I'd Rather Be Road Tripping

Oh my god, as I started to write this, "Winter Kills" by Yaz came on my iTunes shuffle. Geesh. I promise not to go all 1982 pre-teen goth in this post, despite the soundtrack that's kicking it off. And warning: this could be a long one.

I haven't often considered this blog to be a diary, but the last several days have had my emotions all over the place that I kind of stopped working midday today and spent a good five minutes looking at my shoes, like someone reached into my spine and flipped on On/Off switch.

(Great. Now I'm even alluding to myself being like Vicky from "Small Wonder.")

I was originally supposed to have gone to San Francisco last weekend, but that vacation, as much as I wanted it, would have been turned into 4 days of me being totally stressed out due to all the work that I needed to get done by tomorrow and before I have to go to Boulder for work Thurs. AM. Essentially, there was just too much to be done, and good martyr than I can sometimes be, I decided to actually finish everything on time rather than be a basket case. Plus, a certain client right now is making me so angry that I've been on the verge of hanging the phone up on people, and I needed to see if there was some way to put an end to that. (Alas, no, but whatever...)

Luckily, what it did mean was a chance to go out with Marc on a bona fide date Friday night. Not that our previous night out and about wasn't kinda sorta a date, but this was, like, dinner and a movie--something I haven't done with a man in a long while, I have to say. After meeting me at my place we took my car (he apparently spilled DayQuil in his passenger seat, which brings up interesting images, but I didn't ask) and headed to (gulp) The Grave (aka The Grove). Upon trying to find any food and essentially having windows slammed in our faces as everything closed, we decamped to Whole Foods to listen to Doug E. Fresh play on the PA system as we had sandwiches made and then nibbled salt and vinegar potato chips before heading off to see "Reno 911: Miami," which is exactly what you'd expect--i.e., funny but not necessarily worth $13.

Not that I cared. I was thrilled to be out with a handsome, smart man who wears cute clothes. Short supply in these woods lately. The mystery of how one ever manages to meet people with whom they click is something I've thought about a lot since that night. It just amazes me how sometimes the pieces kind of fall into place--and someone with whom you've chatted online is actually equally engaging in person.

The rest of the weekend wasn't so exciting... basically a full day of work Saturday and watching... oh god, what was it? ... some stupid movie with Lesley.... Oh, wait! "Blood Moon." Good god what a dumb horrible AUSTRALIAN movie. I am still not clear if it was a horror movie or a 1990 episode of "Beverly Hills 90210." With bad accents. And permed hair. And a really slow middle section. Wait, that totally IS "Beverly Hills 90210."

And as much as I have to love the fact that a lesbian (really, a dyke!) was hosting the Oscars (something I never thought I'd see 10 years ago), god they were boring and almost no one looked good. I don't care what Tim says, Gwyneth Paltrow looked like something a scallop would throw up. And Naomi Watts looked like a cinched stick of butter. And then Nicole Kidman.... oh, Nicole, what did you do? You looked like you had an umbilical cord wrapped around your shoulder.

Thankfully, the fashion horrors were all nicely offset by Jeff and Co., who provided great commentary, good ravioli, and a tasty champagne cocktail.

Jumping backward in time, however, I forgot to actually mention last Thursday, which felt like the final meeting of the original incarnation of RAG, aka The Pink Ladies, aka A Bevy of Gay Media Boys. I don't know how many years it's been now since Jeremy, me, Rick, Matt, Darren, Chris and (originally) Dan first got together--our bond being that all of us in one way or another contributed to gay media/publications. Mike soon joined us too, and the merriment continued--monthly or bimonthy get-togethers that involved lots of bitching and alcohol. Kind of our own Dorothy Parker thing, it was always nice to recognize myself as a part of this group of men. I never had a large circle of male friends at any point in my life. Maybe college out of necessity, but this was really a group I knew and chose to be a part of--us homosocial homosexuals.

Darren and Matt leave this week for New York and who knows what will become of us. I am sure we all love an excuse to have a good cocktail, but it doesn't quite seem the same.

We shall see. We've already discussed opening a New York chapter.

Damn... that's a lot to cram into a few days... and I didn't even fit in a client telling me something I wrote looked like it was written by an 8th grader and that I "used to be a writer or something like that." Charming, non?

Oh, wait, I just did manage to fit it in, didn't I? The best part is that then I found an egregious spelling error on a printed piece of their collateral material.

And on that note...

A chapter definitely feels like it's closing as Matt and Darren leave. They have been part of my L.A. fabric for some time. I will miss having them nearby. But, to complete the cliche, a new chapter may have indeed opened. If being told I wrote something like an 8th grader spurs me onward to other things, if a cute young man with good taste can make me laugh, if I can continue to appreciate the people I have in my life...

No more Yaz on my iTunes.

Now it's "My Life in Art" by Mojave 3--a dusty tune made for late night road trips--the kind I wish I was taking right now across the desert of the same name.

A Week in Music

It's amazing the soundtrack you can amass and encounter over a week:

Monday
Wake up from a dream involving Jennifer Hudson singing "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going." Christ, is that gonna be the theme for the week?

Tuesday
Schizo music day:

1. It's OMD Appreciation Day: "Dazzle Ships," "Architecture and Morality," and especially "The Peel Sessions." Delicious '80s avant-garde synth pop.

2. It's Old-School Rap Appreciation Day: Drive back from business lunch with Jessica and listen to Salt 'N' Pepa's "Hot, Cool, and Vicious," telling her about how Susan and I bonded over "Tramp" in, oh, 1988...

Wednesday
Slightly morose and tired. It's Valentine's Day, after all. But that evening, at The Spotlight--a dive of a hustler bar in Hollywood--Jeremy and I grab Coronas and hear some delicious jukebox tunes. Why am I surprised to be hearing The Pixies in a divey gay bar in Hollywood? Oh, RIGHT, because it's a divey gay bar in Hollywood and the Pixies, of all things, are on the jukebox. What the...?

Thursday
Jody Watley's "I'm Looking for a New Love" is on 92.3 FM. I totally think it's Whitney Houston for a minute and then change the station.
I keep listening to "Big Judy: How Far This Music Goes, 1962-2004" by Judy Henske, one of the most criminally underrated female singers ever. I am lucky to have met her, too, which makes listening all the better.

Friday
Morning: "Love Is a Battlefield" is on the radio. Turn it up.
Gym midday: "Divorce Songs" playlist. Split my eardrums listening to Sleater-Kinney's "The Fox" *and* "War" by Celebration (during which I make a total ass of myself by singing out loud my favorite line in it: "Got more guns than anybody!"). Oops.
Evening: Stop talking in the midst of the going-away party for Matt to listen to "Furious" by Throwing Muses on Tim's stereo. Upon leaving and driving home, the iPod shuffles: M. Ward: "Headed for a Fall"; Lavender Diamond: "You Broke My Heart"; "Dirtywhirl" by TV On the Radio; Belly: "Low Red Moon"; and (ahem) Expose's "Point of No Return."


Saturday
Kristin Hersh live at Amoeba Saturday afternoon--get chills listening to "Winter."
Neko Case live at the Henry Fonda Saturday night--get chills during almost every song. The vocals make me melt.

Sunday

Catch up on new purchases: Lucinda Williams' '"West"; Band of Horses' "Everything All the Time"; Beirut's "Lon Gisland" EP"; Nina Nastasia's "On Leaving"; Bows' "Cassidy." Make new playlists for iPod. Look at my CD collection and think, "Fuck. Maybe I should stop buying stuff."

A Cackle and Some Krispy Kreme

"People come, people go
Sometimes without goodbye, sometimes without hello
She's got one magic trick
Just one and that's it
She disappears..."

I don't want to write a downer post.

It's why I haven't written in a week. I've mostly felt like an exposed nerve, open to the air, a dull pain coursing through me: one minute I'm fine, the next stricken by an unexpected feeling of loss.

I was both close and not close to Aslan. In the years I worked with her, she taught me a truly immeasurable amount--about semicolons, about the blessings of good espresso, about what it means to be proud to be gay...and why it will *always* be political, god damn it. At her memorial service on Saturday, it at first felt like an awkward reunion of people with whom I used to work very closely and some I really had not wanted to work with closely. Wayne was there too, which was both a comfort and weird, as I wondered sometimes what year it was, and how his connection to these people was borne of my time at Frontiers, a time that feels like a former life.

But I thankfully found myself laughing almost immediately in remembering Aslan, who was truly hysterical in the best sense. And she knew it, as well as loved being the center of attention. I used to call her a troublemaker and she would let her smile fade for just a few seconds and nod her head solemnly: "I am. I'm terrible." A beat. And then a cackle would erupt from her mouth.

So many people had great stories to share that it truly felt like a celebration of a life: firery, funny, smart, frustrating, incorrigible, endearing, inspirational--all the things a person is and should be.

I even had to share one story with the crowd. I am not one for standing in front of people and talking, but when I first interviewed at Frontiers, I came in for my second interview and Aslan was there, grinning devilishly at me... asking good, thoughtful questions, and making me feel very much at home. And then she says to me: "How do you feel about working with crazy people?" I probably blinked. And then said: "As long as they don't try to share their medication with me, I'm fine." She laughed. I laughed. A bond was instantly formed.

Leaving the service and going home, I felt lighter... ready to actually enjoy my evening, which I did immensely--from a gin and tonic at the Good Luck Bar to a beer at the Eagle among other shenanigans... it was an evening made memorable perhaps even more so because of the nature of how it began. I was feeling like I had to enjoy the moment instead of worrying about it and thankfully was in very good company.

The flip side of a memorial service? A baby shower the next day. And yet, it's Nicole and Michael, and the tables at the shower were decorated with stacks of Krispy Kreme donuts. No games, no frilly bullshit. Just a buffet, donuts, conversation, and unwrapping presents.

I suppose I could wax poetic about life and death sharing my weekend. But anyone who's experienced either the birth of a baby (or a friend's, family member's, etc.) or mourned and celebrated a life knows the magic of those feelings both good and bad.

And Aslan would hardly want me to sit here typing about how maudlin I've been and what I'm learning. She'd tell me to get up and go do whatever it was I wanted to do... get out there and live your life, honey. Good for you.

And then she'd let loose another cackle.

I Hate Saying Goodbye

Within 20 minutes of each other today, I found out my friend Darren is moving to New York in 3 weeks and that Aslan, one of the co-workers I actually liked at Frontiers, passed away over the weekend.

I could go on at length about both, of course. Darren, at least, I know I will see again--and I could not be happier for the career move he is making. I know the guts--and the intelligence--it takes.

Aslan, I never saw enough after I quit the magazine in 2005. The last time we spoke, I was standing at a car wash on 3rd Street. It was a warm, overcast day, and Aslan was talking about how she was getting ready to go back to work after being ill and in a convalescent home. We didn't dwell much on work, though.

Instead, we laughed.

I want to remember that right now, juggling all of these competing memories: On the phone, listening to the traffic, my fingers reaching out to touch bougainvillea blossoms spilling over a fence, Aslan's voice telling me about her crazy roommate in the convalescent home, and the hearty, infectious laugh coming through loud and clear.

The Cat's in Heat, but the Music's Fine

And no I don't mean me. I mean it literally. The normally docile, quiet puffball of a cat in my house is yowling uncontrollably and making me want to lock her in a room for the next 4 days. I love my roommate. He's a good friend. But damn if I don't wish his cat would vaporize right now. If he'd actually ever bred her like he intended, maybe I'd be more forgiving, but after an 11-hour work day, I don't want the cat slinking after me making hideous noises that remind me of horror movies.

Speaking of horrors... my thing to hate today is those god damn dancing silhouettes that pop up everywhere online these days as part of "lower mortgage" offers. In Yahoo! news stories, next to my Hotmail inbox, and so on. I literally had a dream that I encountered a dancing silhouette with the dollar amount $150,000 scrawled acoss it. I'd like to think I impaled it with something and vanquished it a la bad-ass Sigourney Weaver in "Aliens." But I woke up. And was totally annoyed.

Thankully, some things turn up in life that make the annoyances feel smaller. I saw Bruce and Chris for the first time in months over the weekend and I finally took Bruce a mix CD I'd had sitting on my computer for weeks. I'd meant to give it to him when he left his job at The Advocate...oh, 3 months ago. I didn't even give him a play list or name it, let alone create a cover for it--all of which I usually do when I give people CDs. But Bruce had been sounding less than chipper and I just hoped it would cheer him up a little.

The background here is that Bruce was my first "professional boss," in the summer of 1995 at Out magazine when it was still based in SoHo. I had been in Manhattan 2 months and was determined to work in the gay media. I interned for Bruce while working full time at Starbucks. In the process, I learned a shitload about writing and editing. And simultaneously I subjected Bruce to all of my music--eagerly bringing in the new CDs I purchased when I could: Throwing Muses' "University," The Amps' "Pacer," Bjork's "Post," and so on... indie rock, girl rock, obscure, odd pop. And Bruce always listened. Even if he hated something he still listened. And I learned then--as well as during the year I would live with him when Chris had moved to L.A.--what Bruce liked.

Flash forward over 11 years and I hand him a 19-song CD and get the best email I've received in a while about it: "Thank you thank you x 19 for the CD! It's amazing."

There was much more in the email, of course--much that reminded me what an effect music has on people, how much I like assembling sonic collages for people I care about, and why Bruce and I get along so well.

Thinking about it right now makes the horrible howling coming from downstairs a tad more tolerable.

Drinks, Rain, Aliens, Dates vs. "Dates"

Things making me happy right now:

1. Kristin Hersh's Learn to Sing Like a Star CD, which has a kick-ass title and which has one song that includes both the lyric "If you lived here, you'd be home now and suicidal" and "You messing with my head makes a terrible noise."

2. Patty Griffin's Children Running Through CD (out Feb. 6). Love, love, love her.

3. My new hat, found on a rainy day in Burbank. It's damn cute, I must say. Self-portrait to come.

4. Art for Empty Walls: Nicole's awesome little website that I am helping promote (therefore: see www.artforemptywalls.com).

5. Hanging out with friends. A simple statement, but a necessary observation for me right now.

Last Friday I was exhausted, having had a long day at work and wanting to just ignore the world. But I knew Joe was getting people together for birthday drinks at the Figueroa Hotel downtown, so I called Lesley and we decided to go. And what a lovely evening--to see people I always enjoy and whom I do not see often enough, in my opinion. It being Lesley and myself, there were many pictures taken. A smattering of mine include a hot closeup of Ms. Maness, a blurry self-portrait, a handsome shot of Brett, a charming one of Stephen surrounded by beer bottles he did not empty, and bizarro abstract shots of the sky:







How did I not get any pictures of Jeff, Jeff, Juan, Bryan, and the birthday boy? Oh, right, I was busy taking pictures of CLOUDS. Well, I at least brought my camera, which is better than I have been doing...

Saturday it was rainy, cold, misty and Lesley ventured with me to Ikea to be profoundly disappointed by the bed frame selection (sigh for me), but she did make me buy the aforementioned hat (brava!), and thus ensued an insanely chaotic night of us in and out of her apartment trying to entertain ourselves, ending up at Hollywood video on hands and knees digging through the 10 for $10 VHS clearance tapes. Now you all know how we find the bad movies we find. It's hours of arguing over which tape looks worse; "I think that one knows exactly what it is, which means we'll hate it"; "Sci-fi is always tricky. It has to be serious yet stupid"; "God, do we really want to watch that, though?" and so on and so on.

Totally self-satisfied, we headed home to eagerly watch "Stranded," a 1988 alien movie the cover art of which looked like it could be a mix between "E.T." and "Invasion of the Body Snatchers." No such luck.

Here's Lesley's synopsis:

"It's about a bunch of aliens with mullets who hole up in some old lady's house with her granddaughter. And rednecks try to kill them. Also trying to kill them is an alien disguised as Geraldine Ferraro. And Ione Skye's in it. And they all learn the meaning of friendship."

Now you know.
And have been warned.

But, really, I think what annoyed Lesley most was that I really got emotionally involved in it, even with the alien who looked like Martina Navratilova in the '80s and then turned out to be male and wanted to kiss Ione Skye at the end. EVEN with that, and the fact it was essentially a hostage movie with aliens, I was riveted.

The unusual weekend bled into today when I spontaneously went on a dinner date with a man I'd been chatting with online on and off over the last few weeks, but who was not clear as to whether he wanted to just have a platonic get together or if it was somehow romantic. He's cute, horribly intelligent, and a bit odd, so of course I am terribly intrigued, but it was clear once we were seated that he saw this as a friendly get together, at which point I wished I was a horrible enough person to just dab my lips with my napkin, stand up, and say, with no hesitation whatsoever: "Since it's clear this is going nowhere I want it to go, I think I should just leave." Or better yet: "I am not getting what I want, and therefore I am no longer interested."

I don't know. For me, the function of the Internet right now is not really to find new friends. So why, then, does it lob intelligent, attractive men at me who want to be? Stupid irony.

'I am vibrating in isolation among you' (aka Why I Love David Wojnarowicz)

The quote that gives this post its title is one that David Wojnarowicz used in his writing. It's a tiny snippet of a larger work, and yet, to me, it still sums up something inherent in his work that I love, 13 years after his death.

I used it as the title of an extended essay I wrote about him in 1998 when I had only been working at Frontiers magazine here in Los Angeles for a short period of time. Fresh in L.A. from New York City, I was hungry to write about Wojnarowicz--an artist who meant so much to me for several reasons. Ostensibly, some would assume it was because he was so passionately angry, speaking out against injustice, homophobia, and corporate greed and how it decimated marginalized communities at the real political height of the AIDS era of the the late '80s and early '90s.

But tonight it really dawned on me why I feel such a connection to his myriad works--works that are paintings, stories, collages, films, performance, and photography. In the middle of Hollywood this evening close to 100 people turned out to listen to a scholar read about Wojnarowicz in honor of the publication of a new book of interviews with him and his peers. And then we settled in to watch a series of short films that were made by the artist, starred him, or were about him.

It was startling to see Wojnarowicz in the flesh, moving, talking, even masturbating on camera. After so many years of looking at his work, I forgot that a real, live man was responsible for these works and images that feel iconic to me--such as the stencil of the house on fire that I have tattooed on my left arm and the photograph of buffalos running headlong over a cliff, among may others:




What struck me so forcefully this evening was that at the core of Wojnarowicz's work was always the belief in love, in a connection that can be forged between two men when they simply touch each other. He believed in the power of feeling your hand and tongue on another man's body. It was often explicit that such acts were, by their very nature at the time, political. There was no way you could be a gay man of any intelligence and conscience and not be angry. And I was thrilled to hear the forceful words of rebellion coming from his mouth. Not because he was so angry, but because I think so many of us--arists or not--have forgotten how to speak like that--how to entertwine the feeling of love and desire with the righteous anger of protest.

Watching these films from so long ago, I was appalled to realize that so little has changed, except for the fact that fewer gay men are dying so rapidly of AIDS-related causes. Of course, the financial and health cost is still staggering, and to drug companies' benefit. Perhaps we don't have Sen. Jesse Helms in office now (Wojnarowicz's archnemesis), but we still have insidious conservative bastards who would be as overtly homophobic as Helms was if they thought they could get away with it.

I don't keep up with contemporary art as much as I maybe should to be informed about some of what I am about to say, but I don't feel like much art produced these days is so politically informed, so volatile and exciting. I hope to discover something that makes me think otherwise. What are the politics of being gay now? It can't simply be about marriage, can it? What happened to purposefully not living your life according to conventions laid down by religion and heterosexual society? I wish I could hear Wojnarowicz's answer to that question.

Wojanarowicz wasn't a saint, of course. Nor was he necessarily the most talented artist in the East Village during that era. But his openness, his raw nerve, his desire for love/connection, and his insistence that we keep vigilant against those who would rather we did not exist--let alone call ourselves equal to them--is something I truly admire.

My Dinner With Crazy

So I am in Las Vegas attending a dinner and the evening begins thusly (names changed to protect the innocent):

People are assembled, milling around socializing, an older couple joins us and it turns out they are here for the dinner as well, but very quickly it becomes an odd variation on "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?," with the couple arguing with each other.

Her: You're embarrassing me.

Him: I don't care! (tries to sip Scotch and soda but is too infirm and can't really get a hold on the glass)

Her: I promise it will be fun.

Him: No!

Her: Don't yell at me. C'mon. Let's have a nice evening.

Him: You go. I'll wait.

Her: You know you can't be alone.

Him: Stop talking to me!

And so on.

And so on.

And so on.

At one point this man was sitting at a table and banging his head against it, like a severely mentally impaired person might. Thankfully, it was a 6-course meal with wine pairings. Praise wine! Hallelujah, because I was seated next to them and it was a long night of talking about things I can't even remember now.

And I spared you some details.

Not much else of note has happened of late, except for a jaunt to the OC with Lesley to see Steve and Nate, as Steve was here from Milwaukee and it had been far too long since we'd seen Mr. Nate. It was a lovely evening of food, drink, humming, and humiliating oneself by not being able to hum and so on.


But we look cute, no? Certainly not like people in their (gulp) mid-30s.

Oh, wait, there was also an insane drunken escapade with Tim that ended at 4:30 a.m. and then watching the Golden Globes at Matt's room at the Highland Gardens motel in Hollywood.

So ... much more has happened. And I remain mum on the drunken escapade. But it was very reminiscent of college--and Tim knows what I mean--as does anyone who went to Bennington.

Pour This Heart Out

I've been pouring my heart out to strangers.

It's the weirdest thing, this concept of "chatting" with men online--people you barely know, people who at first seem interesting and cute, and who may indeed be those things, but who come with their own issues and baggage, despite their intellects and/or ability at taking sexy pictures of themselves.

One man I've been chatting with--who really had a sexy pic of himself in nice underwear and turned out to be smart, inexplicably--said that it's easy to do when you don't know really know someone. And yet by that point we were trading multi-paragraph emails, which I think means that I do actually know him in some way. I am good at sussing out someone's character from the tiniest slivers of information. This guy is smart, accomplished, and yet there's definitely a wall, a sense of removal; we can trade any words across the ether or wires and somehow that communication may not have the weight I think it does.

Not that it matters, really, because what role does his opinion play in the decisions I make? And yet three different men have told me eerily similar things in the last 10 days: "You're a born communicator"; "Clearly you're meant to do something with a higher purpose"; "You're a dreamer"; "You're clearly extremely smart."

Sure, I like hearing it. I don't know if I believe all of it, despite the existence of this blog, yet I find it weird how consistently phrases pop out, nearly word for word.

But I feel, again, like I am on the verge of something. Whether it's brought on by the new year, the itch I feel every day in front of my computer, the need I feel to untangle words, to tell the truth--plain and simple.

Chatting is supposed to be escapist and yet it's not. I can't be that kind of person, I realize, who trades in intellect for cheap interaction. Even casual conversations involve words most people don't use. I can't censor myself. I am not embarrassed about it. I wouldn't change it, either. But sometimes I wish I could stop myself from revealing what seems like a bit too much. And yet, if people respond with real questions and comments, they aren't just humoring me, right? After all, few people ever learn how to "communicate cleanly," as I like to call it. Besides, no one can ever fault you for telling the truth of how you feel. It hardly matters if it's a man with nice underwear online or an old friend. If you ask, I will tell you.

A Glimpse of the Past

I seem to be thinking about death a lot. Not really a big surprise, I suppose, since I have been trying to write a book on that very subject and a few of my previous posts have touched on things like Gerald Ford. But I surprise myself when I sometimes spend a day feelng out of sorts, stare at the sun too long, forget to lock my car, leave my ID in my desk at work, and then find myself dwelling on such topics late at night in front of my computer. It's like I woke up at 11 p.m. and wondered what I did all day.

I was having a beer with someone last night and he asked me where my parents lived and added a question, albeit brief, about whether they were alive. I didn't register it in the moment, but I thought of it again today, and though it's been 20 years since my father passed away and I can talk about his death easily, no one had ever simply asked me whether my parents were alive or not.

It's a function of getting older, I suppose, but it stayed with me today, with the inevitable outcome being that tonight, when I stumbled across a bunch of photos of me as a baby with my dad, I couldn't help but wonder what my life would be like if my father had lived to see me past the age of 13.

When I was younger, angrier, and slightly dumber, I imagined that my father would not have been able to deal with his youngest son being a queer, that I would have had spectacularly bad fights with him all through my high school and college years. I even imagined there might be a few years in there where we would not talk to one another. I am not sure what I based this on, exactly, since my memories of him were so hazy, and I never really knew what he thought of gay people anyway. No one in my family really knows either. But imagining these scenarios made his absence much easier to deal with.

Instead, I had some spectacularly bad fights with my mother throughout high school and college and wondered whether there might not be a year or two during which she and I would not speak to each other.

I know that my father was funny--sardonic, ocassionally sarcastic--not to mention tall, lanky, imposing, knew more than he let on, and could be both kind and frustratingly uncommunicative. A few of these traits I see in myself now (well, not "lanky" or "imposing"). And I like to think that while he would have likely not been 100% comfortable with my coming out at the age of 18, he was too many of the good qualities above to cut himself off from me. Sadly, realizing this is what makes a 20-year-old death feel too fresh, too wrong.

I have faded, somewhat creased, aging photos of my father, of course, but those are fleeting glimpses, not full portraits. I have a hard time accepting that I cannot know something, cannot somehow intuit or guess at an answer. In trying to imagine a relationship I can never have, however, I am finally forced to.

Yet, looking at those snapshots, the fleeting glimpses can still be filled with warmth, even decades later.

Know Your Moons

Not long after I first met Wayne, he gave me a framed postcard of the Names of the Full Moon, which detailed names Native Americans gave the full moon throughout the year. I just ran across the names of the full moons for 2007 online, and since I have no desire to rehash my entire 2006 now and make predictions for 2007, this seemed the best way to end this year and ring in the next. Mark your calendars and check your watches. Because I'm a Cancer, you can always tell when the full moon is just by talking to me (right, Lesley?), so if you lose dates and times, call me.

xo-Mikel

Jan. 3, 8:57 a.m. EST - The Full Wolf Moon. Amid the zero cold and deep snows of midwinter, the wolf packs howled hungrily outside Indian villages. It was also known as the Old Moon or the "Moon After Yule." In some tribes this was the Full Snow Moon; most applied that name to the next Moon.

Feb. 2, 12:45 a.m. EST - The Full Snow Moon. Usually the heaviest snows fall in this month. Hunting becomes very difficult, and hence to some tribes this was the Full Hunger Moon.

March 3, 6:17 p.m. EST - The Full Worm Moon. In this month the ground softens and the earthworm casts reappear, inviting the return of the robins. The more northern tribes knew this as the Full Crow Moon, when the cawing of crows signals the end of winter, or the Full Crust Moon because the snow cover becomes crusted from thawing by day and freezing at night. The Full Sap Moon, marking the time of tapping maple trees, is another variation. A total lunar eclipse will take place on this night; the Moon will appear to rise will totally immersed (or nearly so) in the Earth's shadow over the eastern United States. The rising Moon will be emerging from the shadow over the central United States, while over the Western U.S. the eclipse will be all but over by the time the Moon rises.

April 2, 1:15 p.m. EDT - The Full Pink Moon. The grass pink or wild ground phlox is one of the earliest widespread flowers of the spring. Other names were the Full Sprouting Grass Moon, the Egg Moon, and -- among coastal tribes -- the Full Fish Moon, when the shad came upstream to spawn. This is also the Paschal Full Moon; the first full Moon of the spring season. The first Sunday following the Paschal Moon is Easter Sunday, which indeed will be observed six days later on Sunday, April 8.

May 2, 6:09 a.m. EDT - The Full Flower Moon. Flowers are abundant everywhere. It was also known as the Full Corn Planting Moon or the Milk Moon.

May 31, 9:04 p.m. EDT - The Blue Moon. The second full Moon occurring within a calendar month is usually bestowed this title.
Although the name suggests that to have two Full Moons in a single month is a rather rare occurrence (happening "just once in a . . . "), it actually occurs once about every three years on average.

June 30, 9:49 a.m. EDT - The Full Strawberry Moon. Known to every Algonquin tribe. Europeans called it the Rose Moon.

July 29, 8:48 p.m. EDT - The Full Buck Moon, when the new antlers of buck deer push out from their foreheads in coatings of velvety fur. It was also often called the Full Thunder Moon, thunderstorms being now most frequent. Sometimes also called the Full Hay Moon.

Aug. 28, 6:35 a.m. EDT - The Full Sturgeon Moon, when this large fish of the Great Lakes and other major bodies of water like Lake Champlain is most readily caught. A few tribes knew it as the Full Red Moon because the moon rises looking reddish through sultry haze, or the Green Corn Moon or Grain Moon. A total lunar eclipse will coincide with moonset for the eastern United States. The Central and Mountain Time Zones will see the Moon's emergence coincide with moonset, while the western United States will see the entire eclipse.

Sept. 26, 3:45 p.m. EDT - The Full Harvest Moon. Always the full Moon occurring nearest to the Autumnal Equinox. Corn, pumpkins, squash, beans, and wild rice-- the chief Indian staples--are now ready for gathering.

Oct. 26, 12:52 a.m. EDT - The Full Hunter's Moon. With the leaves falling and the deer fattened, it is time to hunt. Since the fields have been reaped, hunters can ride over the stubble, and can more easily see the fox, also other animals that have come out to glean and can be caught for a thanksgiving banquet after the harvest. The Moon will also be at perigee later this day, at 7:00 a.m., at a distance of 221,676 miles from Earth. Very high tides can be expected from the coincidence of perigee with full Moon.

Nov. 24, 9:30 a.m. EST - The Full Beaver Moon. Time to set beaver traps before the swamps freeze to ensure a supply of warm winter furs. Another interpretation suggests that the name Beaver Full Moon comes from the fact that the beavers are now active in their preparation for winter. Also called the Frosty Moon.

Dec. 23, 2:51 a.m. EST - The Full Cold Moon; among some tribes, the Full Long Nights Moon. In this month the winter cold fastens its grip, and the nights are at their longest and darkest. Also sometimes called the "Moon before Yule" (Yule is Christmas, and this time the Moon is only just before it). The term Long Night Moon is a doubly appropriate name because the midwinter night is indeed long and the Moon is above the horizon a long time. The midwinter full Moon takes a high trajectory across the sky because it is opposite to the low sun.

Contemplation in the Dead Zone

The week between Christmas and New Year's always feels like The Dead Zone. I never understand why I am at work during this time, except for the fact that, annually, I am the guy who does not travel for the holiday and is therefore the one who gets stuck there, having forgetten to ask for time off six months ahead of time like everyone else.

Christmas this year felt odd and yet perfect. I got a great taste of holiday cheer--complete with music, tree, and presents--at Wayne's on Xmas Eve, with Lesley, Tammy, and Rebekah in attendance to continue our tradition of what I simply call "the bad present game." The object of said game is simply to wrap horrid presents as nicely as possible and then pass a die around the group and let everyone who rolls a "6" take a present; once distributed, you set a timer and then whoever rolls a "6" can steal a present from whomever they like. And even though you know it's going to be kinda sucky, you become totally fixated on presents when they are stolen from you. It's kind of evil, and therefore a lot of fun.

Christmas Day was, thankfully, 75 degrees, so I ventured to the beach and spent the day with Chrissy and two of her friends, drinking beer, wandering in the sand, and then grabbing Indian food--a nice change of pace from the usual day of staying inside and opening presents, cleaning up, and getting ready for guests. Part of me definitely misses the subtle pageantry of Christmas with Wayne, but I also was so unprepared for the holiday this year that I am glad I could let it slide by, somewhat unnoticed. I struck just the right balance between holiday and non-holiday.

But then there's that Dead Zone feeling--a week at work feeling itchy and unproductive. Evenings at home feeling lethargic and weird. James Brown died on Christmas, which seemed both a propos and utterly bizarre. Then Gerald Ford died. Then there was the two-year anniversary of the tsunami.

For some reason, though, Ford's deathmade me emotional, and I never get emotional watching presidents do anything. I think what did it, honestly, was watching all this footage of him be completely genuine, down-to-earth and obviously committed to what he was doing--which was trying to heal a country completely splintered by war and political scandal (sound familiar?). It made me even angrier about the administration we're saddled with right now, and how horribly one-dimensional Bush is--how utterly lacking in grace, wit, intelligence, and true compassion. Even more telling this evening was how all the footage of Ford that was airing on the NBC Nightly News was followed by a commerical about all the atrocities happening in Sudan and how 400,000 people have already died there without us truly intervening.

I know, it's all kind of a big downer, isn't it? And yet something seems very natural to me about reflecting on death at the end of the year. I don't say that because I'm depressed and hate New Year's Eve. I just find my thoughts often turning to people I wish had been here to witness the last 12 months, or those whom I wanted to poke me and tell me to stop taking everything so seriously. I remind myself of the blessings I have--like friends who will buy horrible $5 presents and wrap them magnificently and those who want to watch a warm sunset over the Pacific Ocean instead of cooking Christmas dinner.

The week isn't over yet, and I wonder what these last three days of 2006 will bring. I already had one night during which I got choked up watching Gerald Ford and then reviewed a Yoko Ono CD. How could it get any weirder?

I Love A List

I used to be able to write my top 10 (or 5 or 20) CDs of the year piece for a magazine or two, but this year I was not asked to contribute my opinions. Granted, I didn't really lobby to be considered, either, but the POINT is simply that I love yammering about music I like. So, here are my fave CDs of 2006. Short 'n' sweet and in no particular order:

Neko Case
Fox Confessor Brings the Flood
(Anti-)
Folk-country-alt rock-murder ballads all rolled into one. Simply gorgeous.

Belle and Sebastian
The Life Pursuit
(Matador)
Who knew they had an album this good in them 10 years on? All the classic B&S with some new bluesy riffs and sense of humor intact.

TV on the Radio
Return to Cookie Mountain
(Interscope)
Avant-garde enough to be weird and atmospheric; interesting enough to keep you listening over and over.

Jenny Lewis
Rabbit Fur Coat
(Team Love)
Similar to Neko but with more sardonic humor. "Rise Up With Fists!" is sheer genius, and sums up L.A. perfectly.

Corrina Repp
The Absent and the Distant
(Caldo Verde)
Finally, she might get some attention. A bare, sparse, spine-tingling album that's both melancholic and invigorating. Much more so than Cat Power's Chan Marshall.

M. Ward
Post-War
(Merge)
Wasn't a fan, really, until this dusty collection of hymns appeared. Captivating and familiar at the same time.

The Late Cord
Lights From the Wheelhouse
(4AD)
Technically it's a "mini-album," but still ... for anyone who misses This Mortal Coil and likes some creepy country, carnivalesque overtones... maybe it's just me....

Tanya Donelly
This Hungry Life
(Eleven Thirty)
I was not prepared to love this CD, which was recorded live two years ago. But it shows Ms. D--she of the amazing voice--getting back (thankfully) to her power-pop roots.

Yo La Tengo
I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass
(Matador)
Again, was not a fan, really, before this. Epic, insular, warm, loud, ambitious. Makes one remember why terms like "alternative rock" were coined.

Clipse
Hell Hath No Fury
(Zomba)
Apocalyptic hip-hop that's both ambitious and clever--musically and lyrically... a rare commodity in the genre these days.

Jennifer O'Connor
Over the Mountain, Across the Valley, and Back to the Stars
(Matador)
Liz Phair became gross a while ago, but finally another indie songwriter appears who can write plain, unadorned songs that hit all the right emotional notes.

'Tis the Season ... to Miss Mix Tapes

When I was getting ready to fly to Australia, I had a panic attack about 48 hours ahead of time because I realized my iPod only had about 6 hours of play time, and I was set to be on a plane for over 13 hours.

Now, if you know me, you know I can be very, um, particular about my music. So, listening to what was available via the plane's headphones would simply not do. Then I remembered that I had my old Walkman, batteries, and over 50 mix tapes stashed in my closet. Some of them are only two years old--proof that I held out for quite some time before giving in to the so-called digital music "revolution."

I thought of those mix tapes tonight as I struggled to put a playlist together on iTunes for a CD I wanted to make someone for Christmas--whittling the massive list down to 20 or so tracks.

The mix tapes I still have chronicle almost every major point in my life over the last 10-15 years, from my first road trip to college, to some spectacular flameouts with ex-boyfriends (hence the "You Fucked Me Over and I Hate You For It Mix"; thank god PJ Harvey's "Rid of Me" had come out around that time), and even some of the real high points. (I made Wayne a mix tape when we first met in 1999 and though I chose the songs specifically for him, I made a copy of the tape for myself and remember listening, wondering if he would be freaked out by the fact I put a song called "A Loon" on this tape that supposedly declared my "like" of him; luckily, he wasn't.)

The last six years, in particular, are well represented by the tapes in my closet, with titles for the cases that pretty much succinctly sum it up: "Let's Go To Iceland!" (for my fall 2003 trip to Iceland, natch, complete with Bjork and Sigur Ros songs); "Post-Apocalyptic" (made after Owen died); "No Decision to Be Made" (during a period when I wanted to quit my job); "Ethereal Elixir" (all music without any discernable lyrics I listened to when I had insomnia); and "Insert Catchy Title Here" (apparently, I could not be bothered to create one).

I grabbed a few of these mixes and they made it on my flight with me. In fact, I fell asleep listening to a mix tape rather than my iPod.

On my trip to New York last week, I didn't take the mix tapes, though I kind of wanted to. I even found myself wanting to make more tapes, and realized I no longer had the ability to. I wandered Manhattan's chilly streets between work meetings, trying to re-create the effect of the tapes with playlists on my iPod, but, as you might expect, it wasn't the same. There was no hiss of tape that was slowly disintegrating, no screwed-up lapses when bits of songs would bleed into each other accidentally, no weird one-minute blank space toward the end of the list of songs where you could sneak in a snippet of someone talking or something recorded off TV.

Waiting for the subway one day last week, I remembered that the last mix tape I made in New York was for the trip Nicole and I took cross-country in August 1998. The tape--"Music to Road Trip By"--is barely functional now, but I still listened to it yesterday, laughing at some of the inclusions I made, yet impressed by my segue between "California Love" by Dr. Dre to "Levitate Me" by the Pixies.

Music is a huge part of how I remember things. I place so much emphasis on songs that entered my life at particular moments--from hearing "True Colors" by Cyndi Lauper" minutes after learning my father died to bonding with Barbie over Helen Reddy's "You and Me Against the World" (yes, really). So, This evening, as I struggled to assemble playlists by dragging and dropping abstract song titles, listening over and over again to see if the songs went together and conveyed what I wanted them to, I realized just how intimate the act of giving music to others is for me. It's nice to think that I may introduce him or her to a song that will have some lasting personal effect. Not that I want the person to think of me. I just like the idea that I assembled a present and left it behind as an artifact as much as a collage of sounds.

If I hand you a CD, now you know how much I geeked out in the process of making it.

(Apologies to those who are getting something else from me for Christmas.)

The Middle of Nowhere--and Everything That Comes With It

If this sounds like it's being written by a befuddled, jetlagged man... well, it is.

I got back from Australia a couple of days ago and feel dazed, to say the least. I felt like I was living on the edge of the earth for 2 weeks--which, I guess is partially true, since I was literally in the middle of South Australia, hundreds of kilometers from any major city, trying to balance my job with simply being one of the people on this press trip. I am not sure it succeeded necessarily. But that's something probably best left off my blog and for another time.

There were definite highlights, though:

1. Cruising the Murray River on boats of all sorts in the stark, oddly beautiful Riverland area.



This included some threatening thunderstorms that seemed to follow us daily.



2. The Gawler Ranges.

This was a stunning landscape of rolling hills with salt lakes--as you can see from the pics I got of others on the trip and me on this insane exapnse of white, which apparently astronauts can spot very clearly from space (probably because there is NO ozone layer here)






The camp we stayed at was solar powered, collected rainwater for showers, and was run by Geoff Sholz, a guy who knew exactly what he was doing when building tents in the Bush, as the Aussies like to say. It was set among white sand and gum trees and was as silent a place I'd been in years. Just beautiful.



The camp also beckoned some kangaroos--just two of the dozens we saw.




3. The West Coast of the Eyre Peninsula, where the Indian Ocean is uninterrupted until you hit South Africa.





And the obligatory shot of me in flip flops....





4. Kangaroo Island: Beautiful beaches, koalas, and more stunning scenery. We literally got within a few feet of some koalas and wallabies. They didn't seem to care that we were there at all.




And this final shot is a view from one of the houses we stayed at for our last night on Kangaroo Island. Not too bad, eh?



Coming back to L.A. was a bit anti-climactic--going into the office to simply get ready to do a trip to New York in 3 days for another client, and really questioning, once again, what I am doing. It's been keeping me up many nights already. I suspect everyone in their 30s wrings his or her hands about what one should be doing in life. These questions of "What is my purpose?" "What am I passionate about?" "What really matters to me?" All of that has been going through my head rapidly. Having several nights on the other side of the world to think about it makes it feel more intense too. I did this last year when I wen to Melbourne and came home to realize that Wayne and I really should no longer be boyfriends if we wanted to remain in each others lives.

I am thankful I have had these opportunities to travel and have a few moments to step back to see what my life looks like. But the vision is not always as beautiful as these pictures. That's OK. Images of what you experience are one thing; how those experiences influence your decisions for the future is something else entirely.

Wrap It Up

It's Wednesday before Thanksgiving and I leave tomorrow for 2 weeks, so let's recap some highlights from the last several days:

1. Tawny Kitaen busted for cocaine possession. Not as shocking as the detail that she lives in an apartment in San Juan Capistrano.

2. I eat a fabulous cupcake. Provided to me by Tom, who then disappeared into the night after dropping it off. At 12:30 a.m. it tasted dee-lish.

3. I write a CD review for one of my favorite artists. All I can say is the new Kristin Hersh album kicks ass. I'll be listening all the way to Australia.

4. Michael Richards has a meltdown. Thank you, tmz.com.

5. Clay Aiken vs. Kelly Ripa. May the bigger girl win. Oh wait, Rosie's involved now too. Geez, there is SO much bad hair involved in this. I can't care anymore. Or maybe that will make me care more... hmmm.... intriguing conundrum.

6. Barbra Streisand's last concert on her tour. I mean, I guess I'm glad she's a liberal 'n' all, but... meh. And after reading that horrifying Entertainment Weekly story in the newest issue about her fans, I'm totally creeped out.

7. America's Next Top Model. OK, so it's on later tonight, but the more pressing issue is how I can go TWO WEEKS without watching it!

8. Wishing for a business-class upgrade on Qantas Airlines. Please, please, please, please, please...

9. I see "For Your Consideration." And realize I know way too much about how Hollywood works. Maybe I've been here too long. Then again, the absurdity is half the fun of living here, isn't it?

10. Thanksgiving. One of the few holidays I like. Luckily, I get to spend part of it with Lesley, Lissa, Tom, and others before the taxi comes to wisk me away to LAX.

If I get a chance to blog from Oz, I will. With pics of penguins and wallabies to come in mid-December.

Why to Watch "Aces: Iron Eagle III"

With all the attention "Borat" keeps getting, it's worth remembering that in the early '90s, cultural and racial stereotypes were adeptly highlighted and skewered by this Lou Gossett Jr. stunner.

Here's the IMDB description: "Chappy, with the assistance of a few other pilots and friends, heads south of the border to rescue some Americans being held captive."

But a word of advice: Only watch the last 20 minutes. That way you need not concern yourself with plot. Instead, you will soak in the following:

* A "fiery" Latina who wields machine guns and expertly slays miscellaneous bad guys in the name of protecting "her people" (who, by the way, are all huddled in a pueblo and look like extras from "The Milagro Beanfield War").

* A Japanese fighter pilot whose anger at the German bad guys makes him go all kamikaze in the name of solidarity with good guy Gossett and company.

* Lou Gossett Jr. as the African-American man who is noble and will save the cast of "The Milagro Beanfield War," thus signifying to us that Latinos and African-Americans can bond.

* The inability for certain African-American men to make good barbecued steaks--as we learn in the inexplicable ending where everyone--black and white--is dressed like they're in a John Wayne movie and the Latina wears a purple dress with a plunging neckline and shoulder pads, evoking memories of not only Expose but also Lisa Lisa.

The most important lesson of all is that if you are a vaguely Native American-looking bad guy with a greasy, skinny ponytail who blows up a peublo, make sure you stand clear, because a giant bell may come spinning at you--flying through the air and landing on your head with deadly precision.

Thanks, "Iron Eagele III"! Now I know that no matter what color our skin, we can use World War II-era fighter planes to stop a cocaine lab in Peru from destroying the world ... or something.

"A" Is for Rats!

I made myself leave work before 8 p.m. and go have drinks with the boys over at Akbar tonight, which is always delightful. We're like the Pink Ladies of gay media, with editors and writers for/from Out, Frontiers, Instinct, In Los Angeles, Out Traveler, Metrosource.... what else? Am I actually forgetting one? Probably. It's funny sometimes when I am in the same room with Darren, Jeremy, Rick and Steve, and Chris (minus Matt and Mike tonight)... a good funny--I can't believe sometimes that I know these people and this is my big gay life. It's good. I like it.

I wish I could have just gotten plastered, but alas, by 10 pm it was time to go.

BUT.... The Kitchen, which some of you remember from one of my previous posts about rats and food was now actually open again, and was sporting an "A" in its window!

WHAAA?

From "A" to "Closed Due to Rodent Infestation" to "C" to "A" again?

Dear L.A. Health Code People: How does this work? Can we really trust you? Methinks not.

Even saying the word "rats!" really loudly as we walked past the kitchen didn't faze anyone. Though it did look emptier than usual.

Time and Patricia Arquette's Hair

It's probably just as well that my original post was wiped clean by a "server error" earlier. After all, I was typing on Lesley's computer and "Medium" was on TV and I was totally distracted by Patricia Arquette's bowl haircut, which makes her look like a child that has that weird disease where you age really quickly. I didn't even know "Medium" was still on TV. I am so not part of the Zeitgeist.

I've been too busy being almost completely detached or slightly crazy. I spent the weekend in Palm Springs with the Jeffs, Matt, and John in a house with a pool, a kitchen, and cable TV. That's all I needed. I read 2 1/2 books, got up, dove in the pool, soaked in the Jacuzzi, ate, slept, and then did it again, ending my weekend by buying a pair of jeans at the Cabazon outlets. Tres fancy, I know. But soooo needed. Especially since my last vacation to Oregon turned into a family drama.

The house we rented was at the end of "The Gauntlet"--the upper part of Warm Sands in Palm Springs where all of the "exclusive" gay resorts are--i.e., where everyone is hidden by hedges that are 10 feet tall. Which means, of course, lots of men walking around and not having as much sex as they thought they might be when they booked their clothing-optional vacation. Unless of course, they are of the mind to stand out on the street at midnight, just idly looking at who is driving by. It was amusing, to say the least, and no one was particularly cute. Imagine. Closer down the street, where it was quieter (closer to our rental), however, there was a giant phallic rock in one yard, the tip of which was covered in what looked like black tar. Why I didn't take a picture of it is beyond me. I was too busy reading fantasy novels and practicing my breaststroke in the pool.

It was a nice break before the onslaught of this week's 12-hour days, and my growing mania as Thanksgiving approaches and I prepare to board a plane to Australia, which you think would be relaxing, but I'll be "on" for 12 days straight--working, leading a press trip, and having meetings with the South Australian Tourism Commission. These last 4 weeks have made me question a lot of what I am doing work-wise, and whether I care. I can't say I have the answer to that, and long days will make anyone cranky, but it's all been amped up too much. I literally sit down at my desk, get up to grab food around 2 pm, and then 10 hours have gone by. Ugh. I don't like it.

My mood is not being helped by medication I am on that my body is adjusting to, making me feel bonkers--from perfectly fine to seething to despondent in 30 minutes and then fine again. Frankly, I'm exhausted by myself. I can only imagine how annoying I must be to a lot of other people.

I am trying my damndest to put an end to these epic days and reclaim a little of my life before I have to fly away for 2 weeks. It would be nice to leave not feeling stressed out.

At least I don't have Patricia Arquette's haircut. That counts for something, right?

Anatomy of Election Day 2006

1:15 a.m.: Go to sleep

4:45 a.m.: Get up to go to Burbank Airport

6 a.m.: Arrive Burbank

7 a.m.: Fly to Phoenix

9:30 a.m. (MT): Leave Phoenix airport's bizarre rental car terminal; get on highway; see other side of highway shut down and an array of cops with guns drawn pointing at a giant fat, bald man wearing a half shirt who is kneeling on the freeway and being frisked by a female police officer.

10:30 a.m.: Slowly drive north toward Scottsdale, wondering why there is so much traffic. Talk to co-worker about our 11 a.m. meeting at a nearby resort re: PR. See cops pull over more people. Listen to all the religious radio stations that have songs with lyrics like "God is awesooooome...." Ponder how God can actually be "awesome."

11 a.m.-2 p.m.: Have meeting at lovely resort; have great lunch overlooking the desert and mountains.

2:30 p.m.: Back on freeway, stuck in traffic. Get slightly rear-ended by another car. Pull over and exchange information with poor guy who tapped us. Try to get back on freeway and realize people here can't drive and don't like cars trying to do something called "merging."

3:30 p.m.: Drop off car at weird car prison 3 miles from airport. Take shuttle back to aiport even though we just drove past it. Check in at work via phone.

4:30 p.m.: Fly back to Burbank.

5 p.m. (PT): Arrive in hot, hot Burbank still in my suit. Get car. Drive to Hollywood. Turn on radio to hear it was 95 degrees today.

6:15 p.m.: Vote at elementary school where old women either smile or sneer at me. Put my "I voted" sticker on cell phone.

7 p.m.: Dinner and a deep breath at home.

8 p.m.: Go to Tim's to join him, Sara, and Dana for election results. Exhausted and tense.

9 p.m.: Drink champagne when Democrats take the House.

10 p.m.: Still drinking. Excited that there is finally change afoot. Breathe a sigh of relief and then realize Dems may also win the Senate. Get tense again. We all chat excitedly about 1992 election, remembering how excited we were when Clinton won. Guess how much plastic surgery Nancy Pelosi has had, but discuss how great tonight is for her.

11:15 p.m.: Obsessively watching CNN and MSNBC hoping they will call MT or VA Senate races.

11:45 p.m.: Finally leave Tim's house, tense, excited, exhausted...

12:30 a.m.: Blissful sleep, with a dream about Nancy Pelosi walking around my apartment.

3:30 a.m.: Wake up from said dream. Look at new mosque-shaped alarm clock Steven got me in Oman. Realize, thankfully, I have 4 1/2 more hours to sleep before I obsessively check Yahoo News.

Schizophrenic Post #1

OK... permit me just one tiny rant about John Kerry and the stupid "backlash" against his remarks about how individuals who don't study hard and do their homework would likely "get stuck in Iraq."

According to one news story: "Aides said the senator had mistakenly dropped one word from his prepared remarks, which was originally written to say 'you end up getting us stuck in a war in Iraq.' In that context, they said, it was clear Kerry was referring to Bush, not to the troops."

You know what? The bottom line is that the armed forces actively recruit working-class people of color to enlist. No it does not mean these people are stupid, but a vast number of those servicemembers fighting in Iraq are individuals who, as American citizens, are not supported by any Republican policy here on our own soil. A large number of them are stuck in an educational system and class structure that never helps them rise above problems that are perpetuated by right-wingers and old rich white guys.

At least Kerry actually fought in a war. Instead, we get blowhards George W. Bush and Dick Cheney yammering on about what an ass he is. Yes, Kerry may be an ass--or at least arrogant and annoying--but he said something that at least starts to reveal what is so obvious right now about our all-volunteer army.

As Michael Moore already made clear once on film: Hey, Congress! Why aren't your well off, mostly white, kids helping fight the war in Iraq?

--

I'd actually intended on posting an entire geek-out tonight, prompted by a question posed to me about when I first "got" Throwing Muses, which, as I have posted, is the band that inspired the name of my blog.

What's funny is that I was thinking of this at 8:30 a.m. today as I woozily left the doctor's office after watching them take what seemed like an insane amount of blood from my veins. Oh, how I love that.

But I remember it clearly: I was in high school and heard snippets of music from the band before, but always thought it was just too chaotic and, as I thought then, atonal. I have always been a fan of female singers who gave off a twin air of toughness and vulnerability--a somewhat mercurial duality. But I just didn't quite wrap my head around Kristin Hersh when I heard some of the Muses' early stuff.

I actually bought The Real Ramona through Columbia House, of all places, as one of my 12 CDs for a penny, based on the tiny little blurb that called it "folksy/moody." Who says I can't be marketed to?

At the time, I was waiting for college acceptance letters, furiously hating high school homework, and just as furiously writing a novel and journal entries late into the night that seemed to be like growing spirals of words that wouldn't resolve themselves.

When I get into writing--really get into it--I seem to create a fever dream for myself. I fixate intently on the words, working out their cadence, their rhythm, their structure. I am aware of putting the sentences and paragraphs together, but it seems to happen without too much conscious thought. The structure just seems to appear, and the idea I am trying to convey gets draped around the structure. I catch myself using a subtle form of repetition in a specific piece. Themes keep reappearing and I only see them later.

Putting on The Real Ramona, there was suddenly this rush of guitar noise that seemed to match the way I saw my own words, which is such a 17-year-old's kind of epiphany. The words, in particular, made me pause: "Counting backwards/I count you in/I don't remember him/I don't remember"; "This woman literally felt she had a hook in her head";"This day is brutal/It wants red/So I got red shoes/Because red becomes you/This red becomes you."

That's when I got it.

I was listening to The Real Ramona at 8:30 this morning, in fact--a bit bloodless and drifting along Sunset Boulevard with the sun rising in the hazy air behind me, feeling like I was 17 again, driving my orange Ford Maverick, trying to decipher a code. And yet I still felt very much 33, embarrassed at remembering what I used to write and how weird and bad it all seems now, yet happy that I can find someone else's own combination of elliptical poetry and odd structural elements so inspiring.

Looking back now, it's not my favorite album by the band. My writing has gotten better (I certainly hope so, at least). I still write a bit in the same fixated way. And there's a lot of music that inspires me, as well as a lot of other individuals' works--visual, sonic, and otherwise. But it's always nice to remember when you "got it."

Rubik's Cube With a Mustache?

The older I get the less inclined I am to celebrate Halloween. I understand I should maybe a bit more "happy go lucky" or "devil may care," but I just don't really like getting dressed up. I am a fan of conceptual costumes (like the year I was "nice" for Halloween and went up to everyone I didn't like at Bennington and said things like "Wow, you look so pretty tonight").

Last night, Lesley told Chrissy and I that we needed to give her ideas for a Halloween costume, and so, after watching "America's Next Top Model" (interjection: Tyra, what were you wearing!?) we sat on Lesley's balcony and tried some brainstorming. I still think Lesley should go as Steve Irwin with a stingray attached to her chest, but I suspect that will be popular this year.
Then we alighted upon the Web site that shows tons of horrible '70s Halloween costumes. You know... the ones with masks and a big plastic bib that just says what the costume is, rather than actually being a costume. (See for yourself: http://www.retrocrush.com/costumes/).

I had been particularly taken with the Rubik's Cube outfit, as well as the one depicting the Leatherman from the Village People, so I naturally voiced my thought that maybe I should go as a Rubik's Cube with a mustache.

Chrissy just looked at me like I was nuts. Lesley nodded like she knew that was both exactly what I was going to say and also totally natural (she's indulgent that way). But I kept thinking about it today and now I've latched on to the idea. I just, for some reason, would love to have people asking me with their brows furrowed, "So...you're a....Rubik's Cube...but why do you have a mustache?"

That's what I'll be for Halloween: deliberately confusing.

You'd think I'd have more to say from this busy week, but I don't have much. I got a promotion at work, so now I sound more exciting and authoritative than I actually feel, but I think that's often been the case, even when I was editor of a magazine.

I could go on about the whole drama with my brother's ex-girlfriend and how my sister and I are going to have to call her to let her know my brother turned up after going missing for 18 months. This ought to be fun. She wants child support. My brother is working hard to get his life back together. I am sure their priorities will be in sync, don't you think? Ah, former lovers...

Maybe I could go as her for Halloween.

Or maybe I should go as Vicki from "Small Wonder," with whom I was obsessed as an adolescent because I couldn't believe someone actually got PAID to make a sitcom about a father who creates a robot daughter and everyone seems OK with that. I think I was somehow fantasizing that my own home life should be so wacky, and yet totally functional. Maybe I can get some other people to dress up as the cast of "Ordinary People." Or better yet, we can go as the creepy suburban family from "Small Wonder" but change in the middle of the night to become "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" or, worse, "Full House."

Lesson learned: Plan now for Halloween 2007.

Did that happen?

I traded e-mails with Robin Leach yesterday.

No, really.

Mr. Champagne Wishes and Caviar Dreams himself.

I work with a new hotel in Vegas and he was on our press release list, and, well, the rest, as they say, is history. I don't think he likes me much, though. It's just a gut feeling. And what will become of me if Robin Leach doesn't like me? Quelle horreur.

I wonder if I can put him on my Xmas card list.

The weirdness of the day was topped off by having dinner with Rick in Silverlake at The Kitchen. We hadn't seen each other in forever, so it was great to catch up and eat mac and cheese and turkey burgers and just yammer on about everything, including our respective writing projects. Well, his. Mine is stuck in neutral.

After our meal, however, we noticed a woman go to the window and take down the "A" that was hanging there. She then folded it up and tucked it into her weird metal clipboard/briefcase. Next, an employee came and unplugged the neon "Open" sign. Hmmm... ok.... Rick and I looked at each other with a tiny bit of fear in our eyes. Were they closing the restaurant for some reason?

Next, the "A" thief went to the front door and taped something on it and the waitress in the front turned away potential diners. Rick asked our waitress as she returned with his receipt if the restaurant was being closed and she looked at us but declined to speak and walks away.

No one was being told to leave. The place was filled with diners chowing down, as The Kitchen has pretty good food. (I've always enjoyed it, at least). Suitably weirded out, Rick and I downed our wine and got up to leave and went to the front door, opened it, stepped outside, and turned around to see a Notice of Closure due to "rodent infestation."

EXCUSE ME?

What did we just eat? "Do you feel OK? I feel OK," I asked Rick, and we both couldn't form sentences for a second, trying to reason that it could mean anything. It's an old building, after all. This happens all the time.

Well, sure. But have you ever had a restaurant close due to "rodent infestation" WHILE YOU WERE EATING THERE? Have you?!

And how do you go from an "A" to Closure in the matter of 15 seconds with weird inspectors sitting at a table wearing jeans and cheap tennis shoes who refuse to talk to anyone about what they're doing?

By the way, I feel fine today. I don't think I ingested anything I shouldn't have.

I don't want to hold it against The Kitchen, but I am not sure how much I want "rodent infestation" to be a part of my future dining experiences.

'It's like being stalked by an army of Hummels'

So said I in response to an e-mail that was forwarded to me today that depicted "cute" kitties, puppies, and assorted snuggly-wuggly critters all reminding the viewer to, essentially just "hang in there." The bonus was the psalm at the end of the email. I forget that people still find these kinds of things inspirational. Me being cynical too much of the time, I tried at first to read this treacle with a clarity with which, I soon realized, I am not blessed. By the end of it, as I said to Lesley, I wanted to put my head through a plate-glass window. And then she referred to it as feeling like being shot in the face by a rainbow. I think that's how she phrased it.

What a long strange few days. Not bad ones, either... from watching Tim in a movie that premiered at a gallery in Chinatown to Jessica's bday in Hollywood to a housewarming in a small house in Culver City with a huge yard filled with every imaginable fruit tree (including persimmons)--I've been all over L.A. and have talked to more people I don't know than I think I have in the last month. I even got some time in to visit Hopper, my cat that still lives with Wayne even though I don't live there anymore. It sometimes feels like visitation rights with me as divorced dad, and, when I leave, I actually get choked up, but the cat still remembers me. I can tell because he actually lets me pet him and purrs before turning mischievous and biting me in playful mode. Sometimes bites are the best kind of love you can have.

I may just be in a sentimental stupor thanks to a non-cold that refuses to fully materialize, but I actually have been thinking of love a lot lately, prompted not by the email of kittens who keep reaching for the stars, but by my sister, who still, 4 weeks on, is coping with Bell's palsy and having half of her face paralyzed. We went to the gym over the weekend, and though we didn't talk much, there were small moments when watching her lift weights at a machine next to me, I realized how lucky I am to have had 8 years of living in L.A. near her.

She'll move to Oregon next year and these moments will be gone--for now. No more easily accessible holidays, barbecues, and excursions to Shoe Pavilion. Looking at her this weekend, in awe of how she copes with this temporary paralysis, I couldn't help but think of 16 years ago, when I first lived with her in L.A. When I went back to Portland later that summer--a summer in which her friend became my first boyfriend, I might add--I thought I'd snap in two. I didn't want to leave that special time and place, despite all the horrid heat and underemployment. Looking at her at the YMCA, I realized I never have to feel like that again. Some people never have anyone in their lives, let alone their families, with whom they actually connect. I get a funny, fiercely intelligent woman who not only has a PhD but manages to make an eye patch seem totally normal.

Maybe the kittens were trying to remind me of familial bonds today. Then again, maybe they really are just examples of the most cloying pop psychology. Nevertheless, if being stalked by an army of Hummels makes me feel a bit more appreciative of who I have in my life, I can endure it ... briefly.

Dizzy and Maddening

I shouldn't drink on an empty stomach--neither coffee nor martinis. I had a mid-afternoon meeting at a Starbucks near the airport today to talk about the fact that I am going to South Australia to lead a press trip down there, covering probably close to 2,000 km in 2 weeks. It's funny to think I am going back to the country only a year after I was there last as a writer. Who knew I would have a job where I was supposed to escort writers to a part of Australia that so few people actually visit--the purpose of which is to make them write about it? Of course, that's what makes it appeal to me. I get to do something very few people will do in their lifetime--namely fly across the Pacific Ocean and swim with sea lions, track wombats in the dark in a gorge in the Outback, and visit a place the name of which is actually Kangaroo Island. And I leave on Thanksgiving, of all days.

The point of this originally was that I had too much coffee at said meeting and was like a hummingbird drunk on nectar, buzzing around, singing in my car at top volume--making myself hoarse--as I drove back to Hollywood in the crush of rush hour traffic. Then, later, I went to a friend's house for dinner and was given a martini and felt like my bones had collapsed in a heap--worthless and heavy. Somehow I managed to make conversation and keep it afloat, but the words seemed to wrap around me and hang like chains. I think it's simply exhaustion. I have not slept much this week and, when I do, I have had stupid dreams about a stupid movie I watched last weekend with Lesley.

Granted, stupid movies with Lesley and I are ubiquitous, but for some reason "The Maddening" got to me. I can't tell if it's the inexplicable casting of Burt Reynolds and Angie Dickinson as swamp trash crazies who trap an unsuspecting young mother (Mia Sara, long past her prime) and daughter in their backwater house, or if somehow the movie managed to actually touch a nerve in me. Either that or we finally watched something so bad that it just stayed with me like food poisoning. Either way, I have literally had 3 Angie Dickinson dreams this week, with her yammering at me while holding a tray of food--like she does to poor, poor Mia in her locked bedroom in le film. But, unlike Mia's character in "Da Maddening," as I took to calling it, I do not have to pee on the bedroom floor in my dreams. Thank god. No one wants to wake up like that.

Hopefully the rest of the week will clear my head as I wrap up a hellishly busy 5 days and go catch a Kristin Hersh concert on Friday the 13th. I've been listening to Throwing Muses all day, which is adding to the dizziness. Try keeping up with these lyrics: "I have two heads / Where's the man? He's late / One burns one's sky / Where's the man? He's late / I'm two headed ... one free, one sticky."

Maybe the wrong choice for an hour-long car ride from El Segundo to Hollywood.

And before bed, the bon mots of the day, overheard on the elevator, as I rode with two psychics up to the fifth floor of my building (yes, I work next to an office housing consultants on the Psychic Hotline): "Well, I was going to call her, but I already knew she didn't want to talk to me."

All I could think was, "Gee, if only all interpersonal communication was always that cut and dried."

Word of the Day: Necropolis

Was this story timed for maximum Halloween exposure?

Today, the AP ran a story on the Vatican "unveiling" (strange choice of words if you ask me) the burial place this week, which was discovered when someone was trying to build a parking lot--like so many important archeological sites. Maybe there's a joint necropolis/parking lot venture in the works? Ah, marketing...

My favorite passage, though, is this:

"The remains of the child, whose gender wasn't determined, were discovered during the construction of the walkways, after the main excavation had finished, said Daniele Battistoni, a Vatican archaeologist.

Buried there were upper-class Romans as well as simple artisans, with symbols of their trade, offering what archaeologists called rare insights into middle and lower-middle class life."

Considering we have no current cultural insights into lower- and middle-class life (unless "According to Jim" counts), and that we really didn't need to know about the mummified, gender-questioned baby, I am not sure any of this qualifies as important.

Then this:

"The burial sites help 'document the middle class, which usually escapes us,' said consultant Paolo Liverani, an archaeologist and former Museums official. 'You don't construct history with only generals and kings.'"

Really? I thought history was all about the rich. Oh, wait, I meant "pious."

Not that I am knocking the necropolis. Far from it. If I could afford the plane ticket, I'd be there in line waving my necropolis penant and snatching up plaster replicas of the alleged hermaphrodite child.

Oh, and you have to write the Vatican for permission to enter the tombs. Get out your best Laura Ashley stationery!

Read for yourself: http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20061009/ap_on_sc/vatican_necropolis

Moon Hangover

Not that I give too much credence to the full moon making people feel nuts, but as I slowly evolve into a stereotypical Californian, I do have to admit that when the full moon rolls around, I often feel a bit like a manic-depressive. And let's not get started on the fact that I'm a Cancer, so if you believe anything about astrology, then you know I am ruled by this celestial object, which essentially means I am some kind of cosmic ventriloquist dummy.

Yesterday I couldn't figure out what the hell my problem was--which, granted, is not an uncommon dilemma. And then a glance at the oh-so-informative Yahoo News page informed me that Oct. 6th was, indeed, the night of the Harvest Moon. The moon was 12% fuller and closer to Earth last night. The "news" piece dutifully informed me that there was no evidence the moon makes people go crazy (thanks, Yahoo! thanks, Moon!), but damn if I didn't feel like I had bees buzzing in my head and that every conversation was like wading through a pool of tar.

Then again, I probably just worked too late all week.

For the rest of the night, though, I suspiciously watched the giant moon and felt like it was tapping me on the shoulder. It was like having someone at a party keep talking to you even though you were long past the point of being able to maintain a plastic smile and nod your head in feigned interest.

What's the point of this? I am not sure I know. I just woke up this morning feeling hung over, which I am going to blame on the moon. It's the one night of the month where I feel OK about side stepping any deeper probing of my own emotions.

Now I can also listen to Lesley all day exclaiming "MOON!" to me with a smile on her face. She really can say so much with so little.

Buh-Bye, Holy Roller

Thank god (lowercase "g"). The only times I can really applaud "America's Next Top Model" is when someone cries when having her hair cut or when the requisite holy roller has to pack her bible and go home. And Monique totally deserved it. I mean, last season (or "cycle," as ANTM likes to call it), Danielle had goddamned IVs in her arm and then climbed atop an elephant in Thailand and, to quote Tyra, "rocked it." So if you ask me, Monique having the flu hardly justified her going home in the stretch Escalade from a photo shoot since she was "tired." (Yeah, tired in more ways than one)

But at least we got the best shot of the show: Monique in a straw hat reading the bible with tears streaming down her face.

It's nice to have Lesley back from merry ol' England to howl at this crap with me. Correction: this deliciously entertaining crap. Even if she did fall asleep at 9:15 due to so-called jet lag.

Plus, at the commercial break we learned all about Tampax Sport tampons and how, even though you're a girl, you can still play tennis, swim, and do gymnastics, despite your period. It doesn't mean you will have a box of tampons in any color other than pink, but it must be such a boost of self-esteem to wannabe models glued to their TVs.

Showtime on 7th Avenue

Sometimes it only takes a few words from someone to transport you back in time. I got an email from Nicole earlier today in which she said she was fondly remembering how she used to scour the TV listings to find out which horrible movie would be on later that night.

We were living together in Brooklyn in the spring and summer of 1998. I was hating work, sinking deep into a miserable depression, living in a room the size of my current bathroom, smoking too much, and grieving the loss of my stepsister whom I never really felt I got to know.

And yet, during the miserably hot months that gripped the city and made us want to cry (and I think prompted both of us to move to L.A., truth be told), the late nights brought their respite in the form of so-bad-they-were-genius movies. I closed my eyes today after getting that email and suddenly I was in that brick-red living room, curled up on the beige loveseat in shorts and a tank top while Nicole reclined across the room from me on the couch, artfully dressed in a slip, a sandal, mule, or flip-flop dangling from one foot, bouncing as she absently jiggled her foot.

It would always be too late. We'd already spent too much time staring out our windows across 7th Avenue at our neighbors who would do all manner of things in plain view. There was the hot Puerto Rican guy who would just come to the window naked and stand there while we (I in particular) tried to appreciate it, despite his being backlit. Then there was the couple in the next building over. The female half of said couple apparently took belly dancing lessons and practiced her routine one night for her boyfriend, perhaps unaware that Nicole and I were screaming with delight as we watched her shimmy and otherwise try to enchant her man with somewhat awkward maneuverings that looked more like an uncontrollable twitch than seductive gestures.

These moments were the pre-show, of course. The escapist joy really came from watching Meredith Baxter (or was it still Baxter Birney then?), Connie Selleca, Melissa Gilbert, and many other actresses who generally specialized in all things Woeful scream, yell, and cry their way through films the plots of which usually included stolen babies, bad marriages, and glycerin tears--lots of them.

And there we sat, cigarettes in and out of our mouths, street noise permeating the apartment, sweat refusing to dry on our skin, the faint smell of trash sitting on the sidewalk in front of the deli downstairs wafting in. And for those 2 hours, the disappointment of relationships gone sour, the horror of premature death, and the uncertainty of what we might do next with our lives just melted away.

The movies didn't always entertain. We were not always treated to the antics of our neighbors across the street. And sometimes one or both of us couldn't muster the energy to make it to 2 a.m., but there's something to be said for having a partner in crime.

I didn't feel like I had much else at that point, but this was more than enough.