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?



*33

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.

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 Filmcritic.com, 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!

Late Night Dining Out

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

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.



*32

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.

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.

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.

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.

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)


Harlem


Highland Park

*30 *31

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.

The Salad of Jack and Rose

An Indie Recipe

Ingredients:

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.


*29

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!"


*28

Close Encounter

Why, may you ask, do I still own this Fujifilm Finepix 2.0 Mega Pixel camera?
It accentuates any and all wrinkles. It bloats. It takes chins and turns them into dynasties. Skin turns red. Hair mats together. How dare I use this camera?
Cheap old things, we must remember, needn't be held forever. However, it was lovely to be with these friends for a short encounter.

My two school chums, Sarah-pink and Megan-black, overlapped this evening in their visits to LA, so the obvious choice for after dinner drinks after a great meal at La Cabana was Encounter, the bar in the old air traffic control tower at LAX. So Jetsons. So Mod. So well designed and campy all at once. You want to enjoy your stay in LA? Head over to Encounter the minute you arrive. Listen to the creepy futuristic 1960's music in the elevator on your ascent to the lava lamp studded bar. Have a mean drink or twenty. Don't ever leave. Just hang out in the bar once you arrive in the Big Orange and stay put until you have to go back home. You won't ever have to deal with LA traffic and you can see the terrorists coming right at you through the amazing slanted windows.

Encounter

Errand List for Wednesday: Inspire the Children

1) Plant a tree on Santa Monica Boulevard. Taking the bus to Beverly Hills and walking home is great. But when everyone at the bus stop clumps behind one tiny eight foot tree for shade, it means there is work to be done. Trees grow on trees. Go plant some. Podocarpus are especially hardy in Southern California and provide much shade and ample space for bird nests. They look like giant broccoli drawn by children. In fact, ask local children to help with the planting.

2) Get the Governator to legalize Pot. Marijuana is not a "gateway drug" any more than are Wine Coolers. Tell children about the positive qualities of pot.

3) Make sure husband signs up for more surgery. His vulnerability makes him much kinder. In fact, hobble your husband. In crusty WASPS, neediness is a great personality enhancer. Tell children that even when they are middle-aged and fat and covered in gray, hairy man boobs, it is okay to cry.

4) Make sure you stick with the once/week Pot regimen. It seems to be working. And it's so much cheaper. Pot is not addictive. Chocolate is. Stay away from the chocolate. Exercise. Eat spicy food. Call your sister. Tell the children they should always call their sister.

5) Make sure people know there is no literal God. If they resist this knowledge and try to convince you that God exists, show them your ass tags. Don't show children your ass tags.



The hardy Podocarpus. Come ye' children.

*27

A Deep Wound, a Pail and Thine

When it comes to surgery, there seems to be two types of folks. Those who puke after they come to and those who do not. I am of the latter. My husband, Adam, which I find so amusing, is the former, that is, he's a big ol' puker.

Today, Adam went to the surgery center in Beverly Hills for shoulder surgery at 6 AM. By Cab, I needn't add for those who know me. I did meet him in the recovery room at 10AM. He looked like he had been under, which made total sense. His right arm was all yellow with Betadine solution. He was groggy but it was clear that this whole thing was a success in terms of avoiding the death that sometimes accompanies being anesthetized. Nurse Julie, sweet person, gave him a Vicodin on an empty stomach. He grew quite nauseous. On the way home I had to pull over. But it was just a false alarm. Aren't most urges to puke just false alarms?

Once home, I made him a little toast with a little hard boiled egg on it. One of those sweet moments in life when you get to take care of your betrothed. He asked me for something to puke in. I was all, "You aren't gonna puke. I've had my appendix out and my sinuses carved up and both times after surgery, I didn't puke. And I have an awful stomach."

He said, "Bring me something to puke in." I brought him a little bowl. He just looked at it like a cat looks at the new puppy.

"Okay, Okay, I'll get you something bigger." And I did. But I won't say what it was since someone reading this might be eating a salad out of it the next time they dine chez nous.

Sure enough, as God made little gay fishes, he puked. Three big splashes in a row. I heard the first one coming up while I was in the kitchen and I quickly gamboled toward him in the living room as I hate to miss any sort of floor show. He said, "Don't come in here." That was between the first and second puke splash. He sounded pretty serious, so I didn't come in.

I was busy putting a coat of clear sealant on the papier-mâché penis sculpture I made him, anyway. (It had become kind of moldy. We Tilexed it to kill the mold and then let it dry in the infrequent global-warming-crazy-weather-shit-what's-going-on California sunshine. So it was time to protect it from future mold. Who wants mold growing anywhere near their penis sculpture?)

He good naturedly finished up his puking after the third splash and announced that he felt way better. I was very happy for him. From that moment on, he was an exemplary patient. He turned on the television and began his usual trout-eyed stare into the screen. Things were back to normal.

I am quite different than my little hubby. Like a horse, I'm not a puker. My body would rather have the offensive stomach hell-mess pass all the way through for a full alimentary torture ride before it all ends in some throne sitting that is somewhat relieving yet wretchedly long overdue.

Adam, he gets right to it, happily pukes, feels way better and even cleans up after himself. What a guy. When someone can puke with such ease and honesty and then has the ability to good naturedly channel surf, you just have to take your hat off to him. Well, not your hat, but something.


*26

An Easter Tradition is Born

"So let's do this. The Jews'll still have passover, and if this Christian wackiness takes off, we'll do a rabbit thing. How do you like the costume?"

*25

Furama

We met on the sidewalk on the line for security check-in at LAX. It was Thanksgiving. I was going to Atlanta to see my mother and sister. She was going to Chicago to see her father and brother. The symmetry intrigued me. Neither one of us wanted to go. My family had voted for Bush and Cheney. So did hers. The similarities continued. She went to college in Boston, so did I. She loved recorded music better than live music. I admitted I felt the same way. She had a hard ass. She kept looking at my forearms. I am a socialist. She was all for communes and Max Weber. I told her how much I hated George Bush. She told me she hated Dick Cheney even more. We didn’t even have to state the obvious of what had gone wrong with our country, both so weary of the last three years of fear and the helpless sadness that we just looked into each other’s sad eyes. We each had monstrous editorials ready in our heads, but it was early and just wasn’t the time to get into it. Besides, what was the use?
The line was endless. I had an eight-forty-five flight. She had a nine-o-five. The security matron walked by, with dyed red hair and a mildly happy and mildly stern face, she called out, “Anyone for an eight-forty-five flight?” I didn’t move.
“Roberta. My name is Roberta.”
“Hi.”
Roberta asked me, “What time is your flight?”
I told her, “Eight-forty-five.”
She warned me, “You should go, then.”
I asked her if she had ever been to the Furama hotel on Lincoln Boulevard. She said she had not, but she always wanted to see the inside.
We got out of line. I hailed a cab. I told her my name was Dave, which it is. We were at the Furama within ten minutes.
We both got undressed. She said she could get to Chicago later on. There were a whole bunch of flights that day. I told her that I might cancel my trip to Atlanta. I was more interested in going up the coast to see the elephant seals near Hearst Castle. She said she loved the seals. I told her you had to go in December and January to see them mate. It was one of the most powerful forms of nature I have ever seen. She touched my right hip bone. I touched her left hip bone. She kissed my lower lip. I heard a plane fly over-head.
“Another one took off safely,” she said. I grabbed her ass. She let out a sound that told me to grab even harder. So I did.
“I’ll have to call my father later and tell him I’m going to be late,” she smiled, feeling like she was an adolescent getting away with something. She started to blow me. I was happy to be with a woman who did not need thirty minutes of kissing before she would blow me. Another plane flew over the hotel. I got on my knees, she kneeled over and once I was in, we went on for about fifteen minutes. I would stop every now and then so I could last. She liked that. At one point, we felt very familiar to each other, like we had been doing this for years. Instead of making it less exciting, it became more so.
I got off before she did. So, when I was done, I dove down to finish her off. I’ve learned that it is best to really get into it, though usually I just feel like going to sleep once I have completed my biological agenda. Best to be polite and even act a bit. But the acting has to be good or else it just becomes annoying.
I acted like I loved doing it, which I sort of did. She got off for real. Which was nice. We both rinsed what needed rinsing and then lay on the bed. Another plane flew overhead. I asked her if she was really going to go to Chicago. She said she really wanted to, though she was dreading listening to her father rail on about towel-heads and her brother, who has been divorced twice, showing up with his latest girlfriend in some monstrous S.U.V. talking about the weekend house he was building on a manmade lake just forty minutes from his house.
She told me, “That lake used to be just a small pond with frogs and ducks. Since they built the damn, it has these small powerboats. They’re not disgusting, but they’re awful anyway.”
“Does the dam provide electricity?” I asked her, hoping there was something good about what happened to the pond.
“No. Nothing. Developers got the land and the pond and did what they wanted. The area is now a gold mine. Can you imagine?” She wasn’t even emotional, really, just resigned.
“I can. Sure.” I felt empty, too. I was also a little hungry.
“I hate Bush,” she said.
“Me, too,” I said, “But it’s the people. This is what the people want.”
“I am astonished.” She dried her thigh with the sheet.
“I don’t know how this is ever going to end,” I said, offering no solace.
“I have no idea, either. It’s just, he’s so awful. And he’s a hypocrite and he’s stupid. I don’t think he follows some God or anything except for his bloated ego. He doesn’t care about anything except for power. Not even oil, not even money, not even family values or any of the other bullshit Karl Rove grabbed the pulse of. He’s an abusive, sick, sick man. I hate him. Fuck him.” She turned her head and stared out the window.
We both lay there for a few minutes. It was overcast. The sound of a maid’s cart rolled by outside the door. I was so happy I decided to go up the coast instead of to Atlanta. My mother and sister are easy enough to be around, but they have no point of view. Years ago, my mother voted for Kennedy. My sister hasn’t voted in a long time. She’s very busy raising kids. For a second, I thought I should get up and do something, anything at all. I was getting antsy.
She said to me, “I just hate how I can’t be myself any longer. I’m not easy going like I used to be.”
“That’s not the president’s fault,” I moderated. I listened for more planes. I didn’t hear any.
“Dave, you know what Id’ like to do this holiday season?”
“What?” I thought she would say something about going with me to see the elephant seals.
She kept looking out the window and she said, “I’d like to kill George Bush.”
This had a very calming affect on me.
Then I said, “You better kill Dick Cheney first.”



*24

Dieting: Notes to Myself 1995-2005

Though arriving in Las Vegas with nothing but six hundred dollars in cash, a carton of Marlboro Lights and three bags of Sour Patch kids is usually a certain recipe for success in the game of weight loss, you really should plan for a different strategy in the future. Yes, you lost eight pounds in two days. But you gained it all back in four.


Though joining in with your pals for the “colon cleanse” was a great mask for a diet and it seemed like a pretty cleaver idea, remember, it was pretty messy and surreal. You only lasted three out of the seven days, you dyed your hair orange and you crapped on the wall. If the ass was supposed to drink coffee, the good Lord would have given it the ability to swallow. You lost twelve pounds in three days. But you gained it all back in five.


Dr. Atkins was a madman. You ate nothing but butter and bacon for twelve days and you started hallucinating about the wheat fields of Kansas. The brain needs carbs. Without them, you can’t think. Atkins is a chemistry experiment parlor trick dreamed up by an evil doctor. Plus, you’re cranky enough WITH muffins. You lost fifteen pounds in two weeks but you gained back ten in one.


Not smoking pot for a few weeks and walking five miles every few days is a great way to lose some weight. And you look healthier and you get to see the neighbors. However, replacing the weed with Nyquil to sleep and non-FDA regulated natural herbal food to wake is certain to end in stroke. Your body was a vat of chemicals. The herbal food is just Chinese speed. And Nyquil is not a food group. Stop the Judy Garland act. You lost five pounds in three weeks. All five were back in four days.


If French women don’t get fat, then I think the obvious thing to do is to get a sex change operation and move to France.







*21 *22

Living Will

If I ever require life support of any form in order to stay alive and such support lasts for any period longer than six months, kill George Bush.

The Downside of Movies

Sometimes you just wish you were suddenly stricken polydactyl so you could give a movie four thumbs down.

We saw the Upside of Anger this weekend. My compassion for people who want to save their time and money compels me to give you the five main reasons why you should not see this movie.

1) Poor Keri Russell plays someone who is either a fresh high school graduate or a stay-at-home dancer of an age somewhere between seventeen and pre-college. Who knows? It’s never made clear. And isn’t Keri Russell like 40? I saw her in a play in New York and she was a full grown woman. Why is she suddenly a child? This kind of casting hasn’t happened since Nicole Kidman played an ingénue in Cold Mountain. This kind of movie making makes me want to shoot Jude Law.

2) Poor Joan Allen. Yeah, she can be angry, obviously. And she does it. But it all seems so put on. She can even switch between being nice one second and angry the next. Sort of believable. But did you ever notice when a real person is angry, they don’t look anything or behave in any way like Joan Allen? Plus, let’s face it, the only reason she’s been in so many movies is because she is tall, white, blonde and thin. She is so pre-Mexican America. This kind of movie making makes me want to shoot Jude Law.

3) Poor Kevin Costner. He was actually great in this movie and I am no fan of his. He was seamless in his interpretation. The writer also knew what he was doing when he wrote this part. And this is a good thing. But the poor guy. Baseball, again? Can't you just wait until he’s 80 and he plays the baseball ghost coming back to give us all life lessons in sports and Jesus? Such obvious, safe casting. This kind of movie making makes me want to shoot Jude Law.

4) Poor Alicia Witt. She doesn’t look anything like the three other sisters but there is something much worse that happens to her in this movie. She gets married and is a tidge pregnant and they stuff her into a strapless ivory wedding dress that is about 1.5 sizes too small. The effect is that her right tit is strangled and mangled and at the same time loosened and dropped into a shape that can only be described as sagging and lumping. It’s the shape you notice in your tit the day you realize you are no longer hot. The costumer should be put in prison. This kind of movie making makes me want to shoot Jude Law.

5) Poor Mike Binder. Yeah, there’s some funny stuff in this flick and he did attempt to write about adults, sort of. But he sold out every single truth about how people behave in real life so he could have calculated scenes that add up to either measured schmaltz or hackneyed comedy we’ve seen nine millions times. Mother of the bride gets drunk when she meets the parents of the groom? Of course. The pregnant daughter who needs to supply more booze to quiet mom, drinks right along with her—Joan and Alicia sucking on bloody Marys— and no one up on the screen ever says, “Alicia, you’re pregnant. Put down that glass.” The father of the family disappears and no one EVER thinks he might be dead? They’re all surprised when they find his rotting corpse? Joan was pissed off all this time when she could have been grieving? And poor little Evan Rachel Wood, cutie girl, has to make a class film about it? At every turn, there is something completely unbelievable. You just want someone to poke your eyes out with the straw from your overpriced soft drink and then have someone else poor hot butter into your ears so you won’t have to listen to this mess. This kind of movie making makes me want to shoot Jude Law.


There is only one reason to go see this movie: The kitchen in the house. It has great green, tall cabinets. Better yet, go rent a movie that stars Jude Law. And invite Sean over to watch it with you.


*20

Bearing the Oilman: Refuge to Refuse

"I'm exhausted, honey. How many more fish do we need to catch and dry before those greedy, filthy bastards show up?"

*19

Duck, Duck, Truth - Confession From Florida

"Yeah, I can swim, walk and fly. You think it’s so wild. But it ain't. You know what's really cool? -
Potato Chips."

California: Amazing Feet, Considering the last Twenty-one Years

1984-2005

As we all know, the Supreme Court of California has realized that gay marriage is the future. It’s so simple. We only hear people screaming against it all over this country because it is a country of scaredy-cat bigots. Anything new under the sun causes resistance. And the conservatives are there just doing their natural biological duty: to make sure the process of change is slow. Because human being brains can’t take on new rules too quickly, progressive Americans must endure a change of pace that is glacial. Conservatives make sure of this. But with that big Republican Arnold by our side, obviously not giving a big ol’ crap about the sanctity of some tenuous straight marriage, gay rights are moving forward and very soon, the idea of two men getting married on the court house steps will be about as shocking as that of a Pentecostal Korean woman and a Jewish Mexican man tying the knot on a Tuesday inside the Pacoima court house. At the end of the day, who really cares?

So we liberals, ever optimistic, see the change coming. We hope our conservative countrymen save their breath for bigger issues like, how the heck are we going to save the dollar? How are we going to promote a culture of life? Meaning, how are we going to make sure everyone has free or cheap health insurance? How are we ever going to get all these guns off the streets? They can chomp on that for a while, while gay and lesbian couples go about their busy, simple lives, lives including getting married if the mood hits them. So simple. Cut to twenty-one years from now, 2026. This issue will be such a yawn.

But I don’t want to be too blasé since this IS all so new. Thank you California for everything you have done. This really is the Golden State. This really is a truly liberal place. Like the mavericks of Massachusetts, we are quickly getting there. Cut to twenty-one years ago. Let’s take a look at where we slowed ourselves down. Let’s go back to 1984.

I think we Californians shot ourselves in the foot, or more specifically, we Hollywoodlanders, doing anything for a buck, shot ourselves in the foot almost fatally, twenty-one years ago. And we must be ashamed of ourselves for what we did. In 1984, the worst movie ever made, while not destroying the gay rights effort, did do its best to humiliate gay Americans and surely took away some of the tread on the sneakers of liberal change. That worst movie was seen by millions. And those millions were laughing at us. And I don’t blame them. We exuberant types here on the Left Coast, anxious to please, distributed one of the worst movies in the modern era, aimed at the eyes and ears of millions of American moviegoers. That movie, because it had nowhere else to go but down, landed at our feet. Like most movies, Kevin Bacon was in it. In fact, he was the star. That movie was Footloose.

Footloose, which I saw for the first time in my life just yesterday, has been placed at the very top of my worst-of-the-gay-dark-ages movies ever made.

Not only is it the stupidest, most implausible piece of silliness this side of the Golden Gate Bridge, wasting talent like a gunner in a fast food chain, it also makes a meal out Kevin Bacon’s ass, but pretends that meal is straight. Absurd. And worse, with its bad style, it was shot using the remnants of 70’s verité, and I do mean the remnants. This awful, big square state Bacon fry actually tried to pull itself off as something in earnest. And the whole execution is so hide-the-homoeroticism , that the homoeroticism can’t help but blare at you in the most horrid dances avec fist fighting, tractor chicken, wrestling matches, gymnastics-as-source-of-movement (so gay) and one boy (Kevin) teaching another boy (a buff Chris Penn) how to dance. Not to mention the shower scene, where guys walked around pretending to be all gym class when they are really nothing more than all ass.

And every time they dance, the story tries to butch it up with either fights or motorcycles or girls or even guys beating up girls. It’s like they tried to hide the obvious truth that Kevin Bacon, in this dance flick, is just a big pin-up gay boy in pegged pants, high and tight, that hug his ass to a shapely 4AM bottom-boy. While watching this tripe, one is inspired to take out one’s old Jeff Stryker doll, put a cowboy hat on its head, and then strap it to the roof of the house like a Christmas blow-up Santa Claus in obvious confirmation that gay porn is being watched indoors. With tractors.

Though this question is long overdue, I still have to ask it. How could we, in Hollywood, in the modern era, make Footloose and release it into the world? And then, how can we expect the conservatives, obtuse though they may be, to NOT see the Kevin Bacon porn for what it is, barely hidden under all those cheesy fights and bikes? This type of movie making even insults the intelligence of Bible thumping morons in Texas. This movie, Footloose, could have easily become the Waterloo in the fight for gay freedom. The gay agenda was all over it but Hollywood was too chicken to admit it. So the film came off gay AND ashamed. The producers actually tried to hide the boy-on-boy sweat and boners with farm machinery and boy-on-boy fisting, I mean, fist fighting. Who were they kidding? It is amazing the gay rights movement recovered any ground at all after the release of that smoking closeted gay turd. Bad taste. AND, bad for you.

California pushed the envelope this week. That is expected. And we applaud the courts. Hollywood, with an erotic nod and then a pandering with cover-up straight clichés, made Footloose. Yes, that was twenty-one years ago. However, the problem still exists today. Sean Hayes, so silly and funny on the tube, pretends he’s straight on the street. Gay characters on the silver screen are still either closeted self-haters, clowns in big expensive floppy shoes, or even worse, so scrubbed for consumption they have no reality to them. If I had to choose one of the stereotypes, being someone who likes to laugh, I'd say, Send in the Clowns. But vary your clowns. And Hollywood, if you must make your crappy movies, please, if they’re going to be big gay romps, don’t think a tractor is going to be able to plow over that truth.

1984 was a very backward year, but Hollywood, while inching forward for twenty-one years, still needs to ramp up the pace. In 2026, Kevin, on Viagra, may be able to star in a gay soft porn dancing flick called Footloose and Fancy Free and not hide behind his fists. Let’s hope. It is amazing how Americans out there would rather see two men pound each other in a fight, drive machinery and wrestle, than just plain old dance. Hollywood wants cash. California, wants freedom. Hollywood could help California with its effort and probably still make cash. Hopefully, the master print of Footloose will decay into a state of garbage. However, we should all be thankful that having given us the title track to Footloose, Kenny Loggins was able to retire.


*17



*18

Go for the Black Gold

Dear Donny,

I'm a married man, with a couple grown kids, but that's just
circumspectual. See, there's this woman that works for me who I think
about day in and day out. She's cute as the winning bunny at the state fair
and got brains to boot. Thing is, she's afromerican and dark meat was
always frowned on at our kitchen table. She's dark toned too, but so high
functioning she'll make you forget.

Now my Christian faith keeps me from wandering astray on most fronts,
but even our Lord can't stop a saint's mind from sashaying down the
wrong path. Times I just want to slap her backside and give her a wink. And I kinda
get the feeling she'd like me to.

Like I said, she works for me and I keep doing things to impressonate
her. First I hired a afromerican for a big job at my company just to show I
don't mind having em close around me. She must a knew I did it for
her and had me round her cute little finger. Then she flattered me into taking
over this little company oversees. I wasn't too sure about it, but she
said it was the right thing to do. Course I couldn't get enough of her and
one day she whispers in my ear she wants the job of the afromerican fella I
told you about earlier. So, we drum up some story how he wants to spend time
with his family and show him the door.

Now she's got his job and before you know it she's off with the
company jet on a tour of Europe. Dag-namit if I didn't have to high tail it over
there myself just to smell her sweet breath again.

So Donny, what's a man like me to do? I'm a promineminant member of
my community, but she makes me feel like a pup on the range.

God Bless ya,

W.


Dear W.,

You hot dog. You really are in a pickle, aren't you? Or rather, you'd sure like to have your pickle in.

You know, there's an old saying about afro-girlfriends outside of marriage: "You can't have your chocolate cake and eat it too." But in this case, I think we can avoid silly old epiteths and stick with the unique words I am going to offer you now in your modern dilemma during these spiritually difficult times.

First of all, since you are a spiritual man, you must look deep into your holy heart and ask yourself the big question. "Do I want to remain true to my vows that I made to my old wife, or do I just want to eat, hard, a good piece of that forbidden chocolate Candi?" And as we all know, since no one can resist chocolate, you will probably take the next available service vehicle from your company's fleet and get your riled up soul over to your Afro-bunny's briar patch before you can even say Uncle Remus.

W., it sounds to me like you're a good man with a good conscience. But every man has to be true to what it is to be a man. And what it is to be a man, is to follow his blood urges. This is sanctioned by God. Don't you just feel it? God has a plan for you. And furthermore, on a more earthly plain, if you really want chocolate love, why settle for vanilla swirl?

If you really loved your wife, you wouldn't even be thinking about this Nubian hottie. God is in charge of everything. He put these lustful thoughts into your head. Your wife, sure, she might have raised your children, she may have even taught you how to read, but W., God is telling you now that that part of your life is over. And God never fudges. So go make some good fudge of your own.

And remember to use your aggression that you must have used to rise high in your big business. Go for it with no wavering. Give it to her hard. It sounds to me like this little afro-temptress wants it. And it sounds to me like she'll be worth the risk. The darker the lady, the sweeter the hole. Get in that dark rabbit hole. It's going to be a wonderland for you.

And to keep a good, functioning boundary in your life, it is essential that you quit your job, immediately. If your wife divorces you over any of this, give her everything, and hop, hop, hop with your black bunny love to a safe place where race is not at all an issue and where an aggressive, take charge business man is needed. Perhaps you can buy Brazil.

Thinking of Drinking

Dear Donny,

I am married to a very loyal man. We have two daughters, both beautiful and college educated. I should be so happy. My husband once had a drinking problem, but that was over ten years ago. I demanded that he stop drinking and now, he is completely sober and has a VERY strong relationship with God. I used to be very upset about his drinking and I am so happy he stopped. It saved our marriage. But now, I don't know, I think he might have become a kind of righteous, sober monster. He used to be fun, cute and a bit of a failure, but the only people he was hurting were me and my daughters, which of course, was very painful.

But now that he is sober, Donny, he is hurting so many more people. You see, he has a very big job as the head of a large government. I would say, in my humble estimation, probably the strongest government the world has ever known. But I'm just a woman, so I don't know if my opinion can be taken too seriously. And in my hunsband's VERY strong relationship with God, he seems to use this closeness like a righteous addiction to do whatever he wants. He already marched into a country, let's call it Oilland, killed a whole load of people, and sort of took it over. Now, I see he might want to grab a couple of the neighbors, killing as he goes. And I don't even think it's about Realpolitik, because they don't even have anything we want! They just don't think like him! At night, while he's asleep, I can hear him talking in his sleep. You don't want to know the things he says! And he smiles the whole time. I think he loves the idea of killing more people!

I feel so guilty. I think my demanding that he stop drinking years ago has set all this in motion. If he kept drinking, he wouldn't have gotten such a good job and he couldn't have been so righteous and become such a God freak. (Sometimes, he's so close to God, I get jealous, I do!) This is just my opinion, but again, I'm only a woman. I'm really thinking of getting him to start drinking again for the good of the world. Should I do it, Donny? I'll do whatever you tell me, because that's the kind of woman I am.

Just call me,
L.


Dear L,

You really are between a rock and an oil field. This is not such a tricky question and I think I can help you. First, I would try to get him into counseling. He may just need to face his overwhelming inner rage. Perhaps he didn't feel powerful in his family of birth. Did he have extremely demanding parents who barely cared about who he really was? This could be the root of the trouble. But let's face it, counseling takes quite a bit of time and you seem to be in an emergency situation.

Your husband, sounds to me, like he's a bully and a world class bully at that. School yards are full of them. They should not be in positions of power. Especially when they are both bullies and addicts. Often, when people stop drinking, they can become addicted to their rage. In AA meetings, they often refer to these bullies as dry drunks. This rage is the fuel for mayhem. Also, your husband, with his clear view of his mortality since he put down the bottle, may have become very fearful of his fate, the fate that we all share: becoming a corpse. Most addicts fear death more than other people do. Addicts are children who can't face the truth. Death outrages them. To deal with this fear, they unconsiously want to face it, if not in themselves, then, at least in others. So they kill. They especially kill those who think differently than they do. They feel that this kind of killing is righteous and for the betterment of mankind. This is because rageful, dry drunk bullies can only see the world as an extension of themselves. Poor things. So they kill in order to feel better. And when someone like your husband kills, he gets to face his own fear of death, while at the same time, cleaning up the world of the wretched souls who have not been saved like he has been saved. Of course, this will not change his fears or increase his sense of security. At the end of the day, the only thing that has increased is the body count.

Now, if you say that your husband wields a lot of power, and it sounds to me like he does, I would immediately take action. Tap into your guilt and use it for the good of all. Go to the store, today, and buy your husband's favorite old timey alcohol. Dab some behind your ears tonight before dinner. Invite some of his old drinking buddies over. Make sure you've brought in their favorite booze, too. If your daughters like to drink, and often the children of drunks do, get them in on the party, too. If your husband sees what you are concocting and retreats to the Bible, gently let him know how God really has saved him and assure him that he can have just one drink. Let him know how much fun it would be, how it would relax him and how sexy you think he is when he's a bit crocked. If you love humanity, you just have to do whatever you can, even lie, to get that one drink down his gullet.

That is all you need to do. The rest will take care of itself. As the old AA saying goes, "One drink is too many and one is never enough." Good luck, L. Always listen to your guilt. And get the party started. You can probably save the world through this simple action. Once his warring ways are mollified and his career is destroyed by the bottle, you can do the deed you should have done so many years ago. You can divorce him.

Dear Donny

Helping you to help yourself, that is my goal for the upcoming few days.
As your online advice columnist, I can help you to BE HERE NOW, to FULLY EXPERIENCE THE WONDERS OF YOUR LIFE, and to understand the deep joy that it is TO REALLY BE YOURSELF!!!

Oh yes.

So email me with your problem, anonymously, and I will help you unearth the answer to your problem that already exists, IN YOU!!!!!

Send anonymous emails to opentrenchblog@yahoo.com You can set up a bogus account at yahoo OR just click the email link below this message right next to comments (it looks like a little white envelope with a black arrow pointing East) and fill out the form!
For YOUR NAME, put anything you want, for YOUR EMAIL ADDRESS put opentrenchblog@yahoo.com for FRIEND'S EMAIL ADDRESS put opentrenchblog@yahoo.com
Type your PROBLEM/QUESTION into the message area. If you run out of space, just type cont'd and send another email.

IT IS MY ABSOLUTE PLEASURE TO HELP YOU TO HELP YOURSELF. YOU ARE A CHILD OF THE UNIVERSE. YOU DESERVE TOTAL HAPPINESS!!!!!!!


*16

The Swamps of Home

On the road to visit Mom in Florida.


*15

Have a great day.

The Train Platform

I drive as little as possible in Los Angeles because it has become impossible to move in traffic. Usually, I walk the residential side streets because of the trees, the quiet and most of the cars are parked instead of moving. Yesterday, because I wanted a snack, I walked along Santa Monica Boulevard for eleven blocks just West and East of Fairfax. Besides the horror of smelling nail polish salons that were spewing their toxic stench onto the sidewalk and the spray paint of a body shop that almost shut down my immune system, the thing that was the most constant annoyance was a large cement mixing truck that was making its way down Santa Monica Boulevard at the same rate I was walking. I am not kidding. And I do not have long legs. We were together the whole time. It was loud, it was polluting, and it was sad. I actually felt bad for the guy who was driving the truck. Of course, I felt even worse for me.

With that being said, I am so glad that Villagairosa is going to be our next mayor. It seems.
And the first thing he said on the tube last night, after a few hurrahs, is that he is going to get traffic moving again. He has huge plans to expand the train system. Let's get on board!!!

First of all, look at this:

Train Efficiency


The good news is, the Expo line is already happening. So look out Culver City, here we come. Scroll down to the map.


Expo Line


Did you hipsters in Silver Lake and Sunset Junction know that you are one day going to be able to take a "Streetcar named El Monte"? Bet on it. Stella!
(Great news for those who work in Rosemead)


Silver Line


And talk about a green giant. Look what the green line people want to do. Scroll down to the map. It shows a great future for Los Angeles. I like the extension of the red line going through Beverly Hills and Westwood. Wouldn't you just love to never drive through Beverly Hills or Westwood ever again?

Green Line

Friends, when they make us vote on bond issues for all these trains, give your ballot a reverse Nancy R. JUST SAY YES!!!!!

Happy riding. Happy reading. Put that damn car away.



*14

Hermaphrodite Guy Talk

"So get this. Next, the prude crawls away, leaving a trail of shit, and then tells me to go fuck myself. Yeah. Like I don't already do that every day."

*13

Viagra--The Seven Suggestions

It eventually happens. Your first time with Viagra. You know it’s not a war out there, on this big blue sexy earth. This little pill, however, has a different opinion. You should be prepared. I will try to prepare you. A friend of mine gave me one free blue pill of Viagra a few weeks ago. I waited for the right night. We had a block of free time here at the manse. We closed the curtains. I was ready to lose my Viagra virginity. I took the pill.

The full personal details will not be disclosed since this type of drug ends in a very private act and I do want to protect the innocent and my personal reputation. However, upon completion of the act, I decided I would share with the world my seven suggestions, helpful hints if you will, upon your entrance into the aggressive world of Viagra. This journey you try to take lovingly, pushing your mate along with you, can best be traveled while considering the following suggestions. There is often war before peace. For the war, I give you

The Seven Suggestions:

1. Grease that thing. It becomes a battering ram. Your usual filling capacity may have seemed to have doubled. You do your partner a favor by making sure it's an easy slam. No one wants to be dry battered.

2. The battering ram can last for a few hours. This is a very long time for your partner on the receiving end. To assuage any possible boredom, why not offer your partner a good book to read? Perhaps Helen of Troy or Sounder. Or, if you are not the jealous type, offer to pay someone to give your partner a soothing foot massage while you are busy battering.

3. Obviously warring men invented this drug. After your three or four hour session of battering is over, write to Pfizer and thank them. You can feel the collective consciousness of many men over fifty who got together to invent this little blue pill. You can feel it right where it counts. Be thankful men are so self involved and so self serving. This drug should be called, “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, bitch.” Male supremacy in a little blue pill. Notice, it’s blue?

4. No need to ask things like, “You like getting fucked like that, whore?” Frankly, your partner will be so rattled while getting battered, he/she won’t be able to hear you.

5. Let your partner know, after they recover, that this was just a one-time deal. You only planned on trying the little blue pill out as a novelty. Letting your partner know this will soften any future disappointments in the bed area. Remind your partner how the two of you often did just fine with the old fashioned up, up, really up for a bit and then down in a jiffy that you were both so used to. It was so sweet and human. If your partner is saddened by this and insists on the ways of the agressive blue pill, proceed to number six.

6. Due to the side effects endured while indulging in Pfizer's mad creation, which can include red flushed skin, puffy cheeks, heart attack and a head that feels more filled with blood then if you’d been hanging upside down on the monkey bars for three hours, you may not want to indulge in the little blue pill ever again. However, if your partner is totally smitten with your taking the drug, the next time you are in the loving way, go about your business like you normally would except toward the end, after you’ve gotten what you needed in the sex act, take the following action. In order to pass yourself off as if you’re on the blue pill again, you should take out the flash light you have secretly hidden under the bed and let it substitute for the battering ram. Your partner will not notice the difference. But remember the suggestion from rule number one. Grease it.

7. Note well: Oprah Winfrey’s ABC television movie, Their Eyes Were Watching God, is not appropriate après entertainment for your first time on Viagra. Instead, I would suggest you rent Pee Wee’s Big Adventure or the film version of Sounder.


Remember, when you are all done and the monster battering ram still won’t go away, you might as well put it to good use. Why waste twelve bucks worth of drugs, or in my case, someone else's twelve bucks worth of drugs? Use your ingenuity. Home ideas are, conveniently, plentiful. You could give that post some other nonsexual, non-invasive purpose. For instance, why not employ it as a temporary plant stand? Or a friendly coat rack? Or, if you want to cross an old chore off your list, perhaps you should enlist the ramrod to pound the nails back into the floorboards that are sticking up in the hallway?

Once you are no longer a Viagra virgin and your blood pressure has returned to normal, you may have a few things to add to this list. But do be kind to your partner and all future partners with all suggestions and please be discreet about yourself in all reporting. We all share the responsibility to play with our war toys in a gentlemanly manner. Which leads me to offer you the three simple rules of etiquette the cultured and polite Grandpappy Pfizer would have wanted you to follow: Watch where you point that thing. Always ask to be invited. And remember to always grease it.


*12

S.U.V. - So Utterly Vaporous

That little hybrid car is fine for you, Heather, but I just don't feel like my Joshy would be safe if I drove something that small.

DOWNFALL--That Hitler can't Help but Entertain

We saw DOWNFALL last night. It was about the end of Hitler's Third Reich, the end of Hitler, the end of Germany's design on the world. What a horror movie in a bunker. So disturbing. Yet, oddly, it was sad to see poor ol' Adolf lose his grip much in the way it is sad to see anyone's plans fail. This was sort of amazing, how they showed Hitler's humanity, insane monster that he was. Of course, since it was depicted so well, only a total Neo-Nazi could sympathize with this monster of history. And I bet if any hero worshipping skinheads do find this foreign film out there in the wilds and malls of the United States, they will sympathize with him. Kind of scary. You almost want to put a stop to letting the film be shown outside of the liberal cities. Yet, there were people in this country who agreed with everything Archie Bunker said, missing the irony. We cannot control the minds of men through art. And speaking of bunkers...the scenes of the partying by the remains of Hitler's loyalists that goes on in the bunker in the middle of Berlin as Germany is roasting in bombs and flames up above can only be described as your worst acid trip you've ever been on, with spaetzle.

But what the movie brought up, besides the horror, was a bigger problem with Hitler's plan than what we usually think. This movie, eerily hits us at a human, compassionate level. In fact, the theme of this movie was about the struggle between cold, calculated science and compassion. Bruno Gantz, playing Hitler to the nines, is a monster in public and a sweet guy in private. As a monster, his plan executed the machinations of a mad, evil, militaristic, scientist, cult leader genius. It was so Darwinian in its fundamental reasoning and even though it was so ill conceived, you have to admit that the guy had the gumption to really get behind his convictions. I bet Ayn Rand loved him. And as far as sympathetic characters in movies go, well, don't we always root for the underdog? Or even worse, don't we always root for the person who really GOES FOR IT? Don't we, like all those wretched Germans in the 1930's and 1940's just LOVE a pecking order? This is, I think, the core of what is wrong with the human psyche and the core of what is wrong with bio-pics. We just LOVE narrow minded individuals who can't be stopped when it comes to achieving their goals. And we'll cheer them on and follow them right into the grave. I'd rather hang with someone who is not trying to lead, but just trying to get by, like a clever bugs bunny who alwasy tries to get out of scrapes with his wits.

Hitler, what a maroon.

Interestingly, as an American political aside, and I think it was not just happenstance, Hitler screams something close to, "The people have chosen me! I am their mandate. Let them all die when Germany goes down."

That translated word, "mandate", wreaks of George Bush, which may have been the intention of Olivier Hirshbiegel, the director. Or I may be reading too much into it. Or the translator picked that word as a wink to the American movie going public. When the lights come back up at the end of the movie, you thankfully realize that Bush is not as smart as Hitler, nor as charismatic, nor leading a desperately bankrupt country, and he's a lame duck, not quite so evil, plus he has no real ability to rally up Americans, at this point, to continue with his ill conceived restructuring of the United States and of the world. However, I did enjoy the slight comparison of Hitler to Bush. Why not?

Bad Bush Be Gone. Get out of my blog. Let's get back to movie magic.

What remains so devilishly scary, as one watches this film, is the visual truth that those fucking Germans are so damn good looking.
Hitler totally turned straight hair, good cheekbones, height and good clean white skin into a total fetish. The whole thing, with its death base, had a super sex thing going on. Seems to me. As my very cute Jewish friend Karen said after the last Nazi horror movie we saw, "Those Germans are so damn cute, in a verboten kind of way."

Though Hitler's plan did not work, I think the added horror of it, besides his Napoleonic ambitions and his killing of all those Jews, Gypsies, Catholics, Misfits, Poles and Gays is that there is a speck, and I mean a speck, of some interesting scientific value to what he was after. We breed dogs, right? Why NOT people? Darwin was innocent but his dumb opportunistic cousin, Galton, sure wasn't. I would put a link here about Galton, the father of Eugenics, however, all links seem to lead to the Christian Right. That Funky Eugenics Movement: all conceived in England. Another great thing the British Empire gave to the world.

And, being the big, fat, ugly orphan of England, we have to also look at what has happened in the United States. Our class system, classically, has been based on skin color and even height. And though it is getting better, the remnants of this type of putting the society in order are still flagrant. And it shows up everywhere. In our corporations and in our art. Sitting here in my Hollywood bungalow, I can't help but notice how the dream machine works, spitting back at us the mirror of our Western world. Hollywood, though it likes to think of itself as liberal, is really a money sucking bottom line sort of place. Whitey sells.

I think, sadly, Hollywood picked up where Hitler left off.


"The pretty will inherit the Earth" --just ask any Native American.

So, we need to be careful. We need to normalize. We need to close our eyes to the visual and open our eyes to human need and dignity. I think. But I'm just a crazy ol' socialist. The good kind of socialist. Is it not odd that the National Socialist Movement also uses the term Socialist? Do a search for them. I can't even put a link here because they are so scary. In fact, friends, they are all over the United States. Shudder.


What can we do to never let another Hitler happen again? I have friends who say another Hitler can happen again, not only in the world, but right here in the United States. These people are the children of Holocaust survivors, so I understand their hypersensitivity, though that opinion does seem a bit out of balance and paranoid. But then again, the National Socialist Movement exists in this country. And, the neocons, well, they are completely world thirsty. I would like to say it can never happen here, however, when the Bush war machine was at its peak and you could feel Rumsfeld checking your library record, all I kept thinking was, "I better get my gay ass out of here and move to Canada. Honey, grab the dog and the anti-anxiety medication. We're going to stay with Charles up in Vancouver."

Hitler, he repels us all. Yet he still inspires some. We have to be careful. I am hiding out here in Hollywood. And, my house and garage have lovely crawlspaces for those of you who need cover.


Deutschland, Deutschland, Uber Alice







*10 *11

Because I Like Trains

I endorse Villaraigosa for Mayor of Los Angeles.

CLICK HERE to Significantly Expand Our Rail System

"Here is my goal: Every Angeleno should be able to walk out of their front door, get to public transit in five minutes and ride anywhere they want to go, whether it's to work, to the beach, or to Dodger Stadium." - Villaraigosa

Listen Up, Hypochondriacs

This is your leader speaking.

If you ever suffer the misfortune of various types of ringing in your ears, concomitant with pain and hearing loss and you know, FOR A FACT, that you finally got the Eustachian Tube Cancer that you deserve, go to the doctor and let them take a syringe to your ear. You will not only be amazed at how quickly you can be healed but you will also get to examine the visual delight in the hot water catch-bowl: a livery plug so brown, nasty and animalistic, you'll adore your bio-bag for making something so ugly. I love the grotesque, as long as it's on the way to the medical incinerator.

Such a ritual of my childhood, I thought I would never again experience something as simple as an ear syringe for the clearing of the ear canal. Isn't it great when the death knell of ear ringing turns out to be nothing more than the tinkling of waxy buildup, something mechanical that a doctor can fix for ten bucks?

I'm not dying. Neither are you. Let's all get back to work.


*9

Everyone Needs One Sturdy Mammal

Moo