SHAVINGS FROM MY HEAD

..the weather is A-MAZ-ING today!

Why I love in L.A.

shooting…Hollywood and Mine…..

Last night I attended the Project Angel Food Angel Awards—honoring Paramount Pictures—at their home space on Vine Street in Hollywood. For over twenty-five years I have walked, talked, designed, sewn, collected, sold and served—all for an end to HIV and Aids. Throughout all those years, every event and charity that has tirelessly worked toward the same goal, there has been but one, that (to me) has managed to keep it simple and to the point. And that is why, still, after all these years, I love Project Angel Food!

Last night’s event was no different.

Brought together at their home space—where they create meals, connect with those in need, disperse drivers and gather their volunteers together—last evening’s event, to debut their community gardens, was, yet again, another stellar example of how PAF keeps it simple and to the point.

To hone their already effective machine, they have begun a community garden partnership to grow organic vegetables for the meals cooked and delivered to the people they serve.

I snuck my friend in.

Dinner—which can generally be bad at such events—was prepared in their kitchen, incorporating fresh produce from their new gardens. Happily all was yummy and a wonderful reminder of how well they feed their recipients.  We drank, ate and honored—all, in the parking lot of their space. Akin to their DNA, it was perfect and uncomplicated.

Once again inspired, (since we are only in the talking stages of Divine Design) I threw some money at being a delivery sponsor. But don’t be surprised if you start reading about my culinary contribution in their kitchen. I’m seriously considering rolling up my sleeves and cooking.

Since everyone was being unpretentious, I decided to be respectful with the celebrity photo stalking…but here’s one…the blurry guy to my left is Harry Hamlin. And yes, Lisa was there too…along with Amy Adams, Kim Coles and Sarah Rue..to name a few. Leslie Bibb (from Iron Man—who, oddly modeled for me a million years ago) gave a very sweet speech about finding her place in Hollywood through PAF.

To conclude, little guy, little thoughts: I love them!

So…anyone reading this, who is feeling charitable, send them a check, or go spend some time cooking in the kitchen, or gardening in their new organic garden.

Project Angel Food—922 Vine Street, Hollywood.

And I leave you with this:

“Start by doing what’s necessary; then do what’s possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible.

Saint Francis of Assisi

Gay Pride is looming—the streets of West Hollywood are teeming with crews of men casting massive orange mesh tarps over the plants, while the porta-pottys flank the boulevard like tense soldiers preparing for battle with the beer-infused. Reminiscent of disillusioned cheerleaders—framed by a wall of sawhorses resembling an oversized strip of juicy stripe gum—traffic cops usher the bottleneck of commuters—forcing the annoyed drivers into a maze, their stymied detour evoking the opposite of gay. The storefronts have been embellished with bunches of rainbow balloons, while clusters of white tents mark the street—offsetting their flamboyance. The streetlamps that edge Santa Monica Boulevard are all adorned with a commemorative (and kinda boring if you ask me) banner highlighting the forty-year anniversary of Los Angeles Pride.

In a few hours all this will adorn the celebration of Gay Pride L.A. 2010. It’s still early, but my bike has already become my most efficient means of transportation—transporting me through all the festival preparations, for one last trip to the store.

Riding home loaded down with groceries, like the aforementioned festival fluffers, I began to prepare for pride and the position of the gays in the world. My position as a worldly gay. And I was quickly reminded that, even with all the progress—the marches and fights, the babies and the weddings, the don’t ask don’t tell and then, well…maybe you can tell—that even after all this time, all these years of pride, we gays are still viewed (by some) as second-class citizens.

We are still viewed as # 2.

Next month I’ll be fifty, and I’ve evolved through a world of gayness when: bars had to be cloistered in scary, out-of-they-way neighborhoods; when elected government officials could carry on closeted affairs with much-younger men and everyone turned a blind eye (it’s in the book); when the word gay brought with it an over-the-top fierceness and a determination to flaunt our differences; the anesthetizing of the libido—brought about by the AIDS crisis; the premature death of young friends and peers just embarking on the possibilities of adult life; the lost-boy generation of circuit partying; the gentrification of the gays; and finally, a stumble-about-in-the-dark generation of middle-aged gays that look amazing and are not ready to been seen as old, yet (generally) unsure of how to rewrite this new and improved, 50-is-the-new-40 chapter. (Which is why I began writing my column as well as this blog.)

The last part, the 50-is-the-new-40—the most relevant as I am living it—makes me consider my straight peers, their preplanned, mapped out, life of existence and expectations: when to get married, when to have children, how to behave in social situations…the list is endless. Yet, is it better?

Perhaps the # 2 position is a better, albeit inferior, (to some) place to be? Like those American Idol winners that have been riddled with contractual agreements, while the loser, the runner-up, the one who came in #2, effortlessly evolves into making hit records, movies or perhaps a turn on Broadway. All because they’re free of the rules that coincide with the winning title, the #1 spot.

Does #2 make you a piece of shit? Stuck, stalled in a stinky, constipated state, watching from behind while the #1ers get to piss all over the world with their brand of traditional values? I suppose it all depends on your views of position.

For Gay Pride 10’, I vote to get out your gayest writing tool—a glitter crayon, a permanent marker in a flamboyant color, perhaps even a #2 pencil—allowing you to erase and rewrite your gay little life as often as you desire. Then, instead of just sitting around, make it write, graffiti the gayest things you can…but, whatever you do, get the lead out….because that is how we write our history.

His image was a façade of tricks.

He felt naked without it.

Birthday parties were his specialty.

I changed my outfit to blend in

Yes, my head was shaved when we met!

My spirit is mush.

After probing the streets of Hollywood for a spot to park, my friend, and fellow lover of old movies, Jeff and I hurried into The Egyptian Theatre to see a screening of Douglas Sirk’s 1959 remake of Imitation of Life—starring Lana Turner and Sandra Dee.

A favorite for years, the film, part of Turner Classic Movies first-ever film festival, was elevated to must see status—due to its campy, melodramatic acting and Lana’s Technicolor Jean Louis’ wardrobe—when we found out it was going to be screened. To add, like many of the films being shown throughout the weekend-long festival, post viewing, various still-living and available actors were to show up and discuss the film. For IOL, the film’s mother-daughter team of Juanita Moore and Susan Kohner were slated to appear. We were excited.

Once inside, and seated, Ben Mankiewicz came before the crowd to share a few gossipy factoids about the film: A mother daughter triangle-tale of Cheryl Crane, Sandra Dee and Lana Turner along with other tidbits about the director. Then, the lights went down and the film began. Since we were in a “real” theatre our usual banter was verboten, so Jeff and I exchanged mime, dragish parody at each of our favorite, and the film’s most exaggerated parts. We were nearly alone in our perspective. Everyone else seemed as if they were viewing a Nazi war film. And then, came the “tragic” ending, (I won’t ruin it for you if you haven’t seen it) filling the theatre with teary viewers. All around us were gaggles of homos in various stages of grief, grappling with their Kleenex.

What’s going on? I thought and looked over to Jeff. He shrugged in response and offered a contorted face—similar to some of the ones Lana portrays throughout the film when needing to appear distraught.

And although I applaud the film for its pioneering of controversial racial struggles, still, the campy melodrama and horrific “acting” that emotes from Lana Turner hardly formulates a film to weep about……Or maybe it’s just me?, I thought.

****************************************

The lights came up, the stars came out and feeling disconnected Jeff and I fled.

As a result, although it was great to view the film on a massive screen—taking me away from usual home-viewing and into a crowd—like so many other pockets of shared experience, it left me, yet again wondering: Where do I really fit in?

Why? Because, although I love old films, and Jeff and I are constantly viewed as “boys who know too much about old movies” (which is accurate…although also relative) while I sat there, bathed in Technicolor, as the heavyset homo to my right convulsed and cried at things that were sooooo over the top, I felt as if I were missing the joke..or the point..or perhaps, a life dedicated to melodrama. I was definitely missing the connection.

Possessing that ever-so-gay trait of loving old movies (and some of their stars), enough so, that I was motivated to attend the film festival. Aside from seeing the movie in all its glory—elevated onto the screen at one of (in its heyday) Hollywood’s infamous movie theatres, I also expected to feel akin with the viewers, be in the company of other like-minded homos. Instead, sans Kleenex, unless you’re reading this and have come to know me a little better, I suppose I’m back to A Little Imitation of Gay Life…

“Just follow my lead,”…she said to me.

“Fifty is not, what it used to be!”

She passed me a hat and some steps to follow…

“You won’t make the cut, if you sit there and wallow!”

“Now on my count, kick your leg in the air…

….like you’re sculpted in plastic…

…..and you haven’t a care!”

So I bent my bod, round the bentwood chair…

….I figured I’d dance, to avoid the despair!

With B teaching the steps, and a hat top my head…

I discovered new posture, could be easily led.

With each number that comes, best to try it with two…

…it will help with the steps, in your “character” shoe.

Hence, here’s my decree!

Best to change up the steps, for how to be….

…half a century is just, a number you see!