How was your day, Dan?

MOTHER NATURE

The trick to raising puppies is to learn their schedules: how long are they awake, how soon will they fall asleep.  How long until after they eat will they fall asleep.  When will they pee, when will they poop.  With these two, they have the exact same rhytms, a complicated choreography of nap/pee/eat/poop rituals of varying time spans.  I've split them up, thinking they took cues from each other, but their bodies really do work within 2 minutes of each other.  As Bruno would say, "amazzzzing."

Yesterday I decided to challenge nature a bit; something a wise man would never do, but I like to live on the edge.  I was at my office had a 30 minute drive home, at which point I would need to drop off the dogs and leave right away.  The dogs needed to eat; it is after this point they run around sniffing for more food, jump on each other, and them poop.  This process that takes approximately 20 minutes.  I thought, if I feed them now and keep them in their carrying case, they'll be calm, they'll fall asleep, and they won't need to go so soon.  I can make it.  So I fed them some food, gathered up my belongings while they ate, and then shoved them in their carrying case, scampered to my car and roared off into the sunset.

I slalomed through traffic, trying not to jostle my canine companions out of their digestively-regressing slumber.  The clock ticked by: five minutes, six, seven.  I hopped in the carpool lane illegally for a bit, skirting an accident that threatened to slow traffic, but made it back to the regular lanes undetected.  And all was well.

But then, at 17 minutes—boink! The puppy's head popped up.

It was the brown one, who generally pooped first.  The while one generally follows in a few minutes; at this point she was still sleeping.  But the brown one...she was awake.  And she began to whimper, and look for a way out.

I noted the mile marker, I had several exits to go, there was no way I was going to make it home.  So I careened across four lanes of traffic and took the next exit, saying "shhhh shhhhh shhhh puppy" and gently rocking her crate, just to keep her startled and hopefully close up her poop chute for just a few short moments.  But the whimpering only got louder.

The puppy then began to claw at the gate of the kennel; I tore around the corner of the exit, spotted a parking lot at the next block, and hit the gas. She was fully whining at this point, sniffing around, looking for someplace to go.  I thought, If I can just pull over, I'll let her poop on the pavement, I don't care.  But as I screeched to a halt at the entrance of the empty lot, the case slid off the seat, and the puppies tumbled over each other to the front...and it literally scared the shit out of the little dog.

Boom.

This of course woke the white dog, who then frantically tried to claw her way out from beneath her sister; but her claws dug into the mess, smushed it into between her toes, and kicked it around the edges of the kennel.

And I just sat there and watched, horrified.  There's not much else to do.

So when all the business was ended, I walked around to the passenger side door and removed the kennel from the front seat to place on the ground.  I wanted to clean them up a little, but I didn't have anything to use other than the towel at the bottom of the kennel; so I folded up the dangerous parts and prepared to use the clean corners to wipe up their messy fur.  But the gate is open!  It's time to run around and play!  So zoom zoom zoom they shot around my feet. I tried to grab the with the clean parts of the towel, but it didn't work very well.  And try to be dignified as I may, this culminated in me standing in an empty parking lot, holding an already-soiled towel and waving it like a matador and shreiking in disgust while the two shit-stained puppies did figure eights around my feet.

I eventually tossed them back in the kennel, I went home, I changed my clothes; the dogs spent the rest of the night in the (empty) bathtub, where they could piss and shit all they wanted and walk around in it.  Which they did.

I was late for my meeting.  But when I finally made it home, I had to change my clothes.

BRUNO

I wrote this Bruno review for my newspaper.

They synopsis: The first half of the movie is relatively pointless, and at times uncomfortably bad.  But the second half, when he puts himself into ex-gay therapy—suddenly the movie has a point and it is HILARIOUS.  And he makes a great statement.

Here we go:

Wassup, Bruno?

Film is raunchy, funny, and very gay

In September 2008, Sacha Baron Cohen popped up in the news: filming on one of his famous comedy-documentaries, he had sneaked into a Milan Fashion Week show and somehow worked his way onto the runway.  With his cameras rolling, he walked along the fashion models, wearing an inexplicably-odd suit, pulling a massive prank that would make the cast of MTV’s “Jackass” jealous.  The runway lights were turned off, the show was cancelled, the polizia were called—and Cohen's work was done, whatever it was.

Of course, we now know he was filming his latest creation, "Bruno," a somewhat-staged documentary about an Austrian fashion journalist who sets out into the world to make himself famous.  After the success of his first film "Borat," a hilarious and shocking look at American culture—it won Cohen the Golden Globe award for Best Actor—expectations have been high for what Cohen has in store this time around.

The plot of “Bruno” is very thin: he wants to leave his life as a journalist, so he heads to Los Angeles and attempts to reinvent himself in various ways.  He tries acting, he tries hosting a TV show, he wanders around trying new things, failing miserably at each turn and horrifying everyone along the way.

When none of those ideas work out, he realizes Hollywood will not accept him if he is gay, so he travels to the Deep South for some ex-gay therapy.  And of course, hijinks ensue at every step of that journey.

Thin plot or not—when "Bruno" is funny, it is uproarious.  The fact that Cohen puts himself into these situations, and then escapes with his life, is a testament to his comedic genius.  At one point, he assembles leaders from the Palestinian Liberation Organization for discussions on the difference between "hummus" and "Hamas"; what does this have to do with the story?  Nothing.  But it is an amazing moment.

But “Bruno” is a mixed bag; there are times the film drags, where Cohen seems to have lost some of his spontaneity.  It is awkwardly obvious many of the scenes are completely staged; I swear I saw one of the guys from the “orgy scene” also in the audience at the “ultimate fighting scene.”   And many of the stunts are uncomfortable to watch: Bruno somehow wrangles an interview with then-Presidential candidate Ron Paul, but then corners him in a hotel room and drops his pants to show off a hideous thong wrapped around his danger zone.  Ron Paul is horrified, of course, but anyone would be.  It’s hard to understand the point of the stunt—other than catching Paul calling Bruno a "queer" as he fled the scene, but it's hard to blame the poor guy.

Cohen's over-the-top portrayal Bruno's "gayness" has come under fire as being a negative stereotype, and the film had to be re-edited several times to tone down the overt sexual lasciviousness, which offended audiences both straight and gay alike.  But the fact that Cohen toes the line of offensiveness is the genius of the character.  He is proving a point: the mere existence of Bruno is threatening to people around the globe, as he travels from country to country scaring the locals just by being himself.  (Although admittedly, stripping down to a g-string and cornering Ron Paul in a hotel room did seem a little threatening.)  Cohen’s films are shocking not because of what he does, but because he coerces people into letting their guard down and being honest, which usually ends up with them saying something racist, homophobic, or otherwise foolishly bigoted.  It’s scary to watch his films, and wonder what kinds of people are living out there in the world.

The film climaxes at an ultimate fighting match, where Bruno tries the most macho activity he can find to battle his gayness—but ends up locking lips with another man in the ring.  The crowd goes crazy, throwing chairs and screaming threats as if they were watching something ghastly.  This stunt made the news when it happened as well; although if two women did exactly the same thing, it would just be considered porn.

As the audience at the fight screamed in horror, the audience in the theater I was at also shouted in protest, saying what they were watching was "disgusting" and "terrible." But they were too busy being grossed out to understand they, too, were falling prey to Cohen’s trick.  Life imitates art.

This should not scare away gay moviegoers, however.  At this point the film is so funny, listening to a bunch of homophobic thugs get grossed out next to you really doesn't matter.  "Bruno" takes a while to get going, and Cohen misses the mark a few times, but once he figures out what he is trying to say, the movie is flat-out funny.

THE MJ MEMORIAL

1) Mariah Carey should have cancelled this performance.  Horrible.

2) Wow, Lionel Richie looks/sounds great.  Nicole Richie must be so proud.

3) Barry Gordy (creator of Motown Records) said “Michael loved creating what had never been done before.”  Interesting story: Jackson is listed by the United States Patent Office as one of the inventors for patent 5,255,452: a “method and means for creating anti-gravity illusion,” allowing dancers to lean forward beyond their center of gravity by wearing specially-designed shoes.
In the video for Smooth Criminal, Michael and Co. perform a move by planting their feet and leaning forward to a 45-degree angle.  Dancers wore shoes with hollowed-out heels, covered with a steel plate in the shape of a V; they then stood over bolts protruding from the stage, hooked the heel-plates onto the bolts, and the were able to lean forward while held to the stage by the bolts.
Jackson did not produce the shoes to sell, of course; he merely wanted to trademark the dance move as his intellectual property. 

4) Someone please tell Al Sharpton to stop yelling at me, kthx.

5) Someday I'll tell my John Mayer story, he's a tool.  He's almost as big of a jerk as Adrian Grenier.  But let's not talk about these things while we're watching a memorial service.

6) Brooke Shields is shaking.  Poor dear.

7) When I grow up I want to be Rep. Sheila Jackson-Lee.

8) After 2 hours, I don't know who these people are anymore; this has become a karaoke performance of Michael Jackson songs.  Time to turn this off.  I await the American Idol episode with the Michael Jackson theme now, which is undoubtedly coming. 

THE NEWEST FOSTERS

Crappy cell phone pics--I have a new camera, I will take better pics later.

Pup #1:

 

Pup #2:

Shh, she is sleeping...

WHY YOU SHOULD NEVER LET YOUR CHILDREN VISIT SOUTH BEACH

The other night, my friend J and I had a hankerin' for ice cream cones, so we ventured over to the McDonald's by my apartment.  Other than outrageous tourist traps selling cones for $7, McDonald's is the only choice, and it's a dollar.  Plus it is soft-serve, which is apparently lower in fat.  It may be all chemicals, but it tastes pretty good.  I don't know why I'm justifying our choice like this, I need to move on with my typing here.

So we're in McDonald's, in line, and there are two ladies standing in front of us, feverishly analyzing the cost-effectiveness of the various choices before them.  Apparently they only had a couple of dollars. I am guessing, but their gaunt appearance and pasty complexion, they spent the bulk of their cash on meth but needed some fuel before going out to turn tricks.  But I'm not one to make snap judgements.

As we were staring at them, J pointed out the taller woman's bag, a deep red plasticy-alligator skin print monstrosity with a silver disc bearing the name "Versace" glued on. 

"I think that's a Versace," J said, pronouncing it Showgirls-style, as ver-SAYce.  I snickered, not because I cared about the bag either way, but because I love anything Showgirls-related.

And they turned around as we were looking.  We seemed rude.  Honestly not wanting to offend them, I came up with the quickest story I could.

"This is the color red I want to paint my living room," I said, as I pointed to the bag.  Never mind the fact I don't live in a space with a living room, but she didn't know that.

And her friend, the meth-ier of the two, perked up, and launched into an in-depth explanation of the design element known as the "accent wall," painting one wall a bold color to liven up a space.  She explained why that shade of red creates depth and warmth, but using it for the entire room would be overpowering.

They then asked for two orders of fries and paid for it in coins.

It was a most educational interaction.  As we ate our cones, we saw them pass by the window a few times; I hoped they would come in again, as I needed to ask them what color I should paint my kitchen.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Today is my birthday. 

I am 35.

I am currently sitting on my bed, in my tiny apartment, watching The Golden Girls like I always do before I go to bed.

I was at a party at a local bar--it was their anniversary party, a delicious affair that drew out all the hoodlums and hooligans of the night life, but I couldn't stay.  I had to come home and attend to the new batch of foster puppies currently in my care.

That's one of them.  They're bloodhound mix puppies, too young to be away from Mom but I'm mixing milk formula into their food, they'll be alright.

My paramour, T.L., is off in a faraway land, working on gaining re-entry to this country.  So I went to the party to fend off the effects of his absence; and now I have been well-wished by a smattering of Facebook friends who have tossed "Happy Birthday!" greetings as they whooshed past. But mostly, I just sat and watched people walk by.

I was standing in the party, thinking about what I want to do for the next 35 years, and I honestly had no idea.  I have had such an odd life, filled with unexpected surprised, nothing has worked out the way I planned.  And it's been interesting...lots of flops, lots of pleasantries, I remember a few zingers—times I fell flat on my face, and I had to get picked up by the people around me...and the occasional phenom that tempt me to rest on my laurels like the star quarterback in high school.  But that would be boring.

I don't have any photos in my apartment; I don't ponder the past, I'm always looking toward the future.  The only photos I do have--in a box, in my closet--are a collection of black and whites taken from my grandmother's house, all of people I don't know.  They are really cool.  I also have a box of frames, ready to go up on the wall, but I've never gotten around to marrying the two.

I've done a bunch of stuff, I guess.  It hasn't been "significant" as much as it has been "fun," which is what you want, isn't it?  One concept is satisfying other people, the other is satisfying yourself. In the end, one is important and one is not; you figure out which is which. 

And what have I done?...there was that time I was in East Germany, eating goulash...college was fun, I learned a lot...when I was in 5th grade I was on the local PBS doing a news report about my school.  I loved that.  And there have been a few hours here and there spent volunteering at homeless shelters and for HIV clinics and stuff.  Make the world a better place, etc etc etc.  (I know what I just said about satisfying yourself, but I do that stuff for me, it makes me feel better.)

And what will come next now?  I have no idea.  The economy is tanking, things are out of my hands, but I can fight the good fight and make do with what I have.   But then things march on. And they will again.  I guess.

So today, I celebrate the past 35 years.  It's okay to be happy with what you've done, isn't it?  People will continue to go by, they may see me and they may not.  Maybe I'll get a drive-by greeting, maybe they'll just go on and not pause.  I can say that's what I've learned: you're at peace only when you worry about seeing yourself.

What am I going to do next?  35 years is a long time.

Hmm.

$

I am owed well over $1,500 by people I know.  I had no idea how much money I've loaned out, neglected to collect, not worried about...until now, when I overdrafted my bank account and racked up $200 in overdraft charges because I tried to use my check card to pay $5 for parking and $1.75 for lip balm.  But we'll talk about THAT another day, it's still not resolved.

I generally get paid back when I loan people money, so I don't worry about doing it; but in these times it seems everyone has a problem.  Meanwhile, these people have the same jobs they had before, so I don't understand where the money is going.  But it's not my place to question.

So I'm spending the day making calls, sending emails, asking politely but directly for what people need to give me; it's a terrible feeling, listening to the stuttering and the apologies, perhaps twinged with the regret that I didn't forget to ask for the money like they hoped.  Or I could be making that up in my head, but sometimes it must be true.

Suze Orman would kill me.

So creepy and sad: when asked about Michael's death, his dad Joe Jackson says it's "it's been really tough, remember we just lost the biggest star in the world"--but nothing about him being his son.

And of course he promotes his new record label. No wonder Michael was addicted to pills.  I feel bad for his kids, who now must live with this guy--and will undoubtedly get whored out as much as possible.  How long until the first photos of the kids are sold to People Magazine?

QUESTION

I am not going to type much because it hurts to move my fingers.  The reason?  My fingers are connected to my body, which is currently healing after my first session of Muay Thai kickboxing.  Holy smerge, we didn't lift a single weight and EVERYTHING on me is screaming.  Gravity is a formidable foe, yo.

In the absence of my significant other, who is currently away in the hopes of falling into the good graces of the United States once again someday so he may return, I have taken to righting the wrongs inevitably adopted during time in a relationship: calling forgotten/ignored friends, cleaning out closets, and losing that "nesting weight" that has congealed 'round my center core area.

So I bought cool new boxing gloves, yellow with red knuckle wraps, and I whaled on the bag for a while.  The most exciting part of kickboxing?  Whe you are the chunkiest tallest person in the class, the instructor uses you as a target to demonstrate.  He also takes great pleasure out of using you for target practice if you compare his class to Tae Bo, which apparently is a dirty word.

Although I will admit, some of my bruises are from when I tried to step out of the ring, and my foot caught the springy rope.  Splat.  My cool quotient went down considerably after that.

ANYWAY-

I need a good SLR camera.  Where do I buy one for cheap?  I don't have a thousand dollars.

(pronounced with a soft g, like "smurj.")

OMG

I forgot to deposit a check into my account, so when I used my check card I overdrew (is that a word) money.  I have six overdraft charges because I used my card for $1.75 at a parking meter, and $5 to pay for parking at the airport. 

But why did the bank continue to let me use the card when I was already overdrawn?  How do I get these charges removed?  It's seriously about $200 in fines.

GREENVILLE

I am stuck for the time being in Greenville, SC, due to weather delays at the home base.  Curses!  If only I still had that rental car in my grasp!   Me and the Ford Focus could have been zipping 'round this mighty metropolis, scooping up knicknacks from the various antique malls I spotted during my drive back.  Oh well.

Instead, I am at the airport cafe'.  And I am eating this:

OMG, people, this peach cobbler gives cause to just burst into tears.  It is so good.  SO good.  The crust is a little coconut-ish, and the vanilla bean ice cream was slow-melty deliciousness.  There were three scoops but in this pic there are only 1.5.  GET IN MY BELLY.

(sigh)

There's nothing else to do here.

EIGHT

The squares in the cement at the airport terminal entrance are in rows of eight.

I counted them while I was standing outside the door.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

T.L. had just walked away, 'round the corner to the security screening.  He didn't turn around, he walked pretty quickly; when he walks, he wiggles a little side to side.  Lugging his overstuffed backpack dampened the wiggle a little, but it was still there.

We had said our goodbyes outside the door, away from everyone else in the terminal.  Sometimes I don't care if people see me hug and kiss; sometimes my skin isn't thick enough.  This was a thin-skin day.  So we took it outside. 

He had packed a few days early, and left his giant suitcases sitting in the middle of the floor.  I didn't mind them, I expected seeing the suitcases.  We just walked around them.  I even bought a scale so we could weigh them to see if he packed them under the limit for the airline. (He didn't.)  But then later on that first day I went into the bathroom, and his shelf was clear, totally empty.  That shocked me.  It was a clamp right on my guts, ouch.

T.L.'s visa was up; he could have applied once again as a tourist, but there's no work here, in Florida or most places for that matter. I can support him, but I can't pay all his other bills he has to pay, sending money home to family and such.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.  One, two, three, four, five six seven eight.

We went to the airport early, and had an elegant breakfast of donuts and coffee.  We bought $28 worth of magazines for him to read.  And we sat on the chairs for about 30 minutes, not saying much of anything but with much in our heads.  "You always thinking thinking," he'd say.  Thinking thinking, too much thinking.

So the time came, and standing outside, with the big hug-and-kiss, and we just stood there for a moment.  And we said our byes and he left, and I just stood there for a while.  Walk back to the car alone?  Go home to the empty apartment?  No. So I stood there, blocking the door, and looked down.  And I counted the squares, over and over, it was interesting.  Eight.  I think I have some form of compulsion, counting things calms me down.  Light poles while I am driving, concrete squares on the ground when I am upset at the airport.

The luggage guys were very nice, they just walked around me and didn't ask me to move.  It never occurred to me I was in the way.  But then it was really tough, taking those first few steps down the sidewalk, towards my car.  I knew where I was parked but I wandered around for a little while.

It's not like I didn't know this was coming.  Months ago, I made peace with what would come. And I'm fine.  He'll come back someday, these things have a way of working out.  But it's going to be a long time.  There's not much to ease waiting the months, and months.

I have been in Palm Beach all weekend; Gorgeous is being cared for.  But I can't sleep in my bed.  Instead I went home, grabbed some clothes, and headed north.  Can't go home, yet. 

I woke up at 4 in the morning today because Gorgeous was laying on me and I was hot so I pushed her off and she got freaked out so she swiped at me and scratched my face but she didn't mean it she was just scared so I felt bad but it kept me awake and then I dozed off right before I was supposed to get out of bed so when I finally opened my eyes I was late so I had to rush around and I didn't get to eat my breakfast which left me spacey and confused and then when I was halfway to work I realized I left without those super-important papers that I was supposed to bring to work today but I was too late to turn around and go get them so I just kept driving and then when I got to work I missed my meeting so instead I went to eat eggs and a bagel down the street but the lady at the cash register short-changed me but I was irrationally upset over her keeping my 50 cents so instead of yelling at her and making a scene I just left and now I can't ever go back to that evil place because it is tinged with bad memories and when I was walking back to my office I looked down and realized my pants don't match my shirt.

What a crap day.

GIMME SUGAR

I wrote this article about Gimme Sugar, the new season of Logo's reality show about a group of hard-partying lesbians.

I haven't read this final incarnation—I get the heebie-jeebies when I read my own stuff—but I think it's pretty close to what I turned in. I had fun writing this one.

SAND IN MY SHOES

I had a couple hours to kill before going to an event—and I was bored after seeing "Up" by myself—and I remembered, Oh yeah, I live in Florida...so I pointed my car towards the east and drove until I saw ocean.

There is a sretch of tacky little motels along the beach in a town called Hollywood--between Miami and Fort Lauderdale, they named it "Hollywood" to envoke some of the glitz and glamour of its namesake in California.  But like its west coast brethren, the actual product is a crappy little strip of downtrodden-ness and despair.  Not glamorous. I lived in Hollywood when I was in LA, I loved the tragedy of it all, and I love it here too.

At the Hollywood beach, humble little motels line the oceanfront which I have always seen completely vacant but someone must stay in them.  They are painted orange and green, and other bright bright colors that bump up against the blue of the water, feigning a festive atmosphere even though the beds are probably lumpy and the walls are undoubtedly infested with mold.  Little shops line the road, selling the typical beach fare of sunblock and beers and soft serve ice cream.  The only major hotel is a Ramada.  How chic.  But all the people outside are smiling, just locals who know the sand here has less trash than where the tourists converge.

So I parked my car, no need to feed the meter as I've never seen them checked; and I walked along the sand, watching kids run around licking their lips with ice cream dribbled down their hands.  The tide was gentle, the waves were small and flopped onto the shore in short little bursts.  And I just wandered around, looking at people as they looked at me wondering why I was on the beach in jeans.  I ate an ice cream cone, very rapidly in the melting sun, and then meandered back to my car.  

I got sand in my shoes.  I didn't empty them out, I walked around the rest of the day with the sand in them to remind me of where I had been.  It was like walking on the beach all day.