Is it Tuesday? It’s Tuesday, right? It’s either Monday or Tuesday — possibly Wednesday.

I saw a girl yesterday on the corner near where I live. She was sitting on an overwrought bus bench covered in ceramic mosaic patterns. It appeared as if this girl were homeless, and she had a Bible opened to about a third of the way through. And she stared across the intersection by this new taco place that looks like it’s going to be delicious. I don’t think she was thinking about tacos. More than likely she was contemplating the punishment she would mete out to whatshisname or his female counterpart from what? Three years ago? Twenty years ago? The initiating act was probably just a garden variety misunderstanding, just a misplaced word or even a glance dropped at the wrong moment. It might have been ignored and the world would have moved on blissfully unaware. But this slight has grown to biblical proportions by now. And the levers of retribution, maintained by true believers, stand at the ready.

 

 

Good morning. I already ate my two hard-boiled eggs.  Ha ha…I just spelled “egg” with one ‘g’ and it looked like this: “eg.” But don’t fret, I was saved by the autocorrect, who’s always looking out for me. But here’s my question: Is Donald Trump really, really that stupid?

a really bad day

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.

Why does it take so long for really good gay TV shows to appear?

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?

Sunday morning

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.

Second novel and trying to sell the first one.

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.