March 2008 Archives

George Bellows was one of the artists I noticed at the museum Friday, and as I delved into his work on line, noticed an impressive range.  He is particularly known for his cityscapes of New York in the 1920s, some of the first gritty renditions of urban overcrowding but infused with the roaring spirts of the times, depicting a lot of young working-class women who had a taste of independence in World War I and seem to want more of it.  And then we see these lush tropical paysages, bursting with color, into which I added this mountainous Degas ballerina. Or is that Hillary Clinton remembering how she personally corked a volcano in Hawaii during her husband's administration? 

On this one, I have to quote Addison deWitt in "All About Eve" - "The was a stupid lie, Eve, easy to expose, not worthy of you!"  For crying out loud, Hillary was attacked by Rush Limbaugh and Ken Starr and countless frothing Red-staters for 8 years!  She doesn't have to pretend to have ducked real bullets in a war zone, she dodged countless virtual ones!  What I find so disturbing about the affair is the way she initially "remembered" it all so specifically--without a hint of vagueness. She hasn't even been able to bring up another situation she might have confused it with. It's as if she imagined it or read it and then appropriated it as a real memory--reminds me of her husband seeming to really believe it when he said "I did not have sexual relations with that woman." (Of course, maybe he was thinking of his wife when he said that. Ooooh- SNAP!)

The constraints of anonymity mean that I cannot report with any specificity the best parts of yesterday, but nothing stops me from saying it's been spectacular, and since there's a lot of socializing outside of the rooms, I don't think I'm violating any precepts by mentioning there's a sumptuous amount of eye candy in attendance. (My theory is that hot men get clean sooner because they're offered so much meth for free.)   This sexy beast-feast has clearly not escaped the notice of my erstwhile Provincetown paramour, nor an evident admirer or two or his, and I suspect he was gobbled up by one of them last night.

I did get a text message from him this a.m. which my ego did appreciate, but if he wanted me, I had changed the sheets and fluffed the pillows last night,  and had made it clear he was welcome to hitch a ride home with me, to which he responded with a noncommital charm that seems to be his modus operandi. (It's called keeping your options open til the last minute. Been there. Did it a million times.)

In the spirit or rigorous honesty, I must confess I have certainly been flirting my ass off as well.  There's a cruise being raffled off today and perhaps I'll invite one of them along if I win.

MCO 2008

P.S.  I have previously blogged about a friend I found wandering the streets in 2006 and then again in 2007, miserably high after relapses, who I called X.  I ran into him yesterday, healthy and clean and looking marvelous.  He really really thinks he is DONE.  I told him if he relapses again, I'll just shoot him.

Then Rod went to make his amends in Manhattan Beach. Among many emails of the day, came the news from Tennessee Tony that he had "transitioned" to friendship with the guy who, a month ago, he told me he was seeing exclusively. Thank God he told me to not even pretend I wasn't happy about it, cause I was, dagnabit! And frankly, Tony has an ego the size of battleship to the left  (while I am a mere rower in the boat below it.)  There's nothing that tickles him more than an ex who remains enamored, though in that painless and flattering way.  Here's the deal with me and him: I make him laugh, and that my dears, is forever.

And the reason I say something is in the air, is that last night I sat down in this big hall to listen to a story of recovery, and who sits right next to me but the young man I got lucky with at the very last minute in Provincetown back in August! (he lives in Palm Springs.) You'd think it was yesterday,  there was an immediate comfort level that I daresay will lead to something horizontal before the weekend is over.  I was a bit shocked to realize that he may have been the last person I was with, though I was able to joke that I had at least remained faithful!

I can't help but wonder if this is a case of things getting interesting when you completely accept they're not going to. Or it could be something in the stars, or in the air. I'm leaving nothing to chance. It's tight T-shirts and contact lens for me this weekend.

MCO 2008

I'm almost certain that L'Arlesienne, by Van Gogh, was probably a depiction of his hotel landlady doing her accounts. I prefer to cast her as a writer, imagining the lives of the ladies depicted by Tissot. She herself may never have left Provence, but she can feel the breeze on her face from the boat leaving the northern harbor, and she writes about beautiful women of a certain class, standing against the railing in their fine silks, with an uncanny realism.

As a I write this, Rod  is in my living room, here in town for a CMA convention.  We are watching Barack Obama on The View, and we are going to a museum before he takes my car to Manhattan Beach, I am so delighted to be able to do a little something for someone who was so generous to me when I went to Denver. We shall have a great weekend immersed in recovery fun and growth.

By the way, yesterday I called the Department of Rehabilitation. I am going to try to arrange to take some courses in web design and maintenance so I can get off disability and do something that is self-supporting and creative.  Meanwhile, Rod bought 4 Hy-Art boxes, and I got the refund from that ticket I blogged about awhile back.  It's amazing the difference $135 can do to one's head.  It's enough to send me from feeling impoverished  to prosperous in one fell swoop.

MCO 2008

Woe be the painter who gives me a blank wall to fill up. In this case the man is rendered by Munch, the village landscape behind him is Corot. It feels rather like a self-portrait.

I am extremely frustrated by the problems or work and money these days. The vagaries of software and how it relates to certain printers means that is infuriatingly hard to get the images centered on the Hy-Art cards. To check your work means chewing through color cartridges, hence eating up much of the little profit I have made so far.

I know I am experiencing nothing worse than what any entrepreneur does starting a business. Frankly, it's naive to think you can make any profit at the beginning as you really have to reinvest everything you make at first to perfect your product.

The Holly-Art is a promising idea, but poses a host of other issues, particularly, the more current the celebrity, the more saleable the card, but the more you risk angry letters from lawyers about unauthorized use of image.  Also, detail gets lost on small cards, what looks great on the computer can look paltry and vague in a small frame.

I am unwilling to get a loan. This enterprise is interesting to me as a cottage industry, I simply can't bear the idea of incorporating a business with all the concommitant paperwork, and devoted my energies to it in a way that would require neglecting (even more) my real raison d'etre in this world---writing. I love creating the art--pushing the cards in retail outlets is of zero interest. And I fear debt. I've been in it, and not having any is one of my very few real blessings I can count financially.

Of course, when I listen to the news from Basra and around the world, I can only say to myself: "Get a problem!"   Being unable to renew your AAA membership or imagine how you'll ever make it to France again is pretty minor shit in the great scheme of things. Still, I only have my own experience, and there is no way around the enormous gap that I feel between where I thought I would be at this age and where I am. Trust me, I lack no confidence in my skills and talents, but I haven't yet been able to translate those into a living, and I periodically battle an overwhelming sense of inadequacy.

Clearly I need to hit the job market again, get over my fear of rejection and disappointment, but mostly my fear of change, of doing something I don't feel like doing  Yes, I am limping like a mother-fo, but that just means I can tell the interviewer I can allow her to cite  me in her next "do you hire the disabled?" survey.

Writing this out is actually pretty helpful.  I realize what I spoiled brat I am, really, full of grandiosity and entitlement about how I should or shouldn't spend my time. I need to get some willingess to do what it takes, and SNAP OUT OF IT!

MCO 2008

The sleeping woman is from Dali, the murdered man is from David--a very famous painting, actually.  I'm starting to have a feeling that the members of the Dead Artists Society up in Art Heaven are watching me as I do this, and though they feign indignation, are secretly flattered--at least they aren't being forgotten. Some of their colleagues reassure them it is outrageous that anyone would alter their perfect creations, while whisper to others at times that perhaps what I have done consititutes an improvement.  The Dead Art Critics Society next door is delighted, as they get to critque the new works all over again.

Hey, it's my imagination. I can create whatever version of heaven I want. You want a version heaven that revolves around what you do down here?  Go ahead and create one.

Today's a special day, because it's Sheria's birthday.  I think she has commented on every one of my entries for the past year, which is pretty amazing.  She's also a wonderful writer, an excellent lawyer, and a dazzling speller. She's been blessed with generous dollops of insight, compassion and righteous indignation in the battle against ignorance, racism and small-mindedness, all leavened with a sparkling humor which keeps her sane and balanced if mildly perverse.  She's one of those people I've met through the blogosphere I can't imagine never having met.

I hope for the sake of both of us the coming year brings us a pair of twin brothers, one straight and one gay, handsome and monied of course, who sweep us off our feet as well as insist we spend the holidays together at their adjoining houses in Colorado and/or France.  I don't think either of us want to bother with full-time boyfriends--it always gets complicated--but we'd both appreciate the periodic attention both vertical and horizontal, especially when we could retire to the kitchen in between marathon sessions of sex and HBO, and have a good gossip.

Like I said, invent your own version of heaven.

MCO 2008

P.S.  Oh, look, what I found! A picture of Sheria and me from the future!

The grim milestone of 4000 Americans killed in Iraq has brought our debacle there back in the news, where it never should have left. Jane Smiley, always excellent, has written the definitive article about it in the Huffington Post (thanks Sheria).

We should never have gone in: we did.  The best outcome if we stay is that we keep a lid on the boiling unrest, a hellish status quo by anyone's definition and debatable in any case now that the Awakening looks very much like the Unraveling and Al-Sadr is untrucing.  If we get out there will almost certainly be a great, violent upheaval. But it will be an Iraqi upheaval, and the solution that will eventually emerge will be an Iraqi solution.  By definition, it is the only one that will stick.

What we can and should do as part of the withdrawal process is to guarantee that every Iraqi that translated, guided and worked for us, that will be the very first target of the death squads when we withdraw, get asylum in the United States. We should also pour aid into Jordan and Syria so that all the refugees there who don't feel they can return have some means of getting on their feet.  Relative to the cost of the war, this aid is nothing.

Anti-immigrant/Muslim hysteria will follow any such proposal: shame on them I say. We go into a country insisting we will be "greeted as liberators" and then are willing to walk away from the very people who did just that. If we really want to change Iraq, in the long run, we could find no better way than to save the very people most likely to bring democracy back there eventually.

It is impossible not to contemplate all of these issues without risking complete and total despair over all of the suffering, past, present and future; in Iraq, in Afghanistan, in the refugee camps, in the cities and small towns across America where widows and mothers and orphans of soldiers grieve. I know once I get to that place, I risk doing what so many of us do--turning the channel. Yesterday there was an interview on NPR about a new book about slavery "A Crime So Monstrous," and I was eminently relieved that I arrived at my destination just in time to miss all but 5 minutes of it. It only took the story of one person to horrify me.  And of course, there's the guilt. If I was a good person, I would be trying to end war and slavery in the world. But I am bascially bad, selfish and lazy. Rather than have these thoughts, I want to avoid the news causing them. I want to watch Dancing With the Stars and wonder if I can afford an oil change, as if that's plenty enough to worry about. 

This is where a passage from C.S. Lewis quoted in my friend Heather's book, Redeemed, was so helpful to me.  He wrote, in The Problem of Pain: "There is no such thing as a sum of suffering, for no one suffers it. When we have reached the maximum that a single person can suffer, we have, no doubt, reached something very horrible, but we have reached all the suffering there can ever be in the universe. The addition of a milllion fellow sufferers ands no more pain." 

What he means is that since all anybody can suffer is what he or she can suffer, to understand the suffering of all the world we need only understand the suffering of one person. And that I can do, because, like all of us, I have gone through times of extraordinary grief and  pain--this is part of the human condition. I cannot imagine the suffering of millions, but of one, that I can do. I may have to multiply my own by many factors, but it is not beyond grasping.

This helped me immensely. It also provides a excellent perspective from which to proceed. I don't have to make curing the world's ills--which is grandiose to the point of arrogance in any case--my goal. But I can always be kind to someone else today--and work up and out from there..

MCO 2008

P.S. That's Munch and Sargent in the Hy-Art.

Float #1

Yesterday I bought a set of Hy-Art cards to two different card stores. In neither was the decision-maker there, but in one the reaction was interested and gracious, in the other, rather critical. I don't mind that--I DO have a way to go before they're storebought quality--but what took me so aback was this woman's claim that she was "offended" at my (mis) appopriation of classic art.  "I'm on the board of the 'Dali' museum and I take offense at you messing with his art blah blah blah" Whatever.

You know, I hate stereoptypes, but even more, I hate when people who conform to them.  Let me describe this woman as rather the opposite of the Glinda here, masculine in the extreme, and with that utterly humorless delivery the bespoke of a willingness to find fault and take offense. "I'm honest, what can I tell you. Gets me in a lot of trouble."  Yeah, well she's probably one of those fiercely loyal friends who you'd love to at your side in a crisis, but tactful she wasn't.  Luckily my lunch companion is a big Dali fanatic, and visited his home, and heard a lecture about him. "The guide said he loved people using his work,  imitating him,"  he assured me. ( The word I used with Madame LaDyke was "homage.") 

Aside from sending me back to work on perfecting my product, yesterday reminded me how utterly reluctant I am to engage in anything remotely like sales.  I hate it. If someone put a gun to my head and said, you have to make your living as a salesman, I think I would tell him to go ahead and shoot.  It'd be quicker than starving.

#2

Friday morning a very sexy guy, balding, goatee, great face, very straight, was leaning against his car full of stuff as I walked by picking up trash. "Hey" he said, motioning to my trashpicker, "that thing is cool."   "Isn't it!" I agreed, lighting up at the attention. "It's almost hi-tech!" Wouldn't you know that this happened right in front of that gate where that rottweiller lives that gets Gaza crazy?  Gaza lurched, jerking me all slap-sticky in that direction. "Gaza! Behave!" I jerked him back. I turned to the handsome stranger with the million dollar smile. "I gotta go, before he dislocates my shoulder."

Well, every morning, since then, from the balcony of the building across the street, Mr. In-Town (I would bet he's an actor considering moving here) calls out from the 6th floor: "Good Morning, my man! Be careful of that shoulder!"  Nice straight men are so adorable.   (Yes, I guarantee you he is, "my man" is a dead giveaway. My straightdar never lies.)

#3

There's been a lot of ink spilled about this Obama/Jeremiah Wright thing and Sheria sent me a really powerful article about it that is very long but well worth it. One point particularly struck me.  Slavery was in full force from 1619 to 1866, 247 years.  Life for blacks was only marginally better in the next 100 years, in the south, half of that time was marked by horrific violence in the form of lynching.  There wasn't a sizable black middle class in this country until the 70s, and political power only started to accrue at the same time. 

So, basically, you have about 360 years of utter and very unarguable oppression on one end, and maybe about 30 years of a very arguable "equality" on the other. You'd think from hearing the whitewing in this country that the anger heard from Reverend Wright is the product of some kind of ancient history. As far as I'm concerned, it'll be another 100 years before we can start bitching about black anger. (Though by that time, hopefully we'll all be so intermarried that the very concept of race is a quaint anachronism, and we'll all look like Alicia Keyes!)

#4

For the last float on my Easter Parade, I'd like to talk about the meaning of the Resurrection.  I am continually disheartened to see how often the focus seems to be about Jesus being actually physically raised from the dead. The modalities make no difference to the message, which is applicable to everyone, no matter what their religion or lack thereof, and whether or not such an interpretation was even intended by the writers of the Gospels.

There is a simple and beautiful idea that can be culled from the Resurrection; the idea that love is never dead. No matter how dreadful our suffering, how terrible our sins, how irredeemable our conduct, we can always choose to proceed onward from a place of love, compassion and understanding, Love is always part of the answer, it never makes a situation worse. And whether or not a man named Jesus literally walked out of that tomb 2000+ years ago has zero bearing the beauty and truth of that idea.

Happy Easter, everyone. 

MCO 2008

So yesterday I took Gaza up to one of the trails on Griffith Park, and as usual, as soon as I'd started up the trail, away from the picnic tables and jungle gym, I let the dog off the leash.

What happens 999 times out of 1000, is nothing.  The etiquette is clear if unwritten.  If another dog is on the leash, you hook yours up, because they are sometimes telling you they have an unfriendly dog.  Otherwise, most of the other dogs you meet are off leash, and nothing is sweeter than the moment your two sweethearts with metronome tails back and forthing sniff hello, do a feint or two, and then jump off to follow their master. Once in a blue moon there's a little snarlfest,  Never once has Gaza or any other dog I've seen threatened a human.  He did bark once at a very hostile Rastafarian with a walking stick and a angry attitude.

I also leash the dog when a family with kids approaches.  Sometimes one of the kids is waving a stick or might rush the dog, but mostly I don't want the parents to worry even in the back of their minds.

So yesterday, I was trudging up there, noticing that the incline seems to be less stressful on my feet than walking on a flat surface, and a middle-aged couple  is approaching in the other direction. Gaza, as usual, is sniffing away, on a mission to do a census of the other dogs who have peed there since the last rains. 

Suddenly, this woman blurts at me: "You got a leash?"  Taken aback at her abrupt manner, I pointed at the one hanging around my neck. "Well, you should use it."  I asked: "why?"--motioning to my completely harmless doggie who was already 20 paces ahead. "Because is it's the law!' she barks.

Now here I am, with my trashpicker and my bag already filling with trash. Do you think that perhaps that's an indicator that I might be what is termed "civic-minded?"  But before I could say anything, her husband looks at me Thomas Starr King H.S. t-shirt, and points out: "I went to that high school!"

I was going to tell him I bought it at a thrift store, but his wife was getting away. "I've had this dog for 10 years, and he's the sweetest thing on the planet!" She refused to turn,  no doubt obsessing over that "incident" she had with an unleashed dog 22 years ago, that has forever prompted her to see dogs as potential enemies, no matter how many gazillion more times she passes the best animals ever made. 

Oh, the things I could have said:

"You know lady, you'd be a lot happier if you were the type of person who instead said: "what a nice dog. Can I pet him?"

or

(to the husband) "Is this what you do? Make nice conversation to distract from the embarrassing wife who has to control everything and everyone? How long have you been her doormat? When are you going to stand up to her?"

or (my favorite)

"Oh, and you're wearing orange! Gaza, come over her nice and quiet now. Move away from the nice lady..."

And on and on. I was so after-the-fact brilliant in my head, as, frankly, I fumed. Though I guess I'm glad all I said is what I said.  The women might have been a born ballbuster, but most probably she was just afraid of dogs, and probably for a reason.  Still, when your child is cast as some sort of potential threat, you tend to get defensive. (Yes, technically she was right about the law. The city is obligated to put that up for liabililty reasons, but my dog is going to get some exercise damnit.)  

If you've made it this far in this entry, than you're a real fan, and you'll probably enjoy this ABC  interview with my friend Heather King, about her book Redeemed--which really is wonderful.

MCO 2008

P.S. That's a Bazille painting, with Gaza laid in. Unfortunately, that is not my ass. 

There seems to be a nostalgia for a bygone era, where such indiscretions were ignored by the media as part of some sort of gentleman's agreement, in the 40s and 50s mostly, I guess. Let me remind everyone that this was the same media that never mentioned homosexuality, and rarely the plight of blacks or women.  It took one journalist, Edward R. Murrow, three years before he felt he could challenge the rampant abuses of power of Senator Joe McCarthy

I lament the chasing of Diana through the tunnels of Paris, but I lament far more that her driver didn't seem to think twice about getting shitfaced before getting behind the wheel. I think the coverage of Britney and Paris is grotesque, but I note that when they were aiming for stardom, they employed a team of publicists precisely in hope of the level of attention they suddenly lament.  I think there need to be laws restraining paparazzi, but I don't know that some of those men aren't trying to support a family. One "good" picture might pay for healthcare for a wife or a child.  I am not going to condemn them for the fact that someone else will pay them $50,000 for a picture.

I also think it's too easy to condemn an Us Weekly or Star Magazine or TMZ for paying that kind of money. They are in  profit-making businesses, and they have discovered more people buy their magazines or tune in to their shows if they have certain material. This is the reality of living in a capitalist, market-oriented society. And WE are the market. We buy the magazines and look at the photos.

And I don't even condemn us for that.  Man is a creature that loves attention.  We all crave it, and if we can't get it, we give it. And once someone has been anointed as worthy of attention--been on TV, mostly--we can't help that feel they are somehow magical.  When we see them in real life we get very excited. We want to be close to them because it makes us feel important.  I have had many brushes with celebrity in L.A.,  and every time, I fantasize about becoming their best friend. It is not a priority for me, but I wouldn't cry about getting famous either.  (I'd like a Gore Vidal-David Sedaris kind of renown, where I can still go grocery shopping  unmolested, but where I get to go on panels and cute struggling writers want to sleep with me.) 

If you decry our horrible media, then don't watch it. Listen to NPR and read the New York Times. If MacNeil-Lehrer got the biggest ratings, everyone would start sedate, measured news shows.  I personally adore Keith Olbermann and Jon Stewart, as they incorporate a healthy dose of satire and sarcasm so that you at least don't take the nature of the coverage in general too seriously.

But the "problem" is that we are human. We liked to look at bright and shiny things. We equate fame and celebrity with importance, and we want to be important. Hell, I enjoy picking up trash because it makes me feel noticed, that's how pathetically un-Woody Allen I am. Not got to an awards show? Not on your life!

There is a paradox here, undeniably. Once you get the attention you want---like for a campaign appearance or a movie opening--you are likely to get the attention you don't want--like for an arrest or a sex scandal. The smart ones use it--like Diana, who turned the tables on the royal family by becoming "the people's princess,"  And then the media she turned into an ally adored her to death. It's the ultimate love/hate relationship, on both sides.

Spitzer and Spears should take heart and remember that America loves nothing like a good redemption story.  Just ask Martha Stewart.

MCO 2008

So I go down to David's Hair Salon to set up a little display for my Hy-Arts cards and bring wine for his new bar, and Nadya the Russian Manicurist absolutely insists on doing my nails. 

I couldn't afford to pay her, but I can plug her on the blog. (She's very charming).  So just in case you work in downtown Los Angeles and need your nails done (or hair cut or a spray tan) please patronize Salon on Seventh.

And now, David just called me to tell me a customer fell in love with the cards as he was drinking wine at the bar and bought a set.

As you can imagine, I'm THRILLED.

MCO 2008

When I was in prison, I used to project myself into the future in my head. I would literally try to BE out of there, and do my damnest to imagine myself as living a memory.  It was a mind game, magical thinking at best, but when I was finally out, I actually made sure to reach back to myself in the past, to say, see, it worked. You're here now.

I'd like you to read Steven's latest entry, Obedience, over at Prison's a Bitch. (Click on the entry to enlarge it to readability)  It really puts my experience in perspective.  I was in for 9 1/2 months, and when I had 6 months left, that seemed like forever. For him, after 10 years, 6 months before discharge he considers himself "close to the gate."  But these last 2 years, he been doing his Federal time, and it's a whole step up in intensity from doing state time in California.

The weird thing for me when I read him is that I find myself thinking: "God, I could never go to prison. I just couldn't handle it."   The experience has become foreign to me again, and yet an absolutely essential reminder of where the disease of addiction can take me.  The idea that I could have continued doing anything with such clear and impending dire consequences seems almost impossible to believe.

As you can imagine, those thoughts are magnified times ten for Steven. He's trying to mantaiin his humanity (which he will pretty much admit had departed in the circumstances that led to his arrest) in the midst of a jungle that is the antithesis of sanity.

And please comment. I forward them all.

MCO 2008

So, yesterday was all about rigorous honesty.  This has been the spiritual principle about which I must maintain constant vigilance, as the one trait that most marked my drinking and drugging career was a rather loose relationship with the truth, to put it mildly.

A week ago, I got the dreaded paperwork in the mail for continuance of my private disability, which was given to me 15 years ago at my last job at Republic Pictures.  I'm always nervous they're going to drop me, and  given the fact that the economy is plummenting, and I'm a 49-year old ex-con with a huge hole in my resume, finding a job that after taxes would be a decent living would be challenge to say the least.  The idea of working at a Blockbuster, with a 20-something  boss, having no time to blog or make art or pick up trash--you can imagine my dread. But the truth is, usually, the worst that I can complain about health-wise is a fair amount of fatigue after I hike with Gaza.  But I don't think "need to nap" will pass muster for continued inability to work.

Note the word: "usually."  There is something else I haven't written about but over the past 3 weeks, my foot pain has returned, in both feet this time. Ironically, it seems to only get better with walking, though I suspect walking too much exacerbates it.  In any case, after I sit or sleep for any amount of time, when I get up I absolutely hobble, and wouldn't you know that's exactly what happened at the doctor's office?  Without telling the slightest lie, the doctor was able to mark down that I was suffering from "irreversible mitochondrial damage" as a probable result of AIDS-related neuropathy.  I was delighted. (Thank you Universe, you can remove the foot pain now. Yes, I said now. Universe? Are you there? Uh-oh!) 

So then I go to Kinko's, to make more cards, because the doctor told me that his brother manages a high end card shop in West Hollywood, and I need to show them samples. And the machine I use ends up overcharging me by 50 cents a copy.  So I go to get reimbursed for the overcharge, and she takes off the cost of the entire 10 copies--basically overrefunding me by $5.

My mind starts rationalizing: 'Oh Lord, how I could use that $5.  And I spend a fortune in Kinko's  Plus I'd told her exactly what happened, it's not my fault she gave me too much money back.' BLAH BLAH BLAH. But my stomach is tightening. It always tells the truth, even when I don't.

I thank her, turn to go, then realize I have to validate my parking.  I turn back, and as I hand her my ticket, the words spill out. "You know what, you gave me back too much."  

She smiles. "Don't worry about it darling,"(I might add that she was black, and post-Obama speech, I do believe there was an extra something in air, a desire to represent the kind of America he asks us to.)  Anyway, I nodded with gratitude. "I will so happily accept your gift." Then she leaned over and said "what you did doesn't happen very often, " and winks at me. 

I wiped away a few tears In the parking lot.  I was so grateful to her, and just plain moved. Wow, this honesty thing really does work.

MCO 2008

P.S. Please, no concern about the feet. I know it sounds perverse, but I need the discomfort to feel okay about the disability. And there's very little treatment for neuropathy in any case, and pain-wise, none that wouldn't jeopardize my sobriety

P.P.S  The HollyArt is obviously Elizabeth Taylor in Renoir.

For you young whippersnappers who have no memory pre-1990, that's Katherine Hepburn on the left, in a Vermeer.

Obviously, I'm in a bit of ferment over creating this new line of HollyArt for Lola to sell in her cafe, and also on line. I am, however, also confronting the dilemma of trying to capitalize and reinvest while concurrently needing the (quite modest) profits to supplement my income, particularly as the first round of selling to friends and readers has pretty much come to a close.

Still, I file all of this under "quality problems." Three months ago, the Hy-Art was just for fun, and now,(thanks to my sister's Christmas gift of the first set of cards) I'm a small businessman.  A dealer again, of a product that causes no harm and much pleasure.  Somebody pinch me! 

Onto other things. I thought Obama's speech was brilliant, case closed.  Can we now get back to important things, like the direct correlation between the trillions spent in Iraq and our economy getting screwed like an Emperor's Club call girl? And then we have John McCain, traisping through Iraq in Cheney's wake, talking about a hundred year occupation.

You would think that a man who knew firsthand the hell and torture of Vietnam would not have exactly the same outlook on its sequel war as the man who did his very best to make sure he never came close to fighting. But I would venture that McCain has never been able to internally reconcile what he went through with the eventual futility of our mission there. I think his adamant posture on Iraq is an attempt to force an outcome that would give some sense to all the waste of blood and treasure, no matter how insane the cost of obtaining that result.

What I think is really happening, on a level McCain is certainly unaware of, is that he's trying to justify what he went through in Vietnam via Iraq.  It's like someone who was beaten as a child growing up to beat his own children, as the only way to internally justify his own pain. The mind tolerates nothing less than meaninglessness.

If the electorate goes Republican again in '08, I'm moving to France.

MCO 2008

P.S.  My favorite director, Anthony Minghella, died at the tender age of 54, cause as yet unreported.  One of the few people in the business I really hoped to meet and perhaps work with. Very sad. If you want to see a great movie, rent "Truly, Madly, Deeply."

Yesterday I could have picked up the phone and probably had a date with a very nice guy with a great body, but I didn't. (We'd left it casual, i.e."Let's talk Sunday,' so I didn't feel like I was standing him up.) I figured if I was supposed to see him, he'd pick up the phone.

But as I went to rent a truck with David and then go down to Garden Grove to pick up a bamboo bar he needed for his hair salon, I realized I didn't want this guy to call.  After returning the truck, I wanted to go back to my house, take the dog for a hike with my good friend Michael, take a nap, then watch Episodes 1 and 2 of "John Adams" on HBO as David and I had pizza and fettucine.Then I'd take David back to his apartment less than 2 miles away, come back, walk the dog, and play with art and answer email and read blogs on the computer as I watched "Dexter." The only moment I may have missed not being with a boyfriend was the three minutes before I fell asleep, but boy, did I prefer walking up in ny own bed alone to embark on my morning routine.

The truth is, for this gay man, 1 ex-lover who comes over every night + 1 best friend to talk to on the phone every day and hike with + 1 dog to and from whom the affection is bottomless = 1 real boyfriend.  I may have to subtract 10 points for the lack of sex, but I also get to add 10 points for the lack of grief. No talking about the relationship,  no jealousy, no irritation over different sexual tastes, no pondering of an open relationship--let's make that 50 points. On balance, I'm actually rather ahead. 

Obviously, if a charming local Tony with a dog-ready house in the hills decides he can't live without me,  I'll entertain the prospect of succumbing to his entreaties. But short of that, I can't really imagine anything being more fun and satisfying than the way things are now. Damned if I'm going to think of my life as somehow lacking because we live in a culture that values the attached state of the single one.

What a relief to put all that on a shelf. I'm sure I'll take it down one day. But I'm not in any hurry.

MCO 2008

P.S. That's Titian above, rendered a Hy-Art through the addition of Ms Loren. 

So I may have mentioned a while ago that David's roommate, Lola,co-owns and runs Cafe Audrey, right smack dab in the middle of Hollywood. It's an adorable little spot, slowly being discovered by a celebrity or two (Jimmy Kimmel is shot right across the street) but attracts mostly tourists.

Lola, who is Australian but of Slavic ancestry and appropriately dramatic--loves my Hy-Art cards and is clearing a shelf to sell them in the cafe.  But, she advised, if you can come up with anything that will appeal to the tourists, that would be a very smart way to go.

Hence, the above rendition. But you know me, once I get inspired, I'm off the races. So I have been at it non-stop.  I probably can't use this next one, because I think Marilyn's estate still makes a lot of money off her image, but maybe not.  (The artist is John Singer Sargent)

You know, I am addicted to this creative expression business, in a very serious way. I probably could have had a date last night, and I didn't pick up the phone because I was too into making art. Or perhaps it's the prospect of making money. Or both.

In other news, there is an article in yesterday's New York Times about Ira Newble, an NBA player who has turned his sights on doing something about Darfur.

The charity he works with, Aid Still Required, is the brainchild of Andrea and Hunter Payne. Andrea is a very close friend of mine for many years, and she and her husband have worked none stop putting the organization together over the past few years.

MCO 2008

 P.S.  This P.S

is for the sole purpose of

filling up the white space from

the signoff to the end of the page

She doesn't want to go back to work, she wants to stretch this cup of tea for another hour, lost in a reverie of the vacation she'll never take but so deserves. Though she wonders if that's a good thing, that she'll never get to that faraway beach, because no matter how hard she tries to keep her fantasy sunny and bright, it always seems to veer in a disturbing direction. The water turns choppy as the sky grows dark, and someone is being saved from drowning. She wonders if that's because she herself needs rescuing, from the job full of drudgery, and the boss who is all hands.

One thing that I've come to love about the Hy-Art is that I found out what art I really adore. Hopper and Homer (above) are two of my very favorite. Right up there with them is Tissot and Sargent, and of course, nothing beats Vermeer, although Renoir certainly gives him a run for his money.

One thing I like about selling the cards as I do, through the blog, word of mouth, very cottage industry, is that it all remains personal, very much a labor of love. That said, I have made inquiries into what it would take to make cards that have that glossy storebought quality. I spoke to a printer who is a also a friend, and to get the same cost per set that I have now, I'd have to order 500 sets and indebt myself to the tune of thousands of dollars. Then  I would have to penetrate retail outlets dominated by huge companies that are very jealous about their shelf-space and have reps constantly pushing new lines, and if I did get in, I'd have to split the profits with the store, then pay back the investor with what I do make. I'd have to be willing to make virtually nothing as I built up the business, which is simply not a luxury I can afford. What I'm making is very modest as it is.

So I'm going to concentrate on getting the cards to look as good as they can, as professional as I can make them, and for now, keep things simple, even if it means dealing with the chorus of "You shoulds" that people seem to offer quite liberally. Though I am going to investigate some smallish high-end stationers, and David is also going to see if he can sell some at his salon. And yes, Etsy.com seems like an excellent option, as soon as I obtain some more supplies I can't buy just yet, I intend to set up a site there.

But I've done grandiose.  Now I'm all about incremental.

MCO 2008 

If you have Netflix or a Blockbuster card, I recommend you rent this documentary, Born Into Brothels. It's about children in India who are the children of prostitutes, and find joy and solace through taking photographs. 

It's also about the power or art locking horns with the forces of poverty.  There are no pat or happy endings, but there is much beauty amid the squalor.

The really frightening thing is that there are more people in the world who live like the children in this film than who live like you and me.  Sometimes I think most Americans live in an absolute dreamworld.  They think the standard of "normal" is a house in the suburbs and a car or two, and though they might admit they belong to the world's richer half, they would scoff if I told them they're almost certainly in the richest 10% of the world population.  (After all that means 600 million people).  Anyone who makes $100,000 a year or more is probably in the top 1%. (Yes, it could be YOU are richer than 99 out of 100 people in the world.)

You wanna be happier? Stop looking in the wrong direction, feeling inadequate for all the things you don't have, comparing yourself to those wealthier than you. (Talk about a fool's game. I guarantee you, most of the people who made $10 million last year are obsessing over those who made $100 million, who themselves are busy making it their life's work to get on the Forbes 400. They swim in the Sea of Imnotenuf.)   Spend some time with these kids, and be grateful you had a childhood. 

I have a full plate today, so that's all from me.

MCO 2008

My sister discovered via our glorious Internet that a street in Lackland, Texas was named after our great-Uncle Rob.

This was part of the historical documentation put together by Lacklanders.

The picture they have is better than any we have! Wasn't he dashing?

MCO 2008

THIS IS HOW STUPID YOU SOUND.

Below is what I wrote in response to a comment in my AOL entry of the same pic, which rather elucidates my opinion more clearly, (To my Aussie readers, David Paterson is the Lieutenant Governor replacing disgraced Eliot Spitzer...he is blind...)

The Countess simply didn't know how she could sit one more second for the portrait in the stifling corset she wore  She had always been proud of her waist--this after three children, mind you.  Men at Court who saw her for the first time thought she was a girl of eighteen, you know. Well, twenty maybe, in the right candelight.

And then there was that recurrent dream she kept having, nightmare really, or almost. Two gypsies, she thought, looking into a crystal ball--seeing what? Her future? Was it a dream or a premonition...a warning? And why the monkey, that damned monkey?  She must consult a psychic. How to find one? Maybe the painter. Yes, he would know. Painters were like that. Demi-monde types. She would ask him.

I had a dream last night that I was waiting in line for an underground roller-coaster, and the line snaked past tables in a cabaret, and a teenage girl was trying to get money to take it one more time.  I gave her fifteen dollars to take the ride instead of me.

Notice how I didn't say "I had a weird dream last night?"  I find that irritating. Everybody always says I had a weird, or strange dream, as if everyone else is having a linear narrative dream. It's redundancy at its most redundant, (he emphasized repeatedly),

Speaking of dreams, yesterday I rewrote a grant and came up with a name for a website. $150. Ka-ching!  It's seems that Marc's Cards and Consulting Services (MarcCons? Mmmmh...maybe not so good) seem to be coming together all by itself. 

I'm actually looking in to having the cards printed professionally, so I can sell them in stores.

MCO 2008

P.S. The artists are Tannauer and El Greco

I didn't even put this Hopper/Bazzile together with Eliot Spitzer in mind, but it sure does seem appropriate, don't it?

On the one hand, it saddens me when a progressive Democrat like Bill or Eliot loses an opportunity to foment change because he can't keep his dick in his pants.  On the other hand, I take some glee in the nature of their peccadilloes.  You just know the right winger hetero men whose stomachs churn at a Larry Craig or a Mark Foley are secretly envious, even admiring, of any man who gets a bj in the Oval Office, or who pays $4300 for a call girl. Let's face it, they all get a woodie thinking about it.

In fact, it sorta turns me on too. Let's face it, Eliot Spitzer is hot! 

Now granted, if he used taxpayer money, he should pay it back, but otherwise, I think all sexy men who engage in sexual indiscretions should basically get a pass. I'm not saying it's fair or right, and it's nothing I would take to the streets over, but it's my blog and I can be irrational if I want to.

I would bet my bottom dollar that a agressive and powerful man like Spitzer was anything but in the bedroom. He probably wanted to get tied up and spoken to harshly while he got his bottom spanked.  (I doubt very much he paid $4300 to engage in missionary position sex.)  In fact, if Mrs. Spitzer wants to save her marriage, I'd wager she should wear a leather corset and punish Eliot in the bedroom.

Seriously,  we need to start letting our politicians be flawed human beings.  It is my contention that Gov. Spitzer cracked under the pressure of feeling that he had to be a paragon of rectitude--and he's a man. Men, rather more than women, get bored out of their mind having sex with the same person over time. Men have so many sexual fantasies a day it makes our heads spin. And agressive ambititious men seem to have an extra dose of testosterone, not to mention if they want to be Governors and Senators and Presidents they have to have egos the size of battleships. 

Eliot discovered the hard way his ego is not his amigo. But it's too bad they're losing a good Governor.  Though I think he'd make an excellent male escort.

MCO 2008 

I probably will forget to do this, but I'm going to take advantage of the fact that "news" rhymes with "Tues" to start a regular feature: "Good News Tuesday."  In fact, feel free to submit anything you would like to share, or if you have a blog yourself, feel free to institute the feature yourself. Wouldn't it be cool if it spread across the Internet, and every Tuesday we got a does of optimism to take us through that mid-week slump?  (Although David Archuleta on American Idol does a pretty good job for me.)

I could have let this ticket ruin my day, (whenever that was.) I could have refused to pay it because I felt it unjust, and it could have festered into something much worse.  I could have lost a half-a-day in traffic court. Instead, I just decided to chalk it up to local taxes--something has to pay to fill the potholes.  I was sure if I got the money back, it would be very timely, and it wll be, but I basically kissed it goodbye.

When people don't get how the spiritual principle of  acceptance works in real life, this is a good example.  Even if I wasn't due for a refund, the whole incident caused me almost zero disharmony, I just dealt with it and moved on--and I don't remember not be able to eat because of the $28 or $63 the ticket cost me. (I think it was $28 but of course I hope it's $63 now!).

Acceptance is the key.

MCO 2008  

Vermeer painted this room over and over, always finding different subjects to capture in it, and I noticed that the picture hanging in it is dark and featureless--I guess he didn't want it to distract from the live action, so to speak. So I decided to send a Renoir two centuries back in time to watch the proceedings. (Funny, how they don't even seem to notice.)

I picked up David from the airport after his week-long gay Carribbean cruise, and he took me out to dinner and regaled me with stories of men met and songs danced to--all the things that gay men on a cruise do, cocktails in hand most of the time. Frankly, it all sounded like great fun. 

So I had to do some real work reminding myself exactly where the pursuit of that sort of non-stop "fun" took me.  For years I could balance work and play, and then, when I stopped working and it really didn't look like I was going to be around long, I could justify all the fun I could handle. Eventually, of course, the fun became work and I couldn't handle either any more.

The problem is that the alcoholic brain will tell you, EVERY TIME, that since circumstances have changed, you can go back to that place where it was fun and you could handle it. And well meaning non-alcoholics often encourage you in that thinking. Since they never have any problem stopping at one or two, or not immediately searching out drugs when they hit #3, they don't "get" it. What they "get" is that less is more, and we addicts always think more is more. (In some ways, we are far more logical.)

The other salient issue for many a gay alcoholic/addict, and certainly for this one, is that we associate getting loaded with intimacy. I drank in bars and I came home with men many more times than not.  When I started on the crystal, the hit rate was even higher.  And now that I've been sober, my life is immeasurably saner, more fulfilling, more serene, but I almost never have sex, and the relationships are rare.

On that issue, I think the pendulum has swung a little bit far into Antisocialand.  I'm not about to open the door back to the old kind of "fun," but I think I need to be a bit more open and proactive to just being in the mix, to participating more than I do.

I think the pendulum needed to swing away from one extreme  to the other, and now I hope it'll swing back to a healthy middle.

MCO 2008

P.S. Love the comments about yesterday's entry.. I hope they bear fruit--inquiring minds wanna know.

These four works of art, hanging up at my Mom's (sorry for the less-than-perfect focus) were painted by my Great Uncle Jean Chabal.  My mother's father, Marcel (after whom I'm named) was the oldest son (of 7 kids, I think) and the epitome of the French provincial bourgeois merchant.  He fought in World War I--as was his duty--and then inherited and ran his father's shirt store on Les Rue de Marchands (Merchants' Street) in Avignon. He took on his youngest brother, Jean, as a partner.

My great-grandfather, Regis, was a man about town--so much so that he had a mistress and a child across town. (When the daughter, whose name was Genevieve I think, died in the flu epidemic of 1918, he was devastated.) Marcel vowed to be his father's opposite-- irreproachable and conservative. His little brother Jean, however, definitely inherited the randy genes of their father. He took full advantage of the fact that half the women in France had been widowed or lost their fiances to the trenches, and a handsome charmer like him could catch half of the skirts he chased.  Family lore has it that well into his sixties he could take a walk across down and women would wave from their second floor windows: "Bonjour, Jean!"

He did get marred eventually, to Tante Charlotte, and after he retired from the store took up painting the streets of Avignon and surrounded villages.  These became heirlooms that decorate all of the homes of his nieces and nephews and their children.

Another great uncle, on my father's side, I have blogged about before. Lt. Rob Olmsted was a Army balloonist killed in race in the Netherlands in 1923. (I have always found it odd that this dashing man did not land himself a wife, especially in post-war Europe, but I'll keep my guesses as to the reasons why for the novel I'll write one day.)  His name came up again recently because my sister, living in the world capital of ballooning, has alerted a local Albuquerque museum to his story and they are including materials about it in an exhibit.  I did some rewriting of his biographical material, so between the watercolors of one, and the colorful life of another, I've had great uncles on my mind.

Do you have a great uncle (or great aunt) who may be in danger of having their stories untold?  Perhaps they invented something, or fought in something, or were just interesting.  I can't think of a better use of the Internet than to breathe life into history, and I know of no more interesting history than that which comes from the lives of real people.

MCO 2008

P.S.  Uncle Robb may have very well flown aerial reconnaissance in a balloon right above where my Grandfather was fighting in WWI.  Thirty years later, my Uncle Peter was a navigator in a bomber that flew missions over Avignon, where my mother huddled in the cellars below her father's shirt store. 

One side of the family seemed intent on flying over the other.

At the pharmacy this morning, I noticed a program sitting on the counter, "In Memory of Monique." I recognized the face, and asked to see it, realizing that it was a woman who worked there.  I'd dealt with her perhaps hundred times (I've been going to the pharmacy for 15 years.)  I read the memorial and found out she was but a month older than I am.  I asked what had happened, and it was nothing more than an upper respiratory infection. The last time I was so taken aback over a death was when my doctor died after cosmetic surgery, back in 2003.

I'm used to death from AIDS or drug addiction, I have come to expect at least one every 6 months. But just a garden variety respiratory infection? It shocked me. It's doubly weird that it was someone I was very familar with, that I'd spoken to and joked with a thousand times, but really didn't know at all.

Make sure you remember not to take today for granted, and to make no assumptions about the future. Anyone really can get "hit by a bus," any day, figuratively speaking. 

MCO 2008

I decided I should spend a little time creating instead of selling, and this Hopper/Winslow/Degas is evidence of that.  That said, I've been having a blast putting together sets of Hy-Art cards and mailing them out.  Don't get any big ideas, I'm not raking in the dough, by any means.  But the copying and the folding and the sending has been taking up much of my time--as well as most of my profit, so far!

But I cannot tell you how fanastic it is to be making even a little money off of my creative endeavors.    And everyone who get the cards just LOVES them. 

Don't be the only person on your block to not have a set! Email me at makemarc@aol.com and we'll arrange everything!  Impress your friends! Influence people!  Help me pay my car insurance!

MCO 2008

"Oh Damn, why did I fire the chauffeur?"

There, I've started you off.  <