know me, you know how I do

What a day, friends! I've only just gotten out of bed, after a long lie-in with our dogs-for-the-summer, Belly and Boudreaux. It's eighty-something degrees, once again, and I am wearing the shorts Marshall left on the floor and my feet are sticky from some beer that spilled in the kitchen, which is, admittedly, not a great feeling. But things are so good! This is exactly the kind of low-key summer fun I've always hoped to have - and I've only been back a week!

Nighttime strolls with Belly, small-time celebrations at the Brew and View, spending an hour trying to track down a slippery guy named Ernesto, eating ice cream and watching stand-up in Lori's comfy bed: who saw any of this coming, huh? Marshall will take all the credit for it, and she's right to do so, because the girl makes things happen, like some crazy kind of catalyst. We wouldn't be dogsitting for Lori this summer if Marshall hadn't joked her way into consideration, for instance. She's crazy and brave and people can't seem to find it in themselves to say no to her. The other night, she e-mailed Dr. Hopes, the professor I'd give anything to be like. Now, bear in mind, she's never taken Dr. Hopes for a class, and she doesn't really know him. But she typed out this long, chatty e-mail asking if we could come check out his gardens one day, and he just replied to say we should come by anytime we like. I've been wanting to hang out with this man for years, since the first day I met him, and I never would have managed to make it happen, being this shy and stupid and intimidated. But now we are going to see his gardens! Man, all my dreams are coming true. Especially now that the Spice Girls are officially reuniting for a world tour!

I start classes next week, and then I'll have to buckle down and start reading for Comps and finishing up my Poetics of Perception work, but for now, I'm enjoying a little break. I spend days sprawled out on Lori's bed, Belly dozing at my side, reading and serenading the dogs and pausing for long, indulgent daydreams that could, for all I know, end up coming true (especially if I stay with Marshall). Even though it's way too hot today, I can't keep myself from dancing to the Take the Lead soundtrack, played at top volume with all the windows open. Yesterday, Jana and I caught up and baked cookies, covering them in drizzled chocolate designs that didn't cooperate with our creative visions. (Jana's kittycat cookie looked like the face of the Pringle's man, and my Dark Mark didn't look like anything even vaguely recognizable.) Marshall's new friend from work came over, with her boytoy in tow, and we drank on the porch and laughed so hard that I'm still hurting from it. Tomorrow, we're going to make some delicious brownies, and the next day, we'll be paying a visit to Dr. Hopes, and man oh man, everything feels in-place right now. It can only be a brief pause, I know, and there are still nights when I cry outside of restaurants or offer up anguished monologues to an indifferent-looking dog, but then I wake in the mornings to a sweet girl who begs for ten more minutes of sleep, and a dog who's eager to be let outside, and I know my place, and that I'm in it.

and we could use that as an excuse, if that's what you choose.

Greetings from a hidden-away house in Asheville! Marshall and I have officially moved in - Lori was nice enough to clear out a closet and some drawers for us, so I'm no longer living out of a suitcase, which is a thrilling change of pace. This house is totally adorable, and the dog we're watching is even moreso. Her name is Isabelle, but we tend to call her "Belly," or "babygirl," or "sweet thing," or "Bellykins," or "Shorty Doo-Wop," or "Girly-Q." Yes, we are being those kind of obnoxious pet people, and it's keeping us surprisingly busy. Sometimes, Belly's friend Boudreaux comes over, too, and that dog is some sort of crazy. He breaks through windows and tries to run away when he's left on his own for even an hour or so, and so we've got to keep a careful watch on that one. Belly's way-chill, though, and doesn't even bark. Needless to say, we love her and will miss her terribly when it's time to move out.

But that's not for nearly a month! So mostly, after a long, tiring move-in process, we've been kicking back around the house. Last night, Robert came over, and we made sandwiches and drank on the back porch and watched a Marshallmetary and a really campy episode of Xena: Warrior Princess. Marshall had never seen the show before, and I'm scared to ask what she thought, because Xena's one of my favorite things to ever run on television. Oh, wait, except I just sucked up my courage and asked her, and she did, in fact, like Xena, so that's a huge relief. We're going to watch some Golden Girls later. I almsot typed "olden Girls," which would be appropriate but inaccurate. Thank god for Backspace, eh?

Jason called today. Awful timing, as always: he called just as I was stepping out of the shower, and Marshall picked up. I don't think he'll call again, as I asked him not to, but one never can be sure with that boy. I told him I wanted to keep some semblance of control after what happened, and he understood and apologized and let me go, but I'm still feeling really strange after that. Nothing Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire can't cure, though! I'm savoring the series this time around, since it's the last time I'll read through it and be able to speculate on how the story ends. Even still, once I'm through it, I can start on the mountain of cheap, intriguing books I brought down with me. And I can raid Lori's bookshelves, since she seems to own every book I've ever meant to read but neglected to buy. Housesitting for lit professors is pretty nice work, I've decided.

Marshall's sitting right next to me, editing videos, and Belly's conked-out on the floor in front of the fan, and we're all sweaty as all-get-out. A storm's coming through, from the sounds of the thunder, and I can't wait to go out into it, barefoot and wearing one of my favorite twirly-skirts, leaving wet footprints all along the driveway. Here's hoping for a fantastic evening, yeah?

don't blame it on the sunshine; don't blame it on the moonlight!

So, some really thrilling shit went down yesterday, but let me just get this out of the way first: Young Steven and I were reunited and it was like Christmas Cruise: Redux. There were singing, dancing musical moments. There were sweaty hugs and lots more screaming than we could ever pull of on a ship. There was also some of the best people-watching I've ever witnessed, and some fabulous friends to be made. Thank Christ for Gay Day at Cedar Point, eh?

As could be predicated, Steven and I were both late getting there. Since I was beating him, timing-wise, I decided to stop off and get gas before entering the park, and the dyke-in-charge behind the counter took me back to the bathrooms and asked if I wanted to "you know. . ." I said no, of course, but still, how often do I complain that this shit never happens for girls, when guys get to have hot, grimy bathroom hookups all the time? So I'm pleased that this world is not so unfair, after all. Plus, the night before, I had totally been whining about needing sex, so I guess the universe is looking out for me, or trying. Anyway, only two more days of this involuntary celibacy business.

So then I got to the park and decided that, while waiting, I should check out a rollercoaster on my own, seeing as I'd never been on a real one before. That way, if I decide to wuss out, no one I know will be around to witness it, you know? So I get in line for the Raptor, mostly because raptors are one of my favorite dinosaurs, and I'm pleased to see a ton of red shirts, and all kinds of queers around me. Just my luck that I end up riding next to Miss Straight America 2007, yeah? But - surprise! After the ride, she totally came out to me, introduced me to her friends, and asked me to hang out with them until Steven showed up. So we rode some scarier coasters, and it turns out that I am something of a rollercoaster fiend, and that's good news. And the lesbians were all very nice, although they were really big fans of The L Word and said they prefer it to Queer As Folk because "it's about people like us." Really? But seriously, we had fun, although I was relieved when Steven showed up with a million friends in tow.


Roll call! I am standing next to, um, this kid whose name might be Adam? Who is standing next to a boy who may be named Nick? For some reason, I continually mixed them up in my mind, and remember them as one boy (albeit one very cute boy). The guy in stripes is Tommy, who knew entirely too many people, it would seem. The boy who matches me is called Kyle, and he is a riot. Seriously, he is his own one-man show, and I was lucky enough to get to watch it for a while. Love him! Next up is Young Steven himself, being totally nelly. And then there's Dan, one of the few people in this world who look good in yellow. Anyway!

Steven was dramatic, and looking to avoid certain subjects with certain people. So he took karaoke host Damian's advice for cutting people off with grace: "Just avoid eye contact and don't speak to him!" It hasn't been the most helpful advice, but it's a whole lot nicer than, say, queening out on someone the night before their birthday. Not that Steven's ever done that or anything.

These young geese were way-cute, and had some crazy synchronicity going on. I took, like, two dozen pictures of them, but I'll spare you the repetition and just share this one.

We ate at Johnny Rocket's when it got too hot to stay outside, and our waitress was this really sweet woman named Kelly who broke it the fuck down while dancing. We tried to dance, too, but were cruelly thwarted when the lone dancing waiter ignored our efforts to make a grand musical moment out of the occasion. Sigh. We did get to feed nickels into the jukebox and hear Donna Summers' "Last Dance," so that helped to make up for earlier disappointments.


Steven was all, "Let's go on the water rides! I wanna go on the water rides!" and everyone else was like, "No, we don't want to get all wet." But because I love water rides, and because I love Steven to bits, I accompanied him on the rapids ride, where we sat with these cute gay men and their cool grandchildren. And then, since we got soaked, we decided to ride the log flume ride, too, and screamed like little bitches, and had a fabulous time. And then we took a picture to show off Steven's swim trunks, which were more like hotpants. They had a hole in the ass, which did not keep Steven from flaunting all he's got. Check him out.


Let me just take a moment to say that Gay Days are a really great thing. Yes, it's corny, and yes, unsuspecting parents who show up on those days get put-off by them, but really? It is so, so good to see all those cute queens wearing red, lined up to ride rollercoasters! And like, waiting in line? So much more entertaining on Gay Day. We were near this really energetic queen in a purple tanktop while waiting for the Millenium Force, and he was grooving to Britney and the Pussycat Dolls, this sweaty, scrawny lord of the dance. And there were all these gay couples with their kids in tow, and then couples of gay high-schoolers who were all giddy-in-love, and bunches of shirtless bears wandering about. We met a gay frat boy, a mini-Waymond, a hottie whose name might have been Richard, and this shrill queen who screamed, "Oh shit, my earring!" throughout our ride on the Maverick. We strutted and squealed and pulled each other aside for necessary conferences throughout the day. We debated the gender of certain attractive passersby and played "Spit, Swallow, or On the Face" with nearly everyone who stood in lines with us. And then we encountered the stranger to end all strangers.


You'll want to see the full version of that picture, kids, so you can study the creepy guy in the background. His shirt says "HELLO, MY NAME IS MISTER RIGHT. I believe you were looking for me." He cruised Steven so hard, and had this straight-line mouth like Bert from Sesame Street, and was totally perving all over the cute queer boys all around him. But that shirt! I really hope that he somehow meets his soulmate while wearing it, because it lends itself to a dramatic situation like that. Poor soul.

Kyle was kind enough to say that I looked like Amanda Bynes in She's the Man, which is totally untrue but also incredibly flattering. That Kyle! My mother, however, told me on the same day that I looked like Amanda Bynes in She's the Man, in a tone which suggested that she did not mean it in a good way. Still, I'll take my compliments where I can get 'em. I think it was just the fact that I was wearing a red soccer shirt, which I totally stole on my last day of work at the sport park.
It was seriously one of the best days I've ever lived, and definitely what I needed after this stagnant time spent in Erie. And Steven has only become more fabulous in our time apart! As the night wound down, we took our last turns on the Top Thrill Dragster and the Corkscrew, and made a resolution to return to the CP next Father's Day, to celebrate our graduations and to live it up once more. Kyle, though, declared that we should do this again in August, which would be amazing. What a day! Even though I've got awful blisters on my feet, weird bruises all over my legs, and some mild neck pain from the day's adventures, I'd do it all over again, only I'd get there on time and do a better job of applying sunscreen! Time spent with Steven is exhilarating, and I will never get enough. Not ever.

So today was bound to be anticlimactic, right? Except that I went to the Villa booksale, and although I swore I'd limit myself to ten books or less, I don't possess that kind of restraint. I walked out two hours later with 26 books for only $22.50! Several are for school, or can at least help me get ready for comps, but most of them are books I never would have thought to look for but realized, upon finding them, that I absolutely needed them. Biographies of Tennessee Williams and Judy Garland, Harold Pinter plays, some Yeats poetry to psych me up for seminar, Flannery O'Connor short stories, The Trials of Oscar Wilde, some Camus, and my favorite unexpected find: Hollywood Androgyny! Folks, it just doesn't get any better. I'm going to have a hell of a time deciding what books to bring back with me, and really need to start on packing. Only one more day left in Erie, and then I take off for the summer of my dreams. I guess that officially started yesterday, though. . .

I'll leave you now with some typical Steven fabulousness.

doctor, won't you do with me what you can?

I should be sleeping, but I cannot, because I am going to be seeing my Steven in less than twelve hours, for the first time in a year and a half, and it is completely unreal and exactly what I need. Steven! Amusement park! Lots of gay people wearing red! Potential summer thunderstorms! Hours spent driving and singing along with George Michael! So many of my favorite things, all coming together so soon, and I am already blissed-out. So I decided to blog, clearly, even though I cannot manage coherency. My plan is to brew some really delicious blueberry tea that I can refrigerate and drink tomorrow morning (for the caffeine fix I am definitely going to need, at this rate). And then I will read three more chapters of Prisoner of Azkaban, and call Marshall, and attempt sleep. Probably. Or MAYBE - and this is really embarrassing, but a much truer account of my night, I am sure - I will watch Degrassi reruns online and go through old photo albums until I fall asleep on the floor, like I did the other night, with my glasses smashed against my face. It's a tough call, really.

Because I am in a really giddy, gay, anything-can-happen mood, allow me to share this video:


Yes, that is Enrique Iglesias. Yes, he is serenading a really cute gay boy onstage and loving it. Yes, this is a dream come true. Why does Enrique rock so hard? All he nee-eeds is a rhythm divine, it would seem. I am not kidding when I say that he is a constant source of inspiration to me.

Okay, since this post is clearly going nowhere: I really, really need to get laid. Soon. In three and a half days, but like, that is not soon enough, because I have the kind of headache that only multiple orgasms can cure, and I am craving softness and roughness and being touched and begged and enjoyed. But soon, soon, I can have all of these things, and in a location I'd previously not even dared to dream of. So, there is that.

Now, really: I am going to stop here and go do something. Fuck sleep - I'm gonna see Steven tomorrow!

EDIT: Or actually, what I really need is someone to put a cool rag on my head and kiss me lightly and sing me to sleep, as I just threw up twice and am clearly in no condition for sex. Ugh. I hate throwing up. I'm going to see if I can sleep with my mom tonight, since my fan's broken; hopefully, I can get some sleep in before morning comes, or else I'm not sure I can handle all those rollercoasters. Keep your fingers crossed for me?

what would Jack and Diane do?

Now that I've got my camera back, I am totally going to town. And let's be clear on this: since I'm in Erie, "going to town" usually translates to "hanging around my bedroom and sometimes the backyard." Still, it looks as if this is to be another photopost. Beginning with photographic evidence that love does, indeed, hurt. I was seizing a rare opportunity to cuddle with my boy Sal last night, unaware of the fact that my grandmother was about to turn on her hairdryer. When she switched it on, Sal went berserk, and managed to claw me up. There was even some blood! I acted irritated with him, but I swear, he seemed so contrite, and anyway, the scratch makes me look a little bit tougher, so I'm not too put-off by it. Still, though, Sal's feral cat routine is losing its limited charms pretty quickly.

Also, you can't tell it from this picture, but I am slightly sunburned, so I'm stuck sitting inside on gorgeous, sunny days like today until the pink fades away. Actually, that's not entirely true, as I'm going to be spending Sunday at Cedar Point, and may end up burning further. You know what, though? It'll be worth it all, just to see Young Steven again. Just as I wrote that, George Michael came up on iTunes shuffle, so I know it's going to be good. I don't know yet, however, whether I like rollercoasters. This could get scary, but really, I'm a whole lot braver when I'm around that boy, so I think it'll work out pretty well. And hey, you can expect even more pictures following that adventure!

Tonight, I got to play with one of my favorite girls in the world. Her name's Emma, she's two and a half, and far more photogenic than anyone's got a right to be. Check her out:

(Clearly, Sal plays nicer with her.)

Oh, Emma. We played with kitty for a long time, and Greg taught me to salsa (kind of), and Kamal was here, which makes even a dull afternoon into an occasion. Sadly, I didn't get to see Izzy, and may not get to until I come back in August. But maybe then, I can take her to see Order of the Phoenix, which I will clearly be dying to see again (and again). Which reminds me: I am currently rereading the Harry Potter series, and taking detailed notes, and enjoying it so much that I sometimes find myself reading aloud, doing voices and all. Why am I such a goon? Really, though: it's a good way to spend these days.

Otherwise, it's all slow-going. I scheduled a last-minute appointment with Jill, which I've admittedly been putting off since I know we're supposed to process rape issues and this is not a good time for it. I've packed up my clothes and books for the summer, and burned a ton of CDs for the drive down. I have a date with Ellen's mom for the Villa booksale, which has me all a-quiver, although I need to restrain myself from buying second and third copies of books that I really like. I'm counting down the hours 'til I see Steven again, and the days 'til I can get back in Marshall's lovin' arms (four and three-quarters!). And today I painted my toenails and ate strawberries. You know, I've never told anyone, but I only eat strawberries when I'm in love. It started when I was thirteen, when I stood in my kitchen with the girl I loved, eating strawberries, and realized that I hadn't realized how good they were until just then. I told myself I wouldn't eat strawberries ever again if I wasn't in love at the time, and although that's a really stupid resolution, I've somehow stuck to it all these years, and may manage to uphold it yet. So today, I sat inside, eating strawberries and painting my toenails and rubbing lotion into my sunburn, and I felt like a femme, sure, but for a few minutes, I just felt good about it, about everything. How lucky, eh?

tell me, am I right to think that there could be nothing better?

Great news: I have my camera back, after many lonely weeks without it. You know what that means, right?

This is Beau Brummell, my newest acquisition. Some of you may know about my long-term longing for a stuffed dinosaur. It's been rough going, since most dinosaur toys aren't very soft or cuddly, or if they are, they just look sort of weirdly cartoonish. But then, while window-shopping in Canada one night, I came across this handsome chap and, well, it was love, right away. My elbow curls perfectly behind his neck-frill, and now I'm that much less-alone.

This is not a recent picture. In fact, I don't remember ever taking it, and so have no idea when it's from. I do know, though, that I only wear that shirt when I'm running out of clean clothes, so that may narrow it down a bit. Regardless, it makes me really, really miss Asheville, and so I feel compelled to post it. Deal.

Here's my main man, Sal Paradise, looking dashing. This is about as still as he stays, these days, and so most of my efforts to photograph him end up all blurred and ridiculous. He's so soft, though, with such thick fur, and those whiskers kill me, every single time. Look how he's grown up!

He's got the same love for sunbathing, though, and so most early afternoons find us sprawled on the floor, in a fierce contest for the best spot of sunlight. Needless to say, I usually let him win.

But wait; there's more! Although I've been without a working camera, I've still managed to capture, via cellphone, some grainy records of some good times.

Here I am with some stranger's baby. Luckily for everyone involved, I had the stranger's permission - although I was tempted to run off with the little guy. His name's Isaac, and Marshall and I got to hang out with him at Wafflehouse one afternoon while his parents ate. Look at those tiny fingers! And that bib! And his hair! Man, I can't wait to have some kids. Until that day, I'll just keep browsing adoption.com and pretending I could start a family any day now.


Here are Belly (Isabel) and Boudreux, the dogs we'll be sitting for this summer. They're way-cute, and get along famously. I can't wait to take them for long walks and begin filming Adventures in Bellysitting.

With my feral cat, again. He fell asleep, like, two minutes after this was taken, and then my arm fell asleep, too, but I couldn't bring myself to move because kitty seemed to be dreaming and I didn't want to cut in.

Here's my grandma in the emergency room, after they jammed an NG tube through her nose and down into her stomach. It hurt a lot (I came thisclose to passing out, just watching it), but she's a trooper. I told her I was taking this picture to send in to Ellen DeGeneres, and look at that smile she gave me. Man oh man.

I'm off now to visit Mrs. Zeisloft! Hope you're all living it up, wherever you are.

throw a stone and watch the ripples flow

Am thinking about forgiveness this morning, which is not normal. It's not something I give much thought to, honestly - not on a daily basis. It was always Jason's thing, which is strange enough in itself. One of his favorite books was Ian McEwan's Atonement, which thrilled him because it let him spend hundreds of pages watching people suffer and grapple with questions of forgiveness. He said that the process made it all feel real in the end, and earned. I'm sure it's a fantastic book, but have no interest in it, based upon that pitch. Fiction makes it easy - or easier, anyway - to forgive. For me, that's always been one of fiction's most alluring features - it allows us to practice all of those untidy emotional processes, which proceed much more quickly when no real consequences are present. We can forgive Roy Cohn, say, or James Tyrone, or Caliban, when they're only players onstage, and perhaps that exercise prepares us for the real thing, offers us a view of the process, imbues us with the memory of that relief. Or perhaps it leaves us just as unready - how am I to know?

In any case, it's the real thing I'm thinking about this morning, having just watched Shakespeare Behind Bars. It's a documentary focusing upon a group of prison inmates putting on a production of The Tempest, and it's heartening to watch, but also very hard to sit through, in points. The actors are serving time for armed robbery, for killing their wives, for sexually abusing young girls, and they recount their crimes on camera, oftentimes crying, always regretful, but the methodic way in which they recite the facts still seems startling. The connections they forge with the characters they play are startling - my favorite player is Red, who gets stuck playing the fifteen-year old Miranda, but ends up identifying so exactly with her lack of one parent, and the mythology that comes to surround that absence. They're all so serious about their roles, so reflective, and so set on self-forgiveness, and willing to endure the long process. Some of these men are serving sentences of fifty years, and have grown up in the Kentucky prison system. Several are up for parole very soon, while some are barely able to stay with the production because of bad behavior. Allowed a glimpse past their worst deeds, it's so easy to fall right into this film, to find oneself hoping for the best for these men, who make surprisingly adept actors.

This isn't film review hour, clearly - I'd hardly be qualified for such a thing, as I watched Shakespeare Behind Bars just after seeing Knocked Up with my brothers, and clearly have questionable taste. It's just been on my mind, lately, and I've got no way to articulate it in any personal way, for now. Except, of course, to acknowledge that I am so far from forgiving myself, and so I hope that all of my cultural consumption can help move the process along, because this is exhausting. All these nightmares can really wear a girl down with reminders of all the ways in which she's gone wrong. Luckily, I've got marathon phonecalls with Jana, upcoming adventures with Young Steven, and a dream-come-true job housesitting for a favorite professor to tide me over, in the meantime, and the occasional shocking reminder that I haven't lost all that I'd assumed. Plus, you know, I've got David Gray playing and my favorite flavor of ice cream in the freezer, and Golden Girls on DVD, for when it all gets too heavy, and the knowledge that this will be enough, for now, if only because it has to be.

another sucker stiffed, a walk-on role in the script.

Sometimes, I look back at where I was two, three years ago, and wish I could go back and somehow warn myself. Just to let me know that I couldn't sustain it, that kind of reckless hope that came so easily then, that it was fickle and would fly from me before I even knew what was happening. That I'd eventually have to grow up, substitute inadequate logic for all that inexplicable certainty, and it would be much easier if I didn't still have such recent memories of those near-weightless nights. But then, any warning would ultimately serve current-me more than me-of-the-past, because I'd only be out to save myself that moment of sad realization that I'd gone and changed on myself, lost the thing I'd trusted most, and that nothing could be the same from that point.

I talked to Ellen about this, the other night, and it felt sublime, to recognize the same sort of loss in someone else, but mostly, I'm content to forget about those times, those fever-dreams, because it hurts to remember that, gives me a headache for trying to hold the reality of that shift, for trying to work out when it occurred and how I might have avoided it. It's easier, I think, and more practical (because that's what matters now, isn't it?) to believe that that change was inevitable, that enough time and experience and heartbreak would have led me to that loss no matter how hard I'd fought it. But then, perhaps that's the real sticking point: knowing that I didn't fight it, didn't know enough to, and had I been a shred more self-aware, perhaps I could have staved it off or veered away altogether. And if that's true - which I suspect it is, on my worst nights - then how to forgive myself for that sort of blunder?

It's maddening, really, which is why I've avoided making this post until this point, and why I'll probably decide to delete it later on. Remembering directly is too much work for me, most nights; the best I can manage is sidling up to those things that instilled that hope in me to begin with, and trying to work out what changed. I'm only writing this here now because the night passed, and my dreams worried me, and there's no one to speak them to. I'm only writing it now because something remains in me, whispers that I could regain all that, and I wouldn't mind looking back on this and laughing, some day later. I'm only writing this because I don't know what comes next, so prolonging this moment is all I know to do.