It Is What It Is

There's such tender wolves round town tonight.

2008-01-29T16:09:00.000-05:00

How could I possibly ignore a plea along the lines of e.e.'s comment to this post? All I can say is aw, shucks. Thanks little lady.

Yes, that was my most recent post. And yes, it was posted over two months ago. Two months! Where does the time go!

I guess the answer is...nowhere in particular. It's all a big snoozefest around these parts these days. Not that I'm complaining or anything. Life is good, relationship is good, job is good. All that adds up to...good. If not a little boring.

That said, I realize I need to fight to keep from becoming complacent and dull. So maybe I've gotten some much needed rest these last couple of months, and maybe I'm revving up to come back out of hibernation and shake things up a little bit.

Or maybe I'll just yawn, scratch my balls, roll over, and nap a little while longer.

Only time will tell. But man is my bed warm, my dreams sweet and inviting...

And we'll love and we'll laugh, in the time that we have.

2007-11-26T13:11:00.000-05:00

I am a delinquent blogger. Eh. Oh well. No plans to hang it up just yet, though.

Thanksgiving was lovely this year. Totally relaxing. Great food, great company, lots of great conversation and catching up. Oh, and lots of Guitar Hero... Lots and lots of Guitar Hero.

The highlight of the weekend was probably when, after much effort, my brother and I beat Free Bird on Hard in Cooperative Mode (total dorks, right?) and my Mom, referencing an episode of South Park I had related previously, announced to us and everyone gathered in the room, "Congratulations! You're fags!"

I love my family.

This submarine behavior.

2007-10-16T16:20:00.000-04:00

I've been functioning in a bit of a haze lately. (Hence the writing embargo. My hazes do not generally lend themselves to self expression.) Not really sure why, except that I've been over-worked and under-slept. And maybe a little depressed. Though nothing to be alarmed about.

As an example of said haze that has existed between myself and my surroundings of late, take this occurrence from my commute this morning. Arriving at my office building, I apparently rode a near-empty elevator standing next to a co-worker (there was one other woman in there with us) and did not even notice his presence until we stopped at our floor, exited the elevator, and I turned around thinking, "Who the hell just followed me off the elevator???"

It was funny and we had a laugh, but part of me was like, man, was I really in that much of a daze? I don't even remember what it was I was so immersed in thinking about, but it surely wasn't anything important or even particularly pleasant...

These days I seem to think a lot about the things that I forgot to do.

2007-09-20T10:37:00.000-04:00

Swamped.

I've been so incredibly busy at work this month that I've barely had time to focus on anything personal at all when I've been in the office. Hence the lack of updates.

The good news, however, is that hell month is almost over, and that once it is I plan on catching back up with the world around me.

In the meantime, how's about a little music talk? I've been really feeling MIA's new tunes, and can't wait to see her at the new Terminal 5 on 10/18. There's been far too little live music in my life lately, so I'm pretty psyched about this show. No doubt she'll tear it up.

What's everyone been listening to lately?

Leave all our hopelessnesses aside (if just for a little while).

2007-08-29T11:03:00.000-04:00

A dream.

Another tragedy the likes of 9/11 has occurred.

I am experiencing all of the same emotions all over again: confusion, fear, sadness, anger, anxiety… Only this time, unlike then, I also feel completely and utterly alone.

Though I am aware of the fact that I am still in the “city,” it looks a lot more like an unidentified countryside. I wander listlessly over green rolling hills, desperate for some sort of purpose, some sort of connection. Some sort of outlet for all of the things I am currently internalizing and experiencing by myself.

In my wanderings, I come upon a church. And though in reality it looks nothing like it, I identify it as the neighborhood church that in my waking life sits on the corner of my block.

I approach the door, and I hesitate. What if I’m not welcome here? I can hear the sounds of gospel music coming from inside, and I’m reminded of the fact that this is a “black” church, with what seems to be a loyal and devoted community. How could I possibly fit in? And what right do I have to attempt to share in, to intrude upon, their own expressions of sadness and grief? A stranger in the midst of something that is at once so deeply personal and yet so powerfully communal.

Ultimately I decide to enter, such is my desperation. I cross the threshold at the rear of the church and am immediately struck by how much smaller it seems on the inside than I anticipated from the outside. There are probably only six rows of pews leading up to the pulpit where, sure enough, two preachers and a gospel choir are gathered together joyfully praising god. That’s not to say that there isn’t great sadness—there most certainly is. But in the face of all that sadness, this community is choosing praise and thanks as a way of processing their despair. It moves me.

I look out among the pews, and am surprised to see that while everyone gathered around the alter is black, everyone seated in the pews is white. And not just white, but super white. Bleached. Starched, uptight, and proper to the extreme. And they’re all really…old. Suddenly it almost seems as though the singers and preachers at the front are…performing. It unsettles me.

But as I look closer, I realize that although the old white people are not expressing it in the same way as the younger black singers and preachers, they are in fact getting something similarly meaningful and comforting out of this. I detect it in the eyes of one older woman in particular, and I am drawn to her. I approach her and sit down at the end of her pew.

Sitting there, listening to the music and watching the singers’ intense mingling of joy and sadness, something breaks inside of me and my grief is finally able to come pouring out. I sob quietly and uncontrollably, conscious of the relief inherent in this release. And I begin to sink into that relief, and am content to just be there. Here.

At some point I realize that I am no longer crying.

And then it happens, the thing that I now realize I have been afraid of since entering. A woman approaches in the aisle, a white woman, although she is not quite as old as the other white people scattered among the pews. Somehow I know that she’s in a position of authority—she is somehow connected to this church. Somehow, I know that she “runs things.”

She sees what has happened, what I have gotten out of this experience, out of being here. And I fear that she wants to capitalize on it. And sure enough, as she arrives at my side, I see the paper in her hands. The sign-up. I now know that she has come to evangelize, to proselytize. Damn it. I look into her face, and I know that I have to leave.

I rise. She understands. I look once more toward the choir, and then turn and look back towards the open door through which I entered mere minutes, hours, days, months, years ago.

I see the rolling green hills once more, and know that once again I will wander. But somehow, after this respite, the hills look just a little bit greener. The wandering, a little less lonely.

I used to be sad, now I'm just bored with you.

2007-08-23T10:46:00.000-04:00

My boyfriend has not had a phone since August 13 (he took a swim with his in his pocket). Him being him, he has yet to replace it.

This was livable for the past week-and-a-half since he at least had his work phone during the day--though I have to say I did find it extremely irritating that I couldn't get in touch with him in the evening if I wanted to.

However, yesterday was his last day at his job. I currently have no way of getting in touch with him. He has no home phone, no internet access, and nowhere to be during the day. So our communication is currently reduced to the off chance that I am available to pick up the phone on the off chance that he summons up the desire and energy to find a phone and call me. Oh, and he would also have to remember to have my phone number on him, because who actually knows anyone's phone number these days?

This situation bothers me. And what's more, it seems to bother him that it bothers me. Apparently, I should be fine with the prospect of completely one-way communication that is dependent upon him to take action (not his strong suit) and me to simply wait passively for him to do so (not mine).

Sounds like some twisted game of power and control to me.

Am I a complete fucktard for putting up with this?

I am in the twilight of my youth (not that I'm going to remember).

2007-08-21T09:31:00.000-04:00

Amazingly, I did survive my long weekend of birthday shenanigans.

It was relentless, even by my standards. But so much fun.

Friday night was just-the-two-of-us night, starting with drinks at Death & Company, which I can’t recommend highly enough. The drinks are expensive but incredible, and the bartenders take their craft very seriously. It’s like Milk & Honey, but without all the pretension and weird little affectations.

After that, we headed to The Orchard for dinner. I had never even heard of this place before last week, but holy crap was it good! Several of the dishes pretty much rocked our worlds. And when they heard we were celebrating my thirtieth, free champagne was brought to the table. Score!

Later, much havoc was wreaked on the streets of the Lower East Side and East Village. I think we were drunker than we realized at the time... At one point my little monkey man actually made a random woman scream in fright as he grunted in her ear. I’m not kidding. And I later found myself picking him up off the ground after he slipped on an onion and fell on his ass. For real.

Saturday was spent preparing for the party that I would host on Sunday, and then partying on another friend’s rooftop downtown. What was fun about that party was that it was held on the rooftop where the monkey and I met almost exactly two years ago. So that was a fun little trip down memory lane. And it was probably the last party I’ll attend there, as I don’t think I’m going to know anyone living there much longer.

Of course, what’s a summer rooftop party without lots and lots to drink? In fact, we got so silly that when we left later in the night, we actually took a bottle of wine with us and proceeded to swig from it while walking down the street and riding the subway. Thanks for not booking me on my birthday, NYPD! Actually, when we got on the train, we encountered a punk rocker passed out with a bottle of vodka and felt right at home.

Somewhere in there, we also got really stoned. And it was in that hyper-sensitive state that I “realized” that I could “actually” feel my kidneys and liver straining to process the onslaught of toxins I was relentlessly tossing their way. I decided I should probably slow down a bit. Until I forgot. Hand me that bottle of wine!

Sunday started with sleeping too late and feeling too hung over. But the hair of the dog fixed us right up, and got us on our way. I mixed up two huge jugs of delicious cocktails, packed up a picnic, and headed over to the park to frolic with friends on the grass. There was an abundance of food and drink, and it was lots of fun. Until it started raining, that is. But honestly, I think I had had it at that point anyway, and the rain was as good an excuse as any to pack it in and call it a night. Headed home with my two favorite people, chilled in front of the Simpsons, and played a little Katamari before passing out cold.

Yesterday I spent most of the day being completely useless at work, and putting all of what little energy I had into appearing otherwise.

The way I see it, if you make it through your thirtieth birthday celebration without feeling at least twice that old, you're doing something wrong.

Happy birthday, you're halfway to sixty.

2007-08-17T11:56:00.001-04:00

Yep, that's right kids. I'll be spending the weekend ringing in my thirties. I'll post on Monday, if I survive.

There it is, we are only one push from the nest.

2007-08-15T10:16:00.000-04:00

Went to a wedding up in the finger lakes last weekend. It was fun. Saw family members I just about never see. The lake town was sweet and the weather was beautiful. It was a gorgeous weekend.

One of said family members is a second cousin (or something removed, I’ve never really gotten how that works) who’s a lot of fun. I enjoyed talking and joking with him. He’s just about my age (a few years younger, I think) and so far he’s done three tours of duty in Iraq. Right now he’s in the Reserves and going to school, and could be sent back at any time.

I’m sitting there drinking, eating, enjoying myself, and I’m all, “I live in the city, work in the arts, and spend a lot of time worrying about my own happiness.”

His family is overjoyed at having him home, and lives in fear of the day he might have to return. Another cousin on that same side of the family couldn’t be at the wedding because he was…where? You guessed it! Iraq.

Oh, well, I um, make...pottery.

I'll gallop to you, tonight, we'll ride.

2007-08-03T11:39:00.001-04:00

This blog hasn't been updated since 2005, but I swear to god it's still one of my all-time faves. I keep the link there in my bookmarks, and every now and then (like this morning) I click on it and proceed to giggle like a school girl.

There. You now have yet another treasured glimpse into my twisted mind.

We proceed in stained bed sheets.

2007-07-31T13:02:00.001-04:00

Bored.

It's nice out, and I have a shred of desire to go out and take advantage of that. But at the same time I lack the energy to leave my office, deal with the elevators, deal with the street.

Wish I could just leave work for the day and spend the afternoon in the pottery studio, submerge my hands in water and clay.

O's in town this week, and I promised to cook for her. Can't think of what I want to make, though I have quite a supply of fresh herbs and vegetables, so something with those...

Finished Harry Potter, and of course won't say anything other than the fact that I really loved it. I probably wouldn't have called myself an enthusiastic fan of the entire series, but I have to say that the final installment was just so...satisfying. In fact, I'm tempted to say it was...perfect. I know! I laughed. I cried. I came in my pants... And when it was all over, I put it down feeling completely fine doing so. All endings should be so lovely.

Cuz I love those Belgian waffles...

2007-07-26T14:00:00.001-04:00

My office is located in one of the few parts of Manhattan in which sex shops are still commonplace. And in the years since Giuliani's reign--er, I mean term in office--their presence in the neighborhood has increased steadily.

In their Giuliani incarnations, I didn't really care about them one way or the other. I mean, they were pretty much frontless, faceless businesses that all but escaped my notice. But now that several years have passed since the reign of terror, more and more of them have once again unveiled display windows with fun and elaborate (if cluttered) collections of their wares.

These I love. I stroll casually by and shamelessly ogle their contents--everyone should have a little sex in their day! Of course, if you've seen one you've pretty much seen them all. But still...

Today, on my way to grab some lunch, something jumped out at me from the midst of one of the usual assortments of lubes, dildoes, condoms, and butt plugs I pass every day, which forced me to stop and do a double-take. Right there, in between the Trojans and the KY (ho-hum), was a product called "Strawberry Ass."

I kid you not. "Strawberry Ass."

Alas, there was absolutely no indication of what this product actually is. Simply a box roughly the size of a "personal massager," with a photo of a buxom blond on the front (ass turned towards the camera, naturally) and the enigmatic words, "Strawberry Ass." Two great things that do not necessarily go great together...

Ah sweet, sweet mystery. (Not to mention sweet, sweet ass.)

Tonight, woke I, in a strange bed.

2007-07-25T17:10:00.000-04:00

I can't tell you the last time I slept in pajamas. For me, it's either old shorts and a t-shirt (most of the time) or nothing at all (less of the time). But sometimes, don't you just miss those fuzzy onesies with the snap at the neck (what was the point of that, anyway) and the little booties with the rubberized soles?

I know I do.

Just sit on the porch and swing.

2007-07-24T11:47:00.000-04:00

Man, have I been lazy lately.

And man, have I loved every second of it!

With the exception of yesterday's day-long downpour, the past several days have been the ultimate in gorgeous summer perfection. Warm but not super hot; dry, sunny and clear... Crisp blue skies and pleasant breezes. I ask you: is there any better way to spend such days than with long walks in the park, long sit-downs just about anywhere, tall, icy cold margaritas, stacks of books, unexpected dozes, evenings spent outdoors with friends and bottles of wine... I think not! Ah, idleness. How I grow to love you more and more.

On Saturday, somewhere between napping and reading in the sun, I invented a delicious summer cocktail. I tore up a bunch of basil, muddled it in a glass with ice and tequila, and then topped the whole thing off with pineapple juice. Sounds weird, right? But it was so good! I have fresh herbs coming out my ass--my "container garden" out on my terrace has flourished beyond belief--and I'm always looking for ways of using them. So this was one such way, and man was it yummy!

Speaking of which, I've also got an abundance of fresh tomatoes, and let me tell you, it doesn't get much better than homegrown tomatoes, homegrown basil, and fresh Fairway buffalo mozzarella, smothered in salt, pepper, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar. Summer on a plate. Seriously. I don't think I could ever get tired of it.

Sigh. Add a healthy dose of sex, drugs, and rock and roll, and you've pretty much discovered the meaning of life, I think.

Dear world I'm pleased to meet you.

2007-07-17T14:42:00.000-04:00

So I’ve been in a kind of meditative place lately.

Some may prefer the term “brooding,” but to those I offer this distinction: brooding is what it is—stagnant, painful, and exhausting—and remains just that. On the other hand, spending time meditating on those things which would otherwise cause me to brood is often productive, positive, and can actually lead to, if not resolutions per se, at least ways forward. I used to brood. Not so much anymore.

So I’ve been in a kind of meditative place lately.

And I spent Saturday lying on a beach, which always helps.

I’ve found that a good place to start is to explore moments or situations that have caused me discomfort. Which is maybe why it seems hard at first—I mean, who wants to do that? But discovering the true causes of discomfort often reveals profound truth.

For instance.

Not long ago I was at a party that I would say was of the “hipster” persuasion (not the sex one, a different one). And while I love the people that I was hanging out with (and was having a genuinely good time), I just couldn’t get into the whole...scene. It was in a big open loft (of course) that served some other daytime purpose. There were kegs. There were lots of sweaty bodies. There was a marching band. There was rapture and euphoria.

I did not feel euphoric.

It’s not to say I didn’t enjoy the elaborate and unexpected performance happening before my eyes—I totally did! Last time I watched a marching band I was in high school, and I can’t say I ever expected to watch one again—let alone that it would be rapturous party entertainment. But standing there in that crowded loft, dripping with sweat and beer, I experienced something profound. And it was not inspiration. Nor the transcendence that seemed to be happening all around me.

Nope. It was the realization of the fact that I was...over it.

Oh sure, that realization first took the form of annoyance, and even judgment:

Look at these emotionally stunted children! And I’m one of them! How pathetic: a room full of thirty-somethings who were so not cool in their actual youths that they have to re-create them now, decades later!

And further:

Ew! Suddenly I have a new-found...respect for all those frat boys/sorority girls I had the gall to look down on all those years ago. I mean, they did all this shit years ago! Created ideologies, surrounded themselves with likeminded peers, had awkward sex and threw raging keggers... Can it be they were the mature ones? Further along in their own development? Ahead of their time?

Ha.

But of course, nothing is that cut and dry. And in the end, the profound realization comes in the form of acceptance of the fact that I am simply no longer there. That is no longer my euphoria. I’m glad that it is for so many others; I’m glad that so many continue to find acceptance, and to find their voices. Because that’s what it’s really all about, isn’t it? I’m just not going to get as much out of it as they are. And that’s ok.

Anyway, it’s clear that I need to make some changes in my life. And it’s becoming clearer what those changes are. And really, they’re nothing drastic. Just little tweaks here and there; shifts in levels of priority, placement of emphasis.

Did I mention I’ve been in a kind of meditative place lately?

Make this easy—it’s not as heavy as it seems.

2007-07-11T09:55:00.000-04:00

So here I am, back from a spectacular vacation in the Mediterranean, and ready to swelter out the rest of my summer here in NYC. Awesome.

It’s not so bad, really. As great as the trip was, by the end of it I was actually looking forward to coming home. I guess I can only deal with so much relaxation and overindulgence. Aw, I must be growing up.

And there’s plenty I still want to do with my summer. Like go to the beach. Visit friends. Relax. Overindulge.

Anyway, lots of stories to tell. Now if I could just stop relaxing enough to tell them…

You kept me alive with your sweet flowing love.

2007-06-11T15:00:00.000-04:00

Hot on the heels of last week's HIV post, this weekend I decided to attend a sex party. A hipster sex party. With lots of hipsters, well, having sex. A la shortbus.

I am a smart, smart man.

Do you ever take drugs so that you can have sex without crying? Yeah, yeah!

2007-06-08T11:57:00.000-04:00

The other night, I found out that someone I had sex with a few years ago is HIV positive. And was at the time that we fucked.

Didn’t really make a huge impression at that moment—we were safe, I’ve been tested multiple times since then, I’m negative, blah blah blah.

Still, as the night went on, it started to freak me out a little. The fact that I had sex with someone I trusted (ie, not a random bar hookup) and that that little tidbit remained consciously concealed. To this day! (Well, until a couple of days ago, anyway.)

Crazy.

I just tried to be like the others…but I pooped instead.

2007-06-06T10:55:00.000-04:00

A’ight Helen, you tagged me ages ago, and finally, I respond thusly with ten fascinating facts about me me me:

1) I was once on the silly MTV/Jenny McCarthy show “Singled Out.” Alas, I was not singled out.

2) I’ve had (and enjoyed) sex with members of both sexes. I’m not sure (I guess I could sit down and count), but I think at this point the number of male partners I’ve had has outnumbered the female ones.

3) I’ve run two marathons, dozens of half-marathons, 10Ks, 10-milers, and other assorted road races, have cycled several thousand miles (including two trips between Boston and NYC), and have since become lazy and fat.

4) I went to the then-still-in-existence USSR when I was in the eighth grade, and while there was mugged by gypsies. Strangely, that experience only served to heighten my enjoyment of the trip—a trip which ignited a lifelong love of travel and exploration.

5) Though I’m generally well mannered and courteous, I do sometimes have trouble controlling my mouth. For instance, just this morning, before I even knew what was happening, I told a girl in the subway that she sucked. (I don’t even remember why.) Oops. And of course, once I realized what had just come out of my mouth my pride wouldn’t allow me to apologize, so I just shrugged and walked away. Hey, who knows. Maybe she did in fact suck, and will now take some time to reflect on that fact. Go me.

6) Once when I was a young’un, I pressed the glowing coil of a car cigarette lighter onto my fingertip. ("Oooh, pretty red glow...") Much screaming and horror ensued. To this day, I’m a little timid handling those things.

7) Due to my…tactile…nature (and rampant desire to paw absolutely everything—see #6 above), my grandfather used to call me “Hands.” I hated it. Every time he saw me veer off to run my mitts over something new, he’d be all, “Hey, hands,” and I’d be all, “Curses, foiled again.” Funny how now the word reminds me fondly of him, and privately I wrap his nickname around me like one of my grandmother’s hand-knitted scarves.

8) In middle school, I had a raging crush on Debbie Gibson. Raging. In fact, at one point I placed a picture of her next to my bed so that I could look at her as I fell asleep. She was also one of the first people I fantasized about really having sex with, once I learned what sex was and became interested in such things.

9) I used to revel in melancholy nostalgia. And though I can’t pinpoint a moment or period in which that shifted, it seems to have done so. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still prone to periods of nostalgia (who isn’t), but the quality of melancholy that always used to accompany it seems largely to have evaporated.

10) I’ve only once felt truly unsafe in a sexual situation. Met a guy out one night, went back to his place, agreed to the ground rules (no fucking), things got all hot and heavy, and when he proclaimed a desire to fuck me I realized just how much bigger and stronger than me he was. And I was essentially already pinned under him. If he hadn’t been a decent guy, he pretty much could have done whatever he wanted. It was a reality check for me, and it also made me realize that few straight men probably ever experience anything like that. But straight women probably do all the time.

Sunday morning is every day, for all I care.

2007-06-05T15:04:00.000-04:00

Hi. I’m P/O. I used to blog here, like, all the time. Some people even liked to read what I wrote. But more importantly, I liked writing it!

So here I am, finally, preparing to saddle up once again. Giddyup, little dawgies! For better or worse, I do my blogging from work—and for about the past month, my work situation has been keeping me just on the brink of a nervous breakdown. (More on that later. Maybe.) Hence, little time for personal pursuits, such as reading and writing.

But things seem to have calmed to an (almost) acceptable level of insanity, and here I am. Fair warning, though: in less than two weeks I leave for a two-week vacation, during which I will be completely cut off from these here internets. I am not sad at all about this fact.

Oh and e.e., thanks for the bitch-slap, chica. Smooches.

And the ever-awesome Helonious Felonious tagged me on something a while back, for which I will search her archives momentarily and fulfill my blogging duty. What agony to know that her tag has been dangling out there all this time. Bad karma!

Ok, bitches. Suck it.

xoxo

You can’t put your arms around a dirty gangbang cumshot.

2007-04-30T14:30:00.000-04:00

Oh god, I’m so bored. Not in this moment—just in general. (Which is worse?)

My weekend was full as ever—constructive and productive mixed with fun and frivolous. And yet, come Monday morning my body sighs not with the resignation of the return to another workweek, but with the realization that my eyes are opening to yet another day.

This weekend certainly transcended the mundane for two of my dear friends, as they welcomed a brand new baby girl into the world! She’s their first child, and really, the first child in this particular circle of friends. So that’s fun, and has the potential to lift some of the boredom, I suppose. I’m a good uncle.

But, ew. Finding meaning in the vicarious pleasures of other people’s family lives? That just seems kind of…gross to me. Voyeuristic, almost. But that’s life, I suppose.

This is life, I suppose.

Baby's playing dead in the cellar.

2007-04-23T13:28:00.000-04:00

In case you couldn’t tell from my last post, I’ve been a bit rattled lately. For weeks now I’ve essentially been working in the middle of a massive construction site, with a huge diesel crane operating day in, day out, at most twelve feet from my head. There are no words for the toll this has taken on my sanity. My nerves are…frazzled, to say the least. My work and the up-keep of my personal life have both suffered. And now it’s hot out, and I am of course unable to open my windows.

The good news is that late last week I finally took action and went out and got myself (compliments of my employer, of course) a pair of those noise-blocking headphone thingies. Coupled with a pair of musician’s ear plugs, I now sit here in my own blissfully silent little cocoon.

Of course, this means that co-workers have found that they can get endless amusement out of sneaking into my office when my head is down or otherwise turned away from the door, thus giving me countless little heart attacks.

It also means I can’t hear my phone when it rings… I’ve tried to rig it so that it’s always in my line of vision, but more often than not my attention is not properly grabbed until the bright red “Message” indicator light pops on. Ah, well. Can’t say I ever really want to talk to anyone, anyway.

Um, I mean, if you call and don’t get me, you should leave a message and I will call you right back. Your call is very important to me!

We are ravelled and shaken, not touching the ground.

2007-04-18T15:57:00.000-04:00

Oh, fuck off.

AWEsome.

The above are two of my most oft-repeated mantras.

I am a zen master.

Shake us out of the heavy, deep sleep.

2007-04-17T11:23:00.000-04:00

I saw a woman piss on the street the other day. (No, it wasn’t Helen.) And as surprising as it was, ultimately the most surprising thing about it was the realization that, in all of my time here, I’d never seen that before. Seems odd. Well, at last I can cross it off the list.

It was really something. She just kind of hiked up her dress, squatted, leaned forward, and I swear to god, the pee shot out behind her with such force that I thought she was going to blast off of the sidewalk. A Jetson’s-style jet pack powered by the force of one’s own piss seemed a plausible extension to what I was witnessing. Efficient for sure, but highly unpleasant for those on the ground, I suppose.

The force and volume of the stream as it exited the woman’s body resembled that of a fire hose, and actually attracted the attention of people up and down the block. In fact, I was on the opposite side of the street!

It occurs to me now that shit might also have been involved. Perhaps this glorious golden April shower was merely the overture to a more satisfying, well rounded performance. Alas, I did not stick around to find out.

That peace will come, you're sweeter than me.

2007-04-16T12:30:00.000-04:00

I got nothing to say!

Regardless, I shall be making an effort to force myself to say...something, even when something ultimately equals nothing.

I’ve had very little time to myself lately. Work has been insane, and my personal life has been full, to say the least. But yesterday marked the culmination of a significant amount of work craziness—so here’s me now, catching up with myself.

While this may not be the most enthralling stuff to read, it’s going to keep coming, and you’re going to keep reading, so that when the good stuff finally comes out you’ll be all, “Oh wow, I just knew this was going to be worth it, but never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined it would be this worth it.”

Kisses.

If there's been a fool around...

2007-04-04T11:04:00.000-04:00

Well, I went to Atlanta. And it was fine. Not surprisingly, the highlights of the trip revolved around blood and poop. And puke. But really, the puke was more of a lowlight. Blood and poo = funny. Puke = gross.

Hey, I didn't make the rules.

You don’t know what it means to win.

2007-03-30T09:48:00.000-04:00

Walking to work this morning, along the Hudson, for some reason I was listening to Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours. Don’t know why. Haven’t listened to that album in forever. But as I neared the area around 72nd Street, where there’s this long, beautifully renovated pier that stretches out into the water, “Never Going Back Again” came on, and it just...fit. I skipped it back and listened to it three times as I walked toward the water. I just about never listen to songs repeatedly. But this was perfect.

I’m supposed to be in Atlanta for the next four days. There’s a slight chance I won’t be going. The person I’m supposed to be going with is not aware of this possibility. We’ll see how this all plays out.

Incidentally, “Oh Daddy” is such a tragically low point in what is an otherwise pretty spectacular album. What in the hell were they thinking?

He will show up looking sane. Perfectly sane.

2007-03-21T10:42:00.000-04:00

The past couple of days, I’ve felt the need to get to work by the power of my own two feet. So each morning I’ve gotten up an hour early, bundled up (for what is supposed to be, by all accounts, the last blast of wintry weather here) and begun my day with a stroll from the Upper West Side to midtown, along the banks of the Hudson. And it’s been really nice. Totally worth the sleep sacrifice. I get to work feeling focused and refreshed—a far cry from how I often feel after the ordeal of stumbling down the subway steps, spending a few harried minutes packed in with the masses, only to trudge back upstairs and through the crazy midtown streets on the way to my office.

The irony of this is not lost of me, mind you, given the fact that when the transit system was shut down for a workers’ strike a little over a year ago, I hated every step of that miserable, forced walk to work. Every step. “Those selfish fuckers. How can they do this to us? To this city?” It’s amazing how drastically feelings can change with shifts in perspective. And I didn’t even have to sacrifice any sleep then. No one was expected to be on time during a transit strike.

This morning, somewhere along the river I found a dollar bill, crumpled up into a ball. I bent down, picked it up, put it in my pocket, and continued on my way. It’s sitting here now in fact, still balled up, still a single dollar bill. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what it is, since I haven’t gone ahead and un-balled it yet.

It’s weird. I’ve always had a hard time taking anything that “isn’t mine.” I mean, of course I picked it up when I saw it—you see money, you pick it up. If you don’t someone else will, and there’s no way of connecting it with the person who dropped it. But damned if that wadded up piece of paper didn’t feel like ball of fire in my back pocket for the first few minutes it was in there… My mind toyed with all the “possibilities” of what that dollar bill could “conceivably” bring into my life. What if it was riddled with germs and disease? What if it was a trick? What if it was left there intentionally by some sadistic bastard who had something horrible in store for the person who picked it up? Oh my god, it was rolled into a ball! I didn’t stop to unroll it! Who knows what could be wadded up in the center of it!

Yeah. Crazy. So then I was like, “Christ P/O, you’re crazy,” and the ball of fire in my pocket turned back into a regular dollar bill, and I continued on my way. No doubt to obsess over something else that I’ve since forgotten. And thus, this dollar bill has become a memento—a tangible reminder of a moment of crazy. I should keep it as a talisman of sorts, a tool to try and keep the crazy at bay in the future. Kind of like how business owners frame the first dollar they make. Or something like that.

Eh, but why bother. I really think I'd rather have a cup of coffee.

And a willing coalition.

2007-03-06T10:46:00.000-05:00

You're right, meeting people is exhausting whether in a romantic or even friendly capacity.

While so much about life in NYC sucks ass, it's hard to imagine having the strength to leave behind this network of support I've created for myself here over the past twelve years.

Twelve years. Jesus. When I look at it that way, I feel like such a wuss for staying in one place so long. Isn't that weird? On the one hand, it's like I want stability; but on the other hand, I yearn to shake things up every now and then. And to me, twelve years without any shakeups feels like a kind of failure.

But of course, that’s a skewed version of “reality.” Looking back, there have been plenty of earth-shaking shakeups over the past twelve years. And somehow, through them all, I’ve remained here. That is not, by definition, a bad thing. Eh. Whatever.

So you're right. I'm lucky to be in a relationship that means a lot to me, and also surrounded by friends I can (usually) count on for all kinds of support. But weirdly, when mired in the depths, meaningful relationships (particularly romantic ones) can actually act to accentuate the already intense feelings of pointlessness.

Depression is a complex and terrifying beast.

And you shrug and you say...

2007-02-16T15:54:00.000-05:00

Valentine’s Day. Dinner with my boyfriend, at a restaurant I used to frequent with my girlfriend. Weird? I don’t know. Guess there’s just something about the place that makes me want to share it with the people I love.

The walk to our table—a snapshot of Valentine’s Day in New York: couple after couple of every size, shape, and stripe. Happy looking boys and girls, in every possible combination of the two. Sigh. Warms the heart on an otherwise freezing and messy night.

A cozy table, two seats across from each other, large wine glasses in between. A complimentary (and unexpected) pour of a sparkling rosé, crisp and refreshing. Something bubbly’s always nice.

A glance to my right. A glance to my left. And…holy shit! Guess I’m not the only one who likes to share this place with the people I love!

“Um, hi. Wow.”

“Yeah. Wow… Hi.”

She’s with a guy. Funny, so am I. She sees I’ve been eyeing her companion, as she’s been doing to mine.

“X this is Y, Y this is X. He’s my boyfriend. She was my girlfriend.”

“…”

Awkward. I don’t want to run away from this situation, but at the same time, this is not the time or the place. At best, it will lead to an awkward and uncomfortable meal; at worst, well, who knows. But none of us really want an awkward and uncomfortable meal on this night of all nights, regardless of how little this Hallmark holiday actually “means” to any one of us.

“Look, it’s cool running into you and all, and I’d totally be open to catching up sometime… But I’m thinking that right now, it might be best if we just request another table and go about our respective meals. Whaddaya think?”

“Yeah. That’d probably be best.”

Standing up, “Ok, well, it was…good seeing you.”

“Yeah. You too. Good…seeing you.”

“Let’s catch up sometime.”

”Ok, yeah. Let’s.”

The gathering of coats, the blatant absence of an exchange of contact information.

The cordial nod of my head.

The walk to another table.

The feeling of running away.

I got whiskey, you're welcome to some.

2007-02-09T10:04:00.000-05:00

Jesus talks to me each night before I go to bed. And again when I get up in the morning. His voice is hypnotic and smooth, with an edge of firmness and strength. Like honey that's begun to crystallize in the jar.

Usually he just quotes a few of his favorite biblical verses: John this, Mark that, vines and branches, kingdoms and truth. But lately... Lately it's almost as if I can feel him straining to branch out, aching to explore other philosophical territory. Hesitating in uncertainty as to the readiness of the world to accept more than the tried and true soundbytes and cliches. If I close my eyes, I can almost see his big blue eyes (Jesus had blue eyes, right?) pleading to be set free from the shackles of millennia spent enslaved by Christians, used as a tool, played as a pawn.

Talk to me, Jesus. I'm all ears.

Where the sun rarely filters down.

2007-02-07T10:18:00.000-05:00

Last night I dreamt of the Spanish Steps.

This morning I woke up, dragged myself through the well rehearsed theater of the post-alarm clock hour, and was ejected out onto the streets that are so cold that it keeps my door from closing and locking.

This morning I walked to the subway, every muscle and sphincter in my body clenching involuntarily, every thought in my mind revolving around the painful gnashing of my teeth and the distress caused by the maddening existence of so many slow movers blocking my path, standing between me and the speedy recovery of bodily warmth.

This morning I rode the crowded train, pressed firmly against a woman of questionable sanity who stood there waving to people I couldn’t see, laughing maniacally to herself. And belching. Loudly. A lot.

This morning I screamed inside as my outside froze and I navigated the multiple horrifying, and quite possibly life-threatening, construction sites on the way to my workday.

This morning I stood in my office building’s lobby waiting an eternity for the decrepit elevators, body thawing slowly, nose running profusely and uncontrollably, and every nerve in my harrowed being screaming out for that first sip of black gold.

But last night... Last night I dreamt of the Spanish Steps.

The power of orange knickers.

2007-02-01T17:40:00.000-05:00

Bored.

Bored. Bored. Bored.

Or should I say, “boring?”

That’s me in a nutshell. Not much going on. Things are fine. Work is busy, but fine. I’ve been hitting the gym a lot this month…which is fine. I’m hoping that by summer I can get back into some semblance of the physical shape I was once in (not all that long ago, really). It’s amazing how quickly those things can reverse themselves. (With my body and eating habits, at least.) So I’m committed to that, and have been carrying sneakers and gym clothes with me everywhere I go so that I can hit whatever location is convenient whenever I have time. And it’s going just fine. Yee haw.

I’m perpetually busy, and perpetually unsatisfied. However, that nagging dissatisfaction does not fill me with the hopelessness and depression it once would have. In fact, it’s been a pretty depression-free winter so far which, looking back to this time last year, is fucking amazing. And I ain’t knockin’ it! In the past, upon recognizing such a conspicuous absence, I probably would have frantically summoned the great black beast to me. But not this year. Somehow, I don’t feel that masochistic need to open my veins and wallow (and to some extent, revel) in the blood. Sweet.

What else? Well, I’ve been having a lot of really incredible sex. But no one wants to hear about stupid monogamous relationship sex, right?

See? Boring.

Where the hookers and thieves and the junkies play.

2007-01-25T15:33:00.000-05:00

Met up with some fellow bloggaz last night. And as usual and as expected, they turned out to be mere shadows of their vibrant online selves… So, so sad. I mean, not to be rude, but can we say dull? Total snoozefest. Seriously. Why do we blogmeisters bother coming out from behind our computer screens? There should be a law against it.

Oh, alright. It was a total blast. As evidenced by a hangover that has persisted into the afternoon…

Getting-to-know-you happened over dinner and drinks at Vynl, and that was followed by “a drink” at Posh that turned into, like, twelve. Cheap drink specials are bad, bad things.

There was drunkenness. There was laughter. There was even a little bad behavior. Topics of conversation may have included:

*theater
*Little Miss Sunshine
*American Idol
*butt sex
*waiting tables
*public circumcision
*crabs
*real estate

Can you guess which of the above occupied most of the evening?

If you guessed theater, well then, give yourself a big ol’ pat on the back, you queen. Unfortunately my knowledge of that subject wasn't up to snuff, although I was able to contribute, “Hey, I saw Passion with Donna Murphy, too!” and “Hey, I hated Light in the Piazza, too!” Butt sex and public circumcision, on the other hand—those are two subjects I can expound upon. Especially when they’re combined into a single fun-filled activity. Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it.

Dull, right?

So thanks go to Blood Ray, a Chicagoan, for bringing together three New Yorkers—in New York! What a guy. Oh, and did I mention we’re best friends now? Yep. I think there may have even been a blood pact involved. Oh wait, no, that was, um, something else… And it had nothing to do with Blood Ray. Nevermind.

So Pan is the name of that plane.

2007-01-24T10:34:00.000-05:00

So I just don’t care about much right now.

Which is totally a good thing.

Seriously.

I’m just kind of rolling along, enjoying life, getting done what needs to be done, having fun where I can, and remaining pretty much unaffected by it all.

It’s funny because when phrased like that it strikes me as rather negative; and yet, my experience of it is so completely positive. Right now living just seems so…easy. Effortless. Which is so rarely the case with me!

These days, I still run around all week, same circles as ever—but instead of feeling flat or beaten down, I feel…just fine. I revel in the good stuff. The time I get to spend with friends. The time I get to myself. And at night, I fall into bed and sleep well ‘til morning.

God, how boring is this to read? And yet, for me it’s revolutionary! I mean, I’m no stranger to feeling good, don’t get me wrong. And I’m certainly no stranger to feeling bad. But this awareness of feeling…not much of anything…and being ok with that? This is new. And I like it.

It's a drowning dive and back to the chorus.

2007-01-10T16:22:00.000-05:00

So here’s a little tidbit that I have a feeling Blood Ray will appreciate…

I was talking to my grandmother recently, and she was telling me how a bunch of her friends had gone to see a movie, but she didn’t go because they had chosen one she didn’t really want to see.

Surprised, I asked, “Oh really? Which one was it?"

And she replied, “The one about black ladies singing.”

I'm ok when everything is not ok.

2007-01-09T15:04:00.000-05:00

Ok, I haven’t been writing enough (read: at all) lately, and that’s got to change. So get ready to lap up whatever I vomit out onto the page. You know you love it.

The Christmas/New Year holidays came and went jollily and without incident this year. Well, pretty much without incident. I borrowed one of my parents’ vehicles to drive out to Kentucky, and my dad swears it came back with brand new dings and dents. But I didn’t hit anything! I swear! And regardless of the truth, I have a hunch that’ll be the last time I’m leant a vehicle for a little cross-country jaunt. Oh well.

Kentucky was awesome. I have dear friends and a two-and-a-half year old “nephew” out there, and it’s so great to spend time with them. I love the balance of kid time and adult time we seem so effortlessly to establish. Highlights definitely included running around the playground, lunchtime puking at the local Italian restaurant, and realizing that when I care about the kid in question I actually find temper tantrums and red-faced screaming (oh yeah, and puking) kind of…funny. And endearing. Who would’ve thought? But it’s true. I love the little details, and I love him for reminding me of that. It’s been a long time since I’ve been a part of the raising (corrupting) of any young’uns, and I do enjoy it. And soon enough, people all around me will be popping them out.

My grandmother just turned eighty last week. Eighty! I can’t believe it. She seems so much younger to me. (Possibly because my whole life she’s insisted that she’s thirty-nine…) She’s so active and full of vitality. And still so vital to my life. So while I can’t wait to celebrate this milestone with her and all of our extended family (big surprise party on the horizon), it is of course made a bit bittersweet by the realization that this number eighty serves as a reminder that she’s older than I like to recognize, and that we will inevitably lose her one day. It was hard losing each of my other grandparents, and I dread the day I will have to say goodbye to one more. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that fearing the inevitable serves no purpose but to temper the enjoyment of the present. So I’ll just enjoy the present, thank you very much.

That’s enough for now I suppose. We’ll see what else I dredge up tomorrow.

And we make it up as we go along.

2007-01-03T10:22:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year!

Updates coming, just as soon as I’m reinserted into my daily, non-holiday life. Suffice to say it was a very busy—but very good—couple of weeks, and I’m ready to get back in the swing. 2007, here we come.

Of love and dreams to share. (Day 16)

2006-12-18T13:43:00.000-05:00

Behind door number sixteen we have... Oh shit! It's locked!!

Well, this was fun while it lasted and all. But alas, this advent calendar must have been counting down to something other than the birth of Jesus Christ, since it has now reached its conclusion.

I may or may not post again before the end of the year, so if not, have a happy happy!

Of love and dreams to share. (Day 15)

2006-12-15T15:55:00.000-05:00

Every so often, I am forced by my job to spend a day in financial hell. Today is one of those days. It’s ok, though. As much as I hate to admit it, there’s a usually well repressed part of me that actually gets off on displaying just how well I know my way around an Excel spreadsheet!

Of love and dreams to share. (Day 14)

2006-12-14T17:37:00.000-05:00

Behind door number fourteen… a haunted mansion!

I dreamt I was walking through one last night. And now that I think about it, I realize that I dream about them semi-frequently. I’ve always been somewhat obsessed by them, in fact. Not sure what it is about the whole experience, but in my dreams it’s especially electrifying.

I’ve never really gotten into bondage or dominance and submission or anything like that, but maybe it’s the same principle. I mean, anyone that knows me knows that, in general, I’m a person that likes to be in control. In fact, situations in which I have no control (being stuck in traffic, waiting for the subway, unexplained flight delays, etc.) have the potential to cause me great amounts of stress. Granted I’ve gotten a lot better, but in the past we’d be talking major panic attack inducers.

So maybe that’s why my most sought-after forms of entertainment are those in which I willingly give up control, while at the same time doing so in an ultimately safe and controlled environment. Roller coasters. Thrill rides. Skydiving. And yes, haunted mansions. Wandering (or riding) around in the dark, every second alive with that horrible/incredible feeling of anticipating something terrible/wonderful. That kind of anticipation becomes a physical sensation, somewhere on the boundary between pleasure and pain. All because you know you have to move forward into the darkness, into the complete unknown, and whatever is going to happen is going to happen whether you like it or not. (Yet all the while in the back of your head you know this: they can’t touch you!)

Like the power broker who likes to get slapped around by a woman in leather and made to lick her boots while he gets fucked in the ass with a dildo, clamps getting tighter and tighter on his nipples and balls. Oh so helpless. (All the while in the back of his mind knowing that if the pain becomes too much, he need only mutter “pineapple” to take it all away.)

Of love and dreams to share. (Day 13)

2006-12-13T16:16:00.000-05:00

And behind door number thirteen we have… a happy ending!

(Take it however you please.)

Is there really any possibility of a happy ending? Do happy endings really exist? And for that matter, do endings even exist?

Of love and dreams to share. (Day 12)

2006-12-12T16:50:00.000-05:00

And behind magical door number twelve we have… garbage juice!

(Sorry, but I got nothin’.)

Garbage juice is the disgusting urban phenomenon that appears on sidewalks in commercial areas after piles of garbage bags have rested on them all night and been removed in the morning. Though it would be offensive at any time, it is especially unfortunate that one will most likely encounter festering pools of garbage juice first thing in the morning, when gross things seem to take on an even greater level of grossness. I mean, early morning has the strange power to render things we would normally find delicious utterly disgusting, let alone things we would normally find utterly disgusting. And I don’t want to meet the person that doesn’t find garbage juice utterly disgusting.

Garbage juice is at its most offensive in the heat of the summer, when odors are at their most powerful and funks are at their most festering. However, it occurred to me this morning that the winter lends itself to seeing much more garbage juice than any other season, since business owners are not out religiously hosing down their sidewalks in the cold weather. So I ask you: to which sense is garbage juice most offensive: sight or smell? I’m currently on the fence.

Of love and dreams to share. (Day 11)

2006-12-11T16:04:00.000-05:00

Let’s peak behind door number eleven, shall we? Why, look! It’s friends in far-off places!

This time of year is a double-edged sword when it comes to those you love that are far away. For it makes you think about them and reflect on how much they mean to you and how glad you are that they’re in your life. But in the end, it makes you miss them more than ever.

Of love and dreams to share. (Day 10)

2006-12-11T14:45:00.000-05:00

And behind door number ten we’ve got… a computer programmer!

Specifically, one of the blessed computer programmers that programs free flash games to play online. Do they deserve 501(c)(3) status, or what???

There are a millions of little flash games out there, and a lot of them are crap, but when you come upon a good one you can get at least a week’s worth of good stress relief out of it. See, I tend to be really busy at work, and don’t get to devote a whole lot of time to personal stuff. But I always need a few quick stress-relief breaks throughout the day (mind out of the gutter, please), and quick online games can really serve that purpose.

Here are a few of my recent faves:

Marvin Spectrum
Apartheid
Puki 3d

Each is controlled in a different way, and mastering that is part of the fun. Can’t say which one I like the best, but there’s definitely something endearing about shooting weird little baby albino vampires.

Of love and dreams to share. (Day 9)

2006-12-11T10:44:00.000-05:00

Prying open door number nine reveals… humility!

What does humility look like? I don’t know. But I can tell you what it doesn’t look like.

Standing in the congregation at a festive Christmas wedding on Saturday, I was touched by the words of the pastor and by the whole thing, even though I had never met the bride and groom, nor the vast majority of the attendees. But the ceremony was nice, and the bride and groom seemed emotional and sincere as they began reciting their vows. And as I stood and listened, I happened to glance at an older married couple a few rows ahead of me, just in time to catch the wife glaring venomously at the husband as the bride and groom pledged to have "the courage to admit when they're wrong.”

Yeah. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t look like that.

Of love and dreams to share. (Day 8)

2006-12-11T09:50:00.000-05:00

Behind door number eight we find... an airplane!

For that explains the break in my diligent posting schedule that occurred on Friday. Four airplanes, actually. Plus a number of shuttles, vans, and a very unexpected chartered bus ride back to NYC from Allentown, Pennsylvania. (Don’t ask.)

So those are the shitty things about travel. But they generally tend to be outweighed by the good things. I’ve always loved traveling, and have been fortunate in that I’ve been able to do a good deal of it. There’s something so great about getting out of the routine and placing yourself in the middle of somewhere new; somewhere different and strange.

And there were things about this weekend that were different, that’s for sure. For instance, upon finding ourselves stranded in Minneapolis late Friday night and crashing at a Holiday Inn that was overrun with frat boys drinking at the hotel bar, Johnny Cash blaring in the background, we were surprised to notice the large signs posted at the lobby entrance adamantly banning guns on the premises. Phew. I know I felt safer! (God, I’m such a city bumpkin.)

Of love and dreams to share. (Day 7)

2006-12-07T14:24:00.000-05:00

And behind door number seven we find… poison. (Hey, I never said they would all be harmless little surprises, did I?)

While walking down the street this morning, I came upon a discarded flyer with the heading, “How Toxic Are You?” And though I have no idea what the flyer was referring to (that was the only part I read as I walked by), it got me to thinking… Just how toxic am I? And what does that mean, exactly?

Are we talking about being toxic in terms of having a toxic effect on the world and those around us?

I mean, it sucks to even consider the possibility that I might be seen as “toxic” to some of the people in my life, or in some of my relationships. But at least that’s something I ultimately have control over.

Or are we talking about, god forbid, the extent to which I've absorbed toxins in my life?

In other words, the extent to which I’ve allowed the toxins of others to enter and affect me. And here’s the thing about toxins: they just keep building and building inside the body, until they reach fatal levels. And we all know what happens then.

So if I really think about it, and am really honest, there have definitely been times in my life where I’ve been truly poisonous. It’s sick, and doesn’t make me proud, but it’s the reality. And I think we’ve all been there at one time or another.

Even more shameful, though, are the instances in which I’ve willingly swallowed the poison of others, thinking I had no choice. Thinking, it’s a bitter pill to swallow, but suck it up. Someone’s got to swallow it.

But see, the thing is, we always have a choice. Though we may not be able to control the actions of others, we sure as hell can control our response them. We can’t control whether what they put out there is poisonous, but we certainly can decide whether we let it into our blood.

Anyway, I hope that my answer to the question, either way it’s posed, would be “Not very.” I think that it is.

Of love and dreams to share. (Day 6)

2006-12-06T14:29:00.000-05:00

Today’s little cardboard door conceals… coffee.

Coffee is something I think a lot about. Seriously. I love it. I crave it. Like red wine, it makes me warm and happy. Though I don’t crave wine (or anything else, really) the way I crave coffee. And also like wine, it’s something that I savor. I think that’s part of its appeal. As far as I’m concerned, coffee is the non-smoker’s cigarette break. Or at least, that’s how I treat it. I don’t slurp it down while focusing on work or obligation. I savor and enjoy it, focusing on whatever comes along. The time I spend drinking it is my time.

I think I also associate it with good friends. There’s nothing like slowly sipping a hot cup of coffee while catching up with people you care deeply about. Just did it yesterday, in fact. In the middle of the workday! Tea works too, and I do drink tea, but to me it doesn’t even come close to my feelings for the dark brew. And yeah, I’m probably addicted, and yeah, I’ve gone through weaning periods (just to do it, cuz that’s what kind of guy I am), but honestly, I can’t imagine the effects of one cup of coffee a day (maybe two on weekends) are anything that needs to be worried about.

And it’s not just the taste of it, or the act of drinking it. To me, for as long as I can remember, the smell of it has always been one of the most pleasurable aromas on earth. Even when I was little, and couldn’t stand the taste of the stuff, the smell always caught my attention. Just walking past a Starbucks or into a coffee shop is enough to give me a moment’s pleasure. And in this city, where you encounter so many things that give so many moments of displeasure, you really need that. Or at least I do.

Of love and dreams to share. (Day 5)

2006-12-05T14:52:00.000-05:00

And speaking of lubrication, behind door number five is… a bottle of red wine!

This has long been one of my favorite pleasures. It’s warm, it’s comforting, it’s complex. It’s deep and organic, and it’s more than a little relaxing. What could be more perfect than passing a bottle around with friends on a chill winter’s night?

Sounds like I’m talking about pot, doesn’t it? And while that’s nice too (and the combination of the two can be especially pleasant) I think I’d still choose the mellow red wine buzz over that of weed at this stage of my life. I definitely prefer drinking to inhaling, and there’s something about the effect of wine flowing through the body (by way of the throat and stomach) that trumps that of any kind of smoke inhalation, as far as I’m concerned. Plus, no unpleasant after-effects.

Oooh, and all those antioxidants!

Now where’s my corkscrew…

Of love and dreams to share. (Day 4)

2006-12-04T11:51:00.000-05:00

Ok, enough of the serious shit. Door number four conceals… lube!

I mean, what in life is not improved by a little…lubrication? Let’s face it. Most things can be done without it, but just think about how much more pleasurable they are with it! Slippery is good.

Here’s a tip though: try not to spill it on your hardwood floors. That shit sticks around forEVER! (And your guests don’t necessarily know to be on the lookout for oil slicks in your house. Ouch. Lawsuit waiting to happen, my friend.)

Of love and dreams to share. (Day 3)

2006-12-03T11:49:00.000-05:00

And behind door number three there’s… a beach!

What can I say, talk of music—one thing that resonates deeply and inexplicably inside me—led naturally to thoughts of another.

I don’t know what it is about the ocean and the sand and the sun, but man, what a connection we as people have to it. (I say “we,” because I sure as hell don’t seem to be original in this regard.) Few things are as restorative to me. If a time comes where I'm overwhelmed or scattered into molecules, my mind retreats to the sandy shores even before my body is able to. Mere thoughts of it can be healing, though nowhere near as healing as physical closeness. The sound of the waves, the smell of the air. The sight of the water lapping the shore and the feel of the sand under my feet. All the seasons of the year. Sunny, cloudy, hot, cold… They all have their charms. I think of burying myself under the waves and the sand, and these thoughts are not depressed or suicidal. They are instead thoughts of the most profound rest and the deepest peace. Rejuvenation.

Of love and dreams to share. (Day 2)

2006-12-02T11:47:00.000-05:00

Behind door number two we have… music!

Looking back over my life thus far, there are relatively few things I can trace as constants throughout. Music, however, is one of them. Growing up in my house, I learned to appreciate song even before speech, and that appreciation turned into a passion that has persisted to this day. Though the types of music I’ve consumed over the years has certainly changed and evolved, the passion has never wavered. Songs still have the ability to rock my world, and when they do, I remain convinced that that particular song or artist is just about the best thing ever. That is, until my world gets rocked by something else.

Somewhere along the way, I developed this fantasy that I would make my living in music. And amazingly, so far I’ve managed to do just that! Thinking about it makes me realize how lucky I’ve been.

Of love and dreams to share. (Day 1)

2006-12-01T11:25:00.000-05:00

Holy crap! It’s December! The last month of the year! Wha happuh???

Ok. I’ll deal…

But anyway, as a child, one of the (many) things that enthralled me about this time of year was the advent calendar. Which seems really strange, actually. I’ve always been the kind of person that needs nearly constant…stimulation, and let’s just say that if the ability to become bored quickly was an Olympic sport, I’d win the gold every time. So the idea that I was captivated by a cheap piece of card stock with twenty-five little dated die-cut doors all over it, each hiding some silly little depiction of holiday bacchanalia, is surprising to say the least. But it’s true. Oh how I loved opening that little door each day. The anticipation. And even if a particular day’s offering was less than thrilling (a pony? WTF???), there was always the consolation that the next day’s door would conceal something better. It was like the Let’s Make a Deal of holiday traditions.

And don’t think I went in for those fancy advent calendars, either. For me, it was the simpler the better. Any year that we ventured into the higher-concept varieties, I was left cold and longing for the simpler feel of cardboard and glitter. Believe it or not, I even preferred this to those high-falutin’ models that come with a piece of chocolate behind each door. Twenty-five days til Christmas, twenty-five little pieces of chocolate! What could be better, right? But after you’ve eaten the chocolate each day, you’re left with an empty little hole. Sad. Give me twenty-five colorful little drawings over twenty-five empty little holes any day.

So in tribute to those simpler times, and in light of the fact that I no longer have little cardboard doors to open, this blog is going to serve that very purpose for the next twenty-five days. Twenty-five virtual little doors will be opened, and twenty-five colorful little truths revealed. They are not planned out, and hence what lies behind each day’s little door will be as much a surprise for me as it is for you. I hope it’s fun. I think it will be. And when it comes to an end, another yule will have arrived; another year will have begun.

So without further ado, behind today’s little door is…chocolate. Ha! Didn’t see that coming, did you? But sure enough, that’s what’s there. Chocolate is one of my very favorite things. I love it in so many forms, for so many reasons. It’s rich and delicious, and dark and luxurious. And yet, it’s something so simple. You can get it everywhere, and everyone knows what it is. It’s nothing special, and I guess that’s what makes it so special. To me it’s one of the simplest of pleasures, and that’s what I’m reminded of when I eat it: the fact that pure pleasure and enjoyment can come in such a simple, delicious little package. An important thing to keep in mind. (Just don’t put it inside my advent calendar, thanks.)

Spin me 'round again and rub my eyes.

2006-11-28T16:08:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving was (in some ways surprisingly) lovely. Sigh. I love meditation. And drugs. And therapy. And the fact that I’ve come a long way since this time last year.

There is little else to say. Life marches on. Hard to believe that we’re now rounding the bend toward “The Holidays.” Seems like we just did this. I can’t remember if I feel this way every year, but it seems like this was the fastest one yet. Looking at the calendar now, it’s like every minute is planned between now and the dawn of 2007. I hope to make that not be the case, and to enjoy each minute of downtime as it comes, here, at the twilight of yet another year.

I heard on NPR today that the Iraq war (which is now being called a “civil war,” by the way) is officially longer than the United States’ involvement in World War II. Holy fuck. How has this happened? (That is a rhetorical question.)

Somehow the approach of winter feels right. The darkness at 4:00 fits like a glove. The only discrepancy is the short sleeves I still find myself sporting each day. It’s disorienting. Enough to tip the scales just slightly out of balance.

Oh my heart, I would clap and dance in place.

2006-11-22T11:02:00.000-05:00

Today is the perfect day-before-Thanksgiving. The air is crisp, the sky is overcast, and there’s that little touch of...something...in the air that hints at snow flurries and fireplaces. Like we’re somehow perched on the boundary between fall and winter. Which I guess we are.

I love Thanksgiving—a holiday that is purely and simply about gathering. Being thankful. Reflective. I have much to be thankful for. We all do.

Here’s to celebrating that fact with you and yours.

You know the shape my breath will take before I let it out.

2006-11-21T09:47:00.000-05:00

I saw a lady eating Funyuns on the train this morning.

That is all.

Returning to the house you caught fire.

2006-11-17T11:08:00.000-05:00

No more forced distance.

I need to feel as welcome in your life as you do in mine.

I need to feel I can hold you to the same standards to which I am held.

I need to feel that I am with someone who is actually happy to be with me. Because I must hold fast to the belief that there are people out there who would be happy to be with me.

I need to feel that I am with someone who is at least open to an unknown future. If this is already seen as a defined chapter with a clear beginning and end, well then I’m afraid that the end must come now.

I need to feel that we are both communicating, rather than holding shit in. I am going to stop holding shit in, and need you to do the same.

I need to know what I’m “allowed” to expect of you. And I want it to be the same as what you expect of me.

Sealed by my skin, but broken inside.

2006-11-16T13:03:00.000-05:00

What do I want? What do I need? What do I want? What do I need? What do I want? What do I need?

Not this.
Not this.
Not this.

Ok, but that’s not constructive. Time to be constructive. It’s been a miserable week, and that can’t continue into future weeks.

So what do I want?
And what do I need?

And I feel fine.

2006-11-14T09:52:00.000-05:00

Saw Borat last night. Awesome. Sacha Baron Cohen is a genius who makes great things.

Before the movie, there was a preview for Mel Gibson's next...production, Apocalypto.

Mel Gibson is a gross human being who makes ridiculous, ridiculous movies.

That is all.

We meet in the streets.

2006-11-07T17:07:00.000-05:00

Another NYC Marathon under my belt. Sigh. It was the perfect day and an awesome experience. And as I have more time to process, I'll elaborate on details. Suffice to say I've been tired, sore, and thrilled that it's over. As well as pleased, fulfilled, and on another emotional high. I'm basking in the feeling of accomplishment and, for once, feeling perfectly entitled to a few days of laziness.

While there's so much to report about 26.2 miles spent running around New York City, one particularly lingering impression is the following:

I spent a good part of the first six or seven miles of the race following behind a guy whose shirt read, "Only Jesus can save you. Run to him." And while I can't say I was particularly inspired by his message, next to him were two runners dressed in elaborate rhinoceros costumes, directing spectators to savetherhino.org. Coincidence? I'm not so sure. I mean, wouldn't it be something if those two rhinos found salvation along the course of the NYC Marathon? Fate works in mysterious ways, my friend. Think about it. I haven't.

I am the martyr, and I cannot hide.

2006-11-01T16:14:00.000-05:00

I've had a day of missing those that are no longer in my life.

This hungry life won't let you out whole.

2006-10-31T13:33:00.000-05:00

Just finished one huge project, and now must begin work on another that I need to present to my boss first thing next week. Add to that the fact that I’m running the NYC marathon on Sunday (I honestly can’t believe it’s this weekend), and I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.

But allow me to direct your attention to the bathroom for a moment. See, where I work, guys *never* come back from the bathroom with weird bathroom stories. (I can’t really say I’m sad about that, by the way.) The gals on the other hand... At least three of the women I work with have returned from our floor’s shared women’s room with crazy stories, each more bizarre than the next. I’m still laughing about today’s inSTALLment... (See what I did there?)

So one of my female co-workers is sitting in her stall (get it now?), minding her own business, when she hears something drop to the floor. And before she even realizes what’s happened, a half-eaten apple has rolled into her stall, and her mortified next-door neighbor has quickly gathered her things and run out of the bathroom!

I know. It kills me. I can’t get over it.

Epilogue:

So with nothing else to do as she sat there, and feeling a sudden rumbling in her belly, my co-worker happily scooped up this unexpected gift from the toilet gods and munched away, a slight grin playing around the edges of her mouth as she chewed. Waste not want not! What? Is that weird?

Ok, so that part's not true.

Big as grapefruits, big as pumpkins, yes sir.

2006-10-26T10:21:00.000-04:00

So less than two weeks before the NYC marathon, I’ve found myself in the unfortunate position of having to buy new running shoes. Highly unpleasant for a number of reasons, and not at all recommended at this stage of the game. So that sucks.

But the most tragic aspect of the whole thing is this: I spent all of last evening shoe-shopping all over the city, helpful employee after helpful employee bent over in front of me, kneeling in my crotch, while I unwittingly sported some major mammal toe.

Someone's got to do the culling of the fold...

2006-10-23T16:50:00.000-04:00

Inexplicably, I’ve taken to imitating the people who annoy me on the street. Clearly it is only a matter of time until I am pounded into the pavement.

You can be Henry Miller, and I'll be Anais Nin.

2006-10-19T13:00:00.000-04:00

Cross another book off the list of books I’ve “always been meaning to read.” Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer. At times a slog, but I’m glad I’ve finally read it. I mean, how could anyone not want to read a work that was so shocking when it was written that it was banned in the States for thirty years, and is said to have revolutionized the American novel? The cover of the edition I read even claims that “American literature today begins and ends with what Miller has done.” Whew. Now that’s some shit right there. I plunged in, ready to be rocked.

Well, I wasn’t really. But I think it would be impossible to be, in this day and age, with everything that’s come after. And maybe that speaks to the achievement of this work, I don’t know. I think it’s one of those books that must be read with the context in which it was written kept firmly in mind. I mean, it could be argued that that’s the case with all art: context inevitably plays a roll in how it is perceived; and not just the context in which it was created, but also the context in which it is observed. Which is true. But interestingly, while reading it, Tropic of Cancer is very nearly timeless. The French setting is essential and ever-present, but the era is not nearly so. So I found it necessary to periodically remind myself of the time and place in which it was created. Otherwise, I’d be all sarcastic-like, rolling my eyes and thinking, “Ooooooh, stream-of-consciousness,” or “Ooooooh, surreal, dream-like passages,” or “Ooooooh, graphic, matter-of-fact descriptions of sex and STDs and multiple partners and whores and blatant misogyny... Never heard of any of that before, Mr. Miller. You are so totally rocking my world right now.” Snore.

See what I mean? None of those things are particularly earth-shattering anymore. But I imagine that at the time, a “novel” in which the “main character” shares the name of the novel’s author, speaks in the first person, relates things as if they’re simply thoughts flowing onto the page (several passages read like some of Hunter Thompson’s drug-induced ravings), and speaks frankly about the basest of human desires, was probably pretty titillating.

And who knows. Maybe all the talk of cunt and twat and whores and group sex and the like really got people off. (Oh come on, you knew where this was headed, right? Clearly I myself owe a debt to Mr. Miller, and never even knew it.)

Oh, there's a big bare titty on the cover, too.

Maintenant, chaque fois qu'on essaie de se ranger...

2006-10-18T15:52:00.000-04:00

What can I say, I’m really stuck in my routine right now:

Get up. Run. Work. Eat. Sleep. Maybe read a little, maybe watch a little TV (these days I’m loving crappy reality shows on DVD).

That’s about it.

A few times a week I try to squeeze in time to actually make something with my hands. For instance, I’ve made progress on my highly acclaimed series of ceramic dog dishes. I know, right? Fido never had it so good. You want a set? Well get in line, Purina-breath. I’m rapidly becoming known far and wide as the dog-bowl guy. And by “far and wide” I do mean of course as “far” as my little brain can imagine, and as “wide” as my little circle of friends and studio acquaintances.

Oh, and last week, in the midst of a ridiculous work schedule, I made an apple crisp. I know! How domestic is that? And so unlike me I could shit. I mean, come on. I may be known for a lot of things (dog bowls, for example), but cooking just isn’t one of them.

It was delicious, by the way.

So that’s my routine. Or something like it. The marathon approaches. And once it has passed, I shall no doubt resume my more regular schedule of activity and bodily abuse.

I should warn you, I go to sleep.

2006-10-12T13:02:00.000-04:00

The word of the day is “soporific.” I learned it on the train this morning (or re-learned it, anyway), and it couldn’t be more relevant on these grey fall days. “Causing or tending to cause sleep.” This weather is soporific. Lying lazily in the arms of a loved one is soporific. Eating comforting, autumnal foods (apples, spiced wafers) is soporific. Intense sex is soporific. Songs like cedar-scented woolen blankets are soporific. Songs with titles like "Majesty Snowbird" and "That Was the Worst Christmas Ever." How can the beauty be denied?

Good night.

Telling yourself to be humble, singing yourself to be free.

2006-10-10T17:27:00.000-04:00

It was an emotional and difficult process, but this weekend I did in fact "set myself free." And as has been the case time and time again in this relationship, things did not go as expected. Come Monday morning, not only did I not find myself single, but I was (and am) more pleased and comfortable with that not-single status that I have been in some time.

Just goes to show, being true to yourself is always the way to go. Even if the outcome is potentially painful or unpleasant. I mean, if you opt for the path that assures you a painless present, ultimately the comfort is going to wear thin as it rubs against the knowledge that you compromised or denied some crucial part of yourself to achieve it, right?

I think that’s right. And that’s why on Sunday, after three days of solitary and personal reflection, I decided to “take the bull by the horns” and act as I did—despite the potentially heartbreaking consequences. One thing about me: I am not afraid of making decisions. I take that back. Sometimes I’m afraid of making decisions; but it’s especially when I feel that telltale fear that I force myself to make them.

And as always, the trial associated with making this particular decision was a learning experience. I love the person I’m with right now. And he loves me. We’ve established that time and time again. But now I also have a much clearer picture of things I can and cannot accept within the boundaries of that love. And crap, that makes me happy. And to top it off, we’re still together. And I’m happier about that now than I was before this weekend. So we’ll see how it goes.

And in my city bed, out of my fucking head.

2006-10-05T13:50:00.000-04:00

Saw Shortbus last night, John Cameron Mitchell’s (non-simulated) sex-filled romp. First time I’ve encountered graphic male/female sex in a while. Hot.

It was really good. Having been made by JCM, it was of course much more full of cock than cunt. But also, having been made by JCM, it was deep and moving and smart and funny and sad and brilliant and all that stuff, too. Given its graphic elements it has already gotten a lot press; the good thing is that the press is totally warranted by its substance.

As was the case with Hedwig (both the play and the film, separately and for different reasons) I found myself moved in unexpected ways. A knowing smile here. An unexpected spark of connection there. Oddly, I think I was most moved by a scene involving a kiss between an old man and another man probably more than forty years his junior. That’s quite an achievement right there.

Aside from all that, the film is so New York. Anyone who’s been here a significant amount of time, been here through things like 9/11, the blackout, the transit strikes, etc. can’t help but be affected by this movie on some deeper level. Somehow John Cameron Mitchell and all of his actors (who created their roles together through improvisations, apparently) really tapped into something true and powerful and real. These people are out there. Somewhere.

Sometimes, stomping around this often filthy, disgusting, cruel, and horrible place, that’s all I need to know.

Tear myself in two, just to hear you breathe.

2006-10-04T16:25:00.000-04:00

In the deli the other morning, in my half-asleep, pre-caffeinated haze, I knocked over an entire stack of large plastic cups as I tried to extract a single one for my chilly iced beverage of choice. Oops. I watched in confusion as they tumbled over, and then looked bashfully at the girl standing next to me and laughed, saying exactly what had just gone through my head, “Oops.”

She looked at me, laughed, and said, “I do that all the time.”

How sweet is that? I mean, really. “I do that all the time.” Come on. No one does that all the time. I’m in that deli every morning, and personally, I’ve never before seen the tower of plastic cups take a dive.

But with a sparkle in her eye, she said good-naturedly, “I do that all the time.”

Sigh. My heart fluttered.

And then... and THEN... Do you know what she did? She walked to the other side of the counter and picked them up. She actually picked up the cups for me and put them back on the counter. How is such kindness even possible? This is the type of thing we feel lucky to read about it books, knowing that we shall likely never experience it ourselves. She, a complete stranger, went out of her way not only to be empathic to me, a complete stranger, but to then extend herself and clean up a mess that I, a complete stranger, had made.

And that was the first time I fell in love that morning.

Go home lady, find yourself happy.

2006-10-03T16:50:00.000-04:00

Oh my god, I fucking hate everything... Halloween plans? Eh, I hate the insanity of Halloween in this city. Running? Pretty much hating all this exhausting training. Live music? Fuckin hate the crowds and the hipsters. Movies? I hate how obnoxious people can be in movie theaters, not to mention that moment when the lights come up and you get ejected back onto the street. Back into life. Relationships? Don’t even get me started.

Ok, I’m lying. I love all these things. And more. But for some reason, sometimes I just think that I hate them.

Don't want to spend the day re-tracing steps.

2006-10-02T12:55:00.000-04:00

Today I’m tired and sore. Sore and tired. Next time I decide to run two races in one weekend, while simultaneously training for a marathon and putting in a twenty-mile day, somebody slap me.

Actually, I’m not feeling too bad now. But yesterday, around mile 18, oh man... I had had it. Not to mention the fact that the entire twenty-mile run took place in a torrential downpour; a fact that was later compounded by the irony that minutes after I crossed the finish line the clouds parted, the sky turned sunny and blue, and we had an absolutely gorgeous fall day on our hands.

Saturday’s race was fun, though. It was this annual deal called the Fifth Avenue Mile, which I’d never run before but had always wanted to. It was a blast to go sprinting down Fifth Ave., and challenging and rewarding to test out my fast-mile abilities. I ran it much faster than I expected to, which felt great. Of course, I’m sure it contributed to the agonizing tightness in my legs two-thirds of the way through Sunday’s twenty miles. But oh well.

So it was pretty much a weekend of running, punctuated by a couple of awesome meals with awesome friends. And glazing. Lots of glazing. There’s just something about dipping my hands into huge vats of chemicals. Sweet.

He takes away the sins of the world.

2006-09-28T10:29:00.000-04:00

I love this. Though I totally get their intended purpose (and think that’s weird enough as it is), can’t you just see the crazy Christian mommies lovingly tucking a little bit of Jesus alongside the JELL-O Pudding Paks in their kiddies’ lunchboxes?

I wanna see you sideways. I wanna make it better.

2006-09-27T15:10:00.000-04:00

I accidentally took two vitamins today. Oops. Now I feel shitty. Coincidence? Psychosomatic? Completely unrelated? Who knows. But I do know that I hate taking pills. Always have. Just the idea of so much of god-knows-what being packed into such a little thing, poised and ready to dissolve in my stomach and invade my body at a moment’s notice, has always felt...suspect to me. I generally don’t even take aspirin or any of its cousins for run-of-the-mill aches and pains. In some way, I don’t think I ever got past the mind-blowing childhood question of how it “knows where to go.”

So when I realized what I had done this morning, I honestly had a moment of panic in which I considered making myself puke—as if I had ingested poison or “accidentally” swallowed an entire bottle of sleeping pills or something. Instead, I checked myself, took a deep breath, and was later reassured by my assistant asserting helpfully that I would probably just “pee it out.” Phew. So regardless of how accurate that assertion may or may not be, it did the trick. Finger remained out of throat—breakfast remained unpuked.

Though I guess I do still kind of believe that the rapid introduction of 200% of my body’s daily vitamin and mineral needs is why I have a raging headache right now. And since I’m not normal, you won’t be hearing me say, “Pass the aspirin.”

I’ll be under my desk if you need me.

No es facil d’entender.

2006-09-26T09:41:00.000-04:00

Watched Mulholland Dr. again this weekend. God, I love that movie. It’s just...stunning. Like most of David Lynch’s work, it kind of creeps under my skin and stays there, demanding my attention long after I’ve watched it.

I intend to write more about it later. But for now, I just wanted to say if you haven’t seen it, see it. The “Llorando” scene leaves me speechless every time. Like I said: stunning.

A word of warning though, for those not familiar with David Lynch as writer/director: after seeing this movie for the first time this weekend, my partner-in-crime asserted that he felt like he’d been “raped.” And he meant that as a good thing.

If that doesn't make sense to you, well, our possibilities for mutual understanding may be somewhat limited.

I turn left, and you turn...left.

2006-09-20T17:10:00.000-04:00

Today I saw a kamikaze rat attack a woman in the legs. I’m not even kidding. She was just standing there on the sidewalk. Just STANDING THERE, minding her own business, when this crazed rat—the size of a small cat!—charged across the otherwise empty sidewalk (it was early in the morning) and slammed into her legs, grasping wildly with its paws before disappearing into some nearby bushes.

The best part is that it was so sudden and so random that the woman never even saw it coming. When she felt something slam into her legs she instinctively jumped out of its way, only to turn to me and gasp, “What was that??!?!?”

“Um, that was a...rat,” I said in disbelief.

“Oh my GOD! I thought it was a...ball or something...”

We both stood bewildered for a moment, she collecting herself, and I still wondering if I’d really seen what I just saw.

“That was ridiculous!” I said, unhelpfully.

“Well it sure was a wake-up,” she said, still dazed.

Horrified, I wished her a good day, and continued on my way. Moments of disgust alternated with moments of hilarity, where I struggled to keep my laughter inside. But really. I mean, really.

Only in New York.

If I lay here. If I just lay here.

2006-09-19T10:12:00.000-04:00

I’ve decided that this is a week where nothing happens. Nothing moves. Nothing changes (at least by my own hand). I just want to be quiet. Observant. Open. Take it all in, read, listen to music. Go see movies. I’ve been working too hard, trying too hard. It’s time to be still and let things work on me.

I’m going to see a double-header of Rear Window and On the Waterfront tonight, two movies I’ve always wanted to see and yet never have. They’ve been on my Netflix queue for ever, but somehow I never seem to get down to them. So how could I pass up the opportunity to see them both on the big screen? It may be a long night, but I think it'll be good. I’m psyched.

As always, there are a million books piled up on my shelves, waiting to be read. I tend to go through phases, and lately I’ve been in a heavy reading phase. So I’m just about finished with The Stand, and I definitely need my next read to be something a little shorter. A little less...epic. So I’m thinking next is going to be either Things Fall Apart, or In Cold Blood. Last night, I also picked up borrowed copies of Neverwhere, Tropic of Capricorn, and a collection of Zora Neale Hurston stories. The flow of books into my life has always been much heavier than the flow of books out of it...

On the music front, I’ve been doing a lot of listening lately. (This also goes in phases.) There have been many happy discoveries, but I’d say that most recently my world has been sufficiently rocked by new songs by Sufjan Stevens and Jeremy Enigk. Sufjan is no big surprise—I’ve been semi-into him for a while. I find some of his stuff breathtaking, and some of it not so much. This new song “Sister Winter” is definitely the former. I came across it online a couple of weeks ago, and I can’t stop listening to it. It’s actually from a Christmas-themed project, but you wouldn’t really know that from listening to it. Well, until the end when he sings, “And my friends, I’ve returned to wish you a happy Christmas...” It’s gorgeous. So yeah, I’ve been rocking out to a Christmas tune in September. Whatever.

Jeremy Enigk, on the other hand, I wasn’t really familiar with. I mean, I was marginally familiar with his band Sunny Day Real Estate, but wouldn’t have called myself a fan. Then I downloaded “Been Here Before,” and once again, my world was rocked. I’d say that at the height of my obsession I was listening to it maybe 5-10 times a day. That has since cooled to a more reasonable once or twice, but goddamn it’s good.

And that’s all I have to say right now. Excuse me while I return to my books and music.

Buy me some peanuts and crackerjacks!

2006-09-15T11:32:00.000-04:00

For your rainy Friday enjoyment, here is a little ditty I made up on my way to work this morning, sung to the tune of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame":

This "Fashion District" can suck my
dick and chew on my balls;
The sidewalks are narrow,
the crowds are thick.
Did I mention the people are pricks?
The construction sites are just nightmares—
the streets, de-milit’rized zones;
And let’s not forget all the sad
Project Runway clones!

Kisses.

Though there's something in the air this time.

2006-09-14T11:47:00.000-04:00

Running long distances in the rain. Yeah, it pretty much sucks ass. Well, at least the idea of it pretty much sucks ass. Dragging your balls out of bed while it’s still dark out (and presumably cold), cursing the squawking alarm clock, and trying to psyche yourself up for the next hour (or two hours or three hours...) that you’ll spend out on the road, pounding the pavement, is hard enough as it is. Add a steady falling rain to the equation, and your body almost automatically shuts down and falls back into bed, comatose.

But you fend off the coma, choke down some cereal, tie up your sneakers, and head out into the storm. And for the first few seconds, holy shit does it suck. The air is cold; the rain makes it colder. A happy little breeze blows through your dampening hair, which, were you not already shivering, you’d probably be thrilled with. Breezes are usually a welcome addition to a run. But not this morning. Not this morning with its steady rain, and your nipples poking violently through your shirt, and your synthetic running shorts already soaked and sticking to your skin. Ah, chafing. Runner’s best friend.

And before you know it, you’re soaked through. And once that happens, well, you can’t get any wetter. So you forget about it. Suddenly, it doesn’t feel bad at all. In fact, it feels kind of...good. It’s almost as if having something out of the ordinary to distract you, or even something newly unpleasant to focus on (as opposed to the usual things that can conspire to make a run unpleasant: achy muscles, lack of motivation, negative thought patterns...) actually helps to keep you newly focused, keeping your usual running demons at bay.

This morning, despite waking up and cursing the rain (and its alliance with the cold and the dark), I had one of the best runs I’ve had in a long time. Mentally, this has been a hard week of training—maybe because I’ve known that if I really am going to run this marathon in November, this is the week where I really have to turn some things around. I’ve been having some trouble committing the way I need to. But this morning, after my run, I was like, “Huh. Maybe I can make this happen after all.” It felt good to force myself through the unpleasantness. And even better to realize how good I felt afterwards.

Not to mention the fact that, in my seemingly never-ending quest for self-sabotage, I came really close to getting stoned last night. Despite my swearing off of alcohol and all inhalants until post-marathon. Luckily, there was enough time between the discussion of the act and the act itself that I was able to clear my head and say to myself, “Um, dipshit, if you do that you’ll destroy your run in the morning. In fact, you probably won’t even wake up for it. And that will feel right shitty. And just when you’ve started to make some real progress...”

So I kicked my ass back to my place and quickly drifted off, sober and feeling good, happy to have made a healthy decision. The right decision. And this morning, as I’ve already indicated, I felt so good and was so happy to have done it. So much better than I would have felt waking up hung over, groggy, and disgusted. And it strikes me how, so often, choosing immediate gratification just ends up being horribly un-gratifying. Whereas, doing the thing that's harder pays off so much more.

Oh my thoughts, I return to summertime.

2006-09-11T11:10:00.000-04:00

For some reason, shortly after 9/11, I found myself reading Camus’ The Plague. I got about a third of the way into it and had to stop. Just had to. Couldn’t take the depictions of quarantined cities and feelings of terror. The apocalyptic subject matter.

Today, five years later, I find myself two-thirds of the way through The Stand, Stephen King’s apocalyptic epic. Weird. Plenty of quarantine. Plenty of terror. And it hits close to home. Especially today.

A few weeks ago, I ran the inaugural New York City Half-Marathon. It was a really fun race, beginning in Central Park and winding its way through midtown and Times Square, before heading down the west side into the Financial District and finishing up at Battery Park—in view of the Statue of Liberty. Despite being soaked to the skin (it poured that day) and suffering the resultant body chafing and bloody nipples, I pretty much reveled in the experience. You know, not something I get to do every day.

But as we headed downtown, the buildings of the Financial District looming directly in front of us, I had this very distinct, horrible moment in which I envisioned that we, this mass of runners, were running not a recreational race, but running for our lives. Again.

It was kind of...terrifying.

But then I cleared my head, and became instantly grateful that it wasn’t true. And this time, Battery Park was full not of ash and dust and debris, but, well, water and Gatorade and...popsicles.

But I know what I like. (I know I like dancing with you.)

2006-09-07T09:57:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking about choices.

I’ve always firmly believed that it’s essential to make choices in order to progress in life; the end result of trying to "have it all" (and thereby choosing nothing) is inevitably ending up with nothing. And yet, I sometimes fail to apply this knowledge to my own life. The marathon, for instance. The state of my training has been a near-constant source of grief lately. Couple that with things like wanting to spend time with youknowwho and feeling guilty when that conflicts with training, or wanting to spend more time doing pottery and feeling guilty when that conflicts with training, or wanting to spend more time with my friends and feeling guilty when that conflicts with training...and well, it ain’t pretty.

But what if I let it become a matter of personal choice?

As far as my training is concerned, the guilt and grief come from the fact that I had a specific goal (basically to run this marathon faster than the last one), and that as of right now that goal in unattainable. One thing about me: I hate not meeting my goals.

But what if I just accept and embrace the fact that, rather than pull myself out of my bed on a morning when youknowwho is in it and hit the pavement, I’d prefer to just lie with him, our arms around each other, reveling in that moment of closeness. Enjoying what we have and the fact that we have it because we choose it. Which is a choice I can (and do) truly feel good about. If this marathon is fated to be a slower one, then so be it. I wasn’t in this relationship last time around—and it’s a considerable factor this time around. And I'm glad that it is. So make the choice, P/O. And be happy with it.

Well look at that: I guess I’ve made my choice. And I’m happy with it.

Wild sage growing in the weeds.

2006-09-05T14:48:00.000-04:00

Ah, Labor Day. Summer’s last...wimper. At least that’s how it seemed this year. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Although the constant grayness can be mildly depressing, it still makes me happier than the relentless heat and humidity we usually receive this time of year. I’ve always been much better friends with fall than with summer. And for once, summer hasn’t just gone screaming into winter this year.

So it was a couple of days of relaxation, combined with feelings of guilt over the continuing slippage of my training. But I feel ready to commit and get back on the wagon for this final 10-week stretch. And I did get one really good run in at my parents’ place. So at least that’s something. I guess.

Funny thing about that... My parents live in a neighborhood where everyone seems to own at least one dog. And yet, many of them don’t even attempt to contain said dogs. And so, often as I run though the open, sprawling, cornfield-surrounded countryside, I find myself being pursued by a pack of overly enthusiastic canines of all shapes and sizes. Usually they’re friendly, and I’m very much a dog person, but honestly, I’ve always had it in the back of my mind that one day one of these mutts may turn out to be not so friendly after all.

So imagine my surprise when, this weekend, I was bitten by my very own brother’s dog! That’s right, on Sunday night, for no reason (as far as anyone can tell) the bitch freaked out and tried to bite my face off. There was blood. There was (and still is) pain. And yet, when it happened, I somehow managed to keep my immediate surge of anger in check, and refrained from kicking the shit out of the fucker. Go me.

Honestly, I’ve always loved the dog. She’s adorable, sweet, loyal, and obedient. And has always shown me nothing but exuberant puppy affection. Which makes it even scarier, actually. And now my brother and sister-in-law, who talk about having children in the not-so-distant future, have a very difficult road ahead of them. I’m hoping some animal behaviorist or whatever (I assume there’s such a thing, right?) will be able to help them sort the whole thing out.

In the meantime, I’ll be out taking my chances with the packs of dogs roaming around the neighborhood.

Time goes by. So slowly.

2006-08-30T16:05:00.000-04:00

Until recently, one of the corners of my block had always been a shuttered Tae Kwon Do studio. I moved to my street almost two years ago, and at the time I was like, “Aw, bummer. If that were open, I’d totally take up Tae Kwon Do.” Which made me realize just how much of my life is dictated by my immediate surroundings. Or at least by convenience. I mean, I probably never would have actively sought out Tae Kwon Do as a hobby; but if there was a functioning studio less than a block away from my apartment, well you can bet your ass I’d be in there punching and kicking up a storm. To whit: I used to be an avid kick boxer. When there was a gym a few doors down from my apartment. Nope, not anymore. And I really loved it, too. Just not enough to travel to do it, apparently.

But anyway, a month or two ago, I noticed some activity over on that corner—sure enough, a wooden construction barrier went up shortly thereafter! And almost immediately, the development of that site became one of my daily obsessions. Without even realizing I was doing it, I would walk past it multiple times a day, hoping to catch the door in the wooden wall open so that I might be able to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside. And then I would. And it would reveal nothing. (Wood and beams and dry wall and flooring don’t reveal much to my completely construction-ignorant eye.)

But still, every day I’d hope for some little clue. And thoughts like, “Oh, I hope it’s something good like a great bar or an awesome new restaurant or some sort of unique store or blah blah blah,” would roll around inside my head, only to be replaced by more persistently pessimistic realizations along the lines of, “Oh, it’ll probably just be a Duane Reade. Or a Starbucks. Or a bank. Yeah, I bet it’ll be a bank. There isn’t really one in a radius of a couple of blocks. Yep, I bet it’s going to be a bank. Dammit. Why does every prime retail space seem to get snatched up by a stupid bank these days...” You get the idea. And my heart would fall just a little bit, after its brief flight imagining the other, more attractive possibilities. See? I don’t use the word “obsession” lightly.

So last week, the wooden barrier came down, and I noticed them installing some very bank-like glass doors. I think I sniffled a little as I pondered whether it would be a Chase or a Citibank, or perhaps a branch of the slightly more friendly Washington Mutual.

But wait! Just the other day, as they were installing the roll-down metal security grates, I peeked in and noticed not cubicles or teller stations, but check-out lines and display cases! I sucked in my breath. This could be promising... Definitely not big enough for a full-scale grocery store... Looks like it could be something a little more...special. A health food store maybe? Or wait—dare I hope for fear of jinxing it—some sort of gourmet or specialty food store, ideally with really good coffee, bagels, and the like? I mean, it would be so nice not to have to walk the two blocks I normally do to satisfy my coffee and bagel cravings...

I’m giddy with anticipation. And at the same time, primed for the ultimate disappointment I’m convinced I will experience when the doors open and the shop’s identity is finally revealed.

Welcome to the life of an obsessive New Yorker.

I ended up with pockets full of dust.

2006-08-29T12:33:00.000-04:00

Guess I should have mentioned I was going on vacation, huh? Oops. Yeah well, that’s just how life’s been lately. Crazy. So my birthday came and went in a drunken haze, and next thing I knew I was on a flight to Austin. It was hot as balls, but definitely a good time. And whenever the heat got to be too much, we hid in air conditioning or swam in the local cold springs. Sixty-seven degrees year-round. Refreshing!

I’d never been to that big, scary state on the Mexican border. Truth be told, Austinites seem extremely proud to consider themselves different than the inhabitants of the rest of the state. Not having visited any other parts of the state, I’ll reserve judgment on that point, and say just that I had a great time and leave it at that. Oh, and yes, people do in fact respond when, in the middle of a crowded bar, you clear your throat and call out, “The stars at NIGHT are big and BRIGHT!”

I know. I’m so original.

But here I am. Back in NYC, heading rapidly towards the end of another summer, and shaking my head in disbelief at how fast this one went. But Austin was my last break for a while, so hold on to your hats, for I am back in the bloggin’ saddle. Grasping the bloggin’ reins. Tipping my bloggin’ hat. Stompin’ my bloggin’ boots. Spinnin’ my bloggin’ spurs...

I know. You’re thrilled.

Shut up.

Do you even know what goes on in a heart anymore?

2006-08-17T13:01:00.000-04:00

And so another birthday approaches. And since I don’t by nature stop and reflect on them (birthdays have never had much of an impact on me—I just keep trucking along), I’m forcing myself to do so with this one. And not because it’s the last of my 20s; I don’t care about that. But because of the year I’ve had. Fastest of my life. A year completely unlike any of the 28 that preceded it. A year with its ups and downs for sure (what year isn’t?), but a year in which the ups have made far more of an impression than the downs.

It just so happens that almost exactly one year ago, in the week following my last birthday, I met the person I currently call my boyfriend. Happy birthday, P/O! And so after being convinced for so long that a meaningful relationship with someone of the same sex wasn’t possible (for me), slowly but surely, without even realizing it was happening, that seems to be what has come to pass. Something was touched off that night, nearly one year ago, that in many ways strikes me as having been almost entirely outside of my control. And it’s been amazing, and terrifying, and beautiful, and horrific, and fun and arduous and surprising and exhausting and energizing...and most of all...bewildering. I still can’t believe it; I still don’t understand it. Where did this come from? How did this happen? For sure, the hardest part has been learning to let go and try to just go along for the ride. It’s hard work, and it’s work I’ve never done before.

And it’s that very struggle that led to some of the most difficult parts of my 29th year; some of the most difficult parts of the sum of my years, actually. Some of the deepest depression; some of the highest anxiety. In true P/O form, the highest highs led reliably to some of the lowest lows.

But the work of the struggle is immeasurably valuable. The payoff is so worth it. In some ways I can’t believe I’m saying that (mister self-sufficient that I’ve always tried to be), but it’s true. Every time we wrap ourselves around each other and experience that feeling of complete and total overwhelm, I’m reminded of just how worth it it is.

So it’s been a good year. And no matter what happens, I’ve had this.

And so more than any other year, this birthday feels like an anniversary of sorts. (Well, more than just the anniversary of my birth, which as I’ve already noted, has never really made much of an impression on me.) The only other thing I’ve ever really associated with my birthday was my yearly physical when I was growing up... And though I love the whole “turn your head and cough” as much as the next guy, somehow this feels a little more significant. Scary in its significance, no doubt. But hell. I’ve always liked a good thrill.

I want to thank you for your thoughts. (Though they weren't mine to read.)

2006-08-16T13:10:00.000-04:00

...I have the right to be healthier than those around me...

More and more I’m breathing less and less.

2006-08-15T13:03:00.000-04:00

Finally finished A Son of the Circus last night. I think that book claims the distinction of longest it’s ever taken me to read a single work. I can’t believe it was Memorial Day weekend that I started it. But it definitely was, because I distinctly remember starting it on the Chicago trip. Damn, and here it is mid-August! And it wasn’t because I wasn’t into it. Quite the contrary, it was an engaging and satisfying read, and I’m glad to have soldiered on. Classic John Irving—even more bizarre than A Prayer for Owen Meany. I’ll never understand how he comes up with—and researches—many of the things he writes about. This one touches on subjects as wide and varied as India, circuses (per the title), dwarfs, genetics, AIDS, different degrees and levels of transexualism, huge dildoes, murder, prostitution, immigration, Bollywood, religious evangelism... I could go on and on. How could anyone not want to read a book like that?

Started reading Wicked on the train this morning. I think that one will be a much quicker read...

I’ve been so crazed lately. When I got home from work yesterday, I realized that I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d returned to my apartment while it was still light out, let alone eaten dinner there! You know, when I moved from Brooklyn to Manhattan several years ago, one of the many advantages I cited was the fact that I wouldn’t have to eat out so much, because I’d have time to go home and eat in the evenings before whatever evening plans awaited. Ha. And so my wallet continues to get slimmer and slimmer, while I, no doubt, just get fatter.

Speaking of which, the marathon training hasn’t been going as well as the last time I did it. I’ve been having so much trouble fitting my runs into my life, which makes for some pretty miserable runs. Oh, I do them. Anyone who knows me can probably guess that life's insanity is not enough to keep me from squeezing in my training. But that’s the problem—all the squeezing in. A 20-mile run is no picnic, let me tell you. And I can’t even begin to explain how much worse it becomes when you’re squeezing that 20-mile run in between various (and numerous) obligations. After which, said obligations are also somewhat unpleasant. And rest assured, when something is unpleasant for me, it is equally unpleasant for everyone else involved.

Kidding. Sort of.

So the goal (I know I say this all the time) is to forcefully take the time I need for myself. From now on. Before I end up hurting myself. Both the body and the mind suffer from overuse without the proper rest and recovery, and it’s been a long time since I’ve had enough of either. The last thing I need is to break right now.

To that end:

Reading. Writing. Watching awesome things like Wonder Showzen and Jackass on DVD. Sleeping. Lots of sleeping.

Anything that tries to divert my attention from these core activities will be carefully considered on a case-by-case basis. Um, after this weekend, that is... Yeah. This is another crazy one, which will consist of a rooftop party on a friend’s roof, a 20-mile run (followed by sleep of the dead), birthday party at my place Saturday night (lemme know if you wanna come), followed by entertaining of the parents on Sunday, followed by dinner at my place Sunday night, followed by catatonia.

Should I survive, the above-mentioned lifestyle changes will take immediate effect. That is, after my trip to Austin.

Goddamn it.

And is it just me or are you fed up?

2006-08-10T10:09:00.000-04:00

The refrain for Monday through Wednesday of this week had been disgust. Well, maybe not so much disgust as just generally being...over it. Oh you know, just having "had it." Like, I saw a good friend on Tuesday night, and during our chat she asked me how my weekend had gone, and I just kind of smiled and said, "Oh J, I've had it. I've so had it."

And then last night, on the train, it just kind of...evaporated. And suddenly, I can have it all again.

With talented breezes that blow off your hat with a sneer.

2006-08-08T09:46:00.000-04:00

My computer is broken. Sad. In all my years of computer use, I've actually never had one crap out on me before! So yesterday I was completely computer-less, and today I've borrowed a super annoying crappy little laptop to try and get some work done until the part I need to fix my decent desktop arrives (probably tomorrow, though I had a nice fight with Dell about that). So what's the first thing I do upon powering up? Why, blog of course!

So today is the first truly nice day in NYC in a very long time--sunny, low humidity, not ridiculously hot. It actually feels nice to walk down the street. I'd kind of forgotten what that was like.

As I arrived at work and walked into the elevator, I witnessed the followed brief conversation. File it under, "Efforts to come up with the most painfully obvious and therefore nonsensical responses to examples of friendly innocuous chit chat."

Worker #1: Well at least the weather's decent today!
Worker #2: Outside, you mean?

Um, what?

I wanna be a singer like Lou Reed.

2006-08-02T13:45:00.000-04:00

As is often the case, I’ve needed a vacation to recover from my vacation. And with how non-stop life has been lately, slowing down just hasn’t been possible. Between training, teaching, being perpetually busy at work (plus spending last week getting caught up), and running all over the city (in a heat wave) in an effort to be a good partner and help as much as possible with an intense finding-an-apartment/packing/moving process, I’ve had no time to myself and hence no time to relax, recover, or even make an attempt to preserve my sanity. Not to mention the fact that my apartment is a mess, and I can’t remember the last time I did laundry or bought groceries.

Even though they “shouldn’t” (I like to believe I’m the kind of person who can be surrounded by mess once in a while), these things all add to my perceived level of stress.

Why is it so much work to take a vacation???

Oh, and have I mentioned that I'm allergic to cats? Yeah, well, I've been spending a lot of time around one lately, which requires that I keep myself constantly drugged in order to ensure that my airways remain open and my lungs continue to function. Fun. Of course, the drugs have their own effects, not to mention the fact that they don’t work 100%, so whenever I’m running I’m perpetually dealing with the remnants of cat exposure working their way through my system. Couple that with the extreme heat and 100% humidity (which also effects my breathing), and I’m really not sure why I’m bothering with this marathon bullshit.

Yay, bitching and moaning. As much fun to read as it is to write.

Anyway, at this rate, I’m not sure I’ll feel caught up and back in control by the time I take another week off in August.

Wait, this is August, isn't it...

Welcome to the new wild west—each man for himself.

2006-07-27T17:47:00.000-04:00

Walking home last night, I was thinking about what I call the New American Christianity. Oh, you know the one. It’s the all-too-prevalent, becoming-more-visible-by-the-day, shockingly influential version of Christianity that is, like all things American, all about bigger, better, faster, more, more, MORE!!! The kind of Christianity that builds churches that one of my most brilliant friends un-affectionately refers to as Six Flags Over Jesus.

Not surprisingly, more than a few of the people that “worship” in these multi-million dollar palaces of evangelism are also larger-than-life... But that’s neither here nor there.

As I see it, the key aspects of the appeal of this form of Christianity are as follows:

It allows for a superior and holier-than-though attitude. For as long as we believe that our church is the biggest and the best (achieved and perpetuated not only through the size of its centers of worship and the reach of its media, but also through the sheer fanaticism of its members) how could we even entertain the notion that anyone else could possibly be remotely as good as (forget about better than—that’s not even within the realm of possibility) us?

It allows us to do whatever the fuck we want, without any regard to reason or contradiction. This is essential—the carte blanche given to all followers, as long as they have the ability to verbally (and loudly) defend their standpoint by either a) “quoting” (or pretending to quote) mystifying and sometimes irrelevant passages from a book that simply cannot be argued with (never mind the fact that a completely contradictory “quote” may be used in future discussions in support of or in opposition to something else), or b) plugging one’s ears and creating a sonic cocoon testifying to the undying love shared between Jesus and oneself.

And finally, for the same reasons and by use of the same techniques, it enables us to insist that others not do whatever the fuck we don’t want them to be doing for whatever nebulous, crap-ass reason. I’m not sure which is more satisfying, really: getting to do whatever the hell you want, or keeping someone from doing something that they want to do, just because you don’t want them to be doing it. Jesus, I’m getting a hard-on just imagining that kind of power...

Anyway, let’s never forget that this particular voice is an influential one NOT because it is a large one (it is in fact still a minority, regardless of what its proponents would have you believe), but because it is a rich and powerful one. We must demand that our legislators keep this horrifically un-democratic fact in mind.

Looking over the above, it just struck me that in most cases the words “church” and “Christianity” could also be replaced with the words “nation” or “United States.” Hmm.

I know peacemakers go to the same place as soldiers.

2006-07-26T12:17:00.000-04:00

Therapy was great this week. As usual. I really seem to need it when I skip a week or two... Wonder how August will be.

I’d been starting to feel negative and pessimistic again, especially upon returning from vacation and reinserting myself into the daily grind. I’d also begun to get down on myself for the lapsing of my training, as well as the fucked up state of the world and the “nerve” I had to go on vacation and enjoy myself in the midst of it all... So as usual, she helped remind me of the essential facts that my misery doesn’t help anyone, and that I am allowed to enjoy myself and seek things out that give my own life meaning. She also said something which really stuck—essentially, that I will never become the person I seem to fear becoming; I will never be passive or ignorant or disengaged. These things are against my nature, and hence I do not have to be so incredibly stern and punishing with myself in order to avoid them.

One of the things I love best about her is that she helps me come up with constructive and concrete ways to apply to my actual life the things I learn or acknowledge about myself each week, rather than merely focusing on abstract ideas or nebulous concepts to meditate on. Or worse, getting mired in the hows and the whys of feelings without ever touching on the reality of the here and now—the fact that I live this life day after day, and need to find a way to live it productively with these feelings. For me, that’s the key. I mean, the hows and the whys are essential to explore, but it can’t end there. Once I’ve gained that knowledge, what can I do with it? How can I use it to actually make my life better? I mean, isn’t that why we decide to start therapy in the first place? Because our lives are painful, we’re depressed, we’re having trouble functioning...blah blah blah?

I often feel as though there’s a war raging inside me. Each week, she helps me figure out how to keep the peace.

I thought there was a virtue in always being cool.

2006-07-25T12:27:00.000-04:00

As is usually the case after a vacation, it pretty much sucks to be back.

But it was a great ten days. Perfect balance of laziness and activity, helped along by how hot it was in the desert. (Too damn hot to do much of anything for any extended period of time.) There was some fighting, and Vegas (where we ended our trip) was pretty much a bust, but in the end I’d say this duo came through its “first vacation together” incredibly well. I can’t really speak for my other half, but as far as I’m concerned, it was amazing how nice it was to spend an extended period of time together and just...be. And not only that, but with the exception of the aforementioned isolated incidents of fighting (which of course served their purpose as well), looking back, it kind of floors me how nicely we just...coexisted. Sigh. It was weird at first to come back and be/sleep alone. But good in its way.

So yesterday was spent frantically trying to dig myself out at work, while stubbornly refusing to acknowledge how exhausted I was. There really was no reason I should have been so tired after such a relaxing vacation! But I was, and though I had several goals for my evening once I got home from work, they were all squashed when I conked out around 7:30 after scarfing down a meager dinner of pb&j. Yum.

And now it’s back to the grind. And to the training. For that’s one thing I truly fucked up while on vacation. It became immediately clear that running outside would not be a possibility (hell, walking for more than a few minutes in that heat is about all I could handle), so I half-heartedly began searching for a gym I could visit in order to get in my daily workouts. There were plenty, and they were totally fine, but before I knew it the week had come and gone and I hadn’t done shit. Oops. So now I’ll be playing catch-up, and I’m just hoping it’s still early enough in the season for me to get back in my stride.

So here I am, back in NYC, and genuinely glad I missed the hellishness of last week’s heatwave. Who would have guessed that an “escape” to the relentless heat of the California desert would turn out to be an actual escape?

We'd suspend all that is duty or required.

2006-07-13T17:30:00.000-04:00

That's right folks, it's time for a vacation. So I'm headed west, and hope not to even lay eyes on a computer for the next week or so.

I should be back in the blogging saddle by July 24. Til then, try to stay out of trouble.

And all the stars were just like little fish.

2006-07-11T10:48:00.000-04:00

So the facial hair is gone. I just couldn’t stand it anymore—too itchy and hot. Shaved it off this morning, and I swear to god, I’m about to shave my head as well. Fuckin’ NYC in the summer. Drives me nuts! Arrrrgh!

(So this pirate walks into a bar with a steering wheel attached to his crotch. The bartender looks at him and says, “Hey pirate, there’s a steering wheel attached to your crotch.” To which the pirate replies, “Arrrrgh! It’s drivin’ me nuts!”) Ha ha. Ha. Ha ha.

Oy.

So when it comes time to escape the oppressive heat of New York in the summer, where do I decide to go? Why, the California desert of course! Brilliant. “But it’s a dry heat,” I can hear you say supportively. To which I retort, “A hundred and fifteen degrees is a hundred and fifteen fucking degrees, motherfucker! Jesus. What are you, retarded?”

Some people assert that the heat makes me irritable, but I don’t know what they’re talking about.

Anyway, I won’t leave without saying goodbye, don’t worry. I actually have lots to say between now and then, if only I could find the time to say it.

And we've got to get ourselves back to the garden.

2006-07-06T12:49:00.000-04:00

So I have some really white-trash facial hair right now. I think it’s funny. I was all, “I need more white trash in my life. How can I achieve that?” And voilá. What can I say. I’m blessed with a persistent and full beard that doesn’t take long to fill in. Instant handle bars. My sister-in-law says I look like I belong on “My Name is Earl.” Suh-weet.

Actually, it’s kind of itchy and gross, and I’ll probably cave and shave it off sooner than later. But there’s this stubborn side of me that’s all, “Screw you, bitches. I’m keeping it whether you like it or not. In fact, maybe I’ll transition to full Fu Manchu. Shit.” See, most of my friends don’t like it. My boyfriend doesn’t like it. In fact, after I shaved this morning he said, “You still have a mustache.”

But it has served an unexpected purpose. See, I went to Fire Island over the Fourth of July weekend (more on that here), and I will say this: there’s nothing like really gross facial hair to help you quickly separate the nice queens you can deal with from the nasty queens you can’t. (Anyone remember my feelings on unfriendly dykes? Yeah well, in case you were wondering, nasty queens have about the same effect.)

Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike.

2006-07-05T17:49:00.000-04:00

Seen on huge electronic signs spanning the Delaware Memorial Bridge:

If you are in crisis, call 1-800-273-TALK.

Aw, how sweet. Where's Billy Joel when you need him?

I had a firecracker waiting to blow.

2006-06-30T11:10:00.000-04:00

And so the gluttony begins... Pigged out on Greek food last night out in Astoria, and it’s off to Fire Island today for what will no doubt be two full days of drinking, eating, and general excess. (Wish I weren’t still sunburned from two weekends ago, but what can you do.)

Sunday evening will find me pigging out at Nobu, and then heading down to hang with my family for a couple of days. Now under normal circumstances, time with my family is a gorgefest. Couple that with a Fourth of July bash, and well, all bets are most certainly off. I just hope that this year I can keep from getting totally trashed and (good-naturedly) cursing out every member of my immediate and extended family and all of my parents’ neighbors. Apparently, when I get trashed on a sweltering summer day after going for a long run in the blazing summer sun, I think cursing is fucking hysterical. Huh.

Because this is what American Independence means: the freedom to be gluttonous, slothful, and to further increase the already astounding obesity rate within our fiercely patrolled borders.

Happy freedom day, fuckers.

Tell them that the house is not for sale. (And calm down.)

2006-06-28T11:59:00.000-04:00

Where is the line between selflessness and self-destruction? At what point must we opt for self-preservation? How much of ourselves is too much to give?

These are really difficult questions to answer. It’s my nature to want to be there for the people I care about. Without thinking, I make sacrifices. And I know that it’s important and it’s appreciated. But at the same time, I don’t want to become a doormat.

When should we allow our hands to be taken and our feet to be led? And when should we pull back and dig in our heels?