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'.