Day of the Deadpan

My upstairs neighbor passed away. He was 88 and his death not unexpected. He lived in our building for 50 years. He attended all my Christmas parties; supported me when my 14 year relationship ended (“let's go to Musso's and get drunk!”), and consoled me the last time I cried over Woodsy. 

His death is another loss in a year of losses for me. I am inconsolable over his passing. 

One of my recent organization projects has been to get my old NKP posts into Blogger so that the entire Speed Limits trip is together. The good news is after a marathon copy and paste session over the weekend, I'm 90% done.
You can now go back 2 years and catch up on my misadventures, musings, and more. I dislike blogs that abruptly end without warning: as if their author just forgot about them. I will not leave you hanging, dear reader…

This is your 'last call' notice that Speed Limits 4 the Curious officially ends with this post.

I thank my followers who were brave enough to attach their screen names to a community and culture most people will judge, dismiss and scorn. I appreciate those who commented, and moreover so those who sent me private emails.

It's time I climb up the rabbit hole and step out of the Looking Glass into the light of a new day. Party and Play in our cyber-cafe so-ci-e-tay was a detour I do not regret taking, but a rite of passage I will not miss.

This has been a especially rewarding writing period for me. Recreational drug use and abuse, sexual orientation and preferences; and people who love neither wisely nor well. These are subjects I don't write about very much: and perhaps I should more often. I've always tried to make others laugh and be happy in the hopes that it would make them happy.

This began with my mother, who was addicted to prescription meds. Although it's ridiculous, I carry the blame for her death that long-ago summer when I was 12. If the stories I've seen, lived and written about make you think twice about puffing a pipe, snorting a line, shooting up, or swallowing pills, then my mother's death was not in vain.

If you have read this blog and remain curious to explore, by all means do so. 

Remember though, you always have the choice to stop. And never let anyone treat you as second class for making the choice to party onward. 

After such a phenomenal fiftieth birthday, perhaps I am beginning to realize that to view the world with childlike wonder ultimately teaches us that our own Shangri-la lies within. I have only broken ground on making peace with myself. It may take me another fifty years to arrive there, but arrive there I will.

More than anything, when I do arrive, I hope all of you are there too. Because as children of God (or whatever Supreme Being you follow), we all deserve the happiest of endings.

'Night

Advice to a Reader

I'm not quite sure how I became known as the person who has all the answers and while I don't, I replied to an email from a twenty-something and I wanted to share it. It's been edited for general reading. Interestingly, I think it may be as much a letter to myself as it was to him. 

Thank you for writing. In my opinion, Mormons are trendy because of that Broadway musical and Mr. Romney and by virtue of putting Utah as your state...you immediately get labeled a Mormon whether you are or not. However, this infatuation will pass and people will move forward. Ride the wave but when you sense it's time to dye your hair black, paint your body blue and take up yoga because Krishna is the new Brigham Young, do so.

It sounded like the job you were going for depended on erasing your adult site info quickly.  Then less than a day later, the job isn't happening. and I'm sorry you weren't given a job offer. You stepped up to the plate and those that do often find they're rewarded, simply by stepping up. Don't knock Disney too much....they pay well...think of it as taking their money and 'funding' your passions, like any artist. 

I suggested you do an internet search because Googling ‘your’ screen name brings up quite a bit of interesting images and links.  BTW, Is that really a pumpkin?

I'm not saying this to freak you out and reviewing my suggestions doesn't require immediate action.  What you do or don't is your decision alone. The great thing about growing older is that I can see how you and your generation respond and react to life. It’s very different than when I was 25 but those were different times.  (That 'different time' sounds as dorky as when I was 25 and heard it from some older man). 

 

My point is that you won't truly 'get what I'm saying' at all: you may not care, but at the least I hope you may be intrigued. And one day it will make sense. And no amount of living fast and furious can change that.

The following are concepts I strive to master. They aren't original. They aren't specifically speaking to you or me, but if you familiarize yourself with them now, you'll be that much farther ahead of the game. 

You seem like a bright guy. And you're cute and outgoing. Continue to ask questions; challenge authority and remember it's always easier to ask forgiveness than it is…to ask permission.

-There is no 'good' nor 'bad'. There are actions and consequences of those actions.

-Be wild and free. Life will get in the way eventually and you won't be as willing to take chances, but don't go overboard and become too constrained. It's that balance that teaches us to appreciate the good times when they are here and to soldier through the tougher times.

-Have no regrets. The choices you make today reflect you, at this moment and nothing more.  It's easy to look back ten years and go 'that wasn't very smart.' Monday-morning-quarterbacking is useful only to sports writers on a Sunday night deadline.

-Follow your heart. It will get broken a few times, but you'll not have compromised it for doing 'the right thing'. Doing the right thing often leads to boredom and living life vicariously through others.

Know that in cyberspace, your kindness, even if nothing more than a hello, can make someone's day.  And cruelty can destroy the last bit of hope for another. Be kind.

A New York State Of Mind and Panic

Aside from the fact that Macy's Herald Square had nothing irresistible in the way of markdowns (which was just as well: on my way to JFK for my return flight a quick log in to mobile banking revealed my checking and savings accounts were overdrawn), I truly had the Best Birthday Ever. 

It was So Wonderful that two weeks later I find it hard to put into words how grand it was. Also, I do not wish to disrespect the privacy of the man who made such magic manifest. I'm not the easiest person to be associated with: and being a writer who puts himself out on for the world to read about doesn't help.

My time was spent enjoying the company of this wonderful man, pinching myself that it was actually all happening and that we seemed quite in-sync, eating, sleeping, pondering, road trips, having amazing sex, writing, working, eating, sleeping and dreaming out loud. I reconnected with nature when we traveled upstate. I stayed in a home rich with history and roots.

It's dreaming out loud where I get into trouble. I think my jokes about wanting an iPhone 5, and a Ralph Lauren wardrobe played as a little too needy. My comments aloud about being open to relocating perhaps a bit too earnest. And God help me if I really suggested a marriage proposal. I'm not regretting telling him and later texting that I was in love with him, and that I loved him. Some might argue that decision. 

Things haven't been quite so in-sync since I got back: I would like to hear from him more: but what defines 'more'? He doesn't have a lot of time on his hands, and I probably have too much.

I try hard to live 'in the moment' because what we do have and can count on is 'now'.The 7 days I was in New York it was all about being in the moment.

And back in Los Angeles, in my apartment just past midnight, cats sleeping on the bed while I try to not worry about all the things I have to worry about,  I wonder if he thinks of me and if I will see him next month as we discussed.

New York Nostalgia

Thanks to a cab driver who enjoyed breaking the (traditional) speed limits, and the fact that I left for the airport at 5:30 AM on a Tuesday, off-off peak by traffic standards I found myself at LAX in a record 20 minutes instead of my average 45. My driver got a nice tip and soon I was on a plane heading East to celebrate my 50th birthday. Big Apple, look out.

31 years before, I was a college student on a Spring Break Broadway Theater tour: my first time to Manhattan. It was a coming of age and time of transition. HIV was called GRID and for we kids from Texas,, was nothing more than a pesky STD.  I had cocktails at Uncle Charlie's Downtown, danced at the Ice Palace and waWe watched Colleen Dewhurst and other great actors make impassioned pleas to stop the demolition of the Morosco and Helen Hayes Theaters for the Marriott Marquis. This was happening right outside our 46th Street hotel, the Century-Paramount. At least five times a day coming and going to the CP, I'd walk by a long staircase . This led up to the 'Gaiety Theater' which was atop the Howard Johnson's Restaurant where we ate almost every meal. The Gaiety advertised a 'Gay Male Burlesque' but I never ventured up those stairs. I was too chicken (and being 18 probably too 'chicken') to visit the Mineshaft, a multilevel club with each floor more decadent than the last, or so I'd heard

I did venture into Central Park, and without planning it, found myself in the Rambles, although I didn't know the legendary gay cruise section existed then.  A rite of passgeIt was incredibly hot to be either blown or jacked off by a  Mysterious Older Man: how much 'older' he was I don't know-at 18 everyone is older.

Later in the week I was buying postcards in a little shop in the Village/SoHo neighborhoods called 'Welcome To NYC'. The owner, whose name I am ashamed to admit I can't recall, tried in earnest for a few weeks afterwards to get me to move to Hoboken and settle down.

I traveled to New York regularly from 1989 through 2000. Times Square was just beginning its transformation to what it is today but with regularity, I would visit the old theaters on Eighth Avenue, the Adonis, the Eros ,the Eros 2, Capri and a few others, and not for the films. It was the unusual  and complicated lengths people had to go through to hook up there. The action in the Adonis was in the balcony. In the Eros or the Capri, I think you went downstairs to a sort of delivery hallway. Another theater on 46th I recall having to walk behind the screen and take stairs up to a small room where men played around.

One of the adult shops, maybe it was Peep World by Madison Square Garden, but I think was on 42nd had these booths where you put in money and a floor to ceiling panel would rise up and you could see the guy in the next booth...if he wanted you to, that is. We were separated by a thick sheet of glass which was kinda hot.

I remember how incredibly hot to be having sex again in Central Park-this time in a bamboo thicket near the Plaza Hotel. Did I mention it was snowing? I was in this thicket going at it fast and furious because my flight to Los Angeles was later that morning. My anonymous playpal in the park was an Englishman who had the best hairy chest.and who was also in a rush as he was going back to London that day also. 

True to the my-life-is-a-movie formula, we would meet again: my departure gate at United was next to his British Airways one. Upon seeing each other, we burst out loud laughing and hugged.

These days I'm more about getting to know someone in additional to the sexual gymnastics. And with the announcement to fasten our seat belts as we were about to land, I was about to add some new experiences.

Finally... Fifty

Coming Soon!
Years in the Making!


For at least thirty of my previous 49 years, I had a very strong vision for my 50th birthday. That's not to say I obsessed over it-or even over-analyzed as I am inclined to do.


An Extravaganza of Entertainment!

Love and Laughter!
Music and Merriment!
Songs and Sex

Mystics, Mysteries...and Men! 
 
OK...so previews always go a bit overboard. And speaking of overboard, in the movie palace of my mind, this was what I saw:

It's night and I'm on the deck of a transatlantic ocean liner. I'm looking out over the rail across the dark sea. I'm feeling peaceful, secure and, I guess...reflective. And I'm alone. Absolutely, assuredly alone.

I didn't think so much about the 'being alone' aspect and I've been in steady (and unsteady-ha ha) relationships off and on for 25 years. But even at my most committed period of partnership, the vision remained unchanged: a one image, one-man-show. 

In 2008 I found myself single; and that same year the Queen Elizabeth 2(above) was retired. The QE2 had sort of been the vessel of choice in my dream, since the Queen Mary is permanently docked in Long Beach and we all know where the TITANIC is. 

And the calendar goes forward to 2012   Briefly I'd considered checking into the Hotel Queen Mary which is no longer a Hyatt, nor owned by Disney, but no matter how I sliced and diced, it sounded pretty lame.

About two weeks before my birthday, I was in my kitchen. Suddenly, just like in the movies, my vision popped in my head but this time, it was followed by an explanation. I wasn't on an ocean voyage, I was on the journey of life.While I couldn't see into the horizon of the future, I was warm, secure and content. 

It's a journey we ultimately take alone.

And just like that...........

The players and the playing field change.

In 2 hours I should be on a plane heading east. Tonight I feel panicky: foolish and forlorn when I should feel  the opposite. The clock keeps ticking. I've not packed. The greatest guy in the world bought me the ticket and though I don't know him that well, I decided 'why not' accept his kindness.

I'm so very tired of Death and the loss of friends. I've grown very weary of the ongoing theatrics continuously being played out around me by the living. I handled some of these better than others and there were a few that I didn't handle well at all.

Teddy  I had made plans for dinner two weeks ago and we'd discussed going to the LA County Fair. I waited and waited but Teddy didn't show up. Nor did he call. Ordinarily I'd been pacing the floor convinced he'd been in an accident: that's how I used to be wired. I'm sorry to report I've changed. That doesn't mean I wasn't worried. I didn't pursue calling Teddy the following week about the Fair, since he failed to follow through on dinner.  Tonight of course, he logged into Skype and after the customary greetings I told him I was disappointed he blew me off. He stated he'd had lot of problems that he had to resolve. Don't we all? Somehow I thought that's where friends got together and supported each other. But I didn't feel like giving Theodore a lesson in etiquette.

I was not quite as kind on my iPhone to Swing Time Slammer.  He and his partner were going to be in town for the weekend. The partner who is clueless as to Swing's overstimulated sex drive and the fuel that powers it. It's none of my business what spoken or unspoken agreements Swing has made. But when Swing made the of telling me I needed new 'friends who weren't pointers'.

In elementary school I was the smartest kid from a wealthy family. But I was lousy at team sports, wore glasses, had bucked teeth , painfully shy and because my mother had drilled 'walk away from a fight' into me, got picked on and thus cried a lot (tender-hearted, my mother always said) One recess period, I wandered to the edge of the playground, where the Special Education kids were. I didn't quite fit in there either, but I never was asked to leave. I found acceptance.

I fell down into the rabbit hole of PNP with the idea that everyone was middle-aged, Caucasian, educated, affluent and were gentlemen who played fair. That didn't prove to be entirely true but with few exceptions I found acceptance. I've been humbled many times by the kindness of strangers and I've tried to give back in return. More and more I find myself wondering if my lifestyle is to much of a distraction from moving forward. Yet I imagine walking away and leaving the friends I treasure and sorrow fills me. I've said goodbye to so many people in life. Yet, others have walked away. It's a personal choice in the end.

I felt hypocrisy in Swing's statement. And a future vision of he rejecting me because of one aspect of my life.  How many others would too? Feeling trapped and torn between decisions, I became hysterical and collapsed sobbing on the floor of my bedroom. So much so that my cat came in and began circling, meowing. How blessed to have consolation from another living being at such a dark hour.

Swing doesn't know how very sad I felt about cracking up in his presence, because I typically don't allow that side of me to be seen. I  have since apologized. Swing has a good heart and soul. And he is a pointer.

I have to get on that flight.

Dream Lovers, Speed Dating and Me

The heat has been relentless this September. Paychecks in the form of my Social Networking job arrived. I still need to do a major eBay or Yard Sale. I've been reading of people who cull through every six months and eliminate stuff. Yet I still have so much baggage scattered about.

It had been a most unusual day. A phone call I expected failed to come through. And then on cam4.com, this hot guy I'd seen months ago re-materialized under a new screen name. He was rather shy on cam....but I would be too if I were buck naked with 30 people watching. I cammed for a few minutes; my standard fully dressed, full of bullshit patter..juggling 4-5 conversations.

Eventually we got over to Skype. He lived north of Chicago which sounded great til I remembered that Wisconsin isn't 'down' from Illinois but above it. I was taking a risk by talking to him..small world that it is but we got so involved in discussing things we had in common and people we knew in California. I have dozens of friends in Chicago and visiting there wasn't out of the ordinary.

He wasn't 60 but 50. He wasn't 5'4" but 5'11". I kept shaking my head in disbelief: he was stunningly built but as he puffed and puffed on his peace pipe, his eyes began rolling about in his head. He made my crazy act look tame.

I sent him on his way into cyberspace and went from Lake Michigan to the Atlantic Coast and Maine where I had a great time with a fellow writer who was running a large turn of the century inn. Of course it's haunted so my Dark Shadows memories went into overdrive. I've not been to New England: I have a feeling I'm not going to get Peyton Place.

Alas he had two or three romantic triangles going on but as I've learned, it's better to listen and keep my mouth shut vs offer advice. No one asks for it, nor takes it anyway. Ha.

By the time I finally logged out and powered off the computer I felt like I'd been on a speed dating frenzy. And there were so many, it was simply fun.

In humble gratitude

I took a couple of weeks off from blogging, as you see. The first of August saw one death notice after another: Charon's ferry finally filled up, for fatalities have been few. The end of August coincided with two previously very committed freelance gigs that failed to happen: thus putting me in the worst financial bind since....this time last year. September just is not a good month for me financially. I'm disappointed in myself for assuming both clients were as good as their word: pun not intended. One is a fellow writer, newly single, from my home state, who tends to forget he is a 'fellow writer' and isn't the only person who can diagram a sentence, conjugate a verb for pay and wasn't weaned on cuneiform while the rest of us had Fisher-Price alphabet blocks.

So what does that bit o' bitchin' have to do with the blog title?

My life could be a lot worse. I have a place that I call home with a bed to sleep in, clean clothes to wear, and a refrigerator stocked with food, milk, and Dr. Pepper. I never have all the money that I want, then again, I've always seem to have some in my wallet, a bit in the bank and some loose change. According to a survey that makes me in the 8% of the world's wealthiest.

I am typing this to you on a laptop powered by wireless technology: something 35% of American homes don't have. 40% don't have a home computer. Having internet access allows me to blog and to keep up with my cyberfriends around the world. It also facilitates income for me: training people how to be online safer, smarter,and more secure than before; serving as a platform administrator for adult social networks, or offering advice based on how I see a situation. I've been the recipient of some well-needed advice as well. Not all of it taken...despite all attempts to the contrary.

With regards to my problemas sentimentales: well, I've linked to alot of corny songs; I've made some bad rhymes: and a few questionable choices. But I'd do no differently given a chance to change the past. No sir. I've acted out my love affairs on pages; with ten thousand people reading.  Amy Winehouse and Whitney Houston have covered it, but The Carpenters still deliver it the best.

I am one very grateful topman.

By the numbers

For $6995 plus airfare, I could enjoy 28 days rehab on an island off the coast of Thailand.  I'm not kidding! An organization called DARA is behind this. Only I could go searching for information on battling addiction and recovery options and get pitched an exotic month in a foreign land. And it says something about me that I would a) think it's a frivolous and a ridiculous idea b) that I should suffer in order to sober up  c) it sounds too good to be true and d) I don't have $7 grand: I don't even have cash available: my checking account is overdrawn, my rent is due.....

Breathe. I read somewhere that concentrating on breathing helps. It's called mindful meditation. And it is working. Breathe.

I came about this as I pondered  4 Stages of Addiction to Recovery Awareness:

1. A willingness to address the issue : I'd say I'm willing. I can't keep going like this.

2. Research and reflection: I've always been pretty good about educating myself about addictions: and now I've begun to reflect how it's affecting me. With so many people gone now, there's no one left but me....and that face in the mirror to talk to. How I'm going to have this support network of friends and family when I have no family is something I'll get to.

3. Exploring Recovery:  I guess that's what I'm doing now...exploring

4. The journey begins: I'm not there yet.

The above was modified from the DARA website.  

A little less easy to digest were 15 things to give up in recovery:

The Need to Always Be Right: not a problem

The Need to Control Things: this won't be so simple

Blaming Other People: I blame only myself.

Listening to 'The Critic'(that negative inner voice)well, perhaps 'blame'  is too harsh.

Being a Critic  : I hope that I've come away from this learning not to judge others

Listening to Self Limiting Beliefs: maybe going to Thailand isn't such an extravagance after all?

Trying to Impress Other People: I've never tried to impress: if anything I've tried to lay low.

Fighting Change: This one is tough....

Labeling Out of Ignorance: I hate labels.

Being Afraid of Life : Fear exists only in the mind, the explanation says. Yes, and my unconscious knows what scares me.....FUCK! Where's Zelda Rubinstein when you need her?

Always Having an Excuse I'm beginning to hate this list

Obsessing about the Past No: I don't do this.

Attachment to Certain Conditions: Recovery is all about developing emotional sobriety (I like that term). Buddha advised his followers to be free from attachment. Ok...I can grasp that.

Living life to Please Other People: To Thine Own Self Be True wrote Mr. Shakespeare. To me this says not to let drugs or addictions of any kind run the show. I may be powerless, but it's my movie, damn it.

 

 

 

Dinner at 8:05. Sex at 8:25. Curtain at 8:29.

What has been the longest session of foreplay (12 months? 18 months?) has now been consummated in the speediest, sexiest, surprising way.

I had gotten a message from 'Swing Time Slammer'. He was going to be in my area on Saturday, and had 3pm open. His profile pic appeared to be of a costumed super-hero. Or super-villain. I wasn't sure. He had on a very snug(and snug where it counts) light blue spandex bodysuit: decorated with numbers and...musical notes.

The presence of bass clef, half notes and threw me.  My first thought was of Van Johnson as The Minstrel on television's Batman. Would 'STS' point then burst into jazz standards? And I may be popular, but I'm not quite so booked that assigning me a specific time is necessary: nor does it turns me on.

Intrigued nevertheless, I called Swing. He thanked me for calling: then said his 3pm was taken and he'd catch me another time.

"Another time?" I was outraged.
"Sorry, my darling. Do you ever get up to Lake Arrowhead?" He did have a sexy voice.
"You expect me to drive up to Lake Arrowhead because that's where you live?"
"No, dear, I don't live there. I'm going to be there next month. I'm free the 13th."

I slammed--the phone down, thankful for a landline and Princess phone to do so.
 
Despite this, Swing Time continued to keep in contact and his boyish charm kept me interested. His face pics showed him sporting a Guy Williams-as-Zorro mask. Perhaps Swing Time was a famous jazz artist.  I could get him on cam and at the proper moment unmask him.

Maybe not. There might be a hefty re-stocking fee if I returned him 'out of the package'.

Out of the blue, he hit me up via IM: was I free the next evening?
Indeed I was, but me, being me... I can't leave well enough alone.
"I'm surprised you're single, Swing Time. You really are quite charming."
"I never said I was single. You assumed such, and as such, assumed incorrectly."

Such news doesn't thrill me, because
a) I'd already taken a shine to Swing
b) I'm the one who gets hurt in these situations
c)I've gone through too many cheating weasels in. relationships.

But hooking up would fulfill some sexual accounting of Swing Time's.  I, in turn, could move on to the next sneaking-behind-their-back SOB. And Swing Time wasn't going to get me without ponying up some perks. And he wasn't fucking my ass either: that's how I get into these romantic disasters.

Swing Time had excellent time management skills. I was to arrive at 6pm. He had to be back home by 12 noon the following day, which meant winding down beginning at 6am.

It was a solid plan, but traffic south towards San Diego isn't great on a Friday. I didn't show up until 9pm. He wasn't as tall as I thought, but he was even more delightful than I expected. For conversation starved me, an intellectual man is the ultimate stimulation.  It was a good thing his super-hero costume was at the cleaners: I'd have ripped it off his body. He was in damn good shape for a married man. I bet this fox could do a fancy fox trot too.
The dinner menu I requested had been delivered and was delicious. Had I not been rather stressed from the day I'd had and the drive, I probably wouldn't have minded the fact that he kept pawing me as if he'd just been rescued from a desert isle. I got a bit snippy: I think I hurt his feelings, and I really didn't mean to do so.
Things got so hot and heavy, instead of breaking at 6am: we headed back to my place where we continued cavorting like sex-crazed hyenas until it was time for him to leave: and I made sure that he did....after fucking him a few more times for good measure. 

But damn it: He didn't fuck me and I still fell in love with him. Drats. I must be losing my resolve.

Ambivalent over Ambivalence

My last post ended with a Declaration of Ambivalence. Apparently, ambivalence is one of the side effects of addiction. My internet research ( my gratitude for the web is immeasurable)in this was prompted by studying Harm Reduction: an alternative to 12 step programs. However, what I'm finding is that 'ambivalence' is in regards to addressing one's addictive behaviors: nothing more.

That's not knocking the importance of forming and implementing a strategy no sirree. My ambivalence is much more widespread: so much so now that getting high, drunk or otherwise 'out' of myself is boring, and I opt out of getting 'out' more often. Yet, I remain unmotivated to take interest in other activities. This blog and the obligation I have to those who follow it, keeps me from being totally withdrawn. I thank you for reading it.

My ambivalence started years ago. Was it a result of 'waking up' to the fact that I had been done with my old career for some time? I was burned out on co-workers and supervisors who coasted along without passion or authenticity, smiling with 'cold teeth'.  I'd accomplished quite a lot and having mastered many games, had no desire to continue to play.
I've not regretted that decision, but my inability to decide if sticking to free-lance work is wise or getting a new career that pays well irritates the hell out of me...and I am very cruel to myself when I don't 'act perfect'. Yet having no one to bounce ideas off of creates a catch-22 of panic for me.

Do I not believe in myself enough to make any new career a success? And, success on whose terms? My old crowd of friends who travel and spend time and money yet still are unhappy? My values have changed there. Peace of mind, freedom of expression without being judged and the ability to be of help to others are most important to me. I feel like I have two of those three down. One remains elusive.

But back to my ambivalence: was it a by-product of my 14 year relationship ending? It needed to end. We had grown apart in so many ways. While I heartily had always supported my ex's dreams and goals, and that he supported mine, dreaming of being a writer, and becoming one are two different matters. As I began writing, selling and seeing books and articles come into existence, something changed. I don't know if my ex ever read one goddamn thing I did. Yet, after our Notary Public witnessed our signatures on paperwork that would dissolve our domestic partnership, I became hysterical.

We had tried to be civil and cordial but devolved into War of the Roses minus the greed for possessions. When my ex moved out he left behind all the pictures of us, all the souvenirs of travel abroad, even the second set of silverware he had bought a month before. I've pondered since then who gets solace? The one who walked away, or the one who went through the pictures (after three years) sorting and throwing away the excess clutter.

But what he left behind was not as bad as what was taken away. Our cat Oscar, was in poor health after a long life.  This marvelous cat had been an abandoned and near death kitten when my ex found him while filming at Los Angeles' Ambassador Hotel. The hotel was a landmark I, actress Diane Keaton and hundreds of others had fought valiantly for years to save from demolition with no success.
After still more arguments, I agreed to have Oscar euthanized: not an easy decision. Upon getting my consent, I was told that although I wanted to be with our cat as his vet assisted his transition out of this world, and that I should be there, I was not going to be allowed this closure.

You might guess that news did not set well with me...and ambivalence was no where to be found. Certainly not when I pulled the 50's Sputnik chandelier my ex-partner loved (and I didn't care for)out of the dining room ceiling. In it's place today hangs a 40's era crystal chandelier that belonged to a deceased friend.

Perhaps I am so ambivalent because in a 3 year period, so much changed so fast and so permanently that I'm simply bankrupt of emotion. How do I correct that? That has to change. Somehow. Sure, I get tired of living...but I'm a skeered o' dying,

Oh Wisconsin: Woe, woe, woe, Wisconsin

If my blog were a television show, this post would be equal to the season finale.

You probably aren't surprised to see Wisconsin in the title above. For about two months now, I get semi-regular updates on Woodsy and Nicely Nice Guy: who apparently are the Liz Taylor and Richard Burton of the Midwest. Screaming at each other under the Chinese lanterns at the Pride Festival. Using bratwursts as billy clubs. Returning sets of keys: then patching things up via multiple orgasms.

Woodsy at long last was promoted at work and now has an assistant, who I'll call Smokey. Despite my insistence that I do not want to hear about the fights and especially not the reconciliations between these bickering babies, Smokey can't seem to keep his mouth shut. I think he may have a crush on Woodsy but when I suggested that, he got pissed. And then, one night after telling me that he and Woodsy had an argument and weren't speaking, he tosses this into our chat.

"You were so fucking hot in those videos Woodsy has.  I can't wait to get into your pants."

Now I know the reason for my Midwest popularity: Woodsy has been showing the videos we made a few years ago around the Great Lakes. In certain situations, this would be fine: except that I'd asked him not to. We weren't making a demo reel or infomercial... well at least I wasn't. This was more of an 'intimate' moment, meaning it was more kissy-face and coo-coo. At least that's how I remember it: I don't have a copy. Oh....and my cat is stretched across the bed snoring while Woodsy and I bounce off the walls.

Smokey was no different than everyone else who watched those videos and told me about it. And like everyone, he was compelled to make this comment.

"I told Woodsy it's clear you are in love with him."

I brought about such insight, and now such embarrassment: all upon myself. I''ll explain. As part five of our, yes, five-part mini-series video concludes,  I walk over to the camera, look directly into it, and with a crack in my voice, say
"Oh, Woodman." 
Camera off.
The End. Made in Hollywood, USA, by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer

Woodsy was flying home the next morning. This was our last night together after three days of beautiful synchronicity. I can't explain what it was, but it was real. He had been honest about what he wasn't looking for....but his eyes seemed to contradict that. For me, orphaned at age 12, shuffled about as 'sidekick to a Trust Fund', and watching a disease: first called GRID then AIDS, carry a generation of mentors and suitors away, I have said goodbye to too many people. Like many of you have: this I know.

Perhaps had I turned back to Woodsy and delivered that line, instead of to the camera......
You see, the only person who's watched that video and NOT gotten my subtext, is You know Woo. Smokey was startled when instead of letting him continue, I took his line in the script:


And Woodsy said to you, "Oh, Gee, Really?" The dumb ox.
I added, ' I was. Was in love with him.'

As it so happened,  the next night I got a message from The Ox himself. He had been rushed to the hospital.  Nicely had brought W's cell and laptop over, but apparently had taken the liberty of reading all W's texts and e-mails, thus putting himself and W not on speaking terms. Not having spent the night as a patient in a hospital, Woodsy was scared, alone, and would I call him?

Of course I called him. (I'm pretty dumb too). We talked about an hour and a half. It was lovely. Woodsy wasn't happy with his life and wanted to do something about it.  He needed to get away and think and thought I needed to get away too.

"We should go somewhere. Together."  he suggested. "I have flyer miles. How about Vancouver?"
"Noooo," I replied. "Madrid."
(readers who've been following this for awhile will know I cancelled my Madrid vacation to visit Woodsy in Milwaukee about a month after he visited Los Angeles).

"I lived in Madrid, you always forget that." he said drolly, or maybe it was drowsily. "Tahiti."
"Tahiti?'
"Yeah...it's the South Seas"
"Woodman Marquette McCarthy, I know where the fuck Tahiti is. So what if  my imagination conjured up African natives and safaris?"
"I thought I heard drums." He said.

While my mind kept sending me messages clearly reinforcing that Woodsy was on sedatives, I still floated home on cloud 9. Now, I expected nothing more than airfare, hotel and to guzzle Stoli and Noni Juice cocktails by the gallon: meaning Woodsy was picking up the tab. The key would be to get on that plane before he and Nicely made up. Perhaps at last, Woodsy and I could be friends without love complicating things.

Woodsy was released the next day and while I didn't expect to hear from him, neither did I expect to hear from Smokey....who texted me that he and Woodsy had patched up their argument....and were celebrating by fucking. A couple of hours later, with Woodsy sound asleep. Smokey called me.

As usual, he talked too much, informing me that Woodsy had read to him aloud the last e-mail I sent. After one of the more serious break-ups Woodsy and Nicely had, Woodsy was hurting and I wanted to help, and fingers to keyboard I went. That's all there was to it.  I made some observations about Nicely that weren't exactly polite....not by a long shot...but reinforcing that if Woodsy loved Nicely, to work it out.
The 'work it out' portion of my e-mail was glossed over.  Smokey and Woodsy heartily agreed with my comments that Nicely Nice Guy was Fatal Attraction nuts-especially when a bit airborne. Woodsy so very much agreed with my thoughts, Smokey said, that Woodsy had forwarded my e-mail onward to Nicely. With no explanation or comments.

While I was adjusting to the shock of learning I was being used by the bastardly half of America's Sweethearts, Justice intervened. Smokey got another call. His Native American friend, Nokomis, was to pick him up at Woodsy's. Nokomis had stopped by Nicely's to pick up one peanut butter and one cherry pie to be entered in the Wisconsin State Fair.  Nokomis casually mentioned having to then go over to Woodsy's to collect Smokey.

Woodsy it seems, told Nicely he was staying home-alone-that night. After all, he'd just gotten out of the hospital. What a crummy way to treat Nicely...and punctuating it by using my words!

To learn someone is not who you thought they were is a death beyond all deaths. For a couple of days, I did nothing but sit and think.  Had Woodsy changed, had I misread him, or had I blinded myself to the real person? I thought of how he disliked drama, emotional outbursts and conflict. Yet he caused the conflicts, the drama, and his and my heated exchanges were diplomatic compared to his treatment of Nicely.  Did he care nothing for the feelings of others?

A week went by and I pulled out of the numbness. I wrote to Nicely expressing my sorrow as to the assumptions I'd written, and ended there. He showed a lot more class by accepting my apology. He wrote that he plans to move on. If they love each other, and I thought Woodsy did, I hope they work it out. Really.

Woodsy once told me that should I ever write my memoirs, to speak of him with humor and kindness, not tragedy and sorrow. Perhaps he foresaw this unhappy ending. The night he expressed a desire to take us to Shangri-La away from it all was his finest hour and the last time I heard his voice. I've put the rest: the disappointment, the tears, the 'what if' if not away, then to the side.  I'm not angry. I'm not really heartbroken. I have to move on.

Woodsy is off scot-free. Meanwhile, I have a serious drug problem to deal with. And this is where my situation becomes worrisome.

I don't care anymore.

Witness for the Dead

This is the time of year I usually take a break from all things cyberspace, cruisy, chemically enhancing and convoluted...like alliteration. But I haven't...there's too much to do and so much happening at once.

If there ever was a time to take a vacation it would be now. Almost daily (it seems)  there's another celebrity death:  I've stopped trying to memorialize at length those that have impacted me more than others but briefly:

Helen Gurley Brown's 1982 book Having It All...you could say that I'm in the situation I am in by following her advice a little too closely.

Nora Ephron wrote sophisticated screenplays that appealed to all on the most simplistic of situations: romance and love. We all know how I feel about those two subjects.

I had the pleasure of meeting actress Celeste Holm and her 40 years younger opera singer husband 3 years ago. They adored each other. Ann Rutherford was in the category of good acquaintance....and a ball of energy and fire up into her 90s.

I wanted Ben Gazzara to be my father after seeing him in this ABC Movie of the Week when I was 10.

I mourned openly for Whitney Houston this spring and her final film, Sparkle opens this weekend. Donna Summer sang the soundtrack of my junior high and high school years. I spent many a New Year's Eve back then watching Dick Clark. Mike Nesmith may have grown up in Dallas and yes, his mother did invent Liquid Paper but it was Davy Jones who appeared on The Brady Bunch.

With my extended circle of friends and acquaintances I'm averaging about one loss per month, but 5 have passed so far in August. Adam Faust  who I'd last yakked with 4 or 6 weeks ago, was visiting his family in NYC and suffered a heart attack in his sleep. Adam was an adult film star and bright, conversational and sexy beyond belief. He was only 38.

My former writing teacher and yoga instructor wrote me  and said that it is the responsibility of the living to bear witness for the dead. I had to look that concept up. It means to respect them, remember them and take lessons from their lives. If telling you a bit about them and their place in my life respects and remembers them, then it is a privilege to do so.

At the rate things are going, I'm going to have a lot of lessons ahead of me.

Death, Take a Holiday!

It seems like a never ending stream of departures to the afterlife these days, with enough celebrities to fill three seasons of  "The Love Boat" should it set sail down the River Styx.

Even back during 1985-89, when AIDS and HIV wiped out a generation of men I looked on as mentors, I don't recall so many people dying so quickly. Or is it the internet that makes everything seem so much quicker.

I sit at my desk in Los Angeles, looking east. My cats are asleep on the floor: the sun is shining only the way it can above the Hollywood Hill. I am alive, yet I feel so very numb. I reflect on the latest three deaths in my life. Oddly, each of their names started with 'S'.

Sean was a big bear of a man in Vancouver, who loved to play with his model helicopters. He was the kind of person you could just sit quietly with, doing your own thing, yet be content in his presence without having to say a word.

Sylvester was a fan of my writing, and a provocative and gifted artist, but he carried the cross of bi-polar disorder and other challenges. He also played the piano beautifully.

Saul was an accomplished drummer, a captivating personality with a childlike wonder about him...that could become a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions.

I feel it is my duty to tell you that I will miss these men, who not so very long ago, I would joke, debate, argue and interact with. Once upon a time they caroused and charmed in a world I called Cyber-Cafe Society. I am saddened to know they are gone, and yet I am not surprised.

I don't think much will surprise me ever again.

Chik-Fed-Up-With-It

The below is a pared down version of an email I wrote to a friend on Facebook.

I signed up for Facebook to keep up with people and generally relax and have a good time. I have over 300 'likes' and I don't go back and review to see what's politically correct. I've eaten at Chik-Fil-A since high school, liked their food, commend them for closing Sundays: not for religious reasons but because it demonstrates that a service industry business can shut down for a day and still be profitable. I was following their corporate donations as that story developed and had not been eating there...not in response to their actions (at that time) but because I hadn't walked over that way. I'm disappointed in their loud mouth owner but I do respect his right to free speech. 

I don't appreciate you getting my name from whatever site, group or fucking witch hunt 'Bigotry on a Biscuit' is, and publicly shaming me on your page without a) calling my attention to the fact that I had liked them, asking me why, and perhaps educating me if I didn't know. I also lost out on a job from an editor who also went off on me--but who is also involved heavily in fundraising for the Catholic Church: I'm not quite sure where she gets to be right and I am wrong. In my opinion, CFA is the whipping post of the moment, just like Target and Best Buy were last year. 
Then, before I could craft a reply to you (I first went through my 'likes' page and 'unliked' CFA) you pulled your post. And now you don't remember why I could be upset. I guess I'm the only one on your list who either paid attention or overreacts. My FB account is set up to forward stuff to my email: your wall post came through before you deleted it.  

I've grown very weary of a world where George W. Bush's 'Either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists' has drilled down to the individual level. 
I think education and a little fact finding first has long term benefits. Share that with your immature and hateful friend *************whose writing hand I'd like to scrub with soap...if he remembers what he wrote that is.

If I'm pushed into a 'you are with us or against us' situation: I'll choose to opt out, as I am now. 

I sat across from Chik-Fil-A and watched both gay rights demonstrators and supporters of the fast food chain's owner peacefully try to out-scream each other. I thought of all the suffering in the world, the people who would go to bed hungry, wishing they had a chicken sandwich, or a piece of bread. I looked at this well-heeled crowd and thought:

Is that all that matters in the world? The views of the owner of a chicken sandwich joint?
I never felt so detached from life than at that moment.

The Case of the Missing Blogs

I started blogging on NastyKinkPigs during the Fall of 2010. At that time, I was on the site site regularly, and by extension, writing about my misadventures was the perfect self-analysis.

In addition to my hook-ups/romances/cyber-goofs, I threw in links for recovery sites, news reports: whatever seemed to come down the pike. I tried peering into the looking glass of metaphysics....but found it too difficult to explain in writing. NKP was ahead of it's time and quite comprehensive: offering pics, vids, camming, blogs, stories, classifieds and a sense of community.

I expected my writing to be the equivalent of a wet blanket on a box of fireworks, but something different happened. People wrote back how much they appreciated my words, my openness, my willingness to laugh at myself. I was humbled. I still am.

Blogging on a social network isn't without problems. Upgrades to th NKP site resulted in the loss of all my saved emails there. I didn't even think about saving copies..until they went away. One dark and task oriented night, I dutifully copied my blogs and filed them away.

Although the feedback was great and the target demographic was right there, I decided to move to Blogger last August. I felt there was a larger audience interested in what an alternate lifestyle within a alternate lifestyle looked like. There are thousands who wouldn't dream of logging into websites such as NKP, or Adam4Adam, BarebackRT, Manhunt. I can't blame them. I don't use those sites.
 

For a minuteI thought about posting here AND on NKP, but the platform they use isn't conducive to a cut and paste from Microsoft Word, and what should have been easy became quite tedious. So aside from a few random crossover posts, I've been quite content here.

I've only been back to NKP infrequently the last few months. My profile had vanished during a systems upgrade. I replaced it. My music, consisting of movie musical songs, jazz and classic vocals vanished on another upgrade

The last time I went into my online blog folder: I noticed about 15 blogs were missing. Given how the site upgrades had scrapped saved emails, my music files and my profile on separate occasions, I was surprised the blogs had survived this long.

But then I noticed which blogs were missing. Any that related to the not-so-chic aspects of partying: the former ICU2 buddy arrested for making child pornography-all missing. The  numerous times I sobbed over Woodsy in Times New Roman format-vanished

There's not much I can do about what's lost: I plan to re-post the 2010/11 entries here so we have the blog is in one location.  In the interim, the NKP blog remains as sort of a historical record of another time, another place.

I didn't set out to be a voice for a group, but reports are in that I have. And I thank you for taking this journey with me.

The Reluctant Eulogist

I've a new assignment: Moderator and Content Manager for an Adult Social Network. So far, it's been a lot of work, but dull? Not in the least. I've been quite busy writing FAQ's, How To's, and reviewing a data base of over 12,000 members. More on that as I get settled.

But first, I had to create an obituary for the creator of the site. He had passed a year ago. At the time, I asked one of my predecessors if an announcement should be made.....and was told solidly 'no'. I guess death isn't acknowledged among the hedonistic bohemian cyber-cafe society of ours.

But now that I'm working the reception desk, I can make my own rules. and accessing a dead man's profile was my first bit of creepy but necessary business. Deleting all photos except his profile picture, all his files, all his xxx-rated videos. His death was an HIV-related one, not an overdose, and I felt he wouldn't mind.

Next, I updated his 'about me' with a brief review of how the site came to be, how he persevered to get it up and keep it running. when in a mere 6 months he would be dead.

Death is the only promise guaranteed when we are born. It's inevitable. But also flexible, and no one really knows when it's our time to go.  My father's health was poor and we were totally prepared for his death: only to see him outlive my mother, grandmother and a few other relatives. There is the story of the New York Times reporter who penned a "pre-need" obit for Elizabeth Taylor in 1999, but he did not live to see it published. He died in 2005, 6 years before Taylor.
To paraphrase from my favorite 80's film, Parting Glances, "I bet (death) sucks even when you're 80."

When I stumbled into the party that is cyber-cafe society, everything was upbeat and moving at full throttle. How foolish of me to think that the River Styx didn't run nearby.

I'm honored to stand up and speak about those who depart this world for the next, and to give some authenticity and personality to a screen name, an image, a persona.

I hope I will be as fortunate, when that time comes.

Chik-Fil a-Phobia

CLIFF: Or the hardest. (SALLY looks at him blankly) Someday I've simply got to sit you down and read you a newspaper. You'll be amazed at what's going on.

SALLY: You mean—politics? But what has that to do with us?

CLIFF: You're right. Nothing has anything to do with us. Sally, can't you see—if you're not against all this, you're for it—or you might as well be.

It's Friday the 13th: my black cat is stretched out behind me, snoring. I'd planned to poke fun about supersitions, but reality came in the form of an e-mail, and thus a change of plans.

Sally Bowles line (above) from Cabaret, has stuck with me since I saw a college production of it in 1980.(can't stand the 1972 film, aside from the songs). The line, some would say, shows how out of touch or...frankly, how fucking stupid Sally is.

I don't disagree per se: I'm a child of the 60's, and did my part through the 80's and early 90's with regards to gay activism. That was a time where life seemed so very black and white, and you knew where you stood. Not so much anymore. When I observed this aloud, the 'nostalgic' Skype group call I was on came to a halt, then ended shortly after. I guess I stuck my foot in it again.

I mean, I love talking about 'the old days', but they are past times. I'm not out protesting like I once did, because somewhere along the yellow brick road, mainstream gay culture and I began to disagree on what battles to pick. Couples wanted to know when my (now ex) partner and I were going to buy a house with a white picket fence and adopt some orphans. We desired neither, which made us some sort of traitors to 'the cause' and after a while we no longer desired to continue friendships just because we'd always done so. This outraged some even more.

I've been in negotiations with an online magazine for a few months now. I thought we were getting down to finalizing a free-lance deal but my contact extended her vacation, and has again. I e-mailed her this morning, 'checking in' to see when she'd be back and sarcastically commented that I was off to Chik-Fil-A for lunch, even though it was Friday and the old Catholic rule about eating meat doesn't apply.

I received typo-rich or maybe a Text-Speak reply that I 'shud feel mor guilty eatin @ Chik-Fil-A 'cuz they hate gay people. Remover that headline?'

I decided to research a bit, because I didn't 'remover that headline.' I could give you a short list of facts that would make Chik-Fil-A a little less evil, but bottom line: after informing my mind and examining my conscience, I like their food and I'm going to continue to eat there.

I will also to shop (but think twice about buying) at Target and Best Buy because their donated funds went to either groups or people who are specifically anti-gay. I will shop Urban Outfitters, as the President of UO is an openly gay man with a tough job: his boss, the CEO of UO donates to anti-gay and anti-abortion groups. 

Although it's a fair assumption that her reply was not meant in the spirit I'm taking it, I'm going to bite my lip for now. This does not mean I'm actively pursuing this job opportunity anymore, even though my financial situation makes the trouble with the Euro akin to some missing change. I'm disappointed by this turn of events.

And the woman who has the power to offer me a job? She's quite lovely, well to do, and I've known her for several years: we met at church.  She still attends Mass weekly and works on the church Carnival. I don't: because I've taken the time to read beyond the headlines, and my conscience won't let me be a hypocrite. Politics hasn't a god-damned thing to do with it.

Crabby, Crabby Cammer

Make no mistake: I've no business being in a relationship. I have too much on my plate, am barely keeping my head above water and this blog would probably be even less interesting. (Did you laugh just now You were supposed to..that was a joke.)

But I'm hard wired to be 'in love with love' and that's one addiction I'd like to over come. I've been thinking more and more about some type of recovery program: a recovery program for people who take things too seriously that is.

I began a flirtatious chat with a hot, Tall as a Tree guy on cam4. We talked for hours...and that's my big turn on....men who can converse. Rinaldo aka Ronny or Ron or Ronn or Rhon,was an architect from the desert who called Dallas home now. Except he hated Dallas and everything about it, especially the people.

(to refresh your memory. I was born and raised in Dallas.) And while I can be as pretentious as any prep schooled, SMU grad, JR's Bar good ol' boy out there, and have called Lowsss Ahn-jell-eez home for 25 years, I do retain quite a fondness for my home town.

But Ronny has bigger problems. You see, he puffs his pipe like a steam engine, his business partner does the same while trying to get every boy between 18 and 30 hooked on meth, and wouldn't you know it? Ronny was up all night trying to score but scared everyone off because he's sooooo tall and sooo articulate and soooo attractive he scares people off.  Also, there's the tiny fact his partner is vehemently anti-drugs and doesn't know any of this.

Yes, and he has a lover. For 5 years now. A very handsome guy who was visiting Palm Springs and met Ronny and because Ronny was out of a job and this guy was stupid head over heels for Ronny, he imported him to Fort Worth, which Ronny hates even more than he hates Dallas, so they moved.

(to refresh your memory, my paternal grandparents owned a lot of land in the Fort Worth area).

And no, Ronny didn't say he had a partner when we met online, but he was impressed enough with me to say he wanted to marry me. I think had I been as stupid head over heels in love too, I might have noticed such things. And had I said yes, why that constitutes bigamy, doesn't it?

Not thinking too much more about him, I was over in Rin's old hood a day or so after we talked and I texted to see if he's like a pic of his old digs via iPhone.

What I got was a snippy sounding reply:; 'who the fuck is this?"
I answered back that I was a local psychic known as 'The House Whisperer' and did he know he'd left behind some cleaning products in his old laundry room five years ago.

This apparently was not a way to flirt with someone like him. I got a ranting message demanding who was I and why would i not tell him?

Because it was more fun putting it in print right here.

Pinched by a Pagan

Being from Texas, living life as if it were a classic film, and generally putting more faith in faith than facts, I felt it was time to consult a professional: psychic that is.  It had been quite a while since I'd seen what was 'in the cards' and I figured, why not?

One of my bookcases has the following objects atop it: one crystal ball purchased in 1988 from Bullock's Department Store in Pasadena, CA, two sets of Tarot Cards, coins and wands of the I Ching , Native American relics and stones belonging to my ex's now deceased mother who I adored, a Lo-Pan used in Feng-Shui and a white candle. On the shelf below are dozens of related books.

As luck would have it, I found a certified Wiccan High Priest with good credentials and exceptional skill in tarot, a whole slew of astrological specialties, runes, and so on. We had a great talk on the phone and he suggested that we move quickly on this. Without question I sent him the fee he asked for, and in turn he began working on my chart, which he would FedEx to me at his expense and we would then have a Skype conference to go over the particulars. After that, I'd get another packet in the mail with further information.

I got the packet right on time. And then I waited to hear from my Pacific Northwest Pagan. I texted him. I called. I emailed.  Time was of the essence, remember?

He replied about a week later: he'd been in the ER and had just gotten home. We'd discussed his health issues in that first call, when he sounded so chipper and ready to go. Apparently he'd relapsed. His text ended with, 'I want to give you a proper reading worthy of the money and time you've invested sometime in the future.

One item not on my shelf is a bull-shit detector. Had I that instead of the Lo-Pan, maybe I'd not rushed my hefty payment (for a free-lance writer) off to Western Union. Maybe I might have wondered if they money would go to my achieving a higher awareness, or just to get my high priest high. I can't say. He's not returned any texts. 

And my 'faith' in astrologers, mediums, palm readers, clairvoyants and divining rods has  been flattened. And my faith in gay men in those professions has fallen even farther.

That doesn't take a psychic, nor a cynic. Just one who's been ripped off.

Isn't "Road to Recovery" A Bing Crosby Movie?

There were six 'Road' movies and are a picnic of classic movie making. The seventh: The Road to Hong Kong, is like ants at that picnic. Legend has it Bing Crosby (59) felt Joan Collins(28) was a better pick for a chick than talented Dorothy Lamour (48). Bob Hope refused to do the film until Lamour was hired, and she appears at the end of the film. 
The script for an eighth film, The Road to the Fountain of Youth had been completed when Bing died of a heart attack. You can all read into the irony with a title like that.

Some roads don't always lead to exotic lands or fountains of youth.  Some people find themselves on a road and want to change lanes,  change directions, or look for the next exit. It's always about choices, and you don't have to tell this Libra how hard it is to do that. I struggle with what road to take everyday, maybe you do too.

I received a donations request a few weeks back from fellow writer and friend Sam who is on his 'Road to Recovery'. I can tell you the request was sincere. The organization he chose, Reunion, is a legitimate, respected treatment center in San Diego.

Perhaps you can contribute. Perhaps you want to learn more about 'recovery'. Perhaps you lost a friend or family member and the cause was attributed to--or a direct result of-an addiction.

This link will take you to "The Road to Recovery" which is Sam's personal request for donations via a third party fundraising site.

www.gofundme/roadtorecovery

I encourage people to follow their dreams and travel new roads. I respect those who are on a tough road, and choose to change lanes. Finding help to support that change isn't easy either: it's another road, another journey.

By the way, when asked by an aspiring actor how to get into Hollywood, wise and wry Bette Davis replied: "Take Fountain"
(Fountain Avenue is an east/west road between Sunset and La Cienega Boulevards, and considered a quicker route into the Hollywood area)

A Solitary Summer Solstice

I took most of this week away from high speed cable, cams, chems, chats, cell phones, and chilled out. Chilling is easy when you live in Los Angeles and you have hills to your back, a pass on either side and the breeze from the Pacific Ocean filling in the rest on overcast mornings and foggy nights.

It seems like more than a week has passed since my last post, and once again we return, reflect, re-hash and regurgitate my own Milwaukee Melodrama. The facts are as follows:

Woodsy is very deeply attached to Nicely Nice Guy. I can't ignore that. Based on recent events, one could conclude that Nicely is very devoted to Woodsy. The concept that Nicely isn't so Nice but Nefarious, Neurotic and Needs to Be Locked Up and the Key Thrown into One of Minnesota's 1000 Lakes Just for Good Measure is clearly a sour grapes sore loser jealous rant of Devious, Deceitful, Dramatically Delusional Me.
How Woodsy escapes culpability in such crimes of the heart baffles me. The louse.

Despite my reputation of thriving on these creating scenes and emotional moments  and using ludicrous methods to thwart a couple's happiness by, oh I don't know......say, laying it all out in a blog post....would be an outlandish act by me and completely unbelievable.
But when the odds are against you, and a mental case is part of the peach pie, it's best to walk away quickly, knowing that you are not fooled, and if one hair on Woodsy's hirsute hide is harmed, or his heart is broken like I've managed to break my own, about four times in two years over that SOB.... 

...and because once in awhile even I know life cannot imitate art, I declined Woodsy's offer to come visit he and the future former Nicely Nice Guy. It was a Design for Living that had trouble written all over it. I've never been good at sharing.
I cried after I ended my call with Woodsy. And borrowing deviously from Casablanca, and trying to put something "We'll always have Ten Chimneys... Menard's"  which stocks both SweeTarts and Skittles.

And doing some research, I found this: My love of cutesy by turns complicated, over the top storylines is perhaps inherent in the fabric of that Great Place by a Great Lake. The creators of The Young and the Restless had a vacation home in Lake Geneva,Wisconsin and borrowed nearby Genoa City's for a their soap. Deirdre Hall, whose on screen character of Dr. Marlena Evans was possessed for more than a few Days of Our Lives, is from Milwaukee. (her real-twin, Andrea, played Marlena's twin Samantha, victim of the Salem Strangler).
The cutesy part comes via Happy Days, which began as a segment on Love, American Style but would flourish and bring us Laverne and Shirley, Mork and Mindy, Joanie Loves Chachi  and TV Land several years of programming. The Cunningham's house is about 10 minutes from me on Cahuenga Blvd...'Cahuenga' is the name of a former Native American settlement. Just like 'Milwaukee' is an Algonquin word for 'the Good Land'.
Now that you've suffered through all that, I don't sound quite so devious, do I?

I've never had a state turn up just about everywhere I go, and I'm flattered that Wisconsin and I are connected. It was my 3rd grade teacher who read to our class Little House in the Big Woods, and that's where I got the idea of being a writer someday.

And, as it turns out, a new character, rather handsome, wholesome, polite and intelligent approached me from cyberspace and guess where he calls home? You guessed it.

And the next day was the Summer Solstice.
I spent it alone, reflecting on many things.

The Taming of the Shrewd

Le Snack Shoppe du Surreal  is located on the Lower Level next to Housewares. It was during last week's breakfast battle over those grocery coupons with house guest Norman, that the ringtone of The Wedding March began playing on my cell.

That's the ringtone for Nicely Nice Guy: you'll remember, he and Woodsy rode off into the Wisconsin sunset after a week in Palm Springs, leaving yours truly here at the altar of imagination , with Woodsy referring to me as 'devious'. The last person who called me that and got away with it was my high school boyfriend back in 1980. Woodsy reminds me of in all the same hopeless ways.

That was March. I've been on my best behavior and haven't really talked much to Woodsy since seeing him so very happy with Nicely. That hasn't stopped both of them from emailing, texting or calling me, of course. Ah, the life of a Hollywood writer.

Eager to escape my breakfast companion, I excused myself and take the call on the restaurant patio. As has been the case the last dozen times I've tried talking to Woodsy alone, I get both of them. It's so sticky sweet it almost has me turned off of 'happy ever after'. I can just see them snuggled up in a four poster bed in a log cabin, Woodsy wearing the pajama bottoms and Nicely the pajama top. (Read into that what you wish). Meanwhile, I'm decked out in a blue oxford shirt, argyle sweater vest lime green shorts and Birkenstock sandals. I feel like a lesbian.

These Merry but not Married Men both talked at the same time and so fast I could guess what they had on their Wheaties. Clearly they were into driving me crazy, because quicker than you could say Lac du Flambeau:  the dynamic duo invite me to come for a visit on their turf...at their expense. (Remember, threesomes backfire when I'm one of the trio.)
And the thought of sex with both of them at the same time makes celibacy look awfully good.

More dumb than devious at this moment, and having had a sojourn to Sacramento scrapped, and my Finnish friend falling foul with the flu and pushing his trip towards Fall, I would have taken a trip to Rancho Cucamonga if it were offered.

The love birds weren't kidding, so I stated I'd like a field trip: out to the summer home of theater legends Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne, a historic landmark called Ten Chimneys.
"I've never been, " says Nicely, who's sounding a bit too nice for Old Devious here.
Woodsy says, "Great! You two can go together. I'll have to work."

I ponder the possibility of hiding Nicely's body in one of those ten chimneys. But why bump him off? Then he becomes a saint and I go to the electric chair. A better idea would be stuffing Woodsy's woolly ass in the nearest deep freeze and chaining it ala Barnabas Collins coffin for the next 200 years. He's no doubt relishing the idea of me coming back to visit.
Two years ago, we had a lovely time, even if he did get it in his head that I was walking around Lake Michigan announcing I was moving there. Had he given his blessing, I would have. Ten Chimneys had a job opening that fit perfectly with my skills, but I wasn't about to move there without Woodsy wanting me. And he didn't so I declined pursuing the job.

Breakfast was being delivered to my table, so I said a hasty goodbye and ended the call with the Doublemint Twins. The rest of the week I was busy and then things got even busier so the proposal remains on the table.

Isn't there some good soul who'd fly me somewhere other then the Midwest, so I can decline without sounding spiteful, bitter or bratty? I'm a delightful guest, really. Because, the thought of seeing Woodsy so in love in his hometown with someone else is a reality I don't want to experience up close. After all, two short years ago it was my movie and I was the co-star.

Blog-o-thon #3 Pride: Then and Now

That's right: for many cities around the world, today is pride day. Still other communities will celebrate in the fall when the weather is cooler. We commemorate the night of June 28, 1969 when occupants of the Stonewall Inn fought back. The following year, a peaceful march with a few hundred people began at the the corner of Hollywood Blvd and McCadden Place here in Los Angeles.

My first parade was probably in 1981 in Dallas. Of course, memory being what it is, faulty, it seems that those times were much more political statements than today's hedonistic celebrations sponsored by (insert brand here). That's not a bad thing: it's the time evolving. And there are still political battles to be fought and won.

One thing about getting older, you don't 'miss' those old days as much as try to understand the feelings you had then. And for me, that's what keeps those memories where they belong: in the past.

From cyberspace, I wish everyone a proudful, and prideful day with plentiful memories to treasure.

Blog-o-thon #2 Eat Pray Love Sleep

If I didn't replenish my Homo Milk and Sweet Iced Tea tonight, I'd be one grumpy bastard tomorrow, so back out I went. Anytime I can pry myself away from the computer and go walking or biking I do, because recently, the notion of joining the world hasn't been an easy sell. Naturally this has to be Saturday night. The healthy cafeteria-like place had a line. The Country Italian place had a strange smell. I refuse to eat supper at a place named after a breakfast item. I had sushi on Wednesday. Pasta, salads and soups I can do at home.
I was about ready to commit to Mexican when I remembered there was a new Indian place I had not tried. I was a bit concerned Fajitas were featured but they had plenty of the regular dishes and Hayward's 5000 beer. It was suggested that vegetarian dishes can serve as good recovery meals, so I dove in.
The place had a good vibe so I didn't bitch about the contemporary minimalist decor. Back in Dallas in the 80's I was forever dragging friends to the Hare Krishna restaurant which was as ultra-exotic with its wax figure on an altar yet plain folks enough to get repeat business.
I'd exchanged emails earlier with a gent who very much wants me in San Francisco in two weeks. My problem is he's married: to a man. That's my hangup. He's keen for sex: the component I care least about.
But bigger issues weigh on me: issues I continue to ponder, but won't lose sleep over tonight. The food did the trick. I'm off to bed. My home is two blocks north and I'm fried. Namaste'.