I’d just returned from an eleven-day trip to Montreal and DC, from a comedy festival to some serious business at my company’s mothership. Both legs of the trip were magnificent; I got shit-faced on Canadian beer and pot in Montreal with old friends and the comic known for his crew cut and glasses, and in DC (or Silver Spring, Maryland, to be specific), I had a fantastic time with Joe in between the work part. Joe looked better than I've ever seen him, and I don't just mean because he's lost over fifty pounds, although he looks amazingly handsome. No, it's not simply the weight. Joe looks happy.
Exhausted and wired and sitting on the front porch smoking a cigarette, I watched this dirty little dog roam by, stopping long enough to engage Stephen in some fence-sniffing, and before I could tell myself No! You can’t have another dog!, this weirdly-shaped creature was in the yard, in my arms, and finally, in the house. I decided to take him to the ASPCA the next day, but they told me they’d euthanize him. When I said that was not an option for me (or him), they sent me to a vet who’d give him a check-up and neuter him. Eddie and me waited two hours in the vet’s lobby, him sitting on my lap while I gently stroked his ridiculously large ears.
I left him there for blood work, and met Mickey at the movies where we stared blankly at the murky Miami Vice waiting for something exciting to happen. It never did. We picked up Eddie (a random name I chose when we first met on Friday night), and he was wiggling himself stupid when he saw me. That’s when Mickey noticed his endowment yelling her statement in front of the shaken, and now suspicious, vet workers.
Unlike Amy, Eddie is here to stay, and it’s almost official: I’m becoming a crazy old man in a crazy old house collecting stray dogs.
I really wanted to attend moroccomole’s initial screening of his film series based on his deservedly best-selling movie romp 101 Must-See Movies For Gay Men . The midnight series kicked off with Cruising, a nonsensical piece of work that I love for two reasons.
First, two months into my agent trainee job at ICM, the infancy of my career, I worked in the mailroom xeroxing screenplays. The movie was shooting in New York at the time while the Gay Task Force staged protests that threatened to disrupt the filming. The studio refused to release the script to them, which only fueled their suspicions that this was an inflammatory depiction of gay life. As a young gay, I dutifully copied the screenplay and sent it to them anonymously. A few days later, reports came that they’d received the script and were even more outraged. The protests continued until the film wrapped. It was perhaps my only stab at activism.
Second, this was the first film where gay men were actually allowed to be masculine, and they looked like the men in my life. Ah, the salad days before Carson Kressley and Just Jack.
Yeah, I really wanted to see the film, hang out with my Tuesday TV Night crew, but after eleven days on the road, an eight-hour travel day, and meeting Eddie, that didn’t happen.
About three weeks ago, I attended a screening of Meth, a documentary on the ravages of the planet’s most devastating drug, at Outfest, LA’s gay and lesbian film festival. I went alone, sat in the back, and cried through most of it. If only I’d known then…
Billy’s brother Bub complained of chest pains to his wife Karen, and she rushed him to the hospital. He’s healing nicely after his angioplasty. Billy’s sister Debbie complained of chest pains the following week to her roommate, someone she doesn’t even really like, and now she’s recuperating at home after her surgery. Dixie, Billy’s oldest sister, just celebrated her first anniversary since her heart surgery.
While I’m obviously very happy for all three of them, It makes me crumble to my knees that Billy, the youngest in the family, was the example, and the people around his siblings learned a horrifyingly simple lesson that seemed to have escaped me.
I’ve tried to write over the past month or six weeks or whenever the hell I posted last, and a very painful refinancing of my house or Big Brother or So You Think You Can Dance swept away any concentration I may’ve had, and my words collected on the floor. I haven’t logged onto LJ in a long time, and I really miss it. I really miss you.
I’m back, I think.