February 2007 Archives

Here's the report on the play I've been stagehanding for, The Beastly Bombing, as it appeared on the local NBC-TV station 2 weeks ago.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UZtqlRmje7M

MCO 2007

I have an this anti-torture idea for a long time, and just wanted to pass it along in case it resonates with someone in your organization who could implement it or at least pass it along for further discussion

I would like to suggest an advertising campaign, via radio for those countries that would not allow a print campaign, that would focus on appealing directly to the conscience of torturers themselves. It would be a very simple message, echoing a public service announcement we all grew up with:

"It's 10 pm. Can you tell your children what you did at work today?"

If anyone thinks this is a good idea, I'd love to hear from them.

Marc Olmsted

So, a minor breakthrough this morning on the trash front, though not from Citizen Cane. {I keep finding his cups farther and farther from his apartment building, today just steps from an open dumpster. He is now going out of his way not to dispose of it in the trash. Amazing.) But right next to his building is another I call Armenia Central. I never get even a smile from anybody in that building, most often there is a pair of taxi-drivers smoking cigarettes on the front stoop who just stare at me, with an expression that can best be described as hangdog hostile. This building has always irked me because it seems to have the most consistently littered front, particularly empty packs of Davidoff cigarettes.

Well, this morning, emerging from the garage of that building is a man I don't think I've seen before, or at least not noticed, with that 50-but-looks-60, life-is-hard look I've become so accustomed to. There's a particular mess in front, and I'm filling the bag, and as he passes he utters in a heavy accent: "Tank you. Tank you. You are a good man." (Of course I smiled a big smile and thanked him right back.) This is the very first time one of these men have acknowledged my trashpicking, sober. (Not me, them. One said something nice when he was clearly three sheets to the wind.)

How difficult it must be to be a man in cultures where any public expression of feeling, apart from anger or boisterousness (among young men) is so distinctly discouraged. I had the impression that he would have said nothing at all if any of his peers was watching. It was almost as if he was a member of the resistance passing along a secret message.

But it meant a lot to me to know at least one person peering out from behind one of those world-weary gazes not only noticed, but was appreciative instead of contemptuous of what he saw. It flipped my mood in an instant. I went from muttering "what's wrong with these people!" under my breath to "I bet he's a great father and husband."

MCO 2007

P.S. I had a charming coffee-klatch with a great group of people this morning, and promised to exchange website plugs. If you into the LA Arts scene in particular, please check out www.artslant.com

I swear, when I have to pull these psycho-biblical tracts from under every windshield in the neighborhood, or peel them off the streets (wet, after a rainstorm), I just wanna take a rod to the bozos who put them there myself.

Do they really think any one is going to read one of these fliers, and immediately become a God-fearing Bible-thumper? Especially, when of all passages to cite, they choose the one that advocates child-abuse?

The only thing I'm sure of is that whoever these polluting mouthfrothers are, they were beaten as children themselves. Which is what I need to remember before I throttle one of them. They've already been punished.

MCO 2007

So this morning I practically run into Citizen Cane on the corner. He stops, forcing me to literally walk around him. I come right up on his just-thrown cup in its usual recent place, no longer directly in front of his building but a block south, to throw me off I guess. Please. Who does he think he’s dealing with?

Now I NEVER leave my phone at home, but last night I forgot to charge it, so was doing so this morning. I took this as the universe’s sign that I wasn’t supposed to take his picture as I’d planned. Instead I picked up the cup with my trash picker and turned. He was standing at the corner staring. I offered wryly: “Gee I wonder who’s this is?” and placed it in my bag. I finally made out what he’s been saying all this time as he shouted in a heavy accent: “Get lost!” To which I responded, (but not yelling) “You are a dirty man!”

So I continue on my route south as he continues north to his building. When I get to the end of the block, I toss my bag in the karaoke restaurant dumpster, than start on a new one, filling it up on the other side of the street. Basically my route is a big rectangle that will take me right back in front of the old man’s building. He, bizarrely enough, has passed his building, and is standing against a railing, clearly waiting for me. Is he spoiling for a fight?

What I want to say when I pass him is “I can’t believe you come to this country and then trash it!” but this is Little Armenia, and I can’t risk any observers twisting this into an ethnic accusation and running me over with a Mercedes. So as I pass him, I just say what I should have said all along, three pointed words: “Shame on you.” He doesn’t respond, but really, what do you say to that? It’s a rhetorical insult.

(I promise the next entry on the War of the Cups will only be written if something truly dramatic occurs. Like I get arrested. )

So last night I open the UCLA Continuing Education catalogue, all excited about choosing a writing course to start in April, to be paid with the $500 I’m being repaid from a friend I helped out last year. Then I open my mail, and find a collection agency notice for $738, from the last phone bill at the art studio I largely financed for over two years during my drug dealing days. It was the repository of my hopes that I could one day go legitimate, and of course it was doomed to failure because we were all too high to hope to pull it off. (It’s amazing it lasted as long as it did).

Now, if there was a bill I could rationalize not paying it’s this one, as I did not live at the gallery and did not run up the bill. But the truth is that no one twisted my arm to put the phone in my name, and there was every single reason to believe, from past experience, that the income to pay it would not be generated by anyone else but me.

So to this debt will go the $500—this is called accountability, and I can’t expect it from Citizen Cane and not from myself. I also take it as a message from the universe that I don’t need to take a course. I need to turn off Prison Break and Nanny 911 and WRITE. (Hell, I could probably teach that course.)

However, I cannot regret watching the special on the opening of Oprah’s Leadership Academy in South Africa. I never enjoyed crying so much.

MCO 2007

A few entries back, I described how cute Gaza's head was from behind, as his ears reminded me of Sister Bertrille's coronet on "The Flying Nun." Unfortunately, in the whole world wide web, I couldn't find a behind shot of this headgear, but you get the idea.

He was almost a disappearing dog on me today. I was temporarily out of his sight in Griffith Park, having descended a slope to retrieve some trashed water bottles in the underbrush, and I don't know whether he panicked because he momentarily couldn't find me or whether some silly wabbit distracted him, but when I got back up on the road he was no where to be found. I cried out his name, over and over, my panic increasing, when I finally spotted him several hundred yards away, ascending a steep hill. He seemed unable to follow my voice in the wind, but spotted me just when he'd almost arrived at a road that winds to the observatory. Needless to say, he eventually made it back, panting madly.

Mmmmhhh, it was a windy day. What he headed up to the mountaintop to see if he could catch an updraft and go flying about the canyon?

MCO 2007

Well, that's annoying. I was just about to click "post" on my fully composed blog entry, and suddenly "Internet Explorer has to close. Sorry for the inconvenience."

I do not have the patience to rewrite the whole damn thing. Though I imagine a shorter entry might be appreciated--I do tend to bloviate a bit--okay, a lot.

I wrote about how I went to this spiritual center yesterday and it was AMAZING. It's called Agape (pronounced Ah-Ggah-pay--it means 'unconditional love' in Greek). I'll let the website do the talking, but long story short, Dr. Michael Beckwith was the most powerful speaker I've ever heard, and it was deeply moving and inspiring experience not only to hear him, but to be among many thousand like-minded, super-progressive trans-denominational, metaphysically-oriented people of all colors and sexual orientations, celebrating ourselves and each other as manifestation of love and spirit.

Rev. Beckwith recommended, among many other things, that we take a page from Alice in Wonderland, and "believe 6 impossible things before breakfast." How could you not love that? http://www.agapelive.com/index.php?

anchor=about

As for the other ritual of the day, I loved the Oscars, I don't care how long they ran. (It's easier on the West Coast, cause they start so early.) Hooray for Helen, and for that cute screenwriter who won for "Little Miss Sunshine." Now, I can't wait for traffic to get back to normal. I live a mile away and it's been a pain in the ass.

MCO 2007

I've been writing comedy off and on for many years, but maybe once a decade do the planets align so completely that I have an undreamt opportunity to insert the ultimate bon mot at the just the right moment.

First, a little background. I have made it a little hobby to keep a running list of funny drag queen names, in fact there's even a list of my favorites on my website. (link below, but don't look now because it'll ruin the joke). And although I'm a pretty funny guy, when I'm in a new social situation, like a job or in this case, working on The Beastly Bombing, for the first several weeks I tend to play observer. I soak up the characters and the situations, knowing that the best humor is situational. And then I slip in the sly remark here and there, getting these "I didn't know you were funny" looks that I just soak up.

And when you're amidst actors, let me tell you, the level of general wit runs pretty high. These are theater people--well read and extroverted, used all to being the center of attention. There are no stupidheads about.

So last night, we're all upstairs where the actors get ready in a huge room. Everyone is milling about in various states of dress and undress, putting on make-up, wigs, costumes, rehearsing and lobbing one-liners like talk-show hosts. And through all this, we are being filmed by a Russian television station, who, believe it or not, is doing a feature on the show. (This is important for the joke, because Russia was in the "air.")

So Trevor, my favorite of the rotating Jesus's in the show (he gorgeous and funny), is walking around in a loin cloth, having just finished getting, for the first time, full-body dark make-up to simulate a middle-Eastern look. There are several actors gathered at the table where I am sitting, where I hand out body mikes and help actors put them on. One of them looks up at the hyper-tanned, slightly yellowish, half-dressed, bewigged Trevor and says: "Dude, you look toxic!"

After the perfect beat, I noted: "Yeah, you look like a draq queen--Cher Nobyl."

I mean, talk about perfect timing. The cast roared! I had to immediately add that I had been waiting for years to use that line, and I couldn't believe my luck.

Patience really does pay off. I'm just going to have to wait for just the right moment to use the other names on my list. http://www.marcolmsted.com/projects.php?filter=cyberart_design&page=19&view=1 It's worth it when actors who weren't in the room come back in chuckling to tell you "that was really good."

MCO 2007

\\Dear Mark,

Here is your horoscope

for Saturday, February 24:

Staying in one place mentally and physically makes life pretty predictable. But if you take a chance, apply for that dream job, call you-know-who for a date -- you don't know what could possibly lie ahead. So get going!\\

Well I sorta went for it. This morning I cornered this one crush I've had above all the other crushes I've had in LA since I got sober. I'll call him Carpenter Smith. He was on the way down the street, whistling a happy tune on an fairly agenda-free Saturday, and I joked with him that I was willing to pursue him until he had to get a restraining order, if necessary. He smiled that big winning smile that has slayed me ever since I was able to get my eyes off his built little body (you know how I feel about short, compact bods) about a year ago, this after finding the things he had to say about life thoroughly charming and insightful. Let me tell you--this is the truth, too--this was the only guy in LA I occasionally thought about while I was dating Tony, the one guy who could have given Tony a run for his money if he'd so chosen.

But did he wait for me? NO! He went ahead and started dating somebody, right about the time I was talking about moving to New York. The nerve, to get on with his life! (Not that he ever thought of me as anything more than that amusing Saturday morning flirtation--but I'm going to be grandiose today, if you don't mind, and pretend it was thinking he couldn't have me that drove him into the arms of another man.)

What could I do but wish them every unhappiness and tell him when he comes to his senses I'll be waiting? It could be that the Goddesses have no intention of getting us together or they would have, but I choose to believe that maybe those madcap Cupidistas are just thowing obstacles in our path so that the eventual union will be all the sweeter. Until then, my crush shall remain intact, especially as I sense that he thoroughly enjoys the attention. I mean, really, crushes can be great things when you don't pretend they are anything more. You know in your head there has to be all these things that would rub you the wrong way or even alienate you about the object of your affection if you really got to know them, so why not enjoy the illusion of perfection while you still don't know anything specific to contradict it? And who in their right mind doesn't mind being crushed on, as long as you're not stalky or obsessive about it? As Addison DeWitt says in All About Eve: "We all come into this life equipped with our little egos..."

So here's to you, Mr. Smith. I guess I won't put pins in a voodoo doll to ruin your new relationship, but I'm warning you, I won't wait around forever. You have your fun and then I suggest you wake up and smell the quiche. You'll find it very tasty, I promise.

Gaza's tummy is still unsettled. He had me up twice in the middle of the night for a very needed walk.

MCO 2007

This is wonderful.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7bbaRyDLMvA

MCO 2007

MCO 2007

How could you not love a face like that? Which, unfortunately, is not his normal, dolphin-like happy smile. He seemed to have been genuinely traumatized by the visit to the vet. Of course I'm secretly afraid that in that completely incomprehensible, ethereal, extra-sensory mode of interspecies communication, Gaza knows that I was contemplating his death and this has just messed with his mind and tummy. I made a bowl of rice for him but he won't touch his breakfast, again, though he ate fine last night.

Oh well, this isn't a dlog, its blog. And I don't really have the time for my usual longwinded entry, as I didn't work yesterday because of the rain so I have to go in today. (It's a traffic thing. Santa Monica to Hollywood when it rains makes a 45-minute ride into a 2-hour parking lot.) Then home to fret over Gaza some more and then off to another Friday at Beastly Bombing.

So in lieu of (more) words, I played around again with Google Images and Photoshop, for the above oeuvre, which will perhaps be analyzed by future historians for insight into my unconcious mind. Cause I sure can't tell you what the hell it means. But I like it.

MCO 2007

It looks like yours truly is just a big worry wort. The truth is, I wasn't entirely forthcomng about how many lumps Gaza has--there are a lot of them. I felt like a Bad Dad for not taking him in sooner, but my instinct was that if he seemed happy and energetic and had a good appetite that whether they were fatty deposits or something else, they simple weren't a problem. And the truth behind that truth is that even if they were a problem, I couldn't afford to do anything about it, not to mention I have a lot of ethical objections about spending a fortune on a pet.

Well, the doc aspirated 7 lumps, and it looks like only one of them was even ambiguous. The rest are just fatty deposits. And I got some blood drawn to check out his liver, kidneys, etc., just to make sure there's nothing lurking. Still I'm glad I had this little scare, even if it was mostly in my own mind. I got clear on how I will approach it when the real thing comes, and feel so grateful that it's not at hand. It does get a little difficult to have the responsibility of a dog, day in, day out, year after year, but he teaches me and gives me SO much. Plus when you walk behind him, his ears bend and bounce just like Sister's Bertrille's whimper in the Flying Nun. How could you not love that?

In other news, my first post-Tony date (see Monday) called to tell me he was putting sex/romance on the shelf for a while to concentrate on sobriety. I was so relieved. Not because I didn't want to get down his pants, but because I know from personal experience how easily that can distract from what needs to be Priority #1. If we want to pick up where we left off in the future, there's no stopping us from doing that.

A friend asked me what is going on with Beastly Bombing. I'm still working on it every weekend, but as a stagehand while someone is vacationing in Vietnam. When she gets back the producer wants to teach me the lights. Why not?

MCO 2007

I just wanted you to know that after I posted the last entry, I took Gaza for a walk and he seemed fine, had no diarrhea. And then when we got back home he ate his breakfast.

Now, hours later, we've come back from a hike at which he was so playful that a passerby asked if he was a puppy.

I'm still taking him to the vet tomorrow, because he still has lumps on his side. But I realized that the last entry may have left you with the image of a dog at death's door, and that's definitely not the dog who just sprinted around like a 2-year old.

Though I think I've aged a few years in the past two days.

Kids. OY!

MCO 2007

How accurate my stomach seems to be--my innards are practically entrails that can be read to predict the future. For a few days--months actually-- my stomach has been telling me Gaza was going to get sick this year. His limp came and went, but then this morning he wakes me up in that urgent way he does once in a blue moon to let me know needs to go NOW. I pulled some clothes on, and the trashpicker, and bleary-eyed, cleaned the block and cleaned up after his diarrhea.

That wouldn't concern me so much, it's happened before, it passes. But when we got back, I gave him his breakfast before crawling back into bed, and four hours later, he hasn't touched it. He hasn't skipped a meal in 10 years (which is not to say he's one of those grabby, eat everything dogs. In fact he's exceedingly polite, and usually won't start eating until I give him the go-ahead.)

So I'm worried. I would have taken him directly to the Vet but I have a doctor's appointment myself today, so I will bring him in tomorrow morning. I can't get past the scenario in my head that the vet will give me some really bad news. No matter how bad the news, I can't imagine putting Gaza down yet, but the idea that I would leave knowing that I had to come back to do so would be almost worse. How could I take Gaza to the vet knowing ahead of time he wasn't coming back with me? The days before would be a nightmare of dread.

Okay Marc, enough dread, enough predicting the future. Go to the vet, let him do tests on Gaza, then see what the doctor says. The worst case scenario is NOT that I have to put the dog down, it's that he might spend the next few months or years not enjoying his dog's life. I got Gaza in 1998 knowing that the very best case scenario would be that he had a happy and healthy decade or more, and then would go peacefully, in my arms, at the beginning--not the end--of a life-ending illness. So even though it might be happening a bit earlier than I'd hoped. if it is indeed happening, it will just be the last chapter of a wonderful book that can't go on forever. I am not going to be one of these pet owners who rails against a timely end of his beloved companion as if fate has sprung a cruel surprise.

Dogs aren't like us. They don't fear death because they have no sense of it. All the fear is mine. But I can give him the gift of guaranteeing he will not suffer. That is what I must must must remember.

MCO 2008

The actress Leslie Uggams had a variety show in the 70s no one remembers, with a recurring drunk, messy character that would be hopelessly politically incorrect today, but was still considered funny in the days when Dean Martin's hiccups could produce peals of laughter. Anyway, in one sketch, this character drags herself in one morning after a wild night on the town in a state of quasi-undress, and another characters points out reprovingly: "Honey, you lost a shoe!" To which Miss Uggams responds: "No. I found one!"

I had to remind myself of this anecdote when I surveyed the block this morning. Evidently, when the waste haulers emptied the neighbor's dumpster into their truck yesterday, one, and possibly two bagfuls of trash tumbled out onto the street. By this morning, the contents were strewn up and down the block, tripling the usual amount I had to pick up to get the block clean.

I have found when the anger rises like bile in my throat that it is not enough to suppress it--and that doesn't work anyway, it just gives it more energy. I have to compensate for it. I can't just be tolerant of the situation, I need to see it the positive it it, even think of it as something to be grateful for. Needless to say, this can be a challenge, but if I manage it, the gratitude cancels out the anger and I can at least achieve a sort of emotional draw. Sometimes you can even still get a good mood out of it. This morning I engaged in a bit of magical thinking, pretending the marked improvement in Gaza's paw had to be "paid" for with two extra bags of trash--as if one wouldn't have happened without the other. Then I reminded myself, yet again, that I would have done anything to have been able to walk my dog when I was in prison--how lucky am I to get to even walk around the block, much less clean it.

I mean, if you're going to do whatever you're going to do anyway, if you've chosen to do it, why not do it with pleasure, even if the activity itself is not intrinsically pleasant? After all, some of the most sensually unpleasant things we do can bring us the deepest joy. Ask any mother who has to change the diaper of her premature baby who's been in an incubator. Ask any husband who's nursed a wife with cancer throwing up from chemo. The only thing worse than doing some things is to not be able to do them at all.

Which is the mantra I'm already rehearsing for the day to come--hopefully not too soon, but almost certainly eventually--when I might have to put Gaza to sleep. The only thing worse than being there to look in his eyes and hold him in his last moments would be to not be there to do so, even though it'll be one of the hardest things I'll ever have to do.

For now, I'm delaying a visit to the vet's for another 2 weeks, when a friend will repay me the last $500 of a loan and I can at least say yes to a barrage of tests on Gaza's numerous lumps. I don't want to anticipate anything, but I need to be prepared.

MCO 2008

P.S. Up with Jimmy Carter. If not the best President, certainly the best former President.

http://select.nytimes.com/2007/02/20/opinion/20kristof.html?8ty&emc=ty

So yesterday afternoon I went to a sober Bingo fundraiser, and sat across from a handsome man who I've known off and on for two years, very casually. (Without going into detail, his journey has been at little bumpier than mine and he's fairly recently re-sober again.)

I wasn't sure he was flirting with me until he asked whether I was still leaving town. (The possibilties of Tennessee and New York seemed to have gotten understandably conflated in the minds of those who I didn't even realize were looking at my potential availability). When I said I was staying, he followed it up with confirmation of my single status, and then he bought me a diet coke. This gave me the courage to give him my number post-Bingo, and miracle of miracles, he actually called less than an hour later and asked me what I was doing for the evening.

I ended up over at his cute little place having a delicious marinated chicken and watching the unlikely but fairly fun "Snakes on a Plane." Between us it was not fireworks, but that sort of immediate intensity is really something that belongs to the past, when drugs and alchohol fueled and distored any natural chemistry. What it was was comfortable, and right-sized. We didn't try to make it--as gay men in particular tend to do--into anything it wasn't. Which didn't mean the easy companionship and attraction was not to be enjoyed.

What I liked the most was the fairly painless way we met. I've always hoped that just in living my life opportunities will come up for romantic exploration and save me from the slippery search via bars or the internet. I'm sure we'll see each other again, but more than that will be a very delicate proposition. I know from experience that someone who only has a modest amount of sober time under his belt really needs to keep his recovery front and center. It's very easy to use an involvement to distract, escape, unfocus. And while I don't want to determine what's best for anyone else, I need to feel I'm contributing to someone's growth and not inhibiting it.

Gaza is limping. He seems to have hurt his paw being rambunctious on yesterday's hike. Luckily its wet and rainy today, so easy to stay in, but I may have to take him to the vet soon enough. I'm a little afraid of what I'll find out. He's just turning 10--it's the time dogs seem to develop stuff. And though I adore him, I'll not be the type to load him up with meds or surgeries so he can be old and infirm, just because I want to defer my moment of loss.

MCO 2008

So I was all set to convey the joy of working on a show when the night is sold out and the audience is laughing their heads off at all the right moments, but then this morning I had another encounter with Citizen Cane, the old man who insists on throwing his styrofoam coffee cup on the street even while I'm picking up trash.

This time he did not even know I was watching, and very close, or he would never have been so brazen. I'd been trying to think up just the right thing to do if this happened again, but all thinking went right out the window. I just saw RED, and ran right up behind him, picking up the cup and shouting "HEY!" He turned just as I thrust it at him. "You DROPPED something!" He took the cup from me and threw it right back down. That's when I picked it up and threw is right at him, squeezing it as I did so that the leftover coffee (it was lidded) would splash his pants.

At that, furious, he raised his cane at me. I raised my trashpicker right back at him. He immediately lowered his and I did mine. I think he said "Go away!" but that's the last thing he said before hearing my torrent. "Why can't you just throw out your cup in your house! What gives you the right to trash the neighborhood! WHAT GIVES YOU THE RIGHT! YOU ARE A DIRTY MAN!" And then I turned and walked away, but swiveled to add: "YOU ARE A BAD PERSON!"

Not so great for a writer, hunh? I sounded like a 4-year old. I think I was afraid that words like "uncivic-minded" would be lost on him. And woe to the two hapless Mexican boys I ran into putting "Bally's" flyers on gates and doorknobs just a block down. I lit into them in Spanish. "MOVE ON, guys. Move on! Don't bother with these streets, these are MY streets, comprenden? I know it's not your fault, I know you're just doing your job, but two days after you've been here, all of the flyers are on the street, and I pick them up. So you can just skip this neighborhood from now on, got it?" They were actually very nice about it, and a bit intimidated, I daresay.

I'm going to have to come up with a different strategy, other than retrieving the cup later and throwing it over his gate, which is what I did. Losing your temper with strangers in public can be a dicey prospect, although what he's going to tell the cops? He'd have to ascribe a motivation to me, and something tells me that the cops would view my righteous indignation a little more sympathetically than his "right" to foul the neighborhood.

I think the smartest strategy, should there be a rematch, would be a very simple one used successfully in the past. I shall take out my cellphone, and take a picture of him, and then the cup. Not a word. Let him be afraid I'll call the cops.

But I just can't afford to get so angry. Because I wanted a cigarette like you have no idea.

Instead I just breathed. Waited. Watched TV. Pet the dog. Checked email. And it passed.

MCO 2007

From my sister:

Last night Natalie [her seven year old] patiently watched me make a paper airplane for Sam [her 4 year old] using our knify paper airplane instruction booklet. She told me to let her finish the last few steps cause she could do it better than me. That was a challenge in my opinion so i said, no thanks, I'll do it myself....after quite a struggle where i couldn't figure out the last two steps she said with a gentle voice and raised eyebrows "Are you ready for me to do it now, I think I can show you and you'll be able to do it next time."

I share this not a cute kid story--though it is--but because the sweetness of my niece's offer I thought actually graceful. And when I mean graceful, I mean it in the spirtual sense of the word--full of grace.

My mother often says that the physically hardest part of her life was us kids were little. Not surprising, in 1961, for example, she had a newborn, a 2-year old, a 3-year old, a 4-year old, and an 8-year old. She had no help save my father when he came back from work. No money for babysitters, no female relative around. She was lucky to get 4 or 5 hours sleep a night.

And yet she reports this as the happiest time of her life, because of the joy of watching us figure the world out. And of course, the experience of constant unconditional love that she was able to lavish on us and we back to her. She remembers no discipline problems--ever. The mere whisper of a threat of withheld affection was enough to keep us in line--this I remember quite well.

More fundamentally, I think the younger the child the more purely that child is a manifestation of God. Of course we all are manifestations of God, all the time, but we tend to start like diamonds on which the dirt of experience cakes upon us with age, until, by adulthood or middle-age, the lucky ones of us start scrapping off the muck until our inner diamond starts to shine through again.

I think having and raising children is a joyful experience when it is a spiritual experience, and in fact, for my mother, that was the most profoundly satisfying part of her life because she felt closest to God, not to mention, very much a manifestation of God herself. I think her present-day struggles with depression are very much the result of having so much difficulty with seeing God in everything, which is much easier to do when your 2-year old keeps being an expression of joy, curiosity, passion, and emotion--good and bad.

It may seem strange to relate this to alcholism, but Bill Wilson wrotes that "for alcoholics, drinking is really a low-level search for sprituality." I would say having kids (at least when it's planned) is a high-level search for spirituality. Ultimately, isn't that what we are all searching for, and where we all finally find the deepest satisfaction?

I think it explains the impulse to keep having children in a world that is often a violent and hurtful place. I think it goes beyond the impulse to reproduce, and into a desire for a spiritual connection. Which is why I find so sad that so many, instead of discovering God through the eyes of their children, in which they would see a joyful, loving presence, introduce an adult and very human God to their kids, a God that is disapproving and judgmental, a good to be feared and respected far more than God of mercy and love.

MCO 2007

Today is one of those days where the strategies in my head are in sync with my actual emotions, and whether this is producing an attack of gratitude or the result of one, I cannot quite say. But today I am in macro-gratitude, far more than just thankful for friends, family, and career. I'm about the basic basics today. Things I can remind my prisoner buddy even he can be grateful for, even in a place where there is little to be grateful for.

Today, for example, I choose to be aware of my breathing, and thankful for the miracle of drawing oxygen in and out with ease. Taking it for granted? Spend 20 minutes next to someone with emphezema, or just remember that last bout of bronchitis you had.

Today I choose to be aware of the amazing gifts of bipedalism, mobility, and unimpaired motor coordination. I can scratch my nose, drive my car, pet my dog. Most probably, so can you. (If you're in a wheelchair, I hope you're thinking : a) Damn right they should be grateful and b) thank God my arms work well enough to wheel this thing around.)

Today I choose to be aware and grateful for my brain, the gift of language and comprehension. Hell, I can READ and WRITE and so can you. How many millions of functions per minute are required to accomplish these extraordinary acts? There are literally hundreds of thousands of men and women around the world who, because of injury or illiteracy, cannot do the same. They would kill to do what most of us never think twice about doing.

Today, I will acknowlege what amazingly wonderful functions are eating, digestion and excretion. I will thank my digestive, nervous and circulatory systems for functioning well and recognize how lucky I am that that is the case.

When I spend some time being thankful for such basics, then things like running water, laundry, showers, cars, food, clothes, books, TV, the internet, etc. are elevated in the heirarchy of gratitude. So when I finally get to family, friends, sexual and romantic partners, I.E. PEOPLE, I am flopping around happily in the icing on the cake. I understand deeply what ABUNDANCE means.

As for specifics of the last 24 hours, it was great to see the Beastly Bombing story on NBC (at 6, it turned out) yesterday (which I caught on a TV we found at Highways.) Last night I worked late enough that traffic wasn't terrible coming home (hell I wasn't on a bus), and I got home in time for Grey's Anatomy to remind me that a breaking up is nothing compared to loss by death. My Tony may no longer be "my" Tony, but he's alive and well. (Oh that's another thing--for any of those of you suffering through a divorce. Try imagining a world WITHOUT divorce as an option. Now THAT would be hell.)

The weather is gorgeous. How frigging lucky am I to live in Southern California, to not have been on a plane stuck on the tarmac for 8 hours, to not be crashing off a drug binge.

I'm gonna get some playwriting done, with these marvelously functioning fingers. (I send a short story in to a literary journal yesterday, by the way.)

MCO 2007

Tonight, Thursday, at 11 pm on Channel 4, tune in to the local newscast for a feature on The Beastly Bombing.

MCO 2007

I just wrote this testimonial for Melodie, my psychic, and composing took up my blog time but also lets you know how that went, so I share it here.

If you live in LA, she's a BIG recommend. You can check her out at www.oohmystyk.com, and tell her I sent you.

Dear Melodie:

I just wanted to thank you for yesterday's (as always) extraordinary session. I confess it would be worth it if only to be continually amazed about how much you can tell me about the lives of everyone I know just based on their birthdays alone, things that not only attest to your extraordinary gift, but allow me to pass on specific advice and insights to them as well as help me negotiate our relationships.

I also am deeply grateful for your illuminating the nature of someone with whom I was recently romantically involved. You confirmed that we are definitely better off as friends than lovers, but also explained what it was about him that made a long-distance relationship unworkable in any case. I left with such a feeling of resolution, that the right decision had been arrived at, but full of possibility about the future. And it's not as if you have ever told me what I wanted to hear in the past, you have correctly predicted the emotional unavailability of more than one partner for whom I pined and proved extremely accurate. At the same time, you knew what I would not have "heard" and when I had to learn some hard truths through my own experience. You were dead right about that.

I also left with a renewed confidence that the artistic project that I've made my first priority is the right one--it is very helpful to have a timeline that eerily reflects my inner sense of what could actually happen. At the same time there was a specific decision I needed help with on whether to act on now or later, and your unhesitating sense of what timing was best was invaluable, and my stomach (which is almost as psychic as you are) confirms it completely.

It was also so validating to hear that you perceived the depth of the changes in me that keep manifesting themselves in a way that says "pay attention to this gift." My own path as a unofficial spiritual counselor to a widening circle has become more and more prominent, and you noted that without me saying a word about it--always accurately identifying to whom I had these relationships. It also really helps to hear that you see me as truly done with alcohol and drugs. It helps keep that little door that closed that so many of us in recovery keep open in the back of our minds.

I not only left with a spring in my step but a buoyant energy and renewed confidence in my choices. I called three friends immediately and emailed two others with your specific advice on some healthy choices that need to make. Both were thankful and wondered how you knew. My dog--this I cannot explain--was frisky on our walk up the mountain like he hasn't been in years, running off trail and being adventurous. I have no idea how that relates to having just seen you but something tells me it does. My grief over this ended relationship lifted and I went to work on the play last night. Another friend I spoke to was agape that you described his mother and their relationship to a tee without me having even mentioned her--he will almost certainly be seeing you.

Melodie, you have a great gift, you are a great gift and you help make me feel like a great gift as well.

Marc Olmsted

MCO 2007

This is the outfit that employs the amazing doctor I saw last night on Independent Lens. They do incredible work.

https://www.directrelief.org/sections/information_center/articles/holiday_thoughts_04.html#afghanistan

Although I can't hope to equal the largesse of my friend Mary, who made $18,000 in the stock market and gave it to an organization that restores sight to the third-world blind, (GO MARY), I did send in $25 to the below (Happy Valentine's Day Tony!) and if 10 of you do the same, we can buy enough sutures for a fair amount of fistula operations. If 100 of you do it, then I get to add fundraiser to my resume and together we might actually save some lives.

I know that this day is no different from any other day, really, but I figure what could be a better way to celebrate love, especially as a lot of charities must be suffering from post-Christmas, I-gotta-pay-taxes tight-fistedness, right?

To Donate by Mail:

Please send your check or

money order to:

Direct Relief International

27 S. La Patera Lane

Santa Barbara, CA 93117

To Donate by phone:

Have your credit card ready and call:

Direct Relief International

(805) 964-4767, or

Fax: (805) 681-4838

LOVE LOVE LOVE

MARC

Well, I actually don't feel as bad as this picture indicates, but I could hardly come across a bouquet of roses splayed against a pile of rubble on Valentine's Day and not take a picture of it. I do sorta wish I'd waited a few days before asking Tony for a clarification of our relationship, as I thought for sure, finally, after God knows how many years, I might actually have a real Valentine on Valentine's day. At the same time, I guess if we had yesterday's conversation tomorrow, it would have made a declaration today ring a bit false.

And I say that acknowledging that he's expressed his love to me in every email since the initial exchange. But you know what I mean. There's a romantic component that has been removed, and no matter how much I completely understand, the heart has not quite caught up to the brain. (As I write this, I heard "You got mail." He sent me a very funny and sweet Valentine's Day Card--one duck serenading another. I needed that.)

I smartly arranged the distraction of a visit to a psychic who I've seen twice and who is mind-blowing. But here's the thing. She's never seen me sober. This is gonna be very very interesting.

Happy Valentine's Day to any of you who need to hear it. I only know a few of you, but I take the honor of your visits quite seriously, and to heart. And I so send you back my affection and appreciation.

MCO 2007

P.S. I saw "Independent Lens" last night on the state of OB/GYN Care in Afghanistan. At turns both appalling and inspiring, it was very powerful. There are over an estimated 100,000 women there with untreated fistulas--which really makes for a hellish life. And the self-congratulatory non-aid from the Bush Administration was stomach-churning. I know its the last thing anyone wants to hear about on Valentine's Day, but if you're on your pitypot, get off it and google around and send some money to some place that can help, and tell your honey that's his/her Valentine's day present. In fact, maybe I'll do that with Tony.

Well, as far as "break-ups" go, you probably can't get a softer landing than the one I'm experiencing. And I put break-up in quotes, because it's not quite the right word for a couple who was actually only physically together but 5 weeks in the last 8 months. Closing the door--as Tony did officially but very gently yesterday afternoon--on a romantic future that was only nominally viable (based on if, if, if), is more like the period at the end of a chapter than the tearing up of a book.

A wonderful chapter, with nary a sentenceful of bad moments between us. And with the guarantee of future chapters. What I've lost is the idea of a possibility. The idea of Tony and I as a day in, day out couple. And to be brutally honest, I think we both sensed where, over time, real incompatibilities could crop up. Differences which in no way present the slightest problems in an affair or a friendship, but could cause a fair amount of impatient eye-rolling over the long-term.

This is not to say that this loss does not hurt. Almost immediately we're addressing each other with old nicknames instead of the endearments we'd grown used to. (I don't think we'll ever use Marc and Tony.) We're sticking to communication via email instead of the phone for a couple of days. My ego has to do battle with the occasional wave of feeling rejected or jealousy over imagined extra-curricular entanglements. But, on the whole, it's pretty easy not to take personally. Logistics count. If you get into a long-distance relationship, and you're not a fllight attendant or the owner of a Lear Jet, you better be ready for the moment where it's time to resolve or evolve. I guess I was ready, or I wouldn't have prompted a clarification via email. (Though maybe I could have waited until February 15th.)

And what a difference between the way I experienced similar situations in the past. Isn't it ironic that I could medicate and numb myself to oblivion back then, and yet be in real agony over someone I didn't really know or certainly love a tenth as much as Tony? I handed over to these men the ability to make their feelings for me a referendum on my worth as a human being. None of that toxic dysfunction has marked my relationship with Tony, and that is reflected in how we are moving on. We're not breaking up. We're breaking through.

I think what I've gained in sobriety is an ability to keep my eyes on the forest while I'm climbing its trees. (That was easy with Tony, he's a tall and very recovered tree, the view is good from his branches.) I've been able to easily imagine how I might look back at Tony as the perfect first serious relationship for me to have in recovery. I got my feet and my heart delightfully wet. I learned how to swim again--without floaters or a surf board. I even wonder if the Love Goddesses weren't "using" Tony as a vehicle to point me to someone else, specifically. (Because just between you and me, the guy I rented the house from in Nashville? We only spent an hour together, at my friend Molly's, but it was electric. And of course we had to email many times about the house, and since then we go back and forth, about, of all things, One Life to Live. I mean this guy is FUNNY-- clever, NPR, New York Times funny--and very sexy, and a little shorter than I am, which is frankly much more my preference over the long term. Of course, I'm not about to get into another long-distance relationship, but if I do decide to buy a house in Nashville--a great investment--with a good friend, who knows?)

So don't cry for me, North New Jersey. Puppy is licking his wounds, but they're not gaping and raw. It's more like a little scrape. Tony and I still adore each other, but now I can focus on what the Universe shall next throw my way in the romance department and in the life-in-L.A. department. I seem to be well-planted here from a reason. I think I need to take more advantage of the theater opportunities that have opened up, for example, and get my damn play finished. First things first.

MCO 2007

This is me yesterday in Little Saigon. It was an interesting day, though a little nuts, as every Vietnamese in Orange County was shopping for the Tet holiday. But we had a great lunch, and I so value the time I spend with my friend Andrea.

I am battling a fair amount of discomfort over the sense of change that is coming or perhaps happening between Tony and I. It may be my imagination or jumping to conclusions, but even if he isn't getting serious with someone else now, as my stomach tells me, I realize that one of these days, it's inevitable.

I don't like it. I don't like it one bit. At the same time I can't fault or reproach him. And I have to sort out what part of that is a genuine loss, and what part is imagined loss, as I have no shortage of guarantees of his continued love and friendship, which I completely believe and return.

Tony suggests I learn to date again, and he's right. I know I've never been brave enough to come on to a blogger I found attractive--I assume he's got a bevy of admirers or that I will come off as somewhat desperate, maybe. But don't make my mistake, single, reasonably in-shape men among you. If you've ever toyed with the idea, say hello.

Well, it's worth a try, although I might appear a little desperate myself. But what the hell. Maybe I'll get some points for directitude.

MCO 2007

This kind of news is so unexpected and inspiring that I'm almost suspicious. Like we're gonna find out that Cheney's people completely made it up to get us to think climate change can be reversed by market forces.

But I take from it a different message. If peasants in Niger can do it, certainly we can.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/02/11/world/africa/11niger.html?hp&ex=1171256400&en=1162f89bceeed3d4&ei=5094&partner=homepage

I'm off to Little Vietnam.

MCO 2007

You know, this Obama theme is actually pretty irritating. There is nothing audacious about hope. Everybody hopes, all the time. Poor people hope for money, rich people hope for happiness, sick people hope for health and parents hope for their children's future. It's part of the human condition. Try NOT hoping. It's like not breathing.

"The Audacity of Hope" sounds good, but it really doesn't mean a damn thing. You want to be audacious? Then try some action baby, or at least proposing it. That's what I'm hearing from John Edwards, and I like it. Obama should propose something even bolder, like including dental coverage in universal health care. Then he might get my primary vote.

I've got a thing about dental insurance because a friend of mine without it is suffering from a tooth infection and can't even get any antibiotics. This is a damn, inexusable shame in a country as rich as we are. He takes care of someone very sick full time and can't even get taken care of himself. That is just wrong. (And how did the teeth get somehow less essential to your health than say, toes?)

In other news, I realize I am completely resisting the whole notion that I will probably have to make some effort to get back into the dating pool again. Flirting isn't enough, but I wish it was. It's hard enough to be at ease with anyone but Tony, but I just can't get comfortable with any of the ways I used to cruise--bars and the internet. No wonder I've been thinking about drinking and using. The drugs provided instant motivation--I could always come up with the desire, interest and creativity to go on the hunt when I had some sort of substance to ratchet up the bravura and lower the inhibition. I was also a lot cuter and younger. Every year past 40 and you lose a swath of potential suitors, and the likelihood of rejection or disinterest goes up in proportion. (Trust me on this, I know my people.)

I guess I need to take my own advice. Hope a little less and act a little more. There IS a sober Valentine's Day Dance tonight. At the same time, I've got to get up early to join a friend for a field trip to Little Vietnam tomorrow. We'll see.

MCO 2007

Just so my little protesting commentator below knows, I do not discriminate or single out any particular flyer distributor, nor it is an attack on how they do business. I doubt they for a minute even think of the litter caused by their blanketing of the city with their flyers. Which is precisely my point. There's no hope to save this planet until people--all people, including me--and businesses, which are really just accumulations of people--become aware of the consequences of their actions. A desire to make money and a willingness to do so legally does not mean everything you do in the course of that pursuit is okay.

So until and if 3rd street Wireless sends out the same boys to pick up their flyers from the street as they employ to place them under thousands of windshields, I will advocate a boycott of them. Preferably, they will switch to a bigger advertising budget, and put a kabosh on the flyers entirely.

MCO 2007

Alcoholism is such a pernicious disease. No matter how much you drank or used, no matter what dark places it took you to, no matter how much fun you were no longer having for how long, it will occasionally still tell you that it is the most ridiculous idea imaginable that you can't just have a frigging glass of wine at the end of the day like everybody else (or so it seems to you) on the planet. Or that you can't go out to Wet Underwear night at the Eagle in your chaps, do shots, and take some hot number home and have tons of horizontal fun like you did so many, many nights in the past.

This kind of thinking seems to hit me the most when I get back from working in Santa Monica, because I go late and leave late to avoid traffic, and even though I've only worked 4 or 5 hours, the illusion is that I'm coming home after a long hard day at the office. (And illusion it is, that job is mostly data entry and completely stress-free.) My alcoholic brain is just trying to find a "hook," something to revive a thinking process that will eventually get me to pick up. It tells me, sure, you can not drink tonight, tomorrow night, next week, etc. etc., but do you really WANT to be a person who NEVER for the REST of their lives, avails themselves of a frigging COCKTAIL? One Day at a Time is just a semantic trick, it tells me, you're making a HUGE-and unrealistically sustainable--sacrifice.

This is where meetings are invaluable. Because you hear therein how exactly that same thinking leads to relapses, and universally those relapses never ever seem to include more than a few days at most of "normal," drinking before a return to a state that is as worse than it ever was, drugs included. I suppose there may be people who control it when they go back out, or at least keep the effects manageable, but isn't the fact that drinking has to be "controlled" proof that it's a problem? I for one, believe alcoholics/addicts can control it or enjoy their use, but not both.

And though I tell myself I didn't let myself get too Hungry, Angry, Lonely or Tired last night, the truth is, I definitely overestimated the comfort of the company of Ugly Betty and Grey's Anatomy. Welcome to life, Marc, sometimes you get lonely. It's nothing to drink over. Oh, I know this, trust me, it's just that I've been so blessed with experiencing sobriety as a gift that I feel almost mugged by the periodic, if momentary, perception that it's part the problem instead of the solution.

After doing a lot of thinking about it, I at least end up viewing all those years of indulgence with gratitude. Because I certainly can't say I did not do all I wanted as much as I wanted, that I did not completely take my hedonistic impulses to the nth degree. There is no part of me that can say I left any of that investigation undone, that I don't know precisely how much satisfaction can and cannot be derived from saying yes, completely, to every desire for physical gratification you may have. I don't need to do it again because even if it did "work" to any degree, I know exactly what that experience is like. But I don't know what it's like to stay sober one more day.

I no doubt repeat myself. It's kind of inevitable that over 365 entries a year, I'm going rework some themes. No one is THAT original, including me. If you read me regularly, you're gonna get the occasional sense of deja lu. (That means "already read" in French.)

MCO 2007

P.S. Can you imagine what it'll be like growing up the daughter of Ana Nicole Smith? Maybe the Simpson kids can babysit. If any one can understand, it's them.

P.P.S. I read the jury duty form. No felons. So I'm off that hook.

Okay, let's say you just googled "Lowest Car Insurance Rates Los Angeles" or "Auto Insurance L.A." or "Primo" or "All Century" Insurance, and you got me, right here. PLEASE do not call either of these outfits. Here's why: They coat every car in the neighborhood once a week, and for over a year I have spent uncountable hours plucking them off the street with my handy trashpicker, because everybody, and I mean everybody, just tosses it when they find it under their windshield. They should, of course, throw it in the back seat to dispose of when they clean out at the carwash, but since they don't feel they produced the trash, they feel no responsibility to get rid of it correctly.

I really find it very hard to believe that Primo and All Century gets enough business from these flyers to make up for the cost of hiring illegal aliens to place them under every windshield, but if that is indeed the case, then they can afford to hire the same young men to go through the neighborhood 2 days later and pick up these hundreds of trashed, street-polluting, sewer-clogging, sorry-assed fliers.

Free speech? You got the right, assholes. And so do I. I also have the same right to pull your fliers from under the windshields as soon as you put them there, and nothing gives me more satisfaction, especially as you STILL have to pay those young Mexican men who are just trying to feed their famillies and better their lives. So pay them twice. Or hell, pay me.

Polluters. BAD BAD POLLUTERS. BOYCOTT POLLUTERS.

MCO 2007

P.S. I'm sending a copy of this to the addresses on the fliers.

I have a summons for Jury Duty, on February 20.

Ain't that a kick in the pants?

MCO 2007

This is my buddy Mike that I left back in prison.

He's a really good guy, but I don't know how great this pic is. I think he wanted to make sure he conveyed as much positive energy as possible, and maybe tried a little too hard?

Anyway, he wants me to post it on a prison penpal site, and I wrote him back that he has to send me the text for a personal ad. But meanwhile, I'd appreciate knowing if you'd a) be willing to write him; b) if you think he should have the picture retaken.

I personally think a more relaxed, less squinty look would work better, but I know if I told him it might hurt his feelings. He's pretty sensitive. And getting a pic taken there is not so easy.

If you're up to writing him, please write me for his address at makemarc@aol.com">makemarc@aol.com, and I can tell you why he's in prison and why you have nothing to worry about, even though his sentence lasts until 2011. (In fact, I think his case could be reopened and his sentence reduced. Any chance I have a criminal lawyer among my readers who is willing to do some pro bono work?)

MCO 2007

P.S. Mike is straight. Yes, he'd love to write to a lady, but he's open to all.

There are only two ways to live your life: one is as though nothing is a miracle; the other is as though everything is a miracle." -- Albert Einstein

Actually, Al, that's not exactly true. Most people live their lives in between, thinking the only things that are miracles look like what they think miracles look like. But I certainly endorse the sentiment of aiming for the all-miracles-all-the-time view of life. Of course, that begs the question, if everything is miraculous, i.e. a manifestation of God, how does one explain evil? Unless evil is also a manifestation of God, ergo, God is not Love, but God is EVERYTHING, including evil. That's assuming there really is evil, as opposed to the Shakespearean conjecture that "there is no good nor bad, just thinking makes it so" (I paraphrase.)

Obviously, I'm back in philosophical mode. I've been thinking about the fundamental confusion we so often suffer between accepting something and liking something. At least the confusion I suffer from. I think I'm liking something because I'm accepting it, and I actually I'm accepting it because I like it. For example, the NY Teaching thing. That was easy to "accept" because I was so relieved to not have to move. It's what I actually wanted. The non-defogging incident was so upsetting to me not because I didn't like it (after all, he did spray like he said he would) but because I did not accept that I was responsible for his not defogging.

I don't know if I'm making sense, even in my own head. What I'm trying to say is that a lot of our inner conflict is intensified by our resistance to acceptance of the event actually having happened as much as by the event itself. After all, what is our first reaction to death, or a break-up? "No, no, no..." That is fundamentally human, and "normal." What I'm thinking about are much smaller, day-to-day issues that still create that unpleasant tightening in the head and stomach. Our bodies seem to think creating discomfort is somehow doing battle with what we don't like, as if we can undo it with our anger, our denial. And of course, we end up just doubling our misery, because we have both 1) whatever it is we don't like in the first place and 2) the energy we are spending trying to resist feeling whatever unpleasant emotion #1 is bringing up.

So I'm all for facing reality head on, whatever it brings up. At the same time I'm wary of thinking you can skip right to acceptance just because you decide to. Some things take some work, and telling yourself it's all okay when it's not is just another attempt to duck pain.

Sometimes I wonder if my willingness to agree with Tony that no matter what, we will understand and accept if either of us gets involved with someone else is just that--trying to duck the pain. If the love is genuine, can you really skip a feeling of rupture or rejection if the form that love takes alters considerably, even if your head is completely understanding of why it happened?

Hasn't happened yet. But if we don't spend some more time together, and I don't take the idea of moving to Nashville seriously, it's inevitable. I just hope if and when it does, I can accept it for real, and not just pretend.

MCO 2007