May 2006 Archives

Well, I'm all flushed and flustered. After a weekend where I returned to sanity about Mister Man (that will be his name--the one with the lover previously referred to as "super-cutie") I sat next to him this morning and there was all that energy flow crackling between us again.

I sense he returned somewhat to sanity as well over the weekend, and is probably questioning the logic of encouraging in me or in himself anything at all. At the same time he clearly enjoyed the attention. I'll just have to play this one by ear--it's not as if it makes too much difference whether we "decide" to take a step back or not. It's hard to imagine the pheromones suddenly not flowing, and when they flow, we react.

Funny, there's an advantage to the absence of gay marriage. If I was a straight man or woman, writing about this intense flirtation with a married man or woman, I would come off as a slut or a predator, and he or she as faithless. I probably wouldn't even write about it. And yet we know darn well that it happens between straight people all the time. Somehow, even an attached gay man is still technically single, he has no vows for me to disregard or him to dishonor--well no public ones. In Mister Man's case, their agreement is "Don't Ask, Don't Tell." How many married couples (in this country) ever reach that stage of evolution? Probably more than we think, but it's still a very private agreement, because there's not a lot of social support for it. Such a premium is placed on fidelity--as if once you love and commit to one person, wanting another somehow invalidates the initial relationship. How many basically good partnerships have broken up because they refused to overlook something secondary on the side?

Though admittedly, as a logistical matter, its hard to love two people at once. My friends A. and S. finally just invited I. into their relationship, and all three of them are still together 7 years later. I can't really imagine having more than one significant other on an ongoing basis, but I also can't imagine sleeping or loving (that way) just one man for the rest of my life. Of course I wouldn't mind someone being faithful to me, and vice-versa, but to me it only has meaning as a freely-given gift--not something done because it's a rule. If someone I'm with is going to be thinking of someone else when we are together, go be with him and get it out of your system, for crying out loud. And if you can't, perhaps that's who you should be with.

One thing about gay men is that even if they agree to be faithful, they never expect each other to not be attracted to anyone else. Woman might be able to do that, but men are incapable of it. (That Elizabeth Whatshername on The View seems to think women should expect it from their men--isn't she just irritating on all counts? I guess The View feels obligated to have some completely unexceptional Republican everywoman type represented. I can't stand her.)

Ironically, tonight I volunteer for the Marriage Equality people again--data input. Before that, this afternoon I go to Warner Bros. studios to do the French dialogue with the actors. It's so cool to be "on the lot" for work--as opposed to because you have a friend who works there and has invited you to a screening, or to take a tour.

MCO 2006

My sister and husband and their kids had a layover at Union Station on the way to Albuquerque, and I spent a fun-filled hour with them in the Union Station courtyard. These are all cameraphone pics. That's my niece Natalie and my nephew Sammy. (One picture is of him being airplaned by my feet, then I handed the phone to him and he snapped me from his point of view.)

I will be joining them in Alburquerque in a few weeks, for a weekend.

MCO 2006

So I've been corresponding with a woman who found Jimmy Eastridge in my blog. Jimmy was the handsome rake who was "shotcaller" for the whites in my dorm in prison, and this woman dated him years ago and had been trying to locate him. I gave her what information I could and encouraged her to write him and she said she would.

It got me thinking about how we never know when we are actually supporting actors in the lives of others more than the other way around. Jimmy is getting out in August, who knows whether a renewed acquaintance with an old love might be what keeps him, finally, from going back to jail? Maybe, on a grand karmic scale, I went to prison because it was the only way the universe could figure out to get Jimmy and this woman back together? Or maybe it's because of the lifeline to the outside I've become for my friend Mike, still inside? Who knows?

Clearly it's not an either/or thing, but it is indicative that we can never know the ramifications of anything. Good can always emerge from bad, in the most unexpected ways. Bravo the Internet as well for multiplying the frequency of all sorts of serendipity.

This morning I saw some of the footage for an adorable movie, "Firehouse Dog," one scene of which takes place on the French Riviera. I came up (with the help of my Mom--Merci, Maman) with some background dialogue in French, the kind you'd overhear at the beach, and we'll feed it to the actors tomorrow. Fun, fun, fun.

I also went to the house of the guy who hired me, a personal friend with whom I flirt madly (and vice-versa). It is one of several houses owned by he and his lover. JEEEZ. I got to see my other life, the one I could have had if I'd made better choices. Oh well.

MCO 2006

For the politicos among you, check out this delighfully merciless excoriation of: "Bush and Blair: The Batman and Robin of Incompetence."

http://theblaz.dailykos.com/

MCO 2006

I just returned from a lovely weekend. I went horseback riding, read in the sun, and went out to dinner with David, the roommate, and our host Wayne.

Gaza acted like a 2-year old and ran after every Jack Rabbit in a mile-radius. Since then he is walking around like an 15-year old. (He is 9.) I hope he's okay. He's laying on the couch like he's...well, I'll show you.

One of the best things about getting away, for me, is to realize that I actually like my routine, because even though I'm a tad used to it, I missed it. It's also a constant thinking through, this sobriety thing. Last night we went out to eat in Palm Springs, and in the old days, it would have meant a few cocktails at dinner, following by a night out at the bars.

That "worked," on many levels, for many years. And on many levels, it did not. For every adventure, there was a misadventure. And yet I remember the fun instinctively, automatically, and have to concentrate on remembering what wasn't so much "fun" -- to put it mildly.

Travel is still an issue for me. A memorable meal for me is not memorable unless accompanied by wine. Which is just stupid, really. But annoyingly real.

MCO 2006

Below please find a WILD letter from my nephew, filming a documentary on Tea in India.

Boy, are we lucky.

In India there is something I like to call the "Charlie Chaplin Effect." That is that within seconds you can find yourself in a madcap comedy with appliances. Like yesterday I was in the hotel (The Himalayan) and went in to use the bathroom, and you know, do my thing....so I finish and go to flush the toilet. Nothing happens. This is odd so I look around the tank and see a knob attached to the toilet to fill up the tank. Turn it on. Nothing happens. So i open up the tank manually, and see that the toilet probably hasn't been flushed since 1965, as there are a entire colony of ants living in the tank.

Fuck....literally.

Well I am FILTHY already, I have to take a shower, I can't deal with this and I figure i'll just go have management go fix it when I'm done. Still it smells terrible...So I decide to shower, and after fiddling with knobs for 5 minutes as there are EIGHT of them I finally get the hot water working, (which is in a tank above me.) I get lathered up with soap and step into the stream of water.

This is lovely for 3 seconds, and then the power goes off, (this happens 4 or 5 times a day here).

BAM I am in total darkness lathered with soap and suddenly the hot water shuts off and a pure stream STRAIGHT from Mount Everest FREEZING cold, more cold than anything I felt before streams onto my body, and within seconds i am screaming at the top of my lung and lunging out of the shower.

(this 'shower by the way is just a leather curtain on a flat tile floor. there is no tub)

I am yelping like a dog and I slip hopping on one foot grab the curtain pulling it out of the wall, the pipe holding it smacking down on my foot. Now I'm screaming for real.

Ok so there I am total darkness lying on the ground covered in soap and a leather curtain on my face, and freezing cold water hitting my body, with the smell from hell coming from the toilet. Bam , I'm still screaming with the cold and I crawl to the door to try and escape the icy blast,

I reach for the door knob and it COMES OFF. I can't see a goddamn thing and the room is so small I can't escape the shower.

Then the power suddenly comes back on allowing me to see the fullness of my situation. The toilet is filling with water all the sudden from the knob at the tank is about to OVERFLOW.

Jesus fucking, christ, muhammed and buddha fuck fuck.

I think those were my exact words

I lunge again for the knob to shut it off, the shower is now blazing hot, only amplyfiying the smell in the room which is choking me. I'm still yelping and making dog noises, as i often do when i'm in a weird situation and I can hear Gordon laughing his ass off outside. I shut off the shower and go for the door to escape my prison. The door knob made also circa 1965 is on the ground and I fiddle with it to try and get it back on the door handle, and then

THE POWER GOES OUT.

So i start to yell to Gordon to open the door from the other side, but he can't because it is locked from my side.

The handle is a mass of sharp barbs where the key structure should be. Leaning on the door I manage to get it unlocked and come bursting out the door, a towel half on my me, covered in soap.

That my friends, is a shower in India....

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

It's not all bad, i am having a really intense personal experience too. To make note. Everything in India fuctions about as well as the bathroom at the himalayan. So you can imagine.

: )

miss you

GOOD MORNING.

-KM

I'm off to Palm Spring to go horseback riding and let Gaza enjoy being part of a pack of dogs my friend Wayne lets run free on his ranch. I'm sure I'll be checking in because that's what I do.

I may have an interesting little job writing snippets of French dialogue to be used to fill the mouths of passserby on a Riviera beach scene. Fun! And much needed dough. I owe my doctor back co-pays, among other things.

I'm off!

MCO 2006

I can't help it. I thought of two more riffs and had to share them.

Truth be told, this is also an experiment. I want to see if I can drive traffic to my site through google errors. You know, people mean to type "DaVinci Code" but instead type "DaVinci Cod" or "DaVinci Coed." (I'm sure I'm about the 87,000th person to figure out that little strategy. I think Google should hire me, don't you?)

Meanwhile I'm having this insanely pleasurable flirtation that feels like so much more. I can't dissect it, really. All I know is that for the moment, I'm getting all excited when we have a conversation, and those last long and be characterized by THAT kind of banter. We've decided not to act on it for now. I do respect his relationship and so does he, and this doesn't feel like something that could fall into the simple boundaries of a roll in the hay without consequences.

MCO 2006

Well, I knew one of these days I'd face this moment, particularly once I started picking up trash while walking my dog. I found a baggie full of crystal meth, about a 1/4 gram full of rocks. Even though I expected it in the abstract, when it actually happened it was sort of heart-stopping. The funny part is not that I wanted to do it--because I didn't. It was that there was the illusion of something of value for free. I seriously debated calling someone I knew who was still "out there" to give it to them--isn't that sick? But I didn't. I just threw it in the bag and threw the bag in a dumpster. If the God of Users wants a homeless tweeker collecting cans to find it, he will direct him to it. It was bad enough that for the half block walk to the garbage can I had to worry that cops were going to swarm around me and back I'd be to jail. Who would believe that I was just picking up trash to be of service to the neighborhood?

Well, I was rewarded with the attentions of a super-cutie who I used to know when I was out there who sat next to me in that place I go to every morning for an hour. He just flirted in the no-mistaking-it way, particularly when he asked why I took my glasses off and I told him I was trying to "maximize my cuteness" and he replied "as if you could get any cuter." And then I must have blushed, flattered beyond belief (did he have any idea how LONG it's been since someone said something like that to me? I almost asked him if my Mom was paying him). Though I replied, "I used to" because, truthfully, I used to turn a lot of heads yea about 10 years ago, particularly when I was on Human Growth Hormone to combat wasting and my body just POPPED. But no, I do not get that kind of attention very often anymore, and if the men I meet are thinking such things, they're being pretty discreet about it.

OF COURSE this guy has a lover. I don't think that'll stop him from jumping my bones, and as long as it's all above board or respecting whatever agreement they have (gay men in longterm relationships tend to be VERY civilized about these things), I'll be game. It's the touching that I hunger for, frankly, just his hand gently rubbing my back, the proximity of his body to mine, the energy and warmth flowing between us, oh MAN oh MAN, it put a smile on my face. Particularly that he completely initiated the flirting--something I seem to have to do all the time to decidedly mixed results.

MY TWO CENTS ON AMERICAN IDOL: I guess I can believe that Taylor Hicks beat out Kathryn McPheever, although I thought she was far more talented. What I can't believe it that he every beat out Elliot Yamin, or, travesty of travesties, that ANYONE beat out Chris Daughtry. Mark my words. In five years, he's gonna be the one everybody remembers.

Although I only caught the last 10 minutes, because the roommate dragged me to see Joan Rivers give her potty-mouthed show. I can't say I didn't laugh, she is unquestionably brilliant, at the same time she is just plain mean and mean spirited. Her material, to put it mildly, is extremely unedifying.

MCO 2006

This is a slightly busy flyer I helped put together for the screening of my nephew's documentary in Alburquerque on June 17th. In case you're a Duke City local, or New Mexico-bound, by all means come and see it. I will be there, so say hi.

I figure this is a good day to blog the info because yesterday I had over 1000 visits--4 times more than usual. I'm pretty sure there is something I don't know (did my archives get junk spammed?) that explains most of it, but I am also willing to believe that some of that increase is real.

Maybe it's those affirmations I've been doing whenever I can get over the hokey feeling that comes with talking to myself in the mirror. I'm actually surprised at how resistant I am to doing it. The sad truth is that for me, (like for most of us, I suspect) "you're such an asshole!" simply comes a lot easier to our lips than "you're smart, lovable and can do what you put your mind to." Still, I'm doing it.

What I cannot manage to do is visualize the possibility of, or God forbid, out and out ask for, a boyfriend. I do believe I'm perfectly worthy of one, but I just refuse to create expectations. You can tell me till you're blue in the face that to get what you want you have to ask for it, but I think you're just setting yourself up for disappointment, and I refuse to do that. I don't think wanting or wishing for romance has any bearing on whether it happens or not.

I will however, be conciously willing for it to happen a bit more than perhaps I have. I don't think I'm unconciously blocking it, but you never know.

MCO 2006

Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity. -Horace Mann, educational reformer (1796-1859)

I'm not really a big fan of shaming, but I think the above quote make a good case for when it's appropriate. Sometime the fear of the negative can result in positive action. Ask any Jewish (or French) mother. They understand the value of guilt--or rather, the fear of having a guilty concience.

I'm all over the place today. The spiritual ferment continues. I question all of my motivations. Am I trying to construct some sort of rationale to justify my way back to cigarettes? A drink? Worse?

It's a tough thing to really absorb and embrace down to your core that what worked in the past--because for years, frankly, it did--will no longer work for you. I have to keep my hands off the rearview mirror and keep them on the steering wheel. And for crying out loud, enjoy the ride.

For example, today I get to post this entry, eat breakfast, write for several hours, and take the dog to the park. I am quite certain that almost everyone reading this from an office--and some from elsewhere--wouldn't mind having a day just like this. It is not to be endured, but enjoyed. The there I'm looking for is right here.

And instead of thinking what an old hag I am at 47 and wishing I was 37 again (boy, that was a good age), I'm going to take a moment and think that at 57, I will probably be really wishful that I could snap my fingers and be 47 again. Okay, future me in 10 years, snap! You get your wish! You are 47 again!

And, evidently, I'm also a pretty powerful 57-year old, to have lopped ten years off my age like that. Maybe my 37-year old self will help me out later in the day. (27, no thank you. Too damn young.)

MCO 2006

P.S. I saw the "Da Vinci Code" yesterday. I liked it--luckily the reviews kept my expectations low. And note to Tom Hanks--you can afford plastic surgery, do it. That wattle is not flattering.

A friend of mine told of an email from his sister, Lauriie, who happens to be working in a Safari Lodge in the wilds of South Africa. The African bartender's name means "Wisdom" in English, and every day when Laurie would see him she'd wave and say: "Hey, Wisdom. You rock!" And everyday he would respond, "Good Morning, Laurie" and smile.

Then one morning, she repeated the ritual, as usual. "Wisdom, you rock!"

To which came the reply: "Laurie, you mountain!"

MCO 2006

P.S. To any readers who heard this this morning, I asked permission to use it from the teller.

A few entries ago, I was waxing philosophical, and I asked a question offhandedly that sort of just came up. I wondered if God could be Time.

Since I wrote that, I have been thinking about it a lot. I even googled the idea, and I probably need to read Steven Hawking's "A Brief History of Time" --- although, from what I can tell, Hawkins seems to feel that there is no "role for a creator" (http://www.meta-library.net/introvid/cosmotime-body.html). I'm quite certain I cannot be the first to have thought of this, but there doesn't see to be any well-known philosophy which posits Time as a manifestion of God. But think about it. It's invisible, inevitable, and completely devoid of judgement or position on anything, but all powerful. Time is the one thing that ALWAYS happens.

You want to pray for "God's Will?" Just pray for the future to happen exactly the way it's going to happen, and boom, your prayers will always come true. And this still allows for one's intention to play a role, because it fully admits that you can impact the future, even while not controlling it.

This definition of God makes complete sense to me. I've never been completely comfortable with God as Love, because then where does Evil come from? Plus why do I need anything but my better human self to understand and choose love? I can only grasp God as a context, and one that is completely morally neutral. Time completely fills that function. After all, what would we be without it?

It could be that I am using Time to try to grasp the idea of God, and that I am only as close to it as, say, a blind person would be trying to imagine color, or a deaf person would be trying to understand music. I may understand even the concept of time only marginally better than my dog does. When you think about it, isn't it amazing that a dog can have such a vague sense of time, and yet still completely believe that you will be back later to walk and feed him?

That, in fact, is a pretty good definition of faith.

MCO 2006

I went to a lovely dinner party last night, and though I confess the glasses of wine looked awfully good, I chose clarity and driving home not in a fog and without stopping by a bar, as well as waking up sans headache to a threatening sky that I sort of like on Sundays. I sure miss the thunderstorms we grew up with back east.

I might go to the Museum of Natural History, to see an exhibit on The Bog People. I'm watching Dinosaur Planet. How can they figure out so much information from just bones? Boy, what a cool program for parents who want to sleep late and want to park their kids in front of something fascinating and educational.

I'm eschewing Mass today, so this poem is my prayer.

Overhang

So maybe I don’t want to go to church today

Maybe it’s enough to worship the Sunday paper

Written in our official language

Quelle xenophobie

It’s enough to send me

Back to bed.

Maybe I will look at the pictures instead

There’s one of a horse with a broken leg

Preakness Lost.

You know why they shoot such creatures?

Because if they recline too long to recuperate

their organs stop working.

I laid down too long

From my own life.

They shoot humans, don’t they?

Last night I drank no wine

I ignored the grappa

no hidden vials

or stolen smokes

I spoke with unforked tongue.

Perhaps undid some damage done

In that, my other lifetime.

You wanna fly without wings?

Pay attention to the little things.

I’m not taking a day off from God

Just a morning for me.

I hope it rains.

MCO 2006

I don't know what's got into me, but I have so much fun fiddling with Photoshop, and, as you know, I'm dying to be the creator of something that people forward to each other on the Internet. This probably isn't quite witty or dirty enough, but one day I'll come up with something. Meanwhile, if any of you know any producers of The Daily Show, damn would I look to write for them or help come up with some of their funpun-graphics. (My modest dream du jour.)

As expected, my readership numbers went right back to normal. Oh well, the illusion that I was much more popular than I am was good for a day's worth of ego inflation. I have actually started saying nice things to myself out loud, like "you are smart, you are talented, you are liked, you CAN write this book, and another, and another, you might even get a loving partner one of these days" JUST in case saying it helps make it so. To be honest, as hokey as it sounds, I feel much better after doing so. I don't really believe in this "God's Will" stuff, or "turning it over to a Higher Power" who's running the show. But I do think we need to continually try to realign ourselves with the universe, i.e. check to be sure we are paddling the canoe in the direction of the river. It's amazing how powerful the illusion can be that we are doing so when we are actually paddling upstream. Likewise when we are moving in the right direction but hit some rapids and think that means we are off course.

I've been writing a lot. No matter what else is happening, this is what make me happy. I've also been enjoying good writing. Last night the screenplay to "Shopgirl." Hell, the whole movie was great.

I'm also in a good mood because I got my flirt on with someone this morning I have a big crush on. He'd just come from the gym and was looking so tasty I cannot begin to tell you. I got brave enough to finally give him my number, albeit in a joking fashion, as if I was finally giving in to his repeated requests. My total instinct on this is that he is either married or seeing someone seriously--but I am equally clear that he was, at the very least, flattered to death and completely enjoys the attention. So why not feed his ego? I sure don't getting mine stroked.

MCO 2006

I have to say, A.O. Scott of The New York Times can turn a phrase. Take this paragraph from his review of "The Da Vinci Code:"

In spite of some talk (a good deal less than in the book) about the divine feminine, chalices and blades, and the spiritual power of sexual connection, not even a glimmer of eroticism flickers between the two stars. Perhaps it's just as well. When a cryptographer and a symbologist get together, it usually ends in tears.

That last sentence is a hoot, ain't it?

Yesterday I had well over double my normal amount of visits to the blog. Could it be The Da Vinci Commodes? A fluke? A technical mishap? I'm almost certain tomorrow will be down to "normal," but I'm going to let myself feel like Dan Brown for a day. Of course, it's a dangerous thing to let this stuff go to your head, as these quotes attest:

Flattery is like chewing gum. Enjoy it but don't swallow it. -Hank Ketcham,

comic artist (1920-2001)

Fame is a bee. / It has a song / It has a sting / Ah, too, it has a wing.-Emily Dickinson, poet (1830-1886)

Today's entry is kind of a pastiche because I've been plenty profound for a couple of days and I need to lighten up, I think. Besides, I've been plenty intense in the memoir writing. To paraphrase Captain Kirk: Must...keep...at...it. Must...write...book. Must...publish...book. Must...be....validated.

MCO 2006

This is so unlike me, but it's a good thing to shake perceptions up once in a while. I LOVE this car. And I would REALLY appreciate it if someone bought it for me. I'd give you a mention in the blog, (unless you want to remain incognito) and could pay you back $20/month. Hell, let's make that $40. I think that's pretty damn reasonable, given my income.

That film I discussed yesterday ("What the Bleep Do I Know") has made a real impact on me. In a way, it brought home the stuff I learned in the Landmark Training a year ago about creating possibility. I suppose I needed to have a scientific underpinning to it. It's not necessarily a question of a spiritual philosophy, there seems to be a genuine physical, tangible science to things we have heretofore understood poorly or not at all (and still barely understand.)

One thing I like about both the film and Landmark is the awareness with both that there is so much we don't know, that we don't even know that we don't know. The opposite of that--certitude--is for me the hallmark of all of history's great tragedies. Think about it, what do The Crusades, The Inquistion, Stalin, Hitler, Pat Robertson, the Catholic Church, Osama Bin Laden and yes, George W. Bush all have in common? The utter certitude they are right, the complete lack of doubt that marks their thinking.

In science and medicine, doubt is a relatively recent phenomenon. Every generation seems to feel they are reaching the limits of what can be known and learned, and then we keep breaking through to entire new realms. Long-assumed truths are junked ("bleeding" patients was practiced for what, hundreds of years?).

In religion and philosophy, change comes even slower. I was reading about how the South used the Bible to justify slavery, because it is not even questioned therein as an institution--even by Jesus. To be honest, this has started to alienate me from my church. Even though it is the most progressive, liberal church imaginable, I need to hear from the pulpit that the Bible is a great fictional saga with some wise passages, but is no more inherently sacred then anything written by anybody. (Frankly, I think that 2 of the 3 reverends agree with me, but even in a progressive, gay church, there's a lot of traditional beliefs. Many in the pews want the comfort of the religions they grew up with, just with the condemnation of gays taken out, and very little else changed or questioned.)

We are all God, all the time. There is only perception, awareness and conciousness that separates us and creates reality.

And I am absolutely unsure about any of this.

MCO 2006

P.S. Up twice in the middle of the night for Gaza, but he had rice for dinner and breakfast, so I'm hoping we've turned a corner.

P.P.S. According to French TV, The Da Vinci Code was completely laughed at at Cannes. So maybe I was sensing something?

You're probably either thinking, "Hey that's pretty funny. He's walking his dog, takes a picture with his camera phone, and comes up with that."

OR

"This guy has WAY too much time on his hands."

MCO 2006

I'm tired this morning, but at least it's from genuine sleep deprivation. Gaza had some diarrhea last night, and at 4 am he was up and milling around in a agitated way. I wearily pulled on some streetwear, and found out a couple of blocks later that I read him right. Though I heard such an extraordinary racket in a tree that I wondered at first if that's what had gotten Gaza up. For the life of me I couldn't identify what the the screaming strangled cries could be, a squirrel getting electrocuted? a macaw going beserk? As it turned out, I might have been onto something with that second guess. This morning, walking Gaza again (poor thing, I've made him some rice) I saw a man walking to his car with a pet bird in a box, I assumed on the way to the vet. I bet the bird got out and was completely terrorized by some crows--which are pretty big and scary around here.

Last night I rented the DVD of a movie about quantum physics called "What the Bleep Do I Know?" If I was Dictator, I would make everyone watch it. I've never seen a better argument for a completely scientific explanation of God as the only thing that could explain a host of metaphysical mysteries that are explicated marvelously by some of the smartest people on the planet. I can't possibly do it justice by trying to synopsize it here. Just rent it.

So I was feeling all buzzy and feel goody about the fact that on a subnuclear level, we are all one, and then I get about 80 junk spam comments from Lake Tahoe Poker on the blog. So helas, I had to delete the comments option again. What I did is establish a duplicate blog at http://sobergayexcon.blogspot.com, which I assume has protections against mass junk comments that my little indie program doesn't. If you have the desire to comment on an entry, email me or zip over there and post a comment. I don't know what else to do. I tell you one thing, those spammers obliterated my feel-good mood. I want them all dead.

And that's not cool. There was one part of "What the Bleep do I know" that describes the effect of toxic thoughts on water. It can literally rearrange the molecules--and not in a good way (whereas good thoughts can). Don't take it from me, read the synopsis of "The Hidden Messages in Water" by Dr. Masaru Emoto at http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1582701148/103-2586719-0254212?v=glance&n=283155, or rent the movie.

Bottom line, I need to try to be at the very least as kind to myself as I am usually pretty willing to be to others. No more calling myself a stupid, lazy idiot. As for the spammers, I guess they're just trying to make a buck. But they're endangering themmselves on a molecular level, because it's just not nice.

MCO 2006

I have to post a pic on a website in order to post it on blogspot, where I'm duplicating this blog to get some more coverage. So that's all this is.

MCO 2006

I dreamt all night about making out with a cutie I dated briefly a year or so ago (he was on a boyfriend break and went back to him) and smoking cigarettes--which I hate to say I enjoyed immensely. I don't know if that had anything to do at all with the thought that came to me later in the morning, but I suppose the continued desire to smoke probably provoked some subconcious contemplation of the nature of self-destructiveness. (Actually, it was probably the writing before I went to bed about my Grandfather's "fast" suicide--carbon monoxide poisoning--and my father's slow one--40 years of drinking---that started it all.)

This was my thought, and I'm sure I'm not the first to have had it. From the moment we are born, every minute we move farther away from the start of life and closer to its end. Death is like a huge magnet which we initially approach from a great, great distance (unless we die young), and as we get older and older we feel its tug more and more, until, near the end, it's often all we can feel.

Could it be that those we term "self-destructive" just find it harder to resist the tug? That they aren't creating the momentum towards death, just aligning their actions to its inevitablilty? I don't want it thought I'm advocating for bad or unhealthy behavior, because believe me, I'm not. I'm all for facing toward the light, for choosing health and love and kindness. But I do wonder whether in our negative choices we often are just reacting to an almost gravititational pull from the dark side, from the forces of destruction and pain, embodied by death.

Of course that would mean death is "bad," and I'm not sure it is anything more than a change in physical state. But I do feel compelled to try to resolve in my head the concept of a loving, all-powerful God with the incontrovertible evidence of evil and suffering and disease in the world. That is one of the world's oldest conundrums, and I am still unable to reconicle the contradiction to my satisfaction.

I cannot manage to content myself with the explanation that God works in mysterious ways beyond our understanding. So I use my supposedly God-given brain to come up with the explanation of the day. It's an uphill battle, let me tell you. A very close friend I had breakfast with on Saturday, who didn't seem in a vulnerable place at all, "slipped" that very night. I don't know if he'll get right back on the sobriety horse or whether he'll be out for a while to do more research, as we say. I know that at least the distress I feel for him helps me to realize that sobriety is almost always the happier, healthier choice--although I still think God, if there is one---remains morally neutral about it. My God--if I even believe in one--only judges morally on one criteria: whether one is kind to children and animals.

Or maybe that's the only thing I judge someone for.

MCO 2006

I feel completely sluggish this morning, but not depressed. I've given up a bit trying to figure out the vicissitudes in my energy level. There seems to be little rhyme or reason to them.

There has been a thought that keeps coming into my mind, and that is that the way to my heart is through my head. (Not that anyone's trying to get to my heart these days.) I have come to accept that I value the rational over the irrational, science over faith, structure over randomness. No, I don't mean structure, I mean design. Elegant design. Which is not the same thing as pretty-to-look-at. Of course I appreciate beauty, but I believe form should follow function.

Articulate, refined, expression; clear, readable prose; wit and esprit--above all creativity--this is what I consider sacred. Any evidence of thinking, a brain well-used. Art that is smart as well as beautiful. Beautiful because it's smart?

Church has left me feeling unmoved of late. I hate the word "worship"-- to me it's part and parcel of putting God up there, above us, at a remove, instead of a manifestation of who we are and vice-versa. The sermons I hear are not bad--compared to the pablum often heard from pulpits, they're quite good, but I think a well-sculpted lecture from a History or Sociology professor might move me more. I might just go back to a thorough read of The Sunday New York Times.

I wish I could have brunch every Sunday with Oscar Wilde. That would be my ideal church.

MCO 2006

The Hungarian movie I rented was "Fateless," based on the book written by Nobel Prize winner Imre Kertesz. Like all Holocaust stories, it's disturbing of course, but most disturbing is the attack the writer makes, in the special features interview, on Stephen Spielberg for "Schindler's List" and the work of the Spielberg Foundation documenting the stories of survivors. Kertesz, a survivor himself (the book and movie are based on his own experience) seems to feel too much repetition ("how many times can you hear 'we were stuffed in cattle cars, we were hungry, we were thirsty, the dogs snarled' etc.") results in a trivialization of the experience. He feels some inaccuracy of detail in "Schindler's List" invalidates the whole, though frankly, I found the depiction of the horrors rather worse in Spielberg's film then in "Fateless." Obviously it's not a competition, and should not be. "Fateless" focuses on the numbing torture of endless roll-calls, standing for hours and hours in all weather, the daily grind of hunger, overwork and illness. But most shocking of all is a scene at the end, after liberation, where the protagonist finds himself involuntarily homesick for the camp, for the hour after work and before "supper" (if you can call it that) when the inmates could mingle, talk, exchange hopes and attempt to encourage each other. Evidently the sense of solidarity gave life there some meaning from which he feels untethered once free.

It is virtually impossible for anyone who never endured those horrors to feel he has the moral authority to question someone who has. At the same time, I certainly think quite a number of survivors would take issue with Kertesz diminishing their right to tell their own stories. There is clearly a lot of variability in details in what actually happened. In "Fateless," for example, the cattle cars are not packed as I have read countless times, people sit on their luggage. They are extremely thirsty, but there is no reference to having to share a bucket for excrement and urination, which I also have read about countless times. I could go on about several other instances where horrors I have read about multiple times are barely touched on, if at all, in the film. This doesn't mean there are any inaccuracies, it means each story tends to be told as each is remembered, and it is impossible to convey every horror adequately. And though all camps were horrific, they weren't all the same.

In my opinion, the bottom line is more stories are better. Even with the immense amount of information available about the Holocaust, so little filters into the population as a whole. Most people aren't like me or the New Yorkers (mostly Jewish) I grew up with. They don't know but the broadest strokes of it, if at all. Even if they did, of course no one who wasn't there can ever know what it was like. They call it unimaginable, but in fact, that's what we have to do, try to imagine it. Even if that imagination falls short, and always will, doesn't make wrong to try to do so. In my opinion, those who recreate a sense, in themselves, of the horror, are more likely to participate in battling the Rwandas. the Darfurs and the Srebenicas of the world. (We are also more prone to depression, I think.)

As for the temporary (and shocking) moment of nostalgia for the camp the narrator feels, that I don't find unimaginable. To my horror, I felt something similar, briefly, soon after my release from prison. That, to me, has a fairly simple explanation. Human beings have evolved to favor familiarity over change, illustrated by the following example: You might be cold and damp in Cave #1, but Cave #2, across the way, might have a wild animal in it. It also might be dry and warm, but in general, I think survival favors the phobic over the risk-taker.

Thank God change happens in spite of our fears, and it rarely kills us. But it can be uncomfortable, just because it's change, period. That's just the way human beings are.

MCO 2006

So this is what I'm doing. Every time I find myself saying "I have to..." (write, clean, shop, walk the dog, stay sober etc.) I replace it with... "I get to...." ((write, clean, shop, walk the dog, stay sober etc.) . Considering during 10 months in prison, I learned rather undeniably that there were all these things I did not "get" to do, you'd think this lesson would be a no brainer.

It's not that I didn't know this was the better way to think, of course, but it beared remembering there was a way to use language differently in order to reinforce an attitude of gratitude. It's really very helpful.

Now I get to go to Runyan Canyon with my friend Mike to hike up with he and Gaza. Then I get to come back and do some organizing and writing. It doesn't look like I'll be "getting any," tonight, unfortunately, but I did rent a Hungarian move ("Fateless") as I never get to watch anything with subtitles on the DVD. I also get to enjoy some porn, sans roommate. To be honest, that lasts for about 4 minutes before I'm finished and off to bed--if you catch my drift--but at least I feel like a bad, bad boy, and that's good. Once in a while.

MCO 2006

This morning I heard that an acquaintance has not been seen for three weeks. He has not appeared at his job, nor paid his rent, nor answered phone messages. I fear the worst.

Regardless of the outcome, it's quite a reminder of how serious the disease of addiction can be. And though I am still a strict libertarian when it comes to people doing what they choose to do to or with their body, I sure as hell recognize that immoderation in almost everything but love is invariably toxic.

I am bracing for bad news. I am also noticing myself becoming increasingly innured to loss, but I wonder how much an unwillingness to be hurt is affecting my willingness to take some healthier risks in other areas of my life.

The roommate is celebrating his grandmother's 80th birthday down in San Diego this weekend, so I have the place to myself. I can't believe how dependent I've become on his presence-I'm scared to death of an attack of the lonelies.

If you have a secret crush on me, (shut up! it could happen!) now's the time to let it be known. (It would also be a good idea if you've caught me staring at you across a room).

MCO 2006

P.S. Just heard that my friend was spotted on line on a sex site. Must be quite a binge, but at least he's not dead. Though to scare the beejeezus out of everyone is unconscionable. I don't care if it's because he's on drugs, that an explanation, not an excuse.

God I wish I'd written this.

As seen in a dog's diary:

7 am - Oh boy! A walk! My favorite!

8 am - Oh boy! Dog food! My favorite!

9 am - Oh boy! The kids! My favorite!

Noon - Oh boy! The yard! My favorite!

2 pm - Oh boy! A car ride! My favorite!

3 pm - Oh boy! The kids! My favorite!

4 pm - Oh boy! Playing ball! My favorite!

6 pm - Oh boy! Welcome home Mom! My favorite!

7 pm - Oh boy! Welcome home Dad! My favorite!

8 pm - Oh boy! Dog food! My favorite!

9 pm - Oh boy! Tummy rubs on the couch! My favorite!

11 pm - Oh boy! Sleeping in my people's bed! My favorite!

As seen in a cat's diary:

Day 183 of my captivity... My captors continued to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while I am forced to eat dry cereal. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of escape, and the mild satisfaction I get from clawing the furniture. Tomorrow I may eat another house plant. Today my attempt to kill my captors by weaving around their feet while they were walking almost succeeded -must try this at the top of the stairs. In an attempt to disgust and repulse these vile oppressors, I once again induced myself to vomit on their favorite chair - must try this on their bed. Decapitated a mouse and brought them the headless body in an attempt to make them aware of what I am capable of, and to try to strike fear in their hearts. They only cooed and condescended about what a good little cat I was. Hmmm, not working according to plan. There was some sort of gathering of their accomplices. I was placed in solitary throughout the event. However, I could hear the noise and smell the food. More important, I overheard that my confinement was due to my powers of inducing "allergies." Must learn what this is and how to use it to my advantage. I am convinced the other captives are flunkies and maybe snitches. The dog is routinely released and seems more than happy to return. He is obviously a half-wit. The bird, on the other hand, has got to be an informant and speaks with them regularly. I am certain he reports my every move. Due to his current placement in the metal room, his safety is assured. But I can wait; it is only a matter of time.

MCO 2006

I think I just had my "period." It's around 3 days every month that I sink into a black hole of depression marked by the singular trait of a complete loss of perspective. When I'm in it, I am sure I have been feeling this way for months and will feel this way for months to come, and nothing I do about it can possibly have an effect on it, so I don't even try anything. I sink. I wallow. I founder.

This time I burst into tears in a parking lot and a friend took me to breakfast. We talked, he identified with my experience, I felt better. In fact, listening to myself vomit up my restless and irritable discontent, I can't say I heard anything concrete going on that is measurably different from anything that's been going on for a while--which is perhaps part of the problem. There's a rut in my routine, and I need to shake things up. At the same time, there could be nothing wrong with my routine, I just need to feel unhappy once in a while, perhaps because the relief of feeling the depression lift is the closest thing I can get to actually getting high, and as an alcoholic and drug addict, getting high is imprinted in my psyche as the logical reaction to life. As an old NY friend used to say "I have to be half-numb to feel anything." I no longer choose to get half-numb, but it's still my instinctual choice.

Yesterday my computer suddenly refused to read the color cartridge on my computer, insisting I had the wrong one installed in an error message. I was on line with the Help Desk, IMing back anf forth for one hour, I kid you not, and "Robin" (read "Ranjay" probably) was slow as mollasses and could not for the life of her, identify the likely problem. Looking back at the transcript, it's almost comical. I am tempted to reproduce it here, but it's 10 pages long--no kidding. I swear to God, I have NEVER, EVER once, gotten my problem solved when contacting a help line, and my question is NEVER addressed by a list of FAQs. I don't take things so personally as to believe I am unique, so the question is, does anyone get helped by Help Desks?

Now, my friend John, buying me breakfast and just listening to my spew, THAT was help. Thanks, John.

MCO 2006

I thought I'd share a more positive story to come out of my trash-removal than yelling at a litterer.

A couple of blocks over is a house that I pass occasionally when I vary my route because I get bored with the same old same old. I've always loved this house because it has a little rock garden in front, at which, for every holiday, the owners do little appropriate mise-en-scenes. The above pic I took today, it's a little hard to tell because it's a camerafone photo, but there's a half-life-sized figure holding a baby doll in a rocking chair--a tableau for Mother's Day.

So the day before yesterday I'm walking by with a half-full trash bag, and this lovely lady around my age comes out and says: "So you care about the neighorhood, too!" We proceeded to have a long chit-chat about the history of the hood--she excoriated every ethnic group, including her own--all of whom, unfortunately, have provided their equal opportunity share of disregarders as far keeping the block clean. She's earned the right to gripe--she told me some stories of unbelievably inconsiderate people, agreeing that they are neither confined to nor reflect any one group, thankfully.

No matter what, every Christmas, New Year's, Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's and on and on, Gwen (that's her name) carts out the props and brings a smile to the face of many a passerby. I told her personally how much I appreciated it, but thought I'd acknowledge it to the wider world.

And if you live nearby, I better not catch you throwing anything on the ground, or I'll smack you upside your head.

MCO 2006

We either make ourselves happy or miserable. The amount of work is the

same. -Carlos Castenada, mystic and author (1925-1998)

MCO 2006

From Planet Out News: "The remaining staffers at Q Television's scaled-back production facility in Burbank, Calif., were laid off last week, the latest move for the gay cable channel that had been on life support for months."

No, this is NOT the gay cable channel where I interviewed. But I would bet that laid off employees from Q certainly responded to the same job opening where I did apply. That makes for some pretty stiff competition in the experience-specific department.

Of course in this town, there's a lot of competition for any job in the "industry." This could have had nothing to do with it. Nonetheless, I feel consoled. Not that I felt all that bad, but there's an emotional hangover that comes from having let yourself grab onto some fantasies and then having had to let them go.

I wonder whether we get more or less resilient with age. I think each individual disappointment is less sharply felt as you grow older, for sure. But added to the accumulated pile of all those hurts from the past--les petits morts (the "little deaths") as French call them, there is a greater aversion to taking chances again. With youth comes a willingness to risk hurt; with age a knowledge that you will bend and not break, but increasing stiffness too.

At least that's true for me. My roundabout way of saying I don't think I'll be applying for another job soon.

MCO 2006

I was astounded, watching 60 Minutes last night, at the way normally skeptical and inquiring newsmen will completely cater to the most blatant denial imaginable when it comes to clearly alcoholic celebrities. This golfer, John Daly, who is obviously extremely gifted, has been in rehab 4--count 'em--4 times, and because he has finally made the transition from Jack Daniels to "just beer," insists with a straight face that he is not an alcoholic. How the hell does he define "alcoholic?" It's amazing how, in the general population, the perception seems to be that someone can be "hard-drinking," even drunk every night, without being an alcoholic.

Same thing with Charlie Sheen. He's got a "problem" with drugs--but no one with says "drug addict." This myth that there are times in your life when you just drink and/or drug a little heavily, and then things get better and slide into perspective and that's it, you gently sequeway into "just" drinking or "partying" socially again. I suppose that happens with say, college students, that some of them do, "grow out of it," but in my experience, once you've crossed a line, if you pick up again, you will always be on the far side of that line.

The taboo attached to the words "alcoholic" and "addict" is still so powerful. It's why in 12-step programs, people introduce themselves with "I'm John, and I'm an alcoholic" because saying it over and over eventually lifts the stigma. It's just a statement of fact, not a moral judgement. People used to be afraid to say they had cancer, or were gay, and that fear of the "label" just bought in to the very judgement they feared.

I need to hear myself say these things because I am so completely capable of rationalizing my way right back to a drink. Especially since I drank completely normally for the last 5 years of my using. Obviously upping my meth use was what suppressed my drinking, but the illusion is that I successfully made the transition from alcoholic to social drinking, and could do it again.

Of course, what more proof do I need of alcoholism than that I engage in an interior argument that hopes to justify going back to a way of life where something from the outside can "fix" me, take me away from the unrelenting reality of life.

It's not even a bad life. It's a good one. But I am completely responsible for it, for my decisions, for the consequencs of my actions. Sometimes I just want something else to decide what I'm going to do and feel and say for a while. I want to go to beer bust, get a real nice buzz on, pick up a hot guy, go home with him and indulge in the complete, temporary illusion that this is the first of many nights to come.

That wasn't always an illusion, but it was pretty rare. And rarely pretty.

MCO 2006

Well, I encountered my first elderly Armenian thowing a cigarette pack wrapping on the ground, and I yelled at him to pick it up. (I had just picked up two plastic bags full of trash on my walk). He immediately counterattacked, pointing to Gaza; "you pick up!?" to which I pulled out a plastic bag from my pocket "Always! Every single time! AND I pick up the trash people like you throw on the ground. Now pick it up!" "Fuck yourself, fuck yourself!" he thrashed out. BUT he picked up the wrapper (which he may have well thrown out a minute later. I don't care. It was the principle.)

I spent a few hours surfing the gay blogosphere yesterday. My God, some of them are beautiful creations, written by talented--and sometimes handsome--men. Some of them also have plenty of ads, running on the left or the right, which frankly, didn't even bother me. I'm wondering if these bloggers make money off their blogs. (Their content is also, generally, alot more sexual/pop culturey than mine.) I don't even know how to go about it, not to mention my technographical know-how is lacking. But since, evidently, I'm not getting a second interview for the gay cable job, I really would like to figure out a way to make some extra dough.

Of course, wouldn't it be cool to be the object of the following headline: "Blogger inherits millions from grateful reader." It would go on to tell the story of a wealthy recluse who so enjoyed reading me (although he never actually got in touch with me to tell me so) that he decided to leave me all of his money.

That's strategy #1. Strategy #2, I up my weekly purchase of lotto tickets from one to two. I mean, c'mon , I'm doublling my chances! What are the odds I won't win?

Whew, I feel much better. I may as well book that Mediterranean cruise right now.

MCO 2006

I'm going to try to keep it short and sweet today, because I realize I have to try to redirect a little bit of the creative energy I feed into the blog into "Here Lies the Truth." Too many days I get a bit lost in writing and rewriting an entry, then napping,taking the dog up the mountain, email, phone calls, errands, TV, etcetera etcetera, and when I hit the sack I'm another day older and no closer to where I want to be. How stupid would it be if I got a demanding, full-time job, then lamented the lack of time I have to work on writing projects? (Incidentally, no call for a second interview on the job. I comfort myself with something I heard today, that sometimes "rejection is God's protection." Maybe I am being directed elsewhere, or to keep on keeping on doing what I've been doing.)

I have never been one to suscribe to the dictum, "my worst day sober is better than my best day high." I think that implies a value judgement that being sober, is and of itself, a moral state superior to that of insobriety. I've had a lot of wonderful days in which part of the time, I was under the influence of something, and a lot of completely sober days that were terrible. The sentiment I can agree with is one which recognizes a day without picking up as having an inherent value for an alcoholic or an addict, simply by virtue of the fact that he/she stayed sober. No day spent sober for us is ever a wasted day, whereas many a day spent wasted is exactly that.

On This American Life (on NPR) today there was a show on incarceration with a gut-wrenching segment on Mother's Day in prison. One woman was profiled who had literally been in the car when her boyfriend was in the house scoring drugs--evidently a large amount, but nothing she had anything to do with. He ratted on others and got 3 years, she didn't know anything about anything and got 10 years. TEN YEARS--they got her on "consipiracy."

This is the type of overzealous, conviction-at-all-costs "justice" that your tax dollars pay for. Not only is the girl's life ruined, but so is the life of her young son. Most Americans are blissfully, (willfully) unaware this kind of abuse is rampant. (By the way, I do not consider myself among those mistreated by the justice system. Precisely because I was relatively lucky I think I have an obligation to use my voice to raise awareness of those who arren't.)

Short and sweet, my ass. Oh well.

MCO 2006

It was conveyed to me in several e-mails that the whole Podcasting thing was indeed intimidating. Let me clarify. I don't even own an Ipod and I don't know how to podcast anything. It was the term used by the Open Source people, so I used it, but it's just one way to listen to it.

If you can get audio on your computer, you can listen to my NPR blurbette just by going to the site http://www.radioopensource.org/the-day-after-prison/ and clicking on Listen to the Show. It should download automatically to your computer, playable immediately via whatever audio software you already have installed (or it will prompt you to update). Then just move the bar in about a third to skip to my part of the program, and escuchame mucho, baby.

And if you don't, that's fine, I just don't want anyone not to solely because they think it involves some arduous technacrobatics. In fact, learning how I could listen to it after it aired taught me how to listen to other past shows, some of which were pretty interesting. Which is a mixed blessing, as I probably share with anyone over 50 and a lot of you over 40 a fear of learning how to do too much of this too well. God knows I spend enough time in front of this screen and the other one.

Isn't it funny how we make judgements about how we acquire information and seek entertainment? I know that, on some sort of ephemeral moral plane, I place almost any type of book reading over any type of TV-watching or net-surfing , but really, why should that be the case?

I continue to be in a lot of ferment over how to weigh what matters in life, period. If you are good, fairly kind, loving to family and friends and of service to the world in some way, should it matter whether or not you write a book or a symphony or