The House of Death Is Now Open For New Tenants

Who ever or what ever lived there is now gone. It happened within an hour. A moving van pulled up and within the hour what lived there had moved out. A sign is posted, For Lease.

And what will fill the vacancy? What insanity will move in there, for surely the House is hungry. A new year to begin with new people, hopefully, moving into something they know is evil or about to find out.

And what will it bring to us and our hood? What crazy will find it a cozy place to hang their hat. The last ones were eerily silent, eating waste delivered to the door. But what will the new ones eat? That's what worries me. And what was left behind, besides box upon empty box of delivered fast food. And what sort of organism did they leave? Something that obviously survives on gunk.

With Winter still waxing, the House could very well bring unimaginable evil. Cannibalistic killing machines in human forms. Everything nice on the outside but once the House begins to influence their thoughts, once they sleep and allow the House to enter their dreams and turn them to nightmares, then they will seek victims. They will hunt out those they deem weak and desirable for their tastes.

The guy that shows the house is something else too. Reed thin wearing a cheap shiny black suit, his black hair oiled slick. The fingers of his hands are more like spears at the end of a rod, the suit riding up his arm exposing a lifeless white cuff at the wrist.

Normal people would shy away but not the ones that want to rent. Not those, no sir, they step right up and shake his hand, enter, sign and are never seen until the next tenant comes to rent. And the next. 

It Wakes, The House Of Evil Is Alive

On Wednesday I get up at first light. Well it's barely light, enough to find the paper somewhere in front. Usually there is nothing going on at that time, no dog walkers, baby strollers, or workmen. No one is up yet getting in their car or truck to head out to work, quiet save for the nearby traffic that is always there.

Once I find the paper, tear off the plastic cover and read the front page while Buster takes a leak, I head back to front door ASAP, it's cold right now at that time. And it was then, as soon as I entered the house a light caught my attention. Now here is the strange part, it wasn't a light in the bedroom going on, but the entire House. A glow of light seeped around the shades of every window in the entire house at once.

The black SUV hasn't moved. The front door has never opened to let anyone out or in save for the delivery of fast food.  But suddenly, and all at once, every light in the house is on.

Then just as quickly as they went on they went off. No one left, the door never opened, the car never moved, but before full daylight came, in just minutes after the lights went on, they went off as well. Not one at a time but all at one time, just as they came on.

It's as if the house was letting me know it is alive and watching me. Knows that I know something isn't quite right there and is watching me watch it. And I'm trying not to but how can you not? It's there, sullen and mysterious with its criminal populace, its dark and moody appearance and the vehicles that are always black, suddenly appearing, staying for months at a time and then, like the lights--gone.

I don't know what it is planning but I can feel that something terrible is about to happen somewhere and then the cops will come with their weapons and armor and we, the hood will be hold up in the far corners of our homes waiting out the storm set upon us until the next time it seeks those that commit evil.

A Most Curious Development At The House of Evil

The House of Evil has a new car parked in the driveway. It is a huge black, of course, SUV. The windows have such a dark tint that it is impossible to see the interior. It is enormous, big enough to fit a number of bodies or a couple of coffins, more if they stacked them. The vehicle came sometime in the middle of the night, it was after we went to bed and before dawn when I pick up the newspaper in the front yard. It caught my eye because it is so enormous, too big to fit in the garage, not that who ever lives there puts cars in the garage, but this one is so large I doubt it could fit.

And as I studied the car, for there was something not quite right with how it looked, I noticed the license plate. At first I thought it out of state, not looking quite like a California plate. For one, it had only numbers and the color of the plate was off. I asked Prince Albert what he thought of the plate, if it came from California or not. He went out into the street and looked and observed the same thing I did, the plate wasn't quite right. And as we studied the plate it came to light that there is no state name to identify its origin. Very clever, and I imagine, that fleeing from a crime this would come in very handy for if someone was lucky enough to copy the plate, or if it the plate showed up on surveillance cameras, there would be no way to trace the vehicle.

What sinister crime are they plotting? I'll tell you another creepy thing. I started writing this article and put down only a sentence when the program jumped to publish. I started again, completing the article when suddenly the power went off. When I threw the switch and went to retrieve my work it was all wiped out, everything but the first sentence and somehow bypassed the auto-save. I checked the auto-save and it was functioning. Very strange as if the house knows I'm writing about it and its inhabitants. How?

House Of Evil Welcomes Storm Clouds

There's another thing about those drawn to the House of Evil, they all own black cars. What's with the black? And the shades are never opened. No light penetrates the interior or emits light. Yet, people, some form of them at least, live there surviving on delivered food at all times of day or night. Pizza for breakfast? okay, maybe with a beer when you had one hell of a party that weekend, but on Tuesdays?

It's a rental and the guy who's family lives next door to them and directly across the street from us, asked the owner who showed up when the rent was due and the renters in jail, after the law came with guns and plenty of ammo, "Why do you rent to criminals?"

The guy said he didn't know they were criminals.

I can see the concern because the family, and a real nice family, have their children's bedrooms on the shared side of The House of Evil. The parents told me how they moved their children to the other side of the house after the second invasion of police prying out criminals hold up in the House of Evil. And if you saw the size of the rifles the cops brought, you'd run to the other side of your house and hope it was enough between you and whatever comes out of the barrel of a gun that size.

He doesn't know they're criminals until the rent goes unpaid and the hood informs him. Maybe a background check would help but I don't think so. It's the house.

The house itself is cursed. Haunted and I know it for a fact. The story goes back to the time me and some other kids collected all the unfired firecrackers from the 4th of July. The day after the fourth we carefully broke the firecrackers opened and piled up the gunpowder. It was directly in front of that  house over fifty years ago.

It was a big pile too. I mean firecrackers back then were easy to get, legal and cheap. We placed all the gunpowder on the cement sidewalk in front of this particular house. Why that house, I'm not sure but probably because none of us had ever seen anybody that lived in the house and it drew us to it. We lit it and in one big cloud of sulfur smelling smoke and flame, all our eyebrows and lashes were singed off.

What this did, was to invoke some type of evil to enter the house. It caused a warp in the fabric of time and allowed some unknown entity to enter the dwelling. From that point on, the house sits there, gathering the wicked and dispensing them to this day.  And I don't think it will ever end. The evil that was invoked that day over fifty years ago is still there, waiting to call those who walk on the dark side.

Home To Evil

In the hood, catercorner from us, sits a house that has for over sixty years nourished evil. As a kid playing in the hood, the house had stayed silent, as if who ever lived there, didn't live there but someplace else. I've never seen, as a kid, anyone enter or exit for over thirty years and then it became a rental, as if the owner, who ever they were, had died and was absorbed into the house. But as a rental it has housed one criminal after another. 

Three times now, sharp shooters came with flak jackets, armor, high power rifles, dogs and assorted police cars from city, county and state. People removed in cuffs, after spread out on the sidewalk with rifles pointed at their heads. Women screaming for help, cars hidden in the garage with barricades in place. Just plain creepy.

And it's creeps that live there now. They never leave, food is brought in by delivery from pizzas to Chinese daily. There is a big black dog that has a ferocious bark that is kept inside. The occupant, like the occupants before, has black hair. Coal black and thick with a pale face. Sun is something these people seem to abhor. Then there is the strange people who visit, sometimes for an hour or two, others for days on end and if they do leave, you never see them leave. Just others arrive.

I'm expecting the cops to arrive any day now. Slow like, with their patrol cars parked down the street and them sneaking up to the house like what's done in the past. Once I asked a cop with guns strap to his side, flap jacket on who was crouched outside the door of our house, "Is there a problem?" his answer, "No problem at all."

No problem eh, well the postman doesn't come wearing a flap jacket and guns. The people walking their dogs don't have rifles, at least not at the moment they don't.

So I'm waiting, for the house to disgorge who ever is in there now, once the cops come of course and I suspect that will be any day now.

Thunder Struck

We had a good soak from the last storm with another on its way. Right now it's beautiful weather, warm and clear with not a cloud in the sky, but that is soon to change, according to the weather man. Another storm is on its way and with a few days worth of rain in it.

More rain, more cold weather and I like it. After months of heat and to have days of cool, wet weather is pretty nice and the garden thinks so too. It's lovely. The vegetables I started from seed are doing very well. Lettuces, turnips, peas and the rest are growing, albeit a bit slowly, with the shorter days, but they are growing and also doing well. And it is very peaceful to see their progression, the carrots are beginning to get their ferny tops, the radishes are greening up well and the tiny Swiss chard is popping from the soil.

There is a turkey in the fridge ready for Thursday, a small group of friends coming for Thanksgiving and help from Prince Albert with cooking will make for a pleasant day, even with the rain that is expected that day. I can see it now, the dinner table laid with a rich red cloth and table napkins, plates glistening and a sparkle here and there from the champagne glasses ready to clink for a toast. Candles light the room and maybe, as we sit and talk, tipping glasses of bubbly, thunder might be heard outside followed by the patter of rain.

A very nice Thanksgiving, with a fire, rain and a Thanksgiving feast among friends. Happy Holidays!

Storm Clouds

We're hunkered down with provisions in the pantry to see us through if the weather turns ugly. A conversion of two fronts are heading for us, one warm, the other cold. One from Mexican waters will hit an Alaskan cold front and cause the storm to stall, wringing its energy on us. 

The hood is quiet right now, not a lot going on, the rain expected to start before sunrise tomorrow and continue on through the next day. If all goes well, we'll have the gardens watered well. That will help the turnips and carrots. If not, if it rains too hard, we'll have a big muddy mess where the young seedlings have sprouted.

There is a fire in the den where we read by a bay window overlooks the street. It's cozy, books line the wall behind us that surrounds the window, its paned glass letting in light. A pot of tea sits on top the fireplace, cast iron, heavy and warming for the tea. Tomorrow, I'll make an apple spice cake for the morning tea to help warm the house and fill it with vibrant odors of cinnamon and nutmeg. Wally is better now, walking well, for him and laughing. His trip to the dentist was successful, no cavities and his teeth are being cleaned well. 

Well, the fast diet is still working. I began to loose weight once again with a slight change in the diet. Instead of an egg with toast three times a day, I now have two eggs with toast twice a day, switching a carbohydrate for a protein. I'm still hungry at times but always with the idea that the next day I don't have to diet. And it's  working.

Adapt Or Die

Read that on some guy's T at the gym years ago. It's the logo of my life. In fact, I don't think you can live very long if you don't adapt. For me, life was a struggle at the get-go. I learned as a kid to adapt to stay alive. We lived in a black hood as one of two white families on the block. My playmate was the other white kid, a girl. Then off to an all white hood at ten. And from my ability to adapt to stay alive, being beat up pretty regularly in the old hood, when the white bully of the new hood challenged me--I kicked the shit out of him. So easy, cause white folk fight differently and I had learned a lot to live to ten in my old hood.

The white hood wasn't any better. Richer, but not better. I had the same old shit to face, being different, queer in this case, in the breeding grounds of the Great White Flight. All around me were testosterone driven white men with wives and kids. No one in the white hood were light in the loafers. No effeminate hair stylist, drag queens, nancies. All that went on in Hollywood, not the San Fernando Valley. At least if it did, and they wanted to stay alive, they melded in with the rest.

Recently, someone contacted me about a high school reunion, it would be the last high school reunion since people are thinning out. Just when I worked through the anger of all those years of torment in high school, I find out some of them are still alive. Why? I thought I outlived them but apparently not, some are still alive and enough of them to want to gather and reminisce in one spot.

When  I read of some kid in high school going postal and slamming a bunch of kids at the school with high power weapons, I know what is going through their mind. The constant torture of being bullied, humiliated daily in front of everyone and having to go back day after day for more with no way out. It twists you in strange ways.

I didn't go. I think it already happened. I'm not sure, trying to block it from my mind. I e-mailed back to the person that I probably wouldn't attend, high school being a traumatic experience, I left out that I had pegged them for dead by now anyway. My way of surviving it all was to commit to outlasting them. It's a win-win that way.

Wally ain't doing so good. Adapt or Die, the logo in its perverse logic is getting me through this. Wally is failing, little by little even though I try to keep going, to keep a stiff upper lip, and even with Prince Albert's help it's hard. In some ways harder, but I'll survive somehow, someway. That's what you do--or die.

Halloween Fast and Feast.

Prince Albert loves Halloween and this is what he came up with for the front yard. The guy holding the lantern was once a skeleton that he transformed into a zombie with his creative abilities.  The kids liked it, all some twenty of them. And of course, what else but drive by trick-or-treaters. Really, they drove down the street and when they saw candy, stop and let the kid out. Then there is the high school future dropouts that come by and ask for beer. Seriously, "Got any beer?"

It was fun though and everyone that came by said the house was the best of the lot. We had a party that weekend, on the Day of the Dead. Prince Albert again did his magic with a Puerto Rican dinner. It came out really good, tasty finger food of little fried pasties filled with meat and spices, a chicken soup made with lime and cilantro and of course, beer and fire in the fire pit.

Well now it's time to find a turkey and gorge ourselves once again and then on to Christmas with more food. Can my fast-diet of 5/2 get me through the holidays? So far I've lost forty pounds and holding. 

Thousands Poisoned In The Name Of Allah This Year Alone

It's already started, there is no turning back and as of last night, hundreds lay sick and dying. The poison will eventually kill thousands, due to the nature of the toxin, it's lethal effects will last for two years, killing more because Allah said it would.

Allah loves death, he told me how to kill. To bring it sweet and silently to those that displease me. And it wouldn't be needed if they only had left Gaza.
But they stayed, once the Muslim Brotherhood brought them in. Oh, yea, there were no cockroaches until Little Iran moved in next door. Not a one and then, wham, like a jihad bomber the population exploded and overran Queer Gaza.

You need fire to fight fire. So I turned on Mecca went to Lowes where Allah said I could find death in a spray bottle and bought some real nasty shit. First thing I hit was the kitchen. Sprayed, like instructed, the floorboard, and then that night, turned on the lights.

Nothing, no bugs scampering everywhere, no little fuckers on the walls, or counters, not anywhere I could see. Allah said it  would work and it did. Thanks be to Allah.

Gaza's Harvest Of Ganja

It was a good year for cannabis in Queer Gaza. The harvest plentiful and quality good, at least enough for us and friends to enjoy through the year. And why can't anyone who wants to grow marijuana do so? The plant is hardy, takes all kinds of soil and environmental conditions. It does have a heady aroma as it matures and flowers, but the smell isn't offensive. There are a few things to watch but for the most part, insects aren't a problem. Mine has a scale problem every year, an insect that saps at the plants nutrients, at least not enough to permanently damage the plant to where it dies and some of the plants had quite an infestation--that's how strong a plant it is.

I call it hippie grass, a strain we've grown for years now. Friends that smoke a lot of grass however, call it shit weed because it is no where near the potency of store bought. But our grass is nurtured with our own  organic compost, nothing is sprayed on the plant and we are very satisfied with the quality. Who wants to lay in a heap, comatose from weed? Not us.

In the winter it's nice to have some weed around when the days are chilly and with a fire, a glass of wine and a joint to toke on, makes the cold night comforting. We plan to stay comfortable this winter and beyond.

Reality Hits Gaza

There are two facts on vacations. One is that they are over and the other is the anticipation of the vacation. Specifically, what could go wrong that you need to plan for. They sell insurance for the 'What to go wrong' part. If not insurance, then planning, and planning is a pain.

Vacations, that pastime pleasure so wrought with peril and tingling excitement. The need for one, driven by advertisement, to get away and spend money. The money issue hidden with pictures of beautiful people relaxing on palm shaded hammocks. Refreshing drinks an arms length away with happy attendants waiting to fulfill your pleasures.

Then you come home to the tune of 'Same Old Shit' and wham, reality is there to smack you right up the side of the head. Slap you silly too. Little Iran is busy pouring cement right up to the property line. That's okay, how would their place look like Iran if they didn't rid the earth of green and replace it with cement. If they're happy looking at Burkas waddling on concrete, than so be it.

And Hag came around, damn if she don't look even worse than last time but she sure as shit is worse. a specter with dark hallow eyes, seaweed hair, thin as a rail. Hag needed help, don't we all. I gave her the name of a plumber, not sure if she'll eat him or have him fix her pipe, but there she was, squeaking like a mouse at the back gate when I happened by to hear her call.

Little Israel is at peace, outside of a little yelling now and then but I think it's the way of Jews, you don't ask or talk, you scream at others. That's how they communicate in Israel with gods and everyone else.

I miss the vistas of ocean waves and sunsets. All that replaced with a fall garden needing care. The back roads for biking in quiet farmland, vanished when I mounted my bike to shop at the store and the traffic to navigate for the two blocks, half on the sidewalk because the road congestion is so bad. And then home to neighbors thrilled with concrete and screaming. Such is life.

Oh, well, just throw money, a lot of it, and you can vacation again next year. It keeps advertizing going at least.

Board Walk Eye Candy

Damn if Cayucos isn't made for looking.  Eye-candy to fit proclivities of all kinds and tendencies.  What you like? Huh? What?

Well, its here in Cayucos. Today was incredible. The weather perfect, you couldn't get better. An offshore wind blew this morning on the waves. It made them rise and spray whips of whitewater behind them on their march to the sand. Surfers glistened seal-black in rubber suits made sleek with foamy ocean water. They bobbed on boards for a wave to ride, like sea birds that sat nearby.

Families came to celebrate the day. Dogs, kids, teenagers, young, old, and all wonderful. All so happy as well as us. Prince Albert and I enjoyed an early morning walk, breakfast followed by hanging at the beach house and then another walk on the shore to town. We had a pitcher of beer before walking back to the rental. Wally spent some morning time outside watching the parade of beach goers. We had bloody-Mary's, French-Apple sausage with mouth-watering fresh peach waffles and cantaloupe. He really enjoyed his time in the sun overlooking the beach. It's a beautiful view, you can't see anything bad. Morro Rock to the left, and the town's lights at night on the right. And then there are the sunsets. Incredible.

Today is our last full day and then it's back to L.A. Maybe so, but we too will be back here as well.

Life Is A Beach

Envision a classic beach house. A kind of sophisticated shanty, where sand and wood meet. There is a fireplace in the center of the living room, on both sides of the fire are large tinted windows that show a completely unobstructed view of the sea and sand.  And at night, the twinkle of village lights from Cayucos, on the other, Morro Rock jutting so high from the beach it has it own micro-climate. A cloud of mist encircles the top of the great rock with blue sky all around.

The sliding glass door is open allowing a cool ocean breeze in. It mixes well with the sound of its serf, a fireplace keeps us warm, comfortable and brings the magic back of of days as a teenager huddled around a fire pit at the beach with friends toasting marsh-mellows on sticks.

A writer's retreat, a dacha, where you can't do much of anything else except walk on the beach and write your thoughts upon return. I haven't walked on the beach yet, but I sure plan too. And that's the rub. How do you fit a lifetime of leisure into a week? There are no phones to answer, no mail to read or garden to tend. There is the beach, the fireplace and a view. Life is a beach.

Writer's Retreat At Seaside

The mini-van is gassed up and ready to go. On Sunday morning, if all goes well, we will be heading for the central coast for a week at the beach at a seaside home.  I can't wait, and Wally is doing much better. He had a problem two weeks ago, I think pneumonia and so did the Urgent Care doctor but he showed a possible bladder infection. In either event, the anti-biotic they gave him killed the grass beneath his feet it was so strong.

He is doing better than he has in months, he is breathing better, walking better and more awake. The doctor, and she was a beaut, and real sharp, said to put some Gator-aid in his water. It helped a lot with his awareness of things, he was low in certain electrolytes and the Gator-aid has helped with that. Then we both had our bi-annual skin burn. Liquid Nitrogen applied freely on every area of our body that sees daylight. That's due to white skin. Why people want to be born white I have no idea, because when you age, that white skin molds. Seriously, that's why cave dwellers stay in caves, they can't take the sun and they're all white.

But a week at the beach to write and read and read and write. Take walks, go to the local tavern and find some chit-chat with a villager, it all sounds delightful and fun. More later on our great adventure.   

Vatican States People Hump

Amazing, and all along I thought everybody did it. The variety of sex alone would make you think everybody does it. Hell, you don't need another person to do it. Just a private moment and Whoopee, a moment's pleasure--a mischief.

I don't get it. God, for those who believe in Santa Claus and other fables, is so controlling that he can't let a creature have a little pleasure? And yet, among other animals, besides ourselves, sex with something happens constantly. Like Spot humping his Master's leg. It's a fact that among living creatures like ourselves, there is more sex and more variety of sex that occurs. Yet God wants you to, 'save it' for that special moment when only you and another 'save it' person meet, and by powers vested in rituals, can now unite and have sex. I guess Beth and Bud get up after fucking themselves sick and shoot Spot for humping the furniture.

I mean, do these people really exist? Ever? Because that alone would put Darwin into jeopardy. They should be extinct long ago if, in fact, there are people who are virgins waiting around for magic rituals so they can fuck. It's kookoo.

Now, what about the nuns? What about those clits waiting, ever pure, married to a god? That's heavy. Does the Holy Father want to go there? What do you do with all the nuns who lust of carnal knowledge?  They've whipped themselves, scrubbed floors to rid themselves of clit pleasure. It didn't work of course and now the male hierarchy will discuss, not only penis pleasure but clits as well.

It's a new day and a new sheriff is town. If you value your life, when a preacher comes a knockin', run for your life. The greatest lie ever told is about gods and that they are real. 

Gumbo Feeds Gaza

With temperatures hitting triple digits, tomatoes in Gaza have ripened to perfection. Prince Albert proclaimed he would feed the kingdom with shrimp gumbo. A trip to the store for crab, shrimp, spices and okra while a pot full of tomatoes cooked on the outdoor stove, made the whole hood crazy with the aroma of Cajun cooking. The Muslim Brotherhood next door, the  Jews in Little Israel on our other side, had to deal with the flavors of good home cooking going on in Gaza.

This comes after their feast days of Ramadan and Rosh  Hashana. And of course they're pissed. Once the smells of cajun gumbo float by, there is no going back to mutton and garbanzo beans. It's a known fact that Cajun food will turn you into a shrimp lovin', crab eating heretic of Middle Eastern foods. 

We filled our bowls with rice, then ladled over mouth-watering cajun sauce brimming with creole sausage, crab meat and shrimp. With warm crusty French bread to sop up the juices, the bellies of Gazans filled out to plump tightly stretched barrels. 

Tomorrow, chili verde with fresh tomatillos will stew until tender. It is enough to make a rabbi want to eat bacon after smelling tender pork pieces simmering in homemade chili verde. Let alone send a burka-bitch on a quest for pig meat disguised as goat.

Shootout at Critique Circle

Have you ever been on an Internet writing forum? My experience is similar to a Samurai suicide where you insert a dull blade into the lower left portion of your belly, tear up to your chest, turn right, cut across and allow your guts to spill on the floor.

Not many do it anymore because something more painful than that is available. Writer forums are the new in of painful deaths. The added plus is there is no mess to clean up. All the blood and guts are eaten while alive. So simple!

I had a review of a chapter on a place called Critic Circle. Wonderful place to bud out any masochistic tendency. And here's the bonus, you pay to have it done. How masochistic is that! Actually I've a number of chapters from the book I'm working on posted there. Not one, has gone by without some bozo reviewing it. I did meet a few people who gave good critics and we had worked together but for some reason, they took summer seriously and opted for vacations or surgery. Who else but a writer would have surgery in August.

So there I am stuck with one critic from a guy who broke down the first paragraph into musical beats, with a graph that he couldn't explain, with the words translated into beats. Gee, interesting but huh? Then he decided not to go any further. Why? Well, the dialog between two characters who are high school dropouts, heavy dope smokers, dead-end jobbers and called each other dude made him think I was one of them so no reason to critique further. Obviously I was in high school with a limited vocabulary and why should he bother finishing the critique.

It cost me three points to post the chapter. That means about three critiques I have to wade through to make three points. And I do a good job with high marks for my critiques. I go to a forum and bitch about the quality of the critiques at the site.

That opened a can of worms by a Candance. That's her name on the board. Shrew is her real name and she proceeded to call me a bully and everything else you can name Satan. Nothing about the quality of the critiques given. Not a fucking thing, apparently a bad critique at Critique Circle is a good critique. Just drool something and send it back for a point, why bother to read what someone else wrote.

It may have turned out okay, it forced me from my comfort zone and in search of someplace to hang my hat. I did and ended up at Scribophile. They have more than one, gay and lesbian group there. They have a strict policy about critiques and from what I hear from the members, they do rid the rotten apples.

But, I haven't turned over the money for membership yet. I'm still on the freebie side of things. That's what worries me, once they get the moo-la will they throw me to the clowns? 

Gaza In August

There has been changes for us this August. Prince Albert has built his castle, and I might add, quite cheery and inviting. The greyish curtains now are pulled back by black tassels, giving the windows an inviting look. The walls are bright with the lower section on the wainscoting still navy-blue, but with the larger white area above, it has a sea cabin look to the whole thing.

Prince Albert likes his castle and is content building great warriors with magic weapons for his conquests of ether worlds. Gaza has help now for Wally seven days a week. It has made a big difference in the quality of life for us all. And harmony, there is life here once again with people who like living in Gaza and with each other. Golden Boy now an ugly, fading memory.

 The garden is bearing all manner of produce, grapes, tomatoes, squash, both yellow and buttercup, peppers, cactus pears, which are pretty good in a morning meal. The girls are almost through their molt, their coop cleaned, the garden tidied, the heat not too oppressive. In fact, damn good for August, and I'm hoping stays that way.

There is a tropical storm heading up the coast, with a little luck it will stay on course until coming inland here and giving us a good soaking. We all need a good soaking now and then.

Gaza's Paparazzi

Pete With The Meat has left Gaza with his suitcases filled with photo equipment and props. We in Gaza can now relax without the constant stare of a lens in our face. We can scratch our butts, let our tits down and face the day without the beady eye of a lens staring us in the face.

But it wasn't just us in Queer Gaza that face the gaze of the one-eyed, others had their moments in history as well. Female porn stars dressed in burkas and scarves, their private areas exposed for all to see were captured on a digital surface as well. Every kink examined, photographed and displayed.

That was one of the problems. Pete With The Meat enjoys his photos a great deal and nothing more captivated him than to show everyone else. Watching a baseball game, there was Pete with his bevy of tied up women on a stick. Out to dinner, never fear, Pete is there to show you rope bondage, flowers, whipped women, bent women, women in leather, naked women, and women hanging from trees with sparks blazing all around.

In the morning, while he sat in my favorite reading chair going over his latest display of women in various what-knots. I would sit on the couch, missing my chair and, while trying to read the paper, be shown more women.

It's not that I don't appreciate the human form but hey, I'm queer, in the sense that womens just don't ring by ding-dong. But that doesn't stop the show, Pete With The Meat goes on and on until he leaves. And for some months, Queer Gaza is once again queer before the paparazzi returns.  

Butt Pirates Of The Raging Queen Invade Gaza

Does anyone know these two? Colorful, yes but be careful. Be very careful. They are marauders from the Raging Queen that  invaded Queer Gaza looking for booty. The one in the background is known for his particular kinks. The other one will eat anything given to him. It looks as if he is polishing off a leg or arm from one of their latest forays into Gaza.

They take no prisoners and violate every atrocity known to man or beast. It is difficult to predict their behavior. Once satiated from their latest invasion, they blend into the crowds of Queer Gaza, smoking grass, drinking in excess, leaving empty vodka and gin bottles strewn everywhere--that and banana peels. These two are guaranteed to ruin baptisms, weddings and funerals if given half a chance.    

Beware. Be careful, for once Queer Gaza has been stripped of every last vestige of decency, they will move into your hood and do it all over again.

Gaza On The Mend

Pete With The Meat is busy fixing pipes, and such here in Queer Gaza. We've been patched, mended and calked. Our ship is tight once again and ready to sail. Prince Albert has said goodbye to Mr. Daniel and that's good. We need our Prince and he needs Queer Gaza. A sanctuary from a world ready to sabotage queer nations if given the chance. Religion wants us dead, but we refuse to bend our heads. Proud queers we are in Gaza, so proud that we shake our fists at these gods of others and laugh. They hold no sway over us with their threats and rants of hell's damnation.

The Muslim Brotherhood has quieted down, their plan to destroy Prince Albert foiled. Now that the Prince is safe in his castle, rebuilt from the ruins Golden Boy left before being dragged away for servitude in the Muslim Brotherhood. We can faintly hear the screams of anguish of Golden Boy in the form of Facebook messages that show up on the screen. Pleas from his pals to go to Magic Mountain and meetings with other Queer Christians. They are dark messages to entice fallen Golden Boy into deeper depths of despair.

It's nice here in Queer Gaza, our summer cooled by morning mist with grapes that hang in abundance ready to pluck. Tomorrow, after the ride, I'll select choice clusters to eat. Tomorrow is another day.

Gaza Takes In Refugees From The Outside World

Pete With The Meat is coming in tonight with his gal, Sal. Actually, I think he said Joan. He did say she's nice, I'm not sure what that means, he is a fetish photographer and deals with people into some very strange fetishes. Balloons for instance. There is a group that gets the thrill of their lifetime from balloons and popping them. Okay, annoying to me, but it floats their boat.

I'm not saying his gal Sal has a balloon fetish but I do know one thing, she will be slight, good-looking, most likely with dark or black hair, and willing to take her clothes off and pose in unusual costumes and gear. Okay, Queer Gaza is accepting, and Pete With The Meat, and his gal Sal can both sleep in the foldout bed.

David, is coming at some point tomorrow. Depends when he wakes up, which can be at anytime. David requires a cigarette to be lit constantly. Doesn't matter if he smokes it or not, but there must be one burning, so far, in the ashtray, at all times. He may be dead from his habit one day and not show up, or drive off the road from a coughing fit for that matter, I almost expect it at this point.

Then there is the Irish computer geek who has ADD by the tenth power. Do not hire this guy to fix your computer unless he will take it to his home and do it there. He's bringing me my lap-top back after failing to be able to repair it here because he got involved in a screaming phone argument with his roommate. He's welcome too and fortunately has a blood test scheduled at Kaiser after dropping the computer off.

Queer Gaza will take in refugees and give them refuge from the outside world. Guess that's why they call them refugees.  

The Muslim Brotherhood's Trojan Horse

Prince Albert has a friend sent to him by the Muslim Brotherhood. Mr. Daniel, a sour man from Tennessee, introduced himself to Prince Albert one night. The relationship has blossomed since. Jack, Mr. Daniel, dilutes himself in secretive ways and toward the evening, becomes close to Prince Albert.

It is of concern. For Mr. Daniel is no friend. He has been sent by the Muslim Brotherhood to trip Prince Albert. Now that they have Golden Boy, Prince Albert is their new target of terrorism. For Mr. Daniel poisons Prince Albert's drinks and brings out the Great Warrior Priest trapped inside Prince Albert. Loud and boastful, full of anger and harsh words, the Great Warrior Priest yells and shouts about himself and his thoughts. It's not pretty. It's actually, ruinous to the peace of  Queer Gaza.

 It is like two different people inhabit the same body. Prince Albert is a nice man, a kind man who listens as well as talk intelligently--and helpful until Jack shows up.  And I'm hoping that the Trojan Horse sent by the Muslim Brotherhood does not kill the Prince, or worse, turn him into The Great Warrior Priest, left to wander the streets of a strange city, boasting and screaming at passer-byes like other urchin madmen.

There is nothing we can do. We have to wait to see if Prince Albert wakes from the illusion of this Trojan Horse. Does he not see the danger waiting inside, waiting to trip the Prince into leaving the safety and harmony of Queer Gaza?  We have caused the bells of harmony to ring. We have perfumed the garden with nature's scents and made peace offerings. But only time will open destiny's door for the Prince of which road he will follow.

Battle Rages In Gaza

There is something quite sinister festering in Little Iran. The Muslim Brotherhood are up to their tricks again, their eye this time on Prince Albert. Noble warrior of a far-away land and a threat to the Brotherhood and their burka bitches, Prince Albert might rescue the burka bitches from their slave labor of bomb making.

The thought has crossed their mind for just the other day, while flooding the southwest field of Gaza where peppers, lemons and butternut squash lay ripening, I heard them marching. Back and forth a Muslim Brotherhood jihadist paced every inch of Little Iran, his burka bitch close at hand and obedient.

It was weird, every section, step by step, was measured out in paces. He came so close to the fence, I could smell the heady aroma burka bitches carry. They have to be ripe for if they get caught with the smell of gunpowder on them from their constant bomb making, it could foil the whole operation and place Little Iran in jeopardy of financial ruin.

Prince Albert is loud, he boasts of his many conquests, while smoking tobacco, when he was a warrior chieftain in his far-away land. They hear everything, the Muslim Brotherhood--everything.  So they know what he is capable of and are frightened he might invade them to steal a Burka Bitch.

We know he has no interest in their Burka Bitches, but the heavily clothed women hear things and that sets them wild. Wild for freedom to cuss and swear at the world and their plight in it. It is why Prince Albert should be careful of the long knives and sabers that lay hidden in their loose fitting clothing of linen of the Muslim Brotherhood when they casually greet you on the street.  

Prince Albert, Mighty Chieftain

He comes from a faraway land. A land on the edge of a massive lake. It's a strange land where the rivers are contaminated beyond redemption, the lake poisoned as well. The streets are hard there, life is an edgy issue at best. He is Wicca, having assorted tattoos to verify his belief in nature worship. So be it, he ain't no fucking Christian, so he can't be that bad. 

The weather is incredible here. Cool in the morning and at night the fog creeps over the Santa Monica mountains to cool the valley with a thick cloud cover. By eleven, the skies open blue, the gray clouds now a puffy white that float away. Not at all what last year brought, hot followed by more hot until it got real hot. I'm sure we'll get some of that at one point but for right now--it's Camelot for queers of Gaza.

Prince Albert helps with Wally a lot. It's been very nice for all of us and, I, for one, am very grateful. When I think about Golden Boy and his infantile behavior, I'm so glad to be rid of him for ever more. Maybe it's because of his leave that our weather has been so good, I don't know but what ever it is I do hope it keeps up. 

Peace Comes to Queer Gaza

After the removal of Golden Boy, Queer Gaza is once again at peace. Prince Albert has moved in and became part of our family. The windows in his room are opened to let in fresh air and cleanse the putrid smell of Golden Boy's colognes, facial masks and scented ass wipes. 

The Jews of Little Israel, received their bounty of grapes from our orchard. The Muslims of Little Iran got nothing since they have holed themselves up. We hear, on occasion, Farsi but for the most part, they stay indoors building bombs.

Our chickens have been laying eggs, the vegetable garden is producing squash, tomatoes, tomatillos and peppers. The hummingbirds come for nectar, the bees are pollinating and we can now rest in the patio with tea, coffee and the morning paper. All is well with the storm clouds behind us. 

Prince Albert made a wonderful birthday dinner for all of us. The celebration was a success with glasses full of wine and bellies full of chicken paprika. And now that the hangover has left, I can get back to my writing and garden.

Life is good in Queer Gaza once again.

Beware Of Queer Christians

One thing you can bet on, besides taxes and death, is if someone tells you they're queer and a Christian, they're a liar and thief. First off, a queer Christian is the same as someone who is in the Ku-Klux Klan and black. Why anyone would join a religion that wants you dead and in hell  shows in itself extreme self-loathing.

Golden Boy, was caught in a lie today. He already stole from us by taking wages for caring for Wally and then leaving on an extended vacation. He was going to Detroit for a week and to be back to remove his possessions but instead of doing that he lied, stating he was not in L.A. as yet. When I informed him that his belongings would be removed and placed in the garage by Thursday, his week had already passed when he should have been back, he suddenly appeared with a truck and friend to get his things. When asked about Detroit he said that he didn't say he was in Detroit just not in L.A.

So he took wages and gave no service. He's been here all along screwing with me, and if this asshole even thinks I would give him a recommendation, I would love to tell that person what a queer Christian really is. 

Summer In Gaza

The grapes are full of color and taste. They hang from beneath the redwood trellis with temptation beckoning anyone to taste a grape or two. Their sweetness accentuates with time.

Queer Gaza had a warm July with the threat of thunderstorms and a good rain last month. Nice, I think, and who doesn't like a good thunderstorm with the threat of lightening heightening the trepidation of a thunder clap nearby.

Life is back to being happy again for us queers. Golden Boy sold his soul and is now in Purgatory. To bad. So sad. Bye-bye.  Dinner is being prepared by his replacement. A good dinner too, meatloaf with homemade ketchup, mashed potatoes and gravy. It's solid East Coast food. Made to stick to your innards when you're ready to set sail fighting storms for white whales.

Cocktails too. And company, and best of all, Wally has been doing better. We all went to the Hollywood Bowl the 16th and Wally stayed awake through the whole thing, with a big smile on his face. He has been going to the Hollywood Bowl since a teenager. The next day, he got up walked well, tried to talk and over all peppier.

Our friends like the new guy, the new guy likes our friends and Queer Gaza. And I think that's why it will all work out. New guy likes it here with us in Queer Gaza. He helps to defend our land against Little Israel on one side and Little Iran on the other. He is kindred in spirit and solid queer.

Gaza Takes In A Refugee

We have a new member, someone who appreciates a home, someone who is not a Princess and is a bit older. He's rough around the edges, but a man who has worked in bathhouses isn't afraid of the sight of shit. Gaza needed someone who would be here for Wally, to help me in his care, and though the man has tattoos, and came with bites from bed bugs from the flop house he stayed in, he not only helps with Wally, he cooks very well.

The man, who's name as yet to form, likes Queer Gaza. He sits in the garden and because we are land-lock between Little Israel and Little Iran, connects to friends on Facebook on his computer. He doesn't waste water or electricity, he is neat and good company. He doesn't drive a car nor does he want to. He walks. That old fashion method of transportation.

Funny thing about the Christian queer, Golden Boy, for all his dedication to Jesus' teachings he learned nothing from them. Self-centered, self-absorbed to the point that nothing matters to him but his own comfort and pleasure. I'm glad to be rid of him, but very said for Binky his cat. The cat has a home here, people here care for him, talk to him, make sure he has food, pay attention to him, and all that will end at the end of the month. 

One day we watched Binky follow Golden Boy to his room only to have the door shut on him before he could enter as well. Golden Boy never bothered to see if his cat wanted in. I have had to knock on Golden Boy's door to tell him his cat wanted in to eat, and maybe have a little attention, though I didn't say that, but hoped at least, while Golden Boy was applying face masks and doing his nails, he might turned to his cat and say, at least, "Hello."

Muslim Brotherhood Captures Golden Boy

Golden Boy is history. Taken from us by the enticing wiles of hateful Muslims, Golden Boy is leaving Queer Gaza for a rich husband. Or should I say, the chances of a rich husband because the new beau is not rich yet. He comes from a rich family, and he has a job but he is not dripping in diamonds and gold as of today.

I'm actually glad the Muslim Brotherhood has taken him to their side. Glad to be rid of the drama and the constant demands for more and more Golden Boy made on me. People who revere wealth never have enough and Golden Boy 's appetite had no limits.

Wally and I have limits and I had reached mine some time ago with Golden Boy's demands. The Gaza Strip needs peace. The Jews on one side and the Muslims on the other have taken their toll on Queer Gaza with their constant bickering and fighting with us in the middle.

I hope that with devouring Golden Boy, the Muslim Brotherhood will be satiated, but I doubt that. And now, a new member of the household is with us. An Irishman from Cleveland, a good man that fell on desperate times and found his way to the Gaza Strip. He already has helped me with Wally and the household.

That's all the news that's fit to print from Queer Gaza. We are still here, still queer and still free.

Is There Life In The Gaza Strip?

Our annual fourth of July party is coming up. It is also the day Wally and I wed some five years ago when we had our open window of equality. But now, within those short years, the number of friends has dwindled dramatically. Most moved to other areas in their retirements, others have died and still others had made plans that day.

It's a strange feeling to pick up the phone and have just a few friends to call. There use to be so many more but that was a long time ago.

Still, there is life here in Gaza. The gardens of Queer Gaza are beautiful and abundant. A summer feel has taken hold of the land. That lazy-day touch in the weather with warm summer nights filled with the buzz of life all around. Pleasant too and with a cool summer drink made of 100 proof Southern Comfort poured over a glass of fresh mint leaves crushed on the bottom, with ice packed on top, and then fresh brewed sweet tea added, makes for a mighty fine lazy-day thirst quencher. Actually less quench and more punch but after a glass or two of the brew, who gives a shit if it's hotter than a firecracker outside.

Our vegetable garden has produced a bumper crop of pickling cucumbers. I have an entire cabinet now filled with assorted pickles. Dill, Bread & Butter, pickled peppers, pickled garlic and today, pickled shrimp. All but the shrimp grown right here on the estates of Queer Gaza. And the other day, Sunday, I had one of the most gastronomical events ever to occur here. The baseball game was on, followed by the Tour de France. A platter of crackers, braunschweiger, a good cheddar alongside homemade dill pickles to slice and place on top with ice cold beer to wash it down with. Heaven to eat each morsel of crisp cracker with a spread of creamy liver tastes with the sharp cut of a dill pickle makes my mouth water even now. And to kick back with a game and stuff yourself gives you a wee bit of paradise.

So yes, there is life in Gaza, still to this day.  

Summer In Gaza

The gardener now comes on Wednesday morning instead of Friday because the Muslim Brotherhood next door said the baby wakes and cries when they come on Friday, we have the same gardener, something I regret when he asked about my gardener and recommended him.

I really don't care what day, but Friday is a good day because the front looked nice for visitors on the weekend. It's a status thing, "Oh, your gardener comes on Friday," because it's hard to get a gardener on Friday, that's when everyone wants the gardener.

Then there is the showing of the baby. Sitting in the backyard with a six foot fence between us, she raises the baby above her head for me to inspect. I don't know why, I find them rubbery and, at times, disgusting. Snot drips from their nose, they demand constant attention and shit at will. But I know what to expect. I'm to ogle the baby. Lavish attention on the bundle of joy. Say things the mother wants to hear like, "What a cute baby!"

Cute is someone eighteen years old in a Speedo, not a rug-rat trussed up in diapers and yet there I am, with this baby's prune face hanging in the air above an unseen mother, as if floating in air. And I'm wondering, 'How long can she keep the kid over her head?' So I keep praising the child to see if the mother will finally drop it in exhaustion.

She doesn't, I'm disappointed and want to go back to getting stoned in the backyard without being interrupted with floating babies.

Really, doesn't a six foot fence tell you something? Does not that, in itself, say this is a private area. You have your private area and I have mine. That is until you start wearing stilts and wave hello while I'm scratching my ass and picking tomatoes.

Wise Sage Is the Mexican Monkey

I hate to admit it but he gave me some good advice.

"Don't get too personal with people you hire," he said.

 He is right. I learned a lesson. One of the problems with Golden Boy is something I created, getting too friendly, wanting to be a friend as well and you can't. It creates to many other problems.

I distance myself from him, not asking him questions about his life or boyfriends, not getting involved. It seems to have work. Today was much better, a much better day. So maybe it will work out. I hope so at least.

I do like the guy, he has flaws but who doesn't. And I would like to see him become more confident in himself without needing the approval he is so desperate for from his peers. It takes time, it certainly did with me and I think I was far more fucked up than he is.

One thing here is, I have no one to talk with. With Wally's dementia, his thoughts are a mystery for the most part. Once in a while something comes out, Some small insight that brightens the room but that's a rare event. In fact so rare that I'm in rapture to here him say something and not focused on what it is he is saying.

Dementia, a stealer of thought and action. So terribly crippling in so many ways. And I'm alone with Wally in this pretty much. Me and Wally hoping for a better day that won't come but that's all we have at this point. Hope for a better day.

Golden Boy Lavished With Chunky Gold Jewelery

His latest squeeze has expensive taste. After all, he comes from a wealthy family. And the rich don't mind buying what they want and the boyfriend wants Golden Boy. A massive gold horoscope sign on a thick gold bracelet. It's like a brick of gold on his wrist.

It worked, Golden Boy is willing to sell himself if the price is high enough. He's even said so, Someone wants to pay to feel his body, fine with him. To bad too because he'll never be his own person. He'll never be able to stand on his own legs without help. Crippled for life because of his love for wealth. And it's not a bad thing to want to be rich. But though gold does not corrupt, it does those greedy for it, and Golden Boy is very greedy for wealth.

I'm afraid it isn't working out here in Gaza Strip with Golden Boy. He wants to stay someplace else and come here when he feels like it. He has his Mercedes, his gold, his expensive Italian sunglasses, he has all the trimmings of wealth except a heart of gold. His heart is a dollar sign and for all he talks of Christianity, you would never know it by his deeds.

The cleaning lady has no car, it broke down and she takes whatever cans and bottles she finds to help her make ends meet. He denies her the empty bottles of water I buy for him. He's saving them, or at least says he is for gas money. What he does, usually is throw them in the trash and not the recycling trash but the dumpster trash. So that the cleaning lady can't have them. That's why I detest Christians with their high and mighty bullshit. It won't be long here before I tell him to get the fuck out. He's about an ass-hair away from finding what the other side of the door looks like.   

Queer Gaza Plays Host to Golden Boy's Twinks

Everyone loves the garden and right now, with the cool June gloom, and its moderate temperatures, it is a delight to be in. The fountain plays and dabbles water over stones that are green and mossy. The plants are vibrant, colorful with the vegetable garden ripe with cucumbers, garlic, squash, tomatoes and peppers.

There are comfortable cushioned wicker chairs and love seat to sit under a canopy of grapes. You can hear water from the fountain and see most of the gardens from any of the seats. It's very lovely and it's where Golden Boy brings his young friends. Baby-faced bearded boys sporting wisps of hair on jaw and chin. They talk with a good port, fruit and cheese. Golden Boy tells them about his boyfriends. The ones recently found wanting and of course, the woes of finding out what they lack.

It's not like he doesn't have merit in finding their pitfalls. They, so far, have been crazy as all hell. The last one slept all day and stayed up all night. He has insomnia, according to him, but it sounds to me he has bad sleeping habits ladled with poor exercise.

When you're young, you look good no matter what. Sure you can fuck it up, but youth in itself has a beauty. So these poor souls look good now, but wait ten years when they go soft as a spoiled pear. But, in the presence of Golden Boy, listening of the recant from the latest, Romance Gone South, are in rapture to be in his presence. To sip port and bite into soft fragrant cheese while listening to the tales of Golden Boy's forlorn train wrecks.

As they all know, that train wreck was once them.   

Ghosts In The Garden

Funny thing about the vegetable garden, it is a host to my ghosts. I see them, relatives, friends, even pets roaming among the lettuce and cucumbers. In the morning, early morning while the earth is cold and wet before the birds sing, my grandmother, with her great rear jutting up among the blades of garlic is there poking around in the soil.

When broad daylight hits, before the heat of the day comes, is Ajax the wonder dog. My dear old friend, Ajax who saved kittens, watched over old people and befriended everyone he met runs by on the path between the lemon and the kumquat trees.

Then there are the friends that pass by as if they walked through a door and into another room and I can see them for just a moment when the door opens and closes.

All of them seem happy, seem to be relaxed and content. Kind of like cats after their afternoon nap when they wake up and walk about. Of course seeing dead people is suppose to be a bit weird. Perhaps, but nonetheless, I'm use to it now. It's a comfort really, especially Ajax and grandma. Strange too, because granny pickled and canned everything. Watermelon rinds, eggs, peaches, you name it, she had it stored in a Bell jar on a pantry shelf. And it was good too, at Thanksgiving there would be pickled peaches, with cloves stuck in them, in a liquor heavy with spice and a bit of brandy.

I've been pickling myself and making jam. It's fun really, I'm getting so many pickling cucumbers and with them, have made dill and bread and butter pickles by the jars. Blueberry jam and strawberry with a vanilla bean added to the boiling fruit and sugar, a little lemon rind and juice helps put a nice finish to the jam. Trouble is, I can't buy store-bought any more. No taste to it.

Maybe I see ghosts because Wally and I spend so much time at home. We have our garden, and everyone seems to enjoy it. It's our world made the best we can make it. It could be ghosts like it too. Why not?

Mom's Miracle

Mom loves attention. Loves it and her obsession for sacrificing herself stems from that love for attention. So the bitch got herself in a corner she's having a hard time getting out of. It's all over her blood pressure. And besides that problem she is a diabetic. Now, in real world time, Mom doesn't have bad blood pressure and she doesn't have diabetes. She has an attention disorder. In that she needs attention.

She fainted at the boyfriend's place, hit something on the way down and went to emergency where they said her blood pressure was real low. She says she takes medicine for the low blood pressure but there is no medication for low blood pressure, at least nothing that doesn't increase your sodium intake.

Now, I've seen Mom at work. I've seen her decline to eat something like non-fat yogurt and fruit, not cake and pastries that, heaven forbid, might put weight on before a long bicycle ride. She does this so that at about mile ten she needs to stop, rest and eat, because if she doesn't, she faints. The trouble is, the rest of us ate and don't need to stop and if she had something to eat before she left, she wouldn't need to stop ten miles into the ride either. I have told her point blank, to eat something now because I don't want her passing out later, or I won't ride. That's when she sacrifices herself and eats the god-damn poison yogurt and fresh fruit.

The last miracle of miracles was the cure of her diabetes, suddenly she went from Type Two diabetes to not having it at all. Yet she found a way around not having diabetes, she has allergies. Want to know what she's allergic to? Well you can't know, it varies, but they all bring instant death. One day it was a gardenia bush in the garden, a week before that it was the cat that never moved in but she had a reaction to some of its hairs that must have came in and almost died. All her allergies cause instant death. There is no swelling of the tongue, hives, boils, falling out of hair, or anal leakage. It is dropping dead period, or near death when she survives to tell you about it, and so far--always seem to survive.

So she tells me she can now ride her bike. Her blood pressure is normal even though the doctor hasn't signed off on it. And rest assured, the doc always signs off to witnessing a bona-fide miracle.

But I warned her, "Now what if you fell riding with us before the doc gave you the okay? You would be hurt and we would have to deal with the ambulance and your  safety. Do you think that's wise to do?"

Mom thought, "I have a doctor appointment tomorrow and I'll go to that but I'll stop by and say hello." 

I'm sure that another miracle will have occurred. 

Queer Gaza Under Attack From The Muslim Brotherhood

It was real touch and go. The lob of bombs in the form of accusations of attempted murder, legal shit with lawyers trying to pry information out of us with threats and long interviews. But we survived, in spite of the threats of hundreds of thousands of dollars in loss revenue if we were found guilty, we survived the character assassinations from Farsi foreigners up the street. It's bad enough we have the Brotherhood next door but then came threats from other Iranians just three doors away.

Allegedly, one of their burka bitches, while walking her unruly canines for their morning shit on other people's lawns, tripped on the public sidewalk. Okay, but why didn't they say anything like HELP. Shit no, nothing until almost two years later when some asshole is yelling my name outside the front door and when I answered, hands me a lawsuit.   

Got me some white lawyers. Big fat fucking law firm with a whole fucking floor to themselves lawyers, thanks to Farmers Insurance. And they really fucked them over. Of course I had to help out a lot. I had to do my part and at the same time keep an eye out for Golden Boy who doesn't know how evil the Muslim Brotherhood can be.

So now the war dance. We here in Queer Gaza are celebrating the victory over the Farsi pestilence that invaded the hood and want nothing but to strip it of its riches and destroy all those that are not Muslim.

A win for atheism, a win for all those who struggle under the yoke of religion and its intolerance of the Fey.   

Tales From Queer Gaza, What's Wrong With Mexican Monkey?

There is something happening with the little guy. It could be his food which consists mainly of beer and beer nuts. Or it may be his wife who wants an American citizenship. It may be that she's not letting the little monkey out at nights to roam the countryside. He barked at me the other day. Got mad and yelled at me. That's very unusual.

He's looking old too. A tired Mexican Monkey is not a happy Mexican Monkey. His blood pressure is up as well. In fact, that could be the cause of his angst. I noted at the party last night, before he blew up, that when I mentioned after Dr. Al took his blood pressure and made the sign of the cross(and he's Jewish), that with a blood pressure reading like that, he could pop an eyeball out. He seemed sour, as if a fart had dislodged in his lower colon and took something with it in its passing. And if the blood pressure cup was still in place it would have probably blown out.

He yelled at me when we were loading up the fat-ass Cadillac. Out on the street yet he started screaming at me about how I don't appreciate what he does. I do and he knows that so I don't understand why the blowup. That's why I think there is something far more sinister going on here.

The Muslim Brotherhood are known for plotting. They are known for planning, in cunning detail, how to sabotage everything. It's as if they were born for that one purpose only and I think it's because they have too much time on their hands. They can't drink, look at naked women or men, and they have to pray five times a day. Well if that wouldn't drive you nuts what will? So they plot, it's the only thing left for them to do.

The Muslim Brotherhood wants Mexican Monkey dead so he can't help me or get his Italian wife into the country. They are so very devious.

Tales From Queer Gaza

The heat is on, each day warmer than the last and with it, the hood. With all the Iranians, Jews, white trash and queers that are scattered about, it's no wonder the place could erupt at any time. Like dried brush on a forest floor, ready for a spark of any kind, this place is fucking hot to burn.

The city came out and laid a new coat of black hot tar. A sun absorbing strip bubbles with heat and cooks all through the night. Even at early morning, before the sun has had a chance to renew its strength, the coat of black bakes warm.

What's with putting on a coat of black tar with global warming? It's to drive our hood fucking crazy. Everyone in the fucking city knows we are the Middle East transplanted and are trying to burn us out. Trouble is, the fucking Iranians love the fucking heat. That's when their dicks get hard. Same with the white trash, shit-kickers like nothing better than to wear a sweat soaked wife-beater, drink beer while scratching their nuts. Once the sun goes down shit-kickers yell at their kids, fuck and yell some more at filthy little shit-kickers and that's two doors down, between here and Little Iran. So we're surrounded by heat loving fucked up freaks and the city wants us the hell out. What is a better way than to turn up the heat? So turn up the heat they did and had our street turned into a micro-wave.

I'm not sure how long us queers of Gaza can hold out. The garden needs a great deal of water in this heat. It's all we can do to keep paradise pristine let alone deal with bomb makers and ghetto white trash. Still we will survive because we are, The Queers of Gaza.

Tales From Queer Gaza

The hood is heating up. The Muslim Brotherhood, next door in Little Iran, are getting worked up. Their women, shrouded in burkas, have toiled in the sun and now have a distinct odor that drives the men wild with lust. It's time for rutting the burka bitches. I heard them grunting today, god knows what sort of sex acts they perform once they get the burka bitch undressed.

That's when I noticed the odor. Not an odor so much as a stink. Foul, heady stink of fish heads, piss and sweat. It drives the Jihad warriors into a fighting frenzy but first they must fuck and fuck they did.

At little Israel the grounds are quiet. They know better than to venture forth from their fortress while the Muslim Brotherhood are rutting. Jews know this instinctively and they don't fuck anyway, when they do it has to be on a moonless night. They need a moonless night because they blindfold themselves, strip and search out genitalia. Once they find something, a quick rut, and off they go to pray about it. 

The Muslims aren't that picky. In fact, I noticed the chickens and cats keep a wary eye and don't ever go over when they smell burka bitches in stink. They know what may happen before they end up in the stew pot. Fucked. That's what, and than ate.

We have supplies in, hot dogs, beer, us queers of Gaza are holding out and Golden Boy has taken a sabbatical on men. He's decided to wait until  the Muslim Brotherhood rut is finished. Might take a while, the heat wave is suppose to last four days and them burka bitches reek to high heaven.

Tales From Queer Gaza

The most queer, most terrible thing happened to Golden Boy. Set upon by Muslim extremist in the hood that envy his Mercedes, they sent him a queer Christian who happened have a hot bod and good looks. The only crack in his perfection was that he was crazy as all hell, but of course if you're a jihad Muslim warrior, what else would you send? They are so very devious.

The squeeze liked to pray a lot. That's strange in itself, unless of course you're gay and praying to get laid, I've done that myself. But this dude prayed for any reason, like if you're in line at the grocery store and decide you want to go to New York, so you pray not to leave the line and go. Break a dish in the kitchen, pray to have it fixed. It was the perfect setup, Golden Boy likes to pray too only not all the time.

You see this way the squeeze would slowly drive Golden Boy to pull his hair out, gain weight and watch Lucy sit-coms. He would be transformed into a house-mouse and that would be the end of Golden Boy. Then Golden Boy would no longer need a Mercedes and the jihad Muslims would ply him with a trade for a donkey cart. With Golden Boy's moral so low that he would take the bait.

But that didn't happen. Golden Boy saw through the plot. Especially since the plant, being an extreme Muslim Holy Warrior in disguise as a Queer Christian started to rant and rave. Once foaming at the mouth occurred, Golden Boy said, "Adios mother-fucker."

Golden Boy has once again been saved from Muslim extremist but what awaits him next? I'm sure the Muslims in the hood are not finished yet.  They keep at it like a lemmings jumping off a cliff.

Tales From Queer Gaza. Batter Up.

Baseball is here and with it comes dogs and beer. There is something about a beer with a dog, in bun, slathered with mustard and a scoop of kraut on top. Or  chili with mustard and onion. Or mayonnaise, just mayo, and dog on a steam bun. Then there is cheese with a variety of toppings it just goes on. And I get the really good dogs, no nitrates or preservatives, uncured with natural seasoning and wood smoke. They are so good.

So you have your game, a nice ice-cold beer and, on a plate, some slaw and a dog. The game begins and the batter is flicking his bat like a nervous scorpion, waiting for the right pitch. It may come now or later but the waiting game begins and there you are chewing on a dog with cold beer to wash it down.

Then Mom comes in, "Can I use your computer?"

"Sure," I say, "Do you need help turning it on?"

"No, I can do it."

Only she can't do it, she can't do shit because she is such a ditz. So right when there is a base hit, two out and a batter up, she of course asks for help. No help needed between innings, shit no, but come something that might change the score, the bitch is in need.

"Here, push this button in the back, and wait for the screen to come up."

"I'm going to make the reservation for House of Blues."

"Okay."

Mexican Monkey's wife is performing Wednesday night at the House of Blues. We're suppose to have dinner there and then see her concert.

"I sent you an e-mail confirming the reservations,"

"Okay."

The batter is out and now there is a break, I'm going to the kitchen for a dog and ask Mom if she wants one.

"No, I'm not hungry, and I can't eat bread."

"You can have a dog without a bun. There all natural, no preservatives, and they are really good."

"No. I'm not hungry."

I fix the dog, fill the glass with more beer and go back to see the next inning.  Right when they have a man on base and no outs, Mom asks, "Do you have coffee?"

"What's left is in the thermos, help yourself."

"Can I use this cup?" She stands at the doorway with a coffee cup.

"Sure, I don't care." What does the bitch think a coffee cup is for?

"Do you have Splenda?"

"Yes, it's in the cupboard by the stove."

Now there are two men on base and one out, the batter has two strikes and three balls.

"I can't find it."

"I'll be there in a sec."

"Don't get up. What cupboard did you say?"

"The one by the stove."

"There are just pots and pans,"

"Look at the top one."

"Oh, above the counter."

"Yes, that one."

"I don't see it."

"I'll be there in a sec,"

"Never mind, I don't want coffee anyway."

"Fine. "

"Do you have Crystal Light?"

"In the fridge, at the bottom in the pitcher."

The batter hits the ball and I hear a crash in the kitchen.

"I'll clean it up. Do you have a mop?"

Okay, now I'm going to have to go to the garage for the bloody mop. I can't fucking wait to get the damn thing or Mom will have half the kitchen torn up. I get the mop, help with clean up and get her a fucking drink.

When I'm back, the dog is cold, the beer warm and there was a home run I missed.

Baseball season has arrived. Mom made the reservations for the wrong day at House of Blues and everything is back to normal here in Queer Gaza.

Tales From Queer Gaza

The other day, Burka Bitch came out of Little Iran with the new baby. It's not the mom of the baby, Burka Bitch stays in the garage and makes bombs. She had the kid with her, wrapped up. Now here's one of the strange parts. She didn't walk on the sidewalk. Nope, she walked on the parkway where all the dog shit is and it wasn't just our parkway, she walked on everyone's parkway rather than the sidewalk.

Okay, if that's what Burka Bitch wants to do fine, but why? What the fuck is wrong with the sidewalk? Maybe when you wrap yourself in shrouds to hide your face and body, you're required to walk only on grass and dog shit. She had shoes on from what I could see. Maybe it's her long hours building bombs that has made her edgy around hard surfaces. Drop a bomb on cement and I guess it goes off. On the grass, not so bad, maybe it will explode, maybe not. Anyway, the kid got out of the house to see the hood. Although I don't know what he saw, he looked asleep to me.

The handyman was over to put in an electric box in the hall closet. Golden Boy has wires going every where in his room. He wants the T.V. where there is no outlet so I have to re-wire the damn place. When the handyman went under the house he found a pool of water. It is suppose to be dry as a bone. He said the pipe from the toilet wasn't connected. So all the fuckin' waste has been going under the house. He's the only fuckin' handyman we have but he says it wasn't him that didn't glue the PVC pipe when he put in the toilet. Okay, no one around here admits guilt to anything, I'm use to that. But let's get the damn pipe fix. It did and hopefully the lake under the house will dry up in a few months.

Tales From Queer Gaza/ Golden Boy In Peril

He can't help himself, he just shines. Golden Boy reads his lines better, acts better and just is better than the other Jew on a stick. You see, it's three Jews nailed on a wood beam. Not all on the same beam, they all have their own.

Now, first thing, how do you have an intelligent conversation if you're nailed by your hands and feet? You see, you can't talk very well, all your weight is pulling on your arms as you die, and the more pull the less you breath. Try it. I mean not nail yourself but hang on something and see how long you're able to. Not real long and besides the incredible pain, you're stuck on a stick of wood. And you want to talk about paradise? Please, I would be screaming for help, yes, if I could scream but I doubt that.

Anyway, they're nailed and one thinks he going to happy-hour-forever-lounge and the other, not so much. Golden Boy is the other. And of course his lines are better, they're more believable for one. And they are difficult lines, nothing intriguing like, "Got a light Mac?" But that's okay, he still does great lines and the other guy? So sad.  "You mean we're all gonna fly out of here to Pair-a-dice? Yeah!

See what I mean, it's not his fault but the Farsi, well that's another thing. The fucker is going to sell Golden Boy to the fuckin' Farsi. Because when a Farsi sees a Mercedes, their dick gets hard. Now here's Golden Boy's dilemma--he's out to lunch. He's going to be the star of the show, who wouldn't love him? Well, the asshole you're stealing all the good lines from and let's face it, even if he had good lines it still wouldn't come out the way it should. But envy knows no mercy. Once this queen stands there, or rather nailed there, and they start throwing fruit at him, he's gonna go right to the Farsi and tell them about Golden Boy's Mercedes. That's when the shit is gonna hit the fan.

We'll have to be on extra alert here in Queer Gaza. Extra Alert. And I have authorized the hummingbirds, I feed them enough, to keep a look out. Hummingbirds hate Farsi because they have a dish that calls for hummingbird tongues, imagine. And they love to check everything out, the hummingbirds. "If you guys see a Farsi hanging around Golden Boy's Mercedes, let me know. There might be extra nectar in it for you."

Tales From Queer Gaza, Golden Boy Nailed.

He's not playing the major role. Not the role of the gardener of Gethsemane, Je'sus, who was swept up in a raid of illegals. Not him, but one of the other guys Je'sus met in a Jerusalem cell. They were talking shit about the government and the next thing wind up nailed to a crossbeam. Fucking nailed and Je'sus, tells them he'll see them in paradise. They're freaked, I mean who wouldn't be, because the other dude, not Golden Boy, thinks Je'sus has a plan to get them un-nailed and off to Vegas for some shows and a bit of gambling.

Golden Boy plays the part of the other poor jerk that's nailed and when they were back in prison, didn't do shit except ask if they had a joint. Than wham, there's the guards busting them and some carpentry work, only they're the ones getting nailed. He ain't going for it. Fuck no.
He has great lines too. I mean, here's this dude freaked out thinking there going to Vegas and a gardener who's taking them. "Yeah right," that's his answer. Great isn't it? And the way he says it, sort of a mix between Marlon Brando and Brad Pitt.

Anyway, this puts Golden Boy in a very precarious position. Muslims love a good nailing, in fact, why not make a bomb and fill it full of nails! That's their idea of a good time. But they don't know Golden Boy's star performance and much less care it's going to be in a major queer church. Muslims would bomb a queer church sure, but not go in one. 

There is a rat being nailed too. The, "Oh, that's so cool, we're going to Pair-a-dice guy, he thinks he should get top billing. Fuck the gardener, what kind of role is that? He's the one that doesn't think Je'sus is crazy but would really like to get off the beam and on to Vegas. That's how dumb this guy is, yet, besides blond, he hates Golden Boy. Jealousy eats him like a bad burrito and he would like nothing better than to get rid of Golden Boy pronto. Everyone will be looking at Golden Boy's tall, swarthy, good looks at the Mega-Queer Church Of Perpetual Indulgence. 

What will become of Golden Boy? Will he get to the church on time? Next Tales From Queer Gaza.

The Iranian Invasion Of The Hood Puts Golden Boy In Jeopardyy

During our break for coffee at the Corner Bakery, filled with rude, Middle Eastern jihadists, I was forced to sit with Hateful Jew and his wife. Hateful Jew keeps telling me how he wants to kill all Germans for what they did during the Nazi regime. He actually wants to nuke Germany today. Never mind that almost everyone is dead from that era, that there is more of a problem with Nazis in our country than in Germany, Hateful Jew wants to kill Germans. Why he tells me this I have no idea except that I'm from German descent. My grandparents spoke German, they were good people too.

He just doesn't get it and yet sits there and tells me he wished I was dead. All my ancestors dead and if the cat came from Germany, it must die. To want to nuke an entire country for something, most alive Germans, didn't do, is fucked up. I've had enough of Hateful Jew and his wife, the Realtor.

Realtor is always business, it's always about where you live that matters to her. We live in an old white, Post WWII village. Most everyone fled to better places but we stayed, we had to. It's not bad really, the hood is changing, but it is diffidently going Middle East fucking fast. Realtor said so. Told me, while forced to sit next to her husband because Mickey, took the chair next and left me rubbing elbows with Hateful Jew. And I'm really ignoring the bastard. What I want to do is get up and find another table and really should have in retrospect.

"Your neighborhood is Persian," she announces once getting my attention.

"Yeah, I know, I call us the Gaza Strip."

She looks puzzled, "Why's that?"

"Well, we have Jews from Israel on one side, and Iranians on the other. So we're the Gaza Strip."

She didn't get it. The Palestinians aren't really wanted anywhere. Forced from homes they once owned, from livelihoods and left, like we did to the American Indians, the worse of lands. They are diverse with Christian and Muslim belief, they are the queers of the Middle East. Tolerated to a point but no one wants them and they have a country, if you want to call it that, I can't call it that, it's the most ridiculous, dysfunctional boundary for a country that it is hard to justify it as such.

It was intolerable. These smug fucking assholes that live in the hills overlooking the valley with their fucking rich banter and I was left there with them. Mickey had to get back almost right after we sat down. So it's confirmed by the Valley Realtor Society, Iranians are moving in by the ton in our hood.

Little Iran likes to fly an Iranian flag now and then. Not a good idea but no one seems to have taken offense except for his neighbor across the street. I haven't seen it, must be on the other side of their house, must be a small fucking flag but hey, I fly an American Flag on certain days and sometimes for the hell of it. So what the fuck, fly your fucking flag if it makes your day, it sometimes makes mine.

And they all like cars, these Middle Easterns. They like expensive cars. Cars that have a price tag, like Golden Boy's car. It's a pre-owned Mercedes. Not a fucking used Mercedes but owned at one time by someone who's asshole was sworn to never touch the leather seats, so it's pre-owned.  

The Mercedes will be in the driveway. The pre-owned, black expensive car will be prominently displayed at the Gaza Strip. The queers have money, at least they'll think so and that's where Golden Boy has to be watched. In his innocence, his naive way of navigating troubled waters, could be easily captured by Iranian Jihadists, and, once captured, made a dancing boy for the Jihad Party Boys under the constant influence of Drag Queen and Trans, we might never see him again and our little kingdom would be sad and suffer a great loss for Golden Boy is our hope of a better future. What peril is Golden Boy going to face? Wait and read all about, Tales From Queer Gaza. 

 

Mom & Her Proclivities

She is on a quest to lose weight and get in shape for a century ride at the end of April. Mom also has a cold, or is coming down with one and is intent on infecting everyone she knows. I called to see if she was coming out to ride, the weather will be perfect but when she answered, it sounded like the house of plague.

"If you have a cold, or think you do, with your coughing spell, please don't come over. Please." I'm upset, Wally had just got over a cold and life here wasn't fun with his dementia AND the cold.

"I'm fine, hack-hack-cough-cough. Just fine. Don't worry about me."

"I'm not worried about you, I'm worried you could give us your cold. Please don't come over, I can't deal with it if Wally gets sick again."

"I'm fine, hack-hack-cough-cough."

The bitch doesn't listen, which is why five hundred abused women all have this in common. They don't listen. And she thinks she is such a giving person, "Oh, I'll sacrifice myself so you can go to the bike race." She actually said that word for word. She'll watch Wally, yeah right, once she has her nails done and a face peel.

Saturday she came over, hacking, she rode from West L.A. over the pass and didn't want to eat anything before riding further. That would have meant we would have to stop along the rode while she ate a power bar. Nothing like standing next to the road inhaling gas fumes because her sugar level dropped.

"Look, why not eat one blueberry waffle, I make them really good." I do, they have been perfected. Hint, use buttermilk and than thin with milk, don't have a thick batter but thin, they come out light and crunchy and so fucking good.

She ate one. No maple syrup (real), no butter. Fine bitch, at least we won't be stopping for you to munch on road kill.

She is something else, and too bad the bitch has a cold because the weather is just fucking unreal. Got a variety of lettuces planted after tilling the soil and adding the chicken compost the girls make. The garden is looking good and it isn't spring, officially, just yet.

Well, lets see if the bitch shows up. Mom with her self destruct button stuck on go and looking to take someone down with her. The usual family shit going on. 

The Temple For Golden Boy

The first obstacle was to clear the area for the temple. Filled with debris from temples to writing, temples to cycling, and temples of lost hope.  At the time I bought the cowboy hats for dressing up to do the two step at the Rawhide, it seemed perfectly logical. Had to have two, one black the other tan. The tan one is the best. They sat in the closet now for a good ten years, after I met Wally and moved on to other things. Now, the hats are nothing more than a lost cause, a dream of yesterday and they make me sad in some respects because I yearn for the better days we once had.

Three desks, one an oak roll top five feet long, four chairs, writing books, book shelves, computer crap of all ages and sizes, (I did get rid of actual floppies (they really flopped) from long ago.  Pictures, large small, in boxes, bundles and laying about, most tossed, others needed a new temple someplace else.

Than there was Millie. The room is where she grew up, it's where she ate her meals as a kitten, had water, took a shit. I mean that's personal territory there and it's where she sat with me for hours at a time while I wrote. She had a cat tree at the window to look out at the backyard. Millie did not take well to being evicted. She's accepted better now, I have her food bowl in the den where I now write and she likes to curl up in the sofa chair near me and nap while I work. She is so sweet except she wants to destroy hula-man, a figurine of a guy with a ukulele in a cheap green hula skirt (there is nothing under the skirt, in fact he has been mutilated by springs for legs so he can hula. What some figurines will do for fame).

I don't miss the old room, I had a corner with no view, Wally had the window view but he's stopped being interested in computing some time ago. And it's nice, here in the den. I have a view of the front and back yards. Wally can sit with me and so can Millie. We spend far more time here than we ever did watching TV.

And there will be life, once again, in the house and in our lives. Golden Boy is handsome, smart and young, the opposite of us. I'll have a bit of company, life should be better for us all, I hope. And with the invasion of the Middle East into our hood, it's nice to have another native here when the scuds go flying by.

The temple turned out pretty nice too. New wood floor, A.C, closet space improved, and a fan that, I hope, will be the final touch. The fan has been a real problem, but with an electrician, I hope to have it up in the next day or so. Unless an Iranian scud comes zooming in.

Where Did Dafney Go?

I found out where, into the spam folder. He use to send me jokes. Then, one day I started getting all kinds of mail from him. Those strange emails with little one liners they want you to click on so you can have your computer infected too. I didn't and, I guess, put his e-mail in the spam folder. That's where I found it after all these years wondering why I wasn't getting his e-mail.

I'm not sure though if it is a good idea to have him back. The jokes are really lame. In fact terrible, as is his sense of humor. He's from Staten Island, they are very strange people that come from there. First off he still has his Staten Island dialect. It was as if he just got off the ferry from Staten Island and he hasn't been to the mother country in over fifty years.

An invasion of sorts, just like what's going on here. The Middle East is taking over here. Doesn't bother me really except for the scud missiles they throw at each other. And I have never heard so many fireworks. There is always fireworks going off at anytime in the night. Not next to me though, Little Iran and Little Israel are too fucking cheap for lighting up a sparkler but somewhere, close by, are fireworks in the middle of winter, spring or July, it doesn't matter. Probably to celebrate another Muslim victory somewhere on the planet.

So, I'm waiting for the first dud joke and in the mean time, the grapes are just beginning to bud out. The garlic is growing fast as well as the onions and beets. I think the apple tree is coming to life from its bare root start. I'm hoping so.

Weird News From Little Iran

There's a knock at the door and it's a woman with a baby. At first I didn't recognize her but than realized it was the wife of the Greeter from Little Iran. She wanted to show me her baby born eight days earlier. Cute little bugger, and I told her so and how nice the kid look, of course they all look strange at that age but it wasn't until I shut the door and got over the shock that she had a baby when I realized that at no time did I see her pregnant.

I saw her a few weeks ago, she was thin, not puffed out with a belly full of baby and now there is this full set of hair kid in her arms. How did she do it? I think the rug-rat she's showing to the neighbors is to make everyone think she has been pregnant. She wasn't anymore pregnant than I am.  In fact, I look more pregnant than she ever did, if she was pregnant. It's a boy. A kidnapped boy who, I'm sure, will be trained in Jihad.

Golden Boy is preparing to move in. His room is ready anytime he is, and he said he would put the fan up tomorrow. It's a nice fan too, the old one went belly up that I installed in 85, the year of his birth. Gad, it will be like having a teenager live here and I'm thankful. The house will be full of life once again with someone to talk with, I hope.

Of course, what does an old geezer have to talk about to a young guy? Not much, I don't think but  I'll think of something to say, I usually do. The room looks nice too. Navy blue with white. Got the A/C in, the closet redone for lots of clothes. He wants to bring his boyfriends over. I think it's great.

Strange about Little Iran and the baby, very,very strange.

Spies Of Gaza

Oh, we have spies alright. Lots of them, and they come here to tell everything. Daffney, a Sunland spy was here the other day and noticed Golden Boy's, the caretaker, car had front end damage.

"Really?" I asked.

Daffney looked at me as if who am I to dispute his take of car damage. It's his main occupation. The other day, going to Miss. Lowes for an A.C. for Golden Boy's room, there was an accident where the fire department had shown up. A left turn and a car going forward, right in the intersection and Daffney could tell at second glance who's car was at fault, what they did and how fast they did it.

"He went over a speed bump too fast and that's caused the damage."

"Did you get down on your knees and look under the car?"

"No, I could see it from the other side of the road. It's all scratched up."

Daffney will wax your car if you have a newer one. Loves to do it, but the paint has to be new for him to offer this service free of charge. In this way he gets minute  amounts of information from every section of your car. Was there a dent fixed that you didn't know about? Daffney is the one you ask.

The Greeters wife is back. Now that they shipped his mom back to the old country, the Greeters wife no longer has to rub her mother-in-law's
bunions at night. The Greeter is happy once again. Daffney told me all this while inspecting their cars. It's amazing what he can decipher from a car.

News from Queer Gaza

It looks like they got rid of mom next door at Little Iran. The Greeter's wife is back and I watched them cart his mom off to the airport. I think they waited at the airport until they saw her plane disappear from sight. I know I would. She must have been a real bitch to his wife.

The two spent the rest of the day together, snuggling and making up I suppose. I hope so anyway. Especially since it's Valentines Day. Not that Muslims celebrate a third century Catholic saint's propensity for love, and in this case, it could have been a ruse.

Late in the night, when my prying eyes were asleep, they left in her car and haven't been back since. I'll have to send up another drone, Great Owl is no more. I did see a whirly-twirly that could be suited for just the purpose, mounted on the garage roof, to spin in the direction of the wind. With cameras mounted, and energy from the spinning, it could be quite powerful with telescopic ability. Couldn't fly like Great Owl could though but hey, you spy with what you have.

Mom wants the roll-top desk. Her and the boyfriend are suppose to come out tomorrow and pick it up. I suggested we all take a ride in the morning, after a breakfast of fresh fruit, cheese and croissants. Than a pleasant ride around Chatsworth lake and back before we load up the desk on his truck and have pizza on the barbie. It's suppose to be a beautiful day here on Saturday.

"Oh, that sounds wonderful. Can't wait," She said yesterday to me on the phone. I had e-mailed her earlier of the plan to have a nice day cycling and chatting in the backyard. It's a nice backyard here in Queer Gaza cause we're queer.

Today at four in the afternoon she calls. "Wally's bike is in the shop and he may not have it tomorrow. What time would you be back from the ride?"

"Aren't you guys coming out for breakfast?"

"Well Wally might not have his bike and I thought I would ride with the club at eight."

 "So you're not coming for breakfast?"

"Well, what time are you coming back from your ride?"

"I don't know, what does it matter?"

"Well, Wally will come over when you and Juan are there to load the desk."

"Okay, tell him to get here about one."

"Is that when you'll get back?

"I don't know but can't he wait with you. You'll be back from the club ride at noon. So have him meet you here."

"Well, he wants to get the desk loaded."

"So, you guys aren't coming for dinner either. I bought all this food because you said it was a great idea and now you're not coming but are for the desk."

"Don't get mad." She says this accompanied by tears at bay.

"I'm not mad, I'm confused and your boyfriend is a homophobe." He didn't come to the Christmas party either because he had to work, she said.

"He's just shy."

"Okay he's shy. Why not call him once we're back from our ride. We can have the desk out on the curb, he won't have to turn the engine off, we'll load the desk, and you two love birds can be on your way, (to hell, said under my breath) back home.

"Okay, see you tomorrow."

I think we won't be seeing much of Mom or her homophobe lover. And get this, if this guy isn't queer than I don't have gaydar. He is in his fifties, lives close by his mother, but has his own house and never has had a relationship until now.

But here's the clincher. When he came over, the only time he has been over, it was for a club ride. The first thing he noticed was the library table in the den.

"Oh, is that a library table? It's beautiful."

First thing out of his fag mouth. I really--really hate homos that are homophobic.