Bringin' back the funny, albeit circuitously:

I have written intermittently for the estimable and crackling literary collective, The Nervous Breakdown, for the past two and a half years. Brimming with talent both quite well-known and ascending, I recommend TNB to anyone who values high quality writing presented from a panoply of views. Next Sunday, it launches in a new format, about which I and a number of others are quite stoked.

Two months ago, Brad Listi, our fearless editor-in-chief (and author of the bestselling novel, Attention. Deficit. Disorder.) asked me to call him. The new non-fiction editor, my oft-noted, brilliant, hilarious, and cherished friend, Eric Spitznagel (whose weekly online Vanity Fair column you should gulp down like M & Ms and can be found here: http://www.vanityfair.com/magazine/bios/eric_spitznagel/search?contributorName=Eric%20Spitznagel) had recommended to Brad that I fill one of three associate non-fiction editor slots. I love and respect TNB and was thrilled at the prospect to work again w/ Eric (who I first got to know when he was my editor at The Believer). The more Brad limned the details, the more enthusiastic I became and I readily accepted. All players involved know the parameters of my health and my position, like all the associate editors, will involve helping to establish content, in my case, non-fiction, one week a month.

Shortly thereafter, TJ died. Last week, I asked the non-fiction team and Brad if I could step aside until after the holidays, given the circumstances and that I'm in no frame of mind to properly edit anyone. And the depth of kindness from all four of them was incredibly moving. Each advised me to take the time I need and maintained the position is mine when I'm ready to return. I really can't convey how appreciative I am of their understanding as people and friends and colleagues. I am astoundingly fortunate in this regard.

Here is the most recent piece I wrote for TNB, on October 5th. TJ had already left for the North Cascades and, of course, died the next day, but as I've written of a number of times, the official "worry" time he gave me for this trip was late afternoon October 7th. So when you see me responding to comments on the 5th and 6th and morning of the 7th, it is because, obviously, I didn't yet know things were awful and awry.

I realize most individuals read my work, in part, because they (flatteringly) find it funny. And I know I haven't been particularly funny lately, nor has anyone expected it of me. Still, here, in a roundabout way, is a return to form. And, of course, the "best friend" mentioned in the piece is TJ. One of his many nicknames for me was "Jack" and for himself was "Neal". As he often said, "I'm like Neal Cassady and I run around and do things and then you write about them and immortalize me, like Jack Kerouac." (I'd already interviewed TJ for one of my Esquire features, published an essay about him twice that was later included in a well-received Seal Press anthology, and had a short story about him included in the now-defunct literary journal, Rivet.) He quite enjoyed when I wrote about him and while all artists, essentially, have to "take" permission as ethically as possible, TJ gave me his explicitly and repeatedly over the years. As he said, warts and all, his life and the intersection of ours was mine to write about anyway I chose.

Which is just one of the many gifts with which he left me.

This one's for you, Neal:

http://archives.thenervousbreakdown.com/ldremousis/2009/10/suggestions-verities-and-such/

High five for elected officials doing what they were elected to do:

I heartily congratulate and, if possible, would fete with Mom's infamous baklava the House members who passed the new health care bill. Well done! Cheek kisses all around.

And to the 39 Democrats who voted against it: you cocksucking assholes. If the 2008 election proved anything it's that those of us who are the most informed and politically astute and who donate and raise the most money very much support President Obama and his goals. Come re-election time, you are fucked. (Side note: mad props to the one Republican who voted for it.)

For scads of reasons, it feels inconceivable TJ...

...died a month ago today. He was due at my place 7:00 p.m. Tuesday, October 6th; we were going to go to Sherman's Town Hall reading for War Dances together. As I've written about previously, TJ always gave me his itinerary, designated his estimated arrival time home and the time at which I should "officially" worry, and always emailed me, "Home safe!" when he first got in the door. The official worry time for this trip wasn't until late Wednesday afternoon, October 7th.

Of course, we didn't know that by this juncture, he was already dead. His death wasn't confirmed until Saturday October 10th, when his closest climbing friend, Tim, found his body. By 6:00 p.m. on October 10th, before the search and rescue effort had been announced as a recovery effort, KING, KIRO, and KOMO had already pestered me and others for an on-camera interview. I, like most of us, deferred to the family's wishes and declined. (I would have done so of my own volition, but anyway.) All three affiliates were unable to get confirmation as to TJ's status from the Chelan County Sheriff's Office and they found this incredibly irksome, as if their story was in no way connected to a man's life. TJ and I had discussed this possible, god-forbid scenario many times and what would happen if I got the call should the worst occur. Instead of waiting, I got the Chelan County Sherrif's office #s from TJ's friend, Adrienne M., who was at my place at the time. I got through to Lt. Agnew from the Chelan County Sheriff's Office who is one of the most scurrilous and unprofessional individuals with whom I've dealt under any circumstances. After I asked three brief questions, she terminated our conversation with, "This is really a matter for the Coroner's Office now."

The above picture is one of my favorites of TJ and me. The two of us are clowning around with the giant metal bunny sculpture in my living room last December after our annual Christmas gift exchange, a tradition we started in 1992. His gift to me last year was the same as the year before: a trip to Manhattan to meet with one of the two agents who are interested in my novel. I would like to note, too, that when it briefly looked like I wouldn't have the cash for my current place, he offered me ten grand so the deal wouldn't fall through. I declined, of course, and it turned out I was able to purchase my condo. (Obviously.) And when I had shingles this summer and he did my grocery shopping and picked up my prescriptions? Despite my (loud) protestations, he refused to accept reimbursement. (As the weeks went on and I remained shingled, as it were, finally he caved, mostly to shut me up.) Also, when I was incredibly ill and broke between 2001 to 2004, including wheelchair bound again for a time? He refused to let me pay for coffee, movies, or meals. So, this "frugality" that was referred to many times at his memorial? Bullshit. My best friend and on-again/off-again boyfriend since 1988 was not frugal.

Add a caption

Today I cede the floor to my friend, Chris Estey:

Four years ago, my friend, Chris Estey, read an interview of mine in The Believer and was generous enough to write and tell me how much he enjoyed it. We didn't know each other at this point, but I was humbled and flattered, particularly as it was clear from the get go that he was quite talented and a good egg.

I was right on both counts. We continued to correspond and today I'm very good friends with Chris and his equally talented and kind wife, Heidi. (Track down her paintings; they're extraordinary.)

Chris, who writes for The Stranger and KEXP.org and scads of other venues, has an excerpt from his 'zine, Get Well, in Outsider Writers today. It's aching and lovely and I'd find it beautifully crafted no matter what, but when you read it, you'll see why it resonates even more so for me right now:

http://www.outsiderwriters.org/archives/3501

Much love to you and to Heidi, mon frere.
Litsa

And, of course, the smile on the Mona Lisa:

It is with profound gratitude I relay again I have the best family, friends and colleagues a person could hope for. I feel astoundingly fortunate in this regard.

To quote Cole Porter, "You're the top/ you're a dance in Bali/ You're the top/ you're a hot tamale."

Much, much love, all.

Fuck fucking fuck. Also: goddamnit.

In the midst of staggering grief, I've kept active as possible, not in an attempt to outrun it because, of course, you can't, but so I remain sane(ish). Nothing will feel remotely normal for a very long time and some nights I've literally felt as if I were losing my mind, but I think it's important the mechanics of living (going for a walk and writing each day, seeing family and friends, fetching groceries, et al) continue.

Now I've just discovered Bailey Boy Books, one of my very favorite places in the city and a mere few blocks from my home in Seattle's Capitol Hill neighborhood and somewhere TJ and I went many times over the past two decades, is closing after 26 years at the end of this month. And, as we all know by now, Elliott Bay Book Company is moving to Capitol Hill and that might turn out to be a great and good thing, but it leaves Pioneer Square (Elliott Bay's current locale) completely untethered and surrennders it mostly to cheesy sports bars and those who consider crack a food group.

So I think I might just spend my remaining days in a dark, still room, quietly contemplating bunnies and Pomeranians. See you all on the other side.

More on Bailey Coy's closing:

http://capitolhillseattle.com/links/2009/11/02/in-the-neighborhoods-bailey-coy-books-on-capitol

One '80s revival trend too many:

I respect that he was a brilliant tennis player and that, like all mortals, he has encountered obstacles and, of course, he is certainly entitled to "write" about them, but did anyone really need Andre Agassi to be ubiquitous again?

Today, the horror was mitigated in a tiny sliver of a way...

...by discovering that an organic piroshky place is opening a few blocks from my home and, also, by my encounter with a four month-old chocolate lab on my way to get groceries.

Would still sever any limb to have him alive and here again.

Whenever I awake on a morning this cold...

...I think of how my father was homeless for two years as a child when the Nazis occupied his family's house and how he and his father survived in a lean-to in the woods during this period. (My father's mother had already died from tuberculosis by this time. Dad's last memory of his mom is of her screaming his name as the paramedics dragged her away to be quarantined. Summarily, his two younger brothers were sent to live with other family members.) Then, of course, Greece had a civil war immediately thereafter.

I remain forever in awe that my father's humanity and intellect and wit have persisted intact.

Thank you again, so many of you, for your deep and unwavering...

...kindness. With all the words at my disposal, it means more than I can possibly convey.

Most days, I return several emails and phone calls. Some days, however, I cannot. The grief is staggering and there are times the healthiest thing to do is to go for a walk or read quietly. If you have not heard from me, you will. I just don't want anyone to think I've overlooked their words of love because I have not. They are very much helping to sustain me.

And on a darkly humorous note that TJ would be the first one to find funny: as oft-noted, I live in Seattle's Capitol Hill neighborhood (as did TJ), in which a delightful (and occasionally batshit) mix of artists and gays reside. Halloween here is a national fucking holiday and while I usually enjoy the unfettered theatricality, this year, I could do without each window of every storefront and home being festooned with all manner of skeletons and ghosts. Really, not in the least bit helpful.

Paul Haggis, the Oscar-winning director and renowned screenwriter, states in great detail why he has left the "Church" of Scientology after 35...

...years and now finds it morally reprehensible. In the Village Voice via The Daily Beast.

Excerpt of Haggis' public disavowal:

"I joined the Church of Scientology thirty-five years ago. During my twenties and early thirties I studied and received a great deal of counseling. While I have not been an active member for many years, I found much of what I learned to be very helpful, and I still apply it in my daily life. I have never pretended to be the best Scientologist, but I openly and vigorously defended the church whenever it was criticized, as I railed against the kind of intolerance that I believed was directed against it. I had my disagreements, but I dealt with them internally. I saw the organization - with all its warts, growing pains and problems - as an underdog. And I have always had a thing for underdogs.

But I reached a point several weeks ago where I no longer knew what to think. You had allowed our name to be allied with the worst elements of the Christian Right. In order to contain a potential "PR flap" you allowed our sponsorship of Proposition 8 to stand. Despite all the church's words about promoting freedom and human rights, its name is now in the public record alongside those who promote bigotry and intolerance, homophobia and fear.

The fact that the Mormon Church drew all the fire, that no one noticed, doesn't matter. I noticed. And I felt sick. I wondered how the church could, in good conscience, through the action of a few and then the inaction of its leadership, support a bill that strips a group of its civil rights.

This was my state of mind when I was online doing research and chanced upon an interview clip with you on CNN. The interview lasted maybe ten minutes - it was just you and the newscaster. And in it I saw you deny the church's policy of disconnection. You said straight-out there was no such policy, that it did not exist.

I was shocked. We all know this policy exists. I didn't have to search for verification - I didn't have to look any further than my own home.

You might recall that my wife was ordered to disconnect from her parents because of something absolutely trivial they supposedly did twenty-five years ago when they resigned from the church. This is a lovely retired couple, never said a negative word about Scientology to me or anyone else I know - hardly raving maniacs or enemies of the church. In fact it was they who introduced my wife to Scientology.

Although it caused her terrible personal pain, my wife broke off all contact with them. I refused to do so. I've never been good at following orders, especially when I find them morally reprehensible.

For a year and a half, despite her protestations, my wife did not speak to her parents and they had limited access to their grandchild. It was a terrible time.

That's not ancient history, Tommy. It was a year ago.

And you could laugh at the question as if it was a joke? You could publicly state that it doesn't exist?

To see you lie so easily, I am afraid I had to ask myself: what else are you lying about?"

Link:

http://blogs.villagevoice.com/runninscared/archives/2009/10/crash_director.php

Day #19:

I had as delightful a lunch with my dear friend, Steve, as one can have under the circumstances, spotted not one but two adorable Corgis on the walk home, and reflexively called the driver who nearly killed me in the crosswalk a "stupid fuckwad".

Slowly, an infinitesimal bit of normalcy creeps in.

Skull-crushing mindfuck:

When his food is still in your refrigerator and freezer and, of course, he is dead.

Best story ever (in context):

My beloved cousin, H, had perused the recent study wherein it was discovered that stress is alleviated by profanity, particularly in women. As she cared about TJ, too, she custom-ordered a batch of M&Ms for me, emblazoned with a delightful array of expletives.

When her order didn't arrive, she called their customer service department, illuminated the exigency of combining swear words and chocolate in this particular situation, and was told, "Miss, we're a family company. We won't print those words for you."

As my equally beloved cousin, E, noted, tongue-in-cheek in the best possible way, we have been a good influence on (the younger) H. And as I have frequently underscored here and elsewhere, I might just have the greatest family in the heliosphere.

Worth revisiting when you feel each molecule shattering and slowly realligning:

Soapdish, with Sally Field, Kevin Kline, Whoopi Goldberg, and Robert Downey Jr. Screenplay by Robert Harling and the frequently wonderful Andrew Bergman (Fletch, The In-Laws, Honeymoon in Vegas, The Freshman) and directed by Michael Hoffman. Still hilarious and note-perfect 18 years later.

And now for something completely different:

Before Elizabeth Taylor was merely a tabloid fixture, she was one of our country's preeminent film actresses, most astoundingly beautiful women, and relentlessly vociferous AIDS activists.

The Daily Beast features an excerpt from William J. Mann's upcoming tome, Elizabeth Taylor: How to be a Movie Star (and make sure and check out its attending photo gallery):

http://www.thedailybeast.com/blogs-and-stories/2009-10-19/elizabeth-taylors-secret-world/

Thank you again, each and every one of you, for your profound kindness...

...phone calls, and emails. With all the words at my disposal, it means more than I can convey.

I have gotten in touch with many of you and, for obvious reasons, my response time is slowed right now, but I will be in contact and continue to thank each of you soon.

In the aforementioned respect, I feel incredibly fortunate. It's surreally dichotomous, though, to be bathed in love while churning in agony.

Please keep sending good wishes and/or prayers to TJ's family.

Much love,
Litsa

As the loved one of someone who actually just went missing, I'm of two minds re Balloon Dad:

On one hand, I'd like to skip habeas corpus and fair trial and just give the asshole the chair. On the other, I don't have it in me to give a shit.

It's not until you're in the midst of the most searing and inescapable grief of your life...

...that you realize the staggering amount of truly gorgeous and helpful death songs U2 has produced over the years.

I raise my Valium and Halloween candy to you, you beautiful Irish bastards.

So, omniscient deity, if you exist:

My best friend is dead and Glenn Beck still draws breath.

Nice work, asshole.

TJ's family has set up a site with a moving obituary...

...and details regarding the memorial, where you can send donations in lieu of flowers, and other pertinent information:

http://tjlangleymemorial.com/

Information re TJ's memorial/celebration of life and additional details:

Hey, all. TJ's memorial/celebration of life will, quite fittingly, take place at the new(ish) Mountaineers Building this Friday, October 16th, from 3:00 to 5:00 p.m. Address: 770 Sandpoint Way NE, Seattle, 98115, in Goodman Rooms A and B. Many of you have asked what you can do to help. There will be a slideshow. Send me photos soon at ldremousis@yahoo.com and I'll send them to Stephen, who is overseeing it.

We are all grieving, but unquestionably, TJ would want us to have a bit of fun with this, so if some of the photos are goofy, well, all the better. Let's give our lad the send off he deserves.

Also, please don't take it personally if I haven't returned your deeply kind phone call or email yet. I am shattered and need to not talk about it today or tomorrow. TJ was due at my place last Tuesday night at 7:00 p.m. and TJ always sent me a "Home safe!" email the first thing he was in the door, always sent me his itinerary, and always let me know when to "officially" worry.

The tipping point for the latter on this trip was late afternoon Wednesday. Hence a number of you seeing me at Sherman's Tuesday evening reading and Dave's noon reading on Wednesday last week. TJ, like all climbers, had encountered unforeseen but essentially benign circumstances previously and returned to Seattle several hours late, but never so late he was in the officially designated worry zone.

At 4:00 p.m. Wednesday, I left TJ a voicemail and when I still hadn't heard from him by 7:30 p.m., I let his closest climbing partner/great guy/heroic friend, Tim, know that TJ was late. And immediately, Tim, TJ's extraordinarily intelligent and kind, sister, Joy, and I kicked into gear. Tim actually left that night, a full 12 hours ahead of the Chelan County Search and Rescue. Then right away, additional truly heroic climbing friends joined the Search and Rescue teams and, indeed, surpassed the efforts of the professionals. Joy received information from the SAR teams, relayed it to me, and I disseminated it to relevant parties and to TJ's copious friends.

I don't think I can say these words out loud again this week without falling apart. And all of us still have Friday to get through. It will be a celebration of TJ's amazing and singular life, but celebration or not, a number of us are churning in agony.

And I hope this doesn't sound unkind, but if no one would call before 10:00 a.m. West Coast time, I would really appreciate it. A number of us have barely slept in a week and the last three days I've been woken by early phone calls after only having fitfully slept a few hours.

Thank you again, all of you, for everything. The outpouring of love for TJ and for his friends means more than I can possibly convey. And I will definitely be in touch with each of you very soon.

Much love,
Litsa

Thanks so much, all of you, for your deeply kind thoughts re my beloved...

...friend, TJ. My eyes hurt to blink I've cried so much and then I think of something wonderful he said or did and I laugh. I am devastated and, unquestionably, in shock.

What follows is a highly detailed and accurate account of TJ's search and rescue and recovery, posted by TJ's friend, Jason Griffith, who was part of the search and rescue team. Scroll down to the bottom to the longer post under the username, "Heinrich":

http://cascadeclimbers.com/forum/ubbthreads.php/topics/914064/Re_Missing_climber_in_the_Buck#Post914064

TJ's sister, Joy Langley, is the media spokesperson regarding TJ Langley:

Hey, TJ's boundless group of friends.

TJ's sister, Joy Langley, has asked that all of us decline media requests and allow her to field media inquiries and interviews and I agree with her 100%. As someone who frequently interviews people, I understand, as we all do, that reporters are merely doing their job, but it makes the most sense for there to be one media spokesperson and for it to be TJ's adored and supremely intelligent sister, Joy.

KIRO very nicely approached me and I declined for the above reasons. Then the reporter asked if anyone in Seattle's theater community would speak on camera and I politely explained that, no, they wouldn't, out of respect for the family's wishes. Please get the word out to, as I said, TJ's boundless group of friends.

Thanks so much,
Litsa

TJ Langley's sister, Joy, has asked that I bring everyone...

...together at 10 pm at the Six Arms on Pike and Melrose on Capitol Hill.

No further updates yet. Keep praying and sending great thoughts to bring our lad home alive, safe, and immediately. And thank you all for extraordinary kindness.

The latest on my best friend, TJ Langley, from KING 5 News and, again, hope:

Please see the latest from KING 5 News below. Note it also includes TJ was spotted alive and presumably well by other climbers on Wednesday. Which means whatever happened didn't occur, say, Sunday, and, of course, is a more hopeful situation. Also, it contains footage of the interview KING 5 did with TJ a decade ago, after he was mauled by the bear at Yellowstone. What cracks your heart: he playfully holds up his acting headshot and then pulls it away to reveal the crisscross of then-new scars. And his beloved and delightfully goofy cat, Elvis, who died last year at 18, cozies in his lap the whole time:

http://www.king5.com/topstories/stories/NW_100909WAB-missing-hiker-chelan-KC.20003826c.html

Also, as I just posted on my Facebook page, the search for TJ is underway again today. And because it's the weekend, more A-list and highly experienced climbers are helping the Chelan, King, and Snohomish County Sheriffs' Offices with the search.

We love you. Come home now.

The Seattle Times has picked up the story and paints...

...a different picture than the Wenatchee paper, leaving out that TJ was probably identified alive and well on Wednesday. (Therein lies the hope: whatever happened didn't happen on say, Sunday.) However, the Seattle Times reports that the King and Snohomish County Sheriff Offices are collaborating in the search now, and, of course, this indicates an increased level of seriousness, but it also means additional experts are searching. And they also report a small plane was able to aid in the search today, which means the wheels are still turning. (Side note to the first two Seattle Times commenters who posted messages beneath the article so far: if I find you, I will choke you to death w/ your own dicks.)

Seattle Times piece:

http://community.seattletimes.nwsource.com/reader_feedback/public/display.php?thread=193883&offset=0#post_880328

Some hopeful news re TJ:

Here is the latest news I just posted on my FB page:

http://www.wenatcheeworld.com/news/2009/oct/09/search-begins-for-missing-seattle-hiker/

And here is what I posted w/ it:

"Some hopeful news: according to this new Wenatchee newspaper piece, TJ's pack was believed to be spotted by copter on Thursday (more on that in a sec) and the Chelan County Sheriff's Office is reporting they spoke w/ climbers in the area who saw someone matching TJ's description alive and well on Wed. It it worth noting that none of this information was relayed by the Sheriff's Office to the three of us at the top of the communication coordination effort. (What the hell?) Still, it is hopeful news. Please, everyone, continue w/ your good wishes and/or prayers as the search is off for tonight but will resume again in the morning. And much love to all of you for your extraordinary kindness toward TJ, the Langely family, to me, and all his many friends. It means more than I can articulate."

Feel free to disseminate far and wide.

Description, presumed locale, et al of my best friend, TJ Langley (legal name George Terry Langley Jr.), who has been missing in the North Cascades...

...for the past 48 hours:

http://cascadeclimbers.com/forum/ubbthreads.php/topics/914064/Re_Missing_climber_in_the_Buck#Post914064

Please click for photos and additional pertinent information. Please forward to climbing and/or outdoor folks. Or anyone, really. The more people who know to keep an eye out, the better.

If you have viable information, contact me at ldremousis at yahoo dot com and I'll forward it to the Chelan County Sheriff's Office or you can contact them directly.

Please continue to keep TJ and his family in your prayers and/or thoughts of any stripe. And please see my previous post for additional details.

Good wishes, please:

My best friend has been on a solo climb in the North Cascades since Sunday morning; he is now 48 hours late. Yesterday the Chelan County Sheriff's Office found his car at the trail head, but not him. From 2:00 to 4:00 p.m., they looked for him by helicopter. In an hour, the on-foot search and rescue effort begins, aided by several of his very good (and great) climbing friends, many of whom I've become pals with. In the past day and a half, I have said every prayer and profanity I know. I don't purport to know how the universe works, but good wishes of any stripe for my deeply kind, incredibly intelligent, and sometimes pigheaded dear friend are deeply appreciated. Much love, TJ.

Musician Tai Shan and the October 10th benefit for People for Puget Sound (because it's divine when artists really do give back):

My friend, the deeply talented and peach sweet musician, Tai Shan, is playing the October 10th benefit for People for Puget Sound, an incredibly effective environmental agency dedicated to cleaning one the region's most pastoral and economically essential water bodies.

If you haven't already, you can discover more about Tai, her crave-it-like-candy music, and the upcoming fundraiser, which Governor Christine Gregoire is attending:

http://www.taishanmusic.com/

http://www.pugetsound.org/

And because we could all use a bit of loveliness today:

The historical Benson Hotel, last Thursday evening, my final of three nights in Portland. (Again, thank you Expedia recession-fueled discount!)

There are so many deeply intelligent and talented and kind inividuals in the world and I've...

...been fortunate enough to work with a number of them of late.

But you know how there is usually that one person who sends your mind tiptoeing toward thoughts of ear-flicking and spitwads? Yeah, that.

For the past eleven years, I've been asked, "Why do you have pet bunnies?" This is why I have pet bunnies. The joy I derive from them has, thus far, preempted felonies I otherwise might have attempted, plus they are among the smartest, cleverest, and super-cutest creatures on earth. (There are evolutionary reasons for this I won't detail now, but rabbits, like most prey animals, are startling clever because otherwise they would be some jackal's mid-afternoon snack.)

So, let us all pause and thank the bunnies on what has been an oddball day because without them, someone might have gotten a bag of flaming dog crap on their welcome mat.

Newly effective ways to make yourself nuts:

• Volunteer to become your building's condo secretary because your neighbors, by and large, are deeply awesome and you'd rather take on a job for which you're qualified than get drafted for one at which you'd blow.
  
• Approach said position in an egalitarian manner, sending out missives in which you underscore "the Condo Board is not Fidel Castro" and that you welcome viable input.
• Check your inbox.
  

Six questions for Ralph Nader, who is reading at Powell's Books in Portland tomorrow, October 4:

1) At one point, you were the country's leading consumer advocate and, unquestionably, were responsible for saving hundreds of thousands of lives. What the hell happened?

2) Do you ever pause and consider the stunning level of your jack-assery when you purported during your 2000 campaign for president that there was absolutely no difference between the Democrats and Republicans? Of course, all sentient adults know both parties are rife with corruption and venality, but in light of George W. Bush's eight year Reign of Mistakes, are you willing to cede that perhaps Al Gore possessed far greater intellect, empathy, and competence and might not have steered the country into a shit-laden ditch?

3) A number of your friends spoke publicly after the 2000 election that they supported you because you assured them your run was essentially symbolic and that you were shining a spotlight on pertinent issues that might otherwise get overlooked, but that if the polls indicated a dead heat between Gore and Bush, you would gracefully bow out. Of course, you did not, and the same friends claimed to be disillusioned by your festering demagoguery. Receive a lot of birthday cards anymore, sir?

4) Who has the bigger persecution complex: you or Sarah Palin? Have you considered battling for the title via a dart game or arm wrestling?

5) Still with the rumpled suit? Really?

6) Will you go away ever? What if we all chip in for candy or a nice pot roast?

Thank you and good night, Portland!

Returned last night from my three day and two night jaunt to Portland and I had an utterly delightful time. Madly in love with the Pearl District and imbibed 72 hours of wonderfulness. I've unpacked, returned pressing emails, and the adrenaline has worn off, however, so as goofy as it sounds to the uninitiated, I'm going back to sleep now. Will detail sundry adventures here and will post additional photos capturing the sublime and the slightly ridiculous on Facebook.

Much love, Portland! You can call me anytime.

[From top to bottom: foyer of The Benson Hotel, where I stayed thanks to a nifty recession-fueled discount via Expedia; posters for a super-cool bike-inspired show at a gallery on SW Stark; the legendary Powell's Books; U.S. National Bank building on 5th Ave and SW Stark; outdoors supply store on 3rd Ave near Voodoo Doughnuts.]

And now, a look back at Hot for Teacher Night (yes, that one):

The Saturday of Memorial Day weekend, I covered Hot for Teacher Night at a craptastic sports bar in Seattle's historic Pioneer Square district for sexual anthropologist, Susie Bright (Esquire, Rolling Stone, Salon), of whom I've long been an admirer.

Said night featured the infamous Mary Kay Letourneau and Vili Fualaau and its announcement received nationwide attention. Bright and I are Facebook friends and she asked if any of her Seattle compadres would be willing to attend and report for her blog; I tossed my hat in the ring and was one of two she chose.

I've attached the link (see below) to the version that ran on Bright's estimable site. Also, I've included my original, longer piece, which Bright herself suggested I post here. (When you read her intro, you'll see why elements of mine became superfluous.) While I observed the festivities, as it were, I experienced a twinge in my shoulder for the second day in a row. And when I wrote the following evening, I developed the most excruciating headache of my life. I thought perhaps it was akin to a migraine or maybe something worse. One could make a case I should have gone to the E.R. immediately, and if it had occurred during 2004 to 2007, when I had dozens of pieces come out in rapid fire, I would have. But due to the perniciously long recovery time from the pneumonia in '08, this was the first deadlined assignment I had taken on in over a year and I was so fucking furious that my health presented yet another obstacle, that I plowed through and handed it off to Bright a mere hour late. Of course, by the next day, a rash had developed along the pain's neural pathway and when I told my mom she said, "Honey, you've got shingles. Get to Dr. Harris' office immediately and I'll meet you there." And there went most of summer of '09. Hence, not posting this sooner: like most aspects of my life, it got lost in the shuffle of what transpired next.

Bright and I reached somewhat varying conclusions regarding Letourneau and Fualaau's relationship, but she was a joy to work with and is a perfectly delightful human being, to boot.

The version that ran on Bright's blog (the headline is not mine):

http://susiebright.blogs.com/susie_brights_journal_/2009/05/mary-kay-letourneau-fualaau-appeared-to-be-a-sweet-happy-gregarious-vision-of-beauty-with-an-aura-of-compassionate-mother.html

My original version:

A blonde woman in garnet red lipstick, a black strapless dress and gold flip-flops laughs and poses for pictures with a cadre of drunk college girls. She is toned and tan and appears younger than her 47 years as she waves to a man onstage in his 20s wearing a backwards cap and gold medallion who cues Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock and Roll” on his MacBook under the auspices of DJ-ing. A nearby reveler points at the woman and asks his friends, “Can you imagine if she had been a guy teacher? Alcatraz, baby! Al-ca-traz!” His female companion answers, “I know it sounds weird, but I always thought she was hot.”


“Really? Why are you headed there?” my cabdriver asked, perhaps sensing I’m not the sort to frequent Seattle’s cheesy downtown sports bars, Fuel.

“I’m going to Hot for Teacher Night, that thing with Mary Kay Letourneau and Vili Fualaau,” I replied, referencing the infamous convicted Level 2 sex offender and her onetime underage victim, now adult husband of the past four years. “I’m covering it, though. It’s not like I plan to make new friends tonight.”

“I don’t know,” he said contemplatively. “If you look at the fact they started over a decade ago, they’ve lasted longer than most marriages I can think of. They really seem to want to be together.”

For the rest of the ten-minute drive, I mulled over what he said. True, Letourneau met Fuluaau when she was his second grade teacher in 1990 and, according to court testimony, first sexually assaulted him in 1996 when he was 13 and she was 34 and married with four kids, after having been Fuluaau’s teacher again, this time for seventh grade. They began what they viewed as a relationship and even during her second subsequent prison stint, she was held in solitary confinement for six months after caught smuggling letters to him.

So, sure, in the aggregate, they had been “together” in some form for over a decade, no small feat. But most great love stories don’t involve one party’s family suing the school district and police department for failing to protect their son and for child support of the two children the couple in question now has.

We arrived at Fuel; I paid my fare and hopped out. A truly vile dance mix of Coldplay’s “Viva La Vida” blared from inside and engulfed the sidewalk, nearly drowning out the commotion gathering outside the entrance. A man in his 40s wearing a softball shirt and wire rim glasses yelled at three security guards while two local television stations filmed the exchange.

“She’s a child rapist!” the man shouted. “You’re making money off of sexual assault! If the genders were reversed, there’s no way you’d be hosting this thing!”

“She served her time, man! She served her time!” the security guards, all of whom were bald and clad in black leather vests, shouted back.

“You guys could have had One Dollar Beer Night instead! There are other ways to get a crowd!”

Two of the guards lumbered to their motorcycles parked on the street a few feet away and summarily revved them as loud as they could, obliterating the man’s words and ruining the stations’ footage. “We own the sidewalk in front of the club and I’m telling you right now you have to get off it,” the third guard said, the threat implied.

The man appeared sad and disgusted and moved a few yards away. The guards, none of whom seemed to realize the extent of their cliché-addled douchebaggery, finally ceased the revving and menacing and I asked the man if he would like to discuss the evening’s theme. He said his name was Joe and that in the course of his career as a police officer in California, he had worked with dozens of sexual assault victims of both genders. “This whole evening is an atrocity toward domestic violence and rape. They’re profiting off the pain of others.”

I thanked him for his time and got in line. When I arrived at the front, I saw a sign reading, “No media or press not approved earlier this week.” A guard asked for five bucks and my I.D. “I saw you talking to that guy. Are you a reporter?”

“No,” I fudged, neglecting to mention that, also, I thought he was an asshole.

“Then why were you talking to that guy? I saw you asking him stuff.”

“I felt like talking to him. That’s allowed, isn’t it?” I replied, my sarcasm thick as his skull. A second guard checked my bag and eyed my notebook suspiciously. I met his gaze and said, “I carry one sometimes. So?”

Stumped, or maybe deciding it wasn’t worth the hassle, they took my money and let me in. Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy” blasted from the sound system and I edged towards the mostly empty dance floor and spotted Fualaau onstage with his MacBook, ostensibly serving tunes but mostly providing spectacle. Patrons sporting a stunning array of crunchy and outdated haircuts crowded the bar and U-shape of surrounding tables, viewing Fualaau from afar as if he were a zoo act. He didn’t look up and, surprisingly, appeared almost timid, as if he weren’t quite sure how to proceed.

Letourneau was nowhere to be found and I asked a table of college girls with a giant inflatable pink penis on their table what they thought of the evening so far. “We’re just here for my bachlorette party!” one of them replied, adjusting the strap on her pink shiny halter dress. “We thought it would be fun!” she added, a bit of slur to her words.

Momentarily, a thunderous cheer tore through the crowd, not quite the kind that met Barack Obama on the campaign trail but more than, say, Jimmy Fallon might expect to elicit. I turned and saw a woman with almost daffodil yellow hair and superb legs and it took me a second to realize this was the once-frumpy schoolteacher I’d seen in countless hours of news footage. She beamed as dozens of camera phones flashed like popcorn-ing rhinestones. “Mary Kay!” an older woman in walking sneakers and capri pants yelled. “Make sure and tell Vili I’m the one who sent the baby book!” Letourneau smiled and returned the hug when the woman embraced her enthusiastically.

The bachlorette throng rushed Letourneau as if she were a long lost friend and the woman who launched a thousand punch lines responded in kind. On and on it went, each customer seemingly more rapturous than the previous one. A Fuel employee sold autographed “Hot for Teacher!” tee shirts and posters at a nearby folding table and looked slightly queasy. “How much is the merchandise?” I asked.

“Seven dollars for a poster and twenty for a tee shirt. We’ve sold a lot so far.”

“How do you feel about them making money like this?”

“I’m dating the owner’s cousin. He asked me to help out tonight and I couldn’t tell him no.” She paused, as if concerned someone would hear our exchange. “I’m neutral about Letourneau, but you don’t say ‘no’ to family.”

After another half hour, I left, deadened at the notion that in this room, it was verboten to suggest a convicted pedophile might not be worthy of affection or accolades.

On the cab ride home, the driver asked me, “Hot for Teacher Night? What’d you go to that thing for?”

To borrow Monty Python's infamous line from The Holy Grail, "Not quite dead yet":

Earlier today ABC's "Good Morning America" ran an interview with Dr. Danica Moore, author of the new tome, Women's Heatlh for Life. The segment focused on CFIDS (Chronic Fatigue and Immune Dysfunction Syndrome), also known as CFS (Chronic Fatigue Syndrome) and it is the one of the most medically accurate and insightful pieces I've encountered on the subject. Kudos to everyone involved:

http://abcnews.go.com/video/playerIndex?id=8664151

If you know me, love me, are working with me, plan to work with me, have dated me, are dating me, or some combination thereof and you have an extra 360 seconds, please watch the video (see above). It vividly describes what it is like to live with the illness I've had for 18 years, one that was initially and widely misunderstood (I had more than one doctor those first four months in the wheelchair tell me I was lying) but that has since been recognized as irrefutably real and the cause of severe and lasting physical impairment. (We should note, however, that while CFIDS suppresses one's immune system, one's rack and wit remain intact.)

On my way out the door now to fete my best friend, who this week marks the ten year anniversary of when he was mauled by a grizzly, but mercifully, made a full recovery and emerged even stronger and more bad-ass. We have been intertwined in each other's lives in all manner of ways for the past 21 years and while I have nearly killed him on more than one occasion, I am profoundly glad he is still here.

It's been an extraordinarily great day filled with...

...delightful company and stellar news. More delectable than a pancake waffle sandwich.

I'm blindingly exhausted, though, so instead of going into detail right now, I'm posting this link re an AIDS research breakthrough that has the potential to alter human history for the better and, as such, is ultimately more important:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090925/ap_on_he_me/med_aids_vaccine

Head on pillow. Eyes must close.

'Night, all.

I was having an americano with a pal at Joe in the West Village...

...back in February when he remarked, "It's so great you guys have Powell's Books in Seattle."

"That's Portland, not Seattle," I replied.

He smirked. "What's the difference?"

"We're four hours apart, for starters."

"Yeah, but isn't one just a bigger version of the other?" he volleyed.

Next week I will be able to answer in greater detail. As ridiculous as it sounds, I haven't traipsed to PDX since 2002 for a friend's wedding. Whenever I've had simultaneous health and money (and the former has largely been the tripwire), I've had my ass on a plane to New York or San Francisco. Sometimes for work, usually for pleasure, always to feel at home.

But after spending most of the summer landlocked (if you already have an immune system compromised from CFIDS and are still running a fever from the pneumonia you had in '08, try not to get shingles in '09), I've slowly been accruing more strength (witness the increased posting here) and am restless as hell. I haven't left town in seven months and it's near certain, in light of the probable H1N1 clusterfuck, that the Centers for Disease Control or World Health Organization will issue a de facto travel advisory for the immuno-compromised and then I'll be stuck here at least through spring. And that simply will not do.

So, for three days and two nights next week (that's all I can physically sustain right now, realistically), I will be exploring Seattle's step-sibling to the south. I sound facetious, but I'm actually quite excited. My friends and colleagues who reside there gush about it and I'm eager to poke around and see what kind of mischief I unearth.

And to the person who condescendingly asked, "Well, who's going to drive you?" Well, no one. As I explained, I'll be flying, surgical mask and all, per doctor's orders (woo hoo!) and I don't need someone to babysit me. I will never understand why, in 2009, so many women are still so reluctant to travel alone, but that's an entirely different topic and I'm too beat to delve into its morass right now.

I've got to rest up for Portland.

Helen Falangus 1926-1974

In short stories, everyone's grandmother smells like rosewater or lilies or, if she's the antagonist, bears a faint whiff of venal decay.

I've had allergies since I was a little kid and I don't remember what Yiayia smelled like. I remember her voice, though, warm and encouraging and sometimes conspiratorial in the best sense, as if she and I were our own party of two, off to do something wildly fun and cultured but still ladylike, as she was of that generation.

I have a framed photo of Yiayia and Papou from the 1940s on my mantel and have viewed hundreds of pictures of her in family albums, but I see her most clearly in my mind's eye. We lived near her and Papou from my birth until I was five, when a stroke felled her into a coma, and as such, she and I saw each other or spoke on the phone everyday. Mom insists that when Yiayia (her own mother) called, she would playfully say, "I didn't call to talk to you. I called to talk to Litsa."

I knew she was ill because when we vistited Yiayia and Papou's home, she was usually reclining in the hospital bed they'd intstalled in their living room. But I never remember her acting ill. She'd have me hop on the bed with her (with an assist from one of my parents or Papou, I suppose, though I can't recall) and we'd read countless books together and to each other. (Mom, my aunt, and uncle all describe her as a voracious reader and her few living friends have told me, "Helen always helped us with our book reports.") She was a gifted seamstress (though not by profession) and taught me a number of stiches, always on the most beautiful swaths of silk or taffeta, because muslin simply would not do.

And then she was gone, but not quite. "When Yiayia is out of the hospital, we're going to throw the biggest party in the whole world!" my mother and I would say to each other, though my mother must have known her mother would not awake but kept a brave face for my brother and me regardless. There was never a choice to make, Yiayia was breathing of her own accord, and that, of course, was worse. She was nearly unresponsive, but Mom says that when a nurse would drop a tray or there was a loud noise in the hall, Yiayia's eyes would flicker. And the two times Mom brought my brother and me to see her, Yiayia's eyes filled with tears.

This lasted nearly two years, until her death when she was 48. Throughout my life, I've been a believer, an agnostic, and an atheist, and while I won't limm my beliefs now, I will say there were times I hated God. How could any omniscient deity who purports to love us allow someone so unfailingly kind and magical to suffer so long and so horrifically? Of course, I have no answer and none of us do. But I'm 42 now, not much younger than she was when she left, and I know there are still times I would trade every worldly possession and every friend I have just to be with her again and share stories and make each other laugh like we used to.

And, perhaps, if there is something on the other side (and I am suspect of those who ascertain too vehemently one way or another), maybe we'll get to again.

Today makes 35 years since she died and yesterday the entire family, spanning in ages from 76 to infancy, came together to celebrate her life. And I think somehow we made her happy.

I miss you, Yiayia.

Love always,
Litsa

Guys and dolls, as it were:

Last night I watched an interview with an author whose work I like, but that doesn't prompt me to do cartwheels and then finger myself. Still, I found his answers smart and insightful and enjoyed listening to what he offered next. Then he was asked the inevitable (though sometimes useful) question, "Which other authors do you read?" He named three off the top of his head (all fine choices and one of whom is a friend of mine) and later revisited the topic, rattling off about ten playwrights whose work he's long admired.

Then he caught himself. "I'm sure there are some women in there, too, I'm overlooking right now." Each of his picks had been men. He struck me as sincere and I believe there are women whose work resonates for him. And I like that he answered honestly: no one should feel like they "have" to publicly laud any artist if the latter's work really doesn't spark something within.

I've been pleased that my writing, so far, has garnered a healthy degree of praise from the whole gender spectrum and that no one has attempted to pigeonhole me as a "woman writer". I've been viewed simply as a writer, which is how it should be for all of us, regardless of sex, race, religion, or where one falls on the Kinsey Scale. (Side note: I say this without a trace of arrogance. I know if I were to attempt, say, civil engineering, I would get quickly labeled, "disaster". I'm fully aware of the many things at which I would choke.)

But still, it got under my skin that if I or any woman had been asked the same question and the interviewer had been of the opposite gender (as was the case last night) and we had named 13 writers who sport vadges, it seems near certain we would have incurred the response, "Don't you read any men?"

Unquestionably, things continue to progress in the right direction. I just wish we were already there. Anyhow, it's 75 degrees and sunny on what is one of the last warm days of the season and nothing is going to shift culturally in the next 90 minutes. I'm off to get an iced americano and head to Thomas Street Park. And, for the record, my favorite authors run the whole spectrum of humanity. Except for the bad writers: while some might be lovely human beings, it's perfectly okay to shun their output.

Boredom? Paranoia? Or just not getting it?

Dear assistant to a highly talented but discredited author who just settled another fraud suit,

When you conduct a Google blog search for said author from the city in which you work (and your IP # is from a Comcast Business address), arrive here and then search for your own name, I'm aware of this. Like all writers (including the one for which you work), I have a Sitemeter on my blog that relays said information. This is not rocket science. Nor is it the first time you've conducted a similar search here.

I'll save you the time: I've moved on. I haven't written about said author in years and if I ever alluded to you (and I don't recall I did), I never referred to you by name. Maybe it's time for each of you to realize you're no longer compelling.

But definitely a bit sad.

I've been writing most of the day and I'm still in...

...my blue and green striped pajama bottoms and my '04 Death Cab shirt (the one with the bunnies on the front) and need to be somewhere in an hour, preferably fed and caffeinated and wearing pants, as I often find that makes ventures with other humans run more smoothly.

Fifty-nine minutes and counting down.

I was going to write something cogent about...

...9/11 last night but it had been a busy day (and I was able to vacuum for the first time in three and a half months!) and I fell asleep before I could prop myself before my laptop. Mostly, I think of my compadres who were there (I have scads of friends and family in NYC and D.C.) and/or who lost loved ones and how the anniversary will always be harder for them than it is for the rest of us. Not that we will forget, but unquestionably, we are scarred differently. And I ate a nice quiet dinner at Thomas Street Park near my home and read the latest issue of New York Magazine and that seemed as fitting tribute as any.

Then, after having been up a good portion of last night sick, I discovered at 7:00 a.m. this morning that my building had been broken into. As condo secretary, this has caused an enormous headache for me (calling the police, doing the walk-around w/ the officer, filing the police report, alerting the neighbors, et al) and I am reminded of something Wanda Sykes told me when I interviewed her for The Believer, "Unwanted children grow into the biggest assholes." While there is a good chance the person who decided to smash the doorknob to fucking hell is an alcoholic or addict and therefore wrestling with a real illness and desperate for money and a fix, at the moment, I'm feeling spectacularly uncompassionate and really want the perpetrator's wang dipped in honey and waved in front of hungry fire ants. And, underscoring Wanda's point, odds are pretty good the parents of said individual did not do a real bang up job with the love and nuturing or any of that and I kind of want to pelt them with flaming garbage.

Humanity: so brilliant, so glorious, so transcendent, but (and this hardly a revelation) so much douchebaggery, too.

I give mad props to the California omelette I had for lunch, though. That held its own.

And perhaps some Ovaltine, sir:

I think President Obama's health care speech last night was extraordinary and that he nailed it in terms of policy, specifics, and tone. As noted elsewhere, I would make him peanut butter and jelly crackers if I could.

But just how effective was his address to Congress? My father, a lifelong moderate Republican, told my mom this morning, "You know, I was prepared to disagree with him but he addressed all the details and made a lot of sense. He did a good job."

Choke on that, South Carolina Representative Joe Wilson, and I hope your insurance plan covers the mental health treatment you so desperately need.

I say this as someone who enjoys Rachel McAdams' work and...

...appreciates her versatility and deft comic timing. Overall, I'm rooting for her.

But holy mother of fuck, I've seen the trailer for The Time Traveler's Wife twice now and fear what it has done to my cerebral cortex. I know the book was a bestseller, but did no one in McAdams' management team allow her to read the script before signing on? Was there a sort of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey procedure wherein she was spun around five times with a pen in hand and the first contract she touched she was legally bound to?

And as the new school year starts, I urge parents everywhere to shield their kids from the film's poster: I think even a cursory glance could set them back a grade.

One of my best friends was in town from Chicago this weekend and...

...took me out for lunch and dessert yesterday. Because my very closest friend took me out on Friday, I had to spend almost the entirety of Saturday recuperating from one and resting for the next, but in each instance, it was completely worth it. (And for most of the summer, it took two to three days to heal between outings, so the 24 hour cushion, odd as it sounds to the uninitiated, is a huge improvement.)

As oft-noted, I know that out of the seven billion persons currently inhabiting the planet, I have one of the very best lives. Still, I am not at all sorry to see this summer end: Memorial Day weekend I, of course, developed a particularly acute case of shingles that proceeded to masticate the season's remainder; my brother had an emergency appendectomy shortly thereafter; my beloved cousin became excruciatingly ill before giving birth prematurely; my massively intelligent and ridiculously super-cute alpha male bunny, Henry, died; my brother had emergency back surgery for two ruptured discs; and my mom was rushed to the emergency room with what initially but falsely (repeat: falsely) appeared to be cardiac arrest.

And as all of us know and keep reiterating: we're very lucky. We're still here (with the exception of Henry, who was a rabbit and not a person, though that is a distinction I acknowledge mostly to preempt a one-way ticket to a group home) and everyone knows families who weren't so fortunate. Each of us has health insurance and family and friends who love us deeply and vice versa and all of us got each other through things emotionally and practically.

That said, if Summer '09 were a person, I would go Titus Andronicus on its ass and bake it in a pie and feed it to its loved ones. Fuck you, Summer '09. Fuck you with a hammer. Don't let the door hit you on your way out.

Two things that have absolutely nothing to do with each other but that remain pertinent in very different ways:

1) As noted here and on Facebook, I have spent most of the past year on Capitol Hill (my neighborhood) and the adjoining downtown because I've usually been too sick to venture farther. So, as I've been getting healthier, my best friend has made a point to whisk me to different parts of Seattle (I still can't drive) and, as ridiculous as it sounds, it's been a total adventure. Today we went to Alki and ate lunch at a waterside restaurant and strolled the beach and then drove over to California Avenue and the surrounding area and perused Easy Street Records and sundry book shops and ephemera. We proceeded to get ice cream (chocolate chip mint in a waffle cone!) and it was the first ice cream I've had in over a month (I've almost lost the eight pounds I gained from the shingles) and when I dripped it on my black jeans, he laughed and insisted I pop the last of my cone in my mouth and when I did, I laughed and spit said cone on various parts of my forearm and then neither of us could stop laughing. An absolutely wonderful and soul-boosting day.

2) Re the health care meme currently swirling on Facebook: as I've posted, if you have time to play on Facebook, you have time to contact your legistlators in support of President Obama's health care reform. Step #1: Google your two senators and one congressperson. Step #2: Go to their contact page. Step #3: Contact them. Anyone with ten minutes and opposable thumbs can do this.

Tuesday night's reading at Elliott Bay Book Company was an utter delight...

...and one of the best outings of what has been an incredibly difficult summer. Chelsea Cain is not only a very talented writer, but a compelling and hilarious reader, too. Those of us in the industry know these are two separate skills and Cain has each in heaping fistfuls. Plus, I ran into a pal I hadn't seen in over a year and, of course, as mentioned in my previous entry, it's great (perfect, really) to be among my tribe more and more as my health returns.

Then yesterday was sad and awful and one of those days that will, undoubtedly, make sense in time but, for now, stings and is a reminder that sometimes, even persons who know each other best fail each other occasionally.

I have to leave for a doctor appointment soon and I'd be lying if I said part of me feels like I simply can't do one more, but then I remind myself I've been to hundreds that were worse than today's will be and prevailed and still wore a jaunty ensemble and bantered with the physician and his or her staff and then, in the better periods, I continued to write and publish dozens of pieces about subjects vast and fascinating and life went on. And such will be the case today.

Time to head out the door.

I'm off to a reading now at Elliott Bay Book Company...

...for a Portland-based author about whom I've heard good things, Chelsea Cain.

She writes well-reviewed thrillers and while her genre is not something towards which I usually gravitate, tonight, that's not even the point.

Sometimes, more than anything, you just need to be among members of your own tribe.

What the fuck, humanity?

As if this day hasn't been odd enough--and parts of it have been good, but overall it's been odder than a tech-employed hippie with a decent pair of shoes--two individuals in the past few hours have tried to get me to watch "Two and a Half Men" tonight. (I've attempted it before at their urging and find it a total crapfest.)

Why not just goad me into stepping off the curb five seconds too early and get it over with?

Mr. Dunne and Senator Kennedy:

I'm about a million and a half emails and phone calls behind because, as I continue to heal, I've been writing increasingly and, also, seeing sundry individuals in person, which is always nice. As such, I have to hop in the shower and be at a graduation party soon, but it feels strange not mentioning this week's concurrent passings of Dominick Dunne and Senator Ted Kennedy.

Regarding Mr. Dunne, I have a few of his books I bought used years ago and haven't gotten to yet, but I read his Vanity Fair column since its inception and it was often the first piece I turned to when my issue arrived in the mail. He was a damned fine writer and if his work often focused on those whose faucets were 24 carat gold and had caviar served in between tennis sets by a phalanx of servants in starched uniforms who bore names like "Nigel" and "Clive", well, that was his world and you write what you know. I admired his unceasing work as a victim advocate in the wake of the horrific murder of his daughter and, too, that he was able to get (and stay) sober and reinvent himself as a scribe in his fifties. He will be missed.

As for Senator Kennedy, my feelings are a bit more complicated. Unquestionably, he was on the correct side of nearly every major legislative issue of his time and he often lead the charge, particularly regarding health care and civil rights for all Americans and, of course, his early and vociferous support of Barack Obama was hugely advantageous to the latter's campaign. For all of this, I am deeply grateful as a citizen. However, and not to speak ill of one while his family is in mourning, if I were a Kopeckne, I can't say I would have shed a tear this week. Ultimately, in fairness, the line I keep returning to was spoken off the record by a Kennedy colleague years ago in a piece about the senator's complicated and too often tragic personal life, "I wouldn't want Ted Kennedy's nightmares."

Travel safe, gentlemen.

I'm not a fanatic, but I...

...enjoy "Project Runway" most of the time. Three points in light of last night's episode, though:

1. Any contestant sporting a fauxhawk should be disqualified immediately and subjected to Chinese water torture by Nina Garcia. Or she could just eviscerate them 'till they cry.
   
2. No one, in any context, for the remaining run of the show should be allowed to utter, particularly in a melodramatic tone reminiscent of early talking pictures, "Fashion should be about taking risks." See #1 for suitable punishment.
3. Would that everyone in their respective fields work with a mentor as knowledgeable, wise, and patient as Tim Gunn.
   

Best anniversary ever! (As such):

Last Monday, August 17th, marked the 18 year anniversary of when I first developed CFIDS. (Yes, I remember the exact day. The precise moment, actually. CFIDS.org asked me to write about it a few years ago and it's here if you're curious: http://www.cfids.org/cfidslink/2005/dremousis.asp)

I'd recently remarked to TJ that most years I spend that day alone and moody and crying--the notable exceptions being '04 through '07 when my life was chock full of deadlines and the symptoms were more moderate--and he decided to preempt such actions this year by throwing a surprise gathering for me at The Elysian. He was unable to send out invites until the Saturday before because, while I'm over the shingles, I'm still much weaker right now and can't as yet plan more than a day or two in advance.

He coordinated with one of my oldest friends, Christy, and sent a missive to my cherished and oft-noted friend, Eric. And while the latter was unable to pitch in to alert my writer friends because, unbeknown to TJ, Eric was in the middle of moving from one state to another, TJ and Christy put together an impressive roster.

Of course, the invitations went out the day before Mom went into the hospital with what seemed to be cardiac arrest. (As noted in my previous entry, it turns out that, mercifully, the problems were comparably minor but still serious. The good news, though, is that Mom is now on Day #11 with no cigarettes and is regarding this near miss as a wake-up call.) I, of course, had no idea a party of sorts was underway. (Nice job, TJ and Christy, putting your poker-faced Teutonic heritage to good use.) And, also, I didn't want to leave the hospital except to sleep. (Mad props to my brother, George, and Thia Elaine for being such stalwarts, too. And Dad handled things as Dad always does, not necessarily recognizing the gravity of the situation, but that worked just fine, as well, and he was a real peach when it counted.)

Sunday night, as I was leaving the hospital a bit past midnight, Mom told me to keep my plans with TJ the following day. I countered that I was postponing them and that no doubt he'd understand. Again, as noted previously, she was completely alert and lucid and wry throughout the evening and in her "Mom" voice, the same one that used to rattle defense attorneys to their core back when she was still a deputy prosecutor, she threatened to kill me if I did not keep said plans. (Again, I didn't know this either, but TJ had invited Mom and Dad and my brother to join everyone, so Mom knew what was afoot.)

On Monday afternoon, TJ and I spent a couple hours at the hospital with Mom and Dad (George had been earlier before heading to work) and the mood remained remarkably light and I think everyone welcomed the banter as a respite from thinking of what might be going on in Mom's chest wall. (At this point, the results were still inconclusive.) Around 5:00 p.m., Mom insisted TJ and I leave and while I was reluctant, I knew Dad was with her and that the situation was essentially under control.

After a really fun and goofy dinner at The Elysian at which it felt great to relax a bit and, you know, eat, I saw TJ's friend, Jeff enter and waved to him. "Jeff's here!" I said, still not catching on, because Jeff and his wife live nearby.

"Keep an eye out for Christy, because she should be here soon," TJ said, smiling and a bit self-congratulatory when he noted the confused look on my face. "Surprise," he said. "I didn't want this anniversary to suck for you, too."

I have had many parties over the years, both epic and spectacle-packed, but no one had ever thrown me a surprise party before. And while a number of my writer friends never received invitations due to the aforementioned (well-intentioned and totally understandable) wire-crossing between TJ and Eric, like I said, TJ and Christy did a damned fine job assembling a super-fun soiree wherein everyone cross-pollinated beautifully and swapped stories new and old.

And while I thanked each attendee the next day, I want to reiterate again here: thank you all, deeply and with the force of a thousand suns, for making a day that would have been grim for a number of reasons, so utterly fucking perfect. Here's to an autumn packed with health and success and giddiness for everyone. And to my large roster of out-of-state friends with whom I talk or email all the time but rarely get to see, maybe I'll be able to travel more in '10. And if not, get your ass(es) on a plane again. Because we'll find something to celebrate, too.

This feels like one of the longer weeks in recorded human history...

...and while I'm too tired to elucidate and while my postings on Facebook intended to preempt any confusion actually added to it when my cousins' kids in Greece read my updates and the pertinent facts literally got lost in translation, here's the truncated scoop:

I have a living, breathing Mom (again w/ the wood knocking) who has no arterial blockage, does not need angioplasty, did not have a heart attack, and who has quit smoking for good. (One week and counting.) Mom is brilliant intellectually and I am in no way trying to infantilize her when I say she understands rationally and emotionally that this was a close call and all of us feel profoundly lucky and grateful that, in the scheme of things, the news isn't high-five-awesome! but is still quite good.

As I told her and my aunt, I want them around to drive us crazy as long as possible. :) (I never use emoticons here, but in this context, it's necessary or god knows what story will traverse the continents.)

Brief film musings before Mad Men season #3 premieres tonight:

One of the best parts about living in my neighborhood is residing within 15 minutes (max) of six movie theaters. For a film lover like myself, I sometimes can't believe how lucky I am. So all I need is a minimum amount of energy to catch a flick and now that I am a wee bit ambulatory, I've seen three in the past two weeks.

A summation:

• Among those who know me, there is a misconception that my film tastes skew solely toward the dark, which is untrue. It's just that so many ostensibly "uplifting" and "stand up and cheer!" scripts are such unfettered drek, that not only do I not feel uplifted or like standing up and cheering, I actually want to locate the studio exec who greenlit the project and hurl Molotov cocktails at his or her Escalade. However, I saw The Proposal because the reviews were fairly strong and Sandra Bullock is one of my favorite actresses. (Much like James Garner or Cary Grant, she makes it look easy, which, if you know anything about acting, is incredibly hard.) Also, and while this has no bearing on her work as an artist, she has always struck me as a class act who is both generous and aware of how fortunate she is. And you know what? The Proposal was not the most enlightening 100 minutes of my life, but Bullock and Ryan Reynolds, perhaps because of their real life friendship, have genuine chemistry and while even a single-cell organism could deduce they'd pair off in the end, I enjoyed watching them get there. Bonus points, too, that at no juncture does anyone allude to the fact Bullock is almost a decade older than Reynolds. I.e. it is a non-issue, just like it is for dudes on and offscreen. Also, holy hell, I wanted each and every piece of her gorgeously sophisticated wardrobe, particularly the ash gray wool crepe Alexander McQueen dress she dons for the party scene.

• I saw Julie and Julia with six of the women in my family (it's been a topsy-turvy and often chaotic summer for everyone, so this was the first time all of us had been in the same room since Easter) and found both the feature and the afternoon delightful. Meryl Streep, of course, is perfection, Nora Ephron is at the top of her game, and Amy Adams, whose portion of the film is almost uniformly getting referred to as weaker, is getting a bum rap. She is wholly believable as a writer (admittedly, this might have something to do with why I found her storyline compelling) and she works at a Lower Manhattan rebuilding agency in 2002 for chrissakes, so of course her scenes aren't usually as ebullient as Streep's in Paris because, if one will recall, Lower Manhattan in 2002 was one of the most depressing places on earth. I've now seen Adams in Doubt, Sunshine Cleaners, and Julie and Julia and found her superb in all three.

• The Hangover, while somewhat uneven, was a ridiculously fun antidote to the weakness I was experiencing that day. Bradley Cooper and his stubble should be cast in everything all the time, Ed Helms, as usual, is reflexively hilarious, and whenever Zach Galifianakis said anything, I was that person in the theater laughing so hard that other patrons turned to see who the hell the bozo was and if she was high or developmentally disabled. (For the record: neither.) Favorite lines of the summer so far: when Galifianakis gets jumped by the naked Asian man and tells him, "I'm on your side! I hate Godzilla, too!" and when Cooper, Helms, and Galifianakis are carrying the baby outside the hotel and the latter says, "There was Ted Danson, Magnum P.I., and that Jewish actor." Absolutely no one but me laughed at this one and as such, I feel the rest of the audience owes comedy a heartfelt apology and a promise never to be so thoughtless and stupid again.

Okay, almost time for Jon Hamm and the consistently outstanding show built around his singularly chiseled visage and Superman blue black hair.

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.