Coming soon!

For the past month, I've been gathering all links to my work so that I can archive them here in one comprehensive entry. If I get super-ambitious, I'll scan my print-only features to my Flickr account and toss those links into the mix, too. I hope to complete said project soon, then I'll update The Slippery Fish only when I have a new piece go online or hit the stands.

'Tis best for two reasons: I have many features and larger projects in the pipeline and those are absorbing my attention. Also, Facebook and Twitter, combined with said work, have made The Slippery Fish superfluous.

I'd ruminate on where I was when I started this blog in 2003 and all that's changed for good and bad in the interim, but you know what? I don't have the time.

And that might be the perfect note on which to end things.

Cross-dressing, bad foreplay, a math teacher gone wrong: my new essay for Nerve is here:

I love the title my editor chose, "It's Always the Quiet Ones", and that the guy in the accompanying photo looks like Radiohead's Thom Yorke.

Enjoying the responses this piece is garnering, even the one from a crazy dude.

Can any amount of vertical compatibility make up for incompatibility in the sack? Let's see:

http://www.nerve.com/love-sex/true-stories/true-stories-its-always-the-quiet-ones

Also, Nerve doesn't require you to give your email address or any info when you comment, so if you want, feel free to join the discussion. XO.

On Geraldine Ferraro:

I remember being so excited when Walter Mondale added Geraldine Ferraro to the Democratic Presidential ticket in 1984. With three terms in House of Representatives, she didn't strike me as the most qualified to be VP, but neither was she the least. And she reinvigorated the Democrats in a way Mondale couldn't. (Mondale couldn't invigorate a birthday party. As Dennis Miller, back when he was funny, said after the election, "Mondale got stomped like a narc at a biker rally.")

Ferraro endured the inane and persistent "Wally and the Beaver" and "each side has a Bush for VP" jokes like a pro. Being first makes history, but not necessarily for a lot of personal happiness. I remember being particularly impressed she didn't shiv the reporter who asked her about her dress size. I was on our school paper at the time and knew any of us would have been drop-kicked for asking anything so goddamned dumb. It embarrassed me this reporter was ostensibly a pro.

I didn't think about Ferraro a lot until the 2008 election, in which she supported Hillary Clinton. I understood her support for Clinton and if Barack Obama hadn't run, I would have backed Clinton, too. But Ferraro went further than attacking Obama's policies, which would have been fair game. She started making racist statements. Like, unambiguously racist. And she kept repeating them. She was positively and baffling irate at the way Obama carried the mic when onstage and spat out, "He acted like a stand-up comedian! Like a stand-up comedian!" (Um, what?)

Then she referred to the venerable Bob Herbert, longtime New York Times editorial writer, as "one of Obama's Black surrogates in the media". As if all Blacks know each other and were sitting around a table somewhere, thinking of ways to insult the Clintons. She played into the worst kind of White fear and it disgusted me. (Herbert didn't insult Hillary; he disagreed with her. Ferraro couldn't make the distinction.)

Ferraro was no longer the person who had inspired millions of girls and women in 1984. I never respected her again.

Still, when Mondale asked her, she accepted a slot on what everyone knew was a losing ticket and gave it her all.

Peace to her friends and family.

Whatever gets you through the night:

In the West, we never embraced funeral pyres and the cultures that did have largely done away with them.

Tonight, I would have to say this was a mistake. Count me as resolutely pro-funeral pyre.

Also, pro-Nutella and Valium.

Elizabeth Taylor RIP

In college, the above photo was among those I tacked on the bulletin board near my bed. A film buff, I was enamored of Giant, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Father of the Bride, Little Women and Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. I was captivated by Elizabeth Taylor's talent and found her personal life eminently readable. No one who seemed both etched in marble and gloriously flesh and blood at sixteen, when this photo was taken, was going to lead an uncomplicated life. "Iconic" is overused, but regarding Elizabeth Taylor, no other word is apt.

Like all of us, she had her flaws. The excess of the Cleopatra era was ridiculous. Set aside the Krupp diamond, which I would have readily accepted, too. Nobody needs Chasen's chili flown halfway around the world just to have one's preferred nosh on set. And sometimes, these adolescent whims overshadowed what allowed Taylor such privilege in the first place: her extraordinary artistic gifts.

That Taylor was one of our preeminent beauties is beside the point. Her body of work, coupled with her bold and pioneering AIDS fundraising, will remain a fine legacy. I remember being moved by her love for Rock Hudson and how she resolutely stood by him when he announced he had AIDS. At this point, few public figures had spoken out in support of those with AIDS. Half the country still thought it was casually communicable and, of course, homophobia was rampant. Taylor's voice and her tireless fundraising helped change the national discussion and millions benefited as a result.

In recent years, like many near the end of life, Taylor had become somewhat of a caricature of herself and, clearly, the pills took their toll. But for decades, her work and bearing were majestic.

Sleep well, Ms. Taylor. There will never be another like you.

He's here!

As of last night, I was authorized to reveal the great news!

Please join me in welcoming George and Jennifer's new son, Mom and Dad's first grandchild and the beautiful little boy who has made me a Thia: Nixon Henri Dremousis! (I know, my dear lefty compadres, his first name won't thrill you, but our family is delighted, so try and focus on that.) He's seven pounds, 14 ounces, 21 inches and sports a lovely full head of brown hair. Maybe the handsomest newborn ever!

He was born yesterday at 9:35 a.m. and both families spent a large swath of yesterday encamped at the hospital. I got to hold him for quite some time and he's enchanting.

Out the door to see our lad again. And while I don't believe in omens, Seattle's fiercer-than-usual rain has ceased for the past two days. Most obvious metaphor ever, but we have, in fact, had sun.

We need a new word for "disaster":

I wish "hell" were divorced from religious connotations because it more aptly describes what has transpired in Japan since Thursday.

Everyone already knows where to donate by now and I have no idea if thoughts and prayers work, but I'll keep sending mine, just in case, to the victims, their loved ones and the first responders.

Of equal personal importance, a close loved one is back in the hospital for the second time in three weeks. Again, I send thoughts and prayers, hoping they help, unsure of their impact.

Life continues reminding us it is beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.

My newest piece for TNB, "Mike Sacks Really Wants a Meat-pocket", is up now:

I interview Mike Sacks' about his new, wickedly droll and superbly reviewed essay collection, Your Wildest Dreams within Reason.

As I state in the intro after alluding to the horror unfolding in Japan, "In a world that will never make sense, we need smart people who make us laugh. So, thank you, Mike Sacks, for helping us keep the lids on our pill jars.":

http://www.thenervousbreakdown.com/ldremousis/2011/03/mike-sacks-really-wants-a-meat-pocket/

Because we're just a font of good news around here:

The Wall Street Journal's newest CFIDS piece, on whether it's safe for those of us with CFIDS to donate blood and the role the XMRV retrovirus might play in determining the answer:

http://blogs.wsj.com/health/2011/03/07/xmrv-and-the-blood-supply-more-study-needed/

As I noted the other day, the Wall Street Journal's CFIDS reporting has been exemplary. If you have CFIDS, particularly an acute presentation in an advanced state like I do, even the thought of donating blood is criminally negligent. I would never risk inflicting this upon anyone, much less some poor bastard who needed a blood transfusion. Within the past year, the governments of the U.K., Canada, New Zealand and Australia have issued edicts legally prohibiting those of us with CFIDS from donating blood. In this country, the Red Cross announced last year, thanks, but no thanks. The FDA has been advised to do the same and we're waiting for their conclusion.

One of the things that fascinates me about this discussion is that it's finally being taken seriously. One of the first questions I asked after being diagnosed early in 1992 (I was egregiously ill nine months before I had a diagnosis) was, "Can I donate blood?" I followed these with, "Could I transmit this sexually?" and "If I were to get pregnant, could I give this to the fetus?" The answer I received from dozens of doctors was, basically, "Hell if I know." And they honestly didn't. But really, how fucking obvious was it that these were pertinent questions?

Twenty years later, with over a million Americans diagnosed with CFIDS and credible estimates running much higher, it's gratifying and vindicating the illness is increasingly treated with the seriousness it always deserved.

I can't help but ask, though, "What the hell took so long?"

From the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, CBS News and Elle Magazine, four new CFIDS features outstanding as they are pertinent:

1) Elle Magazine's gorgeously etched profile on Laura Hillenbrand, author of the acclaimed bestsellers Seabiscuit and Unbroken. A searingly honest and often funny look at what it's like to write each day while your body slowly unravels:

http://www.elle.com/Beauty/Health-Fitness/Chronic-Fatigue-Syndrome-A-Celebrated-Author-s-Untold-Tale

2) The New York Times continues its superb CFIDS coverage with this dismantling of the recent Lancet study in Britain and explanation why a reliable diagnostic test is crucial:

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/08/health/research/08fatigue.html

3) The Wall Street Journal continues its superb CFIDS coverage with an examination of how the illness has continued to spread over the past 25 years, and again, why a reliable diagnostic test is of utmost importance. Written by a DePaul psychology professor who has had CFIDS for 21 years:

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704507404576179031979295592.html

4) And the most buoying of all, the new study, lauded by Dr. Nancy Klimas, the nation's foremost CFIDS researcher, that has discovered 700 spinal fluid proteins unique only to those with CFIDS. This is the news that finally brings the diagnostic test within reach. Its importance can't be overestimated:

http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2011/02/23/eveningnews/main20035610.shtml?tag=stack

Again, profound thanks to my loved ones who always believed me and to those who met me later and stood by me. To those who doubted me, well, beware of Greeks with long memories.

"Time travel is lonely..."--John Vanderslice

Because it's an effective writing warm-up but mostly because it's fun, I post six-word stories on Smith Magazine nearly each day. (As noted last year, I had a piece included in Smith's latest HarperCollins anthology, It All Changed in an Instant and read at the University Bookstore stop of their tour: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TV8VpKj50Ds)

Went to post this morning and discovered one of mine is Story of the Day again, which is always pleasing, only it's the one I wrote about last year's Oscars: "Will miss watching Oscars with him.":

http://www.smithmag.net/sixwords/story.php?did=103474

That held equally true last night, of course, but I'd spent the afternoon w/ two of my oldest and dearest friends and had run into a pair of my favorite colleagues and was putting a better face on things this year, because I can. I still hurt unremittingly but the shock has dissipated and I'm not shattered in the way I was at first. (I still hate the outcome and will hate it until I'm dead. But that's gotta be self-evident to anyone with a functioning brain stem.)

So it's strange how time has again folded in on itself, which it does all the time with grief and, also, if you're a writer.

So much for this year's half-dozen words on Aaron Sorkin.

And the laurel-resting continues:

One of my dear lefty colleagues recently chided me for being too hard on Greece and its ongoing economic debacle. I explained to him nearly each Greek-American I know had predicted the motherland's implosion and while creating the building blocks for contemporary democracy, math, theater and Western philosophy remains equally inspiring and astounding, toppling the EU is kind of a huge fucking deal.

Today, the latest from Forbes on Greece's new "I Won't Pay" movement:

http://www.forbes.com/feeds/ap/2011/02/22/general-eu-greece-i-won-apos-t-pay_8319311.html

Magic:

The Washington Square Hotel posted this photo on its Twitter feed today:

http://twitpic.com/42a0vu

Yes, I know New York winters permeate one's bone marrow and they're damned near impossible to navigate with a cane, but dear god, I remain entranced. (The last time I was in New York, it was 10 degrees F with wind chill, I had a 100 degree fever and needed the cane the entire trip and it was still completely fucking worth it. But did you expect me to reach any other conclusion?)

My new essay for Nerve, "A Foray into the Domestic Arts", is up now! Cookies, sex and the intersection of the two!

First off, thanks so much to everyone for your delightful birthday wishes yesterday. Imbibed the leftover cake from Kingfish this morning and am experiencing a sugar crash not unlike the opium madness Burroughs wrote of in Naked Lunch. ("I've got the fear!")

If we've known each other awhile, you know this is the fourth version of this essay that has run in the past ten years. And if we know each other well, you know the full story behind it, which is even funnier, though I'll omit select details here. Let's just say a certain someone used to repeatedly mention I left out the part how we'd already dated on-and-off before this story begins and that I'd broken up with him the previous time. I'd playfully retort, "Maybe you should write your own essay then."

When a longer version of this piece was published in the Seal Press anthology, Single State of the Union, alongside essays from Margaret Cho, Chelsea Handler and some fine writers who happen to be dear friends of mine, the latter group of us were asked to do readings at Elliott Bay Book Company, the University Bookstore and at Queen Anne Books. He attended the Queen Anne Books event with my folks, clapped louder than anyone, then Mom and Dad took us to dinner afterward.

Obviously, we did get back together again, but I never did bake cookies again:

http://www.nerve.com/love-sex/true-stories/grand-gestures-of-love-gone-wrong?page=4

Prompting nacho comsumption to fall drastically:

Hey, straight guys!

If you'd admit you're a wee curious about fucking each other, the NFL would become superfluous.

As would bar fights and any film in which Hugh Jackman transmogrifies.

Think it over and get back to me.

Happy Superbowl Sunday!

As usual, the inability to empathize has disheartening consequences:

Everything about this bill is revoltingly sexist, out-of-touch and cruel. I'm not a fan of Speaker Boehner (obviously) but I praised his eloquence when Congresswoman Giffords was shot. I don't foresee praising him again.

From New York Magazine, "New Bill Reportedly Proposes Restrictions on Federal Funding for Abortions":

http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2011/01/abortion.html

Contained: a radical redefining of rape and incest.

A thousand times no.

Egypt's brave writers risk imprisonment, torture and death:

Well-researched and detailed new piece on the pernicious forces battling Egyptian writers who are calling for democracy:

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/41285248/ns/technology_and_science-tech_and_gadgets/

All power to them. And goddamnit, we are so lucky to live here.

The Nervous Breakdown Literary Experience, Seattle Edition #2!

The Nervous Breakdown Literary Experience, Seattle Edition #2 is Friday, April 8, 7 p.m. in the Jewelbox Theater at the Rendezvous!

Last time, the Stranger called us "a big goddamned deal"; KOMO4.com deemed us "the six best authors in town" (a wee hyperbolic but a lovely compliment nonetheless); and City Arts said we were "funny and sharp".

Best not fuck this one up.

The brilliant Jonathan Evison whose latest novel, West of Here, just received a starred review from Booklist and--hold on to your hat!--Vanity Fair christened "a booming, big-hearted epic" is on board and I'll reveal the rest soon.

Five bucks at the door. We had a sold-out house at the premiere in September--hope to see you on April 8!

Seriously, it's got the makings of a Discovery Channel documentary:

I'm fairly certain the emails in all three inboxes are now asexually reproducing. While it's objectively fascinating and, more importantly, the content contained therein is humbling, moving and gratifying, despite returning scads each day, I'm still not caught up. "After the Fire" has, in fact, caught fire and I'm really kind of speechless at the response it has engendered even if--and this goes without saying--I'd much rather write of him alive.

Again, if you haven't heard back from me--and I'm positive your life continues unabated in the meantime--you will very soon.

Happy Sunday, all.

My new Seattle Weekly feature is online and on stands now!

My new Seattle Weekly feature, "An Incomplete History of Clutch Douglass' Journey to the '80s" is out now:

http://www.seattleweekly.com/2011-01-19/music/an-incomplete-history-of-clutch-douglass-journey-back-to-the-80s/

Fun being funny again!