Visions of resort vacations dancing in my head.

At my company holiday party last night, on top of delicately nibbling coconut shrimp and imbibing bad Chardonnay (why does everyone in California insist on drinking Chardonnay? Ugh. They were also serving bad Merlot. Californians and Merlot! What is everyone thinking?), I also won a prize in the gift raffle. I'm sure my proximity to the big tree decorated with little penguins had something to do with it.

Oh, the thrill of hearing my ticket number called. (From the shrieks and hollers when people's numbers were called, and the boos and hisses from everyone else, you'd think they were giving away glamorous resort vacations! They did give away a PSP, whatever that is. Everyone else thought it was pretty cool.)

And what did I win? Two nights at a hotel. Pretty sweet, you may be thinking. I see a romantic weekend getaway in your future.

But...the hotel is the Holiday Inn.

In Burbank.

When I told this to my coworker this morning, he burst out laughing. He thought I was telling a joke.

In other news, I have no credible explanation for my long, long, long-ass absence from my own blog. Something about moving and packing and stressing about leaving my huge apartment for a tiny garret, albeit in a better neighborhood. It's pretty cute, as garrets go. And it's all in service of my longterm goal, which is to buy a house next year. My girlfriend has whispered the word "condo" to me a couple of times, but so far I have shuddered at the very thought. She says it could be the first step toward being a real-estate mogul. Does that mean I could quit my job?

Frogtown.

Tonight I came closer than I ever have to the LA River. I went to the Frogtown Artwalk (Frogtown: something to do with a plague of frogs many years ago; a little snip of land between the 5 and the river). Tonight is one of those nights when all LA has an overlay of magic. I love LA in the winter. It's 64 degrees and almost chilly. I walked along the LA River footpath and followed glowing green balloons through the dark down to the sandy water's edge. The river was probably 50 feet across, the widest I've ever seen it. Fringed by bamboo and other leafy things, gurgling and flowing like any river should.

I really love connecting with the LA art scene. All of us wandering around looking at art and architecture, and each other, could have been in Brooklyn, Chicago, San Francisco, anyplace where people put out cheese and crackers and sangria in their fabulous beamed lofts where the smell of oil paint, dust and turpentine mingle most bewitchingly. I met an elderly dalmatian the same age as mine and a large white pit bull with brown spots. I saw some transcendent oversize color photographs of the Mexico/U.S. border. I looked longingly into people's spare industrial loft living spaces. I drove back through Silverlake and Los Feliz. I've been househunting lately and I'm getting the feeling that my house is out there, much like the feeling that one's true love is out there in the world before that fateful meeting occurs. My house-to-be, I believe, is in the 90026 area code.

Romance is so not dead.

OMG!

Trolling craigslist today for writing gigs, I came across this gem:

NEED AN ONLINE DATING PERSONAL ASSISTANT

Reply to: i'mtoosexy@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-10-30, 5:09AM PST

I'm seeking an individualo to work about 12 hours/wk primarily from home w/ flexible hours at $10/hr to manage my online dating accounts, send out emails, reply to emails, etc. this is steady ongoing work with cash pay.

Perfer mid 20's to 30's man or woman with significant experience dating online. Email us your resume with a brief cover letter describing extent of knowledge of teh various popular dating websites.

Preferred also: College degree

Compensation: $10/hr, Performance-based bonus

Could I be the “individualo” to take on this unique challenge? I mean, this poor guy clearly needs help. Swamped, overwhelmed by so many online dating accounts that he needs to hire me, a total stranger, to manage his social life. (No more dangerous double bookings!) Get paid to email sweet nothings, innuendos and brazen propositions to chicks? (Hell, I know a thing or two about that.) And on a “steady ongoing” basis too. Doesn’t sound like he’s looking for true love, does it?

But what if all this college-educated, vicarious online flirting leads to a Cyrano-esque mistaken-identity crisis? What if the guy (or gal) he hires just happens to fall for that saucy redhead who was lucky enough to get sucked in by one of those multiple ghostwritten profiles? Oops!

But hey, courtship and marriage and fatherhood are so freaking labor-intensive. Maybe our busy Mr. Outsource-My-Love-Life would dig this time-saving way to outsource the whole shebang! At very reasonable rates!

And how ‘bout that “performance-based bonus"? I love that. I guess that’s in case, against all odds, our Lothario ends up actually falling in love – or even tying the knot. Thanks to my – MY – online wooing! The nerve!

Now I'm going to think about other areas of my life that deserve a performance-based bonus.

Serendipity in Los Feliz.

Tonight after work, I took my watch to get fixed at the home of a charming, grandfatherly Bulgarian/Armenian watchmaker. He was kicked out of his shop after 23 years, along with all the other tenants (to make room for a giant new Hollywood nightclub, I suspect), and is mending watches on his balcony in Los Feliz while he looks around for a new shop.

As soon as I stepped into his cozy apartment, his wife Mary asked if I'd had dinner. Whatever was cooking smelled divine. I sat down, their grandson brought me a cold Corona, and I ate Lebanese flatbreads covered in ground meat, tomatoes and parsley, drizzled with fresh-squeezed lemon juice. Never mind that I don't usually eat meat. My new friends were kind and hospitable and I wasn't about to say no. (Was it lamb? Don't ask, don't tell! Anyway, it was yummy.) We talked about our travels as we ate, then we went out onto the balcony and Mr. Haig took apart my watch.

While he tinkered, he talked about how lucky he is to live so close to his kids and grandkids, and what it was like to leave his country during the Communist era and make a new life somewhere else. Then he looked straight at me and said, "It's very hard to build your life. You have to have power. You need to have someone behind you."

Wow. It was as if suddenly a celestial messenger were speaking directly to my own roiling personal angst. I felt a blinding awareness, like connecting with the source of all wisdom and compassion. Did he have any idea how much I needed to hear those words?

Then he offered me Turkish Delight, rose and orange-flavored, and Mary brought out strong, sweet Armenian coffee and her own homemade pastry. So much for my sugar fast! But if there was ever a reason to break it, this was it.

A woman's place.

In keeping with yesterday's theme of making time for the important stuff, and with a nod to Nancy Pelosi's new job, here's another shout out to a NY Times OpEd columnist, this time Judith Warner, who in her memorial to Texas governor and all-around hell-raiser Ann Richards writes:

You can’t clean house and make it to “the dome” too. You can’t bake cookies and make it to the Senate. And that’s not just because there isn’t enough time. More profoundly, it’s because it just isn’t human to do all that. With all of our spouting off these days about the glorious variety of women’s Choice, there is one basic choice that we are not humanly able to make: we cannot choose what kind of people we are or what we are driven, drawn, destined to do. The best we can do is be ourselves – and stand up for what it takes to bring our self into being.

It's hard enough trying to find time and energy for writing while holding down a full-time job. Cleaning house on top of it? Always good for bad procrastination, as any writer will attest. I recently decided to just run all the errands on my list (Paul Graham's "small stuff") and get it over with: buy a printer cable and ink, get the dog's nails clipped, buy groceries at Whole Foods, Trader Joe's and Ralphs, restock my hair products, get a haircut, change the oil in my car and get it washed, get the sim card in my cell phone replaced, go to the post office, pay bills, sort a mountain of papers, blah blah blah. Factor in West Hollywood traffic, and it took me almost TWO DAYS.

Last weekend I bought flour and yeast so I could try this recipe for super-easy, supposedly amazing bread that doesn't require kneading. The only problem is, it has to sit for 18 hours. Then two more hours before it goes in the oven. Plus it turns out I have to find, then buy, a special lidded container in which to bake it. Figuring out how to fit all this into my schedule requires a complex mathematical formula that still eludes me.

A final word on Ann Richards: she was a hero of mine, and I'm sad she's gone.

Procrastination can be fun.

My friend Ron turned me on to this fabulous essay by writer and computer genius Paul Graham, about finding and doing the work that you love:

Whichever route you take, expect a struggle. Finding work you love is very difficult. Most people fail. Even if you succeed, it's rare to be free to work on what you want till your thirties or forties. But if you have the destination in sight you'll be more likely to arrive at it. If you know you can love work, you're in the home stretch, and if you know what work you love, you're practically there.

Another of Mr. Graham's essays, which talks about good and bad procrastination, should be required reading for writers, artists, scientists and all kinds of ambitious folk who are trying to Accomplish Big Things:

The most impressive people I know are all procrastinators...they put off working on small stuff to work on big stuff. What's "small stuff?" Roughly, work that has zero chance of being mentioned in your obituary.

Which reminds me of an exercise I did once in one of those self-actualization workshops: writing my own obituary. It was fun! Kind of like starting to write a script at the end, and working backward to find out how it all happened. Go on: list all your accomplishments, awards, and significant relationships as of the day you die.

Hallelujah!

This feeling of joy and disbelief reminds me of waking up the morning that Bill Clinton had first been elected President. A Democratic House and Senate! A female Speaker of the House! All this glory and righteousness takes a little getting used to.

I really saw the election and the weeks leading up to it as an epic battle in the clash of good vs. evil. I thought about all the ways we can be freedom fighters: by being artists, musicians, politicians with integrity, good parents, philanthropists, teachers, environmental activists, child advocates, civil rights workers. I feel a renewed sense of community with my countrymen and women.

Bob Herbert, my new hero.

Who's Bob Herbert? He’s a contributor to the New York Times’ OpEd page. I just discovered Bob because of his recent kickass feminist columns about the mass murder of little girls in an Amish schoolhouse, which should be called what it was – a hate crime – and the UN report on worldwide violence against women. Then I read his archives and was floored at such a brave, trenchant voice coming from, not The Nation or the HuffingtonPost, but the venerable Grey Lady herself (though let’s face it, the NYT is pretty liberal for a mainstream paper).

A Pontificator after my own heart, Bob Herbert writes passionately, angrily and articulately about racism, poverty, political corruption, and misogyny in all its forms, including certain Abercrombie t-shirts, genital mutilation, mass rape as a weapon of war, bride burnings, honor killings, female infanticide, etc. ad nauseam. Here’s a sample:

“The disrespectful, degrading, contemptuous treatment of women is so pervasive and so mainstream that it has just about lost its ability to shock.

“In a misogynistic culture, it's never too early to drill into the minds of girls that what really matters is their appearance and their ability to please men sexually.”

“We're all implicated in this carnage because the relentless violence against women and girls is linked at its core to the wider society's casual willingness to dehumanize women and girls, to see them first and foremost as sexual vessels – objects – and never, ever as the equals of men.” 10/16/06

He’s bracingly, outspokenly anti-Bush:

“His breathtaking arrogance is exceeded only by his incompetence…he is the worst president in memory, and one of the worst of all time.” (1/26/06)

Testify!

He’s a voice crying out in the wilderness, calling for an end to the Iraq war and for making our entire nation bear the burden, not just the troops.

“You never want to say that brave troops in Iraq died for the mindless fantasies spun by a gang of inept politicians. But what else did they die for?” 10/3/05

He reminds us what patriotism really is:

“A lot of Americans are like spoiled rich kids who take their wealth for granted. Too many of us have forgotten – or never learned – the real value of the great American ideals. Too many are standing silently by as Mr. Bush and his cronies engage in the kind of tyrannical and uncivilized behavior that has brought so much misery – and ultimately ruin – to previous societies.” 7/17/06

Bob has a new column today about Nancy Pelosi, the first female Speaker of the House (second in line to the presidency after the VP! Just in case something were to mysteriously happen to Public Enemies #1 and #2!) Most of Bob’s columns are only accessible if you’re a TimesSelect member – in other words, you have to pay a fee. But you can sign up for a 2-week free trial and read all his columns, then cancel your membership if you must. Do it!

Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

How do readers find my blog? Let me count the ways. Here are some of the recent web searches that have led hapless victims to my parlor:

• daring cleavage
• john lennon bed peace hair peace
• berlin art hipster (my blog was #1!)
• dozens of “Fields of Gold/Sting/Studio 60/lute” combinations (my blog often came up #1. Go figure!)

Perhaps the creepiest discovery was that my blog was quoted at length, and disapprovingly, by someone who objected to my "silver-tongued" scofflaw-itis regarding my Alleged Lawless Hound. Sheesh.

The fun part of sleuthing out these searches is finding other bloggers with similar interests, like David E., who also blogged about Susan Sontag's journals. It's cool to find community in unexpected places.

Don’t tread on me!

Hurray for the New Jersey Supreme Court, which ruled that same-sex couples and their families are constitutionally entitled to the benefits and protections offered by marriage (although queer couples still don’t have access to over 1,000 federal marriage benefits). For the New York Times’ account of this historic move (don’t miss the audio slide show), go here.

The Times also posted a comments blog. (Unfortunately they don’t seem to be taking any more comments, but what’s there is plenty entertaining.) I loved reading these comments. I skimmed over the bigoted, stupid ones and was so heartened by the funny, thoughtful, heartfelt ones. It made me feel...actually...hopeful. And part of a fabulous community. To wit:

Joshua says: “I’m really tired of being treated as a second-rate American, especially because i’m totally first rate.”

Sarah Junker notes: “Interracial marriages were banned in some states up to as late as the 1980’s. I harken to this when I’m discouraged by the slow rate of social change in this country. It may take decades before state bans on homosexual marriages are viewed as morally outrageous and historically outdated, but the wall is falling one brick at a time.”

And my favorite, from Javier Galitó-Cava: “I have been with my partner for 12 years. I have helped him raise his bilogical son who just turned 23. My step-son is straight and a wonderful and well adjusted young man by the way. He never had any homosexual tendencies and, although he loves musical theatre, he is hopelessly straight. He doesn’t own one pair of Prada shoes and can leave the house without any product on his hair as if nothing was wrong.

“Maybe the statue of Liberty should have a new engraving, “Give me your tired, your poor, but keep your faggots and your other weirdoes, PLEASE!” Oh Javier, you are officially my new BFF.

From EAC_ Esq.: “Shame on all three branches of the federal government for passing and upholding the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA). Never have I seen such a flagrant and embarrassing display of political pandering to the wealthy, conservative religious groups that helped buy the Oval Office for President Bush. I cannot fathom how such an act of legislated bigotry can withstand scrutiny in light of the full faith and credit clause of the U.S. Constitution.”

Daniel Cole asks: “Is having children a prerequisite to marry? Did I miss the “I promise to have children” form straight couples have to sign? Do heterosexual couples who choose not to have children have fakey, weirdo marriages?...First it’s the gays, then it’s the household furniture. As much as I’d love to marry my couch, I don’t think it’s gonna happen. My couch can’t even make a proper signature. It’s alright, Couchy – I still love you. The “slippery slope” argument gets a lot of play, maybe because it’s so funny. Marrying my cat? It’s just funny. Marrying all three of my cats? Now that’s just wrong.

“There are many wonderful gay and straight couples, and I’d love to have them all over for dinner and cocktails.” Call me – I'm in!

And from someone named Mark: “Basic, fundamental rights accrue to each of us by the very fact of our being. They are not “granted” by the government. They are inherently ours from the moment of birth. If, as a society, we pretend that those of us in the majority have the right to deny such rights to any minority segment of that society, then we deny those rights to ourselves as well. The Bill of Rights, in addition to protecting each of us from “the government”, is also designed to protect minorities from the tyranny of the majority - and vice versa.”

Don't people rock? Lest you think I’m letting total strangers hog today’s post, I wanted to add that I think it takes bravery to call one’s corporate employer, or spa, or cell phone company (all things that I or my Charming Girlfriend did today) and talk to a faceless customer service rep about one’s same-sex partner. These people might be big homophobes. They might be falling over themselves to be gay-friendly. We can't know. We just do it. Coming out is a continual process.

Finally, to see a totally adorable studio portrait of a young lesbian couple in 1967 (check out the beehive hair!), go here.

Fall TV Season Part 2.

More supremely biased primetime Pontification:

Heroes: Still smashing! The heroes are beginning to meet each other. Claire the cheerleader's nefarious "father" is showing his evil stripes – but it was pretty cool how he got revenge on her attacker. Hiro’s subtitled argument with his friend? A hoot. Hiro’s glee at watching Nathan fly? Hysterical. “Very nice to meet you, Flying Man. It’s okay, I keep secret. I bend time and space.” Wasn’t Nathan’s escape by zooming up into the clouds the Coolest Thing Ever? This show might, just possibly, be the next X-Files.

Dexter: I’m loving Dex’s eager, frustrated, downtrodden foster sister and his sly attempts to help her get promoted. That and the flashbacks with his foster dad display a mighty peculiar, yet somehow still believable set of family values.

And not forgetting our Sexiest Sophomore, Weeds: Consistently brilliant, disturbing and high-larious.

In development news, a shout-out to brave little 8-year-old Bindi "Crocodile Hunter" Irwin, who is going ahead with the nature series that she would have starred in with her dad Steve, before his bizarre, untimely sting-ray-to-the-heart death. I for one will be watching.

Even candy corn?

A long time ago, I stopped eating sugar for a whole month. This was because I was told I was hypoglycemic and needed to regulate my blood sugar. At first it was pure torment, but after the first hellish week or two I started to feel good. At the end of the month, I felt better than I ever had in my life. I had tons of energy, I woke up refreshed, I had amazing mental clarity. I felt so good that one day, I went to a bakery with my girlfriend and recklessly ate a delicious confection. The sugar hit suddenly, as if I’d shot up into a vein. (Not that I've ever shot up into a vein. What do I know?) Colors were brighter, all my senses were heightened. And it was all downhill from there. I haven't been able to fully cut out sugar again.

But I must. I’ve been eating sugar like there’s no tomorrow. In the office where I work, it’s everywhere! Halloween candy, cookies, brownies, birthday cakes with buttercream icing that (prepare yourself: full disclosure) becomes even more decadent after 15 seconds in the microwave. I’ve been eating so much sugar that I feel ill. Yet I can’t stop. I look at that KitKat and know that I will feel yucky after I eat it, but I eat it anyway. This must be how it feels to be addicted to alcohol or crack or cigarettes. That rush of simultaneous pleasure and disgust.

I remember when it was all pleasure: inhaling the intoxicating smell of a pillowcase bulging with Halloween plunder. Dumping it on my bedroom floor and organizing it by category, preparing for complicated barter negotiations with my sister and brothers: Smarties, DumDums, Tootsie Pops, SweetTarts, Bit-O-Honey, Necco wafers, M&Ms, Jolly Ranchers, Laffy Taffy, Lemonheads, Baby Ruth, Butterfinger, 3 Musketeers, Mike & Ike, Red Hots, Dubble Bubble, Pixy Stix, waxy vampire teeth, candy necklaces, candy corn. Oh, candy corn!

It’s wack to contemplate going cold-turkey on sugar a week before Halloween.

Power to the writers.

I’m irked. I was listening to KCRW, our local super-cool public radio station, when an annoying screenwriter named Rob Long came on to complain about the Writers Guild. He kvetched about his 16 years of Writers Guild membership and pooh-poohed the recent "unity rally" – the very notion of writers’ unity, even – "as if we writers don’t really secretly loathe each other," he drawled. He actually whined that the Guild provided good health insurance for him when he was so well-paid that he didn’t need it. Ingrate!

I can’t WAIT to be a member of the Writers Guild. I will happily pay my dues, wave signs at rallies, run for fucking treasurer. Whatever. Not just because it will mean that I’m making a living at what I love more than anything else, alongside people I respect, which is like winning the fucking lottery. Also because organized labor has done really important things for workers, like forcing employers to stop discriminating against women, ending child labor, and bringing us the 40-hour week (and, hello, the weekend). (Although the weekend is a misty, nostalgic concept for many of the TV writers I know.)

What would this Long guy have writers do? Keep our heads down at our insular laptops, submitting meekly to the studios’ "no-residuals-for-DVD-and-online-sales" larceny? Lest we forget, without the writer There Is No Story. No characters, no actors to hire (not to mention costume designers, composers, set decorators, editors, Teamsters, gaffers, grips, Best Boys and craft services people). No locations to scout, no DVDs to sell, no online episodes to stream. Even most so-called reality series need storytellers. And we need to band together, like members of proud guilds have done since medieval times. (Listen to me – as if I’m already a card-carrying member. The hubris!) Well, writers are my people. And they’re yours too, Rob Long.

Parlor vs. Salon

I've always wanted my own salon. Not the beauty-school-dropout kind, no, the witty-and-urbane-expatriate-living-in-Paris kind. Salons are edgy! Salons are smart! But I was firmly cautioned against using the word "salon" anywhere near my blog by the ever-perspicacious Leslie Lange, on the grounds that it would be pretentious.

Hence, Pontifica's Parlor. Alliterative, school-marmish, genteel, some might even say quaint.

Yes, I'm bitter.

Just call me Lady of the Manor of Tallantire.

This is where I want to live. I ache, I burn to live in this 27-bedroom estate (I'd be happy with just a wing, really), complete with walled garden and "mature woodland." Check out that front lawn. Now that's a front lawn, my friends. Frisbee heaven! And all for a mere $4.6 million! Hell, you could spend that on a 3-bedroom McMansion in Los Feliz. And get this: "the Manor of Tallantire was granted in 1080 by Waldeof, whose descendants took the name of Tallantire until 1578, when the seat transferred to the Fletchers of Cockermouth." You don't say.

I blame my formative teen years at music school in England, a school that was really two old stone mansions side by side, complete with tea break at 11 (hot milky tea and homemade shortbread, mmm), rose garden, orchard, sweeping lawns and...mature woodland...it's etched into my soul. I...must...go...back...

Krazee Baby Names, Part 2

Ever have one of those days when you’re not feeling particularly creative, when you couldn't write a line of zingy dialogue to save your ass? Yeah, me too. Fortunately other people’s kre8ivity fills the sucking void with guaranteed entertainment. Herewith, another neatly categorized installment of New Parents Gone Wild:

Just Plain Awd:
Awdly Junior Stanley
Shcolvick
Shafungus (you read that right)
Shun R. Bonds (someone's bitter)
Trendarious
Stryder Entropy
Ja'Larry

Yes, We Get It:
Pashients
Cylence
Xistenz
Syxx
Marvelis
Earnest Lee

WYSIWYG:
Coal
Cola
Strait Cash
Free

Thanks, Gramps:
Alpha Betty (klever!)
Hunny Angel
Classie Mae
Fancy Mae
Dunkn
Little Miss

Say What?:
Kourtlyn-Neglorious
N'Ascent Mi'Princess D'Zyre Heavenly
Vandayvion Vandale
Zuh'Quaryon Ty'Rail
Xsavoiryawn
Onchorynchus Horatio (come again?)

(Disclaimer: These are all honest-to-god names. Really. This is the kind of dry, unproductive day I’d probably name my kid Female.)

Watch Bleak House!

I resisted the impulse to call it "a Dickens of a show." Whew. That would've been too precious, even for me. But in case you missed Part 1 last Saturday night, it's not too late to get sucked into this dark (I'm not kidding; you can barely see anything) yet compelling saga about the wealthy, the would-be wealthy and the ne'er-to-be-wealthy in 19th-century England.

I'm always a sucker for costume drama. Masterpiece Theatre, take me away! Yet this isn't your typical period piece. Full of inventive editing and percussive sound effects, it's as packed with nefarious scheming, ill-advised romance, youthful folly, crazy stalkers, country manors, untimely death, graveyard rendezvous and amusing facial hair as one might wish. There's even that mainstay of costume drama, a penniless girl with a heart of gold whose birth is shrouded in mystery. Plus, Gillian Anderson. Need I say more?

Watch it! Tonight on PBS.

Imagine the difference 20 million women would make.

I was living in Paris. I made an effort to get to the American Embassy and stand in line with the other expatriates. It was one of the few times during that year abroad that I felt proud to be American. Not so long ago, women fought hard, risked everything, and went to jail to win the right to vote. We can't take it for granted.

Come on down!

Inspired by the divine Leslie Lange, and with her gracious permission, I present Pontifica’s own Wacky Search of the Week. My site meter allows me to see how visitors found my blog, plus other cool stuff like what cities they’re from (but not who they are – curses!). Some of the intriguing Google searches that have led my gentle readers to this site include:

• chinese state circus contortionists (Sorry to disappoint!)
• "park ranger" ticket (My blog was at the very top of the list!)
• what is a moon metaphor (Uh-oh – plagiarism alert!)
• hipster alternative bowl cut hair (Please write back and let me know how it went!)

This week’s winner, though, is “orgasm blogger.” I’m mystified. I feel a little dirty. I swear, I’ve never used the word “orgasm” in this blog. Or have I?

Liar, liar...

Separate but equal, my ass.

From today’s New York Times: “A state appeals court ruled Thursday that California's ban on gay marriage does not violate the constitutional rights of gays and lesbians.”

My blood pressure just SKYROCKETED. But wait, there’s more.

“‘We conclude California's historical definition of marriage does not deprive individuals of a vested fundamental right or discriminate against a suspect class,’ the court said.”

Just like the “historical definition of marriage" used to bar blacks and whites from tying the knot, huh? Just like the “historical definition of citizen with voting rights" didn’t used to include “person of color” or “woman.” Haven’t we realized that hiding behind historical precedent is notoriously wrongheaded? That a pernicious imbalance of power is fond of masquerading as the status quo?

So it’s not discrimination to withhold from me and my girlfriend the legal rights and protections enjoyed by, say, my brother and his wife? I’m really less worthy? Huh. Tell that to my mom.

Hearteningly, the strongly worded dissent argued that "the inescapable effect of the analysis the majority adopts is to diminish the humanity of the lesbians and gay men whose rights are defeated. The right to marry is of fundamental importance for all individuals."

Last year, a Superior Court judge in San Francisco got this whole glittery gay disco ball rolling by saying the same thing, that denying marriage to same-sex couples violates a fundamental right and amounts to unconstitutional gender-based discrimination. (A judge in Hawaii said the same thing ten years ago. Remember?)

Polls show that a majority of young people agree. So it's only a matter of time before the dinosaurs die off. (If we manage to survive that long. Have you seen An Inconvenient Truth? Better sell that beachfront property. And buy a hybrid, for the love of god!)

The entire raging gay marriage debate hinges on binary oppositions that are specious to begin with: male and female, hetero and homo. Sex and gender – not to mention religion, politics and law – are constructions, after all. It’s hard, though, not to get sucked into this sort of polarized thinking in our current red vs. blue color wars. And ultimately, even if gay marriage is a normative idea that doesn't disrupt false binary oppositions underpinning constructed identities, I still want one, thank you very much.

From my early days agitating with Queer Nation and the Lesbian Avengers (I bet there’s an FBI file with my name on it), I’ve believed that gay rights, like any civil rights, are won via the grass-roots: workplaces and kitchen tables (and, yes, living rooms – unbiased TV portrayals matter). The more people realize that they know and love queers, trannies and dog-crazy dykes, the more they will join the good fight. Hence the importance of coming out. Hence the political significance of walking down the street holding my lover’s hand, displaying her picture in my office, taking her home for the holidays. I categorically refuse to be a second-class citizen.



California Supreme Court, here we come.

Fall TV Season: Part 1

Since I am a TV writer, even if Not Quite Yet Employed As Such, it's high time I opined – Pontificated, even – about the new television season. My observations, forthwith:

(Well, not quite forthwith: lest anyone reading this be of the "I don't own a TV; TV is a waste of my valuable time" ilk, you've come to the wrong blog. TV is Art. A glorious mongrel fusion of the high and the lowbrow. Some of the smartest people alive today are making great TV – TV for the ages. I bow down before them. Fear Factor, I'm not talking about you.)

Best New Series: Ugly Betty. An utter delight for the senses and the sensibilities.

Grossest New Series: Dexter. Gore aplenty. I wonder, though, how the audience can invest emotionally in a guy with no emotions. His plucky foster sister deserves better. And I know they call it "acting," but it'll take a minute to buy Michael C. Hall as a straight man after he rocked 6FU's tormented David for years.

Coolest New Series: Heroes. An impending nuclear apocalypse. A bunch of unlikely superheroes in a race against the clock. I must admit, I can't wait for the next episode.

Best Returning Series: Weeds (also wins for Most Babelicious Leading Lady – that skin! those eyes!). Honorable Mentions: House and Bones.

Oh, how I miss Six Feet Under. That, my friends, was Appointment Television. As was the dearly departed Huff, often for the over-the-top Oliver Platt alone. Is it too late for a Save Huff campaign? I await with bated breath the return of the brilliant The Closer and Saved. I’m even kind of looking forward to a new bout of dyke drama on The L Word. Excuse me, I mean the l word. Let’s just hope that they’ve ditched the World’s Worst Theme Song.

And to take a leaf from Jane Espenson's estimable book, I will now digress and talk about my lunch. I was all set to force down a frozen Lean Cuisine, but something in me rebelled. As Lisa memorably exclaimed in an episode of Six Feet Under, "My humanity just rose up!" Instead I ate a juicy turkey burger oozing with ketchup, mayo, pickles and avocado, with a side of giant, hot steak fries and a large, icy diet coke. A four-napkin lunch. I'm telling ya. Human beings will never settle for swallowing pellets, no matter what those sci-fi freaks say.

D'oh!

I should've known better than to brag on my mojo. Pride goeth before a fall and all that. I left work yesterday to find two (two!) parking tickets on my car. In the glow of the mojo, I forgot that I'd parked in a 2-hour zone and left the wheels there all day.

Can they even do that? You can bet I'm going to find out.

Got my mojo workin’.

There’s almost nothing I hate more than unyielding bureaucratic authority. Blame it on early childhood trauma, or maybe the fact that I am accustomed to Always Getting My Way (to the point that when I don’t, I am usually Reduced To Tears). It’s an inherited character flaw: my dad is affectionately known as the Billdozer and my brothers and I were schooled in Bending Rules at his knee. (But I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who sheds vexed tears when thwarted.)

In any case, last month I got a ticket for not having my dog on a leash in Griffith Park. I was on a favorite hike with Charming Girlfriend and said Lawless Hound, when said CG spied a Park Ranger up ahead in his Ranger Vehicle. Despite my quick sleight-of-hand, despite my wide-eyed protestations of innocence, said Heartless Ranger issued me a citation and told me to show up in court. I guess sending a check is not enough penance; they feel we scofflaws need a talking-to in person.

The last time I ignored such a summons (same dog, same lack of leash, different park) I got slapped with a fine exceeding one thousand dollars (which the Understanding Judge reduced to a mere $300). So this morning I was first in line at the Hollywood courthouse.

There is something about courthouses that is designed to demoralize people. First the metal detectors with their unsmiling guards, then the long lines of similarly intimidated lawbreakers. Even the courtrooms themselves, which (even if nicely wood-paneled) are set up like classrooms with swinging doors to keep the great unwashed away from the judge and the lawyers.

And hoo boy, do those lawyers have some skanky-ass fashion sense! Today, for instance, I couldn’t help staring at a ruddy, pockmarked attorney with an out-of-control Ronald McDonald ‘do (which failed to hide his bald spot), giant smoky blue Paris Hilton sunglasses, a startlingly loud tie and snakeskin cowboy boots.

I know something about the inside of courthouses because I have successfully used my mojo to get out of two Very Expensive speeding tickets (and avoid the dread Traffic School) in the past six months. Also a few parking tickets. Did I mention I really hate authority?

After a short but instructive wait in the courtroom this morning, I spoke with a pleasant young City Attorney, who gave me the expected talking-to but then – presto – dismissed my ticket and sent me on my way. Viva la mojo!*

Okay, I lied a little. I said the Ranger was too far away to see whether my dog was leashed, and babbled on about how responsible I am after eleven years of dog-ownership. I might have even said that She Is Always On A Leash In The Park. Which is a big lie. She is Very (er, mostly) Well-Behaved and gets to run free whenever possible, especially at the beach. (That sound you hear is me knocking on wood).

(*To give credit where credit is due, on at least two occasions the mojo was directly attributable to Beloved Girlfriend.)

Susan Sontag, blogger manquée.

I’m fascinated by Susan Sontag’s journals (and not just because she was a big ol’ dyke). Her thoughts resonate for writers, er, bloggers decades later: "In the journal [read: blog] I do not just express myself more openly than I could to any person; I create myself...One of the main (social) functions of a journal or diary is precisely to be read furtively by other people." Spoken like a true blogger, a woman ahead of her time.

She also said "Nothing prevents me from being a writer except laziness." Susan Sontag, intellectual eminence – lazy? Now I don’t feel quite so guilty about staying home sick two days in a row and barely getting any real work done. And like many a Hollywood writer, she suffered from self-doubt: "With a little ego-building – such as the fait accompli this journal provides – I shall win through to the confidence that I (I) have something to say, that should be said." I think all bloggers (even the avowed narcissists) can relate.

She believed in taking lovers willy-nilly, but she suffered from romance: "Poor little ego, how did you feel today? Not very well, I fear – rather bruised, sore, traumatized. Hot waves of shame, and all that. I never had any illusion that she was in love with me, but I did assume she liked me." Ouch! Veterans of the LA dating scene feel your pain.

She was conflicted about being gay: "My desire to write is connected with my homosexuality. I need the identity as a weapon, to match the weapon that society has against me." One hopes that as she matured intellectually and sexually, she learned to embrace her fierce 'mo self.

She conflated writing with sex: "The orgasm focuses. I lust to write. The coming of the orgasm is not the salvation but, more, the birth of my ego...The only kind of writer I could be is the kind who exposes himself. I write to define myself – an act of self-creation – part of process of becoming – in a dialogue with myself, with writers I admire living and dead, with ideal readers." If only she'd lived long enough to discover the dialogue of the blog.

I am reminded of Twyla Tharp’s fabulous book The Creative Habit, in which she argues that creativity is not so much about the divine spark, but the dogged daily practice of one's work. Once a wonderful poet I gave a reading with, when asked how she coped with the inevitable dull, even blocked periods between flashes of inspiration, said that she believed in two things: the muse and the mule.

One of my favorite ways of preparing for creativity is to play the piano – but I gave up my piano when I moved to this new apartment. Instead I play FreeCell on my computer. Immersion in that mindless game allows for the most extraordinary thought processes.

Now back to writing the outline for my The Closer spec. I don’t like writing outlines, but it must be done. Twyla Tharp talks about the importance of making a plan, then letting it go: "once the shell is in place and you start work on the interior, the scaffolding disappears."

Massively genius.

On Sunday I took Charming Girlfriend to see Massive Attack at the Hollywood Bowl. The opening band sucked (really – who let them onstage?) but Massive Attack put on a brilliant show, even though one of the frontmen was away on paternity leave. They played most of my favorite songs and rawked the Bowl as it has never been rawked.

At one point they introduced an unbilled guest artist with, simply, “Her name is Elizabeth,” and out drifted Elizabeth Fraser, in a Yohji Yamamoto-like muumuu. “Elizabeth Fraser!” I squawked to Fetching Girlfriend. A legend in her own time, the doyenne of a hundred bands that modeled their sound on the Cocteau Twins. I thought back to my college days in Paris, endlessly riding the Métro and walking the streets with my (pre-iPod) Walkman’s headphones blasting the Cocteau Twins into my eardrums, my inner landscape profoundly coloring the outer one.

The only possible improvement to Sunday’s show would have been a guest appearance by Tracey Thorn, singing her songs from Protection. It was the best concert I’ve seen in LA since Dead Can Dance last year, also at the Bowl (though Hilary Hahn playing Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto, an entirely different kind of genius, deserves special mention).

It’s time for an intervention.

This self-expression craze is spinning dangerously out of control. Parents are bestowing names upon their defenseless offspring in reckless defiance of the Name Police, aka Down with Insane Monikers (DIM). How else to explain such infractions as Female, Usnavy, Flushette, Pink January, Morronica (Morronica?!) and Larvell?

Oh yes. These are all real names, not urban legends. Speaking of urban legends, there really was an Ima Hogg (but she did NOT have a sister named Ura). And a college friend of mine swore he knew a girl named Smegma Bengwater. Smegma, are you out there?

As a dedicated culture maven, I have observed several trends in modern baby-naming. One popular ploy is to use Real Live Words, Kleverly Disguised: Sincer Lee, Eunik (Unique or Eunuch? Risky!), Pherever, Ideaz’, Silouette, Au’nesty, Ph’Ness, Wispur, and Mizarey (if you think you’re miserable now, kid, just wait till elementary school).

Then there are the names that are Just Plain Kre8tiv: Wahkeenyah-Wastedaka Windblow, Ni'Treasure O'moria, A'Vri-Seanae McKnz, Vyctoryan, and Kwincee.

Some names reveal Too Much Information about the mother’s postnatal state of mind: Acidalia, Amnastie, Mona Pain, Joy Anguish, Naughtia, and Shunasti. (“Meet the twins – she’s Shunasti, but she’s Naughtia.”)

Some lazy parents simply resort to adjectives: Clever, Tuff, Fancy, Righteous, Handsome, Notorious, and Furious. (But please, not all at once!)

Then there are the names that mean just what they say: Lumber, Squirrel, Brick, Soda, and Chalk. Nothing like the direct approach, I guess. Also in this group are Opera, Cicada, Michelob, Nazarene Savage, Summer Jelly, and Texas Casanova.

Again, I remind you that these are ALL REAL NAMES.

And finally, there are the parents for whom Baby Mozart CDs are not enough; no, their kids are destined to have Supernatural Powers: Almighty Rab, Supreme Infinite, Supreme Knowledge, Czarina, Kingdom Heave'n, Eumajesty, and, as evidence that Great Minds Think Alike, YorMajesti (whose sibling, to forestall any unseemly rivalry, is known as Yorhynace).

Difficult as it is to choose a favorite from these gems, I’d have to say that I’m partial to Female – so unambiguous, so breathtaking in its simplicity. So helpful, too, if you have a son named Male – they go together like salt and pepper shakers. If you’re unlucky enough to have a second daughter, you could call her Female Too (Female 2 for short). I also think that Morronica, Lumber, and Michelob trip musically from the tongue when yelled from the porch at the end of the day.

But really, when it comes to my kids, I look forward to hollering “Supreme Infinite! YorMajesti! Get in here and wash these dishes!”

Wherefore art thou, Baby Suri?

Some might say that a 22-page spread in Vanity Fair ought to sate the Suri-curious for another four or five months, but “some” are not celebrity-infant-obsessed. I need, nay, I crave more Suri! And I know I’m not alone. I need more pictures, more opportunities to study those suspiciously non-Cruise-like eyelids, to decipher their subtle Morse-code messages of hope or despair for humankind. More chances to ponder the timeless question: wig or toupee?

But in the interim, I thought I would try and track down the even-more-elusive and as-yet-unphotographed Baby Uri, Suri’s conjoined twin, who, it has been darkly rumored, has been whisked away to be raised by a grim phalanx of Scientology wet-nurses. Poor, giant, concave-skulled Uri – Suri got the brain, and he was left with the brawn.

Though the Uri search-and-rescue mission has so far been fruitless, I did uncover evidence of a scandal of even greater proportions. I’m here to tell you that not two, not four, not even six, but seven infants resulted from the nefarious Cruise/Holmes offspring-spawning contract, I mean union of hearts and souls. Yes, Suri is a septuplet. Why was she alone selected to assume the tiny sparkly Scientology-scion coronet? Sadly, when we examine the other hatchlings, it becomes all too obvious:

1) First, the aforementioned Baby Uri, rejected for his giantism, flat head and Russian accent.
2) Baby Murray, cast off because of his faux-croc briefcase stuffed with Brooke Shields depositions. He knew too much.
3) Baby Curry. Wrong ethnicity. Way wrong. Blame the Scientology lab techs for this one.
4) Baby Blurri. Faster than a speeding Thetan. Wouldn’t sit still for the photo shoot.
5) Baby Surly. Unattractive perpetual frown. Wouldn’t smile for the birdie (doesn’t she know who Annie Leibovitz is?).
6) Baby Furri. Nuff said.

But there is still hope for Suri’s sub-par siblings. One day they will all be sent to summer camp, will they not? And they will trip over a canoe and collide with one another, and gaze upon each other’s strangely familiar countenances, and become sworn enemies, and cause a riot in the dining hall and be banished to the isolation cabin, and in a thunderstorm will come to realize that they were all born, er, hatched on the same day. And in classic Parent Trap fashion, they will all switch places after camp, resulting in hilarious mistaken-identity hijinks, until in an emotional climax they will all be reunited in the circle of TomKat’s arms.

Before I quit the subject of cruelly withheld celebrity infant photos, I must express my fond hopes for another sighting of The Chosen One. Where, oh where is Shiloh?

Fields of Gold.

One of the perks of working at a major studio/global cultural steamroller is getting to sit in a fake studio audience to see a very real performance by Sting, for an upcoming episode of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. (I saw the pilot at a special on-lot screening this week hosted by the creators, and it was pretty good, except for the hopelessly miscast Amanda Peet. She’s supposed to be portraying a tough-as-nails, smarter-than-thou network savior, but the chronic lips-parted, doe-in-headlights half-smile is not working for me. There are surely many kick-ass actresses who can believably convey both hotness and fierce intelligence. Why, oh why?)

Anyway, they say that show business is all about hurry-up-and-wait, and today was no different. Two hours after our call time, we were still milling around the craft services table, debating the relative merits of Rice Krispy treats and cold breakfast sandwiches. Finally we were herded into our seats (that’s me in the second row) while the cameramen (why are they always men? I would say camerapeople, but really, they’re always men) discussed shots and lighting. Aaron Sorkin, prodigal showrunner, mingled regally, contentedly pondering the vicissitudes of power in Hollywood.

Sting loitered behind the stage, fingering his lute (yes, lute). Lauren Graham (perhaps better known as Lorelai Gilmore), sporting a clingy little black dress, daring cleavage and flip-flops, introduced him and he took the stage with a fellow lutist.

What can I say about Sting? He’s a sexy blond Leprechaun. He’s tan and lithe and he did yoga-contortionist moves to stretch his leg, while helpless thoughts of “Tantric Sex! Tantric Sex With Trudie Styler!" danced through my head. Then I remembered that The Police’s “Every Breath You Take” was the very first music video I ever saw. For a cultural icon, Sting was relaxed and gracious. Watching him noodle away on his lute, singing softly to himself, it struck me that he is a musician first and a personage second, that rare and lucky creature completely at one with his work. (You may imagine, gentle reader, my turbulent emotions upon returning to my corporate workplace afterward.)

Then Sting and his troubadour (who hid his face behind his lute and caressed it with his bowl-cut hair – so that’s what troubadours do) tenderly sang “Fields of Gold” a couple of times. We listened, spellbound, to this moving song about fleeting youth and a love that lasts for many years. Though ostensibly about a man and a woman, it transcends gender as all good love songs do, speaking equally to everyone who has invested hopes and dreams in another mortal. All the while, the massive tapestries behind them rippled gently in the smoke from the smoke machine.

Brangelina & Kissing Bobbies!

Went to the Silverlake/Los Feliz/Echo Park Artcrawl last weekend. What’s not to like about looking at art (some of it pretty decent), mingling with hipsters, eavesdropping on Intense Conversations among hipsters, meeting new hipster friends, free wine (although one cheapskate gallery actually served Two-Buck Chuck – shame!) and jaywalking across Sunset at sunset? The after-party at the Echo wasn't bad either.

Meanwhile, further downtown, über-hipster "art terrorist" Banksy's warehouse installation was a hipster/celebrity magnet. Even Brangelina showed up! O, Brangelina, whither thou goest, I will go.

Some wacky animal-rights protesters forced the "art renegade" (except how renegade are you when Brad and Angie grace your supposedly underground exhibit?) to scrub the paint off the live elephant (a 38-year-old female named Tai) that Banksy was pimping to make a heavy-handed point about the "elephant in the room," namely world poverty and injustice.

Despite the media circus (ouch), I've been a fan of good street art since I lived in Paris lo those many years ago, where street stenciling is a respected, if still subversive art form. Later I participated in lots of gleefully illicit stenciling and wheatpasting with assorted queer activist groups (hmmm...where are those photos?).

Banksy on Palestine and Israel: "The security barrier separating the occupied territories from Israel is over 450 miles long and 38 feet high."

The Berlin Wall was only 96 miles long and 12 feet high.

Even the Great Wall of China is only 26 feet high (but, okay, in its heyday it was more than 3,500 miles long – longer than the distance between New York and Paris!). My friend Mark and I tried to find this out at our favorite all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet (sesame balls! crab legs!), where a giant glossy mural of the Wall snakes above the vinyl booths. No one could tell us. Well, now we know.

Green power and gas prices.

A long weekend away from the internet (blame windstorms in Desert Hot Springs, hereafter known as Desperate Hot Springs, according to the gay desert mafia) has acquainted me with the growing phenomenon known as Blogger's Guilt.

As I drive to visit Lovely Girlfriend in said DHS, the windmills start sprouting out of the desert, marching in rows, tall and gangly, skeletal, bleached, like a waving field of crosses against the sunset. Phalanxes of windmills, benign or menacing, I can’t decide – proud green alternative to fossil fuels, or aliens straight out of a B movie?

MadLibs quiz: A) California’s windmills provide enough non-polluting energy to power [name of city]. B) Although we lead other states in renewable energy development, we lag behind countries like Germany and [name of nation], which leads the world in solar power. C) The U.S., of course, refuses to ratify the Kyoto Protocol, which aims to [increase/decrease?] global warming by reducing emissions of greenhouse gases. Many American states and cities, however, do participate in Kyoto-like emissions reduction programs. Including Los Angeles. Um, right.

Speaking of emissions, I was getting all excited about the falling price of gas, until Charming Girlfriend, ever the conspiracy theorist, reminded me of the nefarious relationship between lower gas prices and the upcoming midterm elections. D’oh!

(She’s so smart. And pretty.)

Answers:
A) San Francisco.
B) Japan. Japan! Who knew?
C) Made you look.

Gaily Forward!

It's happened to all of us: you're being a delightful, helpful backseat driver and the real, road-ragey driver is freaking out about whether to turn left or go straight at the next intersection, and you need a handy phrase that doesn't send you self-hatingly back in the closet and simultaneously stall the progress of civil rights. I give you "Gaily Forward!"

It is the universal Lesbian-Approved (and for all I know, Daddy/Bear/Twink-approved) alternative to the ever-so-slightly soul-bruising "Go Straight."

So next time your mother/husband/Republican coworker is dithering about which direction to take after the light changes, you'll be ready.

All together now: Gaily Forward!

Bed-In for Peace.

Yes, John and Yoko actually staged a "Bed-In" for peace. I swear the handmade sign above their heads reads "Hair Peace." Those crazy kids! Wielding the brave, absurd flame of love (and sex – come on, those were some sexy hippies) against another senseless, increasingly unpopular war. That was before the ACT UP era of die-ins, when angry queers made headlines by staging mass street funerals and chaining ourselves to the White House gates to protest Bush père's murderous inaction on AIDS.

Shrub's (read: the President-select's) administration is spending $8 billion a month on the war – I mean "democracy-building mission" – in Iraq (including those sweet no-bid Halliburton "reconstruction" contracts). That's $2 billion a week, $267 million per day, $11 million every hour.

Every hour. Let's think for a minute about how many college educations, affordable homes, diapers, library books, life-saving medical prescriptions, acres of protected rainforest, urban parks, and public school music teachers that would cover. (Just call me Bleeding Heart, baby.)

Where are today's moral giants? In these terrifying times, we could use a few more celebrities taking to their beds.

Unsolicited rave.

I’m listening obsessively, I mean OBSESSIVELY, to this song called Have You Heard Them Talking by Carrie Clark and the Lonesome Lovers. Carrie is a friend of my brother’s and apparently I met her at his wedding, though all those new faces are mostly a blur, obscured by my overarching memory of the Greatest Freeform Frisbee Game Of All Time. We must’ve had six frisbees, plus a soccer ball and a football at various points, and about twenty players, on this huge lawn by a lake. It went on for hours. But anyway, what I do know about Carrie is that she writes amazing country/blues songs, and I can't get over the twanging guitar and her haunting voice in this achingly bittersweet song about (as far as I can tell) miners who with their backbreaking labor are “no longer part of this time, no longer part of this daydream.” It lilts along in ¾ time and I can just picture the smoky dance hall and the couples waltzing in their cowboy boots.

I’ve tried to stop playing this song – I’m afraid of that thing that happens when you over-play a piece of music: eventually you achieve Song Overload and the song must be retired for a respectable period of time until you happen to hear it again a year later, and then you remember with excruciating clarity what it felt like to be living your life at that time. The only other thing that grabs hold of memory and emotion like music is the sense of smell: my mother, young and glamorous, wearing White Shoulders, leaning in to kiss me goodnight before going out with my dad. The dust and oil paint and turpentine of the arts center where I went to college, socking me in the solar plexus when I go back to visit. The heady mix of perfume and leather seats in an ex-lover's Mercedes.

Other songs that have had this hold on me: These Girls by Rachael Yamagata, Unfinished Sympathy by Massive Attack, the Eurythmics' For the Love of Big Brother, New Year's Prayer by Jeff Buckley...the list goes on.

79°

Every day on my way to work I drive over the LA River, that pathetic ribbon snaking through its narrow, shallow concrete channel. Hemmed in, graffitied, emasculated, helpless to determine its own course, yet bravely reflecting the glitter of the Pacific, just a few impassable strip malls away.

I can't adequately express my relief that is is 79° outside, not 103°. The oppressive heat of the LA summer saps my energy and motivation. Everyone said it would be better when I moved to Hollywood from the Valley, and maybe it is – marginally – but I work at a studio in Burbank, where venturing outside the air-conditioned building means instant suffocation, and even with my AC blasting at home these last few months, I couldn't sleep, and it was too hot and bright already at 7 a.m. to run with my dog in the hills. Next summer I swear I'm getting a place at the beach, a pied-à-plage.

I love the creative serendipity that happens when I start getting into writing mode: suddenly my ears are pricked for snatches of dialogue, relevant stories jump out at me from the news, seemingly random ideas connect in unpredictable ways. Today my therapist uttered a line that is perfect for my new The Closer spec script. To his amusement, I wrote it down – I've learned that if I don't jot stuff down immediately, it's lost. I hate waking up the next morning and wondering what I thought was so brilliant. I got a tiny little voice recorder and I do use it sometimes, but mostly I still scribble near-illegible notes on whatever scrap of paper happens to be lying around. Oh, the mountain of paper on my writing desk!

So in addition to my essays and poems and now this blog, I have my Closer spec to write, and my pilot and feature scripts to overhaul before the end of the year (self-imposed deadlines: not as effective as externally imposed ones, but better than no deadlines at all). The better to prepare for next staffing season.

I drove back from therapy through the hills under the Hollywood sign, that beautiful near-Mediterranean vista with its sage and yucca and storybook villas, slowing as I passed the Hollywood reservoir with my windows open and the sound of dry leaves skittering and the barest hint of an LA autumn in the air.

Full moon over Hollywood.

Driving home to Hollywood from Topanga, I'm startled by the rising moon over the 101: yellow, bloated and pendulous like an overripe grapefruit; a mottled, blotchy, lopsided water balloon; a paunchy, pockmarked, leering uncle hovering ominous on the horizon.

Movin' on up.

I hear that the city is spending a lot of money to gentrify my neighborhood. Every week there are new restaurants (Hungry Cat – try the heirloom tomato/watermelon salad!), clubs (Les Deux is back!), new throngs of club kids (Lindsay Lohan drinking bottled water at Hyde!), and nowhere to park.

Last month when my building was being retrofitted for earthquakes, the workmen kept parking their trucks in the driveway. Hey, I’m paying for that parking space in the back. “You can’t park there,” I said. “But there’s no parking in the street,” the foreman complained. “You can’t block the driveway,” I insisted. He threw me a surly look and went to move his truck.

Hollywood is still a barrio bordered by prettified Larchmont and picturesque Hancock Park, but we have the best farmers’ market in the city, and the sweat and stink and smog evaporate in the pines and eucalyptus of the hills, where red-tailed hawks circle lazily on warm currents of air.

In Griffith Park this morning I saw a movement, three coyotes through the mist: scrawny, rangy critters fixing me with that wary, resigned, flitting stare before loping up the path I was going to take with my dog.

Tuesday morning, five years ago.

Everyone remembers where they were. I’ll never forget my friend Mark’s phone call, rousing me from a dazed sleep with the surreal cry, “We’re under attack!” Running to turn on the TV. Watching in real time as the second plane hit. The shock and terror and grief, the chills and pride as we learned of the heroism of the passengers on Flight 93.

I stayed home that day. I was working at a major studio – a factory assembly line, you might say, for the global creep of Western culture – that, sure enough, ended up on the FBI’s list of targets receiving credible terrorist threats. I went to the Japanese teahouse in the park and fell on my knees in the grass in tears, asking god aloud how we and our beautiful planet could survive the hatred and brutish stupidity and avarice, the cycle of violence and vengeance, the world’s blind howl of suffering. I thought about the power and the absolute necessity of art to remind us of humanity’s highest strivings. I added a quote from Leonard Bernstein to my email signature: “This will be our reply to violence: to make music more intensely, more beautifully, more devotedly than ever before.”

It was the beginning of the heated bumper sticker debate that waged across the nation. You could frame it, broadly, as red state vs. blue: on one side, “God Bless America,” “Power of Pride” and the Stars and Stripes waving in dizzying profusion. On the other, fewer but brave, “Peace is Patriotic,” “War Is Not the Answer,” and a peace sign superimposed on the earth. “Why do they hate us?” everyone wanted to know. “Because of our freedoms” was the disgracefully trite answer lobbed as a smokescreen for the poverty, inequity and despair in so much of the world, fueling fundamentalism and colliding inevitably with the arrogant fist of imperialism.

September 11th burst our protective bubble. It forced us all to contemplate bewildering questions of evil, safety and security, injustice and ignorance, what it’s like to live in fear, the double-edged sword of free will, the atrocities committed in the name of religion, the challenge of choosing compassion and forgiveness, the incredible gift and responsibility of our lives on earth. I wish I felt like things were better, five years on.

Hollywood Babel.

When I lived in the Burbank foothills, I used to stare from my writing desk through the windows to the mountains – sometimes a green bulk, sometimes shrouded in mist. Here the view from my desk is of a wall. I wonder if this lack of a tranquil vista blocks my creative feng shui. But far more detrimental to my creative progress is the noise of Hollywood.

The poodle upstairs yaps incessantly, as shrill as if he were in my own apartment. Add the bass woof of the boxer and the clicking thud of their paws as they run back and forth, back and forth overhead; the treble shrieks of the kids next door; the sharp voices of their parents: I’d never sleep in Hollywood if it weren’t for my ear plugs.

I recently came home early from work, sick and spent from a week of coughing, and dropped off from sheer exhaustion. Then, waking at the noise, I had to stuff my ears. It’s not the quiet Valley neighborhood I’m used to. The next-door neighbors fight, the upstairs neighbors argue, and when they’re not arguing, they laugh drunkenly till all hours. Helicopters throb overhead – I mean directly overhead, shining a spotlight on the friendly gangstas next door. Horns honk to the tune of “La Cucaracha” till I want to slit my wrists. Music blares at all-day, all-night shindigs. I had to call the cops to complain about a children’s birthday party – it was midnight and they’d been going strong for ten hours. I was tempted to run over and jump in the bouncy palace – I bet that would've scared those shrill little f**kers straight.

It’s Suri Holmes, people!

Last I checked, Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise are not married. That makes Suri a Holmes, not a Cruise. It drives me crazy that the media have slavishly, knee-jerkily kowtowed to this, dare I say, patriarchal construct – the one that some prominent postmodern theorist (Lacan? Limbaugh?) dubs the “Name of the Father” – which implies that women and children are, after all the pretty bouquets have been tossed, mere chattel. Y’know, property. Oh god, I hear you thinking, I thought this post was about adorable, reclusive little Baby Suri or maybe Pontifica's celebrity obsession, but it's turning into some crazy rant about the patriarchy. Yes, people, I’m ranting about the patriarchy! Booya!

(She is pretty cute, huh? Just look at that hair.)

Father = pater = patriarchy = male dominance in surnames. I’ll grant that when and if TomKat actually ties the (oh-so-bearded) knot, Katie – I’m sorry, Kate – will take her hubby’s last name, and because a woman giving her child her own last name is so not done in Hollywood, much less anywhere else in this post-feminist landscape, Suri will officially, legally become a Cruise.

Why does this happen, you ask, this wholesale feminine shedding of names? Partly because, historically, it’s been important for a man to establish that he, and not some cryogenically preserved Scientology founder, is the real father of his hired consort’s – I mean ladyfriend’s – child. Friend Lacan would add that it’s because the woman lacks a phallus – not a real phallus, you understand, but a symbolic one. Oh jeez, there’s a reason I dropped out of grad school.

My friend Emily, that dazzling iconoclast, defiantly gave her son her own last name even though she was married – and even though her daughter carries her father’s last name. But won’t it be confusing once they’re in school? asked well-meaning passers-by. Who the hell cares? was her tart reply. Love her.

Anyway. It’s all part and parcel of this return to traditionalism (some might call it a backlash) that has young women taking their husbands’ names. I always gently ask my soon-to-be-married straight friends why she won’t be keeping her own name – or why he won’t be taking hers – or why they won’t (both) be hyphenating. You know exactly the kind of blank stare I get. Then the women get sheepish or defensive, as if they secretly know what I’m talking about, but they’re just not willing to blaze that particular trail. It’s romantic to take his name, they protest. Somehow it’s not so romantic for him to take hers, unless they’re wacky outsider hippie artists. It creates a family unit – it’s easier on the children – blah blah blah. Let’s just admit it – feminism is still stigmatized and misunderstood. Anyone bold or foolish enough to claim the feminist mantle is still a man-hater, a lesbian, a bra-burner (though it’s been well-established, gentle reader, that no bras actually ever got burned).

Aw hell, what’s so bad about it, after all? Women aren’t really second-class citizens anymore, right? Don’t you fret, adorable little Suri of the suspiciously Thetan-looking eyes. It’s just tradition.

Swoon.

I read today that Brad Pitt refuses to marry Angelina until everyone who wants to has the right to marry. That means queers, which means me – and my girlfriend. I’ve always wished that more of my hetero friends and loved ones would take this principled stand when it comes to the privilege of matrimony. Sure, a straight wedding is a happy event, and I was thrilled when my brother recently embarked on this commitment with his wonderful longtime girlfriend. Yet too often, I think, straight people’s embrace of marriage bespeaks at best a happy cluelessness about the legal rights denied to gay citizens, and at worst a smug, selfish conformity. I wanted my sister and brothers and friends, people who profess to care about equality and democracy – and me – to resist the hegemony in solidarity. Sadly, it’s all too rare.

That’s why Brad’s statement is so powerful, why my gay friend Mason and I sighed and fluttered our eyelashes at each other today when we heard the news. I’ve found it hard to resist Brad ever since he burned up the screen as a dangerous boy toy in Thelma and Louise (we'll tactfully avoid any mention of Troy), and lately, with his photogenic, humanitarian globetrotting at Angelina’s side, frolicking with their rescued rainbow brood, it’s hard to find fault. Now this: spokesmodel for tolerance and inclusion and civil rights. Dreamy.

Not only do my girlfriend and I want to get married, we want to do all those crazy, mainstream things like share a house and have kids. Everything’s a little more complicated since we don’t have the rights that married couples take for granted, but hey, we’re plucky. We’ll make it work. So far, where children are concerned, we’re still weighing our options, in all their bewildering variety: adoption (domestic or international? open or closed?), foster children, carrying my own baby, harvesting my eggs so my partner can carry my biological child. These last two require the participation of a third party, someone cool enough to take a back seat while lesbians raise his child, someone smart and good-looking and compassionate, a humanitarian, a…wait a second...

I bet Angie would be cool with it. She’s all “we are the world, we are the children,” right? So, Brad, how about it? Will you be our baby daddy?