Friday, April 29, 2005

We Have Got to Get it Together

Call me a fat middle aged hippie, oh yeah, sitting at Insomnia on Beverly Boulevard, drinking mint tea at 1:15 my mall clothing.

I'm all riled up from eating too much chicken in Japantown with friends and then talking about global warming and how much we hate the Right and how threatened we feel by what they are doing to us, the earth. And we can't come up with a solution for living happily in this country and it's been so terribly frustrating for so many years now.

So, I'm sitting all contemplative and faux important sipping on my hot one, looking around at the young night owls, and what comes on the speakers? Something in the Air. You know, "The Revolution's here. And you know that it's right. We've just got to get it together." From Easy Rider. Thunderclap Newman. 1969, British. Change the world time.

Lyrics, Something in the Air

Sample, Something in the Air

And that's it. The simple lyrics of revolution inspired me to inaction! I came up with a useless, unworkable answer, because someone had to...

We really do have to get it together, but it seems to me, considering what happened to the Easy Rider generation, instead of one side taking over the other, (since the Left already tried and failed and the Right is trying and failing), I guess we're going to have to come together. Shit.

First, maybe we can start with complete honesty, without the rancor:

1) The conservative pigs have to admit to the Left that they actually want to kill us because we are sensualist, drug smoking, gay loving, hyper shallow, hypocritical, baby killing, arrogant, Godless fiends.

2) And the precious latte drinkers have to admit to the Right that they actually want to kill them because they are such fucking greedy idiots who destroy our planet and literally believe in ridiculously bigoted, self serving religious fairy tales.

Maybe, from this honest standpoint, we can start the real dialogue which might include the following:

1) The Left needs to accept the truth that they would die without the Right who do all the farm work and huckstering in the big world market.

2) The Right needs to accept how much fun the Left is having produced all the porn, Hollywood movies, literature, progressive inventions and olive bread that the Right would die without after their long days of farming or engaging in aggressive economic expansionism.

The Left would get very cranky without the Right's corn and cash.
The Right would get very cranky without the Left's porn and stash.

We need each other, wretchedly. We've just got to get it together, man.

And let us, both sides remember:

1) This country is never going to be a complete Christian capitalist theocracy with old white families sitting on top of the pyramid collecting all the power and the money while throwing every single dissenter into a rat hole prison to be executed.

2) This country is never going to be a free-love, pristine and pretty Mecca of culture, fresh local food with expansively progressive education all in an equal opportunity setting where all children are loved, the medical care is free and the sky, air, land and streams are back to their original virgin beauty.

Life really sucks for both sides.

And it won't change. We just hate each other. This leaves me with just one interest. Who or what is going to be the bridge between these two groups who have drawn such deep lines in the sand?

Without a real enemy, what can we do? Communism ended followed by the Bill Clinton blow job war and then we had nowhere to turn except on each other at a fundamental level. The terrorist thing, we view too differently in order to come together. Sucks. Two things we might remember:

1) Powerful, smug people will always fight each other. If they don't have an enemy outside their country, they will find one within.

2) Everyone in the fight, though getting off on their own righteousness, hates the idea of dying, literally, or the death of their pride.

So We Have Got to Get it Together.

Moderate Relativism, anyone? At least that? I don't know. Once the song ended and my tea got cold I thought, "Maybe I should go to the mall tomorrow, buy something, I'll feel better."

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

What About the Children?

In response to your question, Mrs. Values Grundy, I do not write for children, nor do I expect them to write for me.

Sweet Home Alabama

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Maximum Disorder of the G.O.P.

There is a simple explanation for why all systems tend toward maximum disorder, or what is also known as the highest state of Entropy, for those of us in the blue states who attended any sort of college that did not insist on a couple of Moses tablets as the centerpiece of the quad.

This maximum disorder, or highest state of entropy, is due to a completely accepted scientific law, the Second Law of Thermodynamics. Read below if you need edification.

Entropy, The Second Law of Thermodynamics

Whereas this is a simple idea, it is also quite terrifying and sad considering we are made of nature and we too, are agents of nature. The question has often been asked, "If we are headed toward maximum disorder, Godless freak, then why do human beings seem such advanced, ordered creatures?"

And that question, which is such a reflection of the endless hubris of the mind, suggests that the formation of the human being is the ultimate goal of nature. And let's all agree right now, as Voltaire so brilliantly pointed out in his short story, Micromegas, it certainly is not. (Which also begs the question: What the hell happened to The Enlightenment?) The ultimate goal of the human being is actually to fulfill the ultimate goal of nature, otherwise, nature would not have us any longer. And what does nature desire? Maximum disorder, increased entropy. And what are we, smart primates, so good at creating? Maximum disorder. (None of this is my idea.) And how do we do that? By burning every thing we can get our hands on. Coal, oil, the nuclei of atoms, Rod Stewart albums once we find out he has five ounces of sperm in his stomach (ancient urban legend, sure, but how can you resist?)

So, fret not when you see GW poking around, looking for more shit to burn. He's just following his nature. Sure, we could slow this whole process down, but why avoid the inevitable? We are meant to do the bidding of the Second Law of Thermodynamics. When we are all finished with the job, the Second Law will still exist and we will all be, hopefully, not just charred carcasses but stardust.

It's been a fun ride. Go fill up your tank.


Monday, April 25, 2005

Society Page: Star of Turner and Hooch Gets Froggy

Last night, because it was time, I saw the French movie, Look at Me, with two very urbane friends, Mary and Randy, who both enjoy a good night of Gallic celluloid. Look at Me is a wonderful thing about a woman in her floundering twenties whose latest idea is to become a singer. She has a very connected and powerful father in the publishing business who suffers from relationship woes, creative block and cranky moods as he summarily ignores his daughter no matter which approach she takes to get his attention. The father is played by Jean-Pierre Bacri, a great actor. The daughter is played with amazing skill by the chubby Marilou Berry. All the other actors are equally amazing. Check out the link below.

This movie won all sorts of awards and when you see it, you will know why. I will say, it was a bit too long, but what the merde! Buy a big bucket of popped maize and snack heartily. Exploded monocotyledons aside, to watch this film saddens the North American heart as it is one of those well done flicks from France that reminds you of the three main differences between the best films of Gaully-wood as compared with the best films of Hollywood.

1) While the best French films concentrate on the inner lives of distinct, real characters during important transition in their lives, the best Hollywood movies concentrate on the Christian redemption of an ambivalent hero which is achieved by his acts of aggression against evil and his sacrifices for a completely phantasmagorical woman, who should really be named MaryMadonnatheGoodStupidPerfectHotGirlunderThirty.

2) While the best French films concentrate on a concise bit of narrative in the short time span that it takes to elucidate the inner pinnings of real characters, the best Hollywood movies concentrate on the Christian redemption of an ambivalent hero which is achieved by his acts of aggression against evil and his sacrifices for a completely phantasmagorical woman, who should really be named MaryMadonnatheGoodStupidPerfectHotGirlunderThirty.

3) While the best French films concentrate on a specific theme about the human condition that may get you to think about your own life as well as the interconnectedness of all human beings, the best Hollywood movies concentrate on the Christian redemption of an ambivalent hero which is achieved by his acts of aggression against evil and his sacrifices for a completely phantasmagorical perfect woman, who should really be named MaryMadonnatheGoodStupidPerfectHotGirlunderThirty.

Attending the cinema with this tasteful trio were Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson. Since we did not invite them, they sat together, alone, a few rows behind us. They arrived at the theatre first, just before we did and when they departed, I do not know. They both appeared quite fit. Mr. Hanks wore a baseball cap pulled all the way down to his chin.

Look at Me has great choral music, presents beautiful camera work and the acting is superb.

Look at Me

Sunday, April 24, 2005

Off Coast Styling

In a joyful attempt to encourage whimsical fashion on Catalina Island, the Denks board their aircraft.

Upon close inspection, the natives immediately began the imitation.

And since that day, Catalina swings with a sartorial beat.


Friday, April 22, 2005

Franco Wouldn't Be Too Happy

Today SPAIN became the fourth European country to approve gay marriage with full rights on equal standing with heterosexual marriage, including gay adoption.

The other three countries who allow gay marriage AND adoption are Belgium, Sweden and The Netherlands. Other countries with gay marriage include: Denmark, Canada, Germany, Greenland, Norway and Portugal. Civil Unions are legal in Argentina, Iceland, Finland, France, Hungary and Scotland. In South Africa, same sex couples can adopt together but at this point they cannot marry. To date there has been no documented case where gay marriages/civil unions in any of these countries have caused heterosexual marriage to falter—and Denmark has had gay marriage for sixteen years.

The Christian Right has not even passed the Jim Crow level of equality for gay Americans. Their views are strictly nineteenth century and deeply discriminatory. How do they sleep at night knowing what Canada is doing on their continent?


Thursday, April 21, 2005

Problem Solving

When I was twelve years old and my sister was fifteen, there was a period of time when my sister's set would be in a condition that called for an abortion. My mother, a big abortionist, would have girls come over to recuperate after the clinical procedure. It was easy to get an abortion, but it was not always so easy to find a place to recover for five hours. My mom supplied the place. She was forward seeking and a local hero to young women. Murdering unwanted babies really works well. They return to God and everyone wins.

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

North Mansfield Avenue: An Invasion of Mammals

First, we had a four-legged little girl.

Juanita with Water Feature

But even before her, we had her brother, but he died from a bite.

Howard in the World, Widder Mahoney Watches

But before the orange bruiser with a heart of gold died, we adopted the brother of both Juanita and Howard from a house loaded with ceramic clowns. In Torrance. And he lives with us, too.

Oliver Regards the Patio

The three pussies were found together on the Baja, four hours south of the border, and were smuggled into the U.S.

Then, one night, while I was going on a walk for exercise, you know, at 10pm like any normal person, I was followed home by this one.

Louise Yawns

But the weirdest one of all to infiltrate was the biped

Adam with Nasturtiums and Scissors

And now, we're a house of five mammals. But besides everyone being kind of hairy, there have been no live births and very little breast feeding.

Making an Appointment

Open Trenchers, the time has come for the release of possibly the best movie ever made. How did I discover this film? There I was, innocently Googling myself the other day, getting very upset because even though I hold most of the hits on the first page of a Yahoo search, you have to go to the second page on Google to find me. Not a pretty thing for a self-involved Blogger who understands that the chances of someone clicking the 2 at the bottom of a Google page is about as great as my getting out of bed before 10 AM. However, since I can't control the world of Google, nor my bowels, I guess I'll have to just get over it.

The haunting wonder of that Google search, however, is even though the premier search engine is not kind to my ranking, in those Google pages, my Opus Enormus popped up. The movie is called The Appointment, a film noir, shot over ten months on evenings and weekends with a crew of loonies, a cast of poverty stricken actors and a director from Oklahoma with a dirty mullet. It was the big flick from the early nineties that didn't make me famous, but certainly taught me how dull and annoying it is to make a film. I was the star, yes. In every frame. With my own curly mullet. The film also features my 1992 Geo Prizm, which I still own and will not part with until they finish up all the train lines in LA. There's a hot love scene with my co-star, Colleen Corrigan, the soft-core porn queen of Encino, which is cause for hilarity. And for those of you who like violence, I beat someone to death with a golf club. I won't tell you what happens at the end of the story, except it isn't pretty and it involves scissors.

The movie is so quirky, so black and white, so suspense-wanne be, written in a style that can only be described as mock-Stanwick, and so stars me, that you just won't want to miss it. Plus, it features the sister, brother-in-law and mother of Sly Stallone. Yes, Jackie Stallone screams through a doorway that "The Goddamn security men are here." In her translucent performance she exhibits Streep-like genius. (I think these people helped finance this thing.) Their house in Brentwood, where we filmed, purchased by Rocky himself, had the grand distinction of cement lions on each side of the stoop.

Todd Wade, the director, is a completely great guy and he really followed through on The Appointment. More than ten years after he completed this film, it's actually for sale. Todd never found someone to distribute it, so he took on that job. Knowing it had to be set apart from the rest of the discs in the sale bin, he added a fun feature where you can actually edit the end of the movie yourself with outtakes from the shooting. Plus, there's commentary. I chose a burnt-out stoner voice for the has-been/never-was, Don Cummings.

And even though I have nothing but silly memories of the making of this movie, it is worth noting that we won in our category at the Houston Film Festival and placed quite well in a whole bunch of others. Philadelphia, Santa Barbara. Hell, I even went up to Napa to speak at one of the film festivals and on the way home I stayed in a motel 6 in San Luis Obispo and ate at Denny's in the morning.

It really should have been no surprise that my star vehicle showed up on my Google search. Last year, Todd had a big "release" party, focusing on the ability to do your own little editing on the DVD of this movie made for about 30k. The shenanigans took place at the schnazzy bar/screeing room of The Derby in Los Feliz, attended by a few of my closest friends. They watched me squirm as I watched a much younger version of myself up on the screen.

I certainly have made zero cents being in this movie, but I thought, if you have some time, you should check it out. It's so weird, hilarious and the costumes and hair are so fucking bad, you'll wonder how we weren't all round up and sent to fashion prison, or should it have been drama prison? Also, note the moment in the movie when I sniff the cold, hard cash in my macho Geo Prizm. My hair has completely lost its mullet, only to return in the next frame. And honestly, when you see me making profound, hot, love with Colleen, hornily rubbing her ample bosom (Yep, she was pregnant during the love scene), you will be forced to wonder, "Does he think he's kneading dough?" You'll probably pause to go get a carb-laden snack or maybe just chortle a little vomit through your sinuses.

During the shooting of The Appointment, I would like to remind you of some notables of the era. During one shooting day, O.J. was zipping around the freeways, being chased by police. This slowed down the work some, as we were all glued to the television in the makeshift movie studio out at The Brewery. The night after we finished the shooting of the final scene, which we shot first, there was the huge Northridge Earthquake and while standing in the doorway, naked, in Santa Monica, three things went through my head 1. How long is this fucking shaking going to last? 2. How much will it cost me to rent a U-Haul to move back to New York? and 3. What's going to fly across the room and chop off my dick? I went to Arkansas to do a play and Bill Clinton was our president so it was nice to be in Little Rock. Don't you so miss Bill? My boyfriend and I almost broke up. I only used a pager (which appears in the film). And, did I say that I sported the ugliest costumes and mullet in the history of celluloid while smashing and munching on girl-breasts?

You can buy the flick at Amazon--The Appointment.

Or maybe try to rent it or video-on-demand it at Greencine Video On Demand.

A nice review can be read at Living Corpse.

And another good one here at, though the reviewer does accuse me of chewing the scenery. What the hell else was I supposed to do? It was a low budget feature and I was hungry!

Sunday, April 17, 2005

Late Night Dining Out

Eating at odd hours always brings me too close to mops.

Thursday, April 14, 2005

Divorce--Oregon Style

Usually, getting married is easy and divorce is quite difficult.

I guess being gay, the whole world really is turned on its ear.

My husband and I were divorced today, by decree. And we didn't feel a thing. But there is this sting that is keeping me awake tonight.

Okay, I must admit, the whole thing wasn't so important to us, personally. We only got married in Oregon because we happened to be there when it was possible. However, we did really do it. We did have to call some people. We did hire a cute, curly haired preacher woman. The wedding was attended by Adam's parents, aunt, four cousins, the preacher, our old pal Bart, his future sister-in-law, a published author friend and his oddnick, free-love boyfriend. That all required a lot of emails and phone calls. And then there were the two big meals, my search for cigarettes, and the eventual announcements. So, effort was made. Plus, what was supposed to be a ski trip turned out to be just a wedding trip. So there was sacrifice, too.

I guess, in terms of what surrounded the event, the whole thing was doomed from the start. Adam and I had our own little bachelor party two nights before we left for Oregon. We got high and we went to see the remake of The Dawn of the Dead. That was one fucking great Zombie movie. And the night of the wedding, after Adam and Bart both went to sleep, I stayed up and watched the made for T.V. movie about Ted Bundy. That was one fucking great serial killer movie. Zombies and serial killers were our marital bookends.

We were wed on March 26, 2004. We were divorced on April 14, 2005. It lasted just over a year. Long enough to feel married. But we always knew the chance that it would end was pretty great, so we didn't take it too seriously, read the paper and hoped for a regime change. Things only got worse as all those states basically said, "Not in my backyard, you don't."

I don't feel too sanctimonious about the loss or our marriage because the whole wedding was sort of a lark. However, I am endlessly amazed that people are so freaked out about gay people getting married. Tonight, we went to a meeting about the latest laws of California domestic partnership. It's pretty much marriage. California was brilliant in that they beefed up the domestic partnership code in stages (with the exception of that little scene in San Francisco where even Rosie got married). In fact, the evolution of the domestic partnership laws was all done so well, that most of the population didn't even notice it becoming a reality. We gays are pretty sneaky. So watch your kids. In a pinch, Adam and I can sign up for California's sweet offer. I am grateful to live in one of the bluest states. But at the end of the day, it isn't a federal deal, so it's all so annoying.

The Conservatives are stubbornly short-sighted and monstrously stupid with their fear of change. What kind of dross settled this continent, anyway? No wonder Western Europe is so much better off, socially. The most strident, dogmatic boobs all came here. My hope is that domestic partnership takes over this country. Eventually, straight couples can opt for that instead of marriage. And we will become like Scandinavia and marriage, that crazed old institution, will die a decent death.

I would like to be able to say one day that these two men, these two awful, sinful, scary men, did their part in destroying the tradition of marriage. And only because they had no choice.

I don't understand why people hate us so much. I never have. As a child, being taunted and beaten up, it was terrible. As an adolescent, it was confusing and extremely depressing. As an adult, there was an enormous amount of relief. But then, in my gay face again, is just pure fear and hatred. Truly, it sucks to be on the receiving end of it. But change, for the good, always happens. Slowly. But eventually. So, in this great state of California, I am optimistic.

A Time is Gonna Come.


Wednesday, April 13, 2005

To Aggrandize, Divine?

From Fort Hood, Texas. Words from our noble leader speaking to soldiers who have just returned from Iraq:

"The toppling of Saddam Hussein's statue in Baghdad will be recorded, alongside the fall of the Berlin Wall, as one of the great moments in the history of liberty."

I love this hopeful thinking. In these self promoting times, a man can easily climb into the Pantheon of Greatness with just a couple of simple statements. It gives us all hope. Because if it walks like a duck, right?

So I declare:

"Blog entries about myself will be remembered, alongside the essays of Montaigne, as one of the greatest collections of work in the history of literature."

I love the United States. All the posterity with almost none of the sweat! And you don't even have to wait for anyone to bestow it upon you. I'm never leaving this country.

Addictive Pattern: Expunging the Five Excuses

Although I have only ever been officially addicted to one substance, tobacco, I do know that one can get into bad patterns. And what fueled these patterns? I think I had some excuses that I used to let the party last a little too long. Since around 9/11, I found myself hanging around with a few big bags of weed. Just a few. But they were big bags. And each new bag would show up around the house just as the last bag was finished. And cases of cheap wine from Trader Joe's kept magically appearing in the garage to wet my cotton mouth whistle. At $1.99/bottle, how could I afford NOT to drink?

Luckily, I did not become a total pothead or a stumblebum drunk, however, let's not pretend I have a lot of self control. If there is a fresh loaf of banana bread in the kitchen, I'll go to the kitchen and eat those baked bananas as quickly possible. I don't know why. The reason is probably not that different from my need to hook up with as many men as possible in my twenties (okay, and my thirties, too). I'm just a voracious sort. But fortunately for me, I'm also lazy. When the things I find so tasty aren't anywhere around, I actually have no problem with the loss of the indulgence. Two other traits have saved me, neither of which I am proud but happy, just the same, to own the qualities. They are vanity and a not so slight case of hypochondria.

And did I mention I was lazy? So, once the weed was all smoked up recently, I was done. And now, there is none in the house. And I find that I am better off for it. I also find, that though I was lucky to not become some sort of addict, I did come to accept the truth that I am a tidge gluttonous.

I am ultimately grateful that my sober mind has pretty much kept me a sober person. However, I have been known to sloppily overindulge and for this I have compiled the five excuses I need to expunge in order to keep me from living a life that is not to my greatest advantage.

1) Even if a single-minded, fairy tale believing idiot is elected president, you can't just sit on the couch drinking Charles Shaw and sucking on the glass pot pipe as he takes the country down. Sure, he's awful, but lung cancer and a failed liver are even awfuler. Plus, you're prettier when you're healthy.

2) Even when those unhappy types commandeered a few planes and terrorized us and destroyed the Twin Towers that you watched being built as a child, you can't just sit on the couch drinking Charles Shaw and sucking on the glass pot pipe while watching it all over and over again on Tivo. Sure, death and destruction in your home town is scary, but lung cancer and a failed liver are even scarier. Plus, you're prettier when you're healthy.

3) Even though you wanted to leave Los Angeles during the past two years because your husband was a stress case, while you were mostly unemployed and the alienation of living with a man who you are only legally married to in one county in Oregon was such a fucking drag, you can't just sit on the couch drinking Charles Shaw and sucking on the glass pot pipe. Stale, crappy relationships are totally beat, but lung cancer and a failed liver are even beater. Plus, you're prettier when you're healthy.

4) Even though you had to get sinus surgery last year because the air in this city is so polluted from the LA Harbor and all the SUV's that your allergies kicked into constant hell from all the irritation, you can't just sit on the couch drinking Charles Shaw and sucking on the glass pot pipe. Sure, the drugs kill the pain and even open up your head, but the overall effect is deleterious. Wretched sinuses totally suck, but lung cancer and a failed liver suck way more. Plus, you're prettier when you're healthy.

5) Even though you woke up this year to discover that your balls were aching because you got so old that they are now hanging down below your knees and you had to wear tightie whities again to hold them up, you can't just sit on the couch drinking Charles Shaw and sucking on the glass pot pipe while you wine about the pain. Sure, old man balls are ugly, but lung cancer and a failed liver are even uglier. Plus, you're prettier when you're healthy.

Now that these excuses are written down and set out to cybersea, I will continue with this interesting life, rarely doing drugs, and I will just watch everything naturally go to shit without anything to soften the blows of this decay of country and body. Plus, even though entropy is the future, I'm prettier when I'm healthy.

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

Not Long After Target Opened in West Hollywood

I finished shopping at Target and I went downstairs to eat in one of the box store plex-taurants. Baja Fresh had not yet opened. I had to go the The Lucky Greek or whatever the hell they called it. Was it Pitty-the-Pita?

The place looked suspect. There were a few people eating outside. Their plates were too devoured for me to see if any of it looked any good. I went inside. There was one greasy looking older woman in a turquoise sweater and turquoise pants set and bad, lace-free, slip-on tennis shoes. She looked like she might be homeless, but might also have a home. I went ahead and ordered. What the hell. It was so cheap.

I was just feeling sort of disconnected from all the new smells of Target. I couldn't believe how fat everyone was. I couldn't believe how poor everyone was. I couldn't believe how greasy everyone was. I couldn't believe I ordered lunch in this place. The place was corporate Greek. There was an odd mosaic of what might be some sort of siren pulling some sort of sailor to some sort of rock. But it was made by corporate committee so it lacked any bite or humanity. I did not get anxious. I accepted it all for what it was and I thought, “It would be so nice if family owned restaurants make a comeback.” Greek corporate music played over the speakers. I couldn’t imagine where they got it.

I was number forty-two. A plastic square told me so. The busboy/food delivery guy saw that my number was flat on the table. That would not do. He picked it up and placed it full view in the metal vertical circular pressure clip that rose above condiments next to my left arm. I was number forty-two. I waited. I saw the busboy/food delivery guy go outside to deliver food to some other diner who was some other number. He seemed very nice yet I couldn't tell from the look in his eye that besides going outside to deliver this tray of food, if he had any idea where he was on earth. The turquoise woman sat quietly to my right, looking at the menu. Her hair was so long, gray and greasy, she MUST be homeless, I thought.

I saw two trays of food placed on the high food prep counter. I bet one was mine. The busboy/food delivery guy grabbed both trays. One had fries, not mine. He dropped that at another table. He brought me my gyros-salad-rice. It was disgusting. The pita for the gyros was deep fried like an English corn pasty. The one ounce of meat inside was minced. It was a bad meal. I figured, well, I’ll just eat a bit. Just then, the turquoise may-be homeless woman turned to me and with just two teeth in her upper gums and a smile on her face that looked like nothing less than supreme joy and fulfillment, she said, “Isn’t this music nice?”

I warmly shook my head yes and turned to my food as if to give the signal, “I respect your humanity, but I have some eating to do and you can’t have any of my food.”

Then I thought to myself, if I really let this whole situation in, the quarter empty Target shelves I had just seen, the bad products for sale, the lazy price check girl who was more interested in her nails than in getting her job done, the imprisonment of these workers in these hollow profit holes and this wacky woman in turquoise who is actually enjoying this awful music while she contemplates maybe gumming a kebob, I would probably lay on the floor and cry for at least an hour.

But I remained like the other zombies in this bad new town square. I looked straight off into space. I picked at my greasy lunch, ate only half of it and I looked over at the back of Madame Turquoise and I thought she probably had not had any lunch, she did not know how to get money out of me other than trying to engage me in a joyful conversation about the music and that menu in front of her didn't fool me, she can’t read. So I figured, shit, don’t cry. Just give this woman some money for lunch. I opened my wallet and I had three twenties. I could have given her a twenty, but I really didn’t feel that generous. So, I went up to the register, Egad, and I got four fives for one twenty with no trouble. I put three fives back in my wallet and folded one five nicely in my palm to give to my poorly turquoise dressed, almost toothless fellow human lady with the long greasy gray hair.

But I didn’t want to insult her. I figured, you know, her clothes are clean enough that she may not be homeless. She does have a basically clean purse. But the lack of teeth, that’s really what makes me think she has to be homeless. But then, who am I to know anything with regard to teeth? So I took on a very peer to peer attitude, walked up to her and as if we had just shared a lovely introduction in a lovely tea garden and I asked her, “Have you had lunch yet today?” My tone implied that I wanted to know what she thought about the food here. I figured this would be a very welcoming way to interact with her while avoiding any embarrassment for either one of us. I figured she would next say something to the effect that she had not yet eaten with a look on her face of someone who always relies upon the kindness of strangers. The look of a little girl in an old woman’s body. And I would press the five dollar bill into her hand, tell her to have a nice day and I would go outside and I would cry because she was so alone in the world and uncared for. But when I asked her, “Have you had lunch yet today?”
She answered, “Yes, it was delicious.”

I have no idea if she was lying. Her cup was empty. How did she get the cup? You have to pay to get a cup. Or did she just grab one? I maintained that she actually had not yet eaten. But I did not want to insult her, so I said, “Have a nice day.”

She seemed confused that I spent that much time talking to her. But she also seemed so lovely in her turquoise outfit, smiling to the music. A part of her knew that I meant her well. She tried to engage me to begin with, with the music, I blew her off, then tried to reconnect. But I really had no way in. I missed my chance when I threw my head down when I first got my food. I put the five dollar bill back into my wallet, went down to the parking garage and I thought about that turquoise woman, all happy and alone in the bad Greek plex-taurant, while I drove home in my creaky 1992 Geo Prizm.

Monday, April 11, 2005

Dead Pope, but We'll Always Have Rome

All this pope coverage makes me think of Italy.

So I bring you: The Italians-- La Familia

They are (Going down in three columns):

Sam, the Sickly
Antoinette, the Mule
Rosa, the Slutty
Janet, the Shopper
Helena, the Pious
Michelina, the Wise
Angelica, the Songbird

It should be no surprise that my direct genetic line is Sickly-Mule-Shopper.

It should also be no surprise that even though the characteristics of Pious-Wise were in my chromosomal grasp, instead, I have often expressed the DNA combo of Slutty-Songbird.

Thursday, April 07, 2005

Being Human is a Bloody Mess

In case the world was wondering, I actually am human. Here is the blood test from my physical to prove it.

A few things to note:

1) Even though a person can have very low, healthy levels of cholesterol, he can still be kind of fat.

2) Bilirubin is not a television character.

3) The first person to count platelets must have had very good eyes.

4) Urine Leukocyte Esterase sounds like something one is very glad to have listed as negative.

5) Those who have been resistant to having sex with me, note well that I have neither Syphilis, nor Gonorrhea, nor Chlamydia. However, a warning for those who might try: I am often covered with Chlam Sauce.

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

A New Yorker Comes to LA and then Goes Back to NY

Megan Writes:

I landed at JFK and snuck up the aisle just below business class. Then I waited. I got out of the plane and into the arrival area which was grey and dank. I followed the people (and signs) to the airtran/ground transportation escalator which was not working. I waited as everyone struggled with their overly large carry-ons. I passed through baggage and followed the signs to AirTran straight to the doors which were completely blocked by police tape. I walked down to the next set of doors and out onto the street. I asked someone if I was going the right way. I had to walk over pick-updrop-off roads because the new pathway was still being renovated. I got to the elevator but it was taking a really long time and then I realized there was an escalator outside up to the LIRR platforms. I went up the escalators and over to the platforms and there was no information booth or signs. I was confused. Every train was going to Babalyon or East New York. No thanks. Finally at the end of the platform there was the 12:04am to Penn. Ran down the stairs but the train was just pulling away. No one knew (not even the other train conductor) when the next train was. He told me to go to the information booth which I got to by walking through that conductor's train. Got to the booth with a drunken irish guy who had to get to Woodside (duh) and I asked. She said 12:27. I said which track, she said 2. I said this side? She said "it leaves on track 2". I said thanks and walked away thinking 'how come black ladies are such bitches." Got on the train finally and listened to some girl swear a lot on her phone "I mean, what the fuck, like I was such a fucking idiot! I like had so much fucking time I fucking forgot so I ate my Burger King and thought I'm such a fucking idiot, what an ass, etc." I also listened to AirTran workers compare notes on city college costs and how so and so is a home nurse who works 4 hours a day and makes $120k and if she works on weekends she gets $1000k a day and how one of the ladies talking said she put her Tisha through med school until Tisha decided she wanted to do computers so now she's doing that but then told her mom she wants to go back to med school to become a nurse's assistant and how she (the mom) wants to go back to school (I guess JFK isn't paying her enough to stand around AirTran in case someone needs help - and she was nice when a man asked if the train to Jamaica stopped there - and those full benefits just don't satisfy because she's filling out a lot of forms to go to school for free because the $300 a semester could be paid for so why not?) And then I got into Penn Station and could find the A, C, E all right but not the 1 and then I turned around. Duh. So I went to the 1 but, now, get this, I could not use the stairs because some guy had just poured bleach on them and had blocked it off with police tape so me and a dozen or so other people HAD TO WAIT FOR THE ELEVATOR to take us up ONE LEVEL. We waited, breathing in all that bleach, until the elevator NEXT TO THE STAIRS arrived and we piled in and were lifted to the platform. And I waited there for the train. And the train came (not too bad a wait) and the conductor was calling all the stops by their single digit names, so 59 was five nine, and 66th was six six and I was pissed because, well, I don't know, but it had something to do with what I was experiencing which is this: I think NewYorkers are just a little too concerned with being what they see on TV. All the girls are 'fly', all the boys are 'homey' and everyone is using that accent like they're italians in a godfather movie. Tone it down, people! Give peace a chance. It's like everyone's walking around waiting to be discovered.....So, I get off at one zero three and I can't exit the new exit closer to my house because they lock it after 11:30 or so and so I have to walk the 1/2 block south and I climb the stairs and go through the revolving exit thingy and turn left to go up the stairs and I swear to the almighty there is a flood puddle with crap in it at the base of the stairs and I think that somehow a torrential rain has happened from the time that I was standing en plein air at Jamiaca to now. Well, what-ever and I step into the flood with my right foot and leap to the step with my left foot and I think 'great, it's friggin' - well, no, fucking, raining - and I climb the stairs and it's not raining at all. It's just god damn (and sorry cause I know the Pope just died and all) 'clean the subway/LIRR stations with lots of water' night. That's all. So, I climb the stairs. I pass by the blonde girl who's singing with 4 black guys outside a black late at night, white earlier on, owned by euro trash bar and as I pass she's saying 'I lost my voice earlier today' and I go into an Islamic deli and I buy a Heineken and I walk home. I walk up the stairs and I have to say my apt. is nice. It really really is. But the bathroom is still leaking because there's a big old brown water pile pooled in the tub and the tape around the piece of wallboard that's the recent attempt at fixing it is wet and 'sepia' (what an appropriate word) and Clover, that Yoga cat extraordinaire, is in some backwoods North Carolina yard right now, and Holly's still in Florida, and there's not even any mail because for some reason Amanda hasn't taken the mailbox key and emptied the box and now I'm worried that the mailman has rejected some important mail because we've been abusive and that's New York.
It's not pretty anymore. Maybe in some area of Brooklyn where the neighbors have all paid off the UPS and mail PEOPLE but you know what? I've lived here all my life. I've lived upstate and downstate. I've worked in finance, publishing, waitressing AND I've been artistic. I think I've given myself a pretty darn good look at what's going on. All facets. All professions. All peoples. From squatters to investment bankers.
New York is transient.
You live here, you work here but you get the hell out of dodge when you can.
I have been thinking of Highland Park and how one 'lives there' but one 'gets the hell out, well, I'm not sure getting the hell out is necessary. Cresting hills and seeing hills is something. I would go as far to say that the gangs in LA have no vistas. There are no vistas in NYCity, EXCEPT for the Staaten Island ferry which reminds you daily of the enormity of New York. Jersey, unfortunately, just doesn't count. And that's that.
What exactly is so wrong with property on the Gold Line?
This is complicated and I'm not Paul or John or any other Beatle's daughter and I have invested a HUGE amount of time in this city and one day I'll be able to place it appropriately. I hope, really, I do, that I can because I feel it and I deserve it but for right now I'm really liking LA.
New York will never die. Never. It really won't. But what? I like plants and I like people who like plants. New York City does not like plants, and that, my darling Donald, is an absolute fact.

(Megan was outbid for the house in Highland Park)


Highland Park

*30 *31

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

Lesbians'll Kill Ya or Dyke, Dyke, Goose

She comes to town, my oldest friend from childhood, Megan. We were lab partners in Biology in the tenth grade hacking up fetal pigs. Now we're both gay. Could there be a connection?

She comes to town to "check out" LA. She thinks that mabye she wants to move here. But after our big greasy dinner at Shik Do Rak with the fabulous dinner club, slathered with hilarity by the food comic, Dan, telling us stories about an Austrian bread fetishist, it appears that Megan loves this town, these people, the smoking meat and so, she has to move here. Great.

Next day, we meet a realtor off a sheet of paper, one of those flyers that says Take One in the Lucite holder in front of a little bungalow in Echo Park that is for sale. Within one day, David, the gay realtor, has my friend, Megan, pre-qualed, and we're off and running looking at properties.

The amazing things to check out in LA for about 400? Here goes: A falling down shack in Glassel Park. The cute but shacky bungalow in Echo Park. The hysterical poverty horror above Riverside Drive, across from the entrance to the 2, where we literally scramble up the hill and have to climb a short manmade ladder to get to the next level of a terraced property that could only be described as Asian squalor on a filthy hill covered with dirty boxes of building material that almost resemble a house, with a small child inside watching a large screen television and all around are rags and buckets, smelling like decay, dogs, and utter despair. We climb back down the ladder to the sounds of the roar of the 2 and 5 interchange and go up to the Northwestern side of Mt. Washington. Finally, there is the house:

The Tillie House. On one of those amazing walk/stair streets called Tillie, up on the side of the hill of Mount Washington. Like something out of Montmartre. With a huge view. And a great flat pad. And this charming street that is not a street at all. And it's called Tillie.

On the way home, Megan decides she has to have it. That night, she is wildly spinning in the back yard while I roast the meat on the grill. She's on the cell phone every ten minutes with her girl-love back in New York. Vaginas are swirling. And I'm the one who has to paddle. I turn to the brilliant Jeffrey (he's here because it's pot night, plus, he's our pal, plus, he missed the dinner club) and I say, "There's going to be some drama this weekend."

And he answers, "You think so?"

We go back the next day to the Tillie house with Adam, my husband, who has a very sober eye when it comes to real estate. He takes one look at the Tillie house and he decides, rightly so, that this house is a no-go. Two corners of the house are right on the property line. That really is annoying. Plus, the main windows of the living area look right into the neighbor's backyard. Bad house placement on an otherwise fun, tree-house lot. We nix Tillie and leave.

We go to the movies. Salad of Jack and Rose. See yesterday's blog. Yikes.

The next day, open houses. After a horrendous shed on Venice Boulevard in a neighborhood best left to Pit Bulls, a squalor shed in way Southern "Echo Park", best left to Pit Bulls, a gorgeous 1910 Craftsman up in Montecito Heights (You must get to Montecito Heights---crazy beautiful), that is too expensive, we land at an open house in Highland Park on 56th Avenue, not far from the 110 Freeway.

The place is so super charming, Megan has to make an offer. It's a 1926 house. Great garage that has been expanded for a studio. Huge yard covered with grape vines, a fig tree and an orange tree and a crapped up house that is dying to be restored. The bid has to happen. We grab Adam, come back. He thinks it's great. We go to dinner in Laurel Canyon at Pace.

Cross continental girlfriends digging their heals in on cell phones, forcing each others' hands. Trying to find out if they are committed enough to move together into a house across the country all during Megan's halibut.

And, yes, they are committed. Megan has to make an offer on the house in the morning. All offers are being accepted immediately. We have to jump. The circles under my eyes make Saturn look like earth.

So, today, after no one can sleep, we three all go back to Highland Park to meet the realtor and inspector. But first, we got to Wells Fargo and gather the money together at the bank for a 3% down payment. Yes, 3%. And an immediate inspection happens at noon-thirty. Contract is written up. Whole mess takes only three hours.

Bad lunch in South Pasadena. Adam drives home alone. I take Megan on the Gold Line to see Union Station and next, we take the Red Line to Hollywood, walk down to my house. And it's all over.

I have a meeting. Adam and Megan watch television. I come home. We eat Megan's banana bread. We all take Ambien. It is over. Fucking Dyke almost killed me.

Monday, April 04, 2005

The Salad of Jack and Rose

An Indie Recipe


The diseased heart of lettuce. Provided by Daniel Day-Lewis. Heart disease never named, just sobbed through with the same intense European tears of My Left Foot and In the Name of the Father. All angst all the time. Pick the head from the farm of misunderstood hysteria.

Pretty little Rose petals. Make sure they are young, tasty and pretty but a bit too innocent and weird to eat. Provided by Camilla Belle. Keep Rose away from Copperheads. Combination in this salad could be lethal.

Add one delightful sprig of a needy Catherine Keener. Always delicious, every time.

Add two grounded nuts, the love children of the sprig, Catherine. Provided beautifully by Ryan McDonald and Paul Dano as fat-queer and sex-beast.

And one old potato face, provided by an, "I'm not evil, but I am," Beau Bridges.

To Prepare:

Toss and mix with the sadness seeds of a failed cult, the history of a vinegar-acid trip and some touchy-feely cheese. To make sure your salad is received as it just has to be, stir in, "if you don't know what to feel, the soundtrack will tell you" sound bites.

Eat. Get nauseous on precious nature cinematography. Puke on Rebecca Miller when finished.


Friday, April 01, 2005

Congress Steps In Again to Save Terri Schiavo

Congress, prompted by President George Bush, has passed a law today that states Terri's Schiavo's feeding tube must be reinserted. This new law, affectionately known as the resurrection statute, goes into effect immediately.

Outraged citizens in the state of Florida demanded why this new federal law was passed. The president said today, "Experts have checked the body of Terri Schiavo and have found that her hair and her nails are still growing. She is very much alive. In cases of ambiguity, we must choose life."

When asked for the names of these experts, the president said, "You know, the experts we always call upon."

When pushed by reporters more pointedly, the president grew ornery and grimaced, "A devout hairdresser from Houston named Chrissy."

When pressed for the name of the expert on the nails, the president could only reply, "A Korean woman who works in St. Louis. I wish I could pronounce her name in gratitude."

In a related story, a man from Dothan, Alabama, who only goes by the name of Ken, has declared he is going to kill Michael Schiavo in retribution for killing Terri. Ken has been kept alive for years by a feeding tube since he dove too sharply into a pool at his brother's divorce party and Ken is completely paralyzed from head to foot. When asked how he intends to kill Michael Schiavo, Ken replied, "I'll pray to the Lord Jesus Christ every single day for his death and I know Jesus will pull his love away from Michael and this will starve his soul to death and he will die. It will be like he's having his spiritual feeding tube removed. I did it to my neighbor's dog who barked every night and kept me awake. It only took me three days. That's ten days less than it took Michael to kill Terri."

Michael Schiavo will attempt to cremate Terri Schiavo, dead for fifteen years, before the law can take effect. The National Coalition of Beauty-Salons-for-a Culture-of-Life will block his attempts so the feeding tube can be reinserted before her pie hole is burned to a crisp. The spokeswoman for BSCL, Susan Goody, speaks for the whole organization and in a press release states, "Hair and Nails are life. They pulse with God's love. How can you extinguish God? Plus, I work with hair and nails. And I just know. They are alive!"

In the meantime, Terri has had a brain scan and although brain experts did find the brain to be dead, they were also able to glean her final primitive thought before she perished. It was, "Thanks for pulling out the tube. Look how much skinnier my corpse is!"