A Satori


If seedlings are waking up in clay pots on my balcony, 
if there are tiny, fragile seedlings 
that despite their tininess and fragility
still manage to express their true nature,
just as distant stars express theirs;

If this expression of stars and seedlings
is inevitable, yet innocent;

And if a seedling, a wisp of green, a mere tendril, 
can heave aside a boulder, its opponent,
which is a crumb of earth, 
And the crumb can’t resist —

If the will to life and its expression are that powerful;

if the force of life animates everything and 
everything will continue in its path 
without regard to me or my existence—

Then I know I am, and will be, safe; 

I know that I need only do the next right thing
and that the next right thing will present itself
and I will recognize it.

And I need only do this next right thing 
as completely 
and with as much sense of inevitability 
and with the same innocence
as do the seedlings in the ground or the distant stars.

This is what I understand we are talking about 

when we talk about god.


I’m sorry that extended quality time with J♥e has interfered with my blog updates. Well, actually, I’m not sorry at all, who am I kidding?


When is a cigar not a cigar? When it’s– J♥e.

From our iconic mid-century LA compound.
January 27th, 2015.


My thoughts go out to you, sad little readers who’ve been waiting with bated breath for another update regarding my totally narcissistic, useless life of Caligula-style debauchery.

Fact is, I’ve been spending some highly-confidential quality time with J♥e at our LA compound.

As you can imagine, I relish this yearly opportunity to take a Los Angeles-sized break from my usual inner-city Toronto hell-hole routines: doula then undertaker to baby roaches; pulling on another hideous, shredded cashmere-polyester-mix GAP sweater for warmth, and desperately trying to restore the urine-colored bathtub to anything approaching white using a toothbrush and a can of Ajax.

You think I got these chapped hands from skiing at Gstaad?  Think again, groveling toadies!

As are the chimes of Big Ben to a Londoner,
thus is tradition to J♥e and I in the eternally sunny, almost oppressively perfect Butch Cassidy-Sundance Kid rewrite that is our existence. And it’s no different during the precious spiritual—by which I mean completely focussed on animalistic man-sex—retreat spent in our modest—by which I mean dialed back from palatial to merely luxurious—LA machine-for-living.

We always start by giving Juan and Juanita a surprise staycation, which I like to announce by screaming “la migra! la migra!” while stomping  around in my vintage SS boots and slamming a few doors. My word, how we laugh, “we” meaning “I”!   

Once the illegals have accidentally locked themselves in the downstairs panic room, J♥e and I put our cell phones on vibrate, close the electronically-powered vertical blinds, throw some tastefully-greyed driftwood on the Xanadu-sized fireplace and order in.  It’s gonna be a quiet two weeks!

With these tender hijinks, year after year, begins our cherished ritual of spiritual renewal, with the occasional break for a round of pervy, rules-free naked olive-oil wrestling.  It’s a life-balance thing.

turkish olive oil wrestling Google Search

pervy, rules-free spiritual renewal creates quite a stir with the neighbours!

Also, it’s important to maximize our remaining time here before the entire mid-century structure crumbles in cinematic slow-mo off the cliff-edge. But hey.

That’s the intoxicating level of existential terror that keeps us coming back to Manson country!

We have several fave activities
during our brief but erotically-charged catch-ups. “Eye-gazing” is number one, and many thanks to Jorge, our part-time bromance coach, for this technique.

You could probably try it with your frumpy, Goodwill-clad partner some evening, once you’ve finished scraping the congealed Kraft Dinner residue off the plastic tableware.  But I doubt it will have the same effect without the exorbitant fees.

Anyway, eyes are the windows of the soul, or something, and we—that’s J♥e and I if you didn’t pick that up on the first mention—spend a couple hours each day, eyeball locked to eyeball, and J♥e says the utterly black void he sees through my windows is very soothing after a tough day on set.

First bro to break contact gets to “bottom” for Juan, which adds a little extra frisson.

Sorry to be so TMI. It’s the way I get when I feel the subterranean rumble of subsiding foundations.  Mister Devil-May-Care, that’s me!


Dialed back to merely luxurious and crumbling off the cliff edge:  life in the slow lane.

(Evernote reminder to maid:  “Hey, Enchilada! How’s the PTSD?  LOL!! Just goofin’ around, Grape Picker!!

“Listen, this trip our world is all about sourcing wholesale collectibles – recently spotted 40% off marble fruit paperweights at Jonathan Adler, also stoneware vases inexplicably covered with 3-D breasts.  WTF, right??

“To anticipate your objections, these days even the Pope has a couple of those on the mantel! Yes, siree, Ms Francine Vatican Herself!!  And if that doesn’t convince you, two words: electrified fence. Capisce?

“P.S. – I lost the eye-gaze challenge! Again!!  I know, seriously??!  Am I a li’l freckle-faced rascal or what?  Am I?  You know I am!!!!

Ciao, amiga!”)

But lest you think that life is all piña coladas and expensive spirituality in our kastle-by-Koenig, let me tell you something.

While you turn three more shades of chartreuse from envy!

It’s not.  Far from it!

Though I bet that’s something that never occurred to you. While you were thinking it was.  All those things.

What was I saying?

Oh yeah. We, too—that’s J♥e and I—have our small yet impeccably man-scaped problems which obviously far outweigh yours. For example, I recently started to obsess about whether he’s secretly disguising some male-pattern baldness with discreet hair weaving—

—but I promised I would let that go.

When I wake him up every night at 3 AM to settle the question once and for all he calls me OCD in a really testy voice, and in response I throw an abalone shell or other similar knick-knack against the polished concrete mantelpiece, then fake-cry.

He has gradually begun to ignore this, and thanks a bunch, Jorge, for that technique, too. Nice work, bromance coach.

Then there’s the body hair issue.  As you can see, J♥e is rigorous about nuking every last follicle till he’s smoother than a Vatican choir-boy, which ups the eye-candy but means I keep sliding off his chest. Clamber, slide, clamber, slide. Jesu, Maria! It’s like trying to perform frottage while scaling a glacier.

Which pretty much sums up bromance in general.

That’s my status update—call me blogged, Facebooked and tweeted!

While J♥e finishes his cigar, I’m going to take my morning constitutional on Wilshire Boulevard with our Yorkies, Macy and Saks. Those toxic LA breezes help clear the cobwebs, and, bonus—free chemical peel!—while I, with my astonishing gift for 24/7 visibility, whip up a wee bit of a stir in my fishnet tanga.

And let’s be frank: If those little yappers get thrown under a stretch Hummer, oh well, they get thrown under a stretch Hummer.

That’s just life in the slow lane.  Ciao, bello!

(Attention Ge♥rge Cl♥♥ney:  Please don’t start imagining this whole piece is intended to shame you, or that I’ve wasted even one more second thinking about your chiseled jawline. Or the sweet-pervy nothings you might be whispering in my ear right now, none of them about restraining orders.  All is forgiven if you’ll just answer. C’mon. What would Rosemary have done?  That’s right. Answer the phone, baby.)


This post first appeared in January,  2015.  
I'm repeating it here, updated and revised, as part of my 
"best of my blog" series.

In which the author, exhausted by maintaining his consistently superhuman level of blogging excellence, fobs you off with a “Twitchie”; +PLUS+ Dave be like “Click the button!”


First signs of President Trump Stress Disorder:  “The Twitchies”.

You may be wondering.

I’ve been lying in my bathtub since, you know—“the election”—my chin wobbling like my mother’s infamous tomato aspic from the effort of holding back my wild, existential cry of “What The Fuck, dude!?“.

For a little variety I count the missing chunks in the tile grouting,  while I figure out what necessities I’ll take to the special Alaskan holiday camp for homosexuals when Pence sends the order.

So far I’ve come up with:

two pink toothbrushes (one of them manual in case it’s hard to find batteries);

flap-in-the-back longjohns pinned to “open”;

Canada Goose parka, whose astronomical cost will force me to obtain an undercover coatcheck job at The Black Eagle and nab one while its naked owner is firmly strapped to the St. Andrew’s Cross;

the fluorescent stuff your manservant puts on your nose in Gstaad before you frappez la piste;

my own bag of rocks (in case the ones they provide for hacking with a pickaxe “aren’t doing it for me”); and

DVD Special Extras Editions of “Now, Voyager” and “All About Eve” (which latter title always makes me want to scream, in desperate parody of those rabid christians who oppose equal marriage:  “They made ‘All About EVE’, not ‘All About STEVE’ !!).

So you see, though you may think I’m spending my time lolling like a catamite on black satin sheets, peeling grapes and licking Reddi-Whip off the butt-cracks of random 20-year-old skateboarders, I am, in fact, limp as a Cossack after a hard day’s rape and pillage. All this AND a case of severe,  possibly terminal, President Trump Stress Disorder.

PTSD is a parlous state manifesting as reflexive mouse-clicking while asleep, nicotine overdose and an attention span stretched so wafer-thin that I’ve had to several times during my breakfast revisit the instructions on the Kellog’s Frosted Flakes box (for some reason I keep bungling Step 6: “Enjoy!”).

This lifetime-benefits-worthy level of election-induced disability is completely related to my self-imposed burden of riffing on the greatest show on earth, the recent coronation of Citizen Don. Even more than Obama, he proved that, in America, anyone—and believe me when I say, anyone—can make their American Dreams come hideously true.

But The Donald, with his secret, award-winning recipe of a thin coating of élite enclosing a filled-with-nuts Trump-lump of pure white trash, topped that heap without any of that fancy book-larnin’ and puttin’ on airs, don’t ya know;  and, it should by now go without saying, definitely without flaunting any unpatriotic skin tones.

Real ‘Murcans, as it turns out, like a bit of authenticity with their despots.  Not grace under pressure, but pressure sans grace, sans eyes, sans teeth, sans everything. President O, are you taking notes?  Really, some of my best friends are Hahvad grads, but did you hafta be so goldarned – well, <whisper> BLACK about it? Property values, dude, property values!

And dull!?  OMFG!! The country that invented serial killing then brainstormed it into production-line hamburger franchises was hardly in the mood for Percy Faith and his hundred and one strings; this high-minded mellow; this,“let’s take it slow, ACA, baby, and if I said you have a beautiful body politic would you hold it against me?”  No tantrums, no marital problems, no scandals —

Basically, Barry:  Who the fuck do you think you are?

You have patience alright, my fine dusky-feathered friend, patience in spades; and I’m very sorry about the crude pun, but hey. Come February, 2017, you could probably find a job watching glaciers melt.

I hear there’s positions opening up as we speak.


Moving right along, allow me to throw off this lead apron of despair that god-the-invisible-dentist has fastened around my neck as casually as Luigi at the Spaghetti Factory used to fasten the red and white bib so you shouldn’t get sauce on your tie.   And while I’m lightening the tone,  may I say, to the accompaniment of the little smooching noises I make into my webcam,  I’m just LOVIN’ ME some new header (see above. Where did you think the header was? Are you a Luddite? I mean, seriously, dude).

I’ll be honest—and you may want to sit down for this bit after getting your impressionable youngsters out of earshot—it’s a “me” thing.  Ya know??!   I like it because it’s created by me, which makes it a macaroni pic par excellence, and I like it because it’s all portraits of me at various points in my life, including the day I invented “male camel toe”, when I was five.

Oh yeah, baby.  I had ambition back then.

I like my header because Hillary’s in it, gallivanting in rainbow pantsuits across my gaunt, vicarious election-losertard face. How many millions of people can say that?


Do I come across as shallow?

Please, please don’t despair. Just because I’m my own schizoid fan club, including the mousey, horn-rimmed secretary, a phone-it-in role for Patricia Hitchcock, AND the sultry, wisecracking, torpedo-breasted head of the social committee, a turn that simply begs for the ministrations of Lauren Bacall – that doesn’t mean I don’t, you know. TOTALLY CRAVE your clicking my “Like” button.  

No, you can’t go to Breitbart just yet, honey. Settle down, OK?

Don’t think for one second that your opinion doesn’t matter, because, dudes, since you asked, and I’m only going to say this once:

« I’m the neediest friggin’ cocksucker from here to Des Moines. »

No question.  I’m so fucking needy, it’s insane.  I’m like the baby bird in the nest, cheep cheep!  opening my naked maw for the slimy, wiggling worms of your validation;  I’m your golden lab puppy whining for food and water, yapping its promise of total, abject love from the cold basement room;

I’m Richard Burton tied to the bedpost while Liz sits at her dressing table, removes her bra, puts scarlet lipstick on her nipples:-

That’s how much your opinion matters to me; in fact, this may be the ONE TIME today, in your life even, when your opinion matters so much to someone.  Or at all!

Think about that, my collective Virginia. Think about that really hard. But only for a short period of time, because the implications – well.

It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?  Unless you make sure you think with extreme, concentrated effort, and keep it, like, under twenty or maybe thirty seconds, tops. That could work.

Alrighty?  So, just to make absolutely nail-it-to-the-floor certain we’re all on the same page, my final instructions are:  Think REALLY hard for a SHORT time about your opinion mattering.  To me. OK?  Let’s see how well you get on.

Frankly, with most of you we’re happy if we can hold a mirror to your lips and see some fogging, so the bar is, I admit, extremely low. But I’m reasonably confident about the “Like” button thing being within your grasp. At least for some of you.


I feel, and don’t ask me how, that at this point one or two of the more-or-less uncoachable ones amongst you may be wondering:  Is David being bossy ? Is David, like, a bossy person?

PUH-LLLLEASE!  Let me set the record straight once again.  Since you asked.

I am not bossy.  I am goal-oriented.  Like, MY goals for YOU.  OK?

Now, CLICK, dammit.