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'.

Blog-o-thon #1: Blog For Your Life

Somewhere filed and thus, impossible to find at the moment are wise words from a woman blogger who talks about the 'need' to write we writers have and how it's a good way to work yourself out of a corner.
And so, here I am, shivering outdoors with either the late afternoon wind blowing across me every two minutes and the air blowers from my neighborhood grocery store chilling my legs. I won't be shivering here much longer....I hate being cold.
The point with this exercise is just to keep writing: word after word, funneling that focus away from the usual hi-jinks. Not that I'm trying to run away from certain behaviors: I came to a realization today and am reacting to it.

Elsewhere, filed terrifically is a link to a history of to the Shamans of Atlantis who dabbled a bit too much on the recreational side of crystal energy and sank the continent. However, the knowledge that they had gained was preserved, not in written form but through those crystal skulls Indiana Jones was tangled up with, as well as the Mayans, the Nazis, and probably the Kardashians.

I don't know if any of this means a hill of beans, but it's fun to speculate and be silly. Laugh with me, though, not at me. And if you can't laugh, perhaps you are thinking about  the power of crystals to enlighten, or eliminate a group of healers.

A Week Without A Tweaker Can Be Bleaker than Bleak, Pete

No good deed goes unpunished, when you walk in my Weejuns. Last year, I sublet my guest room to a friend (not a close friend, although money does make for instant chumminess) for a week as he was attending a convention in town. The convention is an annual one, and he had asked about staying this year, but with the guest room occupied, the best I could offer him was the couch in the den.
He's out of work this year, and I couldn't expect him to pay me because the accommodations were different.  This friend, who I'll call Norman is from a rather good-sized, not stuck in a time warp city in the East, about 40, asexual- although I did assist him last fall when he went through his 'am I gay?' process (no way in Hell, I told him: God is not that cruel (I said to myself). His interests are Hockey, Video Games. Comic Book Superheroes, and anything to do with Transformers. Most of you know I like Tennis, Video Conferencing, Comical Situations, and transformation via a different uh, milieu.

Norman is a nice guy....and I feel horrible that I was ready to strangle him 37 minutes into his visit. That's the time it took me to take the subway down to Union Station (20 mins) and search all over this 1939 landmark only to come up empty handed. Union Station is beautiful but a bit daunting at 11PM at night. Standing out on one of the patios, I called him on my cell phone.
"Norman, where are you? I've been looking all over."
"At the McDonald's at Hollywood and Highland. The people around the train station were starting to scare me."
So back on the subway I went to Hollywood, where the crowds are scarier than anything downtown, I think.
It didn't occur to him to let me know he decided to try to find my house and had I not called, I'd still be searching I guess.

The next morning, we head off to breakfast. I buy the Sunday newspaper and as we sit down, hand  him the Sports section with coverage of the Kings, who were competing against the New Jersey Devils for the Stanley Cup. I put the rest of the paper down on the seat between us, because I am Not Going To Look Like a Boring Married Person.
Instead of perusing the special Kings section, Norman extracts the coupon section and begins tearing out selections, announcing 'I can use this to buy batteries when I get back home."
"Umm Norman, I use coupons too."  Perhaps he buys into the legend that we're all rich here on the Coast. He believes that it could be possible that Aliens with Reptilian features are running Hollywood in celebrity disguises. He really does.

Because I apparently am a rich Left Coast Liberal Bohemian, I offer to pick up the check, as I know I won't be spending much meal time with my guest. He's quite happy letting me do this, but as we get up to leave, he floors me with this:
"I want to make sure the waitress got the appropriate tip. I don't believe stiffing hard working service industry workers."
He tries to grab the leather folder my signed receipt is in but I stop that with "My parents owned restaurants, Norman." Yes I know I should have said 'You pay the bill, you determine the tip' but I didn't think about it. I was wondering if there was a cleaver laying around that I could use to make Norman Meat Pies with.

Outside on the sidewalk, Norman announced he needed Claritin-D. And for the next hour of this episode, each time I would say 'Claritin' , he would correct me. 'Claritin-D'. You're probably thinking Dustin Hoffman in  Rain Man, autistic savant, Asperger's, and that I'm an A-11 schlemiel. I researched all those terms (except schlemiel) and my guest didn't fit any of those types. It took us three stops to find Claritin....D, because the pharmacist on duty either was too slow, too stupid or 'ignored' Norman. God bless the sexy pharma-gal at CVS who listened patiently and delivered quickly my friend's meds.

Norman mentioned he needed to go buy a grocery store and load up on snacks, as well as milk and iced tea: he didn't want to drink all of mine.
"Are you saying there's no milk or iced tea in the refrigerator at home?" I asked.  Do what you must, but do not leave me out of milk, iced tea, toilet paper or mouthwash.
He had not, and he told me he'd replace what he did take.
Thus, my Red Top/Vitamin D/Homo Milk was replaced with something called Smart Heart Fat Free Wise Size WhiteLiquid.
My Sweet Iced Tea was replaced with Diet Green Tea.

Mind you, he's been in Los Angeles less than 24 hours.

I don't remember him being so needy and so fucking cheap last year. I do remember him asking last year if I minded if he strolled around in his underwear. I pretended not to hear him.

I could go on: how by using my towel rack (tossing my still damp towels on the floor)to hang his suits on left numerous scratches on my recently re-painted bathroom walls. Or how he almost barged right in on me while I was 'in conference' naked as jaybird. Personal space seemed to be a foreign concept. I found myself missing the tweaker personality: I could handle those much easier.

Probably what bothered me the most was his assessment of Los Angeles as a seedy, sleazy Babylon of opportunists and ne'er do wells': all the time lapping up any freebies he could glom on to for the 'folks back home'.  Bad manners and hypocrisy I don't tolerate on the internet: why would I allow such nonsense in my own house?

He is gone now, and I learned some lessons: make sure guests are self-sufficient and independent. Get plenty of rest so as not to be infuriated by small things, like the babytalk he used with my pets that brought visions of The Hand that Rocks the Cradle but with a frumpy asthmatic wacko nanny and a sexy, attractive parent (me! That's me!)

A Scary Story for a Pre-Summer Night

*This post first appeared on 5/26/2012 at www.nastykinkpigs.com under the same title. Due to ongoing system upgrades at NKP and other technical challenges, the original post was unable to be properly formatted and thus difficult to read. Thank you for your patience.


I still find it incomprehensible that this story happened. And yet, it did.

It was Memorial Day weekend, 2007. My pal Joe from Arizona was going to be the house guest of a couple I had become friendly with. We had all met on ICU2.  I enjoyed the couple, Bob and Jacques very much. Bob was about my age, Jacques was  younger and Joe was in his late 30's., Jacques and Bob lived not in West Hollywood, nor in Silver Lake, but on the 'backside of Malibu' off the 101 towards Ventura. 

Joe and I were to have dinner Friday night, but he got an early flight in from Phoenix and I had to work late. His plans for the weekend, he'd told me was to kick back, party hearty and have fun. The fact he didn't called meant he was already at Bob and Jacques', and a good time was already in gear. 

Saturday morning was another work day for me. Around 10 AM Bob called me.
"There's someone here who'd like to have you for dessert tonight." 

I replied in my usual sarcastic style, "There's someone I would have liked to have had dinner with last night, but he stood me up." 

"Oh, don't be a bitch, bitch"
I wasn't sure what time I'd be done with work, so the call ended in a very tentative mode. As it happened, a church pal had an emergency and needed someone to serve as Lector that night at mass. I could do that and head out to Thousand Oaks after. 

I had no sooner hung up the phone confirming taking the Lector slot at Mass when I got a text: 

Joe freaked out, jumped off the patio and ran into the hills! Help!" 

I stared at the message, and called Bob. For no reason at all, Joe suddenly accused Bob of planning to kill him....yes, you read that right. 

Being a journalist, I pressed hard with the questions and found that Joe had taken, or perhaps was given without his knowledge, some G. Rumors had circulated for years that Bob did this, in the spirit of encouraging others to expand their limits, but having partied there myself dozens of times, I had seen no evidence of that. 
“We didn't do that much." Bob said meekly, as if reading my mind.

"Don't you think you should call the police?" I said, rather than pursue what constituted 'that much'.

"Hell, no. The police aren't coming on my property: no way."

We were silent for a moment. 

Bob said, “So, come on out. We can barbeque." As if the last five minutes hadn't happened. As if Joe wasn’t missing.

“Find your house guest first. I'll check back later."  

I began to worry. Joe was a smart man, polite, not prone to paranoia. He wouldn't have left unless he was scared, very scared. On the other hand, nothing about Jacques and Bob had ever seemed odd. They fit into suburban life like the married couple they were.

After Mass I called: no Joe. It was getting dark and chilly and there were a lot of places Joe could have gone.  According to Bob, Joe had left wearing Bob's gym shorts and nothing else. Bob is 5'7 and weighs 240. Joe is 6'3 and weighs 150. The more information I was getting, the sicker I was to my stomach. 

Again, Bob invited me out to point and play. "We'll have lots of fun."

"Find Joe!" 

Sunday at sunrise, on 2 hours sleep, I walked to my local cafe, had some breakfast, and called for an update. Joe had not returned. He had been gone 18 hours.

 My patience with the situation was running out of steam.. "You have to call the police and report him missing. This isn't a game, Bob."

"I'm not responsible for a fag tweaker who can't handle his drugs!"  

Then, sweetly, "Come out for breakfast."

 I hung up on him.. I couldn't believe anyone could be so heartless, high or not. I felt he was responsible because Joe was his guest.

I waited a bit, then texted Jacques and asked him to make some excuse to go outside and call me. Jacques does not slam: his smoking is a half-hearted way to entertain Bob. He was Joe's only hope. 

I pleaded with Jacques to call the police. His version of the incident was a paraphrase of what Bob had said. 
He didn't hear or see anything out of the ordinary. He was not eager to disobey Bob's wishes though.
I whispered in my best low voice to Jacques ear that if he didn't call the cops, I would. 

 "And I will make so many disgusting, depraved and foul charges against you two, you'll be lucky if the foundation of your house is still intact when the SWAT teams are done ripping this place apart

" 

There was silence on the other end.  

I played the only card I had left. "Remember, I know Bill Bratton. I see him every Sunday. The chief of police won't like his breakfast interrupted." I hoped that I sounded nuts enough that Jacques would forget that they lived outside of the LAPD's jurisdiction. 

Jacques agreed to call.  I thanked him. 

The day dragged on. Being a man who knows a lot of people, I next called an esteemed doctor friend in NYC and gave him the details. He said, rather matter of factly:  "You're over-reacting. Because you are a writer, your mind creates the most outlandish plots that have no basis in reality. The scenarios you describe are best re-visited on the late late show. Joe probably was embarrassed and went back to Phoenix."

"By foot?" I answered, wishing that I called for a general practitioner's opinion, not Sigmund Freud's.

"Send him an email or a Skype message. He'll call you I'm sure."

I did both. And waited. I stopped returning Bob's calls: now wanting to know if I'd heard from Joe.

At 8PM Sunday night, I logged into Skype.  I saw the green 'online' symbol appear beside Joe's name, but before I could send him an Instant Message he had logged out. I started to call his cell, and realized his phone was at Bob's.

At 1145PM, I got a call from the 480 area code. Scottsdale, AZ.  I held my breath.

"Hi, My name is Alice Longview and I'm Joe Nelson's sister. He didn't show up at the airport today: we can't get him on his phone, the people he's staying with hung up on us, and he has work tomorrow. We're very worried. We hacked into his email account and saw your message."

The worst case scenario was unfolding rapidly. I did my best to calm Alice. I gave her Bob's cell, Jacques' cell, and their emails. I gave her the number of the police department.  She was flying in from Phoenix the next morning to find her brother, she said, and she wouldn't stop until she found him.  She had also called the police and all hospitals in the area.

I have no family. I wondered who would miss me should I disappear into the hills some afternoon and not come back.

At noon on Monday, Memorial Day 2007, Alice called me. Joe had been found, on the other side of the hills and 25 miles from Bob's. He was in the hospital.  The prognosis wasn't good. Alice asked if I would collect her brother's things from Jacques and Bob and bring them to the hospital. She had gotten a voice mail from one of them saying they didn’t know where he was, had called the police and to stop bothering them.
 I called Bob at work.
"Oh, thank you sweet Jesus," his voice cracking. It was a relatively convincing performance if you'd just tuned into the story. "Can we go see him?"

"Things aren't looking good, Bob. Make sure Jacques is home this afternoon. I need to get Joe's luggage and take it to his family."

At the lovely home I'd played at so many times  the pool, hot tub and panoramic view of the hills looked just as peaceful as always.  As he handed me Joe's bag and cell phone with its 75 missed calls, Jacques informed me that 'Bob removed all the drugs to keep Joe from getting into trouble.' How thoughtful. 

Jacques had no further insight as to what went wrong, and I thanked him again for making the call that quite possibly saved another man's life.

At the hospital, Alice was at the pocket park as planned. Having come from work, I thought I looked more like a doctor in my three piece suit and horn-rim glasses. Along with Joe's bag, I gave Alice a card for him and a Mass card for her. "Could I see him?' I asked.

"Absolutely not." 

My first thought was Joe was dead and I'd been set up. Seeing Joe's lover appear didn't help change my mind either. He never cared for me, probably because I called him Granddaddy once too often . And now he was walking up the sidewalk, dressed in black, glaring at me. 

Then, from behind the grassy knoll, carrying a notebook computer, a very tall, very handsome, very pissed off younger version of Joe came over. Positioning himself on the slope so that my eyes were level with his flat stomach, he pushed his index finger into my chest. The big bully.

"I'm Tom Nelson. We have some questions and we want you to answer them."

"I'll tell you anything that I can, Mr. Nelson, but kindly remove your finger from my chest.  I have nothing to hide."  I was so very glad I hadn't gone to Jacques and Bob's for the holiday. Not to dismiss what happened to Joe, or the serious predicament that I had gotten myself-guilt by association as well as being the only contact they had, it was clear I was viewed as the enemy. Maybe the Nelsons had watched a few too many of those 'ripped from the headlines' crime shows, because that's how it felt.

"We think our brother was given a date rape drug. What do you have to say about that?"

"You'd have to ask his hosts."

"It appears something was injected against his will.... with more drugs... that made him....go crazy."

The questions continued at me from Alice and Tom while Grandpappy looked ready for his big scene at Julia Roberts' funeral in Steel Magnolias. And every question was followed by 'What do you have to say about this?' 

I so very much wanted to reply, "Could you call this number in Manhattan? A doctor friend thinks I have an overactive imagination. I'd like you to set him straight." I was so pissed.

"I will do whatever I can, but you have to talk to Bob and Jacques. I was not there." After looking at my driver’s license to verify my identity, I was allowed to leave-but with a warning not to try to contact Joe. But if they had further questions, they would call me. 
Good deeds rarely go unpunished, and not one of them had thanked me. In my heart I knew Joe was dead. They were lying to me. I walked back to my car, locked the doors, put my head on the steering wheel and cried.

 ***** Joe was not dead, but severely dehydrated, in shock, with a broken leg, arm, frostbite on his feet and various facial contusions. He remembered nothing of what happened, and I honored his family's wishes and did not contact him. I felt responsible in a way, but had I been there, it might have been worse. 

Bob lost his job soon after that...karmic debt, in my opinion.  And yet, he couldn't grasp why I declined all future invites to play, did not add him as a Facebook friend, LinkedIn contact, would not serve as a reference for work and stopped returning his calls. 

If you can't handle your drugs of choice, don't do them. If your host tries to expand your limits without your ok...get the fuck out of their home quickly. If your houseguest flips out, please call the police. They can handle the situation better than you. 

The failure to handle a crisis makes everyone of us guilty. Controlling the damage responsibly and honestly benefits all of us. Before you hook up at 3am with a stranger from the internet, or get ready to point and shoot with regular fuckbuddies, look in the mirror and ask yourself: if something goes wrong, what would you do? 
You may be saving your own life.