Tony is in town. This means that I get to spend a couple of days with a man who has and shares my history. There’s a whole lot of not explaining who people are and even more laughing and not caring what the world thinks. We’re heading to West Hollywood in a few hours to
I made a horrendous mistake last night. Mr. G loves to watch the Daily Show and the Colbert Report. I love being with Mr. G but I don’t love the shows the way he does. Since it’s become part of our evening unwinding routine I typically grab a tablet and goof around online so
I just finished reading, no devouring, A Home at the End of the World. It’s a rich novel that explores relationships and the limits of love. It begins in the 60’s and I’m uncomfortable because there’s sex but no talk of condoms and I’m furiously flipping pages because I know what the 80’s will bring.
There’s one. There are two really, one that is probably ridiculously unmarketable and includes stories of holding hands and singing Michael Row Your Boat Ashore while our friend killed himself. Well, not so much killed himself but beat AIDS to the punch. We didn’t help him. No one even touched his things, his legacy couldn’t
I was 16 years old in 1986 when I met Mona. Mona was friends with my then boyfriend, she was 22 and recently widowed. Her husband had died of AIDS, she had it. I remember hugging Mona, but still feeling nervous about it. Before I was 17 she had called me at home from the