Friday, June 17, 2016


It is Friday at Happy Hour time and I'm in a frustrated mood. I'm frustrated that Happy Hour time on a Friday is the first time all week that I've had sufficient time to work on my writing, and I'm frustrated that the first thing I did when I came home was sleep even though I NEEDED TO SLEEP. My schedule is busy, but is it really SO busy that my writing efforts have to fall by the wayside all the time? (Do I like or hate that I always seem to say "fall by the wayside" when talking about this?) In many ways my daily life is enviable. I love my work hours, the work itself, and the satisfaction I derive from doing my radio show. But walking dogs is physically tiring, there is always housework to do, and when Matt and I are together (we are together relatively little, due to our erratic schedules) I want to be fully present whenever possible. The solution must be getting up earlier in the morning and writing a lot before 12PM. For years I've known this. So why does it so often prove completely impossible? WHY WHY WHY????? OK, time to stop blogging and wash the dishes, but before I do that, a prayer...

Universe, please bestow upon me a greater physical and mental robustness so that my intellect does not shrivel and die. Rather, I would like my mind to routinely express my thoughts clearly to a broad audience. I will need more energy, in order to do this. But let me do it happily, not angrily in a cantankerous grumpy mood like my current one. Thank you Amen.

PS: here is what I want to write when I have more energy and am not in a cranky mood:
Simpsons stuff
The rest of my memoir which rules
Revised short stories that haven't been published yet
A novel, though I want to do this less
A Lovin' Spoonful biopic screenplay
Monkees stuff
Articles and thinkpieces about my lifestyle
Hilarious jokes

Thank you again, and I hope this has been entertaining goodbye for now

Monday, June 13, 2016

After Orlando

Bear with me because I hate writing about politics and usually avoid it. From an aesthetic point of view it always bothers me because I feel like I'm just repeating other people's words that have moved me in the past. But it's something that I'm slowly teaching myself how to do, because silence is so much worse. It's like, to hell with your precious aesthetics you callous piece of shit, you know? "Silence=Death," created in the outrage over America's insensitivity to AIDS, is a slogan I find inspiring when it comes to ignoring anyone's voice, anyone's rights.

I'm exceedingly lucky to live where I do, to be part of the fun and accepting community I am in--in other words, to be largely shielded from the many-headed monster of hate. Throughout my childhood in the West Village, Christopher Street was the next street up from ours; music from the piano bars floated through my window, lulling me to sleep most nights. Revelry, pageantry, and sexiness were on display all the time (not just on Halloween, which was raunchier and way better back then). The inclusive spirit of New York informed my upbringing and is a HUGE part of who I am. For such a horrific thing as a massacre at a queer club to happen now, in the age of marriage equality, increased visibility of transgendered people, and so many other great steps in the direction of love and acceptance: it's heartbreaking in a way I can't describe.

I'm lucky, too, because I benefit from the privilege afforded straight people in our society. Expressing my sexuality here at home does not get me in trouble--though, because I have had sex with women and am attracted to women, it would elsewhere. While their lives have been vastly different, I'm sure many victims of the Orlando tragedy thought they were lucky--to meet other queer people and be part of a local family that loved them, even if they'd been rejected by their real families. I have a live-in (male!) partner and kind of a tomboyish personal style; beyond that, is my life anyone's business? I can blithely answer no, yet this is a question that so many, including the victims in Florida, have grappled with in their every waking moment. From a young age they're baffled that others scrutinize and judge what they do for pleasure, for love--and, discovering that people are angered by it, they figure they might as well show it off. Or they never do, except in the safe confines of a gay club where everyone is "like them." Nobody is exactly like anyone, though, which is a wonderful thing to find out.

A couple of years ago I started doing a radio show for Pride month, and I'll be doing one in that theme this week. It is goofy and fun and interesting, at least I hope you think so. I'm a lifelong optimist and a firm believer that LOVE WILL ALWAYS CONQUER HATE, as hard as that can be to believe after a terrible event like this one. Maybe that's an activist platitude of the type I alluded to above, but fuck it. LOVE WILL ALWAYS CONQUER HATE. You can listen to the past shows here...

Love and Pride 2014
Love and Pride 2015

Monday, May 30, 2016


It worked! There is now a little button on the lower right of the blog. This is in reference to what I talked about 1 post ago.

The Tip Jar Alligator

Here's the Tip Jar Alligator. He is still around after all this time!

Now for the backstory: I drew him on the back of an envelope once, and later affixed him to this glass jar so I'd have a sign telling people where to put their tips whenever I was asking for tips. For the past five or six years, however, the jar has been only for cotton balls. Observe the T.J.A. relaxing amid some products I keep in my bathroom.

Taking pictures of him today, I thought maybe I should put a tip jar on my blog. What a great idea! I'm sure there's someone out there who would give this blog a little tip money. I know it's time for me to start updating it daily or weekly or so--so maybe they wouldn't give any money just yet. But, once the updates got rolling, they would.

I'm not sure how to do this or whether this blogging platform has that option. But I'll let you know how it goes. Hope everyone's having a beautiful day and that no misfortune is befalling them whatsoever.