![]() ![]() Just last night came word to Randy that yet another old friend had drunk himself out of existence. ![]() Some didn't survive the AIDS crisis, and countless others didn't survive the angst of knowing they wouldn't die, that HIV was a chronic, manageable illness, and so they dove deep into the darkness of crystal meth, alcohol, and the like, dancing their way into the arms of death. I remember all those beautiful masculine faces that grace the walls of my memory. Next year I will cross the half-century mark, and my mind wanders back through all those winding corridors of years in San Francisco, New Orleans, Key West, and New York. Good friends, work that I love and am passionate about, and-not the least-I am alive. As the noon sun is peaking just overhead now, my heart is full of gratitude, for I've been so lucky in life. ![]() I'm sitting on the patio in front of the weather-worn, shingle-clad cottage that my good friend, Randy, has rented for the summer in Provincetown, Massachusetts, where every summer evening he gives an entertainingly realistic performance as Cher to eager sun-drenched and alcohol-infused crowds. It's now late August and another summer is quickly slipping away. ![]()
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