Laundry and DVDs.

It's fun discovering that my mother has installed a Broadband connection at her house, particularly because she was still trying to figure out how not to overuse the caps lock key in her e-mail when I lived here.

I'm here doing laundry because I didn't want to invade my friend Larry's condo while he was composing an opera. While I was waiting for everything to dry, I started to watch this movie LEON on DVD. I'd never seen it before, even though I'd always heard good things about it and about the Natalie Portman performance it features. What I've seen thus far has been violent and fun.

Of course, I couldn't watch all of it. Mom would come in to remind me that I had underwear to fold everytime the movie started to get interesting.

At some point this week, I'll watch it at my apartment.

In the meantime, I'm enjoying the washer and dryer. And the Broadband.

Miss Gibson is missing.

This is a test to see if I can learn more HTML code. This is completely silly, yet I don't know how to properly format a photo with wrap-around text. I want to learn. I feel like a complete dork.

Nonetheless, I've not heard from Miss Gibson in weeks since she headed to the Dominican Republic, and she's got a really pretty photo that I can use to figure out how to learn this simple, basic HTML function.

OK, it looks like I might have it, so now this blog won't have some glaring photo formatting errors.

Everyone else has already left my office for the holiday.

I have to go to the store soon, but the guy is still on the crane.

Things to do while everyone avoids that crane guy.

* See Daniel Craig in LAYER CAKE, playing locally at the Tara. Or you could see Sam Peckinpah's MAJOR DUNDEE at the Landmark.
* Read the first chapter of THE HISTORIAN, which is being touted as the summer's biggest non-HARRY POTTER book. It comes out June 14, but you can read an excerpt on Amazon. It's supposed to be some scary, DA VINCI CODE-like take on DRACULA.
* Pay tribute to the late Ismael Merchant by watching A ROOM WITH A VIEW, which is a fantastic movie adapted from an E.M. Forster novel. The Merchant-Ivory production features, among other things, nudity, beautiful Italian scenery and an early performance from Daniel Day-Lewis as a stuck-up, foppish nerd.
* Buy Kacoon's baby shower present at Babies R Us.
* Finish doing the stuff off last week's list, and continue telling people to see OLDBOY.
* Connect with an old friend, like my old bookstore co-worker Vicki. Vicki, it turns out, just returned from Indonesia, where she and other missionaries helped tsunami victims with medical aid and clean-up.
* Do laundry.
* Wash the dishes.
* Take out the garbage.
* Update your resume. Work on getting a new job, just for the fun of it.
* Go to Atlanta Jazz Fest.
* Go out of town. It's Memorial Day.
* Heck, because it's Memorial Day, visit a cemetery. Pay tribute to the war dead. Find a flag, and say the Pledge of Allegiance.
* Visit me in the music department at Barnes & Noble in Buckhead, if that guy ever comes down from the crane, because we're having a Buy Two DVDs, Get One Free sale there. And, if you're that linen-shirt-wearing guy named Colin who talked to me this week, come back to visit. Let's get coffee.
* Place bets on how the situation with the crane guy is going to end.
* Finish watching John Huston's THE TREASURE OF THE SIERRA MADRE. Bogart's cool.

Cliffhangers.

Last night, I was late getting to work at the bookstore because, well, to get to my bookstore, I have to drive through Buckhead. And last night, the roads in Buckhead were blocked because this guy was standing on a crane 350 feet in the air, threatening to jump. If he fell, the police were directing traffic away from the bullseye zone. Though it had something to do, I'm sure, with the genuine value of every human life, the cops mostly didn't want anyone's car to get hit.

I've always been fascinated by cliffhangers. When I was a kid, I figured that a movie HAD to have people in peril, dangling from the air, in order for it to be any good. The Goonies all had to walk the plank. E.T. and Elliott went flying through the air. Annie had to hang off that bridge.

If you think back on me a couple years ago, I wanted to write fiction stories about people trapped on Ferris wheels or jumping off a mall balcony.

I've always been fascinated, and a little frightened, of the idea of falling. Taking that leap. Jumping. The seemingly inevitable crash below always struck me as the ultimate - what's the word - abandon. Though I'm not much of a thrillseeker, I've always appreciated someone whose final choice in life came at them as so black-and-white.

Remember the idea of the life that you wanted to live?

Risks aren't easy. But risks, I'm thinking, are necessary.

What if we could have choices that simple? Do you ever get so frustrated with the small things you do that you know don't really matter - but you have to do them - that you envy someone who can just jump?

I'm not advocating suicide. I'm speaking of taking chances, risking things.

There are days on-and-off that I walk through my office feeling just numb. It seems so cliche to say that, but, honestly, it's not untrue. Why does any of this matter?

It matters because I have to eat. Because I have bills to pay. Because I like to go to the movies, and you have to buy the tickets.

I just called my mom, told her that I wouldn't make it to her barbecue tonight. She wanted me at Lake Lanier by 6. It's 6 now, and I'm at my desk, making up some work. Because it's the end of the month. Because I have a production goal. Because I'm trying to avoid traffic. Because I work best when no one else is around.

I want to be willing enough to let go of the safe life I have to try something different. It annoys me that I'm not that brave.

Me and you.

Everything I've heard about ME AND YOU AND EVERYONE WE KNOW, which opens in limited release next month, gets me excited about it. I don't know yet if it's good or not, for I haven't seen it, but it's being raved about by people who know film.

My friend Jim at the Landmark e-mailed me to let me know they're booking the movie, and I thanked him. He said I was the one who mentioned it to him first. I actually asked him to try and get the movie to Atlanta just so I could see it, but now everyone's talking about it.

It's played to great response at Sundance and won awards at Cannes this week.

Miranda July, the performance artist who made the movie, also sounds like she'd be really fun to know.

In the meantime, see OLDBOY. It was really, really fantastic.

Reaching HIGHER GROUND.

Jenipher confessed to me yesterday that she did something really, really embarassing over the weekend. While she and her husband were out, their TiVo, programmed to catch anything Hayden Christiansen is in, "accidentally" recorded a marathon of every episode of this old, cancelled FOX Family show called HIGHER GROUND.

It's apparently a Canadian family drama featuring Joe Lando from DR. QUINN: MEDICINE WOMAN as the head of a Christian boot camp facility that takes in misfit kids. Our hero, Hayden, plays the main misfit, a drug abuser with a secret past and an attitude.

Now, first of all, I don't know why Jenipher wants anything and everything featuring Hayden Christiansen TIVO'ed in the first place, but I was not at all surprised when Jenipher told me that she had not deleted the 30-odd episodes. Instead, she started watching them during her daily treadmill workout, pleased by the soapy nature of the show and its innate Canadian flair, and now she's addicted. The whole thing sounds like DEGRASSI-gone-awry.

"I love how everyone on the show is supposed to be a smoker, but the makers of the show don't want to show kids smoking cigarettes on TV," she told me yesterday. "Thus, everyone's beginning the act of smoking. The cigarettes are in their mouths, but they're unlit. Or someone's about to light a cigarette. But the show's too wholesome to show anyone actually smoke."

She e-mailed me this latest episode synopsis, which barely makes sense:

Hayden (Glue Sniffer/Acid Tripper/Sith Lord) confessed to That Guy From “Dr. Quinn” that he was a victim of sexual abuse by his hot stepmom. He whined and cried incessantly, then threatened to beat up every other student when they looked at or talked to his slutty girlfriend, Druggie/Almost Smoker Who Never Lights Up On TV. Bulimic grew closer to Stereotypical Mexican Who Used To Be In A Gang And Is Now The Only Minority At The Whole School, and they made out in the janitor’s closet. Suicidal Goth Girl remained depressed and in love with ‘Shroom Eater/Bleach Sniffer, who almost drowned when he fell out of a kayak. In the end, everyone learned an important life lesson and remained very, very Canadian.

Jenipher admitted that she found Hayden very cute but said she felt wrong about it, for he's so young.

"I feel so wrong, like I feel like his stepmom on that show," Jenipher admitted. "I mean, I was watching it, thinking, 'Oh, Hayden, I want to be your incestuous stepmom.'"

It's all very PAX-TV. I think Jenipher misses her 90210 fix.

Tales of the cube.

So my friend Lisa just quit her job at my office to go work for our competition, and I guess I'm sorta happy for her. The new girl at the office came over to my cube yesterday and yelled at me because I made a mistake that my manager told me was relatively minor. But the new girl yelled at me. And I'm stuck at my office because I do have more work to do, but I'm also waiting for Edmondson to finish work so that we can go see OLDBOY.

Yesterday was tough. Today was really boring. I'm drowning in paper, and the idea that someone else got to leave here just made me, um, kinda jealous. I know I could leave my job. Both my jobs. Hypothetically.

Of course, when I found out that Lisa was essentially going to do the same job at a different company (and it's impossible for any of us to explain in under five minutes what exactly our job is), I lost my jealousy. If I left this line of work, I'd sincerely want to do something completely different. I'd want to work in the arts or something, do work that I actually enjoyed.

Meanwhile, the class really liked - or seemed to like - the chapters I gave them last week. One person told me that the first chapter featured too much exposition, but a friend at the Margaret Mitchell House told me not to change anything, at this point. She said to just keep writing, to just keep moving the story forward. So that's what I'm going to do. (Of course, since the next chapter's going to be written in the voice of my mother and feature a miracle, it's been a bit more difficult to get my head around it. But, if you haven't read it and aren't in my head, then you don't know what I'm talking about.)

I e-mailed Chris from Freshman English. I saw him when I went back to the puppet show. He was nice to me and asked me what I've been writing lately. Cool guy.

I was mean to Poli Sci Guy about his unpublished novel that he's been "finishing" for about a year. The way he talks about his book, dare I admit it, comes off as obnoxious, so I told him that he probably lacked confidence in his work since he never showed it to anyone. Which, when it comes down to it, is mean of me and unnecessary. (I told Marley what I did. She fears I'll generate mountains of bad karma and not focus on making myself happy. She's right.)

Oh well. It's late. I should leave work now.

Things to do while everyone else sees STAR WARS.

- See OLDBOY and CRASH at the Landmark.
- Go to XPT: XPERIMENTAL PUPPETRY THEATER again at the Center for Puppetry Arts since Larry, Andy and the Davids are going. (And there were a considerable number of cute guys at the Wednesday show.) Oh wait, I'm working.
- See my college friend Mary Claire Dunn in WIZZER PIZZER at 7 Stages.
- Read over the two chapters of my "novel" again, then write another chapter. Then print enough copies for class on Monday.
- Do laundry.
- Do dishes.
- Clean house.
- Finish Season Three of GILMORE GIRLS.
- Try not to work too much at the bookstore.
- Sleep off seeing STAR WARS at midnight a couple nights ago.
- Watch KINSEY's double-disc because, apparently, the cast's sex questionnaire answers are a special feature - which means you get to find just how kinky Peter Sarsgaard really is.
- Rent TARNATION from Movies Worth Seeing.
- Try again to re-read THE LION, THE WITCH AND THE WARDROBE because that movie preview looks cool.
- Reconsider reading THE SISTERHOOD OF THE TRAVELING PANTS. Teen girl lit is really fun to read.
- Try again to read JONATHAN STRANGE AND MR. NORRELL because Chris read it and said it was good. And Lynda at the Margaret Mitchell House said it was good. And Mike read it and said it was good. And David read it and said it was good. And Vickye read it and said it was good. And you've met the author and have an autographed copy of that book.
- Pretend to read that Diana Wynne Jones book that Jenipher bought four years ago, since she's been asking you about that HOWL'S MOVING CASTLE Miyazaki movie.
- Try to find a way to make the ending of my short story, which makes sense to me, work better for other readers before even considering to send it to McSweeney's.
- Buy a gift from Babies R Us for Kacoon's baby shower next week. Make a joke in the card about naming her baby "Sirius Black Coon."
- Find a way to see Vic, maybe an arranged meeting at a bookstore one morning.
- E-mail Miss Gibson again in the hope that she'll check her e-mail while she's in the Dominican Republic, researching her thesis. Mention Papa Doc in e-mail, even though he's Haitian.
- Watch ROBBIE WILLIAMS: LIVE AT THE ALBERT on DVD, based on Mike's suggestion that Robbie Williams has the proper amount of "swagger" to pull off a convincing swing performance.
- Find a way to watch the most sensational, inspirational, celebrational THE MUPPETS' WIZARD OF OZ, which comes on tonight when I'm working. (Lupo says he'll record it. Lupo's my favorite person on Earth.)

Notes on the other stuff I did last night.

REVENGE OF THE SITH is absolutely terrific. My friend Mike loved, loved, loved it. The ending left me in a reverent silence, with my mouth open, for five minutes afterward. I mean, WOW. It's really damn good. The beginning is visually amazing. But the thrills really build momentum after Anakin's conversion to the Dark Side. After that happened, the movie completely had me and wouldn't let me go until that closing shot.

I sold my soul for a pomegranate.

So I went to the new adult puppet show, "XPT: Xperimental Puppetry Theater," last night not knowing what to expect. I didn't know whether the people at the Center for Puppetry Arts had read my review and invited me back so that they could, I guess, string me up - so to speak - for what I wrote earlier about "Anatomy of Melancholy," that pretentious puppet show featuring a Sept. 11 re-enactment.

Somewhere in my head, of course, I knew exactly what I was doing there. I was invited back to the Center to give the "art of adult puppetry," I think it was called, another chance.

And, with its new show, the Center for Puppetry Arts has converted me. I'm all about the puppet love now. Forgive me if I show a glaring lack of cynicism in this review. I promise I've not been brainwashed by the Blue Fairy into believing puppets can become "real." Also, this is not a plugola scandal involving my site and the Center for Puppetry Arts.

I just really liked "XPT." It's a fun, fun show. And, not coincidentally, it's running from tonight until May 22, and you can buy tickets here.

To tell you why I laughed out loud during some of it, I have come up with this list:

THINGS I THOUGHT I'D NEVER SEE IN MY LIFE

1. A green pear doing a sexually-explicit table dance.
2. A Creative Loafing "Karma Cleanser" letter brought to life in a stage production.
3. My friend Chris from Freshman English on a stage with no pants. (Though, for some reason, it didn't surprise me to see him using his "announcer voice" while pretending to be a news anchor.)
4. A re-enactment of a 1986 Russian video game called "Glasnost," featuring a falling hammer and sickle.
5. Frankenstein's monster dressed as a pimp.
6. Animal from THE MUPPET SHOW attacking the new Pope.
7. A puppet learning the hazards of attending a candlelight vigil.
8. Use of the word "humansexual" after a puppet and a woman start making out in front of a bandanna-wearing, angry beaver from Compton.
9. Puppets, puppeteers and a set entirely covered with black-and-white horizontal stripes.
10. A creature with eyes made out of badminton birdies performing a song about loneliness.

Granted, "XPT" is an anthology show of six skits, and some of them work better than others. (The "Rapunzel" skit, which is performed on one side of the stage while the sound engineers mess around on the other side of it in full view, falls flat.)

The first skit, the one with all the stripes, seems equally influenced by Samuel Beckett and Shel Silverstein. It's strange and confusing, but it inevitably works as an interesting piece of stagecraft.

Four of the skits really, really entertained me, and it almost made me wish that I'd bought my own ticket so that I could show these people my support.

But, since my ticket was comped last night, the best that I'll be able to do for the Center for Puppetry Arts is to go back for another show and another. (Their revival of "Avanti, Da Vinci!," one of their biggest adult hits, opens this summer, and I plan to be there.)

A friend of mine told me nine years ago that we in Atlanta didn't know how lucky we were to have the Center for Puppetry Arts, for it can, at times, feature the most innovative, wacky theater. Having seen something edgy and fun like "XPT," I know exactly what he meant.

On the road.

NOTE: I am dictating this to Lupo while driving on I-85.

Just left "Xperimental Puppetry Theater." It was hilarious. Review to come later. I saw a friend of mine from college with no pants. Will write more later after I wake up from seeing the movie at 3 a.m.

Thank you, Lupo, for typing this. Thank you, Sydney. I am a puppet convert.

Chaos theory.

Last night, since the settings for my VCR haven't been changed since last week's awesome VERONICA MARS finale, I accidentally recorded UPN's new reality show BRITNEY & KEVIN: CHAOTIC. And, yes, after getting home from a visit to Miss Q's with Larry, I watched as much of it as I could stand.

I made it through three commercial breaks.

Britney usually garners a lot of sympathy from me, but the love affair between she and I officially ended last night. Dear God, she's filming the show herself, and that video camera is aimed up her damn nose all the time. All she talked about was sex and how single she was before she met Kevin Federline, the dumbest, redneck, low-rent, white-trash, no-account, no-brained, cute, badly-dressed, backward-ballcapped hanger-on I've ever seen shirtless-and-tattooed on a celebreality show.

Britney, you were single for, what, a year?! Please ... The marriage will, by all accounts, last five years before ending horribly. The two of them will then fade into further obscurity (beyond appearing on a UPN show that's not VERONICA MARS).

The show needs to stop. Clearly, someone forgot that being dumb, obnoxious twentysomethings in love is fantastic ... but watching other dumb, obnoxious twentysomethings in love is annoying.

What to do in the event of an emergency.

The puppet show that I've been invited to by the nice people at the Center for Puppetry Arts is tonight at 8. And I was going to take my friend Brad since he's the one who helped me write the last piece. I figured he could be Statler to my Waldorf again, should the show merit that kind of reaction, and I thought, as well, that it would be, in a way, an odd reward for both of us.

Sydney at the Center for Puppetry Arts has been such a good sport about all this, and she gave me these great seats for tonight's show.

But Brad hasn't confirmed for me yet that he'll be able to go - and, even though I've been trying to communicate with him for weeks now, I only heard from him about it yesterday since he has a fear of phones (yeah, fear of phones), has been sick for weeks and doesn't respond to any not-completely-urgent communication. So I fear he's going to flake out on me.

I e-mailed Sydney that I may be alone tonight, even though I fear that makes me look either incredibly rude or, worse, like the only person on Earth who can't find a date. She wrote back that she hoped I had someone to come because the seats really are damn good.

I've been looking forward to this night for about a week. This whole situation amuses me, except for the part that I'm likely going stag.

Also tonight, I'm seeing STAR WARS: EPISODE III with my friend Mike in Duluth, which should be fun. (I can't take Mike to the puppet show for fear that he'll mock it aloud - like I did at last year's screening of Kevin Smith's JERSEY GIRL, but that's another tale altogether.)

Maybe I can hire an escort to the puppet show.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

I often make fun of my friend Jenipher's job. She works for the visitors bureau of that county in Illinois where those little girls were stabbed to death this week. In talking to Jenipher for all these years now, I've never been able to exactly determine what her job for the CVB entails. She says she works in "sales," but usually she's just making up fun party signs or hip, happening posters. One time, she arranged a party with a Barbie theme.

Several times I've called her, and, I swear, she's been doing some project with construction paper, popsicle sticks and glitter. One time I asked her if she used the left-handed scissors much for her biggest projects, like arranging gift baskets or tying decorative ribbons.

And Jenipher goes on vacation, like, once a month. She says they're business trips, but I don't think so.

For instance, she just called me a few minutes ago from her car on her way to a "business meeting" to ask me if I knew the full lyrics to Gwen Stefani's "Hollaback Girl."

I asked her if the meetings usually ended with she and her other workers in a pillow fight or with them braiding each others' hair.

She said, "No, we end with manis and pedis."

Jenipher's probably lying about her job. She's probably just living as a housewife and running a Girl Scout troop.

I asked her why she went to college for that job since it sounds like, um, all she ever really needed to know she learned in Kindergarten.

Gynecological tools for the study of mutant women.

Last night, eager to see this movie that's been long out-of-print, I rented DEAD RINGERS from this great, rare video store near me called Movies Worth Seeing.

Jeremy Irons gives this freaky, fantastic performance as twin gynecologists who routinely trade lovers. The movie shows them as they go from being pioneers in medicine to, well, rather disturbed individuals.

It's David Cronenberg, so the movie's more than a little sick. But, wow, it was good. And Irons is fantastic.

They're re-releasing it on DVD next month. It's been out-of-print a couple years.

The reviews are in.

So the reviews of MONSTER-IN-LAW come in, and everyone HATES, HATES, HATES it, which is set to happen to a movie you thought was pretty damn funny when you saw it in a crowd full of enthusiastic people and movie stars.

My mom called me first thing this morning and said, "Did you read the paper??? They gave it a D+!!!"

It's possible that I'm wrong in noting that, of course, the comedy was extremely broad, the scenery is chewed with fervor and the whole thing seemed intentionally ridiculous, and I thought it was funny.

Ah well. See it. Don't see it. Think me stupid.

It's OK. My mom liked it.

Battlefield: Mirth.

When I was a senior in high school and my friend Jenipher was a bored freshman at the University of Georgia, she used to send me interesting clippings from The Red & Black in the mail. She knew that I was interested in journalism, so she would send me the most ridiculous articles from the student paper, which I later worked for, in hope that she could improve my journalism skills.

At one point, she found this classified ad in the paper from the Eva Gabor Wig Company and sent it to me, complete with the attached note: "Have already sent them your address. Expect something soon."



Thus, on the day I graduated high school, a catalog of nicely-styled, silver wigs for women arrived in my mailbox. Since it was the day of my graduation, of course, my entire extended family saw the thing.

"Ooh, you should seriously forward that to your grandmother," my mother said. "The ones she wears aren't nearly as nice."

(A side note, someone recently saw a photo of that grandmother standing with my parents. They asked me how my parents knew Andy Warhol.)

I called Jenipher and laughed about it, telling her that it was a pretty good joke, but I also intended to one day get back at her for leading strangers to think I had some creepy fetish involving elderly women's wigs.

One day, while browsing through the library, I found a pamphlet and questionnaire that I thought Jenipher might find interesting, but I knew she would never fill the survey out herself. It was on Dianetics.

So I answered the questions for her and sent it, complete with her name, address and phone number, to the local Scientology Research Center.

Within weeks from arriving home from Athens, Jenipher received several phone calls from an L. Ron Hubbard-esque guru named Yogi. Seriously, Yogi would call Jenipher's house night after night to tell her all about how Scientology believes that energy waves communicated by aliens traveled through the ground into each human soul - or some such thing.

After about a month, the calls finally stopped, but Jenipher still says that I took that joke too far. But I still think it was funny.

Baby's coming.

Kacoon's scheduled her baby's birth for Monday, which means that next week we will have a brand-spanking-new Baby Coon to talk about and play with. We still don't know what Baby Coon's sex is going to be since it decided to play the Crying Game with the ultrasound photos. (Though I know it's not genetically possible, I think the baby gets that from me.)

I've not seen Kacoon in a month. She was really, really pregnant when I last saw her, so now she's probably got her own ZIP Code. From what she's written about it, though, I see that she hasn't lost her sense of humor. She says her swollen hands have developed carpal tunnel since she's entered her last trimester.

I think they've chosen to ignore all my old suggestions for the name of Baby Coon, which means that it'll stand a better chance of surviving the playground.

I love Baby Coon. This is going to rule. I mean, it's better than a new Harry Potter book. This time next week, I'll get to drive to the hospital and see a new baby, which I'll eventually get to teach sarcasm and the joys of shopping.

I should re-medicate.

OK, so if I'm mildly concerned that the 17-page document that I sent out in the middle of the workday didn't garner an immediate response from my very busy friends who all have jobs, then I'm clearly insane, need to get a grip, snap back to reality and what-not, right?

Yeah, that's what I thought, too.

I'm always nervous sending out my fiction, though, because I always think that my fiction (and this is a very, very rough draft) will be considered bad.

My friend Chris told me that, to take my mind off stuff, I should try to write a novella. And this is what I came up with.

If you didn't get a copy of anything I sent out and would like one, I guess you could e-mail me.

So what have you done since the breakup?

It's almost two months since my three-month-long relationship broke up. It's been about a month since I last spoke to my ex-boyfriend. It's been a week since I last hooked up with someone, though, really, that was nothing.

I've been attending my writing class, working at the bookstore, worrying about money, working on a short story and trying to keep busy around the city. I'm trying to keep my mood up. Things have been lively. (I'm actually still off my crazy pills, trying to maintain an edge while not becoming too annoying.)

I've been reading a little. I've been trying to write paragraphs that are longer than one sentence. I've been hanging out with some friends. I've spent some time with family.

The apartment's messy again. I'll get around to cleaning it one of these days. (Maybe someone should come check on me. I'll clean it if I have visitors.)

Things are good, I guess. Yeah, things are good.

I'm not babysitting some arrested-development guy with Roberto Benigni's attention span and energy level a lot of the time. I'm not sick over the love that was lost. I try, at those moments of weakness, to remind myself that the ex could really get on my nerves. There were times when we were terrible together.

The apartment needed to be messy for me to see that, I guess. I suppose that's one way to justify it. I could claim that the dishes in my sink are a sign of progress.

PETA, G-CAPP, J-Lo, Jane, Mom and Me

My mom picked me up from my office at 4:30 yesterday, and we immediately headed down toward the Fox for "Monster-in-Law." I asked Mom which famous people she wanted to see, and she said "Ted Turner," which I personally didn't understand - though I guess Mom likes money.

We parked the same place we always do, walked the short distance we always do and ended up in front of that grand awning once again. A woman walked by my mother with a neatly groomed, purple-painted poodle in tow.



My mom told the lady her dog looked really cute and asked her where she got the dog's paint job done.

I asked the lady a tongue-twister.

"You're walking that purple poodle past the PETA people?"

The lady said she wasn't with PETA and, of course, she would walk the dog past them. The PETA protestors were stationed right by the old Will Call window, to the left of the cordoned-off red carpet area.

I held on to the shoulder of Mom's neat, black pinstriped suit (technically riding her coattails, I guess) as we fought our way past the bloody animal photos. The guy holding the plastic model of the bleeding, skinned puppy dog caught my mom's attention, but she quickly shuffled past him. (She kept mispronouncing the group "petta," instead of giving the name a long "e." And she kept telling me that "those PETTA people are psychos.")

The real Will Call window was toward the back, through hundreds of people, but Mom's a trooper. Mom led the way through because she's short and could shoulder-pad her way past ladies in couture without apology. She was basically unmoved by sights of glitter, though plentiful cleavage was displayed throughout the crowded gallery.

My mom kept watching for crowds and camera crews, though, trying to see if she could catch a glimpse of someone famous on the red carpet over her shoulder. We never saw anyone out there, thanks to the hordes of people congregated around any sign of lights-camera-action.

We got to the real Will Call window, tried to discern if there was any real line there. I accidentally stepped on a woman's open-toed, sequined shoe, and Mom and I finagled our way in front of her.

"Sorry," I said to the lady.

"It's my fault," she said back. "I put my foot under yours. You didn't put yours on top of mine."

Another lady in line with us, wearing this puffy, turquoise jacket and this plastered, fake, real-estate-agent smile, was sent away by the ticket booth for not having her credit card. I loved that.

Once we got our tickets, we headed directly for the door of the theater.

"I just want to get in and sit down," Mom said. "I don't really care about seeing J-Lo. I just like the Fox."

So we went inside, and there was breathing room. Instead of lingering in the lobby to catch a glimpse of Dallas Austin or the beautiful Michael Vartan (who, I found out later, had to work on ALIAS and conspicuously wasn't there ... although I thought ALIAS already wrapped for the season), Mom and I found our aisle seats. Then, we headed to the lobby, grabbed some refreshments and sat back down, gabbing about what people were wearing as they walked by.

"I can see right through her dress," Mom said silently about a random lady who limped by while nursing her ankle.

One of the ushers helped that lady, telling the injured limper that she could lessen the pain of leg cramps by pinching the divot just under her nose. The usher said that home remedy was in Ann Landers. Mom and I misunderstood and almost offered the cramp lady a napkin for her apparent nosebleed.



When the seats finally filled and the program began, Jane Fonda came out from behind the red curtain on the stage, looking really good in this white jacket and ruffled gown. There was much applause, particularly when Jane said that this crowd was larger than the L.A. premiere's crowd and when Jane called Atlanta her hometown.

Our seats were OK, so Mom, wearing her glasses, got a pretty good look at Jane's outfit.

"She looks AMAZING," said my finally star-struck mother. "I wish I'd brought my digital camera."

When Jennifer Lopez came out in this short, pink-looking dress, there was more applause, of course. And I got a little excited because, as I admitted a couple days ago, I'm a fan. And, even though she was on a stage and I was in the aisle, it was really cool because, I dunno, she was right there.

Then they trotted out all the famous people, each of them getting applause - though there were audible boos when Jane announced that Michael Vartan wasn't there.

The 20-minute G-CAPP speech and presentation, which I figured would happen, kinda annoyed my mom. She just wanted to see "Monster-in-Law," not hear about some pregnant 13-year-old girl who made the Honor Roll.

"If that girl had been really smart, she wouldn't have gotten pregnant," my mom said.

"Mom, she's 13," I reasoned. "She's a kid, and she just made some really bad choices."

Mom rolled her eyes during the film about G-CAPP's housing initiatives for teen mothers.

"Why don't they show us some girls who actually listened to the G-CAPP arguments on safe sex and abstinence and didn't get pregnant?" Mom asked.

"Because their stories aren't as visual," I told her. "It's a documentary."

After the documentary, of course, the movie started. And, during the opening credits, one of the PETA people who'd managed to get inside yelled out something like "KILLER!" every time Jennifer Lopez appeared onscreen. Thankfully, the ushers put an end to that quickly.

Jane and her two dates, Big Boi and Dallas Austin, actually came into the theater during the opening credits and, I believe, watched the whole movie. Or, at least, most of it. (I figure that, once you're in a movie, you manage to see it in parts about three-dozen times before the actual premiere, so I didn't actually expect the stars to, you know, watch the movie.)

Since it was Jane's big comeback, though, and it was her fundraiser, I guess she felt it necessary to watch "Monster-in-Law." Thank God she was there, though, because her scenery-chewing, over-the-damn-top, broadly comic performance is HILARIOUS.

My mom said herself, "I never much agreed with her politics, but Jane Fonda is a GREAT actress. That was one of the best movies I've seen in a long time, and she should get an Oscar for it. She stole that whole movie. And I liked J-Lo, too. I thought she was sweet."

Maybe it was because I was in a good crowd (which I understand can influence the experience), but "Monster-in-Law" came off as a really, really funny movie. There were about a dozen laugh-out-loud moments, and it's the best Jennifer Lopez movie I've seen in a long time. And you get more fight scenes (real and imagined) than I thought possible. And Wanda Sykes, though her asides were planted a few times too many, has great delivery. Michael Vartan, sadly, doesn't get much to do besides look really good.

Mom walked out of the theater and called the whole experience a blast. Even though we didn't see Ted Turner or Michael Vartan in person.

It was lots and lots of fun - stepping on toes, watching PETA go crazy, getting to see celebrities and also getting to laugh out loud alongside my mother.

Puppetgate continues.

Apparently, this morning at the Center for Puppetry Arts, Sydney, the perfectly nice official who e-mailed me, received a read-out of where all the traffic on their website came from last month.

An obscene amount of hits (like, 238) came from my site, which she said is usually the amount of hits she gets from Yahoo!, so she checked out my site to see what could cause that amount of commotion. That's how she found my review of THE ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY and decided to contact me.

I called her. She said, on the phone, "Oh hi, hold on a second ... YOU GUYS, THAT GUY FROM 'RILEY MCCARTHY' IS ON THE PHONE!!!"

She's invited me to the staff preview of their new adult, local-artist show, "XPT: Xperimental Puppet Theater," on May 18 at 8 p.m., and I have agreed to go. It should be a lot of fun, actually. (I wonder if Brad wants to go.)

Beyond that, she said "Melancholy" appealed to their female demographic because it featured some beautiful puppets and an entire female cast of puppeteers. She figured that's why the show worked for those of the X-chromosome persuasion.

Sydney said the men in the audience that she spoke to, though, gave her an earful about practically all the stuff mentioned in my "review" conversation with Brad.

I didn't get a chance to ask Sydney if that Judi Dench narrator lately was local or where she got her fabulous "Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" cape.

Oh my God, best e-mail ... EVER!!!

This polite, hilarious note just showed up in my Inbox. I thought you'd all enjoy it.
_________________

Riley –

I really enjoyed your review of the Anatomy of Melancholy! It was well written, hilarious and made everyone in the marketing department laugh. My only concern about your review is that you may have developed an inaccurate opinion of the art of puppetry because of a show that isn’t as representative of the art as we’d like. We found that this show was more popular with our female demographic than our male demographic for several reasons, and because of this I can’t help but wonder if you would have a more favorable view of our center if you were to attend a different show. We do have another adult show coming up this month called “XPT: Xperimental Puppetry Theater” that I would be more than happy to get you tickets to. Keep in mind that this show is comprised of several mini-shows written and performed by local, young puppeteers. It’s crazy, funny, ridiculous, offensive (sometimes) and truly an experience. If you think you’d be more suited for a show later in our season that’s a little less unpredictable, I’m sure I can arrange that as well. Either way, we’d love to have you back at our Center and reviewing our shows (whether you like them or not)…and this time, you can sit where ever you’d like. Thanks again and I’m looking forward to meeting you!

Sydney F. Ellis
Audience Development Manager
Center for Puppetry Arts

Live from the red carpet.

In 1967, while on her high school senior trip to New York, my mother went with her graduating class to a premiere screening of Jane Fonda's "Barefoot in the Park" at Radio City Music Hall, or at least she told me she did - and I don't have any reason not to believe her. She talked to me about how the Rockettes danced, what the theater was like, and I always thought that was a pretty cool memory, one that I wished I had.

I've known about the G-CAPP premiere for "Monster-in-Law" for a couple weeks now, and I'm going. Jennifer Lopez (I admit I'm a fan) and Marc Anthony will be there. Jane Fonda, of course, is an organizer, and she'll be there, though I already met her when I worked at CNN five years ago. Wanda Sykes is supposed to be there. The film's director Robert Luketic, who is WAY cute and completely gay, is an organizer. And, thankfully, Michael Vartan, one of the most beautiful men on Earth, will be there. (It'll be all I can do not to scream out "VAUGHN!!!" at him, like a girl.)



The G-CAPP premieres always sound like fun - particularly since Fonda get all the stars of the featured movie to Atlanta, but I've never been to one before. This year, though, I thought it might be cool to venture down by myself and check out how accessible the movie stars were and/or if it was any fun. There was a discount offer on tickets, so I was going to buy one. But I didn't do that.

I bought two, and my mom - with her "Barefoot in the Park" memories - is coming with me to the Fabulous Fox tomorrow night. (Yeah, I know it's dorky to call the Fox that, but whatever ...) I figured this was a better Mother's Day gift than the latest Mary Higgins Clark book, though I should probably buy her that, too.

The movie looks decently funny (even though my friend Edmondson and I have a rule that most movies starting with the letter "M" are bad). I hope "Monster-in-Law" marks Jennifer Lopez's return to actual acting (a la her brilliant turn in "Out of Sight") and not one where she works off her persona. (Even if the movie's terrible, though, going to the Fox with Mom is always fun.)

LATER: Marley just told me not to forget my PETA poster.

Fairy tale.

My film prof made me a VHS copy of Jacques Demy's DONKEY SKIN from his laserdisc, and he sent it to me in the mail.

My mom was helping me go through my VHS collection once and saw the tape label.

"DONKEY SKIN? What the hell kind of porno is this?" she said. "I know you're into guys, but FARM ANIMALS???"

"No, it's an art movie," I told her.

"Uh-huh," she said. "Whatever."

Dollar daze.

This day shall forever be known as "The Day I Reluctantly Asked My Boss To Borrow A Dollar (At the Recommendation of a Co-Worker) and Had Him Not Make Eye Contact with Me, Scowl at Me and Complain About Something that Wasn't My Job."

My boss later marked this day by eating a Chick-Fil-A lunch with some other employees he considers favorites.

For the record, he did give me the dollar. I walked out with it, then turned around, put it on his desk and told him that I'd get one elsewhere. I think he said "Whatever" or "Suit yourself." He never really looked at me.

Adventures in subtlety.

Yesterday, after the puppet show, Brad and I were sitting at Larry's condo alone and having coffee.

RM: Hey, take off your shirt.
BF: No.
RM: Please take off your shirt.
BF: No, I'm celibate. You know that.
RM: Yeah, and I can help with that. And I didn't say we'd do anything. Just take off your shirt.
BF: No.

Fifteen minutes later.

RM: Hey, take off your shirt.
BF: No. What are you, Larry Flynt?
RM: If I were Larry Flynt, I wouldn't want you to take your shirt off.
BF: Well then, what are you, Chi Chi LaRue?
RM: No. And, if I were Chi Chi LaRue, I don't think I'd want you to take off your shirt either. You're 35.

Five minutes later.

RM: Brad, that puppet show taught me something. I have an existential hole in my being that I need to fill. Can you help me?
BF: No.

Twenty minutes later.

RM: I'm sorry about the flirting.
BF: You're good at flirting. You always manage to throw an insult in there in the middle of all the compliments.
RM: When did I insult you? I didn't insult you.
BF: Never mind.

"Moi will not cover her face!"

Inspired by yesterday's Sept. 11 puppet show, Lupo and I discussed possible casting for THE MUPPETS TAKE AFGHANISTAN, which will also use puppets to tackle prescient issues.

Lupo: Miss Piggy should play Jessica Lynch.
RM: I think having Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem portray the Taliban would be a stroke of genius, and we should have Sam the Eagle play George W. Bush.

No strings attached.

So my friend Brad and I just got back from this show at the Center for Puppetry Arts called "The Anatomy of Melancholy," based rather loosely upon the 1621 anthology by Robert Burton investigating the phenomenon of depression.

We are now sitting before my blog to discuss the highlights of the show.

RM: Brad, what did you think of the puppet-only recreation of the World Trade Center attacks, featuring a model plane and papier-mache fire?
BF: It really brought me back to that day. Especially the big close up of Brit Hume's distorted face on the screen. I wish the plane had flown into Brit Hume's face, instead of that tower set.
RM: And the sound effects?
BF: What about them? What did I think of them?
RM: The rewind sound, when the Sept. 11 plane went backward ... causing it to crash over and over. Right before they showed that puppet who looked like Dilbert jump out of the building.
BF: Oh, I guess the rewind sound was effective. I got the impression that they wanted to 'rewind' the event. Did Judi Dench do the rewind voice, or was that some other effect? 'Cause they had that Judi Dench lady narrate everything else. Did you notice her mike kept cutting out?
RM: She didn't need the mike. The cape she was wearing was loud enough.
BF: And the room wasn't very big. Do you think if Pearl Bailey narrated instead, they would've miked her?
RM: I don't think Pearl Bailey would've done that production. It wasn't quite THE FOX AND THE HOUND.
BF: She could've sang the blues. Wait, I think Carol Channing should've done the narration. She could've really brought life to the oversized poster-board scissor scene.
RM: How did the puppet (pictured above) make you feel?
BF: Angry. I had no sympathy for that puppet whatsoever. Did you? I didn't care if he hated life so much. Da-a-amn. Stay in bed and hit your pillow. I just knew, at some point, they were going to have a Sisyphus scene in there. Like, from the moment it started, I knew that puppet was going to push a rock up a hill.
RM: I didn't like the happy ending, where the puppet finds its missing piece in that Chinese puppeteer woman's pocket. Was she supposed to represent God, or could they just not come up with a better ending?
BF: I couldn't follow it after the puppet surfed on that giant Prozac pill past the giant bottle of booze and giant posterboard joint.
RM: What do you think the message of the play was?
BF: I think that the message it conveyed was to escape depression, you just have to let the butterfly out of your personal SECRETS box. I also learned that, when you're alone at a party, you shouldn't just stand in a corner and wave at everyone. You should introduce yourself. And, if your mother sounds like a chicken, you shouldn't get into an argument with her ... because she will win, and you will still be sad. And if a Chinese woman tries to put something in your belly, let her. You will be glad. Also, if your neighbor gets a purse like yours, don't cause too much of a commotion. No matter how many people try to photograph her, pretend like you don't care, or you will be overcome with sadness.
RM: What did you think of the title cards separating the scenes?
BF: I thought they were really pretty. I enjoyed the font.
RM: So, to sum up ...
BF: Among the causes of melancholy presented in the play, I would like to add one. Melancholy. Cause: Puppet show.
RM: Just because we got free tickets, why did we have to sit in the back?
BF: Yeah, that made me feel melancholy.
RM: If anyone from Puppetry Arts reads this, they'll hate me.
BF: Well, they need to know that show did not work.
RM: Do you think SNOW WHITE will be better?
BF: So long as they don't focus on a dwarf named Sadness.

Stepping away from your art.

When I was an art critic, I used to ask painters or sculptors the same set of questions, including things like:

"Why did you use this type of material?"
"Does the title of the piece have any significance?"
"When you were painting it, what did it mean to you?"
"What do you hope the audience will get out of it?"
"Are they supposed to enjoy it, or how do you want them to receive it?"

In my art classes, they used to tell us that any impression a viewer took from a piece or formed about a piece was probably not what the artist intended, but the viewer's impression of the piece was still valid because, like it or not, a piece immediately could lose any intended relevance at the moment someone new looks at it.

The artist's pet project, once it's presented to anyone, then belongs to "everyone," and the artist loses his say over what the piece "is." Thus, your extremely personal, brilliant painting exploring the darkness that exists within all of mankind becomes "random scribbling that could be done by a kid in grade school" to Average Joe Smith, and people might find his opinion just as true as yours. That's why I always asked both questions in an interview with an artist, "What did you mean?" and "How will they take it?" The answers can be vastly different.

When asked for what makes art "good," I used to tell people that, to me, art was passion practically (or tangibly) applied. And, from that, "good art" was not something that was pretty, but it was something that best communicated its intended message or gathered more meaning the more it was displayed. Art's quality is subjective and debatable, and, to me, it's always been fun to hear two incredibly smart people come at the same piece with vastly different opinions about it. Both of their opinions carry weight and should.



I can't explain, for instance, why the Rothko works at the Tate Modern made me cry. Rothko himself might've just been doing paintings of rectangles just to be pretentious or to do something funny. What you take away from art, in the end, is all that matters.

Last night, at my first writing class of the new session, I didn't anticipate all the new students who would be there, and I didn't bring enough copies of "Circle" to distribute. So that I wouldn't have to wait a week, I offered to read it aloud at the end of class, and Sarah, the professor, told me that would be fine. But then, in talking to me, she realized that I'd read the extremely personal, harrowing piece before to audiences. Sarah thought that it would come off as a "performance," that we would lose the ability to judge the piece on its own merit if I read it, so she did something else with "Circle," which is my baby.

She had someone else in the class read it aloud.

Actually, well, Sarah said that I had a tendency to "perform," which is true, so my friend Lynda (who'd read it before) came and ripped the manuscript out of my hand AND started to read the first sentence to the class.

I was not prepared.

"No ...," I protested aloud, interrupting Lynda. "Don't."

This belongs to me, I thought. This is my childhood. This is my monologue. Someone reading it won't know how to deal with the twist it takes.

"Is this too much?" Sarah asked me, offering for Lynda to stop.

"Not. This. Piece," I said at first.

But, I reasoned, I was already going to hand it out to everyone, and they were going to read it. And it's on the blog for the world to read, already. If "Circle" is going to work at all or if any of my writings are going to work at all, they're going to have to stand on their own, without me there to sell them.

So, in the next moment, I said, "Have Wade read it."

My friend Wade, aside from being a man (which is sorta necessary for "Circle," I thought), also used to be an actor. If I couldn't read it myself, maybe he would know how to sell the piece.

Wade started to read my essay on my place of solace from childhood sexual abuse to this group of my strangers and acquaintances in front of me, and I sat with another copy, trying to hide my face, doing my best to read along while reminding myself that I was going to have them read it anyway.

At first, oh God, oh God, it was horrible for me. This was going to alienate my new class before they even get to know me (though, of course, I didn't have a problem with that - and it was going to happen anyway when they did read it). So, a couple seconds into it, though, I just decided to let it happen because art, if it's good, can't just belong to the artist alone.

If "Circle" worked without me reading it, then it would really work.

I read along, hearing Wade trip over my brief, choppy sentences and hearing him repeat some of my mundane phrases over and over. He did his best over my quoted, ironic words. I cringed when he hit the "plot twist" involving the sexual abuse I ran from as a kid, how I'd stand in that circle in my hometown and scream. I heard him read the whole piece, and I kept thinking, "It's not working. It's not working."

Then, it was over. And Sarah called it brilliant, saying I had a unique style. She told other writers not to be intimidated by me, for my voice was unique.

She then chuckled, saying that she found it hard to believe that the only reason it was read was because I didn't bring enough copies.

And, then, I nervously said, "Oh well, as he read it, some of the modifiers were hard for him to follow, and the flow doesn't work as well as it could. And there are parts in it that really don't work. The piece could be much better."

Someone told me that hearing Wade speak of my disability as his own was jarring to hear, so I might want to excise that, lest it trip up readers not familiar with me.

Wade then stood up, handed me the copy of my essay, put his hand on my shoulder and said to me, "Damn, you've got balls, bringing that and having me read it."

I told him that it helped me to hear him read it, for it helped me find out the piece was flawed, something I never would've known if I'd read it myself.

Other people I knew came up and told me that "Circle" was good. And, of course, some strangers looked at me like I was insane and made a beat for the door.

But this one new student - a former English teacher - approached me and said something really touching.

"For me, it was an oak tree in my parents' backyard - not a circle - but it was where I went," she said. Then she hugged me.

I offered her one of the copies of "Circle" I had. Then, other people came up and got a copy from me. I hope some people mark it up, for I want it to be really, really good.

Last night was an extremely difficult experience, and I became a better writer because of it.

I remembered that art is effective if its meaning holds; art is effective if its meaning grows.

Like I shop from the Sears & Roebuck catalog.

My aunt, seeing me with my grandfather's hat on, decided to snap this photo after the rehearsal dinner.

My friends have all e-mailed me comments upon seeing it, including, "You look like Mickey Rooney from LOVE FINDS ANDY HARDY."

Black told me that I look like an old, drunken reporter, I'm guessing, because my nose is all red.

I was hoping, when it was taken, that this photo would be all cool. Instead, um, I'm not sure what to think of it.

Tryin' to do right by you all night, Annette.

I can't write a damn thing these days. I sit down at my laptop, and nothing happens. Nothing at all. Blank page. When I try, I end up looking through the 2 million songs I've loaded on RealPlayer instead, and my attempt at writing instead becomes this game of finding the best background music for a round of arcade pinball.

I suck. I've been moping for weeks, reading short stories, studying other authors' writing styles and dealing with this stupid-ass breakup anxiety (though it's not like the relationship was that long, honestly). I thought I could maybe come up with a good story. But nothing's happened. I'm keeping my apartment tidy, and I'm trying to keep my finances in line.

Still, when I want to write, all I get is a blank page and frustration. I'm here at a friend's house now, and we're looking over my "portfolio" of essays - and I can't find any shit that I think would be worth a damn. No essays are here that work out of context.

When I was in my damn relationship, I didn't write. I thought it was because I was so occupied and *in love* that it was excusable, that writing would happen when it was supposed to.

Now I'm out of my relationship, and I've got loads of time. I'm still not writing.

I've had experiences I could draw from. My brother's Catholic wedding, held on the day the Pope died, was filled with tiny, ironic situations - like my mother and stepmother working together to get dressed or me catching the bridal garter.

With the breakup, you'd think I could write a nice murder story, something ridiculously angry and violent. (After reading Roald Dahl, I tried to visualize for a story what it would be like to beat my stepfather's head in with a hammer and leave him in the basement crawlspace at my mom's house. But there was no plot there, just anger.)

I was hoping for a nice, dark piece - something frustrated and sexual and angry.

The second wave of my writing class begins tomorrow, and I have nothing to show from this interim of weeks. I have nothing to bring to class tomorrow, and I really wanted to be able to show them something impressive.

Instead, this class might turn out like the last class, where I mostly showed them old essays and didn't produce anything new.

I'm writing this to change that. I'm writing this to write something.

The only damn thing I'm good at is talking about myself.

I want to lock it all up in my pocket. It's my bar of chocolate.

No matter how much I thought I might be disappointed by two films coming out soon, the humor and look of the ads for both "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" and "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" have me really, really eager to see them.

"Charlie," in particular, looks like wicked fun.



I loved those Roald Dahl books when I was a kid, and I've been reading some of his short stories lately. I love how violent and dark he wasn't afraid to get. I mean, most of the kids in "Charlie" ended up either horribly deformed or dangerously close to death by the end of that book, and the original movie didn't disappoint in leaving them that way. It looks like the second one will certainly follow suit.

Looking through some images of the movie, I saw that they've reinstated the squirrel nut-sorting room, which is where Veruca gets hers in the book. It gives me hope for the movie.

I wonder if Tim Burton's going to let us see Mike Teevee after he's been subjected to Wonka's taffy pull. The other movie avoided that, for it sounded gruesome. I hope they do it. I hope they do it.

(The ads for "Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith" look great, too, but I've seen too many of those great-looking ads turn into disappointing films to hold out much hope for George Lucas. I'm keeping my expectations low, and I hope to be pleasantly surprised when I see it ... at midnight on opening night.)

My mom in the sky with diamonds.

My mom told me that our family friend had managed to get a good picture of me dancing with my mother at the reception. She said she would e-mail it to me, and I thought, "Hey cool, I can put a photo of me and my mom on the blog!"

So she sent me this e-mail with, like, 50 photos in it, and I went through all of them looking for a photo of the two of us.

Eventually, I realized that she's talking about this one.



So I called her up and said, "Um, we're in the background of the shot on the right-hand side, and all you can see is the back of my head."

"What do you mean?" she asked me, incredulously. "You can see a whole side of your face."

"It's my ear," I said.

"I'm sorry you don't like the photo," she said. "I thought it was nice."

"I thought it was going to be a photo of us," I said. "It's a photo of two other people, and we're in the background. You made it sound like it was a photo of us."

Her voice shifted into a serious tone.

"I didn't even notice the other people in the photo," she said. "I only saw us."

When she said that, I remembered how my mother can sometimes be. She was always able to look right at something and see only what she wanted to.

I remember once we were discussing what her favorite music was when she was a kid.

"I liked the Beatles," she said.

"What about the Rolling Stones?" I asked her.

"Oh, they were nothing but a bunch of drug addicts," she said.

"Um, so were the Beatles," I said.

"They WERE NOT," she said angrily, as though I'd just spit upon Jesus.

"Um, lots of their songs were about drugs, Mom."

"Name one," she said.

"LUCY IN THE SKY WITH DIAMONDS?" I asked.

"That's not about drugs," she said.

"Yes it is," I argued.

"No, it's NOT."

"Look at the lyrics," I told her. "'Picture yourself on a boat on a river with tangerine trees and marmalade skies,' Even the title spells out LSD. Mom, what did you THINK it was about?"

"I just thought it was a nonsense song," she said innocently.

And she was serious. When she found out from me that the Beatles had used drugs, it was as though I'd destroyed her entire childhood.

Denial is, in some ways, her guiding force.

She was shocked - SHOCKED! - over finding out I was gay while I was in college, even though she purchased me She-Ra dolls when I was a child, sang along as I memorized the songs of "West Side Story" in middle school ... and heard me gush over the two-disc set of "Barbra: The Concert" when I was in high school.

At one point, she actually swore our family wasn't the least bit dysfunctional, even though she was there while my stepfather called me names, while I went into therapy, while my brother Dan stopped speaking to any of us for years and while we all grew to despise one another.

Because of her denial and in spite of it, I love my mom. She's sweet.

How telling is it that, in her eyes, the above photo is a picture of us?

Elsewhere on Earth ...

Reports from Lupo and Miss Gibson suggest that their meeting at the Tate Modern in London went exceedingly well. Lupo apparently presented Miss Gibson with some Butterfinger bars from "me" to give her some of her favorite American treats, which she cannot find in London.

Shortly after arriving at my office today, I got this e-mail from her:

loved the butterfingers - you're very sweet to remember. as for Lupo -
well he's just fab, isn't he?? what a sweetie

The weather was dreary, but Lupo says he still got to look out over St. Paul's Cathedral.

Lupo wrote in an e-mail:

Glad the wedding went well...I'll have emo at my wedding, so we can dance then.

Carrie is so lovely & smart -- thoroughly enjoyed our afternoon. Someday we'll
all hang out together, which will no doubt be a fantastic time. I'm looking
forward to it.

At the conference, a guy who wrote a paper on Stifler quoted me in his
presentation. It's very strange to hear your name like that (and he said
Jonathan, which made it even more odd).

I'm going to see 'The Mousetrap' tonight and then heading home tomorrow am.

It's funny how, before today, they only knew each other through my blog.

The three of us need to hang out sometime, whenever we can tie together our individual ends of the earth.

Wedding bell blues.

* I was in the park with Solenn yesterday. Solenn and I
walked around for about four hours, then lay on a grassy hill and
watched people. Then we had margaritas at Zocalo. Really good day.

* When you wake up at 1 p.m. the day after your brother's wedding
reception to find that you ACTUALLY slept until 2 p.m. the day after
your brother's wedding, you get really, really pissed over Daylight
Saving Time.

* It's fun to watch people scramble to change the wording of certain
blessings when the Pope dies on the day of your brother's Catholic
wedding. "No, you can't say 'To our Holy Father on Earth ...' like you
did at the rehearsal. There won't be a new Pope for a couple weeks."

* My overwhelmingly Republican aunt asked when she was going to meet
my boyfriend Ash, then referred to herself as a modern woman with an
open mind. It was sweet, except that I had to tell her (and all my
cousins) that we'd broken up. I hope that's not the only time they'll
be open to meeting my hypothetical boyfriends, for I eventually should
introduce one of them. My aunt got the photo of Ash from my mom, and
she sent it to her daughters.

* My grandpa and his wife, on the other hand, called my father
"Benjie," even though my dad's 30 years older than me and bald. They
told me it was because Dad was wearing glasses, and they thought I
did, too.

* Conversation between me and Grandpa at the rehearsal dinner, wherein
he manages to ask me a dreaded question AND pick on my stepfather
(whom Grandpa despises) while sitting next to him:
GRANDPA: "So when are you going to get serious about someone?"
ME: "Um, never."
GRANDPA (eyeing my stepdad): "But Jerry will build you a house when
you get married. He does it for everyone."
ME: "Um, I don't want to live around here."

* I sorta caught the garter at the wedding reception. But there was a
scam involved in getting it to me. Samantha, my brother Dan's wife,
went to UGA - same as me. My brother went to Georgia Tech. So, during
her wedding, Samantha wore two garters: one for UGA, the other for
Georgia Tech. So, when Dan removed the garter, Samantha said it would
determine where their kids went to college. There were five total
single men at the wedding, and four of them (including the hot,
straight one with the fauxhawk) went to Tech. So the UGA garter went
to me once selected, for I was the only single Bulldog. All the Tech
guys walked away from it.

* I hope no one ever finds out that, after my sixth glass of white
wine, I idiotically asked the mother of the bride about their
estranged son. Her reply was, "Weddings like this bring people
together." And I said, "It's all right. There are people here that I'm
not speaking to ... Wait, I'm bringing the wrong vibe into this." No
one seemed bothered, but, honestly, WHAT IN THE HELL WAS I
THINKING???? (Yeah, I got so stupid I dialed Ash up a couple times
this weekend. It was like the "drunk dialing" scene in SIDEWAYS. Dumb,
dumb, dumb. He never answered his phone nor returned my calls. Smart
man.)

* My conservative Republican aunt and uncle laughed out loud when I
said my cool aunt's huge, throwback hairdo made her "look like an
astronaut's wife." I fear I'm betraying the cool people with my big
mouth.

* I wanted to slow dance with my stepmother, who looked phenomenal,
but they never stopped playing hip-hop, the "Cha Cha" slide and Jimmy
Buffett. I was in an emo mood, so I sat in a chair the last half of
the evening and sulked.

* One of the bridesmaids, I think, believes I hit on her when I walked
up to her on the dancefloor and said there should be more
representatives of "Y chromosome" dancing. Frankly, I just wanted to
find another gay man in the room. There must've been one ...
somewhere.

* The daughter of one of my father's friends came to the wedding with
her parents. At the start of the reception, she wanted to talk to me
about fiction writing, so I asked her to dance because no one was
dancing. She gave me her e-mail address. I think she has some sort of
crush on me now.

* My brother hugged me four times. His new wife bemoaned the fact that
we didn't talk at the reception when I said goodbye to her. She looked
completely amazing, of course. (I hope she never finds out what I
asked her mother about. Never, ever. Hopefully, her mother was having
cocktails and forgot all about the stupid thing I asked her. God, what
was I thinking?)

* I'm in wedding photos. I was invited to take part in the ceremony at
the last minute. They asked me to seat my mother and stepgrandmother,
which I happily did. Everyone said I looked great.

In remembrance of me.

* Sometimes I miss Ash. Sometimes I miss him a lot. The apartment's starting to get messier, and I need to vacuum it. My clean apartment, though, was never my motivation for being in the relationship. I was in the relationship because I love him. Yes, I love him totally. It never would've worked, I fear, but I love him.
* This week, it's my fifth anniversary of leaving CNN. A year ago, I was departing for London to see Miss Gibson, and I want to go back there. I want that almost as much as I want to live with the perspective I had when I was there.
* My brother Dan gets married on Saturday. Many members of my family (the ones I like) are flying in. It should be, once it settles, a great party. I can't help but think about how I'm the only one of my cousins or brothers who'll never marry, at least traditionally. I'm not unhappy with that choice, nor should I be, but it's there in front of me. It makes sense to acknowledge it when it's right there. Of course, I would've preferred to have Ash alongside me this week, but it wasn't up to me. Still, my cousin Holly wanted to meet him.
* Five years since CNN seems like an awfully big milestone. The jobs I chose upon getting fired are the jobs I still have. The person I thought I was is not the person I am, and that's different. It's been five years since I was a traditional journalist. Is that good or bad?
* Lupo's going to London this week for a film studies conference, and Miss Gibson, whom he has not met before, is meeting him for drinks at the Tate Modern. I hope the weather's nice for them. I hope they toast to me from the balcony of the member's lounge, looking out over the Thames at St. Paul's Cathedral. I hope they go to the dimly lit room with all the Rothko paintings. Or to that grand, beautiful mobile with the single lightbulb at its center, if that's still on display. (I suppose they could also pay tribute to me by going to Boots Pharmacy and inquiring about dentistry, going to Shoreditch to find "street art" or asking someone for the time in front of Big Ben, but the Tate was my favorite.)

Back to the closet.

Went to my mom's yesterday, where I had to hear my stepdad complain about the wedding, whine about why he can't wear jeans to the rehearsal dinner and then bitch about losing a lighter.

Then, we went to eat at the former PoFolks, where my mom asked me about my taxes, my work performance and whether my apartment was still clean.

After that, we headed home, and my stepdad jumped out of the car as soon as we arrived at the house. My mom used this opportunity to linger for a moment, using the rain as an excuse, to ask me in a whisper if Ash and I were "still broken up."

I told her yes, laughed, and then she asked me if I was coming back inside the house.

I told her no.

What I said happened.

My mother called me at my office this morning.

My mother: "So why'd you dump him?"
Me: "That's not exactly what I said happened."
My mother: "You said 'We broke up.'"
Me: "Yes."
My mother: "So he dumped you!"
Me laughing.
My mother: "Did you put clean clothes on the dirty ones again?"
Me: "No."
My mother: "So what happened?"
Me: "Um."
My mother: "OK, we'll talk about it later. At least you're in good spirits about it."
Me: "Yeah."

(Phone clicks.)

The most elusive special feature.

Last night, I borrowed Larry and David's copy of the special edition of "Memento," to see if I could find the hidden feature that allowed you to play the movie in chronological order.



The whole bonus disc plays like a psych ward quiz, and I had to get to the right question of the quiz in order to access the feature. After answering questions for maybe 20 minutes, trying to figure out the right pattern, the disc sent me to a question where I had to put four illustrations in chronological order. Instead of doing that, I put the images backward, following a tip from a friend of mine.

Then, the end credits of "Memento" started up, and they rolled backward up my television screen.

Late-night desertion.

Ash was "inspired" by sex and caffeine two nights ago to leave my
apartment at 3 a.m., while I was asleep, and head to his office to do
some work. He changed the voicemail there and came up with a handy
checklist that will help the office manage its caseload.

I woke up at 6:50 a.m. with a stomachache, trying to find my
boyfriend, but he was gone.

I called his cell, and I didn't get an answer. I called his office,
heard the changed voicemail message, assumed he was there and idiotically left a
message for him in the general mailbox. I figured he'd get it before his two co-workers did.

Something like, "It's early, early in the morning, and you were gone.
I don't know where you are. I just woke up, and the voicemail is
changed, sweetie. It sounds really good. I hope you're all right."

At 10 a.m., one of his co-workers got the message and gave it to him
while snickering.

Bygones.

I knew Tray in college. We both worked for the newspaper. He's a good writer and artist. (You can still see his illustrations in Creative Loafing, though he's apparently New York-based.) Though I didn't anticipate becoming one, I'm a regular reader of his, and he deserves notice.

Check his site out.

Short notes on short stories.

- My boyfriend Ash tried to leave me this week because, among other things, I left two pairs of clean pants atop a basket of dirty clothes. He freaked over it, leaving the apartment because he didn't want to live his entire life as my therapist, mother and/or slave. (I wasn't home when he came to these decisions, and I found out about these decisions over the phone, while I was at dinner at my boss's house.) The next day, he returned to the apartment to tell me he'd made a rash decision. We went to see a movie about a wife abandoned by her husband. Things are better, but I still haven't given him back his key.

- My mom told me that I shouldn't mess things up with Ash like that. She said, "Mess up again, Benjie, and you'll end up doing your own laundry. You watch."

- I've been reading short stories like crazy, and I've come to the same conclusion of millions of other readers. John Cheever is a mad genius. I wish I could write like that.

- Vic apparently quit or lost her job this week, though I'm not sure which. I didn't know about her job situation until yesterday. I thought she'd just taken some time off because one of her best friends is in the hospital.

- Kacoon, five months pregnant, is leaving her job on Friday. When Ash met her this weekend, he brought her a box of Do-Si-Dos to immediately get on her good side.

- That Fulton County Courthouse shooting completely freaked me out over the weekend, but then the inspirational Christian witness story that came out of it just annoyed the hell out of me. It turned a horrifying incident into a Lifetime or PAX TV-movie.

- Last week, I printed out a couple short stories before heading to AID Atlanta for routine testing. They used to actually let you sit in the waiting room, but now they've moved the waiting area out into this narrow hallway. The only thing to read there now are pamphlets on abstinence and how to be an HIV-positive mom. I brought along stories printed from here. As people realized what Ash and I were reading, they asked for copies of the stories. (I tried to hand this one cute guy a pamphlet on abstinence instead, and he said, "It's too late for that." So I gave him something by Guy de Maupassant instead.) The scene eventually erupted into a dialogue about what we'd read and liked, how the whole waiting room experience made us feel, how much the Hawks suck and what we liked about living in Atlanta. I felt like Phil Donahue. Since that day, Ash will mention, at random, how much "Willa Cather rocks."

Jump around.

This has to be the oddest local attraction I've ever heard of. Has any one of you been to this?

This just screams "Day Trip."

When Ash's Parents Met Me: A Play.

Here's a rough timeline of how my visit to Ash's childhood home went:
_____

3:30 last Saturday at my apartment:

ASH: Hey, it's my cousin's 50th birthday party, and I was invited to it by e-mail weeks ago but forgot about it. Would you like to come with me?
ME: Sure, when is it?
ASH: I'm supposed to be there at 4.
ME (with a look of panic on my face): Um, let me get ready ...

4:30 on Saturday at Ash's parents' house:

ASH: Hi Mom, sorry we're late.
ASH MOM: That's fine. Is this a new roommate?
ASH: No, this is my friend Benjie. I've known him forever. We met in college.
ASH MOM: Hi, what was your name?
ME: Benjie. Sorry we're late.
(ASH MOM smiles.)

4:45 on Saturday in Ash's parents' kitchen:

ASH: Dad, this is my friend Benjie.
ASH DAD: Oh ... hi ....
(ASH DAD looks at ME, trying to decipher what is going on.)

5:15 on Saturday:

ME: Pardon me, sir. Where is the garbage can?
(ASH DAD steps away from the counter, uses his foot to open the garbage disposal and looks at ME.)
ME: Thank you.

5:30 on Saturday:

ASH: Is that punch?
ASH DAD: Sorta. It's pretty good.
ASH: It looks gross.
ME: They mix lime sherbet and soda. It's good.
ASH DAD: Yeah.
(ASH DAD glares at ME. ME recognizes the look as the same one his own father gave ASH at the Super Bowl Party.)

5:35 on Saturday:

ME: I think your father hates me.
ASH: Oh, yeah, well, he hates everybody.

5:45 on Saturday:

ME meets ASH BROTHER, ASH's thirtysomething, computer-addicted, video-game-playing, Anime-obsessed, DVD-collecting older brother, when he looks away from the giant video screen in his bedroom and hits pause on his joystick, noticing a stranger in his room.

ASH BRO: WHO ARE YOU???
ASH: This is my friend Benjie.
ME (intentionally ignoring formality): Oh my God, I love your DVD collection. Do you have all the Mizayaki? (ASH BRO and ME talk for 10 minutes about Anime. ME offers ASH BRO a Gmail account, which he accepts.)

5:55 on Saturday:

ME meets ASH SISTER, ASH's pretty, smart 18-year-old sister, adopted from India, but they don't get to talk much.

5:58 on Saturday:

ASH MOM says goodbye to ME and ASH. ASH MOM tells ME to call her by her first name and smiles.

Lust, desire and Earth, Wind & Fire

I'm tired after hanging out with Ash - for those of you who don't know, he's my personal Yoko Ono - and Vic at Wal-mart last night, reading the backs of cheap romance novels with our voices extra breathy.

Vic's particularly good at that. She'll find ones where characters are named "Ridge" and "Lynetta" or something. One of them is usually a vampire. The other is a shapely truck stop waitress. And the big challenge to them will be whether to sacrifice eternal life for fiery desire or something.

Ash and Vic got along well. He helped her pick out a shade of nail polish.

We also spent some time at Waffle House, where we had hash browns and played Hangman. I almost stumped everyone by making them guess "EQUUS," but Ash figured it before the final body part was added.

The jukebox at the Waffle House didn't have Patsy Cline's "Crazy" on it. Instead, we played Matchbox Twenty and Earth, Wind & Fire.

The night started at the Barnes & Noble near Gwinnett Place, midway between our homes, where I read the first chapter of Marilynne Robinson's "Gilead." It was excellent.

Culture club.

Since I've not written extensively on the blog in a while, I should give you a new look at the sort of pop culture intake I've been doing lately, so those of you who look to me for salesman-like recommendations can update your shopping lists.



Author Marilynne Robinson, an instructor at the Iowa Writer's Workshop, is coming to the Margaret Mitchell House in March to sign her latest book, Gilead, and I'm really excited about it. "Housekeeping" was released 22 years ago, and it deals with two girls raised by eccentric relatives, and I've had customers in my store who raved about it.



I never watched "Murder One" when it first came on the air in, I think, 1995, but I heard a lot about the premise of following one murder mystery throughout an entire season. Getting it on DVD, I found that the regular cast features the great Patricia Clarkson, Dylan Baker and, most notably, Stanley Tucci. It's a bit dated now, though it was influential at the time, and the mystery still works. I recommend it.

Getting feedback.

Last night, having two pieces reviewed by my writing class, I was pleasantly surprised. One piece, I knew, had major, major flaws. The other one was good enough, but it could've been stronger.

I knew that going into the class.

The class picked up the very same feedback, gave me suggestions on how to approach the flawed piece so that it had more life and energy and gave me a better ending to the one I thought merely "good enough."

It was really useful.

This Sunday, who will win?

You have been invited to join rileymccarthy's Private Group in Yahoo! Movies Oscar Pick'em.

In order to join the group, just go to the game front page and click on the "Sign Up" button to create a team. After completing registration, or if you already have a team, click the "Create or Join Group" button and follow the path to join an existing private group. Then, when prompted, enter the following information...

Group ID#: 416
Password: aviator

Darkly.

This is a still from Richard Linklater's upcoming film, "A Scanner Darkly," starring Keanu Reeves and Winona Ryder. The movie, a thriller based upon Philip K. Dick's creepy sci-fi novel about twisted drug addiction, is to be animated like "Waking Life," which should add an interesting touch to the narrative and look to the film.

I like Linklater. I like Dick.

So this should be awesome.

Don't come around here no more?

Last night, after sitting at my laptop to outline a potential story and instead playing a couple dozen games of computer pinball, I realized that I have a sort of writer's block that's new to me.

All my best essays, my most profound and deep (yes, I find my own essays profound and deep), have been written while I was depressed, in a mild funk or just experiencing a general malaise. "Circle," for instance, is just about the darkest I've ever gone.

An essay I wrote for my writing class, which started a couple weeks ago, dealt with my teenage thoughts of suicide, and it was met with all sorts of praise.

When I'm happy, I feel like the quality's not there in my writing. When I try to branch out and write fiction (which I've been trying to focus my attention on for the weeks that I've been gone from here), I feel like the words aren't coming because they're not supposed to come that way. When I write fiction, I feel out-of-my-element. I feel like a fake.

It's not yet working the way I want it to work. I need to find the way to make it work.

Of course, there's something else going on.

I haven't felt like writing much lately. I haven't felt like bitching much lately. I haven't felt like using the blog to vent about personal slights and injustices and bitter, little observations. I haven't had fun Kacoon stories to tell. I haven't had to worry about never finding love or talk about how bad being alone on Valentine's Day is.

Because I'm in love. Really in love. Really, really, really in love. Like Cupid-knocked-me-upside-the-head in love. I'm secure enough to know that this relationship is real and serious. And I'm all in it. I'm all with the flower-buying. The afternoon naps. The cozy snuggling. The saccharine silliness.

Yesterday, I bought him veggie burgers.

Then, eager to do something for us in my clean kitchen, I made a chocolate layer cake. Devil's food. I didn't know how to properly layer it, so the top layer fell apart while I was frosting it. The cake looks like it exploded.

I called him about it, and we laughed.

Those of you in-the-know know about my relationship already. I don't really want to talk about it here, for I like the idea that I have something private, something that belongs to me.

Besides, I have more than myself to consider in regard to my relationship, so I'm going to do that.

I love him. I love him terrible. I love, love, love him.

But, beyond my happiness, I sorta have an irksome new lesson to learn.

How can I - the supposed former perpetual victim drowning in his own issues - write now that I'm happy?

I can't and won't sacrifice my happiness. Maybe, though, I can write around it.

So, to keep up with the writing and to keep up with "my voice," I'm going to use the blog as a tool. It'll help me keep up with the writing practice, anyway.

When life takes hold.

I can't tell you guys exactly where my head is. I don't really want to do so, and I realize that no one's really asking me to do so.

As I said earlier, I'm on hiatus. I don't know for how long. Maybe a long time. Maybe I'll check in on occasion.

Life is changing, and I'm going with it.

In the meantime, feel free to check on the blogs at the sidebar, or you could read some of my older essays.

I don't know when I'll be back. What started off as a short break has grown into something else entirely. I'm learning the value of keeping things to myself.

As you've seen, I will check in sporadically to see what's going on or to look at the counter, though I don't know if anyone ever actually reads this site anymore.

This isn't goodbye. Things have just changed so much since even New Year's. I'm working on projects that take me away from here. And I'm hanging out with a whole new set of people.

Life is good. Really, really good.

While I'm in the middle of it, though, I don't want to share it. I just want for it to be as good as it is for as long as it can be.

This blog has done a lot for me. It helped me understand myself better. It helped me cope with problems that I was having. And, personally, it helped me to appreciate my trip to London more. Those entries are, I think, my personal favorites.

Anyway, e-mail me. I'm still around.

See you later.