Random neuron firing, lame philosophy, literary pontificating, movies, sex, clothes & other femme stuff

Friday, December 05, 2003


In an earlier post I noted that comedians are weirdly overrepresented among the famous born on my birthday, December 1, a fact in which I take unwarranted pride. I also feel a perverse and equally unwarranted pride that December 1 is World AIDS Day --however laboriously in birthday mode I barricade the doors of recognition against it. That AIDS Day is also my birthday somehow attaches to me spider threads from friends and acquaintances long interred or scattered over waves. It proclaims somebody hasn't forgotten about them, about the millions of others filched, about the millions now living with AIDS (today's pharmacocktails--had they been around only a few years earlier. . .), and about those whose wasting's still a ways down the street. Two were former boyfriends of mine, John and Walter, beautiful boys, barely known to one another, gnawed to wisps in their late twenties --the most radiant and powerful minds, sculptural faces, headlong wits, enkindling smiles, and intoxicating tongues I've ever been vouchsafed a taste of. Much more, fallen under the sway of. Uh, been thrown under the sway of. Fine, dived.

Michelle Thompson has a wonderful tribute to ten great artists whose untimely deaths have deprived us of so much.

You learn something new . . . . . For some reason I didn't know that Cookie Mueller had died, let alone died of AIDS, let alone that her husband was Vittorio Scarpati and he did too.

So did:
David Lochary
Edie Massey

That basically leaves Mink Stole, Mary Vivien Peirce, Pat Moran, and John Waters
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