Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Thank you, Jim... truly.
(Incidentally, Mira Mesa translates as "Look Table." All of San Diego's surrounding areas seem to have been named by first-year Spanish students. Another nearby town is El Cajon -- The Drawer. I'm waiting for the day when someone tells me to meet them in "Dónde Está el Baño.")
In a twist of irony worthy of Hemingway, Carmen is now the only fully functioning automobile parked outside our happy home. BW awoke me at 6:45 this morning to tell me that Catwoman's car, a 2005 Ford Focus named Rene, wouldn't start. BW's own car, an '04 Civic named LaHonda (she's black) had been rear-ended earlier in the week by a woman who works at his base. After opening his trunk this morning to search for jumper cables -- which didn't exist -- BW discovered that LaHonda's trunk wouldn't shut.
This left only Carmen and me to save the day. While BW scotch-taped his trunk down, I drove CW to Ace Hardware to buy jumper cables. Then it was back home to jump-start Rene, who immediately began purring like a kitten. Then I followed CW and Rene down to the legendary Ron's Auto Clinic for a check-up. Ron diagnosed Rene as having a dead battery and instructed us to leave her there for the day. Drove CW home, waited for him to change into his uniform, drove him to base and then miraculously found my way home on the freeway.
Catwoman, in all her glory.
Quite a bit of drama before 9 a.m.! Fortunately, Carmen behaved like a trooper. I'm really starting to love that little piece-of-shit car.
Passat: There is no substitute.
I never read as much as I should, but I do an awful lot re-reading, especially when I'm in a new, unfamiliar situation. There's something very comforting about curling up and rediscovering a book I read years ago. And no book ever hits me the same way twice, so it feels like a new experience every time.
When I first got here, I re-read David Sedaris's "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim." Choosing a favorite Sedaris book is like choosing a favorite sexual position; they're all pretty great. He's still the only author who makes me laugh out loud at least once per story. And in the case of "Six to Eight Black Men," his explanation of the Dutch Christmas traditions, I actually laughed myself to the point where I was crying and breathless. Good stuff.
Then I re-read "The Family Heart: A Memoir of When Our Son Came Out" by Robb Forman Dew.
I have never met Stephen Dew, but we are the same age, and we both came out to our parents in 1991, while I was a student at Michigan and he at Yale. Both of us had highly progressive, northeastern parents. And both of us found that our parents reacted with uncharacteristic shock and horror at our revelation.
Stephen's mother, Robb, a noted fiction writer, wrote a book about the experience. My mother read that book the moment it came out. She then bought a copy for every member of our immediate family, inscribing mine with the words:
From our family heart with love & respect.
Mom & Dad.
It was a major turning point in my parents' acceptance of who and what I was, and I have always been grateful to Forman Dew for writing "The Family Heart." I told her so myself when I interviewed her a year later for "Southern Voice," a gay Atlanta paper for which I freelanced my first year out of college.
Reading it now, I am struck by so many things. First, I realize how far America has come with regard to the gay thing in the past 17 years. Remember that in '91, there were no gay TV characters. Gay film characters, when they existed, were tragic, pathetic types who usually died of AIDS before the third reel. Presidential candidates never uttered the word "gay" (Clinton was the first, in '92). Gay sex was against the law in half the country, and the word "faggot" was considered perfectly acceptable in civil discourse.
It's no wonder my parents -- and those of Stephen Dew -- reacted the way they did.
And while we're hardly living in Paradise now (as we speak, the Republicans are once again out in force using the gay marriage issue to foment fear and loathing in advance of the election) we are so far beyond where we were then it boggles the mind.
Second, I'm struck by how lovably nutty Forman Dew comes across in the book. She agonizes over her every word, her every expression, mortified that she might be hurting Stephen's feelings with her internalized homophobia. Meanwhile, she's actually about as hateful as a baby chick. Her aggressive nurturing is both comical and sad. (My own mother, I dare say, was a lot less careful with her words at the time. I recall one heated conversation ending with her calling me a "bitchy queen." But then again, I am one.)
Finally, though she often goes over-the-top, Forman Dew's writing is achingly, searingly beautiful. In the book's most haunting section, she reflects on her cousin, Bobby, who had hanged himself many years ago at the age of 12. Her memory of him is triggered by another suicide attempt, that of a close friend's son, a high school senior named Scottie.
Forman Dew is suddenly hit with the certainty that both boys were driven to their self-destructive acts because of their struggles with a gay orientation. She is reminded of a poem from her youth:
Halfway down the stairs
Is a stair
Where I sit
There isn't any
I'm not at the bottom
I'm not at the top;
So this is the stair
Halfway up the stairs
And isn't down.
It isn't in the nursery,
It isn't in the town.
And all sorts of funny thoughts
Run around my head:
"It isn't really
It's somewhere else
She concludes the chapter by writing:
I believe that even one voice speaking out, one loud word to deny the enshrouding silence might have prevented Bobby and Scottie from concluding that they couldn't be anywhere, but must be somewhere else instead.
Someday I'd like to write something that good.
MALE CAREGIVER NEEDED (RANCHO BERNARDO)
Reply to: email@example.com [?]
Date: 2008-08-27, 9:14AM PDT
Need a male caregiver to take care of a nice man living in Rancho Bernardo.
Duties consists of:
*Running Errands/ Driving to Stores/ shopping
Our client loves to talk about the military and planes. Also, his favorite show is Jeopardy.
This is a PART TIME position.
If you think you are compatible for this position, please give us a call right away or apply online at:
He had me at "Jeopardy."
Unemployed homo out. ♥
Monday, August 25, 2008
OK, I admit it; I'm having a bad day. And not just because I spent more than two hours this morning at the DMV waiting to hand in a form that corrects the spelling of my name on my car's title which, when it arrived Saturday, read:
Why do people find my last name so difficult? It's four measly letters. It's spelled exactly as it sounds. It's even a word in the English language! Why do people insist on making it "Shank" or "Sanky" or "Sanka" or "Sanyk?" WHY, GODDAMMIT?!?!?!
No, it's not just that. This moving-across-the-country-and-starting-over-from-scratch thing is hard. And although I am very happy living with Boy Wonder (not to mention his roommate, Catwoman), the job search thing is starting to bum me out in a big way.
The problem is, I'm trying to follow two separate and completely unrelated career paths simultaneously. On the one hand, I'm trying to find something -- ANYTHING -- here in San Diego that will earn me some money on a regular basis. I don't really care what it is at this point; I just need to get out of this apartment and start earning. If not, one day soon Boy Wonder will return from work to find me passed out on the sofa in a house dress, a casserole burning in the oven, an empty bottle of Valium by my side.
At the same time, I'm trying to pursue this showbiz thing, which is even harder and far more nebulous. I have exhausted pretty much all my L.A. contacts at this point. In typical L.A. fashion, each one initially wrote back immediately to say, in essence, "Yes! I want to help you! Call me!" And then when I did they said, "Oh, I can't talk now -- let me call you back." And then they didn't.
Boy Wonder keeps telling me I should just drive up to L.A. and spend a week there. But somehow showing up in an enormous city where I've never been before -- in a '97 Passat, no less -- with no predetermined plan and shouting, "Here I am, Hollywood!" seems like a less than ideal plan.
So all of this is wearing on me and stressing me out. But none of it bothers me as much as this one simple, unavoidable fact:
There are no build-your-own-salad places in San Diego.
Shocking, but true.
Regular readers of this blog know how important a ritual my daily salad is. They also know how much I hate frisse. In New York, build-your-own-salad places are a dime a dozen. Every deli, every bagel place and even most supermarkets in Manhattan have build-your-own-salad counters.
But not so in San Diego.
In fact, the very concept here seems to baffle people.
"Oh, you mean a salad bar?" they'll say when I try to explain it."We have those. You should go to Soup Plantation."
I don't know what the hell Soup Plantation is. The very name frightens me. I picture a bunch of slaves mixing giant, steaming terrines of soup under the hot sun.
But that's not the point: A salad bar is not a build-your-own-salad counter.
At a salad bar, you have to actually touch the ingredients yourself -- after everyone else has touched them. At a BYOS counter, you dictate the ingredients you want in your salad, and then the attendants toss them all together for you in a giant silver bowl.
You're given an endless number of choices, beginning with the type of lettuce -- romaine, spinach or mixed greens (often including the dreaded frisse). In the better places, like the Food Emporium on 8th Ave., the toppings are kept ice cold, and at the end you choose from a veritable cornucopia of dressings.
In San Diego? Completely unheard of.
You know what I ate for lunch today? Something called a "House Special Salad" at a greasy fast-food Chinese place called "Pick-Up Stix." It consisted of fried, breaded, sweetened chunks of chicken, candied cashews, a couple tiny smidgens of carrot and iceberg lettuce topped with honey-soy dressing. Yes, it was completely delicious, but it was also the nutritional equivalent of a Big Mac!
One more month of eating like this, and I will be as big a house.
Perfect to go with my house dress.
Sanyk out. ♥
Thursday, August 21, 2008
I have landed lead roles in two different plays in the North Park Playwright Festival. Both are very funny comedies, and they are the two roles I most wanted. Woo hoo!
In "Don't Toy With Me," I play a GI Joe doll embarking on a romance with Malibu Ken, as manipulated by a gay 10-year-old boy.
Time to start hitting the gym a lot harder.
In "Means to an End," I play a repressed British museum-goer who gets hot and bothered for a woman standing next to him as the two of them discuss the meaning of an abstract painting. (I haven't actually gotten the entire script yet, so I'm not sure what else happens. But the scene I read was very funny.)
In both plays, I get to act with a woman named Karson St. John. I watched Karson read for a number of parts during auditions and confess I developed something of a talent crush on her.
This is very unusual for me. I meet talented performers all the time, so I've become somewhat jaded about it.
But this woman was just so fucking brilliant in everything she read for, I was mesmerized. And throughout the night, we kept getting called up together to audition.
"I want to see Adam and Karson..."
"Let's have Karson and Adam..."
"OK, now I want to see Adam and Karson..."
At one point, I said, "Wow. Karson and I are going to be dating after this!"
Karson looked slightly alarmed. She looked even more alarmed when, at the end of auditions, I threw my arms around her and exclaimed: "I hope we get to work together!"
In any case, she's stuck with me now.
"Means to an End" plays Saturday and Sunday, Oct. 10 and 11.
"Don't Toy With Me" plays Saturday and Sunday, Oct. 24 and 25.
Save the dates!
Homo with a restraining order against him. ♥
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Book Reviewer Wanted (Internet)
Reply to: firstname.lastname@example.org
Date: 2008-08-16, 10:14AM PDT
Book Reviewer Wanted
I need a reviewer for a booklet available on Amazon.com titled "Initiation into the Vampiric Arts". It's about 100 pages long. It's about vapir shamanism, which is a form of shamanism that spread from Mesopotamia to the Ukraine. The book is about returning vampirism to its vapir shamanism roots, and breaking away from both Hollywood-style and "empathic" vampirism.
I would prefer someone with knowledge of the vampire community, or an interest in the subject. Anyone with vampiric ties would be appreciated, as I do not wish to offend vampires with long standing in the community by making assumptions or referrals that are incorrect about modern vampires.
I am mainly looking for a review and honest opinion of the booklet that can be posted for others to read. Blog/message board discussions would be greatly appreciated as well.
Note: I do not need this book to be known in non-vampire circles, as it won't be accepted there anyway. What I DO want is for the vampire community to be aware of it.
If interested, please provide the following information:
(This information is all optional, but it will help me understand the feedback I get.)
1. Have you already read the book?
2. A short description of your standing, if any, in the vampire community.
3. If you have a website, where it is.
4. If you have a blog/journal, where it is.
5. If you have written any reviews, where they may be read. Payment is negotiable, depending on what services you wish to provide.
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Compensation: Negotiable depending on which part of the services desired you wish to do.
Monday, August 18, 2008
She's almost good as new, thanks to Ron and his fabulous Auto Clinic. Ron replaced a number of parts, including the serpentine belt, which sounds like something one would wear to the Black Party but which is actually, according to Wikipedia, "a single, continuous belt used to drive multiple peripheral devices in an automotive engine, such as an alternator, power steering pump, water pump, A/C compressor, air pump, etc..."
Ron also vastly improved Carmen's air conditioning system, though he wants her back tomorrow to replace an additional part -- something called a cooling module -- so that the air conditioner doesn't turn itself off whenever the car idles. (Too complicated to explain in this space.)
The one thing Ron couldn't do was get the radio to work. Since buying the car, I have learned more than I ever wanted to about Volkswagens and their infamous anti-theft radios. Why a factory-issue stock radio (with a cassette deck, no less) would require a security code worthy of a nuclear warhead is beyond me, but whatever the reason, until today the only thing that happened when I turned on the radio was that the word "SAFE" would appear. No music, no numbers, just "SAFE." Kris at Adams Autos had told me all I needed was a four-digit code, which I could easily get from any Volkswagen dealer.
First of all, the VW dealer I called wanted $27 to look up the code -- with no guarantee that the radio was even functional.
Secondly, I learned after hours of Internet research that before you can even enter the code, you have to make the "SAFE" go away and turn into a blinking "1000." (Don't ask why -- there's no explanation that satisfies.)
Ron warned me that the radio was probably broken anyway, and I'd be better off just going to BestBuy and spending the $150 on a new one.
He obviously didn't know who he was dealing with.
I continued my Internet research, stumbling upon a site called justanswer.com. For a mere $9 I could get a so-called "Volkswagen Expert" to look up my code. If I were satisfied with the answer to my query, I would authorize the payment. (The catch is, if I'm not satisfied with the answer, the site keeps the $9 in my account, to be used toward a future query.)
I entered the radio's serial number and the car's VIN, and lo and behold, within 30 minutes, a VW expert named Christopher logged on and answered my question -- supplying me with what he said was my four-digit code. Of course, I had no idea whether it was the right code because I hadn't yet made the dreaded "SAFE" go away and the magic "1000" appear.
Back on the 'net, I found a consumer electronics site called forum.ecoustics.com on which thousands of aggrieved VW owners compared notes on the best ways to get to the "1000."
My salvation came in the form of a '97 Jetta owner named Tucker Wynn, who posted thusly:
I don't know who has what but this is a picture of my stereo on my stereo.
I got it to work for now.
1. "SAFE" appears on the display.
2. Press & hold "MODE" button.
3. Press & hold "SCAN" button.
4. "1000" appears on the display.
5. Release both buttons immediately.
6. There should be a number to the left of the "1000" This should represent how many times you have tried to enter the code.
7. Enter your 3 or 4 digit code with the following. If you have a 3 digit code, assume that the first digit is a zero or blank.
8. Press button 1 until your first digit is changed to the correct number. (zero or blank)
9. Press button 2 until your 2nd digit is correct.
10. Do the same with the 3rd and 4th digit.
11. When the digits are correct, press & hold the "MODE" button.
12. Press & hold the "SCAN" }button.
13. The word "SAFE" should show up again.
14. Release the buttons immediately and your radio should work.
I followed Tucker Wynn's initial instructions to the letter. Nothing happened. Still just that fucking "SAFE" word. Then it occurred to me that unlike the radio pictured above, my radio had two scan buttons -- a scan left and a scan right. Maybe I needed to press both of them, along with the mode button. I did so.
Suddenly the following appeared:
I began to weep softly. I continued with Tucker's instructions, entering the four numbers Christopher from justanswer.com had given me. Then I completed the sequence, pressing both scan buttons and the mode button once again.
At top volume, Kanye West began to sing:
N- n- now th- that don't kill me
Can only make me stronger
I need you to hurry up now
Cause i can't wait much longer
Sweeter words my ears have never heard.
Last night I auditioned for the sixth annual North Park Playwright Festival. Actually a festival of short plays (each no longer than 10 minutes), the festival is run by and presented in the North Park Vaudeville & Candy Shop. It's exactly what the name implies -- an actual candy shop connected to a tiny, 35-seat black box theater.
How cute is that?
The auditions were two-fold. First, we actors got up and delivered prepared monologues. Then, the directors present called certain people back up to read from the plays they were casting.
I was nervous as hell. I grew up doing theater, but the last time I had done a play was 1993. And though I've performed stand-up about a thousand times since then, it's not the same.
For one thing, there was the monologue. I had chosen a comic monologue from Paul Rudnick's "I Hate Hamlet." And while I was confident I could deliver it well -- the character is a neurotic actor kvetching about he bombed on-stage the night before -- memorizing it was another story.
I have a very good memory for words, especially song lyrics. But performing my own material all this time has made my mind lazy. I don't ever worry about delivering a bit the same way twice; in fact, I'm constantly changing it, adapting it.
You're not supposed to do that when you're performing someone else's words. You're supposed to "honor the work," as they say.
And try as I did, I just couldn't remember it verbatim.
I was most concerned about getting the Shakespeare soliloquy down:
To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them.
Five lines from the most famous speech in all of literature; you'd think I could learn them. But no, each time I practiced, I said, "Or take arms" instead of "Or to take arms."
I almost considered taking the script up on-stage with me, but I discarded that idea when I saw that none of the other actors were doing so.
Taking a deep breath, I went up. "Hi, my name is Adam Sank. And I'm going to be performing a monologue that I've almost memorized..."
This got big laughs, and I relaxed.
It went well, though I did leave out entirely this section:
And I thought, okay, all my questions are answered -- I'm not Hamlet, I'm no actor, what am I doing here?
But at least I nailed the soliloquy. I was taken aback when the monologue's biggest laugh came from this line:
I just wanted to say, hey kid, I'm with you
Instead of the line immediately following it, which I had considered the punchline:
I can't stand this either!
It just goes to show you that play-acting can be as unpredictable as comedy.
Anyway, from there the night was a cake-walk. I was called up to read for virtually every director, and it was thrilling for me, after all these years, to be performing theatrical roles again. In the course of the four-hour audition, I got to play a zonked-out club kid, a British museum-goer, a diabolical spin doctor and, improbably, a lesbian named Samantha.
The feedback and energy I got from everyone was incredibly positive. One director pulled me aside and said, "I know you're going to get offered a lot of parts in this festival, but I want to tell you why mine is perfect for you..."
We find out tomorrow which play(s) we were cast in, and the festival takes place throughout the month of October.
Homo out on-stage. ♥
Friday, August 15, 2008
Adam: Hey, Mom.
Phy: Adam! We were wondering when we were going to hear from you. Do you know you haven't called us once since you moved to San Diego?
Adam: That's absolutely not true. I called you last week when I bought the car.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
I have been booked for my first San Diego comedy show.
It's called "Hillcrest Comedy," and it's a monthly show at the swank Bamboo Lounge in the city's fabulously gay district of Hillcrest.
Homo out of total West Coast obscurity. ♥
Monday, August 11, 2008
Contact: Click here to email.
Administrative Manager, The New York Times
• Handled all administrative functions including budget planning and maintenance, daily scheduling, freelance payroll, employee expenses and general office management for the Culture department.
• Wrote and edited capsule reviews of feature films for the paper’s daily television grid.
• Compiled and edited extensive weekly arts calendars for the New Jersey and Westchester sections.
• Line produced “Eyewitness News at 11” with Diana Williams and Bill Ritter.
• Oversaw live primetime programming during the invasion of Iraq.
Senior Producer, Fox News Channel
• Senior and line produced “Fox News Live” and “Fox and Friends,” as well as other daytime shows.
• Wrote and produced breaking new specials and wall-to-wall programming during such events as the Sept. 11 attacks, the war in Afghanistan, the Florida recount, Columbine, and the death of Princess Diana.
Freelance Publicist, Miramax Films
• Authored press kits for the films “Duplex,” “I’m Not Scared,” “Emma,” “Trainspotting” and “Flirting With Disaster.”
• Publications include The New York Times, Southern Voice (Atlanta), the San Francisco Sentinel , Watermark (Orlando, FL), Out in Jersey magazine and the Esquire magazine book “Things a Man Should Never Do Past 30.”
• Featured on NBC’s “Last Comic Standing” Vh-1’s “Best Week Ever,” truTV’s “Smoking Gun Presents: World’s Dumbest,” Here-TV’s “Busted,” Sirius Satellite Radio and ClearChannel Pride Radio.
• Performed in, hosted and produced shows at venues throughout the New York City area and beyond. Tape and club list available upon request.
Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism
• Master of Science with Honors
University of Michigan, Ann Arbor
• Bachelor of Arts with High Honors, Psychology
Homo out of work. ♥
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
BW in our new bed, with face and nuts strategically covered.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
My last week in NYC was one of the most excruciating experiences of my life. Never again, as God is my witness, will I accumulate so much stuff. After selling just about everything of value on Craig's List -- including my sofa sectionals, media cabinet, leather storage chest (that's a storage chest made of leather --not a chest made for storing leather, you kinky freaks), framed art posters, stemware and more -- and donating about 10 bags of clothing and assorted crap to the Salvation Army (and a large wooden coffee table/storage bench to Angela, my cleaning woman), I still had to make about 100 trips to the curb with countless assorted bric-a-brac, all of which which were immediately seized by hungry passers-by. Seriously, there is nothing New Yorkers won't take from the street given 10 seconds and a clean getaway.
Actual photo of the scene in front of my apartment.
Speaking of Angela, a note of clarification: She's wasn't my cleaning lady. She belongs to Rob and Robbie, a gay couple who lived three floors down from me. (Side note: At one point, there were two gay couples living across the hall from each other on that floor: Rob and Robbie, and Ron and Rodney. It was like a gay Mother Goose story.)
Anyway, I needed a professional to clear away the eight years of filth that had accumulated in my dwelling, particularly inside the refrigerator and cabinets. Angela came highly recommended, and so I put her to work the day before my departure.
I should have taken before and after photos; you'll have to do with the "afters":
So clean, you can practically eat off it!
Cue the tumbleweeds.
So thrilled was I with Angela's work that in addition to a big tip, I gave her the aforementioned wooden storage bench, which hadn't yet sold on Craig's List. She was way psyched!
By my final night, all I had left were a mattress, a reading light, a drinking glass, and my toothbrush and soap holders. It was like being in prison, but without the hot sex.
I dragged said remaining stuff to the curb at 6:30 Friday morning, along with my three giant suitcases and "carry-on" bag (which was actually just another giant suitcase). The last thing I saw as my Dial-6 Limo car drove off was my building superindentant, Rafael, smashing all my household goods to bits with a large mallet. I'm guessing he won't miss me.
During my long ride to JFK, my Sikh driver kept demanding I explain to him just how I plan to make a living in San Diego. I strongly suspect he might have been my mother in a turban.
And he was wearing the same blouse, too.
I got to the airport and grabbed a skycap. After sizing up my sizable luggage, he said: "We go to special line."
And what a special line it was! In fact, most of the people on the line seemed to have serious disabilities. There were wheelchairs and seeing eye dogs and all sorts of other freaky shit. "You wait here," instructed my skycap, after taking my driver's license from me. A few minutes later, he told me to go up to the front of the line and pay the woman $20 for my extra luggage. I still don't know how he pulled it off; all of the other disabled people had to have their bags weighed, and I didn't. And I know it costs a helluva lot more than $20 for even one extra bag these days. But not one to look a gift skycap in the mouth, I thanked him profusely, tipped him handsomely, and sped off to the gate.
The JetBlue flight was uneventful, except for the fact that my row was located on the wing, and I was therefore unable to put my seat back. Not great for a six-hour flight with a giant suitcase between my legs. Also, who knew JetBlue no longer served meals of any kind? All I got was a bag of Doritos. I had recently had a Dorito-related accident while taping a segment for Here-TV, in which I stabbed myself between the front teeth with the edge of a jagged Dorito. If you've ever done this, you know the pain is excruciating. Why must Doritos be so sharp? It seems to me they could be nice and smooth and still retain their nacho cheesy goodness.
Needless to say, I was terrified at the thought of another Dorito, but hunger got the better of me and I wound up gumming each one carefully while watching back-to-back episodes of Bravo's "Shear Genius" on my little JetBlue TV.
Upon landing and activating my cell phone, I got a strange voicemail from some delivery company, the name of which I couldn't make out. When I called back, the woman was confused: "Why are you calling us?"
"Because you called me. Something about a delivery."
"What are you expecting to be delivered?"
"Um, I don't know. Nothing, really."
"Are you sure? Are you sure you didn't order something large, like a car or a motorcycle?"
My mind raced: Could it be? Could my parents have possibly surprised me with a new car? Would that not be the most incredible, wonderful, fabulous thing EVER?
The woman interrupted my orgasmic reverie: "Oh here it is; we have your new mattress from 1-800-MATTRESS."
I'm going to look very silly driving this on the freeway.
I was so happy to see BW at the airport I nearly cried. It had been more than two months since we last saw each other, and I confess there have been moments when I've wondered, "Exactly who is it I'm dropping everything and moving across the country for?" In the instant I saw him, all doubts vanished. We just go together; it's that simple.
BW drove me back to our North Park apartment, which we are sharing with his best friend, another military guy to whom I'll refer from this point forward as Catwoman.
Catwoman has a boyfriend whose initials, coincidentally, are AJS. They were very sweet and welcoming toward me, as were all BW's other friends, whom I met Friday night when we went out to celebrate BW's birthday. (He turned 31).
But the next morning, it was down to business, the first order of which was unpacking my clothes and trying to fit them into our single walk-in closet. Now granted, this closet is larger than many NYC bedrooms. But still, it's not a whole lot of space for two people to store their entire wardrobes, even when one of them is in the military and wears the same outfit to work every day.
And so, after shopping all over Mission Valley for storage containers, we bought six sets of plastic drawers from Lowes and spent about eight hours unpacking, folding hanging and organizing. The result was something of which Ty Pennington would have been proud.
And I hear he knows a lot about closets, if you know what I'm saying.
That afternoon we were also delighted by a visit from my dear friend Patrick, who had been in L.A. on personal business. Saturday night we all went to a birthday party in Talmadge for some German guy named Joerg. I tried to impress him by saying, "Gluklich zu sehen" ("Nice to see you"), which I remember the MC in "Cabaret" singing during the "Wilkommen" number, but apparently I said it wrong, because Joerg simply shook his head and walked away.
Jews should never attempt German.
In the next installment: Ikea insanity, and Adam goes car shopping.
Homo out West . ♥