Dancing to the sounds of  internationally acclaimed DJ/Producer and Miami’s favorite DJ George Figares, DJ Aaron Elvis and a very special performance by Curtis Lovell II, a high-profile escape artist who has been referred as “the premiere escape artist of our time” by Citizen LA.

The temptation to survive upon eight thousand unwanted dollars, or at least some portion of it, weighs heavily upon me.  A substantial portion of my ruminations is preoccupied with my act that led to this gift returned.  Perhaps I was too hasty keeping but a sliver of the larger honorarium on my way to Tijuana, but as it seemed at the time, I left with the feeling I had earned a profit, rightly or wrongly, and returned with a certain sense of having paid some sort of debts to Abraham and the cosmos, too living and working in Baja.

When I appear to myself glib speaking like this, I consider the earlier facts of my dying and medical revival.  I consider these as unpredictable, random events, and therefore, I ask myself why repayments of debt should be valued at all in a modern, relativistic view of things, and then I think about the earthquake and how much balance and equilibrium were valued during that crisis.  Suddenly, I intuit that eight grand could be put to some better use than satisfying my immediate desires — a better use such as my opening my own business, while matters involving tax liabilities remain left to the future.  That’s precisely when I battle the temptation to enjoy some portion of my stash, a temptation born of the delusion that I am riding powerful surf, and its great momentum will carry me eventually out of its barrel and safely near the shore.

Fortunately, classroom routine brings with it social introductions and offers to attend beer parties held by students in private apartments.  Shortly after I vacated the Hilton, I bought a Packer from a dealer specialized in selling previously used vehicles, and have met people who casually cultivate my reputation as a survivor of hard times looking to live an educated life relativistically in equipoise.  I also learned, through one neighbor, where exist the best places in Craftsman Village to venture secret love.  My favorite is, still, a garage known for pleasureful nighttime liaisons along a wall featuring two small but useful holes, two feet apart, carved out in the vicinity of the pelvis.  Sunday is a particularly busy time.  Otherwise it’s hit or miss there, and that has spawned a few mad scenes, as might easily be imagined.

So, determined to do anything except pretending to be a young lifeguard defending the city’s beaches, I found a job in June at the 101 Club, downtown on Pine Street, later as weekend bartender but first as barback for the first month, by just asking around one Saturday night which led to a spontaneous interview, whose highlight consisted of my agreeing to be handcuffed and then spending the next hour searching for, either one specific woman, or any of four specific men in the crowd, without at any point even giving the appearance of running afoul of our shared, decoded understanding about those folks who would enforce the city vice code deceptively.  These five targets each permanently own only one copy of the appropriate key to open these cuffs, which belong to the New York City Police Department, but during Teddy Roosevelt’s reign as Commissioner, and which are bona fide appraised, therefore, at well over one hundred present dollars, I’m told by Murray Caldwell, the moustached sole proprietor of both the club and the cuffs.  He also warned that if I didn’t find someone who had the right key before leaving, I would be charged with theft.  An hour later, I discovered, or rather I should say, privately, in the loo “earned” one of the keys held by a gentleman, and upon my freedom I received a generous chorus of approbation for being a good scrum and taking a job as a barback.

Despite the desperation which hangs over my mood, my good fortune in finding work alleviates the temptation to yield to short-term pleasure over long-term interests.  In fact, Club 101 seems very much like a prison.  Not only is there the aspect of my physical labor organized according to the interests of the alcohol economy, yet again, but in addition to this sort of servitude, the joy that is possible in this establishment is the joy permitted under an atmosphere of an omnipresent intolerance.  Not allowed in the bar are gentle caresses, much less kisses, for fear of undercover vice circulating about.  Men and women mingle, but rarely in equal numbers.  Friday nights are known to have slightly more women drinking.  Saturday nights are known to have more men.  And it all functions without explicit coercion, as if everyone knows the rules and voluntarily enforces them, struggling to hold onto what little they — I struggle to say “we” — already possess in between infrequent raids.  T-rooms, of course, are always the exception, so much so that after spending in these sorts of places a couple hundred hours one way or another, I have come to more than tolerate and affirmatively associate pleasurable orgasms with the aroma of urine and feces, and visa versa.  For this mediocre piece of civilization, some will fight even the police, who can always be counted on, like a pendulum regularly but occasionally measuring superiors’ calculations of supposed inebriated deviants and un-American radicals, blissfully singing the hits “Over the Rainbow” and “South of the Border” while leaning on an upright piano pushing its rambunctious and semi-plastered talent closer to a red brick wall.

I resolve to tend bar, on weekends, through the course of my part-time education.  Caldwell, as grumpy as he is, does show his sense of taste in personal appearance and the overall character of his establishment, which is dimly lit, but lavished with wood and brass everywhere, gold velvet fabric on seats and chairs.  Hewing to this theme, I sport a young bachelor’s pose, keeping my hair short and slicked-back with a fragrant smidgen of sandalwood oil.  My face stays clean shaven, above various interchangeable cotton collared shirts, and often a light tan jacket or a sweater vest, and wool trousers draped over argyle socks and saddle shoes.  College-looking, perhaps professorial.  Appropriate, hence inviting.

* * *

A short time ago, Rafael Ordaz and I resumed communicating, indirectly.  There was a long period of silence between us, and it was only the fact of my crossing paths with Rafael’s sister, Maria, at the SkyRoom in the Hilton, back in January, that likely informed him I had definitely returned.  If there was anyone who had stayed on my mind, it was Rafael.  But I stopped myself from reaching out to him, until first I had resolved what to do about my lack of employment and so forth.  Finally, after not hearing from Cornero since my return, and then eventually finding the bartending job, I contacted Maria at the bank where she worked, and she agreed she would let her brother know I wanted to meet him after dinner at the 101 Club on the first Thursday of August.

On the chosen evening, I arrive having snacked a bit before I left campus, and somewhat early, I take advantage of my luck by seating myself alone at a small table, wearing an iteration of my stock clean-cut outfit.  After an hour, seats become precious, which means losing solitude, but the end of isolation helps bring me out of myself though a gradual progression of informal social exchanges.  Who knows, at some point one of them might even lead to a vivid, rambling conversation, which can be its own pleasure and a welcome distraction, that is until Rafael appears and stands and waits.  Or, maybe he just joins right in.

“Seat taken?” a gentleman asks, pulling one of the two chairs out from the table, holding a cocktail in his free hand.  “If you don’t mind,” he says, resting himself, studying my appearance, as I sit stoically, legs crossed at the knees, one hand fiddling with a cocktail, not speaking a word, while he continues.  “What are you, drunk or European?”  In response I merely sigh.  He mumbles, “Ainsi soit-il.”

“Is that French?” I ask. “I used to know this lawyer who… ”

“ …You say ‘lawyer’? Gary’s the name,” he smiles politely, talks softly.  “Look, page one: I’m just trying to relax by myself.  That said, if you are offering your company, I wouldn’t mind sharing it.”

“First time here?  Lotsa queers,” I venture to interject.

Gary is dressed in his jacket and tie, which appear to be his work clothes.  He has a tapered haircut, sandy brown in color, long bangs, and with his right hand he pushes them back, like a confident business type in his thirties.  He grins, “I know, isn’t it awful, all the pervs?  What, are you a cop?  To answer your question, it’s my second time here.”

“A cop?” I snicker.  “Ha, no.  What are you looking for?  Trouble?”

At that moment, a radio on the bar counter blares a tune captivating Gary, who starts humming, then singing, “Ah, ya ya, ya yea-ooh…”  At the right moment, he lifts his lips high into the air and screeches at a high pitch, for a couple seconds, “Ee…!”  And for a few more seconds, Gary adds his voice when the singer leading the harmonies repeats this high note.  Finally, he asks me, “Have you heard this one, yet?  Solomon Linda and the Evening Birds.  I can’t for the life of me remember the name of that tune.  On the Hit Parade, though.  Alas, oh well.  You asked me, ‘Looking for trouble?’ so, you tell me, do you think that’s what I am doing, and by the way, what’s your name?”

“Anthony.  I bartend here.”

Gary pulls back, surprised.  “Is that right?”  And after I start nodding, he confesses, “Had no idea.  I would have guessed tutor or clerk or something like that.  Bartender’s interesting.  So, let me ask you something, bartender Anthony.  You recall the seven deadly sins?”

“I sette vizi capitali sono: superbia, avarizia, lussuria, invidia, gola, ira e accidia.”

Gary sips his cocktail.  “So, you aren’t drunk, then.”

“Italiano.  E voi?  Francese?”

“Sadly, no.  Marin County.  North of San Francisco.  I’ve spent time in Paris, though.  Île de la Cité?”  Still and stiff as a statue, I yield no reply, causing Gary to stir.  After an awkward silence, he studies me skeptically, then asks, “So, if you’re bartending, why are you doing it sitting there, hmm?”

“I work Friday’s and the next night, and sometimes on Sunday’s for private parties.”

Gary giggles, before clearing his throat and consciously dropping his voice an octave and an equivalent measure of decibels.  “How, excuse me,” he apologizes, before gesturing we both lean in together.  “Private parties?”  I pull back and raise my eyebrows, showing a look of slight surprise and bemusement.  He adds, “I mean, if there’s room for one more, I wouldn’t turn down an invitation.”

Gary hardly strikes me as attractive.  If he were cast in a movie, he might get a background part, something like a lackey to James Cagney or Edward G. Robinson.  Despite this handicap, he carries his voice with a certain subtle mellifluousness, exercising a degree of wit, cutting off my pity or suspicion.  I lie, “It’s a costume party, for the next Sunday party.”

“You going?” he asks, sipping.

“No.  I’m the fella to get you in.  But in addition to it being a private costume party, there’s gonna be a theme.”

“I’m free.”  Gary tilts his head to the side, suddenly skeptical.  “Wait, how do you know all this if you’re not going?”

“Good question.  See, I’m the neutral decider in all this, so they let me, being absent of the group, improvise its theme.  Hot, huh?”

Gary leans in close, and I keep still.  He asks, “What theme, Anthony?  Tell me.  I’m happy to bring some mood lifters.”

“Some discretion, Gary.”  I wait, pretending to mull over a decision while Gary fidgets.  “Let me just reveal this.  If you decide to dress as a lackey to, say, James Cagney or Edward G. Robinson, you’d fit right in.”

Bringing his finger to his lips, he squints his eyes and furls his brow.  “How you mean?”

“Well, I mean, sort of like what you got on now, but something with pinstripes, right?  And a fedora, you got one of those?  Oh, and a smidgen of dirt, rubbed around your eyes, making you look sullen, and deadly.  The party’s got plenty of cops to arrest you and rough you up a bit, or you can turn the tables on them.  Whatever turns you on.”

Gary winces a bit.  “Sounds a little dull, to be honest.”

“Dull?” I ask, incredulous.  “What more could any honest citizen ask for?”

“Prohibition’s over, Anthony.  Why on earth would you want to choose a theme like that?”

“Who said it’s over?  The Constitution?  What is Prohibition, at its most fundamental, Gary, my friend?”

“A bad legal experiment.”

Surprised at his intelligent answer, I acknowledge, “Yes.  But why?  I’ll tell you why, because at its core any prohibition is an incitement, not a policing subtraction.”

“Incitement to what?”

“Not ‘to what’, but ‘of what’, Gary.”

He huffs, impatient with the game.  “Fine, I’ll play.  An incitement of what?”

At that moment, a short, chubby dark-haired man, sporting a goatee, interrupts our conversation to ask, “Excuse me, gentlemen, is this seat taken?”  I stick my hand out in the stranger’s face, to acknowledge he was heard and to impress upon him my need to have him wait.

“Of what?” I querry Gary, giving him my surveillance to see he is paying attention.  He composes himself, before I begin, “Incitement of desire.  It’s like a kid told by his parents not to repeat some behavior, and that kid, not thinking about anything in particular during the previous moment, now goes ahead and repeats the naughty behavior, just because he was told not to do it.  Prohibition — the booze, the guns, the gangsters… the panzy craze… Voila!  The incitement of naughtiness, the very reverse of repression.  This is why gangsters excel — selling safe liquor and safe gambling on the boats.  So, the way I see it, Prohibition blossoms inside a more grand governing mindset marketing to the masses a ‘normal,’ statistically-centered life, but apparently beyond police power, a place where many, if not most, people dream they already live.”

As I am speaking, the stranger takes the last seat, as now every table in the place has at least one drink on it, and he hardly appears in the mood to hop around for the best seat.  Needless to say, his face falls frumpy when he settles in.  “Hello, I’m Coach…”

I ignore Coach’s introduction for a moment, so I may finish speaking to Gary.  “Let’s remember to talk more later about those mood lifters,” I say to him.  Gary nods, and then we both turn our attention to Coach.  I start, “Anthony’s my name, please join us.”  Then, I turn to Gary to make an introduction, and this continues around the table with handshakes and barroom politesse.  During this commotion, to my slight surprise I notice Maria Ordaz sitting in the back of the club, talking to a gentleman.  At that moment our eyes meet, I smile.  She knows of my intention to come this evening, and she told her brother, hopefully.  She averts her gaze.  Finally, Coach introduces the nameless, bearded boy standing at his side, and he insists that his boy can stand waiting and sternly forbids us to offer him any of our seats.

Coach chortles, “I was beginning to feel the whole civilized world has gone mad.”

Gary tilts his head to the side and appears puzzled.  “How so?”

“Oh, we could drop it,” Coach pleads.  “I mean, I’m glad we found a place to take a load off.  But I will tell you, for example, did you hear about that battle over at Santa Monica?  It’s like a war out there, a drawn out standoff between a gambling boat and the authorities.  Just heard on the radio, parking the car.”

In fact, I had heard nothing.  I remember reading in the papers, earlier in the summer, about troubles between Cornero and California’s attorney general, whose tireless efforts to end southern California’s ocean-going gambling empire with repeated police raids this past year have been met consistently with courtroom upsets, leaving international boundary battles unresolved and smoldering, years after the Twenty-first Amendment.  But at least Cornero has been more or less preoccupied.  “Coach, right?  When you say ‘war’ you mean what exactly?”

Scratching his head, he repeats widely-reported news, “They’re going after his entire fleet.  Their names again, boy?  Which ones did they get back at the end of last month?”

“Ah, they raided the Tango…,” the young man starts, then stops by drawing out the ‘o’ in his last spoken word.

Coach interrupts, “Tango, that’s right.  And the Showboat.”

“Were those two here in Long Beach?” Gary asks.  “I mean, they’re so many, and I don’t spend time out there.”

Snapping his fingers upon his epiphany, the boy continues as though he hadn’t stopped speaking at all, “The Tango, the Showboat and… the Texas.”

“Yes, I think those were the ones off Long Beach,” Coach comments.  “Now, the Rex… that’s a different matter, up in Santa Monica.  It’s the most famous of the fleet.  There was a full-page ad taken out in the Times for the Rex, not two months ago.  It seemed that business was going to be there forever.”

I remind him, “So, war?”

“Right,” Coach acknowledges.  “The Rex, unlike the other ships which shut down immediately… The Rex, I say, isn’t just throwing up the white flag.  All the passengers on board during the raid have been released to police custody without harm, but that was days ago.  They got all sorts of gawkers at the shore with binoculars and spyglasses, according to the radio reports.  It’s still fighting being seized with water cannons and gunfire, as of earlier today.”

“Because they’re putting up a fight, one guesses,” Gary observes.

“No doubt,” I add, winking at him.  “How long it’s been, again?”

Gary interjects, “Well, I remember the raid started around a week ago.”

“Yes,” Coach nods.  “That’s right, about a week.  They’ll end up just surrounding the boat in international waters, until they run out of food and water, then they’ll surrender without a fight.  Fast as lightening, or almost.”

“Almost,” I chuckle.  “Maybe California’s Attorney General might find time to surround Hitler and make him give up, too?”

Gary chimes in, “And Mussolini?”

“Come again?  You mean Poland, Anthony?  War there’s not likely.  Brits have it covered,” Coach asserts.  “Chamberlain has made it clear he’s drawing the line at Danzig.  No, I suspect the only war we’re going to see is in Santa Monica.”

“Probably right,” I concede, out of politeness and a certain cultivated ignorance.  I hardly remember reading or hearing the name “Chamberlain”, which shows how much I have shun politics, since turning to my studies and part-time job.

Coach asks, “So, Anthony’s a bartender, and Gary, what is it you do?”

“Photog.  I just shot a few rolls on a contract for a postcard company.  Pays the bills, and let’s me pursue other interests.”

“Other interests?” I ask, finishing my gin.  I see that Gary has finished his drink as well.

“Erotica,” the photog admits, raising eyebrows.  “Acts of extraordinary coitus, my specialization.”

I joke, “What are you, the Samuel Goldwyn of smut?”

“Art makes for such trite conversation,” Coach complains.

“Hey, that’s my line, buddy!” I protest, standing at full attention, exaggerating my indignation.  Coach pulls his head back, and his boy stands behind him, massaging his shoulders twice before Coach brushes his hands away.  “Joking around, fellas.  Actually, the well is sort of dry,” I explain, raising my empty glass.  “Gary, can I help you to another?  Coach?”

Coach responds first, “Oh, no.  I’ve got it covered, if it’s all the same to you, thanks.”

“Yes,” Gary replies.  “A little tequila, lemonade, a dash of triple sec.  Ice, if they still have any.”

“Got it,” I reply, taking his empty glass in my hand.

Photography.  Erotica.  I mull these over in my mind as I approach the bar, order the drinks, and wait patiently.  I look again over at Maria, who now has two men, one seated, the other standing, speaking to her.  I decide on an intervention.  After receiving my drinks from one of the young bartenders whose acquaintance I have not yet made, I drop a couple bills on the counter and head for Maria’s table, letting the drinks wait on the bar, as I momentarily ignore Gary and perhaps add to the impression I’ve already made.  Hmm.  Erotica.  Photography.

“Ms. Maria, as always, encantada.”

“Oh, Anthony!  Here, give me a hug.  How are you?  Come closer, I can’t reach,” she begs, standing herself from her seat.  “Anthony, please stay.”

Looking at the two gentlemen trying to talk to her, I say, “I wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight.  What a charming surprise.”  At that point, Maria and I are gazing directly at each other, to the exclusion of her would-be suitors, and her face radiates only joy.  “Rafael promised he’d be here soon, Anthony.”

“Are you by chance here, at his request?” I ask, my curiosity aroused.

“Ok, I won’t lie to you.  He asked me to be here for a reason, in case you need someone for some support.”

“Support?” I ask, pulling back with some surprise.

“Well, you know.  Rafael talks to me, and I once in awhile talk to Fe’e, and…”

“… and I talk to Fe’e.  But I don’t understand.”

At that moment she reaches down into her handbag and retrieves a full envelope with Hebrew written on the outside of it.  “Here, this belongs to you, I believe.  Rafael asked me to hold onto this, because he wanted you to have it tonight, and he was too preoccupied with his business to carry it around himself.”

Puzzled, I accept the envelope, which from its size and shape I presume holds eight grand, and easily stuff it in my large front jacket pocket.  I scowl before speaking, “So, you had… I mean, thank you.  I’m glad it didn’t cause you any trouble.”

“I can handle myself, like my brothers,” she says, before looking over my shoulder.  “Speak of the devil.”

From behind, a voice says, “Good evening, Anthony.”

I turn, and to my marvelous, then stunned surprise, I recognize Rafael Ordaz, a little fatter than the last time we saw each other, and standing behind him, Abraham Katza, a New Deal older.

Walking into Hamburger Mary’ on a Saturday night and you have expectations on how the night will develop. A few drinks here, a wink there, and maybe just maybe you will get lucky. It is not long before you notice something a bit odd. This is not the usual predictable gay crowd that Hamburger Mary’s typically gathers. Tonight it seems that the world famous venue is cultivating a different assembly of creatures of the night. Bearded ladies walk passed like confident peacocks, proudly showing off the ensembles they have created for the night. You see, Saturday was not just any night; it was a night to remember. In a way the circus was in town, and in no way is that a negative comment. The night was dedicated to a queer, alternative, gender fucking kind of mentality that produced an interesting cast of the not so typical or expected. And that was the point.

Saturday May 11^th, 2013. GetOutLB presented us with Drag It!.  An impressive event with intentions to raise money for the MYTE youth program at the gay and lesbian Center in long Beach. Housed by Hamburger Mary’s, it was a socially conscious outrageously delicious night to remember. I haven’t seen so much gender bending dress up since Dennis Rodman gave us a taste in the late 90’s. But of course Long Beach does it best.

The night provided plenty to keep the attention of the best gays in town. After allowing people some time to drink and stare I hosted the voguing contest. It caught many people off guard, but was met with so much excitement. There has been a lack of any kind of vogue culture here in Long Beach. The scene is slowly building in LA, so I knew that we here need a sprinkle of something fabulous. Upon arriving I went straight to our DJ of the night, Ryan Jones, to make sure we had the right music for our imitation ballroom scene and to my most grateful surprise Ryan had a whole playlist appropriately named “Ballroom”. It was then clear to me that the night will be nothing but successful.

The night progressed with anticipatory joy. “I am glad to see that someone is trying to give a voice to the people who refuse to live according to what society tells us. Society should not have so much power over who I or anyone wants to be or doesn’t want to be”, Jim Gates. This was very clearly the overarching sentiment that everyone attending shared.  What was being perpetuated was a new culture, a culture that said you can be fabulous even when society forcefully tells you are not. A bearded lady here, a drag king there, the night belonged to the freaks, who in actually were the majority.

The most successful aspect of the night was the freedom that was tangible in the air. A freedom that was cradled in the arms of people who care to accept. Second to the benefit effect for the youth program, raising money for the future participants in our society with positive intentions. But the message of Drag It went deeper than just playing dress up. It was a night to celebrate who you are, and who you are not. The binary of gender was gladly thrown away and stomped on by a 6-inch stiletto.

Visit our Facebook Page to view all photos.

“It was so generous of San Gabriel Valley Pride to invite me to be part of its entry in the Long Beach Lesbian and Gay Pride Parade. I appreciate the opportunity to participate and I can’t wait to see all the people who will be on hand for ’30 Years Proud’ said Vanessa.

When it’s all over, aside from her 2013 New Year’s Day duties, she will have attended nearly 150 public and media functions during her year in the spotlight, spreading the word about the Tournament and Pasadena.

San Gabriel Valley Pride, Inc., a fully recognized non-profit community benefit organization, has been producing an LGBT Pride Festival in Pasadena since 2001.  The Festival is scheduled this year for Saturday, September 21, 2013 and is planning to move back to Memorial Park in Old Town Pasadena.  Visit us at www.sgvpride.org

The “Key to the City” is bestowed upon distinguished persons and honored guests of the City of Long Beach. The practice of presenting a key to an individual may be traced back to medieval times, when admission into a city was hampered by many legal restrictions, as well as by walls and locked gates. The key symbolized free entry. In Long Beach, the act of giving the Key of the City is symbolic, since the city has no gates to unlock. Today, the presentation honors outstanding civic contributions of the recipients. “The founders have gone against enormous oppositions, hardships, and struggles but it did not deter these three leaders.

It is with great honor that I recognize the achievements of these extraordinary trail blazers”, said Mayor Bob Foster. “These core individuals are the true pioneers that brought equality and diversity to our community.” In 1983 the founders of Long Beach Lesbian and Gay Pride (LBLGP) Marilyn Barlow, Bob Crow, and Judith Doyle set out on a quest to make a political stand for equality and change. For the Gay community of Long Beach their mission was to break the shackles of oppression of homophobia in the community and the general population. “It is a true tribute to be recognized by Mayor Foster. After all the trails and tribulations, this is a great honor and it shows that our City is on the forefront of equality”, said Founder Bob Crow.

“Good morning, Mr. Camarrata.  We apologize for disturbing you, but…”

“…my clock reads almost five in the morning!”

“Yes, we do apologize, but our front desk has received a phone call from someone claiming to be your attorney, in New York City?  Mr. Camarrata, are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Would you care to take the call at this time, sir?  The Gentleman, Mr. Katza, has requested that we convey to you it’s most urgent that he speak with you.  Hello?”

“I’m here.”

“Would you care to take the call at this time, Mr. Camarrata?”

“Hold on.  Alright.  Yes.  But, wait.  Wait!  Operator?  Hello?  Yes, as you are aware Mr. Katza is my attorney, you will observe the strictest confidentiality and immediately terminate your telephone connection to ours.  Do we have an understanding?”

“Of course, Mr. Camarrata.  As a professional representative of Hilton Hotels, I ask that you allow me to express our recognition of your loyalty to our company.  We value your patronage.  You may enjoy utter confidence that we will respect your wishes and faithfully defend your privacy and security.”

“Thank you.  Yes, this is Anthony.  Operator?  Operator?”

“We are alone, Tony.  Good morning.”

“I don’t know whether I shall call you Abe, or… your proper name, ‘Abraham’.”

“I should not have terminated our lease so soon.  What we had was good, up to a certain point.  We should have swerved in a different direction, together.  To California, together.”

“Right to the point, is it?  I should have put a time limit in my letter begging for your return.”

“This isn’t starting right.”

“How should it start, then?”

“Like we’re on a stage.  There must exist some exit lines for this sort of thing.  Somebody must have written this dialogue for stage sometime, somewhere.  In a modernist piece, all disjointed and chaotic, like a Cubist portrait.  Or maybe something like Picasso or Brecht.  Something Germans would call ‘degenerate’… oder yiddishe.”

“Art makes for trite talk.  I think I choose to address you as ‘Abraham’, for now…”

“Huh.  Does love always have to be a search?”

“Oh, I see, of course.  I was wondering how you tracked me down, and now I realize: skip search.  You did a skip search.”

“You weren’t that hard to find, Tony.”

“I don’t need your help, Abraham.  Is that what you want to know?  Is this phone call about your help?”

“I could no longer help you and that is why I needed to see you help yourself.  I might have been open to retaining the terms of our arrangement, but only upon another basis, as though, originally, I had failed to go far enough.”

“To go far enough?”

“You’re referring to the skip trace, Tony?  I mean, it’s hard to tell what you’re talking about, since you sound confused a bit.”

“I sound confused?  Funny.”

“A bit.”

“Look.  When my letter begged for your return, I didn’t mean hiring a private investigator followed by your calling my telephone.”

“You expected me simply to write a letter in reply.”

“If you want to admit to a lack of imagination about it.”

“What are you doing, staying in a hotel, anyway?  The Hilton, after all, Tony?  It’s like you have become somebody somehow different.  What’s going on?”

“I’ve been inside this hotel a month, and I’m out next week, starting a course or two at the University of California at Los Angeles, renting a room over at Craftsman Village in Long Beach.  You?  You hid inside Ruth for years.”

“I see.”

“Abraham, you’re the one who called me.  And you called me, to tell me I’ve become somebody different?  I seem confused to you, then you say you failed to go far enough?  What are you talking about?  You’re the one not making any sense.”

“I… ”

“… We failed to go far enough.  We did?  ‘We’, you say?  Like you and Ruth, that sort of ‘We’?”

“It all seems so conflictual to you.  Aren’t you exhausted, Tony?”

“Now you have me laughing at five in the fucking morning, prick.  Exhausted.  Ha!”

“Indeed.”

“Abraham, do you really want to know what is going on, or are you going to protect yourself first, always making me out as some sort of opaque mystery.  Is that what you need?  Mystery?  Mystery to yourself?  Mystery to women.  Just be, just listen.  Just shut up.”

“I… ”

“… you fucking talk too much, Abraham.  Too many words.”

“Me, too many?  Who wrote the letter, Mr. Camarrata?”

“And?”

“And, so, Tony, which one of us uses too many words?  Is that who you’ve been all along, a big spender of prosaic words, like they’re currency, off the gold standard and just circulating like little whorish symbols of fiat nothingness?  Do you even care to learn what the words in your letter did?”

“Last I recall, Abraham?  Last I recall, in your reply, you wrote you were at a loss for words.  So, message received.  Mystery solved.  My words did nothing.”

“They did everything.  They caused such silence.  It got to the point where Ruth and I were hardly speaking.  Much of the decade I spent in near silence.”

“The silence of Ruth, Abraham?”

“Anthony, Ruth, and Boris and Mila, too.”

“Pity the lawyer.  I can only imagine.  What do you want me to say?  You want me to say ‘sorry’, to apologize?  Or, do you want me to be ruthless, hang up the phone, cut off all possibility of communication?”

“Some sympathy, please, Anthony.  Boris and Mila?”

“I’m no longer somebody’s child, Abraham.  And, I did not produce issue, I’m pretty sure.  No, I’m certain.  I’m neither a father nor a child, Abraham.  Where does that leave me in your estimation?  Am I on the inside of your world?  The outside of it?  Or, am I bitter as I seem barren?”

“Too conflictual, again.”

“Yes, oppositional, almost obstructionist.”

“Like a psychologist.”

“Precisely.”

“There’s a melody to our conversation, as though I should be able to predict next what you are going to say.”

“And what is that, Abraham?”

“You seem to circle back to your letter.  It’s becoming a habit of our conversation.”

“What is the use of pointing that out to me?  Is Abraham Katza trying to make Anthony Camarrata feel guilty for writing a love letter?  Is that what you need?  Some sentimental framework to interpret my words?  Like some patterned grid of emotions fixing the coordinates of my utterances?  My mysteriousness never ends.”

“Maybe it does end.  I have been offered a law teaching position, part-time, at the University of Southern California.  Anthony, I don’t know if you can understand, but I need to be close to my children.”

“Why not all the way to San Francisco, Abraham, for yourself?”

“Too close.  Ruth needs independence, from me.”

“A whole state?  There’s Berkeley, too.  And Palo Alto.”

“If need be, Anthony.  It’s USC for now.  So, therefore, I don’t want to mystify anything about me.  But that is why I had to find you.  I need to know.”

“What, Abraham?”

“About some things.”

“Such as…”

“Tony, I never invited Dr. Parks.  Ruth made me invite him.  Psychology was a mistake.”

“It was childish of me to write you an earnest love letter in the first place.”

“How does that follow?”

“Psychology was a mistake, you say, Abraham?  You picked psychology over me.  And where did that get you?  I can’t… psychology… a mistake.  Why didn’t I think of that?”

“How could I have asked you for help then?  How could I?  You couldn’t even help yourself, and you expect me to have asked you for help in the form of advice, judgment, or even experience?”

“Experience.  Ha!  A childish love letter… do you see now why I say ‘childish’, Abraham?”

“You’re too hard on yourself, Anthony.”

“Maybe I should end this call, then.”

“Hear me out, please, for at least as long as your letter.  This call is my reply to you.  At long last.  You should feel relieved.  That I cared.  That I remembered.  Maybe it seems like a speech to you, but it’s what you wanted, at one time.  It’s what you asked for.  Your offer seemed… open for good.  I took that to heart.  Don’t break it now.  Not yet.  I’m not ready.”

“You’re afraid, vulnerable.”

“And what if I am, Anthony Camarrata?  The world is too rough.  I hardly survived Prohibition.  God knows what’s around the corner.”

“That’s funny, Abe.”

“ ‘Abe’, you say?  Good, I like that.  Yes, ‘Abe’.  Like when we were boys.”

“Like when we were men, Abraham.  Young men.  Our bodies were strong.  We could rrrrroger the whole night… back then.  All I wanted was you.  When we were men.”

“Boys, Tony.  Boys pretending to be men.”

“Damn cocksucker.  Now, you got to bring up Joe the orphan kid, don’t you?  Just got to bring that up.  What about him?”

“Tony, let me be clear.  I wasn’t talking about Joe.”

“Sure you weren’t.  And even if you really weren’t… Even if I… for all I know, you’re just expecting me to still need your mercy.  But, I don’t.”

“You’re holding something inside, Tony.”

“I don’t need your mercy, Abraham.  In the end, Ruth didn’t need your mercy, although I wonder, did you need hers?  Is that how she took you back, as an act of her mercy?”

“Conflictual!”

“Okay, fine.  I’ll get off it, Abe.”

“Tony, in those days, I was keeping care of you in an imperfect way, because I didn’t see then we had something more deep and far beyond whatever we actually started.”

“I, too, have a tendency for the dramatic, hence the letter.”

“See?  There.”

“I do, Abe.”

“I know.”

“I only admit that, because you are talking about imperfection.”

“Tony, if I could have, I would have done it all differently, made better decisions about Ruth and my children, decisions requiring work and commitment and time.  But, I failed as a father.  It is my eternal shame.”

“I don’t think you quite failed, Abraham.  You covered your tracks pretty well.  A lack of publicity about our sort of affair defers quick disaster.”

“In one sense, you’re quite right to imply I’ve enjoyed a successful private life by some measure.  But in another sense, there is a relentless opportunism to my keeping such secrets, but before you ask, I’ll tell you that the sort of opportunism I mean is not the financial kind… ”

“…. Although, surely you appreciate that was one factor affecting the decisions you made.”

“Perhaps, yes, I see that more clearly now, as much as it hurts to admit it.  There is my selfishness in all this.  But the opportunism I mean is the emotional one.  The false allure of ego, of pride, as if by honoring the duty to my family I can compensate for the dereliction of duty to myself.”

“Abe, you sound utterly unhappy.”

“I want to change that, Tony.  Sending me the money as you did showed me I needed to change.  More than your letter.  I can imagine the deep effort it took to acquire that, and then for you to forego using it was equally as difficult.”

“That you didn’t keep the money says much, to me.”

“The funny thing is that not keeping it was Ruth’s idea.  I needed to take my time to decide what exactly to do with it.  I hid it, for years, until finally it was discovered by Ruth, accidentally.  You can imagine the questions she asked.  I might have showed her your letter, but when I looked for it after she found the money, I discovered it was gone from its hiding place, too.  As it turns out, she discovered your letter some years before the money.  The timing of these events had the effect of slowly evaporating her confidence in me, until finally hopeless… I’m placing the children on a plane for San Francisco next week, so they may join their mother, a development I regrettably failed to prevent in court.”

“I listen to you, Abraham Katza, patiently.  And I think, there’s plenty of time for you to find happiness for yourself, wherever that is, however that is, but before you dive into California.”

“You’re suggesting I should not take the teaching position.”

“No, not yet.”

“You are my last prayer, Anthony.  I am purging myself of everything, even what came before.”

“Instead of responding to the letter, you should have just masturbated to it, and be done with it.”

“Such vulgarity.”

“I’m making a joke, counselor.  Lighten up.”

“Ain’t so easy.”

“If you find it hard to lighten up, you might start with stop praying and stop purging.”

“There is wisdom in ancient things, and wisdom brings me comfort.”

“I’m not interested in your traditions and clichés.  You can have them, but they are not mine.”

“I need you, Tony.”

“What do you need from me, exactly, Abe?  Parts of me?  Which parts of me?  Or, all of me?  Do I get to know that you accept all of me?  Do I even get the chance to reveal all of me?”

“I need all of you, Tony.”

“You don’t even know all of me, Abe.  You don’t.”

“I believe I do.”

“You don’t.”

“I believe you know all of me, or nearly so.”

“Perhaps I do, but that doesn’t mean you know all of me.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No.  Too sentimental.”

“Sentimental?”

“Sentimental.”

“I care too much about you to call it ‘sentimental’.  It has been decided: I’m moving to Los Angeles.  There’s no two ways about that.  Now, I would like to see you.  And I will make that clear to you, until you tell me to stop.”

“Stop.”

“May I talk, please?  Well, not hearing your answer, I give you notice that I shall assume your silence implies your consent to my talking.”

“And I’m the conflictual one.”

“I just want to see you.  Any mention of companionship would be premature to introduce into conversation.”

“Not premature.  Impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible, Anthony.”

“Exactly.  Nothing is.  And what nothing is, is impossible.  There’s nothing to see one another about.”

“You’re so definitive.  At the very least, are you alright?  Is there something that my lawyerly advice and protection would satisfy?”

“Lawyerly protection?  And what of Ruth finding my hidden letter, then, or is that to be overlooked?  Should be disbarred.”

“Tony, I burned the letter.  It no longer exists.  What Ruth knows is of little consequence.”

“What she knows led her to bring me eight thousand dollars, unexpectedly.”

“The events described in the letter took place in New York.  Over a decade ago.  But, look now.  We’re all talking about California right now.”

“It’s half-past five, Abraham.”

“At times, I imagine we are speaking, on the telephone, across the country, from New York to California, and for a moment, I feel at a distance what I recall feeling in your arms on those nights I was suckling, in our apartment in Greenwich Village right before the depression took off.  There was no animosity or hostility.  An even cadence and volume.  Soft and gentle spoken words.  Acts of mutual… hypnotism.”

“Do you know one of the things I admire about you most, Abraham?  It is your near perfect nationalism, as though it binds everything in your world, making it whole, complete.  But are you not, to any slight degree, at least ambivalent about such feelings?  Do you not have any doubts about your visions and fantasies you so casually share on transcontinental telephone lines?”

“I know who I am, and where I come from.”

“I see.  And what if I don’t, precisely?  At least not in the same way as you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“At all, Abe?”

“For the most part.”

“Hypothetically, if a man died at my hands?  Hello?  You there?”

“Sometimes, it isn’t easy holding on to feelings for you, Anthony.  There’s part of me that wants to push you away, not because I hate myself, but because I am a father.  I couldn’t begin to explain to my children the amoral universe you seem to inhabit.”

“It’s not precisely amoral… ”

“ … But, I would still defend you in court, at risk to my reputation, if I thought it would genuinely help.  Regardless, I would still deign to talk to you, to recognize you and not abandon you.  I know your heart.  If you killed a man, you likely believe it happened after reflection, and even if it didn’t, any impulsive action you took likely reflected what is always most enduringly good about you.  That’s how I think of it, as a soldier who fought in one war, shooting into the darkness, into fog, not seeing where the bullets landed, or who they hit.  The war hospitals, the desire to relieve suffering to the end.  I admit with near certainty to having killed, and I can quantify my doubts, mathematically.  But my heart can sense the compulsion of destruction, and acceptance of that is something beyond interpretation.”

“I’m not talking about sin.”

“You needn’t be so defensive.  Nobody’s talking about sin.  Oooh…”

“What’s that, Abe?”

“Go on… ”

“I’m not satisfied by your tidy values.”

“What would satisfy you?  Is it possible my shelter for your feelings could satisfy you, as you take this path back to school.  That’s what we should have done in New York.”

“Education.”

“You say that with some condescension… Anthony…”

“A means to an end.”

“Openness to learning is the end.”

“See, Abe?  Yes, you believe that.  But, me?  What do I believe?  There was a time I believed that you and I were supposed to be the end, until the end.”

“Tony, let me ask you something.  Tell me, what are you going to do with the eight thousand, now that you have it back?”

“I guess I could put down on a home, or maybe hire a lawyer.  Or tithe.”

“Ha! Tithe to whom?”

“To the Roman pantheon.”

“To what?”

“Yeah, I’m thinking ‘Jupiter Insurance’ as a fictitious business name.  Maybe ‘Venus Insurance’… Abe, are you breathing heavily into the phone?”

“Yes… Uggh!”

“Abraham Katza, you dirty, old man.  How dare you rub one out while we’re talking on the phone.”

“It started when you said the word, ‘masturbation’.  I couldn’t help it.  Your voice, it provokes a hefty bone.  I couldn’t help myself.  Can you?”

“ ‘Can I help myself’, is that what you’re asking, Abe?”

“Yes.”

“I can be frugal, yes.  I am, when it suits me.”

“And right now, does it suit you, helping yourself, alone in your bed, in that hotel room?”

“You paid for a skip trace, so you could hear me moan into the phone?”

“I’m coming… to California, Tony.”

“I bet you are.”

“Tony, …”

“ … Abraham… ”

“We never ended.  We always were.  We can write whatever story we want.  Even whatever story about our past.”

“Oh?  How’s this one:  that letter caused your tongue to reach for me, so your ears could hear these lips renounce everything I ever felt about you.”

“I don’t care, Tony.  I’m still coming.”

“Hold on.  Hold on!  Whoaaa!  Yeah, fuck yeah.  Fuck!  Ugggh.  Fuck.”

“Tony?”

“Thanks, Jimmy.  Why don’t you hit the shower, boy?  Yes, Abraham, what is it?”

“What? What… was that?”

“I don’t beat my meat, Abe.  I pay the bellboy to vacuum it with his pretty mouth.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“In fact, Abe, I very much believe that you can’t imagine.”

“I don’t care.  I’m still coming back.”

“And I don’t care you are.”

“I can’t believe that.  I won’t believe that.”

“We’ve spoken ourselves into oblivion.  You’ve had your say enough.  I heard your reply to my letter enough.  You no longer are at a loss for words, Abraham.  It is clear to me now what you want.  You have completely given your plans away.  I can predict nearly your every move from this point going forward.  Los Angeles is a big city…”

“ … Anthony… ”

“… There’s room enough here for both of us.  You have the right to live, clearly.  So do I.  So, you’ve decided to come out to California.  Welcome.  Good for you.  Enjoy your stay.  I hope you find what you’re looking for.  But I don’t see the point of continuing this conversation, which has lasted probably too long.  I don’t have much confidence in you, Abraham.  Decide what you need to do, then do it.  Hopefully, it will all just work out for the best.  How could I take away your hope?  It’s all you have left, having purged yourself of nearly everything and everyone else…”

“ … Anthony… ”

“ … What more is there to say?  I hope all the best for you.  I do.  Is there anything else, counselor?  No more words?  Hearing none, I think we can find a polite end to this call at this point, yes?”

“But… ”

“Don’t blame me, Abe.  Your mind is your partner.  Please, I think it’s time we stop.”

“Hugs, Anthony.”

“Good bye, Abraham.  Hello?  Hello… ?”

On Friday night, after celebrating the kick off of the upcoming Long Beach Pride Festival, Johhny walked home to his third floor apartment on Ocean Boulevard. Wearing his Imperial Court regalia, crown, rings, and a large rainbow sticker on the back of his tailored suit. His appearance as a queer individual, or at least someone sympathetic to the cause of LGBT rights was well apparent due to his attire and visual signifiers. As Jonnie moved closer to his apartment, the sound of shuffling began to grow from behind him. A few suspects knocked him to the ground, stepping on his arms, and repeatedly throwing punches to his face as they searched his pockets for cash. According to Jonnie, no sexual slurs were used in the mugging, somewhat removing the possibility of a hate fueled crime. The suspects escaped with a reasonable sum of cash, and the crown of the Imperial Court.

When a local police officer arrived to the scene, a shaken Jonnie recounted his story for him. After hearing about his experience, rather than attempt to find the attackers, the officer began to question Jonnie, accusing him of public intoxication. “I started thinking, maybe I shouldn’t have been dressed like this, maybe it was my fault. I almost wanted to stop everything right then and there and not file a report, but the next day, a new police officer showed up at my door and they are currently working on finding the ineffective officer,” stated Jonnie.

This story is important for Long Beach. Not only was a prominent community service oriented individual harmed, but this calls into questions the competency and service of our local men and women in uniform. A million ideas could move through anyone’s head about this topic, creating questions about the motives of the police officer or the muggers as sexually discriminatory in their actions. Although we do live in an amazing city, incidents like this are still possible and unable to be stopped in all cases. Local police have narrowed the search for the corrupt officer down to three individuals patrolling the area on Friday night and will handle the situation when the proper information becomes available.

“I don’t want to be a fear monger. I don’t want to be thought of as that dude that was gay bashed. I want to be known for my community service, for the money I have raised for the Long Beach AIDS Foundation, and my positions in the Imperial Court. From here, I’m not going to go out and tell everyone that there are gay bashers on the loose, because in all honesty, I could have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. I think everyone just needs to be a little more aware of their surroundings at all times,” Von Jonnie stated.

On Saturday, GetOutLB posted that a possible hate crime had occurred in regards to this story. We would like to retract the phrase hate crime, as the motives for this crime are not yet known. But what we must take from this story is that although we may celebrate the diversity and tolerance of our city, there are still corrupt individuals looking to destroy what we celebrate. Long Beach must be able to trust it’s police force, and never feel as if finding those that have harmed you is something wrong. Von Jonnie is an amazingly strong individual, brave enough to handle this situation and brush it off for what it was as an act of crime rather than an act of sexually fueled hate.

The definition for queer is “strange or odd from a conventional viewpoint; unusually different”. It even goes as far as to say it means “mentally unbalanced or deranged”. So basically queer means crazy. The societal definition of queer is gay, lesbian, and the like. For the most part, among our community queer has become a sense of pride, an acceptance of being “different” form the hetero normative bunch of society. But a fraction of our community takes things conceptually a bit further. The alternative queer movement is one that blurs the lines between genders. Gender is the societal constructions of what your sex is suppose to look like and act. To blur the lines on the definition, queer alternative erases the lines and the binary of gender and melts them together or simple fucks it all up. Men with beards in drag, women dressing in a masculine way; in queer fashion being a man or woman biologically has nothing to do with how you present your self to the world. In a way it is taking back the power from societal institutions and placing it back into the hands of the people. A punk rock shout for freedom, breaking the chains of normalcy.

GetOutLB.com is presenting Drag It!, a night dedicated to queer fashion, breaking molds, questioning your notions, and celebrating the shockingly beautiful. It is going to be a night to remember. Gone are your stereotypical beauty pageant queens, and enter the crazy handsome drag kings, the bearded drag queens, and the art mess gone right.

There have been plenty of pioneers within the realm of queer fashion, with the mentality of blurring the lines between gender identities. The pop star of the early 80’s Boy George successfully broke down the binary of gender. He sat comfortably on the line between looking like a man and a woman. And he made it a point to not choose a side. David Bowie is another obvious example of a queer sensibility. Throughout his career he has jumped the lines of gender, as well as a plethora of different ideologies.

One very important performance artist, who not only broke boundaries but set a trail ablaze for conceptual queer art. Leigh Bowery was not only a performance artist, but he was a pop star, fashion designer, and a club promoter. His life was one big performance. He destroyed what it meant to be a drag queen and created the most fantastically innovative costumes. It is artists like Leigh Bowery that have paved the way for breaking the mold on what is normal.

Normal is dead. The binary of male and female must progress and evolve. Life does not exist in black and white, it all works in grey. It is impossible to prescribe a life to every person in society to follow. There are too many variables that cannot all be considered, but can be accepted as they come. Queer fashion is an attempt to lessen the stigma of being different. It’s a celebration of the odd, scary, beautifully weird, questionable, shocking, and acceptance. Acceptance for whomever you choose to be or however you choose to look. The way you present yourself to the world is a form of pride in who you are. It is also a tool to express what you think or how you feel. Never accept no for an answer. That is the true lesson here.

The Rally welcoming will be delivered by Long Beach’s own Councilwoman Suja Lowenthal and Key Note Speaker Robin Tyler will deliver the rally call!

With the goal of celebrating women and their rights this March is inclusive of all women. Straight, bi, lesbian and trans females are encouraged to March with us in solidarity as we empower all women. Bring your signs!

Long Beach is the 2^nd largest lesbian community in the nation and yet we have very little representation. The purpose of the March is to protest the inequalities that women face with regards to healthcare, equal pay, reproductive rights, military equality, and same sex rights as well as to protest violence against women and discrimination in all forms.

The March ends at Hamburger Mary’s with free entrance to all Marchers as Jennifer Corday takes the stage.

Come early to Hot Stuff for a Women’s Art Reception just across the street before the Rally and March with artist Roberta Nieto. Hot Stuff will be open until 9PM for you on the 17^th to enjoy Roberta’s work and maybe take a piece home.

For info contact: info@artfulthinking.org