20 Cents in ONE DAY

Now really, how does this happen? Yesterday I bought gasoline at $2.79 in Santa Fe - today, at the very same Conoco on St. Francis, and the price was $2.99 a gallon. For yer basic unleaded.

I predicted a month ago that gas prices would be at $3/gallon by Halloween, but this is ridiculous. Supposedly, Hurricane Katrina is to blame - she's knocked out 92% of Gulf of Mexico production.

Huh...but I thought we got all our oil from the Middle East? Isn't that what the war is about?

Maybe not.

Some Democrat in New Jersey is calling for Bush to release some of the strategic reserve to lower prices. How much ya wanna bet he won't? Why should he? It's not like he's gotta pay at the pump.

So - I amend my prediction. $4 a gallon by Halloween. Fine and dandy if all you do is drive. But what about seniors on fixed incomes in the winter? Are they better off than they were four years ago?

Do I Strike YOU as Hostile?

Today I received mail from someone who said that my "mails and blog-posts lately have been just dripping with hostility." No matter how I tried to dodge that one today, it stuck with me through everything - not that I might be hostile (I am - fucks-sake, I BLOG) but that it's a) so apparent to someone who reads me, and b) that anyone even notices, since I sometimes have a Really Hard Time thinking about why I shouldn't be hostile. (I sometimes wonder about the intelligence of those who are not.)

I'm not going to list All the Reasons Why I'm Hostile and Why I Frequently Burn With Hate. (You can read my blog, if you like, but I may prepare a list if you Ask Very Nicely.) Since 9/11, (you remember, the Day Democracy Died?) I have watched with utter horror and dismay as The People (not our leaders, mind you - of course they suck) have sorta learned to pretend that This Isn't Really Happening really quite effectively - and mind you, I'm not talking about the red states or the blue states or the flyover states or any of that fucking nonsense, I'm talking about what I've seen from the vantage point of liberal strongholds like Seattle, San Francisco, and Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Were it only my lot in life to be blessed with an obsession for little more than fine art and the presentation of food on a plate (the dual preoccupations of a city whose industries are Art and Lunch) then I might not burn as I do. After all, just this very evening I enjoyed a hand-prepared plate of lightly tossed egg noodles festooned with Italian sausage, bathed in a light cream-curry-ginger sauce that I whipped up in the kitchen all by myself, and over the weekend I had the opportunity to view some fairly decent art at Indian Market - (though Gregory Lomayesva's new piece over the fireplace at La Posada is still my favorite native american art-work in town) so I really can't say that I don't delve into the local distractions. And yet, I can't seem to wonder about the Really Big Shit going on, stuff like:

Q: If we're really in a war for oil (which even good liberals like me will tell you) then why the fuck is the price of gasoline rising about ten cents a week?

(Short answer: Because while we're blowing billions on wartime, China and India are snapping up every available oil contract they can find on the world market. Which begs the question as to Why The Fuck We're in Iraq - because it isn't the oil either.)

But I digress. Because I'm wanting to say nice things about what I have to be grateful for, all the neat shit that takes the pressure off the burn and makes me feel sorta hopeful about life.

1) I carry two passports. I am a citizen of the United States and Ireland - and I will be going back in less than a year. For how long, I can't say - but maybe I'll get to treat Santa Fe like so many other people do - as a little backwater where they can go to the opera and five-star restaurants and call the police whenever they don't like their neighbors. A country place to have a second home (in my case, an inherited condo, perhaps) and teach my kids about nature without having to actually live there.

2) Medicaid is still covering my medication. Goddess bless. Pity so many of my friends can't afford to have their teeth cleaned.

3) I actually sorta have fans for my work. They aren't a great big number, but some of them are mighty smart folks and that makes me happy.

4) My last court date in the city of Santa Fe is on Tuesday. I will plead guilty so my parents can get their five thousand dollars in cash extortion money back from the city. I will gleefully carry out my twenty-four hours of community service and serve out my probation from the safety of Albuquerque - far away from cops who take personal vendettas and drag people to jail on false pretenses. "So sue me..." As if I have the time. We're a long long way from the Berkeley Legal Defense Fund out here in Paradise.

5) I have a thick gaggle of weird friends all over the country. Most of them probably don't like my work, but they did buy my book - almost 250 of them. Very nice.

6) Thank to the Da Vinci Code, I know the Roman Catholic Church is quaking over the Goddess. Tremendous satisfaction there, even if so few people understand why.

7) Despite the fact that I never expect to make very much money (I haven't ever yet) I live with the knowledge that, in the words of the late St. Jude, that I am a roving intelligence who is always pondering some weird idea. I wish more people would.

So there you have it. My gratitude laid bare. Oh and one more:

8) What some might call hostility, I call passion. I am only in pain because I'm in love with the world.

Why I Hate Tweakers

So the other day, I was talking to this friend of mine about some girl, and based on his description of her and the situation she was in, I commented, "The girl's a fucking tweaker, man- stay away from her."

My friend looked astonished. "No, she's not into that kinda stuff. Crystal meth is definitely not her scene."

And I said, "Dude, that's not what I'm talking about." Not at all.

So what's a tweaker, you might ask? A tweaker is a girl who lets on that she's all hot and bothered about you - then pulls the plug when push comes to shove with some lame lie. If she's a hot-knife tweaker, when you say, "Oh, I thought you were into me and I misunderstood, let's just be friends," - then she starts in all over again, batting the eyelashes, smiling brightly, and giving you the hard-core sex vibe when she thinks no one else is watching.

I've had a goodly pile of tweakers in my world, but just a few weeks ago, I was given the hotknife tweaker treatment by some chick that I would've gladly bedded at least once - and possibly even dated if she'd turned out to be any fun. I was hanging at my apartment complex and I walked over to see this friend of mine. The friend - I call him "Joe" - has an incredible collection of really bad B-movies on DVD, and being cheap and all, I generally just borrow his stuff whenever I need to get my eyes away from the computer and onto the TV screen instead.

So I walk over to "Joe's" place, and as usual, the door is open. Inside, sitting on the couch is this woman with incredibly hot eyes and curvy body. I walk right in like I own the place, see her, step back, apologize, assume this is Joe's date or something, and start to head away. She calls me back, and explains that "Joe" has gone out of town, but that she'll be there while he's gone, watching his cat.

"Are you Gregory?" she says, lowering her eyes at me and smiling. "'Joe' told me all about you - I've even been reading your book. Do you want to sit down for awhile?"

She made a place for me on the couch - I really had other stuff to do, but something was telling me I shouldn't take off too soon. We talked a little bit and the vibe was steadily building from her direction - it was the "rip-off-my-clothes-and-fuck-me" vibe that had me hummin' like a pack of preteens at a Justin Tinberlake concert. But I just kept thinking to myself - who is this chick? Is "Joe" seeing her? Maybe he is, I thought, and maybe I'm just totally imagining things. After awhile, I told her I had some things I had to go do, and she said she'd be around - maybe we could watch a movie together sometime?

Maybe.

A couple days later, the door was open. She was inside watching "The Simpsons." Watching "The Simpsons" couldn't hurt, so I joined her. I'd had a long day, so when the episode was over and I felt the vibe again, I asked her straight up.

"Are you and 'Joe' together?" I asked.

"No," she said, turning slowly to look at me, as if she were expecting something.

"Are you seeing anyone else?" I asked,

"No," she said. I crossed my legs on the couch, and she moved a hand closer to me. "Why do you ask?"

I looked her full in the face. She was a hottie, just my type, real curvy with big breasts. I didn't really know what to say, because the vibe was eating at me and now there was nothing standing in the way.

"I read your book," she said, without waiting for me. "I really liked it. Do you have anything else I could read?"

I took her down to my apartment and gave her a magazine that I write for, and made some tea. She sat on the couch reading it but the vibe was strong. We sat on my couch and talked and I felt more comfortable so I had my feet on the couch. As we talked, she took one of my feet in her hands and began massaging.

"I really like your work," she was saying, (which, of course, is the Biggest Fucking Turn-on any writer can hear.) "And I love to hear you talk." She might as well have said I had the biggest dick on earth.

We started making out and the girl could really kiss. My hands roamed around her body and I felt like my dick was going to bust out of my jeans. And then all of a sudden - she stopped.

"Wait," she said. "I can't do this."

Christ Almighty. She's a tweaker.

"I just...'Joe' would be really upset."

"Why?" I said. "You said he told you all about me, even gave you my book to read."

"Well, yes, but...'Joe' and I aren't together, but we used to be. Did he ever tell you about the girl who broke his heart?"

Aside from his ex-wife? None that I could recall.

"Well, that was me. In March." 'Joe' broke up his his wife years ago. She smiled sadly - and ruefully - all at once. "'Joe and I work together, and it's been so hard to put it behind us. I think that if he found out we were dating, he'd be devastated."

I don't know 'Joe' all that well. We just live in the same compound. And despite the fact that he's always been very very cordial and friendly, it's entirely possible the man has a breaking point. Maybe seeing his weird semi-queer neighbor down the hall with all the one-night stand trash I bring home screwing his One True Love really would make him go postal. So I nodded, and said, "Okay," and poured her another cup of tea and moved to another chair. We finished the conversation, and she left.

A few days later, I saw her again - she knocked at my door. I let her in and we talked about this and that. Again, I fed her some tea and we sat on opposite ends of the loving room. Again, she wouldn't take her eyes off me, she let me do all the talking, she gazed at me with those big brown eyes and the vibe for sex was so strong I felt like I was going to have to mount a tree stump or a household pet. Finally, I couldn't take.

"'Eleanor,' you've told me that there can be nothing between us because 'Joe' might be upset, and yet you're totally vibing me. If you want to be friends, be friends - but if you want to lay on the sex vibe, cut the shit about your virtues and your love for your ex-boyfriend and let's take off our clothes and just FUCK."

She looked at me, still smiling and shook her head. "I just can't," she said.

"Okay," I said. "Then just get out."

And the next time I saw her, she was in 'Joe's' apartment with the door wide open. I smiled and waved and walked right on by.

Fucking tweaker.

Eventually, 'Joe' came home and I had no idea what he knew, so I decided to just come clean -because after all, I do have to live near the guy. I said, "Joe, listen - your friend was here and we were flirting a little bit, but she told me that you and she used to be together and that if anything happen you might be upset, so we cut it out right there."

And he said, "What? We weren't 'together' - we dated a couple of times. And I wanted her to meet you because I thought you guys would dig each other. I even gave her your book and told her all about you."

And then I told Joe the rest of the story. And then I called her a tweaker. And he said, "No, she's not into that kinda stuff. Crystal meth is definitely not her scene."

And I said, "Dude, that's not what I'm talking about." Not at all.

A: Fucking tweaker.

Q: What do you get when you combine a horny chick with a massive fear of intimacy and a strong desire to fuck with a man's head?

Priced Out of the Market

Last night (Friday) I had two totally surreal experiences which made me realize you can quite easily price yourself out of the market in this town if you're not Very Very Careful. Maybe it's because Santa Fe media has an inferiority complex - maybe it's because medicority is so very much the rule of the land that if you happen to Get Press for Being Press, you must be Too Damn Good for everyone else. (And maybe that's the Same Damn Thing.)

Experience #1: So I'm standing on the floor of the Indian Market Preview at Sweeney Center, looking though 1200 pieces of Native craftsmanship, when I hear my name called out. I look up, and it's an Editor (nameless, baby, nameless) from the New Mexican, telling me she's read my latest piece on Native Art (sadly, not on the web) and wants to know what I'm up to. She shows me the glossy-covered guide to Indian Market, published by her paper, and tells me she was behind it. I say, (innoncently enough) "Hey, when you're doing this sort of thing, give me a call."

She says, "Gee, I wasn't really sure if you were writing."

I blanch and say "Of c ourse I'm writing - that's what I *DO* for a living."

She says, "Well, I mean, I just thought that maybe writing for The New Mexican was beneath you now."

Why? Because I have a self-published book out and a short string of national credits? Or because The New Mexican is a rancid piece of shit that doesn't pay enough? Either way, I'm a broke-ass writer trying to keep my ideals together in an era of hyper-capitalism. Throw me some fucking work, you morons - dissident writers *don't* keep food on the table by having people think they're too fucking cool to write for *whomever* has a paycheck to throw at them - actually, we end up writing by the hour for some multinational or someone with an agenda to MAKE FUCKING SURE the rich get richer and the POOR GET FUCKED, you goddamn LOSERS!!!!

(Oh, if ONLY I could send you a URL of my Next For-Hire contract - but I can't of course, because I'm under NDA. Suffice to say that My Next Car is being financed by people who think this kinda copy is Really Kick-Ass:

Nestled in the heart of the Sangre de Christos at the southern foot of the Rocky Mountains, the people of the city of Santa Fe enjoy an
unsurpassed lifestyle that includes beautiful views of mountain and
sky, outdoor living made possible by over three hundred sunlit days
per year, and a genteel and thoughtful culture that is marked by a
thriving arts community and unparalleled local and international
cuisine.

Downtown Santa Fe bustles with tourists and locals alike enjoying the
Plaza, a central spot for community activity since the 1600s.
Numerous art festivals – including the world-famous Indian & Spanish
Markets – as well as several music and film festivals, bring a
constant flow of craftspeople and artists through the city. And just
fifteen minutes from the downtown Plaza is a world-class open-air
opera house which features classic and new operas every summer.

Horseback riding, hiking, fishing, golf, and serene camping sites are
within an hour's drive of the city. At 7,000 feet above sea level,
the air is so clear that you can see the deep blue sky all year round,
and gaze at mountains over a hundred miles away. And at night, you
can settle into dinner at one of our many four-star restaurants,
enjoying a kind of good life that most people only dream about.

Santa Fe – it's the lifestyle you've been waiting for. Come be a part of it."

Virtually gauranteeeing that there will be More People with Dough you Wouldn't Want to Know moving here - which would be great if I owned a house, but no, guess again - I'm pricing myself out of the the market - again! Taste the irony....can ya?

(by the way, Jules - "provocative" Dan Savage has his fucking head up his ass. The best paid people at The Stranger SELL FUCKING ADS - editorial is so fucking weak over there it'd make your head spin - and WHY? Because the MONEY is in SELLING ADS. So convenient for him to take the fucking high road, as if The Stranger were a serious journal of anything. It's not - in fact, when I lived there, I dubbed it "a newspaper with the dubious distinction of being a paper you should never take seriously."

Writers don't MAKE ENOUGH TO REBEL - that's why alt-weeklies are all sex ads and nonsense. Lifestyle rebellion doesn't FUCKING count, particular when it's so FUCKING tepid. "Gay raise kids in Seattle - while in Tacoma, fag-bashing is barely noticed by police." Live in a strongold for tolerance and you think you rule the world. Thanks Dan, for all your fine fucking work.)

Experience #2: (It'll be real fucking hard to keep this editor's name a secret.) Friday evening, after the preview, I head over to the Cinema Cafe to pick up a couple o' short films. As a juror for the Southwest Showcase of the Santa Fe Film Festival for the second year in a row, I am going to watch short films and pray there's something to hold my interest. I meet with the head of Film Fest, briefly, and he introduces me to someone else by saying, "This is Gregory Pleshaw, one of our jurors. I should say one of our esteemed jurors, because Gregory is a published author."

He says this shit all breathless, as if he's really impressed by my feat, so I volley back and say, (not verbatim) "Well shit, MAN, if you're so impressed by my creds, howsabout you kick back a reply to some of my FUCKING pitches to the magazine you edit?" He says he didn't think I'd be interested in his rag, since it only pays 30 cents a word. Because we're in mixed company, I forget to press the point that he HASN'T FUCKING REPLIED TO MY PITCHES, and simply say, "Hey, I need to pitch a little for the home-team every now and then."

What's my point? You CAN be too big for your britches in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Which is why most of my peers - writers, graphic designers, ad people, movie people - you name the creative industry - go out of state to get clients. Because no one here thinks, "Hey, so-and-so's doing all right - maybe we ought to get them to do the goddamn work," - because mediocrity has been the rule of the day for so fucking long that a bunch of shitheads at the Round House (and even some hype-driven national media - the same ones who forgot, mind you, that Al Gore somehow *forgot* to look at the data and voted with the President on THE GODDAMN FUCKING WAR - from Salon.com on down - how gosh darn "alternative" you turned out to be) actually believe that Governor Walrus could somehow run the national press gauntlet to Be President.

Sad thing is? They're probably right. After all, everything is about a race to the bottom right about now, ain't it? ('scuse me while I lick my fork - belch.)

The Gory Details

Not only can I not manage to get to Crawford, I didn't even make it to one of the many hundreds of vigils that were organized by MoveOn.org last night. This whole Cindy Sheehan thing is just amazing to me - I mean, how do you set up camp *anywhere* in this country and not get arrested for trespassing? Ever tried sleeping in a parking lot at night? Cops will bust you. The only place a transient can safely sleep in a car in the USA is at Wal-Mart - Sam Walton believed in it. It's one of the only reasons I can actually justify shopping there. (And the prices...amazing...and yes, I know how they get that low.)

Seriously, though - is this really a case of a Mr. Smith Goes to Washington or is Carville or some other smart political operative behind this whole thing? I'm betting it's a fluke and she's a nobody, if for no other reason than that they Democrats haven't had a flak smart enough or bold enough to come up with an idea this cool. In any case, I sorta wish I was there - but not enough to drive the 700 miles to get there.

I found something I like so much I think I'm going to repost it. My friend Hart Williams has a blog way up yonder in Oregon where he writes snaky & snarky political commentary. He's a fellow traveller and damn proud of it, from what I can tell. Here's his "Battle Hymn of the Neo-Cons" for your reading pleasure.

The Battle Hymn of the NeoCons

Mine eyes have seen the gory
from a useless foreign war
They are trampling out the protest
for what we used to stand up for
We are sending troops to Baghdad
to get shot up more and more

The lie keeps marching on.

Gory, Gory in Fallujah
Gory, Gory what's it to ya?
If you ain't in agreement, well
then screw ya,

The lie keeps marching on.


In the glory of mendacity
George sent troops across the sea
with a perfidy in his bosom
that flim-flammed you and me
as they die to protect oil wells
he says they die for you and me

The lie keeps marching on.

Gory, Gory Mesopotamia
Disagree and they'll defame ya
Keep yer mouth shut -- who can blame ya?

The lie keeps marching on.

by Hart Williams

One more tidbit - this piece in the Washington Psst by Jim Hoaglund.
I frankly have been utterly mindblown that Bush would hide like a coward from this woman, regardless of whether or not he has anything reasonable to offer her. But then again - if he didn't refuse, there'd be no standoff, and no global media event in Crawford. Why does he thinks refusing to meet with her is working for him?

New Mexico Writer Makes List of 25 Most Influential Hispanics!!!

We all knew Bill Richardson would make the cut - but imagine a female Hispanic writer from New Mexico making Time's Top 25 List of Influential Hispanics?

Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez is not only a fine New Mexican writer and an influential human - she also has a blog. Check it out - here.

Shot the Weekend Away

One of the reasons I'm not going to Burning Man is that last year, I showed up with a camera, took over five hundred shots, and never got around to doing anything with them - other than making a little slide show on my computer, which is fine and all, but wasn't exactly the reason I took FIVE THOUSAND digital pictures last year. I wanted to learn, sure, but I wanted to share as well.

One of my consolation prizes at not going to BM was to get myself a really good photo printer and start to think a little more about What I'm Shooting For when I shoot pictures. Do I want to just capture a moment and end up with gigs of photos on my hard-drive? Or was there some more sublime mission that I wanted to undertake when I bought a digital camera in the first place?

Lately, I'm playing around with shooting portraits. Over the weekend, I had two shoots - one on Saturday in the woods near Santa Fe, and one today in and around Fenton Lake between Jemez Springs and Los Alamos. I'm not sure if I'd ever been there before, but Fenton Lake was lovely and maybe when I process those shots, I'll post one here.

{Why doesn't blogger make it easier to add photo captions? In any case, above is my friend Caldwell.
I shot close to 100 pictures of her on Saturday and I think this one is my favorite. }

Santa Fe Viet Nam Vet Tim Origer Representin' at the Crawford Showdown

Someone ought to give this guy a medal. Hell, maybe we should all go down to Crawford to help Cindy talk to President Dumb-Ass.

I'm Bagging Burning Man

So today I was digging through my bag full of MiniDiscs, trying to see if the original Moray interview was on another disc (somehow, I deleted a killer interview and live recordings of two songs on my way to San Diego) and I came across a MiniDisc from the earliest days. Uncertain what was on it, I popped it into the deck and stcuk the headphones in my ears...

And I heard the sounds of the Playa. Unmistakably the Plaza...I was somewhere out in the middle of the Playa, talking to myself, this was Burning Man 2000, and in the background you could hear the whole damn carnival that is Burning Man taking place behind, while I stood around in the distance, two miles out from the Man, trying to make sense of what I'd seen so far, that first year I went.

This would have been my fifth year - I ostensibly started this blog to talk about Burning Man, after I was there last year and I realized that there was still so much to be said about all that I had seen and experienced there. Then, this blogging thing seemed kinda silly without a topic to focus on, but now, I just like writing about whatever-the-fuck strikes my fancy - which is maybe the best thing about Burning Man there is.

This year, I was really lukewarm about going, mostly because I haven't been terribly profitable this year - although that wasn't really the issue. I applied for - and received - the low-income ticket for the drop-bottom price of $145. In the course of writing my essay for that, I realized since I was letting it all ride on whether or not I got the low-cost ticket, that maybe it didn't matter if I got to go or not. In the essay, I had the opportunity to think about all that Burning Man had done for me already (maybe I'll back-post it at some point) and to realize that if I went to Burning Man in 2000 because I thought the world sucked ass and I was completely uninspired, then the fact that I now feel so darn inspired by all my projects - DropCaster, this blog, my photo hobby, the second book I'm writing, various stories I'm writing for various magazines - may have something to do with what I was able to experience there all those years.

I won't say I'm never going again - fuck no. But this year, I'm going to actively Not Go, which as a Big Bonus includes getting to house-sit my friend's Josh & Sadie's house in Chimayo. Because they're going. So is most everyone else I know at this point. But I'm going to just stick around and clear out all the old projects - and give someone else their turn at discovering the wonder and the magic of the One True Home of the Trans-Generational CounterCulturalists.

- gregoryp(tm)

The Matt & Judy Show

Just gathering links about Karl Rove's act of HIGH TREASON.
(not to be confused in the least with Bill Clinton's blowjob.)
thanks Wonkette!

The Season of Self

So when I started this blog, I didn't want it to turn into one of those silly personal diary blogs - for one thing, I don't have the stomach for people seeing me freak out in print, for another, it just seemed so damn self-indulgent. However, since July 19's post from vacation in San Diego I've been sorta talking a lot about me and what I'm doing, and I'm going to do it again, one more time.

It's been cathartic to post personal things here - for one thing, I've discovered that a lot more people are actually reading my blog than I would've thought. And I've always found that once something is "published" - even if it's just a blog, that thought is kinda out there and ready to be expanded upon.

On July the 25th, (jesus...was that really only a week ago?) I wrote about getting dumped at a picnic, which was probably the closest thing I've had to an actual cry for help on this blog. For months I'd just felt obsessed about the fact that I wasn't with anyone for more than "a date and a half" and so I wrote something about it on my blog and then posted an ad on craigslist about it.

I received over two dozen replies from this ad - most of them short notes saying things like "I know just how you feel" and shit like that. I had one woman tell me it was all my fault and that I must just be a really boring guy or something - I wrote back to tell her that I might be many things but boring wasn't one of them and offered to meet with her but she never got back to me ;-0 Some people just like to talk shit and not investigate any of their stupid claims, I guess. And I had one really memorable letter from a person who with I am now corresponding with regularly who has sorta helped me figure out what I actually want. (And we've met too, but you will get no details!)

I think I'd just been really desperate and crazy about it all because I really missed being in love. It's nice to be in love, but since I wrote that post and started corresponding with some of these people who replied, I've come to find that I don't really *want* a partner to live with - I'm happy being single and living alone - but I do want to date people with whom I can develop some meaningful relationships with, friendly and sexual. There's a fine line between living alone and living lonely, and I'd like to stay away from the latter as much as I can.

I think I'm feeling better about this now.

Maybe BiSexuals Should Just Keep Quiet

Dear Guthrie:

Well. I just received your forward about the "known bisexuals and other perverts of the celebrity world." Hmmm...It's interesting to think about and consider. However, I must say -

As a publicly out bisexual myself, I know *exactly* why these people are in. There is very little payday in outing yourself. I personally think more people should do it and then there'd be less stigma for the rest of us, but I think it's a hard decision to make, unless you're an opinionated, in-your-face-asshole like me who's willing to take such risks.

Women frequently reject me because I'm a cocksucker - gay men frequently reject me because they don't trust me (and they probably shouldn't.) Straight men are afraid - even friends sorta act weird when I hug them, except for a few. (I grabbed a friend's tit the other night, not at all in a sexual manner (to me) and he looked really afraid. I had to apologize profusely and assure him I didn't want to get into his pants.)

I can't tell you how many times I've been in situations with *BISEXUAL* women who are into me and then I out myself and they freeze. Such fucking bullshit - "bisexuality with women is erotic, with men it's perverted." Whatever.

I just like sex, and I tend to like it in all kinds of weird combos, situations, genders, toys, outfits, etc. I probably like it too much. I've contemplated the possibility that I'm a sex addict and thought about going to SA meetings, but I'd probably just end up fucking everyone there. (Though probably not - you ever been to one? I have. There are some ugly motherfuckers at Sex Addicts Anonymous Meetings - go figure.)

People often ask me - which do you like better? I hate the question because it implies that there are "gradations" of bisexuality, and if I say I like women better, straight people can breathe easier and consider my cocksucking a passing phase, and if I say I like men better, everyone can firmly slip me into the box marked "Closet Case," or "Fence-Sitter." Life is long, bubba, and while the majority of my sex partners have been and continue to be female, I do sometimes imagine myself retired someday living with an old dear male friend, playing canasta and preparing canapes and cocktails for the lesbian couple down the street. Who knows how we'll end up, any of us...

Hollywood has been loaded with Queers since Day One - almost any decent star of note has had rumors circulating about their ability to get down with the same sex. Errol Flynn, Mickey Rooney, Judy Garland, jesus, I don't really have enough space to list people from the Golden Era of Hollywood, when all the taboos were in place, much less now, when Madonna and Britney Spears can still cause a stir by french-kissing on national TV but still not hurt their reputations in any meaningful way.

Sometimes I think I might as well go back in the closet - I know that one of the things that intrigues me most about bisexuality (other than the fact that naked wrasslin' around with other men is kinda HOT) is that it's an ambiguous identification. Neither here nor there. Beyond Cartesian duality. A 3rd World in the best sense of the term.

But lately, it seems like it might be more ambiguous not to tell anyone. To screech obsceneties in my faggy little high-pitched voice, say "Omigod" like a little girl when I'm happy or upset, but also to wear the wrong clothes, live like a slob and tell pussy jokes wherever I go, never telling anyone SHIT about my identification, because they're going to try and make a guess anyway, why help them along when I can just be as ambiguous as the Mona Lisa, her half-smile hiding (according to the Da Vinci Code) the secrets of the Mother Goddess and a whole other world of possibilities?