August 2005 Archives

I, for one, find it a telling counterpoint in two stories in the news.

One is the wipespread looting that has accompanied Hurricane Katrina. The other is the one percent rise in the poverty rate—a million more people are living below the poverty line.

New Orleans, in fact, is well known to have had one of the highest poverty rates in the country, as well as the entire state of Mississippi. One is a temporary, natural disaster, the other is no less a disaster, but a man-made one. The looters are not bad people, they are merely poor people. Many of them stayed in New Orleans because they did not have the resources to get out of the city. While theft cannot be sanctioned or condoned, I, for one, hope none of the looters are arrested.

That said, like everybody else I am horrified by the devastation.

I had an excellent meeting yesterday with one of the pastors from my church. I pitched a few ideas I have for some constructive participation in the community, and will share the details as soon as a specific project is chosen and takes shape.

MCO 2005

Some days are definitely better than others.

The friend about whom I wrote a few days ago, (Mr. Contrary, aka Snarkles) showered me with affection this morning (at that place we both go that I have to remain anonymous about). I drove him back to his house, and we had a lovely conversation, as he was jazzed about getting his first calls from two different people who would like to explore the possibility of getting sober. As he got out of the car, he leaned in and said: “I did read the blog, by the way.” (He said this nicely.)

I can’t tell you how gratifying it was to me to know that he not only understood what I was upset about, but wasn’t upset about my upset. I certainly doubt that he didn’t have some considerations about what I wrote, he may well think I have more than a few blind spots and he is no doubt right. But his warmth also told me that he could see where I might have a few points, and at the very least, got how I could perceive his behavior a certain way, so at least my outburst didn’t seem baseless and arbitrary.

I also realized I hadn’t shared that he is, the vast majority of the time, incredibly good-natured, funny, and supportive, and full of compliments. He is also over-the-top handsome, yet constantly tells me I ooze sex appeal. For my part, I have to let go of any envy I might have, and accept that when we are together, even those who may be attracted to me find themselves inevitably distracted by him. Good for him. (In some ways, being that good-looking has also been a burden. Really.)

Yesterday, Hot Air Balloon was staying with Snarkles, and our interaction was very pleasant. I even conferred him Gaza for the day. He is a dog-lover without parallel, and takes such a joy in them, and it can frankly be adorable about it. Like Snarkles, he is also impossibly handsome yet not stingy with the compliments. Unfortunately, all this doesn’t mean we can have a successful romantic relationship, but I hope we can have a successful friendship. I just can’t be alone in a room with him for more than 5 minutes because the sexual attraction is like few, if any, I’ve ever experienced. Electric. (I do miss him, as does the dog.)

I was also buoyed by a return to my normal level of blog readership, but decided to take some action to spread the Gospel according to Marc, and have hired a webguy to get me listed on the appropriate services. And I also did some good writing yesterday, in which I continued to fill in some blanks in my incarceration history. This is way tough, at moments, because I am writing about the most unpleasant moments that occurred before I actually started the blog.

Onward and upward.

MCO 2005

This morning I found out that a young man I knew killed himself yesterday. His name was Matt, he was an ex-drug dealer in his early 20’s, and we had bonded somewhat based on our shared history. After about 6 months of sobriety, he had relapsed, and then struggled back to around 90 days, I think.

He was staying at a friend’s who invited him to a meeting last night. Matt demurred, and hung himself instead.

I was unprepared to be so affected by such news, I guess because I felt very little grief at the recent deaths of several people I knew who died recently. When an addict never even tries to get sober, I find it hard not to view their death as somewhat of a relief for them, frankly. More honestly, I have to admit that it makes a big difference when you didn’t particularly like the person, even if you knew them well.

Although I can’t say I knew Matt well, I liked him very much. He had a winning smile and self-deprecating manner, and was very easy on the eyes. I had given him my number and urged he call, and told him there was always a couch for him at my house. Others had told him that as well, and he never went homeless. But for whatever reason, he evidently found death a less painful choice than either active addiction or sobriety. I suspect he could not stand anymore living with the constant desire to use, and suicide was the only way he could figure out to make it stop.

The news certainly supplanted the egotistical, shallow blues I was feeling over the third day of very low blog readership. I can only put myself out there as authentically as possible, and making a difference in the life of even one person makes it worth it, even if my grandiosity wants to make a difference in the lives of many.

I wish I could have made a difference in Matt’s life. But you never know who’s going to pick up the phone, and who is not. At least he is in no more pain. But when someone is that young, you really really want them to believe that “this too shall pass.” Unfortunately, you can’t make them believe it.

MCO 2005

It's not a three-day weekend at all, is it? Labor Day is next weekend. All that dread for naught.

Still, a lot of people are on vacation. Though not my pastor, Reverend Neil Thomas. He had the spirit in him this morning. Geez, I got chills. Part of his fervor was due to the news below:

HRC Thanks Jerry Falwell for Hint of Gay Rights Support

08.26.05

By Ross von Metzke

The Human Rights Campaign has formally thanked Rev. Jerry Falwell for speaking out in favor of gay rights for the first time publicly, according to the independent newspaper Southern Voice.

Falwell, the high profile televangelist, founder of the Moral Majority and of the Liberty University, has raised eyebrows in the past for accusing gays and lesbians for the September 11 plane crashes and accusing creators of the Teletubbies for corrupting young minds with a gay agenda.

But in an August 5 appearance on MSNBC's The Situation with Tucker Carlson, Falwell raised eyebrows for a different reason – according to the Voice, he said he was not troubled by reports that nominee John Roberts had done volunteer legal work for gay rights activists on the case Romer vs. Evans.

In that case, the Supreme Court ruled 6-3 that the state of Colorado could not create laws with the sole intention of discriminating against gay men and lesbians.

Falwell, who describes himself as “very conservative,” told Carlson that if he were a lawyer, he too would argue for civil rights for gays.

“I may not agree with the lifestyle,” Falwell said. “But that has nothing to do with the civil rights of that… part of our constituency. Judge Roberts would probably have been not a good lawyer if he had not been willing, when asked by his partners, to assist in guaranteeing the civil rights of employment and housing to any and all Americans.”

When Carlson countered that conservatives, “are always arguing against 'special rights' for gays,” Falwell said that equal access to housing and employment are basic rights, not special rights.

“Civil rights for all Americans, black, white, red, yellow, the rich, poor, young, old, gay, straight, is not a liberal or conservative value,” Falwell went on to say. “It's an American value that I would think that we pretty much all agree on.”

Joe Solmonese, president of the Human Rights Campaign, said his group welcomed the apparent softening of Falwell's position on at least some gay rights. “Like most Americans, it seems Rev. Falwell has reached the conclusion that everyone deserves basic rights,” said Solmonese. “I hope he also supports legislation that would deliver on these values.”

© 2005 GayWired.com, All Rights Reserved

What the article doesn't speak about is how much Falwell was influenced by Mel White and his lover. Mel used to work for Falwell, then came out as a gay men. He and his lover bought a house right across from Falwell's church in Lynchburg, Virginia, and for 10 years they've been going to services there on Sunday. Every time Falwell preached an untruth, they would stand up silently, sitting down only when he was finished.

I wish I was that brave.

MCO 2005

What a cool party I went to last night. The person whose birthday we were celebrating, Richard, is a new friend, and I hope will become an old friend. And his friends were smart, literate, and funny. Richard himself is an extremely talented songwriter, who regaled us with several songs, including a few of his own, which were remarkable. A good thing, as, in the card accompanying my present (a framed ink drawing done by my great uncle of a sleepy port in southern France,) I enclosed some song lyrics I want put to music. Happily, when I left, (and before he'd opened his presents,) Richard said: "And don't forget, I want to write a song together!"

It's taken me long enough, but my friends are finally starting to look like the friends I always thought I should have. Obviously, in the past, my priorities--and the priorities of the friends I came to choose--lay elsewhere. This is a past I shared with many at the party, so the sweet smell of redemption and renewal transfused the spirit of the gathering. Someone mentioned to me that what I was sensing was the presence of grace. Ultimately, rather more potent (and less toxic) than vodka.

Howabout that Hurricane Katrina? By the time of my next entry, I may, along with everybody else, be glued to the images of an American tsunami in New Orleans. Is this just global warming's warm-up? I tell you, I wanna outlive my mom, but after she goes, I'll be ready any time. I am not optimistic about the future of this planet and don't care to witness its (self)destruction.

Meanwhile, Holy Heat Wave here in LA! I better get the dog out for a long walk while it's still tolerable.

Incidentally, I think I hate three-day weekends because my readership plummets. Most of the Americans go away for the holiday and turn off the computer--smartly enough. Either that or I've gotta shorten my entries. I'm also gonna look into this MySpace phenomenon.

What I find a bit strange is that while blogs seems to be proliferating like weeds, I still get a fair amount of people asking me "What's a blog?" And not once has anyone said to me: "I have a blog too!" There seems to be a disconnect between perception and reality here. I don't quite know what to think.

About anything.

MCO 2005

I’ve been so mememe recently, it’s time for a change of pace, no?

The above is a map sent to me by my friend Mike Stiltz, my former “cellie” (for 2 weeks) at Delano. It’s a little frustrating, because what he did is send it to me in sections: 20 of them on 8x10 sheets of paper. Spread around on the floor, all the sections put together would have taken up my entire living room! What I did was scan each section individually, and then put them together on the computer to create this map. Unfortunately, Mike had the impression I had a magical computer program that would change his handwriting into computer fonts. (If one exists it’s probably at Pixar, I sure haven’t heard of it.) The result is a map that reduced what was in essence, magnified by him, and his notations (which were written in small handwriting) are too tiny too read above.

But one still gets an idea of the prodigious effort. He has created a detailed world worthy of the Lord of the Rings, which is the blueprint for the epic fantasy novel he is writing, with elves and dwarves and creatures of his own design. The map is amazingly detailed, with place names like Simkiv, Brookeside, Solivir, and Lutch Isle; with forests, meadows, mountains, glens and mines lovingly delineated. I was impressed.

And here’s a few excerpts from his latest letter:

In one installment of your blog, you mentioned the schooling issue. I knew you were telling the truth, but until I saw it it was hard to believe. Today, a student refused to do his school work. He said, “I don’t care. I know about the 115 [a disciplinary form that can get you more time added on], I just don’t want to be here.” Who on earth would want to be a captive any longer than sentenced?

I see an entirely different mentality here. Ego rules and spite is the primary weapon. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, “Respect me because I’m a gangster and I sold so many drugs on the street that I had a ho’ on each arm as I dropped out of my pimpin’ Escalade with the spinners. Yo dawg, I had the bling to compete with Fifty Cent and Puff Daddy, yo.

“Never mind that I’ve never set foot in a classroom and I can’t spell a three syllable word. I have three children from three different women, all of them drug addicts. My mom cries herself to sleep at night because she doesn’t know what kind of trouble I’m in.”

Respect? No, I pity you. And I pray that one of these days the gangsta gets it.

He actually goes on to describe the flaws in the system that produce such characters and how it can be modified accordingly, starting with universal drug treatment. Unfortunately, like me, he holds out little hope for education once these guys have reached adulthood. They have already become accustomed to making easy money, and some of them were very good at it—at least until they get caught. School is so hard for them that they’d rather do extra time than homework. It humilates them to do poorly, and how they look to their peers is everything to them. In prison, at least they do not lose the status they had on the streets. Status is actually more important to them than freedom.

The education must occur early in life, when it can really make a difference. But drug treatment can provide access to 12-step programs, which can transform their attitudes about life. In my view, and Mike’s, recovery is the only hope for these guys. (The one’s who choose education do so on their own, becoming voracious readers. If only for this minority, courses of all kinds should be offered in prison. Unfortunately, there is no political constituency to make this happen.)

Dinner/birthday party tonight, street fair tomorrow—if I can take the heat. I do so dislike three day weekends.

MCO 2005

I want to write about a frustrating dynamic that occurs with some of my friends, and in relationships. And I daresay those of you (who don’t go glassy-eyed halfway through) might recognize your own lives in some aspect of it.

Here it is: I am sometimes accused of always wanting/needing to be “right.” And by definition, if one defends oneself against this, it can be viewed as proof of the validity of the accusation. This is why it is so difficult to address, but I’m going to try.

Let me begin by stating for the record how it is that I view disagreements. I think they should be about whatever your disagreement is about, not about the fact that you are disagreeing. I don’t give a shit about being right. I only want my point of view to be acknowledged as understood by the other party, as I strive to do for them on my part. Then either of us can say, “you have a point” OR “I disagree” OR “That hurts me” OR whatever. What sends me over the bend is when the argument immediately becomes about the argument, usually because (in my view) the other party can’t bear that I’ve challenged or disagreed with them in the first place. Whatever I say, what they hear is that I think they are “wrong” ergo I dislike/disapprove of them.

There are some people whose opinions and actions I so disagree with that I do not like them. Our President, Pat Robertson, and Donald Rumsfeld are good examples of this. “Regular” people I know who are consistently inconsiderate, inane or insincere I generally avoid, and may actively dislike. But I do not to judge them as human beings unless they are gratuitously cruel. I don’t even think George Bush is an evil person, though I think his policies do much harm. Stupidity is not a crime, though in a President it can be criminal.

In any case, by definition, if I call someone a friend, it is because there is a base understanding—or so I like to think—that any challenge to a particular opinion is not my questioning their basic worth as a human being. I don’t disagree for the sake of disagreement. And shut up much of the time even when I do disagree. But I have one friend who—it feels to me—can be on automatic contrary pilot.

I don’t think he even realizes he is doing it, I think, even, that in his mind, he is being helpful. But often, I swear to God, he seems to challenge something I say just to challenge it. For example, we had a mutual friend for a long time that he urged me for the better part of two years to dump, asserting (rightly) he was a toxic presence in my life. Finally, when prison did that for me, they became reacquainted, and suddenly my friend started reproaching me for deciding to keep this person out of my life. Not, I truly believe, because he thinks it would be a constructive friendship. Just because he automatically plays devil’s advocate, even if it completely contradicts a position he previously held that I even came to agree with.

There are times he challenges the most innocuous detail in a story and then can’t fathom why I am so irritated. This happened the other morning, when, admittedly, I was in a mood over the resinstatement of a debt I had fair reason to believe had been forgiven. Frankly, it was a moment that I pretty obviously just needed support and understanding. I wasn’t even challenging the debt itself, and I made that clear. I was merely explaining why it had blindsided me, and instead of simply listening sympathetically, his reaction was, “why don’t you just pay it?” I had already stated I would pay it (and have). That wasn’t the point, and not what I needed to hear at the moment from a friend.

His comment set me off, and I doubt he understood why. He certainly didn’t realize how accustomed I’ve become to this from him, and how often I just let it slide. Occasionally I bring it up humorously, gently teasing him for “snarky” remarks. This is a euphemism for passive/aggressiveness, and it’s extremely difficult to get someone who’s engaging in such behavior to even understand the concept. I do know that it’s deeply rooted in issues completely unrelated to me, and try not to take it personally. This particular morning though, I was having none of it. I had been EXTREMELY supportive of this friend in two difficult situations just recently, and I pretty much swallowed a lot of considerations I had about his role in getting into the situation(s) in the first place.

I don’t know if or how often he reads the blog, he’s very rarely referred to it. Frankly, I would have just addressed him directly via email, but I’ve tried this in the past, and he feels it is a coward’s approach. Unfortunately, in my experience, trying to talk face to face more often than not has devolved into a nasty fight. But if he is reading this, at least now he at least understands there was something at play beyond my having a bad day. If he thinks I am taking unfair advantage, trying to get agreement for “my side” from you readers, let me reassure him that almost no one ever even comments, much less writes to me about specific entries. (At most one person who even knows him even reads this, to my knowledge, and already knows about the argument.)

I’m perfectly willing to examine what I might need to look at in all this that perhaps I can’t perceive. But I would really like to keep it out of a simplistic right/wrong dichotomy. It’s not about that. It’s about finding a way to understand, take note, and resolve. Being right or wrong should be confined to factual errors, not differing points of view. (Imagine how fast there’d be peace in the Middle East if each side wasn’t trying to be “right” and make the other “wrong.”)

I just received a call from my friend, apologizing for “his part in the argument.” I apologized back for my part in it, then asked him if he had any idea what else was behind it. He replied “let’s leave that for another time” i.e. let’s not discuss it at all.

I will certainly take the olive branch, and if he doesn’t read this, probably revert to cloaking my explanations in humor, just as we’ve always done. Plus ca change…

MCO 2005

Well, Hot Air Balloon did not go out and use, and for that I am grateful and proud of him. That’s growth.

However, he knew that I had every reason to fear that this is what he was doing, and did not take my calls or get in touch with me until 5 hours after what should have been a minor spat in the first place. Given the fact that another slip could kill him, this was unacceptable to me. So I packed up his stuff and brought it to the place he is now staying.

True to form, he sent me a conciliatory email this morning saying he missed me and wanting to completely sweep under the rug what had happened. I did my very best to write him back gently but firmly, telling him that I thought it was too much to ask of himself to be in a serious relationship with just 60 days sobriety for the nth time, and it was probably too much to ask of me as well with 8 months, and thought it best that we went our separate ways. The response I received was beyond over-the-top. It’s frankly as if I was hearing a 14-year old about to go to Brat Camp, spewing hatred at his parents for not catering to his every whim. Fortunately, he is not my child and I can sever all contact, and did.

I’ve no doubt, if the past is a guide, he’ll be calling or writing tomorrow singing the same old manipulative song, using ever wile and argument in the books to get me back in his life. So I am putting it in black and white for all to read that I cannot and will not even accept a call, even if he has slipped and wants a ride to the hospital. Burn me once, shame on you. Burn me twice, shame on me. Burn me three times, and I get what I deserve.

I do not feel remotely superior to Hot Air Balloon. I know too much about his childhood, which was full of chaos, abuse and parental addiction. I was blessed with a childhood in which I can’t remember once seeing my parents argue until I was 17 and I was part of the argument. I was never abused, hit or even spoken to in with meanness or sarcasm. (Once, when I was 16, my Dad used the word “fag” about a guy in a shampoo ad—before he knew about me. I called him on it, and he recognized he was off base. ) But I can’t take credit for my childhood, I had nothing to do with it. I just got lucky.

However, the legacy of that childhood is that, even with the wrong turns of my adulthood, I have hardwired into my brain and memory examples of love, security and healthy communication. You can’t expect to build a house with someone when you have tools and he does not. You can’t ask him to put up some dry board without a hammer or nails. You can loan them your tools, but if he doesn’t know how to use them, it’s pretty much a doomed effort. At least if you want the house to be a mutual effort.

Again, I am so not surprised by this outcome, quite the opposite. And despite today and yesterday’s unpleasantness, it really was a fun two weeks. Like being taken hostage by a really hot prison escapee. But do those movies ever have happy endings?

MCO 2005

Halle-fucking-lu-jah.

From: Marc Olmsted [mailto:marcolmsted@comcast.net">marcolmsted@comcast.net]

Sent: Wednesday, August 24, 2005 11:57 AM

To: Yelena V

Subject: Hello Yelena

Yelena:

Just my every-other-month reminder that I'm available for an French/English subtitling. I would also be happy to do timing or anything else you might need doing in the office.

Thanks

----- Original Message -----

From: Yelena V

To: Marc Olmsted

Sent: Wednesday, August 24, 2005 11:59 AM

Subject: RE: Hello Yelena

Marc,

I was just thinking of you the other day and was going to drop you a line. I will have some projects available for you soon. I'm leaving for a vacation for a week, but when I come back, I'll call you.

Best,

Yelena

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Marc Olmsted

www.marcolmsted.com/blog

This is not a good day, so far.

I woke up to an email that completely blindsided me. It reinstated a debt that I thought had been forgiven, and I think anyone in my place would have gotten the same impression. Still, I cannot fault the request, it is a debt I was willing to pay and can and will.

Of course I have gone through way more money since I got back from New York than I intended to. A car repair, Gaza’s surgery, and two loans to two good friends in need taking up a great chunk of that. There is very little I’ve spent that falls into the category of fat, I’ve even broken my addiction to thrift shops, and say yes to less than half of the requests to go out to eat from others in recovery, which constitutes my main source of social life, or did until Hot Air Balloon came along.

But it did remind me that I was supposed to be working right now, and I must freely admit that my mini-inheritance has allowed me to completely drop the ball in that regard. There are a lot of reasons—or perhaps excuses—for this. I loathe the idea of not having the time to do many of the things I’ve become accustomed to doing. Writing/editing to my heart’s content (though not nearly enough), and saying yes to almost any request for help I get. I’ve played chauffeur, handholder, mover etc. a LOT.(It is my way of making amends for the years of dealing). I also take Gaza for a long walk every day and go to a lot of meetings. I also take too many naps. I’m fairly spoiled.

And certainly I loathe, and resist—as does everybody--the whole job-hunting process. But on top of what everybody else has to contend with, I do have the dilemma of how to deal with my felonious history while staying honest. Most of all, the prospect of a 9-5 grind again, in a job I may detest or be overqualified for, not to mention commuting and arranging doggie day care, completely daunts me.

Between the blog, the blog edit, saying yes to all sorts of requests, and going to a lot of meetings, I feel like I am a contributing, productive member of society. I resent that there’s no money in most of my choices though. But that’s the way it is. And I can see all of it is just so much fear talking. Fear of change. Fear of that first week at a new job feeling stupid and incompetent. Fear of getting off disability and then losing a job for whatever reason a few months later. Fear of not losing my job, but hating it and feeling trapped in it.

Welcome to the world, Marc. Who doesn’t have these fears? What makes me you special? You’re healthy enough to work (for money), you should work.

So I need to get plugging on marketing myself aggressively for freelance writing jobs. It’s a tedious process, and the rejection and non-response can be withering, but there’s no reason I can’t cobble together the necessary income just as many others do. If that doesn’t work, I’ll have to bite the bullet and probably become an office drone again, with bosses who are possibly younger than me and even less competent. I’ve done it before, I can do it again. And the felon stuff, well I created that problem all by myself, didn’t I? This is a consequence I have to accept and take responsibility for.

Unfortunately, my sour mood contributed to two arguments already this morning, the latter of which caused Hot Air Balloon to stalk out of the car, and I have not heard from him in 2 hours. Trust me, nothing we were arguing about was remotely serious enough to provoke such a response, but he hears any challenges or disagreement as “I hate you.” Unfortunately, he also uses arguments as an excuse to flee and use. I’m praying this is not the case this time, but frankly, I’m also fully prepared for that possibility, as it is a longstanding pattern with him that predates me for many years. Which doesn’t mean I regret our recent time together. But I won’t be here to pick up the pieces if he does use. If someone is determined to commit slow suicide, they will, and there’s only so much you can do about it.

MCO 2005

Last night we were watching a wonderful movie I highly recommend, “At Home at the End of the World,” based on a book I absolutely adore by Michael Cunningham (pre-“The Hours”) Unfortunately, we were interrupted midway by a phone call by a tweeker (not someone I know well) who was crashing and panicked about what to do, as he couldn’t return to his recovery house and had a staph infection on his arm—a common result of needle use.

It is very, very difficult to know what is best to do in this situation. Those of us in recovery are taught that part of keeping ourselves sober is to always keep our hand open to the addict/alcoholic reaching out for help. At the same time, it has been my hard-learned experience that addicts who are trying to get sober are rather more likely to pick up if they know that at the end of a three-day binge, they can depend on someone to nurse them through their crash and help them pick up the pieces.

Ultimately, protecting them from the bearing the full brunt of the consequences of their use, in my opinion, ends up enouraging chronic relapse. Sometimes a addict needs to spend a night wandering the streets, desperate, or to be hours alone being (mis) treated in an E.R. to learn to associate picking up with its attendant perils, uncushioned by anyone.

What makes this tough love so tough is that drug and drinking binges, particularly meth-fuled ones, can be dangerous—to the binger and to others in his path. Sometimes active intervention by a third party or parties is a matter of medical necessity. But otherwise, I am more inclined to let the abuser to face the consequences of his slip without running to his aid. I think it greatly increases the chances that next time he is tempted—and he will be--he’ll make the call he needs to make before he picks up, when my help can really make the difference.

And this, I might add, applies to me as well. Prison sucked, in a big way, but I had no one to blame—including the informer who turned me in—on where I was but myself. It’s too bad I had to learn the hard way that I was not in some special category of those who somehow don’t suffer the consequences of their actions, but it was something I did have to learn, and take complete responsibility for.

The young man in crisis ended up finding a couch for the night and we haven’t heard back from him yet. We were able to watch the rest of the film.

MCO 2005

P.S. SEVERAL HOURS LATER: Hot Air Balloon found out the young man in question has been arrested for hitting two parked cars, and not while driving his own car, either. Luckily, no one was hurt, but see what I mean about the dilemma about whether or not to intervene? Someone completely innocent could easily have been injured or killed.

I was watching the finale of Six Feet Under last night and had a range of reactions. First I was blown away by the brilliance of the writing, then I suffered an attack of envy at not being one of its writers.

This is not to say that I think myself less of a writer than any of SFU's (standing for "So Fucked Up" proposed a friend.) But of course, my audience is rather more modest, and my output is not dramatized for millions to watch. Which brought up the next thought: so what?

If the point of creating is the joy of the process, what does it matter if I have an audience of 10, 10,000 or 10 million? If the value of one's life lies in the content of one's character, not the quantity of one's accomplishments, why should recognition on a large scale be so important? Shouldn't one be happy with enjoying one's life, being good to others and having a decent spiritual life?

Indeed, one should. But I sure ain't there, and doubt I'll ever get there. For me it's almost a slippery slope, because such questions can lead to some dangerous ones. Is anything more important than anything else? Does anything really mean anything at all? If the only thing that is real is one's physical experience, then from there it's rather a short route to trying to make that experience as intense as possible via artificial enhancement.

In fact, that's exactly what I did, and probably, if it had continued working, would still be doing that today. Frankly, I know of very few, if any, alcoholics aor drug addicts who would have ever stopped drinking and/or using if how good it made them feel hadn't been outweighed by how crappy and empty it made them feel. Hell, most of them continue abusing even way past it "working," if only in pursuit of the elusive hope of finding that old gratification again.

The fact is, human beings, by dint of intelligent design or evolution or both, seem hardwired to search for meaning in our lives. And it means a lot to me when a complete stranger tells me he or she loves what or how I write, and it means more when many strangers tell me the same thing.

This impulse is quite independent of the desire for attention or wealth. Although I wouldn't mind anymore than anyone else winning the Powerball Lottery, for example, I would be no less desirous to make an artistic impact. And the manner of that impact is key. I could change a lot of lives for the good, for example, by giving away a lot of money, but I would die only marginally happier than if I had lived only modestly. So what about creating art of some kind, and having it appreciated, is so important?

The writers of Six Feet Under might well say that what underlies it all is a fear of death. Art is the offspring of the soul, it is one of the only routes to potential immortality. I guess this desire to live forever is just an extension of the desire to live, period. And that's about as human as one can get.

MCO 2005

I received an email back from B. telling me the info was indeed very helpful.

The party was great. In a penthouse in Long Beach to die for.

Lots of faces from the past, including someone I'd been in County Jail with. It's gratifying to see so many of the people I knew "out there" getting their shit together. I just hope it's not a minority, but indicative of a trend.

MCO 2005

I get these types of letters regularly, and I thought it would be helpful to share the information for others with the same queries.

Hello Marc.

My ex-boyfriend (also a meth user and HIV positive) got arrested a couple of

weeks ago and is now in Men's Central Jail (I assume the K-11 section, unless

he's trying to butch it up) and I have been going insane wondering what has

been going on with him. Thanks for your blog, so at least I have some sense of

what he must be going through.

A few questions, if you have the time. First, how long does it take letters

and postcards to reach inmates in Men's Central Jail? With all the meth, my

ex's memory is sketchy, so if he can't remember a phone number, is he able to

call information to get it? And last, is there some kind of resource or support

group for people like me on the outside to get more information and advice on

how to deal with this situation ... I am worrying myself sick, because my ex

has really gone off the deep end.

Well, thanks again for making your experience public. I'm sure you've helped

a lot of people out.

B.

Dear B:

First, thanks for you email. I am always very gratified to find out my blog

can be helpful in any way.

Second, believe it or not, your ex is probably in a good place right now.

Jail will 1) get you sober, 2) scare the shit out of you. And if his offense

is drug-related, and it's his first offense, he has a very good chance of

getting sentenced to time in a rehab, or at the least probation and

drug-testing that might get him sober. (I can recommend McIntyre House,

Frank's Place or the Van Ness House). When you get in touch with him, do

encourage him to go to CMA (Crystal Meth Anonymous) meetings as soon as he

is out. He will be resistant, but if he knows a failed drug test will send

him back to jail, he should be willing to at least check it out. And he will

may well need to supply proof to the court that he is attending 12-step

meetings, probably, at part of the conditions of his sentence.

Click on this link http://app1.lasd.org/iic/ajis_search.cfm, and enter his

name. You can see what the status of his case is and where he is. You can

also call a number listed and get inmate visiting information, or read the

directions about how to do so. You can also go down there and put some money

on his books, so he can buy some extra food and stamps. I think you can also

send him stamps also, but ask first, because I'm not entirely sure (can't

quite remember).

He can call you collect practically anytime, unless phone privileges are

being withheld as part of a group punishment if there's been a fight or

somesuch in the dorm. However, cell phones won't receive collect calls, and

make sure your land line doesn't have a block on it. (There is no access to

information in jail, so I hope he knows your number).

It only takes a few days for mail to get in or out, usually. By all means

write him and/or visit him. I just hope he didn't try to lie about being

gay. The condions are much better in the gay dorms. (And if he is on HIV

meds, he will get them and be forced to take them in jail--something he

might have been lousy at while on meth).

Also the public defenders are actually pretty good, so if he can't afford a

lawyer he might be in just as good shape.

Lastly remember that you are powerless over his addiction. He may not have

hit bottom yet, and may resist getting sober. Meth is an insidious drug. You

may want to consider Alanon meetings (both CMA and Alanon meetings can be

found online) to learn how to take care of yourself and deal with the

addict. (Don't trip that Alanon is technically for families of alcoholics.

Few don't also have a drug problem these days, and the process of learning

loving detachment for you is the same).

And know that this can be one of those seeming disasters turned into an

opportunity. And if the crime was minor, he should be out much sooner than

you imagine. I just hope he "gets" it. (CMA is a wonderful program. The

camraderie and support there is extraordinary and instant).

Good Luck. Keep me posted.

Marc

Today someone I admire very much learned about the blog. I can’t say where or how I met him, or whether he’ll even read it, but it was a nice, unexpected moment. (Interestingly, he would be on a list of likely actors to play me in the movie version if it ever comes to that. I can dream, can’t I?)

And another friend who’s going through a very rough time turned to me to talk about what he’s going through This meant a lot to me, because he’s someone I used to have a lot of these kind of talks with, and it’s been a long time since we’ve done so. Not that I was able to be of much help beyond lending an ear. The sources of his stress are entirely legitimate, it would be almost more worrisome if he wasn’t depressed. While I am a firm believer that one’s attitude about life is usually a greater source of happiness (or sadness) than the events of ones life itself, it has to be recognized that certain losses cannot but be terrific blows from which one cannot bounce back without going through some very tough moments. If I suggested anything helpful to him, it was to not compound the depression by beating himself up for having it. Even privileged First Worlders with pools get to feel like crap once in a while.

Tonight Hot Air Balloon and another good friend and I are going to a sober Luau in Long Beach. Boy, I am grateful for the people that throw these bashes. It makes a helluva difference to socialize in a place where there is no alcohol, and where everyone else there has learned, or is still learning, how to operate comfortably without the “benefit” of a social lubricant. Hell, I don’t think there’s a one of us who would have even considered going to a party where we couldn’t drink in the past.

While the first 45 minutes or so of these fetes can be a little challenging, the 45 minutes after you wake up the next morning—with no hangover, no apologies to make for your behavior the night before, and no stranger in your bed—is priceless.

MCO 2005

Well, all three of my horoscopes tell me this is a day where I’ll kick up my heels and have a blast, but so far it ain’t happening, at least not in the traditional sense.

I’m doing my damndest to live a life that is conscious and present all the time, as aware as possible that this is indeed one’s only chance at the rodeo. And I’m watching as this very realization seems to be finally sinking into Hot Air Balloon’s handsome little head. After a start that included Harvard, he’s created a lot of wreckage over the past 30 years, and has very little to show for it. It literally took the threat of death to finally cause this shift in consciousness on his part. This has had one distinct benefit, for the first time he can remember, he’s sober without craving to use. He gets how high (pardon the pun) the stakes are.

Unfortunately, the damage done, if it doesn’t show on the outside, certainly has taken its toll on the inside, exacerbated by years of living with HIV and steroid abuse. His energy level is exceedingly compromised, and this lack of vitality can be depressing for him. Thankfully, being together does a pretty good job of keeping his blues at bay. And I am perfectly content (at least so far—it’s been a long time) to play house with him, taking him to the doctor, the dentist, going to meetings, watching TV (while I write), eating and sleeping together. Since it is way premature to call it a relationship, we’ve been joking that it’s a pre-lationship, and we are in pre-love.

Actually, that’s probably a pretty good way to put it, as we’ve both been around the block enough times to grasp that we are in the early stages of an inherently unpredictable trajectory. But his health concerns are serious enough to remind us both that one needs to hold onto and enjoy oases like this in what has been, for both of us, plenty of desert in the geography of relationships.

Although, I have to say, since sobriety it’s been a veritable love-fest with almost all of my friends. The level of affection in our exchanges is so much higher than it was in the past. Love is, indeed, the best drug.

MCO 2005

I was watching the horrific coverage of the BTK killer and the testimonies of the families of the victims. Of course no one can minimize the monstrosity of his crimes or the pain of he has caused. The only point I would like to make is that, by definition, the man is unbelievably sick. Either he himself suffered unspeakable abuse at a very young age, or his brain is somehow diseased, distorted, or lacking something crucial we possess. No one with a normal brain and a normal childhood just decides as an adult that they have nothing else better to do than bind, torture and kill innocent people. No one chooses to find such evil erotic. And while the practical reaction of society can only be that of removing such a cancer from our midst, I submit that he might be no more responsible for becoming a monster than any cancer patient is for his cancer. Which again, does not mitigate his crimes or lessen our revulsion. But it provides a perspective that seems to be lacking, that which remembers the boy I have to believe was likely put through hell himself before he put some many others through it.

I am also saddened by one aspect of the withdrawals of Jewish settlers in the Gaza Strip that no one else seems to be noting. And that is the destruction of the settlements left behind. If the political consensus is, finally, that the settlers don’t belong there and never did, wouldn’t it provide a least a sense of contrition or minimal compensation to let the rightful occupants of the land enjoy some of the fruits of that occupation? Now it’s just more waste piled on stupid waste.

Finally, an observation I heard Bill Maher make in an HBO special. Here we have a President declaring the terrorists are first and foremost enemies of freedom, while concurrently advocating the denial to gays of the freedom to marry. What exactly are our brave soldiers supposed to be fighting for? The freedom for capitalists to make money, or something as fundamental as the freedom to love?

I remember taking comfort in November that at least Kerry wouldn’t have to try to clean up a mess not of his own making. Now, with everyone else, I am watching Bush twist in the wind, in seemingly denial that there is even a mess, much less that he and his cabal created it. I have to say, I would much rather have been wrong. Cold comfort indeed.

MCO 2005.

I meant to blog, I really did, but the morning got ate up with stuff, and now I have to go to accompany a friend to court. He's the victim of completely frivolous lawsuit from someone abusing the system big time (this the 30th suit he's filed in 3 years. Completely insane.)

I did recieve an admissions packet for the MFA program in Creative Writing at Antioch University here in LA. I will be going to an information session there on Saturday to see if I really want to do this. I certainly can see myself as a writing teacher, but I must have some credentials. And going back to school would give me the deadlines and assigments I really need. I've been working on the blog, but it's a slog. I fear that the more I add in the intro chapters, the more it will morph into an autobiography.

What a great "problem" to have. I can't really cite any others. In fact this is a great time in my life by any measure. The cuddling alone with Hot Air Balloon is like water in the desert. And he's being absolutely adorable and easy to be around.

MCO 2005

AFTERNOON

I wondered what the four Armenian guys

drinking beer on a footbridge by a stream

in Griffith Park on a Tuesday afternoon

thought of me when I walked by

with my dog.

I would bet three of them didn’t

give me a thought, any more than they

did the squirrels running about

taunting my dog with

their fluffy tails.

But one of them--there’s always one--

he noticed me as I noticed him. I think

he thought: ‘This guy is a one of those gay

guys. He doesn’t have to marry a girl he

doesn’t really want to marry because

everyone expects it from him.’

He may have even noticed the way my ass

looked in my jeans, but if he did, he

chased that thought with the beer

he was drinking, as if he could

quench it like thirst.

More likely he experienced a moment not

of lust but of envy, thinking ‘he can

fuck who he wants and not make

apologies for it.’ And in that moment,

he had equal parts fantasies of being me,

sleeping with me, or breaking

the bottle of beer

over my head.

MCO 2005

I'm being of service today, taking people places to do things, and holding hands.

More later.

MCO 2005

I have to say it's really nice to be spending some time with Hot Air Balloon.

Oh no, does domestic bliss mean I'll have nothing to write about? My mind is a complete blank.

Well, enjoy the break. I'm sure I'll be as relentless as usual soon enough.

MCO 2005

Well, 24 hours with Hot Air Ballon and all is harmonious.

I took him to Church with me today and it was great. Then we were joined by a new friend and an old friend for Brunch at a new Spanish restaurant. My life's work is to taste every gazpacho on the planet, so I got another notch in my belt.

We returned here for lengthy nap, as both of us slept fitfully last night--unused to company. It was one of those mini-series naps for me, where I dream in sagas ranging across the world. Much fun.

Now the Gaza needs a hike. Love to all.

MCO 2005

The above it a very upsetting photo I don't post lightly, but in fact, because it is so upsetting.

These two teens were hung in Iran last week (I wrote about it), accused of raping a 13-year old boy. Unfortunately, it is impossible to know whether these charges are true, or whether, in fact the sex was consensual. This is because homosexuality is illegal in Iran, punishable by death, and it is entirely possible that the assertion of rape is just a fig-leaf from the Iranian authorities to make more acceptable the flagrant violation of human rights consituted by the death penalty for minors, for any crime.

The following advice I took from a website. Unfortunately, I don't have a fax, but urge that anyone who does write a letter of protest as advised. And I will visit the site and hope you do too.

I shudder at what these two had to have been going through during these moments.

Unite and take action now. Visit the Web site of the International Gay and Lesbian Human Rights Commission (iglhrc.org) to find out more about what you can do. For starters -- write a letter to the president of Iran condemning this outrageous crime and fax it to:

His Excellency Ayatollah Mahmud Hashemi Shahroodi

Justice Ministry Bldg.

Pazdah-Khordad (Ark) Sq.

Tehran, Iran

By fax: 98 21 222 90 151

I heard something this morning that I just loved: “Worrying is praying for something you don’t want.”

Interestingly, this was a conclusion I’d come to recently that I was applying without having articulated it as such. Specifically, with Gaza. I simply went to the doctor and followed her advice to get the lump removed, and refused to worry about the biopsy results. Happily, those results were the best one could hope for, I got a call from the Vet this morning that it was a low-grade carcinoma that in her experience, rarely returns or mestasicizes (I challenge anyone to find and tell me the correct spelling of that word.) This happy result I do not ascribe to my refusal to worry, but if the news had been bad, any worrying would have had no beneficial effect either. It would have just made me uselessly miserable about something over which I had no control.

I also applied this to my recent trip to New York. I could not entirely quell all the anxiety about helping my mother move, but I pretty much would get it, feel it, and let go of it. It only gives the illusion that one is doing something about a worrisome situation, and that illusion can actually be pernicious, because sometimes it inhibits constructive action.

That said, there are some situations it is impossible not to worry over, and one should not beat oneself up over that either. It is an ideal to be strived for, not another source of anxiety if one does not reach it.

Today I am picking up Hot Air Balloon from the hospital after a two-week stay for heart problems. Our relationship has been volatile to say the least, and while I’m certainly willing to take responsibility for my part in that, he would freely admit to being no walk in the park. (His self-awareness about it is scary, and a bit frustrating. Lucidity, unfortunately, does not always bring with it a capacity to change one’s behavior.) And his (self-described) mercurial, impulsive nature is also leavened by large dollops of sweetness and generosity. And maybe, just maybe, he has been scared sober by the very serious threat to his health his relapses have created. Finally, it can not be denied that he is one of the sexiest men I’ve ever met, and the feeling is mutual. What can I say, I’m only human.

So into the breach I leap, fully aware of (but refusing to worry about) the possibility that tomorrow I might be singing a different song entirely.

MCO 2005

Boy, yesterday was a killer. Though I was genuinely happy to help my friend out. Helping someone move is one of those money-where-your-mouth-is sort of things that can be seen as an opportunity to manifest your friendship in a concrete way.

I couldn’t help but thinking, as I lay completely spent in front of the TV last night, that some people work that hard every day, often 7 days a week, on far less sustenance than I took for granted. There are people who have to work that hard sick, and what they have to do is far harder than moving boxes and furniture (Think of the untouchables who clean sewers in India, Pakistani children weaving carpets, Brazilian miners toiling in open pits.) In gulags and concentration camps, they had to survive on rancid gruel once a day, not to mention unspeakable physical abuse on top of the backbreaking work.

What really amazes me is not that so many people died in the Holocaust, for example, but that anyone survived at all. It amazes me that the vast majority of the billions of people who live extraordinarily hard and brutish lives do not kill themselves, but struggle through day after day after day until the bitter end. Sometimes they even die of old age. (This thing called hope, what a resilient fuel.)

One day of hard work does not begin to give me a true sense of what these lives are really like. But it does provoke the imagination to grasp its periphery—sort of like fasting for a day gets one thinking about the experience of hunger.

I am so frigging blessed, and so are all of you, because if you have the luxury of reading a blog on a computer, you are not likely starving or working under a lash. Which doesn’t mean you don’t suffer from anxiety, depression, fear, grief etc. Freedom from poverty does not mean freedom from sadness, spiritual malaise, or ill-health, among many possibilities. But it’s something to be appreciated, on a daily basis.

I’m off to the dentist, blessed to be getting my teeth cleaned.

MCO 2005

Well, The Gaza weathered the procedure well and is comfortably recuperating chez moi, with 10 stitches on his sweet little flank. A biopsy should report whether it was something to be concerned about, but as far as I understand, all that could be done in that case has already been done with the cyst's removal.

My friend returned from his brother's funeral and I will spend the day helping him complete his move.

MCO 2005

This day looks to be a rollercoaster ride.

I dropped off my dog, Gaza, at the Vet’s for minor surgery to remove a cyst from his side. But, as any pet lover knows, that look they give you as they are led through the doors is an absolute heartbreaker. It asks” “What did I do wrong, Dad? Why can’t I go with you?’ I can only hope on some level, he gets what it’s about. And of course, any surgery carries a risk. I won’t breathe easy until he’s back on my couch. (And remember to be incredibly grateful that I have the $300 it’s going to cost me.)

But sometimes the Gods throw you a bone at just the right moment. I returned home to an email from a staff member at This American Life, reacting positively to my pitch on their doing a story on my incarceration. She needed some time to go through the blog, but asked me if I could send her back a sampling of entries I thought were among the best. So I did, of course. It was all I could do not to propose marriage, I was so tickled. After all, they post on their website not to expect a response for up to six months, and I wrote them just 2 weeks ago.

It is of course, way premature to assume anything will come to fruition, but the fact that I even got through the giant pile of submissions is very gratifying. I realized from the reaction of the class on Saturday that I’m not being grandiose in claiming a story that, if nothing else, is certainly original. And boy, would I love to do radio. I think it may be where I was always supposed to end up. (Only a few of you can know this, but I actually have a fairly deep voice that is fairly pleasing to the ear—or so I’ve been told.)

And of course, I feel completely jazzed and ready to work. Dog Willing.

MCO 2005

Well, I did go to S.’s memorial gathering after all, and I am glad I did. There were about 12 family members, his lover, and 6 “friends,” most of whom were no closer to him than I was. He was a very private person whose “social” life completely revolved around his lover and computers and crystal meth.

But this did not make him any less of a gentle, intelligent man who loved his family and lover and was loved by them, and I shared my recognition of that along with everyone else, and it comforted the family and his lover. But inwardly, it seemed to me his life was to be mourned as much as his death. This was a flower that never bloomed, I assure you. (I did reach out to his lover after the service and told him if he decided it was time to make some different choices, to let me know. The fact that he arrived an hour late, wearing shorts, a cut-off sleeveless t-shirt, and sneakers to his own lover’s memorial service sort of tipped me off to his being high as a kite.)

I also was able to regain cordiality with my former roommate, through whom I’d known S. I’m afraid that’s as close as it’s going to get, but at least it will no longer be uncomfortable to run into each other.

Yesterday I did finalize arrangements to teach a course at a Senior Citizen’s Center, Saturdays in October and November, called “Imagining Your Story.” It’s strictly volunteer, but if it’s a success, I may try duplicating it and applying for a grant.

MCO 2005

Yesterday at church Reverend Thomas started a series of lectures on the 12 steps. The first was modified to be relevant for the setting: “We admitted were were powerless over our separation from God—that our lives had become unmanageable.” This I thought to be an ingenious modification, because indeed, whether one is addicted to alcohol, drugs, sex, gambling, food etc., there is a commonality of attempting to fill a void that, in my opinion, can only be filled by spiritual means.

I was somewhat unprepared for the intensity of my emotional reaction to his sermon though. I found tears rolling down my face. Initially, I think, because I realized how sick I had been and how painful the healing process can be. But when he started mentioning how he had noticed a marked increase in recent months of the reports of deaths from crystal meth, or from AIDS that was able to do its dirty work because users don’t take their meds, I not only realized my recent experience is being repeated all over, but felt waves of guilt and remorse for having facilitated the use of a fair amount of users for a fair amount of time.

While, on an intellectual level, I think I am no more responsible for their addiction than a bartender is for serving drinks to an alcoholic, on another level, it is undeniable that I was part of the problem, and definitely not part of the solution. I was no innocent bystander.

I can only move on and make sure I am now part of the solution as best as I can be. But when I got a call last telling me of a memorial service tonight for S., who died two days ago, I found myself declining, as gently as I could. First of all, I genuinely feel that such events should be reserved for those who can be termed friends, and my relationship with the deceased truly never rose to that level. Secondly, I find the prospect of a service where no one mentions the elephant in the room too uncomfortable to bear. He died every bit as much from drug addiction as from AIDS, and his use was encouraged and facilitated to the end by the bereaved lover who invited me to the service. I do not judge him—how could I? At the same time it feels inauthentic, to put it mildly, to celebrate the life of S. when such an extraordinary potential (he was very, very bright) was completely squandered. If we had been close (I had spoken to him once in the past year, about a computer glitch in the ex-roommates computer), I would get past it. But we weren’t. (I certainly wouldn’t have expected or wanted him to come to my memorial service.)

Still, I am filled with ambivalence at my decision. The lover didn’t seem to mind, I actually got the feeling he was afraid I would be offended at not being asked, rather than actually wanting me there. But more likely, he needs to feel his lover had enough friends to at least fill a room, and for that reason alone, I may just go.

MCO 2005

Well, the class yesterday was excellent. Extremely helpful. The instructor Kate Gale, was informed, insightful and humorous. She runs the Red Hen Press, and is a fine poet (with a nightmare childhood documented in a book, Lake of Fire. She was raised in a cult and the abuse was horrific. You'd never know it from the ulra-cool lady that taught the class). I urge she be googled and her work looked at.

She also confirmed much of what I knew or suspected about getting published, and how to go about it. I am confident in my strategy. I just need to keep doing the work. Edit, edit, edit, then network, network, network.

Today I have to go with my friend David to Santa Monica, to check out someone who wants his dog. (the black one pictured above). David can't take Tess with him to San Francisco, and he wants to make sure she is going to a good home.

MCO 2005

On my way out from a meeting last night, I was hailed by the ex-roommate. “S. died today.”

This is the second friend from the old days who has died in two weeks. Both had struggled with AIDS and drug addiction for years, and it would be impossible to separate them as causes of death, because users are notoriously non-compliant when it comes to taking their AIDS meds. Be that as it may, S. was a good person who was my age and leaves behind a lover of 15 years.

This is the fifth death of someone I knew well in four months. (Well, not true, I didn’t personally know my friend’s brother who died two days ago.) But it’s a bit freaky none the less, it’s starting to remind me of the early 90s, where barely a month would go by when I didn’t know somebody who died of AIDS.

On the other hand, I do believe that when my ideas about life and its longevity were formed in the 60’s and 70’s, we were in an era (I almost wrote “error”) that nurtured assumptions that almost all of one’s peers would be around until 75 or so, excepting the occasional car accident. It’s turned out to be more like life a century ago, when a bad winter could mean a few loved ones dead from the flu or tuberculosis., not to mention accidents, cancer, and infections with no antibiotics to treat them.

This is how it has been for hundreds of thousands of years, really. And in the vast majority of the world, the way it has stayed. Like most of us I was briefly in a cocoon that proved illusory, certainly for gay men. I’ve personally come to accept the regularity of death as more reflective of the natural order of things. Making it to 75 is a great luxury, not to be assumed as an entitlement of some kind.

Today I will be spending at a workshop at UCLA called “Demystifying Publishing.” Hopefully it will also serve as a kick in the pants as far as taking the next steps with a bit more vim and vigor than I have been. This spate of early deaths has reminded me that one can can ill afford to make assumptions about the time we have left on this planet. (And that includes the assumption that one won’t be around long. That one can be just as dangerous, as shown by the foolhardy risk-taking that can result. )

MCO 2005