Kevin Hogan wasn't the only person this week ambushed out of a job for his participation in the gay adult film industry. FOX News reports : Ric Alonso and his partner of 21 years, Ernie Koneck, have both been both prominent power players in the Southern California Scholarship Association — an incorporated not-for-profit association — which produces the Miss Hollywood pageant, an official preliminary to Miss California, and a feeder to Miss America. Alonso is listed as the first “major sponsor” for 2011 scholarship donations, while partner Koneck has been the pageantry point of contact and is featured in photographs alongside the smiling young sashed pageant contestants. On Tuesday, Alonso was exposed by RadarOnline as adult film actor and producer "Jake Cruise". FOX News adds: Following the revelation, Koneck announced his resignation Tuesday as Executive Director of the Southern California Scholarship Association, and said Alonso was in no way involved in the Miss Holl
[ Editor's note ] Three monumental things have happened to me at the BankUnited Center. In 2004, my high school held its graduation ceremony there. In 2008, I heard presidential nominee Barack Obama speak about the future. And this past Saturday night, I saw the incomparable Barry Manilow perform in concert. To say that Barry remains every bit the superstar I was hoping for is putting it mildly. At 67 years young, he brought all the magic, the smiles, and the bandstand boogie he's famous for and then some. Funny, talented and charmingly self-deprecating, Barry Manilow remains without equal. Admittedly, the night started off rather poorly. Barry’s opening act was a man named Gerry McCambridge who has allegedly been wowing audiences at Planet Hollywood in Las Vegas since 2005. As the creative force and inspiration behind the TV show The Mentalist , McCambridge's schtick is to do clever things with numbers. Honestly, I've never thought that doing anything with numbers w
You can't consider yourself a writer if you don't write. In recent years, I have probably said those words to myself so often that they could be considered a mantra; a mantra that I don't want to embody but one that is nonetheless true. I don't write anymore. I don't write to faraway friends. I don't write to remember. I don't write for pleasure. I don't write for release. I don't even Tweet. At a recent job interview (for another job I didn't really want), I was asked what I would do for a living if I could do anything. Without even thinking about it, I said I would be a writer. But that was a stock answer. It's the answer I've always given to that question. But this time the answer felt phony. It felt forced. It didn't feel like me anymore. The real, ugly, scary truth is that I don't know if I still got the right stuff to be the writer I wanted to be. While I have always questioned the validity of my own voice (my
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