A Place on Earth

Well, it's that time of year again when the palm trees are decorated with twinkling lights and people wear scarves in 70 degree weather. Californians are so weird. But alas, it is time for me to return to the land of my birth, my desert from which I sprang, Arizona. I quite look forward to the trip this year, as I will be driving my brand new car, a 2006 Toyota Matrix. It's white and pristine and I absolutely adore it. It's my present to myself, even though I will be paying for it for years to come. A new car is like a new skin, a better version of myself and to compliment it, I have darkened my hair to a ruddy brunette color. The contrast is nice, though I have to admit, I miss being blond even though it had grown into an unsightly mess and had to be dealt with. My family will be happy.

Holidays baffle and confuse me and Christmukkah is no exception. I don't particularly dig celebrating the "birth" of Jesus, which was accented last year by my Mormon family showing me Mel Gibson's "The Passion of the Christ". Why not? What better way to celebrate someone's birth than by watching them tortured for hours and then hung on a cross to die? My sins need no atonement, thank you. So, I am hoping to avoid the Christian aspects of the season and concentrate instead on Santa and the materialism that make this country great.

I did catch quite a bit of Barbara Walters Special "Heaven: Where is it? How do we get there?" and had to laugh at her interest in this subject, though I quite enjoyed hearing from the Dalai Lama. My own views on this subject were not represented by any of her religious interviewees, not that I particularly expected them to be. I am actually more interested in figuring out what life BEFORE death is all about. That seems like a more worthwhile endeavor. After all, if Heaven exists or Hell for that matter, I will worry about that when the time comes. Truth be told, there is no guaranteed way into the pearly gates. No one knows for sure and I am truly suspicious of those who think they do.

To quote the great poet Belinda Carlisle: "Heaven is a place on earth." That makes enough sense, right? Anyway, Happy Holidays to you, no matter what you believe.

The Line

You know the line when you cross it,
into a territory that no man should tread.
Silence.
The fire crackles.
I say: "Ass hole."
It dies with the promise of what has been.

Happy Birthday!!!

My dear friend Holly is celebrating her birthday today.

Happy Birthday, Holly!

You can wish her a Happy Birthday, too. Go HERE

Homophobe Mountain

At work yesterday, I overheard the following conversation about the new movie Brokeback Mountain:

Guy: Do you want to see "Brokeback Mountain"? Everybody says it's supposed to be really good.

Girl: I don't know. Gay cowboys? How believable is that?

Guy: I wanted to see it, but then I found out what it's really about.

Girl: Oh, yeah? What?

Guy: Well, I heard that they have families and are normal, but they have sex with each other. They wrestle to see who is the top and who is the bottom.

Girl: I'm not homophobic, but I don't want to see that.

I almost had a fit. If that's not homophobia, I don't know what is... I am not offended by the constant and excessive displays of heterosexual love that have been shoved down my throat my whole freaking life, okay...maybe a little offended. But I wouldn't boycott a film because Tom Cruise might kiss a girl, or Jessica Alba hooks up with Paul Walker. I would boycott those movies simply because they are crap. For those of you who don't know, homophobia is defined as: irrational fear of, aversion to, or discrimination against homosexuality or homosexuals.

I don't want to speculate on the couple having this conversation, but I will since they obviously have an "aversion" to this films content. I suspect that the Guy is secretly desperate to see the film, since he started the conversation, and can't wait to be wrestled to the bottom himself. And the Girl (hardly, in her late thirties) told me she was married to a gay man who left her and she tries to put up a good front, for the kid. "We are still friends, so I can't be homophobic," she says, but she is. I can understand that she may not want to face her demons in a movie theater, but let's be honest.

Brokeback Mountain is a love story that happens to be about two men. That may be too much for some people to take, but I can't wait to see it. When I heard the "wrestling for top" comment, I was impressed. It is a gay custom, dating back to ancient Greece. I have experienced this many times, and can easily admit to "losing" on purpose. It's homophobia that I don't enjoy wrestling with. Brokeback is a far cry from gay porn and I am positive that Ang Lee exercised a lot of discretion in depicting the intimacies of the characters. If you can't watch boys wrestle, better stay away.

Let There Be Art

About three years ago, I found myself wandering around Michaels without a purpose, when I saw their rather large collection of canvases. I thought: I wonder if I can paint? Having recently seen paintings by Marilyn Manson, I figured I had nothing to lose. I had drawn things before. I was always fond of crayons and colored pencils, too. Maybe I could try my hand at a real, honest to god, ART form. I purchased some canvases and paints and went home to begin my new career. Then it hit me... What would I paint? I had no ideas, so I decided that I would let the canvases tell me. I set up the first one and waited for inspiration to strike.

With the surreal Manson work still fresh in my mind, I went to work on a creepy "Alice in Wonderland" piece. It came out okay, but Alice had no nose. That was a big weak point in my artistic ability. I couldn't do noses, ears, or hands. That could be my signature, I thought. But inspiration was slow. I set up two more canvases on the floor under my television, hoping that I would look down and just see what I was supposed to paint. After many days, many movies and many cigarettes, it came to me. One canvas was to be Jessica Lange, being swept up by the giant hand of Kong from the 1976 version of "King Kong" and the other was to be Jodie Foster as the teenage prostitute Iris from Martin Scorcese's "Taxi Driver." These paintings are among my favorites, even though neither heroine has a nose.

After that I just painted whenever inspiration struck. You can witness the fruits of my efforts at saviouronassis.com I would love to hear what you think because without you, I'm just me. By the way, I have added noses, ears and hands to my repertoire.

Pastime

One of my favorite pastimes is dancing around in my underwear. That doesn't make me Madonna, but it comes damn close.

Back in the Day

Back in the day, I was the kind of boy Dennis Cooper fantasizes about. Cute, vain, insecure, arrogant, and a total slut: all you had to do was ask. Make a move on me and I was moved, always. Only once did I stop an advance, due to a proliferation of genital warts that I backed away from like, well...genital warts. Other than that, I was easy and so was my justification. I wanted to be wanted. It wasn't like the promise of youth was wasted, merely unappreciated. Yeah, Joni, you don't know what you got til it's gone.

Back in the day, I learned that pretty girls are just like the homely, intellectual, sensitive ones. Except for the homely, intellectual and sensitive part. I avoided an enormously talented girl named Juno because the pretty girls all hated her. Juno was not pretty, not in the same ways. I ate my lunch and studied "Bitchy 101". Everything has a price. Idiot is more expensive than you might think.

Back in the day, I was easily fooled. My tendency to believe everything I was told proved to be a horrid life lesson and soon I stopped listening. (Oh, I still tend to believe. I am just more careful about what I hear.) Sometimes, I have trouble making things out and wonder about the damage rock'n'roll caused my eardrums. If a pin drops, I don't care. I am rarely barefoot so it doesn't really matter to me.

Back in the day, there was always something to engage in, some worthwhile endeavor. I suppose that goes along with being a tweeker. There was a crystal method to my madness, but I was never bored. Even when Mark stole my car and tried to overdose me, I remained fully entertained. Only when I was cleaning blood off my walls did I start to fade. Girl power goes a long, long way, and someone called me "Jetboy". I didn't get it for years.

Back in the day, I was asking for it. Yeah, yeah, I got it. Back in the day, back in the day.

What was I doing?

Recently, I have noticed a rather disturbing behavior in myself. When I walk into another room in my apartment, I forget what my original purpose was and end up doing something entirely different. This is made even more disturbing when you consider the fact that I only have three rooms. It's not exactly Hearst Castle up in here.

Earlier today, when I went into the kitchen to retrieve light bulbs and I ended up cooking a three course meal. Only when I returned to the darkened living room did I remember the bulbs, but by then I was too tired from eating to do anything about it. And just a moment ago, I went into the bathroom to take some vitamins and found myself plucking random hairs for fifteen minutes. I believe that I am too young to have Alzheimer'’s but this is starting to freak me out.

Actually, it'’s rather nice to have so much free time that I can randomly wander about finding new and intriguing things to do, but it is a bummer to forget my purpose. Wait, what was I writing about?

School "Outing"

You can read about Charlene Nguon vs. the School District here and here.

'A federal judge ruled this week that school districts cannot "out" gay students even if their sexual orientation is known on campus. The ruling paved the way for a discrimination lawsuit by a 17-year-old student to go forward against the Garden Grove Unified School District in California, after Charlene Nguon alleged that officials unfairly disciplined her this year for hugging and kissing her girlfriend on campus. Her punishment? Administrators revealed Nguon's sexual orientation to her mother and temporarily forced the teen to change schools.'

As someone who was forced out of the closet by an institution myself, I sympathize with Charlene's situation. I can't believe, in this modern world, that people are still so freaked out by homosexuality and that this happened in California! What a world we live in...

Sale Away

What's it all about?

I mean, really... I'm talkin' big picture, technicolor, wide-screen enlightenment.

Have you ever had a moment when your whole identity slaps you in the face and you stand there amidst the refridgerators and DVD players crying because you don't know who you are anymore? When you wake up in a stinky motel room in the middle of the desert with a dead rabbit in your bed and two dwarves tied up in bondage gear, trembling in the corner; you know you are an adult.

It's not so easy to forget the past but it's a snap to lose perspective in the present. Speaking of presents, I gotta go do some shopping. Maybe I will get you something useless, like an ego.

Nephew

My nephew Parker was born today at 9:50pm. I had just left Arizona this morning, so I missed his entrance. He is really cute, not just for a newborn. Genuinely adorable. Hearing him cry brought a tear to my eyes. Oh, youth! How I envy you.

Raisin Arizona

I'm in Arizona for Thanksgiving and (hopefully) the birth of my nephew, Parker. My sister isn't due until next week but we are hoping that he will come in time for the holiday. Earlier, she was practically begging for Castor Oil, though Mom says it's not a good idea. I think it's better to wait and let nature take it's course.

My brother and I had a great "What's it all about?" conversation tonight. He lost the use of his legs in a car accident in 1997, he was twenty four. We snuck out after my parents went to bed, I needed a cigarette real bad. Out on the porch, I asked what he wanted for Christmas this year. "A reason to live," was his reply.

"A raisin?" I asked, relating all too well to what I had actually heard him say. He explained that he had recently discovered that money was an illusion and couldn't seem to find meaning in anything. He was always an all or nothing kind of guy and because of that I formulated this little bit of wisdom:

Meaning is in everything and everything is meaningless.

That meaning, of course, it's all in how you look at it. I insisted that the meaning of life was tacos. He protested that tacos were not a reason to get up in the morning. I needed something more breakfast-y. What about "the anticipation of tacos"? He said that when he looks into his heart, there is nothing there. Dreams have all been fulfilled (which I don't believe) and it's all just empty. He asked about cosmic fuck ups and do I think that it's possible for the universe to make mistakes. "No," I replied. "We get what we ask for and someone, somewhere must have prayed for a sequel to Deuce Bigalow, even if it was only Rob Schneider. The universe does not make mistakes, we do."

I will get him some raisins for Christmas, but the reasons...he will have to find those on his own.

Controversy on a Dancefloor

In case you missed it, there was a big stink on Self Portrait as over the new Madonna album. Funny stuff, no really...

Winter Wayne

Though it has not been "cold" here in Los Angeles, I am feeling the effects of the season. Something is definitely up...or down, rather, as I have been taken over by what I can only describe as "Winter Wayne."

WW is hungry. He's been in hibernation for a long time and now that he is awake, I fear my waistline may be in trouble. Ravenous is not a comfortable feeling. I am craving junk food and have let my diet slip quite a bit lately. Something about the holidays does that to me. I intentionally skipped Halloween because it marks the "beginning" of the season, with candy. F*ck sugar, I don't need it. But the Jelly Bellies just keep popping into my mouth. I had jokingly dubbed my diet WWBE, meaning: What Would Bowie Eat? And that seems fitting, though lately it's been WWCE, as in: What Wouldn't Courtney Eat? and that, frankly, scares me.

WWBE is a good diet, or "lifestyle" as some would say, because a diet is only temporary. The rules are simple: just ask yourself "Would Bowie eat this?" Personally, I can't imagine Bowie eating much of anything, so this has kept me slim and trim. But lately, when I pass the Taco Bell, I think, "What the hell!" I actually pulled into the drive through the other night and was divinely blocked by a large truck, facing backwards. I took this as a sign and immediately drove away. I came home and had some soup.

But Winter Wayne is more than just appetite. It's the way my self help books don't hold the same allure as my magazines, or the new Dennis Cooper novel, which makes me sick but I keep reading anyway. It's as if my mind and body have betrayed me on some cosmic level. Sure, I've been under a lot of stress lately and this latest war was no fun at all. I hope that's all it is. I am almost finished with this job and I expect to bounce back. But in the meantime, my winter skin has slipped in and taken over. Is that the smell of despondency? Maybe just a little.

No, it doesn't help that the clutter is piling up and I've been too tired to clean. I have resolved to be "neater" so many times, I am starting to feel like Kevin Costner at a Madonna concert. My youngest sister is expecting the first baby in our family since she was born 22 years ago. So, I am planning a little trip home, to see the baby and eat some turkey with the folks. As an adult, I have grown weary of the rituals of Christmas. The "what-do-you-want-this-year" calls have already started and I am at a loss. I have always been the kind of guy who just buys whatever he wants and leaves nothing for "gifting." Though I have considered myself easy to buy for (ie: easy to please), it's just not true. It is constant work, keeping the people in your life abreast of your latest infatuations. I have received Powerpuff Girls merchandise, long after the novelty had worn off.

So what I have to do is reinvent myself for the season. The old Winter Wayne is just not gonna cut it this year. I like fitting into the same size jeans I wore in high school, all those winters ago. I refuse to be depressed. I refuse to accept my hunger. All I need is more sleep and a better attitude. That's not too much to ask, right?

Trust Overfull & the Art of War

The battle is over, but have I won the war? We shall see, I suppose. This particular round was interesting to say the least. I engaged the enemy on foreign soil and was pushed to my limits. In times of war, it is useful to have a mantra. This last week, my mantra was: "It is what it is," because sometimes a little existential acceptance is all you need. Call it "rolling with the punches," I call it survival.

Tuesday
I find myself in a parking lot in downtown Los Angeles at 3am. This is the beginning. I am disoriented and scared, but the battle has begun and the troops are engaged. I set up my command center and begin strategic maneuvers. It doesn't help that my superior officer has chosen to sit this one out. I am alone and must make the best of it. Major Toad begins what can be described as a bit of mutiny, but I stand my ground. By noon, the evacuation is complete and we move the entire unit to higher ground.

On the way, I am accompanied by two foot soldiers. One espouses the dangers of mistakenly thinking about Winona Ryders vagina. I don't and we arrive on a snow covered hilltop that evening. I refuse my quarters, as someone has already made use of the latrine. I am in bed by 11pm. Day one is over.

Wednesday
The snow has presented a problem for some of the vehicles and Toad has positioned my command center far from the front lines. My driver cannot get the generator started and I am left without power. Limited communication makes it difficult to assess the battle and my driver (a former underwear model, and merman from Madonna's "Cherish" video) apologizes profusely for the faulty equiptment. "It is what it is," I tell him and he tries to convince me to help make a documentary about people who are eaten by alligators. I politely refuse.

There is beauty all around and depsite the cold, spirits are not yet broken. I arrange to travel to the next position with only one soldier. Don't ask, don't tell. I capture clouds along the way.

Thursday
We start the day in the rain. By now, the troops are tired and tensions are high. Midday we move to the lakeside and try to work out the plan. It is a long battle and many are wounded. I try to inspire hope. The war is almost over. We shall prevail. I remind everyone that we are on the same side. This does little to ease the pressure.

Friday
Early morning miscommunication. The frontline is lost, literally, and cannot find the battefield. Maps are useless and strong leadership is called for. I remain calm throughout. We move once again, to the final batteground, closer to home and the end.

At this point, I am ready for a pint. After returning to the City of Angels, I remedy this longing with some of the soldiers and finally make my way home. It was an ugly war. My skin is tired.

Next time, I hope to make love.

POOF!

The last guy I dated was a magician and, of course, he disappeared.

Might as well

I do apologize for the utter lameness of the energy here lately as I am currently in negotiations for my soul with the Devil himself. Details to come.

For mental stimulation, I suggest you go here.

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
---Dorothy Parker

JT Leroy: How the Spectre Grows

Who is JT Leroy?
This article in New York Magazine by Stephen Beachy has perplexed me. It's all about the "true" identity of JT Leroy and implies rather strongly that JT is in fact a Brooklyn woman named Laura Albert. Could JT Leroy be a literary hoax? It seems rather plausible. Though his blog has many recent celebrity endorsements, my feelings are less definitive.

I read Sarah when it came out and was deeply moved by it. Mostly, I was moved by the backstory of the young author working through his personal demons by writing a "novel." I believed what I was reading had to be based on his life. How could a child make up such beautiful and lurid prose? It was a page-turner and I read his next book with the same enthusiasm. Then, it seemed, the young author had caught up to himself. He had revealed his entire life, the childhood of abuse in The Heart Is Deceitful Above All Things and subsequent horror of teen prostitution in Sarah. Then there was the "biography" which told of how he was rescued by the system and bing, bang, boom, book deal.

If the events of his life are true, this brings us to an interesting place. What, I wonder, will this wunderkind write about now? Will he delve into drugs? Become a celebrity? Both? How can his work continue in the same vein with this "happy ending" I have contributed to by buying his books? The dynamics of his artistic integrity have been forever altered. He no longer has to live on the streets, selling his ass to make ends meet. So what, I ask, will his next book be?

Years go by... JT writes for magazines, starts a website, blogs, has readings, becomes friends with people like Winona Ryder and somehow came up with Harold's End. Four years after The Heart, he releases this "novella" about a heroin addicted hustler kid and his pet snail. It had pictures. End feels like fiction, moreso than the other "novels." Now comes Stephen Beachy with this article about the great hoax that has been pulled off for the last five years! And I start to think, was it all just a dream?

I'm not sure it matters much to me whether or not JT is real. I have no doubt that the spirit of JT Leroy exists, either in a young man wondering what to write about now that life is good, or in a troubled woman who apparently needs this mask. Maybe it's really Dennis Cooper, who recently posted this rant on his own blog, more or less saying that after all is said and done, there is "nothing much of interest" in the Leroy books if you separate them from the author and his "life." What the shit does that mean?

So what if there is no real boy named JT? Everybody read the books and knew the "story" and we all creamed our jeans over the entire tawdry affair. I am sorry but it says: NOVEL -right on the fucking cover of all JT Leroy books. It always has and it always will. If we choose to believe that these horrible, evil, wicked, disgusting things actually happened to some poor little boy, if that is what it takes to make us feel satisfied about our literary tastes, then we deserve what we get. Like I said, I believe in the spirit of JT Leroy. That is the spirit of survival. Real or not, he refuses to die like Tony. Truth? What is true anyway? Did the way I felt when I read Sarah really happen? Or was my emotional truth just part of an elaborate joke? Regardless of "who" the author turns out to be, the story remains the same. I don't need it to be real. In fact, I kind of hope it's all fiction.

According to jtleroy.com the spectre is already "hard at work on the next novel." Actually, it reads: "The JT Leroy's hard at work on the next novel" with a funny picture of a roomful of women typing like crazy. I can't wait to read what "The JT Leroy's" write next.

B'bye Scooter

As this news broke...

Vice President Dick Cheney's chief of staff resigned Friday after he was indicted on charges of obstructing a grand jury investigation and lying about his actions that blew the CIA cover of an Iraq war critic's wife.

I. Lewis "Scooter" Libby became the first high-ranking White House official in decades to be criminally charged while still in office.

...my jaw dropped. I was flabbergasted. When I finally managed to speak, this is what I said:

"Oh my God!" This got the attention of everyone in the immediate area. "There was someone named 'Scooter' working in the Whitehouse?"

Why I found this shocking, I do not know. It figures, I suppose. I'm not surprised that there was corruption at the highest levels of our government. That's a given, but "Scooter"? How did Bubba and Jethro avoid indictment?

This new development, coupled with Harriet scampering away, marks the beginning of the end for the Bush regime, mark my words. It won't be long now.

Got Smote?

I honestly cannot recall the last time I was smitten, really smitten.

What's in a name?

I would like it take a moment to discuss my rather unusual pseudonym and the reasoning behind it. My decision to be pseudonymous is, like most, to protect my "real" identity and to be free of the constraints that identity may hold. For instance, my given name is Wayne, which means "wagonmaker." Now, I have never, nor do I have any intention to ever, construct a vehicle to transport your shit to the promised land. That being said, I blame my parents, who planned out their children's names before we were ever conceived, with such precision as to rhyme. The truth is, if I hadn't been the eldest, I would have been a Shane. Or Elaine. Or some other such painfully pretentious name in the same vein.

I believe that there is energy connected to our names. Would Elvis have been Elvis if he was a Hubert? I think not. That is why, when Saviour Onassis occurred to me, I felt there had been divine intervention, perhaps from Hubert himself. This new moniker encapsulated my interests in a unique way, combining sacrilege, escapist politics and punk rock into one sweet little name. The first part appeals to my messiah complex. The second to my "Jackie" complex, which has to do with being a professional widow. Jackie, of course, couldn't handle it and married Onassis, I suspect, to escape her history with Kennedy. Which brings us to the "Dead Kennedy's," the punk band of whom I was never a fan, but I always loved their name. Blasphemy is a turn-on.

Despite the Suessical nature of my given name, I was born into a family of Mormons, not poets. Mormonism didn't jive with my own thoughts on spiritual life and I left the church, in a huff. Only to stumble around godless and forsaken, until I took up a theological quest of my own. This included dabbling in the occult, astrology, mythology, the "New Age", and naturally, the more mainstream dogmas like: sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll. I have read numerous books on spirituality, consciousness, and self-improvement, which led me to the conclusion that we must all save ourselves. We hold the power of the universe. We manifest our own reality. There is no greater power than our own consciousness.

Now, there are also many interesting anagrams that can be derived from Saviour Onassis.

• son is as saviour


• our ass is so vain


• so various as sin


• no virus as oasis


• our ass as vision


• siva is on our ass

The most interesting to me is that last one, siva is on our ass.
"Siva is the god of destruction. His duty is to destroy all the worlds at the end of creation and dissolve them into nothingness. Siva's destruction is not negative. It is a positive, nourishing and constructive destruction that builds and transforms life and energy for the welfare of the world and the beings that inhabit it. He destroys in order to renew and regenerate. His destruction is the destruction of an artist, or a surgeon or a cook. Through destruction he facilitates the smooth transitions of things and events from one stage to another."

"He destroys our imperfections in order to ensure our spiritual progress. He destroys our illusions, desires and ignorance. He destroys our evil and negative nature. He destroys our old memories, so that we can move on with the movement of time. He destroys our relationships, attachment, impurities, physical and mental wrong doings, the effects of bad karma, our passions and emotions and many things that stand between us and God as impediments to our progress and inner transformation."

Yes, with Siva on our ass, it is most important that we pay attention. You can learn more about Siva here. Now, back to the energy of names. Psychic Julia Melges-Brenner has this to say on the subject:

Throughout history, people have taken new names when going through spiritual initiations or rites of passage. They might be given new names by shamans or other spiritual leaders, or choose new names themselves. Jewish Rabbis will give someone who is seriously ill a new name, the idea being that this will infuse them with new life. Some peoples have even believed that if a person didn't have a name, he or she didn't really exist.

All of this reflects the underlying metaphysical truth that names have energetic vibrations, and everything in the Universe is ultimately energy. First, the sound of your name carries a vibration; it's like a mantra. There is great power associated with the spoken word, with bringing something abstract into the physical by speaking it out loud. Your name is the sound constantly associated with YOU, so if you change your name, you change what is associated with you.

In Saviour Onassis, I have created a generous messiah. A diety to remind us all of our own divine nature. It is true, that I fancy myself as a prophet, but then again, aren't we all? The world we live in is a manifestation of our own collective consciousness. First, we must accept responsibility and then we can proceed with the reinvention of ourselves and our universe. The message behind the icon I have created is an ironic one. If you're expecting me to take you higher... When will you learn? I'm not you're f*cking messiah! So I say to you, dear congregation, that you must Save Your Own Asses! But please, keep checking out mine, cause my ego is fragile...

Last Night I Dreamt...

I was in an old red brick building. It was a school of some kind and I knew that I loved the library. I had the impression that this building had once been a grand hotel, like the Ambassador. It was full of people, busily going about their business. I wandered around until I finally found a bathroom. (I had to pee real bad... Not great in the dream state.) As I relieved myself, the floor went out from under my feet, or rather...I was thrown. Instantly, I knew it was an earthquake. The tremors came again and again, very strong. What do I do? I thought as I felt the building collapsing around me. My body flew around the room. I quickly settled on the decision that: This was not happening...to me. And then I was outside, a survivor of what seemed to be, the destruction of a single building. All around, the city was still intact.

It looked as if the ground had decided to swallow this structure, whole. Where it had stood, seven stories into the sky, now completely flat. I knew that there were many people still inside and watched as other survivors scrambled to rescue them. But they couldn't find anyone. I walked to where the entrance had been and removed a piece of rubble. I had uncovered a large hole, leading down into what had been the lobby. I called out, my voice echo through the cavernous opening and I heard movement below. I called again, "This way!"

Somehow, my voice acted as a beacon. From the ruins, survivors came...along with the dead. Zombies filed out the building effortlessly. They looked shaken and in shock, and they were definitely dead. I could tell because they were blue and looked like zombies I had seen in movies. The living survivors needed a lot more help. They were crying and distressed. I helped them out, never fearing the zombies, just knowing that they posed no threat.

I got the feeling that something of mine was buried in there. Something that would not make it out. I don't know what it was, but I am sure that I no longer need it.

Rebel Angel

About a year ago, I received a letter from a well-known organization in the "sports world" indicating that according to their records, they owed me two hundred dollars. All I had to do was verify my address and mail them back. Now, I have absolutely no recollection of having had anything whatsoever to do with this particular organization, as I have always regarded sports as "something that hits me in the head." (I regret that I cannot divulge the name of the company, you'll see why...) Naturally, I was curious and I did indeed verify my name and address, also inquiring as to why they owed my money. I could not imagine a reason and months passed by without a reply, so I forgot about it.

Then, sure enough, a check arrived in my mailbox, just last week. No explanation. Nothing. Just this small, unexpected fortune. I mentioned this to a friend, who pointed out that being in the film industry, especially in the commercial world, isn't it highly likely that at some point maybe I had worked for them? I guess so. My memory is for shit and the amount corresponds to an entry level day rate... Did this mean I didn't have to feel guilty about cashing the check? Could I abort my plan to send it to victims of some horrible natural disaster? I decided I would have to think about it.

So, the check sat on my desk and I tried not to think about it. But I did think about it. Should I just recycle the karma? Or was this some kind of karmic payback? Surely, a giant corporation would rather just pay up, such a small amount, whether it was legitimate or not. I thought about the things I would buy if I had two hundred dollars, just for me. I thought about people starving, homeless, and desperate. I thought about how horrible and selfish I am. I thought about all the money I have given in recent years, to causes I believe in. I thought about all these things and then suddenly, I picked up the check and went to the bank.

This was Saturday, so the line was really long, criminally long. I decided to skip it and went outside to deposit through the ATM. Now, the money was in my account and I still had a choice. I could keep it or give it away. I left the bank and drove, no particular destination in mind. I mulled over what charities could benefit the most from my generosity. I circled a parking lot, waiting for a space to open up. I watched two teenage girls, beautiful, healthy California girls, get into a Mercedes and drive away. I parked in their space. I thought about how horrible it would be to have a major earthquake here in LA. I walked up the steps to the GAP.

Inside the store, I was in a dreamstate. I watched helplessly as I tried on a corduroy blazer. Then, another and another. They were on sale. Unable to make a decision about the color, I took three and wandered into the pant section. Another sale. Where was my size? 32 now, not 36 like before... I only found two pair and headed for the cashier.

"That will be one seventy three fifteen, debit or credit?"

"Debit," I replied, handing her my card. Within moments, I was out the door. It had all happened so fast. I bought three corduroy blazers, one navy, one tan, and one charcoal, and two pairs of pinstripe pants, both brown. What had happened? Who was this person dressing me in GAP clothes? Had I gone completely mad? I spent $173.15 in less than five minutes! That only leaves $26.85 for the orphans! What was I thinking?

After the initial shock wore off, I readied myself for a gallery opening that night. "Rebel Angels at the End of the World" was the name of the show. How appropriate, I thought as I wandered through impressionistic paintings of James Dean and Captain Kangaroo. Normally, I despise the pretension that goes along with events like this, but that night I was especially calm, knowing that I looked fabulous in my navy corduroy blazer and pinstripe pants.

The Digital Age

Some things in life are unexpected.
This can be unpleasant.
But if you know what is coming,
you can prepare
emotionally, physically and psychically.
That way when it finally happens,
it can even be rewarding.
Wouldn't you know...
The one time I go in to see the doctor,
fully ready for, expecting, and anticipating
a prostate exam and
he doesn't do it.

No Thank You

This month marks the expiration of my Costco membership. I can't really imagine why I felt compelled to get one in the first place. I am a young, single, gay man and the things that I need and desire to own are not for sale at warehouse prices. I suppose part of the allure was having heard Sandra Bernhard tell the story of how she took Britney Spears there to purchase copious amounts of toilet paper. "I like to buy my paper products in bulk." Sandra said. Who doesn't? I asked myself as I drove deep into the valley to where I had passed this local bastion of commerce. The parking lot was so crowded, it took me at least ten minutes to find a space. As I approached the monolithic building, my pulse quickened. Was this the answer to all life's problems? A blast of conditioned air hit me as I entered. I immediately went to the membership counter and signed up. Forty bucks for a one year admission seemed a little steep, but I was sure I would recoup it in the incredible savings. Now, it was time to shop.

I wandered the aisles, careful to avoid the baby carriages and gigantic shopping carts of the many family units that filled the store. I was truly amazed to see how literally everything could be sold in ridiculously large quantities. Who couldn't appreciate a 5 gallon jar of spaghetti sauce? Wide screen TV's, power tools, golf shorts, candy bars, it was overwhelming. After the initial shock wore off, I tried to find something I could justify buying. None of the bestselling books interested me. Their DVD and CD selection was lame. I could never consume any of the food products before they expired. The clothes were ugly. I didn't have room for a patio set or a china hutch. Slowly, I began to realize that I had made a horrible mistake.

Babies were crying. Old ladies were trying to get me to taste their summer sausages. Poorly parented children ran willy-nilly, to and fro. Couples argued over hams and pies. I was in hell... and I needed out. But I couldn't leave without buying something. So, I made a selection and headed to the deeper level of the underworld, which was checking out. The lines were all insanely long. Where was the express line for attractive, young folks who just needed one little thing? I was astonished by the purchases I witnessed my fellow members making. I guess your baby will need all those diapers after it eats fifty cans of chili... Once out, I ran to the car and vowed never to return. This place was evil, pure evil...

How sad is it that someone could be buried in a coffin purchased at Costco? I drove home, shaken. It was a good thing that I now had 1500 B-vitamins to help calm my nerves. I was happy to receive a letter recently, reminding me that my membership to Satan World was almost expired. Would I like to renew? No, thank you!

Why I prefer desperation to death

I am currently trudging my way through Season 3 of Six Feet Under. Yes, I know, I am unfashionably behind, since I do not have cable and my local video store sucks. Thankfully, I recently switched over to Netflix. I am once again back in the land of the living and what do I do? I go straight for the depression, death and despair of Six Feet Under.

I had rented the first two seasons, years ago and was enthralled. It was the first series since Twin Peaks that I felt an affinity to. TP was the best thing to happen to network television and I was sorely disappointed when ABC decided to cancel it. Of course, back then the networks weren't as competition savvy as they are now. See, when the cable series' started to take off, cable channels had the luxury of showing the episodes over and over again, so audiences could keep up. Now, of course, ABC is back with two hit shows, LOST and Desperate Housewives, and they are smart enough to repeat episode twice a week, so we don't have another Twin Peaks situation. Of course, my schedule is so maddeningly unpredictable, I missed almost all of Lost and DH in their first season. But thanks to DVD, I am catching up. I finished Desperate Housewives Season 1 recently and was in the mood to watch another series. I thought Six Feet Under would be a perfect one to pick back up. Like I said, I am trudging through. I am in a strange state of shock.

While there are similarities between the two shows (this has been commented on by many a reviewer). I find the differences more disturbing. SFU is much more grounded in reality. Sure people die on Desperate Housewives, but not in every single episode. But it's not the body count that bothers me at all, it's the living. These characters are all so incredibly fucked up and I relate to them. No one in the Fisher family seems capable of being happy. It's painful to watch how they manipulate each other and allow themselves to be manipulated. I think the women of Wisteria Lane are smarter than the Fishers. They are certainly happier. The housewives are all resourceful enough to manage their lives. I do not want to look at the hard realities of my own mortality. I would rather make cookies with Bree, or get drunk with Edie, or have a sleepover with Susan and Julie...or do a little gardening. Truth be told, I prefer the primetime desperation of Housewives to the inevitable gloom of the Fisher clan.

I guess I should think of Six Feet Under as a cautionary tale, how not to live...

Now, I know that I will keep watching SFU because I just will. Even though I am seasons behind and much has been spoiled for me. I remember driving down La Brea and glancing over at the city bus next to me, reading: RIP Lisa Fisher with the dates of her birth and death. Boom! Spoiler, on the side of a friggin' bus. And the hoopla surrounding the series finale was too hard to avoid. Yeah, Nate finally dies. All I can do is wait...and watch.

It's interesting to me that these shows were both created by middle-aged gay men, Alan Ball (Six Feet Under) and Mark Cherry (Desperate Housewives). Again, despite the similarities, here we have two vastly divergent points of view. I hope that someday, when I myself reach middle-age, I will be able to create a series that will be as critically and commercially successful as these men have. I cannot say what tone or aesthetic my own show would have, but I imagine that it would reek of genius. But that's just a self-educated guess.

Pee Boy (part three)

Ah, puberty! It was the twilight of my youth, soon I would no longer be desirable to pedophiles, I was becoming a man. One night, as I was preparing for bed, I heard my mother's voice call to me. I padded down the hall and into the master bedroom. My parents were both in bed, the television off. I stood in the doorway, waiting.

"Come here," Mom said, motioning me over to her side of the bed. I cautiously approached, wondering what was up. "Your father and I have been talking." This was not good. "We were wondering if that other ball ever came in." As if it had been on back order. My face turned red. I assured her that everything was fine and tried to retreat. "Show us."

So, there I am, on the verge of manhood, forced to pull down my underwear in order to prove to my parents that I had balls, plural. I looked away, wishing the TV were on. Both my parents examined the evidence visually. Yes, the undescended testicle had made it's way down to form a pair. Satisfied that my cremaster muscle was in proper working condition, my mother excused me, wishing me sweet dreams. Dad never said a word. I went back to my room and closed the door. I knew that what had just happened was not normal. Other preteen boys were not having their genitals scrutinized by their folks. At least I had passed the test.

This is when I started living a secret life. My Dad had built me a bed with a dresser underneath and a secret crawl space with a little door. I loved having a place to hide. I would keep all kinds of things in there. But my favorite thing to hide was the old Sears catalog. Every year, my brother and I were allowed to go through the catalog and pick out what we wanted Santa to bring us from Sears, up to $100. Mostly, I wanted multi-player games. Domination, Hungry Hungry Hippos, etc. Which is ironic because I had no one to play with. But that didn't deter me from collecting games. If I ever did make a friend, we would never run out of games to play. One year, I flipped the pages of the catalog from the beginning, not going directly to the toy section. That's when I discovered the men's underwear page.

These images did things to me that I could not explain. I would stare at the photos of these men for long periods of time, hiding in the crawlspace with a flashlight. This atmosphere, of course, led to other behaviours I won't bother describing. But let's just say, I had found a reason to live.

I don't know what prompted it, maybe she had found the dog-eared catalog or the old nightgown I had stolen from her, but one day my mother asked me if I agreed with her about homosexuals. "They are disgusting, right? I mean, they stick it up each other's butts!" Shocked, I agreed and quickly ran away, horrified by the unexpectedness of her question. Later, I learned that Mom's best friend had once been married to a man who left her for another man. I babysat this woman's kids, from time to time, and felt an odd kinship with her oldest son, six years younger than me. Nothing ever happened between us, but I was not surprised in the least to learn that he was also gay. My little sister became his hag when they went off to college. Of course, back then, neither of us new a thing about sexuality. Sex was something you did with your cousin in the woodshed, not with strangers.

But I digress, the story is about wetting the bed, which I continued to do. Even after I had gone off to college, the secret followed me. The trick I used to hide the odor from my roommate was to pile about twenty blankets on my bed and air it out when he was not around. I was a theater major and things had gone well for me. Towards the end of the first year, I happened to see Madonna's "Truth or Dare" and my life was instantly changed. It was an "Aha!" moment. You see, it had never occurred to me that I could be openly gay, that I could tell people and they would accept it. Never crossed my mind, until I saw Madonna and her band of merry men! I was obsessed and talked nonstop about what a great movie it was. At this point, I had become good friends with Sean* and he agreed to drive to Tucson and see it with me. Long story short, that night I end up coming out of the closet to him and he ends up with his dick in my ass. This led to all kinds of complications to our friendship, which did not continue much longer, but I will always be grateful to him for listening without prejudice to me saying the words which freed me from two decades of bed-wetting, "I am gay."

And just like that, it was over. I never wet the bed again.
THE END

Pee Boy (part two)

"Let him lie in it," my father would tell my mother when she changed my sheets in the middle of the night. "That'll teach him." And after awhile, I guess she grew tired of the ritual and did as he said, leaving it up to me to take care of it. I would get up at night and remove the soiled sheets and place them in the hamper. Sometimes I would put on new ones. Sometimes I would just curl up in my blanket, if it wasn't too wet. Or simply move to the other end of the bed. I tried just lying in it, thinking maybe Dad was right and that I would "learn" not to do it. But on cold nights, the initial warmth would soon fade and I would awake in a pool of freezing liquid, shivering. I would place an old towel over the wet spot and move my body to a drier area.

"What's the matter with you?" My father would ask with contempt and disgust. "Don't you know when you have to go to the bathroom?"

"I don't know," I replied to both questions. When it would happen, I was asleep and would awaken once it was too late and my bladder had already let go. As I got older, it became more upsetting to be startled awake and realize that I had done it yet again. But mostly, it was a comforting feeling. Oh well, I would think and let myself be surrounded by the warm liquid. It felt like love, only more consistent.

"He'll grow out of it," my mother would say. But long after my baby brother, three years younger, could get through the night dry, I was still wet. I began to think there was something horribly wrong with me. Was it possible that my potty-training had gone awry? Did I lack the ability to just hold it? This became painfully evident once I started school and having "accidents." Going to the bathroom had become a horrible and disgusting thing to me and to interrupt a teacher during class was unthinkable. The other kids would laugh at my inability to wait until recess. So, I would sit at my desk and try to hold out. Sometimes, this would work and at break, I would scamper off to the restroom to do my business privately, secretly. But other times, I just couldn't hold it. The blood would drain from my face as I felt my bladder betray me. At first, no one would notice but, inevitably, urine would drip from my seat onto the floor, sometimes making a ridiculous streaming sound and causing some little perfect blond girl to scream. Then they would all stare and laugh. Our teacher would sigh loudly and dismiss me. I would struggle against my tears as I stood up, the seat of my Garanimal pants completely soaked, and I would walk slowly out the door of the classroom.

I was in the principals office often enough to be a delinquent. The office ladies would see my coming and already be on the phone to my mother. When I would get to the door, they would shoo me out. "Wait outside. Your mother is on her way!" Forced to endure even further public humiliation, I would stand on the curb, wet, waiting for Mom. Depending on the time of day, and her disposition, Mom would either take me home and send me upstairs to change or she would bring new pants with her and I would have to go back to class, in unmatching Garanimals. It was around this time that Mom obtained a prescription. A cure! A little pink pill take was guaranteed to stop all "accidents." The only problem was that I was deathly afraid of little pink pills. The first time, I was open enough to the idea, but as soon as it hit my tongue, I could taste the chemical and would become violently nauseated. After that, I would struggle and cry and fight with every fiber of my being to keep that damn thing out of my mouth. Even when they would go down, they didn't work. So, Mom gave up.

Then there was "The Loneliest Runner," a Michael Landon TV movie about a boy whose mother would hang his soiled bedsheets outside the house and he would have to run home from school to retrieve them before anyone saw. The boy becomes a competitive runner and in real life, he became Michael Landon. I hated this movie. But my parents would force me to watch it every time it came on and say things like, "Maybe we should do that to you? What do you think?" To which I eventually replied: "I would run away." Since we lived on the Mexican border, this was deemed a credible threat and they didn't push the issue. But they found other ways to torture me. After all, there was still that undescended testicle...

TO BE CONTINUED...

Pee Boy

I stood there completely naked on a tiny platform, my young body shivering from the exposure, under the glare of fluorescent lights. I stared down at the cold, white tile floor of the examining room, afraid I might accidentally make eye contact with my parents or the doctor, all of whom stood on the other side of the room, watching me. The only person who seemed to understand my humiliation was the young nurse, who kept her attention on the cotton swabs she couldn't quite get organized. This is all my fault, I thought and it was. After all, it was me who couldn't stop wetting the bed. I was about to start going to school and something had to be done, so my parents sought professional help. This particular day had included all sorts of tests and examinations of my genitalia and had led up to this final humiliation. I had been instructed to disrobe and stand on a tiny platform that I suspect was designed for just this purpose. I was also forced to consume a great deal of water. Then, confirming my fears, the doctor spoke.

"Alright. If you could just pee on the floor..." The doctor said. Had I heard him correctly? Urinating where I am not supposed to is what got me into this mess in the first place. I look up, as if to say: What you talkin' about, Willis? as I had seen Gary Coleman do on TV. That's when I saw my parents faces. Mom looked as though she were about to cry and my father was not pleased with the situation either. I noticed that the nurse had tuned in to the action as well, knowing that she would be the one that had to clean it up. The doctor made his request again. "Go ahead. It's okay. Just...pee...on...the....floor."

I looked down at the sparkling clean floor, the same white tiles that all clinics and hospitals seem to have. I judged the distance between me and my audience, about ten feet. I can do this, I thought and took hold of my penis to aim.

"Don't touch it!" The doctor screeched and I immediately flung both arms away from my body. My parents exchanged concerned glances. The nurse suppressed a giggle and I began to panic. What will happen if I don't aim? I might pee all over everybody... Suddenly, I decided that would be just the thing to do. I took a deep breath and as I exhaled, a healthy burst of urine shot out onto the pristine floor. I really had to go and I made a sizable puddle. The last drops fell closer to me than the initial blast and I was grateful to be up on the platform. To my dismay, not one drop of pee got on the doctor, or anyone else. I looked up and smiled, pleased with myself anyway. Everyone's attention was now on the doctor, awaiting his diagnosis.

"Well," he said, "There is nothing wrong there. Everything is functioning normally, but I am still concerned about that testicle."

That testicle. My stupid, undescended testicle! Which, through earlier tests, the doctor had determined was there but just didn't want to come out to play. I didn't blame it, after all the poking and prodding the other "descended" testicle had endured. I would hide, too. Doctor Willis made a motion for me to walk around the puddle and I did. The nurse handed me back my hospital robe, which I was more than happy to have back on. Then we all walked out of the room, leaving her to her task. As the door closed behind us, I looked back and saw her unfurling a roll of paper towels. She looked right at me. She looked sad.

I was led into another room by a different nurse and given back my civilian clothes. My parents accompanied the doctor into his office, where I supposed they discussed what I look like naked. I imagined Doctor Willis explaining all about my penis and undescended testicle. My father sniffing his fingers in the hope of extracting some of the nicotine lingering there. My mother wondering what she had done wrong... Truthfully, I didn't see what the big deal was. It wasn't like I peed in their bed every night. I was used to it. I had never slept on a mattress that didn't have plastic sheets under the soft cotton ones. And I didn't care. My parents, on the other hand, were horrified by it. Was this the beginning of a lifelong obsession with by bedroom behaviours? I shuddered at the thought as I redressed.

TO BE CONTINUED...

I'm Desperate

Somedays, I don't even leave my apartment. I don't have to anymore. Anything I desire, I can find through my beautiful iBook. The future is here and it's not nearly as dreadfully boring as George Lucas would have us believe. Just about everything you could imagine, is at your fingertips. At a whole lot more, if you are not careful. For instance, I don't recommend ordering pizza from New York, if you live in Los Angeles. Or a bride from Russia. Or a quickie with a stranger. Stick to things you can rely on being fresh and exactly what you want. One such item I have had pretty good luck with is T-shirts. After all, you can't find a "What would Courtney do?" Tee at Target.

My most recent acquisition was this:



I absolutely adore the show, Desperate Housewives, and didn't hesitate for an instant when I ordered it. It wasn't until later, while I chipped ice out of my antique freezer, that I pondered the meaning of the message. This was one of two "men's" shirts for sale. The other said "Everyone has a little Dirty Laundry." But the one I purchased, not just because it was on sale, clearly says something else about me. I might as well have bought a shirt that says "I'm Gay," that's the real message behind the mantra. I thought it was cute and funny, only now are the deeper implications sinking in.

The ladies shirts are just as obvious. Which Housewife are you? "I'm an Edie" = "I'm a Slut", and so on, fulfilling all sorts of archetypical heroines from Mother to Martha. And I do suppose that it is those archetypes that appeal to me. Of course, they are all much more complex than they appear, but my question is this: What straight man would wear a T-shirt that proclaims "I'm Desperate"?

Unlike Andrew, I am all about the chocolate. Vanilla only goes in my morning tea and I am comfortable with that. Don't get me wrong, I am not saying that when this shirt arrives, I will fear wearing it. On the contrary, I look forward to it. After all, I am desperate and I am not afraid to let people know. I may even order the "I'm an Edie."

Yes, life on Wisteria Lane can sometimes be complicated, but a little fashion sense goes a long, long way.

The Lonely Hunter

"Life is hard...and so am I."

For the longest time, I thought that precious pearl of wisdom had come from my own brain, so imagine my disappointment when, watching an old 'eels' video, I heard E sing those very words. Damn that E! He's always beating me to the punch, punching me to the beat, and generally annoying the living shit out of me. Yeah, so I'm not the genius who thought that up. Now that I think about it, I am glad. Happy to have recycled my psyche, and sad that I had forgotten the source, I vow to never assume that anything I think is what I am actually thinking.

It's such a depressing sentiment anyway. Who needs to know that life is hard and that the difficulty of living has hardened me. The sexual innuendo is so faint, it's practically latent. With such hardship, who needs a boner? I certainly don't. They always seem to get in the way of what I really want, which is not to fuck the hard, cruel world but to be loved. Boo Hoo! I get lonely. So fuck-diddly-ucking what... All these self-fulfilling prophecies bore me. I want action. I want romance. I want snow, but all I get is ash. But as they say, ash and you shall receive.

Am I a Xerox of my former self? Generationally removed from my authenticity? Have the subtle shades of my character been blown out? These are the questions I ask myself on a Friday night, because I am in need of an answer. No more band-aids. No more bruises. No more scarification. This is my heart:


I expect you to be careful with it, though it's me who really needs to take care. That's how it is and, I suppose, how it should be. Does it scare you? Or does the lack of scars intrigue you? I am a system of beliefs, in need of revision, reinvention. I am no longer my own worst enemy. I cannot afford the war and battle seems so futile in the tents, late at night. The ticket is in mystery, in the desert air, in the things there are no words for. It calls up from the bowels of the universe, for a new mantra. I listen to the faint and repeat the inspiration:

"Life is easy...and so am I"

Am I a diamond forged from the pressure? Or am I merely a slut? More questions desperate for attention, searching for signs of intelligent life, emotional life, or life itself... I know that, it's in the way a challenge presents itself, I get lost. I play Truth or Dare. So, what will it be?


So be it.

Yeah, I got some...

So, my new best friend, Bored Dominatrix, and I have joined forces in order to take over the world.

Please check out our latest venture:

Genius to Spare


So be it.

Trust Overfull & the Nasty Houseguest or My Cousin Kevie

There is a taste in my mouth so foul, so offensive, so utterly disgusting that I can hardly bear it. It is the bitter aftertaste of youth, or "yoots" as Vincent Gambini would say. I have had the displeasure of hosting a complete stranger, claiming to be a distant relative. A twenty year old, ill-mannered little shit-for-brains, whom I let into my home, because, as far as I can tell, I was bored. What other explanation could there be?

"I thought I should call and introduce myself," the voice on my phone said. "Because we are family." I had answered the call because I didn't recognize the area code, and I was curious. My grandmothers brothers grandson, had tracked me down. Until recently, we had no idea that this branch of the family tree even existed. He was nervous and awkward, and I began to romanticize the notion. I tried to imagine what desperate circumstance my young cousin Kevie was in, that he would call on me for assistance. I agreed to help him, never imagining that he would show up a dirty, stupid, straight, mall-goth who would: use all my hot water, eat all my food, make me pay for everything, show no interest in my life whatsoever and not say "thank you," not once! This I attribute to his age, and the fact that he is from my father's side of the family. I should have known better.

The purpose of his little invasion was to check into a film school, here in Hollywood. I figured if he was interested in becoming a film-maker, he must be sensitive, smart, you know....artsy. But I was as wrong as polyester socks. Over the sixty or so hours I spent with this yoot, I was able to study the future of our world and it was not pretty. Due to his lethargy, I surmised that he had probably spent many years on medication of some kind. And yes, I did rifle through his belongings while he was away, discovering an odd assortment of herbal supplements and a note that said to avoid refined sugar. This, of course, didn't stop him from consuming things like: a root beer float and a piece of chocolate cake, in lieu of a meal. His taste in entertainment was just as questionable. He had little to say about films, but a lot to say about video games. When I took him to Amoeba Music (once again, the coolest record store in the world), he asked: "What is an LP?"

"Are you serious?" I replied.

"Well, I know what DVD's and CD's are, but we don't have 'LP's' where I come from..."

I explained that LP's were Long Playing Records on wax and I ignored his comment about "melting." Then I realized that the problem was where he comes from, not geographically, but historically. Born in 1985, he has never lived in a world where Madonna wasn't famous. He was a glorious example of what is wrong with the yoots of today. What, dear Cousin, you fail to realize is that M. Night Shymalan is NOT a great director! Final Fantasy is NOT an appropriate topic of conversation! You do NOT have a woman's fashion sense if you choose to dress like a giant carrot! And if you had once said "thank you," you can bet your poser ass that I would have said "You are welcome." But you didn't. And you are not welcome. Casa de Onassis is closed for business, little boy. Have a nice life.

A very dear friend of mine recently played hostess to a houseguest of her own. I listened as she related stories of unwashed dishes, deluded religious fantasies and high expectations. I felt her pain and hoped that I would be spared the horror when I received my own guest, but alas, I was not so lucky. I figured that there was some universal conspiracy behind this whole affair, that I was to be shown something, taught something. And I was. I learned that strange relatives and relative strangers are one and the same. The one redemptive thing about this nasty affair is that it is now over and life has returned to normal. I can once again sit around in my underwear, watching Desperate Housewives, confident that I will never again be so foolish as to answer a call from an unknown area code.

Faking "It"

During my years in the desert, I met many interesting and creative people, one of which is a young photographer, Joey Moon, who recently sent me the following bizarre request:

Dearest SO,...
Just wondering if you have any ideas on how to produce fake cum for a titty-fuck shot. I'm thinking egg whites with maybe Elmer's Glue or something. Just hoping that your proximity to Hollywood somehow gives you this sort of inside information.
Thanks,
Your brother in jesus,
-Joey

This was my reply:

First of all, I can't believe that this is the first thing I have heard from you in, oh, I don't know...years! Actually, I can believe it and I am flattered that when you thought about faking cum, you thought of me.

My first instinct says: flour and water or milk. Go into the kitchen and experiment, when faking an orgasm it's important to be creative. You might want to try out several different recipes. Also, hair conditioner might work. I suggest Suave Naturals Milk & Honey Conditioner (the cum-like quality is uncanny!) Depending on how you want the cum to "behave" during the shoot, you might want to avoid using glue, as it will be harder to reset if you want to re-cum your model.

I hope this helps. Please let me know how it cums out....

Joey emailed me back, thanking me for the conditioner tip and something about powdered egg whites and syrup. It seems like a sticky situation. He is working on a new project, which, based on his past work, I predict will be brilliant. His art is inspired blasphemy and I dig it.

In my own artistic endeavors involving ejaculate, I have always preferred the real thing as opposed to "faking" it. Call me a purist.

A Star Is Bored (part four)

TeenStage, founded by myself and Paul, was our way of breaking free of the tyranny of adult run theater. The only qualification to be part of our troupe was age. Thirteen to nineteen, if you didn't have a "teen", then you couldn't get on stage, or behind the scenes, everyone involved was a youth. And our productions were very much in the PG-13 category.

Our first show was a double bill, two short plays written by myself and some ill-conceived musical numbers. TeenStage Productions present "Hanky Panky," I truly had no idea exactly how twisted that must have sounded to the parents of everyone involved, but nonetheless, we were rebels. The actual plays were less risque than the title implies. The evening began with the entire cast choreographed to "Star" by Erasure... This is the most embarrassing moment for me, now that I look back. I suppose, at the time, it seemed like a good idea. We wore pink and black 'rehearsal' clothes and the routine made us look like a class of mildly retarded aerobics enthusiasts. After that, we segued into the first play, a parody of the movie "Dick Tracy." It didn't have much of a plot but some of the lines were good. In my version, the Madonna character (Breathless Mahoney) is called "Breakfast Mahoney." When the detective asks about her unusual name, she responds: "When I meet a man, the next thing you know, we're having breakfast together... Why do they call you Dick?" The second play was called "Blow Out the Candles," about a wealthy old tycoon (played by myself) who tests the integrity of his heirs by faking his own death. In the end, everyone dies or is abducted by aliens, it was very Shakespearean.

I graduated High School and was working as a clerk at Rent-a-Flik and moonlighting as the graveyard DJ at KZMK, a local radio station. In short, I was going nowhere fast and college seemed like a good idea. I enrolled in a community college in Thatcher, Arizona, that fall. While the distance hampered my control over TeenStage, I was committed and worked hard on writing our second show during my first semester. We planned to stage the entire production over Christmas break. I came back from school with the script in hand, to present to Paul and the company. It was titled "Full Circle: the dream exhibition" and was as pretentious as this suggested. It was my first drama consisting of loosely connected scenes presented as "dreams." These included a section in which mental patients reenact the crucifixion. I had a different sensibility now that I was in college and it contributed greatly to the demise of our little group. We had several favorable reviews in the Herald, and I had even received an award of "Outstanding achievement" from the governor, Rose Mofford, for being the youngest theatrical producer in Arizona. Or something like that, I don't quite remember. "Full Circle" was the last production I did with TeenStage. Many of the actors went on to win Speech and Debate competitions, using monologues from my script, and that made me very proud.

But I had set my sights on conquering a new stage in life and I turned my attention to the theater department of my new school. Auditions for the first show, a student written piece by the current "It" boy of the department, Sean*, landed me the role of a waiter. I had three lines. But as rehearsals began, Sean expanded my role as waiter and wrote another character for me into the second act. I ended up stealing the show. I was a thief. Little did I know what Sean would steal from me in my own second act.
TO BE CONTINUED...

A Star Is Bored (part three)

The year was 1985 and the neighborhood boys were obsessed with Dungeons & Dragons. This kind of role-playing was inferior to me, because I was an actor. But, I was obsessed with the neighborhood boys, so I played. I was also hung up on decorating my walls with posters and pages from Teen Bop. I was careful to hide my collection of C. Thomas Howell photographs from my mother. I remember her remarking on my heavily adorned walls. "Who are all these girls?" she asked.

"Those girls are Madonna!" I replied, annoyed that she was unable to recognize the female who had become her rival for the role of most important woman in my life. My favorite quote from this time came from my mother, who happened through the living room whilst I was watching a new channel called MTV. They showed music videos and this particular video was Toni Basil's "Mickey." Mom watched for a moment and then said: "That woman is older than I am!"

That fall I entered high school and looked forward to the anonymity it promised. We lived in a town adjacent to a military base, so all the army brats went to school with us civilians. There were about 3000 students and the school sprawled over two separate campuses. Freshman year, my schedule was East, West, East, West, East, West, etc. I had ten minutes between classes to go to my locker (East Campus), get my books and scurry off to my next class. It was exhausting. Almost all of my favorite classes were on West Campus, drama, art and choir. Also, WC had a better library. Every year there were two major productions put on by the school, a musical and a variety show written by the students. The musicals were usually very pedestrian, "Oklahoma" Eew!

The drama teacher was named Mamie W. and she was a grand dame. There was a rumor that Mamie had been on "General Hospital" or some other such soap, back in the day. I adored her because she was always put together perfectly. Her wardrobe was exquisite, smart pastel suits with matching jewelry and she wore high heels every single day. Compared to her, other teachers looked like....teachers. Mamie looked like a star. She took notice of me early on and suggested that I read the books in her "drama library", which I did. That when I learned about Stanislavski and the "Method." She also cultivated my writing and by my senior year, I was put in charge on writing the variety show, On Stage. The theme was "world music" which was retarded because it meant the band knew a lot of songs with geographical references, like "Kokomo" and "La Isla Bonita." It was my job to tie this altogether in some kind of amusing narrative. I took my inspiration from entertainment news shows and even managed to work myself into two different roles, the anchorman and a female reporter blatantly ripped off from Tootsie. I said "tits" in a school play and got away with it.

I was also heavily involved with Limelight and doing all kinds of shows with them outside of school. This is where I really got to experiment and explore. I was allowed to direct plays and I had developed a fondness for Tennessee Williams. I directed and starred in a version of "The Glass Menagerie" at Limelight, among other things. I had also developed a friendship with a boy named Paul, who had many similar interests. We both loved Depeche Mode and owned keyboards, so naturally, we started a band. We played one official "gig"- a Mary Kay convention at the local Holiday Inn. I have no idea what those middle-aged ladies in pink thought of our little band, which consisted of three boys playing keyboards while brooding and a girl singer who fancied herself as a young Madonna. It was a mess. Paul and I decided that we should stick to theater and incorporate the "band" into our productions. Thus, we started our own theater group, TeenStage.
TO BE CONTINUED...

A Star Is Bored (part two)

By this time, I was fully committed to the idea of running away and joining the circus. I tried many times to telepathically contact a young Eastern European trapeze artist I had read about in the library. I found the notion of wearing tights and making a living, very appealing. There was no response.

Back in Arizona, I found myself in a junior high school locker room. Here, there was no Xanadu escape clause, I would endure the horror of dressing, undressing, sweating and showering with boys, roughly my age. I say roughly because of the curious nature of sexual development at this age. Some were still boys, others were men... One of these men was Chad.

Chad's locker was next to mine, an unfortunate side effect of the alphabet, and this made for a very uncomfortable circumstance. I was an average twelve year old. Chad was a hairy giant, towering over the rest of us like a peacock in his prime. I don't know how it happened, exactly, but Chad appointed me his "butler," which meant that I took his clothes from him as he undressed, folded them and placed them neatly in his locker. Then I handed him his Phys. Ed. clothes. This was repeated after class, with the addition of being his towel boy, and in all cases, his naked, fully mature body was displayed uncomfortably close.

I guess I didn't mind this submissive role, because I played it for two years. It was torture. It brought unwanted attention to me in the place I wanted most to be invisible. The payoff was that Chad was not only my "master" but my bodyguard, as well. No one would dare mess with Chad's butler! This meant I only had to "please" my master. But my protector was also my greatest nemesis. If he was angry, I would feel the wrath of his cruelty. He would suggest that I suck his dick, in front of everyone. Sometimes he would shove his sweaty underwear in my face. He would punch me, almost daily. I was desperately attracted to him and passionately hated him. I wished that Chad would die. I needed an escape, big time.

That's when I began my acting career, studying the dramatic arts with Mrs. Clark in Room 202. I switched my junior high "major" from Journalism to Drama, half-way through the year and was soon cast a the lead in a play. I found it incredibly easy to become someone else. To play out the problems and emotions of a character, was ridiculously easy for me. The attention being on stage brought to me was better than the infamy I already had as "butler" to the school stud. If people were going to notice me, then I would give them something to talk about.

I heard about a new theater group for kids that was holding auditions. I begged my mother to take me and she reluctantly agreed. The play was called "Cinderella Rock" and was a reimagined version of the fairy tale set in the fifties and utilized classic rock and roll songs. It was a musical and I was ready for the challenge. I was cast as Cinderella's father, a role I didn't remember from other versions of the story. I had one song to sing: "Chantilly Lace." Now, my memory here is fuzzy. Why would Cinderella's father sing her a song that proclaims "ooh baby, that's what I like"? The play was stupid. But it was my first real role in a show that people actually paid to see. It was official. I was a starlet.

The theater group, Limelight, became a regular thing for me, as well as my participation in school plays. I was always busy being someone. I looked forward to high school, where I could take Drama with a teacher who, rumor was, had actually been on "General Hospital!" Graduation approached and so did "prom", though at the eighth grade level, it was a sorry event. Chad was named Prom King. I skipped the event altogether, I think I had rehearsal that night. In my yearbook, Chad wrote: You've been a great "butler" and a cool friend. I'll ring you up and we'll go PARTY! Laters, Chad. He never called and that fall, as we entered our freshman year, I learned that Chad had indeed partied over the summer. Lots of high school kids liked to drive to AP (Agua Prieta) across the border in Mexico, to drink and party. Chad was decapitated in a car accident coming back from AP. He was fourteen. I got my wish and I was free.
TO BE CONTINUED...

A Star Is Bored (part one)

Albee was right, you know... And not just for outing Liz Taylor as fat fucking pig... He was right about the jazz of special hotels, American dreams and the horror of being alive. I have lived in that world. I suffered with the best of them in my time, my timespace, my dream place...

Yes, I was an actor. And good, too. Really good. Award-winning, in fact. I was the best damn actor to ever walk on stage- in Arizona. Eastern, Southern, South-New Western, I played all the best stages, auditoriums and bars the desert had to offer. I was somebody.

It all started, oddly enough, in New Mexico. My father was a miner, working for Phelps Dodge, "PD" we called it. I was eight years old when PD transferred Dad to a mine in Tyrone, New Mexico. Tyrone was this shithole little town created by PD to house the workers. They built it on a hill and the most important employees lived at the top. We lived towards the bottom. It was all the same to me, I was much closer to the bus stop. I joined a new school, named after some astronaut, in a neighboring town and was excited to be starting over. Of course, I was humiliated almost immediately when I peed all over the floor of the band room. To redeem myself, I signed up to be in the school pageant. This was like a talent show, but highly choreographed by the art faculty... No one was allowed to shine solo. We were broken into groups, by age, and then rehearsed for weeks, our given "numbers".

I was in two of these spectacles- "Music Box Dancer", for which I had to make my own wig. I remember my Mothers face when I came home from school one day and asked for a pair of her pantyhose and some red yarn. I was playing one of many Raggedy Andys... (A recurring theme..) I liked my costume a lot and found that wearing a wig, even one made of red yarn, came quite naturally. My favorite part of this particular character was the fact that I got to wear MAKEUP! Red, rosy cheeks. I was a gorgeous Raggedy Doll. Dancing with my classmates to the gayest song ever! But wait, there is my Second Number.... "Macho Man" by the Village People. (It was the Seventies!) All the boys strutted around in jeans and tee-shirts ala "Grease"...I wanted a pack of cigarettes to roll into my sleeve but Mom said No. We settled on a bar of soap. It had the same effect, but still, you can't smoke soap. "Hey Kid, you look real tough, but you smell so clean!" That was the high point of my year.

I remember getting really good at climbing trees. For me, the recess bell signified war. Specifically, war on me. So, I made like a monkey and headed for higher ground. Sometimes I would have to climb really high to get out of "rock range" and then I would be late for class because I was too scared to climb down. Class was just as bad. The teacher separated my desk from the rest of the class. I sat literally under the chalkboard about two feet from the teacher. On the other side was a girl with that funky skin disorder that made her look like a pink and brown cow. Her name was Lea and she sat up front to be protected, like me. My problems had more to do with bodily functions, mucus membranes, stuff like that. I was a special kid.

I guess there were enough "special" kids to warrant what happened next. As an "alternative" to physical education class, which played like recess, only, the violence was teacher supervised, some of us were given to option to rollerskate on the high school tennis courts, next door. This was a dream come true for me. I already had skates but lacked the elbow and knee pads required for the "class"- pads were expensive, but Mom saved the day by making some out of old jeans and elastic. I had denim protection and I was in. Having seen "Xanadu" and proclaiming it to be the greatest film ever made, I became the darling of the roller-skating special kids. I was a miniature tornado on wheels. I was a star.

Then Dad got a couple fingertips chopped off in a pulley mishap at the mine and suddenly we had enough money to move back to Arizona. It was a few years before I made my real debut as an actor. But the seeds had been planted. Many seeds actually. And it was only a matter of time before those trees bore fruit.
TO BE CONTINUED...

All You Need

John and Paul said: Love is all you need. But, for me, it's a bath.

Soaking in a tub, breathing in the aromatherapy crystals, saturating my epidermis in liquidy perfection. Ahh.... It must have been a glorious day when humans first discovered the bath, having learned hygiene (among other things) from watching animals. "Fuck licking myself," thought the caveman. "I'm going in that body of water over there!" And history was made. Humans began to frolic in lakes, rivers, streams and even the ocean. Later, someone claimed a waterfall as an alternative form of hygiene, but nothing beats submerging in a bath.

As a child, I would spend what seemed like hours in the tub. Fighting epic battles, defeating horrible sea-monsters, generally making waves...Now I can only stay in for short intervals. Toys have been replaced with a loofa and my favorite Tea Tree Oil Soap. I consider John Frieda a personal hero. Oh, how I do cherish those precious moments. Cleaning. Preening. It's very true. A bath is all you need.

Even Tyler Durden likes to bathe, after a hard day in the Fight Club. Oh, yeah...the first rule... Anyway, I don't think it's emasculating to admit to bathing. Admitting to a fondness for bubbles may, in fact, damage your reputation as a macho man. But since I have no such reputation, I embrace them. Thousands of millions of tiny universes, popping and floating about. And there I am, a giant in the center of it all. Alright, sometimes I still play in the tub. But mostly, I try not to think about the movie "Altered States."

I'm a water sign, Cancer. (I feel, I feel...) So, it's important for me to have water based rituals, like bathing. And tea. I have a fabulous new teapot and I use it every day. I have recently become fond of black teas, chai or otherwise. There is a Vanilla that blows my mind. And of course, I adore green teas of all kinds. For my birthday, my mother and sister got me some loose leaf teas from Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. I love them. I love waiting for the kettle to whistle, I love steeping the leaves, and I love sipping the finished product.

I guess a bath isn't all I need, but it's definitely on the list. Ooh, a list! Good one...

WHY WATER RULES

• it makes up a large part of the planet
  
• it makes up a large part of my body
  
• it usually has no taste
  
• it is useful in dishwashing
  
• it is temperature sensitive (like me)
  
• it's wet
  

Hmmm... kind of a stupid list. I should just end this before I go into my whole thing about ice...
Wet you later.

In Search of Nirvana

Transmission: A4T-7Q5
Received: Calif.NoHol 3:33pm 15.09.05
Source: Vector 9, Omega System, pt. 72-x
Text, as follows:

Greetings!

Space is a grand and lonely place. While the views are spectacular, it is the silence that bewitches me. Mountainous voids of indescribable serenity. One could easily get lost inside the nothingness, a most dangerous proposition, especially on this particular mission.

As you know, we set out almost fifteen years ago, in search of Nirvana. We have come fearfully close on many occasions and I hope we never find it. Oblivion. Bliss. Annihilation of the Soul. Who needs it? Certainly, not I. Since the strange disappearance of our beloved Captain Kurt, we have been under the heavy rule of Commander Love. The irony astounds me. She has guided our vessel into more blackholes than one ever thought existed. Now it seems, we are lost. Floating in space. She has locked herself away again and the crew is beginning to question her authority.

Recently, CL proclaimed herself the "center of the universe" and then flopped around on the floor, growling and managing to, somehow, free herself from her panties. The crew was shocked, it took almost seven hours before anyone was able to form a thought. That's when I decided to intercept this satellite feed, connected to a "blog" on earth. Since the Commander has cut off all forms of communication with ground control, this may be our only hope. We are desperate with desire and in no way capable of attaining Nirvana. Please, guide us back to Earth, back to sanity and soon. I fear time is running out. It may be<
?<>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
END OF TRANSMISSION

Trust Overfull & the Beasts of Burden

I reek of genius.

It drips from every fiber of my being and there is absolutely no thing I can do to stop it. Brilliance has infected me and I am powerless to dissuade it. What, now, shall become of my precious excuses? Cultivated, so lovingly, over the years of my life. My reasons Not To, annihilated by this fiend of modern savant that, alas, I have become. Woe is me!

And this, Sir, I tell you is no joke! I awoke this morning to a new world. The same earthly features surround me, but the world, I say, is not the same. Changed, somehow, while I slept and dreamt of fantastic escapes from the clutches of mediocrity.

My life, I fear, will never be the same and now I know that it cannot! For I taste with a new tongue and I am lost in the deliciousness!

This is but a seed from which a tree will grow and the apple that falls from its branches will change the world in ways Isaac never dreamt of!

In other news, dearest Holly has sent me a most marvelous message, derived from the Nietzsche. I reproduce it here without permission:

"O you loving fool, Zarathustra, you are trust-overfull. But then you have always been: you have always approached everything terrible trustfully. You have wanted to pet every monster. A whiff of warm breath, a little soft tuft on the paw--and at once you were ready to love and to lure it.
Love is the danger of the loneliest; love of everything if only it is alive. Laughable, verily, are my folly and my modesty in love."

"That reminds me of you," said Holly. And she is, as always, right. It reminds her of me because it IS me, continually seeking the great Grendel's affections. Ah! She knows me too well, for a sucker of soft tufts am I! Why, this very day, as I crossed Sunset Boulevard, a gentleman shepherding an Expedition called out to me: "Soft Tuft-Sucker!"

"And a good day to you, too, Sir! May Jesus fuck your Mother in the ass!" Then the light changed, as it always does in these situations, and he was gone. It was just as well, as I had forgotten to wear my fighting shoes today. The prance of manhood carries on.

What should have been another "Long Day" was over before I knew it and now I see that I control Time, as well. Of course, there was the terrible story of a young man, who in the depths of a cleansing fast, found himself shitting out his insides and was shuttled off to a hospital where they removed a thirty foot parasite from his ass. Most distrurbing, if I do say so myself. Chances are, apparently very good, that we ALL have some little beasts of burden feasting off of our internal universe. I am confident that if one ever emerges from within me, I will be able to bait it out and not endure the horror of seeing in scurry back inside, never to be seen again.

To Monsters!
So be it.

Must Marry Mortals

Chief Justice William Rehnquist is dead. Normally, I would not find this news worthy of mentioning. But I was curious about those gold stripes he had on his robe, so I did a little research.

In 1882, Gilbert and Sullivan staged on operetta called "Iolanthe, or the Peer and the Peri", I am assuming Judge Rehnquist was there at the time. Iolanthe is all about fairies. In this story there is also a judge, a Lord Chancellor, who decrees that fairies must marry mortals. Interesting...

Now, Willie is so impressed with this Lord Chancellor (and his costume) that he has his Supreme Court robe altered to resemble the character. This is a man in one of the most powerful positions in the country. Just a little food for thought. The hoopla surrounding "gay marriage" in the nation seems completely retarded to me. There are much bigger issues to freak out about than whether Adam and Steve should get a tax break. As a fairy myself, I have no marriage plans as of yet, but I would like my options left open. What mythical creature doesn't? The way things are right now, it seems I live in a land where I am forced to settle on mortal marriage. No, thank you.

I have never been much of a role model in the relationship department and that suits me just fine. Romantic entanglements are just that - Entanglements. They interrupt my energetic flow in ways that I can't seem to control and I am better off without them. Because of the various complications and intricacies within my being, anyone wishing to woo me would have to possess magical powers and a mere mortal, I am afraid, would not be up to the challenge. Don't get me wrong, at times, I do crave the affections of another but I am aware that those feelings are transitory. What I do not have, I do not need.

For instance, I do not have to symbolically alter my official uniform.
I do not have to listen to judgments from persons who are insane.
And I do not have compassion for those who choose ignorance.

It is not bliss, and I don't need it.

Long Day

It's 10:00pm and I just got home from work. It was a long day that was lengthened by someone's genius suggestion that instead of a coffee run - "How about margaritas?" Since I am working for a predominately Hispanic production company, this idea was not immediately poo-pooed but enthusiastically embraced. The next thing I know, I am handed a salty concoction to fuel the late hours that lay ahead. I thought about pulling the "Oh, I don't drink" card that I proudly carry, then I accepted. That's big. Acceptance of my reality is a huge issue for me as I have not been so great at "rolling with it." So, there I am, working and drinking and talking too loud. It was sort of fun. And also a great opportunity to bond with some of the new people I find myself working with.

The is a certain cultural thing that I am having to adapt to. It seems to involve a different sense of TIME... I realize that I have divided my identity according to time. It's all about integration for me, right now. I think that the schizophrenic nature of my psyche has confused my body, my mind, my reality, my universal perception, etc. My massively conflicting belief systems have manifested a situational comedy in which I am the star. And the key word here is COMEDY. I have operated for a very long time under the assumption that I was in a Shakespearian tale of angst. Not true.

Yeah, so this is all very deep and fuzzy because, through a margarita haze, I am a deep and fuzzy guy right now.
Everyday is like being at Magic Mountain.
Everyday is a beautiful new opportunity to risk it all and ride the biggest, meanest roller coaster around...
Myself.

And now, a poem:

I have been the author
of a life lived in the dark
and the memory I offer
is the feeling that is sparked
when it all comes together
and then just falls apart.
Though I write with a feather,
I'm as subtle as a fart.

Vanderslice of Heaven

I have been working.

My job involves lots of crazy people. It's the film industry, so I guess it's par for the course but I don't really know anything about golf. These crazy people talk at me and then I do things. Sometimes, I don't understand what it is I am doing but none of the crazy people seem to notice. This goes on and on until they have freaked themselves out and finally drop. My job is to take out the trash and lock up. That is what I have been doing.

At the request of my readership (thank you, Holly), I am posting something new. This is to prevent you from assuming that the fungus on my ass (in the last post) was the death of me. It was not. Though it does hold a certain poetic justice to leave that as my lead post until the fungi fade away, I have killed the romance of that particular moment. By the way, it IS in fact fading...

As a way of responding to my own despondency about existence, the Universe came to my rescue yesterday with something that I have to call a freakin' miracle. The suckiness of Everything That Is was eased, you see, by new music Tuesday. Yes, those in the know know that Tuesday is the magic day when new music is born. I rushed over to Amoeba (for the record...no pun intended, Amoeba is the single most excellent building in all of Los Angeles) to see if I could catch the in-store performance of this guy, John Vanderslice. I had suddenly become aware of his existence and something in me said: Pay Attention! But alas, I missed it. I picked up his new CD, Pixel Revolt and also the new Death Cab for Cutie, Plans. Both are really excellent. Though I am particularly fond of the newly discovered genius that is John Vanderslice. The first lines you hear on Pixel are: "Being Joan Crawford... at 21... was easy..." Need I say more? I think not. He is in the Badly Drawn Boy, Travis, etc. Camp of singer/songwriters. It been a while since I heard music that sounded this fresh and familiar. Tres sweet! Go get some! - The DC4C stuff is good, but I sort of expected it, you know? I have purposely avoided reading the lyrics to Plans because the Postal Service stuff was so uneven. I secretly think Ben used a lot of filler there, because the Cab rolls on and hits no bumps.

This is the part where I say my Prayers:
God grant me the Serenity to accept the fact that Joss Whedon now makes movies,
and the Courage to live in the same world as Lindsey Lohan,
and the Wisdom to know better than to live below the sea.
I wish for a Peace of the Cosmic Pie, hold the meringue...
Amen