"You have NO IDEA how love can change your life, how loving others can change their lives. Give love freely -- let it wash over every aspect of your existence. Infuse your every thought, move, and gesture with it. Through love, you will BECOME."
Saturday, November 13, 2010
perchance to dream
I recently woke from a dream, openly weeping...a dream whose content -- aside from the following verbatim passage -- I could not for the life of me remember. But this part I will never, ever forget:
"You have NO IDEA how love can change your life, how loving others can change their lives. Give love freely -- let it wash over every aspect of your existence. Infuse your every thought, move, and gesture with it. Through love, you will BECOME."
"You have NO IDEA how love can change your life, how loving others can change their lives. Give love freely -- let it wash over every aspect of your existence. Infuse your every thought, move, and gesture with it. Through love, you will BECOME."
Friday, November 12, 2010
no words
So odd. The older I get, the more I not only appreciate, but actually PREFER, music with no words. Charlie Parker, Django, Wagner, DeBussy, Tchaikovsky. I don't know when it all changed or why it all changed, but it's almost as though I no longer feel the need to have my thoughts and feelings defined or expressed by someone else. I no longer need help in figuring out who I am and what I want. I already know.
poor un4CHANate souls
A few sweet souls have written to ask me, "Who is 4chan and what exactly is it that they do?"
Well, this link will give you just the very beginning of the most basic, minute, stripped-down concept of who and what the fuck they are.
As for what they do...have you ever watched that scene in the movie, "Ghost", when those vast legions of horrifying, anonymous, black, shadowy demons from hell single out, swarm, overtake, and consume some wretched, villainous bastard, before spiriting him away to hellish regions beyond?
Yeah. That's pretty much what they do.
Well, this link will give you just the very beginning of the most basic, minute, stripped-down concept of who and what the fuck they are.
As for what they do...have you ever watched that scene in the movie, "Ghost", when those vast legions of horrifying, anonymous, black, shadowy demons from hell single out, swarm, overtake, and consume some wretched, villainous bastard, before spiriting him away to hellish regions beyond?
Yeah. That's pretty much what they do.
adios, motherfucker
Shiiiit. The horrifying, relentless, collective vigilante webhive that is 4chan had this racist asshole's name, home address, social security number, and telephone number in about two minutes. Those ruthless bastards will eat her alive and spit out her white, white bones. There is no stopping them.
Yeah, that's right, Erika -- you really fucked up this this time, honey. Hope you're enjoying all the pizzas, Chinese food, aluminum siding salesmen, Slap Chops, Snuggies, slashed tires, feces hurled at your front door, visits from both Department of Homeland Security agents AND Craig's List trannie hustlers, delightful telephone callers threatening to disembowel you and gut you like a carp, interruptions in your phone/power/cable/cellular service, and 20,000 subscriptions to Ebony, Guns and Ammo, and Scat Mag International that you're going to be receiving for the rest of your hateful, miserable life. Oh, and while we're on the subject...FUCK YOU.
This bitch is a goner.
Yeah, that's right, Erika -- you really fucked up this this time, honey. Hope you're enjoying all the pizzas, Chinese food, aluminum siding salesmen, Slap Chops, Snuggies, slashed tires, feces hurled at your front door, visits from both Department of Homeland Security agents AND Craig's List trannie hustlers, delightful telephone callers threatening to disembowel you and gut you like a carp, interruptions in your phone/power/cable/cellular service, and 20,000 subscriptions to Ebony, Guns and Ammo, and Scat Mag International that you're going to be receiving for the rest of your hateful, miserable life. Oh, and while we're on the subject...FUCK YOU.
This bitch is a goner.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
pearlie mae the stowaway
Thank you to ALL my awesome friends and family for rallying together and sending us glad thoughts last night. I truly believe in my heart that they are what brought that baby back to us.
I came home yesterday at 5 from a Disney shoot -- in FULL DRAG MAKEUP, by the way -- walked into my room, and she was perfectly fine. I took both she and Frances outside to squirt a clam, and all was gambolic and frolicsome. Almost immediately after she scampered out the door and peed, she started vomiting, staggering, and then collapsed. In all of 60 seconds, she went from a delightfully cavorting SASS MASTER, to a limp, unconscious little ragdoll. Thank christ my teenage son, Otis, was here with me -- his calm, logical, stoic, Stonehengish nature surely saved the goddamn day AND our beloved poochie. I was an absolute mess -- and remain so. I didn't realize that it was possible to belly cry that hard for that long -- so long and so hard, in fact, that the skin on my face is actually CHEMICAL BURNED from all the salt in my tears. Almost 24 hours later, I am still fucking traumatized -- but also relieved beyond words.
Anyway, when I realized what was happening, I called Gregory and told him to rush to meet us and we called the vet and told them we were coming and to be ready for her. I then gently wrapped her limp little body up in a soft baby blanket and we left for the hospital -- my son cradling her and trying to keep her conscious with tender kisses on her face and sweet nothings in her ear. All I remember of this drive, aside from the horrific 5 o'clock traffic, was telling Pearl over and over again, "Don't go, honey. Hold on. Don't leave us. Keep fighting. We love you SO SO SO SO much." When we got there, as I was hurrying her inside, I could feel her dying in my arms. There are NO WORDS to describe what I felt in my heart at that moment.
They whisked her away to the emergency triage area in the back. And then, all there was to do was simply wait -- and send love and light to our tiny girl as she fought for her life.
They immediately ran blood tests on her and found results consistent with anaphylactic shock, most likely sustained from the sting of a bee hiding in or hovering above the grass. Some of the results were so profoundly high as to not even register on their charts. The vet told us that she was in shock, had sustained liver damage, and was in grave shape -- and that she should be immediately transferred to an actual animal hospital for further treatment. We packed her up and rushed her there, where we were told that she needed to stay the night for treatment, observation, more tests, hydration, and various medications (antihistamines and antibiotics).
When I saw her this morning, she looked much better and was alert. Now that he knew she would survive, the critical care doctor there told me that, given the results of her blood tests and her vital signs when she came in, if we had waited even another 15 minutes to bring her in to the vet, she most certainly would have died. I can't even bear to think about it.
But, our girl is alive and still with us -- the people who adore her and revel in her tiny form and sweet face a thousand times a day. I think I can pretty safely say that although I know everyone loves their dogs with as much ferocity as we do, there are NO DOGS I know of who have lips pressed against their faces as much as these dogs do. Between the five of us, it's actually ludicrous. Two hundred kisses a day, AT THE VERY LEAST.
So, what I will say to you all is this. First of all, thank you from the bottom of our hearts for all of your healing thoughts and good wishes. Even in our horror, we took great comfort in knowing that so many people were thinking of Pearl and shooting her love and light across the many miles. She remains in the hospital and I await word from them on when we can safely bring her home.
Secondly, that if you have a pet, you NEED to be prepared to deal with an emergency should one arise. We are exemplary pet parents because we work at it and are hopelessly devoted to them and love them and have made the decision to take care of them with every bit as much care, concern, providence, and preparation as our three non-fuzzy babies. We had them spayed, they are micro-chipped, they have all of their shots, they receive both regular medical and dental check-ups and treatment, they eat the very best and very healthiest food available, they sleep in and on our bed on soft, clean fuzzy baby blankets LIKE GODDAMNED QUEENS. They are adored, protected, and cared for every minute of their lives...
BUT... I did NOT have the phone number and address of an emergency veterinary care facility programmed into my phone -- and the panic and fumbling that ensued as a result lost us precious minutes.
So, I am telling you right now -- RIGHT THIS FUCKING MINUTE -- to find that information NOW, and program it into your phone and into the phone of your spouse and children. It could quite literally make the difference between life and death -- and if you are anything like us, the thought of our life without these two babies is absolutely unimaginable. I am looking out my back window even as I type this, and see about 5 bastard bees buzzing about -- and it's making me want to go out there and beat some SERIOUS bee ass. Fuckers. Forget their awesome, vital purpose in the natural world and my endless obsession with their history, myth, and archetypical allusions in both literature and art. BEES CAN SUCK IT.
Our little family -- and especially Miss Pearl -- thank you for all your love...and send it right back to you in droves. xoxo
I came home yesterday at 5 from a Disney shoot -- in FULL DRAG MAKEUP, by the way -- walked into my room, and she was perfectly fine. I took both she and Frances outside to squirt a clam, and all was gambolic and frolicsome. Almost immediately after she scampered out the door and peed, she started vomiting, staggering, and then collapsed. In all of 60 seconds, she went from a delightfully cavorting SASS MASTER, to a limp, unconscious little ragdoll. Thank christ my teenage son, Otis, was here with me -- his calm, logical, stoic, Stonehengish nature surely saved the goddamn day AND our beloved poochie. I was an absolute mess -- and remain so. I didn't realize that it was possible to belly cry that hard for that long -- so long and so hard, in fact, that the skin on my face is actually CHEMICAL BURNED from all the salt in my tears. Almost 24 hours later, I am still fucking traumatized -- but also relieved beyond words.
Anyway, when I realized what was happening, I called Gregory and told him to rush to meet us and we called the vet and told them we were coming and to be ready for her. I then gently wrapped her limp little body up in a soft baby blanket and we left for the hospital -- my son cradling her and trying to keep her conscious with tender kisses on her face and sweet nothings in her ear. All I remember of this drive, aside from the horrific 5 o'clock traffic, was telling Pearl over and over again, "Don't go, honey. Hold on. Don't leave us. Keep fighting. We love you SO SO SO SO much." When we got there, as I was hurrying her inside, I could feel her dying in my arms. There are NO WORDS to describe what I felt in my heart at that moment.
They whisked her away to the emergency triage area in the back. And then, all there was to do was simply wait -- and send love and light to our tiny girl as she fought for her life.
They immediately ran blood tests on her and found results consistent with anaphylactic shock, most likely sustained from the sting of a bee hiding in or hovering above the grass. Some of the results were so profoundly high as to not even register on their charts. The vet told us that she was in shock, had sustained liver damage, and was in grave shape -- and that she should be immediately transferred to an actual animal hospital for further treatment. We packed her up and rushed her there, where we were told that she needed to stay the night for treatment, observation, more tests, hydration, and various medications (antihistamines and antibiotics).
When I saw her this morning, she looked much better and was alert. Now that he knew she would survive, the critical care doctor there told me that, given the results of her blood tests and her vital signs when she came in, if we had waited even another 15 minutes to bring her in to the vet, she most certainly would have died. I can't even bear to think about it.
But, our girl is alive and still with us -- the people who adore her and revel in her tiny form and sweet face a thousand times a day. I think I can pretty safely say that although I know everyone loves their dogs with as much ferocity as we do, there are NO DOGS I know of who have lips pressed against their faces as much as these dogs do. Between the five of us, it's actually ludicrous. Two hundred kisses a day, AT THE VERY LEAST.
So, what I will say to you all is this. First of all, thank you from the bottom of our hearts for all of your healing thoughts and good wishes. Even in our horror, we took great comfort in knowing that so many people were thinking of Pearl and shooting her love and light across the many miles. She remains in the hospital and I await word from them on when we can safely bring her home.
Secondly, that if you have a pet, you NEED to be prepared to deal with an emergency should one arise. We are exemplary pet parents because we work at it and are hopelessly devoted to them and love them and have made the decision to take care of them with every bit as much care, concern, providence, and preparation as our three non-fuzzy babies. We had them spayed, they are micro-chipped, they have all of their shots, they receive both regular medical and dental check-ups and treatment, they eat the very best and very healthiest food available, they sleep in and on our bed on soft, clean fuzzy baby blankets LIKE GODDAMNED QUEENS. They are adored, protected, and cared for every minute of their lives...
BUT... I did NOT have the phone number and address of an emergency veterinary care facility programmed into my phone -- and the panic and fumbling that ensued as a result lost us precious minutes.
So, I am telling you right now -- RIGHT THIS FUCKING MINUTE -- to find that information NOW, and program it into your phone and into the phone of your spouse and children. It could quite literally make the difference between life and death -- and if you are anything like us, the thought of our life without these two babies is absolutely unimaginable. I am looking out my back window even as I type this, and see about 5 bastard bees buzzing about -- and it's making me want to go out there and beat some SERIOUS bee ass. Fuckers. Forget their awesome, vital purpose in the natural world and my endless obsession with their history, myth, and archetypical allusions in both literature and art. BEES CAN SUCK IT.
Our little family -- and especially Miss Pearl -- thank you for all your love...and send it right back to you in droves. xoxo
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
miss vicki
If the positively stunning Anne Bancroft as Mrs. Robinson and Joan Jett had a baby -- and employed Patti Smith as their nanny and Gertrude Stein as their wetnurse -- Miss Vicki Abelson would be that esteemed offspring.
She is like a walking, talking, living, breathing, belly laughing reincarnation of those women who, 100 years ago, boldly threw open the doors of their homes, flats, apartments, barns, and bookstores to others just like them – others who craved the passion and communion of THE WORD. Yes, that’s it. Vicki Abelson is like a HOT Mabel Dodge for The New Millennium.
She is that rare breed of woman who is fierce AND talented AND generous of self – a GENUINE triple-threat -- which sometimes makes me want to kick her right in the gottdamned taco. But, I can’t. I just can’t. I adore her far too much. She is the gorgeous, cool, older teenage sister that I never had, but always wanted -- the one who would secretly take me to buy my first tube of scarlet lipstick, my first box of Tampax, and my first package of birth control pills, and then later teach me how to lie on the bed to zip up my skin-tight Chemin de Fer jeans, French inhale a cigarette, and fetchingly toss my hair just right as I fiercely talked politics, poetry, and rock and roll with the big boys -- but yet the same big sister who also stuck copies of Vonnegut, Plath, Fitzgerald, Rimbaud, and Steinem into my hands, with the booming command, “READ THIS.”
As you’ve probably heard and read in publications such as The Los Angeles Times and LA Weekly, an invitation to her literary salon, Women Who Write, is a seriously hot ticket, one for which I had to inquire, tap-dance, cajole, and harass. I think she finally said yes just to shut my fatass up.
Walking into her living room in Montrose for the first time, I felt like I could scarcely breathe. Women, women, everywhere – powerful, intelligent, creative women, all brought together by Vicki, every single one of us poised on the verge of ANYTHING and EVERYTHING.
The ideas fly, words are read, books are born, alliances created, friendships forged. The inspiration, support, and enthusiasm she possesses and freely gives verily sparks from her – and those sparks are contagious, highly-flammable, and have lit many a fire under many an ass. As a writer, I can think of no better gift to receive than this: A seriously hot ass…from the SERIOUSLY hot ass of Miss Vicki Abelson.
So, thank you for all that you do, Miss Vicki. You are a wonder -- and one hell of a broad.
She is like a walking, talking, living, breathing, belly laughing reincarnation of those women who, 100 years ago, boldly threw open the doors of their homes, flats, apartments, barns, and bookstores to others just like them – others who craved the passion and communion of THE WORD. Yes, that’s it. Vicki Abelson is like a HOT Mabel Dodge for The New Millennium.
She is that rare breed of woman who is fierce AND talented AND generous of self – a GENUINE triple-threat -- which sometimes makes me want to kick her right in the gottdamned taco. But, I can’t. I just can’t. I adore her far too much. She is the gorgeous, cool, older teenage sister that I never had, but always wanted -- the one who would secretly take me to buy my first tube of scarlet lipstick, my first box of Tampax, and my first package of birth control pills, and then later teach me how to lie on the bed to zip up my skin-tight Chemin de Fer jeans, French inhale a cigarette, and fetchingly toss my hair just right as I fiercely talked politics, poetry, and rock and roll with the big boys -- but yet the same big sister who also stuck copies of Vonnegut, Plath, Fitzgerald, Rimbaud, and Steinem into my hands, with the booming command, “READ THIS.”
As you’ve probably heard and read in publications such as The Los Angeles Times and LA Weekly, an invitation to her literary salon, Women Who Write, is a seriously hot ticket, one for which I had to inquire, tap-dance, cajole, and harass. I think she finally said yes just to shut my fatass up.
Walking into her living room in Montrose for the first time, I felt like I could scarcely breathe. Women, women, everywhere – powerful, intelligent, creative women, all brought together by Vicki, every single one of us poised on the verge of ANYTHING and EVERYTHING.
The ideas fly, words are read, books are born, alliances created, friendships forged. The inspiration, support, and enthusiasm she possesses and freely gives verily sparks from her – and those sparks are contagious, highly-flammable, and have lit many a fire under many an ass. As a writer, I can think of no better gift to receive than this: A seriously hot ass…from the SERIOUSLY hot ass of Miss Vicki Abelson.
So, thank you for all that you do, Miss Vicki. You are a wonder -- and one hell of a broad.
truth. mein.
It's ALL GOOD, Mein Poppets. This, too, shall pass. I am alive and I am PRESENT -- and, like you, I shimmer like a thousand newborn suns -- and as long as those three elements don't change...the forces of darkness can FUCK OFF. MY HAPPY FATASS IS GONNA DANCE.
"Right here, right now, there is no other place I want to be. Right here, right now, watching the world wake up from history."
"Right here, right now, there is no other place I want to be. Right here, right now, watching the world wake up from history."
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
vote
Christ, I cannot wait to get my fatass into that voting booth today. The faster I get in there and vote progressively all the the way down the fucking line, the faster the election returns will come in, the faster the Republicans will win back the House, THE FASTER WE CAN GET BACK TO BLAMING THE COCKSUCKING PARTY OF GEORGE W. BUSH FOR THE GODDAMNED MESS THE ECONOMY IS IN. Hey, and why the hell not? It's what they did to us.
Yes, my friends, it's time to tear down that BITCH of a bearing wall and put a window where it OUGHT to be!
GODSPEED, MOTHERFUCKERS.
Yes, my friends, it's time to tear down that BITCH of a bearing wall and put a window where it OUGHT to be!
GODSPEED, MOTHERFUCKERS.
Monday, November 1, 2010
belly
Before you watch this video, I need to take a moment to break something down for you. I know and work with some of the funniest goddamned people on the planet -- people who buy their Twinkies, pay their hookers, and meet their mortgages by being funny. I KNOW funny. I am soaking in it.
With that said...I HAVE NEVER LAUGHED THIS HARD IN MY ENTIRE FUCKING LIFE.
With that said...I HAVE NEVER LAUGHED THIS HARD IN MY ENTIRE FUCKING LIFE.
buzz
Yesterday, whilst flying down a wide-open LA freeway on the most exquisitely beautiful day of the year, the stereo cranked to 11, it fucking hit me.
The very best way to explain what an orgasm feels like to someone who has never experienced one: It feels like the song, "Vasoline" by Stone Temple Pilots.
The very best way to explain what an orgasm feels like to someone who has never experienced one: It feels like the song, "Vasoline" by Stone Temple Pilots.
miss jackie beat
This weekend, the Los Angeles Times did a major style piece on the magnificent hilltop lair of my Souplantation lunch date and the delightful Auntie Mame to my chihuahuas -- Frances and Pearl -- Miss Jackie Beat.
So, click on inside and venture through the many wondrous rooms, filled with devastating style and ferocious taste, unequaled by anything you've ever seen. The trinkets and treasures go on for FOREVER and whenever I visit, I always remember to take along my biggest handbag so's I can covertly cram as much inside as humanly possible -- though it must be said that I do smuggle the smaller bric-a-brac out in more covert, creative ways...but of that, human decency, dignity, and decorum prevent me from saying more.
So, Brava to you, Miss Beat! It looks FABULOUSLY POSH! Good god, but that's a WHOLE LOTTA hit songs, handjobs and hairspray -- and I don't know of any broad who deserves it more than you. You are a wonder.
I love you! Congratulations on your LEGENDARY SPREAD -- oh, and on the LA times piece, as well.
The bitch has got STYLE.
true colors.
I haven't yet posted word one on all the recent suicides of young, gay men in this country -- but you all already know how I feel. It would be an absolute understatement to say that gay men have saved my life in all the ways that a life CAN be saved.
Aside from my husband and our children, the most profoundly important people in my world are the magnificent gay men that surround me at all times. They are my friends, they are my confidantes, they are my fashion advisers, they are my creative partners, they are my lunch dates, they are my therapists, they are my sisters, they are my audience, they are my show, they are my champions, they are my heart.
We are a huge, raging, messy, magical, hilarious, dysfunctional, fierce, loving, loyal, luminescent family of writers, artists, performers, oddballs, and misfits...the people who spent their earlier lives always on the outside, existing there for what seemed like forever, our noses pressed longingly against the glass of acceptance and inclusion -- while we waited for an invitation inside that never came. Eventually, we looked around and noticed that all the other scalliwags steaming up the window were FAR MORE INTERESTING than the boring, beige, ordinary bastards on the other side.
And so, there on the outside, we began to dance. And laugh. And rouge our cheeks. And paint our faces. And drape ourselves in glorious fabrics. And SING. And our song was so strong and so powerful and so alluring that we long ago lost interest in being let inside...and we created our own fucking party, our own Movable Feast.
So, if I could say something, anything, to all these young men and women who are taking their own lives because they are different and being bullied because of it, I would say this:
This magnificent party of which I speak? It is FOR YOU. It is YOUR party. YOU ARE OUR SPECIAL GUEST...and we are waiting for you -- just like those who came before, were waiting for us.
We need your voice.
We need your vision.
We need your talent.
We need your spirit.
We need your heart.
We need your fight.
We need your song.
We need YOU.
This sweet, powerful song below is from The Gay Men's Chorus of Los Angeles, of which one of my dearest friends -- Todd Stites -- is a longtime member (you can see his adorable, boyish face at 1:19). These are the faces of the people who exist with me on the outside of the glass -- THE OTHERS -- and our side is so much more beautiful, so much more interesting, so much more welcoming, so much more loving than you could ever imagine -- but, goddamnit, you just gotta trust us and stick around long enough to find out.
There is a time to dance -- oh, and trust me, you WILL FUCKING DANCE. With us. With all of us. The music may sound faint to you now, and you may not yet know the words, but you will. Just follow the music.
We're all waiting for you.
I See Your True Colors.
Aside from my husband and our children, the most profoundly important people in my world are the magnificent gay men that surround me at all times. They are my friends, they are my confidantes, they are my fashion advisers, they are my creative partners, they are my lunch dates, they are my therapists, they are my sisters, they are my audience, they are my show, they are my champions, they are my heart.
We are a huge, raging, messy, magical, hilarious, dysfunctional, fierce, loving, loyal, luminescent family of writers, artists, performers, oddballs, and misfits...the people who spent their earlier lives always on the outside, existing there for what seemed like forever, our noses pressed longingly against the glass of acceptance and inclusion -- while we waited for an invitation inside that never came. Eventually, we looked around and noticed that all the other scalliwags steaming up the window were FAR MORE INTERESTING than the boring, beige, ordinary bastards on the other side.
And so, there on the outside, we began to dance. And laugh. And rouge our cheeks. And paint our faces. And drape ourselves in glorious fabrics. And SING. And our song was so strong and so powerful and so alluring that we long ago lost interest in being let inside...and we created our own fucking party, our own Movable Feast.
So, if I could say something, anything, to all these young men and women who are taking their own lives because they are different and being bullied because of it, I would say this:
This magnificent party of which I speak? It is FOR YOU. It is YOUR party. YOU ARE OUR SPECIAL GUEST...and we are waiting for you -- just like those who came before, were waiting for us.
We need your voice.
We need your vision.
We need your talent.
We need your spirit.
We need your heart.
We need your fight.
We need your song.
We need YOU.
This sweet, powerful song below is from The Gay Men's Chorus of Los Angeles, of which one of my dearest friends -- Todd Stites -- is a longtime member (you can see his adorable, boyish face at 1:19). These are the faces of the people who exist with me on the outside of the glass -- THE OTHERS -- and our side is so much more beautiful, so much more interesting, so much more welcoming, so much more loving than you could ever imagine -- but, goddamnit, you just gotta trust us and stick around long enough to find out.
There is a time to dance -- oh, and trust me, you WILL FUCKING DANCE. With us. With all of us. The music may sound faint to you now, and you may not yet know the words, but you will. Just follow the music.
We're all waiting for you.
I See Your True Colors.
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