Death and I are old friends.
My first birthday was celebrated just six weeks before President Kennedy was gunned down 15 minutes from our house. By age 17: I'd said goodbye to my parents, grandmother, 3-4 aunts and uncles, an 11 year old cousin, our junior high principal, and a few high school friends.
By the time I moved to California 24 years ago, I had (via news coverage) the Jonestown Massacre, the assassination of Harvey Milk, the loss of the Challenger, and more close to home, the deaths of too many friends, boyfriends and mentors during the early days of 'the AIDS crisis'. That's what we called it then.
I crossed paths often Death while volunteering at the Oak Lawn Counseling Center as a 'buddy' for PWA's . If I've lost you with either the acronym 'PWA' and/or the term 'buddy', I suggest you take a break from the goddamned porn sites you've bookmarked, exit your Grindr app and educate yourself on that period in history.
Death is inevitable: and you'd think given my history; easy for a control freak like me to accept. It's not. Barely 2 weeks into 2012, Death crashed this cyber-cafe society man's party. I'd met both George and Mike online. If they knew each other, I've no clue. To my knowledge, neither death was directly linked to anything I write about here. Not that it matters: they are gone and my feelings of helplessness are the same. I will miss my brothers-in-arms, and neither would want me to sing sad songs for them now.
****
Did I ever tell you about the time I fell down a rabbit hole?
I was at an afternoon soiree about 5 years ago complimenting the host on the quality of his snow (it was a winter-themed event, although it was late April). Ordinarily I wouldn't have fawned like I did, but I was feeling on top of the world.
Rather than politely thank me, simply blush, or giggle nervously and move on, my host frowned, turned red as Kris Kringle's coat, and said: "You idiot! Didn't you read the invitation? This is a P-A-R-T-Y!"
Still in a grrrreat mood, I looked around. On the sofa, having shed their long underwear and those fur trapper hats I identify with news footage of the 1967 Chicago blizzard, three different men were getting blow-jobs from five different people.
I answered, "Indeed it is!"
This misunderstanding was cleared up later, and perhaps realizing his anger was misplaced, my host pulled me aside and directed my attention to a late arriving guest.
He was about 5'7", blond, tanned, fit as a fiddle, limber as a rag, and clearly lacking inhibitions. He'd stripped and would assume various yoga positions. Perhaps noticing us noticing him, he arose from his sexy sun salutation and sauntered over to us.
"Got a bump? Can I get a bump?" Yet, he didn't wait for our host to answer, or for me to further show my ignorance by asking him what he was talking about. In truth, he kinda spooked me. Although stunning to look at, his expression was blank, his blue eyes: dead. Kind of like those robots that went on the fritz in Westworld.
"He was a screenwriter at Paramount. Don't let that ever happen to you," a voice said.
My host was not offering me career advice. I see Paramount's water tower (originally RKO's) as I write this. It's easy to spot: well-lit almost as if it were center stage and we were in the audience . The dark space that frames it for us from the property Paramount's lot backs up to: Hollywood Forever Cemetery.
Back to Death, aren't we?
****
I came to that party seeming to have everything material one could wish for, but I'm a damn good actor. Don't get me wrong: I am grateful for all that life has given me. But: I was also bored out of my mind and clueless as to how to change that.
I acknowledge I am bored again. I can't be an apologist nor a champion nor of what I like to get loose. We all react differently. As I always say, if you are the paranoid, tweaky, freaky type when high, why the fuck are you still here?
My first birthday was celebrated just six weeks before President Kennedy was gunned down 15 minutes from our house. By age 17: I'd said goodbye to my parents, grandmother, 3-4 aunts and uncles, an 11 year old cousin, our junior high principal, and a few high school friends.
By the time I moved to California 24 years ago, I had (via news coverage) the Jonestown Massacre, the assassination of Harvey Milk, the loss of the Challenger, and more close to home, the deaths of too many friends, boyfriends and mentors during the early days of 'the AIDS crisis'. That's what we called it then.
I crossed paths often Death while volunteering at the Oak Lawn Counseling Center as a 'buddy' for PWA's . If I've lost you with either the acronym 'PWA' and/or the term 'buddy', I suggest you take a break from the goddamned porn sites you've bookmarked, exit your Grindr app and educate yourself on that period in history.
Death is inevitable: and you'd think given my history; easy for a control freak like me to accept. It's not. Barely 2 weeks into 2012, Death crashed this cyber-cafe society man's party. I'd met both George and Mike online. If they knew each other, I've no clue. To my knowledge, neither death was directly linked to anything I write about here. Not that it matters: they are gone and my feelings of helplessness are the same. I will miss my brothers-in-arms, and neither would want me to sing sad songs for them now.
****
Did I ever tell you about the time I fell down a rabbit hole?
I was at an afternoon soiree about 5 years ago complimenting the host on the quality of his snow (it was a winter-themed event, although it was late April). Ordinarily I wouldn't have fawned like I did, but I was feeling on top of the world.
Rather than politely thank me, simply blush, or giggle nervously and move on, my host frowned, turned red as Kris Kringle's coat, and said: "You idiot! Didn't you read the invitation? This is a P-A-R-T-Y!"
Still in a grrrreat mood, I looked around. On the sofa, having shed their long underwear and those fur trapper hats I identify with news footage of the 1967 Chicago blizzard, three different men were getting blow-jobs from five different people.
I answered, "Indeed it is!"
This misunderstanding was cleared up later, and perhaps realizing his anger was misplaced, my host pulled me aside and directed my attention to a late arriving guest.
He was about 5'7", blond, tanned, fit as a fiddle, limber as a rag, and clearly lacking inhibitions. He'd stripped and would assume various yoga positions. Perhaps noticing us noticing him, he arose from his sexy sun salutation and sauntered over to us.
"Got a bump? Can I get a bump?" Yet, he didn't wait for our host to answer, or for me to further show my ignorance by asking him what he was talking about. In truth, he kinda spooked me. Although stunning to look at, his expression was blank, his blue eyes: dead. Kind of like those robots that went on the fritz in Westworld.
"He was a screenwriter at Paramount. Don't let that ever happen to you," a voice said.
My host was not offering me career advice. I see Paramount's water tower (originally RKO's) as I write this. It's easy to spot: well-lit almost as if it were center stage and we were in the audience . The dark space that frames it for us from the property Paramount's lot backs up to: Hollywood Forever Cemetery.
Back to Death, aren't we?
****
I came to that party seeming to have everything material one could wish for, but I'm a damn good actor. Don't get me wrong: I am grateful for all that life has given me. But: I was also bored out of my mind and clueless as to how to change that.
I acknowledge I am bored again. I can't be an apologist nor a champion nor of what I like to get loose. We all react differently. As I always say, if you are the paranoid, tweaky, freaky type when high, why the fuck are you still here?
I'm as flawed as any character from the Island of Misfit Toys. I tend to take people at their word even while I'm at warp speed. Thus, I'm very bored of meeting new people online yet within minutes begin parroting the same scenes: the 'getting to know you' that often leads nowhere. Yul Brynner touring in 'The King and I' ain't me.
The false promises to talk 'again', the entitled feeling that a few feel they have to 'order' me around, and worst of all, to feign any interest above a carnal, heat of the moment encounter, now disgust me. The friendships I've seen crack and shatter in 5 years were those forged while down the Rabbit Hole. It's unfortunate, because I believe we all have much more in common under the surface than we know. And that unspoken bond terrifies many.
Yet, I'm grateful for those friends, met here also, who are grounded in our ungroundedness. These are men I can call on the phone, text or get together with in person just to say hello, but also to book some hot and heavy playtime. I've had only the best experiences when I had guests visit, or when I have traveled. I fell head over heels also, one documented here; others not so much, for reasons that are none of your fucking business. Hee hee.
And to a those who need to know exactly what I'm saying, what I'm going to do, what's to become of me...well, write your own ending. There's something quite empowering about taking a breath...and walking away.
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