just when i think i'm getting tired of telling these stories...

sometime in 2007

when i met him, he was 24, spoiled and pouty and loaded with attitude.  and he has this thing he does, drives me crazy:  when i get there, even though he's usually had at least an hour to do so, he's never prepared--he leads me to the bedroom, hands me a drink, puts on some porn, hands me the remote, tells me he'll be back in a minute, then disappears for a fucking hour.

first time he pulled this shit, i laid there, did a slow boil as the minutes ticked by, kept reworking the pleasure/pain equation in my head, decided to wait him out, and when he finally made his appearance all freshly showered and perfumed and unapologetic, i got up, grabbed him, tore his robe off, threw him on the bed and ravaged him angrily.  which, turns out, is what the whole thing was all about, of course--he had (correctly) gauged me as easygoing, but wanted angry and dominant.  and he got it, and it was such an unexpected turn-on, watching his eyes go from cool and remote to afraid and submissive as he meekly complied with my every barked order, and we both had a great time.

afterwards, easygoing once more, i curled him into my arms, and we talked.  he was a puzzle--not the brightest bulb on the tree, but sweet once the shields were down. but the interesting thing about him was, unlike every other pretty, slightly dim boy like him i'd ever slept with, he lived like a fucking prince.  the robe i'd torn off him was gucci, the cum-soaked sheets we were wrapped in were pratesi, and all about the large, lavish, messy apartment he occupied were strewn the debris and detritus of a rich boy (or a kept one--i've never figured out which)--from the high vantage of his king-sized, canopied bed, i spied a crumpled vuitton bag in one corner with clothes spilling out of it, a pile of barney's, saks and neiman's shopping bags in another, and gucci (god, does this boy love him some gucci) watches and sunglasses carelessly littering every surface.

i asked him as casually as i could what he did for a living, and he told me he was in the beauty business, catered to wealthy women, gave few details beyond that, and i didn't press.  i looked around this chamber of the sun king again, considered the sheer number of rich, desperate housewives in this town, looked at his face, trailed a finger across the contours of his lush, incomparable lips as he gazed back at me cluelessly, did the mental math, thought, "yeah, maybe".

he'd grown up in fresno in humble surroundings, had met his first lover online at 16 ("he'd send a limo up from LA to pick me up on weekends, take me to all the clubs--he was fun"), and had escaped to the big city for good the day after graduation and never looked back.  he sent his family money on a regular basis; got no appreciation for it, apparently.  and this galled him.

"and it's not just my family--it's my friends, too.  i try to help them, and they all take advantage of me, steal me blind, because i'm too nice."

or too dumb, i thought, as i gazed once more around this roomful of small, pocketable treasures in which he'd left me, a guy he'd known for all of 45 seconds, alone for an hour.

"so where do you meet these people you call friends?", i asked him--and this time, i did press. eventually, he admitted that most of 'em were guys he'd met while partying, and i mentally rolled my eyes, thought about how quickly any one of a number of tweakers of my acquaintance--and i'm just talkin' the more ethical ones--left alone, coulda stripped this room clean as a whistle and been outta there before this boy'd even finished hosing out the lower chamber of his ass.

i proceeded to lecture him about the dangers of allowing druggies into his house and he meekly nodded at the wisdom of this, but not convincingly, and i understood why: he was locked into his pattern of trying to buy the love of indifferent people, and he wasn't listening to me anymore--he hadn't paid attention to a word i'd said since i'd turned from hard, indifferent fuck-dad into concerned ward cleaver.

it was time for me to go.  and as i drove home and replayed the interview in my mind as i always did, i reflected on yet one more lost boy selling himself short.  i also couldn't help but reflect on the fact that i was probably the only trick who'd ever walked outta that apartment poorer than he'd walked in.

that was a brand-new bottle of poppers, goddammit.

*     *     *     *     *

new year's eve, 2012

early afternoon, he called me outta the blue, said, "come shopping with me--i need some shoes for a party tonight."

it had been awhile--this was a once- or twice-a-year boy for me, at most--so i was naturally suspicious.

"why? you've never asked me out anywhere before, and it can't be for my fashion sense."

he laughed.  "you keep me grounded (which was true enough), so maybe i won't spend too much if you're there to tell me not to."

and...?

"and because you'll fuck my brains out afterwards, and this is an important party and i wanna walk in with my head held high instead of all desperate and horny and needy and shit."

kid's smarter than i'd given him credit for.

to say they knew him at barney's would be an understatement--the waves parted in a flurry of bows, scrapes and can-i-help-you's in a way that had never happened when my scraggly ass had wandered in there alone--and, once we had arrived at the destination department, he zeroed in on a spotlit pair of shoes such as i'd never seen before, gave the salesgirl a nod, and she scurried off to the back room without even asking his size.

he unzipped the garment bag he'd brought with him, fished out a fine, black woolen cuff, draped it across one shoe, looked up at me.

"perfect", was all i could say, because they were--not only for the outfit, but for him.

"i've been waiting for these to go on sale forever", he said, "and they finally called me yesterday, just in time--20% off!"

i picked up the right shoe, glanced inside--stuart weitzman, whose "mr. seymour" line i'd sold to rich women when i was in college--ran my hand over its fine, stubbly surface, held it up to the light, where it glistened with the fire of a thousand diamonds.

"swarovski crystals on black silk, mike--hundreds of 'em, hand-set over every square inch of surface.  aren't they fantastic?"

and yeah, they were--pure elegance, nothing tacky about 'em.  but only on the feet of the right guy, the guy who could pull 'em off.

he changed into the outfit, slipped into the shoes, took a few sparkling laps back and forth as spectators gawked and applauded, and i looked at him, at his radiant smile, thought about the figure he'd cut walking into that party in that armani suit and those shoes with his head held high, and i said,

"yeah.  i approve."

as an afterthought, i picked up the display shoe again, flipped it over, staggered back a few steps.

and tried to wrap my head around how much things had changed since college--and the idea of a five thousand dollar pair of shoes.

"no, no, i told you--they're 20% off!"

oh.  yeah.  wrap 'em up, then.

*     *     *     *    *

last night

when he called last night, i asked "what address this time?",  because it had always been onward and upward with this one.

it was lower beverly hills, but a nice building--one flat per floor; i noted the name that was not his as i pressed the buzzer.  he dragged me outta the elevator, through the living room, ignoring the hot, wasted-looking guy on the couch who didn't look up from his laptop, and into the first bedroom on the right--obviously a playroom, not his room--handed me my drink, said, "back in a minute", and i cued up some porn, settled in for the wait.

afterwards, once we'd stopped moving, i looked him over to see how he was holding up, and the news wasn't good.  he'd put on at least ten pounds since new year's, and the receding hairline that had been so barely-noticeable last year was creeping its inexorable way backwards.  the boy who'd been a 9.5 at 24 was at best a 7.5 at 30, and slipping fast.

"so how you been?", i asked, and he told me about the friend who'd wandered into his apartment the previous week wearing the diamond gucci watch that had been bought off the friend who'd stolen it off his nightstand a few weeks previous, and how it had only cost him $800 to get it back.

and then he showed me around the new place.  the second bedroom had become his closet (think oprah's closet), the master bedroom was bigger and messier than ever, and the master closet was...shoes.

i scanned the floor-to-ceiling shelves left to right, up and down, and--third row down, fourth from the left--there they were.

i picked one up, turned to him, asked, "so were they a hit?"

he sorta-laughed, said, "i didn't wear 'em.  boyfriend said he wouldn't take me to the party looking like a whore--he made me change into plain black ones instead."

i thought about that, thought about him, thought about how happy he'd been that day at barney's with all those people applauding his choice and his beauty, turned the shoe over, rubbed my hand over its shiny, black, unblemished sole, told him to go get me a bottle of water, snapped a pic with my phone while he was gone.

because somebody oughta get to see those goddam shoes.

dream, baby

[yeah, i know, but i don't feel like getting personal tonight]

roy orbison was a weird guy, and an even weirder performer.  he'd walk out on stage looking neither left or right, oblivious of the applause, stand stiffly in fronta the microphone, deliver the goods, and then when he was done, leave the stage looking neither left or right, oblivious of the applause, the same way he'd come on.

but, my god, could the man work magic with a song.

in 1987, having faded to obscurity in the public mind and towards the end of his life, he was approached to do a "greatest hits" live concert for television, and when word got out, the biggest headliners in the music business at the time clamored for the opportunity to accompany him onstage.

the show was intimately shot at the ambassador hotel's legendary coconut grove nightclub (which would also soon die thereafter), before an audience of hollywood's best and brightest, and the resulting masterpiece would not only revive roy's career, but go down in history as one of the all-time great live performances, and one that i--who generally hates live concerts--would have given my left nut and two inches of my dick to have attended.

as hard as it would be to pick a favorite from the show, when "dream baby" came up on shuffle tonight at just the right moment of (semi) intoxication, i immediately flipped over to youtube, grabbed the video, watched it a few times, felt my mood elevate immensely, and dashed off this post.

originally released in 1962, i liked the song, but had never considered it one of roy's best--that he'd somehow missed something in the arrangement.  well, 25 years later, he found it.

accompanied by bruce springsteen on lead vocals (whom i'd never thought of as even remotely sexy before i saw this show), with elvis costello, j.d. souther and jackson browne coming in behind, and k.d. lang, jennifer warnes and bonnie raitt providing the oohs and aahs--and all of whom flew in that night and ran through it once before shooting, btw--this is, to me, as good as it gets.

if after watching it you don't agree, then all i can say is, you're either a clueless whippersnapper, or your pleasure centers are wired very differently than mine.

[and naturally, after ascertaining that the video was embeddable before writing this goddam post, and then writing the post, and then embedding the goddam thing, youtube informs me it's "restricted", so you'll have to watch it here]

or maybe you should just have a couple stiff ones and watch it again.  and again after that.  and again after that.

notes from a weather pussy

finally, after what seems like an eternity of endless bitter, bone-chilling, soul-crushing cold--i'm talking mid-fifties, people--a break in the long winter of my discontent.  i mean, don't get me wrong, it's still damned chilly at 72, but i'm gonna go ahead, throw caution to the winds and open the doors to the barren, frozen tundra anyway, even if only for a few minutes.

don't worry, i'll leave the heater on--hell, i'm not a complete madman.

the apartment

"this place is amazing," i found myself breaking one of my cardinal rules by blurting, to which he replied, "yeah. come on back," and led me to the bedroom.

but it truly was--high in the sky, minimalist-modern, 10' ceilings, vast expanses of glass in every room giving out onto a spacious terrace overlooking the lights of the city beyond.

he shed his clothes without ceremony or conversation--not muscular, but even at 35, he had one of those lean, bronzed, life-long-effortless speedo-bodies i've always envied. having already put myself at an early disadvantage, i compounded the error by lamely trying to break the ice by saying,

"jesus, is there even any such thing as an outta-shape brazilian?"

instead of laughing, he looked at me like i'd just farted in church, said, "why would you ask me that?  do i look like i know ugly people?"

ah, so he thinks it's gonna be like that.

thing he'd forgotten was, his sexual needs were urgent, specific and well-suited to my particular skill-set, so it only took me about 10 minutes to break through that haughty wall and put him where i wanted him; i.e., ready to spill his guts to me afterwards.

i listened as he recounted his indulged childhood, his emerging sexuality, his emigration to america, his rewarding-but-low-paid career, made all the right noises as i waited for the only thing i was really curious about:  how he had ended up in this goddam apartment.

turns out it belonged to a wealthy, married east-coast biotech-type who kept it (and him) so that he could come out three or four times a year and scratch an itch that couldn't be scratched at home.  when i met him, this arrangement was entering its fifth year.

jesus god, this guy had landed the weho holy grail--a stable, distant, undemanding, non-repulsive sugar daddy who allowed him to live in the lap of luxury, hobnob with movie-star neighbors, and he only had to put out once a quarter and on the occasional trip abroad.  what's not to like?

turns out, a lot.  he'd been in love with the guy from the start, knew he'd never leave his wife and kids, and, four years in and counting, was coming to terms with the fact that he was closing in on 40, still single, and wasting the prime of his life in this gilded cage.

so he satisfied himself with the occasional trick when he couldn't stand it anymore, never saw anyone more than once.

until me, that is.  once he let me in, i found a warm, smart, funny, sweet-if-somewhat-spoiled guy i enjoyed in and outta bed, and began to entertain stupid fantasies of taking him away from all this.

once a week (or two), i'd pull up in my crappy truck, hand the valet my keys, enter the marbled lobby, announce myself to the concierge, who, after giving me an only slightly-knowing smile, would key me up to the eleventh floor, where he'd be waiting.

one night i drunkenly poured out the whole story to an acquaintance--leaving out all the identifying details, i'd thought--only to find said acquaintance three weeks later standing in the living room of that marvelous apartment in the sky when i showed up for a party.  guy looked at me, looked at him, his eyes got big, his jaw dropped as i called out his name, strode quickly across the room, pulled him into an embrace, planted my lips on his and said into his open mouth, "say one word and i'll fucking kill you."

our last date, we went to see the movie of the moment, sat close, held hands, sniffled together, went back to the apartment, had brokeback sex.  curled up in my arms afterwards, he snuggled closer, said, "that's what i want, mike--a love like they had."

my heart fluttered a little.  "so why don't you reach out and take it?"

he raised his head, looked at me incredulously, said, "yeah, like i'm gonna move into some crappy studio in hollywood, buy some IKEA furniture and wait for true love.  diahann carroll had me over for dinner last week--how am i supposed to give that up?"

yeah.

many months later, i found myself back in that elevator, pressing "11", expecting...well, i wasn't sure.  what i got was, "i forgot you were coming, so i made other plans.  hurry--we don't have much time" as he headed toward the bedroom.

don't know for sure, but i imagine the "fuck you" he got in reply as i slammed back out the door came as big a shock to him as it did his genteel neighbors.

he hit me up on adam the other night, like nothing had happened.  i did the math--it had been almost six years, so he had to be well past that dreaded 40 mark.  i asked him, "so, you still in the same place?"  he replied, "yeah--come over", and i signed off, closed the laptop, went to bed.

guess i can't blame him.  it's a great apartment.

casey

"wow, you're up.  why didn't you come out?"

he's sitting on the edge of my bed in my darkened room, fully dressed, hands folded in his lap.  drapes still drawn against the morning sun, just as i'd left them so he could sleep.

he looks up, gives me a wan smile.  "i did, but i couldn't find you.  i knew you'd come back."

"i was out on the deck with my laptop, having a smoke--you shoulda looked for me.  i feel terrible--how long have you been sitting here like this?"  i had been out there at least an hour.

he shrugs. "it doesn't matter," he says, and i can see that he means it.

this is a very different boy than the one i'd picked up last night.  that one had been a hundred twenty-five pounds of semi-drunken bravado; that one wasn't gonna let the fact that his folks had thrown him out and his friends were getting tired of him crashing on their couch get in his way.  that one had places to go and things to do, goddammit.

i flop down on the bed, pull him into my arms and we lie there like that. after awhile, i ask him, "you hungry?"

at jack-in-the-box, his destination of choice, i tell him he can have whatever he wants and smile as he shamefacedly orders half the menu.  when we get to his place, he kisses me on the cheek, says, "thanks--you're really nice," and i think, "yeah, i'm a prince."

i tell him not to lose my number, to call it if he needs to.  he gives me that smile again, gathers his paper bags full of treasure, walks away.

and all the way home, and all day today, all i can think about is a boy sitting on my bed in the dark, patiently waiting for whatever's gonna happen to him next.

other than that, mrs. alvarez, how did you like the neighborhood?

johnnie lives with his mother in the westlake district of los angeles, a once-grand neighborhood near downtown that today would be described as sketchy at best. on the way to my place, i asked him by way of conversation how he and his mother liked living there, and he said, "it's not bad--we've been there a long time."

and then he told me by way of conversation about how back when he was in high school, a gang in the neighborhood sent a rival gang member a message by shooting and then garotting the guy's kid brother--a classmate of johnnie's--and then hanging the kid's splayed body by the neck from the front doorknob of their apartment for his mother to find when she came home from work.

"this happened near you?" i asked. "oh yeah," he said. "the building next door."

i thought about that a long minute, asked about the kid's mother. he said, "oh, she moved after that." that wasn't what i meant, but i let it go.

on the drive home after dropping johnnie off, i thought about his ordinary-looking building, the ordinary-looking building next door, the dozens of times i had walked those self-same ordinary streets at all hours secure in the knowledge that my white, middle-class bubble of immunity followed me everywhere.

and it occurred to me, and not for the first time, that after twenty-three years here, i still don't know shit about this city.

seriously, this happened

.
so what's worse--being a moron or being an asshole?  you decide.


supermarket checkout line, earlier today

checker tears off my receipt, turns toward the bagger to hand it off.  i intercept her, wad it up and reach for my bag, which prompts the following exchange between the bagger and myself:

"she was handing that to me!"

"it's ok--i'm just gonna toss it on my way out."

"but it's got your name on it."

"huh?"

"i need your name."

"um, why do you need my name?"

"because how else am i supposed to say, thanks for shopping with us, mr. whateveryournameis--have a nice day! if i can't look at your receipt and see your NAME?"

by now we have the attention of the people behind me and both adjacent lanes.

"fine--here."  i drop the crumpled receipt in her hand, just so i can watch her smooth it out, paste on the fake smile and say,

"thanks for shopping with us, mr. . . . pluhar--have a nice day!"

i return her smile stonefaced.  "that's not my name."

"what?  looks down at the receipt. "but--"

"i've been using my old roommate's rewards card for years.  but if i ever see him again, you can be sure i'll pass on your message."

as the peanut gallery snickers, i give her a big smile, grab my bag outta her hand and head for the door, knowing she'd have gladly killed me at that moment if only the employee manual allowed it.

ok, so which is it?

.
saturday night

stopped at the corner of wilshire and santa monica boulevards, a light, cold drizzle falling, i glance over at the corner, notice two young women in flimsy cocktail dresses, shivering and hugging themselves for warmth. as they begin to cross in front of me, i altruistically drop my window and offer them a ride, in response to which they glance at me, stiffen and begin moving faster.  when i laugh and reassure them that i'm gay, i get a "yeah, right!" back.

sunday morning

at petco to pick up a harness for the hound.  helpful saleslady pulls one off the rack, gives me a meaningful look as she says, "i think you'll find this one really easy--it's just like putting on a bra".

it's a short road back to hell

dear twink from thursday night:

i managed to overlook your insisting i pick you up at the abbey right now, and then making me wait half an hour--i understand it's not your fault you get mobbed by adoring fans who recognize you from your porn films wherever you go.

i tolerated you going on endlessly about your jet-setting lifestyle, your kardashian connection and the trust fund waiting for you when you turn 30, and then hitting me up for ten bucks for cigarettes and juice because you found yourself short.

i was happy to allow you to totally embarrass me at the supermarket where i shop regularly, first by loudly complaining because no one was there at 2 a.m. to fresh-squeeze the orange juice your refined sensibilities demanded, and then by hanging all over me while drunkenly critiquing the fashion choices of everybody else in the slowest-moving checkout line i've ever endured in my life.

when we got to my place, i grudgingly gave you points for consistency when i discovered you were every bit as delightful in bed as you were out of it.

next morning, i indulged you in your "lost keys" drama, and obligingly tore my house and car apart in a futile effort to find them.

upon driving you home, i dutifully waited until you came back out, grabbed your shit, said, "the manager let me in; you can go now", slammed the door and walked away without so much as a backward glance (and i can only hope the elderly asian lady walking her pomeranian past your apartment building at that moment was able to overlook my screaming, "hey, it was nice fucking you too!" out the car window as i screeched away).

in the fullness of time, i can forgive all of the foregoing--hell, i've endured far worse in my time at the hands of far messier twinks than you.

what i will never be able to forgive, twink from thursday night, is your leaving that freshly-opened pack of marlboros for me to find when i got home.

*sigh*

eighteen years of abstinence, down the drain...

day 8: just another friday afternoon in LA

.

so shortly before 4, the "breaking news" graphic flashes across the screen interrupting oprah, followed by a studio shot of the local anchor duo looking very animated, and then throwing to an apparent live shot of a big gray jet flying low--

what?  what the fuck is happening?   i grab the remote, turn up the volume, and...

christ, i had completely forgotten that the royal couple are flying in today.  i sit down to watch.

not, mind you, because i give a rat's ass about wills and whatsername.  or because watching americans scurrying about, scraping and making general gushing fools of themselves around royalty can be entertaining.

no, i'm watching because their first scheduled event upon leaving the airport, as breathlessly announced by the female anchor, will, by my rough calculation, put them at precisely the intersection through which i and tens of thousands of my fellow angelenos will need to pass, at about exactly the same time.

because they always pull this shit on friday afternoon at 4--you know, when nobody in los angeles is on the road.

so the plane lands, taxis a bit and pulls up alongside this straggly-looking line of local luminaries [our idiot mayor, i expected, but the governor?!], the anchors extemporize inanely as the ground crew set up the stairs and futz around with the door--and then, finally, the couple emerge.

they blow through the reception line in about a minute and a half, all smiles and charm.  she looks sensational, i gotta admit, and it's fascinating to watch their choreography--how he moves ahead, seemingly oblivious of her presence, and she always and very artfully manages to stay a step or two behind him.  they pile into opposite sides of a range rover, and they're off.

and the bloviating anchors lapse back into semi-coherence, because now they're on familiar ground--now it's just another car chase through the streets of LA, only this time with the cops helping.

the cops are on familiar ground, too, and their choreography is even better than the royals'.  the motorcade slices through the congested streets like a hot knife through butter, motorcycle patrolmen clearing one intersection and then racing ahead to take positions at another, in a seamless dance that not only moves the whole circus from LAX to the beverly hilton in less than 20 minutes, but does so with minimal disruption of traffic.

and, more importantly, gets them to their destination well ahead of me.

by the time i roll through the intersection of wilshire and santa monica boulevards, there is nary a trace of the hubbub i had seen on television there a mere 15 minutes before.  as i pull into my parking space right on time [ok, five minutes late, but for me that's right on time], i think about how different this experience was than the last time a dignitary came to town on a friday afternoon.

and it convinces me even more that if dignitaries can't travel like this, perhaps they shouldn't travel at all.

lemme get this one down while the memory's still fresh

.

so tonight after work i stop at my neighborhood rite-aid for the evening's booze a few essentials--the usual kid's there behind the counter and as i reach out to swipe my debit card he says, "oh gosh, i rang it up as a cash sale--you don't happen to have cash, do you?"

i tell him i don't, he rolls his eyes and reaches for the phone to call the manager who's god knows where and as soon as i realize it's gonna be complicated i grab a candy bar off the rack and tell him to ring it up and i'll pay for it with my card and get some cash back to pay for my prior purchase and no manager will be necessary.

he's relieved, the line behind me relaxes, we do the deal and as i try to hand him back one of my new twenties to pay for my shit, he holds a hand up and tells me to wait, grabs the receipt from the first sale, flips it over and starts writing on it.  i'm thinking maybe he needs to document some irregularity in the transaction after all, so i wait

and wait...and wait...

until after an eternity of brow-furrowed scratching he finally drops his pen, takes my twenty, gives me my change--and then instead of tucking the receipt he'd worked so hard on into his cash drawer as i'd expected, stuffs it into my bag instead.


all becomes clear when i get out to the car, fish it out and observe the work of this young, bright-eyed product of the california educational system first-hand.

it's now official:  america is doomed.

the night a hookup saved the canyon

.

[usually there's a trigger, a song or something, but not tonight--this one just arose from the depths of my memory spontaneously and unbidden.]


in the world of mkf, there's two kindsa fuckbuddies:  (1) the dime-a-dozens who wait for my call, and (2) the one-in-a-millions i drop everything for. darrin fell into the latter category, which is why when he booty-called me at around three on the monday morning in question, and even though i was well into mkf cocktail #2, i without even a moment's hesitation topped off my drink and hit the road.

an artist of sorts, darrin lived in a dingy hollywood loft near western & santa monica, which location presented me with the eternal dilemma:  go south and then east via sunset to save time, or take the long way up through the valley to the 101 and thus dodge the cops?

as always when even mildly shitfaced [and unlike oliver stone and countless other idiot celebrities whose hubris overcomes their common sense], i went with plan b--a decision which on this particular night would prove to have ramifications far above and beyond my successful avoidance of a DUI.

pitch-black and deserted as always at this hour, which is why i chose this route--i loved the canyon like this.

rounding the hairpin at the nature conservancy, i saw something alien and unexpected up ahead--looked like a harmless little campfire burning brightly on the side of the road, but the sight of it was sufficient to drive all thoughts of darrin from my head, bring me to a screeching halt, fumble for the phone and dial 911 for the first time in my life.

while waiting for the cavalry to arrive, i clambered outta my truck and tried to stamp it out--hell, even went so far as to pour my drink on it--all to no avail.  in what seemed like no time [thanks, i'd find out later, to gasoline], the little campfire exponentially grew, worked its way under the chain-link fence next to the road and started licking at the brush surrounding a big, dry tree on the other side.  i remember thinking, "nice knowing you, little canyon."

on the phone with 911 again, stamping for all i was worth and screaming for backup, i remember feeling it before seeing it--the heavy diesel rumble coming down from the fire station at the top of the hill--and then, finally, blessedly, the flashing lights rounding the curve.

they'd sent the big one, complete with lotsa hot firemens hangin off it.

once it was out, the captain told me that if i hadn't happened along right behind the arsonist, this coulda been a really bad one.

"god sure had a plan for you tonight," he said, and smiled.  [when he asked what had brought me out at such an odd hour, i gulped, mumbled something about being hungry and oh thank heaven for 7-11 whilst trying to avoid either looking him in the eye or breathing directly in his face].

darrin, whom i'd forgotten about in all the excitement, was rightly pissed and having none of my lame-ass heroics--until i finally got to his place, he got a good whiff of me and we had us some of the most smokin' make-up sex ever.

two morals of this story:  (1) if you're gonna keep a category-2 fuckbuddy waiting, you'd better have an excuse at least as good as this one; and (2) next time you're confronted with a foaming-at-the-mouth fundamentalist who claims gays and their unnatural perversions serve no useful purpose in god's plan for humanity, point 'em to this post, ok?

the boy at erewhon

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so i've mentioned i'm on this health kick, right?

after quickly tiring of the sticker shock that is and will forever be the hallmark of the whole foods shopping experience, this week i decided to move further east, thinking an independent market's gotta be cheaper.

yeah well, think again--the old erewhon's no more.  today i'm in their slick, new nuts-and-seeds aisle swooning over $20/lb. raw macademias and wondering why the fuck i ever thought i'd save money in this place, when i suddenly become aware of a sweet, clear voice harmonizing with the golden oldie being piped in overhead.

i turn to my left to find about ten feet down the aisle the cutest lil' ol' boy you ever saw--short and dirty-blond, erewhon apron wrapped around his tight, compact bod, quietly and obliviously singing along to the muzak as he restocks his shelves.

i catch his eye with a smile and say [because i still always know what to say] "so 40 years later, touch me's still cool?"

he falls all over himself assuring me that yeah, it is; turns out he and his band are currently rehearsing love me two times for their next gig--am i a doors fan?  "from way back in the day," i assure him back, tell him one of my favorite jim morrison anecdotes and the payoff's immediate--from the body language and the look in his eye, i know i've got him.

we spend the next half-hour traversing every aisle in the store, this kid and i, shooting the shit as he personally and painstakingly seeks out every item on my list, and i casually toss it all into my cart without even looking at the prices.

as the easy intimacy between us builds, he knows exactly where this is going, and so do i--i.e., absolutely nowhere, but that's not the point.

how much did it all cost?  that's not the point, either.

the point is, the hermit needed a reminder that flirting's like riding a bicycle--you never forget.

more tales of the shuttle

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[this one's for noblesavage and judi--any random just-passing-through civilians who need context, click here]


so it's late, i'm at the united terminal packing my final passengers into my orange county-bound van and thrilled to have three fares for a change, when up walks this little blond kid lugging a huge surfboard.

"dude, can you take me to dana point?"

even though it's on my way, i start to say no because the rules of my employer are clear:  no more than three stops, ever.

i then look him up and down--take in the wild sun-bleached hair, the taut, tanned body, the supplicating gray-green eyes, calculate his desperation to get home. . .

"it'll cost you a hundred bucks and you'll be the last stop--can you live with that?"

yeah, he can, so i stuff his board in sideways across the indignant laps of my legitimate passengers, put the boy up front with me, and off we go.

by the time we hit dana point, the boy and i are old friends--turns out he's a professional surfer, freshly back from hawaii, who'd dropped outta high school in order to pursue his dream.

i smile indulgently at this youthful foolishness as we roll up to the address he'd provided--a big, two-story tile-roofed mediterranean in a high-end gated community.

"so you still live with your folks, huh?"

"nah, this is my house."

turns out this adorably dumb little fuck is one of the top money-earning surfers in the world.

he invites me in and of course i accept--we recline on one of the black leather couches in the mostly-empty living room of his mostly-empty house, he smokes me out and i eventually and reluctantly leave his charmed world and head back to the airport.

*     *     *     *     *

three or so months later, i've got a van full of hollywood-bound passengers and we're heading toward the exit when i outta habit glance over to my right as we approach that last terminal and i see him standing there just like last time--little blond boy with a big board, waiting for an OC van [which that night i am anything but]--and i unhesitatingly whip across four lanes of angry traffic, jump out--his eyes alight with recognition when he sees me--and tell him

"it'll cost you a hundred bucks and we have to go in the completely opposite direction from where you live and make three stops in hollywood first--can you live with that?"

of course he can--time and money mean nothing to this boy--so once again, i cram his board in sideways across the laps of a whole bunch of annoyed people i don't wanna fuck and drag the boy up front with me.

how does this tale end?  i wish i could tell you i got into his pants that second time, but it didn't happen--god, if only i'd known then what i know now.

of course, i knew i'd end up going

.

it takes a lot to impress my jaded ass, but today hollywood suit outlet delivered.

within five minutes of walking through the door of this legendary establishment and into the capable hands of a salesman who's obviously heard my story a thousand times, i have the right suit [a cashmere/wool blend, no less] along with a decent 100% cotton shirt and appropriately somber tie, belt and socks--all for the package price of two hundred bucks.


he then sends me back to his tailor, and half an hour and twenty dollars later, all alterations are done and i find myself back out on hollywood boulevard with a suit-bag slung over my shoulder asking lucille ball's star why all my retail experiences can't be like this.

tales of the shuttle

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so today i heard that jaime escalante died, which got me thinking about his movie, which got me thinking about a job i once had shortly after arriving in los angeles, which left me once again with the realization that just when mkf thinks he's tapped out, there's always one more story--or three.
 

1.

i recognize him immediately--little guy with a canvas duffle almost as big as he is, flagging me down at terminal 7 just as i'm getting ready to head outta the airport--could it be?

i jump out to help him with his bag, and as he climbs into the van, all doubts are erased--there's the logo for his latest movie emblazoned across the back of his jacket, big as life.

as soon as he's settled in--he's all alone in the wayback--i ease into traffic and resume my conversation with the two delightful english ladies in the middle row i had just picked up at terminal 2.  it's their first trip to america and they're beside themselves with excitement--from the moment they entered the van, they've been peppering me with questions about hollywood.

as we drive, i give 'em everything i know, try to point out some landmarks--problem is, the bleak drive from LAX to hollywood is as about as far from glamorous as you can get, so to keep 'em happy (and thinking, as always, of my tip), i start making shit up.

every time i make some outlandish pronouncement for the benefit of my ladies--point out some anonymous hovel and tell 'em charlie chaplin used to keep his mistresses there, for instance, or "see that pretty girl at the corner? she's really a man."--i check the rear-view mirror, catch the eye of my passenger in the back row.  he's smiling, enjoying the show.

until, that is, the inevitable "where can we find celebrities?" question comes up.

because i can't resist.  "ladies, in this town, you never know where you're gonna run into a celebrity.  it could happen on a street corner, in a cafe--heck, you might look up and find yourselves sitting right next to one at any moment."

i glance up--the once-smiling eyes in my rear-view mirror are wide and pleading now.  i just wink and drive.

the first stop is his--chateau marmont.  as i drag out his bag, he hands me an extra twenty, says "thanks for not giving me away."

turning back toward my van, i toss over my shoulder the line i've had the entire ride from the airport to perfect: "next time, do the right thing--hire a limo."  this earns me a laugh.

as i prepare to pull back onto the strip, i turn back to my ladies and breathlessly ask, "my gosh, do you have any idea who you just shared a ride from the airport with?"

this bit of theatre would net me my second big tip of the night.

2.

one of the first things the other drivers tell me: "cops hate shuttle drivers--be extra-careful when you're anywhere near LAX."  being me, i don't pay much attention to this advice.

one night shortly thereafter, returning from a run and anxious to get back to the airport, i ignore the "no right turn on red" sign at the 405/la tijera off-ramp and am promptly rewarded with flashing red-and-blue lights in my rear-view mirror.

fuck.  i pull over, brace myself for another ticket--i've had more than a few in my life.

this one will be different.

i sense it right away--cop walking toward me has about ten times the attitude i've ever gotten from a cop before.  i offer him my driver's license through the open window and he loudly orders me out--and when i comply, gets all up in my face and, spittle flying, backs me up against the side of the van and tells me to move not a goddam inch until he returns.

he then snatches my ID outta my trembling hand and retreats to his car, trains the full force of his spotlight upon my scared, miserable person.  as looky-lou traffic slows, through the humiliating glare i can see him on the radio, calling me in--it takes forever.  in the meantime, i nervously pull a cigarette outta my pocket and await my ticket.

eventually he comes back, scribbling in his ticket book, takes one look at the cigarette in my hand, screams, "DID I SAY YOU COULD SMOKE?  DROP IT--NOW!"  i immediately do as he says.

he then flips a page on his pad, scribbles some more and eventually hands me not one ticket to sign, but two:  the first, for illegal right turn; the second, for littering.

later in the locker-room, red-faced, foaming at the mouth, shrieking about outrage and injustice and fucking goddam motherfucking cops, i'm oblivious of the snickering from the little circle of black drivers until one of 'em walks up to me with a grin, pats me on the cheek and says, "congratulations, white boy--you just got to be a nigger for a night. now, shut your mouth, change outta that uniform and go be white again."

on the drive home i remember thinking how if I had to go through that shit on a regular basis, cop killer would probably be pounding outta my subwoofer on high rotation, too.

3.

it's a dead airport and as i make my third and final round, i resign myself to the fact that the fare i picked up on round 1 is gonna be my only one for this run.  and not only that, but it's montebello--jesus, the trip to east LA and back will eat up half my night.

she's nice, though--rather than bitching like most people do when told we're gonna have to go around twice more, she'd smiled, settled back in her seat and enjoyed the ride.

once LAX is behind us, we make the most of the trip, this lady and i--we talk about her family; we talk about mine.  before i know it, we're pulling up in front of her house--a neat little stucco bungalow with a single porchlight burning.

i insist on carrying her bags--by this time i'm totally taken with this little woman who, even though she's nothing like her, somehow reminds me of my own mother.

she unlocks the front door, steps inside, flips a switch, and i walk into...not a living room, but a shrine.

seriously:  every square inch of every wall, every table, every horizontal and vertical surface extending even unto the dining room beyond--is covered with pictures, posters, plaques, trophies, awards, ribbons, citations--documentation of a life well-lived.

and each one featuring the same familiar name and/or face.

i turn to her with my mouth open and she positively radiates with pride as she says, "this is my son i was telling you about."

fuck most celebrities, but i'd like to meet mrs. olmos's son one day, if only to tell him how his mother's face lit up when she talked about him.

and as for that other life well-lived, the one that inspired this post:  may you rest in peace, mr. escalante.

some valentine's day gifts were never meant to be DIY

came across this story tonight and laughed, because i'm pretty sure i know exactly where sandra came up with the idea.

see, a few years ago, my baby sister the producer was doing a story on jayne mansfield for one of the cable networks.  unable to find anybody alive who had known her well and/or was willing to talk, she in desperation drove out to palm springs with a crew to interview jayne's by-then ancient former hairdresser on the off chance he might be able to give her something.

old queen turned out to be a treasure trove of information:  among many other things, he told her--on camera--that, in preparation for giving herself to a man for the first time, the pink goddess would always have him trim her pubic hair into the shape of a heart and dye it her signature color.

while this little tidbit never made it into america's living rooms, trust me--it made the industry rounds in no time.

i guess if there's a moral to this story, it's that it's a shame actresses don't rely on their hairdressers like they used to.

more accidental architecture

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the other day i found myself in the westlake district of los angeles--a seedy, downtrodden neighborhood just west of downtown whose only stand-out feature (or so i thought) is drug-dealer-infested macarthur park--looking for a side street of sufficient anonymity where i could leave my truck with a reasonable expectation of finding it in one piece when i got back.

walking quickly and looking neither left or right as is my custom when in such neighborhoods, i almost missed the graffiti-covered sign twenty feet down the littered sidewalk from where i finally parked.

knowing my city and figuring ignorance might well result in a $50 ticket, i circled it and glanced up at the other side.



wait--historical landmark in this neighborhood?

my gaze then shifted to the right, through the bars of the security fence which edged the sidewalk, and...holy motherfuckin' shit.


yeah, she's decrepit and decayed, but you can totally see what she once was, can't you?

[and almost completely obscured by unkempt foliage and security fencing, i could make out another house of similar size and grandeur next door to the right


whose onion-domed cupola could only be glimpsed if i stood on top of a car in the parking lot of the burger king on the other side of 818--but what the hell, i'm nothing if not a fool for my art.]

my original reason for being there momentarily forgotten, i wandered down this apparently once-grand avenue and up the next, ignoring traffic and the threatening glares of passersby, snapping pictures with my crappy iphone as i went [some of which actually came out] of the few majestic landmarks of a bygone era which still remain.








and yeah i know you east-coast readers will laugh at this post because you've no doubt seen this sorta shit played out everywhere you've lived in orders of magnitude greater than i can even imagine.

what can i say--i've spent my life in relatively-new places like houston and los angeles, so the real-life decay of history still strikes awe in my heart.

* * * * *

for a brief synopsis of the unhappy history of 818 s. bonnie brae, click here.

for a glimpse of the way said house [and by extrapolation, said neighborhood] looked back in the halcyon days before even the idea of security fences entered the american consciousness, i offer up the following archival snapshot:



and for more images of this once-proud neighborhood in better days, click here and follow the links.

this one's for stevie, wherever he might be

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spring 1991 (i think)

they lived on clark drive just south of wilshire, these three boys, in a pretty little salmon-colored stucco bungalow they paid too much for just so they could say they lived in beverly hills.

high-school chums, they'd all come out together from florida the year before--that's what steve told me as we stumbled drunk into his house that first night after having found each other at rage or somewhere.

he flipped on lights, showed me around, pointed out pictures of himself and his roommates accompanied by running commentary as to their personalities and characters that was as unsparing and offhandedly hilarious as it would later prove to be spot-on.

robert I was an ethereally pretty boy whose pictures mostly featured him on polo ponies--it was his family's money that allowed him and his friends to live on clark drive

and it was only later i'd find out his fragile, luminous beauty was the result of the way AIDS first shows itself in the very young.

robert II was this ralph lauren-model type with a sociopath's smile whom i immediately wanted

and i'd get my shot--the line that made it easy was, "don't worry, steve said it's ok," which turned out to be the lie he always used when he took one of steve's toys away from him.

steve, as appealing as he would've been anywhere else, was the ugly duckling of a very pretty house; try as i might over the next several months, i could never convince him of his beauty, his singular wit or his value to the world.

whatever--we fags all seem to hate ourselves for something or other. point of this post is,

on the very first morning i awoke in the house on clark drive, it was to bright sunlight and clean, white curtains flapping in the warm breeze above the bed, the smells of bacon and coffee, and the haunting strains of this song wafting through the air.

i lay there and listened, transfixed.

as its final notes faded into the ether, i got up, dragged on my clothes, wandered out to the kitchen to join steve, robert I, robert II and their respective tricks du jour, and asked

who the fuck was that?

the incredulous looks on their faces i'll never forget.

what can i say--i was new.

Madonna - Oh Father

i really should get out and walk more often

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last-minute as always, head over to century city shopping center for the annual ordeal, see all the cars tryin to stuff themselves into every available entrance like ten pounds of shit into a two-pound bag, say to myself "hell, no," park on an off-street half a mile away and make my way back to the place on foot.

two hours later, heading empty-handed back down a cold, corporate stretch of santa monica boulevard toward my little truck--reminded once more why i hate malls and everything in 'em--i'm brought up short as i cross a side street and come across this modest white frame structure that in twenty years of driving up and down santa monica boulevard i'd never noticed and that by all rights shouldn't be there anymore.

scanning across the facade, my eye finds its entrance and it stops me in my tracks


i wasn't expecting zen perfection, especially here. and "barn" rings a bell, but i can't place it--all i can think is, god, i wanna get inside this place.

it's locked-up and dark--all i can do is whip out the iphone and snap it for posterity and later googling.

[tell you the truth, at first i figured some evil genius must've bonsai-ed that spindly tree to grow in just that way and then killed it at the apex of its development, until i came across the following picture from last summer online--guess it's still alive after all]


turns out 10300 santa monica boulevard was the live-work space of a. quincy jones, a modernist architect whose work i've long admired. he and his wife bought the barnlike building back in 1965, and he remade it as both his studio and their home. he died in 1979, and she's lovingly kept it just as he left it ever since.

until just last month, anyway, when she [or, more likely, her estate] finally sold it for a paltry $2 million.

for context, here's a macro-shot of the mostly-prosaic exterior


which almost completely manages to hide what's going on inside


i fully expect to drive by in a couple months and see this building torn down and replaced by something far more profitable-per-square-foot; the romantic in me hopes not.

[apologies for not bothering to link--it's an easy google if you're really interested]