By Dana Miller

I'm thrilled to report to you that Labor Day L.A. is returning in 2007. Alan Friel, Joel Raznick and I have been working on this for months. For years LDLA was a spectacular annual event in West Hollywood. It quite honestly became a destination point for gay men from all across the country that weekend. This rejuvenated event will raise the outstanding commission of volunteerism, philanthropy and, most especially, fun for our collective gaggle. This year it will all take place Aug. 31-Sept. 2. We have joined forces with media giants Clear Channel Radio and both IN magazine and Frontiers to create, deliver and excite you and your friends with a series of exceptional events. For years I produced a show for APLA titled Commitment to Life. I'm still today utterly proud of the folks we honored over all those shindigs. In truth, I'm seriously jubilant at the lot who has agreed to step into our spotlight in ’07. This holiday weekend, LDLA will honor a few of the most phenomenal, first-class magnanimous and compassionate people from our tribe. We promise a series of staggering celebrations in several unique locations over the weekend. This first year of its grand return, the Labor Day L.A. Foundation will donate proceeds to both the Trevor Project and Gay & Lesbian Elder Housing. Look to the Gay Pride editions of IN and Frontiers for all the details. And please mark your calendars and kindly save the date. I would truly like you to join our bash.

Keeping with my gone pal Peter Allen’s mantra, “Everything Old Is New Again,” can you believe it was 25 years ago last week that Sire Records guru Seymour Stein threw out a single to radio titled “Everybody” from a total unknown named Madonna? What a ride and what a career—for each of them. Seymour has been out of the Madonna business for so long he had almost slipped off my mind space. His ex-wife Linda is the real estate agent to the stars in Manhattan. Linda is a tough broad; every other word out of her mouth is “fuck.” She has been Elton John’s friend for years and EJ is her daughter’s godfather. Linda is a piece of work—in a good way. You know the type that if you are in the mood you run to hug and if not, you flee at warp speed? Linda does that to me. Seymour is large, even grand. You quite simply can't help but like them both—in moderation. Seymour speaks just like Truman Capote once did. It’s a mumbling kind of late Brando thing. Beyond Madonna, Seymour signed the Talking Heads, the Pretenders and the Ramones to record deals. He is even in the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame. In my opinion, Seymour was always a tad light in the loafers. My gaydar was always at terminal velocity when I was near him. He is shrewd, sentimental, noisy and generally in charge. A few years ago I took my friend singer/songwriter Corey Hart to meet Seymour at Mr. Chow on Camden Drive in Beverly Hills. Corey was a way-hot, straight Canadian kid who had a monster hit, “Sunglasses at Night,” and was looking for a new record deal. I'm uncertain what exactly Seymour was looking for. But inexplicably the sexual tension in this business meeting was fierce. My straight lad was flirting like a gay boy. It was right out of a John Rechy novel. Corey was playing Seymour like a fiddle and my jaw was dropping. Pretty boy chatting with an old man with passion, and a deal sounded like a dick, a blowjob sounded like a budget and a platinum record suddenly sounded strangely perverted. It was like watching Wild Orchid or Basic Instinct. Shakespeare wrote, “Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.” It’s miserable for a true artist to not have a record deal. Just like most sexual tension, consummation never occurred. No record deal was made. No deal of any kind happened. Power, to some, is the ultimate aphrodisiac. To others it may be a hunk with a hit. What was in the air that day I cannot explain, yet I dated that memory for about six months. My pal Corey is a songwriting giant who lives in the Bahamas with his wife Julie and their four kids. Seymour is still out there signing artists. Seems to me one half of the world can use and abuse the pleasures of the other. It happens every day. I'm just here at this moment to tell you it can be fun to watch.

Have you noticed that the Pussycat porn theater on Santa Monica Boulevard has changed its name to “Stud”? Seems high time we replaced pussy with penis at that joint and called a spade a slut … er, um, …stud! I mean for quite some time the most common words heard at the Pussycat likely were, “Excuse me while I whip this out.” I can only assume the place is filled with hardened, swollen, indurated out of work or out of love folks. In college my pals from USC and I would head to the Pussycat Theater on Hollywood Boulevard to watch straight flicks like The Opening of Misty Beethoven, Fast Times at Deep Crack High, Screwing Miss Daisy and Debbie Does Dallas. One memorable evening they showed straight porn in 3-D and we all wore silly glasses. Instead of the obvious, shoving dicks into your 3-D goggles (not at all cool to the preachers, proletarian and perverts in the crowd), for no apparent reason at all there would suddenly be a billiard cue coming at you or a carving knife or a palm tree. Worse yet was the bowling ball with peach fuzz on it headed for your head. I do believe gay 3-D porn is a smashing idea. Imagine that uncut unit inches from your face with the cum shot zooming at your noggin like a Spider-Man special effect yet with no spew to dodge or even clean up. It would be like a pearl necklace with the need for a cum towel. But I digress. Back in the old days there were apparently 750 Pussycat Theatres in the United States. There were 47 here in California alone. I do miss that boulevard marquee advertising cinematic treasures and treats like A Fistful of Penis, All Hands on Dick, Cum and Cummer and my fave, A Lad In. What in God’s name did those old Russian women passing with shopping carts think about that signage? Head down, feet first, I assume. All it simply touts today is “Stud.” Ah, but there is a giant new, clean as a whistle missive out front you must go see. It proudly states: “You are standing at the door of the historic Pussycat Theatre, an internationally acclaimed domain providing erotic cinematic entertainment to discerning mature adults. For decades these doors have opened to Hollywood celebrities, moguls, their entourages as well as their worshipers. Inside you will experience the same cavernous darkness that shrouded their private indiscretions and harbored secrets that remain, even today, an integral part of Hollywood lore.”

 Come on! I love this crap! It goes on to say that if you are not 18 years of age, come back on your 18th birthday to be welcomed and likely serviced. It is sorta written like the signs at the entrance of Disney’s Space Mountain except in the style of Oscar Wilde. Instead of fasten your seat belt they kinda say, “Flies spread disease, so keeps yours closed.” There is something for all of us in our Southern California hamlet. While I love the freedom the Stud does evoke, I'd prefer you dip me in Ripple and throw me to the muddled crowd at the Spotlight on Cahuenga or hell, even in chocolate and toss me to my favorite lesbians. I'm just uncertain, a tad creeped out and frankly scared of where the mature adults, celebrities, moguls, entourages and worshipers have sat butt naked, shrouded in that cavernous Stud, darkness before me. If I do come, can I at least bring a towel? Even if you don't elect to screen it in 3-D?

Time and time again I've written what a fan I am of the Upright Cabaret boys. Their productions always leave me in a fine state of ecstatic appreciation. So I'm delighted to let you know that my boyfriend, Ryan Black, is expanding cabaret in our borough. Beginning May 21 and then on the third Monday of every month, check out 88's at Eleven. Cabaret upstairs at that classy joint. I predict a triumphant success!!

See You Out & About

Contact me at Malibudana@aol.com