Goodbye, Danny.

Dan Beaudette was the first gay friend I ever introduced to my parents. When I got back from Europe, where my coming-out journey had played out, he had been introduced to our little gang by, well, I'm not sure who, but there he was. He was witty, charming, successful, and good-looking and we became instant friends. Having moved to Salt Lake City from Palm Springs he's the reason any of us went to our very first White Party all those years ago.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Dan was estranged from his parents and so mine more or less took him in--the last couple of years I lived in Salt Lake, Dan was a fixture at mom and dad's house for all big holidays--Christmas, Thanksgiving. He was as much a part of our family as any of my friends have ever been.

I lived with Dan for a year right before leaving Salt Lake, in a restored Victorian off Liberty Park. Danny was the reason I had my first big birthday party with my family where my gay friends were invited--including one or two drag queens--who showed up in full regalia. I guarantee you that is the first time my dad ever shared a meal with guys in dresses; with Dan over to the side going "See, I told you this would work!"

Danny and I became road-tripping buddies, taking a day or two off work here and there and packing some shit into the back of his convertible and just driving--usually to California, stopping for various misadventures along the way. We stopped in Vegas once to visit this friend of his who was a showgirl, ok well no she wasn't she worked in a topless bar--as a waitress only, they both reassured me. We had been driving all night and it was 4:30 in the morning and Jenny, or Cassie, or whatever her name was--seated us at one of the lap-dancing tables and fed us drinks. We marveled as the hot, silicone-filled dancers stepped down at the shift change and were replaced by less, um, polished versions and half the patrons in the club got up and left. "The Five-O'Clock Girls," Jenny-Cassie told us. Untested talent was only allowed to work the 5 AM shift until they proved themselves. Being called a Five-O'Clock Girl in certain segments of the Las Vegas entertainment community is not a compliment. Whenever Dan and I would come back from a club or party looking a little less than fresh, there was almost always a comment: "Wow, is it five o'clock *already?*"

The year we lived together we decided to do up our Victorian sitting room all proper-like for Christmas--so we got a tree, a bunch of ribbons and bows and candles and all that stuff that if you have the gay gene you're supposed to be able to just toss up in the air and have it land like fabulous. After several hours, we had an *almost*-fabulously decorated sitting room and then Parker and Jim came over. They were diplomatic, if not honest--"it needs, *something.*" Parker demands, "Bring me a teddy bear." What? "A teddy bear. I know someone here has one." Jim needs floral wire. What? "Floral wire." We don't have any floral wire. "Every gay household has floral wire now go find it." Turns out there was indeed floral wire in the kitchen drawer. Parker and Jim set to work on our sitting room--"Martha Stewart, on crack," Danny observes--and in 15 minutes we suddenly had House Beautiful Christmas, as well as the realization that some of our friends were WAY gayer than us.

One night the power went out. Again. The drafty old house got colder and colder. By midnight both of us were huddled with his dog in front of the fireplace (good thing the gas still worked) and smoking too much weed. We watched the snow fall outside and talked all night and solved all the world's problems.

"You're the only person who gets me, Scotty," he said.

Dan drank too much, partied too hard, took too many pills and was a bit of a mess--a big, fun-loving goodtime-girl mess who loved pets and children. Which means he was exactly like th rest of us. I don't feel bad saying this since I imagine when I go, if people say things half as delicately about me I'll be happy.

He moved away to Tampa after I came to California and we lost touch, then he moved to L.A. after his mother died and from day 1 it was as if we hadn't really spent six years apart. All the old jokes and all the old stories came roaring back as if it were just yesterday.

Lately, we hadn't been seeing each other as much as usual, missing each other's calls, checking in on voicemails--"Hey gurl, how you doing?" You get busy and you're doing your thing and friends who don't figure so prominently in your day-to-day tend to fade into the background if you're not careful and suddenly you're listening to that voicemail that says "Hey, Scotty, it's Dan--where are you? We haven't talked in awhile, it would be nice to catch up, call me..." and thinking, yeah, I should call him.

Dan's workout partner found him Wednesday morning alone in his apartment.

If I do nothing else today it's going to be to call all those people I've been meaning to call, and missing, and tell them as much--because you never know when you might not actually get to. I still have Dan's unanswered voicemail in my inbox.

Good luck, Danny. You never found what you were looking for in this life; I hope it was waiting for you in the next.

Blog, Resurrected

Out on the town with me partner-in-crime, featuring the heart surgery scar. I usually forget that it shows--it doesn't really bother me (much) (anymore).

In that the last entry was my half-finished heart surgery story, I figured I'd lead off the re-birth of "I Fierce" with a follow-up on that topic--photographic evidence that yes, that really happened and yes, I'm still alive. I remember The Scar being a big deal, heading into the hospital. I dreaded it--people around me were concerned--will there be a big scar? What will it look like? Will it go away? Will you hate it? Scar! Scarscarscarscar!

Well. I am happy to report that it bothered me almost not at all--even before the bandages came off I didn't care that The Scar was now a permanent part of the man in the mirror. I was so glad to still be alive and healthy that The Scar now shows up in public mostly as a badge of courage and a great conversation starter. At first, there were other things occupying my mind whenever the topic came up--the replacement for my bad heart valve is a human tissue graft from a donor. Far more disconcerting than the slender pink line bisecting my chest were bigger questions--who was he? What was he like? What happened to him? Finding out along the way that the donor was most likely someone of my same general age and weight, I could only assume he had met with an untimely demise; and that my first order of business would be to live each day to its fullest, to honor this most generous of all gifts. It can't help but make you a better person--sometimes I wonder, when I'm having a moment that's not one of my finest--what would my anonymous donor think of the life he's now a part of--is he somewhere looking at me going "wow, what an *sshole," or is he pleased with the man his past life has merged with... Even if none of these questions matter, the fact is, it does give me an ideal to live up to, more tangible than ever before in my life.

So anyway, yes, alive and kicking. I don't really recall what my purposes were in creating this blog almost 2 years ago; at this point it's still a concept in development. It may one day end up a major player on the world stage, or it may remain of interest only to those who know me. Kind of like my life itself.

Stay tuned.