A Night in Hollywood, A Day in Shangri-la

 Originally posted  4/26/2011

After posting those last two exercises in egomania, I felt remorseful. This is not the place to get the blues from tabloid fodder or mis-matched dates. By and large, there are some really great encounters...where nothing is expected other than fellowship. The play is natural and equal, and while no promise for a repeat is planned, you are thankful for the time spent together.

I went to my first orgy in 3 years: a home halfway between my digs and the Hollywood sign. I'd been invited by a tall, lean and hairy filmmaker. His partner, who I deduced was there to keep an eye on things, was a bit heavier, a bit hairier and silent as a statue. They had not a Doberman or Pit Bull, but a Mr. Winkle-like canine(but butch)I'll call Mr. Marvelous that followed me as if I had sirloins strapped to my feet. When it was suggested Mr. Marvelous might start to hump my leg, I replied that MM might find himself drop kicked out the window. A ring of the doorbell, and our next guest arrived...a hot man with an incredible penis. Yet, another person was due..and I sensed a long night on Art Linkslammer's House Party.

Having time to think, I began to question why we'd been called together. Was this get together being videotaped?...and assured that was not the case. But I didn't think to ask about streams and web feeds: even so, I think the audience, if there was one, deserved a refund..because the night became more about film theory and business...Inside the Amateur Actor's Studio kinda.

Our host learned an important lesson that night: when you are in charge, don't get so fucked up things go sour. In his quest to have a dozen tops to fuck him....he ended up with three tops and two bottoms, and our host who had cast himself in the role of the star bottom, ended up fucking the other bottom while we three tops watched bemusedly. 'Topping for the Tops...followed by 'Grey's Anatomy': ABC Thursdays!

We were a 5-some with minds worthy of Mensa and conversations got very interesting. For an hour, we brainstormed ideas on film making, brand merchandising, concepts and style. It was probably one of the least sexual, but most stimulating nights I'd had. Everyone participated, everyone had great ideas, but I grew restless. I  thanked my fellow entrepreneurs and left.

That Tuesday was followed by a Swimmingly Saturday spent with a sexy, hirsute handyman, young enough to be my son (and no he wasn't), and another casual afternoon talking...when I wasn't following behind him shoving my cock in his butt or my tongue down his throat.  Delicious.

The good play far exceeds the days where things go haywire. Because if you have read my past adventures...haywire, well, is haywire.

People Who Live in Garages Shouldn't Throw Radiators

Originally posted 4/24/2011 on another site in a slightly different format

"The best defense against bad manners is good manners," so an old saying goes. I stand guilty. I lost my temper and tossed a guest out. No, not over the balcony railing. 

A few weeks back I was invited down to the beach for some play. Knowing full well I'd be better off staying home, there I was, zipping southwest down Sunset Blvd. And then he texts: 

"Shall we play a game?"

I phoned back, knowing full well I wasn't hooking up with Matthew Broderick or Ally Sheedy.

"What did you have in mind?"

"I'll have all the lights out, but come into the open garage door. Be quiet because Mummy, she's  bedridden...but will be asleep upstairs. I'll be in the garage..and you come up behind me, admin..." said Beach Boy (who's older than me) in a throaty whisper that called to mind Watergate. 

I politely declined his inane idea, primarily because I'd never been to his place before and wandering into a dark open garage didn't sound wise when the residents have a private security patrol on duty.

Parking a few houses away, I hopped out of my car, was greeted by my 'date'. It seems he had converted the garage into his bedroom: ala either Keith on The Partridge Family or Greg on The Brady Bunch and a) was reminded how QUIET neighborhoods are at 2AM b) stunned by the framed and signed photo of Barbara Bush above the deep freeze, c) learned that Mummy was not bedridden, and d) was tossed out because my offer to be timekeeper and stop the play at 6AM was ignored and it was now 8AM and someone had to get to work.

You'd think I'd not invite disaster into my home, but I did. The incentive this time was a) he'd drive up to see me b) he would bring a friend (a cute friend) who was a phlebotomist c) I don't have a garage. 

They arrived and to my horror, Beach Boy looked as if his clothes (the few there were) had been through a shredder after an attack of moths. Since my building isn't on Tobacco Road and I have a doorman, camera security and NEIGHBORS, I was irritated. Clearly I had a Marie Antoinette-type who enjoyed playing with imagined peasants. I laid out house rules, most of which were broken within an hour. His Sidekick, I learned was indeed a phlebotomist but had no experience as an administrator : another lie exposed with a ‘sh*t-eating grin' that only blue bloods can pull off. 

Under my firm direction and gentle threats, Sidekick learned a new skill; using Beach Boy as the pincushion.  Tying Beach Boy down left me free to focus on my new student: who informed me he was a virgin under the watch of aliens. I offered to show his otherworldly masters how an typical Earth male fucks, but they didn't respond. Neither did he so I suggested breakfast. They declined, and I went by myself thinking they might get the hint and leave: Beach Boy being wealthy, theft was not a concern. 

I returned, finding to my dismay there were still there, but I'd popped into Goodwill and presented Beach Boy with Ralph Lauren flamingo pink shorts, a royal blue seersucker shirt with embroidered yellow whales and an orange ball cap and to wear out (best 4 bucks I've ever spent),.

But the fat lady hadn't sang. Somehow, the conversation veered to my long-deceased parents, their money and Beach Boy asking "why wasn't I given a private university education? "

His question was trivial, and my reaction unbecoming of a man orphaned at 12 and one walked away from Baylor University's Pre-Medical Studies to follow his own drummer.
My parting words to this stuck-up SOB? 
"At least I know how to dress when I go to the city to visit!" Ce que les mots cruel!

In my case, it was clearly was the drugs talking: that drug being Tylenol, to combat my headache.

For the record, I believe class is a state of mind, not one's financial position or zip code.

Thy Name is Trigger

Originally posted 4/11/2011 on another site in a different format

Situations can go so off-track one questions investing in a friendship beyond a hook up. If there's chemistry in the dungeon, shouldn't the same be true in the glare of daylight and reality? Last week, the script changed yet I was still reading the blue pages instead of the new goldenrod ones.

Across the canyon from Uncle Gustav are my other two uncles: Charley and Martin. They are a couple who aren't a couple, but look after each other in one of those spooky Cielo Drive-like ranch houses. The kind where you can hear ice rattling in pipes up and down the canyon....or maybe it's a blender creating a Rum Frappe next door. Charley and Marty wisely isolate their kink to the back 40 of their rambling acreage. A structure which originally served as a clubhouse in Our Gang comedies of the 30's has been rehabbed as the Treehouse of Iniquity with wall to wall leather, every possible restraint, probe and shackle available. It features Dr. Jekyll's Soda Fountain, which is a fully stocked bar, a room with costumes for a cast of thousands...and if you look close...tiny cameras tucked in every beam. You never play with both Uncles. You click with Charley: Marty's running video editing up at the house. You're making it with Marty: Uncle Charley's in post-production. I love them both and their approach to life in a twisted VistaVision and Stereophonic Sound meets Big Brother live feed way.

But one does not live solely for play sessions that start when the wolf bane blooms and the moon is full and bright. I was off to meet Uncle Charley in Beverly Hills for lunch, but that morning I had two house guests presumed in jail, and before I learned how to post bail, I cancelled lunch.  My message never made it to the Polo Lounge.

We rescheduled but getting my Uncles into clothing and back out of their compound ain't easy. Plan B was that I'd pick up lunch at a cafe near their place and help with some spring cleaning that originally was fall cleaning. I looked forward to it.

I'm about to leave, when I get an email from Uncle Charley arrives in my in-box. His third cousin, twice removed, had passed in Scottsdale, there's tons of film to edit and he's in hermit mode. Uncle Martin is there for him, as he always is. Charley wrote me that sex is ok...but not today. Marty mustn't be angered. Don't call us: we'll call you.

How buying lunch and cleaning closets morphed into Frisky Frolics prompted me to call Uncle Charley who reiterated his e-mail. I found this heartbreaking and then I got mad. After numerous nights of intelligent, non-sexual conversation, my Uncles: now viewed me as the Pied Piper of PNP and no more. With a finger pressing the ‘send' key,  I was written off their show.

It's a fatal flaw in cyberspace friendships that needs to be resolved: not objectifying each other as triggers, but as brothers in arms. Who better to seek advice from than a guy who's been there? I know the party mantra: ‘don't take it personally' ‘it's them, not you'.

That doesn't keep the sadness away, when one feels so very much alone and so very out of place.

With the Compassion of Sandpaper

 Originally posted 4/24/11 on another site


One part of my ‘re-booting' program: after sleeping, eating and popping vitamins, is reading. Think about it: you're replenishing the body, shouldn't the mind follow? (Nourishing the soul is a subject for another time).
I don't infer you attack The Wall Street Journal or Nietzsche in the original German either. As with most passions, I'm voracious....lists and phone directories give me a woody. As a writer and a human (yes, me) I get hot under the collar when the reporting is glaringly inept.

Granted, it was STAR magazine, and the unflattering Lindsay Lohan cover photo hooked me just as intended. I did not buy a copy, opting to read about LL in NEWSWEEK (now edited by Tina Brown, which shatters the illusion I'm a closet high-brow).
I've seen Ms. Lohan twice; at my breakfast hang-out during her lesbian period and looking frail, and last November, alighting from a car and looking fantabulous. I truly hope she recognizes her troubles as opportunities, since I empathize with her situation, and am about the same age as her so-called parents (an internet article entitled Dina Lohan Slammed by Producer made me curious as to cyanide's liquidity with saline or hot water).

My beef boils down to two quotes.  "She'll be an addict all her life," says the 'source' who got paid for his uncanny insight. Anyone who's been there and is addicted knows that addiction is a life-long battle so let's not demonize it.
As I often say, my addictions include Lipton iced tea, Tex-Mex dinners, Art Deco architecture, French bulldogs and...bad writing. (Kidding on the writing assessment)  Addiction is my cross to bear and how I do, or don't shoulder it well is my journey. The other pearl of wisdom I gleaned and I paraphrase, "Some days she's serious about her recovery, and other days not at all." I suppose that could mean LL, like all of us, has her ‘good days and bad days' which sounds a little more caring.

I was surfing Cam4 last Sunday and happened to land on a popular page...and noticed one half of a duo needed to be burped and put to bed.
The viewers were made up of two camps: clueless as to why he looked ‘as if he'd been drugged' and judgmental as only those with something to really hide can. I chimed in with an appeal for compassion, and promptly put myself in the hot seat.  WHY? I was asked. In a rare display of brevity I answered, "Why not?"

On the Fence of Abstinence

Originally posted 3/14/2011 on another site in a different format

I felt not unlike I was in that old movie Grand Hotel...the one with Garbo 'wanting to be alone'. Let me just say, come Friday night: I felt Garbo's pain. I had a real-time situation comedy/thriller/mistaken identity/runaway groom/sociopath story unfold before me.
My guests, uninvited guests and guest stars included: a doctor, nurse, an airline pilot turned telecommunications expert, a director, a newspaper man, a boot lover, a former trick, a houseboy, his boss, my crazy cousin, a waiter and my neighbors across the driveway: whom for 17 years never gave me much thought, but thanks to recent events, now host tailgate parties on their balconies at sundown.

It was also Mardi Gras, Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent. One might think it's time to reduce the drama, go within and not have my apartment known as the Hollywood Hilton A-Go-Go.

And you: gentle reader. Are you taking a break these next 40 days? The next 30? This next week? Break means a break. Not a scary end. It might mean a rest off the treadmill.

All breaks are good. Do not feel bad because you stopped for a week, and your buddy went two weeks. If you go on holiday, let people on your fave sites know you've gone, either by a profile change, emails...I for one worry if I don't see you around for an extended period.

In the interim, educate yourself. Here are three links I found interesting, though I have not read through them yet. I do not recommend these as accurate, false nor do I guarantee any statements presented as facts. I thought them good sites to visit.

BLUELIGHT is a forum for all types of discussions regarding all sorts of things. I appreciate their statement they have posted:  "Bluelight is monitored by various agencies". Think about that when next you post on Craigslist or Nasty Kink Pigs' pig board w/a phone number whining for illegal substances or situations  It's so unbelievable that people would do that: they must think we're all a  bunch of practical jokers.

Erowid is another resource I liked. I've uh..randomly selected the link to 'speed'. You'll get the myth, the mystique and the mistakes than can be made with meth.  Even a history. No mention of Hitler or Satan though. The Japanese in 1919 cooked up this concoction. Personally I'm more thankful for sushi. There is a great mantra at the end: Control drugs. Don't let them control you.

And last but not least (and if I find more links I will post them) The Partnership@Drugfree.org is like a Webster's Dictionary but not such complex reading that you need a medical license. It's user friendly with pictorials. Imagine if you ever went on Jeopardy! and the category was 'PNP'?  Brush up on your rush and be prepared.

WeHo "Unfriends" Friends of Bill W.

Originally posted 3/3/2011 

It was late November that I made loop upon loop on foot of Robertson Blvd: down to Melrose then back up to Santa Monica Boulevard. I was going to a ONE Institute photography exhibit yet didn’t bring the address because---- I'm stubborn.  The 600 block of Robertson is a short stretch of street, and jam packed with Bossa Nova cafe, The Abbey, the back of the dance club The Factory, West Hollywood Park, Christian Louboutin and other smart, chic boutiques. So, an art gallery should be easy. Not so.

As I made loop number 3, exchanging smiles with Lindsay Lohan as she stepped out of a snappy car (this was between court appearances) voila, there was a sign directing me left onto El Tovar
Place, and at the very end of the street, was a tiny sign marking the ONE Gallery.

I time-stepped up a short set of stairs and confronted with 4 doors, I marched straight ahead and into an acting class: whether it was Strasberg method or Meisner technique I wasn’t sure.  Wait! Not so.
On the blackboard in giant letters: CMA. Yowza! A crystal meth anonymous meeting. And the dirty looks began to fly my way.
I apologized, backed out and went to the door marked ONE Gallery, which was the size of Midtown Manhattan apartment's kitchen.

Investigating later, I learned this was the Werle Building: better known to everyone but me as the West Hollywood Recovery Center. Imagine a small office building made entirely up of  12-step programs A (alcoholics) to U (under-employed)

The Werle Building has been WHRC's  ‘temporary’ home of 8 years and it serves around 6,500 people a month. It's elegant and  discreet in its own way and an asset to the community.

Not for much longer. The WeHo City Council,  which has not been getting the best press for a year now, voted to tear down the Werle Building. The Werle butts up to WeHo Park and its demolition allows the City to expand the WeHo Library (much needed) and the ‘Tiny Tot’ Playground (no comment). This is not the first time WeHo has altered the park. A few years back, the baseball diamond gave way to parking.

The super bad news is that there is no relocation plan at the moment for the WHRC. None.  Where will those who depend on WHRC’s meetings go?

Tuesday is Election Day. If you are a registered voter in West Hollywood, I urge you to study each
candidate’s position and cast your vote with an informed mind. You may not miss something until it’s truly gone.

As they say on TV: “This is Topman California and I approve this message.’ Because I typed the damn thing

Yes, Virginia, the TITANIC Was Worse

 Originally posted 2/22/2011 on another site in a different format

Tonight on The Love-less Boat: A Valentine's Day voyage to the Virgin Islands turns frigid when 'love drugs', holier than thou drama queens and something called 'squeekers' are involved.
Guest Stars: Liza Minnelli, Ricky Nelson, Carrie Fisher, Richard Simmons, Nancy Reagan, Cyd Charisse,  Fernando Lamas, Tina Louise, Tina Cole and Tina Sinatra.

Sit right back and read these plot ingredients:
Celebrating their 20th Anniversary, Atlantis Cruises has chartered the Largest Cruise Ship in the World, Royal Caribbean's "Allure of the Seas' (how's that for camp) departing Florida for Nassau, St. Thomas and St. Croix. 
And I quote from Dan Howell's Travel Agency in Cincinnati "Unlike any cruise you've ever experienced!' 
And people criticize ME for writing over-the-top stories.

The U.S. Customs and Border Patrol joined the ill-fated voyage in St. Thomas. They arrested a passenger for drug possession, who promptly ratted...uh...relayed that he had paid for the dope in advance, and received them upon boarding. Sort of like 'reverse duty-free shopping".
The Feds searched the cabin of the alleged Party-Planner and found 3 grams of meth, 140 1/2 or so Ecstasy tablets, a vague amount of Ketamine, and ...hold on to your hats:
$51 thousand dollars in cash...and a money order for $960.
I don't condone violating international or domestic laws, excess greed, or flat out stupidity. I wince however, when lack of research causes a supplier to run out of the est sellers and then mark down overstocks. 'Luau Night! X tabs 2 for 1!'

What irritates me more than anything were some posts on this cruise on my old alma-mater THE ADVOCATE's website. Luckily there were an equal number of sensible rebuttals.
One reader stated he was 'horrified'. I imagine him to be a repressed prud who accidentally gets a taste of living. Then he turns up at the White Party dressed in scarlet red....smoking Djarums, and cussing.
Oh, and can any one tell me why THE ADVOCATE; reports of people outraged with tweakers now called squeekers'?

Not one to shy away from scandal but embrace it, : Atlantis announced they are returning next year, same time, same ship. I bet it's a sell out: 

I don't care for sequels. Remember  Beyond the Poseidon Adventure ?

And just for fun, here's one of my favorite The Love Boat intros.

Oliver Tweaked!

This blog originally appeared on another site in a slightly different format.


Southern California has this glamorous... yet entirely false reputation as having such an abundance of....resources, that you can get round the clock service from fiercely competitive vendors.

I was laughing about this, when "Who Will Buy?' from Oliver! started playing in the windmills of my mind. It's my least favorite of movie musicals I might add.

Granted, ‘who will buy this wonderful feeling and put it in a box for me?' is a request anyone would love actualized, but lyrics such as ‘I'm so high I swear I could fly' ? hmm.

I don't think roses, strawberries. milk or...knives ,as the spoken background would suggest, bone us up quite so fast as other chemically created options do

This muscial seems ripe for an adaptation into the party world.  A modernization...a bit of re-writing and uh...tweaking of the story. And not unprecedented. Rent was a Broadway hit is descended from opera's La Bohemė, written in the 1800's. 

Move the setting from dusty Victorian London to dazzling Los Angeles.  Refresh character names and welcome The Artful Slammer, Fag-in of course,  and Nancy Boy...whatever happened to lovely songstress Shani Wallis?

I dare you to watch the You Tube clip when you find yourself 'flying 'and not scream for mercy. (this is the ENTIRE 8:37 song.... with Hungarian subtitles no less). You have been warned.

Oliver! went on to receive the Academy Award for Best Picture of 1968. They truly don't make 'em like this anymore/

https://youtu.be/S6ul2FM4GZ8