Miami

I went to Miami to belatedly celebrate Peppar's birthday. When I arrived, we immediately went to an Indian reservation to buy cheap cigarettes, an outlet mall to buy my standard two blouses, and the movies. We saw "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo."

Peppar and I used to have a standing date each Friday night to see a movie together, when she lived in New York. I was sort of depressed back then, and I think she was, too, so it was a great comfort to have this to look forward to throughout the week. Then, she got married, and her husband Michael stole her away to Florida. Sigh. That's why we saw the movie ... to recapture who we were years ago. Some people have nightclubs; I have a darkened theater. Still, I felt like we had shot our wad on the first day of the trip, and I then had to think of ways to fill my remaining day, which Peppar would not be present for (some family thing of hers).

After she left the following day, I went to the gym and then went for dinner to Lario's, Gloria Estefan's restaurant on Ocean Drive. I sat at the bar and told the bartender, in a slightly threatening fashion, to let me know when Gloria Estefan arrived, so that I could "be ready." He laughed nervously and then spoke in Spanish on his walkie talkie. Gloria Estefan never arrived to supervise her restaurant that evening, but I did enjoy some minced beef with egg and fried plaintain. I can't tell you in words how excited I would have been to see Gloria Estefan in the flesh; the words get in the way, as it were.

The following day, my last little day in Miami, I went to the beach. I put on the swimming trunks I had brought along and marched there, trying to hold my head up high and maintain my dignity. Along the way, a hostess in a restaurant smiled at the sight of me (as had the front desk person at my hotel, the Lords). I asked her if the trunks made me look gay, and she paused and then nodded twice, curtly. But I am gay in quotes, I thought as I marched the rest of the way, a little chastened.

Can you believe that I've never worn these swimming trunks in public, ever? I bought them, like, twelve years ago (from the Armani store)! So I wanted at least one picture in them in my lifetime, and I asked a hot, shirtless blonde if he would take my picture. "Can you believe I'm 39?" I asked him. "Yes, I can," he replied, and I was chastened again, just as the sea itself chastened me that day. (It was much too choppy to really swim in it, but I did try over and over, the sea laughing at me). I am a water sign, but I have developed in my old age a slight aversion to water. This visit to the beach was meant in part to reestablish a connection to the water, while avoiding drowning. In this, I was successful.

I feel like this trip was successful in many different ways, but I am excited to return to New York, where winter is tightening its grip, and where you may have a pair of swimming trunks you are anxious to wear, but have to opportunity to wear them, and where years may go by.

Orange jumpsuits

Ah, New York's famous tabloid newspapers. Not really known for Cindy Adams any more, but still faithfully pumping out their race-baiting reportage. Case in point, the coverage of the killing of officer Peter Figoski. Here the suspects are in their orange jumpsuits, though the white guy is in a white jump suit, and one black guy is in beige. How mysterious are jumpsuits, but I'm getting off the subject here. This killing was a true tragedy, indeed. But I don't need to see the alleged killers referred to as "thugs" and "lowlifes" in a newspaper article. Hey, I'm a smart person; I can come to those conclusions myself, if necessary!

When I was growing up in NYC, minority youths who were accused of rape in a park were a "wolf pack," and pretty easily convicted, though the convictions were later overturned. But white lacrosse players going to St. John's University, accused of the same crime, were acquitted, one juror saying that they "had their whole lives ahead of them." For an impressionable young person, and a minority, like myself, the opinion that I was outside of justice somehow could have been easily formed. But because I was middle class, and read a lot of Dickens, I came to believe that it was justice itself that had failed. That's why I was secretly delighted when O. J. was acquitted. Justice never worked for my people in the 90s. Why wouldn't I be thrilled to learn that at least one member of my race had a decent, if circus-ish, showing at trial? And he was properly acquitted, unless you forget that Mark Fuhrman plead the fifth when asked if he had planted evidence making it seem like O. J. murdered his ex-wife. That's how the legal system works.

Still, justice has been elusive ever since. Figoski's accused killers are "creeps" to the Post, but aren't they deserving of a fair trial, like everyone else? Not one of the banker masterminds of our economic collapse has ever been called a "thug" outside of, perhaps, Salon, though their crimes affected millions of lives, not just a relative few. And none of them will be convicted, either, or even indicted. Perhaps this is because the economic crisis is slightly more complex than random violence, and it is easier (and sells more papers) to prey on the fears of New Yorkers who believe we are all more at the mercy of colored people than corporate conspiracies.

I know I'm probably in the minority with my opinions, but whatever.

Self-loathing with a little wink

I was poking about the internet the other day, and I came upon some old digests from the Juliana Hatfield mailing list. They were from August, and those were the most recent I had, since my Yahoo mailbox filled up shortly thereafter, and I guess I was automatically unsubscribed from the list. Apparently, Juliana had a new record out in August ... I can't believe I missed it. I'm such a superfan that I usually get records from my heroes on, like, the first day of release, so that I can in my own way join a club, the club of defeated fans of 90s lady rockers who still hold out hope that their favorite artists will crack the Billboard 100. Why wasn't I checking that mailbox? I assume it was because I was really busy.

I downloaded the record today (this is a limited release, and physical cds are sold out already) and was sort of blown away and really moved, much to my surprise. It's beautiful and it rocks, sort of like Rolling Stones-style grooves crossed with California pop, all sung by a little girl voice that blames you, that is in crisis, that purposefully diminishes the singer's accomplishments. It's self-loathing set to music. It's kind of chillingly perfect, actually. There hasn't been a Juliana record that surprised me since "God's Foot," which was never even released. I'd long since given up hope that she could teach me anything (even though my song "I get the craziest feeling" has the same number of syllables in places as her song "Feel it." That's my usual homage style ... I just rip off the rhythm of the song and change the melody and lyrics ... and then it's a whole new song! Sort of like the Donna "sew on some sequins and make it a whole new look!" Karan school of songwriting).

I love the cover. Juliana always gets naked for her record covers, I feel. But with no airbrushing. A nude photo of someone whose weight fluctuates as wildly as hers does can be somewhat shocking to behold. See? Self-loathing with a little wink. "Macabre" is probably a good word for Juliana's schtick.

I'm recording "I get the craziest feeling" soon, with my superband of Chris on drums and Matt on bass (if he's still speaking to me), along with three other songs. And then I'm either going to record some more or put out six songs as an e.p. I will call it "Joy," though it will contain no real succor. Since I'm recording again, I'm paying a little more attention to the music world these days. But no one moves me, sigh. I'm old, that's probably why! (That's a song!) My most enduring musical emotional attachments were formed before I was 20 years old, with notable exceptions. That's why I'm always waiting for a good Sinead O'Connor record again, or a good Liz Phair record. Both of them apparently have new music coming out soon. How will I feel if they both rock again? Maybe I will feel that I rock again, that I have been vindicated. (But ultimately for naught, as neither of them will ever sell a lot of records again, and no one will ever hear of my own self-release when I put it out). Perhaps I will be transported back in time to Jones Beach in '91, seeing Sinead O'Connor (my second concert ever ... the first was the "Blonde Ambition tour by Madonna) and secretly loving the tousled-haired waifish boys who clung to that kind of genre-defying music, though feeling like I was too fat to ever really be seen by them. I still feel too fat to do most anything, but I always will, so that's okay.

Needless to say, I will be fully clothed for my record cover. But maybe it will be a closeup of my big head crying, like that Sinead O'Connor record.

The Gin Mingle

I decided to attend this year's "Gin Mingle" at Housing Works with my unconsummated life partner Johnathan. I don't like gin, and my mingling strategy has lately been aggressive and borderline toxic, but something darkly comic always happens at these events, so I went. Johnathan brought me a box of "Nips." Nips and older people like me don't mix ... it pulls out our fillings and then we have to go to dentists who prey on us, who insist that we get a total mouth plate, which costs thousand of dollars that Medicare won't cover. While I sensibly didn't eat many of the nips, I did spend most of the evening walking up to hot, waifish studs of the publishing industry, asking them if they were "into nips." Most of the publishing studs indicated that they were as a matter of fact not into nips, or at least not nips that were mine to offer, but that is not important to the story. Imagine that, though - if these stories of mine, these lines, had a happy ending one day? (Don't worry, I wouldn't let that happen).

At one point, Vanity Fair writer Henry Alford came up to introduce himself to me. I know Henry from Facebook (he sometimes comments on my blog, although he has been mum of late. I was first introduced to his work when I interviewed for a position at Twelve Books, and wrote up a publicity plan for a book he wrote about old people. A book about old people, you are thinking ... Why didn't they ask YOU to blurb it, Gee Henry? I then watched with interest as I did not get that job and the book became a bestseller). I told Henry that I would like to feature him on my outfit blog, and he immediately turned around and exposed his pert buttocks, to "show me his pants." Always playing hard to get, eh, Henry? ;) Still, his buttocks were indeed delightful, and I leaned over to congratulate his boyfriend, Greg, on having possession of the buttocks. His boyfriend sort of looked at me funny. (Greg & Henry were talking to Greg Henry, as it happened, at the Gin Mingle!)

Henry often puts fun status updates on his Facebook page, and I always want to comment on them. But Henry's friends are all very funny and very fast, and sometimes when I notice an update, it already has reams of comments already, from the likes of comic writer Merrill Markoe and such, and it's too intimidating. Sometimes, when I think that I must be the funniest person in the world, I read one of Henry's updates and the comments that come in so swiftly afterwards, and then I know that I am only one of many, many funny people. The thought is usually so horrific to me that I have to take a Neurontin. I left the Gin Mingle in sort of a bad mood, but I was thankful, at least, that I didn't get wasted, and that I was heading home to "work on my nips," a joke you'd only fully get if you have a Manhunt account.

Shopping in Philly

Sensing a temporary lull in the crushing workload at the office, I booked myself a trip to Philadelphia. My favorite American city, Philadelphia is home to cheese steaks, much racial tension, and a Latino queen who smiled at me 13 years ago in a Philly nightclub, making me love the city and forever visit it, looking for him in vain, somewhat insanely. It is also home to BalletX, the dance troupe formed by Matthew Neenan, a choreographer I like, so I timed my trip to coincide with something they were doing.

Although I am not creatively stagnant currently (I have been reviewing books at a somewhat steady pace, and I've been doing a weekly songwriting workshop with my heroes Lori Carson and Beth Sorrentino - from my all-time favorite band, suddenly, Tammy! - and Lori's friend Matt Keating) my novel has gone neglected over these past few months. So I was hoping that a trip to Philly would rejuvenate me. Sometimes trips do that for me. Sometimes deaths in the family do, as well.

I realized as soon as I arrived in Philadelphia that my cat tee shirts would not be enough to shield me from the elements (it was really cold there), and I spent a few hours wandering about, looking for a long-sleeved shirt option. For some reason, I became very moved while shopping, which usually doesn't happen. As I passed a Macy's, in fact, I had to blink back tears. What made me so emotional? The solitude of traveling solo? The strange economic disparity that you aren't shielded from at all in Philadelphia, unlike how it is in NY? The upcoming holidays, and a sense of empathy for the down and out in America? God knows, I have been up and I have been down in my life. Right now, I'm okay, and I want to give this year. Give, give, give. I am going to buy, like, a thousand canned goods for the Harper can drive, I swear. And because I am the team captain for my floor, we will win because of it, and I will get the glory that I always seek, that I must have. I selected this shirt, a simple shell, really, from the Gap, along with another shirt from Urban Outfitters. God, remember when it was cool to shop at the Gap? I put one of the shirts on without washing it first, which is novel for me, and it kept me warm.

As I wandered around the stores and streets of Philadelphia, I was transported back in time to when I lived in San Francisco 15 years ago. I often spent whole days and nights wandering the streets (that's what my novel is about), in complete solitude, except when Nefretiti or Dagsy or Hilz or Joshie or Splendido were free for some fun. The near-total, awful, loneliness I felt during the year I lived there still makes me feel sorry for that young man who I was back then. But I became such a fan then, too. I discovered Barbara Manning, Paula Frazer, Jean Rhys, and many other huge influences on my craft while living in SF. I also discovered the simple joy of drinking bottles of whiskey when there's nothing else to do, which, too, became a huge influence.

In Philadelphia this week, I indeed was rejuvenated, and I wrote for a few hours in my novel. Now, instead of having 239 pages, I have 240 pages. Woo-hoo, I know. But really, it did give me the jumpstart I needed. I came back, rushed to Michelle's bday dinner, rushed to meet Suzanne for "Melancholia," and I've been rushing ever since, really. Philadelphia, I love you and your streets, your cheese steaks and your gayborhood, your "Fresh Air" and your peace. I will visit you again when I can, soonest.

Debbi and Vicki and Micki and Susanna

I went this morning to meet Anne for breakfast, wearing my new Bangles tee. It doesn't say "Bangles" on it, though, it just lists the members of the Bangles from their classic line-up. A couple of people I encountered seemed confused by the tee, and I remembered yet again that no one really loved the Bangles like I loved them, no one read the liner notes, begged their parents to go see them in 1989 at the height of their popularity (I was ultimately not allowed to see them), or agonized over their breakup like I did. People thought they were a pop band, but I saw something ... witchier ... beneath the surface ... like Bon Iver songwriting for Fairport Convention or something.

Heidi and I went to see the Bangles' current lineup (no Michael Steele, sad face) at some ballroom or another recently. The Peterson sisters haven't aged a day. In fact, they seem healthier than ever. Sadly, it also seemed that the Petersons have been absorbing Susanna's life force, as she seemed thinner, more wan, than she did in the 80s and 90s. But they were in lovely form, and they rocked as only they can. But I missed Michael, of course. Where is she? No solid information is on l'internet ... only rumors and innuendos, as always.

About 13 years ago, I went to see a tribute to Sandy Denny at St. Ann's Cathedral in Brooklyn. I went to see Michael and Vicki perform (separately), but I was also a little blown away by Susan Cowsill. Hootie was there too, I think. There was a hush throughout the crowd when Michael came on to sing. She was wearing a green velvet cloak with a beautiful ivy pattern embroidered on it. I had been hearing rumors that, after the Bangles disbanded, she went to live in SF to paint and worship the mighty god Heroisch, that great, still god that demands that you sweetly throw up from time to time. She was bewitching that night. I fell in love with her all over again.

Just a couple of years later, I was going through one of my depressive periods, which I go through once every six years or so. I was actually praying that the world would end. We thought it would end with Y2K, but the year 2000 came and went, and I was sorely disappointed that everyone still lived and breathed, our computers fully functional. I began looking for a sign from God. Then, I heard that the Bangles had reunited, and were touring America. That was it! The sign I had been looking for! I imagined them like a modern-day four horsemen of the Apocalypse, bringing the end of the world on their tour, city by city, town by town. I went to see them with Kristin at Irving Plaza and they were a pop band, not the band I had been hoping for. I realized that the world would not end in "Eternal Flame," it would not end "In Your Room." They put out a record that I avoided like the plague, as did most of the world. And years passed. I heard Michael had left the band again.

So when I saw them with Heidi last month, I was not expecting to be wowed, but I was. There were some tee-shirts on sale at the concert, but they were not my kind of tee-shirts. But a few days later, I went onto their website, as I do from time to time, looking for clues, news, any peek behind the veil of these mysterious, badly dressed ladies. I saw this tee, and, though I tried to resist buying it for weeks, I eventually broke down and ordered it. The tee takes me back to the days when I would walk around San Francisco wearing my Juliana Hatfield tee-shirts and my Breeders tee-shirts, and the hipster boys would snicker at me. I wanted to explain to them that it takes a certain kind of coolness to wear a tee from a gurl band, knowing that misogynistic hipsters will mock you. I certainly don't mock their Misfits tees, their own uniforms that they don to make themselves part of a scene. It's hard to explain to the cool that you're cooler than they are, because they're at worst poseurs and at best just like all of their friends, and by choice.

To all my fellow grrl band-loving compatriots, rock on. To the Bangles, whatever it takes, get Michael back. Get her a heroine drip if that's her bag. Susannah, put out another solo record. I love you gurls.

Sad green Coach jacket

For the past few months, every time I've gone to the gym, I've noticed this green Coach coat hanging on the coat rack. The first few times I just thought that some nice lady had inadvertently synced up with my own workouts. Then, I changed my schedule a little bit, and started going in the evenings, instead of the mornings. Every single time, I saw that the nice lady had already beaten me to the gym, and had hung up her coat there again. I thought, "well, that's nice! I have myself a little shadow." I began looking around the gym as I worked out, wondering who the lady was. Was she that angry lady who I once had a confrontation with over a weight machine? Or was she the elderly Pilates teacher, who sometimes gives me "the eye," and whose gaze I have learned not to meet?

As time went by, I began to grow increasingly concerned for the lady. I mean, I go to the gym every day, and have been known to go more than once a day on weekends. Why was this lady subjecting herself to the same punishing routine that I do? I've known for many years that whatever I do won't be good enough, either at work or at the gym, but the fun for me is the trying. I've tried so hard, in fact, that I became an exercise bulimic, and now must walk uphill on the treadmill rather than run, as my knee is in pretty bad shape. Was this what was going on with the nice lady? Was she stomping through endless workouts, miserly balancing her post-workout meals in a 33-33-34 fat-carbs-protein ratio, doing countless kicks backward, into infinity? I felt such empathy for her that I wanted to find her in some corner of the gym, probably in total muscle failure, sobbing, and tell her all the lessons I've learned in my life, so as to save her some time and heartache. I would tell her, "It's okay, you'll never be as thin as you want. And no one will ever love you. Guys may say they like us, but they will always like the next person even more. Take the energy you're expending on the elliptical, and turn it inwards, and fully experience your own heart, your own soul. The blood, the meat, the guts of it. If you survive, I will be with you, and together, we can visit the ice cream bar and eat a kind of joy that will turn us cold inside. There is no other kind of joy."

In the spirit of wanting to share this dark, comforting wisdom, I approached a manager at the gym and asked him if he knew whose jacket this was. He looked at me, like, you dolt. "This coat, sir," he said, "has been here for many months. Someone left it there." Embarrassed, I walked off and lifted a dumbbell over my head.