Halloweiner

You know, I was with Gavan for a fairly long time... something like 4½ years or so. And, though the blame cannot entirely be said to rest with him, he's the main reason I haven't celebrated Halloween in nearly a decade. He was so virulently anti-Halloween because of his experience on the tour of Cats -- having to get into cat drag every day; it made him loath to put on a costume of any kind that wasn't required for work, or for which he wasn't going to be paid.

My being with him those 4½ years kinda killed my former fiery enthusiasm for all things All Hallow's Eve.

Now -- and here's the part where we really can't blame Gavan anymore -- I didn't really resume my yearly mad descent into the craziness that is picking out a costume as soon as we broke up, as you might expect.

At first, I was sad and lonely, and there's nothing worse in my view to have to celebrate Halloween alone; it's kinda like being alone in your apartment on Christmas day eating Chinese take-out. I've done it. I know.

So for the past four years, I've kinda let Halloween slip away with a bit of a wistful sigh. My closest friends in New York didn't really celebrate it; The Lagemæ never seemed to, and Kenny just plain abhors all things Halloween. It wasn't until I met Chris that I found a kindred hallowspirit.

But this year, I'm growing increasingly excited to be back in the fold.

Dear Adam -- intrepid entrepreneur of Total Wine Bar -- has invited me to his boyfriend Joey's annual bash. I skipped it last year in a paroxysm of inadequacy fears -- I just didn't think I could get together a decent costume without looking like a total tool.

But this year, with the help of Chris, I'm coming out. Again. As it were. I'll be attending the party and getting my spook on in a big way. And Chris is also insisting that I join him at the annual Halloween Parade in the Village. Something I've always wanted to do, but haven't because -- like walking into a gay bar -- I've been reluctant to do it alone. The joy of this (and most) holidays, for me, is the communal aspect of it.

So look out, you ghosts and goblins. This year, I'm back among your ranks.

Meirs No More

Okay, I admit it. I never thought it would happen.

In a way, I'm glad. But in a way, I'm also a little bit worried. I mean, now that he's had his ass kicked for nominating someone not conservative enough -- where does that leave President Bush but to nominate some uber-conservative who'll win on party-line votes, and leave our civil liberties in a shambles?

The Rose, Rent

Rosa Parks, 92, Founding Symbol of Civil Rights Movement, Dies - New York Times

There really aren't words for a loss like this; but everyone dies, and what I'm mourning isn't so much the passing of a legend -- legends never really die.

I'm going to miss the woman. I don't have many heroes. We live in an age where anyone who's foolish enough to allow themselves to be put on a pedestal gets knocked off pretty handily.

But Rosa Parks was that rare hero -- one who never stopped insisting that she was a flawed human.

You know how sometimes someone will ask you, "If you could have dinner with one person, living or dead, who would it be?" Well, like all such lists, I'm never able to narrow it down to one choice -- my tastes and desires change like the direction of the wind, and depend on the time, tempurature, my whimsy, and the barometric pressure -- but when confronted with a question like that, I'll gladly give you a rotating, shifting Top Five. And in answer to that question, Rosa Parks would have been way, way up at the top.

So that's why I'm a little sad, today.

A lot of information...

...is not necessarily a good thing.

On Saturday night, Doug and I went out for dinner. We actually went to McHales, on the corner of 46th & 8th, for a burger, since they have -- in my opinion -- the best burgers in New York City, and that venerable institution is supposedly closing its doors at the end of the year; to make way for, of all hateful things, luxury housing... just what New York needs more of.

Anyway, deep into our cups, Doug paraphrased an old saying: "It's not enough that I succeed. My friends must also fail." We shared a good laugh over this, and Doug admitted that he didn't know the author of the original line, but suspected -- or had heard -- it was Oscar Wilde.

So when I got home, I Googled the line, and got an answer other than I expected. I couldn't find a definitive attribution for the quote, but got hit after hit of web pages in which and endless stream of authors were credited.

Here are the folks most credited with this bon mot. See if you know any of them:

Any clue? I'll post the answers later. In the meantime, if anyone out there knows the original author of the quote, I'd sure love to know who it is.

By the way: This just makes me giggle.

Garçon Stupide - Part Deux

I've chosen a helluva day to start biking to work again.

The trip along Bergen Street to Boerum Place and across the Brooklyn Bridge, then across the island of Manhattan on Chambers Street and up the West Side bike path to 59th Street took about an hour... fifteen minutes less than I expected.

I think I lost my lungs on the Brooklyn Bridge, though. Rather early in the trip, you'll note from the map at right, to be hacking up a lung. My cardiopulmonary health must have degraded even more than I thought while I was in Pittsburgh. God help me.

So the reason this turns out to be not such a great time to start bike riding again is this:

At least I've got Wednesday to look forward to. But apparently, I'm gonna get nice and soaked on the ride home tonight. I will, of course, wear my rain slicker, but it's rather famous for being cheap and non-breathing, so it traps so much heat inside that I sweat enough to make it a wash by comparison: I can be soaked by the rain, or I can be soaked through with my own sweat.

I suspect a shower is going to feel really, really good when I get home.

Garçon Stupide

Last night Chris and I went to see Garcon Stupide, and I frankly feel a little stupide because, ultimately, it's not that I didn't like it. I think I just didn't get it.

Well, I got some of it. I think. I got that this dumb kid was uncomfortable with his own sexuality and as a result he was unable to develop any healthy relationships regarding sex; so instead he mistakes anonymous internet sex for real connections with people. This inability to connect with people -- his "girlfriend," Marie, and this older gentleman named Lionel who actually tries to befriend him and explain romantic love (as opposed to, say, trying to get into his pants) -- leads to a lot of alienation and unfulfillable expectations, and a lot of unhappy people.

What I don't get is the ending, in which -- after a tragic but life-altering moment -- he seems to go through the motions of changing his life, but does this inner monologue where he rails that he won't do all these things that are, essentially, making connections to others. He decides he's going to follow his dream of being a photographer, he's going to be aloof, an observer, and somehow that's a good thing.

It's something with which I struggle. Not the internet sex thing, sillies. I gave that up some time ago. But, as you know, I'm a budding photographer, and I often wonder about the distance the camera places between you and the world. In trying to capture it, you remove yourself from it.

Anyway, the movie gave me a lot to think about. And left me confused.

By the way: Just who is this Rob Marciano, why is he so hot, where did he come from, why does he regularly put himself in danger just to stand in front of a camera in the middle of a hurricane, and how has he escaped being my husband? I've really gotta stop developing crushes on celebrity talking heads. Anderson Cooper is gonna get jealous.

And we can't have that, now can we

Yowza

If Martha Stewart ever wants to complain about how bad she had it, maybe she should talk to Mikhail Khodorkovsky. At least she didn't get sent to Siberia:

BBC NEWS | Europe | Russian tycoon in Siberian jail

Curiosity?

I don't know exactly why, but the idea that the National Zoo -- which, of late, has been more famous for losing animals than its animal births -- has managed to pull off the conception and birth of Tai Shan just makes me a little warm inside.

Maybe it's just that I like Pandas.

Found today on my "personalized" Google Homepage, this quote:

In the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and has been widely regarded as a bad move.

Douglas Adams
English humorist & science fiction novelist (1952 - 2001)

I'm Apollo, Dammit.

Apparently, if we're identifying ourselves as Greek Gods, I'm Apollo.

(This quiz doesn't allow for the whole rump-ranger thing among the gods, so it must be taken with a grain of salt.)

A Filet of a Weekend

I had a rather delicious weekend, and managed not to miss my home computer at all, suprisingly enough.

I spent Friday evening doing a reading of Topher's play, and that seemed to go extremely well. The audience seemed to enjoy themselves. I wonder what the next step will be for the play. It's a really polished piece, and I think it deserves a production somewhere.

After the reading, some of the cast and audience members went to the Irish Rogue, a great pub on West 44th Street -- practically next door to the Producer's Club, where the reading was held. Most of the people we were hanging out with were, in some way, connected to Topher's alma mater, Washington & Lee University. A couple of them were students who were on a whirlwind trip to NYC. All in all, 'twas a lovely evening.

Saturday evening, I got to have my long-awaited reunion with Doug and Janet (and a couple of other friends, like Mitch and Wayne and Kathy). We went to see The Squid and the Whale, which was one of the most difficult things I've watched in quite a while... in a good way. It was like watching every uncomfortable family moment anyone's ever had on the screen right there in the movie theater. The cast was great, particularly Jeff Daniels as the father. They were all great, actually. Geez. Talk about dysfunction. The way these people talk -- all of them -- is hilarious and unbelievable. The title of this post is a reference to the movie. Once I get my nerve, I'm gonna go see it again. Hopefully I wont be as embarrassed for them the second time around.

On Sunday, I lazed around like a fat cat, and eventually roused myself to climb up on the roof (don't tell my landlord) to get some pictures of the rather incredible sunset. After the seven or eight days of rain, Saturday and Sunday were such a blessing. There were some seriously strong winds, and I was especially careful not to get anywhere near the edge of the rooftop. I'm brave and foolish, but heights still freak me out a bit -- when I'm on something connected to the ground. Hence my lack of problems with jumping out of airplanes.

Even better, though, I got to spend the evening at the Total Wine Bar. Adam, the owner, wasn't there, but Greg and Ryan and a number of the regulars, including Celestine, were all there. So it was great.

There was a weird moment late in the evening when this guy who was obviously squiffed from his time at some other bar, came in to use the rest room, and ended up tripping all over these women that were sitting along the bar on the way back to the loo. Greg and Ryan finally asked him to leave, which he did, but he came back later and had to be coaxed out again.

The second time, he loomed ominously over Celestine, and wanted to pay her bar tab, but Greg was having none of it, and Ryan finally told the guy that if he didn't leave, he was going to have to call the police. As you can imagine, that didn't set well with the drunk guy. He said to Ryan, "I'm going to leave, but I want you to remember this."

What does that mean?

Anywho, I happened to be surfing Friendster today, and it's got a new feature called "Who's Viewed Me?" A guy who looks suspiciously like the drunk guy was checking out my profile. I hope, in his drunken memory, he's not confusing me with Ryan and plotting his revenge.

'Cuz I will so go all Charles Bronson on his ass.

Just Call Me Noah.

I'm beginning to think the rain will never end. We've had eight straight days of rain here in New York City, and the lack of sunshine is affecting my mood.

Well, in truth, a lot of things are affecting my mood, but being soaked through much of the time doesn't help.

At least I'll get to spend the evening (or, at least, a part of the evening) with Ken & Topher. Tonight's the reading of Topher's play, The Robbers of Madderbloom. I'm hoping that whoever comes to see this thing is in the mood to be playful and laugh, and that'll -- in turn -- lift my own spirits.

Here's hoping.

And another thing.

I had an audition yesterday for Florida Studio Theatre. It went well enough, but to be honest I'm pretty sure I wasn't what they were looking for. Which is okay, seeing as they were nothing but polite and encouraging (given the fact that my audition was at 5:40 p.m. and they'd been watching a parade of -- no doubt mostly-bad -- actors since 10 a.m). All in all, very nice, and very complimentary folk.

The good thing about the experience was, mostly, the experience. It's been over a year since I've auditioned for anything, and knowing, well, discovering that I can still do it without turning into a big pile of nervous jelly is a good thing.

I did find myself really nervous during this audition; I got into my own head and got more tangled up in finding my place in the script than in actually being in the moment, as we like to say in the biz. So while I think I aquitted myself well enough, I could have done better, but if I don't get the job, I don't think it'll be because of my audition. I think I read a little young for the character's age (the curse of the baby face, even at the age of 41), and I definitely came off as too smart (or maybe "too intellectual" is the better word) for the character, as far as the director was concerned. I'm not projecting here, folks, he told me so.

So I'm taking it for what it was: An excellent opportunity to practice the audition process. To recognize where I need to work on the process.

I spent the evening with Topher and Brian reading through Topher's play The Robbers of Madderbloom in preparation for a reading of it we're doing tomorrow night.

Those of you who know me know that I think Topher is, by far, the best writer of his generation... at least that I've been exposed to. He's smart, he's funny, he subversive, and he has a way with image and poetry that sometimes makes my heart ache... or makes me belly-laugh, depending on the play, of course.

I think Madderbloom is my favorite of his plays -- and not just because it's got a kick-ass part in it for me. It's just so immeasurably droll and snarky and funny that no matter how many times I read it, I can't help but laugh out loud.

Someone once said to me that once a writer hands his play over to actors and a director, he really can't complain if they don't do it the way he intended... if it's possible for someone to read or stage a play in a way the author didn't intend, then the author didn't do his job. A writer's job, this person insisted, is to make his play actor- and director-proof.

I think Topher's plays are like that. Sometimes on the first draft. I'll never forget the first time a group of us sat around reading the first draft of Madderbloom. I was amazed that such a polished play came straight out of a playwright's head and right onto the page... or keyboard, as the case may be.

Someone really needs to produce this fellow. He's the best playwright of his generation, easily.

Hmmm... (#234)

My friends who think that the Internet(s), like television, is/are a vast wasteland may have just been proven right.

A Tripod...

...makes all the difference:

Some people....

... need to take their own advice:

The point is, however, that it's a great example of just what life's all about. It's the most important lesson we can learn. The good and the bad don't necessarily alternate. They're both present all the time. You do have to take the good with the bad, but contrary to most people's ideas of how that works, I think they come together.

And the Hits Just...

...keep on coming.

I have a really hard time expressing anger in an effective way -- one that causes as little damage to both myself and the object of my anger as is possible.

Yesterday I got some really disturbing financial news. Money that should have been coming to me since the beginning of September -- which I've already been assured once was coming -- still had not fallen into my lap, and because of that, my rent is now officially late. And I'm really fucking steamed about it.

Ultimately, though, there's not a lot I can do about it. I'm at the mercy of someone who's as bad off at me, and apparently worse at dealing with money issues than I am. Now I have to go, hat in hand, to my landlord and beg his forgiveness for my rent being late; and, of course, pay a late fee that I really can't afford all that well.

Another couple of weeks of eating Raman noodles and skating by on pennies a day so I can make it through to the next paycheck.

And the worst part of all this is that this is exactly the quality of life I said would drive me from New York City. I've said on more than one occassion, "There's no point in living in New York if you can't afford to enjoy it."

But the thing is I should be able to afford it. If I could count on things working out the way they're supposed to -- for instance, if people who owed me money would pay me the money owed when it's owed -- I wouldn't be in this predicament.

It depresses me that I'm in this position less than a month after returning to the city. Because ultimately the city isn't the source of my problem. It's my need to be kind and helpful and magnanimous that has me trusting -- and counting on -- people I shouldn't.

I suppose I would find those whereever I went, no?

Knowing that's true doesn't make the monetary predicament any easier.

My friend Topher recently advised that, in those moments when I'm feeling overwhelmed by everything and I sit bolt upright in bed in the middle of the night, I don't try to distract myself from the whirl of crazy fears about all the bad things that can happen, but just take the time to feel what I'm feeling in the hope that it'll pass and I can return to a bit of calm.

An excellent idea, except for the fact that it's me we're talking about here. I'm bad enough when I dwell on things and then try to distract myself from them. When I give my mind free reign to just go with it, who knows what fresh new versions of Hell I'll invent to play out in my mind?

My mom has a framed embroidery on the wall of her dining room: "Worry does not relieve tomorrow of its cares, it robs today of its strength."

So true, and so hard to follow.

Hello There.

More Evidence

In case we needed more evidence of the Universe's campaign against my technological connectedness, I'm now only spottily able to connect to my e-mail server via the web. The problem might be, of course, with the connection from work -- the only place I have e-mail access now -- since I haven't had a chance to test it from elsewhere. I guess I'll have to check into how late the NY Public Library is open and start doing my personal web surfing there.

In the meantime, I discovered a site that lets you build your own South Park characters, so I made one of me.

Aspiring Luddite

The last couple of days have left me believing that perhaps the Universe doesn't want me to be too connected to the internets.

I got home from a lovely afternoon of shooting photos of my dear friend Topher to discover that my computer is on the fritz again. I want to kill someone. Or wanted. I'm a little more Zen about it now.Since I've got absolutely no money and can't even begin to think about taking it somwhere to get it fixed, there's not a whole lot of point in freaking out about it. This, however, has rarely stopped me in the past.Anyway, I'm trying to focus on other things.

I had an absolutely lovely afternoon after work yesterday, walking around Central Park with Topher and forcing him to be my portraitist guinea pig.

He's a really good sport -- though one who's not afraid to let you know how much he loathes having his picture taken -- and I took over 250 shots of him in various places around the park. I think we got some really good ones. He'll, of course, disagree when he sees them, but that's okay; he's rough on himself. You'll note that I'm not posting any of the pics here. He'd kill me. Dead.

Not having my own computer to download them to is going to be a bit of a pain in the ass, but I'll figure something out. It's ironic and funny to me that I spent all that time saving and researching digital cameras, only to have my laptop frag out on me twice in one year. It is, unfortunately, an essential part of the process of digital photography.

I got taken...

...but that's not what makes me mad.

Or, actually, it's only part of what makes me mad.

I went out to wander the street fair, and there are endless booths set up. One of them is selling sheet sets for $10, claiming that they're 300 & 400 thread count sheets.

Now, I can look at these things and see that the weave's not tight enough to be 300 thread count, and anyone in their right mind would know that $10 is too good a deal. But I'm desperate for new sheets, so I figured, what the heck -- they'll get me through 'til I can get some nicer ones.

Now, I'm wandering back to my apartment to drop off the two sets of cheap sheets I bought, and I come across another guy selling bath towels and sheet sets. As I'm browsing he comes up to me and says, "You know the sheets you just bought aren't real, right? They're fake. They're polyester."

I was a little taken aback by how in my face this guy was -- and now I'm seriously reconsidering the purchase of his very own cheap bath towels (which, I felt, and are really quite nice at $6 a pop) -- so I say, "Well, thanks for telling me." Listen, kids, it's not like I was gonna go right back to the other guy and demand my $20 back. In NYC, one knows one is taking one's chances when buying from a street vendor. So, okay, I got taken, and it makes me mad that there's a world where people lie, cheat, deceive and steal, but you know what? It happens. Sometimes you get taken.

Unfortunately for me, the new vendor guy didn't think he could just leave it at that. He gets really angry at me for not getting outraged. He wants me to pull the sheets out and feel them! He starts in on how, as a landlord, I should be screening my tenants, not taking their word for it that they're not thieves.

"Education," he says, "isn't enough. You need wisdom too."

You know what? He's right. But that's not what this was all about. It was about him wanting me to feel stupid. He wanted to feel superior. Why else pursue it beyond the "oh, well, thanks for telling me." He turned around to the young kid who was manning the booth with him and made fun of me. The kid looked embarassed.

Thank god my self-esteem doesn't rest on what that guy thinks of me, huh?

Unfounded? Baseless? Thin?

In Re: Tom DeLay, from Molly Ivins, who -- as you know -- I worship:

For the one-zillionth time, of the 15 cases Ronnie Earle has brought against politicians over the years, 12 of them were against Democrats. Earle was so aggressive in going after corrupt Democrats, the Republicans never even put up a candidate against him all during the '80s. Partisan is not a word anyone can honestly use about Ronnie Earle, but that sure doesn't stop the TV blabbermouths. So many of them have bought the Republican spin that Earle is on a partisan witch-hunt, the watchdogs like Media Matters can hardly keep up.

Get Thee to a Bindery

Alexander Chee is one of my favorite authors. He used to live in my neighborhood, and before he got a boyfriend and moved away (not necessarily in that order... I'm not exactly privvy to the details of his life), I had a stalker-esque crush on him. He did a reading a couple of years ago at the Brooklyn Public Library, and I went like a high-school girl just to see him in person. Writers are my rock stars, kids.

Anyway, he wrote Edinburgh, which I found haunting and beautiful. I'm eagerly awaiting his next book. In the meantime, I read his blog (and you should too).

In a post discussing the return of Oprah's book club, he dropped some fascinating information:

Out Magazine ran an independent marketing survey that I recall well from my time there (I was the assistant editor during the magazine's start-up, and filled many, many business plan binders). It included much fascinating information that changed capitalism's approach to gay and lesbian people forever, for better or worse. I'll say better for now. I'd rather be marketed to than bashed in the alley. The biggest buyers of books? Lesbians, at 33 a year. Straight women clocked in at about 10. Gay men ran to an average of 8. Straight men? Less than one. An average of less than one. The publishing industry was like, Got it. And everyone moved on.

Apparently, I need to buy more books.

My experience this summer, though, makes me wonder: I don't suppose the marketing gurus of the world track who's taking books out the library? The $30 non-resident library card I got while in Pittsburgh turned me into an avid library user; I'm poor, remember, and the books I took out and read during my 5 months there would have cost me over $500 had I bought them myself.

Pittsburgh's lucky -- it's got at least one great library, started by Andrew Carnegie (in a fit of guilt, no doubt). On each visit there I saw a really wide range of people. But I'm still wondering... who's using the libraries in the rest of the country?

Chewtoy of the Gods -- Part Deux

Remember how I said I was so happy to be home? Well, I stayed up last night to carefully place my clothes in my dresser, to hang my shirts in the closet, and generally settle in to my place. I was up late enough that I got to see Sal when he came home from his evening out.

I settled in with the book I'm reading -- The Time Traveler's Wife -- and probably stayed up a little too late reading. All in all, it was great.

Until 10:30 a.m. this morning, when my sunday morning in bed was interrupted by what, when it woke me up, seemed like an incredibly loud (and, frankly, really clear and expensive) car stereo system. It woke me up through the closed windows, through my ear plugs, and through my coma-like sleep.

Annoyed and ready to throw things, I staggered to the window to see who was this infernal motherfucker who was blasting his music of a Sunday morning, and what did I see?

Turns out there's some sort of community festival going on, and my apartment is directly across the street from the sound stage; the techies are testing the sound system by blasting music.

I guess I should look on the bright side. At least it's Gwen Stefani. It could be much worse. God help me.

Whew.

I have to tell you. There's nothing like being back in your own place, even if someone else's stuff has overrun the place. My friend Mr. S. -- who's been staying in my apartment while I was away -- isn't able to move into his new digs until the 20th or so, so I'm sharing my space 'til then. I'm sure we'll have an easy time of it; due in no small part to my delight at being back home. Besides, I can use the extra money.

Ken, however, was the perfect host -- as was his roommate, Vinnie -- during the week I had between when I actually got back and when I told Mr. S. I'd be back.. I'm really lucky to have a friend like Kenny. It's quite a pain to have someone invade your home for a week and just explode the contents of his suitcase all over your living room. Here's a big cyber-kiss for Ken: