The perfect read.

This week, at my writing class, guest lecturer Melissa Fay Greene gave the group a lot of advice, but I think my favorite bit of it was deceptively simple. Greene said that what she tries to do, when she's trying to come up with her next book, is imagine her perfect read, the sort of book that she would love, love, love to arrive on her doorstep at that very moment so that she could read it immediately. Once you have that perfect read in your head, Greene said, you have the book that you're gonna write.

Now I work in a bookstore because I love bookstores. I've been a bookstore loiterer since I was 8, when I forced my then-single mom to take me to the children's section of the closest Waldenbooks once a week so that I could peruse masterpieces like SUPERFUDGE. I met Jenipher, one of my best friends ever, because my parents used to abandon me at her B. Dalton every Friday night when I was a teen, before I learned to drive. (This week, I found an audiotape that Jenipher once made me during high school. On the tape over an orchestral score, Jenipher performed her own dramatic readings from SCARLETT, THE FIRM and Danielle Steel's MESSAGE FROM NAM. It's priceless.) Eventually, I worked at a Borders one Christmas, which was fun, and now, partly because I went out on a bad date with a music manager in 1999, I have worked at Barnes & Noble for over six years.

My love of bookstores has caused me some difficulty. I love the stores, oftentimes, more than the books I get from them. I'm a whim shopper, even now when I no longer have space for more books, DVDs or CDs. On my days off, I still feel the urge to go to a bookstore and browse the shelves. If I'm in a bookstore other than my own, I'll still walk along the shelves, realphabetizing sections and straighten displays. Not working, I'll still slip into "salesman" mode and recommend merchandise to people.

One time, giving a lecture to my fellow booksellers during a training meeting, I told them that the best way to become a good salesman was to become a good customer, to understand what you like and why you like it, to keep up on what's new and trendy, to follow articles, to read constantly, to experiment with new books, new music or a different sort of movie. I wasn't just advocating familiarity with the merchandise. I was suggesting a love of the merchandise. I'm so in love with new books that I can identify clearly what they smell like. I actually read about a tenth of what I buy in the store, which is impractical and dangerous. At the same time, my shelves are cluttered yet impressive.

Of course, the dilemma with the Greene challenge, to picture the sort of book that you want to read and write it, is particularly difficult for me, a whim shopper who surrounds himself with books. I'm always on the lookout for that perfect read, the book that will introduce me to a new way of thinking, a new optimism, a renewed sense of the romantic, an unconsidered viewpoint and/or something that will just make me laugh or cheer me up. The perfect book, when I've found it, fits me like the best pair of shoes. I read it slow, to the point of studying it, and I don't notice the hours that pass while I read it. It's been THE MYSTERIES OF PITTSBURGH. It's been THE SWEET HEREAFTER. It's been RAMONA THE BRAVE. It's been THE PRINCESS DIARIES. It's been 84 CHARING CROSS ROAD. It's been THE END OF THE AFFAIR or AFTER THE FIRST DEATH or THE CATCHER IN THE RYE or THE RAZOR'S EDGE or GENERATION X or even BRIDGET JONES'S DIARY. It's the story that speaks to you just when you need to hear it.

I have only vague ideas in my head about the "perfect read" I've pictured as my answer to Greene's question. I see themes I would like to see addressed, characters that deserve a story and merit a voice. I don't see a plot yet.

Still, I like this challenge. I'll let you know what comes of it.

Interim.

I just don't know what to say.

Incidentally ...

My company-ordered Webless workdays have been really, really productive. I treat my tasks each day like I'm on a game show, and I feel like I win everyday.

(Please, for all that is good and holy, let me sell a damn story soon.)

We play requests.

Someone asked me to write a love story, and I think the last couple blog entries have been rather downbeat. So I'm working on it. I'm going to write some sort of love story - which should be interesting considering how I just bashed love and sex, essentially.

I'll let you know how it goes. Or you'll see.

Make no mistake.

A friend has informed me that the below post, though written well, will stop me from getting laid ever again. While I was writing it, I wasn't concerned about that. Really. Truth be told, I don't much concern myself with where my next lay is coming from. Fucks just tend to happen, don't tend to matter much and don't tend to last. (Tonight I saw one of my old ones sign on to Yahoo! Messenger, for instance. I recall him being a nice enough guy and a pretty good lover, so I considered saying hello for a moment. Instead, I came to my senses and deleted him from my contact list. I don't really want reminders that he's out there. That chapter's done.)

Anyway, I was only really concerned about the piece being descriptive, about it communicating and reflecting my mood in that given moment. Forgive the high-mindedness, but I only wanted it to be true and good. I've not written anything true and good in weeks, and I just wanted some reminder to come to me that I could still do it. (Hawking essays you wrote three years ago, though rewarding, can bum you out if you've not written anything new.)

I asked my friend - who only wanted to protect me while I was "openly vulnerable" because he loves me - if he understood what I wrote. He said he tried to understand it, but he kept getting distracted by the imagery surrounding my toenails.

Tonight, I clipped my toenails and watched THE PHILADELPHIA STORY, which regular readers may recognize as my ritual to cheer myself up. The bank account's low, the apartment's messy, I'm low on gas, I watched porn that Brad gave me, did nothing to find a new job, did nothing to lose weight, did no laundry. I only wore my new shoes outside to fetch my cell phone from my car. It's mostly pathos, a Sunday without ambition.

The weather was nice today. Other people would've gone to the park. I waited to do something until the only thing to do was watch THE PHILADELPHIA STORY. I am not in a good mindset. I am not a good man.

The suggestions behind the below post - not the post itself - are the things I would be wise to rid myself of. I want to rid myself of my frequent notion that things can't get better, that effort won't be rewarded, that depression is standard, that I deserve clutter, that lackadaise is somehow an honest reaction to perpetual disappointment.

I need a soul cleansing. I need ambition again. I need life. I need movement. The combined ups-and-downs of this April have put me in a rut.

I told my brother that I was molested, and it didn't seem to change anything.

I had a really great reading that reminded me I'm capable of doing more, yet I'm unsure which direction I'm supposed to go in.

I got into trouble at work, which led to "tough love" conversations with friends that revealed I'm more than willing to just continue suffering through. I'm passive as a defense mechanism. I don't change, for change would require effort, effort would mean risk, risk could mean danger, danger could be bad, etc.

I am stuck, past, present and future-tense, waiting for something to happen TO me. I make jokes. I have pessimism rooted in the marrow of my bones, protecting me from good and bad.

I have an attitude problem. And I can't find any solutions to it that don't seem fake. I'm not the sort who puts on a smile for long.

To the friend who loves me, I love you too. I'm sorry we've been trapped in this circular argument for years.

Sizes may vary.

After dinner with my cousin at an O'Charley's, my ill, scratchy-voiced mother suggested that the two of us, alone for the night, use the hour afterward to do some sort of shopping before the stores closed. Even though she was beat after babysitting my cousin's son for the day and has been suffering from laryngitis and allergies all week, she wanted to take advantage of my visit and not go directly home, even though the stores were about to close.

She suggested Ross or Marshalls. I asked if we could go to DSW.

She asked why I'd want to go to a shoe store, of all places, and I pointed to the well-worn, torn-soled, two-year-old pair of black Steve Maddens at my feet.

My mother can cope with a messy house. She can't cope with messy clothes.

"Oh my God, why are you wearing those in public?" she asked me.

I put them on without socks this afternoon when I left my apartment, I told her. I was only walking to the rental office to pick up a package, so it didn't seem necessary to dress up for the occasion.

But my day's activities had ballooned from that one task. I got the package. I jumped in my car. A phone call to Kacoon put Duluth in my head, so I headed in that direction. Thinking about Duluth led me to think about the Steak & Shake there, so I suddenly had a destination and a chocolate milkshake in mind. Arriving in Duluth, I called my mother in Buford to see if she had the photos from my reading (and to see what her voice sounded like). She told me, just barely, that she could print them out for me at her house. And she also told me that she'd been babysitting my cousin's son all day and that my cousin was arriving soon to pick up the boy. And she told me that my stepdad had gone fishing for the night. Then, she coughed and coughed. So I got back on the expressway in Duluth and headed toward Buford.

It wasn't until Mom and I left O'Charley's that I noticed I still had on my bad shoes. These shoes were my once-fashionable, once-expensive, once-favorite pair that now had holes in the leather and worn-out rubber soles that caused me leg pain. These were the ones my co-worker Shalewa mocked for a couple months until I stopped wearing them. The leg pain didn't motivate me to abandon the shoes. The mockery did.

(Seriously, my shoes were so bad that Shalewa probably would've written an apt, inspirational folk song about them if I'd suffered through them at work much longer.)

My gait is uneven. My body is disabled. My feet are pigeon-toed, thus oddly calloused and two different sizes. My toenails, like every other detail of my day-to-day life, often suggest unattractive disarray. My footwear generally has a limited shelf-life.

When my mom studied the shoes on my feet, she kinda flipped out, albeit at a minimal volume.

"Those are RUINED ...," she squeaked. "Tell me you haven't worn those to work."

"I haven't worn them in weeks," I said. "I just put them on when I ran out of the house today."

She cleared her throat.

"Really?"

"Mom, I promise," I said. "I've been wearing the Rockports. No one's SEEN ME in these shoes in weeks."

* * * * *

My mother, like most people, is mortified, on occasion, by glimpses of how I live. My apartment, my car, my desk at work all suggest I'm a scattered mind and/or a glutton for punishment.

My car, though, is the worst. The floorboards and seats of my "white" '96 Saturn are buried in garbage, old mail, CD jewel cases, books, boxes and baskets. At this point, a team of archaeologists would be required to help me clean it. Some friends ask me if I have the bodies of old boyfriends somewhere in the back, underneath the clutter. Passersby wonder if I live in it.

I'm personally ashamed of the car, sorta. I park far away from buildings so that no one realizes it's mine and judges me. But I also consider my messy car, in some ways, a character trait and am, thus far, unmotivated to dig through it.

Another co-worker at the bookstore once asked me about the messy lifestyle. I defended my mess, using an anecdote about a known gay writer.

"I read somewhere that Quentin Crisp kept a 'famously filthy' apartment," I said.

He was appalled and said, "You consider QUENTIN CRISP a role model???"

* * * * *

My right foot is an 8-1/2. My left foot is an 8. Thus, I usually buy a size 8-1/2 pair and cope.

But, in the store, Mom kept insisting that I try on a Size 9, offering up that shoe sizes are merely a suggestion and not gospel.

"Companies vary," my mother rasped, dangling a laceless pair of brown leather Diesels in my face. "Just try on the 9."

"No," I said. "It has to be an 8-1/2. I don't trust it otherwise. And, besides, those don't have shoelaces."

"They stretch to fit your foot," she whispered. "Why do you need shoelaces?"

"Because I like tradition," I said. "And I don't like loafers."

She argued that they weren't loafers, that they were trendy "laceless sneakers," but I don't trust anything that doesn't have laces. It took me forever, as a kid, to learn to tie my shoes. It seems rude to just throw away all those hours of practice.

Besides, surviving Velcro and the Nike Air Pump, I feel I've outgrown shoe gadgetry. (I feel like I should make a Maxwell Smart reference here, but I can't think of one.)

I eventually found a pair of cool, suede, light-brown Skechers in my size, and my mom told me to try them on. I thought of my feet.

"I'm not wearing any socks," I said. "Let's just buy them."

"You can put on the temporary socks," she rasped.

"Temporary socks?"

"They're right there," she said, pointing to a box on the shelf. It looked like a tissue box, but it was filled with wadded-up, brown hosiery feet. I'd seen one before, but I had never used it.

"This just seems weird," I said, considering the hosiery. "I've not done drag before."

My mother rolled her eyes at me and said she was heading toward ladieswear.

I slipped the stretchy material of the hosiery over my feet, hoping that the vicious shards that I consider toenails wouldn't cause them to immediately run. Surprisingly the footies were light and airy against my calloused skin, as though God (or Leggs) had painted a protective glaze over my feet.

I immediately fell in love with the idea of male hosiery. Once, during an "experimental phase" in college, I kept my legs shaved for a couple weeks. The act itself was ridiculous, but the resulting bare legs made me feel daring, confident and attractive - until girls in the dorm started prank-calling my room and offering me bottles of Nair.

My moment with the footies reminded me of a simpler, more beautiful time and reminded me that my body image could change. I tried on the shoes, then switched back to my beat-up shoes while we rang up the new ones, and I've kept the glorious footies on the whole time. (Please, no one mention to me that this is either gross or bizarre. Trust me, I've considered these things.)

I've kept the footies on all night. I find odd comfort in the heavenly latex. I was wearing them when I went home with my mother. We made chocolate milkshakes and watched THE GODFATHER until Al Pacino left the gun and took the cannoli, then Mom fell asleep. I wore them when I went shopping at Wal-mart. I wore them during the ride home. And I'm wearing them while typing this.

Tomorrow, I should maybe seek some new job. Tomorrow, I should maybe clean my car. Tomorrow, I should maybe make the most of this odd, momentary confidence I'm feeling. Tomorrow, it is only definite that I will go back to wearing socks. It is practically guaranteed that I will put on my new shoes.

Because I know myself, I know that my old Steve Maddens will not go in the garbage. They will not be destroyed. They will linger in my apartment. Heck, I will probably wear them again someday, out of some old ritual or some old habit.

They hurt my feet, but they are how I see myself.

Things to do when you have more time.

- I am on the net less these days.
- I need to blog less, anyway, and do some actual writing.
- Fear not, I will still blog. I want to keep up my "Things to Do ..." lists.
- I just can't focus on the list again this week.
- My regrets to all.

The triumph.

(This is the glass elevator that Lupo and I rode up after I finished my reading. It wasn't until we were on the elevator, traveling all the way up, that I remembered I was scared of heights.)

So, yes, my reading was a success. It was a success because I was able to get through the whole thing in front of a group of people without collapsing. It was a success because the stage was set up the way that I wanted it to be. It was a success because Lupo gave me one of those good, lingering hugs that he - and only he - can give me, a hug from someone who you feel like you haven't seen in ages who you can't wait to reach out and touch. It was a success because my father sent me an e-mail after it, saying he was proud of me and impressed at how I behaved through the whole thing. It was a success because profs there encouraged me to submit my work to The Oxford American. It was a success because I got to look at Vic right at the moment that I read a sentence in it that only she knows is all about her, which is a moment that I'd played out in my head. It was a success because it's just really, really fun for me to read that story to people, and I think my fun shows when I read it.

When I read my story, I read it better than anybody else ever could, and the rush I get while doing it is comparable to the first time I found out I could jump rope. When I read it, my heart beats fast, and I'm doing something that I doubted I could do better than I thought I could do it. It's not Hemingway, but it's mine. And, with it, I can make people laugh. I can put the picture of a Waffle House, of all places, in their heads and make them think of their own stories of such places. When I read it, I feel like I'm good at something, that I'm where I'm supposed to be, and that feeling matters to me.

I've been bragging a little (OK, a lot) since Friday because I made strangers laugh, because I received a lot of comments at the panel Q&A and handled the questions well.

Friday was a really great day.



(This is me and Syd.)

Thank you.

To everyone who showed up at my reading on Friday, thank you very much for making the conference a success for me and for making me feel supported. It was a really great day for me, and you all probably have heard or received individual thanks from me.

To those of you unable to attend, I will write about what happened here when I wrap my head around all of it and when I receive the hundreds of photos that my mom took. (I think she had me pose and big plastic smile with everyone in the room. Usually, as she was doing this, Lupo was standing right behind her and the camera, laughing at me.)

I think I may title her entire photo series according to what she told me to do, "Here, Benjie, stand here in your suit with your program ...," "Stand here with your father and brother... ," "Now stand here with your classmates ..."

(This morning, Mom called me up to brainstorm ideas for the one-man-show that she's "always" told me that I should do, usually when she wants me to make fun of someone who's annoyed her, like I'm her comic hitman. Of course, she never wants to hear my ideas. Instead, she just tells me what she thinks is funny and tells me I should "come up with something" about that.)

My hope, going into the conference, was that I would get a chance to do the sort of program that would really entertain my regular readers and friends who've supported me, in addition to gaining some new attention for my work, and I think that it was as successful as I was hoping for. Additionally, I appreciated the opportunity to tallk about my class at the Margaret Mitchell House and acknowledge my writing professor in front of a group of her peers, and I hope I made them proud while bringing more attention to our fledgling program. I think I maybe did.

Anyway, I really want to look forward from this event more than reflect on it, though it is a great memory, so I'm going to start working on some new stuff, maybe for the blog or maybe just long-form essays.

Things I didn't write when I had other things to do.

- I'm just sorta gonna pretend that I have a list this week, and that it mentions things like the Dixie Chicks' new single and upcoming album, THANK YOU FOR SMOKING going into wider release, Mary Higgins Clark doing a signing at the Margaret Mitchell House this week and such.
- Because I presented Friday at my academic conference, the one written up in the newspaper, I thought it more important to rest and prepare for that than to actually do my "Things to Do ..." list.
- Sorry for the inconvenience.
- Happy birthday to a guy named Stuart, whom I've never met.
- THIS WEEK'S QUESTION: Um, what do you think this week's question should be?

My essay reading.

OK, so you've probably heard me talk about this to death already, but here goes:

WHO: Me.
WHAT: Reading that Waffle House essay.
WHERE: The Marriott Marquis, Marquis Ballroom, Salon One.
WHEN: Friday, April 14, 2:30-4 p.m.
WHY: The joint national conference of the ACA-PCA. My panel is "Southern Literature & Culture VIII: Southern Memoir and Personal Essay."
HOW MUCH: It is $5 for a day pass to the conference, which will allow you to attend panels like mine.

The conference website is here. I cannot find information on parking and what-not, but the website does provide some information on that sort of thing.

I look forward to seeing anyone who wants to attend.

Mental note.

Write about the Saturday you just had later, once you've wrapped your head around it:

* Saw midnight movie, THE HILLS HAVE EYES, with Roger from the bookstore. Decent movie.

* Slept late, delaying lunch with brother Dan. Eventually met up with him and his pregnant wife at Ruby Tuesday. After trip to salad bar, began to explain to Dan how our stepbrother molested me when we were teens. Dan was very good about listening to me, told me that I needed to do whatever I felt was right and that, if telling him was the thing to do, then so be it. I kept asking if I was being stupid, unsure of how exactly to talk about this at all, let alone at a Ruby Tuesday. Dan called me "different." At one point, Dan made a very insightful analogy to golf. MUST REMEMBER DIALOGUE.

* Spent day with dad, Dan, other family at campground. Saw Dad's Airstream for the first time. Cousins were visiting from Montana. Didn't really participate much in conversation. Too busy thinking.

* Opera Guy from bookstore called me up, told me he'd broken up with his boyfriend, told me he was going bowling in Chamblee. Since I was driving from Lake Lanier, I joined he and his friends bowling. He's very flamboyant. His friends were a batch of 23-year-old heteros. At one point, Opera Guy grabbed his straight friend's ass while the friend bowled, but Opera Guy was traveling at such a velocity that he grabbed the ass, then tripped, then fell into the adjoining lane, then slid partway down the lane, then couldn't stop laughing long enough to stand up. Opera Guy is kinda cool.

* Opera Guy's friends typed my name into the bowling alley scoreboard as "BENCH."

He asked me, "Are you a writer?"

I attended the Stephen McCauley signing at the bookstore, and it was intimate enough for the small group of fans to have a conversation with the author.

I asked him how he got his start, whether he was "discovered" or if he had a pile of rejection notices somewhere.

He told the story of writing THE OBJECT OF MY AFFECTION as his graduate thesis for Brandeis and how his advisor forwarded it to publishers, then he asked me if I was a writer.

"Yes," I said, kinda mortified that I had become the "How'd you get your start?"/"Do you have any advice for up-and-coming writers?" question.

I always feel like those kids who ask for career advice on INSIDE THE ACTOR'S STUDIO are blood-sucking, attention-hog vultures. (Incidentally, at that Patricia Neal Q&A in Athens a few weeks ago, Neal was asked for career advice and told this eager, chipper, aspiring actress, "Don't do it! It's too hard, and odds are that you won't make it!" That was great.)

Anyway, McCauley asked me what I write, and I told him that I was presenting an essay at conference this week.

"What's your essay about?" he asked me, even though there were six other people in the audience there who probably didn't want to hear me talk about my essays.

"Well, it's an essay about this one time I saved a Waffle House from closing," I said. "And I have another essay floating around about my worst kiss ever."

Someone else in the group explained to McCauley what Waffle House was, using the following brilliant sentence.

"It's like an International House of Pancakes, except with waffles," the man explained. "And it's really Southern, and it's open 24-hours-a-day."

"Yeah," McCauley said deadpan. "I figured that, since it was named Waffle House, it served waffles."

He asked me if I had a copy with me of either story, and I told him that I unfortunately didn't. He told me that was a shame.

"OK, so tell me about the other story," he said.

"Um, it's about the worst kiss I ever received, and it's just floating around at some places," I said, then mumbled an apology for going on too long.

"It's OK," McCauley said to me. "I asked you."

And we smiled at each other.

So when the Q&A ended, I decided to take some initiative, and I went to the front desk and grabbed some business cards.

I was the last person to get books signed. I had my copy of THE OBJECT OF MY AFFECTION signed, and I had McCauley sign a copy of his new one, ALTERNATIVES TO SEX, for Lupo. I told him about how Lupo called me up last week and told me he was excited over his new McCauley arriving.

At that, I sounded a little nervous, but I kept talking to the author.

"Um, thank you for asking me about my essays," I said, considering that I was maybe talking more about my work than about his. "Were you serious about wanting to read them?"

"Yes," he said. So I gave him my e-mail address, and I told him to contact me. He put the address at the front of one of his manuscripts atop his brown backpack.

"I'm on the road for the next month," he said to me. "But, if you don't hear from me within a month, just send me an e-mail through my website."

Then, he repeated the words "through my website," like it was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever said, and rolled his eyes.

"It's OK," I said. "Everyone has a website now. I have one."

Then I offered up my hand and told him that it was nice to meet him.

And Stephen McCauley shook my hand.

Even though he might not have meant it, I'm going to send him my stuff. Because he did ask about it.

Disbarred.

My friend Larry called me up just now and recommended some new bar named Amsterdam to me. He said it would be the sort of place I would find "interesting." I asked him why he thought that, for I don't think I've been to a gay bar in over six months.

"You go to Burkhart's," he said to me.

"I've not been to Burkhart's in months, and the only reason I went there, really, was because my friends work there," I said.

The last time I went to a gay bar, Larry was with me. It was the middle of the afternoon at one of those giant-video-screen places with the deafening music. I am no longer attractive enough to consider it a good thing that I'm the most attractive man in a room. Thus, the experience was dismal.

Taking under consideration how I got drunk on New Year's and ruined Larry's bathroom rug, I'm kinda anti-bar. I just don't really enjoy it, whether drinking or not drinking.

I've heard Larry's new bathroom rug is really nice. I don't know, though, if it's absorbent.

Things to do as a has-been gets "lucky."

- When did Josh Hartnett stop being famous? Was it PEARL HARBOR? (That would make sense. That movie brought everyone's stock down, even mine, and all I did was watch the thing.) Maybe it was HOLLYWOOD HOMICIDE with Harrison Ford, which only succeeded at being excessively boring. (More like HOLLYWOOD CAREER SUICIDE.) Anyway, his latest attempt to regain notoreity is the con movie, LUCKY NUMBER SLEVIN, which opens in theaters this weekend. It co-stars, startlingly, Lucy Liu, Bruce Willis and Morgan Freeman, and friends who've seen it tell me that it's good. (Reviewers appear to have a different opinion.) I suppose Hartnett deserves another chance at fame. I mean, it's not like PEARL HARBOR was his fault.



- Former child star Joseph Gordon Levitt has shown surprising depth and talent in his last couple projects, particularly MYSTERIOUS SKIN. His latest independent movie, BRICK, opens today at the Landmark, and its premise sounds sorta cool. It's a high school take on '30s detective noir novels, like Dashiell Hammett's THE MALTESE FALCON. Levitt plays an outsider kid who starts to investigate criminal gangs at his school after his ex goes missing.
- Tonight at 7:30, gay author Stephen McCauley will do a reading from his new book ALTERNATIVES TO SEX and then sign books. McCauley's a very good writer, and I read his novel,THE OBJECT OF MY AFFECTION, in the '90s during a rare collision in my "I'm going to read books about gay people" and "I'm going to read books that are about to be movies" period. (Vic, at the time, said those were the only sorts of books I read. Unfortunately, McCauley's really good book was turned into a pretty bad Jennifer Aniston movie that managed to miss the point of the book entirely. I'm going to the signing tonight with my worn copy of OBJECT OF MY AFFECTION, hoping he'll sign it for me.



- Dear Hollywood: Pardon me, but who in the fuck greenlighted the new movie BENCHWARMERS? Who the fuck thought that putting the individually annoying Rob Schneider, David Spade and Jon Heder TOGETHER in a movie would be a good idea??? Movies like this seem like they were designed as a joke, a film that will show in Hell for all eternity. Sincerely, Disgruntled Moviegoer.



- Antonio Banderas stars as an inspirational, inner-city dance instructor in TAKE THE LEAD. The previews make it look like the ballroom, non-Catholic version of SISTER ACT 2. I suppose there are worse movies out there, like BASIC INSTINCT 2, but what is the appeal of this? The dancing? Antonio Banderas looking old? The smart-aleck, rebel, ethnic kids everyone's given up on ... who learn to believe in themselves?



- I checked the movie listings, and, sadly, it looks like this week is your last chance to see LARRY THE CABLE GUY: HEALTH INSPECTOR in local theaters. Frankly, this title just baffles me. Is he supposed to be a cable guy AND a health inspector? I can suspend my disbelief for movies about alien invasions and decent politicians and such, but I just can't grasp the idea that this idiot would be hired by a cable company or the state.



- Last night, as it often happens, some customers came in and started talking to me about old movies. After the usual check to see if I was a "real movie fan" or not, they proceeded to talk to me about the '50s melodramas directed by the brilliant Douglas Sirk. The only one they'd seen was Lana Turner's fabulous tearjerker IMITATION OF LIFE, which is rightfully one of the favorite movies of every woman and gay man I know. Sirk's movies were always these rich, beautiful, over-the-top soap operas that critics either consider stupid or brilliant. (Shalewa told me last night that she was able to watch IMITATION OF LIFE all the way through without crying, which prompted her mother to ask her, "Are you HUMAN?") For the customers, I recommended Sirk's WRITTEN ON THE WIND, a drama about an oil magnate's twisted family starring Rock Hudson, Lauren Bacall, Robert Stack and a nymphomaniac Dorothy Malone. ALL THAT HEAVEN ALLOWS, starring Jane Wyman and Rock Hudson, is also available from Criterion Collection. Of course, director Todd Haynes filmed a mock Sirk film a couple years ago, and it's equally as cheesy and fabulous. That one's FAR FROM HEAVEN, which starred Julianne Moore as a '50s housewife torn between her gay husband (Dennis Quaid) and her black gardener (Dennis Haysbert). Not only does Moore have to figure out what to do with her love life, she also has to cope with what the neighbors might think. It's a really good movie.
- Next Friday at 2:30 p.m., I will be reading my essay, "Prayer of the Waffle House Faithful" at the Marriott Marquis in downtown Atlanta. My presentation is part of the national joint conference of the American Cultural Association and Popular Culture Association. According to the website, if you pay five bucks at the door, you can come to the panel, which will feature essays on the Southern experience. Thus far, a lot of my friends have told me they would come, and that really excites me. I think this reading is going to be something special.



- My friend Michael, who works at TBS, alerted me to these LORD OF THE RINGS promos they're airing. Seriously, check them out. It confirms everything you've ever secretly thought about Sam and Frodo's bond.
- Thanks to iTunes, I've been able to listen to Natasha Bedingfield's song UNWRITTEN without having to undergo the shame of owning such a CD. Of course, I like the song because it features my favorite thing, a writing metaphor. (For that same reason, I also like Elvis Costello's EVERY DAY I WRITE THE BOOK and Cake's SHADOW STABBING.) Anyway, I know Natasha Bedingfield is overdone pop, but I can't help liking that song. Its book-as-metaphor thing wins me over. For obvious reasons, it speaks to me through the cheese. THIS WEEK'S QUESTION: So, if your life were a TV show, what would be your theme song, and why? Heck, if your life were a TV show, what kind of show would it be? Sitcom? Daytime drama? Failed pilot?

Deborah Norville looks pissed today.

My father often uses the term "shit-eating grin." I thought about that while watching INSIDE EDITION a few minutes ago.

The show's host, Deborah Norville, fired from NBC's TODAY after taking Jane Pauley's place, was forced to report about her replacement Katie Couric's historic ascent to the anchor chair of CBS EVENING NEWS.

Yeah, Deborah's a professional (and a fellow UGA alum), but I could see through that smile.

In her head, Norville was probably thinking, "Shoulda been me ... shoulda been me ... Instead, I'm on this tabloid show ... I hate you, Katie Couric, you bitch!!!"

Frankly, I think the Couric move is kinda great. Still, since Elizabeth Vargas hasn't co-anchored ABC's news program in months, does that sorta kinda make her the first female anchor of a network's evening newscast?

Ah well. I've seen Katie Couric yell at Ann Coulter on TV before, so I'll be tuning in.

"What kind of creature wants you to eat it?"

I just got back from SLITHER, and, yes, it was sick, gross, disgusting, over-the-top and occasionally scary. Even dogs and cute children aren't safe in it. But it was, also, absolutely fucking hilarious.

It takes a moment for it to get started (as smalltown cops guess how fast a bird flies), but, once it gets started, the movie absolutely rules.

Expect me to quote it for the remainder of my life.

To explain that one character is a lesbian, a cop says, "Margaret packs a box lunch."

Looking upon a valley full of gutted dogs and mutilated cows, another cop pontificates, "I'm guessing this guy don't have one of those Puppy-a-Day calendars on his desk. I mean, I'm just sayin', it don't look like he's an animal lover."

Anyway, I want to see it again this weekend. Someone, anyone please come with me. This shit is more fun than mocking Britney Spears in CROSSROADS.

It has nudity (including a scene featuring an incredibly obese man having an encounter with an alien that has to be seen to be ... properly digested), extreme gore (including a scene where a woman gives birth to alien worms, sorta), the genius Elizabeth Banks and Nathan Fillion.

SLITHER rocked. Fuckin' great. Potential cult classic.

Notes on an unfinished nothing.

I tried writing fiction in college. One piece, titled "4:19" because I was too dumb to actually realize what that meant, was creepy yet well-received. It was a five-part story, written as a serial over e-mail, and it actually gathered more readers as it went along. I thought I might be able to do something again like that, but all future attempts were seen by readers as boring and such, including the detective story I had in my head and the criminal story and the gay romance story. None of them worked. So I stopped really doing more than dabbling in fiction. Better to be a decent essayist, I thought, than a really, really bad fiction writer.

So I have stayed safe, writing about things that happened to me or overanalyzing moments. I have tried to keep things mostly funny, occasionally serious or deep. I still have in mind the idea that I could maybe write fiction ... but I would have to get it just right.

I'm in my class, yet I don't take risks and use the class for what it's good for. I don't break out as often as I probably should, using the class to actually learn how to do things better. Writing something tedious or boring tends to, well, crush me. I like my reputation, however much I deny it or however confident I manage to sound while saying this, as someone whose work is generally quality, the sort of stuff you'd want to read.

I was going to read a book this weekend. I only read a chapter. I was going to write a story this weekend. I ended up sorta showcasing an old, failed one. I was going to do my laundry, and I ended up sorta doing it and sorta playing WORLD OF WARCRAFT at Kacoon's house during a six-hour visit to her apartment.

If something's going to happen with my writing, I'm going to have to actually, eventually, inevitably write with the focus others would give to a job. I have to write it the way that I would write a dissertation, devoting focus and time and energy and study.

This is my project. This is what I'm doing because I want to do it. This is my life's work.

And I need to start doing it, actually, eventually, inevitably, and I need to practice the things I'm afraid won't be good. I have to do the hard work on stuff that I'm afraid might be bad. I have to break the mold I've established for myself and "my work."

I have to go back to London. Or, barring that, I have to write again with my London mindset. It's time to try something new.

Of course, in writing this, I'm resorting to old methods to discuss a new direction.

Is that progress?

Things to do after bumming a fag.

- Aaron Eckhart is a genius actor, someone who deserves to be a huge star. Since his breakthrough role as a sexist, evil jackass in Neil LaBute's vicious, cool, controversial, cruel, funny yet not-for-the-meek IN THE COMPANY OF MEN, Eckhart has been in some big titles, like ERIN BROCKOVICH, and given some good performances. However, before this weekend, he didn't get a chance to shine like he did in LaBute's sick masterpiece. This weekend, though, Eckhart stars in THANK YOU FOR SMOKING, and early reviews suggest he's fantastic in it, making you once again love a character you shouldn't even like. The movie, based upon a Christopher Buckley novel, has a lobbyist for the tobacco industry as its hero. His sole motivation is to addict people to smoking, to lead them to believe that smoking is good and that everyone should be doing it. The previews look hilarious, and friends who've seen it tell me it's worth a look.


- I have a crush on Nathan Fillion ever since FIREFLY and SERENITY. However, since it's unclear whether we'll see him play space cowboy Mal Reynolds again, I'm inclined to support him in other movies. His latest is SLITHER, an alien-slug monster movie that just looks really, really gross ... and yet funny. Elizabeth Banks, a beautiful, funny actress who appeared in THE 40-YEAR-OLD VIRGIN, co-stars and apparently has to make out with an oozy, green, mutant, alien version of her husband during the film. Besides, this photo is kinda awesome. This lady looks worse than Violet from CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY.


- I saw the first ICE AGE, and it was OK. I mean, Scrat the squirrel is really funny. But the rest of the movie, with Ray Romano voicing that woolly mammoth, just didn't grab me. ICE AGE 2: THE MELTDOWN opens this weekend, and Scrat is still chasing down that acorn. Of course, when the squirrel's not onscreen, I suspect the sequel will also be shot to hell.
- Sometime this week, while trying to play a particular CD over the loudspeakers in my bookstore, I fear I broke the store's ancient multi-disc player, which used a six-disc-holding cartridge. At the point where I put the cartridge back into the player after checking the CDs, the player wouldn't read the discs, so I called a co-worker to see if he could fix it. He shoved the cartridge in there, and now it's jammed and won't play any music at all. So the bookstore is silent, and it's somewhat my fault. Anyway, the CD I was trying to play at the point where the damn machine broke was Sia's COLOUR THE SMALL ONE, which is a terrific album. Sia's voice is really smooth, her music is usually quality, and one of her songs, "Breathe Me," was used over the final scene of the SIX FEET UNDER finale.
- THE DA VINCI CODE is finally out in paperback, just in time for the movie, and I must admit that I bought myself a mass-market copy of it because I'm the last person on Earth who hasn't read it. And I was curious. (Truth be told, I bought it years ago in hardcover, but I bought it for my mother and never touched the thing.) Besides, I've not read anything in MONTHS, it feels like. If this is the book that gets me back in the habit, so be it.


- BASIC INSTINCT 2, which I'm really looking forward to seeing ... because it's gonna suck, opens today in theaters. If you're interested in seeing this with me, just to see if we can count Sharon Stone's wrinkles, let me know. The movie co-stars some guy named David Morrissey (who?) and the brilliant Charlotte Rampling (why?), and it mostly deals with Stone's character Catherine Trammell seducing her shrink in London and maybe killing people. (It's up in the air whether she was the killer in the first movie, even though the last shot of that movie featured her holding an ice pick while making out with Michael Douglas.) I saw the first movie with my parents, which is one of the reasons I ended up in therapy, so I'm kinda hoping this viewing experience will be more enjoyable.


- ASK THE DUST, directed by Robert Towne, has been playing at the Garden Hills Cinema for about a week now. It sounds like a boring movie, but, gosh, aren't Colin Farrell and Salma Hayek pretty?
- Hey, look, it's Friday, and Parker Posey's new movie ADAM AND STEVE, a gay romantic comedy with gross-out humor that also stars Malcolm Gets and the horrid Chris Kattan, is opening in Atlanta at the Landmark. Wow. I didn't see that happening at all. I've come to the conclusion that Posey only criticized me last week because she was drunk, high, elitist and crazy. Ooh ... hostile!



- The city's "Every Day Is an Opening Day" campaign is bound to get a huge boost this weekend because, har har, today is the opening day for ATL, the urban drugs-and-roller-skating drama starring rapper T.I. I suppose New York didn't fare much better, for its namesake movie featuring its theme song was a Liza Minnelli musical. But, hell, that one was directed by Martin Scorsese. Of course, since Atlanta now has a theme song, a logo, an ad campaign and a namesake movie, I guess Mayor Shirley Franklin's branding attempt has worked, for the time being. Nonetheless, who decided that the City of Atlanta's airport code should be its trendy nickname? I mean, if I were going to Dallas, I wouldn't be headed to "The DFW." I go to L.A. if I'm going to Los Angeles, I don't go to "The LAX." I can't call our city "The ATL" because, when I say it, I sound about as hip as a DJ on Star 94.
- Speaking of Liza, a restored print of her 1972 concert special LIZA WITH A Z, directed by Bob Fosse, is airing this weekend on Showtime and will be released on DVD the following week. From what I understand, the show is fantastic, trippy and very, very '70s. It, apparently, showcases everything good about Liza Minnelli, the voice and talent, the sort of thing you forget about her after reading about her alcoholism, her health problems and that marriage to the rich gay guy she beat up. And, yes, I'm gay, so I want to watch this. THIS WEEK'S QUESTION: So, if you could resurrect the career of some forgotten, where-are-they-now has-been star, who would you pick? And how, exactly, would you have them recapture the limelight?

I don't care.

My ex Ash came into the bookstore tonight with his new boyfriend, a rather nice 19-year-old undergrad.

I told him when Ash and I had met and started dating.

He said, "Wow, I'd just started third grade that year."

Parker Posey hates me.

So Brad and I headed to Athens for Robert Osborne's film fest screening of BEST IN SHOW, hoping to see Parker Posey in person and maybe get a good anecdote out of being in her presence. And I suppose we did get that.

During the post-screening Q&A, I'm fairly certain that, for only 10 seconds, my favorite indie film goddess thought that I was a harsh, aggressive asshole, even though those weren't the words she used to criticize me. (Make no mistake, though, she did criticize me.)

Oh well, at least I made an impression. And it wasn't the only odd, fabulous moment of her Q&A, one of the greatest, most hilariously random showbiz things I've ever witnessed. Hopefully, some of Brad's digital video will be available as evidence. We were sitting in the fifth row, the best to bask in all the Posey glory.

I suppose I spoke to Posey about three times during the Q&A, which probably justifies what she said about me, but I honestly didn't mean her any harm. I just tend to ask questions and participate at a Q&A.



When she came out on stage, she was enthusiastic, funny and seemingly buzzed off the bottle of Stella Artois that she kept either in her hand or between her legs during the questions. She described the improvisation involved in making Christopher Guest films. Then, someone in the crowd went ahead and asked her about it again.

Turner Classic Movies' Osborne, the host of the festival, facilitated the conversation and remained complimentary of her, even though Posey occasionally resorted to deadpan answers.

Microphones were distributed throughout the crowd, but some people just went ahead and shouted questions at the stage. Osborne, of course, pleaded for people to wait for the microphones so that they'd be heard in the back of the room.

During one such moment, I was handed a microphone, and I proceeded to ask Posey a question. But Posey and Osborne couldn't figure out where my voice was coming from, even though I was five rows in front of them. They thought I was in the back of the room.

So my question went like this: "I just wanted to say that I love your work, PARTY GIRL, HOUSE OF YES, PERSONAL VELOCITY ... I'M IN THE FRONT, I'M IN THE FRONT!!! ... Oh, cool, hi. Um, yes I wanted to ask you if you were excited about SUPERMAN RETURNS or if you could tell us what it was like to film that."

"Am I excited about SUPERMAN?" she asked, deadpan again. "Um ... no. Not really. Which movie was that?"

People cheered and laughed, and I pumped my fist in the air at her. I thought the answer rocked, but I wanted her to talk more.

So I said without microphone, "OK then, well, what was your favorite role?"

"Well, there's something about all of them," she said. "But I'll talk about SUPERMAN because that's what you first asked about. It was a $200 million movie that filmed for nine months in Australia, and it stars Brandon Routh. And he is Superman. And I got to fly with him."

Then, Posey talked about how they averaged four shots a day, how the flying harness is painful to fly in. She called it "pain in places where you didn't realize it was possible."

Later, someone was asking her about her next Christopher Guest movie, FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION, where she plays an indie film actress who stars in the movie-within-a-movie HOUSE OF PURIM. In the middle of this answer, something distracted her.

"HOUSE OF PURIM is about an Orthodox Jewish family living in Valdosta, Ga., in the '40s, and I play the lesbian daughter who's brought home her lover to meet her sick mother, played by Catherine O'Hara ...," she stopped, then looked at Osborne and enthusiastically shouted. "OOH, you have a ladybug on your coat!!!!"

Then, crossing over into the surreal, Posey reached over, picked the ladybug off of Osborne's coat and then let it crawl on her hand. While answering other questions, she would regard the bug on her hand in front of her and give updates on its progress up her sleeve.

I overheard some people behind us, not realizing that the ladybug was still on Posey, wonder why she kept staring so intently at her hand.

"I dunno what she's doing," one girl behind me whispered. "Maybe she needs a manicure."

Another attendee asked Posey what her new projects would be, and I wondered to the people behind me, "Why can't they just check IMDB?"

Still, Posey answered the question, saying that her next movie is an indie comedy called ADAM AND STEVE, directed by a friend of hers. (And, this, unfortunately, led to the moment where Parker Posey regarded me with annoyance.)

"It's a gay movie, and it's coming out in select theaters in a couple weeks, though I'm not entirely sure when," she said.

"Friday in Atlanta!" I said helpfully toward the stage, for a friend of mine is doing promotions for it.

"It's Friday in Atlanta," Posey repeated after me.

Then, my favorite actress looked in my direction and said words that will live with me forever.

"Oooh ... hostile!," she said.

Thankfully, Osborne muttered a defense of me into the microphone, "No, I don't think so. It's fine." Then, he changed the subject.

At that, I looked at Brad and said, "Did Parker Posey just call me hostile?"

"No, I think she was just talking about the atmosphere," he said kindly.

"No, she wasn't," I said. "Parker Posey just called me hostile."

And Brad laughed and said he wished he'd taped it. (On the ride home, he would just mutter things like "Ooh ... hostile!" or "Parker Posey hates Benjie!" and start laughing.)



The final bizarre Parker Posey moment occurred during the last question from the crowd, given by a woman who admitted that she was from Valdosta.

The woman started praising Osborne, saying that she watches his show every night.

And, as the woman fawned over the silver-haired movie host, Posey exclaims to Osborne, out of nowhere, "OH, THAT'S WHERE I KNOW YOU FROM!!! YOU'RE THAT GUY ON TV!!! I thought you were good at interviewing!!!"

Posey'd been sitting next to him for a half an hour at that point, beer bottle between her knees and his ladybug on her arm, and that was the moment she seemed to most realize where she was.

It was a terrific event. And I'm just happy that I got to speak to her, no matter what she thought of my tone. Besides, she probably didn't keep me in her head any longer than 10 seconds.

I mean, because I told her when her movie came out, Parker Posey thought I was a jerk. How cool is that?

Things to do with your favorite party girl.

- So I've already mentioned that tonight I have a date with Holly Golightly (or, as the Asian-style Mickey Rooney says, "Gorightry") in Athens, but I'll hopefully head back to Athens on Saturday night, too, to see someone else just as charming - the brilliant Parker Posey. This weekend, Athens' Classic Center and UGA's Grady College, of which I am an alumnus, will play host to Robert Osborne's Classic Film Festival 2006. Posey is scheduled to attend, for her film BEST IN SHOW is set to play Saturday night at 8:30. And I want to be there because I LO-O-OOVE her. Also scheduled to appear at Osborne's fest are Oscar winner Patricia Neal, who was in BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S, and Ann Rutherford, who played one of Scarlett's sisters in GONE WITH THE WIND and probably had to fight off that damn Mickey Rooney in a dozen ANDY HARDY movies. Other movies scheduled include THE THIRD MAN, RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK, NORTH BY NORTHWEST, ON THE WATERFRONT and ED WOOD. GONE WITH THE WIND closes the festival on Sunday. Tickets are available online through the Classic Center website. Oh my God, I want to see Parker Posey. I love PARTY GIRL almost beyond reason.
- Remember the band Harvey Danger? They were, like, famous for about three seconds in 1997. They did that song "Flagpole Sitta." You know, "I'm not sick, but I'm not well ..." They're really, really good, and they have a sort of angry Weezer vibe. Anyway, Harvey Danger's first studio album in years, LITTLE BY LITTLE, is available as a free download off of the band's official website, and the album's first single, "Cream and Bastards Rise," is fun and catchy.
- Fanboys galore called the store this week because the complete first season of JUSTICE LEAGUE came out on DVD Tuesday. Breathless Georgia Tech grad students, wearing fogged-over glasses and ironic-sloganed T-shirts, kept running into my section of the bookstore and asking me if we'd sold out of the set. And we had. I've not actually seen the show. However, given the fervor and the age of the inquiring customers, I'm assuming that it must be considerably better than SUPERFRIENDS. I would probably watch all of JUSTICE LEAGUE, then get pissed because Zan and Jayna, the Wonder Twins, never show up with their damn monkey.
- Premiere Magazine, which I've not read regularly since I was 15, published their list of the 100 Greatest Performances of All Time, showcasing great actors in their arguably best roles. Reese Witherspoon's performance as Tracy Flick in ELECTION made it on the list. Also, Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow in PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN. The top performance, according to the magazine, is Peter O'Toole's take on T.E. Lawrence in LAWRENCE OF ARABIA. That seems about right, actually. It's a very good list.
- IN COLD BLOOD is, once again, a top seller, thanks to the movie CAPOTE. Still, because of the movie I'm seeing tonight, I thought about reading Truman Capote's BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S. Apparently, it and the film bear little resemblance.
- Is it time for me to arrange a group trip to the multiplex to see BASIC INSTINCT 2 yet? I half expect the poster of Sharon Stone's legs in a miniskirt to use the tag "Opening Soon." The surefire disaster strikes on March 31. We all need to get drunk and go see it one Tuesday when the theater's practically empty, allowing us to yell Sharon Stone jokes at the screen.
- So Robert Osborne is, I suppose, a celebrity journalist for The Hollywood Reporter and an honorary film historian, even though I only know him from his skits introducing a film on Turner Classic Movies. Because of that cred, Osborne gets to host his own personal film festival, paying tribute to stars he loves. Pretty good job. Still, it makes me wonder what my own personal film festival would be like. What movies would I show? What stars would I pay tribute to? Would I give awards to them? I figure I would have Reese Witherspoon attend and host screenings of ELECTION and FREEWAY. And I would want to talk to Meryl Streep about ADAPTATION. And Jason Statham would attend a clothing-optional screening of THE TRANSPORTER. Oh, and I'd wanna meet Robert Altman. For the fun of it, though, I may have Britney Spears and "her long-lost movie mom" Kim Cattrall host a Q&A on CROSSROADS. My first question would be, "Hey Kim, why are you dressed like a park ranger in the scene where Britney finds her long-lost mother?" Of course, I imagine she'd throw something at me. THIS WEEK'S QUESTION: Imagine you're in charge of your own film festival. What stars would you invite? What movies would you show? What questions would you ask the stars? Would you give out any awards? Would you want to make fun of any stars?

"Did I tell you how divinely and utterly happy I am?"

On Friday night, I'm heading to Athens to catch a special screening of BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S with Vickye and a selection of other friends. Vic found out about a month ago that the Classic Center was going to be having a classic film festival. She loves that movie, and she wanted to turn a chance to see it on the big screen into an occasion. And I'm really looking forward to seeing it, not just because the movie is great. Seeing it with Vic is going to be special.

Vic was the one friend I could actually talk to in high school, see. Other people were my friends. Other people would enjoy talking to me. Other people thought I was funny and nice. I am still very close to a number of them.

But Vic was the one I clicked with the most. Vic was the one who played Hangman with me when we were both bored freshmen in French class. When I suggested we start writing a soap opera, Vic was the one who didn't immediately dismiss the idea as silly.

Instead, swear to God, Vic helped me come up with a pair of warring airplane magnate families in an imaginary town called Horizon, Pennsylvania. (The show, HORIZON, was written on notebook paper over the course of my high school career. It's four "seasons" and 400 pages long, sitting in a folder in my apartment. And it's terrible. Character names include Allegra Burke, Dorothy Von Marshall, Susannah Allan and the evil Chico Perez. Dialogue includes overly punctuated lines like "Dr. Tracy, put down the knife!!! LET'S ENJOY THANKSGIVING!!!!!!!!!!" To my credit, I've gotten somewhat better.)

Anyway, when Vic learned to drive (a full year before me, even though I'm older than her), she and I would take her red Raider out on weekends, going to the Lakeshore Mall merry-go-round after taking the SAT at Gainesville High, hanging out on the swingsets of several Lake Lanier parks or running to video stores to peruse whatever classics happened to be on the shelves.

I remain convinced that, at age 16, Vic and I were among the three sets of people in Gwinnett and Hall Counties who actually rented classic films. She's the one who thought it would be cool to watch ROPE, even though it was a Hitchcock movie I'd never heard of, and she was right about it. We caught Billy Wilder's WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION, with Marlene Dietrich, just because we couldn't figure out what else to rent one night, and we both sat with our mouths open in shock at the end of that movie, letting all its twists take us in further and further.

Sometimes we went to the movies, sometimes we went to the romance novel aisle of Wal-mart and read the backs of the Fabio-embossed books aloud. Sometimes we babysat her nephew Wade, pulling him away from episodes of BARNEY and taking him to see THE LION KING.

But I'd rather watch classic movies with Vic than with anyone else in the world. I'd rather she get her Jiffy Pop, while I make my S'mores in the microwave.

She gets the movies. They mean something to her. She knows how to read a movie like a book, and not many people can really do that. She and I both learned how, watching the same movies and taking different things from them. We learned that together. We wanted to find something challenging. We felt we were outcasts, so we decided to embrace our status, mostly, and spend our time on things we wanted to do. Thus, we rented classics, we rented old horror, we rented things we'd read about, we rented independent movies, and we once bought tickets to ASPEN EXTREME and snuck into THE CRYING GAME.

I know now we weren't the only ones, but we felt like we were. We just hadn't found our community yet.

Vic knows that nobody does suspense like Hitchcock. Vic and I made her mother watch DEAD-ALIVE once. Vic knows that I'm still afraid I might hug Freddy Krueger. Vic knows that Rosebud is more than a sled, that Manderley is a lovely home, that Kate Winslet was great as a teenage lesbian murderer, that Katharine Hepburn is the sharpest, that Audrey Hepburn is the most superb, that Dietrich is the most startling ... and I was there when she found out most of this. I was learning it, too.

So Vic thinks it'd be a good idea if we met in Athens and watched BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S on the big screen. It means something to her. It's one of her favorites. And I wouldn't miss the opportunity.

See, I love her, and Vic and I haven't watched a good, old movie together in a while. We haven't broken out the Jiffy Pop and the S'mores in about a year.

She asked me if I understood why she wanted to go. And I do.

3 til 30.

I turn 30 years old in exactly three months. I guess that makes me 29-and-three-quarters years old, but who's counting? My birthday's the summer solstice, and this is the vernal equinox. I am not concerned with turning 30. I am not concerned with turning 30. Rinse. Repeat.

I've gained weight. I think my forehead is larger than it used to be. There are half-naked men and women in maid's costumes on my blog, and I was talking to someone today about impotence. I apparently have regular, older bookstore customers who like me. And I realized that I'm attracted to cute, bald guys. I remain focused in certain areas, unfocused in others. My reading is coming on Good Friday. My reading is coming on Good Friday. I'm turning 30. But I'm doing something key with my life first, and I think a lot of my friends might actually be there for it.

Tonight I worked at the bookstore, even though I wasn't originally supposed to, and, as a result, I ran into a lot of cool people, got to relax a bit more than usual and feel like I could treat the whole shift like I was doing someone a favor. Turning 30, keeping busy, turning 30, and it's not on my mind. And, hell, I didn't much like my 20s anyway.

I mentioned I was turning 30 in three months to three people today, I think. I asked Shalewa to buy me a nice, wooden cane with a good handle for my birthday, for I seriously believe my legs are failing me because of the way I use, then don't use, then use them. I'm old, and my body is failing me. I'm 29, and my already disabled body is failing me. But I'm not about my disability. I don't even notice it. It's not a problem. My goddamn right leg hurts like hell. But that's just the weather. Even though Shalewa helped me tonight by literally pulling on my leg while I lay down on some steps in an attempt to stretch. I do not need a doctor, who'll only tell me to quit my job. I do not need a doctor. I do not need a doctor, even though I will never likely run again and know it. Ah 30, you fickle friend.

I also mentioned it to my supervisor Kelly, who helpfully told me that she thought I was already past 30. She's 27, and she's getting married in a month. A couple days ago, a cute baby was in the store, and his big blue eyes just followed me back and forth, smiling while I walked funny. I've become acutely aware of several friends' pregnancies lately. Could I get married? Could I have a family? Is that something I want? Is that something I could want? Will 30 signal a pleasant changing-of-the-pace? Or will it just be more of the same? Isn't that up to me? And, if nothing changes, why exactly would I be disappointed?

The third person who I told was this bookstore clerk kid named Alex, who is 23. And he told me that turning 30 was better than the alternative. I asked him how he was so sure. "Experience," he said to me. Actually, I always thought 30 might fit me well. I think I already am 30. On my 29th birthday, wasn't that actually the first day of my 30th year on Earth? Won't my 30th birthday mark the beginning of my 31st year? We don't count from one. We count from zero. I've come up from zero. And I'm here. So I'm sorta 30 already. And it really doesn't make a difference. Tell yourself that. Tell yourself that. Believe it.

Things to do with Natalie Portman's V.

- Tonight, I'm seeing V FOR VENDETTA on IMAX with my friend Vic. The film, featuring a masked Hugo Weaving and a bald Natalie Portman taking on a futuristic, totalitarian Britain, is based upon the Alan Moore graphic novel, which I've heard is very good. (Moore, apparently, has disowned the movie because it didn't fit his vision, but ah well.) I've heard mostly good things about the movie, which is being produced by the Wachowski Brothers, makers of THE MATRIX and the fantastic BOUND. V factors in violence, anti-government protests, kickass special effects and a complicated story that makes reference to the British occasion of Guy Fawkes Day. It sounds like part-fun/part-term paper.



- This is Channing Tatum. Even though his stage name is pretty damn terrible and even though he is the latest in a long line of underwear-model-turned-actors, I think he is keen. So I'll be seeing this guy in the Amanda Bynes cross-dressing/high school soccer comedy SHE'S THE MAN sometime this weekend, pretending that I'm in the theater because the movie is based upon Shakespeare's TWELFTH NIGHT. Really, it's not just a remake of JUST ONE OF THE GUYS. Anyway, I love it when 25-year-old underwear models play average, 16-year-old high school students. Ri-i-ight. (This guy has another, well-received independent movie that's coming out later this year. It's called A GUIDE TO RECOGNIZING YOUR SAINTS. It's bound to be better than SHE'S THE MAN, anyway.)
- Happy St. Patrick's Day, by the way. Don't drink and drive. Or whatever.



- I keep going to VH1's website to watch that awesome spit-catfight scene between women nicknamed "Pumpkin" and "New York" from THE FLAVOR OF LOVE, a dating reality show that has rapper Flavor Flav trying to find true love THE BACHELOR-style. It's fantastic, like a car wreck.
- My friend Shalewa came by and cleaned my apartment this week, which reminded me once again that I have entirely too much damn stuff. To catch up on all the reading I've intended to do throughout my life, thus, I should probably start reading two or three books a week. If I live until I'm 150, I may finish them all. I've not actually finished a damn book in ages. This weekend, thus, I really ought to read something. I just can't decide what.
- The Center for Puppetry Arts, one of my favorite, oft-mentioned local landmarks, holds regular classes for kids that teach them how to make their own puppets. Looking over their website, though, I see that one of the staff there is teaching a Simple Sock Marionette Construction Workshop for adults on April 20, and, forgive me, but I think this would be a really fun, really different way to spend an evening with friends. (Of course, my friends once followed me into a corn maze for fun. Maybe we're just an odd sort.) I mean, some people do scrapbooking workshops. Why not learn to build your own sock puppet? I've got a lot of old, tacky socks with lost mates. Maybe this is a way to put them to use.
- Some of my friends were surprised that I splurged and paid someone else to clean my apartment, wondering why I just didn't do it myself. In reply, I read them the memo this Shalewa left me on her receipt for the cleaning:
________

* Okay, so your place is an all-day job. Done by two people. On meth. But I did what I could before I had to leave. I didn't get to the dishes, and I didn't get to dust the way I would've wanted to, but I think you'll be okay with it. If not, PLEASE LET ME KNOW! THANK YOU SO MUCH! - SNS

P.S. I couldn't get all of the trash bags in my car. Uh, you didn't want those old, old pork loins in your refrigerator, did you?
________

Still, some people consider what I did a luxury, even if it was required in some way. THIS WEEK'S QUESTION: If you could pamper yourself with one luxury to ease your everyday life, what would you get? A cleaning service? A butler? A secretary? A chauffeur? Dog walker? Any chores you would pay someone else to do? Care to name any luxuries you give yourself right now?

Best in show.

The website for THE SHAGGY DOG actually allows you to turn yourself into one of those horrible, horrible dog-human photos, like their awful poster with Tim Allen.

Thus, I did this.



Great, now I'm a dog named Benji, essentially. How clever.

Things to do with a euphemism for impotence.

- The way I justify it to myself, there are a handful of legitimate reasons to watch the likely-awful, badly-titled romantic comedy, FAILURE TO LAUNCH. It has Matthew McConaughey, frequently without his shirt. Granted, McConaughey unfortunately speaks and "acts" in the film and unfortunately has to spend the entire movie pretending that Sarah Jessica Parker is sexy. (OK, I love SJP, but, come on, she ain't sexy. At all.) It has scene stealers Zooey Deschanel and Kathy Bates in it. It also has Bradley Cooper from ALIAS in it, and he's adorable. So I'll probably be at the multiplex this weekend, indulging in yet another guilty pleasure movie.



- This week, DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES star Teri Hatcher admitted in a VANITY FAIR interview that she was molested by an uncle when she was 5. She also admitted that, upon finding out that her uncle was continuing to molest girls and that one of his young victims committed suicide at 14, she helped state prosecutors send her uncle to prison by testifying about her abuse, strengthening their case against the child molester. As a direct result, her uncle was convicted on four counts of child molestation and was sentenced to 14 years in prison. Hatcher says that she was afraid people would think she was testifying to generate publicity for herself, but she did it anyway because she felt it more important to stop an abuser. A lawyer in the case said this about Hatcher, "This is a person who had nothing to gain and a lot to lose. But she volunteered to talk about the most heinous thing that could happen to a child, with no upside for her. It takes a person with a lot of emotional fortitude to do that; heroic is a word that doesn't even do it justice. She is a damn good person, and she knew what the right thing to do was." Other than suggesting you read the article, this isn't really a "Thing to Do ... " It just makes me want to give Teri Hatcher a hug and thank her.



- I've not seen the low-budget Wes Craven original, but this weekend's remake of THE HILLS HAVE EYES looks gross, twisted and creepy as hell. An evil family of deformed, crazy, axe-wielding cannibals stalks and terrorizes a nice, sweet family who happens to drive through a nuclear testing site while on vacation. This sounds a million times worse than what happened when the Griswolds went to Wally World.


- Look at this damn photo. THE SHAGGY DOG looks creepier than THE HILLS HAVE EYES. Worse than that, the great Kristin Davis is in it, playing Tim Allen's wife. Somebody get her a better agent.
- I bought Pat Conroy's THE LORDS OF DISCIPLINE a couple months ago, but I've not touched the book. Has anyone read it? Is it good?
- The first season of KNOTS LANDING, the greatest prime-time soap opera ever made and a former obsession of mine, is getting released on DVD later this month, so I'll finally be able to see exactly what happened when Valene Ewing met Karen Fairgate for the first time. This is cause to rejoice. For those of you who don't know, the show is a spinoff of DALLAS, and it focused the lives of four families from a seemingly normal California cul-de-sac.
- A couple years ago, after my fantastic trip to London, I decided rather abruptly that I wanted to live there, and I still entertain the notion fairly frequently, particularly when life in Atlanta starts to wear on me. When this happens, I have to remind myself that going to London on vacation is vastly different from the life I would have to adopt to actually live there. I would still have my same stresses, still have to work for a living, still have to find a way to pay my bills. Even though it would be London, it wouldn't be an ideal escape. Still, it is, at one point, some place I want to be. THIS WEEK'S QUESTION: If you could live anywhere but here, where would you live? Why there? And how would you make it work and keep it fun?

He's got the swagger thing down.

At one point during the show at the Fox, Michael Buble apologized to every man in the audience dragged there by his girlfriend/wife. Then, he said he was gonna get the wives so hot that the husbands would be able to "ride that all the way home." Then, he referred to himself as "that goddamn Clay Aiken."

I think that was my favorite moment. Or when he kept cursing lightly onstage, while still maintaining wholesome cuteness and vague sexuality. At one point, after saying something legitimately frank and crass - yet still charming, he had to apologize to the parents of a six-year-old girl who was sitting in the front row.

At another point, he jumped into the audience, grabbed other people's cameras and took photos of himself. He was, of course, mobbed during this "spontaneous" act, which even had cues for music and lighting. Then, jumping back onstage, he thanked the "guy who just grabbed my ass ... you know who you are."

Buble also insulted the LAMEST OPENING ACT COMEDIAN I'VE EVER SEEN, calling him a "dick."

Buble, a 30-year-old from Canada, seriously cannot dance at all but doesn't have to. He's got swagger and slippery shoes that make it look like he's choreographed, even though he's just wiggling his feet with every step.

Watching fortysomething yentas go CRAZY while mobbing the stage and jumping up and down wild mad in an orgy of dance to, of all things, a soft rock version of "Save the Last Dance for Me" was hilarious. During the song, he let the mob of women reach up on the stage and grope him. Oh, and he shook hand of the one balding queen who broke through the mob.

Of course, I wished that I'd had a date. Or someone else there who would've both helped me enjoy it more while openly mocking it.

The stage was made up like a Bobby Darrin nightclub wet dream. So ridiculous. Yet part of me wanted to jump onstage in the middle of it and do my own schtick-and-swagger-and-standards bit in a Hugo Boss suit. (Buble wore the suit the entire time, never even taking off the jacket. I wanted an idea of what he looked like under the suit. Best I can tell, he's fit, about 6'0, probably-straight-but-not-about-to-say-so. He's got the swagger thing down.)

Buble is clearly Branson-bound and knows it, but twas fun. The crowd was 95 percent Buckhead yenta and disgruntled husband, 5 percent gay.

And the star was very "I can't believe these chumps are buying this shit ...," laughing all the way to the bank. And whatever his sexual preference is, dude is getting LAID.

Ac-cen-tu-ate the positive.

The week is starting to look up for me. They've changed some of my work responsibilities. I'm trying to "dress for the job that I want" more often, which means my shirts are now tucked in. Beyond that, hurrah, I'm going to see Michael Buble tonight.