"Sex. Passion. Love.
They're overrated.
At the end of the day
I like waking up in a really nice house."

–Sidekick

With a blown radiator in the convertible (I guess I'll have to take it in to the shop before I can complain about how long it's taking to get fixed,) I'd been looking especially forward to my weekly imbibing excursion with Sidekick. It's good to get a cocktail outside of the house once in a while. I've been a bit of a shut-in lately without my transportation. Drinking Rolling Rocks alone in the early afternoons to pass time can make for really unproductive evenings and the dogs were beginning to look at me funny.

When Sidekick and I go out, I always have a list of possible stops, like the library or the blood bank. Yesterday I'd really wanted to visit Linoleum City in Hollywood to look at cork flooring. The house slopes so drastically in some places, I was hoping I could kind of stack and sculpt the cork tiles, like one might do when frosting an uneven cake, to compensate for some of the dips and waves.

No such luck. The place closed at 5:30. Who closes at 5:30? I should always call first. If only I could get the yellow dog to dial. I know she'd do it for me.

So without a better plan, we ended up at the bar with the sticky floor and the vulgar artwork and drank our Rolling Rocks there.

He began a sentence: "I am—" but when he was taken by surprise, every sentence became an adventure in the woods: as soon as he could no longer see the light of the clearing from which he'd entered, he would realize that the crumbs he'd dropped for bearings had been eaten by birds, silent deft darting things which he couldn't quite see in the darkness but which were so numerous and swarming in their hunger that it seemed as if they were the darkness, as if the darkness weren't uniform, weren't an absence of light but a teeming and corpuscular thing, and indeed when as a studious teenager he'd encountered the word "crepuscular" in McKay's Treasury of English Verse, the corpuscles of biology had bled into his understanding of the word, so that for his entire adult life he'd seen in twilight a corpuscularity, as of the graininess of the high-speed film necessary for photography under conditions of low ambient light, as of a kind of sinister decay; and hence the panic of a man betrayed deep in the woods whose darkness was the darkness of starlings blotting out the sunset or black ants storming a dead opossum, a darkness that didn't just exist but actively consumed the bearings that he'd sensibly established for himself, lest he be lost; but in the instant of realizing he was lost, time became marvelously slow and he discovered hitherto unguessed eternities in the space between one word and the next, or rather he became trapped in the space between words and could only stand and watch as time sped on without him, the thoughtless boyish part of him crashing on out of sight blindly through the woods while he, trapped, the grownup Al, watched in oddly impersonal suspense to see if the panick-stricken little boy might, despite no longer knowing where he was or at what point he'd entered the woods of this sentence, still manage to blunder into the clearing where Enid was waiting for him, unaware of any woods— "packing my suitcase," he heard himself say.

— Jonathan Franzen, from The Corrections


Just try to diagram that sentence.

Dreamy boy was at the gym again this morning. I was working biceps and noticed that he was gazing at me from the cardio area. Every time I glanced up he was looking at me - cheerful, longing, concentrating - that or he was watching the television behind me.

No, I'm sure he was looking at me.

John Edwards is resigning from the campaign in the morning. And though I have to admit that I'd prefer to look at Mr. Edwards for the next four years, President Kerry's speech this afternoon brought joyful tears to my eyes.

JFK 2004

Though it pleased me that my Democratic ballot was color-coded orange, it seemed odd that the Green party's ballot was brown.

One of sour
Two of sweet
Three of strong
Four of weak

Made a fabulous gumbo with shrimp and andouille sausage
to go with our Planter's Punches. mmmm.

When we look back on American history, I hope Gavin Newsom is remembered as a hero — one who made a stand for something in which he believed was right. And I hope that "W" is branded forever for being the closed-minded, foolish bigot he is. Certainly there will be a day when we will be amazed that such a discrimination ever existed. Are we not human beings? Are we not living, breathing, learning, loving, tax-paying people who contribute to our society? Do we not deserve equality?

W — why don't you acknowledge your failed foreign policy — or put your energies toward aiding our economy — but keep your sniveling dictates off my basic human rights.

a fabulous trip to Paris
a new haircut
a cocktail - or six - or maybe just another pot of coffee
an end to apathy
clarity, direction
a good, hard workout
a steamy bath
an hour to read in sunshine
sunshine
a really good book
a really trashy magazine
comfortable shoes
a steady, high-paying client who doesn't question me
a clean and tidy house, office, garden, garage, mind. . .
a housekeeper
an assistant
a gardener
a driver
an analyst
a mailman who understands, "fragile," and "do not bend."
a sous chef
whiter teeth, fresher breath
brighter brights, whiter whites
a suntan
a new radiator for the convertible
a copy of Mad World by Gary Jules
a completion to household construction
ibuprofen
dishwasher detergent
a satellite dish
a new president
lunch

"The law in this country should reflect that some people are just born one-hundred-percent outrageously, fabulously, undeniably Fire-Island gay. And they do not need reprogramming — they need a man with a slow hand."

— Bill Maher

An email I received from a stranger and my response to him follows:


> I was watching the auction for the VINTAGE KITCHENAID A-9 COFFEE MILL /
> GRINDER. I see you decided to pay over a hundred dollars for it. I'm just
> wondering why you went so high? Kitchenaid still makes them and I just
> recently bought a brand new one for $99. Is the old one better or collectible
> some how?
>
> Neal
>
> --------------------
>
>
>
Dear Neal,

I drive a forty-year-old convertible.

Though I am aware that there are newer models -
even those based on classic cars of our past -
that may be faster, or more reliable,
more efficient or safer in day-to-day situations,
less expensive to obtain and maintain,
there is a certain sense of history - a nostalgia -
that cannot be matched in a "reproduction."

A chrome-ensconced courtesy light in the door illuminates the
red and white interior. The giant V-8 engine roars.
The AM radio crackles and the dash lights glow a pale green.
Though not for everyone, I find that the experience of driving
that vintage automobile is thrilling.
A new car would still get me to my destination,
but the journey would be entirely different.

For Valentines, I made champagne cocktails with blackberries macerated in sugar and chambord. For dinner, I prepared a goat cheese tart with lavender and rosemary blossoms and thyme leaves from the garden, a leafy salad of baby greens with a balsamic vinaigrette, salmon poached in white wine and herbs and a lemon cake with a tart lemon glaze.

After dinner we had a couple Jameson and Cokes while listening to the soundtrack of The Triplets of Belleville and headed to the Dirty Hooker Valentine's Ball at Dragstrip. Our neighbor - the cigarette girl - rescued us from the long line and dragged us in with him. That was cool. Some very cute boys and some very ugly drag queens. I sort-of remember the show being really good, but that may have been beer-induced enthusiasm. We drank about 40 Rolling Rocks and eventually found ourselves at Astro for onion rings and chicken strips at 2 this morning. I think the Astro-greeze is the only reason we're still alive today. I feel like complete shit.

We got up long enough to make lattes this morning and went back to bed with the New York Times. Still having trouble focusing. Today's a total loss.

Our favorite Tupperware-dealing drag queen is having a Sex and the City party at her house tonight in Hollywood. We're committed to going, but it's going to be really hard. Maybe some hair of the dog will help pull us out of this.

"There is nobody singing today who can compare with her.
She has the style of the greats, like Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald. And she sings the words like Nat Cole - clean, clear and almost conversational with perfect phrasing. And that's as good as it gets."


Stacey Kent is performing at (Feinstein's at) the Cinegrill - in the historic Roosevelt Hotel in Hollywood. Her shows run until the 21st. My boy and I went last night - and she was wonderful.

I compared her voice to a really good gin and tonic. There was some intrigue and mystery. It was sweet and smooth and crisp and clear, and had some herbal flavors beneath the surface. It was effervescent and intoxicating and left me feeling all warm and happy.

Not a cheap date, but worth the bucks.

Twice this week I was confronted with feeling both smug and embarrassed at the same time.

On Sunday, outside the fancy cheese store, (my boy had already stepped in to order our iced lattes, and a week's supply of cave-aged gréuyere and applewood-smoked bacon) when a man approached me to asked where he could get a New York Times. I replied, "We have it delivered." Couldn't I have just said that I didn't know - or sent him the the Gelson's across the street?

On Wednesday I worked out especially early and had just reached the parking structure adjacent to the gym when a really cute boy slowly rounded the corner in a total beater car. I could tell he was checking me out and then when he realized that I was getting into the shiny BMW, he gave me that "oh - you're one of those" looks.

An open box of chocolate-chocolate Mochi Ice Cream
is an empty box.

I was not prepared for today's spectacle. Baz Luhrmann set Puccini's "La Boheme" in a fabulous 1957 Paris. It's being performed at the Ahmanson Theatre. (And I thought the Broadway sets to "The Scarlet Pimpernel" were Lavish.) This was "Rent" meets Disneyland. I could have happily lived in the production. Act two alone, was one of the most thrilling theatrical environments I can remember. ("The Lion King" - when it opened on Broadway - was a crowd-pleaser, but this was truly gorgeous.)

The set design was genius.

I wish I could speak more French than what I've needed to order cocktails abroad. The show was so absorbing that I was torn between reading the supers and watching the action on stage. Lucky to have been familiar with the story. I wish I could go four more times to experience different aspects.

We were second row, first balcony. Direct center. Perfect.



Pre-show treats turned out well. Mushroom caps stuffed with spicy Italian sausage and cream cheese. Made three dipping sauces for the 'colossal' shrimp and homemade crab cakes: a garlic aioli, a creamy herbal melange and a citrus cocktail sauce. Mmmmm. Also made some gorgonzola and arugula crostini. The red velvet cake was delicious. Served Veuve Clicquot. (We drank two bottles of the orange label last night in preparation.)

What have I been doing for thirty-five years?


I've lived in four cities in five states -
Two cities in California, where I currently reside.
I've had eleven addresses and fifteen home telephone numbers
I lived in a Midwestern governor's mansion for two of my teenage years.
I've purchased one house -
But have financed it three times.

I have accumulated college credits from four universities -
Three in America and one in Switzerland
Two schools were post-graduate, but I have only one degree.


I've owned seven automobiles -
Three red, three silver, one black.
Two convertibles, one station wagon, one three-door,
two coupes and one sedan.
They have been American, Japanese, Swedish and German.
I purchased two of them new. One is older than I am
I currently maintain two of these vehicles.

I've been in two total-loss collisions -
but was not the driver in either.
The most recent was in November.


I've had two full-time jobs,
but my cumulative time at them was less than two years.
I've been a tennis-court monitor, a musical instrument store clerk, a
lifeguard, a health club attendant, a computer room attendant, a short-order
cook, a grocery store checker, an apartment painter, a produce handler, a
valet, a shuttle-bus driver, a barback, a waiter, a soup kitchen prep cook,
a (nude and clothed) artists' model, a book designer, a graphic designer and
an art director in advertising.

I've ridden, crewed or volunteered in four AIDS Rides.
I've run one marathon.
I've had nine gym memberships.


I've flown through twenty-five American Airports -
I've been to every airport in Paris, London and New York,
but only two in Los Angeles.
My last flight was one-way to San Francisco.

I've visited thirty-five of the United States -
And driven from coast to coast in a convertible.
I've traveled through fourteen countries on two continents -
But have never set foot in Canada.


I've had three live-in relationships.
Two have been in Los Angeles.
My current partner and I celebrated three years together in January.

I've raised three dogs.
One when I was a child.
My two dogs are sleeping at my feet as I type.

Today I am thirty-five

Dreamy boy was at the gym again this morning. Doing arms. MMM. My second trip to West Hollywood yesterday involved too many martinis to get a full night's sleep, so I was working out by 5:30. That boy's worth waking up for. We didn't actually speak, but I like to imagine that he gazed longingly at me from the other side of the free weights area.

It's possible.

Made for a long day. Still, I may need to head west again tonight. I think sidekick is hankering for a little Cocktail with the Porn Stars. It's been a while. Why not frustrate myself twice today?

Each week I struggle with a moral dilemma.

Los Angeles implements a blue-container curbside recycling program to which I adhere strictly. I am a great supporter of this plan and gladly pay for my service with the rest of my utilities. If this convenient service was not available, I would still recycle on my own at one of several local recycling centers.

My dilemma is not with the program, but with the people who harvest (or scavenge, according to the LADPW) my refuse bins for their personal gains. It may sound petty that I would complain about someone who is picking through my cast-offs as a source of income, but there are several factors involved.

Damage to vehicles/personal property
I live on a hillside. Because of the grade, on trash pick-up day, the harvesters will park their stolen shopping carts against parked cars to keep them from rolling. It is not unusual to see a cart crash into the grill or broadside of a parked vehicle. The harvesters are people unable to take responsibility for the damage they cause, thus we are expected to live with it or continue to pay for repairs. I understand there are always risks when parking on the street, but when in front of one's own house. . .

Almost daily, on non-pick-up days, there will be a harvester who parks his cart in my drive, drops the dumpster lid on the trunk of my car and digs through my trash.


Privacy/personal security
It's not comforting having someone coming onto my property. As a homeowner, I certainly hold some liability for any accident that happens on my land - be it someone tripping on the sidewalk in front of the house - or a kid who wanders into the lawn and gets bit by my dog - or a harvester who falls in my driveway.

There's an insecurity in someone constantly checking out what's in my garage or left in my car.

In an age of identity theft, I don't want anyone digging into my personal stuff. Anyone. Anything.


Litter on the streets
Digging through someone else's trash can't be a pleasant experience. It is neither a delicate procedure. Things shift and slide. Bags tear. There are flies and bees. And the bottom can't be reached without moving/removing what's on top. To get the trash out of the way, it gets piled on streets and sidewalks and driveways. I would estimate that if 75% of what was dumped out went back in, it would be lucky.

Since the advent of Internet- and television-based home shopping, there has been a constant litter of foam packing peanuts swirling in the breeze.


Depleted recyclables negates the whole program.
If there are no recyclables in the containers when the truck comes - and there are no recyclables in the truck when it gets to the recycling plant, how long will the program be considered successful and be maintained? Because the program is easy, people recycle. If the curbside program goes away, it will be just that much more in the landfill.



I take great pride in my home and in my community. Though I have issues with the term gentrification, I do see hope in urban revitalization.

I am not heartless. I understand need and I understand that this is the primary source of income for individuals who might otherwise rely more heavily on 'the system' or ultimately resort to criminal activity. I also realize that though I meticulously sort, not everyone does. And by rifling through those unsorted black trash containers, the people who harvest are preventing needless waste accumulation in landfills.


What I'm not clear about is what I should do about the situation. What is the just and equitable solution?

The Los Angeles Department of Public Works states, "This illegal activity. . . County Ordinance (Section 20.72.196) of the Los Angeles County Code. . . is a misdemeanor and is punishable by fine and/or possible jail time. . . The County Sheriff's Department is responsible for enforcement of the Ordinance. If you notice scavengers in your neighborhood, please contact your local Sheriff's Department and provide them with any information that would be helpful for their investigation, such as vehicle license plate number, vehicle description, time, day, and any other pertinent details."

Like that's going to work.
"Hi Officer. Yes, I called two weeks ago. Well, he had a Von's shopping cart. Yes. It was silver. He proceeded down the hill . ."

Did the groundhog see his shadow?