Blog Title: Casey in Mudville

What's not to love?

Corey Arnold, from Bering Sea Crabbing

My God, has it really been almost three weeks since I've written anything? Judging by the date of my last post, I have to assume Yes! Partly I've been busy. I mean like ass-glued-to-the-work-bench, sleeping-for-days-in-my-contacts, too-weary-to-even-run-for-breakfast/lunch/dinner busy. And partly, I've managed to piss off my family (again!) by writing something needlessly cavalier just for a cheap and probably unlikely laugh.

So, insert deep breath here, to my sister who came up to visit with her family–kids and all–for probably only the third or fourth time in her own life and definitely the first time in their lives, I apologize. It was a pleasure to watch my nephew, scared and excited, delicately hand over the doggie gift he'd been holding onto for over four hundred miles, it was my honor to escort the gang through our city's exemplary children's museum of science, perhaps even redefining the "human scare response" exhibit, and it was with great sadness I left them standing at a long line waiting for a ride on our city's famous public transport (editor's note: Casey has perhaps taken some poetic license here).

I totally appreciated the visit and the only excuse I have, is that sometimes I totally suck. The girl who learns not to put her foot in her mouth (or is it, pen in her eye?) is the girl I hope to one day meet.

Why Come?

Adam Fuss, Untitled, image from pinhole camera

We survived the wedding. We survived the in-town guests. Hell, we even survived the 70's. But let's get down to brass tacks here: the film is done! No wait, it's not really done! I may cut it down to an hour. I may cut it down to 75 minutes. But technically it's reached the length it's supposed to be and that time is 86:40.

I still have to work with the composer, which means I have to let go of my temp track, which is a lot harder than I ever imagined. How do I let go? One song at a time I suppose. But I am sure the composer is sick of me saying, can you make it sound a little more like this? Something akin to giving line readings to an actor I imagine.

There are still a few more shots I need to, well, shoot. And then there's that spot about 50 minutes in where time seems to stand still, and that's not in a good way. Plus, there's the fact that we still don't have a title. OK! Not so done! But feeling done-ish. And ready to let the editor go.

The good news is that I am finding ways to squeeze in smaller moments that I really missed, but couldn't place anywhere. Like when one schoolgirl talking to another says: puberty, I don't know whats that anyways and later, when that same schoolgirl talks about her boyfriend, explains, almost wistfully: we give each other pencils. I have fallen in love with the action in the background, the things no one would ever catch upon first viewing, and I find myself spontaneously repeating the film's lines throughout the day: c'mon all you lazy children! polyester...100% and that is so a lie! We find ways to amuse ourselves. We find ways to let go. We find ways to ignore the following question:

How will we define ourselves when this is all done?

Away from Home

Jona Frank, Siobahn, Girl Scout, CA

A packed bag! An airplane trip! A family wedding to attend with my parents! OK, scratch the exclamation point on that last one. While I am happy to get out of town for the weekend, and happier still to be typing this up at my long lost friend's house while she breast feeds the baby, I do have to admit that I am not looking forward to another family wedding. Another family wedding where the bride and groom are at least a decade younger than me, another family wedding where I have to attend stag whether it's because I'm single...or well, because in the eyes of my family not being married means technically I am still single. And another family wedding where, in lieu of attending with a date, a partner, or hell even alone, I am tagging along with my parents. On the up side, at least I know that means I will be leaving early.

In other news, I have big plans for this short weekend in the city of my birth. There are palm trees to stand beneath, traffic to sit in, and star sightings to miss–and I'm not talking about those to be found in the ursa minor. Wish me luck! I'll have my screenplay in hand and a sharpened pencil for my free personality test.

A coupla three things to say here

Christine Wong, Green Present, 2007
balsa wood and paper

I haven't written anything here because I have been obsessed with finishing the film. OBSESSED. Assessing the howmuchmorevulnerablecanIfeel feedback, setting a date to ohmygawd lock picture, taking Ihatethispart publicity stills. I simply have no more room for creative thought in my brain. And obviously nothing to write about here. Yeah, I could tell you about the pain, the suffering, the long list of minutia one has to attend to, the difficulty in trying to replace the scratch music you love with the actual music made by the composer you hire. Let alone the absolute trauma that sets in when I actually have to watch my own film. It's not that I don't like it, or that I think others won't either, it's just getting to be too much to bear. Six years my friends! I am ready to move on, know what I mean?

What I do have energy for is cooking, for organizing the wee apartment we all share, and for walking the dog. There's apricot ice-cream. There's finally getting around to watching the last Soprano's episode. And there's a night of spontaneous in-town guests and accordion playing. But, I'm not getting out much these days. And that's OK. I've hardly noticed it's summer, if it weren't for all the available fruit at the grocery store.

On the horizon. Hopefully, a trip. Optimistically speaking, a job. And one day, a larger apartment to share.

Stop Freaking Out On Me

Amy Stein, Halloween in Harlem

I am back, after a long, sweaty, and sticky weekend spent mostly in the car driving up and down our fair coast. Without air-conditioning. With one working window. And oh, including a 55-pound, panting dog squirming on my lap. Ah, the joys of owning a now-aging, gas-guzzling, pick-up truck. We arrived wilted and returned, if possible, even less unrefreshed.

All in all, it wasn't that bad. In fact, you might even say the trip was good. The boyfriend met the family. The family bought the dinner. The girlfriend, or, me, that is, felt comfortable enough to leave them alone together while she washed up. She returned to find both parties not only unharmed but actually engaging in conversation. To wit, she couldn't get a word in edgewise the rest of the night.

As for the rest of the weekend, it went smashingly well. And when I say smashingly, I do mean smashingly. The boyfriend broke the parent's shower, in addition to the side window on my truck. Though both events were, as far as he assured me, unrelated and accidental, I am considering a padded helmet and an insurance policy for any future southbound trips. Other highlights included: a pod of dolphins, a swarm of bees and a gaggle of siblings.

oh boy oh boy oh boy

painting by Dennis McNulty

Take a deep breath. OK. OK. Did that. Now what?

Too much coffee. Too many things on my brain. Too much socializing. Too much beer. Too much homemade ice-cream (toasted coconut!) But all good for my health. The best, in fact.

The weather. Somewhat hot. The dog. Somewhat lazy. The boyfriend. Somewhat amazing. It could be worse. This order could be reversed.

¡Damas y caballeros! We could be reaching a break through here. Or maybe just a turning point. Or it could be more like the end of a really, really long journey. Like through the desert. Like being lost and then found. Like the coldest beer after the hottest car ride. Or the fizziest coca cola after unpacking all of your boxes. Do I make any sense?

I am talking about the film here. THE FILM! Other things, may be to apply as well. But THE FILM. It is nearing completion. It is nearing ohmygawd completion. Ready or not. It's done!

Shit.

SHIT!

And then what?

A vacation.

A much needed vacation.

No one cares about me more than you do

Idris Khan, every...Bernd and Hilla Becher Gable sided Houses

The weekend. The weekend! Can you hear me, I said the weekend!! Can you d-i-g i-t?! (and I do not mean digit!)

In short, a barbecue. Strawberries that were planted. More blooming flowers that were bought and subsequently planted. A dog that was bad, very bad, and scared away the neighbor's puppy after whom we all had to run in a million different directions looking and whom was found, but not by me, and at a much earlier hour, much earlier than the hour I actually came back from looking for her.

To continue: a strenuous hike. With a view! A knowledgeable fellow hiker who pointed out a rattlesnake track on the dirt! A break! A much-needed break from the film I can't finish! Potato leek soup, even though it is by no means potato leek soup season!

!!!

Also, a day spent helping the fifteen year-old with her special final history video project for which she had done hardly any work at all! All semester! And for whom I could offer very little assistance, seeing as she hadn't done anything at all, and also who had very little to say about Nicaragua, the subject of her special final history video project which, in addition to, is the birthplace of her father.

One more thing. One more thing!

I saw an OK movie: Since Otar Left. A crier! But slow! I read some good stories, like those that were inside the last issue of McSweeney's. I continue to read that good book, Everything Is Illuminated.

And

Ali Farka Touré on the stereos! Mom on the telephone!

And

An argument with the boyfriend that was resolved amicably and quite possibly for the betterment of the relationship! Apologies accepted!

Plus

Successful annual gynecological exam at 9AM this morning! Even though I was reminded that I am past my prime for child birthing!

Success!

No one knows me better than you

Hot Knives, Tim Barber

Coffee and donuts. No wait. More like cherries and peaches. More like, more like, chocolate. And tea. Fancy tea. The kind where the leaves unfurl like fists. Baby fists. The kind in the see-through tea pots. They kind they sell at upscale markets.

The kind I don't have.

That's what today feels like. Special and not special at the same time. But right. Just right. And me. It feels like me. Which is a good feeling. It means human. It means normal. It means I can feel excited and antsy and angry and sad and bored. And I promise I won't blame anyone else for it.

Tomorrow I hang out with the fifteen year-old. The one I made a film about.

Weird.

To quote Miranda July for no other reason than I just read her book and, whom, if you know me, know is both my hero and my nemesis:

I look forward to seeing you next week if you live in LA, SF, Portland or Seattle.
It will be terrific, I will bow when I see you, you will bow when you see me, we will bump heads and knock each other unconscious and when we come to we won’t remember anything, we will mumble pardon me and shuffle off in to brand new lives. I really can not wait.

Coming Through Slaughter

Buddy Bolden and Band

This weekend was all decentish (thank you to Kurt's OPE for letting me borrow one or two of his idiosyncrasies. Although technically I didn't ask, I must also assume he stole it from some where else). Though the weather gloomy and cold–despite the fact that it is now June–we managed an outing or two. One thing is that we discovered our local library. We both got cards and have become quite compulsive in scouring their DVDs, CDs, and New Materials sections. Did you know you can check out back issues of Harper's, The New York Review of Books (which modestly claims the title: the premier literary-intellectual magazine in English language) and, well, we haven't actually located a copy of Hustler yet, but we can see no reason why it shouldn't be there, too.

It feels really good to go to the library. Like riding your bike to work. Like I am a good citizen of the world! Hooray for me! Because of all the doom and gloom we spent the rest of the day browsing through our materials. I got two cookbooks; I am finally able to read Everything Is Illuminated; and here is a tip for you: do not confuse the band Django with the legendary musician, Django Reinhardt. Not all of our CDs, it seems, can be winners.

Cookies were made. No cleaning was done. Intimacy was had. And while some were out triumphantly consuming hot dogs, we were watching movies outdoors, in the park, with cute kids, all bundled up, some of the cute kids being kids I knew pretty well. And despite an expensive and alarming trip to the Vet, the days felt leisurely and long. So leisurely, in fact, I have a hard time admitting to myself that I am now supposed to be working.

The Continuing Existence of Things I Do Not Understand

All The Knives, Emily Prince

After both my mother and sister telegraphed their concern, I have decided to retract last week's blog post. I do not hate nor do I love any of you. The great influx of estrogen has finally leveled off and things are back to normal. That is, if you consider harboring fantasies of dropping everything and running to Belize normal. For whatever reason we hit a relatively rough patch and I am still hungover from all the uncontrollable sobbing.

But really, I am OK. The dog is alive and sleeping. The apartment mostly unscathed and the boyfriend still standing albeit now with a limp. The comforter is perhaps a little less downy due to all the languishing that had to happen but the pillows are finally dry. Words were said and while some of them held meaning, hindsight–and a few Motrin–now tell us that many of them, in fact, did not.

All this to say we are feeling back on trackish. There are gyms to which we must begrudgingly drag ourselves. Food stuffs to be purchased and then consumed before legal expiration dates. And a certain opus that could benefit from some attention. Namely ours.

Messages in a bottle

Ann Hamilton, Reflection

You disappoint me. All of you. Each and every one.

But you,

You alone make me happy.

Cohabitation

*Emily and Her Pink Things, JeongMee Yoon

The tomatoes are in the pots. The sunflower seeds in the ground. And the new boyfriend has officially moved in. I'm not sure how any of these things happened. They just did. And for the record, this time around I have decided to take a particularly lax attitude. As in, so what that we haven't gone out and actually done anything 3 weekends in a row, who cares that you eat a significant amount more of the food products than I do and that when you do the dishes you always leave all of the cutlery unwashed in the sink, and really, honey, it's endearing when the night you decide you are going to actually cook a meal, you run out and buy burritos at the last minute. At least, well, at least you're not throwing the dishes at me, eating expensive meals without me, and um, the amount of crumbs you leave behind tells me that you must really exist. Let's just say that your idea of yelling at the pundits on Fox News for hours on end or obsessively writing letters to the editor of Salon magazine, is not really my idea of having a relaxing time. No, I haven't Googled your name in the last few weeks, no, I don't feel the need to watch the O'Reilly Factor daily in order to take the pulse of middle America, and yes, my dog is now your dog, too, complete with all feedings, walkings and sheddings that may occur.

It's been awhile, folks. And we are both a little out of practice. Suffice to say we are entering that blobby, somewhat murky period often referred to by psychiatrists as transition. We know not what lies on the other side nor how long it may take to actually get the hang of it. I don't need to tell you the exact measurements of our "one-bedroom" apartment for you to understand that it will take some measure of diplomacy for the three of us to come out alive. Perhaps, like the time I sold my house because I couldn't find a roommate or the time I moved four hundred miles because I couldn't sleep at night, or when I adopted a 60 pound dog despite the fact that I had no yard, I have once-again jumped the gun. And I want you to know. Mistakes were made. But not by me.


Ethan and His Blue Things, JeongMee Yoon

*Editor's Note: Any likenesses from the above blog post to JeonMee Yoon's photographs are purely coincidental and entirely unintentional.

No Comment

Closer, Tim Sullivan

Casey is taking a personal day. Even though she is not actually employed and only in theory works for herself, she is taking the day off from even that pretense. Casey prefers that she might have chosen a better day, say one in which the sun actually shown and the sky did not look quite so bleak, nonetheless, she realizes that the school-yard saying still holds true: beggars can't be choosers. Her plans for the day might include such exhilarating activities as: doing the dishes that have approached the dining room, buying more soil for the as-yet-unplanted cucumbers dying on her front porch, surfing the internet ad nauseum, and maybe, just maybe, twiddling her thumbs. We can only hope she accomplishes half of what she has set out to do today.

At first glance one might think that were Casey to take a day off from the utterly non-lucrative practice of pretending to be a filmmaker, she might want to engage in more productive activities, perhaps by: looking for a real job with real–and by real we mean not of the imaginary kind–benefits, applying for an art residency where, at the very least, she could be with her own delusional kind, or securing a proper mate who can better sustain her hobbies, i.e. one who doesn't need to be walked twice a day. But alas, Casey has decided to put her own self-indulgent needs above the more practical ones that society has to offer, namely the suggestion that it might just be time to grow up.

The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter

Andrew Moore, Red Chairs

The days are getting really long. Too long? Is summer here? I can hardly tell. What I do know is that the weeks seem to be racing by. That I have been concentrating on one really important thing for far too much time and that that really important thing is actually going to end in the not too distant future.

A lot rides on that important thing. Which happens when you put your heart into something. And because a lot rides on it, I have a hard time letting go. This runs both in favor of the important thing and against it. In favor because you will not quit until your vision is met. Against because you completely loose perspective over time and can easily get stuck in the mire. Too much simply means too much.

They say, a film is never finished, but merely abandoned. They also say a film is never finished until it meets the audience. And I suppose I would add that a film is never done until the filmmaker actually agrees to stop looking at it in front of the edit bay. Until then, my friends, the important thing remains an important thing hanging over her head.

It's going to be long. And it's going to be uncomfortable.

Sweat. Blood. And tears.

Long Day's Journey

photo by Johan Bjorkegren

I guess it's been too hot to write. Or maybe it's that I have been out doing too many activities. Or perhaps the lack of comments has forced me to seek attention and recognition elsewhere. Whatever the causes I have decided to come back. Not because I have anything really of import to say. But mostly, so that when I die there will be some kind of record for which I could posthumously receive acknowledgement, maybe an award or two, like for Most Improved Blog, or even just a coupla thank you's from my former employers. I don't know. I guess it's pointless. But yet. We persevere.

My dog got bit on the face not too long ago. Blood gushed from his nose as I watched helplessly while he shook a Rottweiler, firmly attached to his snout, across the gravel driveway. The neighbors looked on and while they weren't exactly cheering, nor where they offering any assistance. As I banged the Rottweiler on the head with the only instrument I had handy: a DVD of Casino Royale as rented from Blockbuster, the owner of the aforementioned assault weapon ran out and got his damn dog off of mine.

We survived having only lost a t-shirt and dishrag in the bargain. The five-hour vet trip was pretty exciting however what with all the swallowed fox-tails, violently shaking Chihuahuas and the unexpected entrance of a hit-by-car that took up all of the resources of the staff. For the remaining four hours, I sat in silence next to the perpetrator's owner with absolutely nothing to say save a brief exchange about our dog's ages. Thankfully there were no stitches involved and all damages were assumed by the guilty party.

And that's the extent of it. Allergies. Sweat. Ripe Fruit. And more strawberry rhubarb pie.

It's gonna be a long summer.

whoa

MARY CONRAD, Tell Your Stories Here

This week as I left the office for a lunch break, I ran into the adult-learners' ESL class in the stairwell. Literally, ran into them. It's that time of year. The time of year when the class escalates to a frenetic climax, where exuberance is at it's apex because the adult ESL students now know enough language to be allowed to roam the halls. Yes, it's Spring and apparently that means the students can leave behind the primitive instructions of the classroom–with it's ticking clock, assigned seating and dry-erase board–for the more tangible language experience that resides in our hallways, elevators, and, yes, even the stairwell.

Stairs
and then, in unison
sta-airs!
up
up!
down
do-own!
wall
wall!
carpet
car-pet!

Can I help it if I smile at the intimate class of little–and I mean all under 5 feet–old Asian ladies and a surprisingly tall and thin white lady, as they giggle and shuffle through the building, all the while apologizing profusely in a very well enunciated English? Do you blame me for finding the whole thing cute and, well, refreshing? Am I really that racist or ageist?

It's probably even worse than that.

But the good news is:
that I still find a couple scenes from my film funny
that the bike ride home only gets better
that pork chops are not only easy, but quite tasty to make
that, despite the tireless debates–about fashion, politics and who is doing a better job of listening–the man across the kitchen table
is a man I find quite worth the meal.

Ha Ha

San Francisco in Jell-O, LIz Hickok

Isn't it time to be funny? Isn't that why you come here? Isn't that the point of surfing the internet? Who wants to hear about my problems? Certainly not you. Well, not me neither. I want to laugh. Right now. Goddamnit. Someone make me laugh.
Is it too much?

Now

urbanirony project , wroclaw poland 2007

Last night we watched someone hang themself on television.

Close Up someone grabs a seashell off the night table
Cut to Wide Shot a man clutching his neck, a paroxysm for air, legs kicking
Cut to The Next Scene wherein life goes on but not for our man hanging from the rafters

Fade into me on the couch with a pillow over my face. Pillow soft and smothering. Quick. Access to memory banks. Retrieve new memory to replace the one of Cayce hanging himself like the man on tv. Did his legs kick? Did he grab the prayer beads like the man on the tv grabbed the seashell? Was it just suddenly the only idea possible? The only one worth having? THE LAST IDEA?

The last idea.

Imagine that.

Or was the last idea regret? Did that one make it's way before the end of life did? Would it matter? Would it matter to me? Would it make things different somehow?

It's not unpredictable that these things happens. It's the risk of watchingtelevision, openingabook, walkingoutside. It's the risk of the living.

And I am not afraid of it.

I'm sorry.

I'msosorry.

A way to be with you. To be close.

Here.

And I mean now.

what love should mean?

If I tole you that last night's dinner was baked tofu–courtesy of Trader Joe's, microwaved popcorn, and beer from the local liquor store. If I tole you three rejection letters in 1 week. If I tole you, if I tole you, if I tole you.
That.
Things aren't so bad.
The sky was pink last night for a real long time. And then a perfect water's blue. We sat on the wet beach. And sand got in my shoes, in my pockets, in my drawers.
There is a Foster's Freeze I walk by every day. At night they have an old neon sign they light up. The lights pop on and off and makes a nighttime sound as comforting as crickets.
We walked the beltway. We saw jackrabbits too fast for the dog to catch. We carried the dog across the brambles and still, afterwards, he stopped, paw in the air, waiting for someone to clean out the thorns.
Shortcake.
Strawberry.
With whipped cream except I forgot to buy the cream.

seventh grade excerpt:
what love should mean?
huh?
what love should mean?
i don't even know what the heck you are talking about.
first you don't care about anybody and then you do?
how 'bout generous? i don't know!

Very

Squeeze. Erin V. Sotak is an installation and performance artist concerned with notions of absurdity, futility, consumption, labor, and aesthetics. Her work is best described as a moving tableau that is re-rendered through the photographic process. Sotak will fabricate a new space in the Sesnon gallery using a variety of materials including wood, wall coverings, raw silk, and pomegranates. The piece revisits ideas of constraint versus restraint, seen versus unseen, interior versus exterior, and the distinct blur of the separateness of experience that occurs in a singular shared moment.

the difference between me and you

Jo Hanson, Mother Courage – "from work that I call urban spirit figures, using metals that are crushed by street traffic."

It has been my goal to come here and write at least once a week. And I have to admit, that I have been having a hard time doing even this. So tonight I pour myself a small glass of my favorite whiskey–yes, the kind that's sealed with wax–put on some inspirational tunes and confess that I am just not sure what to write about. A free write? A political diatribe? A nostalgic walk down memory lane? What will it be?

I wonder. As for the music, I am listening to David Byrne's playlist. Too lazy and too–um, what is the word, non-committal? yes, we'll take that–I am allowing someone else to do the work for me. But listen to this. I always like the thoughtfulness with which he crafts his themes. Tonight it's: Pop as in popular. That's where this playlist falls apart. Not all of these songs reached or will reach a wide enough audience to be considered truly popular, but it wasn't for want of being poppy, catchy or sticking to your brain pan. David Byrne. I don't care much for his fine art. And he has this really earnest blog that's like, do I really need to know all about David Byrne's tarmac adventures in trying to get back to Newark, NJ from Austin, TX? But, you all know how I feel about My Life In The Bush Of Ghosts. And those Brazil Classic compilations he put out in the early 90's, I mean, we played the shit out of those albums! And they were, albums, that is, back then. But listen to this. Right now. How perfectly did Gnarls Barkley's Crazy ooze right into The Arcade Fire's My Body Is A Cage? The man knows his pop music. So why should I reinvent the wheel here?

Hunh. And now I s'pose I should write about something. Now would be the time, right? I mean, I have your attention and all. So. Do I write about helping my recently widowed friend sort through her husband's belongings and determine which items to save for the kids and which items get donated to Good Will? Do I write about the lengthening days and how encouraging Spring can be? How it always seems to come right when you need it most? Do I write about my nasty cough that has kept me and my neighbors up for the last week and how sore and tired I am from coughing? Do I write about the argument I got in to earlier today about whether or not one should aggressively confront another aggressive person, namely one who drives like a maniac, endangers other people's lives and then acts like it is his right as an American citizen to do so. Do I write about the woman's obituary I read that moved me so, a woman who died at 89 years old, but lived that life as an artist, an activist, who could teach us a thing or too if we bothered to listen, a woman who made her point out of trash, compiled an archive of city litter that showed us who we were and a time line of how we got here?

Where do I begin? And where should I stop? Where do I look to for guidance?

When was the last time you prayed?

This morning I rode my bike to work. It took 45 minutes, and it was lovely. A lovely day. A lovely introduction to spring. A lovely feeling of accomplishment for riding my bike to work, for starting the week riding my bike to work. Course, that could all change tomorrow, but for now, things feel possible and, hell, downright rosy.

It wasn't until the ride back, though, that I really started to see. You know, the kind of seeing that only comes from practice, from a strict discipline of noticing the things around you, of seeing the new, of looking beyond the usual. I had forgotten. I had forgotten what that was like. But my field of vision opened and I was gifted the following. A brick factory boarded and empty, remnants of its industry being taken over by the earth. The sycamores that line the wide streets of this island, the tiniest green leaves shaking in the sun. A shiny black police car, reflecting the brightest, harshest light. The produce district where warehouses brimming with crates and crates are loaded, unloaded, and forklifts move in slow-motion.

Riding over the drawbridge I could see the water beneath the metal slates. There were crevices and cracks over which I rode, there were signs and lights that were disobeyed, there were helmets laid by the wayside, and there were motorists to curse. There were legs to get tired, an ass to get sore, and a face to get sun-kissed. There was grit in my teeth, there was wind between my legs and there was a certain music–traffic, down strokes, the last song in my head–I couldn't ignore.

the instances swimming around in my head are the instances in which

1.

A man I once cared for far more than I knew was wise to, complained about his relationship with his ex: they were total opposites, she was a horrible communicator, he always felt like she had one foot out the door. Sick of hearing about it, I finally asked him why he even went out with her in the first place. His response was sure and quick. She's beautiful.

The ease with which he said it and the fact that he had never said as much to me, made me acutely sad. Not only for me, but for him as well.

2.

My office is next to an adult English Language Learners' class in Chinatown. Every day I hear them shouting in unison, with the enthusiasm of a grade-school calisthenics class things like
HELLO!
GOODBYE!
WHAT IS YOUR NAME!
Each phrase is shouted with the same absence of intonation that comes, well, with a group of people shouting random phrases while staring straight ahead at the dry erase board where a woman with a pointer taps each word printed on it.

As the semester progresses, so do the complexities of the phrases. And I don't know if this is the entirety of the class, or if things like conversation and comprehension are just done at a more hushed level.

But today what I heard was
WHERE ARE YOU GOING FOR DIM SUM!
and
I LOVE YOU!
and really, what more do you need to know how to say?

3.

In searching for a third instance, I must now admit to both you and myself that there is no three. At the end of the day, this is all I can really offer. But, this I know: things usually come out better in threes. So use your imagination.

Love Hard, Fight Beautifully

I read that the other day in the lobby close to the elevators of the office where I work. It's part of an art exhibit–I'm not exactly sure for what–but it's a phrase to which I find myself returning daily. Like when my boyfriend and I fought all night on Valentine's Day. Or when I talk to my New York friend, who had a New York meltdown and left it all behind–the job, the apartment, the collection of short stories he couldn't get published–to move in with his relatives in sunny Los Angeles and is suddenly feeling a helluva lot better. But mostly I think of it because this last week has been hard as hell for me and for a lot of my close friends.

Cayce lost the fight last week and we miss him horrbily. He left behind a wife of some twenty years, two boys young enough that they still take baths together, and siblings as close as they make 'em.

You think you know grief. You think you know loss. And then along comes something that is as impossible to understand as Einstein's theory of relativity. And that's the thing. What one day seemed impossible to understand eventually grows to become something you just accept as true. And I guess, that's where I am with it all right now. Things are in the process of becoming true. And it's not an easy place to be.

I first met Cayce at film school many years ago. I was a graduate TA for a class that was small on a good day, and more like an intimate yet uncomfortable job interview on a bad one. I don't think I ever prepared harder for a class, and I don't think I ever ended up flailing more. Cayce was the only student who actually tried to respond to my questions. The only one who attempted to engage with the readings–even if he hadn't read them. And the student for whom I ended up teaching the entire course. Cayce encouraged me, as best as one of your students can, by, at least, acting like he was getting something out of the class. Years later, Cayce himself would become a teacher: a much more relaxed, genuine and knowledgeable one than I ever was. And from that first encounter, Cayce turned me on to more films, music and obscure Internet sites than seems possible for one person to be aware of. If you asked any of his friends, students or colleagues you'd hear the exact same thing. Anything Cayce championed was something worth investigating.

Cayce, his wife Chela and their boys, Django and Taj, made a home not far from mine. There's was a home I would visit, not just for the free meals and lively conversation but for the open door policy, the unlimited sustenance and playtime with two of the most mischievous boys I've known. I loved nothing more than to visit Cayce when his wife was out of town and watch him, overwhelmed with the boys, trying to give them a bath and put them to bed, and they, in turn, knowing just how to work the crowd to their own benefit. Trying to act the role of the father, you could see Cayce was clearly no match for them. And at the same time, you could see just how much he loved it all.

I could go on and on about Cayce. About how he was the best Sasha Baron Cohen impersonator I knew, about how when he left you a phone message it was so shit-your-pants funny you collected them all, or about how when he loved something, be it a song or a film or a new drink at McDonald's, he proselytized to such effect, you soon found yourself praising their merits as well. But it breaks my heart too much to think about. To realize the memories I have are the only ones I get.

Cayce was rock and roll. He was unbridled affection. He was for real when nothing else was.

And he was loved. And he was beautiful.

Not that the story need be long, but it will take a long time to make it short.

Michelin Man, Christie Nielson

When I go for porno, it's of the vintage variety. That's not to say I don't indulge in the occasional pay-per-view when away from home, say touring a plummy Motel 6 or knocking around a Mid-Western Holiday Inn. There are some things that are simply more fun when done in the unfamiliar place. I imagine you all know what I am talking about here. Nonetheless, back at the ranch, I have my own stash of tried and true. The fewer the fake tits and the lesser the landing strips, the better off we all are, in my humble opinion. Sure we might have to put up with some blemishes, some bad–and I don't mean baaaddd–Shaft riffs. And yeah, the director might have fancied himself an auteur and thusly encumbered the porn with more plot than it could possibly accommodate. But I'll take my stray hairs and eggy breasts over any modern-day revision of My Big Fat Greek Penis.

To get to the point, when I went out of town last week to visit that film festival of note in the ski-sloped resort just south of the desert, my sort-of boyfriend opted to stay behind and vacation at my little resort on the island. The night before I left, let's just say, we indulged. Fast forward to me, bundled to the size of which would rival the Michelin Man and wattling through the snow to wait in line for the highly-acclaimed and very sold-out shows the festival of note had to offer. No doubt watching yet another independent film or queued up in front of the theatre in the six-degree weather, I missed the phone call from the sort-of boyfriend. But, oh, the message was well worth it's recording:

Hey dude, just wanted you to know, that when I returned King Kong, I had taken the first DVD out of the freakin, uh, player and it happened to be Deep Throat and that's what they saw when they opened it up to check it back. [change of voice] Excuse me sir, this isn't the DVD for King Kong....
...agh!

Apparently, he mumbled it's my girlfriend's...but we're not quite sure they heard that.

Of course, I played the message for my cohorts to hear, and, of course, we laughed until tears sprung and crystallized on our cheeks. In fact, I laughed all the way through the hour and a half line for a disappointing, soon-to-be released documentary. I laughed every time one of us said King Kong! And I laughed at the thought of this man, staying alone in my apartment for the first time, tentatively trying on the role of sweetheart, and trying to explain to a sixteen-year old, Blockbuster employee why the accidental substitution of Deep Throat in the place of King Kong was just an honest mistake.