Of course I do think it's possible to predict the future, but what we can't predict is how we'll get there. I also believe that we can change future events to an extent. Its a subject I'd like to explore more in my writing.

My, that last post was a downer. I re-read it, which I rarely do, and was surprised. Not to worry, I only get in those spaces every so often and rarely in print. I'm the first to admit I write for me, not for entertainment. I'm feeling less the Alcoholic Writer today; perhaps the two double margaritas at El Coyote last night helped. 

It's been a week of rare overcast skies and fall weather here in Los Angeles, perfect for reflecting on the death of things, while my Advent studies have me reflecting how to be watchful, alert and waiting for birth. I'm writing in broad strokes because I'm the last person to try and deliver any intelligent religious message, either subtle or in-your-face. 
Speaking of in-your-face; here's a rare 'no shades' shot of me at the desk. My fancy new webcam tends to Eastmancolorize my images, and being ultra vain, I'm on the fence on this one's appeal. But in the others I tended to look either too wired or too grainy, so I'm biting the bullet. I saw BURN AFTER READING yesterday and mused as to why when I grow a beard, George Clooney begins to sport one also. I beat him in the chest hair department though. 

FROM THE LOS ANGELES TIMES, Thursday, December 4:
http://www.latimes.com/news/opinion/commentary/la-oe-epstein4-2008dec04,0,902741.story

And I quote:
"But wanting their own committed relationships to be shoe-horned into an old institution makes little sense, especially given the poor, almost pathetic performance of that institution in recent decades. Half of first marriages fail in the U.S., after all, as do nearly two-thirds of second marriages. Is that really a club you want to join?"
 
BINGO. That sums it up pretty much for me. No statistics provided on the end of a third relationship, and maybe if i'd just admit to myself I'm in love with the idea of always being in love with Mark, a high school romance that meant nothing...except to my ego and the fact that I could lose once at love, and I've paid for it every since. Had I accepted that, I'd saved everyone alot of grief, become a priest or a billionnaire and rust out, rather than wear out. However, I think i'd choose wearing out if I had it all to do again. Nothing would change.

Sadly, my 18 month foray into sowing my wild oats has gotten me only less enchanted with men, bored with promiscuity and the availability of it, and now in the season of Advent, trying to undo some deadly bad habits. As I told Father Francis on Monday during confession;  I wanted to have it all; I got it all, and I'm empty and in worse shape emotionally than ever. I thought I'd boarded the train to happiness, but instead i wound up taking the Concorde to the valley of the dolls. Now, i find myself in a lifeboat, trying to row back. Luckily my faith is a pretty sturdy oar.

Obviously I wrote something (no doubt while delirious with pain) about my double wisdom tooth extraction and the grief it was causing me, as I got a get well message in my box here. After 2 and half weeks, a bottle of antibiotics, two bottles of Vicodin and hitting the bed for an average of 12 hours of sleep 3-4 times a week (counteracts those recent nights of 1-2 hours sleep..hee hee). I'm feeling more or less back together and because the side of my mouth hurt so much, I've got a winter beard that looks pretty damn hot.
Of course, we've had 80 degree weather during the days, but cool nights, cool enough I can throw the roof back, turn up the heater, make sure i've layered appropriately and can zoom down Sunset in search of dinner with the wind whirling about. This is why I came to California; always thinking of Clara Bow in her red Kiesel convertible with dyed to match chow dogs. These days, I'd need grey haired chows and Kiesel doesn't pop up with a wikipedia entry, so maybe its a fantasy like so many things.
I did manage to get a wireless card that now works with the system in the house, so I can alternate between desktop and laptop with ease. The big question is how the fuck to get back to writing regularly to get SOUTHERN GOTHIC done, so I can begin the humiliation of trying to sell it?  I'm encouraged by the response to NINE HUNDRED AND SIXTY NINE, and finding out that a used copy of SEACLIFF is getting $30 a pop....something that amazes me. Plus, I've got the annual retail madness to get through (even madder with a lousy economy) and my Advent obligations. Sounds like the perfect soil to crack out a few chapters. So, I think I'll get my lethargic ass off to dinner and crank out something.

I cried (as many of us did) at Mr. Obama's acceptance speech Tuesday, dulled as I was by my new post extraction and periodontal friends, Clyndamycin and Vicodin. I watched the crowd grow and grow in Chicago, people just like me. I contrasted that with the crowd in the ballroom at the Arizona Biltmore ( a really neat hotel, shown in an unflattering light this night) and realized I was watching history and the death of an old way of life...faces of people I recognized.....but no longer knew. I think change is going to be impossible for many and that's the saddest place to be. It truly gave me shivers.
My joy at the January arrival of new occupants of 1600 Penn Ave gave way...Prop 8 was passed in CA...making gay 'marraige' invalid. I'm not so keen on the word 'marraige'...give me equal rights, but not the vision of traipsing up the aisle of the Little Church of the Flowers in satin. But, the owner of El Coyote, who is Mormon, gave a hundred bucks to the 'Yes' faction. Bad move. Angry queens staged nasty protests outside the restaurant, basically chasing off clients and fucking up the business for about 3 days in a row. Now, nothing will ever come between me and a double margarita with a #7, and since I don't want to be misidentified as a Mormon (trust me, i have enough grief being Catholic) I plan to quietly return to EC, alone most likely, and enjoying the atmosphere of the dozen or so gay people who work there. They are the ones caught in the middle and I suppose if Miss EC was a homophobe, she wouldn't have employed them through the years or allowed the crazy Halloween and Sharon Tate parties to go on ( i threw one on the 25th anniversary, tasteful and respectful). If the gay community wants to toss me out, fine. But don't let me see your hypocritical ass at a table once Prop 8 has faded and, who knows, Darfur is back on the collective menu.

.......or consistency in keeping up with this blog. And what's this crap about the summer of 80 being the worst of my life.  nonsense!

 It's just been one of those weird days, but first let me pause for a moment to acknowledge the passing of fellow former Texan and icon Cyd Charisse. A co-worker had seen her at a UCLA function just about 3 weeks back and she appeared to be very much in failing health. 

I slept in after an exhausting Monday, had a waffle at Yukon, got my hair buzzed off, came home, showered and walked down to 12:05 mass at BS. Afterwards, I did my meditations and prayers (on a hot day like today, the church was a welcoming cool inside so I hung around) and again asked to be led to do what God calls me to do. I made my rounds and noticed again the wad of  scapulars at St. Therese's altar. However, unlike last time, a green one was laying atop the wad, so I took it (I guess that's why they were there, huh?)
A green scapular does not have to be worn, according to the web, and is a tool for 'cure and conversion'. That seemed quite in keeping with my thoughts today, so I've had it around my neck, covering my back so to speak. It only requires a simple 'Immaculate Heart of Mary, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death' recitation once a day, and of course a hell of a lot of faith. So far so good.

Tonight, serendipity butted in again: I went onto CLASSIC IMAGES website, as I haven't heard anything back and don't really feel like calling them when I get absolutely zilch out of placing stories, other than the smug feeling of being in print. What a drug that is! Anyway, I love the Book reviewers column and after scrolling past the review of the new Vernon and Irene Castle and Mamie Van Doren bios, I found a review of a new LUCY A to Z reference book by Michael Karol. I went to Michael's website and  snooped around, having forgotten he was best pals with an old flame of mine, Craig Hamrick. I dedicated SEACLIFF to Craig, but he never lived to see the final book. After a long, strong, courageous fight, Craig died of colon cancer in 2006, about 3 weeks short of turning 40. But in the 13 years I knew Craig, he'd accomplished about 19 lives worth of things. He traded Manhattan Kansas for the real Manhattan, got dialed in to the DARK SHADOWS star machine, living with Nancy Barrett for a time, written numerous books, and had found love at least twice. His life would make a good book-but no one would ever believe it wasn't fiction.
I met Craig back in the Ye Olden Days of the Internet, on the delightful PRODIGY bulletin boards for DARK SHADOWS. We met up at the 1993 DS Convention at the Marriott Marquis, had a fantastic time both out of and in the room, and he was very much up for the idea of having a long distance affair, even though I was honest about being in a relationship. It was too complicated for me, and Craig didn't take that well (nor was I very gallant about it). Luckily, once he got out of the cornfields and to Coney Island, he moved fast, and how. We continued an e-mail and phone relationship until a few months before passed, for I grew very weary of the whole DS politics and expected Craig to always be my vicarious link to the looney DS world. Craig did introduce me to Nancy Barrett at the Festival here, and she was lovely, as was David Selby. In fact, of all the many personalities I've met over the years, they were two who did not disappoint. 
 
I still can't believe Craig's gone, and this is partially due to the fact that his websites continue to run, which I think is a bit odd. I only met his last partner when I'd emailed Craig's address to tell him the book had been printed. The partner was very nice...until he put my name with the lovely tribute Craig posted about our NYC adventure....of course that might just be my oversized ego's interpretation of it. 
So on this moonlit night, with a warm breeze outside, I feel Craig is very near and trying to get me to hear his whispers: "get off the stick and write, Pierce! You did it before and  you can do it again, and again."
I don't know that I want a spirit who has an encyclopedic knowledge of Dark Shadows plots at his supernatural disposal, so I think I better get back swinging my inkpen very soon. God bless you Craig and thanks again for believing in me.

 The Talented Mr. Greg Herren has a blog called Queer and Loathing in America. In addition to juggling two mystery series at competing publishers, assisting his partner Paul with the running of the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival in New Orleans, and editing various anthologies, Greg was the editor who acquisitioned THE MASTER OF SEACLIFF for now-defunct Haworth Press, a deal made over strong vodka/cranberrys at the Bourbon Pub in 2004.  I generally find blogs dull, so I make sure mine is as bland as pablum (at least under this moniker) so as not to compete, and reinforcing the stereotype of the tormented creative.  I also like these questions, when they're not stupid. And I still don't believe in writer's block....but very much in procrastination.

However, I'm subscribing to the philosophy that 'any writing' for me these days is better than none at all, and as I plod forward on SOUTHERN GOTHIC, attempt to muster courage to revise AT THE CROSSROADS, and start or complete about three other projects also, at least I can wallow here: but never in self-pity. 

I don't post regularly, but when I do, I hope it's 'cherce'.   

June is historically a 'death' month for me: My father died on either June 2 or 9, 1979. His death had been expected all my life, so I don't feel guilty that I don't remember the date. My uncle and my muse Jean Harlow on the 7th(2007 and 1937 respectively), bodybuilder and guru Mike Mentzer on the 10th(2001) and my mother's on June 12, 1975 at 1PM CDT. Norma Shearer also passed on June 12 in 1983, but like my father, she'd had a long life and it's only after the fact that I remembered and am posting. As for my mother's time of passing: I know that specifically as I remember looking at the wall clock in my uncle's restaurant kitchen (my first summer job; as a busboy for $5 bucks as week) and saying but not knowing why, 'remember this time'. The death certificate confirmed that; although it erroneously concluded her overdose of Seconal was deliberate. It wasn't; the Sec was a drug she hadn't tried before and she just took too many. Around 4, my father showed up at the cafe and stated he couldn't wake her up, and an aunt, an adult cousin, Daddy and I  trudged back to the house. I was told to stay in the car and later, my uncle had the lousy task of tellling me the news- around 7PM that night. Sadly, no one was surprised except for me. My life changed forever that awful day in Clayton Oklahoma, and I always get pulled back to it every June 12th. Time will never entirely heal that wound.

Today, my life changed again. My best friend Larry, we've known each other since we were ten and who is the last link to the pre-1975 Max welcomed the birth of his first grandson, Jackson. (yes there is a story why Larry is a grandfather at age 46, but we won't go there today). Jackson arrived just after noon in Grapevine, Texas at 7 lbs and 6 oz, and is about 20 inches long. I am thankful that his birth came without complications and that his timing makes what traditionally is a continually looping replay of 1975 have a new, positive meaning. It also dawned on me that June 12, 1975 led me to my faith via W.S. Doyle, my father's best friend, who gave me a rosary and a (now vintage) Daily Missal, both of which I have kept. Catholicism kept me sane that summer of 1975 and it sustains me today. Now, though I give back (albeit lousily) I am thankful, blessed and filled with gratitude. I'm off now to celebrate life and death alone (because that's the way it is) at El Coyote, which is my idea of heaven.