To jump on Choire's memory bandwagon for a moment . . .

One of my Real Life peeps - we'll call him "Brenda" - reminded me (after reading about my encounter with a LaRouche minion), that Lyndon LaRouche was the one who brought Proposition 64 before California voters in 1986. This was the measure that would have created a "central registry" of people with positive HIV tests, and would have added AIDS to a short list of highly communicable diseases that are officially subject to quarantine under certain circumstances.

Thankfully, the voters of California defeated the measure with something like an 80% majority. And even had some kind of mob panic mentality passed the measure, the courts would have certainly struck it down.

LaRouche is certainly no Reagan. Reagan set (or avoided setting) major national health and research policies on AIDS. LaRouche has only had that kind of influence in his own dreams.

Reagan's hands are bloody. LaRouche only wishes his hands were.

Still, we remember. Because, as Choire pointed out, these mean old bastards will die. And we will be the custodians of their posterity.

In Ancient Egypt, when a new dynasty overthrew an old one, they knocked the eyes out of the statues of the defeated, to eternally mar their memory.

Keep a list. Because when we have become the 50-70 year old power brokers running this country and the world, we will have the last word on how these people will be viewed by future generations.

To be honest, people like Reagan and LaRouche will bear only a small portion of my personal vengeance. Because they are really just the puppets on display, the "front-men," the visible martyrs. What I want to know is . . . who finances LaRouche? Who was advising Reagan on health policy? How many of those people are STILL involved in governing our country? How much did Nancy have to say in the matter?

Defacing Reagan's image (or LaRouche's) is the easy answer. But it's not the whole enchilada. The nameless people slinking around behind the figureheads will continue to do their thing unless they are rooted out and systematically exposed.

Let's beat the bushes. And when our time comes, let's leave many, many loose eyeballs littering the streets.

P. S. Sometimes the universe beats us to the punch. As the boys at Beaverhausen point out, someone better call Alanis Morisette, because it's pretty ironic that something might have been done to save Ronnie's health and his memory . . . if only a Republican President hadn't obstructed the progress of stem cell research.

Nancy is quoted in the NY Times as follows:

"A lot of time is being wasted. A lot of people who could be helped are not being helped."

Well, I think of how many people said those same words when Reagan was failing to even bother to notice the beginning of the AIDS crisis . . . and I guess what goes around comes around.

Human justice is always subject to error. But you can't argue with the universe.

I imagine God sittin' in heaven, smoking a big ol' stogie - just like Lt. Col. John "Hannibal" Smith - and saying, "I love it when a plan comes together."

So a few months ago, I got it in my head that it might be fun to go blonde. I've never been blonde. I've never been any color other than my natural color.

Well, actually, blonde WAS my natural color when I was born, and for the first couple years of my life. Then my hair darkened.

It's funny, but as I write this, I think that maybe my hair color changes with my soul. Born pure blonde, I gradually darkened to chestnut brown through childhood. In high school, people commented on how dark my hair was getting . . . almost black. My Scoutmaster joked that I must be using "Grecian Tonic." (I only knew what that was because I had read that President Reagan used this old-time geezer's elixir to darken his own gray coif.)

I've changed so much in the past few years. Most people notice it. It radiates in my face, in the way I carry my body, in the depths of my eyes. But there are people who refuse to see, who seem - with every visit, every phone call, every letter - to want to jam me back into the uncomfortable cookie-cutter boundaries of who I used to be.

Perhaps my bleach-job fantasies arose out of some desire to change myself blatantly, externally, so that even the most dim and insensitive would be forced to recognize me as transformed . . . transformed into myself . . . transformed into the beautiful blonde boy I was born to be.

Or maybe it was just that I've always found bleach blondes to be really hot. In a dirty gay surfer porn sort of way.

Anyway, there were a couple reasons I didn't "Just Do It." Laziness was a good part of it. And fear of the aftermath. I can't bring myself to get regular haircuts; I surely wouldn't manage to get regular bleach jobs. Which means . . . roots. Ugh.

So the idea was shelved.

When I got a haircut a few weeks ago, the nice Supercuts lady wrapped the cape around my shoulders, and then sort of petted my hair and said, "What a beautiful color! Look at it! Ash blonde. That's what you call that color."

I had to laugh. I had become blonde without even trying!!

Most people would still call my hair brown. But I look at pictures, and I look in the mirror, and I look through the eyes of the Supercuts lady (because she is the cosmetology professional, after all).

And I see it.

Under light, my hair shimmers. There are strands of sparkling yellow and white gold mixed in with the light chocolate brown.

It wasn't always that way. I have lightened.

An old boyfriend tried to tell me about this, years ago. When we were in bed, he would comb through my hair with his fingers, lift the strands away from my scalp, and examine them closely. He would tell me about all the shades he saw, and the breath of his words would stroke my face.

But I didn't really believe him. Because back then, the sparkles couldn't be seen in regular waking life. They were only visible under the faery lights of that humid midnight realm where men gently caress each other between orgasms.

Plus, he was a lighting technician, so I figured he was just doing his job . . . making the actor look good by whatever artificial means necessary.

But now I see. I have let go of so much. I have become lighter. I have become less. And by becoming less, I have become more. More myself.

People still may not notice the new, blonde me. But hair is born deep within, and emerges in its own time. My ash blonde hair, as beautiful as I am finding it to be, is really only the shade of yesterday's soul. The changes of this season have not yet had time to show themselves.

Watch as my color changes! One day, perhaps . . . I will be invisible.

"Honey . . . what's that odd smell wafting through the neighborhood?"

*sniff* *sniff* "Oh, of course! It's . . . DECAYING CORPSE!"

I'll bet you thought they made this shit up for the movies.

Here in my lovely new neighborhood, about 6 blocks from my fabulous duplex apartment, there lived a gay 58-year-old Vietnam vet named Lee, who was described by his best friend as being a belligerent alcoholic with a sunshine heart buried underneath.

Lee's partner found out he was HIV positive, and killed himself. Lee was terrified to get tested.

The story gets fuzzy here, but somehow Lee invites a casual bar acquaintance named James to come live with him. James is thirty-seven, and claims that there was no sexual element to their relationship. James was unemployed and homeless because he had been fired from his job as a live-in home healthcare worker.

Why?

Well, he was caring for a wheelchair-bound sixty-eight year old San Francisco man. And he made him sleep in his chair for three months, so that he developed lesions on his body. He also told the guy something like, "You know, my last client died while I was caring for him."

He proceeded to threaten his client, choke him, steal thousands of dollars from him, and expose him to unspecified "lewd acts."

And then he cut the phone lines.

The man's family came out from Sacramento within a few days to see what was going on, since they couldn't make phone contact. Thank God. They found the poor guy in such bad shape he had to be hospitalized for two weeks.

So then James moves in with Lee.

One day Lee's best friend and neighbor comes knocking at the door because she hasn't seen Lee in a while. James answers. He is well-dressed and cheery, and he says he is watering the plants while Lee is away on a fabulous $7,000 Disney cruise that he won.

In fact, Lee's dead body was rotting in the bathtub, covered in baking soda. It had been there for a month.

James had been living in the apartment with the corpse, probably cashing Lee's disability checks and pawning Lee's belongings.

When James found that the baking soda didn't adequately absorb the odors from Lee's decaying body - "Damn . . . it always works in the refrigerator!" - he decided to turn the heat in the apartment up. WAY up. To accelerate the decomposition.

Ever have someone fart in your car? The last thing you want to do is turn up the heat.

The neighbor stopped by again a few weeks later. James said: "Oh no, I got the dates wrong the last time I talked to you . . . Lee won't be back until next week."

But the smell permeating the air gave away James' secret. And even standing outside the door, the neighbor could see that the apartment was thick with flies.

She called the police. Ten days ago, Lee's body was found, and James was arrested.

James says that Lee made an unwanted sexual advance, and that a struggle ensued. He won't say exactly what happened next, but police believe Lee was stabbed to death.

James also says that a few weeks ago, he was reborn as the second coming of Christ. While being questioned by police, he broke into a rousing chorus of "Amazing Grace."

Welcome to my neighborhood!!

It's funny how Hollywood makes everything prettier. Even in the ugly movies. I mean the Hollywood version of James would have at least hung up a few dozen of those little green-tree air fresheners so that the neighbors wouldn't have to be bothered with the stench.

Also, it's kind of funny that when I was looking up this story on the SF Chronicle website, the first distinctive term I could think of to search for was "baking soda."

Think I've been watching too much CSI?

Have a good Friday everyone!!

So remember about a month ago, when I told you all about nineteen-year-old genius author Marty Beckerman? Well, not too long after that, I got the latest update from his Yahoo Group mailing list. The "coincidence" was too compelling. I could resist no longer. After reading him for years . . . I just had to e-mail him.

Here's what I wrote:

Ah, Marty. Marty Marty Marty.

It's fate, I'm telling you!!! Just the other week, I was thinking about you, and wrote about you on my website, pimping you out to all my <*cough* *cough*> millions of readers (most of whom found my site by searching Google for "Ols3n Tw1ns Naked").

And then, a mere nineteen days later, I got the update you sent through your mailing list. Marty Beckerman must totally be in the air these days!!! And my nose is full of your heady stench.

So, Marty, I just had to write you and let you know that I am definitely your number one fan. Sure, I haven't bought your book yet. 'Cause I'm a lazy little bitch. But hey . . . I'm YOUR lazy little bitch. Doesn't that make you feel good? Don't you deserve an awesome fan like me?

Anyway, I just wanted to say hi. I promise never to write you again unless you write me back. I've done the stalker thing before, and it never really seems to satisfy MY needs. Celebrities can be so self-involved sometimes!!

Stop by my website and say hi someday!

Your obsessively lustful homosexual psychic fan,

William Ted

He responded almost instantaneously:

Hey William,

Thanks for all the feedback, it's not everyday I get offers from "lustful homosexual psychics" to be my eternal bitch.

Jesus, I had no idea anyone monitored my site so closely. Well, just so you know, the child beauty queen and baptist halloween columns are back up.

[Ed. Note: He is referring, of course, to his incredibly insightful essays Child Beauty Queens are Fucking Abhorrent and Their Sick Goddamn Parents Should Be Gang-Raped by Crazed Baboons and You're Going to Hell for Trick-or-Treating and the Jews Killed Jesus: My Sickeningly Spiritual Evening at the _____ Baptist Church's Holy-Ween Carnival. Read them now!]

Thanks again, and sorry I like wet delicious vagina more than bloody male assholes.

-Marty

That's mah boy!!

Of course, this is only an abbreviated version of our correspondence, because, you know, we're like, buddies now and we've got secrets together and stuff. But you get the idea.

(Frankie: You know you're my inspiration.)

An amusing thing happened to me on September 11th.

I was walking down Market Street in Downtown SF, and I passed by a man with a table full of some kind of political literature and paraphernalia. I wasn’t paying much attention. I noticed something about “Peace.”

Someone threw a bitter comment at him, and he said, kind of under his breath - but also so that everyone within five yards could hear - “Why is everyone in this country so stupid!?”

He took himself so seriously, it made me laugh.

He noticed me laughing. “You’re not stupid like that, are you?” he asked.

My crossing light was red. I was stuck at the corner. I wasn’t going anywhere. So I responded: “No. I’m only half stupid.”

He showed me the newspaper he was peddling, and explained that he was trying to help get Lyndon LaRouche nominated as the Democratic Party’s candidate for President in 2004. Apparently, Lyndon LaRouche can offer solutions for war, terrorism, the problems with the world economy, spam e-mail, and the common cold.

(OK, he didn’t actually say all that, but these guys always promise the world, don't they?)

He asked if I’d heard of Lyndon LaRouche. I thought about saying, “I hear he’s a total wack job.” I also thought about explaining to him that since I’m a psychic homosexual performing artist, Lyndon LaRouche and I don’t really belong in the same universe, let alone the same political campaign.

But I decided to hear him out. Wack jobs can be interesting. I like to keep an open mind. Some of my best friends are wack jobs.

After some more talk of how La Rouche was “educating youth around the world to see his point of view,” he asked if I was interested in supporting LaRouche.

I said, “I don’t really do politics.”

He got huffy. “Well then, you’re the reason we’re in this mess in the first place!!”

“Well,” I said, chuckling, “I’m not the only one.”

“Now’s your chance!” he said. “Now’s your chance to help turn everything around! Before we collapse like Rome!”

Ah, Rome. I thought fondly of my past lives in the Roman army, as a Roman Senator. Rome was a pretty cool place to be for a while.

“Yeah,” I said nostalgically. “This country really is a lot like Rome.”

I meant it in a good way. Then I realized that in Roman times, this guy had mostly been a slave . . . and not the kind they invited to the orgies. So he didn’t really share my appreciation for the Great Republic.

He offered me his newspaper about the wondrous accomplishments of the Blessed LaRouche, and I said, “I’ll take a look at this. You have a good afternoon!” Open mind.

“So would you like to make a $20 contribution to the LaRouche campaign?”

I gave him his paper back. “I’m not interested.”

I walked a few steps away, but my light was still red, and he followed me. “Not interested!? You’re not interested in alternatives to war, to economic collapse, to terrorism!?”

I turned on him. “There are plenty of alternatives.”

“Where?”

I really had no words to explained to him all the things I'd been thinking about that day, through the hysterical Drama Queen "memorials," the constant attempts by government and media to brainwash us into linking our passionate feelings about 9/11 to the Bush family's crusade for Iraq's oil, the well-meaning but ultimately ineffectual shouts being raised in angry anti-war protest. The whole thing is a big snowball headed downhill to hell, and Lyndon LaRouche sure as shit can't do anything about it. And I don't know anyone else who can, either.

So why should I feel the need to get wrapped up in this depressing group-think no-win scenario?

When the game everyone else is playing is terminally dreary, the only solution is to find your own game.

And in my game, the only answer to war is the same as the answer to pollution. On both issues, we will get nowhere until each of us starts cleaning up our own shit. Pots calling kettles black is an aggravation, not a solution. Hating on Bush for hating on Iraq is just adding to the pile of hate. Ends do not justify means. Angry, hysterical voices create only anger and hysteria, not solutions.

I was having a great day on 9/11, playing my own game: breathing fresh air, getting a haircut, snacking on sushi. So when this guy got in my face and asked me what the alternative was to the chest-deep bullshit we're all wallowing in, I just pointed to my forehead.

I telepathed him a message. "Here. Inside me. Inside each one of us. Start cleaning up your own shit. That's the alternative."

He was a little taken aback. "What!?" he said. Clearly he was used to being the wack-job on this street corner. And here I was, out-wack-job-ing him . . . standing there on Market Street as crowds passed by, silently poking myself in the forehead.

I just kept pointing and telepathing.

His face changed. I knew that he was a sincere person. He was passionate about LaRouche because he somehow really believed that LaRouche was the only one who could save us all. And as I stood there, sending messages to his soul, I watched it register in his eyes that he might be wrong.

"What does that mean?" he asked, docile rather than confrontational.

He was listening. But now he wanted me to play his game . . . to argue, to debate, to convince, to sway his conscience.

My light changed. I walked off.

"I don't understand!!" he cried after me.

I laughed. Really loud.

Haha! So this weekend during the psychic convention, the "big world event" was the delivery of one of the big mac-daddy terrorists into American hands.

I would say that maybe this is indicative of the energy on the planet heading in a good direction . . . except that things here in the good ol' U S of A are looking more and more like Orwell's 1984 every day. So who knows if this guy they captured really is who they say he is. This seems to be a good month for repeated viewings of Wag the Dog. Maybe Orwell's date was just about 20 years early.

To make the day brighter, I give you one of my favorite internet guilty-pleasures, lowbrow.com. You go to this page, and you get to read a randomly selected blurb that is like some kind of white trash haiku. They are typically submitted by anonymous sources, and the quality varies, but within two or three reloads I almost always get something that really makes me crack up. Here are some samples of what I found today:

Why do we ask how people are? Do we honestly think that they're going to say, "Well, my husband beats me and beats my kids. I haven't been happy since Daddy left, and I take valium religously to make the pain stop,"?

when i was a little kid my mom used to tell everyone i was her "lsd flashback."

The wrong way to start the day. Walking down Mission Street just in time to see a trio of pigeons feasting on a pile of vomit in front of a bar. I almost went right back home. It was traumatizing.

A little lowbrow.com can brighten your whole day.

Well, I'm off for the weekend to a psychic convention. Weird things seem to happen when we have these events . . . so many psychics in one place shifts the planet's energy patterns. The stock market goes berserk, there are outbreaks of violence in the Middle East, buildings blow up . . . oh wait, that happens every day now. (Remember just a year and a few days ago, that wasn't the case.)

So in case our President decides to invade Iraq this weekend, I'll leave you with a link to one of my early posts about war.

There was a funny sketch on MAD TV a few months ago that I saved on my TiVo. It was a classroom scene where an eccentric woman was teaching “Drama Queens 101 . . . where the world revolves around YOU!”

She had two students role play an example: “James . . . your mother has just been diagnosed with a terminal illness. Abby . . . make it about YOU!”

Abby fails miserably by showing signs of human sympathy for James’ situation, and gets kicked out of class. The teacher takes over the role-play:

“James, how’s your mom?”

“She’s dying of cancer.”

“WHY?!?!??! WHY?!?!?! Why is this happening to ME?!?!?!? Everywhere I go, someone in my life is dying of cancer!! Your mom, my great aunt . . . it’s like I’m some kind of cancer magnet!! And I DON’T KNOW IF I CAN TAKE IT ANY MORE!!!!!!!!”

The teacher explains to the class afterward: “A mom with cancer. That’s pretty tough. So you gotta go bigger. And what’s bigger than a person with cancer? More people with cancer!!”

I’ve been on a self-imposed media fast today, avoiding my usual TV / Radio / internet news exposure. Even so, I’m still getting as much second-hand hysteria as you used to get second-hand smoke at bars before the public smoking ordinances were put in place. It’s like no matter how much I try to find my own peace today, I still come home with my clothes reeking of 9/11.

I’ve avoided the media because I’m seeing far to many 9/11 Drama Queens there. I just want to slap some people and shout in their faces, “People actually died. People with families and dear friends. This is not a movie, or a suspense novel. This is real.”

Grief is a very personal thing. I guess I didn’t really understand that until my dad died rather suddenly a few years ago. I think this day belongs to the loved ones of those who died, and the people they choose to share their grief with, so that they can hopefully continue to find the healing they need.

This day does not belong to the rest of us. And all the memorials and celebrations and 24 hour TV coverage and rehashed stories and re-played footage are not helping them find their peace. They are just giving the Drama Queens a stage to play on as they scream, “9/11 was all about ME!!”

Did you die?

Did someone who was an intimate part of your life die?

Are you raising kids who lost a parent in the explosions?

Are still not quite sure how to make ends meet because someone you depended on financially went up in flames a year ago?

If you cannot answer “Yes” to any of these questions, my opinion is, this is not your day.

I had three “close calls.” A brother-in-law who was fortuitously late for work that morning at the Towers. An ex-boyfriend who worked on the floor the plane hit, who had gone downstairs for coffee a half hour before. A cousin who was in the subway underneath the Towers between the time the planes hit and the time the Towers collapsed.

This is not my day. They are alive.

America did not change on 9/11. 9/11 was not “Our National Tragedy.” You do not get to claim this day as your own just because you are an American. The problems which resulted in the deaths on 9/11 – lapses in airline security, failures of intelligence, negligent and misguided foreign policy, lack of awareness about the workings of the world around us – these problems existed long before 9/11. 9/11 was just the day they came to light.

9/11 was like the day you find out there is no Santa Claus or the day you find out that a malignant tumor has been growing in your body for months. It was not “Our National Tragedy.” It was “Our National Reality Check.” And that’s something we should keep in mind every day.

Especially Election Day.

But as for today . . . shut up America. Stop being such a Drama Queen. Let the real victims have their day in peace.

Time for true confessions.

My music tastes are tragically unhip compared to those of many of my blogger brethren and sisteren. I've been avoiding this topic for fear of exposing the perversity of my listening habits, but I guess it's time to come clean.

Mostly, I listen to music at my day job. I pop in a CD, plug in the headphones, and juggle e-mails, documents and spreadsheets to my heart's content.

Right now, here is the stack of CD's piled up next to my CD player for listening in random rotation:

The Rocky Horror Show - Original London Cast Album. At home, I also have the original Roxy Cast Album, the Movie Soundtrack, and the new Broadway Cast Album. I even have the Rocky Horror International compilation - you know, "There's a Light" from the Swedish cast album, "Science Fiction Double Feature" from the Mexican cast album, "I Can make You a Man" from the Australian Cast Album, etc. All in all, I think the London cast is my favorite, although the Roxy Janet is really enjoyably raw and I love listening to Susan Sarandon on the Movie Soundtrack. The new Broadway album is uneven . . . the supporting players (Eddie, Magenta, Riff Raff, Columbia, the Narrator) are amazing. Brad and Janet suck. And Frank is pretty much just a Tim Curry rip-off. I also have the soundtrack to the sequel movie, Shock Treatment. But I never listen to it. Because it stinks like old toilet water.

Indigo Girls - 1200 Curfews - Their compilation of live and obscure tracks. Right now just Disc 2 is close at hand, including a song they recorded in college in their basement ("Back Together Again"), and great covers of "Down By the River" and "Midnight Train to Georgia". Disc 1 also has an awesome cover of "Tangled Up in Blue." At home I have Rites of Passage and Swamp Ophelia, and a recording of Jesus Christ Superstar with Amy Ray singing the part of Jesus.

Heading Out - an awesome folk album by my second cousin, singer/songwriter/guitarist Connie Cohen. Really, really a great album. And I'm not just saying that because she's a relative. Buy it now!

The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring movie soundtrack. Because I'm a geek and a pervy hobbit fancier.

Floyd Collins, Original Cast Recording - A musical based on the true story of a Tennessee farmboy and cave-hunter who died in the process of discovering his greatest set of caves ever. Written by Adam Guettel, the grandson of Richard Rodgers. Broadway meets Bluegrass meets Appalachia meets genius. I also have the CD of his song cycle Myths and Hymns, where he gives traditional hymn texts new melodies and mixes them up with a bunch of original songs based on Greek Myths.

Moulin Rouge Soundtrack. Call me easy, but I could probably listen to the Christina/Mya/Pink Lady Marmalade on repeat about twenty times in a row. And Ewan McGregor singing makes me hard. Shut up.

Das Barbecu - A musical which is essentially a Country-Western re-telling of Wagner's Ring Cycle. No shit. Siegfried is described as a "Rodeo Romeo," he meets Brunhilde at "The County Fair," and the Norns sing a rousing two-step called "Hog Tie Your Man." I only know about this musical because the lyricist wrote another show, called The Texas Chainsaw Manicurist, and when we ran it for a few months in SF, he came out to see us while he was working on the Off-Broadway premier of Das Barbecu. I later had the serendipitous opportunity to actually see this musical performed in Houston, Texas.

Holly Near - Fire In The Rain - folk singer / activist / world-citizen extroardinaire. Her songs include such lines as "Why are our history books so full of lies?" and "Why does my love [for a woman] make you scared? It's the bombs across the border that should make you tear your hair . . ."

Lone Justice - Shelter. Anyone else ever heard of this oscure 80's band? With such winning song titles as "Belfry" and "Dixie Storms"?

Original Cast Album of The Grass Harp, a '50s musical based on Truman Capote's growing-up memoir.

The Secret Garden Original Cast Album - One of the best musicals ever, with music written by Carly Simon's sister.

Aspects of Love, Original London Cast Album. This one is particularly embarrassing to admit, especially with some of my theater friends reading. I know, I know . . . it's Andrew Lloyd Webber. What can I say? This one Lloyd Webber musical is my secret weakness. I like it, even though it is cheesy and repetitive. Like Taco Bell Bean Burritos.

Assassins Original Cast Album - Stephen Sondheim's musical about Presidential Assassins. Each song ends with someone being shot, hung, or electrocuted.

I also have a demo tape of a musical called "Tea and Crumpets," in which I sing the roles of a sadistic tax collector, a romantic poet, a middle-aged British lady-of-the-manor, and a Victorian drag queen. This album is not publicly available, but let me know if you'd like me to shoot you a copy. Haha.

Here's an e-mail from a friend of mine . . . let's call him G-man . . .

What's wrong with NY theatre is that it doesn't get smart fare like this, soon at the Barbican in London:

VELVET LOUNGE

Genre   Drama

Synopsis: Le Salon de Velour returns promising another evening of comedy and cabaret with Nina Conti, a charmingly obscene ventriloquist act with a small monkey and Madame Galina Korsakova, a large gentleman who dresses up in a tutu and is quite nifty on pointe, reciting poetry as he dances.