I think about this loveless fascination.

A tempest of driving and concertgoing. Beulah took me to see Beck on Thursday night. I drove down to San Diego and then, for a number of reasons, drove back up to L.A. later that night. This is an exhausting choice, for the record. Also for the record, Beck was wonderful. But I hate the crowds that Rimac draws. And I am beginning to hate concertgoers as a category. Perhaps even including me.

Saturday afternoon, after a long, long Friday and too little sleep and a nostalgic resurrection of Jane Fonda's Workout Challenge, I scrambled to get my Halloween gear a-bundled. I even made a trip to the wandering Halloween superstore down the street from where I live. But it was a disappointment. It's like a Party City outlet. With fewer costumes than a regular Party City. And fewer mylar balloons. A couple of years ago, on a very hot Saturday, I visited a Halloween superstore in City of Industry I think. It was not a super experience, but it was indeed a superstore. Those overheated, un-air-conditioned warehouses remind me of Guam. On the Navy bases, "Toyland" is a seasonal location. A place that is for some portion of the year and then is no more. Much like these Halloween superstores. And Brigadoon. Toyland would have its grand opening in the fall. And then it would stay open until Christmas. And then it would go away. The grand opening had balloons and hot dogs. And it was a hot, sweaty, complaint-inducing disaster. I remember waiting out in the hot sun for what seemed like weeks. I remember wanting a Lite Brite. And a pink Huffy bicycle. I got both. These warehouses would be hot with large industrial fans blowing. Cement floors and the smell of cardboard boxes. Pallet jacks and personnel wearing trusses.

Anyway, the Halloween store on South La Cienega was a complete waste of time. But it did sort of smell like the Toyland I remember. Only I got nothing that I wanted and someone glared at me in the parking lot.

Hell Bent for Leather

All that done, I packed up and drove down to San Diego again. Beulah took me to see Anthrax and Judas Priest. We encountered the enemy of a good time in the form of a blonde squirt in a Staff Pro jersey with a military haircut and an overexuberant love for the rules. But Rob Halford is indeed a Metal God. Still. He is also a man who owns a stunning number of coats.

When I arrived in San Diego, I realized that I had forgotten one of my bags. This happens to me frequently. It is maddening. The bag I left this time had all my shoes in it and a number of crucial cosmetic items if I am to wear any of the costumes I might be able to cobble together out of the portion of my wardrobe I brought down (all of it). When I did this in December with orchestra shows to play, I ended up having to do a number of shopping errands and spending hundreds of dollars trying to replace the items I already own but hadn't been smart enough to bring. This time, being between projects and just generally fearful about whether I will taste poverty again before we set the clocks forward, I didn't want to have to try and re-buy all these things I already own. So after the concert and after a brief visit to Brians', I left Beulah and sped up to L.A., grabbed my bag, changed into something warmer, and then sped back down. That's three trips in one day. And five trips in three days. That's nuts. On the way back down, Highway Patrol was running a traffic break to allow for time to clean up what looked like it had been a nasty smash-up. Once I got past it, I revved back up to nearly 100 mph, I being not one to believe in portents. I was tired, though. And I could completely imagine driving into a wall or another car. I'm just glad I didn't.

The Final Frontier

I brought my iPod with me on the trip back. The trip up had been somewhat lacking in entertaining songfare. I was glad I did. Having the right soundtrack makes all the difference. When I hit that no man's land stretch of the 5 between San Juan Capistrano and Oceanside, I was nearly alone on the road. The only thing to look at were the white reflectors (people in the industry call them "bot dots" -- and by "the industry," I mean the traffic safety industry, not the entertainment industry; I have no idea what James Cameron calls them) on the highway, speeding past me like in Night Driver, a game I always preferred to Pole Position. One of the (good) tracks from Star Trek First Contact came up in the shuffle, and I had a gruesomely geeky swell of elation and I could sort of pretend I was navigating my Honda through outer space, the reflectors looking much like the stars do when one pretends to travel faster than the speed of light. I dream of having that far to go.

Efficiency Expert

I took something like 1300 photos at Lucha Va Voom on Wednesday. 728 of them are posted on my flickr account. Eventually, some portion of them will find their way onto the roundup page. But for now, if you were to want to see them, you could go here. This all reminds me of how much I continue to fall behind in the words I plan to write, the pictures I plan to post, and the promises I plan to make good on. Such reminders make me frown.

This is your eighth grade gym teacher Mr. Baumann.

I reset the clock in my car while I was driving and it became 2 a.m. for the second time. The other clocks are networked and reset themselves. I'm glad for the extra hour. Perhaps it will help me to not miss the four or five hours I wasted in unnecessary back and forth, or at least to miss them less.

Old Tricks

I bought McDonald's lunch for my dad. We ate hamburger sandwiches and french fries and shared the ketchup packets and swapped horror stories of our working lives. Audrey dozed on his lap. Sweet snuggly lump. She was a good girl. Then she and I drove back home. I took her walking, unloaded the car, applied the mascara I hadn't yet bothered with, and fussed with my hair a little before going to Room 5 with Martín. The show was much fun. I saw many people I like, and I showed them the face my mom made when she saw my hair color. I met Mindy and Tim at Swingers and dipped my french fries in fried eggs. Then I came home and caught up and began sorting through photographs and responding to IMs, and all of a sudden it was four o'clock in the morning. And then I read through old things I've written, and suddenly it was five. Technicolor five a.m.

Long Goodbye

Loren got it started. The festivities were beginning to break up at Jonah's goodbye party, and Loren told me that reading the thread of posts between me and Krissy on the comedy theater listserv was what finally made it kick in for him.

She's leaving.

Tears started welling up in my eyes immediately. I was saying goodbye to Krissy for the night. But in a week or two, I will be saying goodbye to her altogether. She and Dorian are moving away. Starting a new and different life. Preparing for Baby Zoe. And Jonah is leaving for his new job and his new town and his new everything that same week. Smiling and happy. Excited about what comes next. As well he should be. My Jonah Bear. Leaving.

It's like everything is turning upside down at once.

Krissy and Becky and I went shopping today for Halloween supplies and costume ideas. It was so dismal and grey out. The sun never emerged. There was this blanket of gloom. A misty veil of sad autumn weather. Autumn is where the ending begins.

And I had this continual feeling of déjà vu. Mid-october. Goodbyes. I realized I was being taken back to the autumn of 2001, when I was leaving San Diego for Los Angeles and whatever the calendar pages held. My leaving was abrupt. My job offer came just as September 11 was happening. I had to move and start work all at the same time. I never had a goodbye party. I remember my last practice at the comedy theater. People didn't even stay after to have a drink with me. I left feeling sad and jilted. I went over to The Living Room and wrote in my journal and made friends with someone who thought I looked interesting.

Everything was so uncertain then. And I felt more alone than I ever have. Striking out on my own. But also being abandoned to it. With nearly no support system. Nearly no well-wishing. A motel room and a job waiting for me. And a notebook to write in in tiny pencil print.

We drove down drizzle-spattered streets that might as well have been those same 2001 streets. To the foot of Mount Helix. Through Clairemont. Down Sixth Avenue. Past Balboa Park. It was nighttime all day today. It was bleak and cruel and colorless. And looking forward felt like paying lipservice. Everything is ending.

So there I was at Jonah's party, drinking punch and catching up. And Loren mentioned that reading what Krissy and I wrote to each other on the listserv made it all hit home. And the tears started to come. And each time I tried to deny them, they welled up more insistently.

I love her so much. Krissy. I love that girl so much. Krissy and Dorian are family to me. I love them the way you love the ones you have to love. Only I don't have to love them, and I do anyway. Effortlessly. They are so special to me. I can't write a sentence that would do them justice.

As I was driving home, Wake Me Up When September Ends was playing on the radio, and tears began to sprout from my eyes. Spilling out onto my cheeks, despite my attempts to brush them away. My poor eyes have suffered so much this weekend. There is no hope that they will look pretty again before the new week begins. I wonder if they will ever look pretty again. Asian girls are ugly when they cry. It's a fact.

I always say this is my favorite time of year. The spate of months whose names end in "ber." The smell of fireplace aftermath. The seasonal goodwill. The preparation of turkey feasts. Days that get shorter. Nights that come sooner. Turtleneck weather. Long sleeve weather. Socks weather. Scarf weather. This used to be my favorite time of year. But it's almost as if its former favored status is its worst enemy. All the things that once made it sweet threaten to turn it bitter now. Memories of how such things ever became favorite. Spoiled. It gets so that looking back is distasteful. And how I used to glory in my nostalgia and melancholy. How less glorious when it all turns wry.

I have lived in Los Angeles for four years now. How can that be? Shouldn't I be graduating from something? Matriculating in some fashion? Shouldn't I have more signatures in my yearbook? For all my diligence in saving everything, I don't seem to have been able to save anything at all. It all washes away. Ebbs into the distance. Pulls out beyond reach. There are all these stars in the sky, and you can't catch a single one. Not if your arms were as long as the street you live on. There are no stars on your street. No matter how far you drive.

I have been utterly ineffectual. The rainforests. The ozone layer. Israel. Blame it all on me. I haven't done a goddamned thing.

Everything is always ending. That's how it was made.

There's a reason I have to skip ahead when Saying Goodbye from The Muppets Take Manhattan comes up in the music mix.

Pretty Pink Rose

I realize it's harder to find inspiration now that I don't have as defined an audience. There was a time when I knew who was reading. Knew who I was writing for. There have been such times. My voice has taken on different casts. Now, I catch myself lapsing into silences. Falling into disuse. Wondering what the point is. My tongue hurts from being held.

I write poetry in the car. I speak it in my head. I don't bother to write it down anymore. Everything is so obvious. It obviates.

I can't even maintain the posture I'm accustomed to. The effort taxes me.

Phase shift. Fixative. I can't afford the aftermath of rubbing my eyes red.

Sometimes headaches aren't hangovers.

I put out a fire in my kitchen yesterday with a fire extinguisher. Such excitement. It started like this.

I wanted to scan some photos. And my scanner bed seemed a bit dusty and smudgy, so I went looking for my Windex, and in the process discovered that a bottle of Clorox in my utility closet was leaking. I had to clean that mess up and dispose of all of the bottles of cleansing products that had been corroded. And that got me on a clean-everything-up kick. So I was in the kitchen washing dishes, and I heard a loud bang and turned around to find that there were flames shooting out from under my stove. I cursed for a bit, and then realized there was no point in talking about it. I needed to put it out. I have a fire extinguisher that my landlord provided when I first moved in. But it's in a cardboard box, and when I went and opened that box, I realized I had to screw on the hose and release the valve lock, and all the while, my stove was on fire. With one little squirt from the fire extinguisher, the fire was out. But I had to put on a surgical mask to clean up the mess. The fumes and particulates in the air were acrid and sour.

I cleaned everything up and went to wash my hands. The bottle of antibacterial hand wash I squeezed cracked in half right in my hands and squirted all over the coffee maker and the counter. It's old. I had it when I moved here. The plastic is brittle. So that was another mess for me to clean up.

I had to do that script reading for Bryn, and when I came home, I could smell the funk of the fire and what smelled like gas, but I wasn't sure if that's what it was. I -- brilliantly -- went into the kitchen and lit things to see if there was a gas leak. I'm a genius.

This morning, when I woke up, the gas smell was very pronounced. So I called the gas company and had a technician come out. I guess the fire extinguisher had put out a couple of the pilots, and they were just leaking gas all night. He fixed everything up and put my mind at ease. And now at least I have an explanation for why I have such a lousy headache and sore, red eyes.

It's been cold and rainy these past few days. It reminds me of this time last year. It's hard to believe it's been a year. Hard to believe I've had Audrey this long. That I've begun jobs and ended them. That I've changed my hair so many times. That I've gotten a different car, another computer, another camera. I just feel like it all happens so fast, and I pay so little attention to any of it. And yet, look at me -- I pay more attention than anyone. What must it be like for other people? Do they even know it's 2005? And that it's almost over? What's the point anyway. I guess I could have been blown up last night. There was enough gas to be concerned. And then there would just be the shards of all these unfinished projects and all these unfleshed-out ideas. All these unscanned photographs.

Well, that's something I can correct.

Thunder. Fire. Rain.

This was my Saturday. Beulah and I went to the Sunset Marquis to collect Alex, who was flown in to interview HIM (His Infernal Majesty), who were to play at The Wiltern that night. We had beers and french fries at Mel's. Then we dropped Alex off to go meet up with his people. Beulah and I drove to La Luz de Jesus, where we desperately needed the bathroom, which smelled of b.o. We shopped for a while and then got in the car and saw banners for the Basquiat exhibit at MOCA, where we are members. We drove Downtown and parked near the museum only to find that the exhibit had closed the previous week and that the museum was closed altogether in preparation for its next show. It was very windy. We walked back to the car and drove to my apartment, passing The Wiltern, where youthful black t-shirt-wearers sat on the sidewalk, die-hard and lame. Beulah and I made some artwork with the Mulan DVD playing. Then we drove to Hurry Curry and ate the curry that they serve there. We drove to the UCB Theatre and watched ASSSCAT. The house was so full, Beulah and I had to sit right on the stage. John Krasinski was the monologist, and Beulah has a boner for him, so that was nice and all. But for most of the improv scenes, we could only see the backs of people. To the credit of their backs, we still laughed a great deal. We collected our car from the valet and then drove to meet Jeff at The Dresden, where we had a drink but found it to be noisy and crowded, so why not go get our own booze and tailgate? We were going to walk to a liquor store, but it started to rain. Hard. So we ran to my car, smoked the remainder of wet cigarettes, then drove to the liquor store and bought beer. It was raining so hard, my skirt was soaked from the wind. My broken umbrella provided some shelter. But still. We hung out at the Steve Allen Theater and drank our drinks. I had whiskey in my bag, so I drank that. Bobcat Goldthwaite was there. As well as a Japanese pop star who came to see Brendon and had the cutest accent. And then we watched the show. And then we hung out for a while and talked and laughed. And then Beulah and I went to Lucy's on the way home and bought food, but my burrito was just a bunch of onions wrapped in a tortilla. We watched episodes of the BBC version of The Office, and Beulah fell asleep at the most important parts. But can you blame her? We'd had a long day.

Thunder and lightning and giant raindrops. That was Sunday. And more of the same today. Someone who lives near me has their fireplace going. I envied them when I smelled it. But it's too late to put a fire on. I'd feel obligated to sit in front of it until it burned down a bit, and I should probably get some rest. Today, I had to go meet with a friend about a possible project, and in the evening I had to go to Bryn's, where we did a readthrough of his screenplay that we will be reading on stage tomorrow night. Ginger Lynn is the lead character in the film. I am a handful of not-lead characters. Most with trailer park dialects and character descriptions that fail to flatter. But I project very well.

Anyway, I feel tired. Drained dry. A flat little flap of Mylar that may once have been a cheerful balloon. Everything feels like nothing. Which is a poor description of numbness.

Sideways is on the television. I never saw it when it was in the cinema. I still haven't seen it technically. It's just on now. And I've looked at it between taps of the keys. The thing I keep paying attention to is how discolored everyone's teeth look when they're drinking red wine.I guess I don't know how to watch movies anymore.

I don't hate the use of wine as this metaphor for life and relationships. But I don't entirely believe in it. Of course, I've had my share of conversations which -- if overheard -- would make an intelligent pair of eyes roll right out of their sockets. Hoity-toity bullshit with overly florid lyrics. Everything unimportant made to sound the opposite. Sometimes even stumbling onto bits of accidental brilliance. Maybe people do talk that way. When they're trying. Or trying not to try. Maybe you can't ever not be trying. I admire those who seem not to. But then I also deplore their stasis. I shouldn't be the only one who always ends up talking too fast. It's so unfair.

I wonder what tomorrow will be like.

Mary Loves Krissy

Forever.

Boris Hamilton Comes Through

Boris is the one person who (a) loves to have his picture taken by me, (b) complains about every photo I take of him, and (c) always makes a point of asking if I want my picture taken, too. He clearly understands the woes of the shutterbug. The undocumented life. The amount of my self I can't photograph on account of the unsatisfactory length of my arms.

So I ran into Boris the other night at The Tomorrow Show, and he went to his car and fetched a little present for me. See below.

Thank you, kind sir, for caring enough to capture my enjoyment of the nightlife.

Your Day of Days

On this day, you will find the sky the perfect blue, the air the perfect sweet. Your hair will have that little swoop in it and effortlessly. Your shoes will fit better than they have ever fit. You will want to run in them. Your toothbrush will taste like candy. You will not require a decongestant. You will find a tender note from a former love in a book you had never intended to read. You will get a phone call from someone who just wants you to know that you're great. Your favorite Star Trek episode will be airing as you get dressed, and it it will end just as you are walking out the door. You will discover an action figure that looks very much like you. And is not one of the ones kids hate. You will suddenly have need of your blender and be glad you've had one all this time. Your cellular telephone will work perfectly. You will find an article of clothing you once adored but had since forgotten you owned. It will take you back. You will be delighted by the newspaper headlines. You will be pleased with other people's driving. Your skin will be perfect. You will have lobster sandwiches for lunch and prime rib for dinner. And you will get just enough of both but not so much that you feel bad about it. You will walk in to a mirrored elevator car and love the way you look. Bypassers will stop you on the street to pay you a compliment. You will enjoy something at the movies. You will find joy in the simplest of things. You will hear that something terrible happened to someone who wronged you. You will realize that you are so over it that you are able to feel bad for them. You will not accidentally watch anything bad on television. Each drag of your cigarette will taste like your favorite food. Something precious you lost will be found and returned to you. You will laugh for all the right reasons. You will revel unselfconsciously. Everyone in the room will wish to know you. That poem you wrote will be published in The New Yorker. You will be busy with important and fulfilling things. You will remember your favorite days, and they will pale in comparison.

Secondary Colors

Now I'll have to be a Harajuku girl for Halloween. Wait. Now I'll have to be a Harajuku girl for Thursday.

bite lip. close eyes.
My beloved Krissy is the most unconditionally dedicated Green Day fan I know. (And when I said that over the weekend, Dorian was offended. For the record, he is the second biggest Green Day fan I know. He may be more enthusiastic about it than she is, but she married him because he looks kinda like Billie Joe. I think she wins. They both have Green Day tattoos. Their baby is destined to be either a total punk rocker or the world's biggest Republican.) She and Dorian have seen five Green Day shows in the past week or so. San Diego, Phoenix, Albuquerque, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles. I work for the company producing the extra-special Green Day show at The Wiltern tonight, so they're going to that, too. And I got Krissy to blog their concert road trip and to blog the show tonight. The Network is opening for the band, which I hope by now at least one or two people realize is Green Day in masks. When an opening act was being mentioned here in the office, the production people didn't know anything of the sort. Which is depressing. I like knowing secret things. But I also like working with people who know their shit. And know the shit out of it.
I'm listening to American Idiot right now, doing my track research and preparing the copy I have to write for the on-demand version of the show we will make available after the live stream is completed. Going from web site to web site, confirming discography information and band history. Encountering the boys and their eyeliner and their triptych style of studio pose. I remember when I first heard When I Come Around on 91-X. I remember wondering if Billie Joe was British. And I think I remember thinking that he would be cute if it weren't for his jacked up teeth. I bought Dookie and then the next four albums. But I buy albums like many people breathe air. And I get hooked into thinking I need the omnibus, so I buy everything a band releases and then never bother to listen to the songs. Explaining why so many of my thousands of CDs are still comfortably packaged in their native cellophane.
When I met Krissy and Dorian -- when they started playing with me at the comedy theater in San Diego -- that was who they were to me. That cute punk rock couple who loves Green Day. The young marrieds who change their hair color all the time and will love you for buying them many things you can find at Hot Topic. Today, of course, they are much more to me. But the Green Day part of that portrait never fades much.
So I'm listening to Green Day music and looking at Green Day pictures and sometimes getting a little misty over how much they mean to people who mean so much to me. And then going, "Why are there synthesized hand claps in She's a Rebel?" And then getting over that and getting misty again.
Punk breeds pop punk breeds pop punk rip-offs. Even if you hate Sum 41 and Good Charlotte (and you should), you should be able to give credit where credit was once due. I just love that there are still people whose passions are so pure they can experience uninterrupted joy at a rock concert. I applaud the uncomplicatedness of loving one thing completely. And I think they should name their baby Gunther.
take me away. paradise.

I'm not what I appear to be.

John Lennon would have been 65 this weekend. When I was leaving the I.O. tonight, I heard his voice on NPR. It was him talking and then bits of music and then more of him talking. Tragic prescience. Tragic candle-snuffing. Tragic something.

I was feeling good and tragic when I heard it. Sadder and more distraught than I have felt in as long as I can remember. Exhausted by it. Tired of feeling it. Brittle and barklike. Made of stone and yet extraordinarily fragile. Overly sensitive. Unwisely hopeful. Typically reticent. Angst-ridden. I'm surprised I didn't burst into tears right there in my car. I almost did.

I've never had skin thick enough for the beating it takes. Nor has there been enough down on my back.

I finally unpacked some of my purchases from Comic-Con. They've been sitting in shopping bags for months now. Everything has been coursing by at such a rate that I haven't had a chance to just sit down and sift through my treasures. A thing I used to love to do after a Con or a shopping trip. Or whatever. Now I just acquire. And then the acquisitions sit. And eventually they become an eyesore. And I am tempted to chuck them. And it all amounts to a great lot of waste. Wasted time. Wasted money. Wasted space. Wasted plans and ideas on which nothing substantive was ever built.

My life has been reduced to pile-making.

Dorian and Krissy are watching my Firefly DVDs. I wish I could just sit at home and watch them with them and not ever have to be anywhere else again. Sometimes even the blasted sunshine is too much to bear.

Although I laugh and I act like a clown
Beneath this mask I am wearing a frown

No big surprises here.

Every Beatles song is sad to me now. And not just because of John Lennon.

I know what it is to be sad. And it's making me feel like I've never been born.

Lady Labor

A commercial told me that critics are saying of North Country that it is a film in the tradition of Silkwood, Norma Rae, and Erin Brockovich. No duh. It is those three films. All rolled up into one. I guess we have to have one of these every decade or so. To remind us how much prettier certain actresses look when they're not punching a make-believe time clock.

Wait. Why did those other movies all win Oscars? Hollywood sure is nursing its guilt over the inequitable treatment of working women with bad haircuts.

Leather Anniversary

Last night, I worked for more than thirteen hours, standing for nearly the whole time in high Fornarina heels, producing my company's coverage of the Comedy Death Ray 3rd Anniversary Show at the UCB Theatre. And as much as I was there to advocate for and promote an event I support and want to help to make super famous, being part of a production crew like that feels a smidge like being a leper. Asking people to sign releases and trying not to be in the way of the actual show doesn't feel fancy or exclusive. And I'm not the sort of peacock that wants anyone to be inconvenienced, so mostly I just kept trying to make my physical self smaller and more invisible.

The show itself went from ten p.m. until long after six a.m., and the crowd was unbelievably stalwart. By the time Hard n' Phirm closed the show, nearly none of the house seats had been abandoned. Which is part of the reason I had to stand for so long. Here's why people stayed:

Doug Benson
Matt Besser
Blaine Capatch
David Cross
The Fun Bunch
Zach Galifianakis
Janeane Garofalo
Todd Glass
Hard 'n' Phirm
The Idiots
Andy Kindler
Howard Kremer
Jerry Minor
Bob Odenkirk
Patton Oswalt
Brian Posehn
Paul Rudd
Sarah Silverman
Brendon Small
Nick Swardson
Paul F. Tompkins
James Adomian
Michelle Biloon
Susan Burke
Neil Campbell
Pete Carboni
Sean Conroy
Andrew Donnelly
Bil Dwyer
Graham Elwood
Chris Fairbanks
Wayne Federman
Jarrett Grode
Boris Hamilton
Sari Karplus
Martha Kelly
Jen Kirkman
Aaron Lee
Natasha Leggero
Dan Mintz
Eric Moneypenny
Morgan Murphy
Jason Nash
BJ Novak
Jimmy Pardo
Melissa Paull
Eddie Pepitone
Chip Pope
Jonah Ray
Moses Robinson
Kevin Seccia
Mike Schmidt
Tom Sharpe
David Taylor
Joe Wagner
Mishna Wolff

I didn't get home until well after eight a.m. But even that felt like a cop-out. I'm sure other people were out doing things I would have wanted to be doing. Even if I would have required the assistance of a wheelchair.

I wasn't sure what to call this entry, so I went and looked up the traditional materials that the various anniversaries are supposed to be celebrated with. So this gets me to thinking. Why would the third anniversary be leather?

The first and second are obvious. Paper for the first because there is very little chance you'll make it, so don't invest in anything substantial. If the union fails, you'll be glad your gifts are water-soluble. And it's also an opportunity to hand your spouse a document. A photograph of the two of you. A coupon for a free backrub. A no-fault divorce kit.

The second being cotton is equally understandable. Why not celebrate two statistics-defying years together with a fun t-shirt. Maybe one that says, "In it to win it." Or if things aren't actually defying statistics so much, a jumbo bag of cotton balls is a thoughtful acknowledgement of the frequent need to absorb mouth blood.

But why leather for number three? Does it really take three years together to get comfortable and honest enough to let your BDSM interests see light? Does the third annum necessitate a lot of motorcycle jockeying? Does this come from a period in history when leather was the only material used in clothing and year three was about the time a couple could finally have done with being perpetually nude? I'm just wondering.

And because I'm thorough, I may as well explain the rest of the traditional gifts. Using Occam's razor, of course.

4th - Fourth - Fruit/Flowers
By year four, constipation has set in. A gift of fruit and/or flowers -- properly ingested -- will help smooth the journey into year five.

5th - Fifth - Wood
This is symbolic of the fact that you've managed to keep the thing afloat for five impossible years. Also, wooden gifts make for good kindling.

6th - Sixth - Candy/Iron
This is the all-important Flintstones Vitamin anniversary.

7th - Seventh - Wool/Copper
Wool is a great insulator. Copper has powerful conductive properties. Both come in handy, as this year is going to be a cold one.

8th - Eighth - Bronze/Pottery
Bronze and ceramics are representative of the fact that your love life has taken on the appearance of a sculpture garden.

9th - Ninth - Pottery/Willow
Recycle the ceramic gift you bought last year, or get something made of willow, the most emotionally distraught and tormented of trees.

10th - Tenth - Tin/Aluminum
Canned goods contribute nicely to the "fallout shelter" cast your relationship has taken on.

11th - Eleventh - Steel
You live in a cage. Celebrate!

12th - Twelfth - Silk/Linen
The Mongols wore their silk underclothes until they literally rotted off their bodies. That was on or about year twelve.

13th - Thirteenth - Lace
Your marriage is beginning to feel like your grandmother's house. Therefore doilies -- not lingerie -- would make the most appropriate gift for this doomed year.

14th - Fourteenth - Ivory
With longevity like this, you are part of a legitimately endangered species. Murder an elephant.

15th - Fifteenth - Crystal
Fifteen years in, it's not Swarovski you're shopping for. Tweaker.

20th - Twentieth - China
Apparently at this point, anniversaries are only celebrated every five years. Also, apparently you've finally been together long enough to sit down to a meal in your formal dining room. And microwaveable plastic plates would just seem gauche in there.

25th - Twenty-Fifth - Silver
Time to plug the parking meter of connubial bliss! Although the true progenitor of this gift-giving tradition is that photo of a dead Abraham Lincoln with two coins over his eyes. I might have seen that in a scary movie as part of a dream sequence. But apparently, so has everyone else.

30th - Thirtieth - Pearl
Pearls are very rare. You get the analogy. They are also found in seafood. For some reason.

35th - Thirty-Fifth - Coral
This is the year your spouse buys you a scuba-diving vacation in shark-infested waters. As a means of recapturing "the spark."

40th - Fortieth - Ruby
I'm pretty sure this is just a marketing idea from the Wizard of Oz franchise.

45th - Forty-Fifth - Sapphire
By necessity these days, you drink a lot of gin. Now everyone can buy it for you. In quantity.

50th - Fiftieth - Gold
Only Jews manage to stay together this long.

55th - Fifty-fifth - Emerald
Another ingenious ploy of the Wizard of Oz people, all the more appropriate as this anniversary is as rarely arrived at (and as fictitious) as that storied green city. Your eyes are so milk-colored and cloudy with age, you wouldn't know if you were getting a gemstone or a Skittle anyway.

60th - Sixtieth - Diamond
By the time you make it to this fabled milestone, one of your mothers is probably dead. That's when the woman in the couple gets the heirloom wedding ring. And victory.

Performance Puke

I went to Baseline Project at Hangar 1018 on Friday night, a night of comedy, music and art things. Ryan, who was promoting the event, asked me to come and take pictures. I guess that's what I'm good for. I was tired and didn't really want to go out, and nearly everyone I know seemed to have something else going on, so I couldn't secure a friend to stick in the comfortable "in tow" position. Even Kevin, who said he was going to meet me there, apparently fell asleep instead. The result was that I felt a little awkward. Even when I was talking with people I know.

Alex Ebert from Ima Robot was supposed to do an art installation. When I asked Ryan where it was, she said he was still setting it up. And that he was puking on the floor. Later, when I was trying to decide whether to leave, I wandered over to the installation and saw people standing with surgical masks on (not always covering their mouths and noses, but on and visible) in front of a brightly lit light-box with an applause sign and a video camera above it. There was something wet and particulate-rich on the floor. Puke I assume. I saw Alex walking around. He was dolled up in a white sequined blouse of sorts and white pants and white ahtletic shoes that weren't fully on his feet. He was wearing a great deal of pretty pretty make-up. And he was taller than I expected. The following night, standing backstage at the UCB, a fellow named Andrew who remembered me from having seen me at Baseline, talked to me about Alex Ebert's installation, saying that he spent a good part of the evening trying to puke. As part of a performance piece, I guess. I'm not really strict about art and what qualifies as it, but that sounds a bit like phoning it in idea-wise. The Ima Robot web site doesn't work for me on any of my Mac browsers. Photos don't want to launch. It's a shame. But Beulah and I could listen to Let's Talk Turkey a thousand times in a row and still reach for the button on whatever device it's playing that makes it play again.

I took 300 photos. I never aim for round numbers. That's just how many were on my camera when I got home. I haven't sorted through them yet. Many of them will be blurry and unintelligible. And the vast majority of them will not have me in them. That's usually a reflection of how comfortable I feel when I'm out in the world. If I'm with the right friends, taking picture of myself and of myself with my friends provides me with endless entertainment. Other times, taking pictures of myself makes me feel like a weirdo, and I know everyone in the world is looking at me with unfriendly, judging eyes. Anyway, I will post the pictures shortly.

For a roll of the credits, this is what the flyer said:

Comedic Performances By:
- jonah ray
- kristen herman
- jarrett grode (undeclared)
- morgan murphy (late night with jimmy kimmel)
- brendon small (adult swim's home movies and dethclock)
- zach galifianakis (late world with zach)

Musical Performances By:
- appogee
- elephonic
- ringer
- peachcake
- test shot starfish
- little plastic pilots

Featured Artists:
- patrick haemmerlein
- val nunez
- kio griffith
- doug kim
- alina

Live Painting By:
- steven lopez
- tazrock

Installations By:
- alex ebert (ima robot)
- kenneth fenstein (parsons, SVA, University of Wallis Leuk-stadt, Switzerland)

Video Art:
- d-fuse (www.dfuse.com)
- takagi masakatsu (www.takagimasakatsu.com)
- hi-res (www.hi-res.net)
- test shot starfish (www.testshotstarfish.com)

Film & Music Video Screenings:
- the directors bureau
- partizan
- palm pictures
- onedotzero

DJs: ian r., nosna, surprise special guest

Getting hip to the liveness

I'm home configuring my new PowerBook, and I've got NBC on. The Will and Grace season premiere is a special live episode. For the past few months, I suppose it's natural that my ears perk up a little whenever any noun is modified by that adjective. I'm working for a company with live entertainment on the brain and not much else, after all. So I asked the question, "Why do we like LIVE?"

Here are my thoughts:

1. Even though I find the writing on this show to be predictable and tired in its campiness, I also applaud it for making the mention of sexual behaviors acceptable in prime time. I also think Alec Baldwin is bomb ass. And seeing him give in to the swish a little is fun. No matter how much I fight it.

2. I just cut the fuck out of my finger a few minutes ago. See? I was on the phone with my mother trying to cut a piece of french bread into appropriate sandwich size, and the cerrated edge of my Cutco sandwich knife sawed vigorously into my left index finger. My mom got an earful of cursing. And then she gave me lots of advice about putting a bandage on the cut. And she made all the Chinese pain sounds in her vocabulary -- she seriously sounded like it was hurting her more than it hurt me. So we got off the phone, and I dripped blood all over the floor, and I won't be playing violin tonight.

3. "Live" is thrilling, I guess, because of the propensity for the unexpected to happen. The biggest laughs in the show and the most satisfying moments happened when the actors broke or when something didn't go as planned. It makes the audience feel like they're on the inside of something private and exclusive. Like when Tim Conway and Harvey Korman used to not be able to keep their shit together on The Carol Burnett Show. Even though uptight theatrical types will point out that this is just evidence of their unprofessionalism. Well, those two dudes tour around doing stage shows for $100 a seat, and you're still toting your little Ben Nye make-up kit to rehearsals for a community theater production of an Agatha Christie play that will be put up on a cleared-out portion of the dining room of an Acapulco Restuarant, bub. (Note: I do actually find it unprofessional when Horatio Sanz and Jimmy Fallon pull this same boner. But that's because they're not as funny. Nor as white.)

4. It's a shame Don Adams passed away. I enjoyed him very much. And it was in a discussion about how much I enjoyed Inspector Gadget that I was reminded of how I used to also like Danger Mouse.

5. I guess I'll go finish making that finger sandwich now. It was going to be a chicken cutlet (katsu, if you speak the language) sandwich. But I may not have it in me to fix that up anymore. Maybe I'll just have a Pop Tart.

This is the liveness that happens in my brain all day long. Seriously.

A sigh is just a sigh.

I don't know what I want to write about. I notice I don't have many funny stories to tell. I think that says something. Downcast eyes and a lot of breath-holding. I don't see or take note or make mention. It's like being dragged through something blue.

I watched The Shining in the Hollywood Forever Cemetery on Saturday night. And I worked on sketch stuff and performed improv today and tonight. And I am dreading the week. And I hate that feeling. I was dismal enough on Friday that I didn't go to the Found Footage Film Festival as planned. I hate that feeling, as well.

The kid who played Danny in The Shining apparently only made one other film. It was an autobiography of G. Gordon Liddy. And in it, he played Young Liddy. We were wondering what ever became of him after that movie. And how any kid's parents could let them act in a movie like that and not worry for their sanity. Apparently, he's a teacher now in Illinois. I wonder what that's like.

There is a long, long list. I may never get to the end of it.

A kiss is still a kiss.

Who writes these things?

I'm doing some research on the New York City Underground Comedy Festival, and the Web site excitedly announced that “Slava’s Snow Show" has just been added to the festival roster. "This multi-million dollar clowning spectacle was conceived and created by the world's most respected Clown, Slava Polunin."

Since when was "clown" a proper noun, and since when did anyone in the world respect one? I'm sure Slava Polunin is a jim-dandy clown. But I'm as enticed by this copy as I would be by a poster of Doug Henning in the centerfold of a Dynamite magazine.

Born two hundred years too late and two hundred years too soon.
You know, I didn't want to be disappointed in Space Mountain when I rode it on Sunday, at long last. After two years of it being closed and promises of improvements and upgrades and returns to innocence being disseminated by polite cast members, patiently attending the disappointing sign at the mouth of the inert beast. It felt faster than before. And perhaps more turbulent than before. But I honestly don't remember in enough detail to measure. The one thing I did recognize was that the new soundtrack is lame as all get out. It's hard to fear for your safety when the disco's a-playin'. And it's even harder to remember what it felt like to wait in those lines -- before Fast Pass, before California Adventure -- back when you had to plan your day around the two-hour torments each of the mountains begot. Three and a half hours when Splash Mountain first opened. Today, if you're clever and not dead set on riding everything, you barely have to wait at all. You can even afford to sit out a turn because you are particular about which row you sit in. What luxury.
I am by turns haltingly nostalgic and dazzlingly cavalier. You never know which one you'll get. I hack away at the vines of memory because they slow me down. But then sometimes, it seems the world isn't moving so fast. And I don't need to be in such a rush. Sometimes, it seems like remembering things is just a way of not getting on with it. And then sometimes, it seems like remembering things is eclipsingly better than experiencing them. I've had this thought before.
I miss things about my various past lives. And I sometimes wonder how those lives ever happened. I look back fondly on certain episodes and then can't quite figure out how they turned into the years that followed. Sometimes it seems that life is just what happens when you're too lazy or inattentive to do something else. History is what you sit through. How did I sit at my dining room table in that other apartment I once lived in? Wasn't I needed elsewhere? How did I ever watch a show? How did I find hobbies? Or take up collecting doll collecting magazines (and, no, that is not a syntax error)? How did I ever get a lick of work done? And then it was all just a tangle of all that was. And no matter how much happened, and no matter how much was accomplished, nothing was able to matter for long enough for the use of the word "matter" to make sense.
"Cut to the Jurassic Period."
I did a character yesterday that was inspired by Brendon Small's Captain Mustache's version of Fat Albert. (Twice removed.) I became a fat kid who couldn't understand why his mom would urge the bus driver to make him run for it. "I tried to catch it, but I had to pull my lunch wagon." It was not a loud character, but it required massive aspiration. I was lightheaded in no time. And people seemed to like it. I'm always pleased when that is the case. But this time I was also pleased because I liked it myself. I spent most of my stage time committing to not caring how I looked or sounded. I am terribly self-conscious much of the time. Not being so is a bigger deal than might be apparent. But last night, despite my perilously low energy and my searing headache and stinging eyeballs and generally downtrodden spirit, I played with big energy. And I was glad of it.
Then I came home and worked until four a.m. And that is a festival of ball-sucking.
Pigtails. Pigtails is a winner.
I have a great many photos to sort through. Quite a few from Disneyland. Again. And since I wore my hair in pigtails again, many of them will look exactly like the ones I took the weekend before. Except that Mindy and Tim will be in them. Instead of Tom and Tom and Krissy and Jessie.
It was a very sweet moment when we were walking up to the castle, looking for swans, and Mindy had cause to exclaim, "Prince Charming wished me a happy birthday!" Dreams do come true.
a new route to the same place
Is it possible that I miss these things I think I miss? Do you ever come to terms with the inability to ever go back? Does forward turn into backward? And is that ever good? Will Serenity be as good as I'm hoping?
Did you forget this fucking singer so soon? And did you forget my song?

Secret Whiskey

I was at the office until almost eleven tonight. We were making sure the Bon Jovi concert went off all right. I was writing copy, watching video feeds, researching setlist entries. I was trying to keep Audrey from snarling at people. Taking cigarette breaks. Waiting around. I was wishing I was elsewhere. Wanting to listen to my own music. Wanting to be wearing something different. Tired of how long the days have gotten.

Yesterday, I went to Disneyland. AGAIN. This time with Mindy and Tim. It was Mindy's birthday last week, and we being annual passholders and all -- the timing seemed right. It was a lovely day for it. I came home and didn't bother to watch the Emmys. Instead, I watched Rome, whose opening titles I detest but whose story and subject matter are growing on me.

The night before, I went to the Edendale Grill for the birthday celebrations of Blaine Capatch and the lovely Poubelle Twins. Blaine and Vera also announced their recent Vegas wedding, and that was a grand and lovely surprise. I'm awfully happy for them.

And the night before was Mindy's proper birthday party, a karaoke extravaganza at the Orchid Lounge, where the drinks are too expensive and the playlist too light on my singalong favorites, but where the company was just super and my camera was put to great use.

I would track back through all the days of the preceding week, but I am beginning to forget the things I did and the places I went. I know I went to dinner at Katana with Sarah and her charming new beau. And I know I made small talk with a guy at the bar at the Sunset Marquis and wondered why people ever make small talk. In my case, it was because I accidentally left my phone in my car when I delivered it into the care of the valet, and that meant I couldn't sit there and play Bejeweled. Much of the rest is a swimming mess of work malaise. The kind that bealeaguers the spirit and causes one to take stock of all the deadlines one has let slip past.

Tonight, driving home, rain sprinkled against my windshield, and when I took Audrey out, there was that smell of asphalt just barely wet. I wondered momentarily if any of this will persist in my memory. Or if any of it will matter.

And then I walked inside and wanted to write.

Only angels know unrelieved joy -- or are able to stand it.

I needed a headshot. Jessie rallied. Then we went to Disneyland. I should always remember that I would rather have the turkey leg than the corndog. I only ever seem to remember this after having had the corndog.

These are my temporary solution, until such time as I can be lovely again and can afford to pay someone to document it for the split second that it is true.

Commitment. Martyrdom. Using people.
I got home from work only a short while ago. A seventeener (my new word for a seventeen-hour work day). The day before was an elevenner (my new word for a...well, you get the idea). And I'm aiming to be in the office by 7:30. Which makes my night of sleep potentially just shy of a threer. I had to skip my workshop tonight. And I was gravely unhappy about that. Things are rough. And demanding. And not terribly rewarding. At the moment. Can only speak in short bursts. Apparently.
In the notes after the harold I was in on Sunday evening, a character I created was referred to as the "minority lover." I suggested we use that as the name for the team we are forming for a competition at the I.O. My compatriots nodded in agreement. So now we are Minority Lover. And I was tasked to write a blurb for us. The suggestions I submitted were:
Teaching men to fish for three full decades. Jerking off on speakerphone since the late '80s. Enjoying a greater right to life since 1993. Commitment. Martyrdom. Using people. Revenge is a dish. Three women will understand that. Narcolepsy is not a superpower. Refrigeration is the secret to our freshness. Don't shoot yourself in the soft palate. That's one you won't come back from. We acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness. We do earnestly repent and are utterly sorry for these our misdoings. The remembrance of them is grievous unto us. The burden of them is intolerable. Have mercy upon us. Beef tenderloin: The "little black dress" of meats What kind of scandalous technique is that? Such tasteless vulgarity will never defeat me! I am far above it! Watch how a real ninja defeats an upstart. He's combined shadow cloning with his own invention: the sexy jutsu. What a foolish ninja technique.
Those last three were transcribed directly from the episode of Naruto that was on when I was writing the others. And several others have appeared in my blog in one form or another. And the one Steve picked to submit was the title of this entry, which was jotted down with the expectation of being turned into a fully written piece at some point. It was something I was thinking about while running. And I never got around to writing it. In a way, I prefer it. Nothing I was going to say was especially insightful or revelatory. Only if I allow myself to make such pronouncements, I could conceivably stop writing altogether. I miss writing for the sake of the song in it. I miss stumbling onto ideas whose progenitors were less than obvious to me. I miss having the time to justify the squandering of that time. I miss being important enough in the grand scheme of things to want to indulge myself in the forming of a sentence. Today, I am somewhat less.
Friday night, after a long-ass day at work, I went to the grand opening of the UCB Theatre and stayed out late, audiencing and then celebrating. Saturday morning, Jessie and I took interim headshots for our audition on Sunday. Then we went to Disneyland and stayed for the duration. Sunday, we auditioned and then performed and then ate Chinese food while talking about the preceding two activities. And Monday was another long-ass day, at the end of which was a wood-fired pizza from Trader Joe's that made all other frozen pizzas seem like pancakes dressed with horsemeat. And then it was today. And both yesterday and today, I wore things to work which -- once I got to work -- caused me to rethink their wearing. Whether because of the looks I get from certain people or just the reality check of walking into the bathroom and catching my reflection, yesterday I realized my skirt was too short and today I realized my blouse was too low-cut. And I miss the days when nothing I wore mattered because no one who saw it would have anything to say about the progression of my career. I had no idea how easy and good I had it.
I also miss writing in my journal with a pencil while sitting on a bench beside the La Brea Tarpits. I miss my black bowling bag-style handbag that the journal could fit in, back before I had a digital camera to always be carrying. I miss that golden hour of pre-dusk sunlight in the west-facing offices of the building I worked in. I miss shortlived confidence and eager adventurousness. I miss playing hooky when it was hot out. I miss pissing the day away on behalf of the sensual pleasures. I miss drawing on placemats with crayons.
And I am missing out on what little sleep I will be afforded. And that is a fucking foolish thing to do.

Feckless Praise

I have a habit. A programming glitch. I'm well aware of it. I can only process kind words from specific sources. Coming from anyone else, it falls on deaf ears, leaves no mark, makes no waves. It has always been this way. I choose the voices in which I am able to hear encouragement. As a result, very few compliments make any difference to me. The message doesn't matter if the envelope it comes in isn't right. I'm picky and difficult in a thoroughly self-defeating way.

Last night, I was walking back to my car after watching a late show at the Improv Olympic West, and two guys in a beemer pulled up beside my car with the windows rolled down and greeted me all friendly-like. I said hello and assumed they were anxious for my parking space. They didn't need to butter me up with those sundry pronouncements about how sexy I look tonight or how pretty I am. I assure you. I was going to vacate the space anyway. But then the driver asked my name and asked if he could call me. And -- in an uncustomary show of cleverness and resolve -- I said, "No, thank you. I don't think so." He told me they were from New York, and I said, "Welcome to L.A.," and continued getting into my car. I was wearing what I might describe as a flirty little skirt, so maybe that's not so surprising. It's late at night in Hollywood, and people can't help but get their friendly on. But then this morning, I was driving to work, and the City of Beverly Hills truck in front of me seemed to contain a driver who wanted to communicate with me. At first I thought it was just him talking to his passenger, but eventually, he pulled over so that I would pass him, and when I did, he waved at me and made kissy lips. Why? I thought. He can only see my head, really. My head and my necklace and that I'm wearing a white sweater. But not much else. I assume even the sorts of guys who make kissy lips at random ladies passing by only do so when they can see whether a girl is able to stand. What if I was in a Honda that accomodates a wheelchair? I remember thinking something similar last December when I was in Vegas. I was plugging a slot machine in the Mandalay Bay Casino, and a guy sat down next to me. He was the third guy in a short span of time to accost me that night. And they all turned out to be from Hermosa Beach. So this guy started chatting me up. Asking if the machine was paying out. I didn't even look at him. Never made eye contact. I just responded -- somewhat curtly -- that I had only just sat down, so I didn't know. Question two was, Where are you from? and question three was, Can I take you to dinner? And I thought to myself, this guy hasn't even made eye contact with me, and he wants to take me out. He hasn't even seen the right side of my face yet. What if I were to turn slowly towards him to reveal that that entire side of my face was covered in burns? Would he still want my number? I realize people go to Vegas to gamble. Gambling Las Vegas gambling (see Lost in America). But does anyone ever roll the dice that blindly? Even in Hermosa Beach?

Anyway, my point in all of this is just that none of these incidents made me feel especially pretty or especially good about myself. Hang around me much and you'll learn that I get my share (and then some) of love from the homeless and the indigent. But you'll also learn that it never makes my day. I wish it could.

Things would be so easy if I would just let them be.

"Narcolepsy is not a superpower."

I was watching CNN's Katrina coverage on the TV in the gym this morning. I remember watching the tsunami coverage there, too. Today, I felt so sad and tired of looking at all the devastation that I found myself watching The Surreal Life on the adjacent monitor. There isn't even closed captioning. But it was easier to watch than all that suffering.

I've been to New Orleans a few times. The first time I visited, it was in the springtime, and it was beautiful. And I shopped like mad in the French Quarter, and foolishly brought back all sorts of New Orleans foodstuffs that you can readily buy locally. I ate very well. Tried all the things that are famous. Beignets. Bananas foster. Coffee with chicory. Bread pudding. Gumbo. Jambalaya. Red beans and rice. Muffalattas. Alligator sausage. Even a Lucky Dog. You name it. I was there for a conference, and my boss was a foodie of grand proportions. So we didn't waste any meals. The next time I visited, it was nearly Christmas, and the city was cold, and my work was tiring, and I didn't make nearly as much of my stay. The next two times were right at the holidays. Once, passing through on my way to Italy to spend time with my family, I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas morning there. That was the time Richard Simmons called me "pretty hair." The last time was in late 1996. I stayed for a week, from Christmas Eve until New Year's Day, visiting with the family of my sister's then-boyfriend. And although it was winter, it was muggy and warm most of the time. And I regretted all the wool I had packed. During that visit, I did all sorts of fun things. And all sorts of cliché things. At Tipitina's one night, a local band was playing a song whose subject was New Orleans and whose unsurprising lyrics kept repeating the phrase, "Big Easy. Big Easy." And a guy in the crowd next to me called out, "More clichés! More clichés! Sing about Bourbon Street. And jazz. And red beans and rice." Later that night, I wrote it down in my notebook.

I think my old college friend Brian Housh may still live in New Orleans. We've fallen out of touch. I hope he's all right. The people I was visiting in that last trip no longer live there. I am so sad for the people who are going through this nightmare. And I am glad that at least some journalists are making a point of calling attention to the molasses-like response of the federal government. Adam sent me this link to Ted Koppel's interview of Mike Brown, director of FEMA. It's encouraging to see some courage and incisiveness return to the news. At the same time, even as these questions are being asked, help is only just getting to New Orleans. And still so little attention is being paid to the rest of the gulf coast, where entire towns have been wiped out. Entire towns. Gone. It's hard to imagine. Hard to believe. And this is just me as a far-off observer. I can't even begin to think what it would feel like to return to your neighborhood and see nothing left standing. I remember the shock of seeing my parents' house after the fire that engulfed it in 1998. I remember just walking through like a zombie saying. "Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god." And eventually beginning to cry.

Walking through the parking lot at Trader Joe's today, I thought to myself how fortunate I am. And I hate corny sentiment. But I saw a father and his young daughter trying to decide what kinds of flowers to buy, and I thought that we really are lucky to be out here right now where the sun is shining and the breeze is blowing and the temperatures are mild and lovely. Of course our own local news media wants us to be afraid, too, as usual. There was a segment yesterday evening on disaster preparedness. What if an earthquake hits us? Or some other catastrophic event? A reporter went door to door checking to see how much bottled water and canned food people had. Whether they had flashlights and batteries. Anyone worried about me should relax, knowing that I have enough non-perishable food to last me well into the next decade. And a goodly amount of bottled water. Of course, I also live in a very old building and would probably be crushed by debris and my jerk upstairs neighbors, if the earth were to quake with any great force. And so would all my valuable supplies. So there.

At the gas station, on my way home, where I paid $3.12 per gallon to fill up my tank, a guy with a giant boat of a vintage Cadillac was making conversation with a bum trying to wash his windshield for him. I overheard him say that it costs him seventy dollars to fill up his tank at this price. And then he laughed and said, "It's just a weekend thing." It seemed crass to me. But I was also filled with relief that the freelance windshield washer was too engrossed in his conversation with that freewheeling gas-guzzler to hit me up for any money. We're all jerks on some level, I suppose.

I went to see my friend Ben's show The Thrilling Adventure and Supernatural Suspense Hour at M Bar on Thursday night. I hadn't been able to make it to the past few shows, and I was glad to be catching it again. It was a fine production and I laughed many times. During the Beyond Belief segment, Paul (F. Tompkins) actually had to shush a table to the left of the stage. And later, when they apparently continued to not shut up, he glared at them. I found that awesome. After the show, in the ladies' room, I heard another in a series of mindnumbing conversations I have heard in ladies' restrooms between girlfriends who stun me with the lack of interesting subject matter that infuses their discourse. This one went a bit like this.

Girl 1: I like your hair.
Girl 2: Do you? I think it's getting too long.
Girl 1: Oh, no. I like it long.
Girl 2: Really? Because everyone tells me they like it better short.
Girl 1: I like it long.
Girl 2: How long?
(pause)
Girl 2: Like long long?
Girl 1: Yes. Long long long. I like long long hair.
Girl 2: I like your earrings.
Girl 1: Oh, they're like doorknockers.
Girl 2: I want to be a more daring earring person.

I saw them outside later on. I didn't care much for Girl 1's earrings or for Girl 2's hair. Paget Brewster clued me in that they were the ones who were making all the noise during the show. It figures. Boy, does it figure.

So, it's Labor Day Weekend. And I guess I'm glad to see summer coming to a close. But I'm not sure that I continue to be grateful for the demarcation. It seems that I am able to access too many of my disappointments when I place them in these seasonal categories. I have had happy summers and horrific summers and summers that passed without much mention. But it seems like the happy times end up getting tainted. Inevitably. Even the good times eventually get hidden behind a feeling of, "Oh, but then THAT happened." I once wrote, "Sometimes when you think you're on top of the world, the world turns over." And I guess that's just the way it goes.

In the hopes I can spell out my name

I was running early Friday morning. Listening to my usual line-up of hip hop classics with the occasional Wham! song mixed in. My running mixes always get me thinking. Usually reminiscing. Often wishing I was carrying something to write with. But I would hate to save sweaty swatches of paper for future transcription. Because I'd never be able to throw them away.

So it was occurring to me as I was listening to the Notorious B.I.G. laying down gangsta truths that language evolves now as a means of evading censorship. And maybe because of science to some degree. Whereas it used to evolve through poetry and metaphor. And maybe because of more advanced respiratory health. Words get made up now to make it possible to say things you aren't actually allowed to say. And there is a bit of beauty to that. The stealth of language. Secret messages. Hushed whispers. Under the radar. It's nearly as intriguing to wonder if what you're saying is even being heard. A message in a bottle takes on a fantasy life. Whether it is ever retrieved. Whether it is smashed to bits, committing its glass parts back to the sand.

And then I saw what looked like a guy walking a rat.

But it was just an aptly shaped piece of paper floating along the sidewalk in front of him. Many many tricks of the eye when running. Even when it's not hot out. You see things in passing. In a car, you don't see them at all. But on foot, you see just enough to get a misguided impression of them. And, if you're at all committed to getting where you're going, you're still unable to stop and figure it out.

On Memorial Day Weekend a few years ago, I took a couple of my cameras with me and walked the route I usually run. I wanted to photograph the many things I thought of photographing when I was running. Every now and then, you have to make a concerted effort to solve these little problems you create for yourself. It mixes things up a little. And I like to think that is the way to not die right away.

I used to think of all sorts of things to write while running. And before I started this most recent employment adventure, I would come back and make the time to sit down and type them down, sweaty fingers and all. Not so anymore. I'm lucky if I remember to make a note to myself before dashing into the shower and rushing off to work. The writing gets away from me. And it's a shame. Because it's one of the staples of my toleration. Its absence is an ulcer waiting to happen.

The week before last, we celebrated my sister and my dad's birthdays, as well as Justin's, Tasha's, and Audrey's. I don't know when Audrey was actually born, but August 19 is the anniversary of her coming to me. And I commemorate that gladly. Especially when I'm getting my daily dose of sleepy dog love. We were having a lovely lunch out by the pool. I was not feeling so super great. I sang in church in the morning and was tired. I took Audrey for a walk around the pool, and I heard my mom say, "Mary looks like a postcard." In my party dress with my little dog and my black heart. I'm sure I looked like a postcard of some kind.

Stan Lee was in our offices a few days back. I didn't say hello. I peered up over the cube tops, but I didn't make a spectacle of myself. I wouldn't really have known what to say anyway. I'm weird that way.

I bought heirloom tomatoes. They were pretty enough to eat.

Everyone loves wasabi peanuts. It's a good thing I have so many of them.

I made so many things for you. For the you that is no more. The you that never was. The idea of you. How do you give a gift to an idea. You don't. You save it. You put it away. You hope you don't have to look at it that often. Otherwise it reminds you that you fall in love with ideas. And you're too smart to be so stupid. I made so many things about you. And when I started making them about me instead, I found that the themes were all things I despised. I'm no good for me.

I like running. Until I don't anymore.

God Bless the Randomizer

Wanna be just like me? Here is how you can fake the serendipity of my music collection by copying my iPod's shuffle pattern. I would make you a CD, but you would lose it. And it would make me feel sad and unappreciated when I asked you about it later.

That You Might (Home Video)
Music Is the Victim (Scissor Sisters)
Seachange (Wendy Morrison)
Supersonic (S#arp)
Alabama Song (ex-Girl)
Better Luck (Scissor Sisters)
Subterranean Homesick Alien (Radiohead)
All the World Is Green (Tom Waits)
Precipitate (Interpol)
Loro (Pinback)
Somebody to Love (Queen/George Michael)
Return to Oz (Scissor Sisters)
I'm Gonna Be the Lonely Boy Tonight (Cherry Twister)
Indian Summer (Pedro the Lion)
Praskovia (Calexico)
Willing to Wait (Sebadoh)
Perverted Undertone (Prefuse 73)
Secret Oktober (Duran Duran)
Like a Ghost (Tarnation)
UMF (Duran Duran)
Fly (Nick Drake)
Alec Eiffel (The Pixies)
He Took Her to a Movie (Ladytron)
Another Morning (American Music Club)
Cosmopolitan (Joe Jackson)
Land Lovers (The Auteurs)
Money for Nothing (Dire Straits)
Hair of the Dog (Nazareth)
The Middle (Jimmy Eat World)
Beyond Belief (Elvis Costello)
Radio, Radio (Elvis Costello)
Wonder Wonder (Edith Frost)
In My Time of Dying (Be Good Tanyas)
Kill You (Eminem)
Me You and Everybody (Gomez)
The Same Race (Star Trek Insurrection)
Hyper Music (Muse)
Conjugate the Verbs (Enon)
Another Love Song (The Frames)
Sonic Turtle (Melt-Banana)
Suffer Never (The Finn Brothers)
The Littlest Birds (Jolie Holland)
Consider Me Gone (Sting)
La Negra Celina (Charanga Cakewalk)
Not Even Close (Tim Finn)
dick is a killer (rx)
Life Is Full of Possibilities (Dntel)
Ever Falls the Twilight (The Gothic Archies)
Pressed in a Book (The Shins)
The Birds (narration) (Nilsson)
In Between Days (The Cure)
Natural Disasters (Enon)
The Chauffeur (Duran Duran)
Laser Love (After the Fire)
Quartet, K.285 Allegro in D-dur (Mozart Flute Quartets)
Die on a Rope (The Distillers)
See a Little Light (Bob Mould)
Banjo Favorites (Nickel Creek)
I Wanna Know What Love Is (Foreigner)
Born (Over the Rhine)
Surfin' USA (Melt-Banana)
A Hole in the World (Thursday)
Cry Me a River (Diana Krall)
Noodletown (Mitchell Froom)
The Way Old Friends Do (ABBA)
The Bird that You can't See (The Apples in Stereo)
Gypsy Moons (Mystery Science Theater 3000)
Busby Berkeley Dreams (The Magnetic Fields)
Slow Bicycle (Mum)
Red Dress (Jonatha Brooke)
Fortress (Pinback)
New Born (Muse)
Yester-Me, Yester-You, Yesterday (Stevie Wonder)
Sour Times (Portishead)
Tin Pan Miracles (Aspera Ad Astra)
The Book and the Canal (Calexico)
Bow Down (Westside Connection)
Oh, You Are the Roots that Sleep Beneath My Feet and Hold the Earth in Place (Bright Eyes)
One Hundred Percent Free (Digby)
You're the Storm (Cardigans)
Superstitious (Stevie Wonder)
Mr. Brightside (The Killers)
Can't Take My Eyes Off You (Andy Williams)
Heads High (Kill Dem Wid It) (Mr. Vegas)
Nightporter (Japan)
I Missed the Point (Neko Case)
You Was It (Spoon)
"How Many Ships?" (Star Trek: First Contact)
From a Balance Beam (Bright Eyes)
Before You Go (The Frames)
Invisible Ink (Aimee Mann)
Seven Nation Army (The White Stripes)
86 (Green Day)
Lost Cause (Beck)
I Beg Your Pardon (I Never Promised You a Rose Garden) (Kon Kan)
Suit of Fire (Parker Lily)
Twin Cinema (The New Pornographers)
Sora (Gutevolk)
Paint by Numbers (Danger Mouse & Murs)
Club Foot (Kasabian)
Fistful of Love (Devendra Banhart)
Rebellion (Lies) (The Arcade Fire)
Stormy Weather (Nina Nastasia)
Melancholy Serenade/Yesterdays (Jackie Gleason)
In a Funny Way (Mercury Rev)
Goodnight Goodnight (Hot Hot Heat)
Smile Around the Face (Four Tet)
Viola (Girlyman)
I Feel Love (Cobra Verde)
Reflections After Jane (The Clientele)
Barnowl (Caribou)
Lobsteriscos Rocketiza (Applied Communications)
Complaine de la Butte (Rufus Wainwright)
What'll I Do (Frank Sinatra)
Persephone (Cocteau Twins)
This Time (Bryan Adams)
Crush with Eyeliner (R.E.M.)
Last Chance on the Stairway (Duran Duran)
Breathe Me (Sia)
Lawrence of Arabia (Jackie Gleason)
Princess Poo-Poo-Ly Has Plenty Papaya (Alfred Apaka)

HBO Phones It In

HBO's original series are so reliably popular that the network doesn't really have to do much to support them. Not all of them catch like wildfire, but none of them seem to crash and burn. (Wait. What ever happened to K Street?) I've been watching my stories as much as I can recently. Mostly just Six Feet Under. And now that's over, so I can feel free to take a trip or use the phone again. Anyway, I've been seeing the promos for Rome, and I keep hearing this line in the voiceover: "The sexiest ancient world yet seen on TV." And this amuses me. As I think it is commonly accepted that very little of the ancient world can be considered sexy unless you can get past abhorrent dental hygiene, sporadic bathing, and constantly dirty feet. I mean, maybe you think Genghis Khan would be a sexy character to make a show about, because he was a leader and vicious and largely successful, but the Mongols NEVER bathed. They wore their clothes until they literally rotted off their bodies. (Note: If HBO makes an original series about the Mongols, I'm suing.) And think of the ladies of the past. When did hair removal even become popular?

I've always fantasized about time travel, and I'm certain that I'd get a kick out of seeing the world of my forefathers, but comfort is tricky for me, and I can't imagine I'd have a lick of fun if I didn't have my travel case along.

I just think television marketing can be lazy at times. And I hope that the "sexy" aspect of ancient Rome isn't the only thing that intrigues people about what went on back then. I hope the History Channel doesn't start having to try and make the past seem sexier just to meet its numbers. I don't know that there's much you can do to gussy up abject poverty and rampant disease. Although a lot of folks were very thin.

For the record, wilderness survival is also not sexy.

I went to see that amazing Tim Hawkinson exhibit at LACMA yesterday. I feel guilty even mentioning it, as it closes today, and if you haven't already seen it, you probably won't get to. And oh the things you missed in your apathy and inaction. It was amazing. Curious and breathtaking and strangely pragmatic and then thoroughly inspired. I didn't get everything. Even though I couldn't help but overhear a guy -- unasked -- explaining to a kid and his mother, "It's about colonialization in the time of the tall ships." He credentialed himself in this manner: "I know a lot about Tim Hawkinson. I'm a high school teacher." I try not to be guilty of this myself. I try not to accidentally eavesdrop and find that someone wants to know something I can tell them. I try to wait to be invited into the conversation. But some people can't help themselves. And I judge them. And then I judge myself for being so judgmental. Because I label things so easily as despair or greed or an unjustified try.

I had had me a customer service jack before I got to see the show. When I went to pick up a ticket for me and my friend, I found that my LACMA membership needed renewing, so I asked the man at the Members counter if I could just go ahead and renew right now. And typically, people wanting to give them money makes the staff at the museum perk right up. I've been contributing at the Patron level since I moved here in 2001. And I always assumed they appreciated that. But this guy tried to send me over to a membership table they had set up in the brutal hot sun a short distance away. I asked if I could just take care of it with him, and he said, "Not with these lines." And I turned and looked behind me to find not a single person standing there. No one. Those stretchy cordons defined a nice empty corridor. "There's no one in line at all." He said, already testy, "Ma'am, it really would be easier if you went over there." I smiled and replied, "Not for me." He just looked at me, frustrated and stone-faced. I turned and gestured toward the absence of a line. "There's NO ONE here." He didn't look at me as he got a membership form from the rack and began to mark it up. "$75 dollars please." "I usually contribute at the Patron level." "Okay." Then he took my credit card and charged me and gave me my two passes and sent me on my way without making eye contact with me again. He didn't give me my temporary membership card, and he didn't thank me. And I really find that hard to believe. Another museum employee came and asked him a question as he was "helping" me, and he acted all flustered and passive aggressive. He shrugged and muttered something about not having time. And, of course, once I stepped away from the counter, no one stepped up to it. And I'm sure he found that infuriating.

But that didn't really ruin anything for me. The exhibit was more than enough distraction to push that guy into my memory's recesses. And afterwards, we visited the permanent collection (I always do). They're rearranging the museum a great deal, and I'm not fond of change. A lot of my lovely LACMA lawn has been paved over. They're building on it. I'm sure it will be something great. But there's far less picnic spot. And that's a shame. Even within the galleries, many things aren't where they used to be. It happens when visiting exhibits require things to be shuffled around. I was afraid I wouldn't get to see my Rothko. But it was there. Just not in the same spot. And not shown in the same light. And what a difference that makes. We also visited the André Kertész photographs and the Jacob van Ruisdael landscapes. The Kertész exhibit made me want to go out and take pictures. In a city with some history. And possibly from somewhere up high. I loved his self-portraiture. I take comfort in seeing that I'm not the only person in the world who thinks there is value in photographing one's own shadow or one's own reflection. Mostly, I just missed taking pictures in black and white and seeing them appear magically in a darkroom bath. I have to get my Canon A-1 fixed. Still. The spool busted outside a roadside store somewhere in Arizona. Shortly before I tasted ostrich jerky for the first time. It was disgusting. But probably mostly because it was so old. Last year, I bought someone else's Canon A-1 and took it with me to Coachella and snapped hundreds of photos with it. But the light meter on that needs fixing, too. A trip to Samy's is in order.

"I put him at that time in front of an ultimatum," is how Anne Douglas describes the way she confronted Kirk Douglas about one of his infidelities. Everyone in the world should be French. I love the poetry of translation.

I don't love that this embarrassingly personal piece about the Douglas family is on HBO's roster. It makes me feel bad for them. And it also made me look at a photograph of Dalton Trumbo sitting in a bathtub writing. How dare it.

The Wee Hours

I just came home and walked my dog. And when we were outside, I saw my neighbors across the street arrive home, and an adult dude was carrying a fully grown but totally unconscious other adult dude the way you would carry a sleeping child -- a child who fell asleep during the ride home. Only this child's legs were so long that his feet were nearly dragging on the sidewalk.

And I came back in just in time to see the scene in that Steven Seagal movie where this guy I used to date gets thrown down a flight of stairs. How like a movie life so often is.

If I had one wish

It would be that Jessica Alba would not be playing Jeannie in the I Dream of Jeannie movie.

The Pitter-Patter of Tiny-Minded Feet

O how my blood is made to boil by conservative footsoldiers like that Skeletor-esque Kellyanne Conway, whose performance on Bill Maher's season premiere was irritating enough to make me want to increase my monthly contribution to the DNC and the DCCC tenfold. I was glad that Bill pressed her when she continually made unsubstantiated assertions, even going so far as to ask her what ass she had just pulled one of her claims from. But I couldn't help but feel that she should have been taken more to task. Whenever she was backed into a corner, she would end up saying something like, "Oh, come on, Bill." And that would be the end of her rebuttal. A tactic which was used with nearly as much effectiveness by Phyllis Schlafly, when Bill brought up the subject of her gay son. It's just that when people argue in this fashion -- never conceding a point, never acknowledging a misstep -- it's easy for the sound bites that get pulled from the discussions to be used as ammunition for their agenda, and most people are just lazy enough to accept someone else's synopsis rather than do the research firsthand. For instance, if you do not receive the HBO, and you are a liberal like me, you might read what I've written here and agree with me. And if you are a conservative, you might read this and dismiss it outright. But what always gets me so het up when I'm watching one of these shows -- particularly if I don't have the luxury of like-minded company to share in my irate flabbergastery -- is that the dialogue is useless. No one says anything real. Nothing that's said is of any great import. It's more important to try and get in a zinger than it is to make a point. It's exactly what happens in most arguments in the real world amongst real people who know nothing of the art of the dialectic.

There was a time when I enjoyed this. The sparring. The amicable disagreement. I was a debater for Pete's sake. For fun. But ever since the 2000 elections, I have gotten much more impatient, much more susceptible to flinching when that lingering road rash gets poked at. I wish we could talk about things with more than just the intention of winning. I wish we could try and get to the bottom of issues. Solve problems. Come up with ideas. Without being so concerned about who would get credit for the solutions. Without paying so much attention to the (D) or the (R) that follows the name on the chyron.

Somewhere along the way, I got it in my noggin that all this mattered. And then the fun started to seep away. Like blood draining from a turnip. So suddenly that you forget to ask how it got there in the first place.

Things that have been important to me.

In no particular order.

Notebook paper. Duran Duran. Violet Crumble. Shoestring potatoes. Egg custard. Paper clips. Names of characters in stories I have not yet written. Picture-taking. Bust support. Accomplished drinking. Perfect rice. Organized hosiery. Freesia. Chamomile soap that doesn't get made anymore. Big Top Pee-wee. Soundtrack albums. Long distance plans. Allergy remedies. Ive League education. Speech and debate. Air hockey. Swimming. Haircut. Hourglass figure. Strappy shoes. Frequent flyer miles. Diet Dr. Pepper. Hydration. Pedicure. Competitive sports (just kidding). Making the perfect bolognese sauce. Turtleneck. Blue mascara. Approval. Callbacks. Pantry space. High thread count sheets. That guy. Mendelssohn. Low-waisted jeans. Knee boots. That other guy. Black and white. Winning. Tongue-twisters. Superlatives. Correctness. Cuteness. Eraser collection. Fractal patterns. Books I've lost. Marilyn Monroe. Lined clothing. Silk. Mark Rothko. Japan. Dignity. Handel's Messiah. Soprano. Deep Space Nine. Salt and vinegar. Ballroom dancing. Perception of neurosis. ABBA. Spelling bee. Pedal pushers. Green. Juicy Fruit. Danny Kaye. Good side. Pork chops with cream sauce and mushrooms. Anodized cookware. Stovetop popcorn. Running. Stress urinary incontinence. Etymology. French. Christmas. Violin. Balance Bars. Arranciata. Campari soda. Whiskey. Mid-century modern. Simpatico. Phrasing. Sleep. Preparation. The Girl Can't Help It. Sebastian Shpritz Forte. Chicken fried rice. Olives. Stringed instruments. Memorization. Completiong. Jigsaw puzzles. Phyllo dough. Elephants. Late night dog walking. Ephemera. Binaries. Hard drive space. Bragging rights. Apple. Starvation. Sense memory. Certain sitcoms I'm embarrassed to list.

She's a real go-getter in a cardigan sweater.

I am not lamenting the end of summer. Not at all. I caught a whiff of fall in the air a few days ago, and it was fine with me. I don't care for slow cooking. Even though everything is always more tender that way.

I feel a bit stuck. Like the gears in my brain have halted. Leaving Tim Robbins temporarily suspended above the snow-covered streets of New York. When I invite my co-worker Michael out to smoke now, I say, "Cigareet?" But it doesn't happen often, because he usually manages to invite me first. In which case I just end up saying, "Yes."

I walked around in Beverly Hills today, shopping on my lunch break. I felt lousy. Tired. Filled with self-loathing. Awful. It was a lovely day. But that didn't really matter much.

When I was on the plane to New York, the in-flight magazine featured a cover story about Steve Martin and a book on tape he released about Beverly Hills and where one should go and what one might see there. It's strange, because everything the author of the article talked about doing is everything I do or see or walk past on my various lunch breaks from my office. And only a few short months ago, none of it would have meant anything to me. I have been to Beverly Hills. But now I actually know my way around. I guess I'm grateful for that. Working from home doesn't afford me as much opportunity to learn my away around different parts of town. But the trade-off leaves me sapped of strength and sort of perpetually despondent. It's unfortunate. And typical.

I am still filling my nights with improv workshops and performances and seeing shows and sticking around for drinks with friends. And not making hot dog dioramas and not putting my art supplies away. I feel as if I have burned away the part of my brain that enables me to feel pleasure and joy. I can't feel the effects of alcohol or caffeine, and nothing tastes good to me. And I'm pretty sure I never stole any Aztec gold or anything. It's just not fair.

Dreams are wishes.

An episode of Six Feet Under made me cry a lot recently. The way that episode of Ally McBeal when Billy dies did. It's weird to be able to muster that level of emotion for some fictional apparition. It makes me feel guilty and stupid. Surely there are better things on which to squander my emotions. Surely I can find better reasons to cry.

Hey, L.A., where've you gone?

Many Happy Returns

Today is the tandem birthday of my dad (Sam) and my sister (Sarah). I called them both to convey my happy wishes. When I called my dad, who turns seventy-six today, I said, "Happy birthday, old timer." And he said, "Seventy-six trombones." And I thought that was adorable.

It is also the birthday of my friends Geoffrey, Josh, and Becky. Which I think is ridiculous.

Catching up with missed luck.

Yesterday was the eighth of August. On past eighths of August, I have generally made mention of what a lucky day that is for the Chinese. I won't belabor the point.

I have been working altogether too much. My eyes are sore all day. Caffeine seems to have none of its usual potency. Every moment is a catalogue of ache. Even my beloved boozes are less appealing to me. I know they will make me sleepy and that I will lack the vigor to benefit from any of their more rewarding repercussions. It is a suckfest.

I was in New York for a few days last week. I stayed at the Dream Hotel. I would describe it, but I'm lazy and the spark is gone. I will post photos at some point. If I can find a free moment. The most noteworthy image I recall was riding up on the elevator and watching the doors open on floor after floor to display some artsy, impressionistic photo mural in cool blue hues and then arriving on the eighth floor to be greeted by a giant photo of a nude man running after himself. There were oranges on the pillows. But I had a room without a bath tub. So in order to try and get my mom's idea of my money's worth, I ate the oranges. Peeled 'em with my own hands and everything. It sounds crazy even to me.

It was so dreadfully hot and humid. Coming home to a hot and humid Los Angeles, I realize that I will probably never feel the need to complain about the heat here again. Even when it is its most uncomfortable. Even in my un-air-conditioned home. As hot and as humid as it ever gets, it's never like it was in New York these last two times I visited. Nights that never cool down. Air that smells of innards cooking in the bodies living about them. That filmy feeling on your skin and hair and teeth. All day long. I'm glad to be home. And if I ever end up living in New York, I will invest a great deal of money in air conditioning.

This is the third time I've been at a swanky hotel in Manhattan (and San Diego) when I was sent on a hotel blow dryer hunt. In each case I had to call down to the front desk to have them help me figure out where the blow dryer was stowed. At the W, it was in a little cloth sack in the closet. At the Marriott in San Diego, it was in a little cloth sack in the armoire. At the Dream Hotel, it was in a little cloth sack hanging from the back of the bathroom door. I even checked in the closet, hoping I'd discovered the new trend in blow dryer placement. But no. I had to call the front desk. They were nice enough. But I felt stupid just the same.

My teeth ache. I think I have been gritting them all day at work. And after an exhausting week of meetings and travel and work work work, I had to drive down to San Diego to perform, collect my dog, drive back up to Los Angeles to perform again, and then start the work week all over again with no greater an average of sleeping hours to my credit than before. I'll be dead by Christmas. I've been saying it for weeks. I have a lot of awesome belongings. I hope you get some of them, if that is your wish.

I don't know what else. My head hurts so much right now. Do we really need to be roasting Pamela Anderson? And if so, do we also need to be exploiting the ailing Kirk Douglas? He will always be Spartacus to me. And that sailor with a whale of a tale to tell. I don't want to see him working out his issues with his son on camera. This seems the height of vulgarity. Where's Steve Allen to object to things when you need him to?

I hate moths. And I keep having to prove it to them by murdering them and smearing their gross, powdery carcasses all over my walls. Why doesn't anyone ever take me at my word?

I'm a bit of a stickler.

You can lose me in two words. There's a commercial for Procrit that features an older fellow, soberly addressing the camera after we've seen him working as an auctioneer. He says, "I've always talked fast. And loved antiques." And loved antiques? Come on. How am I supposed to feel bad about you and your cancer when you say something so disingenuous?

When did baldness become so fashionable?

There are more shaved heads in my office than there are haircuts. And not all of them are heads that would otherwise be unadorned. Is everyone in the world looking for maps on their scalps? Dudes should consider the possibility that any maps they find might be presented in relief.

Continue spreading the news

I'm off to New York again for a few days. So if you live there and want to see me or if you have friends there you want me to wave at or if you just have a dozen or so balloons of heroin you want me to transport, you'd better get in touch with me soon. I like to know how to pack my bags.

SPAM continues to diminish my self-esteem.

I received an email today from someone named Grant Clay, with the subject line "bye bye big thighs." And if it weren't for the fact that I have never dated a Grant Clay, I would have assumed I was being broken up with.

Star War III: Backstroke of the West

Friends, allow me to share with you the funniest thing I have ever seen. It is this.

Thank you, Paul F. Tompkins, the Famous Comedian.

They want what they're not.

Poor Mary. Sickly and weak. If I cough again, I'll cry. Maybe I'm just looking for excuses.

No one in the world ever gets what they want and that is beautiful.
Everybody dies frustrated and sad and that is beautiful.

When you were a young and a callow fellow

Yesterday was hot. One of those days so hot that it's literally all anyone can talk about. Heat apparently saps our imaginations. It crowds our brains until even the sight of something truly odd has no purchase. All you can say is how hot you are and how little relief you got from the various remedies you tried. "It was so hot today that I snuck into Ralph's and spent the day in the freezer, sitting on a pallet of ice cream." "I sat in my car and ran the air conditioner until it ran out of gas." "I drank hot tea." (That's what Chinese people do.)

Extremes of weather are peculiar in that way. I guess people are relieved about it. Having something to talk about. When there's a world incident or a noteworthy weather change, all of a sudden, you don't have to sit there in silence, wondering whether the person sitting across from you speaks English anymore. And yet who really cares about current events or the weather or how your family is doing. It's a shame that people don't just say what they're really thinking. Although, if I were to do that, I'd probably have far fewer friends. My brain comes up with monstrous things only I can enjoy.

I forgot that my workshop was over yesterday, so I drove to the building on Santa Monica and opened the door to the room to find another group of people in it. Two of them on stage, clearly offput by my very quiet entrance. I excused myself and stood there in the hallway for a few seconds, processing my error. Then I went to the Smart and Final on Wilshire to buy Red Bull and other things in large quantities. Then I went home to my hot apartment where my dog was in love with me and the sweating became second nature. I've been experiencing the nag of a cold all week. A dry cough and some congestion. I was thoroughly exhausted by late afternoon, so I tried to take a nap. But it was just a series of feverish wakings and discussions with myself about whether I should just lie still or get up and see what's on TV.

In the evening, I picked up my friend Kevin, and we went and got a drink at The Dresden before catching Ron Lynch's new show "The Tomorrow Show" at the Steve Allen Theater. We ran into the impeccably-attired and always-gracious Poubelle Twins, who were attending the same performance, so we all made our way over together when it was appropriate to do so. Then we watched the show. And then it was too late to go anywhere for a drink. The problem with a midnight show. So Kevin and I raced two a.m. to get to Von's and buy booze. We did. But it was no longer of interest to anyone else to share it, so we took it back to his house and sat outside drinking and smoking until nearly five a.m. I told him stories of work. We talked about a sketch he is writing. I offered some suggestions and thought as I was doing so, "Hey, Mary, I guess you DO know a thing or two about writing." And then I was immediately ashamed that I was not writing my own sketch instead of just helping someone else with his. Always an editor, never a bride.

This past week was one of the most taxing ever. My consulting job. My freelance work. My health. My wishes. I ended the escapade feeling bruised and battered. Canceling my plans to go to San Diego to perform. Knowing I wouldn't survive it. Wanting the opportunity to sit still. Knowing that I never take that opportunity when it presents itself. I want to be so much that I'm not. Some of that wanting is so lackluster and unambitious as to be content just going back to what I recently was. I'm not greedy. I could never get away with it.

Try to remember. Try to remember. It's not the right month for it, if you go by the song lyrics. It's never the right month. It's never the right day. It's never the right time. It's never the same for you as it is for me. It's never what I thought it would be or what I keep trying to make it. I'm just scrambling eggs over here. I prefer them over easy, but I'll eat them any way they are served.

Today's not so much cooler than yesterday. It's cloudy out, but still hot and humid. Tornado weather, if we lived in a tornado state, as I said to Krissy a while earlier. Krissy, who recently learned that she is the oven for a little baby bun. I am fearful of change. It has seldom been my ally. Except in extreme retrospect, when you adopt that worldview wherein everything that ever happened to you helped you get to where you are. And that only works when where you are isn't some place you hate. Or some place too hot to stand.

Loren Bouchard was kind enough to send me some photos he took at one of the after-closing hotel room parties we both attended during Comic-Con week. I am not the star of this photo, but I love what I'm saying in it.