And to the couple who decided to reenact Barfly last night at 4:30 a.m. outside my bedroom window:

You are not Mickey Rourke and Faye Dunaway. Your dialogue ("FUCK YOU!" "NO, YOU ASSHOLE, FUCK YOU!") was not written by Charles Bukowski. There is nothing particularly singular about your pain or your drunkenness. If nothing else, the former is sadly commonplace and the latter, pretty banal to anyone over the age of, say, 25.

Either learn to handle your liquor, seek treatment, or take your performance inside, you lame-ass, thoughtless fucks.

Like Wonder Woman in sky blue Converse All Stars:

I'm not superstitious by nature, but all of us have our idiosyncrasies. (Obama shot hoops the morning of each primary or caucus, believing it lucky and joked he lost New Hampshire's primary because he skipped said ritual that day.) So there is a part of me that is hugely reluctant to commit this to print for fear of jinxing things and waking up with, say, bubonic plague or ebola. But here goes:

• At this very moment, I do not have a fever.
• I was able to attend an arts event last night for the first time since Memorial Day weekend, i.e. the onset of shingles.
• For most of the past three weeks, I've used my cane instead of forearm crutches.
  
• While I was in a whole lot of pain today and, to borrow Carrie Fisher's line, felt like I slept under an elephant's foot, and, also, was unable to leave the house until 5:00 p.m., I still walked from my place to Denny Ave (stopping several times, but hey) and on the return loop grocery shopped at QFC.
• On the way home, I was able to carry a light bag of groceries on my "bad" side, i.e. the shingled one.
  
• For the past three weeks, I've been able to do all my own grocery shopping, laundry, dishes, and have whisked away my own garbage and recycling.

I'm completely aware that in many ways, all of this sounds like I'm a budding adolescent or, at the opposite end of the spectrum, an aging and decaying old lady, but trust me: under recent circumstances, it is huge. Huge. And just as importantly, if not more so, last month I wrote my piece for Nerve, resumed writing here, and honed in on the novel again. It's too soon to take on other deadlines--the only reason I was able to tackle the Nerve feature was because my parents and TJ did every other single thing for me, like servants but without the quaint living quarters--and I know my immune system still needs much more time to heal. (And, of course, I know that's a relative term.) But after spending most of the summer as a virtual invalid (I haven't even addressed the Percocet toxicity and uncontrollable vomiting), this is, shall we say, nicer.

Fingers crossed, wood knocked, salt tossed.

It's not a state secret that I've...

...had CFIDS (in many ways akin to MS) for the past 18 years and while I've published dozens of pieces for superb magazines and journals and am continuing to carve my first novel, I have long periods in which I'm nearly immobilized. I would be in public housing if not for the unwavering love and generosity of my family. And, of course, not everyone is so fortunate. No one in the greatest country on earth should have to risk losing everything because a few cells refuse to cooperate.

With regards to healthcare and insurance reform, most of us, particularly the president, knew this would be complex and arduous and, unquestionably, there are legitimate points of disagreement. What's disturbing and bizarre, though, is that there are scurrilous, racist fucks who oppose the president's plan with a vitriol rarely seen outside of combat units and prison yards. What's even more perverse is that they seem mostly lower-income and spottily educated, i.e. those without access to high quality, affordable health insurance and the group most likely to benefit from Obama's overhaul. Strange, but if history has taught us anything, it is unsurprising that some can hate so vehemently even when it is counter to their own self-interest and the safety of their families.

The White House just established a comprehensive web site unravelling fact from fiction as it applies to the myriad aspects of the president's proposed legislation. Wherever you stand on the issues, I suggest you give it a look:

http://www.whitehouse.gov/realitycheck/faq/?e=11&ref=myth1

At least it's not smack and, so far, I'm sober:

I've smoked maybe a dozen cigarettes in my life in totem, all of them in the summer of 1985 when my brother and I were wandering around London, Paris, and sundry parts of Greece. And largely because we were 18 and 16 respectively and wandering around London, Paris, and Greece. (Mom and Dad were on certain legs of the trip, but my brother and I were often a duo and it was spectacular for scads of reasons.)

Lately, however, and seemingly out of nowhere, I have been craving smokes recurringly. It could be a bizarre systemic reaction to my post-shingles recovery period, but mostly I think it's the stress of resuming sustained work on the novel. And how much of a writer cliche is that?

I'm not going to cave, obviously, particularly that, given the parameters of my compromised immunity, I'd last about a week and a half before my body cavity simply imploded. But I live roughly 50 yards from a temptation-laden convenience store and we have many rivers to cross until the final draft is complete.

So, I guess I'll be chewing through pencils (gross) or, more likely, start purchasing Juicy Fruit in bulk. And if anyone wants to make an oral sex joke, feel free, because you know I probably would if we were discussing you.

It's always something:

First off, well done, President Clinton. That was old school. And viewing the photos of Clinton and Al Gore hugging this morning on the New York Times' site (Gore employed the captured journalists) made me kind of teary.

Secondly, some people, apparently, just like to gripe: I've already read headlines saying Bill should do something "useful" instead, like run for mayor of New York City (what the hell, Daily Beast?) and the Huffington Post accused him of "upstaging" Hillary.

He just freed two U.S. journalists from a 12 year hard labor sentence in North Korea. And yes, obviously, many at the State Department, including Secretary Clinton, of course, played a crucial role in this minefield act of diplomacy. And I criticized President Clinton plenty during last year's primaries. But for fuck's sake, could certain folks climb off his ass for, like, a day and give credit where it is due?

I become amused when...

...a segment of atheists stake their position as adamantly as theists often do, as if they alone know with certainty as to lack of an omniscient deity.

At varying points in my life I have been a believer, an agnostic, and an atheist and for our purposes here, I'm not going to state what I currently embrace or why. (And, for the record, I have loved ones whose spiritual views run the entire gamut and back again.)

This seems axiomatic, but if history has taught us anything, it's that religion and spirituality and/or the lack thereof boil down to an educated guess. So I will never understand the vitriol on either side. Might as well argue about the superiority of yam fries versus onion rings. It's equally as objective and makes about as much sense.

I've written extensively about Henry Louis Gates on Facebook...

...but I'd like to add a few things here:

• About three years ago, Vanity Fair referred to the esteeemed Margaret Atwood as a "female novelist" and it took every ounce of self-control I had not to upend the magazine stands at the downtown Barnes and Noble, where I happened to encounter the absurd and offending phrase. She's a novelist. Period. In their lengthy and distinguished careers, I'll guarantee you no one described Kurt Vonnegut or Norman Mailer as "male novelists". Along these same lines, I find it infuriating each time Gates is referred to as some variation of a "preeminent African-American intellectual." Gates is one of America's finest and most prominent public intellectuals and, like Atwood, requires no qualifier.

• In a nutshell, if Henry Louis Gates had been Bill Gates, the arrest never would have taken place.

• I thought Obama's beer summit was a fine idea and history would be soaked in far less blood if leaders at least attempted something analogous to this first.

• While I think the New York Times' Bob Herbert (long one of my favorite editorialists) is too hard on Obama's stance here, Herbert's current piece is otherwise spot on: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/01/opinion/01herbert.html?emc=eta1

• Also, Toure's essay for The Daily Beast is particularly salient: http://www.thedailybeast.com/blogs-and-stories/2009-07-21/skips-racist-wakeup-call/

• It's worth mentioning that I can't know for a second what it's like to be a person of color, but I can empathize and extrapolate. However, in no way am I trying to appropriate anyone's cultural identities or maelstroms.

• This last point is wholly unrelated to Gates or any of the above topics, but more so than anything today, I miss my grandparents so deeply I can feel it in my bones. While it changes and, in some cases, lessens over time, all adults come to know that loss will always remain loss.
  

At the end of Seattle's 103 degree day, the warmest in the city's history:

After a lovely evening out at Star Trek (more on that next time) w/ my best friend and two of his friends, both of whom I've met before and find quite swell, I returned home to a sweltering abode and immediately disrobed.

Then the biggest moth maybe ever--seriously, this thing could be the subject of J.J. Abram's next film--flew into my goddamned hair and when I freaked and shooed it away, it made a beeline for my Marc Jacobs wool houndstooth coat hanging on the back of my bedroom door. I batted it away again and it landed on my mirror. When I returned with a paper towel to squelch its malevolence, it had flown away and now I can't find it.

So I'm faced with the prospect of trying to sleep in 88 degree weather knowing some kind of sentient dragon-type descendent is loose in what should be my sanctuary.

Right now I don't feel like fate's pawn so much as its bitch and/or fluffer.

You have won the battle, coif-hating, wool-craving moth, but sleep or no sleep, I will win the war.

Hey, you know what sucks harder than giving blowjobs for pocket change at bus stations?

When you've already had a fever for nineteen months and the temperature in your city is 90 degrees and is about to top 100.

Appropriate topics for discussion at my funeral: my genteel and ladylike phrasing; my tenacious and history-inspiring rack; and assembling in my forties a reasonable combination of anti-humidity haircare products.

Good night, God bless.

The more things change:

Yesterday was utterly delightful. My best friend took me to Golden Gardens (and he helped me navigate the sand while on my cane) and then we got sandwiches at Other Coast Cafe and laughed unabatedly and told ridiculous stories new and old and it was by far the best day of what has been a rather dicey summer.

Today, perhaps unsurprisingly, I was annihilated. I checked my email at 1 p.m. and while I have no recollection of closing my eyes or reclining, next thing I knew, it was 5:30 p.m. I rallied, threw on a rather jaunty ensemble (I'm sick, not dead), achingly traversed the four blocks up the hill to the grocery store, shopped, slowly navigated the downhill return path, unpacked my quarry, made dinner, and collapsed.

This is hardly the first time this has happened in the last 18 years and, almost certainly, it won't be the last. And, as I've oft-noted, my folks and my closest friends have been saints throughout this bout of shingles, which is now in its eleventh week. And I know I'm improving: even two weeks ago, it would have been inconceivable for me to retrieve my own groceries and subsequently prepare a meal.

Also, as I know in every particle of my being, there are thousands of worse illnesses to have. Out of the nearly seven billion individuals currently inhabiting the earth, I have one of the very best lives.

Still, there is something deeply saddening when, in one's physically worse phases, even joyful events, no matter how well-planned and measured, trigger massive symptom exacerbation.

So, I guess, once again, all we can really do is continue to eat (mostly) healthily, be grateful for those in our life and for our rather fortunate professional opportunities, rest, and hope tomorrow is a bit better.

And we are reminded again...

...that difficulties present themselves in a city where protracted discussion of amateur-level skiing and hiking passes for culture.

And this, perhaps, is what no one but other chronically ill or injured individuals understand: when every fiber of your being is begging to leave and yearning to belong, even for a tiny while, in your surroundings, you are stuck. And on your very good days, you are able to take a short walk and fold your laundry and write a bit.

It is my fondest hope that I return to the level of health and writerly output I was able to sustain from the end of '04 to the end of '07 because with all the words at my disposal, I cannot adequately convey how much I miss both.

And I fear that if I must engage in one more palid conversation about kayaking, I will swallow every pill in the house.

And with no access to Cortizone cream or Percocet:

It sounds like I'm being facetious, but I genuinely feel sorry for Olympia Snowe, Tim Pawlenty, Kay Bailey Hutchison, Peggy Noonan, Alex Castellanos, Christopher Buckley, Amy Holmes (whom I know, but that's a whole other story) and other highly intelligent and well-reasoned conservatives because it's no secret that, of late, their party has been hijacked by some terrifyingly doltish individuals. (Kind of like when the Democrats ran Mondale against Reagan in '84. I respect Fritz, but you have to wonder what the fuck anyone was thinking. As Dennis Miller put it at the time, back when he was still funny, "He got stomped like a narc at a biker rally. I almost tied him and I didn't even run.")

So, in the protracted fallout and endless detritus of the Republican's '08 campaign, the so-called "birthers" at the far right (and neurologically impaired) end of the party are now insisting President Obama is not a U.S. citizen. (Do they think Supreme Court Justice Roberts is in on the conspiracy? And that Bush and Cheney simply opted to look the other way?)

What the "birthers" are forgetting, perhaps as a result of their sequential lobotomies, is that John McCain was the only presidential candidate in post-colonial times who was not born in the U.S.: his father was stationed at a U.S. base in Panama and McCain was born in a hospital therein. The Democratic National Committee opted not to challenge the constitutionality of McCain's candidacy because his father served honorably, the hospital in question was on a U.S. base, and it would have been politically disastrous and yielded absolutely no practical gain.

Despite the fact President Obama's U.S. birth certificate has been produced repeatedly, along with his birth announcement in the local Hawaiian papers, the "birther" yahoos relentlessly persist.

My fondest hope? That each and every one develops an incurable case of shingles.

I've posted this elsewhere, but it bears repeating:

Say what you will about Dick Cheney, but by all accounts he loves his family and they love him. And while Saddam Hussein often had a fractious relationship with his oldest son, Uday, and jailed him at least once, they, along with the youngest son Qusay, presented a united front to the outside world. So how much of a cretinous toolbag does Joe Jackson have to be to be a worse father than Dick Cheney and Saddam Hussein? And why the hell doesn't Katherine sprinkle cyanide on his Cheerios?

Back in the saddle again. Sort of:

If you know me or if you read my Facebook page, you're aware that I developed a particularly acute case of shingles nine weeks ago and that, in many ways, it has derailed my summer thus far.

The good news, though (and I while I'm not superstitious, I can't help but touch wood as I write this) is that I'm incrementally improving and that, last week, I interviewed Lynn Shelton, the out-of-the-park talented writer/director of the new indie comedy, Humpday, for Nerve.

I'm extraordinarily fortunate because if my folks and TJ did not graciously volunteer to do my grocery shopping, errand running, et al, there is no way I could have taken on or completed the assignment. (It should be noted I pitched this feature before I developed shingles but it wasn't assigned until the eleventh hour. 'Twas ever thus in publishing and I'm neither surprised nor complaining.)

The feature went up on Friday and so far, the feedback has been quite good. I'm including the link and, also, my original intro that was edited for space reasons because I believe the maiden venture more accurately represents both Lynn and me.

And for the love of all that is holy, get your ass to a theater. Humpday is the rare film that makes you laugh and think in equal measure and, laudably, it eschews the edgy-for-the-sake-of-it dust that coats so many flicks of all genres.

My piece with the estimable Ms. Shelton:

http://entertainment.nerve.com/2009/07/17/the-nerve-interview-humpday-director-lynn-shelton/

And my original intro:

Lynn Shelton, the 43 year-old writer/director of the new critically lauded indie comedy, Humpday, enters Seattle’s Neptune Coffee wearing a wool cap on one of the city’s on-again-off-again drizzling summer afternoons. A smash on the festival circuit, the pocket change budgeted Humpday explores events set loose when two straight college friends, the staid and married Ben (Mark Duplass) and the still peripatetic Andrew (Joshua Leonard), reconnect in their thirties and opt, on a dare of sorts, to have sex with one another in a locally sponsored amateur porn contest. (“It’s beyond gay!” Ben announces as they mull the idea at a wine-soaked party.) The film has just begun its nationwide rollout and Shelton is a bit tired, but gregarious. During the course of her career, she has jettisoned between Seattle and New York, making experimental films, music videos, acting in theater, and more recently, creating the singularly executed gems, We Go Way Back and My Effortless Brilliance, resulting in a “Someone to Watch Award” at the 2009 Independent Spirit Awards. Over a pot of tea, she holds forth on the contrasts between men and women with regards to homosexuality, her unwavering desire to create real characters in genuine human relationships, and the advantages and limitations of the “mumblecore” genre in which she’s often lumped. Erudite, insightful, and possessed of a sardonic wit, Shelton’s hat comes off and her laugh is infectious.

Indie lit and awesome good times:

I've been on de facto hiatus around these parts mostly because my novel has been eating my time like a cracked out piranha and, also, there has been the recurring tripwire of my health. I'm taking on deadlines again, though, and am about to resume posting here regularly.

If you're curious as to the latest:

My short story, "Defending Reggie" was featured in the lit journal Hobart's annual April Baseball Issue:

http://www.hobartpulp.com/website/april/dremousis09.html

My essay, "Tossers!" was recently Story of the Week at Smith Magazine:

http://www.smithmag.net/mylifesofar/story.php?did=58058

And my short piece, "No Such Luck" was accepted at Six Sentences, alongside work from Neil LaBute and sundry others whose work I value more than homemade lasagna:

http://sixsentences.blogspot.com/2009/04/no-such-luck.html

Scads more in the pipeline. Touch wood, all that. But first, time for the oft-mentioned mocha.

I think even Gloria Steinem and Jesus would agree with me here:

I've written before that, not only is it okay to call Ann Coutler a "cunt", it's not okay not to call her one.

And in case you needed one more reason:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/01/05/ann-coulters-today-show-a_n_155393.html

But it'd be cool if I could leave the house for more than an hour tomorrow:

The past 72 hours have been punishing physically--I actually had to skip both New Year's Eve parties I'd been invited to--and while I'm in a really good mood, you know, fuck.

But yesterday I received the sweetest missive from someone saying how much she enjoys my work and today I received a different note from someone and he basically said the same thing.

It's incredibly gratifying for anyone to receive such rockin' feedback, but when you're lying flat in pain in a dark room, it's that much more so.

So I still think 2009 is off to a great start.

So far:

Little has gone as planned but it's been very fun nonetheless.

And that's as good a way as any to kick things off.

Five Things Worth Noting about 2008 before I Start Getting Ready to Head out the Door:

• On a national level, the main and perhaps only thing that went right was Barack Obama's election. But still: we fucking elected Barack Obama with 52% of the popular vote and an electoral landslide. So if only one thing had to go right, it was a great one, like receiving a single birthday gift but it's a townhouse in the West Village.

• Like all rational beings, I'm deeply saddened by the results of Proposition 8 in California. I'm certain that we'll see gay marriage legalized on a federal level in my lifetime because, eventually, our generation and those younger will ascend to the Supreme Court. I'm not trying to make sweeping generalizations, but on a statistical level, highly educated individuals in said age brackets, especially who also reside in metropolitan areas, favor the legalization of gay marriage. And that, of course, is the pool from which Supreme Court justices are drawn. So I believe that within the next twenty years, we'll see the gay marriage equivalent of Brown vs. Board of Education, i.e. SCOTUS will interpret the Constitution as giving equal rights to gays, straights, bisexuals, and transgenders and, as with Brown, a huge swath of the country still won't be ready for such a decision and there will be upheaval, but in time, most of the nation will become acclimated. Still, and I wish I could find the link but I can't, I agree with a recent Huffington Post essay from a gay male Baby Boomer: the past few decades have proven that a significant heap of folks of all stripes are ill-suited for marriage and the last thing we should do as a country is further romanticize it as an institution.

• If you already have a compromised immune system, say, from CFIDS, do not get pneumonia in January because it will fuck up the first nine months of your year. And just when you think it's done, it will gleefully fuck it up some more.
  

• The last three months of 2008 were pretty damned lively, though, and it's been great, among other things, to congregate with my tribe at arts events, get to parties and shows again, frolic with certain cherished individuals, and go for decent-sized walks almost everyday. Cage door, please stay open.

• The novel is really starting to seem like a novel. I'm not done, obviously, but it's more statue than rock now, and while it still grinds at me constantly and occupies most of my waking thoughts and often my dreams, fuck it: this is what I signed on for and I feel blessed and proud.

Here's to health, joy, love, sex, triumph, and custard bismarcks for all of us in 2009! Best to you and yours!

Or at least the next round of doughnuts at Top Pot:

My best friend and I were discussing something yesterday and he wasn't sure if my conclusion was accurate and then today it turned out I was spot on.

As most sentient adults know, so much of life is varying shades of gray, and unless you're weighing the pros and cons of, say, infanticide, most issues are rarely "right" and "wrong" in a strictly binary sense.

Yet that accurately sums up the current matter and now I wish I'd bet him a thousand dollars or litter box duty for a month.