Me-ry Chr---m-s

Who ever said communicating with your friends was easy?

Right before Christmas, I received this in the mail:




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

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

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

The kicker, really was this:



No, no, let's zoom in closer:




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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

Things to Love

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

You May Not Know That You Think You Might Need This

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

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

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

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

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

Me: Yes.

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

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

Me: You told me that 45 minutes ago.

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

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

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

Nurse #1: Follow me.

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

Um....

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

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

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

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

Me: So......?

Her: (types on computer)

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

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

Me: It's been 3 weeks. I feel out of it and lethargic and congested.

Her: Well, you know, we don't just like to prescribe antibiotics...

Me: I understand...

Her: You know, with that superbug (laughs).

Me: Excuse me? That's a staph infection, right, not sinusitis?

Her: Yes, but if you take too much penicilin...

Me: So are you telling me NOT to take this?

Her: Well, I will write the prescription and you can fill it if you need to.


Yes, it's all a wonder I did not throw myself out the window by this point. Let's tack on 40 extra minutes for going to the pharmacy, and then waiting for them to post my name on the LED board, which they never did, so 30 minutes after it should have been ready I finally braved the huge line and they say "Yes, of course, it's been ready for 20 minutes!"

I left the parking garage at 4:30 p.m., ready to punch anyone who possibly got in my way.

And now I have penicilin. And a fear of the superbug. And hatred for this doctor. And a headache.

Hence the tea that Ryan so sweetly set in front of me. Sometimes it only takes a skull mug to make it all better.

Who's Mortgage Is It, Anyway?

At the risk of sounding... oh, like a Republican (shudder), why is there such a sudden interest by Congress and the White House in helping out people who bought houses at inflated prices with bad credit who knew their mortgages would re-set?

Oh, right... not only is 2008 a Leap Year, it's Election Year.

The best part of all is that once you get past the lame AP headlines of "White House Announces Plan to Aid Those Ailing in the Ailing Housing Market" etc., you get nifty little nuggets like this:

"Bush said that 1.2 million people could be eligible for help under the plan, developed in negotiations with the mortgage industry led by Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson. But only a small fraction of that number will be subject to the rate freeze."

So this is helping the market how, exactly?

"Also, the aid will only come to those who ask for it, he said. Thousands of borrowers who are falling behind on their payments have been sent letters about the options, and Bush also urged people to call a new hot line: 1-888-995-HOPE."

I see. If I buy a house and know my mortgage is re-setting, then I send out the bat signal, I mean, call a hotline.

"Bush originally gave the wrong number for the hot line; the White House later corrected him."

My guess is Bush couldn't spell H-O-P-E or completely lacks understanding of what the word means, since nothing he's done the last 7 years inspires any in anyone.

In case it wasn't obvious, I am considerably cranky today.

Death to Friendster

I don't know why I didn't do this sooner, but I finally just deleted my Friendster account. Remember Friendster? It was Myspace before Myspace morphed into Facebook...or something like that. It hardly matters; you know what I mean.

I seem to remember being really excited when Friendster first appeared because it seemed so novel--the whole "connect with people online" thing that wasn't about trolling for sex (though you could have used Friendster for that, I suppose; I never got enough profile views for it to matter).

I labored over that profile--trying to make myself sound as eclectic and yet attractive to the general populace in the hopes that I'd somehow be validated by this computer-based socializing. There was a whole "Electric Dreams" element to it, really...as if the computer on which I was creating all of these cheeky, super-cute descriptions might accidentally fall in love with me. And then I'd totally spurn it, of course.

Looking back at my Friendster profile last night, I, too, was underwhelmed. No wonder I never saw any action as a result. "Is that me?" I wondered. Then I looked at Myspace and Facebook and saw a similar profile and wondered if I should just delete all of them... BUT, I like playing Scrabble with Tim and Blaise on Facebook, so I kept that. And Myspace had better pictures of me, so...

Or is the truth that I, too, no longer know how to be alone? (How's that for technologically induced existential angst?) There's something so validating about knowing someone's looking at you online and "interacting" with you and telling you how great you still look--which is a lovely by-product, I admit. And I do genuinely love quasi-reconnecting with folks to whom I may never send a postcard. But how far does that interaction go? I guess only my Scrabble win/lose record will tell me.

I Clearly Needed A New Obsession

I can be a bit obsessive.

Like the time I had to drink nothing but Crystal Pepsi for a few weeks (and, in tandem, came the magical journeys into Bennington, VT, with Barbie to find it). Then I had to smoke Camel Wides. Then I had to play Addams Family pinball obsessively. Then it was Pin Bot. Then I had to buy everything 4AD Records ever released (well, almost). Then I sat on my knees on the dusty carpet in Amoeba Records and bought tons of movies that I honestly think were never seen by more than 2 other people. Then I went to the beach nearly every weekend this summer. OK, so I have some problems.

I often think of my particular musical obsessions, especially since I no longer work at a magazine and therefore have a hard time justifying spending my time surfing online looking for obscure bands who have upcoming album releases.

But I have so few musical heroes, really. That surfing was me always looking for an album that would give me a chill. I've found a few here and there: The Glee Club, The Places, Corrina Repp--all artists I am sure you have heard about, right? Almost all of them seem to be women who have failed to conform to some kind of model of what the music business wanted them to be. I am sure I could draw the typical correlation between me being a big homo and how my living "outside societal conventions" makes me feel like the long lost brother to these women. Or whatever.

But the older I get, the more I realize that in general I have a hard time being a good, predictable consumer--and therefore am very much ill at ease with marketing and advertising. Don't get me wrong: I will happily buy an iPod or a pair of New Balance shoes, but I can barely handle watching car commercials, let alone "Extra" or "Entertainment Tonight" or pro sports. There's just no pretending anymore. We're supposed to entertained by Paris Hilton and Evanesence and Carrie Underwood and want to buy people diamonds because we're in love and houses and fat cars and fatter clothes and cute dresses at trendy boutiques--i.e., those Daily Candy.com will write about next month--and slim ties because now they're back.

Music, for me, is particularly prickly. It always seems like a total accident when a smash hit--like Rihanna's "Umbrella"--is something I, too, like. But mostly I just know way too much about the music labels in this town and what it means to be popular. And it doesn't seem to be getting much better. Granted, I am 34 and it's not 1985 anymore. I am much more jaded. But I am also much more aware that there is a ton of music out there that I need to find. Music that will move me. Music that still has the ability to give me a chill.

I was sharply reminded of that tonight, reading something written by Kristin Hersh, who is something of a mini hero to me (mostly because I am amazed by her guitar playing and can't figure out how a mother of four has made something like 20 records in 22 years). Her voice is a "love her or hate her" proposition, I know--something often said about some other women with particularly strong voices, such as Corin Tucker of Sleater-Kinney... go figure, since Kurt Cobain and Black Francis got away with it.

Anyway, the point of this is that Kristin Hersh can essentially not make any money in the record business model. A woman who should be considered a trailblazer (no one would hate Corin Tucker's voice if they hadn't hated Kristin's first) basically is nearly broke after working for 20 years. Her last CD from early '07 just didn't even blip on the radar and she nearly lost all of her money on tour.

So what does she do? Well, she begins recording music, offering it online (as she's done for years), and sets up a model to basically act as an organic farmer of music-- homegrown, sent directly to the consumer, even going so far as to say you can be named an executive producer of her new CD if you front the money (like many in the business anyway). And yet none of it seems gross. In fact, it seems like all the bones of the music-making process are now laid bare. She even has her Pro Tools stems up online to let people totally remix and re-record the song.

If she was a shitty musician, it would feel embarrassing somehow. But it's simply not. And as much as I like collecting physical albums (yes, vinyl) and CDs, this feels like it's the way it has to be. If you love your music and someone says "Here, you can have this" for a small fee and there's not Warner Bros., no Interscope, no Universal shoving it down your throat, what do you do?

You obsess over it, of course...which is what I've been doing with this:
Krisitn Hersh: Slippershell


And for the record:

The Glee Club

The Places

Corrina Repp

Aloha! Days 7 and 8

So, this picture is actually from the day before this begins, but I forgot it on the last post, so you'll just have to deal with it. Besides, the last day of the trip is really just about me sitting in the airport on Maui wanting to cry and not really about the trip. I realize, however, in looking at this image of Ryan and I, that I have never in my life spent so much time with my shirt off.

The days after our Road to Hana adventure, I was fairly adamant about not really doing much of anything. We did some driving to nearby places like the Up Country to do some shopping in a cute little town...which is where we were warned about speeding:



Ryan kept making Star Wars noises to imitate the PT Cruiser being blasted with laser beams that would keep us in check, should we stray over 50 mph.

Iao Valley was beautiful as well, though slightly overrun with people. Still, you can tell just from this picture that Ryan snapped of the clouds, that there's a reason why it's revered as a holy place:



We started one day with wandering on the lava fields south of Wailea to see where the road ends, as you cannot drive around all of Maui without 4-wheel drive. While tromping around on the lava we did catch sight of some curious signs:

At first I had no idea if this referenced just the lava itself....



I soon learned, however, that the Hawaiians did indeed build on these fields of sharp, sun-baked rock. Amid the strewn about black lava that made this look like a moonscape on a tropical island were remnants of shelters or some other kind of utilitarian structures that had not quite made it to protected status. Hence... the sign, obviosuly.

But I was fairly entrenched in not doing too much more than lazing about on the beach. To that end, Ryan was very accommodating--which was awfully sweet of him, considering he kind of knew the whole area well already. By far the best beach(es), in my mind were Big Beach and Little Beach. They have other names, but it doesn't matter much. After all, Big Beach looks like this:



Can you blame me for just wanting to park my ass on the sand and stay there? Little Beach was actually better for body surfing; Big Beach had insanely large waves breaking right on shore--the kind that kill you. A rock separates the two beaches, so you climb up and over it to to dscend from BB to LB. Little Beach is also the nude beach, which, of course, was not overflowing with beautiful bodies. I mean, it was hardly shocking to see Europeans and hippies and body surfing. What was fascinating to me is that there were strata of people who maybe would have never interacted other than on this strip of sand in this cove on this island in this tiny part of the world.

And there were plenty of locals--even plenty of kids on boogie boards and families surfing. I didn't strip down at first, as I just wasn't sure I wanted to. But after 10-15 minutes, you realize NO ONE cares and then I tossed my trunks on to the towel and we headed into the warm water. There's something really wonderful about being naked in warm sea water. I can't really pin it down, but it was just perfect... and I wasn't afraid of jellyfish this time around.

Our last evening, I asked Ryan to show me a pretty locals beach that was near all the resorts--one that was kind of tucked in between all the Wailea compounds (after all, in Hawaii, no one owns the beach; the resorts have to allow public access). We curved our way into a tiny parking lot and went down some stairs and emerged on to a nice beach, dotted with rocky patches. Near us, groups of resort goers were lounging and waiting for the sun to set. A table was set on the beach where someone would be having dinner....and we just surfed the small waves that came gliding into shore, watching the sun sink lower and lower. After playing around in the tidepools a bit we began walking back to the car, reluctant to leave since it would mean we were officially done--that we'd have to head back to L.A. too soon.

Of course, first we had to snap pictures of each other with the beautiful sky behind us.... Ryan liking the spontaneous "Hey, look here" picture, while I went for the more traditional "act like a deer in headlights" request:





But then we just sat there and watched the sky turn oranger, redder, more and more beautiful. I didn't want to make a move to have to go drive, to eat, to have to pack up shells, sea glass, and rocks. I wanted--as I always do when I am somewhere beautiful--to just stare as long as possible in the hopes that the images would just burn into my brain, stored somewhere, perfectly recollected when I needed them to be.

Nothing works quite that easily, I know. But what helped in watching this last sunset on Maui was knowing that I was lucky enought to get to do something I'd always wanted to do--and share it with someone I wanted by my side the entire time.

Aloha! Days 5 and 6

No, it's not me wondering what that black spot is doing floating next to me. It's ... well, I'm not entirely sure. I'm channeling my father a bit here, I think. But it's definitely me in Oahu on a beach that had lots of jellyfish washed up on shore (and therefore we weren't swimming... unlike the image below of what quickly became my favorite beach):



But it was now about time to say goodbye to island #1, which I was feeling kind of happy about simply because I really wanted to get my butt to Maui and just not have to return to Waikiki. That's not to say that Oahu wasn't great, of course. I mean, after all, I'd swam with sea turtles and Ryan picked beautiful, sweet-smelling flowers to put in the rental car as we drove the hills above the city to get a bird's eye view of the southern part of the island:



We also spent time at the tourist spot of Hanauma Bay, which is a popular place for everyone who comes here to snorkel and, as Jessica says, "find Nemo" over and over again. Sadly, the wind was a bit intense, which made the snorkeling a bit difficult. Still, what a gorgeous place:



I have to admit, though, that Maui was *much* more my speed--fewer people, a bit more dramatic in its landscape, with a combination of fantastic beaches and volcanos, cliffs, and lush landscape. After getting our car at the Kahului airport (a PT Cruiser--the stupidest car around. Apparently, you can't get much smaller when you rent from Thrifty!) and checking in to the Sunseeker, a gay-owned small motel in Kihei, we made a bee line for the nearby beach and jumped in the water and watched the sun set through the clouds. But first Ryan did the quintessential Hawaii pose:





The water was much more gentle here, with Kihei being slightly less overrun by resorts and faux luaus that you'd find further up the west end of the island near Lahaina, etc. Ryan had lived here for a while about 10 years ago, so he knew where to go--and exactly what I would find appealing--namely, fewer screaming children and horrible tourists.

We made a plan to make a full-day adventure the next day by getting up early and driving the road to Hana. Anyone who's done this (or even heard of it), knows it takes hours to drive the winding, two lane highway across the north end of Maui to get to the wet side of the island--which becomes more and more like a jungle the further along you go. Ideally, of course, one would stay the night over there and explore to his or her heart's content, but the lodging options if you're not camping are very limited. Still, I wanted to see all of the waterfalls (not to mention all of the otherr PT Cruisers), as well as the black and red sand beaches, which have held my fascination for the nearly 25 years I've been reading about them).

We stopped in Haiku at a hippie vegetarian restaurant to get sandwiches and were on our way pretty early.... the road putting even California's Highway 1 between Cambria and Big Sur to shame. It was impossible to do more than 20 miles an hour most of the time. Still, the views along the way were sometimes breathtaking.



Once we finally made it to the Hana side, the skies were gray and rainy, but it hardly mattered. This was wild, volcanic jungle, dotted with the aforementioned exotic beaches, which, in person, were nearly mystical.

Rayn at the black sand beach (where the water was really kind of out of control... we didn't dare go in (esp me, given all the "Danger: Portugese Man-O-War" signs)



Me in the water at the red sand beach, which you can only really access by trespassing on land owned by the Hotel Hana Maui--which we didn't feel so bad about. Only a few people were there, and it was like a volcanic grotto/cove:



I wished we could have stayed here and enjoyed a sunny day and overnight, but the rain came down in sheets soon after we stopped swimming and collecting shells and sea glass (of course). We waited it out in the "general store," which reminded me of awesome out-of-the-way places we used to stop at on road trips in Oregon and Wshington.

I didn't get to see nearly enough of this part of Maui, so all the better for me to come back, right?

When the rain cleared we turned and headed back west, me determined to make it to Kahului before it was completely dark. The last thing I wanted was to be on that road in the pitch black. I mean memories are all well and good, but me in a PT Cruiser on the Hana Highway at night. Um, no thanks!

Happily, we made it back to the dry side before it was too treacherous. Just enough time to find food, hit the beach, and go to sleep.

p.s. some pics were scanned by Krista for me... though I guess the scanner was a tad, um, dusty... ;)

Well, It's About Time

http://robotballoon.wordpress.com/

Lesley's blog is up (and linked on the right). I keep telling her: "One-woman show. One-woman show," but of course she ignores me.

More on Hawaii soon!

Mikel

Two Minutes Later....

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.

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.

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.

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.

*Sigh*

How can you want to leave a place that looks like this?

Answer: You can't.

More on Hawaii soon....

The State I'm In ... I Mean, Am

Who knew you could take a state quiz to find out which state you "are"?

And yet, here's me... I'm not sure I understand, but I kinda like it all the same!



You're Alaska!
You're big, bulky, and extremely wild. At the same time, you're rather cold and standoffish, even a loner of sorts. Taming you may be one of the last great quests of the people who do manage to find you or even seek you out. So many of them just want to plunder you for what you have of value, but there are a few, the ones who will stick with you, that truly value your rugged remoteness. As long as no one is spilling stuff on you, you are truly beautiful.

http://bluepyramid.org/ia/squiz.htm

Gimme More... of What?

I am so weak. I totally admit it. After spending all day with my head firmly planted in front of Microsoft Outlook and apartment rental listings on Craigslist, I finally gave in and watched the Britney Spears "performance" (I am not sure there was performing involved) of her, I mean someone else's, "Gimme More" at the VMAs last night.

I'd really love to say everything you might think I'd say: it was pathetic, kind of gross, and just representative of how sad the state of the music business is...even how sad Britney is. C'mon, she looked drugged, disoriented, and disinterested. It made me think that a more daring comeback would have been for her to just really embrace her heritage and do some kind of commercial for Wal-Mart. Except she's just so darn addicted to that Hollywood lifestyle, so Bentonville, Ark., doesn't want her...

It was like the final nail in my youth coffin, these fucking VMAs. But I don't think it's that I am getting too old to appreciate pop (hey, I own that Rihanna CD and like it very much, thanks). It's just that who cares about half the shit the VMAs and MTV are trying so hard to celebrate. Do I give a shit that Kanye West and 50 Cent have some kind of "beef"? Um, no. Could I care less that Kid Rock (who?) got in a fight with Tommy Lee (at least he's a bona fide rock star)? Um, not so much.

I casually perused these tidbits of news, and then thought about how some of my favorite musicians--people who actually know how to play instruments--are going broke and may not even be able to tour or make a living anymore while we get Britney teetering around on her stilettos shoved down our throats. That's not new. People used to talk about how Madonna and Wham were destroying music. OK, so maybe Wham kind of did (oh, wait, that was Andrew Ridgeley's solo album). But it just seems that where TV, radio, and retail could at some point operate independent of major corporations there was always an element of surprise.

The music "business" would like to say that illegal downloading is taking away profits and destroying artists, but if people really wanted to create art, they'd do it anyway, without Sony/Interscope/EMI behind it. When you think that only a few men control these companies, these radio stations, these supposed music television channels (Why do the VMAs even exist anymore? Does MTV actually play videos?), it's all too clear that the mass produced music forced on us is often just junk food for the ears. They let some real talent slip through now and then, but when Clive Davis kicks the bucket, who's going to be able to promote real artists in these parameters laid out by shows like the VMAs. I can't wait to see.

Meanwhile, I've been listening to stuff that almost no one will ever listen to, and marveling that it's even been laid down and recorded. It's not all good, of course. But it feels more honest than anything I saw from Vegas last night.

It's also hard to care much about the fluff right now, with the anniversary of my father's death having passed, knowing Barbie's grandmother passed away yesterday, thinking of my own mortality as I struggle with quitting smoking--what a stupid fucking addiction!--and feeling glad to be rid of it again.

It's not the right time for me to care about Britney, Paris, Lindsay, even Nicole, Tom, Posh, and Becks. Ultimately, I like seeing them dress poorly and then feel grossed out by thinking of how much so many of these people waste in the name of feeling loved and still never finding it. Gimme more, indeed.

Does This Even Need a Title With This as the Lead Image? (See Below)

I don't listen to the Scorpions all that often, and yet today, this album is hitting the spot, I have to admit. OK, there, I said it. And yes, I actually own "Blackout." I'm not just pretending.

I grew up in a neighborhood that was split along many lines--but most notably music. You had two choices for music, most often: rock or rap. Most of the older kids in my neighborhood were total metal heads. Name your late '70s or early '80s band of choice, and I am sure I heard their albums--several times each.

But among the noise of Iron Maiden, Motley Crue, Dio, even Molly Hatchet, I had a soft spot in my little gay heart for the Scorpions. Don't ask me why. I am not sure I'll ever understand why myself. It's not exactly heavy metal.... it's more melodic, anthemic rock. But I was drawn to it, inexplicably, yes, but all the same.

In particular, I loved "Blackout." I was only 9 years old when this album came out, but everyone around me was 13-17 and so it was their perfect summer soundtrack. How can you not remember "No One Like You"? It was a radio and MTV staple, and I ate it up.

What simultaneously scares me and makes me laugh is that I still know most of the words to this album--and I still love it. Granted, I am listening to it in the privacy of my room at the moment, but it still gives me a rush. It reminds me of being young, days and nights free in the hot summer to hang out in neighbors' houses, watch people drink, get high, take off in their first cars, feeling like adults, blaring their music as loud as it will go.

What's even funnier is that a few of the songs on "Blackout" are actually political. The 7-minute "China White," for example, always sounded like a riff on Led Zeppelin to me, but re-reading the lyrics, it says, among other things: "How long will it take/To make the world a flaming star?/How long will it take/Till they stop their senseless wars?"

Ummmm....

Who knew I was responding to a screaming German man named Klaus who was singing about "filling our hearts with love again"? I didn't at the time.

It's always amazing what a sensory experience music can be. I marvel at remembering songs like "No One Like You" that are nearly 30 years old--that were such integral parts to a very specific moment in my life.

I suspect the Scorpions started my love of a master guitar player. Granted, I respond more to kick-ass women playing it these days, but listening now, I can't help but marvel at how good the playing on "Blackout" actually is.

Plus, I was feeling kind of aggro today and needed a soundtrack. Now I know what to play when I feel like this.

Now, excuse me while I go back to paying bills and singing along to "Dynamite."

Life Made Easier?

I made the mistake of turning on the TV last night.

Unless it's 6 or 7:30 p.m. and I know The Simpsons has already begun, I rarely do this. If I had The Weather Channel, all bets would be off, because I could watch Doppler radar images for 36 hours straight and make everyone crazy.

But the unfortunate eyeball-searing spectacle was Miss Teen USA, which I knew Lesley had attended because her step-niece was crowned last summer in Palm Springs and there she was taking her "final walk" and then Mario Lopez was squawking about something stupid, and then the 5 finalists were whittled down and voila...Ms. Colorado was crowned! She was innocuous, and so was everything else. And then I saw the set, which looked like a Lichtenstein painting--which just seemed like some gross postmodern irony. If you had no idea who he was and were, oh, 15, and then saw a painting, you'd think he had cribbed it from Miss Teen USA. I clearly have little optimism about the intellectual prowess of Generation Z or whatever we're calling them now.

Turning off that fresh horror, I wandered aimlessly about my apt., fidgety because I am not smoking, and it was day 4 and I felt like I could strangle someone and then I'd feel great, and then I'd want to punch the wall. It's testament to how horrible this addiction is, I suppose. And I remembered how awful it was to quit in 1999. But also how much better I felt. And best of all, how much money I saved.

I thought about trying to write, but I feel so ADD right now. I can usually sit down and pound out a diatribe, essay, story about any number of subjects. I think it may be the fear of finishing something that keeps me scattered. I had this odd epiphany in the midst of taking the GRE for the second time last weekend. It was the analytical writing section and I hadn't prepared for it at all, really, but the two types of essay I was being forced to write just seemed so simple to me. The words could only be ordered in one way. I wondered about the "bigger" pieces of writing that I have been trying to gain forward momentum on and thought just in that moment that I may never finish, because if I did, I'd have to come up with another idea. And it just seemed so exhausting. (By the way, I got the SAME lackluster scores both times I took the GRE and gave up; I can't take it again, and, at 34, feel like I just don't care that much about this stupid test. I'll find a way to do what I want somehow. I doubt algebra and analogies will determine my fate.)

Granted, a lot of that has to do with spending every minute of free time in the last several weeks either traveling for work or studying for the GRE. This is the first weekend in 2 or 3 months where this isn't hanging over me and I feel adrift--like I have too many options.

I had been tackling this essay about my father's death and it was stinging me and I had to let it go for a minute. I'd not had that sensation from writing something in a long time. I think I'd been able to steel myself against the pain of his death for a long time, and 21 years later, something else has to be worked out. I don't know how Joan Didion did it exactly, writing about her husband's death so acutely. In interviewing people in my family again, it opens up sores that some of them have never let heal. And, by turn, it brings back to me the feeling of having just turned 13 and spending an entire summer in the hospital wondering what was happening to my dad and to my own childhood.

Needless to say, I am approaching this essay with more trepidation right now, circling it, in a sense, before I feel ready to dive back in.

I've been wanting life to slow down a little bit, and so far it's bending to my will. I think the last big hurdle is this apartment hunt. You know it's bad when you have dreams about exacting some kind of revenge on your neighbor and wake up feeling RELAXED. Geesh.

My chores today? To drop off stuff at a thrift store, go to Amoeba, and drive around parts of the city to apartment hunt. Oh, and to buy file boxes so I can start packing books in my house--a way to force myself to really go out there and find an apartment How exciting is that? To most, not very, I imagine, but it feels like bliss right now. And the best part is that it's August 25 and only 78 degrees. Damn, I just realized that in 3 days I will have been here 9 years. Maybe that means by next August I have to move.

They Say If You Put It Out Into the Universe....

....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.