By Dana Miller

We've all lost and found. I was walking by a yard sale the other morning. The fun, yet floppy, lady in charge had one tooth, a wart the size of Whittier, stains on her dressing gown that would puzzle the CDC and she sucked and stroked her menthol fag in a way that would surely give a porn star pause. On her scorched front lawn, there was nothing but junk. I can only assume that the crap, scrap, and waste that were set there had, at some moment in time, meant something to Fang. Honestly, there were way too many pixie statues. Whoever says there is never enough fay stuff around is full of crap. On that summer morning, it seemed to mean a buck or two for Fang. She quite honestly didn't seem to care a tad for the collective clutter. It got me to thinking about loss. I have yet to sell my wares on the street. But where the heck are my wares? It’s time to wonder, ponder, explain, figure out, or make up where the hell my crap went. It puzzles me that I have honestly lost so much and, at this moment, have absolutely no idea where it all landed. Fang’s front yard folly has me totally beat. How big are those landfills? And where are they? Look, socks and sunglasses (hell, in my case, glasses) all fall into some accepted and honored void. But what of the rest of our possessions? I stopped wearing underwear when my drawers went empty. I bought them in bulk. I mean where could they possibly have run off to? OK, so maids grab stuff, boy-toys-of-the-hour steal. But all in all, that’s gotta be about 10 percent max. Where does the other 90 percent land? Where are those cufflinks? Where is that damned red ribbon lapel ornament I loved so much? Last time I cleaned out a garage I hired movers out of the Gay Yellow Pages. Upon arrival, they were clearly crack boys standing on my steps, and, like a fool, I was nurturing, sweet, and simply stupid dealing with them. They were lit up like Dodger Stadium at 9 p.m. and as always, I hadn't a clue. Drugs are like boobs to me—I know they are there, yet I never seem to notice them. Ryan was so pissed at my embracing the crack whackery that he walked away, but I thought they moved like Pee Wee Herman on speed and it was somewhat, somehow charming and fun to watch. Not completely unlike an old Warner Bros. cartoon. Okay, I admit I'm an idiot. That afternoon, the cranked crew and I chatted of recovery, addiction, blessings, and life lessons as they quietly robbed us blind. They wiped us out, but we never really knew until weeks went by. Ryan was missing his golf clubs. I lost a Cartier tank watch, platinum albums, two surfboards, a rosewood sleigh bed, three credit cards, 47 quality vintage pornos, a passport, and a beloved autographed picture of Jimmy Cagney. Those jacked–up jerks probably thought he was the father on Cagney & Lacy.

So yes, I was—and am, indeed—an idiot. But still, I understand that loss. However, honestly, where is my sun bed? Where are the pants to my Gucci tux that Tom Ford gave me? Where in the heck is the go-cart that Dan Baker and Tim Keaveny totally surprised me with at the beach? Where are my three universal gyms and lord, at least, five treadmills? The crack whores had nothing to do with any of that. It is just a lifetime of loss that thanks to Fang I now recollect. Where are those amazing 800-thread count sheets or that bottle of tequila Sinatra gifted me on his 80th birthday? I have absolutely no sad or happy memories of saying goodbye to any of that stuff. I just can’t comprehend this disappearance.  Maybe Out Of The Closet drifts in in the middle of the night to pilfer and we have no clue. Look, I know for a fact my pop made my early morning crazy quacking ducks Spin and Marty disappear into the night. “Off to the dude ranch,” he proclaimed. I bought it. Our backyard trampoline was stolen one evening by “the mob.” We knew it was dad, trying to prevent our collective broken necks. But heck, saying the Godfather stole your trampoline at school was much cooler. But where the hell did my Charlie McCarthy ventriloquist doll go? Where is that 27-inch TV from the guest house? Or my necklace from Hugh that he gave me in Costa Rica? Or even those Playboy rags I jerked off to as a child? Dust to dust? I don't think so. Where are Ryan’s Christmas decorations from our frontyard last year? I'm at a loss.

Back in my rock ‘n’ roll manager days, I was on the road all the time. It was like two weeks out there, three weeks at home. I had a kid who watched the pups and the beach house. He also served as a penis-wielding concubine for me. Every time I came home, something was missing. My LIVE AID tour jacket, gifts from Elton, Barbra, Elizabeth, Andy Gibb, or Bob Hope, my Cable ACE Award—all lost.

Nothing you would notice when you arrive home from the airport, but soon, days, weeks, often months, you notice stuff was lost. Heck, I had a Sam Harris Motown CD release party at my home only to discover my CD player was gone! (Talk about a buzzkill. I went and borrowed my neighbor’s CD player for the party…What a long, strange trip this is!) My lost stuff apparently all went up the kid’s nose. I get that now. I really do. But still, where is my stuff?

Where is my college parchment? Where are my favorite tennis shoes? Where the hell is my cell phone? I lost my virginity in fifth grade to my cousin Kirk Thorwaldson under a bed at his parents house. It was a Thanksgiving to remember. It involved legs and breasts, stuffing, and cranberries, (or small—maybe tiny berries of some sort) yet no turkey. I truly get, honor, covet, and embrace that loss. I have lost lovers, my mind, credibility, honor, and my soul from time to time. That I indeed do understand. But where the fuck are my keys? It’s high time I found instead of lost. I tend to observe too much and understand too little. Can't I be close to done with that?

I've lost so-called friends, but, thankfully, after a lot of soul-searching, I realized so many were truly phonies—mean and full of agendas. I know you have the same deal. I've lost others who look at me as spiritual diabetes. They believe I become sugar fatigued by what I find funny. I'm Sweet ‘N Low to them. I’ve lost clients from conflicts, death, destruction, dope, and despair. I get it all.

Yet, I guess I have found more. I love my true friends and my extended family. I honestly love my life. It’s silly, but I vow to continue my blatant ghastly example of silly crap and gossip. But shit, I do miss what I've lost. At least what I can remember of it. But I still look forward to what it is I might find. Lost & found.  Seems a curse and a blessing.

See You Out & About

Contact me at: malibudana@aol.com