RANDY REMEMBERS AN ANNIVERSARY

RANDY REMEMBERS AN ANNIVERSARY

By:  Randy Gillis

 

I was sitting at my desk, in my office, in my house, minding my own business, contemplating my impending radical life-style change (that’s another story) when it happened again.  The ever-comforting scent of sulfur tickled my nose .  I looked over and saw Kyle filling the doorway.  When your gay demon shows up, looking all disappointed, well, it can chip away at your self-esteem.  Luckily I have esteem to spare.

 

 

He ducked his head down to clear the doorway and clomped in with heavy hooves.  I usually just ignore him, forcing him to speak first.  He stood there for our obligatory silent standoff until I heard the pre-rant snort he’s famous for.

 

“It’s not like I haven’t tried,” he lamented.  “But you don’t give me anything to work with other than snarky one-liners, sarcasm and apathy.  What am I supposed to do with that?  It’s why I hate working with atheists!  Are you listening to me?”  “I would if you were saying anything,” I replied.

“Maybe you didn’t get the memo,” he snorted, “but the sullen homosexual went out with the…”  He paused, catching himself and hoping I wouldn’t notice.  “You were going to say ark, weren’t you,” I interjected.  “Shut up!” he snapped.  “What’s wrong with you?  There’s so much to be had out there, why do you constantly refuse it?” At this point I could tell that he was going to go on for a while so I just went inside my head again as I feigned interest.

What was wrong with me was that I remember.  I remember the very first news stories where they actually said the word ‘homosexual’ and that apparently we now had our very own cancer.

 

 

 

 

 

I remember wave after wave of death, protests, quilts, politicians and preachers and what they said.

 

 

 

I remember the first man I ever kissed (who went on to be my one and only boyfriend) and the knee weakening ecstasy (that I had always heard about but had never experienced) that came with it.  I remember him telling me one day that he was ‘concerned’ about his HIV status.  I remember finding his HIV medication and learning that he was not merely positive but in the end-stages of AIDS.  I remember the anger that consumed me; anger at him, anger at me, anger at HIV, quilts, politicians, and preachers. 

I remember going to the hospital the day he died and kissing him on his forehead as he lay unresponsive and whispering that it was okay.  I remember watching his mother fall apart at finding out that her son was gay and dying of AIDS at the same moment.  I remember going to his funeral and feeling every stare. 

I remember going to the health department (alone), holding a piece of paper with a number on it (alone), hearing my number called (alone), sitting in the exam room (alone) and having a stranger ask me questions that left me humiliated (alone).  I remember feeling dirty (alone).  I remember repeating this every 3 months for a year and a half (alone) until I was finally ‘cleared’. 

I remember failing every time since him, when trying to capture the feeling of that first kiss. I remember missing him.  And every now and then, from out of nowhere, I remember it all at once.

The words ‘Harrison Ford’s jock strap’ jolted me back to the present.  I looked over and Kyle was still ranting.  “Could you back up a few sentences before that Harrison Ford thing?” I asked. 

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to walk into the lounge down there and all the other demons just go quiet,” he demanded.  “I mean, even Eddie Murphy’s demon…uh…caseworker won’t look me in the eye!”

“Honey, honey,” I whispered calmly.  “I promise you, if you stop yelling at me, this weekend I will go out and do the gayest thing I can think of.”  Kyle’s expression melted from anguish to relief.  He lumbered over and pulled my head to his heaving chest like a mother in cradling mode.  “Oh, if you only knew how long I’ve been waiting to hear those words,” he gushed.

He stood there just long enough to be uncomfortable when he released my head and headed toward the office door with a much lighter gait.  Just as he was disappearing he turned.  “Now remember your promise,” he instructed.  And then he was gone.  I sat there, looking at the now empty doorway.  “I’ll remember,” I whispered. 

 

 

BYE-BYE BACHMANNS

BYE-BYE BACHMANNs

 

By:  Randy Gillis

 

 

 

 

 

 

To help commemorate the departure of Michele Bachmann from the political arena (hopefully), I thought I would dig up one from the vaults.  Way back when word got out that Michele's hubby Marcus was in the 'cure the gay' business, and after seeing an eye-opening YouTube video of him, I decided to write him a letter, offering him what I thought was some sage advice.  And considering he will now be primary bread earner, I think most of it is still good, especially if he intends to work outside the Cabaret circuit.  So, for old time's sake:

 

AN OPEN LETTER TO DR. MARCUS BACHMANN

 

Dear Dr. Bachmann,

Having just been introduced to you through the miracles of the Internet, I feel compelled to send this letter of warning.  Given all the good work you do with homosexuals by delivering them to righteousness through your reparative therapy program (and with no small contribution from the power of Jesus Christ), you should know that you are in danger.  In any demonic possession situation, it is never the possessed that are at spiritual risk, it’s the exorcist.

I fear that dedicating so much of your time to those tormented souls has resulted in some “contamination,” if you will.  To be blunt, you’re showing some signs.  The moment I heard your voice my gaydar (which was turned off and secured on the top shelf of my closet) turned itself on, hopped into my office, jumped on top of my head and screamed like a girl.  When we watched your charming dance on stage with your lovely wife Michelle, my gaydar reached for the letter opener and killed itself.

As we all know by now, prolonged exposure to homosexuality will result in ever increasing homofication of God-fearing heterosexuals.  Perhaps those closest to you are unable to see what’s happening (or they’re all laughing behind your back).  But from where I sit, it’s as plain as the tranny hooker on Eddie Murphy’s face.

I think your priorities should be as follows:

1.  Voice and diction training.  When it comes to gayness, the proof is in the S’s.  And you, my friend have enough incccccccidiousssssss S’sssss to warrant ssssssimply too much sssssusssssssspiccccccion.  I don’t mean that to be cruel, but you need to know. 

2.  Invest in a movement class.  You have far too much flounce in your bounce.  And hands are always a problem.  If you can’t butch them up, just keep them in your pocket.  In fact, as a general rule, the less movement you make the better.  One limp wrist could undermine your credibility as a butch heterosexual conversion therapist.  And you had far more than a limp wrist happening on that stage.  You had…..JAZZ HANDS.  And we all saw it. 

3.  Watch your grooming.  Yes, heterosexual men can be well-groomed, but there’s well-groomed and then there’s gay-groomed and I think you may have tippy-toed over the line.

4.  No more picking out your wife’s clothes.  Though you do a suspiciously good job, the implications are clear.  You could delegate that task to one of your patients, maybe as a work-study project to help some of the less fortunate gays offset the (totally worth it) high cost of normalcy.  You might as well take advantage before the gay is gone.

Considering the sheer scale of the damage you’re facing, you may need to resort to more extreme measures.  You should seriously consider having an extra-marital affair (with a woman), and a sex tape to go with it.  And no fancy editing.  We’ll need to see face, penis (yours and no one else’s) and vagina all in the same frame.  And no trying to Photoshop your face on to Ron Jeremy’s body. 

As a last resort, you can always enroll yourself in your own reparative therapy program.  The world loves an ex-gay.  They display the strength of will, self-sacrifice and endurance that made America what it is today.

Now that this situation has been brought to your attention I’m sure you will take the steps necessary to ensure you house of heterosexual cards will stand on solid ground.

 

Sincerely,

Your Longtime Companion (in Christ, silly)

Randy, the Barbarian Queen

 

 



HAPPY ANNIVERSARY AMENDMENT ONE!

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY AMENDMENT ONE!

 

By:  Randy Gillis




 

 

 

 

 

 

 One year ago today, North Carolina taught me a fact of life that I wasn't prepared for.  You see, I had always believed that knowing a gay person was the best way to calm fears and change attitudes, but then Amendment One came along and showed me just how naive I really was (and I've lost the friends and family to prove it).  I was so distraught that I couldn't work the next day.  I called in sick (not a lie) and wrote a letter to vent my anger.....and posted it on Facebook.  I though I would dig it out and share it again to mark the occasion:

 

 

Dear North Carolina,

.
Well, you did it. In spite of all the information out there about what this will do to your friends, family and neighbors. In spite of the other-worldly level of contemptuous cosmic thinking and racist origins of this travesty, you loaded up the church vans (like your preachers dictated), headed to the polls (like your preachers dictated), picked up a pen (an advanced instrument for many of you) and filled in the circle for Amendment One, further demonizing your fellow North Carolinians (like your preachers dictated). What makes it all the more fun is that YOU are the ones who constantly whine like little bitches about the "evil" of government intrusion. Are you feeling proud?
********
Before I continue with this diatribe, I want to extend my love and thanks to all my friends who voted against this insanity and for all the love and support you have given me in these difficult days. As the Apostle RuPaul would say, "ConDRAGulations, you're safe," and always in my heart.
********
Now, if I have any friends or family who voted for Amendment One (and yes, I'm talking to you), or who didn't vote but thought Amendment One was a good idea (and yes, I'm talking to you), I ask only one thing of you. I would like for you to muster all your strength and scrape together an ounce of integrity (Google it if you need a definition) and REMOVE me from your friend list, because we aren't friends. If this is how you feel about gay marriage then this is how you feel about me. We are the same and at this point, why add hypocrisy to insult to injury? This is not one of those situations where we can "agree to disagree" and chit-chat about pleasanter things. This is far, far bigger than that. There will be no need to exchange words but if you feel compelled, go for it. I have a few on reserve for you. Most of them are short and easily understood.
********
You'll remove me now or I'll remove you later. Makes no difference to me, for you see, gone is the wise-cracking, good-natured Randy. You killed him. But in his death a new creature was born. Say hello to wise-cracking Randy in a poo-poo mood! And it's about to get really ugly in Randy land. It's time to unleash the DOGS OF WAR! Prepare yourselves as I summon the Shih Tzu of Christianophobia, the Pekingese of Islamophobia and the Pomeranian of Jewophobia. Each, by-the-way, has taken "Best in Category" in hell for the last three years. Not-to-mention the Wombats of Mormonophobia and Scientologophobia (cause let's face it, they don't deserve a mammal metaphor), and any other "-ophobia" I may come up with at my whim. My page will become a bastion for blasphemy using whatever combinations of filthy words I can conjure (see, it's started already).
********
I will troll the World Wide Web, gathering every slathering example of "believer" I can find and parade them all over my wall for my amusement. I will type till my tips are shot to hell and my manicurist refuses to see me again, for the sole purpose of expediting your very own prophecy of becoming a mocked and scorned people. I realize that this makes me something of an enabler, but I'm okay with that. But from your side of the counter, it also makes me an important part of your god's plan so suck on that fat one for a while. And by all means, feel free to reply so I can scoff at you, laugh my obnoxious French laugh and delete you faster than a preacher can snort coke off a hustler's ass (which is a totally hot image by-the-way. Does that make me wicked?). I will rip into the flesh of your world-view, gnash my teeth around it, swallow it and return it to you in the form of a rectal blast of steamy contempt (I'm on Metamucil, so that won't be nearly as difficult as you might think). I will raise monuments to the true trinity of Dawkins, Harris and Hitchens, otherwise known as the Father, the Son and (as of December 15, 2011) the Holy Ghost.
********
As I no longer consider myself to be a North Carolinian, I will revel in watching you finally join the cool kids like Mississippi and West Virginia and giggle with glee as you sink to whatever depths your ignorance will allow. I will contribute in any way I can to the national feeding frenzy of mockery and inbreeding jokes (I'm starting my own list of North Carolina jokes now). I will post profanity-laden pot shots and hit below the belt at every opportunity. If great comedy comes from great pain, prepare to laugh your asses off. All of these things I swear to you......that, or I'm going fishing.
********
If you think I'm going just a tad overboard because of one amendment, you're wrong. This if for a lifetime of Amendment 1s, Proposition 8s, Ballot Measure 9s and all the rest. This is for a lifetime of watching and listening as religious "leaders" declare war on and cause the suffering and death of gay people worldwide. This is for a lifetime of watching gay people used as fodder for the political machine. I could go on, but you get the idea.
********
As for Amendment One? It's going to hurt a lot of people; until we undo it....and we will (I'll also get a certain satisfaction out of watching North Carolina go bankrupt trying to defend the indefensible). The only thing you've accomplished is to waken a sleeping giant (although I have lost 12 pounds due to my walking regimen).
********
As for me? Now, whenever someone asks me where I'm from, I will hold my head high and proudly say, "Weeee doggie ya'll, I'm from South Caroliney." Okay, I may leave off the "weeee doggie" part.
.
Sincerely,
Randy Gillis

Wow!  Reading it again, I have to say, it is ugly, angry, and bitter (and sometimes funny).  But it's also an accurate picture of where my head was at one year ago. 

So, what's it like today?  Well, I still struggle to not think about what so many of my friends and some of my family did to me on that day.  I stomp it down or push it away.  But it's always there, waiting to creep back into my head.  I get great comfort from watching marriage equality on a slow but unstoppable march as just yesterday Delaware became the 11th state to adopt what should be a given, legal protection for, and recognition of everyone's right to marry the person that they love.

Of course things will be bad in North Carolina for a long time.  Maybe people are waking up in this state, now that it has become painfully obvious that Amendment One was just a warm up for worse things to come.  Things that will take years to correct.  Only time will tell.  So, until then, I don't want to be a sour puss, so, happy anniversary Amendment One!  I wish you a short life, continued ridicule, and a painful death! :)



(DIS)COMFORT VIEWING IN LA

George Nickle is a fantastic writer (among many, many other skills and talents) who is currently making it happen in LA.  We have been friends since our college days a NCSA where we discovered our mutual affection for extremely bad movies.  Over the years, we've turned our love for these films into something of a, for lack of a better word, feud.  When we do find the time to spend together, we use it to continue our cinematic assault on each other with one ultimate winner.  He sent this piece to me following my last trip to LA.  It perfectly sums up our times together.  I know you will enjoy! 
 

(DIS)COMFORT VIEWING IN LA

by

George Nickle

 

 

My best friend Randy came to visit me in LA to celebrate the big 5 oh. He’s got his own amazing blog here on Queeratorium, so I am sure he will tell you all about our exciting week. And while he will probably go on about the barely missed car crashes, smog and creepy bouncer that kept him from taking me up on my offer of the drink of his choice at Ed Wood Jr’s favorite bar (yup, it is still there, right beside the studio where he shot Plan 9 from Outer Space), I’m going to tell you about our Truly Terrible So Bad It’s Good film festival.

 

A quick refresher on the rules: No fast-forwading, no matter how bad it gets. No looking away. We choose in turn. One for Randy, one for me. And at least one film has to star either Sybil Danning, Morgan Fairchild or Linda Blair.  The last requirement must be fulfilled. And fulfilling it this time led to... The Unspeakable.

 

Randy brought a few films and I had a few on hand too. We really didn’t go out of our way to stock up, since this time we were doing it in LA and thought that there might be a few things that kept us out of the house a little more than they do in Sophia, NC.

Our last film fest had been in October and it was heavy on 1970s Made for TV Movies. The worst of which has better writing than most any 100 million dollar studio feature today, so it had been pretty harmless and lots of fun. Randy had the last choice (Bad Ronald!) So this time I went first.

Night Of The Creeps on blu-ray. A good, solid 1980s flick about space slugs that turn people into zombies. Fun, but not as fun as we remembered. Randy followed-up with Tucker and Dale vs Evil and boy it was good! If you haven't seen it, go get it now!

I do have to say, its quality made me worry a bit.  I thought it was high time to hit the boulevard. We’re talking Angel! “High School Honor Student by Day. Hollywood  Hooker by Night.” One of my favorite films from childhood.  It’s got hookers, Rory Calhoun, Dick Shawn in a dress, a necrophilic killer with serious mommy issues and the one-and-only Susan Tyrrell as a hard-as-nails dyke with a heart.

Life was good. Then it was Randy’s turn again. Now he’d been telling me about Ticked-Off Trannies with Knives for some time. He really liked it and it had pissed off all sorts of people (apparently “trannies” is not PC). That alone was reason enough for excitement.  

I didn’t like it. It sort of made me angry. Now it is well known that I still consider the gay film Issues 101 to be the second worst film ever shown in our film festival. Besting even The Visitor and beaten only by Battlefield Earth (which I chose in terrible retaliation to Issues 101). Let me be clear, Ticked-Off Trannies with Knives is no Issues 101. It wasn’t terrible it just pissed me off. I’m sick of seeing gay men put on dresses then act like the worst stereotypes of womanhood. I know it is supposed to be like the classic grindhouse revenge flicks, but we are not far enough along to see men in dresses cowering as manly men beat them to death. Even if the surviving trannies return for revenge, which they do, they already lost me.  So I chose another of my 1980s classics, Screwballs. Sure it is puerile and does not come near the classic it is a rip-off of, Porky's, but it: 1) is never boring (again, the most offensive thing a film can be) , 2) has characters named Purity Busch & Bootsie Goodhead and 3) had the best line of the entire fest (girl asks the school tramp Bootsie if she is dating her brother. Bootise replies “Probably. What’s his name?”). Even Randy admits that, but oh no there were titties!

 

 

And so Randy plotted revenge. During one of our 5 or so holy pilgrimages to Amoeba (www.amoeba.com) Randy unearthed a foul work in my most detested genre (musicals) by the name of  The Unsinkable Molly Brown. I had to talk some sense into him. If he showed that then, on only the 3rd night of his week long stay, it would mean 4 days of retaliatory strikes that neither of us could take. We agreed to hold off, it would be his last choice on the last night. That gave me time to plot my response.

So we proceeded with Birdemic: Shock and Terror (the worst porn film I ever saw, Batdude, had better acting & special effects), Barbarella (count how often Jane gets hit on the head, has sex and changes outfits), The Doberman Gang and The Warrior and the Sorceress (name one other film that has a lizard as a political advisor & a four-breasted chick who shoots poisoned tentacles from her navel!). All pretty standard stuff for our film fests.

 

 

Then we took a trip to Cinefile (www.cinefilevideo.com) where Randy found Deep Red (not as gory as expected and too damn artsy), The Possession of Joel Delaney (shocking for what seems to be a pro 1% message and really discomforting nudity) and The Possessed (a 1977 OK TV movie staring Harrison Ford!). I got The Naked Cage. Every film festival should have a women in prison flick, don’t you think?

 

Then we realized that the requirement hadn’t been met!  No Sybil, Linda or Morgan had been seen. I had paid a dollar for a Linda Blair film co-starring David Hasselhoff, but I also had a little number from 1979 with Morgan Fairchild and Tom Selleck, Jerry Reed, Barbara Mandrell and a whole bunch of other country music stars (including, weep for us, Ray Sevens). Yes, it fulfilled the requirement, and yes it did have Morgan in a shocking duel-role (one which had her crooning a country ditty) but it was mind-numbingly bad, slow, cornpone “humor” of the worst kind. We try to refer to it only as “The Unspeakable”, but I tell you now, it is called Concrete Cowboys and it is evil.

 

So there we were on the night before Randy was set to return to NC and The Unsinkable Molly Brown was infecting my living room. It was pretty damn tough, but I have to say that this one is a matter of taste. It is a well made movie and probably even tolerable to those who actually like

musicals. Maybe The Unspeakable had numbed me, but I survived. Still, surviving was no excuse to be nice. I could have chosen to retaliate with Loose Screws (the sequel to Screwballs), but that would have been expected. I went a different rout. A more pretentious rout. A post-apocalyptic (how appropriate is that?!), long, boring, incomprehensible rout. I chose Zardoz!

Let me tell you, even after Morgan singing, terrible killer bird effects, Jane’s psychedelic space outfits and Bootsie Goodhead’s extended topless scene pressed against the window of a van, almost 2 hours of Sean Connery in a red diaper will wear you down. Sweaty, swarthy, excessively hairy and
flabby Sean in a red diaper playing with crystals and reordering society.

21 films and we are still trying to decide which is the worst of the worst. Despite our best efforts to do harm to each other it is probably The Unspeakable (aka Concrete Cowboys). Chosen only for our love of Morgan. It is the first time she ever let us down.  I’m already on the lookout for entries for the next film festival. If nothing else, I have my DVD of Loose Screws ready to spin and make Randy squirm!

THE END

TO LIVE AND (NEARLY) DIE IN LA

My friend George Nickle sent me an awesome piece for the blog.  It's about the very special nature of our relationsiop.  But it needs an introduction so I decided to dig deep and find a piece I wrote some time ago.  George's piece will follow.

TO LIVE AND (NEARLY) DIE IN LA

By:  Randy Gillis

 

For my 50^th birthday my friend George and his partner invited me to spend the week with them in Los Angeles.  I leapt at the chance.  I needed to get away from South, just for a bit.  It had been 7 years since my last visit and within 20 minutes of landing I was overwhelmed with the same realization that I’m sure a lot of people have when visiting LA; holy shit I’m fat.  If I thought I was hefty in NC, it was confirmed with a stylish brutality one can only find in West Hollywood.  It hit me 7 years earlier when I asked George why he had taken me to a children’s clothing store on our shopping day.  He informed me, as gently as he could, that we were indeed in an adult clothing store.  It was a cloud over the rest of the visit.  This time I was prepared.  I owned my fatness, jumped into Walmart’s best (baggy cargo shorts that fall tastefully below the knee and a classic though roomy tee-shirt from their “big boy” collection) and dove in.  It was the time of my life.

The first near-death experience happened on the first night.  George was at the wheel and as we approached the intersection of Fountain and Vista, a kid in an SUV decided that red lights are for the little people and bolted across the intersection.  We barely missed him and the car in the lane next to us plowed into his backside (this is West Hollywood after all) spinning him around 360 degrees and into the car on the other side of the intersection.  Now, considering that I was the only representative from Sophia, NC in the car, I think my reaction was perfectly within reason.  As George impassively watched this play out, I screamed once, grabbed my ears, attempted to get saved (there are no atheists in LA traffic) and threw up a little.  We also had to find an all-night upholsterer to help remove George’s car seat from my ass.  He was a nice guy who comforted me by saying I was not the most bizarre case he’d seen (this is West Hollywood after all).

The next night was birthday night and we met up with some college friends, Kelly and Murray, who rode in on Murray’s motorcycle.  Kelly asked if I would like to ride on back of the motorcycle to Baby Cakes NYC (a vegan desert place) for after dinner treats.  At that point my mother’s spirit invaded my body and said yes faster than West Hollywood has rear-ended “collisions.”  I put on Kelly’s helmet which had “bad girl” written on the side. 



It was AWESOME!   I was cruising West Hollywood on the back of a hot guys bike (Murray, I totally mean that in a friendly way) and I was nearing a religious experience. I was like the Grinch’s goofy dog with my tongue flapping in the wind and my tail wagging.  It was one of my best birthdays ever.

The second near-death experience happened at Runyon Canyon.  When George suggested hiking, I enthusiastically said yes without considering the soon-to-be crystal clear difference in the definition we each have of “hiking.”  And don’t be fooled by the comments at the Runyon Canyon website.  This is no “easy hike,” or “super-short jaunt.”  This is Everest baby.  Sure, it lulls you in with a gradual incline at the beginning but by the time you reach the point of no return it’s a vertical climb to your own death. 


The crowds were the number one complaint about this mountain and I have to admit I’ve never seen so many people (each with a dog) apparently born without sweat glands.  I, on the other hand, was sweating like a hog and breathing like a horse.  Of course the crowds didn’t bother me.  I seemed to get a wide berth as I trudged along.  It’s kind of like seeing a rhinoceros plodding toward his secret burial ground and you try to avoid it because you just don’t want to get involved.  There was a point near the top when even the dogs avoided me.  To my credit, after roughly 45 minutes, 2 wellness checks, a mule team (thanks to George’s impeccable planning) a few leather straps and a strategically placed grappling hook, I MADE IT!  And the view was spectacular.  It was totally worth the angina, blurred vision and slight urinary incontinence.

The following days brought great times, from the beaches at Malibu to the Getty, from Chinatown to down town LA, from a totally vegan chili cheese burger at Doomies (that was amazingly close) to the Farmers’ Market to…..Rough Trade Leather and Gear.  Well, you know I had to go in.  The name alone made it impossible to resist.  It simply confirmed what I knew deep down already.  I just can’t afford a fetish.  My god, the prices!  Exotic sex, like everything else nowadays, is for the rich.  I did pick up a pair of handcuffs from the bargain bin.  I felt like I had to buy something, you know, just to be polite.

And no trip to LA would be complete without a shame-filled visit to The Pleasure Chest, the world’s most infamous porn store.  I was rather proud of how well I handled it.  Well, compared to my first visit 7 years ago when I was greeted at the door by a fully leather-clad dominatrix walking her two “slaves,” (one male and one female) on leashes.  I remember looking at my friends and, with a panicked glare, asked if we should call the authorities.  I calmed down after they explained what was really going on.  This time I was filled with questions.  “What’s this for?  What’s that for?  What’s THAT for?” I asked.  I found it all quite fascinating.  The best part of it was being around and seeing people who didn’t seem to be ashamed, people who hadn’t allowed sex to be ruined for them.  I found that to be quite amazing and, in a strange way, comforting.

But the closest near-death experience happened at George’s house.  Even with an agenda packed full, we were able to continue our bad movie brawl.  We managed to get in about 21 films.  LA traffic is nothing.  Runyon Canyon coronaries are child’s play.  I saw the true face of death and its name is…..SCREWBALLS.