Rosie the Riveter's off-label Lysol mandate; The Dandy Warhols, Pt. 2:

1) I bought a 1949 Modern Screen today--I'm going to frame its Ava Gardner cover--and I found this ad inside:

"Too often, too frightfully often, the romance and tenderness of married love is shattered by one sad neglect. This neglect makes a wife unsure of her feminine daintiness, and slowly but surely succeeds in causing trouble between her husband and herself. Many doctors advise their patients to douche regularly with Lysol brand disinfectant, just to insure daintiness alone, and to use it as often as they need it. No greasy aftereffect."

No greasy aftereffect, and I would imagine, no remaining vagina. Lysol douches? These women toiled in munitions factories throughout the war, only to have their men return and say, "I spent five years in a trench outside Vichy but, sweetheart, the smell of your cooter makes me gag"?

Mr. Spielberg, your next project awaits.

2) I can't stop playing The D.W.'s "Welcome to the Monkey House". It's as if David Bowie fucked a Brassai photograph--and who's to say he hasn't?--and created the lush, druggy, sticky, carnal wonder that is "Monkey House". Where The Dandys lead, I will follow.

Sharing the knowledge, sharing the love:

The past few weeks have been a maelstrom of holidays (mostly fun) and health stuff (definitely not). After New Year's Day, I'll resume regular posting, and I'm going to try to cram in an end-of-the year-meaning-of-it-all piece in the next forty-eight hours.

Interim wisdom: I discovered this week that if you're not immersed in The Dandy Warhols' "Welcome to the Monkey House" every second of your waking life, *you're just killing time*:

THE DANDY WARHOLS - Discography - Albums

From New York Magazine's piece on the recent suicide of renowned feminist scholar, Carolyn Heilbrun:

"'The thing about suicide is that it is indeterminate,' says Susan Gubar, Heilbrun's friend and a professor at Indiana University. 'The only person to testify with any authenticity is God. Everyone else is bullshitting.'"

I've come to agree with Bukowski. In "Post Office", he writes about having the knife at his neck, seeing a finger painting his daughter, Marina, had made for him, and realizing that he couldn't do it: "I decided that if I was going down, I was taking seventeen of these fuckers with me."

Some days, I even know which seventeen.

My aunt has cancer again.

I want to put this into a larger context or write something eloquent or profound, but right now, words seem immovable.

I yearn to believe otherwise--more than I can express here--but perhaps what I've believed all along is true: We leave this world with the important questions unanswered.

This is going to sound lumbering and collegiate, but maybe our divinity comes from loving ourselves and each other, reaching out to those less fortunate, and knowing we can change the world in meaningful ways. Maybe there's nobility in asking the hundredth question, when the previous ninety-nine have gone unanswered.

Maybe.

My aunt has cancer again.

Fittingly, apropos of nothing: Andy, did you hear about this one?

Warhol

[warhol.dk] The Andy Warhol Homepage

But you are heroic, Laura:

Laura Hillenbrand ("Seabiscuit") and I both have CFIDS (Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome). Vogue profiles her in its current piece, "Heroines Among Us: Extraordinary Women of 2003".

My fever is spiking now and cohesive thought is a joke, but here goes: Thanks, Laura, for writing such a damned good book, and for being a tireless (ha, ha) and erudite spokesperson for the CFIDS populace.

Vogue excerpt:

"After reading it," she says of the [recent New Yorker] article, which took [her] two years to write, "I think people understand that CFS [aka CFIDS] is not being tired at the end of the day, it's being afraid that you are too weak to breathe." Despite the obstacles she has overcome, in her mind she's no hero. "On the contrary," she says, "one of the frustrating things about being incapacitated is that your life becomes utterly selfish. You exist only to get your body to the next day. It's frustrating, not heroic."

**********************************************************

Today's lesson:

If a 34 year old male goes by "Johnny" instead of "John", he is a boy and not a man.

And in this case, duplicitous and self-aggrandizing, too.

Soaring inside:

I interviewed JT LeRoy (This Is JTLeroy.com) last week for Bookslut, and my molecules have been realigned in a really great way.

I feel unnervingly lucky and profoundly grateful, both to him and to whatever force threw us togehter.

Earlier this week, I interviewed the extraordinary photographer, Amanda Koster...

...for an upcoming Digittante piece. If you're unfamiliar w/ her work, check it out at amandakoster.com:

AMANDA KOSTER PHOTOGRAPHY

Also, and way the hell off the topic: About five minutes ago, I took a break from transcribing and turned on the American Music Awards. Is it just me, or does Lindsey Buckingham now resemble an un-tenured comp lit professor? The one who runs five miles each morning, excoriates you for drinking caffeine ("Man, some kid is in jail right now for crack, but you can bring your drug to class"), yet still smokes prodigious amounts of weed?

The second installment of my arts column for Digittante is up--yea!

This month's subject: the way groovy, Montreal-based Mobilivre ("Bookmobile") collective:

| d i g i t t a n t e | get right by art |

Excerpt:

Mobilivre’s vintage silver trailer is parked on Pine Street in Seattle’s Capitol Hill neighborhood. "The Hill" is the fulcrum of Seattle’s arts (and heroin) scene and its denizens tend to be unflappable. Yet passerby hover around this sleek, bullet-shaped vehicle with a childlike eagerness that is refreshingly un-hip.

I step inside with a member of Mobilivre and as I look around, I feel giddy: the walls are a calm cool aqua—at once retro and of-the-minute—and lined with hundreds of independently produced publications: zines, graphic novels, art books, comics. The colors dance—one cover is a swirl of Creamcicle orange, another sports what looks like lavender satin—and I’m overcome with the desire to stay and splash around for the next several days.

Oh, yeah, *that*:

I've had CFIDS for the past twelve years. It's in an acute phase right now and I'm:

1) extremely grateful for my family and closest friends, and

2) really fucking sick of feeling this way.

Pre-emptive strike: I do mild yoga and stretching; walk as far as I can without incurring relapse; have eliminated the foods to which I'm allergic; eat my fruits and vegetables; drink eight glasses of water a day; follow all of the latest research; take a daily multi-vitamin; don't smoke; have two or three drinks a year; consume minimum amounts of caffeine; have tried acupuncture; get two massages a month; and have seen some of the most knowledgable doctors in the region. I stay focused, remain optimistic, implement the best of western and eastern medicine, help those less fortunate, and maintain a lively, ribald sense of humor.

In spite of this, I'm wrestling w/ acute nausea, fever, swollen lymph nodes and I feel like my very active mind is trapped in the body of a ninety year old. And while none of this has affected my sense of style--I will *never* leave the house in sweats and a fleece hoody, I don't care how sick I am--the other ninety-five percent of me feels battered right now.

When I'm able, I'm going to shoot a documentary on CFIDS and launch an annual fundraiser. In the meantime, if you're interested, check out cfids.org for more information:

The CFIDS Association of America

John Wells Needs a Hug; Les Moonves Needs a Ball Sack:

1) "The West Wing" suffered a steep decline in ratings last season, precipitated by stiff competition from "The Bachelor" and what some viewed as sluggish, convoluted storylines. Head writer and creator Aaron Sorkin consistently turned in late scripts, NBC balked, and Sorkin and Tom Schlamme--two of the show's three executive producers--quit before they were fired.

NBC asked the remaining exec producer, John Wells (hugely successful as a writer and exec producer of "ER") to helm "WW" 's writing staff and jump start its ratings. According to the latest Nielsens, ratings have improved slightly, but I don't care: John Wells isn't fit to clean Aaron Sorkin's keyboard, and he is ruining my goddamned show.

Nuance? Gone. That absurd close-up of Mary Stuart Masterson's red toenails lasted so long it could have been a Revlon commercial. (Oh, I get it now. *Feminists can still be sexy*. Thanks for clearing that up.) Wit? M.I.A. Leo’s referring to Albania and Greece as "two Bronze Age civilizations" was humorous, but hardly deft. Sorkin’s trademark banter is sorely missed.

It’s a mistake to analyze a writer’s personality based on their work, but John Wells seems pissed off and needy. As "ER" has devolved over the years, its characters have become self-loathing, petulant, and moody. When they yell, it’s not out of anger at the injustices that they witness, it’s because another staff member has insulted them or because they have to work late or they got dumped again. When they’re not fucking each other, they're hating each other. (Sometimes both simultaneously.)

Under Wells, the same dour mood has blanketed "The West Wing". In the most recent episode, Josh had his driver stop the car so he could get out and scream at the Capitol Building, "You want a piece of me?" Um, you want a piece of me? This execrable line was completely out of character for the hyper-articulate Josh. He sounded like a third grader who got pushed off the swings and into the wood chips.

Perhaps it’s nap time for John Wells.

2) Much has been written about CBS pulling its mini-series on the Reagans, but I want to add: Les Moonves, you are a little, little man. So, the RNC sent you a letter. Big fucking deal. You could have aired the series and weathered the heat for one news cycle. Sure, there might have been boycotts, but as the CEO of the country's #1 network, you should have learned something by now: Americans have short attention spans. The next ostensible controversy would have erupted--maybe "The Restaurant" would have poisoned a diner with some bad squid--and no one would have cared that your network depicted the neocon's patron saint as human.

Most likely, you were scared how a Republican Congress would treat CBS and its parent company, Viacom, in matters of deregulation, etc. Jesus Christ, man, grow a set. It’s not as if you’re staring down the Khmer Rouge.

Alms, please, for Les Moonves’ penis.

What if it Were Your Wife, Jeb?

Florida Gov. Bush Signs Feeding Tube Law

A severly brain-damaged Florida woman has been in a vegetative coma for the past thirteen years. Her parents want to keep her alive. Her husband petitioned a Florida Circuit Court, requesting that her feeding tube be removed. Last week, his request was granted. For the past six days, the woman has received no food or water. The U.S. Supreme Court has refused to hear the case and the U.S. District Court has declined to hear it citing lack of jurisdiction.

Today, the Florida Legislature passed a bill ordering that the woman's feeding tube be re-inserted. Immediately, Florida Governor Jeb Bush signed the bill into law. The woman will be kept alive.

When I first read this article, I was scathingly angry. Now I just feel achingly sad : for the woman, for her husband, for all of us.

When I was five years old, my grandmother had a massive heart attack. She was dead when the paramedics arrived, but they were able to revive her. She spent the next two years in a coma. She lost roughly a third of her body weight and developed bed sores. Her muscles atrophied, her hands gnarled, and she became almost, but not entirely, blind. My mom says that my grandmother seemed to perceive shapes: her eyes sometimes tracked whomever was in the room. On the two occasions my brother and I were allowed to see her briefly, her eyes welled with tears.

However, she was able to breathe on her own, without a respirator. My grandfather had no option: there was no plug to pull. He watched his beloved, intelligent, boisterously creative wife become slowly and nightmarishly unrecognizable.

My mother visited her nearly everday, telling her stories of my brother and me. Massaging her hands. My brother and I would plan the party we would throw when "Yiayia" woke up: I don't remember the details, but I know that we insisted there should be cake and balloons.

In September 1974, my grandmother had a second heart attack. Mercifully, she died.

Jeb, you can't know the horror you've just inflicted on this woman and her husband.

I have to stop now.

JT LeRoy, Bono, and Why I Want a Wife:

I'm now a regular contributor to Bookslut and I'm trying to set up an interview w/ the searingly talented JT LeRoy ("The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things", "Sarah"):
This Is JTLeroy.com

His publicist at Viking Press thinks it's a great idea, and she forwarded my interview request to him. I read his books two years ago and now I'm pounding down his essays and sifting through the reams of press he's accrued.

In the midst of my JT Fest, I remembered that somewhere I'd saved an interview w/ Bono in which he discussed his admiration for "The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things". (Yes, I'm a Bono-phile. Shut the fuck up.)

I found the quote I was looking for, buried in an early 2001 interview. In the same piece, the writer mentions that Bono and his family have recently moved into their Central Park West apartment. Bono hasn't slept the night before and he apologizes to said writer because he can't find the coffee and he has nothing on hand with which to feed the guy, so he nicely asks the building's doorman to go buy some bagels. However, he can't remember what bagels are called and has to describe them to the writer and the doorman, to which they both reply, astonished, "Um, bagels?"

Bono sheepishly laughs and admits that his wife set up their new kitchen and he's still trying to find his way around. I don't see this as particularly anachronistic: it makes sense that the spouse who is on tour and testifying before the U.S. Senate re increasing African AIDS relief is not the spouse who's going to decide in which drawer to put the butter knives. Also, to the degree that you can ever know what goes on in another's relationship, Bono and Ali seem like equals.

That being said (and obviously, a lot of women feel this way) I want a wife, too, damn it. Not sexually--like my mom said recently, "I know not you're not gay b/c if you were, we'd have to march in *all* the parades"--but in the sense that I'd like someone else to care about the domestic stuff in my life. Because I simply don't.

By any estimation, I'm a good cook: whenever I actually make food for others, it's devoured right away. I just can't see the fucking point. When I'm invited to someone's house, I'll bring something scrumptious, but odds are good it came from DeLaurenti's or Dilettante. I much prefer restaurants to dinner parties, anyway. Isn't that the point of financial solvency?

I haven't been in love in awhile, and maybe that's the source of this hausfrau ennui. I have a fine sense of story, and there's something inherently dramatic in preparing a meal for a new love. On the other hand, I always enjoy the meaning and the gesture behind the food infinitely more than cooking it, and the novelty inevitably runs out.

Of course, I'm a total clothes whore (whore, horse: whatever) and I rarely leave the house w/out lipstick, usually red. So, this isn't a gender thing. (Well, sort of. But anyway.) Maybe I haven't met the right guy yet.

Or maybe I just haven't found my wife.

My new arts column for Digittante is here. First installment: an interview with Nabil Ayers...

...of Alien Crime Syndicate. Rock 'n' roll!

| d i g i t t a n t e | get right by art |

Excerpt: It’s early Monday morning and Nabil Ayers hasn’t slept: his band, Alien Crime Syndicate, is recording a new disc with acclaimed producer, Gil Norton; Sonic Boom Records (the thriving Seattle chain Ayers co-founded and co-manages) marked its sixth birthday with a raucous party the night before; and The Control Group, (the record label he owns and operates), is about to release Vendetta Red’s new disc on vinyl. Ayers has been an integral part of Seattle’s music scene for almost a decade, however, and he’s a pro. Armed with a goofy wit and a Pelegrino, he amiably dives into this interview.

My Bookslut interview with Augusten Burroughs ("Dry", "Running With Scissors"):

Bookslut: Interview with Augusten Burroughs

Excerpt: Burroughs has forgotten our interview is today, and I'm pretty sure my call wakes him from a nap. In spite of this, he is genuinely warm, reflexively articulate, and funnier than hell. We discuss his unexpected success, the controversies surrounding the memoir genre, how literary fame is "fourth tier", his devotion to Elizabeth Berg, his affinity for Greek families, his overlooked similarities to JT LeRoy, and his Thanksgiving with Bret Easton Ellis.

Conundrum:

"West Wing" continues to be one of the best shows on television.

Is it weird that I want to have sex with Martin Sheen?

Five minutes of channel surfing yields lifetime of knowledge:

1) Evolution fails. (Hey there, Suzanne Somers!)

2) Whores are poignant. (Photogenic, too, when secondary characters on single-camera dramas.)

Back to work.

This is so stupid.

I'm watching CNN's coverage of Bill Clinton's speech in California. Ostensibly, he's spearheading the anti-recall movement and campaigning for Gray Davis.

But he's riffing on the American dream, and how America will one day have a Hispanic female President, and he thinks it will be the girl behind him on the podium whose hand he just shook, and how all of us need to believe that we're smarter than we think we are, and that we can accomplish anything we set our minds to if we're diligent and pursue education, and how his life has completely defied expectations, and--god help me--I miss him *so* much.

I'm not naive. I voted for him twice and supported him during the impeachment and defended him at dinner parties, but I know he's megomaniacal and his own worst enemy. Damn it, I read Christopher Hitchens' scathing polemic, "No One Left To Lie To: The Values of the Worst Family", (Amazon.com: Books: No One Left To Lie To: The Values of the Worst Family) and agreed with large chunks of it.

That being said, I would have voted for him again: Clinton is a gifted intellectual, extraordinarily empathetic, and--oh, fuck it. This is the same debate that's raged for the past twelve years, and I've got errands to run.

Right now, though, I feel like an old friend just called me from out of the blue, and that I didn't realize how much I missed him until I heard his voice.

My brother will (try to) kick my ass for that one. Hit me with your best shot, baby bro.

Today I felt guilty that I didn't feel more.

I transcribed my Augusten Burroughs interview. (Details next time, but he's reflexively articulate and funnier than hell.)

I went to physical therapy.

I ran errands with my dad.

I--finally!--posted my online personal ad, god help us all.

I felt a quiet, dull ache, or maybe it was numbness, but the anticipated sobs never came, even as I watched children read the names of their dead parents.

I think this is because I contemplate September 11th's ramifications all of the time, regardless of the date.

And maybe, like most of the country, I'm finding a way to turn the page.

I don't agree with all of it, but today's most salient point goes to Christopher Hitchens:

Don't Commemorate Sept. 11 - Fewer flags, please, and more grit. By Christopher Hitchens

Good night and God bless.