with me, it's always the little things

.
.
the terrain of my coffee table rarely changes: there's always the magazines, the pile of unpaid bills, the car keys, the coasters, the remotes, the old powerbook i shoulda sold long ago but can't let go of, the arne jacobsen salad bowl full o' crap, the ever-present mkf cocktail in its cheap plastic cup--i.e., the usual.

which is why when something new shows up there, no matter how small, even i, from the drunken vantage point of the eames chair into which i invariably sink at the end of each day, and from which all guttermorality goodness flows, tend to take notice.

the first thing was a little speck of brown plastic i caught outta the periphery of my left eye one night--out of all the crap in which it nestled, i zeroed in on it, realized what it was, knew why it had shown up on my coffee table, smiled to myself and left it exactly where it was.


at some point later, the following appeared on the side of the coffee table next to my chair:



at first, i just thought it was something that had crept under the glass--an irregularity that needed to be cleaned. upon closer examination, it turned out to be



tonight i did what i do on most nights when i miss him--i moved the two together and just sat there and looked at 'em.



i love you too, my broken monkey, even if it's only in my own, weird way. i hope i'll sleep next to you this tuesday night.

damn, those gates look familiar

.
one of the more surreal aspects of life in los angeles (and trust me, there are many) is the constant commingling of tv reality and real reality with which we angelenos are forced to deal--especially, it would seem, when you live where i do.

see, i live in an isolated little canyon between beverly hills and mulholland drive which you can't get into or out of in either direction without traveling through far wealthier areas--you know, the kinds of places where shit happens that makes the news.

for instance:

1. i remember a few years back when a particular celebrity couple were about to bring their new baby girl home from the hospital--it was all anybody could talk about on television, and no matter what channel i flipped to, it was the same shot: some dumbass field reporter surrounded by a dozen satellite trucks in front of this pair of gates that i recognized, but try as i might, couldn't say exactly where i'd seen 'em.

whatever--i was on my way out the door. i flipped off the tv, grabbed my keys, headed down the canyon into beverly hills, turned left on hartford, then on lexington--my usual route when heading east towards the strip and beyond.

when all of a sudden, something unexpected stopped me in my tracks: ahead of me, at that point at which lexington fades right into alpine down to sunset--framed in my windshield just as it had been on my tv--was the instantly-familiar tableau of news vans and reporters doing their stand-ups in front of the very self-same white wrought-iron gates i couldn't quite place not five minutes earlier.

holy shit--who knew i passed right by tom cruise's house every goddam day?


2. it was late, i was hungry and there was nothing in the house--a familiar problem, always solved the same way: grab the keys, head up the canyon to mulholland, hang a left and then a quick right down beverly glen into the 24-hour fast-food capital of the world (i.e., the san fernando valley).

i remember that on this particular night i had decided on the taco bell on ventura, it being the closest. as i crested the hill and made the left onto mulholland, instead of the deserted, moonlit stretch of curving asphalt i was accustomed to at this time of night, i was greeted with a most unexpected sight: up ahead, a pandemonium of red-and-blue flashing lights, mobs of photographers and a line of police motorcycles halting all traffic (i.e., me).

i stopped, but before i could even roll down my window to ask the flashlight-waving officer what the fuck, the gates to the exclusive enclave which was the subject of all this attention swung open, and then suddenly there was this motorcade whooshing by, complete with sirens blaring and an ambulance as its centerpiece. the paparazzi and motorcycle cops quickly followed in its wake, leaving me there all by myself in the middle of the road.

as the gates slowly closed, i sat there for a minute in the sudden silence, thinking, "oh, this is gonna be good," then continued on my way.

back home, munching my nachos bell grande (with onions and extra sour cream), i turned on the tv, flipped through the channels--nothing. tmz had it, though--as soon as the page loaded, i spotted those familiar gates, along with the headline, "britney spears rushed to hospital after stand-off with police."

and just think--i was the first to know.


3. today. i'm on the westside in the middle of the afternoon, so i use my special shortcut to avoid traffic and get home--cut up beverly glen, right on charing cross, hook around the playboy mansion to sunset, take my right, get over quick in order to hang a left on--

holy shit, they've blocked off carolwood--what the fuck is going on?

i slow down to get a good look. it's then that i see it, just like it's been on tv for the past five days--the crowds, the cops, the flowers surrounding the gates i hadn't quite been able to place, even though i'd passed 'em a thousand times.

as the line of cars honks furiously behind me, all i can think is, "ah, this is so totally gonna fuck up my commute for the forseeable."

a little revenge beyond the grave for that post i just wrote about you, huh, michael?

this really is the way i think

.
searching old emails to v for something specific tonight--don't find it, but i do come across this from a couple years back:

so i'm watchin leno and he has this segment called "you make the call" in which an audience member must decide whether the onstage talent can actually follow through on whatever dumbass thing they say they can do. and the blender guy comes out--you know, that strange guy from the infomercial pushing the uber-blender that can do anything. and the challenge is: can the blender demolish a wooden rake handle in less than 15 seconds? audience member says yes, but i'm thinking no goddam way, it's only a fucking blender--but sure as shit, guy feeds the rake handle into the blender and it makes mincemeat of the motherfucker in, like, 8 seconds--unbelievable. so while the audience is applauding wildly, i'm like, note to self: woodchipper ain't handy, this is the next best way to get rid of a body.

i have since acquired one of those blenders--makes a hell of a smoothie.

because somebody's gotta ask the tough questions

.
the only interesting reaction i've heard to michael jackson's death is the first one--when a secretary burst into into the break room yesterday with the news that he'd been rushed to the hospital in terminal cardiac arrest, the co-worker i was talking to said, "gee, i hope it's not a children's hospital."

it's been downhill from there.

for the past two days, i've heard all sorts of dumbass shit on the subject, the pinnacle of which was something a radio talk show host on kfi said today--something to the effect that "he was nothing more than a rich, talented pedophile; i'd gladly give a thousand michael jacksons for every american hero who's died in iraq or afghanistan."

really, mr. talk show host? tell me, who do you think's more important in the overall scheme of things--the genius who dreamed up the great pyramid, or the 20,000 anonymous guys who died building it?

another way of asking the question: can we really compare queen bees to worker bees, much less hold 'em to the same standards of behavior?

from the beginning of time, we humans have made gods of our best and brightest--and then, more often than not, watched all that collective adoration transform them into monsters--monsters who required a steady diet of human sacrifices in order to supply us with a steady stream of their magic.

so, was all the sheer, gorgeous talent the world managed to wring outta michael jackson before he flamed out worth the sacrifice of tossing him a boy every once in awhile?

i dunno--you tell me.

because it's what made me laugh today

.

yet another cheery post

.
[a portion of a comment i just made to a post by one of my new favorite bloggers]

even though i'm agnostic as hell, believe in no afterlife and couldn't care less whether i'm buried or cremated--even though all that's true, i can't help but shiver at the thought of all the indifferent professionals who'll ultimately end up bagging, cutting, embalming and laughing at my poor, dead body.

that make any sense?


sober update: believe it or not, i thought this was really important and insightful last night.

this one's for kuzi, whose brown skin i can still see shining in the sun (concluded)

.
part 1 of this story

part 2 of this story


due to a keystone-cops style comedy of errors i'd love to blame on tina's lousy map-reading skills but which really came back to my own nonexistent sense of direction--and which would've amused kuzi no end had he been around to watch--we completely missed his damn funeral.


as annoying as driving 70 miles in the wrong direction was, i think that tina, joo hee and myself--the three of his co-workers who had bothered to make the trip--were in a way relieved, because none of us really wanted to see him in the box.


and it gave us more time to talk, and they wanted to know everything. so as we drove, i told 'em, starting with that night on padre when i first realized what was really up with our friend.

* * * * *

i shake him--"kuzi, you ok?"

he awakens with a start, looks down at himself, pushes my hand away, gets outta bed, heads to the bathroom without a word--door closes, shower starts.

eventually he comes back with a beach towel, spreads it out on his side of the bed, lays back down, says without looking at me, "i was hoping this wouldn't happen this weekend--sometimes it doesn't, you know?"

i start in with the questions:

how long you been havin this shit? a couple months maybe.

you been to the doctor? yeah, six weeks ago.

is it--yeah, looks that way.

but how--i mean, you've only been with one guy in three goddam years. at this, he laughs harshly--only time i ever saw bitterness in him.

turns out model-boyfriend hasn't exactly been a model boyfriend. when steve, shaken and stirred, drives up to dallas to give the guy the bad news--whole time i knew him he was almost always driving up there, it was rarely the other way around--instead of the rock he's hoping for, he first gets guilty defensiveness, then tearful confessions of serial infidelity and entreaties for forgiveness from the man he'd loved and trusted.

[did kuzi get his dose from said slutty model-boyfriend, or did it happen before? who knows--i've always gone with the model-bf theory because it gives me somebody to blame.]

i don't remember anything about that weekend beyond the point of this conversation--got through the rest of it somehow, i guess.

[suddenly wish i could say the same thing about this post. you know what? fuck details--let's just get this over with]

* * * * *

it happens fast--at first he's still fit and healthy and i can almost forget; a week or so later he's too tired to go to the gym; couple weeks after that he's wheezing and coughing at his desk, and the week after that, middle of the afternoon, i drive him to the emergency room.

of course i'm gonna park and come in with him, but he'll have none of it--gets angrier than i've ever seen him. after a heated back-and-forth, and not wanting to upset him further, i yield.

i'll pack a bag for you, kuzi, come back tonight. fine, you do that.

by the time i return with my lame-ass care package, he's quarantined and they won't let me anywhere near him. three weeks later, he's dead.

i let him go in there alone, i remind myself regularly.

* * * * *

by the time we pull into schulenburg, fully two hours late, the girls are up to speed. we find the family compound--it's like a combination picnic/wake--whole town's there. we park, get outta the car, and the hugs begin.


kuzi had vividly (and usually hilariously) described his family to me--his mother and father, grandparents and siblings, uncles, aunts and cousins. i have in turn passed this knowledge onto joo hee and tina, so they're ready; we practically know them all by sight.


the welcome they give us--their beloved stephen's big-city friends--is touching and heartbreakingly sweet. behind their smiles, i see the uncomprehending pain--they still have no real idea what happened to their boy, or why.


sudden motion outta the corner of my eye. i look up, and there he is--tall, alec-baldwin handsome, as alien and apart from these farm folk in his italian suit as he could possibly be, striding toward me with his hand out.


my god, he actually came.


the crowd parts as he approaches me, smiling warmly. "you must be mike--steve told me so much about you."


as i reflexively return model-boyfriend's smile and take his outstretched hand, i can't help but wonder if, like me, everybody else there is thinking


guess you're next

* * * * *

end of a long day, i drop the girls off, go back to my place, throw some shit in a bag and start the drive up to east texas. i don't even call--i just head home, because that's where i need to be.

surprised and delighted when i walk in the back door, my mother hugs me, sits me down, does what mothers have done from time immemorial when their first-born sons are troubled: she fixes me food.

i eat, she waits.

eventually i finish, sit back, light a cigarette, start to talk. i tell her everything: kuzi, his life, his death, the aftermath. and when i'm done with him, i tell her about me.

she takes it well, as i've always known she would. "honey, i don't care--you know i just want you to be happy."

i tell her, "fuck 'happy,' ma--if what happened to kuzi is all i've got to look forward to, i'd rather spend the rest of my life alone."

hell, it's my nature anyway, right?

back in austin, i gather up all the phone numbers collected during those many nights out at halls and the boathouse, dump 'em in the garbage, and as long as i live there, never go anywhere near colorado street again.

* * * * *

i'd stay in my fortress of solitude for the next five years, until i'd worked through it all and was finally ready to go west (and once that actually happened, it would happen with a vengeance).

but you know what? as acclimated as i'd eventually become to gay life, never again would i feel at home in a club, on a dance floor or with the music of my tribe--for better or worse, that fleeting feeling of communal belonging, along with many other things, was buried along with one of the best friends i ever had.

* * * * *

well, that's it--another one in the can. i'm gonna celebrate by cueing up some simple minds and raising a glass to the ghosts of my past. we'd appreciate it if you'd do the same.