Part Two of the Sunday Top Ten Gayest Moments of My Life on Earth

This is Part Two of the Top Ten Gayest Moments of my Life on Earth, the pre-quel to "The Top Ten Gayest Moments of my Life in Outer Space," which'll be a lot like "The Muppets go to Outer Space." I'm writing about gay stuff because there's an important election going on right now for the Best LGBT Blog of the year. I'm somehow a finalist along with nine legitimately mega-popular blogs, so it's a huge surprise/honor, and you can pick one of us here, today -- and you can vote again every 24 hours! I haven't got a chance unless LiLo personally endorses me this weekend, but I'm aiming for the stars -- Top 5!!! ALSO! There's gays you must vote for in other categories too -- firstly, 8 Against 8 ringleader Grace the Spot is up for Best New Blog, and I bet you haven't heard of any of those other people, I mean they're new, and who has the time, so you should probs just vote for her.

Honorary GAY A.E Brain is up for Best Australia/New Zealand blog (unfortunately Crystal's favorite blog and new blog bestie Defamer Australia didn't make the list this year), GAY Mombian's goin' at it for Best Large Blog, and BISEXUAL Margaret Cho and OBVS SECRETLY GAY Britney Spears are both on tap for Best Celebrity Blogger.

So the first five on this illustrious Top Ten Gayest Moments of My Life included The Rosie Cruise, Mz Hip 'n Fit New York 2008, my Mom's gay picnics, Melissa Etheridge in Atlantic City and the NewNowNext Awards.

When conducting a two-part Top Ten, I generally blow the best bits on Round One and imagine the second part being written by someone else, a better version of me with better choosing skills, or even a drunker version of me with less self-consciousness. Howevs, I'm so hungover I need a new word for Hungover and therefore it's just memememememe & my little baby mind.

I've had so many Gay Moments, especially these past few years. Even when I was a practicing het, I had a super gay life. I'm thinking big events for this Top Ten, but what about the really big private moments that I'll never talk about for free or the little private moments like the night I decided to finish reading Well of Loneliness after watching Brokeback Mountain and then cried and wanted to kill myself? I didn't though. So. Rawr.

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I gave "5" to the Indigo Girls @ Pine Knob.

I witnessed many homo-heavy events at the Pine Knob amphitheater in suburban Detroit in the 90's including Lilith Fair, Ani DiFranco, and, on more than one occasion -- the Indigo Girls. The best IG concert I've been to was at the Greek Theater in Berkley, but my gayest IG-related moment was the Summer '02 Pine Knob stop of the "become you" tour. The cheap seats are on the lawn at Pine Knob.

I didn't even know they had a new album out (this would NEVER happen usually, I heart Indigo Girls) 'cause my dumb boyfriend, who was living with me that summer in the lesbian-filled house I'd occupied year-round, refused to listen to anything other than Blink 182 andNewfound Glory. You know that look people give you when you turn on your car and the Indigo Girls blast out? It's like "Did you just shove Emily'sbirkenstock up my ass?" look, the "Are you trying to kill me with blood and fire" look. I just wanna listen to my feeeelings.

My lesbian rugby roommates invited me, it was one of the first times I'd been out w/o my boyfriend in a while. They danced on the grass with bare feet like kids and I sat on the blanket with the hummus and the pita and I quickly identified my initial disgust towards their comfort/fancy-freehood/self-awareness as deep jealousy and then, at that moment, as Amy & Emily sang with acoustic guitar, I honestly thought (ever soinsightfully) to myself: "my boyfriend will never understand me."

See I didn't even know what I was talking about. YET.

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[from Stef's cartoon recap of the Tegan & Sara concert.
Carly is bleeding from the head.]

But then ... speaking of concerts ... is that even gayer than when Tinkerbell got signed by Leisha & Cam at the Philly Uh Huh Her concert? Is that gayer than the Uh Huh Her concert where a fan with "you dismantle me" tattooed on her arm (it's a JennySchecter quote) bought us a round of lemondrop shots and showed me photos of her dogs and cats on her pink cellphone? Or the SXSW Uh Huh Her experience, like, in general?

Gayer than the Tegan & Sara concert where I tried to tackle Carly and she allegedly almost died but in reality experienced an awesome brush with the supernatural possibility of death?

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So I give "4" to The White Party - NYC during Pride '06, mostly 'cause it's an excellent example of totally mediocre lesbo-party planning, and an example of things we did in 2006 that we would not do in 2009. I mean, not everyone was wearing white. That was the point. There was a costume of the day, ladies! Costume of the DAY! All white! I remember drama and feelings that we actually for once weren't a part of. A random told us she liked us because we didn't look "like John Goodman," which was sweet.

I was on ecstasy, so I pretty much loved everyone in the world, which is a very gay feeling.

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For a person who never goes out, I've got a lot of memories of going out. Especially in the beginning of going to gay things. My Mom did that too in the beginning, which was neat, and then I could eatmozzarella sticks for dinner.

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According to Cait & Hav, my first visit to morally decrepit West Hollywood girl-bar (night?) "Truck Stop" (during our 3. West Hollywood Weekend) is the first time in my life that, when asked "are you ready to go home?" I was like, "Nah, I'll stay." I ALWAYS am on Team Let's Go Home Now. I vaguely remember this. I was drunkish and having a good conversation about how hard it was to even think about being gay at U-Mich with a friend-of-a-friend from U-Mich who's now my friend and also Haviland's friend 'cause this is the way that we live.

Truck Stop was totally disgusting but I had to stay like how I have to watch Intervention. Nearly naked girls did coreographed dances on the bar in bikinis. Ideally I'll never go there again, but realistically I probs will, because I love trucks.

The next night, in true form, I busted the OurChart-sponsored Lesbian Oil Wrestling event way early. Why? 'Cause I was ethically opposed to how The L Word stole this concept from a legitimately empowering Brooklyn-based event (the original focused on political satire and creating a safe space for women of all body types, classes and colors to play and fight) and turned it into a glossy sexy skinny white girls teevee-tied-in lesbian event. Other versions of this story claim I left the event early because I'm a bitch and/or cranky and/or impossible and/or unable to just have fun and be silly.Whatevs. Gay!

But really anytime you're in a room with Catherine Keener, Ilene Chaiken, Angela Robinson and Clementine Ford ... that's pretty gay. Like I could feel Ilene breathing (firetorches!!!).

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But how ridiculous, right? I mean, being gay isn't about half-naked celesbians rolling around in hot oil. It's about being denied civil rights! YEAH!

So the 2. No on Prop 8 Rally deserves a shout-out. My gayest moment w/r/t the election was fo'sho the 8 Against 8 thing, but if I started including cyber-moments, it'd get out of control. The rally felt a little disjointed, but still -- it was something to be a part of, besides just screaming into machines, which is so much easier. To chant & yell with signs in public and physically feel the community, and about something important and unifying, is the most important gay moment of all.

Thinking about Prop 8 makes me want to bang my head against the wall. Owsers.

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But then my original number 2 in Draft #1 was our 1999 trip to the River Run B &B (now under new ownership)

Ryan & I brilliantly chose a random B&B in the Catskills to get away from Sarah Lawrence for a weekend. The bus driver dropped us off and said we'd be miserable here without a car, even offered to take us elsewhere for free, but we'd already paid. It was a ghost town, just one Mexican restaurant, La Chacha or something, boarded-up houses and this particular B&B. Larry the owner concurred -- "if you'd told me you didn't have a car, I would've said not to stay here" -- as he gave us the house tour. I noticed the rainbow flag out back. Ryan (gay) didn't.

Breakfast confirmed my suspicions. So! Many! Gay! Couples! I was totes pursuing straighthood at the time, but I was the one who picked up on Larry's drop of "they're family" when speaking of certain snow-shoe-trail-blazing-mountain-hiking-leading-guiding-stores and far-away restaurants and subsequently pointed out to Ryan that in our attempt to avoid our friends' Fire Island weekend ("too gay"), we'd accidentally booked ourselves a weekend at a Gay B&B in the middle of assfuck nowhere, which is the gayest shit ever.

(we read books and wrote all weekend, it was perfect.) (gay!)

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See, I don't like to go out. I like to have little gay moments right here in my room.

Last night I had a bunch of people over for The L Word premiere (we watch it ahead of time to ensure timely recaps) and two separate people said, upon entering my room (they'd never been in); "so this is where the magic happens." Really what magic. Besides the rabbit in the hat thing. If there is magic in this room I need to find it stat. I cleaned yesterday so I feel like it should've turned up then. Guess what I'm listening to? Tegan & Sara. Where's my wings.

The past two years have been chock-full of gay moments. Honestly when I started this blog, I never expected to one day fit quite accurately into this particular category. But maybe I never really considered, at that point, living the life I actually wanted to live, either.

It's Just a Couch. This Isn't Life. It's Just Stuff. (The Story of Dixon the A**hat)

What a whirlwind! Longest move ever -- and at last, oh, hi, here, here ... my & Natalie's new West Harlumbia apartment is a mess but sooner or later it will be a home where our habits can have a habitat. Natalie already knows how annoying I am, so there won't be any surprises.

I've got bruises and cuts everywhere, 'cause I can barely walk straight when I'm not carrying heavy objects, let alone when I am. So I'm behind on everything, which seems to be a perpetual problem, which seems to suggest that maybe there's just too much everything, you know?

[Quick announcement: On Tuesday, if Obama loses, I'm gonna kill myself. I'd move to Canada, but I don't have a passport. I just want to put that out there so we're all on the same [web]page.]

If Obama wins, and I think he will, then I can fully devote myself to all the other exciting things coming up, like Obama winning, the release of the Hot Blogger Calendar (Click here to view more details and to pre-order using my affiliate link therefore supporting me which is what we're all here for right, ME?!?!) and Sex Blogger Calendar, my Mom's birthday, National Novel Writing Month and maybe finishing unpacking.

So I have a story to tell you about hope and Dixon the Douchebag of the Week, who wasted 5 hours of the best most beautiful years of our lives on Saturday. I keep trying to edit this story 'cause it's so long, but every time I edit it I seem to make it longer. So welcome to long story time.

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Me and Natalie, the last time we lived together -- Willard '03-'04.
Look at that couch in the background! It looks so comfy!

I've got a long well-documented fondness for craigslist and I recognise its fallibleness. So I guess ultimately this is a story about what we expect from people, what "good faith" really means, and how petrifying it is when someone refuses to abide by the arbitrary rules of human morality you thought were implicit. I make this mistake often. Then I ask myself: why do I continue to expect?

At one point in this story, I will be suggesting for the fifth time a certain angle at which to push the couch from our hallway into the living room and A;ex will say, "why do you keep trying the same thing over and over again." And I will say, A;ex, as a sane person, you do not understand this, but your team in this endeavor -- me, Natalie, and Caitlin -- we do the same things over and over again expecting different results. Natalie will point out that it's the definition of insanity. We'll all laugh, knowingly, and push, and the only thing different about this time is that the bottom of the couch cuts right through my palm, an injury I don't notice 'til hours later, but which doesn't actually matter, obviously.

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Natalie and I, proud underemployed U-Mich alums, operate on a steady budget of broke-to-almost-broke and so we planned to get most of our furniture from craigslist or the street corner (coincidentally, this is also where we get our blow jobs).

Nata's developed a severe craigslist addiction over the past two weeks;' hauling Caitlin to at least five house/yard sales. Nata even enchanted a (obvs gay) woman on the Upper West who asked them to stay for dinner and sold Nata a teevee that didn't work. (Sidenote: howevs, when we informed her the teevee didn't work, she ripped up Nata's check. 'Cause that's what PEOPLE DO.)

The sofa is the most important thing we've been seeking. A;ex's grandfather is ill and her family keeps changing their mind about what's best for him, and so his old sofa has been offered and then taken back several times. It's like what my ex used to do to me with her bank card when she was in the mental hospital, except not evil.

A final take-back was initiated last week, so we made other arrangements. On Sunday morning A;ex is given the go-ahead again. Too late; we've already promised Dixon we'll buy his couch for $125 'cause it looks like something we could fall asleep on. Here's the ad:

So it's Saturday morning and the Team is in action. We've all been in overdrive supporting Natalie's yard sale addiction and complementary willingness to traverse crosstown for a deal on a stack of paper plates as well as my general mishap-hood and Saturday is no exception.

Caitlin's bringing me a dresser from the goodwill in New Jersey, A;ex is picking up the ebay teevee from Queens and she's got a coffee table and a bookshelf for Nata already in her car, and eventually Caitlin & Natalie rendez-vous @ the W.Harlumbia Palace to go get the couch and then Natalie realizes she's broke. Together, Caitlin & Natalie have got about $65, so there's no sofa-getting until A;ex unloads the furniture in Harlumbia, then goes back to get me & my stuff & my cash in Midtown and then takes me uptown.

Being poor takes a lot of time, we can't just call Ethan Allen and be like, what's up Ethan, I need a couch and some chairs, and he'll be like, okay, cool. Instead we must deal with Dixon.

So, a few hours behind schedule, A;ex gets me in midtown, we go uptown to W.Harlumbia where Cait & Nata are waiting. A;ex double-parks, we dash inside, have a five second Team Meeting and when we emerge, Alex has got a $115 parking ticket. Caitlin & Natalie get in Caitlin's car, we get in A;ex's car, A;ex yells at the ticket, and we then we hear a sharp plunking noise.

What was that, I ask.

A;ex gets out of the car, fully raging, and discovers someone's thrown a nail at us. A nail. I don't know why people do what they do, I'm not God.

I tell her nice optimistic things, which's an attitude I only pull out in times of crisis.

We arrive at Dixon's apartment on 72nd street with our two-car caravan. He's moving to California with his boyfriend, probs so they can tan year-round while sucking the fruits of their mad twatwaffledom and smoking meth from each others assholes.

Nata and I go upstairs, check out the couch.

Dixon admits he's not sure how they got it in there in the first place. Problem #1.

I don't like him, Natalie says. He seems a bit slow.

We'd expected to like him, because of the Instant Homosexual Bond.

The couch isn't as promised. It's falling apart at the edges, the lining's frayed, the skirt's threatening to abandon ship altogether. It smells a little and is impossible to move. Problem #2. But we've not come this far for failure.

I sub out, put Caitlin in, 'cause she's stronger. It's tight quarters up there, we need geometry and manpower, and I've got no idea how the fuck they ever got that couch in there, possibly it was airlifted.

So while they struggle, I walk down 72nd to get a fountain soda. The weather's cool crisp autumn (my favorite) and I'm thinking about how well everything's going considering how terrible everything was, about how people can make up for concrete things but the heart-hurt takes more time, thinking about all the stories I do not and wouldn't tell, and the ones I don't understand yet, of how maybe not everything happens for a reason but things have a way of working themselves out. How nice it is to have people who try to do what they can without expecting absolution, not now or even soon, but just 'cause they can, and we all do what we can, like everyone who did what they can the first time around, too, and all the others after that.

I'm thinking about how strange and silly crazy we all are, and how we go on, and how much better Coke tastes from the fountain than it does from the bottle.

I'm thinking about curling up on the sofa with Natalie and making animal noises all winter. I'm thinking about all the things I miss and the things I'm looking forward to, how to follow your gut and still retain dignity, and then I return to find Nata curled up in Caitlin's front seat saying she thinks she's made a big mistake.

Nata always takes full responsibility for things going wrong if she's even remotely involved. Caitlin takes full responsibility for things going wrong when it's clearly not her fault or within her control at all, like a plane landing late. A;ex always takes responsibility when she thinks it's probs her Mom's fault.

I don't know what I do. Maybe I avoid taking responsibility for situations and logistics but do accept full responsibility for emotional damages, or maybe I don't. Maybe I try not to be involved, or when I say it, I'm just saying it.

It's falling apart, Natalie says, back to the couch now.

We're not paying 125 for it, I say. We'll bargain.

There's this Cuban woman up there yelling at us in Spanish, she says.

You speak Spanish, I say.

She's not helping, Natalie says.

I call Caitlin. Are you okay, do you need help. She's in one of those moods: This crazy woman is mouthing off to us and she just said we need more strong men and there's no way we're getting it out of here. So obviously now it IS ON AND WE ARE GETTING THIS MOTHERFUCKER OUT OF HERE.

The first time Haviland met Cait she said to me afterwards; "Cait's my kind of lesbian," 'cause Cait looked like she'd get really competitive about moving heavy objects and always offer a ride like she did that day they met -- offering the ride.

Caitlin says there's nothing I can do so I just pat Natalie's hair and we eat chips.

15 minutes later, A;ex & Caitlin & Dixon emerge triumphant with the couch, having squeezed it through so many narrow impossible spaces. Dixon almost dies but A;ex saves him from getting crushed. A;ex is feisty and secretly strong, tired but determined, she's a good one. I'm probs driving her bat-shit insane but til I do, I can't seem to cease the sky-high investment of labour and time on her part. Her sanity is a heavy object, too, the kind that carries itself.

I don't really know if I deserve friends like this, I'd never move a heavy couch for any of them. Obvs as I could not move my own.

"She's my hero," Dixon says about Caitlin. Everyone is very friendly, there's no signs here that anyone will magically transform into an evil bastard. You can never tell with these things.

"I feel like the couch is kinda damaged in parts -- "I begin to tell Dixon.

"Seventy-five," he says.

And Natalie and I are relieved. So finally we get the couch strapped inside Caitlin's SUV. A;ex and I end up running into her friends on the street and driving them crosstown, Nata & Cait are getting Starbucks and Pinkberry for everyone and so about an hour later we're all back in West Harlumbia.

This is November 1st, the night of Carly's Tabloid Trainwreck Party. Natalie keeps sticking things under her shirt to see if anyone thinks she looks pregnant, so that she can be Juno and Peter can be the boy from Juno. Peter's her boyfriend, he just flew in from London and is sleeping in Nata's old apartment down the street -- the apartment she would've moved out of already today but then this couch thing has taken forever. Nata's younger brother is moving in here on the 4th and Nata's going to South Africa to save the world on the 8th and her company is two weeks late with her paycheck so she's had to borrow and so I'm just telling you, this is what's going on.

And as for me, well, you know. Me me me and more of that.

So it's dark and we take the couch out of the car and into the building.

But.

It won't go through our door.

It just won't.

And we huff and puff and move and lift and twist and when it finally enters, it's shot back into the room across the hall. Here's a diagram I've drawn for you about the impossible situation we've set up for ourselves:

We try several tricks to get it out of Nata's room and fully into the hallway, where we anticipate smooth sailing and are sorely mistaken. We've scraped up the walls real good and employed various to total body weights for the cause. There's been a lot of laughing and screaming and roaring. We've been at it for about an hour.

Natalie's new job is standing in the hallway and growling like she's about to give birth, which makes Caitlin laugh so hard she's distracted from her task of being the strongest person. When we make progress we cheer, when we lose we scream and growl and kick. It's getting into slapstick territory, that special space where life's ridiculous logistics wedge themselves between the ceiling and the floor, refuse to budge ... and then start getting a little rank.

Nata: "Marie, I feel like we're the weakest link."

Me: "Nata, it smells icky."

Natalie: "I know, it's the couch."

Me: "Really?"

Natalie: "Maybe it's me."

Me: "Is it the couch? It didn't smell bad before."

(Natalie sticks her nose in the cushions): "No, I don't know what it is. Maybe. It didn't smell when we got it. Did I mess up? It's probably me."

Me: "It's not you."

A;ex: "RIESE!"

Caitlin: "I feel upset."

Natalie: "I'm so sorry this is my fault, it was my idea to get the couch, now it'll never go in."

Caitlin and A;ex: "OH IT IS GOING IN."

Natalie: "My stomach is sad."

Riese: "Isn't it fun that we're all here together?"

[Natalie starts singing Missy Higgins at the top of her lungs, Caitlin and Alex sit.]

A;ex is doing this cute rage thing she does where every time I have an idea she goes "REALLY RIESE?" and forces me to go into detail revealing that a large section of my spatial relation-related plans involve desperate certain magic.

Eventually we determine we'll have to take the door to the living room off the hinges to provide an extra inch of space. Alex and Catilin do this, then we eat Pinkberry and laugh about the things that make us laugh and that make other people not like to hang out with us. Nata goes down the street to wake up jet-lagged Peter to help with stage three.

Me: "Does anyone else smell that smell?"

A;ex: "You always think you smell weird things."

Me: "Caitlin, you smell it, I know you do."

Caitlin: "I smell it."

Me: "It smells like a dead mouse, doesn't it?"

Caitlin: "Uh-huh. Ut-oh. Oh boy."

A;ex says she can't smell anything but then points out that I refuse to go into corner delis 'cause they smell like deli and I don't want my clothes to smell like deli and possibly I have an acute super-human sense of smell. But then Caitlin investigates, smells around the couch and then razors open the inside of the couch and the smell wafts out, engulfing the previously fresh air we'd so innocently been breathing.

It is FOUL. It is the unmistakable smell of DEAD MOUSE. We have been sold a couch with DEAD MOUSE IN IT.

Caitlin: "Oh boy."

Me: "Get it out of here! OMG! I don't want a couch that has a dead mouse in it."

A;ex: "I can't fucking believe this is happening right now. Like Really? Really Dixon?"

Caitlin, eyes watering, puts on her hoodie for emotional support, plugs her nose and says "oh no" while A;ex mutters to herself and I sit in the living room trying to be chipper, 'cause like I said before the only time I'm good at being chipper is when everyone else is upset or sad, 'cause I like to go against the grain.

I call Natalie who's mostly horrified that she thinks she's made a mistake and wants to take full responsibility.

We have purchased a sofa. It was overpriced and took the strength of two lesbians, one bisexual and one "I don't believe in labels" to get it into the apartment at all and will take quantum physics to push it in any further to its landing spot but needless to say, no, no, no, we are not getting this into the living room after all, we don't want this thing anymore! This is G-d saying do not take the couch.

This is A COUCH WITH A DEAD ANIMAL IN IT and it's making the whole apartment reek. Surely Dixon will be horrified to hear what's happened to us, and to Caitlin his alleged hero.

And it's getting late and we're tired. We've gotta get dressed for Carly's party and my room needs some attention, the bathroom is filth, Peter's tired, Caitlin aches and still has to drive back to New Jersey and I need to become Paris Hilton so but first we must call Dixon to make arrangements, we figure he'll be apologetic and maybe offer a partial refund, or else fess up to selling us a couch with a dead animal inside it.

I mean, THERE IS A DEAD ANIMAL INSIDE THIS SOFA! I mean, that's a bad thing, yes, that's not the kind of thing you sell, that's the kind of thing you pay someone to remove. We even are prepared to offer photographic evidence of said dead mouse.

Me: "I wish we could send him this smell on email or text. Like a picture message but scratch 'n sniff style."

Getting the sofa out of the apartment is slightly easier, 'cause there's a lot of rage fits happening, and I think we broke it in four spots trying to get it out. I couldn't get near it 'cause I knew if the dead mouse fell out onto me, I'd drop dead on the spot.

Let's fast forward to an hour later. Caitlin has called Dixon, 'cause she's his hero. He didn't return her call. So we've called again. This has been a nightmare.

But not a serious nightmare like DIXON. Himself.

Now mild-mannered Dixon is a menace. Why are we telling him this, he asks. It's out of his hands now.

Obvs he's on meth or coke or one of the other uppers that makes you super-irritable, 'cause he does that thing that people do when they're strung out on uppers where they respond to mild-mannered comments with batshit crazy responses. For example (actual transcript of dialogue, obvs Nata remembers it all word for word, as we do as well):

Natalie: I’m saddened by the fact that you don’t think we could make this a bit more fair for us.
Dixon: I’m a good person! I helped you carry it!
Natalie: You didn't have to -- you should've said something at the time.
Dixon: We made a good faith transaction and that's the vaguarities [his invented word, not ours] of craigslist! This conversation is over!
Natalie: I've done many transactions on craigslist myself and if something went wrong I always try to do the right thing.
Dixon: I'M NOT HITLER! I'M NOT A NAZI!

I believe Caitlin and Natalie are now taking turns trying to reason with Dear Dixon to no avail, and Natalie's about to cry, and the couch is outside and it's cold and we're tired and we are at that spot in life where we seriously cannot afford to lose ten dollars, let alone an entire afternoon and forty dollars each, and we're supposed to go to Carly's party but now Dixon is making Natalie cry. We bought a cover for A;ex's grandfather's sofa so it's not that we're saving money now by taking the free one, 'cause the free one is sort of hideous looking and the cover was $70.

What I'm saying is there is no silver lining here, unless you're talking about the silver lining left behind by the shedded fur of a dead mouse.

Dixon: "This conversation is over. If you wanna have a rational conversation we can talk about Gossip Girl if you'd like."
Natalie: "What's gossip girl?"
Dixon: "That's what you are, gossip girl, a bitchy whiny girl who wants to get her way."

I don't see the similarities, but maybe that's just me.

Dixon is on the phone with Caitlin when Natalie screams "I FIGHT FOR YOUR GAY RIGHTS!" which barely misses Dixon's sheltered ear as he's now hung up on us.

I don't know what we expected, really, I guess we just figured, you know, something.
Caitlin had offered to help me move, she said: "it's the least I can do."

Me: "We should call him back and ask him if his refrigerator is running."
A;ex: "You better go and catch it!"

Dixon's said we can "do whatever we'd like" with the couch. We'd like to throw it at his face, or leave it on his sidewalk, but the idea of getting it back into the car and spending more time on this project, going Itty Bitty Titty Committee on his flat ass, is just overwhelming.

So we leave it on the street and now (Monday) it is gone, at the landfill.

Me: "oo, let's call him and say I'm voting Yes on Prop 8 and then hang up!" [sidenote: obvs I'd never do that, NO ON PROP 8 KIDS! NO!]

What was the least Dixon could've done?

Is he just not a good person on the inside? Is he right? Is it the meth talking? I don't know.

Somewhere between here and the West Coast, Dixon's buying processed snack foods with our cash. I hope he gets a flat tire. I'm sitting on the pilfered cushions right now. It's comfortable. It's not perfect but it does the trick.

I Feel Like I Wouldn't Like Me if I Met Me

[I'll probably think more wisely about posting this post in the morning, we'll see, isn't the internet fun!]

Maybe you're just passing through and figure it couldn't hurt to ask, and so you do: "I know you don't like to leave your apartment, but I'm gonna be in town ... I'd love to buy you a drink" -- you're nice and friendly and I read these messages several times a month and what do I do? Nothing. Silence. I'd like to understand/explain why. 'Cause it's not that I'm trapped in agoraphobic paralysis, it's 'cause let's say we do meet and you don't like me, or maybe you do like me or one of my friends in a way we can't reciprocate or the ensuing social evolution isn't what you'd wanted and then meeting me kills the desire to read me. Then you'll stop commenting, and I rely on commenting and emailing to give me the cyber-community that reminds me why I love blogging and like that I can do it for free.

[I'll stress: big difference here between literally meeting people (me: this is me! you:this is me! handshake/hug/hi!) -- which usually works, and I love it -- and hanging out -- which doesn't always work. Usually it works better with other writers, and I'm also not referring to logical hang-out situations like: we're working together professionally/artistically, you're in a similar industry in the city, there's a reading, we're in a vacation situation/travel-spot together, you want to date Haviland, etc.]

So I grapple with this -- the balance between being polite/true, between good/self-aware ... is it inherently bad that I'm literally scared to meet anyone new from the blogosphere right now 'cause I think they'll never engage with my written words again -- whether it be via email, facebook, blog, twitter, whatever? I mean it's popular to hate on internet writers who need attention, but whatever, y'all can suck it, it makes sense.

Anyhow, then, when I write -- how personal is dirty laundry, how much honesty is just a bitch, and how much can I withhold while still protecting my friends' privacies? Should I be giving more? Do I overshare? Am I too illusive?

Am I just rude?

The invitations are flattering! I like them! They flatter me and make me happy, as all correspondences from readers do. But: unless we're in a perfect circumstance, it's likely you'll sooner or later dislike me, just like most of my normal friends do, except for the 2 or 3 I see a few times a week. At first you'll think that I don't seem awkward, like I said I would, and then you'll notice that I only have one leg, and then you'll wonder what I'm hiding after all and what happens after that ... I dunno. It's not that I think I'm too cool for you ... quite the contrary, almost everyone is better socially than me. I can carry on a conversation, sure, but I fail at social events, prolonged engagements.

And then I was reading Jessica Roy's piece in New York Magazine: Au Revior! to the New York Media Scene" (Radar's response: New York Media Scene Disappoints Young Girl). Roy, a 20-year old NYU student & aspiring member of the intellectual elite -- has been to a lot of media parties, met or observed many NYC bloggers, attended The Great Jezebel Event of '08, and has some feelings about it.

Here's one of them:

"These people that I had admired my entire New York existence — they all disappointed me. I don't understand how people can exist in such a dishonest way and still call themselves writers. Isn't it the responsibility of a writer to be honest?"
(Jessica Roy)
++

My initial response to this: OMG WTF? Media people let her down at a birthday party she wasn't invited to? Isn't a friend's b-day bash exactly the place to share inside jokes and common reference points w/your friends? What was Jessica expecting? Keith Gessen spooning oysters onto her tongue, Tracie & Moe violating her hips with feminist tattoos, Emily Gould shooting super-secret private b-berry messages to her iPhone? Were the media people rude or just -- well -- honest?

While working at nerve I learned something about silence. Yes! The silence! The endless silence, mediated by Bright Eyes or The Roots and occasional editorial meetings. We communicated via IM only, not talking. These witty, charismatic writers I'd so admired were just like US! Though they were in totally capable of pulling it together for tv appearances and media events -- w/r/t everyday social behavior, they'd just prefer to IM. They weren't rude or cliquey, they were just Writers.

Last week while cruising I observed Ross the Intern successfully charm all reader/meeters w/effortless accessibility, and Ross endears literally hundreds of commenters per post even though he calls vlogs "talkies" which grates me. Wired writes about Julia Allison creating her own stardom, I'm reading about how Sassy's insider-y hipsterdom attracted readers and alienated others and I'm planning a big project right now that explores these questions/walls ... so I've got all these questions?

Are writers supposed to be removed in some sense? And did I feel more comfortable writing about my life, the personal scathing parts of it, when I hadn't already seen so many of you eye-to-eye, and then felt you disappear, like the truth of my social performance betrayed the work? Did your secrets become my secrets? Did my secrets become broken records and you saw the band live already: loud, steady. But it doesn't make you dance anymore. It's those blank dumb eyes in the singer's sockets. Blink. Blink.

++

I don't blog 'cause I wanna meet people in person, I blog instead of meeting people in person. I want community -- it's important to talk to people -- I'm so vigilant about comment responding 'cause I want everyone to know I'm compelled by their contributions. By "I never leave my apartment," maybe I mean; "Don't expect much when I do." 'Cause I'm ambivalent about the face-to-face thing. I've got no faith in it, I've always preferred writing & books for social behavior -- pen pals, 'zines, thinly veiled truthful novels, notes, letters, mailing lists, magazine, plays -- the internet's a convenient technological surprise. I've got a handful of people who I feel comfortable with socially and chances are if you've seen me out, you've seen me with them and that's why I'm there.

Or maybe we're talking and I'm often thinking: "How can I make up for what I'm doing in person via print over the next day/hour/week? How can written discourse fix my failures right now?" Can I write a blog for them and pretend it's for everyone?

Recently I met a woman who'd come into my life through my blog. We had dinner a few weeks ago, Caitlin and Alex came along. She later emailed me to ask: "Why is it that in writing (and perhaps even on the phone) your depth and substance implies a very well developed self reflexive quality, while in person you are almost alarmingly veiled — funny but massively shielded ... almost as if you've built a force-field of buffer personalities?"

Um. ?

++
Me: "I don't want to meet anyone else from my blog anymore, 'cause the thing is that once they meet me, I end up letting them down in some way that i manage to let down everyone in my life aside from maybe 3-4 people, and then they like me less than they did before."
Stef: "I liked you way more before I met you in person."
Me: "I know you did. See. Case in point."
++ 

"I was afraid to be alone
but now I'm scared that's how I'd like to be all these faces and none the same
how can there be so many personalities?"
-Azure Ray, "November"

Now I'll speak of exceptions: Caitlin (my best friend in the tri-state area, responsible for Saving my Life), Alex (my babypop) and Crystal (my co-worker & dear friend who exchanged emails with me for a year without any expectation of ever being 3-D friends due to her Australian residency) -- they comment more or the same as they used to, despite already knowing everything I'm talking about. So do most people I've just met here and there but never spent many hours with, or people that attend events but never request reciprocity.

So I should tell y'all now that actually I am a monkey named Xavier, and it's better you know now than be disappointed the next time we bump paws at a Dani Campbell-hosted lesbian event. You know, like, I'm a monkey, this is me, eat my ear.

 *

Way back in '06, Lozo and I were both invited to a lot of "NYC Blogger Meet-ups" and though we didn't know each other then, we later bonded about our refusal to attend. Worst case scenario; they think I'm awkward and gay, never read or comment again. Best case scenario; my blog becomes a play-by-play of the inside jokes volleyed about during our gloriously clever and snarky Prospect Heights bar hop. Also best case scenario is I'm on Bloggorhea more often, but that's defunct now, so whatevs, hey-o!

But then I started shifting my policy when my life turned inward -- from the real world to the cyber-world when the real world had done gone -- and picked up some incredible people during that time. We all did, but it felt organic, too. Like if real life was more present than cyber-life, it could've happened there too. I'd still be friends with Carly, Crystal, Stef, Caitlin, Alex, et al.

I have such love & support from these tangible internet peoples; I'm so grateful.
And y'know, happy to see Alex's blue eyes, etc.

But what else can happen?

Maybe we'll hang out once or twice and then I'll start flaking like I do with most of my friends and then you'll lose patience and refuse to comment as a protest of my personality.

Maybe we'll fall in love, and then again, and then becomes now and now we can't communicate in any formats, most of all this one.

Maybe you'll respond to my open invitation to an ambitious social meetup and it'll be the first time I've been out in months and I'll be overwhelmed by everything about that night and then afterwards you'll stop commenting, forever, and I'll feel bad, like maybe I did something wrong when we met.

Maybe you'll email me and I'll write you back or not and freak you out or charm you or not but either way I've broken the fourth wall by responding and it's DOWN and what now?

Maybe you're Lozo and you're punishing me for something, like not providing you with the grapefruits you desired late at night.

People I meet always tell me I'm much less awkward in person than I claim to be in print, but something still breaks during that physical connection that can't be fixed, I think. Why? I dunno, maybe it's harder to compliment when you've put a name to a face, harder to criticize when you're not anonymous, either.

It's hard for me to know why 'cause as a writer I have specific rules to how I behave online regardless of who I know and don't know, so I don't know what it's like for those who follow instinct rather than gospel -- it'd be like how I feel about teevee-watching compared to someone who works in the industry.

My first reader ever is in New York City right now, this week, and we've never met though she's the first person I'd never met that I actually loved like a flesh-and-blood friend. (Crystal became the second) After we'd communicated so much in the personal electronic realm, she stopped commenting here.

And I'm scared to meet her 'cause I've got this feeling that when the fourth wall falls down, she'll see a monkey and not a real girl, and this monkey will do tricks and eat bananas on her pinkberry and make a lot of noise but no music. And that nothing I write down before or after will be enough. I'll do it anyhow, because my want overrides my fear in this situation. That's unusual for me.

So anyhow, the reason I never write back is 'cause I don't want to lose you as a reader or as a commenter. It's because if you were to meet me you might find me alarmingly veiled. You might find Haviland alluringly veiled, which's why I always joke you should meet her instead of meeting me. I guess that's what I want to know how to do: become alluringly veiled or compellingly open or something altogether new that'll transcend three dimensions, regardless of if it smashes in the fourth wall to get there or just shortcuts around it. Do you know what I mean? If so, please comment, I'm genuinely asking.

Also I have this uncanny tendency to read vibes pretty full on, so I'll delete the paragraph about how absurd it is of me to even claim to matter to anything and go on to what happened next -- an event I dreamt about a few days ago, actually.

++

Before publishing this i went to the kitchen to make a waffle and my roommate told me I have to move out by September 1st. They're totally sweet kids, my roommates, but I don't think I was what they were expecting (I do required cleaning, pay bills, etc., but other kinds of differences) and they have a friend who needs to move in. I've been expecting this for a while -- I actually had a dream on the rosie cruise about him asking me to move out, which's funny I'm clearly a psychic-- and sometimes too I've been plotting my own conversation announcing my intent to leave (always deferred by logistical concerns), but it's an interesting conclusion to this particular ramblerambleramble. You know, about people meeting me.

I've got a little over six weeks to get it together, I'm thinking about fly-fishing in Northern Michigan.

Auto-Fun of the Day :: 6-27-2008

quote: "So you close your eyes and your fingers are pushing down and you're thinking of Helen Keller and how when you were little you wanted to be her except more nun-ish and then suddenly without warning you do feel something. A knot just beneath her skin, tight and secretive as a plot. And at that moment, for reasons you will never quite understand, you are overcome by the feeling, the premonition, that something in your life is about to change. You become light-headed and you can feel a throbbing in your blood, a beat, a rhythm, a drum. Bright lights zoom through you like photon torpedos, like comets. You don't know how or why you know this thing but that you know it can not be doubted. It is exhilarating." (Junot Diaz, The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao)

---

links: 1) On books that made people angry and politically charged that now seem totally worthless: "Burning is too good for them."(@times online uk)
2) Poem: "Expecting Honey" by Bridget Talone. Dear Dad. Come back. / And bring everything back with you." (@tin house)
3) They should put a comment card in the back in case people want to yell at her about their own personal problems in disguise as literary critique: So, Emily Gould is writing a book!(@mediabistro)
4) I thought I'd just discovered a solution to all my working problems, turns out I should probs move to Brooklyn ; "A Shared Office is a Great Escape from working at Home." (@nytimes)
5) The Virginia Quarterly Review: Lit Mag Love (@the magazineer)
6) I do this too! Elizabeth Kiem has been placing the fiction she reads in the rooms she knows. (@the morning news)
7) She's worse than you even expected, what with all the context: Up All Night With Amy Winehouse. (@rolling stone)
8) Punk Like Them: "Chasing a scene that no longer exists, they've created one of their own. A night out with the East Village's summer street kids." (@nymag)
9) A Genetic Theory of Male Homosexuality That Makes Sense (@slate)
10) The 11 1/2 Biggest Ideas of the Year (@the atlantic)
11) She's talking about butt-sex: "Final Fantasy: There's One Thing that I've never done in bed, and I'm saving that for my future husband." (@nerve)
12) Unequal America: Causes and consequences of the wide -- and growing -- gap between rich and poor." (@harvard magazine)
13) I knew it was a good idea to read A Clockwork Orange at 12: Children know which books they're old enough for. (@the guardian uk books)
14) Watch this now: A great week for homophobia. (@fourfour)

I Wanted To Paint Nothing. I Was Looking For Something That Was the Essence of Nothing, and the Soup Can Was It.

[Attempting to construct a frivolous Sunday Top 10 with disproportionate self-consciousness, I figured I'd just write down my feelings -- mostly carry-overs from a few weeks ago -- and move on from there. Here they are. Yay! Sunday Top 10 is finished, will come tomorrow (it's finished, so that's a real promise)].

An Open Letter to All Interweb Haters and Self-Righteous Anti-Blogging Journalists:

[Not Good Autowin Readers, I love y'all. You're the best! This is directed at interweb haters, which sometimes includes people I know, but 95% of the time, doesn't.]

You Chorus of Cuntish Commenters [not my commenters, obvs], your twatiliciousness skyrockets. You under-sharers! You private, nasty people with little boxes of secrets in your stomachs! You're still riding the self-righteous tails of That Emily Gould Thing, a "kids these days" nose-snubbing/squabbling, or you're fired up by a number of additional fuels: NY Mag's recent "microfame" dissection, Keith Gessen's me/"the me you hate" breakdown, Julia Allison's continued Julia Allison-ness (although even she called it quits once).

The problem is: I let public & private negative discourse pervade my headspace. I get beautiful, supportive emails & comments from Autowin/straddle readers and yet a few negative voices overwhelm them. It's precisely the grateful notes that stop me from giving up -- it's not about ego-stroking, or wanting attention, it's about feeling that it matters though Old Media says it don't.

Why is sharing inherently bad -- and NOT sharing consequently "good"? There's plenty of bad oversharing out there, of course ... and I don't read it. Furthermore, I understand we must withhold most things, in fact, our hearts & guts tell us precisely what to hold back, just as it tells us it's time for lunch.

I like the internet! I LIKE IT! I'm sick of apologizing. I'm tired of reading over & over that the cultural pulse is beating inside an indulgent body and that this body is sitting & judging while we bloggers croon on like washed-up lounge singers. Watch me, watch me, I'm a lock-free Dear Diary, my Hooker Name is Elizabeth Wurtzel and my special trick involves opening my whole mouth and letting you touch my wisdom teeth. My Pandora's Box was opened against my wishes, but I haven't figured out how to close it and besides, everything happens for a reason.

In fact, this here blog has lead to many fabulous beautiful intangibles and I think it's better karma to keep going than to stop. I refuse to believe the internet isn't a little magic, look at this video from Kelka Pride. It's easy to scowl protectively at everyone, but it's more fun to play with them. Next year, p.s., we're all going to Kelka Pride.

(I read: "On the Internet, a person can enjoy all the downsides of fame without actually being famous. You can inflate your ego, betray your friends, alienate your family and earn the contempt of strangers without earning a penny in extra income" here and wonder -- am I about to make a ridiculous, flagrantly wrong point? But then I think -- I'm a young earnest writer, isn't it only natural that I'd write a blog, explore the medium? I wouldn't be the first "artist" to forge on so foolishly, w/o it being my "job"?)

[self portrait with sunglasses, andy warhol]

Watch me! Stick a tip or a word in the g-string of my informational striptease. I'm human. I've got a concrete heart & walls like pink floyd ... but humans, even loners like me, need some connection to the rest of the world, even if they hate the rest of the world. Even better, I like feeling that I've done what can to change it just by being me. And that live person-to-person thing -- that petrifies me, and I'm getting too old to keep drinking every time I'm forced to cross the gulf to strange strangers. But I'm safe here, and I like it here.

[Ten Portraits of Jews of the 20th Century Portfolio: Sarah Bernhardt
by Andy Warhol]

Example of Magic: Women's voices. Queer voices. Are everywhere. There's still a million differences between how they're received vs. the traditional voices but to simply exist is a big step in the right direction.

And here's what really I don't get -- and didn't get, re: the emily gould debacle, or any situation in which the writer isn't actively attempting to incite/provoke argument/debate, expressing hateful or bigoted ideas, or auto-playing an annoying song on launch ... if you don't like it ... don't read it. I don't like video games, but I'm not writing Nintendo to critique their latest version of Death Killer Raider Game #456 and, while I'm at it ... "p.s. Nintendo is fat & ugly!"

But -- commenhaters, you do read it! You eat it, devour it, lick the plate click-by-click and then smack your lips and vomit on the cook's face: "That was terrible."
The cook will ask: "Why'd you eat it?"

“Life will give you whatever experience is most helpful for the evolution of your consciousness.”
- Eckhart Tolle

Writers (and musicians) have been oversharing forevs, it's just more searchable now. We're not savages. But we're vulnerable, 'cause we've taken off our armor and are now sitting behind it, naked & waiting. And there you hatoraiders are with your daggers & shimmering shields. You see our weapons and our best defenses, but decide instead to plan attack based on your feelings about our underwear (and women's underthings: far better to criticize). I didn't ask you to undress, so you don't have to, but you don't have to watch my undressing, either.

[Andy Warhol -Burkley Reinhold]

What can bloggers say in return to anyone who isn't "out there" like we are? I don't even know, 'cause I don't sit around thinking about why I hate people and where I can yell about it. I have complete respect for cyber-"anonymity" (in fact! Not only do I respect it, but I think it's a good thing that the blogosphere seems to be getting less crowded -- those meant to endure, have, and those who haven't, haven't, for whatever reason. Also 'cause if I add one more blog to my Google Reader, I'll have a heart attack), what annoys me is self-righteousness about cyber-anonymity ... the chip on the shoulder of many cyber-anonymous/non-bloggers ("learn your lesson from Emily," they say); loyal only to native art.

In fact -- bloggers can get fired (or -- just to avoid risking a blogger will blog about work when there's plenty of applying talent w/o blogs -- never hired in the first place) simply for having a blog, w/o first amendment protection. Your online-self is so damaging that companies exist now simply to erase it (for a fee). Blog-to-book sales have disappointed. Blogger-to-paid-blogger tales are increasingly less frequent. Oversharing's the Eighth Sin.

Sometimes "I'm not an internet participant, just an observer," is the new "We don't have a television, it's in the closet." (P.S. My teeve's in the living room, though I don't turn it on. I'm so cool, aren't I? For not watching teevee at home? I'm so much better than you. Don't worry, I'm also just like you at your worst and ugliest. Wanna hear about it? Listen: I watch TV at the gym, or with friends I'll stare blankly at its cheap stories and flat people w/expressive eyes and let it fill me like so much styrafoam.) Don't get me wrong -- I don't want you cyber-anonymous, or anyone who doesn't want to, TO participate. But if you do observe, and consequently choose so participate, I'd hope your contribution would be productive rather than just bitching at the content creators.

"The price of being known has gotten really low. I mean not the price, the reward.
Or whatnot. Andy Warhol could more accurately have said in the future everyone will be famous for $15."
-Emily Gould, Emily Magazine
*

[Screen Test: Edie Sedgewick. By Andy Warhol.]

So here's the kicker: the thing about microfame is that it doesn't necessarily bring any profits whatsofuckingever. It can even be a liability. This can be tough, I imagine -- dealing with the cons of fame (being recognized, criticized, insulted, gossiped about, dumped or attacked by a friend/partner) without the pros that make the cons bearable (this is how I make a living and feed myself and my family, so the sacrifices are worth it). I say "I imagine" because I'm not famous enough to deal with those cons, not because I have dooce.com-ish economic "pros." I don't know if the financial rewards for blogging will change, or if that's even the point -- though in a capitalist society, it sure seems like it is.

Saying you're a "blogger" once meant you were part of a forward-thinking generation of new-media enthusiasts, dreaming of an age that marries art, community and self-expression and births an international and ideally merit-based medium. Now, it kinda means you're a sucker, unless "for Deadspin" or "for Jezebel" are the next two words rolling off your tongue. Hell, it's gotten so bad that even Gawker seems to be pretty nice these days. Everyone's been snarked at, it's boring now.

The only thing left to do is be earnest, I think.

[In the Bottom of My Garden, by Andy Warhol]

What I like about Andy Warhol is his playfulness -- this can be fun. It can be entertaining or poetic, but bloggers can't have a deep thought or pull off perfect similie every day. Personally, I've lately tried to save those moments for the Sysiphean task of my novel. (Not a memoir anymore. I just ... can't.) Also, personally: my commenters don't yell or hate and are usually encouraging, and I like the challenge of increasing the user-friendliness and overall derth of fulfillment and format I can do with a receptive audience ... and at its very best most thrilling moments, it's like being an editor of my own little magazine, which has always been my dream job. I like dreams and the beach!

I've got faith that this medium's ultimately good for humanity, and also -- this medium's one of the only things I believe in that I can elect to take part in w/o spending money or leaving my apartment. There's frivolity, but there's also stuff I'm passionate about: group therapy, internet performance art, literature, book club, making people feel a little less alone.

The journey is all. We'll see.

*

The magic of the internet, again!: I just went online to track down some referenced posts, and found this at Slut Machine/Jezebel, expressing similar resolve. When I went to Gessen's blog to grab a link for my earlier graf, I found he'd posted this, which says what I just said, but better & briefer, and includes this exchange, which reminded me of conversations I've had:

Hampton: Rich people don’t blog. Happy people don’t blog. Successful people don’t blog.
Gessen: I’m not any of those things.
Hampton: But you’re those things enough, man. You wrote your book out of pain, and that’s why your book doesn’t suck. I don’t care what these people say. Whereas this blog is just the result of pique and wounded vanity.

[ Details of Renaissance Paintings (Paolo Uccello, St. George the Dragon), by Andy Warhol]

So, all ye haters, just shut your mouth. If I've learned anything of substance from blogging, it's that human beings are, by and large, better than we expect -- or could be. I think we will make this matter. We enjoy the first bite so we'll take it, and when we're all certain it's not poisoned, I'll pass it on to your grandchildren. I could do doomsday too, dressed in black for you, skip to my deepest blue. But this is much more fun.

Because I'll never be happy, therefore I must try whenever possible to feel happy, otherwise I'll die like a SIM, plunging red, time for bed, the hitch is dead.
I can't prove you're wrong about this medium ("the medium is the message"), but you can't prove I'm wrong about it either.

I've been obsessed with Andy Warhol lately, following the recent Interview Magazine issue dedicated to remembering him, which Alex brought me one evening and which enthralled me. I bought The Warhol Diaries and we need to finish Factory Girl. We wanna re-create The Factory, yes! we are such posers! Even my desire is a clichè, and I don't care! into something we call "The Warehouse." Like many things, it may not happen. Also though; it may. There was dry lightning for thirty minutes before the rain, and then the heat returned, following thunder. And then we went to bed, and then we woke up.

Brigid Berlin: He'd sit behind me reading The Post. He'd say; "Well isn't this a great story. Why can't Pat make a script out of this?" I'd say, "What are you talking about?" I didn't have the Post in front of me. "Well, this is a great murder, why can't we do this?"
Vincent Fremont: Or, "they're so peculiar."
Brigid Berlin: "All these young kids, they're doing such great things, and we're doing nothing."
Vincent Fremont: "He liked youth and he liked the news. I think that Andy would have been with the kids at 80. He would have appreciated anybody creative who was young, and helped them go forward. ..
*
Vincent Fremont: It's hard to project what Andy would be like today because he was so unpredictable. People always ask me what Andy would have painted. I think, with all the scandal that's gone down over the years, Andy would have been fascinated. And all that world of technology -- we would have stayed with it. Andy was very curious and he always wanted to know what was going on, and that keeps you young. I'm still trying to emulate him in that sense. Can you imagine how many young artists would have been coming to visit him?
*

Stuff I've Been Reading: April & May Edition

I'm 26. It's possible I have a few vital organs that've been less-than-impressed with me for at least eight years, I regularly step into busy intersections without regard for traffic's deadly possibilities, I haven't been to the doctor in two years, my teeth are probs rotting out of my skull, and I live in a neighborhood where two people getting shot is a brief aside tossed at the end of an article about a dude opening fire on a crowd and shooting 8 people on Memorial Day 'cause someone took his basketball. I don't remember the last time I ate a piece of fruit.

I work out every day, but that's only because I'm neurotic and anxiety-ridden and 'cause if I didn't, I'd officially never leave my apartment for days at a time. I wouldn't even know what the weather was like.

So, I figure I've got about 10-15 good years left. If you think about it, that's not really a lot of time to read every book I want to read. At this pace, I'll be 40 before I embark on the most recent round of recommendations, including:

This Book Will Save Your Life (AM Homes)
Crime & Punishment (Somethingosky or Soemehingoskyov)
Shantaram (Gregory David Roberts)
Savage Detectives (Roberto Bolando)
Orlando (Virginia Woolf)
The Yellow Wallpaper (Charlotte Perkins Gilman)
The Night Watch (Sarah Waters)
The Broom of the System (David Foster Wallace)
Class Dismissed (Meredith Marin)
Fingersmith (Sarah Waters)
Norweigian Wood (Marukami)
Electroboy (Andy Behrman)
The Sound and the Fury (William Faulkner)

Is that everything you guys have told me to read? I think so. What if I gave a really bogus recommendation but acted like it was real? If I was like, "You guys, everyone needs to read Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants RIGHT NOW," or like, "Have you ever read Jurassic Park?" We had a convo about Jurassic Park last week actually. Raise your hand if you'd never heard of veloca-raptor-whatevs until you saw the movie/read the book, now raise your other hand if they seemed very real and you used to have nightmares about raptor attacks. Now lower your hands, and gimme a hug. That's right! Hug it out. Model through it. You WORK.

Also; still haven't finished Don Quijote.

---

Welcome to "Stuff I've Been Reading." Inspired by Nick Hornby's "Believer" column by the same name, "Stuff I've Been Reading" examines the wide terrible gulf between what I'm buying, what I'm reading, and how smart I'm becoming.

BOOKS READ:
The Best American Essays of 2007 , edited by David Foster Wallace
Frantic Transmissions to and From Los Angeles, by Kate Braverman
Have You No Shame? , by Rachel Shukert
Drown, by Junot Diaz

BOOKS BOUGHT/RECEIVED:
The Savage Detectives, by Roberto Bolano
Final Cut Express 4: A Visual Quickstart Guide, by Lisa Brenneis
Have You No Shame? by Rachel Shukert

BAE '07 was given and suggested to me by someone I'm now prohibited to talk about on my blog, so I'll just say that "someone" lent me this book, "someone" took it back, and now I can't reference it or my plethora of underlined passages. What can I say, clearly if I remembered things I've read, I wouldn't feel the need to cart 200 books with me every time I move. I recall! The introduction was golden. David F-W is a superior introduction writer.

First off; The Dog Whisperer. I'm not a fan of animals, but Malcom Gladwell's essay about the Dog Whisperer was pretty engaging ("What the Dog Saw")-- this master-of-movement stuff. How do I get him to come fix Caitlin's dog? It's his birthday today and he bites people. Do we have to move to L.A. to get the Dog Whisperer's help? Anyone know the Dog Whisperer? Tell me.

Due to my "must read everything in an anthology" rule, I was subjected to several unpleasant experiences in this anthology. All BAEs and Best American Non-Required Readings have the same problem; by the time the book hits the shelves, I already know that the U.S. uses torture unethically and that we shouldn't be at war with Iraq. I'm totally over reading anything else on either of these topics, unless the headline is "We Are Getting out of Iraq today." It's just depressing, and old news. Yet I soldiered on. (Get it? "Soldiered on?")

I was reading this book during some of April's cruelest days, and so my attention was erratic. There's entire essays I don't remember reading, though I know I did. I remember most acutely: a study of stage fright called "Petrified" (John Lahr), "Afternoon of the Sex Children" (Mark Greif) from n+1 and "Shakers" by Daniel Orozco, which was about something I don't remember, it was well-written though. Oh yes! Earthquakes. I think. Sigh.

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I read Frantic Transmissions to and from Los Angeles on my way to and from Los Angeles way back in April, which's poetic, yes? The subtitle, "An Accidential Memoir," drew me to it, as did Kate Braverman's oft anthologized short story "Tall Tales from the Meekong Delta." The book was like a long prose-poem about ice cream and streets that got dirty and women growing up and out and the history of a place that seemed all veneer the first time I went there. I like urban history; until I feel that a city has roots in something, it's easy for me to feel it's just all gloss. It probs subtly affected my impression of the city this time around.

Although I didn't think I would -- I really loved this part: Interview with Marilyn Monroe. If you've ever been intrigued by the dichotomy of image and reality, you'd enjoy it too.

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At a nerve.com party in December of '05 (which I barely remember, except for the part where, inspired by the sexual avant garde spirit of the party's host publication, I left with a boy I'd just met 'cause he looked good on paper (Ivy League alum, an artist, rent-controlled West Village apartment, friends w/a nerve editor) and good enough in person, at least that night), I met Rachel Shukert. I was thrilled, 'cause I loved her essays muchly.

In a state of disorderly drunken-ness, the following exchange occurred:

Me: "I really love your work."
Rachel: "Thanks!"
Me: "No, I mean, I REALLY love it, you're one of my top ten heroes. You know what I really liked, that essay where you said, [I go on to misquote a section from this essay about how the author's pissed and confused that her boyfriend's not okay about her kissing other girls]."
Rachel; "That wasn't me. I didn't write that essay."
Me: "Yes, it was, I'm sure it was."
Rachel: "No, it wasn't, I'm sure it wasn't."
Me: "It was you."
Rachel [laughing, backing away]: "No, it wasn't me."
Me: "Are you SURE?"
Rachel: "Yes, I'm sure, I didn't write that."
Me [turning away, muttering]: "I think you did."

Humans generally make those mistakes when they don't recognize their conversation partner; but I did know Rachel's work. Her personal essays reminded me of -- well, mine! -- and I'd wanted to make a real connection to express my genuine love. However, like most situations in which I attempt to communicate love, I screwed up big-time.

In retrospect ... I know why I thought she'd written that essay -- she hadn't. It's cause at the time, Rachel's bio photo on nerve (which's changed now, to something more professional and new-book-writer-worthy) and Carrie Hill Wilner's (the actual author of this essay) both featured girls with long brown hair who looked kinda drunk and maybe Jewish. I have this weird photographic "memory" that lumps images together thematically and confuses me. Howevs, it's possible I'm wrong about this too (their previous author photos), my memory clearly isn't stellar, that's why I keep such fastidious records.

I loved reading Shukert's recent excerpt from the book -- "The Anorexic's Cookbook" -- on nerve and so did Haviland ... and so I bought the book. I ate it real fast. It was fun and light and funny but also sad sometimes and poignant and you should read it. In fact, I'd recommend it for the apparently imperative "beach reads" list so many people are making these days. It got me through a one-hour wait for a prescription at CVS and also affirmed many of my opinions about my overall unemployability. I quoted a large section about temping to Natalie, and even LOL'ed a few times.

Shukert deftly mines a (relatively) unremarkable life for gems of comedy and tragedy -- moments of explosive tenderness and LOLity -- displaying brightly how entirely possible it is to write a solid book without making shit up about being in a cult a gang or spending time in jail after a dangerous bout of drug addiction. Her parents actually seem kinda nice. So, James Frey and all ye like him -- write this down: you don't need to sensationalize. Have you no shame?

RKB's recently done an interview w/Shukert: watch it here and here.

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Junot Diaz - "Drown." Beautiful. "The Brief and Wonderous Life of Oscar Wao" won every award possible this year, "Drown" was shorter, so I picked it up. I've enjoyed Diaz's stories in The New Yorker on more than one occasion, even though I thought I was maxed out on Latino-American lit after taking an entire course on it and o.d.'ing on Cisernos in high school. Clearly I prefer reading novels and stories about suburban housewives with dark secrets or young girls in big cities with lots of opinions and sexual deviance. To really expand my horizons.

In fact, Drown's compact size means I've carried this book all over the country, but hadn't started it 'til (obvs) recently, 'cause I thought: 'it is time.' There were a lot of characters named "Papi," which's always good. His sense of place is thorough and vibrant, his sentences precise and perfect. If you haven't read his work, then you are stupid and should be drowned in the local swimming pool. It will be a hate crime, but you will deserve it. Read!

I just heard a gigantic explosion, what happened? Maybe it's Al Queda.

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Thoughts on my Inability to Read as Much as I Should:

I keep thinking I must be missing something on this list; surely that's not the sum of my accomplishments? It is. It certainly is. When left to my own devices, I'm sometimes not such a good reader, and I don't really know what to do about that. I mean -- I feel extra-motivated to start a book when someone near & dear to me forces it upon me, but when people who are far-away & dear, or near & not-incredibly-dear force books upon me, I take my sweet time. Unfortunately that time is running out, so omg, what am I gonna do, someone hit me over the head with a book right now.

I feel guilty as I believe it's my personal life mission to revive the art of reading, which's dying. How do Bookslut and RKB and Sam Anderson find time to read all the books they write about? [Someone] told me that speed-reading is about recognizing words as symbols rather than a series of letters. I've been trying to do that but then I realize I've just "read" four pages and don't remember a thing.

A few other ideas:

Situations that force me to read faster/at all:
-Reading contests (e.g., Tipping the Velvet contest w/Alex)
-Someone I'm trying to impress asks me to read something specific
-A new book by one of my favorite authors
-Beach vacations
-Airplanes
-The subway/train
-Desperate for writing inspiration, facing "the block"
-Waiting rooms
-School
-Eating a lot in the kitchen instead of in my room, usually a result of critter-related paranoia, requiring a book as I must be entertained at all times.
-Stability w/employment and overall position in life, subsequently enabling relaxation and concentration
-I claim to have read something I have in fact read, but it was a long time ago, and so if I'm gonna keep up with this new present-tense conversation, I'll need to play catch-up fast
-A book totally grabbing me -- or a new writer totally grabbing me

Situations that make me not read something I've been told to read:
-A suggestion being contradicted by a counter-suggestion --
Caitlin: "Don't read This Book Will Save Your Life, it's not that good, but if you want to read it, I own it."
Adam: "I would only read The Savage Detectives if you're willing to give a couple of days/a week to it and just do it all in one big rush. The form is just too confusing/convoluted otherwise. I mean...he pulls it off...he really does have a cast of like 25 characters all of whom have distinct voices and can narrate and contribute...but gah... also, I'll prepare you now, after 150 pages of making you like your rather unlikable friend and narrator he's going to take him away and not give him back for another 300 pages."
Haviland: "I could never really get into Night Watch, I don't think I finished it."

Auto-Win Book Club?

Perhaps I should start an Auto-win Book Club to force everyone to read a book with me, like we're all having reading contest. I know fo'sho that Caitlin and Alex would participate, but that's sort of a My Friends Book Club. The thing is it'd have to be a new book so that no one would've already read it, but it'd also have to be a paperback 'cause I'm not going to make y'all go get hardcovers. Perhaps we'd have to choose a new book in trade paperback. I'll think about this and amend this section. Then if you wanna buy it, you'll click through from here and for every book you buy, I'll make .005% of a cent, and when I save up enough I'll buy a dolphin and we can all go swimming.

Suggestions? FYI; no chick lit, nothing about people dressed in period costumes, no Native Americans or really any stories involving native peoples/tribes especially if it's about the clash of the white man and the natives, no pre-electricity lit, no "Bright Shiny Mornings" of any kind, no spiritual quests in Southeast Asia, nothing by a guy who beat up his wife, no memoirs by television actors and nothing over 500 pages. I'll probs be amending this list too.

Also I have another question; is it strange that while you have a visitor from out of town, it's rude to just sit and read in front of them, but it's okay to watch television together? I understand why this is, but I don't like it.

Sunday Top Ten, Part One: I Wish I Had a River I Could Skate Away On

It is a truth universally acknowledged that it's lame to open any piece of writing with a quote -- even a self-indulgent blog post (update for those not aware: as of May 20th, 2008, "blogs which employ first person narratives" are the default "lowest possible form of written communication/art," ranking only slightly above: emails from technologically incompetent grandmothers, the Yahoo! front page headlines, Goofus and Gallant, Nicholas Sparks novels, negative comments on youtube, text messages from pre-adolescents and the screenplay for Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo). But it's also a truth universally acknowledged that the truth is a silly animal and there's no hunting allowed (we saw the signs this weekend), so I will persist -- I will open by quoting someone far wiser than I'll ever be. Although ... actually, I did just talk so much nonsense that the opening's already taken care of (opening with nonsense is punk and not lame), therefore I'm not opening with a quote, except that I secretly actually did. Hey-oh!

The Great Jim Harrison (The Legends of the Fall, After Ikkyu & Other Poems) once wrote: "One day. Standing in the river with my flyrod, I'll have the courage to admit my life." My writing teacher transcribed this quote in my "book" (I have this special book of my favorite poems & stories and I'd give it to friends/mentors to make a page or 2-3) underneath a 70's b&w of himself (my teacher). Above the photo, my teacher wrote: "Marie - Don't forget -- you owe me a big check so I can do a lot of thinking." See; I was supposed to get famous (due to my fingers allegedly being on the pulse of my generation -- a grave miscalculation), make money, and then send him to Montana where he could fish and think all his life.

Missoula, Missoula, Missoula, I'm yours. Eugene, your name is so terrible that you must be terribly lovely and green. I went to Ashland (same state), there were mountains, they were beautiful.

That's what they do (mountains). They sit there, look good.

I was upstate for Memorial Day weekend -- Alex's family has a cabin up there. Last night I came home. The sirens started after dark. A few, then a hundred, and then helicopters, then the people on the street with something to yell about and loudly. Seven innocent people shot, a few blocks away: "The gunman is still at large, and residents have been advised to stay in their homes." I miss East Harlem sometimes. No cab-drivers or delivery people or friends dared to tread into Sparlem, but people danced to music there. Here, on the West, music just thumps out of cars like it's fighting with the pavement, there's no dancing.

My favorite is NY1's article today, which ends with "two other unrelated shootings also happened in the area last night." (Subtext: "but we don't care.") -- shooting a 13-year-old boy in the leg? How the fuck does that happen? Seriously. How the fuck does that happen?

I don't know. And so, I keep talking about myself. Which I don't know either, but I know it enough to try to talk something. Crazy. Burma. Shoot.

Missoula, Missoula, Missoula, Santa Monica, San Francisco, Eugene, Tacoma, La Jolla, Raleigh, Anchorage, Chapel Hill, Concord, Santa Ana, Savannah, Interlochen, Missoula, Pierre, Charlotte, Colorado Springs, Mesa, Missoula, Des Moines, Providence, Montreal, Sioux Falls, Southampton, Escondido, San Antonio, Tulsa, Thousand Oaks, Topeka, Lafayette, Baton Rouge, Little Rock, Clearwater, Athens, Missoula. Those all sound nice. Literally.

One day, standing in the river with my flyrod, I'll have the courage to admit my life.

SUNDAY TOP TEN: Things I Used to do All the Time but Hadn't Done in Long Time, Until Recent Time.

TO BE COMPLETED IN TWO SEGMENTS
PART ONE : 10-6
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10. Hiking in the Woods

Once upon a time, I didn't own a laptop case but I treasured my hiking backpack. The straps were adjusted for my then-narrow boyish hips. I needed help to cram a sleeping bag into its lower pocket.

Saturday I was standing in the river and remembered everything.

Specifically: rivers I'd crossed before, tents slept in, that wilderness survival class I'd taken at thirteen where I had to build my own shelter from tarp & sticks and sleep in it for three days (but! I was young and we got mooned by the boys. All we could see was leaf-shadows on pale pre-adolescent ass, but what a thrill! Mooning!), getting lost in the Smokies, trekking the Tetons, singing bad hip-hop with backaches and bandanas somewhere in Northern Michigan. Afterwards I'd forget how bad my back hurt and remember the Nalgene bottle and the smell of fire.

It's always bizarre to have dozens of strong memories of a certain activity -- a non age-specific activity -- and then realize the memories are all at least ten years old, like when you go to the doctor and they ask when your last physical was and you feel like it was probs last year but when pressed realize, omg, it's been way more than a year.

I missed the woods. Hark!

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9. Gone w/o Internet for over 48 hours

In the week preceding our recent jaunt to Malibu, I'd been wallowing in an imploding and increasingly boring state of depression/anxiety. Haviland said there was no internet at her temporary Malibu digs but 'cause Haviland's technologically impaired, I took this to mean, "I feel there's no internet in my house, but also I don't know how computers work and therefore I'm sure that You! Riese! will find the magic key to wireless." Howevs, I was wrong, Haviland was right as she always is. (First rule of fight club is "Haviland is right") Ixnay on the interent. This weekend upstate -- also, no internet ... and nowhere to drive to and get it, either. And ... it was actually totally ... fine. In Malibu everything was shiny with big lapping waves, upstate everything was green and familiar and safe. Wireless, shmireless. Once the panic passes, it's a whole new kind of calm.

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8. Talked to Strangers A LOT

In the past three weeks I've met Alex's family & friends, gone to two parties in one night, hugged Leisha Hailey and interviewed -- on camera -- a plethora of B-list homosexual celebrities. So, screw you, ex-boyfriend who said I had no social skills! (I mean, I don't. But whatever.) (Sidenote; nothing wrong with the B-list. I think I'm on the W-list or something, optimistically). I think waitressing was my old unreal social outlet, I miss it sometimes. Good workout.

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7. Hung up On Someone, Over and Over

This technique, employed popularly by dramatic adolescents, can also be enjoyed by full grown adults, if the situation merits. Have you ever had a hang-up relationship? You know what I mean? I had one, 4-5 years ago ... it made me insane and anxious, 'cause I never knew when he was about to hang up and depending on the circumstance, call back or wait for my call back, etc. If I hung up -- would HE call back? How many times would he have to call back before I'd pick up? Vice versa? OMG how did this become my fucking life, etc.?

Once you get used to it, hanging up becomes really not so different from just saying something. As an adult, I feel it's only necessary when someone insists on saying things you don't want to hear. Or! You can take "hanging up" and raise it "hurling phone against the wall," that's fun.

I made the poor decision of raising the topic of Emily Gould's article -- and subsequently, the "self-indulgence-of-bloggers" debate -- with B.

B.: "You're such a good writer, Marie, and you have so much substance, and so much to offer --"
Me: "Wait, slow down. I'm going to transcribe this for my blog, because I'm very self-indulgent and want to air all my personal conversations in public. Okay, got it -- I'm at "so much to offer," keep going--"
B.: "Okay ... really?" [laughs] "You have so much to offer, and yet you're wasting your time on things that are superficial -- I wonder whether or not it ever occurs to you that your endeavors are not as fruitful as they might be, or that they might be superficial, or not be worth your time as much as other endeavors."
Me: "Like what?"
B.: "Like not writing for a body that needs to be entertained. About lip gloss and manicures."
Me: "I LIKE LIP GLOSS AND MANICURES!"
B. : "You say you feel empty, you might want to look at your work and ask why you feel empty --"
(I hang up)

B.: "What if I was your -- your creative writing teacher, coming to tell you this, would you listen?"
Me: "Yes."
B.: "Because of academia's institutions and --"
Me: "Because I'd take this advice from anyone other than you."
B.: "So it's just 'cause it's me."
Me: "Yes."
B.: "So, then, don't listen to me."
Me: "I'm not, when I do, it stresses me out and I can't write anything. Don't read my blog if you don't like it."
B.: "I'm only saying this -- and continuing to call you back when you hang up on me -- because I believe in you, weirdo, and I want to read your blog. I love your writing."
Me: "You haven't liked anything I've written all year."
B. "I liked that auto-portrait piece."
Me: "UGH. Okay, you didn't like anything besides that."
B.: "Okay, tell me what was the content in your most recent post?"
Me: "Nothing. Nothing it was totally irrelevant, worst blog ever, you should just read Elif Bautman and Arts & Letters and The Guardian UK and skip my vapid blog."
B.: "Just tell me what in that post --"
(I hang up)

And so on. Eventually we reached a truce related to different feelings about art vs. entertainment and clearly life in general. Whatevs. "Blog" is such a weird word, it sounds like "bog." Which is a swamp. "There's just no pleasing you, there's just no talking to you." (Ani DiFranco) But I don't know the answer to the question, "why do I do it?" The answer I gave: "I don't know yet." I'm ok with that. It'll be my final answer.

Seriously, I wish everyone in this neighborhood could just truce for like 20 seconds so that a solid hour of my life that could pass without the sound of sirens. I'd prefer to hear cows or chickens.

If I started an Emily Gould fanclub on facebook, I wonder if anyone would join it. Actually, that idea is probably so May 26th, and it's totally the 27th already. The slogan would be "If you don't like what she's doing, don't read it, weirdo."

Emily has spoken:

Q: Like you, Joni Mitchell was extremely self-referential. Many people liked this at first, but they eventually grew tired of it. When she finally stopped writing about herself and turned her attention elsewhere, most people had already lost interest and moved on. Do you worry that the same thing will happen to you?

A: Have people grown tired of Joni Mitchell's self-referentiality? I haven't.
*
(me neither)

*
6. Rode Bicycles

As I mentioned in "Top Ten Sport," bike-riding is one of my favorite life activities and has always been. Remember when you didn't know how? I can't imagine that anymore. I sold my bike when I left Williamsburg though and then the guy I sold it to emailed me and said that he'd fallen off the bike and was paralyzed for life or something and it was my fault for selling a bad bike. Except that I'd ridden it the week before, so whatevs, and also he test rode it around our 'hood before paying for it and riding away. Really I don't know what to say about that whole incident, it makes me itchy. Riding bikes in NYC is like Frogger. Riding bikes upstate, or along Venice Beach, is like perfect. Except for the inner thigh sweat and going uphill.

So anyhow, one day, standing above a river on a bicycle, I'll have the courage to admit my life -- lip gloss and all. For now; sirens, gould, self-indulgent english muffin eating. Ehhh. Scream.