Okay, this is fucked up:

CNN.com - Case of bubonic plague confirmed in L.A. - Apr 19, 2006

Various and sundry:

Thanks, everyone, who celebrated my deliberately-belated birthday with me on Saturday. While the annual soiree no longer involves "S & M Office Boy", blow up dolls, or white Russians spilled on and imbibed directly from tables in the back of the Frontier Room, it does, however, include some mighty fine steaks. Much love to all.

Also, for the second consecutive year, The Believer is a finalist for a National Magazine Award in the category of General Excellence. I've joked that I will be eighty and accosting strangers in Tompkins Square Park with "I was in the Music Issue!", but the Music Issue (June/July) was one of the three issues singled out, so take that, bitches:

Winners and Finalists

When I rule the world:

An El Diablo iced single tall soy mocha will be delivered to my door every morning at 11 am.

Publicists will know when to back the hell off.

Stupidity will preclude breeding.

Real estate will be allocated based on merit.

Writers who espouse astrology will have their laptops confiscated.

Passive agression: punishable by death.

If you ask, "What did you do to yourself?" when you see me on crutches, I get to kick your mom and slash your tires.

Paperwhites and lilacs for everyone.

Part 3:

--Birdnests: functional, artful, optimistic. Evidence that some things in life work as they should.

--"Sittin' on a Fence", the last track from the Rolling Stones' disc, Flowers: wry, apt.

--Those who have grown up without settling, and who pursue what they love with passion, focus and tenacity: yea!

--The barrista who told me, "Your name is a poem": Aw.

Because apparently, a morphine drip is out of the question, Part 2:

--Bunnies: as cute as babies, but smarter and less needy.

--Jumbo fresh-roasted cashews from the stand in Pike Place Market: warm, large and bursting with flavor. Phallic, but with niacin. Once, the proprietor of said stand asked if he could touch my leather pants. (If you knew me then, you know that I did, in fact, rock these pants.) As a rule, I decline thigh-touching offers from unknown men, but the guy I was dating at the time was driving me insane--I was actually walking through the Market to clear my head and figure out what the hell we were doing--and I thought, "Why not? What's one more random man-touch at this point?" As I walked away, the guy at the donut stand across the corridor yelled to me, "I'll be here all day tomorrow!" No, I'm not making this up.

Because apparently, a morphine drip is out of the question:

The fever hasn't broken and I feel like I'm losing my fucking mind. I'm undergoing tests, continuing to employ the best of Western and Eastern medicines, and adhering to a nutritionally sound diet. I drink eight glasses of water a day, routinely stretch, and go for daily short walks. Please don't offer advice unless you're well-versed in the particulars of CFIDS. At this point, unprompted and uninformed counsel is almost as grating as the symptoms.

That said, I've been concentrating on what makes me happy, the persons and things that bring joy to my life. It's with profound gratefulness that I'm going to write about some of them over the next week.

First up: my best friend for the past twenty years, Christy N. Wickedly intelligent, deeply kind, and totally *bad-ass* (she ran her first marathon at the age of 38), C.N. is an awesome mom and one of the most focused individuals I know. If she says she's going to do something, you'd be a fucking ass-clown to bet against her. If I had a million dollars in cash and had to depart for a year, I'd leave it with her and not bother to count it when I returned. She gives good chocolate, has an understated and elegant style, and shuns reality TV. She's 100% German to my 100% Greek and I'm lucky our paths crossed at an otherwise tepid barbeque in September 1985.

You heard it here first:

If at all possible, don't get a fever that lasts for six months and counting.

I'm just saying.

This would appear freakishly fucking obvious, but apparently, it's not:

I have an unusual last name. It's rare, in fact, even among Greeks. (One of my paternal great-grandfathers created it: it means "the strong one" in the Greek dialect, Arvenitico.)

However, I am not the only individual on the planet with this surname. In a stunning and clearly unprecedented historical development, I share my last name with others. This does not mean, however, that they share the views expressed here or in any other works I've published, am about to publish, or will publish in the future. Jesus.

And now, without further delay, my Believer interview with Demetri Martin and my McSweeney's New Food Review of the Dagoba "New Moon" Chocolate Bar:

The Believer - Interview with Demetri Martin

McSweeney's Internet Tendency: Reviews of New Food

From today's New York Times: Figure in JT Leroy Case Says Partner Is Culprit

Figure in JT Leroy Case Says Partner Is Culprit

By WARREN ST. JOHN
Published: February 7, 2006

A central figure in the case of the mysterious writer JT Leroy has come forward to say that no one named JT Leroy exists, and that the books published under that name were actually written by a San Francisco woman named Laura Albert.

Geoffrey Knoop, Ms. Albert's partner for the last 16 years, said in a telephone interview on Saturday evening that he had seen Ms. Albert write the books of JT Leroy in their San Francisco apartment. He added that for much of the last decade, he had been present when Ms. Albert conducted telephone conversations as JT Leroy with unwitting editors, writers and celebrities, using the voice of a young man with a West Virginia accent. Ms. Albert, 40, is originally from Brooklyn.

"The jig is up," said Mr. Knoop, 39, a rock musician. "I do want to apologize to people who were hurt," he added. "It got to a level I didn't expect."

More:

Figure in JT Leroy Case Says Partner Is Culprit - New York Times

A few things:

If you heard Knoop play, you know that "rock musician" is used charitably in the above piece. Laura/JT sent me a number of Thistle's mp3s in the hopes that I would write about the band for Paste. The songs don't suck, but they dissipate and I didn't bother saving them.

Laura is unquestionably a sociopath, but she can write. Knoop, on the other hand, is a banal and semi-talented eunuch. I'm amused that he's apologizing: what difference does he expect it to make?

The rest of us will bounce back, but my heart aches for the eight year old boy who calls these cretins "Mom and Dad". And pity the family law judge who has to decide which one gets custody.

Non-sequitur day:

1) I'll never understand what prompts one person--irrespective of circumstances--to dive in and embrace life while the other fucking cowers on the sand.

2) Indie kids: I love you, but those bangs are played out.

Wendy Wasserstein 1940-2006:

Good night and god bless:

Entertainment Weekly's EW.com | Feature: Remembering Wendy Wasserstein

The Black Table 2003-2006:

As has been noted everywhere from New York Mag to Gawker, The Black Table ceased production this week.

This makes me ineffably sad because I loved BT as much as my John Fluevogs. The editors were smart and funny and encouraged you to wax rhapsodic about, say, the guy who had a seizure while inside you (ahem). They ran my work six times and I'm delighted and *choked up* (rim shot!) to be included in the final installment of "Waxing Off". I raise my iced soy mocha to you, Black Table: you left the world a little happier, a little filthier, and we're all the better for it:

WAXING OFF: COME BACK! YOU'RE THE ONE WHO GOT AWAY.

I have a tale that just might work:

I had another story accepted to the (awesome) Seattle story-telling salon, A Guide to Visitors. The show starts at 7:30 tonight at the Rendevous and this month's theme is "They Thought They Knew But Had No Idea". Details:

A Guide To Visitors

And soon:

I've now read a couple dozen articles and blog entries re Laura/JT, and unsurprisingly, those of us who received the suicide calls, i.e. "I've been cutting myself and want to die" are considerably angrier, less forgiving, and more hurt. Many have speculated as to Laura's mental health and several have concluded that it's impaired. No kidding. Only a sociopath repeatedly betrays her friends, lies to her editors, and tricks her readers and fans. All the while extracting sympathy for purported suicidal ideation.

But maybe this last part wasn't an act. Maybe Laura really wishes she were dead. She didn't get to be a rock star, nor an author in her own right. May fate grant her this one.

"And it rained like a slow divorce..."--"Balloon Man", Robyn Hitchcock

The rain hasn't stopped all week, literally or metaphorically. Bad news arrived on a number of fronts, but I'm comforted by the fact that this is a pinprick compared to the disemboweling that was the earlier part of this decade.

And Death Cab is going to be on "Saturday Night Live" tonight. Yea for talented artists who actually exist. Yea!

From today's San Francisco Chronicle: New clues in mystery story of elusive author JT LeRoy

New clues in mystery story of elusive author JT LeRoy

Excerpt:

"Author Armistead Maupin, whose novel 'The Night Listener' was based on his experience with a literary pretender, has strong feelings on the subject.

'A lot of people argue that such frauds cause no harm and are a great joke played on the literary establishment,' he said by telephone Monday.

'But in fact there's something very callous about using AIDS and an abusive childhood as a way of getting sympathy and support,' Maupin said, adding, 'I'm surprised that people were bamboozled as long as they were.'"

Maupin nails the fraud's insidiousness. Here's an email "JT" sent me before the New York Magazine story broke. I'd never post private correspondence in a public forum, but the sender doesn't exist, so no ethical line is broached. However, I've blacked out the names of the other two recipients:

----- Original Message -----
From: JT Leroy
To: XXXX ; Litsa Dremousis ; XXXX
Sent: Saturday, October 08, 2005 4:34 AM
Subject: Re: Gawker

Please the BEST thing we can do is hit them back! We cant just sit and let them smack at us. I did that as a child, and I wont do it now. This is fueled by jealous cruelty. Please post... back. Bet this person wrote this never read a word of mine... hit back... never thought I'd advocate that... but I am... mannnn....
With love and sadness, jt

Keep in mind that "JT" knew I'd worked as a domestic violence victim advocate, that I'd volunteered for the King County Crisis Clinic and for Northwest Women's Law Center, and that my mom had prosecuted crimes against children. I didn't believe "JT"'s stories of abuse because I'm naive, but because I've worked with abuse survivors. And as everyone who has worked w/ abuse survivors knows, they're often disbelieved when they come forward. And now abuse has been falsely purported in order to gain notoriety and sympathy.

The books remain very good, but a noxious cloud swirls around their creator.

The abuse of goodwill is obscene:

I ended my friendship with the person I'd known as JT LeRoy today. Sunday's New York Times piece was the final straw:

The Unmasking of JT Leroy: In Public, He's a She - New York Times

For the past few months, I'd been convinced he was a she and had privately conveyed this to a few friends and family members. However, at no point did I question that the person I'd befriended was the author of "Harold's End", "Sarah", and "The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things", three books I will always love. I didn't believe someone "played" JT in public, nor did I believe someone else wrote the work. I thought my friend was deeply troubled as a result of sustained abuse, but I believed her writings were her own. I remained loyal and when she asked me to write letters on her behalf, I did, because I believed we were, in fact, friends.

We spoke on the phone today for roughly ten minutes and at no point did she conclusively answer any of my specific questions. I made it emphatically clear that I didn't believe her anymore, that I was hurt and disgusted, and that I was unambiguously ending our friendship. Then I hung up.

Undoubtedly, I'll write more about this later.

And those who misspell "Litsa" are doomed unto eternity:

This kid will incur permanent acid reflux if he reads The Believer interview with JR. If I'm going to be branded a heretic, I'm honored that it's alongside Mr. Gibbard:

Souls of Rock: Death Cab for Cutie - I Will Follow You Into the Dark

As good of a way as any to start the new year:

CNN.com - Have scientists found Mozart's skull? - Jan 3, 2006

Though "Grab Her Twat" and "Dad's Anal Adventure" would have been worse:

I've noted before that, thanks to my Black Table pieces, my name has been inadvertantly (and often humorously) linked to a number of porn sites. However, in light of today's additions, Grab Her Boob and Mom's Anal Adventure, it's worth reiterating that, no, I don't write porn and if I choose to, I'll certainly come up w/ something more erotically charged and less hurl-inducing than playground-level groping and persons' moms taking it up the ass.