A friend of mine suckered me into volunteering for the Warner Brothers annual holiday party for homeless gay youth of Los Angeles. I mean, how do you say “no” to an invitation of that nature? I like my assholery to be of a certain brand. The party was a raging success; plenty of smiles, hot dancing and an incredibly impressive spread of food. Oh yes, and the faint undercurrent of despair, loneliness and wounded souls. That’s right, I could smell it. My overactive imagination compounded that by creating scenarios to go with many of the attending youths. I really do have a flair for being unnecessarily dramatic.

When in the company of people less fortunate than myself I always feel awkward. Am I acting TOO nice? Does my expression look judgmental? That sort of typical, dumb-ass, suburban whitey-tries-to-do-good thing. After serving turkey on the buffet line for about an hour I was watching some of the dancers on stage when a beautiful girl came up to me and asked me how I pronounced my name (volunteers wear name tags). She introduced herself as Starr and started to watch the dancers with me; occasionally commenting on this or that. I was mortified. While many people who know me will boast that my conversational skills are exceptional, there are times when I can hardly force together a rudimentary sentence. What does one talk about with a gorgeous, underage black girl who doesn’t happen to have a permanent residence?

“Would you believe it took them nearly an hour to detail my car yesterday?”

“In the end I had to settle for an inferior, locally manufactured comforter because the Hungarian down was on backorder.”

“One of the greatest benefits to this new job is that I’m close enough to drive home for lunch. Of course, the free medical/dental/vision and 100% 401k matching is also quite good.”

Thankfully Starr mentioned that she was doing a water cleanse diet and that was something I could talk to her about. Contrary to what some might think, I can be a freaky health nut. We also bonded over the downright shocking sex appeal of one of the “sexy Santas” they had to take photos with the kids. At one point he took his shirt off and I thought I was going to burst into flames. My morbid imagination couldn’t leave well enough alone and I had to wonder how many of those Polaroid photos with sexy Santa would end up in plastic bags at the morgue. Yes, that’s the brain I get to live with.

A few of Starr’s friends came by and I spoke with some of them, but she never introduced me. At one point I was literally surrounded by homeless gays and I felt like a lawnmower in Macy’s. Then a fight broke out and was quickly neutralized by the kids in the immediate vicinity. I was impressed. They were policing themselves out of respect for the event. It was a very “documentary” moment. I realize how silly it was of me to be so uncomfortable, but I couldn’t help myself. And when I noticed some of the volunteers breaking down the buffet tables I excused myself from Starr’s company saying I needed to help out.

Next was a guy named Steve that my friend met when she volunteered for this event last year. She was discouraged to see him again (i.e. homeless for more than a year) and told me that when she encountered him near the bathrooms that he didn’t seem “all there” to her. When she pointed him out he was alone on the dance floor cranking out some pretty bad hip hop moves. He looked really cute from that distance, but on closer inspection was definitely worse for the wear. It crushed me. I had to sit and wonder what circumstances led to his current situation. What happened to all of these kids?

Near the end of the event I was heading to the room upstairs where they would be handing out the gift bags. Just ahead of me was Steve and I avoided eye contact because, frankly, he scared me. His eyes seemed to be witnessing events other than those around him and his mannerisms gave every indication that he might snap at any moment. I paused to allow him to pass in front of me and he said, “Hello there” in the most normal and genuine tone and I was surprised. I returned the greeting and continued on my way feeling like a bona fide jackass.

This is why I distance myself. I don’t watch the news or read the paper. I’m too sensitive and I get enraged about all of the needless suffering and pain in our world. I made a lot of incredibly tasteless jokes with my friends just to keep from tearing up. I felt like such a fraud spending three lousy hours in aid of the unfortunate. I loathe seasonal charity doers! I left the party a little early not really knowing what to think.

The drive home was somber. My heart went out to all those great kids enduring a hard life for this reason or that. I chastised myself for the petty grievances and minuscule conflicts that interrupt what should be a jubilant life. For the trials of my childhood, which I begrudgingly endured, any of those kids would gladly exchange. The opportunities I’ve had, the love and adoration of my family, the friends I ignore and abuse, the beautiful apartment I neglect, the shiny, new car that I didn’t have detailed yesterday and is overdue for an oil change. I’ve never felt more American in my life. My country that infects all corners of the globe with its gluttony and disdain. Exploiting every resource and turning a blind eye to atrocities in the name of good trade. Wearing a pious mask to protect the world against injustice while abused innocents are left to survive by their wits on our cruel city streets.

It’s all well and good to achieve a little perspective in this season of “good will towards men” but why must this attitude be restricted? I freely admit that I am a raging hypocrite. There is certainly a great deal I could do all year for those souls bereft of the many blessings in life I’ve come to expect and yet I do precious little for the betterment of myself. They say charity begins at home and I think that’s something we should all think about.

My work for today was canceled without warning and I found myself wondering what to do. What is it that I do when I’m not working? I couldn’t remember so I decided to go see a movie.

Last Thursday I went to the opening of a gallery exhibition to see my friend, Jared, the photographer responsible for the images you see on this page. He is one of those people I see infrequently whose company I always enjoy until I remember that he is infuriating. Other than that I would marry him, but the point of this mention is that he saw Across The Universe recently and wanted to know my opinion.

My opinion was that I felt bitter because I waited for nine months for that movie to come out and then found myself with no time to see the damn thing. It was released nationwide on Johnny’s birthday and where was I? Not at the theater as planned.

So I checked my local listings this morning only to discover that it wasn’t playing in any of my preferred theaters, but rather in the sad, dilapidated Mann cinema I typically avoid. It turned out well with an unheard of $3.50 matinee price and a deserted, old school auditorium.

Going through the process of preparing myself for disappointment after such a long anticipation was wise, but entirely unwarranted. From the first note sung in the opening scene to the closing credits I was in awe. The trailer put emphasis on the surreal aspects of the feature and that can sometimes be a warning. Thankfully the whimsical, art school orgy bits blended seamlessly with reality much in the way I often impose my own fantasies on my everyday life.

After the movie I couldn’t get home fast enough to buy the soundtrack. I called Jared so we could have the discussion we should have had on Thursday. He asked me to sum up my experience in a single sentence (yeah, he’s one of those). I told him that it was like visiting a museum on acid and all of the paintings were singing to entertain me. That stopped him in his tracks.

Go see the freaking flick, please. Even if it’s only for the shockingly homoerotic Army induction sequence. I haven’t felt so artistically molested by a movie since The Cook, the Thief, His Wife & Her Lover. The arrangements of the Beatles songs are simply sublime and incredibly moving. I’m including a selection here because during that scene of the movie I almost dropped my nachos I was crying so hard.

Tomorrow my friend Michelle and I are going to see So You Think You Can Dance. It’s the results show so there won’t be as much dancing, but OneRepublic will be performing their song “Apologize” and I’m almost as excited about that as the possibility of seeing some more of Neil’s flesh live and in person!

Here is the Timbaland remix that I can’t stop playing in the car.

When I started working in porn it never occurred to me that I would have to come up with a porn name. My work isn’t that type of work so I just figured I would use my real name. It’s not like I’m running for office any time soon and it shouldn’t matter anyway. So yesterday Chris Steele was putting the credits together for a new movie and found no alias for me on the cast sheet. He called my office and asked me for my porn name as if he were double checking that I wanted extra mayo on my sandwich for lunch.

I take these things very seriously. The last thing I want is some lame moniker following me around forever. When I paused, Chris became slightly annoyed and told me I had five minutes to come up with a porn name. I did what any sensible person would do in a crisis situation like that – I dialed up an anagram generator site! You can’t trust those porn name generators for anything more than a drunken giggle. And when you work in my trade you develop a high tolerance for smut-oriented humor.

In a pinch I always find my work under pressure is nothing short of brilliant. In just a few minutes I had run enough letter combinations to come up with something humorous enough not to draw ridicule, but still cool enough to glisten with a little dignity and even conjure similar tones of my real name.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Lord Jello Rod!

In a follow-up to my previous post, I thought it might be fun to open a can of worms. It’s painfully obvious for me or any other living, breathing human to be attracted to Mason Wyler. What about those other people that unknowingly harvest our devotion for mysterious reasons?

This is a call out to all readers of Hazzard Ahead. Who are the guys that circumnavigate all of your defenses, the ones you’d willingly leave the country for or who can seem to do no wrong to deter your devotion? We all have them. Sometimes we’re embarrassed by the fact because they’re too obvious or too perverse. Who cares? Let this blog be your therapy. Sing out to your peers that you’re in love with Tony Danza! Why not?

OK. That may be a bit extreme. I’ll tell you what – I’ll start the ball rolling. Here is a list of guys I would board a train with and never look back and the reason why. I expect a similar response from our beloved readers.

Mason Wyler – Only if his relationship dissolved amicably and my body was better than his.

Milo Ventimiglia – If he begged me to be his undisputed life partner after I found him drunk and disoriented in an alleyway. Oh, and he would have to agree that his name was pronounced Mee Low.

David Krumholtz – When he proved mathematically that I would be his ideal lover.

David Boreanaz – Do I really NEED a reason? The man is hotter than Kilauea and I would gladly impersonate a woman to collect some of his seed.

Well, that was slightly more graphic than I had planned, but you get the point. We want to know who your sexual heroes are. Let it rip people, it’s a holiday weekend!