Business and pleasure

Yesterday: a very active, focused day, and I burned lots of calories. Cousin dropped me off in Kahului and I job-hunted from 9am to 1pm there, but it was more schlepping along in the hot sun carrying my backpack, beach gear and laptop (the strap of the laptop bag digging into my sunburnt shoulder) than turning in too many resumes or applications: most places do their hiring online now. For example: Fedex Kinkos, Safeway, Ross Dress For Less (which IS hiring), Blockbuster, and Whole Foods (which isn’t open yet, still being built, and that would be about the ideal place to work for a few months). I made the mistake of buying groceries (apples, tea, strawberry frosted pop tarts) from Foodland, then went to Safeway and saw everything I’d just bought for about half the price. Of course Foodland is the local, karmically superior, less corporate choice, but until I get a job, I’m going to have to put savings above principles.

At 1pm I caught the Haiku Islander bus to Paia, where I made a halfhearted attempt at further job-hunting (turned in resumes at Charley’s, where we had breakfast the other day, and the Flatbread Pizza Co., which seems to do a brisk business), but soon ducked out to Paia Bay, the public beach, which is actually quite nice, and wasn’t crowded at all, to my surprise – K. said there aren’t too many visitors on the Islands yet, more will come later, with the summer season. I spent about three blissful hours body surfing, being tossed up and down on warm waves – about as good as life gets, from my perspective. I kept my laptop and other things close to the shore and continually surveyed them, since the girl in the surf shop warned me not to leave my things unattended. But it was smooth surfing. I feel effortlessly at home in the ocean. Practically everyone else had a surfboard, and I’d like to get one and try that some day soon, but I have plenty of fun with my plain old self. The old adage about how you should never turn your back on the ocean is true, though: a couple times I got caught, turning back to scan the beach, then having a big wave abruptly jump up and crash over me. It’s so unpredictable: waves that look like they’ll come in huge weaken to nothing just before they hit you, while a giant white-crested wall can roll up out of nowhere just a few yards in front of you. But that’s the fun of it: keeps you on your toes. It’s like the wave machine in the water parks I so loved as a child, except even warmer, and more fun, because the waves aren’t churned out uniformly by some man-made automaton: they follow the caprices of Neptune, a worthy and wily opponent. But an ally as much as an adversary, if you’re an aquaphile like me.

I'm peeling. It's something you have to go through to get your Maui tan, of course.

After my splendid ocean reverie I spent some time in the Green Banana Internet Cafe, applying for jobs online and such, then caught the bus again to the Haiku Community Center, and walked from there to Hohani Place, by which point I was really exhausted. It looked like it was about to burst into heavy rain the whole time, and I was considering what to do, since I was carrying my laptop with nothing to protect it but its carrying bag, but it never did.

I haven't really seen any destitute or homeless people here yet. There's a major difference from Portland.

We finally did our first GOOD session of work on Cousin's (as-yet-untitled) book yesterday: worked on it all day, minus little breaks for exercise and kite-flying and palm-tree hacking. Called my Mom to get her to corroborate some of the memories we were going over, of the old days in the trailer court and Cousin and Auntie’s apartment in Burnsville, and the fourplex me and my Mom had by Rockite Silo, etc, and my Mom was sullen at first but then got really excited and animated, because the memories of the time when she was young and alive bring her back to life, which is why I want to try to include her in the memory-collecting process as much as possible. And Cousin pulled out a suitcase with tons of old photos, some of which I’d never even seen before, including ones of my Mom and Auntie when they were cute little girls in bonnets, and one of my Mom around the time she was dating/married to my Dad and she was super hot, so skinny and pretty, it’s just hard to believe it’s even the same woman, that she was ever that fine. What was my Dad thinking to dump her? I’ve already developed a fondness for typing as Cousin talks, because he really gets revved up and his way of recounting this endless saga of absurd childhood incidents and tragedies and hilarities is SO FUNNY. Example: the one about his mother buying them their first color TV set when they lived in the trailer court, and how she flew into a rage while watching The Wizard of Oz because she forgot the first part of the movie is in black and white, so she started tweaking with all the tint and contrast settings, thinking there was something wrong with the TV, so when Dorothy finally opened the door in Oz the colors were all fucked up and wrong and overly saturated (this was during her heavy drinking days)!

This book is gonna be a lot of fun...although Cousin's haphazard, sporadic way of working on it is going to clash with my desire to set a regular time to work on it each day. Especially if I do end up getting a job, so my time is more restricted.

Compassion, empathy, candy

I told Cousin he should be Anthony and we can call me "Tiger" to differentiate us for our friends. So yeah. I guess that would make me Tiger Kaplan LeTigre, which translated would mean "Tiger Tiger the Tiger" in English, Turkish and French, respectively.

I read in the paper today (The Maui News) that civil unions have been rolled back, and I thought you could even get MARRIED here if you were gay, so Oregon is actually ahead of Hawaii on that issue, right now anyway (Cousin said they're still fighting it).

Cousin napped today while I exercised and made a couple new charcoal drawings and went for a walk through the empty plot at the end of their road and down by an aqueduct creek thing where I discovered that Maui is no more safe from the plague of mosquitos than Minnesota is. I walked one way until I reached a dead end, then walked the other way until I heard voices and music, and then I withdrew, not wishing to meet other humans.

I got the number for the local transit system from one of Cousin’s friends on the phone today, but I hear it’s not very frequent or reliable, and the stops are poorly marked, if marked at all. I’ve also been scouring ads on Craigslist for available jobs, and am going to send out some resumes, but it’ll be difficult to work out the transportation thing. But I need to save more money for San Francisco.

I’m half vacationing, half preparing to move to the most expensive city in the U.S. in six months. My vices now are body-surfing, tanning and candy.

A nice girl came over this afternoon bringing mail from the Hana house – she is, of all things, Linah Cocaine’s sister. She seems too nice to be related to him/her, but there it is. She’s going canoe racing tomorrow, and was telling me about canoeing here, and she made very good eye contact, and I thought she spoke with a slight accent of some kind, but maybe I was imagining that, because it turns out she’s from Canby, Oregon – basically the same place I’m from!

The waitress at Charley’s where we had breakfast this morning (I got a fishermen’s croissant with really good tomatoes instead of home fries – healthier!) asked, “Is that Guan Yin on your shirt?” That would be Guan Yin (also Quan Yin, Quan’Am, Kannon, Kanin, etc., she stretches across countries and cultures), the bodhisattva of mercy and compassion (image of Guan Yin above), sort of the Buddha version of the Virgin Mary or Artemis of Ancient Greek mythology. It’s cool because I bought that shirt a while back before leaving Portland and wasn’t even thinking at the time how well it would show up on Maui, whose culture is heavily influenced by various Asian cultures.

In the spirit of Guan Yin, I will work on being more compassionate, and merciful, and empathetic, and charitable towards others.

Aloha, Maui!

Here I am on the islands! Oh, Maui, how I love thy semi-tropical climate, and persistent rainbows, and continuous breeze! It was certainly worth the white-knuckled terror of the flight. But I’m just being a big ol’ drama queen now. As a matter of fact I’m in danger of becoming one of those people who doesn’t bat a lash about getting on an airplane. It’s only the takeoff and descent that suck, the entire middle part is fine, and even soothing, especially since I had earplugs in this time. Coming down on Maui was the only turbulent part – it’s windy here! Anthony met me by the baggage claim conveyor and wreathed me in a green tea leaf lai that he made along with a tuberose one, creamy white colored and fragrant of vanilla and honey. It made me want to quote aloud lines from Shakespeare. (I’m finishing “Wuthering Heights” finally and I think it’s influencing my writing style.)

Cousin Anthony (who I will henceforth refer to simply as “Cousin”) took me to his and J’s “project house” this morning (photo above) to get new smoke alarms installed for the people coming over to look at, and hopefully buy the house. It’s been on the market almost 2 years now, and the asking price is down to $1.8 million from well above $2 million. It has a steep paved driveway and exquisite decoration and a pool and three floors, the top two both with wide spacious patios sporting breathtaking panorama views of the town and lush foliage below, and beyond them the glowing azure ocean stretching to the horizon.

Afterwards Cousin took us to the only restaurant in town serving breakfast at 10:30 a.m. where he said he’d had such a bad experience last time that under TIP on the check he wrote “Find a new job,” but he gave it another chance for my sake, and he had florentine eggs benedict (florentine basically means “spinach”) and I had a stack of golden buttermilk pancakes with fresh strawberries, and everything was fine, the server was attentive, in fact almost overly servile, I thought, but Cousin is imperious and impatient in demanding compliance from people, whether it’s restaurant servers, the agent who has failed to sell their house so far, or the people in front of him on the road who purposely block him from driving as fast as he’d like in his giant F350 white pickup truck. (So big that he took up two parking spaces when we went to the restaurant.) We stopped and chatted with a couple exuberant older Hawaiian ladies who run an art gallery and are planning a Victor/Victoria themed party for a mutual friend.

Then we went to Secret Beach, which was clothing-optional, and Cousin lounged naked in the HOT sun (it's between 60 and 90 all the time here), while I body surfed and got too much sun (my head is turning bright lobster red – I put “Green Ice” aloe gel on it). He pointed to one house and said “That’s David Bowie and Iman’s house,” then pointed to another on the hill above us and said “That’s Sharon Stone’s house.” Bowie’s house has its own little point or spit of land jutting out onto the water, landscaped all the way up so people can’t climb into their yard and it’s semi-private while being also directly in view of a public beach – with naked people. Sharon Stone’s house looks like cheesecake – same color and consistency. Cousin thinks the water here is cold and was only in it for a few minutes, but I spent a solid hour or two body-surfing the waves, and the water is heaven to me - exactly what I dreamed of and longed for the whole time I kept trying to swim in those glacial 40-degree lakes in Glacier Park last summer. Cousin finally called me ashore after J warned him on the phone not to let me stay in the water too long or my scalp might burn. On the walk back from the beach to the parking lot I felt like a sensitive, pale water creature burning myself on hot coals. The soles of my feet felt soft as the underbelly of a reptile, scalded by hot rocks as I walked along barefoot.

Back at Hohani Place, Cousin had a nap while I organized and put away everything in my room, then took a dip in the pool. He has corned beef simmering in a pot on the stove for tomorrow night’s dinnner. They have a friendly, skinny, tan, blonde Russian girl roommate named K. who goes to a community college nearby, studying to be an IT person. She warned me not to go anywhere without suntan lotion, a rule I failed to observe today, but I didn’t know we’d be hitting the beach when we left. I did my regular exercise regimen this morning, then also did a 15-minute run on the exercise bike with the Resistance set to 7. It’s easy to sweat here with the high humidity. Cousin started to play “Brideshead Revisited” but I said “Let’s save that for another night” because I just can’t watch that movie without a commitment to fully experience it, such is the bond I’ve formed with it. I just read Benji is going to make a movie about the Beatniks next with Jesse Eisenberg from Adventureland. He’s going to play Lucien Carr, a less-well-known figure from the Beats’ early days who nonetheless played an integral role in bringing them together. So I have that and Bright Star to look forward to. Well, I’ve got to go try on some diaphanous gowns Cousin laid on my bed in preparation for our upcoming parties. Looks like I’ll be doing drag before San Francisco after all!

Cousin told me the first night that he and J both walk around the house naked from time to time. K. does, too, occasionally. That's how it goes here! Being the shy thing I am, I’ll probably keep my underwear on at least.

Absolutely f***ing fabulous

This will come up online as being posted on Wednesday, the day of my departure, since it’s after midnight, but I’m writing it right AT midnight on Tuesday night, actually – the eve of the end of my time in Portland. I don’t think I’ll ever live here again, although I’ll surely be back to visit. But I want to see the world, and I have a strong hunch I’m going to end up in some part of Europe eventually. Or many parts of Europe. There are many I want to experience – London (J is there right now, and my cousin may be flying there for a couple weeks not long after I arrive), Berlin, Paris, Belgium, Amsterdam, Italy, Sicily, Switzerland...the mind reels. I feel romantic and adventurous. I want to be in love and filled with inspiration and history and romance and fantasy and beautiful boys who will love me back, and old books in dusty shops written by undiscovered geniuses from the 17th century. My last meeting tonight was with Justin and his friend Sarah and her other friend at Mudai, the Ethiopian place on NE 9th and Broadway where I went years ago with Emily and her friends when I lived in the Hammer & Sickle House on NE 11th and Alberta. We were the unique WHITE PEOPLE TABLE in the joint. Justin and his bassist and another friend had been over at my house the night before, and at a certain point I put “Otto; or, Up with Dead People” on to watch, and that’s when Justin’s other friend left – a gay softcore porn zombie movie isn’t for everyone, but I think it’s fantastic! Yesterday I met Joel at Slabtown for happy hour and then at his place he introduced me to the funniest show I've seen in literally YEARS, "Garth Meringue's Dark Place." It was really inspiring, and that's the direction I want to go in with comedy. Watching it, you really wonder how he got all these people to work with him, how it was funded, how he came up with such intense motivation for getting such a bizarre, surreal, utterly unearthly project off the ground. But, like I said, INSPIRING, above all. Said goodbye to Vicky tonight when I brought my last box over to her house, and she reminded me that I’d forgotten to give her a copy of my zinebook (“What I Really Want Is”), and said, “Your writing has gotten me through some really tough moments in my life over the last few years...it’s been uncanny.” Can you imagine a higher compliment than that? I hugged her and said we’d surely meet again. She is a truly wonderful person, just one of the best I’ve ever known in this city full of wonderful people. I need to stop writing now and go put the finishing touches to my packing and cleaning...since I need to get up in eight hours and hop on a plane. Yeah baby, I’m leavin’. On a jet plane. For Maui. First thing in the morning. My cousin called tonight to ask what size shoes I wear, in both men’s and women’s. I said I can do an 11 or 12 in mens, and for women’s I think you’re just supposed to add two, so that would be 13 or 14 on the drag queen scale. He needed to know because there’s a Victor/Victoria party coming up that I’m invited to, courtesy of him.

Absolutely Fabulous!

Life's a Banquet!

My cousin and J. are going to throw an AUNTIE MAME-THEMED party for me a month or so after I arrive on Maui! He said, “You’ll be the fresh new meat on the island,” meaning most of his crowd is older, and I’ll be a whipper-snapper at the tender age of 33. I’ve been researching Hawaiian centipedes and cane spiders so I know what I’m up against. Hawaii is generally pest-free, so if I don’t have trouble with these two fearsome insectoids, I should be fine. My cousin said cane spiders aren’t venomous, “just gross and scary, and they jump AT you,” and he said centipedes are what you really need to watch out for, “I’ve been bitten three times.” Supposedly they can get up to a foot long, and I saw a video of one eating a mouse (!) People occasionally end up in the hospital with baseball-sized swellings from centipede bites. The pain has been described as similar to a lighter flame being held to your skin. But I don’t think they’re poisonous either, or if they are, their poison only works on the insects and small vertebrates they prey on, not humans, so you’re not going to die.

This reminds me of hearing a woman on the bus a few months back talking about camel spiders and how soldiers in Iraq have to deal with them. She went on and on to her friend about how horrifying they are, how they have crazy jumping ability and can run 30 mph and they’ll inject a sleeping person with anesthesia so they can’t feel anything and then devour their flesh while they sleep. Then I went to the Wikipedia page for camel spiders and found that this is all either greatly exaggerated (they CAN run up to 10 mph, which IS crazy fast for an insect, though), or completely untrue (they don’t produce anesthesia, and according to almost all studies, they aren’t venomous, though their bites are certainly very painful).

People have a need to believe certain things that eclipses any intrusion by facts or reality. When faced with such facts they deny them, or more likely simply tune them out, because they’ve decided that their own constructed pseudo-reality must be defended at all costs. You can still find plenty of vestiges of the old-world, pre-Galileo belief that the earth was flat and if you sail too far you’ll sail over the edge of the world and be eaten by giant monsters. It’s like how James, poor James who I met last summer in Glacier, absolutely INSISTED that The Texas Chain Saw Massacre is a true story. He’s from Texas, and he KNOWS it. But it’s not a true story. It sets itself up as a true story, but so have plenty of other films from Citizen Kane to The Blair Witch Project. Chain Saw is loosely based on the exploits of Wisconsin ghoul Ed Gein, who was a graverobber and artist working in the medium of human skin (but didn’t use a chainsaw). Then you throw in some Charles Manson, a bunch of social unrest and governmental deceit, the no-gas crisis of the early 70s, and the basic structure of Hansel and Gretel, and you’ve got this eerie film that is a weird mixture of modern horror and Grimm’s Fairy Tale.

How do I know this? By reading the words of Tobe Hooper, who wrote and directed the film.

Another good example: COURTNEY KILLED KURT! Or, along the same lines, KURT WROTE COURTNEY’S MUSIC! There is absolutely no compelling evidence of either of these claims, yet many people persist in believing them. A friend who visited me last week put an entertaining new spin on this by insisting that BILLY CORGAN wrote Hole’s second album, Live Through This! Now, that one I’d never even heard before, so you get points for ingenuity! But I’m afraid you’re confused. Corgan had nothing to do (and has never claimed he had anything to do) with Live Through This (except insomuch as the opening song, “Violet,” was apparently written for Corgan by Love, inspired by their on-again, off-again relationship). He DID co-write several songs on Hole’s LAST album, Celebrity Skin. Check the liner notes and you’ll see he was credited as such. And yet when I confronted my friend with this information, she sternly refused to let it impinge on her preferred version of events.

What can you do? You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it think.

I just watched a gay French movie called Like A Brother (Comme un frere, en francais). It was only 55 minutes long and felt more like a first draft than a finished film, and it ended very inconclusively, yet I enjoyed it, and it had many sweet and sexy moments. I think I like movies that challenge the pre-molded conception that films have to be between 90 and 120 minutes long. Why is that, anyway? Did some sort of scientific research determine that was the greatest length of time that most peoples’ attention spans will tolerate? And if that’s so, NOW, is that because of some innate threshold of the human brain, or because we’ve gotten so used to movies being that long?

One of the things I intend to work on while on Maui is a screenplay for a new film, longer than any I’ve done so far - I’m guessing 30 to 45 minutes. That’s a good next step. I’m not ready for a feature yet, though.

texas chainsaw / lesbian separatists / japanese monsters

It's all downhill from here. Last night Lucy went to her new home. I also finally sold my computer yesterday. Today I returned books to the library and went shopping at Everyday Music with the gift certificate Kirk gave me at my party the other night. I bought A Dirty Shame (John Waters' best movie since Serial Mom, which was his best movie since his 70s heyday) and King Kong vs. Godzilla on DVD. The latter was a big favorite of mine as a teenager. I've always loved those Japanese monster movies with the hilariously bad English overdubs. Then I distributed copies of my zinebook at Powell's, Reading Frenzy and the IPRC. (I still have copies, if anyone wants one!) Then strolled down to Saturday Market and enjoyed walking about in the sunlight watching people buy things. I bought a nice little ring for $10 that fits my middle finger. This young girl kept trying to get the seller to tell her what size of ring to buy for her boyfriend, and the seller kept coming back to, "Without knowing what size your boyfriend's fingers are, it's hard to say."

After the market I light-railed it to Chameleon and met with Pat for the last time, and to give him the corrected DVD copy of the Hat Party footage. I drank water with a slice of lime and ate a delicious slice of carrot cake with white chocolate frosting...I've always loved carrot cake, but this was like a whole notha level, a carrotcakegasm. Pat and Aaron were mixing a new drink while I was there, trying to get the taste right. The third version was great: scotch with saffron, a little sugar, and tuaca. They needed a name and I suggested "Scotch Saffron" or "Mad About Saffron" (after the Donovan song), but they went with Aaron's suggestion of "Scotchbroom." Pat said he would give me a reference so I can get a server/host/bartending gig in S.F. That will really help, since my resume over the past few years is like a road badly in need of repaving.

I cried a little after Lucy left last night, for the first time in forever. It's probably good to do that once in a while. I sure will miss that girl. I keep expecting her to be there, thinking I glimpse her out of the corner of my eye. "Cat love is one of the strongest kinds of love," as Kaj-ann told me during the opening party of the Love Show. Which reminds me: I also volunteered (again) for the Love Show closing party last night. Got a hug from Chris H, gifts from Kara (including a hilarious musical card), handed out copies of my book to various people, briefly saw Molly, but there was no warmth. Break my heart. I sent Nataliya Kaye a friend request on Facebook as an experiment, and just as I expected she didn't accept. So I deleted Siren Nation from my list of friends.

I wrote the FIRST ARTICLE about your then-incipient festival in the local press years ago, and you're too good to be my online friend? Fuck that. As far as I'm concerned, support is a two-way street, even if you're a lesbian separatist here in Lesbos, Oregon.

Tomorrow night I'm going to see one of my all-time favorite films, "The Texas Chain Saw Massacre" (1974 original, not the dumbass Michael Bay remake from a few years back that Tobe Hooper had nothing to do with) at the Bagdad Cafe. I first saw it at age eight and can't count the number of times I've seen it since. It is a work of warped genius, and if you haven't seen it, you should really grab this opportunity to experience its full brilliant insanity on the big screen! It is the single most raw, intense and unrelenting film I've ever seen, but few films with its budget have ever packed such a stylistic punch or impacted our culture as much, and the final shot literally brings tears to my eyes. As insane, violent, and inexplicable as it is, it also possesses a crazy beauty like nothing else before or since.

This girl named Allison I met at the Hat Party was at the media center the other day when I saw Chain Saw was playing, and she seemed like the kind of girl who might like it (a little crazy and abrasive - I always gravitate towards those people), so I asked, and sure enough she has, and she said she's going to see it tomorrow night, too, and maybe we'll get a drink afterwards, and discuss Tobe Hooper's one and only unequivocal masterpiece. (They're also screening part 2, but I don't think I can take that one ever again.) As Kinsey said, it's miraculous that they're screening it right before I leave PDX.

Lucy in the sky with catnip

My cat is gone, and I am crying.

The calm before the ecstasy

And I’m 33. I believe Bette Davis once remarked, “Ah, to be 33 forever!” And look what happened to her.

My boxes are snugly nestled at Vicky’s house until such time as I need them shipped to San Francisco. My social obligations are fulfilled, with the gathering last night at Chameleon now history, except for another two-hour volunteer shift as a greeter at the closing party of the Love Show tomorrow, and maybe one or two other minor things. Now all I have to do is get Lucy dropped off at her new home (still not sure where that’s going to be, but I have a couple options now, and Vicky also said she could be a backup if all else fails) and unload my computer – a guy’s coming to look at it tomorrow. I’m really proud of myself for getting on the ball so early with packing and readying for this transition. Now all I have to do is coast down the last few days until I board the plane, relatively stress-free. This is the calm before the ecstasy. The ecstasy, of course, being Maui, seeing my cousin again, and all the great things we have in the works when I get out there.

Damien, who left Portland for San Francisco last year and lives in the Mission, said a friend told him that “San Francisco hipsters make Portland hipsters look like gutterpunks.” That sounds all right to me, if I interpret this comment correctly to mean that the S.F. kids are dressier, more upscale, more refined perhaps. I’ve been thinking about being a full-time dandy for a while: vintage suits every day, just for the hell of it. Looking sharp, well-groomed, well-coiffed, balancing on the fine line between elegance and pretension. I think I can pull that off. Maybe not three years ago, but this tiger CAN change his stripes. Damien also said I’d love his neighborhood, in response to my remark about the kind of guys I’m attracted to most: the slim, pale-skinned, dark haired lads.

I’ve met a nice boy here named Alexander, of course a week before I leave Portland.

Prez Obama is on the Tonight Show in a few minutes and I’m going to watch it – I never watch the late night shows, but come on, it’s our president! Kirk is bellyaching about how he voted for Obama for hope and change and now he’s disappointed, but I just ignore the feeble backlash for the most part. Bush had eight years to fuck everything up, let’s give Obama more than three months to fix it.

If I want to get into acting, where should I start? I guess I need to meet some actors in the City and see what doors I can open through the magic of social networking. That’s one thing that still doesn’t come naturally to me, at least not all the time, but I’ve definitely improved.

Lisa is off to Seattle for the next stop on her itinerary. We had a lot of fun doing karaoke for five hours at the E Room on St. Patrick’s Day, hitting a strip club on Hawthorne, then more debauchery at Chameleon and Sam’s Billiards last night, but I fell off the wagon a bit. I know my partying days are ending because if I skip exercising one day I find myself craving it. When we brought my boxes over to Vicky’s today, I met Vicky’s cat Audrey Hepburn, a BEAUTIFUL black cat with Siamese blood who looks and acts a lot like a pure-black version of Lucy. Absolutely beautiful, a lovely pantherette with gorgeous yellow-and-black eyes. I fell in love with her on the spot. If Lucy ends up being permanently re-homed here and I don’t get her back in the City, I’m going to try to find a cat like Audrey in my new home.

It’s almost over now, and I am so ready.

dim sum / daddies and twinks / Rick and Steve / print media (in trouble)

Yesterday I woke from a dream in which I was chased by a mob of angry, humorless lesbian feminists with baseball bats. I think I caught a glimpse of Valerie Solanas amongst the throng. Unnerving, to say the least.

Had dim sum with Kirk and Melanie at Wong's King - old times revisited. This time I didn't bring a flask of whiskey and pour it into my teacup like I did years ago, last time I was there. The server girls get to wear cute violet colored uniforms. While waiting to be seated we stepped next door to an Asian video store and made ourselves Obnoxious White People by laughing at the poorly translated English titles of the films. I didn't mean to be rude, but let's face it, that shit is funny. My favorite movie title: "Grapeplantation the Man" (photo above, in case you don't believe me). "Grapeplantation" being one word.

Later I introduced Kirk to the majestic cathedral of booze, juicy burgers, redneck rock and free wifi that is Sam's Billiard's in the Hollywood District. When I had my own apartment (the Melcliff, kitty-corner from Holocene) my bar of choice was My Father's Place, within easy walking distance. Ditto the Florida Room when I lived in the QuArtHouse. Now it's Sam's, two easy MAX stops from my house on scenic 82nd Ave. It was Ms. Su'ad who introduced ME to that place years ago, when I was a blonde knave doing data entry for a corporate litigation firm on the outskirts of Lake Oswego.

Got the new issue of OUT. More blather about Sam Adams and his immensely overanalyzed sex life, featuring quotes by Ms. Davis and Mr. Beck, the leading mouthpieces of our queer community. (Note to self: START BEING OLD, so people will pay attention to you.) Also a good article on the new movie about Federico Lorca and his relationship with Salvador Dali, featuring an interview with cover boy Javier Beltran.

I was stunned to hear that Jaymee and Jim, respectively the news and A&C editors of Just Out, have left the paper. What does this mean? Is this the end of Just Out as we know it? A harbinger of the end of print media in general as we know it? I'm glad I have so many different irons in the fire. It's one more sign to me that I've picked the right time to leave Portland, though. It feels like the end of a cycle.

When a door closes, a window of opportunity opens.

I was able to fix much of the Hat Party footage using 3-way Color Corrector in the Video Effects menu of Final Cut Pro. 3-way Color Corrector, I salute thee from the bottom of mine empty goblet.

Years ago during the QuArt days Sam Adams came to a couple of our art shows and behaved flirtatiously towards me, and people asked me why I didn't respond, and I said even though he's an attractive man and it was certainly flattering, the fact is I just don't have the Daddy Complex that many gay guys have. I don't want the bigger, older, hairy man to wrap his lovin' arms around me. I go for the skinny pretty boys myself. I told Dylan last time we hung out, "I'm like a twink-daddy or something. A combination of the two." (His new metal band, Cull, goes on tour next week - he gave me a beautiful copy of their new CD with an awesome lyric book.) I have more than one type, and am attracted to guys both younger and older than me at times, but based on my experience so far I'd have to say my LEADING type is the skinny, pretty boy with dark hair and pale skin. (Ben W. of course being the prime example.)

It's amazing that it's taken me so long to figure all this out, but that's what happens when you spend a decade associating with chemical substances rather than people.

My cousin just told me about Rick and Steve: The Happiest Gay Couple, a show on the Logo channel that's done entirely with Legos and Lego people. He's taking me to see Cheech and Chong's live appearance a couple nights after I arrive!

I borrowed Kirk's scale to weigh my bags for the airport, and was elated when I stepped on it myself this morning and found that I weigh 185 lbs. Before I left for Glacier last summer I tipped the scale at a beefy 200 lbs. It's hard to believe that I've lost 15 POUNDS since then, but as they say, numbers don't lie. It's all the more impressive since muscle weighs more than fat, and I have gained muscle just this month, since I started pilates. All that sweat is paying off.

Maybe when I get to San Francisco I'll just start having a lot of (safe) sex, and that can take the place of exercise.

Bohemian Grove / PX90 / Rahm Emanuel / Adventureland

I had two drinks – but only two – at Biddy’s with Kirk last night. David Clayton, M.D., author of “The Healthy Guide to Unhealthy Living,” says one or two drinks a night is actually good for you, whether it’s a glass of red wine, a bottle of beer or a shot of scotch – they’re all more or less equal, although red wine does contain some antioxidants not found in other liquors. Kirk is still going strong with his New World Order theories and the apocalyptic mentality of the incurably paranoid. Kirk is an absolute nut, but he does have his entertainment value. I’m not saying there isn’t any truth to them, but there have been people predicting various sorts of apocalypses for centuries now – it’s not exactly a new thing. My view is that everything is cyclical. There will always be evil in the world and there will always be good, every so often evil gets the upper hand, but good always seems to bring it back down again eventually. Empires never last, although it’s true the Roman one lasted quite a while – but still only the blink of an eye on the vast stage of world history. Kirk told me about the Bohemian Grove, some weird pagan party in the woods of California where all the most powerful people in the world secretly meet and there are gay orgies held there and apparently there’s footage of Richard Milhaus Nixon disparaging the “goddamned faggots prancing around the redwoods” somewhere on YouTube. I should check it out but somehow the subject doesn’t command my attention enough. Kirk thinks President Obama and his right-hand man Rahm Emanuel may be gay lovers, that Obama is bi and that’s part of why he’s so into Lincoln. He theorizes that’s why Michelle Obama is so “manly.” I don’t exactly think she’s manly. She’s big boned, certainly not petite, but “manly” to me is a butch dyke with a mustache and flannels. Michelle has a somewhat androgynous body, and I’ve always found people with androgynous bodies among the most attractive people around. Ziggy Stardust, anyone?

A woman at the Hat Party told me about the PX90 diet/workout program, which operates on the theory of “muscle confusion.” Athletes use it a lot. She said that no matter how much you exercise, you eventually hit a wall where you can’t go any further, the best you can do is maintain. But with the PX90, you continually rotate different areas of your body for workout, meaning you never hit that wall, because your body never settles into a groove of knowing what to expect, so you can just keep going, getting in better and better shape. I’ll have to check that out if pilates reaches what economists refer to as “the law of diminishing returns.”

Unfortunately most of the Hat Party footage is just too dark to be of much use, I think. I’ll have to break the news to Pat gently. Although I might be able to salvage some of it through the magic of post-production.

I caught a press screening of "Adventureland" this morning - the new movie by the director of "Superbad." It was really quite good. Heterosexuals are so cute.

Do I write with a quill of poison? Nay, my friend, my pen is equal parts poison, magic and gold. It just depends which one you deserve....and on the mercurial mood of the tiger.

Hat Party / acting / Mercury vs. Village Voice

The Hat Party was fun, but the after-party crowd didn’t turn out. Neither did several of the people I went to the trouble of putting on the guest list. (Grrrrrrrrrr. I’m not mad at Vicky, though. She had a valid excuse, plus she’s going to let me store my boxes in her basement until I can have them shipped to San Fran, which is a lifesaver.) It was exciting until 10 or 11pm, then tapered off sharply, and I left around 12:30. Got great footage of the performers and the hat contest. Seventh and Element showed up early and made quite an entrance, since Element was wearing nothing but a leather harness and black jockstrap, and shaking his bare ass on the dance floor. I was glad when they appeared, though, ‘cause the party needed that extra push into un-inhibition. Sean and LeeAnn both snapped mass photos. The cute go-go boy from last year wasn’t there, they had other ones instead. I met a girl named Alison, Baby LeStrange’s friend, who is a film editor and photographer and gave me her card. Also a guy named Gregor, a former Silverado bartender, with whom I traded old memories of the City Nightclub and Portland back in the day. He said when My Own Private Idaho was filming River and Keanu would come to the City and Keanu would smoke pot in the bathroom constantly and River was “a weird guy.” (He’s also the first person I fell in love with, before Dylan, and before Ben Whishaw, unless you count Krystal Capps, but that was a different, platonic sort of love.)

Joel showed up after 10pm and said he loved the way Art Police turned out. He said every time Justin was on screen it made him laugh, and that Emie has the quality of a silent movie star – those big, expressive doe eyes. (“You should make a silent film with her.”) He also praised my editing, saying “You created spaces that didn’t exist.” It’s true that editing is where the magic really happens: you can take a bad movie and make it a good one through editing, that’s how potent it is to the final mix. Kirk said I should check into doing some community theater when I get to San Francisco, which is something I was already considering. Acting will help bring out my emotions more. I’m already starting to come alive again. I feel like the last eight years or so have been a slow recovery from the time I almost died from drugs, and for a long time after that I was in a sort of semi-zombified state, half alive you might say, which is why I related so much to Andy Warhol (post-assassination attempt Warhol, I mean). But I think I’ve finally made a full recovery. And corny as it may sound, it’s a certain English actor I’m obsessed with that brought me the final step back to being fully alive. Because if you lack the ability to love you can’t be full alive as a human being.The moment I first saw “Brideshead Revisited” in the theater it instantly became one of my favorite movies of all time. I’m going to do a series of expressive portraits of Ben when I get to Maui, I’ve decided. I did a preliminary drawing last night, and it came out really well. I think I’ll send it to Ben, in fact. I believe I am actually friends with him on MySpace.

Yesterday after seeing "Sunshine Cleaning" Joel and I had lunch at the Sunshine Cafe (where I had one of the worst gyros I've ever eaten and a semi-decent peanut butter cookie) and I brought up newspapers, saying I'd like to find one to write for in San Fran. I said the Village Voice would be my ideal, and Joel said the VV is only so revered and important because it's in New York, "If the Mercury was in New York it would be the Village Voice," he said, and I said I thought most of the writing in the VV is better than what's in the Mercury - the Stranger might be a better comparison - and I went off on the relentless snarkiness of the Mercury, and Joel said he likes that their reviews of bad movies are brutal, just tearing the film to shreds, but I said yes, they do that well, but they don't have the OTHER side of it. Let's say I wanted to write a review of "Brideshead Revisited," a film that truly moved me, that I think is beautiful and the highest cinematic art. I want to write a review that expresses that in a sincere, passionate, truthful way. And the sort of review I would write about a movie I loved wouldn't fit in the Mercury. They're too concerned with proving their coolness by being cynical and snarky to genuinely and unselfconsciously praise the beauty of a film. That is a LAME definition of cool and not one I will ever accept. I want to write for a paper where I can express the full range of my responses to art without tailoring them for a mentally deficient or emotionally lopsided audience. If you've read my film reviews in Just Out, you know I can decimate a shitty movie with the best of them, but that is hardly the range of my abilities.

All I care about is telling the truth as I see it.

I ran into Cliff at PSU yesterday – little Cliff who I made “Pestilence” with last year for our video class with Holly Andres. He said, “Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere else?” I guess I copied him on the email I sent out before I left for Glacier. Melanie arrives late Thursday night, and Lisa next Tuesday (St. Patrick's Day), and then it's only a week until I'm leaving on a jet plane for the islands! Oh, joy! My adult life begins NOW.

suicide / sunshine cleaning / otto the zombie

There was an attempted suicide at the 82nd Ave MAX stop yesterday late afternoon, just as I was rushing home from the media center to do my exercises and get ready for the Hat Party. We stalled at the Lloyd Center stop and the operator announced that there was a person "involved with a train in some way" but that they were "getting it cleaned up," which sounded gruesome. I know all the gory horror movies I've seen haven't desensitized me to violence, because the thought of getting off the train and seeing human remains made my stomach churn. I considered getting off at the 60th Ave stop and walking up. But when we got off, there was no sign of any carnage. The news crews all had vans and cameras on the overpass, but the word "attempted" sounds like it didn't work for whoever the poor person was. (You thought you were depressed before!) I didn't get to watch the news 'cause I was at the Hat Party.

More on that later.

Speaking of human remains, I saw "Sunshine Cleaning" this morning - Joel accompanied me - we both loved it. Amy Adams is kind of a warmer, likable, younger Nicole Kidman. Alan Arkin of course superb as always, and Emily Blunt very funny as well. Definitely an "A."

As part of my gearing-up-for-Maui-and-then-San-Francisco process, I've resolved to make at least one drawing or visual artwork - even if it's only a rough sketch - every day from now until I leave, to tone up the parts of my brain used in drawing and painting, which have probably atrophied since I've been inactive in those mediums for so long. I'm relieved to find I haven't lost anything in the interim, in fact I think I'm better than ever. I'm ramping up to begin painting again when I get to the islands. I think I need to paint and draw nothing but cute boys for a while, because when I make picture of people I'm attracted to, they always come out well. I'm motivated to finish and to make them as attractive as I find them. Hence the portrait of Otto from the Bruce LaBruce film "Otto; or, Up with Dead People" above. (Otto played by Jey Crisfar, who unfortunately swears on his MySpace page that he will never show his ass on camera again.)

I just ordered a copy of Otto off Amazon. It's a keeper. Definitely the best gay zombie porn film I've seen.

This Just In!

I got one last cover story in Just Out, cover above! You can read all the articles online here. My articles start on pages 16, 17 and 23.

I feel better about my performance in "Art Police" after watching it several times and hearing some feedback. I really kinda look like a thug. My friend Kirk, who came over last night to watch a hilariously bad film called "Zombie Strippers," said that his girlfriend after watching AP said, "Not only does he not look gay, he looks macho." Another friend said he thought I did a good job but that Justin didn't do so well as the other art police officer. I think it's funny the way Justin overplayed the role, though. I told him he should play it over-the-top and be the crazy emotional counterpart to my cool, clipped, deadpan. I think that contrast is funny.

Off to the media center to burn DVDs of Art Police, and then it's Hat Party time, baby!

Onwards and upwards / Loins of Punjab

Walking down MLK yesterday afternoon a girl in the passenger's seat of a big white pickup stopped at a red light yelled to me, "Aren't you a tall drink of water?" I kind of smiled but didn't say anything and she said, "Don't you recognize me?" It was MS. SU'AD! I haven't seen her forever and to be honest, didn't recognize her. Her hair was kind of magenta colored. She said, "SMILE!" as the truck sped away. The funny thing is I think that "tall drink o' water" comment was the first thing she ever said to me years ago when we both slaved away in front of the keyboard at Bates Private Capital in Lake Oswego. Ahhh, how I miss those days.

NOT REALLY.

One problem with living in a town so superabounding with ultra-creative people is that no one has enough time to enjoy or appreciate everyone else's artworks and projects. I'm as guilty as anyone. I try to support other peoples' work - I'm volunteering again at the Love Show closing party on the 20th - but to get things done I find I have to devote the majority of my time and energy to my own goals. Another thing that bugs me about Portland is the low motivation rate or general slow pace of life here. I sort of don't fit in that way. Except when I'm flailing in a despondent rut, I am a high-energy, fast-paced, goal-oriented person, and sometimes - especially lately, with the new health regimen - I exist in a state bordering on mania. The sluggish response rate of other people, their failure to communicate, really bugs me. Of course, I haven't been working lately, but the truth is when I work (like, at a real job) I get even more driven and focused; my energy only ramps up when I'm in full-throttle getting-shit-done mode. Maybe I will have to move to a fast-paced city like New York eventually. My slacker days are ending. I'm actually looking forward to having a job again, if I can find one I like, but it doesn't make sense to start that hunt until I get to San Francisco. I'd love to work for a community media center there.

Speaking of community media, when I was at PCM yesterday telling Pam about my goal of starting an art collective in San Fran, she asked, "Why can't you do it in Portland?" Well, my love affair with Portland has been long and lurid (going back to 1990, if you count junior high/high school in Hillsboro, when I would occasionally escape to Portland and long to ditch the suburbs for good and live in this enchanted metropolis), but I'm not ready to give my life to one town just yet. There's a lot more of the world I need to see. And as great as Portland is, it starts to feel kind of small and suffocating after a while. I don't even see or speak with most of the people I used to be friends with here. It just feels kind of over to me.

Onwards and upwards!

I've moved past the basic pilates exercises now and have reached the intermediate section, and it's getting harder! But the beneficial impact on my body is already visible when I look in the mirror in the morning. Pretty soon I'll have the sort of belly you can eat cake off of.

I got my name on the cover of Just Out one last time, thanks to my awesome editor, Jim Radosta, to whom I will be eternally grateful. Mike, Kevin and Pat ALL thanked me for my articles the day the paper came out. That's always gratifying.

I went hat-shopping at Bearly Worn yesterday, but strayed to the T-shirt section and found this funny "Drama Queen" shirt, it even says San Francisco underneath, but I didn't buy it, just snapped the photo above.

Anthony called to ask if I remembered Viola, the crazy woman who lived across the river from us back in our Minnesota youth, who ended up driving her car into the river. We're certainly going to have a lot of fun recalling the highlights of our tragic, trashy, hilarious childhood. There is rich material there, to be sure. He also said he's recruited a friend of his to be the "bear" for our comedy sketch show, so we have three men, now we need some fabulous ladies to join the troupe! I picture us getting high on the beach and brainstorming ideas for comedy sketches.

I can't wait to be in the water again.

I'm watching "Loins of Punjab Presents" which I'm reviewing for Just Out. It's really funny, sort of the Bollywood equivalent of a Christopher Guest mockumentary.

Art Police online, makes me feel fine!

Hey, my new short film "Art Police" is finally finished, take 10 mins. out of your busy life to watch it and let me know what you think! I think it's funny as hell and I'm so proud that we made it. We even recorded our own soundtrack. I sang vocals on the "peppy Art Police theme song" at the end.

xo


tony aka glam

snobs / angels / megalomania

New issue of Just Out comes out today and I have three articles in it: one on a book called "The Best Nonreligious Quotes Ever" (Kevin Reedy), one on another book called "How To Be A Gay Porn Star" (Mike Donner), and one on the 12th Annual Hat Party at Chameleon this Sunday (where I will see each and every one of you, right?) I stopped by Chameleon yesterday and talked over both the Hat Party and my party, and left just as a health inspector with a clipboard arrived (Health Police!) Pat said we should be able to project "Art Police" on the wall for my party, but we need speakers; the movies he usually projects during business hours are silent. He told me about the Salon Q that Chameleon hosted a few weeks back. Sounds like it drew a good crowd (he estimated almost 200 people), but based on other things he told me I'm glad I didn't go. He said there were uppity attitudes and when a stripper Pat had hired showed up to perform, some of the gays got snooty, asking "What is a stripper doing here?" and Pat's attitude in response was "You aren't at a business meeting, this is a party." I said, "There are lots of snobby gay guys that are just no fun."

Funny how hearing a little thing like that sets me off. I think back to that cocktail hour for queer journalists that I attended a while back, where someone, I think it was that Zuckerman person (apparently Sam Adams' boyfriend du jour), when introduced to me played the snob card and was like "Where do you come from? Who do you know?" I guess I was supposed to prove my right to be amongst such lofty company by ticking off a list of names of my connections to important and powerful people. Like Byron Beck, maybe? (He was there. We didn't talk.) I don't know which was more unpleasant: the snobbery oozing from him like cobra venom or the fact that the venue selected for our little social status contest served eight-dollar drinks at happy hour. (Let's live in the real world: if we're journalists, most of us aren't exactly raking in money. Let me pick the venue next time. Actually, let me pick the people, too.) I kind of felt bad for him, though, because I sort of know what he was getting at: he didn't know what box to put me in, because I don't fit in any box. And even though I greatly enjoy journalism and the opportunities it affords me to network and meet great people, it is hardly the extent of my ambition to be a freelance journalist for the rest of my life. I am not just going to write about people, I'm going to be someone who is written about. I have visions of being the center of a cult of personality. I've had them for a long time.

Maybe I AM a megalomaniac. I have certainly been afflicted with delusions of wealth, power, fame, etc. for almost as long as I can remember. Except, to paraphrase John Hurt playing Quentin Crisp in "The Naked Civil Servant," (above, with Greenwich Village drag queen) I would question the word "afflicted." I think I would have to ask whether "delusions" are really all that bad. What it really boils down to is that I have long had - maybe ALWAYS had - a strange certainty that I am on course to something great, that at some point I will have some measure of wealth or fame or success (or all three!), almost as if I'm guided by some sort of angelic spirit. I would say that I feel "blessed" if that word wasn't so tinged with religion. That's why snubs by snobs just can't hurt me. I like people who are just NICE. It's the easiest thing in the world to be and takes much less energy than copping attitude and it's so much more pleasant to be around. Of course, there is a time and a place for attitude - and don't I know it! - but there's no reason to be rude and snobby simply for the sake of it. People who are obsessed with proving and maintaining their social status are a sad, desperate lot, and I will happily pass right by them on my way to endless treasure that will never be theirs and has always been mine, without even an effort, since the very beginning! Social snobs are insecure and afraid to be themselves deep down.

I am neither. And actually, I never have been...even going back to elementary school! I dress how I want, do what I want, say what I really think. Boys who wear brand name clothing don't impress me. Boys who make their own clothes do. I'm not in it for money or social status or any of those things, really, although I'll accept them if they come, and I have a feeling they will, eventually, if I just keep going in the direction I'm headed. Maybe I'll find out fame and artistic recognition and material comfort aren't important to me after all. Maybe I'll fall in love and it'll be mutual (whoa nelly!) and I'll learn how to fully love another human being, the one major aspect of human existence that I'm still in the dark about. Regardless, my life is rich and full already and now that I've finally made a serious commitment to take better care of myself and really go for the gold, the good times are really only starting. I have something that most people don't have. It's a sort of invincibility that comes from my calm and unyielding conviction that wherever I'm going, it's somewhere great, and no matter what happens when I get there - even if it's not exactly what I expected in my starry-eyed youth - it will be OK.

On waking up with a beautiful glowing feeling

Pilates is fucking amazing. I've only been doing it for three days and I'm starting to feel like there are bricks forming under my skin. I wake up feeling like I'm glowing with health and energy (this is partly the vitamins and going to bed sober, as well). At this rate I'll be toned in a month! Even my writing is getting more taut. At first you have to read the instructions and look at the photos and keep it in your mind like a formula, but it's cool how after you go through the motion a few times it becomes automatic, and you can go into your meditative state and just focus on breathing. It's also bringing my libido back to life and making me horny. All yesterday I felt like I had a big love magnet in me and attracted love everywhere I went. Didn't hurt that it was also a gorgeous day (off and on). Spring is trying to let its bright light shine.

Left the house around noon and the sun was out, walked to Fred Meyers for mini DV tapes for the Hat Party, then met Kirk at Pho Green Papaya for lunch. I had the pho tom yum, my new favorite menu item. Kirk had the seafood pho and then complained that he'd made it too hot. I like it so hot it almost makes me cry and I have to blow my nose into my napkin. Feels like it's burning impurities out of my system. Melanie called to say she's coming to visit next weekend! I really hope it happens this time. Maybe we'll go camping or visit the coast, like in the old days. Kirk said he's writing a book about how you can channel water into a source of energy and use it for resistance and exercise instead of just being lazy in it. I told him a couple premises for comedy sketches I've been discussing with my cousin (we're talking about starting a little comedy sketch show in San Francisco something like Little Britain! Maybe we can call it Little Sodom!) He did what he always does when I tell him an idea - he immediately takes it in his own hands, builds on it, distorts it, and turns it into Kirk's idea. I find this somewhat annoying and finally told him that I think he and I have different comedic styles. Mine is "Kids in the Hall" and understated, his is "Jackass" and overtly clownish. He also tried to tempt me to drink beer when I'd made it clear I'm not drinking any more (except MAYBE the night of my going-away gathering, but we'll see), not that it made any difference - I have truly entered a new phase of my life, and it's only going to ramp up when I leave Portland. It was nice to see him all the same, and he was nice enough to drop me at the media center after lunch.

There I picked up my laptop and edited Art Police for hours at Tiny's, listening to too much Bjork and just enough Hot Chip, until a table of loud, obnoxious rocker type boys rehearsing their loud, obnoxious film script at the table behind me became so distracting I had to leave. (Dude, this is a CAFE, not your favorite DIVE BAR!) If you've never edited film before, you would be stunned by how much work it can be - and this is for a film that will clock in at less than 10 minutes. I edited continuously for four hours, and I've still only completed scene one of four - BUT it has become so fantastic that I'm really excited for people to see it now. I played with the video effects palette and discovered all sorts of things, including how to fix bad lighting. The opening credit sequence is splendid. The gang is really going to be surprised when they see it, I think. I was disappointed in myself for missing the Gold Coyote deadline, but now that I see how much work it's taking to make it really good, I'm not so much, because even if I had been totally focused that one day or two when I was too messed up to work, there's no way it would've been done by that deadline, given the timeline we made it on. I plan to have the final cut by this weekend and hopefully up on YouTube as well!

After editing myself into a stupor I did camera for Alexandra Paris's show for the last time. It was sweet, she gave me an on-camera send-off at the end of the show, called me a "faithful camera man" and said I'm welcome back any time I'm visiting Portland in the future. She and her guy are coming to the Hat Party this weekend, as are Vicky, Edgar, Seventh, Element, and a cute boy who I met last night while doing camera, he was helping out in the control room. Only problem is, he's 20 and I'm....32.9.

This week's One Day At A Time has a little blurb about Matthew Goode (who played Charles Ryder in Brideshead Revisited!) with a sexy accompanying photo (above) I sent a naughty response to their letters section, but I'll keep it to myself until I see if it's published. I still think Ben Whishaw is hotter and a more phenomenal actor, but Matthew's all right too, in both departments. I read the only part of the WW worth reading - Rob Brezsny's astrology column - and it said that I'm not setting my sights high enough and that the cosmos is giving me license to ask for more and dream big. Oh, cosmos, I hear you calling, and I am listening, baby!

Joseph Pilates / U.S. of Ant / copies of my book finally!

Finally got the printed copies of my book today! Apparently they had been sitting at the printshop for weeks now without me ever receiving notice – go figger. If you would like to buy one, they’re $5! If I sell just 20 copies at that price I can make back my printing costs. The book is called “What I Really Want Is.” It is a diverse collection of writing, some of it more than a decade old, most of it newer. Email anthonyletigre@gmail.com to order.

Did pilates today for the first time, a DIY session, just following the instructions in the book I checked out yesterday called Pilates For Men. After just one session I have a really good feeling about this. I learned that Joseph Pilates (photo above) invented these postures and exercises to help soldiers wounded in World War I recover. I plan to do pilates every day from now on, plus I’m still doing my regular exercises – 120 pushups a day (and I’m doing them RIGHT now, which means they’re harder, but I’m also starting to have a chest for the first time, in a skinnyboy way), yoga postures, various other stretches. My body is going through an adjustment period that will be a little rough. I abruptly quit drinking, stepped up my exercise regimen in a big way, started taking a heavy barrage of detox vitamins AND eating healthier all at the same time. It’s gonna pay off, though. I predict by the time I leave for Maui I’ll already look and feel trimmer and healthier.

Treated myself to some new underwear from Ross today. I hardly ever buy underwear.

Just watched an episode of The U.S. of Ant on Netflix, where Ant discovers that there are homosexuals living apparently contented lives in Montana. Wonder of wonders! I gather Ant is something like the Byron Beck of the Logo network: glib, makes every hackneyed joke you can think of, can’t think outside the gay box, but that’s what they’re paying him for, I suppose. He is good at talking to people, making them loosen up, getting them to laugh. Can’t stop thinking about sex even for 30 seconds, of course; that’s what his identity is based on. I’m sure he’s a decent enough guy, though, and it was nice that he didn’t just profile gays in the Castro or something overwhelmingly obvious like that.

Pilates! Detox diets! Starbucks sucks!

As part of my new program of fitness and health I stopped by the library today (had to return the Christopher Plummer memoir “In Spite of Myself” ‘cause someone else had a hold on it, too bad ‘cause I was really enjoying it, he describes so many eccentric aristocratic theater people of bygone days), and picked out some books on detox diets, pilates for men (the vast majority of these health/fitness books are for women, do men care less or are they encouraged not to care?), plus Amy Sedaris’s “Hospitality Under the Influence” book, but most especially one that jumped out at me called “The Healthy Guide to Unhealthy Living,” by David J. Clayton, M.D. (image above). He had me at hello with these lines from his introduction:

If you work a sensible, nonstressful 9-to-5 job; if you’re in a monogamous relationship; if you abstain from smoking, drugs and alcohol; and if you are completely content in life, this book is not for you. But if you’ve been known to drink, smoke, hook up, work too hard, or eat fast food for six meals in a row, this book will help you manage your bad habits, and may change the way you see your choices.

I’ve already started reading it. He says adrenaline was helpful when our ancestors fled from lions on the plains of Africa, but is more of a liability now, say before you have to give a presentation and your knees are knocking and your muscles uncomfortably contracted. He recommends a six-month vacation in the Virgin Islands to restore health and sanity in a non-medicational way, if you have the means!

I just picked up a movie I’m reviewing called “Loins of Punjabi,” then stopped in at Starbucks to do some laptopping, but they’ve made some horrible deal with T-Mobile and don’t offer free WiFi to their customers! Can you believe it? I could tell by the reaction of the girl at the counter that she thought it was stupid, too, and she directed me to Panera Bread up the street, where they offer free WiFi with no strings attached and are super cool about it – the girl here even told me, “You can order a coffee and get free refills and stay here all night if you want.”

Panera Bread good, Starbucks bad.

A new literary magazine starting up here in PDX called "Perceptions" has accepted two photos for their first issue, but it doesn’t go to press until May. They’ll mail my contributor’s copy to Haiku.

Did I mention we inserted a sort of Grade B horror/Herschell Gordon Lewis homage moment into Art Police? It was a spur-of-the-moment inspiration of mine and involves a severed finger, complete with theatrical blood and....ketchup packets. Should be pretty funny.

I stopped in at Art Media and used the gift card I got at Jean’s dinner party a while back to buy some new charcoals and drawing supplies, because another part of my regiment to get myself back into shape AND back into full creative flux is to make at least one drawing or piece of visual art, even if it’s just a sketch, every day from now until I leave. (And after.)

And of course, the day after I whined about Portland weather, we got one of the (mostly) best and brightest days we’ve had in a while. When it’s lovely here, it is lovely indeed.

Garcon Stupide / Fat Actress / being a penniless aristocrat

Here it is March at last, and I wrote my last (pro-rated) rent check to Meghan last night. I can’t lie: I am so ready to be gone, and if I could hop on the plane to Maui right now I would. I guess I must have changed, because Portland probably hasn’t, but the fact is now with the prospect of semi-tropical sunlight in the near future, I find this dreary chilly gray climate really dispiriting and de-motivating. I spent most of yesterday editing at the media center, got the final cut of Bad News done, turned it in for broadcasting and put it up on YouTube, which I probably shouldn’t, because it’s going to have a stultifying effect on me, and certainly no one who sees it is going to want to touch me with a ten foot stick, I look chubby and bloated and most unattractive, but to be true to the spirit of that little project I had to play the clown. It’ll only make it more dramatic when I transform into a golden creature of light and toned muscles and sun-kissed skin on Maui and then go bag me a boy on San Fran! I didn’t plan ahead again so there was no laptop I could check out to bring home with me, so now I have to wait until Wednesday when the media center is open again to go in and finish editing, which sucks when you’re in the thick of the project and just want to keep working till it’s done, and obviously now we aren’t going to be able to submit Art Police to Gold Coyote: the deadline was yesterday. That’s probably my own screw-up fault, although even if I had really devoted every minute to editing it still would have been a dreadfully narrow shave so to speak, and it turned into a lot more work than expected, both the shooting and the editing. There are other places I’d like to submit it to anyway: the 10 or Less festival, and Slamdance, although I think that happened in January, so it’ll be a long wait. What I can do, though, is bring it down to San Francisco with me and shop it around there, introduce us to a whole new tableau of artistic personages. But I’ve definitely got to make it a priority to get my own film equipment in the near future so I don’t have to always be at the mercy of the fickle gods of community media. (Much as I love it.) Certainly I need to get a hard drive of my own, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to install Final Cut Pro on my laptop any time soon: I asked Neal (cool old bearded chap who seems to not only work but LIVE at the media center) how much it costs and he estimated the full suite at around $1300, Final Cut by itself at $800-900. Yeeeowwch. When I got home Meghan was having dinner with her friend Brian who made a Rollerderby documentary and (I presume) his dude, and they invited me to join them, but I wasn’t really hungry, and was in a frantic mood of getting things done (cleaning, packing, laundry, etc.) so bowed out. The truth is I relate to people way more based on temperament, taste and style than sexual orientation. I’m a weird mix of lower and upper class, not so much middle. That is, I grew up in pretty much Midwestern, white-trash poverty, but never felt I belonged there, that it was just kind of a cruel joke, and I’ve always felt I belonged in a castle in England somewhere instead. Basically, I’m an aristocrat with no money and no pedigree. I’ll have to make my own money and start my own pedigree, I guess. Nico said she can take Lucy, and will let me have her back later if the opportunity arises, and I think that’s a better option than Vicky, who has four cats (and one angry husband) already. Cousin Ant says I’ll probably smoke more weed when I get out to Maui because “it’s the national pastime.” It probably wouldn’t be a bad move to forego the liquor and pick up the pipe instead. Although I’m thinking I may not need much of either from here on out. I want to get addicted to exercise: an addiction that’s actually good for me! I watched Garcon Stupide last night. A good example of how a movie can be full of NC17 kinky sex and still be....not very sexy at all. I wasn’t really turned on once. The extremely restrained scene in Brideshead Revisited where Sebastian kisses Charles (this is my blog, I’ll be as obsessive as I want, thankyoukindly) is so much sexier than the one in Garcon Stupide where the lead boy watches his trick sit on a giant dildo. French movies are so cerebral, in the sense of being concerned with thoughts and dialogue and “interior reality” rather than straightforward plot and action, which I suppose I should like, but honestly there were a number of scenes that struck me as an amateur film project for college, dialogue scenes that went on way too long and would’ve benefited from some cutting. I also got Fat Actress and it’s sooo funny, sort of like Curb Your Enthusiasm with a female protagonist, but there were only four episodes of it made. Too bad Kirstie Alley got skinny again. Shit, this Sunday is the Hat Party, isn’t it? And I haven’t a stitch to wear.

Bad News!

It is with some reluctance that I put this link up before I have Art Police finished and viewable on YouTube/Vimeo, because this little film, "Bad News," is very much a B side to Art Police, and started as almost an afterthought, but I guess it's funny enough to show people. Especially now that I've cut out the most embarrassing bits.

Actually, it's still kind of embarrassing, but if others can find amusement at my expense, I guess I regard that as sort of a charity duty that I perform for other humans.

I should probably add a disclaimer about how some of the commentary I issue here, which is excerpted from my writing collection, is satirical and tongue-in-cheek. Then again, a lot of it does reflect things I've thought or that I feel on various topics. It's about 50% scripted, 50% improv with Emie bringing her special blend of off-the-cuff belligerence to the proceedings. She stole the show. But I let her steal it. If I was Andy Warhol she would be one of my superstars.

The Hat Party is one week from today and I'm in one of the frenzies of packing, cleaning, getting shit done that always follows a lazy interlude of irresponsibility.