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
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Friday, October 19, 2007
Two Minutes Later....
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
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.
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.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Aloha! Days 3-4
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.
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.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Get Up (Everybody)
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.
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.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Aloha!: Days 1 and 2
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
*Sigh*
How can you want to leave a place that looks like this?
Answer: You can't.
More on Hawaii soon....
Answer: You can't.
More on Hawaii soon....
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
The State I'm In ... I Mean, Am
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
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
Monday, September 10, 2007
Gimme More... of What?
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.
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.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Does This Even Need a Title With This as the Lead Image? (See Below)
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."
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Life Made Easier?
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
They Say If You Put It Out Into the Universe....
....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.
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.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Blogging Black Hole
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!
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!
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
When Something Becomes "Official"
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.
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.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Fucking Math
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.
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.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Who's Johnny? Indeed.
I can't even explain how this happened, but "thanks" to Lesley for unearthing in my consciousness the fact that there is a whole Web site message board dedicated to fans of "Short Circuit"--specifically to #5, aka Johnny.
If you want to sear your eyeballs feel free at:
http://www.johnny-five.com/
But after reading the most recent post on the message board, I feel a whole lot better about myself. It's kind of mean, and yet it's true. Someone had the time, energy, and thought power to put behind this. And to answer this guy's (I am assuming of course this is a guy) question: Yeah, things changed. Why? BECAUSE IT'S 2007, for one. Secondly, #5 IS NOT ALIVE. And lastly, Steve Guttenberg and Ally Sheedy are no longer stars.
This has been your Hollywood update, now enjoy the musings of a movie-robot lover:
"Do you remember last year when there would be people regularly posting on here?
It seems that in the past 12 months, the whole forum has died.
Apart from the few new members who make no more than 10 posts, there's not much happening.
Even with the rumors of a Short Circuit remake being made, no one seems to really care.
If i'm being quite honest, I have gone off of short circuit a bit. I used to check back here every day, but thats changed to about once every two weeks.
All the members that were around last year seem like they hae left.
I know that theres only so much you can say about something that pretty much ended in the 80s (apart from the fans) but it doesn't seem like it did last year.
we were all excited about the website update and the 20th anniversary of Short Circuit.
Seriously guys, what has happened?
Am I wrong or has things changed."
If you want to sear your eyeballs feel free at:
http://www.johnny-five.com/
But after reading the most recent post on the message board, I feel a whole lot better about myself. It's kind of mean, and yet it's true. Someone had the time, energy, and thought power to put behind this. And to answer this guy's (I am assuming of course this is a guy) question: Yeah, things changed. Why? BECAUSE IT'S 2007, for one. Secondly, #5 IS NOT ALIVE. And lastly, Steve Guttenberg and Ally Sheedy are no longer stars.
This has been your Hollywood update, now enjoy the musings of a movie-robot lover:
"Do you remember last year when there would be people regularly posting on here?
It seems that in the past 12 months, the whole forum has died.
Apart from the few new members who make no more than 10 posts, there's not much happening.
Even with the rumors of a Short Circuit remake being made, no one seems to really care.
If i'm being quite honest, I have gone off of short circuit a bit. I used to check back here every day, but thats changed to about once every two weeks.
All the members that were around last year seem like they hae left.
I know that theres only so much you can say about something that pretty much ended in the 80s (apart from the fans) but it doesn't seem like it did last year.
we were all excited about the website update and the 20th anniversary of Short Circuit.
Seriously guys, what has happened?
Am I wrong or has things changed."
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Missing Eyes and Growing Older--All in One Month!
It's been a blur of non-activity around here lately. I guess I've been too busy celebrating our country's independence from those Commie English bastards. Oh, wait, no, the real issue is that Mercury is in retrograde, so it feels like everything happens in slo-mo, as if dripping with molasses--and you're constantly misunderstood when you try to speak.
OK, OK, not really. I won't ascribe all my issues to a tiny planet that orbits too close to the sun. But good lord there were some moments where it seemed easier to blame everything on that astrological event--especially the day at Trader Joe's when I saw a woman bite it big time on the linoleum floor. Really--face first down on the tile as if some force felled her like a two-by-four clattering to the ground. Then she got up, unharmed, and proceeded to drop her keys three more times. THEN, when I finally got to the parking lot to leave, a woman missing an eye drove past me. Yes, drove past me. All she had was what looked like an extra long eyelid where her eye used to prop it up.
It's just been a peculiar start to the month. The last couple of days were delightful--finally getting to spend some real time with Ryan alone for the first time in a month, enjoying the 4th between the beach, a pool, and a barbecue at my sister's house. She's leaving in less than a month to move to Portland, which I am in total denial about. More on that another time. It was a marked contrast to spending half of Sunday with heat exhaustion, 4 hours at Kaiser's Urgent Care center getting poked, prodded, and having blood drawn to learn that there was nothing much to learn.I had indeed been in the sun too long and it coincided with some other lovely ailments. I'll spare you that story too. Let's just say that I have to have a certain procedure (love that word; don't you?) done that none other than Katie Couric had televised. I LOVE hitting my mid-30s! Wooo!
Oh, yeah, then there's that: The birthday.
I honestly don't care that I am turning 34. In fact, I get to play on the beach for that too, and I couldn't be happier. But damn, when your body revolts on you it's hard not to have a moment where you think "Really? Is this what it's gonna be like?"
Plus, when you have a bunch of people in your family die throughout the years and you used to be a hypochondriac--well, it's the perfect storm sometimes. But you know what? In general, this is the best I've felt in a while. I'm done traveling for a little while, too. Which means I get time to study, turn 34, have some quality boy time, and make a run for the beach.
OK, OK, not really. I won't ascribe all my issues to a tiny planet that orbits too close to the sun. But good lord there were some moments where it seemed easier to blame everything on that astrological event--especially the day at Trader Joe's when I saw a woman bite it big time on the linoleum floor. Really--face first down on the tile as if some force felled her like a two-by-four clattering to the ground. Then she got up, unharmed, and proceeded to drop her keys three more times. THEN, when I finally got to the parking lot to leave, a woman missing an eye drove past me. Yes, drove past me. All she had was what looked like an extra long eyelid where her eye used to prop it up.
It's just been a peculiar start to the month. The last couple of days were delightful--finally getting to spend some real time with Ryan alone for the first time in a month, enjoying the 4th between the beach, a pool, and a barbecue at my sister's house. She's leaving in less than a month to move to Portland, which I am in total denial about. More on that another time. It was a marked contrast to spending half of Sunday with heat exhaustion, 4 hours at Kaiser's Urgent Care center getting poked, prodded, and having blood drawn to learn that there was nothing much to learn.I had indeed been in the sun too long and it coincided with some other lovely ailments. I'll spare you that story too. Let's just say that I have to have a certain procedure (love that word; don't you?) done that none other than Katie Couric had televised. I LOVE hitting my mid-30s! Wooo!
Oh, yeah, then there's that: The birthday.
I honestly don't care that I am turning 34. In fact, I get to play on the beach for that too, and I couldn't be happier. But damn, when your body revolts on you it's hard not to have a moment where you think "Really? Is this what it's gonna be like?"
Plus, when you have a bunch of people in your family die throughout the years and you used to be a hypochondriac--well, it's the perfect storm sometimes. But you know what? In general, this is the best I've felt in a while. I'm done traveling for a little while, too. Which means I get time to study, turn 34, have some quality boy time, and make a run for the beach.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Your Silverglo Stays on My Mind
Dear Silverglo:
How it can be that we have so many treasured memories from our short time together in Aspen? It seems like I shouldn't feel this way; in fact, I am not sure if I ever have. But those 4 1/2 days at your condominium complex really touched me in a special way. How could I sit back here in smoggy Los Angeles and not think of your alluring pillows:
And when I came home dehydrated and semi-drunk, you were there with your comforting objets d'art:
In an unfamiliar room where I lay my head every night, you offered comforting decorative touches, including what I think might be the most beautiful man purses I've ever seen:
I was impressed, too, with how our breakfast area immediately felt so warm and inviting:
Even Beth couldn't help but be charmed by your joie de vivre and irrepressible whimsy (that is what it was, right?):
Without you I would not have felt quite so at home. Even now, I can't believe it actually happened. It's all like a dream. I just can't wait for the next time we meet.
Love,
Mikel
How it can be that we have so many treasured memories from our short time together in Aspen? It seems like I shouldn't feel this way; in fact, I am not sure if I ever have. But those 4 1/2 days at your condominium complex really touched me in a special way. How could I sit back here in smoggy Los Angeles and not think of your alluring pillows:
And when I came home dehydrated and semi-drunk, you were there with your comforting objets d'art:
In an unfamiliar room where I lay my head every night, you offered comforting decorative touches, including what I think might be the most beautiful man purses I've ever seen:
I was impressed, too, with how our breakfast area immediately felt so warm and inviting:
Even Beth couldn't help but be charmed by your joie de vivre and irrepressible whimsy (that is what it was, right?):
Without you I would not have felt quite so at home. Even now, I can't believe it actually happened. It's all like a dream. I just can't wait for the next time we meet.
Love,
Mikel
Monday, June 25, 2007
Oh, yeah, writing...
Isn't that what I am supposed to be doing here? I forgot. I really meant to just post pictures of the condo I stayed in with 6 of my colleagues in Aspen in mid-June, but I've not been home much and I keep forgetting to download them. I took to calling it "'70s Native American Chic," if that gives you any idea. And it was part of the "Silverglo" complex--if that gives you any MORE idea...
By the time I got back to L.A. last week, I was pretty much spent. I think I was exhausted by 10 pm every night. It wasn't until yesterday that it did not feel like every little thing was a huge project to be completed.
Now I just have to solve the mystery of the weird black stains that showed up on all of my white clothes and my recently washed sheets. How annoying. Of all the things to want to expend mental energy on, locating a rogue pen or something that splattered black stuff all over my clothes is not one of them.
I owe Carly a sample of writing in 2 days. She gave me this deadline (or, rather, I offered it) weeks ago, and I am completely stuck. If I got stoned on any regular basis maybe I'd use it as an excuse, but I hardly ever do so I only have my own two hands and brain to blame. The chapter that has to be written (it's crammed in my head in jumbled ways; it has to be the one to come out next) is about my father dying. In theory this sounds maudlin and horrible to write. In truth, it's just confusing. There are so many ways to go about it. I even thought about a timeline of the year before and after his death that actually avoids talking about him, to illustrate how someone's death punctuates your daily life. But that would be like creating a sculpture of negative space or something. I don't know. She'll have something in hand unless I have a nervous breakdown, but I can't promise it will be good.
And then there's the saga of my neighbor, whom I'll dub "The Abuser," for his lovely way of flying off the handle about the noise in Steve's room and the sound of the dogs jumping off the bed, and then apologizing for it afterward. He's truly upsetting and makes it very hard to want to be home when he spends the 8 am hour slamming what sounds like a hammer against the wall for 30 seconds, goes away for 10 minutes, and then comes back and does it again. Seriously. The whole apt. was shaking last week. He literally told Steve he was going to make his life "a living hell." Yes, we complained to the landlord. No, nothing's happened yet.
I like my apt. a lot, but I don't like it THAT much. In fact, I very much despise this person at the moment for the way he's acting, and it's got nothing to do with me and yet I live with the crazy uncertainty every day of what he might do. I really fucking hate that. And now I remember clearly why I loved living alone. It's been 6 years since I last did. I think it's time to reconsider that again. Well, it's time to keep considering it. As much as I hate moving and as much as the rents in this city suck and make me think about leaving, for the time being, it may be the best option.
By the time I got back to L.A. last week, I was pretty much spent. I think I was exhausted by 10 pm every night. It wasn't until yesterday that it did not feel like every little thing was a huge project to be completed.
Now I just have to solve the mystery of the weird black stains that showed up on all of my white clothes and my recently washed sheets. How annoying. Of all the things to want to expend mental energy on, locating a rogue pen or something that splattered black stuff all over my clothes is not one of them.
I owe Carly a sample of writing in 2 days. She gave me this deadline (or, rather, I offered it) weeks ago, and I am completely stuck. If I got stoned on any regular basis maybe I'd use it as an excuse, but I hardly ever do so I only have my own two hands and brain to blame. The chapter that has to be written (it's crammed in my head in jumbled ways; it has to be the one to come out next) is about my father dying. In theory this sounds maudlin and horrible to write. In truth, it's just confusing. There are so many ways to go about it. I even thought about a timeline of the year before and after his death that actually avoids talking about him, to illustrate how someone's death punctuates your daily life. But that would be like creating a sculpture of negative space or something. I don't know. She'll have something in hand unless I have a nervous breakdown, but I can't promise it will be good.
And then there's the saga of my neighbor, whom I'll dub "The Abuser," for his lovely way of flying off the handle about the noise in Steve's room and the sound of the dogs jumping off the bed, and then apologizing for it afterward. He's truly upsetting and makes it very hard to want to be home when he spends the 8 am hour slamming what sounds like a hammer against the wall for 30 seconds, goes away for 10 minutes, and then comes back and does it again. Seriously. The whole apt. was shaking last week. He literally told Steve he was going to make his life "a living hell." Yes, we complained to the landlord. No, nothing's happened yet.
I like my apt. a lot, but I don't like it THAT much. In fact, I very much despise this person at the moment for the way he's acting, and it's got nothing to do with me and yet I live with the crazy uncertainty every day of what he might do. I really fucking hate that. And now I remember clearly why I loved living alone. It's been 6 years since I last did. I think it's time to reconsider that again. Well, it's time to keep considering it. As much as I hate moving and as much as the rents in this city suck and make me think about leaving, for the time being, it may be the best option.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
"Fuck, Yeah!" and "Hey There, Yaz Fans"
I couldn't resist this title for a post, despite the fact it will mean nothing to almost everyone. Before dinner last night, I taught Jessica how to do the "Fuck, yeah!" sign that Ryan taught me, but she one-upped it as we ate, pointing to something she was eating with both hands as if she were flashing gang signs, doubling me over in hysterics and then she started and then our dinner companions were laughing, unsure why, as we cackled through the rest of the meal.
But then I truly made myself sick on the phone with Lesley at midnight as she tried to pick songs for her myspace page and was debating a Yaz song. To which I said she should change her profile so every part of it referred back to Yaz; examples:
About me: I heart Yaz.
Hobbies: All Yaz all the time.
Favorite Books: Anything written on the Web about Yaz.
Heroes: Vince Clarke and Alison Moyet.
Favorite Movies: A Brief History of Yaz and Yazoo.
But then she just pretended to be greeting all of the page viewers with saying "Hey there, Yaz fans..." and between the wine I'd had and my delirious state, I wheezed like an old man on the steps to my apartment.
God, I'm easy.
But then I truly made myself sick on the phone with Lesley at midnight as she tried to pick songs for her myspace page and was debating a Yaz song. To which I said she should change her profile so every part of it referred back to Yaz; examples:
About me: I heart Yaz.
Hobbies: All Yaz all the time.
Favorite Books: Anything written on the Web about Yaz.
Heroes: Vince Clarke and Alison Moyet.
Favorite Movies: A Brief History of Yaz and Yazoo.
But then she just pretended to be greeting all of the page viewers with saying "Hey there, Yaz fans..." and between the wine I'd had and my delirious state, I wheezed like an old man on the steps to my apartment.
God, I'm easy.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Oh, and...
Since I'll be in Aspen and not blogging...
Happy Flag Day!
Anyone who knows me well enough is cringing right now, I just know it. Don't worry, you escape (yet again) my threats to have a red, white, and blue party and make Flag Cake.
Happy Flag Day!
Anyone who knows me well enough is cringing right now, I just know it. Don't worry, you escape (yet again) my threats to have a red, white, and blue party and make Flag Cake.
Counting the Miles (and Days)
I used to think traveling for work would be a blast, until I realized it meant hundreds of emails to catch up on and general disorientation...not to mention jet lag, muscle cramps in my legs, and dehydration. Don't get me wrong; I like leaving town. I just realize I need the balance of traveling for myself vs. my clients.
I was just in New York to do meetings, media lunches, and attend a taping of the Today Show, which was surreal enough... with Anna Kournikova in the green room with kids from the Boys and Girls Club of America to promote Anna's newest DVD about "getting fit with kids" or something... and Stacy from "What Not to Wear" being kinda bitchy and then leaving the room dressed in a rugby shirt and track pants. Speaking of what not to wear... A producer told me she loved my shoes, though, so I guess I did something right. Or wrong. Depends on how you look at it.
NYC is much as I remember it. It's hard to be there for more than 4 days without feeling a tad suffocated. I really do need the open air, ocean, mountains, and sky nearby. Still, I fled Midtown on Friday for Brooklyn and hung out with Megan and drank rose (roh-zay, that is) wine on her fire escape and saw Keith, Darren, Larry, and others for drinks as well. I was happy to kick off dress shoes that were killing me and slip on the ol' flip flops. I only miss Brooklyn when I go to NYC now. And the art. I guess most of that is still in Manhattan.
And now I am off again--to Aspen, Colo., for 4 1/2 days of work trailing a chef around the Food & Wine Classic. Luckily, he's awesome, but 4 days of running around at 8000 feet and trying to stay hydrated should be interesting... I can't wait for next Tuesday, honestly. I am running out of steam.
Plus, I admit it, finally, in "print": I'm enjoying Ryan's company too much to want to be gone so often. I'd much prefer to lounge on the beach with him, as I did Sunday in Malibu, looking for sea glass and eating delicious sandwiches. I don't know what to call what's happening right now, but, as we both said: "I like it, whatever it is." And in fact, I have planned the trip I said I wanted to. It's preliminary, but looks like we'll head to Frankfurt, Berlin, and Amsterdam in Sept. I am going to suck it up and just go for it. I've never been; I've always wanted to go; I have a hot guy to go with, to boot. If we can plan 3 months in advance, something is going right, huh? And neither one of us seems to be panicking about committing to doing this. Even better.
I was just in New York to do meetings, media lunches, and attend a taping of the Today Show, which was surreal enough... with Anna Kournikova in the green room with kids from the Boys and Girls Club of America to promote Anna's newest DVD about "getting fit with kids" or something... and Stacy from "What Not to Wear" being kinda bitchy and then leaving the room dressed in a rugby shirt and track pants. Speaking of what not to wear... A producer told me she loved my shoes, though, so I guess I did something right. Or wrong. Depends on how you look at it.
NYC is much as I remember it. It's hard to be there for more than 4 days without feeling a tad suffocated. I really do need the open air, ocean, mountains, and sky nearby. Still, I fled Midtown on Friday for Brooklyn and hung out with Megan and drank rose (roh-zay, that is) wine on her fire escape and saw Keith, Darren, Larry, and others for drinks as well. I was happy to kick off dress shoes that were killing me and slip on the ol' flip flops. I only miss Brooklyn when I go to NYC now. And the art. I guess most of that is still in Manhattan.
And now I am off again--to Aspen, Colo., for 4 1/2 days of work trailing a chef around the Food & Wine Classic. Luckily, he's awesome, but 4 days of running around at 8000 feet and trying to stay hydrated should be interesting... I can't wait for next Tuesday, honestly. I am running out of steam.
Plus, I admit it, finally, in "print": I'm enjoying Ryan's company too much to want to be gone so often. I'd much prefer to lounge on the beach with him, as I did Sunday in Malibu, looking for sea glass and eating delicious sandwiches. I don't know what to call what's happening right now, but, as we both said: "I like it, whatever it is." And in fact, I have planned the trip I said I wanted to. It's preliminary, but looks like we'll head to Frankfurt, Berlin, and Amsterdam in Sept. I am going to suck it up and just go for it. I've never been; I've always wanted to go; I have a hot guy to go with, to boot. If we can plan 3 months in advance, something is going right, huh? And neither one of us seems to be panicking about committing to doing this. Even better.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Random Picture of the Day
I shot this picture at a hostel near McCarthy, Alaska, in August of 2005.
Let's be clear: McCarthy is a town that is 60 miles or so up a dirt road that had partially washed out when we were driving up to it. We almost did not get through. It took 3 hours to drive that distance, ending up in this tiny Western hamlet of about 40 year round residents, where, apparently many years ago someone in town went crazy during the long, cold winter and killed a bunch of people. Nice.
Still, it's one of the most beautiful places I've ever been and the saloon in town was even run by a gay couple (oh, another note: I was on a gay trip: 8 gay men tromping around Southeastern Alaska together; I was writing about it for Frontiers even though I'd quit by then).
To get to the main part of town you had to cross a foot bridge over a river that, at the time, was swollen with silty, glacial runoff. Why? Well, the road simply ended at the river. (OK, you could drive a car across, but it was on a separate bridge that looked more rickity than the one we were on.)
Standing on that small bridge, you could look up at the brown ribbon of water and see, in the distance, triangular volcanic mountains still covered in snow, a huge glacier snaking down into the valley as well, covered in silty sand, looking like some kind of cold desert landscape.
We had been camping in the cold and rain--as well as kayaking in a glacial bay near Valdez--and staying at this hostel provided us with our first hot showers in 3 days. After nearly scalding myself, and happily so, we tromped into the main kitchen area to prepare for dinner. That is where I found this painting hanging on the wall.
Bear in mind, this was essentially a log cabin A-frame building, and since we were in the middle of nowhere, literally, surrounded by forests that were home to several beautiful bald eagles--and boy are the beautiful when you see them fly--the painting seemed a propos. Still, the cheap, thrift-store sheen it had is likely what made me want it even more. I don't think Brad, the eccentric owner who kept a bench press in the makeshift dirt driveway near his room, would have handed it over willingly.
Standing there in wool socks on a cold August evening, drinking wine and watching the rain drizzle down and obscure the dramatic surroundings, I contemplated how I could stealthily sneak in to the kitchen in the dead of the short summer night, wrap the eagle up in my coat, and put it in my suitcase. But I didn't, or else I'd have posted a picture of me standing next to the painting in my apartment.
So, is this a post about a missed opportunity art heist? I'm not sure. I just saw the picture tonight and the whole scene popped into my head, complete with details from the next day when I strapped on crampons and hiked the Kennicott Glacier:
But that's another story.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Photographic Memory
I think it's tomorrow. Still. At least, that's how my body feels. I pop awake at 5 a.m., hungry. Breakfast comes and I do not want to eat. I couldn't have dinner until 9 p.m. tonight. The jetlag is slowly ebbing away, but damn if I only remember slivers of Friday night after I got home--except that Lesley, Ryan, and I downed my souvenir bottle of sparkling Shiraz/Pinot in no time flat and then yelled things at the TV as I caught up on the last three episodes of "America's Next Top Model"--who is a Latina drag queen! God bless this country.
Thankfully, instead of coming home feeling like I'd been beat up, I thought back on this trip and realized it was actually incredibly enjoyable. It was not too much time in a car; we were near Adelaide most of the time, and we had tours from people who were so good natured. I really do love Australians--even when they can be as trashy as Americans.
The trip began in Adelaide, with tours of the city and the Central Market, another of my new favorite places. It's where you can by frog cakes (I can't even get into it), tacky souvenirs, and the best produce around, which is saying something in a state of Australia renowned for its food.
Of course, you can also buy lots of GAME MEAT. Yum. 'Roo!
I could go on and on about a Saturday night spent out with some lovely gay guys who organize Feast, the local LGBT festival, but the other side of that story concerns drunken behavior by a few others along for the ride that sent two of the writers I was with into a bit of a panic (and rightfully so). Let's just say that we nicknamed certain offenders Creepy and Grotesque and leave it at that. Still, getting drunk and enjoying the local color is always fun--esp. when you are walking back to your hotel at 2 am and getting text messages from writers that are cracking you up and making the few homeless people on the street look at you funny.
We took off the next day for the Barossa Valley, where some of the world's best wines are made. We stopped off at Penfolds to mix our own blend of wine. Mine was 60% Grenache, 20% Mourvedre, and 20% Shiraz, and I was awfully proud of my tasty libation.
Of course, we all felt like we were in some kind of night school adult education chemistry class (or maybe it was just me)...
But at the end of the day, we got to walk out with cute little bottles of wine. They were supposed to keep 5 days. When we opened mine 2 days later, it was utterly nasty and had the taste of a tire about it--nothing like those other romantic tasting notes like "cut grass" and "cherry."
Still, staying in the Barossa Valley when it's actually rained is gorgeous. It helped that we were lucky enough to score rooms at a 16-room luxury resort with outdoor showers and views of some of the most amazing expanse of sky. I'd not seen the Milky Way in so long. It almost makes me cry when I see it. But then I woke up at 7 am with the sunrise and saw the vineyards:
So of course I sat outside and took photos of myself reflected in the window on my terrace. Because you can't spoil a good sunrise with self-portraits:
Luckily the weather held, and the next day we headed up into the Adelaide Hills and visited more wineries. It rained as we gorged at lunch on local cheese and coffee and watched the leaves on the maple trees in the town of Hahndorf turn yellow (it's fall there, don't ya know). But then the rain cleared and at the last winery of the day, this was the view from where we did our tastings:
More wine tasting the next day in the McClaren Vale, another renowned wine region, where I even got to see where some of my fave sparkling Shiraz is produced (Vixen), and laughed as Larry screamed at a Huntsman spider--a hulking, jumping thing that is totally harmless...which he kept running toward to snap a picture and then, every time it moved, he screamed and ran away. All for the good of the story of course.
By the time we may it to the beach to eat at a Greek cafe I was partially drunk, my stomach unhappy, and I could only stare at the ocean. Of course, that's when Larry got this shot:
We combed the beach after lunch, looking for cool rocks and cuttlefish skeletons. I could have easily just slept on the beach for a few days.
But there was no sleeping. It was off to the city to catch a 30-seat plane to Kangaroo Island, a 25-minute flight from Adelaide and easily one of my favorite places on earth. Granted, I have not been THAT many places, but it's a pastoral country with rolling beaches and rocky inlets where you can see so much wildlife it's kind of ridiculous. We saw tiger snakes, an echidna (egg-laying mammal that kind of looks like a porcupine), not to mention kangaroos, and, at Seal Bay, a baby seal that came within about four feet of me when he wandered down from the sand dunes on his way to the ocean, barking like a dog:
The southwestern corner of KI is a desolate wild place that's pretty stunning, and as we walked around Remarkable Rocks and Admiral's Arch trying to contemplate how the ocean stretched forever until it finally hit Antarctica, I of course found time to be totally geeky and take pictures of lichen--as well as some more self-portraits halfway inside the rocks:
The last full day on the island was at my new favorite place, Lifetime Private Retreats, where I swear I will spend a month at some point just learning to garden and doing yoga overlooking the ocean. The "resort" is simply three houses near a small beach on the north shore of the island, where you can eat dinner under a fig tree or in an old shearing shed. Trust me, the 22 hours of travel to get there is worth it. And of course, I for some reason have no pics from this trip when the hills were so brilliantly green and lush. But I was a lucky enough son of a bitch to be there last December too:
I made it back at 6:40 am Friday May 18 after leaving Adelaide at 6:40 am on Friday May 18. Wrap yer head around that one.
To tell you the whole story would take me years and you would be bored, no doubt. But I was more than happy to be back. I needed to find the perfect place to put my new small boomerang carved from a tree in the Simpson Desert, give Ryan his Barossa Valley beer cozy (why on earth do they have beer cozies in the most famous wine region of Australia?), and Lesley her chocolate-dipped honeycomb with honey from the last pure strain of Ligurian bees on earth.
Because what good is going to Australia if you don't come back with the weirdest shit you can find... I mean, short of trapping an echidna?
Thankfully, instead of coming home feeling like I'd been beat up, I thought back on this trip and realized it was actually incredibly enjoyable. It was not too much time in a car; we were near Adelaide most of the time, and we had tours from people who were so good natured. I really do love Australians--even when they can be as trashy as Americans.
The trip began in Adelaide, with tours of the city and the Central Market, another of my new favorite places. It's where you can by frog cakes (I can't even get into it), tacky souvenirs, and the best produce around, which is saying something in a state of Australia renowned for its food.
Of course, you can also buy lots of GAME MEAT. Yum. 'Roo!
I could go on and on about a Saturday night spent out with some lovely gay guys who organize Feast, the local LGBT festival, but the other side of that story concerns drunken behavior by a few others along for the ride that sent two of the writers I was with into a bit of a panic (and rightfully so). Let's just say that we nicknamed certain offenders Creepy and Grotesque and leave it at that. Still, getting drunk and enjoying the local color is always fun--esp. when you are walking back to your hotel at 2 am and getting text messages from writers that are cracking you up and making the few homeless people on the street look at you funny.
We took off the next day for the Barossa Valley, where some of the world's best wines are made. We stopped off at Penfolds to mix our own blend of wine. Mine was 60% Grenache, 20% Mourvedre, and 20% Shiraz, and I was awfully proud of my tasty libation.
Of course, we all felt like we were in some kind of night school adult education chemistry class (or maybe it was just me)...
But at the end of the day, we got to walk out with cute little bottles of wine. They were supposed to keep 5 days. When we opened mine 2 days later, it was utterly nasty and had the taste of a tire about it--nothing like those other romantic tasting notes like "cut grass" and "cherry."
Still, staying in the Barossa Valley when it's actually rained is gorgeous. It helped that we were lucky enough to score rooms at a 16-room luxury resort with outdoor showers and views of some of the most amazing expanse of sky. I'd not seen the Milky Way in so long. It almost makes me cry when I see it. But then I woke up at 7 am with the sunrise and saw the vineyards:
So of course I sat outside and took photos of myself reflected in the window on my terrace. Because you can't spoil a good sunrise with self-portraits:
Luckily the weather held, and the next day we headed up into the Adelaide Hills and visited more wineries. It rained as we gorged at lunch on local cheese and coffee and watched the leaves on the maple trees in the town of Hahndorf turn yellow (it's fall there, don't ya know). But then the rain cleared and at the last winery of the day, this was the view from where we did our tastings:
More wine tasting the next day in the McClaren Vale, another renowned wine region, where I even got to see where some of my fave sparkling Shiraz is produced (Vixen), and laughed as Larry screamed at a Huntsman spider--a hulking, jumping thing that is totally harmless...which he kept running toward to snap a picture and then, every time it moved, he screamed and ran away. All for the good of the story of course.
By the time we may it to the beach to eat at a Greek cafe I was partially drunk, my stomach unhappy, and I could only stare at the ocean. Of course, that's when Larry got this shot:
We combed the beach after lunch, looking for cool rocks and cuttlefish skeletons. I could have easily just slept on the beach for a few days.
But there was no sleeping. It was off to the city to catch a 30-seat plane to Kangaroo Island, a 25-minute flight from Adelaide and easily one of my favorite places on earth. Granted, I have not been THAT many places, but it's a pastoral country with rolling beaches and rocky inlets where you can see so much wildlife it's kind of ridiculous. We saw tiger snakes, an echidna (egg-laying mammal that kind of looks like a porcupine), not to mention kangaroos, and, at Seal Bay, a baby seal that came within about four feet of me when he wandered down from the sand dunes on his way to the ocean, barking like a dog:
The southwestern corner of KI is a desolate wild place that's pretty stunning, and as we walked around Remarkable Rocks and Admiral's Arch trying to contemplate how the ocean stretched forever until it finally hit Antarctica, I of course found time to be totally geeky and take pictures of lichen--as well as some more self-portraits halfway inside the rocks:
The last full day on the island was at my new favorite place, Lifetime Private Retreats, where I swear I will spend a month at some point just learning to garden and doing yoga overlooking the ocean. The "resort" is simply three houses near a small beach on the north shore of the island, where you can eat dinner under a fig tree or in an old shearing shed. Trust me, the 22 hours of travel to get there is worth it. And of course, I for some reason have no pics from this trip when the hills were so brilliantly green and lush. But I was a lucky enough son of a bitch to be there last December too:
I made it back at 6:40 am Friday May 18 after leaving Adelaide at 6:40 am on Friday May 18. Wrap yer head around that one.
To tell you the whole story would take me years and you would be bored, no doubt. But I was more than happy to be back. I needed to find the perfect place to put my new small boomerang carved from a tree in the Simpson Desert, give Ryan his Barossa Valley beer cozy (why on earth do they have beer cozies in the most famous wine region of Australia?), and Lesley her chocolate-dipped honeycomb with honey from the last pure strain of Ligurian bees on earth.
Because what good is going to Australia if you don't come back with the weirdest shit you can find... I mean, short of trapping an echidna?
Friday, May 18, 2007
The best part of coming home
What could be more welcoming after 22 hours of traveling than a cat in heat yowling at you and keeping you from falling asleep? I guess I don't need to worry about staying up now.
Australia was great--a very good trip, good food, wine, and a night at one of my favorite places on earth on Kangaroo Island called Lifetime Private Retreats (www.life-time.com.au). I want to go live there and learn to garden.
More soon. Literally just got home. I feel like I am still on the airplane. I need to unpack, do laundry, and lock the cat away somewhere until her hormones deplete--or whatever it is they do. Of course, Steve covieniently left today too. He always misses the fun.
Australia was great--a very good trip, good food, wine, and a night at one of my favorite places on earth on Kangaroo Island called Lifetime Private Retreats (www.life-time.com.au). I want to go live there and learn to garden.
More soon. Literally just got home. I feel like I am still on the airplane. I need to unpack, do laundry, and lock the cat away somewhere until her hormones deplete--or whatever it is they do. Of course, Steve covieniently left today too. He always misses the fun.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Sorghum Wine, All Around!
I discovered sorghum wine tonight. Damn you, Steven.
I've known the man for 15 years and somehow he still manages to subtly corrupt me. I was perfectly in control today until dinner in San Gabriel for his birthday. I can't believe I have now known him this long, first of all. (I was an even skinnier 18-year-old college freshmen when I met him, and we hit it off when he decided we should torture my then-roommate by setting up camp in my room to scare him off.) Secondly, I sat down next to him at the restaurant, already salivating because I could smell the Peking duck in the kitchen, and he shows me a bottle that looks like Log Cabin syrup but it's clear--and, oh yeah, in Chinese.
"What's that?" I asked him.
"Want some?" he said as a reply. When he answers you with a question, you know it's trouble.
So he pours me what looks like a sake cup full of what smells faintly of moonshine. But damn it tastes a lot better. Three "cups" later, I wasn't drunk; I felt like I was floating. At a table full of 12 people, I felt like anything could have happened and I would have merely blinked.
Thankfully, that drunk, floating feeling melted away before I drove home (but not before I ate jellyfish, which inexplicably the restaurant ran out of. really? does one just "run out" of jellyfish?).
I think Steve enjoyed himself. After all, he had a birthday dinner surrounded by friends who all had good senses of humor--a must to make a group dinner work. I did pour him more sorghum wine, so I think he was floating too.
Note to self: Find sorghum wine and learn enough Chinese to find the good stuff.
It's after midnight. I should be asleep, but I feel wired. I am thinking of being stuck on a plane for 15 hours; I am thinking of the fact my father would have been 66 years old today if he was still alive. Now that's a weird thought. To me, he's arrested at 45--a vague figure who is a mixture of memories, sights, and sounds. Ryan was talking to me about how we can't really remember people as they were; they become collages of sensations, in a way--a picture that is not entirely visual, nor entirely accurate. I got quiet, trying hard to remember a sharp picture, a crisp memory untainted by over two decades of absence. And I couldn't do it. It makes me sad in some ways, of course. I feel like the human brain should not do this to you. But I suppose it also blocks out the pictures of him being sick and the awful sterile hospital rooms I sat in all summer. (My sharpest memory is actually hearing "True Colors" by Cyndi Lauper come on the radio minutes after I found out he had died, so there's still no way for me to hate that song.)
Sorghum wine or not, I am feeling a tad maudlin, thinking of what I have missed and what has yet to happen. Watching your friends (and yourself) get older, it's unavoidable I suppose. And yet I also feel like there is still so, so much more I have yet to do and experience--whether it be learning lawn bowling or visiting Mayan ruins in Mexico. I can at least cross "Eat Jellyfish" off that list.
I've known the man for 15 years and somehow he still manages to subtly corrupt me. I was perfectly in control today until dinner in San Gabriel for his birthday. I can't believe I have now known him this long, first of all. (I was an even skinnier 18-year-old college freshmen when I met him, and we hit it off when he decided we should torture my then-roommate by setting up camp in my room to scare him off.) Secondly, I sat down next to him at the restaurant, already salivating because I could smell the Peking duck in the kitchen, and he shows me a bottle that looks like Log Cabin syrup but it's clear--and, oh yeah, in Chinese.
"What's that?" I asked him.
"Want some?" he said as a reply. When he answers you with a question, you know it's trouble.
So he pours me what looks like a sake cup full of what smells faintly of moonshine. But damn it tastes a lot better. Three "cups" later, I wasn't drunk; I felt like I was floating. At a table full of 12 people, I felt like anything could have happened and I would have merely blinked.
Thankfully, that drunk, floating feeling melted away before I drove home (but not before I ate jellyfish, which inexplicably the restaurant ran out of. really? does one just "run out" of jellyfish?).
I think Steve enjoyed himself. After all, he had a birthday dinner surrounded by friends who all had good senses of humor--a must to make a group dinner work. I did pour him more sorghum wine, so I think he was floating too.
Note to self: Find sorghum wine and learn enough Chinese to find the good stuff.
It's after midnight. I should be asleep, but I feel wired. I am thinking of being stuck on a plane for 15 hours; I am thinking of the fact my father would have been 66 years old today if he was still alive. Now that's a weird thought. To me, he's arrested at 45--a vague figure who is a mixture of memories, sights, and sounds. Ryan was talking to me about how we can't really remember people as they were; they become collages of sensations, in a way--a picture that is not entirely visual, nor entirely accurate. I got quiet, trying hard to remember a sharp picture, a crisp memory untainted by over two decades of absence. And I couldn't do it. It makes me sad in some ways, of course. I feel like the human brain should not do this to you. But I suppose it also blocks out the pictures of him being sick and the awful sterile hospital rooms I sat in all summer. (My sharpest memory is actually hearing "True Colors" by Cyndi Lauper come on the radio minutes after I found out he had died, so there's still no way for me to hate that song.)
Sorghum wine or not, I am feeling a tad maudlin, thinking of what I have missed and what has yet to happen. Watching your friends (and yourself) get older, it's unavoidable I suppose. And yet I also feel like there is still so, so much more I have yet to do and experience--whether it be learning lawn bowling or visiting Mayan ruins in Mexico. I can at least cross "Eat Jellyfish" off that list.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Let Beach Season Begin
Just in time for me to leave the country, the weather turned warm and wonderful Sunday. My sinus infection is gone, my energy is back, I am almost OK with being caught up on work, and I spent Saturday night eating good food and laughing my ass off at the Gold Coast in West Hollywood with Ryan (who also somehow managed to coerce me into doing a Jell-o shot from a container that looked like it once held salsa of some sort).
Today when I finally ventured outside, it was clear the beach was the place to be. After eating and collecting my swimsuit (and about 3 bottles of sunblock), Ryan and I met up with Tim and Justin at the beach. The surf was rough, too cold, really, to enjoy, but I still took a quick dunk, and then spent an hour collecting sea glass, agates, and odd rocks, looking like a 10-year-old scanning the sand for a pretty shell.
We didn't leave 'til after 4:30, when the wind had kicked up and sent all the homos fleeing for cover. Sadly, Tim and Justin ended up leaving early too. But still, a day in the sun--my skin actually feeling somehow restored to just be exposed to it--was just the tonic I needed for a loooooong week.
I board a plane at 11:50 p.m. Wed. for Adelaide, Australia, where I will lead a gay media press trip to South Australia. I am not quite sure what to expect from this. I know 2 of the writers and the 3rd seems fine. It should be a quick tour Down Under--back in about 9 days, in fact. Still, after a weekend like this one, I feel hesitant to leave. Except, I could really use the plane time to study for the GRE.
If I don't get the business class upgrade, it may be a long 14-hour flight.... with math and verbal practice tests to keep me awake...
I can't quite believe this is my third flight to Australia in 18 months. And despite my feeling a tad blase about this trip, I still feel incredibly lucky that I get to do this. I just wish I could take this weather and people with me. I asked Ryan if he wanted to hide in my suitcase. He said yes, but, sadly, he's just too tall...
Today when I finally ventured outside, it was clear the beach was the place to be. After eating and collecting my swimsuit (and about 3 bottles of sunblock), Ryan and I met up with Tim and Justin at the beach. The surf was rough, too cold, really, to enjoy, but I still took a quick dunk, and then spent an hour collecting sea glass, agates, and odd rocks, looking like a 10-year-old scanning the sand for a pretty shell.
We didn't leave 'til after 4:30, when the wind had kicked up and sent all the homos fleeing for cover. Sadly, Tim and Justin ended up leaving early too. But still, a day in the sun--my skin actually feeling somehow restored to just be exposed to it--was just the tonic I needed for a loooooong week.
I board a plane at 11:50 p.m. Wed. for Adelaide, Australia, where I will lead a gay media press trip to South Australia. I am not quite sure what to expect from this. I know 2 of the writers and the 3rd seems fine. It should be a quick tour Down Under--back in about 9 days, in fact. Still, after a weekend like this one, I feel hesitant to leave. Except, I could really use the plane time to study for the GRE.
If I don't get the business class upgrade, it may be a long 14-hour flight.... with math and verbal practice tests to keep me awake...
I can't quite believe this is my third flight to Australia in 18 months. And despite my feeling a tad blase about this trip, I still feel incredibly lucky that I get to do this. I just wish I could take this weather and people with me. I asked Ryan if he wanted to hide in my suitcase. He said yes, but, sadly, he's just too tall...
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
And now for some promotion...
I just wanted to point out that my friend Nicole has launched a great little Web site called Art for Empty Walls and I am helping her spread the word and doing my PR best to get people to go there and buy stuff. It's artwork priced $350 or less and the newest show is all about "monsters." Go see www.artforemptywalls.com.
End Communication.
End Communication.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
The Most Shocking News Ever!
According to a "news" story today: "Intelligence has nothing to do with wealth, according to a US study published Tuesday which found that people with below average smarts were just as wealthy as those with higher IQ scores."
Have these people been living in caves and not seen anyone with money recently?
Have these people been living in caves and not seen anyone with money recently?
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
On the Subject of Subject
I can't help but think this year is supposed to be one of extremes--of pushing myself way outside the lines that had been drawn around me. But apparently it's also the year of me being sick.
Can you fucking believe it?
I woke up Monday AM and felt disgusting--lethargic, congested, scratchy throat. I looked at myself in the mirror (something I don't do a lot of I admit), and I looked just thrashed. How the hell did that happen in 8 hours? I felt fine on Sat. night watching "Flowers in the Attic" and "Hercules in New York" (though, admittedly, both movies would make anyone feel sick, I suppose).
I gave it a day and today I woke up the same way. "Fuck this," I thought. "I am getting my ass some drugs."
So I call Kaiser and my doctor is unavailable, but I can easily get in to see another if I like.
"Please," I tell the woman on the phone.
"OK, well Dr. ------ is available at 3:10 p.m."
"Excuse me? What was his name?"
She repeats it.
"I'm sorry. I know I am not feeling well, but can you spell it for me?" I hate to say it, but I thought maybe her accent was just making me unable to understand.
"Of course. It's S-u-b-j-e-c-t."
"Dr. Subject." I say it and don't quite believe I am saying it.
"That's correct."
"Really?" I ask.
She doesn't laugh. "Yes."
"OK, Dr. Subject it is."
I thought of how this would be the perfect name for a study aid at Sylvan Learning Center, or the character to whom you can ask any question in a Sex Ed class without shame.
By the time I made it to the office, I was feeling worse. My sinuses killing me, my throat raw. I knew I had a sinus infection, and began to suspect I've had it all along.
Dr. Subject was totally normal looking. Maybe a tad short. Sensible black shoes. A nice way of asking questions. But then he pointed that weird light instrument up my nose and all he said was "Oh, my."
Bingo.
He asked me if I had sinus pressure, but I am never really sure what's out of the ordinary since I have allergies and my life is spent oscillating between more congested and less congested. The whole "pressure" question means nothing to me at this point.
"Tell me, Dr. Subject..." I wanted to begin, but couldn't will myself to do it.
Instead I just said, "So, this is something I've possibly had all along, isn't it?"
"Possibly. Why didn't you come in before?"
Well, good question, Dr. Subject. I don't know. Because I'd have nothing to complain about on my blog? I had no answer.
But here I am 6 hours later starting a 10-day course of a hefty dose of antibiotics, armed with nasal spray, Sudafed, and Claritin. I'm going to decongest everyone and everything within a 5-mile radius at this point.
I can't wait to have my energy back. The stomach ache from the Amoxicilin will be worth it.
Can you fucking believe it?
I woke up Monday AM and felt disgusting--lethargic, congested, scratchy throat. I looked at myself in the mirror (something I don't do a lot of I admit), and I looked just thrashed. How the hell did that happen in 8 hours? I felt fine on Sat. night watching "Flowers in the Attic" and "Hercules in New York" (though, admittedly, both movies would make anyone feel sick, I suppose).
I gave it a day and today I woke up the same way. "Fuck this," I thought. "I am getting my ass some drugs."
So I call Kaiser and my doctor is unavailable, but I can easily get in to see another if I like.
"Please," I tell the woman on the phone.
"OK, well Dr. ------ is available at 3:10 p.m."
"Excuse me? What was his name?"
She repeats it.
"I'm sorry. I know I am not feeling well, but can you spell it for me?" I hate to say it, but I thought maybe her accent was just making me unable to understand.
"Of course. It's S-u-b-j-e-c-t."
"Dr. Subject." I say it and don't quite believe I am saying it.
"That's correct."
"Really?" I ask.
She doesn't laugh. "Yes."
"OK, Dr. Subject it is."
I thought of how this would be the perfect name for a study aid at Sylvan Learning Center, or the character to whom you can ask any question in a Sex Ed class without shame.
By the time I made it to the office, I was feeling worse. My sinuses killing me, my throat raw. I knew I had a sinus infection, and began to suspect I've had it all along.
Dr. Subject was totally normal looking. Maybe a tad short. Sensible black shoes. A nice way of asking questions. But then he pointed that weird light instrument up my nose and all he said was "Oh, my."
Bingo.
He asked me if I had sinus pressure, but I am never really sure what's out of the ordinary since I have allergies and my life is spent oscillating between more congested and less congested. The whole "pressure" question means nothing to me at this point.
"Tell me, Dr. Subject..." I wanted to begin, but couldn't will myself to do it.
Instead I just said, "So, this is something I've possibly had all along, isn't it?"
"Possibly. Why didn't you come in before?"
Well, good question, Dr. Subject. I don't know. Because I'd have nothing to complain about on my blog? I had no answer.
But here I am 6 hours later starting a 10-day course of a hefty dose of antibiotics, armed with nasal spray, Sudafed, and Claritin. I'm going to decongest everyone and everything within a 5-mile radius at this point.
I can't wait to have my energy back. The stomach ache from the Amoxicilin will be worth it.
Monday, April 23, 2007
At Midnight, a Memory
Late Sunday night: It starts to rain and I am lying under an open window, looking up at the foliage outside, quiet, almost reverent, just listening. I think of the smell of water coming off of fir trees in Oregon, the damp earth and salt air near the ocean, the persistent light hiss of water filtering through all the trees I'd stare at on car rides through the mountains. I've missed the rain, the sound of water. I close my eyes and think about it. I start to laugh because I feel a drop on my face, bouncing through the screen on the window and it surprises me. But I don't move. I hear myself breathing. I listen to Ryan. We both say we'd forgotten what the rain sounds like. I think I've forgotten how much of my life is tied to this sound--people, places, smells, discoveries. I wish it could rain just a little every night so I could fall asleep listening and remembering.
Friday, April 20, 2007
I Have to Be in Touch With Everyone, All the Time
Um...I don't have a BlackBerry, so maybe I am just being a jerk with this post, but really, if service goes out for 10 hours (which it did recently for 5 million BlackBerry users), can't you just thank your stars that it's 10 hours in which you don't have to CONSTANTLY BE IN TOUCH WITH EVERYONE...?
I'm, frankly, a bit worried about how flipped out everyone gets when any little thing goes wrong with their cell phone, BlackBerry, what have you. Take this quote from the NY Times article on the BB service outage:
Elaine Del Rossi, chief sales officer for HTH Worldwide, an insurance company, reacted to the severed electronic leash with several panicked calls to her office in the belief that the company e-mail system was down.
"I quit smoking 28 years ago," she said, "and that was easier than being without my BlackBerry."
OK, that's just sad.
The article goes on to detail people who freely admit about how completely flipped out they were by this service disruption, panicking, running around their hotel rooms like the building was on fire. A: I love that the NY Times had to run a huge feature on this; B: Get a life, people.
Read a book.
Go see some art.
Go volunteer somewhere.
Catch up on your cleaning.
Listen to some music.
Watch TV.
I don't care. Just do something other than stare at your handheld idiot box with your drool forming at the edges of your open mouth. If you can't handle a BlackBerry blackout, it doesn't exactly bode well for the rest of us when a real tragedy or natural disaster occurs.
I'm, frankly, a bit worried about how flipped out everyone gets when any little thing goes wrong with their cell phone, BlackBerry, what have you. Take this quote from the NY Times article on the BB service outage:
Elaine Del Rossi, chief sales officer for HTH Worldwide, an insurance company, reacted to the severed electronic leash with several panicked calls to her office in the belief that the company e-mail system was down.
"I quit smoking 28 years ago," she said, "and that was easier than being without my BlackBerry."
OK, that's just sad.
The article goes on to detail people who freely admit about how completely flipped out they were by this service disruption, panicking, running around their hotel rooms like the building was on fire. A: I love that the NY Times had to run a huge feature on this; B: Get a life, people.
Read a book.
Go see some art.
Go volunteer somewhere.
Catch up on your cleaning.
Listen to some music.
Watch TV.
I don't care. Just do something other than stare at your handheld idiot box with your drool forming at the edges of your open mouth. If you can't handle a BlackBerry blackout, it doesn't exactly bode well for the rest of us when a real tragedy or natural disaster occurs.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Triangles vs. Charm School
What a weird week--like existentially weird. Everything has just kind of spiraled...not downward exactly. Maybe it's more like sideways. Is there some planetary alignment issue I need to know about? Insomnia, coupled with the shootings in Virginia and the fact someone swiped the back bumper of my car in the parking lot at work (and unhinged the bumper, costing me, oh, $1,000) have just kind of stacked on top of each other. I've felt out of sorts. And I looked at the calendar and kind of freaked out that it was April 19th. How did that happen?
Thank god Wednesday brought "Top Model" and Lesley forcing me to sit through "The Flavor of Love Girls go to Charm School," or whatever that show is called (and which Mo'Nique hosts; she's fabulous). At first, it felt like someone had thrown a feral cat at my face and it was clawing my eyes out, but by the time these trashy ladies were camping in the Angeles National Forest and having nervous breakdowns, I was completely hooked. Almost as hooked as I now am on "Instant Beauty Pageant," which I stumbled across at Ryan's (this is why I do not have cable!) and by which I was instantly entranced. Maybe you've seen it: The hosts find women at malls around the country and give them 3 hours to get ready to be in a beauty pageant, which most of them think is kind of dumb at first, but then they become prima donna pitches competing for (get this), a $1,500 crown (which is made of cubic zirconia and shown sitting on a fraying blue silk pillow) and a couple of nights in some crappy hotel in Acapulco or something like that--some place where The Love Boat always docked.
Someone keep me away from the TV, please.
Then again, TV is the only thing so far this week that seems to be keeping me feeling sane. Studying for the GRE certainly isn't. God I hate antonyms. There. I said it. I then glanced at the math section of my book I am using and my eyes literally crossed. Oh, geometry, how I've always hated you. And who the fuck cares about the dimensions of an Isoceles triangle? If you're one of them, I can't wait to never talk to you again.
The flip side there (and don't bring this up with me in person, as I'll deny I said this) is that I miss studying like this. Maybe because I get to be alone and sit in a quiet room and it's not about convincing media to write about something. But it's peaceful, if distracting in a brain-freeze kind of way.
There's too much to do today and tomorrow. I have to drive to hell and gone North Hollywood (like out near the train tracks) to get my car appraised today. Fun. That should yield a story of some sort, don't you think?
Thank god Wednesday brought "Top Model" and Lesley forcing me to sit through "The Flavor of Love Girls go to Charm School," or whatever that show is called (and which Mo'Nique hosts; she's fabulous). At first, it felt like someone had thrown a feral cat at my face and it was clawing my eyes out, but by the time these trashy ladies were camping in the Angeles National Forest and having nervous breakdowns, I was completely hooked. Almost as hooked as I now am on "Instant Beauty Pageant," which I stumbled across at Ryan's (this is why I do not have cable!) and by which I was instantly entranced. Maybe you've seen it: The hosts find women at malls around the country and give them 3 hours to get ready to be in a beauty pageant, which most of them think is kind of dumb at first, but then they become prima donna pitches competing for (get this), a $1,500 crown (which is made of cubic zirconia and shown sitting on a fraying blue silk pillow) and a couple of nights in some crappy hotel in Acapulco or something like that--some place where The Love Boat always docked.
Someone keep me away from the TV, please.
Then again, TV is the only thing so far this week that seems to be keeping me feeling sane. Studying for the GRE certainly isn't. God I hate antonyms. There. I said it. I then glanced at the math section of my book I am using and my eyes literally crossed. Oh, geometry, how I've always hated you. And who the fuck cares about the dimensions of an Isoceles triangle? If you're one of them, I can't wait to never talk to you again.
The flip side there (and don't bring this up with me in person, as I'll deny I said this) is that I miss studying like this. Maybe because I get to be alone and sit in a quiet room and it's not about convincing media to write about something. But it's peaceful, if distracting in a brain-freeze kind of way.
There's too much to do today and tomorrow. I have to drive to hell and gone North Hollywood (like out near the train tracks) to get my car appraised today. Fun. That should yield a story of some sort, don't you think?
Saturday, April 14, 2007
What Sucks and Why
I usually hate getting hungry at midnight for something that's not within easy reach, but after watching "Dolly: Live in London" with Ryan and enjoying "Two Doors Down" and "Jolene"--as well as Dolly's super-'80s press conference Q&A--we both decided we needed cookies and milk and decamped to Pavilions to find something with no corn syrup (me being the boy in the bubble and having an allergy to corn, etc.).
As we wandered into the "Snack Time" aisle (yes, that's what it was called), I saw a woman who I knew instantly was a big piece of crazy. She was stooped over scanning the rows of cookies and her shopping cart was full of Kleenex, yogurt, tissue paper, and other incongruous things. She looked normal-ish: too much makeup, jeans, shirt, reading glasses, albeit reeking of bad perfume. As we stood there reading the ingredient list of Nutter Butters she turned to us and said very loudly, "Do you guys see Mallomars anywhere?" More jolting than the question was the almost New Jersey accent in which it was uttered.
I, of course, went into shutdown mode, refusing to look at her for fear of erupting in laughter and because she was utterly annoying. Ryan was nicer and said, "Um, no. But the packaging is really distinctive, so you should see them fairly easily." And then all 3 of us were scanning for Mallomars. We got caught up in the hunt for a moment before silently agreeing to leave the aisle and head over to the refrigerated cookie dough.
Even after we got over there we could hear her squawking to anyone she saw, "Have you seen the Mallomars?" It literally gave me a chill and Ryan started imitating her a bit too loudly, which was cracking me up as we looked at Nestle Tollhouse cookie dough.
Finally finding something I could eat, we grabbed milk and went to the checkout aisle and Mallomar Lady appeared behind us with her weird shopping cart bumping up against me. As we started our transaction, she leaned in toward the checker and asked, "So, are you guys out of ice!?" (loudly, again). Ryan looked at me and I just stared at him like I'd lost all ability to do anything.
The checker responded, "Yes, we are."
Mallomar Lady responded swiftly: "Well, that fuckin' sucks!"
I wanted to turn and look at her, but I couldn't. We paid and briskly walked out of the store. I looked at Ryan and asked, "Who buys Mallomars and ice at midnight?" He didn't have an answer, and I guess I didn't expect him to. But we both had a nice new catchphrase to use at will, which we did for the next hour: "Well, that fuckin' sucks!"
But the cookies didn't.
As we wandered into the "Snack Time" aisle (yes, that's what it was called), I saw a woman who I knew instantly was a big piece of crazy. She was stooped over scanning the rows of cookies and her shopping cart was full of Kleenex, yogurt, tissue paper, and other incongruous things. She looked normal-ish: too much makeup, jeans, shirt, reading glasses, albeit reeking of bad perfume. As we stood there reading the ingredient list of Nutter Butters she turned to us and said very loudly, "Do you guys see Mallomars anywhere?" More jolting than the question was the almost New Jersey accent in which it was uttered.
I, of course, went into shutdown mode, refusing to look at her for fear of erupting in laughter and because she was utterly annoying. Ryan was nicer and said, "Um, no. But the packaging is really distinctive, so you should see them fairly easily." And then all 3 of us were scanning for Mallomars. We got caught up in the hunt for a moment before silently agreeing to leave the aisle and head over to the refrigerated cookie dough.
Even after we got over there we could hear her squawking to anyone she saw, "Have you seen the Mallomars?" It literally gave me a chill and Ryan started imitating her a bit too loudly, which was cracking me up as we looked at Nestle Tollhouse cookie dough.
Finally finding something I could eat, we grabbed milk and went to the checkout aisle and Mallomar Lady appeared behind us with her weird shopping cart bumping up against me. As we started our transaction, she leaned in toward the checker and asked, "So, are you guys out of ice!?" (loudly, again). Ryan looked at me and I just stared at him like I'd lost all ability to do anything.
The checker responded, "Yes, we are."
Mallomar Lady responded swiftly: "Well, that fuckin' sucks!"
I wanted to turn and look at her, but I couldn't. We paid and briskly walked out of the store. I looked at Ryan and asked, "Who buys Mallomars and ice at midnight?" He didn't have an answer, and I guess I didn't expect him to. But we both had a nice new catchphrase to use at will, which we did for the next hour: "Well, that fuckin' sucks!"
But the cookies didn't.
Friday, April 13, 2007
My Romantic Evening, Courtesy of the LA DWP
I'm all for a romantic evening full of candlelight, but when said evening is actually dictated by the LA DWP and the fact that wind of about 35 mph managed to knock out power to 150,000...well, it doesn't feel so special. In fact, you kind of start to wonder why the L.A. power grid is so fragile. It rains. The lights go out. It's windy. The lights go out. It's like the electricity would go out if you got mad at the lights in your house and thought bad thoughts about them.
Steve was home by the time I got home and was half-asleep on the couch, an LA DWP bill in front of him--clearly a sign he was trying to find out what was going on and couldn't.
We decided to use the darkness as an excuse to go have dinner across town in Silverlake at one of my fave Thai places. How nice to have a dinner and catch up with my friend, right? Well, halfway through appetizers, all the lights went out.
"Which restaurant do you want to go to next?" I asked him.
Fine. No, no, it's OK, LA DWP. I was still a believer in you at this point. I felt in my heart that your gumption and can-do attitude would save the evening.
So, we hit Trader Joe's and naively bought food and take it home, quickly opening the fridge to grab stuff, make salads and drink beer by candlelight. And, really, our apt. looks amazing by candlelight. I prefer it, in fact. And it was SO quiet. No washing machine, no humming refrigerator, no TV, no computer. I was enjoying it. And then 11 pm rolls around and still no lights. I called the DWP number on the bill to get a recording that literally said "Due to the volume of power outages, we have no estimated time for when power will be restored. We apologize for the inconvenience. To find out more, visit our Web site..."
Um, sure, I'll visit your Web site--WHEN MY POWER IS BACK ON.
I felt like the DWP was that cute guy that wouldn't call you back after a date; it just all seemed so ridiculous. I even had Lesley on her computer on the phone with me looking up "Wind + Los Angeles" on Google. We ironically enough, got an article from the Daily Breeze all about THE WIND and how the places affected were x, y, and z, but not Koreatown apparently.
Anyway, so Steve and I talk some more and then it's 12 am and he goes to bed, me close behind. I snuggle into the blankets and think of breakfast, only to wake up and have the lights STILL out. Are you fucking kidding me? It's now been 20 hours.
What is up, DWP? Really, did an errant branch wipe out power to that many people? And how do you construct your electrical system so that WIND, which is a mainstay of living in L.A., always seems to casually blow up transformers while you sit there utterly stupefied?
I just know my power still won't be on when I get home.
Which means I'll have to throw away all my food by candlelight.
Steve was home by the time I got home and was half-asleep on the couch, an LA DWP bill in front of him--clearly a sign he was trying to find out what was going on and couldn't.
We decided to use the darkness as an excuse to go have dinner across town in Silverlake at one of my fave Thai places. How nice to have a dinner and catch up with my friend, right? Well, halfway through appetizers, all the lights went out.
"Which restaurant do you want to go to next?" I asked him.
Fine. No, no, it's OK, LA DWP. I was still a believer in you at this point. I felt in my heart that your gumption and can-do attitude would save the evening.
So, we hit Trader Joe's and naively bought food and take it home, quickly opening the fridge to grab stuff, make salads and drink beer by candlelight. And, really, our apt. looks amazing by candlelight. I prefer it, in fact. And it was SO quiet. No washing machine, no humming refrigerator, no TV, no computer. I was enjoying it. And then 11 pm rolls around and still no lights. I called the DWP number on the bill to get a recording that literally said "Due to the volume of power outages, we have no estimated time for when power will be restored. We apologize for the inconvenience. To find out more, visit our Web site..."
Um, sure, I'll visit your Web site--WHEN MY POWER IS BACK ON.
I felt like the DWP was that cute guy that wouldn't call you back after a date; it just all seemed so ridiculous. I even had Lesley on her computer on the phone with me looking up "Wind + Los Angeles" on Google. We ironically enough, got an article from the Daily Breeze all about THE WIND and how the places affected were x, y, and z, but not Koreatown apparently.
Anyway, so Steve and I talk some more and then it's 12 am and he goes to bed, me close behind. I snuggle into the blankets and think of breakfast, only to wake up and have the lights STILL out. Are you fucking kidding me? It's now been 20 hours.
What is up, DWP? Really, did an errant branch wipe out power to that many people? And how do you construct your electrical system so that WIND, which is a mainstay of living in L.A., always seems to casually blow up transformers while you sit there utterly stupefied?
I just know my power still won't be on when I get home.
Which means I'll have to throw away all my food by candlelight.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
'One of the Side Effects Is Death'
So I am STILL completely congested. And lord knows, I blow my nose diligently enough and take my antihistamines at bedtime, and this snot will just not go away. I am sure my co-workers love the sound of me honking away in my office.
Anyway, I take off to go get my allergy shots today at lunch. I kind of dread them, though they do always make me feel better in the end. The time I came in February, however, I had what is known as a systemic reaction to the three shots I have been getting on a maintenance dose for months upon months. My eyes nearly swelled shut, I was dizzy and nauseated, and all sorts of general unpleasantness. In the exact science of the medical world, they decided this meant my dosage was too high and the allergist cut it back.
OK, fine, fewer allergens injected into my bloodstream. I can handle that.
But today, a woman I don't know very well is giving me my shots and she appraises me as I approach the counter in the allergy office at Kaiser.
"How are you?" she asks.
"Good," I say. "Getting over a cold so a bit congested but fine..."
She interrupts: "How congested? What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing. Like I said, it was just a cold. I'm fine."
She looks me over, hand on her hip. "Well, we can't give you a shot if you don't feel good."
"I feel fine. Just congested."
Stares. Beat. "'Cause you already had one systemic reaction. You get another and we gonna stop the shots."
"Oh," I say. "I didn't know that."
She looks at me. "So if you're sick..."
"I am not sick. I am done being sick."
"All right. But you know... one of the side effects of these reactions is death."
We stare at each other for a second.
"I'm just keepin' it real," she explains.
I am not sure what to say? Do I get a shot that ultimately makes me feel better and yet might kill me, or do I just say "In the spirit of keeping it real, then, I'm outta here"?
I debate this for a few seconds, unsure what I should actually do. I hadn't known I could keel over and die from having tree and grass pollen injected into me. It seemed so innocuous until now. Now I have to play God with my self and think that maybe by allowing this woman to give me 3 shots, I may be self-administering some lethal injection.
I sigh and roll up my t-shirt sleeve, revealing my tattoos, and turn to her: "Well, I guess we'll have to see what happens," I proclaim too happily.
She looks annoyed and then gives me the worst shot I've had in a while. My arm still hurts like hell. But I have not keeled over. My eyes are not swelled shut. I am
not nauseated.
Death: 0
Me: 1
Anyway, I take off to go get my allergy shots today at lunch. I kind of dread them, though they do always make me feel better in the end. The time I came in February, however, I had what is known as a systemic reaction to the three shots I have been getting on a maintenance dose for months upon months. My eyes nearly swelled shut, I was dizzy and nauseated, and all sorts of general unpleasantness. In the exact science of the medical world, they decided this meant my dosage was too high and the allergist cut it back.
OK, fine, fewer allergens injected into my bloodstream. I can handle that.
But today, a woman I don't know very well is giving me my shots and she appraises me as I approach the counter in the allergy office at Kaiser.
"How are you?" she asks.
"Good," I say. "Getting over a cold so a bit congested but fine..."
She interrupts: "How congested? What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing. Like I said, it was just a cold. I'm fine."
She looks me over, hand on her hip. "Well, we can't give you a shot if you don't feel good."
"I feel fine. Just congested."
Stares. Beat. "'Cause you already had one systemic reaction. You get another and we gonna stop the shots."
"Oh," I say. "I didn't know that."
She looks at me. "So if you're sick..."
"I am not sick. I am done being sick."
"All right. But you know... one of the side effects of these reactions is death."
We stare at each other for a second.
"I'm just keepin' it real," she explains.
I am not sure what to say? Do I get a shot that ultimately makes me feel better and yet might kill me, or do I just say "In the spirit of keeping it real, then, I'm outta here"?
I debate this for a few seconds, unsure what I should actually do. I hadn't known I could keel over and die from having tree and grass pollen injected into me. It seemed so innocuous until now. Now I have to play God with my self and think that maybe by allowing this woman to give me 3 shots, I may be self-administering some lethal injection.
I sigh and roll up my t-shirt sleeve, revealing my tattoos, and turn to her: "Well, I guess we'll have to see what happens," I proclaim too happily.
She looks annoyed and then gives me the worst shot I've had in a while. My arm still hurts like hell. But I have not keeled over. My eyes are not swelled shut. I am
not nauseated.
Death: 0
Me: 1
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