Yes, I know. It's been a while, but I've been busy. Very busy. The new season has begun and the 12 hour days have become 16 hour days. The heat is on, but I'm trying to stay cool. Today was the last day of my "probation." I'm now official in this position. My boss told me this evening that I'll be getting a raise. This is a good thing. Tomorrow night, one of my favorite singer/songwriters, Namoli Brennet, will be taking my stage for the first time ever. I'm exhausted, but feeling pretty zen right about now. So, with wine glass in hand, I sat my naked ass down and pondered the next word on my list. "Theatre." Heh. Perfect.

This word is loaded, and I wonder if Melissa has any idea… It means so many things to me. Not surprising, considering where I find myself, these days. I never really imagined myself managing an historic landmark like the Rio Grande Theatre, but here I am. It consumes my life, but I have no real complaints. The challenges are immense, but I don’t really feel daunted. I can honestly say that I have never felt so appreciated by the people I work for. It’s both a pleasure and an honor to have been so charged. In terms of the “word,” however, it barely scratches the surface.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been referred to as “theatrical.” Not in the melodramatic sort of way some people are theatrical. I’m not now, nor have I ever been, a limelight personality. Though I find myself comfortable on a stage, I’d rather be behind the scenes, pulling the strings, if you will, in a very Machiavellian way. I just happen to be very fond of stagecraft. Performance, whether it be acting, singing, lecturing or any other form of storytelling, from a stage area, fascinates me. It’s like magic.

I attribute this fascination to the fact that, as a child, I had a terrible stutter. The stutter seemed to vanish, however, when I read aloud from other sources. My mother, being a reading teacher, discovered this fact early on and made me read aloud at every opportunity. This led to my composing and memorizing my words in advance and speaking them back before whatever audience I found myself. Memorization took the pressure off my poor brain and taught me how to slow down, compose my thoughts and speak them clearly, rather than in a rush and tumble of painfully stillborn sentences. It was only natural that I would join the drama club in high school. Everything changed dramatically, if you’ll forgive the pun, after that.

As already mentioned, I wrote a play while in high school and had it drag me all the way to national championships in New York City. I was a junior in high school at the time. I still don’t think the play was very good, but others seemed to like it. As a result, I was offered a drama scholarship to New Mexico State University. College was a notion I’d never even entertained, up until that point. It got me out of Tularosa and completely changed my life. The “career” didn’t last long, as I was ejected from the drama program by the dean, when he found out that I was tricking with one of his married professors. Shit happens. I moved into the writing program.

Over the years that passed, I kept finding myself dragged back into theatre. I did summer stock in Silver City, New Mexico, way back in 1982 and it was there that I met the first real love of my life. Years later, I wrote a play about the ghosts haunting me after that first love’s suicide. Before it was ever produced, I wrote and saw staged a handful of short, one acts. I continued acting, here and there, in a variety of productions, mostly alternative, some requiring nudity. I founded a theatre troupe in Phoenix and, eventually, had my ghost play produced in 2007. It was on stage, a year later in a production of Psycho Beach Party, that I met Donny, the man who taught me what true love is all about.

And here I find myself coming full circle. I’m back where I started on this little journey. Difference is, I’m not a theatre student this time around. Now I’m the guy in charge. I’m master of my own destiny. I’m managing the hottest entertainment venue in town and I have the hottest partner, another one of those “theatrical” types. Still, the word “theatre” fits. Without my ever really realizing it, that word has helped shape me. It continues to direct me. It’s a part of my destiny, it seems. And really, who am I to complain? If all the world is a stage, I've got pretty choice billing.

There's this meme going around, in which somebody gives you five "relevant" words and, in response, you have to write something about each one. Normally I don't go for "getting to know me" memes. Waste of time, mostly, but also, they tend to be dumb. This one is a little different. For one thing, Melissa Maples challenged me and she is anything but dumb. For another, it gives me something to write about and I work best with assignments. Of course, I'm not about to do it the way everybody else does. Rather than jot down a few words on each topic, one after the other, I think I'll weigh each one carefully, then write about it at length. One word at a time. One journal entry, as I find the time. That said, the first word is "writing." Here goes...

Asking me to write about writing is a bit like asking a hemophiliac to describe bleeding. Scratch me and it’s an almost certain fact that ink will flow from my veins. It’s both a blessing and a curse; a joyous compulsion and a cruel obsession. It is, in a word: life. Which makes it all the stranger that I find myself at a point in my life wherein writing plays such a small role. For over 25 years I’ve not gone a single month without having at least one article, essay, review, interview, poem or short story published in some publication, somewhere. All that ended three months ago when I took on the very taxing job of running the Rio Grande Theatre.

Why? Because there just hasn’t been any time. I know, that sounds like a lame excuse for a self-proclaimed write-a-holic. If there’s time to eat, to sleep, to shit, there’s always time to write. Therein lies the problem. I rarely find the time for any of those things, anymore. I eat on the run, I sleep sporadically and my digestive tract may never forgive me for the neglect and misuse. It just happens to be the way it is, these days. I still work ten to 12 hour days, six days a week. Ah, but it isn’t so dire as it sounds. I do write. I’m writing now. I’ve got folders filled with notes, reflections, private journal entries and lists. I’m big on lists. It’s the publishing part that’s fallen by the wayside. No big loss, really. The challenge of this new job far outweighs the need for validation as a writer. Maybe I’ve finally outgrown that selfish desire. Maybe…

So, yes, writing is a necessary part of my life. Like oxygen. Even when I was a young turk rebelling against the strict protocols of the Catholic Church and the evil nuns who kept us in lockdown at St. Francis of Assisi Catholic School, I wrote. Short stories, mainly, about the ungodly and often grisly demise of Sister Alphonsine, my chief nemisis; she of the immobilizing halitosis and arthritic death pinch. I was seven or eight at the time. Later, in high school, I wrote my first play and took it to national playwriting competitions, despite vociferous condemnation from my stepfather, who believed all that "creative crap" I was doing was, not only a waste of time, but a sure sign that I was a sissy boy, unworthy of his hometown letterman reputation. Hell, even his despicable act of burning my journals and sketch pads, in the front yard when I was 16, didn’t deter me. I learned then that it wasn’t what had been written, but what was left still to write that mattered.

I wound up in college, just so I could escape the man, the church and the repression. Had to turn a lot of tricks to make it happen, but I’m not complaining. Coming from a small town, with no real prospects and a depressing lack of monetary worth, I happily sold my ass for the privilege of attending the University. And, lo, while there, I discovered a whole new world of possibility. There were people attending and teaching at the University who proudly proclaimed themselves writers and pursued careers in the field! I was smitten and I never looked back. Had my first short stories published in the local student lit journal. Joined the college newspaper and got my first taste of a byline. I guess I just never stopped after that.

Over the next 30 or so years, I wrote constantly. It became a driving force, no matter what job I held. Over the years, I wrote for, edited, managed and published a series of entertainment magazines. I had my own ridiculously successful literary website for a few years. I worked for Paramount Studios, which then parlayed into freelance work with every major Hollywood studio and a clutch of smaller, independent production and distribution houses. I was a columnist, staff writer, freelance publicist and writing consultant for whomever would have me. I wrote and had three plays produced. And I had enough short stories published to fill three anthologies. Not a bad run, when you think about it. In fact, I’m probably the most prolific writer nobody has ever heard of. I’m okay with that.

It’s odd to sum my career up like that, in such a short paragraph. There was so much more to it, obviously, but in the end, everything in this line of work can be summed up in a paragraph. I’ve done more than my fair share of reducing others to a synopsis of concise syllables. All’s fair in love and words. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. It wasn’t the details of the experiences that counted, it was the overall experience itself. I was, by gods, and still am, a writer. I always will be, until the day I die, crippling arthritis or dementia not-withstanding. I guess if I had to come up with an epitaph for myself, something to carve into the granite that will someday be my footnote, it would be, “I came, I wrote, I lived the impossible dream.”

‘Nuff said.

Damn, August already. Don’t know where the year is going. And the new season is almost upon me. I’ve got two bands from Phoenix playing on the 18th, followed by Namoli Brennet on the 21st. After that I’ll be living at the theatre again. Events booked every weekend and every other weeknight through Christmas, then a short break before it starts all over again. Still no complaints. Not every planned event is necessarily my cuppa, but some are very cool and I’ve got a wide demographic to satisfy. I’m almost looking forward to the onslaught. It’ll be exhausting, but what a rush, huh?

I feel like I should be making the best of the time off I’ve been getting, but after a full week (and they are still very full weeks) all I want to do is vegetate on Sunday. It kind of sucks, because I was looking forward to getting out with my camera today, but doesn’t look like that’ll be happening. It’s been way too long and I suppose I could go it alone, but I’d rather have Donny along. It’s always much more interesting and gods know it’s been months since we’ve had any sort of outing together. One that doesn’t involve family or visiting friends. Sigh…

Poor Donny could use it too. He’s been having a string of bad luck lately. First his favorite co-worker was fired, then his iphone got drenched and now he’s discovered that he has to work tonight, giving him six nights in a row. He’s not a happy boy. Add to that a less than glowing review from his boss and a miniscule raise and he’s downright morose. Wish there was something I could do to cheer him up, but as long as he still has five more ten hour shifts to go, with nobody to talk to and no phone to distract him during the lulls, we may just have to ride this one out.

I’ll just make him something to eat when he gets up around noon, then try to distract him as best I can during the three and a half hours before he has to head off to work again. I hope this new job with the city comes through for him. It’s an office job, but it has benefits and will make use of his skills, something ye olde sex shoppe isn’t doing. It would be nice for him to have a regular schedule, again. Mine is already bad enough. Two erratic schedules makes for a couple of very cranky housemates.

Oh, and speaking of houses, there’s that groovy, rambling old manse we’re trying to rent, too. Should know tomorrow if we’re in or not. Good news would go a long way toward making him happy, even if it does fill me with dread. I hate moving. Detest it, really. The packing, the schlepping, the unpacking, the finding a place for everything all over again. The hours I don’t have that are necessary to make it happen. And did I mention that my season is about to start? Yeah, that… but if it makes the boy happy…

I had a wonderful dream, last night, which is surprising under the circumstances. Maybe the wild, elemental thunderstorm drove the demons of spite and odium back to Phoenix, where they belong. I was sure I was going to have nightmares after being put through the wringer of dealing with a manipulative ex-boyfriend and his cronies lashing out at one of my only true friends left in that hellhole, with no other reason than to get back at me for imagined slights. It’s a long story and not one I’m inclined to go into here. Why give them the satisfaction of a recap when the truth is, their actions only show them to be small, petty and indiscriminate bitter old queens. Nuff said on that topic.

I was talking about my dream. A gigantic, Technicolor extravaganza filled with music, special effects and amazement. Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. It’s always been even bigger than Christmas in my house, ever since I became old enough to have my own house. In fact, for years, the Halloween party at Casa Chaos in Phoenix was THE party of the year, bringing in hundreds of revelers from all over the country and becoming the talk of the town for months afterwards. What’s not to love about the occasion? All the pageantry and dark pleasure wrapped around a holiday steeped in ancient blood rituals and man’s deepest, darkest fears. LOVE IT! Yes, I know it’s still months away, but that’s not the point. The point is that I had a dream about Halloween last night. A groovy dream. A smashing dream.

In the dream, I had put together a show for the Rio Grande Theatre in which, on Halloween night, the Phantom of the Theatre swooped down over the audience to orchestrate an evening of camp entertainment, the likes of which this little town has never experienced and probably never will. It was a multi media extravaganza, filled with creeping fog, aerial Vampire dancers, camp horror imagery projected on giant screens, a drag segment featuring the women of cinematic horror, a perhaps not very tasteful restaging of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” (with Michael as a real zombie), a Gregorian chant or two, a visit by Edgar Allen Poe and, as a finale, an appearance by my favorite goth ghoul, Voltaire, singing such favorites as “Brains,” “Goodnight, Demon Slayer,” “Graveyard Picnic” and my all-time favorite, “When You’re Evil.” Oh, it was a glorious dream…,

Could it ever come to fruition as it appeared in my fevered brain? Doubtful. For one thing, I’m simply too busy, these days, to orchestrate something like this. I don’t even have time to pull off a nice dinner with my beautiful boyfriend, how in all the Hells would I be able to oversee something of this magnitude? Definitely something to think about, though. Maybe not this year, but next? Who knows what’s possible, once I really get my feet under me and clean up the mess left behind by my predecessor, a full-time job in and of itself? Heh. The phantom knows…





Oh, and let’s not forget the VILLAINS!!!
As presented by Disney and the brilliant Voltaire…
Now that's what I'm talking about!

In two days it will be exactly 25 years since my first real love took his own life. There’s been a lot of water under that particular bridge, since then. Almost seems like another lifetime ago. 15 years ago I was still haunted by that dark event in my young life. Ten years ago I exorcised those demons by writing a play about the incident. Five years ago, I decided to stage it and a year later, Rain Damage made it’s premiere at Soul Invictus, in Phoenix.

It all seems so remote now. I face this anniversary with much less angst than previous milestones. There’s a tiny bit of melancholy at the thought, but nothing debilitating. I went through all that anger and recrimination years ago. I realize now that I am no more responsible for his actions than I am for the movement of the clouds across the arched windows before me. It took a while to get here. I’m glad I didn’t follow him into that dark place. Just think of all that I would have missed. ‘Nuff said on that topic.

Life continues to be challenging in a very good way, down at the theatre. Still putting in long days and even longer weeks. Making a lot of headway. The rewards are subtle, but hardly insignificant. The new season is coming along beautifully. My dreams of having a real green room, instead of the half-assed storeroom/holding pen the theatre now has, are beginning to come to fruition. The new partnership with the local community college will be adding much-needed support staff in just weeks. It’s all good.

I suppose it comes along with the territory, but somehow, in the process of trying to find two minutes of relaxation time, I’ve managed to re-immerse myself in the world of music. First, I was thrilled to discover that The Cliks have finally released their sophomore album, Dirty King, which I promptly ordered from Amazon and put into heavy rotation the minute it arrived via U.S. post. I have a fantasy about luring them down from Canada for a show at the RGT. Long shot, but we’ll see…

I also discovered, quite by accident, a group from Germany that has been around for twenty years, called Corvus Corax. Never heard of them until I stumbled upon one of their albums in a box of cds at the theatre. These guys are HOT! And though their music isn’t necessarily for every taste, I’m completely smitten. Who knew bagpipes could be so damned sexy? Seriously. This video was included on the cd I found, which cinched the deal for me.



Still salivating at the prospect of picking up the latest from Namoli Brennet, who will be playing the RGT next month. It’ll be good to spend time with her again. Haven’t actually seen her since moving from Phoenix. She’ll be playing songs from the new album and I’ll score a copy at the same time. Life will be good. Very, very good. Add to that the possibility of bringing Daniel Cartier to town in the Fall and Matt Alber in the Spring it just keeps getting better and better.

My recent phone conversation with Daniel made it sound very promising. His new album should be completed in October and he really wants to get out of Nashville for a while. Fingers are crossed. Matt has been e-mailing with Donny and it sounds like he’s very interested, too. That’s a WHOLE lot of Queer Music for this little town. They’ll never know what hit ‘em. Literally, if I play my cards right. It’s shaping up to be a very interesting season.

Now, if I can just find a little time to catch up on much-needed rest. That, in and of itself, would be fantastic.

Got a package in the mail, this morning, from my ex-wife and my son. Souvenirs from their trip to China, for the Olympics. In the box was a pair of lacquered chopsticks, painted with delicate red and gold dragons and sheathed in a blue silk pouch; a very creepy stuffed critter, which I’m assuming was the mascot of the games, but which I’m equally sure speaks in one of those annoying, high-pitched, too-fast-to-understand voices that kids find endearing, but which give me nightmares; and finally a gorgeous red and black box, with knotted stays, inside of which is a black pen decorated with red Haiku symbols.

To say I was surprised is an understatement. I haven’t heard word one from my son since the 30-second conversation I had with him the day he got back. That was over a month ago. The same weekend that I moved here. Receiving and opening this package made me happy and sad at the same time. I fired off a thank you e-mail, but I don’t expect to get a response. There have been no responses to the three or four other e-mails I’ve sent. I wonder if the boy knows how much I miss him? Probably not. He’s a teenager. And all that that implies…

Had a very frustrating chat with Donny, last night. The vortex was in full amplification mode all day long. Missed calls, dropped calls and, finally, when the phone went dead, a very weak signal for the internet. Made it very difficult to have a decent conversation. Okay, maybe “decent” isn’t the right word. There’s rarely anything decent about our conversations, especially when they’re interrupted several times in one sitting by loss of signal. It’s kind of funny. You’d think that, knowing we could lose the signal at any moment, we’d focus on important issues and make the best of our chat time. Here’s just an example of how we did use that time…

me: mmmm... someone's cooking bologna.

Donny: Um. . . is that a euphemism?

me: it could be... for sure, but in this particular instance, I was being literal.

Donny: But srsly… Someone is COOKING bologna?

me: uh huh

Donny: That you even know that smell is… well, never mind.

me: wanna know something?

Donny: Hmm?

me: I fucking LOVE cooked bologna.

Donny: I'll pretend I didn't read that.

me: No, seriously! I can't stand it raw, but cooked... mmmmmmmmmmmm

Donny: GROSS.

me: Cooked bologna sandwiches are the BOMB, baby.

Donny: When I was younger, I remember spending the night at grandma and grandpa's house, and eating bologna sandwiches on white bread.

me: slathered with mayo!

Donny: That is how I discovered my dislike of both white bread and bologna.

me: Well, cooked is better.

Donny: Never had it.

me: I think it NEEDS to be cooked

Donny: It's sort of like hot dogs, I guess… They are NASTY. But if they are blackened, my mom and I can eat them.

me: Hot dogs ARE nasty.

Donny: Bologna is just a hot dog, rolled flat. heh.

me: They're made of pig testicles and chicken beaks.

Donny: So is bologna.

me: NO! bologna is tongue… or something. Kidney, pancreas… it's all one thing. Not a bucket load of stuff that nobody will eat.

Donny: Hang on, I'm looking.

me: of course you are... wiki wiki wiki much?

Donny: HA!!!! HAAA!

Bologna sausage is generally made from low quality scraps of meat cuts. Such may be the origin of the slang word baloney, meaning "nonsense". However, US Government regulations define what meats and byproducts can be legally included in bologna. No more than 3.5% non-meat binders and extenders (such as nonfat dry milk, cereal, or dried whole milk) or 2% isolated soy protein may be used, and they must be listed in the ingredients statement on the product label by their common names.[1]

me: leeeeeerrrrrrrrrrddd...

Donny: So there. Bleh.

me: okay, fine… whatever… cooking is still better.

Donny: Heh. Same as hot dogs… But my god, whenever I see kids gnawing on raw hot dogs, I want to gag.

me: you're a weenie.

Donny: Eat me

me: can I gag on you first?

Donny: Hmm… Yes. Yes, you can.

And so on and so forth… Oh, we talked about other things, too. Sunsets. Dirty pictures. New A/C compressors for Brutus. Dealing with people in the “land of manana.” Service reps with names from Fleetwood Mac songs. You know, important stuff. Gods, I miss that boy, too. It occurs to me that, if I had my son and my man here with me, right now, things would be pretty close to perfect. Not entirely perfect, but pretty close. There are other people and factors I’d like to work in, but beggars can’t be choosers, right?

I really do love it here, but the struggle is taking its toll. Being so far away from loved ones, doesn’t help. Having someone to talk to in person, to touch, to hold, to laugh with, would make everything that much better. Sharing the little frustrations and accomplishments of the day to day trudge, in person, would make life here glow with the kind of warm perfection that, these days, only the fleeting moments of absolutely magnificent sunset evenings, can match.

Just 25 more days. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…




What Donny’s getting for his birfday…

Two months is a long time to be away from someone, when all you want is to spend every waking moment with that person. Problem is, it’s only been a week and a half. There are still six and a half weeks left before Donny will join me here full time. A visit here and there will be all that we can hope for. Well… yes and no... All I can say is, thank all the feral gods for e-mail, chat and Skype. I do believe it will be the potent combination of those three gifts from said gods that will navigate us through those bleak, lonely weeks. Whoa… I think I’m about to go into insulin shock…

It’s not like that, really. We’re not all moon-faced and gooey when we’re talking to each other. Just chatting like we normally would on any given morning, afternoon or evening. We talk about boring things like bills and the weather and packing and unpacking and rude body functions and broken garbage disposals and traumatized cats and, well, you get the picture. Also, mostly, we’re just goofballs. Here’s a classic example of that. An excerpt from an actual, true-to-life chat we had not too long ago. Expurgated for brevity and minimally edited for clarity. I know, huh? Big words for a pot head on his third glass of wine…

*

me: Huh. Fergie, Seether and Blind Guardian just cracked my top 25. I must be playing them a lot...

him: :)

me: Pink hit it a while ago. She's at number 11...

him: Hmmm

me: Cripes, I sound like Casey Kasem...

him: LOL! You're much cuter.

me: He's just older. And more Jewish. You know how Jewish men age… Like Billy Crystal.

him: Yeah.

me: They get jowly and mushy and their noses get bigger. Or maybe their faces get smaller.

him: Yikes!

me: It's true. Maybe it's their skulls that shrink. Could account for all that extra skin. Terrible... I'm going to hell. Jewish hell. OY!

him: Oh, please. That WOULD be frightening… Imagine Fran Dresher,

me: No, thanks…

him: Singing Bette Midler songs to you for eternity.

me: ACK! So, anyway, the demon in charge would be named Morrie.

him:???

me: He'd wear Bermuda shorts and sandals with black socks.

him: LOL!

me: And he'd say, "oy, my lumbago..."

him: Totally!

me: And he'd wear thick glasses. And be three feet tall. With tufts of hair sprouting out of his oversized ears... And hell would be like Florida. Large women in mumus and giant plastic sunglasses... With perfect hair and nails. And pink lipstick.

him: Totally terrible…

me: Nagging... always nagging... THAT WOULD BE HELL!!!

him: LOL! It was a fun hell, though. Compared to some other interpretations I've heard…

me: I got carried away...

him: At least there'd be something to laugh about down there!! :)

me: Have you ever been nagged by an old Jewish woman? Seriously...

him: Not... directly, I don't think, no... you?

me: Uh huh. Waiting tables can BE hell...

him: AH, that.

me: "I asked for my eggs to be over easy... these are runny! If I wanted runny I would have asked for runny... take them away, I've lost my appetite. Just bring me a bagel. And cream cheese. The REAL cream cheese, not that fake kind you people use. And a clean knife. I can't use this one. It has spots. And while you're at it, could you please ask the chef to make the bacon crispy? It's not bacon if it's not crispy. It's limp pork. I may lose my appetite. Well? What are you waiting for? I'm going to starve to death before you bring me something I can eat! Shoo!"

him: Shame on her for eating bacon! But, yikes...

me: Uh huh. I said it was hell...

him: LOL!

me: It's 88 degrees outside, now.

him: Still 104 here.

me: Another form of hell.

him: yup...

me: Actually, that would be my hell... Phoenix in the summertime. And me waiting on old Jewish women eating pork. Shudder.

I should probably put some clothes on. And take a dump. Gotta go soon. I gotta get cute, as Scotty says...

Maybe I'll just take a whore's bath. Douche the chonch and go... After my dump, of course...

him:Okay. Have Fun!

me: I'll try.

him: Don't forget. . . Tell Nikki I said hi.

me: I will.

him: And Brian, if he's there.

me: Alright, already! Damn…

him:What?

me: Going…

him::) Ta!

me: I said I gotta take a DUMP! Zip it!

him: LOL! Sorry.

me: MM Mm mm...

him: Hasta

me: oh for... SHUT UP ALREADY!!!

him: tev

me: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH...

him: SO GO SHIT, DAMMIT! No one's making you reply!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

me: It's a good thing I love you... always having to have the last word...

him: Yup. Vice versa.

me: Are YOU an old Jewish woman, or what? Seriously...

him: tev…

*

Ahhhhh, love… NARF! (Oh, and just for the record, I NEVER get the last word in. Ever. Seriously… ever…)




One from the goof files…

Ceeeeripes, what a gigantic shit stain of a day. Another in a long line of poo-stripe days. Unpacking boxes and totes and more boxes and totes will do that. I’m on a mission. Out-of-town guests beginning Wednesday: Shelly for a couple days, then Donny and his parents for the weekend. Must get this place looking presentable. Easier said than done, but I will prevail.

In other news, the dolls are driving me crazy again. Betches. I posted this last October on a now defunct blog:

“I awoke this morning to the sound of the dolls squabbling. Nothing serious, it never is, but irritating nonetheless. You'd think, that for beings with no genitalia, they'd get along much better than they do. Still Alison and Thistle cannot stop snipping at each other. Which tends to make Cassie cry. Which, in turn pisses Tess off. The only one who doesn't get involved is Zhanné, who simply can't be bothered.

Why I ever acknowledged their reality is beyond me. It seemed like a good idea at the time. An experiment in Descarte's theory of cognitive evolution: "I think, therefore I am" which, when taken to its extreme, becomes "I know, therefore it is so." Unfortunately, it's a bit like learning to talk to animals. They don't have a lot to say, most of the time, so what's the point, really? Once again, lesson learned. This time, just a little too late.

I did warn the bitches, however, that if they continue to wake me with their bickering, I was going to pop their little heads off and put them in separate jars out in the shed. Sparkling eyes and plastic smiles was all I got back. They think they're so damned cute. Only Zhanné seemed to give it any real thought. I'll have to keep an eye on that one. The quiet ones are always the most worrisome.”

I’d forgotten all about it until this morning’s row. Seems they don’t like being cooped up in boxes, anymore. Well, hell, who does? They just have to wait their turn, like everybody else. Think it’s easy having nothing but Lion King slippers to talk to, on a daily basis? Please…

Pass the pipe, Muriel. I’m just saying…




Yeah, they look innocent enough…

Wow. Exactly one week from today--right now, in fact--I’ll be in my new home. It almost seems surreal at this point. I’m looking around my apartment, which is only half packed, and wondering how things are going to fall out over the next few days. There are things I know for sure. I know I’ll be picking up the truck on Thursday morning. I know that there are four stops to make throughout the day, to pick up various pieces of furniture and shit that’s in storage. I know that I have to complete that and get the apartment cleaned, so I can turn my keys in by 5pm. Knowing all this, I know I have to be completely packed no later than Wednesday night.

Then there are the variables. This is my last weekend in Phoenix. There are those who believe I should make the most of it, but exactly what that entails is still a little fuzzy. I’m assuming it means hitting favorite haunts and spending time with people I won’t be seeing for a while, if ever again. Whether that happens or not remains to be seen. I’m not in a very social mood and would really like to slip out of town without causing too much of a fuss. There are, however, a few people I’d like to spend time with before I do go. Haven’t seen Scotty in a couple weeks. Or James. Donny says Seth wants to hang out before I go and Shanna has expressed interest, too.

I’ve already said my goodbyes to my son, who won’t be back from China until the 17th. I promised Deb and Jesse one last naked romp before our visits become fewer and further between. And, let’s not forget the boyfriend, who I won’t be seeing for a couple months. Those are the hardest situations to deal with. Even so, I can’t wait to have this whole move done and over with. That’s what keeps me moving forward. That’s what urges me to wrap shit up and put it in boxes. I’ll know it’s real when the paintings come down off the wall. Until that happens, though, it still seems like a dream, slowly unfolding. One dream among many. Or, as Poe said, “a dream within a dream.”

Oh, and how cool is it that today is 080808? Love that. Moving on…