The Other Guy

Mostly, I think of him,
the other guy,
who was the same age as I am now,
and so, presumably,
had been around enough to know, like I do,
that narcissism can be charming,
but only at first.

You said to me once,
after a date you described as "just fine,"
like most dates which are not terrible or wonderful,
but just fine, like most Chinese food delivered,
that "he didn't ask very many questions."
I knew then that your idea of friendship
was not conversation,
but talking and then not-talking.
It it still like that when I call you.
You talk while I wait.
I talk while you wait.
Then we hang up.

New Favorite Music!

-Hurricane, by Grace Jones
-Broken Hearts & Maladies, by The Aeroplanes
-Rearrange Beds, by An Horse
-Shop of Wild Dreams, by Jessica Lurie Ensemble
-Shake Away, by Lila Downs
-Todo Cambia, by Slovo
-Three Flights from Alto Nido, by Greg Laswell

Even Gayer Dishes

For dinner tonight, I'm making a roasted butternut squash risotto with grilled shrimp. I had a conversation with a friend of mine during the day about how bored we were with dinner lately. I texted him with my meal plan. He responded with only one word: gay. Surely there are gayer dishes than this one? Could anything be gayer than "Apricots and Blueberries in Lavender Broth," which I ate at Lutece, and which my mother decided was "the gayest dessert ever."

I wondered if I could come up with some even gayer dishes:

-Cornhole soufflé with Liza coulis.
-Ladyfingers sous-vide with gooseberry flambé.
-Bitterleaf brunoise on fiddlehead ficelle.
-Cock-au-Vin

And for your reference, in case you were wondering, here are some dishes that sound gay, but aren't:

-Bouillabaisse
-Steak Diane
-Meatballs
-Bag Balm (admittedly not a food.)
-Jerky

Baby Shower Essay, Unfinished

This, from an unfinished essay on a baby shower:

The rain begins slowly, easily, not yet changing the temperature of the air. The kind of rain that will either let up, or rain on and on all day. I uncrumple the directions, written on the back of a credit card application envelope, “Cab to Pier 25.” I’m carrying a box, inside are two Scripture Cakes that I baked earlier that morning. Scripture Cake, an easy recipe, requires that you recite Biblical verse as you add each ingredient−cream the butter while mouthing Judges 5:25: He asked water, and she gave him milk; she brought forth butter in a lordly dish. I figured that it would make a nice addition; New Yorkers like anything they deem to be home-spun. People will assume that since I’ve brought it, and I am originally from Tennessee, it must be a old-fashioned Southern recipe. But the cake actually originated in New England some time in the late 1920’s. The box is still warm on the bottom, and the rain begins to darken the cardboard top, one tiny spot at a time.

Still Alive

Still Alive, Part 1:

Skiing in Maine was fabulous. I did not die. Skiing is somewhat horrible in that for the first few hours that you are on the skis and in the snow, your body is refusing everything. You are convinced that you are going to begin falling down the mountain at uncontrollable speeds until you end up in a pile of broken bones and bloody ice hanging from your nostrils. Plus, you have all these clothes on that are puffy and weird and are too big for you. Or maybe all of this is just the amateur's response to skiing for the first time in about fifteen years.

We had a lovely house filled with lovely company, and I was so glad to have been asked. Cory even made Frito Pie.


Still Alive, Part 2:

My mother called today to see if I was still living. Over the weekend, due to who knows what, I came down with some kind of stomach virus, which sent me to the bathroom for about 36 hours in various states of "hmmm," "rush," and "emergency." I want to blog about the gory details, but something tells me that we all know them deep down somewhere already. I'm not sure I really have anything particularly revelatory or original about shitting your brains out and puking out of your nose. There, I said it.

Okay, fine, JUST THIS: after you have puked, and you blow your nose and everything, and you think you are ready to go back to bed, do one extra thing. Throw your head way back and snort around a bit. There is some kind of place back there, some kind of pocket, where the puke waits. And just when you get horizontal, it comes sloshing back into your throat, and you have to get up, spew it out, and try again. I'm just trying to save you a step.


Still Alive, Part 3:

My friend Marc, who lives in Paris, sent me a New Year's postcard with a gouache of a man who has hung himself from the top of the Christmas tree, which is bent over sideways. Underneath him is the fallen chair he has kicked over. Sort of morbid, but I thought it was hilarious. I laughed right there at the mailbox. I survived the holidaze, despite how much distaste I have for the season. The older I get, the more I'm able to just let it be what it is. I think I'm starting to realize that Christmas comes around every year, just like New Year's, and birthdays and Thanksgivings and so on. So if the fondue turns out not as thick as you wanted, eh, who cares? There's always next year. I think I'm finally starting to loosen up.

Best Gay Everything

Looking for something to warm up those cold January nights? Some of my work is included in these two anthologies, which are out there in bookstores waiting to be snatched up.

Best Gay Erotica 2009 features my story, "Mr. Laundry," about an unexpected encounter at a Queens laundromat.





Best Gay Romance 2009 includes an absolutely true essay about what happened one summer in Vermont many moons ago.

Some Handles

Walkie-talkies provide hours of fun. Some handles from the skiing weekend in Maine:

-Sugarbush
-Miss Pickles
-Sexpert
-Crabtrap
-Silver Fox
-Jesquire
-Puppet Master
-Tappy (unofficial)
-Chim-Pansy

What I Learned in 2008

My parents were in New York this year for my 30th birthday. After two AMOK shows in Harlem we walked probably two miles along 125th Street from Madison Avenue all the way over to Broadway. It could have been a few blocks past Broadway. It was dark, there were hundreds of people out. I was cranky, hungry and dirty with glitter and circus grime. We ended up, about 15 of us, at a Cuban diner, late-ish, practically closing the place. Over dinner, Jennifer asked Jenny and I to talk about what plans, what resolutions, we might have for the coming year--it's Jenny's birthday too on 9/21; I could not ask for a more inspiring birthday twin.

I wasn't prepared to talk extemporaneously about my plans. I didn't have any. At that point, about 8 weeks into full-speed circus mode, I barely had time to plan a good breakfast, never mind reflect on the past year and the one ahead--and turning 30--this thing that everyone was asking me about. Jenny spoke eloquently about having attended a wedding and finding herself out of place, about being reminded of who you are, who you are not. We all nodded our heads; I felt humbled by the exactness, the clarity of her story. When it was my turn, I went on a few minutes about trying to live in the moment--whatever that means--and I wasn't exactly happy with the way it all came out. I knew that I was feeling so many other things, having so many other important, meaningful realizations, but that I felt unable to articulate the details at that time.

It's been a few months, and I think I've figured it out.

At Thanksgiving this year, we were asked to write down something we were thankful for on a strip of paper, and put it in a bowl. Everyone's papers were passed around, one thankful-for-thing was pulled out, read aloud anonymously, and the bowl was passed along. Here is what I wrote: "I am thankful for the realization that I am the only one who should define my career."

Somewhere along the way, 2008 taught me that what I want from the world, what I want from my life, is really nothing more than community. In my early 20s, I felt a pressure, partly from myself, partly from the outside world, to become a certain kind of writer. The benchmarks for this kind of writer are, I thought: a story about you in the New York Times Magazine, perhaps a scathing review, a glowing review, a mention that you are "one to watch." A member of the 20 under 20. Or the 30 under 30. (Is there a 40 under 40? Probably not.) I thought that this was the kind of writer I needed to be, even wanted to be. I picked up random books at the Barnes & Noble, read a few pages--clearly I was more "talented" than these writers. Clearly, I had more skills with language and more interest in making art than this schlocky waste of trees. Right?

Okay, sort of. Maybe.

Something has shifted in me. Reviews would be nice. Press would be nice. Magazine covers would be a fun experience. (But do writers end up magazine covers anyway? Are reviews actually nice?) I realized somewhere that the only thing conventional publishing had to offer me is money. Money and perhaps a certain trajectory--and, of course, none of it is guaranteed. My interest in the "book" world has waned. I'm less interested in doing the work that it takes to get published. I'm less interested in doing any kind of work that's not fulfilling. And that kind of work is not fulfilling.

What is fulfilling: Writing. Sitting at home, alone with the words and the screen and the voices in my head. Sharing my work with the artists that make up my community. My circus community, my friends, my peers, other artists whose work I have learned from, explored, been slayed by. Should a book deal come sliding under my door tomorrow morning, you bet I'm signing it. But the enchantment of publishing has worn off for me. The idea that things come from it has worn off. Yes, they do--many things can come from it.

But then, what else is fulfilling: The work I've delved into in the last two or three years. Bringing vital, community-building theater, all for free, with queer visibility, to the people of New York City. Sharing in the amazing, taste-bud-exploding bounty of the earth with the joyful, the ornery, the elderly, the children, the people of all cultures and races, with farmers and farmer's daughters. To be squeezed into shape by the seasons, watching flakes drop out of the sky one at a time until the branches are covered and the world is quiet and white. To watch children, third graders, fifth grades, talk about a painting that they've never seen before, something complex and wonderful, and say to the teacher "I feel like I love this picture because it has in it everything that I feel every day."

The other idea here, the one that has just occurred to me is this: I am grateful. My writing has slowed--mostly due to lack of bandwidth, and partly due to the current project, which is long, extremely difficult, and often (I think) beyond my creative powers, as if my eyes were bigger than my stomach. None of this means that I am not writing, or won't write, or have given it up. It only means that I find myself so honored and grateful and empowered by the work that I am doing, that the writing sometimes too introspective, too contained, too idiosyncratic. The only times I am pulled toward it, are the times that I feel the need to hold myself closer, to hide the flame from the wind. As it were. Those moments still happen, of course. (One is happening now!)

As I write this, I am flying north from Charlotte to New York City, on my way home from being in Tennessee for a few days, visiting family, feeling bored and loved, feeling happy and fed. I wrote this in an email on the flight down -- and it sums up how I'm feeling now, too:

I wonder if people -- People with a capital P, the gyrating human mass -- are somehow bettered for having been offered this perspective. This morning, on CNN, I heard that at 8:00am there were already more than 1900 planes in the air above the United States. What sort of amazing release would that collective sigh create if all 20,000 or so people looked out their windows at the play of sunlight on the clouds? I wonder if we'd fall out of the sky. Or lift right on up through the layers into space itself. Beyond, toward the horizon, the sky fades from a darker blue into a thin strip of bright lightness. Beyond that is the ocean. I can't see it, but I trust that it's there.

Another thing I am thinking of--people on the ground should write messages on rooftops to people in the air. "Hang in there." "Good Luck." "We Believe in You."

Happy 2009!

A Temporary Solution / Thank You

In the guest bathroom, where I stay when I visit my parents' house in Chattanooga, on the back of the toilet there is a bottle of spearmint-eucalyptus hand lotion. When I walk into the room, my eyes pick out the bottle instantly, but on closer inspection, I read it more clearly. These two scents, at all costs, I try to avoid. On the bureau in the same bedroom is a bottle of Gold Bond Advanced Healing lotion, which claims to have a "fresh scent," as well as language printed on the front of the bottle claiming that it is "fast-absorbing." In my coat pocket, I have a small bottle -- 2 oz., or just enough to get me through TSA security -- of something lotion I bought at the airport. At home, there is a tub of shay butter direct from Africa, two bottles of Aveda lotion (one "cooling with oatmeal," and another "regular.") In my shoulder bag, which I carry with me everywhere, there is a 3 oz. tube of Vaseline Intensive Therapy Cream.

Every year, about the middle of October, sometimes closer to November, the skin on my hands and fingers becomes drier, and drier, until, it seems, that it just dies, becomes rough, and starts to flake away. It's a function of the weather, the dry air, the cold, and I'm sure me biting my nails doesn't help. I try to combat all this by applying a series of lotions and creams--hence the above obsession. I have convinced myself that some combination of these creams will do the trick, and that I have just to find the right order, the right dosage, as if it's a riddle to be solved by trials. Got any other solutions? Really, please share.

The good news is, that I seem to have found some combination of the Gold Bond and the Vaseline Intensive Care -- starting just after coming from the shower with the former -- and ending about a half hour after first and second application with the latter.

Sorry the posts have been slower than normal, the holidays have been distracting, and fun and fabulous. I send a huge thank you out to all my loyal readers.

Have a fantastic new year.

Spectacular!

I've always liked using 'spectacular' as a noun. For the last few weeks, I've been inciting jealous fits in many of my peers, upon sharing (confessing? bragging?) that I'd be seeing the Radio City Christmas Spectacular with my boyfriend and my favorite lesbians. I've been here almost 11 years and I'd never seen it -- and upon hearing months ago that Laura & Amy were also itching to take part, I got us a chunk of second mezzanine tickets.

Radio City Music Hall is probably my favorite venue in the entire city -- it's just the most beautiful space, and it remains the largest indoor theater in the world. I learned last night that it was designed to look like a sunrise as seen from an ocean liner. How smart is that? Small details that make it unique: the ramped entrance, the oval lobby, the curtain--okay, not so small, as it's also the largest in the world.

The show itself is....how can I explain that I never wanted it to end, and yet I needed it to stop. One huge number after another, Rockettes in costume after costume, the huge stage elevators, ice skating, an LED screen as wide and tall as a city block, fireworks, Flying by Foy, plushy bears doing bits from The Nutcracker, and (with help from that screen,) an infinite number of Santas dancing off into oblivion. Oh, and then there's the whole sheep, camels, Christchild, procession scene -- including the most lush blue curtain I've ever seen, like insanely beautiful draping. Then big finale where the song lyrics are projected onto the beaming gold walls of the theater and that part where the mylar ribbons explode into the space. There's no time to rest, to catch your breath. Plus, there's a 3D movie at the opening, with glasses tucked inside your program.

It's not bad -- it's actually fantastic. But it's garish, saccharine, and I guess in the end what makes it a little grating is the fact that every number essentially runs at the same speed. There's only one level here, and it's balls-out, breakneck. Theatrically, it sort of goes on an on, and then when it's over, you want intermission and another 90 minutes. The whole thing is so baffling.

Here's a couple of clips from the evening. The first is one of the Rockette's opening numbers -- there seemed to be a few different opening numbers, the first of which has them all dressed like S&M-ish reindeer, tethered by velvet rope to Santa's sleigh. Then, the second clip is part of the Million Santas number, what you see coming down from above is a rack of handbells.