A Great Big Broadway Show.....

Friday was my annual Broadway Day. Once a year, usually around year-end, during the holidays, I plot out a non-stop day of activities in Manhattan, revolving around the theater.

Of course, I WORK in Manhattan every other workday of the year. It is, after all, only an hour away by auto, bus or train. And I lived in Manhattan for over 20 years. But I like getting to feel like a tourist in my own town now and then. So I took the week off from work and got tickets to two Broadway shows for Friday, "The Drowsy Chaperone" (a musical) which had added a special holiday matinee on Friday and "The Little Dog Laughed" on Friday night.

First came the agonizing over which mode of transportation to take into the city. This was not going to be an ordinary workday. I knew I wouldn't get home until all hours, so I decided to take the train. Bad mistake. The 10:14 a.m. train (oh, I was getting my haircut in Greenwich Village at 12:30 with my old stylist, too), arrived in Princeton Junction Station jammped to the rafters. It makes exactly 2 stops before it arrives at PJS, so everyone must've been waiting for it down the line. I had to stand all the way into Manhattan. Oh, and it made about 8 more stops before we got there.

I was somewhat cranky by the time we got to New York Penn Station. ("And lead us not into Penn Station, but deliver us from evil..." is an old, not far from the truth, joke).

I hopped on the subway downtown to Sheridan Square and was promptly getting my hair cut by my beloved stylist of over 23 years. I felt safe and comforted as Stylist Z gently clipped my hair, sometimes one strand at a time, until it resembled a work of art. When Stylist Z cuts my hair I know it's going to look good not just for the remainder of the day, nor even for the following week. It's going to look good for at least a month. Stylist Z is worth every dime I pay him. I love him.

Then I jumped on an uptown train and got out in Times Square. The theater is in the Marriott Marquis hotel at the corner of 45th & Broadway. I had only to swim upstream 3 blocks. I might as well have been a salmon trying to swim up the Columbia River to spawn. It was that crowded. And not just with Americans. It was a virtual Babel of languages and dialects. German, French, English-english, Italian, God-knows-what-else. But I finally made it and settled into my wonderful seat in the 2nd row of the mezzanine (one should ALWAYS sit in the front mezzanine for musicals... that's where directors always sit for the last few rehearsals so they can see "the big view" of the show, and that's what I want to see when I see it. What the director saw.)

Chaperone is a charming piece of fluff, predicated on the flimsy plot of a theater queen, at home and feeling blue, dragging out an old album (yes, an "album") of a 1929 musical called "The Drowsy Chaperone" which he starts listening to and which then, magically, comes to life on the stage. It's charming and meaningless and just plain fun. It's more interesting for what it isn't. It ISN'T a 10-ton turkey, gang-created in the audio-animatronic musicalcomedyshops of Sir Andrew Lloyd-Disney, et fils. It's what musical theater should be, wildly improbable, occasionally "blue" in the adult sense of the word, and cute as a button.

Unlike say, oh, "Mary Poppins" which opened a month ago to universal pans from the press and which Disney, with it's infinitely deep pockets, keeps running anyway because a) they're Disney, b) the out-of-towners will see anything put on by Disney and c) fuck you, New York!

From what I've been told, it looks computer-driven and capable of doing 30 shows a day. Another nail in Broadway's coffin.

But, back to my day of theater. I came out of the Marquis tapping my toes and forgetting every song in the score. There were no memorable show tunes, but that didn't matter. I'd had a great, big, beautiful hot fudge sundae and it had been delicious.

I caught up with my college roommate and we visited for awhile in his home in the heart of Hell's Kitchen before setting out for a quick meal and then to the theater to see my second, and his first, production of the day...

The Little Dog Laughed. This is a giant hit legit (non-musical) show. It is hilarious. I won't say that it's a thinly disguished roman-a-clef because, well, because it's not just one person's story, it's the story of a lot of Hollywood denizens. The plot is simple. High-powered Hollywood Agent (Julie White) has good-looking male client (Tom Everett Scott) who is "on the verge" of mega-stardom, both of whom are in New York looking at an off-Broadway show to purchase as Star's Breakthrough Vehicle. The complication comes because Star has this teensy problem, a "slight, recurring case of homosexuality" as the agent puts it. He gets drunk in his hotel one night and calls a male prostitute (Johnny Galecki) who shows up and, naturally, the two of them fall in love. Complicating that are the hustler's girlfriend (Ari Graynor), and the gay author of the play (unseen and unheard, but thoroughly alive through one-sided luncheons and phone calls with Star and Agent).

A glance around the theater during intermission confirmed what I suspected. This show is a giant hit with show business insiders because it reminds them of entirely too many people that they know in real-life and everybody, EVERYBODY, is trying to figure out who the playwright based his characters on. ("Is it TomKat???) One Hollyweird producer whom I recognized was sitting directly across the aisle from me and spent ZERO time laughing at the play and lots of time looking at me every time I laughed to make sure the play actually WAS funny. He was obviously considering buying it for his studio and wanted to make sure that it really was worth the money. What sad little lives Hollywood producers lead. Joyless, fearful. I used to live like that. Now I laugh out loud, and to hell with the consequences.

I would see this show again in a heartbeat.

And not JUST because the male leads have a delicious nude scene with full-frontal nudity.

I didn't get home until after midnight. It was a long day. And worth every sore muscle and the heavily depleted bank account.

I'm a pushover for Great, Big, Broadway, Shows....

Str8 Boyz

I had a "date" yesterday with a perfectly good straight boy (divorced) and his 11 year old daughter. We went to see "Happy Feet" after which Mr. Y invited me to his place for a home-cooked meal with he and his child.

I have the kind of face that people like to open up to. Mr. Y likes to confide in me (and, indeed, I like it when he does). The 11 year-old and I totally relate. We read the same novels (the "Eragon" series). Mr. Y can't get over how I relate to kids.

Mr. Y is not the first str8 boy in my life, nor will he probably be the last. I have had a succession of str8 boyz in my life, stretching back to my navy days, who love to emote with me and wind up putting me in the very, very uncomfortable position of having to decide when it would be an "opportune time" to casually mention that I'm gay.

I hate this. It makes me very uncomfortable. Not always, but only if I find them attractive. Because then I wonder, "Have I waited too long? Does that look suspicious on my part? Does it imply ulterior motives?

I never have this problem with people I'm not attracted to. I never have a problem blurting out that I'm gay if I don't feel there might be consequences to be suffered for it. It's only when I fear losing that intimacy that I fear coming out.

It's all about my feelings of rejection from childhood, of course. I know that now. It's silly. These people aren't THOSE people!!! Are they? Yet all those feelings of angst and nausea and, well, FEAR, come roaring back the minute I feel as though I HAVE to tell them this one thing about myself. I don't have those same feelings over blurting out that I'm Catholic, or Irish/Welsh/English/Scots. I don't agonize over revealing that I prefer Streisand to Madonna.

You'd think that in this day and age, revealing that one is gay wouldn't be such a big deal. Yet I feel it IS a big deal because, well, because they've opened themselves up to me, made themselves vulnerable and, by revealing that I'm gay to them, they might feel somehow threatened by that.

Silly, isn't it?

I'm off to Manhattan today for a day of hairstyling and B'way Shows (matinee: "The Drowsy Chaperone", evening: "The Little Dog Laughed"). I'm glad to have this period of "enforced" separation from Mr. Y. It'll give me a chance to think about this and to discuss it with my old college roommate. We're having dinner this afternoon. He's always good for bad advice, having successfully avoided having a loving relationship for at least 30 years.

But I'll be back tomorrow. And I'll just suck it up, grab Mr. Y by the nape of the neck, drag him off into some corner, and tell him that I'm gay.

Or, maybe I'll wait until Sunday.

A Bracing Blast of Insanity!

I talked to a cousin on Christmas morning. What a bracing blast of insanity that turned out to be! Suffice it to say that I have nothing to do with my family of origin for a very good reason. I'd probably get drunk again.

But I can pray for them, and so I shall.

Christmas was wonderful. I called the 'Rents down in Ft. Myers, FL and we had a very nice chat for about 10 minutes. Then I called the remains of the family of origin (see: "Cousin", above), and that was scary. Then I hopped on the NJTurnpike and, along with about a bajillion other people who, apparently, all live in Boston but have relatives in Baltimore, headed south amongst the herd to have Christmas Day with my sister and her HUGE clan. I have grown up nieces now. And they have husbands and babies. It was noisy, and fun and loud and loving. I had a great time. The little ones are very leery of me. They can't quite wrap their brains around the fact that "MeeMaw" (my sister, their grandmother) has two brothers, and that I'm one of them.

But, by the end of the day, I'd won them over and they were crawling all over, and hanging from, me like I was the playground Monkey Bars.

For dinner we had both turkey AND 'Roast Beast' (to uphold Dr. Seuss's storyline). The adults did our "Secret Santa" thingie (I got two CD's and a DVD collection) and, by 8:30 p.m., everyone was heading home, full up, sated, satisfied and happy as clams.

I'm taking the week off, so yesterday I just went to the movies (saw "Dreamgirls" -- GO SEE IT NOW). Today was document shredding day (bank statements, medical stuff I won't use, etc.). I already made my annual trip with unused clothing to the Salvation Army. Tomorrow I'm spending the afternoon and evening with a friend of mine (divorced) and his 11 year old daughter - we're going to see "Happy Feet". Friday I'm doing Manhattan as a tourist and getting my hair cut with my old stylist, seeing the matinee of "The Drowsy Chaperone", having dinner with my college roommate and then, in the evening, seeing "The Little Dog Laughed."

(I'm getting exhausted just reading all this).

I have a doctor's appointment in there somewhere. Oh, and I'm going to a New Year's Eve party with a bunch of sober gay men which, with any luck, will turn nasty by midnight (just kidding -- we're sober now).

Have I told you how grateful I am lately? My life is more wonderful than I ever thought it would be ever again. Nine years ago I was sure that my life was over.

Boy, was I wrong. It turned out that God had "other plans" for me. I'm so glad that my plans didn't work out. But I shouldn't have been surprised.

My plans rarely worked out.

Christmas Eve - 2006

Nothing original, just this, courtesy of St. Francis of Assisi:

Lord, make me a channel of thy peace;
that where there is hatred, I may bring love;
that where there is wrong, I may bring the spirit of forgiveness;
that where there is discord, I may bring harmony;
that where there is error, I may bring truth;
that where there is doubt, I may bring faith;
that where there is despair, I may bring hope;
that where there are shadows, I may bring light;
that where there is sadness, I may bring joy.

Lord, grant that I may seek rather to comfort than to be comforted;
to understand, than to be understood;
to love, than to be loved.

For it is by self-forgetting that one finds.
It is by forgiving that one is forgiven.
It is by dying that one awakens to eternal life.

Amen.

And, courtesy of my very dear friend and long-lost sister, Bev Sykes, here's the pointer to the Bowie/Crosby version of "The Little Drummer Boy." It doesn't matter what you believe, it's just a good time of the year to look for all the little miracles in each of our lives.

The Little Drummer Boy

Christmas. There was a time in my life when the very word conjured up a dark dread in me so deep that I would just walk around in a blue funk for days on end.

Christmas does NOT bring back fond memories of a golden childhood. I could guarantee you how Christmas Day would go, weeks in advance of the event, from age 5 on. Christmas in my childhood was Groundhog Day. The same thing, over and over.

By 5:00 p.m. on Christmas, the day would be ruined, a victim of alcohol, resentments and rage. Somebody, for sure, would not be talking to somebody else. Somebody would've stormed off in an angry huff. Somebody would nurse hurt feelings with more booze. Somebody would be caught in the middle of all this. That somebody would always be me.

But, year after year, I played the part of the good little soldier. I kept my eyes and ears open, and my mouth shut. I knew it was pointless to argue, to beg, to cajole or to plead with them to at least "try" to not get so drunk as last year. They were people on a mission, and that mission was to get trashed. And if my Christmas got trashed in the process, well tough shit.

I never went without. My "wish-list" was always fulfilled. I probably should've asked for more. It never occured to me that they knew what was going to happen, weeks in advance, too, and that they were guilt-ridden enough over it to be blackmailable. If I'd only known then what I know now!

That's all gone now. Now my Christmases are about showing up for others, sober. They're about giving, not getting. I turn down invitations to Christmas dinners now. People, amazingly, want me around. It wasn't always so. Especially when, after years of denying that I would ever emulate those people from years ago, I turned out to be exactly like them.

I am still in awe of the fact that this will be my 9th sober Christmas. Sometimes I feel like the little drummer boy, banging out a notice that a great event has occured. The gift of sobriety is nothing short of a miracle.

So cue David Bowie and Bing Crosby! I wanna hear their famous duet once again!

[Edited in 2007 to embed the video of David & Bing in action]

Winter Solstice

Just for today I'm a pagan, celebrating the passing of the Winter Solstice and the gradual return of the Sun and it's warmth!

Sacrifice another Virgin! Set another Village Elder adrift on an Ice Floe!!! Pick out some loser and strap his or her ass into the Viking Ship, set it loose from the shore and shower it with flaming arrows!!!! The Gods are appeased, and we shall all live to see another Spring!!!!! (with any luck... it's a long way to April).

Meanwhile, though, there's Christmas and New Year's to contend with and, no matter what corner of the Earth you're currently hiding in, here come the last two hurdles to staying reasonably sober for any length of time during the darkest days in the northern hemisphere in any year.

But those aren't until Monday... and a week from Monday. Just for today we can all get behind the idea that the worst is behind us and there's nothing but sunshine and happiness ahead.

I wish you all very Happy, Healthy, Joyous and Free Winter Solstice Day!

Six Weird Things About Me

I've been "tagged" by my so-called friend, Bev. I'm supposed to quote the rules, so here they are, in her own words, plagiarized directly from her blog, Funny the World, today:

So if you get tagged, here are the rules: Each player of this game starts with the 6 Weird Things About You. People who get tagged need to write a blog entry of their own 6 Weird Things as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don't forget to leave a comment that says you are tagged in their comments and tell them to read your blog

Yeah, I don't understand it, either, but what the hell! I'm Game!!!

1. I finally stopped biting my nails last year. It could've been the drugs, the year in therapy or it could simply be the fact that I've FINALLY gotten some serenity in my inner-life. Whatever it is, after a lifetime of nervously nibbling my fingertips, somehow or other I've started sprouting nails. Why didn't somebody warn me, though, that this would involve cutting, shaping and filing? Thank God I'm not female, a Tranny or a drag, or I'd have to be endlessly painting and scraping them, too! It's like owning a ship.

2. I'm an expert pistol shot. I'd never fired a gun before in my life until I went to Navy bootcamp, in 1838. We had a brief fling with rifles then, but nothing serious. A few years later, while stationed at the Naval Air Test Center in Patuxent River, Maryland, things were slow around the electronics shop, so I signed up to qualify on the standard Navy issue .45 caliber semi-automatic. This so-called pistol has the wallop of a rifle. But I shot expert on the sucker (300 points). I also became an expert at field-stripping and reassembling the weapon in less than a minute. Blindfolded. So don't fuck with me, fellas.

3. I've kicked my legs on the stage of Radio City Music Hall. It was Thanksgiving, 1994. A (then) friend and his son were visiting New York from LA and I'd gone out of my way to arrange exciting things for them to do. My college roommate, who also lived in NYC, had a roommate who was a Rockette. I arranged to get her "house seats" to a performance of the Christmas Show AND for her to meet us after the show to take us around backstage. It never occured to me that we would actually get to stand ON CENTER STAGE, though. But we did. And as we stood there, looking out at the thousands of seats, I couldn't resist the temptation to do a little "kick" in a lame imitation of a Rockette. My friends were very impressed that I actually knew a real-live Rockette.

4. I knew Olympia Dukakis before she became Olympia Dukakis. I loosely attended the University of Delaware and did a boatload of theater while there, including summer theater/stock. One summer (1975) my roommate (see no. 3, above), who ran the theater, decided to hire a professional acting company and to plug in a half dozen student actors in minor roles. So he contracted with The Whole Theater Company of Montclair, New Jersey to come and be "in-residence" for the summer. I was one of the student actors selected to work with them. Olympia came along to direct a production of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest", in which I played the role of "Ruckley", the human vegetable who was constantly in a crucifixation pose and had one phrase of dialogue, endlessly repeated throughout, "fffffuuuuccckkk 'eeeemmmm aaaaallll". Olympia swore like a sailor and drank like a fish. We all loved her. Later on, after the movie "Moonstruck" came out in 1987, she became "Olympia Dukakis."

5. I've built a color television from scratch. Okay, it was a Heathkit, but I did it. I've gotten a sense of accomplishment from a lot of things in my life, but that one still ranks up there as one of the top five. I loved the look on my mom's face when those two huge boxes from Benton Harbor Michigan arrived in an 18-wheeler. I disappeared into my bedroom with those two boxes and less than a month later I emerged with a working, 18" color-tv.

6. I believe that a Power Greater than myself saved me from my own insanity. I was a falling down, hopeless drunk up until 1998. Then, in March of that year, a miracle occured. That's what I choose to call it, and that's what I choose to believe. Something, someone, somewhere, did for me what I could not do for myself, and I found myself sitting in a room attached to a church with a bunch of like-minded people who had found an answer to their common problem. In less than an hour I found a spark of hope. I was sick and weak and fearful, but I found hope. And I went back to that church meeting room the next morning, and there they were again! And hope grew. And eventually hope turned into gratitude. And gratitude turned into compassion. And compassion turned into love. And love turned into me.

It's a very good time of the year to think about little miracles, whether it's a hopeless alcoholic or junkie finding a spark of hope at a 12-step meeting in a dingy basement somewhere, or the birth of an infant who would have a profound effect on the world with a message of forgiveness and love.

I know about miracles.

I am one. Every day.

And if that makes me weird, so be it.

So, I have to tag people, too. So far I've tagged exactly one. Someone whose blog is deliciously dreamy (oh, okay, it's because he's in Paris):

Ms C Crisp

Neo-Luddite

When I worked on Wall Street I was known for always being on the "bleeding edge" of new technology. Within my department, I put the first IBM-AT on a trading desk (Well, under it. And then some wiseass came along and slapped a sticker on it that read "Wurlitzer", after I did).

I continued to lead the pack on purchasing the latest/greatest tech for my trading floors until I walked away from the street in 1994.

And that's when I finally bought a computer for home. I also bought a Sony Rear Projection 48" TV, a Pioneer LaserDisk player, a handful of LaserDisks to play on it along with several thousand gallons of booze to kill myself with as I enjoyed the end of my life in TechniColor, Dolby-Digital SurroundSound and Wide-Screen (LetterBoxed).

Well, the booze and money ran out three years later and the tech got locked in time.

Now I've been sober since 1998 and the tv has been downsized to a 34" flat-screen Sony (Love them Sonys! It'll be the last NTSC tv I'll own.), and I got a DVD player (but I still look at "Jurassic Park" on my old LaserDisk, along with the 2nd Indiana Jones movie, "Temple of Doom" -- but only because the opening number, "Anything Goes", sung in Chinese by Steven Spielberg's wife, is a real rip-snorter!)

I like technology that helps us to work smarter or better, or entertains the hell out of us.

However.... and this is where I seem to have drawn the line ... I don't have a cellphone.

I hate 'em. I think they're the devil's own invention, right up there with Brussel sprouts, beepers, boomboxes and Crack, er, BlackBerries (and Treos, and whatever).

Wasn't the workday long enough? Do we need to invent ways to make it even longer? Weren't people annoyed ENOUGH by co-workers during the day, do they need MORE aggravation at home, or on the bus or train?

PDAs and cellphones are not improvements on people's lives. They makes lives crappier and worse. No, I don't need to be "in touch" for an extra hour or two or three a day. I'm in touch enough.

I have an answering machine. At the sound of the beep leave a message and I'll get back to you when I'm damn good and ready!

PCs were a vast improvement on the way information and, more importantly, the speed at which information, travelled to people who needed to make split-second decisions involving hundreds of millions of dollars. They didn't drag the friggin' things home with them after the trading day had ended. That came later, with the invention of another annoying application called "e-mail." People used to pick up the phone and call each other. Yeah, they played phone-tag, but not as much as they do now. People used to actually "think" about what they were going to say before they said it. Now we just fire-off e-mails, often in the heat of the moment, without taking that moment of grace to cool off and think about what we are doing.

We now live in a society that's more apt to "ready, fire, aim" than it is to calmly think about what needs to be done.

I've become a Neo-Luddite. An anti-technologist.

Not all technology is good (nor is it all bad). But sometimes it just serves to eat chunks of our souls.

Blond Ambition

I finally did my Christmas cards last night. Well, not all of them, just the ones I'd be embarrassed NOT to send.

I'm sure, as always, there'll be one or two "last minute mailers" (like me) who'll arrange things so that I get their cards on Christmas Eve (yeah, yeah, I know it's Sunday this year) so that I can feel miserable all Christmas Day and they can gloat that they've ruined my Christmas by causing me unceasing remorse and guilt.

The lousy pricks.

I don't know why I procrastinate so much (I'm just as bad as my friend, Bev, who is a World-Class Black-Belt Procrastinator -- she loves the adreniline rush she gets from snatching victory from the jaws of defeat at the last minute.) Once I actually pick up the pen and do the first card, it just seems to breeze along until I'm done. But I dread picking up the pen. No, it's much more important to kill time screwing around on the internet, shopping for bargain tickets to B'way shows, looking up the meaning of life in Wikipedia, re-reading my favorite blogs; spending hours cruising "Wonkette", "JoeMyGod", "TMZ", "The Huffington Post" and, of course, my dear friends Bev Sykes and her "Funny The World" and Steve Schalchlin with "Life in the Bonus Round" (Broadway Edition).

I've done the labels, including the return address mini-labels. I've bought the cards. Everything is sitting in a neat little pile in the middle of the coffee table just waiting .... waiting... waiting... for me to develop a little Blond Ambition.

So last night I ran out of excuses to give myself and did it.

I can't tell you the sense of accomplishment I got from it. There's something about flipping through the envelopes to make sure I put stamps on all of them and then placing them in the bag I'll use to tote them to the Park and Ride with me in the morning that's akin to successfully removing a tumor.

Or something. Bad image. Sorry. But you get the idea.

And then, this morning, when I finally opened that bag in front of the mailbox... and held the door open as I dumped my load of Christmas Cheer into the mail... I did a quick, mental calculation...

and realized that, with any luck, most of them will arrive

on Christmas Eve.

Heheheheheheheheheheheh.

I'm a lousy prick.

A Minor Annoyance

They put one lousy stitch in my mouth to hold the flap of skin in place where my recently removed tooth used to reside. I was told that it would somehow or other "magically" disappear within a few days. That was Monday. Now it's Friday. And what had been a minor annoyance to my tongue, should it accidentally wander over that way, has turned into a major pain, no matter what I do.

It seems to have grown, too. Before it was just a single, stiff thread that sort of poked out of the hole. Now it's like having a whole ball of twine over on the side of my mouth. I guess because the swelling has gone down so much, thus exposing more of the stitch material.

I have a feeling that I'll be doing a little "at home" oral surgery when I get home tonight.

I love how they say things like "don't play with it" or "don't poke things in there." Threatening you with all kinds of dire consequences, if you do. Like infection. Well, I already have an infection, how can I get more? Besides, you can't kid me with that threat. Everybody knows there's no filthier cesspool on the face of the earth than the human mouth. It's not going to get magically filthier if I stick a small pair of scissors, which I've previously bathed in disinfectant, followed by sterile water, in there.

I'm such a good patient. You know why they call us "patients"? Because we have to be so friggin' patient, that's why.

There's also a reason why they say a doctor "practices" medicine.

Maybe I should practice a little patience and wait to see if it falls out.

But knowing me, I probably won't.

Selective Memory

We're all guilty of it. Selective remembering and, more importantly, selective forgetting.

"Oh, I forgot it was your" [turn, birthday, anniversary, jahrzeit].

My boss just had a major bout of it. A client wants to use our biggest meeting room, "The Board Room" from 7:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. for three days running starting on Monday, January 15th.

I had to remind him that we're closed on Monday the 15th (MLK, Jr. B'day). I also had to remind him that we hosted them for 3 days last year and it was a monumental fiasco. They ate all our food, drank all our coffee and more importantly THEY HOGGED ALL OUR BANDWIDTH, for three whole days. When you invite 50 computer geeks to roost for 3 days, the arrive with 50 laptops and want to be immediately wired into the internet.

Well, that crippled our usually zippy system performance right down to something that resembled my first 2400 baud modem (yup, it was a Hayes).

And they really expected us to wait on them hand and foot for those three days. I spent most of my time making sure they got fed in a timely manner by our outside caterers and that the coffee kept flowing into the room.

When they finally departed, we all breathed a collective sigh of relief and my boss said, "We'll never do THAT again!" Which lasted all of a year. I got an inoccuous little e-mail from their operations person last week, inquiring if they could "do it again" in January. I immediately forward the e-mail to my boss and added, "YOU TAKE CARE OF THIS." Well, he didn't. So I got another e-mail today from her, wondering what was happening. I forwarded it to my boss, as well, and added, "I thought you were taking care of this."

Then I found out that he'd been sneaking around behind my back and checking with our in-house scheduler regarding the availability of the Board Room for those dates in January.

I immediately fired off another e-mail, reminding him of all the trouble they were last year. His response? "Well, we can do Tuesday and Wednesday?"

He's such a weasel.

But I should know. Six years ago, when we came to work together in New York City, it was with the specific promise that it "would only be for three years. Then we'll go back and open up a little office in New Jersey, close to home."

I'm still waiting.

Broadway Baby

While I was home recuperating yesterday I got a call from my old buddy, Mark.

Mark is this disembodied voice on the phone who works in the subscription sales department at Roundabout Theater. Last year he sold me a 3-show package to see Alec Baldwin in Joe Orton's "Entertaining Mr. Sloane", a boffo production of Brecht/Weill's "The Threepenny Opera" with Alan Cumming, Jim Dale, Ana Gasteyer, Nellie McKay and Cyndi Lauper, fer Chrissakes, and a rip-snorting production of that old chestnut "The Pajama Game" with Kelli O'Hara, Mike McKean and Harry Connick, Jr., the three of whom tore up the theater and brought down the house at every performance.

So, instead of hanging up on him, I waited to see what Mark was offering me this year. Besides, he sounds cute. Oh, I know I'm old enough to be his disembodied father, and let's face it, if he's flogging theater subscriptions by phone at night, he must be an unemployed actor by day. (Close. He's an unemployed writer. He can't help it though, he grew up in California. His mom just sold his childhood home and moved to Chicago to be closer to his sister and her family... but I digress). The poor baby sounded sick. I asked him if he had a cold. He does. My heart went out to him. I wanted to hold and comfort him and spoon-feed him chicken soup. I let him continue his spiel. I told him I might be interested, even though the season is slightly less than rousing, but I have this "problem" with most theater seats... well, that didn't seem to be a problem for him. He assured me that my "special needs" could and would be met... if only.

Naturally I said yes.

It's not because I have a crying need to see "The Apple Tree" with Kristin Chenowith. I saw her two Christmases ago in "Wicked." She's fabulous. And I know what Alfred Molina looks like, I don't need to see him in something called "Howard Katz". And I'm certainly not wild about sitting through a production of "110 in the Shade" with Audra McDonald, although she's got more "Best Actress in a Musical" Tonys than God.

I'm going because, God help me, deep down inside, then, now and always, I am a Theater Queen. From the very first network Broadcast of the Tony's, in 1967, when I SAW (transfixed) Barbara Harris doing "Gorgeous" from The Apple Tree, and Joel Grey doing "Wilkommen" from Cabaret, I knew... I knew.

Watch the Oscars then watch the Tonys. Watch the dancers and you can SEE the difference between Broadway and Hollywood. Oh, they both have their places, including in my heart. But there's just something raw, electric, edgy, about the theater. Ask anyone who's ever set foot on a stage and they'll tell you. There's no "fixing it in post" on Broadway. It's YOUR ass hanging out there, come what may.

And that's why I go to the theater. I love to watch people's asses hanging out there. I love rooting for them to pull it off and I just love it when they do.

And if I'm not there, how would I know that they did it? So I just HAD to sign up.

A Hole in the Head

It's out.

My $2,500.00 root canal and crown has been extracted for a mere $700.00.

But I'm not bitter. Really! And as I examine my pie-hole in the bathroom mirror I realize that you can scarcely see it (the hole in my head). So I think I'm not going to be too quick to sign off on some sort of big-bucks prosthetic replacement for the missing tooth.

I got to my dentist's office at 1:15 yesterday. The "big panic du jour" was no cold water in the building. "What's the big deal?" I hear you ask. Well, the big deal is that most dental equipment needs cold water to work. Such as drills. And the little bowl you spit into. And the little faucet that fills the little cup you use to "rinse and spit." Stuff like that. Jerry, my dentist of 24 years, took one look in my mouth and said, "Don't move. I'm calling an oral surgeon." A half hour later I was 20 blocks uptown cooling my heels in another dental office. I cooled my heels there for 2 hours. I filled out the usual "first-timer" paperwork. "Do you suffer from: ... " Yes. I suffer from everything. I'm an alcoholic AND a Catholic. After Jews, nobody suffers better (or so I'm told by my Jewish buddies in recovery and yes, there ARE Jewish alcoholics, FYI).

There were beaucoups injections of numbing stuff. Then he "tested" the tooth. After I screamed, he pronounced it a "hot tooth" and injected more numbing stuff. Eventually he tackled it and, after much grunting and sweating, by me, it was out.

Ivana, the lovely Latvian nurse, stuffed gauze into the hole and stuck the electronic x-ray pad into my mouth to get an "after" shot. The doctor pronounced the extraction a complete success and, after prescribing tons of drugs and handing me a "travel pack" I was relieved of $700.00 and sent home to recover.

One of the drugs he prescribed was viacodin. Now this is an "iffy" drug for drunks and druggies. Although my drug of choice was always booze, I need to be wary of anything that can be fatally addicting. I got the prescription filled but, before I took it, I talked to my Sobriety Counselor about it. I told him that I had told the doctor that I was a recovering drunk and that he had said to me, "then just take one before you go to bed." My Counselor didn't seem to have a problem with that, so that's what I did.

I woke up this morning with a little bit of dried blood around the corners of my mouth, but other than that, I was good. Still, I decided to call in and to take a "mental health" day from work. I'll miss the office Holiday Party tonight which, to be honest, I won't miss too much.

I am grateful that it's done. I'm more grateful that I have doctors I can rely on, a Sobriety Counselor (he laughs that I refer to him that way) I trust, a job with understanding bosses, and enough money to pay the bills.

I'm really grateful that the pain is ended. You never know how good you feel... until you don't.

And today, just for today, I feel wonderful!

----------------------------------
News Item of the Day:

Another Self-Loathing Queer Quits the Clergy.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20061211/ap_on_re_us/pastor_gay_sex

Dentistry - Again

I'm in pain. I've been in pain for the last couple of days, hence no new posts.

Every root canal I've ever had done has wound up going bad, and this one is no exception. I actually had it done about 3 or 4 years ago. Just before our annual beach trip. The endodontist who did it used the latest electro-sound devices to locate the roots and fry them with virtually no pain. Then he put that percha-gutta stuff in there and sent me back to my dentist to have a post and crown put in.

Everything was fine until about a year later. The year I was preoccupied with my open heart surgery and couldn't be bothered with my teeth. For reasons I'll never understand one of the percha-gutta "points" started working it's way out the side of my gum. It hurt, but I ignored it because I had cardiologists and surgeons around me most of the year.

Earlier this year I noticed that the gum under the crown was slightly tender, and I mentioned it to my dentist two visits ago. He pulled the crown off, looked inside and say, basically, "uh-oh." He said that he could either a) do something about it then or b) put the crown back, hope for the best and wait. I opted for b.

Well, b. came home to roost on Saturday. I went to the movies with a friend and I noticed, as I happily sat there munching popcorn, that the tooth was slightly painful. But nothing more than usual, so I thought.

By Saturday night, I was in severe pain. I felt the crown being "pushed up" by the inflammation beneath it and it hurt like hell to put even moderate pressure on the crown, to try push it back down into place. I slept fitfully Saturday night, with the aid of Tylenol P.M.

I did my usual Sunday morning stuff, but I knew I'd have to call the dentist before the day was out. I finished up my duties, got home and called the "hot-line" my dentists have. I got a call back within 10 minutes.

The good news is that, because I have had a mycardial infarction and subsequent bypass surgery, I have to take a massive dose of antibiotics every time I visit the dentist, to prevent infections from entering my heart and taking hold. So I had a nearly full prescription of Biaxin in the house. The dentist told me to take one 500mg tablet immediately, another before I went to bed, and to call the office immediately in the morning to schedule an appointment for later (today).

The first pill started working within an hour. I noticed that the swelling under the tooth was easing up, so the crown was subsiding back into it's usual position. By the time I took the second pill at 9:30 last night, I was feeling much better.

I called the dentists office as soon as I got to work and they're seeing me at 1:30 today.

I have a sneaking suspicion that this is going to cost me a small fortune, and we have lousy dental insurance at work. But I have learned a very important lesson from all this.

Root-canals are witchcraft, at best. If you can avoid them, by all means do so. It's an inexact science, and they never, entirely, get the whole root.

Secondly, never ignore mouth pain, no matter how insignificant it might seem. Especially if you're a recovering drunk/addict. We have high tolerance for pain and painkillers.

Wish me luck!

Pregnant Lesbians, Grammy Nominated Bush-Haters & Chickenhawk Republican Freshmen

1. Mary Cheney is preggers. Yawn.

2. The Dixie Chicks have been nominated for a Grammy or two. Bigger yawn.

3. None of the incoming Republican Congressional freshmen has served day one in the military.

Guess which one of those scares me the most. Go on, guess. If you picked 3, you'd be right.

It's no secret that if I had my druthers military service (or national service of some kind or another) would be a prerequisite to holding national public office. This country has a history of voting for ex-military personnel as President (Washington, Jackson, Grant, Eisenhower, Kennedy and even Nixon come immediately to mind). Mostly because they're great organization people. They KNOW how to run things (in the face of overwhelming odds, I might add). Navigating the byzantine structure of the Federal Government is a LOT like navigating the byzantine structure of the military with all of it's "Catch-22" rules and regulations that make absolutely no sense at all, but things have always been done that way.

It's mostly the latter that I'm concerned with. I'd be a lot more comfortable having a Congress full of people who understand, on a gut level, the sort of nonsense that our armed forces can get into, left to their own devices. I want the people who vote for the money to know that the government spends $600 on toilet seats for airplanes, and the reasons why. I want them to know just how cozy the Pentagon is with General Dynamics and Boeing and McDonnell-Douglas, and that the Pentagon basically runs a revolving door, retirement job hunting out-placement service for retiring generals and admirals with those self-same arms manufacturers.

And I'd really like to have a congress full of people who are familiar with President Eisenhower's farewell address to the nation in January of 1961 and, especially, this section of that speech:

"This conjunction of an immense military establishment and a large arms industry is new in the American experience. The total influence -- economic, political, even spiritual -- is felt in every city, every State house, every office of the Federal government. We recognize the imperative need for this development. Yet we must not fail to comprehend its grave implications. Our toil, resources and livelihood are all involved; so is the very structure of our society.

In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the militaryindustrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist.

We must never let the weight of this combination endanger our liberties or democratic processes. We should take nothing for granted. Only an alert and knowledgeable citizenry can compel the proper meshing of the huge industrial and military machinery of defense with our peaceful methods and goals, so that security and liberty may prosper together."

(emphasis added by me)

Can you say "Halliburton"?

This is why I am discomforted by the growing legions of untutored congresscritters who themselves lack the firsthand experience of the military portion of the military-industrial complex.

God help us all.

Dry Drunk

Little did anyone, myself included, suspect when YOU (or, possibly, someone you thought you knew) first elected that dry-drunk, George W. Shrub, to the Presidency, what a blood-thirsty little tyrant that chickenhawk jerk would would turn out to be.

Under the guise of liberating the Iraqi people, and more importantly, castrating Saddam by destroying his Weapons of Mass Distraction, sorry, Destruction, he has single-handedly disemboweled the Constitution, abolished Habeus Corpus, kidnapped vaguely named American Citizens and thrown them into the CIA Archipelago (which holds it's own, any day, against the KGB's Archipelago of old) in far-flung "client-nations" of ours... far away from the prying eyes of left-wing snoops/do-gooders here Stateside.

I'm disgusted by the recent articles in the NYTimes regarding our treatment, I repeat OUR treatment, of Jose Padilla, a US citizen, in military brigs over the last three years. If you're unaware of his story, I'd advise you to read it. You'll be appalled at what WE'VE been countenancing by our silence lately.

I once characterized our president as being an "untreated alcoholic". I stand by that assessment, one alkie to another. I've been to a few thousand meetings in my time and I know what untreated alcoholism looks like.

It looks self-righteous. It is blind and deaf in it's denial that there is any truth other than their truth. It is childish, grandiose and overly sensitive. It is quick to anger and lash out. It takes itself very seriously. Being around it is like walking on eggshells. You never know what's going "to set it off." Eventually, everything in the House becomes "about" it. Plans are subject to change without notice. Promises are made and broken on the spur of the moment, and without a thought to the effect it has on others. Yesterday's rules suddenly no longer apply and God help you if you don't know today's rules without prompting. It pigheadedly pursues ephemeral goals, even in the face of catastrophe. And, finally, it hopes to achieve those goals by insanely performing the same actions, over and over and over again, in the hopes of achieving a different, better, result the next time.

That is the classic definition of an untreated alcoholic. Whether they drink or not.

I was kind of hoping that the elections would turn out to be our president's "bottom." Alkies need to hit a "bottom" before they'll acknowledge their powerlessness. It seemed for a moment like it had. The firing of Rummy was a tantalizing tease. The arrival of Daddy's Rescue-Squad held promise.

But I'm afraid I was kidding myself. I'm seeing telltale signs that this President has merely applied fresh lipstick to his pig, in the hopes of making it more attractive. Even with new deck chairs, this administration is still the Titanic.

And there is only one treatment for the co-dependent who is trapped in a relationship with a drunk.

It's time for the rest of America to start going to Al-Anon.

Under the Gub

Remember the Woody Allen movie where he's attempting to hold up a bank and he passes an unreadable note to the teller which leads everyone who works at the bank to try to interpret it and all they can come up with is, "I have a gub"?

Well, I'm under the gub. My sobriety advisor has a way of dropping little bombshells on me, always unexpectedly and out of the blue. Sunday morning he dropped another one. "For 2007 I want you to continue writing your blog, but also to start submitting your work for publication. I also want you to act and/or direct, and to keep searching for a home to buy."

Oh. Is that all?

Yes, I'll rejoin Equity, get an agent, have that fabulous career on B'way I moved to NY to have (in 1887), and build a beautiful Victorian pile overlooking the Hudson River in Hastings, New York (a la Helen Hayes). Will July be soon enough?

"Whoa" I can hear you all say. "That sounds pretty extreme, from such innocuous suggestions." Well, yes, it does. But keep in mind that my sick little mind can move from "making a typo to being homeless" in less than a second. That's the way an alkie's mind works. So when someone says, "write" I hear "be Mark Twain."

Actually, his suggestions are totally reasonable. My brother (yes, I have a brother) manages to put in a full day in New York and still have a part-time life as a cabaret artist/actor, which feeds his soul.

And he has a family, too.

The real point he was making is that after nearly 9 years of sobriety, I have the sober part down, but I haven't really been nourishing my creativity and/or joy. I have to admit that seeing Steve and Jim's show brought up a lot of feelings of unfulfillment for me.

And owning my own house will give me a sense of belonging and "home" that I've never really experienced before in my life.

Dear God, will this growing up stuff never end?

The Playbill

I forgot to post my autographed Playbill for "The Big Voice" - I can't imagine what I was thinking!

Big Ol' Gay Voice - Wait! It's God AND Merman!!!

(shameless plug)

My friends Steve Schalchlin and Jim Brochu are currently appearing in the star-studded off-B'way extravaganza, "The Big Voice - God or Merman" at the Actor's Temple on 47th Street in the heart of the theater district or, as some of us call it, Hell's Kitchen.

I saw it this afternoon and it is, simply, wonderful. I just sent an e-mail to our mutual friend Bev Sykes telling her that the best theater happens when the artists ass is hanging right out there for the whole world to see.

This is what Steve and Jim have done. It's personal. It's spiritual. It's excruciatingly human. It's also funny as hell.

I probably should've warned the boys that I'm a terrific audience. I was howling and snorting at all the jokes. I must be easy to pick out in a crowd because I'm pretty sure I caught Jim playing directly to me a couple of times.

I'm not going to post any spoilers about the show, these guys have had their ups and downs over the years, and it's all right there, bigger than life, with full musical accompaniment.

I wanted to hang out with the guys after the show and, in fact, Steve was kind enough to ask me to have dinner with them, before the evening show. I was honored and flattered, but I had to decline because I'd already committed to having dinner with my college roommate and oldest and dearest friend, The Kleen Kween, who lives right around the corner from the theater and whom it wouldn't kill to spend a few bucks to see this if he's reading this.

I intend to strong-arm everybody I ever met into going.

Oh, you may be wondering about the title I gave the show, above (God AND Merman). The boys talk a bit about their relgious upbringings (okay, they talk a LOT about it), but what struck me was what they both, eventually, came to understand. That knowledge of God is not obtained by reaching OUTWARD towards the Divine, but by delving INWARD to find the Divine that lies within each of us.

God is in the voice of Ethel Agnes Merman nee Zimmerman. God is also in the voices of my friends Steve Schalchlin and Jim Brochu.

And believe me, gentle readers, they and their show are absolutely DIVINE!

Dirty Little Addictions

A friend of mine was arrested this morning on charges of sexual assault. I should've seen it coming. He'd been hanging around in cyberspace for years, trolling for "adults-only" types of friends and relationships.

He's a recovering junkie/drunk. He has a lot of time in the fellowship. Like too many of us, though, once he put the cork in the bottle and threw away the syringe he thought he was "done" with recovery. All he had to to after that was just "keep on coming" as they say in the biz. I doubt if he'd done the Steps. His last known sponsor was some guy who lived 40 miles away whom he never called or saw. He would often "take my inventory" regarding my recovery, offering direct orders on what I should, or should not, be doing.

He also has a heart of gold. He befriended me when I was pretty friendless. He let me hang around his place of business while I was "between gigs" from the temp agency. He would let me spend hours playing on his office computer, so I could keep my skills semi-fresh while I tried to stop shaking from fear and detoxing and was once again employable. He never asked anything in return, except for the occasional loan. I happily gave it to him, not really expecting to ever see it again. He has a heart of gold, but he's a lousy businessman. His wife and kids often treated the till like it was their personal ATM. He never cared.

His cavalier financial attitudes started catching up with a year or so ago. The IRS came to call and he started missing some payments on long-term debt. The hole got deeper when he got suckered into some on-line "equity financing" schemes which were little more than on-line loan-sharks.

He took more and more solace in the make believe world of "hot lesbian chicks want to get it on with you now!" type websites. He started losing touch with mundane realities. I confronted him once or twice and was rebuffed with "don't tell me how to run my program" type responses. I backed off.

Then, this morning, I got an e-mail from someone who doesn't like him very much. It was a reprint of an article in the local paper regarding my friend's downfall and arrest. The sender added a little postscript bascially gloating over my friend's misfortune.

All I can think of is how easily it happened. Denial and addiction are cunning co-dependents who love to work in unison to bring about the downfall of the sufferer.

My friend never saw his addiction to drugs gradually transform into an addiction for sex. He would've been shocked if anyone had ever suggested it to him. He was (and still is, as far as I know) a happily married man.

I don't know what I can do to help him, but I intend to at least try. I'll begin by praying for him and his family.

Meanwhile, though, I must constantly remind myself that...

There, but for the grace of God, go I.

Illness Pays!

Remember the surgeries I mentioned in my last post? Well, to make matters worse, I was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes last January. I should've known. I had "the thirst" for the better part of the previous year. I ignored it.

But I plunged into caring for it with all the gusto I brought to my heart surgery in 2004 and my endarterectomies in 2005. 2006 was going to be my year for diabetes.

My old internist (I fired him in March) put me on an aggressive pharmaceutical regimen almost immediately. My A1C1 (a blood test) was 13.4, which was not good. I joined a gym. I stopped eating sugars and carbs (I looked at the labels on everything.... you'd be shocked to find out how loaded with carbs things like fruit-juice are).

I took another A1C1 test in early July, as part of my introductory physical with my new internist. It had dropped to 6.1 in six months.

I didn't know, until today, how astounding that was.

As part of my regimen for monitoring my diabetes I have a monthly 1/2 hour telecon with my diabetes coach at Robert Wood Johnson Hospital in New Brunswick. She's an RN who specializes in caring for diabetics. About six weeks ago she asked me if I'd be interested in serving on a diabetes education oversight committee at the hospital, as a civilian "stakeholder". It involved sitting in on a meeting once a year and offering my input as a "non-medical" interested party. I said yes. It seemed like the least I could do.

We started to meet in the lobby of the hospital around 11:30 a.m. today. I was surprised at the number of high "muckety-mucks" who were on the committee. The doctor who heads the Endocrinology Department, the AVP in charge of nursing and other, important, department heads were all there. Mostly I just listened, but I piped up regarding a couple of issues, mostly having to do with the importance of "face-to-face" medical care. They'd been making a lot of noise about doing internet (read: e-mail) coaching. I bridled at that one, and said so.

They're going to do what they're going to do, but I stuck up for the patients as best I could. My coach thanked me afterwards and said that I had done a fine job of representing patient interests. Then she surprised me by asking me if I'd be willing to become a permanent member of the committee! I was flattered and said, "YES, OF COURSE."

All of this is well and good of course, but what I really want to KVELL about is the lunch. They fed us, buffet style. I was afraid it was going to be typical "hospital food." Boy, was I wrong! They had tuna wraps, turkey & cheese wraps, a really delicious salad and all kinds of fresh fruit. It was great!

It occured to me on the drive home that, at long last, one of my various medical conditions had FINALLY started earning its keep.

Brave Little Wimp

I had quadruple bypass surgery 3 years ago, come next March. My friends all made a big deal over it at the time, but I pretty much just walked through it without giving it much thought. I could've easily croaked on the table that day.

Last year I had bilateral endarterectomies. They sliced open both sides of my neck and then opened up and scraped the congealed cholesterol out of my carotid arteries. I didn't give too much thought to that, either, even though there was a high risk of stroke during both surgeries (they were done separately, two months apart).

I faced all that like it was a day in the park. So how come I turn into a puddle of wet goo at the prospect of buying a home?

I'm a hundred years old and I've never owned my own home. Well, that's not completely true. I did inherit one, once. But I immediately sold it for about $6,000.00 It was left to me by my grandmother. I was 20 years old at the time and going into the Navy. I really had no need of a house.

My mom wanted to leave me her home, but that all changed when she developed Alztheimer's and I had to (literally) bankrupt her in order to get her full-time care in a facility geared up to handle that for the last five years of her life. Frankly, I was relieved to not have to suffer the burden of home ownership.

There's so much to "do" when you own a home (like, everything). I got spoiled living in my ex's New York City coop for 15 years. The super(intendent) did everything. Old joke, "How many upper-east-siders does it take to change a lightbulb?" Answer: "Two. One to make drinks and one to call the super!" So true.

I've always been a tolerated guest in somebody else's home. From childhood. The first "home" I remember was actually my grandmother's house where I was constantly reminded that she was "taking care of me" because my mother couldn't or wouldn't. By the time I got around to living with my mother I felt like a tolerated guest in her house, too.

And so it went.

Oh I've paid rent, one way or another, throughout my life. But I've never had a mortgage in my name. I've never had a sense of "belonging" or "home", either.

I was born feeling like a gypsy. I think maybe that I'm just afraid of that much commitment. "Two keys and a big loan" is what I think of when I think about buying a house. And buying a townhome or a condo is, as far as I'm concerned, just looking for trouble. What if the neighbors go disco dancing every night at 3:00 a.m.? What if they have a bowling alley in their living room upstairs? What if the plumbing goes "kafloohey" in the middle of the day, when I'm at work in New York?

What if? what if? what if??

I'm terrified of defaulting on a mortgage but don't give a rat's patootie if they rip me apart in the OR.

Let's face it, I'm just a great big, butch, macho Wimp.

Another Opnin'

My buddies Steve Schalchlin and Jim Brochu's off-Broadway show, "The Big Voice - God or Merman" is opening this Thursday (I'm seeing it Saturday). I'm excited for Steve and Jim. This is a very big deal for anyone in the theater. I secretly hope that the show is a huge success. Traditionally, this is done by saying to them: "Break a Leg!" It's considered bad luck to wish somebody good luck in the theater. Nobody knows why. It's always been done that way. The theater has all kinds of odd-ball superstitions, like "no whistling in the dressing room" or "no shoes on the makeup table." Stuff like that. Actors are pretty crazy people.

I did a fair amount of theater in high school, which was the usual haven for burgeoning queers back in the 50's and 60's. But I really cut loose in college. I did 17 shows in three years at the University of Delaware. Oscar Wilde, Joe Orton, Tom Stoppard, Shakespeare, you name it, I did it. Musicals, too. "Where's Charley", "Damn Yankees", "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown." I barely went to class, as is clearly evidenced by my transcript.

It turned out that I had a "hole in my soul" that seemed to get temporarily filled up by the adoring laughter and applause of an audience. I eventually got so addicted to it that I thought I couldn't live without it.

When I got out into the real world I was very disappointed to find out that people actually wanted me to audition for roles. How I resented that! So I didn't bother and, in time, I grew out of my need to act. Mostly by filling up the hole with other stuff, like booze and sex.

I eventually did join SAG, AFTRA and Equity (the three big actor's unions), and did a lot of commercial and print work in the very early 1980's. But my ex eventually tired of me being underemployed, so I wound up on Wall Street which, in it's own way, was the best acting gig I ever had. God knows it paid good!

These days I'm content to bask in the reflected glow of my friends' success. Oh sure, there are times when I miss the roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd, but I'm no longer willing to do what has to be done to make a decent living in the theater. It's hard work, and I'm older and lazier these days. Folks who do it have my endless admiration.

So here's to my friends Jim and Steve on their big New York Opening!

BREAK A LEG, YOU GUYS!

Thank You!

I've been out of town. Way out of town. I spent Thanksgiving with an old, dear friend of mine who lives outside Charlottesville, Virginia. It's a long drive, but worth the effort.

We spent Thanksgiving morning taking the bird out of the oven to baste every hour or so and watched the Macy's Day Parade. No, that's not a misprint or a typo, I said the Macy's Day Parade. Let's face it, Macy's has a lock on it. If they bailed out, what would you do on Thanksgiving morning? Watch the Target Day Parade? Wal-Mart?

No, it's been The Macy's Day Parade since "Miracle on 34th Street" premiered in 1947. The parade is actually 80 years old (this year), but Macy's didn't take possession of the day until the movie came out. That's when mothers all over America started calling it "The Macy's Day Parade". "Turn on the tv" they'd yell from countless kitchens... "the Macy's Day Parade is coming on!"

And sure enough, it did.

Oh, in olden times it had some ostensible competition. I remember something from Detroit called "The Hudson Parade" and, of course, Philadelphia had "The Gimbel's Parade", but they were pale imitations of the real-deal... The Macy's Day Parade, with it's floats and clowns and marching bands from just about every high school in the U.S., not to mention THE FABULOUS ROCKETTES! And what little gay guy, stuck in some hickburg with a name like "Dead Cow" or "East Jesus", parked in front of the 13" black and white, donned only in his Davy Crockett coonskin hat and pjs, didn't want to grow up to be one of those? WHY, NONE!!!!

So, here's a great big thanks to you, Macy's Department Store! Thanks for the memories, thanks for the parades, thanks for Thanksgiving but most of all thanks for giving little gay guys like me all over the country something to dream about and something to hope for.

God bless us, everyone!

Is it Drafty in Here?

Bring back the draft. No, I'm not kidding.

I was kidnapped off the streets by the US Government in 1968 and, more or less, sold into involuntary servitude until 1972. It wasn't the best thing that ever happened to me, nor was it the worst.

But it did do this. There was NOBODY in my "class" in boot camp who thought Viet Nam was a good idea. Nor were there any gung-ho ground-pounders in my electronics schools who couldn't wait to get "in-country" so they could eat dead, burnt Cong bodies. And by the time I actually got into fleet service, in the summer of 1969, it was pretty much a foregone conclusion that the war was a waste of money and lives.

And why was that good?

Because an army of involunteers is far less likely to support a coup d'etat than an army of paid mercernaries is. That's why. Many of my shipmates in the Navy, especially at my base outside of Washington (the Naval Air Test Center at Patuxent River) used their copious free time to volunteer for anti-war duty (organizing protests, participating in same) in Washington. I even knew some officers who were up to their eyeballs in the anti-war movement. I remember bringing fistfulls of the local underground paper in Washington, The QuickSilver Times, back to the base to distribute to my not-so-covert anti-war comrades. It contained the news that wasn't being published in the Washington Post, such as the rallying points around town for the May Day demonstrations in 1970 and '71. Demonstrations which, I would estimate, were populated by at least 1/3rd active-duty military personnel (in civvies, of course).

If you want to end an unpopular war quickly, have an armed services that's loaded with a bunch of disgruntled, shanghaied conscripts who are just one more bullshit order this side of stringing up an Admiral or General and who only pretend to have respect for authority (remember "fragging"?)

Furthermore, I still fold my socks and underwear the same way I learned in bootcamp.

Oh, and I'm not pee-shy, either. You get over being pee-shy (and poo-shy, too, for that matter) when the men's rooms (aka "heads") lack such niceties as "dividers" and "stalls." You'll go if you gotta go bad enough.

Oh, and I notice that they now have "privacy curtains" surrounding the bunks on-board ships these days. We did not have "privacy curtains." If you needed to take care of some matter of pressing, hormonal, origins, you just did it and let the chips, as it were, fall where they may.

As a gay man, I have to admit that I miss those wonderful mornings when I would awaken and look around at the forest of "morning wood" that surrounded me on the top-tier of bunks.

Ahhhh, the good old days.

So yes, please, bring back the draft.

And get rid of those friggin' privacy curtains while you're at it.

Blah...

I've still got an emotional hangover from Friday (see: previous post). When I fall into the trap of believing that I'm supposed to be perfect and that anything less than perfection somehow, or other, makes ME the mistake, it takes me a couple of days to talk myself back into some semblance of stability and sanity.

This is how crazy I get... last night a friend of mine invited me to come over for "game night", an event he has at his home once a month or so. A normal person would leap at it, thinking, "oh boy! this will get me out of myself!" Not me. Oh, no, I couldn't possibly. I'm feeling terrible about myself, I think I'll go home and isolate and really talk myself into feeling even worse!

So I did.

Luckily I had to get together with a bunch of friends of mine this morning for a regular Sunday morning gig we have and, by the end of it, I was feeling much better. I was no longer "the" mistake.

So now I'm ready to go into that office tomorrow morning... and pretend like nothing happened. And if HE should bring it up I'm prepared to say, "Are you STILL stuck in that? Get over it, I have."

Thanksgiving Week is starting up. I'm leaving for Virigina first thing Tuesday morning and won't be back home until next Sunday. I'll probably post tomorrow but the remainder of the week might be spotty.

Like Bev, I don't want anyone wondering if I'm lying in a gutter somewhere... dead. No. Most likely I'm stuck in traffic on I-95 somewhere between NYC and Richmond (try the Beltway around DC... that's always good for a laugh... and a 17-mile backup)

Jeez, it's practically Christmas.

What are you getting me? :-)

Infuriating Bosses

My boss is making me crazy(er).

He sent me an e-mail yesterday morning asking "get me to Chicago 1st thing tomorrow morning, returning last thing tomorrow night". Okay. I got him the information. "Outbound at 6:00 a.m." No good. "Don't they have a red-eye to Chicago tonight, returning tomorrow night?" Okay. No, they don't. "Alright, then, what were the times tomorrow again?" I told him. "How about going out tomorrow morning and coming back first thing Saturday morning." I went back and got him the times for that. "No good. Too early. See if they have something going out around 8:00 a.m. and coming back on Saturday about the same time." Okay. "Well, don't they have anything in-between 6 and 8?" No, they don't.

He finally agrees to go out on a 6:00 a.m. on Friday and return on an 8:00 a.m. on Saturday. I book it. Great price. $300+ round-trip.

I come to work this morning. He's already in Chicago and sent me an e-mail, "what times are the last flights from O'Hare to LaGuardia on American tonight?"

Okay. I get him three flights AND the information that changing his cut-rate ticket at this point will result in him having to shuck out an additional $700.00. He goes ballistic (via e-mail). I call the travel agent and find that if he'd booked a fully-refundable ticket yesterday it would've cost him $1,100.00 round trip from NYC to Chicago. In other words, it would be the same.

I haven't heard a word from him since.

Naturally, I'm sitting here feeling as though I am, somehow or other, the failure in all this.

My rational mind, though, says, "he's insane and he's taking it out on you. You are NOT responsible for his shitty life. You are NOT supposed to be a mind-reader or a fortune teller." I know all that, intellectually. Still, I'm feeling "less than" right now.

Infuriating bosses have the nagging habit of bringing out the lack of self-esteem in me.

I hate when that happens.

Sleeping Dawgs

The title of today's blog has two meanings. The first refers to my friend Bev Sykes, who is up to her eyeballs in puppies. Bev is a canine caregiver these days. She had lots of practice for the job. After all, she did raise five kids. Bev has a good soul. The puppies are adorable. Go check out her website for a real heartwarming read.

The second sleeping dawg I'm referring to is someone I knew during a brief career, long, long ago.

I'm heading to Virginia on Tuesday to spend Thanksgiving with a very dear friend of long-standing. Jan and I are real soulmates in a lot of ways and different as night and day in others. But we've always enjoyed the hell out of each other's company. I always look forward to some quality time with Jan.

I first met Jan when we were both wet behind the ears writer-producers at HBO/CineMax back in the very early days of the networks. It was so far back that we actually attended something called the "Cable ACE Awards" in those days, because cable shows weren't eligible for Emmy's, then. We didn't win.

I remember one time when Jan, who was not exactly a sports afficianado had been handed the assignment to write a bunch of promos for an upcoming prize fight. With the deadline staring her in the face she started calling all the other WPs to run some copy past them. "How does this sound?", she asked. "HE'S BIG, HE'S BLACK, HE HITS PEOPLE." We all agreed, it needed some work.

I have a ton of funny stories about Jan, as I'm sure she has about me, and the handful of other young writer-producers at HBO back then, and about our exploits working for a real firecracker of a character named Ken Keefer, who headed up the on-air promotion department at HBO, virtually from its founding. In fact, the whole network owes its' "look" to Ken Keefer. It was he who came up with idea for the great swooping camera shot, starting in space and diving down into the model city and along the streets that preceeded the premiers of 1st-run flicks on the network.

In addition to being a wordsmith, Ken was also a jazz afficianado. He loved Bix Biederbeck, Herbie Hancock and everyone in-between. He had a great collection, not only of 33's, but also of some vintage 78's. But he loved wordplay. I once wrote an intro to a film clip, which was to be said by our on-screen hostess, the comic Anne Meara, which used the word "hectored." Boy, did I get called on the carpet for that! "HECTORED!?" he bellowed. He could be quite intimidating when he put his mind to it. I responded, "What's wrong with sending them to the dictionaries once a month?"

He agreed. It stayed.

Ken was also what was euphemistically referred to in those days as a "confirmed bachelor." Jan and I both suspect that Ken was gay, but that he was just close enough to the previous generation to want to remain closeted, even in more liberated times. If it was true, it was a real shame. I liked Ken a lot. Maybe even enough... Well, that hardly matters now. Ken died about 15 years ago. He was still a fairly young man, late 40's-early 50's at most.

I didn't know Ken for very long. Just a few years, really, before I was dragged down to Wall Street. In all that time he was always somewhat distant and, deep down, untouchable. He could be quite maddeningly vague and mysterious at times. But he had a wonderful laugh. Infectious. And he was very supportive and nurturing of "his kids" on the writing staff, few of whom had had any real training for the job. Like Bev, he liked taking in orphans and watching them grow and flourish.

One of the little regrets of my life is that I let that sleeping dawg lie. I wish I'd put a little more effort into waking him up.

Who knows what could've happened?

p.s. check this out. be sure you remember the tune to "SuperCaliFragilisticExpialidocious", though.

South Africa

As you know I'm not necessarily a big fan of so-called "gay marriage" which would sound to me like a tasteful parody of Brittany and KFed's marriage if it weren't for the fact that their marriage already was a parody.

But South Africa has now legitimized gay marriage, and I suppose it would be churlish of me not to join in the general celebration over it.

The article in today's NYTimes quotes one Melanie Judge, the program manager for OUT, a gay rights advocacy group, as having said some nice things, but she finished with (and this is what struck me).... "Equality does not exist on a sliding scale."

In other words, "separate but equal" is not good enough.

HEY, DIDN'T WE STRIKE DOWN "SEPERATE BUT EQUAL" IN "BROWN vs. THE BOARD OF EDUCATION"?

Well, not quite. Isn't "seperate but equal" exactly what the New Jersey Supreme Court recently suggested in it's namby-pamby decision ordering the legislature to "do something" to "make things equalish" between straight couples and gay couples.

Boy, that'll bring us right up to 1954, won't it?

I suppose I should be grateful (for f*cking crumbs). It IS a better world for gay people than it was in, oh, say, 1964, when I was in high school. We still get the crap beat out of us but at least we have a chance to have our day in court, provided we make a big enough stink about it.

So yesterday South Africa, a country which up until a decade or so ago was still living in America's 18th Century, made a dramatic leap past us, into the 21st Century.

South Africa is a wonderful place to be black these days.

Gay, too!

Self-Loathing

I just read on Wonkette that Mel Martinez is being pimped for Chairman of the RNC now that Ms. Mehlman is stepping down. The article jokingly headlines that the RNC is "flirting with heterosexuality" or something close to that.

Look, there's been a ton of press in the last few months about all the self-loathing faggots in DC who work, strenuously, and against their own interests as human beings, for anti-gay Republican candidates in order to secure good jobs for themselves after said fag-bashers are elected to public office.

They see absolutely nothing wrong with it. It's just about "winning" in their book.

They mentally disconnect themselves from the real-life physical harm that may/probably ensues to real-live gay people out there in the hinterlands at the hands of overzealous followers who feel justified and redeemed in their views that the "only good queer is a dead queer" because their rabidly anti-gay candidate won by a landslide.

Never mind that said candidate has an office full of queers, manning the campaign.

Meanwhile, after "their guy" wins, those selfsame queers circulate throughout the inner-beltway, flitting from gay bar to cocktail party to fundraiser, winking and smiling and pinching each others bottoms, in an endless round of utter denial than anything they have done has any implications whatsover in the lives of millions of gay people out there, somewhere, west of Georgetown.

Remember the 1994 mid-terms? That's when the "Contract with America" crowd got elected. I was down in Rehoboth Beach the following summer, as I had been for umpteen eons, drinking like a fish and hanging around the gay bars in this seaside resort where Haute Gay Washington (and Baltimore) spends the summer.

I was in one of my favorite watering-holes, The Blue Moon, one night, elbow on the bar, looking pretty good for a man in my pickled condition, when this beautiful young thing sidled up to me and flashed me a winning smile. "Hi" he said. "My name's [fill in the blank], and I work for Congresscritter So-and-So" (which meant nothing to me). He just got elected from [some district way out there in JesusLand I've never heard of]... [HERE COMES THE KICKER] ... AND I BELIEVE IN THE CONTRACT WITH AMERICA."

I was stunned. I mean, first of all, who in their right mind deliberately "outs" their political affiliation in the middle of trying to pick someone up? Do serial killers announce their intentions when they first meet their next vick?

And then to top it off with an admission that you enthusiastically work for and support anyone who is antithetical to everything you are to your very core is... well, I think it's an abomination.

I looked at the hapless twerp and said very sharply, "Please get away from me you freak."

In retrospect I shouldn't have been surprised. It was his first summer in Rehoboth and he probably had every reason to believe, based on things he'd been told by others of his ilk back home in DC, that Rehoboth was "the summer Capital" (which it advertises itself as), and that everyone there was going to be just like everyone back home in the bars around Dupont Circle.

Boy, was he wrong.

I'd already had a Republican boyfriend (I'd just left my ex the previous December) and I wasn't interested in finding another one. In truth I wasn't looking for a boyfriend at all. Twelve years later I'm still boyfriendless (and loving it). But that didn't matter.

It was the fact that he was living such a self-deluded lie that horrified me.

I'm no saint, but at least I don't sell bullets to my executioners.

Best Bumper Sticker of Last Week!

I love it.

And then there's this one, which I think captures the true essence of ME! ('cause it's all about me!)

Sober Reminder

An acquaintence of mine just returned from a business trip to eastern Europe and, while he was over there, he managed to acquire a new sobriety date.

His former sobriety date was the same week and year as mine. As of this morning he has 3 days "back" as we say.

It happened "just like that." It always does, from what I hear. This disease of mine (ours) is cunning, baffling and powerful. And I'm always just a heartbeat away from losing my mind and sobriety.

We have a saying amongst my kind that there will come a time, for each of us, when "the only thing standing between me and a drink, will be my Higher Power"; (I'll) be totally alone with the liquor (drug, food, porn, racing form) and "no one will ever know." Except me and that Higher Power of mine (however I'm conceiving of it that day). THAT will be my moment of truth. That is when only my total reliance upon and surrender to God, as I understand God, will come into play to save my sorry @ss from myself.

My friend apparently forgot that, took his own will back, thought to himself, "Hey, I can do this now" and found out, in very short order, that he couldn't. That first drink, within hours, turned into a full-blown drunk and he very nearly blew the deal he'd been sent there to conclude by showing up vomitously hung-over the next morning and being sick all the following day.

Oh, and he gets to start counting his sobriety all over again. He's up to Day Three now.

I was not kind to him after he announced it. I didn't know what to say and what I did say was pretty cutting. He jokingly asked me how he was supposed to keep track of his sobriety date now that we no longer shared one. I said, "well, whose fault is that?"

Before this day is out I must call him and apologize to him for that comment.

He does not need to be castigated. He knows what he lost. What he needs now is my full love and compassion.

And if I expect to stay sober, it's my job to give it to him.

And THAT'S the way it works.

Conciliation...

I told my buddy Steve Schalchlin yesterday that I'd had a "blinding flash" moment in the morning whilst commuting into Manhattan.

Believe me, I'm no St. Paul. I'm much nicer than that self-serving, woman-hating, closet-case ever was. But the thought did come out of the blue. "Wouldn't it be nice if someone gay could get a message to Ted Haggard that said, basically, 'a) God doesn't make garbage, b) God doesn't make mistakes and c) God loves you just the way you are.'?"

I think he might really need to hear a message like that right about now because I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that he is currently as sequestered under wraps as a Gitmo detainee by a bunch of ChristoFascists intent on brainwashing the queerness right out of him, come Hell or High Water!

And you can bet your bippy that they're looking at or listening to every letter, postcard, e-mail, and phone call that comes his way. Nothing is getting through to him uncensored.

Which is why, of course, that I would love to find a way around all that.

When I found out that James Dobson had abruptly resigned from the self-appointed ChristoFascist BrainWashing Committee, which had been hastily convened to save Teddy-Boy from the evil clutches of rampant Whoopie-Times, due to "previous commitments" or somesuchbullshit, the thought flashed through my mind, "Hey, maybe Teddy-Boy doesn't want to be brainwashed. Maybe he's relieved the whole thing is finally out there!"

Just a thought.

So, if any of you knows of a secure way to sneak a message to Ted Haggard, I'd be glad to hear about it!

Meanwhile, some of the talking heads on Fox News are coming completely unglued over the Democratic victories in the House and Senate. Neil Cavuto is practically foaming at the mouth that the stock market is on the verge of collapse and that it's the end of capitalism as we know and love it. There's even rampant Gore bashing vis a vis Chuck Schumer's suggestion to George Allen to do the gentlemanly thing and to step, graciously aside. They have their knickers in a twist because nobody immediately suggested to Gore that he should step aside (in Florida).

I have to admit, publicly, here and now, that I absolutely RELISH the thought of watching Fox News and checking out the Fox website every day for the NEXT TWO YEARS. There's absolutely nothing more amusing than watching the enemy run around like a junkyard dog after it's balls have been cut off.

Ding, dong...

the witch is dead.

Yeah, Rummy has resigned (or got kicked out - part of the "deal" Dubya had to make with Pelosi to get continued funding - for the time being - for his insane war). It's a shame we can't vote for Vice-President every two years. If we could, his ass would be gone, too.

And speaking of Pelosi, I would've given just about anything to have been in the room when Dubya had to call her and kiss her lily-white, San Franciscan, liberal-progressive @ss over the phone.

And we now have a woman who is third in line to the Presidency if, God forbid!, anything should ever happen to our well-beloved President and Whatshisname.

Women are continuing to creep up on the throne. It will happen in my lifetime.

I am content with having the House. All spending legislation originates in the House. The Senate fulminates over weighty matters of state, such as flag-burning and gay marriage.

We may have a split in the Senate, but I'm not overly concerned about that because James Dobson and his EvangeliNazis have lost their golden touch (he resigned from the "Healing Haggard" committee today - maybe Haggard don't want to be healed!!) now that it's been revealed that whole bunches of people they've backed in the past all turned out to be Big-Nelly, Screaming-Homo, Evangelical, Meth-Snorting, Bible-Thumping PageF*ckers. This newly found lack of spine on the Radical Right will embolden more than a handful of moderate Republicans to actually do the right thing socially, now and then, rather than having to constantly suck up to the Born-Again Douchebag crowd.

But I must try to be a good winner and offer my hand to the losers in friendship and love.

NOT.

For more years than I care to remember THAT SIDE of the aisle did everything it could to diminish, demean and deplete me as a human being, a man, a gay person and an American.

I wish them nothing but ill-will.

Someday, when I'm a better person, I might ... MIGHT, find forgiveness in my heart.

But that day is not today. And today, I am one happy, f*cking, camper.

Breaking News

There was just a "red banner headline" on the CNN website. Britney and K-Fed are ... well, they're Fed Up and filing for divorce citing "irreconcilable differences". Yeah, approximately 140 million differences.

CNN knew that we'd want to know.

What they don't want you to know is that they, and the other networks, have been feverishly exit-polling all day but you won't hear about it until the polls close. Why? Because they don't want to lose advertising revenues to the blogosphere. Oh, they'll tell you the reason is that they don't want to repeat mistakes of "mis-called" elections, as they've done in the past. But that's all bullshit. It's about the $$$. It's always about the $$$.

I haven't voted yet although New Jersey is probably one of the most hotly contested senate seats up for grabs. I'll vote when I get home around 7:00 p.m. I know how the voting machines work in my little 1-square-mile patch of paradise. I also know all the local poll workers, and they all know me.

I used to hate living in a small town. "I'm the only gay in the village" was my mantra (okay I stole that from the BBC show "Little Britain"). Now I like it. Only it turns out I'm not the only gay in the village anymore. In fact, a number of very rich gays from NYC are invading MY town and snatching up ancient Victorians (and believe me you know within months which ones they've bought... they look FABULOUS) and drive real estate prices (and real-estate taxes) through the friggin' roof.

Fucking fags. God love us.

For those of my faithful readers (Hi, Bev, hi Alan!!!) on the Best Coast, please ignore everything you may be seeing or hearing and drag yer asses out to the polls as soon as you can.

It ain't over until it's ALL over.

Vote.

It's the least any of us can do.

And if you really love me, you'll vote Democratic, which is hardly breaking news to anybody who knows me.

Civics

When I was a kid we had a class in school called "Civics." I don't think they teach it anymore.

We were taught to revere, even idolize, the founding fathers (rich white guys), and that we had civic responsibilities to attend to, such as town meetings, jury duty, voting, paying taxes and going off to die in meaningless wars in order to make the world safe for the Ford Motor Company (does anyone remember that Robert McNamara came to be SecDef AFTER being Chairman of FoMoCo?)

Anyway, in those days I don't remember anyone ever mentioning values. It was understood that the only good queer was a dead, or at least horribly mangled, queer; that jews and niggrahs were to keep to themselves, in their own neighborhoods, and to show proper respect to the white christian men who ran the nation, that women were sperm recepticles/breeding stock and that God (on old white guy on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel) Blessed America.

Those were our "values" in the 1950's and early 60's.

Now our values include acting out on our self-hatred by beating up on ourselves and anyone else whom we even suspect of having the same qualities that we loathe in ourselves. Reverend Haggard hates himself (and queers in general). You'd better believe that Mark Foley hates himself (and he's none too thrilled with the Pages turned Rats -- those little f*cking Lolitas). And I firmly believe that the blind beligerence of George W. Bush and Richard Cheney are based in self-doubt and self-loathing over having run away from their military duties as young men and that they MUST be perceived as "manly men" at all costs now. It's a form of redemption for them.

But they are chickenhawks (not to be confused with "chickenshit", which they also are, but never mind that now). When I was young a chickenhawk was an older gay male who chased after younger gay men. Now chickenhawks are just washed up draft-dodgers (probably with small penises) who feel the need to demonstrate just how macho they can be with other people's lives and money.

What patriotic cause is being served in Iraq? I believe that it's the Bonesman "cause" of a son completing the father's unfinished business. I believe that Dubya has long felt shame, not only for his own shortcomings as a younger man, but also over the failure of his father to "complete" the business of deposing Saddam at the end of the First Gulf War.

And I believe that George W. Bush would happily march this entire country straight into Hell in order to fulfill his personal desires.

Tomorrow I intend to fulfill my civic duty by voting in my local precinct for any and all candidates who abhor George W. Bush and his cronies and his policies as much as I do.

And may God, wherever She is, bless us all.

Who am I anyway? Am I my resume?

Yesterday morning I asked a guy who's in early recovery how he was doing. His answer was something along the lines of "Oh, well this week I closed three big deals and went out on a couple of business dinners and..." by then I'd tuned him completely out.

I, too, used to think that I was what I did. That was before I got sober. Then I found out that most of what I'd done in my life was a) in a drunken stupor or b) to shut somebody up or c) to make somebody else happy.

Nowhere in there was there anything to do with me and what I wanted.

A shrink once asked me if I haven't derived any satisfaction out of my so-called career on Wall Street. "No", I said. "It wasn't my career. It was my ex's idea of what my career should be." It's not my ex's fault. That poor schlub didn't know he was buying a dysfunctional budding drunk when he met me. I wound up on Wall Street because I thought it would shut him up and make him happy.

I was wrong.

Okay, so what would make me happy? I don't know. I never really thought about it. Oh, I'm good at seeing, in retrospect that I "could've" done this or that or the other thing. But I don't look back, ever, and say, "gee, if I'd only stuck with that I would've been truly happy!" I don't have those kinds of regrets.

I go through this every year about this time. It's Peter Pan season for me and, sad to say or happy to report, depending on how you look at it, at the age of 58 I'm still trying to decide what I want to be when I grow up.

Any suggestions?

I Did Not Have Sex ....

Reverend Haggard's in trouble.

Having been caught with his hand, and God knows what else, in the proverbial cookie jar (he's admitted to "some" of the allegations), he has retreated to the last resort of a scoundrel or bottomed-out alcoholic, total denial:

'Late Wednesday, Haggard told KUSA-TV: "I've never had a gay relationship with anybody, and I'm steady with my wife, I'm faithful to my wife."'

Which is, technically, true. He HAS never had a "gay relationship" with anybody. What he had were blowjobs and butt-f*cking with a rent boy.

And since he's probably never gotten blowjobs from nor butt-f*cked Mrs. Haggard, then he probably thinks he didn't, actually, have sex with that rent-boy, either.

Just like President Clinton didn't have "sex" with Monica Lewinsky! (because BJ's don't count!)

All that's missing is the cum-stained dress. Maybe somebody will turn up with a pair of cum-stained assless chaps, instead! That would be highly entertaining on the evening news!!!

So, this is where we've arrived in America.

I certainly understand now what I've always intuitively suspected... that 100's of thousands of the bible-thumping loudmouths who ranted and raved against the evil homosexuals were, themselves, hanging around drunk in adult bookstores on Saturday nights looking to get their rocks off in whatever mustachioed orifice that appeared on the other side of the glory hole.

Which is why, to this day, they claim that it's a matter of choice.

Yeah. In their cases. They oughta know because it's something they choose every single day.

Whereas people like me, who've never harbored a heterosexual thought in our lives, are left out to dry (in Republican parlance, "collateral damage"), rightless, nationless, disenfranchised outsiders who've been made to feel like freaks our entire lives by a theocracy posing as a self-righteous democracy.

I remember, way back in the 90's, being upset by, and suspicious of the motives of, ACT-UP, and their tactic of outing people. I really thought that public people were entitled to their private lives. I even defended that view, much to my shame now, in a Compuserve forum where I wound up offending someone whom I now love dearly, while thinking I was defending someone who turned out to be a self-serving louse.

Thank God I now know.

Anyway, my feelings have changed 180 degrees on the subject. I now feel that if anyone puts themselves into a position whereby they are publicly critical of someone else's life in any way, shape or form, they'd better be damned sure that their house is utterly spotless first.

All the politeness is now removed from politics. All that's left are the "ics."