Nice Limbo

Embracing the Mess

2011-06-10T12:29:00.000-07:00

What have I been up to? Well, first of all, there was this:

I spent most of March and early April training to get this down. And when I wasn't physically training, I was dreaming the damn routine in my head, complete with Neko Case's Red Tide ringing in my ears as I awoke.

With no stringent guidelines to follow, the choreography of the piece was primarily left to me, and this song--which I had initially not liked two years ago when I first heard it--became a mantra. It's really about the Pacific Northwest, and, to me, about shedding a layer of skin by leaving it. What I didn't realize until my instructor pointed it out, however, was how forceful all the moves in this routine were. I pictured myself as almost a passive aerialist (is that even possible?); most certainly, I had the sense of being "just a student." She listened to 30 seconds of this song as we sorted options and said "This is the one. This matches the force of the moves you've been showing me." And I thought, "Force? What force?" and promptly spent another hour reassessing what I was doing eight feet off the ground.

Because it was force.It was something I was proving--maybe only to myself, but still. After being so badly injured last summer and unable to perform in the student showcase then, this routine became a hard-fought and hard-won declaration. Sure it feeds a bit into my age-old habit of needing to prove myself, but what training this routine and this song turned into was the liberation I intended it to be. Once I knew how to do it, I felt free. I had no nerves that night. I felt euphoric. I wanted it to keep going. I can't overstate how satisfied I was with the whole process. I don't think it was perfect or anything like that, but I finally learned how to let things go a bit--to enjoy the moment and make it look like it was easy to do. That, after all, is the trick with trapeze. Now you know.

I was balancing training the trapeze stuff with a new position at work that is still its own work in progress, a thing that cannot be perfected, but that is slowly arriving at the same point of excitement and feeling like I understand its execution. It's like I've been in professional boot camp again, which is something I always welcome. I need the influx of ideas and challenges. Which isn't to say it's not totally exhausting sometimes. But I'd rather have my brain whirring along than come to a dead stop.

Add to this that I completed six weeks of training to become a hospice volunteer and you begin to see the compartmentalizing of my brain. How to balance being upside down in the air with professional/mental somersaults and this new endeavor that makes you feel, pardon the metaphor, thrown for a loop. I've already had one patient and somehow convinced myself that this would be an older person with whom I'd simply visit and run errands for--only to feel punched in the heart when she passed away.

There's a push-pull in my brain now--crying in my office over a woman I should have known would die at any moment, deciphering the latest challenge on my desk, and wondering what I will do next to push my body to do something it and my brain never thought was possible. Needless to say, it's a mixture of liberation, fear, and happiness. These things are buzzing in my brain, telling me to enjoy the moment whenever it is possible, to continue to explore, to stop being afraid of making it all perfect and acceptable to everyone.

Life is a mess in the best possible sense.

If I've actually retained the lessons of the last three months, I think this is it. I am reminded almost daily. I don't want to forget.

Self-Discography #16 :The Song You Can't Shake

2011-03-01T22:18:00.000-08:00

I will let "When It Don't Come Easy" by Patty Griffin slip away into the back of my brain for months at a time. It lies dormant there, as if it's just waiting for the right sensory trigger to start playing again, like a radio that won't shut off.

On its surface, it's a beautifully wrought ballad about love and strength--the power of a relationship between any two people loyal to each other. In the layers that reveal themselves each time I find it again, I find myself wondering, "Is this about only one relationship?" "Is this about how misguided this country has become?" "Is this something for two friends to share between themselves only?"

The best songs to lay dormant in your head are those that can't be categorized. You know and understand the language, but the interpretation? Well, now, that's a story unto itself.

"Everywhere the water's getting rough/Your best intentions may not be enough."

The year after I first heard this song, I watched as my long-term relationship slowly disintegrated and I made the decision to quit my job of seven years. I felt like I wasn't taking part in any of it at the time. So blocked off from my own emotions, I just saw both events as something that needed to be done, to be endured. Before I quit my job, I'd find myself walking to work, listening to this in the early morning sun. I needed the mixture of peacefulness and sadness it gave me. I needed the reminder that even though all of this was happening now, it would have to be all right at some point, some time. Right? I asked myself that one word question a lot. I never seemed to know the answer in the moment, as I, indeed, felt as if I was on a small boat surrounded by towering waves. All I had were intentions. To get through. To carve some kind of path. To feel again. I stopped listening again for a spell and found the song again later, after the job was gone...after the relationship ended. The water in my head now? Calm.

"So many things that I had before, they don't matter to me now."

I think of this line when I climb up to the top of Griffith Park, when I drive through the desert, when I throw myself in the ocean in the summer heat or see the poppies bloom. What do I need besides these moments with the people I want to be surrounded with? Do I really need more things? Do I need more stuff? Will that make me happier?

No.

I refrain from going all hippie about it--I rarely say it aloud in such a way, after all--but I can't base my happiness on TV, on acquisitions, on tangible objects and tools that are somehow supposed to bring that to me. I need the ephemeral, the flashes of moments, the minute to look around me and simply stop for a second. I need songs to fall madly in love with for the days here during which I get to see this, experience that, and watch others do the same.

"If you break down, I'll drive out and find you/If you forget my love, I try to remind you."

This song has come back to me again right now. For the last few weeks, I've played it as I left weekly training sessions I am attending to become a volunteer with a hospice organization. I am embarking on this because of a mixture of personal experiences and a strong belief in the way people should be treated. I was prepared to be challenged in an entirely new way--to see how I can actually utilize my compassion. It has always seemed something I knew I possessed yet could never find it and share it the way I wanted.

As I left each training session, with more and more information in my head--with a fuller understanding of the very small things I can do that may be perceived as remarkable--I found myself overwhelmed. I could have never had this same awareness at 13 when my father died, at 25 when my stepsister passed away, or at 27 when I lost a very good friend suddenly. It seemed only now that it was possible. The end of the first session I burst into tears as I pulled out of the parking garage and this came on my iPod. It was back. And I needed it.

Each successive week, the tears threatened to come, but I soon realized they weren't about being angry or sad. There was some fear--fear of what might happen to me when I get older (Would I have my family and friends to rally around and help?). There was also a desire to be able to help people whom I'd not thought much about before (Can I be a comfort and something they need?).

As this latest journey starts, I feel like I am looking around for someone to point in a direction and tell me that this is the way I need to go. But that's not true, is it? It's just easier to do what someone else says. I don't think the individuals I am about to meet are going to be doing any finger pointing. I don't think they want a map, either. Maybe they just want me to sit next to them and not say a word. Maybe they want to hear a story about something from my life. And maybe, just maybe, one will simply want to hear a song and remember something from his or her life.

The Nose Knows

2010-12-02T11:29:00.000-08:00

I don't do "maintenance" on my car anymore. Nor on my rental house. Not even in my office.

Maintenance these days is all about my subtly aging body. I have been hyper-aware of my age ever since I hurt my foot in July while doing acrobatics and tumbling. It wasn't that I hurt myself because of my age. But it took a lot longer to heal than I wanted.

So my adventures these days consist of making sure the rest of my body isn't falling apart: trips to the eye doctor, scheduling a time to see the dentist, and the most fun of all: mole check!

My people are fair-skinned. The German/Russian blood seems naturally averse to the sun and what it can do. So, every couple of years I notice a new spot on my skin and think, "Was that there? Should I care that it looks raised? Please, please, please don't turn into one of those warty looking growths on my neck with hairs coming out of it to make it look like a tiny tarantula lives on me!" Which neurotically sends me to the dermatologist to just shed my clothes and say, "Just look at every square inch of my skin and make sure I'm all right! If you need to cut something off, just go for it."

No need for incisions. And no, there's no cancer or anything. I just get the routine talk about the importance of sunscreen and wearing long sleeves in the sun ("even when the weather doesn't call for long sleeves"--to which I nod and think, "I live in L.A. and you think I'll wear long sleeves in July? You're nuts.").

The only blemish--if you will--is a weird red spot on the side of my nose that is beginning to make me think I had a Red Hot glued to my skin. So I keep pointing at it while I am being examined and say, "What about this? What's this? Hey, do you know what this is?"

Two doctors look at it and have a conversation with each other in what seems to be Latin before one of them picks up a can of what looks like those "cans of air" you buy at Staples. One puts a paper towel over my right eye and the other says, "This might tingle." And then I feel a cool breeze that quickly becomes a sensation I can only guess resembles having an icicle stabbed in my nose. I start to squirm. "Tingle" is not really the right word. "Totally irritating" seems more appropriate, along with, you know, "stabby."

And then they do it again.

"Wow, whatever this alien thing on my nose is, it clearly won't just die," I think to myself as I resist the urge to grab the can and turn it on them.

"There!" One of them says brightly. "It should crust over and fall off soon."

Me: "That's ... good?"

Doctor number one: "Yes."

Doctor number two: "It might turn brown. Don't pick at it!"

Me: "Do I need to, like, monitor it, or something?"

Doctor number one: "No."

Doctor number two (to number one): "We don't want him to look weird for any of his holiday get-togethers."

Me (in my head): "Well, freezing off a blemish on my nose right before the holidays sure accomplished that."

Doctor number one: "No."

Doctor number two: "If it turns another color, call us."

They leave me to get dressed, glancing at my nose in the mirror, wondering about the advice to measure all my moles and have "a friend" take photos of the big ones so I have "a record" of them.

Who wants to volunteer?

Why It Gets Better

2010-10-01T07:51:00.001-07:00

I am spending time late nearly every night standing in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror and practicing the motions of running a razor blade across my wrists.

I think that I can work myself up to the moment when I'll be ready to puncture the skin and finally feel some relief. I want every thought in my head to drain away. I want the punishment of what feels like every day to abate. It seems to be the only thing that might help. I am vaguely aware that there are people who will be upset if I succeed in training myself to do this. Mostly, however, I am focused on peace. No more confusion. No more sadness and frustration.

I never did succeed, of course, in the fall of 1985 when I was only 12 years old. And when I do look back on that season these days, at 37, I often try to close out that image of myself in the seventh grade, so miserable and lonely that I saw no other option for dealing with the confusion of my own sexuality, which was forming too clearly inside my head. While my family and neighbors chose to quietly accept or ignore the fact that I was likely gay, many of the kids with whom I went to school were less gracious and understanding (and less apt to simply turn a blind eye to it). Like so many kids who have questioned or who are questioning their own sexuality, I was taunted on nearly a daily basis. Sometimes it was just a look. Other times it was a steady stream of being called "faggot" in gym class or as I walked home from school, taking different, complex routes every day in the hopes of shaking the boys that took to following me and threatening to "kick my ass." I could never adequately express what was happening to my parents, and while some teachers would try to nip the taunting in the bud, there's no way to stop the moments that happen between two individuals out of earshot and eyesight.

The topics of my being bullied were spoken of occasionally by the small circle of friends I did have who would come to my defense, often just telling anyone who threw an insult my way to "shut up." I was even part of a school group that was supposed to counsel our peers on how to deal with the pressures that come with this maelstrom of developing bodies and school. But every night when I got home, I'd sink further into what felt like quicksand in my head. "Why me?" I wrote in my journal. "What did I ever do to them? I hope they die." They didn't, of course, and the irony became that if it was going to be them or me, I figured it might as well be me.

It's impossible to not think of this as I read news reports of the four boys and young men who have killed themselves over the last two weeks--all of them bullied or shamed in some way related to their perceived sexuality. In 1985, of course, it was rarer for boys of 12 or 13 to announce that they were gay--at least in my working-class neighborhood where there were no openly gay adults, and where the only mention of homosexuality might come from a disparaging remark or someone happening to mention a news story about AIDS (which, of course, equated being gay with being dead).

Watching the video that Dan Savage and his partner of 16 years, Terry, recently made and posted on YouTube and reading the letter that my friend Rick Andreoli wrote to his young self in a series titled "Writes of Passage" on Gay.com, I can't help but wish I had things like this available to me that fall, instead of a school counselor who was unable to talk to me about anything other than why I was "mad" and suggesting to me that I needed to take up hobbies that would make me develop "good kinds of friendships" with other boys.

Society has evolved drastically over the last 25 years, and gay kids have so many more resources available to them on a local and national level, especially with great organizations like The Trevor Project, which counsels LGBT and questioning kids. For many of us now in our 30s and older, it sometimes feels like even kids who are being picked on or harassed should just instinctively know that there are resources out there for them. This is the Internet Age, after all. Surely they can connect with others like them who can help them out. I/we made it through. Clearly, however, they do not, whether by virtue of geography, socioeconomics, or the fact that the areas in which they live are infused with politics, religion, and rhetoric that teaches them to hate themselves.

I cringe inside, still, when I read a news story about a young person who has taken his or her own life because of harassment based on their perceived or actual sexual orientation. I have that moment of wishing I could have swooped down and spirited them all away to a safer place and taught them what their lives can look like if they could only go on living. It's hard for these kids to see the future. It's even harder for them to understand what it's like to no longer feel trapped.

As Dan and Terry point out in their video, it gets better. But there are so many reasons why it does. It gets better when you begin to learn to love yourself in even the smallest ways, to find a way to help yourself when it seems like no one is there for you, to foster those friendships and family relationships you do have (even if it's only a very few) as best you can, and express your feelings to those people--to acknowledge you are afraid and find a way to move past it. Yes, plenty more could be done to combat bullying, whether through schools or, more importantly, within families who don't see the harm with the terms "boys will be boys" and "you know how kids are." And of course, making any kind of counseling or mental-health services available to kids with practitioners who are sensitive to issues of sexuality would be productive, if not outright transformative (and further illustrating the need to overhaul this country's way of dealing with health care).

It was the presence of two friends in 1985 that made me finally stop drifting into the bathroom to practice cutting through my skin every night. One of them, I am no longer friends with; the other is still a part of my life. They didn't provide me with any concrete help at the time per se. How could they, being only 12 and 13? They just knew that they liked having me around, reading my stories, and that we made each other laugh. I knew it wouldn't end what was happening to me, but--for better or worse--I decided I needed to see what would happen next year, the year after. I wasn't going to be in middle school forever, I realized. If I "succeeded" one night in the bathroom, I would never know what life beyond that would be.

Self-Discography #15 : "Whatever's For Us" by Joan Armatrading

2010-09-09T01:02:00.000-07:00

1980s

"You came into town with your big ideas/You'll find out that life just ain't that way. ... Settle down, city girl, make life what it should be/Lots of laughs, all you want, that's how it ought it to be. But don't take my word, just sit back and you'll see."

There was no "a ha!" moment with Joan Armatrading. Not really. And yet I found myself drifting back to this lyric--the centerpiece of "City Girl." She seeped in somehow, like a lazy rain that soaks you before you even know you're wet. I first heard this, her 1972 debut, when I was in high school on a copied cassette my sister had brought back with her from college. At the time, I was dipping my toes into a kind of folk stream, testing the waters with Tracy Chapman, 10,000 Maniacs, even Phranc--many of these same artists, again, offered up to me by my sister, who would obligingly let her music-obsessed brother waltz off with her tapes and copy them. I was immediately drawn to what the album wasn't: It wasn't as spare as most folk albums I'd heard up to this point; it instead seemed to bounce off genres, with some tracks sounding almost like vintage Elton John and classic rock. It was not whiny, and yet it also wasn't entirely sure of itself. It wasn't political per se. It wasn't anything I'd heard before.

I was already in love with the sparklingly fierce piano of the lead-off song, "My Family," though I conceded immediately that I wasn't sure if the family in question was some hippie-ish extension of "everyone around you." Joan's voice comes in soft yet assured and then soars by the first chorus, embedding itself in your head. Or in mine at least. But I really wasn't prepared for "City Girl," and it was this song that nailed home the twin sensation of envy and understanding with just one line: "There's such a lot of pretense in this world" before launching into its chorus, which demands that life be enjoyed and not simply left to pass by.

Sitting on a scratchy carpet in my bedroom listening to this powerful voice, I learned a bit more about why music mattered. It made me feel. At least something. At last something. Coming on the heels of years battling depression, it felt good to feel anything again without it being accompanied by the fear of hurting.

1990s

I forget about "Whatever's for Us" for spells because I no longer have a copy of it. A few years slip by and then suddenly a lyric pops into my head, or the guitar and piano strain of a song, like the countrified strumming that starts "All the King's Gardens" which then nearly explodes with the vitriolic line: "Well you try to break me up, but I write it down as experience/Once bitten twice shy, but I'll make my comeback."

This is the song that ends the album--forceful, nearly mean in its story, and so not the kind of shy, shrinking violet folk singer paean that was in the ether at the time this was made. It crawls back into my brain now, in college, so I track down the CD via Columbia House. It's a poorly transferred copy, but the old tape is long lost and I listen to it late at night in my room as I type papers and stare out at the desolate blackness of the Vermont night. I discover the less immediately appealing songs that I skipped before, like the rollicking blues of "Mean Old Man" and the weird psychedelic sitar on "Visionary Mountains," which sounds less a song than a poem that might drift away into nothingness at any moment.

It feels like I needed to find it again. I've gravitated in the years since I first heard it toward more alternative rock, which can be so blatant in its forcefulness. I feel the nuance again, of seemingly simple music that still moves me, even if there really isn't a reason. I tell my sister that I bought the CD. She says: "God, I'd totally forgotten about that album."

2000s

Suddenly other people I meet know "Whatever's for Us." Friends I've had for years share with me that they, too, love it. We talk sometimes about what a gorgeous album it is--how it's stood the test of time. Cliche. Yet true. I feel an odd solidarity in revealing how I cried the first time I heard "Gave It a Try" as a teenager because it seemed--somehow, so unexpectedly--to say everything I wanted to communicate to my family. I chuckle quietly when a friend puts the sweet and gentle "Conversation" on a mix CD for me. And I've finally come to love the album's title track, perhaps the sparest, most traditionally folk-like song on the album with the obtuse lyric "Do what you will, say what you must, 'cause whatever's for us, for us," which seems to say to me, "What's happening--what will happen--all of it is exactly what's supposed to be."

I hear now that Armatrading herself doesn't even play the songs from "Whatever's For Us." I suspect it has much to do with the woman she co-wrote most of the songs with, who disappears from Armatrading's career as suddenly as she appeared. I find myself a bit sad that I'll likely never hear them live. I bristle when I run across old, dismissive reviews of the album, as well. But I also know now there are just some things that you never need to explain. I owe no one an explanation as to why this album has endured throughout so much of my life. But it seemed like I needed to say it.

20 Things Recently Noticed, Learned, Revealed

2010-07-28T10:57:00.000-07:00

1. Back handsprings performed at age 37 do not feel the same as those performed at age 12.

2. A cool summer in L.A. is great at night, but on the weekend, I miss going to the beach.

3. I have extended periods of laziness.

4. I daydream.

5. I abhor fleas.

6. I can pull off multiple shades of pink.

7. It's more fun to talk about buying a unitard than actually buying one.

8. I probably should have been a psychologist. Maybe I can still find a way to earn a salary by quickly deconstructing the reasons why people do what they do.

9. I love good dance music.

10. Hands peel a lot when you aren't building up the callouses on them.

11. I am upset that Target gives money to organizations that support antigay candidates. Yet no one has showed me which major corporations/stores from which we buy things don't do the same thing.

12. At the same time the media is reporting the above, they are shoving details of Chelsea Clinton's wedding down our throats, despite the fact that gays still can't get married in 90% of this country.

13. I remain optimistic.

14. I believe I am supposed to keep learning.

15. I am destined to do something that helps others despite my tendency toward misanthropy.

16. I miss my childhood pets.

17. Gray hair isn't visually upsetting. It's the texture and unruliness of it that upsets me.

18. I want you to keep up with me.

19. I need to be less afraid of what might happen.

20. I know the release dates of movies that I have never seen.

A Body Is Made to Move

2010-06-25T15:15:00.001-07:00

It is, isn't it?

That's what it feels like, at least, as I begin to re-motivate myself physically, since doing so mentally feels a bit too taxing right now. With my body in movement--at the gym, hanging from a trapeze bar, tumbling across a mat--I know exactly who I am in that moment. I feel the endorphins, the fear, the thrill of discovery, the awe that all of my joints, tendons, and muscles can coordinate and tell my brain not to stop, to try it, to just keep moving through the space and trust that I know how to spot the ground.

There are far too many metaphors that hover around this train of thought, and maybe I should pay more attention to them. There's simply something about the air, about the feel of shuddering from exertion, of inducing muscle memory in my nearly 37 year old body. My thoughts may drift to glucosamine now, but this is the closest to living in the past I've come in a long time.

When my parents enrolled me in gymnastics at the age of 8, their motivation was likely to get me out of the house and blow off some of the proverbial steam. I was already practicing my own form of tumbling in the neighbor's yard, after all--convinced somehow that the laws of physics did not have to apply to me. I was taken to Peninsula Park in North Portland to a gymnastics class...where I was the only boy in a rickety old gymnasium overrun by girls in leotards who could execute moves that I'd only seen on TV. Even in this rundown working-class neighborhood, there was an effortless grace and athleticism on display that I found alluring. Maybe this was a world I could live in that felt OK? Maybe this would be a bubble in which I could do what I wanted?

Because I was the only boy at the gym, however, it meant that I competed on "girls' apparatus," so I dutifully learned how to vault, how to maneuver on the uneven bars, how to keep my steadiness on the beam when I cartwheeled, and I quickly adapted. No one batted an eye or ever made a comment. I was simply encouraged to keep going, to keep trying, to push my body into the air, on to the ground, and over obstacles. All I knew is that I wanted to learn a double back somersault in the air and how to actually execute twisting motions while upside down.

I gave up the gymnastics bubble by the time I was 13. My body didn't seem to want it anymore. My mind certainly didn't (puberty can be so fun). The money also wasn't there to keep sending me to the Oregon Gymnastics Academy, which was so far away from home--and where I couldn't seem to learn all the men's apparatus; I was seen as a boy who could execute a perfect back handspring but had no concept of what the hell a pommel horse was. I didn't have the discipline and the right frame of mind. And the encouragement I had gotten from that rag-tag room of girls and my female coach in North Portland was gone.

Tumbling--what I always loved most--would still rear its head over the next few years, however: at friends' summer parties; in college on the lawn after I'd had a couple of drinks (always a good idea); every once in a while until my mid-20s, when I became too scared to do it--when I no longer trusted my body and became afraid of physics.

And yet here I am quickly approaching 37--two years into working out on the trapeze and silks and reacquainting myself with what it feel like to hurtle my body through the air in acrobatics classes.

Why? Why not?

I am not so lithe anymore. Nor as light. My body doesn't feel rubbery and unbreakable. I count my blessings that the only thing I've ever broken was a pinkie. And yet I stare down a mat once a week with a new teacher speaking to me, telling me how to launch myself into a no-handed cartwheel (or side aerial, if you will); how to achieve a bounce off a round-off back handspring; when to think about opening my body from a front pike off a mini trampoline. Only a month into this routine, my body remembers 1981. It sets me up exactly like it did when I was 8, whether I can now complete the motion or not. And it thrills me. Still. I once again don't want the laws of physics to apply to me. But I know now why I do it. Not because I used to and I have to prove I still can. It simply makes me happy. Or high. Or both. It hardly matters when you are above the ground looking to stick the landing.

OK, I Think I Am Ready to Have My Mind Blown

2010-04-21T12:42:00.001-07:00

I have never been to Asia, but in 10 days I will be there, likely in awe, with a bit of exhilaration and confusion thrown into the mix. I am alternating between feeling totally ready to be surprised and the lingering thought that I'll just be overwhelmed.

The long haul flight starts in L.A. and lands me in Seoul, South Korea, for a few hours before I transfer to Shanghai (top photo above) for my friend Steve's 40th birthday celebration. After 5 days there, I fly back through Seoul to Tokyo (below photo) for a week, where I will see my friend Nate, who is now living there. I've been talking about this trip since last year. And suddenly it's the end of April and I need to pack and figure out last-minute details before heading to the airport.

I feel incredibly fortunate to be able to do this right now. I promised myself a few years ago that I would do one major trip a year as long as I had the money to make it happen. It's not every day that your friends celebrate 40th birthdays in distant cities or happen to live in one you have always wanted to see, so it's best to take advantage, right? Most definitely.

Contrary to some people's thoughts, I am not exactly the best traveler. Oh sure, I appreciate wherever I go. I am open to simply wandering and finding my way around and being surprised by what is shown to me and what I discover alone. Yet I have a tendency to get a bit stressed out about it all. I always relax once I get to where I need to be, but the transit part tends to make me feel a bit crazy. A control issue, to be sure.

Right now, however, it feels very much like I need to be kicked in the ass. I need the utter surprise of being somewhere almost completely alien. I likely need the shock of very different cultures. When it comes down to it--underneath the planning and the nervousness about the small "what if"s--I know that I need to be taken out of my head, my element, my routine.

To that end, I say "bring it." Show me something new. Show me something I may not be able to see again. There are many reasons to travel. And those are what I will keep in mind when figuring out subway maps or street names. Sometimes you just need to get lost.

Self-Discography #14 "Troy" by Sinead O'Connor

2010-03-19T12:19:00.000-07:00

Places to listen to this song as a teenager:

--In your old, breaking-down car, driving as fast as possible in the middle of the night when you can't sleep, on a car stereo that crackles whenever the strings surge.

--On a darkened playground in the stifling heat of a summer night with no wind, with your Walkman's volume cranked so loud it may do permanent damage to your ears.

--Walking around downtown Portland after school in the rain, sun, or wind, feeling melodramatic and self-pitying.

Perhaps my first experience of musical catharsis, "Troy," ostensibly, shouldn't have had much to do with me. It's a song--built from quiet whispers to full-throttled screaming--about a relationship between a man and a woman (or a boy and a girl). Yet it is also a song about youth, memory, loss, and hatred (both projected outward and internalized). It made me wish I was truly brash, maybe even violent--that I could lash out and finally, physically, express everything that felt so crammed and twisted into my head.

To be aware of all of that at 16 going on 17 ... well, I suppose that's something to look back on and in which to take some pride. What's more difficult to feel is the memory of the pain I was obviously in and how it was brought to the surface when I heard this; it reminds me every single time I listen to it, even now when I can actually appreciate its musicality, vocal prowess, and emotional power.

At the time I discovered this song, I was in the midst of figuring out if I could legally emancipate myself from my mother. I was still mourning my father. I was working so hard that I was up til 2 a.m. or later every night to ensure I saved money and got the best grades to get as many scholarships as possible so I could get the hell out of Portland and go far away for college. I was anguished over the fact that one of my best friends in school was a girl whom I also called my girlfriend (and thus confused her and myself even more). I was bubbling with the fear of actually being gay (since you, know, in the late '80s, being gay meant you had sex and died soon thereafter). And what all added up to was that I was very, very angry--with no way to express it.

"I remember it. Every restless night. We were so young then we thought that everything we could possibly do was right...I wondered where you went to. Tell me, when did the light die?"

The words are whispered into the microphone in the beginning of the song, sounding like something that should be uttered only when you are in your 40s, not when you are this young. But wasn't "every restless night" right now? I was acutely aware that I was not acting my age. I was an old man already, looking back over only a few years of my life like decades had passed. Where was my childhood? Where was this time where I was supposed to, supposedly, feel carefree?

By the time the full orchestra kicks in and it ratchets up the drama, O'Connor's voice borders on unhinged. It's a transcendent moment of defiance and bitterness. It was also what I desperately wished I could do with everything sitting inside of me--scream it out and make it stab at someone else, as if to say "This is all YOUR fault."

"There is no other Troy for me to burn. You should have left a light on, then I wouldn't have tried and you'd never have known...Oh but I know you wanted me to be there, ohhh...Every look that you threw told me so. But you should've left a light on. And the flames burned away, but you're still spitting fire. Makes no difference what you say, you're still a liar."

In my listening, I was the liar. Me. No one else. No "partner." No guilty accomplice. I couldn't make anyone else hurt instead of me. I had only one choice: Say something.

It didn't happen that quickly. I was exceedingly hard on myself for many years, never thinking that I was actually expressing myself well or authentically, fearful of what someone else might say about who I was or the mistakes I made. Now, of course, it seems like a necessary part of being 16 going on 17. It's not unusual to feel like your head cannot handle all of the thoughts inside of it. It's certainly not rare for teenagers to struggle with their sexual orientation. Luckily, I had the tenacity to wait out my own melodrama (not to mention a handful of awesome friends who patiently waited for me to catch up with myself).

I've made jokes over the last 20 years with a few friends that "Troy" should be a song performed by an ice-skater. Can you imagine? I still secretly dream of someone choreographing all six and a half minutes and doing it--and acute adolescent angst--justice.

Change? I Got Your Change.

2010-02-23T22:26:00.000-08:00

I had about, oh, 15 different ideas for a blog post. Something about current events, my eyes glossing over from watching the Olympics, the weird insanity of hosting a garage sale for the first time as an adult. But then I stumbled across an old journal of mine from 1993 as I was packing boxes and I found myself intoxicated by the sheer horror of reminding myself what it was like in my mind 17 years ago.

As time seems to speed up the older I get (my mother was right!), I actually don't take much time to look back anymore. I am not that nostalgic. I am more than happy that I am not that awkward, fey kid who was busy getting harassed and thinking that there was not much chance of being authentically happy. I am not even particularly nostalgic for pop culture moments from my youth, save some of the music.

Young adulthood, however, was somehow different in my mind. I would pine for it occasionally, remembering the feeling of freedom I would get at moments in college, the feeling of my mind opening up, the sense that I was searching for what mattered to me.

Re-reading parts of my life as I narrated them in this particular journal in my hands, I had to rethink that view of my life then. My life on these college-ruled, spiral-bound pages was small, intense, and, too often, sad. I didn't seem to record anything but that which freaked me out, made me self-hating, unsure, nervous, and despondent. Looking at this portrait of myself in 1993, I marveled at the fact that I was still alive. There was nothing positive in the way I told my own story. Nothing at all. I was sad for myself.

In a way, of course, it was all fiction. There were good people in my life--friends and teachers who wanted me to succeed. So why couldn't I believe it? Well, that, in itself, is a boring book I will not ask you to read (now). But in that moment of realization was the calming flood of thinking that everything happening right now, in 2010, was so far removed from what was scrawled across those notebooks.

I, and many people I know right now, are in the midst of a huge amount of change. I am up to seven friends who have, are, or will be leaving Los Angeles to move elsewhere. Some of us have new jobs. Some of us have lost them. We are moving, making plans, being forced to reassess our lives. In so many ways, it's exactly what we wanted. 2009 felt like a year of being held hostage, of hedging bets, of being afraid to do anything. It seems to make sense that now the energy would be propelled forward. The tangents its taken in all of our lives has been something to behold, even when I am not necessarily happy about where it takes some of us.

To be sure, it's not all "positive." I have just as often been confronted with friends who are losing loved ones, of my own family in flux, of uncertainty surrounding what comes next. I still find myself nervous and anxious here and there. But it's not 1993. I am so much more mentally equipped to deal with all of it. I am, simply, so much happier. With me. With everything. In fact, the challenge right now of figuring out what I will do next--of watching my friends do the same--is something I embrace. I shy away from it some weeks. I sidestep it some days. But then, when I roll up my sleeves to sit down and take action, I feel like it's good work. It's honest. It's meant to be.

I will remind myself of that in the coming weeks and months, as I pack up my current life in boxes to move it across town. As I learn how to garden in my new yard. As I say goodbye to more friends. As I help others figure out what's next for them. Perhaps instead of throwing away those painful slices of my past self, I should simply keep them in better eyesight.

What Can I Tell You?

2010-01-22T11:09:00.000-08:00

A month goes by. A new year materializes. I apparently have very little to say or share. I think my brain shut off for a while.

And because my brain now compartmentalizes thoughts, here's my recap of everything that's happened over the last month

--Anxiously getting ready for xmas. Ran to the Paul Smith store to get socks for Ryan and argued with someone about the color schemes available in store vs. online.

--Decided I really have too much wrapping paper. Note to self: Moratorium on buying wrapping paper.

--Hide presents in my closet in a bag. Almost forget to dig them all out for everyone.

--Ooh and ah over Lissa and Tom's presents to us: new baking sheets, coffe, magazine subscriptions. Must bake something before it's 90 degrees again.

--Head to San Diego for 4 absolutely awesome days with Leslie, Nikki, Justin, and a great Xmas night of Chinese food and local gay bar with Steve and Rick, who were in town, too. Dance drunkenly before hitting Jack in the Box and giving a big tip to the awesome drive-thru woman.

--Ryan gets me a TV for xmas. Yay! I can FINALLY get rid of the Fry's electronics TV from 1998.

--Score incredible lamps and mirrors at a thrift store in Poway. Yes, Poway.

--Head home in a funk because it's all over.

--New Year's Eve at a gay piano bar with bad showtunes. Ryan and I drink our fill. I stop. He continues. Meet up with friends and their friends for more drinking and late night house parties. Sober at 3 am, I drive Ryan home, fearing he might be hungover Jan. 1.

--Watch Ryan be hung over Jan. 1. Poor guy.

--Back to work. Jessica is gone to NYC and I am in her office. Everything feels the same but different.

--Post New Year's funk. Now what? Get back on the trapeze. Try acrobatics class. Manage a no-handed cartwheel for first time in 15 years. Hurt neck on backward roll. Oh, right, I am 36, not 13.

--Start piling up things to sell in the dining room. We want this crap outta here. Theme for 2010 seems to be: get rid of what's really unnecessary. Keep what matters.

--Make Lesley watch "The Ice Pawn." Feel some regret. But she's seems entertained. Phew.

--Make plans to meet with L.A. Youth, a local nonprofit organization and newspaper written by teenagers. I'll talk with them about their social media plans. Excited to be doing something new and different.

--Download a slew of new music. Geek out over YACHT. Then have that immediately replaced by Kristin Hersh's new album. Fierce.

--It's been a year since I was in Mexico. I'd go back to Tulum in a heartbeat.

--Buy plane ticket for trip to Tokyo and Shanghai. What the...? YES.

--Watch it rain 5" in one week in L.A. and pine for the snow and the Pacific Northwest. I don't miss the sun too much yet. I miss real weather.

--Social plans. Drinks with friends. Birthdays. Outings. Enjoying the changes and challenges now that the new year funk is past.

--Finally nail the elusive Hip Circle maneuver on the trapeze. Spinning around and around the bar in the midst of a downpour I can hear outside. I feel like I could go forever, bruised forearms and all.

Self-Discography #13: Moments of 2009

2009-12-19T10:24:00.000-08:00

Various Artists
"Dark Was the Night"
In 1990, when I was only 16, "Red Hot + Blue" floored me, properly introduced me to Cole Porter, and gave me some hope that people really did care about stopping HIV/AIDS. Nearly 20 years later, "Dark Was the Night" floored me and made me realize that people still care. The covers and originals that are contained here make up an indie-rock Who's Who, but for good reason.

50 Foot Wave
"Power + Light"
The fiercest 26 minutes of music to come out in 2009...and to be completely overlooked. Stitched together in seven movements, it plays out like a rock opera of the highest order. And it might be the best late-night freeway driving soundtrack I've heard in a decade.

Meshell Ndegeocello
"Devil's Halo"
She stops being funked and blissed out and pares down to 35 minutes of expertly crafted jazz-influenced R&B and rock. The best album she's done since "Bitter," and the best old-school R&B cover of the year ("Love You Down").

The Big Pink
"A Brief History of Love"
Britpop "died" a long time ago, right? Well someone forgot to tell these guys. A first album full of bombastic guitar hooks and keyboards that make the whole thing sound grimy and beautiful at the same time.

Annie
"Don't Stop"
Move over, Kylie. You've got some serious competition from Norway. Annie is never going to be as shiny and pretty as you, but she makes fantastic dance-pop that, if given half a chance, would pack dance floors just as well.

The Drums
"Summertime!" EP
Perhaps the cutest band to appear this year that was actually talented, the Drums make totally infectious lo-fi pop about surfing, sad summers, and love, love, love. Who wouldn't want to go drink on the beach with them?

Neko Case
"This Tornado Loves You" and "Red Tide"
Only Case would write a song that is *literally* about a tornado that loves a human and sing it from the tornado's perspective. The lead track from her great album is then expertly bookended with a song that's all about escaping from a place you might have loved once upon a time. Gorgeous.

St. Vincent
"Actor"
Disney melodies and harsh guitar riffs that burst into beauty at the last minute, coupled with vignettes of various women whose lives may or may not be falling apart. No one else this year pulled off that kind of emotional balancing act.

Tune-Yards
"Sunlight"
Looped percussion, bass, and ukulele coupled with a voice of exquisite power. Seemingly rudimentary but complex and beguiling. It's a love song that starts out timid and builds to a volcanic kiss off.

Cass McCombs
"You Saved My Life"
McCombs finally gets a little personal and in the process made the best song of his career. Heartbreaking and beautiful. To be played at sunsets all summer long as you think about someone who isn't next to you anymore.

Lady Gaga
"The Fame Monster"
If "The Fame" didn't make you a believer, this eight-song EP is proof that Lady Gaga is evolving into an expert pop songwriter who can capture the zeitgeist like a certain Madonna did in the '80s and '90s. Listen to "Teeth" and then declare otherwise.

Camera Obscura
"My Maudlin Career"
"Maudlin" is hardly the word for this gorgeous, sumptuous album that utilizes '60s European and American pop as a base influence, but Tracyanne Campbell takes her bittersweet love songs to a new level.

Tegan and Sara
"Sainthood"
A bit overlooked in a glut of year-end releases, the sister act from Canada is growing up and become even more self-assured, if that's possible. The skewered pop of songs like "Arrow," "Red Belt," and "Alligator" was immediately gratifying and the rest was equally arresting (and sometimes danceable, to boot).

A Long, Strange, Wonderful Trip

2009-11-25T00:05:00.000-08:00

Yes, that's me in the photo above with one leg wrapped around a trapeze rope while the opposite foot grips the other rope between my toes.

Yes, I am performing eight feet off the ground.

No, I never saw myself doing any of this.

When Rick first said to me, "You might really enjoy this," I thought it was kind of funny: A Pilates-based workout where you use props from a real circus. Cute. Sure, why not? I hated conventional gym workouts anyway. And although I'd been a gymnast...oh...25 years ago, I didn't think any of that would really apply here--or even be in my muscle memory.

When I first started taking classes with Rick at Cirque School, not only was I a bit intimidated by these other men (I was taking a men's class) whose bodies were already ripped, but also totally discouraged by my lack of finesse, strength, and stamina. I had considered myself "in shape," as I did cardio, yoga, and swam. But this kicked my ass. I was asked to do a pull up as I was piked under the low trapeze and hanging from my hands. I could only do one. I came home that first night and my hands hurt so bad I couldn't even wash them without pain. Ryan asked me, "Are you sure you want to do this?" and smiled at me. He knew how I'd answer.

I was slightly discouraged. But I was also challenged and intrigued. How the hell did people do this? How on earth would I ever be able to learn these trick names? Why do I need to build up callouses on my hands. I wanted to find out.

The pictures I see now of that first summer of learning all the basic vocabulary, while also just building up some muscle in my core and my arms and shoulders, I begin to see how far I've come:

Looking at the picture of me trying to climb the tissu I can tell how much I still needed to learn. But what so many of my classmates taught me was that this wasn't about self-recrimination. It wasn't about beating myself up. It was about learning a whole new way of using my body and mind.

I was not always sure that I really wanted to learn, of course. When I developed muscle soreness or stiffness--or when I was having a bad self-esteem day--I was all too eager to look at the people around me and feel like there was no way to keep up. But then I would learn the mechanics of another new trick. I'd be asked what I wanted to learn. I'd find myself hanging upside down from my legs and feeling the blood rushing happily to my head.

By the time Cirque School had acquired a new space in the spring of 2009, I'd been taking a class every week or two for a year. My body was changing, though I couldn't see it. But, more importantly, I'd discovered an outlet for so many other things. A bad day at work or a day spent feeling listless had to disappear when I set foot on the mats at the school to warm up, stretch, and begin to do work on the apparatus. I had to be physically and mentally present. I also needed to use my creativity as we began prepping for a long-delayed student showcase.

When you begin to put together any kind of "routine" you necessarily become fixated on it, second guessing some things, wondering what you should do or not do, and wondering how the hell you will ever get through it. We had to choose music from a film, so I chose a song I'd always loved (and wrote about in my last blog post). I wanted to create a zombie horseman of sorts...a character who comes back to life for a few last moments before being able to move on.

In piecing together the moves and making them flow, I had developed a sequence of tricks that nailed my thigh every single time I performed it, leaving me with horrible bruises week after week. Is this really worth it? I wondered over and over. As I found out between November 15 and 22, the answer is a resounding yes.

I had been neurotic and nervous through the rehearsal process. I am no seasoned showman, after all. But by the time we could hear a large crowd buzzing around out on the floor and the lights dimmed, I was suddenly lit up with an electric urge to be out there, to get on with the show. By the time my cue was set to make my entrance to perform, the nerves were no longer there. Instead, I was secretly excited--the adrenaline was pumping, and I wanted it to look effortless and beautiful. I wanted to do justice to everything I'd told everyone for 18 months in the abstract.

I think I did.

And now I can't wait to get back on the bar.

Self-Discography #12: Soundtrack Singles

2009-10-25T11:17:00.000-07:00

"Cry to Me" by Solomon Burke ("Dirty Dancing")

This might be the first time I've really noticed--listened--to old-school R&B. Oh sure, I know some of it already. You don't grow up in a racially mixed neighborhood in the '70s and '80s without at least some understanding. But as kids we gravitate toward hip-hop and pop; we don't often look backward.

I am already ashamed that I am being introduced to this by watching "Dirty Dancing," but I cannot deny the song's emotional impact. It manages to embody both alienation and seduction; it offers physical escape and emotional release with Burke's explosive voice asking over and over "Don't you feel like crying?" before imploring the listener to "cry to me."

It's not only this one line that hits its target. Even though I am only 13, I understand clearly that this line touches on some deep truth: "Nothing can be sadder than a glass of wine alone / Loneliness, loneliness, is such a waste of time."

By the time the song builds to its climax, with the seductive drum beat punctuated by piano--and even xylophone--and Burke's evangelistic wailing, I am a believer. I could care less about Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey. What I want is my own darkened, smoky room--a place in which to move, to let go physically and emotionally. A place where there actually is no such thing as loneliness.

It's a tall order for a two-minute song from the 1960s. I know this. Yet from here on out, every time I listen, I get taken away. My mind drifts. And my hips sway.

"Regarding Mary" by Patty Griffin ("Niagara, Niagara")

It's 1999 and I've only recently been introduced to Patty Griffin by Wayne. We've been trading musical suggestions via CDs and mixtapes. I give him Kristin Hersh. He gives me Patty Griffin. It's a good trade. Patty is more traditional in her songwriting. Her acoustic music is sharp and soft at the same time. But she has a voice the power of which I can't deny. I like someone who can belt it, after all.

Her first album is just her and an acoustic guitar, however. I keep wanting to here these songs more fleshed out--with more meat on their bones. And when Wayne hands me the "Niagara, Niagara" soundtrack, he says "You'll probably like the first song the most." He's right.

"Regarding Mary" starts off as a jaunty little tune, bouncy in its mood until the first line: "She comes swingin' in with her tire iron."

Excuse me?

"She hates the morning, she hates the light/Hates the darkness of the night/She hates herself most of all...We try to lose her, but she remains/So maybe we will all go insane just like Mary."

I am pretty sure I know this woman already. To me, she's the relative you can't shake. She's the problem child next door. She is all the horrible people we somehow put up with because they happen to be "family." Maybe it's just that person you just haven't learned how to excise from your life. Maybe he or she really is sick. But is that your problem?

I know that I am ascribing way too much to a four-minute song, but it strikes like lightning, precise and fateful. Wayne knows already the somewhat tangled relationship (or lack thereof) I have with members of my own family. I know the same of him and his. Somehow, all of those stories are here in this one song. I take it as a good sign.

"Goodbye Horses" by Q Lazzarus ("Married to the Mob")

It's lonely in the projectionist's booth. I already know this at 16. You are made to stand in a hot, box-like space, lining up film splices on separate projectors and make sure that the jump from one scene of a film to the next is executed perfectly. Most of the time it works. Sometimes you see celluloid melt across the giant screen out there and you wonder if the audience can hear your cursing, screaming, or moaning.

The perks of working at a movie theater, of course, are the freebies: free movies, free snacks, free movie paraphernalia. The downside: Watching and re-watching the same two minutes of all of the films for which you are a projectionist, day after day.

"Married to the Mob" is one of the movies on which I learn to battle that mind-numbing watching and rewatching. While I like it well enough, what I am really struck by is the music used in it. Curious about it, I hunt down the soundtrack on cassette one day after work. Buried deep on side two of the tape is a song called "Goodbye Horses" by the mysteriously named "Q Lazzarus." It's immediately arresting to me for reasons I don't understand. It makes no real lyrical sense; it's impressionistic, stripped down electronic pop that hovers in a dreamlike state:

"He told me,'I've seen it all before. I've been there. I've seen my hopes and dreams lying on the ground. I've seen the sky just begin to fall.' He said, 'All things pass into the night.'/And I said, 'Oh no, sir, I must say you're wrong. ... Won't you listen to me?'"

I don't know what to do with this song. It doesn't fit anywhere, and yet it's perfectly realized. It's about mood. It's about a kind of catharsis I have not yet experienced. It's emotion I am not even able to express. I wear the whole tape out by listening to this one song over and over.

The memories of the projectionist booth and the impact of this song endure. A few years ago, I rediscovered the "Married to the Mob" soundtrack on CD in the bottom of a box. When I mentioned "Goodbye Horses" to Ryan he looked at me with a funny expression, telling me how it's one of his favorite songs. I later relayed to a few friends about how oddly serendipitous that was, and each one told me the same thing: "I love that song."

Is this a cult? I wondered. Some kind of late-to-the-party Q Lazzarus fan club?

Then again, how many artists create a song that's supposed to be a one-off on an obscure soundtrack and see it blossom into something that endures--time, music company mergers that put their music out of print, the rise and fall of a film director's popularity, and oh so many more variables?

Almost none of them, that's how many.

But here's one. Over 20 years old and still beautiful in its mystery.

I'm Sure I Left Something in New York

2009-10-04T22:05:00.000-07:00

I am fairly certain I did not leave my heart in New York. It had pretty much been deflated and left to gasp a few months before my departure. There was simply not enough to leave behind.

After I moved away in 1998, I swore off returning, despite the number of fabulous people I knew/know there. And then ... well, 2001 happened. And then ... well, I waited. I stalled. I stuttered. It was like I was trying to figure out how to see an old boyfriend who'd been emotionally abusive.

In 2005, I finally returned to New York, shocked to find the city transformed, not only in so many physical ways, but in less tangible emotional ways that left me confused. This wasn't the city that had always seemed ready for a fight. Now that we were both older, and at least one of us a bit better off financially, it felt more like an anti-climactic reunion where there simply wasn't too much to say. Not uncomfortable. Not bad. Just...not what I expected.

What shocked me most at the time was my longing for Brooklyn--specifically the area in and around Park Slope, where I lived for two of the years of my time in the city. When Megan and I had first moved there, we had friends tell us it was too far away and they would never come visit us there. Then, of course, several of them moved in only a stone's throw away from us. By 2005, the whole neighborhood was overrun with people I assume had once upon a time said they would never, ever live in Brooklyn. Normally, I think I would have blanched to see them all wandering around the leafy green, brownstone-dotted streets. But seeing them all as part of a long-delayed visit, it seemed appropriate. This was not my neighborhood anymore, after all.

When I made it to New York again in 2006 and 2007--both for work, both visits padded with extra personal days--I was once again in the zone. I still knew how to navigate the subways with barely a glance at the underground signs; I could easily weave in and out of the people on the sidewalks; I could bundle up in layers appropriate to the cold; and I was content in knowing this was not my day-to-day reality.

By the end of my last visit, nearly two years ago, it was clear to me that my enjoyment of New York depended solely on the amount of time I spent in Brooklyn. When work kept me cooped up in Midtown, Chelsea, and the Upper East Side of Manhattan, I stared to itch, antsy with the knowledge that I was stuck in this part of the city I never liked--that offered so little to me personally.

When I finally escaped back to Brooklyn and walked above ground I could actually exhale again. It was no longer that I simply missed Brooklyn. It was that, to me, it was New York. It didn't need to be the Slope. It could be Carroll Gardens, Fort Greene, Prospect Park, Windsor Terrace, or even a still-sketchy second-hand store on a weird part of Atlantic Avenue. Any of them felt...right.

As I get ready to return to New York once again, people keep asking me what I am going to do there. They ask about certain places in Manhattan--neighborhoods, stores, restaurants, and the like. I usually say that, of course, there's plenty of art I will see in Manhattan, but I am really looking forward to seeing my friends...and to being in Brooklyn. Some instantly understand. Some assume I mean only Williamsburg. Some look utterly baffled as to how I could gladly leave Manhattan alone my entire time there if not for the art housed on the island.

I don't tell them I simply want to walk around what once seemed like my own personal Sesame Street. I don't spin the story as to how I ended up living in an apartment over an international deli. I don't tell them that my deflated heart had actually still managed to beat there, nor do I explain why. It's simply not necessary. It's just Brooklyn. And it's just a little part of me, still.

23

2009-09-09T00:53:00.000-07:00

Early September rolls around and I go in and out of an awkward stage of agitation. I can almost will myself out of it, but inevitably something happens to make me recall my father's passing.

This time around it was nothing more than the realization that I was getting angry at people who were only asking me for something simple, or that I was harboring resentment toward anyone who wanted me to respond to their questions.

It's been 23 years, god damn it.

And mostly it's easier and easier to skip the emotional welling up that comes with remembering anyone who's died. Simply thinking of them--after a while--doesn't so much set off any chain reaction of memories. More often, it becomes something like picking through a stack of half-finished sketches and trying to recall what you'd wanted to accomplish through them.

In the last several weeks, I have been trying to get up early at least one day and do nothing but write. Ostensibly, this means writing something I have not wanted to write. Which means I write about my father's death and what happened afterward. What's been driving me crazy at 7 am as the sun starts to peek into this room is that I can so crisply remember the moment my mother had to tell me that he was dead. I can recall the robotic motions of the immediate aftermath and the slow walk I had to take up the street to my friend Amy's house while my mother had to go to the hospital. I even remember not being able to sleep until 4 am and my insistence that I go to school the next day--anything to get out of the house of mourning. But then... it goes blank. And 23 years later, the blankness pervades my expression as my fingers hover over this keyboard.

What the hell happened next?

I know some of it. And I string those emotions and scenes together like a delicate paper-chain garland, wondering where the rip will appear in the sequence. I create a list of questions to ask my mom, my sister, my brother, even though he probably won't remember. And then I ... do nothing. Because it's early September again and I begin to question why I am even trying to record it all. As if there is some definitive way to prove to yourself that you are "cured." Or at least no longer prone to socially unacceptable displays of emotion.

The joy of these early mornings--at least those in August--is that I stumbled across other memories that had long been buried. Nothing horrible. Just necessary. My father's death, not surprisingly, led to my complete inability to retain the faith with which I was casually raised. I literally lost my religion.

And that is the story, isn't it?

It is no longer simply that he disappeared. It's about everything else that swirled into the nothingness with him--and the things that appeared, as well.

I know, deep down, that I cannot treat 23 years like a puzzle that needs to be completed. I can't construct the story and cover all the bases and have it all circle back to the beginning. I can't even try to make it past September 4 without a small catch in my throat, a moment of wondering "What would it have been like now?"

It's late now, and I know there's no way I'll make it back to this keyboard at 7 am. But I will soon. It won't solve the mysteries, but it will quiet the agitation. Imagine that. Even my father would not be surprised by this, I am sure.

Calling AT&T on Saturday (in Real Time)

2009-08-15T13:29:00.000-07:00

August 15th, 2009
1:28 p.m.

I sigh and pick up the phone, prepared to do battle.

Automated guy robot voice answers my call and immediately short circuits:

"Thank you for calling AT &--"

"I'm sorry, I didn't..."

"I'm sorry I am having so much trou--"

"Please enter your phone number--"

"Please hold while I connect you with someone who can help--"

1:30 p.m.
Real person answers phone She is perfectly nice and tells me how we can go about disconnecting my land line, but with one caveat:

"We need to get you connected with the Disconnect Department. Please hold."

1:33-1:39 p.m.
Static-y hold music that sounds like it's being played underwater. The love theme from "St. Elmo's Fire" plays in its entirety and I find myself getting choked up.

1:40-1:53 p.m.
I become somewhat well acquainted with a very nice woman named Denise (name changed to protect her) in the Retention Dept.--maybe nicest person I've met at AT&T. I picture us grabbing a drink together after work and howling about stupid men. Then she drops the bomb on me: "It says here you are not eligible to upgrade your DSL to a high speed. In fact, if you do this the way we are planning, your DSL speed will *drop*." She sounds incredulous too.

But, wait, don't I have that middle speed? "Well, yes." Then how can I not have it suddenly if I ditch the land line? "Um, I am not sure."

Me: "So I am getting punished, essentially, for having been a good customer?"

Her: "Well... Sadly, yes... It kind of seems that way, but--"

"I see."

"I am just trying to be honest with you, sir."

"Really, I appreciate that. Seriously."

"Let's clarify: YOU are eligible for the higher speed, but your address is not."

i.e., I do not live in a rich enough neighborhood? Which makes no sense since I live 2 blocks from Hancock Park.

"Well, it's complicated," Denise says. "Our friend Verizon is also available in that area and we only have access to certain pockets, so some people are eligible for higher speeds and some are not. One of your neighbors might be using a really high speed from them or something..."

Note to self: Call Verizon.

2:04 p.m.
I am told how I can look online at the Measure Rate service re: my phone line. The wheeling and dealing begins, because Denise knows 2 things very well now:

1. I am mad.
2. I am not stupid.

The result? My land line bill cut 60%. My DSL bill cut 50% for at least 6 months.

2:09 p.m.
I still really, really want higher speed DSL, god damn it. But at least in the meantime I am paying much much less for what I am stuck with (and which was never explained to me in any way that doesn't sound vaguely illegal).

I suddenly miss the days when all I had was access to one rotary phone. Communication is hard.

Sound Assemblages: A Mix as Seen Through Thought Process

2009-08-07T11:09:00.000-07:00

It's a work in progress as I stitch together styles, tones, and running times: A glimpse into my annoyingly nerdy process of making mixes for people and why it sometimes takes too long. First I find the intention (is it fun? a mix of up and down? flat out weird? Or should it all be pop?); the rest is almost like storyboarding. Eventually it takes shape or gets trashed and I start again:

1. Bar-B-Q - Wendy Rene (or "100 Days" from below)

2. Cherry Bomb - The Runaways

3. Velvet - The Big Pink (maybe replace with "Too Young to Love")

4. William's Blood - Grace Jones (old song instead?)

5. Jumping Jack - Tune-Yards (listen to flow of "Sunlight" and "News" instead/move?)
Incidental something

6. French Navy - Camera Obscura

7. You Saved My Life - Cass McCombs (too slow for here? makes block of slow songs later, maybe)

8. The Neighbors - St. Vincent vs. Actor Out of Work

9. Crooked - Kristin Hersh (outro/instrumental splits list here)
Incidental something (OMD's "ABC Auto Industry"?)

10.Sincerely, Jane - Janelle Monae(too awk. after KH?)

11. I Need You - Eurythmics (put before Janelle Monae?)

12. Oh Darlin' - Magentophone (maybe starting song instead)

13. 100 Days, 100 Nights - Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings

14. Let Me Be the One - Expose

15. Perfect Beats selection (listen to Vol. 3 for the right song)

16. Young Hearts Run Free - Candi Stanton (more disco or pop? like "Bette Davis Eyes")

17. Random? "End of Freedom" by Wilderness or "4 Men" by Kitchens of Distinction vs. something like Dinah Washington or Joan Armatrading(circle back around with soul/R&B)

18. Fast Car - Tracy Chapman

End with something more slow or fast? New vs. old. Reverse order and listen to flow.
Brainstorm title ideas. Cut out images for cover.

That Moment You Don't Forget

2009-07-27T11:36:00.000-07:00

We have these throughout our lives, don't we? They are periods of time where you feel suspended in another world and you think, "I will never forget this."

It sounds a tad melodramatic and cliche now because Hollywood movies and TV shows use it constantly as a crutch for characters to be "changed." But standing at the Hollywood Bowl last night watching Grace Jones on stage, I had nothing else to think but "I will never forget this."

Maybe it was because I never thought I'd see her perform live. Maybe it was seeing her sing "La Vie en Rose" like this:

Seriously, how many other performers do you know who could do this and succeed at it? I admit I had in the past thought that maybe Grace was more persona and cheekbones than anything else, but last night changed that perspective in a major way. Some people simply "have it." And she is one of them. Done.

From appearing under a drapery of silver lame to the red dress to dancing on stage with half a mannequin, there was no getting around her presence, and her voice was in just as phenomenal shape as her 60-year-old body:

By the time she donned a bustier and a cape with a headdress for closing the show with "Pull Up to the Bumper," everyone had already kind of lost their minds and was trying to pull it together again. How nice to see a woman perform who knows how to entertain, to be sweaty, ugly, funny, gorgeous, and genuine all at the same time. It was such an insane contrast to the pap that gets shoved down our throats by most music companies these days.

Not that she was any different 28 years ago:

It makes no difference. I and thousands of others got to see her last night and see proof that the word "icon" does, indeed, do her justice.

Greeting Card Hell

2009-07-14T13:45:00.000-07:00

I made an innocent enough stop at the local Rite Aid this afternoon just for a chance to try Diet Dr Pepper for the first time (oh, and to keep Jessica company, as well). While there, we decided to peruse the large selection of greeting cards. This is a favorite pastime of mine, as I like buying cuddly cat cards for people's birthdays. Irony isn't even present anymore. People nearly expect it. But that's not the point.

No, the point is really how overcome with annoyance I was and how much vitriol was percolating inside me from a simple perusal of a sad-sack, linoleum-floored card aisle in a drug store in Hollywood.

To be honest, the magazine section started it. There, I was confronted by an array of mostly magazines aimed at women (since they, you know, do all the shopping) that included a baffling number of headlines that revolved around either why "he cheats"; recipes to make "your busy day easier"; and shocking confessions about women who "can't stop eating junk food." All the wedding and bridal publications are another matter. There, you have it pounded into your eyes and brain with a sledgehammer that, unless you desperately WANT to get married, are ABOUT to get married, or getting married AGAIN, then you cannot possibly be a "real woman."

So you see, the card aisle was a way for me to laugh and unwind... but I guess my brain just can't see it that way today. No, instead, I was stuck in a "Beautiful Mind" moment in which words and images popped out at me from all across the rows of cards, nauseating me, and, frankly, making me feel like there is no hope to get away from the flood of stereotypical gender roles that apparently sell like hotcakes:

Mom's birthday coming up? Buy her this card that features a rose or a sunset or some other soothing pastoral scene coupled with heartfelt sentiment so she both knows she's appreciated but is subtly told that it REALLY is her job to clean, cook, and raise a family.

Grandpa's getting older? This card shows a boat/workbench/park/tools/fishing poles that accurately convey that he's earned some R&R for doing nothing the last year or so. That's hilarious!

Niece who's having a baby? This baby shower card shows a cute girl in makeup surrounded by TONS of STUFF that is ALL about babies and domesticity and refers to how she is in HEAVEN now that she's breeding and surrounded by STUFF.

Dad's retiring? Well, here's a kicky card that sports an active older man who is running.... straight to his Corvette! It's so funny and true how we should spend useless money on cars like this when we have to use Viagra. (Don't worry, plenty of other cards will vouch for Viagra without me needing to.)

I guess because I am looking at my 36th birthday right now I am bit sensitive to cards at the moment. Or I am just a cranky homo who shouldn't be so attuned to a system that just relentlessly reinforces the worst, most inane, stupid, vile, and deplorable stereotypes in the name of being "funny." Thankfully, I have friends who'd rather find the smart, sardonic, ironic, and skewering cards that I have thus far received.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to go to buy a fishing pole, a Corvette, and some miscellaneous sports equipment before I re-fill my Cialis prescription and then tell people about how it's funny I'm just like everyone else.

What Will You Remember?

2009-06-30T23:47:00.000-07:00

Going back to Portland always makes me forget where I live. It shouldn't, since I haven't lived there in nearly 20 years, but it does. And in this beautiful place that is not where I live, but simply where I come from, I have to let the memories of the past mingle effortlessly with the present that is unfurling in front of me.

My nostalgia has very little to do with wanting to go back to a specific time because things were "easier." It is not about being coddled, taken care of, or feeling safe. It's not even about fond family memories. What my recent trip up to the Northwest made me realize is that my nostalgia is about color and light, taste and smell--very much the senses themselves.

This is not revelatory to many people, I am sure. But it struck me so hard at 10 pm gazing at the streaks of color in the sky over the coastal range of mountains. It's summer in the Northwest and I was surrounded by family and friends, laughing, drinking, and enjoying the time we had together. No pictures can really capture what makes a few days spent this way. But these things, among many others, remain in mind:

The papery "twinkle" of the wind rustling through plum tree leaves
The moan of fir branches in the wind, as well
The anise aftertaste of 12 Bridges Gin
The hysterical laugh coming from Belle's mouth and the way she says "Yeah" with an incredulous tone
The light at 4:30 a.m. as it turns from blue velvet to pink, orange, and red fingers through the clear sky
The smell of hot, dried out grass next to a wetland along the Willamette River
The hum of my sister's, Tom's, and Ryan's voices coming from inside the house at 1 a.m. as I approach the door, sprinkled liberally with laughter
The feel of the heat at 7 p.m. when the sun seems, still, to be so high in the sky
Freshly brewed coffee and the scent wafting halfway down the block from Stumptown
Jill's hands pounding at the flippers of Sopranos pinball in a darkening bar in North Portland
Amy's loud, generous laugh that sounds the same now as it did 25 years ago, with the same effect of making me laugh, too
The green expanse of my mother's backyard with the gurgle of a fountain punctuating the cool of the evening
The clinking of change into a small bowl as we play cards after a barbecue, still smelling of food and beer, my mom's cigarette smoke blowing in from the background
Susan's heels clicking on the pavement as we leave the club to head for a bar--a determined clicking that I know so very well
The green-blue-gray of the river through the bridge grate as I bike across it
Snowy mountains that look like mirages in the distance
The bookish smell of Powell's
Vegan pumpkin donuts and the gentle disintegration of sugar on my tongue
The view of the city coming back from Vancouver, seen across the Columbia River
The ease of conversation at dinner with only Mom and Jerry
The glare of the sun dipping behind the tallest skyscraper downtown, turning the roof brilliantly silver for just a moment
The forgotten pleasure of lying in the grass, reading, with three other people who don't need to talk.

Self-Discography #11: "Actor" by St. Vincent

2009-06-08T20:21:00.000-07:00

"You're a supplement, you're a salve, you're a bandage--pull it off. ... You're a cast on a broken arm, you're an actor out of work, you're a liar and that's the truth. You're an extra lost in the scene."

I've been known to say, "I never said I wasn't a hypocrite." By extension, I like hypocrites intensely. I find them fascinating and somehow slimy and endearing. Annie Clark's world doesn't necessarily seem to be inhabited by hypocrites, but she certainly likes peeling back the layers of carefully applied paint. These songs on her second album arrive in the present, at a moment of flux--one of my trying to figure out how to strip away the superfluous to get to what really matters. They seem to have pointed a big finger at me, pinning my thoughts down and making them squirm. Maybe, I tell myself, I am not enjoying the ugly and the pretty together like I should be. Or am I just waiting for all this good stuff to be fucked up? By me?

There are no cartoon birds helping me get dressed in my sun-dappled boudoir as Clark's sugar-sweet melodies swirl around my head. If they were here, maybe they'd look like her, all wide-eyed and unassuming, before whisper-singing this lyric into my ears:

"Desperate don't look good on you, neither does your virtue. Paint the black hole blacker."

It's delivered like treacle, just before a buzz saw guitar line cuts through it all, fracturing the seemingly perfect picture. Or maybe it's more like the harsh sunlight of a hot Los Angeles morning melting through the celluloid displaying candy-coated colors of a verdant forest, rendering the beautiful ugly (and yet somehow still beautiful).

This is what I feel right now: a sense of displacement; a combination of desire mixed with desperation; panic that there is something burning just under the serene surface. I've always been drawn to these kinds of juxtaposition. I like imagining what kinds of unpleasant things are said by the people who live in a house that is picture-perfect. When I experience this in person--say, a bourgeois couple who can barely control their hatred for each other at a dinner party--I am often offended. But when it's painted, composed, or sung to me, or otherwise framed in some outlet of creative expression, I find myself rapt.

"Let's pour wine in coffee cups, ride around the neighborhood and shine the headlights on houses until all the news is good."

There's the desire of shaking the world out of its somnambulant state to reveal the dolorous. I know it's there, I tell myself. I want to see it. I imagine myself here, in this mostly quaint area dotted with overly expensive houses in which I now live, forcing these people to: not have their money, their religion, their sometimes-holier-than-thou expressions as they walk their children and dogs down my street and don't acknowledge me. Usually, it doesn't bother me, but lately there's this hovering sense of suffocation, like I was put here on accident and someone was waiting to see how long it would take to make me ill-at-ease.

It's one of the problems with Los Angeles, I realize. I can intensely love the train-wreck nature of it, but its beautiful neighborhoods and gorgeous apartments--which can be huge, sport French windows, hardwood floors, and Art Deco flourishes--can drug you and make you forget that where you are choosing to live has no center, no community, no store to walk to, no sense of closeness to anything but the building or car next door. You can stare at this beautiful street lined with grand magnolia trees, watching birds build nests, listening to the rustle of the breeze in palm fronds, and feel like you are missing out. And then you start to hate yourself for feeling that way.

"I'd pay anything to keep my conscience clean. I'm keeping my eye on the exit sign, steady now."

Is it a sign of living somewhere too long? I start to play this game with myself: What would I miss about this city? What can I do without? I do the dance in my head and convince myself, and sometimes others, that I could easily walk away. But it's been 11 years. Who do I know anywhere else I actually want to live? The things that have not been done here will still be undone somewhere else, after all. I listen to older people like my mother spin tales about tax brackets in states I would never want to live in, but I am also old enough now that I actually stop for a moment to debate if the tax codes would really affect me positively.

I still think I am destined to live somewhere more wide open. I miss seeing the land stretch in at least one direction without a house or mini-mall affixed atop it. Whenever that actually happens, I will be able to live with it; it will be to do something that helps affect the land itself. It won't be my dislike of not having a coffee shop to walk to down the street...

Only a few listens in and this album pricks me. It's a nosy friend, an acquaintance who suddenly decides he or she needs to know more, more, more about you. It's a velvet dagger. A friendly gutting. Yet I don't mind. It's been what feels like too long since I've surrendered to new music so quickly. Smart and beautiful. Pretty and ugly. Prodded and probed. I needed a new soundtrack. I also needed to hear someone say this:

"I think I love you. I think I'm mad."

They're both true. And you know who you are.

It's Like Rain on Your Wedding Day....

2009-05-26T12:20:00.000-07:00

Oh, wait, that's not ironic.

Especially if you can't get married.

Once again, I am so enraged by the state of California and the entire political process here. I had just spent 4 days in Milwaukee celebrating a friend's great wedding only to come home to learn the CA Supreme Court upheld Prop. 8, which banned gay couples from marrying--even though 18,000 same-sex couples got married before it passed. So now, we have some gay couples legally married and the rest of us are not...? And since when do civil rights get put to a vote?

I am tired of fighting this process. I am tired of being angry. I am tired of bigotry. I am tired of supposed "Christian" groups demanding that other groups follow their philosophy of morality (which is often a lie). I am also, more specifically, tired of the state of California. I am tired of how it passes laws. I am tired of its short-sightedness. It has barely been progressive in the last 10 years. It is now an also-ran: a joke in the making.

I need to rethink why I live here beyond the climate and access to great food.

L.A,/CA Playlist(s)

2009-05-20T11:32:00.000-07:00

Since I am about to board a plane to spend five days in Wisconsin, I am taking a little of CA with me. I'd actually thought of compiling songs about Los Angeles and California for some time. I actually had many more than this, but I will save them for another installment.

Tell me about others I should have and include! x-m

Songs About LA and CA Playlist:

Freeway -- Aimee Mann
Trouble In Shangri-La -- Stevie Nicks
Clay Feet -- Kristin Hersh
California -- Low
San Bernardino -- The Mountain Goats
The Californian -- Heidi Berry
Take California -- Propellerheads
California Love -- 2Pac featuring Dr. Dre
Hollywood -- Madonna
California -- Joni Mitchell
It Never Rains In Southern California -- Albert Hammond
I Remember California -- R.E.M.
Golden Ocean -- 50 Foot Wave
Still In Hollywood -- Concrete Blonde
California Dreamin' -- The Mamas and the Papas
California --Amy Correia
Hollywood People -- Judy Henske
In California -- Neko Case

You Mean I Have to Write Something?

2009-05-13T09:54:00.000-07:00

Months ago, Barbie very graciously asked me to write a speech for her wedding.

Me being me, I humbly agreed and then twirled ideas around in my head almost like how someone would wind hair around their finger. I was gonna write this... no, that! Perfect! No, wait, what if I did this!? Even better! And so on, and so on, and so on.

Of course, now it's mid-May, Mercury is in retrograde, and I am still piecing together fragments of sentences--which are now like broken or split ends that have snapped off due to overaggressive twirling.

Note to self: Do not twirl ideas anymore.

It's not that I am afraid I'll have nothing to say. Everyone who knows me, knows that the only time I have nothing to say is when I am incredibly angry. It's just that there's this jumble of words in my head and it kinda feels like I have to push a wasps' nest through my fingers to get them out.

OK, fine, I kind of lied: The real issue is responsibility. People have to listen to me talk about Barbie and Chad for five minutes. They have to not yawn. Or hear cliches. Or listen to me do a walk down memory lane. Or wonder how I know some mythical Barbie and Chad they don't know. And--what matters most to me--it has to do both Barbie and Chad justice. This is their wedding, after all. The last thing I want them remembering when they are on the dance floor is that I gave some awkward speech about... say.... "trust," complete with an over-the-top performance art moment of me grasping my hands together, as if in desperation to connect with the audience. (For the record: I would never give a speech about trust. Or forgiveness. Or constancy.)

The ironic part of all of this is that I love the puzzle of it. How do these ideas connect or bond? How do they break apart? What doesn't belong here? Is this funny? Does this even make sense? There's a structure and a flow to the creative process that keeps me in awe. Even when I know the basic premise I am writing about (which I do in this case, thank you!), there are still so many directions it can travel.

With that twirling of ideas done, I can concentrate on making sure what I say matters to them--that it resonates beyond a simple declaration of sharing their happiness. I may not successfully avoid all of the cliches, but I am feeling more confident that what I have brewing on the page will not cause any awkward reflections on the dance floor. And if it does? Well, that's why there's alcohol.

Self-Discography #10: "I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got" by Sinéad O'Connor

2009-04-24T23:41:00.001-07:00

I am driving the freeways in, out, and around Portland at 1 a.m. on a blissfully warm night in the spring of 1990. My hand is balanced on the window, cigarette burning like a beacon, me mentally willing it to attract someone, anyone who feels as utterly fucked up as I do at the moment.

I head north on the I-5 almost until I hit the Columbia River, exit and re-enter the freeway to head south, cross over the Fremont bridge, zoom past downtown and loop over the Willamette River, north again to I-84 to head east, out of the city. I will smoke more, and glance at the burning paper and tobacco, and I will let the tape of Sinéad O'Connor's "I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got" flip over in the Ford Maverick's car stereo--the music slightly distorted by hiss and static caused by a faulty speaker.

I am not even sure how I am staying in the lanes at 65 miles an hour. I feel like I want to take my hands off the wheel and let the car explode off the asphalt, sail past the railings of a high bridge, explode into flames. But I can't will myself to do it. I can only sing along to what I am hearing and mentally plan my escape to California for the summer to live with my sister and her friends--a move, I tell myself, that will at least temporarily end feeling as I do now.

Nothing Compares 2 U

It was a moment made possible by an event some three months prior. I'd gotten home late from work at the movie theater and was in the basement watching "120 minutes" on MTV when the station premiered the video for "Nothing Compares 2 U." So ubiquitous now, nearly 20 years later, it's hard to recall the gut punch of watching Sinéad O'Connor's face in extreme close up as she transformed a mediocre Prince song into a flat-out lovelorn dirge. What's not difficult to remember, however, is the mental connection I made at that moment to the song and the album, which I bought two weeks later.

It was March of 1990 and I was 16 years old. I was in a relationship with a girl who was undoubtedly one of my best friends and should have only been a friend. I knew what I wanted more than anything was to have a boyfriend instead, and hated myself for the lie I was perpetuating. I was stuck living at home, fighting with my mother. And I felt trapped in an endless cycle of being afraid to hurt anyone, while willingly hating myself for all that I seemed unable to say, let alone do. My father had only been dead for four years. I was barely past the stage of being suicidal. I had, in many ways, changed my life more completely than I thought was possible for my age.

And in sweeps a nearly bald young woman who may very well have a nervous breakdown on camera in front of me, simultaneously vulnerable and steely--angry, maybe a tad angsty, and, yeah, sad: the one thing I was terribly afraid to admit that I was.

Feel So Different

Putting the tape on for the first time after I bought it, however, I was a bit taken aback by the overall tone of the album. "Nothing Compares 2 U" had been nothing in comparison to some of these other songs. And for maybe the first time, I had the thrill of recognition ... the distinct feeling that there was a reason I was hearing these songs now.

"I started off with many friends. We spent a long time talking. I thought they meant every word they said. Like everyone else, they were stalling. And now they seem so different."

Delivered in the middle of "Feel So Different," these words formed the jumping off point for me. Shedding my upbringing by going to school across town, having to consciously shed everything I'd learned in order to become different--to escape.

"I should have hatred for you, but I do not have any. And I have always loved you. Oh, you have taught me plenty. The whole time, I'd never seen all you had spread before me. The whole time, I'd never seen all I need was inside me. Now I feel so different."

Only five minutes into this album and I heard only words about leaving my childhood behind and acknowledging that the death of a parent had irrevocably changed me--made me something that I felt was somehow more purposeful, more acutely aware of the world around me than so many others my age.

I Am Stretched on Your Grave

If that wasn't enough, then the simple words "I am stretched on your grave" would drive it home. But drive it home in an audacious manner--a James Brown beat married to an Irish poem, topped by a Gaelic fiddle swirling into the night. I would join Susan later in the year at The City nightclub, upstairs in the so-called "goth section" to perform a mock Irish jig to the outro of this song. If anything, though, it told me of what would be possible if I stopped listening to what people told me I should do. It also made it OK again to cry about this death that I still felt. I could turn it into some kind of modern noir. Really, it was grieving. But grieving could have its own audacity that I had not known was possible.

The Emperor's New Clothes

I could never know what it must have been like to be 22 years old with a baby to deal with while the world started to know who I was. But I knew the feeling of being unable to grasp exactly what I wanted while, at the same time, being convinced that there had to be a way to get through this on my own terms.

"How could I possibly know what I want when I was only 21? There's millions of people to offer advice and say how I should be. But they are twisted and they will never be any influence on me."

"I will live by my own policies. I will sleep with a clear conscience, I will sleep in peace. Maybe it sounds mean, but I really don't think so."

When can I finally say, "I am gay"? When will I know how to sleep through the night? When will I no longer feel like I am not doing enough? I want the clarity to say, "This is how it is. This is who I am." But it's funny how having almost no money of your own, an alcoholic mother, a dead father, and a year of high school left will make you keep your mouth closed, even when you dream of opening it every day.

You Cause as Much Sorrow

"I'm full of good intentions, like I never was before. It's too late for prevention, but I don't think it's too late for the cure."

This is the song I listened to so much during my late-night drives. The escapades that killed half my gas tank and made me run out of cigarettes, driving me home to have to face the mausoleum quality of my bedroom. Which left me too alone again with my thoughts. I hated what the song tried to impart to me--namely the entwined feeling of hating my father for dying and leaving me alone in this empty house with my mother, while also realizing that if it hadn't happened, maybe I would not be be turning into the person I was becoming:

"I never said I was tough. That was everyone else. So you're a fool to attack me, for the image that you built yourself. It just sounds more vicious than I actually mean. I really am soft--yes, tender and sweet. ... Why must you always be around? Why can't you just leave me be? You've done nothing so far but destroy my life. You cause as much sorrow dead as you did when you were alive."

This chorus would inevitably make me cry in my car. But I was never really sure if I was simply feeling sorry for myself or trying to make sense of too many things at once. And I am still not sure now. If I listen to it on the right night while driving the looping Los Angeles freeway system, it still brings tears to my eyes and I have to blast the song, roll down all the windows and scream it into the wind, letting it rob the words of any strength beyond this metal cocoon.

The Last Day of Our Acquaintance

Is this the end of a love relationship, a friendship, or is it simply the exodus of my sister and brother from the house we grew up in?

And how do I tell a girl who has been so amazing to me, who's been intimately aware of all the fucked up shit in my life and helped me wade through it, that there's something not right? How dare I do that to someone like her? It was all I could think. I was sometimes the protagonist in this song, and sometimes the object about whom it was written. The duality cut deeply. "I know you don't love me anymore. You used to hold my hand when the plane took off. Two years ago there just seemed so much more. And I don't know what happened to our love."

And yet, I did know.

Just like I had to admit that I was angry at a dead man for leaving me behind, I had to admit that I knew that the warmth of friendship and love I felt for this person had absolutely nothing to do with carnal desire and it was neither of our faults for the fact that I had no way of expressing it until now.

I would move to California in a matter of weeks and kiss my first boyfriend and understand the exquisite burn of stubble against my face. I would know that I had to figure out how to come to terms with this and how to talk about myself to others.
Right now, however, all I had was the feeling of loss, and the feeling that I was the bad guy, even though I didn't want to be.

I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got

I didn't know it was possible to even utter these words.

And on the album, this song sounds like one big exhale... a breath and prayer released simultaneously. I rarely listened to it all the way through. But when I did, I saw myself on the road, still. It would be dark. I would be on the highway, driving fast enough to catch the coolness of the breeze in the summer darkness. I would be leaving all of this uncertainty, heartbreak, and anger behind. I would be sure of what I was doing.

Of course, it wouldn't exactly be true. But, a year later, I would, indeed, drive the highways across the country, leaving Portland--and one spent cassette of this album--behind me. I would still drive with a cigarette between my fingers like a glowing beacon of sorts. I would not be sure of what I was doing next. There would be deliberateness about it, though. I would feel like I had no choice; it would be purpose unto itself.

That was all that mattered.

Questions You Find You Are Asking Yourself on April 9th

2009-04-09T14:37:00.001-07:00

Now that the Los Angeles Times has written about Glass Beach, how can I go there?

Wait, how can I not go there?

And what is it I like so much about sea glass, anyway?

Now that everyone else is growing a beard, should I just shave mine off?

Why can't I find that Lisa Germano album on vinyl anywhere?

I'm not going to have waves of wrinkled skin on my back when I'm old, am I?

Am I!?

What's with this inability to get back to work on the book, let alone this blog?

Do I need another snack?

Should I go get more water?

Does the full moon really have any effect on me?

Should I be thankful so many musicians I like aren't popular, even if it means they can barely feed themselves?

When will the lambs stop screaming?

Have you ever watched animals make love, Frank?

When can I have a yard to grow vegetables in?

Do I rent the house in July or save for the trip in September?

When can I have a drink?

The "Which Punctuation Mark Are You?" Quiz

2009-03-17T15:54:00.000-07:00

Did you like the use of punctuation marks in the title of this post?

If so, you are the perfect candidate for this test.

Ignore those lame Facebook "Which Painting Are You?" and "Where Should You Live?" quizzes. This quiz is the one that will tell you more about yourself than you ever imagined.

All you need to do is answer these seven simple questions, send me your responses (or post them in the comments section, and,as time permits, I will tell you what punctuation mark you are and why it matters. (All responses done on a time-available basis; I ain't gettin' paid, you know.)

But enough chit-chat, let's begin:

1. When people say "like" all the time, it:

a) Doesn't bother you that often
b) Drives you crazy
c) Makes you realize that this is now just part of how we speak
d) Is not something you have ever noticed

2. You are assigned the task of writing a paragraph that includes small bits of information about many different things. You:

a) Create a list of all of the things that need to be included as a "cheat."
b) Make it into two or three paragraphs, because you know there is no way you can get the point across in one.
c) Write it in two different ways and give it to the person who assigned it to see which one she/he prefers.
d) Question the person who assigned it as to whether this is the smartest way to convey all of this information.

3. You believe that social gatherings at your house should consist of:

a) Close friends only
b) Friends and family
c) The more the merrier
d) You are not that big on entertaining

4. You are a big believer in:

a) Keeping things short and sweet
b) Passionately expressing yourself
c) Never ending a sentence with a preposition
d) Quietly doing what needs to be done

5. Your opinion on learning a foreign language is:

a) Everyone should learn one
b) You don't really see the need
c) Learn as many as you can and as early as you can
d) That you'll learn one eventually, when you have more time

6. You prefer to read:

a) Newspapers
b) Magazines
c) Gossip Web sites
d) Books

7. The sentence "Joe likes to chew gum, ride his bike, collect stamps, and, especially, peanut butter, banana, and honey sandwiches" is:

a) A tad awkward but could easily be made more clear
b) A jumbled mess
c) Perfect
d) Better off as four different sentences

And Now for a Special Announcement About This Morning

2009-03-12T10:58:00.001-07:00

I thought about really explaining this more in detail, but, you know, when this much happens before you even manage to make it to work, then you know the day's tone is set.

Below are excerpts from a quick chat with Chrissy after the adventures:

Mikel
I have had the craziest f'ing morning

Christina
what happened?
do tell

Mikel
dentist appt. The novocaine shot in my upper lip made my left eye cry uncontrollably... then I left my coffee mug on my car and drove off, so coffee went everywhere on my car, prompting me to get a car wash, at which point I was surrounded by INSANE people, including a 70-year-old woman in a pencil skirt and bondage heels with stringy, dyed black hair that was kind of in a bun who was hobbling around the gas station snack shop.

Christina
are you kidding?

Mikel
no

Christina
you couldn't be

Mikel
There's MORE
but I'll spare you

Christina
my favorite part is that it made your left eye cry
DON'T SPARE ME
I live for this shit

Mikel
Um...OK, the other people at the car wash were a publicist woman for some film studio who was yelling at a co-worker on speaker phone and who had way to many collagen injections. She kept coming over near me to look at the free mags on the rack I was near-you know, like "Apartment Living"-all while yelling...until I finally said loudly "AM I IN YOUR WAY?" and she ignored me and walked away.
THEN...

Christina
HA

Mikel
A guy with custom-made shoes kept trying to sit near me. Why were they custom made you ask...? Well, that's because his left foot was HUGE and DEFORMED like the Elephant Man's, so the shoes matched, but one was 3 times larger. AND he was busy arranging all the birthday cards he'd just bought inside the snack shop.

It's not even 11 am yet. What, pray tell, is next?

Self-Discography #9: "Sky Motel" by Kristin Hersh

2009-02-19T23:40:00.000-08:00

I moved west with no real plan. Oh, sure, it may have seemed like it to untrained observers, but August 1998 was perhaps the one month of my life where I freely gave myself up to the unknown.

I'd left New York with Nicole in a rented Penske truck, leaving behind me a dirty city crammed with my low-paying jobs that barely afforded me a living, beautiful Brooklyn street scenes, and a dissolved relationship I mourned because it seemed so unfair that it had come into my life at the wrong time.

Before I'd left New York, I'd had a consultation with an astrologer, with whom I'd worked on a book that would be published by my old employer. She was delightful, honest, and funny--and not at all crazy-sounding, which seemed a nice bonus at the time. She read my chart for me, setting the stage, she said, for the transformative things that would come in the next year of my life. At the time I thought it was amusing and I took the predictions and stuffed them in a box, threw that box in the Penske truck, and sped far far away from the East Coast....

...and nine months later opened the box when suddenly everything seemed to be going far too well.

At the time I chalked it up to simple things like living in the California sunshine, to quitting smoking, and having my own apartment--not to mention meeting a man whom I suspiciously liked for all the right reasons. But suddenly I had to reconsider whether planetary alignment had anything to do with it.

At this moment came this album by an artist whose work I'd loved for years already. It was, as Kristin Hersh said at the time, her "desert album." She'd moved to the high desert of Southern California after the dissolution of her band Throwing Muses. And from some of her time there, this idiosyncratic collection was born. And with the luck of timing, it had been recorded the month I moved west. And released in June 1999, the month I had to reconsider whether astrology played any role in my feeling wonderful for the first time in far too long.

It may have been Hersh's desert album, but "Sky Motel" was also my "I Heart California" moment--bright and shiny, poppy yet off-kilter, simultaneously challenging and defiant. Here were a collection of songs that not only created an atmosphere around me, but also seemed to burrow directly into my brain, highlighting the contradictions inherent in the choices I'd made and my fascination with this beautiful train wreck of a place in which I now found myself living:

"I never bitched at anyone. I never asked for my heart back. I'm loving everybody. And hating everyone I see."
The album's opening song, "Echo," includes these lyrics. I wanted the first half to be true. I used to wish that I was stoic. And here I was, about to give my heart away to a man after swearing I wouldn't. The contradiction of the second part mirrored how I felt about the people here at first--a motley crew of some of the most intelligent individuals I'd ever met, mixed with some of the most intensely vain and neurotic. I couldn't help but love and hate equally. But the love for strangers was a new sensation.

"10,000 miles of moonscape don't keep anybody away, after all."
You can move as far away as you like, but the problems are still going to crawl up out of the ground to get you. Right? Or is it that all the people you think you left behind still know how to find you in this alien landscape? Oh. Both.

"I would love a better drug. You lucky jerk."
I found myself staring at an attractive man at a party in June. Too smart for his own good, sharp witted, well-dressed, seemingly 100% together. Why the hell was he interested in me. I couldn't make myself feel better....yet. I kind of hated how great I found him. I didn't know he'd actually stick around because he saw I was a lucky jerk, too.

"This strange old sunshine beats me senseless, but it's supposed to be keeping me healthy...it's a lie. You're a strange old thing that keeps me senseless, but you're supposed to be keeping me company."
Living in New York felt, often, like living in the dark and fighting with Mother Nature. Suddenly freed from that contact, I found myself thinking, "Does it ever rain here? If it doesn't, how can anyone feel anything authentically?" But then... maybe... "If it doesn't rain, you never have to hide yourself away inside. You never have to miss out on anything."

"You have to look close to see what this disease has done to me."
There was something about my move that made me felt like a fugitive. No one here had to know anything about the last year of my life. No one had to know that I'd mangled my foot, that I'd consumed hideous Chinese herbs in an attempt to clear up some "skin condition" clearly brought on by stress. I had no heart-shredding breakup behind me. I didn't have to explain a phone call from my mother on a rainy spring day telling me my 20-year-old stepsister was dead. I could be anything I wanted to be. My history could be what I wanted. It was a necessary play acting for just a little while, just until I could finally stand on my own two feet again.

"Faithful to the finish, I'm grateful to be in this with you. A fucker of lifeline. A mother of a lifetime with you."
I'd wanted to shake off any number of relationships in my lifetime. But now here I was, fiercely protective of what I had in front of me. A developing relationship with a man that felt, maybe for the first time ever, like one that mattered. Re-establishing my strong friendship with my sister, which survived me sleeping on her floor for four months. Enjoying the time spent with my old friends in a place that seemed to encourage it. This song builds to a cathartic release at this moment with these lyrics--screamed/sung assured clarity. I could never have said it better myself.

"Tonight your secret's safe with me. Tomorrow we wake up in L.A. Such a lovely dream. What a lovely place."
Driving back into L.A. from a day spent in the Valley with my friend Owen, gliding and zigzagging through Laurel Canyon, a hot breeze blowing from no specific direction, the golden lights of the city unfurling below us as we speed down Crescent Heights. It's a place where you simply dream, isn't it? You can make yourself into anything, but it's still some version of you. I think I'm gonna like it here.

Mexico Hangover

2009-02-10T23:55:00.000-08:00

Back in January, newly arrived back to the so-called real world after vacation, I thought about completing an epic blog post with over 50 different photos from Mexico, but you know what? No.

I posted a slew of photos instead on my Flickr page. And now I find myself looking at that page every other day. I've had a pretty rough re-entry to day-to-day life, work, and the like.

As I have gotten older, I have fewer problems completely disconnecting when I go on vacation. It's a function of having a sane job. It's also a function of the fact that I finally feel OK in saying, "I deserve this." I saved my money to make this trip happen and I wanted nothing to interfere with my time away. Maybe it's a tad dogmatic, but it also makes me enjoy myself that much more. Ryan and I made reservations months ago, so to finally land in Mexico felt like the reward for 6 months of hard work.

Needless to say, I loved nearly every day we were in Mexico. Tulum, in particular, was wonderful because it's a real town where locals actually mix with tourists--where hotels are cabanas on the beach and where the food was pretty amazing. Playa del Carmen was more touristy, Isla Mujeres more urban feeling than I anticipated. Plus, Ryan was deathly ill the last 36 hours we were there. By the time we managed to get across the water to Cancun, made it to the airport, and flew home, we were both wasted in vastly different ways.

There's something about pretending your day-to-day life doesn't exist. Especially when you escape it near some of the most beautiful beaches and historic ruins in the world. You romanticize your existence in this foreign place. You want anything that was unfinished or unclear when you left to be finished and clear. Which makes returning to "reality" a harsh slap. For the better part of two weeks, I resented being home in L.A.
Getting sick after coming back didn't help.

And for the first week or so, I gave myself the room to mourn something as seemingly innocuous as the end of a vacation. Now, however, I see from looking at a picture of my feet framed with palm trees and an insanely azure ocean, the point is not necessarily to forget your day-to-day life, but become aware of how to transform it.

It doesn't necessarily mean that I don't sigh heavily looking at a shot like this:

But I do understand myself a little better now. And I hadn't really thought that was possible.

First Impression

2009-01-28T11:16:00.000-08:00

First full day in Tulum, Mexico: January 18, 2009.
Pretty much says it all. But more to come soon.

When the Chaos Stops, Then What?

2009-01-15T10:00:00.001-08:00

There's no real "chaos" in a negative sense happening, mind you... It's just been an incredibly full and busy few weeks and now, two days before Ryan and I board a flight to the Yucatan Peninsula. I am still in total denial about that.

As with most people, I've been feeling the financial crunch here in the first month of 2009 in acute ways: cutbacks at work, a new workload that is challenging me in several ways (many of them interesting, if a bit daunting), and the overlying hope that business will pick up to make sure that, moving forward, the job will still be here. It's a weird time, to be sure, but I also try to remain optimistic. My job of editing, assigning, thinking, reading, researching, and synthesizing information of all stripes is something that can sometimes feel futile and like it exists in a vacuum, but I've been learning that it is actually having an impact. Which is lovely.

Now to make sure I do that outside of work, as well. I was reading Rick's New Year blog a while back and wanted to just paste his words here because they resonated deeply with me... It's a year in which I, too, want to keep putting my creative work out there and seeing what happens. I've been avoiding jumping into anything that might possibly attach commerce and bureaucracy to my writing. But I am also ready to share that writing with more people. And I'm 35. (Wow, I accidentally just typed "25"; what does that say?)If I don't do this now, will I just continue to wait for "the world" to change. It's not like I ever thought I'd get rich off my writing. If I know that, why don't I look for ways to share it? I can't still be harboring a giant fear of rejection, can I?

Don't answer that. I know the answer already.

These are just some of the thoughts that swirl around me as I enjoy my week with Lissa and Tom, who are visiting from Portland; look for a house to rent for Ryan's birthday next month; get back into trapeze after three weeks off; scramble to finish work assignments; and pack my bags to leave for Mexico on Saturday at 8 a.m.--a trip that's been planned for 7 months now. (It's been a while since I traveled anywhere where you actually have to be careful of the water and/or people speak another language. Then again, I know how to say "Donde estan los banos?" so I think I am OK. And I am missing the inauguration, for which I already love Mexico.)

I am actually taking a notebook with me for a change. So instead of visualizing stories and structures in my head, I will try to "re-learn" how to brainstorm some ideas. It shouldn't be arduous. And I shouldn't be scared of succeeding. After all, imagine what would be possible if I did?

Pics from Mexico to come at the end of the month. Happy 2009.

Self-Discography #8: Moments of 2008

2008-12-29T23:54:00.000-08:00

Jennifer O'Connor
"Here With Me" (album)
A summer sunset, with fall fast on its heels. Driving in the morning listening to the spooky strums of "Valley Road '86" and having the CD get stuck (and remain stuck) in my car CD player. Hearing "Always in Your Mind" on a road trip in Indiana and thinking how lucky I really am--to be this age and this self-aware. It's a deceptive album, one full of so many small epiphanies. Underrated and understated. I like an underdog.

Department of Eagles
"No One Does It Like You" (track from "In Ear Park")
Like gothic Beach Boys infiltrating a too-hot Los Angeles September and October... during which I lay in bed sweating, hearing this loop through my head over and over. It conjured for me New York City summers with no air conditioning, when I'd walk through Brooklyn with headphones on, searching for a cool breeze, mystified to find myself living in this place. That same sense of wonder followed me 10 years later to this song, here, on the other side of the continent.

Bon Iver
"For Emma, Forever Ago" (album)
A critical darling whom, for once, I totally adored. "Skinny Love" made me sob in my car when I first heard it last spring. It'd been years since a song had moved me so much on first listen. The rest of the album unspooled around me, hovering somewhere between grace and nostalgia. It's music made by someone shattered and made to pick up the pieces of himself. I know that feeling.

Robyn
"Robyn" (album)
How many pop "divas" released albums in 2008? Almost all of them. This is the only one that mattered. Perfectly made morsels of songs lined up on a tray for the taking. If only I'd actually been able to dance to this all summer long...

TV on the Radio
"DLZ" (track from "Dear Science")
A moody, masterful track from a moody, masterful album. The first line here: "Congratulations on the mess you made of things." The sentiment seemed to me to be about the country, the upcoming election, the sheer exhaustion and frustration permeating everything this year, as well as a resilience.

Cyndi Lauper
"Into the Nightlife," "Echo," and "Rocking Chair" (tracks from "Bring Ya to the Brink")
These may be the gayest songs of the year (sorry, B-52s comeback.) To that end, they were also moments of solace during a volatile time. It wasn't always so easy to be gay in 2008 (um, hello...equal rights?), but that's exactly why music like this exists.

Portishead
"Third" (album)
In 1994 I drove through a frigid Midwestern winter with Barbie listening to Portishead's debut, "Dummy." I never thought that 14 years later this same band would still raise the hairs on my arms. I wanted, for a brief moment, to drive through North Dakota in February again when I heard this. Instead, I put "Machine Gun" and "The Rip" on loud during every single trip to the elliptical. Oh, how the times change.

Fleet Foxes
“White Winter Hymnal” (track from "Fleet Foxes")
The week before Christmas. I am watching Ryan wrap lights on the tree, suspended for just a moment, musically framed by this gorgeous song exploding from a simple a capella round. It's nice to feel my heart capable of swelling again.

School of Seven Bells
"Alpinisms" (album)
This year, I discovered there must be a bit of Pacific Northwest hippie in me. That, and I clearly still miss the Cocteau Twins and shoegazers. It's nice to be surprised, and nicer still to hear music that seems as if it's not rooted to anything else.

Santogold
"Santogold" (album)
December: Driving the 101 in the gloomy drizzle, tracking the green-blue Pacific Ocean on my left as we head north, daydreaming of the spring, the hot sand and warm water at the beach, of being just a little bit drunk on a hot night, hanging out with friends, not giving a shit about what tomorrow brings. It's all rolled into one thing--a mish-mash of moments, just like the mixture of musical styles spread out here.

Beyonce
"Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)" (track from "I Am...Sasha Fierce")
What other song could end the year with a perfectly choreographed dance number? If I had a hairbrush to sing into, you best believe I'd use it. Note to self about things to buy in 2009.

There Is No "I" in "Bunny": M & K's Adventure at The Bunny Museum

2008-12-04T21:39:00.000-08:00

I take some responsibility. I'll admit that from the get-go. Kathleen, however, is also to blame. Oh, sure, I came up with the idea, and, instead of surprising her with it, I made the gracious move of warning her ahead of time. But--and here's the crucial thing--she confirmed that she wanted to go. In fact, she emphatically declared her desire in all capital letters in an e-mail. And thus our fate was sealed.

Those who know about the Bunny Museum in Pasadena will look at you and laugh the minute you tell them you are going. If they have no idea what you are talking about, they just say the words "the" ... "bunny" ..."museum?" slowly, perplexed, and with a sense of wonder.

Kathleen, you see, had never been to Los Angeles. And she collects cool vintage bunny things. She's not crazy lady about it. We're talking a few figurines and salt and pepper shakers. And I refuse to simply take people who have never been to L.A. to Venice, Hollywood, Disneyland, etc., so I thought the Bunny Museum would be...well, memorable.

Pulling up to the house in a quiet residential neighborhood, there's really not much to tell you where you are, until, of course, you see the topiary (which I made K pose with):

"Cute," I thought at first, as we walked up the walkway toward the private home that is apparently, if you believe its operators, a "living museum." What that meant, we soon discovered, was that the couple who owns the museum actually lives in it, surrounded by 23,000 bunny, um...things. But first we were greeted by a woman with bleach blond hair that was possibly crimped and then pinned back and up. Her name was Candace and she could have been any number of ages. She asked me to drop my bag into a chest on the front porch decorated with pastoral bunnies in a field; this was to keep it from hitting and knocking over things inside. So far, so good. I grabbed the camera and followed Kathleen and Candace inside...

...and immediately felt claustrophobic as we had to shuffle down a narrow hallway created by shelves crammed full of every bunny knickknack, stuffed bunny, dead-eyed statuary bunnies, etc. imaginable. But before we could even really begin to take in the nature of our strange, new surroundings and assess how the living room was actually divided into three different viewing spaces, Candace insisted we have pictures taken in the TV room, which was the only room that had a defined, clear space in it. (I later discovered that my camera had the wrong flash on, so the pictures are blurry, but they do more accurately show what it felt like to be there.) After the first image, Candace backed up further and asked K and I to make bunny ears behind each others' heads. We felt we had no choice as we whispered to each other, "Is this where they watch TV every night?":

Awkward posing over, Candace ushered us into the dining room, which sat between the living room and the TV room. This was the nerve center of the Bunny Museum, as it held the gigantic table that bore the name of the museum, the requisite bunny image, and was surrounded by some of the most precious bunny figurines Candace and her husband owned--not to mention a collection of old pet bunnies that had been taxidermied and freeze dried after they died and put in a curio cabinet. I think K was close to laughing hysterically already:

Candace told us the story of how she and her husband started the museum by giving each other respective bunny love tokens--a stuffed, plush rabbit and a porcelain (?) figurine respectively. And soon that bunny love grew big, with the couple now giving each other a bunny a day. Now I began to shut down, but instead of going mute, my PR training kicked in and I began to ask questions, such as:

Me: "So, what's the oldest piece you have?"

Candace: "Oh, we have rabbits from every century, all the way back to 100 A.D. Of course, we don't keep something that valuable here in the house. We keep that in a safety deposit box."

Me: "Oh, well, that totally makes sense."

What had happened to me?! I'll tell you what happened to me. It was seeing the kitchen, which, like every other room, was overflowing with...things--including boxes of cereal and other food items with bunnies on their labels, haphazardly strewn about and stacked on top of every open surface. The kitchen also exhibited the signs of stress this living museum must be under, as the ceiling seemed to be caving in, with pinatas hiding some of it:

Granted, there were cute bunnies to be found amid the chaos of so many other arbitrarily chosen items, such as the yellow cookie jar here:

But I didn't muster the right mix of chutzpah and gumption to photograph the small pantry, in which three live rabbits scattered when you came near them and, when you looked up, you saw insulation dripping out of a hole in the ceiling.

Seeing a door that led to the backyard, I practically lunged for it and Kathleen and I stepped cautiously out into the driveway, where a curious mixture of rabbit paraphernalia awaited us. First, it was impossible to miss the odd, maybe rotting (?) bunnies that transfixed us (see image at top of this post and below):

Were they from a carnival? Were they papier mache? Candace appeared at the back door with a basket of chalk:

Her: "Do you feel like big kids? Do you want to draw some bunny pictures?" (Shakes basket of chalk at us)

Me: "Um, no thanks. Um....what are these?"

Her: "Oh! Those are from past Rose Parades! Aren't they something?"

Us: (nodding)

Her: "Out here is where we also put our broken bunnies." (Sad face.) "You know, of course, things break from time to time, so this is where they go."

So...we were in the bunny graveyard. And sure enough, as we walked a bit of the way down the driveway, we were greeted by an array of odd(er) sights, including in one place, a pile of plastic eggs that were just kind of heaped up against the house for no real reason:

Then there was the broken-eared bunny, which looked like it may be beseeching us to smash it to smithereens so as to put it out of its odd misery--not to mention the series of 3-foot tall stuffed rabbits that looked like maybe someone had tried to decapitate them:

Backing slowly down the driveway toward the back yard, we found little else to entertain us, save this nifty little sign that (at this point) did NOT seem creepy AT ALL:

But as we climbed into the yard, which was littered with stacked debris (was that a door?) in the back, we could go no further, due to the power lines that drooped down through a tree, and effectively stopped you from making a loop through the yard.

Kathleen: "Oh. Um. I guess we shouldn't go that way."

Me: "Well, it's either kill ourselves by walking this way or be killed back inside."

And you know what? We chose to go back inside. Because the piece de resistance was, indeed, the living room, which featured all kinds of bunnies from all over the world:

If you happen to notice a roll of paper towels in the first photo, well... that's because K and I were not the only ones there. Oh, no. Two house cleaners were also trapped, I mean, stationed, inside... carefully dusting and cleaning hundreds upon hundreds of figurines, trinkets, oddities, and so on. While later it would cause Kathleen and I to create whole short stories in our heads told from their points of view--including details such as they could no longer have sex with a boyfriend unless he dressed as a rabbit first--at the time we simply stepped around them, politely saying, "Oh, excuse me."

In the living room, though, we did find a few of our fave things in the entire house. Sadly, the skiing bunny is fuzzy:

But after 30 minutes, I'd really, seriously started to feel like I was in that basement in "Silence of the Lambs," except..you know... filled with bunnies. I was almost ushering Kathleen toward the door, but not before making her pose with something else that looked somewhat psychotic:

And that's when Kathleen made her fatal mistake. She let slip as we were saying goodbye to Candace that she, too, collects bunny salt and pepper shakers. There was a small glint in Candace's eyes (As K said later, "I think I detected a hint of competition"):

Her: "Well, have you seen all the salt and pepper shakers?"

Me: "Um..."

K: "Yeah...I think so."

Candace: "Oh, you HAVE to come see them and get pictures!"

And off we went...back into the dining room, where our tale began, near the freeze-dried pets, and I took photos of the admittedly impressive cabinet of shakers:

Sated, Candace asked if we cared to purchase anything from the small gift rack in the corner, which included her new book, the subtitle of which alluded to living in a "post-apocalyptic world." Fidgeting now, I subtly moved toward the door again, and Kathleen grabbed a few postcards. But instead of simply handing over the $2, Candace instructed her to insert the folded dollar bills one at a time into the slit (what looked like a gash or stab wound) in the back of a purple, fat, plush bunny wearing a shirt that said "Bunny Money" (SORRY: NO PICTURES. MY BRAIN SHATTERED AS I WATCHED THIS.) But you couldn't simply insert a dollar. No, you had to then use a letter opener to forcibly thrust the dollar into the rabbit's back gash, so you could trigger the mechanism inside that made it laugh like a crazed hyaena and vibrate.

Really.

And Kathleen didn't have the best hand at making this happen.

And then she had to do it again.

It was the longest payment process I'd ever witnessed.

And yet, I wouldn't trade it, for as we thanked Candace and left, we felt like we had truly shared something significant that had bonded us yet again. This was, after all, a cultural landmark...honored by the Guinness Book of Records, the city of Pasadena, and countless others. And now, we, too, had been inside.

We didn't say much as we descended the steps to the sidewalk and back to the car. Even now I think I've not done the museum justice. But Kathleen still has her own story to tell--somewhere, sometime--I am sure.

Self-Discography #7 "Book of Love" by Book of Love

2008-11-30T17:40:00.000-08:00

Sometimes the most innocuous music becomes the most enduring. I didn't know this to be true when I first heard Book of Love. But their now-22-year-old debut album still imparts to me small moments and vignettes of only happiness.

Seemingly manufactured purely for the sake of dance-club hits, Book of Love is hardly the kind of band I thought I'd still listen to in my approaching middle age. I first heard them when I was living in Southern California during the summer of 1990. My first boyfriend was a fan who introduced me to their mix of clever pop songs frosted with drum machines, hand claps, bells, and probably three different kinds of keyboards. The brilliant "Boy, in particular, was a revelation simply because of the disaffected voice (Susan Ottaviano) recounting how she is denied entry to a gay bar and can't play with all the other boys. Her tone--balanced somewhere between dismissive and wistful--was unlike anything I'd heard on Top 40 radio. Learning that two of the band members were gay was not exactly a revelation, but it made them feel that much more important.

And that encapsulates their paradox: On the surface they were shiny, twee, forgettable pap. But the music was also more melodic, yearning, and--dare I say it?--soulful. The jubilant yet distanced tone permeates the eponymous debut, beginning with the nearly effervescent "Modigliani (Lost in Your Eyes)." Ostensibly a love song about looking into someone's eyes and being lost in them--you know, the usual that was already done by, say, Debbie Gibson--the title name checks a prominent 20th-century Italian painter who was known for his mystical, somewhat creepy way of depicting his subjects' eyes. So, I wondered while sill in high school art history, is this really a love song to the painter? Um, well...duh.

It wouldn't be the last time I picked up the album after a number of years, only to be hit by some sense of nostalgia or new found respect for a band that had precious little of it in their own time. It was only upon listening to "Die Matrosen" in 2002 or so, for example, that I realized Book of Love had covered a song by the infamous all-female Swiss punk band, Liliput--a band almost no one had heard of in the U.S. in 1986.

In college, I would sneak songs from "Book of Love" onto mix tapes made for dance parties in the houses on campus and although many people would snort when they'd come on, few could resist the pull of an anthemic dance hit like "I Touch Roses"--cotton candy in sonic form, with no meat or nutritional value, and yet irresistible. The dance floor in the house living room would fill up with any number of Book of Love songs. When you've had a few drinks, they simply amplify the euphoria.

Just last week, my high school friend Kathleen came to visit me in Los Angeles and, seemingly out of nowhere, asked me about a song she remembered from years ago with a girl singing about boys, or not being a boy. "You mean 'Boy' by Book of Love," I said, and not only did I then need to hear it, but I had to make her a mix of Book of Love songs to take home.

I've been re-listening to "Book of Love" all weekend, remembering these small moments I've experienced with it: dancing at college house parties; riding in my first boyfriend's car from suburban Claremont to Los Angeles to go shopping on Melrose Avenue, unable to believe that I A) had been sleeping with a boy and B) was in Los Angeles; driving in the middle of the night through the empty streets of Portland with Susan, cranking the music out of my shitty car speakers on our way to go dancing downtown; traipsing through the Australian Outback with my iPod looking for emus and kangaroos.

Now, the album feels like an old friend--the one you see after any number of years and with whom you still have an instant rapport. You may at first forget what you had in common, but then, the memories begin to flow. And before long you're laughing about some memory and re-telling the story--turning it into another part of your personal history. And happily so.

Randomly Rediscoverd iTunes Playlist #1

2008-11-21T16:01:00.000-08:00

Just because I was surprised to find it and remember May 2007 so clearly. What an incredible month it was--full of exciting trips, lots of laughter, warm sun, a (then) new boy, beer, and much more. Funny how even the "downer" songs here sound optimistic to my ears:

1. Open Your Heart--Lavender Diamond
2. Winter--Kristin Hersh
3. A Good Start--Maria Taylor
4. Million Dollar Smile--Jennifer O'Connor
5. Georgia--OMD
6. Full Moon, Empty Heart--Belly
7. Fiery Crash--Andrew Bird
8. Everyday Boy--Joan Armatrading
9. A-Z--Tracey Thorn
10. In Between Days--The Cure
11. Black Mirror--Arcade Fire
12. You Know I'm No Good--Amy Winehouse
13. Heavenly Day--Patty Griffin
14. That Teenage Feeling--Neko Case
15. Clumsy Sky--Girl in a Coma
16. Mambo Sun--T. Rex
17. Sunday Morning--Velvet Underground
18. 1234--Feist
19. Earth Intruders--Bjork
20. Silently--Blonde Redhead
21. Rainbowarriors--Cocorosie
22. Back to Life--Soul II Soul
23. Song to the Siren--Chemical Brothers
24. Destroy Everything You Touch--Ladytron
25. Look at Miss Ohio--Gillian Welch

At Least One Gay Bright Spot + How I've Come to Still Be Angry

2008-11-12T10:41:00.000-08:00

Connecticut officially legalizes marriage for gays, and the weddings begin today. A lovely little piece of news as the infighting, confusion, and anger over the passage of Prop 8 continues in California.

I'd still like to start a drive to put a measure on the ballot in 2010 that eliminates the word "marriage" for all unions performed in state. From then on, you only get a "civil partnership," and if your church, synagogue, what have you, wants to perform a religious ceremony for you, then great. Otherwise, shut up and see that your special union is merely a tax break in the eyes of city hall.

The other option? Make divorce A LOT harder to get. That might do the trick, right? If divorce was not as easy as going to a salad bar, then maybe a lot fewer people would get married. And a lot fewer people would ask you to spend outrageous amounts of money on buying them shit they don't need just because they managed to buy fancy clothes, two rings, and have sex a lot.

Can you tell I am still pissed?

More and more, I can't go outside without looking at people and wondering if they voted away my rights. Which is horrible, because what good does that do anyone in the end? I am also sick of people telling me they're "sorry" about Prop 8. Yeah, you're sorry!? Thanks! Now, please don't DO anything to help the cause or help build awareness in communities that still need to be educated. Just keep saying you're sorry. Or better yet, just don't say anything, OK? Or do me another favor, get divorced (since it's so easy) and then try and figure out how to own your house, get health benefits, and raise your kids when the state doesn't consider you and your partner a couple. Imagine if you had to do THAT? It seems so HARD, doesn't it? Phew, I'm exhausted... and I'm still sorry, but I need to go home and enjoy my rights that you don't have now.

And don't even get me started on taxes. That hits home right now, too. I pay just as much in taxes as the rest of y'all, and yet I don't get equal rights. Yeah, that seems fair. It's a wonder I am not just casually saying "Fuck you" to more people I pass on the street.

Either way, I am done with ever feeling like a victim here again. I am angry, and will remain so. I will continue to march, and to yell, and to lobby, and to find out which businesses supported Prop 8 so I don't have to support them. And I will not let anyone tell me that it's time to simmer down. To do that is to have someone say they're sorry and then just say "Gee, thanks."

In other words, it's really not my style.

As for protests, there is one this Saturday--part of a coordinated effort nationwide:Join the Impact.

And for just one example of how the boycott is beginning to spread, look at this example of El Coyote here.

It's Now November 6th...

2008-11-06T00:03:00.000-08:00

...and though I am still angry I don't feel as isolated as I did a few mere hours ago. Tim stopped by to pick me up and Ryan came along at the last moment, and we picked up Tim's friend Dave and headed to West Hollywood, where a big rally was taking place to protest the passage of Proposition 8. When we first got there, there were speakers emphasizing what we need to do now, what we have NOT lost. Ryan and I got separated from the others and ended up next to a gay couple whose young daughter was all smiles at all the people around her. Best sign: I WANT THE SAME RIGHTS THE CHICKENS GOT (in reference to Prop 2, which makes it law that egg-laying hens need to be treated humanely).

Just before 8 p.m., a guy moved through the crowd and said we were going to "take the intersection" at Santa Monica Boulevard and San Vicente, so Ryan and I headed with a big chunk of the crowd into the middle of the intersection, chanting, yelling, clapping. Already, it was cathartic to be surrounded by so many people who were just as angry as I was. We were drifting eastward on Santa Monica until suddenly people in front of us said "Go to Sunset! Go to Sunset!" And so we did--a wave of hundreds of people crossing traffic and heading uphill through residential areas to the busy Sunset Strip--which is much more straight, to boot. And at the Viper Room we turned right on to Sunset and saw emptying eastbound lanes in front of us.

The police presence at first was minimal, as I think we surprised them. After all, we left the rally in the middle of the speeches. We need to yell and scream and remind ourselves that we were not alone--that others felt this way, that we were angry, outraged, and hopeful for the future. Especially on the march down Sunset through what is ostensibly a straight (and often gross) ground zero for scenester nightlife, it was gratifying to get affirmative honks from westbound traffic, see businesses empty as workers came out to stare or hoot with us, give us a thumbs up, or just smile--strippers, waiters, valets, limo drivers, truck drivers, Starbucks employees, even straight guys who looked befuddled and then would honk.

And the march kept going... We didn't know til later that several groups had splintered from the rally and that WeHo police stopped a second wave of protestors further back. Our march continued through Hollywood, as mystified restaurant patrons and others came to Sunset to see what the news was broadcasting. And through it all, only ONE guy heckled us, calling us disgusting and he was drowned out by boos and people yelling "SHAME ON YOU!" We ended up at Sunset and Highland... a good 2 to 2 1/2 miles from where we started, Ryan by my side, yelling and screaming, holding my hand, smiling at me every step of the way.

We'd lost Tim et al back at the rally and now there was no easy way to reunite, so Ryan and I hopped the subway and then got on a quick bus ride to get home... walking in the door, feeling relieved, lighter, buzzed from adrenaline, legs throbbing, throats sore. It's been a while since I have been part of any spontaneous protest like this--especially in L.A., a city not known for its protests. I can;t say if they really do help in the long run, but I'd be happy for more just to share some more time with such an amazing cross section of people.

It's November 5th...

2008-11-05T10:11:00.000-08:00

...and as exciting as it is that we've elected our first African-American president and Democrats have taken commanding leads in the House and Senate, I am filled with a distinct sense of how hypocritical America is. California has passed Prop. 8, which, for the first time actually *takes away* the rights of a group of people. Arizona and Florida also voted to enshrine anti-gay discrimination by banning same-sex marriage. For all the talk of change and healing and unity that's taken place in the last several years, there are many, many Americans out there who voted for Obama (for "Hope," for "Change") who were just as quick to single out gays and lesbians as people who somehow don't deserve the same rights. I've also never been so disgusted about the idea of marriage. It's not anyone's fault that this is what our country calls this union. But I can't smile fully today. I am still a second-class citizen.

You Tell Me What This Means

2008-10-30T14:14:00.000-07:00

What the hell is going on this week? It was 94 in L.A. two days ago. Now it's just warm and it rained for 2 minutes this morning before the sun came back out, made the street steam, and then increased the humidity to 100%. My mother told me she's playing Euchre online but doesn't like that "people are looking at her." Then she told me we were not exchanging gifts for Christmas. Um, OK. Others are flailing in some kind of stupor--boyfriends coming or going; election hell; general ennui. I managed to give myself the largest bruise I've ever had, that makes it look like someone spilled a cup of blood under my skin. Then there was today on my lunch break: parking near the park on 3rd and Gardner to zip to the Grave (aka The Grove, a hideous mall) to go to the Apple Store to look at my iPod--which incidentally my computer has decided does not exist and will not recognize. (Did I mention too that my garage door is haunted and now just opens and closes of its own accord and that my car alarm has taken to going off for no reason? Add that to the list). So, there I am, parking, and out of a Jeep Cherokee across the street is a really attractive man in expensive jeans, boots, and a knit cap, with no shirt on. He walks into the park, a jockstrap showing above his waistband, clearly showing off his chiseled torso. OK.... I am still on the phone with my mother, walking some distance behind him, and off he goes to do...tricep dips on some bars in the park. Fine. Whatever. Into the mall I go, emerging by the patch of grass and fountain in the middle of the complex, where three people who look like a cross between clowns and Pippi Longstocking are dancing and singing to a crowd of kids...some....song....about....respect?...I think...I am too distracted by clown noses, red, orange, and yellow wigs, white face makeup, and horrible sing-songy, vaguely carnivalesque music. I dart into the Apple store, where I learn my iPod is gaslighting me. There's nothing wrong with it. Fine. Back out into the mall to walk to the car, and now the dancing fountain is swaying to "Last Dance" by Donna Summer, adjacent to the Pippi Clowns, who are angry and have started singing louder and LOUDER to drown it out, plastic smiles riveted to their hideously made-up faces. I almost run through Nordstrom to get out, out, out...only to have to cross the park again, where tricep dips are still happening. It's now 80+ degrees, humid, and may..or may not... rain again. I jump in the car and sit for a moment, wondering if this is how people become agoraphobic. I can't get home fast enough. Where my power is now out...for...no....apparent...reason. Oh, wait, now it's back on! So. Um. Back to work.

Wardrobe Malfunction

2008-10-23T10:59:00.000-07:00

I need a new wardrobe.

Really.

And if you know me, I am guessing you never thought you'd hear that sentence coming from my mouth...or fingers.

The truth of the matter, however, is that I own too many clothes that fit like garbage bags. Once upon a time, that would have brought me great comfort. When you grow up rail-thin and every person in your family and neighborhood constantly tells you how skinny you are and you have, oh, a ton of other subtle psychological issues that need attending to, well ... you kind of naturally gravitate toward wearing things like giant windbreakers, baggy jeans, big sweatshirts, overalls, and really long flannel shirts. (OK, the flannel shirts probably came from a weird hybrid of growing up in Oregon and loving Boy George in 1983, but still.)

I could continue to blame the '80s--as I like to do for so many other things that have afflicted me--but the truth of the matter is that it only comes down to self-esteem. And until recently the baggy clothes never seemed to be an issue. It's not like anyone pulled me aside to say, "You know, Mikel, we're concerned about the size of your clothes in relation to your body." They were too busy dealing with me having a retort for everything they said.

The baggy clothes phenomenon probably reached its apex in college, when I spent far too much time being dressed against the cold of Vermont and for the dirt of the ceramics studio. Plus, I tended to buy everything second-hand, so I took what I could get. Yet, even after college, the clothes followed me--through low-paying jobs in New York and L.A. I couldn't really shake them. Nor did I want to. Baggy simply equaled comfort.

The older I get, however, I more I see that clothes that don't fit me do me absolutely no favors. I first noticed it back at my 10-year high-school reunion, when a few people whom I had thought were really exceptional physical specimens were starting to look a little...not so exceptional. I reassessed my vintage polyester shirts that were maybe a size too large and thought, "You know, I could probably do better."

I am inherently lazy when it comes to clothes. I don't want to work at it. Yet, it also helps I'd gained some weight in the last 10 years. Not like Oprah kind of weight. Just that kind of healthy, getting older kind of weight. So instead of looking like I have had mono for two years, I look like I actually eat food.

These days, I am in the midst of developing muscles in my shoulders and arms as a byproduct of trapeze work. The noticeable result is that things just fit differently. I am still skinny-ish, mind you. But I'm also not 11, socially awkward, and worried I'm gonna get my ass kicked on a daily basis. Imagine.

So, suddenly there I am one night, staring at a closet full of clothes from five, even 10, years ago, and wondering who bought them. Do I need that XL t-shirt? Why do I have a dress shirt in the wrong size? Why did I buy those Levi's that make my thighs swim in denim? What is with these giant sweaters?

When I wear a pair of pants that fit correctly, people now notice. They ask me where I bought them. No one points a finger and says, "God, you're SO skinny" before hissing at me a la "Invasion of the Body Snatchers." And then I realize, "Ah, yes. I don't hate my body anymore." How nice to learn that before it begins to fall apart.

Last week, I dreamed I set fire to a giant pile of my clothing. Which, for the record, I would never do. I'd obviously give it all to a thrift store...and let some 20-year-old skinny gay boy buy all the pieces. But now what? Expend hours upon hours of hunting for that non-stained, fitted shirt at a vintage shop? Go to Target and buy all the large boys' clothing that fits me perfectly? Resort to wearing high-water pants because the waist size is perfect? Resolve to only wear one pair of pants and a nice t-shirt for the rest of my life? Bribe Ryan to re-sew all of my clothes so they actually fit me? Maybe I can run for vice president and get personal shoppers? It seems arduous, no matter what.

I told Ryan last week I needed him to come stand in my closet with me and look at my clothes. I imagine a "work scene"--again, like in an '80s teen flick--in which I try on every article and he frowns, smiles, or claps with an affirmed "That looks good!" The man knows his clothes, after all. Or maybe I'll invite a whole bunch of people over for the baggy runway show, in which I model everything that no longer fits...physically or psychologically. Call it shallow catharsis if you like. I need to go choose the right song for the scene.

Self-Discography #6: "Heaven or Las Vegas" by Cocteau Twins

2008-10-04T10:11:00.000-07:00

The problem was that, as a teenager, I believed I was devoid of emotion. In my journals from the last couple of years of high school, I would wonder what was wrong with me, why I couldn't open up; why I could not express myself authentically; why I couldn't let rip an ear-splitting scream of frustration.

What people saw without my realizing it was my face contorting into various expressions, and they heard my words conveying with an amazing clarity exactly what I thought and felt. And yet...I still believed there had to be a better way. Leave it to a perfectionist to try and figure out a more "efficient" way of expressing what he feels.

Which is why I could have cared less when I first heard the Cocteau Twins. It sounded so mushy...spangly...muted...airy...twee. The vocals trilled all over the place and the guitars seemed as if they were all mashed together with no room to make out the chords properly. It was just one more thing the goth kids were playing so they could sway and quasi-dance to it and then talk about how alternative they were, so far outside the mainstream.

Besides, I was already leaning more folk at this point--my ears seemingly wanting the more literal heartbreak conveyed by Natalie Merchant and Tracy Chapman. I didn't have the patience to navigate through this aural Jell-O.

One night, however, as I sat huddled in my basement, again trying to articulate with ballpoint pen why it was I felt so inarticulate, Dave Kendall was on MTV's "120 Minutes" blathering on and on in his annoying way about the Cocteau Twins, and just as I was about to turn it off, the soaring intro of "Iceblink Luck" ushered in this wave of musical warmth. I was (and remain) a sucker for a slightly left-of-center pop song,
and this was simply one of the most beautiful--the guitars crisp, the bass perfectly nimble, anchoring it all for Elizabeth Fraser's no longer pixie-ish voice. It swooped low and settled in a beautiful mid-range.

To the goth devotees of the Twins, I would later learn, this song was betrayal. To me, it was like receiving the most beautiful invitation to a party. I put down my pen and closed the journal. I had almost no idea what she was saying. The only words that came through? "...that will burn this whole madhouse down."

***

I was sitting on the hood of my stepfather's truck in western Nebraska. The air was thick with heat and humidity, but a gusty, westerly wind was kicking up as a phalanx of thunderstorms marched down off the slopes of the Rockies, advancing across the rolling prairie.

I'd been driving for two days already, leaving Portland on a broiling August afternoon to head toward Vermont, where I would attend a college I'd never seen. I was driving the 3,000 miles alone. My mother was panicked; my stepfather, predictably, said little. He just looked at my mother and stated, "He'll be fine."

I'd desperately wanted to leave Portland. I wanted to leave two years of confusion, frustration, and exhaustion that mixed my coming-out, trying to finish school, and deal with my family. Even over the summer--when I thought I'd left most of this behind--I'd been obsessed with a boy who worked at a cafe near the movie theater where I worked. And in predictable Portland gay boy fashion, he'd expressed interest, played hard to get, apologized, and then did it all over again. I'd tormented myself enough in my journal, word after word running in circles that annoyed even me, detailing, outlining, explaining every little aspect of it all. You know, in case I wasn't actually expressing myself clearly.

And when I'd finally hit the interstate, I realized those words were gone. I rolled down the truck windows into 100 degree heat and let "Heaven or Las Vegas" play as loudly as I could. There were words here, but they weren't really words that conveyed accusations or questions; they were not hard facts. They were emotions, suggestions, hints at a new feeling that could replace the spirals of letters that had seemingly gotten me nowhere over the last four years. From the all-enveloping warmth of "Cherry-Coloured Funk"--which I insisted on listening to as the sun set behind me--to the mournful "Road, River, and Rail," I found myself coming back to the cassette every other hour. And when, at night, I tried to write about all that I was seeing from the driver's seat, the words seemed to shrink in number, their meaning becoming slight.

By the time I made it to western Nebraska two days later and saw, for the first time, the desolate beauty of a sea of tall grasses spreading across the visible landscape, my shoulders had begun to drop from my ears. I felt happily empty, in fact. I had no tears of self-pity. I had no words of recrimination. I had no words at all.

I'd pulled over, taking an obviously little-used exit off the interstate and followed the state highway south for a ways before pulling over on the side of the road.

Leaving the stereo on, I'd walked down the highway shoulder, Elizabeth Fraser's voice mixing with the rising wind. Off in the distance, tendrils of rain reached the ground. Lightning flickered in the dark anvil-shaped cloud. I came back to the truck and leaned back against the windshield, my leg splayed down the hood. I strained to hear any words in the music of the album's last and most musically obtuse song, "Frou Frou Foxes in Midsummer Fires," which began with distorted guitar in the background of a baroque piano line and erupted into a regal shower of non-words that seemed to express that everything was, as my stepfather would say, fine.

To my surprise, a cloud had grown out of the bottom of the thunderstorm out there on the prairie. A thin tornado. I wondered if I should leave, but it seemed far enough away. The sound of the wind in the grass seemed to carry away the last strains of the song coming from the stereo behind me. For the first time in what felt like years, I was--happily, contentedly--alone.

Something I Wrote...In Print...Kinda

2008-09-24T12:19:00.000-07:00

I don't do a ton of freelance writing anymore, which is a shame, since I like to write. I just don't usually enjoy the "freelance" part. But I do like the folks at Out magazine and their online incarnation, Popnography. And they graciously let me review the awesome Jennifer O'Connor's latest CD, "Here With Me." Short and sweet. Kind of like the album. Yay!

Check it out here.

More soon, including tales of the Hoosier State, Rum Runners bar, Fort Wayne, Bloomington, and an especially entertaining trip to the Chocolate Moose.

The Accidental Aerialist (aka My Trapeze Photos)

2008-09-06T15:18:00.000-07:00

I started taking trapeze classes nearly three months ago, on the suggestion of my friend Rick Andreoli, who has become a dedicated aerialist and who had done a story in a local magazine on Cirque School L.A., which was started by Aloysia Gavre, a former aerialist with Cirque du Soleil.

I figured it might be fun, given my youth spent doing gymnastics and some time in dance classes in college. But I was, frankly, not prepared to become quasi-addicted to it. Make no mistake, this is a workout (Aloysia is also a Pilates instructor), and as I've learned more about flexibility, poise, strength, and aerial choreography, I find myself simply wanting to know more.

Most people I know are not surprised I like to hang upside-down from a bar, but I don't think many know yet what it all looks like. Hence, Rick so nicely loaned his camera to a fellow classmate with the following results:

First off, we do not only learn tricks on trapeze. There's also "the tissue"/"the fabric"--a mass of red silk that'll burn you big time if you slide down it the wrong way. I'd never been able to climb anything, so this a learning curve for me:

First up, learning how to do a knee climb:

So, um, yeah... grabbing the fabric and pulling your legs up to straddle it as you flip into a pike position

Then hooking a leg onto the tissue to "lock" you into place.

The idea is that this leg locks you there so you can drop the other and then reach up to gain a hold on the next part of the tissue, drop your legs, and swing into another straddle and knee lock:

Easier said than done. I nearly fell off at one point:

But let's not linger over that. Let's talk about learning how to flip to standing and back to sitting on the trapeze. I only have pics from the low trapeze since Rick was in front of me in rotation, so he was climbing whenever I was on the high trapeze. No matter, you get the idea:

Start sitting:

Pull yourself up and over backward in a straight-leg pike (it's all about the abs, my friends):

Find the trapeze with your toes (hopefully the bar is not swinging too much) and then slowly stand up straight after:

Once standing, then you get to lean forward, straight-armed and (ideally) slowly re-pike, turning forward, and ending up sitting on the bar again:

Of course, this being all about pushing yourself, I was told to try doing walkovers forward and backward instead of piking, which makes for prettier pictures, I think, but it's much harder:

There will be more to come in the next few months, trust me. Once I learn how to connect a Mermaid to a Gazelle to a Gazelle Angel to an Arabesque, Chelsea, Iron Cross, and Russian Roll (not in that order), me and my newly acquired Capezio leggings will, along with others, be doing an exhibition here in L.A. Stay tuned.

This Pretty Much Says It All...

2008-09-05T15:36:00.001-07:00

As seen at the RNC from a fervent McCain supporter:

(Originally seen on Towle Road.)

Really?

2008-09-04T10:21:00.000-07:00

THAT was Sarah Palin's so-called "speech of lifetime"? A divisive, snotty, whiny diatribe that did nothing but set the stage to resurrect the '90s "culture war" moniker?

What a load of crap. So apparently we come right back to where we started--with people who conflate church and state and just want a president who will do their bidding on social issues they've never even bothered to think about beyond what they've been told by others. God forbid we think about this country's stand in the world and how the hell we are going to deal with it. No, by all means, let's fixate instead on a woman who apparently can gut a fish while giving birth.

I do love that gender is being taken off the table a bit here, and that Palin just gets to be an asshole because she's an asshole (and an asshole who apparently never took that whole Republican Party "Teach Abstinence" campaign to heart, but that's OK because her family has enough money to deal with the situation, as well as enough money to deal with the medical demands that come with having a child with a disability, unlike, say, millions of others).

The Republican Party's standing on social issues has never been more self-serving, full of double standards, and appalling. Palin was chosen precisely because she could "legitimize" these views. If you can put a pretty woman--who clearly dreams, still, of being on "Designing Women"--on a national stage and have her yell "YAY, GOD!" and "BOO, ABORTION!" then you motivate a group that did not want to vote for McCain previously. Pretty simple/standard PR and Marketing 101. Plus, when women tell other women what to do with their bodies, everyone gets confused and thus we distract from horrifying scenarios, such as Palin holding diplomatic talks with any leaders from the Middle East.

I just woke up with a sour taste in my throat. And I am angry. I am sick of both parties at this point, but the Republicans are simply repugnant. No vision. Nothing but continued hate and fear mongering and telling people of this country how they should live their lives to be considered "good." (I have yet for anyone to explain to me, too, how Republicans who are "fiscal conservatives" are actually helping the country as a whole in the long term.) It's patronizing, dumbed-down smoke and mirrors tactics that ultimately only divide the country into Us and Them. Only now it's coming from an old man whose ego has outstripped his common sense and a VP candidate who's essentially "Mean Mommy." If this is how we're supposed to "make history" (i.e., by not electing Obama) then I guess too many people in this country are simply OK with identifying with their captors.

Self-Discography #5: "Blackout" by Scorpions

2008-08-25T21:59:00.000-07:00

In the neighborhood of Northeast Portland where I grew up, there were, by our schools' standards at least, two kinds of kids. Looking back on it, I now realize it never really was about the fact that we were evenly split between black and white. Instead, it was just pronounced that these two groups were the Rockers and the Rappers.

It was the early '80s in a working-class neighborhood of a small city that had little to offer the world beyond its proximity to the Columbia River and huge swaths of virgin timber. This paucity of options seemed to bleed into several aspects of our day-to-day lives as a result. Fathers in our neighborhood worked on trains, drove trucks, were day laboring carpenters and carpet cleaners. Mothers were mostly homemakers. The few that did work toiled at administrative jobs.

And although I knew that I didn't (and really couldn't) fit the mold of either a Rocker or a Rapper--least of all because I was a gymnast breakdancer--I also knew the value of hanging out and listening to what everyone else in my immediate neighborhood did...which meant heavy metal that ran the gamut from poppy (Motley Crue) to bombastically baroque (Iron Maiden).

For the kids on our block--spread between the ages of of about 9-19 across five or six different families--this music was omnipresent. The older boys might disagree, stoned in a neighbor's basement, about the value of a Dio song versus Saxon, but for most of the rest of us, popularity was determined partially by radio play, but reinforced by our neighbors and peers.

The youngest of all of us, Amy, Leslie, and I would begin to dip our toes into the emerging rap of the era--from Slick Rick and The Sugarhill Gang to, later, Whodini, Salt N Pepa, and Eric B & Rakim--but for what seems to be a few years suspended in time, this metal and pop-metal was the main course on the menu.

The band that most successfully bridged the gap between the sometimes alienating heavy metal coming from England, and the more pop-oriented American descendants, Scorpions were hitting big in the summer of 1982. I was only 9 at the time, but I knew the words to "No One Like You" and could revel in the complex guitar solo that segued back into a killer riff, overlaid with Klaus Meine's impassioned love-song vocals. It was a classic pop song plea dressed up in shiny, sharp edges. I knew a hit when I heard it.

And I wasn't alone. "Blackout" simply was; it was my first taste of the "soundtrack to summer." The very tone of the 10 songs to this day conjures crystalline memories of riding in cars to go to the river with kids from the neighborhood on a blazing hot day. Of watching my sister and her friends smoke cigarettes they bought at a local gas station. Of suspiciously eyeing the skinny white guys with long hair and wannabe muscle cars who were, or wanted to be, boyfriends of the girls in the neighborhood. Of clandestine gathering of the older teenagers in bedrooms and basements where they would gossip, smoke pot, or just lie around complaining about their parents.

I wasn't yet privy to the full-blown adolescent fever that seemed to make the band and their albums even more relevant. I couldn't go to the Scorpions concert that my sister and her friends so excitedly road tripped to. And even though Top 40 radio began to beckon to me, I found nothing short of comfort in the Scorpions, equating the band with a time period, only a few years away, when I would be going to high school, smoking my first cigarette, staying at past curfew--each gesture done with no regret and with a sense of freedom.

Listening now, I am surprised to feel, instantly, that same yearning and optimism in an album that is, in many ways, such a product of its time. The title track, "No One Like You," and "Can't Live Without You" are all anthemic, quasi-headbangers about loving girls and the music's fans. And "Arizona," long my favorite song, is really nothing more than a cheesy song about easy lays that could now be played during Spring Break at Lake Havasu.

But then there's "China White," a blatant plea about how the world seems to be dominated by evil in the form of drugs and that we need to change that by looking inside ourselves. If you didn't listen closely to the lyrics--as we really didn't, let's be honest--you wouldn't even hear Klaus flat-out sing "We need to fill our hearts with love." You'd only enjoy the smothering guitar work of Rudolf Schenker, Michael Schenker, and Matthias Jabs.

2008 and 1982 mingle in my ears at this very moment, headphones on late at night, listening to "Blackout" on repeat. In the process of trying to capture the emotions and events of the time when this album gained its importance to me, I have only come to realize that the pure enjoyment of it--as cheesy as it sounds at points 26 years on--is its offering. I still feel, with these sounds in my head, that I could step out my front door and go over to Leslie's house to watch TV until 5 am. I could ride my bike all day, not coming home until dark. I could follow my sister and her friends around as they try to ditch me at the college across the street. I could even lie on the front lawn, fervently daydreaming about all the stuff I am going to do when I am old enough. And summer is over.

Skype This!

2008-08-06T22:34:00.000-07:00

Shouldn't my 100th post be something more ... meaty?

Maybe. It's not like that many people are going to be offended by the lack of celebration I am exhibiting by typing about a computer program. In fact, those who know me well enough know that this makes perfect sense. After all, few things in this world bring me more happiness than hearing a computer/robot voice, whether in "The Simpsons" or a bad '80s movie.

For a long time, I'd resisted Skype. I had a few friends in the past who really liked it and extolled its virtues, but I responded with a simple "Meh." It was nothing personal. It's just my inability to really understand technological advances, even though, once I do figure out the rudimentary way of using a device or program, I am SO into it.

So, a few months back when Lesley told me Chrissy--the ever-elusive Chrissy--was on Skype, I said, "Oh!" and then said, "Meh." Following week:

Lesley: I am telling you, if you want to talk to Chrissy, Skype her.

Me: Oh, so it's a verb now?

Still, I resisted, despite the fact that I missed Chrissy and did want to talk with her. Or "talk" with her.

When I finally was supposed to be working one day and decided I'd see what the hullabaloo was about, I saw this on the Web site:

This can't be good, I thought.

But boredom and work avoidance have funny ways of making you do things, so I downloaded it and I didn't even have to do anything. It was like a magical elf came and cleaned house and then left ME money. It opened up and immediately, there I was. And there Lesley was. And there Chrissy was. And the three of us online at the same time is something akin to hysterical chaos. Really, I fear for anyone who might try and read a transcript of the conversations.

It wasn't even that chatting online was novel, or that I was reveling in suddenly communicating with Chrissy again. It was the simple rhythm of the text/speech between the three of us. Given that we are separated by many miles at the moment, Lesley is dealing with stressful family things, Chrissy is figuring out how to make designs for clients that don't make her want to throw herself out a window, and I'm generally trying to figure out what my own job even is, these short frantic text balloon bursts online are suddenly an anchor. Granted, it feels like a linguistic Slip 'N' Slide, but I have never laughed so much at my stoic computer screen.

I try to keep it to a dull roar and not overdo it. Chrissy is good at simply saying "OK, gotta go, bye," and then disappearing, while Lesley and I send bizarre emoticons back and forth to communicate the easy stuff while avoiding some of the really hard stuff for a little bit longer. Then I disappear, we all go quiet, and two hours later someone yells on-screen "IS ANYONE THERE!?" I stare at it, wondering if I should be philosophical, but instead chat while on the phone with someone telling me why "cream" and "tan" are not the same thing.

Me (on phone): Yes, I understand...

Chrissy on computer screen: Did you hear about the Canadian beheading?

Me (still on phone, coughing): Oh, sorry, excuse me...

Lesley: EEEEEEW

Chrissy: I love that they are doing psych tests on the guy who did it. You know, to see if he's crazy.

Me: (guffawing)

Client: Are you OK?

Me: Yeah, oh, yeah. Sorry, just water down the wrong pipe.

After a particularly dizzying exchange of words today, I realized Chrissy needed some time to get where she is. Lesley will be gone for a while and need to come back to some peace and quiet. And I'll still be wondering what the hell I'm doing. But it's indeed great comfort when I can spend two minutes disparaging Mel Gibson, Peter Gabriel, and Canadian psychologists, all in one fell swoop. Where's my copy of "That's What Friends Are For?" anyway?

Ah, yes:

Self-Discography #4: Music to Die By

2008-07-17T23:56:00.000-07:00

"True Colors" by Cyndi Lauper (1986)

Even at the age of 13, I was aware that hearing this song, at this moment, was almost absurd--nearly funny. Except for the fact that the sounds emanating from the radio in my room on this warm September afternoon had tears streaming down my face.

I was standing in my bedroom, aching to throw something through the window. My mother was in a car, devastated, driving away with a neighbor who lived across the street. She'd earlier answered a phone call and then slid past me and my friend Amy--who was watching me try to figure out my first algebra homework assignment on the living room floor--and left the house. Amy had excused herself immediately after, more aware than I that whatever that call was it could not be good.

It was only when my mother reappeared with the neighbor and I saw the dismal look on her face that I knew that the hospital had called. My father, who only weeks ago had come home for a couple of weeks, was now miles away literally and figuratively. I don't recall exactly how my mother told me he was dead. I only remember the crush of her weight on me, copious hot tears coming from both of us and then the worst moment: when the news has been delivered and you pull away from each other and it feels like everything in the room--indeed, the entire world--is leaning in on you, pressing against your chest. You go into practical mode: "Now I must do this, and this, and then this." There is no "after." There is only now.

My mother needed to go with the neighbor to the hospital. I was told to go across the street and stay with other neighbors. But I said I'd go to Amy's. It was all mechanical because none of it was real yet. It was simply something told to us that sounded so horrible and yet had not been proven.

And as my mother left, I wandered upstairs, not even sure why I had. And there in my bedroom I stood, bathed in afternoon sunlight, with the radio introducing "True Colors"and the gentle lead-in to the first lyrics: "You with the sad heart..." I stood there, unable to process that this was simply a single released by a record company that paid to have it on the radio. And the voice continued to sing, as if it was a promise: "If this world makes you crazy and you've taken all you can, then you call me up because you know I'll be there."

And in that moment, it was just for me. Before I had to walk up the street and watch Amy come out of her house to hug me--the first time in our young lives we'd ever done this. Before I had to go to school and watch as everyone took a step or two backward, awkwardly unsure of what to say to me, if they managed to say anything. Before I had to endure a memorial service that made me so angry because it did not represent my father as I'd known him. In those three minutes, before any motion had begun, I simply stood. And listened.

"Gazebo Tree" by Kristin Hersh (1998)

I'd grown to hate the phone because it only seemed like bad news came from the receiver. No one ever called me to tell me all the great things happening in the world. They called to tell me that someone's sick; someone's broken. Or, as I'd been dreading the last few weeks, that someone was dead.

My stepsister and I were not close. We were never confidants, and, when we did live in the same house, conversation was at a minimum. She'd gotten pregnant as a teenager and had a son while I finished college and moved to New York.

But New York had slowly been unraveling around me. I was in the midst of breaking up with a boyfriend and deciding whether I would leave the city. I was nearly 100 percent self-absorbed, so inwardly focused that when my mother had finally called to tell me that my stepsister was gravely ill, I didn't, at first, have a reaction. And almost immediately I was intensely angry at myself for it--a real emotion at last.

But I also wasn't really kept in the loop. My mother and stepfather were not only enveloped by her being so sick, they had no ability to communicate what it felt like. So when the phone rang and the news that she had passed actually hit my ears, my reaction was not to move. I couldn't afford to fly home. My mother even told me not to, saying I should pay my respects when it wasn't so awful and forced, remembering my dad's memorial service.

For two weeks, as the dismal late winter refused to abate, I sat on the floor in my tiny bedroom in the Brooklyn apartment I shared with three other people and sequestered myself in writing a letter to my mom and stepdad, trying to express some bit of comfort for them. I didn't sleep in-between trying to find the right way to say everything about my stepsister I'd never voiced--in fact, never considered. And my only companions were my cigarettes and this song--a mournful organ line running behind what sounds like an acoustic campfire song sung on a cold clear night in the high desert. "Bless my baby eyes/Don't you know Jesus died/Spare me your moon shining/In my rainy gazebo tree." It seemed like a prayer. Late at night, with my headphones on, staring at 7th Avenue and the garbage trucks, hoping that there was some solace in what I wanted to send home. I imagined a woman alone in a tree gazing up at the night sky, feeling utterly at peace, with no need for human companionship. I couldn't write it down, as it wouldn't make any sense, but it still hangs in front of my eyes every time I hear it.

"We Float" by PJ Harvey (2000)

This should be an elegy, I thought. But would Owen have liked it?

He'd only been dead a few months and I was still wanting his opinion on the music that had just been released. He might think this is too maudlin, I thought, and then ruefully laughed to myself, feeling even sadder in the windy heat of the Los Angeles fall.

Owen had housed me and my things on and off for months when I first moved here. He'd artfully arranged boxes of books in his living room to make them part of his furniture. He'd eagerly agreed to let me have my mail sent to his stifling Studio City apartment, and, when I did stay with him, he'd talk to me incessantly about music. Damn Geminis, I thought. So chatty. But even for keeping me up until the late night jabbering about 4AD releases, why Frazier Chorus was so underrated, and whether that new Massive Attack CD was really that good, there was pleasure to be found in the stream of words that seemed to never slow down.

His sudden death wasn't from illness like so many of the others I had known. No, instead, it was wrong place, wrong time in Los Angeles. Botched robbery of an armored vehicle. Gunfire. And finding out that someone you knew had simply been making a run to the store while he did his laundry was suddenly, irrevocably gone.

And past the horribly hot memorial service and its cast of characters--some treasured, some totally random--we were simply left to wonder, "What now?"

And the music started coming.

CD release dates. I had no one to call up and say, in earnestness, "Oh my god, _____ is coming out in two weeks. I'm so excited." And as the summer turned, oh so imperceptibly, into fall, I found this one of the hardest things to bear, as ridiculous as it seemed.

It wasn't even that Owen was a huge PJ Harvey fan. And when her latest album was released two months after he had died I had no epiphanies about what he would have thought. But then there sat the six-minute album closer between me and forgetting. It was unexpectedly affecting, underscored by something dark, buoyed by something tender: "So will we die of shock?/Die without a trial?/Die on Good Friday/While holding each other tight?/This is kind of about you/This is kind of about me/We just kind of lost our way/We were looking to be free/But one day, we float/Take life as it comes."

Maybe it is maudlin, I debated. I even imagined Owen's fingers tapping out the drum beat while still screwing his face up at the lyrics. I would have had to look at him and say, "Just listen." Only now it was up to me.

Self-Discography #3: "Loveless" by My Bloody Valentine

2008-06-23T15:38:00.000-07:00

What the hell is that?

I am in The Record Exchange in Bennington, Vermont, in the fall of 1991, and the squall of an electric guitar has hit me in the head. It sounds like someone has taken a power drill to the guitar strings and begun literally beating the instrument to death. And yet the squall is beautiful. I see the image of of something bright explode in my head and I feel like I am sinking into molasses. It is instantaneous transport to somewhere else.

It only lasts for five seconds before I realize I am surrounded by other shoppers dressed warmly in wool coats and scarves on this dreary, late fall day. We are crammed into a tiny space that is the only retail establishment in this Recession-slammed town that reminds you there are actually two colleges here. It's also the only connection I have at the moment to the music I used to find so easily back home.

I have moved here sight unseen. I only knew three things before I left Portland:

1. Vermont is bucolic.
2. Bennington College has given me a lot of financial aid.
3. I would be far, far away from Oregon.

That meant there were oh so many things I did not know, such as who the hell this band is I am hearing right now.

I amble up to the front counter and ask the guy behind the counter, "What is this?" He gives me a slight nod and hands me a jewel case with a shimmering image of a guitar bathed in what looks like a mixture of blood and strawberry Jell-O.

There is no break between power-drill-on-guitar and the subsequent muted jam of fuzziness mixed intricately with female vocals that seem unable to enunciate consonants. It is, I imagine, what it would be like if I had developed some rare disease in which musical ability combines with a slow deterioration of motor skills.

In other words, it is not Bennington, Vermont.

--

It isn't that I mind this place so much. In fact, I feel like I am back in Oregon--only now I am surrounded by people who are much more knowledgeable about obscure, literate, and artistic tangents than I thought was possible. I feel a bit like an idiot.

"Yeah, My Bloody Valentine. They're OK. I don't really care for a lot of the album," says Owen dismissively. He owns all the CDs I want. He's much more opinionated about music than I am. I only know what moves me. I feel it in my gut. I don't really care to know more. He can dissect the subtlest chord change and then look at you like you, too, should be able to hear it clearly.

I don't, most of the time.

Sometimes I try to argue with him, but it's like yelling at the wind. Mostly I try to change the subject. Stupidly, this time, I say, "I've never heard anything else like it."

He flashes a smile, but it's not an indulgent one. "Yeah, you seem like you'd like all that shoegazer stuff."

--

I try to choreograph a dance to "To Here Knows When." Alone in a dance studio at midnight with a borrowed CD player, I feel as disoriented as the song. This could work to my advantage, I think. Like every academic overachiever, I believe I can simply apply hard work to the task at hand and get the job done. But this is like getting hands on an eel. There's a shimmering rhythm here. It drones and undualtes, guitars washing over each other in a way that feels like the music is playing backwards. But it remains just out of my grasp.

About two hours in, I realize that my enthusiasm, the euphoria the music instills in me, even my gymnastics background--none of it can help me. I am floundering on the hard wood floors like a fish out of water, gasping, not a graceful conduit for the music. I don't fully understand the choreography I am trying to jot down on the notepad in the middle of this empty room. All I know is that it's the middle of the night, it's snowing outside, and in here I am getting nowhere.

--

The apotheosis of "Loveless" is its final song: "Soon." It gives me chills every time I hear it. Its misleading drum beat morphs it into a dance song that is broken every 30 seconds by a towering wave of noise: Guitars. Swooping, echoing voices that run in and out of one's ears. It is primal, celebratory, compulsive. I make my roommate crazy playing it. I make myself crazier by never being able to hear it loud enough.

There's a party tonight and I want the entire crowd to hear it. I want to see all of them dance, happy that it's near the end of the term. I want that revelatory catharsis that you can often only find when you're moving to the music.

It's long for a dance song, but the final 90 seconds of are a loop of drums and guitar riffs--the perfect ending for a drug- and alcohol-fueled evening. I've sheepishly made the mix tape, unsure if I will even be allowed to play it. But that's how it works. You make it, you bring it, maybe someone will be willing to put it on.

I've spent the entire Saturday perfecting the running order of songs so that it ends with "Soon." The rest of it is mostly shameless pop songs--nothing challenging, nothing that will alienate. In fact, it's probably the most upbeat thing I've ever created. And that night, after drinking more than I need to, I approach the guy with the tape, telling him, "Hey! If you can, would you play this?!" He looks at me like he'll consider it. To which I add, still yelling over the noise, "At least play the last song on Side B! It's about 7 minutes!"

I go back to the dance floor. There's the usual ("Sex Machine" by James Brown), the unexpected-even-to-me ("Join in the Chant" by Nitzer Ebb), the predictable but reliable (various Madonna), and then I hear the drum machine beginning of "Soon," squeaking out a surprised gasp to make my way back to the dance floor.

Forty-five seconds in, the beat is buried with the guitar lines and vocals and there's still a group of people on the floor bouncing, the wood springing under their feet.

And then the exodus starts.

Soon enough, only a handful of us remain. And despite the slight feeling of mortification, I am still swept up in the sound, sweaty, drink in hand in the air, spilling vodka on myself, cigarette in the other hand. I still have no idea what I'm doing here. But the bigger picture fades into five minutes of being blissed out. As I'll tell Owen later, this is hardly shoe gazing.

"Self-Discography" is a series of essays on seminal albums and songs re-reviewed, recalled, and reimagined via the lens of my memory. It is said that smell is the sense most closely linked with memory. For me, it is sound.

Marriage

2008-06-16T22:05:00.000-07:00

I thought of snappier titles, but this one kind of says it all. I cannot believe that I have lived to actually see gay marriage legalized. Yes, I know, it has been in several other places already. But today, California, where I live, started allowing same-sex marriages. Since I am a resident here, I am seeing the effect--the media, people buzzing about couples who are getting married. I've even had an invite to one such wedding. It's kept a smile on my face for most of the day.

Of all the arguments I love when it comes to this issue, it's the one about "history" that makes me laugh. For example, plenty of bigots talk about how "throughout history" and "across continents," marriage has always been between a man and a woman. Um, OK. Marriage was also about property, inheritance, land, and the complete subjugation of women to men. But let's not get into the messy details. After all, we want our bodice-ripper "historical romance" novels to ring "true."

I almost understand on some weird level those who disagree on religious terms--but only because I don't think marriage should have anything to do with religion. If it was only a civil ceremony, then... But that's a whole other story...

The best quote today came from an elected official--Republican Assemblyman Doug LaMalfa--who said he was disturbed that four people (i.e., four state supreme court justices) went against/overrode the will of the people in making this law. This rant could go on forever, but, really, let's be honest: judges of that caliber do tend to be much more intelligent than the general populace (and therefore I'd rather have them making laws since they, um, STUDIED it and PRACTICED it for decades), and they didn't achieve that position by putting daisies in rifles or wearing "No Nukes" shirts. Also, why is an elected official basically admitting by default that he's glad he's dumb, too? Oh, right, the need to look like an Everyman--a man of the people...who can then go against some of the same people who voted for him by telling them they have no legal right to be and love who they want.

So you see...we have achieved clarity.

After all, when you have the most sacred, holy vow of marriage bestowed upon you (as is your God-given right, apparently), then you can do things like this:

--

NC couple accused of tying son to tree charged

By MARTHA WAGGONER, AP

A couple accused of killing their 13-year-old son by tying him to a tree for two nights for punishment appeared in a courtroom Monday to face charges of murder and felony child abuse.

Attorneys appeared Monday with Brice Brian McMillan, 41, and his wife Sandra Elizabeth McMillan, 36, of Macclesfield.

"It's a sad case," defense attorney Allen Powell, who represents Brice McMillan, said after the hearing. He declined any further comment, and the couple did not enter a plea.

The county sheriff's office has said Brice McMillan told a deputy the teen was being disobedient and was forced to sleep outside last Tuesday while tied to a tree. The teen was released Wednesday morning, but again tied up that night for bad behavior.

Sheriff James Knight has said the boy was left tied to the tree until the following afternoon, when his stepmother found him unresponsive. Authorities believe the boy was bound to the tree with plastic ties and possibly other kinds of material.

Macclesfield is about 60 miles east of Raleigh.

--

Then again, maybe marriage should only be for straight people. We've managed to "take back" words like "queer" and "fag"; can't we come up with a pseudonym for "marriage"? I see why it shouldn't be like that, trust me. And I most certainly see why people like Newt Gingrich and John McCain and Rudy Giuliani, etc. etc. get a chance to try their hand at marriage AS MANY TIMES AS THEY WANT. They're simply better than the rest of us.

Of course, this new right we have as gay Californians could disappear come November when all the right-wing nutballs and closet cases and conservatives who are afraid of anything not sold at Wal-Mart vote to ban same-sex marriage. To that, I say, when you know a party might go on for only so long, you make the most of the time you have.

Welcome to My Home

2008-06-10T12:45:00.000-07:00

I realize that very few people I know have been to my apartment. What the...? I guess when Steve was living here with the dogs and so much Chinese furniture, I honestly did not feel much like it was my space. Then, Ryan moved in last December, and slowly, slowly, it's become much more a place I want people to feel comfortable in. So, yeah, I suppose a party is in order. I just need to get a few more things on the walls and that pesky rug for the living room... In the meantime, you get these snippets:

How about that view from the bathroom, eh? When you take a bath in the old seafoam green porcelain tub, this is what you can gaze at. Or, if you prefer, you can see it from the toilet, too:

First off, understand this is a two-story, two-bedroom apartment built in the 1930s with old French windows, hardwood floors, and lots of airflow (thankfully, since there is no A/C). The upstairs hallway is now tastefully decorated with a skull, books, and plants:

Specially for Kathleen: My newly acquired 1940s waterfall dresser is topped off with my old bunny bank. Why yes, it does have eyelashes and a fake fur boa around its neck, thanks for asking. Most people are freaked out by it. Ryan saw it and just said, "That is so cool." First sign he was a keeper. Oh, and those are flax weavings I learned to do when I went to New Zealand. A cool Maori woman fed me fresh fruit as we sat on her floor of her rural house on the North Island and she tirelessly showed me what to do; it poured down rain outside the entire time.

Slowly but surely we're collecting some taxidermy. Here's something tame in that dept.--a cool butterfly display Ryan found in Palm Springs. Also in the main bedroom.

The dining room. Not seen: the 1970s Danish dining room table. Seen: the 1970s light fixture, wall of antlers, and the painting of a boy and his banana. You can take from that what you will.

Sitting on the windowbox sill in the kitchen, we have a sampling of the objets d'art that are tastefully arranged there, including Ryan's bird salt and pepper shakers and the measuring spoons Nicole gave me oh so long ago...

And what house is complete without a Garfield fish tank (the fish will sit in his belly), a reclining glamorous woman figurine, and a coconut mailed from Molokai (thanks, James!)?

I could, of course, take room shots and let you see how pretty it really is. But why would I want to do all that? Then you'd never come over for dinner, drinks, or cards.
You know who you are. An invitation is forthcoming.

xo-M

Portland Pic Parade

2008-05-26T23:07:00.000-07:00

Not that you asked for them, but here they are anyway!

First up: A trip down memory lane... or Sandy Boulevard, at least, home to the Hollywood Theater, where I worked in a variety of jobs from ages 15-17, including as a projectionist, where I ruined such films as "Who Framed Roger Rabbit?" and "The Land Before Time":

The obligatory Mt. Hood shot (by Ryan, who snickered every time someone said "Mt. Hood"). When it's clear, the view of the mountain from so many parts of the city is really breathtaking. I'd forgotten that...

The obligatory Mt. St. Helens shot, done in a not-so-obligatory way. You can get better shots of the slumbering volcano but Ryan opted to take this from Forest Park northwest of downtown, looking out over the industrial part of the city:

The third "mount" image, this time, part of Mt. Tabor park--an extinct volcano in the middle of the city. Also scene of numerous days and nights for me in high school, sometimes sober, sometimes not (again by Ryan):

Mt. Tabor graffiti that makes no sense and yet made me laugh anyway:

I'd forgotten the dappled effect of sun through the giant fir trees. I know I've been in California too long when these trees seem so awe-inspiring. The nice thing is that they kept the sun off us in the near 100 degree heat...

Of course, Portland is not all natural beauty and sun filtering through trees. In fact, it's not even always about good food. Then again, there could be good food here. We didn't find out (and I couldn't believe it was still there):

But the real fun was seeing everyone I hadn't seen in a while, including (in order here): Jill, Susan, and Kathleen, with whom we both look shiny and hot, since it was 100 degrees and we'd had beer...

And, of course, Ryan... who so graciously posed next to this tavern in (as we like to say) "Deep Southeast"...not far from the estate sale that had room after room of clown art in it:

But I wouldn't want you to think that Portland is all about clown art, bad diners, and worse taverns. What would The New York Times write about if that was true? So, here, here's some more prettiness to cap it off:

On How I Was Never Cool

2008-05-22T22:59:00.000-07:00

Yes, my trip made me miss Portland. No, I'm not sure if I want to live there again.

Until about 20 minutes ago, I wasn't convinced I'd write much about this too short vacation. But I just realized I have been feeling totally nostalgic for 1991 after seeing a bunch of old high school friends. Simultaneously, Portland brings out something maudlin in me. It also makes me want to run into the forest and disappear. I am not entirely sure this is such a good idea, so I tend to stick to the city proper.

It seems to amaze a number of people that I am still in touch with so many people from high school. I mean, it's not like I send emails to everyone in my graduating class, but I still stay in touch with about 6 people, which I guess in some circles is 6 too many.

What was so fascinating to me on this trip is that it coincided with so many pretty significant moments in my friends' (and my own) lives: Susan's birthday, Jill's getting herself back on her own two feet after a divorce, Kathleen celebrating completing her doctoral dissertation in Indiana, back in Portland to have a party with family and friends. This doesn't even take into account my seeing my entire family, including my brother, whom I'd not seen since he first got sober back in 2006 after being missing for nearly two years.

Throw me and Ryan into this mix and you can begin to imagine the swirl of activity. Five days was hardly enough time to do much of anything but drink some great beer, eat some fantastic food courtesy of Lissa and Tom, on whose floor we were crashing, and try to escape the insane heat that didn't break almost until we left.

Stripping away the day-to-day excursions and estate sales we perused (oh how I wish I could have taken pictures of the house in which there was almost nothing but clown paraphernalia like paintings and masks EVERYWHERE--not to mention a giant koi pond; Belle claims she had no idea I really hated clowns that much before she took us there), I was left with a fair amount of amazement at these people I've known for 20 years who have grown into such funny, smart, engaging adults. There's an aspect of it that's completely terrifying. None of them ever knew my dad, for example, as he was already dead by then. They know a segment of my life that feels like it's still unfurling.

I was especially cognizant of this the second night I was there. It was still hot out, even though it was nearly 10 p.m. and the sun had finally set. The full moon was rising and Kathleen, myself, her girlfriend, Amy, and their two friends were hiking up to the top of Mt. Tabor park, a nearly 700 foot tall hill in the middle of Portland that was once a volcano. It was the scene of many nights in high school, including one memorable January evening during which I parked my 1974 orange Ford Maverick in the rain in the park and Kathleen drank a bottle of champagne while I downed bottles of beer. Our friend Geoff was there as well, as drunk as we were. At one point, the cops came driving down the park road and we panicked, the windows of the car more fogged up than they already had been. So, in our 17 year old minds, the best thing to do was simply lay down across the bench seats, alcohol still in hand, and hope that they didn't get out to look.

What they did do was slow way down and scan a spotlight across the length of my car, twice, while the three of us held our breath, whispering to each other to not move and trying not to completely freak out. Maybe it was only because it was pouring rain, they did not stop, and we sat up, petrified, drunk, and wet with perspiration. And then what did I do? Drive home? Why, yes, I did. Oy.

Kathleen was telling our assorted audience members about this as we trekked past the exact spot, which was within spitting distance of her parents' house and she said, "Mikel was so cool in high school." Which made me choke on the water I was drinking.

"No, I wasn't," I protested. "I had bad clothes, a near 4.0 GPA, and horrible hair. Not to mention I was a flaming homo who couldn't come out of the closet!"

What could she possibly be thinking?

"But you smoked," she countered. "And drove an awesome car! And your mom sometimes let us drink in your house!"

We caught each other's eyes and cracked up, again perspiring on Mt. Tabor, nearly 20 years later, under totally different circumstances.

"I'm glad someone thought I was cool," I said. Then, to everyone but Kathleen: "But I really wasn't."

And it's true. But despite the bad hair and geeky drive to be perfect in school, I had friends like these--when I was both drunk and sober, I might add. Looking at Kathleen, then, the two of us older, a bit grayer in the hair, yet still able to laugh with each other, I figured things have to happen for a reason, right? Without her and the rest of them I'd never be where I am now, that's for sure.

News to You... and Me

2008-05-14T13:54:00.000-07:00

This is making me entirely too happy today.

No News Is Good News

More once I'm back from the Pacific Northwest.

Self-Discography #2: "Pacer" by The Amps

2008-04-28T21:12:00.000-07:00

November 1995

I began life in New York as a squatter of sorts.

Back in June, panicking right before college graduation, I had been trying to figure out where the hell I was going to live. I hadn't yet bought a plane ticket to go back to Portland. I didn't want to commit to that. I knew I could pack my suitcase and throw as much crap as possible into Barbie's car and hope I made it as far as Milwaukee. In fact, I considered moving there, too--anything to keep me from taking a step backward, metaphorical or not.

As if she'd heard my tossing and turning in the night, Aryn inadvertently saved me by asking me if I wanted to move to New York with her. Her stepmother was going to be in L.A. for six months, working on a movie. I could live with her in the apartment and figure out what to do next. The thought made me instantly tense. New York and I had tangled only a couple of times and it seemed so overwhelming and oppressive in the still-somewhat-abstract. But would moving back to what was left of "home" be better?

I remember little of how my stuff and I even made it to the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Nor did I realize I'd be living in a pretty cool pre-War apartment that was, by New York standards, gigantic. Within two weeks, I was working at Starbucks. I had a "life" of some sort, headaches from the smog, bad skin from the smog, and I smoked more than I did back in Vermont.

The luster wore off quickly, with no air conditioning in June, July, and August. The panic came racing back in. I forced myself to make the effort and started working as an intern at Out Magazine, where I went on my 2 days a week I had off, schlepping down to SoHo to work in an office without windows and learn about publishing.

By November I was nearing the end of my grace period in Aryn's stepmom's apartment. I was making all of $7 an hour and couldn't begin to figure out what I was going to do with myself. Until I managed--by some absurd twist of fate--to land a job at St. Martin's Press as an editorial assistant.

To celebrate, I did what I always did when I had any leftover cash: I headed to the Village to buy music. There was a circuit of places between St. Marks and West 4th that I would haunt--snatching up whatever I could find that was tangentially related to what I loved. At that point, it was the girls with guitars on the 4AD label. Throwing Muses. Belly. The Breeders. The squall of an expertly played electric guitar that sounded like it might almost fall apart in the player's hands was the sound I craved. I felt like I was the personification of the concept--a tightly wound ball of twine that could unravel at any moment.

Flush with all of $30, I entered a store in the West Village, the last on my list. I scanned the bins for an old Breeders single and then looked up to see a handwritten note: "Kim Deal's (Breeders, Pixies) new band..." An orange cover with a plug on it. All it said on the front in simple, sans serif font: The Amps.

Yes, please.

December 1995

I have "Tipp City" stuck in my head. Kim Deal's on the stage in front of me and I've been drinking beer. I can't afford to buy new shoes, but I can afford to be at Irving Plaza with Megan, with whom I am now living in Park Slope.

It's an apartment we've found by waiting for the Village Voice to come out every week at Astor Place, dashing to nearby pay phones to call about whatever listing we can afford in a place where we may actually want to live. A 2-bedroom in Park Slope for $1,100 is about the best we can do, considering our lack of real incomes. I make $527 every two weeks at my "glamorous" publishing job, where I've already given up trying to dress up. Instead I show up in overalls, smoke with my boss in the office, and work too hard for too little money.

Megan indulges me when it comes The Amps. I get up. I put on The Amps. I come home. I put on The Amps. I get depressed about something. I play The Amps. I want the gentle wooziness of "Pacer," the barely controlled party rock of "Tipp City" and the utter punk insanity of "Empty Glasses" to mash up in my head. I want to feel like the stoner I am not.

It's partly, of course, because I am finally feeling halfway decent for the first time in six months and my emotions are running all over the place. I feel like I may have finally beaten New York into submission and this album follows me like the cold winds now whistling through all the buildings I navigate on my way to and from work.

On stage at Irving Plaza, Kim Deal is plump, shiny, and bad-ass, a rocker chick who drinks and talks like a guy who claims he likes to go hunting. She plays some Breeders stuff, but most of the people there seem confused by the Amps songs. But not me. I'm the dork singing along, bouncing up and down, screaming "woo!" when "Tipp City" is finally played and I can feel myself let go, just for a couple of minutes. It's a cathartic exercise. I sweat. I jump around and almost dance. When they get to the line "Peacock, caught looking in the mirror..." Megan and I scream the rejoinder: "STOP DRINKING MY BEER!" (I am so good at being a completist that Megan can even sing along with me to "Just Like a Briar," a b-side on the "Tipp City" single--UK-only, natch.)

It doesn't matter that I work in a job that barely pays more than Starbucks (where I still work weekends). It doesn't matter that I haven't had sex in months. It doesn't even matter that I have a hacking cough from smoking too much. Instead of feeling beaten down, I actually don't want the party to end.

January 1996

The bone-cold has come. So has the "storm of the century." It's a blizzard of two feet of snow. Nothing is moving in the city except the subways. So Megan goes to the gym. She knows she can make it to the train and get to Manhattan easily enough. Though I secretly wish she'd stay so we can go play in Prospect Park, I stop at telling her she's crazy only a few times and stay home to drink coffee and stare out the tiny back windows at the gray and white cityscape.

"Bragging Party" is on the CD player. It's got a strong drumbeat, insistent and forceful, but the guitars fuzz out around it and the few lyrics float across the sound: "You are all that I need to hear, so fill the air with memorized breaths." It's wistful, happy, dreamy, the total antithesis of what's happening outside as the snow tries to smother millions of us in one fell swoop.

The apartment has almost nothing in it. The ancient, gigantic TV sits on a milk crate. I have an armchair from the Salvation Army. I sleep on the futon I somehow acquired at Bennington. Megan has a table that doubles as a place to eat and have dinner. We barely have chairs to sit on. Thank god she has a French press and a kettle or we'd just walk in circles in the living room bumping into the empty cardboard boxes that double as furniture.

I sing along with Kim, not even sure of most of the words to the song as they blend into the fuzz. Later, I will call my friends on the West Coast and brag a little about the snowstorm. I will make myself sound a tad more superior, wanting them to kind of, sort of see me as a tough, if converted, New Yorker. And for a little while, cocooned here, that's exactly how I feel. The snow continues to fall. I sip deeply of the thick, sweet coffee and wonder at the last couple of months. I've made it this far, haven't I? I am here. In New York. Living. It's more than I thought was possible six years prior. And I don't want to be anywhere else--shitty Brooklyn apartment and all.

"Self-Discography" is a series of essays on seminal albums and songs re-reviewed, recalled, and reimagined via the lens of my memory. It is said that smell is the sense most closely linked with memory. For me, it is sound.

What, Me Sleep?

2008-04-16T23:03:00.000-07:00

Was it the crazy heatwave over the weekend that did it? I fear it melted my brain--especially the parts that help me concentrate, keep me from telling people what I think when it's inappropriate, and also those that control the ability to sleep.

I go through periodic bouts of insomnia. Usually, it's obvious stress causing it; sometimes it's a complete mystery. I'm not sure what, exactly, that stress is right now, aside from some work stuff. But it's nothing major. So why do I feel like my brain's been replaced by some kind of motor and my eyes are stuck open?

When I was a kid and couldn't sleep, I would go downstairs, where, inevitably, my mother had fallen asleep on the couch--a book propped up on her chest. I'd watch her sleep. Sometimes the TV was still on. It looked so much like a photographic still life, slightly dim, slightly out of focus due to the fact that I was tired but couldn't be made to sleep.

Sometimes it lasted weeks. Other times it was only one night. I wonder now, sitting in the spare bedroom at midnight, if insomnia is genetic. I never thought it weird that my mother would constantly sleep on the couch while my dad fell into a deep, rumbling slumber in their bedroom only 15 feet away. They never commented on it. In fact, sometimes it was my dad on the couch, coming home at 4 am after work.

Maybe we were a family of insomniacs: my sister feverishly worked until late in the night many days, my brother was often out carousing, not wanting to be home. In the summer, especially, I'd stay up until 4 or 5 a.m. on a regular basis with my friends Amy and Leslie, who lived in the neighborhood. We loved to see the strata of color in the sky in the east, even though we hated it when the birds started to chirp. They were so loud we would then never fall asleep until the sun was already up.

I am always keenly aware on these nights, though, how much my brain seems to suffer the consequences of what it seemingly does on its own. By tomorrow, if I haven't had a full night's sleep, I'll be a babbling idiot. And yet, perhaps also more entertaining than I've been lately.

Ryan seems a bit mystified by all of this. He can fall asleep anywhere. He can fall asleep while in the middle of a sentence. I've watched it happen. I always sigh wistfully when he falls asleep so easily. He has that magical "On/Off" switch I wish someone could implant in me. He used to always ask what he could do to help me sleep. To which I quipped, "Don't ask me about it. That will help."

I probably just sabotaged myself by talking about it here, didn't I? Time to grab a book and head to the couch. Why not start the family legacy now?

Antelope Valley Poppy Reserve

2008-04-07T21:47:00.000-07:00

So, we all had bad hair here near Lancaster, CA, on Sunday. The wind was fierce, but the poppies were in full bloom and it was a gorgeous day. Glad Ryan, Tim, and Justin were brave enough to drive the 75 miles to the middle of nowhere to see it all with me. (Thanks to Ryan for the extra pics, too.)

Self-Discography #1: "Songs From the Big Chair" by Tears for Fears

2008-03-15T11:26:00.000-07:00

"They gave you life and in return you gave them hell."

I am sitting in my room after school--a day like all the others, in which few if any people have spoken to me. I am concentrating furiously on my homework, choking down any thought of the predicament I have found myself in, or perhaps helped create myself. I can't be sure of which.

The radio is on. Z100 in Portland is, at that point, my trusted source for new Top 40 music, and I take it as an escape from school, from any sounds coming from outside of my room. At nearly 12, I've already become an expert in compartmentalizing. Music often seems to be the only way I feel like I experience mental release--even if I am not making it myself.

And then there it is, a creepy synthesizer groove underneath minimal percussion and that opening line. It's a blatant call to arms to simply scream and yell about everything that's wronged you: "Shout, shout, let it all out/These are the things I can do without/Come on, I'm talking to you/come on."

In a pop song? On Z100? I didn't know anything yet about therapy. But I knew, instantly, that this was some form of release.

"Find out what this fear is about."

I make my mother take me to the store and buy me "Songs From the Big Chair." She's heard one of the songs from it on the radio and so she feels like she knows what it is she's purchasing. That makes my entreaties less necessary, even though she seems to begrudge spending money on the record.

Ensconced in my bedroom that night, I slip the record from its sleeve and put it on. I drink in "Shout" and then recoil from the jazzy saxophone opening of "The Working Hour." I remove the needle from the vinyl and slide the record back in to its sleeve, disappointed.

"There's a room where the light won't find you, holding hands while the walls come tumbling down."

But as the months roll on, anytime I am having a bad day--and, as my mother says, I seem to have a lot of them--I slide the record from its sleeve and put it on the turntable, letting the rolling drums of "Shout" and now the frenetic "Broken" and wry humor of "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" fill the room--the latter a song that sounds sunny but is really more like a backhanded compliment, if you listen closely, which I do.

"It's not that you're not good enough, it's just that we can make you better."

I've discovered "Mothers Talk." It's a big, mean song. It's brash. It's forceful. It's full of odd stops and starts and a twisty bass line--a sonic fit that I want to turn into my own theme song.

And though I am getting angrier, I am also getting more adept at stuffing the anger back down my throat. In addition, I don't sleep much anymore. I have horrible nightmares in my room when I finally do drift off to sleep. I can feel heat from a fire outside my door and I can smell smoke, but I am trapped inside, the giant storm windows glued into the window frame, and I am too small to break it open and escape. I've been having the same nightmare almost every night for years. I've taken to sleeping in the hallway or stealing into my sister's room and falling asleep on her floor. I believe my room is haunted, but I don't say as much.

I get called sensitive at home and in the neighborhood. At school I simply get called a faggot. I both know and don't know what it means. I know now, as puberty has reared its head, that there is something alluring about any man in a Jockey underwear ad with hairy forearms. But I am blocking that part of my mind that puts two and two together. It's 1985, after all. AIDS barely has been named, and everyone I know casually assumes two guys having sex means they will die.

So, the word "faggot" is, to me, almost a way of people telling me I'd be better off dead. At first, I don't agree. Instead, I seethe. Every day, as I walk home from school, I invent scenarios in my head about the horrible deaths that will befall these boys. I know most of them will lead status quo lives and be boring and unimaginative. I know I don't want to be anywhere near them. I know I want to hold them by their ankles over a bridge and enjoy the sight of them falling hundreds of feet into the foment below.

"I believe that when the hurting and the pain has gone, we will be strong."

This song is jazz.

It's slow and woozy, as if this is the last song I might hear 20 years from now in a New York City bar where I happen to find myself on a rainy night.

I invent the scene in my head and then begin to write a short story about a man living in an unnamed metropolis whose only solace is going to watch a piano player at a bar.

It's boring and badly punctuated, but I fixate on the escape--of a completely safe place where a person can hide.

It's a common theme in the lame stories I write. I show them to my friend Tina, who is maybe, just maybe, as miserable as I am. She loves them, but often has odd critiques to offer: "Why don't you make that character a book editor?" "I'm not sure I believe this is New York." I may think "Well, yeah. I've never lived there," but I take her comments seriously, and I break out new notebooks and pens and try to figure out how I can make New York real without knowing it. Often, I end up making Portland the setting because it's just easier.

It's fall now and I am feeling more defeated. I want school to end, but I know I have to make it through six more months. I am not sure I can.

I am now being followed home on occasion by a boy from school who likes to walk 20 feet behind me and tell me how he is going to kick my ass, kill me, make me sorry I walk this way to and from school. I begin to loiter after school for no reason, watching for him to go home, or I bolt from the grounds as soon as the last bell rings, walking blocks out of my way so I can avoid him. I want to reason with him, but I know that won't work, so I often stay quiet. I think of the worst that can happen. I make it home unscathed. I listen to music. I do my homework. I don't sleep.

"Broken. We are broken."

Tina is probably my best friend outside of Amy and Leslie, whom I've grown up with and who function more like sisters, though I haven't been seeing much of either of them. We're both enamored of "Songs From the Big Chair" and "The Breakfast Club" and we're both totally melodramatic. We both write stories and have mothers whom we cannot stand. In essence, we are just like any number of working-class white kids across the country, though probably we have more aspiration and imagination than a large percentage. We also seem to have a lot of insight into our particular form of pubescent depression and she runs hot and cold. I feel like I am sliding downward as a result. I can't stand the "we're friends today but I am mad at you about something now" dynamic that seems to dominate between us. I take it seriously. I get offended easily. I alternate between really needing a friend and being completely pissed off by what I perceive as slights.

"I made a fire and, watching it burn, thought of your future."

"Head Over Heels" is ostensibly a love song and yet I can't interpret it that way. The line "Don't take my heart, don't break my heart, don't throw it away" pierces me because I hear in it everything I want to tell some of the people around me: "Do not take me for granted." And now it's now a huge hit. And that's exactly what they seem to do.

Maybe because I am so miserable, maybe because I only sleep four hours a night, maybe because I don't know what to do, the only logical exit strategy I have is to simply erase my existence. It seems to free my mind. I now debate this calmly, wondering bout the ideal ways to commit suicide. I make a list of preferred methods but I don't have access to a gun or prescription medication. That leaves my wrists. I begin practicing the motions of slashing them in the bathroom late at night, teasing the skin with the edge of the blade, thinking it's like any other skill--you must become comfortable with it and learn how to do it and then you can be successful.

"Found a brave new world."

I can't go through with it. I can't really look at myself in the mirror, but with a razor pressed into my flesh and forcing me to decide, I realize I have to see more of the world. I have to get out of this bathroom, out of this moment in time, just get out. This moment cannot last forever.

Right?

I don't cut that deep, really. There is blood, but there's barely a scar later. But I still wear a long-sleeved windbreaker every day to school afterward, both because of the weather and because I knew that if word gets out it might make me look crazy to everyone else--and therefore I'll probably get left alone. I like this idea.

Word, of course, gets out. My mother is called to school by my counselor to talk to me about suicide and depression. She is visibly upset, but, of course, completely clueless as what to do with me. She takes me home and talks to me for a while, never really digging too deep. We can't afford counseling of any sort, though it's recommended.

What hurts more is seeing how everyone in my family knows that I am in pain and yet remains unable to talk to me about it--as if we are a group of actors stuck in a play with no lines to utter. Only my sister has the will to tell me that I can talk to her about whatever is bothering me. In that moment we begin patching the adolescent tear in our relationship--she, almost 17; me, only 12. She's old enough to be able to articulate to me that she is not a fairweather friend, and that she knows what it's like to feel like there's no way out. But there is, she tells me: "You aren't going to live here forever."

I return to my notebooks and my stereo in my haunted room. Months on, "Songs From the Big Chair" still occupies the turntable. I will only learn much later that the title of the album is a direct reference to therapy, to "Sybil," to the many pock marks in the mind. But I recognize how weird it is that this quite dark album has become an MTV and Z100 staple.

The album closer, the mostly instrumental "Listen," is a song I've come to love. It doesn't seem to have a literal meaning aside from the few decipherable lyrics. It's simply about the song's atmosphere; for me, it is otherworldly. It floats between rock opera, Muzak, and film score, evoking a sense of closure, of moving onward, soaring up and out of the present.

At night, I lie awake in bed, rubbing my wrists lightly with my thumbs, and hum it to myself. It doesn't make the pain ebb, but it's become a form of meditation. I don't make myself any promises. I simply say that I will wait and see if this gets any better before I plot my next move.

"Self-Discography" is a series of essays on seminal albums and songs re-reviewed, recalled, and reimagined via the lens of my memory. It is said that smell is the sense most closely linked with memory. For me, it is sound.

Welcome Back!

2008-03-08T18:24:00.000-08:00

Just a little note to say hello and welcome to Nice Limbo version 2.0. Thanks to some tricky maneuvering on Wayne's part, the blog looks a lot nicer and is easier on the eyes (at least I hope you think so). Shortly, I'll be posting some additional fun things to help kick off the makeover. But, for now, you'll just have to look at the weird color field at the top of the page until you're hypnotized.
Love, Mikel

First and Only Impression

2008-02-29T16:47:00.000-08:00

On my way to the gym today to go swimming, I passed a guy wearing an ankh necklace.

Really? People still wear those?

My Next Road Trip (Apparently)

2008-02-19T13:15:00.000-08:00

So, Barbie and I got to chatting via email today regarding various states we have yet to visit.

The only one we share in common is Oklahoma.

Mind you, she's not been to 3 states out of the lower 48, while I've only got 5 left out of the entire 50.

She also has not been to Kansas. I flew through it once, so I technically count it, but I didn't really absorb any local flavor. So, we decided maybe we should knock KS and OK out in one punch by zipping through the panhandle, dashing into Kansas, and then to somewhere that was actually worth our time ... like New Mexico or Colorado.

Me being me, I knew Liberal, KS, was close to the OK panhandle. What I didn't know about was this:

Click Here to Make Your Brain Melt a Bit

I mean, c'mon. Are there any cast members of "The Wizard of Oz" who actually turn up in Liberal, Kansas to visit the model for Dorothy's house and this festival. It's so gay and yet not gay at all. Barbie and I are completely terrified, and yet strangely committed to seeing this unfold in front of us in real time. I imagine some kind of strange Halloween-esque festival that makes me elated and sad at the same time.

Honestly, I actually really want to do the circle tour drive around Lake Michigan--starting in Milwaukee, up to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and down the Michigan side to Saugatuck--oddly the gay place to be in Great Lakes, if you believe this:

Go Saugatuck!

That's much more my speed than the terrifying Great Plains. But really, which is gayer? Besides, not only is Liberal home to "The Wizard of Oz," it's close to Beaver, OK, as well as Hooker, OK, too! Barbie suggested we throw in Cooter, MO, but having already been to Dykesville, WI, with her (where we got ice cream at the Frosty Tip), it may make my head explode.

Music Moguldom Here I Come!

2008-02-08T10:35:00.000-08:00

Not that I want to knock a popular music group that tries to raise money for underprivileged kids, but this one detail in a story about the Black Eyed Peas' recent charity concert just... well, slayed me:

"The Peas' concert was to benefit their Peapod Foundation, which provides aid to underprivileged children while also introducing them to new musical and technological programs.

In an interview with The Associated Press earlier this week, Peas frontman will.i.am said one of the organization's main goals is to teach children how to become music moguls.

"I would like to have these workshops all around the world, these music schools, that teach people technology ... so that way, they can bring back money into communities," he said."

Really?

Your goal is to teach kids how to be music moguls? I hate to tell you this, but music companies hardly inject money back into communities. Judging by the continued obnoxious greed on display by the RIAA (Lower Royalties for Artists) and the fact that many musical acts are essentially indentured servants who can't make a dime off their art, maybe it's a better dream to have kids learn how to be self-sufficient music supporters who use technology to be self-sustaining--OUTSIDE the current business model. Huh? Huh?

Teaching them to love (and aim to be a part of) the industry as it is now makes as much sense as telling them to give away 90% of every paycheck they earn.

Maybe will.i.am knows something I don't. I mean, I doubt it, but you never know.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

2008-02-04T13:05:00.000-08:00

Ugh.

I've been enjoying the absence of life in the apartment next to mine for 5 weeks now. It lulls you into believing that maybe that space is haunted and no one can ever live there. Or maybe, somehow, one unit in my building has been condemned and will remain empty forever.

But no.

As I was so nicely told by my other neighbor on Friday, apparently the unit next to me has been rented by a woman with a 2 1/2-year-old child.

Let the fun begin.

The older I get, the more ornerous I become, I think. I firmly believe these days that the only reason I'd buy a house (could I even afford one in Los Angeles) is to escape the sound of other people next to, above, below me. Now, I am actually pretty lucky in that respect, as I have a two-story apt. so really the only sound I have to contend with is with this apartment that had been empty until now. It shares two big walls with mine--in the living room and master bedroom (which I don't even sleep in).
The neighbor on the other side of me lives alone thank god and is relatively quiet, so all of my neuroses turn to this proposed new neighbor, who will live in an apt. with no yard, no place for said child to really play, and a two-story living arrangement with potentially obnoxious offspring. Anyone who knows me knows that this prospect--if, indeed, noisy--will drive me bonkers in no time. Simply put, I dislike children. A lot. I could care less that anyone thinks it's a miracle to give birth. You're a mammal. It's not that hard.

Yet, I am trying to stay optimistic. Points in favor include a living being that likely goes to bed early, who will not have parties in the apartment, the sounds of whom are things I can place (as opposed to some neighbors, who, when you hear them, you wonder, "What the hell are they doing!?"), and, well... in general, it's one less adult to contend with.

Points not in favor: stomping feet running around all over the place. A child who screams. A mother who screams back. A child too young to be out of the house all day. A child who tries to play in the patio courtyard and thus wake everyone up at 7 am. Trust me, if I hear a child playing outside my bedroom at 7 am on the weekend, I will throw open my windows like Joan Crawford and scream my friggin' head off. I'll be the scary queen next door.

Still, even with points in favor mildly outweighing those against, I can't help but share Ryan's sentiment of: "That's it. We're moving."

But move where? I've built my renting life in L.A. on finding apartments that share the least number of walls possible with neighbors. It's becoming a bit "Beautiful Mind" to obsess over layouts of apartments versus location, amenities, and commute time.

For now, I am trying to just go with it. It's not the end of the world. I could be gravely ill, or living in a really shitty place, or still dealing with my old neighbor pounding on the walls. But there is one more thing my neighbor relayed to me which makes me fearful: Apparently the new tenant owns a Hummer. A sure sign that whoever this person is, she and I will never be friends.

Me-ry Chr---m-s

2008-01-18T19:27:00.001-08:00

Who ever said communicating with your friends was easy?

Right before Christmas, I received this in the mail:

It was, ostensibly, a Christmas card. Or, rather, it HAD been a Christmas card.

I stared at the pieces of gayly decorated strips of paper stock in front of me as I arranged them on the dining room table. There had been no envelope. Oh, wait, a strip of it was included, I think. But not the part with the return address. And not the part that told me who it was from. I felt bad for not immediately recognizing the handwriting, but, honestly, how many of you would know your friends' handwriting by sight these days?

I detected the words "Santa," "hat," and "gay," so I deduced maybe it was from a *gay* acquaintance. But then, many of my female friends would use "homo," so it was a toss-up.

The kicker, really was this:

No, no, let's zoom in closer:

I mean, it's nice to get an apology from th US Postal Service 'n' all, but I love the fact that they have the nerve to say that they are "aware" of how important my mail is so they are "forwarding it" in an "expeditious fashion." Because everyone wants scraps of mail that look like they'd been shredded or put through a wood chipper. As if, upon opening the envelope they sent it in, I would just say, delightedly, "I know! I'll make a semi-holiday themed mobile with these scraps of Christmas cheer!"

I was so close to just posting this around Xmas with a "Did you send this to me?" message blaring as the headline, but... well.... I got lazy. And the power went out Christmas Eve, and then work, and then I was tired, and... you know how that goes.

But then, like a delightful surprise, I got another card, and attached to it was the return address portion of the original ripped up card, and evidence that Mr. Jeff White--the mystery holiday well wisher--received strips of card as well.

So I pieced it all together, Encyclopedia Brown-style and voila!

Now we see my address and Jeff's. Well, you don't. We don't want you lining up at our doors for photographs and autographs.

Yay! Mystery solved. And I got TWO cards telling me Happy Holidays. Sometimes you only need mere scraps of sentiment from your friends to feel loved. And, if you're like me, you are totally satisfied with getting an anonymous scrap of a card and just thinking, "Well someone likes me! That's nice. I wish I knew who it was, but it doesn't matter, because someone likes me!"

Granted, I am sure there is more I could write that was not about a holiday that was nearly a month ago. How about those caucuses (or is that cauci?). How about that crazy Iran and their speedboats? How about the Golden Globes? Yeah, I didn't miss them either.

I am slow in getting 2008 going for anything. I need to bribe some folks to help on the visuals of the blog. I need to swim more. I need to stop playing video games. But, alas... I am off to New York next week, though. For work, but also for some fun drinkin' with Megan, Darren, Keith et al. I can't promise the best photos, but I'll try. If I don't find my coat soon, it'll be images of me holding myself like an orphan from a Dickens novel against the cold.

Things to Love

2008-01-02T12:50:00.000-08:00

1. New Year's Eve day spent hiking on the beach in the warm sun finding snail shells.
2. New Year's Eve-ning spent eating, drinking, and making cookies.
3. Planning a trip for later in the year and having the dilemma be: Vietnam and Cambodia, or just Costa Rica? (I'm already so excited.)
4. Reading "The Canon" by Natalie Angier and realizing science is actually cool and not as terrifying as it used to seem.
5. Redecorating my apartment.
6. Getting ready for a visit from Lissa and Tom.
7. Sex, good booze, and cookies. Not necessarily in that order. And having all three with good company, to boot!
8. Watching "Aliens" on Christmas Eve and feeling like it was the most appropriate Christmas movie.
9. Preparing to change the look and feel of this blog, with new! improved! fun! features.
10. Believing that some good will ultimately win out over all the other crappy things that have been happening in the world lately.

You May Not Know That You Think You Might Need This

2007-12-11T22:08:00.000-08:00

Ryan just showed up in the chilly bedroom with a skull mug full of Good Earth tea with honey--exactly what I needed after one of the most frustrating days in recent history.

Some of you know already that every time I go to the doctor I seem to have some completely asinine conversation with someone who is apparently a "medical professional."

(And as an aside, the end of my day is now being made more joyous by someone's car alarm going off right outside my apartment for the last 15 or so minutes.)

Anyway, I've had a cold for nearly 3 weeks now and it's all stayed in my sinuses. Now, my sinuses and I are well acquainted so I know this is likely a sinus infection. I finally go in to the doctor today, arriving at 1:55 p.m. for my 2:10 p.m. appointment. My temperature is taken at 2:20, followed by my blood pressure and then....it's 3:05 p.m. and I am still in the front waiting room. So, me being me, I finally go hover in the nurses' station and ask when I'll be taken to a room. They ignore me for a minute and then finally:

Nurse #1: "Are you here to see Dr. S----?"

Me: Yes.

Nurse #2 (shakes head): Dr. S----.... oh... (sighs) she's so backed up; we don't have rooms.

Nurse #1: We don't have a room yet.

Me: You told me that 45 minutes ago.

Nurse #1: Let me check on Room #4.

Nurse #2 (to me): There are no rooms.

Me (in my head): What is this? A hotel?

Nurse #1: Follow me.

So, yay!... a room. And there I sit for another 30 minutes. I nearly walked out, but still feel poorly enough that I feel like a prisoner. Finally, the doctor shows up,
and barely utters an apology and asks me what's wrong with me. I suck down the vitriol I have in my throat and explain. I tell her I also have bad allergies so I wanted to be sure this was something else and not just my "normal" congestion. She looks up my nose and at my throat, "hmmmmm"s to herself and says "Well, you might have a bit of sinusitis. Or maybe not."

Um....

Me: "So, is it something other than just normal congestion?"

Her: Well, you say you have tenderness in your sinuses.... (trails off)

Me: Um, yeah. I've had what seems like a cold for 3 weeks.

Her: Oh, well, then, yes, it could be. But you know, it may clear up.

Me: So......?

Her: (types on computer)

Me: SO.... do I need antibiotics?

Her: Well, I will fill out a prescription, but maybe you should wait and see if it gets better.

Me: It's been 3 weeks. I feel out of it and lethargic and congested.

Her: Well, you know, we don't just like to prescribe antibiotics...

Me: I understand...

Her: You know, with that superbug (laughs).

Me: Excuse me? That's a staph infection, right, not sinusitis?

Her: Yes, but if you take too much penicilin...

Me: So are you telling me NOT to take this?

Her: Well, I will write the prescription and you can fill it if you need to.

Yes, it's all a wonder I did not throw myself out the window by this point. Let's tack on 40 extra minutes for going to the pharmacy, and then waiting for them to post my name on the LED board, which they never did, so 30 minutes after it should have been ready I finally braved the huge line and they say "Yes, of course, it's been ready for 20 minutes!"

I left the parking garage at 4:30 p.m., ready to punch anyone who possibly got in my way.

And now I have penicilin. And a fear of the superbug. And hatred for this doctor. And a headache.

Hence the tea that Ryan so sweetly set in front of me. Sometimes it only takes a skull mug to make it all better.

Who's Mortgage Is It, Anyway?

2007-12-06T11:21:00.000-08:00

At the risk of sounding... oh, like a Republican (shudder), why is there such a sudden interest by Congress and the White House in helping out people who bought houses at inflated prices with bad credit who knew their mortgages would re-set?

Oh, right... not only is 2008 a Leap Year, it's Election Year.

The best part of all is that once you get past the lame AP headlines of "White House Announces Plan to Aid Those Ailing in the Ailing Housing Market" etc., you get nifty little nuggets like this:

"Bush said that 1.2 million people could be eligible for help under the plan, developed in negotiations with the mortgage industry led by Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson. But only a small fraction of that number will be subject to the rate freeze."

So this is helping the market how, exactly?

"Also, the aid will only come to those who ask for it, he said. Thousands of borrowers who are falling behind on their payments have been sent letters about the options, and Bush also urged people to call a new hot line: 1-888-995-HOPE."

I see. If I buy a house and know my mortgage is re-setting, then I send out the bat signal, I mean, call a hotline.

"Bush originally gave the wrong number for the hot line; the White House later corrected him."

My guess is Bush couldn't spell H-O-P-E or completely lacks understanding of what the word means, since nothing he's done the last 7 years inspires any in anyone.

In case it wasn't obvious, I am considerably cranky today.

Death to Friendster

2007-12-05T15:20:00.000-08:00

I don't know why I didn't do this sooner, but I finally just deleted my Friendster account. Remember Friendster? It was Myspace before Myspace morphed into Facebook...or something like that. It hardly matters; you know what I mean.

I seem to remember being really excited when Friendster first appeared because it seemed so novel--the whole "connect with people online" thing that wasn't about trolling for sex (though you could have used Friendster for that, I suppose; I never got enough profile views for it to matter).

I labored over that profile--trying to make myself sound as eclectic and yet attractive to the general populace in the hopes that I'd somehow be validated by this computer-based socializing. There was a whole "Electric Dreams" element to it, really...as if the computer on which I was creating all of these cheeky, super-cute descriptions might accidentally fall in love with me. And then I'd totally spurn it, of course.

Looking back at my Friendster profile last night, I, too, was underwhelmed. No wonder I never saw any action as a result. "Is that me?" I wondered. Then I looked at Myspace and Facebook and saw a similar profile and wondered if I should just delete all of them... BUT, I like playing Scrabble with Tim and Blaise on Facebook, so I kept that. And Myspace had better pictures of me, so...

Or is the truth that I, too, no longer know how to be alone? (How's that for technologically induced existential angst?) There's something so validating about knowing someone's looking at you online and "interacting" with you and telling you how great you still look--which is a lovely by-product, I admit. And I do genuinely love quasi-reconnecting with folks to whom I may never send a postcard. But how far does that interaction go? I guess only my Scrabble win/lose record will tell me.

I Clearly Needed A New Obsession

2007-11-27T21:54:00.001-08:00

I can be a bit obsessive.

Like the time I had to drink nothing but Crystal Pepsi for a few weeks (and, in tandem, came the magical journeys into Bennington, VT, with Barbie to find it). Then I had to smoke Camel Wides. Then I had to play Addams Family pinball obsessively. Then it was Pin Bot. Then I had to buy everything 4AD Records ever released (well, almost). Then I sat on my knees on the dusty carpet in Amoeba Records and bought tons of movies that I honestly think were never seen by more than 2 other people. Then I went to the beach nearly every weekend this summer. OK, so I have some problems.

I often think of my particular musical obsessions, especially since I no longer work at a magazine and therefore have a hard time justifying spending my time surfing online looking for obscure bands who have upcoming album releases.

But I have so few musical heroes, really. That surfing was me always looking for an album that would give me a chill. I've found a few here and there: The Glee Club, The Places, Corrina Repp--all artists I am sure you have heard about, right? Almost all of them seem to be women who have failed to conform to some kind of model of what the music business wanted them to be. I am sure I could draw the typical correlation between me being a big homo and how my living "outside societal conventions" makes me feel like the long lost brother to these women. Or whatever.

But the older I get, the more I realize that in general I have a hard time being a good, predictable consumer--and therefore am very much ill at ease with marketing and advertising. Don't get me wrong: I will happily buy an iPod or a pair of New Balance shoes, but I can barely handle watching car commercials, let alone "Extra" or "Entertainment Tonight" or pro sports. There's just no pretending anymore. We're supposed to entertained by Paris Hilton and Evanesence and Carrie Underwood and want to buy people diamonds because we're in love and houses and fat cars and fatter clothes and cute dresses at trendy boutiques--i.e., those Daily Candy.com will write about next month--and slim ties because now they're back.

Music, for me, is particularly prickly. It always seems like a total accident when a smash hit--like Rihanna's "Umbrella"--is something I, too, like. But mostly I just know way too much about the music labels in this town and what it means to be popular. And it doesn't seem to be getting much better. Granted, I am 34 and it's not 1985 anymore. I am much more jaded. But I am also much more aware that there is a ton of music out there that I need to find. Music that will move me. Music that still has the ability to give me a chill.

I was sharply reminded of that tonight, reading something written by Kristin Hersh, who is something of a mini hero to me (mostly because I am amazed by her guitar playing and can't figure out how a mother of four has made something like 20 records in 22 years). Her voice is a "love her or hate her" proposition, I know--something often said about some other women with particularly strong voices, such as Corin Tucker of Sleater-Kinney... go figure, since Kurt Cobain and Black Francis got away with it.

Anyway, the point of this is that Kristin Hersh can essentially not make any money in the record business model. A woman who should be considered a trailblazer (no one would hate Corin Tucker's voice if they hadn't hated Kristin's first) basically is nearly broke after working for 20 years. Her last CD from early '07 just didn't even blip on the radar and she nearly lost all of her money on tour.

So what does she do? Well, she begins recording music, offering it online (as she's done for years), and sets up a model to basically act as an organic farmer of music-- homegrown, sent directly to the consumer, even going so far as to say you can be named an executive producer of her new CD if you front the money (like many in the business anyway). And yet none of it seems gross. In fact, it seems like all the bones of the music-making process are now laid bare. She even has her Pro Tools stems up online to let people totally remix and re-record the song.

If she was a shitty musician, it would feel embarrassing somehow. But it's simply not. And as much as I like collecting physical albums (yes, vinyl) and CDs, this feels like it's the way it has to be. If you love your music and someone says "Here, you can have this" for a small fee and there's not Warner Bros., no Interscope, no Universal shoving it down your throat, what do you do?

You obsess over it, of course...which is what I've been doing with this:
Krisitn Hersh: Slippershell

And for the record:

The Glee Club

The Places

Corrina Repp

Aloha! Days 7 and 8

2007-11-12T19:23:00.000-08:00

So, this picture is actually from the day before this begins, but I forgot it on the last post, so you'll just have to deal with it. Besides, the last day of the trip is really just about me sitting in the airport on Maui wanting to cry and not really about the trip. I realize, however, in looking at this image of Ryan and I, that I have never in my life spent so much time with my shirt off.

The days after our Road to Hana adventure, I was fairly adamant about not really doing much of anything. We did some driving to nearby places like the Up Country to do some shopping in a cute little town...which is where we were warned about speeding:

Ryan kept making Star Wars noises to imitate the PT Cruiser being blasted with laser beams that would keep us in check, should we stray over 50 mph.

Iao Valley was beautiful as well, though slightly overrun with people. Still, you can tell just from this picture that Ryan snapped of the clouds, that there's a reason why it's revered as a holy place:

We started one day with wandering on the lava fields south of Wailea to see where the road ends, as you cannot drive around all of Maui without 4-wheel drive. While tromping around on the lava we did catch sight of some curious signs:

At first I had no idea if this referenced just the lava itself....

I soon learned, however, that the Hawaiians did indeed build on these fields of sharp, sun-baked rock. Amid the strewn about black lava that made this look like a moonscape on a tropical island were remnants of shelters or some other kind of utilitarian structures that had not quite made it to protected status. Hence... the sign, obviosuly.

But I was fairly entrenched in not doing too much more than lazing about on the beach. To that end, Ryan was very accommodating--which was awfully sweet of him, considering he kind of knew the whole area well already. By far the best beach(es), in my mind were Big Beach and Little Beach. They have other names, but it doesn't matter much. After all, Big Beach looks like this:

Can you blame me for just wanting to park my ass on the sand and stay there? Little Beach was actually better for body surfing; Big Beach had insanely large waves breaking right on shore--the kind that kill you. A rock separates the two beaches, so you climb up and over it to to dscend from BB to LB. Little Beach is also the nude beach, which, of course, was not overflowing with beautiful bodies. I mean, it was hardly shocking to see Europeans and hippies and body surfing. What was fascinating to me is that there were strata of people who maybe would have never interacted other than on this strip of sand in this cove on this island in this tiny part of the world.

And there were plenty of locals--even plenty of kids on boogie boards and families surfing. I didn't strip down at first, as I just wasn't sure I wanted to. But after 10-15 minutes, you realize NO ONE cares and then I tossed my trunks on to the towel and we headed into the warm water. There's something really wonderful about being naked in warm sea water. I can't really pin it down, but it was just perfect... and I wasn't afraid of jellyfish this time around.

Our last evening, I asked Ryan to show me a pretty locals beach that was near all the resorts--one that was kind of tucked in between all the Wailea compounds (after all, in Hawaii, no one owns the beach; the resorts have to allow public access). We curved our way into a tiny parking lot and went down some stairs and emerged on to a nice beach, dotted with rocky patches. Near us, groups of resort goers were lounging and waiting for the sun to set. A table was set on the beach where someone would be having dinner....and we just surfed the small waves that came gliding into shore, watching the sun sink lower and lower. After playing around in the tidepools a bit we began walking back to the car, reluctant to leave since it would mean we were officially done--that we'd have to head back to L.A. too soon.

Of course, first we had to snap pictures of each other with the beautiful sky behind us.... Ryan liking the spontaneous "Hey, look here" picture, while I went for the more traditional "act like a deer in headlights" request:

But then we just sat there and watched the sky turn oranger, redder, more and more beautiful. I didn't want to make a move to have to go drive, to eat, to have to pack up shells, sea glass, and rocks. I wanted--as I always do when I am somewhere beautiful--to just stare as long as possible in the hopes that the images would just burn into my brain, stored somewhere, perfectly recollected when I needed them to be.

Nothing works quite that easily, I know. But what helped in watching this last sunset on Maui was knowing that I was lucky enought to get to do something I'd always wanted to do--and share it with someone I wanted by my side the entire time.

Aloha! Days 5 and 6

2007-10-27T13:46:00.000-07:00

No, it's not me wondering what that black spot is doing floating next to me. It's ... well, I'm not entirely sure. I'm channeling my father a bit here, I think. But it's definitely me in Oahu on a beach that had lots of jellyfish washed up on shore (and therefore we weren't swimming... unlike the image below of what quickly became my favorite beach):

But it was now about time to say goodbye to island #1, which I was feeling kind of happy about simply because I really wanted to get my butt to Maui and just not have to return to Waikiki. That's not to say that Oahu wasn't great, of course. I mean, after all, I'd swam with sea turtles and Ryan picked beautiful, sweet-smelling flowers to put in the rental car as we drove the hills above the city to get a bird's eye view of the southern part of the island:

We also spent time at the tourist spot of Hanauma Bay, which is a popular place for everyone who comes here to snorkel and, as Jessica says, "find Nemo" over and over again. Sadly, the wind was a bit intense, which made the snorkeling a bit difficult. Still, what a gorgeous place:

I have to admit, though, that Maui was *much* more my speed--fewer people, a bit more dramatic in its landscape, with a combination of fantastic beaches and volcanos, cliffs, and lush landscape. After getting our car at the Kahului airport (a PT Cruiser--the stupidest car around. Apparently, you can't get much smaller when you rent from Thrifty!) and checking in to the Sunseeker, a gay-owned small motel in Kihei, we made a bee line for the nearby beach and jumped in the water and watched the sun set through the clouds. But first Ryan did the quintessential Hawaii pose:

The water was much more gentle here, with Kihei being slightly less overrun by resorts and faux luaus that you'd find further up the west end of the island near Lahaina, etc. Ryan had lived here for a while about 10 years ago, so he knew where to go--and exactly what I would find appealing--namely, fewer screaming children and horrible tourists.

We made a plan to make a full-day adventure the next day by getting up early and driving the road to Hana. Anyone who's done this (or even heard of it), knows it takes hours to drive the winding, two lane highway across the north end of Maui to get to the wet side of the island--which becomes more and more like a jungle the further along you go. Ideally, of course, one would stay the night over there and explore to his or her heart's content, but the lodging options if you're not camping are very limited. Still, I wanted to see all of the waterfalls (not to mention all of the otherr PT Cruisers), as well as the black and red sand beaches, which have held my fascination for the nearly 25 years I've been reading about them).

We stopped in Haiku at a hippie vegetarian restaurant to get sandwiches and were on our way pretty early.... the road putting even California's Highway 1 between Cambria and Big Sur to shame. It was impossible to do more than 20 miles an hour most of the time. Still, the views along the way were sometimes breathtaking.

Once we finally made it to the Hana side, the skies were gray and rainy, but it hardly mattered. This was wild, volcanic jungle, dotted with the aforementioned exotic beaches, which, in person, were nearly mystical.

Rayn at the black sand beach (where the water was really kind of out of control... we didn't dare go in (esp me, given all the "Danger: Portugese Man-O-War" signs)

Me in the water at the red sand beach, which you can only really access by trespassing on land owned by the Hotel Hana Maui--which we didn't feel so bad about. Only a few people were there, and it was like a volcanic grotto/cove:

I wished we could have stayed here and enjoyed a sunny day and overnight, but the rain came down in sheets soon after we stopped swimming and collecting shells and sea glass (of course). We waited it out in the "general store," which reminded me of awesome out-of-the-way places we used to stop at on road trips in Oregon and Wshington.

I didn't get to see nearly enough of this part of Maui, so all the better for me to come back, right?

When the rain cleared we turned and headed back west, me determined to make it to Kahului before it was completely dark. The last thing I wanted was to be on that road in the pitch black. I mean memories are all well and good, but me in a PT Cruiser on the Hana Highway at night. Um, no thanks!

Happily, we made it back to the dry side before it was too treacherous. Just enough time to find food, hit the beach, and go to sleep.

p.s. some pics were scanned by Krista for me... though I guess the scanner was a tad, um, dusty... ;)

Well, It's About Time

2007-10-25T14:40:00.001-07:00

http://robotballoon.wordpress.com/

Lesley's blog is up (and linked on the right). I keep telling her: "One-woman show. One-woman show," but of course she ignores me.

More on Hawaii soon!

Mikel

Two Minutes Later....

2007-10-19T12:45:00.001-07:00

Now Lesley says she'll send the URL to me, but reads the previous post and decides she WON'T send it to me after all. Is this what abusive relationships are like?

Lesley Is Withholding Valuable Information

2007-10-19T12:39:00.000-07:00

J'accuse!!!!

Lesley finally lets slip that she's starting a blog and won't give me the URL because it's apparently "not done."

Hurry up. I have to read it and listen to you edit it obsessively.

Stay tuned for the link.... I'm sure her blog will be awesome. If anyone read her "Hey there, Yaz fans!" piece that I reposted here, then you know what I mean.

Aloha! Days 3-4

2007-10-13T12:41:00.000-07:00

The joy of Oahu is being able to see anything outside of Honolulu. Once I'd put Band-Aids on my toes after being slashed open by the coral at Queen's Beach near Waikiki I felt more than ready to see the rest of the island. Since Ryan's friend Leslie had lived here and he'd spent some time visiting her, we hit several beaches he knew on the Windward Coast, exploring different little stretches of usually deserted sand (a lot of tourists simply don't come here, even though it's all of 30-40 minutes from the city). Even on the not so spectacular beaches (which means it's still beautiful), we found lots to stare at and I took "arty" pictures of coconuts.

As we got closer to the North Shore, Ryan essentially started salivating because he knew that we were getting closer to his favorite shrimp truck, so I watched as he devoured garlic shrimp in about 5 minutes. I should have gotten a picture of the paper plate loaded with shrimp and giant chunks of garlic, but for some reason I left the camera in the car, so I settled getting a shot of the truck, which clearly illustrates just how beloved this thing is:

The North Shore is, of course, as gorgeous as I thought it would be. But it was also less populated than I imagined. For such a famous surf spot, I assumed there would be a ton more resorts and houses, but really, aside from the inlfux of daytrippers like us, it's fairly quiet. And at this time of year, before the giant waves start crashing on the reefs offshore, the beaches are actually quite gentle. Sunset Beach, in fact, barely had any waves at all, which was great in one respect, because we could take turns strapping on my goggles and diving down to the sandy bottom near the shore and collecting shells (one of which, of course, I learned later, was so pretty because it usually is home to a highly poisonous creature that, had it been home when I grabbed it, probably would have fucked me up big time; leave it to me!). Of course, we both ended up getting stung by tiny jellyfish that you can't even see. It felt like a bee sting, and poor Ryan got one stuck in the leg of his swimsuit, lashing his skin a few times before moving on.

Nursing our stings/bites we jumped back in the car to grab food and eat at Waimea Bay and watch the sun go down, which was beautiful, natch. And the next day we came back up here to get shaved ice at Matsumoto's (so worth it) and swim some more, this time getting to watch as a giant sea turtle swam right underneath us, very very close to shore. The turtles are absolutely beautful and awe-inspiring. It's no wonder Hawaiians afford them a place of honor in their culture.

Heading further out toward the Northwest point of the island, Ryan took me to a favorit beach of his, which, at first, was windy and almost cold, but, as the day wore on, became much more hospitable, and we wandered the sand, combing for sea glass and watching eight different sea turtles come in close to shore to look for food and rub their shells on the coral and rocks. And again, we saw maybe four other people on the beach. Apparently, it's a locals spot, so tourists don't make it out there often.

Where the road ends here, however, the landscpe becomes more rugged, with the rocks running down from the mountains out to the ocean. Obviously a big party spot, it was a bit trashed, which was too bad, but the coastline views made up for it.

I have no idea what I was doing when Ryan took this picture by the way (but at least I look better in the one following):

And of course, I had to get this shot, because even in paradise, who doesn't love their own bottle of Black Velvet?

We didn't drink it, for the record.

Get Up (Everybody)

2007-10-12T09:47:00.000-07:00

It's 8 am on a rainy morning in San Francisco, where I've been working for almost 2 weeks. I am kind of cranky, maybe slightly hungover from gimlets last night. I spent 30 minutes walking back to my hotel last night on the phone with Susan, making her listen to me as I bought Ryan a beer cozy at Walgreen's (because what shows your love for someone more than that?). On the phone with her, I remember why I adore her so much, and what a shame it is that we do not see each other more.

So, today, at 8 am I inexplicably hear in the elevator at my hotel Salt N Pepa's "Get Up (Everybody)," which is now almost 20 years old, and which Susan and I can probably rap to in tandem with them we know it so well, and it made me laugh. Four women in their 60s were in the elevator with me and looked kind of horrified, which made me laugh harder. The day has started well....

More Hawaii pics when I finally get back to L.A.

Aloha!: Days 1 and 2

2007-09-27T22:54:00.000-07:00

When we landed in Hawaii (and boy is the flight great when you only bring carry on luggage), I was prepared for Honolulu to be kind of gross, and it was, but it was also exotic in a way--like a Southeast Asian city in the U.S. somehow. Laundry is strewn from apartment building balconies, but the ocean is so pretty and the air smells like flowers for a moment... Picking up the car in a weird back alley near the airport we saw lesbians getting ready to go on cruises, a Sonny Bono look-alike in an aloha shirt with what appeared to be a Malaysian transsexual from Las Vegas, and lots and lots of fat people. I was not encouraged by this, but I kept looking at the distant mountains, knowing something beautiful was out there.

As we drove into Honolulu proper, I finally saw the beach and Diamond Head and got kind of excited. After all, I'd watched Magnum P.I. and the Brady Bunch Goes to Hawaii, and I admit I had those images seared into my brain...and really, they're not far off the mark. Waikiki is kind of like Disneyland and a high-end mall slash hotel rolled into one--fascinatingly horrid.

It was warm but not too humid; the sun was hot, but the water beckoned. It's like the island was simply made to be enjoyed with the idea of throwing yourself in the water. After we dropped our bags at the hotel, ate lunch at a Mexican place (really!) and then got to our room (gee, it was cheap for a reason), Ryan and I high tailed it to Queen's Beach, which is adjacent to Waikiki, and.... the water is so warm, so clear, and SO FULL OF CORAL. Literally, thousands of coral pieces floating everywhere, so I get scraped and blood drawn on 3 toes. "Is this what Hawaii will be like?" I wonder as I nurse my poor toes.

Luckily, no... the next day, we drive up the Windward Coast, aka the wet side of Oahu, and I get to see some spectacular sights, including the pali (aka the cliffs) and the Hygienic Store:

Even better is the beautiful stretch of beach Ryan shows me. It's literally only 10 minutes up the coast from some of the most visited parts of the island, but it was completely empty, save some tents and homeless people camps here and there in the brush between the road and water. But just seeing the color of the water was enough for me. (The self-portrait wasn't supposed to be me sneering, but the sun made me squint!)

Ryan in the water:

Me not looking as excited as I was:

As we drove further up the east side of Oahu, the scenery got more beautiful and dramatic, as the cliffs often just seemed to thrust up out of nowhere. We also stopped at fruit stands on the side of the road to get pineapple cut up by a machete and for me to drink water from a coconut (delish!) and then attempt to eat it with a plastic spoon (not as delish).

There was more to enjoy though, since the coconut didn't do the trick, and as we continued toward the North Shore, Oahu got more and more beautiful.

Sigh

2007-09-26T19:24:00.000-07:00

How can you want to leave a place that looks like this?

Answer: You can't.

More on Hawaii soon....

The State I'm In ... I Mean, Am

2007-09-11T13:57:00.000-07:00

Who knew you could take a state quiz to find out which state you "are"?

And yet, here's me... I'm not sure I understand, but I kinda like it all the same!

You're Alaska!
You're big, bulky, and extremely wild. At the same time, you're rather cold and standoffish, even a loner of sorts. Taming you may be one of the last great quests of the people who do manage to find you or even seek you out. So many of them just want to plunder you for what you have of value, but there are a few, the ones who will stick with you, that truly value your rugged remoteness. As long as no one is spilling stuff on you, you are truly beautiful.

http://bluepyramid.org/ia/squiz.htm

Gimme More... of What?

2007-09-10T20:46:00.000-07:00

I am so weak. I totally admit it. After spending all day with my head firmly planted in front of Microsoft Outlook and apartment rental listings on Craigslist, I finally gave in and watched the Britney Spears "performance" (I am not sure there was performing involved) of her, I mean someone else's, "Gimme More" at the VMAs last night.

I'd really love to say everything you might think I'd say: it was pathetic, kind of gross, and just representative of how sad the state of the music business is...even how sad Britney is. C'mon, she looked drugged, disoriented, and disinterested. It made me think that a more daring comeback would have been for her to just really embrace her heritage and do some kind of commercial for Wal-Mart. Except she's just so darn addicted to that Hollywood lifestyle, so Bentonville, Ark., doesn't want her...

It was like the final nail in my youth coffin, these fucking VMAs. But I don't think it's that I am getting too old to appreciate pop (hey, I own that Rihanna CD and like it very much, thanks). It's just that who cares about half the shit the VMAs and MTV are trying so hard to celebrate. Do I give a shit that Kanye West and 50 Cent have some kind of "beef"? Um, no. Could I care less that Kid Rock (who?) got in a fight with Tommy Lee (at least he's a bona fide rock star)? Um, not so much.

I casually perused these tidbits of news, and then thought about how some of my favorite musicians--people who actually know how to play instruments--are going broke and may not even be able to tour or make a living anymore while we get Britney teetering around on her stilettos shoved down our throats. That's not new. People used to talk about how Madonna and Wham were destroying music. OK, so maybe Wham kind of did (oh, wait, that was Andrew Ridgeley's solo album). But it just seems that where TV, radio, and retail could at some point operate independent of major corporations there was always an element of surprise.

The music "business" would like to say that illegal downloading is taking away profits and destroying artists, but if people really wanted to create art, they'd do it anyway, without Sony/Interscope/EMI behind it. When you think that only a few men control these companies, these radio stations, these supposed music television channels (Why do the VMAs even exist anymore? Does MTV actually play videos?), it's all too clear that the mass produced music forced on us is often just junk food for the ears. They let some real talent slip through now and then, but when Clive Davis kicks the bucket, who's going to be able to promote real artists in these parameters laid out by shows like the VMAs. I can't wait to see.

Meanwhile, I've been listening to stuff that almost no one will ever listen to, and marveling that it's even been laid down and recorded. It's not all good, of course. But it feels more honest than anything I saw from Vegas last night.

It's also hard to care much about the fluff right now, with the anniversary of my father's death having passed, knowing Barbie's grandmother passed away yesterday, thinking of my own mortality as I struggle with quitting smoking--what a stupid fucking addiction!--and feeling glad to be rid of it again.

It's not the right time for me to care about Britney, Paris, Lindsay, even Nicole, Tom, Posh, and Becks. Ultimately, I like seeing them dress poorly and then feel grossed out by thinking of how much so many of these people waste in the name of feeling loved and still never finding it. Gimme more, indeed.

Does This Even Need a Title With This as the Lead Image? (See Below)

2007-08-27T20:41:00.000-07:00

I don't listen to the Scorpions all that often, and yet today, this album is hitting the spot, I have to admit. OK, there, I said it. And yes, I actually own "Blackout." I'm not just pretending.

I grew up in a neighborhood that was split along many lines--but most notably music. You had two choices for music, most often: rock or rap. Most of the older kids in my neighborhood were total metal heads. Name your late '70s or early '80s band of choice, and I am sure I heard their albums--several times each.

But among the noise of Iron Maiden, Motley Crue, Dio, even Molly Hatchet, I had a soft spot in my little gay heart for the Scorpions. Don't ask me why. I am not sure I'll ever understand why myself. It's not exactly heavy metal.... it's more melodic, anthemic rock. But I was drawn to it, inexplicably, yes, but all the same.

In particular, I loved "Blackout." I was only 9 years old when this album came out, but everyone around me was 13-17 and so it was their perfect summer soundtrack. How can you not remember "No One Like You"? It was a radio and MTV staple, and I ate it up.

What simultaneously scares me and makes me laugh is that I still know most of the words to this album--and I still love it. Granted, I am listening to it in the privacy of my room at the moment, but it still gives me a rush. It reminds me of being young, days and nights free in the hot summer to hang out in neighbors' houses, watch people drink, get high, take off in their first cars, feeling like adults, blaring their music as loud as it will go.

What's even funnier is that a few of the songs on "Blackout" are actually political. The 7-minute "China White," for example, always sounded like a riff on Led Zeppelin to me, but re-reading the lyrics, it says, among other things: "How long will it take/To make the world a flaming star?/How long will it take/Till they stop their senseless wars?"

Ummmm....

Who knew I was responding to a screaming German man named Klaus who was singing about "filling our hearts with love again"? I didn't at the time.

It's always amazing what a sensory experience music can be. I marvel at remembering songs like "No One Like You" that are nearly 30 years old--that were such integral parts to a very specific moment in my life.

I suspect the Scorpions started my love of a master guitar player. Granted, I respond more to kick-ass women playing it these days, but listening now, I can't help but marvel at how good the playing on "Blackout" actually is.

Plus, I was feeling kind of aggro today and needed a soundtrack. Now I know what to play when I feel like this.

Now, excuse me while I go back to paying bills and singing along to "Dynamite."

Life Made Easier?

2007-08-25T11:28:00.000-07:00

I made the mistake of turning on the TV last night.

Unless it's 6 or 7:30 p.m. and I know The Simpsons has already begun, I rarely do this. If I had The Weather Channel, all bets would be off, because I could watch Doppler radar images for 36 hours straight and make everyone crazy.

But the unfortunate eyeball-searing spectacle was Miss Teen USA, which I knew Lesley had attended because her step-niece was crowned last summer in Palm Springs and there she was taking her "final walk" and then Mario Lopez was squawking about something stupid, and then the 5 finalists were whittled down and voila...Ms. Colorado was crowned! She was innocuous, and so was everything else. And then I saw the set, which looked like a Lichtenstein painting--which just seemed like some gross postmodern irony. If you had no idea who he was and were, oh, 15, and then saw a painting, you'd think he had cribbed it from Miss Teen USA. I clearly have little optimism about the intellectual prowess of Generation Z or whatever we're calling them now.

Turning off that fresh horror, I wandered aimlessly about my apt., fidgety because I am not smoking, and it was day 4 and I felt like I could strangle someone and then I'd feel great, and then I'd want to punch the wall. It's testament to how horrible this addiction is, I suppose. And I remembered how awful it was to quit in 1999. But also how much better I felt. And best of all, how much money I saved.

I thought about trying to write, but I feel so ADD right now. I can usually sit down and pound out a diatribe, essay, story about any number of subjects. I think it may be the fear of finishing something that keeps me scattered. I had this odd epiphany in the midst of taking the GRE for the second time last weekend. It was the analytical writing section and I hadn't prepared for it at all, really, but the two types of essay I was being forced to write just seemed so simple to me. The words could only be ordered in one way. I wondered about the "bigger" pieces of writing that I have been trying to gain forward momentum on and thought just in that moment that I may never finish, because if I did, I'd have to come up with another idea. And it just seemed so exhausting. (By the way, I got the SAME lackluster scores both times I took the GRE and gave up; I can't take it again, and, at 34, feel like I just don't care that much about this stupid test. I'll find a way to do what I want somehow. I doubt algebra and analogies will determine my fate.)

Granted, a lot of that has to do with spending every minute of free time in the last several weeks either traveling for work or studying for the GRE. This is the first weekend in 2 or 3 months where this isn't hanging over me and I feel adrift--like I have too many options.

I had been tackling this essay about my father's death and it was stinging me and I had to let it go for a minute. I'd not had that sensation from writing something in a long time. I think I'd been able to steel myself against the pain of his death for a long time, and 21 years later, something else has to be worked out. I don't know how Joan Didion did it exactly, writing about her husband's death so acutely. In interviewing people in my family again, it opens up sores that some of them have never let heal. And, by turn, it brings back to me the feeling of having just turned 13 and spending an entire summer in the hospital wondering what was happening to my dad and to my own childhood.

Needless to say, I am approaching this essay with more trepidation right now, circling it, in a sense, before I feel ready to dive back in.

I've been wanting life to slow down a little bit, and so far it's bending to my will. I think the last big hurdle is this apartment hunt. You know it's bad when you have dreams about exacting some kind of revenge on your neighbor and wake up feeling RELAXED. Geesh.

My chores today? To drop off stuff at a thrift store, go to Amoeba, and drive around parts of the city to apartment hunt. Oh, and to buy file boxes so I can start packing books in my house--a way to force myself to really go out there and find an apartment How exciting is that? To most, not very, I imagine, but it feels like bliss right now. And the best part is that it's August 25 and only 78 degrees. Damn, I just realized that in 3 days I will have been here 9 years. Maybe that means by next August I have to move.

They Say If You Put It Out Into the Universe....

2007-08-21T11:26:00.000-07:00

....well, then, someone/something will hear you.

So I am putting it out there: I need a new apartment! :)

Oct. 1 or Nov. 1 move-in is ideal. If you know me: I need 4 things:

1) Built before 1950 preferably (i.e., hardwood floors, tiled bathroom)

2) Quiet

3) Parking

4) Upstairs --unless we're talking some detached/weirdly layed out patio unit or treehouse or something.

I reiterate that the housing market in LA SUCKS. Not that y'all didn't know that but I just had to say it again.

End communication.

Blogging Black Hole

2007-08-16T10:19:00.000-07:00

I've been swept up into "life stuff," and the moment it stops, I go to the beach and throw myself in the ocean and watch the dolphins. Really. Two weekends ago, I was in the water and there were dolphins jumping and playing about 50 feet away. That's one of those "Oh, yeah, this is why I live here" moments.

Taking the GRE again on Saturday. I can't seem to learn more math. I keep getting the SAME score on every practice test. I think my brain is in revolt. Even though I "get" how it all works, I can't properly execute it. Honestly, deep down inside I just don't care enough about proportions, slopes, percentages, and factoring. Just one of my shortcomings, I guess.

Apartment hunting is a horrible thing in LA these days, too. How does anyone afford living alone, anyway? I make OK money and still the prices are outrageous, and make no sense: a 1-bedroom in Eagle Rock for $1210 on Craigslist; a 1-bedroom for $1180 in Santa Monica right below it. Huh? Not that I want to live in either neighborhood, but you catch my drift.

Back to the grind. I will hopefully get some pics of New Mexico and details on that trip soon!

When Something Becomes "Official"

2007-07-31T22:44:00.000-07:00

As in, I officially have nothing wrong with me, thanks to a very unpleasant medical procedure.

As in, I officially suck at taking tests, as evidenced last weekend. And I've officially signed up for the GRE again because I like being tortured apparently.

As in, I officially transition into a new "job" as of September 1st, though at my same company.

As in, I officially am tired of my current living situation and have begun to look for possible new apartments.

As in, I officially am 34 and feel pretty good about it.

As in, I officially have a boyfriend, and I feel pretty damn good about that too.

As in, my sister has officially moved to Portland, and I feel a small hole in my heart about it, even though I know I am 34, have a job, friends, a life, and she's only a 2-hour plane ride away.

As in, I officially have a set a date for when I will quit smoking (Aug. 20).

As in, I officially have tickets to Hawaii with Ryan for Sept. 16-24 and I am so friggin' excited about it that I could scream.

As in, I officially have a glass ashtray full of sea glass collected from all my trips to the beach so far this summer.

As in, I officially leave for New Mexico in 36 hours to go to The Lightning Field--a gigantic land art piece about 3.5 hours SW of Albuquerque.

As in, I have officially been a lazy blogger and have nothing better to do than think up smart-ass ways of writing entries.

Fucking Math

2007-07-21T11:05:00.000-07:00

No, the title cannot be more creative, thanks. My creativity is sapped at the moment.
I am having a fucker of a time re-learning the stupidest arithmetic--namely decimals, percentages, and fractions. Funny, I can easily recall how to calculate the area of a cylinder, triangle, or circle, and I know how to factor and unfactor quadratic equations, and I can maybe even remember how to calculate the slope of a line on an x and y axis, but give me a percentage conversion problem and I feel like a fucking idiot.

Wow, that's a lot of "fuck" in one paragraph.

What an insane transitional time, with medical tests (clean bill of health!), my sister moving to Portland next week (bummed--big time), and this giant test looming over me. My brain feels so scrambled. BUT-- I booked my tickets to Hawaii! I am so excited I could scream. I cannot believe I am finally going after 30 years of staring at maps and wondering how my own eyes would see these islands. 8 days on Oahu and Maui in September. Escaping the worst month in LA is a bonus, too.

Now, back to the flashcards and re-learning absolute values, factorials, and converting mixed numbers.