I Love a Man (or Two) In Uniform

This morning I woke up to a ladder at the foot of my bed, the carnage of nuts and bolts all around me. My secondhand ceiling fan didn't come with instructions. And there were A LOT of pieces. I tried installing it in a beat-the-sunset showdown but it was dark by the time I'd figured out how the pieces fit. And this morning I was filled with dread because this thing has a lot of mysterious parts.

But I did it. I just decided that I'd be able to do it, climbed the ladder, and miraculously, had the beast together in less than 30 minutes. When I was a kid my parents used to give me complicated promotional stand-ups at the video and hide the instructions. My dad timed me at putting them together. If there had been an olympics for this kinda thing, let's just say I'd be all USA on that shit.

And now for a super fun Memorial Day story (I don't have time to write a proper segue). My grandfather was awarded the Bronze Star in World War II. He got a call from an American tank under his command that had broken down and was vulnerable in an opening and in the line of fire. So he drove his tank right up to their tank, jumped out under live fire, hooked a chain to the stalled tank, climbed back in his own tank and dragged it with its crew to safety before the Nazis knew what happened. How bad-ass is THAT?! I like to picture him busting out of the top of that tank, swinging a chain, and trying out a variety of witty catch phrases, although he was probably terrified and doing what any decent small-town boy who had learned the meaning of the word "duty" would do. And yet another testament to his bad-assery occurred at a separate battle. His friend's legs were pinned under a burning tank. My grandfather couldn't lift a burning tank off those crushed, useless legs, so he looked his friend in the eyes and asked, "Your legs or your life?"

And then he CUT OFF HIS FRIEND'S LEGS. And named my dad after this guy, which is kind of a special crazy. At reunions as a kid, my dad was always dumbfounded by his legless namesake.

My grandfather had bad tattoos on his forearms, was cheap as hell, kept a secret gun/Mason/cult room, and loved me like I was his only granddaughter (cos I was). I loved him, too, and not just because he never so much as yelled at me. He was a classic, cigar-smelling grandfather with a vegetable garden, and a motor home. I liked catching him in the basement drinking aged whiskey. That's when he was chatty. And red.

He married the most stunning woman to ever emerge from a small town. She'd enlisted to fight Nazis overseas, too. On VE-Day, when she should've been going to Paris to celebrate, she instead cashed in her service points to be one of the first to return home. She missed her folks. When my formerly militant grandparents arrived back in their little hometown in western PA, they were two of the few who had returned from the war. So she married him. She should've gone to Hollywood, but marrying a war hero ain't too shabby. I would've married him for his werewolf story alone! He swears that while in Germany he saw a man crammed into a small cage turn into a werewolf. Of course this sort of thing would happen in Germany. But he rarely talked about other war experiences. Those were usually recounted by his wife when he was out of earshot. He wasn't the bragging type.

My other grandfather, who did spank me (and once even called me a "whore") was my favorite, though. He enlisted in the U.S. Army Air Forces and trained in the B-24 Liberator for the war, but being a few years younger than my other grandfather missed out on the action overseas. He always lamented the government going to all that expense to train him, but the war ended before he could be shipped out. He never really got over that, and on a four-hour drive from Pittsburgh told me all about his training in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, Miami, Florida and somewhere in Colorado. I learned he was so homesick in these places he'd look in phone books for anyone who shared his unusual last name in case he might be related. I loved him best because he tickled, played the fiddle while we danced, let us run free (a little too free, maybe), and had the greatest ghost stories. He talked about Jesus and The Devil as though they were his neighbors. He's the only person I ever saw eat a tomato like a candy bar, and I still miss him.

Glad the Nazis didn't get any of them (again with the segue) so that I can enjoy all the STUFF. Y'know, this country, freedoms, and my finely-tuned DNA.

Back in the 80s John Tanner (great article by my friend) was running around with a few police officers and busting video stores for renting pornography as though this WASN'T America in the 1980s. My mom was livid (yeah, out of 25,000+ titles, a few were technically "porn") and defended the handful of viewers, in particular an old WWII vet who apparently *hadn't* seen it all yet. She told anyone who brought it up, "They fought to protect your rights, and the right to watch a movie of consenting adults is one of theirs."

Tanner steered clear of our video store and instead put his energies into BFFing it up with Ted Bundy as he sat on death row. (Seriously, can we please let Florida go be its own country?) Tanner met frequently with Bundy to hear stories about raping and killing women. He claimed to be "investigating" for more unsolved cases, but those of us who knew ol' Johnny Boy knew better. Let's just say he would've made an excellent priest. He even outlawed thongs on The World's Most Famous Beach leading to the predictable joke: "What happens when you wear a thong on Daytona Beach? You get TANNER on your ass."

I hate on this country and its politics, which are all twisted up with greed, but I love feeling free. I live in a state where I could actually walk outside TOPLESS at this moment! But mostly I like homosexuals getting married, the right to vote, and liquor stores that can stay open on Sunday. I like being able to criticize my country and not get decapitated for it. I like wearing a summer dress and not being stoned to death. I especially like religion being separate from state (which requires our CONSTANT attention, unfortunately).

My favorite grandfather, the oldest boy in a large farm family who knew the value of personal responsibility, let us kids take off into the wild where we'd skinny dip, build forts and explore abandoned buildings. Sometimes we got hurt or lost, but we always made it home before the police had to be called. My other grandfather, who had killed Nazis in hand-to-hand combat (and would later cry about it to my grandmother when he had a little too much Christmas cheer), hadn't weighed enough to enlist, so he went home and ate a bunch of bananas, returned, and was accepted. These men of all people knew the importance of freedom - even if they didn't always agree with its expression. ("Those damn hippies!" I'd heard them say to each other many times.) I wish they were here today to tell me all the stories again. That's the real curse of being generations apart from the people who built us. Now that I'm older I have better questions to ask. Especially about that werewolf sighting.

Enjoy those freedoms and BBQs, everybody! They weren't cheap!

Please, Not the Face

A few years ago a couple of guys attacked me on Dailysonic for two different stories I wrote and read, one of which is perfect. Seriously - it may be the most perfect thing I've ever written and I wrote it in one sitting, atop a rock in Central Park with my shoes kicked off. When they posted comments - really fucking mean ones - I wanted to cry. I probably did. I wasn't anyone yet and these guys (who were most likely angry about their extremely small penises never getting to meet a vagina) were trying to convince me that I'd never be anyone. I've worked as a critic for many years and I never take down an indie project on principle alone. When a baby's learning to walk you don't kick it in the back of its knees.

People hate Mouseschawitz. They hate it sooo much. It's not my greatest work, there are errors, and yeah, it's short (22 pages, which Amazon clearly advertises). My own mother tells me how much better it could be! I don't get rid of it because it's nothing to me but a cash cow. And I'd polish it up but what's the point? It continues to sell because Disney fans love to read behind-the-scenes tales. And besides, some people actually like it!

Truth be told: I don't care if I ever visit Disney World again. And Disneyland is a total armpit of a theme park. I have little interest in either of them, especially after working in one of the parks all summer. The magic is lost on me. I'm more likely to *fake an orgasm than pretend I like Disney crap again (*something else I can't do on principle alone. 40% of fakers have RUINED men for the rest of us who are actually ambitious enough to work for it.)

I've never read a vampire book in my life. I wrote Blood Drunk because I love vampire movies and I want it to be produced as a film someday. I also just wanted to see if I could write a book.

While we're being honest, I have to admit that it hurts when someone posts a bad review, even about something I don't consider my greatest work. It especially hurts when the reviewer points out just how UN-Sedaris-esque I am. REALLY?! That's just cruel. I'm nobody! I'm still out in the middle of nothingness, paddling like everybody else to reach some success. And I'm gonna check in every once in a while and see if anybody liked my stupid little stories. Because I WROTE THEM. I birthed those babies and you just kicked their legs out, Matt, who didn't even post your city, state or any other reviews, for that MATTer!

Here's what I'd like to believe: Matt is a jilted ex who sits around with a thumb up his ass and his free hand googling me. "Matt," I hope you get herpes in your eyes, you donkey fucker.

My brother always tells me something I like to hear: "If you're pissing people off then you're doing something right." Even if Matt and his opinions are real, so what? Am I going to quit? Will I stop writing? Will this even keep me up tonight? Nope. And on Tuesday I'd laugh all the way to the bank, except that I get direct deposit for my book sales.

It sucks to read another unsavory review for anything I've written, but they'll never stop coming. My trick for coping? I go read the bad reviews of my most favorite books. Opinions and assholes, gang! Bleh, barf, snarf. Tomorrow I'm gonna write the shit out of this stupid book. Paddle, paddle! You can float but that'll get you no where - just like those fake orgasms. 

There's Gonna Be Some Trouble - A Whole House Will Need Rebuilding

Tonight I spent an hour and a half in Philly's train station. If there is an afterlife I'm certain the deserving will pass through a train station on their way to it. I'm thinking about Grand Central Station in The Fisher King, but I'm also remembering the day I arrived in London on the train from Edinburgh and my suitcase exploded, having a volcanic effect on my underwear (WHY was it just my underwear that went every where?!) Before I felt the flush of exquisite international embarrassment reach up from my toes and redden my face, a small, old British woman appeared and gathered my shame in her tiny hands, giggling to let me know this was not going to scar me for future travel. She even sat on my suitcase as I zipped it back up. (The ridiculous American can't travel light. In my defense, everything I owned at the time was in that suitcase.) All was right in what felt like thirty seconds time. She patted my shoulder and said, "Enjoy yourself, Love." 

I actually shouted at her back, "You are an angel!"

I didn't mean it in the way grandmothers use it. I meant it because she was not of this world. I'd have followed her home if she would've had me. And that's saying a lot since I was working very hard not to talk to strangers in my damaged condition. That suitcase's zipper was nothing compared to my forlorn heart that winter. 

Tonight I told one of my best friend several truths: You will feel this pain until you're sick of feeling it and then it will end. And someday soon you'll be incredibly happy again. 

I'd know. I haven't been this happy since I ran away to Scotland. I didn't think I'd ever find the center of myself again, not because I'd lost it, but because we can't stare into the sun. It doesn't seem fair that I'd have found my way back so many times to this. 

I feel like I'm in love lately. Especially in this moment, writing on a train back home to Pennsylvania - to Boo and Co., the loves of my life. It doesn't hurt that Morrissey is cooing in my ear, "Used to be a sweet boy and I'm not to blame but something went wrong..." 

Not to mention that brownie and hot chocolate combo that's pulsing through my veins like a herd of Red Bulls. 

I sleep with the lights off. I linger in my mystical basement where several beatboxes are mounted to various walls, all playing Michael Jackson most days, as I do laundry, explore and chase the dogs. I walk around my block at any hour I please. It's not that I feel brave, I'm just not afraid of anything anymore. We'll see if that rings true at Boo's (I heard a ghost creep up her stairs once. I know, I know... But I KNOW.) 

Fuck. I don't want to write a soupy blog. To summarize my happiness as best as I can: I forgave everyone. I mean EVERYONE. And I pushed my ego off a bridge (I did this a while ago but it floated back up, the fat beast). I know most people wouldn't be over a breakup like mine by now but ever since that first fight almost two years ago when he packed a bag, looked into my eyes and said, "Everyone you love leaves you," ever since that, I started leaving him. He said it as though it were a curse to come. That sort of treatment doesn't get under my skin and eat away at my confidence. I once had a boyfriend tell me my boobs were too small for him - "They're plums, not melons." - I thought to myself how adorable it was that he knew I was out of his league and found his attempts to whittle down my self-esteem somewhat endearing. That's still mildly fucked up, but the part where the image of myself remained unscathed still delights me. And a few weeks later I left him. 

Brandazzle visited from L.A. and we worked long and hard on a script her managers think they can sell. We didn't finish it because we missed the hell out of each other and spent a lot of time rectifying that. Good god, I love that girl. She's in love for the first time in years with a brilliant comic who sends her emails as a time traveling Abe Lincoln while she's away. I don't actually believe in things like angels, afterlife or soulmates, but whatever is happening between them gives me some crazy-good optimism about all things. It made me so happy to see her like that. She's always peaceful (I love water signs - they mellow me out) but now there was fire in her belly. That girl is running L.A. I'm exaggerating, but only a little bit.

The day before Brandie arrived Jenn was visiting from Israel. I'm not sure I even love myself as much as I love the likes of these ladies. The most recent bright spot of my life was last summer. Jenn, Margot and I rented a cabin in the Catskills. Jenn is a brilliant chef specializing in French comfort food and the sort of sandwiches that will ruin all future meat, cheese and bread experiences for you. Margot is an incredible writer and reminds me of Miranda July if July had been raised in a more normal environment. When my ex was away for work I took the dogs to their apartment for a week. Jenn bunked in the livingroom with me, us running amuck during the days while Margot was at work. That week I felt the sort of joy you think you remember feeling as a child, but there's no way - nothing could've made you laugh that hard. Jenn monsters Margot. I can't describe it - someday I'll try. You wouldn't believe it anyway - their relationship is like my favorite children's book. But better. 

It's cold on this train. Wish I could dance to Years of Refusal to stay warm. Maybe not. It's a Philly crowd, after all. 

Boo came to see me a few weeks ago. She took us out for dinner, baklava and massages. She got me one serious goddamn vibrator. She is the greatest. Someday I will find a way to tell her how thrilled I am that our mothers were sisters. Late at night, before Graeme gets sleepy, she tells me stories about sneaking up on him. These stories are simple. But the way they laugh while building tension sends me into fits. 

I made a birthday dress for Maggie out of the fabric I bought when Boo first told me she was having a girl. The dress could be a disaster. I never know for sure until I can see it on a body. I thought about putting it on Dolly, but I never want to see my dogs in dresses (there are lines one should not cross). Maggie is an absolute eccentric and prefers wearing her sunglasses at all times. I bought her a new pair for her birthday that match the dress. Fingers crossed they'll be to her liking. I wanted to glue rhinestones on them, but maybe next time. Very soon I'm going to sew matching dresses for Maggie and me. At first Boo told me I would be the crazy aunt, but now this plan delights her (or so she humors me). 

I shouldn't be this happy. The other day I had an epiphany. YES, a real one. I'll have to kill about 15,000 of my babies, but no matter. I'll buy a coffee maker, Bailey's, and have those little bastards back in no time. I can write 4,000 GOOD words a day. While writing something I don't even think is all that good (hint: it's about 330 pages) I often managed to write 6,000 words a day. Stephen King writes 2,000. I'm not bragging - I still don't really want to be a writer. It's a compulsion more than a gift. When I meet my own kind I feel a pang of pity first and admiration second. (We are DOOMED!!!) 

"All of the gifts that they gave can't compare in any way to the love I am now giving to you right here right now on the floor..." 

Fucking Morrissey. Gemini. Yeah, yeah, so was Dahmer. (Who happens to be my favorite serial killer.) 

Summer is coming. I've never wanted to feel it so badly. Gonna beg Boo to take me to Haar's Drive-In. It's one of the most inexpensive happy places I've got. 

There were about a dozen little birds chirping and flying around the train station as I sat trying to write an overdue review. It was incredible and when I put my head back to see them soar it gave me a lovely little case of vertigo. But then I realized they're going to die in there. Those birds are going to starve to death and fall to that beautiful floor and maybe bounce since their bones are mostly hollow. I felt sick to my stomach for a moment but then realized there are worse ways to go - and in much worse places.

One more stop to go. 

Boundaries and/or Cowardice

Two jokes I'm just not comfortable posting to Twitter and Facebook today:

You think your kids are so hot but let's just say Chris Hansen won't ever be using them as bait. 

If you're gonna add people you barely remember from high school to FB, ya gotta be prepared to see the word "faggot" used with sincerity. 

Yesterday Jenn invented the term "Anus Barnacle" to describe the relationship of a woman up another woman's ass. It made me want to be her anus barnacle!

I'd also like to point out that I have written nearly 350 blogs about blah, blah, blah bullshit and yet only about a dozen are published. That's maturity! And the slow realization that there's a fine line between quirky and fucking obnoxious. 

The Mother Load

"I was sure growing up I would live the life my mother assumed I'd live: Very Jewish, very middle class and very straight..."

I hear Faith Prince singing this in my head all the time. It's from Falsettos, a super fun musical about gay Jewish dudes in the 80s having kids, getting AIDS, and singin' songs about it. I sing this one sometimes in a Long Island accent when I'm doing dishes. Growing up I had total Italian envy. I wanted to be some sort of ethnicity that involved having recipes passed down - the kind you thought were disgusting until you were old enough to appreciate your culture. When I was 25 I had to go take care of Mom during some major surgery. I was engaged to a Jew who'd been pressuring me to convert. Mom and I shared her futon that night and that's when she finally told me that my great-grandmother had been Jewish. No big whoop. After spending a lot of time at Jewish holidays (with a more recent ex who preferred my shiksa side) I realized I don't really care for Jewish food. But I still envy Gabe and his incredible Italian heritage (those DeJoys make a lasagna that I've loved harder than any man). My immediate family is littered with mutts. We pass down nothing but extremely dense bones, a meager Pennsylvania Dutch vocabulary, Mark Twain memorabilia, and an extra bone in our flat feet (my podiatrist accused me of "not evolving properly from apes").

Mom came to visit last weekend for her birthday. We shared my bed. The older I get the more I realize it's futile to resist her, especially while I still have half a bed to share. She fell asleep before me with her hand on my butt. Gross. But I didn't want to disturb her by *rooching around. Instead I thought about how much she loves me and that I've had the good fortune of maintaining a sense of entitlement my entire life because of it. Anytime I came home pissed about someone bullying me, Mom would look me in the eye and say, "That kid is just JEALOUS." She'd then list all of my qualities that instigate jealousy and I would go about life in a sort of bubble-wrapped fantasy that I was the greatest and anyone who treated me otherwise was just disappointed by their inability to occupy my body. I once told my old therapist about it and she tried challenging me when I said it still kicks in. She told me this was nothing more than a coping mechanism. She was just jealous.

Mom and I went to The Lotos Club last week to see Hal Holbrook accept an award. When my mom was a starving grad student in Iowa she returned her new snow boots to Wal-Mart so she could buy a ticket to see him perform as Mark Twain. She stood freezing, waiting for her bus to the coffee cart where she started each day at 6am believing all was right in the world: She'd soon see Hal. In my family we don't take pills for headaches or cramps. It's not entirely masochistic - we just can't get used to being comfortable.

Mom told me this was a formal affair so I wore the stunning BCBG dress Ginnetta gave to me. But in the cab over Mom reread the invitation: BUSINESS ATTIRE. Mom's blue eyes went wide as she read this out loud and then she looked at me with fear. She was waiting for that bitchy teenager to explode - the same one who used to demand a ride to the mall so she could shoplift all weekend.

"Meh, so what. Who knows when I'll get to wear this dress again?"

"You're not mad? I'm so sorry, **Woof!"

I was mildly annoyed but I'm almost always overdressed. Besides, what do I care about the upper east side crowd's opinion of me? But then she dropped a serious bomb on me.

"Um, Ang... I might've been wrong about dinner being served."

I hadn't eaten much all day in anticipation of gorging myself on upper-class dining. And I was ravenous. So I ended up pouncing on the cheese/hummus/veggie platter as though I were a homeless person who'd made it past security. A gentleman in BUSINESS attire was working from the left as I was working from the right and when we met in the middle he asked, "Should we change?"

I nearly replied, "My mom told me it was formal attire!"

She'd eluded this fashion faux pas after not finding a formal ensemble that she deemed worthy, so only one of us looked crazy (though I prefer the word "eccentric"). After downing a glass of champagne I no longer cared, especially after several little old ladies told me I looked "glamorous." After acquiring a second glass of champagne I felt twice as glamorous. Mom quoted Hal's recently deceased wife, Dixie Carter, who'd said, "We have an obligation to be beautiful for each other."

Hal entered and the look on his face when he saw Mom made everything in the world feel perfect for a moment. I knew she loved him - He's visited Hannibal several times and she drives to see him perform whenever he's near enough. But I didn't know Hal loved her. He kissed her all over her cheeks as though she were kin and his reaction to me - a stranger - was pure love. Because I was her daughter I was adored for a moment by Hal Holbrook. He kissed me, spilled my champagne, apologized and turned back to Mom to chat about personal stuff. Before disappearing into the crowd, he put his hand on my shoulder and said to Mom, "We are all with our family tonight."

She dropped out of high school when she was 17, married a night time stock boy when she was 18, had me at 19, and didn't go back to school until she was in her 30s. Now she's a professor, runs The Mark Twain Boyhood Home & Museum, is considered one of the top Twain scholars in the world (though she'll deny it), and turns pink when someone in town refers to her as "The Mayor." She came from nothing but the woman never saw walls around anything she wanted. My brother told me when they went backstage to meet Jimmy Buffett before a show how he gushed over our mom as they talked about Twain, at one point holding out his arm and saying, "Look, you're giving me goosebumps."

When I was a little girl we danced in our livingroom to his records. RECORDS! Both Mom and Adam are what experts in the field refer to as "Parrotheads." They love that Jimmy Buffet. And he loves my mom.

After Hal made pleasantries we all filed into a grand sitting room and took our seats. Bel Kaufman gave a sweet speech - she's 101 years old! Her grandfather was the inspiration for Tevya from Fiddler On The Roof! She was incredible. When it was Hal's turn to talk he told us, "Do things that make people happy - that give people hope." He's been doing Twain since 1956 - the year my mom was born. He was inspired by Twain because his writing helped change the world's view on civil rights. And you know he does the character well if Mom loves him.

I sat next to her thinking about all the things she tried exposing us to in childhood and how we wanted nothing to do with such things for no reason other than they'd been her idea. I know this is universal - children enter phases where they will do anything to distance themselves from their parents. But sometimes I feel sick over the time I wasted trying to show her how different we were. Her presence humbles me now that I'm old enough to appreciate her. And I'm glad that happened sooner than later.

After the ceremony ended we talked to Hal's assistant for a while and then Mom told Bel how much she loved her book. And then we had to find dinner fast because I'd grabbed another glass of champagne at the bar (it's not my fault that it was so delicious!).

We had a quick goodbye at Penn Station on Wednesday before she hopped on the train to Newark. I'm glad it was quick. I told her a long time ago she had to stop crying when we say goodbye. When I see her cry over this - something that feels like my fault - it's like a knife being twisted in my heart. I can't even visit Ellis Island anymore because it reminds me of my mother's mortality - not my own. I bought her tons of vitamins for her birthday and I often make jokes about finding a vampire to bite her. Someone recently asked me what my biggest fear was. I said it's my dogs dying in a fire while I'm out of the apartment. I don't fear a lot of things because fear is just plain pointless. And I don't worry about what comes my way because it's always been good stuff. But I lied to my friend. My biggest fear is losing my mother. And unlike my dogs burning up, this one is guaranteed to happen.

I know I'm a better person being accountable to a woman such as herself and I never take her for granted. I'm not sure I'll ever be as proud of myself as I am of my mother. I suppose all that matters though is that she's proud of me. And though I (mostly) outgrew the notion that cruelty towards me stems from the jealousy of others, I am the luckiest girl in the world to have been raised by a woman who truly believes it.




*Misspelled Pennsylvania Dutch meaning: wiggling

** Shortened version of Mom's nickname for me, "Woofie Girl"

Just In Time for Wedding Season

The world has gone to shit but sometimes there are bright spots. Today our bold and brave president announced that he supports gay marriage. This is going to make campaigning for him a little tougher - he certainly just alienated hoards of bigots who should've spent some of their teens in a circle-jerk experimenting - but he gained an enormous amount of support from those of us who needed to hear him take this stance. I was hoping to make due with just phone banking for the election, but now I'm ready to rent that car and head back to Bucks County, PA with some wonderful gay boys to go door-to-door for our fearless leader. He just divided this country BIG TIME.

This is MAGICAL! I wanted this to be my country SO BADLY!!! Can you believe it?! We just watched a BLACK president endorse GAY marriage! Welcome to the future.

Okay, I was so excited that I had to take a time-out to masturbate. I didn't think of girls because I'm a boring ol' hetero, but I sure wanted to on principle. If it makes a difference, the second time I ever successfully masturbated I thought about a lesbian from college who was obsessed with me and tried trashing my reputation when I chose a boy with nice arms over her. (And isn't it sad that I didn't know how to properly stimulate myself until COLLEGE?! Somebody needed to Vagina-Monologues me BAD!) I was bewildered after conjuring her to achieve orgasm back then, but years later I get it: We all love a crazy bitch now and then.

Today is my roommate's birthday. Her girlfriend made them breakfast and it was adorable to hear her repeat, "Don't look!" in the kitchen. I don't know if they're napping or out (mysterious and busy lesbians) but what a fantastic birthday present to have your president announce, "Hey! I respect and support your basic civil rights to marry whomever you please!"

I am gonna cry so hard at all these upcoming gay weddings. But not nearly as hard as I'm planning to work for Obama's second term. It's in the bag, no question. Back when he was the dark horse (pun intended) and everyone was betting on Hilary, telling me, "This country isn't ready for a black president," I told them they were wrong. I said we were ready for a black president, but we'll never be ready for a non-Christian (at the time I was thinking Jew or atheist). Christians do not like Mormons, nor do they consider them part of the club. I think we'll be fine. Especially when I go door-to-door with some fun Mormon facts. All's fair in love and war and for me politics is BOTH.

HOT DAMN, I'm excited about being an American today! Sure, we're still obese, uneducated, oil-hungry, polluting capitalists, but for the first time in a while I have HOPE for us again - and for the future of decent bridesmaid dresses.

A Writer Writes

Sometimes I get an email from a reader about how I should allow the Comments section of my blog to exist. I did this briefly and it was kind of wonderful, but I shut it down as I opened up more. I don't write for readers - I write for me. And I realize how selfish and stupid such a thing sounds, but about seven years ago I gave advice to a friend in L.A. She was upset about not having enough opportunities as an actor. I told her that an artist creates whether there's an audience or not. It feels shitty to use the word "artist" to describe myself, but that's what I am. I make things. Today I made $100 writing a personal ad. Tomorrow I will (HOPEFULLY) woo cameras and producers into using me for something fun, easy and awesome. I am a firm believer that anything worth doing is worth doing well, and I apply that from temp jobs to technical writing. Being prideful is not always a bad thing.

My next door neighbor might very well be the love of my life. She's also a Sagittarius and worked for years as an opera singer. (I'm operatically trained, though I use it now just for me in the shower.) She teaches yoga, public speaking, and wears hats in the shapes of animals with fantastic sunglasses. I loved her before I knew her. She always gives me wine, beer, food, vacuums, kisses, kindness and laughs, but last night she also gave me CLOTHES. Nothing speaks to the heart of a woman quite like this, especially a woman such as myself. The most I ever paid for an article of clothing was $168 and even then I felt cheated. I prefer thrift stores and shortcuts. But my neighbor - she had me try on Dolce Gabbana - something I've never done before. ALAS, I am still a size 6 and couldn't wear her 4s! But I came home with INCREDIBLE clothing (in 6s) by designers from NYC to Italy. IT MADE MY MONTH!!! I meant to go running tonight but then she asked me if I wanted a glass of wine and here I sit, four glasses later, reporting a paragraph that's haunted me since one of my first literary agents told me I wrote like Katherine Dunn. (A lit agent is useless to a girl who doesn't yet write novels.) When I read this years ago, I was above ground on the 7 train during a late summer sunset. I swear my heart jumped out and tried to exit at Queensboro Plaza.

"I was six or so when I decided to be a writer. There was a sick cat - we assumed it was rabid - in the neighborhood one summer day, and my big brother, Spike, was delegated to kill it so the little kids could go outside. I watched from a window as he snuck out the back door with his slingshot and a pocketful of ball bearings. He fed us rabbits and squirrels and pigeons with that slingshot. But this time I saw that foaming, staggering cat wobble out from behind a stack of old tires, and my brother drilled him clean between the eyes. The cat dropped without a twitch, but that night, lying in bed (I can still see the airplanes on the blue wallpaper), I realized what death was and felt the whole aching universe zooming outwards. I suddenly knew I would die - end completely. And the real tragedy was that all the wonders I'd seen and smelt and felt would die with me. I couldn't bear it. And from that moment to this I've struggled to record as much of it as I can." - Katherine Dunn

It's like living in a pressure cooker - I have to write. In journals, on the back of receipts and in emails to myself, I've conveyed all sorts of insight and experience. I didn't want to be a writer - I wanted to be a singer. But I was best at this. When Mom came after Logan left, she brought my most recent journals. She'd peeked inside of them and kept telling me, "When you're gone people will study these the way the rest of us study Twain." I love her and she's biased. But that was the purpose of those journals - even if just one person studies them, I will have reaped my rewards as a writer. It's almost enough reason to breed.

Like most religions, my writing spurs from fear of death. If I die tomorrow, oh well. But I will leave behind a streak of something, whether it's gray or red. And I'm happy again, whatever that's worth to someone who isn't me. Maybe it's because all I have to do is walk my dogs, write, walk my dogs, vacuum, write, walk my dogs, write and share my gorgeous neighbor's wine. Last night as I wore her rose-embellished Parisian jeans, she said in her French accent, "You have an ass to die for!"

How nice would it be if she were telling the truth? It wouldn't matter. From such a voice, I will believe anything.

Cluck You

I wish - more than anything - that I did not feel the desire to leave behind a monster egg of accomplishment in this lifetime, that I could just enjoy it instead. "Smell the roses" or whatever people without talkative dreams do. I punish myself if I don't inch closer to greatness each and every day.

And that is the biggest reason I loved my ex. He had simple tastes, pleasures, and basic steps to achieving goals. He dreamed big too but he also made me spend two days in bed once watching bad TV and loving him as though he were a vacation come to life.

And there's more. I had to submit photos today for a gig so I had to dig through my iPhoto folders. He's everywhere because I don't hate him enough to delete the images. And our ending came with such conviction that there's no doubt. After crying just two tears over a darling image of him brushing out a wet dog I went to the fridge for yogurt (I do this constantly now that I'm on antibiotics like a rich person). I thought as I opened my fridge that was once "our" fridge, "I could have gotten him back. I'm strong and a straight shooter. I could have made him return."

But I didn't want that. I called him drunk two days after his flight and giddily told him about my latest playwriting pursuit. He burst into tears and said, "You sound totally fine!"

And I was. I am. I sent him a drunken valentine a week later and told him I'll always love him but we'll never get back together. He's mad at me now but if you leave a rabid dog alone long enough it'll eat its own damn feet.

I started writing poems again. A boy told me a few years ago that no one should write poetry so I stopped, even after enjoying poems he'd written. He's a man now, probably. I still don't write stories from the viewpoint of animals because of him. And that's a shame.

Logan was golden. And he never smelled bad except when he went on a Marlboro bender, punishing me (and his lungs) just as my dad used to punish my mom post-fight with the same stink, taking off his wedding ring too and chucking it at me as that D word floated around, clinging to the walls as though it knew it would come in handy again.

Our wedding song just started playing. I don't dabble in this business but I'm gonna kick out the stoppers and let it take off.

Not crying.

Still not crying.

That dog brushing photo was adorable though. I love him so much that when I think of him I chomp down on myself like a goddamn cannibal with a craving. He made me do that for five years before marrying me. He looked perfect, all the time, until the end after he lost twenty pounds and his eyes caved in.

An epiphany crawled up on my bed last night and revealed that even if he'd gotten on meds we wouldn't have been able to have sex. And that's important. I would've kept him anyway but at least now it's out of my hands (pun intended).

I am the luckiest.

Now I know how this book I'm writing ends. But the thing that keeps me going is that I don't know how the next one begins. But here's how I'd like it to start:

Sure, I knew him from (True Blood, a band at Coachella, his brilliant script, that New Yorker article) but I never realized he'd be so stunning in person. Good grief, those arms! And when our eyes met something in me, for the first time ever, screamed out, "There you are!" 

Atta girl. People say things to me like, "You're tough," or "You're strong," and they ain't foolin'. But I'm also still in love. And I don't lilypad to and from my loves. I gotta process this grief before someone new warms my bed. Otherwise the sheets will always feel dirty.

This last one was the most lovable. But the one before was a better match. And I know I will sound mannish (as if we forgot about my objectifying "arms" comment above) but I like that I was able to experience both. I loved it. I loved them. I used to envy people who married early on but not anymore. I'm embracing the adventurer in me (her arms are okay). And I know my worth. It's great. And the next one will be too. But for now Logan is still becoming a ghost. A beautiful, thoughtful, funny, fun, and completely lovable vapor.

Something stinks. Maybe I laid an egg after all. Well, best get back to flogging. 

Trayvon Martin Wasn't Murdered By a Racist - Unless You're Black

In the last week I've been treated to all kinds of self-indulgent postings by my ex school chums in regards to the murder of an innocent boy. Yes, murder. I don't care if he jumped on the hood of Zimmerman's car shouting, "I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!" He weighed 140 pounds and was unarmed. If you get out of your car and pursue someone they have the right to grow belligerent and get up in your face - especially if they're a teenager.

Here are things I don't care about: The kid was suspended for pot. Making a crime out of marijuana is one of the most shameful things this country has wasted its judicial system on, along with ruining the lives of thousands of young people forever burdened by a criminal record for smoking some damn weed. Personally, I can hit the hell out of a bong (potheads marvel at my lung capacity) but I am allergic to pot. (Don't tell High Times - they let me write for them now and then.) It is the most mood-neutering substance in the world. If anything, the human race might be better off with most of us high.

I also do not care if Trayvon hit Zimmerman. I don't care if he bashed Zimmerman's head against the cement (which I truly doubt considering the difference in their size). I don't care what he did to a grown man so eager to shoot someone that he was carrying a gun on him while driving home. I don't even like cops carrying guns, let alone some wannabe vigilante who's one pair of tights away from impersonating Batman. NO ONE in his or her right mind would pursue someone on foot who they deemed DANGEROUS.

I do not care if Trayvon's face was covered in a hoodie. As an angsty teenager with divorced parents and a recent school suspension, I would expect nothing else. But Geraldo - OH, Geraldo - tried to blame the hoodie for the murder, inciting flashbacks to Jodie Foster in The Accused. I don't care if a woman walks through Times Square naked - unless she's LITERALLY asking for it, she's NOT asking for it. Blaming that hoodie is the same as blaming a woman for showing too much skin. Clevage does NOT make a rapist and a hoodie does NOT make a murderer. That boy is dead because a delusional man with a trigger finger wanted to kill somebody.

And I don't wholeheartedly believe that George Zimmerman is a racist. But I sure as hell KNOW the police in Sanford, Florida are. I had the misfortune of spending my teens near Sanford in a little hell hole known as "The Shark Capital of The World". Good ol' Volusia County! My parents owned some of the first video stores in all the south (we were actually the first ever to rent video games, a brilliant idea from my little brother). Because all small businesses cater to their town's police, my parents offered free rentals to the pigs of our community. And boy, did they take advantage! Those power mongers not only checked out movies for free, but if they didn't return something on time they expected to be exempt from late fees as well. Their sense of entitlement extended all the way to a late night strip search of our homecoming queen when they found wine coolers in her trunk. My favorite though came in the form of an admitted white supremacist decked out in shaved head and swastika tattoo who bragged at the video store's checkout to my dad about all the "coloreds" he'd pull over just for, y'know, NOT being white. Let's jump to the ending: He's rotting in jail for the rest of his life after murdering a transvestite who was rumored to be his lover.

My second father figure's dad was the first sheriff of our small town in the 1950s. He was called out frequently to cut down young black boys from their ropes after they'd been hanged to death. We lived on the outskirts of an area where such horrible, soulless crimes had been committed and I could never look into the darkness on the other side of our pond at night. The whole town felt like poison to me and I kicked and screamed to get as far from it as possible. (Though my best works of fiction are always set there - UGH.)

We moved from Pennsylvania in April of '86. Within the first weeks of starting 5th grade in Florida my mom gave my brother's friend a ride home and I heard my first racist jokes. I was eleven years old and I didn't actually know people felt this way yet - lucky me. My best friend was born the day before me and we shared a nursery in Harrisburg Hospital during our first hours of life. Our moms met in the baby bathing class (in which I was the baby model with my funky birthmark they thought was poop). Our moms became best friends. And then we became neighbors. My best friend's mother was white, but my BFF was black. This never seemed strange. I assumed different colors of people came out of each other all the time. But one night I woke up in our livingroom curled up next to my BFF who'd stayed awake to watch TV. She must've seen something in a movie or show - I'll never know. She was angry and on the verge of tears. She said over and over to my face as though realizing for the first time, "I'm black. I'm black." She turned her back to me and because I didn't yet possess whatever it was she needed in a friend, I went back to sleep.

I had a black Crystal Barbie. She was beautiful in a glitter gown, long hair and big, plastic jewels. But my best friend would never play with her. All of her dolls were white.

I turned to that racist little kid in the backseat of our car and threatened his life as I burst into tears. He laughed and looked to my bewildered brother as though he'd join in, laughing too. My brother looked like he was going to puke - Mom too. She told me later that the kid's mother told her a bizarre story. After spending ten minutes at his first day of school, he got up and walked four miles to his house. When his shocked mother opened the door he informed her, "They wanted me to take orders from a n*****."

Some like to give that word power by exercising it. As a white woman, I do not have any rights to such a thing. And that's my point - white people do not get to criticize Al Sharpton on this one. This is not about us. We have no idea - NONE - what a life spent in agitation over the color of your skin is like. I hear from idiots all the time, "I don't mind (insert: "gays," "blacks," etc.), but why do they have to be so loud about it?!"

Because they're OPPRESSED, you moron! "Those people" throw parades and make noise to compensate for the childhood they spent in fear and confusion listening to bigots like YOU.

I saw something remarkable once while riding the bus in Pittsburgh. Three young black boys were making a lot of noise when a well-dressed older black man in a fedora (A FEDORA!) approached them and stood over the trio like a disappointed father. "Listen to me," he began, pointing at their faces, "Our people have fought for years to gain rights like riding at the front of this bus. You bring shame on our entire race acting like fools! You shame me, you shame your families and you shame yourselves. All of these people are thinking about how stupid you look and yeah, they notice what color you are. You need to show some self-respect if you want respect!"

He stepped off the bus and we all - the three boys included - picked up our jaws. They mumbled to each other for the rest of the ride. In their defense, would you want to sit quietly after being raised in a country that not so long ago had your ancestors in shackles, selling children off like cattle? Would you sit politely watching your family scrape by because, unlike the great-great grandparents who came over on the Mayflower, nobody left any land or assets to you? Would you be enraged too if a non-black man shot an unarmed boy who shared your color of skin and NOBODY ARRESTED HIM? You'd probably be pissed. And you'd probably make some noise.

Sanford, Florida is a horrible place. A girl I was friends with briefly in middle school lives there now and she found me on MySpace just before the primaries for the 2008 election. We exchanged emails and I was wondering how to sweetly request an absence from so many damn forwards about angels, cats, and anti-perspirant warnings, when she delivered an out. Like so many before her (and since) who are too lazy to Google simple facts, she sent that infamous email forward of Obama not putting hand to heart. In that same email it indicates that because of his middle name, he's also probably a terrorist. I replied to ALL while repeatedly misspelling Obama's first name:

This forward was remarkable. I live in Brooklyn and didn't realize parts of the country are still taking jabs at Barak Obama's name, let alone the way he pledges allegiance to the country he loves so much that he's running to be its president. To read the REAL story (and see photos of Barak when he DOES place his hand over his heart) go here: http://www.snopes.com/politics/obama/anthem.asp

Ignorance is bliss until all of a sudden you have a rich idiot in the White House sending our boys to die for oil. We should educate ourselves and NOT with Fox News! I read Barak Obama's first book and it made me cry but it also made me respect him. The man truly loves his country. I don't think his RIGHT TO CHOOSE how he deals with the National Anthem reflects anything except him, as always, being the Black Sheep of the group (pun intended). I don't know who I'll vote for yet, but I think it's amazing that a country who's only been getting used to Rosa Parks sitting in the front of that bus for about sixty years has a black man running for president. I'm proud of a country that's come so far so fast. But sending emails like this is a slanderous setback. This is a good man - an incredibly educated man - and I don't care if he prefers standing on his head for the National Anthem. 

I'd written it hastily because I was just so pissed and probably shouldn't have mentioned that Fox News bit to their key demographic. Also, I lied - Obama had won me over in a big way and though I do love that Hilary, I wanted the guy with heart - even if I hadn't learned yet how to spell his name. What followed after my email is what anyone can expect when sending a liberal's point of view to dozens of terrified, Republican racists living in Sanford, Florida (the "bewildered herd" as Noam Chomsky calls them). I received an all caps, no punctuation reply from my ex-friend defending her uninformed opinion (naturally, she hadn't bothered to read the Snopes.com link). I replied with the following (not my finest writing and HOLY CRAP! The indignant Michael Moore comment and contagious CAPS LOCK! HAH!):

Hey,

I just think maybe we've drifted in different directions for a reason. I don't belong on a mass email like this. My point was that this information was slanderous and false. Your email basically called him a terrorist. I was here for 9/11. I was TRAPPED in Manhattan for an entire week so don't tell me about your fucking military experience. I PITY people who have to go into that form of work, but I RESPECT them. You have to realize that they're over there dying RIGHT NOW so the rich can get richer. There is no war on terror. Have you ever watched a Michael Moore film? Has anyone in your family or circle of friends? I doubt it. You probably call it "propaganda" and live in a bubble where you believe all white, Christian politicians have your best interests at heart.

You're right. Everyone's entitled to an opinion. But your email was regurgitated propaganda. My email WAS an opinion and I expressed it to people whom I've realized really needed a liberal-minded view. It's the obligation of ANY educated American to point out truth. You mass-emailed a lie. I corrected it and sent a link where your friends and family could read further into it and make up their OWN minds. THAT'S the freedom we have in this country.

It was nice to hear from you, but I'm living a life that doesn't have room for this sort of ignorance and intolerance. No hard feelings, but I'd appreciate no further contact.


Angie

P.S. If you don't wish to open a dialogue between the people you mass-email, BCC them.

Oh boy, what a self-righteous liberal! (I'm working on it, truly.) And she's not the only "friend" I lost during the election. I also lost a cousin-by-marriage who used to practice French kissing with me when we were twelve. Bleh! Frenching bigots! But my email debacle comes with a happy ending. For starters, Obama won! YAY!!! Which means WE all won! Before that happened, a coworker of my ex-friend began harassing me via email (she was one of the unhappier hicks to whom I'd replied-all). She made the mistake of threatening me from her work's email account. I wound her up for an entire day and then called her boss and forwarded everything her way. I'll admit it - I was super smug. My intentions were impure. And as for my ex-friend, she sent me seven emails with the subject "GOODBYE" (yes, in all caps). Despite my lack of reply, she kept telling me what a fool I was to throw away a friendship of twenty years. That's when I spun my greatest work:

Twenty years? I knew you for two years and twenty years later you found me on MySpace! I don't remember much about our friendship except comparing notes on the times we fucked dudes at your parents house and eating candy from Kmart that your mom pulled out of the dumpster! It was FUN! But you're a fucking BIGOT now! Look it up! It's a bad word! Now quit being so dramatic and LEAVE ME ALONE!

Yeah, YOU quit being dramatic, you dumpster-candy eating slut! ("Hello Pot? This is Kettle... I found some candy in the garbage and shoplifted some condoms... Are your parents home?")

And this started out as such a poignant piece of journalism... Anyhoo, I'm done listening to white people tell me about racism. I don't care how many black friends come forward attesting to Zimmerman being "color blind" - I don't care. Because hate crimes are REAL, so real that we have special laws now. They're not made up - they happen. A LOT. Zimmerman wanted to shoot someone. And he did. And now he has to go to jail for a very long time. At this point, he'd be safer behind bars (maybe not - The Black Panthers put a hit on him, after all and I'm sure that'll reach far and wide). It doesn't matter to me whether it mattered to him that Trayvon was black. You gunned down a member of a pissed off, oppressed minority who still cries out on subways and buses for their great-great-great ancestors who were pulled away from their children and LITERALLY sold down the river! Accept the wrath like the big man you were when you had a gun to that boy's chest.

I'm lucky that I got to spend a chunk of my life without racism. But I'm even luckier to not be haunted of the tortures an entire race endured - endures, sadly. If you think racism is dead, I invite you to visit Sanford, Florida. Check out the ol' Shark Capital while there. Talk to one of the friendly police officers and casually ask about the black population. You'll hear slanderous terms you never even knew existed. The South is racist. That's why I stay in NYC and visit those I love down there who do their best to even it out.

Last night I was walking my two fluffy little a-hole Pomeranians when a tall dark-skinned boy approached. He was wearing a hoodie - just a hoodie, and it was REALLY cold last night. I couldn't see his face and that's often the case when someone's wearing a hoodie. I didn't even register until later that someone in another part of this craphole country would be scared. It was cold - he had his hood up. That was what I processed. As he passed us, Daisy gruffed at him (she's tough when Dolly and I are around to back her up). The boy laughed at Daisy's weird little dog words and said to me, "They're cute."

And I felt safer having that guy on my block as I walked my dogs at midnight, hoodie and all. 

You Are Here

I sleep with the curtains open no matter what time I go to bed because waking up to sunlight is like a free cup of coffee. And since the only options up here are McDonald's or Dunkin Donuts, I need all the help I can get.

Yesterday's weather didn't know that Margot and I had a big spring day planned requiring dresses, and so we spent most of it freezing. At least I'd changed out of that $4 halter dress I'd found at Goodwill in Florida (with the brick-brack and red buttons in back). I was sensible to put on that deep cobalt blue velvety thing with such a gorgeous woven belt that Anthropologie might trick customers into paying $300 for a polyester reproduction someday. At the baby shower last weekend I was complemented on the $10 dress that Johnny had pulled from a mannequin and purchased for me during a trip to Buffalo Exchange. He insisted that the dress and I belonged together, no matter how I ranted about editors not paying up, rendering me penniless. But because Johnny is one of the world's most lovable critters, he bought the dress and told me I could pay him back in beer someday (many days, really). At the baby shower I started to babble about how I started shopping at thrift stores because I was poor. And then in college I became enamored with a Political Science major who ONLY shopped secondhand in effort to support our economy while keeping money away from sweatshops. Now I mostly do it for the thrill of the hunt. Like most great gamers, I've infected all those close to me with this passion. When I enter a thrift store I actually fantasize about those gold coins from Mario Brothers appearing in the air over any articles of clothing to which I'd succumb. But if such magic occurred not only would the thrill be gone, I'd also probably be suffering from schizophrenia.

Margot and I don't need plans. We just need a few edible stimulants and a place to talk. We never run out of things to talk about! She is brilliant, witty and the only regret of my life: That I didn't BFF it up with her and Jenn earlier. Sadly, Jenn has moved to Tel Aviv to be with her hunky Jew. Sometimes we pour a forty out for her on the curb (by "forty" I mean a fine red wine or chunk of a cupcake). Margot and I had seen and read many things that we needed to talk about and that took up a lot of time as we ate noodles and then ended up in a bakery that could've been featured in Willy Wonka. Over boozy coffee and cake we covered everything, and just in time because we had a reading to attend.

I made Margot buy the ticket days ago and then I scribbled apologetic notes, especially during the first two readers. The last two years of my life have been focused on tolerance - they had to be or else I couldn't have made it so long living with a Republican Mormon. But it's an attitude I'm still cleaving to, though sometimes with a loose grip. It wasn't much of a grip at all as I did battle on Facebook all day over religion and politics with a few people I will never meet face to face, all for Charlie. He's my mom's bookie, and has been since I was about ten years old. By "bookie"I mean he obtains rare literary pieces, sometimes straying a bit to procure an autographed 8x10 of Madonna for me just after Mom witnessed my bursting into tears over the queen of pop's appearance on Arsenio Hall. (Mom was doing everything in her power to hold the antenna in place for me. It was a fuzzy, = spiritual awakening of my womanhood.) Charlie is also responsible for a rare Truman Capote find - I can't even write this, my body seizes up with absolute joy - that Mom has had on layaway. I don't like THINGS. I like to unload my things every couple of years and start anew. But this thing will instigate the purchase of a fireproof safe. This thing is worth building armies of lit-minded grandchildren to appreciate and pass it down to. This thing is so magical that as we stood waiting for the reading to begin and I spoke of it quietly to Margot, Mary Gaitskill walked by.

It wasn't that big of a surprise since she was the reason we were attending this reading. But MARY GAITSKILL!!! Mary Gaitskill!!! She is the most talented living writer we've got! I almost felt like she should be in a pope box for protection (Stephen Sondheim should travel this way as well). I just wasn't prepared. My heart raced and my words quit. Margot hasn't read her yet which is my fault. I think she borrowed Veronica and I whined about not having it to flip through whenever I pleased, so she returned it.

We accidentally sat in the line of fire from an unnecessary air conditioner after freezing all afternoon. But then Mary Gaitskill sat with her pixie-like friend about three feet away and I couldn't budge. I'm not impressed by celebrity. I've been exposed to so many and there have been just three encounters so far that make my heart jump ship: Larry David (this bizarre encounter left us almost equally stunned), Garrison Keilor (we're both on the Mark Train album - I met him backstage of Prairie Home Companion recently, but I couldn't operate my tongue), and now Mary Gaitskill. At no point could I have spoken to her. But she noticed Margot and me swapping looks a few times and I couldn't tell if she disapproved or agreed (I want to believe the latter). She read last, of course. And when she announced it was something new that had never been published I knew the dam wall of my bladder would finally go numb and stop hoping for release.

Mary Gaitskill is an eerily great reader. She is the incarnation of the High Priestess card of the tarot deck. She is a simple, small woman packing a punch. Her story was about a child going to Hell. Lordy, it was dark and strange! When people read I usually look away so that I can concentrate on their words, but this was impossible to do with her. Her hair is white and her eyes are a powerful blue. She looks almost staged with dyes or makeup. But her skin was clean. She almost didn't seem real. It felt like she alone was responsible for gravity. I squinted and looked for her aura. I've seen them a few times on Ani Difranco and Chita Rivera (crazy-good how many times I've been in a room with them). Theirs are white and huge like full body halos. Ms. Gaitskill's was dark and close to her body. I don't know or even think much about such things - only what I've seen. But I believe hers was small and dark like that from suffering. I was almost happy to see such a thing, probably because I've suffered too. And something about that feels right. But she reprocesses any grief like a literary recycling facility. And that's exactly the same thing as making magic. When she finished it was like someone cut all of us down from a net. The hostess called Ms. Gaitskill a witch. The look on her lovely face was almost painful and I wondered where that word just took her. The hostess explained that she'd cast a spell on all of us and she was right. But as appropriate as it seemed, that word felt like a weapon. No woman wants to be called a witch. It means our strings were showing.

Seeing her like that and knowing a bit about her life, I reminded myself how important it is to never play victim. This is something I sometimes forget after saddling up alongside someone else. It's almost as though having someone to care makes us want to hurt more - we want to instigate their protection even when it's no longer necessary.

As soon as the reading ended, Margot and I peed, grabbed a piece of cheese, and left quickly. We rode in the elevator with one of the other readers who is famous now. I told him we'd done a reading together a long time ago and reminded him which story he'd read (some people had booed him - he's famous, but not entirely for being GOOD). And then I added that he'd dated a friend of mine at that time - I even said her name. This writer is super strange and has a lot of quirks. That doesn't excuse the fact that he'd head-butted one of the coolest girls I've ever met. And slapped her. I think I said her name just to embarrass him. Margot told me outside had I mentioned the headbutting I'd have been her hero. But my friend had sworn me to secrecy so that mere mention was the best I could do.

We went to an overpriced yuppie bar to talk about what we'd seen and heard. Many blondes with flat hair and variations of the same dress came in. Men were wearing suits - on a SATURDAY! Margot suggested maybe they'd come from a wedding but wouldn't they still be drinking for free there instead of here? I had two sidecars and told Margot what Lizzie said the night before - that I should probably be alone. Margot was pissed on my behalf and I love her for that. I don't feel like an alone type of creature. I'm too affectionate and I like to bake too much and eat too little to be alone. We shared oysters and suddenly I was convinced that one had been bad. But it wasn't. I think the weekend was just too perfect and I expected something to go wrong.

We hugged goodbye and I started down the stairs to the L train, realizing Margot still had my New Yorker in her purse. I ran as fast as anyone can with two sidecars and shellfish in her belly, shouting, "Margot!"

Boys with skateboards sat on a wall in the park shouting, "Polo," after each of my "Margots". I caught her before she got into a cab. Good thing because Shouts and Murmurs was hilarious this week.

On the train uptown a woman in her 40s reapplied makeup with an eagerness that reeked of casual sex. She got off at 72nd St and I was relieved. There was a desperation to her that put me on edge. I'm curious to know if I'll ever feel anything like that again though.

Woke up to an email in French and had Mom translate it. It was for a house swap in the countryside and it's gorgeous! She and I are planning to do a week in Paris and a week in the country, taking day trips on the train to London, Amsterdam, and any place else that churns our interest. I haven't been this optimistic since I moved back from Scotland. And that year was the best of my life. So far. 

TGIF

Met up with Johnny Rocket and Lizzie in Williamsburg tonight. I didn't realize it would have this effect on me, but as soon as I hit Bedford I nearly burst into tears. The only thing preventing me from waterworks: Trying to look too cool for school. Yeeeeeah! But when I found them in the bar I couldn't help it - I cried a little. And it didn't matter because we were in a bar and lots of people want to cry within that place. But they usually don't.

Johnny had to leave around 10:30 because he married a girl I'm in friend-love with and they're having a baby soon. Seven years ago he was my OCD, incredibly awesome and fun roommate. I still can't believe I found Johnny on Craigslist. What a world!

Boys in a band showed up and turned out to be smart and fun to talk with. The bar allowed dogs and I spent my night petting many. The only thing I don't miss about Williamsburg: Filthy bar bathrooms.

Everyone left and it was just Lizzie and me. She asked what I wanted from my next relationship and I told her I mostly wanted what I had with Adam but with someone who wouldn't cheat on me. Then she said she always felt I should be alone. It made me sad because I always felt this way too. She saw that on my face and said, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to hurt you. I just mean there isn't anyone who could ever be with you! You're on another plain, Pants!"

She said I should focus on enjoying the temporary company of others. I remembered the weird warlock fella in an occult shop in the lower east village who hissed at me, "La loba! You're a wolf!"

He told me my spirit animal was a female wolf and most men would be intimidated. What a bummer. I've managed to squeeze into sheep's clothing many times but the seams burst. It never lasts. No matter. There must be a male wolf out there, yes?

I have a belly full of bourbon and shared a cab home with a really lovable drummer who happens to live three blocks from me! It's his birthday. Tomorrow night after I see a reading of Mary Gaitskill (MARY GAITSKILL!!!) I might stop in for Pictionary and shenanigans at my new neighbor's place.

I'm really happy tonight. I was so happy to be in Williamsburg. Everything I thought I was better off forgetting was warm and wonderful. There was so much there - maybe the best so far in my life. We had to take the cab home. Someone jumped in front of the train and the L stopped running so the police could investigate. Such a waste of a time and place.