sorry, but I have it pretty good. I found myself comparing my horrible first-world problems, which are mostly just variations on the theme of privileged angst, to a homeless guy whose shopping cart overflowing with collected recyclables overturned and spilled all over a section of the sidewalk that blocked an alley. Of course a car just appeared as if by magic, the driver demanding to know the meaning of this temerity of just being there, while the homeless guy scrambled to clean up the mess and allow the driver free passage.
And after witnessing this, I confided to my terrier Duffy, I know how that guy feels. Duffy just said fuck you, you have no idea.
He’s right. I have no idea.
Queer As Folk: Very good show. Set in Pittsburgh, which is some kind of relief from NY/LA, the “smart” locations. Looks at some real issues in a realistic way.
Shortcomings: Everybody (except Sharon Gless) is a model. No bellies; no wrinkles; huge muscles; sculpted bodies (isn’t this what ALL people should look like? It’s no trouble really).
Situation comedy setups began to sprout more often as the show progressed. Wince-producing stuff.
Looking: Unwatchable. All models; nothing realistic; focus on San Francisco angst of the privileged: Oh, my gallery opening just ran out of smoked salmon! What am I to do?!
A California version of Sex and the City.
Good morning. I’m already opinionated. Yesterday I read that monumental piece in WaPo about Trump’s Russian ties. Unbelievable. Where are the croissants?
Watched about one thousand hours of Queer As Folk yesterday/last night. It’s actually better than I’d imagined, kind of like a mass produced response to Angels In America. But it did drift embarrassingly into sit-com/privileged white girl angst territory quite a few times.
Maybe I should play some Debussy a little later, after I’ve ingested the obligatory 23 pounds of Sunday morning indignation from the television machine. I’m kind of playing Suite bergamasque for the past few weeks. I know I know, I didn’t capitalize the initial letter in bergamasque. Neither did Ms. Debussy apparently. Clap your hands if you love Debussy.
Oh btw, I read that incredible WaPo piece about Russia. it’s about 105 pages long. Scary shit. I never though that people would be capable of suffering months of sustained embarrassment – maybe years. It’s a nightmare for sure, but being constantly embarrassed is just so weird. “Orwellian” has been manifested in reality.
The most pressing question facing me now is: Should I shower and shave in preparation for my breakfast of Joy Reid, George Stephanopoulous (who knows) and/or the CBS guy, who I really kind of admire.
Probably not. Fuck it.
Vegging out on Queer As Folk. Never watched it before, but pretty good, even though 99 percent of the guys are like models.
I bought a book to day on cervical cancer. It’s pretty random. I don’t know how I’m going to use it, but that’s what I love about research. Besides, it was cheap, only three bucks or something.
Oh, I should say that I hate FaceBook. They’re the most venal people in the universe.
It seems like the second novel has built-in expectations, like WTF is this about. As a reader, I don’t gravitate to novels that are “about” anything. I love LOVE digression, burrowing, deferring — it’s kind of like surfing, I think, something I’ve never done, but the concept seems apt. Like powering down the face of some kind of exploitation. I used to say exploiting ideas was was dependent on value, you know, choosing to exploit something that had an implicit value, but that may not be true. I just don’t know at this moment.
But I know one thing: writing is no place for modesty. I have to leave it ALL out there for everybody to see.
By the way, I’m reading from Be Safe on July 9 at Beyond Baroque in Venice, CA at 7 p.m. I’m going to be reading from the only chapter with a title beyond a number, “The AIDS Clinic.”
It was my favorite chapter to write, the one where I felt like a writer maybe for the first time in my life.
Writing is exciting sometimes. And so are so many things. I’m a writer so I write.
Confession: I don’t know what I’m doing. This in itself isn’t surprising. I’m a writer but I have absolutely zero aptitude for commercial considerations. But there’s nothing like trying, so here goes: Be Safe is my debut novel. It’s pretty good. As a matter of fact it was reviewed like this:
“…Weaver’s adventures flow and burble like liquor taps, and ideas spill every which way, similar to the work of William Burroughs.” and “Weaver’s marriage of the high and the low—the classical music digressions and the dirty sex fantasies—will broaden most readers’ horizons” and finally, “Strong writing chops sculpt an odyssey from an addict’s raw life”…Kirkus Reviews
I’ve started a new novel. It’s really hard, harder than the first one, I think, for any number of reasons. I think it’s some kind of perceived responsibility that rests on my shoulders now, where in the first novel all I was concerned about was producing enough words.