Friday, June 29, 2007

Pussies Galore

With the addition of this batch of 5 babies a few weeks ago (3 pictured here with Elvis), the apartment that I share now has a total of 12 CATS!! Let's see if I can remember them all: There's my Grace, who stays the hell in her/my room, where it's safe; the 5 babies; the mother of the babies, Bunny, a long-haired cat who climbs ladders, has a croak for a voice, and is good-natured but sassy; a nice white muscular snowball who likes to be petted named "Paulie"; the bitch-of-a-cat who bit the hell out of my foot back in April, "Barbara Joan"... Those three---Bunny, Paulie, and Barbara Joan---I've petted and interacted with. (Though, not BJ after "The Incident"! Bunny and Paulie used to come in my room all the time, not only to say "hi" but also to mess with Grace by eating her food and using her litter box! Since BJ's biting, though, my room's off-limits to others except the babies!)

Then there are three "mystery cats": Dewey, the father of the babies, whom I see out a lot but who never tries to come in my room; Billie, whom I seeing sleeping on top of the fridge every now and then, but that's about it; and then the Uber-Mystery-Cat "It," AKA "Leo." He likes to hide within a living-room couch, and I only see him once every couple of weeks.

Sadly, several of my roommate's grown cats (not quite sure of the culprits, but I blame Barbara Joan and Dewey) don't know how to use the litter-boxes, which results in the apartment REEKING of cat piss! (And occasional turds and piss puddles on my bathroom rugs!) I'm trying to be a "scoopable litter" booster around this joint! (Previously, the roomie had a bunch of newspaper sheets laid around the apartment...!! Luckily, my good litter-box influence has come in time for the new babies, whose new owners will hopefully be very, very grateful!)

And I've got to give a shout-out to "Big Ed"---the orange patriarch of the place, who died a few weeks ago, Human Age something like "120"! When you touched him, he was fragile as hell, nothing but bones, but he was one of the sassy cats, always coming into my room to say "hi" to me and to bug Grace by eating her food, etc. (The cats who'd come in the room would usually spar with Grace. Barbara Joan was demented, getting really mean. But Ed and Bunny would just exchange a few paw-swipes with her, which I think is fair and kept 'em all alert! :)

SoHo and the Search for Tex-Mex

Walking around SoHo today...

In the window of "Zamfir Furs." (Be sure and click on the picture to get a larger view of the fur dolls!)

In the courtyard of buildings owned by NYU.

While wandering, I didn't eat here at "El Paso" (just took the shot 'cause I liked seeing the Texas name and the quaint look) but after asking someone for directions to a "good Tex-Mex place," which I was craving, I did end up at a place (not the one recommended) called "Silver Spurs"...where the beef fajitas were godawful---the meat nastily stringy and covered with some sort of sauce that was decidedly NOT Tex-Mex!

I've discovered there's actually not a lot of "Tex-Mex" food in NYC---there's Dominican-Mex (in my hood, which includes nasty things like guts and snouts of things), interior Mex (more high-end restaurants), barbecue, and Cal-Mex (lots of soft-taco burritoes, often with CARROTS in the wrap!!), but no real Tex-Mex (of which fajitas are an invention and a staple!).

I had to actually send the fajitas back, which I've never done in a restaurant before. I'd also vowed that once here in NYC, I'd never saying something like, "Back in Texas..." But, alas, this time I had to!! "I'm from Texas, and ya DON'T PUT ANY WEIRD SAUCE ON FAJITAS!" But I said it nicely and apologetically and the waiter, a young, cute gay guy was very sweet and not mad at me (he and the cooks just spit in my new plate of chicken fajitas, I'm sure!) :) Anyway, the decor inside was cute. Not very "Western-y" but there was some silver corrugated stuff on the ceiling and a huge fan... oh, and ketchup on the tables. And, of course, nothin' says "Texas" like ketchup and corrugated tin!

Speaking of decor: This below photo isn't from a SoHo spot, but rather from inside a NYC BBQ chain called "Dallas," the one on W. 72nd Street:
Yee-haw! (Also on the walls of "Dallas" were huge murals of mountains with desert at the foot of them... I shall not be the one to break it to the restaurateurs and New Yorkers, but...There aren't any mountains and/or desert or prairies anywhere near Dallas!)

Anyway, back to SoHo: As I was ready to leave "Silver Spurs," which is on West Houston St., I had to ask the nice, patient waiter for directions to my subway train. "Oh, just go down HOUSE-ton to 7th Avenue..." Didn't say it aloud (since I'd made enough trouble), but thought it: "HOUSE-ton?! It's HYEW-ston!"

Funnily, once I got on the train, I ended up sitting next to a couple of guys who happened to be from Texas...who were arguing good-naturedly with two laughing women across the aisle...about "HOUSE-ton" versus "HYEW-ston"!! I should've chimed in, but was beat and was content to just listen to the boisterous guys: "Just ask Mr. Sam Houston how to pronounce his name!" But finally, they were humble: "Well, when in New York, do---and say---as the New Yorkers do." Agreed. (Just not when it comes to fajitas!)

Monday, June 25, 2007

Just Like Marilyn

My senior year of high school, I was in love with a girl. Once I went to college, she fell in love with somebody else, and I was dumped. But this one thing stays with me:

I was spending the night at her house, and her room was upstairs, with air-vents in the floor. At some point during the night, I was walking across the vent and it blew my long, dorky night-shirt up... I said, "I feel just like Marilyn Monroe!" And she laughed.

We never even kissed, but this was the first girl I was in love with. There's nothing in the world like when someone "gets" you.

Port Authority

My dad just told me (via e-mail) that back in the early '60s he'd lived in NYC for 2 or 3 weeks in the "Port Authority" area, while scoping out places for him and my mom to move to. (Another option for them was Johannesburg in South Africa, which my mom absolutely did not want to go to.) Cutely, he'd thought that the "Port Authority" area would be down by the waterfront... I just looked it up---it's a train station near Times Square! While I, as a single person, love Times Square, I can only imagine what a young guy would try to tell his wife about the prospects of moving there!

Anyway, neither NYC nor South Africa worked out for them, and they ended up back in Dad's home state of Texas.

Apart from my Dad's brief Times Square experience in the early '60s, on my German mom's side of the family, her grandfather had to escape the Nazis in the early '30s. August Hoche was an avowed Communist, and when Hitler came to power in '33, he escaped to America and went on to work in the coal-mines of Virginia (just for something to do---ahem). After Hitler was deposed, he made his way back to Germany and re-married his wife and lived above my mother's parents' home.

My mom has told me I am like "August"---surly and political and opinionated. Which is fine with me.

What I'm also interested in, though, is the theory of how your earlier relatives experiences somehow transfer genetically into YOU... When I visited New York City for the first time 3 years ago, for instance, I immediately loved it. Whereas, when I went to grad school in San Francisco, I immediately was annoyed by the town, and grew even more annoyed over the next 2 years that I was there.

So, I wonder if my earlier relatives' NYC experiences somehow transferred genetically to me.

Friday, June 22, 2007

Who's Your Mommie?

Yet another e-mail from Julie:

Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "A little ad agency in Sausalito...":

"Oh, Lordy - Neil nearly laughed his head off when he saw this...

LOLOLOLOL!!! Better prepare your mommy to steel herself for some come-on calls in the time to come!! =D"


Gawd, Big Patient Sigh...

Today, Julie sent the above message, with the attached (cute) photo of my mom and dad, 1962.

What's odd to me about Julie's message is:

(1) I posted this very same picture of my parents on this very same blog months ago. Which is where Julie copied it from. It's been up in public for months, so what's so mysterious now? They were a cute 1962 couple! (I love my mom's eyebrows and eyes! She's German, and I wonder if it's a Germanic thing---young Doris Day pictures have the same look around the eyes.)

(2) Why would Neil "nearly laugh his head off" about my mother when his own mother looks like this:

Since his own mom is (according to his blog) relatively skanky and currently residing in a Boston jail, I pretty much doubt that he'd be so judgmental!

As for the Mamas steeling themselves: Julie, when you post these things, you seem to forget that you also once sent me photos of your own mother, and that I also have your, and your mother's, home phone number. How would you feel if I said to you, "Better prepare your mommy to steel herself for the come-on calls in the time to come"? Fight your own battles and have a little mutual respect for the civilians, huh? Our "mommies and daddies" have nothing to do with what their dumb-ass aging kids are babbling about online.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

A little ad agency in Sausalito...

Hmmmm. For the past day, someone's been posting "Anonymous" messages both here on this blog and on my Joan Crawford guestbook (since I moderate comments, nothing went through publicly), saying he knew my dad's e-mail address and was going to tell him what a "fuck-up" I was.

Well, it just so happens all of these "Anonymous" messages have a little IP number that came with them: When I looked that number up, lo and behold, it turns out that it's from someone who works at an ad agency in Sausalito called "Butler, Shine, Stern and Partners." What a coincidence----a "rival" Joan webmaster also works at an ad agency in Sausalito called "Butler, Shine, Stern and Partners"!

Perhaps I should e-mail them with the IP number, attaching the weird messages, and ask whether they could possibly keep lil' Neil busier during the day so he doesn't have time to write me so often! Ya think?

Sunday, June 17, 2007

Lover of Unreason

This little girl, Shura, died at age 4 when her mother, Assia Wevill, gassed herself. Assia Wevill decided that no one would want her daughter after she was gone, and so it was best to kill her, too. (An astrological chart reading at the request of father Ted Hughes at the girl's birth showed her a Pisces sun, Pisces moon, Libra rising...The astrologer wrote "a real crucifixion...I really don't feel this chart is very promising." With a double Pisces, I do agree.)

Thirty-five years after Sylvia Plath's death, Ted Hughes wrote that Plath had "character." Plath was his first wife, the mother of his first two children, Frieda and Nicholas. When she killed HERself, she made sure that her babies' rooms were sealed off from the gas fumes. Though I doubt that Hughes's comment had anything to do with either woman's suicidal MO.

Assia Wevill had no character. After reading "Lover of Unreason," I learned more about her background, but got no more favorable impression of her than I first had. I'd thought she was a woman who used her looks to get men, and that's exactly the same impression I came away with. She'd been married 4 times, and, funnily, two of her husbands said, "She was very loyal: To me and [insert name here]"---meaning she'd been fucking some other guy while still married, but that the husbands' egos couldn't quite accept the cheesiness of their situations.

Hughes, to his down-to-earth Yorkshire-man credit, never married Assia Wevill, only lived with her on occasion, and didn't like to have her around his parents.

I absolutely deplore the fact that Hughes once made a list of "to do" things for Assia: "Be up by 8 a.m. and don't walk around in a housecoat; don't pretend to be English (she was of German/Russian/Jewish descent); learn one new recipe a week; play with the children for one hour a day; be nice to my friends, even if you don't like them"... I also deplore the fact that Wevill put up with such a list (and had to have such a list made for her). In contrast with Plath: who was up at the crack of dawn, cooked assiduously, took care of her kids for half the work-day then insisted that Hughes take over for the other half while she herself worked, and completely froze out Hughes' obnoxious friends when they got on her nerves. Bitchy, perhaps, but also: Having-character versus not-having-character. And Hughes remembered Plath to his grave, his "Birthday Letters" honorarium to her published only months before his death (on October 28 in London; Plath's Boston birthdate was October 27).

I dislike Assia Wevill because she was a serial fuck who attempted to become tragic by clinging onto Ted Hughes for years. Plath killed herself, and so Assia assumed that she, after only a few months of fucking, was destined to be Hughes' wife... The tragedy and guilt of Plath's death bound Wevill to him for 6 years, but it's extremely telling that he would only live with her for brief periods before repeatedly separating. (Note to neophytes: When someone is in love with you, they want to live with you on a full-time basis.)

I also dislike Wevill because she assumed, in all of her own misery, that her 4-year-old daughter Shura should die when she did. Her claims that Shura would be an orphan without her were pathologically false. Shura wouldn't have been an orphan. Either her father, Ted Hughes, would have taken her in, or her grandfather or aunt in Canada, or David Wevill (Assia's husband at the time of Shura's birth), who'd taken care of Shura as a baby and loved her...

But, as Assia wrote in her will a year before killing herself, "To Ted Hughes I leave my no doubt welcome absence and my bitter contempt."

Assia was 42 when she killed herself, and her will written a year earlier, but her words above sound like those of a 20-year-old caught up in the heat/height of a high-school emotional drama, except with much larger consequences.

Saturday, June 16, 2007

A Nice Day

An e-mail I got Thursday led to a really nice day Friday. Months ago, I'd gotten my NYC public library card, and the first thing I did was request the new bio of Assia Wevill (the "other woman" in the Sylvia Plath/Ted Hughes fiasco): "Lover of Unreason." It'd been so long, I'd forgotten about it, but Thursday I got the notice that it had arrived in my neighborhood library!

As a kid, I was raised on going to libraries, and I always looked forward to it. (The thrill I got then out of picking interesting stuff out and being excited about getting the books home reminds me of the thrill I get now whenever something from arrives!) Unfortunately, once in my college years, I began working in the main university library for years and years and, while I liked the stimulation of being around the books, my low salary and inability to advance eventually made me pretty resentful. I quit my last library job in 2000, and had only been in ANY library about 3 times since then!

So anyhow, moving to New York City and getting my first library card here months ago renewed my enthusiasm for the whole adventure of going into a cool, quiet place and getting to pick out anything that interests you----for free!

So I went to pick up my long-awaited (and then forgotten) Assia Wevill book. And walked out of there feeling like the rest of my day was going to be great, and it was! First off, I walked the couple of blocks from the library to the Morris-Jumel Mansion, which is the oldest house in all of New York City. (Built in 1765, the house was originally the home of British commander Roger Morris. When the Revolutionary War started, he high-tailed it for Britain, and the house was subsequently George Washington's headquarters for a while in 1776. In 1790, it was the site of a dinner attended by Washington, John and John Quincy Adams, Jefferson, and Hamilton. It was later purchased by the Frenchman Stephen Jumel; when he died, his widow married Aaron Burr, who lived there for 3 years before their divorce.) The house is a museum, and was closed by the time I arrived, but its one-acre grounds have benches and are open to the public as a park.

So I sat there on a park bench and just read my new, exciting book for about an hour while looking up at the house every now and then. And then I got hungry and went to my favorite cheap restaurant a few blocks away and ate and read some more. And then I walked around on Broadway and got an ice-cream. And then I walked on down to the Hudson River... my current apartment overlooks the Hudson, but up in the 150s. I'd never gone walking below that. When I did, I discovered 10 blocks of a wide, gorgeous tree-lined walk that wasn't very crowded or hectic, mainly strollers and joggers and families out for some air. So I sat there and read and smoked for a while. And then discovered, around 145th St., a walkway that stretches out over the Hudson. I stood and watched while the sun set, then slowly made my way the 10 blocks back home, stopping once to sit and read by lamplight. For once, I wasn't dreading how my roommate was going to act when I got home. All I was thinking was that I'd only read a third of the book, and I had the whole evening ahead of me to finish it. Which I did. I was in bed early, by 12:30. Of course, an insane knock on my door came at 1 a.m., but by that time I was mostly asleep and didn't care and didn't answer.

The whole day had given me a taste of how "normal" and nice things can be. And will be.

Friday, June 15, 2007

On the Radio (Whoa)

Good lord. I never even knew that this song had lyrics. Since first hearing it in the '70s as a kid, all I'd ever heard was the endlessly irritating "whoa, on the radio/whoa, on the radio/whoa, on the radio"... I still hate the song 'cause it's stupidly repetitive, but at least after seeing the lyrics written down, it does have kind of a "If you like pina coladas" story-thing going on...

Thursday was, like it or not, an "On the Radio" day. For one thing, my soon-to-be-ex-roommate had it obnoxiously cranked up early in the day in our apartment, which made me cringe as I was going about my mundane apartment housekeeping tasks. But then, later that evening as I was on the subway, a young panhandler bopped into the car with her portable speaker, set it down, cranked it up, and proceeded to belt out... "On the Radio." At first I groaned in annoyance ("That godawful song TWICE in one day??"), but then I couldn't help but smiling because she was actually a good singer and it was interesting to see someone really giving it their all for a highly indifferent crowd. I'm still new enough to the city where street performers still give me goosebumps on occasion. I guess in a year or so, I'll just frown at someone who forces me to listen to them in an enclosed subway car, but this time, I was one of the few who actually applauded the "On the Radio" chick as she left the car. Oh, ouch---I guess she would have preferred money to my approbation...

Someone found a letter you wrote me, on the radio
And they told the world just how you felt
It must have fallen out of a hole in your old brown overcoat
They never said your name
But I knew just who they meant.

Oh, I was so surprised and shocked, and I wondered too
If by change you heard it for yourself
I never told a soul just how Ive been feeling about you
But they said it really loud
They said it on the air
On the radio whoa oh oh
On the radio whoa oh oh
On the radio whoa oh oh
On the radio whoa oh oh now, now

Dont it kinda strike you sad when you hear our song
Things are not the same since we broke up last june
The only thing that I wanna hear is that you love me still
And that you think youll be comin home real soon
Whoa oh yeah yeah
And it made me feel proud when I heard you say
You couldnt find the words to say it yourself
And now in my heart I know I can say what I really feel
cause they said it really loud
They said it on the air
On the radio whoa oh oh
On the radio whoa oh oh
On the radio whoa oh oh
On the radio

If you think that love isnt found on the radio
Well tune right in you made find the love you lost
cause now Im sitting here with the man I sent away long ago
It sounded really loud they said it really loud
On the radio whoa oh oh
On the radio whoa oh oh
On the radio whoa oh oh
On the radio whoa oh oh
On the radio whoa oh oh
On the radio, radio, radio (fade)

Wednesday, June 13, 2007


One thing that used to depress me greatly about Austin, where I used to live, was the generic urban sprawl---a tiny downtown, surrounded by endless strip-malls of Meinekes, Black-Eyed Peas, and various places where you could buy party supplies and scrapbooking materials.

I've heard others talk about NYC, from the pictures they've seen, as being "cold" and "hard" and "chaotic"... No way! The shot-from-above shots might seem scary, but once you get down on the actual streets, there are trees and benches and everyday people walking about... I'm so happy to say, there's nothing at all "generic" about it. I think you have to go to Jersey or Long Island if you want to "scrapbook."

Washington Heights

My financial situation is such that I'm forced to look for studio apartments in the Dominican-dominated Washington Heights, which, while still in Manhattan, is way cheaper than the rest of Manhattan.

Which is fine with me---the neighborhood's fine, and Dominicans are fine---except that my Dominican real estate agent is warning me, "You don't want to be around Dominicans. They just came here. They don't know how to act." JF came to the US 20 years ago, and he DOES know how to act. Today, as it rained, he opened his umbrella and held it over me. And, after 3 apartments he showed me, explained them along the lines of: "If you were my sister or girlfriend, I would [or would not] let you stay there." (One apartment, there was some loud-as-shit music coming from an apartment down the hall. I said, "There's no way I could ever be here, with those people..." And he got on his phone and called the Jewish landlady out in the Bronx and she said she'd immediately get a letter out to them to tell them to shut up...)

Lest you think my hood is decrepit, hah! One block away from where I live is a now-cemetery where George Washington then fought the Brits in a battle in November 1776. And a few more blocks away is where Washington was headquartered for a month during the Revolutionary War---the Jumel house, which is the oldest structure in NYC.

That's the thing about New York City---you just walk around and see the most mighty of things on an everyday basis.

Monday, June 11, 2007

The Stupidest Form of Hell

There's nothing worse in the world than having someone you aren't even remotely interested in constantly coming on to you. Oh wait---there IS something worse...when said creepy person (who happens to be your roommate) has read your blog over the past months and seems to be obsessed by what you say and keeps insanely mentioning: "You just don't like me because you're obsessed with Julie. Julie! Julie!"

I keep trying to tell my obsessed roommate freak: "Julie's a crazy online shit," and that SHE (the roomie) is even more insane and boring as shit. And yet I still keep getting knocks on my door at night AND blog-posts from Julie (that I have to censor).

It's called dumb-ass HELL, folks. I wouldn't wish such stupidity on anyone.

Here's my prayer: If I have to be in hell, may it not take place amid my current dumb-ass shit, but, rather, in Sean Lennon's kitchen, with Lindsay Lohan's knife to my throat.

Slice o' Life

The more I see of Lindsay, the more I like her. These shots were taken last summer, 2006, at a party at Sean Lennon's apartment, but are just now being publicized on the gossip airwaves. And "E!", for one, is acting all shocked. (The angle being: "Nick Lachey, how do you feel about your Vanessa Manillo being in such---gasp!---shocking photos?!") Really, are we in Azle, Texas (population 5000), right now? Lindsay's fucking cool, in that she's willing to snub her nose (and flip a finger) at the self-righteous. (And who, by the way, gives a flying fuck about what the utterly bland has-been Nick Lachey has to say about anything?? Being with him seems like it would be like being with a Nebraska farmer, or with a frat boy. Except with access to better hotels. I'm surprised, frankly, that Vanessa, or any girl, doesn't run off with Lindsay, to their knife's content. Old-time Angelina---now dulled to senescence by her Mia Farrow-esque adopting---had nothing on this chick.)

Sunday, June 10, 2007

America's Most Wanted

Paris Hilton may be shallow and annoying as all hell, but...does she really deserve to go to jail for 45 days? Hell no. I've been watching CNN, MSNBC, and FOX for the past couple of days, and every legal expert (not "anchor" but "legal expert") has said that the average penalty in LA for one DUI and then driving with a suspended license is something like 4 days. This whole thing is a joke, a dick-waving power-play between the LA county sheriff and the judge. Paris didn't send herself home on house-arrest. The sheriff sent her home. And then the dick-waving started, and she had to go back to jail, through no fault of her own. The whole thing is ridiculous. It's rather funny, with a schadenfreude element, but in reality, there's no point to Paris Hilton being in jail longer than the few days she's already served.

"Ever got the feeling you've been seeded?"

To paraphrase Johnny Rotten.

When the US had its Mars mission last year, one thing NASA was careful about was somehow trying not to include any organic material from Earth on the spacecraft. Specifically to avoid any "seeding" of Mars. This wasn't greatly publicized, but I found it interesting that NASA would make that particular effort.

Aside from the "the salt content of the Earth's oceans is the exact same salt content of humans' blood" and "the static on our TVs is leftoever matter from the Big Bang"---You know, THAT sort of thing---Jesus, we were seeded. The Earth's been struck a hundred-thousand times in the past by meteors, et al, and at some point some biological/genetic content got through.

When I was a kid, I remember looking up at the billions of stars. And thinking, "Our sun is just one star." And then thinking, "If stars are the source of life, like hell we're the only life out there!" If a 10-year-old could come up with that, then...please. Just as when I was a 15-year-old and reading the Bible for the first time, I started wondering: "Hmmmm. There were Adam and Eve. And then Cain and Abel. So which son fucked the mother to populate the earth?" And then, "Adam and Eve seemed pretty white and perfectly formed. Where did all those cavemen come in? And I never heard about Noah including any dinosaurs on his ark..." The Bible's a big joke. I only had to read it for a week or so, as a dumb KID, to realize that. I'm amazed that the Cult of Christianity continues to reign after 2000 years. People are stupid.

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

Goldwater Girls

I just watched the New Hampshire debate among the 8 Democrats a couple of nights ago. I'll support wholeheartedly any of the Big Three: Clinton, Obama, or Edwards, though at this stage I'm for Hillary.

One cool thing that Hillary said in the debate, when asked about gays in the military: "Barry Goldwater once said, 'You don't have to be straight to shoot straight.'" SNAP! This after asked if Bill Clinton's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy had been successful. She said it hadn't, but that it was a very good first step.

Interestingly, Hillary was a Republican "Goldwater Girl" back in '64, when she was still in high school. As was my mom (though she was 23, and an emigrant from Germany to America at the time, having married my Air Force dad). My mom still has her gold-elephant-with-glasses Goldwater pin, which she wore at her department store job in Dallas... Even though it was conservative Dallas, the powers-that-be at the store made her take it off because it, and Goldwater, were too controversial for mainstream department store consumption!

Their "Goldwater Girl"-turned-Democrat common background aside, my mom still refuses to like Hillary. Mom thinks she's harsh and annoying (though she will vote Democrat, even if it is Hillary. And though she does like Nancy Pelosi). I've begged The Mom, who doesn't have cable and so hasn't watched the debates thus far, to wait until she's able to see Hillary in action---Seriously, Hillary is GREAT in debates; once you witness, you realize how utterly competent and well-spoken and non-harsh and sane she is.

Sunday, June 03, 2007


I just had a dream last night about Julie London. She was talking to me close-up, with her face circa 1970s, and I was her girlfriend... There were a bunch of hangers-on, and a question of who she wanted over at her house as guests... Husband Bobby was there, but also two lesbian friends who were disapproving of me... At one point, I had to go home from Julie's house... I was walking home, trying to find my way around a turnpike highway system, and everyone else got on bikes and passed me by, but then remembered me and came back for me. Also, for some reason, there were kids around. I remember seeing my younger brother at about age 8 or so, looking at Julie and saying, "She seems moist." I remember thinking about him, "You idiot."

No, Julie wasn't gay in real-life. And, yes, I woke up very happy.