Fuck Math.

For the record, math is a nightmare. I don't say that to be dramatic or funny or for any other reason than to state fact. It is a total, unmitigated nightmare.

I want to state that now, so that, if I jump off a bridge some time between now and Christmas, we will all know why.

We Are on the Brink of Disaster.

My big fear now is that McCain will win because there are enough American voters who are big enough dumbasses to vote for this woman because it'll make for good US Weekly reading.

You think the FLDS are scary? Check out her church, the Assembly of God. At least the FLDS keep to themselves. These people walk among us. I was going to say that you can pick them out because they wear too much makeup -- AOG was Jim and Tammy Faye Baker's church, just to give you a point of reference -- but that doesn't work in Texas, where there's no such thing as too much makeup.

Summer Will End.

I didn't fall off the face of the earth, I started school.

This semester is going to be intense. It already is. I have second-year Spanish (great teacher, lots of homework every day, I feel like I've learned more in 4 classes than I learned in 4 months last year); a class called Applicable Math (one math class is required, and this class is as basic as it gets -- still it's a nightmare, Cartesian coordinates? what's going on?); Biology for Citizens (I like this one, seems to be mostly about human evolution, the professor is German); Movies and Modern America (a seminar history class, meets once a week, we watch movies and write a long research paper); Native Americans in Texas (anthropology, Portuguese professor who is the expert on the subject, lots of writing and no exams, yay!); and a geography class, the Modern City (the professor is hilarious, very confrontational teaching style).

On top of all that, my application for graduate school is due this fall. I have to take another look soon to see what all's involved in that. Do I really have to take the GRE? Seems silly to me, but there are always hoops to jump through.

The real news is that I had to get out a blanket last night. The temperature got down to about 70! It's cool in my room as I sip coffee and write this at 7:30 a.m. The high today is 93. I feel redeemed.

The Story.

My last post brought to mind this Gillian Welch song, which is "the story." The video is a bit precious, but it's a great, great song.



And, because one can never get too much Gillian Welch and David Rawlings, here's another. One of my favorite songs -- I'd never heard them sing it before.

Thirsty.

Last night I was out in front of the house with a pair of scissors trimming back a rangy bougainvillea that sends thorny shoots across the path between the garden and the house, because every time I have to go around to the back of the house to flip the breaker switch (because the wiring in our house can't handle the air conditioners) I get scratched and I'm sick of it. It was still very warm out and humid, the air was thick. I heard someone faintly say, "Excuse me?" and I turned to see a small thin man in a white t-shirt that came down to his knees standing in the street. He started talking, but I couldn't make out what he was saying, so I moved closer, and he said, "I'm sorry, I have lung cancer and can't speak very loudly."

Then he told me the story, the one somebody must teach classes in because panhandlers everywhere I've lived from New York to Nashville to San Francisco all tell some version of it, and it ends with, "... and I just need $_____ to get back home." But halfway through the story, this man's eyes teared up and his whole head broke out in a sweat and he said, "and I'm so hot, and I don't even know where I can get some water."

I told him that I couldn't give him money but that I could give him water. I went into the house and filled a quart bottle with cold water and took it out to him. He thanked me and walked back the way he came, tipping the bottle up to take a long drink. I could feel that cold water running down his throat, and I hoped it made him feel a little bit better for at least a little while.

If I were in that situation, alone and in such dire need in a city on a hot and humid night, no matter what the circumstances that brought me there, I doubt I would survive it. I think I would just collapse, mentally, emotionally, physically. I think about that pretty often. I feel a great admiration for that man because he is stronger than I am.

Sluggish.

Since I got back from Indiana, I haven't been able to concentrate on anything for any length of time. I've been reading one novel for weeks now (Michael Chabon's The Yiddish Policemen's Union, which I am loving, though slowly), whereas I would usually finish 400-pages of fiction in a week or so. I am also reading a draft of J's novel, I've been working on it ever since I got back the last week of July, and I'm only through about 40 pages. I just cannot concentrate for more than a few minutes at a time.

It seems the only thing I have the attention span for is comics and porn, which conveniently come together in two books I recently bought and enjoyed: Side by Side by Mioki, and the third volume of Hard to Swallow.

Classes start a week from yesterday, and I'm worried it's going to be hard to switch it all on. Back to the books, back to the gym.

Friday Melanie.


I've been uploading to youtube some video clips of my friend Molly Venter -- I'll share them when they're ready -- who reminds me, at least her voice, of Melanie. Most people I think only know Melanie from "Brand New Key," her big novelty hit, or possibly "Lay Down (Candles in the Rain)," the song she wrote about Woodstock, but she wrote and recorded and performed for years and years (and may still be out on the road -- I know she was touring a few years ago with her daughters who have a band).

She likes old timey instruments and arrangements, which gives her songs sometimes a music hall vaudeville-ish sound. Some of her songs are silly -- on her live recordings, she seems to love making the audience laugh -- some are a bit maudlin, others are serious, poetic, introspective. (Reading back over that last sentence, I realize that all those elements were part of the sixties folk revival that she was a big part of.) But then, over and against all those elements is that voice that seems to just spill from her heart undiluted. Patti Griffin does it. And Molly Venter does it, too.

"Peace Will Come" was on a K-Tel compilation that my brother and I got in the early 70s -- the single version starts with only a plaintive vocal and I think accordion and builds to a full orchestration with all sorts of odd instruments and layers of vocals (all her). I used to listen to it over and over because it made me cry. I didn't even really know what it was about, still don't, but something about the sonic quality of it would go right to my tear ducts.

I had no idea who she was or what else she did and I guess no curiosity about it until many years later. I still think it's a mysterious and moving song.

And this clip of "Lay Down (Candles in the Rain)," I can't even find words for how happy it makes me to find this.

Manhunt.

The big gay news lately is Manhunt.net, the web site where men go to find other men to have sex with. Manhunt basically consists of pages and pages of profiles with small photos and a few lines of text running the gamut from those who are seeking love, romance, dinner and a movie-type dates ("I know Mr. Right is out there somewhere") to graphic solicitation ("BB bottom cumdump seeks NSA loads"). It tilts pretty hard toward the direct appeals. Men will be men.

There's an article in the new issue of Out Magazine called, "Has Manhunt Destroyed Gay Culture?" and yesterday it was in the news that the owner of Manhunt is a Republican who has donated money to John McCain's campaign. All the gay blogs are talking about it.

I'll offer a couple random thoughts (which I posted as a comment to the post in The New Gay). There are so many aspects of this issue -- cultural, personal, political -- that it's hard to tease out a point of view.

Just think about two guys cruising Manhunt: one is there because he's deeply ashamed, married and closeted, desperate for the touch of another man, and this is the only way he knows. The other one is Out, sex-positive, and believes that sex is a political act and a fundamental right. (I think you get the same extremes with people who cruise parks or public bathrooms.) Pride is not the opposite of shame, it's the other side of the coin.

There's also a practical consideration. Heterosexual men live in a world where 97% of the women they encounter could at least theoretically, potentially be attracted to them. Homosexual men live in a world where 97% of the men they encounter would not under any circumstances be attracted to them and in fact a large percentage of them would be hostile or repulsed by the suggestion. As gay men, we look for and create situations where the probability of sex is higher. We want better odds.

We need places to find each other, and it's easier to sit in front of the computer at home than it is to sit in a bar. The Internet is a horny man's dream come true. But I don't think I like this development. Alcoholics are much more fun than Internet addicts.

Extras.

Jay and I have been watching Extras, the series by Ricky Gervais who did The Office. I loved The Office, but this is even better I think. The Office was so relentlessly cynical, which was one of the things that made it so funny, but after a while that tone makes me a bit claustrophobic. What I love about Extras is that it is just as biting, but the characters are sympathetic. There's love in it. The Office was short on love. From what I saw of the American version of the Office, they tried to put some love in it, but it didn't ring true to me. The American version would probably be pretty good if you'd never seen the original. Steve Carell is pretty funny, or I should say used to be. He doesn't make me laugh any more. It's like Will Ferrell. I don't know if they're not funny any more or if I just got sick of them.

Moving Out.

J and I are moving some time soon to a house built from shipping containers and building materials salvaged from movie sets, which our friend JP (of M&JP) is building on their land. JP says it'll be done before Christmas.

I was talking with J a few days ago about how -- though I'm excited and happy about our future home -- the move comes with some sadness. It feels like a farewell to a kind of life that I dreamed of when I was a kid and lived for many years, in New York and then briefly in San Francisco, and to some extent in Nashville. A big city life where you live and work and play, shop and eat, all nearby or in places that are easily accessible by public transportation.

I've continued or tried to continue to live like that here in Austin, but it's a struggle because public transportation is so spotty. Sometimes, without a car, I feel isolated, stranded here. I can walk to the post office. I can walk to the bar, movie theaters, coffee shops, restaurants, and various other businesses. But I can't walk to a grocery store. And if I need something outside my neighborhood, I have to do serious planning. I can't just hop on the subway. Usually I can borrow J's truck. If I can't, a bus trip is often an hour and a half to get to a place that might take 15 minutes to drive to. Austin is a driving city, and I hate driving.

So moving out to M&JP's is like giving up, admitting that it may be impossible to have that life now. Life in the urban core is more and more just for the rich. The kinds of neighborhoods I lived in (the East Village and Lower East Side of New York, Ft. Greene in Brooklyn, Waverly-Belmont in Nashville) flip too fast now. There used to be a window of several years between when the artists moved into ghettos and the developers and yuppies came and wiped everything out. Now, I look at the neighborhoods east of our present home, where there is still serious poverty, drug dealing, prostitution on the street corners, not infrequent shootings, etc., and across the street they're building "luxury lofts."

Our new home will be about 4 miles from downtown and the U.T. campus. A reasonable bike ride and a very quick drive. M&JP are family to me, and though I'll be farther away from downtown, I'll feel less isolated there with them. The house is going to be beautiful. We'll have windmills and solar panels generating most of our power, a composting toilet, rain water collection will provide most of our water, a bigger vegetable garden. We'll be more closely in M&JP's orbit, a big and varied group of artists, friends, family. M&JP are like magnets for good, generous, interesting, hard-working, smart, creative people.

This move is a relief. No more yuppies nipping at my heels. It's the end of a long trail of spoiled neighborhoods that were once full of life and art and danger and possibility and are now full of strollers and retail chains and rents that are way too high for the marginal people.

(The new light rail system they're building now will stop near our new home and it goes downtown and to the U.T. campus. And we're right on two major bus routes, one of which goes to U.T., so my commute to school if I don't feel like riding my bike will be quick and easy.)

Heat.

It's 7:30 p.m. and it's 101 degrees here in Austin. But the sun will go down in a couple hours and the temperature will drop to about 95, and then it feels so good to open up the house and turn on the fans. That's the best thing about this extreme heat -- 95 feels cool.

Comix.

I don't know about the comic book thing. It's not generational, the fact that I don't get it. If there is a comic book generation, I'm in it. I think I picked up an Archies comic book a couple times when I was in 5th grade, but that was as deep as I got. Superheroes just seemed kind of dumb and childish to me, even when I was 12. I hope I'm less of a snob now -- I don't dismiss the whole genre, but I still don't get it. I just don't get it.

J and I went to see the Batman movie at the iMax theater on Wednesday. It was fun. It was often beautiful to watch. Gary Oldman is always a treat. And who's more handsome than Christian Bale? (Now I've got a hankering for Velvet Goldmine -- the last time I had the DVD, I watched it about 10 times in 3 days.) Lots of shooting, everybody shooting at each other. Heath Ledger is funny and scary, though at times his performance reminded me an awful lot of Johnny Depp in those pirate movies.

But at the end of the two hours and whatever, I had very little idea what had happened, let alone what it was about.

I've read some great graphic novels, one called Blankets is probably one of my all-time favorite books. And Stuck Rubber Baby is also great. Those are comics, right? Blankets is a beautiful book; the combination of great drawing and great storytelling -- I know I came late to this realization -- is powerful. I'm a huge fan of great drawing, and I can see that there's some great drawing in the superhero comics, so I wonder why that doesn't draw me in. When I try to read the actual comic books, I just can't work up much concern for the characters. It looks silly and contrived to me, the outfits and the things they get really worked up about, like cryptonite or whatever it is. All those cackling villians. I had a hard time not giggling when Batman was on screen in his costume talking to people in regular clothes. (How are these people keeping a straight face standing next to this guy in such a ridiculous outfit?)

So can someone give me some help with the comics genre? (Michael Chabon is one of my favorite writers, but I have avoided reading his most praised book, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, because it's about comics.) Is it possibly related to gender? There were a lot more men than women at the Batman screening. Usually when it comes to those big cultural things that divide men from women (love stories or action thrillers, cooking or sports, etc.) I fall on the female side. There are traditionally-male genres that I've come to appreciate and enjoy because I've connected with particular artists -- like Patricia Highsmith and Jim Thompson for crime stories, Samuel R. Delany for science fiction. Pan's Labyrinth changed my mind a bit about fantasy, though I'm still in the dark with Lord of the Rings. It's a ring, right? The big fuss is about a ring?

I've really enjoyed some porn comics, especially Hard to Swallow, but sex is compelling in any genre.

High School.

I promised to share my Indiana epiphanies, but I should know that making promises doesn't work for blogging. Every day is something new, and I can't go back and catch up. The only writing about the past that I seem to be able to do, and I know I do it a lot, is writing about the distant past. But if there are gaps in my chronicle as the present streams relentlessly by, I just have to let them go and start where I am.

And I say all that just to let myself off the hook for not writing in depth about my encounter after 25 years with T, my best friend from high school, while I was in Indiana last month. Short version: T was the friend I did all the bad things with first (drinking, drugs, sex, shoplifting). T was that friend.

I don't trust my memories from that time. I used to assume that high school was a blur for everyone after so many years, but I've talked to people my age who remember clearly. Generally I have poor recollection of long past events. I lose the details, I lose the chronology. I wonder sometimes if it's a result of being so mentally and emotionally fragmented back then. I was one person in my head and heart, another in the world. Broadly speaking, that's the closet. My art teacher had a record-player in her classroom, the old kind that looks like a little suitcase, and for some reason there was only ever one record, the Moody Blues (I can't remember the name of the album, but it was the one with "Never Comes the Day"), and we would play it over and over in her class and I would fight back tears, "If only you knew what's inside of me now / You wouldn't want to know me, somehow."

When was it that we bought a few dozen eggs and ran around campus throwing them at college kids dressed up on their way to a dance? Whose idea was that? And how did we not get caught? If I was only ever half present in any moment, how can I be expected to remember the details?

I can't put things together. There's no through-line. We drank a lot when we were pretty young, even before high school I think, and started smoking pot when we were around 14. We lived in a college town, and it was easy to walk into frat parties and drink whatever was at hand. We'd both been smoking cigarettes since we were about 11 or 12. But midway through high school, I went through an anti-drugs and smoking phase (can you imagine?) and I didn't start smoking or drinking again until near graduation. I did lots of high school theater and those friends were clean-cut and separate from my pothead friends.

T remembers everything, though. He remembers all the mean nicknames we had for people. He remembers the time his father was beating up his older brother because he'd found his rolling papers and T ran down the road to my house and stayed for 2 days. (I remember how worried my mom was.) He remembers that it was him who first taught me how to give head.

Eduardo.

I asked J to scan a few photos of me and Eduardo from 1983. Except for the last one, these were taken in Eduardo's apartment on 11th St. and Ave. C, the place we shared for a few months the following year. That summer we were very into bleaching our hair, rooftop parties, and dancing at the Roxy. (And taking pictures of ourselves.)

The last one was taken at Jones Beach. That's my friend Liz who was in my class at Parsons. She used to call Eduardo and me the "love affair of the century." I wish I were still friends with Liz.