Happy Birthday

I woke up Thursday morning with this Concrete Blonde song in my head---I owned the album 10 years ago and used to think of this song all the time, but haven't since then... My birthday's not even for a couple of weeks, but this song still makes me feel happy.


Well, outside in the hall there's a catfight
It's well after midnight
I guess I'll be allright
I'm laid out on the floor
Drunk and poor
How much longer how much more

Rock me to sleep
Strong & deep.
The screaming cats they give me the creeps
But aside from all that I feel no pain
Staring up at the ceiling stains
...Neon in the window
...Sirens far away
...News on the radio happy birthday happy birthday happy
birthday

They're at it again next door
This whole floor I swear
They're out to drive me crazy
Not right now I'm high as a cloud I'm soft and gray and lazy
..Smoking Out the window,
...feeling far away
...News on the radio happy birthday happy birthday happy
birthday

Fly me
out the window.
Somewhere far away
News on the radio, Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday.
Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday.
-------------------------------------------------------

Speaking of birthdays... I get "Astrocenter" horoscopes e-mailed to me daily. A couple of days ago, the generic thing said something like, I've been in Saturn Hell since April 4th, and now it's time to move on... Amen.

As a general thing, I'm also interested in the "7-year-cycle" theory... I switched over from my "partying" to my "Internet" mode back in early 2001... I've given it my all with, honestly, not a lot to show for it... I'm on the cusp now of something else...

Starstruck/Moonstruck

A couple of weeks ago I took a 3-hour boat tour around the island of Manhattan, all 36 miles of it. The glamorous parts came at the beginning, passing by Ellis Island/Statue of Liberty/downtown, and then the east-side BMW bridges (Brooklyn/Manhattan/Williamsburg?). I snapped pictures of all these bigtime sites and then kind of got lazy the further north and west we got. But I'm kicking myself now for a shot I didn't catch just at the northern tip of the island... I forget what bridge it was near, but someone had built a sturdy lean-to shack for himself, nestled in the brush. It reminded me of reading "Huckleberry Finn" back in college, how Huck and his n'er-do-well dad lived in a shanty by the river... Obviously back then (the early/mid-1800s) it was a lot easier to just go off and build yourself a shack and scrabble by, without any interference from the government, etc., telling you you couldn't build a shack there... So how did this guy manage to pull it off in 2007 at the tip of Manhattan? I grew up way out in the country and so building "forts" and "hideouts" and "clubhouses" is ingrained in me. Just like the idea of the shack-by-the-river is...

Yet, when it comes down to the actuality of it... The soul core of me would do it, and has done it, perhaps, if you believe in reincarnation. But my current self---yeah, right! Of course not.

What's funny is that my close friends back in Austin, those who'd known me for over 15 years, also made fun of the idea of ME camping out or hiking or what-have-you. In truth, when I didn't camp out or hike with them, it was 'cause of the crowd. I've never been camping or hiking, but I would like to, very much. Just, not in a "whooo-hooo, we're going camping!" kind of way, with the clowns of the group being loud and stupid and everyone making a production of how "we're going camping." They don't seem to get the concept of actually being QUIET. Of walking around and LOOKING and just BEING without imposing yourself on your surroundings. Of just looking up and seeing the stars at night, where the magnitude of what you're seeing makes you forget yourself.(Everyone in cities forgets that there are stars, 'cause light pollution has drowned them out---actually seeing billions of stars makes you quiet and awestruck.)

Oh yeah---as the cruise around Manhattan continued on the west-side, our boat got mooned by a bunch of kids hanging out on the shore... Didn't get a picture of that (except mentally) either!

Gay Training Wheels

Note to a diminutive gay guy who says on his blog that learning to ride a bike without training wheels made a "man" of him:

Um... I was about to say, "We ALL learned to ride bikes without training wheels," but, oh, that's just mean. I'm gay too, so I suppose I should be sensitive. (But, REALLY--- Can't I just mock this guy just like he was a STRAIGHT guy?? What straight guy---nay, what PERSON---would ever, 25 years later, act all proud that he once learned how to ride a bike?!)

Reminds me of another gay blog where the author's boyfriend was soooo proud of once yelling at a middle-aged woman in a parking lot because she was too slow in getting out of his way: Wooooo! You GO, Tuff Gay Guy!

If there's anything I can't stand, it's weak, bitchy men who try to give great import to their extremely minor "triumphs." (I would say "weak, bitchy PEOPLE," but it's rare that girls wave their dicks around while dissing somebody about their makeup, etc. Girls, to their credit, usually admit it right up front when they're being trivial.)

Hot in the City

Back when I lived in Texas, which is "fuckin' hot" (90 to 105 degrees) for about 4 months straight out of the year, I used to mock weather reports from other parts of the country, like NYC, complaining of "heat waves."

Now that I'm actually in New York City, I realize what they (the news reports and residents) were talking about: While Texas is completely equipped for constant 90+ - degree weather, with every house/office building having air conditioning, NYC, on the other hand, is decidedly NOT so equipped! My room in my apartment, for one.

I had a job interview today, and sans air-conditioning in my room or bathroom, blow-drying my hair while getting ready was a huge sweaty chore, as was trying to put on my makeup afterwards. I took an expensive car rather than the subway ($25 versus $2) to the interview just to avoid the sweaty nastiness of the subway in this weather, and was able to make conversation about the bad weather once at the interview... (The editor in charge, it turns out, has both a wife and daughter who have been bitchin' about the very same hair/makeup problems!) ;)

I'm going absolutely nuts in this heat.

Talk about yer huddled masses...

As a recent tourist out to Ellis Island, I feel I partook of the "huddled masses" experience galore. First, a shot of the real thing:










And then the modern-day "yearning to breathe free" folk waiting in line and actually on the damn boat:


But before I even began my trek out to Ellis Island, I had a scary (albeit in an "I Love Lucy" kind of way) moment in the entry point to the ferry. Where I made the mistake of SNAPPING A PICTURE! A couple of over-zealous guards yelled at me, "NO PICTURES! NO PICTURES! NO PICTURES! C'MERE! NOW!!!!" Completely rattled, I first yelled at the top of my lungs, "I'm SORRY! I DIDN'T KNOW! JESUS!" Then I ran over to the closest guard who was yelling at me to show him my camera: "See---I'm erasing the picture!" Thank goodness for the digital age---I got the impression that in an earlier era, they would have grabbed my camera and ripped the film out of it!

The Lucy Moments continued: After showing the guard my camera and deleted picture, I scurried back in line, just in time to be at the front of it, where the next guard was asking, "How many? How many?!" Freaked out, I yelled at him: "ONE! I just took ONE picture! And I erased it!" Turned out he had no idea what I was talking about, and was just wondering how many were in my party to board the ferry... Oh. :\

After this guy, we in line all made our way to the X-ray machines, exactly like in airports. Where it turned out that both my bracelet and my belt buckle were setting off alarms. When I told the x-ray guy that if I took off my belt, my pants would fall off (seriously---I was a size 12 when I came to NYC, and I'm now a size 8), he got a bit too excited and asked where I was from, and then, when he found out I was new here, asked for my phone number so he could show me around, which caused another big hold-up in the line... I didn't give him my number, and, yes, my pants did fall down and did show my underwear, and then I put my belt back on backwards and...oh, good lord! At this point I did feel like just going, a la Lucy: "Waaaaaaa!"

Ellis Island, here I come, goddammit! ;p

Who's Your Momney

Last night, while falling asleep, I was watching Republican candidate Mitt Romney on C-Span, with his blonde wife, doing a generic meet-n-greet in Iowa, which went on for about a half-hour. (I did indeed fall asleep during it, as desired.)

In the dream I had later, though: the blonde woman with Romney wasn't his wife at all. Instead, there was another woman giving a press conference, cloaked in blue robes, with the rest of her face all in blue, except for the area of her nose, which was green. While watching this, I knew that the woman was Norwegian, in some sort of "tribal garb." This woman claimed to be Romney's wife, and he said it was so. I remember being extremely bewildered: "But I just SAW your wife and she looked nothing like that!"

Let me just say, in the few minutes that I watched Romney on C-Span, I thought he was a shallow, Republican jerk. And, yeah, I do have a "Norwegian" hanging around in my mental past. But what in the world would put these two together?!

Happy Birthday

A belated Happy 21st Birthday, July 2, to the simultaneously dark and gorgeous Lindsay Lohan.

Oh! My Statue of Liberty

I just took a cruise out to visit the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. (Before I got too "New York" for my own good and started snubbing such "tourist attractions"!)

















Of course, during my whole "Lady Liberty" experience, I was also thinking of this Joan picture:





















And of this XTC song from my youth:

"Statue Of Liberty"

The first time I saw you standing in the water
You must have been all of a thousand feet tall
Nearly naked - unashamed like Herod's daughter
Your love was so big
It made New York look small

You've been the subject of so many dreams
Since I climbed your torso
Oh!
My statue of Liberty
Boo Boo
Impaled on your hair
What do you do
Do Do to me
Boo Boo

I leaned right over to kiss your stoney book
A little jealous of the ships with whom you flirt
A billion lovers with their cameras
Snap to look and in my fantasy
I sail beneath your skirt...


And then there was this guy, who was entertaining the huddled masses waiting in line for over an hour to get on the damn boat! (How in the world did those immigrants do it?!)

America, Past and Present

With the 4th of July coming up, I suppose these photos are appropriate reminders of some of America's history. I didn't take them with that idea in mind, but, my goodness, New York City is so much at the center of our country's founding. My home state of Texas is a baby comparatively!

(Though, to put things in even more perspective, here's a quote from "The Epic of New York": "When these white men [Verrazano, an Italian explorer sent by France] discovered the site of New York City that year of 1524, Jerusalem was more than 3,000 years old, Athens was at least 2,500 years old, Rome's history went back more than 2,270 years, Paris had existed about 1,550 years, London could count more than 1,460 birthdays, and Berlin was a village 217 years old." Oh. OK, so NYC is a baby when judged in terms of the world!)

Anyway, today I walked around the World Trade Center and Wall Street areas. The first photo is what the WTC rebuilding looks like at this stage. The next photo is of St. Paul's Chapel, which, built in 1766, is the oldest public building in the city. (This shot, to me, is what New York is all about.) St. Paul's sits directly across the street from the WTC site and was, miraculously, spared from destruction during the 9/11 attacks. A giant sycamore tree, uprooted in the explosions, fell in a way that protected the church.

Close by, at the intersection of Broadway and Wall Street, is the Trinity Church, where I took these photos of the cemetery. I love how cozy the gravestones look, despite the hustle-and-bustle of the surrounding street traffic. And one of our Founding Fathers, Alexander Hamilton, is buried there.




























The last photo is a shot of the Trinity Church, as seen from further down Wall Street. That's the Trump Building to the right.

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!)

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.

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.

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: 66.201.51.4 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?

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.

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 Amazon.com 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.

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)

Scrapbook!

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.

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.)

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.

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.

Wanna-be

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.

Lohan Behold

hhttp://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.topsynergy.com/famous-astro-profile/wheels/Lindsay_Lohan.png&imgrefurl=http://www.topsynergy.com/famous-relationships-characteristics/Lindsay_Lohan.asp&h=688&w=516&sz=73&hl=en&start=81&tbnid=kMzlgIsvjzhyWM:&tbnh=139&tbnw=104&prev=/images%3Fq%3D%2522lindsay%2Blohan%2522%26start%3D80%26gbv%3D2%26ndsp%3D20%26svnum%3D10%26hl%3Den%26safe%3Doff%26sa%3DN

See if that link works...

I still can't decide if Lindsay's about to do a River Phoenix, or if she's just partying too much. (Lord knows the times, back in the day, that I used to pass out... For those who DON'T know, what she's doing might seem terrible. For those who do, it's not incredibly newsworthy...)

I know exactly what her father's behavior during her childhood did to her and why she's fucking up now for no good reason.

I haven't seen anyone like her in over 25 years. What a combination of glamour and darkness.

Sex! Pistols!

I never even heard the Sex Pistols' music 'til after I graduated from high school in 1983. How sad and belated is that?! (You young'uns better be grateful for the Internet! In Azle in the early '80s, we were a little...belated.) ;p

However, I did read about them and see their images in their heyday (and wrote about them in an essay on "Rebellion" for my sophomore English class). And tonight just re-watched the Sex Pistols doc "The Filth and the Fury" on IFC.

I'm still blown away by how radical they were. I remember 20 years ago trying to explain to my mom how they changed everything... No point to THAT exchange, but, still...wow. How ugly and raw----and catchy. And political. Not like stupid uber-metal bands who try to be fierce, but are, rather, just dumb and loud. The Sex Pistols were scary. And great. Seems like we've gone backwards since then. I can't even imagine anything like them getting a record deal today. The amount of fakery and pseudo-iconoclasm today is incredible. Everything so stilted and pre-screened for "hipness."

"Family Jewels"

Watching both the Gene Simmons "Family Jewels" show and the "Osbournes" show on TV, you'd get the idea that each family was only mildly wacky ("Aren't we all?!").

A couple of months ago, when I hooked up with an old high-school friend who'd gone on to become a groupie and actually sleep with Gene Simmons, I was arguing with her: "No... He may SAY he sleeps with all those women, but he seems so nice on TV! And he seems like a good father! Maybe he's just making that stuff up." Well, no... My friend slept with the guy while he was allegedly so "happy with Shannon Tweed" and he wasn't/isn't "making that stuff up." Simmons has fucked around on his steady girlfriend of over 23 years, Shannon Tweed, from the beginning. That the family "functions" is due, probably, to Tweed's, and the kids', supernatural desire to overlook said fucking around.

In a similar vein: Tonight the "E!" channel had a 2-hour special on the Osbournes, Ozzy, et al. The drug/alcohol addiction of Ozzy was covered. As was son Jack's suicide attempt and daughter Kelly's numerous stints in rehab. Yet, the two kids were also on-camera saying, "My dad's great!" (This after saying how terrified they were growing up whenever their parents would fight.)

There's some sort of disconnect here. The TV programs present these families as "loving," but... there's nothing "loving" about (1) a dad who's gone all the time and who makes humiliating public statements about how many women he sleeps with, and (2) a fucked-up dad who's either stoned or drunk most of the time and has no idea when his own kids are in trouble.

The Simmons Family isn't cute. The Osbourne Family isn't cute.

Nice editing on A&E's and MTV's part, though.

How old-fashioned

Old-fashioned as it may seem, the below-mentioned harakiri still seems kind of pure and unironic to me. When I read this, I thought of what I thought of the businessmen in the US who jumped out of windows during the market crash of 1929: "Oh, how tragic...WHY?" Now that I'm old and jaded, I can actually think of "why"---the guys had no family life; their business life was, indeed, all. If they'd given decades of their lives to achieving business success, and then that was taken from them, what was left? They're going to start being nice to their wives and kids at age 50?

I think suicide gets a bad rap, as being "cowardly." Are you kidding me? There's nothing scarier, nothing that takes more guts.



Japanese minister commits suicide

By MARI YAMAGUCHI, Associated Press WriterMon May 28, 7:02 AM ET

Japan's agriculture minister died Monday after hanging himself just hours before he was to face questioning in a political scandal, officials said, dealing a powerful blow to the increasingly beleaguered government ahead of July elections.

Toshikatsu Matsuoka, 62, was found in his apartment Monday unconscious and declared dead hours later.

An autopsy showed that he died after hanging himself, according to a Tokyo Metropolitan Police official who spoke on customary condition of anonymity. The minister was found hanging from a door in his apartment earlier Monday, and he left a suicide note, according to local media reports.

Matsuoka's death comes just ahead of upper house elections, and as support for Prime Minister Shinzo Abe's Cabinet is plunging.

Abe, looking shaken after visiting the hospital where Matsuoka died, said although the minister had been "under intense questioning" in parliament, he had continued to be a useful member of the Cabinet.

"I am very disappointed," he said. "When I saw his face, he seemed to be at peace."

Matsuoka had faced heavy criticism over a scandal involving suspicious bookkeeping practices in his offices, and was scheduled to appear before a parliamentary committee Monday afternoon for further questioning.

He was under fire for allegedly claiming more than $236,600 in utility fees even though he rented a parliamentary office where utility costs are free. Opposition lawmakers had demanded his resignation, but Matsuoka denied any wrongdoing.

Abe had defended Matsuoka, saying that the agriculture minister reported to him all the alleged issues were properly handled and that his dismissal was not needed.

Matsuoka had been dogged by scandal. Along with the utilities questions, he apologized publicly just three days after taking office for not declaring $8,500 in political donations.

He acknowledged the undeclared funds, which came in the form of purchased tickets to a fundraising party, saying he was unaware that the contributions had not been reported. Matsuoka had since corrected his political funds report for 2005.

Japan's political funds law requires politicians to declare such donations when they exceed $1,700, Kyodo News said. The contributions came from the World Business Expert Forum, a group associated with scandal-hit business consultant FAC Co., which was raided by authorities in June on suspicion of illegally collecting funds from investors, Kyodo said.

Japan's suicide rate is among the highest in the industrialized world. More than 32,000 Japanese took their own lives in 2004, the bulk of them older Japanese suffering financial woes as the country struggled through a decade of economic stagnation.

"I've been terribly alone..."

"...and forgotten in Manhattan..."

God...My mom just offered to rent a truck and drive all the way up from San Antonio to NYC to "fetch me home" 'cause she's worried about me...

I haven't yet found a job here in NYC and am presently floundering... Wow. What a nice offer. New York's too beautiful to give up on and go home. As if "Austin" were home, which it's not. Thanks, Mom, though.

Years ago as a kid in Azle, Texas, I pretentiously wondered in my diary: "Why would anyone want to live anywhere that wasn't the center of the universe?" New York City is the fucking center of the Universe.

I hate hot weather!

It's been fuckin' 90 degrees here in NYC for the past 3 days. In May. It feels like fuckin' Texas weather, which is one of the reasons I left Texas, 'cause I hate 90-degree-fuckin-humidity. Man.

When I arrived in NYC in mid-February, it was freezing as hell. Coming from the South, I was worried beforehand that I wouldn't be prepared for the Northeast cold, but I was very prepared---I had wool coats, I had gloves, I had a hat. Every time I walked out my door was just fine!

Now that it's warm, though, I'm not prepared... I have a suitcase full of my summer clothes back at my mom's house in Texas... SEND 'EM, won't you, Mom??? Geez.

Today I had to cut off some of my jeans 'cause I couldn't stand wearing full-length pants in this heat! And then, a few days ago, I had to go to the local "El Mundo" to buy some flip-flops for $4 'cause wearing regular shoes around this un-airconditioned apartment sucks!

Coming from Texas, where it's 90 degrees and above from June through mid-October, I should have been prepared for this, but I'm not! I need some air-conditioning, man! ;p

I Hate Teenagers!

My NYC apartment overlooks the Hudson River, where, unfortunately, now that it's warm, teenagers come to hang out. Ugh. I absolutely hate their loud "blah-blah-blah." I had to listen to their loudness earlier tonight, between 11 and 1. Then they disappeared, thank goodness. Now, though, at nearly 4 am, they've shown back up again. Back in Austin, I would dial "311" to make a noise complaint. Not sure how things work here in NYC.

Part of me feels mean: Yeah, obviously, there was a time when I was a teen and occasionally hung out in front of people's houses. But not very often. I may have sat on the hoods of some cars on occasion, but never did I, or any of my friends, SCREAM at the top of our lungs at 4 am. It's one thing to want to be outside of your home, to be with your friends... but why can't you just hang out by the river and TALK? Do you have to act like loud, screeching assholes at 4 am?

Must Be Catchin'

When I was two...I didn't think of it
Since I met you...oh, man, I love it...


Nothing bad can ever happen to you when you're listening to Julie London.

Looking for Mr. Goodbar

I'd seen this movie in passing years ago, thought Diane Keaton was her usual flippant self, didn't much feel moved when she flippantly got murdered---the whole movie was soooo "of the time" ("dirty '70s, Scorsese knock-off") that I felt jaded and unsympathetic watching it. I think the film came out in '77, based on the book that came out in '75, based on the book-experience of '70...

After almost 3 weeks in bed after being mauled by my roommate's cat, I finally got up this week to do things. Like laundry, today. And in the laundry-room (where there's a table where the building's tenants leave their castoff books---I've previously picked up a photo book of Jerry Lee Lewis's heyday and Swanberg's "Citizen Hearst") today I found a copy of Judith Rossner's '75 book, "Looking For Mr. Goodbar."

While, when watching the movie, I disliked the "Theresa" character as played by Diane Keaton and didn't particularly care if she died (that's the filmmaker's fault), when reading the book I did relate to "Theresa"'s character from the beginning, and hated what happened to her.

I've mentioned this months before on my blog, that I got raped in 2000. I didn't give details, just that that was one of the worst things that had ever happened to me. In truth, there were many other creepy details: As soon as the guy entered my apartment, he was asking things like, "Do you have a dog?" "Are your neighbors home?" "We should close the curtains---don't want anyone to see us doing drugs!" What kills me (figuratively) is that I didn't pick up on any of that stuff. I'd gone out to a gay bar to meet friends. When the friends didn't show up, I met this guy hanging around. He was a "dick dancer" at the gay bar and I thought he was perfectly safe to hang out with and do some coke with and talk with, since I presumed he was gay and would just want to "hang out" and not have sex. Wrong!

After he raped me, he asked, "Don't you have knives in your kitchen? I wouldn't let anyone do that to me." Which made me think: Really, should I have taken out a steak knife and come after the guy, and all that entailed? Or should I just have let him fuck me and be done with it? I found out later from the police that the guy had previously been in jail for a non-violent crime, but that while in jail another guy had tried to rape him and he'd stabbed the guy, and gotten more time for it.

Which reminds me also of an earlier incident, circa 1995. I'd been to a club-show of a band I really liked. As I was leaving, in the parking garage, a guy who'd also been at the show asked me if I wanted to do some coke. I was lonely and pumped up and said, "Sure." He came over to my house, we did some crank and listened to music. The guy had obviously been up for days, was shaking and tense. But still under control. I'd told him before he came over that I was gay (just as I'd told the rapist that I was gay), and that I just wanted to "party" and talk. I thought that saying that made it OK for everyone involved. In this case, it did. At one point, the guy touched my thigh, and I flinched... He freaked out a bit and said, "Don't EVER do that."... There was a bad moment, and then I apologized, and we kept on talking...

My point being: "Looking For Mr. Goodbar" was horrifying, because I could have died in either of these cases, just as Theresa died in the book. No Morality Tale involved, just a reflection of how some things sometimes happen. You hear about it all the time in the news.

Crime of the Century

My mom's German, and I've only been to Germany 3 times: at age 4, at age 12, and then at age 17. I'm 41 now and, while officially a dual citizen of both the US and of Germany, I haven't been back. Not by choice, but just 'cause I haven't had anyone to go back and see it with.

I don't remember much about the age-4 and age-17 visits, but the 12-year-old one... It was the summer after my 6th grade school year, and my mom and us two kids were going for 6 weeks because my father had been attacking my mother on a regular basis, and this was seen as a "time out." (Before we left, I remember my father saying to my mother, "I hope your plane crashes.")

When I've seen Germany at age 12 and age 17, I've loved it. An absolutely beautiful country. I remember in '77 being completely depressed at coming home from Germany's lushness to the harsh summertime yellow of Texas, and the ugly tires by the road...

What I also remember from that '77 visit... I loved the Bay City Rollers and had pictures of me wearing plaid and holding "Bravo" magazines with the BCR on the cover, as well as shots of the BCR on German TV. And my mom bought my cousin Suzi a Kris Kristofferson album, which my cousin put aside so she could listen to Supertramp's "Crime of the Century" on end. "Dreamer." "Bloody Well Right." I can still hear those songs today, and remember thinking how weird they were at the time. (Little asshole that I was, I told my mom: "She doesn't like your Kris Kristofferson album.")

I also remember my 6-year-old brother crying in his bedroom in Germany because he was homesick and missed his father. Darkly, I crouched outside his door and hissed "SHUT UP"!!!!!!!!

Goodbye to Creeps

As I've been writing this blog, I've thought I've been thoughtful enough, sometimes outspoken, etc. I've talked about my own feelings, about pop culture, philosophy, about whatever. But I've noticed that there seem to be three people primarily drawn here: Neil, Julie (pictured to the right in all his Frank N. Furter glory), and Kilroy. (Apologies to the many others who have posted over the months, but these three, according to IP numbers, are the ones leaving most of the posts.)

Now, I've read other people's blogs, and, aside from the ones that get no readers and responses (like, well, Neil's blog), the ones that do have a variety of people reading usually do have some thoughtful and interesting responses. There's even occasionally a dialogue of some sort going on. No, not a gay, dumb, bitchy dialogue (sorry Neil and Julie) or a dumb stalker dialogue (sorry Kilroy), but, rather, an actual conversation between the blogger and the readers.

Which hasn't been the case on this blog, sorry to say. Yes, there have been 13,000 or so hits since this blog's inception, but I'm afraid that, aside from the creeps posting, many others were just checking in to see what the creeps were saying!

I'm bored with that, bored with the 5th-grade insults I've seen posted here. (And bored with my responses to them!) Luckily, this blog has a feature where I can screen all the responses. I'd initially chosen to turn that feature off, since I wanted a more exciting free-for-all, but...the 5th-grade insults (and my responses to them) have just gotten dumb and boring to me. As of tonight, though, I'm gonna use that feature.

I know I haven't been writing on a 5th-grade level, yet...that's the quality of the responses I've been getting... Hmmm. Guess it's about time I made an active effort to cut the creeps out of my life. Or at least my blog. Not that I'll be censoring any arguments that might disagree with what I've posted, just that I will be censoring creepy stuff from bitchy little queens like Neil and Julie. (No offense to queens in general---I'm just bored to death with bitchy little ones.)

So...just to let you know! Read on!

Idol + Garden State

Melinda Doolittle was just voted off "American Idol" tonight. Which is just nuts. My choices for the final two were Melinda and Blake. Not 'cause Blake sang better than Jordin Sparks, but because he was infinitely more interesting. Jordin is generic and dull as hell. There are a thousand other "girl singers" warbling a la Jordin. Watching Jordin on tonight's "American Idol" show in her hometown just solidified how shallow she was. Melinda might not have been "cute," but I'd thought her overt skills and performance abilities would've way outweighed "cute." Not so.

In other "tonight news" (Funny, I just read that the average number of readers for any given blog were...2! Since this blog's had over 13,000 readers in the past 6 months...oh, I guess I'm flattered...Though I suppose I could do without the Jesus Freaks. Ahem.): After "Idol," I switched over to the Independent Film Channel, since I was still laid up in bed after my cat-bite and was so sick of commercials... Where I discovered the movie "Garden State"...
Man, there's so much ugly, stupid shit in this world... So much so that you just start expecting it from your surroundings. Sad, but true. I started watching "Garden State" just to be watching something. My foot hurt, I was bedridden, what else was I going to do, etc. I ended up putting down my remote and really watching... I so much liked how Zach Braff's and Natalie Portman's characters got along... Made me wistful and heartsick. I remembered that kind of interaction that came so easy in high school and early college... Not to say that that can't happen later in life, but it's harder. People start to shut down and make early judgments... "Garden State" made me feel like nice things were possible again in life. Not in a fake, stupid way, but...just the everyday, ordinary "miracles" that make you give thanks.

Zach Braff's character made me cry. And then I watched the credits at the end of the film and saw that he'd also written AND directed... Previously unaware of Braff, I'd just known him as the guy from the TV show "Scrubs"... Now, though---I have such great admiration for him...

Leave Townes the Fuck Alone, Creeps

In the past month, I've heard, just in passing online, sexual things about pre-5-year-old-kids from 3 random sources. Either little kids are "devastatingly sexual" or they're sexy or it's OK to get off on online porn about them...

I hate "holier than thou" right-wing assholes, but in the case of 5-year-olds... "Devastatingly sexual"??? Or just plain "sexy"? Or, "It's OK to look at 5-year-olds posing for sex"? I've been reading this shit online and that's where I draw the line and become a right-wing conservative.

I've got a nephew about to turn 5, and he's a cute kid. A very good-looking, smart kid. What I like about him are his funny, weird conversations and his outlook on life, even at 5. Imagine if some fucked-up adult psycho got a hold of him because he was so fucking "sexy"...

I've learned that when people have been sexually abused as kids, that their subsequent outlook on life is completely sexual, often transferred onto little kids, or at whatever age they themselves were abused... So be it. It's sad, it's awful. I'm sorry for you. Get the fuck over your obsession and don't transfer it to MY loved ones. The end of my "Republican" story.

Seize the Day

While laid up in bed for the past week, I finally turned off my TV and started delving into my roommate's bookshelves. I thought I was pretty up on modern lit, but...haven't ever read Saul Bellow. My first Bellow book was "Seize the Day"---took only about an hour or so to read, but struck home: a 40-something-year-old loser whose parent wouldn't give him any money! (Hmmm...) Am now two-thirds of the way through "Herzog"--- one thing that strikes me is that people don't write like this any more. This is definitely my parents' generation of writers, what I grew up with, what I was told was necessary to read. (I was born in '65.) "Herzog" basically deals with a man's losing his wife, and his efforts to get over her. It's contemplative, and I enjoy reading the main character's philosophical ramblings (misogynist though they sometimes are). It's a shame no one is writing like this today. While rather meandering, at least Bellow was full and rich and thoughtful. Not trying to be "cute" or "ironic." I miss sincerity.

The Real Fans of Joan Crawford

A bit weird to me how so many online "Joan fans" can proclaim their fandom so adamantly, yet... don't show up when the chips are down. There's an awful lot of blathering out there.

For instance, the "Best of Everything" Joan website just took up a collection for contributions to a fund to have flowers delivered to Joan's grave on this May 10, the 30th anniversary of her death. $218 was collected, which purchased a 3-dozen red-rose bouquet that was delivered to her grave this May 10. (Of the $218, the contributions ranged from $3 to $50.)

When I traveled to Joan's Ferncliff crypt in Hartsdale this past Thursday, May 10, I expected to see other flower tributes to her there other than the one sent from the "Best of Everything" website... And I'd just recently read an online proclamation from Joan's grandson Casey, who said he'd be going out to Ferncliff to pay respects... I thought there would have been the "Best of Everything" rose tribute, plus many other individual tributes. Not so. Where were you, all you allegedly hard-core Joan fans? You couldn't even have come up with money for a $10 bouquet of daisies?

The bouquet sent from the "Best of Everything" site was the only flower arrangement there. Where were the contributions from the other Joan fans and family members?

A sad reflection on Joan's own family, but definitely a happy reflection on her fans who remember and respect her.

New York, New York

My nephew's birthday is coming up this month. Back in Austin, he and I always liked each other a lot. (He would always insist that I sit by him at whatever table, etc., which always made both his mom and my mom/grandma mad! Heh-heh.) But now that I've been away from him for 3 months, I'm afraid he's forgotten me! He's going to turn 5 this month. For his birthday, I've picked out some stuff for him that's all about "New York City," where I just moved.

First off, he's always liked wearing caps, so I got him an official "New York Yankees" baseball cap. Which wasn't really that easy! Some stores only had adult sizes. Some stores only had a myriad of funky colors like black-on-black or red-on-black; not being from here and not being a baseball fan, I had to humble myself and ask people what exactly the official colors of the Yankees were! (Navy blue and white.) You'd think that being in New York, the official cap would be easy to find, but it wasn't. I probably went to 5 or so shops before I came across the real thing. I definitely wanted "old-school." Townes can get funky on his own later, but as for now, I want him versed in the cap/sports-logo basics!

The shop where I found the cap was in Midtown, in a total tourist-shop between where I work and the subway. Which is also where I found the rest of my nephew's New York-themed gifts: A picture-book of NYC, an Empire State Building pencil with King Kong sitting on top, some "I HEART NY" and cartoon NYC stickers... (Kids like stickers!)

The coolest thing about the whole thing was the guy at the counter, whom I started talking to about my purchases... He was asking about me and what I was buying, and I told him that I regretted coming to New York so late in life (age 41), but that I wanted my nephew to be aware of the city and how cool it was and to be familiar enough with it so that he could come to it a lot sooner than I did...

The shop-guy told me, in return, about how working in Midtown was depressing for him; he never saw the same people twice, since it was such a tourist mecca; he missed having regular customers. After we talked, he ended up taking $10 off the baseball cap, and telling me how lucky my nephew was...

I love Townes a lot, and I really do wish New York for him in his future.

And I'm thankful for this nice man at the shop, who saw exactly where my heart was.