Out and About

It Took a Plague to Get it Right

Dana Miller — Mon, 13 May 2013 13:00:00 GMT

As things settle about this very real recent meningitis scare—and we are given the benefit of a few weeks to separate fact from fiction—let's do a quick post mortem on the initial announcement of the death of WeHo resident Brett Shaad and the ultimate revelation that in fact four gay men had recently become infected from this hideous infection: John Duran got it right. It took Councilman Duran along with the AIDS Healthcare Foundation to get our own public health department and its chief, Dr. Jonathan Fielding, to acknowledge the need to impart important information to the public that the good doc's office serves.

It took a media bully pulpit to force the hand and head of the county to offer what a nonprofit—one whose focus is on HIV and AIDS, not meningitis—had been doing for days: offer free vaccines to all at risk, regardless of ability to pay.

Articulate, watchful and vocal politicians like Councilmembers John Duran, John D'Amico and Jeff Prang are in power today because of AIDS. It's true. Just a few years ago, AIDS rallied our community to come together, become powerful and politically savvy. Sadly, it took AIDS to draw gays from the shadows and the periphery of the populace, and at the same moment it politicized our vast yet splintered community. It is a true paradox. AIDS caused greater recognition and in fact greater acceptance of homosexuality. It was legitimation via disaster.

In making our community aware of this health scare in April, Duran made reference to the fact that many of us of a certain age lived through a time, not so long ago, when few folks, and certainly not our government, cared about a strange virus that was killing predominantly gay men. In the beginning, the aloof Reagan administration did not understand the essential role of government in disease prevention. John Duran now is government, and he got it right and used the power of the backing of his constituents to wake the sleeping medical giant who likely should have been the voice out front. In the early moments of this, Duran didn't get it all right and perhaps stepped on a few toes. Yet he stood as a public servant and sounded the clarion call. In doing so, he didn't create widespread panic. He did nothing pernicious. He informed his constituents of a very real danger and offered solid and salient alternatives. He did what we elected him to do—watch our backs.

Duran and so many of us remember that the White House inaction in the early days of AIDS without a doubt increased the spread of HIV around the world. He remembers the war zone. People would not shake your hand. If you even looked a tad fey, people would not sit next to you. He certainly remembers that if you had AIDS, you could not fly; mortuaries refused to handle bodies, and even a ton of health care professionals would not care for gay folks. John without a doubt remembers on February 4, 1985, the arrogant Reagan administration wholly out-and-out rejected the initial Centers for Disease Control-crafted AIDS Prevention Plan. They just said “no” due to politics. At the time, there were 10,000 cases in the United States. We just weren't a big enough deal.

Sadly, yet thankfully, those early dark days molded and shaped those who would become our future leaders. Illness and death has left a lifelong indelible stamp on the psyche of so many. Duran referenced it. We have seen governmental apathy in the past. We will not let it happen again, on any scale. You can forget what hurt you in the past, just never forget what it taught you.

John Duran got it right. He represents a new, more enlightened politician that is absolutely needed to serve our particular needs. Sometimes we move too fast and forget too much. If AIDS has taught us nothing else, it is that it is better to be safe than sorry. Our politicians and our nonprofits reminded us of that. I think it is important to jump back in time once in awhile and remember life and in fact death before the John Durans and the AHFs. It was bleak. Thanks for being here today, and for getting it right.

Tale of a Classy, Classic Guy

Dana Miller — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 13:00:00 GMT

The world is just days away from the 15th anniversary of the death of one of Earth's greatest entertainers—arguably the greatest vocalist of all-time, Frank Sinatra. He passed on May 14, 1998. He was just 82, but he lived a rough, tough and tumbled life. His 82 was like 112 to you and me. His wife Barbara was at Morton's with friends when Old Blue Eyes went ill yet again. He had been sick for weeks. She rushed to his side and saw him briefly before he passed. He died in room 8016 of the VIP section of Cedars. The night he passed, the Empire State Building in New York City was bathed in blue in honor of "The Chairman of the Board.”

I idolized Frank Sinatra. I had never witnessed anything like that swagger and that command onstage. I watched and studied him at least 20 times live and could not get enough. Even in his Teleprompter years, when he had a tough time remembering lyrics he had sung for 50 years, he was simply magnificent—his phrasing, his style, his class. There was not a soul on Earth like him. YouTube The Main Event, a live ABC TV special, and see if you don't agree.

One day, sitting in Malibu, my kid came in and said Barbara Sinatra is on the phone. What? This was a joke! But it wasn't. Frank's wife was on the line to ask me to help produce her husband’s 80th birthday party and make it a benefit for a charity I chaired, AIDS Project Los Angeles. I was blown away.

Two hours later, I was just up the coast a mile for dinner at 30966 Broad Beach to discuss Mr. Sinatra's birthday with Mr. and Mrs. Frank Sinatra. What a trip. I sat with Barbara to talk about a TV show for his big day. I had lots of ideas. In strolls Frank without his toupee, draped in a silk bathrobe. He looks at me and says, “Are you a fag?” I said, “Yes, Mr. Sinatra.” He smiles that smile and says, “Good, I like fags.” That was it. I was more in love with my idol than I ever thought possible.

This all started with Barbara Davis. She is an HIV angel. Marvin and Barbara Davis were amazing. These two were opulent royalty. Marvin was big in every way—big in oil, big in entertainment. He once owned 20th Century Fox, the Beverly Hills Hotel, Pebble Beach and all of Aspen. Marvin was also

big in girth. His security guys would bring his own chair into restaurants so he could fit. Moments before Marvin would arrive at Spago or Morton's or Le Dome, his chair would arrive. I'm not making this up.

Barbara Davis is a spitfire. She takes no prisoners. When Marvin passed in 2004, she sold their Beverly Hills home for $46 million and moved into the Beverly Hills Hotel. Barbara was once complaining to me about her Bentley. She said she just “didn't trust it,” so she had her security staff follow her in a Bentley “chase car” in case hers broke down. You can't make this stuff up.

When Barbara Sinatra told Barbara Davis she was thinking about a TV show for her husband's 80th birthday, Ms. Davis said, “If you don't do it with APLA and Dana Miller, you are a fool.” Wow, ‘nuff said.

Ms. Davis is how I ended up on Broad Beach Road with my idol, and at their place at 915 Foothill in Beverly Hills. She pushed the Sinatras to AIDS, and there was not one bit of resistance. Frank Sinatra had always fought prejudice and intolerance. He insisted Vegas let blacks play the big rooms and get to stay there or he wouldn't. He was always about civil rights. I think it’s important to remember he also cared about us.

We taped Mr. Sinatra's 80th birthday party for ABC at the Shrine Auditorium next to USC. Bono, Springsteen, Dylan—everyone I asked showed up. Frank drank brown stuff all night from a bar we built in the front row for him.

As he got up to leave, he was hammered, but looked at me and said, “You are my favorite fag in the world”—nothing meant by it but love—and it still today makes me cry.

Anniversaries Galore

Dana Miller — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 13:00:00 GMT

     This issue also marks the 10th year of my column, Out & About, in this magazine. That roughly translates to 240,000 words over a decade. It's fairly easy reading yet hard writing. Mark Twain once wrote, “Substitute ‘damn’ every time you're inclined to write ‘very’; your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be.” I have followed that advice, and I'm still standing. Over the past decade I have had truly talented and gracious editors who have put up with all my crap. My debt of gratitude to Jeremy Kinser, John Hobbs, Aaron Drake and now Stephan Horbelt is truly unbounded. These guys have been a very real blessing in my life, and I sincerely thank them all.

    For a decade now I've been writing my own historical perspective of bars and bathhouses, boobs of all kind and bulges. I have taken on shame and scandal, good hearts and low-lifes, faded stars and bright ones. Thankfully there is a cornucopia of fodder in our flaming commonwealth. Over 10 years, I have successfully pissed a few folks off and, hopefully, made a few folks happy. During my time, these guys have let me take on Pride, City Hall, candidates, gay twinks and gay elders, businesses that advertise with them and famous folks in our community. Remarkably, they have never asked me not to go to a place I went.

   I don't think one can minimize the importance and impact of all sorts this magazine has had over the past three decades—and how it has documented our history. Strolling back over past issues, it is extraordinary how both Frontiers and IN magazines gave their readers insight into the moral, political and cultural world around us. Our own little niche world has its own booming, cutting-edge and accurate voice covering social, legislative and gay absurdities.

   Just prior to Frontiers’ birth, the gay plague hit—a plague that has forever changed what was to be and what ultimately is. For many, many years before that first issue, our little hamlet was scattered with hookers on Santa Monica by Shakey's with colored bandanas in their back pockets telling you what they would happily deliver for 20 bucks. There was the dinner party crowd. The closet queens. The bar boys, the bathhouse babes, those leather lads, the bears and the lesbians—and none of them ever crossed paths. Never! Our niche world was made up of so many subsets, it was like a fabulous, gay and festive six degrees of separation.

   But AIDS changed all that. Men of all colors of that rainbow were dropping like flies, and lesbians instantly and wonderfully became the first caregivers. No one knew what was causing the “gay cancer,” and all joy had left our little planet. Out of tragedy came the extreme need for unity. AIDS had created a community.

   Not long into it, Frontiers was born and delivered vitally on two fronts: inform this new, full community of ever-changing facts, and return a tad of fun to what was becoming our scorched earth. Now, 31 years later, it is still doing just that. Fun and where to find it still plays a very important part in the editorial direction of this magazine. And it is still on the forefront of news on something that ain't over—HIV and AIDS. Today Frontiers proudly tackles LGBT civil rights issues better than anyone—and way beyond West Hollywood. That's its home, but today, 31 years in, Frontiers is covering our great big out world.

   It's no secret that due to digital space, the print world has been walloped. Tina Brown and Barry Diller killed off the print version of Newsweek after 80 years, the L.A. Times is a ghost of its former self, the Washington Post is threatening to go all-online and the industry as a whole has been under great stress from the internet. It's not easy to chop down trees, print something on paper and then take it all about town.

   Thankfully, Frontiers is available 24/7 under the adroit auspices of its Managing Director of Integrated Media, Dustin Tyner. It is constantly changing, with updates of all kinds—News Editor Karen Ocamb's breaking news; blogs of every sort imaginable; calendars; fun places to hit; PositiveFrontiers.com on HIV and AIDS; Film, theater and TV reviews; plus the entire print magazine is accessible there. Check it all out at FrontiersLA.com. It's very cool.

   Yet for many of us, holding the thing you are reading in your hand is true joy. Feeling it in your paws, the touch and smell of the paper, strolling slowly, page after page—feeling closer to Creative Director Ed Baker's stunning covers than you would on your tablet. Holding on to the print edition for many of us is about the explosion of color, the tactile and very real, as opposed to pixels that seem so far away. And, thankfully, in 2013, Frontiers offers us both. The choice is yours.

   On my 10th anniversary here, I just want to express how grateful I am. I'm grateful to the team both past and present for its undying support during both my good and bad times. My sweet friend Mark Hundahl, who just passed away, asked me to write my column. I truly miss him every day. And I'm so grateful to owner David Stern, who has always been and continues to be so supportive. I so love them both. As well, I am especially grateful to the readers who read the crap my mind kicks out as it sputters and spits. I'm grateful to those who both hate and like my stuff and who write to me about it. I send you a decade worth of thanks, love and true blessings. Here's to another 10! Congratulations, Frontiers!

I Love Everything That Is Old

Dana Miller — Thu, 28 Mar 2013 18:40:00 GMT

I have been staying with my mother as she gets over some surgery. It is a trip. I drive the street I grew up on every day and pass a house that has been haunting me. A kid lived there, though I cannot remember his name. He was four or five years younger than me, cute way beyond belief. Long after graduation, I used to see him at Drake's Bookstore at 7566 Melrose. Drake’s was once a straight porn theatre called Aladdin and turned to our dark side in 1975. Drake's became a gay porn store with very active video booths in the back. The trolls went to the booths. Most of us stood on Melrose and waited for a drive-by. It always happened—very active cruise scene back in the day. Drake's closed in 2008. There were biz folks out there every night that you spoke with every day on the phone about deals, but in front of Drake's, you just nodded, because it was about being anonymous. An odd dereliction of friendship that I have never really reconciled.
   I approached my old neighbor kid three or four times in front of Drake's to say hi and connect as we both cruised, and he was always cold as ice. We had lived on the same street in a small town, but he seemed to hate me. I couldn't understand it. It crushed me.
   One evening I went to the Melrose Spa at 7269 and ran into the kid. He was being battered into his form of ecstasy beyond belief. I'm pretty vanilla, so it was a trip for me to see. He was in a sling with tons of leather, several bears and a whip involved. Not judging, just an observation of a cute, sweet kid I went to school with.
   He has passed away, but every time I pass his home, I'm pulled to it in a haunting fashion. I guess it was his rejection of me that causes pain to linger decades later. I was just not his type. I've never owned a whip.
   My mother has a guy who drives a truck with a giant plastic insect on it. He is her "exterminator.” He is a big galoot who makes my mom laugh. He comes here to her home once a week to spray crap, pick up rats and eliminate webs of any sort. Once a week. Every seven days. Really. Then she has these two women who are cleaning constantly. One on her knees on the floor every moment, getting every inch of every space clean before it is dirty. My bed is made 12 seconds after I wake. Then we have Tony, the handyman, who will not listen to me but is very sweet. He is here every damn day. I said today, “Mom, do you need all this?” She looked straight at me with a ‘mind your own business’ look and said, "No, Dana, but now they are my family and I can't cut them off.” My inheritance is dwindling in the cause of sweet and wonderful support and friendship, and I could not be more proud.
   I worked on this TV show a couple decades ago created by a fellow Pasadena boy and dear friend called The Greatest American Hero. I managed the star, Billy Katt. Stephen Cannell wrote and created it, and the loony and lovely Robert Culp was the co-star. Bob would live his life out being my neighbor on Sunset Plaza.
   Hero was an all-location shoot, six days per week that came very close to killing us all. Stephen was a great, gentle man who also created 21 Jump Street, The Rockford Files, Baretta, Hunter, Riptide, Wiseguy, Silk Stockings and tons more. He never, ever recovered from the death of his son in Malibu. The kid was playing in a beach cave and was buried to death in sand.
   Everyone on Hero was sweet. Billy was in the original Pippin and the great Brian De Palma movie Carrie with John Travolta and Sissy Spacek, and his mom is Barbara Hale from Perry Mason fame, a wonderful movie star. Just lovely folks. I miss Stephen.
   Anyway, my agent told me last night someone is sniffing around to make The Greatest American Hero into a feature film. I cannot imagine. I may bring back my other old dregs, Solid Gold and Star Search. I guess everything old is new again.

Cathartic Walks

Dana Miller — Thu, 14 Mar 2013 17:11:00 GMT

Since January, my family has been to hell and back with death. Time heals all, and of course there is sun on the other side. Yet all of this turmoil has got me thinking about people I have lost. Taking care of my sweet Mom has led me back in memory to Jose and Kitty Menendez. They were friends of mine whose sons committed parenticide. These two cute boys who went to Princeton and whom I thought I knew well walked in and blew their parents’ heads off with Mossberg 12-gauge shotguns when Jose and Kitty were eating strawberries and cream on a couch watching a James Bond movie, The Spy Who Loved Me, on N. Elm Drive in Beverly Hills at a home where both Prince and Elton had once lived. Can you even begin to comprehend that? Kitty was rendered "unrecognizable" from the wounds by police reports. Jesus. Her kids shot her face off.

Jose was my friend. Kitty was a fun drunk who I quite liked as well. Jose was direct from Cuba—a tough, brilliant dude. He was once president of Hertz Rent-A-Car, but I met him as president of RCA Records. He was a damn good president of a record label for the time. At RCA, Jose gave me everything I ever wanted. I really don't know why, but we loved one another. I was a personal manager in the vast, crazy music world who had artists on RCA, and getting promotion, video, tour and recording money from the corp was always the name of the game.

I was producing a bad movie in San Francisco and a kid cold-called and asked to meet me. His name was David Fincher. He is now a very famous movie director. He came to a hotel bar to meet me and said he wanted to direct music videos but could only do it on weekends. He had a full-time gig at George Lucas' ILM, and apparently they didn’t know of his ambition. Seems silly now, yes? His story boards were amazing. He listened to my clients’ songs and created a total visual story. So wonderful. I knew I needed to hire this kid.

I called up Jose and asked for $250,000 for a video and told him a first-time kid director who could only work on weekends would be in charge. He said yes instantly. There was no challenge. No scrutiny.

I was sitting at home two weeks later and I get a call from labelmate Annie Lennox, then of the Eurythmics. She wanted to know, "How do you get everything from Jose?" Jose was tough on artists. The next day, Darryl Hall from Hall & Oates, a group also on RCA, phoned with the same question. Looking back, I don't know. We just loved and respected one another. He just never said no to me.

Jose left RCA and moved to a television/movie company on the Sunset Strip called Carolco. In a turn, my innovative pal and perhaps genius NYC disc jockey friend moved to Tinseltown and a bunch of us started this thing called "Pirate Radio" here in L.A. It did change the world of radio here for a bit. Out of nowhere, Jose gave us a TV show hosted by my DJ friend Scott Shannon. It was called Smash Hits, and it was on television for seven years. Jose and I did business for a very long time.

So over two decades ago, his kinda hot, flaky, tennis-playing boys—his sons—one August evening walked in on their parents and blew their brains out with guns they bought easily a few days earlier in San Diego. They then went off and spent a million bucks in a week on Rolex watches and Porsches. Lyle and Eric Menendez were finally sentenced to life in prison without possibility of parole. Thank God.

I miss Jose. I miss Kitty. Jose's impact on my life was exceptional. I cannot play it down for a second. And as I ramble about my mother's home while she gets better, I am still so stupefied by kids killing parents. Hell, killing anyone is amazing to me, but shooting your mom? Kitty's worst offense was too much scotch. Jose's was likely a tad worse. But neither deserved a death sentence. Anyway, time heals all, but hopefully not for Lyle and Eric Menendez.

I suppose reflection and I guess evolution is all I’ve got to go on, so it is what I will use to get by.

Vote For a Gay! Or Not. Just Vote!

Dana Miller — Mon, 04 Mar 2013 14:00:00 GMT

Editor’s Note: The comments expressed in this column are not intended to be endorsements. Frontiers does not endorse local candidates.

Elections are such odd things. Well, perhaps I mean candidates are oddities. Running top speed for mayor of Los Angeles is openly gay republican Kevin James. Kevin has been my pal and lawyer for over 20 years. He has forever gotten me out of some lousy tough spots. I helped him as well during a rather turmoil-filled breakup. I also asked him to join the board of AIDS Project Los Angeles when we really needed him. He is my pal.

Kevin is as smart as they get. Quite brilliant, truly. He is a total spot-on litigation expert who, for some reason, got outta law and into radio for awhile. He was at KABC, KRLA and back home in Oklahoma doing radio. I used to own radio stations and a radio network, so I have some experience in this crud and never understood why he wanted to go there. I told him so more than once. But he did, and he was good. Really good.

Last year when Kevin announced he was running for the big seat, I was blown away by how many of my friends gave money to him. It was odd. He hired big-time consultants like John Weaver, Thomas Partners, Prise Group and Crummit & Associates. He has even had very right-wing folks raising money for him via PACs. So odd. A gay republican running for mayor in the democratic city of Los Angeles. And a wickedly wise one as well.

Kevin had never run for public office. Yet he has now elected to oddly attempt to be elected to the very top of the heap his first time at bat. I mean, he is not running for City Council. This is a big deal and a huge money-raising mission. His TV ads are everywhere.

My friend has very little chance of winning this particular battle, but what everyone I know who knows him has said is this is the beginning, not the end. I have a dear politically connected donor kinda friend who told me the other day, "Not this one, but the next one he does I will support.” Kevin James, this gay republican, will likely down the road be whatever he wants. I would truly bet on him for governor of California. This is not his race to win, but don't count him out down the line. Wonderful mix of smarts and ego. Candidates are odd.

This next rant will likely get me into trouble. But, hell, I've been there so many times before. West Hollywood elections are odd as well. It is a small town, and people win with just a few thousand votes, sometimes hundreds. I guess I know most of the folks running and have heard whispers of why folks got in this race. Yet words about elections are often used to confuse, not illuminate. It is a bad bevy of gossip if you do listen.

I have known John Duran and Jeffrey Prang for a long time. These are good, even great guys. The total sense always in my dealings with them is they do the right thing. They never seem to let most folks down. We need to re-elect them to the West Hollywood City Council. We just do.

If you read my crap ever, you know that if I had a bad thing to say about these cats, I would. But I don't. I am for WeHo term limits, but limits are like the proposed gun laws—it takes a generation. In the meantime, in between time, we need to keep Duran and Prang around. They have served us well with spirit and honor, and we cannot dismiss that. They are very real awesome guys we need right now. I know we as a community have issues, and like everywhere in America, politics is getting unseemly; yet popularity should be no scale for the election of these guys. If popularity was the answer, Justin Bieber or Timberlake would be in the Senate. We still desperately need folks who will do good for us as we grow. Continue to grow. I really believe Duran and Prang will protect us. I just know in my heart they will.

I don't easily understand this stuff beyond service. These are tough elected jobs. West Hollywood City Council folks don't make a ton, and even the mayor of L.A. is underpaid. But I so admire service. So I understand and deeply respect the mix of service and—let's be honest—ego. All these guys have a lifetime devoted to public service. Pretty damn exceptional. I admire them all.

Fall where you will on any of this, but do vote. It is pretty damn important.

What's Love Got To Do With It?

Dana Miller — Mon, 18 Feb 2013 14:00:00 GMT

Love is so odd. How it falls on you and how we often fail to pull it off. I lost my brother this week. And it fell on me like a giant tree. Not so much as a kind kid memory, because I did not truly like him. He always called me faggot. Yet he was my brother. Love is odd. I am now trying to get close to his kids. Love is so odd.

My other brother is stoic. I get it. He is trying to get through it. My mom is a steady mom. As is yours, right? My dead bro's son is not OK yet, and his daughter is getting to it, and we are collecting ashes. Love is odd.

But my mom is kinda in love. Odd, right? His name is Will. So there we are. Love is odd. My mom is 85, and she is kinda in love. She lost a son in death yet found Will in love.

My best friend has helped me toss this about and given me, as always, great joy. My best friend has kept me in this game. Friendship is a blessing. Love, and perhaps death, is a damn game.

I have given so many damn eulogies in my life to reconcile this stuff. We do have to talk about death. People die. And maybe love.
My sweet boy Matthew died almost 25 years ago. He was the love of my life. And it just rocked my world. I maybe have put so much more importance to his passing than I ever should have. Then the real truth is, I have never dealt with it. I never truly spoke to a soul about it. I talked with Matthew Murray's mom this week, and she said, "Get over it.” So how does all this work? How do we move on?

I just truly believe we need to work so much harder on love and family. Our family at Frontiers just lost a leader in Mark Hundahl. Death is so damn real.

Perhaps as people in our lives die now beyond this thing titled AIDS, people like me need to wake up and make peace with it. Because people now and forever will die in our natural life. Not of the plague of my generation, they are just going to pass. The deal to discuss, with most of us, is about love. Just reconciling love as we know it.

I lost a generation to AIDS. So did you.

Death always happens. As does love. Love and death are so odd. Kinda funny, right?

Take a moment to tell the folks you love that you adore them. I cannot imagine anything you do today will be more important. Tell someone today you love them. Because love is odd. And death. Well, folks die.

malibudana@aol.com

Always Admire a Top. All Jealousy Does is Suck.

Dana Miller — Mon, 04 Feb 2013 14:00:00 GMT

This missive is about the intensity of experience. I have been tossing about lately between jealously and admiration. Do you ever find you are jealous of a soul, saint, genius, prophet or madman only to realize that you really, truly only just admire them? Admiration being the penthouse and jealousy being the floor they offer up the cheap hookers, no ice cocktails and burnt canapés on.

I do truly know through so many damn seasons of life I’d rather admire smart cads. Being on the top floor seems safer to me. That is why I called Tom Whitman and asked for an interview a few weeks ago. In the light of a strong feeling, all feeling, that things must take their places in truth of every kind in seeing as such. It seemed like a mission.

Tom Whitman is iconic. Perhaps not the dude, but the name. Tom is absolutely a serial entrepreneur. His mark has come to mean quality, professionalism and class in gay entertainment. Sanker had it. White Party still does. Yet now Whitman is the brand to beat.
I never ever thought I was jealous of Tom Whitman. I was never in his business. Yet one day a few weeks ago I reconciled I was indeed just that. Jealous. I was once the chair of the board of APLA, and then he was as well. He and I were always pissed at one another about dumb things over time, and I had come to realize I was just stupidly jealous. That is the word. I just needed to resign myself to the influences of each. Not an easy trick. But well worth it.

He brought one of the most high-profile AIDS service organizations in America back to its core. And it just simply pissed me off. How sad and dumb was I? And again oddly yanking him mentally to that jealous bad list on my part. Maybe guys like me had more firsthand, sad-passion war stories and angst, but guys like Whitman and Sanker and David Cooley and those Rasputin dudes have tons more savvy.

Tom spent almost 10 years at MTV producing in both NYC and Cali. He produced a fun fundraiser at the long gone O-Bar that changed his life. He knew marketing. He knew production. He then scored. Here Lounge events, Elevation events, Gang Of 100, amazing parties that people would pay money for just cause it was his and now elegant luxury gay travel stuff plus huge branding in marketing and advertising. He is perfect for that. Who better to do this pretty cool marketing to our community?

“I didn’t invent the wheel,” he tells me. Yet this kid perfected it. Think about it. He did. Don't be jealous.

Seems to me in this life there are two kinda simple ways to victory—we can cast bravely or move over to follow. In my mind, Tom Whitman has strived bravely. And as a community, I believe we owe him thanks for that. I am convinced he has pursued it for just the correct purpose. To protect and serve our kind. I am now beyond a fan. I admire him. And lord, I'm likely still a tad jealous! But hell. That is my problem.

My Teacher in Life and Death, and Now Life

Dana Miller — Mon, 07 Jan 2013 14:00:00 GMT

This column was supposed to be an interview I just did with entrepreneur and philanthropist Tom Whitman. I'll get to that in a second. My friend, Mark Hundahl, just passed away. Just a few weeks ago I wrote of his fight with cancer and how I was hoping and praying he would make it. He didn't, and it has rocked my world.

Mark was co-owner of this magazine. He also once owned and operated one of the coolest clubs ever in Los Angeles, Probe. But more than that, much more, he was my friend. Mark gifted me with his love and support. He made me laugh. He was always pushing me not to be a good Dana Miller. He always wanted me to be the best Dana Miller. I have some regrets. I've made mistakes. But he never judged me. He always encouraged me. I have wrestled with depression and alcohol abuse. He never made me feel like a loser. He knew about my ups and downs and how I blew so much and how often. And he was always there to point me in the right direction and make me giggle. And one of the coolest things is, Mark did that for a lot of people. It is how he lived his life. I wasn't special—he just saw something in me I didn't see in myself.

We would talk and break bread, and thinking back upon it, it was mostly about me. How I was doing. This year, with the good Lord’s blessing, I will celebrate the 10th anniversary of this column. And I can't remember ever discussing them with Mark, the co-owner of the mag! We always managed to find other things to chat about.

I have not done well with this death. In my life, I have seen hundreds die. I always got through it. It was a mind-numbing jolt that I anesthetized myself to get through. I can't go back there. I will not go back there. It is everything Mark would have disapproved of. He likely would not judge me. He just would quietly hate it. I do know the mourning of any death is about the living. And I also know Mark would have been there to help me get through it. Crazy, right?

So then I read of Brian Putnam passing. Brian was a local photographer who was always sweet to me. He took my picture for this column a few times. He took his own life before Christmas. Wow, right?

Life is all about lessons learned. We wake up, look at what we learned and try and make a better person, a better soul. I need to learn from these deaths. One day at a time.

Because, you know, none of this is easy. Likely it was never very easy for anybody, right? You likely have been there in some form or fashion. This will pass, and I need to do it with Mark's gentle spirit looking over my shoulder. I need to take the lead on this. Neither death was right, easy or sane. But both lives were robbed way too damn early, and I need to view it as a wakeup call. Life is short, and it is just what you make of it.

Last week a lot of us promised to reset our direction and restart a new life in the new year. This is exactly what I need to do right now. And for me, I will use the power of death to win the battle. I hate that they are both gone. Yet it likely is something to use to make a better life.

I have my mission, and I need to honor these guys with a better life from me. I will find some semblance of sanity in this insanity.
Oh, and next issue I promise to write the Tom Whitman interview!

The Year of Spectacular Farewells

Dana Miller — Mon, 24 Dec 2012 14:00:00 GMT

This is the season to do it. To rid ourselves of the old and begin anew. This is the time of birth or rebirth depending on what you believe. It's been said that religion is for those trying to stay out of hell and spirituality is for those who have been there. I like the hymns and the colored windows enough, but I've always loved spirit.

Wherever you fall, it is simply a solid idea to accept now is as good a time as any to get your shit together and change. One of the spectacular things about time is that you cannot waste it in advance. Every year, month, day—hell, even minute is an opportunity to reset. But the lights and music, the presents and even that ball dropping help make this the season to just do it.

Liken it to a new picture waiting to be painted. The picture is you. If you look to new, fresh beginnings as the starting line, you can go a million directions. You may be the angel let out of her cage or the drunkard finally living under the spout of a bar at the Abbey. We can jump into action or reaction. Starting from the top doesn't necessarily denote sunshine, lollipops and rainbows. You could birth your way into lying, stealing, berating yourself, max out your cards, put on a couple hundred pounds, fall in love with Tina or start dating hillbilly heroin. Could be a new start, right? I mean, everywhere is walking distance if you have the time.

For me, I'm gonna reset to a better man. 2012 has kicked my ass. Not in a bad way. I've just come to terms with the simple fact that I can't stop time. I can't even slow it down. I have spent way too many moments adding up to too many years wallowing in sorrow and anger. I have too often skipped the damn reset and spent a tad too many minutes anesthetizing myself in full formal wear as the sodden guest of honor at my own pity party. I'm neither angry nor sad about this time spent, but for me this season, right now seems like a grand one to kick the can a bit.

My maladies are both universal and mine. Lady Death and her bitch Aunt Illness (my primary excuse for wallowing) are still all about, but they always were and always will be. So be it! My friends are now living, not dying as often, and thanks to the smarts of folks I now bet on, care, progress and advocacy on the subject of the plague that decimated an entire gay generation seems properly positioned for the moment.

Tomorrow looks pretty damn good. I like my family and they like me. I am contributing to my community as best I know. I am actively looking for ways to make tomorrow better for those I love. The heathen who was the Sundance Kid to my Butch Cassidy, the guy who helped me wreak havoc on too many men in too many pubs 15 years ago literally saved my life this year, and today he and his husband are moments away from becoming awesome dads. That all seems worth waking up for to this fool.

I remember this song when I was a kid sung by Joe Cocker and written by a 22-year-old John Sebastian. It was called “Darling Be Home Soon,” and the opening line of the third verse was, "And now, a quarter of my life is almost past. I think I've come to see myself at last.” So screw me that it took me this side of three-quarters to see me. Hell, at least I have!

The beginnings, the reset likely won’t be massive. Certainly not monumental. My deal is simply opening doors for folks. Smiling at strangers. Being nice to people in my life I loathe. This is not a metamorphosis. No one has even noticed—except me. I'm going for happy. I’m hoping to fight fear. Fear sucks.

So that's what I'm selling this week. A redo. A rebirth. Come on, join me. ‘Tis the season, and what do we have to lose? This week, maybe today, toss a spectacular farewell. I'm pretty sure we only get one chance at this merry-go-round. But if there really is reincarnation, I'd like to come back as Channing Tatum's palms.

If you accept that premise that this is a new picture waiting to be painted then lord, toss all the colors and paint you got at it! Those are my principles, and if you don't like them—well, don't fret. I have others.

Happy New Year!