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)