My Weblog

R.I.P. Donna Summer

Sadly, we lost the Queen of Disco this morning to cancer.

Donna enjoyed a string of hits in the late 70's-early 80's.

Including 4 #1's: MacArthur Park, Hot Stuff, Bad Girls & No More Tears.

Donna was a pivotal artist on the soundtrack of my youth...

And (without getting into it) a HUGE figure in my pubescent awakening.

As disco faded away in the early 80's Donna's career waned.

In the late 80's after many years of shame 70's disco made a comeback.

Many clubs around LA began serving-up retro 70's nights.

Along with many others I embraced this trend with unabashed enthusiasm.

On one such night the beginning of Bad Girls played...

After Donna's first "toot toot" and before she got to her first "beep beep"...

My friend Lynn grabbed my hand and led me to the dance floor yelling aptly,

"When Donna Summer comes on - we boogie."

Always.

Who's to Blame - Part 5

This is my senior picture. It was taken in 1982. I graduated in 1983.

The evening of my commencement ceremony I went to Studio 9.

Studio 9 was a small under-21 gay dance club in San Diego.

It was here that I found friends, acceptance, courage and a dance floor.

For the next couple of years I spent at least 5 nights a week there.

We'd successfully 'fish' for wine coolers at the AM/PM down the street.

"And dance our lives away. 2000, zero, zero party's over - oops outta time..."

Funny how those long-ago hangovers seem like total cake compared to now.

We'd dress only in clothing purchased at thrift stores - blame Angela Blaine.

Ang would call, "Let's go a-thriftin'." I'd reply, "Pick you up in 20."

We'd be so upset if we scoured and still had an "unpurchaseful day" - ugh.

When we did have "many fine purchases" we couldn't wait to present them.

My hair went thru a lot of changes too - lengthwise and color.

I even went thru a crazy wig stage - blame Robert Smith and Siouxsie Sioux.

See, that's me... in a very cool ratted out wig waving my fist in the air:

I really wish I could blame the drugs. But I can't - I wasn't doing any.

It was all done on vodka. And grilled cheese sandwiches.

And the occasional hit of poppers. And vodka - there was a lot of vodka.

So bottom-lining it for you fine folks...

For the man I am today you can like so totally - blame the 80's.

Who's to Blame - Part 4

This photo from 10th grade ('80/'81) reminds me of some of things I wanted.

I wanted to talk like Yoda - blame The Empire Strikes Back.

I wanted to be a really fast speed skater - blame Eric Heiden.

I wanted to be the star of a big Broadway musical - blame Evita.

I wanted 12 albums for a dollar - blame the Columbia House Record Club.

I wanted my own Top 40 Radio Countdown show - blame Casey Kasem.

I wanted a Sledge-O-Matic - blame Gallagher.

I wanted Dolly, Jane and Lily to make a sequel - blame '9 to 5'.

I wanted Valerie Bertinelli to be my best friend - blame One Day at a Time.

I wanted to play a serve and volley tennis game - blame John McEnroe.

I wanted canvas sneakers with a blue swoosh - blame Nike.

I wanted to be a Bradford really bad - blame Eight is Enough.

I wanted Willie Aames to be my boyfriend - blame Eight is Enough.

I wanted to live in Funkytown - blame Lipps Inc.

I wanted to attend the Wedding of the Century - blame Charles & Diana.

I wanted my MTV - blame MTV.

I wanted to know who shot J.R. - blame Dallas.

I wanted to spend hours at the arcade - blame Pac-Man.

I wanted to be a funnyman - blame 'Wild and Crazy Guy' Steve Martin.

***

I'm still waiting for that '9 to 5' sequel, humph.

Who's to Blame - Part 3

This photo of me from 8th grade ('79) reminds me of a few things I wanted.

I wanted to be Rizzo - blame Grease.

I wanted every Star Wars item on the market - blame George Lucas.

I wanted Kristy McNichol to be my best friend - blame Family.

I wanted Lance Kerwin to be my first boyfriend - blame James at 16.

I wanted to be a private investigator - blame the Hardy Boys.

I wanted to be a private investigator - blame Nancy Drew.

I wanted to be a private investigator - blame Charlie's Angels.

I wanted to be a great beam artist - blame Nadia Comaneci.

I wanted to go to Studio 54 and disco dance - blame Saturday Night Fever.

I wanted disco to never die - blame Donna Summer & the Bee Gees.

I wanted really big hair - blame Lief Garrett.

I wanted to be roller skate professionally - blame Roller Boogie.

I wanted famous people to stop by and chat - blame Dinah, Merv & Mike.

I wanted a theme song to play when I entered every room - blame Liza.

And I wanted to write and make people chuck'le - blame Erma Bombeck.

A Trait I Inherited from My Dad

Today my father would have celebrated his 73rd birthday.

I'd like to share with you a trait I definitely inherited from him.

As a kid I would ask my dad to go places, "Hey, can we go to the movies?"

"Hey, can we go to the mall?" "Hey, can we go roller skating?"

"Hey, can we go to the beach?" "Hey, can we go to McDonald's?"

His stock answer would always be a deadpanned, "Will people be there?"

It didn't necessarily mean 'no' but he was letting me that crowds bugged him.

And that a lot of times people just suck. I didn't understand it at the time.

I mean, who doesn't want to go to the roller rink?

Doesn't he know that I have my roller skating moves to work on?

***

I soooooooo understand him now.

I stopped going to the movies. I stopped going to the theater.

I stopped going to the mall. I stopped going to trendy night spots.

Yea, you know why... Cuz people will be there.

***

Happy Birthday, Pop.

Who is to Blame, Part 2

My 4th grade photo (1974) reminds me of a few things I wanted...

I wanted to be on a family drama - blame the Walton's.

I wanted to work in a newsroom - blame Mary Tyler Moore.

I wanted to fly around in a giant top hat - blame Charles Nelson Reilly.

I wanted to perfect a balance beam routine - blame Olga Korbut.

I wanted to be a trapeze artist - blame Ringling Bros and Barnum & Bailey.

I wanted to be a Von Trapp kid real bad - blame The Sound of Music.

I wanted a 'gets me out of all kinds of trouble' dog - blame Benji.

I wanted to quip witticisms with the best of them - blame Paul Lynde.

I wanted to walk around with a long cigarette holder - blame Phyllis Diller.

I wanted bionics and work for OSI - blame the Six Million Dollar Man.

I'll stop here cuz I would have given up all my 'wants' for some bionics.

I still bionics.

Who is to Blame...

My kindergarten photo reminds me of a few things I wanted...

I wanted magical powers - blame Bewitched.

I wanted to be on a sitcom - blame Family Affair.

I wanted my parents to be stars of a variety hour - blame Chastity Bono.

I wanted to drink Tang all the time - blame NASA.

I wanted to fly - blame Sally Field.

I wanted a mile-high beehive - blame Jo Anne Worley.

I wanted a big fun head-turning laugh - blame Jo Anne Worley.

I wanted bell bottom pants - blame my older sister.

I wanted hit records - blame Johnny Horton.

I wanted lots of money - blame Thurston Howell III.

I wanted to talk with a funny accent - blame Thurston Howell III.

I wanted to live in a hut on a deserted island - blame Thurston Howell III.

I wanted to drink everything out of a coconut - blame Thurston Howell III.

Except for the beehive I still kinda want all these things.

The Dumpster Diver

Yesterday as I walked Hector & Monji's dear dogs I had an incident.

As a good civic-minded dog walker I always pick up their poop. Always.

Well, yesterday just happened to be trash pick-up day so...

I tied the crap bags into one big bag of hefty poop.

I was a distance from the curbside trash bins so I gave it a nice arc-ing fling.

There was a satisfying thud. Followed my a man's yelp.

Suddenly up popped a dumpster diver. He looked at me and said, "Really?"

I apologized and replied, "Please tell me that that didn't hit you in the head."

He laughed, "Of course It did!" An awkward pause followed.

Then I flung him a punchline, "I guess that makes you a real shit head."

We enjoyed a nice laugh together. Thankfully.

***

Yes, that is actually a pic of him.

Are You Really from Outer Space?

The other day I was waiting for the bus on Sunset Blvd. There was a homeless man eating some leftovers he'd dug out of the trash. He seemed quite content with his find.

That is until another homeless guy showed up...

The intruding homeless guy had a sign that said PLEASE HELP and he was walking among the cars stopped at the light.

This angered and interupted the first homeless guy's lunch as he stood up and yelled, "Hey, you can't panhandle here. This is my spot."

The second guy ignored him and continued walking through the heavy mid-day traffic.

The first one continued while waiving a spork in the air, "Hey, you. It's illegal to panhandle here. You need to leave before I call the Mayor."

That triggered a response, "You don't have no Mayor's number and besides I see you panhandle here all the time. Don't the laws apply to you too?"

Now with arms akimbo the first guy said, "No asshole, I am not subject to your human laws."

The second guy angrily asked, "What the fuck does that mean?"

The first guy did a big (and impressive) doo-wop move and proclaimed with his proud gesture of matter-of-fact, "I am from outer space - your human laws do not apply to me."

It worked as there just was no arguing with that so the second guy shrugged and took off down the street.

Satisfied with himself he returned to his lunch. He took a bite and then realized that I had been a witness to this bizarre encounter. He looked up and I asked, "Are you really from outer space?"

He pointed his spork in my direction and said cooly, "Not really."

But He Employed the Wrong Vowel

As I sit on the train heading toward San Diego to visit my father I have allowed my mind to wander through the years and smile at the many memories of us. Reflection in this manner is sweet. And sad. It's funny how sweet and sad sometimes hand hands as if intimates.

Anyway, I came across a particular memory I'd like to share with you today. Many of you already know this story but it's a very funny one and bears repeating - for my recent fans friends. It's short and you'll Chuck'le (again).

As a child my father had two nick names for me: Charlie and Butch. Yes, you read that correctly - Butch. I have no idea where that came from or how it started but he called for me using both equally.

About 15 years ago I was telling a coworker this story and when she heard the name Butch she twisted up her face and snarled in amusement, "Butch?"

I too laughed at the obvious ridiculousness, "Yea."

She continued, "Well, he got all the consonants right but he employed the wrong vowel."

We enjoyed a fairly lengthy laugh at her apt joke. Just as you will, once you think about it a second more...