By Dana Miller

We're queer, we're here ... get used to it. Ugh.

The other day I was sitting at the bar at Doris Day's Cypress Inn in Carmel-By-The-Sea. Ryan and I fell into the joint quite by happy accident. My friend Terry Melcher, Doris Day's son, actually ran the place with Dennis LeVett until Terry sadly passed last year of cancer. Terry lived a fun and full life. He produced music for the Beach Boys and The Byrds. He had tons of hit songs with Beach Boy Bruce Johnson and always looked after his mom. Charles Manson was looking to kill Terry the night he showed up at Sharon Tate's door at 10050 Cielo Drive in Beverly Hills. Terry lived in the guest house with girlfriend Candice Bergen, but, thankfully, wasn't home. That's a story I have written of before. Terry and I quietly conspired one year to get Doris to come to L.A. to pay tribute to the memory of Rock Hudson at an AIDS benefit. We were so damned close to pulling it off. Doris hadn't left Carmel in years but we had a giant mobile home on hold and a suite at the Bel Air Hotel. Sadly at the last moment she panicked and just couldn't do it. I totally understood it and flew to Carmel to tape record her comments. Terry was heartbroken. He was way more shattered then me. Told me it was a huge regret in his life. So the other day I'm looking at Terry's gold and platinum records hanging in the bar at the hotel and remembering this gentle, caring creature. As we headed home on Highway 1 there they were. Everywhere. The folks in the AIDS Ride from San Francisco to Los Angeles. We honked our horn off in spirited congratulations! I truly believe Terry was sending me a message. Those records are what he got. His desire to give is what he gave me.

So Mary Cheney's book is a big ole turd—a total flop. It has sold fewer than 6,000 copies—574 last week. She, personally, didn't fail. She took the money and ran. Who the hell is surprised? A few years ago Arthur Marx, Groucho's son, was shopping a "tell-all" book on Bob Hope. No publisher would buy it. The prevailing theory was Hope's fans wouldn't wanna hear any of the trash and no one else would care. Kinda makes sense, huh? So the finger-on-the-pulse idiots at Simon & Schuster give a million dollar advance to a Republican lesbian who thinks her vice presidential pop is the bomb. Lord! This guy has a 19 percent approval rating. I'd rather read a bio on Danny Pintauro from Who's The Boss. Hell, I may have already done that.

I did it. I don't know why. But I was moved. I honestly was. I went to the CSW Pride kickoff at Factory last week thanks to Councilmember Jeffrey Prang and his major domo, Josh Kurpies. The gay pride gaggle paid homage to the folks being honored this year during the festival. I make fun of the floats, the lack of style, grace, and pageantry, but I gotta tell ya I was moved by those swells they elected to be honored. They were the real deal, and as they ran video clips of their achievements, I was quietly sobbing. So many do so little that when you watch the gentle and often silent work of folks who do go about making a difference, it's a beautiful thing. I was blessed to be there and that's likely a first for me at the Factory. From across the room I saw Abbe Land. I was a stupid shit and didn't go up and say hi. Here's a woman who had just been defeated after spending more than a year stumping for an Assembly gig. Every single night she had to raise cash. I'll bet she went to thousands of gatherings to make her case, grab bucks, smile, and try to win over folks. So there I was 20 feet away with nothing to say. I'm an idiot. Well, God bless you Abbe Land. You proudly participated in the process and I have no pride at all that I didn't saunter up and congratulate you for fighting the good fight in person. Oddly, the head of CSW/Pride, Rodney Scott, and I chatted. He asked me to lunch. I mean he was full of charm and dubious sentiment. He does indeed seem to be a nice chap but lunch likely is a bad idea for the two of us. My friend Dave Barry once scripted a thought I embrace: "I can win an argument on any topic, against any opponent. People know this, and steer clear of me at parties. Often, as a sign of their great respect, they don't even invite me." I think that's best, Rodney.

I did however chat with this magazine's Billy Masters at the soiree. I had never met Billy before but have always enjoyed his column. It's the first thing I read. Well, I mean after Karen and Ramy, Christopher and Arianna and Jeremy and Joseph's stuff. Oh, and Dr. Bethany. Billy to me is unequivocally one of the great writing wits at a time I think we need 'em. He gave me his autograph and promised to read my crap in the future.

So Babs is doing it again—hitting the road. Gotta love that. One of the few icons left. This will be a massive tour. I saw Barbra Streisand in Vegas the last final time. Went with Barry, Linda, and Andy Gibb to her democratic fund-raiser at her former Malibu compound and even was blessed to work with her on a couple AIDS benefits for APLA I have written about in the past. The voice is incomparable. The style and elegance of the evening is always delightful. But what's with the cue cards? That's my one issue. There are TelePrompTers on stage and in the middle of the arena with every line and ad lib she reads verbatim. Look, Sinatra could get away with it, but he was 80! If he didn't have the lines and lyrics in front of him it would have been sad. But Barbra? Come on! Just memorize the stuff.

Eleven years ago this week the amazingly talented Broadway composer Jerry Herman and I were the first recipients of attractive awards held during the Tony Awards telecast by Aid For AIDS. How I was invited let alone included in that party still stupefies me. For the past couple of years Aid for AIDS has been a part of my annual Toy Box Party. They have elected to do something on their own this year and I wish them joy and success. I don't know that I have ever properly thanked this amazing and spirited organization for honoring me. Perhaps it's my passive/aggressive nonsense that directed me to give them toys rather then say that I was truly blissful and humbled to be a small part of a very special evening a long time ago. Thank you.

My friend Bill Huggins has got gay life going in Vegas with his Krave nightclub. I like the joint and have always liked him. His franchise seems determined to expand. Look for a big announcement soon about Bill's plan at Paris Hotel & Casino. We can all use a little Gay Paree 45 minutes away.

Father's Day 2006. I'm now older than my Dad was when he passed. That seems amazing to me. I want to accomplish so much more yet this dazzling and delightful gent conquered the world before reaching the age of 48. I'm now well on my way to the sere and yellow. My pop was a funny fuck. Always cracking jokes and making people smile. I'm certain he was tormented like all of us, I just never knew it. Sudden death is an odd thing. There truly, sadly, really, remarkably never is any closure. How would my life be different had he lived a few years longer? Chuck, I love you and miss what might have been. Thank you for the smiles, heart and the laughter. Happy Father's Day.

See You Out & About

Contact me at Malibudana@aol.com