Due to popular interest, I've decided to revisit the subject of my last post and publish a few more pix from the Pride Run. Thanks to all my regular readers for your comments, and welcome to new readers who may be visiting from Lucy Lawless news sites, Xena news sites, forums and boards.

If you're coming here for the first time, you might want to check out my other Xena-related material. You can use the search feature or the Index page to help locate what you're looking for. As a starting point, may I recommend that you check out my Xena and Gabrielle Sims?

Back to the Pride Run. In the first photo shown here, Lucy has just discovered a piece of the costume she was going to wear for the gay and lesbian pride parade, and immediately put it on. You can see she is talking to one of the run competitors. I don't know her name, although I did meet several nice people, all Lucy fans, at the event. In any case, I think she wound up winning a medal at the finish, plus a hug and a kiss on the cheek from Lucy, who gave out the awards.

I selected this other photo simply as a form of torture for you all. There were no tables available, so Lucy was signing on people's backs. Can you imagine? Your frickin' back! Not only does SHE WALK AMONG US but she signs on our backs. I am astounded by this evidence of a caring and beneficent god.

By the way, for my regular readers, that is not the Cute Little Red-Headed Girlfriend in the picture. And to my new visitors, please feel free to leave comments.

This past weekend was Gay and Lesbian Pride Weekend in L.A., or as I like to call it, Just Try To Get Parking in West Hollywood Weekend.
This year, the Cute Little Red-Headed Girlfriend and I set out early on Sunday to attend the Los Angeles Frontrunners Pride Run 2004. Yes, it was a proud event, and a benefit for a good cause, but that's not why we went. We went because Lucy Lawless, former Xena: Warrior Princess and present-day goddess was scheduled as the celebrity host to kick off the run.
Aside from the fact that the girlfriend and I are big Xena fans, it was a real pleasure to see a female celebrity address her lesbian followers. We've all seen musical celebrity divas get lovey-dovey with their gay male fans, or male movie stars "acknowledging" their gay male fans, but what do the lesbians ever get? Crapola, that's what.
No female stars ever say, "I'd like to thank all my lesbian fans for faithfully going to see every one of my movies, even the really shitty ones like Sommersby" or "Thanks to all you dykes out there for padding my royalty checks over the years with your home video and DVD purchases of The Hunger." No, you just don't hear it. But Lucy has always been really cool about her lesbian fans, and we do worship her cravenly for it.
After Lucy announced the run, as shown in the picture here, she hung out with her "Xena posse," as she called us, signing autographs and chatting us up.
Very early on, the Cute Little Red-Headed Girlfriend came down with a case of "Lucy Haze," a condition which I believe to be a modern-day variant of the condition once known as "the vapors." It really was overstimulating being around Lucy for so long. You can see just how close we were in the other picture I've posted, which shows Lucy giving us girls what we've always wanted.

Earlier this week, there was a big anti-Bush postering event called "Be the Revolution L.A.", featuring the work of Mear One, Shepard Fairey, and Robbie Conal. I saw all three of the posters yesterday while driving around. I wasn't familiar with Mear One, so I went to look around at his web site, which has an extensive gallery. His work is inspired by grafitti art, and I was impressed to see that his anti-Bush poster was done with a spray can. The imagery really jumps out at you when you see it in the street.

Recently, the Cute-Little-Red-Headed Girlfriend and I faced a household crisis around the new show The L Word. We've known it was coming for some time, but because the history of pro-lesbian shows is not stellar, we were torn about investing in a cable or satellite system just to get it.

After the series premiere, which we caught on a videotape provided by an obliging friend, we were so sold on the show that getting access through our own TV set-up became a pressing concern. So after many years of abstaining from pay TV, I took advantage of the free-installation-in-time-for-the-Superbowl offer and got DirectTV installed with ShowTime.

The Cute-Little-Red-Headed Girlfriend is now totally obsessed with this show, and I'm fairly involved as well. I was sad to see that Television Without Pity was not offering episode recaps, however, a post on decaf venti tipped me off to the blow-by-blow coverage on After Ellen, a fantastic resource. Plus, there are multiple fan sites for the show with active message boards and a few sites have also cropped up dedicated to the various actors/characters.

It's a great ensemble show, and does a very good job at capturing some typical aspects of lesbian life. The drama and the trauma, as I like to call it. I know people have complained that the lesbian characters aren't really representative of the community, but how can you ask any group of characters living in Los Angeles--gay or straight--to represent "reality"? This ain't Kansas, Dorothy. To me, the most unrealistic part of the show has nothing to do with lesbianism. It's the sheer size of the character's houses relative to their probable incomes. But I'm picking nits.

I was interested to hear the skepticism voiced about the lesbian tennis pro character at Almost There, brand new to my blogroll. I also found this character, who is supposed to be in the closet and unable to get a date, less than believable. The idea that a female tennis pro could be sitting in a lesbian cafe and not have panties thrown at her feet by all-too-willing dykes is a ridiculous fancy.

Now that I have DirectTV I can make good use of Queery, a gay and lesbian TV guide that I happened upon somewhere. That is, when I'm not watching the cartoon network.

L.A. Weekly has published a special comics issue, including an overview of the best comics and graphic novel of 2003, a feature on Alexandro Jodorowsky, and artwork by Kim Deitch and Kozyndan, among others. Also, don't miss the back page-artwork by In Sequence favorite Robbie Conal, a new portrait of Condaleeza Rice called Black Hawk Down.

You probably read or heard about the 6.5 earthquake that hit California yesterday. I was working near the top of a high-rise in Los Angeles when it hit. In case you are wondering what it feels like to be in an office tower during an earthquake, here are the first few words that come to my mind: barfy, barftastic, barftacular, barf-o-rama, all-night barfathon.

Once I figured out what was going on, I hit the floor in a matter of seconds. I stayed there until a co-worker peeled me off the ground and suggested we go downstairs. This was not an easy task, as we soon discovered the entire bank of elevators had stopped working, so we had to hike down the stairs.

After we arrived on the ground, we joined crowds from all the surrounding office towers along the streets. As it turns out, this is not the smartest move in an earthquake, as it means you're standing under large sheets of glass from the high-rises around you.

The most mind-blowing aspect of the experience was learning the epicenter wasn't even in Los Angeles. But I prefer not to think about that.

Thank you to those who have written and even called to ask how I'm doing. My asthma is completely under control now that the fires are out. I was not directly affected by the freak snow and hail storm that hit Los Angeles last week. I am calmly awaiting the plague of frogs that will most likely come next.

I have a few follow-ups to my previous post about the L.A. fires. Via Incoming Signals, I discovered an online exhibit about asthma, called Breath of Life. It includes a gallery of people past and present who have had asthma. Mysteriously, I have not been included.

Nor was I included in the recent L.A. Times round-up of L.A.-based blogs, which I read about on the L.A. Blogs portal. The insults never end, do they? Also through L.A. Blogs, I found these photos of the horrendously nasty air that has resulted from the fires.

It's been a tough week, here in Los Angeles. This probably didn't make national news, but believe it or not, a 3.0 earthquake hit Malibu the other night. Mother Nature doesn't pull any punches.

I'm an asthmatic, so I've spent the last few days locked in an air-tight room, sitting next to a Honeywell HEPA Air Filter machine and a warm-mist humidifier, sucking down extra medication and watching the 24-hour fire coverage on TV. Earlier this year, I read Mike Davis's excellent book, Ecology of Fear: Los Angeles and the Imagination of Disaster, which explains the hows and whys of fire movement in the Los Angeles terrain as well as the politics of fire management in California. Very useful background information in the present situation. One of the things I learned from the book was that Los Angeles has the longest wilderness border of any city in the United States: 675 miles. This border is being referred to on the news as the "urban interface" with the forested mountains.

Air quality has improved somewhat, and yesterday when I saw there was a shooting outside the Robert Blake trial, it almost felt like the city was returning to normal again. Of course, that would not be entirely correct. The city was experiencing other disasters even before the fire started, in the form of several large-scale strikes. The transit authority is on strike, which has added about 50% to commute times. The chain-store grocery workers are on strike, bless them, which makes it extremely difficult--though not impossible--to get food. And three groups of county workers have held intermittant strikes, including the county sheriffs.

Last Sunday was particularly hard. I went out into the baking 90 degree heat in an attempt to get groceries. The air was choked with ash that burned my eyes and nose. To avoid crossing the picket line, I had already been to a bulk grocery that supplies restaurants in order to get staple goods, now I was going to a mom-and-pop grocery store to try to get fresh food.

The scene inside was a mad house. It was so packed with people supporting the strike that almost every step required negotiation with adjacent shoppers. People had that brittle politeness one often encounters on the L.A. freeways, just in case Michael Douglas's character from Falling Down is driving the car next to you.

Last week, my sister freaked out while waiting in the check-out line at a small natural foods store. Since she's not patient enough to stand in the long lines, she's been reduced to eating dinner at 7-11 every night.

The fires may be under control, but the city's still way out of hand.

Earlier this month, the Cute Little Red-Headed Girlfriend and I went to the Disneyland Resort for the Official Unofficial Gay Day Weekend at Disneyland. We decided to stay at Disney's Grand Californian Hotel, a blend of Western architectural and decorative styles (rustic lodge, Arts and Crafts Bungalow, large doses of Mission) in oversized, Las Vegas-style proportions. Since we were vacationing less than 45 minutes away from our home, it seemed appropriate to stay in a hotel designed to be a simulacrum of the experience of living in our state.

Our first day was spent at California Adventure, the new Disney theme park that first gained notoriety among So Cal locals for how much it sucked. Some work was done to improve the park after that but the bad rep hasn't completely faded. It's definitely different from Disneyland--more edutainment than entertainment--but it has some great attractions like the Soarin' Over California ride, which was the closest thing to a virtual reality experience I've had anywhere.

I made a beeline for the Animation attraction, which I hoped would be different from but as good as the Magic of Disney Animation attraction at the Disney-MGM Studios in Florida. It actually comprised several attractions, including a presentation on Walt Disney's life and career as an animator, a synchronized live and animated presentation on the process of creating animated characters, an exhibit on character animation and a series of "interactives." The interactive area included hands-on examples of early animation technology and a karaoke kiosk that let you record your voice over an animated segment. I couldn't help but think of my fellow animation enthusiasts, like Steve Wintle (who has just left blogging) and Mark Hebert.

Disneyland was, as usual, nothing more nor less than the happiest place on earth. Sharing it with the Cute Little Red-Headed Girlfriend, who had never been before, was a treat. She fell in love with many of the rides, including the Enchanted Tiki Room, which I'm pleased to say is looking a bit sharper than the last time I saw it, when it was facing the possibility of forced retirement. I was surprised to see that graphic artist Shag had several Tiki Room-related items for sale inside the park, which are also available through his web site.

The Haunted House had been thoroughly renovated the day before with a "Nightmare Before Christmas" theme. It was really well done, but I had to wonder if the Disney folk hadn't been reading Cory Doctorow's Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom, which revolves around a similar Haunted House renovation. Art imitating fandom, once again?

Disneyland was crawling with queers, and nobody seemed to bat an eye at it. My favorite gay scene in the park was just outside the "Hungry Bear" restaurant, where we all gathered for an informal lunch. I stood in line behind five gay gays, all with roughly the same build as John Goodman, wearing mouse-eared hats embroidered with their names: "Mary," "Mary," "Mary," "Mary," and "Mary."

I love the smell of napalm and strudel in the morning, don't you? This morning as I awoke to the results of yesterday's election, I was reminded of an old single I have in my 45s collection, the Dead Kennedy's "Kill the Poor" (A side) and "California Uber Alles" (B side).

The single is an import because though our Constitution may wind up protecting the free speech rights of telemarketers, it didn't do much for the Dead Kennedys back in 1980 when the band was trying to get their first record out. If you're not familiar with these great songs, may I suggest you "look them up" sometime soon.
I suppose Arnold's win does in a sense show the greatness of this country, and how even a poor, immigrant son of a Nazi SS officer can make it to the top with just a handful of steroids and a dream.
Last night, around 9:30 pm, when news of Arnold's win was starting to spread, I thought for sure I heard the distinctive sound of LAPD choppers headed for a fly-over the ghettos and barrios of South Los Angeles, where--coincidentally, I'm sure--there didn't seem to be enough polls for everyone to vote. I'm not surprised the cops were on their toes--it seems to me that the LAPD is in a good position to predict where all this will end. With so many members of the state's National Guard and police force getting shot at in Iraq, I wonder if our new Governor will be able to find enough people to drive in the tanks if the city starts to burn.
On other political fronts, George W. now has his own blog, though I can't bring myself to link to it right now.

If you keep up with Boing-Boing, you may already have seen this link before, because that's where I first read about the serial guerilla art campaign now being documented at nobodydied.com. The signs have been appearing along I-5 in Southern California, prompting one commentator to coin the term "freeway blogging."

I can't decide which sign is my favorite; they're all so good. However, I'm pretty fond of 32,000 Dead and I'm still paying $2.29 for unleaded. Last time I filled up my car with gas I noticed someone had put a bumper sticker with the word "Greed" on it on the front of the pump. Bursts of anger here and there. What will they add up to?

The weekend before last, the Cute Little Red-Headed Girlfriend and I went to see a talk by political graphic artists at Track 16 Gallery in Santa Monica. The talk was sold out in advance, and there was even a sizable waiting list and a press of people trying to get in the door when we arrived. Not a bad turn out for an arts event that wasn't about French impressionism.

I suppose one could attribute the demand to pent-up political frustration, since there was definitely a radical edge to all the speakers and to the audience members as well. In fact, it was quite refreshing to be in the same room with so many card-carrying pinkos.

Before the event started, we wandered around Track 16, looking at the two art exhibits on display. The first exhibit was a group show called "Le Dernier Cri: Legendary Publishers of the International Underground", which included some prints by comic artist Julie Doucet.

The second show, "East-West Graphics of Resistance", was devoted to two political graphic artists, U. G. Sato of Japan, and Lex Drewinski of Poland. Although they are from different areas of the world, they are both minimalists and share several interests, including anti-nuclear and anti-war activism. Both artists also engage in the practice of "fax art," which involves using fax documents both to create and to distribute graphic art.

The first speaker was Robbie Conal, who I've written about here on several occasions. He spoke energetically about being raised by left political activists and discussed some of the financial challenges of being a political graphic artist. Interestingly, he cautioned would-be graphic artists on the difficulties of distributing one's work on the street, indicating how much time and energy is required to reach an audience that is diverse but fairly limited.

Next was Shepard Fairey, who is best known for his Obey Giant campaign. Charming and unassuming, he talked about growing up in a mainstream family in South Carolina and the huge impact that punk and skateboard culture had on him in the development of his artwork. While I had seen the "Obey Giant" images before, I felt that I gained a great deal from hearing Fairey discuss the project, which he sees as using the imagery and language of advertising to critique consumerism and its manipulation of our impulses--specifically, impulses to obey or not to obey.

The last speaker, Barbara Carrasco, was the artist the least known to me, but after seeing her speak, I plan on keeping an eye out for her work in the future. Carrasco is primarily a muralist, but also does other types of work, including jewelry and prints. As a graphic artist, she has for a long time been associated with Cesar Chavez, Dolores Huerta, and the United Farm Workers. She is incredibly humble, but her life has been filled with such dedication and integrity--I found her quite inspiring. She spoke about her experience as a teacher and also her experience with censorship, a topic that was touched on by all the participants.

I can't recall an occasion where I have heard artists speak so simply and so personally about their work. In each case, the artist's impulse towards political graphics came from an intensely personal experience of frustration or inspiration.

The Cute Little Red-Headed Girlfriend and I recently went to the Gene Autry Museum of Western Heritage so that we could see the exhibit "The Jews of the West." While we were there, we also walked through the large collection of costumes and props from old Hollywood Westerns and serials. I know about Western serials mainly through my mother, who saw them in the theater every week while growing up and reminisces about them often.
I saw this week that Marvel is resurrecting an old Western figure, The Rawhide Kid, and remaking him as a gay character. I'm a little dubious about their intention to make him a camp character, as deliberate effort sometimes kills the spirit of camp and comes off as heavy-handed. Still, I will reserve judgment until the title appears.
My favorite Western these days is the TV series Firefly, which is a Western in space drag. They are even more beloved to me these days after the utterly gratuitous but well done lesbian scene they threw in last week. My readers--especially the lesbians (e.g., GreyBird), honorary lesbians, lesbians in the body of men (e.g. Mark, Joel), wannabe lesbians, bean bags (the opposite of fag hags, e.g., Joe), and straight guys who dig lesbians (e.g. Oscar Jerome)--should consider tuning in.
At the very least, it will be much, much better than last night's Extreme Makeover, which I sincerely regret having watched.

The other day my sister--she of getting-me-into-the-Star-Wars-II-premiere fame--shared a cautionary tale with me regarding the popular animated cartoon character, SpongeBob Squarepants.
It seems my sister was down in Mexico on a cruise recently and was attempting to entertain herself--as one does on these trips--by lounging around on deck and drinking as much as possible. Unfortunately, my sister's efforts at intoxication were interrupted by a loud noise coming from the other end of the deck. Off she went to investigate.
Arriving at other end of the deck, she discovered the noise was actually singing, and that it was coming from a drunken man sitting at the bar loudly singing the SpongeBob Squarepants theme song. In the seat next to him was a giant stuffed animal--or sponge, as it were--about the size you would find at a carnival--in the image of SpongeBob Squarepants. To his side there was also a stand-up poster of SpongeBob Squarepants.
Curiosity satisfied, my sister returned to her lounge chair, hoping that another margarita might dull the sound of the man's singing. As time passed, however, she noticed the singing had become louder, and that a line appeared to be growing around the bar. She returned to the scene and discovered a bevy of small children had surrounded the man, and were joining him in a repeated rendition of the SpongeBob Squarepants theme. In addition, a line of mothers and children patiently waited for an audience with the drunk.
My sister approached one of the mothers questioningly, eager to find out what compelled them to hand over their small children to an obvious lush. Smiling proudly, the mother flourished a signed cocktail napkin, explaining that the drunken man was in fact the voice actor for Patrick Star, the starfish character on SpongeBob Squarepants.
Once back home, my sister impressed her colleagues with her tale of an encounter with the celebrity voice actor. In the process of telling her story, my sister confessed she was actually not too familiar with the cartoon show. Perhaps that's why she received a news clipping in her work mailbox a few days later, giving some details about Bill Fagerbakke, the voice behind the starfish, whom my sister remembered from his role on the TV sitcom, "Coach." Then she realized: the drunken man at the bar was not Bill Fagerbakke.
The lesson of this story is: although it may seem that we all have enough to worry about with the recession, dirty bombs, the existence of Donald Rumsfeld, and the rising price of prescription psychotropics--we can now add one more worry to the list. There are Animated Character Impersonators on the loose--drinking too much, singing too loudly, and abusing the trust of your children.
Now if you'll excuse me I have to get to Toys'R'Us to sign Scooby Doo bean-bag animals. My fans are waiting.