting point for my meditation.

We Are One

This just in from physicist Paul G. Hewitt: every breath you exhale sends out about 10 sextillion molecules of air. Your breath takes about six years to travel throughout the earth's atmosphere. But that's not just your breath you spewed out. Once your breath is mixed with all the rest of the air, about one molecule of your breath will be drawn into every person in the future.

This means that there is something here, all around us, of everyone we have ever loved. Even though we can't see it, touch it or smell it --it sustains us. Somewhere, here and there, all around the world, the breaths of my late mother, of my grandparents and great-grandparents, of all the friends and lovers I lost to AIDS, are all circulating, giving life to all the living things that came after them.

There is something both overwhelmingly powerful and beautifully simple about knowing this, knowing that anyone who ever meant anything to you lives on in such a way. And what of all the people we never knew? The breath of every man, woman and child who died in the death camps feeds our lungs. Every African who died during the Middle Passage, every untold story of pain and suffering, of joy and triumph, passes in and out of our bodies, and on to the next person, and the next, and the next. We are all part of something even when we think we are not. Pass it on.

Experto Credite

This is a particularly weird couple of days I'm coming up on. The 25th anniversary of RR's inauguration this weekend is also the day my mom died, and I'm not sure what it's going to feel like. I never know from year to year what it will feel like... it's as if there's some thin trail of thought in my mind that I'll see her again, that it can't be forever that she's gone. I know in a way, she is still with us, but, how many times have I looked at the calendar backwards to think of how I might have let her know how much I cared for her had I known how little time was left?

25 years? I still see her in my mind, and wonder what she would be like were she alive now. Each time I look into the face of my newest little baby niece or nephew, I think of what she missed, and what they will never know. She would have made one heck of a grandmom. Sigh. I can't quite get my mind wrapped around the idea that it has been this long. My mother's death is part of the swell of feeling inside me that reminds me that I'm approaching my anniversary clean and sober. Almost every week, along every section of Santa Monica Blvd., there will be some reminder of my hitting bottom and getting into recovery... I call it my Twelve Stations of the Cross. Especially when I'm around WeHo, as I can't seem to adjust that I'm now 25 years older than when I first got sober. And the puppies around this town have such a 'Logan's Run' attitude about older people. I don't feel like I'm 25 years older. Most of the time, that is.

I try to use those jarring memories as a part of my meditation, and what I have to be grateful for.

At this morning's meeting, out of over a hundred people, there was only one person with more time than me. The rest of them I've watched come in to AA. It is impossible to describe how many faces scroll by that have been in the rooms that are no longer with us. Some of them, I expect, still, to run into at a meeting, or their ghost is occupying an empty seat somewhere in the room. There are so many people I think about this time of year who aren't here now, Mom, Dennis, Michael... That I'm still here, when so many others are gone...

A certain columnist is annoyed that GLAAD has called upon the gay and lesbian community to support the mid-season replacement television show, "The Book of Daniel." He did mention that he hadn't even seen the show yet. It should be more than clear that whenever the Focus on the Family or Jerry Falwell, Donald Wildmon or that other fake reverend Lou Sheldon call for a boycott of something, it's gotta be fun, immoral (in their eyes at least), or fattening.

Actually, I watched the first two episodes of the show, and almost laughed myself out of my seat. It is such a clever look at uptight WASP America, I can see where the humor might have hit too close to the bone for the anti-gay fundamentalist right wing. If anyone has their corsets on too tight... But seriously, the show is funny-- and would be even if it didn't have a gay character. The AFA and other rightwing groups have protested about how Christ is depicted on the show. Well, now you know how 90% of the worlds thinks. Visually, they got the blond haired Christ in white flowing robes right out of any Christian school textbook... although the actor has a tendency to sound a little too much like a rock n' roll lovin' slacker. He seriously needs to work on his speech and diction. Other than that, the whole premise of the show as a priest having this very personal relationship one-on-one with Christ is a cool idea that I might not have suspected I'd go for.

If I have a pet peeve about where this year's television season is going, it would be about the gay character on 'Desperate Housewives.' Creator Mark Cherry has been quoted as having modeled Bree and her family after his own upbringing, so if that is the case, the son must be modeled after his own adolescence. It might stand to reason that what he's telling about a hundred million people is that he was a despicable person growing up. He is a gay Republican, after all. I'm holding out hope that the character will have some sort of epiphany and become a more likeable person. As it now stands, the openly gay creator of one of the most popular shows on television has created a thoroughly unlikeable gay character. It really cuts into my being able to enjoy the show.

Another unexpected pleasure among the new mid-season shows was Tom Cavanagh's new show, 'Love Monkey.' Any aficionado of rock and roll will really like the show. Nice little Negro boys ought not to be even able to get most of the classic 60s rock 'n' roll references in the program. It is both an intelligent and funny show--both shows are, in fact. And what's this? One of the members of the posse of the lead character in 'Love Monkey' is gay but his friends don't know? I guess that goes well with one of the actors on the show being well known around Hollywood for having a closet with an airtight door (oh, but he's married with a kid, so he can't be gay, right?)... Okay, everyone who's ever dated a married man raise your hand. Ooooh, look at all those hands... !

It's like that argument about the existence of bisexuality. True bisexuals --and they do exist, just like fairies-- won't acknowledge that the fence-sitters and those who refuse to come completely out of the closet and deal with who they really are have artificially swelled the number of actual bisexuals.

That some people can be so oblivious to the threat that exists outside the bubble of LA or San Francisco or New York in regard to where people's mindset still is... they seem to think that the conditions that existed in 'Brokeback Mountain' belong to some distant past, and not be aware that for many --many-- people, being out of the closet, or the chance of being happy in their gay skin, or existing safely in their communities is just not an option. That goes for Dan Savage, too.

What is more of an enigma to me these days is Dan Savage's articles. A recent column of his had me in stitches, I laughed so hard. Another one was written with the smug arrogance of a child of privilege that it really worried me, how some folks can take for granted how few people in the world go to bed at night well fed and feeling safe and secure. I don't know if Dan's getting better on the whole as a writer, or maturing or I'm just getting used to his style of humor. There are times when he's so way off the mark, I almost groan out loud; it's enough to make me not read him for months at a time. Then I'll read something of his that is so right on, it blows me away.

I read several of his recent columns during the road trip up North to the Bay Area, which were closer to the latter. I cut one out and saved it which I meant to mention when I brought him up, but I haven't even finished unpacking yet and have no idea where it is... one of these days, if he's in LA, I'd like to buy him a coffee... as long as he doesn't bring the kid (or the boyfriend).

There is a dance remix of "The Wings" from BM that I heard yesterday for the first time that some people have a problem with. It isn't bad... in fact, it's quite good. I heard it right after I listened to Michael Silverblatt's excellent interview with Annie Proulx on KCRW's "Bookworm." The interview is archived on line and can be found at kcrw.com along with a number of Michael's other recent interviews. It is always a delight to hear author's appreciative response to Michael, as he invariably mentions something that no other interviewer noticed. I should think that English teachers (among others) all over the country ought to listen faithfully to his program. Now that it's on line, there is no excuse for those folks not lucky enough to have his show syndicated show on the air where they live.

If this weather holds out tomorrow, I guess I will walk the labyrinth at the Malibu United Methodist Church. Since Mom's ashes were sprinkled out at sea, I can sit on the beach afterwards and read in peace, being that it's off season.

"Make Every Moment Count"

So, yes, I went to see the new Queen Latifah movie, "Last Holiday." This weekend will be the 25th anniversary of my mother's death (on RR's inauguration day) and I thought I ought to do something a little extra special to mark the date.

I will probably go out to the labyrinth at the Malibu United Methodist Church by Zuma Beach next Saturday, so I went to see the movie on during the MLK weekend.

Yes, it's formulaic; yes, it's so predictable a ten year old might be able to write out the script before seeing the film. Every review I've seen has panned it as trite and overly simplistic. So fucking what? It works. Yeah, that's right, the movie does what a movie is supposed to do. It moves you from wherever you are to a slightly better place. Tell me when we have too many movies with a strong African American woman lead, by the way. It won't be up for any awards, in all likelihood, other than perhaps an NAACP Image Award. There's no cursing, no car crashes. And (spoiler alert!) nobody dies. Give yourself a treat: see the movie. And take somebody you care about. Too many good people I know (spoiler alert!) never got a fax telling them that they were going to live after all. So we all have to live a little more for the folks who aren't with us --except in spirit. Maybe you'll laugh just a little more through life than you might have otherwise...

It is far too easy for folks in the program to see an encoded message related to see a recovery-related theme in just about anything, (Greg Garcia's "My Name is Earl" has got to be penned by program folk, for all the inside jokes it has) but the message is there. Not that folks in recovery have ever laid claim to any monopoly on spiritual teachings or messages. It's pretty damn universal.

It isn't too much to ask that our entertainment media do something to make us maybe just a wee bit more conscious of how precious life is, and the gift each of us has to offer the world around us. If that's too fucking corny for you well excuse me. Go drown a cat or something. I'd like to think I'm gonna leave this Earth at least an iota better off more me having been on it.

So go see the movie with somebody. Take the kids. Take a neighbor. You remember them: the people who live all around you? Take yourself for a pick-me-up. Unless you'd rather get a $17 martini at the Abbey to feel good.

A Love That Will Never Grow Old


Go to sleep, may your sweet dreams come true
Just lay back in my arms for one more night
I've this crazy old notion that calls me sometimes
Saying this one's the love of our lives.

'Cause I know
A love that will never grow old
And I know
A love that will never grow old.

When you wake up the world may have changed
But trust in me, I'll never falter or fail
Just the smile in your eyes, it can light up the night
And your laughter's like wind in my sails.

(Refrain)

Lean on me, let our hearts beat in time,
Feel strength from the hands that have held you so long.
Who cares where we go on this rutted old road
In a world that may say we're wrong.

(Refrain)

I'm glad that the song by Gustavo Santaolalla and Bernie Taupin from Brokeback Mountain won a Golden Globe last night. I could easily see where a piano or harp arrangement would make it a wedding favorite for years to come... and not just same-sex weddings, either.

(Two lost posts)

Jan. 7. A beautiful Saturday for a stroll up Santa Monica Blvd. passing "Daddy Starbucks" (or as I like to think of it, the "Westmount Beach"). More Texas A & M graffiti on the walls --were fans staying at the Ramada? Of course! What a hoot for them!--

Nothing like a lunch at the quintessential center of queerdom, Eat Well, to make one feel as though one's gay card had expired.

This is supposed to set the tone for the road trip; instead, I feel like I've already gone into exile.

It's impossible to tell that it's January, looking out the restaurant's plate glass windows at the green hills and cloudless blue sky.

At the Bagdad Cafe, I lamented the past lost; here, however, there never was a present for me.

Then, while walking to the French Market, twice people from the program call out to me to say hello from a passing car or a table at the coffee house.

Outside is breezier than it had seemed at the meeting this morning, when the magnified sun warmed the back of my neck through the window.

Jan. 8. All Over Coffee.

While looking for the stuff to pack for the jaunt up North, I found a couple of Paul Madonna cartoons.

If you've ever lived in San Francisco, wanted to, dreamed about, or wondered what it was that makes The City so special or the people so captivated by it, his 'enigmatic' depictions of San Francisco that appear a few times a week in the San Francisco Chronicle tell the tale.

As intriguing as his art is, the story of Paul Madonna's coming to San Francisco and becoming it's unofficial artist-poet laureate is a tale in and of itself worthy of the artist --and The City-- who so keenly and intuitively lays open the spirit of it's soul.

Who better, then, to illustrate the San Francisco Literary Map published by 826 Valencia?

To view the archive of Paul Madonna's work, go to http://www.sfgate.com and click on "comics" and "Paul Madonna" or go to his website at http://www.paulmadonna.com

San Francisco, where everyone leaves their heart, is a city with so many of them. The official geographical center of San Francisco is on the East side of Grandview, between 23rd and 24th (just below Upper Market). In 1980, I mapped every address then in my phone book. The center of my personal San Francisco at the time if I recall correctly was near Duboce Park. While that address book does not survive, the map does, somewhere. Given that over a quarter of a century has passed, since then, it would be interesting to do an updated version--maybe for both San Francisco and LA.

When most visitors think of San Francisco,, nearly every landmark except for Golden Gate Park, the Golden Gate bridge, the Legion of Honor, the Presidio and Haight-Ashbury are compressed into the northeast quarter of The City.

LA having so much more land mass begs the question, what is the center of my LA? The official geographical center of LA is somewhere in Franklin Canyon near the reservoir-- a place very few Angelenos have ever visited despite it's popularity with hikers and the horse set. It has been on my 'to do' list to visit as well for some time as well.

I Left My Heart in San Francisco

Jan. 9. 12:32 p.m. On Interstate Five, north of Route 46, East of the infamous site of James Deans' fatal accident.

A desolate trailer park has a few scrawny palms and eucalyptus trees shading empty plots. There is only a single forlorn trailer and two RVs. The trash cans are a freshly painted light blue; everything else looks windworn and like it's been backed into a few times. The Hartford Sentinel announces Home Garden is getting a health center. All of the music for sale is southern rock/country or cumbia, save for a single Cajun cassette. The other side of the display stand features the biggest beef jerky I've ever seen-- leathery sheets the size of a page in a paperback novel.

It seems the perfect place to put on Phideaux's Fiendish CD, in this desolate landscape.

Endless rows of leafless reddish brown trees lift their boughs in supplication to a sky sealed off by fog.

In waves, the trees wash by, perfect rows and perfect columns.

The brown and amber fields appear so barren when I think of the beauty of the Salinas Valley over Christmas, seemingly only a free hundred yards to the West over the Ciero Hills. In actual distance, Soledad and Gonzales are over 60 miles away; the low hills obscure mountains further on. A rare break in the hills reveals their grey silhouettes.

At last bands of green mark the hand of man alternating with the hand of nature on the hillsides.

Strange machinery speaks of science proudly doing for nature what it cannot do for itself next to fields summoned back from their winter slumber.

The sign at the rest stop proclaims we are in "PETAREA." The rest stop is almost equidistant from Mexico and Oregon, two thirds of the distance from Nevada to the ocean.

Loma Prieta, the epicenter of the 1989 earthquake, is nearly due West; Manzanar due East.

There are far more shades of green than brown here; a canal slovenly delivers the element more precious than gold: water.

This seems the one place where all races may mix freely -- if courtesy guarding caution could be said to be free.

Now our hills are a hand-tinted relic of early photographs. Ponds to the East shimmer in an endless promise of bounty all the way to the horizon.

We are gazing down upon the promised land; more than once in the past the floor of an ocean. The vastness of the San Joaquin Valley is beyond comprehension. How the settlers-- whether Spanish or American-- must have felt to come over the mountains and see this! All of England could fit here. It would seem improbable anyone must live elbow to elbow with their neighbor anywhere on this Earth.

A ranch house offers a passing glimpse of an early farmer's prosperity. The pre-Victorian home has settled into itself, an elegant if impractical alternative to the more modern homes with wood siding not yet weathered. It seems improbable the newer homes will ever match the grace of their predecessor.

The time worn grooves of roads no more than ruts appear picturesque-- from the smooth-surfaced modern superhighway. Even the wooden fences are more aesthetically pleasing --if less efficient barriers-- than their chain link descendants.

Yet, into this sylvan landscape must intrude the occasional cell phone tower, a necessary evil of the present age interrupting the symmetry of the pastoral scene.

The most jarring sign of the imminent end of this verdant paradise and our approaching the city is a golf course, a garish affront to nature and ironic given the poster back at the rest stop warning against the introduction of non-native plant species and the havoc they can wreak.

The horizon is marked now by fields sprouting suburban homes as the preferred crop. Urban detrius appears --still in bits and pieces-- out of sight and out of mind of the developers and residents of town.

Jan. 10. Clyde, California. Next door to my sister's new home, a sad excuse of a flamingo that has seen better days adorns the front yard, along with a statue of a little dog lifting it's hind leg for all eternity on it's own little fire hydrant. How quaint.

The orange tree has more ripe fruit on it than can be counted. Clover has taken over both front and back yards --a magnet for bees, my sister tells me. Japanese maple were lovingly planted in front of the house. Pine trees --two of which are enormous-- are in the front and back yard. A walk made of broken pieces of concrete and stone leads clear through to the street in back.

Jan. 11. San Ramon. The San Francisco local television news is a hoot. For such a high tech savvy region of the country that produces so much of the information delivery software in the country, the Bay Area news programs are still so provincial it's downright funny.

I'm hoping to get to pop into Cliff's Variety store in the Castro, if anywhere, once we get into The city. So many place familiar to me are gone or changed now. Medium Rare Records is still there, but whereas it once was the preeminent gay diva record store without par in the country --or the planet?-- now, alas, it is given over entirely to dance music. A sign of the times. It is still the ultimate incomparable shop for what it offers both professional DJs and music aficionados near and far, but don't look for that obscure 78 of your favorite cabaret singer from days of yore. Not that I have anything against dance music, I love it in fact; but this was my one resource for anything and everything Eartha Kitt ever recorded.

No place can anchor the long distant past with the present as Cliff's Variety store. Cliff's, perhaps alone in The City, is still as it always was: a wonderland of discoveries up and down every aisle, whether you are rehabilitating an entire home, finding that perfect gifts in housewares for a wedding or housewarming, or just looking for a rare retro toy for a present --or for yourself. Especially for yourself. Who needs a mall for comfort shopping? Cliff's has it all--right down to the kitchen sink! As much a landmark as the facade and sign for the Castro Theatre, Cliff's represents the neighborhood, a microcosm of The City as a whole.

You can get the fabric to make everything from new drapes for Tara to Scarlet ball gown, or outfit the costumes for an entire show. Then there is the stationery department-- yet another store within a store, with the hardest to find of office supplies like one would get from a mom-and-pop establishment but aren't to be found in a big box office supply store.

The plan includes trying to get to a meeting on this trip, whether in while in The City or in San Ramon. I brought with me the entire meeting schedules for both San Francisco and Contra Costa counties.

Another kind of certainty I can look forward to is the ingenuity with which local artists depict San Francisco. In no city in America do as many residents treat their town as member of the family, or have as many images from postcards to magnets to fine art and photographs in their homes. The locals probably buy more images of The City than all the tourists ever will. Floridiana has long been recognized for it's collectible kitsch, but for so small a place, The City has all other places beat. The mystique of San Francisco probably even extends to extraterrestrials.

Not long ago, I tried to describe to someone what it was like to witness the visual onslaught of AIDS in the Castro and LA's gay ghettos. The scene around the Castro has changed so much from the 1980s in a way that defies description. It is not --will not ever-- return to be what it was like before AIDS, but it has come back to life anew in it's own inimitable San Francisco way. Though the battle against the encroachment of chain stores has been lost left and right around the Castro, it is still the Castro without a doubt.

Where was that little picturesque corner grocery store that was so San Francisco, and yet so European? It was the quintessential blend of continental ambiance and San Francisco style. There is probably one in or another such place in every neighborhood in The City. Turns out it was the New Upper Terrace Market at 17th and Uranus, on the way to my brother's new home across from Sutro Tower --yes, right across from the base of the tower!

At 12:28 p.m., we finally pulled out of my sister's home in San Ramon, to make it as far as the Bishop Ranch shopping center on the other side of the freeway.

The Hotel Carlton is just too cool. It has a perfect "Rough Guide meets Lonely Planet with the amenities of Conde Nast" vibe to it. Even the room key cards are have cool multi-culti photos on them. Kitty Carlisle Hart is performing on the next block at the Empire Plush Room.

Jan. 12. 8:20 a.m. Well, the morning meeting at Church and Market is one more item on the itinerary that I won't make it to. I woke up just as the meeting would have been getting started. I might not make a meeting this trip at all, it seems.

10:00 a.m. Get Lost, the ultimate travel store on Market Street, Cliff's and any other stops I wanted to make will just have to wait for the next trip. The car was broken into last night while parked on Hyde at Sutter. Nothing was taken, although they rifled through everything. A number of other cars were hit too. We spend the rest of the morning getting the paperwork for the insurance company to fix the window at the SFPD Central Station on Vallejo. At least I get to peek in City Lights bookstore while getting a piece of cardboard for the window.

Jan. 13. 2 p.m. West Hollywood. We're back home in LA. Damn, but it's nice out--on the hot side of warm tempered with a breeze to ease the transition back to LA.

A reality TV crew is filming on the field at the playground at Cahuenga and Santa Monica. The bus passes by a youth with a shaved tattooed head and a huge snake around his neck, then a plus-size black tranny hooker in a tasteful black cocktail dress.

A silver Rolls Royce glistens in front of the Amazon pet shop. The bus driver is listening to Elton John's "Levon" on the radio.

The Joan & Melissa LIVE "Red Carpet Royalty Tour" bus rolls by.

Tourists roll down the window and ask, "Hey, where's Rodeo Drive?" from their car on San Vicente.

As I leave the library, I come around the corner in time to catch the most spectacular sunset framed by palm trees. A seagull cries overhead. Is LA trying to win me back? I don't want to be yearning for a San Francisco that is more illusion than real. A full moon hangs low in the Eastern sky... perhaps this is not the Friday the 13th to be out and about, even as I see locals and tourists alike descending on Boystown for happy hour.

The beautiful people are gathering like wildebeests at a watering hole.

Just as I have discovered over the holidays that the 9 a.m. meeting at the West Hollywood Recovery Center is far less pretentious (and easier to get a seat at) than the Sunday morning meetings across the street at the Log Cabin, now, too, I make my way in search of a new Friday night meeting.

Oshugatsu

Jan. 3: One thing West Hollywood has over San Francisco: while what precious greenspace there is in The City is usually tucked away, hidden from view behind homes and apartment buildings, WeHo has an abundance of landscaped lawns, some miniature versions of their suburban cousins, seemingly all in competition with each other in as myriad a selection of fantasies and follies as one can imagine. It makes walking down nearly any residential street a delight, no matter what time of year.

Jan. 4: Today is much brighter than yesterday. The whole week in LA will be stuck comfortably between Spring and Summer.

A piece in the LA Times on the Disney Hall downtown reminded that when I was on jury duty as the building was nearing completion, I was struck by a blinding reflection off the surface as I crossed First Street. It was an accident waiting to happen, I thought, watching them finish putting the metal surfaces on the exterior of the building. Dad assured me that they run endless tests to make sure that accidents of design like that don't happen... but they've now finished sanding the surfaces after countless complaints and threats of lawsuits from neighboring businesses and residents. The sun's reflection was practically frying the residents of one nearby highrise. Frank Gehry just shrugged it off... he'd already cashed his check and run.

There have been Lyndon Larouche volunteers in WeHo all through the holidays outside the mall and post offices. It's all I can do to keep from confronting them. There is something intriguing about the chutzpah of Larouche's racist, homophobic, anti-Semitic organization setting up tables in the middle of a liberal, gay bastion like West Hollywood. I couldn't help but listen in to their spiel that they offer passers-by, most of whom apparently have no idea of the history of Larouche. Methinks I have a story for the WeHo News in the making here.

Twice this week, there has been the most incredible pink sky behind the hills at dusk; the rains over New Year's cleaned the air enough to get rid of most of the smog, but just enough remained to give the sky this gorgeous color for a few minutes.

Jan. 5: It appears our first California road trip of 2006 is set for Sunday: a repeat of the Christmas trip up North to San Luis Obispo, San Ramon, Clyde and San Francisco with my brother, since he had to work over the holidays and didn't get to see the rest of the family. And we'll get to see my sister's new house!

California Road Trip 2006 Play List

(partial list)

I Left My Heart in San Francisco--Tony Bennett
Manha de Carnaval, Samba de Orfeo--Black Orpheus soundtrack
Romanza--Andrea Bocelli
Brokeback Mountain soundtrack
Sail Away, Storms in Africa--Enya
Club Sodade--Cesaria Evora
California Soul, Aquarius/Let the Sunshine--The Fifth Dimension*
San Francisco--Judy Garland (live)
American in Paris, Rhapsody in Blue--George Gershwin
Cast Your Fate to the Wind--Vince Guaraldi
Here, There & Everywhere--Emmylou Harris
Canadian Sunset--Eddie Heywood
State of Independence (with Chrissy Hind)
Sicilienne--Georgia Kelly & Steven Kindler
Danzas Afro-Cubanas, Malaguena, Siboney--Ernesto Lecuona
Innamorare--Ottmar Liebert
San Francisco--Jeannette MacDonald
If You're Going to San Francisco--Scott McKenzie
Rock & Roll Queer Bar--Pansy Division
Chupacabras, Fiendish--Phideaux
La Goulante de Pauvre Jean--Edith Piaf
Amanacer--Mongo Santamaria
Fairground--Simply Red (dance remix)
Sinnerman--Nina Simone (Felix da Housecat remix)
Sunchyme
Gregorio Valdivia (various CDs)
Key Largo--Sarah Vaughn
Linus & Lucy--George Winston

and...

Cafe del Mar (dance mix)
Flowers' Duet (dance remix)
Mama, Yo Quiero Cha Cha (artist unknown, Cuba circa 1959)
Moments (dance remix) & Moments in Love (original version)
State of Independence (with Chrissy Hind)

plus my new Christmas CDs of Cuban music,
Bhangra & African music CDs
and much, much more...

*that I'll play as I enter the City/County of San Francisco

"Brownie, you're doing a heck of a job."

Edward Allen is on the NSA no-fly list. He's four years old. Ladies and gentlemen, this is where

MILLIONS OF YOUR TAXPAYER'S DOLLARS

are going, as opposed to, say, fighting this mythical war on terror. Of course, some of us have always known that the people running this country have always thought of little black boys as terrorists, so it was merely a pre-emptive strike on their part.

I've lost count of the number of gay men of color I've seen today in WeHo wearing their Abercrombie & Fitch sweatshirts. Good thing the company settled those four anti-discrimination lawsuits, eh? Yes, those Abercrombie boys are lovely to look at, but not to hold up as the preferred archetype of beauty --or behavior. To the powers that be, I suppose the A & F model represents the ultimate compliant, class-race-mentality ideal. Sigh. It's far too beautiful a day to get pissed off at such things, trivial though they aren't.

I may have erroneously given the impression that gay men in San Francisco are less emotionally healthy than those in West Hollywood. Rest assured, that is not my intention nor my belief. Where one would find an impartial social anthropologist to determine if one group fares better than the other is beyond me. Perhaps a foreigner with no ties to either city? And what would be gained by learning that one city is, in fact, more unbalanced than the other? Would we have to flee to Fresno? Are we trapped in paradise with our own worst nightmares?

I'm just in too funky a mood today. Perhaps it's because my apartment building hit an iceberg during the New Year's storms, and was leaking water over my bed and my stereo in over a dozen places.

He was a Friend of Mine


He was a friend of mine
He was a friend of mine
Every time I think about him now
Lord I just can't keep from cryin'
'Cause he was a friend of mine

He died on the road
He died on the road
He never had enough money
To pay his room or board
And he was a friend of mine

I stole away and cried
I stole away and cried
'Cause I never had too much money
And I never been quite satisfied
And he was a friend of mine

He never done no wrong
He never done no wrong
A thousand miles from home
And he never harmed no one
And he was a friend of mine

He was a friend of mine
He was a friend of mine
Every time I hear his name
Lord I just can't keep from cryin'
'Cause he was a friend of mine.

Willie Nelson (from the "Brokeback Mountain" soundtrack)

The haunting instrumentals by Gustavo Santaolalla are what really seem to go with the clear blue skies and the backdrop of brown-and-green hills behind Hollywood. I'm not one for country music as a rule (Emmy Lou Harris' cover of "Here, There, and Everywhere" is a notable exception) but today just seems like a good day to get into a melancholy, contemplative sort of mood.

I'll probably end up buying the BM soundtrack and driving my neighbors crazy with endless replay.

Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re

I hadn't put much thought into anything special for the final post of 2005.

Foremost on my mind is that today is the last day Laura Frakes will be the head librarian at the West Hollywood branch of the LA County Library.

If this town had any sense, they'd honor Laura as the Grand Marshall in next year's pride parade (better late than never). That's just the type of accolade that she'd never seek for herself, though she deserves that and more.

One expects as a matter of course for a librarian to be able to assist with the most challenging of research requests. It would be natural for a librarian to be a champion of the written word, a surrogate teacher to the legion of students that depend upon her. Then there is the ever evolving technology that is as promising as it is challenging to stay abreast of and formidable to operate and maintain.

Then there are the unique situations that occur with such frequency in this community that require ingenuity to navigate, along with the incredibly diverse populations to serve.

Laura has made the West Hollywood Library a sanctuary during a most uncertain period for me particularly. She has safeguarded and nurtured the special collections at the WeHo Library with vision and enthusiasm.

And West Hollywood can't be discussed without mention of the sanity challenged and sensitivity deficient. Many a time, I've seen Laura diffuse a potentially volatile situation stoically with diplomacy and tact.

With creativity and good humor, Laura has moved the West Hollywood Library into a model institution whose special collections have served as a prototype for many other facilities. She has been the very embodiment of the all the best that her profession entails. To see her treat society's cast asides with the same dignity and grace that she has greeted world famous authors is a reminder to me of that aspect of what a learned person should be.

With every end comes a beginning, so it would be only right to wish Laura well in her future endeavors.

The New Year ought to be a time of new opportunities, and we should all be so fortunate as to look ahead with anticipation to new horizons and successes, even as we remember those no longer with us.

Change is inevitable; how we change with it or how it is to change us we can only hope for the best on the road ahead.

Plus ca change...

I started yesterday in San Francisco with an lemon citrus body wash from the Hotel Vitale that was so aromatic that I almost choked-- then ended the day with my sister wearing some kind of hair product that was so peppermint my eyes felt like they'd been singed and the back of my throat itched. A lot less calories than a bowl of Chunky Monkey for dessert, I'll give you that.

I read this morning in an account of life for the gay community in New Orleans by Rex Wockner that if just 2,500 people around the country were to give $20 each, they could save the Lesbian and Gay Community Center of New Orleans --which I doubt is likely to see much in the way of funds from Washington to keep the doors open. Perhaps some of those financial wizards in LA could work their magic on New Orleans behalf, or gay community centers around the nation could get the word out. Donations may be made out to and sent to LGCCNO, 2114 Decatur St., New Orleans, LA 70116.

My favorite tofu scramble at the Bagdad Cafe on Market Street in San Francisco is no more. After reminiscing about it for years, and holding other restaurant's similar dishes up to it and always finding them lacking, I've fallen victim to that time-honored practice of harboring not a false memory, but clinging to the memory of a past I assumed still existed in some other universe.

This memory did not center on a single dish; it was just a good meal in a pleasant cafe, one always anticipated with delight that never failed to deliver. Always a great spot for people watching the passers-by on the busy stretch of Market Street --especially with the nearby gym.

No degree of fondness for The City could hold time in check. True to form, The City upholds it's longstanding allure from afar. For years, I have told friends it was virtually an obligation for gay folk to have a period of habitation in San Francisco. Permanent residency is not expected --nay, it is far too difficult for many and just plain not suited for others. It is a life-altering experience, though, a form of living the expat life within the United States. Folks around the Bay Area both intramuros and extramuros rather acerbically and usually good-naturedly jibe that not everyone who comes here is cut out to live here.

Like so many gay ghettos around the country, SF has long been a mecca. San Francisco offers a magical allure that makes it such a popular vacation place as well as a place to live.

Lemme tell ya, no matter how many weekend visits to The City one makes, trying to live there day in and day out the same at all. It is not as easy as it would seem--indeed, it can be confusing and to more than a few not worth the effort.

Not readily acknowledged is that many who come to The City with their psychological baggage in tow, which tarnishes the experience of living there considerably.

That isn't meant to discourage anyone from making the attempt, but to temper one's expectations and fervor of going there. Living in The City won't fix some damaged people, yet for all that it still provides an incomparable experience one is far more certain to regret only if it is never attempted.

I ought to insert here that I'm not alone in my family in experiencing the jolt of change in The City. We all had our points of reference -- as with the seismic faultlines-- moved from what they were (or as we remembered them to be).

Not many gay folk have had the priviledge that I've had of actually being in The City with my family of origin, having a meal on a bustling main street of the gay ghetto a mere few blocks from the world's gay Greenwich meridian.

So, like the Port Deli before it and so many other personal landmarks of life in The City, the present becomes the past, as it always has and always will.

This morning, I did get to lead the meeting at the alano club, as the "guest out-of-towner," although I'm not exactly a visitor without ties to SLO. It was a nice meeting, much more homey than my regular morning meeting, but rustic enough to make me appreciate and look forward to my meetings back home.

The meeting helped to return perspective to my life, sobriety and the holiday-- which is what it's purpose is whether it's in the Tenderloin or in Beverly Hills, right?

Fog in my Blood

California Soul

Like a song you hear

That lingers in your ear

But you can't forget

From sundown to sunset

It's all in the air

You hear it everywhere

No matter what you do

It's gonna grab a hold of you

California soul, California soul

They say the sun comes up every morning

And if you listen oh so carefully

The winds that ride on the high time

Whistle in melody

And so the people started to sing

And that's how the surf gave birth untold

To California soul, California soul

When you hear the beat

You wanna pat your feet

And you've got to move cause

It's really such a groove

Puts a brand new kind of thinkin' in your mind

And you can't go wrong

'Cause you're groovin' all day long

California soul, California soul

They had the melody and the beat

But it still didn't seem complete

Until they saw two lovers kissin'

They knew just what was missin'

So happy they were rockin' and reelin'

Because that added that lovin' feeling

To California soul, California soul

Like a song you hear

That lingers in your ear

California... soul

California... soul

December 26, Highway 101: Moss covered Mission San Miguel sits just off the highway, as it has for over two centuries. In it's perfect setting, it has a quiet dignity; quite untouristy, yet inviting. It looks as though no one has ever bothered to pull off the highway to visit.

Alongside the highway we pass green velvet hills that roll past in an endless procession; we amble beneath Maxfield Parrish clouds. The Nascimiento River, flat as glass, lazily meanders back and forth to the right of us, then to the left, and back again. Shadows of clouds rest on hillsides, here and there, their only purpose to add contrasting shades to the palette of the California landscape.

This section of Highway 101 is sponsored by -- no kidding -- "Ghosts are Everywhere." Hmmm.

There's something peculiar about a propane truck leaving a pasture populated by cows.

December 27. San Francisco. The Embarcadero. Dawn: The sourdough bread truck is the very first delivery truck of the day to pull up to the Ferry Building, and it doesn't seem kitschy at all. The commuters trudge with determination like the March of the Penguins off the ferry, scurrying up Market Street to skyscrapers still illuminated with holidays lights. The only San Franciscans to meet them are the joggers who turn out rain or shine and the elderly Chinese woman doing Tai Chi on the pier, all with expressions of intense concentration. In contrast, the tourists amble aimlessly -- even in front of traffic.

I never will forget Jeanette MacDonald

Just to think of her, it gives my heart a pang

I never will forget, how that brave Jeanette

Just stood there in the ruins and sang, and sang...

San Francisco, open your Golden Gate

You let nobody wait, outside your door

San Francisco, here is your wanderin' one

Saying I'll wander no more.

Other places only make me love you best

Tell me you're the one in all the Golden West

San Francisco, I'm coming home again

Never to roam again...

San Francisco, right when I arrive

I really come alive

And you will laugh to see me,

Perpendicular, hanging on a cable car

San Francisco, let me beat my feet

Up and down Market Street

I'm gonna climb Nob Hill, just to watch it get dark

From the Top of the Mark

Oh, there's Brooklyn Bridge, London Bridge,

And the bridge of San Luis Rey

But the only bridge, that's a real gone bridge,

Is the bridge across the bay

To San Francisco, I'm coming home again,

Never to roam again, by gum

San Francisco--don't call it Frisco

San Francisco, here I come!

Judy Garland live at the Herbst Theatre

Ars Longa, Vita Brevia

Storms in Africa

Though I walk through

Warm sands in Africa

Winds will grow soon

To storms in Africa.

How far to go

I cannot say.

How many more

Will journey this way?

Dark skies fall on

Black earth and ivory

Far from your sun

Clouds now close over me.

How far to go

I cannot say.

How many more

Will journey this way?

Storms have come!

Rains wash the earth away

Dark skies fall down

Into another day.

Rains have now come

From storms in Africa

Time will go on

Through storms in Africa

No other song could describe the swirling clouds dissipating from over the peaks surrounding San Luis Obispo this morning. That I could only scan my sketches of Cerro San Luis! Yesterday's log was one of the few times to available to post my entries 'til I get home from Northern California... we'll see. Maybe I can even learn a few overdue things from my far more computer proficient brothers... I have a lot of catching up to do. Next to my brothers, I'm practically writing on the cave wall in woolly mammoth blood.

There are threads emanating from BM in my mind -- most of which have little to do with the film or the politics of watching two straight boys swap spit. I think it was like a breach of the 17th Street canal of my mind. There were things I've been ruminating and other topics I've avoided thinking about that seeing the film merely acted as a catalyst -- the holidays have been kerosene on the fire.

This morning Cerro San Luis majestically sits with a crown of fog clinging to the summit like laurels of an ancient Olympian athletes. The town is quite for Boxing Day; since Christmas was on a Sunday, only a small number of retail outlets offering post-Christmas sales are open. Few places in the world will be as breathtaking as the scenery from here to San Francisco. It is nature's church in all it's splendor. Thankfully, few places in the country have residents as cognizant of their responsibility to safeguard the natural beauty as here. It never ceases to amaze me how many people rush from LA to SF without taking the time to take in this incredible sight.