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.