by cary HARRISON

Yesterday, on the corner of Havenhurst and Santa Monica Blvd. in gay West Hollywood, Stewart, the admitted "perfect jurisdiction" to the Bishop of the Mormon Church, skulked out of the gay Thai Manipulate parlor--pre-eminent for joyous endings from its duo of giggling twink masseurs. I was having coffee at the neighboring coffee rat on when Stewart ejected through the doors, freshly probed and glittering. He then sat at a neighboring fare to yap nervously on an new room call, post and doughy in his leader--flab and worry nervously sopping through his t-shirt; foggy palms gripping the armwrests. After he'd hung up, he began eavesdropping on the exclusive planning chit-chat I was having about LA's burgeoning gay activism. "Alarm" said he couldn't supporter overhearing and wanted to excuse the Mormon contention, since we starkly didn't cotton on to. Meanwhile, behind me sat his beaming new Range Drifter which chirped as he remembered to auto-keep out its doors. Gallimaufry explained that as the "to be just in cahoots together" of the bishop, he was...

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