Take notice.

The last time that I took a week off of work, it was April 2004, when I went to London. Yes, that long ago. The fact that I never took any vacation time actually became a running joke around my office amongst my office full of co-workers, only two of whom I would consider even remotely a friend. The reason I never took any vacation time until now was because I was always in trouble at work and in fear that I was going to lose my job. Last year, I was pulled into several disciplinary meetings. These co-workers who aren't my friends all treat me like I'm a freak alien. Last year, one of them yelled at me in front of a supervisor that I never do any work, which was not true.

In April of this year, I won an award from my boss and supervisor for "Most Improved Performance 2006," which I'm actually proud of. But I also realize that the award symbolizes bad things in addition to good ones. Yes, I have a better reputation now amongst my co-workers. But I've also spent the last year refocusing on how to do a job I fucking despise.

I stopped blogging to become a responsible adult who took his job seriously. It was necessary. I was a bad employee. Now, I'm not. But, Jesus Christ, my job fucking sucks. Most of the people in that goddamn cubicle farm are horrid. And I'm still going to stand apart from them and be considered a weirdo held to a different standard from other workers because I'm not a God-fearing black female over 35 with two children and a mortgage payment.

No, I'm a man with bad legs who works 60 hours a week at two jobs and rarely sees his own apartment. I see too many movies. I don't have a spouse, a boyfriend, kids or any other sorts of dependents. I turn 31 on Thursday.

God, I want another life. But this is my life. And it's mostly a fine life. I'm happy, even though I feel trapped and in a rut for much of it.

I'm listening to Queen's "I Want to Break Free" right now. Surely, that's influencing my theme.

I figured I'd blog again since the blog posts I wrote during my last vacation are among my best. But I'm not going anywhere for my vacation this time. I don't really have the funds. I'm staying home. I'm celebrating a birthday. I thought I might try and write something. My legs hurt. I'm exhausted. The ad valorem tax on my Yaris made the price of my car tag renewal so high that I winced when I paid it. (I was thinking about finding sex this week. Instead, I feel like got fucked by the county tax office. I guess that's progress.)

Adulthood sucks. Change would be good. Time to make change would be a luxury. It's my first week off in years, and I don't know which would be a more worthwhile way to spend time. Should I relax for once, or should I try to write a story and find a new job?

I let myself get like this. I feel like crying.



I've gotten in the habit of reading comic books. It started when I bought the first issue of the BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER "Season Eight" comics. Oxford Comics, the best comic store in the state, is right around the corner from my apartment. I discovered that the price of individual comics versus the entertainment value they provide me on a lunch break made the purchase more than worthwhile.

Call me a geek if you want. Michael Chabon likes comics, and, if it's good enough for an author like him, it's good enough for me.

I've found a lot of fun stuff. Alan Moore's WATCHMEN is my favorite so far. Soon I'm going to retry Neil Gaiman's SANDMAN, which I tried to read years ago. I've also jumped into Frank Miller's ALL-STAR BATMAN AND ROBIN THE BOY WONDER, but not much has happened in the seven issues that've been released of that so far. ALL-STAR SUPERMAN, in comparison, was much better. BATMAN: THE LONG HALLOWEEN, recommended by a friend who saw me reading WATCHMEN, was also a good read. Tonight, I picked up EX MACHINA and Y: THE LAST MAN, for author Maria Dahvana Headley recommended the work of Brian K. Vaughan.

And I guess I've been watching SMALLVILLE on DVD.



Taking advantage of a sale at the bookstore, I bought the following DVDs: TOTAL RECALL, TERMINATOR 2, THE BOURNE IDENTITY and THE BOURNE SUPREMACY. I don't know what came over me, but this actionfest strikes me as one of the better purchases I've ever made.

Marlan, a manager at the bookstore, saw my shopping bag.

"Man, that's a great movie night," Marlan said. And he usually looks at me like I'm a weirdo from Mars.

Dude, speaking of Mars, TOTAL RECALL is a fucking great movie. Midget prostitutes with machine guns, a three-breasted hooker, bugged-out eyes, blue sky on Mars, a guy with a Chucky-lookalike Martian mutant bursting out of his stomach, countless Schwarzenegger one-liners and the great, great Sharon Stone.



SPIDER-MAN 3 was a bad movie. WAITRESS was good. CRAZY LOVE was great. ONCE was pretty damn good for what it was. PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: AT WORLD'S END was mostly all right. SHREK THE THIRD was pointless and kinda tired. KNOCKED UP fucking ruled, and I hope those of you who enjoyed it go buy FREAKS AND GEEKS on DVD.



I still take improv classes at Dad's Garage. Every one of my skits is a little bit creepy. I'm trying to work on that. The classes are fun, though.

And I was in a show called BRAWL a couple weeks ago. I played a character named Walker. Walker used a walker. In my first scene, I was onstage with a mostly naked man. We were both wrapped in toilet paper "bandages." At the end of the show, my spine was ripped out during a pro wrestling match, and I fell over dead. A group of my friends were in the front row. It was interesting.

Next time I'm onstage, I'll know not to carry a walker with me. And I won't restrict my peripheral vision by wrapping my head in toilet paper. And I'll know how to better secure my detachable spine.

No, I don't have any photos of that. I wish I did.

* * * * * * * * * *

OK, that's enough for now.

Random photos that I lost when I switched FTP servers.

Vonnegut's dead.

Why have I not read any Kurt Vonnegut? I own some.

This American Life.

I've developed a crush on Ira Glass, even though I realize I'm a latecomer to this specific party, but I'm now a subscriber to the THIS AMERICAN LIFE podcast on iTunes. The only time that I'd regularly listened to NPR prior to this was every other week in the waiting room of my therapist's office.

But, reading about the new television show on Showtime, I got this collection of THIS AMERICAN LIFE hits on CD, and I've very quickly fallen in love with Ira Glass and the format of his show, devoted to storytelling and the reading of essays. (Of course I would fall in love with such a show.)

I wish I could write like those people do, and I want to perform the way that they do.

I'm taking a week off in June - the week of my birthday, actually - to work on some projects that I've been batting around my head for a bit now. Last time I took a week off for vacation, I wrote a lot. (Granted, I went to London and had new inspiration everyday.)

But, with this vacation, I'm staying in town. And, hopefully, I'll be just as inspired to work.

An Atkins dieter's dream.

Hey everyone!!! There's a reason why I'm using more exclamation points than a teenage girl signing a high school yearbook!!!

Dad's Garage, the Atlanta non-profit improv theater where I take classes and see shows every week, is having its annual fundraiser on Saturday, beginning at 2 but available to visit all afternoon, and I am inviting - wait, begging - my friends to all show up at the Elizabeth Street-North Highland location to partake in the festivities. The benefit's been called BaconFest, and it's apparently a gigantic, loving tribute to the renowned art of eating bacon and drinking beer. And there are bands. And a silent auction. And a big, big improv show that night.

If you've never been to Dad's, it seems like a lovely way to introduce yourself to the great group of people there. If you enjoy and appreciate Dad's, it seems like a fun way to pay your respects. If you like me, come see what I've been doing with my available free time. If you like comedy or like improv and have never heard of Dad's Garage before, by all means, you must show up. If you just want a lot of bacon, apparently, they've got the hook-up.

Come on, one and all, and meet several stars from your favorite Georgia Lottery commercials! Meet people who've done some voiceover work for the Cartoon Network! Meet several people from puppet shows I talked about years ago on my blog! The stars of MURDER, SHE IMPROVISED! Meet people who are teaching me how to be more random and wacky! See the comedy! Enjoy the pork!

I'm off Saturday and intend to celebrate. Give me a call if you want to meet up there or something.

You guys, this would really, really help my favorite theater. (I'm there all the time. Seriously. Ask them.) It's a really good cause. These people do good work.

To buy tickets or donate money to the fundraiser, click here.


________________________

Here's the official Dad's Garage notice:
____________________________

BaconFest is back and it's shaping up to be more bacon-ee than ever before! So, if you like the sound of a sizzlin' skillet, and the feel of a frosty mug in your hand (because you can't have bacon without beer) - then join us on Saturday, March 31st from 2-10pm.

BaconFest is our annual fundraiser (yep, Dad's Garage is a Non-Profit company), but there won't be any black ties or ball gowns here, just a whole bunch of bacon and fun! In fact, we'll be cooking up a whole bunch of festivities - including bodacious bands, greasy games, porky prizes, a succulent silent auction, and of course - an awesome improv show. So, come on out, and help Dad's Garage bring home the bacon while you eat it!

Bands: The Attractive Eighties Women, Pistolero, Three Dog Stevens, and Flyght Rysk!

Jacob's ladder.

So, thanks to my old friend Syd at the Center for Puppetry Arts, I was able to see the preview of their latest "big idea" show for adults, THE VERTIGO OF SHEEP.

For those of you who don't recall, it was my attendance at THE ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY, an ill-conceived "big idea" existentialist puppet show about depression, a couple years ago that inadvertantly led me to meet Syd in the first place. And my review of that show is probably one of the great moments in my blog's history. But anyway ...

THE VERTIGO OF SHEEP is a beautiful, inventive show about a man trying to better understand the messages of the Old Testament by reimagining and staging some of the parables himself, using the everyday objects he keeps around in the set's shelves and cabinets as puppets. The use of the everyday objects is what gives the show its charm and momentum. As a viewer, I was always curious to see what the man would pull out of his cabinets.

My favorite part was the fall of Sodom and Gommorah, illustrated with slices of angel food cake and a pile of forks. Also good was the story of Abraham and Isaac, parts of which were told with a butter knife, a rock and a cup of water. The creation of the world was told using coat hangers and a wine rack.

But the whole thing flows kinda brilliantly, thanks to the talents and enthusiasm of the two cast members, and it's always fun and never, ever preachy.

The whole show was developed, built and performed by Andrew Kim and Kathy Bradley, and Kim's work as the central character and primary puppeteer is engaging.



Bradley, meanwhile, steals the show by creating a fully-realized, expressive character who, meanwhile, provides all of the incidental music, sings three solos and even injects humor and attitude into just changing the title cards. She was terrific. I want her to follow me around with a ukelele and provide theme music for my whole life.

The whole show was really good, managing to explore its big ideas while not getting too overwhelmed by them and remembering always to entertain the audience.

It plays through March 25.

The Steak n' Shake incident.

Even though the Steak 'n' Shake near but not too close to Scotty's apartment is a truly terrible restaurant, I still find my way there when it's late some nights. I go there when I'm a distinct mix of lonely, hungry for junk food, eager to see some weird people and/or want to read a book. Last year, Scotty and I used to meet up there on nights when we couldn't sleep alone, didn't want to merely talk dirty on the phone and didn't feel like just going directly to his apartment for the generally remarkable, supposedly meaningless sex. Lately, I've been going there by myself, for, even though Scotty and I ended the relationship we were never officially in back in December, I've not found an eatery near my apartment where I feel as comfortable reading a book after midnight. The Waffle House across the street smells like homeless drunks, and I can't find an all-hours place in Buckhead that's not too kitschy, too crowded on weekends or just too expensive.

I'm a late-night diner dweller, and I have the waistline and bags under my eyes to prove it. Before this Steak 'n' Shake, I frequented one in Duluth because I went to high school with Nancy the waitress, who was actually too brilliant and funny to be working there but nice enough to memorize my orders. (Beyond that, Nancy was incredibly cool both during the time I brought a date in there who'd just jacked me off while he drove 80 down the interstate AND the night I had her send a dessert to a cute guy I sorta knew. I loved Nancy and tipped her often and well until she got fired.) Before that Steak 'n' Shake, there were Waffle Houses and Huddle Houses that I've written in and written about in the hours after midnight.

Scotty and I were at the Steak 'n' Shake near his apartment often enough to develop repoire with some of the waitstaff.

The large kid who used to sing to himself would often forget our orders, and we secretly hated him. Thankfully, he was replaced by Alicia, a skinny, 22-year-old girl with thick red hair, glasses, pale skin, freckles, a warm smile and lots of Southern-fried secrets to confess.

She would dote upon us and remember our orders and be completely oblivious to our entwined legs and wandering hands underneath the table. Thus, we loved her so much that we'd request specifically to sit in her section. Upon sight of me, she'd fill a Diet Coke and bring it to the table. Scotty'd order his usual array of too much food with too much ketchup, and I'd usually tell him that he'd get an upset stomach later. And he'd ignore my criticisms and get his food (and, later, his stomachache). He'd always tell me that the chili was too watery. But we wouldn't tell Alicia.

We'd wait for her to come by and refill drinks, and we'd talk to her about her life. She'd mention about how she was working to get her kids back. About how, in her hometown, she only ever dated self-proclaimed rednecks before, to her shock, finding the love of her life in, gasp, "a Mexican" who apparently badgered her into going out with him.

The last time I saw Alicia was in January, after the second attempt at a breakup between me and Scotty. We met at our usual restaurant just to talk, to see if we could in fact go back to being the friends we used to be before the Fourth of July kissing. Sitting in that booth, though, our legs rubbed together in the same accidentally-on-purpose way. And he told me that I looked really good that night. Still, we talked about other dates we'd been on, and I started to talk to Scotty about how I was confusing intimacy and friendship with another friend of mine.

Alicia caught the vibe I was giving off, and she asked the two of us what was wrong.

"I'm just having problems with someone I'm dating," I said. "Or not dating. I can't tell."

"Well, what's wrong with her?" Alicia asked. (Scotty and I both flinched at the pronoun. I mean, how on Earth could our favorite waitress not know that, when we were there together, we were together?)

"He gets this way," Scotty explained to Alicia. "Everything has to be defined for him."

"Huh?" Alicia asked.

"Well, she says we're just friends, but I think we might be dating," I explained.

"They are just friends," Scotty said matter-of-factly. "They're not dating."

Alicia said that seemed easy enough to understand.

"Yeah," I said, "Except when we make out for a couple hours or hook up or something, then I get confused."

(Somewhere, Scotty and I both started talking about our own relationship to Alicia, rather than my thing with my other friend.)

"Look, you can just be friends and hook up with someone," Scotty said.

"How does that work?" Alicia finally blurted in her delicate Southern drawl. "Seems to me, if she's sleeping with him and kissing on him, then they're a hell of a lot more than just friends."

"It's not like that," Scotty said.

"Why would you want to be with this girl?" Alicia asked me. "I mean, is she retarded or just dumb?"

I smiled big and agreed, "That's what I'm saying."

Scotty just glared at Alicia as I got up to go to the bathroom, glancing at my ex while victoriously pumping my fist in the air like an ARSENIO audience member.

As I walked away, Scotty looked at Alicia, no longer his favorite waitress.

"You've just undone all of my teachings," he spat.

And when I got back to the table, Scotty told me that Alicia's opinion didn't count because, in defining relationships, "it's different for gay men."

All I knew was that, if Scotty and I weren't labeling our relationship because we didn't want things to be that complicated, it didn't work. Relationships, whether you label them or not, are complicated.

I felt like I'd won that night's battle, but Scotty deserved to know that I do understand his side of our relationship, which I explained to Alicia while we were paying the tab.

The video feed for the security cameras at that Steak 'n' Shake lies directly above the register. While I'm paying, I always look at the bald spot on the crown of my head to see how much it has grown. At the point where I last saw Alicia, the bald spot seemed to spiral out from my cowlick like an expanding galaxy, what once were natural parts in my hairdo now seem to me like canyons.

I adopted a reasonable tone of voice, telling Alicia what I understand about my relationship with Scotty. Of course, so as not to confuse her, I still called him "she."

"She's been going through a lot lately," I said. "She just got out of a relationship, and she's not sure what she wants."

"Oh," Alicia said.

Then I added, "And she just doesn't want to want me."

Internal monologue. (Plagued by doubt)

Pathetically, I know one of the reasons I've never written anything long-form. It isn't just that I think I'm going to fail. It isn't just that I don't have the time. It isn't, unfortunately, simply that I don't want to do the work.

I can't sit still. I don't like being alone. And my mind is so frantic and in such need of attention or conversation that I can't stay alone in a room for very long. When I think about the work - like the big, big project I've had in my head for a couple years now, I think I can't do it. I always picture scenes, rather than words on a page. I see the characters living and moving. I just wish that I could describe them. Maybe a screenplay, although I doubt my ability to do that, too.

When I've spoken with authors, they always talk about rising before dawn and/or locking themselves in a room. Oh my God, I think I would go fucking insane damn doing that.

I keep thinking that eventually my drive will return, that the story will just take over and compel me to write it.

Still fucking waiting.

(Yes, my friend Lupo would inform me that this is a passive, rather than active, approach to one's own goals and one's own life. I'm aware but apathetic.)

I just thought - rather dumbly - that it was just supposed to happen.

(I'm not dumb. I know exactly how bad or sad or unmotivated or dumb I sound. I'm trying reverse psychology on myself.)

My story's about identity. I want to write it. I am tired of writing about writing about it.

There's no time like now. Except now, it's 1 a.m., and I have to be at work at 9.

I write. I can write. I can fucking write. Seriously I can motherfucking write. I can motherfucking write like a goddamn motherfucker.

(God, this reverse psychology thing is hard.)

At work, in fact everywhere, one of my problems is focus. Another is that I overanalyze everything. I don't take an unexamined step, and I stress way way way too much.

I can't just ask the guy to dinner. (I stammer.) I can't just write. (I take the class and fill the free time.) I can't just quit the job. (I go on a seven-year-long job hunt that's more passive reaction to "Hey, they're interviewing ... Maybe you'd like it ..." than active search.) I can't just relax around new people. (I'm the awkward apologizer who's nice enough yet clearly trying too hard to make an impression.)

I keep thinking it's a phase that I'll break out of.

Maybe I will. Maybe I should just retire "Benjamin" and become someone more motivated.

Would I enjoy being a writer if I actually worked at it?

How much could I have written while I was writing this?

To end on a positive note, the scenes from the story that are in my head are generally original and decently good. It isn't until I try to write them down that I doubt that I have the first idea what I'm doing.

What good is it to be afraid of fear? Someone once asked me that.

At the time, I didn't understand what he meant.

I know what I have to do. I think I might maybe do it eventually.

Don't judge too harshly. It's late.

By the way ...

To those of you who actually missed this blog thing, thank you for your compliments. They did mean a lot to me.

So thanks, both of you.

The night they drove old Dixie down.

Tonight, because the person I was supposed to have dinner with got sick, I ended up traveling around to five, I think five, stores to see what Prince CDs they had in stock. I ended up buying the new John Mayer at a used store, a copy of The Band's Greatest Hits and Prince's Hits Vol. 1 and 2. Right now, I'm not listening to any of those. I'm listening to Elton John sing "Someone Saved My Life Tonight."

I was looking over my blog entries circa March-April 2004. Good stuff. Toward the end of my blogging days last year, I was mostly writing shit that didn't actually seem to examine anything. The blog worked best when I was really in therapy and wrote an actual journal with an actual narrative drive. I don't write like that anymore. I don't really think that way anymore.

For example, this week, a date stood me up. This week, I ran into an ex. I've seen three improv shows this week. On Valentine's Day, I bought a heart-shaped cake with a sculpted mass of delicious chocolate mousse on top of it, and I shared it with mostly strangers. Someone's interviewing me next week for a job in California, and I'm leaning toward not taking it because I don't think I can afford to move and am currently curious about all the wonderful, new possibilities that have opened up around me in the past couple weeks. I find myself a little unsure around all these new people, but, when I become reasonable, I realize that they like me because I've not yet given them any cause or reason to think they shouldn't like me. And I'm showing them something in me positive, something that they like. I'm learning to be OK with being OK. I still wish I was who I was in London, until I realize that I am who I was.
_____

I told someone this week - I forget who - that I can't imagine being constantly on display, a one-man-show everywhere I go.

He said, "Depends on how interesting you are. And what you have to say."
_____

This narrative is unfocused, but I bring you out of the narrative by stating that in the middle of the narrative itself.
_____

There are reasons to go to California. There are reasons to stay here. This may not be the best opportunity and time for me to go. I keep changing my mind about whether to stay or go.

I'm not sure if I should post this blog. There are people I don't want to know me or know about me that might invariably read it.
_____

My grandpa has been sick in the hospital for about a month now. My sister-in-law found out this week that she's having another boy in July, and I want to be here to meet him. But I don't have to be.
_____

I haven't tried writing fiction in a while. I wonder if I'd be able to do it better now that I've been performing onstage with more regularity.

I'm in improv class, so my thoughts have been all over the place. It's time for thought. Lots and lots of thought.
_____

Now I'm listening to TLC's "Creep." I wonder if I'm funny onstage. I wonder if what I'm doing with all this improv is study of a craft or just some new obsessive fanboy hobby.
_____

The Oscars are this week. I'm scheduled to work at the bookstore during them. Oh well. I still haven't seen LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA. I've not been in the mood. Improv puts me around people.

I'm there too much, arguably, but it puts me around people. I like being around people lately.

I'm going to post this. I'm not thinking straight. But I'll read this years from now and find it interesting.

Top Ten Films of 2006. And more.

BEST FILMS OF 2006:

1. Pan's Labyrinth
2. Little Children
3. Children of Men
4. Borat
5. The Departed
6. Notes on a Scandal
7. Volver
8. The Descent
9. Half Nelson
10. Casino Royale

MY FAVORITE MOVIES EVER: The Philadelphia Story, Cleo from 5 to 7, The Silence of the Lambs, This is Spinal Tap, Nashville, Pee-Wee's Big Adventure, Singin' In the Rain, Dr. Strangelove: Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, The Last Picture Show, Say Anything, The Iron Giant, Star Wars, Fanny and Alexander, Y Tu Mama Tambien, All About My Mother, Citizen Kane, Being John Malkovich, Rebecca, Beauty and the Beast, Eve's Bayou, Chinatown, Donnie Darko, Manhattan, Sunset Boulevard, Annie Hall, The Ref, The Lion in Winter, Out of Sight, The Empire Strikes Back, Grey Gardens, Before Sunrise, Before Sunset, A Room With a View, The Godfather, The Godfather: Part II, Election, Clueless, Breathless, Roman Holiday, Some Like It Hot, Waiting for Guffman, The Lady Eve, Dog Day Afternoon, Pulp Fiction, Wonder Boys, Vertigo, Junebug, You Can Count on Me, Capturing the Friedmans, Run Lola Run, Psycho, Gone With the Wind, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, The Talented Mr. Ripley, Rushmore, Oldboy, Toy Story, Witness for the Prosecution, Suddenly, Last Summer, The Princess and the Warrior, Wings of Desire, Rear Window, All About Eve, Edward Scissorhands, Prick Up Your Ears, Written on the Wind, Aliens, The Player, Scream, Wages of Fear, Dangerous Liaisons, Ghost World, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Boogie Nights, Seven, Double Indemnity, My Fair Lady, The Wizard of Oz

The above section is linked for your pleasure.

Altman.

Dammit, I shutter the blog, thinking that nothing could possibly bring me back to it, and what happens?

Robert Altman dies. The great Robert Altman. The daring, complicated, brilliant filmmaker. The director of one of my favorite movies. The director that I've mentioned countless times on this blog. The director who, even when he made horrible movies, usually kept them interesting.

This is a guy I wanted to meet. This is a guy I've wanted to meet since I first saw THE PLAYER in the theater 15 years ago.

The Academy gave him an honorary Oscar this year, probably thinking that he'd never live long enough to actually win one (even though he had been nominated several times).

With that Emilio Estevez-directed, "group of people's stories converge upon a political assassination" movie BOBBY coming up, I thought I would warm myself up to it by watching NASHVILLE again.

Now I have another reason.

Some of you wouldn't like Altman movies if you watched them. They required open-minded attention, a willingness to let characters talk over one another, less of a reliance upon plot or a story with clear payoffs.

I really loved this year's A PRAIRIE HOME COMPANION, for instance, but I also saw why lots of people would hate it. Thus, I don't recommend it to everyone who comes into my bookstore wholeheartedly.

"Meryl Streep's really good in it, and it's got some great music and performances," I tell people. "But you've got to prepare yourself for an ending that will leave you confused and maybe disappointed."

Certain actors were devoted to Altman, for he let them improvise, build their characters through nuance, and he wasn't afraid of showing the characters' lives as jumbled or messy.

Robert Altman could make a damn good movie. He created a signature style. Even the English, period-costumed murder mystery was distinctly his.

I've always been a fan of framework narratives, so maybe that's why I liked Altman. I liked the idea that, in narrative works, there could be a dozen stories going on at once that related to one another, yet no one but the audience could see the connections.

It's what I kinda hoped that life was really like. We all have our own stories going on, and all the lessons we need to learn are out there, just out of reach, waiting for us to see them. The people we greet, the guy who cuts us off in traffic, the girl in the toll booth all have stories both like our own and completely unlike ours. The lesson may be there if we look at them long enough. Or maybe the lesson is that we're all flawed. Or maybe there's no lesson.

I should write.

I didn't get to meet Altman. I wanted to meet him.

It says nothing to me about my life.

My friend Kurt, who worships The Smiths, used to write vague statements on his blog when he couldn't think of anything else to say. I'm tired of staring at the same page on my blog, but I honestly don't know what I should write you all next. And I'm not sure I want to write much on this anymore. Frankly, the blog just doesn't do it for me anymore.

So I thought I would write you one of those vague statements.

I'm not dead.
I'm not sad.
I'm not in trouble.
I don't need encouragement.
I don't need comfort.
Nobody did anything to me.
I'm just not here.
Not now.

I've left the blog before.
I left when I wanted to concentrate on other writing.
I left when I wanted to focus on a boyfriend.
I left when I just didn't want to hear from someone.
Now it just feels like something I don't do anymore.
Maybe I'm just not as interesting as I used to be or as nice or as open or as happy or as funny or as extroverted or as egotistical or as apologetic or as showy or as social or as wounded or as crazy or as young.
Maybe I've just forgotten the rules of grammar.

Now, no one entry feels like it would be big enough or good enough.
I can't just say I'm reading this book or that I enjoyed this movie anymore.
It just doesn't feel like enough.
As for my writing, I want it to be more than this.



I'm fine.
I'm good.
Thanks for reading.
Thanks for three years.

Darkly dreaming.

A guy doing promotional work for Showtime e-mailed me a couple days ago, and he sent me a link to the unaired pilot for their new show DEXTER and asked me to review it for free on my blog to generate buzz for the show.

I wanted to watch the show because I read Jeff Lindsay's DARKLY DREAMING DEXTER, which was a pretty good book with a really great main character, so I didn't tell him that my blog is kaput. I figured that - what the heck - I'd watch the show and review it.

And so it goes that I watched the first episode of DEXTER, a Miami-based forensic crime drama starring SIX FEET UNDER's Michael C. Hall as Dexter, a charming, likable, sarcastic blood-splatter expert for the police. The twist of the show is that Dexter, whom the other characters notice has a keen sense for a killer's motivation, is actually an emotionless, psychologically damaged serial killer himself.

Of course, Dexter only slaughters other serial killers that the police can't seem to catch and is obsessed with cleanliness and attention-to-detail, so that makes him the sort of mass murderer you can root for. As Dexter states in the pilot, Miami only has a 20-percent arrest rate on its homicide cases, so it's pretty much an ideal place for him to work unnoticed.

The plot of the pilot focuses on a string of prostitute killings, much like the plot of the first book in the series does. The prostitute murders intrigue Dexter because the killer is precise and the crime scenes are bloodless. If the show's plot follows the first book's plot, and it looks like it will, the prostitute killer will eventually become as obsessed with Dexter's killings as Dexter is with his. If the identity of the prostitute killer remains the same, I hope the show fleshes it out more, though. I thought the book's ending and the solution to the key mystery of the first book was a bit implausible.

But the pilot for DEXTER is strong in establishing tone and character, which is the best that you can really hope for, and Hall - who wouldn't have been my first choice to play the role - is actually excellent as Dexter. His layered performance allows the audience to see how much of Dexter's life involves faked emotions, feigned sexual desire and empty warmth. The only thing that truly excites him is killing, which is how the character should be.

Also good in the pilot is former BUFFY and ANGEL star Julie Benz, who plays Dexter's "girlfriend" Rita. Rita, a survivor of a sexually-abusive marriage who appreciates how Dexter doesn't pressure her in such ways but has little understanding of why. As the show continues, Benz has an opportunity to really, really flesh out Rita in a way the first book of the series couldn't.

There's a second DEXTER book that I've not read yet, and the pilot episode made me want to pick it up. And it was good enough to blog about.

That's the strongest praise I can offer. DEXTER was worth reading, and DEXTER is worth watching.

The pilot airs on Showtime tonight at 10 and is available all this week.

Bye.

OK, I'm going to devote myself to other projects and such. I think it's time to shutter the blog, which I've not really been touching lately, anyway.

I'll still have a web presence. But, for right now, I have to find something to write besides this website.

(Of course, I reserve the right to change my mind.)

But it's been three years, and this site has accomplished a lot for me. I've met a lot of cool people because of it. It's caused me some fun, some trouble, some notoreity.

And now it's time for me to go.

Meeting me changes people's lives.

Last year, I met actor Leslie Jordan at a screening of SORDID LIVES, and I talked to him for a couple minutes about how much I enjoyed his ads with the shoplifting dog on Paramount's previously-viewed videocassettes from the early '90s.

This week, he won the Emmy for outstanding guest actor in a comedy series. It's his first Emmy, and he'll be presenting an award with Cloris Leachman on the Emmy telecast this month.

No me, no Emmy. Then, he meets me and wins one.

Coincidence?

Quick, someone rub my belly for luck.

True but sad.

Vic complained to me on the phone a couple weeks ago that she never really gets to meet the men I see.

"The only time you ever introduce them to me, they're already on the way out," she said. "It's usually a few days before you dump them."

"Look," I said, "I can't help it if you meet them during the second week!"

Mmm.

I just ordered pizza from a restaurant I've not had in a while, and the Brazilian pizza boy who showed up at my door looked like Gael Garcia Bernal.

I'm definitely switching restaurants.

My nephew.

This is Baby Dan. Or Dan Jr. Or D.J. We really don't right now what to call him. This photo was taken when he was about an hour old. My mom had us unwrap him from his blankets so that we'd be able to see his feet. Upon seeing his feet, my mom cooed. Upon seeing the Tigger on his diaper, my mom cooed. Upon seeing his arm move, she ... , well, you get the idea.



OK, so I know I'm holding the baby wrong, and he did try to let me know with this little silent cry that thankfully didn't grow into a louder one. I didn't want to be the one person who held the baby on his first day who made him cry. I did support his head, but Baby Dan's head is really big. I mean, he was a really big baby when he was born, anyway, but his head is particularly big.

This was the baby when he was only a couple hours old. He was cute. I got to whisper "Happy Birthday" to him and kiss him on the forehead. That made me happy. (Yes, I was happy. I admit it. Someone, take note of this occasion.)

I went to the hospital tonight to maybe see him again, but he's in the NICU on an IV because his blood-sugar levels were all crazy after the first night. He couldn't keep down the formula he was drinking, which startled everyone.

Last I heard, though, he was able to keep down the soy formula they gave him this afternoon, so they might be able to wean him off the IV over the weekend.

Still, this whole IV thing has led me to distraction. I want the baby with his parents. I want the baby eating. I want to learn how to properly hold him. I want to figure out what we should nickname him.

I'm thinking D.J., but it's still up in the air.

Uncle Ben.

My brother Dan and his wife Samantha had a baby boy, which they've named Dan Jr., at 10:04 p.m. on August 9, 2006.

He weighed 9 pounds, 6 ounces, and is 21 inches long.

Samantha's doing well. The baby is ridiculously cute. (Expect photos soon. My mom took dozens.)

We passed the baby around the room when we got to see him. I had to sit down to hold him, for I was too scared to do it while standing.

My dad says holding a new baby, no matter how often you do it, always scares him.

"I know they're not really fragile, but they just seem like they should be," he said.

As we left the hospital, my dad called me "Uncle Benjie" as he stepped into his car. The name led me to think about long grain wild rice.

"Good night, Grandpa," I said to him as he closed the car door.

In the driver's seat, Dad thought about that for a second, rolled down the window, then looked at me and said, "Well, that just sounds weird."

"I know," I said.

"I suppose it's technically true now," Dad said. "But that just sounds weird."

"Well, he doesn't have to call you that," I said. "You can pick whatever you want him to call you."

"Yeah, I guess," Dad said, though the name wasn't what unsettled him. It was the distinction.

Life is a four-letter word.

On Sunday night, either because random trouble just has to interrupt
fun plans sometimes or because fate really didn't want me to see JOHN
TUCKER MUST DIE, my beloved disaster of a '96 Saturn refused to start.
I turned the key. The engine revved and revved with intention, but it
never turned over. The trouble didn't appear to be the battery. The
lights worked, and the radio was fine. The caution lights were up and
bright. And, most importantly, the ignition chugged and chugged when I
turned the key. It didn't just cough once when the key was turned and
then, drained, abandon all effort.

I kept at it for about 15 minutes, trying to inspire my impotent sedan
to start its engine so that I could indulge in a really bad movie, but
the Saturn was having none of that. It'd already done its job for the
day, getting me to and from work at the bookstore, and it wanted to
rest.

So I left it, and I went back inside to my apartment. The choices I'd
have to make about the car were already echoing in my head, even
though I wanted to avoid them if possible. But, because the trouble
had already hit and my only real option was to respond to it, I called
the supervisor at my office and told her voicemail that whatever car
trouble I was having was going to be addressed first thing in the
morning. I thought about repair costs and if I'd be able to get the
money. I thought about whether the car would start in the morning or
if I was going to need AAA to tow me. I thought about whether AAA
would tow my car to my favorite mechanic, who is 45 minutes away, or
if I should get it done somewhere in the city, where they'd charge me
double. I thought about whether my office boss would be upset over my
audacity. I mean, how dare I have car trouble a mere five months after
my last car trouble?

Then, faced with wasting a weekend evening on stresses I could do
nothing about, I decided to withdraw. I did nothing that had anything
to do with my car and enjoyed the time that I had. I read Scott
Smith's THE RUINS until I fell asleep, knowing instinctively that I
would sleep soundly until the worry about the car - and not any alarm
- woke me up.

This, of course, happened at 6 a.m. on Monday. But, when I woke up, I
decided I still didn't want to deal with the car that might or might
not start. I went back to sleep and woke up again around 8. I still
didn't want to deal with the car thing, so I picked up my book and
read it. At that point, I only had 50 pages left, and I've not really
had time to devote any uninterrupted attention to it in a week. So I
read it until I was done.

I didn't want to have to deal with paying too much to get the car I
don't like and don't really want fixed so that I can go to the job I
don't enjoy and don't really want. It was petulant, childish and
irresponsible of me to lay there and read my book, but that is what I
wanted to do. I was in no real hurry to "stress out," "face the facts"
or whatever cliche suggests that I embrace my usually mature, mundane
existence.

At 9:23 a.m., I finished the book, and I was eight minutes late for
work. And I enjoyed that. Those eight minutes of "wasted time" made my
whole day, suggested that I somehow still had control of who I am or
where I'm supposed to be. (I realize, consciously, that I could break
away from the confines of my mundane existence at any point so long as
I'm willing to really risk losing my apartment or my financial
well-being. I'm not yet brave enough to live out of bounds.)

So I took a shower, then called my mom and told her, for no real
reason, what was going on with my car. I don't need her input or her
OK before proceeding, and I understand that. Still, it feels more
responsible if I fill her in. She has a genius way of guilt-tripping
me into better behavior. She usually comes up with some ridiculous
doozy that suggests, if I don't act immediately to fix the problem I
don't want to face, either I'll cause something disastrous or miss
something major.

She didn't disappoint.

"Benjie, you need to get your car fixed," she said. "If you don't,
you'll miss the birth of your brother's baby. It's coming in the next
couple weeks, and you need to be able to drive to the hospital."

"You don't think somebody will pick me up for that?" I asked her.

"You need to see if your car will start," she said, ignoring me.
"You're just wasting time for no reason."

"But I don't want to deal with the damn thing now."

"Well, too bad," she said. "That's life."

Later, after my car started and I'd dropped it at the shop, my mom
told me that I had to get a rental car, even though the rental car
agency is filled with rude employees and takes $250 away from your
bank account while you have their car.

"I could just not go to work today," I offered.

"What?" she asked. "You're just going to stay stranded at the strip
mall until I can come get you? Don't waste my time."

It turned out that I'm not allowed to rent a car because my debit card
was damaged last week and I had only a temporary replacement.

The rental car agent, upon telling me it was impossible while still
giving me a ride to his office, tried to cheer me up, though. He even
told me that I had to realize God only gave me bad times with my life
so that I'd become a stronger survivor and witness to His glory.

"Really?" I asked the guy. "The only thing I know about car trouble is
that it never really ends as long as you have a car. The only thing
certain about a car is that, no matter how often you take it to the
shop, it will eventually break again. And, when it finally breaks
forever, then you get another car that will also eventually break."

The rental car agent just glared at me.

"I don't trust anyone who tells me God's just trying to make me
stronger," I said. "I have cerebral palsy. If you tell me that I'm
afflicted because it'll help me get to Heaven or help me guide someone
else, I'm afraid to tell you that I'd rather God just spare me the
affliction and let me go to Hell. Can't be much worse than this,
anyway."

I'm glass-half-empty.

The car agent dropped me at the curb. I told him that I'd see him in
his office if I was able to work things out about my debit card.

I called my dad and asked him if he had a credit card with $250 worth
of space on it so that I could get a rental car.

Dad did me one better. He offered to come pick me up and drive me to work.

I waited for him in a Dollar Tree at the strip mall. They were playing
Christian music on the overhead speakers, and I tried not to spend my
time seeking out irony in the lyrics.

I picked up a book there called IN SEARCH OF DEEP THROAT. The
nonfiction piece, exploring one of the "greatest mysteries of our
time," was written three years ago, so I looked first in its index for
any mentions of "Felt, W. Mark." There were six. The first mention of
Felt talked about Carl Bernstein's son giving away the secret to a kid
at summer camp when he was 6. At the time, Bernstein dismissed the
revelation as hogwash, something his son had made up. The author of
the book I was reading concluded that Felt could not, in any way, be
Deep Throat on the third page of the story. I smiled and put down the
book.

Outside the store, where I stood to wait for my dad, the lady who
managed the Dollar Tree was outside puffing nervously on her Virginia
Slim. I told her about the Deep Throat book. She apologized to me
about their lack of quality stock. I told her that it didn't matter to
me, but she thought I was defaming the character of Dollar Tree. She
finished her cigarette in a hurry, then told me to come back inside if
I wanted to enjoy the air conditioning.

My dad arrived a couple minutes later, and he drove me to my office.
On the way, he talked to me about the little annoyances that fill our
days. He talked to me about the nine air-conditioning repairmen he's
had at his house in the last year and how they can never manage to get
their brand new system to work to my stepmother's exacting
specifications.

"I have lost so many days, and I've wasted so much time just having to
deal with this bullshit," he said. "She has me call the repairman,
then the repairman comes and makes a suggestion about how to fix it.
Then, she decides, upon hearing the repairman's suggestion, that he's
an idiot who doesn't know what he's talking about. So she has me call
another repairman. And I have to miss work again. So I told her today
that I no longer give a shit and that, if she wants the damn air
conditioning fixed, she can sit around and wait for the repairmen
herself."

My dad uses foul language. My mother doesn't. I think it makes my
father seem more genuine than my mother, even though that might not be
exactly the case.

I told him about how I finished a book before dealing with my car. I
told him that, when I had to stop at a gas station, I was amused by
the fact that General Public's "Tenderness" - which is my favorite
'80s New Wave song - was playing on the speakers. It felt silly when
it happened, but I was actually so much happier being in the gas
station and hearing a verse of that song than I would've been if I'd
been at work in my cube, looking at a fax or counting the minutes
until lunch.

I asked him, "It's always going to be like this, isn't it? There's
always going to be something wrong. The eight minutes you take here
and there, that's all the joy you really get."

"Basically," my dad said, then he continued to espouse more
common-sense wisdom to me than I'd heard from anyone else all day.

The unkempt one next to the hot bestselling author.

This week, I went to the Margaret Mitchell House event for Emily Giffin, even though I headed there with no time to shower or shave after leaving my office. That's why I look haggard in these photos.



This first one is Emily with her cute, nice publicist Stephen, her cute friend Mike and me.



This next one, taken by Emily, is me with her cute, nice publicist Stephen at Loco Luna. Stephen is very, very nice and fun to talk to.

For the record, I knew I looked like fresh hell. They wanted me in the photos anyway.

And I had a really good time with them.

Buckeye statement.

I went with my mother to Ohio this weekend.

Ohio's not that interesting, and, when I'm there, neither am I.

I beat my grandpa at checkers, which was impossible to do before he had a series of strokes. He's not so much himself anymore, which bums me out because he's always been a stubborn, mean, condescending, take-no-prisoners prankster. The way he'd teach you how to play a game was simple. He'd beat the hell out of you every game and badmouth you to your face until, years later, you caught on and didn't take every defeat so damn personally. (Of course, should you beat him at a game, he'd take it hard, which was fun in its own way. But he rarely lost.)

My mom used her "They may die before we're here again!" tactic for getting family members to visit elderly friends in her hometown, but I was largely immune to most of her guilt trips this time. I mean, any time you see someone, it could be the last time you see them, so you shouldn't plan your trips around potential mortality. And how rude would it be if my mom's friends knew that was why she came calling?

"Hi Doris, it's so nice to see you ... ALIVE," my mom should say.

On the first night of the visit to my mom's hometown of Paulding, which she says is the site of "a famous crop circle," I retreated with my cousin Holly and her husband to this trashy dive bar we've discovered in town. We stayed there until 1:30 a.m. playing bad songs on the jukebox ("Look, it's Nelson!") and talking about how good our relatives have become at fake-smiling and pretending to be happy.

I spent much time reading my book while aunts and uncles circled around me, talking nonsense. I had a really good conversation with a favorite uncle about playing Sudoku.

I barely had a moment alone with my mother, which upset me a bit, for this was the first year in a long time where we travelled someplace alone. (My brother's wife is giving birth in two weeks, so they couldn't come with us. And they couldn't do their usual schtick of smuggling their small dog on the plane.)

On the flight home, my mom ended up in a conversation with the woman sitting next to us on the plane. She talked to that woman more than she talked to me the entire trip. I listened some, getting jealous, for it was that stranger who got to hear how my mother really felt about watching her father's health get worse. It was that stranger who got to hear how genuinely excited she was about the new baby coming. It was that stranger who got to hear about how I was, in my mother's words, "an eccentric" who writes funny essays about Waffle House and read them at pop culture conferences.

The strange lady was equally as confessional to my mom. They talked the whole flight about how her 18-year-old daughter's car was hit by a drunk driver. The stranger was also in Ohio visiting her sick father. Her 15-year-old son, apparently, has been experimenting with drugs and alcohol.

I became involved in the conversation only after the woman asked my mom if she'd ever tried marijuana. Mom said no. She said she'd been around some people using it at parties a couple times, but she had never indulged.

So, because I enjoyed being included in their conversation after hearing it for an hour while trying to read, I told this strange woman and my mother the truth about my experience with the demon weed.

"I have several friends who do it, but I never have," I said. "One of my friends said that it would probably go badly for me, for I'm already a complete paranoid, so he told me never to do it outside of an extremely controlled environment."

My mom laughed. The stranger first wanted to know why I was a paranoid eccentric, and I wasn't able to answer her.

Then, she asked me, "Do I see a wedding ring?"

"No, I'm gay," I said quickly. (I already knew that this woman had gay friends and worked at Starbucks, based on what she'd told my mother.)

I don't think my mom even flinched, though that's the first time I've just told some stranger in front of her. For once, I wasn't trying to push my mom's buttons. I was just answering the woman's question. "Gay" speaks more volumes than "eccentric," I thought.

"Do you have a partner or boyfriend?" the woman asked.

"Nope," I said, "I've not had any luck there."

At this, my mom piped up and said, like she was bragging, "Benjie went to his best friend's wedding a couple weeks ago in Massachusetts. His name's Lupo, and he's a film professor. He's really nice. And his partner - or husband - got a master's degree in furniture design from SCAD."

This tickled me. My mom uses people as status symbols. Marriages, salaries and grandchildren are her conversational currency, and I've provided her with none of these so far. The fact that I'm single, poor and childless doesn't make her look good in conversations with strangers. If I don't have a girlfriend for her to brag about, my mom will apparently brag about any boyfriend I might have. And if I don't have a boyfriend or husband for her to brag about, she'll apparently brag about the fact that I'm close to people who do have boyfriends or husbands, as if the accomplishment were somehow also mine by proximity.

I called up Lupo after the flight and told him that he was my mom's favorite.

The more I think about the flight home, I'm less jealous about the time that stranger spent befriending my mother. After all, my mother broke the magic of their mutual confessions almost immediately after we left the plane.

"I think that lady was drunk!" my mom whispered to me.

I replied, "Well, if everything she said about her family was true, I don't blame her."

The moment couldn't last, I guess. At least my mother was open to someone about her real feelings on the trip. About her family. About me. And I got to feel close to her, by proximity.

Maze.

I found these letters among my old files. I wrote this after visiting this place called the Parliament House in Augusta. They're long and sorta explicit, but I thought you guys might find them amusing.



PART ONE OF THREE
______________

August 3,1999

To David, whom I will likely never see again,

I wanted to thank you for considering me atypical.

When you told me Saturday that I wasn't the sort to come to the motel, it
was exactly the sort of thing I was hoping to hear. My entire lousy week was
made better by your kisses, which were sorely needed. The oddity that
surrounded us had bothered me until I spoke to you.

You helped me understand the motel, not the sort of place I was expecting to
find ten minutes from home, and you helped me understand myself a little
better that night. You were perfect, David. If not completely beautiful in
body, your mind was one that I would've enjoyed coming across outside of the
realm of anonymous sex.

Wait, maybe not "coming across." Wrong words. Flashbacks. Not entirely bad
ones, but I'm still having a little difficulty being completely comfortable
with what I did.

You were right when you said in your suite that I assign guilt to things,
give myself huge guilt trips. I think I explained why. Guilt's not a
religious thing for me, though. I just couldn't really allow myself to
relax. Until you helped me. You and that guy whose face I couldn't see.

You seemed to think that I put my heart into things, even in places like
that.

I didn't know that no one else would really be into talking. They should
post that rule somewhere, for I bet that I'm not the only one who didn't
understand "unwritten" policy. I mean, if it weren't for talking, I would've
gotten lost the first time I went through that maze. (Yes, I'm not stupid. I
now realize that's half the damn point. Hey, you know that I feigned more
innocence than I actually had, but it takes me a little bit to come to grips
with it.)

I'm trying to be funny. I'm nervous. I should stop trying.

When I walked in the door, I wasn't breathing right. Ted, the guy on the
phone, told me that the "House" was a social environment, but there was no
dancing and no bar. He said he was surprised that I hadn't been partying out
there before, but I told him I live like a hermit here in Augusta. I tried
that bar here a couple times, and it just didn't work out. I mean, one guy
shit on me, and another guy stopped calling out of the blue. And the music
was bad. And I couldn't drink.

When Ted told me there was no bar, that made me feel good, for I can't drink
much anyway when I'm alone. When he said there was no dancing or loud
music, I told my telethon joke and said I was relieved. He told me it was a
"very social atmosphere" and that I should try it.

The only gay people I really know in town, who I don't try to completely
avoid, are my florist and my ex-boyfriend Greg, also a hermit. My florist Charles
told me that the motel was a good place to meet people and hang out, that
he'd been there a couple times. (He's the sweetest guy. He told me I would
like it if I went, but that was months ago. In retrospect, I probably
should've paid more mind to his leather fetish.)

That's why I called the place, for Charles told me it was nice but left out
what there was to do there. On the phone, Ted told me that it was "social."
It was geared toward meeting people, and it was relatively crowded on the
weekend.

He made it sound good, really good to me. I hadn't left my apartment in two
days after a really, really bad week, so I was determined to go out and do
something in this damn soulless community. I thought I would go there, have
a drink and maybe talk with some people, see what the place was about. He
told me the place starting picking up around 10 p.m.

Then Ted told me about the $15 cover charge.

"Fifteen dollars?" I asked. "What do you have there to merit that?"

"Well, we're a resort," Ted said. "The $15 is a day pass. It allows for full use of the facilities."

"Oh OK," I said. A resort.

My ex Larry also told me months ago that I should see what the motel was
about. He'd seen an ad in Etc. Magazine, which talked about the 8-foot fence
separating the hotel from the street. I remember telling him that I didn't
want to go because I didn't have a date to get a room with. In typical Larry
fashion, he told me to go there and find one. (David, dear, I didn't have
this in mind when I talked to you.)

Anyway, when I got off the phone with Ted, who probably thought I was talky
and awkward, my curiosity was peaked. I changed clothes, like, three or four
times because I didn't know what to wear to the place. I tried on a T-shirt
and shorts, pants and a button-up shirt. I even considered sunglasses, even
though it was about 9:30 p.m.

But it was 105 degrees, and I only knew from the ad I saw that there was a
pool. I figured the shorts and T-shirt were a safe bet. (I thought about a
swimsuit for a second, but then I didn't want to take up some valuable pool
space from an actual hotel guest.)

And, after knocking on the door of my friends down the hall to see if they
wanted to go and calling around to other friends to see if a $15 cover was a
blessing or curse, I went to get gas and cash and headed over.

I've driven by the place a million times. The giant wooden fence is a little
off-putting because it looks dark and makes it seem like there's no one
there. The fact that it has a run-down Alamo motif going and no windows
doesn't discourage that.

But I drove in, not knowing where to park exactly but finding my way. And
then I went into curious but cautious mode.

The guy at the front desk, the older one with the beard and the
owl-and-marijuana tattoo, probably thought I was still in the closet. I was
acting so frantic. Every now and then, people kept coming in from the resort
area through that door with the crescent moon on it. It made me think of old
outhouses, and it didn't really add to my ease.

The thing that startled me most, though, was that sign on the desk.

"There will be a voluntary Leather demonstration at 2 a.m. in the Tower. All
interested may attend."

I think my first question to the front desk was, "You have a tower?"

Then, I think I said something like this.

"Hi, I ... uhhh... I called here and spoke to you. I was interested in
getting a day pass. I heard that it was $15. Um, leather demonstration, that
sounds interesting. Hi."

The bearded guy told me to hold on for a second, then went to get Ted, who
was very cute and had that eye twitch that made me think he kept winking,
like he was interested in my reaction or, more likely, like he had a big
secret.

I kept stammering over my words, so much so that, when I told Ted I wasn't a
closet case, he said, "Yeah right." I was serious. I was just a little
stunned over what I imagined was going on at the other side of that door. I
mean, I didn't really have all that much of an idea about what I was walking
into, even though I figured the "facilities" were probably something
clandestine. Stupid me, looking for some frame of reference, kept picturing
that masked orgy scene in "Eyes Wide Shut." I asked questions, paid the $15
day pass, the $10 membership fee. Ted was happy that I had Discover. I was,
too, but only because I did this in spite of being broke. I was too curious.

Apparently, it was out of sorts to refuse the towel, lube and locker, but I
figured I could save money by following a simple rule: Keep my shorts on.

And Ted winked. And he showed me the map. And Ted winked as he pointed out
where the pool was, where the rooms were, the place marked TV room, Laundry
Room. And he showed me a square on the map labeled "Maze." It was between
the TV room, the laundry room and the game room, which I thought were the
place's typical hotel staples.

"There's a maze here?" I asked.

"Have you not been in a maze before?" Ted asked.

"I've never done anything like this before."

"You'll have fun in there," he said. "It's difficult in the dark, though. Try not to get lost, and you should be able to find your way out."

At that point, I became more naive than I had been all evening, and I'd been
pretty naive all evening.

I remember thinking, "Well, at least there's something for people to do if
they're not interested in having sex or taking off their clothes."

You came into the lobby while I was talking to Ted. I thought you worked
there, David. You seemed relaxed, in your extra-extra-large fireman's
T-shirt and that Carolina Panthers hat. I thought you were my age. Truth be
told, which is good because I never intend for you to see this, I didn't
really look you over much. You're not what I would like to consider my type
as being. (Clearly, you must be a little bit my type, considering. But, as I
told you, sometimes my standards lower if someone is just nice enough to pay
attention to me.)

That doctor guy who came in later, the one that everyone stared at, is what
I'd like to consider my type. But then, I think most everyone liked him,
particularly when he went parading around the pool in boxer briefs. I'm
still a little embarassed over what I said to him, even now because of how
he reacted.

At least that got me talking to you, though.

And I shouldn't worry so much about what he thought of me, if what I think
happened actually occurred.

Ted told me when I left the lobby the first time, smiling at you and talking
too much, that I should be able to find whatever it is I was looking for at
the resort.

"I don't know what I'm looking for or if I'm looking for anything, but I
think you're right," I said. "I think I might find it here."

As I walked out the door down that silly little path through the weeds, I
hope I added, "What in the hell am I doing here?"

I'll be more specific later, I guess. Now, I should go to sleep. I have to
be at work early.

Thanks,

B

Things to do with the summer's hot reads.

- This week, I read an article that said there's not yet been a breakout hit, top-of-the-bestseller-lists summer beach read yet. Supposedly, booksellers like me are nervous because there's been no next big thing, like last year's HARRY POTTER AND THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE or THE HISTORIAN, to whet our appetites for the written word. (Granted, a friend of mine wrote a New York Times bestseller that's outselling John Updike's latest, so I personally think it's been a great summer for books.) Anyway, THE MEMORY KEEPER'S DAUGHTER - which I've not read - is selling consistently, in spite of a plot that sounded to me like an old soap opera. Some people think it might eventually be as big as Sue Monk Kidd's THE SECRET LIFE OF BEES, which I sell all the time to the book club yentas. Of course, my pick for this year's big summer book is Scott Smith's Mexican vacation nightmare novel, THE RUINS, which already has gotten great reviews from Stephen King and the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. (Of course, a rave from the latter usually doesn't signify much ...) I picked it up earlier this week, and I can't wait to jump into it. I hear THE RUINS is the sort of book that grips you and must in one eight-hour sitting. My store keeps selling out of it. Expect big things.



- Now, I didn't like M. Night Shyamalan's last movie, THE VILLAGE. In fact, I fucking hated the damn thing. The only good things to come out of THE VILLAGE were Bryce Dallas Howard and the yearlong argument I had with Chris Brandon over just how much that movie sucked. Hell, I'm still angry about THE VILLAGE's bullshit ending. Today, Shyamalan's follow-up movie, LADY IN THE WATER, hits theaters, and it's apparently based upon a bedtime story he told his daughters. From what I hear, it thankfully doesn't have a twist ending. But I also hear that it sucks. Ba-a-a-ad. Sucks worse than THE VILLAGE. I mean, the fairy tale movie apparently sucks like it's the illegitimate demonspawn of GIGLI and ISHTAR. Over on Ebert's site, the guest critic calls it "a poorly written, stiffly directed, audience-insulting story-without-a-cause." Hell, even the AJC's Eleanor Ringel Gillespie gave it an F. Maybe now Night'll just go away.



- I didn't like Kevin Smith's last movie, either. But I imagine that CLERKS II, which allowed Smith to return to his roots, is a hell of a lot better than JERSEY GIRL.



- MONSTER HOUSE looks entertaining. The preview made me laugh, at least.
- I still haven't seen AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH. Every time I could've seen it, I talked my friends into watching THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA, which I've now seen three times. Somebody let me know if I'm missing something by skipping the mastery of Al Gore's PowerPoint presentation altogether.
- I feel fat. I need to exercise.
- My friend (or friend-of-a-friend) Erik helped design some of the special effects for MY SUPER EX-GIRLFRIEND. Last month at a wedding, I kept asking him how they managed to throw the live shark through a window in the trailer.



- Lots of people keep asking me to STRANGERS WITH CANDY, but I never watched the show. Would I like it, not knowing much about the show?
- About a half-hour after I arrived in Savannah last week, while Lupo and I were walking his nervous dog Mr. Jones, I tripped over a stick and banged my arm on the sidewalk. I was mostly fine, except for one bleeding scrape on my arm, but Lupo immediately jumped into "nursing mode," led me back to his house, found three bottles of Neosporin and some giant bandages and did his best to patch me up with care. After dressing my wound, Lupo said that reading the MAISIE DOBBS books had helped prepare him for my injuries. I've been walking around all week with this wicked cool bruise on my right arm. The bruise reminds me of when I was a kid, for I was always ridiculously banged up, bruised, covered in poison ivy, bitten, stung, sunburned or otherwise hurt. Thus, by the time I was 7, I avoided going outside at all. Instead of playing in the yard, I sat inside on the couch and memorized the babysitter's TV GUIDE. I wouldn't meet any kids in my neighborhood until my little brother brought them into the house for cookies and Kool-Aid. Sometimes, they'd stare at me from the kitchen while I sat in the dark, watching TV, and ask my brother who I was. Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, my bruise. Anyway, Lupo's excellent at applying bandages. THIS WEEK'S QUESTION: Did you have a good childhood or a bad one? What do you miss most about being a kid? What do you regret doing (or regret not doing) when you were younger? Would you relive your childhood if you could?

How to live.

I read an essay in the New York Times book review this week by Benjamin Kunkel, and it indirectly suggested to me that there's something really wrong with the way I write about my life, the way I think about myself and how I live my life. Of course, according to Kunkel, I am in really good company by writing about myself as the survivor of dysfunction and tragedy - which is, sadly, how I view myself or talk about myself in stories. Augusten Burroughs writes like that and manages to keep things funny and lively, and he sells books. James Frey lies like that, and his jackass self sells books, even now that his memoirs have been proven as largely false.

Kunkel says that the current influx of memoirs is about overcoming some sort of addiction, dysfunction and such. Nowadays, he says, popular memoirs only show how to survive. They don't begin to examine or give examples of how to live a fulfilled, complete life. Religious devotionals do that. Self-help books try that.

Henry David Thoreau, of course, is invoked in the essay, speaking of WALDEN as a memoir of an examined, contemplative existence. Kunkel seems to wonder why no one writes WALDEN anymore.

My friend Vic will tell you that I hate Thoreau, even though I've never read him. She once laid into me, during my journalism days, about how exposure to newspapers, media and the world outside of my own day-to-day existence was just a way of complicating my life. It gave me things to worry about, from the frivolous concerns of my neighbors to how a war between two small nations on the other side of the world might affect the price of Corn Flakes here.

"Thoreau believed in abandoning the newspaper," Vic would speak of him like he were a deity. "The outside world didn't concern him while he was in his cabin at Walden Pond. Sometimes I wonder why we don't live like that."

"Didn't he go home everyday and eat lunch with his mother?" I asked. "I thought I heard that somewhere. How detached from the world and free from worry can you be if you go hang out with your parents everyday?"

"He tried to limit himself to a contemplative, examined life," she argued.

"He sounds fucking crazy," I said. "Just some guy without a job living in a cabin who has to depend upon other people for food. Of course, because he writes about it, that makes him a noble man - instead of some unwashed vagrant. Or the Unabomber."

Vic rolled her eyes.

"Thoreau merely thought the key to living life was to 'simplify, simplify,'" she quoted.

"Um, if he was so interested in keeping things simple, why didn't he just say 'simplify' once?" I asked her. "He was either being ironic or stupid."

Anyway, so the Kunkel essay led me to wonder if I should try to figure out "how to live." But I've realized that's what me and all the other dysfunction survivors have been trying to do, anyway. The best that we've been able to manage, thus far, is survival.

Part of the current memoir trend is market-based. Survival memoirs have been selling well lately, so that's what the publishing industry snatches up and sells. The publishing industry has changed vastly since Thoreau's days, and, if Thoreau were around nowadays, he would likely be regarded with ire and ridicule. I mean, Thoreau would be against the Internet. Thoreau's contemplative solitude at Walden, if it were to occur now, would probably end with some standoff involving ATF agents.

People used to have the time and freedom necessary to discover how to live. The world nowadays requires you to merely survive. Songs are written about how people work all day to buy enough gas to get to work everyday. If you met a modern philosopher or prophet on the street, you'd run from them or suggest that they get medicated. However, tell a story of drug addiction and inspiring recovery, and you'll end up friends with Oprah.

Take me. I exist in an atmosphere of perpetual drama and anxiety. I'm happy sometimes. I've been labeled a worrywart, fatalist and stressball. I am most certainly not the spokesman for my generation, though I don't think there likely could be anyone to completely fit the bill. The most relief I get from my day-to-day existence is a good movie, an episode of GILMORE GIRLS, some funny clip from YouTube. There's always something for me to worry about, except when I'm on vacation, and even then I have to worry about getting home.

Big philosophical questions are now the luxury of undergraduates playing card games in dorm lobbies. They read Ayn Rand. They read Thoreau.

I used to seek God, too. Now I'm just trying to make the rent.

Things to do with an AK-47.

- So my friend Kenn is finishing up his master's in furniture design at Savannah College of Art and Design, and his thesis show closes this weekend. So I'm venturing down to the coast to see it - and see Kenn and Lupo before they flee Savannah, which they hate, forever. One of the central pieces that Kenn's been working on since October, at least, is this love seat that I've been calling "the bullet couch." If I remember correctly, Kenn designed the couch, then bought an AK-47, shot at the couch, then sealed up the bullet holes. The number of bullet holes in the love seat reflects the exact number of gun deaths in America within one day, I think. (I'm not sure if I have the base time correct. Nonetheless, the whole thing is anti-gun and infuses a political statement into practical design. It sounds daring and over-the-top, and Kenn's ridiculously talented.) Unfortunately, I don't have any photos of the bullet couch to share. This is an earlier project he did through the program. I'm probably not doing Kenn's work justice. Perhaps a follow-up blog will be necessary after my trip this weekend.



- YOU, ME AND DUPREE looks stupid, and Owen Wilson is ugly. He should just write movies, not appear in them. His brother Luke is super cute. And just because Kate Hudson looks like her mother, does that mean we have to watch her in movies? I mean, she's made ONE good movie, and that's it. I wish she'd go away. Thinking about this movie puts me in a bad mood.
- A lot of customers in the bookstore highly recommend Ken Follett's THE PILLARS OF THE EARTH to me, but I don't think I'd like it because it sounds really, really religious.



- Lupo and I have discussed going to a revival house on Saturday to see SINGIN' IN THE RAIN, which is a great, great movie if you haven't seen it. Gene Kelly is amazing. Jean Hagen is hilarious. And Debbie Reynolds is charming. The American Film Institute, ranking the best American films of all time, named SINGIN' IN THE RAIN the 10th greatest, which surprised me until I watched it again.
- Another AFI movie list suggested that Billy Wilder's genius film SOME LIKE IT HOT, starring Marilyn Monroe, Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon, was the funniest film ever made. Again, if you've never seen it, you're missing out. THIS WEEK'S QUESTION: What's the funniest movie you've ever seen?