by Dana Miller

In my darkness, I’m ruminating on development, dearth, duty and death. And — quite honestly — all in all, it’s better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

I have learned the hard way that if there is one issue that is guaranteed to generate verbal fireworks from both young and old in West Hollywood, it seems to be development. Traffic, parking, the future of affordable housing and commercial space, preservation and accusations of over building, ulterior motives and outright lying will be thrust in your face if you even attempt to scratch the conversational surface. I’m of the mind that change and growth is vitally necessary for any municipality, but it must be regulated and properly mitigated by those we put in charge. And we must, must lend our voices to the discussion and process. Some neighbors of mine here in town are up in arms over a couple of single-family resident plots that seem headed for demolition to be replaced by large condo projects. They boldly went to meetings with developers, but felt they were double-talk shams and that the deed was already done. I understand and respect their ire and frustration. Yet, charlatans can only be identified and taken down by voices of reason and truth. I do honor that my neighbors have opinions—and balls—and are stepping up and voicing them and pray for a lack of real discouragement. The passion is vital, and they are realists who understand the art of compromise. These are smart folk who don’t tend to drool nor babble in public. But some other residents with voices here in the hamlet hate change of any kind and are perennially grumpy and, frankly, just dumb. Hence the ongoing quagmire to lend logical voice to our future. I’m losing interest with that negative, grumpy and stupid lot. Quite frankly, some whack jobs just love hearing their tone. I have been to my share of Planning Commission meetings and am always struck by the battery of regulars who likely could barely order breakfast at Norm’s, but feel the need to pontificate on every nuance of change. I accept that is the reality of public forums and discussions. But there was a time for Fred Thompson and Tom Tancredo to just get off the damn stage. Don’t get me wrong, I like a fight. Well, at least a smart one. OK, so perhaps a 59,000-square-foot Walgreen’s project at Santa Monica Boulevard and Crescent Heights is just too big, but it’s a dump and an eyesore as it exists today. Tasty Donuts? Not a big loss for me. But I do love my Marco’s. So let’s fight about it with honor. Discuss it. Hammer it out.

The folks who want to turn that old, dark, dank box that was Tower Records on the Sunset Strip into a rock ‘n' roll museum are insane, but let them passionately fight for it. Barry Diller’s stunning silver remodeled office building (designed by Frank Gehry) next door will put up a sharp battle. I’ve battled Diller. It is bloody and second only to poking yourself in the eye with a sharp stick. Good luck with that.

Losing that disastrous, giant, white modern International Male store across from I-Hop in favor of that smart new building seems grand to me. Damn new joint is impressive. Gelson’s is a lot prettier than the wretched Mayfair that used to be there. Back in the day, no self-respecting queer would go under those old fluorescents after 5 p.m. Shopping in the morn with shades was the norm and all very proper. That hideous old faded office and retail building on the south side of the boulevard at Kings Road has seen better days. It’s the one with several DUI school signs inviting me in. And the old Athletic Club on the boulevard, empty for years and now surrounded by a chain link fence, is quite simply an embarrassment for our city. Though I must say that joint has a special place in my heart. Years ago there was a hair salon there a few steps up off the parking lot run by a blond stud. He would rub against you as he clipped. Every haircut ended with a blow dry and a blow job. The haircut was hell, yet I never cared as the bj was just heaven. Was a tough reservation to get, as you can imagine, but led to a new meaning for highlights. It did lead to over tipping, although I recall it was well worth it.

All this comes to my surface as a result of my stumbling into City Councilmember Abbe Land at the Abbey the other afternoon. I suspect she goes there because the bridge-and-tunnel idiots from Riverside must think she owns it. I like Abbe. I like all the City Council members and the Planning Commission folks as well. You can argue that because of this forum, I have a voice. I’m not naive, but I doubt that’s it. I sat there on a Saturday afternoon shooting the breeze with a lady who is critically instrumental in the future of the infrastructure of West Hollywood, and it was as good a discussion as you could want. For years, I have interrupted every councilmember at various affairs with my crap—since long before I was writing this column. They have always listened and respected my thoughts—at least on the surface. I’m solid in my belief that they will do the same for you. So write ‘em. Call ‘em. Mug ‘em at a saloon like I do. But do it. The future is here, and if you have the time, your dirty little fingers should be all over our development. Bitching and moaning in a vacuum to friends at Eleven Restaurant and Nightclub or the East/West lounge has its place, but it doesn’t give you the voice you deserve or the one we need. Or I assume at least the resonance. If you take the time to form an opinion, it should not be benign; it needs to be heard with the power that is you. I would love our officials to hear a coterie of smart points of view from people like you who care. Not just fools out to profit or crazy people without cable or teeth, who think Pinkberry is Satan.

Death. It is what it is. I’m terribly taken by how differently people take to the end. My father hated hospitals, so he never made it to one. In the early morning, at the ripe old age of 48, he suffered a massive heart attack in bed and that was the end. He was out before they could get him in. My lover Matthew Murray, crippled with AIDS-related neuropathy, was almost struck by a falling mirror during an earthquake and barely fled the bathroom to safety using his walker. He screamed at the very top of his lungs at that very moment that there is no quality of life. He was brutally mad at the world and left it in less than a week. He gave up. That was it. A couple of weeks ago, my dear friend Ron Wanless passed away after UCLA had run out of options to battle his cancer. That day of giving up, they were done, but he wasn’t. He was cracking jokes and telling stories to me. My brave pal went out on a morphine drip of 31—the highest amount ever enjoyed by a patient in UCLA history. He died high as a kite.

I have watched some dear to me die scared, some mad and some just peacefully resigned to it all. I have, on and off, felt uncomfortable, unhappy, frozen and funny about it all. Life lives, life dies, life cries. Life gives up and life tries. But it seems to me starkly honest that both life and death look different through everyone’s eye.

I wish you honor, peace, sleep and happiness until we share stories again. I am still on the hunt for your take on our West Hollywood Gay Pride parade and festival. We have printed a few responses in this issue and will do the same in next.

See You Out & About

Contact me at Malibudana@aol.com.