Diane Palacio, JFCS & your Lawyers

My Dear Ms. Palacio — and JFCS — and your lawyers —

and SAAF, COPE, MIHS, Bayless, REN, Shanti, and others – so many others

you people are insane — not me

you have screwed with the wrong sissy – you search till your eyes bleed my use of the term “sissy smooching” across the internet —

You go to Amazon – read any of my 16 books

You go to Youtube – listen to my music

Then go search by such terms as “hope’n’change Jim Hlavac” – and perhaps consult Flopping Aces and American Thinker —

perhaps still other pages and places  — till you sit back and go “holy moly we’re we wrong about this fellow!”

Then – come see my art at my house – 200 paintings I did in Arizona

then – come listen to the 2000 pieces of music in my computer I wrote since 2012

you people have no earthly clue

I will tell you yet

if ANY one in this damn system has a brain – you will call me and wonder what the fuss is about

in DAYS – I  am hauling you malicious people to a judge 🙂

I tell you – keep reading this blog — every article back to 2009 – learn who I am – the first dozen or so are about your youze y’alls you alls nonsense – egad – miserable –

come — learn – of your folly

have a nice day

your favorite Hlavac


and if you don’t like this – sue me — go ahead —


To my “doctor”

Defendants and Your Labels of Me:

allow me to forthrightly explain this morass –

The labels:

As of today – so far I have determined that I am declared across the records, a “cocaine, meth, and marijuana addict, who abuses alcohol, with mania, depression, manic-depression, bipolar, anxiety, panic, agoraphobia, and paranoia disorders – with mood instability, social isolation and no contact with family – with legal, weapons, debt and gambling issues, with decompensation, hallucinations, and who is moving to Philadelphia and Costa Rica and has delusions to become a Hollywood movie star — who is delusional about writing books, painting and playing the piano – while in survival and crisis mode – and was an abused child, with child neglect, and learning disabilities – and inbred.” And I’ve been declared “Severely Mentally Ill” and “Special Needs.” You have declared me “in crisis” and “at risk,” and “at risk for crisis” and even “suicidal.”

None of this is true, it is absurd – and dangerous to my life. Cops have been sent to my house twice already – you people are sending cops to my house to compel me to sign forms! And to haul me to a psyche ward. It is most monstrous. If you Ann Khalsa – are my doctor – you will seek to stop this nonsense – if you do not – you are not my doctor – but my enemy.

All these people and you too and more are explicitly, implicitly or complicit in creating this fantasy above – and all that presented in the succeeding blog posts – it is a monstrous fantasy –

www.thedailymush.wordpress.com is where I laid out even more details – and I am not done yet. In fact – this blog is very important – every post I made since 2012 will be entered as evidence against you – the 14 books I published in AZ – the 2000+ pieces of music I wrote – the 200 paintings I did – the translations of Czech letters – and oh so much more – I am a polymath – I am extremely creative – and I did stuff for 50 years and kept on doing it in AZ – and you all labeled me a hopeless mental basket case as I led the life I always have – and you will be astonished to learn what I did, do and plan on doing.

There are so far 350+ pages of utter fantasy written about me by just 3 agencies – who knows what else has been written – I will find out I assure you. Literally 100s of false statements – it is astonishing. And infuriating.

Just 3 weeks ago I got a call from Mercy-Maricopa – and the man talked to me like I was a deranged idiot with a cocaine addiction. This is absurd. A few days later a woman came to my house to tell me I am “severely mentally ill” and “in need of services.” What the hell are you people talking about! She ignored the 60 paintings on my walls! The reality in her face was a delusion to this idiot broad. In my own house she ignored me and talked to me like I was insane – this is insolent lunacy.

This – will be solved – to my satisfaction – one way or the other – with comity and humility by you all– or a judge’s order – for this cannot remain in my records – it is ALL false! You all believe the shit you all wrote – and you are insane.

This all is lies, fraud, malpractice and worse – you all have created a horror story – and I am a fabulous fellow.

“James has no contact with his family”! – are you all out of your goddamn minds! – this is evil. In fact – on February 14th 2013 I reestablished contact with long lost cousins in Wagga Wagga Australia – and shared this news with family in America and the Czech Republic. I am – the lynch pin of a vast family from Wagga Wagga and across America to Skoronice and Vlkos Czech Republic – in two languages! This lie is simply demonic. But the rest of my family? Oh children – you are not ready for me and my family. I will haul you all to a 9/11 memorial to explain to you all how “James has no contact with his family” – what miserable crap.

I asked SAAF and MIHS – the only two agencies I went to – for 1) the AIDS drugs – it took 4 to 5 months to get them, with the help of people outside the system! You all don’t know your own confounded system! My t-cell count in November 2011 was 454 – and then it started falling because of the sheer incompetence of the system. They have not returned to this level yet.

Every other agency I was told I had to go see, so I went – I complied – I signed every fucking form you assholes presented. Why? To “assess” me you claim And what did you do? You LIED! You fabricated! You imagined! – you did bullshit. Lindsay Morgan of Jewish Family Services says I can appeal her decisions about me – so what did she write? She won’t tell me – “you are severely mentally ill and wouldn’t understand” she tells me to my face – this is a miserable excuse of a women – I despise her existence.

2) I asked for a dentist – well, at least that went well – except – that too took months of nonsense to get.

3) a gay male counselor to speak to about gay male issues – and that’s when the labeling spree started – on the very first days I settled in AZ (after 10 years of being here in the winters, which you don’t know about!) I was “assessed” by heterosexual morons – what were you assessing? You were going to tell me what I needed – so you created your fantasy – and you continue to do so – you are malicious and fraudulent – and I HAVE YET to speak to who I wish.

Zhanna Shpitalnik just dismissed my repeated requests as piffle – and pushed a drug me. In fact – all of you pushed a drug on me – Risperadone – first .5 mg, then 1, then 1.5, then 2 – and by 2 – I was “something is wrong” and you wanted to push the pill higher! – and no – this drug endangered my life – you all endangered my life. I do regret taking the pill – but – you all are “professionals” so I followed your advice – and the damn drug almost killed me! I DO NOT need a damn drug – I needed a gay male counselor to talk to about gay male issues. So what did she and I discuss? Politics and the elections! – and my issues? I can’t discuss them with a woman – I stated it repeatedly – and you all told me “no, talk to a woman” egad miserable. What are my issues? I survived 40 years of AIDS, and buried 100 friends, and listened to lifetime of heterosexuals assholes – and lived to tell about it – and you goddamn people ignore this and tell me I’m “inbred” and other miserable shit.

And on January 17th 2013 a man named Toate Ganago – a Nigerian Christian Immigrant at COPE – checked off the box that labeled me “SMI” “Severely mentally ill” – and every one of you morons since then believed this miscreant man – and dismissed me as crap and delusional! Are you fucking nuts! He is from one of the most anti-gay cultures and nations on earth – and you all believed him! You all believe a Nigerian “prince” with 20 million dollars he’d like to give you like in any email! – this is monstrous. That very morning I published to my blog a 4500 word article on Buckminister Fuller – it is very cogent – as all my writing is. I could not be sane in the AM and insane in the PM – that’s ludicrous. The day after I wrote yet another fabulous post.

On April 8th 2013 a woman – Kathleen Oldfather – at COPE had me sign some forms – one of them she slipped in supposedly states “James agrees he’s severely mentally ill” – that is absurd – it’s malicious fraud – for on April 7th, 8th and 10th – I was on the national stage about the Glory of Gay Guys – and North Korea! For 50 years I fought the designation of gay men as “mentally ill” – on those very days too. In 1978 I wrote President Jimmy Carter about gay men – the White House responded – I will prove it to you! It is bizarre to think that 50 years of statements one way – were tossed aside – in 20 minutes with a goddamn woman! – and the next day! I went back to what I had been saying for 50 years. This woman is a creep. I suggest you look at a website “American Thinker” for my article on gay men on April 10th 2013 and the public defense of me as rational by a noted anti-gay pundit!

In Tucson I wrote my third book – “The Pink Sheep of the Ninth Circle” – about the idiocy of heteroos about gay men. To imagine that as I wrote this book of the Glory of Gay Guys I would agree to be “severely mentally ill” is just farcical – and evil. You will all read this book – even if I have to have it read word by word as testimony in a court.

There is so much more – you all are not ready. I suggest someone start to listen to me. For the more I am ignored the more damages I will seek against you all – including your licenses to practice. I am fed up with you morons – you got a pissed off sissy on your hands. The more you remain obstinate against me I will the more rip you apart!

Agoraphobia? Social isolation? “James claims he can play the piano, but is delusional” – Really? I am the official piano player in the lobby of St. Joseph’s Hospital – and people claim in my records that I am delusional about playing the piano – you all are insane.

“Inbred”? Are you mad?

Anyway – -the morons below is just the start of who I am going after.

So the question for you is “Do you wish to cooperate with me or fight me?”

For we can do this nicely – or I will haul you all to a court – and win! You have nothing to stand on – but lies and fraud and malpractice and demonic evil. You all have nothing! And I have my life – and I can prove me – and you cannot prove your version of me. Google me goddamn it – learn who you are dealing with! You imagine me a deranged idiot – and I am a genius publicly! – egad – are you this obstinately obdurately obtusely obnoxious to not listen to me?

My suggestion is this: get all these people together – at St. Josephs – so first you all can listen to an hour of my glorious music I create – and then – in one of the many conference rooms there – listen to a day long presentation of my life and what I did in Arizona. When I am done you will all go “oh shit we fucked up” and then make it right – with some reasonable recompense and restitution for the evil you have done to me. And wipe the bullshit you wrote from the records – all of it – it will be gone – by cooperation or court order.

Let me tell you – we can meet on my terms – or we can meet in a court – but all will hear all about me one way or the other. Get yourselves lawyers – I don’t need one – I know me – and I am brilliant enough to rip you all apart. And I will do so. Again – I can be nice about this – or I will come at you all with a nastiness you can’t fathom. I will not tolerate this crap. I am losing my patience – for SIX MONTHS I have appealed to you raving lunatics: “Listen to me” I said – and you insist your shit is right and I am wrong! It’s disgusting already. Pfft.

And if you think this is a joke or bluff – you will all be very sorry. In this very building right now is a monumental 4 x 4 foot painting I did of 5,000 years of “LGBTQITSAPGNC+ consortium” “community” my tuckus – egad – and you say? “James is a poor historian” – you all are deranged.

I can go on for days about this – do you wish to meet me nicely for one day? OR be hauled and subpoenaed to a court for months! I will haul you out of your goddamn offices until you are sick of me – you all have fucked with the wrong fellow – and there is little left to do but curse at you miserable bastards.

Rozumiš – do you understand? Egad – hrozny – miserable.

The Morons! >>>

Eddy Broadway, CEO

Ron Valdez, Ombudsman

Mercy Maricopa Grievance Committee

Mercy Maricopa Integrated Care

4350 E. Cotton Center Blvd., Bldg. D

Phoenix, AZ 85040

Dorothy Williams

Relles Abeytia

Mary Kayu Tharalson;

Cory, Laura, et al.

Southwest Network

3640 West Osborn Rd., Suite 1

Phoenix, AZ 85019

Keith Thompson, et al

Phoenix Shanti Group

2345 W. Glendale Avenue Phoenix AZ 85021


Thomas Donovan, Chairman, et al

Toate Ganago, Joanna Reis, Kathleen Oldfather, Lisa Robinson, Jonathan Patton and others


82 S. Stone Avenue

Tucson, AZ 85701

Juliet Yardy, et al


375 South Euclid Avenue,

Tucson, Arizona 85719


Lindsay Morgan, et al.

Jewish Family Services

3001 N. 33rd Avenue

Phoenix, AZ 85017

Recovery Empowerment Network

212 E. Osborn Rd., Suite 210

Phoenix, AZ 85012

Eric Moore

Judy Norton


2601 E. Roosevelt Street

Phoenix AZ 85008


UA-UMC, Petersen Clinic, et al

Robert Gadsden

Michael Castaneda

1501 Campbell Road

Petersen Clinic 6OPC

Tuscon Arizona, 85724


Justin M. Bayless, et al

3620 N. 3rd Street Phoenix

Phoenix, AZ 85012


Arizona Department of Health, et al

Ryan White, ADAP, HIV/AIDS Program,

150 N. 18th Avenue

Phoenix, AZ 85007


Brian Arey

Judie Langston

Zhanna Shpitalnik

Gregg Scaggs

McDowell Clinic

1101 N. Central Avenue, Suite 204

Phoenix AZ 85004


Patrick Scullion, et al.


618 South Madison Drive

Tempe, AZ 85281



So many seem inquisitive

Dear Inquisitive Visitors —

I have noticed an increase interest in many things here — including the static page “About Jim Hlavac”

Most welcome – I hope you are all learning well

for I am right – and you are wrong

And this is just the beginning — you are not ready 🙂

Cheers – your favorite Hlavac

just mad as hell at bizarre people

My beautiful picture

My beautiful picture

To my “heatlhcare” tormentors:

My dear people – so, so many of you now – 40, 50 people in like 9, 10, 12 agencies over 5 years – who knows – anyway … the list of you known and unknown gets a special page below: “The Malignant & their fantasy.”

Allow me to introduce myself. I am Jim Hlavac and I am a fabulous fellow. Yet, you insist to the last person on calling me “James” despite my repeated entreaties to you to call me Jim. This alone is symbolic of the arrogance you folks have. All of you are so sure I can pick my pronoun or change my gender willy nilly – but god forbid you call me by what everyone knows me as and I requested you do to. Or actually – most of my friends call me Hlavac. Feel free to call me Hlavac – for we shall all be friends when I am done. But – you just insist in some complete disregard of a clear request to ignore me. Do you do this with everyone? Is your sense of exalted importance that grand? Yeesh.

Do you even know how to pronounce my (h)last name? I doubt it. None of you. Perhaps one of you will be inquisitive enough to ask – NONE have done so so far – stunning. You don’t even give a damn about how to pronounce my obviously unique name. After all, I am the only man in this state with this name. Anyway …

Many are sure I should “appeal” to you your fantasy you wrote about me – and see if you still think what you think. Frankly, I don’t trust a one of you to not continue the nonsense and falsehoods, malfeasance, malpractice, incompetence, fraud, lies, misconstruing every thing I said, one word truncated versions of complex stories, and outright fantasy, etc., etc. And well, I am too darn complex – my life too rich, filled with wonder, and varied for me to use your silly little forms. Not to mention there’s just so many of you! So – this post to start – and all those that follow on this blog back to 2012 – is my “appeal.” And so much more awaits at my house in my laptop and on my walls – as well as an information package with letters of support for me from Mazatlan to Prague – and still further details of this astonishing nonsense you instigated. You can also come hear me play piano to the delight of all in the lobby of St. Joseph’s Hospital at Thomas Road & N 7th Avenue. I am the official “Lobby Pianist” volunteer there, after all. I play from about noon to 4 PM several days a week – I am just getting back into it after a broken wrist – which none of you know about.

How else can I explain me? There is no other way. I am not anything you labeled me – I am a Jovial Creative Polymath. (Look the word up.) I do not fit your boxes or forms. I tried to explain – you told me you don’t want to know. Instead, you all asked about troubles – I said I had none – you thought me lying or delusional – or yourselves so into creative writing that you created an alternative me – which sits there maliciously in my medical records. Strangers, mostly women yet, are calling me and coming to my door at your behest to tell me I am basically insane and incompetent. Just this past week in June 2017 a man calls me from Mercy-Maricopa to wonder if my memory works and he’s fixated on cocaine in the 1980s when gay men died by the 10s of 1000s – and dismissed the dead as crap! Enraging. Next, a woman comes to my house to tell me “So, you’re seeking services” as if I am a hopeless child. NO! – I am seeking a gay male counselor to speak to about gay male issues – and you heterosexuals are malignant idiots on the matter. Astonishing.

You all dismissed my religious beliefs, my heritage and ethnicity, my family, my art, my writing, my music – and my life – as nothing – or a delusion. You all simply dismissed my existence to create your fantasy. Why? I don’t know – arrogance I suppose. I don’t care, really. Whatever, let us now explore it all and hopefully reach a happy conclusion, rather than a court case.

You have compelled me to do this. I have appealed to your sense of reason repeatedly – and oddly – you all seem to have none. You seem to prefer a court case where you will be eviscerated, rather than talk to me to find out what the fuss is about. You people are out of your minds. However, the simple issues for me were 1) getting the AIDS drugs and 2) a gay male counselor to discuss surviving 40 years of AIDS. You all told me – “No, this is not your problem” – as you all went on a labeling spree the likes of which I have never seen. I shall lay this all out for you now in a succession of blog posts put up over this past week – where in which I post oh, a dozen or so complex explanations to the various parts of this spectacular puzzle – and examine what you wrote. I heartily recommend you read everything below – until you get to the art I posted in September 2016 – my last post before all this, since I had thought to just let the blog lay fallow. I was bored after 980 articles on 101 subjects. Anyway, the public press being a wonderful instrument – and amply protected by the First Amendment, and Snyder too – I publish here for a candid world – my opinions, statements, accusations, facts, beliefs and so forth – and your names and organizations too – so everyone is aware of who all is involved. Though, to be sure – the 160+ articles posted in 2012 through 2016 all fits within the puzzle – you’ll love it! I am a fine writer. You will also learn my view of heterosexuals, which you all are – which is dim indeed.

Frankly – you all know nothing about me. I aim to teach you, since you are all so inquisitive, but astonishingly deaf, dumb and blind. So wedded to your computers are you – that you believed a box checked off by a Nigerian “prince” that said I was “Severely Mentally Ill” – with him not having any qualifications to make such a determination. And then you just piled on, disorder after disorder, problem after problem – right up to “inbred.” Are you people that insane?

Though, it also seemed to start within days of me ever saying “hello” to SAAF when they labeled me a meth addict and more. So malignant is one Relles Abeytia of Southwest Network – that after I told the miserable skunk to stay the hell away from me for he was a pointless fool in my life – he went back to his office and labeled me paranoid – and sent the police to my house! His self-proclaimed importance in my life is malicious – he is the most evil among the lot of you.

You do not know that I first got to Phoenix, Arizona on a Greyhound bus in November of 2002. Within 3 days I wound up working at the Phoenix Metcalf HI Hostel at 1026 North 9th Street. I also wound up playing piano at the San Carlos Hotel and Hyatt and Ramada – and other places – My Florist – wherever there were pianos. And I had an art exhibit at the Willow House (now defunct) at McDowell and 3rd Avenue. So I spent a fine 4 or 5 months here that first winter. Then I returned to Louisiana and wrote a book – “A Hidden Impact: the Czechs and Slovaks of Louisiana from the 1720s to today” – and then I returned to Arizona every winter for several months for the next 10 years. And let me tell you – if I can find Czechs in Louisiana in the 1720s – I can find out what is in your system that you have fantasized about me.

The link at amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Hidden-Impact-Czechs-Slovaks-Louisiana/dp/0595403727/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1497931066&sr=8-1&keywords=James+Hlavac

You do not know this – nor anything I did in Louisiana – in which I lived from 1985 until August, 2011. You have no idea that I helped create the Cajun food industry, and the first statewide music directory, nor that I was the Temporary Honorary Consul of the Czech and Slovak Republics to Louisiana during Hurricane Katrina. Lordy knows what you think I did in Louisiana – for 25 years. You will all be quite surprised. In the summer of 2011 due to other bureaucratic obscurantism (word of caution, I do use words you might have to look up, I will not dumb myself down for “educated” people as you all are so sure you are.) I was not allowed by the VA to continue to tend my friend of 20 years, now a 90 year old man, a WWII vet at that, in his own home – because they were sending in home health nurses – and I was “not family.” So – I was chased away. What to do, what to do?

So, I went to Mississippi for a few months to spend time with a survivor of the Upstairs Lounge massacre – you should look that up. And so I regaled Natchez with my piano music. Of my music – you know nothing – you actually claim and/or imply it is all delusional. I have a youtube channel with my music. I suggest you turn to that now, so you can all listen to the music I create as you read this all in its entirety. It is quite pleasant, luscious, complex and beautiful. In my laptop there are another, oh, 2000 pieces – I don’t know, I don’t count them. It’s all wonderful stuff. And all evidence of my mental state while in Arizona – it whooshes out of me endlessly.

Then I went to Mazatlan, Mexico! – Ay Caramba! – Puedo hablar espanol muy bueno tambien! And I contemplated what city do I go to next? Tucson! – so I went – and in five days had an apartment.

It was a city I had been to many times – because – part of my job at the Phoenix Hostel was making sure international and national tourists got to see our fine state. I know the state very well, thank you very much. So, I went to Tucson to work on my 3rd book – on a topic very germane to the issue at hand. It is titled “The Pink Sheep of the Ninth Circle: Homosexuality, Homosexuals, Sissies, Queers, Faggots and Gay Men.” It is my iconoclastic view of the way heterosexuals look at and talk about gay guys – and who we really are. The entirety of it will be evidence in a court trial, should we come to nasty business – you should read it, quite illuminating. (May as well as read the other 13 books I published since 2013 too, right there on Amazon, it’s all evidence of my “mental condition” in Arizona.)

You do not know that I got my first Arizona ID in 2003 (the state will have a record, I am sure.) So in both Tucson in 2012 and Phoenix in 2014 where you all believed I was some wandering whacko in “survival mode” – I had in fact been amply connected to the state since 2002.

Nor do any of you know where I am from. I am from New York City and Long Island – a place known for rapid speech and a “we don’t care, get out of the way” attitude – and you so amply noted with concern: “James speaks rapidly.” Yes, well, in a New York Minute. Listen faster – I have no time to dawdle. In fact – I had no time for you people – I didn’t want to speak to a one of you – I wanted a gay male counselor of some kind. Yet, you all insisted I speak to this or that female bureaucrat first so you could determine with your astonishing arrogance if that is what you felt I really needed. Your conclusion? I did not need this by your fetid minds. You determined – without knowing a thing about me – what you would allow – and you determined it was another female bureaucrat to sign more forms – that’s chutzpah, folks. Malpractice of some kind, too.

What you also do not know is that I grew up in a big boisterous Czech immigrant family. Not “Czechoslovakian” – no Slovakians in my family. Nor some usual ¼ this, and ¼ that, and dash of this and “I think my grandma was from Italy, but I don’t know.” Nope. I grew up in My Big Fat Czech Family (a movie might be made of it.) It was bilingual – Czech – all the elders spoke Czech – and I am in touch still with a vast family over there in numerous cities and towns from every side of my forefathers. You do not know I am the 2nd oldest grandchild born in America – and I knew all those elders – and so from the age of oh, Zero – I heard Czech. Chcete mluvit česke? To je zajimavy. I speak this language fairly competently – not fluently – but eh, I can spend all day speaking it – Neni problemu – not a problem. You should also go look up the famous Czech vowel-less phrase “Strč prst skrz krk” – as you think about what you all have done to me.

So – I grew up there in that milieu – and everyone figured out as a tender child I was gay. I did not go around saying “I am a homosexual” in the early 1970s – I went around exclaiming “Egad, is that guy adorable!” I was 12 years old. I was “out” in Junior High in the 1970s, my dear people. I was never “in the closet.” And ALL my family was “So, you’re Jimmy’s friend, what do you want to eat?” to every guy I ever brought to the family gatherings. It was a huge loving family then – and today – and you wrote? “James has no contact with his family.” What miserable nonsense.

Well, this is just the beginning. Read on my dear people – and drop your obtuse, obdurate, obstreperous, obfuscated obnoxious nonsense. You have my permission to research and investigate me till your eyes pop out – I do not care. You know why? All you will find is good, a trail of wondrous acts, and you will marvel at what I did. You shall be astounded I assure you. For that’s what polymaths do – we get things done. You have my permission to pull every single last facebook post and comment I made since I joined – and every comment I ever made across the internet. You can criminal investigate, and medical investigate and civil litigation investigate in every jurisdiction in this nation – and all you will find is good works, good deeds, and amazing projects. If I wrote just one line for all the projects I did since the 1970s right up to today it would fill 50 pages.

But you know, this really starts in 1978. Because for some reason you are fixated on my brother – whose name you do not know, nor even if he was older or younger than me. Nor do you know that I have another brother – and a sister. Yes, yep, one brother did commit suicide. I do not know why. I did not talk to the man for 40 years – but not because I did not have contact with my family, oh no. But because he – and my other brother – for some reason I do not know – went off by themselves and never spoke to anyone in the family again. An explanation of those two confounded brothers of mine is below in the posts. However, when you find out about my sister and I – oh, then some heads will be turned. I do not post about her here for a very simple reason. I zealously guard my sister and her two children from any publicity – for a reason you will come to find out – a reason related to a major national event. I have here at my house her story, you are welcome to come hear it.

Why 1978? Well, that’s when my two brothers joined the Air Force, and I last saw them again. They went off to listen to President Jimmy Carter give orders to fine upstanding airman in the defense of the nation. And me? I bought a one way ticket to San Francisco to join the vaunted “homosexual lifestyle” as a social pariah the nation despised. I met Harvey Milk, you know. I also wrote two letters – one to Jimmy Carter, one to Governor Dixie Lee Ray of Washington state where I was enjoying life at that time – on the gay thing, as I call it. They both responded. Their letters to me are below in the posts, my letters to them are in their archives, and in my house – astonishing gay history, really. So while my two brothers went off and had all their needs taken care of and followed orders from the president – I wrote the man and told him to get a move on in being decent to gay men. For back then, gay men were treated like garbage. Bizarrely – I find in this year – the same miserable attitude towards gay men as garbage by you people. Just stunning.

I want you all to be sure – I do NOT want a court battle with you. Nope. Why? I don’t have the time for a year long trial where I will enter every single thing I did from July 2012 as evidence for me, and reaching back to 1978, even childhood, since you imagined things about that time too – as you fumble around and go “but, we thought …” because you did not think. You assumed. Disastrously so. For you assumed me a basket case – and I am, as I say, a jovial creative polymath. You perhaps sit there smugly with a smirk and stare into your computers and go “Oh, he’s just a silly old severely mentally ill queer.” One woman at COPE just so blithely said “Well, it says so right here!” Well, I am going to wipe those smirks off your faces.

Anyway, here’s my idea to resolve this. For I will not allow this crap (oosh, curse word!) for it is crap – the malicious malignant fantasy you all wrote – to remain on my record – as I worry what next round of danger you will put me in. Sending police to my house is dangerous, as you have done twice so far, especially considering the labels and problems you have ascribed to me. It will be removed voluntarily with great cheer (and a lot of humility) by you all – or I will get a judge to order you to remove it. And if I have to take you all to a court – I shall come after you for your jobs and licenses and millions of dollars. Clear? Good. For let me assure you – you all have committed malpractice and fraud and more. I do not know what laws have been broken, or what other legal remedies might be available – yet. Please do not make me find out, you shall not weather the storm. I do not know what state investigatory agencies would love to look into what you did, but I would be pleased to alert them. I would much rather just go play the piano and work on the many other projects I have conceived. I am a busy man, and you all are in my way.

Now, now, don’t be looking at what you wrote – for that is crap, about which I present just some highlights below. What you all should do is this: read all that I wrote here, all the way back to 2012 even, and then pick a few emissaries from among you and come visit me in my home. Where I can present to you even further delights of evidence against you all, and buttressing me. For what is presented here is a mere drop in the bucket. And here at my home I can show you still further the malicious malignant nonsense you imagined – line by line through 350+ pages of fantasized nonsense you all wrote. And I haven’t even seen it all – who knows what other miscreant garbage that strumpet Lindsay Morgan of JFCS wrote. Who knows what nonsense you people fabricated about me.

Are you all ready to be served subpoenas to appear for trial until you are sick of ever having met me? Or do you wish to learn first of your folly in a happy way? Ask yourselves: “Do we believe the crap we wrote? – or is this man possibly speaking the truth?” Do you still think your fantasy is real? Or do you perhaps, finally, have a shred of rationality left in your fetid minds to go “hmm, let us talk to this guy, and find out what the fuss is about.” Your choice, of course. My way is pleasant, a court case will be horrendous for you. Perhaps you have a fetish for litigation over rational discussion. I shall find out.

And then, at that time, I shall ask further recompense, already outlined in the “Indictment & Relief Sought” post. I believe, I truly hope, that after you actually come to know me – you will make reasonable restitution for having hauled me to a psych ward based on your fantasy. For denying me months worth of the AIDS drugs in two cities. For pushing a harmful mind altering drug on me. And for denying me the gay male counselor that I could call up and make an appointment with to discuss surviving 40 years of AIDS and heterosexual nonsense. (And yes, feel free to send me a gay male counselor so I can talk to him about what I really wish to discuss.)

You know folks, before most of you were born, or at most were toddlers or kids – I was burying a friend or two a week – for 10, 15 years – and I thought I might be among them – but I was not. I do indeed admit, I am a cranky old gay geezer who lived through astonishing times – and I do indeed have strong emotions about it. Very manageable emotions – but well – when you bury a 100 friends – surely you have a shred of compassion to understand there might be some emotions, yes? Or are gay men not allowed to have feelings at all? As so many seem still to deny we have; we are but “SEX!” yet to so many heteroos (my charming term for such people.) Judith Norton of MIHS – a woman I had never met in my life, with a sickening wink wink nudge nudge, handed me 100 condoms at the first moment of our first meeting. What a fine way to meet a man seeking life saving pills. “Go screw your brains out, no pills for you.” Pitiful. Disgusting.

Anyway – that’s where we stand. Me – against you all. I will not relent. And I shall win. So, the ball is in your court. Send me anyone you wish – send a squadron of ASU professors – a herd of psychologists, psychiatrists and musicologists and art appraisers – or a load of lawyers. I do not care. And you know why? Polymaths are very, very smart and astonishingly productive, and very rational – and I can prove every single thing I did in Tucson and Phoenix, and in my life – all completely opposite to what you imagined. Indeed, if what you all wrote was remotely true – I could not have done what I did and do. And all you have to stand on is what you wrote after having met me for 15 or 20 minutes to sign your forms – all of which is a bizarre fantasy.

Have a pleasant day, start your thinking, reading and researches – and let us amicably come to a happy conclusion for all of us. You know where to reach me.

One last thing – there are five pictures in the next post. First, a memorial notice for my dear friend Neil Murphy, dead in 1986, the reason I wanted to speak to someone. Second, a maze I drew in Tucson as you claim I state “I can’t concentrate” (It’s one of 40 I did there.) Third, a picture of my monumental 4′ x 4′ painting of 5,000 years of gay history I painted in 2014 for this “L(g)BTQITSAPGNC” “Consortium” here in Phoenix – you can’t wait to hear my views on this monstrosity of a “community.” It’s at the Parson’s Center – they seem hopeless in finding a spot to hang it. Months already, egad, miserable. And fourth & fifth, 2 pictures of me and my cat Schroder – who is named after the Peanuts cartoon piano player who is vocal about not liking girls – so you know what I look like.

Thank you for your attention, let us get to work – and cheers … this will be fun, or miserable – your choice.

Here, a form, which you so adore:

____ Cooperate ____ Get Eviscerated

what a choice, eh!

your favorite Hlavac

Welcome to what we in the family call a:


Four Pictures & a Pfft

neil murphy

I hugged Neil for 20 minutes in the Ninth Circle in NYC when he was skeletal — and all marveled and we cried — because we all knew he was a Dead Man Walking — this is my issue – dealing with rational emotions about my dead friends – -and you miserable morons came up with “inbred” – you disgusting people, pfft.20130122_135631

This is a real workable maze – I did it for the Tucson Arts Brigade. It is a 24 x 36 inch watercolor with a black pen maze on top — this is what I did while you were claiming I said “I can’t concentrate, can’t function, can’t focus” and “has no connection to the community.” There are many more mazes I will be showing to you. Such a lack of concentration, function and focus, eh? Explain it well — go ahead.20140909_153402

“James has a poor grasp of history” it is written — well, here’s 5,000 years of LGBTetcetc history — and you can’t even yet imagine what is embedded into this monumental painting – perhaps one day someone will actually ask. You will be shocked. Perhaps one day it will even get hung in a public place as it was designed to be — instead of sitting in a closet in the hands of a fool. Took me about 3 weeks to paint it – I do things, I do not dawdle.My beautiful picture

You know folks – you know what the most “insane” thing I do is? I walk my cat. Schroder and I go for nightly strolls. He’s on a leash so he does not get into trouble. 20150422_161911

Oddly — amazingly — Schroder listens to me better and more carefully and clearly — than any of you miserable people have ever done. You folks are so filled with arrogance, hubris and mind numbing love of paperwork and forms as to deny the humanity of the man talking to you. You are the epitome of the “Authorities” in Franz Kafka’s “The Trial” which begins:

“Someone must have been spreading slander about Josef K., [Jim H.] for one morning he was arrested, though he had done nothing wrong.”

And so it is — you all slandered and traduced me – and then had me hauled to a psyche ward – and lord knows what nonsense you are planning next — while in a sense “arresting” me for having done nothing wrong but ask to speak to a gay male counselor of some kind –and you said? “Pfft, fuck off” Thanks! Egad. Miserable.

Continue on …. there’s so much more – go back to the beginning of 2012 in this blog — it’s all relevant – every last word will be brought up in a trial.


The Indictment & Relief Sought

Maricopa County Superior Court

James “Jim” Hlavac
Eddy Broadway, CEO, et al.

Mercy Maricopa Integrated Care

4350 E. Cotton Center Blvd., Bldg. D

Phoenix, AZ 85040

Dorothy Williams, et al.

Southwest Network

3640 West Osborn Rd., Suite 1

Phoenix, AZ 85019

Phoenix Shanti Group

2345 W. Glendale Avenue

Phoenix AZ 85021


Thomas Donovan, Chairman, et al


82 S. Stone Avenue

Tucson, AZ 85701

Juliet Yardy, et al

SAAF Board President

375 South Euclid Avenue,

Tucson, Arizona 85719


Lindsay Morgan, et al.


3001 N. 33rd Avenue

Phoenix, AZ 85017

Julie Norton, et al.


2601 E. Roosevelt Street

Phoenix AZ 85008


Michael Castaneda

UA-UMC, Petersen Clinic, et al

1501 Campbell Road

Petersen Clinic 6OPC

Tuscon Arizona, 85724


Arizona Department of Health, et al

Ryan White, ADAP, HIV/AIDS Program,

150 N. 18th Avenue

Phoenix, AZ 85007


Gregg Scaggs, et al.

McDowell Clinic

1101 N. Central Avenue, Suite 204

Phoenix AZ 85004


jointly and severally

and unknown others


May it please the court, I am requesting a hearing pursuant to statutes:

ARIZ. REV. STAT. § 36-540 (A) “If the court finds by clear and convincing evidence that the proposed patient, as a result of mental disorder, is a danger to self, is a danger to others, is persistently or acutely disabled or is gravely disabled and in need of treatment, and is either unwilling or unable to accept voluntary treatment . . . “

ARIZ. REV. STAT. § 36-501(5) “Danger to others”

ARIZ. REV. STAT. § 36-501(6) “Danger to self”

ARIZ. REV. STAT. § 36-501(16) “Gravely disabled”

ARIZ. REV. STAT. § 36-501(33) “Persistently or acutely disabled”

ARIZ. REV. STAT. § 36-501(11) “Evaluation”

I believe this matter is subject to compulsory arbitration according to Maricopa County Superior Court local rule 3.10 and Rules 72 through 77 of the Rule of Civil Procedure.

Every agency and person listed herein, the defendants, to one degree or another, believes I am a danger to myself and to others, or in danger somehow – and I am not. I am a fabulous fellow – and these people imagine peril. I am a charming guy of great accomplishment and these people imagine a hopeless mentally ill basket case. I do not have any disorders or problems they proclaim – I have a rich, complex and rewarding life.

The only complaint anyone could have is that I’m a cranky old gay geezer – and I’ll admit to that up front. In fact, that’s why I sought a gay male counselor – I’m cranky. Rationally so, but, yes, cranky about the way I was treated in my life over the reality of being a gay man in our society – and living through AIDS all my adult life. In July 2012 I asked SAAF for a gay male counselor – they sent me to a drug rehab counselor while saying I was a meth head. Then — stuff happened. Then, in June 2016 I asked again to my insurance company Mercy-Maricopa for the name and number of a gay male counselor covered by my insurance so I could make an appointment with him and speak to him about the wonder of life and surviving AIDS. Since then I was told “No, that is not your problem” by everyone herein. This story starts in Tuscon in July 2012 when I first asked SAAF for someone to speak to, and now involves multiple agencies throughout the health care system of this state, seemingly beyond those listed herein. And now, every time I talk to anyone in the health care system they see what the defendants wrote, that is in their computers, and that is then somehow “me” – and none of it is true. Do these defendants wish to know me? I present here just a snippet of my life. If what they wrote is remotely true I could not do what I do and did.

What I present below is an amazing story – two of them really. One is me, what I did in my life and since I came to Arizona, who I am, my creative intellectual output, my family and friends, which I can prove – and the other is the person the system imagined – which doesn’t exist except in the records these people created. These people cannot prove a word of what they wrote – but what they wrote is somehow “me” to the system. And I am not that person they imagined.

As of today – so far I have determined that I am declared across the records, a “cocaine, meth, and marijuana addict, who abuses alcohol, with mania, depression, manic-depression, bipolar, anxiety, panic, agoraphobia, and paranoia disorders – with mood instability, social isolation and no contact with family – with legal, weapons, debt and gambling issues, with decompensation, hallucinations, and who is moving to Philadelphia and Costa Rica and has delusions to become a Hollywood movie star — who is delusional about writing books, painting and playing the piano – while in survival and crisis mode – and was an abused child, with child neglect.” And I’ve been declared “Severely Mentally Ill” and “Special Needs.” They have declared me “in crisis” and “at risk,” and even “suicidal.” None of this is true, it is absurd – and dangerous to my life.

I apologize for taking the court’s time – I would have rather spoken to a gay male counselor about my issue, which is being a gay man who survived astonishing times – than arguing with a plethora of known and unknown agencies in this state and seemingly the state itself. I appealed to Mr. Greg Scaggs, Director of the McDowell Clinic where I get my primary health care, several times to somehow do this administratively, to somehow get all these people together so this could be figured out – without going to a court. He said that was not possible. On April 3rd, 2017, I wrote him up a detailed timeline of my time in Arizona, it runs to 20 pages. And so I appeal to this court as best I can, and ask for you to order these people to cooperate with me to resolve this matter.

I request a hearing under ARIZ. REV. STAT. § 36-501(11) “Evaluation” means:

(a) A professional multidisciplinary analysis that may include firsthand observations or remote observations by interactive audiovisual media and that is based on data describing the person’s identity, biography and medical, psychological and social conditions carried out by a group of persons consisting of not less than the following:

Two licensed physicians, who shall be qualified psychiatrists, if possible, or at least experienced in psychiatric matters, and who shall examine and report their findings independently. The person against whom a petition has been filed shall be notified that the person may select one of the physicians.”

I am asking for the appointment of independent observers per statute and section ARIZ. REV. STAT. § 36-501(11) to “evaluate” me. … and the only thing I ask is that they be men over the age of 40. I simply cannot and will not open up to any woman, or youth. And I cannot explain my life in 15 minutes while filling out forms – nor in an hour in an office. My creative output is at my house, and at a piano, and on the internet, and in my computer – my personality is in the community – and no one can really believe it until they see it in its entirety. I cannot bring 150 paintings to an office, I cannot present 1000s of pieces of music in an office. I cannot show my family and friends across the world and in this state in an hour. No one can grasp my written output by me saying “I wrote 16 books.” And more, endlessly more. My life is rich, varied and complex – and nothing short of astonishing – for 45 years – 59 even. I am well aware that what I did and do is simply unbelievable – but I can prove it all – but I cannot do so by mere statements in someone’s office or by answering endless questions about if I had troubles with the law or drugs or whatever other problems the system seems to like to dwell on. My life has been endless positive – there is nothing negative. It is good – there are no troubles – except these defendants.

I might say “I paint mazes.” And what does that mean to anyone? I am, after all, the only person on earth I can find who paints mazes like I do. What does such a declaration mean to anyone who has not seen the mazes I paint? Any observers have to see my mazes – perhaps even watch me paint one – not questions in an office. All these people except one, Michael Castaneda, refused to look at my mazes. They claim I state “I can’t concentrate” and “can’t focus” and I concentrate and focus on creating mazes of astonishing complexity (some pictures in the exhibits of those I did in Tucson in 2012 and 2013.) They say I have “no connection to the community” and I was involved in six public art exhibits.

If I tell someone in an office that I can play piano like Schubert or Mozart but never had a lesson – could anyone really grasp it? I can’t write this music either – but I can write music – I just can’t play what I write. Most people just look at me strangely. Ah, but then they hear the music. I have a youtube channel with 70 videos of my music. None of these people would bother to listen to a note I created – they dismissed my glorious, upbeat, happy, effervescent, beautiful – and complex classical music that would withstand the analysis of any musicologist – as perhaps a delusion of a “severely mentally ill” person. They asked me about my life – I said – “my music” – they dismissed that and asked “no, your troubles with the law,” or something else negative – of which there is none. Meanwhile they label me agoraphobia, paranoia and social isolation – and I’m the official lobby piano player at St. Joseph’s Hospital at Thomas Road and North 7th Avenue – to the delight of 100s of people a day.

Between 1985 and 1990 I lived in both NYC and Lake Charles, Louisiana – I was a radical militant homosexual AIDS activist in NYC; and a printer, and a family man, who did some cocaine – and I helped create the Cajun Food Industry in Louisiana, and did not do cocaine – at the same time. How is anyone to believe this by statements in an office for an hour? Everyone looks at me like I’m crazy – and yet I can prove it all – and I ask this court for the opportunity to do so – for it is my life these people are playing with – and messing with – and lousing up and imperiling. I deserve a fair hearing – and this court, and these defendants, will be surprised at who I am and what I did – and continue to do – and plan on doing; what is in the pipeline will astonish anyone. And it is totally opposite to what this system has labeled me and imagined about me – and put on my medical record.

I am a man of Supreme Confidence. Few have ever really known it. But my late dear mother said to me in 1985 when I graduated from New York University, while being a full time printer, while winning 5 years of free rent in Manhattan, while doing internships with politicians and citizen groups, while traveling the nation to friends and relatives, while being in engaged with family in the NYC area, while being in touch with the relatives in the Czech Republic in Czech – and while being a gay man coping through the AIDS struggle – as one of my mom’s own friends succumbed to early in the struggle, because her husband did the “down low” – my mom said “I am in awe.” My two brothers, very important to this story – had already disappeared.

And she kept that attitude about me till the last days of her life in September, 2010, when I spoke with her only in Czech in the last six months – as she showed me the family history she knew only I could comprehend. Jenom ty bude rozumět – only you will understand, she said. And more – I can show this court and these defendants endlessly more good and great things I did and do and plan on doing. The court and they will simply marvel, trust me, and sorry for the bluntness, or perhaps the pat on the back – but I do not apologize for the Supreme Confidence with which I led my life up to the present moment. And these defendants have imagined a deranged hopeless idiot who needs their endless intrusion into my life for a host of disorders they labeled me after brief form signing sessions.

A big part of my life has been arguing with heterosexuals – which bizarrely – I find myself doing again today in this pleading as I did 45 and 50 years ago. 99% of these people are heterosexuals – and I simply do not like heterosexuals. I seek to avoid you all. And I carefully delineate between straight folks and heterosexuals, heteros and heteroos and “Screaming heteroos” – I have a pecking order. Nor have I ever made a secret of it – testimony and documentation of this could take weeks to present, pages and pages, witness after witness – more than a few of the letters of support I include attest to it. And the crux of the issue is I asked to speak to a gay male counselor about being a gay man who survived it all. This “all” that is the discussion in this nation, and the world, going on even today, about gay men. As my grandmother said “I lived from outhouse to outer space” and as I say “I lived from felony to marriage.”

However – this very plea and exhibits is an example of my brain power, my output, my Supreme Confidence – and my emotions. I can certainly represent myself against the entirety of these agencies and whatever system they have, or their lawyers – because, to me, this is rather easy. It’s what I did – and who I am – versus who they fabricated. I can prove me – they cannot prove their alternative me. As for experts to evaluate me – this court could send a squadron of ASU professors to me – and I would impress them all. I am a jovial creative polymath, as I elucidate in my exhibits – and these people are for the most part – simpletons. They understand nothing of what I say – and dare to label me falsely as they please. I had to explain such words as iconoclast, polymath, vivacious, boisterous and others to these people “assessing” me – they don’t even have a developed vocabulary.

At the behest of Southwest Network and apparently Shanti – who were miles away from me when they made their complaint to the police – I was hauled to a psyche ward at Phoenix Memorial Hospital at 1201 South 7th Avenue by the Phoenix Police Department on December 12th 2016. Obviously someone thinks I am at risk for something. It is noted I am “at risk” and “at risk for crisis” and “in crisis” and in “recovery” and in “survival mode” — and my brother’s suicide is featured as “strong family history” and somehow I am now in danger of the same thing. About my two biological brothers and what I consider my spiritual brothers I expound upon in my supporting pages. However, I did not have any real contact with my two brothers since 1978 – and the last time I saw them was 1984, briefly – what they did is no influence on me. And my sister and I often pondered about this – and in the exhibits I write a bit about our relationship – for she is the sibling I spoke to – so perhaps I am more “at risk” for her influence. Those two never spoke to anyone in the family, for decades.

On the morning of January 17th, 2013, I wrote a 4500 word article on Buckminister Fuller, a well known futurist and thinker, for a friend of mine, about world progress and capitalism and greed and more – and posted it to my blog, “The Daily Mush.” (www.dailymush.wordpress.com) It is a fine expose and romp through current times and history, comparing reality to dreams of utopia. I doubt more than a few of these people I spoke to in this system even knows who Buckminister Fuller is. It behooves these defendants to read it at my blog. Indeed, it behooves the defendants to read all 980 articles there, and my books, and listen to my music too. Perhaps after not listening to me for 4 years – they’ll now investigate the real me.

On the afternoon of January 17th, 2013 – I was declared “severely mentally ill” by a Nigerian Christian immigrant man named Toate Ganago, working for COPE. I was told I just had to see this man – so I went, with Michael Castaneda. This man “assessed” me – by asking endless questions that were irrelevant to my life. He asked me about problems. I said there are no problems. Anything positive was dismissed as irrelevant. And then – he just checked off the box on the form that said “SMI” – “severely mentally ill” – because – to a Nigerian Christian – gay men are insane. That’s their culture, that’s their politics, that’s their religion, that’s their beliefs, and that’s their law. Nigeria is one of the most anti-gay countries on earth, and the Christians (and Muslims, for that matter,) there are notorious for torturing and imprisoning and killing gay men. And Mr. Ganago is of that culture – he is “at risk” for believing what pretty much all Nigerians believe about gay men. And it is not good.

Here are 10 website links about the treatment of Gay Guys in Nigeria – by any “Toate Ganago” running the place or down the streets –











These are but 10 articles on this subject, many, many more can be presented. And this man, of this culture, of this belief system – labeled me “Severely Mentally Ill” gratuitously – and since then every single person in the system went by his designation – and what I said was irrelevant. The man before them, me, was nothing – the computer and Mr. Ganago’s checked off box were godly.

We held hands, Mr. Ganago, Michael Castaneda, and I – and we got a blessing from “our heavenly father” and “Jesus” to “help this man” – and what help did Mr. Ganago think I needed? He thought, most likely, that I needed to be “cured” of the “mental illness” that “homosexuality” is to such a man. There is absolutely nothing in anything I said to this man that he or anyone could rationally conclude I was “severely mentally ill” by the federal definition of SMI (included in my documentation,) or any definition at all. He was even quite impressed with my knowledge of Nigeria, which we talked about because I recognized his accent. His sole reasoning was – I am a gay man – so I must be insane. Nor could he have any competency to label me such a thing. What are his credentials? An intake specialist? He’s not a doctor, not even a nurse practitioner of any kind. He is probably less educated than I am.

Bizarrely – I spent my entire life extolling the glorious good of gay guys – and this one man from an extremely anti-gay culture labeled me insane – and every heterosexual afterwards believed it – and thereafter refused to believe a word I said. They simply believed a heterosexual moron – because they are morons. I am reliving the 1970s with these morons today. I will not gloss over the issue – these people are morons – and I am not happy about it – nor shy. And see, that’s the crux of the matter – I wanted to speak to a gay male counselor about surviving all of this – this national, even worldwide discussion on gay men while we died by the 1000s. And the system said “no, that is not your problem.” They know more about me than I know, in the “arrogance of presumption” – and then created a fictitious imaginary me – because a man from one of the most anti-gay cultures on earth said I was “severely mentally ill.”

SAAF, COPE and Southwest Network have provided me with certain of my records, I do not know if that is all they have, and it runs to 350+ pages combined. Mercy Maricopa, UMC, MIHS, AHCCCS, McDowell Clinic and Jewish Family Services have not – I didn’t even ask Bayless, REN and Shanti. I have no idea what other agencies in Maricopa County, Pima County or anywhere else in Arizona now have the same records, or created their own fantasy. I would like to see what everyone wrote. I have no idea what “Cerner” is – but my records are being sent there. What is in these records? I am even being told I have no right to see these records because I am “severely mentally ill.” And I am being told I have to go back to the same people – so many now – that have labeled me this and that – to see if they still think so. And that is Orwellian, Kafka, and Catch 22 combined. I will not go beg these heterosexuals who declared me insane to see if they still think I am insane or not. I have not done so in 50 years – I’m not going to start today. I won’t ask them what they think about me – all of which is wrong so far – I will tell them they are out of their minds. I have no trust in these people to be fair, or rational, or reasonable, or truthful – or not just involved in creative writing. And to put my fate in the hands of Toate Ganago of COPE is simply insanity itself – this man shall not hold my life in his hands.

Every single person I met in this system for four years asked me the same question right away: “Are you thinking of harming yourself or others?” – and every time I said “absolutely not” – and it is noted repeatedly “denies” – which word alone implies I could be lying. Never once did I express anything remotely like it. At the St. Joseph’s Hospital, Tucson, psyche ward on September 2nd 2013 it is noted “vague” “he just wants to die” – yes, I was up for 7 days fighting off bedbugs – I was severely sleep deprived and who knows what I said? No one can really function after 7 days without sleep. The next day, after hours of good sleep, amply noted by the doctor I spoke with, Dr. William Lambert, MD, he concluded I was just pretty much fine. His report is in my documentation. (Among several mistakes in it is that it says that I have hepatitis C – and I do not.) However – in four years – he’s the only doctor I spoke to at all – the rest were at most nurse practitioners.

In the records it is stressed I am “at risk” for what my brother I didn’t speak to for 40 years did – commit suicide. Let the court consider – I was a printer – my father was a printer – my grandfather was a printer – my great-grandfather was a printer – my great-great-grandfather was a printer – and as far as I can tell – my great-great-great grandfather was a printer – for that’s what “hlavac” means – a man with knowledge – literally a “big head” (hlava = head, the “c” is for “big”) – and we are that. Except – my two brothers were not printers – that’s their problem. I was “at risk” for being a printer – and I was one. But I am not “at risk” for being like my brothers whatsoever, which I show. My two brothers lived together for 40 years – and no one is claiming my little brother is at risk for anything – or that I am like my little brother –and yet, I, who did not know them for 40 years – I’m supposedly at risk for what they did. That is nonsense. These people know nothing about my two brothers.

But somehow percolating in the system is the next go round. These people have concluded I am a danger to myself and to society – and I cannot live comfortably while this is a threat. People I don’t know are just showing up at my door unannounced – calling me out of the blue – demanding entry into my home – demanding I go with them – demanding I meet with them for what they think ails me. They have applied labels to me that anyone reading them would conclude too that I am in some peril somehow. They seem to have the ability to call the police on me to be carted away. Perhaps they will do so again. This is a threat to my liberty, and my rights to live in peace. It is also physically dangerous – I have osteoporosis and I am brittle – perhaps I will be taken away with more force – and break some bones. It is dangerous because with the sheer list of disorders and statements of drug and alcohol “abuse” and “issues with weapons” any police sent to my house might conclude I am a danger to them somehow – perhaps I have something in my hand when they arrive – and in that millisecond of thought – think it a gun – and shoot first and ask questions later. This is a real worry of mine, and certainly the press is filled with such stories, so it has validity. And certainly these people have sent police to my house twice already.

In December, 2016, in an effort to just circumvent Southwest Network I called a group called Shanti that holds itself out as helping gay men with HIV. I had one phone call with them, maybe 10 minutes, 15? I spoke to two men – in which they said they didn’t take my insurance from the state’s largest provider, Mercy Maricopa, nor my Medicare, nor my AHCCCS. This vaunted group to help guys like me – just didn’t take my insurance, which are the major insurance programs of the state. So I told them “what point are you?” And I probably said something like “I am fed up with all this nonsense.” And with that they concluded erroneously I was going to kill myself because they had access to my records which are filled with falsehoods and false labels – so they called Southwest – and somehow I don’t know yet – this resulted in them calling the police against me – because they were arrogantly hopeless. I have not seen the police report yet. But I went with them willingly, I didn’t argue – I just posted a few quick things to Facebook, which I had been doing all afternoon, while the police admired my art – that I was being taken away. It is noted in several places that my friends called people looking for me. But I did express my displeasure at being hauled out of my house in my pajamas – to the police and the people at Phoenix Memorial. I was enraged – and rationally so, comedic even, as I can be. I was labeled “mania” there – apparently “Righteous Indignation” is not on their forms or in their minds.

Bayless and REN called me – I have no idea who these agencies are – and I have no idea how many agencies are accessing my records nor at whose behalf. I ask this court to order them all to Cease and Desist from any further action about me until this matter is settled. I am the only person with the last name “Hlavac” in the state – surely this should be possible. I apologize that I do not know what law to cite.

More amazing, is when I read these reports – particularly Southwest Network’s – they are talking about me as a hopeless child. They have concluded I cannot function, that I am floundering in life, that I am somehow unable to live without them in my life. They have misconstrued everything I said into some hopeless person who needs their assistance and oversight. They misconstrued everything I said into some delusion, some negative fantasy. They dismiss anything positive I said as “he claims …” – and they write every negative they conjure up as “he is …” And they didn’t even talk to me. 4 or 5 meetings with SAAF, 4 or 5 with COPE and 4 with Southwest – all brief meetings to sign yet more forms before I told them to go away. There were even more women from more agencies I don’t know why or who involved – and a pointless trip to a fancy Scottsdale chiropractor! In four years some 50 or 60 people from nearly 2 dozen agencies paraded through my life, asking me to sign their forms – from agencies I met once and never met again. And other than SAAF which I did go to for the life saving AIDS drugs, which they could not provide, and MIHS, for the drugs which they could not provide either – I did not go to any agency willingly – but I was told I had to go. So I went, cooperated, signed their forms, and never spoke to them again if I could help it.

I met with no doctors – at most nurse practitioners. But I had dozens of “intake” appointments with bureaucrats – and with Patrick Scullion of an agency called Empact I created a new word – I said I was “Intooken” again. I met with no psychologists, no psychiatrists, no counselors – certainly no gay males of any kind. I was given no cognitive tests, no aptitude tests, no personality tests, no reasoning tests, no IQ tests – no tests of any kind. They asked me about problems, I said I had none – and the one issue I brought up that I wanted to speak about they dismissed as unimportant. I signed their forms – told them again my issue which they dismissed – and they went on a labeling spree.

I can prove everything I did while in Tucson and Phoenix – I can prove my life – I can prove a slow, steady, able, rational, reasonable, normal, get things done and deal with life and its many adventures progress while putting out music, books, art and more and making friends and being involved with the community and life. I lead the life I always have – and these people all got in the way – and worse – they insist they must be involved in my life based on their own erroneous statements and labels – to the point of police at my door. And I can prove that SAAF was hopeless and inept, and UMC and MIHS too.

All these defendants can prove is this:
1) – I signed every form they asked me to – in 4 years I signed at least 100 forms – and I have no idea what for – they asked, I did – bureaucrats were happy and I walked away thinking “what a waste of time.” 95% of these people I never spoke to again. The system is so obtuse, so convoluted, that every six months I must prove I am still HIV+ as if an Act of God will cure me while the state was unaware. So I prove it, I make no fuss, and life goes on.

2) – I went to every appointment they requested, and I was on time (they mostly late) – until finally in December 2016 I told Southwest to get lost. And then I dutifully went to Jewish Family Services in January 2017 as I was told I should do – to sign their forms and listen to this woman Lindsay Morgan talk to me like I was an imbecile. It was insulting and demeaning.

3) – They did not provide me with the name and number of a gay male counselor covered by my copious insurance that I could call and set an appointment with to discuss surviving AIDS – which is the only thing I sought.

4) – They wrote dozens of statements about me that are demonstrably not true.

5) – SAAF, UMC, MIHS and others were unable to get me the life saving drugs for months and months – it took people outside the system to get it done.

6) – They all pushed a powerful mind altering drug on me – Risperdone – that I repeatedly said I did not need and did not want to take – but I followed their insistence – and this drug harmed me.

7) – And I got aggravated with them – and told them so – a few times just sputtering in rage at them for about 2 minutes before I ceased all further contact with them. Because they weren’t listening to me – and they were wrong about so much – and they didn’t provide me with what I asked for – and they talked to me like I was an imbecile and a child and it was insolent.

In the 1980s we gay men got more done for our fellows dying around us – as we thought we ourselves would die – in hours without a form or bureaucrats around – than these fools can do in 8 months with a 100 meetings. I wanted to talk to someone about those times – and these defendants dismissed that as nothing – and then labeled me every disorder they could conjure – while telling me I would not understand while they talked “at” me – not to me – at – they talked at me like I was an imbecile.

Why I wanted to speak to a gay male counselor is simple – I buried a 100 friends and lived to tell about it. I have had the life of a gay man who survived it all for 45 – nay, 59 years. There has begun to be some examination of this “AIDS Survivors Syndrome.” (ASS, we are crafty fellows.) It’s not depression or mental illness – it’s a wonder and a wistfulness at the same time. An ennui, a melancholy filled with wonderment – they died, my friends by the scores died, and I did not. It’s a vague “Wow, I lived, now what?” And each of us deals with it differently. And I just wanted to speak to someone about this, about my manageable yet strong emotions. Yet every single one of these people said to me “No, that is not your problem.”

Here are links to just four articles on ASS in the very early stages of anyone trying to figure out what it was like to be a gay man during what I call “The Dark Ages” –





In 1978 I was a budding gay activist – and I wrote to President Jimmy Carter and to Governor Dixie Lee Ray of Washington state – and they responded. My letters to them and their answers are in my exhibits. It is doubtful that many 20 year old gay men were getting responses from such people at that time. These letters are gay history – they are important to the struggle of my life. And I have not since in my life relented from my extolling of Gay Guys Are Great By God’s Good Grace – and undeserving of the nonsense directed at us. My two brothers joined the Air Force in 1978 and I essentially never spoke to them again – and I flew to San Francisco one way – and never looked back. And if I am “at risk” today for what these two strangers did – then what we did in 1978 is very relevant. They went off to listen to the president as commander in chief – and I went off to tell the president to get rational on gay men. And these defendants did not want to hear the complexity of what happened – but only one word. These people are more concerned with my brother than they are with me, which is just weird. I doubt they even know his name, it’s not in the records.

In 1986 Bowers v Hardwick was handed down – and I led a demonstration in Manhattan. My article on it is included here. My friend Jerry Rosco was with me – he writes in support of me today. And most of the defendants weren’t even born at that time – or perhaps they were toddlers. And I wanted to talk about my emotions of those times – and these people labeled me insane and incompetent. This is gross malpractice – and a sullen nastiness and ignorance I cannot fathom.

My desire for a gay male counselor also comes from the fact that I am extremely uncomfortable talking to women, especially about my feelings. I stated it to them repeatedly – they all note it. Then they dismissed it. Southwest notes 13 times: “James asks for a male counselor” and concluded “It could be an option.” And then they decided no, that is not what I needed, but some woman to talk to me about drug rehab. They are obtuse, they are blind, and frankly, it’s even malicious. However, I simply will not discuss with any woman my feelings, and being a gay man surviving AIDS is my feelings. I do not know many women, most are aunts and cousins and my sister, and my mother – it is only since I moved to Phoenix that I have any women friends at all, and they are all lesbians and transgendered.

For 40, even 59 years, 85% of my friends have been gay men. 10% are straight men, nearly all in two groups – Esteban & Co. in New York City and a group of guys from Southwest Louisiana. Other than Debbie Moldau Mack in the early 1980s, still a dear friend today – I did not have any women friends in my life, ever. And these agencies sent me to woman after woman – and then they sent women to my house. Their obtuse refusal to provide a gay male counselor is stunning and obnoxious, evil even. I can’t even describe the depth of disdain I feel for these people who so ignored my simple request to talk to a gay male counselor about those times long ago. Indeed, their insistence I talk to a woman is reminiscent of those years long ago when it was demanded by heterosexuals that gay men comport with women or else. The same nonsense I experienced in the 1970s is still here? By what are probably liberals all for diversity and cultural sensitivity and the L(g)BTQ+ “consortium” – (you all can’t wait to hear my description of this monstrosity) – and they ignore me? This is just monstrous. They give me notifications that state I can speak to someone “culturally relevant” to me – and I asked for a gay male therapist – and they told me no – I do not need that by their false reckoning of a man they don’t even know – so they sent me to women and send women to me – for the imaginary problems of an alleged “severely mentally ill” misfit. Are these defendants going to argue gay men can’t even talk to gay counselors? Are we that despised and disdained yet? Egad.

And yes, since there’s a “homosexual” involved I suppose everyone will look to see if some law is allowed to us, perhaps they will dredge out some Arizona statute of the pre-WWII years against gay men. However, I note that in 1994 the late, great Senator Barry Goldwater – an icon of this state – said “Gay Men deserve all the constitutional rights of Americans, including marriage and military service.” My father was a Goldwater Republican – and so am I – and we are from New York City – via Vlkos u Kyjov. This is a small village in southeastern Moravia, in the Czech Republic, where I am in touch with cousins still. Wolftown – that’s “Vlkos.” The town motto is “First you kill the wolf, then you drink the wine.” Bez prace, neni chleba – without work, there is no bread. And zatra ceni kral a kram – goddamn king and church. Delate dobry – do good. These are my guiding lights in my life, that is what my grandparents and parents taught me in our Hussite Freethinking Tradition – my strongly held religious belief. I have stated it repeatedly for decades. I stated it to these people – and they told me no – I have no religious beliefs – so their forms state maliciously. I am a gay man – we don’t have them, I guess. They are very, very wrong. Though, probably none of them even heard of Jan Hus and Hussism.

“I Have Fought the Good Fight (2 Timothy 4:6-22)” – 6 For I am already being poured out like a drink offering, and the time has come for my departure. 7 I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. 8 Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day — and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing.” I fought the Good Fight for my Gay Guys for nigh on 50 years since I was 10 years old – I was never in any “closet” – the stories I could tell about my youth as an open gay man in the 1970s – that’s just one of the book ideas about my fascinating life I have in the works. And not one person in my extended family ever had a negative word about it – ever – it’s our religious belief. And these people claim I was abused as a child and suffered child neglect. They just fabricated lies.

And these people are trampling on my religious belief. And I have argued for decades – I do not have facetious “gay rights” – I have American Rights – and among them are religious belief, amply protected by sundry laws – not a one of which has a clause “except homosexuals cannot have religious beliefs.” My religious belief is that gay men are a test of the simple admonition of Jesus: “Treat others as you wish to be treated” – about which heterosexuals have been woefully deficient as can be amply proved. And these defendants carry on in that miserable tradition of treating gay men like garbage.

Obergefell v. Hodges, 576 U.S. (2015) was the famous or infamous (depends on your view) case that in a 5-4 ruling found vaguely somewhere in the 14th Amendment a “right” to “gay marriage” – and the right was right there in the Declaration of Independence. “That all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” And gay men are men – and we have a Creator, even if He is not yours – and our pursuit of Happiness has been woefully denied throughout my life. My attorney in New York City, Stephen Loeb, wrote an article about what he thinks is the reach of Obergefell. I include it in my exhibits. He didn’t write it for this present matter, but he does bring up the case from time to time. Nor is he my lawyer in this matter, he is not licensed in Arizona. But he is my friend, and we discuss the cases – and gay men – and he wrote a letter in my support.

Snyder v. Phelps, 562 U.S. 443 (2011), decided 8-1 (Alito dissenting) – said pretty much “anyone can say anything against gay men however they well wish anywhere and at any time up to and including ‘death to fags’” With some bizarre unstated corollary, that might be described as Justice Antonin Scalia’s “jiggery pokery” – or even “penumbras” and “emanations” of what the Constitution means – somehow implying that gay men have to just stand there and listen to this nonsense. Well, if they can say anything to me – I can say anything back at them. I am an American – not a “gay man” as some alien among the populace. That the right to disparage gay men was clear to an 8-1 court, while the right to be celebrated as good was an iffy, well, could be in there somewhere, 5-4 – stuns me. As it should anyone.

I never have just stood there and listened. Never – I have said things to heterosexuals that would astonish the court and the defendants. The letters by friends included in this pleading attest to that. And that’s what this case is about. I am a gay man who asked for a gay male counselor to deal with gay male issues – and a horde of heterosexuals, mostly women, and the men from anti-gay cultures, told me no, that was not my issue – while creating a fantasy about me. They even note I would not go to some LGBTQ+ community center as if this is some problem of my life. Heterosexuals daring to tell me who I should agree to be connected to? Really? No – that’s not happening.

I am not claiming discrimination on the basis of “LGBTQ” anything – nor on the basis of being a gay man. I have American Rights – not “gay rights.” There are no such thing as “gay rights.” For decades I argued we have American Rights. I would argue it’s on my marital status, my national origin, my religious belief and any perceived disability – coupled with the sheer incompetence of these people I barely encountered – and the fantasy they wove about me – which surely is in the neighborhood of malpractice and fraud.

It is also what I call “the arrogance of presumption” – because every heterosexual has a presumption about gay men – and they insist they are right, and we are wrong. Every heterosexual has a view, an opinion, a belief – about why we are gay men, about what is “homosexuality” – about the vaunted “homosexual lifestyle.” Not a heterosexual doesn’t have such ideas – that are based on their religion, whatever few articles they read about it, perhaps a Psych 101 course, or from a textbook written by heterosexuals, perhaps they know a gay person or two. I can show this to be true with 1000s of examples and as recently as the day this complaint was filed. Indeed, during the very time SAAF and COPE were labeling me hopeless – I wrote a book laying out my case against the heterosexual presumptions about gay men. “The Pink Sheep of the Ninth Circle” was published in August 2013. I wrote it during the year I was in Tucson – while trying to avoid these people – who I come to find labeled me “severely mentally ill” and more. Their designation flies in the face of what I presented to the world. These defendants should all go read it – learn about my views on the searing issue.

And never once in my life have I been shy about stating this reality. Sure, today everyone is so much more polite, even benign – but the presumption is there that heterosexuals know more about gay men than we know about us. It is most amazing. And to show you how very contentious the whole subject is – in the Supreme Court term when Obergefell was decided there were 131 other cases – and Obergefell got more amicus briefs than the rest of the cases combined. Indeed, some 200 briefs were filed – 3/4s of them against us. The same happened with Bowers, Lawrence, Windsor – any case about gay men gets more briefs than any other case that Supreme Court term. We gay men are quite a thing – as no one can deny. And these defendants tell me they know more about me than I know about myself, amazing.
And I certainly did not go to some female heterosexual bureaucrat as COPE claims, on April 8th and April 9th 2013, and blithely agreed that I was “severely mentally ill, can’t concentrate, can’t function and can’t focus and am seeking services” On April 7th 2013 I published to my blog an article called “And on the 8th day He created Guy Guys.” It’s about how wonderful we are – and heteros are not rational about us. On April 9th I published an article to my blog about North Korea that still applies today. I did my utmost to avoid these people – for they are the very sort of people I avoided all my life. It is preposterous to think that after 40, even 50 years of stating forcefully that gay men are not mentally ill – which was, and still is to some, the claim about gay men – I would go to a woman heterosexual bureaucrat and agree that I was “severely mentally ill.” It is obnoxious to rational thought.

To top it off, on April, 10th, 2013, I was published at a national Christian, Tea Party, Right Wing – and not gay friendly – website called “American Thinker” – stating that gay guys were wonderful and “much ado about nothing.” So rational am I – that the website published a defense of me that very day by a noted anti-gay pundit – after a torrent of anti-gay comments from 300+ heterosexuals to my article. On the very days I’m on the national stage as rational on gay men – this woman states “I agree I’m severely mentally ill. ” That’s just not possible. And my reality is real – and she created a fantasy.

COPE and McDowell Clinic and then Southwest pushed a drug called Risperdone on me – I said repeatedly that I did not need this drug – and they insisted. I regret I relented and took this drug – but well, they were professionals – perhaps I should listen to them. Sometime in December 2016, I had a Skype call with Carl Bednarz, a man I know and trust for 40 years. He took one look at me and he said “stop the Risperdone, it’s killing you.” (His letter included in exhibits.) I was up to 2 mgs by then. Nearly every detrimental side affect that the Mayo Clinic posts on their website for this drug – I was having. For first it was .5 mg. Then 1 mg. Then it was bumped up to 1.5 mg, and finally to 2 mg – and this pill – which I did not want to take anyway, as Dr. Lambert in Tucson notes I mention, as do others – is killing me. It is a powerful mind altering drug – that I just don’t need. And instead of helping me – it was harming me. Then they pushed Zyprexa on me which I refused to take. They are pushing drugs on me for what they believe is some psychosis created by Mr. Ganago – and I’m asking to speak to a gay male counselor about my emotions from a life of wonderment.

Sometime in late December 2016 – an agency I never heard of – Bayless – called me to tell me I’m “severely mentally ill” and “special needs” so they can’t help me. Just point blank told me I was basically insane and incompetent and I wouldn’t understand. Where they got my name and number from I have no idea. Why they even called me to spend the 4 or 5 minutes telling me this is bizarre. But to have strangers calling me to tell me I’m crazy is just not good.

On December 30th 2016 I met with my regular Nurse Practitioner, Brian Arey, and I tell him of this designation of “Severely Mentally Ill” and he all but shouts out “No Way!” – the most demonstrative I had ever seen him – this is the ‘doctor’ I’ve been seeing regularly for 2 years or more. I also handed him a stern letter addressed to Mr. Greg Scaggs, Director of the McDowell Clinic, dated 12/20/2016, to share with anyone stating forcefully: “I will not meet with Southwest, I consider them evil.” A copy of that letter in my documentation. Mr. Arey has left the McDowell Clinic – and no one will tell me where he went. At least with him I discussed Tolstoy’s “War and Peace” – I doubt the rest of these people even heard of the book.

January 6th 2017 I met with Lindsay Morgan of Jewish Family & Child Services, because once again I am told I must do it, so I complied. My appointment was for 10 AM. I watched as Relles Abeytia of Southwest Network got to meet with Ms. Morgan first – for a half hour I’m left stewing in the lobby – an astonishing disdain for my time. He hands over about a 100 page report presumably about me – riddled with errors and falsehoods and I don’t know what else – and gets to “explain” all about “me” from his own delusions. It is infuriating. Finally I get to Ms. Morgan’s office and she talked to me like I was a child. She asked me in a sickening singsong voice like one uses with a toddler if I could say three words after she did. “Sure,” I said. “Door, chair, tree” she says. So I repeat the words – and I ask her what is that for? And she tells me it’s a test of my memory. And that is an abomination of a “test” of my memory. During this farce I concluded it was going to be just a waste of my time – so I just went to full joke mode. I repeated the three words in English, Spanish and Czech, and French, German and Portuguese too, in different orders, over and over after every single one of her pointless questions – and I asked repeatedly: “Do you have the name and number of a male counselor?” Finally at the end of our meeting she tells me she does not have the name of anyone, but because I am so very “severely mentally ill” and “special needs” she’s going to refer me to the very best agency she can find for people like me – and then to add insult to injury she tells me “You wouldn’t understand, we’re going to help you.” And I just left shaking my head and vowed to never talk to this woman again.

And that’s when I concluded going to a court was going to be necessary – again – I apologize to the court. I tried to reason with these people – but they are convinced by Mr. Ganago’s checked off box. I even filed a formal grievance with the Mercy-Maricopa Grievance Committee. I wound up speaking with and emailing Ron Valdez, their ombudsman. In obfuscated language he and the Committee sent me back to Southwest – who then did nothing but haul me to a psyche ward.

Meanwhile, in the first week of January, 2017, Mr. Scaggs and Eric Moore of MIHS are trying to convince me to go to Southwest – I refused – and they just blithely went along assuming they were going to take me there. I said “no” repeatedly, and they said “we’re going with you.”

Even though on December 14th 2016 I signed a form stating I “voluntarily” ceased being a client of Southwest – everyone ignored this form. They seem to believe I am so “severely mentally ill” that I can’t even make decisions for myself.

On December 16th 2016 at 2 PM a woman named Cory from Southwest called me – insisting I meet with her for whatever she thought ailed me. Most astoundingly – at 5 PM a woman telling me she’s my “peer counselor” just shows up at my door unannounced. I tell them both to go away, stridently. At 6 PM on Sunday December 18th, 2016 Dorothy Williams of Southwest calls me – demanding I speak to her – I tell her to go away. They note with concern that I said “Who are you and what do you want?” as some indication of my problems – without a clue that for all my life my father’s older brother Uncle George used this phrase and I adopted it from him! As I do “greetings” and other phrases. He was my favorite Uncle about which I can tell endless stories – up to an including visits to him in the last years of his life in Keystone Heights Florida.

I had two lawyers call Southwest to tell them to leave me alone; my facebook friend Charles Johnson of Los Angeles, and my broken wrist attorneys Lerner & Rowe (to really just wreck things, in the middle of all this, I broke my wrist in a bus accident on October 26th, 2016 – and for a pianist to break his wrist is just devastating! And these morons don’t even believe I can play the piano!) Southwest’s report notes the calls, there are letters of inquiry from Lerner & Rowe in the records.

Those calls made no difference. On January 9th, 2017, a woman named Laura from Southwest calls telling me I must make an appointment with their doctors on January 11th – I tell her no – and do not call me again. So incompetent are these people that an hour later she calls to tell me the appointment is really on January 12th – I tell her again – do not call me and I will go to no such appointments. Meanwhile, Greg Scaggs and Eric Moore are calling me to tell me they are going with me and I said “no” and they ignored me. I explained to Mr. Moore that they are “harming” me – as the protocols they themselves gave me define – they are “harming” me – and he ignored me and dismissed what I said.

On January 10th 2017, I got the Camelback Properties call I waited for 7 months to get – and by January 20th I signed a lease – and by January 30th I moved in to this great new apartment at 11th Avenue and Camelback Road, from where I can see a gay bar out my kitchen window. One where I want to live out my years as Providence decrees – in peace – without busybody mostly women heterosexual bureaucrats, and a few male heterosexual bureaucrats from anti-gay cultures – who refuse to listen to a word I say as they imagine who knows what – bedeviling my life with unannounced visits, phone calls from strangers and police so far twice – and essentially slander and libel about me on my medical record.

In early February – a woman named Dijana calls from JFCS to tell me she’s my case manager – I tell her to go away – I will not meet with them. I told her to tell Lindsay Morgan to send me my records – and otherwise leave me alone. I inform her I am suing their agency.

A week later a man named Brian from JFCS calls to tell me he’s my counselor – I explain to him in a 20 minute call – that no – just no – I will not talk to this agency – and that I plan on suing this agency. I explained what I thought about the entirety of this situation to him – perhaps in his records he notes the call. And I also told him I resolved the issue through another counselor. (Which I did, somewhat, not completely, as noted in my exhibits, and Steve White’s letter included here.)

A few days later Lindsay Morgan of JFCS calls – and in a sickening way she talks to me like I’m a child and tells me she’s going to take care of me and get me the help she thinks I need – and I tell her she’s out of her mind – and I demand again to get a copy of all the records about me she has.

On March 27th, 2017 at 1:30 PM from this phone number: 602-248-0368 – I received a call from “Recovery Empowerment Network” and a woman told me she was my “peer counselor” for “recovery” I have never heard of this agency. I have no idea who they are or where they are or what they do – and I don’t want to know. I asked this woman, “recovery from what?” and she told me from booze, and drugs, and a life of troubles – and I was furious. “Who gave you my name and number?” I asked. She said “Southwest Network.” And if more than 4 months after I signed a form from Southwest “voluntarily ending services” (as detailed herein) they are still sending women to me about imaginary issues – there is a problem. These people believe something – and it is all wrong. I tell her she’s out of her mind. Besides the lack of any troubles which these people think I have – I asked for a gay male counselor dozens, even hundreds, of times – and 9 months later they send a woman to me! It is just a stunning disregard for what I told these people repeatedly.

On Friday March 31st 2017 some huge linebacker sized guy pounds – not knocking – pounding! – on my door demanding entry to my home and perhaps for me to go with him and he’s going to take care of me. He’s from JFCS he says. I tell him he’s out of his mind. I would not let him in – I would not go with him – I told him to get lost – and I also told him to tell Lindsay Morgan to send me a copy of my records. I showed him the COPE report through the screen door as a sample of what I am talking about. And there’s Lindsay Morgan, poking out from behind this man – talking to me like a child again – and I was just furious. I told her to send me the report – and get out of my life. And then I just slammed the door in their faces. I have not seen this agency’s files on me yet. Ms. Morgan seems to think I have to go back to talk to her – for another assessment or other nonsense. She is rude, obnoxious and ignorant. I will not speak with her. I had to spell words for her in our meeting – egad.

There are so many wrong statements and misstatements of fact in the three reports I have seen that it is astonishing. They created this fantasy, and alternate me that is not real. There are misrepresentations, one word truncated versions of a whole story, labels of disorders, fabrications, quotes I could never have said and more, page after page of it – all of it making me look bad and worse. There are people I never met, never heard of – going on and on about what troubles they think I have. Anyone reading this would conclude there is something drastically wrong with me – and there is nothing wrong with me at all. To contest every single thing they said would be easy, but time consuming – hours and hours, page after page, document after document, witness after witness – of me contesting what they wrote – and proving me right, and them wrong. I wrote up a few pages on each of the three reports detailing the errors and misconstruing of everything in just the first few pages, which are included in my documentation. There’s 350 pages of this what can only be called nonsense. Is it: Malpractice? Malfeasance? Incompetence? Maliciousness? Fraud? Slander and Libel? Whatever it is – it’s a fantasy of unimaginable proportions. I led a life of probity and acclaim – and because Mr. Ganago labeled me “severely mentally ill” – everyone else in the system piled on with more labels and more absurd nonsense. 50 years of marvelous conduct did not change at the Arizona border, I assure you – and I can prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

More so – these falsehoods, labels, accusations and more, harm me in a multitude of very real ways. And even though bizarrely they label me “agoraphobia” – I am a public person. I am the official lobby piano player at St. Joseph’s – Phoenix’s largest hospital. I have a position of some importance. I have a position in the public eye. I have fans there. I provide happiness and joy to people in stressful jobs, and those visiting the hospital to see loved ones. If this nonsense is somehow brought to the attention of St. Joseph’s it will jeopardize my career there – one where I plan on playing for the rest of my life – until as Providence decrees I die – and the Arizona Republic will publish my obituary “long time volunteer pianist dies.” And more, I am a known person in the LGBTQ community of Phoenix for having painted a monumental painting of our history. I am the piano player at an Alzheimer’s home, another place I plan on playing for a long, long time. More so, I am a known quantity in Louisiana, in the Tunica Biloxi nation, in Czech and Slovak circles in Louisiana, nationwide, and in Europe, in the Cajun food industry, and the music industry. I have not severed my ties to Louisiana, even if I choose not to live there anymore. I only left there 4 years ago, after all. I am a known man of rational discourse on gay men in the right wing, tea party, conservative blogosphere – and across the internet. I am a published author, and more – endlessly more good. I have begun working on a book about the Czechs and Slovaks of the Four Corner states – which will be a public good for the history of this region.
All of what these people wrote and believe endangers my public persona, my public position – and my reputation, my position in the community – my liberty – and my very life. It imperils my apartment, my rental history, my credit – everything – this is just dangerous. These people are a danger to me.

In the middle of all this nonsense with Southwest Network and Mercy-Maricopa – on December 1st 2016 comes a letter from the Arizona Department of Health Services informing me that I am no longer eligible for the AIDS Drug Assistance Program – because “we did not receive your ADAP birthday renewal application for processing.” This is the sort of steady flow of bureaucratic foul ups that bedevil the system – and keep appearing in my life. I got the proper paperwork and proofs to Care Directions, the supposed HIV support agency which I avoid as best I can – on time, well before even – which sends it to the Center for Eligibility – which sends it to the state – and someone didn’t follow up – so the flow of life saving drugs is imperiled. I went to the McDowell Clinic and spoke to a woman named Olga who is the Care Directions case manager there – and she tells me “don’t worry” and I thought “no, I do worry.” The letter is in the exhibits.

And part of this whole series of events was the inability of SAAF, UA-UMC, MIHS and even the Arizona Department of Health Ryan White/ADAP program to get me the life saving drugs when I entered the system. It took them months of errors, foul ups, phantom appointments, inability to figure out what insurance I was covered by and more, in both Tucson and Phoenix. The incompetence and lack of knowledge about their own systems was stunning. And yes, I admit I got cranky at them. However, I have been an AIDS activist since 1981. I helped create ACT UP! in 1986, and the “Silence=Death” logo for AIDS activism. I was never quiet about it for decades, so I wasn’t going to just calmly go “Oh well, no drugs for me” while my T-cell count, the major indicator of HIV/AIDS health was falling from the 454 that SAAF notes at my entry into the system to the 254 they were when I finally got to see a doctor at UA-UMC. 200 is the cut off point for an official AIDS diagnosis rather than just HIV+. Even today they have yet to return to the levels prior to my moving to Arizona. While the drug and medical issues seem to be resolved – it took people outside the system to get it done. In Tucson, Michael Castaneda knew someone in the system and had to make monthly calls to ensure the flow of medications continued. In Phoenix it took Nadine Wells to guide me through AHCCCS and more, and she was just a volunteer at the One Voice Pride Center. Her letter is in my documentation. Surely these defendants are not going to claim that any disorders or mental problems they imagine are founded on my being angry at their incompetence. I was desperate for the life-saving medications – and they could not and would not provide them.

The relief I seek –

I want to see what all these agencies wrote about me – for so far it’s all nonsense – who knows what else might have been added? It’s quite a work of fiction so far.
Remove all this from the record – it’s all false or so misconstrued as to endanger my being.

Apologies from all of them – for not listening to a word I said, and dismissing everything I said as unimportant as they zeroed in on their imaginary problems they claim I have – and for being so cruel to an old gay man with AIDS who just wanted to talk about that with some guy who could help me put this wonderment at life, this amazing existence – put it all in some perspective.

$50,000 in punitive damages. They abused me, harmed me, endangered my life, and hauled me to a psyche ward all based on their own invincible ignorance.

Yes, I have no attorney – but I spent 100s of hours on putting this plea together. I charge for my time. For my art, my writing, my know how, my music, my advice – I charge for my time – that’s how I made a living for decades. There is something called opportunity cost – these people cost me endless hours on buses, pointless meetings, 17 hours in a psyche ward and two and a half hours to get home in my pajamas through the streets – and more. So I want reasonable attorney’s fees reimbursed. I would think it fair that the average hourly rate of all the lawyers these people shall bring against me be determined – and that be my compensation for the 100s of hours I put into this – this that was not necessary if any of these people bothered to listen to a word I said – instead of just relying on Mr. Ganago’s malicious designation and their own fetid nonsense.

They should all be required to read Franz Kafka’s “The Trial” and write a book report on it so I can grade it like the professor I am. Mr. Abeytia of Southwest can barely spell, egad – he writes “maintain” as “maintaun” multiple times.. I told them all about the book – I am K. they are the authorities – and barely a one of them even heard of this seminal work on the absurdity of bureaucrats. It starts: “Someone must have traduced Joseph K., for without having done anything wrong he was arrested one fine morning.” They traduced me and had me taken away. Never in my life had I a negative experience with police – until these people. (Well, other than nine gay bar raids, which I mention herein.)

And finally, please give me the name and number of a gay male counselor covered by my insurance so I can speak to him about this wondrous life and how I survived AIDS while burying a 100 friends. I am a gay man who led a gay existence and wish to speak to a gay man about gay issues – and I will NOT have a horde of heterosos tell me no! Egad – it’s miserable – it is 2017 – we are beyond those years of long past when gay men could be treated like garbage with impunity. Aren’t we? I hope so.

What follows in my exhibits are explanations of the timeline of events in Tucson and Phoenix, my life, my being, my creative output in Tucson and in Phoenix, and beyond, my brothers, my family, my friends, my cocaine use in the Dark Ages, letters of support from people across the globe, and more – for what I did during the four years I have been in Arizona is be the same rational reasonable fellow creating good works at a steady pace while charming everyone that I always have been.

I would rather not waste the court’s time with a lengthy trial where I can prove everything I did – and all the defendants can prove is that I signed their forms and they did not give me the gay male counselor I desired – while they wrote falsehoods, misrepresentations, fabrications, misstatements and worse – while pushing a dangerous drug on me. These defendants could give no testimony supporting the assertions they put on my record. Had any of them spent but a few minutes googling me or going to Amazon, Youtube, The Daily Mush – as I suggested repeatedly they do – which they dismissed as irrelevant – they would have seen their folly first. Instead – with the “arrogance of presumption” they knew all about me from their fetid minds – and dismissed my existence as piffle. I recommend they go look before they even think of contesting this plea.

I do not really want this to be about the law, though I know it is. Nor am I trying to change the system. I do not want to fight these people. I am trying to extract myself from the system – and remove these people from my life where they have no need to be. And I wish to do that by presenting my extraordinary life of extraordinary accomplishment while living through extraordinary times – in comparison to what they wrote – to competent observers appointed by this court – and get this solved as amicably as possible. For, again, what this is about is an accomplished 59 year old gay man who survived a plague and wished to speak to some gay male professional about it – and a group of agencies filled with heterosexuals that declared me “severely mentally ill” and a host of other disorders with no evidence.

I would rather some independent observers come to my home and go out and about in town with me – and spend some days with me so I can show someone the vast intellectual, artistic, musical and written outpouring that whooshes out of me effortlessly and daily in a steady, friendly, vivacious, humorous, wondrous cascade – it doesn’t stop – I am a jovial creative polymath – so these observers can report to this court their findings, so that a decision can be made without a lengthy trial which the defendants have no hope in winning. The only thing I ask is that these observers be men over 40 years old.

Even better, if the court would consider it – I would just love you to order all these people to attend a day long presentation by me of my life to them. They want to know all about me? They want to fill in their forms correctly about me? I would love to start out with an hour of my music live at the piano at St. Joseph’s Hospital. And then, in one of the many conference rooms there – for me to give a presentation to all of them that would simply astonish them. And when I am done – they will avoid lawsuits and the like, and do as I request – and remove all this they wrote from the record – and apologize, and offer me reasonable restitution. As I said above – I have Supreme Confidence in myself – like few this court ever met. With Supreme Confidence – I can state – this court is welcome to examine my life any which way it wants – for I am above reproach and I am forthright. In my exhibits I present just a snippet of my life. I regret I cannot include my music – the defendants should all go listen to it at my youtube channel “Jim Hlavac” and enjoy it while they read all of this.

As Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas stated: “The right to be let alone is indeed the beginning of all freedom.” Dissenting, Public Utilities Commission v. Pollak, 343 U.S. 451, 467 (1952). And I wish to be let alone by these people who have no need to be in my life, nor know a thing about me, nor have a word about me in their computers, especially such incredibly wrong, even malicious, statements.

And I wish to just continue getting the life saving drugs from the McDowell Clinic. (And someone should give the receptionist Barb there a raise. I do not know her last name, but she is the only person who ever listened to me in this system. She is marvelous.)

An emotional thing – the great state of Arizona rightly extols family as the cornerstone of society. SAAF, COPE and Southwest Network all insist that “James has no contact with his family.” This is just malicious. I told them I was in constant contact with my family – and they simply denounced my claim and put their lie. All my life I have heard heterosexuals say “gay men are anti-family.” And I have a fine relationship with my father, my late mother, my sister, niece, nephew, aunts, uncles, cousins – on three continents in two languages. I wrote a book with my father in 2009, I wrote a book for my mother in 2006 – I am friends on facebook with many cousins, my nephew and my Aunt Stephanie. I am my family’s historian. I did not all of sudden become anti-family or cease contact with them in 2012 when I crossed the Arizona border. What more I can tell about my family would simply amaze you all. I include just three letters from family, my cousin Jimmy in Florida, my Uncle Myles in Massachusetts – and the Gottwald family of Prague, Czech Republic. I could produce 200 more if necessary.

More amazingly – these people have decreed that I am a threat to myself because of the only two family members I did not speak to in 40 years – my two confounded brothers. They went off to the Air Force to follow orders – and blend in – in 1978 – and I never spoke to them again. And I went off to meet Harvey Milk and Harvey Fierstein. They hid from life – and I comported with Rock Hudson, Lauren Bacall, the Village People, and Mick Jagger, Deborah Harry and Sharonna. I partied with Robin Williams and danced with John Travolta and smooched him too. I did business with Andy Warhol, I had dinner with Truman Capote – and I met with every governor of Louisiana from David Treen in 1986 to Kathleen Blanco in 2006. And more – endlessly more – while my brothers sat in hiding and did nothing. They – for reasons I don’t even know – hid themselves from existence – and I went out and experienced the world. And if these people wish to compare me to my two brothers – they are in for quite a destruction of their beliefs. I only wrote up 4 pages on them and I.

Even during the very time in Tucson they claim I am “severely mentally ill” with “no contact with his family” – I found long lost cousins in Australia – and had weekly conversations for months on Skype with my cousin Alice Javurek Tapfield of Wagga Wagga, New South Wales, Australia – and reconnected all the relatives in America and Czech Republic with her and her family. And the only two family members no one in my family had contact with – were my two confounded brothers – who are but wisps of memories from 40 years ago. Yet to these people here, these defendants – these two brothers of mine are the sine qua non of my existence. The people I know are nothing, the life I led is nothing – and the two I didn’t know are everything – and that is bizarre. This canard against me by these agencies simply infuriates me. And I have a right to be indignant at their aspersions upon my good name. So I ask this court for redress.

I am of course open to whatever other remedies, examinations, proposals or solutions this court might desire. I am an open book – my life is beyond reproach. I welcome anything this court might decide must be done to resolve this – including the state investigating all these agencies for what they did to me – because I am a man of Supreme Confidence. And I am right – and these people are very wrong.

As is written in Scripture – Matthew 5:39: (New International Version) But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also.

I have turned the other cheek with heterosexuals all my life – but no more, not with these people in 2017. Not once in my life did I ever sue a heteroo for being nasty and obnoxious, not at one slight did I protest, but moved on – I let it all slide. Not this time. I ask this court to give me my due – and tell these people it is best to cooperate – so we might resolve this without a lengthy court proceeding which they cannot win. Though I am prepared for one – and then I will have fun with them like they can’t believe – for I can prove the real me, which will astonish them – and they cannot prove their version of “me.” In fact – none of these people have a clue who I am.

I apologize again for being a cranky old gay geezer – but well, that’s who I am. I lived through it all – and that’s what I wanted to talk about – and they told me “no, that is not your problem.” These defendants won’t even call me by the name I desire – “Jim” – but instead obnoxiously insist on calling me “James” – my name, yes, but I so rarely use it. Indeed, most of my friends call me “hlavac” – which the court is welcome to do. I sign my Christmas cards to family and friends “hlavac.” I doubt most of these people even know how to pronounce my (h)last name – it is “La-vick.” The H is silent, at least in English. In Czech the name is said “HLA-vatch.” HL is simply a weird Czech thing, and seemingly impossible for an English speaker to say – there’s only 12 languages on earth with this consonant cluster. Czech has 60% of the usage. With all of them I joked about HL words – and I give my example: “hloupy hlodovaci” – “Stupid Rats.” You know, in my family we joke about a “hlavacattack” – and that, after enormous patience and forbearance – is when we Hlavacs go “No, you cannot do this.”

Moreover your honor – all my life I have done good works – as my Hussite Tradition declares I should do. The numbers of youth I rescued from the streets after “good” heterosexual “godly” families chased them away would astonish this court. To this day – when I get my lunch from the chapel on Sundays I play piano for – I give it to a homeless person who lingers at 7th Avenue and Camelback. If these agencies had a heart or a mind they would set up a tent I could see from my kitchen window – and help those truly in need – rather than bedeviling an accomplished old cranky gay man with their nonsense. Or having the poor bedraggled in for another pointless meeting in their hard to reach offices for the pleasure of their sinecures. Egad, they are miserable bureaucrats – but – that is the system. I do not contest it – I wish to be removed from it.
However, in light of the defendants’ claims about no contact with my family, which seems to be the very cornerstone of my many alleged problems they imagine – I start off my exhibits with my sister. For she is the sibling I talk to. And when everyone is done reading her tale, and my role in it, I’m sure cooperation will be forthcoming. Thank you.

Respectfully submitted

James “Jim” Hlavac

The Malignant & their fantasy

Defendants and their Labels of me:

The labels:

As of today – so far I have determined that I am declared across the records, a “cocaine, meth, and marijuana addict, who abuses alcohol, with mania, depression, manic-depression, bipolar, anxiety, panic, agoraphobia, and paranoia disorders – with mood instability, social isolation and no contact with family – with legal, weapons, debt and gambling issues, with decompensation, hallucinations, and who is moving to Philadelphia and Costa Rica and has delusions to become a Hollywood movie star — who is delusional about writing books, painting and playing the piano – while in survival and crisis mode – and was an abused child, with child neglect, and learning disabilities – and inbred.” And I’ve been declared “Severely Mentally Ill” and “Special Needs.” They have declared me “in crisis” and “at risk,” and “at risk for crisis” and even “suicidal.” None of this is true, it is absurd – and dangerous to my life.

All these people and more are explicitly, implicitly or complicit in creating this fantasy above – and all that presented in the succeeding blog posts – it is a monstrous fantasy –

Eddy Broadway, CEO

Ron Valdez, Ombudsman

Mercy Maricopa Grievance Committee

Mercy Maricopa Integrated Care

4350 E. Cotton Center Blvd., Bldg. D

Phoenix, AZ 85040

Dorothy Williams

Relles Abeytia

Mary Kayu Tharalson;

Cory, Laura, et al.

Southwest Network

3640 West Osborn Rd., Suite 1

Phoenix, AZ 85019

Phoenix Shanti Group

2345 W. Glendale Avenue Phoenix AZ 85021


Thomas Donovan, Chairman, et al

Toate Ganago, Joanna Reis, Kathleen Oldfather, Lisa Robinson, Jonathan Patton and others


82 S. Stone Avenue

Tucson, AZ 85701

Juliet Yardy, et al


375 South Euclid Avenue,

Tucson, Arizona 85719


Lindsay Morgan, et al.

Jewish Family Services

3001 N. 33rd Avenue

Phoenix, AZ 85017

Recovery Empowerment Network

212 E. Osborn Rd., Suite 210

Phoenix, AZ 85012

Eric Moore

Julie Norton


2601 E. Roosevelt Street

Phoenix AZ 85008


UA-UMC, Petersen Clinic, et al

Robert Gadsden

Michael Castaneda

1501 Campbell Road

Petersen Clinic 6OPC

Tuscon Arizona, 85724


Justin M. Bayless, et al

3620 N. 3rd Street Phoenix

Phoenix, AZ 85012


Arizona Department of Health, et al

Ryan White, ADAP, HIV/AIDS Program,

150 N. 18th Avenue

Phoenix, AZ 85007


Brian Arey

Judie Langston

Zhanna Shpitalnik

Gregg Scaggs

McDowell Clinic

1101 N. Central Avenue, Suite 204

Phoenix AZ 85004


Patrick Scullion, et al.


618 South Madison Drive

Tempe, AZ 85281



The Timeline of the Absurd

April 3rd 2017 at Phoenix AZ

Greg Scaggs – Director, McDowell Clinic

This sir – is the mere gist of the tale I will be presenting – it is stunning. You may share this draft of my complaint with anyone you wish – you have my permission – for I aim to get to the bottom of this. This is a monstrous tale – and it must be resolved – soon. I would prefer administratively rather than judicially – but I will pursue this until I am satisfied. (No one shared it – no one gave a damn – hahaha – it’s all a goddamn joke — I guess” —

The Time Line of Events

My name is James Hlavac and I recently moved to – and now live at – and plan on living at till I die many years hence, as Providence decrees shall happen – at 5001 North 11th Avenue, #E204, Phoenix Arizona 85013. I go by the name Jim, or Hlavac, as most of my friends and even family call me. Even my father calls me “hlavac.” Everyone in the system insists on calling me “James” no matter how many times I say call me “Jim.” That is merely the first annoyance in this confounded system in which I am embroiled and embedded.

This is two interwoven tales, like a helix. The first is me – what I do and have done – my actual life. The second is what the system has done, while creating this imaginary me that bears no resemblance to the real me.

I am a 58 year old HIV+ gay man who was diagnosed with AIDS in 2001 because my T-cell count was 174, and the Federal definition of AIDS starts at 200 or less. So, I thought I would die soon. And I did not. I did not get sick at all. In fact, I barely catch colds. In February 2016 it was noted that my T-cell count was 184 – back to the AIDS designation. This was caused by stress – which I had in abundance in November and December 2015 and January 2016.

I lived through the entire plague, from the epicenter in Greenwich Village NYC in 1980 when it had no name to today. I buried a 100 friends and acquaintances. I wondered for the last 35 years when it would be my turn. It never came, instead I had an exciting and accomplished life. It involved living in more than a dozen cities, almost never more than a year at a time, before I moved to the next, or back to one I had already lived in, since 1985. In each city I did one or more sensational projects. I created trade shows, radio shows, websites, marketing plans, business plans, music directories; I helped create the Louisiana Alligator Farmers Association – and so much more. I played piano publicly in a dozen or more cities. It would fill volumes to explain it all. Now I’ve decided to retire and settle down. I thought Arizona would be a good place to do that, for I had spent a lot of time here between 2002 and 2009, when I was helping run the Phoenix International Youth Hostel at 1026 North 9th Street during the busy winter months. But I was an AIDS activist since the beginning – I was bar buddies with Larry Kramer and at the table when “ACT UP!” was conceived. I was at the table when the logo “Silence = Death” was created. I have led protests – I was involved. And then I stepped aside. Now, I find myself involved again.

I’ve never done drugs, (Well, coke in the late 1980s in the Club Scene in Manhattan when gay men all thought all was lost – but not since March 9th 1990) – I’m not an alcoholic. I’ve never had any legal problems civil or criminal. I’ve never been arrested or sued. I’ve never sued anyone. I’ve never physically attacked anyone, (well, Michael Henderson and Allan Rolli in 9th Grade for calling me “sissy,” “queer” and “faggot” one last time – then I was the “bashing fag” and high school was pleasant.) I have lived a life of peace. I’ve never thought of harming myself or others. I have never self-mutilated – I have no tattoos and just one pierced ear from 10th grade in 1973, (the right ear, the gay ear,) and I haven’t used it in more than 40 years. I’ve never been homeless, abused, harmed – but had utter peace and progress. I led a life of rather amazing accomplishment. A quick search of Amazon, Youtube and any search engine will bring an outpouring of my accomplishment, and there’s so much more. Really, an amazingly productive life. It did not cease at the Arizona border in 2012. I still am productive, and creative, and intellectual, and well, pretty much the same as I’ve always been. I pay my rent, I pay my bills; I have never been evicted, and I have never had my lights turned off. I have friends and family on 4 continents in 4 languages that I speak fairly well. I do projects, I do things. And I clean my bathroom every Saturday morning while the opera is on as I’ve done for decades. And so much more – endlessly more.

And yet, it turns out, bizarrely, everyone in the HIV and social services system in Arizona seems to think I led and perhaps still lead, a life of dissolution and mental instability and a hopelessness that requires their attention and intrusion into my life. Indeed, they have declared me “severely mentally ill” and “special needs” – to such a point that they won’t even explain to me what they mean by these designations, because, as they tell me “you wouldn’t understand.” They have labeled me with a slew of disorders – bipolar, manic depressive, depressed alone, mania alone, anxiety, panic, delusion, paranoia and agoraphobia and who knows what else. And now they claim they will serve my needs, whatever they imagine them to be – regardless of what I say about it. I told them all it was like Franz Kafka’s “The Trial” – 3/4’s of the people mentioned here never heard of the writer or the book. The book is about K. – that’s all he’s known as. Who comes up against obstinate “authorities” who charge him with a crime, but won’t tell him what he’s done. And the romp is on. Quite fascinating, eerie even, the parallels between K. and I. And the “authorities” are the people mentioned here. All of whom should be ordered by this court to read the book – so they might comprehend their folly.

The terms “severely mentally ill” and “special needs” seem to have a very broad definition – but comes down to the inability to function in life and get things done, a lack of relationships and endless failings. And I never had such an inability. I run my life, I get things done – and I have a charming time doing it. In fact, the only obstacle to running my life I really ever have encountered in my life are the people in the system mentioned here. It’s like I crossed the Arizona border and became a completely different person. The idea is ludicrous.

In July 2012 I moved to Tuscon – and stayed at the Roadrunner Hostel where I always stay when I’m in that city – and within 5 days had an apartment at 373 N Wilmot Road. I moved my bank account from Louisiana to the National Bank of Arizona, where I still have a checking account and my Social Security check is deposited the 3rd of each month. And I got a library card from the Tucson Public Library across the street from my new home, and I took out some 200 books on dozens of subjects over a one year period. That’s what I do – I go to a city and within days set up a life. And I set up medical care. I am very good at it.

As soon as I got the apartment I went to SAAF (Southern Arizona Aids Foundation, at 375 South Euclid Avenue) – and had an “intake” with a young man. I gave him every piece of paper and evidence he required – lease, social security award letter, ID etc., etc. I signed every form he asked me to. I provided an answer to every question. I told him that I needed three things – 1) the HIV drugs 2) dentistry 3) a male counselor to discuss surviving AIDS. Our meeting was 40 minutes of form filling and signing. I never saw or talked to him again.

I asked for nothing else – not one other thing. For I needed no other help. I simply do things and get them done quickly. I do not dawdle along fretting. I act, and I accomplish.

I was already off the drugs for 4 months because of bureaucratic screw ups in Baton Rouge – it took them in Tucson another 4 months before I got the drugs.

SAAF sent me to Michael Castaneda at COPE – 101 S Stone Avenue – to be my male counselor. Within 15 minutes I figured out he was talking about drug rehab – and I asked him why he was talking about that. He said SAAF told him I was a meth head. I was sort of shocked. I’ve never done it – I don’t know anything about it. I don’t even know what it looks like. SAAF simply imagined an alternative me. Where they got the notion from I have no idea.

So we switched to reality – and I asked if I could continue to see him because I liked him. So we just ignored the fact that he was a drug rehab counselor and I was not a recovering drug addict. For all I know this designation as a meth head is still on my record. I saw him nearly every Tuesday for about 8 months, until his program funding ended. We became buddies. I still talk to him every 6 months or so.

SAAF assigned me a case manager – a woman named Pat Desson – she was the manager of the case managers – she was the top and the best I was told.


She needed a statement from the previous agency in Baton Rouge that I was HIV positive before she could connect me with medical care in Tuscon. So I told her to get it from HAART in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where last I lived, for nearly 3 years, tending a WWII Veteran in his home in his last years – and then I waited. A month later I finally had to tell her to call the director of HAART, Tim Young, and get the piece of paper she needed. She had no clue how to get the paper out of HAART – she merely faxed over a request – blindly – not to any specific person – -just a “to whom it may concern” fax with no one in particular awaiting it. With no answer for a month – she did nothing. She never called them. I told her to call Tim Young and she told me “Oh, he’s the director, we don’t want to bother him with this.” I was like, here’s his personal number, he’s a friend of mine, give him the call. She hesitated – then called. 20 minutes later we had the paper she needed.

She said I was eligible for food stamps, though I hadn’t asked for them. I had never received them before. She was going to help me get them she said. She had no earthly clue how to use the online food stamp application – she couldn’t even call it up online. She sat there flummoxed in confusion.

I asked her where a DMV was to get the AZ ID they and I needed – she had no clue where one was. She lived in Tuscon for decades – and claimed to be the person I needed to talk to for assistance – and yet she had no clue where the DMV was – amazing. Didn’t know how to look it up online either. She was at least able to provide a $12 check to cover the cost, though I hadn’t asked for that either. So I went and got one the next day. It was $9 – I kept the three bucks.

2 or 3 weeks after I first met her, and with not a single discussion with me about my life, she presented me with a “Life Plan” – that’s what she called it. It was a carefully written up document explaining what she was going to do to get my life together – for she thought it broken, apparently. She was going to get me off the streets into a group home, she said – I already had an apartment that I furnished with table, chair, pots, pans, dishes, utensils, towels, bedding, internet access – the stuff one needs. I went out and bought it within days of moving into the place on North Wilmot. After all, I had arrived in the city with just my laptop and small suitcase. She simply did not grasp that I had an apartment. She presented this to me as a done deal – and I was flummoxed. She imagined some scenario out of whole cloth. Where she got this notion that I was hopeless I have no idea.

Within a month of arriving in Tuscon I began painting paintings – and sought an art exhibit. Six months later I had an art exhibit at Brooklyn Pizza on the arts district’s 4th Avenue. I had a painting for sale with the Tuscon Arts Brigade, and another one with something called “BICAS” (they create, repair, sell bicycles.) I had paintings at a ‘wine and paint’ place – I do not recall the name of it.

Within a month I found a piano to play at the Arizona Cancer Clinic on North Campbell Avenue, to which I went 2 or 3 times a week for the year I lived in Tucson – for a few hours to play the piano in their lobby to the enjoyment of all who heard. On youtube are examples of my playing. No one in this system seems to even believe I can play piano – they imply, though have not stated, I am delusional about my amazing ability to play.

After SAAF got the piece of paper they needed from HAART – I was transferred to Robert Gadsden at the 6OPC University Medical Center at 1501 North Campbell Avenue – the HIV/AIDS clinic in the city. Who couldn’t see me for another month in his busy schedule. Another month without the drugs – now going into the sixth month. My constant plea to just give me a bottle of the stuff simply dismissed as unimportant – there were papers that needed to be filed with who knows who. And Pat Desson, SAAF and Robert Gadsden didn’t seem to know who at all.

I met with Gadsden at his office at the University Medical Center. First, he tells me it’s at the corner of Speedway and Campbell – it is not – it’s more than ½ mile way up Campbell. When you don’t know how to explain where your office is there’s a problem.

He tells me I was not eligible for AHCCCS – even though my sole source of income is my Social Security Disability. But in order to get to the right insurance program – and I already have Medicare, which he dismissed as unimportant – I had to fill out an 8 page application for AHCCCS so I could get denied first – before we go to the next insurance step. And so I signed half a dozen of more forms and permissions and whatever he put under my hands. Then he tells me to go home and wait. Come back in a month or so. Still – no drugs.

A week later I get my approval for AHCCCS – I call up Gadsden to tell him. He’s surprised, utterly. So he sets an appointment for me at UMC at 1501 North Campbell Road and I go – and I get there – and they tell me there’s no such appointment – indeed – there was no such doctor at this location. The appointment desk all but told me I was imagining things. They said that my appointment was really a few days later some 30 miles and a 2 ½ hour bus ride from my house – rather than the 5 miles and ½ hour bus ride that the North Campbell location was. More amazingly – there was a UMC Infectious Disease Clinic at 501 (or something) North Wilmot – almost literally next door to where I was living.

At this point I just railed at Gadsden – I was furious. Months of trying to get the life saving drugs – months in Tucson – and utter sloth and incompetence and bizarre behavior by the people at SAAF and now at UMC.

I railed at Pat Desson – I went to her office from the nonexistent appointment to declare my unhappiness. She dismissed my concerns with a tralala who cares attitude. Told me to come back another day, and well that’s the way it is. Stunning disregard for the lack of pills which everyone I was meeting in the system asked “Are you taking your pills?” – “No, I can’t get them,” I told them. They laughed. Literally even.

So they set another appointment for a month later. I say “emergency,” they dawdled along. Finally I get blood work and then I see a doctor. Oh, they are so thrilled, a Patty McCracken was just giddy that my T-cells were 250 (a major measure of health for HIV) – and they were 500 just 6 months previously – but the lack of drugs made them fall. This lack of drugs and the refusal by anyone to hurry along, or get anything right, imperiled my health.

So, I get a prescription – where do I get it filled? It’s always a specialty pharmacy. They don’t know. I’ve been assigned an insurance company – United Health Care – perhaps they can tell me. They could not. I was assigned Humana too – they also could not tell me where to get the prescriptions filled.

I write to the ombudsman of the hospital to complain about all this. She couldn’t figure it out nor render any assistance, but gave weak apologies.

I get calls from case managers, agents and others I don’t know – every 3 or 4 days – people I don’t know, never met, have no idea who they are – calling me out of the blue – and each telling me something completely different and often opposite to what someone else had said – and each of whom I talked to only once before the next one called me. Never did I speak to the same person twice. No one could figure out how to get the drugs to a guy with Medicare, Medicaid, Ryan White and ADAP (The latter two the primary all-coverage HIV programs.) They were all clueless as to what insurance I had.

I got a call from a Walgreens – If I paid a copay of $700 and they would be glad to give me the drugs.

I got a call from Walmart – they said I had a copay of $2,500 and they would be glad to give me the drugs.

I got a call from Albertsons – they don’t have the drugs – go somewhere else.
Who submitted the prescription to any of these places I don’t know. No one was telling me anything but that they don’t know and go talk to someone else elsewhere. Maybe three dozen people paraded through my life.

Finally the stress of this incessant nonsense and the worry about the lack of pills gave me such body pains, chest pains, aches – that I went to the emergency room at St. Joseph’s hospital across the street from where I lived. They thought I was having a heart attack perhaps. They kept me overnight for observation. I hadn’t been overnight in a hospital since I was 8 years old for a tonsillectomy. They also would not give me the drugs everyone insisted I should be taking.

I finally get an appointment at 735 North Wilmot to see a Primary Care Provider through United Health Care, which they insisted I see – but not before trying to send me to a place dozens of miles from my house which I just refused to go to. He wrote me a prescription for the Atripla that I had been taking – just on my request. He wasn’t an HIV doctor – but United said I had to go to him. Right up the block, I went. Nice guy. Reasonable, knowledgeable, but not really about HIV, which is a specialty. Meanwhile, there was a fungus growing on my body, dropping T-cells will do that – he prescribed a cream to stop it.

There’s a flurry of phone calls and letters between 6OPC at UMC, SAAF, United – and the ombudsman at UMC – and no one could figure it out. Months go by and I’m still without the drugs which everyone keeps asking me if I’m taking – and I can’t get them. When I point out they won’t give them to me they shrugged their shoulders and sent me to the next person.
Meanwhile, I’m seeing Michael Castaneda and explaining this. He intervenes, he knows someone in the system. Finally I get the drugs at UMC pharmacy. How simple that could have been from the beginning, how absurd it was.

Then SAAF decides they have enough of my complaining about their sloth and stupidity – virtually every single thing they told me was wrong. They were wrong about what I was eligible for, where to go, what to do – which forms to file and where – and they were astonishingly arrogant to write me up a “life plan” as a diktat of what they insisted I do with myself – so they banned me from their premises. They were going to deny me the services they never provided – while they imagined me a meth head living on the streets – it was simply flummoxing.

Castaneda hooks me up more formally with COPE – his overseeing agency for his program. I go to this COPE office for an intake. I meet once with some case manager who has me fill out forms and ½ hour later I never saw or heard from her again. Castaneda suggested I take a pill, I didn’t think I needed one, but well, I followed his advice, because I’m having these feelings, this melancholy about the loss of so many buddies while I still lived healthy, maybe the pill will help. So they put me in a bare room with a TV – and I look around and I’m like ‘Huh?’ – and the TV springs to life! Scared the hell out of me. I do not own a TV and haven’t for 40 years. I hate TV – now I find I’m talking to one! A woman tells me she’s in Phoenix really, and she’s my psychiatrist and she has all my charts and information – and then asks, within 2 minutes of the start of this charade – “So, you want a pill?” Just like that – I was rather surprised. I thought I should have to explain my feelings first, I certainly wanted to – but nope, she knew all about me, she said. From where she could have learned a thing about me I have no idea – except whatever SAAF may have said. I declined the pill and within 10 minutes I was gone.
I kept asking for a male counselor to deal with surviving AIDS – and Castaneda, while nice, is just a drug rehab counselor with no experience or training with what I am dealing with – so they send me to a man named Dale Hawkins. He’s actually in his office. I go prepared to have a discussion with him about my feelings, my emotions. Within 3 minutes he’s got his prescription pad out telling me I need to take Risperadone. He’s a pill pusher. Nothing but a drug dealer to me. So I’m cajoled into taking this pill. It’s .5 mg – and he labels me “bipolar.”

COPE has me see this other man, to do some assessment. Question after question about problems in life – drugs, booze, sex, homelessness, criminal activity, violent thoughts, wetting the bed – 100% wholly irrelevant to my life. And not a question about me – nor any room on the computer form to put in a word of what I said. There were 100 questions or so – and he diligently stared into the computer, barely glancing at me, so that he could enter all this data into his computer. Castaneda sat in for this session. To what purpose it was I had no idea, but bureaucrats, eh, you have to go with the flow. I met him one other time, by chance in the lobby, and he drove me home and came up to see my art. Nice guy, from Africa, we discussed his home country of Nigeria – he was very impressed with my knowledge of the place. No room for that on the form.

In fact, I only went to the COPE offices 4 times, maybe 5 … once for my first case manager and the TV psychiatrist, once with Dale live, once with Dale on a TV from Indiana while he was having lunch, and shoving food into his face while in between bites he pushed pills – and once to see the question man. That was my sole experience with them. I never spoke to them at all. They never called me up. I never called them. I didn’t need them, and I didn’t know what they did. I simply had no dealing with them beyond these four short visits of barely 15 minutes with four of them, and the hour with the question man.

Finally it seems to settle down. I get the drugs – each month – with Castaneda having to make phone calls to different people because each month seemed to be different. Different insurance providers, different prescriptions, different co-pays – it was just different every month – I didn’t fit any parameter or form or slot or peg hole they had. They were all confused about it.

I continued my life – I published my third book, “The Pink Sheep of the Ninth Circle” – my view of the “gay thing” as I call it. I’m published on several major right wing political websites with my views on gay marriage. I’m defended by a notorious anti-gay commentator on a rabid anti-gay website for my views promoting gay men (That’s how rational I am.) I’m playing the piano to the delight of hundreds of people at a major medical clinic. I’m making friends at the gay bar and with my neighbors. I go to my niece’s wedding in Pennsylvania. I have an art exhibit, I’m painting, I’m writing music, I’m working on more book ideas – I’m leading the normal creative life I’ve always lead. Amazingly, through a post to my blog I wind up reconnecting with long lost relatives in Australia. And I’m paying for it all myself and managing my meager money well.

Finally a year goes by – I’ve done a lot – and the medical situation finally seems stable.

Meanwhile, they’re doing months of air conditioning work at my apartment – though the hottest months of the summer my door has to be open so they can run tubes through the house and out the door – they give me a portable air conditioner to blast (thankfully electric was included in the rent.) But I have a lease, and I can’t afford to move.

I sign a new lease – and they carpet clean as a thank you – everything cleared out of the way – there was not a bedbug to be found. A week later the bedbugs surfaced by the hundreds – literally – one day not one, the next hundreds – they came out of the woodwork. Sure, 4 or 5 apartments surrounding me were all vacated and being refurbished and there I was – the last piece of flesh around. I discover that the complex had been cited repeatedly by the city and county for bedbugs. I was up for 7 days – couldn’t sleep – I was fighting off the bugs – they were attacking me as I stood still. The complex tells me not to worry – in 10 days they’ll take care of it. Don’t worry if they crawl on you and bite, I’m told – “they are not disease vectors” I’m told. They tell me I have to pay them 100s of dollars first- and besides, they’re going to be evicting me anyway.

I called Castaneda to see what might be done. I call my new “case manager” at COPE who I had never spoken to to see what might be done. They say they’ll send someone over – so I wait. For days. They have the wrong address – they can’t find me. They finally get to my house and tell me I’m on my own. Tough luck buddy. They send someone to haul me to a rehab center – they imagine I’m on drugs because I don’t have bite marks. Once there I say “I need sleep” — they keep me up to question me about my condition. The next morning they send me home to the infested house. I stay up for more days. It’s the end of the month, I have no money – so I’m stuck.

Finally I collapse – a neighbor calls 911 – they take me to the hospital – they pull bedbugs off of me – but decide that since I have no bites – I’m imagining this all – and they put me in a psyche ward. To deal with my hallucinations, they seem to say. They simply would not believe there was a bedbug issue as the things were crawling on me in the emergency room. Apparently I am one of the rare people who do not get bite marks, what can I say?

They let me out the next day – and hand me back my phone and wallet – washed! My wallet was sodden. They washed my phone! Now I can’t call anyone. I get my check, the bank is across the street from the hospital, next to my apartment complex. They let me use their phone. I call my neighbors, who had just moved out too – and I rescue everything I can out of the apartment, which was mostly the 40 paintings I had done while there, and abandon the rest. We had time for one trip – and I put it into storage – with help from my neighbors. COPE told me to jump in a lake.

Wondering what to do – I arrange a temporary address, and head for Mexico – that’s what I had money to do. I ask for the pills before I go, which are denied to me because it’s 2 days short of when I’m supposed to get them. 2 months later I fly to my sister’s in Pennsylvania, I pass through Tucson – can I get the drugs? No – they won’t give them to me. I’m told to just stay in a homeless shelter until COPE or some other agency gets their act together and gets me into a group home. I tell them they are crazy. The holidays are upon us. I figure I’ll sort things out while enjoying some family time – and then move to Phoenix. I was rather tired of Tucson at this point. The UMC would not mail me a month or two of the drugs. Nor was anyone allowed to pick them up for me and mail them to me. So, back to no drugs. My T-cells were back up to about 320. Once in Pennsylvania I come to find out that COPE – on their own volition, without my knowledge even – calls up all my medical providers – insurance – AHCCCS, the UMC – everyone – and tells them I moved to Philadelphia (didn’t go near that city) – so everything gets canceled. And once again I’m without the drugs! – thanks COPE.

And somewhere along the line – either SAAF or COPE or both – put on my record that I was “Severely Mentally Ill” and “Special Needs.” Only I don’t realize this until I get to Phoenix. And still wasn’t sure what anyone was talking about until 2016 – when it began to become clearer to me. These people have created an alternative me that bears no resemblance to the real me.

So I spend 2 months in Scranton, Pennsylvania dealing with family and selling things I had on Ebay to raise money for the move to Phoenix. I’m off the drugs again for several months. In December of 2013 I call Judy Norton of MIHS (Maricopa Integrated Health System) and tell her I’m landing on January 4th, 2014 – I would like to get the drugs – and a male counselor to talk to about surviving AIDS. These are the only two things I ask her for. I seek no other help from any agency or entity to do anything. I take care of things as I always do.

We set an appointment for January 6th at the McDowell Clinic at 1101 North Central Avenue, Phoenix – I’m there. Ms. Norton cheerfully hands me a bag with about 100 condoms, with a wink wink, nudge nudge. It frankly insults me – the sex crazed homosexual of lore come to the fore. I didn’t say a word. I gave the condoms to the local gay center. I get an intake with Julie Langston – more pointless questions. I say again and again – I’m off the drugs for months. Don’t worry, I’m told, soon.

The first week I stay gratis at the Phoenix Youth Hostel, where I’m one of the family, and within 5 days of arriving in Phoenix I get an apartment at 4444 N 7th Avenue. I tell MIHS where the new place is. Two weeks later I get my stuff out of storage in Tucson, with the gracious help of a woman I had just met at the gay center (Lesbians with pickups, best movers ever) – I start acquiring furniture and pots and things for the house. I go about my life, I go the gay center daily to use their wifi. The gay center gives me some furniture as a welcoming gift.

Meanwhile, no one in the system can figure out what I’m covered by to get medical care. I’m sent to this and that agency – I can barely recall them all, a dozen at least. I have one or two phone calls with them and they sent me to the next agency. Or they came to my house and I signed some forms and I never heard from them again. A man from an agency called “Chicanos Por La Causa” comes to my house. The man tells me he’s going to take care of me. He’s going to get me into a group home where I might be tended. I tell him he’s out of his mind and throw him out of my house – in Spanish – I am quite conversant in the language. I have an apartment I paid for – I’m not moving into a group home. I don’t need anyone to tend me. He told me otherwise, and didn’t listen to a word I said.

AHCCCS has no clue about me – I’m simply gone from the system I was in several months previously. MIHS can’t get me to a doctor – SAAF, or COPE, or UMC, can’t pull themselves together to fax the much needed proof that I’m HIV+ – why not just give me another test? Can’t be done. A bureaucrat has to state it, your own blood is not proof enough.

Center for Eligibility can’t figure out what I’m covered by. So convoluted are meetings with agencies, at their offices, or my house, or on the phone that I do nothing but sign still more forms and I am sent on my way, never to see these people again. I’m assigned an insurance company – United Health Care again – they too are utterly clueless about what I might be covered by – and have no evidence that they were my insurance provider just months previously in Tucson. Phone calls, meetings, form signings – all to no avail.

I go back to a doctor Thanes, that I had seen years before – he takes me in. Does blood work. Then can’t figure out what insurance I’m covered by. Medicare, Medicaid, Ryan White, ADAP – it’s all a mystery to them. They refuse to give me a prescription. They charge me for the visit. I explain that I must have insurance. No, I’m told – I’m not eligible for any insurance of any kind.

I call a Crisis Hotline because I don’t know what else to do, I’m just flummoxed in rational rage – I ask to speak to a male counselor about all of this. They take me to a drunk tank on 99th Avenue – “Community Bridges” – they tell me I have to dry out for a few days before I can see anyone. I hadn’t had a drink in weeks. I get out right away.

Patrick Scullion of Empact comes and gets me on 99th Avenue, and we go visit this and that place, Food Stamps, DES – a food bank, and to get a government phone – none of which I needed or wanted – but when might I get the drugs? No one knows and Patrick does his best to get it done. Really, he was impressive with what he knew, was right about and got done.

It took a woman I met at the gay center, Nadine Wells, to take me to the AHCCCS head office to straighten out who is my primary and secondary providers. Even they were somewhat confused, but seemed to finally straighten it out.

Most of these agencies had addresses for me in Louisiana in their system, or the address of the Youth Hostel where I lived at in Phoenix 6 or more years previously. How they had any address on me at all I don’t know, I guess I’m in the system. No one seemed to have any knowledge or notice of my time in Tucson – it’s like it never happened. Agencies argued with me over my correct address – they were going to tell me where I lived. It was amazing.

Meanwhile, I became friends with a dozen people at the Phoenix One Voice gay pride center which was next door – I’m still friends with them all.

Southwest Center for AIDS at 1101 North Central says they’ll be my case managers – great. They assign me an earnest young woman, Katy Vacuravich – she has no clue as to how I might get any services, though what services I might need I don’t know. She has no idea what insurance I might be covered by. Can’t figure out any website she goes to. Has no idea where the Social Security office might be to get the most current award letter, because the one from late 2013 is no good anymore, perhaps just in case my check doubled or something. I get all the papers they request. It’s still not enough. Nadine Wells helps with this too, knowing just where to go, the Social Security office on Tatum Road. I get the letters and proofs I need.

Finally, they get me a male counselor – come to find out in a month that he’s not covered by my insurance at all. Now I have a bill I can’t pay – thankfully they just dismissed it. But I saw him just 4 or 5 times. They say they have another – no, it’s a woman, I decline to see her. Yet another woman comes to my house, to sign forms and assess my needs, she tells me, from some clinic on 7th Avenue at Osborn, I don’t remember the name – 3333 North 7th Avenue. They send me to someone else – they set the appointment on my birthday, without asking me – at the Townlee Clinic – I had to get a ride there – there is no way to reach it by bus. It took a woman named Erica at the One Voice to even find out about this appointment – people wanted to know my case manager – “I have no case manager” I said. They assign me a case manager and do an intake – and then tell me they have no idea who to send me to next because of my “special needs” and I didn’t understand what they were talking about. But there was no point in seeing them anymore, they didn’t have what I wanted – a male counselor to talk with about surviving AIDS. I never heard from them again.

I had to go to the Department of Health at 150 North 18th Avenue to meet with a Jimmy and Laura (I don’t know their last names,) who are in charge of the Ryan White/ADAP program. They too have no idea what I’m covered by or who is paying for it. We met for more than an hour as they investigated. They conclude perhaps I’m covered by the ADA (American with Disabilities Act;) they are not sure. Still, no drugs.

Four months I wait for a doctors visit – before I get a bottle of Atripla in my hand.

MIHS McDowell Clinic recommends I see Zhanna Schpitalnik, a psychiatrist – right away she wants to foist a pill on me. Another drug pusher in my mind. I say I really don’t need a drug – I need a male counselor about having survived AIDS – she dismisses my plea and writes a prescription for 1 milligram of Risperadone – doubling the dosage COPE pushed me on. It really seems to have no effect on anything except hampering my creativity.

By April I finally see a doctor – Brian Arey, and get prescriptions for HIV drugs that can actually be filled – Hallelujah! I go to the Avella drug store at 15th Avenue and Camelback (Since closed) to get the pills. Nope, never heard of me, I’m not in the system, go see someone else. I go ballistic. It’s absurd already. More phone calls and emails – including to my city council member seeking intervention – I was willing to try to talk to anyone to get the drugs I need – and which everyone kept asking “Are you taking your meds like a good little boy?” “No,” I answer, “you won’t give them to me.” They shrugged their shoulders and told me to talk to someone else.

On May 13th of 2014, after being picked up by a new and now dear friend at the clinic that couldn’t help me mentioned above, Townlee, she takes me to One Voice – and I’m given a surprise birthday party! I am the first and last and only person to ever get a birthday party thrown by the One Voice gay pride center. I am extremely popular. They hang my art on their lobby walls. Young people come to me with their issues and I advise them like an uncle. I’ve been doing that for decades. I wrote a cartoon book: “Old Gay Geezers Give Good Advice.”

I give up the counselor idea, it was pointless bringing it up to person after person who simply dismissed my request as piffle.

I finally get settled with the drugs, and food stamps. I don’t ask for anything else. I don’t go to any food banks, I did not ask for a phone, I did not ask for any assistance of any kind. I ran my life, as I always did, rationally, calmly, reasonably, with plenty of mirth and merriment and creativity along the way.

No agency came to me to see if I was OK. But everyone sure had more forms to sign. A blizzard of them. To what purpose I don’t know. I signed whatever they asked.

In August, into September, 2014 I painted a monumental 4×4 foot painting of 5,000 years of gay history for the new Phoenix Gay Pride Center at 801 North 2nd Avenue. After I delivered it on September 5th to much acclaim and wonder – I collapsed from exhaustion, I guess. I was taken by ambulance to the emergency room at St. Joseph’s Hospital at Thomas Road and 7th Avenue. Coming out of the emergency room I discovered a piano in the lobby. The next day I start to go there once or twice a week to play. For the next 2 years I play there regularly, weekly, every Tuesday and Thursday, and I’m beloved and have fans and people applaud and tell me it made their day. Eventually, in August of 2016 the hospital asks me to become their official lobby pianist – they give me a badge and everything. My job is playing piano for four to five hours a day, they give me lunch at the cafeteria.

From January 2014 to November 2015 I painted dozens of paintings while I look for a place to have an exhibit, composed hundreds of pieces of music, and I published the 12 books that were in the pipeline – I had been working on them for years. They were put up on Amazon Kindle.

Everything finally seemed to settle down, great. I was happy. I renewed my lease in January 2015. In November 2014 a cat strolled into my life. I get him neutered and all his shots, and within a few weeks he and I are going for nightly strolls with him on a leash – even to the Bunkhouse next door where we are popular fellows.

The two charming front office ladies at the complex I lived at took my rent, bought my art, and we got along great, they bought me ½ dozen donuts from time to time because I made them laugh. They left in August and September of 2015 for their personal reasons. The complex then hired this crazed woman who was a fellow tenant – one who had screamed at me in the public area of the complex several times over the previous two years and that I sought to avoid. I ran away from her. One day I go walk in to pay the rent – there she is – the manager. She takes my check while berating me in a shrill voice, almost yelling at me, about god knows what. I ran away. There’s no logic to this – perhaps I looked like an ex-husband – who knows? It’s nonsensical, she just hates me.

In November she slammed a notice to my door proclaiming that I am a loud and disruptive tenant. I go to ask her what she is talking about. She screams at me like a crazed banshee to get out of her office. A half hour later there are two cops at my door wondering what is the matter. “Beats me officers, I didn’t call you.” They hand me notices – half a dozen of them. Threats, insinuations, accusations, based on specific provisions of the law – of gang activity, noise, intimidation, drug dealing, disrupting other tenants. And they told me I walk my cat too close to her dogs, oh yes. It was stunning. Over the next 3 weeks, cops were repeatedly at my door at the behest of this woman. They kept telling me it was a civil matter – I said I’m being unlawfully harassed. In the second week of December the manager gave me another notice that they would not renew the lease on January 1st. I now have 3 weeks to get out. – OK, that sucks, but apparently it’s allowed by law. She sends a “crisis team” to my house – who knows what she claimed. Two guys from Empact come. I entertain them and sign their forms that all is OK. Then to top it off, she serves me with eviction papers on December 21st. I have to get a lawyer right away and solve this problem. Basically some strange woman I never knew tried to have me arrested, hauled off, and destroy my credit and rental history. It was monstrous.

I wind up moving to a dark studio apartment out on 43rd Avenue and West Glendale – so far from everything I do and need. It was the only place I could find in such a tizzy; I had 14 days over the Christmas and New Years holidays to find a place, pack up and move, while visiting lawyers at the HIV Law Project. Friends and family stepped in to help – no agency did a thing – nor did I ask them. The only thing I did was ask Patrick Scullion if he knew of any places and he sent me to a website where I found the Cinnabarr Apartments, to which I moved. I was extremely unhappy. Oh, miserable even. I didn’t want to live there. It was, actually, the farthest from a gay bar I had lived in since 1980.

In May 2016 I turned 58 years old. This melancholy descended on me. I was alive, and so many of my old friends were not. I was doing stuff, they were dead. Fortuitously, I thought, Mercy Maricopa – now my insurance company – calls me up in mid-June to inquire on routine matters, as they do once or twice a year – and I asked to speak to a male counselor about these emotions, this survivors guilt, this wistful ennui – I didn’t really understand it – so I sought a male counselor to speak to. Seemed reasonable to me. And then everything really got weird. All of sudden I’m told point blank I’m “severely mentally ill” and “special needs” Oh, it’s in their computer, they tell me. So they tell me they’ll send me to the very place I need. I was told I could no longer see Schpitalnik, who just giggled and said “Well, I can’t see you anymore, you’re SMI” and dismissed me.

I was told I was “SMI” – I didn’t quite understand what it meant. Another set of initials by bureaucrats, eh. So they assigned me to the Southwest Network. Fine, I’ll go talk to them.

First a woman comes to my house – for an “assessment” – what she is assessing I don’t know. She barely looked around my house, and mostly fumbled with her papers, some of which I had to sign, to get “services,” and asked me if I was going to harm anyone or myself. Well, no, I’m not. I never have, the idea is ludicrous. What “services” she doesn’t say. I say “So, a male counselor?” Oh yes, she says, next week – one in Scottsdale. I’m thinking, I need to travel 25 miles to see someone? Well, it’s their cab. So I go – and the cabby brings me to Seacrest Family Chiropractic office – and leaves me there, zooming away. They and I have no idea why I’m there. It takes Mr. Seacrest a half hour to convince AHCCCS that I’m there, that I’m on AHCCCS and that I’d like to get home without a 3 hour bus tour of the city. A cab finally comes, I go home. I call Mercy Maricopa – they are clueless as to why I needed to go there, or was taken there. They know nothing about it. They arrange another meeting.

This time I meet with a Melodie Harmon. Why I needed to meet with her, I don’t know – she could certainly not be the male counselor I sought. I’m told another “assessment.” I meet her at 16th Street and East Osborn. She has me sign forms electronically, I don’t even know what they are for. 4 or 5 signatures she required. I ask – “Where is the male counselor?” Oh, she’ll get me one, she says. She asks inane questions like can I remember a few numbers and letters. She dismisses as irrelevant any positive thing about my life, and being a long term survivor of AIDS with some melancholy about 100 dead friends. Then she tells me I’m to go to 3640 West Osborn to a clinic. OK, sure, why not? That’s where she tells me the male counselor I seek awaits.

I go to this clinic – and can’t find it. There is no 3640 address on West Osborn. I walk around for 40 minutes in July’s searing heat looking for the place. Not finding it, I go home just enraged – and my ability to find places is legendary with my friends and family, I assure you. I call them up (I do not carry a phone with me, never, not ever.) They simply cannot explain to me where they are. “In the industrial park right there.” Which industrial park? They can’t say, they don’t know.

So my newly appointed “Case manager” – now I have two – one with Care Directions – one with Southwest – a man named Relles Abeytia comes and picks me up – he’s 20 minutes late because he can’t find me or call me. His office had to call to tell me finally he’s at the front office of my complex – then I’m taken there. And it’s hidden behind everything and not visible to the street. It’s nearly ¼ mile north of Osborn! Stunning. I meet with a woman named Mary Kay Tharalson – I have no idea her qualifications – but for sure she is not a male counselor. She has me sign more forms, 3 or 4, also electronically. I don’t actually see the forms, or know what they are, but well, intakes, it’s signing forms. I sign them all. She can barely find what she’s looking for in her computer, or on her desk. I have to help her. She stares into the computer and tells me “Yeah, I’ll just give you prescriptions for the same drugs McDowell has you on.” Another pill pusher. All of 15 minutes with me, and she’s pushing pills. I ask “Where’s the male counselor?”

I’m told, “We’re going to assess your needs.” I’m puzzled. What needs are these people talking about? And where is the male counselor which I requested? They tell me to wait, they’ll fix it all up.

The following week I meet with Relles, and he goes through the same asinine question list that COPE went through several years ago. Absolutely none of this is relevant to my life. I’m a long term Gay Male AIDS survivor of great accomplishment – and they’re asking me about my criminal records and drug use and living on the streets. I talk accomplishment – they ask about troubles. I asked Relles repeatedly in that meeting – after every question even – it became a sing along joke after awhile – for the name and number of a male counselor so I can call and make an appointment. Oh no, he needs his ridiculous form filled out – so they can assess my needs, he tells me. Every thing I asked for and said dismissed as nothing – I am beginning to figure out that these people are talking about something completely different than I am. They are talking about some imaginary person – not me.

And that’s when I first start hearing more clearly about this “Severely Mentally Ill, Special Needs” designation. What does it mean? I ask – they won’t tell me – “You wouldn’t understand,” I’m told. And then I go home and don’t hear from them for weeks. Eventually they call, and insist I come see their nurse and their doctor because they are taking over my health care from McDowell Clinic. I told them, “You are doing no such thing.”

I write a letter to Tharalson and Relles laying out clearly what I want and why – a male counselor to discuss my emotions about surviving AIDS – and that they are “harming” me for not giving me the name and number of someone. I said there is no reason to meet with her – I don’t need any pills. And I will not and cannot talk to a woman about my emotions. She never responded in any way – he started pestering me.

Meanwhile I figure out that this Risperadone, now up to 2 milligrams, as Schpitalnik insisted – as these pill pushers insisted I be on, was giving me dangerous side affects. Friends and family started to tell me I did not seem myself. People grew concerned. I was no longer the bon vivant I had been all my life. I keep telling my friends – I do not feel right – something is very wrong – and I don’t know what. My friend Carl Bednarz, who I have known since 1980, and I had a Skype call – he said – oh no, stop that stuff immediately– it’s killing you. While on the call he looked up the side affects of this drug – and I was having nearly all of them. Come to find out, the stuff is toxic to me. These people poisoned me, frankly.

Then the Pulse shooting happened in Orlando. I became more – I don’t know – melancholy? Anxious? Whatever it was – it did not interfere with my life. I still created music endlessly, still went to play piano, still was writing, was still seeing friends, still going to the bar to seek new friends – I kept the same eating, sleeping, bathing, hygiene, friendship habits I always had – nothing changed. I was just looking for someone to talk to about emotions – and all these people were talking about me – talking at me, even – like I was mentally ill and couldn’t function in life. Nothing I said changed their view one iota.

And every time I spoke with Relles he could not and would not give me the name of a male mental health counselor. He told me that “Your team is working on your assessment.” Now I had a team, oh my. Never met a one of these people, and they are assessing my needs. Just stunning. Who knows what they imagined and created? Now that I have seen their 186 page report on me – it is just fabricated fantasy. I’ve never read anything like it. It’s like a novel was written about me – but well – it is not me at all – not in the least.

Relles and Southwest insisted I see their nurse, doctor, psychiatrist and more – and I said “no.” I did not need it, did not want it. I wanted one and only one thing – a male counselor to talk to about surviving AIDS – I brought it up at every contact point – phone, writing, in person. To no avail. I find in their report: “James says he wants to see a male counselor. It could be considered an option.” That is just stunning – an option? Really? To be decided by this guy who doesn’t know me? Amazing arrogance.

This went on from August to December. I filed a formal complaint with the Mercy Maricopa Grievance Committee – they call me up to tell me they’ll arrange a conference call with Southwest to resolve the rather simple matter of a male counselor. So we had the call the next week. I’m told to expect a call every day until I get what I wanted. I never heard from Southwest again for weeks. I ignore them.

I begin a series of emails with Ron Valdez, ombudsman with Mercy Maricopa – I write “Do you have the name and number of a male counselor covered by my insurance that I can call and make an appointment with?” There’s a flurry of emails – his filled with obfuscating gobbledygook and no name and number – mine more strident with each return – but nope – he would not and could not provide me with a name and number. He all but insisted I wouldn’t understand what they were all doing for me, and that I had to deal with Southwest because I was “severely mentally ill” with “special needs” I was just flummoxed. What were these people talking about?

On October 26th, 2016, while coming home from piano playing at St. Joseph’s I was in a bus crash and I broke my wrist. I was rushed to the emergency room at the Abrazo Campus Medical Center at Bethany Home and North 19th Avenue. The next day I went to an orthopedic surgeon – he told me I had to have surgery right away. I had surgery the next week. Friends came and helped. I called Noah Altman, my new case manager at Care Directions, if there was anyone who could come help me cook and clean a bit. No, he had no clue. Mercy Maricopa told me I was on my own. So I had friends come over and cut up meat and vegetables and open cans so I could put them in leftover containers so I could cook as best I could with one hand. For two, even three months, friends came and helped me – and not one agency lifted a finger.

On about the 1st or 2nd of December Relles called again finally – I asked him point blank – “Do you have the name and number of a male mental health counselor that is covered by my insurance so I can call and make an appointment.” He said “No, I do not.” I said, “So what is the point of talking to you?” He said he’s taking care of me. How could he be taking care of me? It’s nonsensical. He’s doing nothing.

Then more people from Southwest began to call me – to tell me I had to see them. They said they had no male counselors, but I was “special needs” – and they were going to take care of me. What “special needs” they imagined I don’t know. No one from any agency ever came to my house to see if the rent was paid, or the lights were on, or if I had food or clean clothes – no one did a thing. And I went about my life ignoring them as best I could – and telling them to go away. But they called, repeatedly, to tell me they had no answers and I should just wait, my team was working on my case – but come and do it at their office. All my life I did things, I did not wait. But they seemed to think that my refusal to meet with them was a sign of how very mentally ill they imagined me to be.
Then, one day, December 4th or 5th or so, Relles came to my house unannounced, to tell me again that he had no name and number for me. I was just then trying to cut a piece of steak for my cat (he’s spoiled, yes) – I asked him to help, since I was still in a cast and it was very difficult. He cut it – but he did not ask me about the cast. Not a shred of concern about the broken wrist of his “special needs” “client.” A stunning lack of humanity, frankly. Nor did he even look up around my house, but kept his gaze to the floor; very odd, I thought. I have 40 paintings on my walls – you can’t miss them – some are 3 and 4 even 5 feet across, they are bright, colorful – virtually every square foot of my walls is covered by art – everyone comments on them. Not a word from him on them, the wrist, my life – nothing. Just “No, I have no name yet.” I told him to get lost. I told him he was a pointless fool in my life, because he was. What was he doing in my life? I wanted to know. He’s taking care of me he says. Just wow.

Six months – and no one can come up with the name and number of a male counselor? Really? Oh, he’s assessing my needs, he says, and getting me the very right person I needed to see. But he needed me first to come into his office to sign yet more forms. I told him no, no more forms.

Then on Friday December 8th he came again – I said go away, I would not let him in my house. By this time I am fed up with this miserable excuse for a man. Then – later that day – he brought cops to my door in an obnoxious and vain attempt to compel me to sign some form called an “ISP” – I don’t know what that means. I told the cops to tell Relles to go to hell. I would sign no forms. It was like Old Czechoslovakia to me, my cousins told me stories of cops come to compel compliance. No, there cannot be cops at my door to compel me to sign some pointless irrelevant form

Then on Monday too – Relles and other people came back to my door several times to try to compel me to go with them, or come into my house – and to sign more forms – and I told them all to stay away – that they were pointless in my life. I told them – come back one more time and I was calling the cops. It was simply harassment. My facebook wall will amply show my commentary on this hounding, it was amazing.

And then during the day of Monday December 12th, they came again! Several times – just pestering me with nonsense. Sign forms, see our doctors! – bleating like children. And still without the name and number of a male counselor I could call. And then finally I called the police at about 5 in the afternoon to complain about this harassment. Only it turns out that Relles and Southwest had called the cops on me first! Cops come to my door and I think they are for me – and instead they tell me, no – I must go with them. They have an order to take me away. By who? I asked. It’s in the car, they said. And then I was so rudely hauled off in my pajamas by the cops to a psyche ward at Phoenix Memorial at 1201 South 7th Avenue. I was incensed. I still was healing from a broken wrist, awaiting a visit with my surgeon in two days about the healing and the cast still on my wrist. And I was having a pleasant evening chatting with friends and family on facebook, as I’ve done since 2010 or so – and I post nothing but charm, intelligence, erudition and more on a 1001 subjects – and a railing against heteroos (rhymes with Underoos, little boys underwear line) the likes of which you might never have seen and I make no bones about. I am, to coin a word “Heterophobic” – I despise the lot of you – have since Father Bennack when I was 15 years old, in a Catholic catechism class, went off on gay men – to the point I rushed him and said “You say that crap again and I’ll thrash you.” I do NOT tolerate any hetero nonsense, never. I am vociferous in my defense of gay men – and more vocal in my castigation of heterosexuals. I am the “radical militant homosexual” so many fretted about, I’m sure. Since I was 8 years old. I was never in the closet. I never said I was a homosexual to anyone – I said “My, isn’t he a cute guy?” – When I was 10. And AIDS is part of it – and I have emotions about it – which the system has simply spit on. They spit on me.

At Phoenix Memorial’s psyche ward they stuck me in the corner of concrete room and a squadron of women came in to stare at me. They didn’t ask me anything, they didn’t speak at all – -just stared – as I just berated the lot of them. How dare they do this? Perhaps mostly because I was demanding to be let out, that this was insanity to drag me here. Their leader shook her head in disdain, and with a sour face said, “you can’t talk to him.” She had never uttered another word, just stared at me. Her obnoxious arrogance just stunning. Then two large orderlies manhandled me like a sack of turnips, carried me into a more plainer concrete room, held me down on a bed while someone shot me up with some drug which caused pain in my rump for days. They left me in this room for a half hour and then talked to me like I was deranged. They didn’t listen to a word I said, while telling me I was “severely mentally ill” – and I was just pissed as hell. They then stuck me in an uncomfortable chair to sleep in and ignored me for the night. One orderly, during a bathroom trip said to me, “Man, you don’t belong here.”

The next morning, the 13th, I meet some Dr. Wolf who tells me “You don’t belong here” – “No kidding,” I said. I was out within 2 hours. On the discharge papers she put “Mania” for my “condition” – I guess “Righteous Indignation” wasn’t on her form. I was so angry – it was amazing. Not in 58 years was I ever hauled anywhere by police for any reason whatsoever. I had never even pulled over for a speeding ticket in my life. For gay rainbow stickers, yes – but speeding no. Amazing, yes?

The cops hauling me away would not show me by what authority they had to do this. I want to see this document. But somehow Southwest simply imagined a scenario, fabricated a story – and lied to the police. They lied, point blank. There is no way around the fact that this agency – Relles, Dorothy Williams, Tharalson – whoever signed off on this – lied – they imagined things – they fabricated a story out of nothing. Whatever they told the police was sheer unadulterated fabricated lies – or delusion, if you wish. Fantasy? Pick a word.

I had to take two buses and the light rail home, 2 hours it took – through the streets – in my pajamas! It was humiliating to say the least. I am always respectfully dressed. Along the way I went to the McDowell Clinic in a snit. To demand some kind of action. This was absurd.

I met with Greg Scaggs, director of McDowell – we called Southwest, spoke with Dorothy Williams – I said it clearly, in several ways – I do NOT want to talk to you people again – get out of my life – you people are crazed.

So they needed yet another form. They couldn’t fax it right over. No, I had to come back on December 14th – taking the hour trip from my house to McDowell – and an hour back home again, so I could check a box on a form, sign it, and fax it over to them. So I think I sign a form “voluntarily refusing services” and I’m done with these people. But no, it made no difference, they are not done with me yet.

At 2 PM on Friday December 16th a woman named Cory from Southwest Network called me – I never heard of her before – she was going to take care of me she said – I needed to come to their office so they can tend me – I told her I dismissed their network and goodbye and told her “Do not ever call me again.”

At 5 PM on Friday December 16th a woman from Southwest Network shows up at my door unannounced – and informs me cheerily she is my “peer counselor” – I was flummoxed. I showed her the paper that I dismissed them and told her to go away. Oh, she was a bit miffed, “I came to help you,” she says with a pout. I asked repeatedly for a male counselor since June – and they send a woman to my house to be my counselor – 3 days after I dismiss them from my life? It was just ludicrous.

Then, on Sunday evening at 6 PM December 18th, Dorothy Williams calls me! To find out how I am! – I told her I’m seeking a lawyer and a judge against her. I asked her “Do you understand this, you are not to call me anymore.” Then I dismissed her.

I then had a lawyer friend call Dorothy Williams and tell her to go away.

Even that wasn’t enough. I had subsequent conversations with Greg Scaggs – and now an Eric Moore of MIHS, apparently Judy Norton’s assistant or something, was involved. Now these two were trying to tell me I had to go back to Southwest to get their permission to see another clinic or another agency. They told me there was a meeting set for January 11th.

On Friday December 30th I saw Brian Arey NP my very nice HIV doctor and told him what had happened and about this “Severely Mentally Ill Special Needs” designation. He almost shouted “No Way!” I never saw him so animated. And I handed him a letter I wrote to share with everyone that stated emphatically I simply would never see or deal with Southwest again – that they were simply incompetent and even evil. Surely they broke any trust that a patient must have with his medical providers. They abused me. They lied to the police about me. They had me hauled out of my house to a psyche ward – a monstrous act. I told Eric Moore that they “harmed” me in the way that the various protocols about patient care mention. Frankly, these people have committed malpractice in one way or another.

Then about January 7th or so – a Laura from Southwest Network calls me to tell me that I have – that I simply have – they set it – she demanded I go to it – an appointment with them to see their nurse and doctor to get the care they think I need. She tells me it’s at 11 AM on January 11th. I was like, lady, you are out of your mind. I said “do not call me ever again.” Amazingly – she calls back an hour later to inform me that the appointment is really 1 PM on January 12th! I again tell her – “I will never set foot in your office again – do not call me again – stay away from me forever.”

Meanwhile, Greg Scaggs and Eric Moore are telling me they will go with me so I can get the care everyone seems to think I need. And I was simply amazed – what care do these people think I need? They won’t tell me – I wouldn’t understand they say. I shouldn’t worry – they will take care of me. Meanwhile, I’m running my life.

I had the paralegal from Lerner & Rowe with whom I’m talking about the wrist case – I have a claim against the city of Phoenix – call Dorothy Williams. She feigned this utter innocence. She said there were no police or courts involved. She denied everything, and stated my relationship with them was completely voluntary – at the same time her office is calling to simply demand I meet with them.

Meanwhile, in early January some agency I never heard of – the Bayless Agency – calls me up – and in a brief 4 minute call the lady tells me that they can’t help people like – because I’m “severely mentally ill and special needs” she says. Beats me who they are – or what they wanted, or how they heard my name or got my number or why they even called. It’s a complete mystery to me. But I can’t be having strange agencies call me to tell me point blank that I am basically “insane” and “incompetent.” It’s insane.

Then – I’m referred to Jewish Family Services – where I’m told there is a male counselor. I get there on January 6th for my 10 AM appointment. I sat seething in the lobby until 10:30 because Relles from Southwest Network got to meet with a woman named Lindsay Morgan for a half hour to explain all about me – and I come to find out – hand over what looks like a 100 page report on me (I was a printer for many years, I know what a 100 pages looks like.) How an agency I met 3 or 4 times could prepare a 100 page report on me I don’t know.

I speak with her for nearly one and a half hours. She asks me endless questions that are irrelevant to what I ask for – a male counselor. I just need his name and number to call and make an appointment – I make every other appointment I need to – to discuss me being a Gay Man who survived AIDS after burying 100 friends. That’s it. That’s my issue. She goes through a similar set of questions as the COPE guy and Relles did. Every question is about the “problems” in my life, my alleged inability to function, my alleged danger to myself or others, my alleged substance abuse, my alleged lack of friends and family, my alleged failings in life. Every mention of the astoundingly great life I led is dismissed as irrelevant – she is a cultural illiterate to top it off – she had no idea about anyone I mentioned, gay life in the 1980s – nothing – she knows nothing but her computer form. During this charade she leans over and asks me as if talking to a child – “Now I’m going to say three words, can you repeat them?” And then she says “Door, Chair, Tree” – those are the three words that are going to test my memory. It is an abomination. My memory? My memory is near photographic, always has been. So rude, insolent and obnoxious, I was just short of losing my temper, (it is legendary, I’m sure, by now with this nonsense.)

We continue – and at the end of this charade she leans over and tells me not only does she not have a male counselor for me to see – but because, she tells me, that I’m “severely mentally ill and special needs” – she’s going to refer me to a much better agency to handle my case. But first she’s going to assign a case manager to me, to help me with my needs. And I’m just flabbergasted. What could she be talking about? So I left, vowing to simply ignore these people.

On January 10th I get the phone call I was hoping for – I was on the waiting list for 6 months for the apartment I am in now. I did what was required, signed a lease by January 20th and moved in by January 30th. Friends all came and helped. It is my “life plan” to live here in Phoenix in the same adorable apartment in this fantastic location for the rest of my years, playing piano at St. Joseph’s as the official lobby pianist and work on my art and books about my fascinating life, until I get a nice obituary in the Arizona Republic.

And these agencies, these people, this designation, these reports, these fantasies and fabrications and labels – all of it – are a danger to my life, my plans, my aspirations, my liberty and more – my sanity and repose and peace. I cannot be having police come to my door at the behest of bureaucrats who imagine fantasies about me. These people are a peril to my life. Who knows who will show up again? Who knows who will lie to police and have me hauled off again? Who knows what policeman will think me a danger to himself and shoot first and ask questions later? Who knows what they will do while they continue to think that I’m insane and incompetent – and yet they know nothing of me but that I can sign their confounded forms? 101 forms with 4 dozen people, each of whom I met once.

A month later on February 3rd I get a phone from a Dijana at Jewish Family Services telling me she’s my case manager! I told her I’m suing her agency and to tell her boss, Lindsay, to expect a letter about it. I say goodbye.

Then on February 6th a man named Brian from JFCS calls to tell me he’s my new male counselor. And by this time I had solved the problem with the help of friends and family. For instance, one friend bought me two months of online counseling, I’ve been writing back and forth with Ken Fields of Betterhelp.com. But many friends and family called me, even facebook friends I only know online, one from Wales UK, even. And I figured it out – I was having a “midlife crisis” as it’s called, and as I joked “I can’t afford a sports car.” While it was building from about 2010 or so, and then the radical change between constant travel to what I thought would be settling down, and the entirety of what happened from August 2012 in Tucson and then from November 2015 when the cops began to show up at my door until I moved to this apartment on North 11th Avenue would try any man. And I sort of wrapped my mind around the fact that, well, I lived, what shall I do now? Mr. Fields simply gave me a profound proposition that altered the way I was looking at it. Done. Thanks.

So I tell Brian to forget it, and that since I was planning on suing his agency to remove this designation from my record, to just go away and leave me alone.

On Friday February 10th Lindsay Morgan calls me and in a most patronizing voice, as if she’s talking to an imbecile, she wonders if I’m OK. I’m told her I’m working up a lawsuit against her. That she and the system are nuts. I ask her does she understand this? She soft patters me like a mother to a hurt boy, “OK, OK,” and I hang up infuriated.

It’s all absurd. It is malicious. All these people have either created a fake me – or been complicit in this – and it is monstrous.

I send off a stern letter demanding records at the beginning of March. So far COPE and Southwest have complied. The others have not. What I read in these reports is simply incredible – it is just endless nonsense – I want to be a Hollywood movie star and move to Costa Rica? What on earth? And way too much more.

I get a letter from Lindsay Morgan, telling me all about how I can redress my grievance by going to her and asking if she thinks I’m crazy. Just brazen nonsense. She sends it to my old address. She calls me confused – and I give her my new address in the letter to which she is responding – and she sends it to the wrong place. The woman is a whacko. I call her – castigating her for screwing up the address – and demanding “Give me every word you wrote about me – now.”

On March 27th 2017 a woman from “Recovery Empowerment Network” calls me. I never heard of this agency in my life. She tells me she’s my “peer counselor” – and I am enraged. I ask for a male counselor for 4 years – and still these idiots in the system send women to me.
On Friday March 31st 2017 – a 6’3” 250 Lb linebacker bouncer sort of fellow shows up at my house – pounding on my door – not knocking, no – but pounding! – to demand entry – and possibly to go with him – I did not let him speak much. I said “You are insane, and get out of my life, and tell Lindsay to send the report.” I get the COPE report and go to show him what I meant – and there’s Lindsay – and in a sickening treacly voice like a mother to toddler says with a little snit of a smile and a royal wave “Hi James, we’re here to …” and that was it! – “Get out of my life,” I said – “And send me that report.” And slammed the door.

Now it is April 3rd – what more do these people think they are going to do? They must be stopped. This is insanity – I won’t stand for this attack and assault upon me. They are simply hounding me because they created a fantasy. It’s Twilight Zone already, seriously.

There is so much more to this story – and I suppose exhibits galore could be presented proving my case. 1,000 pages might be produced, the 980 articles I wrote on my blog “The Daily Mush” more than sufficient to prove my mental facility. 100 letters from friends and family could be produced. But I don’t want to waste the court’s time. Checking out the basics of what I say about me would take a few clicks on the internet. Listen to a few of my music videos. There are really only three “Jim Hlavac” on the internet – one of them is me – and I’m all over it. But a point by point refutation of every word they wrote – they wrote a fantasy the likes of which I have never encountered – would be hours and hours, and pages and pages – it is that bizarre.

What these people have written about me into their computers and paper files I explore in the following pages. How any of them could say that after form signing sessions of barely 20 minutes anyone is competent to say what I am is absurd. None of them have any competence – nor had time – to declare me this or that disorder. I should not have to prove I’m sane and rational. Let these people present any evidence they have that I’m not. And all they have is their incompetence, fantasies and tomfoolery – and 101 forms well signed by me. Still, they denied me the life saving drugs for months at a time and had no clue how to resolve it. And they are calling me insane and incompetent and a criminal.

And as for Zhanna Schpitalnik – who I spoke with a ½ dozen times for a ½ hour – she said I was fine. She was very impressed with my off the cuff drawing on Red Square in Moscow – oh, I can draw a picture of every major city in the world, yeesh. We talked more current events than my personal emotions. And that’s because I couldn’t open up to her. I’m a Gay male – I do not relate to women whatsoever. I have made this clear repeatedly – anyone from my aunts, uncles and sister, to my friends of 40 years will tell you that. 85% of my friends are gay men, 10% are straight men, and only 5% of them are women, nearly all aunts and cousins and my sister, and only since I got to Phoenix a handful of Lesbians. I simply will not, cannot, talk about personal matters and my emotions with a woman. And surviving AIDS as a gay man in America – from when it had no name in 1980, to it became GRID and then AIDS, as I buried so many buddies – is an emotional personal matter. And everyone simply refused my simple request for a male counselor about surviving AIDS while they went off on wild tangents of their delusions – to the point of coming at me with the police while poisoning me with drugs they pushed.

Still, they will not relent. From this phone number, 602-248-0368, some woman from “Recovery Empowerment Network” – an agency I never heard of – called on March 27th; 2017 at 1:30 in the afternoon – to tell me that she was my “peer counselor” to help me “in recovery.” I asked her “Recovery from what? Who gave you my number?” Well, Southwest Network did! – She said she was going to help me recover from my drug and booze addictions and life of dissolution and crime – and I just went ballistic. I was enraged. How dare this Southwest Network keep propagating their evil nonsense? I told her furiously “Do not ever call me again, take my number out of the system,” and hung up.

On Friday March 31st 2017 some huge linebacker sized guy pounds – not knocking – pounding! – on my door demanding entry to my home and perhaps for me to go with him and he’s going to take care of me. He’s from JFCS he says. I tell him he’s out of his mind. I would not let him in – I would not go with him – I told him to get lost – and I also told him to tell Lindsay Morgan to send me a copy of my records. I showed him the COPE report through the screen door as a sample of what I am talking about. And there’s Lindsay Morgan, poking out from behind this man – talking to me like a child again – and I was just furious. I told her to send me the report – and get out of my life. And then I just slammed the door in their faces. I have not seen this agency’s files on me yet. Ms. Morgan seems to think I have to go back to talk to her – for another assessment or other nonsense. She is rude, obnoxious and ignorant. I will not speak with her. I had to spell words for her in our meeting – egad.

The Malignancy of SWN, Phoenix

Southwest Network Report

Southwest Network at 3640 W Osborn Road Phoenix Arizona sent to me a 142 page report of what they just essentially imagined about me. And for an agency I met with just 4 times – that is a lot of paper discussing me without knowing me. I numbered the pages by hand in the order I received them for ease of discussion.

From Page One:

“Ethnicity” – they put “Not Hispanic/Latino” – my ethnicity is Czech – all four grandparents are from there and I grew up in a bilingual household. I do not speak “Not Hispanic” I speak Czech. I do not have relatives living in “Not Hispania” – but in the Czech Republic. It is frankly rude and dismissive to declare my “ethnicity” for what it is “not” when it could have been written “Czech-American” or just “Czech” if ethnicity is still such a important concern – I thought American was good enough. I find this offensive – this term is offensive to me. And I pointed that out to Relles Abeytia – my “case manager” – who dismissed it as irrelevant – and I think it very relevant indeed. After all, Mr. Abeytia is Hispanic – but I do not call him “Not-Czech.”

I recognize very well the politics that swirl around the term, and I don’t really mean to contest it. But, well, it offends me – annoys me even. It is “Not a good start” to anything.

I am labeled “SMI” (Severely Mentally Ill) by COPE in Tucson – and that’s what Southwest saw in my records – so that was their first assumption. But I am not severely mentally ill by any definition of the term – it is monstrous, preposterous. But someone just declared me so – and now the system believes it – and that is why there is this complaint.

“Primary Residence” = “home with family (including licensed family foster provider) – I do not have any such person in my life, nor do I need one whatsoever – and I live alone.

I am labeled “F41.8 Other specified anxiety disorders” – I do not have any anxiety disorder – though I do have a grave problem with bureaucrats dismissing what I say as irrelevant and being slothful

I am labeled “F41.0 Panic Disorder (episodic paroxysmal anxiety) without agoraphobia” – I do not have any panic disorder – I do not panic at anything – I get aggravated, sure – but not panicked. And about the only time I get aggravated that is noticeable is dealing with bureaucrats – and particular Southwest Network. But since I only met with them 4 times for form signing sessions – it is impossible for them to simply declare this without imagining things

I am labeled “F12.20 Cannabis Dependence, uncomplicated” – this alleges a crime – and I simply do not have “cannabis dependence” – it is absurd.

I am labeled “F14.20 Cocaine dependence, uncomplicated” – this is a malicious statement of falsehood – I do not do cocaine. Though, it is true, that between 1985 and 1990 in the Gay club scene in New York City while gay men were dying around me and the nation more or less laughed and said “tough” – I did coke on Friday nights at some of the greatest discos in Manhattan -on the VIP list – because – as I contend in a book I wrote – we just didn’t care anymore – we were so despised that in Bowers V Hardwick 478 U.S. 186, the Supreme Court stated that gay men had no constitutional right to be gay – we were felons and that was OK. Let us say, Gay Men were not happy. I helped launched a protest in Manhattan on July 4th 1986 that went into Lower Manhattan while the 100th Anniversary of the Statue of Liberty was being celebrated – to express our severe displeasure at being denied the basic Liberty to Smooch. It was reported in the New York Post: “Queers invade lower Manhattan.”

But some cocaine use in the 1980s gay party scene in New York City during the Gay Dark Ages, 30 years ago – is NOT “cocaine dependence, uncomplicated” in 2017 and today in Phoenix, Arizona. And this accusation on my medical record could cause police action of undetermined kind against me.
Both these accusations of drug use are dangerous to my liberty and false.

They say “Z59.9 Problem related to housing and economic circumstances, unspecified” – and the only problem I had with the apartment I was living in when I was forced to deal with Southwest Network was because a crazed woman became manager at my previous abode at 4444 North 7th Avenue, Phoenix, in the very gay Melrose District – and called cops on me 9 times in 14 days alleging crimes, violence, intimidation and more – and sent crisis teams to my house, and served me with eviction paper 4 days before Christmas 2015 on a lease that was up a week later on January 1st 2016 which they already had said they would not renew. This crazed women, Lori Felix, simply hated me for no logical rational reason and tried to destroy my life in anyway she could. So I had to take the first apartment that came up – at 4141 W Glendale Avenue – so far from anything I did that I was simply – I don’t know – miffed, I guess. All my adult life I have lived within walking distance of a gay bar – I have always sought to live in gayborhoods (gay neighborhoods) – and now I was not. My social life was halted and my travel time to anything I did was increased from minutes to 1 hour. I solved the problem by signing a lease on January 20th 2017 at my current location, back in the Melrose District, and within sight out of my kitchen window of a gay bar. Southwest Network was not involved in any aspect of this. I asked for no help and they offered none.

From Page Two:
They restate the wrong diagnoses of the first page, and then add “He feels he has gotten worse in the last year” – I said no such thing. The only thing I said was that I had to get out of that apartment – and I did. And the only thing that was really making me “worse” – was the drug Southwest was pushing on me – they’re drug dealers and no less.

“James did not want anyone else involved in his treatment planning.” – because I did not need anyone involved in my life. I run my life, I do not need help from any agency whatsoever. I don’t need treatment. I don’t need any of what they offer – none of it. They continued “James is requesting counseling services, special a male mental health counselor” – and that is all I asked for – for one simple reason. I am indeed, a 58 year old gay man – who survived AIDS while burying a 100 friends. I was melancholy around my birthday, May 13th, 2016, and my insurance company had called for their semi-annual check up. So I made that simple request. And then the odyssey started which leads to this complaint. And in the next 8 months – no one – not anywhere – could or would provide me with this simple thing – the name and number of a male counselor, covered by my insurance, of any kind, so I could call them up and make an appointment to discuss this melancholy which had no affect on anything I did other than a wistfulness of some sort. But the system – all of them – two dozen people or more – simply refused to provide a name. They dismissed it as piffle. They knew what was best for me, they said. They simply dismissed my repeated requests as unimportant. And after a few months I thought, well, I guess it wasn’t going to happen.

The box on the page labeled “Info from Psychiatric Evaluation” is blank – because there was no such evaluation. Nor did I ask for one.

They claim I report using marijuana daily – I made no such statement ever. They are accusing me of criminal activity with no basis in fact

They claim “He also reports drinking alcohol just about every day and does not remember when he first started” – this is false – I made no such claim – nor could I ever. I do not drink every day. I go for weeks without a drink. And do I remember when I first had alcohol? Yes, as a kid, my father would give us a sip of wine or beer mixed with water when we were as young as 12 – we were immigrants, it was the old country way. And I remember clearly that on Saturday May 15th, 1976 two days after my 18th birthday, the legal drinking age in New York State at the time, that I walked into the Ninth Circle, the most wondrous gay bar to ever exist. I recount the story in my book on the Gay subject.

They claim “James reports he is easily frustrated and agitated about everything” – I said no such thing – for it simply isn’t true. I lead a life of charm, mirth and merriment, a joker, story teller and bon vivant that enjoys life. I was though – and clearly stated it – very frustrated and aggravated at these ridiculous questions from Mr. Abeytias and Mary Kay Tharalson of Southwest Network which I was forced to see – because none of it was relevant. I wanted to talk to a male counselor about surviving AIDS and burying a 100 friends in 10 years (can’t say it often enough, nope) – and they wanted to know if I was going to kill myself and other just absurd nonsense. “Do you wet the bed?” Egad. I asked “Why are you asking me this?” It was Mr. Abeytia who aggravated me, that’s all – and I told him so.

They claim “James reports that his zyprexa destroys his creativity” – and it does. I am an extremely creative man. My entire life has been creating things. The tales of what I created could fill volumes. For instance, I helped create the Cajun food industry. I create music – 100s, if not 1000s of pieces. I paint, I write – I do things. And these people were pushing pills on me I did not want to take because they imagined me SMI. Mary Kay Tharalson of Southwest Network – who I was told I just had to speak to to get to a male counselor about what I wanted to speak about – met with me for some 20 minutes of which 15 minutes were her bumbling around her computer to find the right forms for me to sign – and then she just writes a prescription for pills I do not need to take, nor want to take. On what basis could she make such a determination that I needed them? Her computer told her.

They write “James feels he is not sick but wants a male mental health counselor.” Well, I am not sick mentally by any definition I have read – but they insisted I was – and then denied me the counselor I requested about emotions. I brought up emotions – they insisted I was insane somehow. Not only did I never go back to this pointless woman Ms. Tharalson – but I wrote her a letter detailing why she was pointless. They simply told me they knew all about me – and I knew nothing.

Page Three:

They claim “He has osteoporosis but was unaware of when he was first diagnosed” – Absurd – it was in 2009 in Baton Rouge Louisiana at HAART’s medical office on North Boulevard by Dr. Mike Hymbaugh.

Page Four:
“Highest School Level Complete” – they wrote “Master’s Degree” – I do not have a Master’s, nor would I ever claim to have one. I have 2 BA’s (Well, 1 ½, a special 5 year program at New York University.) Where they got Master’s from I have no earthly clue.

“James was very vague when it comes to his family history” Laughable, I am my family historian– but why I should have to tell Mr. Abeytia that say, one grandfather came over on the SS Lapland in 1914 and the other on the SS Laconia in 1921? And I have the passenger lists and documents by the 100s to prove it – when my issue was surviving AIDS – I do not know. My family health history? Do they want to know that Uncle Willy died on the toilet? Or that Aunt Mary had dementia when she got to 85? Or that me and my grandmother have this genetic oddity that makes our internal organs lumpy and with holes. Some 4% of Northeastern Europeans have it.

“James does not have contact with any of his family” In fact, I am in constant contact through snail mail, email, phone calls, Facebook and Skype with 200+ members of my family on three continents in two languages – and visits to them wherever they are in the nation or Europe. From my cousin Alice Tapfield and her family in Wagga Wagga, New South Wales, Australia, across America from San Diego to Seattle to Boston to Boca Raton, Florida, to cousins from all four sides of my family in Prague, Mlada Boleslav, Frydek, Vlkos u Kyjov and Skoronice in the Czech Republic. Where Mr. Abeytia or anyone got this notion is beyond me. I am my family historian, custodian of 200+ hundred or more year old documents, 1000s of letters, photos, diaries, ephemera and more – it is rather astounding. I wrote a book with my father, who I call frequently – we get along just great. This is Mr. Abeytia’s fantasy, I guess – 100% false.

In my supporting documents are some letters from my family.

“He also says having a male counselor is very important to him” Abeytia could be bothered to even state the reason – for he simply dismissed my life as nothing. For eight months I asked for one – no counselor’s name or number was ever provided. The system would simply not give me one.

“James currently plays piano at St. Joseph’s on Sundays” Not true. I played there every Tuesday and Thursday for 2 to 3 hours for over 2 years, then they asked me to play more. So they made me an official volunteer with a badge and a shirt, and I played 5 days a week for 4 to 5 hours. Until I broke my wrist on October 26th 2016 in a bus wreck on the way home from piano playing – I am just getting back into it. On Sundays I actually play at Huger Mercy Living Center, an Alzheimers home, in their chapel, at North 24th Avenue and Orangewood Avenue.

“James did not have a religious preference” Not true. Like my family for 100s of years, we are Hussite Freethinkers, a 600 year old religion that is particular to the Czech lands. I guess since I was a “Not-Hispanic” person without a “Hispanic Catholicism” I had no religion. And I speak strongly everywhere and in public about my strongly held religious beliefs about gay men.
Page Five:

“James is at risk to relapse for marijuana mad alcohol (sic).” Not true, besides the basic fault in the grammar of the sentence. But apparently Mr. Abeytia believes I am an alcoholic – it is insulting to me.

“James reports continued used (sic) of marijuana and alcohol” Not true – I dismissed all such concerns as irrelevant. A 58 year old man is allowed to have some beer, wine and spirits for dinner and social settings. But this implies I am an alcoholic and that is ludicrous.

Page Six:
“James understands the grievance and appeals process” – indeed – so well, that I appealed my grievance, to wit “Where is the name and number of a male counselor covered by my insurance?” The official Grievance Committee of Mercy Maricopa mailed me a formal notification of my complaint – an then ignored it completely. A spate of emails with a Ron Valdez, ombudsman of Mercy Maricopa descended into a farce of him simply refusing to give me a name and him insisting I go back to Southwest Network which does not offer counseling and by that time had so aggravated me with their, what only can be called, insolence, that I vowed to never go near them again.

Pages 7, 8 and 9 are simply childlike statements by Mr. Abeytia or whoever else wrote them – misspellings, lousy grammar – and this bleating insistence about what I need to do. The arrogance of these people I never met in my life to be telling me what I need to do and how they will monitor it is stunning. No one ever had to tell me what I needed to do. Mr Abeytia writes that “James needs to work on his operas” and that fool probably never heard an opera in his life.

They note “I wrote a book” Wrong, I wrote 16. Not a person in this system yet will go look at Amazon.com and see the books I wrote. They all seem to insist it is irrelevant.

They wrote “He wrote 3 operas.” Wrong, I am working on 5 or 6, all on Gay Men themes, none completed.

Page 10:

“James needs be (sic) referred to PEP for 1 on 1 counseling for anxiety, panic and agoraphobia.” Laughable – I was just ever increasingly aggravated that these people would not give me the name and number of a male counselor covered by my insurance. They were insisting I see their nurses, their doctors, this Ms. Tharalson, and who knows who else? It was just stunning their total disregard to meet my simple request about a matter that was none of their concern. This Southwest Network was simply pointless and irrelevant and an utter waste of my time. And again, I do not have “anxiety” or “panic” I have “Let’s get things done, like the name of a counselor” and “do things right.” No, they would not provide one.

As for “agoraphobia” – that is simply one of the most ludicrously funny, knee slapping terms ever applied to me by these people I don’t know and met once, or by anyone in my life. How utterly absurd. I am a fine public speaker – I have given public lectures on a dozen subjects. I deliberately seek out pianos in public places to play and engage the crowds. I helped run the Phoenix International Youth Hostel at 1026 North 9th Street, here, for 6 years, which is a position working with the public. I am one of the most effervescent, gregarious, glad handing outgoing men this court might ever meet. I am the only person that the One Voice gay pride center on North 7th Avenue ever gave a birthday party to – that’s how popular and joyful I am. I’m sorry, but that is just miserable, to claim this. I have the ability to walk into a room of 100 people and take it over and regale it with tales and jokes. Agoraphobic? No, no, just the opposite.

“James is a poor historian …” Historian about what? I am the world’s foremost expert on the Czechs and Slovaks of Louisiana. You may purchase my book on the subject, “A Hidden Impact: the Czechs and Slovaks of Louisiana from the 1720s to today” with a foreword written by Martin Palous, Ambassador of the Czech Republic to the United States, on Amazon. This statement is so wrong as to defy rationality. My knowledge of history is encyclopedic. I could explain in Spanish (which I speak well) 5,000 years of “Is Hispanic” history for every Latino country from Spain to Tierra del Fuego – so that Mr. Abeytia knows who and who is not “Not Hispanic.”

Historian of what? AIDS? Gay Men? My family? My life? What did this man want to know? And how many days does he have to listen? I might go on about history in a 100 directions for hours and hours. It would astonish this man.

They also wrote “James went to summer camp when he was 1” – and that’s absurd. But I did go when I was 6. They wrote “he claims he came home speaking Czech.” They write it as a delusion. Well, I did because it was a Czech camp – Sokol Camp in East Haddam Connecticut was there for 100 years serving the Czech-Americans in the Northeast. I was sent there not on some whim, not to some strange place – not to some unknown – but because it was where my mother went, and my aunts and uncles, it’s where my grandmother met my grandfather in the late 1920s. My brothers went the following years. I went there every year for a decade. My family had been involved with the camp for generations. And all the adults spoke Czech -and being a kid, already having heard Czech at home – I picked up the language like a sponge.

Page 14:

“CM [case manager] will complete a home visit month to assess for safety” Mr. Abeytia never came to my house for six months. Until he brought police to my house in a vain attempt to compel me to sign more forms, which is unsafe (they have guns). I refused to sign the forms. But why this man thinks he has some claim on my life to “assess for safety” is simply Orwellian. It’s not rational.

He did come to my house about December 1st – unannounced. He was the only person to ever enter my house without noticing the art. He didn’t even look up from the floor. It was a terse and tense conversation. He said something about how he’s going to take care of me – and I said “do you have the name and number of a male counselor for me to talk to about surviving AIDS?” and he said “no.” So I said “What point are you? You are a fool – get out of my life.” He went back to his office and labeled me “paranoid.” It’s bizarre.

I asked him to help cut a piece of steak for my cat – it is noted in the record of his visit – because I had a broken wrist, wearing a cast. Mr. Abeytia – while telling me he was going to take care of me – simply did not ask about the wrist. He simply ignored an obvious injury – as he bleated he was going to assess me for safety.

Page 15:

“James has AIDS education.” – Yes I do – because I was there in 1980 when guys started dying around me in Greenwich Village and I tended those I knew in their dying days – and then it got a name: GRID – Gay Related Immune Deficiency” – and then it became AIDS in 1984. And I have been told countless times in my life by people like Mr. Abeytia “I hope you die of AIDS” – I have heard the malicious evil of heterosexuals. I helped launch ACT UP! An AIDS advocacy group headed by Larry Kramer. “Educated”? No, I lived it – which is why I wanted to speak to a male counselor. This statement simply aggravates me – it is rude, insolent, obnoxious even. Some goddamn hetero kid who wasn’t even born at the time – is going to attest That “James has AIDS education” for the record? This is just – just mind boggling. And yes, “goddamn hetero kid” – that’s exactly how I feel about this miserable man. And who knows what this Latino Catholic Heterosexual thinks about gay men? They all have opinions about us – and “strongly held religious beliefs” too.

“James wants to live within walking distance of a gay park.” Laughable – I don’t want a park, I want a bar. This statement is childish. I have always lived in gayhorhoods, within minutes of a gay bar. They are my social service center, they are my city hall. The position of a gay bar in our community is not like that of a straight bar in the city. It is far more than just a bar. A good book might be written to explore the subject, particularly with the way it was before the year 2000.

Page 16:
“My service plan has been reviewed with me by my behavioral health provider.” Most certainly not. Mr. Abeytia told me “your team is working on your assessment.” Apparently, people I never met were discussing me – and fabricating who knows what. The form isn’t signed. Perhaps that’s what he tried to compel me to sign, but by that time I was done. I said “Get this ludicrous man away from me.”

Page 17:
Yet another statement of “cocaine dependency.” Monstrous – in a “At Risk Crisis Plan” – At risk for what? Crisis for what? I was moving along with my life, waiting on a new apartment, writing music, playing piano, working on my book ideas – I was doing everything just as I always did. Some examples they put down – “legal issues” “residential staff” “weapons” “signs and symptoms of decompensation.” All of this is imagined fantasy. I have no legal issues, (well, except this case now.) I live in an apartment, there is no “staff” – I have never owned any weapons, the last time I shot a gun I was 14, in the boy scouts, at Oneonta Camp in upstate New York under the careful supervision of Mr. Walsh and other scout troop leaders. I’m living a productive life while trying to avoid these people who proved utterly incompetent in 8 months to provide the name and number of a male counselor – and malicious in their hounding me.

Page 18:
They claim “….needs help with his anxiety which he says is overwhelming …” I said no such thing. I have no anxiety – these people imagined it. Though I do have aggravation caused by Southwest Network and other bureaucrats – it’s absurd what I was put through. Did I express my displeasure heatedly? Eventually I did – eventually I was just cursing them out. So obstinate, so obnoxious, so uncaring, unfeeling, unwilling to listen to a word I said, so dismissive of everything I said – so wrong about so much too – that what else was there to do but curse them?

Page 20:
“…. assist James in identifying barriers to attending appointments.” The only appointment I wanted was with a male counselor. And Southwest Network was the barrier – they refused to provide a name. Then then demanded I meet with them at this office inconvenient to my life. So idiotic are these people that Southwest has an office 1 mile from where I lived at Glendale and 41st Avenue – they have an office at 43rd Avenue and Bethany Home Road. I could walk there in 15 minutes. Instead to get to their Osborn location is 2 buses – and nearly an hour – because the bus heading south on 35th Avenue comes 4 or 5 minutes before the bus heading east on Glendale – so one just has to wait half hour for the next bus – and I am just not into waiting half hours on street corners so I can go visit pointless people.

Page 21:
“Social Isolation” – absolutely not – laughable nonsense. They accuse me of being an alcoholic for going to a gay bar every other week or so – and social isolation at the same time. Meanwhile, my friend Brown comes over every 4 or 5 days, bringing his wife and grand-kids. Other friends came over – especially after I broke my wrist. I talk to friends and family on the phone every other day or so – and I am on facebook having a fine time with people all over the world.

“Speech: rapid” – Yes, well, someone who is from New York City does speak rapidly – it is a common complaint and a joke in a New York Minute – I can’t help it if Mr. Abeytias couldn’t keep up – and has he any clue how fast Hispanics speak Spanish? I speak fast? Listen to a Mexican woman – and I have lived in Mexico.

Page 21:
Simply twisting everything I said into a pathology – they claim I said I’m “Totally panic stricken” – utter nonsense, I never said such a thing. I asked to speak to a male counselor about surviving AIDS and they twisted into I was freaking out and lashing out and rages and whatever else they imagined. Perhaps I spoke too fast for Mr. Abeytia – -who I met twice only nicely – and every other time to tell him to go away – to figure out what I was saying. Perhaps I spoke “Not Hispanic” and he couldn’t understand. The man did not understand one single literary, historical, musical or cultural references I made, he’s a simpleton. He seems to know nothing but how to stare into his computer and fabricate pathological nonsense. I sat at his desk as he asked question after question and stared into his computer – ignoring me really – “not now, I’m busy here,” he pretty much said when I stated something positive about my life – so he could get his negative fantasy assessment – to which he apparently had preconceived, based on the computer telling him I was “Severely Mentally Ill.”

Page 22:
“Strong family history of suicide.” No. My brother did – but I hadn’t talked to him for 40 years. There was no contact with him at all – so anything he did could have had zero affect on me whatsoever. My cousin Michael might have, that’s open to debate. And this out of 200 or more family members. That cannot be a “strong family history” at all. But certainly what someone else that I hadn’t talked to in 40 years does 1000s of miles from me could have no bearing on what I would do. Southwest Network simply imagined me a risk of suicide in 2016 because my brother who I had not spoken to in 40 years (nor did he speak to any family member for that long – I don’t know – he went off on his own and never came back – I have no idea what he did, where he was – nothing – he was a moody artist as a kid. I last saw him when I was 25 years old.) committed suicide in 2010 2,000 miles from me. It’s not rational to make any connection or causality. What, my uncle got divorced and thus I am risk for divorce too?

As “Strong family history” – there’s a strong family history of printing – I was a printer, my father was a printer, so was his father, and his father and his father before that – 5 or 6 generations of printers – a very strong family history indeed. And they all lived into their 80s – as I plan to do.

Page 23:

At this point in their report they noted that I would not see them anymore. There was no point. Not a thing Mr. Abeytia said was relevant to anything I sought. In fact – the man simply annoyed me – his existence began to annoy me – I wanted no further contact with him. I wanted a male counselor – not a Ms. Tharalson, not a nurse, not another doctor besides the one I had, not a support group – I did not need anyone assessing my life, or wondering if I had fresh food or handling affairs. I run my life, I had some melancholy over 100 friends lost – while heterosexuals like any Mr. Abeytia laughed.

Still, they insisted they were going to take over my medical care and I said “No you are not.” For the hallmark of good care is a trust of the patient towards a provider. And these people were absurd. Months of no name and number that I requested while “my team” worked on “my case.” What case? They imagined I was a case for them to handle. I wasn’t going to tolerate it. No one can compel me to deal with people I do not wish to deal with – especially people who will not, could not, did not, would not provide what I asked for.

Then came maybe 2 months of no contact. After months of absurd questions unrelated to anything I wished to talk about – and dismissing everything I did want to talk about. They imagined disorders, pathology, panic, anxiety, fear, rage, bipolar, mania, depression, anger, social disorders, agoraphobia – and worst of all – cocaine dependency – all of this – none of this was true. I simply had no time nor patience to deal with pointless people. I told them so too. Go away – leave me alone – you are pointless. You cannot and will not give me what I want. I have no reason to see you people. You are not going to monitor my life, nor tend me, nor handle what you believe to be my issues because your computer says I’m “severely mentally ill” and “special needs.” The very terms alone aggravated me. How could they believe this or say this based on form signing sessions?

And then they started to just demand I show up. I said “No, I do not need you in my life.”

Page 28:
“James really wants a male counselor,. CM let him know that that is an option.” And I sat there wondering – an option? It was a clear request – a demand even – repeated incessantly. They simply said “no.” How many months does it take to look up a name of someone covered by my insurance and give it to me so I could call and make an appointment about what I wanted to speak about – Not what Mr. Abeytia or Ms. Tharalson or Dorothy Williams or anyone at Southwest Network wanted to talk about? It should have taken 20 minutes, tops. Months? It was preposterous. And very aggravating.

This was all during June, July, August, September, October and November. Some 20 people strolled into my life to “take care of my case” and I was flummoxed. None – not a one – would satisfy my simple request.

And then in December 2016 they escalated it.

Mr. Abeytia came to my house unannounced on December 1st – I note that outrageous intrusion into my life above.

This crazed agency comes to my house on Thursday 8th of December … I tell them to go away .. they call three times in one day … I hung up on them after telling them “Do not call me again.”

They called again on the 9th … I tell them to leave me alone …they come back on the 9th .. I tell them to go away .. then they come back with police! To compel me to sign their infernal forms for their delight. I refused. I told the cops, no, no I will not – “Get that miserable skunk out of my face, I will not talk to him ever again in my life.”

I get the weekend off …

Monday 12th, they call and come again … repeatedly – hounding me, demanding I go with them to who knows where, demanding I comply with their measures, utter strangers demanding entry into my house. I told them repeatedly and ever more heatedly at every intrusion into my calm happy life to go away.

And then at about 6 or 7 in the evening I finally called the police on them complaining of harassment. Only – they called first – for they believed that my refusal to talk to pointless people was a sign of how very “severely mentally ill” they imagined me to be. And the police hauled me off – to a psyche ward. I was enraged. How dare they? They created a problem and acted on their fantasy.

I was taken to Phoenix Memorial Hospital at 1201 South 7th Avenue – in my pajamas. And there, I was set upon by a horde of women. They placed me in the corner of a room and 6 women formed a semi circle around me and just stared at me – and I lit into them. I called them miserable, arrogant and obnoxious – I even joked “next you’ll demand I smooch a woman.” I was in Righteous Indignation. I was incensed, as I had a right to be. Then two large orderlies picked me up like a sack of potatoes – dragged me to another room – and threw me roughly on a mat – and someone shot my rump up with some chemical – and then they left me in this concrete room for a half hour – before leading me to an uncomfortable chair – while talking to me like I was deranged. The idea of being rightly enraged at this outrageous treatment didn’t seem to occur to them at all.

In the morning I met with a Dr. Wolf – she said “you don’t belong here” – I said “no kidding.” So they let me out in two hours (took them that long for their paper work, egad) – and gave me a bus pass – and I had to go home from there – in my pajamas. It was humiliating. Dr. Wolf on her discharge paper put “mania” – apparently Righteous Indignation is not on her form.

On the way home I went to the McDowell Clinic – I was just mad as hell – and I wanted someone to do something. So, on Tuesday, December 13th in a call from Mr. Greg Scagg’s office (director of McDowell Clinic) – I told Dorothy Williams – do not come near me again – I refuse to speak with you – I want nothing to do with you – I stated it several ways. Mr. Scaggs had to calm me down from how heatedly I expressed my severe displeasure with these miserable people.

They required a from to release me – fine, fax it over. No, it could not be done that day. So I continued home – in my pajamas – embarrassed and humiliated. And the next day I had to waste 3 hours to go to McDowell to check a box on a form, sign it, and fax it back. So on the 14th I signed paperwork divorcing this agency from my life.

But nope – they called on the 16th … and I said to a woman named Cory – “Do NOT Call ME Again” I was clear, emphatic and pointed – and I was just infuriated at the obnoxious insolence of these miserable people.

Then – at 5 PM on the 16th – they send a woman to my door as my “peer counselor” – I was flummoxed. I lit into this broad and told her “GET AWAY FROM ME!” – she wanted to push to stay – I was simply “ARE YOU INSANE?” – finally she left after I started a tirade of invective and curse words at her. Her insistence on staying was stunning.

These people are insane – it is mind numbing. For 8 months I asked for a male counselor – and they send me a woman to my door unannounced 3 days after I signed their form stating I did not want to deal with them. Their refusal to listen, to do what they agreed to, is stunning.

Page 42 – date 12/9/2016

their report claims I said I would kill myself – that is just nonsense – a 100% fabricated lie – No – just no, never did I say that – apparently some agency called Shanti which had told me in a brief 10 minute conversation that they do not take my insurance – called up SWN and said I would kill myself. This is just monstrous – I have a “OK, well, that’s a bummers” call with someone – and they just create this claim? They lied – they committed fraud – malpractice – it is stunning.

Page 43 date 12/9/2016

their report claims I said I would kill myself – that is just nonsense – a 100% fabricated lie – No – just no, never did I say that

Yet, on nearly every page of this 142 page report they admit I asked for a male counselor – and yet – they would not provide one. Never. 100 times my wish, request, demand is mentioned – 101 times they told me “screw off, no” – so what point were they? What? None.

13 times it is noted, on page after page “James wants a male counselor.” At the 14th time Mr. Abeytia writes “It could be an option.” This is malicious disregard for what I asked for – and for the reasons I asked for it.

Page 47 – some how the Shanti Group is now involved – a group who told me ,my insurance is no good with them.

page 48—they report me “extremely angry with SWN” – sure they wouldn’t give me a name of a male counselor – and they are so dense and obtuse they can’t see it – they are blind

page 96

determined SMI 4/8/2013 – through CPSA – so I figured out that some bureaucrat in Tucson labeled me “severely mentally ill” – and actually it is 1/17/2013 when it was done – see COPE report.

They quote me as saying “I’ve been trying to get back in for services for awhile. There’s something wrong with me, I can’t function and everything freaks me out.”

Never – I could never have uttered this statement – this is a blatant 100% fabrication – at the time this was claimed I uttered it – I was functioning as I always have … writing, art, music, life, friends, family, public acts – in 2013 I was published on some of very conservative websites promoting the Good of Gay Guys – and was defended by anti-gay pundits – and well – this statement they claim I make is simply bizarre.

And then the rest of this – all of it – I have never seen such a fantasy created about me like this – this is just monstrous – malpractice, fraud, lies, fabrications and more – who knows what laws were broken in the writing of this.

As of 3/30/2017 – so far I have determined that I am declared a “coke, meth, booze and pot addict with mania, depression, manic-depression, bipolar, anxiety, panic, agoraphobia, paranoia disorders – with legal, weapons and gambling issues, who is moving to Philadelphia and Costa Rica and has delusions to become a Hollywood Movie Star — who is delusional about writing books, painting and playing the piano”

And — I am “frustrated” they note — and I’m like – look at this! “Frustrated” seems so light in retrospect — and all declared by people each of whom I met just once — to sign their forms


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