Notes from the Underground

The Saddest Psalm I've Got

2009-04-08T22:10:00.002-04:00

This stuns me every time I sing it. The ninth verse of the seventy-fourth psalm, as rendered in the psalter used by the Anglican church:

There are no signs for us to see;
There is no prophet left;
There is not one among us who knows how long.

It's in our hands. It always was.

(Take that, John Calvin.)

Moving on, again...

2009-01-07T09:29:00.003-05:00

Wednesday morning, 9:30 a.m., and I'm not in my office, and I'm not in the subway on my way there, either. I'm lying, fully clothed, on my bed, typing in a blog I had mostly abandoned several months ago. What's happened? I've been fired. Well, actually, my supervisor phrased it, "I'm letting you go." There are so many instances of the use of that particular combination of words which spring to mind, but the thought currently occupying my consciousness is, "Gee, isn't that what you do with a bunch of helium-filled balloons on a windy day?" It happened on Monday afternoon. I reacted badly. In my immediate panic, I failed to take it like a man. I simpered a bit; I thought I was going to vomit or cry or some combination thereof; in the end, I left the office with a handshake and an, "I'm off. Take care." Security was not called to escort me out. I was given ample time to remove my belongings from my desk. I do not believe that my co-workers (with the exception of the CFO, whom I shall forever believe was the impetus behind my departure -- the day she arrived, she appraised me with a look that seemed to seethe, "YOU have GOT to GO!") knew what was going on, though certainly, now that I've been gone for two days, they've figured it out. When I was hired, I said, "Oh, no, I couldn't do that. I'm a musician; I'd have to leave all the time to go to rehearsals and gigs and coachings and lessons and such," to which my boss responded, "I think we can make reasonable accommodations for that." I suppose the accommodations I'd begun asking her and the rest of the staff to make, of late (particularly since my month-long absence over the summer while I recuperated from the ruptured appendix), had ceased to be reasonable. So now, I have a lot more time to focus on being a musician and on writing. (Unfortunately, I also have developed a much more expensive lifestyle than I had before I started working there.) I hope that whoever takes my place will be able to bring all the varied talents I brought to the position, along with the ability to operate within corporate confines which I considered petty (like punctuality for precise working hours), and which I lacked. I regret enormously the number of loose ends I was forced to leave -- I have never before ended my tenure in a position in such a fashion. I hold no grudge; I bear them no ill will; I wish them all the best. But more than anything else, I hope that they'll miss me.

God Bless Muntadhar al-Zeidi

2008-12-16T10:01:00.002-05:00

For the past four years, if not more, half the population of the United States of America has doubtless wanted to do at the very least what this young Iraqi journalist did on Sunday, hurling both of his shoes at the head of the degenerate despot at the helm of this nation. George W. Bush is an incompetent, untrustworthy, anti-democratic, pig-headed cretin who should never have been installed as President of the United States. Once installed, he should never have been permitted to run amok, causing the level of damage and destruction he has wrought worldwide. Now that he is about to pass out of office, managing to still avoid being held accountable for his actions, it seems appropriate that a citizen of the nation his policies were supposedly "helping" should finally manage to pay that ass-clown the disrespect he deserves. I salute you, Mr. Muntadhar al-Zeidi, and I agree with your people. You are a hero, indeed. It's too bad you didn't have better aim and that you weren't wearing boots; a boot in the face of George W. Bush would have been poetic justice.

A quick note, then back on track...

2008-10-31T08:35:00.003-04:00

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/joe-vogel/a-mormons-lament-church-i_b_138037.html

FUCK the MORMONS!

(I make a point of doing so as often as possible.)

That said, I'm in Spain...The Basque Country, to be more specific.

More on that later today. Right now, I'm off to lunch.

Seeing Red

2008-09-25T14:39:00.002-04:00

I've been sleeping roughly twelve-hour nights, lately, as my body seems to think that it still wants enormous amounts of rest in which to heal. That all comes to a stop this evening, as I'm back to rehearsing 'til 10 p.m. or so on a regular basis. My health had better stand it, because I'm really kind-of over the whole "ailing and fragile" thing.

I'm also rather over the fact that all of my clothes are significantly too large for me. I can wear jeans that I haven't been able to comfortably wear in about a decade or so, and where they were a little tighter on me than they should've been at that time, they're now quite comfortable. I'm officially anemic, now, so I'm taking about a zillion vitamins per day, eating everything in sight, and doing a course of testosterone in hopes of raising my lethargic energy levels (and not-so-secretly hoping that I'll gain more muscle faster with my return to the gym, scheduled for as soon as possible). Anyway, I need to figure out where I'm going to buy my new wardrobe -- and when, since my schedule is suddenly once again becoming rather full.

And speaking of returning to the gym and getting bigger, people just need to get the fuck out of my way. If I'm attempting to get around you on the sidewalk (or anywhere else), move! Even anemic, I still move faster than most fuckers. And if we're turning a corner and getting in each other's space, unless you're bigger than I am (and by "bigger", I mean big enough that if we collide, I'm going to be the one who falls to the pavement -- generally unlikely), you're the one who's going to yield; I'm not changing my trajectory for most people.

While I'm feeling cocky, I should note that I've been reading Bret Easton Ellis's American Psycho, and while there's a little bit too much brand-name-dropping in it for me to be able to get up much momentum, I've been very much enjoying getting into the head-space of some of the freaks that inhabited this town in the early '90s. I've also been very much enjoying the looks I get in the subway and on the street when people process the title on the cover:

AMERI-
CAN
PSYCHO.

Don't get me wrong; I don't think I'm gonna go slicing people up anytime soon, but if the subway continues running like it did this morning, when so many express trains passed 96th Street on the red line that the platform was almost literally full with people waiting for a local train headed uptown, I might start ranting again about just how much I'd like to fire-bomb the MTA's headquarters or tie its dispatchers to the tracks or gut its fat-cat board members. Fortunately, I suppose, I have neither time nor energy to do any of those things between work, music, and finding clothes that fit me properly. But God help the minions of the MTA if I should ever end up with too much time on my hands (not to worry; it'll never happen).

Sunday Meandering

2008-08-31T11:09:00.003-04:00

Sometimes, I realise I enjoy the strangest things. Returning home from a walk down in the Village this morning, I was hit in the face with a blast of hot, fœtid air as I descended the stairs into the subway on the southeast corner of 12th St. and 8th Ave. At first, my breath caught in my throat. And then, I realised that I liked it.

Passing a (probably homeless, probably alcoholic, probably drug-addicted, probably there-but-for-the-Grace-of-God-go-I) person huddled, sleeping, against the gates, I thought, "Well, it's probably not comfortable, and it certainly makes me sad, but at least you're maybe a little bit safer here than you'd be on the street above."

Strolling toward the uptown platform, passing the little convenience store and news-stand situated at the top of the stairs, the voice on the radio caught my ear, and I thought, "That one's going to haunt me," so I turned around and stopped and listened for awhile. I'm sure the shop-keeper first thought I was contemplating buying something, then worried whether I was a crazy person, and finally dismissed me as someone internally debating something he couldn't guess. The voice changed, and I decided it wouldn't trouble me so much not to ask whose it was.

I've been humming or singing bits of Maria McKee's "Late December" to myself all morning. It's a little early for that, but it happens every time I pass Jane St. "I always stall down on Jane St. / Set up to fall down on Jane St.," she croons. I know how she feels. When I saw her at Joe's Pub a year or so ago, Maria called New York City her great unrequited love affair. Like Jimmy Webb said, the Moon's a harsh mistress. I sing to myself in public quite a lot, these days. I don't much care anymore what anybody thinks of it, though if I'm wearing headphones, I do try to discreetly arrange them so that I can hear myself and make sure that I'm in tune. I mean, I wouldn't want people thinking I'm some tone-deaf hack, would I?

In the train (only two stops, but I haven't got the energy for the walk, these days) from 14th to 34th, I sat and read the book with which I've started, Chuck Pahlaniuk's (yes, he of Fight Club fame) Diary. (I picked up three books yesterday after they let me out of the hospital again, thinking reading might keep me out of some trouble and force me to rest more. In addition to the Pahlaniuk, I bought Bret Easton Ellis's American Psycho, because I've been insisting I must read the book before seeing the several-year-old movie (also because I may have done myself a disservice in that department with The Rules of Attraction and Less than Zero, neither of which I read before seeing the films) and Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited, not because I am even remotely interested in the recent film, which I am not, but because I've been meaning to read the book for years.) Seated between pretty, freshly-scrubbed white-girl and nicely-perfumed if somewhat overweight Latino man, I thought, "Gee, I probably smell like sex," given that I had, in fact, just come from fucking one of, I swear to God, one of the hottest men in Manhattan (not for the first time), who said to me as I prepared to leave, "You should really hang onto my number, now that you've got it." It was the first time we'd fucked sober. He was as hot this way as he was when I was in an illicit pharmaceutical haze. I'd kind-of like to go back to being a pothead. I've got no connection, though, and frankly, I'm not interested in being paranoid, fat, and goofier than I already am.

Besides, my social and recreational substance-abuse has already apparently been the demise of one musical outing. I'm told that the bass-player from the band which is no longer linked at right said to that endeavour's singer over lunch or dinner or something sometime recently that that was "a difficult situation"; I guess he elaborated at some point that I was difficult to work with (pot, kettle, cuntrag, by the way -- he wasn't exactly a peach himself), perhaps alluding to the fact that why, yes, if you set an illicit substance in front of me as an offering, I am very likely to help you abuse it. Well, let me be sure we're very clear: I do not have, nor have I had, nor shall I have a substance-abuse PROBLEM. I can't afford one of those, frankly, and my rather peculiar health wouldn't stand for it. And if that's how you feel, well then fuck you, and fuck that hurricane that's thinking about heading for the only other city in this nation that's worth the land it's built on, fucker!

Worth Noting...

2008-08-29T21:28:00.003-04:00

Before I sleep for the night, I want to take a moment to point out to whoever might be reading wherever, or just to send this little message into the aether:

Today was the three-year anniversary of the day that my "country" abandoned its people in their hour of need.

I draw your attention to New Orleans, Louisiana, whose residents are STILL our people and STILL in need, and until you pay attention to them, o government of this country, I shall have but two words for you, and I shall say them in every form and every forum I may find until my voice and the voices of millions of others echo in your ears as you drown in your own blood beneath our boots, as we march, indignant at the destruction of the remaining beauty in this land and in the world, inflamed at the treatment of some of our citizens as less than human, infuriated at your continued incompetence and unresponsiveness and the denial of both -- or until voice leaves me:

Fuck you.
Fuck you.
Fuck you.

Going Away...?

2008-08-29T17:32:00.002-04:00

Blogging is no longer important to me.
I don't think it really ever was.
Toward the beginning of the summer,
I thought I would restyle this effort
Into something of a real diary,
A "this is what I did today and what I thought about it and how it felt"
As a means of keeping myself away from drugs and therapy.
The hospital did a fine job of keeping me away from drugs.
I even waited a few weeks after being released before doing them again.
I found I don't really like them much anymore.
When various nurses or doctors would interview me about my habits,
Asking about drugs, I'd say,
"Oh, yeah, sure, I've tried just about everything,
But I haven't liked any of it enough to really do it regularly."
The lustre has fallen from a few more vices, to be honest.
And I don't need therapy.
I need more time outdoors and among friends.
I'm trying to figure out the "outdoors" one right now.
I'm back in the hospital, at the moment.
I've been here since Wednesday morning.
Tuesday night, I lay in bed in excruciating pain,
Trying to find a comfortable position,
Screaming in agony when my body informed me I'd made an incorrect choice.
Fever, pain, possible immune malfunction, CT-scan,
Doctors determine there's infection to attack with intravenous antibiotics,
Admit me for observation, provide me with pain-killers as needed.
The timing of this means that I missed a very important meeting.
It also means I've cancelled my involvement
In all rehearsals, recording sessions, and gigs for the next 2 weeks.
I should be released tomorrow.
I think I'll use the long weekend to rest -- honestly rest.
I'll work Tuesday through Friday.
I'll take next week off to go away somewhere secluded by the sea.
Maybe I shall wear my white linen trousers after Labor Day.
Gin and tonics seem strangely unappetizing at the moment, though.
That may be a sign that this vacation won't happen at all, at all...
Oh, well.
As for this blog, I've been thinking about ripping it all down.
That seems like an awful lot of trouble, though,
(Because I'd want to keep a copy of it, of course),
So for now, I'll just say,
Look for me if you see me.

How Fragile We Are

2008-08-06T21:29:00.003-04:00

I am alive, and for this, I am grateful. While I am, at least nominally, aware of my own mortality, it didn't really occur to me that my experiences in the last few weeks might have been fatal until one of the doctors, among other people, explicitly pointed out that I could have died.

I am nowhere near 100% functionality, and I find this enormously frustrating, but I'm trying to bear in mind that I have undergone, as the doctors put it in trying to connect me with reality, "major surgery". I also understand that I have a long way to go in regaining my strength, having lain on my back in a hospital bed for the vast majority of three weeks and having lost about twenty pounds. (That brings roughly six-foot-tall me down to about 145 lbs.; I haven't weighed this little since middle school. All of my clothes are now significantly too large for me, yet this is among the least of my worries.)

I am attempting short lists of minor errands and tasks each day this week. I have a follow-up appointment with one of the doctors on Friday morning. I shall attempt to return to singing on Sunday morning (I've experimented with sitting at the piano and wailing, so I know that I can breathe well enough to support tone again), and I shall try to go back to the office on Monday.

What happened? As Lady Shiv put it, my appendix exploded and took out a couple of the neighbors in the process. L'histoire, bref:

First two weeks of July: I experience, intermittently, not entirely unusual abdominal pains. I attribute them to my rather dreadful eating habits.

Monday 14 July: I present myself, ca. 5 p.m., at the Emergency Department of one of Manhattan's best hospitals, with feverish symptoms, as well as incomparable stabbing pain in my right lower abdomen. Around 7.30 p.m., I move from the waiting-room to a stretcher in the E/R. Around 9.30 p.m., I receive my first dose of morphine, as well as ultra-sounds of my gall bladder, liver, and spleen, all of which are fine.

Tuesday 15 July, ca. 2.30 a.m., I receive my first CT Scan. Around 6.30 a.m., I am released to go home, with the understanding that the pain stems from constipation. Around 9 a.m., I receive a phone call from the Emergency Dept., stating that a higher-ranking radiologist has examined my CT Scan and feels I have acute appendicitis and should return to the hospital immediately. Upon arrival, I am spirited back into the E/R, where I lie on a stretcher, in sheet and gown, all day, with the distinction Nihil Per Oram ("Nothing by Mouth" -- a minor exception comes around 11 p.m., when one of the doctors who initially examined me Monday sees me, pities my completely wrecked voice, and gives me a cup of ice chips). Prevailing wisdom is now that the appendix burst sometime before the initial CT Scan. By about 11.30 p.m., a bed is available in the hospital proper, and I am transported to it (in a morphine haze).

Wednesday through Friday 16-19 July: I remain under observation, on major intravenous antibiotics (4.5 grams of Zosin, three times a day), with morphine avaiable as often as I desire (4-5 mg about every 4.5 hours or so), while physicians attempt to discern the best course of action.

Friday 19 July, ca. 6.30 p.m., I am released with continuing antibiotics (high-dosage augmentin) and vicodin.

Saturday 20 July, ca. 4.30 p.m., I wake from a nap in front of my hyperactive air-conditioner with a fever of 102 Fahrenheit. I call the hospital and am advised to return to Emergency. Clear fluids are allowed with the morphine this time. Around 9 p.m., I receive CT Scan #2. Not much happens for the next 12 hours or so. I read, text message, or sleep, and become very thirsty indeed, despite being on saline, antibiotics, and morphine, because of re-prohibition of food & drink, excepting occasional smuggled ice-chips from sympathetic nurses.

Sunday 21 July, ca. 7 a.m., a bed is available in the hospital proper, and I am transported to it (in less of a morphine haze than might be desirable). Around 12.30 p.m., I manage to get more morphine and ice-chips after becoming really very cross with people for having not yet even registered me, when I was led to believe I would be taken to interventional radiology, where they would insert a drain into the abscess formed by the rupture of the appendix nearly a week ago. I learn that surgery will be scheduled for the following day. This day, I am allowed a clear liquid diet until midnight.

Monday 22 July, ca. 8 a.m., I am visited by a team of doctors, making their rounds; their leader will be my surgeon. She explains that, for various reasons, including that the interventional radiology plan will not work, the antibiotics and observation plan has not worked, my fever keeps spiking, and my pain is not lessening, a full-on appendectomy will be required. Today. The procedure will begin laparoscopically and will only proceed to open surgery if necessary. I cheered. My enthusiasm was short-lived. Around 2 p.m., I am taken to the preparation room, where I sign consent forms, learn why they won't let me just have a local anaesthesia for this one, lose more blood (they're taking it about three times per day at this point, but as one of the doctors pointed out this morning, I practically have pipes for veins; I failed to tell him these pipes need a break, or they need to start using the ones in my legs or something), receive a breathing treatment (the tube down my throat might irritate my asthma), and am wheeled into an operating room. Everyone is introduced, we begin, and I remember nothing prior to waking in the hell known as recovery with a catheter in my johnson, realizing that my body hair had been shaved in odd patterns and places (Just remove it all; don't leave it patchy. Now, I've got to take care of it when I get home!), and feeling like I was sailing on a pirate ship, which I rather liked. Six hours later. From an operation which we'd expected to take about 2 hours. Clearly, things went unexpectedly: The appendix was obliterated; there was about a nickel-sized hole in the side of my intestine where it should've been, and there was much tissue damage, so there was much tissue removal and replacement in order to suture sound tissue to sound tissue. Tonight, I am absent from the cabaret show for which I was supposed to serve as accompanist and musical director (a replacement accompanist was found a few days prior, and the program was simplified). Tonight, I am in such pain that I am nearly convinced I will die.

Tuesday through Friday 22-25 July, I remain hospitalised, heavily medicated and under observation.

Saturday 26 July, around 4 p.m., I am discharged yet again. This time, I manage to stay out for slightly more than 24 hours.

Sunday 27 July, ca. 11 p.m., I wake with a body temperature of 102.3 Fahrenheit degrees and return to the hospital, once again, via the Emergency Department.

Monday 28 July, in the wee hours of the morning, I have yet another CT Scan. Around 8.30 a.m., I am admitted to the hospital, moved to a room, extremely frustrated.

Tuesday 29 July, ca. 9 a.m., I am taken to interventional radiology, where another CT Scan is performed and tubing is inserted into my abdomen to drain the abscess which has formed since the surgery. I remain heavily medicated and under observation for the rest of the week.

Sunday 3 August, I am released, once again, in the afternoon.

I've been home since then. Monday, I went to the pharmacy, the bookstore, and lunch, then stumbled back home exhausted. Tuesday, I did two loads of laundry and nearly collapsed. Today, another trip to the pharmacy, Starbucks, the bank.

I must confess my faith in the work of the physicians at the hospital is not particularly solid; I'm worried that they didn't clean my internal spaces well enough after surgery; I'm concerned at the efficacy of the antibiotics I'm still taking to destroy any bacteria and infection which might be festering; I wonder if the drain remains placed correctly and continues to properly and sufficiently remove infectious fluids and tissues from the abscesses in my abdomen.

All I can do is wonder and continue to attempt to regain strength and pray. Now you know.

Happy Things

2008-07-10T15:18:00.003-04:00

1. New (Not Necessarily New) Music: Late last week, I placed an Amazon order; today, its final component arrived. Anyone who's friends with me on Facebook has probably already observed that I'm having a difficult time stopping listening to "Fuck Them All", the first single off Mylene Farmer's last album, Avant que l'Ombre..., which arrived earlier this week. I also got a used (but in excellent condition) copy of the album Tricky released with "Nearly God" as both title and artist (which opens with a brilliant cover of Siouxsie & the Banshees "Tattoo" and boasts tracks with guest vocals from Bjork, Neneh Cherry, and Alison Moyet, among others). Today the other discs arrived: The Scissor Sisters' brilliant debut album (currently playing), which I'd meant to buy for literally years; Radiohead's In Rainbows, which a friend burned for me back in autumn, but of which I, being a completist, wanted my own copy; Annie Lennox's wonderful (if not so grim as its title) Songs of Mass Destruction; Underworld's massive return to form Oblivion with Bells (the limited edition with bonus DVD that I'd been meaning to acquire since dancing like a blissed-out madman to them on ecstasy and ketamine in Central Park last October); the two-disc special edition of Sara Bareilles's Little Voice; the astonishing Neptune City from Nicole Atkins, whose voice makes every muscle in my legs go tense; and the long-awaited Third from Portishead, who still manage to make the bombed-out, exsanguinated spaces in my world sexy. It's enough to keep me awake at work for the rest of the week, I think.

2. My first real off-Broadway show has its official opening night tonight. We'll see what the press think of it; it's undeniably a piece of fluff, but it's hilarious and strangely touching fluff, as it continues to make me both laugh hysterically and get a bit teary-eyed, despite the number of times I've seen it, at this point. (I wrote most of the arrangements and provided musical direction.)

3. I can't just choose one thing to be number 3, so I'm going to just say there's a lot to be happy about, if one chooses to be happy. And I do.

Summer Ambition

2008-06-03T12:59:00.004-04:00

Last night, for the first time in my life, I went tanning. I received a very-limited-time invitation from a fuck-buddy of mine who's in the process of making himself also into a friend. (I must confess I like that prospect, as he's a good guy, and I'm happy to see him fighting his demons and to help him however I'm able.) I must have mentioned to him my desire to cease being quite so pale this summer, and he very kindly decided to help me out in this quest, not only by inviting me to come to the tanning salon with him, but also by paying for my first two visits, for which I am most grateful.

So we went to SolarSalon in Chelsea, where I filled out quite a questionnaire on their fancy-schmancy digital system, which also finger-printed me and gave me tanning recommendations. I have to say, it's a beautiful place -- probably a bit on the pricey side, but certainly very nice. After a quick tour from the friendly clerk, I locked myself into a booth, doffed the clothes, smeared their proprietary lotion all over myself, pressed the blue button and closed myself into the machine and enjoyed six minutes of stand-up, all-over UV radiation. Seriously. Six minutes. That's what the machine recommended for people like me, who haven't seen the sun in a LONG time and don't anticipate seeing it anytime soon.

It was pretty cool. It actually felt good, like I was getting some light in my seasonal-affective-disorder-filled Manhattan-grey life. I did keep the underwear on, though, and in retrospect, I'm glad. Very, very glad.

This morning, naked, in the bathroom, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. My chest and back are a lovely shade of synthetic-sunburn pink.

Dear China...

2008-06-03T10:38:00.002-04:00

Your school buildings collapsed in an earthquake, killing thousands of children, while similarly-sized buildings surrounding them remained standing. Admit it: You fucked-up, and your contractors cut corners. Answer to the grieving parents, you lame-ass fucktards! Admit your incompetence and your failure to take care of your own people, and kill yourself for shame, as is appropriate.

It would set a good example for Bush & Co., who should follow suit and publicly kill themselves, as well, for their failure to protect citizens on American soil from the events of 11 September 2001, their failure to protect the men and women serving in the armed forces who were sent on a bogus mission, and their failure to respond appropriately to the disaster of Hurricane Katrina.

What the fuck ever happened to accountability in this world? I take responsibility for my bullshit and for my fuck-ups. Why doesn't everybody else?!

Guilty Conscience

2008-06-02T19:19:00.003-04:00

I stopped at McDonald's on my way home for dinner this evening. (That's bad enough, but it gets worse. Having finished my sandwich and fries, I sat at my table, alone, continuing reading Wicked, which I seem to be unable to put down. A man -- large in stature, black, probably homeless, malodorous -- approached my table with words I've heard too many times before. "Hey, man," "no disrespect," etc. He asked if I could get him something to eat.

My knee-jerk response was the fastest. Before I had the chance to recall scripture ("If you did it not for the least of these..."); before I had the chance to process that he'd asked me to buy him food, not to give him money; my selfish "You Are Interrupting My Personal Time" instinct kicked in, and I heard my voice saying, "I just spent the last of my cash here." It was a lie; there were a few more dollars in my pockets, and even if there weren't, I know very well that McDonald's takes credit cards, for that was, after all, how I'd paid.

After sucking down the last couple sips of my soda, while throwing away my trash, I looked for him. I looked for him, in fact, for the next few minutes as I walked home, hoping to right the wrong, say I'd found a few extra dollars or that I'd remembered that the restaurant took credit cards. He had disappeared.

I'm by no means wealthy, but I was sitting there with a hundred-dollar pair of earphones around my neck, connected to a several-hundred-dollar iPod in my pocket, with Giorgio Armani sunglasses hanging from my shirt, a book in front of me, a Tiffany ring on my right hand, and a Tumi bag at my feet. And I couldn't be bothered to spare five minutes of my time and probably less than $10 to feed a hungry stranger.

This episode comes at the end of a day in which I've been moved to tears by a mother's letter to the editor regarding her gay son's presence as the man of honor at all of his siblings' weddings, despite the knowledge that should he meet the love of his life, he cannot marry; a day in which I've printed out the catalogue of General Theological Seminary to seriously consider enrolling full-time in a degree program, if not immediately to pursue ordination; a day in which I've sensed change and growth in my own life and dedicated myself to new beginnings. I feel I've failed the simplest test of all. Again, I find myself unworthy. Please forgive me.

Where Angels Fear

2008-06-01T14:41:00.003-04:00

Today at mass, I felt less horrible about myself than I sometimes do. Admittedly, I've done and said some dreadfully twisted things lately, under the influence of one substance or another, and I've probably done some damage, both to myself and to others, in the process. But this weekend has been tamer than even some of the recent weekdays, and I sense a change of inclinations coming in me.

Nonetheless, as I knelt at the rail, head bowed, preparing to receive the Eucharist, I wracked my brain trying to remember the words to the Prayer of Humble Access, which is not used in the church where I regularly sing. I could only remember fragments, but what I wanted desperately was Cranmer's powerful, resonant text:

We do not presume to come to this thy Table, O merciful Lord, trusting in our own righteousness, but in thy manifold and great mercies. We are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under thy Table. But thou art the same Lord, whose property is always to have mercy: Grant us therefore, gracious Lord, so to eat the flesh of thy dear Son Jesus Christ, and to drink his blood, that our sinful bodies may be made clean by his body, and our souls washed through his most precious blood, and that we may evermore dwell in him, and he in us. Amen.

Add it to the list of twisted things I've wanted to say recently.

Somehow, receiving communion usually makes me feel a bit better, though. I'm waiting for the results of a lot of medical tests, looking for answers to issues related to my hearing, my digestive system, my immune system, and the threat of (possibly) syphilis. When potentially ill, out of respect for fellow communicants, I do not drink from the cup directly, though I know its rim is disinfected after each person sips, and though I believe that the elements of Holy Communion should be incorruptible.

Incorruptible. So very unlike me. It seems my every intention gets corrupted, these days. Friday evening, I went to my friend CC's place to be some company and comfort to him and ended up fucking him and trading blowjobs with my friend (and now, perhaps, his, too?) Jack under the influence of one smokable and one ingestible illicit substance before heading to the Upper East Side around dawn to continue fucking around with other friendly acquaintances under the influence. When that little party disbanded, I was rather concerned about its host, who looked rather glum and had to get on a plane for Europe in about two hours, but he assured me he was fine, so I headed home. Somehow, though, I found myself at my "buddy" Stan's apartment, fucking him for the next few hours. Stan is one of those young men who, in retrospect, have managed to eroticise the fact that they're HIV-positive. I can't begin to analyse that situation, other than to say that they need guidance, direction in their lives. When I find myself in these situations where substances are being abused, I invariably run into people who desperately need support, for whom an honestly GOOD priest (And where does one find those?) could be a wonderful friend, confidant, influence. But if I were a priest, I wouldn't find myself in these situations, would I?

It's a terribly egotistical text to begin with, and my quoting it here is surely blasphemous, but when I encounter these people, with their varying problems (perhaps I shall provide more detail at a later time), and as I attempt to offer them words of comfort and encouragement, I'm always reminded of a passage from Paul's First Letter to the Church at Corinth (I'm excerpting from I Corinthians IX:16-22):

"For though I preach the gospel, I have nothing to glory of: for necessity is laid upon me; yea, woe is unto me, if I preach not the gospel! For if I do this thing willingly, I have a reward: but if against my will, a dispensation of the gospel is committed unto me. What is my reward then? Verily that, when I preach the gospel, I may make the gospel of Christ without charge, that I abuse not my power in the gospel. For though I be free from all men, yet have I made myself servant unto all, that I might gain the more. And unto the Jews I became as a Jew, that I might gain the Jews; to them that are under the law, as under the law, that I might gain them that are under the law; to them that are without law, as without law, (being not without law to God, but under the law to Christ,) that I might gain them that are without law. To the weak became I as weak, that I might gain the weak: I am made all things to all men, that I might by all means save some."

I'm not claiming to be anything I'm not, here; I know my sinful (that is to say, harmful, whether to myself or to others) inclinations, and I know that my methods are tainted, and I know that I am in no way worthy even to be called a servant of God, but I cannot leave those who wander constantly in darkness, whom I encounter when I myself take detours there, completely without hope. Can it be for ill if I (subversively?) encourage them towards reordering their lives; if when religion (or better, faith) is mentioned and eyes turn to me, I speak of my faith only in the infallibility of the goodness and love of whatever Higher Power there may be?

From time to time, the refrain of a song from Breathe's Peace of Mind album echoes in my head (the song is entitled "Where Angels Fear", and my recollection of the lyrics may not be perfectly accurate):

So they're living on hopes and they're living on dreams,
While the devil is pushing them to extremes.
Can their spirits be strong, when for loving they long,
For the day will come when they must move on.
Where angels fear to walk, there you must go.
Where angels fear to love, there you must love.
Where angels fear...

Still Alive

2008-05-29T12:03:00.002-04:00

Oh, I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive, and I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine. (Okay, so the latter half of that sentence is not quite true, but let it stand, for now; we'll talk about my health, both mental and physical, later.) A number of people (a fairly small number, but I never deluded myself that there were many people reading my venomous tirades here) have e-mailed and inquired, and I must admit, were I on my own blog-reading list, I'd have written myself off by now. But I'm still here; I'm still in New York; I'm still doin' mah thang. I've even written a couple of drafts of things in the past nearly two months. I'll decide whether to complete and/or post them later.

As usual, I'd considered abandoning the whole blog thing, as it's become too big and popular and "done" now, and I had stopped using it for its intended (as far as I'm concerned) purpose and started trying too hard, a character flaw which makes me cringe anytime I see it in anyone. After a lengthy hiatus, however, and the realization that I'm probably in quite a bit of trouble, I have returned. I need discipline in my life. I may also need psychotherapy to examine and address a number of issues. If I impose the discipline of daily chronicling of my activities and events, while they are fresh in my mind, in my world, I may be able to help myself. I am not interested in (more) medication, the process of auditioning therapists, or increased medical bills. I am interested in being able to recall what happens from day to day, in being able to examine, from a distanced perspective, my state of mind at various points in time and identify the circumstances which led to certain situations.

I am dedicated to keeping my head above the murky water which seems to have flowed into the empty spaces in the lives of so many people I know, working with purpose and focus, and an awareness that it has drowned a number of items in my own life, as well.

Fuck. It. All.

2008-04-03T11:03:00.006-04:00

It's useless; I cannot deny that I am a miserable cunt. I walked into work this morning thinking, "You know, I'd really rather just go sit in the park by the river and blow my fucking brains out, because really, what point is there?" Everything I typically enjoy has become a chore; everything that should be exhilirating has become a trial; I am exhausted and BEYOND the end of my fucking rope, and there is no escape in sight. It was time for me to go far away and relax quietly and do some writing weeks ago, but I couldn't. Still can't.

Perfectly symptomatic of the situation, this past Saturday night, I had three ridiculously hot guys in my bedroom, naked, in my bed, with me. What did I do to make the most of this red-letter occasion? Oh, I passed out. Three hours later, I awoke to find that two of them had gone; the other stayed to make sure I was alright. Was I fuck. I was miserable, because I'd wrecked my own fucking party! I can't seem to enjoy ANYTHING, lately.

Ah, but then, there's this...A recent review called the track "Motown on steroids", and it's one of such a few songs lately that make me want to put on the boots and swagger down the street. It's Alison Moyet's latest single, a track not listed on her latest album, The Turn, which is not readily available in this miserable shit-hole we call Assmerikkka, but perhaps it'll get commercial release and attention when she and Vince Clark kick off the stateside leg of their Yazoo Reconnected tour this summer. Ah, yes...Meantime, here's what's keeping me breathing today.

UPDATE: For some reason, YouTube is being cunty and not letting me keep the video embedded here, so you'll have to click this very long link to watch it on YouTube. It's worth the click. And so much more. Priceless, really, I think.

First: Lady!

2008-03-20T15:12:00.003-04:00

Like always, I've got all this important heavy shit I want to write about, but I'm not going to take the time to do that right now. I've gotta go sing for/about Jesus in a little while here, but before I do, I want to make this political public service announcement:

Everybody knows I'm no fan of John McCain. He's old and out-of touch, more hawkish even than the moron we currently have in power, and likely to choose a religious nut-job as his vice-presidential running-mate. I'm tired of old white men.

Everybody knows I'm no fan of Hillary Clinton. She'll say anything to get elected; she votes in whatever direction the popular wind seems to be blowing at the time; and she's betrayed my people (the fags, dykes, switch-hitters, and trannies) repeatedly, though we still let her march in our parade. She's lied so much I don't even think she knows what the truth is anymore. She has even lost the bonus points she got for being a Scorpio. (Yale Law, in my book, doesn't get you shit. Sorry, alma mater.)

Everybody knows I'm no fan of Barack Obama (though despite my being a "privileged" white faggot, I do like his minister). I don't trust him. I don't think he's answered the questions fully enough. I don't believe he has the best interests of all people (especially we who are currently under socially-sanctioned oppression) at heart. I don't believe he has a clue what to do about the Middle East or the economy. I don't think his solutions to our education and health-care problems are thorough or realistic enough.

But man, I dig his wife. She is, as the recently-created Facebook group puts it, "fierce". And I bet that lady could run a country of which we would ALL be proud! Let's not just put the first black man or the first woman in the oval office; let's cover all the bases at once: Michelle Obama for President!

And while we're at it, check this out: Michelle Obama Is Your New Bicycle. (My personal favourite so far: "Michelle Obama made Barack go pick you up at the airport.")

Petit Fleur

2008-03-14T15:22:00.002-04:00

Allergy/sinus melt-down: I have an amazing high-pressure headache; I cannot consistently breathe through my nose; my eyes are irritated and bloodshot; my ears are stuffy. I love the (lack of) climate control in my apartment. (Yes, I suppose I partly brought this on myself by staying up quite literally all night sorting headshots and resumes and sending e-mails to schedule auditions, but it really had to be done.)

My real worry is that the strange flesh-coloured bump in the shell of my left ear has taken on a bluish caste. I wonder if I bruised it or caused it to bleed inside. Perhaps I shall pursue an appointment of my own, with the doctor, on Monday.

In the meantime, I futilely attempt to focus on completing a single task at a time and will the hands of the clock to move more speedily in their transit toward 5 p.m., so that I may go home and lie down. I am such a fragile flower...

Oopsie?

2008-03-13T18:08:00.002-04:00

I haven't checked SiteMeter in awhile, but today, I thought I'd give it a glance. And I now have reason to believe my step-mother stumbled across this 'blog yesterday afternoon. Or perhaps before. Hmmm. Maybe I should spend more time writing music and less time ranting about life into the digital aether.

Dear Wicked (Cool) Step-mother: If you're reading this (and based on that salutation, you'll know if it's you), please drop me a line or give a call to let me know? I love you and the rest of my family, but I'm not quite sure how much access I want you to have to this part of my life. I mean, I know, I'm a grown-up, and it's MY life, but still...

That is all.

Dirty Looks?

2008-03-13T13:57:00.002-04:00

First off: Leave Eliot Spitzer the fuck alone. I stick my dick into whatever consenting parties I desire, and I see no reason why he shouldn't do the same, provided he has some sort of arrangement with his wife whereby it's okay. If it's NOT okay with his wife, then that's between the two of them, and it's none of the fucking business (pun intended?) of the populace of Assmerikkka, and it's certainly no reason why he should have to resign his post as governor of the State of New York. Dear puritanical fucktards: Get the fuck out of everybody else's bedroom and start spending more time in your own! Maybe once YOU'RE having a good time, you'll be less jealous and critical of everybody else's! Seriously!

And now, for the news: Apparently, I am looking at people strangely today.

This morning, I had a strange exchange of glances with a woman in the subway. She was sitting across from me as I alternated reading Amitav Ghosh's The Glass Palace (because I am fascinated by Burma and how it became the Myanmar it is today) and listening to The Postal Service's Give Up, which contains moments of beauty that make me want to cry and convince me that at heart, I am perhaps actually a heterosexual artist who has adopted homosexuality because it is more scandalous. (This idea is borne out by the fact that I continue to be uncomfortable in my current relationship; there's something that just doesn't click into place properly, and I've always felt that way when involved with other guys.) Anyway, this woman was changing her shoes, from black semi-croc-like things that would've been utterly hideous but for their being decorated with little Winnie-the-Pooh characters, like little hat-pins -- at least, that's what they looked like to me. And she was putting on these lovely little shiny-coloured woven-sandal-looking things (I'm no good at describing women's shoes; sue me!) which I'm sure would leave her feet a bit chilly in today's weather. At any rate, I found myself smiling at her hands as she changed the shoes, and then, I looked up and saw that she was actually quite pretty -- perhaps in a simple northeastern academic sort of way, so I also found myself smiling at her face, which of course, she noticed. So I spent the rest of the subway-ride to 116th Street trying not to smile and trying not to look at her and trying instead to notice the attractive gay men who came and went from the car, some of whom looked back at me as though I'd physically struck them, and some of whom moved as if I'd thrust them out of the way, but in the end, of course, I was preoccupied with the girl.

Just now, in the cafeteria, there was a woman buying a soda (flavoured seltzer of some sort -- lime, I think), who looked just a bit like Amanda Palmer (she of The Dresden Dolls), with whom I am currently rather smitten (in a totally harmless even though she's friends with my friends I hope I never meet her because that would probably ruin everything kind of way), and perhaps I was looking at this young woman in a slightly strange way (Actually, I was contemplating whether blueberry and chocolate were ice-cream flavours that needed to mix in my mouth today. The answer was a resounding yes!) because she gave me a strange look and headed for the check-out line, in which I found myself immediately behind her (on the escalator, too) after I dispensed my soft-serve swirl to myself. And then, while I was standing in line, I made eye contact with a tall, handsome fellow who was heading out of the cafeteria, who also seemed quite uncomfortable with either the way or the fact that I was looking at him or we were looking at each other or both.

And I am not on drugs. I have been drinking every night and falling asleep entirely too early because I'm stressed, and the boy, who is leaving for a few weeks on vacation in Turkey and Egypt on Friday, has been most forgiving of my somnolence. But I have not been doing drugs.

I have, however, been walking around trying to be pleasant and smiley and chatty today, like I was when I was high on meth. Sometimes, I try to be these things. It. Does. Not. Work. It. Is. Not. Me. So now we've established that if I seem happy and friendly and chatty and filled with goodwill toward all, it means I'm tweaking. Great.

Enrage / Outrage

2008-03-13T10:13:00.002-04:00

Do I really hate both of the democrapic candidates and their extremely public and childish bullshit enough? Do I really loathe the failed experiment that is America so much? Do I really want to see just how bad it can get before people take to the streets to insist that changes be made? (Because at this point, even the most moronic Obamaniacs should be able to see through the facade that both he and La Clinton are spineless lemming-cunt-fuck-tards...)

Shall I REALLY vote McCain in November?

Stay tuned...

List of Demands

2008-02-26T13:31:00.002-05:00

I want a revolution, and I want it to be bloody.
I want the news media in this country shut down.
I want every elected official tried for treason.
I want perpetrators of hate-crimes publicly executed.
I want everyone to shut the fuck up about elections.
I want our troops out of Iraq.
I want the head of Osama bin Laden.
I want to know why Bosnian Serbs are so fucked-up.
I want quality universal health care in the U.S.
I want the Anglican Communion to get its shit together.
I want world-wide recognition for my brilliance.
I want some really good weed and the time to enjoy it.

It could be so simple; it could be so sweet.

Discovery?

2008-02-13T10:36:00.003-05:00

How do you know when it's love?
And what does that mean, anyway?
Is it when you arrive home
at the end of an unspeakably long day,
And you collapse on your bed to discover,
not by sight, but by feel,
the Valentine's Day card
he managed to slip onto your pillow
without you noticing before you left?
Or is it when you roll over
to read the card and discover
the bottle of very good bourbon
that he'd left you at the same time?
Is it when you go, late at night,
to the home of a regular fuck-buddy,
Intending to cavort
with the assembled fine specimens
and discover
That the proceedings are of no interest?
Or is it when you catch yourself praying
That your God will guide his plane safely home
(and in a timely fashion),
So that he might get a good night's rest,
And that you might hold him
And look into his eyes
And nuzzle against his cheek
And stop asking why
And what it all means?

Dear Congrefs...

2008-02-12T14:52:00.000-05:00

It's bad enough that you lazy ass-clown lemming-tards are wasting your time passing resolutions acknowledging the importance of Ramadan to Muslims and Christmas to Christians, but now...SERIOUSLY...

WHY ARE YOU HEARING TESTIMONY FROM BASEBALL PLAYERS ABOUT STEROID USE?!

AND WHO REALLY GIVES A FLYING FUCKING RAT'S ASS IF PROFESSIONAL ATHLETES USE THEM?!

I HAVE FRIENDS WHO USE STEROIDS! THEY'VE ENCOURAGED ME TO DO A COURSE OF THEM MYSELF, AND I'VE GIVEN IT SERIOUS CONSIDERATION! (Though let's be honest -- Do we need a bigger, meaner, angrier DJRainDog? Probably not.)

My darlings in the Senate and the House of Representatives: DON'T YOU FUCKING HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO?!

I think you do! Get to it! (Before someone drops a house on YOU!)

(You can start by impeaching the prezidont.)

Fucking morons.

When I think of Sylvia...

2008-02-11T17:20:00.000-05:00

Forty-five years ago today, Sylvia Plath got up in the morning, put glasses of milk and plates of bread in her children's bedrooms before sealing them off from the rest of the flat with wet towels, went into the kitchen, turned on the gas of the oven without lighting it, placed her head inside, and breathed her last.

Were she still alive, she (a Scorpio like me) would be seventy-five years old. Her work had a profound impact on me as a teenager. I took solace in her darkness. I heard the pre-echoes of my own disenfranchised anger in her verses. I was comforted by her loneliness, her slate-grey, rain-slick view of the world through the eyes of one who is aware of his/her own mental unease assuring me that I was not alone in what I saw. She inspired me to write, to attempt to give form and structure, to give some shape that could be shared, to those visions.

I am older now than she was when she chose to take her leave of this world. I wonder what she would have become had she stayed longer.

May she rest in peace.

This Morning

2008-02-08T14:00:00.001-05:00

In a strange twist of brain-waves, this morning, I woke and stumbled into the shower with The Cure's "Fascination Street" stuck in my head and was barely able to resist an urge to get out of the shower and go sit, wet and naked, in my living room, at the keyboard and play that song which was my introduction to Robert Smith & Co. when I was twelve years old. I may yet do it, and if I do, perhaps I'll be REALLY masturbatory and record and post it here for the world to ignore.

And since I've mentioned that I recently ordered a bunch of music from BMG and I like bragging about the scope of my musical taste, I'll post the artists and titles here. In order of filing (though obviously, they'll be interspersed with my other thousand or so CDs), with brief commentary.

Air, Talkie Walkie
I know I like the majority of this album, having listened to it at my friend Patrick's back before I left New Haven. Nothing can compare with Moon Safari, but I do like most of the French boys' spacey material.

Lily Allen, Alright, Still
I feel dirty about this one, as she's not really much of a singer, but I love her attitude and her sense of humour, and her songs are just so bloody catchy!

Tori Amos, Tales of a Librarian: A Tori Amos Collection
Even though I'm kind-of over Tori with her recent material (American Doll Posse is on my iPod, and I don't think I've listened to it in its entirety more than twice; she needs a good editor/producer who lives outside her body, outside her mind, outside her house), I'm still a bit of a completist, and there are some interesting bits on here.

Shirley Bassey, Greatest Hits (Remastered)
Man, that woman can SANG!

Beastie Boys, Paul’s Boutique
This album is so critically-acclaimed and was so much a force in bringing the art of sampling to the forefront of the musical world, it's nearly criminal that I haven't bought it and thoroughly digested it before now. (I've always loved the Beastie Boys since I was a young child, and I've always had major respect for their innovativeness, but this came out at a time when I was vehemently ideologically opposed to some of the changes that were happening in the way people created music. Portishead changed my mind about sampling, of course, so now, I'm getting around to what I should've learned years ago.)

Blondie, Greatest Hits
When I was a little blond-haired, blue-eyed boy, I had SUCH the crush on Debbie Harry. Read this for more info.

Johnny Cash, The Man Comes Around
When I was growing up, my father always drew Johnny Cash comparisons to me, because of our deep voices and shared penchant for dressing entirely in black. I meant to buy this disc years ago, as I like the man's treatments of some of my favourite songs -- dark and broken and uneven, like an abandoned country road.

Patsy Cline, The Definitive Collection
I had a much shorter collection of Patsy's songs on cassette when I was a child. I don't know where that cassette is now, and I've come to enjoy more of her music as I've grown older and come to understand it better. This disc fills a rather glaring hole in the collection.

The Cure, The Cure
I was unaware of this album when it was released. It turns out to be uglier than much of their previous work, with more noisily-churning guitars and more aggressive howling from Fat Bob. The moments when the sky peeks through, though, provide a beautiful contrast, and I'm impressed that men of their age can still turn out music this miserable.

Depeche Mode, The Singles 86-98
So many songs that moved me on a level which I did not understand...Now, I do.

The Dresden Dolls, The Dresden Dolls
The Dresden Dolls, Yes, Virginia…
I keep falling in love with everything I hear out of Amanda Palmer's mouth, and I just can't stop listening. I realise I'm coming late to the party, but not empty-handed...

Eminem, The Marshall Mathers LP
Around the time when this came out, I was swept up a bit in the accusations of homophobia and misogyny leveled at Em by...oh...the world. I'm over it. The boy is, in addition to immenently fuckable (Well, he was THEN, anyway; recent rumours put him at 200+ lbs., which is not so much my thing), a brilliant wordsmith and provocateur. I like him. I make no apologies.

Erasure, Pop! The First 20 Hits
I've always been a huge Pet Shop Boys fan, and I've largely ignored Erasure, except for their singles "Chains of Love" and "A Little Respect", off of The Innocents and the ubiquitous "Always". It's time I had a little history lesson.

Melissa Etheridge, Lucky
Melissa Etheridge, Skin
I have always loved Melissa Etheridge. These two albums happened almost without me noticing. I heard one of the singles off of Lucky, watching MTV one day several years ago, liked it, intended to buy the disc, forgot about it. Skin, being something of a chronicle of the collapse of Ms. Etheridge's relationship with long-time partner Julie Cypher is quite raw and darker than her usual work, and I understand its lack of major commercial success. I'm enjoying catching up with an artist who's long moved me, though.

Diana Krall, Christmas Songs
I just want more holiday music in my life for next year, and I imagine this will be an interesting one to add to the collection.

Diana Krall, The Girl in the Other Room
Ah, collaborations with the brilliant Elvis Costello. How can one go wrong? This may be my favourite of the beautiful and incredibly talented Ms. Krall's albums, though her jazz purist fans would stuff me into a trash-can for that opinion.

Diana Krall, Live in Paris
This was the disc that introduced me to Ms. Krall's voice, as well as her piano-playing. I still sit and listen to it and go, "Wow."

Diana Krall, The Look of Love
A little sleepier, heavy with orchestration and down-tempo seduction, this is probably a good disc for a cold winter night curled up by the fire with your lover and a bottle of red. It does not liven up a dull day at the office.

Moulin Rouge, Soundtrack
I love this movie; I love the music from this movie. I pilfered a copy of the music from my friend Joe, and it's been on my iPod ever since. I decided to make an honest man of myself and buy a copy of the CD (I already own a copy of the movie).

Nine Inch Nails, The Downward Spiral
Freshman year in college. I bought this on cassette tape. I still remember how I felt the first time I heard "Closer", with its refrain of "I wanna fuck you like an animal" expressing everything I was feeling right then. I was so very angry, and Trent Reznor was the handsome high priest of my rage. Now, I just want a copy of this that I can listen to in high-quality and appreciate the intricacy of the compositions. Okay, and sometimes, I'm still fucking furious!

Nine Inch Nails, Year Zero
Mr. Reznor proved a few years ago, with the release of With Teeth that he was still capable of making vital music. A friend has advised me that he continues the trend with this "concept album". I'm a fan, and I'm curious.

Pet Shop Boys, The Hits – Pop Art
My copy of Discography, their original singles collection, is all but unplayable because of the years of abuse heaped upon it. This collection includes most of those tracks, plus the singles since then, some alternate versions / remixes, and two new songs, one of which is the beautiful track "Miracles".

Siouxsie, Mantaray
I don't need to explain this. I've adored Siouxsie since the first time I heard "Peek-a-Boo" when I was twelve years old. Having disbanded the Banshees (again) and divorced her drummer-husband Budgie (probably effectively rendering The Creatures extinct), the Empress of Goth releases a solo album which contains all the raw energy and creative fire present behind both of the prior projects without the fetters of collaborators who want credit. One gets the feeling, listening to this, that she really is the one pulling the strings, and that she was, in fact, all along. (I regret that I shall be unable to attend either of her upcoming shows at Irving Plaza, as they've both sold out.)

Siouxsie & the Banshees, Once Upon a Time – The Singles
Brain-pounding, ear-splitting guitars and drums on fire with a fucked-off she-wolf behind the mic one moment ("Playground Twist", "Love in a Void") and darkly playful with hints of psychosis behind the musical romping the next ("Hong Kong Garden", "Happy House"), I discovered the early Banshees' work (and declared it unpalatable, but kept listening to it anyway) shortly after being entranced by their aforementioned 1988 radio hit. I bought this collection on cassette, then on vinyl (both on the discount rack), and now, I have it in a more reliable format.

Joss Stone, Mind, Body & Soul (Special Edition)
I make no apologies for my love of Joss Stone. She is beautiful. She is English. She can sing. She is possessed of soul far beyond her years. Her reading of the Beach Boys' "God Only Knows (What I'd Be without You)" brings me to tears.

KT Tunstall, Drastic Fantastic
I'm not yet sure if it's possible, but I just might like this album better than her debut, which I STILL can't stop listening to. That girl is brilliant, brilliant, brilliant.

U2, All That You Can’t Leave Behind
Indeed I can't. I intended to buy this disc years ago when it came out. I maintain that it's one of the best recordings by, for my money, the greatest rock band in the world at present.

That's all for now.

Rapture

2008-02-08T10:50:00.000-05:00

I've recently done that thing again where I order a bunch of CDs from BMG, and it costs me a bunch of money, but not nearly as much as it would if I had ordered them all from Amazon or bought them in a shop somewhere. Anyway, one of the CDs was a Blondie compilation, because while I have a zillion remix discs from back in the mid-90s when all the hot DJs were remixing their songs for tearing up dance-floors everywhere and I was dreaming of being a DJ or going to a real club (They're kind-of all gone now, at least here in New York; the kind of club-night I always wanted to experience doesn't really happen so much anymore), but my copy of The Best of Blondie, bought when I was a wee lad, is on vinyl. Anyway, a few years back, they remastered all of those tracks, added a few others, and gave us Greatest Hits. I'm sitting at my desk in my office listening to "Rapture", and I'm absolutely knocked-over. That song must have been one of the things that threw me into love with New York City when I was a small child. The single was released in late January of 1981. I was five years old, and I distinctly remember listening to it with my beloved cousins, who substituted for older sisters quite brilliantly, and learning all the words to the rap sections, though I had no clue, really, what most of the references in the lyrics meant. (Five Fab Freddy, Grandmaster Flash, and Francois Kevorkian, all of whom are name-dropped in the first few lines, and all of whom are busts in the pantheon of pioneers of club music, were completely unknown to a five-year-old boy from rural southeastern Virginia.) The horns, the chiming guitar lines, the funky bass line, the scratching rhythm guitar, that hypnotic disco-funk groove, and Ms. Harry's nearly indecipherable vocals (What kind of lyricist uses the word "sacroiliac" in a pop song, anyway?!) all conjured images of the gritty, damp streets, dark spaces, glass store-fronts, and vertical angles that have become my home. Maybe tonight I'll go out dancing.

Vehicular

2008-02-07T15:58:00.000-05:00

I am exhausted. Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, and I somehow managed to stay mostly awake through the two services that I had to sing. We have, at the helm, temporarily, a very highly esteemed guest conductor, but I must admit we sound a little unsteady on our feet, at least for a group of professionals of this calibre. There's a level on which I tend to feel that any group with which I work ought to be able to just read whatever is put in front of them perfectly the first time through and perform it the second. Maybe people have a lot of emotional things going on associated with the departure of our previous director of music. I must confess to finding it irritating, though, that everything doesn't just automatically fall into line, into place, into tune; I expect a certain level of inhuman infallibility, and it does grate me a bit when others are unable to behave as mechanically as I. Of course, in saying that, I belie my original comment about exhaustion. Yes, my every day has been scheduled to within about a minute of its life, and eventually, the professional schedule combined with the hyper-active personal life was bound to take its toll on my health and/or consciousness.

And that's where I am now. And I'm not talking about what I'm giving up for Lent or what assholes I think the presidential hopefuls are or how many of whom I've gotten naked with lately. I just want to lie down someplace comfortable and sleep for about a week.

Oh, but before I do: Americans have seriously got some fucked-up priorities. Tuesday night, before proceeding to Williamsburg to the Mardi Gras party where I annually get fucked-up out of my head and play absurd things that I don't remember in the morning on the piano for people to sing along, I went, with my date to XES, where all of the screens were tuned to primary results coming in from all of the Super-Stupid Tuesday states. The place was lousy with Yalies (some of whom I remembered, most of whom I pretended not to know) who were there for someone's birthday party (whom I did not know), and everyone seemed to be all abuzz and atwitter with electionticipation. I'll say now as I said then: If all of the current crop of hopefuls for the U.S. Presidency were simultaneously struck dead, I would take it as positive proof of the existence of God, and I would do a happy-dance. (Anyone who knows me knows that I do not invoke the happy-dance lightly.)

Anyway, someone made the mistake of bidding me "Happy Super Tuesday", to which I replied, "Fuck your Super Tuesday; it's Mardi Gras, bitch!" Priorities, you fucktards. Seriously.

Do you?

2008-02-05T14:57:00.000-05:00

Today is Mardi Gras, and though I've been there only once, I know what it means to miss New Orleans. How different might my life be if I'd moved there, rather than here, back in 2004.

(I'm still alive; I'm just extremely busy. More on that later. I just haven't had time or been inclined to sit down and chronicle the highs and the lows, to say nothing of the dizzying in-betweens.)

Today, I just wanted to say God bless the people of New Orleans and their wild romantic hearts.

Now You Know

2008-01-23T11:24:00.000-05:00

I'm exhausted. I keep having to lie down for a few minutes after lunch on the couch in my office and take a nap just to get through the day. Last night, I finished rehearsal about a half-hour early, partly because I didn't want to beat our lead actress to vocal death, and partly because I was too fucking fried to continue. I walked home through the bitter cold (wishing I'd remembered to wear gloves), realised the liquor store was closed, so I couldn't get any bourbon, climbed the stairs to my apartment, boiled water for tea, poured it onto a bag of Earl Grey to steep, and fell asleep before I could remember to drink it.

I'm disinclined to continue writing here. I don't know why I'm even still bothering. I've been doing this, off and on, here or elsewhere, since 2001, I believe. It hasn't made any difference in anyone's life. I've never been any good at feeling a part of any sort of community -- the gay community, the blogging community, the theatre community, the musical community, the scouting community, the Yale community, the Christian community -- they all, in the end, leave me cold. I've met a few interesting people; some of them have become friends.

But right now, I'm tired. It's all I can do to get through the days of the week as I've engineered them for myself. And I'm tired of being disappointed by everything and everyone. I'm tired of screaming, which seems to be mostly what I do here, not that anyone listens (I scream a lot in real life, too; those who love me bear it, though it hurts and confuses them).

There's a lot going on right now. I've been very emotionally fragile lately. I've found myself in tears in church several times lately, as well as walking down the street on the way to or from work or rehearsal, and just sitting in my apartment.

Last night, on my way to rehearsal, I'd given the iPod the reins, letting it randomly select what it would. A minute or so into the opening track from Songs for a New World, I recognised two of my former students from New Haven walking past me on the sidewalk, as I hurried up 9th Avenue and they strolled down it. One of them had sung Man 2 in the production of that particular piece for which I directed music in 2004. I thought about turning around and chasing them down to say "Hi", particularly given the irony of what my iPod had chosen to play at the moment, but I decided against it. Typically, that song segues into the second on the disc, but because iPod was shuffling songs, I instead got "Afterlife", the crashing mostly-instrumental tag that follows Maria McKee's "Life Is Sweet". (It was the more orchestrated version from High Dive, not the original from the Life Is Sweet album.) It was a pretty jarring transition. Next was PF Project's "Choose Life", from the beginning of the second Trainspotting soundtrack. There seemed to be a pattern emerging here, but I can't quite define what it was. Anyway, I didn't listen to the whole track; I just smiled as I got into the elevator at the rehearsal studio and shut the iPod off.

I think not focusing on anything that isn't real (that's you, "Blogosphere") is the way to choose life. So maybe I'll continue to chronicle my days and nights and thoughts here, but I'm not going to worry much about it anymore. I don't have time. I have a day-job, and a musical, and a choir, and a vocal ensemble, and a band, and a family, and a pretty fuckin' great group of Real-Life friends to keep me busy.

And doing things in a way that worked for anybody else has never worked for me, anyway, so fuck it. And fuck you. 'Cause I'm an important person with important things to do and places to be and people with whom to spend time.

Now you know. Right?

When they were good...

2008-01-17T22:28:00.000-05:00

They were really good!

The decisions weren't so agonizing, after all. Nearly everyone who came in for the call-backs was in fine form, and I wished we could use nearly all of them. (There were, of course, as there always are, a few who didn't quite stand up to closer scrutiny as they should have, but sometimes, these things happen.)

Deliberating over the casting after seeing people again was remarkably easy. I found myself occasionally playing devil's advocate, as I am wont to do -- though NEVER when casting, raising the attributes of people who weren't actually my first choices, just to be sure everyone had a fair crack. In the end, I stopped myself mid-sentence, literally saying aloud, "Why am I doing this? You guys are making all the right decisions, casting all the people I really want without me having to fight for them. Shut UP, DJ!"

If all of our first choices accept the roles we're offering them, this cast will kick ALL the ass! If NONE of our first choices accept the roles we're offering them, and we have to go to our back-up choices for every single role, this cast will STILL kick ALL the ass!

I am so psyched! Now, it's up to US to mold this into something really memorable.

My Super-Power

2008-01-16T15:29:00.000-05:00

It's only Wednesday, and already, it's been a frenetically busy week.

Sunday, after I sang Mass, a bunch of us went out to brunch because we wanted cocktails before we had to come back and sing Evensong. It was a good choice. We don't do Evensong that often; this one wasn't particularly well-prepared; brunch was delicious; and my Bloody Mary and Kronenbourg were just perfect. In the evening, despite exhaustion and need to do chores, I shared a bottle of delicious Italian wine with Julien, partly in my disaster area of an apartment, and partly on the roof, where we aren't supposed to be, but which is rather wonderful for its continued representation of the rough neighbourhood that Hell's Kitchen used to be.

Monday, after work, I sat through several hours of auditions for an upcoming show for which I'm the musical director. Though about thirty-five of the auditioners to whom we gave appointments didn't show up, the evening was full, and the competition was pretty fierce. After the last auditioner had left, the production team retired to a restaurant for a very late dinner and cocktails as we reviewed the contenders and decided who would receive a call-back. I love this process, and I hate it, too. I always enjoy seeing new and promising talent. I'm always pained by the people who are deluding themselves that they have any hope of a performing career. I always enjoy being a part of the process of progress for those whom we're able to cast. I'm always pained by the fact that there are wonderful performers for whom we don't have roles.

I've said for years that if you audition for me and I have no use for you (i.e., if I regret that I've given you the appointment), I should just be able to give you a bus ticket that requires that you return to whence you came, because this city is choked with individuals who do not have the requisite talent to be performers. My perspective has changed a little; it has become a kinder, more magnanimous desire. I now wish that I had the super-power to, upon seeing someone who lacks even the potential to advance, magically transport him or her back to his or her place of origin, into a happy life, with an appropriate career, completely devoid of any thought of performing. Fortunately, there were very few of those on Monday night, and tonight, as we see those performers whom we've called back, the difficulty will not lie in finding a performer appropriate to each role, but in choosing which performer will be best. It brings me pain to have to choose, but it brings me joy to feel that we will really have an excellent cast for this show.

Last night, I had dinner (and sex) with an old acquaintance whom I hadn't seen in about a year and a half. I've known him for several years, and he's grown and matured quite a lot in that time. We get along better, too, now that I'm relatively happy with my life, doing well and pursuing things that make me happy. I'd forgotten how much he made me laugh, and I'm thankful that we've reconnected.

Tonight, of course, the call-backs and the agnozing decisions.

This morning, though, I had significant trouble wading through crowds of people who were loitering around the entrances to Macy's at the corner of 34th St. & 7th Ave. Seriously, people, what the fuck?! Some of us are trying to get to work. Get the fuck out of our way, or we will push you (as I did)! I do not have time to say "Excuse me" repeatedly and to watch you bump vacuously against each other like so many plastic ducks in the duck-pond at a kiddie carnival! These boots are made for walkin'...all over YOU, if necessary!

Morning Music

2008-01-15T11:49:00.000-05:00

This morning in the subway, I was running late, so I took the express train to 96th Street, where I changed to a local train. As I was boarding the latter, a gentleman was playing his flute in the car that I entered. I only caught the end of his selection, but I knew it was Mozart. As he passed through the car, I gave him a dollar. I don’t usually give the buskers or the beggars, in the trains or on the platforms, money. This morning was different, somehow. It takes serious guts for a guy to get on the train with a flute and play Mozart. (He was playing quite well, too.) He exited the car at the next stop, and at subsequent stops, when the doors opened, I heard the fluttering tones of his instrument echoing down the platforms from whatever car he was in at the moment. It made me smile.

I smiled to think just what a cake-walk my life is. True, I schedule myself to within a minute of the edge of my sanity. True, my health is a bit more fragile than I would have it be. True, I feel I have not yet accomplished anything worth noting. But I remember when my rent was half of what I pay now, and I had to send it in late because I did not have enough money. I remember a time when I had no cooking utensils and subsisted on bologna sandwiches on white bread because they were cheap. I remember sleeping on sheets on a parquet floor or on a borrowed futon mattress because I had no furniture. I remember calling one or both of my parents to ask them to lend me a few hundred dollars, assuring them that I'd pay it back (They never asked). I remember being unable to afford a social life. Though I might have been more "free" then, I wouldn’t go back there, but sometimes, I take account of how blessed I am, and I am amazed. Sometimes, it seemed like interminable torture, but looking back, as the Groove Armada song goes, compared to what it might have been, it was easy…And I am thankful.

Lady Winter

2008-01-14T16:14:00.000-05:00

Recently, I have spent some time standing and gazing out the windows of my office’s conference room, across to New Jersey, down the Hudson River, and southeast over the city’s roof-tops. I’ve been struck by the brilliance of colour in the sky. A serene shade of periwinkle seems to pervade the very air, dispersing itself through clouds, sky, light, river, trees, buildings, and all. It is the most comforting shade of winter I think I have ever seen. The air is not as cold as I would have it be. There is no snow, neither on the ground nor in the air. I wish there were, but there will not be. Nonetheless, this is my season, when the garish decorations of spring and summer are stripped away to reveal the beauty of Nature’s bare foundations; when the weak flee to warmer climes, comfort themselves in the warmth of their refuges, sleep until the lady of ice retreats to distant lands. I dress less warmly than most, too lightly for the taste of my colleagues, who chastise me for my inappropriate precautions against the weather, blaming my ill health on my enjoyment of the crisp air against my skin. I have been waiting for this chill, like an old friend whom one rarely has the opportunity to see. I shall miss her when she is, once again, gone…

Done

2008-01-11T14:53:00.000-05:00

I am done with all this political nonsense, the party-baiting, the conjecture, the muck-raking, the grand-standing, the mud-slinging. The major parties in this country’s politics will choose their candidates with no regard for my opinion. I shall examine those candidates’ viewpoints, as well as those of whatever other candidates may be running, and when the time comes, I will vote my conscience, as I expect the small minority of those qualified who actually bother to vote will do.

It will make little difference. I will go on hating this country for its corrupt leadership and its ignorant and lazy populace. I will cringe when I stumble upon news articles about the state of affairs within the United States and about the position of this nation in the world. I will sigh and shake my head and go on about my business.

Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum…

Rummy

2008-01-09T01:44:00.000-05:00

I'm not at home. I'm someplace I shouldn't be, doing things I shouldn't do with people I shouldn't know, but at the moment, there's a black woman stand-up comedian on the enormous TV set, and she's talking about how Donald Rumsfeld sounds like a particularly lethal cocktail, and I think she's right.

I wonder if there's a Donald Rumsfeld cocktail. I wonder what Donald Rumsfeld drinks. I bet he's a tee-totaler; he's too boring to drink (and consequently, too boring to be friends with me).

I bet I could find out, though. I had a co-worker back in the New Haven days who was one of Rummy's roomies at Yale. If I could just track him down, I could probably discover all sorts of things.

Hmm...I think I'll just invent my own idea of the Rumsfeld cocktail instead. "It's all been done", my ass. I am strangely in the mood to listen to Third Eye Blind. What the hell's the name of that song where he sings all falsetto that I used to sing while wandering around the echoey halls of a dorm at the University of Southwest Georgia or whatever that place was called? I'll ask the record producer when he gets back from the bathroom.

And Sometimes Why

2008-01-07T21:52:00.000-05:00

Why does everybody seem to love Obama so much?
And why can't I stop wanting to punch him in the face?
I truly do not understand.

Sweeter than...

2008-01-06T23:09:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, while I was in the middle of stopping one of three nosebleeds I had in the course of the afternoon/evening, a friend said to me that I must be the only boy who could look so cute with toilet-tissue stuffed up his nose. I'm sure I growled something appropriately cynical in response, but really, what a unique compliment! I'm sure I must have blushed...Or maybe that was just blood smeared on my cheek.

But Seriously...

2008-01-03T23:41:00.000-05:00

What if I were to learn to accept love and to reciprocate it?

Train or Limousine

2008-01-02T16:38:00.000-05:00

This is actually from about 11.30 a.m. on Monday 31 January 2007.

I'm on a train again. This time, the holidays being mostly over, I've left Richmond and am headed back north. A friend, who may or may not have the potential to be more than a friend -- certainly, he has the ambition -- invited me a month or so ago to spend New Year's Eve and Day with him in Philadelphia. Having no pre-arranged plans for the occasion, being slightly afraid of not being asked to do anything (stupid fear, really, all things considered), and having never spent the holiday in Philadelphia before, I accepted. Of course, a half-dozen or so parties have presented themselves as opportunities for New Year's fun since I accepted, but having made something of a commitment to this particular friend, I thought it better that I should honor it. And I'm sure I'll have a wonderful, lovely time. I'm just hoping his high-maintenance tendencies to not rear their exhausting collective head. Already, he's phoned far too many times to update me on his status with this or that person who may or may not be problematic at the party we may or may not be attending. This morning, he phoned to warn me that he might not look his best when he picks me up at the train station.

He likes pinot noir, so I've purchased a bottle to share (French). I like Moët et Chandon's Nectar Imperial, and I managed to find a bottle of that in Virginia (wonders WILL never cease!), considerably less expensive than it would've been had I purchased it in New York. I also picked up a bottle of Korbel Brut to share with whoever might be at this party. It occurs to me that wine, by and large, is expensive; I can get "relaxed" innumerable times on a litre of my favourite whiskey for about $30 in NYC, but to get tight on wine that I like equally much would require the purchase of something on the order of a $20-$50 bottle EACH TIME. (Because yes, I can drink an entire bottle of wine by myself and still be just fine, thank you very much.)

So I'm in no mood to write about the week with the family just now. The train is rather full today. I usually travel on the 30th, rather than the 31st, which I would've expected to be worse, but I'm sharing a seat. Fortunately, I managed to position myself in a seat next to a really terribly attractive young man who's sleeping and didn't seem to mind when I asked if there was anyone sitting with him as I joined him. I shall be as quiet and take up as little space as possible, as I know how displeased I typically am when I'm joined by an undesirable person whilst I'm sleeping.

And while I don't consider myself an undesirable person, I certainly always prefer that the beautiful people should like me. In my Tiffany ring and my Cole-Haan boots, wearing my step-brother's Kenneth Cole Black, which it turns out, smells quite nice -- clean -- on me, after all. ("Celebrity...In your magazine...I just wanna party on in the back of your limousine! Make me popular; make me steal the scene! I'm willing to do whatever it takes, if you know what I mean!" Thanks, Darren.)

Merry & Bright

2008-01-02T15:30:00.000-05:00

This is actually from 26 December 2007.

I've been quiet for a few days, because the only thing that my schedule and my experience in running around town has inclined me to write about is how much I loathe the holiday season.

I spent the 22nd mostly lying in bed, sleeping intermittently, having weird and distressing dreams about fuck-buddies and my recent insecurity about having gained a few pounds since I stopped doing all the bad drugs. Various professional contacts keep sending cookies and chocolate to my office, and I'm incapable of resisting picking up "just one more" out of the box each time I pass it on my way to or from my desk. I've determined that good old TheraFlu does an excellent job of staving off the symptoms of whatever this most recent malady has been, and its effects are pretty long-lasting, so though I could take one every four to six hours and remain slightly drugged, I've been taking one only twice daily, once in the morning, and once in the evening.

On the morning of the 23rd, I got up and did all the usual morning things before going to sing mass and a rehearsal, after which I believe I returned home to bed. At any rate, I know I slept for at least six hours before I woke and went to have a bit of fun with a certain young hot blond gentleman whom I know who lives nearby. It's always fun at his place, but I must confess, when things started to wind down, I started to become disenchanted with the whole situation. It was pretty clear to me from the time I arrived that I had, as is often the case, joined the party late in the game. I was the fourth person present for this segment of the thing, and energy waned a bit as one of the gentlemen left a couple hours after I arrived. Still, it was fun, and I resolved to find a bit more satisfaction when I arrived home. Luckily, another semi-regular playmate of mine was online, so after showering and changing clothes, I headed to his place on the Upper East Side. He's heading off to choreograph a certain reality TV series, so it was something of a "farewell fuck". Hopefully, he'll be back for a visit during the next five months before the show is done filming.

A couple of quick Christmas present purchases, a rushed shower and change of clothes, and I was headed to church to sing mass. Twice. Because God loves irony, and so do I, except when it's at my expense.

After screaming the loudest Christmas Eve service I've ever attended in my life (I tend to feel that Christmas Eve should be a quiet thing, subtle, reverent, candle-lit, meditative -- alas, not here), I went home, packed my bags, and trotted off to the train station just in time to catch the 3 a.m. train to Virginia. I left the majority of the Christmas presents in my apartment. Brilliant, as usual.

We ARE Friendly...See?

2008-01-02T10:30:00.000-05:00

I cannot express my joy and gratitude to be back at home in my city. It is imperfect and exhausting, in so many ways, but what a great relief to return to my little warm messy garret apartment after strolling the few blocks from Penn Station in near-Arctic blasts of wind, survey the landscape of laundry, and walk back out the door to head to work this morning!

And in the subway, after I opened the holiday cards that were waiting for me in my mailbox, above the somehow unusually jubilant strains of Everything but the Girl, I managed to overhear a warmly-dressed, dorky-looking young man pointing out to an older gentleman that he had a piece of white string stuck in his hair. Ah, yes, New Yorkers help each other out in so many ways! We're even very concerned that our fellows should look good!

Why I Hate Huckabee

2008-01-01T22:20:00.001-05:00

Here's the short version: It's that whole fucking annoying fucking "holier-than-thou" "goody-two-shoes" "ooh-I'm-a-Baptist-minister-so-I'm-a-moral-leader" bullshit thing.

Seriously? Somebody go find the skeletons in this fucker's closet, 'cause he has GOT to go DOWN! That is all.

On Oprah!

2008-01-01T22:18:00.000-05:00

It's not so much that I HATE Oprah; I just don't have a whole lot of use for her. I mean, she's an excellent actress, and I really think she should do more of that, but beyond that? Seriously? Shut up. Done. Over. That is all.

What?!

2008-01-01T18:24:00.000-05:00

What the hell has happened to us?!
What have we let ourselves become?!
What the fuck are we doing?!
What is with all this lying down?!
What does it take to drive us all to scream?!

Night in Virginia

2007-12-29T23:23:00.000-05:00

I'm always ill-prepared.
I'm always unfocused.
I'm always distracted.
I'm always losing interest.
I'm always under-performing.
I'm always falling short of the mark.
I'm always a day late and a dollar short.
I'm always over-committed and under-rehearsed.
I'm always embarrassed.
I'm always dissatisfied.
I'm always disappointing
I'm always disappointed.
I'm always a failure.

Fuck. I can think of so many examples.

"Soy un perdidor...I'm a loser, baby..." (Beck)

I don't know why I'm focused on this tonight, but so many examples of me failing to deliver are bouncing around in my head lately. My very dreams have been reflecting it every night since I've been back in Virginia. Even when things do work out as they should, even when I do actually show up and manage to land the shot, it amazes me, because somehow, I've managed to do what I was supposed to, yet even then, it's not as good as it should be. (And everyone MUST see it. I mean, don't they? How can they not?)

I'm so tired of not being everything I feel I could be, everything I know I should be.

I'm so tired of never getting quite what I want, never reaching quite what I need.

"There is only I want, I want, I want..." (Guettel)

New year on the way, if it is given me to see it.

"Hold on, honey, there's a new dawn coming..." (Timmins)

Am I born yet?

Rest (Sort-Of)

2007-12-22T22:19:00.000-05:00

I've spent the majority of today in bed. It was about time. I've even slept quite a few hours more than I normally would. I don't feel significantly better. I'm taking insane amounts of vitamins, a cough suppressant, Sudafed PE, large quantities of fluids, and the occasional bit of 101-proof Wild Turkey, because it reduces the coughing and eases the pain.

With Mikey's passing last week, I find myself worried with every sniffle, with every cough, that this could be it. I'm not at all amused by that thought. I haven't done anything worth noticing yet. I'm not DONE, damnit! Still, my body terrifies me, as I face the question each day of, "What if my atheist friends are right? What if there's nothing else after this?" (How am I ever supposed to minister to others, when I cannot, half the time, answer my own doubts?) I am not ready for oblivion. My apartment is entirely too much of a wreck, and I have far too many responsibilities to fulfill, too many people depending on me. My incapacity for relaxation probably exacerbates my illness.

Christmas is upon us, and I'm in no way ready for it, either. I do not make time to prepare for it in the month prior to it, so I'm always left in a frantic state, running around like a madman on Christmas Eve before I have to go sing mass and get on a train to go back to Virginia. I don't want to go. It's too stressful. I love my family, but I'd rather see them at other times of the year. This is the last time I'm doing this. (I think I swore that last year, with regard to the gifts, but here I am again.)

I did go out today, a couple of times, on errands. Early this afternoon, I realised I'd completely missed the time for breakfast, so thinking that curry would be of use to my immune system, I went downstairs and had Thai for lunch, which was rather delicious. I then picked up the dry-cleaning and brought it home before collapsing into another series of restless naps, filled with distressing and strange dreams. Waking, I thought it time for dinner, and so took the last ten Christmas cards to the post office, meditating on the majesty of the Empire State Building as I walked down 33rd St., then had dinner, coffee, and a trip to the liquor store and the grocery store (low-sodium V8) before returning home to my bed, where I now lie, finishing Charles Williams's All Hallows' Eve, not an easy read, nor a subtle one, but interesting, in much the same way that I find Lovecraft interesting, and ultimately, I think, worth the time and effort.

Tonight, I hope for decent and healing rest, in order that I might sing mass in the morning, attend rehearsal in the afternoon, and buy a variety of gift cards as Christmas presents before transporting an air-conditioner into my apartment. God, give me strength.

Typing that reminds me that last night, after I had my sushi for dinner, I walked past one of those small police-cart things, on the windscreen of which was plastered a "Missing" notice for an Irish man called Tony. Sadly, I don't recall his last name, but his brother had a phone number listed on the flyer with what I believe is a Westchester area code. And I thought to myself, "Ah, yes. We're back in that unfortunate season in which people disappear into the cold air of this city and are never found again. Or they are, but not as they were." I thought of my friend James, who was lost to the season's chill a couple of years ago. I thought of the various people whose bodies I've read of being found in the East River. (Why is it always the East River?) There are always those for whom the chill is too cold, for whom the darkness is too dark. I wish there were some way of telling them that there's a whole world out there, that not all of it is so grim, so difficult as this place that has become my home, could they but leave here and explore there. Sad as I may have been to see them go, I suppose I'm awfully glad that some of my friends have done just that.

I am here...barely.

2007-12-21T19:14:00.000-05:00

Mostly, you'd only know it from the coughing, which is loud, with a distressing rattle of phlegm. On Tuesday of this week, I finished a two-week course of bactrim, which was prescribed the day I left Berkeley, for a MRSA infection. That particular antibiotic should kill just about any bacterial infection in my system (after all, it kills people who are allergic to sulfa-based medications -- obviously, I'm not one), so I'm pretty sure that whatever this is, it's viral, and it's the result of the crushing weight of my schedule. Here's a recap of December so far:

Sat 1 Dec: Meetings with staff in Berserkeley. Trustees begin to arrive. I move from my original accommodations to the Women's Faculty Club (whose name is strictly historical, as I am very clearly not a woman), about a half-mile away from the locations of our various meetings. The infected hair on my right leg is clearly becoming something more sinister.

Sun 2 Dec: Meetings with trustees all day. Major dinner at Sea Salt, which in retrospect, was not the correct choice of location, since there was supposed to be a presentation after dinner (rescheduled to the following morning), but the food was lovely, and the wine was delicious...As were the waitstaff. (I developed a little mini-crushlet on the one named Joey, whose full attention I had from the time he realised that, though I was the 33rd guest and the one sitting at a makeshift spot at the end of the table, that I was also the one who'd made all the arrangements and would be signing the $3,000+ tab.)

Mon 3 Dec: More meetings, including a major presentation. I am so exhausted by the stress of managing details of 30 people's lives that I return to my room and collapse -- after learning that I can't get in to see a doctor about what is now very obviously a very angry staph infection on my right thigh.

Tue 4 Dec: Rather than exploring the Berkeley/San Francisco area, I spend $150 on a doctor visit to get a prescription for an antibiotic to start fighting the staph, which has recently been in the headlines for killing children. A trip to Walgreen's and a $10 prescription of bactrim (My prescription plan works better out of state than the rest of my medical insurance, apparently) later, I'm on my way back to the airport, to arrive back in NYC around midnight.

Wed 5 Dec: Do I rest? No, I go to work for most of the day, then I pick up Grady from LaGuardia airport, where he's just arrived from Louisiana. It's been nearly three years since I saw him last, so we have a lot of catching-up to do. He chooses sushi for dinner, so we go to my favourite place. His saki pitcher contains, of all things, a cockroach-like insect. Dead, of course. We then go hang out and get slightly plastered at Therapy, where our cute waiter should be getting ready to be my newest friend on MySpace.

Thu 6 Dec: I wake Grady up for sex three times before we finally get out of bed. Making up for lost time and all that. I don't really remember what we did during the day, but I believe it involved the purchase of a tailcoat and all the appropriate accoutrements for me. Grady came to my evening rehearsal, and afterwards, we went out for dinner & drinks with some friends at Suspenders, one of my favourite downtown haunts.

Fri 7 Dec: I have to work, at least part of the day. Grady comes along and charms my office. In the evening, I go to rehearsal in New Jersey, and he hangs out with an old friend from Louisiana, who now lives in Astoria (with whom he was supposed to stay part of the time, though that fell through, obviously, as he stayed at my place all five nights). I fail to realise that the New Jersey Transit schedule is different on weekdays from weekends, so I miss the last train back to Manhattan and have to take a very late train to Hoboken, whence I take the PATH train back to midtown and have a very long, very tired, late-night walk back to my apartment.

Sat 8 Dec: Running around, shopping, baking of more chocolate pies, dashing off to sing a concert in New Jersey, realising I had grabbed all parts of the tuxedo except the trousers, purchasing a new pair of black dress pants ($100 I had not planned to spend), generally being disappointed with how the concert went, returning to NYC, chatting with his friend while Grady slept. I am exhausted and in no mood for large crowds of people, but Grady wants to go out, so I give him destinations, and he spends the rest of the night exploring, while I get to know his friend better until about 5 a.m. (There was, as the cast of The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas sings, "nothin' dirty goin' on".)

Sun 9 Dec: Grady returns to my apartment around 9 a.m., having traveled out to Merrick, Long Island, where apparently, nothing of much interest happened. We sleep until noon (about 3 hours each -- I had stayed awake waiting for him to come home), after which, we meet my friend Julien for a backstage tour of a certain Broadway show, in which I know some of the performers, and to which I had bought tickets for the afternoon. I alternate between laughter and tears through the show, as I always do at big flashy musicals (another post for another time), and afterwards, we sit inside the stage-door 'til Julien is done with his work, at which point we pile into a cab and head to Blue Smoke to meet one of Julien's friends and celebrate (belatedly) Julien's birthday with cocktails and a fantastic dinner. (Grady charms everyone at the table.)

Mon 10 Dec: Grady and I do some last-minute shopping before he leaves town and have lunch before I accompany him to Grand Central Station so he can take a shuttle back to LaGuardia and back to his life. I've done the tearful-good-bye-at-the-airport thing before, and I'm not interested in doing it again, and I need to get back to work. I will miss him, but that's life. He's where he belongs, and I'm where I belong. The office is particularly boring, by contrast. I work into the evening, arriving home too late to do laundry, and sleep. Alone. (And honestly, I've come to like it that way.)

Tue 11 Dec: Work in the morning. Sing for funeral in the afternoon. More work in the afternoon and into the evening.

Wed 12 Dec: In the morning, I receive a text message that my friend Mikey died on Sunday. (I've since learned that he had been discharged from the hospital and was at home.) I have still not fully recovered from this news. He was only 29. Man, I miss that smile. Work carried on. In the evening, Shiv and I did some rehearsing of some new versions of some of her most rarely-heard songs and had sushi for dinner. Stay tuned.

Thu 13 Dec: Work, followed by rehearsal, followed by dinner & drinks, followed by sleep.

Fri 14 Dec: Work, followed by haircut & manicure, followed by rehearsal, followed by dinner & drinks & magic flowers (and packing -- yes, I helped) with Julien, followed by sleep.

Sat 15 Dec: Rehearsal, followed by picking up dry-cleaning, including a newly-altered (I'm thinner!) jacket, for the following day's concert. Laundry (for I have expended my supply of clean underwear). There are some fucking weird and pathetic people in the laundromat nearest to my apartment. I may start sending my laundry out elsewhere to be done, though that will cost me more money. I certainly like the work done by the cleaners who did the dry-cleaning.

Sun 16 Dec: Mass. Lunch. Concert. Dinner & drinks.

Mon 17 Dec: Wake with weird congestion. Work. Concert. More work. Sleep and hope that the congestion goes away.

Tue 18 Dec: Wake with more sinus/respiratory weirdness. Work anyway. Go home & change clothes. Concert in which I am barely able to keep from coughing, though I guess I sounded sort-of alright. Dinner and drinks. Arrive home at about 3 a.m. Sleep.

Wed 19 Dec: Arrive later than usual to work. Stay later than usual at work, addressing and writing holiday greeting cards to friends and family. After dinner, arrive home to discover that two buddies nearby are hanging out and "playing", so I go play with them for a few hours. (Yes, I should've been sleeping instead, but if I'm keeping score, and I am, I realise that I had not gotten laid since the morning of the 6th, which is an extremely long time for me to go without sex.)

Thu 20 Dec: Arrive much later than usual to work (a boy's gotta sleep sometime), but put in an honest day of it. Realise that my phone battery is dying and I will have no time to recharge it 'til I get home, late in the evening. Go to rehearsal. Lose my voice almost completely. Go home, take massive vitamins, drink huge amounts of fluids, sleep.

Fri 21 Dec: Ah, that brings us up to today, doesn't it? My voice has returned, though it is not yet really back in working order. I got to work at a reasonable hour. I coughed as little as possible (which was still a lot). I determined that a visit to the doctor will not be necessary, as I've just finished a two-week supply of double-strength bactrim, which would've killed pretty much any bacterial infection present in my body, so I'm pretty sure that whatever this is, it's viral, and it's the result of the crushing weight of my schedule. (That last bit looks strangely familiar.)

And now, if good sense doesn't get the better of me, I shall go to XES to bid happy birthday to an acquaintance whom I've not seen in quite awhile, after which I shall have a light dinner and pretend to rest until Julien calls to tell me he's done at work. Then, I shall go to his former apartment, help him to discard his old futon (Oh, the memories!), and relieve him of his air-conditioner and his excess porn. Because who doesn't love porn?!

Oh, and that whole "rest" thing that Fr. Tony so kindly recommended awhile back, but that Isaiah tells me I can't have unless I stop being wicked (though really, I can't see when I've had much TIME for being wicked)? I guess that'll just have to wait until tomorrow...AFTER the laundry is done and the dry-cleaning is picked-up and the Christmas-shopping is bought and the apartment is cleaned.

I'm a PILL!

2007-12-17T23:50:00.000-05:00

I am such a total twit!

About a month or so ago, this one started a project which she called "PILL", or "People I Love & Link" (or was it "love to link"? I dunno, but I digress). And she kind-of bounced around through her list, and then, she let it fall, and the truth is, I'd quite enjoyed reading all those stories of how she met these people (I don't actually know most of the people on my reading-list, at right; I just like reading them; you wouldn't think it, but I'm generally very shy when I first meet people), so I kinda nudged her about it in her comments, probably at a moment when she was feeling not-wonderful, and so after a little delay, she resumed the series.

Now, of COURSE, I am transparent as air, and she knew that I just wanted to know what she was going to say about ME, because I am a TOTAL attention-whore, but I mean, really, how often do we go to our friends and just tell them all the nice things we think about them? I must also admit that I'm not much-linked, so the people that do link and read regularly, as I mentioned recently, I'm interested in understanding why. And this is what she said yesterday, when she got around to me:

OK, it's your turn finally! PILL of the day: I love DJRD because he gets as angry as I get. He is hard on himself and proud, knows how to in the same instant hold intense pain and intense joy in his heart, he opens his chest up and lets us have it (see? look, this is my world, this is me). He's funny without really knowing it and constantly defining himself (but don't YOU do it). He's a lighthouse. And he tells me I'm pretty all the time. How do you not love that? You don't, is how. So, thanks for paying attention, thanks for trying so hard, thanks for sharing those black dog visits too (maybe next time tie a flask around his neck before you send him over here, k?)

And I smiled at the first line, because I knew that she knew (of course she knew; I am transparent as air, and women ALWAYS know), and then, I had to laugh at the "(but don't YOU do it)", because it's true (it might be more true to say I'm constantly REdefining myself, though the end result always amounts to the same thing, so maybe it'd really be redundant), but seriously? Best. Endorsement. Ever.

(If I weren't so gay, I would have such a crush! Worst thing about non-heterosexuality? It is inconvenient sometimes. So leave us alone, world! It is hard enough just BEING while entertaining you and making you look and sound fabulous; we do not need you breathing down our necks about how much you hate us and we're going to hell (which doesn't really exist anyway) whilst we're doing you favours!)

Anyway, I shall try being a lighthouse more often, because it's more fun, and it's easier than being this angry thing, and me flaske, she is empty, but I'll see if I can't strap a bottle of something nice to the black dog the next time I see him, and maybe you can have a drink whilst he's slobbering on you. (Or maybe you can give him a drink, and he'll just pass out on your feet and keep them warm. "There we go...Attaboy...Nice drunk doggy...")

P.S.: I am NOT funny. No, I'm not. Not one little bit. I'm a very serious young man. ;-P

Expensive Taste Strikes Again

2007-12-16T23:39:00.000-05:00

As I type this, I have on my feet the most expensive pair of shoes I have ever owned. They are a big black pair of boots from Cole Haan, which seem to say, "Think twice before you cross me, for I might just be inclined to fuck you right up." (Yes, they really use all that verbage; they're a classy pair.)

I had been thinking for some time that I needed a new pair of boots. I used to stalk around in them constantly, but I gave them up for rather more demure, respectable, responsible, gentlemanly shoes a few years ago. They are back with a vengeance, and I think these will be my default shoes for quite some time, now that winter seems to be upon us.

I went shoe-shopping on Saturday, and I tried on a number of pairs before deciding to sleep on the decision to buy. I walked into the store today intending to buy the Kenneth Coles or the even less expensive Steve Maddens, but I tried this pair on again, and I thought, "If condoms actually felt good, this is what they would feel like," so I bought them. The price? $500. Yes, I am wearing a $500 pair of shoes. I'm having a little bit of trouble processing that, given that there are people begging for change all over this town, but it's been a stressful week. Oh, hell, it's been a stressful month. And no, I didn't actually pay that much for them; they were on sale.

They are only size 11s, because apparently, my feet are shrinking (I used to wear 12s), but whatever the size, I am most definitely enjoying them. They are very schweet soft black leather on the outside, lined with very schweet soft tan leather on the inside, with delicious leather soles that make just the right amount of commandingly percussive noise as I walk. And I am swiftly readjusting to the physical memory that wearing boots makes people walk differently. Oh, yes, it does.

And I am remembering the mix tape on which my friend Liz introduced me to Paula Cole with a song called "Black Boots", off her first album, Harbinger, which is brilliant from the first chord until the last echo of vocal dies away.

Why do you think she wears those black boots?
Why do you think she dyes her hair black?
She's awfully insecure,
She's trying to be cool,
She's hoping to be more in those
Black boots.

Why do I think I wear these black boots?
Why do I wear three pairs of black boots?
I feel a little stronger,
I feel a little taller,
I identify with the color
I like myself in these
Black boots.

Years ago, when I met Ms. Cole after a show, she was very sweet and commented on my boots. The hair's shorter, and it's no longer dyed black now, but I'm still that boy. I think I'll wear those black boots to sing tomorrow.

Darkness & Light

2007-12-13T23:57:00.000-05:00

I'm having trouble sleeping again. Two glasses of whiskey haven't done the trick. I donated the last of the Jim Beam, along with dinner of sushi, to Lady Shiv, while we were exploring acoustic versions of some of her saddest songs, many of which haven't been heard in quite awhile (Stay tuned for more news on that front, as we're working on something that should be rather beautiful, if somewhat dark and quiet), so I bought a new bottle of Wild Turkey tonight (80 proof; the 101 proof tastes too much like drinking some sort of anti-bacterial cleaning agent, though some would argue I should do just that), since the Beam was no longer on sale ($24 for a handle can only last so long).

Tomorrow is quite a full day. I go to work in the morning and attempt to sort out some issues with the mailing of the corporate Christmas cards. I have an appointment to get a much-needed haircut and manicure. I go into a rehearsal, and we find out just what it's like to have me singing Handel arias with a full period orchestra. I go back to work. I go help my dear friend Julien pack up the last of his belongings so that he may move out of the neighbourhood, and we have dinner and probably a few drinks.

And so, tonight, I medidate on this:

For behold, darkness shall cover the Earth
And gross darkness the people
But the Lord shall arise upon thee
And His glory shall be seen upon thee
And the gentiles shall come to thy light
And kings to the brightness of thy rising.
The people that walked in darkness
have seen a great light
And they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death,
Upon them hath the light shined.

This should be easy, right? These are themes which are native to me. Darkness covers the Earth even as I type this; evil, as I see it, controls the governments of the major powers on the planet. So I guess I'm waiting for the arising and glory, huh?

I've certainly walked in darkness over the past year and some change -- and quite a lot of it. But have I seen a great light? I don't know. I've replaced some light-bulbs. I've seen the light of a lot of lighters and butane torches melting crystal meth. I've seen the light of the morning coming through my east-facing windows. Was any of these a great light? I'd say that was more likely the light of friends who were concerned for my health, fighting their own demons and encouraging me to do the same.

I'm still waiting for a greater light, though. The lights that illuminate a stage, or the light of candles lit for meditation or prayer or services, or a more supernal beam. I don't pretend to know, but I'm still waiting. And wasn't it Milton who wrote, "They also serve who only stand and wait"?

Another Eulogy

2007-12-12T14:18:00.000-05:00

My life is filled with nasty coincidences. Yesterday afternoon, I sang for a funeral for someone whom I don't believe I ever met, but who was beloved of a great many people. Little did I know that today, I'd be grieving for one of my own. Spencer recently wrote, "I hate death." Me, too, Spencer, me, too.

Around 11.45 this morning, I received a message from a young man in West Virginia or Tennessee informing me that one of my friends had died on Sunday around noon, quite suddenly.

I'd first met Mikey only a few months ago, I guess. The universe seems to refer people to me shortly after they discover that they're HIV-positive. (People seem to refer their friends to me in that situation, too.) I'm not entirely sure why. I try to stay current with at least some of the research, so I can be of some comfort in that area. Additionally, I'm non-judgmental, at least about this. People make mistakes; sometimes, they trust the wrong people and get burned; sometimes, accidents just happen. In any case, I try to be a good friend, an attentive listener, a sensible advisor, a supportive shoulder.

Such was the case when I met Mikey. We'd chatted a bit on the phone, a bit online, agreed to meet for dinner and a movie at his place. I live in Manhattan, and I rarely travel outside of it; he lived in Long Island City, but he immediately struck me as important, worthwhile. I judged his character rightly.

He greeted me at the door of his palatial one-bedroom on a dizzyingly high floor of a newish high-rise with a smile. It was the same smile with which he always greeted me, and I shall miss it enormously. To a stranger, it might've seemed a little condescending, as though he knew something that put him in a position of power over the person at whom he was smiling, but I quickly learned that it was just a combination of genuine enthusiasm with a dash of mischief. We snuggled on the couch that night, eating pasta we'd ordered out from his favourite Italian restaurant, sipping wine and watching V for Vendetta. (I wanted to watch it again, recently, after returning from London; now, I think it will be a long time before I can bring myself to do so.) Things went quite a bit beyond snuggling, but I don't feel the need to go much into detail there, though I'll say he was as good with sex as he was with computers, and apparently, he worked quite successfully with the latter for a living. I didn't feel comfortable spending the night at his place that night, particularly since we'd just met, and he didn't want me to have to wait for the subway at such a late hour, so he drove me back into Manhattan. Apart from going to work, he apparently didn't spend much time in Manhattan, for he didn't know his way around the island well, so I had him drop me near an A-train stop, and I proceeded uptown to 181st St., where I lived at the time.

In the subsequent times that we met and hung out (always at his place), we watched movies, snuggled, had sex, and talked a lot. Initially he was decidedly not comfortable with his recent diagnosis. When in a light-hearted mood, we completely avoided the topic; there was plenty else to discuss. Occasionally, though, we'd talk about his condition, and I'd assure him that he'd be fine, that he'd be sticking around for quite awhile, that it was completely manageable, that HIV/AIDS would not be his ticket out of this world (Little did I know how right I was.), that there were plenty of people who wouldn't judge him for it, that he was not alone. One night, I held him in my arms while he wept about how he thought his life was over, and I tried to comfort him, to reassure him that he still had plenty of time and potential, until he drifted off to sleep.

The last time I saw him, it must have been late summer or early fall. He was doing well. He'd returned to work. He said he'd been to one of the support groups at Callen-Lorde for people recently diagnosed with HIV. He'd experienced a turn-around in his attitude, become determined to move forward with his life, realised how much he still had going for him, resolved to help others (involvement in service organisations had been a major component of his life). I left the next morning hoping to see him again soon. It was not to be.

This afternoon, I phoned the young man who'd sent me the text message with information about Mikey's passing. Apparently, he was in the hospital, being treated for meningitis, and Sunday morning, his arm, in which he'd had rather a lot of IV's (intravenous antibiotics being a major element of treatment for the disease), was causing him a lot of pain. He called for a nurse to check it out, or to administer pain medication; his mother stepped into the rest-room; my friend fell to the floor convulsing. They were unable to revive him.

The fact that he was in a hospital when this happened -- the fact that his tragic death could have been prevented -- makes me more angry than sad. I have lost another friend, and this should not be the case. I want someone to pay. I want a negligent medical provider or insurance executive to die in his place and for Mikey to be brought back. But it won't happen.

He'd been on my mind a number of times, lately. It had been awhile since we spent some time together, and I always enjoyed being around him, and I was concerned to see how he was doing. Just the other day, I typed his phone numbers at work and home into a list of things to do, intending to call him to have dinner, see a movie, go out for cocktails with friends. Those numbers are still there, but it is pointless for me to dial them now. His cell phone, apparently, is in the hands of one of his friends, who text-messaged me from it this morning.

So I've been going silent and staring off into space a lot today. My voice has broken or trailed-off mid-sentence as I thought about him, thought about what's happened. I've sat at my desk and cried. I've sat at the table in the conference room and cried. I've stood at the postage machine, desperately seeking a repetetive, "zen-like" task that required neither too much thought nor too much concentration for me to complete, and cried. I've stood in the kitchen, pouring myself a cup of coffee, and cried. I've charged home from the subway at the end of the day and cried, both before and after I arrived. He was several years younger than I, but I'm quite certain Mikey was the kind of young man who touched the lives of everyone he met and made them better. I love him, and I shall miss him.

Rest in peace, friend.

Not Cool

2007-12-11T17:30:00.000-05:00

I know that you never want to know this, but I'm having another one of those, "Why don't I just go fucking kill myself" days. And it's not as though I would ever do it, because frankly, the possibility that my end is hurtling toward my face terrorizes me on a daily basis and keeps me up at night for the very same reasons that I HAVE these Depression Days, so that's not a worry. But seriously? I could use a fucking break. DO YOU HEAR THAT, UNIVERSE OR GOD OR WHATEVER IS OUT THERE? I COULD USE A FUCKING BREAK! AND NOT A BROKEN BONE, EITHER! I'VE ALREADY GOT ONE OF THOSE, THANKS!

I'm tired. I lay in bed unable to sleep until about 3 o'clock this morning. Drugs were not involved. Well, that's not quite true; I took a percocet to try to stave off the toe-pain, as well as in the interest of knocking myself out. I also drank a large bottle of Heineken. Neither one had any appreciable effect. (Did I mention that it took two xanax, a percocet, and a bottle of red wine to knock me out on the flight back from San Francisco? My tolerance level seems to be back up to the level known as "elephantine".) I had a really productive voice lesson this afternoon and a really frustrating morning and commute back to my office this evening, and the truth of the matter is I'm just really not cool with where I am in my life right now, and there's only so much I can do to change it, and it won't happen fast enough, no matter what. And I am running myself ragged trying to be happy. No, wait; that's not true. I'm running myself ragged trying to make everybody else happy, so that I can keep my job, and advance, and hopefully, get noticed in a good way, so that I can be happy.

And I've just sat at my desk for about ten minutes and dozed off in my chair. It is not yet even 6 p.m. Come in, Houston...

Welcome back...

2007-12-10T20:47:00.001-05:00

I've been too busy to write, lately, but all that is a-changin', now that I'm back in town, and the house-guest has gone. (Don't get me wrong; he's lovely, but again, five nights -- against The Rules!)

I've been in pain of one variety or another and one magnitude or another for the past, what? Two weeks? Three weeks? I can't even remember, now.

And just to make sure it continues, I tripped, barefoot, over the keyboard-stand in my living-room a few minutes ago. I'm pretty sure I've succeeded in breaking another toe, this time the middle one of the left foot.

Please hold your applause; I'm sure the show's not over yet.

Christmas Chuiz

2007-12-02T00:08:00.000-05:00

I stole this from Mr. Tallfreak. I hope he doesn't mind.

1. Egg nog or hot chocolate?

I have to say hot chocolate. It's drinkable throughout the cool months, and so many different types of alcohol can be mixed into it. It's good with rum, vodka, whiskey, tequila, and schnapps of most any kind (especially peppermint). I can only drink egg-nog in limited quantities before it gets a bit too much for me, and I can only imagine mixing rum into it. Have we sufficiently established my alcoholism? It's not a new thing at all.

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree?

This is too ideologically complex of a question for me to answer just now, since literally speaking, there is no Santa Claus. I think life would be much easier for everyone if parents didn't pretend that Santa Claus is an actual, living entity, but rather explained to their children at an early age that in referring to St. Nicholas, we carry on a tradition modeled on the generosity of a man of whose life not much is really all that certain, since he lived around the A.D. 200s. He was apparently quite generous (frequently in secret), is the patron saint of sailors (and of my beloved New York City, as established by the Dutch settlers), was apparently the Bishop of Myra, and figures in a story which inspired the tale of Sweeney Todd. So put that in the stump of a pipe you hold tight in your teeth and let its smoke encircle your head like a wreath.

3. Colored lights on tree/house or white?

NO lights on the house. I repeat: NO LIGHTS ON THE HOUSE! Candles in the windows: Lovely. Those, obviously, should be clear/white, unless you can get the flickery bulbs, in which case, so much the better. Just don't put actual lit candles anywhere that they'll ignite anything or leave them burning unattended, obviously. As a child, I used to love multi-coloured lights, blinking and chasing and dancing. (This was partly a reaction against my father's insistence on clear/white lights.) I've since come to understand that coloured lights belong in restaurants and discothèques. If there are children in your house, coloured lights are fine, but as the tradition of lights on the tree stems from the terrifyingly dangerous old custom of putting candles on the tree, I must insist that these, too, be clear/white. No blinking, please.

4. Do you hang mistletoe?

No, but I would if I could get the real stuff. It inspires my latent sentimental/romantic streak. And the fact that they know that impulse lives somewhere buried under all my layers of ice and concrete and glass and steel is, I'm told, one of the reasons why my friends love me.

5. When do you put your decorations up?

I haven't seriously decorated in years, and being a nosebleed-high Anglo-Catastrophaholic (I accidentally invented that term this evening as I attempted to say "Anglo-Catholic"), I believe some decorations shouldn't go out 'til Christmas Day (the baby Jesus) or Epiphany (6 January for the Magi). Back when I used to have family traditions, though, we started greening the house on the day after Thanksgiving. It was one of my favourite days of the year.

6. What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)?

Why do I have to exclude dessert? There are so many desserts that I only get at the holidays! Alright, fine. My friend Allison's artichoke dip and my mother's insane mashed-potato/broccoli/sour cream/multiple-cheese casserole and my aunt's ham.

7. Favorite holiday memory as a child?

Decorating the house, especially putting up the Christmas tree. After enough years of watching my father put the lights on, in his very particular and detail-oriented fashion, I acquired the technique. And since, being a good little queer, I'd developed a keen sense for what metal and glass and mirrored and lighted ornaments would sparkle and shine in the most elegant fashion possible some years before, everyone in the family always agreed that our tree was the most beautiful after that. Oh, and baking desserts that would cause instant obesity with my mother! (I'll skip the details; just thinking about them is making my waist expand.)

8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa?

Oh, I don't know. I've always insisted on a high level of truth in my life, and I think at some point when I was 7 or 8 years old, I sat my parents down -- or more likely, just my poor mother -- and confronted them. I'd discovered Commodore 128 boxes in the study closet by accident. I was so ashamed.

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve?

No, but I often do quite a lot of Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve! Actually, for about the last twelve years, I've spent Christmas Eve with my colleagues, singing an evening mass (which has sometimes ended as late as 1 a.m.), after which I used to drive, but now, get on a train that leaves Penn Station at 3 a.m. for Points South...

10. How do you decorate your Christmas tree?

I haven't had one in years. I don't have room for one, and even if I did, I wouldn't have the time to decorate it, and even if I did, I wouldn't be home enough to enjoy it. I content myself with the five or so in my mother's house and, I believe, two at my father's.

11. Snow: love it or hate it?

Oh, love it more than most other things I can think of! I just wish they didn't insist on trying to clean it up, which only makes it dirty and/or treacherous because of the resultant sheets of ice.

12. Can you ice skate?

Not very well. I've only tried once or twice, though, and not recently.

13. Do you remember your favorite gift?

Honestly, no. I've been given too many wonderful things by too many dear people. And I'm not so good at saying, "Thank you," and far too good at saying, "But what have I done to deserve this?"

14. What’s the most important thing about the holidays for you?

I had to stop and think about this one for a bit. And then, I remembered an e-mail that I sent a month or so ago, in which I wrote the answer: "Complicated and dysfunctional though my relationship with my family may be, I love them, and Christmas is the one time of year when we put aside their bigotry and provincial fundamentalism and my supposedly righteous anger and disenfranchisement and just enjoy each other and celebrate the common ground in our faith."

15. What is your favorite holiday dessert?

Chocolate pie. I make mine with Mom's recipe. Very thick and rich, like a Hershey bar crystallised in a pie-crust -- not custardy at all and totally lethal. Okay, or maybe those chocolate-covered peanut-butter-ball things that are like "Honey, I Blew Up the Reese's Pieces".

16. What is your favorite holiday tradition?

They all seem to change. I don't think I have any, anymore, apart from that train...

17. What tops your tree?

How dare you?! What a naughty question! Oh, wait...That's not a euphemism? Oh. Never mind.

18. Which do you prefer, giving or receiving?

See answer to #13, and draw your own conclusions.

19. What is your favorite Christmas song?

Peter Warlock's "Bethlehem Down"

20. Candy canes:

They're pretty, and I MIGHT eat one per year, but pleasePleasePLEASE, do not give me any!

21. Favorite Christmas movie?

Oh, this is unfortunate, but the only even vaguely Christmas-themed movie that I ever watch is A Midnight Clear. I strongly recommend the film, from 1992, which is brilliant and which practically no-one in this country has ever seen, but it ain't exactly a pick-me-up.

22. What do you leave for Santa?

A stocking full of coal and switches off the nearest tree. Oh, no, wait, that's what he should leave for me. I don't leave anything for Santa, Santos, Miroslav, Vladimir, or any of the rest.

Band Geek 'til I Die

2007-11-30T13:51:00.000-05:00

I am sitting in my room in this beautiful place, attempting to finalise the lunch menus for nearly 30 people on Monday and Tuesday. It's harder than you might think. And the sounds of the UC Berkeley marching band come drifting up the hill and into my open window.

The drums will always make me a little jittery, but the brass -- oh, my dear God in Heaven, thank you for the brass! For some, the strings tug at their emotions, but for me, it is the brass; I shall always love them best. From the growl of the tubas to the throb of the trombones through the rich velvet of the horns past the smoky seduction of the flugels up to the adrenaline-scream of the trumpets -- or if we're lucky, an Eb cornet -- every hair on my body bristles, and the knot in my throat chokes tears from my eyes when I hear a good wind band, and though I love the reeds, the woodwinds, I know it is the brasses that move me thus. And I shall never be able to explain why.

Yes, I was a horn-player in high-school and some of college, and I could play trumpet, too, if I had to (though I've never liked transposing mentally to Bb -- F makes more sense to me), but it began earlier than that. Maybe it's the history on the battlefield and my Romantic sentimentality with regard to soldiers. Maybe it's the sheer volume. Maybe it's the emotive range, which closely resembles that of the human voice, from a soft, silky, seductive whisper to a smooth legato sentiment to a shrill, punctuated psychotic wail. There is something about brass, whether up in your face in a concert hall or in the stands, or at a distance, drifting in from a field, that makes me more alive.

And whatever the case, the way this music, even at a distance, is teasing me, torturing me as I attempt to focus on my work, confirms that I'm a band-geek 'til I die. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

I wanna be seda...

2007-11-29T12:42:00.000-05:00

I've arrived in Berserkeley, California. I'm here for a few days for work, and if I'm lucky, I'll manage to get some play-time in, as well. I'm not good at preparing for travel, and I'm especially not good at air-travel. Realising that I hadn't shared any of the second chocolate pie from Thanksgiving with ANYONE and that it would be a waste to leave it sitting in my refrigerator for a week while I'm away, I took it over to Julien's, and we had punch 'n' pie. Only the punch was just whiskey, occasionally mixed with a bit of Coke or ginger ale. Oh, and there were magic flowers! I love the magic flowers. I need to get me some. Except that I really don't, 'cause if I had magic flowers, I'd just be useless and munchy all the time, and then, I'd get fat, and that would suck.

So after a bit of hanging out, I went home, ostensibly to pack my things for this trip, but instead, I fell asleep. I set a number of alarms, but they didn't rouse me, so when I woke on my own, around 3 a.m., I decided...to pack? Why, no, but I'm glad you asked. I decided to lie back down and sleep some more, and to that end, I set three MORE alarms on my cell phone.

I finally woke at 6.15 and freaked out that I hadn't packed, showered, shaved, washed the dishes, taken out the trash, or done anything else of use during the evening, and flew around the apartment attempting to do all of these things before the car was to arrive at 6.45.

I failed. The call came as I was drying off after my shower. I explained to the nice driver that I'd overslept and was throwing some clothes on and would be right down. I arrived "right down" at 7 a.m., and we went to the airport. Nothing interesting happened there, other than that I discovered they don't feed you on domestic flights. I bought a bag of pretzel & cheese Combos to offset the in-flight munchies and contemplated just how many of my pills I should take. Obviously, I had to take all infection-related medicines. I had taken a percocet before I got into the shower, because I was in pain when I woke. I decided it was okay to go ahead and take a xanax (generic), too.

Shortly after settling into my seat, my head and my eyelids became quite heavy, but I didn't quite fall asleep, because I was too annoyed that my seat was uncomfortable (Thank you, American Airlines, for your brilliant ergonomic design, and thank you to the extremely painful infection on which I was sitting -- don't ask for details; I might give them) and impatient that we were leaving a few minutes late because of, the captain said, a problem with the cargo-loading system that affected live animals. "Live animals?" I growled, as my head lolled to the side.

I don't typically fly domestically (I don't like flying, so where possible, I take trains), so the age of the cabin crew surprised me. I'm accustomed to the bouncy, pretty young things who serve on trans-Atlantic flights. The usually come equipped with swoon-inducing accents. Not so when flying from New York to San Francisco. But they were very nice and very professional. I just didn't feel that flirting was a good or useful idea.

It didn't matter; I slept through most of the flight, anyway (as one might expect, given the pharmacopia I'd downed with my Diet Pepsi). I woke at one point to a visual of Catherine Zeta-Jones and a man whose name I could not tell you, so I plugged my iPod earphones in. I was greeted by Spanish dialogue, which irritated me, so I flung them around my neck in disgust and went back to sleep. I'm told I didn't miss much, as the film was No Reservations. Only hours later did I figure out how to change the audio channel. After flipping through channel after channel of dreck, I found the English-language audio that accompanied the screen several rows ahead of me, just as the movie ended. I convinced my body that we should sleep some more, despite our mutual discomfort.

Eventually, we landed, I collected my baggage, and the van service that was to transport me from San Francisco International Airport across the Bay to Berkeley found me. I slept most of the way to my destination, checked into my accommodations (lovely and recently renovated) and set about doing ground-work through my residual haze. I didn't accomplish much, but I did wander a bit, and on my way back, I treated myself to an enormous dinner at an Indian restaurant. When I ordered a Taj Mahal, the waitress said querulously, "Is very large beer." "I know," I said knowingly. And she asked me for my I.D., so I thanked her.

Too full of food and slightly tipsy, I began the perhaps half-mile walk back to the place I was staying. I chose the street with the steepest incline (LeConte. Don't be stupid; stay away from it), rejoiced greatly upon returning to my room, and promptly fell asleep. Yeah, my first trip to the west coast is gonna be an exciting one, indeed. 'Scuse me while I snore some more.

Growling Back

2007-11-27T09:41:00.000-05:00

Of course, I do this because I want attention! Practically everything I have ever done, all my life, has been because I wanted attention.

No, not just the attention of friends, though I love my friends, and they are wonderful creatures. I have always really been more interested in the adoration of strangers. It is easier for me, more comforting, more fulfilling, to have some person whom I do not know come up to me and say, "You're brilliant," so that I might reply with some typically snarky me-line like, "Thank you for noticing," rather than being demure and self-deprecating and "Aw, shucks" in response. If that makes me an ass, so be it (but there are so many more so much better reasons to think me an ass, really).

As a small child, I pursued the attention of my family members by putting on performances with my cousin, two years my senior. I obsessively pursued academic perfection to court the favour of my parents, my teachers, my peers.

I don't suppose the piano began that way. I was entranced by the rippling, crashing sounds my grandmother produced from the instrument when I was a small child, and I wanted to learn to produce those sounds, too. Singing didn't start that way, either; that was something born somewhere deeper inside, growing more intense until it bubbled to the surface and out into the open air, like the way water boils. It felt good to make those sounds. Eventually, it felt good to make those sounds which brought those emotions into the air, released them from my soul.

So maybe it isn't just for attention, after all. Maybe I write because I feel, and I want to share it, and I want the world to know how I feel, but I also want, on the off chance that there might be someone else out there who feels the way I do, for that person, or those people, to know that he/she is, that they are not alone. "The cream will rise," they always say.

So as I'm preparing to drug myself into oblivion so that I can fly off to the wrong coast for a few days for work, here's an invitation: If you're here with any sort of regularity and resonate somehow with what you read, and if you write somewhere yourself, if you're not ashamed to do so, link me, and let me know via comments or e-mail. 'Cause despite SiteMeter, which I installed as a means of self-defence and would likely remove but for that functionality, I don't really have a sense of who's out there, and some days, I just feel like I'm screaming endlessly into a void.

Too...

2007-11-26T18:50:00.000-05:00

I am insanely busy. Work is kicking my ass, and I have a zillion things to do before I get on a plane and whimper and grind my teeth and grip the arm-rest and pray for several hours early Wednesday morning. And I'm in enormous pain. And I'm sick of my body betraying me. It breaks down, and I keep running it, because I do not have time for the bullshit. As a matter of fact, as I look at my calendar, I do not have time for anything that even vaguely resembles bullshit until after the new year. And my director of finance has kindly informed me that I have 9.5 days of vacation remaining at my disposal until the end of June. I predict a lot of work and good behaviour between now and then, because I want to set aside at least one week during the summer to go to Provincetown. It's no wonder that on those rare occasions when I go on vacation, I don't really want to do anything but rest. My daily life whips me into submission. My body complains. I ignore it. I eventually crash. It's not a pretty cycle.

Speaking of not pretty, I was perusing the online photographs from the opening night party for The Ritz awhile back, since I saw the show in previews, and while some of those lads look absolutely adorable on stage from the enchantment-lending distance of the audience, many of them did not hold up so well under the bright lights of cameras without makeup. Compare and contrast: Justin Clynes.

The hair and the lights are doing him no favours, but I'd still do him. Hmm...And a Genre cover...Does that mean he's a 'mo? The rumour-mill says he is (AND that he's quite a good lay), but sadly, I wouldn't know.

Darling Billy Magnussen, however, remains golden. I hope he does more work here in the City and somehow manages to remain wholesome, rather than slipping into drugs, etc., like so many people I know. There are a couple points in the show where he runs across the stage and/or through the audience completely bare-assed, with only a hand or a pair of skimpy underwear being held over his naughty bits in the front! And you just know he's an adorable, sweet southern boy whose mama raised him right in North Carolina.

And I am too far gone, too broken, too dangerously ruined for anyone so wonderful, even if he were available. *le sigh* Now that I've depressed myself, here's the link to the rest of the opening night photos.

Looking Back / Looking Forward

2007-11-25T17:29:00.000-05:00

This morning, I managed to wake at a decent hour and found myself in remarkably good voice for singing mass, despite my recreational activities (including the horror of Marlboro Light cigarettes -- only one or two) of the past few days. It's nice to feel back on an even keel and not particularly worried about anything, for a change.

The coming week is filled with challenges and quite a lot of travel, but I suddenly feel up for it again. Sunday Brunch at Trinity Place ($14 for anything on the menu and two cocktails is a damn fine offer, if I do say so myself) with friends was an excellent decision, and now, I find myself on a train to New Jersey for dinner and a rehearsal, both of which should be pretty wonderful.

And since I'm in such a good mood and enjoying the lights passing outside the train window, and since I've been in a good place all day (I found myself whistling, "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas" this morning as I walked to Starbucks with ample time to pick up coffee and a muffin and admire the recently-added holiday decorations along the streets of midtown), here's a track which I like to listen to as I run around the Manhattan streets at night. If you're in New York (or wherever you are!), put it on your iPod (or other digital music device) and try listening to it when you're headed somewhere festive -- or headed home from somewhere festive. Or when you just need a little extra kick in your swagger.

Just make sure you're looking up and ahead, not down at the pavement. We've done enough staring at our feet, I think.

Groove Armada - "Easy" (Click to download, for a limited time.)

No, thank you, I'll just have another Manhattan.

2007-11-24T09:27:00.000-05:00

One might be inclined to ask if I do anything that doesn't involve the drinking of alcoholic beverages. And one might be justified in being so inclined. It does seem as though everything I do either results in, involves, or is provoked by drinking. It's not a problem; it's just a social norm. This is what my people do: We drink. It is normal. I have spent some time trying to explain to my parents, who are basically tee-totallers, that one keeps a fully-stocked bar on hand in one's residence because when one has visitors, it is polite to offer them a cocktail, just as in southeastern Virginia in dry households (often an unfortunate side-effect of Southern Baptist fundamentalism), one might offer one's guest a glass of iced tea, a cup of coffee, or a soda.

Yesterday, my friend Julien, who is tragically departing this neighbourhood for the less expensive and less narcotic-inclined shores of Woodside, in Queens, called me in the midst of his preparations for packing to suggest that we should have lunch, since we didn't spend Thanksgiving together (I'd been invited to spend the lunching hours with him and a number of his fun, theatrically-inclined-or-employed, homosexual brethren in Hell's Kitchen, but since I wasn't sure I could handle the high percentage of people I didn't know, I opted for the company of my rather heterosexual acquaintances out in Brooklyn). We went to the nearby HK, where lunch was delicious, and so were the cocktails (Maker's Mark Manhattans, served up, for me, thanks).

We had just returned to Julien's apartment, where we were going to watch TV, down a few more drinks, and maybe smoke some magical flowers, and I had just said something about my friend Charles, when my phone rang. Amy Winehouse heralded the events of the next couple of hours, singing, "They tried to make me go to rehab, but I said, 'No, [thank you, I'll just have another glass of whiskey]'". (Well, that's the way I sing it, anyway.) Back to HK we went, where Charles had dinner, Julien and I had a couple more cocktails. Julien announced he was done for the evening, so Charles and I proceeded up 9th Ave. to Chelsea Grill of Hell's Kitchen, where we put away several more glasses of whiskey before my little dark cloud descended and I became maudlin and distraught.

Fortunately, Charles has seen this before and knows that I just need a good walk in the cool night air and a big hug, so these were provided before I took a phone call from Grady in Louisiana (which I did not remember until he reminded me via text message) and phoned Julien to determine that he was still awake. We watched an episode or two of Absolutely Fabulous, I ate the rest of my lunch (I don't remember this either), and we began watching The Devil Wears Prada before I finally passed out on his couch, where I woke this morning, with the room spinning, or at least listing quite a bit with the waves, around me.

I am very restless today. I'm lying in my bed, naked, as usual, the window open to mitigate the effects of the totally out-of-control heat, and feeling simultaneously the need to go out and be madly productive, as well as the desire not to interact with other human beings. This is very strange for me with a hangover; it's much more like when I was doing bad drugs. Perhaps Julien and I will manage to have dinner, along with some drinks and some magic flowers, and that will set me back on an even keel. We shall see. For now, I think I'll go set up keyboards in my living room and do some playing.

Thanksgiving (for) Refuge

2007-11-23T11:21:00.000-05:00

I must've been drinking Manhattans in great profusion to numb myself to the fact that I was in Brooklyn, rather than my beloved (and yes, somewhat exclusivist) little island home borough. When I woke this morning, my head was spinning -- or maybe it was the room. And my sinuses were irritated by the mixture of kitty-fur in the next room and feather pillows beneath my head. But I was thankful to be in a big comfy bed next to a big comfy friend and not, oh, say, in the A train, where I probably would've awakened had my host allowed me to attempt to get home.

I think I was drunk when I got to the party, actually. Certainly I had a good buzz on while standing outside, Manhattan-filled martini glass in hand, bumming an American Spirit Light (or whatever comes in the yellow box) off Lady Shiv's wonderful and charming sister. And I certainly didn't get any more sober. (Because, you see, Thanksgiving makes me want to drink. Like everything else! In these cooler months, whiskey is my refuge.)

At dinner, I consumed more food than I typically eat in the course of a week, and despite the wonderful company, I proceeded to fall asleep on Biscuit's couch for an hour or so. I woke, and the party carried on. I called it round two, poured myself another Manhattan (I'm sure those had nothing to do with the sleepiness), and piled a plate with dessert (which I normally do not eat at all). Shortly thereafter, mid-conversation, I discovered that the chair in which I was seated was reclinable, and I absented myself from the state of consciousness once again.

At some point, we decided that we should listen to the remixes of Shiv's "Dilemma" (Click to listen.) and "Sleepwalking" (Click to download.), which of course led to drunken singing-along-at-the-top-of-our-lungs and flailing about in the living-room in the name of dancing, to the amusement or horror or both of whoever was left at that point.

Because he is clever and kind, Mr. Biscuit realised that I was in no shape to walk back to the subway at 4th Ave. and 9th St. (or is it the other way around?), actually quite a good hike away, and then, to manage to transfer myself between the F and A trains to get home, so he put me to bed. As is usually the case with me, when I woke not in my own bed, I became paranoid about the many things I needed to do and was consequently unable to rest anymore, so I dragged myself home, leaving the rest of the Knob Creek and the vermouth, as well as the four martini glasses and about half a chocolate pie, as my legacy to the party. (I'll also be throwing him some cash sometime in the near future, as that feast must have been one expensive motherfucker, and the $60 or so that I spent between pie ingredients and booze, frankly, pales by comparison.)

A fine party, Biscuit. Thank you, and well done! Now, if only you'd start blogging again...

Aircraft, Parades, and Pie! Oh, my!

2007-11-22T13:50:00.000-05:00

The helicopters woke me this morning. That's not all that unusual, as there are often traffic-observing helicopters or whatever zipping around midtown Manhattan early in the morning, but this morning, they didn't just pass and go away. And then, I realised why.

It was between 9 and 10 a.m., and the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade was taking place -- coming to its end, actually -- about two blocks from my apartment! I thought it might be interesting to go up to the roof and see what I could see -- some balloons, perhaps? But in the end, I decided to lie in bed until I figured out my plan for the day. One day, perhaps I'll actually go observe the parade as it passes (though honestly, I'd rather be in it), but not this year.

I had promised to bring chocolate pie to the Thanksgiving dinner gathering I'm attending this afternoon/evening, and had I baked the damned things yet? No. Did I, in fact, even have all the necessary ingredients in my apartment? Hell, no. And did the excuse for a pseudo-grocery-store a couple blocks from home have all the ingredients I needed? (It was a short list, comprised of pie shells (I CAN make my own crust, but I was not taking that time and effort today), evaporated milk, eggs, and butter.) Certainly not. So I was constrained to find the nearest reputable grocery store.

The nearest Morton Williams / Associated is at 59th and 9th. I resolved to make the trek. Around 50th St., I made the mistake of thinking I might shorten my work by zipping over to 8th Ave. and checking for the required ingredients at Food Emporium. Severe tactical error. Thousands of tourists flooded 8th Ave. and were spilling westward as they left the route of the parade, which had recently finished. I inched along at a snail's pace into the store, where an older woman was attempting to push the automatic revolving door in the opposite direction to that in which it was built to travel, thus further slowing my entry and my discovery that the shop had no pie crusts. I fled the area as quickly as possible, desperate to return to the less-touristy territory of 9th Ave.

It was too late for my mood, however. Somewhere in the mid-40s, I had lost what remained of my Christian charity, dodging parents with multiple children, trying not to trip over their slow-moving strollers. I loathe the "family unit", both in concept and practise. Parents of young children (and the children themselves) disgust me. Their resolute conformity to perceived social expectations, their smug self-satisfaction, their blatant consumerism, their sense of entitlement, and perhaps most of all, their tendency to make inappropriate noise and mess and to get in my way. The planet is over-populated already; we do not need you to spawn more miniature versions of yourselves and inculcate them with your warped, damaged, broken, out-moded "family values".

Eventually, I reached 59th Street, half hoping that Morton Williams would also be lacking some of the required ingredients, so that I might be absolved of my cooking duties, but alas, they were all there -- and affordable! So I purchased what I needed, exited the store, and began the journey back down 9th Ave. There seemed to be a number of empty taxis, so I leapt into one, but within a few minutes, I realised I could walk much faster than the traffic was moving. So after a roughly 10-block ride that cost me $7 because of the slowness of traffic, I hopped back out onto the sidewalk and continued evading tourists on my way home.

Upon arriving, I threw the ingredients together and after some wrestling with the shelves, placed two pies into the oven to bake at 350 for about a half-hour. This evening, I shall take them, along with the bottles of Knob Creek and sweet vermouth that I bought on the way home, as well as a shaker, four martini glasses, and a bottle of maraschino cherries, to FulBiscuit's place in Brooklyn for the 8th Annual Refugee Thanksgiving Feast.

Mmm...Pie. (And especially Mmm...Biscuit's cooking! He truly is a marvel in the kitchen, in addition to being rather adorable. I'm betting I'll gain a couple of pounds this weekend.)

An Anniversary

2007-11-21T11:11:00.001-05:00

Today, it has been a year. It never ceases to amaze me how life goes on. The world continues spinning, whatever changes may come. The things which seem catastrophic, which would appear to have the power to bring it all screeching and grinding to a halt, end up being milestones. We look back on them and realise that we have survived, that we are perhaps a bit more tired, bruised, scarred, but stronger. And I'm still walking, still on my own two feet, and more grateful than ever for the support of the myriad wonderful people who inexplicably love me enough to prop me up when I'm falling. I think that's all I'll say for now.

Moderation

2007-11-20T10:23:00.000-05:00

This is actually from the morning of Tuesday 16 October, but I forgot to post it, so I've done a little editing to protect the innocent, as well as to cover my guilty ass.

I drank too fucking much vodka last night. I have rules in place about these things: Don't drink on an empty stomach; no more than three cocktails, especially if they're martinis; no more than five beers. I break them. Last night, it was the 50th issue anniversary party for Passport Magazine, which was also a benefit for Broadway Cares / Equity Fights AIDS. I was fairly good. Or so I thought.

When I arrived, I did not recognise a single person in the room, but within a few minutes (and within the first martini from 42 Below), I saw my friend Matt, who was with a lovely and charming friend of his. We chatted for awhile, and they introduced me to a half-dozen other people. I was pacing myself well, aware that I hadn't had dinner and that I needed to call someone who's rather important to me when I got home. But on the way out the door, I ran into the stage manager from the show that I music-directed and for which I reconstructed the score during the summer, so I had to stop and chat with him.

Somehow, a fourth cocktail ended up in my hand. I do not recall the end of our conversation, though he introduced me to one of the cute door-boys, whom he's dating but who'd been making eyes at me all night, and I realised I already knew the other cute door-boy, because he was one of the cute piano-dancer-boys at FAO Schwartz, and he came with me and a bunch of my friends to Sandy Hook once two summers ago, so it wasn't entirely inappropriate when I said, "I've seen you naked!" (It happens that since then, he's joined the New York cast of Naked Boys Singing, so I'm far from the only person who's seen him naked and at least a little aroused.)

But I don't remember leaving. And I don't remember walking home, though I vaguely remember going to the gourmet deli, which is actually out of my way on the route from the Times Center to my home. I only vaguely remember making the Very Important Phone Call when I arrived home, and I apparently wasn't particularly coherent or comprehensible. Houston, I think we have a problem. My tolerance for alcohol has plummeted. I think I want to stop drinking, but I like the taste, and I like the fact that I'm much more capable of being social and semi-normal after a drink or two.

The solution is Moderation. But how do I get there? I'm fun after the first few, but after too many, I'm a monster with no memory. This is so not cool. Perhaps I could learn to follow my own rules. What an idea!

Leonard on my mind...

2007-11-19T16:35:00.000-05:00

So I had this little birthday a week and some change ago, and from a few days before it up until now, I've had this gnawing urge to listen to Leonard Cohen's excellent 1992 album The Future, the title song in particular. (I carried the CD around in my brief-case for well over a week and have just now gotten around to listening to it today.)

Here is a lyrical excerpt, which I think speaks quite well to my current mental state:

Give me back my broken night,
my mirrored room, my secret life
it's lonely here,
there's no one left to torture
Give me absolute control
over every living soul
And lie beside me, baby,
that's an order!

Give me crack and anal sex
Take the only tree that's left
and stuff it up the hole
in your culture
Give me back the Berlin wall
give me Stalin and St. Paul
I've seen the future, brother:
it is murder.

. . .

Give me back the Berlin Wall
give me Stalin and St. Paul
Give me Christ
or give me Hiroshima
Destroy another fetus now
We don't like children anyhow
I've seen the future, baby:
it is murder.

Things are going to slide in all directions
Won't be nothing
Nothing you can measure anymore
The blizzard of the world
has crossed the threshold
and it has overturned
the order of the soul

When they said REPENT
I wonder what they meant

Yeah, I always like growling out Leonard's tunes. I don't know anybody except the two of us who can toss out those notes so easily or so disaffectedly.

If you think you know his oeuvre 'cause you've heard Rufus Wainwright whine "Hallelujah", think again. Go buy a copy of the book Stranger Music, which is a collection of Mr. Cohen's writing, as well as a copy of The Future. Listen to one while reading the other. Drink heavily. Turn out the lights, and light a cigarette. Forgive yourself for everything you've ever fucked-up, and ask the deity of your choice for another chance tomorrow.

Maybe it'll come.

Starbucks' Not-So-Stellar Grammar

2007-11-18T18:28:00.000-05:00

These are the things that drive me out of my fucking head. I'm sitting in Starbucks in Summit, NJ, having taken an "early" train, so as not to arrive late to my rehearsal. I wanted to have time to get coffee and one of those English muffin breakfast sandwich thingies and sit and clear my head. So I'm looking at my napkin, and I note that printed on it is, "Less napkins. More plants. More planet. Less napkins." What's wrong with this? FEWER! FEWER napkins, you morons! Is it so difficult? "Less" expresses a degree, an extent; for example, I am LESS fat now than I was before I developed a meth habit and moved into a fifth-floor walk-up! (The fifth-floor walk-up I still have; the meth habit, not so much, thank God.) When discussing napkins, we're talking about a number. "Fewer" is the word we want, because "fewer" designates a smaller number! When major corporations butcher the English language on their professionally-produced print matter, is it any wonder that Americans can't fucking speak properly?!

Best Spam Subject Ever

2007-11-17T07:00:00.000-05:00

Explosive Perfume Box Pants Chess Board

Seriously.

That's what was in my e-mail.

And I couldn't resist sharing, because as cool as I think the combination of words is (A friend has decided to name his band "Chicken Pickle Monkey Car" -- a little too whimsical for me, and frankly, for much of his song material, but hey, it's a cool combination!) I just can't quite get my head around what an "explosive perfume box pants chess board" would be.

Maybe I'm dense. Or maybe the spammers have finally gone insane. Eh, maybe they're just stoned...

Here's That Lazy Day

2007-11-16T11:13:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I thought I'd be smart and spend the day in bed, resting, but I had to go into the office to retrieve a number for the Chairman of the Board to dial into a conference call at 11 a.m. from Taipei, and e-mail it to him, so that one of the conference-call participants wouldn't have to try to guess which of his dozen numbers they should phone at Chairman's midnight. So before going in, I called the doctor's office and managed to get a noon appointment with someone who could write a prescription.

I've been zipping around Manhattan like a hummingbird on speed for the past week, despite feeling like warmed-over shite, because I felt I had so much important work to do, but if I don't take a break, I'm never going to get well. I dashed from home to office, office to prescriber, prescriber to pharmacy (Yay! Antibiotics!), pharmacy back to office, took care of the most important issues under the influence of oxycodone (because ibuprofen hasn't been strong enough to even make a dent in the pain I've been in) 'til about 8 p.m., having gotten special dispensation to miss my evening rehearsal, as it hurt to sing, and I sounded unnaturally like Bryan Adams when I tried, and then, after standing in line for twenty minutes at the post office to drop off a package I couldn't take to the mail-carrier in the lobby of my office building because I was on a telephone meeting with a printer's representative for too long, I got some slimy food (If it requires chewing, it will hurt my throat!) from a nearby deli's hot & cold buffet, along with two very large bottles of beer, and went home. I have been mostly in bed since, and I shall stay mostly in bed until sometime tomorrow morning, when I must prepare to attend a friend's wedding. And sing. Which I shall also do for most of the day Sunday, God willing.

I did go out this morning, though, as I needed SOMETHING to with which to take my antibiotics, and while I finished the Sierra Nevada Pale Ale from last night, I didn't think opening the Beck's this morning was appropriate, and I was out of diet soda and not too keen on taking the pills with bourbon like I used to do. So breakfast was a chocolate milk-flavoured Muscle Milk (I was turned-on to these by an army-boy fuck-buddy, back in the drugged-out days; he pointed out to me that much of the harm done by the substance we'd been abusing was that people tended to do it for extended periods of time, failing to take decent care of themselves, and that this particular product provided a decent amount of nutrition without the undesired effect of having to consume solid food), and I also picked up a Hershey Symphony bar (I LOVE chocolate and toffee!), a carton of Tropicana Pure Premium (no pulp...sorry), and a bottle of Lakewood Fresh Pressed Mango, just out of curiosity.

It contains juice and puree (fiber) from fresh ripe mangos and apples, white grape juice from concentrate (added as a natural fruit sweetener), natural guar fiber, acerola cherry, and ascorbic acid (vitamin C). No high-fructose corn syrup! (We've banned trans-fats in New York City restaurants. Why can't we ban the ingredient that is in large part the cause of our nation's obesity epidemic?!) I think I used to drink Lakewood's pomegranate juice back when I was living in Washington Heights. It was cheaper in larger containers and less painfully acidic than Pom, which always felt like it was burning my mouth. Anyway, I'm a fan of this stuff; it makes my whole drinking apparatus go, "Ting!" And that makes me happy. And when I feel like I do, I'll take happy wherever I can get it.

Silly People / Stupid People - Vol. 1

2007-11-15T11:09:00.000-05:00

(This will become a regular feature around these parts, I think. While I intended to write more posts of the "You Deserve To Die" variety, that was a little too vitriolic, even for my taste. It's easier for me to just vent a brief blast at people who drive me nuts with their idiocy and then go back to doing something more productive.)

Hunger-strikers @ Columbia University:

Go the fuck back to class & eat something, you skinny bitches!

Get a clue! Hunger-striking isn't a valid, appropriate, honest form of negotiation in good faith. To make matters worse, your demands are myriad, vague, prohibitively expensive, and impossible to implement in any meaningful, reasonable fashion.

Be thankful for the opportunities you have, look for ways in which you can constructively makde a difference in your academic community, and quit whining like little brats!

And don't think for one instant that anyone is thinking of you as a worthy martyr or anything of the sort. You look foolish and immature, and you're accomplishing nothing. Even your fellow students, by and large, don't support you or your demands, and they certainly don't support your methods!

Of course, in writing this, I'm just bringing you more attention, since any publicity is good publicity, in most cases, so I'm going to stop now. Better that you should be ignored.

If I am delayed...

2007-11-14T15:14:00.000-05:00

Chapterhouse's shoe-gaze anthem (if there can be such a thing) "Pearl" is one of my favourite tracks from a mix made for me a couple of years ago by my friend Ian (whom I visited while I was in England in early October). It's a great song for striding home with a hint of runway attitude amid the ever-glowing lights of midtown Manhattan. If I cue this up on the iPod and start it playing as the A, C, or E train pulls into the 34th Street station, the song accompanies my walk home perfectly, finishing up right about the time I put the chain on the inside of my apartment door and put down my brief-case. (An interesting bit of trivia: The song samples elements of Siouxsie & the Banshees' 1991 hit "Kiss Them for Me" (most obviously, the drum track at the break-down in the middle of "Pearl" is the same loop as the Banshees used for "Kiss Them"), and the video carries this effect further, echoing, with variations, some of the Banshees video's visual elements. It's not quite blatant enough to be an hommage, but anyway, both are great songs. See below. Follow the links to YouTube for lyrics.)

Illness, again.

2007-11-13T11:45:00.000-05:00

I think my friend Julien fed me shattered mirror last night at dinner and had large men emerge from his bedroom to beat me with baseball bats during my post-prandial snooze.

I know this is not the case; it is merely how I feel at the moment.

I woke in such pain that I could scarcely summon the energy to desperately search for my several-year-old bottle of percocet, of which one is strong enough to make me not feel so much pain.

I am very afraid of my body and the micro-organisms that inhabit it right now.

I DO NOT HAVE TIME FOR THIS!

(Sidenote: When I woke this morning I discovered on the screen an entry which I will not, I think, be posting. Clearly, it was written through a haze of bourbon and ganja, but it contains words I can't translate. If you have some clue as to what these terms mean or what their provenance might be, please let me know. They are as follows: Gridsribes, sundecribes, Gesethens, usescribes, Godriblge, Gormigived, Ourscribes. Thank you.)

Pictures of Tourists

2007-11-11T22:24:00.000-05:00

As I strode up Church Street today, dodging slow-moving packs of family-unit-tourists and illegal fake-bag merchants on my way back to the E train going home, I walked through a woman's photograph of the Great Chasm of Eternal Construction. Or maybe the PATH station. I did not excuse myself; I did not duck; I made no effort to go around her. I used to do one or some awkward combination of these things. And it occurred to me that I must appear in literally thousands of tourists' personal photographs by now, by virtue of the fact that my path crosses the lines marked on their maps of places they feel they must visit so frequently. For me, though, this is no museum, no tourist attraction, not a vacation, not a photo opportunity. It is very serious business, and it happens at break-neck speed; I go charging around this town as though I owned it and no-one else's deadlines made any difference at all. It is, I confess, sometimes a bit of a joyride, but fuck me, I could seriously use a day off!

D'you wanna go for a ride?

2007-11-10T22:46:00.000-05:00

Thursday morning, I had a doctor's appointment. At the end of said appointment, he examined my chart and said, "You're due for a flu shot," and since I really will take all the help I can get in the "not getting sick" department, I consented. I had some misgivings, as I've heard horror stories, but in the half-dozen or so flu shots I've gotten, I'd never had an adverse reaction.

I left the doctor's office and headed uptown to the Chinese consulate to arrange visas for co-workers and had an AMAZING time trying to explain to the nice woman at the desk that we are NOT MISSIONARIES!

Eventually, I got to the office and re-immersed myself in the projects in which I am UP TO MY EYES, right now (DAMNIT! PEOPLE! STOP texting/phoning/IM'ing me and expecting that I have loads of free time to indulge your desire to chat! I Do Not! But thank you for caring.) and began to feel...sluggish...not-so-well-oiled...achy. No! Not this! Not this on a day when I have a rehearsal! Not this on the day before a Friday on which I have scheduled a very special someone coming into town to spend the weekend with me and my very own slightly-belated birthday party at a tremendously fun sushi & booze joint! No, nO, NO!

Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Yes with a slithering serpentine sibilant "Ess..." which, as we all know, is the first letter of the word, "SHIT!" Which is about what I felt like by the time I got to that rehearsal, after which, we all went out for munchies and drinkies (2 Manhattans and a pint of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale for me, thanks), which tragically did not help my case.

When I arrived home on Thursday night, I did not feel like putting away laundry, washing dishes, cleaning the bathroom. So I went to bed. Slept. When I woke on Friday morning, I could scarcely move.

I managed to rally and got myself to work and took a fistful of Advil (there being none in my apartment), and I got through the day, making a large dent in, though not quite finishing, my major project for the day, and fielding about a zillion phone calls that I hate, would not normally receive, and certainly did not need (Do NOT call me when i am at work, unless it is an EMERGENCY! Damnit!), before dashing off to Bamboo 52, where thirty or so of my nearest and dearest were gathering for an extended happy hour in celebration of my birthday.

"Drink the Pain Away" was the title of my Evite invitation. (It is never lost on me the "eviter" is French for "avoid".) And drink the pain away we did! There were quite the astonishing number (probably not quite 50?) of those who are beloved of me present (I was amazed at how many of the invited are currently out of the country; apparently, we have become jet-setters in our age!), and we partied it up 'til about 11.30 in the evening. An early finish, to be sure, but we began right after work, so by then, I'd mixed far too many different types of alcohol for anyone's good, yet I remained conscious and coherent 'til we got out of the cab at my door.

Saturday was a hell of a price to pay for Friday night, though, and I'm just thankful I don't do quite that sort of drinking all that often. More than that, though, I'm thankful to have so many wonderful people in my life and that they appreciate me, too.

Here's to another sparkling year!

Tell me again...

2007-11-07T19:31:00.000-05:00

Some years ago, and right about now, there was a beautiful young woman, not as old as I am now, with long, wavy blond hair and eerie green eyes, and she was in a lot of pain. She'd been in a lot of pain for hours -- well, for years really. The pain didn't start when the contractions came. (The pain didn't stop when the baby came, either, but that's a different story.)

She and her husband, a year older, had been trying for years. There had been false-alarms, miscarriages (at least one, twins), possibly even a still-birth, but they never gave up.

They'd married nearly eight years before, two days before Christmas, while the air began to crackle with frost, with patches of snow on the Virginia ground. They had married in the church where both of them did much of their growing-up, and where their baby would, too, and then moved hundreds of miles away: to find themselves, to find each other, to find their lives, to find their way, out from under the wings of their eagle-eyed parents, while he worked on his master's degree and she worked at learning to be a young wife. But familial gravity is an immeasurable force, and it drew them from the solitary wilds of the mountains back to the familiar coast-line a few years later (after the man had nearly died of hepatitis).

In the meantime, all their friends had succeeded in bringing forth a child, it seemed, some of them multiple times. So this child seemed a blessing that was long overdue, and she would endure the pain; she would bite down on wet wash-cloths; she would grip the twisted sheets; she would squirm and sweat and scream and swear, the clean lines of her pretty face wrinkled in agony, her alabaster skin red and splotchy, and the lovingly-brushed locks which cascaded gracefully down her back frayed and tangled. She would cling to the life of this child, because another failure would be more painful than what she was feeling now.

This particular pain lasted for somewhere between twelve and twenty-four hours (no one seems to be quite sure) before the doctors decided that the baby wasn't going to enter the world of its own volition, and they resorted to a Caesarian section, an operation not commonly practised at the time. For years when he was a child, the boy would ask to see the scar, and she would show him, telling the story of how very much his mother and father had wanted him and how very hard they had to try to bring him into this world, which he hated and found so unfair. When the doctors made the incision to release the child from the mother's womb, they made an astonishing discovery, which went some way to explaining why the labour had lasted so long in vain -- why the child would not make his way out into the world. Yes, this was a big baby, measuring twenty-three inches from head to toe and weighing in just shy of ten pounds, but that was not so much the issue. The fact of the matter was (and no-one remembered this until the woman's obstetrician/gynecologist died a quarter-century later) that the umbilical cord was wrapped twice around the infant's neck. In those days, such a circumstance was probably a death-sentence; the child could not be naturally born without hanging himself, and the doctors were ignorant of the situation until they saw it with their own eyes!

But the boy was born, and they named him after his father, and after his father before him. And he expressed his displeasure by screaming, his mother said, scarcely coming up for air for the first two years of his life. And he grew, through the years, despite a tumultuous childhood, in which his lungs seemed to want to finish what the umbilical cord had not, a childhood in which the headstrong young man clashed more often and more bitterly with his parents and with any others with whom he disagreed (almost always adults, as he rarely found children to be worth his time and energy) than most would dare. And his parents sacrificed for his well-being, as parents often do; they grew grey at the top and round at the middle and further from each other, as his own blond hair turned to brown, his blue eyes to his mother's green, and his frail, awkward frame through a pudgy period into a lanky, handsome gentleman.

I have tried to find something -- anything, really -- noteworthy about the age which I achieve today. It is not typically considered a milestone, but I suppose it is significant because I have survived. In the last year, I have learned that my ever-problematic health will never be perfect or reliable. I have taken a job which seems to provide direction, or at least foundation toward the future, and which allows me to pursue my art more vigourously and more thoroughly than I might otherwise be able to do, while permitting me to live in the fashion to which I have grown accustomed. I have moved out of the apartment I shared with a friend in a neighborhood I hated into an apartment which is mine alone in a neighborhood which I love. I have developed, acknowledged, and reined-in a potentially very serious drug problem. I have survived, for that is what I do, and it is what I shall continue to do, as I know nothing else.

Why am I writing this? Though this is the anniversary of my birth, I do not write this to celebrate myself, but rather, I suppose, in praise of my mother. Since I've been of the age to seriously consider such things, I have not viewed my birthday as an occasion for self-aggrandisement, but rather an occasion on which to pause and reflect on the foregoing year, and to consider the potential of the year to come -- to be thankful for the blessings with which I find my life is filled. And though I do not play favourites, if I'm honest, I must allow that I love my mother more than any other human being on this planet, despite our many differences, disagreements, discontinuities, points of departure. While it is the day of my birth, it is the day on which she gave birth, and I find that much more significant. I think it is not particularly fitting for children to selfishly observe their own birth-days, demanding focus and attention, but instead, I should like to see mothers feted for their contributions to the lives of their children. (Make no mistake, I am horrified at the idea that some people choose to bring children into the world in its current state; I do not advocate having children, as the planet is over-populated, and there are too many orphans. But I realise that the cycle will go on.)

To that end, I bid my mother, though I pray she is not reading this and may never stumble upon this website, as I have written here far too many things which I prefer she not know, of which she would not be at all proud, a happy birth-day.

You and me against the world, Mom. Just like always.

Good Episcopalians vs. Not

2007-11-06T19:00:00.000-05:00

Washing my hands in the rest-room this evening, I was troubled about an upcoming meeting. One of our board members might not attend. When things become heated, he is one of those on whose cool-headedness, class, charm, and thoughtful nature I rely. As a general rule, he thinks well, chooses his words carefully, reveres his maker, and respects his fellow man. He's not the only one on the board, but in short, I rely upon him to be a Good Episcopalian, of which I believe those are some key features.

And what of all the Episcopalians raving of schism, threatening secession, acting in bad faith with their dioceses, and indeed, with the entire church and the Anglican Communion at large, refusing to take counsel with their primate, preaching heretical hatred in the name of our loving God, and listening to nothing but their own self-absorbed egos?

They, to put it plainly and simply, are Bad Episcopalians.

Clari-fuck-ation

2007-11-05T19:29:00.000-05:00

Oh, that devilish Dorian Davis! Such a sweet-heart and a prankster, linking his facebook profile to my post about passing him on the street, jacking-up my traffic and scaring the hell outta me! I half-thought the CIA was on its way! (They may be.) Or that someone from my past had discovered this site and forwarded the URL to all my child-hood enemies!

You've nothing to fear, though, Dori-dear; if it doesn't feel good, I don't wanna do it! I just figured, you know, a cute guy like you with such obvious self-loathing issues...Okay, okay, I kid, I kid! And I have to give your friends major credit, as not one of them has posted a flame-o-riffic comment nor sent me a nasty e-mail. Perhaps they realised it was all in good fun, and that I really did think you looked cute strolling up 9th, rockin' your iPod, and managing not to trip over the cellar doors which are spaced about eight inches from each other along that stretch.

I should probably give ripping on you a rest, anyway, since I'm actually not a liberal at all! (Shock! Horror!) I am, at least on the majority of issues, a staunch old-school conservative. I think you might call us "Libertarians", these days, but I basically just believe that the government should keep its grubby hands and slimy nose right the fuck out of my affairs, and everybody else's, too! Many of my friends would be horrified, but having been exposed to so many knee-jerk bleeding-heart liberals when I was an undergrad at Yale, I came to dismiss most of their viewpoints and causes as lacking in the spinal department.

I don't want to go into a hell of a lot of detail, here, as I think that horse's carcass has been beaten quite enough, but I basically believe, as I believe our founders did, that the government exists solely to protect and serve its citizenry. I also believe that the current administration, from the prezidon't down to the lowliest assistant, has forgotten that.

And yes, I dream of reminding them. The vision of an army of Americans pouring into the streets and storming the houses of government, carrying all manner of weapons, from the modern to the totally outmoded (I've a fondness for torches and whips, myself), taking back the government that is by right theirs but has been hijacked by corporations and their lying sack-of-shit mouth-pieces, makes me smile.

But then, I've always been a dreamer...

After the Binge

2007-11-04T08:32:00.000-05:00

Some months ago, my recreational substance abuse was reaching problematic proportions. Coming down off a binge one Saturday morning, I found myself sitting in my bedroom, in tears and in a bizarre state of lucidity. (The truth of the matter is that the drugs I was abusing didn't actually change my personality, as they did the personalities of those around me; they only made me less shy, more talkative.) What does one do in such a situation? Well, when one is me, one puts down the drugs one is considering doing, and one e-mails one's mentor. After my recent bout of bad behaviour, I revisited that e-mail. It follows, slightly edited, but not a whit less true today than it was back in the summer.

My dear friend,

I hope this message finds you well; I think it's been about a month since we've communicated in any forum. One of the priests back at my old parish used to (jokingly) chastise me when he'd see me at summer services, saying that good Episcopalians should be away at their summer homes, on vacation, out of the country -- not troubling their God or His clergy! ;-) I rather hope that's where this message finds you -- in a comfortable place, untroubled, enjoying a respite from Duty. Somehow, I have a feeling that's probably not the case at all, though; some of us have an affinity for trouble, and I've always sort-of imagined you were one. (It can be a good or a bad thing, of course, depending on how one approaches it.)

Anyway, I don't know, I don't have a lot to report. I recently got my first mention on broadwayworld.com for this thing I'm music-directing this coming week (I'd urge buying tickets, but I think it's actually sold-out, but I don't really know) [details redacted]. The score was never licensed, so it's been fun for me learning and reconstructing parts of it that weren't published from the composer's notes (faxed to us by his widow) and recordings.

I've been a bit more introspective than usual this week. I keep encountering people who are making me realise that I'm looking for something. I'm not completely sure what it is, yes, but I am becoming more certain that I'm looking for it in all the wrong places. Every Advent season, I find myself singing Elizabeth Poston's lovely setting of the carol "Jesus Christ the Apple Tree". The men's voices enter on the third verse, "For happiness I long have sought / And pleasure dearly I have bought. / I missed of all, but now I see / 'Tis found in Christ the apple tree." It seems appropriate. I've spent so much time and effort and money on having a good time, trying to impress others, trying to make sure they have a good time...I've never been much good at keeping track of time, but there are portions of days that I can't remember; there are also days which all run together. I've been late or called in sick to work because I was too hung-over, or too high, or too busy "having a good time" (I won't go into details here, but I'm sure you know to what I refer, and as I imagine I'm about as transparent as air, I fully expect my employers have been aware, though maybe I'm wrong); of course, I've also showed up "altered" and managed to be astonishingly functional and even productive. There's an English woman called Amy Winehouse who's noted as much for her bluesy, soulful vocals as for her alcoholism, and in one of her more popular tunes, the refrain she sings is, "They tried to make me go to rehab, but I said, 'No, no, no'." A dear friend of mine just returned from rehab, and I don't think I need that; some of these behaviours could become addictive, and I'm aware of that, and frankly, I no longer think it too much of a danger, as they're sort-of situational. For example, before I left New Haven, I used to go home pretty much every evening and pour myself a BIG martini (or Manhattan during the cooler months) and sit on my couch smoking marijuana 'til I could no longer make sense of what was happening on the television set -- admittedly, it didn't take long. Obviously, that sort of behaviour is no longer a part of my life; I simply don't have time, and the "full speed ahead" environment of this city isn't conducive to it. Anyway, at that time, I suppose I was looking for escape, some kind of oblivion. I'm much happier with my life, now; I love where I live, and I enjoy the people with whom I work, though my job is not always completely fulfilling (my sense of ambition drives me, however, to seek new aspects of the work to explore), and in the evenings, I can throw myself into rehearsals, recording sessions, performances. Sometimes, I step off that Autobahn of a schedule to blow off some steam, though, and that's when I realise that this sort of behaviour isn't healthy and is masking a desire for something else.

I've always been wandering and searching, though; I've come to accept that it's just a part of who I am -- It's what I do, like music (I tried to run away from home at age four, around the same time as I started teaching myself to play the piano by ear). When I encounter people who are in Broadway shows or in successful bands, I know that's one of the things I want to do, but I fear the repetition would leave me frustrated and bitter, and that would take all the joy out of the art, which would render it pointless. I wonder if re-immersing myself in the academic community in pursuit of a Master of Arts in Religion, a Master of Divinity, a Doctor of Theology degree, perhaps with a view to a ministry, would be any different? I think on some level, I knew years ago, when I got that cross tattoo (and perhaps even before), that what I was looking for was not of and could not be quantified in this world. Maybe I already have all the answers I really need, and I just need to stop running away from them.

Bitter bastard though I sometimes am, I must always believe in the possibility of redemption. And with that, after an excellent night's sleep, I'm off to shower and to church.

For the Statisticians

2007-11-03T23:33:00.000-04:00

The scores from "Here's the last few days":

Number of Guys I Fucked: 11
Number of Guys Who Fucked Me: 4
Number of Guys with Whom I Did Both: 2
Number of Orgasms I Had: No clue.
Number of Substances Abused: 4(?)
Number of Nights I Did Not Sleep: 5 out of 7
Number of Times I Thought This Was a BAD Idea: Countless!

I STRONGLY recommend finding OTHER methods of "blowing off steam". Sex and drugs are not ideal, especially as the former loses much of its potential for satisfaction when combined with the latter, even with porn-star quality companions.

New leaf: Turned. Again.

Pist

2007-10-31T10:22:00.000-04:00

Do not fucking ever ask me to fucking stand through an entire fucking concert in which I have practically fucking nothing to do! Just don't. 'Cause it's not gonna fucking happen. Of course, I was fucking tired! AND I was fucking bored! The soloists were mostly excellent, but what the fuck do I care, if I'm not one of them?! Seriously, if you're trying to throw me a bone, forget it; if I want a fucking bone, I can go for a walk in my neighborhood, or a few blocks south in Chelsea, as I think my previous entry expresses pretty clearly. The choruses were fine, lovely, even, if rather brief, scattered, and repetetive. This was not their fault; it was some of the worst music the composer ever wrote. Otherwise, there were enough clunkers from the orchestra that I thought they might've installed an old car engine in the violins. Those recorders, however, were fucking bad-ass! I think I want them at my funeral. (Not anytime soon, bitches. Keep dreaming!)

In pleasanter news, this afternoon, I leave work and go to Philadelphia to see a boy whom I like. (Well, he's not really a boy; he's almost five years older than I am, but he looks younger, I think.) It's an expensive trip for a date, but I'm tired of waiting for my schedule to open up, so I'll take what I can get, in terms of time with him.

Here's the last few days.

2007-10-30T11:57:00.000-04:00

This one's going to be ugly. There is no poetry here, nothing beautiful. I am writing this only to document, for my future reference, a very bad week. There are only about a half-dozen people who read this on a regular basis, anyway, so the gloves are off; I no longer give a fuck who's here or what you think.

Last posting was, apparently 26 October, five days ago. I'm going back further than that. The morning of 23 October, Mom and Step-dad left town. A certain friend, who spent about an hour with the three of us a couple days before, has since told me that he could tell that when they left, the backlash from those four days and five nights of repression was going to be ugly. He was right. I get this way when there's too much going on that I'm not enjoying, when I feel like everything I'm doing is a waste of my time. The cycle ended last night -- well, this morning, really. And I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine. I'm going to Philadelphia after work tomorrow to spend the night with someone whom I want to get to know better. And my schedule becomes more humane after this week.

Tuesday 23 October: After work, I went home, changed clothes, and hung out (naked and fucking and doing a few different drugs) with two guys in Chelsea at an apartment I swear I've visited before, though I can't quite remember when. I left there, walking home with the host's guest (call him Luke, for now; he and I had spent a few hours fucking each other at this point; host was mostly interested in watching). Since it's only about midnight, I went back out to another "buddy"'s place in Chelsea, did more drugs, fucked him and his friend, and went home around 4 a.m.

Wednesday 24 October: After work, stopped by a friend's apartment on the Upper West Side. He was waking from a nap, which he took to recover from extensive fucking of his buddy, who answered the door when I arrived (and whom I subsequently recognised from my "birthday party", which was actually neither my party nor on my birthday, last year). The next thing I know, we're all fucked-up and naked, and it's a party, with the three of us being augmented by Luke from the previous night and a young man I've known for awhile who's a dancer.

Thursday 25 October: The party slowed down a bit in the wee hours of the morning, with dancer-boy leaving around 3 a.m., "birthday-party" boy leaving a couple hours later, host sleeping it off, and Luke and I fucking on his bed. Around dawn, Luke and I headed back to my place; I called in sick to work; and we spent several more hours going at each other, without the aid of further pharmaceuticals. Mid-afternoon, he headed home, and I did some work before heading to a rehearsal, after which I slept.

Friday 26 October: I was well-behaved. I went to work. I went home to bed and slept.

Saturday 27 October: Excruciating 4-hour rehearsal, followed by a visit to a very schwanky apartment, with a Russian host and a multi-racial bottom boy whom I'd spent hours shagging before. I fucked them both, of course, and then, other people started arriving, and those people started doing drugs in fashions in which I don't like to be present for the doing of drugs (i.e., injection -- I don't dig needles), and they became fixated on websites and incapable of maintaining coherent conversation or being sexually useful, so I left. And I went for a re-match with a guy near my neighborhood with whom I'd hooked-up months before, thus much-belatedly keeping my word and removing THAT commitment from the list of things hanging over my head. After that, I went to a friend of a friend's place and fooled around and got fucked-up with him and four other cute guys 'til it was time for me to go to church in the morning.

Sunday 28 October: Went to church. Went to another rehearsal that was more painful than oral surgery and equally boring. Went home and invited over a ridiculously hot bottom-boy whom I've known for awhile and his acquaintance with whom he was hanging out. (I realised shortly thereafter that said acquaintance had been the ruin of a "party" I'd attended some months before, though on this night, he was perfectly well-behaved.) The three of us went over to my buddy's place from the previous Tuesday night in Chelsea, got fucked-up, and fucked.

Monday 29 October: Work. Concert. Weird hook-up with hot versatile guy down in the Village. He's on a lot of drugs; I'm only on a minor amount. He cums; I don't. I leave and go fuck my favourite hot muscle-bottom in Chelsea for a couple hours. It amazes me just how different people are when they're clothed and behaving decently from when they're naked and acting like hungry wild animals. He's magazine-cover beautiful and apparently pretty smart and would make a great regular fuck-bud. After that, an acquaintance of mine came over, accompanied by a young man (okay, he's older than I am, but looks younger) I'd wanted to meet, and we continued getting fucked-up and playing around 'til the sun came up. I attended an online meeting while one of them was blowing me, then threw them both out, showered, and came to work, which is where I am now.

I may be a fucking mess, but I have certainly blown off the steam which built up during the familial visit. New rule for the future: Nobody stays in my apartment more than three days and three nights other than me. Nobody. 'Cause I like sobriety. Yes, I do!

"The words of the Prophets..."

2007-10-26T10:44:00.000-04:00

About a week and a half ago, I learned, via an e-mail from my mother, that one of my little first-cousins-once-removed is in ROTC. (I have no siblings; my cousins, all women, and all older than I, were like my sisters when we were children. Their children are now like nieces and nephews to me, the strange, intriguing, relative who lives far away, in a city they have never seen, and travels often to places they have heard of but cannot imagine.) Eight years ago, I might not have thought this was quite so catastrophic, but today, it horrifies me. NO MORE of our nation's children should serve and die for this evil regime under which we currently suffer! The following is excerpted from my reply e-mail to my Mom. (Surprisingly, she still chose to come visit me last weekend.)

Are you kidding me?! This IS so upsetting. Depressing. Horrifying. Choose what apocalyptic word you will. That your assessment ("how much he has grown and how handsome he is") is so true renders the situation even more tragic, in my opinion. The same could be said of any of the thousands who have been killed or wounded...and of any of the thousands more who will be.

I will try to compose my thoughts.

It's not about a different drum or a different mold, nor is it about "accept[ing]...and lov[ing]". (Speaking of which, how do you suppose his family would have reacted if he had told them he was gay, rather than that he wanted to join ROTC? Actually, never mind: I think his mother is probably the only person in the family who COULD handle that reasonably.)

I support our troops completely, and I pray for their safe return, though I know it will not happen for thousands who have been slaughtered or mutilated ("killed" and "wounded" are too gentle words, too polite) already, and for thousands more who will be before this ends. And I stand with a great and growing number of them who believe that their mission (those who are serving in this unholy and apparently endless "Iraq War") is ill-conceived and even worse-planned. (See www.votevets.org.) I have friends [details of their service redacted] who have been "over there" on active duty, so I know whereof I speak.

I cannot imagine serving the traitors who currently govern this country in any fashion. They have no regard for the lives of the men and women whom they send off to die. They serve no god but their own financial interests. They ride upon the backs of the poor and the working classes, crushing them with their gluttonous weight, and take no notice of the fallen. (Matthew 23:4, 23, 27-28: "For they bind heavy burdens and grievous to be borne, and lay them on men's shoulders; but they themselves will not move them with one of their fingers. . . . Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye pay tithe of mint and anise and cummin, and have omitted the weightier matters of the law, judgment, mercy, and faith: these ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone. . . . Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye are like unto whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men's bones, and of all uncleanness. Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.") They lie endlessly and somehow convince great hordes of people that their words are true. They break the law and then somehow twist the law which they have broken to suit their own evil purposes. (Isaiah 10:1-4: "Woe unto them that decree unrighteous decrees, and that write grievousness which they have prescribed; to turn aside the needy from judgment, and to take away the right from the poor of my people, that widows may be their prey, and they they may rob the fatherless! And what will ye do in the day of visitation, and in the desolation which shall come from far? to whom will ye flee for help? and where will ye leave your glory? Without me, they shall bow down under the prisoners, and they shall fall under the slain. For all this his anger is not turned away, but his hand is stretched out still.")

I can find no good in them. And as intelligent a young man as my cousin is, he should know better than to believe anything that the leaders of any nation tell him. (Psalm 146:3: "Put not your trust in rulers, nor in any child of earth, for there is no help in them." And furthermore, Matthew 7:15-17: "Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves. ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles? Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit.")

Has this government brought forth ANY good fruit? No. Only death, destruction, and poverty for thousands. In Iraq, in Afghanistan, even here at home, from shore to shore, but especially along the Gulf coast and in New Orleans. For the men and women who should be here to serve and protect their own beloved people are on the other side of the world, pursuing the wealth-and-power-fueled thirst for oil and empire of a degenerate and evil man, on behalf of himself and his cronies. When they return -- those of them who are able to return -- who will support them, honor their dignity, and attempt to repair broken bodies and spirits when the parades (if there are any) are done? Those who never wanted them in danger in the first place, and who begged their rulers to bring them home before more harm could come to them.

Isaiah 9:16-17: "For the leaders of this people cause them to err; and they that are led of them are destroyed. Therefore the Lord shall have no joy in their young men, neither shall have mercy on their fatherless and widows: for every one is a hypocrite and an evildoer, and every mouth speaketh folly. For all this his anger is not turned away, but his hand is stretched out still."

As the man in the Verizon Wireless commercial says, "CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?"

For I am tired of speaking truth to those who do not wish to hear it, who refuse to believe it. But I am more tired of the hopeless apathy of millions of people who are ignored by the leaders whom they have entrusted with power. I am tired of watching these people abused and slaughtered ("by what we have done and what we have left undone", as we say in the General Confession) with the power which is theirs to give -- and to take away.

But tired -- frustrated, really -- though I may be, I realise I have not yet really begun. Isaiah 6:8-9: "Also I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then said I, Here am I; send me. And he said, Go, and tell this people, Hear ye indeed, but understand not; and see ye indeed, but perceive not."

I'm not saying I'm perfect, here; I've plenty of flaws: I'm impatient, insensitive, disrespectful, thoughtless, self-involved...the list goes on. The Seven Deadly Sins: lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride. I'm sure I commit each one every day! And though I have heard an Imam say to a gathered congregation, "Anyone who commits murder brings shame upon all of Islam," I found myself in line at Heathrow Airport last Monday evening thinking, "I really don't want anyone who has so much as ever thought of being a Muslim on any plane that is anywhere near me." I, too, (God forgive me) am guilty of judgment, rather than love, of my neighbour!

And so I fall back on one of the bravest, most beautiful texts in all of the Bible: From the prophet Habakkuk 1:13, 2:1: "Thou art of purer eyes than to behold evil, and canst not look on iniquity: wherefore lookest thou upon them that deal treacherously, and holdest thy tongue when the wicked devoureth the man that is more righteous than he? I will stand upon my watch, and set me upon the tower, and will watch to see what he will say to me, and what I shall answer when I am reproved."

Know this: I do not rail at the world in hatred, but in love.

Immoderation

2007-10-23T08:38:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was the last full day of the familial visit. We had a leisurely morning, breakfast at the Tick-Tock Diner, which is near my apartment, a subway ride to Columbus Circle, so Mom could see the largest Williams-Sonoma store I think I've ever been in, as well as the schwanky shops, the fountain in daylight, the Trump International, and the southwest entrance to Central Park. We hopped back into the subway and headed to 81st Street, not because we wanted to go to the Museum of Natural History, but because it's the closest Park entrance to Belvedere Castle, where we went (the small museum and observatory housed inside were closed, as it was Monday, which is apparently the day on which New Yorkers (sometimes) rest). After a bit of photography, we wandered through the park for a bit, past the Great Lawn, and out on the east side, where we caught a bus down Fifth Ave. to 59th St.

I showed them the GM building, where I used to work (miserably) on the 43rd floor, FAO Schwartz, Bergdorf-Goodman (we didn't bother going in), and then Tiffany & Co. We wandered pretty much all of the floors, but Mom couldn't find anything to buy, despite my pointing out that there are MANY items in that store which cost FAR less than their hotel bill would have been, had they not stayed with me.

I, on the other hand, was suddenly overwhelmed by a desire for something that said "Tiffany", and not just a blue box. I spent about fifteen minutes at the men's Sterling silver jewelry case before deciding on, no, not a little pendant that said "T. & Co." (Thanks, Biscuit), nor a key-ring, nor a set of cuff-links, but their "Atlas" ring (the one with the Roman numerals, echoing the clock outside the store) in titanium over sterling, with a high-contrast finish, so that the ring appears black and silver. It's not pictured on their website at the moment.

Did I NEED a ring from Tiffany & Co.? Did I NEED to spend several hundred dollars that I don't really have to play with right now on a frivolous bauble? Decidedly not, in both cases. But what's done is done, and now, there's a very pretty silver and titanium band with Roman numerals on my right ring-finger. Perhaps one day, I shall explore this "moderation" concept. Apparently, not today.

After the Tiffany experience, we strolled on down to Rockefeller Center, where we planned to go up to the top for an astonishing view of the city, but Stepfather decided the price was too steep and not worthwhile, so we proceeded to Grand Central Station, where I think he took a few nice pictures. Then, we took the 7 train over to 7th Ave., where we took the 1 train down to Chelsea and had an utterly unremarkable dinner at Le Zie, before taking the 1 train back up to Times Square for dessert at Cold Stone Creamery.

That place is truly an abomination! My step-father has had ice-cream there no less than three times in the four days and five nights he's been here. It's no wonder, with the way they eat, that everyone in my family (except me) is overweight. I can't afford to be. If I get fat, no one will want to sleep with me, and that just won't be any fun at all.

So today, after they leave, I return to my usual diet, which includes a lot of alcohol and low-sodium V8, but very rarely dessert. I also return to my usual schedule, which includes a lot of running around like a decapitated chicken (We did a lot of walking on this visit, but it was at about half my normal break-neck pace.) and fucking like a bunny in heat. Thank God. I mean, I've gotta pay for this ring SOMEhow, right! (Kidding, I swear.)

Avenue of Amusement

2007-10-22T09:42:00.001-04:00

Last night, after attending my friend's cabaret show at Don't Tell Mama with mother and step-father, we were walking back down 9th Avenue toward my apartment, and a cute, familiar-looking guy and I cruised each other briefly as we passed in opposite directions.

It took me a moment to realise it was former-MTV-semi-celebrity Dorian Davis. He's lost the stupidly-long jacked-up hair in favour of a shorter 'do that complements his handsome face quite well, and he's still very nicely put together, but apparently, based on his rather puerile ravings here, he still needs to be sent away and de-programmed from whatever cult took over his brain and made him believe that the Republicunt party was a respectable organisation with appropriate solutions. (Hey, I'll be the first to admit that the Democraps suck, too! Throw them ALL out, and we MIGHT get a viable option!)

Psalm CXLVI:2 -- "Put not your trust in rulers, nor in any child of earth, for there is no help in them."

Anyhow, Dorian, you can cruise me anytime, even with my family in tow; just be ready for me to take you home and fuck you like the bitch you are!

God Bless John D. Rockefeller Jr.

2007-10-20T10:29:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, with mother and step-father, I strolled through Rockefeller Center. Stepfather is a particularly fine photographer, so he, naturally, was taking pictures everywhere. I, who have walked around Rockefeller Plaza hundreds of times, discovered something I must have read before, but did not remember, a very famous quote from John D. Rockefeller, Jr.:

I believe in the supreme worth of the individual and in his right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

I believe that every right implies a responsibility; every opportunity, an obligation; every possession, a duty.

I believe that the law was made for man and not man for the law; that government is the servant of the people and not their master.

I believe in the dignity of labor, whether with head or hand; that the world owes no man a living but that it owes every man an opportunity to make a living.

I believe that thrift is essential to well ordered living and that economy is a prime requisite of a sound financial structure, whether in government, business or personal affairs.

I believe that truth and justice are fundamental to an enduring social order.

I believe in the sacredness of a promise, that a man's word should be as good as his bond; that character -- not wealth or power or position -- is of supreme worth.

I believe that the rendering of useful service is the common duty of mankind and that only in the purifying fire of sacrifice is the dross of selfishness consumed and the greatness of the human soul set free.

I believe in an all-wise and all-loving God, named by whatever name, and that the individual's highest fulfillment, greatest happiness, and widest usefulness are to be found in living in harmony with His will.

I believe that love is the greatest thing in the world; that it alone can overcome hate; that right can and will triumph over might.

Me, too, J.D. Me, too.

Night 1 / Day 1 / Night 2

2007-10-19T23:18:00.000-04:00

Night 1:
Familial units arrive a bit late.
Luggage is brought to my apartment.
They are brought (by me) to rehearsal, which they enjoy.
We have a late dinner after a lengthy stroll up Ninth Ave.
Home. Sleep.

Day 1:
A trip to my office.
Lunch.
Grant's Tomb.
The Cathedral of St. John the Incomplete.
Taxi ride to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Decision that admission fee is too much for the time we have.
(Not mine.)
Walk to Starbucks, dodging raindrops.
Venti Iced Pumpkin Spice Latte WHAT?!
(Again, not mine.)
Subway to 57th St.
Bloomingdale's.
Lexington, Park, Madison, 5th.
St. Thomas Church.
Cartier.
St. Patrick's Cathedral.
Rockefeller Center.
Times Square.

Night 2:
Dinner (not at any restaurant I'd have chosen, but a diner).
The Drowsy Chaperone. (Hilarious, brilliant, perfect choice.)
Coldstone Creamery.
Walking home.
Oh, my feet.
DJRainDog needs a drink.
Sleep, instead.

I have no idea what I'm doing with Day 2.

Stress

2007-10-18T12:13:00.000-04:00

Today:

Wash dishes, take out trash, attempt to make apartment presentable.

Go to work and attempt to deal with sea of projects in which I am currently swimming, all of which have impending rolling deadlines.

Flee the office to sing a "special" Evensong service, as to the repertoire of which I have almost no clue.

Rush home and frantically continue my largely futile attempts to make the apartment appear as though an organised, responsible, mature human being lives there.

Fetch mother and step-father from train station, praying that the train arrives on time.

Drag them and their baggage to my apartment, where they will be staying, with me, for the next five nights.

Choose the quickest mode of transportation downtown to rehearsal, with familial units in tow.

No whining, whimpering, or weeping! (WHY am I doing this to myself?!)

I Don't Like Wednesdays

2007-10-17T13:27:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, everything just feels so dark, so dismal, grimy, cheap, empty, cold, dirty, and ultimately, senseless. But music still makes me smile.

Neon Echoes

2007-10-16T07:05:00.000-04:00

This is actually from last Wednesday evening, as I sat waiting for my laundry to finish drying in a nearby laundromat.

Sitting alone (save for the attendants, who scarcely speak English) in the harsh fluorescent light of a laundromat late in the evening with the BeeGees' "Stayin' Alive" on the radio, staring out the open door at the people and cars passing outside on Ninth Ave. and the parking lot beyond the neon sign reflected in the storefront windows, I can almost feel the New York I knew existed when I was a child in rural southeastern Virginia. I'd only seen it in movies and on TV, but I knew it was "out there", and I wanted desperately to be a part of it.

A fellow in a knit cap with long scraggly hair in a denim shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots pulls up outside on a bicycle, walks in and completes the scene. He pulls a bag from a dryer, and into it he stuffs his wildly colourful laundry. I imagine him swaggering back out the door to his bike, slinging the laundry bag over his shoulder, and riding on home.

We are not all your Disney-sanitized tourist-friendly child-safe playground yet. And even if we were, regardless of whether you see them, I shall always love the cracks in our sidewalks, the jagged glass around the boarded-up windows. The prom queen's pregnant; the quarter-back's father is an abusive alcoholic; and Mary Poppins smokes a glass pipe with those chimney-sweeps on the roof (How else do you think they can jump so high?). And that's life for ya. Real life. And while you may miss it on your way to work or dinner or a museum or a play, I see it all, and it makes me smile. It's taken a lot out of me, but I love it all the same. What was it Mae's little sister Nadine from Poughkeepsie sang in LaChiusa's version of The Wild Party?

I always wanted to see the lights of Broadway
I always wanted to hear the traffic roar
I always wanted to be a part of New York City's great big heart
And now I am, I couldn't ask for more
I always wanted to jingle with the right crowd
I always wanted to feel like I belonged
. . .
But little sister's loose and wants her share of juice
If the lights of Broadway blind me, I don't mind!
Gimme some more!

What I Learned in the Pleasuredrome

2007-10-15T10:24:00.000-04:00

This is a continuation of my notes on my trip to London the week before last (hard to believe an entire week has passed since I returned), picking up where this dispatch left off.

But for the fact that I knew approximately where I was going, I might have stumbled upon the place by accident. I wandered eastward from Waterloo Station and stared quizzically at my surroundings as Alaska Street and Cornwall Street intersected. I knew that the place was built into the arches beneath the railway tracks. And then, I realised that I was standing at its entrance.

I passed through the lovely frosted glass doors (Well, yes, I opened them, first!) into a stone-walled tile-floored lobby, where I paid my admission fee to the nice (and handsome, though not my type) attendant. He asked if I'd been there before. I said, "No." He asked if I knew what the place was. I said, "Yes," of course.

The place really is lovely. I've never actually been past the lobby of any of the similar places in New York, but based only upon the lobbies, I will say that they are tawdry rat-holes by comparison. The Pleasuredrome is much more like its European counterparts, comparable to Thermos Day in Amsterdam and Univers Gym (or perhaps since the latter has been closed for about two years under renovations, now, I should say Sun City, a newer establishment, apparently very popular with the HotBoys) in Paris. I didn't go to any of the "naughty places" in Chicago (I'm told SteamWorks is nice), as I was rather busy developing a massive crush on one of the cutest boys in town, but based on The Club in New Orleans and the lobbies of the New York joints, I'd say the U.S. clubs should take a lesson or three in class, cleanliness, and facilities from their European counterparts. (Of course, I'm aware of the REAL problem, which is the unspoken issue of "How can these institutions take pride in themselves, ensconced in a culture which dreads and condemns the very concept of sex as a fun recreational activity?" but that's not my focus here.)

I proceeded up the stairs to an immaculate locker-room, where I was cruised before I even began to undress by a taller-than-me, messy-brown-haired, blue-eyed hotty who I was soon to realise was the best-looking guy in the place, and later to realise was a bit of a sad case (a couple hours later, he was stumbling around looking not particularly useful with a clumsy smear of white residue beneath his nose, presumably ketamine). The room was dimly lit, but bright enough to clearly examine the surroundings, which were mostly grey. In the corner was a good-sized tanning booth, the sort in which one stands for a few minutes whilst being baked by UV rays, and near my locker was another stair-case down into the club proper. I placed my clothes -- ALL of my clothes -- in the locker and wrapped the provided white towel around my waist. I wasn't really nervous or apprehensive, though I did wonder what the clientèle and the atmosphere would be like. I just wasn't sure what I was looking for here; despite a very active sex-life in the City, I hadn't done this sort of thing in several years.

Architectural details aren't the point of this entry, but the place was pretty impressive -- very clean and well-appointed; one might almost go so far even as to say "classy". There were two steam-rooms down-stairs, one darkly tiled and one bright white; two sets of showers, one in a somewhat dimly-lit corner room, and one with heads situated on either side of a passageway; two dry saunas; a jacuzzi; a room with a raised platform level on which men might stand and be serviced through glory-holes at an appropriate level to those standing on the lower level; a completely dark room (into which I only ventured when I was certain that it was totally empty, for the purpose of discerning its dimensions and whether it had any particular distinguishing features; it didn't); several small private rooms; and a large lounge area, complete with snack bar serving various foods and beverages, chairs at tables, and chairs for lounging, in which men might chat, nap, or watch whatever movie was being shown on the main screen (or do more, I suppose, if they were feeling particularly exhibitionistic). The entire first floor was floored with non-slip tile. The upstairs was dedicated exclusively to small private rooms of varying sizes and heights, some of which were open for use, and others of which required that the prospective occupants pay a fee to have them unlocked.

I had to wander around the place several times after I showered (Because nearly everyone looks hotter when they're wet!) before I fully understood its layout, and in that time, I got a good picture of the clientèle, or at least what it was like late on a Saturday night. Mostly, they were a not unattractive lot, ranging in age from, I'd guess, early twenties into mid-forties. Perhaps because they were mostly English, they were consistently polite, too; there was none of the unwanted grabbing, stroking, or "attempted cornering" I'd observed and/or experienced in other places. I, however, am a gentleman of rather discriminating taste, and living in New York City and having liaisons with arguably some of the best-built, best-equipped, and most beautiful men in the world (as well as a number I'd just as soon forget and rather not mention) has increased my certainty of what interests me and what does not. Now, I do not resemble anything approaching perfect, and I don't want any of this to sound bitchy or overly self-assured, but I was distressed by the fact that the vast majority of the men in the club seemed...well, paunchy -- not just soft around the middle but actually saggy. When I reported this to Julien later, he surmised that this might be the result of drinking pints of beer and eating heavy dinners in the evening and then going to bed. Our Manhattan lifestyles, of course, are more active, by nature, out of necessity. But some of the men whom I might have otherwise found attractive were rendered not so by their body types. There were, of course, a handful of muscle-boys at the other end of the spectrum -- by some of whom I was deeply flattered to be propositioned, though they were otherwise not really my "type". I'm very particular about faces. I was in England; I wanted someone who looked and sounded English, which eliminated some of the candidates who hadn't yet been eliminated by age and body-type concerns.

I don't want to dwell so much on the physical mechanics of what went on, the details of the kissing, the frottage, the manual stimulation, sucking, fucking, etc., though all of these did, in fact, occur, to varying degrees, with four different young men, one Irish and three, I believe, English, all ostensibly residents of London, resulting in three orgasms for me. Conversation, I realised in the course of these encounters, is not a concept of great import in these surroundings; getting to know something, anything, really, about one's partner is not a priority, and may, in fact, be a turn-off, a deal-breaker for many of these men. The sole purpose is to connect physically, and to get off, whatever number of times one might find desirable, or possible, in the course of one's stay. Consequently, I didn't find this experience particularly satisfying. I had some conversation with the cute Irish boy, with whom I also ended up snuggling and dozing a little in the private room which I had rented (and I can certainly understand why one might choose to rent a room in this place for the night; even if one weren't interested in the sex, 13 pounds is a small price for eighteen hours of lodging, or for whatever amount of time might be required between one's arrival and the restarting of train service in the Underground). Even when I was mixing large quantities of sex and drugs, I spent a fair amount of time (indeed, sometimes entirely too much time) in conversation with the people with whom I was playing. Completely anonymous sex holds little attraction for me, these days.

So ultimately, what did I learn in the Pleasuredrome? That I am not the man I was before. I am not the twenty- or twenty-one-year-old whose sole priority, sole ambition, is to get off as many times as possible with as many hot guys as possible. Does this mean I've grown up? Probably not. Certainly, I'm growing, though. And I may be ready for something more.

Insomnimaniacal

2007-10-14T03:31:00.000-04:00

It's 3:30 in the morning, and I'm sitting here alone, awake in one of the large common rooms of the place where I'm staying with the other musicians working on this project. I wasn't enormous fun hanging out with everyone else earlier this evening, because my internal clock is still out-of-whack from london last week. After dinner, we smoked a little, then came back inside and continued drinking. While watching a bunch of people playing cards, I got bored and very comfortable in a big arm-chair and predictably, dozed off...for about a 3-hour nap. I swear, I can fall asleep anywhere and at any time. Just not now, apparently.

Well, I guess I COULD fall asleep, but to be honest, I'm horny as hell. Of course, there's no one here who can or will be of any help in that department. (I also have a pretty solid rule about not hooking up with co-workers on any given project, which yes, severely limits the applicant pool, though as a general rule, the guys with whom I work are not the sort of guys I'm interested in shagging.)

It hasn't even been that long since I hooked up! A week ago today, technically, was the fourth guy that night at PleasureDrome. I still have a fair amount of explaining to do on that one. Tomorrow afternoon, I head back to the City. And I have PLENTY of work to do. Two reports are supposed to be e-mailed out tomorrow, and I have not really begun to proofread/edit/format them. And that's just the tip of the iceberg in the office. Additionally, my friend Jonathan Blue hosts this Sunday evening party at Hell Gate Social in Astoria, which I've not been able to attend for the last few weeks, where DJ Kevin Graves spins kick-ass tunes for the gay-boys (and their friends) to get our groove on (Apparently, Queens does not suffer from quite the same absurd cabaret license law nonsense that Manhattan has?), after which a (camp) classic film is screened. Tomorrow, it's Sweet Charity, and I have a feeling that I'll stay through that, as I don't believe I've ever seen it. Additionally, Coronas are only $3; well drinks are only $4; and who doesn't like to get a buzz on to ease the pain of Sunday evening slithering into Monday morning?

I'd really rather spend the evening on a solid fuck, but ya gotta do what ya gotta do to support your friends, right? Maybe the two missions won't be mutually exclusive. Of course, whatever befall, NO ONE is coming back to my apartment right now; it's the biggest disaster this side of Iraq. That situation, too, must be remedied, and soon, as my mother and step-father arrive Thursday evening for their first visit to the City since I moved there in 2004. They leave on Tuesday morning. I'm just hoping I can keep them busy and me comfortable and sane.

Did I mention they're staying at my place? The very thought makes me tired. I'm off to bed.

Gone Again

2007-10-13T14:13:00.000-04:00

Now that autumn is settling in, the pace of my schedule is picking up, once again. It's not that I wasn't busy during the summer, but the other nine months of the year are better for me, as I become steeped in work and projects that I really enjoy and into which I can sink my teeth. Inertia is a huge issue. When I'm working, I work HARD; if I'm not working, I'm one of the laziest creatures on the planet.

This weekend, I am working. Well, sort-of. I'm in northwestern Connecticut rehearsing Henry Purcell & John Dryden's King Arthur. Most of what I'm singing is chorus parts, with a few little solo-type bits -- nothing particularly showy or impressive. But it is gorgeous up here, and much though I love the city, it is nice, occasionally, to completely get out of the urban environment.

More later...

Sleep-Walking London to New York

2007-10-08T23:57:00.000-04:00

This remix is a complete perversion of the original, which is much more down-tempo, in a different key with completely different chord structure and can be heard here in a decidedly lo-fi rehearsal recording (choose "Sleepwalking", obviously).

All the same, it was the song to which I strode and reeled through the streets of London on Saturday night, dodging traffic on Victoria Embankment as I climbed up onto Waterloo Bridge to cross the river.

Clearly, I have arrived safely home in New York, where the weather is positively hideous. The temperature is in the upper reaches of the eighties Fahrenheit at nearly midnight on the eighth of October. What's wrong with this picture?!

The flight home was nothing like fun. The xanax I took a half-hour before we were scheduled for take-off had negligible effect, and I was terrifyingly awake through taxi, take-off, and ascent, as well as much of the flight. Two glasses of Scotch with dinner (okay, so I spilled about one-third of the first one) did nothing to end my consciousness, so after around a half-hour to an hour of digestion and trying to distract myself with the in-flight entertainment (Virgin Atlantic has the most amazing systems, really), I asked Julien for another pill and the flight attendant for another glass of Scotch and a glass of water. This combination finally knocked me out for the next three hours or so, thank God, though I was very much awake for landing and all the subsequent rigmarole of re-entering the wretched land that bore me.

I've sorted out people's presents, read a dozen or so e-mails, and done some minor unpacking, but I'm tired now, so I'm going to sleep, since I have to be up by 7 a.m. to get to work ON TIME, for a change. It's only going to be a three-day week, since I'm off to the wilds of north-western Connecticut this coming Friday.

One more word about this weather, however: Unacceptable! And I'm holding all you morons who support the current administration in this country responsible. The weather in London was perfectly lovely the entire week -- cool and comfortable as October ought to be. And I come back home to this shite?! If I don't get a proper winter this year, I'm coming after every last mother-fucking one of you! Consider yourselves on notice.

Night-Clubbing and Wandering (G.A.Y.)

2007-10-08T08:15:00.000-04:00

When I exited the train from Brighton on Saturday in the early afternoon, I discovered that there were all sorts of alarms going off, and everyone was being herded out of the Underground at Victoria Station. I have no clue what was happening, but apparently, it wasn't too disastrous, as service elsewhere continued. I walked from Victoria down to Westminster Abbey, where I determined I'd attend services on Sunday, then took the tube back to the hotel.

The manager, a not particularly pleasant woman whom I'd not previously encountered, was on duty, and would not let me into the room because she hadn't seen me before, and I didn't have the card which was to be presented in order to receive the key. (Apparently, my traveling companion had kept the company of a charming young Italian gentleman the night before, who left that morning, and whom she HAD seen. No problems, nothing dirty or scandalous, and even if there were, it wouldn't matter much to me.) The gorgon was willing to take my bag for safe-keeping behind the counter, though, which really fulfilled my purposes just fine, as I simply didn't want to lug the heavy thing around London for the rest of the day.

As it turns out, I didn't wander too far afield for the rest of the afternoon. I had a bit of lunch and took care of some e-mailing and other internet-related work, then returned to the hotel, where the desk-clerks had switched, and the one on duty recognised me and allowed me back into the room, where I waited for Julien. He'd spent much of the day with his Italian friend and was going back out in the evening. I rested a bit and then decided to spend the evening being gay, Gay, GAY! (I hadn't done anything to that effect in London thus far.) After a short nap, a shower, and a couple shots of courage in a whiskey glass (okay, actually, it was Scotch -- Balvenie Double-Wood, to be precise), I headed out on the town.

Apparently, most of London's gay night-life centres around Old Compton Street in Soho, so I took the tube to Tottenham Court Road and had a nice little stroll, whilst listening to bouncy dance tunes on the iPod. I walked the length of the street and decided that I would stop into places that seemed to have potential on the way back.

The first stop was the Admiral Duncan pub, where a nail-bomb was detonated several years ago, tragically killing a few patrons and injuring many others. (Ian, the gentleman previously mentioned from Brighton (Hove, actually), had recommended the place (though he got the name slightly wrong with "Nelson" rather than "Duncan" -- an easy mistake for anyone with a sense of English history.) I had a couple of pints there and struck up friendly chat with a few of the patrons, including a lovely gentleman called Gary and his two GORGEOUS female companions, Susie and Anne (I believe). They invited me to come with them to their next destination, which was a bar called G-A-Y, something of a dance-club on three different levels.

A word or three about Gary: About six feet, three inches, close-cropped dark blond hair, a forgiveable tummy, a nice arse, and beautiful sparkling blue eyes. Thirty-seven years old, though he didn't look a day older than I. Happily partnered for seven or so years, though according to him, not necessarily monogamous, and his partner is in Los Angeles on business. Do I need to say much more? I didn't think so.

So after Susie kindly bought us all a round (I was absolutely ready to stand mine), Gary excused himself to go to the loo. I followed a couple minutes later. A few minutes later, Susie caught us snogging (he was a good kisser, too) outside the men's room in the basement. Her displeasure was immediately apparent. "Right. Gary. We're going! Now!" She stormed up the stairs, followed by Gary and me. Gary made his apologies to me and said he thought it best that we should say our good-byes inside, so we hastily parted. Slightly crestfallen (though nothing was really going to happen anyway, as he was from Liverpool (Strangely, I detected none of the unfortunate accent.) and staying in a hotel room with his friends), I stayed in the club for a little while longer dancing (the DJ spun the Scissor Sisters' "I Don't Feel Like Dancing" almost immediately after the trio departed), then decided to move on.

I wandered the street a little bit, observing that the Duncan had shut for the night and the line for the Astoria (where the Sugababes were to perform) was absurdly long, waited for a few minutes in the line for Soho Bar, then decided it wasn't moving fast enough for my taste (I do not wait in lines for bars or clubs, even in Manhattan, unless someone VERY important is inside), then decided, since it was around midnight, that I would head to my next destination of the evening. I knew it was a bit of a walk down to the river, so I donned my iPod and found the tune which had been stuck in my head all evening, the "Insomnimaniacal Mix" of Lady Shiv's "Sleepwalking" (I'll post a link later so that faithful readers might hear the trance-anthem remake of the song. A low-quality rehearsal recording of its "original" and more somniferous version can be found here, at least for now). I followed it with the remix of "Dilemma" currently posted on Lucy Snowe's MySpace page, and then, the rest of the tracks off our demo (not yet commercially available), all of which proved perfect accompaniment to mildly intoxicated wanderings down to the river and across Waterloo Bridge to my next destination (though I must confess that the ending of "Detour" seemed ideal music for climbing over the railing and leaping into the Thames, apart from that the river is very dirty indeed, and I was feeling rather pretty -- an inappropriate combination).

After wandering through a number of passages where I felt I almost certainly should not be, particularly alone and at such a late hour, I stumbled upon my destination, a club called Pleasuredrome, built into the arches near Waterloo Station. (Following the link will inform readers as to the nature of the content of my next entry, which will have to wait, at least for a few hours, as it's nearly a quarter past two, and I have to meet Julien back at the hotel at three, before which, I need to buy at least four more gifts for friends, co-workers, and the like, and after which, I shall be doing a fair amount of praying for safe travel back to New York. Join me, won't you?)

Catching Trains

2007-10-07T08:21:00.000-04:00

What idiot produces Mozart's Die Zauberflote (I'll correct the umlaut later.) in English? The libretto is strange enough in German, but in this dreadful translation, the whole thing just seemed ridiculous. There were some absolutely luxurious voices in the cast (It occurs to me that I could sing either Papageno or Sarastro, though the latter is more likely, but I'm not old enough, really), but I was, throughout the first act, at least, constantly distracted by the English text! I managed to transcend this barrier for the second half, and it was considerably more pleasurable.

I've been constantly having nightmares on this trip. Mostly, they're about spiders, snakes, and other entities which bite or sting trying to harm me. I'm not sure why.

Friday morning, I headed to Victoria station and boarded a train down to Brighton, where I spent the day with an absolutely wonderful and lovely Englishman with whom I've been corresponding sporadically for about five years. I resisted the temptation to buy clothes. (My resolve in this area is weakening.) Our adventure began with attempts to find his car (a snazzy Alfa Romeo), so that I could put my bag inside, rather than carrying it all over town, as it was rather heavy. We then wandered through the Old Lanes and along the shore, and spent upwards of an hour discovering the interior of The Royal Pavilion, George IV's "pleasure-palace" by the sea, truly a wonder to behold. A number of wonders, actually.

Then we drove (or rather, he drove; I rode with him, despite my knee-jerk tendency to approach what is here the driver's side of the car, which made me look like an ass on more than one occasion) along the coast to Eastbourne, where he and his fiancee live. Words cannot express the beauty of that country. If the scenery from the train had been somewhat grim, this was heavenly. Quality conversation ensued between the three of us (his fiancee is a lovely woman, Scottish, prone to witty banter and laughter, with an easy and frequent smile) over a couple of cocktails, and then, we walked over to a nearby Indian restaurant for fantastic dinner. After returning to their flat, I was scarcely able to keep my eyes open, as it was nearly midnight, so after a night-cap, we all headed to bed. I fell asleep watching stars and planets glowing high above, as clouds rolled in off the sea, and listening to my iPod. It was the first truly good night's sleep I'd had since arriving in England.

Next morning, we drove me back to Brighton to catch the train back to London. I cannot thank them profusely enough for their hospitality, and I do hope our paths will cross again soon.

Chasing Ghosts

2007-10-06T09:23:00.000-04:00

Internet access has been limited, as I did not buy a power-converter before I left the U.S., and though I could buy one here, I don't really feel the need to seek one out for the laptop and then pay the exorbitant internet connexion fee at the hotel, so here I am back in the Royal Bayswater internet cafe.

Wednesday afternoon, rather than chasing memories, I went to OddBins and picked up a few libations for the hotel room, since we seem to have a tendency to return to the hotel too late for the local pubs. (Pubs can now apply for licenses to remain open until 3 a.m., rather than closing at 11 p.m., but mostly, they don't seem to think it's worth the trouble, or else their neighbors protest their doing so.)

Then, I went for a walk in Hyde Park. It was quite beautiful, and all that open space, the grassy fields with little copses of trees relaxed me a bit. I had to smile as I sat by the pond and watched and listened to English mothers and nannies and their small children prattling on about various personal matters. I scribbled a few notes to myself, then wandered back to the hotel.

Mr. Hayes gave a knock-out concert on Wednesday night, though it was not entirely flawless. He put clever twists on a few of his more well-known tunes, with a couple of lines from my beloved Kate Bush's "This Woman's Work" at the end of "Words" and a rendition of "The Tension and the Spark" that capitalised brilliantly on the lyrics of the verses, laying bare the anguish beneath the festive veneer of the slutty party boy of the original production. Two full hours of music, not counting his opening act. Nicely done, Darren.

After the show, I thought we were rather closer to the western edge of the park than the eastern (I was wrong), so we walked all the way around the thing beyond its western edge through Kensington and bits of Chelsea, which were quite lovely and extremely bright white. I felt a sense of cold luxury walking past the lines of Porsches and BMWs and Maseratis and Mercedes-Benzes parked alongside the road.

Thursday, too, we did a rather enormous amount of wandering, demonstrating the deep flaws in Julien's and my sense of direction as we searched for St. Martin's Lane for quite awhile, though it was right next to us. In the afternoon, I finally got around to chasing my ghosts.

After purchasing a railway ticket for Brighton (for Friday), I took the tube up to King's Cross/St. Pancras and just let the waves of memory wash over me. I could almost see me at twenty, picking up a Young Persons' Railway Card, which reduced my fares on National Rail by like one-third that summer. And then, I just followed my feet.

They knew where to go. Within minutes, I found myself staring at a sign that read "Tavistock Place". I wanted to scream. Nothing can bring back those days. Nothing can revive the enchantment that blanketed this city when I was with her. I walked up and down the street several times, smoking a cigarette (which I do not normally do), trying to look as though I had some business there, as though I was waiting for someone. In fact, I was first trying to convince myself that my memory hadn't tricked me, that the address had, in fact, been No. 18. I was right. I could see in, a little, through the street-level window in which we'd sat for hours, talking, smoking, drinking, generally being in love. I could look down into the little outdoor space outside one of the basement bedrooms, where we'd thrown so many cigarette ends. There were none there now, though the building looked as though nothing about it had been changed, repaired, or generally touched in the past eleven years. The front door was opened by men delivering a mattress and box-spring. And it looked empty. There was nothing more here for me.

A wave of relief, of freedom, subtly caressed me. It was not epiphanic, but simple, calm. I walked on, down to Tottenham Court Road, down Oxford Street, and did a little light shopping before returning to the hotel. We had tickets for Mozart's The Magic Flute in the evening, and I needed a nap.

Plains, Trains, and Lord of the Rings

2007-10-03T10:25:00.000-04:00

I was packed on time; the car came and took us to Newark (I'm traveling with my friend Julien); we boarded a Virgin Atlantic flight to Heathrow. The upholstery of the seats was hideous orange. I took a Xanax, and I don't remember flight attendant announcements or take-off. When I woke, I was fed, and I had a bloody Mary, which knocked me back out. On waking, I had a vodka & tonic (two of them, actually), which knocked me back out. (Somewhere along the way there were biscuits.) I listened to the new Basement Jaxx album on the in-flight entertainment before landing. After interminable taxiing and trekking through the airport, we boarded the train for London proper, then the tube to Bayswater, the station nearest the hotel where we're staying. By the time we were checked in and settled, it was after 11, so everything in the area was closed, so I could get neither the proper dinner I wanted nor the beer.

London.

It's not quite as I remembered, but then, everything was different ten years ago when I was wildly manic-depressive and in love. Everything is insanely expensive now, and nothing looks familiar.

We wandered quite a bit yesterday, having a lovely lunch at The White Hart, an over-priced dinner at some Thai restaurant, and then sitting through the three-hour-long The Lord of the Rings "musical", which I'm sad to say was, for the most part, absolutely dreadful. More on that later, perhaps.

Right now, I'm irritated with myself for failing to put on my "out-of-office" auto-reply message on my work e-mail account, and I'm terrifically hungry and sitting in the internet cafe at the ground floor of the Royal Bayswater Hotel, where judging by the people coming and going, all the cutest boys must stay in London. I'm also a little displeased that I slept until noon today! London, partly by virtue of the constant devaluation of the American Dollar (Thanks, prezidon't shrubbery!), is more expensive than I remembered, but fuck it; I'm on vacation, and it's mostly only "virtual money" I'm spending anyway.

This afternoon, I go chasing ghosts from ten years ago around West London. Tonight, I have fourteenth-row seats at the Darren Hayes concert at Royal Albert Hall. Tomorrow, who knows?

Travel

2007-10-01T04:11:00.000-04:00

My favourite time of day.
Of course, I'm awake.
I have been awake for about an hour and three quarters now, actually.
The packing is pretty much done.
The car comes at 5.30.
I do not look forward to flying again.
It will be the first time since 2001.
And like Darren says,
"I've got sleeping pills that'll make you wanna call your mama."
Bon voyage, me.
Promise I'll write.
(Dear God, please, safe travel.
I know I've done nothing to deserve it, but all the same...)
Love,
Me

"It's a long way down to the place where we started from."

2007-09-28T15:16:00.000-04:00

I wanted this post to be on the lighter side. I wanted to babble happily about the manicure I got last night (it doesn't disguise the fact that I do horrible things to my hands, but we're at least on the right track) and the haircut. I wanted to enthuse about my long-suffering stylist and the adorable new streaks of magenta in her blonde tresses and how she humours me when I suggest insane things. I wanted to gloat over my new (and apparently, arrestingly sexy) asymmetric haircut, inspired by Brad Pitt's styling on the cover of next month's Details magazine, nearly clipper-short on the sides and back, short on the right side of the top, getting progressively longer toward the left, textured throughout, capable of being in-your-face edgy if I spike it up, or demure and fashionably conservative if I sweep it down and forward. And I guess I just did.

But all of that seems woefully insignificant in the light of thoughts which have swirled around me since I read the latest post on Accidental New Yorker and an article on suicides off the Golden Gate Bridge which he linked. During a break from all this reading (it is heavy stuff, indeed), I went to the kitchen to pour myself another cup of coffee, and it occurred to me that I have lost two friends to suicide (or semi-suicide -- I think one of them was an accidental overdose) in the past two years. It also occurred to me that I had not spoken to either of them in over a year. And I don't know if I could have prevented either of their deaths.

But I know darkness. And I know depression. They have been my constant companions for years. As long as I can remember, really. Even on my brightest days, I am conscious of shadows lurking. I will pretend not to see them; I will ignore them to maintain the sunlight for as long as I am able. If you mention them when I am happy, I will not discuss them, for they are mine, and it is mine alone to decide when and how I shall deal with them.

But I would never commit suicide. Even when I am so ensconced in pain that I cannot lift my head from the pillow, I treasure every moment of my life, and I relish every opportunity to live more! I know it has not always been thus. I know I used to stare at my navel thinking, "How can I get through one more day?" (I was thinking this morning as I walked to the subway just how much more focused on the world around me I've become in the last year or so.) But now, it really is true; I have so many things to do, so much to accomplish. I haven't done anything worth mentioning yet, so as the old spiritual goes, I "ain't got time to die!" As the Indigo Girls put it in a song which has been on my mind a lot more than I'd like lately, "I hold on to my life with the grip of a vise."

Please. Please, please, please. Whoever you are (I know some of you, and even those that I don't, I'm talking to you, too). Wherever you are (Finland? Wow. I am flabbergasted and honoured. California, I see you out there, too. And I know that there are others in between, on the other side of the world). If you think you're alone, know that you're not. Call me, text me, e-mail me, whatever (just not next week, 'cause my cell phone won't work in England, and I'm not sure how much e-mail access I'll have). I will confirm this for you. If you think that no-one loves you, I will assure you that I do. If you can find no reason for anyone to love you, I can. If you think the pain is too much to bear and that it will never end, I will rail down the phone at you to fight whatever is crushing you. Yes, it is tiring, and yes, it hurts, and yes, it is worth every drop of blood, sweat, spit, piss, cum, and tears that you will shed in the process.

I am not kidding, here. Life is beautiful. Hang on. Please. Take my hand. You may not always see me, and you may not always feel it, but if you'll hold on, I promise I will never let you go.

Tears on the Underground

2007-09-28T11:29:00.000-04:00

This morning on the subway, it was "Void", from Darren Hayes's The Tension and the Spark.

And I wonder...

How many times did she fall asleep on my chest, crying un-noticed tears into my shirt, when I was already dreaming?

I bite my lip so I can block my mind.

"Doesn't anyone take the place of you in my heart?"