February 2006 Archives

From a rabid leftist like me, it might seem strange that I support the ruling of the Supreme Court against the use of anti-Racketeering Laws against anti-abortion protesters. It's not that I don't support the right to choose without harassment, but I object to prosecutors abusing the law by stretching its original intent to cover completely unrelated crimes. Specifically, I heard of in prison charges of "Making Terrorist Threats," so abused in domestic disputes more times than I can count. Even dismissing a significant portion of the stories I was told as being one-sided and heavily biased, it was clear to me that on many an occasion, a prosecutor's first priority was maintaining his high conviction rate, not determining the accuracy of the charge. (Sometimes, no doubt, the guys in question were suspected for other things like drug dealing that there was no evidence to convict them on.)

If we were all sent to prison because of the times we said terrible things in a fight, I daresay most of us would be wearing stripes. Making a terrorist threat is calling in a bomb threat or swearing to shoot up a school, it's not telling an unfaithful girlfriend that you could kill her you're so angry, or throwing a ham sandwich at her.

Hell, once I was being a sullen, pain-in-the-ass, completely obnoxious 13-year old on a trip to France, and after a completely outrageous disregard of my mother's distinct instructions not to plug in my American cassette recorder into the socket of a French house in which we were staying (I refused to accept or understand that American and European systems were completely different), I fuse-blew the house-TWICE. My apoplectic mother screamed: "Sometimes I could beat you!"

That was not making a terrorist threat. (Especially with her accent.) But I heard stories of similar situations used to send men to prison. I just wish someone would take a case like that to the Supreme court, but in the present political ambience, there ain't a prayer.

Yesterday David and I did our periodic Monday afternoon sortie to the movies. It was a perfect day for it, as it was raining cats and dogs. And we found a $5 early bird admission! We saw "TransAmerica." Felicity Huffman was indeed superb--a very original character and utterly convincing as a man in transition. But I thought Kevin Zegers as the son deserves a lot more attention than he's getting, and not just because he's gorgeous. The "straight man" role is actually a lot harder, in many ways, than the role in which you can pull out all the stops with makeup, voice, walk, etc. You have a much narrower range to express your emotions, and this kid does a great job of it.

I decided to apply to the MFA Professional Writing Program at USC. A mentorish interaction with a fellow writer (me as mentor) has reminded me that I really should be able to teach somewhere along the line. Of course I can't afford the tuition, but if someone like me--an ex-con/drug addict living with AIDS--is not eligible for some kind of financial help, who the hell is?

MCO 2006

Yesterday afternoon I went to an engagement party for my old buddy Kathy Hepinstall, a fabulous copywriter and novelist (google her and buy her books!) with whom I used to work back at DMB&B advertising in 1991-92. Aside from being incredibly talented, she also has one of the driest and most sarcastic senses of humor of anybody on the planet. It was so good to see her, as well as Susan, another co-conspirator from those days, who is still gorgeous even with three adorable kids under her belt. She asked what I had been up to--it's possible Kathy didn't tell her, but I would bet that she just as likely told her to feign innocence so I could choose to share or not about my past. (Kathy had applied to visit me, I would never have expected her to not say anything to anyone we both knew who asked after me.) If anything I wondered if there was an exhibitionist, shock-value component to my telling Susan I'd spent most of 2004 in prison, but to tell you the truth, I shared it more to explain the book/blog, because I needed to share a writing accomplishment to another writer. (Speaking of which, Susan is close friends with James Frey, and felt he'd gotten such a raw deal in the recent brouhaha. I like Oprah, but I adore Susan, even these many years after innumerable tete-a-tetes behind closed doors on the 10th floor of 6500 Wilshire. So if she says he's on the up and up, he's on the up and up.)

I stayed at the party for an hour and then came home, because there was a lot of fun, completely civilized and rather attractive drinking going on. You know, the type where people get amusing and affectionate and anything excessive goes on afterwards, when they get home. I had to walk though what I would have done 10 or so years ago, when I still drank a lot (the meth gradually supplanted my use of alcohol entirely--for about 5 years they went hand in hand.) I would have left the party, gone home to change and do a line or two and been off to Sunday beer bust somewhere. When and with whom I got home could have ranged from 9 pm and alone to 4 am elsewhere, depending on whether Cupid was afoot and whether or not I was working the next morning.

Of course that behavior, in and of itself, did not consitute insanity, but it was hardly isolated. It describes more nights than not for about 20 years. So I made it a point to wake up this morning grateful that I could have a perfectly nice time without the next day having to do a fearful inventory of the events of the night before (particularly the guilt of having driven home impaired), not to mention having to negotiate, via Alka-Seltzer and any number of strategic remedies, yet another hangover.

I gotta walk through this on a daily basis, people. Because it's hard. A lot of my partying was great great fun and very hard to either regret or not covet again. Luckily (for me if not for them) I see and hear almost daily those who dive back in the old waters and discover that they are forever polluted to them. I have to trust that such would be my experience as well, and let them go there for me.

MCO 2006

I became so irritated at the trash I saw on my daily walk up to the observatory with Gaza that I just started to take an extra bag and pick it up. Now I very rarely descend without at least one full bag of detritus and sometimes two. It is both the most annoying and satisfying thing that I do on a daily basis. Annoying because there is no frigging excuse for people littering, and satisfying because I finally have a way to make amends for all the toxic waste dumps I indirectly contributed to that are the by-product of meth manufacturing. A bag of day for six months is a lot of trash. (And yes, I do want someone at my memorial service to tearfully share: "did you know he pick up trash up on Griffith Park every day! [Sniff, blow]")

Anyway, do you realize there are some people who actually scoop their dog's poop way up this hill, in the one place it would be fine to just let the go unscooped, (what do they think the coyotes do?) and then leave the poop-filled plastic bag on the side of the road, because they can't be bothered to take it down the hill to the trash? Is that THE stupidest, most bizarro idiocy you've ever heard of? It's like "I'll be THIS considerate, but not THIS considerate."

I just had to get that off my chest.

And to leave you with somthing a bit more forgiving and inspirational, these two quotes.

Let us face a pluralistic world in which there are no universal churches,

no single remedy for all diseases, no one way to teach or write or sing, no

magic diet, no world poets, and no chosen races, but only the wretched and

wonderfully diversified human race. -Jacques Barzun, professor and writer

(1907- )

My life is my message. -Mohandas K. Gandhi (1869-1948)

MCO 2006

I am annoyed that I have a dreadful cold. When I stopped smoking, I thought I became immune to such ills more than once a year at most. Plus I eat well and my numbers are all good HIV-wise and I get plenty of sleep. On the other hand, I am relieved the sniffles/dusty throat morphed into a full-fledged cold, as I feared I was becoming allergic to my dog's hair (he sheds a lot). I know that sounds strange, after 8 years of having him, but I'm pretty sure I heard/read that it is common to develop allergies later in life. And God, I don't know what I would do if I became allergic to Gaza.

Although I found some ephedrine-free cold medecine that doesn't give me that icky anti-histamine feeling I can't stand, my editor and I decided to reschedule going over his edit of "In Deep" because he had a terrible 2005 illness-wise and doesn't want to risk catching anything. And no doubt I would have started nodding off halfway through, just as I am now.

I had an almostercation (I think I'm going to try to make up one word a day) with a hispanic lady while walking the dog. She was behind a table on a corner she set up selling her wares, and I crossed the street to her right, to continue up the sidewalk. From my right charged her little bichon frise, dragging her leash behind her, evidently having freed herself from the parked truck whence she had been attached. She was a very aggressive little dog, like her mama, who started shooing me away urgently as if it was poor Gaza going after her precious, defenseless baby. Quite the contrary. Gaza did react when the Bichon jumped at his face, but it was nothing more than a warning snap, and neither dog was remotely in danger. But this woman, finally grabbing her dog 's leash off the ground, start yelling at me, as if I'd done anything but innocently cross the street with my dog. I called her an idiot and told her to keep her dog on the leash and walked on and that was that. But frankly, I was steamed. I wanted to throttle her and dropkick her little ratbrat across the street.

So why do I share this? Because if Mr. Ultranonviolenteveninprison had such thoughts, I can imagine how really pissed Mr. Undereducatedtakeseverythingpersonally would have reacted in the same situation. Hell, I don't have to imagine it, all I have to do is look at the planet, at all the damage done by people with short fuses who get unjustly (much less justly) yelled at.

Actually, if anything, it's almost more amazing that the planet functions as well as it does. Just look at traffic! People bitch about it constantly (in LA it's Topic #1) but millions and millions get from points a to b everday, 99.9999% of the time not hitting each other--with their cars or fists.

If you really look at it objectively, for all the disharmony in the world, there's a lot more harmony. Said otherly, there's a lot more God than NotGod.

MCO 2006

Well, from the posting below, you will see how this wily entrepreneurd solved his car repair problem. I agreed to do a series of ads to drum up business for my roommate--who paid the $695 bill. So if any of you live in L.A. or work downtown and you need a new stylist, David is thoroughly charming and competent--and it would help me out. (Of course it helps that when David first lived with me in LA in 1990-1994 I footed well over half of the bill. How funny the way roles in life get switched.)

My "ad" will be one of a series using visuals from a box of National Geographics I found outside my apartment building. I LOVE National Geographic. In fact it reminded me of an episode at Delano that happened before my sister started the blog for me.

At Delano--a reception center--interaction between the races was very strict, at least when you were a newbie. As those who came before you got shipped out and you gained seniority, you could get away with more contact. One of the black guys there looked exactly like Gregory Hines, the late actor, and at Pill Call one day when we were both in line, I actually told him. To which he replied: "He was my older brother." Evidently, besides Maurice, there was Merle, and Merle had a little cocaine problem. Anyway, we became friends--as much as you could in those circumstances--and Merle had something as valuable as gold in Delano. An old issue of National Geographic.

He literally had to smuggle it to me, and after I finished I had to smuggle it back to him. I'm not kidding. I mean smuggle! Is that not insane?

MCO 2006

Quel desastre. Front brake pads and rotors, $350, calipers on the left rear axel, another $300. Since my electric clock goes on and off willy-nilly, I had conveniently chosen to assume the nagging brake light of the past two weeks was due to a faulty fuse. That was sheer denial because I feared the news would prove unaffordable, but my ostrichnancy (my word) may have made it worse.

I am going to borrow the money from my roommate, but I'm going to have to consider selling the car to pay him back. Which wouldn't leave me sans wheels, as we could share his car, which frankly makes sense because he takes the subway to work anyway and needs the parking space. I just didn't really want to go back to driving an SUV/stick shift, not to mention just plain not having my very own car.

I've been rather settled into my life and routine of being independently poor on disability, but this is the sort of expense that is going to happen three or four times a year (I'm fairly sure my back tooth is going to demand a crown fairly soon) and it's the kind of thing that really makes me question the feasibility of continuing this lifestyle o' mine. I frankly thought when I quit smoking and got a roommate, giving myself a $700/month raise, basically, I would be home-free. But I just manage as long as no shit happens. And as we know, shit happens.

Sometimes good shit. I've just spoken to my editor, and we will definitively be sitting down on Saturday to go over his suggestions for the next draft. I'm going to really commit to churning this out so it can go out to potential agents this Spring. Maybe I won't need to get a job after all, cause I'll have an advance.

Last night, I brought the roommate to a Landmark seminar and he signed up for the "training" next weekend. In describing what you gain access to by doing the three days, the forum leader drew a big circle on the blackboard, subdivided into three slices. Two of them were mere slivers, one labeled "what you know you know" and the other "what you know you don't know." That left the vast majority of the pie what you gain access to--labeled "what you don't know you don't know"

To my 12-step mind, that's also a pretty good definition of God.

MCO 2006

Blame it on me

Blame it on you

Blame it on that pill I forgot to take

Blame it on all the pills I took too many of

When push comes to shove

Blame it on the disease

On the ism

for which it stands

I SELF ME

Incredibly Short Memory

Blame it on the Quebequers

And the weird French they speak

Blame it on Mohammed

Blame it on Jesus

Blame it on the day

They came to lock me up

Blame it on my Dad

And his runneth over cups

Blame it on God's Will

If that's what you believe

Blame it on the heart

I wear upon my sleeve

Blame it left

And blame it right

Blame it all around

Just give me credit

For finding fault

And grab that mirror

When you walk out

MCO 2006

Today, I am extremely irritable.

I could come up with 20 reasons for it, none satisfying.

Certainly, nothing going on justifies or explains my restless discontent.

The good news is I'm not about to drink or do drugs over it.

The bad news is that I find most irritating of all the prospect that I may never be able to drink or do drugs again.

Correction, I find myself most irritating of all. The only logical thing to do feels like sleep.

MCO 2006

I did the most bizarre thing last night. I parked in front of my building.

Let me explain. A few months ago, I finally got my own space by the side of my building, where, ever since, I dutifully park. All the time. No exceptions.

Last night, I'm walking the dog, and notice my own car in front of my building. I do a double take--it's a fairly common make and model--but sure enough, that's my license plate. My mind immediately goes to a scenario where my roommate moved the car for some reason--but he of course did no such thing (nor could have--he wasn't even home). I had simply returned from a 6:00 rendezous and saw an empty spot in front of my building, and I suppose my head was so far in the clouds that my parasympathetic brain kicked in and thought: "what a lucky break"--as if it was still last September, when I often had to park blocks away.

But I tell you, I had absolutely zero recall of doing such a thing, and if I hadn't noticed it walking the dog, would have called the police and reported it stolen this morning when it wasn't in my spot. It was the closest experience I've ever had to a complete alcoholic blackout--but because it happened to me sober I'm calling it a whiteout.

Boy, I hope I don't have a brain tumor. Actually, that's not true, I would love to have a brain tumor. It would be so dramatic and I'd get tons of attention. I just would like it to be one of those Dark Victory types of brain tumor, where you stay pretty up until the end. Then suddenly things get dark, but you tell your handsome doctor husband to go to that conference anyway and later everyone talks about how brave you were.

In, face, don't you think I'm being very noble and dignified in the face of such a chillng prognosis?

Yeah, I know. Whatever.

MCO 2006

I realized over the weekend that I can fall into a trap of distorted thinking, in which I compare the 20% of the time that I am restless, discontent, or bored while sober, with the 20% of the time that I enjoyed my drug and alcohol use. The sane comparison would be between the 80% of the time I am content, productive and spiritually grounded sober with the 80% of the time I was pretty miserable out there. I think this is exacerbated by the reality that no matter how insane my drinking or using was, it was almost always accompanied by sex or a relationship, however painful or temporary or unsatisfying that interaction ultimately was. So when I go through a long period of drought in that realm, I start to equate sobriety with a lack of gratification. Which is true--when it comes to sensual gratification, but certainly quite the contrary when it comes to spiritual gratification. Of course I want both--I just want the sensual part to be "right-sized."

So while I would like ideally for the sexual part of sensual gratification to be part of an intimate relationship, when I get just plain antsy I think it's better to settle for some plain old oompah-oompah. So I literally grabbed someone I know who has made it clear he will always say yes and carved an hour out of my morning to take care of business. (I knew 3-day weekends were good for something, he'd normally have been working).

And you know what? I feel better. And so does he--and not because of the sex, he has a lot of it--but because of the ear I provided afterward and the advice I gave him that he hungered for. I don't know how to convey this accurately without sounding horribly superior, suffice to say there is a level of understanding and sophistication about psychological matters that can never be assumed in some people. In fact, it's frightening how some can make it to 40 groping in the dark when it comes to the most basic understanding of concepts like co-dependence and what constitutes emotional maturity. I got the distinct impression that no one had even delved into such issues with him before, it was almost scary how I seemed to be speaking a foreign language. I kept waiting to hear: "For chrissakes', don't talk down to me, I'm not a 14-year old" and instead I got: "Thank you so much, none of this ever occurred to me before." I'm not exaggerating in the least.

I have a lot of writing and rewriting to do, but of course I have to nap first.

MCO 2006

I saw Michael Chertoff on This Week with George Stephanapoulous, and boy, is this photo ever on target. Though wouldn't it be nice if one of these politicians, just once, would admit to the truth of the accusations against them? Wouldn't it be nice if Chertoff just said: "It's true, I have been totally preoccupied with terrorism and really dropped the ball on responding to a mere natural disaster." Wouldn't it be nice if "Brownie" had said "Listen, I was a political appointee who was completely out of my depth as head of FEMA. I didn't really know what I was doing." Wouldn't it be nice if Cheney said: "Obviously it was an accident and no one was going to say otherwise. But I was hoping my host wouldn't tell the press because I was incredibly embarassed about it. And yes, I equate loss of secrecy with loss of power and always have." And finally, wouldn't it be nice if Bush admitted: "I've been preoccupied with Saddam Hussein because I wanted to do one better than my Dad, and always have. And yeah, we were going to invade no matter what because we want to secure America's oil supply and I frankly did think we would be greeted as liberators and the whole thing would be a cakewalk. Boy, was I wrong!" (Oh yeah, and it would also have been nice if Clinton had said, way back when, "Well I have never been able to keep my dick in my pants, I probably qualify as a narcissist, and I admit it, I'm more sorry for getting caught than for doing it in the first place.")

My roommate is being very generous with me. Last night he took me out to dinner just because he felt like eating out and I make him laugh, and we're going to brunch with his visiting brother this afternoon. Ironically, today's horoscope warns me about physical injury doing remodeling stuff today, and yesterday was when I hurt my leg when I slipped on the stairs carrying a chair at helping out at Church. Happily, the leg is better (just a bruise) and this morning we get to see the final "reveal" at the church.

I wish we could give this godforsaken regime an extreme makeover. Although I don't know if there's any hope for the future, whoever is in power. According to a fascinating documentary on the History Channel I watched last night, Edgar Cayce--who was dead on about everything in the first half of this century--forecast that right about now the earth would be shifting on its axis. Which dovetails perfectly with the Mayan predictions that 2012 is the year of massive catastrophes and purifications.

Believe it or not, it was a relief to hear all this. There's not much we can do and it'll all be over soon enough, so I'm going to make every minute count and enjoy the spectacle.

MCO 2006

Yesterday I took advantage of taking my friend down to Long Beach to go to the "Dog Zone" on the beach there. Gaza thought he'd died and gone to heaven. Of course, though, it was the same eventually, as it is no matter where I take him where there are other dogs. He always finds one chasing a ball and obsesses on that dog like a NBA point guard. He is so good a covering the poor dog, that they often find it impossible to get their ball or toy (not that Gaza wants it, he just feels compelled to herd them to death). After a while I need to get him out of there, because if the dog is not chasing according to his satisfaction, he will start nipping at the dog's neck, in a sort of remonstrance. And worse, he then will not obey me when I tell him its time to go, and if I grab his collar and he's too close to another dog, he will get aggressive with the other dog. It becomes quite a game of getting a hold of him.

Otherwise, he is the perfect dog. I have come to accept that every pet has some sort of personality quirk that can be a bit of a pain, but that makes them precious and particular as well and is something you always cen tell a story about. Especially when your brain is in a bit of a pleasant (if completely sober) jumble. I'm thinking about a little of this and a little of that and don't have a lot to share except that I've been enjoying socializing via the theater. Thursday night was "Southern Baptist Sissies," which was delightful--I know Leslie Jordan and he was incredibly funny; last night I saw my friend Richard perform a song at a benefit; and today I'm going to see my friend Andrea on stage in Burbank--if it's good I'll blog the flyer.

Then maybe back to church to help with the final cleanup as the remodel winds up. We'll see. I kind of bruised my leg and it will either improve or get worse in the next few hours.

MCO 2006

I was just playing around, you know, trying to stumble on a graphic that will make me rich and famous with its inimitable yet insightful and dry observational wit.

This isn't quite it, as it's a clear attempt to captilalize on that famous New Yorker cartoon/poster on New Yorker's view of the world. But don't tell anybody, okay? At least not under 35--they may not remember it

I've got to give a friend a ride to Long Beach this morning. Maybe he'll surprise me and tell me he's back from the future, and just stealing a body, and we're actually on the way to London in 1898. Mmmhh, how's that for a way to time travel? Combine it with body-stealing! You dear reader, are going to watch the ideas for "Oscar and Me" unfold as it they occur! (Be prepared for very few of them to actually make them to the page, though).

MCO 2006

So I was reading this biography of Robbie Ross, the young man who 1) took Oscar Wilde’s virginity, 2) was one his most loyal friends. And as I read about Oscar’s brutal imprisonment, and about the even sadder period after his release and before his death, it occurred to me that the most painful part of it for Oscar must have been less prison than the intense rejection by the same society that had once so embraced him. And the irony! The very wit for which he was so celebrated was inextricably linked to the very gayness that caused his downfall. I’m sure Oscar suspected this very thing about his homosexuality—even if he thought of it as a “romantic sensibility” or “Greek aesthetic.” But make no mistake about it. Oscar was the first modern gay man, and way ahead of his time.

He died in 1900, at 46 years of age. He would have had to live to 94 to make it to the first whiff of fresh air that came from the Kinsey Report, but if he’d at least lived to age 76, he would have been able to experience the 1920s in a place like New York or Paris. Hardly Fire Island in the 70s, but rather more progressive than Victorian London at the turn of the century.

What he could have used in his last months of life were some antibiotics that had yet to be invented, and just as importantly, in my view, someone to tell him his name and reputation would one day be restored, his memory and work honored and produced and sold.

Not the likeliest scenario, admittedly, but a fantasy that managed to plant itself into my consciousness. Why? Because Oscar was born on October 16th, and my birthday is October 15th. Because at 17, I read all of his successful comedies and underlined the aphorisms, completely unaware there were collections consisting of those very same witticisms. Because The Picture of Dorian Gray is my favorite book. Because I went to prison at the same age as Oscar, and started a new life at virtually the same age that his ended.

I wondered what sort of difference it may have made to the world if Oscar Wilde had survived. More than that, to have known before he died how much he would be loved by future generations, what that would have meant to him—that’s an idea that became almost palpably rich for me. As irrational as it seems, I want to go back and apologize for how cruel the world was to him.

And yet, if I could somehow think of a way to go back in time, I don’t know that it would be to urge him to flee to Paris and avoid the second trial that resulted in his imprisonment. First off, most of his friends did urge him to do just that, and he ignored them, almost as if he felt it was his destiny to live out some terrible Greek tragedy. Secondly, those two awful years at hard labour yielded a masterpiece that I find it hard to imagine the world without: De Profundis.

This entire fantasy would hardly be worth mentioning were it not for my figuring out a way that it could indeed come true. This is my thinking. No one knows, given our present technology, how to go back in time. But doesn’t it seem completely possible that sometime in the future, this capability will come to pass? So what if I put it out there, now, in this blog, that I want someone from the future to come back into the past, pick me up, and together we can proceed to see Oscar, circa 1899?

Yeah, I know, I know. It’s a stretch. But here’s the bizarre thing. If it works, it should work immediately. You see, first I blog it, then I have to live out my life and die. And then generations have to pass, and I have to get real real lucky, and someone in the far future who knows how to go back in time will have to be doing historical research into early blog literature, and discover this very entry. So someone could appear at my door tomorrow, because they will be coming back in time, to any point they desire, as long as it’s after I’ve written this blog entry. Which is really weird, if you think about it., because I haven’t even died yet. I have to wait my entire life time, first, and then not wait at all. Get it?

But this is step one. Hopefully, the next time I write about this, it will be to tell you all about my visit to Oscar. Actually, if it all works out, Oscar never died, and you’re nodding your head thinking, that’s weird, doesn’t Marc know he died in 1932 (or whenever)?

MCO 2006

I couldn't resist creating this little Faux Photo Op. And since I go to bed before 11:30, I have yet to hear most of the new crop of late night Cheney jokes--although I did catch the first 15 minutes of Jon Stewart last night and he was hysterical. But do me a favor and let me know if you hear any "Buckshot Stops Here" joke. I'm hoping this is really and truly my own original comeupwith. (As is that word).

How's this for a horoscope the day after Valentine's:

Today you could make a decisive move in a romantic relationship, Marc. Maybe you will want to take things to the next level. You might ask someone to move in with you, or talk about marriage. If you are in a happy romance, you should go with the flow. If you are single right now, you could approach someone who is receptive to you. Buy some flowers for them and make your affections known.

What I'm hoping is that this means I'm going to meet another Libra and this is HIS horoscope. I was telling a friend yesterday that I realize that I like either to flirt OR be madly in love, but I abhor the in-between process. And this is old addictive thinking, because that' s exactly what relationships (and I use the term loosely) were on drugs and alcohol. One would go from 0 to 80 in 5.2 seconds, and of course the intimacy was completely illusory, because as soon as you sobered up, your partner was a stranger. Still, the idea of that getting-to-know-you process is stomach-churning. Hell, it's not even just in romance, I find it harder and harder to make friends, because it's quite an effort to create that history that makes for feeling comfortable with each other.

Speaking of Libras, I started "Oscar and Me." So far, so cool.

MCO 2006

That's right, Happy SAD (Singles' Awareness Day--as the euphemism du jour goes.) How appropriate, as one is usually Happy or Sad on this day. Well, not entirely true, if you think about it. After all, by my best estimate, for every "happy" couple out there, there is a couple who is not very happy at all, but together out of habit or need or fear of not being attached. And then there's at least another couple on top of that in which one of the two parties would like very much to be out of the relationship, but just hangs in for the same variety of reasons. Which means for those of us freebirds, there's a 2 to 1 chance that if we were attached, we would be envying the very singledom we get to enjoy now. So I say, be where you are and grateful for it, and especially be grateful for that shy smile you got across the room this morning from another Clark Kent type you've had your eye on.

The photo above is from that cute little rotating holiday theme-yard two blocks away. I caught her a few days ago as she was setting up the Valentine's display, and was able to thank her for the time taken to be festive and neighborly. It's no doubt a little bit more elaborate today, but I walked on the other side of the street with Gaza this morning and forgot to look.

Yesterday the roommate and I went to see "Something New," or, as we were wont to call itm "Black Ashy Babies," for a funny line one of the star's girlfriends utters in reference to her willingness to give birth to African-American offspring for Blair Underwood. (Who wouldn't be willing-that is one fine man.) But not as fine as the male lead, Simon Baker. YOU JUST DON'T GET ANY CUTER THAN THAT. The film was reasonably charming, if rather shallow. I mean, please, the Simon character owns his own landscape design company, and is a clearly educated and literate ex-copywriter, no less. The contrivance that there is a class as well as racial difference between he and the female lead--an MBA white collar exec--is terribly rather heavy-handed Still I liked the movie, evn if I thought the script could have been rather more deft and subtle. (Why don't they ever come to me about these things?)

I'm suddenly reminded of a skit I wrote for a film reviewing duo, Siskel and Ibo. Siskel, was, of course, the late Gene Siskel. Ibo was a Nigerian chieftan, whose take on current releases was, shall we say, somewhat idiosyncratic? A San Diego Cable Comedy show actually produced it, and it was pretty funny.

MCO 2006

Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities.

-Voltaire, philosopher (1694-1778)

Power always thinks it has a great soul and vast views beyond the

comprehension of the weak; and that it is doing God's service when it is

violating all his laws. -John Adams, 2nd US president (1735-1826)

Isn't a sad comment on the times in which we live that Dick Cheney's hunting accident assumes the quality of comic relief?

I've been feeling somewhat restless, irritable and unproductive. I could ascribe it to a lot of things, but I have an inkling that it may have something to do with the fact that I haven't gotten laid in 2 months. Or, if you'd like to be romantic about it, that I haven't had a dose of physical or emotional intimacy in that time. I suppose I miss all of it in equal parts, at the same time, I don't know how to go about making myself available anymore than I already do. The computer--at least for that kind of thing--is hopelessly intertwined with my use of meth. And bars are indelibly associated with cocktails. (I tried going to one yesterday with the roommate for one Red Bull. But it'll be another 6 months before I bother with that again. Bars just don't work for me without the social lubrication.)

The worst part is, that I don't know how I would date someone seriously from a logistical point of view. He'd have to have a dog-ready house, for one, which implies a certain standard of living. And if there's one thing that never happens to me, it meeting someone with money. I don't know why, but I never attract prosperity.

Here's hoping anyway that a hot, single, sober millionaire will surprise me for Valentine's Day. Anyone taking bets?

Yeah, I agree. Spend your money on a lotto ticket. Your chances are far better.

MCO 2006

I heard some excellent perspectives from a commentator on KPFK on Muslim outrage about the cartoon depictions of Mohammed. He noted 1) that in several Western countries there are agreed upon restrictions on free speech, noting the examples of it being illegal to deny the Holocaust in Germany and the ban on the wearing of headscarves in public buildings and school in France; 2) that the right to publish what you want does not equal the obligation to do so. So yes, any newspaper certainly has the right to reprint the cartoons--choosing not to do so does not have to equal a capitulation to extremism. Remember when newspapers reprinted the Unabomber's wild-eyed rantings so that he wouldn't kill more people?

That said, I have two other observations: 1) I think the whole idea that it is blasphemous to depict the image of Mohammed is silly; 2) Islamic and Arab culture in general seems to be so friggin' preoccupied with the opinion of others. I've never seen so many millions of men (who even hears from the women-another BIG strike against them) so worried about whether or not they are "insulted" by others? One sees it all over I guess, certainly wherever men are particularly unevolved (again, men ARE usually the problem, aren't they?), but the fundamentalists seem obsessed by it.

All this yahoos would do well to remember 2 more things. 1) Stick and stones will break your bones, but words only have the power you give them; 2) what you think of me is none of my business.

And don't they all know that the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about? Besides, what prophet worth honoring has as his number one desire the requirement that he be honored? What Deity worth worshipping would require being worshipped above all else? The whole idea of assigning such narrow human attributes to entitities that by definition, are beyond such finite stipulations, is, to my mind, much closer to blasphemy than what is commonly termed blasphemy. Of course, the whole idea of calling anything heretical or blasphemous and terming it the opinion of God is as unGodlike as it gets.

Pure, infinite Love simply does not beget hate, judgement, violence or cruelty. Gods that are thought to do so are simply a projections of fearful men.

MCO 2006

Loyal Blog readers will recognize this, but I have reworked it a bit.

I'm spending the morning helping clean my church after a renovation, so this may be it for today.

http://wehonews.com/z/wehonews/archive/page.php?articleID=279

MCO 2006

P.S. Gaza disappeared for, well I guess it was 5 minutes, but it felt like an hour, in the park yesterday, when we were almost at the top of the hill. When he finally reappeared, I thought he was going to have a heart attack he was panting so bad. I think he got disoriented and then panicked when he couldn't find his way back to his Daddy--who was starting to have his own nervous breakdown.

Kids.

I realized this morning that my regrets over my past were also an opportunity for gratitude. Thank God I only killed on paper. I could have so easily killed someone driving drunk, or supplying drugs that led to an overdose. Imagine how much worse my remorse could have been. Bottom line, I am very very lucky. (And yesterday's entry provoked a bunch of supportive and insightful emails. I even tried to revive my "comments" function, but got mega-spammed almost immediately and had to re-delete it. If any of you have aol accounts and would like to comment, you can always do so there at: http://journals.aol.com/makemarc/SoberGayEx-Con/

I have to give credit to the AOLers for being consistent and supportive commenters--I've actually made a little circle of virtual friends...)

A few mornings ago I had one of "those" conversations with someone, i.e., where you both have a powerful sensation of having met before, but then when you trade mini-histories, are unable to find any geographic or situational commonalities. When that happens, I wonder if what we are experiencing is precognition. After all, when I do get involved with someone, I often wonder how I did not know it from the first time I met them, or sometimes imagine that in fact I did. Does that mean I think this guy and I are going to get involved? Who the f**k knows? Would I like that to be the case? Well, lets say I'd like to find out if I want it to be the case. Something was going on when our eyes met--or my radar is in severe need of repair. It was enough for me to give him my card and feel confident enough to say right out: "my motives are completely ulterior" (read: "my thoughts are purely impure).

What I like about this guy--at least physically--is the sense that he is not one of those types that are everybody's type. You know, he-who-turns-the-heads-of-everyone/could-be-male-model type. Not to say he's not attractive and built--just more Clark Kent than Superman. I got flirtatious with a Superman last week, and got shot down big time. (I told myself they're just like everybody else. Well, they're not. Despite how intimidating they are, they get hit on all the time, and they can be very touchy about it. I kicked myself for ignoring my instinct about it. That said, this Clark Kent guy turns me on way more. Go figure.)

Anyway, he said he'd call or email, and if he does, this would be a good thing. I've been differentiating being open to and desirous of intimacy from having a character defect of needing or wanting a relationship to feel complete or whole. It's like I've had a healthy dinner, and dessert would be nice. (It's when you make dessert the main course that you end up getting fat on empty calories and dying of malnutrition.)

MCO 2006

It's been a full day already and it's only just after noon.

It started out with a heavy heart and a busy brain, because today is the 15th anniversary of the death of my brother, Luke. This would be a source of pain in and of itself, of course, but the fact that I clerically impersonated him to various authorities so many times brings up the insanity of my past and the damage it caused.

Even though I can't imagine ever engaging in such crooked behavior now, I can't blame it completely on the drugs and alcohol. I have had a propensity for lying and rationalizing since adolescence. It's not at all a coincidence that this came hand in hand with my dawning realization of having a sexual preference that one simply didn't share non-chalantly at the age of 14 in 1972. By the time it was shared for me (thanks, cousin Bernadette) when I was 17, I was so used to lying and feeling utterly justified about it that I had learned not only to quell my conscience, but to be perversely proud of my facility. It made me feel powerful. (And this was not without basis. Working on Wall Street, for example, it would have been very ill-advised to be "out." Same with high school.)

Anyway I find the truth rather more potent these days. But it took a walk and talk with my friend Richard to lighten the psychic load. Then I went to the doctor and had blood drawn to see what might explain my fatigue. Then I got passport photos taken. (I look horrible. The Olmsteds have a terribly propensity to get jowly with age--and the HIV facial wasting makes mine rather worse.) While they were being developed I went to a bookstore--my weekly "artists date" (thank you "Walking the World") and, after perusing it a bit, got a half-price biography on the life of Robbie Ross--Oscar Wilde's best friend.

And then, on the way to pick up some prescriptions, I had a veritable ephipany. A simply marvelous idea for a novella about me and Oscar Wilde. I have to read this book, and do some planning and plotting, but I may just write this publically. Literally, posting each installment parallel to each entry. In fact, the first chapter IS a blog entry.

On that teaser, I have to take a nap. All will be revealed.

MCO 2006

Behold, my shiny renewed leather footwear. Boot fetishists, rejoice! (Oh please, I know you're there. And even if you're not, watch how many google hits I get from writing "Boot Fetishists")

This morning, out of the blue, I googled "Can Felons Teach in California?" Of course I knew the answer--no--but it was interesting to find out how much one is marked professionally by a conviction. Rather ironic, as one is supposed to "pay one's debt to society" by going to prison, and then, upon release, prevented in many cases from making true amends. I would be a great teacher! All this unfortunate information I found in an article in the San Francisco Chronicle by none other than Webb Hubbell, of Whitewater conviction fame (http://66.165.94.98/stories/sfchron06102001.htm) This also led me to another site http://www.allofusornone.org/about.html, which advocates an end to discrimination of the 30 million felons in this country. My plate is so full right now, frankly, that I can't see becoming an activist in this regard, but I share this info to at least raise awareness and conciousness. Every little bit helps.

On a lighter note, this "BrokeBowl" skit from Mad TV is very very funny, and kinda erotic!

http://www.youtube.com/p.swf?video_id=rNiUkN4GssI

My creative to-do list just grows and grows--mostly involving taking a look at the work of others and in one case, typing up something that is rather long. My buddy Mike in prison sent me a short (not) story he wrote. It's the least I can do considering how much was typed up for me when I was inside. I'll certainly share it when I'm finished.

By the way, I'm looking for someone who might want to set up and maintain the BrokebackLit website as a labor of love/portfolio sample. And of course, if it ever makes any money, you'd make some too--but I doubt very much that will be the case. But do let me know if it interests you.

MCO 2006

The bad news is that the Pen Center wrote me to turn down my entries, handwriting under the form rejection letter: "Congratulations on your release, but we only consider submissions from those currently incarcerated."

This pissed me off, as it says quite clearly on their website that those submitting work need to be in prison during the year prior to September 1 preceding the awards year. In my case, for the 2005-6 awards, one had to be incarcerated in the year (it doesn't say how much of the year) prior to September 1 2004. (I was in from Februrary to November 2004). It says nothing about being disqualified for having been released since then, and I certainly would have appreciated them letting me know what I submitted the work almost a year ago.

I immediately fired off a letter of protest. It's not even that I disagree so much with the policy--the boys inside need the support and validation a lot more than I do--I just think the rules should be unambiguous and clearly stated. As far as I'm concerned, under their guideline, my work was eligible for consideration.

The good news is that I got my very very favorite black boots back from shoe repair--shiny and resoled and good as new. They look like a million bucks. Well worth the $35 it cost--it's so damn hard to find boots that fit just perfectly like these do.

This is a very busy creative day. My friend Michael Van Essen and I registered "BrokebackLit.com"--among other things. Stay tuned for upcoming news about that.

MCO 2006

One of the concepts I most resisted before I got sober was that alcoholism was a disease. It's now an idea I live by. Like lung cancer or Type II Diabetes, it's something that develops as a result of repeated unhealthy (and preventable) behavior. As with those diseases, not everyone who engages in the behavior ends up with the disease. But once developed, you have it for life. And like HIV/AIDS, with its adaptable and resilient retrovirus, alcoholism/addiction is an intelligent disease. Once it is forced into remission, it will engage in all sort of strategies to wreak havoc again by getting you to pick up. I honestly believe this.

In my case, my disease has had to contend with the reality that on a concious level, I have simply taken off the table the option of drinking or doing drugs again. It's not that I never think of it, it's just that I can't imagine (or rather, can all too well) going back "there." So my cunning, insidious disease tries all sorts of backdoor strategies. It tries to get me to think like someone who's a never drank or used (the 47-year old Virgin, as it were), and plants thoughts like "mmhh..I wonder what that feels like? Maybe I should try it..." As if I didn't know the answer to that question to the tune of 25 years worth of experience! Is that insane or what?

It's occurred to me that perhaps my fatigue attacks are my disease's attempts to push some of my biggest buttons, e.g., the need and desire to be productive, and the memory that drugs and alcohol were shortcuts to motivation. Of course for every minute of writing I did, there were hours of barhopping or internet cruising for sex, not to mention endless furniture rearranging and pursuit of all sorts of dubiously useful projects, but my disease is counting on selective amnesia about such things. Well, I ain't biting. (Of course becoming aware that this might be the case does necessarily cause *poof* the fatigue to disappear. But it can't hurt to be aware of the possibility it is at play.)

Now, let me say these two things about the Alberto Gonzales hearing:

1) I'd like to know whether he thinks any information gathered in eavesdropping that revealed illegal activity that was not terrorist-related would be actionable;

2) Isn't is obnoxious how the administration keeps pretending they conclude certain policies are necessary after long and serious contemplation and debate? You KNOW damn well that the policy decision is made FIRST, then the administrative machine is put into gear to come up with political cover and justification for the policy. There is no culture of consensus in this administration; it is entirely monarchial--with Cheney as regent and Bush as the underage King who does what he's told and then strains to make it look like he knows what he's doing.

It's torture being ruled by these people. No wonder they think it should be legal.

MCO 2006

Well, you'll never believe this, but after taking the dog to the park, I'm going to stay home and watch the Super Bowl. No, I don't care much for football, but I do care about being au courant with pop culture (pop courant?) That means I can't afford to miss potential watercooler conversation, even if I don't spend much time at any actual watercoolers. There's the commercials, the potential wardrobe malfunctions, and the outside possibility, of course, that the game itself might be a good one. It's sort of like my mother having to see Brokeback Mountain as a cultural necessity. (Although she was quite moved by it, as she should be).

In fact, this morning, I came up with what I hope is a new term: "Brokeback Literature." That would mean any narrative dealing with hidden homosexual love stories, pre-gay liberation. In fact, I 'm proposing it as a new column in Wehonews.

I neglected to mention yesterday that it was the 2nd anniversary of my arrest. Odd that I didn't mention it, because it was certainly on my mind. Not very pleasant--except the part that it was 2 years ago. And the beginning of the end--thank God. As terrible as the weeks were that came after the arrest, it surely must have been worse for my sisters and mother than it was for me. And I knew it--and felt just awful about it. Which was the true start of my recovery, I guess. Feeling bad about doing bad signaled my return of sanity.

Happy SBS. As my Reverend Pat said a church, "Super Bowl Sunday is one of the Lesbian High Holy Days."

MCO 2006

My editor is finished with the first pass on "In Deep," and we are getting together next week to go over his suggestions. He says I am within reach of the finished product, but that it will take another commitment of a few months--depending on how much work I can put in on a daily basis.

This makes me nervous, because I have noticed myself get into a routine that, although I enjoy very much, doesn't seem to have been nurturing much writing besides the my daily blog entry and the occasional submission to Wehonews. What seems to happen with numbing regularity is that every time I have finally cleared the deck--written the blog for the day, read the blogs I follow, responded to all emails, walked the dog and paid the bills and done and gone where I need to to stay sober--I invariably sit down to work on the next project and...fall asleep. That's right. I find myself overwhelmed with the desire to lay down. The fatigue is real, because I sleep soundly. What I don't know is if the cause is physiological or psychological or both. And I don't know what to do about it.

Well, that's not entirely true. I could turn off the TV. Even though I work with it on, invariably I get distracted and watch here and there, it would seem to make sense that I would get more done with it off. I can't tell you, though,when I've tried, how overwhelmed I am by a sense of loneliness--even with Gaza about. God knows I do know how to write through (because of?) distraction. I never wrote more than in prison--with nothing but distraction around me.

The other thing I should try--and no doubt will--is just force myself to work even when I'm tired. But, to be honest, I don't want to. I just don't want to. The question is, is that a good enough reason not to? Perhaps the better reason is that it revives the old instinct to reach for artificial motivation (I wrote after drinking and using for years and years). And though acting on that impulse is out of the question, I don't like even feeling it. I'd rather just take the damn nap.

So I'm thinking maybe I shouldn't take Gaza up to the hill to Griffith Park every day, (especially as a nap invariably follows it) and I turned to a book my sister gave me by Julia Cameron (The Artist's Way) called Walking in this World, for guidance. One of the three main suggestions to jog one's creativity is taking a long walk as often as possible. (One of the others is daily journaling--the blog will have to suffice, thank you.) So there. And I do work out a lot in my head--not to mention stay in shape--when I hike. It's my form of meditation.

Well, the time and energy to write more will just have to be found, and that's that. How exactly, I don't quite know.

Meanwhile, since I blogged the Spoetry entry yesterday, I received two new spams, with entire paragraphs of random sentences after the offer to refinance my mortgage. They seem to be both using the same random-sentence-generating program that had evidently had "Jupiter" on its menu today, and the result of putting both paragraphs together is unexpectedly lovely:

Bringing the cotton and the corn to yield.

Then, dearest child, mournest thou only for Jupiter?

In which I have during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend, Sherlock Holmes

Here's a look at how all the largest counties are faring.

Ascends, large and calm, the lord-star Jupiter.

Stand like free men supporting my trust.

Make of my pass a road to the light

Ascends, large and calm, the lord-star Jupiter

Our caravan was next to the van where the odd job woman lived,

To tell you a story of the long dark way.

I'm tempted to submit it as a real poem to some contest, but it would be kind of embarassing if it won, wouldn't it?

MCO 2006

You know those nonsense sentences (nonsentences?) that appear at the end of spam, (e.g. " Annie was at revert when that happened demur. armistice at duration or even contralto as in o'donnell"), that spammers have inserted to fool your filters? (Quite successfully, it would seem, considering how many get through to me).

I thought I was being extremely clever, and carefully cut and pasted some 30-odd from junkmail I received, as I found the result made for oddly compelling "Spoetry" - I thought I coined that word too. I showed this off to a small circle of writer-friends, who thought I should "go for it." Then I had the smart idea (duh) to google the term. Lo and behold, I am six months too late (and maybe more, I didn't have the heart to see how many others had thought of this--one was enough). Oh well, it's still kind of cool--here's a sample of the ditty I compiled entitled:

"When That Happened"

Gracie was at victorious when that happened operatic.

saunders at chug or even corcoran as in stuart.

Donny was at dessert when that happened ambassador.

playa at skeletal or even lady as in runty

Lorna was at chokeberry when that happened celesta.

markovian at pate or even mouthpiece as in mathias

Mickey was at homicide when that happened trick.

discrepant at bureaucracy or even astm as in billie

Oh well. It's so hard to be original. Sometimes the best one can do is be the first to be second.

This morning I sat next to Mr. Crush again, and asked a very subversive question. "How long have you been with your lover?" To which he replied: "Seven...Seven and 1/2 years..." To which I found myself wondering aloud: "What is that expression I heard once? Something about an "itch?" He laughed, in a way that led me to think I probably hit a little close to home. So much for being the angelic wellwisher praying they are happy together, eh? (I jest--but not entirely, of course. I'm human.) Let me tell you, though, monogamy is hard for a man, and doubly hard for a handsome man, and triply hard for a handsome gay man who gets a lot of attention. Men are evolutionarily programmed to deposit our sperm in as many receptacles as possible--our penises don' t know that we're not making babies every time, they just know the more they shoot, the more the chances are of genetic survival. (Women, on the other hand, are only fertile, what, 10 days a month? They need to know a man will be there when their body is ready.) I guarantee you, straight men would be just as promiscuous as most (single at least) gay men if their wives let them--and many of them are (someone is supporting tens of millions of prostitutes the world over). Whereas lesbians? The old joke that they bring a Uhaul to a second date is true. Men are dogs and women are not, and that's just the way it is.

Which doesn't mean there aren't any monogamous or non-promiscuous gay men, (my Crush seems to be--in deed if not in thought) and certainly there are women who aren't prostitutes who get around. But in general, I find that this is a stereotype that is fairly reality-based. Sue me. (I would say comment, but I had to delete the comment function because I was overwhelmed by promotional spam, mostly for Phen-phen.)

I gotta get going. I'm picking up X from rehab. Pray for him. He's gonna need it.

MCO 2006

Well, last night I went to see Eugene Jarecki's documentary: "Why We Fight." It's really, really SMART. And for any Republicans reading (I use the plural advisedly--I know there is one, I doubt there's two), check your assumptions at the door. The core of the film is Dwight D. Eisenhower's farewell speech, in which he warned of the growth of the military/industrial complex, and during the course of laying out the argument that his predictions have come true, Jarecki give tons of airtime to John McCain, Richard Perle, Air Force Pilots, ex-CIA and military personnel--all without so much as a word of editorializing a la Michael Moore. The result is a devastating portrait of an American Empire under terrific danger of collapsing under the weight of its own power. It's actually a supremely patriotic film. (See trailer at http://www.sonyclassics.com/whywefight/)

My friend Michael and I were two of about ten in the audience, not surprising for a documentary on a Tuesday night, but if my modest platform has any weight at all, I urge anyone who can to see this film to do so. (In L.A.--at the Laemmle Sunset 5) AND, now, if I may drop a name, Euguene Jarecki is the first cousin of a very close friend of mine for over 35 years, Ellen. We met in 7th grade! So aren't I special?

I am having a good day. I had a wonderfully resolving email from someone who I was having trouble communicating with that made me feel good, and I gave a ride back to his recovery house to someone who had actually been at Chino with me (though I didn't know him). He's a black guy with a long criminal record who has struggled with drugs and being on the "down low" about his sexuality and with staying sober and holding down a job. Such a nice, gentle soul though, and trying SO hard. I told him to remember that he knows exactly what it's like to be "out there" but he doesn't know what it's like to stay sober. So, if he at all could, to hold on to that idea, to choose the mystery in his future over the sure dismal certainty of repeating his past. He gave me a big hug. (I don't kid myself that any one conversation changes anyone's life, but it was good to feel at least that what I offered was part of the solution rather than part of the problem--like the "help" I used to offer.)

From my "365 Great Things About Getting Older" Calendar: "You wonder how you could be over the hill when you were never on top of it."

Ouch. That hit a little close to home.

MCO 2006

Well, yesterday I went to the anti-Bush State of the Union demonstration with my friend Mark. We forgot we were supposed to dress up for these things! (Bandanas around the face, pots and pans to bang.) I swear we looked bland like undercover cops.

There were about two thousand demonstrators and I'm not even sure it made the news. But it was fun, and somewhat gratifying to be in a fiairly diverse sea of the like-minded fed-up--even if we doubtfully had any real impact. At least I felt like when my grandkids ask: "Why didn't you DO something? Any idiot could see he was ruining the country!" I can say "I did! I wrote about it... and...and... went to a demonstration!" (I may skip that I didn't vote in 2004 because I was in, er, prison).

Anyway, this is today's horoscope:

Let's get something straight: TODAY IS NOT YOUR DAY! You are feeling completely out of shape, Marc. Try to avoid some of the difficult things you are normally working on. You don't have the potential to break production records! Try to evaluate your situation and try to get some rest. We all have ups - and downs once in a while!

So I'm gonna use that as an excuse to not blog in detail about what's on my mind. In general, I'm debating how much to communicate to others about some things about which we disagree or I find troubling about their behavior. I consulted someone I trust about this, and he gave me some good advice that boiled down to this: "By all means you should try to stand in the light. That doesn't necessarily mean, though, you have to shine the light on others."

Well, there are two types of shining the light. One is corrective--"see what you do and how you should do it instead" and and the other is publicizing the unheralded work of others. This is the latter. Since I don't have a "comments" option anymore, I thought I could at least promote the blogs of other bloggers who write me. Do visit Laurie's, below. She just started and hasn't gathered many viewers yet. She's a bright girl with interesting things to say. More importantly, she enjoys reading my blog, so as far as I'm concerned, she's brilliant. As you all are.

http://www.aimlife.blogspot.com/

(I will do the same for any other bloggers if they link to me in turn.)

MCO 2006