I'm also the Henry Miller of shoes:

My theater friends used to say that I'm the Bukowski of desserts, so I know whereof I speak when I vociferously recommend the new line of chocolates, Cocoa Pete's. The flavors, textures, packaging, and price comprise the perfect dessert, or PMS dinner.

If only writers landed endorsement deals.

Cocoa Pete's Chocolate Adventures

Buckingham's Chalice:

A few months ago, I wrote that Lindsey Buckingham now looks like a haggard English professor.

A retraction of sorts: I'm watching the Fleetwood Mac documentary on VH1 and next to Mick Fleetwood and John McVie, Buckingham's visage is positively dewy. In addition to the bongwater, Buckingham clearly drank from the cup of life, too.

[Note: Dear Stevie, your cracked gravel voice still breaks my heart.]

The Blair Bitch Project:

I'm really ill and missed most of my friend's birthday party tonight. (By the time I got there, I had to leave. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been able to drive home safely.) I was looking forward to toasting her on her big night and I'm bummed.

I've got awful chills so I've changed into flannel pajamas, my robe with the puppy dogs on it, and thick wool socks. (The latter comprise the only garments I own from that style-chomping black hole, REI.)

It is in this mood and under these circumstances that I've turned on the television and inadvertantly encountered Katie Couric's interview with Jayson Blair. I loathe Blair for all the obvious reasons, but here's the truly absurd thing: he's explaining to Couric that his bipolar disorder played a role in the grotesque deception he perpetrated at The New York Times. A manic depressive New York writer: that's *historically unprecedented.* He must feel like a two-headed baby. With fins. If mood disorders gave writers permission not to do their jobs, homo sapiens would still be scrawling in the dirt with sticks.

This day is over. I'm going to sleep.

Millions have died in the past four years. Nader still draws breath:

Question for the gods: Why?

Salon.com News | Ralph Nader announces run for presidency

And now, [expletive] stuff I'm not at all grateful for and loathe in the very core of my being:

1) These goddamned fucking chills.
2) This cocksucking fever.
3) Whatever the hell is making my lymph nodes feel like rocks.
4) This ass-sucking, motherfucking nausea.
5) Apparently having pissed off gravity.
6) Running out of profanity, not symptoms.

Or anyone else's kids, either:

Re John Kerry and the buzz that he might--or might not--have nailed someone else while married to Teresa (DRUDGE REPORT 2004?), could we all just agree that as long as the candidates aren't fucking their own kids, *it just doesn't matter?*

"Said it once before/But it bears repeating now"--The White Stripes

Today is my birthday: five and a half hours in, and so far, 37 is quite fun. One of my friends (affectionately) teased me about my recent entry re gratefulness, but on your birthday, you can't help but get a bit contemplative.

So, fuck it: I've got some wonderful people in my life and I love what I do. I really am grateful.

Let the mockery resume.

At what point does CPR become kissing the dead?

Sometimes no amount of effort will bring a friendship back to life.

A momentary lapse of glibness:

Some days are so good, so unexpectedly delightful, that all you can do is give thanks.

To all of the extraordinarily intelligent and kind people in my life--living and dead--and to Whomever got the ball rolling: Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Dude, where's my adrenaline?

An alarmingly talented and really sweet new friend asked me to pitch something to his editor. I emailed my ideas yesterday and now I'm punchy, but in a really good mood.

I'm allergic to everything in them, but today I celebrate: w/in the hour, two slices of pizza and a Diet Coke will sit before me. Woo-hoo! (That's how Fitzgerald and Bukowski tore it up, right?) For health reasons and totally against my will, I might be one of the more monastic writers of all time.

But, hey, except for Sofia Coppola, I've got the best shoes.

They should hear my dad discuss "that asshole" Aaron Brown:

Since June, I've maintained that Senator John Kerry provides the Democrats' best hope for reclaiming the White House, so I'm delighted with the results of Iowa's caucus. I agree with w/ Governor Howard Dean's critics: he's unelectable on a national level; he's a huge fucking crybaby; and his understanding of foreign affairs is limited at best. (Try Osama bin Laden before a jury? I'm a lifelong progressive, but I think that's an inane and dangerous response to the most blatant act of war committed against the U.S. in the past fifty years.)

That being said, the pundits are making way too big of a deal out of Dean's post-Iowa speech to his supporters. (Salon.com Politics) Yes, Dean got riled up and, yes, there was some yelling involved, but it's not as if he took a swig of Jim Beam and gutted a volunteer with a shiv. He publicly displayed emotion and spoke with his hands. Perhaps said pundits should interact with Mediterranean families and gain some perspective.

To the teams at CNN, The New York Times, Salon, and Fox, I extend an invitation: Join us for Sunday dinner. I dare you.

I recently stumbled across Ralph Waldo Emerson's definition of success:

"To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children ... to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived."

To which I'll add: the affection of rabbits, too.

My Digittante interview with photographer Amanda Koster is up--yea!

Excerpt:

Amanda Koster is the rare artist who prompts you to call your friends and issue mandates: “You’ve got to check out this person’s stuff. No, really, right now.” When my editor first told me about “this great photographer”, I was skeptical. Not because I don’t trust his judgement—I do—but because, like writing, photography seems to attract poseurs and dilettantes. Someone picks up a camera, shoots their roommate in black and white, and—boom—they think they’re Diane Arbus. Then I went to her web site, amandakoster.com, and viewed a collection of her work.

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

How do you do that haiku that you do:

My writing group has been experimenting with haikus. Some of mine:

Asshole at Starbuck's
I do not want to discuss
my iBook with you

The fastest way to
prompt a guy's call is to say
I'm over you now

I will not fuck you
if you wear Dockers unless
I am very bored

Straight man please listen
Forego your braided belt and
go to Kenneth Cole

Christy Turlington
has Ed Burn's love but can't have
Nutella on toast

Natalie Merchant
Please crack a smile and don't sing
about Osama

By 2005
Jennifer Aniston will
have purchased us all

My downstairs neighbor
thinks he's an artist but he's
just boozy and loud

Passive agressive
people suck lots of ass and
hopefully die young

Dear Bono please know
I am a double D and
must lie down a lot

My last date despised
Elvis Costello so I
won't return his calls

My interview w/ JT LeRoy:

Like the first time someone entered you or the first time a loved one died, you remember the first time you read JT LeRoy.

It was two years ago, the night I finished "Sarah", LeRoy's 2000 tale of a boy who becomes a "lot lizard" (truck stop whore) to compete with his mother, assuming her identity in the mouths and arms of tricks. In his quest for a bigger raccoon bone (a signal to others of his prowess as a whore) "Cherry Vanilla" endures rape, beatings, and the ritual shearing of his hair. Abandoned by his mother and forsaken by his pimp, he is alone and desecrated because he had the hubris to want a better life. I sobbed until I threw up.

LeRoy completed the stories in 2001's "The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things" before "Sarah", but he felt "Sarah" was the more artful book and wanted it released first. "Deceitful" chronicles his years on the road with his speed-addled mother and her lovers, all of whom beat or rape the young Jeremiah. When he writes, "His long white buck teeth hang out from a smile, like a wolf dog", he is describing Bugs Bunny. LeRoy's assessment of these tales is debatable, though: "Deceitful" 's impact is immediate and unshakable, like a fist to the stomach. The film adaptation, which he co-wrote, will be released in 2004.

LeRoy's reviews are uniformly spectacular, but reporters fixate on his friendships with Madonna and Winona Ryder, his penchant for female attire, and his years as a prostitute. Insightful readers, though, tune out the hype like so much static. They know LeRoy's work is the stuff of cave painters--ash and blood--and that he crawls through the same dark, jagged spaces to create.

On deadline for his 2004 book, LeRoy initially agrees to an email interview, ten questions only. I comply, then find out from his assistant that he likes the questions and has decided to do a phone interview. Elated and nervous, I call the next day, unsure of what to expect. But when he asks, "How are you?", his tone is intimate and kind and the next thing I know, it's two hours later and we're still on the phone. We discuss the "Venus flytrap" in which he ensnares readers, protecting his child like he couldn't protect himself, his passion for organic dark chocolate, how he wants a mom like Sharon Osbourne, and why asking someone to read your work is "like putting your pussy in someone's face".

JT LeRoy: Hello?

Litsa Dremousis for Bookslut: Hey, it's Litsa with Bookslut.

JT: Oh, hey, how are you?

Bookslut: Doing okay. How are you doing?

JT: Um, aaahhh [pauses]. I'm recovering from the party.

Bookslut: [laughs] Did you guys have a wrap party for the film ["The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things"]?

JT: Yeah.

Bookslut: How'd it go?

JT: It was, well, there were a lot of people that I'd invited that I was really looking forward to seeing. But, like, two thousand people showed up for a space that only fits a few hundred.

Bookslut: [Laughs.]

JT: The fire department threatened to shut it down, and people like, Tim Armstrong from Rancid, who's in the movie, and [in-demand songwriter] Linda Perry, all these really great people, they didn't get in.

Bookslut: Oh, shit.

JT: We had to get Chloe Sevigny in--they didn't want to let her in.

Bookslut: [laughs] I guess that says something about who was inside, though.

JT: Well, there were some great people. I met Sharon Osbourne and I started to cry.

Bookslut: How was she?

JT: She was nice, but I didn't know how to handle it. She represents to me the mother, the uber-mother.

Bookslut: That makes sense.

JT: She'll do anything for her kids. She's like a bear that would rip someone's heart out for her kids, and I always wanted a mother like that.

Bookslut: Sure.

JT: And you can't--you have to be born into a situation like that. So when I met her, I'd thought a lot about her, and it doesn't matter what you think about
her--

Bookslut: --I think she's great-

JT: --she's one of those people, people say she's doing it for her, or whatever, but the ultimate thing is: I think she would kill someone for her children. I relate to that feeling, because I have a child. I feel like, I'm grateful I have that capacity inside me.

Bookslut: Right.

JT: I think she totally misinterpreted it, because when I saw her, I just burst into tears. I'm standing there, and I just lose it.

Bookslut: Ultimately, though, she had to be touched.

JT: No, I don't know. Imagine you meet someone and they just start freaking out, and I did. I feel bad.

Bookslut: I bet if you email her, she'll totally understand.

JT: Yeah, I don't have her email address.

Bookslut: I bet you could get it.

JT: Yeah, I've got her daughter's, so I can get hers [Sharon's]. I should call up her daughter.

Bookslut: That had to be really profound, though. Also, I'm sure that you're emotions were heightened with it being a big party.

JT: And I was loaded.

Bookslut: [Laughs.]

JT: That's the only way I've learned to deal with situations like that, with large groups of people.

Bookslut: I think it's great that you've had the capacity to--like you said, you are a parent-to not make the same mistakes that you had to live through. I think it takes a lot of guts and a lot of courage to turn it around. And you're doing it.

JT: [sweetly] Ahhh.

Bookslut: I'm not just saying that. I'm so not. Because I am lucky. I was born into a very close family, and it's just dumb luck.

JT: Yeah, I think it's because I had that family, that real family [his foster family], until I was five, so I had that grounding, you know?

Bookslut: Yeah.

JT: Because if you look at people who have never had that connection, who've never bonded with a mother, they're just lost. There's no way, you can't get that back. I mean, you can't build a foundation on quicksand. The work I did with my therapist [Dr. Terrence Owens of San Francisco's Child Crisis Center] was knocking down a structure that was built on a very solid foundation.

Bookslut: And look at how much you've done. You just turned twenty-two, right?

JT: No, no, no. I just turned twenty-four.

Bookslut: [laughs] Well, still. It's still pretty remarkable.

JT: [laughs] Hey, I'm getting younger. You just took two years off. I think that's pretty good.

Bookslut: I'd read your work before, obviously, but I've been reading a ton of articles about you--I've noticed this with other artists, too--and your age jumps around, even in pieces that are written in the same year. People can't seem to keep your age straight.

JT: I know, I have to think about how old I am, too. Like, didn't I just turn twenty-three? [Laughs.]

Bookslut: When is the new book coming out?

JT: Well, as soon as I finish it. That's been a problem. But I'm going to do it like "Harold's End". You know that story that I did for McSweeney's?

Bookslut: Sure.

JT: We're doing it-it's going to be beautiful. We're doing it on Last Gasp [the renowned publisher and distributor of eclectic books and comics] and I found the illustrator-are we doing the "interview" now?

Bookslut: [laughs] Sure.

JT: Okay, cool. And by the way, I really liked your questions.

Bookslut: Thank you.

JT: The energy with which you wrote them really came through. So, you know Gretchen [Koss, his publicist at Viking Press]?

Bookslut: I've talked to Gretchen on the phone, and she's wonderful.

JT: She's amazing. She's why I'm over at Viking. I have to tell you that whole story. Things happen like that with me, where, it's like you're blown into things, and as long as you stay true to your intention--it's not looking at it through ego--but if you're chasing art, the right people get put in your place, and you never know what your gift is, or how things will look. And it's not trying to put your structure on how things will look. It's letting go of that, and letting it be what it's supposed to be, and it's amazing where the gift comes.

Bookslut: Right.

JT: But it's really like that. It's really fucking like that, because there were times I can remember when I would stare out at the world and think, "I don't feel like I can take this pain anymore. I can't take this incredible pain. Am I supposed to die?" It always felt like, well, I hear a lot of voices, that I talk to, or whatever.

Bookslut: Right.

JT: And one would say, "No, you're meant to...". [Pauses]

Bookslut: I believe in all of that.

JT: I do. It's like in [the 1996 Lars Von Trier film] "Breaking the Waves", when she talks to God?

Bookslut: Yeah.

JT: It's kind of like that, but I don't mean it's talking to God, but I talk to different people, and whatever, you know? And it would always say, "You'll see, it's going to work out." It's not like it said, "You're going to be taken care of". I can't even put it into words, what it would tell me. I'm better when I'm talking to them, and asking, you know? Being in that place of spirituality-[Pleasantly to his assistant, "I'm doing an interview. I'll call him later."]

Bookslut: I completely understand what you're saying.

JT: When I saw "Breaking the Waves", I understood it. I mean, that's what it feels like for me, you know? But for me, it's not this punishing voice. I mean, I've got the really horrible [voices], because I disassociate. I can have, like, I can have people inside me.

Bookslut: Sure.

JT: I can have those really horrible ones, but when I connect, it's with the more spiritual, caretaker parts, who would tell me--it just always felt that I was meant to do something with this. I feel the worst thing that can happen to someone is when they're being tortured and someone tells them, "Nobody knows you're here. And nobody cares".

Bookslut: Right.

JT: And that breaks people more than any amount of pain. When people think that somebody out there remembers them, and that their suffering is not in vain--

Bookslut: --right--

JT: --people can endure unbelievable torture. And I just got to the point where I believed, this is not in vain. I would read these accounts--I remember being really obsessed with the people from Ireland who were taken to Australia. You'd have little, little kids, who'd be sent on this voyage and put into servitude for stealing a loaf of bread, you know?

Bookslut: Yes.

JT: And they were starving, and only a couple of voices survived, because all these people couldn't write. But there were a few, and I just thought, my god, all those voices of people who were silenced throughout history. How many people get to record their voice? The loneliness of suffering is what I've wanted to overcome, [in] the search for family and community.

Bookslut: Sure.


JT: For me, with writing, I want to create an experience that's like a Venus flytrap. I was reading something about horror filmmakers, about being so obsessed with violence and death, but that as a filmmaker, you have control over it, violence and death.

Bookslut: Right.

JT: And I think there's a way of sharing an experience that gives you a feeling of control over it. But it's not just that. The twist is, it's not "let me drag you into this hell", because it's not transgressive. It might have been, it started out like that, which might have been my attraction to the early Dennis Cooper ["Frisk", "My Loose Thread"] work. It's similar to the work I did psychologically, in a place of love and support, where my work can resonate with people who are like these middle-aged women, like this woman [I know] from Norway, who has nothing in common with the experience. There's a universal truth that got touched on, because I think I went into a universal unconscious type place, and wrote about themes that went beyond these stories, their content.

Bookslut: That's one of the things I think is so remarkable about your work, is that there's a purity to it. Given the stories and given all that you've lived through, I think there's a real purity that comes through. So it makes sense--it ties in with everything you're saying.

JT: It's like I was saying, I want you to be in the Venus flytrap, I want you so to be in the experience. I've been reading these really well-written books, but they're linguistic-not linguistic, they're lingo books-they're just how we talk. I love books where you pick them up and you know what it smells like. When I walk down the street, I have no idea of the names of the flowers that I pass, but when I'm writing, I love that there's a crispness when I hear the flower is a "loganvillia-oola-boola". [Laughs.]

Bookslut: Sure.

JT: And not just thrown in there, tell me what it looks like. I do that research. I do that work. I was always obsessed with how movies--I lived a lot in movies, in movie theaters-I spent a lot of time there. It was always painful for me that no matter how encompassing you make the experience in words, it just cannot compete with movies. Movies are so in your face, and I want to get as close to that experience, I want to you to know what the weather feels like, I want you to know what it smells like, what kinds of plants are around you. And that takes a lot of work, but I want you in my Venus flytrap as much possible. Because I want that connection, you know? I want you in my world.

Bookslut: I would get hungry with all the diner scenes in "Sarah", where you were describing the food. I would seriously get hungry, so you're doing it well.

JT: I joke with this friend of mine: I'm just doing this all for the free food. [Laughs.] I get the free clothes, I get invited to the dinners, and now it's like, I'm very snotty about even my chocolate. I used to live on candy bars, and now I only eat organic cocoa with 70-something percent chocolate. It's really funny.

Bookslut: I know Nancy [JT's assistant] told me, but what's your favorite?

JT: Well, I love the Black and Tan in England, but any organic-it doesn't even have to be organic, but fucking pure dark chocolate, with seventy-something percent and above. [Laughs.] I live on that. I mean, people can't send me that enough.

Bookslut: That's why I asked: you know people will send it to you. What the fuck? Go for it.

JT: There's this thing, it's kind of painful, where people read about me a certain amount and they assume, "Oh, you're loaded". I think if I was a musician, which I am, but if I was in a rock band, or was an actor, and had this kind of level of press, I would be making serious money.

Bookslut: Right.

JT: Because I write books, and I signed deals when I was a teenager, and I was never offered one of those million dollar advances, or anything even close, anything even remotely close, I'm broke. [Laughs.] I could make more money herding cows in Africa. And I write for a lot of alternative magazines, where they pay one hundred dollars here and there. I mean, I don't have money. I really, really don't have money. And the movie deals, these are low budget fucking movies. So, people have this idea, they don't understand why I'm pursuing the free chocolate or some of these things. I mean, dude, my phone got cut off last week. Just because you read about me, doesn't mean that that's translated into hard, cold cash. People don't buy books the way people buy CDs, and people are all up in arms about the Internet-

Bookslut: --with music piracy-

JT: --and we have libraries. People lend books. [Laughs.]

Bookslut: There's libraries, there's used book stores-

JT: --yeah, we've been dealing with that shit all along. I ain't got no pity for those motherfuckers. [Laughs.] Whenever someone asks me about my books, I tell them, "Go get them at the library-I'm not trying to make money off of you". But if they've got money, I say, "Go buy them".

Bookslut: Have you read Augusten Burroughs? He wrote "Running With Scissors" and "Dry".

JT: Yeah, he actually asked me for a blurb.

Bookslut: Cool.

JT: Well, it was for the first book. I get asked for a lot of blurbs. The problem is, these things pile up.

Bookslut: Sure.

JT: They get lost in my huge mound of crap.

Bookslut: I interviewed him two months ago [for Bookslut] and I asked him about you, because I think, in some ways, there's a similarity to your work. In other ways, not at all, obviously. He had really good things to say about you, he thought you were very good, but we were talking about what you're saying: he calls literary fame, "fourth tier".

JT: Fourth tier?

Bookslut: Fourth tier, like it's the lowest level.

JT: Oh.

Bookslut: You've got the rock stars, and the movie stars, and the TV stars, and like he said, with literary fame, there's a small audience that knows exactly who you are, and they're rabid, and they're fanatical.

JT: Yeah.

Bookslut: He was saying exactly that, that doesn't necessarily translate--

JT: --it doesn't.

Bookslut: Literary aficionados, we assume most of the country is reading. And it's not.

JT: That's right. Or they're reading Danielle Steele ["Jewels", "Journey"], or Stephen King ["It", "Apt Pupil"]--

Bookslut: --or Tom Clancy ["Red Storm Rising", "Balance of Power"].

JT: Stephen King, though, I can totally relate to that. I mean, god bless him. I worship him. I think he's a great writer. But the others, I mean, whatever. It's hard for them to branch out and try something that's a little out of the loop.

Bookslut: Especially with the consolidation of so many publishing houses, too. It seems like there are fewer and fewer publishing houses that are willing to take a chance.

JT: "Sarah" really surprised people. I mean, my original publisher was Crown, and they were so happy to see me go, because I let go from my original deal. I was, like, seventeen years old? I got signed when I was like, eighteen.

Bookslut: That's mind blowing. I didn't know that.

JT: My editor quit, she left, and I lost my deal. They were so happy to see me go, that they forgave my advance.

Bookslut: Wow.

JT: It was something like eight thousand, which was chump change for them. My take of it was maybe five or six after taxes. They were just so, like, get that fucking freak out of here.

Bookslut: [Laughs.]

JT: But now they're like, who let JT LeRoy go? You know, afterwards, they can look back.

Bookslut: That's really fucking funny.

JT: But you take someone who won't tour, who won't do readings, who won't come to the business meetings, who is a known drug, alcohol, whatever, user, abuser, and generally seems like a freak, and you're going to put this book out? It's like, uh huh. And that's part of why I didn't want to put out "The Heart is Deceitful" first, I didn't want to, I knew it wasn't--I wrote those things in therapy.

Bookslut: Right.

JT: I never wrote them with the idea that this was going to be a book. I remember when Dennis Cooper would say to me, like, you know, maybe you can get this published someday, and I would just laugh. It was like you're dancing in your living room, and someone says maybe you can dance ballet in Carnegie Hall. Or even on a stage somewhere. And you're just like, whatever. It wasn't even a purpose, when I would contact writers. When I get these letters from writers, they don't even bother telling me they've read my book. They just say, "Can you pass this to your agent? Can you read this?" They don't realize it's like putting your pussy in someone's face. Or putting your penis in someone's face and saying, "Here, suck me off". You know what I'm mean?

Bookslut: Yeah.

JT: I mean, sharing work is a very sacred thing, and asking someone to do that, it's kind of like asking someone to kiss you.

Bookslut: There's something really crass about it--

JT: --to me it's like--

Bookslut: --vulgar in the truest sense of the word.

JT: When I would write to writers--

Bookslut: --you wrote to Mary Karr ["The Liars Club", "Cherry"], didn't you?

JT: Oh, yeah, very early on. And it's amazing how, I mean, the whole way, how it happened, everything that happened was very organic. I have these writers now ask me, "How did you do it? How do I get people, how do I get stars to read for me blah blah blah?" It all happened very, very organically and innocently, the way a lot of good art happens, you know? And it all happened out of irritation.

Bookslut: [Laughs.]

JT: It's the oyster and the pearl. I mean, do you know the whole story, do you want to hear the whole story?

Bookslut: Sure.

JT: My shrink, Dr. Terrance Owens, the head of the adolescence unit here at St. Mary's, the one we just did a benefit for--

Bookslut: --you've done a couple of benefits for them, right?

JT: Yeah, Winona Ryder hosted this one and we raised five thousand for the one in New York, at the New York one that we did. It's really cool to be at that place where you can give back. You know, he felt I had a problem with continuity and he kept asking me to write. [Responds nicely to assistant, "No, I shredded them".] Um, so he kept asking me to write, and I was like whatever. He taught at the University of San Francisco, which he still does, and he was teaching these social workers, or people who wanted to be social workers. So he said, why don't you write about the real deal on the street, because he knew I hated social workers because so many of them had fucked me over and they had no idea what they were doing.

Bookslut: Right.

JT: And he was like, why don't you tell them the real deal, and maybe, in turn, they could help someone. Because, I was like, you know, they don't know what they're doing to these kids out there, and I like the idea of making a difference in someone else's experience. I felt it was too late for me, but maybe something I did could help someone, and I liked that idea of power, of being able to have them listen to me for a minute.

Bookslut: Yeah.

JT: So, I did that. That appealed to me, you know? Because I never had any power with these fuckers, so I was like, wow, I get the power. And something happened when I sat down to write, this higher thing, and it was just like [pauses]. I think most of us in the world don't find what we're meant to do. It's almost as if we're all given a gift of [pauses].

Bookslut: I completely believe this.

JT: Yeah. You know what it is? In indigenous societies, everything was imbued with art. Like, a basket. There have been books written about the basket weaver. If you look at a basket, it was functional, but it told the story. And the one who wove the basket didn't think, "I am an artiste". They were just making a functional basket, but when they wove it, because in their society, every act was imbued with storytelling, with a connection to who they were, and the universe, and spirituality, whatever their spirituality was. And their storytelling--there was storytelling on the basket. So, we turn that into an object of art, you know?

Bookslut: Right.

JT: But for them, the basket weaver wasn't a fetishized artist, they were just part of the society. And now, you have to fight to be an artist. I'm amazed by how many people come up to me and say, "I don't have a creative bone in my body". I'm just mortified, because to me, that's like saying, "I love to molest small children".

Bookslut: [Laughs.] But it's true. I don't get it when people say that, because obviously, they do [have creativity].

JT: And they're so--

Bookslut: --they're so removed from it--

JT: --yeah, they really are. I really feel like in order to be an artist in our society, we have to fight. To me, an artist is like the face of God. It's telling the story of who we are, our connections, the more true we can be. Who we are and where we're going. All right, so this is what happened: I wrote this thing, and it felt like that click. I was so hungry for feedback. I can remember the first time I got feedback that had nothing to do with how I looked or how good I sucked a dick. Whatever, any of that shit. It was just this pure thing. And it relieved something. It relieved this pressure. Kind of like of like when you remove a brain tumor and the blood can flow again? I really, really felt it like that. Because I was using drugs and alcohol, and I wasn't really into them, but it was like a way of relieving some of the pressure, the pain. And this [writing] was much more effective, and right away. And drugs and alcohol got in the way of writing, so I was like, this is a much better drug. I looked at it almost like a substance, like, oh, this is much better. And this whole thing happened where I would write for these classes, I would write these pieces, and I was like, tell me what they said, you know?

Bookslut: Sure.

JT: And I wasn't getting the feedback, like, he doesn't behave appropriately, and this and that. I was getting these guys' respect, and it was magic. These words were coming out of me, everything I had recorded, because it always felt like I was recording, like I could hit the playback button and there it was. I was an obsessive reader as it was, and it was like, things would store in me, and I would hit playback and I would hand write this stuff. Of course, I'd wait for the last minute, and I never knew where I was gonna be, and I got a trick to buy me a fax machine. I had to get it in by Monday morning, and I had to rewrite it so it was legible, and they wouldn't let me into the hospital, so I would have to fax it to him before the class, so there was this bathroom. You could pull back this thing, and there was a jack in the wall. Everyone used to fix in this bathroom, but I'd go in there and hook up my fax machine.

Bookslut: [Laughs.]

JT: And they'd bang on the door and say, "We know you're fixing." And I'm like, "No, I'm faxing." [Laughs.]

Bookslut: [Laughs.] Oh, god.

JT: So, that was really funny, and I'd fax stuff. Anyway, I'd say to Terry, Dr. Owens, give me some critical feedback, I want to get better, I want to get better. Because I knew there was a difference between my writing and Tobias Wolf ["This Boy's Life", "Old School"] you know? And he said, "Well, I can't do that. That's not my role". But he had an upstairs neighbor who was an editor. His name is Eric Walinski. Eric Walinski, he just made a film, and now he works with Dave Eggers at Valencia Street [826 Valencia Street, the Bay Area children's writing center Eggers founded in 2002].

Bookslut: Yeah.

JT: So, Eric Walinski was the first person to give me critical feedback. At first, he gave me a letter, and then we started talking. He would really gently guide me, and I was so hungry for it. And then, we would talk about books. And Lewis Nordan ["Wolf Whistle, Lightning Song"], who wrote "Music of the Swamp", which a masterpiece of a book, a masterpiece of a book, we'd talk. The guy is the sweetest, most amazing guy. Older man, recovered alcoholic, and the book is a beautiful fucking work of art.

Bookslut: Outstanding.

JT: I had this one trick who would turn me onto books. I hated poetry, but there was this one poet, and the trick would say, read this, read this. And he gave me this book by Sharon Olds ["The Dead and the Living", "The Unswept Room"]. And I hated poetry, but I read "The Golden Cell" and it was the first time I understood a parent's love. I just never understood that connection, and I think it reawakened what was inside me from when I was a child. It almost makes me cry, every time I talk about it. Or maybe it was "The Dead and the Living" I can't remember which one. And I was talking about it with Eric, and Eric, and again, it was just one of those circles, where it just happened like that, he had studied with her. She was his teacher at NYU, and they had become friends. He told me, "I talked to Sharon, and she wants you to write her and tell her all of what you told me". And I told him, "Go fuck yourself".

Bookslut: [Laughs.]

JT: And he was like, no, she's for real. So, I did. I wrote to her and she wrote me back.

Bookslut: Wow.

JT: We've had this correspondence ever since then. She read for me, she was one of the readers at this one reading. She read the Sex Pistols part, "I am a Annie-Christ, I am a Annie-kiss" [from the story, "Foolishness is Bound in the Heart of a Child", in "The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things"]. When I heard it out loud, I just couldn't stop sobbing. Because it's like, here it is. It opened this door.

Bookslut: Right.

JT: It's like you can write to God, and God will write you back. It opened this world to me, and I was like, "Holy shit". It's like when you first discover your body, and you start masturbating and it's like, "Holy shit! I can do this? I can make this feeling?"

Bookslut: [Laughs.]

JT: I went to the library, because I was really obsessed with this book, "Try", by Dennis Cooper. So I asked the librarian, "How do I contact him? How do I write to a writer?" I had the Eric Walinski connection, but I didn't know anybody else. And he said, here's a book, and showed me a book of agents. So, I called, we had all of these stolen calling card numbers. Everyone has them on the street, you know?

Bookslut: Sure.

JT: So, I called, and I spoke to his agent. And she said, well, fax a request. And I had a fax machine, so I made up a story-that I had a fanzine--and it was so obvious. It was just like the kid in the book. ["Try" 's protagonist, Ziggy, who writes the fanzine, "I Apologize".] I wanted to interview him [Cooper]. And I had Timothy--what was his name, who wrote "Maximum Rock N Roll"? [Tim Yo.] This was before he died, and I had a friend who was friends with him. And I said, "Ask him if I can interview Dennis Cooper". And they didn't know who Dennis Cooper was at the time. This was almost ten years ago, and I was like, ask him if I can write something for him, and they were like, well, we don't know, whatever, sure. These were the guys from "Maximum Rock N Roll". So, I said I had my own fanzine, just like the kid in the book. And I had a phone number where I was staying that night, and they were like, yeah, call him [Cooper], call him. And I did, and he screens all his calls, but he picked up, and we had this connection. And eventually, I don't know, how it happened, but I started reading [more] and I told him, "Yeah, I'm writing" and down the line, because I was really shy about this stuff, down the line, I started reading it to him.

Bookslut: JT, I'm going to cut you off. This phone is dying. I'm going to call you back on my other phone.

JT: Sounds good. Bye.

Unfortunately, my recorder worked ineffectively on the second phone. What follows are my notes of his statements, with chunks of personal information omitted.

JT: Bruce Benderson is one of the most amazing writers alive right now. He wrote "User", and it's an amazing book.

Agents are like pimps. They don't beat you, but they've got their ways. [Laughs.] I shouldn't say that, though. I've got an amazing fucking agent.

I've never fallen in love with a woman, but when I met Mary Gaitskill ["Bad Behavior", "Two Girls, Fat and Thin"], it was a very intense relationship. She took off the kid gloves and told me what I was doing wrong. She sent me Nabokov and Flannery O'Connor.

"Elephant" is amazing. I wrote many [of the earlier] drafts of the script for a year. Gus [Van Zant] is great. He never wrote me out of the film. He could have, but he didn't. That's not his way.

Being an artist is like being a supertaster.

It's like I have Tourette's Syndrome. I feel like I have to spit out metaphors. They'd kid me about it on the street. Every time I'd say, "like", they'd flip me shit, like, "Oh, god, here he goes again".

I can protect my child like I couldn't protect myself.

"Sarah" is a better book--it has more craft. After Mary Gaitskill, I learned craft. It's not enough to tell your story. You need art, craft, and humor.

Bring me the head of Barry Manilow:

I feel awful laughing at it--9/11 humor is dicey at best--but each time I view the sketch below, I completely crack up. Gawker and Blogaloo posted it, too. Should this assuage my guilt? ("New Yorkers are laughing at it, Mommy. Can I, too? Pleeeease?")

From The London News Review:

Fitting Footprints

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

New Year, Ancient Truths:

1) Loved ones make it all worthwhile. (Hey, family! Hey, friends!)

2) Passive/agressive individuals should be kicked in the shins repeatedly.
(Really, let's codify this.)

May 2004 bring you (and me) only good things! Onward!

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.

725 Days Later:

I don't believe in nostalgia, but right now, part of me would give anything to discover that the past two years have been an ether-induced cold bloody dream.

Write here, write now:

1) Found out today that I'm going to be writing a column for digittante.com:
| d i g i t t a n t e | get right by art |

2) Am still trying to hammer out details re my Augusten B./ Bookslut interview. Was stressing a bit, until I remembered that I went through the same thing --phone tag and scheduling conflicts--when I set up my Sherman Alexie interview for MovieMaker, yet the actual interview was so much freaking fun:

MovieMaker Magazine | The Business of Breaking Down Barriers

3) Have successfully resisted tonight's random craving for blueberry pancakes. I am a golden god!

G'night!

Awesomeness!

I'm punchy right now, but giddy as an eight year old on the last day of school: I'm going to interview Augusten Burroughs (# 1 Bestselling author AUGUSTEN BURROUGHS) later this week for Bookslut.

I'm such a cheeseball sometimes, but I don't care: I love this stuff.

Bi-curious superstar seeks mediocre pop tarts for tongue kisses, headlines:

As the entire goddamned planet knows by now, Madonna frenched Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera two nights ago on MTV's Video Music Awards show.

For the past hour, I've been trying to concoct something witty or prescient to say about this, a trenchant piece of pop culture commentary, but I can't, because I'm too pissed off.

First, we must now brace ourselves for the monkey-see-monkey-do spectacle of Gwyneth Paltrow--Gilligan to Madonna's Skipper--osculating with Jessica Simpson. (The mind reels.)

Secondly, we know the inevitable, cringe-inducing interview is coming wherein Madge states, "Everyone's projecting their own prurience onto this. A kiss can be a sacrament, or a baptism." It's too late to swim: I hear the shark music, and we're going to get eaten.

Lastly, I will now endure the bang and the clatter as pieces of my broken heart rattle around inside my chest. The woman who captured my imagination for the past twenty years--who gave me such a hyper-joyful night two years ago in Madison Square Garden--has apparently run out of ideas, and songs. (She's yanked the girl-on-girl crank so many times before, and generously estimated, "Hollywood" is a piece of blockheaded crap.)

This song is over, say goodbye.

Two vastly different, equally insightful pieces:

1) Vivian Gornick responds to those who believe memoirs should be limited to word-for-word literal truth:

Salon.com Books | A memoirist defends her words

2) Wanda Sykes clears up some confusion:

Esquire:Feature Story:10 Things You Don't Know About Women

"What kind of sick bitch steals the ice cube trays?"--Tom Arnold in "True Lies":

As I write this, I'm more than a little creeped out. (And no, not just because I find myself quoting the former Mr. Barr.)

My car was broken into last night. At first, I thought that the glove compartment had fallen open, because its contents were strewn on the passenger side floor. Then I realized that my seats were pushed back, my armrest was upended, my emergency flashlight was smashed and its batteries flung about, and--the kicker--my ashtray was ajar and its cigarette lighter was missing.

What the fuck?

I live in an ostensibly safe neighborhood--whatever that means--but this is the eighteenth time that my building's garage has been broken into in the twelve years that I've lived here. This incident is particularly unnerving because: 1) It's the first time my car has been hit, and 2) There were no signs of forced entry.

Now, I drive a thirteen year old tan Topaz. My friends call it "the county vehicle"; my brother calls it, "that piece of crap you embarass us with." It's a litmus test in my social circle: my pals who are lawyers, teachers, and architects gibe, "Did you lose a bet?", while my writer and actor cohorts ask, "Can I get a ride?"

The thing is, I like my little car. I love to get dressed up, but I can't get worked up over the vehicle in which I'm seen. The Topaz--or "the Paz", as I've affectionately dubbed it--is delightfully utilitarian. It's perfect for lugging props to and from rehearsal, and if phad thai leaks through its to-go box and onto the floor mats, it just doesn't matter.

So, why, in a garage filled with new model BMWs, Acuras, and a gorgeous vintage Mercedes, would someone spend the time and effort to trash what's clearly an inferior auto with nothing of value inside? (It sports *a tape deck* for God's sake.)

The police officer who took the report believes it's an inside job. This isn't the first break-in we've experienced where there were no signs of forced entry. As he put it, "You live on a main road with nothing *but* cars parked outside. Why bother breaking into your building to steal when there's so much to steal right outside?"

Why, indeed. I know that this is, thankfully, just a property crime. But I also know that some sick fuck--possibly an acquaintance--is walking around with my cigarette lighter. It's never been used--I don't smoke--but I sure as hell hope they get burned.

Signs of the Apocalypse and Desultory Thoughts:

1) Re those new, seemingly ubiquitous Telecom USA-MCI commercials featuring John Stamos: Did every other carbon-based life form turn them down?

In the midst of a bone-crushing recession, why would an established company in a hyper-competitive field hire such a total fucking cipher to endorse their product?

Have you ever wondered what John Stamos thought of something? Once? Ever? Jesus, people, keep it smart.

2) Re the restaurant chain, Hooters: Why not just call it "Beavers" and be done with it?

I need a mocha.

Last week was, literally, the best of times and the worst of times:

My father was about to turn seventy, and all of us--my mom, brother, sister-in-law, assorted aunts, moi--were engaged in preparations for the birthday party that said bro and sis-in-law were generously hosting.

Dad is cranky as hell, but terribly sweet deep down: think Lou Grant from "The Mary Tyler Moore Show", but with a Greek accent and a talent for cursing in two languages. Instead of mellowing with age, his capacity for yelling has increased in recent years, and it's both awe-inspiring and exhausting to hear him rail at Seattle's evaporating parking spots, CNN's Aaron Brown, and the fact that--post-Iraq War--Safeway still carries French bread.

That Dad is merely chronically pissed off and not actually bitter is somewhat of a miracle. He was a child in Greece during WW II and Greece's subsequent civil war. He and his family had already been forced from their home by the Nazis when his mother contracted tuberculosis, was quarantined, and died without medical attention because all of the doctors were treating soldiers on the front. His last memory of his mother: the paramedics are dragging her off and she's reaching for him, crying his name. He was six.

So, Dad is entitled to his crankiness. But last year, he had a heart attack--he's doing remarkably well, thank God--and none of us want him to have another one the next time he has to talk to an automated teller.

For his birthday, I decided to make him The Book of Good Things: a giant scrapbook filled with good news from around the world, random funny stuff, and happy memories. For weeks, I compiled articles about Israeli and Palestinian doctors working together; Gorbachev spearheading an international committee to convert the former Iron Curtain into a wildlife preserve; interviews with his faves, Don Rickles and Bill O'Reilly. When laughter and justice appeared in short supply, I wanted him to have a place he could turn and think, "It's not all bad".

Last Monday night, I began pasting everything into the bound leather scrapbook. I started with several pages of family photos (careful to leave out relatives who annoy him) but I did include pix of my brother's two dogs--one recently deceased--and my four rabbits. We're an extremely close family, but we're not sappy in that cloying, Franklin Mint commerative plate kind of way. We simply love our pets.

As my living room became a whirl of double-sided tape and dissected back issues of Vanity Fair, my little brown bunny, Oscar, stopped eating. I stayed up all night, alternately working on Dad's gift and handfeeding Oscar miniature carrots and timothy hay, the latter to no avail.

The details are extremely painful, so I'll cut to the chase: Oscar died while I was working on The Book of Good Things. Amazingly affectionate, gentle, and whimsical, Oscar always made me laugh. If I was petting one of the others, he'd come hopping to be petted, too. He'd lick my hand a certain number of times and then place his head under my hand so that I could groom him, too. He loved Italian parsley, eschewed cilantro, and never whacked his sister, Lulu, when she nipped him in the ass.

I'm reminded again of what I already knew: love can't cure the ill or save the injured and that seems profoundly, preposterously fucked-up.

I also know how all of this sounds: holy mother of God, no dead pet stories in the blog, please. I get it. I loathe cheesiness, too. But I'm reminded of what Henrik Hertzberg wrote in The New Yorker last year re Bono's work to alleviate Third World debt: surely one can't argue that the world is a *worse* place because a rock star raises awareness and millions of dollars to lessen abject poverty. That's how I feel about Oscar, and all pets: you can't say that the world is a worse place because our animals allow us a glimpse of the spiritual and tap into our boundless supply of silliness.

My father's seventieth birthday party was a relaxed, giddy affair and complete fucking fun. Family, old friends, and colleagues travelled to be with all of us and toast Dad on his big day. Dad and his cohorts swapped tales from their years working at the prosecutor's office, the cousins needled each other as only cousins can, and through it all, everyone ate and drank copious amounts. (Some stereotypes are true.)

I love Dad so much and am profoundly grateful he's still here. My family and I are lucky in *so* many ways. But I miss Oscar and can't believe he's gone. For awhile, I guess, that's how it's going to be.

It's Up to You, Sanatorium, Sanatorium:

"One explanation for why writers enjoy hanging around other writers is because writers often instantly forgive one another for being difficult or weird. In this way New York City is, for writers, a kind of literary sanatorium. I mean to imply in that equation some strong theoretical reservations about the sanatorium."

--from Tom Bissell's "Protesting All Fiction Writers!", The Believer, July 2003

Demi Moore is Back. Now I'm Crying, Too:

Unless you recently had your eyes and ears yanked from your head, you know that "Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle" was just released--like Napalm--on a public that knew it was coming but found itself powerless to escape. Generally, I avoid summer releases because of their rock candy effect--they look sweet then hurt like hell--but my brother's dog had just died horribly and Seattle was an uncharacteristic 90 degrees. Sad and sticky, I ducked into the follow-up to 2000's massively popular, "Charlie's Angels".

Riding a Snickers buzz, I surrendered to the film's playfulness and forgot that its budget was more than Guatamala spent on food last year. The Angels project an easy charm: Drew Barrymore, Cameron Diaz, and Lucy Liu are believable engaging in fun that girls, apparently, just want to have. Also, I hold a soft spot for Matt LeBlanc (laugh if you will) and what film isn't improved by Luke Wilson's sweet visage?

My problem--my huge fucking problem--with "Full Throttle" is Demi Moore. As Entertainment Weekly, Vogue, Us, and Slate have recently announced, Demi Moore is back! After taking time off (more on that in a sec) she's cavorting onscreen once more (a testament to the powers of bikini wax and hair conditioner) and publicly foreplaying with Ashton Kutcher (ibid). I applaud the latter--I think all of us do--but the "More, More, Moore!" headlines grate for several reasons:

She never really went away: Moore's last film before "Full Throttle" was 2000's little-seen indie, "Passion of Mind". Studio publicists, take note: she took a three year break. A hiatus to be sure, but I've had phone conversations--and orgasms--last nearly as long. Just because no one saw it, she didn't promote it, and it received dismal reviews doesn't mean "Passion of Mind" gets expunged from her record.

The revisionist history: Lately, interviewers have posited that Hollywood and the public soured on Moore because she played such "strong women". Did I miss a meeting? Are they referring to the waif in "Ghost" who's rescued by a dead guy and cries all the time? Or the gamine in "Indecent Proposal" who forgives her husband-slash-pimp and cries all the time? How about "Disclosure" 's pulpy vixen who blows Michael Douglas (but surprisingly, cries very little)? In fairness, I skipped "G.I Jane": maybe this time, Moore's character bursts with intelligence and je ne sais quoi. I doubt it.

Her forehead: What the hell did she do to the upper third of her face? Was it Botox? A steam iron? Her forehead is eerily unlined now and appears ceramic, like Lenox with a tan. Obviously, Moore isn't responsible for Hollywood's obsession with youthful perfection, but why adhere to a raw food diet if you're going to have your face injected with botulin? Neurotoxins can't stop Moore's onscreen weeping, though. Culminating her return, Moore cries full throttle in "Full Throttle", lashing out at Charlie via speaker-phone. Truly, Demi Moore is back.

Now I'm crying, too.

For Oscar, with love always.

Fifty Questions for God

1. Hey, do you have a second?
2. Why do some people have everything while others have nothing?
3. Will there always be war?
4. Why is there disease?
5. Mental illness?
6. Evil?
7. Why are there birth defects?
8. Why do bad things happen to good people?
9. All the time?
10. Are there ghosts?
11. Is there a heaven?
12. Is there a hell?
13. Would the world be a better or worse place if we spoke a universal language?
14. Had a universal faith?
15. Do you choose sides?
16. Ever?
17. How do stoplights work?
18. How do ships float? (The water displacement theory seems kind of sketchy.)
19. How many types of flowers are there?
20. Which is your favorite?
21. How many kinds of dinosaurs were there?
22. Will they ever make a comeback?
23. Evolution: True or false?
24. Is there life on Mars?
25. Anywhere in the universe besides earth?
26. Does it bug you when people refer to "the universe" (i.e. "The universe knew I was sad and sent a baby squirrel to my window") when they actually mean "a god of sorts" but don't want to sound uncool in front of their friends?
27. Do you send baby squirrels to people's windows, or do you have other things to do?
28. If scientists were lying about neurons, protons, and electrons, how would the rest of us know?
29. Can you ever tell your friend you don't like their fiancée without it backfiring?
30. Is it okay to break up with someone because they're obsessed with curry?
31. Because they told your mom she makes an inefficient use of space in her refrigerator?
32. Because they wear climbing sandals on flat land?
33. Because they quote Andre Gide just to sound smart?
34. Once and for all: Do animals have souls?
35. If heaven exists, will I see my pets there? (That would be nice.)
36. How about rats and the thing that crawls around under the deck? (That would be creepy.)
37. Are you a man?
38. Are you a woman?
39. Both, but not in the personal ad kind of way?
40. The guy from the deli wants to know: Are you a doughnut?
41. Also: Can he drink himself sober?
42. Why do some people have children they don't want?
43. How can anyone hurt a child?
44. Does each new filmmaker have to cite Truffaut as an influence?
45. Auto-erotic asphyxiation: Greed or stupidity?
46. Is anyone more bitter than a drama professor without tenure?
47. An editor without health insurance?
48. Some years, could winter be optional?
49. How about gravity?
50. Birds fly over the rainbow: Why can't I?