That crazy Donner Party!

I am just about done listening to "Desperate Passage," about the Donner Party. I was terrified to read/listen to this- but it was on sale on Audible.com for $4.95 and I was intrigued. Not knowing much about the situation I had visions in my mind of a crazy flesh eating family of pioneer zombies terrorizing the wild west.

Turns out they were just realllly hungry. And really wanted to get to California! Two things I can relate to in different ways. Their story is fascinating. I have never been so motivated in my life as these people. I can't imagine just heading into a complete unknown searching for a better life. Such courage and faith.

Today I woke up and chatted online and then went back to bed and woke up and went back to bed, etc. Not depressed- just bored. Meanwhile, the Donner Party is going 2 miles an hour, creeping their way to California- eating shoestrings, their pants, their family - just trying to get to friggin California for Christ's sake. I could just take a relatively pleasant and moderately priced Southwest flight, pop a Lunesta and I'm in Los Angeles in no time. I would quickly become bored with Los Angeles, miss my cats and want to come home.

I love Audible.com. I love audiobooks- ever since I was little. I remember those little 45 records you used to get with a picture book. I listened to "Bedtime for Frances" so many times. I can't tell you what the story was about- something about a bear (was she a bear?) not wanting to go to bed. I moved on to biographies about Carol Burnett and Joan Rivers. Later I got into Stephen King. Stephen King is one of the best storytellers. Just a master- the Shakespeare of our times. Quote me on that. The battle between good and evil- so simple but so beautiful.

The Donner Party were not evil. That's what I learned from this book. They were just doing what they had to do to survive. But, like I said, my imagination can scare up such horrifying fantasies about things I know nothing about. How many other things do I avoid or condemn in my mind when I have absolutely no idea what the facts are or what I'm talking about.

I remember during 9/11 I became terrified of Anthrax. I imagined the most horrible terrible things. But it's a skin rash, flu like symptoms and then you die or don't die. No walk in the park by any stretch of the imagination- but nothing like I imagined. I just looked up the symptoms on the CDC website and one of the FAQ's is, "How can I know my cold or flu is not anthrax?" Good God!

Twisted Blankets

I have acute sinusitis and acute bronchitis- allergies that turned into something much more dramatic. I wish that I could get on the side of dramatic and embrace it. Lay in my bed and watch movies with my cats but I keep getting the urge to get up and do something but I have no energy and that makes me mad so I sleep.

I am trying to hang out on the porch for a bit with my Diet Coke and coffee and write something but it is very hard to resist my bed. I also don't like that it is difficult to tell the difference between depression and acute sinusitis and bronchitis.

It's a neverending cycle of coughing and guilt, fever and self loathing.  I am spiraling down a hole while dirty laundry and unwatered plants scream at me and pieces of kitty litter are stuck to my feet. My bed is covered with empty Diet Coke bottles, pretzel rod crumbs and half a bag of uneaten Sour Patch Kids. Twisted blankets never covering the right places, pillows never supporting correctly as I spiral down further and further.

But in my Robotussin dreams, I am able to channel the most beautiful scene- a white washed architectural balcony overlooking a blue blue ocean, populated with beautiful men. I never see their faces just snapshots of broad pale shoulders, chocolate abs, complex muscular thighs. A feeling that all is well, that I am always invited back here.A calm euphoria, taking barefoot steps on warm white stucco. Not knowing my point of being here but not wanting to leave.

Red Bettys

Oh Sudafed you dirty little jagged red pill. So teensy tiny shiny red.

My late summer cold gives me an excuse to ride the Suda-train with tiny little red wheels.
 It's thrilling that I have to get it from behind the counter. Show my license, sign my signature. I worry that some day I will hit my limit. That I'll be accused of having a little meth lab in my bedroom. Brewing up some Tina and watching Cupcake Wars. I am simply not that ambitious.

I think that Sudafed might be an effective adjunct treatment for Bipolar Disorder. I can't speak for the other crazies but when I pop those pills it takes about ten minutes and I am LOCKED IN. What I mean by that is- I feel like all the nauseous-esque, jittery, mildly psychotic energy is locked down and I can focus for a few hours. My concentration is in peak condition. My enjoyment of music and life are heightened. I'm just real chatty and generally a slightly insane ray of sunshine for all to bask in.

Or these could just be the expected effects of amphetamines. I have never "taken meth" which is good because I think I would be happily hooked. I'd be an itchy, paranoid ray of sunshine with no teeth. I have watched people take meth (I'll explain later). Little glass tube with a ball on the end lit with a lighter. These folks are not living the high class Sudafed lifestyle I enjoy every change of season. These people are real itchy and real turned on and unfortunately at the same time, very unattractive.

Authentic "Meth Chic" is never a good look for anyone. Heroin does have a photographic appeal. The super skinny 90's models, skeletal Kate Moss with a smoky eye. The look can be done very well.

The downside of the S-Hole, as I've come to call it, is that after about 3 hours rolling on the red bettys I get EXTREMELY ANNOYED AT EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING. I am EXHAUSTED- I try to lay down and fall asleep for 10 minutes, awakened quickly with what feels like a heart attack. Unfortunately I am not taking the red pills but a mixture of a Mucinex and Pseudoephedrine. These look like horse pills and aren't as easy on the eyes. It's time for my next pill.

steelcase

At work there is lots of Steelcase office furniture left over from the fifties. I actually don't know if it's from the fifties. It could be from the nineties.

I think our generation thinks everything not from the 00's is from the seventies- there is a design gap from what we remember as children or what we saw in movies, etc and its all wrong. No, that ugly building is not "from the seventies" it's actually from the forties and it's beautiful.

Anyway Steelcase office furniture from "the fifties"- ridiculously heavy filing cabinets and desks painted a slightly metallic yet dull grey. Intimidating grey metal chairs with green vinyl padding and rubber arm rests. Something you would sit in outside the principals office. It all has me thinking I want to create a writing corner or room in my apartment. My laptop and an ashtray and a coffee mug and a filing cabinet. Trying to create some version of 1950s New York in Chicago.

Isn't everyone everywhere always around the world trying to create some version of New York for themselves? Trying to New York themselves the hell away from wherever they are (mentally, spiritually, sexually). If they are not they should be.

This writerly office fantasy doesn't quite make sense though. Do I want to be a 1950's secretary or a 1950's writer? The answer of course is the former. And that doesn't get me anywhere. Steelcase Office furniture isn't for writing -it's for being sexually harrased while you type. Which is a fine fantasy but that's a lot of very heavy steel office furniture for roleplaying.

I think my real writing fantasy is being Johnny Depp in Secret Room. I think that was the name of that movie. Johnny Depp has fake trendy glasses and walks around in a robe and smokes and writes. I think I've already lived that fantasy! He's in a log cabin as I recall which I am indifferent about. And it's written by Mr. Stephen King who I adore. I love all of his fake East Coast towns. His female characters are the best (says this gay man). Kathy Bates as Annie Wilkes and Dolores Claiborne. Cujo! Cujo was an angry male dog but who can forget that yellow Toyota and the blond woman who played the mom. Held captive inside a yellow hatchback! Terrified of a Rabies! So eighties or fifties or twenties.

All I know is that I have to smoke while I write. Or know that I can smoke at some point very easily. Self destructive writer tools- alcohol, cocaine, nicotine. With every beautiful word exhaled to the world, a little hit of equally delicious poison taken. That's a mixed and or inablanced metaphor if I've ever written/blogged one.

Footnote to Howl

Footnote to Howl
Allen Ginsberg






Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy!
The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and hand
and asshole holy!
Everything is holy! everybody's holy! everywhere is
holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman's an
angel!
The bum's as holy as the seraphim! the madman is
holy as you my soul are holy!
The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is
holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!
Holy Peter holy Allen holy Solomon holy Lucien holy
Kerouac holy Huncke holy Burroughs holy Cas-
sady holy the unknown buggered and suffering
beggars holy the hideous human angels!
Holy my mother in the insane asylum! Holy the cocks
of the grandfathers of Kansas!
Holy the groaning saxophone! Holy the bop
apocalypse! Holy the jazzbands marijuana
hipsters peace & junk & drums!
Holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements! Holy
the cafeterias filled with the millions! Holy the
mysterious rivers of tears under the streets!
Holy the lone juggernaut! Holy the vast lamb of the
middle class! Holy the crazy shepherds of rebell-
ion! Who digs Los Angeles IS Los Angeles!
Holy New York Holy San Francisco Holy Peoria &
Seattle Holy Paris Holy Tangiers Holy Moscow
Holy Istanbul!
Holy time in eternity holy eternity in time holy the
clocks in space holy the fourth dimension holy
the fifth International holy the Angel in Moloch!
Holy the sea holy the desert holy the railroad holy the
locomotive holy the visions holy the hallucina-
tions holy the miracles holy the eyeball holy the
abyss!
Holy forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith! Holy! Ours!
bodies! suffering! magnanimity!
Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent
kindness of the soul!

Berkeley 1955

The Acting Life

I was recently asked by a weekend house guest about my much talked about former career as an actor. This is something I hesitate to talk about. I am not ashamed or sad about this period in my life. It's just not something that matters much to me anymore. I have settled down comfortably. So many things have changed. I have a cat now as well as a Blu-Ray Disc player. I've reached that period many have spoken about in O Magazines. I'm not looking back anymore and I have entrepreneurial interests. I am thinking about starting a small business making homemade scented soaps and lotions with old timey labels that go bad after a week because they contain no preservatives, something I think is very important.

But as she was a houseguest, I indulged her curiosity and opened up my mental scrapbook of my life "on the boards." We made a pot of tea and I opened up a package of sea salt crackers that I received in a Tuscan themed gift basket from my lawyer. As I sipped a Coke Zero and munched on some Fiery Hot Cheetos, we went back.

I began my theater career as many do, in secondary school. I was cast as the leading role in "Twelve Angry Men," a classic absurdest play about 12 men who are locked in a room. These men are obsessed, for whatever reason, with a murder that took place. The play is five hours long and is a very confusing comment on a very important issue about society. Of course, the cultural significance of the play and the critical acclaim it garnered was lost on me at such a young age. This was my first play, my first leading role. What I remember about this play the most was that it was my very first (and not surprisingly not my very last) experience surrounded by an entire cast of male and female homosexuals.

If someone saw what was going on outside of rehearsals and performances they might have though they stumbled into a apocalyptic brothel. The show was, for that reason, halted before its final weekend due to a syphilis outbreak that plagued everyone but the director and myself. Many of the people involved in the outbreak never recovered and are institutionalized to this day. I know this because my friend requests on Facebook are left unanswered. I assume these "dummy pages" were set up by friends and family to protect their loved ones. I won best actor for this performance which gave me freedom to literally pick and choose my projects in the future.

The next role I chose was during my senior year of college at the very prestigious McHenry County College. It was the lead in "Crimes of The Heart" a melodrama about southern women. The play was a comment on society and women talking in southern ways about someone who died and a lawyer comes over and sets things straight. I played the much coveted role of the southern lawyer who comes to the house with a briefcase and says pessimistic things. One of the women falls in love with my character because he is a good guy and she's had enough of her old boyfriend who is pretty mean.

During the second night of the play, I had an experience which frightened me. In a scene at the kitchen table, I blanked out and forgot everything. I sat silent for what seemed like an hour. Luckily my co-star, a noted lesbian, prompted me with my line and we got on track again. Although I ultimately recovered and moved on, the school never did. The school administration and the media were thrust into a veritable Japanese Circus because of the incident. The drama department at the school lost its funding. Enrollment dropped dramatically and sadly, a year later, the school burned down in what many believe was an insurance/arson scam or whatever its called when people burn down buildings to get money. This happened to a grocery store in my town. The grocery store was never rebuilt. To this day, when I think about this play I can almost feel the emotions threatining to roll back and take over. Luckily, I have a wonderful psycho-pharmacologist.

After a brief hiatus from acting, the director of "Crimes of the Heart," a closeted, notoriously endowed homosexual, asked me to be the lead in an improvisational comedy experiment. After some initial hesitation, I agreed under the condition that I was paid considerably more than the rest of the cast. He agreed not only because I deserved much more than the others, but because I threatened to out him to his wife, who coincidentally, was a well endowed, alcoholic lesbian.

The improvisational experiment proved to be a success. The other actors (all homosexuals and one bipolar transvestite amputee) were mostly competent performers. But it was my name, and my precision comedic timing that filled those seats. The audience and the other critics knew this and suffered through the scened I was not in. When I left the show, due to a Tuberculosis scare, the show and the theater shut down. I often think about those actors now while cutting my toenails or emptying the bathroom trash can. I wonder if they are still performing or if they have, like most sexual deviants, taken jobs in IT. Perhaps they can find a way to infuse some of what they learned from me into their daily lives. That's all I can hope for.

My houseguest was very interested in my Oscar winning performances in "The Lighthouse," "Julie's Plan," "The Mopwasher," "Careful Who You Kiss" and "The Des Moines Affair." She was very sad that she found no mention of these films in any film periodicals or even online. I understood, you can usually find anything online. Like, let's say you find that there are some mischievous chipmunks in your dishwasher. You can type "I have chipmunks in my dishwasher" into Google and sure enough Delores in Seattle is posting about her chipmunk experience on DishwasherForum.

There is no information about these films because I have not allowed it. No DVD releases, no midnight screenings, no fan clubs. I have controlled this part of my life and any information concerning it. I did this, again, not because I have anything to hide. I did this to protect the people involved in these films- most, if not all alcoholic homosexuals and lesbians. Of course, I wouldn't say I agree with their "alternative lifestyles." I do believe that whatever happens in your bedroom should stay in your bedroom and/or on videotape carefully kept in Steve Madden shoe boxes under your bed.

Unfortunately, whether or not she knew, it was time for my house guest (a bicurious ventriloquist) to go. I escorted her to the door, firmly, by the arm. She thanked me for the weekend, and I thanked her for coming. She had one more question, and I indulged her. "Will you ever return to acting?" she asked.

This is a tough question that I get asked a lot. "For the right role, the right amount of money and the right co-star and the right lighting and the right amount of mayonnaise based chilled salads all in big frosted plastic jewel toned bowls- Yes, of course I would" I said.

And with that I said goodbye and wished her luck with whatever it is that she does and whatever kids or whatever. By then, it was early Saturday morning. I laid down on my couch and took an Ambien and let myself remember... just for a few minutes.

I'd be safe and warm

I had double teachers for fifth grade. Two rooms seperated by folding vinyl partitions. But the partitions were never closed. Miss B and Mrs. White. Both very large women who wore Mu-Mus and Birkenstocks with pantyhose. I believe they may have both worn wigs. The only reason I am hesitant about this is because I don't understand why they would have chosen these wigs. Miss White had white curly hair and Miss B had a brown greyish curly mop.

This was in San Jose, California. You didn't walk down long stuffy waxed hallways like schools in Illinois to avoid below zero temperatures. To go to the boys bathroom (a frightening destination whatever the climate) you had to go outside and cross a large sunny concrete courtyard. I tell you this not because it has anything to do with anything. Just to remind myself of the feel of California. Cacti and palm tree landscaping. Those dry bark wood chips on the playground (another frightening place). The boys bathroom, playgounds, parties- I don't like places where you encounter other people and are expected to socialize with them solely because you are in their proximity.

I don't know if Miss B and Miss White were married to men or not. I do know that they were lesbians. Any two portly teachers, with complete disregard for fashion, who insist on having their classrooms combined are lesbians in my mind whether or not they actually are. I can see them intimidating tall, lean, eighties mustached principals and school district superintendents- insisiting that it was their way or the freeway.

Each morning we were given mylar packets of something called Swish! and a paper cup. We were told to swish this mixture of flouride and artificial sweetener for 30 seconds and spit it in to the cup. California must have been pushing dental hygiene for children.

The atmosphere was dictatorial. I realize I would have gargled gasoline if thats what I was told to do by these ladies. They had a reputation for being evil. Something I never witnessed. They just looked crazy and mean.

We had to memorize poems every month. Standing single file in line, we waited our turn to recite with Miss B. or Miss White. Like a literary DMV. They looked at us over their thick glasses and either passed or failed us. We were then waived away and it was the next persons turn.

We watched a seventies Canadian public television show called "Wordsmith." It taught us the basics of word building- latin and greek root words. We took very difficult exams every quarter based on what we had learned from this program. Those who passed the tests were invited to a buffet held in the classroom. Those who failed the test were sent to the library. I think I only made it to the buffet once. It was a St. Patrick's themed affair. I remember mini bagels colored green. And I remember the greek and latin root words and still use them to decipher words I don't know.

Miss Benassi used those scented markers whenever she needed to make a sign of some sort. She would use all caps to write "Math Test Today" and then outline the letter with a very thin Sharpie. I still use this technique from time to time and think of it as very elegant and sharp looking.

I was not a very social child if you can believe that. I think I was already blanketed by mild fear and depression at this age. My goal was to make it through the day and go home to listen to my records- The Sound of Music Soundtrack or "Barbara Mandrell Live!"

One or two children would be offered the opportunity to leave class early each day and work in the lunchroom. A sweet deal as far as I was concerned. Helping the cafeteria ladies set up milk cartons or small foil trays of warm food. Then I worked the milk line. Passing out chocolate or plain white milk to my customers.

I did have one friend named Cykathia. A black girl, with braids that defied gravity. She was a tough, funny broad who liked my style I guess. This choice of friend continues to this day. Any friends were never met outside of school, however. I don't remember this every being requested by me or suggested by my parents.

After fifth grade, we moved to Illinois. Sixth grade, whether just by the nature of it being sixth grade or because it was a new school- it was very difficult. Puberty taking over young brains like very serious cases of schizophrenia or psychosis. These groups of children seemed to know each other from birth. I was a strange outsider with a potbelly, bad teeth and an appreciation for the arts. No one was having any of it.

I miss the weather in California. The dewy mornings and gentle warm sunlight. Smells of Eucalyptus and Pine. I don't even know if there was Eucalyptus - but something cleansing, mentholated and sweet is in the air. Maybe it's a blip in my medication, but I just realized that is where I want to end up. That's where I want to expire. On cool sheets in Northern California.

So Chico's

What makes her so Chico's?

She's got a no nonsense look out on life. She's got adult children and a lime green jumpsuit with a chunky belt and a graphic scarf!

She's got a dinner date and a black and white maxi dress that makes a statement! She's put her foreclosed home behind her and she's stepping out on a blind date with her gladiator sandals.

She used to be a Virginia Slims girl- fearless in the 80's. Now she's a Chico's girl- soo fearless in the 00's. She's got COPD and a mauve clutch!

She's not afraid of over sized Moroccan style jewelry made in China.. She's got borderline personality disorder but she's keeping it under control with a new therapist and a mild anti psychotic! So. Chico's.

You'll know she's Chico's on the beach with a large brim brown and white sun hat. She's got a passion fruit iced tea and the new paperback Anita Shreve!

Diet Coke makes her jittery, coffee makes her crap her cropped chino's.

She's so Chico's.

The one who cares the most wins.

They don't make casts like they used to. They used to be snowy white fiberglass, like white drywall. Bright magic marker drawings. Dangerous boys had them. Now they are sporty. Less scary.

Gone too are the days of Blockbuster Video. I used to spend several hours picking out just the right movie. Listening to boyfriends fight with girlfriends over what to rent. Husbands on cellphones listing the new releases to wives at home. Triple digit late fees. Such guilt.

And Borders is closing. Someone should write a book about the culture of Borders. I don't have that kind of time. Such filthy disgusting bathrooms. Magazines from around the world. Strange tattoo porn in broken cellophane.

The Body Shop is on its way out too. And we're not gonna have Oprah to kick around anymore.

Surprisingly this doesn't depress me. I'm all for a pop cultural makeover. It's time to move on. Not for ME to move on. It's time for culture to move on and I'll take whatever it throws at me.

Insects

She was the only woman talking on the train. Very loud at seven thirty in the morning. Planning a children's beach birthday party.

"Yeah we're just going to the beach. Yeah! We thought, you know, just make it easy. Bring a cooler. Buckets and shovels as party favors. That's it. The kids can play on the

beach. Parents can have some wine."

Two women waiting for the red line, in hospital scrubs, underground at the State and Lake stop-

"Shit. Now you know that God will bring you to your knees. To your knees! See we know that. She doesn't fucking know that."

"Oh you don't have to get anything for him. Seriously, we know everyone is having a rough year....we just want it to be simple. But he is really into insects. We can't pull him

away from Animal Planet, so, and he likes Spongebob Squarepants. That's pretty much it. He doesn't watch a lot of Spongebob because we don't have cable. It's just an expense we don't need right now. But yeah a book on insects would be great"

"See it's a process. It's a process. She doesn't know that. It can take a couple weeks, a couple months, a year- shit. And you think she's not gonna tell the judge that her mom

been smoking crack?"

"No, we thought we'd just put it on the cooler. Yeah, just put the cake in the cooler and then when it's time to blow out the candles- use it as a table. But if you have a table

that would be great. Don had a patio table when we first met and he was using it as his dining table and I said, "Get rid of it," you know. Oh but yeah if you could bring a

table that would be great."

"I did all that shit. Fuck. I was real heavy into it. Real heavy. I chose God though. I chose Jesus Christ, and he brought me to my knees. I been clean for six years now."

"Hello...Hello...Bridget? Bridget? Hello?"

The two women underground were accompanied by a pre-teen girl who was listening to the conversation. She seemed embarrassed. Or maybe I was just embarrassed for her.

"Hi Bridget this is Lauren. It looks like we got cut off, I don't know what's wrong with my phone. If you want to give me a call back now or later today, I'd love to continue

planning for Sunday. Thank you so much for offering for us to use your table. Oh! there you are on the other line, Hi Bridget, I don't know how long I was talking and then I was

like Bridget, Bridget. But yeah if you want to bring your table, and please don't spend a lot on gifts. We just want this to be simple, Oh, no problem, sure, we'll talk later. OK bye."

Still Life: Moving

Travel

If you post one more picture collection of one more Central American or European vacation you go on I'm gonna scream. You in your shorts and tan legs! Wearing the same red shirt everyday, not taking showers, letting your beard grow because your just traveling the world without a care in the world- you make me sick. Some of us have to work!

It's always been your dream to travel and you're doing it and that's wonderful. I guess when we were dating I should have focused less on The Huffington Post and more on Orbitz or wherever the hell you book your flights to Panama or wherever it is you go.

Does it change you? Does it change the way you see me? I mean, has your perception changed? Can you still relate to me?

If we go out to coffee some dreary Chicago night will you be unable to relate to me because you've zip-lined through the rainforest and shared a meal with a native tribe?

Maybe it changes me. I don't know just don't send me anymore pictures of your drunken escapades in other countries.

You don't have to go to Paris to write about Paris. Someone said that. Maybe I did.

I can rent the Travel video from the library and be perfectly happy. This isn't The Amazing Race. You won't get any prizes from me for how fast you make it around the world.

Parties

I normally don't like parties. There is a quote from the movie Temple Grandin about how she feels about parties- something like "I hate parties- everyone is standing around giving me looks and I don't know what they mean." I can definitely relate to that. I have great difficulty if I sense that someone is being disingenuous. I have figured out that is part of the party game. And it's not bad. You put on your best face. Even a semi-fake face, to get to know people, put people at ease. That is very hard for me to do. A party is not the time to bring your normal self, the self with all the baggage.

Generally, I feel more comfortable in a costume. I dressed up as Julia Child for the Oscar party. I became aware that people saw me as Julia Child not Jeremy. Obviously, people knew I wasn't the real Julia Child. But when they looked at me- they didn't think- "Who is that guy?" If even remotely, they had some way to categorize me in their head. I let the costume do the talking for me.

Socializing in large groups exhausts me. Temple Grandin's mother tried to get her to socialize, even though it exhausted her too, threw her into panic attacks. I am exactly the same way. Her mother wouldn't let her leave parties though. She would bring her into a room and let her calm down and then she would be ok to carry on. I realize that this has worked for me too and I just haven't realized it.

I need a panic room for a party. A room I can go to depressurize.

God Bless The Outcasts

Today I did not go to McDonalds. I just wanted to eat without homeless people around. As terrible as that sounds, it's the god's honest truth and I would say it to their face. It's not about them, it's about me.

Yesterday I did go to McDonalds. As I ate my McChicken I looked around and seventy five percent of the patrons were homeless. One woman sat snoring with the remnants of a Value Meal strewn before her. Another sat on what must have been her coffee break from roaming the streets, large bags full of plastic bags at her feet.

Today I decided to go to Jimmy Johns. While I stood outside having my pre-meal cigarette, a small man in a dirty winter jacket wandered around with a styrofoam cup. He carried a sign that said something about how he had the AIDS virus and needed money. I don't know exactly what it said, I read it quickly. It was a very large sign with lots of words and I was just too tired.

I chose Jimmy Johns because they don't seem to cater to the homeless. It's a cheery place with Kitschy signs that create a very relaxed environment for the temporary employee on their break. I sat down and ate my "Pepe" or "Tom Tom" or whatever whimsical name they have for a ham sandwich and read The Onion. In the world of Jimmy Johns and The Onion the world is a sarcastic, smirky, condescending place- we're all in on one big inside joke and we love it.

The thing is, I identify so strongly with that man on the street carrying that sign that it scares the hell out of me. In my head, I am just one missed Comcast payment away from being homeless. I can see myself so clearly wandering the streets with a sign "Please spare some change- No Netflix."

Yesterday I bought some RC on the way home. RC. That's how bad it's getting.

And what do I plan to do about. For the moment I plan to have another cigarette and take a nap, thank you very much. It's been a complicated week full of data entry and American Idol -my head is spinning.

It's good to be back.

The Jeremy Show Interviews: Author Mike Albo

With all my favorite shows in reruns (except for Big Brother, The Fashion Show, Whale Wars, Deadliest Catch, Cake Boss, etc.) I've had the opportunity to read a little bit more. I came across a wonderful gay memoir in the Chicago Public Library called Hornito: My Lie Life. The author, Mike Albo, was named "the ultimate satirist of the downtown New York social landscape" by The New York Times. We had a wonderful conversation- I thought I'd share it with you.

You wrote your book Hornito: My Lie Life in 2000, pre-9/11, pre-Two Girls and One Cup. When you look back on writing it, getting it published, seeing it for the first time- what memory stands out to you the most?
Ha...I love that you put 9-11 and Two Girls and One Cup in the same sentence! Bravo! Hornito was not just a book of the moment before all that, it was very much a collection of images and emotions and stories from my brain since birth. That book is the most physical embodiment of my inner life...and I am always so so grateful when someone spends time reading it.

In the book, you describe Eric (the boy you long for throughout the book) as being “only an advertisement for himself, smiling and offering a lovely vacation package to a verdant land that doesn’t exist.” Do you feel like you exist in your work? Or are you offering a lovely vacation package?
Oh man I love your questions. Its tough...at least for me, writing is about trying to connect. I want to pour as much as possible of myself into a book. Its kind of a snag for me because I just cant simply tell a story like some major pro like Stephen King or Dean Koontz. Even the Underminer is emotional to me — that book was about my frustration with post 9-11 America...with Bush, Paris Hilton, and the whole “Lets Go Shopping” era...it was my screed against what total mindless crap becomes successful in this country. But at the same time...I know that to actually write something and have people read it, you have to become an advertisement of yourself. Its interesting...this new book I am working on is all about people as advertisements...I don’t know if you and your readers have noticed, but now everyone is trying to be an ad these days...everyone has a profile...and if you go on Craigslist for a second (which of course I do for total research purposes :) ) you see people saying creepy shit like “I suck dick better!” or “The best bottom in the Upper East Side!” ...people have become half advertising now....

On the back of Hornito: My Lie Life the tagline describes your book as “David Sedaris and Sandra Bernhard rolled into one.” Are you a fan of Sandy? If so, do you think she rubs off in your work?
Ok, first of all, just so you know, we scrubby writers don’t have that much say over the copy that appears on our books. We only have so many battles we can fight for...and that blurb was something the PR people came up with. I think its diminishing...but whatever....but that said, I LOVE LOVE LOVE Sandra B. I think more than any other artist. Ms Berhnard has influenced me. She is such an incredible, subtle, lovely, secretly soulful performer. And a great writer.

I found it difficult to carry the paperback edition of the book through my office because of the cover. It sort of looks like porn- with the primary colors and bare chest. Whose chest is on the cover of the book? Did you get to pick that chest?
HA! So funny. As previously said, that cover was not my choice. We C-level writers don’t have much power over our representations. I suppose I could have put up a bitchfest but that’s not my style...the hardback cover was designed by a friend of mine, and I love it. The softcover is good too..in a gross way. People pick up naked torso shots. It is so not me.

Your second book, The Underminer warns the reader against that person in your life that you’ve known forever, who you can’t get rid of and who is always sort of one upping you and picking at you until you are suicidal. Do you have any Underminers in your life or have you gotten rid of all of them? Do you think there is a purpose for an Underminer in our lives?
No one can ever get rid of their underminers. I truly believe that. I am still friends with mine, and he is a great person who I would never shun. People who say “Oh! Yea, I used to have an underminer rin my life but I don’t anymore”? Those people ARE underminers!!!

The design of your website, www.mikeablo.com reminds me a little of the Heaven’s Gate website. It looks sort of like a website for a cult with you as the leader. Did you go about designing it with this sort of feel in mind?
YES!!!! That’s exactly what I am going for!!! I am trying to redesign it now (It takes forever! Do you know how to do it?? Is there anyone out there who can help me for a really crappy low pay???) And it will be getting even MORE cultish and psycho! I am a serious combo of urban-cynical and totally, totally new agey. My friend suzanne calls me a “critical hippie.”

I just stopped writing questions and got lost in your YouTube videos. Really funny. How did you get into performing characters? Did you start out in improv classes or did you just decide to do it…
I tried to take acting classes but I couldn’t handle it.... I learned how to perform by doing it. I wrote poetry in college and did reading and noticed that the more loose and performy I got the more the audience and I connected. Then I started performing in front of people and had to drink two bourbons before I went onstage. Slowly, slowly, I learned about breath, projection and and all that crap you learn.

Can you tell me the contents of your medicine cabinet? Please list every item.
Weird. Um. I have this little cup of random pills that people have given me and I have no idea what they do. I keep meaning to take them.

You say in your first book that you “hate the hairless-beauty youth culture.” You wear your hair slightly long with some facial hair. Is this an act of rebellion against the overly groomed gay culture or are you nature-y and outdoorsy?
Maybe? Not totally intentionally, but maybe?

I picked your book up at the library. I am going through a gay fiction phase- can’t get enough of it. Have you ever hooked up in a library? What are you reading right now?
I am reading The Possibility of an Island by Michel Houellebecq...I love him...
I hooked up in the stacks of Columbia University Library stacks. But I am kind of bad at ‘cruising’....

More importantly, what are you watching on TV right now?
I don’t have a TV (well I do but its not connected...) but I CAN WAIT for Project Runway!!! I was a total, complete Battlestar Galactica fan.

When you were little did you dream of being named the “ultimate satirist of the downtown New York social landscape” by The New York Times?
No...i have always dreamed of being a poet. But you know what...at the same time I have always loved satirizing. In 6th grade I performed a satire of Pollyanna in front of the entire class. So I guess its always been in my blood.

Pennies from Heaven

Forget the global economy and just think about me for a second. The recession has hit me real hard. Actually, I venture to say that I was the first to feel the rumblings back in 2006 or 2007- whenever I graduated from college. That's the day I realized I wouldn't have sweet sweet college loan dollars lining my pockets and coming out of my ears. I flew to Los Angeles with an iPod, a new computer, sunglasses, cigarettes, bags of psychotropic medication and assorted snacks. I stayed in the Hollywood hills at the Oakwood Suites. Air conditioned with beige carpeting. I had the option of maid service and I took that option. She came every week and did my dishes and emptied my ashtrays.

After work on Thursday, I had no money to get to home from work. I needed my paycheck and the beautiful hipster accounting girls were not at there desks that day. Too afraid to track them down, to make a scene.

Broke, hot and in despair, I found myself somehow downtown by the two story McDonalds and the Hard Rock Cafe on Erie or Huron or one of those streets. I called my mother and asked her to put yet another twenty dollars in my account. She does, thankfully, and I immediately buy a pack of cigarettes and head straight to McDonalds for a Filet-O-Fish combo. While devouring the soft fishy goodness I realize that while I have obtained the essentials to survive another evening, I AGAIN have no way to get home.

I begin to dig in my backpack for change, confident that I can rattle up enough nickels, dimes and quarters to get on the CTA. Turns out that I have done this one too many times and I am only able to come up with about a dollar eighty five. Not enough to ride the shiny brown line back home.

I think about calling my mother and asking for another twenty dollars but I can't bring myself to do it. I have to get it together. I have to figure out how to do this grown up thing- get my OWN ride home, buy my OWN food and cigarettes. I fear that one day my mom isn't going to answer that phone call. Then who am I gonna call? Am I gonna call Kara in her New York comedy penthouse and ask her to Western Union me over some cigarette and bus money. It has to stop.

I have scads of pennies in my bag but the CTA isn't interested in my pennies. Outside the Brown line entrance, I pick through handfuls of stinky sticky pennies. While I am picking off pieces of candy and disintegrating mood stablilzers that have fallen out their bottles from my precious pennies a disheveled gentleman approaches me.

I can barely understand this man as I continue to count my pennies. Tangled sentences and phrases fall out of his mouth. "Excuse me sir...Elvis...Haha...Anything you can spare...I am trying to..." Then he wiggles his hands in front of me and laughs. He has no thumbs and seems very delighted by this.

I impatiently inform him that I have no money. "I am counting pennies, I'm sorry." He fades away.

I manage to change my pennies into train fare and while I am riding home I remember the words of our Nation's poet Cher:

When the money's gone
No more caviar
Will you eat fast food in a beat up car
Live life modestly, lost in lotto dreams
Will you find your way though it all with me
Through it all with me

If you could see me the way you see yourself...

Hey Kids, so sorry it's been so long. I've been so busy watching and re-watching Madonna's new video that I've neglected you. I've been getting on and off airplanes in bathrobes and playing my guitar with pink ribbons around my neck. I'm exhausted!

3 Important Images

Eminem checking into rehab. Like a tragic version of a kid's first day of school.
I have been a fan of Marshall Mathers for awhile. He's blond and sexy and forbidden, allegedly homophobic- yes. But his lyrics are so raw they have brought me to tears on numerous occasions. I take pills that stop me from crying but Slim's lyrics break open the Lexapro dam and the floodwaters come rushing down.


The album cover for "Yes" by the Pet Shop Boys. Very positive, Obama-esque. I love the colors and the sentiment. The group is known for being a bit dreary. I like when they have an upbeat moment.


By Gerhard Richter. At The Art Institute of Chicago. Woman descending a staircase. This is what my life is about. This is it. This is everything. Uh, I have to lay down.

Grey Gardens with Kara

Today Kara and had fun paying tribute to Grey Gardens. Can't wait to see the movie!!

Networking

It's time for me to create a healthy network of coworkers, friends, contacts, ex-lovers, sponsors, supervisors, high school and college alumni. I'm not talking about any facebookery, tweetering or linked-in-ing. I'm talking actual phone numbers on a cell phone and meetups for brunch. I want my schedule to be full of dinners, theatre goings and creative jam sessions.

Soon, I'll be rushing into a Starbucks meeting Steve, a former co-worker who has moved on happily to running his own web-based pottery exchange. I'll lend an ear to his brainstorms and he'll help me out with "NUDE JAM!"- the nude poetry jam I'm organizing for charity. We'll talk over each other and pretend to listen to each other's ideas and one of us will have to get going and the other of us will say that's fine because we really have to get going too.

I'll be one of those people who is always talking on public transportation about some upcoming event in the future- going over the details, looking in my datebook, holding a pen. I'll laugh REAL loud at things that aren't really funny and the person on the other line will say they have to go and I'll say that's fine because I'm on the bus or the train and I should go too. I'll wait a few seconds and call someone else and leave a message about the last phone call I just made, slightly insulting the person I just previously talked to.

I'll have to change at work from my work clothes to my evening clothes because I'll always have something and somewhere I have to be. I will NOT be exhausted and lethargic and only want to come home and watch Roseanne reruns. I will be spending most of my time Downtown now, the best place, really, for all of us to connect. The key word- connect. I'll eat very little and become one of those very skinny skinny fashionable gay boys who has a lot going on and likes to let everyone know it. I'll tell you about my improv classes and business trips and how I've quit smoking as I step outside for a cigarette with you.

I'll come home late and drunk but I'll wake up feeling refreshed and healthy. The next morning I'll slide easily into my seasonally appropriate menswear- a crisp pressed shirt and slacks and form fitting jacket/coat. I'll go global before 8 am- connected to all my Ipod-Touches and Bluetooths and Palm Pilot and Kindels. I'll walk confidently down the street with a credit card that actually works in my wallet. I'll buy my morning coffee with lots of sugar and lots of cream. I'll deposit a healthy tip in the plexiglass tip jar for the twenty something bisexual barista behind the counter.

I'll work on working out the details. I'll consider touching base or reconnecting with that one that seemed like a possibility. The one with the good job and shaved head and good shoes. I'll talk it over confidentially with my twelve closest friends. We'll analyze him and try to understand his motivations and intentions in phone calls made from my bed. I'll drift off in an Ambien haze and wake up and start all over again.