I crave a life of intensity.

I crave a life of intensity. Just today I was begging a friend on the east coast to quit his job and go with me to Las Vegas. I told him I wanted to live my last days in complete depravity. Drinking brown liquor by a dirty motel pool. Our untoned moderatley hairy chests and fast food bellies burning unevenly in the hot Nevada sun. Surrounded by meth addicts and organized crime middle managers.I want lots of screaming and slapping, unidentifiable gunshots in the night. Police sirens and men wearing dirty white t-shirts and basketball shorts falling down drunk.

My friend told me to be careful what I wish for.

I told him I wanted to feel the burn. Third degree Las Vegas sunburns! Dry skin, dehydrated cotton fuzzy hangover headaches. Falling asleep in filthy bathtubs at four in the morning. Drugs! Hard drugs- drugs you've never even heard of. I want to be a guinea pig for the next generation of deadbeats.

My friend said he was leaving Subway and had to get back to work.

I want my life to be instagrammed in late sixties/early seventies patina. I want to cry like a Kennedy wife. Excess and tragedy, pills and liquor. Fashion and misery on the rocks. Natalie Wood clawing her way back onto the boat with thick red lacquered nails. I want mental illness before mental illness. I want a spooky neurosis. I want people to wonder what the hell I'm doing at six in the morning, slamming cupboards and breaking dishes. Laying on the kitchen floor sobbing with a paper shredder and a cigarette. Shredding pictures of so called old lovers and friends I haven't seen since high school.

No intensity.
Still.
Cold.
Quiet.
A clearing of the throat.
A sneeze.
Bless you.
The back of an envelope. A smooth pen.
Something to remember.
Something to pick up at the store.
Something for tomorrow. Or the weekend.

Argyle

This morning I rubbed myself down with a generous amount of unscented moisturizer in an attempt to ward off dry irritated, itchy skin. I then put on my thermal underwear. I imagined that this would hold in the moisturizer, creating a barrier to the dry winter air.

I have found myself wearing sunglasses in the morning. Even when it is still very dark. I find that the sunglasses shield a little bit from the cold. However, I wonder if I am using it as a barrier, a transition from the dark peace of sleep to the stark reality of the day. I start to worry that people on the train think I am crazy, wearing sunglasses when it is almost still pitch black. And then I remember that I don't give a fuck what anyone on the train thinks.

At my el station, Argyle, there is a horrid horrid smell. At first I thought it smelled like someone was cooking garbage. I imagined that there was some insane woman stirring a giant cauldron of old newspapers, kitty litter, old tires, empty bottles, discarded pieces of clothing, random bits of plastic. An urban witch, stirring her garbage potion, cooking up havoc and despair for the city. I think it's just really old, cheap, discarded cooking oil from the many restaurants in the area.

The smell is horrible. And it's never not there. It's always there. In the summer, in the dead of winter. I am usually not so sensitive to such things. I smoke, I miss the occasional shower. I probably am not the best smelling person on the planet.  For me to be so taken aback by an odor something is very very wrong.

The smell haunts me. I can almost recreate it in my mind and almost smell it right now I have it so memorized.

I have no idea what I was talking/blogging about.Good night.

white box

People in my past still haunt me. People from grade school, high school, various jobs are with me everyday. Living on and on with me everyday. Real conversations in my head with people I haven't seen or heard from in years, decades. So much of my time living in these scenarios, arguing, laughing, spending time in my head with people who are no longer in my life.

Today, falling into a nap, after watching a Vogue documentary, thinking about a fashion shoot with all of these missing people. Bryan Rooney in Gaultier drag, Jared Schmidt in a cable knit sweater, leather pants, cowboy boots. Tina Casillas in an homage to Elizabeth Taylor. Old schoolmates like 90's supermodels in a huddle, smiling at the camera in Couture. 

Get out of my head! Too much time spent looking up old friends and people I barely knew on Facebook.

Brings me back to wanting a white room, white bed, white sheets. Throw everything away. A lobotomy. Clear it out.

Wallpaper

I love when people are passionate about stuff. I love that Erik fills our house with his passion, Disney. I've always loved Disney since I was little- more Disneyland. I grew up in northern California so we drove down to Disneyland a few times and those are some of the happiest memories of my childhood.

When people are passionate about things you can see their soul light up and you get to bask in the glow. Erik's love for Disney makes him so happy, excited. It gets me excited, excited for him.

I'm very passionate about Martha Stewart. There is truly no one else like her. She creates a fantasy world, much like Disney. I want to live there. In the world of ruthless organization with touches of well thought out whimsy. Clean, perfect, sensible. But this world doesn't exist, even for Martha Stewart. She presents this world. But she doesn't even live there completely. She wants to live there as much as we do.

Martha is great because you can tell that SHE is totally passionate about her interests- food, decor, gardening, the holidays.

Like myself, and Erik (although I don't want to speak for him), I think she is reaching back into her past and trying to relive good memories and maybe wallpaper over some of the bad ones.

Anyway, whatever you love, keep loving it, keep exploring it, and keep loving new things. NEVER EVER let anyone tell you that what you like or what you do is silly. That is a trait I deplore in people. Absolutely deplore. When people do that they are actually telling you how much they hate certain parts of themselves and how desperately they are trying to cover these parts -- and that you should too. Whether it's Martha Stewart or Disney or a balloon fetish keep the things in your life that you love alive and keep growing them and exploring more things. I like when people like things.

Shirtless pics of Joel McHale

I get up early on the weekends. Coffee, cigarettes. Googling my way through the webisphere. Shirtless pics of Joel McHale? Yes please. Free Kittens on Craigslist, Hypomania, will walgreens deliver me things, best wireless blutooth headset.....

Today at 6:34 it rains as the sun comes up very slowly. Thinking about how I should stay far away from any election coverage because it causes me unnecessary depression and ultimately means nothing. Something about how Joe Biden really knocked Paul Ryan on his ass- doesn't mean anything to me. I mean it does, it does too much and that's why I can't watch.

Paul Ryan reminds me of a pervy tech guy. Nothing against tech guys... or pervy guys for that matter. He just reminds me of one of those single guys with no date at your table, divorced, talks to you a little too long, borrows a cigarette, borrows another one, says he doesn't smoke as he smokes, you see him again in the bathroom, "Hey man." You think him antisocial, but then see him on the dancefloor an hour later doing the Chicken Dance as you sit at your table, now alone. Who's antisocial now? More of a go-getter than you thought.

And Barack, and Joe, and Romney and their wives and relatives are all now caricatures. Only a handful of years away from their own reality TV shows.  "Just Malia!" "Ann Romney- My Turn." Interviews with Oprah, ending in an overenthusiastic high five.

I love pop culture, I love all my tv channels, all the ridiculous shows- candy everyone wants. But how does Jeremy get back to nature?

My "safe place," that imaginary calm place you return to in your mind as you fall asleep, is me in the middle of the ocean on a raft- miles away from anything. Laying on my back- floating away from everything and everywhere. No shore in sight. Just me and the water and the depth below, miles and miles down. Away from Melissa Rivers, away from Sandra Lee's Semi Homemade, away from work, Angry Birds, Facebook, Grindr, Sallie Mae's calls. Away from Target, amateur porn, the CTA, Walgreens pharmacy, Starbucks' filled with lonely gay men.

Just me on a raft floating into the unknown. I'll hit shore again, turn on my cellphone and put on my Kenneth Cole shirt and Perry Ellis pants and Zappos dress boots.

Naked on the streets of San Diego

For ten years I have been looking for Chicago's best pizza. Turns out it's a little place called Dominos. I am so sick of cardboard crusts, weird sauce, deep dish diarrhea inducing messes and artisan cheese over an open flame bullshit. Just give me the classic, birthday party pizza. I enjoy Dominos' "Brooklyn Crust" option. More of a New York style pizza, hence the name. I have been to New York twice so I am pretty familiar with their Pizza.

The last time I ordered Dominos, however it came stone cold. I hopped online and read Dominos the riot act. And they put a credit on my tab. I went ahead and reordered the same thing the next night. Having spent all my money on Halloween decorations, a free pizza came in super handy. However, on the phone they told me that there would be a $2.97 delivery fee. Excuse me? Who has $2.97 just laying around? I am not Bill Gates! Jesus Christ!

So, I scrounged around and came up with a dollar and assorted change that I told myself would present itself roughly as "$2.97 and a small tip." I handed my offering to the pizza boy ( who was decidedly less attractive than would have hoped). He gave me a very dissapointed but not uncourteous, "thanks....have a good night..." I didn't give a crap I got my pizza. In my socks and pajamas, I hurried back to Oprah interviewing Jason Russell the "Kony 2012" guy. BTW- I have no sympathy for this guy. I have the explanation to the mystery surrounding his breakdown. He is gay! And you know my unofficial policy- "Gay until proven straight." But this guy is gay as "A Star is Born" is long. He is gay and he was smoking meth and very stressed out- THIS is why he was walking around the streets naked and masturbating in the streets of San Diego. Trust me, I have been there. If you don't believe me - watch "Oprah's Next Chapter." Dear reader, I am certain you will agree.

The next day I find myself at the corner of Clark and Jewel Osco. Waiting for that gosh darn Clark bus (full of crazys) to pick me up. Lighting up my second Camel Light 99 I noticed a chubby guy in a Dominos ski cap and a very old woman staggering along the sidewalk. Of course, it's the pizza boy and his very old grandmother coming for revenge. I knew my poor tipping would come back to haunt me. As they hobbled closer I became less sure of the fact that it was my pizza boy. In fact, I think I think this guy was just homeless. The two of them making their way through the rush hour hustle and bustle in Andersonville.

"Uh...excuse me..could I get a cigarette..." I felt like the priviliged Mother Teresa of cigarettes drunk with power. He walked over to me as I deemed whether or not he was worthy of my precious Camel Light 99. As I pulled out my very generous supply of cigarettes the old woman said craggily, "Could I also have a cigarette?" I pulled one out for her too. "I have had...just had...breast cancer surgery...could I have..." I gave her a cigarette and smiled. "OH THANK HEAVEN! THANK HEAVEN," exclaimed the lady. Exactly the reaction I would have had - had I been in this woman's position. I made this lady's evening with an ironically carcinogenic gift.

The two continued on and found their way to a pair of benches to enjoy their Camel Light 99's. My generous gift. Did she just have breast cancer surgery? Were they both just coming from the hospital? Or was this her shpeel- maybe she HAD breast cancer surgery and this was part of her "special skills" portion on her panhandling resume. *Had Breast Cancer Surgery *Was evicted from low income housing...Anyway you slice this sad pizza, I believe this lady was going through sheer HELL in the last days of her life.

I thought about running after them and offering them all my cigarettes and everything I had previously purchased at Walgreens- A bag of Fritos Scoops, A 2 liter bottle of Pepsi Next, a box of Immodium,  a supersize bag of cough drops, a bag of Gevalia French Roast coffee (on sale!), my prescription for Lexapro... It would be like a "Jeremy's Favorite Things" episode. "You get Immodium and you get Immodium...IMMODIUM! YOU ARE GETTING IMMODIUM!!!!"

But I did not. They got up from their benches, both with unfinished Camel Light 99's smoking in the autumnal night air and carried on their way South. I went home and fast forwarded my way through last Saturday's SNL, lamenting the loss of Kristen Wiig.

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.