Feckless Friday

Today, I went to the dentist, was informed that we would not be getting a baby boy we hoped for, and an agent turned down my novel. It’s one o’clock in the afternoon right now, and I figure the weekend has to pick up from here.

Rats.

Actually, the dentist thing wasn’t that bad. I switched to a different insurance carrier, so I switched dentists, to Dr Boris Shlayman in the Valley. I mention his name because so far, he’s been excellent. He gave me a temporary onlay – a sort of half-crown – which required drilling up a tooth which was half broken filling, half decayed to the point where he took a photo of the back of it to show me it had turned blue. Not apparently a healthy tooth color. Today was Take Your Daughter To Work Day, which he observes. I got to hear his daughter as she peered into my mouth during the procedure say, “Is that the inside of his tooth? Gross!” Absolutely no pain. He even gave me a topical numbing before the injection, so I could have dozed off during it.

Then I came into work and checked email and got the two unwelcome ones. The one from the adoption agency was particularly disappointing. Briefly, we had been told on Wednesday that there was a month-old preemie baby at Children’s Hospital they wanted to release at the beginning of next week. His name was Abraham. We immediately said yes, we wanted him, and our social worker hung up to talk to the county social worker. Three hours went by without reply, and then we were told she finally got a hold of her, and we were third on the list – behind a family who had adopted one of his siblings years earlier and a family who has been waiting longer than us. None of us ended up with Abraham though: the email told me that a cousin of his Mom’s – someone who had been ruled out as unsuitable before – had been given him. I sure hope that first evaluation was wrong.

And then the rejection from the agent. Well, rejection is part of being a writer … one might argue it’s part of being a person. At least, the rejection wasn’t a form letter. He said he found the premise “intriguing” but “there was not enough line-by-line tension in these opening pages” to draw him in. Something I might look at.

And now, let the weekend drinking begin.

The Pride of Hollywood

The Grand Marshall for Long Beach Pride? San Francisco Mayor, gay marriage advocate, and state gubernatorial candidate Gavin Newsome. The Grand Marshall for San Francisco Pride? First Lieutenant Dan Choi, bringing attention to the continued enforcement of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell despite the administration’s promises. The Grand Marshall for DC Pride? Cleve Jones, gay right activist going back to the days where he interned for Harvey Milk (he is a major character in the recent film). The Grand Marshall for NYC Pride? Rupert Starr, former POW and decorated WW2 war hero.

The Grand Marshall of our own Hollywood Pride parade, in these everything's-changed-post-Prop-8 days?

Chelsea Handler, comedienne and author of "Is That You, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea."