By Dana Miller

I distrust box turtles and humped camels and anything else that can go a week without a drink. I had a drink the other evening with West Hollywood City Councilmember Jeffrey Prang. Honestly, Jeff drank green tea and I drank chardonnay. It didn’t bug me or let me down. I am a happy drinker with writing problems, so tea is cool with this cat. I like Jeff. He’s one of the good ones out there. Once upon a time I shook former Councilmember Steve Martin’s hand and my whole right side went sober. Eccentric Steve and a coterie of his mixed-up misfits are running for City Council in March. Jeffrey is solid until 2009 and he and I had a great freewheeling discussion on life today in West Hollywood. He predicts Heilman and Land are a pass and prognosticates that Sal Guarriello just might be vulnerable.

At one point in life, Steve Martin was Jeff Prang’s mentor and, for two years, his roommate. Steve served the city for eight years, and yet he wants back in. Why? Who knows? Can’t possibly be the $400 bucks a month? I think to put up with politics one must be a little crazy to stay sane. But motives are like tricks. You can have a million of ‘em, but in the morning you just don’t care. I do believe power corrupts, yet—like Britney or Lindsay without panties—it’s both fun and disturbing to watch it play out. (BTW, if that hairless steamed mussel in the half-shell getting out of a car doesn’t make you gay, nothing will).

Martin’s heart is likely in the right place, but I find him so damned ghastly earnest. He’s a tad longwinded. I mean, if you haven’t struck oil in the first couple of minutes of conversation, stop boring. I suspect he has little if any chance of winning so why the effort? It’s big bucks to raise money for direct mail piece after direct mail piece here in WeHo. Is it sad or service? Political fame can’t be fun. I mean it’s likely better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, but what does it really get you? A booth at Mark’s? A 9 a.m. call to Chris Diamond or Chef Wayne can honor you with that. I assume VIP treatment at the Zone, Tomkat and Melrose Baths are out of the question from a visibility standpoint. Politics and entertainment are perhaps the only two professions on earth in which no preparation is thought necessary, so I’m happy to hobnob with the major domos of our domestic affairs. But I sometimes feel like Paris Hilton at a parent-teacher conference.

I asked Councilmember Prang why the hell he is committed. Why would anyone want to be on a city council? His answer was heartfelt and, I think, both pure and honest: passion. Ever since he was a little kid, he knew he wanted to serve. I believe in my heart that he is a good guy who cares about our community. I get that and respect him. Back in 1989, when my Matthew Murray passed away, I knew I had to serve the HIV/AIDS community in some damned way. Hell, I had to do something. For almost 20 years, it’s been my focus and passion, so I understand and, indeed, believe Jeffrey Prang. I suspect the same is true for the cherished Council clan of Heilman, Guarriello, Duran and Land, as well.

I showed Councilmember Prang the new Christopher Street West report. Why the hell I had it before he did is beyond me. It’s no secret that I have been a vocal critic of our past pathetic Pride parades and festivals. As Karen Ocamb reported in the last issue, a 21-page report was issued on Nov. 20. That is what I showed Councilmember Prang, and I must tell you we were both truly impressed. The Honorable Jeffrey Prang has shared many of my concerns about the event over the years. He and I have had an ongoing dialogue about how Pride denied, tried to hide and almost died over the years. But, dammit, the Pride board and L.A. Pride Director Rodney Scott seem to be listening, and they have created a document that talks the talk. Now can they possibly walk the walk? I hope, wish and pray so. And if these volunteers can turn this weekend into the world-class festival it should be, I commit to praising each and every one of them in this column and personally hosting a champagne reception in their honor. I’m serious. This is one crow I would love to eat. And I’ll do it early, as I suspect crow is easier to eat warm.

I shared with Jeffrey Prang a random thought that I think is right on, correct and will likely never ever fly. Karen Ocamb, the news editor of this magazine, and I should host the local telecast of the Pride parade on channel 10. I mean at least we would get the names right and respect the significance of the event. Talk about dancing with the devil. They haven’t the balls to invite us, but it’s a fun thought. If what this gaggle of Pride geese put on paper is a true and binding commitment to this community’s Gay Pride festival, then I want to be one of the first to say, “How can I help?” Every parade has a right to be ugly, but, in the past, Rodney and company abused the privilege. If it sucks, I’ll be the first to yell “foul.” This is not an effort that should be tossed about lightly—it needs to be passionately thrown at full force. Here’s to Christopher Street West 2007. Deliver on your missive or fall on your sword. Seems fair, right?

Before I let Councilmember Prang go I wanted to discuss West Hollywood’s biggest organ. It’s been 10 years since Scott Forbes, the former owner of Studio One/Factory passed on, so he knew I was speaking of some other giant organ. (Such an inside, but funny joke that at least makes me laugh. Scott was so big he fainted every time he got hard due to lack of blood.) This was one the council stared at, dreamed of and even the Honorable John Duran stroked. But the organ in our park is not to be. At least not the biggest outdoor organ in the world. Ryan Gierach writes an on-line column www.wehonews.com that I get by magic every week. According to Ryan’s story, the City of West Hollywood turned down an offer of a “free, fully-funded, gift that could only brighten our lives.” Those were the words of Weston Harris, a noted organ builder and concert organist. The city was offered a $2 million pipe organ for free to place at the West Hollywood Park by the baseball diamond. Duran wanted the organ. Prang passed. I asked him why. He answered, “Do we really want to listen to organ music?” Ah, um, ugh—no! His other concern was upkeep through the years. I think he’s right. But damn, how the hell do we pass on saying West Hollywood has the “biggest organ in the world?” I’m honestly not a size queen but wine comes from Napa/Sonoma, artichokes from Castroville and the lettuce capital of the world is Kent, Wash. Shouldn’t we in WeHo at least have the largest organ in the world? Get me Chi Chi on the phone. Councilman Jeffrey Prang cares about us. I like that. I’m impressed, and he is sweet, smart, committed, passionate and tranquil. I’ll drink to that! Pass that damned green tea! Ugh.

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Contact me at malibudana@aol.com.