April 2005 Archives
Yesterday I had a great day. After sharing at a 7:30 am meeting about my smoking woes and recommended some Nicotines’ Anonymous meetings, I took a long walk in Runyon Canyon Park and then did this and that until the early afternoon, when I met one of my oldest and dearest friends, Michael, visiting from New York. Michael is a very talented artist (do check out his political portraits at his website, michaelstewartfineart.com.), who has embarked on a new project of doing portraits of “real” people who have successfully weathered a great crisis of some sort. He takes pictures of them from which he will paint a portrait, which will be accompanied by audio from interviews he has conducted with them. He has chosen me as one of his subjects.
So we spent the afternoon taking pictures, and taping my story in bits of pieces, going up to Griffith Park to do so. Some of the photos looked pretty good, and we got a few usable sound bites as well. Afterwards I showed him around this part of town, then he took me to a Mexican restaurant for dinner, where we saw a girl throw up on the patio from too many margheritas (reminding me of why drinking is in my past.) Then I took him to a open AA meeting (he is a “normie” who gets sleepy after two glasses of wine) that he found very instructive and at times moving.
It was also helpful to be out of the house most of the day, for reasons that may seem a bit mysterious but can be inferred.
Today I will continue with this same strategy, as much as possible.
Michael is leaving this morning to drive across the country with a friend returning with him to New York. He and I have been buddies for 25 years, and it was simply wonderful to reconnect. He’d last visited during my active addiction, and had been quite concerned. It was great to feel us back in the same comfortable groove. We also share the dubious distinction of being the surviving duo of a large circle of friends who were killed by AIDS in the 80s and 90s (7 in one awful 14-month period, in fact, including Michael’s lover of 10 years). It’s sort of difficult to say we were the “lucky” ones under such circumstances. But as artists both who have something to say, perhaps our survival can at least mean something.
MCO 2005
My hypnosis was completely interesting, but I'm sorry to say, did not work. Within a few hours, I was overwhelmed by the intense desire to smoke. And I succumbed.
The good news (if you can call it that) is that I have never enjoyed cigarettes more, or felt such a relief from doing so.
Yes, it was, I think, stress-related. Changes on the domestic front are overdue, but fraught with difficulty.
Next stop, Nicotine Anonymous, I think.
MCO 2005
Boy, am I dumb sometimes.
Yesterday I returned from my morning meeting, and sidled right into a parking space under a sign that said “No Parking, Wednesday 10 am -12 pm.” It was 10:01. What did I do? Glanced at my watch and thought “well, I made it just in time.”
I haven’t done anything so mindless since I…well, never. It was like I was thinking in reverse or something. And I didn’t have an inch of wiggle room trying to rationalize, justify or even explain such a blatant brain fart. The only comfort I can take is that it’s the first parking ticket I have gotten in eons and eons, though the $45 it will cost me couldn’t have come at a worse time. It is a lesson in taking total responsibility for one’s actions, and accepting when one has been a stupidhead immediately and without hesistation.
The only thing I can think of is perhaps this means I shouldn’t go up this weekend to retrieve my dog, because $45 was a crucial part of my gas money to do so. Maybe the traffic goddesses are trying to keep me off the road this weekend. Since I do truly dislike long drives alone, I will probably make it contingent on whether a friend I’ve asked to come with me can make it.
Today I go to get hypnotized to quit smoking. Hopefully the next entry will be without a cancer stick burning beside the computer. And after the hypnotist is paid, my income should go up to the tune of $150 a month. Hopefully, none of that will go to the Department of Motor Vehicles for blond moments.
MCO 2005
The pic below is obviously a joke (I do hope the ones you think are funny get some circulation on the Internet), but this new statistic is not. One out of every 138 Americans is incarcerated, up from 1 in 140 two years ago.
This is much more than any other country in the world. It is insanity.
As for me, I have added a 7:30 am meeting to my regimen. It does wonders to combat morning anxiety,which still comes back from time to time, particularly when money is tight. (Big surprise there). And a little less sleep at night makes for a lovely afternoon nap.
Now for the comic relief.
Pardon my macabre sense of humor, I mean no disrepect to the hapless victims of the train wreck, but I couldn't help but match this picture to another headline in the newspaper.
As for me, I am discovering the degree to which is true the maxim (or did I make it up?): change thyself to change the world. Well, my world at least. Long story short, it means, for me, I just can't take the bait when it is dangled. If someone doesn't like my position on things, and I am secure that my position comes from a place of sanity and integrity, than they can simply not like it. I can't control their response, but I can control mine.
Despite how the above may sound, I'm actually having a good day. I've embarked on a edit of the blog, from the beginning, and yesterday tightened up the entry (a childhood memory piece) "Right and Wrong." It reads much better, for any newcomers to the blog, I invite a reading, and for oldcomers, a re-reading. (You must go into the archives though).
The edit is necessary, because in prison I was, of course, I was writing in first drafts, basically, although my poor sister might disagree, as what I sent her was often rife with arrows, cross-out, and insertions, not to mention often quasi-legible. It needed cleaning up. Once the edit is done, I will start shopping the blog to publishers. This should coincide with publication of my Pride Guide article, which will reach a huge audience, the first time ever in my life I will do so.
A friend also recommended I consider writing a play about my time inside, and I think it's a pretty good idea. Getting something produced in L.A., or anywhere, is no cakewalk, but is certainly easier than getting a movie made. (Maybe I'll produce it in the Netherlands! Thanks no doubt to my friend Moni, I have a fairly large following there! Quick, how do you say "Thanks" in Dutch!)
MCO 2005
The last day of the CMA conference was absolutely mind-blowing. I can't remember having been in the midst of so much love, support, humor, gratitude and renewal, ever, really.
It almost feels blasphemous to share the following news item with you, but if I don't write the captions, who will?
One of the joys of the Program, is that if you love the theater, you have the best tickets in the house, every night. About half of the time, at least, the speaker’s story is as good as most one-act plays, full of pathos, hair-raising plot turns and a giant dollop of redemption, all burnished with the authenticity of truth. About 10% of the time, it is as good as a hit Broadway show, one that you’d pay $100 to see. And about 1% of the time, it’s like one of those shows that you remember and talk about for years, sidesplittingly funny and extremely moving, that garners a standing ovation.
Last night was such a night. If it weren’t for the tradition of anonymity, this young woman’s show would be taped, and an HBO special worthy of Chris Rock or Robin Williams, I would put it up against anybody’s. It was even better, because there was no meanness to it, and the one or two dramatic turns that were devoid of artifice or cheap sentiment, being completely grounded in the truth of her experience.
I might add that being a convention, the organizers took pains to find really bang-up speakers, including those for the meeting and workshops, which have had no weak links, from all reports and from my experience of the ones I’ve attended. Today I am going to the M.C.C. Church at 11, and then will return to the conference. The raffle drawing is at 2:30 and I am hoping my $5 worth of tickets lands me one of the not-too-shabby gifts.
In other news, I had a long, tendentious phone call from Hot-Air Balloon. I don’t feel comfortable characterizing his stances or accusations. Suffice to say, I give up.
And the roommate looks to be sticking to his non-smoking commitment. 30 years of cigarettes, and boom, like that he stops. I’m actually quite impressed, and a bit shamed. Whatever it takes…
MCO 2005
This will be an interesting weekend. I went to the opening meeting of a CMA convention last night (though its not really big like most conventions, maybe there will be about 500 participants), heard a wonderful speaker and realized how many people I’ve come to know in so short a time. I can't tell you what a great spirit of camaraderie, hopefulness and gratitude pervades the crowd. Sobriety is like the Canadian Health Care System. There are problems, but no one wants to go back to the way things used to be. Relapse is a constant specter, but almost everyone who does comes right back in the rooms.
I am volunteering later today at the registration table. This is an ideal way to flirt subtly, under the guise of being of service. Hey, I’m not going to pretend I have no ulterior motives.
Meanwhile the roommate and I are babysitting a friend’s sweet little dog for the weekend. It is rather a pleasure, I suspect I will be up at my brother’s sooner rather than later to retrieve my sweet Gaza. It is the reward I will give myself for quitting smoking. (Which will be so much easier as my roommate seems truly committed to it. Good for him. He’s been making enormous strides all around, and living with him has become much easier.)
MCO 2005
I invite you to come up with a name for this map. The winner gets...you tell me what you want, I'm flexible.
I'm off to babysit for the ex-wife in the law firm, so this will be short.
Two tidbits. My roommate grandly announced yesterday he decided to quit smoking. Which is sort of amazing (if it sticks). It will certainly make it easier for me to take the plunge, which I intend to do on the 28th, when I see the hypnotist.
And I found a steel bed frame, on the street, in perfect condition. I put my air mattress on it, and it works quite dandily.
Oh three bits, I also worked on an artpiece that I like very much, and will post pix of when they are developed.
This weekend is a CMA (Crystal Meth Anonymous) convention, in West Hollywood, and should prove very interesting. (Yesterday I got a phone call from Hot Air Balloon, who has been in the hospital for several days. How to proceed in his regard is a quandary. I want to help, but I have to maintain boundaries on this one.)
MCO 2005
Last night I went to a meeting in which we read from the Big Book of Alcoholics’ Anonymous, a passage concerning the 12th and last step, which involves carrying the message of the program to those that are still suffering.
As the book was written in the 30s and 40s, some of it can be quite dated. This chapter, in particular seemed extraordinarily current, but only if one changes the references to alchohol with hard drugs. For the first time I realized how unaccidental it was that AA arose almost immediately after the end of Prohibition. I think not because liquor was suddenly legal and available, but because the epidemic of alcoholism itself burgeoned as a result of the attempt to illegalize it itself.
The taboo that was created by Prohibition not only glamorized alcohol by forbidding it, but created a criminal culture around its consumption. Millions who might have otherwise not drank were attracted to alcohol for the sheer fact that it was taboo, and millions found a way to make quick money from its manufacture and sale. The entire legal system was stretched to the breaking point, and its use so saturated the populace that eventually it was recognized that its prohibition did little or nothing to curtail its use, but created a host of difficulties and expense that made the cure worse than the disease.
Alcoholism remains a terrific problem of course, but per capita consumption eventually decreased on its own. Millions of people are employed legally from its manufacture and sale, taxes on it fill government coffers, and almost everyone who wants treatment can get it. Alcoholism is recognized as a public health problem, and alcoholics are much more likely to get help because the stigma around it has been reduced.
Make no mistake about it, I think meth and cocaine and herioin are bad drugs, and should, ideally, be abstained from. But keeping it illegal is doing little to impact consumption, and sending hundreds of thousands into the court and jail system (making innocent victims of their families) while the secrecy around its use inhibits hundreds and thousands of recognizing their problem and seeking treatment for it. This prohibition isn’t working any better than the last one, and the War on Drugs is every bit as insane as the abuse of the drugs itself.
For Heaven’s sake, tobacco use kills far more than both alcohol and drugs combined, and it’s legal! There is no logic to this system!
What would be logical is for me to have my three pending visits to the hypnotist to quit smoking covered by insurance, though...
MCO 2005
I don't have anything particularly zingy to share today, so I'm posting one of those things I got via email that is definitely food for thought,
Question 1:
If you knew a woman who was pregnant, who had 8 kids already, three who were deaf, two who were blind, one mentally retarded, and she had syphilis,would you recommend that she have an abortion?
Read the next question before looking at the response for this one.
Question 2:
It is time to elect a new world leader, and only your vote counts.
Here are the facts about the three candidates.
Candidate A.
Associates with crooked politicians, and consults with astrologist. He's had two mistresses. He also chain smokes and drinks 8 to 10 martinis a day.
Candidate B.
He was kicked out of office twice, sleeps until noon, used opium in college and drinks a quart of whiskey every evening.
Candidate C.
He is a decorated war hero. He's a vegetarian, doesn't smoke, drinks an occasional beer and never cheated on his wife.
Which of these candidates would be your choice? Decide first... no peeking, then scroll down for the response.
Candidate A is Franklin D. Roosevelt.
Candidate B is Winston Churchill.
Candidate C is Adolph Hitler.
And, by the way, on your answer to the abortion question: If you said YES, you just killed Beethoven.
Pretty interesting isn't it? Makes a person think before judging someone.
Wait till you see the end of this note! Keep reading...
Never be afraid to try something new.
Remember: Amateurs...built the ark.
Professionals...built the Titanic
And Finally, can you imagine working for a company that has a little more than 500 employees and has the following statistics:
* 29 have been accused of spousal abuse
* 7 have been arrested for fraud
* 19 have been accused of writing bad checks
* 117 have directly or indirectly bankrupted at least 2 businesses
* 3 have done time for assault
* 71 cannot get a credit card due to bad credit
* 14 have been arrested on drug-related charges
* 8 have been arrested for shoplifting
* 21 are currently defendants in lawsuits
* 84 have been arrested for drunk driving in the last year...
Can you guess which organization this is?
Give up yet?
It's the 535 members of the United States Congress. The same group that crank out hundreds of new laws each year designed to keep the rest of us in line.
MCO 2005
Follow this link if you care to read the latest Being Alive article,
Well they’ve chosen a new Pope. Probably the oldest, most conservative candidate of the lot.
Am I alone in noting how incredibly similar this whole process was to that in which the Soviet Politburo would convene, in secret, to choose a new Premier? No white smoke and bells, perhaps, but a virtual coronation on the balcony of a great square, replete with gathered crowds there much more for the theater than because they truly believe that the choice of dear leader will make any concrete difference in their lives.
I do not expect, any more that anybody, that the church will come into the 21st century (hell, the 20th century) on the issues of contraception, priestly celibacy and marriage, the ordination of women, homosexuality, etc. There is, moreover, litte real pressure to do so, except among the withering European constituency. Where the church is strong or growing, in the developing world, there is virtually no pressure for liberalization on these issues. Rather the contrary. Which is why the fear of making the Church a democratic institution is exaggerated at best.
Democracy has been around even longer than the Catholic Church, even if in ancient Greece it was largely restricted to landowning men. But with the fall of communism, and the spread of popular democratic movements worldwide, it seems to me that altering the power structure of the church so that the power comes up, from its adherents (who finance the whole shebang after all) is long overdue.
What we have witnessed today is nothing less that the choosing of a virtual dictator by a small group of the already powerful. Though I may be excommunicated for saying so (although I think the deal is pretty much done in that regard) Jesus himself derived his extraordinary influence from the faith of his flock, not any divine anointment. What sort of conception of God is it that places more weight in a monarchical paradigm than in a democratic one?
Well, you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs. I predict we will witness the reign of Eggs Benedict XVI. The Church will have to become democratic, or it will break up under the weight of its own intransigence in the face of one of history’s great movements.
MCO 2005
Suburbia has one defining quality to it. Appearance takes on a great deal of importance. Every family wants to appear as “normal” as possible, and of course, it is all illusion. Almost by definition, there is no such thing as “normal.” Scratch the surface, and there is always drama and dysfunction behind the colonial and tudor façades.
In the 60s, the illusion of normalcy was even more treasured than it is now. When we settled in Rockville, Maryland, in 1963, all around us were young, nuclear families who kept their lawns groomed, and went to the PTA and country clubs. Inside the closets of the lovely houses, of course, were plenty of skeletons. But it took years to see in that far, if at all. Most of the families moved out before their neighbors could penetrate farther than the layer of muscle below the skin that protected their secrets. But over the years, fairly interesting information could be gleaned, that no doubt came to the surface in the 70s, when the advent of the sexual revolution and Phil Donahue shed light on the less wondrous aspects of the Wonder Years.
There were the Fellows, who lived next door to us. Marcelle, the wife, was French, like my mother. She was a war bride married to a CIA officer, with one son, a gifted pianist. She had clearly wanted a daughter as well, and practically adopted my little sister.
The Walls, on the other side of us, were an older childless couple. We would go to see the Mrs. Wall’s pet skunk, which was really a hand puppet she maneuvered from the corner of a box.
The Walls however, were obsessed with their lawn. In this pre-pooper scooper era, when neighborhood dogs got out and relieved themselves on the Wall’s lawn, the owner would be required to remove the offending excrement with a shovel. My parents would comply, like everybody else, but note wryly that manure was an excellent fertilizer. Eventually we would train our dogs to poop right at the edge of our property. It would drive the Walls crazy, almost as crazy as when my parents skinny-dipped in our pool at night. We had erected a fence for privacy, that Mrs. Wall could be seen trying to peer over with binoculars.
There were the Renauds, two doors down. Dennis, the eldest, suffered from cerebral palsy, and had a bad time of it perpetually dealing with the assumption of the other kids that he was actually retarded. His little brother, David, suffered even worse from the taunts.
The Karshs, across the street, were Jewish, and Lynn, their beautiful daughter, would ride her bike up and down the street on the high holy days. We resented her for not having to go to school those days.
The Timmons, next to the Karshs, had two adopted twin sons, Scott and Bruce, who both had a fetish the eventually caused a scandal. They would pay the neighborhood kids a nickel for the privilege of “SSS, “ which stood for Smelling Shoes and Socks.
The Joneses, up the block, were no family to keep up with. They had 9 kids, all of whom slept in a communal basement room, with lockers to store their clothes. I was only in their house once, the first time I witnessed plastic slip covers still on the furniture. This seemed at once logical and ridiculous to me, and my parents explained that not all families were like us, who had a living room that was decidedly for living. Mr. Jones often bought out the belt and used it for discipline on his unruly brood, and his kids were unsurprisingly afraid of him, as was I.
I abhorred violence, even as a child. I could not understand why boys beat up on each other, because it hurt. But I loved theater, and both my brother and I had an odd propensity to get nosebleeds, for no obvious reason. When I got a bloody nose, we would arrange for me be held by another kid, while yet another kid would pretend to beat me up. As soon as a motorist would drive by, the mock assault would cease, and all the kids would scatter. The alarmed driver would get out of his car, and I would wave him off, insisting that I was okay.
Later on, in Junior High, whenever we had a substitute, I would wrap a belt around my arm, pretending to shoot up with a pencil. As soon as the sub walked in, I would quickly undo my pretend tourniquet, and put my belt back on. The poor sub. But considering soon after, instead of nodding off, I had my hand up to answer every question, I assume the sub figured out I was just playing the fool.
Two doors down from the Joneses were the Windogradofs. Now they were an odd lot. First of all, they were English, so the two kids, Betsy and Colin, “talked funny.” And second, no one quite knew what the story was with the absent Mrs. Windogradof. Rumors flew that she lived in England, or that she was in an insane asylum. The children lived with their father, who was seen rarely, himself. I have a vague memory of him watering the lawn rather gruffly , shooing me away with a European accent, I assume Russian.
Betsy Windogradof, who was about 13, I remember as always being pissed off, as was Wendy Wyrick, her best friend across the street. The Wyricks hailed from rural West Virginia, and their roots still showed. In fact, Mrs. Wyrick, speaking with an Applachian drawl, once recommended I could get rid of a wart on my arm by burying a tomato in the back yard under a full moon and then, after three days, rubbing it on the wart. Once again, my parents had to explain to me that other families were a bit different from my own. (My mother’s solution to the wart was the same as she later had to the grievous acne that besieged her younger 4 kids when they hit adolescence. “It will go away on its own,” and of course she was right. Antibotics were not used wily-nily in my house for every affliction, my mother had a prescient fear of later resistance.)
Betsy Windogradof and Wendy Wyrick were the closest we had in the neighborhood to tough girls. Once they tied up poor Diane Nichols in a treehouse for an afternoon, and roughed her up as they dragged her home before dinner. I remember seeing it, and being horrified.
Betsy also had no trouble using the word “fuck” and this fascinated me, as I had absolutely no idea what it meant. It was somehow inconceivable that I should ask any of my siblings, or God forbid, my parents. This made little sense, as my parents prided themselves on being the type of parents a child could come to to ask anything. But like all kids, I guess, I was uncomfortable with discussing anything taboo with them. In fact, once I discovered a paperback, “What To Tell Your Kids About Sex” in a bookcase. I furtively looked through it, unable to garner the information I desperately wanted to know. I understood what happened after a man’s seed was deposited in the woman, what I didn’t get, and was never told me either by my parents or anyone else, was that the man had to get an erection first and then rub his penis back and forth in the vagina until he ejaculated (whatever that meant.) I think I was 13 before I finally understood the nuts and bolts of it, and only by piecing it together after discovering masturbation on my own.
When I heard footsteps, I quickly put the “What to Tell…” primer behind a bookcase, where it was discovered years later during a spring cleaning. My mother exclaimed “Well here it is! I have been looking for this for years! We had bought it so you kids could read it if you were too embarrassed to speak to us about sex!” And I had thought if I had been caught perusing it, it would have been snatched from my hands and I would have been sent to my room, or worse. Which in itself was ridiculous, because I was never sent to my room, and spanked only once, an act for which my father apologized years later. (I barely remembered it). All my mother ever had to do to discipline any of us was give a disapproving look, and at worse, a short talk. I swear to you this is true. The mere threat of even a temporary withdrawal of affection was more than enough to guarantee amazingly good behavior from all of her 5 children.
Anyway, I finally resolved to ask Betsy Windogradof what “fuck” meant. She hesitated, unsure whether to reveal this valuable bit of information to a mere 7 ½ year old. I pressed her, and she finally came up with an acceptable compromise. She told me: “It’s the worst thing one person can do to another.” What this says about why her mother was AWOL and possibly in an institution is anybody’s guess, but it left me pondering what the worse thing was that one person can do to another, short of murder.
So for a few years, I thought to “fuck” mean to pull down someone’s pants and throw them in the creek.
Betsy’s little brother, Colin, was my age. He was distinguished by one of those perpetually runny noses, and a tendency to mumble. No doubt he had been burned too many times for “talking funny” (as I was later when we moved to New York and the kids would ask me to say “coffee” and then scream uncontrollably when I said “cah-fee” instead of “caw-fee”).
When my ever perceptive mother threw me an 8th birthday party, she insisted I invite Colin. I didn’t want to, but she would have none of it. She felt for the poor, motherless boy who mumbled. She knew how painful his life must have been for him.
When the presents were opened, one of them was a toy gun, from Mike Lewis, my nominal “best friend” from right across the street. My mother let us play with it for that afternoon only, as she didn’t want to embarrass Mike and reinforce rumors about the crazy Olmsteds (To give you an idea of why we were so designated, when we kids were asked to supply canned goods to school for a survival stash in the event of a nuclear attack, my parents had scrawled “INSANE” on the mimeographed sheet, and sent that back with us to hand in instead.) I remember being cold-cocked by the gun while we played, and it hurt so much I didn’t argue when my mother took it away and disposed of it forever.
Colin gave me a book, and apologized profusely, in his mumbly way, for such an unmanly gift, although I’m quite sure that wasn’t how he expressed it. The funny thing is, it’s the only other gift beside the gun I remember getting for that birthday, and when everyone went home, I curled up with it. I can’t remember now what the book was, but I loved it, even if I couldn’t let any of the neighborhood boys know.
Thus was born a life-long love of books, and a life-long fear of guns. What strikes me, years later, is how much more often, at exactly the same age, precisely the opposite dynamic is born in so many boys.
I ache for all those parents who much raise their kids in this world where the end of innocence is almost a guarantee at the same age where mine was prolonged. I was able to stay in a bubble of a protected childhood so much longer than any child can today.
Oh, we Olmsteds had our skeletons all right. But they stayed in the closet until I was old enough to understand them. But during that magic time before 1968, we had Gilligan’s Island to explain things like millionaires and movie stars to us, not Playstations and VH-1 to assault our tender senses with unambiguous depictions of gratuitous sex and violence.
And I wonder whatever happened to poor Colin. I wonder, even more, who bought the book for him to give to me? Mr. Windogradof was probably a sweetheart who adored his children and was in more pain than we can imagine about his absent wife.
How sad Colin felt he had to apologize to me for the book, and even sadder that I couldn’t tell him that I liked his gift best of all.
MCO 2005
Well, the service I attended, at MCC Church in West Hollywood, was glorious. I was completely unprepared for how moved I would be, literally from the moment I sat down. I must have bawled through 75% of it. The music was wonderful, the people were wonderful, the pastor, Rev. Neil Shelton, was brilliant and charismatic.
I supposed that one of the reasons I had rejected the church was that I felt rejected by the Church. This was a place of total acceptance and love. It felt like the brand of Christianity intended by Christ himself. The kind of services my own mom seemed to search for back in my adolescence, and could never find. I will happily attend again next Sunday.
I invited my -ex, the recent widower, D. to come with me. But I had missed him. It turned out he had gone to another service of a Gay Episcopal Congregation. And neither of us had spoken about it yesterday, nor had either of us felt compelled to go to church in years and years. Isn't that interesting? (He'll join me next week, his service was a bit "frumpy.")
But he joined me for a Sunday stroll through the flea market, where I got $5 sunglasses and an $8 French-English dictionary (big and fat) that I desperately needed for my subtitling work. Afterwards we retired to his place, where he made me lunch and we watched De-Lovely on his big screen TV. What a great flic for a Sunday afternoon. I swear, I was there in New York, in the 40's, in a previous life. The nice thing about David, is that since we were together for 5 years, hanging out again is like finding an old pair of slippers that fit perfectly. And I had long since assumed that I had lost his friendship to marriage, as he had assumed he'd lost mine to meth.
Now a Sunday night meeting, the perfect ending to a great day. I do so enjoy when I completely surprise myself, and today, I surprised myself.
MCO 2005
I woke up with the oddest (for me) desire to go to Church this morning. To be sure, a heavily gay Unitarian-type congregation that has nothing to do with the masses of my childhood. I am tempted to succumb to the impulse, if only because I’ve learned not to ignore these things. It could be I am being summoned by the need to hear something, and I won’t know what that something is until I hear it. (Or who it is until I see him.)
Yesterday I went to lunch with my recently widowed friend, D. Boy, his lover made quite a mess by dying intestate. By not signing a set of papers already drawn up delineating how much and what he wanted D. to inherit, everything technically goes to the mother, and she is proposing treating D. like one of his lover’s siblings, not his spouse. While this may seem generous, just imagine if D. had been his wife, instead of “friend.” No one would challenge for a moment a wife’s automatic inheritance.
There is more to say about this, but it feels a bit invasive of his privacy, even with the use of initials. D. must now get a lawyer, and I imagine things might devolve into acrimonious litigation. Not surprising, considering a rather large estate is in play.
Happy Sunday to all.
MCO 2005
I must say that this first subtitling work is one of the coolest gigs I’ve ever had. It was very, very challenging, but really stimulating. And I just can’t wait to tell people this is what my “day job” is. It comes out to about $25 an hour, and the next ones I should do faster, as I get the hang of it, so will make even more money. I may have to start sporting a beret and smoking Gauloises, just for effect.
And I can hear a collective sigh of relief that the Pope is finally buried and the Michael Jackson trial can now resume its rightful place at the head of the news. I am personally of the opinion that celebrities with a great deal of money should be able to buy their way out of these things, provided that the money goes to build health clinics for poor children or somesuch. Prison is such a waste of resources.
The only winners in this legal system are the lawyers.
And those are my two cents.
MCO 2005
Last night I went to a meeting (in a stunning Pacific Palisades manse) of an organization called “Bioneers.” Their mission is not easily encapsulated, so I will quote directly from the back of a CD that was given to the those new to the group. “Founded in 1990, Bioneers/Collective Heritage Institute is a nonprofit organization that promotes practical environmental solutions and innovative world strategies for restoring the Earth and its communities. Our mission is accomplished through one of the largest annual environmental conferences, satellite conferences across North America, a youth initiative, our radio and book series, and other strategic communications.”
It is hard to describe what I felt listening to the speakers, including Kenny Ausubel, Bioneers’ founder, and Nina Simons, its co-Executive Director. These are visionary people who are intent on transforming the world. They are doing so not by reinventing the wheel, but by facilitating the work of innovators the world over already engaged in its transformation, by imitating the work of nature on a large social scale. They are committed to creating synergies between the tree-planters and the ocean-preservers, the rain-forest restorers and those using fungi to clean up toxic wastes, the Born into Brothels set and the grass-roots democratic organizers in third-world countries. They are engaged in the work of cross-pollination of progressive efforts over the globe, so that those who have been laboring so hard and long on individual or isolated efforts link up, work together, and create far-reaching and sometimes brilliantly simple synergies to transform the world. Some examples of the local work facilitated by Bioneers include the ground-breaking TreePeople, which is literally “greening” Los Angeles, and Books Not Bars, which is devoted to educating instead of incarcerating youth, among many, many others.
The list of efforts under the Bioneers umbrella is too wide-ranging to replicate here, so I urge you to visit their website, Bioneers.org. They recognize the dire state of the world, while refusing to believe that it is not too late to bring us back from the brink. They are committed to recognizing that the Environment is now a global issue that must take center stage, but more as a context for wider global transformation than as a single issue focus. This was brought home to me by an article in the New York Times yesterday describing large-scale riots in China over factory pollution, where “feeble old women” were reported planting themselves in front of police vehicles in protest (several were killed). The degradation of the environment is about to take center stage on the world political scene, if this energy is not harnessed productively, the political consequences will be severe and bring colossal upheaval to the status quo. We must pay attention, and we must take action.
Kenny pointed out that scientists are discovering that ecosystems don’t, in fact, slowly degrade over time, but often “flip” much faster, and more severely, than previously thought. At the same time he shared that nature can regenerate and recover much more efficiently and faster than previously thought, the key is that we imitate its workings, (“biomimicry” and “green chemistry” are two extremely exciting new fields that are about to become familiar to the world), not that we impose man’s feeble technological, “non-natural” solutions onto the far smarter and more adaptable knowings of nature.
How do I fit in to all of this? I’m not sure exactly, though I networked after the meeting, hoping that somehow my writing can play a role. I discovered that Bioneers does not post a blog, and suggested, to a receptive audience, that they start one. Gee, I wonder who could write it?
Step one, however, is to spread the word to my modest but global readership. (No kidding, I get hits from every continent, every day). Do look into the work of Bioneers and consider getting involved. If nothing else, they are an antidote to the inevitable depression over the current state of politics in the country. Progressive people can reach towards each other to spread the light during the dark ages we are living through.
MCO 2005
Last night my sponsor told me about a “great” meeting for ex-New Yorkers, and I skedaddled over, amazed that there was a cool (I assumed) gay meeting I hadn’t heard about.. No wonder I hadn’t heard about, it wasn’t gay at all, (Dorothy). I even told them they had a “fascinating subculture” which got a big laugh. To be honest, gay AA is so huge here we often forget there is any other kind. And most of “straight” A.A., no doubt, has only the a vague sense, if any, that there exists a parallel universe to theirs.
I also shared my growing awareness that I am as much in the grips of co-dependency as of addiction. I think this stems from the fact that I am overwhelmingly the son of my completely non-alcoholic mother, personality-wise, and feel like I inherited little from my father except for the physical, chief among those traits being a hairy chest and an alcoholic gene. With sobriety, I don’t experience much of the “ism” of alcoholism, those sets of personality traits that seem to occur in spades in most alcoholics but I don’t see very strongly in myself. But I do have to deal with these traits (a blame-the-world-first self-centeredness, for example) on a daily basis in those around me in and out of recovery. Hence my strong identification with Alanon. But in either case, it’s all about managing my relationship with alcoholism and addiction, whether in myself or in others, and the 12-steps we are given as tools to do so apply across the board.
I started my subtitling work, and enjoy it very much. However, this particular project is extremely challenging, as it is an unscripted interview. The interviewee speaks off the cuff, in the way the people speak in real life. It’s full of tangents, repetitions, unfinished thoughts and self-interruptions. It makes for slow going, and I will have to be at it all day to get it done in time.
A quality problem, to be sure. (And I filed my taxes yesterday and am getting a refund! Hooray!)
MCO 2005
Parking around here is a bitch. (I will eventually get a place at the building, but must work my way up the ladder. There are 16 spaces for 24 tenants). This results in a situation where 90% of the time I remember where I parked my car, and 10% of the time I can’t remember for the life of me where I parked it, and it results in a mini-heart attack and a considerable amount of walking, as I am sure, that this time is has been stolen or towed. I am happy to report I have been wrong every time, I haven’t even gotten a parking ticket.
On the one hand it makes me feel stupid, and old before my time. On the other hand, each time I find it just as I am about to give up, I feel such relief that it is like an instant anti-depressant. (“Lord, if you just let me find me car, I will never complain about anything again,” I pray. And I find it, but invariably only after I completely accept that it is indeed gone,)
So I’m not complaining.
Particularly as today I get to play oh-so-cool subtitler. Last night, by the way, I saw a French film called “The Story of My Life” (Trahisons et Mensonges…) Very very funny, and screaming to be remade into English. Interestingly enough, the director, who discussed the film in a question-and-answer period afterward (this was a screening at the Director’s Guild, thank-you-very-much) answered my question as to whether he thought we were witnessing a “globalization of humor” by saying he was considered to have a very “Anglo-Saxon” sense humor. I certainly have to say that it was the most “American” French comedy I have ever seen.
MCO 2005.
I got my first assignment for the subtitling job! An hour-long documentary. I’m going to the valley as soon as my car is finished getting repaired to pick it up, and will be hard at work on it until Friday, when it’s due.
What a good feeling, to be making some honest money doing something I enjoy doing that has some socially redeeming value.
This is going to be a really great year.
MCO 2005
Some days (and nights) it bears reminding oneself that the opposite of love is not hate, but fear. And when you are at the receiving end of clearly irrational anger, you are often witnessing a great deal of fear. Sometimes the only sane response to that kind of anger (fear) is silence, because any attempt to respond rationally to irrationality is not even heard.
Oh no, I hear you thinking, he’s being cryptic again. Sometimes the details of situation obscure their true meaning in any event.
Anyway, Mercury goes direct today, so let’s hope communication gets back to smoother plateau.
I did go to the flea market yesterday with my sponsor, and had a great time. Got some wonderful old postcards for $2.00, and somehow or another, they will find themselves into an artpiece. Meanwhile I must attend to some pedestrian tasks today, thankful for the distraction of littlee things that need doing.
The sweetest red-haired old lady crossed my path yesterday, and looked up at me with the most adorable smile imaginable. I don’t know why it affected me so, but here’s to sweet old ladies.
MCO 2005
Here's me, a pic taken yesterday during a comfy moment at an exhibit at USC called "Insatiable Desires."
Indeed.
Last night, there was drama. I don't feel comfortable being specific, suffice to say I feel like a matador who got out of the way just before the bull charged.
The Latin reference is apt, as at the exhibit there was also a charming performance of Mexican children doing folk dance. Notice the adorable "Tres Senoritas" photo Ileana took.
It looks, unfortunately, like I must take a few steps back and forgo an emotional involvement with HAB. He's a wonderful guy, but very shaky in his sobriety. To his credit, he is very honest about it. And I don't feel good about not being able to be there for him, but the risk is to great to me to invest myself emotionally in someone who seems very close to going "out there" again.
Addiction kills. Sometimes it kills slowly, sometimes it kills fast. In his case, given his past, it could lead to the latter route. And I simply can't risk falling for someone who might very well die on me.
I wish I was being melodramatic, but I'm not.
I'm also not depressed. It was only a week, but what a week. So much fun, I can't tell you. Nothing can take that experience away from me.
Such a beautiful man. I do hope he finds the relief from addiction I have found, but must be very protective of.
MCO 2005
I am going to call my new honey HAB, for “Hot Air Balloon.” As I have said before, I have been around the block too many times (in fact, I designed the block) not to proceed with extreme caution, but I can report that the phrase “head over heels” would pretty much apply in this situation.
It also is bringing up a lot around the ethics of blogging. I think the attraction to this blog in particular has been the high degree of honesty, but who wants to read about their relationship with the blogger reported on a daily basis? When things are going well, sure, but what about when there are the inevitable bumps in the road?
It also makes me wonder what, exactly, people like reading about, and to what degree, if at all, I should cater to those desires. My readership numbers swing wildly, and I have no idea whether blogging every day is blogging too much or not. Does anyone have the time to keep up with it all? Why should anyone care in particular about what goes on in my life? Was the prison stuff far more compelling than my daily life on the outside? What do other people blog about? If I’m not reading them, why should expect for them to read me? Is the political stuff more interesting than the personal stuff? Should I go back to prison to write more fascinating material? (JUST KIDDING).
I would appreciate if some of you can email me and let me know of some of the more interesting blogs you follow apart from my own. And no, do not write me and tell me “it bores me to hear about…” but do let me know when a particular entry, or faux-foto op, tickles your funny bone or makes you want more of the same.
I had some very intense dreams last night, from which I garnered the following lesson: Everyone should first take responsibility for their own happiness, and then try to make others happy. As they say in the program, you can give away what you don’t have.
MCO 2005
The Hot Air Ballon was miraculously repaired before hitting the ground, and is very pleasantly aloft again.
More later.
MCO 2005
April 5, 2005
Oh well, sometimes love is just a 48-hour virus. The ascent is steep and heady, the descent is instant and vertiginous. Like a hot air balloon that gets struck by lightning. (Which reminds me, I must write the story of my great Uncle, Lt. Robb Olmsted, who died just so in 1923 and got an Air Force Base in Pennsylvania named after him.) But, as Countess de Farge says in “The Women,” (on the train to Reno, ) “L’amour, toujours l’amour!” No harm done, really. Thank heavens I never named the child.
I must be off to make some bucks babysitting the ex-wife. More tonight, perhaps.
The Pope is still dead.
MCO 2005
Well the Pope is getting buried Friday. And isn't that also the day Prince Charles and Camilla Parker-Bowles are supposed to tie the knot? Holy Bad Timing! One can only imagine the ghost of Lady Di having a good giggle (along with the Queen, no doubt, if she is capable if giggling.)
Meanwhile, back in Hollywood, your eminence had a wonderful day with a man who shall remain anonymous for the time being. I am superstitious about these things, sort of like a poor African woman who won't name her child until he looks like he's going to survive. Suffice to say that the dose of attention and affection is like water on the desert. and is completely mutual. Lucky me. But, as in all things, one day at a time.
It also looks like I'm going to get paid for that Pride Guide article earlier than expected. This bit of good news could not be better timed, as the bills are barking like dogs in a kennel. And my new article in Being Alive is just out. I will pick up a few copies today, and post the link as soon as it is available.
Enough about me, how about you?
MCO 2005
Am I the only one to notice the resemblance?
Meanwhile, I'm told I have a startling resemblance to Chris Kattan of Saturday Night Live. Don't have time to find appropriate shots, (there is some truth to it, in my view) as I am off to have breakfast with Mr. New Very Handsome Trouble with a Capital T.
MCO 2005
April 2, 2005
Well at 84, and after a distinguished life of service, Frank Perdue finally died.
I went to my weekly Alanon meeting today, and this priceless tidbit was shared. A woman told of being raised by the owner of a bar, and when the kids went to the beach, for floating devices they had giant blow-up plastic bottles of Jim Beam. What an image.
Yesterday I confirmed with the head of the subtitling agency that I am on her short list to caption one of the next projects (from French to English). $4 per minute of film, which is decent money if you can work fast. Hell, at this stage, any money is decent money. I’ll thankfully be returning to babysit the wife at the law firm next week. After doing so yesterday, I passed a cinema showing the new French hit, “Look at Me.” I took a chance and the movie was just starting, and at the cheap matinee price. I recommend it.
And then last night at a meeting I met someone with whom there was clearly "chemistry." Finally. We were going to do something this afternoon, but when he called, he was in a “bad place,” and though I did my best to reassure him he could just vent all he wanted, he almost seemed intent on scaring me away. Oh well, better now than if I’ve already emotionally invested. It was nice to just connect with someone though. We all need validation, n’est-ce pas?
Off to the 99 cents store, my home away from home.
MCO 2005
This was sent to me by my cousin. It is so hysterical I had to blog it.
WRITING ASSIGNMENT
Remember the book "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus"? Here's a prime
example offered by an English professor from the University of Phoenix:
"Today we will experiment with a new form called the tandem story. The process is simple. Each person will pair off with the person sitting to his or her immediate right. As homework tonight, one of you will write the first paragraph of a short story.
You will e-mail your partner that paragraph and send another copy to me. The partner will read the first paragraph and then add another paragraph to the
story and send it back, also sending another copy to me. The first person will then add a third paragraph, and so on back-and-forth.
Remember to re-read what has been written each time in order to keep the story coherent. There is to be absolutely NO talking outside of the e-mails and anything you wish to say must be written in the e-mail. The story is over when both agree a conclusion has been reached."
The following was actually turned in by two of my English students:
Rebecca (last name deleted), and Gary (last name deleted).
THE STORY:
(first paragraph by Rebecca)
At first, Laurie couldn't decide which kind of tea she wanted. The chamomile, which used to be her favorite for lazy evenings at home, now reminded her too much of Carl, who once said, in happier times, that he liked chamomile. But she felt she must now, at all costs, keep her mind off
Carl. His possessiveness was suffocating, and if she thought about him too much her asthma started acting up again. So chamomile was out of the question.
(second paragraph by Gary)
Meanwhile, Advance Sergeant Carl Harris, leader of the attack squadron now in orbit over Skylon 4, had more important things to think about than the neuroses of an air-headed asthmatic bimbo named Laurie with whom he had
spent one sweaty night over a year ago. "A.S. Harris to Geostation 17," he said into his transgalactic communicator. "Polar orbit established. No sign of resistance so far..." But before he could sign off a bluish particle beam flashed out of nowhere and blasted a hole through his ship's cargo bay. The jolt from the direct hit sent him flying out of his seat and across the cockpit.
(Rebecca)
He bumped his head and died almost immediately, but not before he felt one last pang of regret for psychically brutalizing the one woman who had ever had feelings for him. Soon afterwards, Earth stopped its pointless
hostilities towards the peaceful farmers of Skylon 4. "Congress Passes Law Permanently Abolishing War and Space Travel," Laurie read in her newspaper one morning. The news simultaneously excited her and bored her. She stared
out the window, dreaming of her youth, when the days had passed unhurriedly and carefree, with no newspapers to read, no television to distract her from her sense of innocent wonder at all the beautiful things around her. "Why must one lose one's innocence to become a
woman?" she pondered wistfully.
(Gary)
Little did she know, but she had less than 10 seconds to live. Thousands of miles above the city, the Anu'udrian mothership launched the first of its lithium fusion missiles. The dim-witted wimpy peaceniks who pushed the
Unilateral Aerospace disarmament Treaty through the congress had left Earth a defenseless target for the hostile alien empires who were determined to destroy the human race. Within two hours after the passage of the treaty the Anu'udrian ships were on course for Earth, carrying enough firepower to pulverize the entire planet. With no one to stop them, they swiftly initiated their diabolical plan. The lithium fusion missile entered the
atmosphere unimpeded. The President, in his top-secret mobile submarine headquarters on the ocean floor off the coast of Guam, felt the inconceivably massive explosion, which vaporized poor, stupid, Laurie and 85 million other Americans. The President slammed his fist on the conference table. "We can't allow this! I'm going to veto that treaty! Let's blow 'em out of the sky!"
(Rebecca)
This is absurd. I refuse to continue this mockery of literature. My writing partner is a violent, chauvinistic semi-literate adolescent.
(Gary)
Yeah? Well, you're a self-centered tedious neurotic whose attempts at writing are the literary equivalent of Valium. "Oh, shall I have chamomile tea? Or shall I have some other sort of F--KING TEA??? Oh no, I'm such an air headed bimbo who reads; too many Danielle Steele novels!"
(Rebecca)
Asshole.
(Gary)
Bitch
(Rebecca)
F__K YOU - YOU NEANDERTHAL!!!
(Gary)
Go drink some tea - whore.
(TEACHER)
A+ - I really liked this one
Do you believe it? The parole people won't give me a pass to go to Rome. All those years of preparation, and I can't even get voted on for new Pope. What a miscarriage of justice!
I did skip a meeting last night, to go instead to see the screening of a lovely film "Estonia, Mon Amour," at a beautiful villa in the Pacific Palisades, a sort of artist's retreat. It was so nice to do something social, and "normal." Now that I have 90 meetings in 90 days under my belt, I am going to get a little more active in such doings. I met all sorts of interesting people.
And I might have landed that gig subtitling films. I am to call in today, and we are discuss possible work. Talk about just in time. And something just right to combine my language skills and film background (and to have a cool answer to the dreaded "What do you do?" query). This hasn't stopped me from sending ou