In Defense of My Existence

No One Is Alone

2009-02-07T08:25:00.000-08:00

My sister-in-law's cat, Tigger, died during the night. He had apparently been ailing for a few months, but hid his true level of deterioration--as cats are wont to do--until yesterday evening as Jen checked-in on him. It was only then he revealed a hint of discomfort in his utterances that told his companion since kittenhood a different world was calling. After the kids were put to bed and plans to visit the vet were made, Jen sat with her friend in a gentle reverie of 13 years together. I'm sure many bugs and birds were remembered, as well as funny memories of the 'nip and playful frolics in sprier days (Tigger got his name, after all, due to his positive--not to mention, bouncy--demeanor).

We people have schedules to maintain, lives to keep in order, children to raise. But as bed was calling and quiet fell on the warm laundry room that had become Tigger's chosen space for convalescing, Gabby, the family's other feline member, crept-in to let Jen know it was OK for her to take her leave. Gabby, though still in top form, is actually a bit older than Tigger and tended to mother him quite a bit when he first came into the fold. Their relationship had been seemingly distant for years but, last night, Gabby chose to lie next to her adopted child/friend/lover/partner in his moment of weakening.

As dawn broke and the house began to rouse itself, my brother, Sean, carried himself down the stairs to see how the patient was doing. And though he was to find Tigger's body void of its soul, there lie Gabby preening and prawning and caressing her now-lost friend. As cats are wont to do, she had never left his side...

Be in peace, sweet Tigger. May you bring the angels as much happiness as you brought your family here on earth.

You move just a finger,
Say the slightest word,
Something's bound to linger,
Be heard ...

No one is alone,
Believe me.
Truly...

[untitled]

2007-11-10T21:32:00.000-08:00

Lost in the haze
Lost in a daze
Lost in your phrase...

It beheld me beautifully.

Does love lie low?
Lamenting loss longingly?
Lingering?

Perhaps.

Yes, perhaps proud Puck
Participated in pontificating
Said precepts.

Oh, sirs.

The phrase said nothing of
A midsummer's night.

The phrase I felt in
The feverish ferment
That februaric night:

"Forever..."

A Poem of Ecological Importance

2007-11-10T21:23:00.000-08:00

Verdant.

God! how the fields were verdant.

I ran across them. It was yesterday.

Like a child, I couldn't help myself.

I felt the weeds and grasses and
Wildflowers brush against my shins.

I stopped to scratch my legs.

The tree caught my fall.

Oh, I stopped upon a tree, you see.

As I scratched, I lost my balance
And began to tumble.

I've quite the egg upon my forehead.

I've quite the egg, you see.

Beyond, beside, bepast, before...
Be weary... perhaps?

Behoove me belatedly,
For speaking of the tree.

A brush, an itch, a scratch
And now I've found a Tree.

reminder of an unstable mind

2006-08-26T20:44:00.000-07:00

It was like an itch. It was an itch. It was like a cliche. And the stereotype was that it couldn't be scratched.

And it grew.

Which would've been merely unpleasant--a perfect use for calamine, perhaps--if it hadn't started in his head.

And it spread... of course it spread.

The itch, and its accompanying voices. The voices are worse than the itch. With the itch you can just slam yourself against a wall. Or yell at someone, or nothing at all. Or jump on a plane to Pittsburgh and roll around in some Monongahela River sludge.

That helps... a bit.

But the voices stay with you. They have tea with you at 4 o'clock. And they steal the choicest crumpet you had been eyeing while the ladies who lunch droned on and on about some out-of-date fashion you never had much attachment to.

He ran from the voices once. But even surrounded--as he was--by the soothing, humidless splendour of the Pacific Northwest, they caught up.

And he was still scared. And still lost. And still not good enough, or smart enough, or worthy of any affection. Which was fine when that rare voice supporting his cocky stature and credit card use came by... actually let him have the good crumpet.

But they were more often just mean, Old World queens.

They kept the salves to themselves.

And the itch spread.

And the voices laughed.

And sometimes I joined in ...

Surprise!

2006-04-25T19:20:00.000-07:00

So, as if you couldn't tell, I've been on a bit of a hiatus the past couple months... and shall remain on one for the time being. I seem far too busy--not to mention feeling drained completely of inspiration--to be regularly reminded to partake in any activity bearing even the subtlest resemblance to blogging.

HOWEVER...

Check in every-so-often as I will continue updating the ever-popular Off the Shelf and Playlists sidebars as well as contribute the occasional I'm still here, damn it! post.

To those who've been curious as to my whereabouts, I thank you for your kind words and wonderings. To all, I hope to return to more frequent ramblings in the near future.

'til then...

excerpt from an email from karl rove to life & style magazine

2006-02-15T08:36:00.000-08:00

"In reference to your query regarding anonymous sources: I believe it would be in both of our best interests if your information was simply cited to 'unnamed friends.' [...] Once again, thank you for your assistance in this rather delicate matter."

near sw 4th & washington

2006-02-04T19:33:00.000-08:00

Ahr-errr-AH! Ahr-errr-AH!

The man trudged toward me, calling out his drunken song:

Ahr-errr-AH! Ahr-errr-AH!

It was only almost-melodic--the lilt of his voice wavering between psychotic screaming and world-be-damned celebrating--but a song nonetheless. A chant of defiance, perhaps, as he veered in my direction--for he veered off some indeterminate path much moreso than staggered--clutching a plastic pint bottle of Popov vodka still 3/4 full.

It was 3:15 pm, but I didn't bother to question whether that was too early to be so belligerently soused, though not three blocks away were busy weekend shoppers perusing from Sax Fifth Avenue to Tiffany's to Louis Vuitton... and there were children with them... children from the suburbs, even (not to mention the street kids who were far more inconspicuous in their chemical use). Evenso, the question seemed irrelevant. He had surely been less than sober the great majority of two recent decades. His liver hardly needed a whole four ounces to reach its saturation point, and yet his body was, I presume, thankful for the 12 that remained.

He passed me by without incident, and I continued on my way to turn-in the keys to my old apartment and surprise Pic at work. (Might as well seeing as he only works a few blocks past where I was heading... I do love that silly man.)

But I kept thinking about the old sot and began to feel sorry for him. Having already traveled the path he was now attempting, I knew that in a block or two he'd blindly meander past an officer of the law; one specifically positioned to keep order on the streets. And, though I'm sure he will escape any penalties of the financial or confining sort--even detox is generally used only in the wee hours for those creating a ruckus or who have lost their way--he will certainly be forced to dump his bottle of Popov down the sewer... even though [because] it's still 3/4 full...

...and I doubt he has money for more.

Ahr-errr-AH! Ahr-errr-AH...

i am taking my driving test tomorrow...

2005-12-08T18:28:00.000-08:00

and I am terrified...

the roman fascist church

2005-11-30T13:14:00.000-08:00

It has been widely reported about the Vatican's release of a devolutionary, misguided document of "instruction" that all but bans gays from the priesthood. As a gay man who is fiercely proud of his Catholic heritage (I am a cultural Catholic, if you will), I am deeply disturbed by this pronouncement from a church that is often surprisingly enlightened when compared to its Christian counterparts of a more fundamentalist mindset. I am in no mood to rattle off a diatribe exposing the backlash of naivete and social conservatism that has been building in the Church since Joseph Ratzinger's predecessor ascended the Throne of Peter nearly 30 years ago. I will note, however, that this reeks of Benedict's Nazi past.

As such, I will proudly show support for my priests who are my teachers and friends and devout men of God whether they be straight or gay or dickless. They're priests, for fuck's sake! I don't give a fuck who they're thinking of while sneaking a whack in the confessional! (And don't give me your bullshit about the sex abuse problem. That is a whole different issue that this document--regardless of the writers' intentions--does nothing to address.)

The world is fucked up enough as is. The last thing we need is another witch hunt.

being busy

2005-11-19T22:58:00.000-08:00

I have been so crazy busy the past couple months I've hardly had time to empty Oliveranderson's litter box (and believe you me that's not something you want to let slide... ewwwie! little man stinks!) let alone post anything (though we all know prolificacy has never been my strong suit). But to all you kind enough to read my little ol' blog, I assure you I shall return soon.

So if you'll excuse me for just a bit longer, I really must play catch-up...

(Damn, Ollie-A! What the hell have I been feeding you??)

bush's body armor

2005-09-27T07:24:00.000-07:00

Second Chance Body Armor, Inc. is being investigated by the Justice Department to determine whether they knowingly sold defective bullet proof vests. The vests in question were used by such luminaries as the Secret Service, President Bush, and First Lady Laura Bush.

Stephen M. Kohn, a lawyer involved in the case, blasted Second Chance for continuing sales after the defective materials were discovered, saying: "Greed prevailed over the safety of police, soldiers and even the president of the United States. The officials who personally profited from selling the defective vests to law enforcement must be held accountable to the fullest extent of the criminal code."

Greed? Soldiers in harm's way? Capitalism run amok? And they're performing a criminal investigation?

Seems to me they should name Second Chance bullet-proof vests...

the Official Body Armor of the Bush Administration, WPE!

Jane

2005-09-25T14:29:00.000-07:00

I love the forearms of my hairy friend, Jane. And the wispy, black hairs that give her the sideburns of a teenaged boy trying to grow a goatee to prove his manhood to his friends and the popular girls in school; but feminine. And the whiskers at the corners of her mouth that she often forgets to trim that complement a robust neckbeard, far more defined than any I could ever sport. But it is Jane's forearms that seduce me.

Even my beau, as butch as he may be--except when forced to react to the world around him after a few martinis at the quaint, neighborhood bar we frequent--has forearms so bare as to warrant an occasional suggestion that he performs in drag.

Not so, Jane's.

When Jane's arms wrap around me--whether for a grand "hello" or a reassuring "see you soon"--the expected feelings of maternal warmth mingle with a sense of peace and security found in the embrace of a long gone, ever-distant father and the dark, fuzzy hair of his forearms.

today i composed a limerick...

2005-09-13T20:17:00.000-07:00

...and thought I would share:

There once was a girl called Marie
Who kept a fine circus of fleas.
On the topic of Itch
She'd exclaim, "It's a bitch!"
"But a bitch not so bad as my bees'!"

Thank you and good night.

it's not looting...

2005-09-01T18:46:00.000-07:00

...it's survival...

faggot

2005-08-25T21:26:00.000-07:00

7:45 pm--A gorgeous summer evening in Portland, Oregon...

I'm walking up SW Montgomery Avenue into the hills that surround downtown, a habit of mine most nights as I begin the drawn-out ritual of relaxation that follows dinner.

"FAGGOT!" fills the air as the SUV drives past.

(God help the little people.)

Normally, I greet the drive-by "Faggot!" with a shout of "Fuck you!" or, in a lame attempt to fight fire with fire, "Breeder!" If the "Faggot!" is extended by a passerby on foot I may even get playful and offer an attitudinal "Your point?" or "You better believe it!"

Other times--especially, like tonight, when i haven't been confronted with that situation in a while--I sink a little... get frustrated a bit.

When a gay man is gay-bashed (calling someone a faggot may seem like gay-bashing lite but it is gay-bashing all the same) it puts him in a situation similar to a rape victim: there are those who will say he brought it upon himself by flaunting his [immoral] sexuality and, should he complain more than is deemed comfortable, he will be accused of holding an unhealthy grudge against [normal] straight people.

If I was an African American in the same place and time that SUV would not have shouted "Nigger!" Nor would they have shouted "Trash!" if I looked poor or "Kike!" if I wore a kepah. "Dothead!", "Chink!", and "Spic!" would have likely been left alone as well. If my perceived Irishness had trumped my apparent homosexuality do you think they would have spouted "Mick!"? Most certainly not.

But even in Portland fucking Oregon, this bastion of liberalism... in the Southwest Hills, where education and fiscal comfort are presumed to equal open-mindedness, it is in no way shocking or surprising that someone should call me a faggot.

When MP and I were in Chicago this past May we were enjoying a lovely stroll in the Lincoln Park neighborhood when a darling little car of twentysomethings hurled a "FAGGOT!" our way. There was a thirtyish-fortyish, white yuppie--typical of the residents in this area--behind us when this happened and he asked, with a puzzled look on his face, "That really happens?" "Yes," we replied. "All the time."

I bet he told his wife of that encounter when he got home. I hope he told people at the office the next day. Whatever the case may be, he now knows first-hand that this really does happen... all the time. And now you do, too.

To all the allies out there:
THANK YOU FOR HELPING TO CURB THE HATE!

To all who have ever casually drop-kicked an insult to the sissyboy with the great fashion sense:
FUCK YOU, YOU INBRED PIECES OF SHIT!

good night, peter

2005-08-08T07:31:00.000-07:00

Thank you, Mr. Jennings. Because of you I'm a news junkie... I like that I'm a news junkie.

on the occasion of the 31st anniversary of my birth...

2005-08-07T15:17:00.000-07:00

Age is funny.

Physically, I'm doing quite well ("Thanks, Mom & Dad, for the great genes!"); I would blend seamlessy with a group of college kids. In fact, put me in a t-shirt and jeans next to a 22-year old in a suit and I may very well look younger. But the fact remains I am now--officially--fully entrenched in my 30s. I am a thirty-something.

Have you noticed, though, how so much weight is placed on appearance when the subject of getting older is broached, especially during this too often stress-inducing transition from one's twenties to thirties? Whenever expressing my own concerns I always seem to get a guffaw or eye roll followed by a "What do you have to worry about?" Obviously, since I look freakishly young, I never think about fine lines or peak performance or how I'm going to be 40 in nine years; or if I should be more settled at this age or have a stock portfolio and fatter paycheck; or wonder--sometimes out loud--"Shouldn't I have myself figured out by now?"

In a purely superficial way I am grateful that I still fit in with twenty-somethings. And I'll be the first to admit that my personality is as youthful as my appearance. But don't let your eyes decieve you... I worry about wearing Depends just as much as you do.

With that said, HAPPY FIZZ DAY!!

all growed up

2005-07-31T09:05:00.000-07:00

I would like to take this opportunity to send birthday wishes to my dearest friend, Angel:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY YOU OLD, PSYCHO BITCH!! You're still the bestest best friend ever... even after 15 long, torturous years!

Have a glorious day. Smile profusely. And I will see you Friday. Long live the Kola Kult. Love ya!!

latoyia figueroa

2005-07-28T11:37:00.000-07:00

As the media swarms over Aruba, broadcasting the details of the Natalee Holloway investigation into homes across America, let's take some time to remember that not everyone who turns up missing is white, blonde, and well-heeled. In Philadelphia a seven-year old girl wonders what happened to her mother, Latoyia Figueroa, who disappeared on July 18. Making this case more urgent is the fact that Latoyia is also seven months pregnant. Yet there has been little coverage outside of Philly. Though this story is finally getting more exposure thanks to The All Spin Zone and others, more needs to be done to spread the word and build the buzz. Passing on this information--whether through email or the water cooler-- is all it takes. For more information click on the above link. We all deserve to be found!

post-run inspiration

2005-07-16T20:32:00.000-07:00

How appropriate that my birth name should have something to do with dark water:

You are elegant, withdrawn, and brilliant.
Your mind is a weapon, able to solve any puzzle.
You are also great at poking holes in arguments and common beliefs.

For you, comfort and calm are very important.
You tend to thrive on your own and shrug off most affection.
You prefer to protect your emotions and stay strong.

The World's Shortest Personality Test

today i'm just going to ramble for a moment for that is all i'm capable of...

2005-07-16T15:43:00.000-07:00

I awoke so late as to be vulgar--11:30--reeling from the third sugar hangover in as many days. Stumbling into the kitchen--no coffee of, course--I reached for the hair of the dog: ice cream and pie for brunch. "This is ridiculous. I'm going to be hating life later," I thought, woofing down the last creamy morsel of peanut butter mixed with whipped topping. With a sigh of submission, I prepared a veggie turkey sandwich and attempted to satisfy my body's nutritional needs, not to mention rein in my blood's glucose roller coaster ride.

Shit! I feel like shit!

My body's a wreck. My mind's on three planets at once. I'm bored, I'm lonely, I'm lazy, and life seems a little bit scarier right now. There's only one thing to do:

I decided to go for a run.

Running has always been the only sport I could do. I ran track and cross-country as a kid and often come back to it when feeling the need to get fit. But it's been a hell of a long time. My poor lungs! Yes, I quite smoking seven months ago but what about the 12 years before when my body suffered through nearly 20 bouts of oxygen-deprivation day in, day out? And MP (fka Boyfriend) and I have been avoiding the gym lately... I'm mushy! And my diet? What about all of my sugar-binging of late? Does my body have what it needs to endure a prolonged cardiac activity or will I shut down the way those Gatorade commercials tell me I will if I don't have the right amount of electrolytes? And it's hot and sunny. It claims to be only 70 but this is Portland. When the sun is out you might as well add another 15 degrees to the thermometer (I have yet to understand this climatological phenomenon). I miss snow!!

And there I was at Duniway Park. Very Portlandy considering this particular state-of-the-art track was made out of recycled tires and soles from Nike running shoes. I take a big glug of water and start... nice and slow... only gonna force two miles on myself... nice and steady... keep the pace... 1... this isn't so bad... 2... breathing harder... 3... I figured I'd get a little cramp, just keep the pace... one mile, doing good... 5... my body hurts... 6... almost there... 7... and there I go pretending like it's my track heyday (which was in grade school, mind you) and break out like a proverbial bat... 8, two miles, I think I'm going to die.

I head for home. My side is cursing me in five languages. My legs have switched from pie to Jell-O. My stomach is threatening to clean house. And I keep running into people. College kids and progressive couples with strollers the size of Mini Coopers. This is very annoying to me at this moment. I'm crossing through Portland State University and there's some sort of fair going on. There also seem to be a lot of newbies around (perhaps they're wanna-be singers here for the Bel Canto Northwest Vocal Institute... ok, I admit it, I envy them). This is evident by the large amount of people waiting a good 15 minutes for the Streetcar. As the destined-to-be-resurrected adage goes, "if you want to go to Nob Hill, hop the Streetcar; if you want to get there quickly, walk." (What's worse is they're probably only going two stops to the library.) It's not that I have anything against 13-21 year olds, it's just that I rolled my eyes at high school kids when I was in high school.

I'm home now. Not so hot anymore. My cramp went away. My legs have accepted their inevitable veganism. My stomach is relaxed. I am relaxed. My mind is clear. I can handle the newfound scariness. I was planning on going to a coffehouse and acting all bohemian but I think I may waste the afternoon away watching Connie & Carla. That's ok, right?

And as for my body? I feel ok now but I really need to lay off the sugar.

And maybe go running more.

here we meme again

2005-07-09T19:17:00.000-07:00

This has been passed on to me by Underdog. Enjoy! (And don't be thinkin' you know me any better jus' cause you done read it!!)

10 years ago: July 1995... I was stuck living with my parents in Miamisburg, Ohio after having spent several months living in, first, Philadelphia and, later, with Angel. My days were spent working at the University of Dayton's Roesch Library. Come nightfall, my underage ass hit the dive bars with my (still) dear friend Mosa. Only a month until the big 2-1!

5 years ago: July 2000... I was taking summer classes at Valparaiso University and rehearsing for Fiddler on the Roof at the Memorial Opera House in town, my big return to the stage after a several years absence. To make ends meet I was a deli clerk at the local Wiseway. Consequently, I ate all sorts of exotic, non-kosher lunch meat that summer.

1 year ago: July 2004... Homelessness. Unemployment. Ick! Thank God for Boyfriend!!

Yesterday: 8 July 2005... Put in a full day at my fabulous job; It rained all evening (which they tell me is inappropriate for Portland at this time of year); Boyfriend and I had a big, homemade spaghetti dinner and chilled the night away.

Today: 9 July 2005... Slept in (8:30 here I come); Met Boyfriend for lunch (he had to work today); Dropped off a resume in my ongoing, half-assed quest for a second job; Currently chatting with Angel (how long have I known this woman??); Tonight, I may catch Othello in the park.

Tomorrow: is another day, but there will probably be a Sunday paper involved.

5 snacks I enjoy: Sour Patch Kids; ShockTarts; Fritos and cottage cheese; mango sorbet; kim chee.

5 bands that I know the lyrics of most of their songs: Siouxsie and the Banshees; Rasputina; B-52s; and because musicals should count, Sweeney Todd and A New Brain.

5 things I would do with $100,000,000: Get the fuck out of debt; put my folks up real good; make a very comfortable home-base for myself in NYC and then travel to my heart's content; invest, invest, invest; set up a charitable foundation.

5 locations I'd like to run away to: NYC; Ireland; Russia; Alaska; New England.

5 bad habits I have: I can be a real perfectionist (wait, this isn't a job interview, scratch that). It's a wonder I have any nails left; since I cut down the drinking my sweet tooth has taken over my life; I'm lazy; I can be, at times, a know-it-all, I guess if you want to call it that; I'm terribly indecisive. (Well, shit! Thank God I'm cute!)

5 things I like doing: singing; listening to music; creating beauty; walking about new places; reading.

5 things I would never wear: a thong; tapered pants; pigeon shit; underwear from goodwill; my older brother's hand-me-downs.

5 TV shows I like: The Simpsons; Family Guy; Antiques Roadshow; the News; um, um, um... I admit it... I don't paricularly watch that much television.

5 movies I like: Saved; Connie & Carla; On Edge; D.E.B.S.; Baby Boom.

5 famous people I'd like to meet: Elie Wiesel; Stephen Sondheim; Bill Clinton; Madonna; Siouxsie Sioux.

5 biggest joys of the moment: non-alcoholic beer; friends; walking in the West Hills; the kids flipping out on each other; my special pickle.

5 favorite toys: my teddy bear; bubbles; stickers; my beach cruiser; the crutches at work.

5 people to tag: this is a trick question, right? I pick Angel and Stef.

Thank you and good night.

let's celebrate our freedom & independence...

2005-07-04T08:54:00.000-07:00

...while we still have it!

Have joyously liberal fourth!

i'm it!

2005-07-03T12:03:00.000-07:00

My best friend, Angel, has deemed it necessary to "tag" me with one of those "memes" that are all the rage in the blogosphere. After conferring with her about what exactly it is I am supposed to do with it, here is my reply:

1) Number of books I own... 40-50 on hand, but another 300 or so in storage back in Ohio.

2) Last book I bought... Ishmael by Daniel Quinn. But, of course, I haven't read it yet.

3) Last book I read... Gilgamesh: A New English Version by Stephen Mitchell. I currently feel the need, inherent--at some time or another--in all persons with an English degree, to catch up on The Klassix.

4) Five books that mean a lot to me... I'm guessing here, but: Guess How Much I Love You by Sam McBratney with illustrations by Anita Jeram, Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse, Anthem by Ayn Rand, my mother's old pre-Vatican II St. Joseph's Missal in Latin and English that I used to play priest with as a youngin', and the pseudo-memoir I've been working on for over a year that I may or may not finish that shares a title with this blog.

Golly Gee! That was fun! I now tag Stef as she is the only other blogger I know. The meme is in your court.

the sensual courthouse

2005-07-02T10:47:00.000-07:00

All rise for the Honorable Judge... Rockmyworld...

[P-Funk riffs play in the background.]

Sometimes, for work...

(Jackets and sport coats slide down long, toned Polo Ralph Lauren arms. As for the ladies? Well, you can keep that Chanel on for now--I won't tell anyone it's really JC Penney.)

...I have to run documents to the courthouse...

(Belts break free. Shoes go flying. Hair is unleashed in a whip as forceful as any Herbal Essence commercial.)

...And in this kooky post-9/11, judge-stalking world...

(Cellphones, jewels, bracelets pile up. Pens with metal nubs escape from hidden zippered locales.)

...the ubiquitous metal detector has made the practice of law...

[Rythms build to fortissimo in a glorious explosion of funky grooves... is that George Clinton I hear?]

...a whole lot sexier!

"Oh, Judge! Is that a chain on your wallet or are you just into... hung juries??"

(All that's missing is a wind machine.)

the pooh conspiracy

2005-06-27T08:07:00.000-07:00

Is Winnie the Pooh killing off the Hundred Acre Wood?

It appears two of his companions, Tigger and Piglet, have died within a day of each other.

Could Christopher Robin and Eeyore be next?

peanut butter pie will be my downfall

2005-06-26T18:31:00.000-07:00

I love peanut butter. It is my chocolate and my ice cream and my potato chips all in one. The Easter Bunny and Santa Clause are always dipped in a jar of Jif. A Hershey's Kiss's kiss is sweetened ever more by a dab of Skippy. A Reese's Peanut Butter Cup makes up for what it lacks by a dive into white-labeled government handouts (if you've only tried the cheese you haven't lived).

But it will be the death of me... or, at the very least, my waistline.

This evening, after dinner, Boyfriend and I will dig into our third peanut butter pie in two weeks. We love peanut butter pie. It has gone from obsession to full-blown compulsion. In case my kidneys fail or arteries explode or liver freezes, carry forth this recipe and spread the word of the Peanut Butter...

Coat the bottom and sides of 1 graham cracker pie crust (I actually used a 'Nila Wafer crust) with 2-3 tablespoons of chocolate syrup. Throw it in the 'fridge to chill.
Mix together an 8-ounce container of Tofutti Better Than Cream Cheese and 1 cup of sugar (my enamel is quivering). Add 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract and 1 cup of peanut butter (less if preferred but that would just be silly). Fold (it is very important to fold! not mix or stir or beat. Fold!) a 12-ounce tub of Cool Whip into the peanut butter mixture. Take your time with this step; it's well worth it. Pour the filling mixture into the crust and drizzle another tablespoon or two of chocolate syrup on top. Chill until firm (about 3-4 hours); freeze if desired.

The result is extremely rich! This can be lessened by replacing the cream cheese with silken tofu and adjusting the other ingredients proportionately. Also, this recipe is easily veganized (through crust and syrup selection) or dairyfied. Regardless, if you like peanut butter and Cool Whip prepare to die happy. If you're counting calories, on the other hand, brace yourself. Here's a rough estimate per serving:

Ten servings: 505 Calories, 30g Fat, 52g Carbs, 8g Protein.
Eight servings: 632 Calories, 38g Fat, 64g Carbs, 10g Protein.

Enjoy!!

(I'll see you at the gym!)

a grandma story

2005-06-25T18:52:00.000-07:00

It seems my recently departed grandmother has left me with a slew of loose ends.

She was born in Philadelphia--to a former stage actress and a suit type--35 days after that behemoth of history, the Titanic, sank in the cold waters of the North Atlantic. A dramatic analogy foreshadowing her 93 year existence? No, but her father did die in 1918, a victim of that great flu epidemic that those in the know have recently reminded us could happen again at any time.

"What sort of wonder woman could have possibly experienced all this history first-hand and lived to drop hints about it," you ask? My gran, I tell you! And you don't know the half of it. (Neither do I as it just so happens.)

After her father's death, her mother bundled up her six-year old self and her brother and headed west to be near family in Chicago. There, my gran and great uncle sat at an orphanage in Des Plaines (Maryville Academy??), visited by their mother everyday until she succumbed to illness in 1920.

I never quite figured out what happened to Peter, my great uncle. I know he ended up in California but don't know where he was during the remainder of his youth. Gran, on the other hand, was passed around from aunt to aunt, lived in the Gold Coast here and some working-class Irish neighborhood there, and was treated like royalty and dirt and everything in between.

She made it through childhood, met my grandfather while working at the 1933 World's Fair, married at Our Lady of Sorrows three years later, and settled with her husband in his hometown of Dayton, Ohio where she lived for the remaining 69 years of her life.

I've enjoyed my grandma's stories for as long as I can remember: slurping malts underneath the el; teasing the laundresses in Chinatown; lounging at Oak Street Beach; dancing on Navy Pier (back before it turned into an urban DisneyWorld); sneaking out to the carnival, only to be puked on while riding the ferris wheel (I particularly loved that story). Her family--whether through blood or through marriage they were all family--were ever so colorful: The sisters Aunt Nora and Aunt Marie came from Ireland and somehow or another had money (one of the two traded in her Buick every year for the new model); Aunt Helen used to beat her, I think. One of her uncles had to work for the first time in his life when the Depression hit; they all felt sorry for him. Another uncle was supposedly married to Kate Buckingham who so graciously donated a certain world-famous fountain to the city of Chicago in 1927. The faceless names go on and on.

All of these beautiful stories but I'm so uncertain of how they all connect. All of these interesting people and I don't really know who's who ("Aunt" Nora, it turns out, was her grandfather's second wife and her sister, "Aunt" Marie, was married to "Uncle" Mon who was loaded and may have been married to Ms. Buckingham). This fascinating life lived in this exciting American city and I can't even begin to tell the story. I need to know how it all fits together. It's my history, too!

So today I started my research. The Chicago Historical Society was so kind as to let me know there is no record of Kate Buckingham ever being married.

Well, shit!

But I always tell people that's my fountain. And Oak Street Beach is my grandma's beach. And...

... A few years ago, while living in Chicago, I managed to visit Mount Olivet Cemetery on the Southside. My great grandmother is buried there... the actress... gran's mom. It turns out she resides in an unmarked grave. (But I thought the family, at least part of it, had money.) My grandmother wasn't aware of this, not having seen the grave since sometime near 1920. (But why? You've been back many times since then.) I stuck a crucifix in her plot, gently placed a long stem rose, and snapped a few pictures. This was to accompany a picture of my great grandfather's grave I had taken in Philadelphia years before. He has a headstone...

That is how I feel right now. That uncertain feeling that accompanied my discovery of the unmarked grave.

I wish I had found out more from Gran before she died. Unfortunately, in the last decade of her life, she was a befuddling, albeit witty, interview. Before that, even. I have recordings I made 15 years ago while interviewing her for a history project. She never connected the dots. I've talked to my mom and my uncles and they have the same spotted history I do. Not only that, but I seem to be the only one who feels compelled to complete this puzzle.

So, damn it! I'm going to. I'm going to find out what, if any, my family's connection to the Buckinghams was. I'm going to figure out who the hell Uncle Mon is. I'm going to determine if we really are related to Robert Fulton (just because my grandma's grandfather was a Fulton doesn't mean we are). And just who was this man my gran dated who owned a speakeasy during Prohibition?? I'm going to separate the Noras from the Maries, the bitches from the benevolents, and the blue collars from the white ones. And I'm going to figure out how the hell my grandmother's mother was related to any of these people in the first place!

Gran! I love ya but you sure as hell left me with a lot of blanks here!

(I feel much better now... let the adventure commence...)

portland pride 2005

2005-06-19T21:53:00.000-07:00

Never will you hear such hateful bile and lack of Christian love than when listening to the diatribes emitting from the mouth of a fundamentalist Evangelical confronting a carefree, joyous celebration of gay pride.

What would Jesus do?

My guess is He'd be flinging Mardi Gras beads.

don't mess with the tress

2005-06-13T16:41:00.000-07:00

Boyfriend is a hair stylist.

This fact comes in handy when confronted with legions of banal hipsters. In a showdown between their modish brand of metrosexuality and my own punk-informed take on queer fabulous, Boyfriend is my secret weapon:

"So, what does your boyfriend do?" they ask smug and cocksure (cock-confused?).

"He does..."

(My eyes diminish into a sultry squint. My mouth turns into a sneer as my cheek spasms. I am so good, bad, and ugly!)

"...hair."

Unable to handle the intense power of such grand marveliciousness, vapid eyes spontaneously combust igniting shaggy cuts and faux-hawks saturated in Bed Head and Bumble and Bumble. Flames envelop the once mindless, now lifeless bodies as the desolate street soon takes on an odor best described as the burning contents of a Diesel store...

The benefits of a hair stylist boyfriend go far beyond battling a mob of Jude Law wannabes. As one who often went months between haircuts--home-trimming unruly sideburns, slicing off tendrils of lengthening back hair that threaten one's reputation with a mullet--I appreciate the relative regularity with which my 'do now stays properly coifed (I think about product in ways I never thought to before). Better yet, my hair looks GOOD! This is not only due to Boyfriend's training, natural skill, and impeccable taste, but is ultimately a result of mutual understanding, intimacy, and our romantic bond. I know that regardless of how inane or experimental I decide my hair should be, Boyfriend will pull it off briliantly. (All this after weeks of being reminded of how badly I need a cut. [see the first sentence of this paragraph])

And of course there's color. I love playing with color but, unfortunately, the whole process had become tiresome. Black, Brown, and Blond are so last century. I did the rainbow spectrum last decade; green was once my signature look, but after awhile it started to feel like the mold that shares its hue. What to do? Stay with my natural color? But that gets so boring! A change of perspective was sorely needed.

Saturday night we did a cut and color: aubergine with wisps of blond. My hair was previously silver with blue highlights. Consequently the purples were lighter and textured, almost red in some spots, deep eggplant in others. The bits of blond added a delicate trim to the tops and sides. The effect was beautiful. A friend commented: "It looks like a dried rose petal!" That's it! Why color your hair when you can concept it?? Never again do I want red hair or blue hair or canary yellow hair. I want rose petals and twilight skies and canary feathers. Screw silver! I want chrome!!

So the next time you come into contact with a horde of Trendkillers, not to worry! Just flash those pearly whites and kill them with those cooler-than-you locks... or is that a California roll on your head?

(Disclaimer: The writer of this blog has been known to put far too much Bed Head on his hair, loves the pair of Diesel shoes he and Boyfriend found at Nordstrom Rack, and was brought to tears by the movie Cold Mountain.)

3 minutes

2005-06-03T15:42:00.000-07:00

I will never cease to be amazed by revelatory moments. Not because of their abrupt nature, but because of when they occur.

My boyfriend and I had free passes to the Rose Festival last night. During this nearly month-long celebration of the City of Roses, "Pepsi Waterfront Village" sprawls along the west bank of the Willamette River in all its carnivalic glory, highlighted by the midway. This was our destination.

I haven't been to any sort of civic engagement such as this since that piddling fair at St. Helen's parish in Chicago back in 2001 (where I managed to spend the entire time in the beer garden). And I hate to admit it but I had a blast! We went on all the "scary" rides, all the while laughing about the inevitable fall to our deaths. We flew like the supermen we are, got turned on our heads more than is advisable, and coined a new phrase of giddy conquest: "Super-Looper!!" Not to mention the requisite gorging on elephant ears and fresh-squeezed lemonade. My usual in-a-big-crowd self--staid, too cool--let loose for once... I was a kid again.

It was nearing the end of our evening among the hoi polloi--after riding the ferris wheel--when we happened across a collection of photo booths beneath the Morrison Bridge. We shelled out four bucks and piled in. (obnoxious smiles) Flash... (tongues out) Flash... (look cute) Flash... (kissy kissy) Flash. Then you have to wait three minutes for the pictures to develop. And that's when it happened.

We stood there tapping our feet. Looking around, humming to myself. There's a happy gay couple with their two kids and a giant stuffed animal from a game booth. Warms my heart, it does. Gotta love Portland. Maybe that'll be us someday. Noise behind me: music, laughter, screaming children... screaming in a good way. The setting sun is giving off this eerie, beautiful light that casts a yellow glow on everything the angels deem it touches. It creates around us an artificially 3-D world of striking contrasts and shadows. I'm surrounded by smiles and happiness and innocence. I gaze upon Boyfriend's strong, Eastern European features. Features that are softened by two of the most brilliant eyes you ever did see. This is my world. This is my life. Us and our kids (two cats, maybe real ones someday) and our world of smiles and laughter and yellow light. And I'm content and happy and the future is open and limitless. And I realize that life is really, truly good...

"Yay! The pictures are ready!"

And there we are with our obnoxious smiles, our tongues hanging out, looking cute, and kissing. Us together forever... open... limitless...

"Shall we be off?" "Yes, we shall." Walking toward home, hand in hand, with the yellow light glowing upon our backs. Walking into the good life.

And all of that in just three minutes. Beneath the Morrison Bridge.

better than cream cheese

2005-05-28T13:52:00.000-07:00

I am a vegetarian. A very bad vegetarian considering I will still eat fish on occasion. Nonetheless, given my mindset, I will most certainly be vegan soon enough (I am heading in that direction, you see). Surely a very bad vegan though, as I doubt I will put very much effort into learning the egg and dairy content of my baked goods, not to mention my veggie burgers.

Eggs aren't much of a problem. They tend to gross me out except for the occasional hard-boiled egg--something I can easily live without. Dairy is more of an issue. I tend to subscribe to the notion that dairy products aren't much better than poison when human consumption is involved. But I sure do love ice cream... and milk on my cereal... and cheese. Cubes of cheddar and swiss and meunster... and cottage cheese with pineapple or Fritos (it's surprisingly good)... and, of course, cream cheese on my bagel.

I can handle ice cream and milk deprivation. I love sorbet and genuinely enjoy substitutes made from soy and rice milks. I use rice milk on my cereal and in my cooking with stellar results. And cheese? Well, simply because of how awful it is for you I wince when I find a slice of cheese on my sandwich. However, I will have a few cubes of the tasty little toxin at a party or office event, and a block of it can, once in a blue, be found in my and my boyfriend's 'fridge. (Sorry, vegan foods industry, you need to keep working on your "cheese" products. Nutritional yeast flakes only go so far.) I do love cottage cheese, though... I mean really love cottage cheese. Since it's not as bad for you as other cheeses it's here to stay. That leaves me with cream cheese. I like it but, as with cubed cheese, it's a treat. I will sometimes get flavored or low-fat (blech), but I usually take my bagel plain.

("Wow! This guy's really hung-up on dairy foods." I promise I have a point... not a very important point, but a point nonetheless.)

So, a few weeks ago I went to Veganopolis for a quick something on my way to work. I decided on a spelt bagel (it's a vegan cafe, of course it's spelt). "That's two bucks." Two bucks for a fucking bagel! "It's organic." Two bucks for a fucking bagel! "It's locally made." So we're all about locally made in Portland, but it's still two bucks for a fucking bagel! (Keep in mind it was a very small bagel and I was in the two-days-before-payday-what's-going-to-bounce stretch.) "It's only $2.50 with Tofutti brand Better Than Cream Cheese cream cheese substitute." I do a quick calculation in my head: same price as lox and 25 cents more than veggie at my regular spot. Why the hell not.

Mmmmm. Surprisingly creamy. Without the oily aftertaste of some regular cream cheeses...

Thank you Veganopolis! Tofutti brand Better Than Cream Cheese really is better than cream cheese!

Now if I could just find a damn cottage cheese substitute!

the downing street memo

2005-05-27T15:54:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, as I often do on Thursday afternoons, I was flipping through The Portland Mercury, a "fuck you!" alt-weekly here in Portland, Oregon.

I love page five.

There's the hilarious "One Day at a Time," Ann Romano's tongue-in-cheek take on the events of the past week. (What has happened to Lindsay Lohan's boobs??) In the upper-right we find the everchanging guest columnist. This week? "Seven More Secrets of Highly Effective People." (Take it from Creflo Knight, president of Servo Oil in Pensacola, Florida: going to church with a buttplug up your ass is funny shit!!) And my favorite, "Troubletown," the wonderfully subversive comic just catercorner in the lower left. This week's title is "Did you know...?" I hate to admit it but I didn't.

I didn't know anything about the Downing Street Memo, first published in London's The Sunday Times on 1 May. I didn't know anything because American media outlets have been practically silent about this memo that provides damning evidence of the Iraq War's illegality. It mentions how Iraq's "WMD capability was less than that of Libya, North Korea or Iran," something we are all well aware of now. Evenso, Bush was intent on removing Saddam from power as early as summer 2002 and "the intelligence and facts were being fixed around the policy." If they can do that to a head of state (albeit a rogue state), think of what they could do to you. And mainstream America knows nothing of it??

You might expect me--a self-described liberal--to be feeling a bit smug right now. But no... disgusted is the better word...

More information and updates can be found at downingstreetmemo.com. If there is an Air America station on your radio dial (or if you have internet-streaming capability), Randi Rhodes has been talking about this situation on her show. Also, be sure to read the letter, sent to the White House by 89 members of Congress, demanding an explanation of the memo's revelations. Bush has not replied.

Please take the time to learn more about this disquieting memo and spread the word to liberal, conservative, and moderate alike.

memento mori

2005-03-21T21:08:00.000-08:00

You are at peace now, Gran. Good night... and spin sweet dreams.

the fall

2005-03-18T20:31:00.000-08:00

After nearly ninety-three years of life--the past ten spent in a state of gradual decline--my grandmother has been classified as terminal. Her doctor has given her 5-7 days.

And all I can think of--of all the possible thoughts I have of this woman I once considered my favorite in the world--is that time my mom and I picked her up at the hospital. Gran was visiting my grandfather who'd had a heartattack and was to die a few days later. This was twenty-some years ago; I was eight. Seven or eight. Mom and I pulled up in the turnabout to Gran waiting by the entrance. Understandably distressed, but my Gran nonetheless. And as she stepped off the curb to get in the car... she fell. My 70 year old grandma fell, hitting the cold, black pavement beneath her. My heart sank.

And that's what loops through my head as my grandmother enters her last week of life...

an introduction is in order...

2005-01-26T20:20:00.000-08:00

They call me Fizz... well... they used to call me Fizz (back in the day). My best friend, Angel, is the only one who still does. So Hi! I'm Fizz. I take the title of this blog from a pseudo-memoir I've been working on. As a writer, this will be an interesting experiment for me (instant publishing).

It seems that many people who begin a blog feel the need to explain why in their first entries. I'm going to bypass that step. I don't have a reason. I just feel the need to purge. And in our tech-savvy, increasingly socially-disabled culture this seems the best outlet to make my purges heard. Yes... I--for whatever reason--feel the need to be heard. And this gives me a bit of practice at airing my laundry. My memoir, when completed, will air quite a bit more.

So this is my sparse introduction. Part of me wants to delete it and start over with an "in your face", "this is me!" exclamation. But that's not really my mood tonight so I think I'll leave it be. Be sure to check out Angel's blog ('twas not for her I would never be doing this).