Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Saturday, February 19, 2011
The Maiden
My mother asked me the other day why I still have all my med bottles. She asked me why I don't just throw them out and I told her that I just wanted to hang on to them. Kind of like a timeline, I said, but I don't think she cared for that very much because she looked at me like I wasn't speaking Spanish. My father then said that I need to look at it from their point of view, and I asked what that was, and neither one of them said anything, but my mother, finally, said she didn't like it.
A few days ago, I was telling Jodi this little bit and she interrupted my telling to ask why was I keeping them. I said they were just like little mementos of the years since my diagnosis. And as I thought about it a bit more, I came up with something a little more sinister: once I was gone, these little plastic bottles would remain. All the chemical fighting, and I'd be dead and I'd leave behind lots of plastic. I said to Jodi that once I was gone, they're what would stay behind. I'm not certain what she said in response but it wasn't anything fully enthusiastic. That I do recall.
I'd also divined my parents' point of view: I'm going to die. These little bits are yet another grand reminder to them, I suppose, and to my friend, that I'm sick. Good thing too because I'd forgotten.
I don't want to turn it into a big thing but my question will always be (until it isn't fact, I suppose) is why is it that the ones who care about me the most seem to be the ones who remind me that I'm unwell? I'm not stupid, I know why, but at the same time, I wish they'd stop it. Because I don't really dwell on it as much as I think they do. I think about it from time to time sure, but what I thought would be a little eccentric way of looking at my being sick has suddenly turned into my building my proverbial coffin. The even more curious thing in regard to my family is how ever-present a specter looms over me. I know why they might think about this, but I wonder why it isn't enough for me to say I'm just doing this for the sake of doing it, it has no further meaning. It is they who add some sort of gray cloud over it. And at this point, I know there isn't anything that I can do to stop them from feeling so.
And it keeps happening.
It's rather frustrating.
It's so strange that from the very beginning everyone I know has said that my being sick isn't 'the end' and that I will still live a 'normal' life. If this is true (it isn't so let's cut THAT bullshit out right now, yes?), then stop being the reminders that I won't. How selfish am I?
Alright, I know these folk's reasons for talking to me in this manner are entirely legit and valid, because all feelings are valid. Even I know this. If this is what they think, I wonder why they won't talk to me about it when I actually ask. Why aren't we allowed to discuss these gloom-doom scenarios that everyone seems to already have, including me? Frankly, perhaps before, the boy was right and I ought to outright ask what everyone what they think about my being sick whenever these things happen. I mean, it sounds a little heavy-handed in way, but at the same time, I wish at all times my folks, my best friend, my friends saw me as me first and never ever this fucking disease.
A few days ago, I was telling Jodi this little bit and she interrupted my telling to ask why was I keeping them. I said they were just like little mementos of the years since my diagnosis. And as I thought about it a bit more, I came up with something a little more sinister: once I was gone, these little plastic bottles would remain. All the chemical fighting, and I'd be dead and I'd leave behind lots of plastic. I said to Jodi that once I was gone, they're what would stay behind. I'm not certain what she said in response but it wasn't anything fully enthusiastic. That I do recall.
I'd also divined my parents' point of view: I'm going to die. These little bits are yet another grand reminder to them, I suppose, and to my friend, that I'm sick. Good thing too because I'd forgotten.
I don't want to turn it into a big thing but my question will always be (until it isn't fact, I suppose) is why is it that the ones who care about me the most seem to be the ones who remind me that I'm unwell? I'm not stupid, I know why, but at the same time, I wish they'd stop it. Because I don't really dwell on it as much as I think they do. I think about it from time to time sure, but what I thought would be a little eccentric way of looking at my being sick has suddenly turned into my building my proverbial coffin. The even more curious thing in regard to my family is how ever-present a specter looms over me. I know why they might think about this, but I wonder why it isn't enough for me to say I'm just doing this for the sake of doing it, it has no further meaning. It is they who add some sort of gray cloud over it. And at this point, I know there isn't anything that I can do to stop them from feeling so.
And it keeps happening.
It's rather frustrating.
It's so strange that from the very beginning everyone I know has said that my being sick isn't 'the end' and that I will still live a 'normal' life. If this is true (it isn't so let's cut THAT bullshit out right now, yes?), then stop being the reminders that I won't. How selfish am I?
Alright, I know these folk's reasons for talking to me in this manner are entirely legit and valid, because all feelings are valid. Even I know this. If this is what they think, I wonder why they won't talk to me about it when I actually ask. Why aren't we allowed to discuss these gloom-doom scenarios that everyone seems to already have, including me? Frankly, perhaps before, the boy was right and I ought to outright ask what everyone what they think about my being sick whenever these things happen. I mean, it sounds a little heavy-handed in way, but at the same time, I wish at all times my folks, my best friend, my friends saw me as me first and never ever this fucking disease.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Horny Werewolf
Okay, in the last three weeks something's sort of been bothering me because, well, I'm not very smart and I'm a socially awkward person.
Two summers ago, the boy and I broke up and when on the phone that night, he asked me if I had any other dating prospects. I said I didn't, I asked who does that, and afterward, I remember thinking how one has a cache of would-be boyfriends/girlfriends/partners ready and just check them off a list. I'm being facetious, sure, but when the best friend and I talked about it, she too had the same reaction.
One of the reasons why I don't date is, well, all the work in becoming to invested in a person. Call me lazy or whatever, but it's rare I come across someone I want to get to know more intimately. So when the boy said this to me then, I thought he was rather insane (what happened after, that summer, and last year cement it.).
For a number of weeks if not months, a man's been telling me he's more than interested in dating me. Full disclosure: this man is a friend of the ex's (when we were together, the boy would say his friend had a thing for me and I would brush it off and would say that his friend's friend (who's also *his* ex!) was the one who I thought had a thing for me). Anyway, after him being - I don't know what to call it, persistent? - we went out. And from the time we made plans to go out to the day itself, I thought, "Okay, I'm going into this with an open mind because, really, I've never had a man as to take me out before and it feels a little nice, and who knows what'll happen!" The date went like it did. After another week or so, I came home and discovered this man had updated his Facebook relationship status to "in a relationship".
This is what I think happened: this man, the friend of the ex's, is obviously dating or in the process of dating a number of people (at least two?), and after the disastrous events with me, things must've been going well with whoever it is he's now coupled with. Of course, because we're living in the 21st Century, I'm pretty certain I know who it is!
Late last week, the ex's friend's ex invited me out. Now, I'm not sure if I'm jumping the gun in assuming he was asking me out as in a date or not, but this is what's in my head, you see, due to recent and not-so-recent experience. Anyway, I had to turn him down because of my terrible work schedule, so nothing's come of that.
What I've come up with is that, whether I'm right or wrong, what was going on is me being in a weird sort of gay dating musical chairs kind of thing. Really, guys, were we all just waiting to be able to ask the same guy out? Is this how dating works? Have a list of potential dating ideas and just go through them like a proverbial shopping list? I am assuming a great deal here, and I am flattered to a degree (my inner slut is disappointed in no sex coming from any of this, only one round of drunken make outs and groping), but this seems really really weird. Again, when talked over with the best friend, she had the same reaction I did.
Granted, I'm not necessarily Mr. Sharp In Social Situations, but if what I'm imagining is true, it speaks volumes of this particular micro-culture, Los Angeles Gay Men. And it isn't good, in my opinion. If I am right, then...uh...it reeks of desperation to couple more than friendship or companionship. I wonder how often this happens and I'm blissfully unaware of any of it. I couldn't imagine being in a group of friends and knowing me and my friends had all dated the same person, or to the be that person. And, frankly, the idea of having several men lined up to date, whether one at a time or not, just seems so shallow and a little sad and rather ridiculous.
Two more things: when the boy and I broke up last year, I said something to him about how he wouldn't be my favorite person for a while and he said he thought we'd have sex and go to some theater thing afterward and I said I might not date as much as he but I was still hurt and his response was, "Are you calling me a slut?" And, when I went over to the ex's friend's house to watch a movie, I said to him I've never become friends with exes nor with people I've sex with because, well, I just don't and he said he's become friends with a number of people with whom he's fucked.
This is the most ridiculous blog post this year, I'm certain.
Two summers ago, the boy and I broke up and when on the phone that night, he asked me if I had any other dating prospects. I said I didn't, I asked who does that, and afterward, I remember thinking how one has a cache of would-be boyfriends/girlfriends/partners ready and just check them off a list. I'm being facetious, sure, but when the best friend and I talked about it, she too had the same reaction.
One of the reasons why I don't date is, well, all the work in becoming to invested in a person. Call me lazy or whatever, but it's rare I come across someone I want to get to know more intimately. So when the boy said this to me then, I thought he was rather insane (what happened after, that summer, and last year cement it.).
For a number of weeks if not months, a man's been telling me he's more than interested in dating me. Full disclosure: this man is a friend of the ex's (when we were together, the boy would say his friend had a thing for me and I would brush it off and would say that his friend's friend (who's also *his* ex!) was the one who I thought had a thing for me). Anyway, after him being - I don't know what to call it, persistent? - we went out. And from the time we made plans to go out to the day itself, I thought, "Okay, I'm going into this with an open mind because, really, I've never had a man as to take me out before and it feels a little nice, and who knows what'll happen!" The date went like it did. After another week or so, I came home and discovered this man had updated his Facebook relationship status to "in a relationship".
This is what I think happened: this man, the friend of the ex's, is obviously dating or in the process of dating a number of people (at least two?), and after the disastrous events with me, things must've been going well with whoever it is he's now coupled with. Of course, because we're living in the 21st Century, I'm pretty certain I know who it is!
Late last week, the ex's friend's ex invited me out. Now, I'm not sure if I'm jumping the gun in assuming he was asking me out as in a date or not, but this is what's in my head, you see, due to recent and not-so-recent experience. Anyway, I had to turn him down because of my terrible work schedule, so nothing's come of that.
What I've come up with is that, whether I'm right or wrong, what was going on is me being in a weird sort of gay dating musical chairs kind of thing. Really, guys, were we all just waiting to be able to ask the same guy out? Is this how dating works? Have a list of potential dating ideas and just go through them like a proverbial shopping list? I am assuming a great deal here, and I am flattered to a degree (my inner slut is disappointed in no sex coming from any of this, only one round of drunken make outs and groping), but this seems really really weird. Again, when talked over with the best friend, she had the same reaction I did.
Granted, I'm not necessarily Mr. Sharp In Social Situations, but if what I'm imagining is true, it speaks volumes of this particular micro-culture, Los Angeles Gay Men. And it isn't good, in my opinion. If I am right, then...uh...it reeks of desperation to couple more than friendship or companionship. I wonder how often this happens and I'm blissfully unaware of any of it. I couldn't imagine being in a group of friends and knowing me and my friends had all dated the same person, or to the be that person. And, frankly, the idea of having several men lined up to date, whether one at a time or not, just seems so shallow and a little sad and rather ridiculous.
Two more things: when the boy and I broke up last year, I said something to him about how he wouldn't be my favorite person for a while and he said he thought we'd have sex and go to some theater thing afterward and I said I might not date as much as he but I was still hurt and his response was, "Are you calling me a slut?" And, when I went over to the ex's friend's house to watch a movie, I said to him I've never become friends with exes nor with people I've sex with because, well, I just don't and he said he's become friends with a number of people with whom he's fucked.
This is the most ridiculous blog post this year, I'm certain.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
The Early Grave
Even when it's a quick trip to Las Vegas, I love traveling. Whether driving or flying, and as of last year, going by train, I just like the idea of getting up early in the morning, grabbing my backpack, maybe my computer and camera, and being off into the city. Any city. In the last nearly eight years, last year what the only one that only afforded me one, maybe two quick trips. And both were lovely in their own way. But that was it. All of it, really, my fault, but it doesn't make for me stopping wanting to go...somewhere.
I just spent an inordinate amount of time looking through hotel websites and through Expedia, trying to see if I can plan a trip, and book it this coming week. I want to commit to a trip. I suppose it's the one thing that I love the most that isn't something you can touch: travel. I mentioned at the beginning of the month the same thing. And as I was exchanging messages with Derrick (hi!) on Tumblr earlier, and my ridiculous lusting after online just now, I'm all set to go...
...except that I'm not certain to where, and why, and how much. All the practical details you know.
Since he posted on his blog, Warren Ellis's COUNTDOWN TO AN EARLY GRAVE always comes to mind when I start to think about traveling. Lots of my experiences out in the world, have involved great people, some who I love greatly, some who I can no longer stand, and as I've gotten older, and my venturing out has diminished, I'm finding that I prefer to be somewhere new alone. During the traveling part. At the destination, as it's been in not-so-recent years, I tend to walk a lot, talk to more strangers in a couple of days than I think I do in an entire year, have drinks, write more, and am happy.
This is when I'm the happiest in life.
I just spent an inordinate amount of time looking through hotel websites and through Expedia, trying to see if I can plan a trip, and book it this coming week. I want to commit to a trip. I suppose it's the one thing that I love the most that isn't something you can touch: travel. I mentioned at the beginning of the month the same thing. And as I was exchanging messages with Derrick (hi!) on Tumblr earlier, and my ridiculous lusting after online just now, I'm all set to go...
...except that I'm not certain to where, and why, and how much. All the practical details you know.
Since he posted on his blog, Warren Ellis's COUNTDOWN TO AN EARLY GRAVE always comes to mind when I start to think about traveling. Lots of my experiences out in the world, have involved great people, some who I love greatly, some who I can no longer stand, and as I've gotten older, and my venturing out has diminished, I'm finding that I prefer to be somewhere new alone. During the traveling part. At the destination, as it's been in not-so-recent years, I tend to walk a lot, talk to more strangers in a couple of days than I think I do in an entire year, have drinks, write more, and am happy.
This is when I'm the happiest in life.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Date
Just so you know, when you end up handcuffed in the back of a police car, get your shoelaces taken from you, you have to describe your tattoos to the booking cop, and then have to get a ride home from the same officer who arrested you, it was a bad date.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
READ: Blue Pills by Frederik Peeters
At one point in 2008, my friend Jodi and I were in Book Soup in West Hollywood. She remembered many years later I nearly got a parking ticket when we were about to leave. We were in Book Soup, just looking about, and we split up briefly at one point (it's such a rather small space, frankly), and I was at their then-new graphic novel section. there really wasn't much that grabbed my attention aside from two books, Adrian Tomine's SHORTCOMINGS (a gift for the best friend) and Frederik Peeters's BLUE PILLS.
When I was finally home, I read BLUE PILLS and I cried and cried as I read it. It's a memoir, telling Peeters's story about meeting his girlfriend Cati and her son, and how they came to be together. Cati and her son are HIV-positive, and Peeters tells us how it was that their relationship came to function, how wonderful it was, how mired in uncertainty it initially was, and how, ultimately, there wasn't necessarily anything spectacular about it. And I cried because for a very long time at that point, I was still having a lot of difficulty with my own then-recent diagnoses.
Christ.
I remember so many nights of not sleeping and thinking about it. Feeling as if I was off-limits, thinking that no one would want me, that I was broken and damaged, and that I was sentenced to an isolated life. I remember as I'm reading BLUE PILLS, when Cati tells Fred of hers and her son's infection, how he reacts, because it wasn't how nearly everyone I knew did. And it made me love him. The romantic in me made me think that even though this was a memoir, guys like Fred were only fiction. I cried because he seemed, rightly or not, hesitant but honest, and still very much willing to take the chance, you know? Ah! It all seems a little muted now, but I remember how great I felt for Cati! I wanted him to want her and he did!
And I remember when talking about Cati's son, when Fred begins to think about this child's future being forever tied to the medical system, and whose live will potentially end in sickness, I was broken apart again. Because that is how I felt, how I foresaw my life. And it didn't matter that everyone seemed terribly upbeat, including my doctor. All I saw, much like Fred, was a life forever linked to a hospital and pills. Blue pills for Cati and her son.
I think this comic did more for me at the time when I needed it the most than anyone or any other thing did. Because it wasn't talking in bullshit: it's direct and a little difficult to read through, but it gave me a glimpse at something other than what my brain had cooked up for months prior. It showed me in rather obvious way that it didn't need to be the end of anything for me, just adding a few more steps to life. And it illustrated very much how a lot of us who're HIV-positive so feel such guilt for seemingly inflicting ourselves upon others, how many mistakes lead us to where we are, and how scary it is to face the world sometimes.
This is the most important book in my life since 2008. Peeters got me. And I'm not even sure if that was his intent. But it accomplished so much for me than I think I can ever be grateful for. Perhaps you think this is all hyperbole. Whatever. I'd read other things (around this time I also read Shawn Decker's MY PET VIRUS, which in trying to talk to people about, they'd rather talk about their asshole boyfriends) and talked to several people about being HIV-positive, but everyone seemed to be either too blase, or too gloomy for me to ever get something useful out of it (I remember telling my doctor then that if "living with HIV" isn't such a big deal, why did everyone around me burst into a little chaos of tears around me). It's one of the instances in my life wherein comic books seem to have more value and truth and love and anguish and even hope than the rest of the universe has.
What I find curious now, even after just re-reading it is that one of the medications I take are blue pills.
[cross-posted everywhere.]
When I was finally home, I read BLUE PILLS and I cried and cried as I read it. It's a memoir, telling Peeters's story about meeting his girlfriend Cati and her son, and how they came to be together. Cati and her son are HIV-positive, and Peeters tells us how it was that their relationship came to function, how wonderful it was, how mired in uncertainty it initially was, and how, ultimately, there wasn't necessarily anything spectacular about it. And I cried because for a very long time at that point, I was still having a lot of difficulty with my own then-recent diagnoses.
Christ.
I remember so many nights of not sleeping and thinking about it. Feeling as if I was off-limits, thinking that no one would want me, that I was broken and damaged, and that I was sentenced to an isolated life. I remember as I'm reading BLUE PILLS, when Cati tells Fred of hers and her son's infection, how he reacts, because it wasn't how nearly everyone I knew did. And it made me love him. The romantic in me made me think that even though this was a memoir, guys like Fred were only fiction. I cried because he seemed, rightly or not, hesitant but honest, and still very much willing to take the chance, you know? Ah! It all seems a little muted now, but I remember how great I felt for Cati! I wanted him to want her and he did!
And I remember when talking about Cati's son, when Fred begins to think about this child's future being forever tied to the medical system, and whose live will potentially end in sickness, I was broken apart again. Because that is how I felt, how I foresaw my life. And it didn't matter that everyone seemed terribly upbeat, including my doctor. All I saw, much like Fred, was a life forever linked to a hospital and pills. Blue pills for Cati and her son.
I think this comic did more for me at the time when I needed it the most than anyone or any other thing did. Because it wasn't talking in bullshit: it's direct and a little difficult to read through, but it gave me a glimpse at something other than what my brain had cooked up for months prior. It showed me in rather obvious way that it didn't need to be the end of anything for me, just adding a few more steps to life. And it illustrated very much how a lot of us who're HIV-positive so feel such guilt for seemingly inflicting ourselves upon others, how many mistakes lead us to where we are, and how scary it is to face the world sometimes.
This is the most important book in my life since 2008. Peeters got me. And I'm not even sure if that was his intent. But it accomplished so much for me than I think I can ever be grateful for. Perhaps you think this is all hyperbole. Whatever. I'd read other things (around this time I also read Shawn Decker's MY PET VIRUS, which in trying to talk to people about, they'd rather talk about their asshole boyfriends) and talked to several people about being HIV-positive, but everyone seemed to be either too blase, or too gloomy for me to ever get something useful out of it (I remember telling my doctor then that if "living with HIV" isn't such a big deal, why did everyone around me burst into a little chaos of tears around me). It's one of the instances in my life wherein comic books seem to have more value and truth and love and anguish and even hope than the rest of the universe has.
What I find curious now, even after just re-reading it is that one of the medications I take are blue pills.
[cross-posted everywhere.]
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Partner
We were talking earlier in what ifs and wouldn't it be nices, in that sort of way, and I asked if when people decide to get married or live together, if one of the things they consider is what their partner, whether wife or husband or boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever, brings to that union in terms of something practical. Our ridiculous example was, of course, work and money. As in, if I didn't feel like working for, say, a week, would my partner say to me, "Of course! Take time off and I'll get paid. Don't worry about it." Is that part of it, or were we just talking crazy?
Monday, January 3, 2011
Junk Drawer
I'm listening to Isis's IN THE ABSENCE OF TRUTH right now after nearly posting a whiny rant about the band breaking up. I only just now discovered this, the end of the band. Which is terrible. But I posted a clumsy bit on why I love Isis over on Flickr...
This year I'm not optimistic at all, nor even realistic. 2011 will probably suck. Already, in 2011, the DMV is winning again, my car is falling apart more, and my wallet is crying. Boo-hoo, right? Anyway:
This year I'm going to do a bit of a 365 thing again, but because I'm pretty sick of myself still, I'm telling you about things I love. Because, well, I love me already, and a lot of people need better pop culture bits in their life that don't have the words 'gaga' or 'lakers' in them. Click here, there are two already, the aforementioned Isis and writer Neil Gaiman.
On the latter, I'm trying to study Gaiman's work. Because it would be fun to dissect his comics and novels and children's books and even blog posts. And at the same time, as I begin with NEVERWHERE, I'm wondering why am I doing it aside from my secret obvious reason? I think there's an underlying thread through all of his work that says something to me about our world; even in Wall or The Dreaming there are aspects of our universe. I kick myself for not being more academic over the years. Anyway, as it is, at the very least, I get to re-read some of the best stories I've ever read anywhere.
January is only three days old and already I know it won't be the end of all the personal life bullshit from last year. "So it goes..."
I'm not prone to body image issues. Sure, I complain about the few gray hairs I have, about my belly being too big for its own good, and, man, if I was only six inches taller! but I don't really take it to the next level, you know, when you start obsessing over it (if the folk I knew would just fucking stop that already!). I took a picture and immediately deleted it last night. That's it.
Saw David O. Russell's THE FIGHTER. Which was absolutely fucking great! I would totally have added it to my list if I had six spaces in it. So, let's see, Top Ten Movies: BLACK SWAN, THE SOCIAL NETWORK, INCEPTION, NEVER LET ME GO, SCOTT PILGRIM VS THE WORLD, THE FIGHTER... see? that's it! Whatever, go see it before it's out of theaters!
When Golden and I were recently on the phone, the two of us on the verge of tears for different reasons, I told her I wanted to give myself something new. I haven't traveled in a long time and I want to again. I love traveling. I love traveling alone most of all because I am better without people that way. Truth be told, the last trip I took I enjoyed the most was the alone bits in Dallas and San Diego and New York. But these places, I've been to and I want something new. I want to go to Seattle again, and Chicago, and again to Philadelphia. I never once imagined going anywhere else in the United States than these places. However, on my browser there is an open tab with a list that includes New Orleans, Austin, Cleveland, and Denver. Also, London would be lovely.
(Hm that last paragraph reminds me of Warren Ellis's COUNTDOWN TO AN EARLY GRAVE.)
I'm not sure what compelled me to jot all this down.
This year I'm not optimistic at all, nor even realistic. 2011 will probably suck. Already, in 2011, the DMV is winning again, my car is falling apart more, and my wallet is crying. Boo-hoo, right? Anyway:
This year I'm going to do a bit of a 365 thing again, but because I'm pretty sick of myself still, I'm telling you about things I love. Because, well, I love me already, and a lot of people need better pop culture bits in their life that don't have the words 'gaga' or 'lakers' in them. Click here, there are two already, the aforementioned Isis and writer Neil Gaiman.
On the latter, I'm trying to study Gaiman's work. Because it would be fun to dissect his comics and novels and children's books and even blog posts. And at the same time, as I begin with NEVERWHERE, I'm wondering why am I doing it aside from my secret obvious reason? I think there's an underlying thread through all of his work that says something to me about our world; even in Wall or The Dreaming there are aspects of our universe. I kick myself for not being more academic over the years. Anyway, as it is, at the very least, I get to re-read some of the best stories I've ever read anywhere.
January is only three days old and already I know it won't be the end of all the personal life bullshit from last year. "So it goes..."
I'm not prone to body image issues. Sure, I complain about the few gray hairs I have, about my belly being too big for its own good, and, man, if I was only six inches taller! but I don't really take it to the next level, you know, when you start obsessing over it (if the folk I knew would just fucking stop that already!). I took a picture and immediately deleted it last night. That's it.
Saw David O. Russell's THE FIGHTER. Which was absolutely fucking great! I would totally have added it to my list if I had six spaces in it. So, let's see, Top Ten Movies: BLACK SWAN, THE SOCIAL NETWORK, INCEPTION, NEVER LET ME GO, SCOTT PILGRIM VS THE WORLD, THE FIGHTER... see? that's it! Whatever, go see it before it's out of theaters!
When Golden and I were recently on the phone, the two of us on the verge of tears for different reasons, I told her I wanted to give myself something new. I haven't traveled in a long time and I want to again. I love traveling. I love traveling alone most of all because I am better without people that way. Truth be told, the last trip I took I enjoyed the most was the alone bits in Dallas and San Diego and New York. But these places, I've been to and I want something new. I want to go to Seattle again, and Chicago, and again to Philadelphia. I never once imagined going anywhere else in the United States than these places. However, on my browser there is an open tab with a list that includes New Orleans, Austin, Cleveland, and Denver. Also, London would be lovely.
(Hm that last paragraph reminds me of Warren Ellis's COUNTDOWN TO AN EARLY GRAVE.)
I'm not sure what compelled me to jot all this down.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Better
I'm prone to terrible moodiness. The good is GREAT! and the bad is BAD! Suppose that goes for most anyone. But as ever, the end of the year brings it all back, you know. And instead of getting rest, I'm thinking about it all, bad and good. Because why wouldn't I?
What you might not know is this is the first year in my adult life where I feel I'm ending up worse than I began, for several reasons, which you probably already know. I feel vulcanized in a way. Tenderized. Contrary to popular opinion, I think my problem is kind of give a fuck. So, good bye, 2010, you were terrible. You and your little cohorts; shouldn't be so surprising people kind of ruin everything. Good bye terrible friends, and horrible job, and money problems, and emotional immaturity, and physical ailments, and you little emergencies that fuck with me every god damned day. You're all done. Blips in history. Some of you deserve better, the rest of you can fuck off.
Here's to better.
What you might not know is this is the first year in my adult life where I feel I'm ending up worse than I began, for several reasons, which you probably already know. I feel vulcanized in a way. Tenderized. Contrary to popular opinion, I think my problem is kind of give a fuck. So, good bye, 2010, you were terrible. You and your little cohorts; shouldn't be so surprising people kind of ruin everything. Good bye terrible friends, and horrible job, and money problems, and emotional immaturity, and physical ailments, and you little emergencies that fuck with me every god damned day. You're all done. Blips in history. Some of you deserve better, the rest of you can fuck off.
Here's to better.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
2010: Read
I used to do a top comics bit as well, but I somehow stopped buying comics over a year ago. Still, here are the books I liked the most this year. It's very difficult for me to compile the books list because, for the most part, I love most everything I read. I read everything from popular books (THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO was kinds of awesome, UNDER THE DOME was no), nerd books (I really wanted to put NEUROMANCER here but I bumped it for NEVER LET ME GO), and plain old literary books (THE GRAVEYARD BOOK and POINT OMEGA were astounding!). So, here it is. Honest: I think after watching the film, NEVER LET ME GO earned a rather unfair advantage, and YOU'RE A BAD MAN, AREN'T YOU? is here not just because of its content but also because of Ms. Breslin's spate of writing over at her various blog posts and her THE WAR PROJECT and THEY SHOOT PORNSTARS, DON'T THEY? Anyway:
COMING & CRYING, edited by Meaghan O'Donnell and Melissa Gira - When these ladies do a second edition of this book, I encourage you to purchase it. Keep an eye here.
SCOTT PILGRIM'S FINEST HOUR by Bryan Lee O'Malley - Can a comic book series be more perfect that SCOTT PILGRIM...? (well. actually, Y THE LAST MAN was pretty perfect too!) Not going to lie, by the time the book ended, I was teary! O'Malley does in a few pages what others at all comics companies can't do in thousands of decades-worth of pages: give us the most romantic, exciting, hilarious, heartbreaking, and relevant (to a certain generation) story. Steeped in musical and pop culture, SCOTT PILGRIM's characters meander through their lives in the same way you did in your early twenties, but in SCOTT PILGRIM'S FINEST HOUR, the titular hero learns a few things about himself, what he needs to do in order to not just rescue the woman he loves from her ex but also from herself. And along the way, basically, Scott Pilgrim discovers how flawed a man he is, he steps up his game, not only for his love, but for himself. By the end he isn't perfect, no. But him and his girl, have a chance to continue growing, together.
YOU'RE A BAD MAN, AREN'T YOU? by Susannah Breslin - I first discovered writer Susannah Breslin through a post Warren Ellis made years ago, when she ran her THE REVERSE COWGIRL blog, and I've been a fan since. This year I sound this small collection of her short fiction and it cemented why I became a fan of hers: her language. YOU'RE A BAD MAN, AREN'T YOU? is the various ways in which men are, well, bad. Whether it is the mand who ushers a midget into porn superstardom, the man who really just hates everyone and everything (the title story), the man who wonders about eating a woman, or the man prone to fornophilia. Breslin's words cut right to it, no time for niceties, and it is evident not just in her journalism nor blog writing, it's more than clear here. And that's what draws me the most to her writing, to her bits of fiction in YOU'RE A BAD MAN, AREN'T YOU? she doesn't fuck around, plain and simple. Reminds me of my initial reads of Chuck Palahniuk. And, all through this, because of her stories, I don't get the idea that Breslin doesn't like men, quite the opposite: I think she loves them, but is not naive to the social failures most of us are. If you're a man, or know a man, read this book and it'll show you maybe ought to know less men.
NEVER LET ME GO by Kazuo Ishiguro - Ishiguro writes about becoming an adult with pretty sharp ear for the things adults do not tell children. Everything is ambiguous or flat-out false. Adults leave out a lot of the terrible things we all have to live through, the honestly brutal bits. NEVER LET ME GO, for me, explores these ideas but expands upon them by giving us Kathy, Tommy, and Ruth to view the world through. A sci-fi story that does more than linger on what possible future may lie ahead of us. Thematically dense, Ishiguro reminds me of Cormac McCarthy's most recent novel THE ROAD: where McCarthy dealt with a father and his son in a post-apocalyptic world, Ishiguro shows us archetypes of boys and girls, and eventually men and women, who're raised mainly via their pop-culture (which could seem prescient always), which, at first may seem a bit of a reach, but if you remember finding things out your father, your teachers, your first girlfriend, your mother said were true but really were not, these stories will speak to you. NEVER LET ME GO seems to go far deeper than McCarthy, however, by exploring what the meaning of the soul is, and how it may be proven or not, along with showing the sheer naivetee with which we tend to approach the honest world, even when it's staring us dead in the heart. I want to point out plot bits but feel I would be ruining how much the story builds upon itself. Mark Romanek's film was also great.
GENERATION A by Douglas Coupland.
COMING & CRYING, edited by Meaghan O'Donnell and Melissa Gira - When these ladies do a second edition of this book, I encourage you to purchase it. Keep an eye here.
SCOTT PILGRIM'S FINEST HOUR by Bryan Lee O'Malley - Can a comic book series be more perfect that SCOTT PILGRIM...? (well. actually, Y THE LAST MAN was pretty perfect too!) Not going to lie, by the time the book ended, I was teary! O'Malley does in a few pages what others at all comics companies can't do in thousands of decades-worth of pages: give us the most romantic, exciting, hilarious, heartbreaking, and relevant (to a certain generation) story. Steeped in musical and pop culture, SCOTT PILGRIM's characters meander through their lives in the same way you did in your early twenties, but in SCOTT PILGRIM'S FINEST HOUR, the titular hero learns a few things about himself, what he needs to do in order to not just rescue the woman he loves from her ex but also from herself. And along the way, basically, Scott Pilgrim discovers how flawed a man he is, he steps up his game, not only for his love, but for himself. By the end he isn't perfect, no. But him and his girl, have a chance to continue growing, together.
YOU'RE A BAD MAN, AREN'T YOU? by Susannah Breslin - I first discovered writer Susannah Breslin through a post Warren Ellis made years ago, when she ran her THE REVERSE COWGIRL blog, and I've been a fan since. This year I sound this small collection of her short fiction and it cemented why I became a fan of hers: her language. YOU'RE A BAD MAN, AREN'T YOU? is the various ways in which men are, well, bad. Whether it is the mand who ushers a midget into porn superstardom, the man who really just hates everyone and everything (the title story), the man who wonders about eating a woman, or the man prone to fornophilia. Breslin's words cut right to it, no time for niceties, and it is evident not just in her journalism nor blog writing, it's more than clear here. And that's what draws me the most to her writing, to her bits of fiction in YOU'RE A BAD MAN, AREN'T YOU? she doesn't fuck around, plain and simple. Reminds me of my initial reads of Chuck Palahniuk. And, all through this, because of her stories, I don't get the idea that Breslin doesn't like men, quite the opposite: I think she loves them, but is not naive to the social failures most of us are. If you're a man, or know a man, read this book and it'll show you maybe ought to know less men.
NEVER LET ME GO by Kazuo Ishiguro - Ishiguro writes about becoming an adult with pretty sharp ear for the things adults do not tell children. Everything is ambiguous or flat-out false. Adults leave out a lot of the terrible things we all have to live through, the honestly brutal bits. NEVER LET ME GO, for me, explores these ideas but expands upon them by giving us Kathy, Tommy, and Ruth to view the world through. A sci-fi story that does more than linger on what possible future may lie ahead of us. Thematically dense, Ishiguro reminds me of Cormac McCarthy's most recent novel THE ROAD: where McCarthy dealt with a father and his son in a post-apocalyptic world, Ishiguro shows us archetypes of boys and girls, and eventually men and women, who're raised mainly via their pop-culture (which could seem prescient always), which, at first may seem a bit of a reach, but if you remember finding things out your father, your teachers, your first girlfriend, your mother said were true but really were not, these stories will speak to you. NEVER LET ME GO seems to go far deeper than McCarthy, however, by exploring what the meaning of the soul is, and how it may be proven or not, along with showing the sheer naivetee with which we tend to approach the honest world, even when it's staring us dead in the heart. I want to point out plot bits but feel I would be ruining how much the story builds upon itself. Mark Romanek's film was also great.
GENERATION A by Douglas Coupland.
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