My Year Of Everything

Among the many problems I have with reading on the iPad, the...

Thu, 07 Oct 2010 20:00:00 -0400

Among the many problems I have with reading on the iPad, the worst is that you can’t lean way back in your chair and fall asleep with the iPad on your face when all this talk about celibacy makes you drowsy.

How I long for the touch of a page!

The Lack Of Sex Is Killing Our Relationship

Tue, 21 Sep 2010 19:55:17 -0400

Hephzibah Anderson’s “Chastened,” the account of her year without sex, has ground me down to a thick paste. I WILL GET BACK TO IT. I SWEAR.

Here’s a rule of thumb: books in which the author takes on new things for a year are engaging and fun. Books in which the author avoids things, especially fun things like sex, are books you can’t not put down.

But I haven’t forgotten about you. The NEW FALL SEASON has begun.

BOLD STATEMENT

Wed, 25 Aug 2010 20:34:00 -0400

Reading books on electronic devices is no fun. Can’t see how far along you are, unless I activate that feature, and then that’s ALL I can pay attention to. Can’t do it in the sun. (YES, I know you can with a Kindle, but the last thing I need is another glowing rectangle to stare at.) Can’t smell the book smell.

Phooey!

Gonna power through “Chastened” on my iPad Kindle app, and then it’s back to actual physical books.

You Know What's Difficult?

Mon, 23 Aug 2010 22:21:54 -0400

Trying to get through a book about a year of chastity while you’re in New York City, as thick-ass college-lacrosse-playing banker guys jog past you.

I do enjoy Los Angeles, but the dude situation in New York is just plain out of hand. To quote the Morning Zoo: BOI-OI-OING.

Unrelated

Fri, 13 Aug 2010 22:22:53 -0400

I’m on a little bit of a tear on my other blog.

And Now Back To Sex.

Fri, 13 Aug 2010 13:47:00 -0400

Hephzibah Anderson (which is a name that requires great concentration to type, no matter how many times you do it) is a month into her Year Without Sex. She’s dressing more modestly, and having more awkward dates. Welcome to our world, Hephzibah.

It’s too early in the book to see how the year is shaping up. I’ll get back to you.

But while we’re on the sex & love tip, the conversation turns- as it must- to the events in California over the last couple of weeks. As of this writing, August 13, 2010, Proposition 8 has been overturned and same-sex marriages can resume next Wednesday pending a stay from the defendants.

Good. Very good.

I honestly don’t know whether marriage is for me, since it’s never really been an option. I have a lot of thinking to do, which is good, because this isn’t over by a long shot.

But I do know this: somewhere in America, this very day, around 11,000 babies are being born. A few hundred of them will grow up to be gay men or lesbians (because that’s what’s programmed into them already).

Those kids will grow up in a world where their right to equal access to civil marriage will never be in question.

Those kids might never know they’re supposed to feel bad about themselves.

Some of those kids will abstain from sex until they are legally married.

Maybe just a few dozen.

Maybe just one.

But still, that’s one. That’s one more than when I was born.

If you’re Tony Perkins or Maggie Gallagher or Brian Brown or any of these busybody ghouls who’ve inserted yourself and your personal moral code into strangers’ lives and our state’s law: shouldn’t that make you happy?

“Eat Pray Love” is one of my favorite books so far...

Fri, 13 Aug 2010 13:05:02 -0400

“Eat Pray Love” is one of my favorite books so far in My Year Of Everything.

What I’m saying is that if you’re in Los Angeles, and you go to see this movie this weekend, you might see me. Alone. Do not disturb.

No Sex Please, Hephzibah Anderson Is British

Fri, 30 Jul 2010 14:18:00 -0400

So my iPad Kindle app tells me I’m around a tenth of the way through “Chastened,” and I’m still not quite sure about the terms of her Year Of Celibacy. Apparently, there is no penetration- makes sense- but I don’t know what is allowed. So far, we’re getting a lot of information about her ex-boyfriend, the guy to whom she surrendered her maidenhead or whatever hifalutin expression she uses. Not a ton of forward motion here yet, but when the action in a book is actually a lack of action, it’s hard to tell when the action starts.

I do know this: I miss actual physical books. My iPad is GREAT (especially now that I have Flipboard), but reading with it is clunk-a-roo. It’s summertime, and I want to do my reading in a deck chair in the sun, but the iPad is impossible to read in sunlight. I could get a Kindle, but my God the last thing I need is another rectangle to stare at.

Also I don’t want to get tanning butter on my iPad*.

*Also I still call it “tanning butter.”

SEX.

Wed, 28 Jul 2010 13:25:22 -0400

Before I dive into Hephzibah Anderson’s “Chastened,” the account of her year without sex, I must point you to this article about the hot, hot Fire Island tea dance that is the Catholic priesthood. (Rather, it’s an article about the article, as the original is in Italian; don’t think I’m not pricing some Rosetta Stone software right now.) Celibacy has never seemed so tantalizing.

I am, as I have mentioned many times, a Catholic, so my early information about sex came straight from the ostensibly celibate*. The more I learn about what really goes on with Catholic priests, the more I think this is like hiring a bulimic to be your dietician.

I use this metaphor a lot, because I think it makes sense. Sexual desire, like hunger, is a morally-neutral biological need. Those who aspire to the celibate priesthood, like young girls looking at Seventeen Magazine, start to judge themselves harshly for having a biological need, and so they push it down and try to wish it away. But it doesn’t go away, it just gets warped and twisted. Some eventually make peace with it, some don’t. But in the case of sex, some of those who don’t will then go on to teach children about it, to suggest that their own immature understanding of the subject is God’s Word, to plant seeds of fear, shame, guilt and confusion that continue to bloom for decades.

Which is maybe not the very best thing.

* The celibacy requirement, draped as all things Catholic are in deep and mystical piety, is really about money and land; in the 12th century, children of priests were starting to inherit too much church property, so along with mandatory celibacy came the decree that all sons of priests- even married ones- were illegitimate. (The daughters couldn’t inherit anyway, so- then as now- they mattered less.)

And now we come to THEMATICALLY-SIMILAR MY YEAR OF BOOK SHOWDOWN...

Tue, 27 Jul 2010 20:10:00 -0400

And now we come to THEMATICALLY-SIMILAR MY YEAR OF BOOK SHOWDOWN 2! Wherein we seek the answer to humanity’s oldest question: is having sex better than not having sex? I have opinions on this matter, but I must put them aside as I read:

“Chastened,” Hephzibah Anderson’s account of her year without sex (despite being named HEPHZIBAH, and
“365 Nights,” Charla Muller’s story of having sex every night for a year (with her husband, I think).

Starting with “Chastened.” It’s called delaying my gratification. Grab a loved one, keep him/her at a safe and respectful distance, and join me.

Sweater Quest

Tue, 27 Jul 2010 19:59:34 -0400

Alright. I had a hard time getting into this one, as patterns and yarn and purls and whatnot are not my thing. I had to force myself to pay attention (much like plucky Julia Roberts as plucky Elizabeth Gilbert pluckily trying to meditate in the commercial for the “Eat, Pray, Love” movie*).

And I’m glad I did. There’s a lot of good stuff in here about picking a project and sticking to it. About letting yourself off the hook for mistakes. About picking up, pulling some yarn out and starting again if you make a mistake or drift for a while and not judging yourself for it. It’s just yarn. It’s just words.

* which I am going to see the shit out of.

A few passages from "Sweater Quest" that resonated with me

Fri, 23 Jul 2010 19:32:41 -0400

1) “I am not a woman who enjoys process. I am a writer who does not enjoy writing.”

I feel you Adrienne Martini. I love writing, but I love avoiding writing even more. You know, obviously. But I promise to do better going forward.

2) “Devoting an entire vacation to playing golf strikes no one as odd. Try doing the same with sheep and yarn…Nobody tells golfers they are wasting their time. Nobody tells fishermen you can buy fish at the store and asks why anyone would bother doing it. At the end of the day, all debates exhausted, the only difference that I could divine seemed to be that golf was done mostly by men and knitting mostly by women, and that made one valid and the other vacuous.”

By this logic, the stuff done mostly by gay kids- drama club, creative writing, pop-culture obsession- is considered both vacuous and inherently disordered. No wonder we get so weird and riddled with self-doubt.

3) “That’s what I like about [the] Mary Tudor [pattern]. The pattern is for just one size. That’s it.”

“But is that going to look good?”

“Probably not. But it’s about finishing it, not wearing it,” I say.

Word. The possibility that this project might someday turn into a book, while exciting, is making me evaluate it as it goes, making me less enthusiastic about plowing forward with it when I’m not sure how the end result will read. Some things are just about doing, about finishing. Like the Marathon: I knew I wasn’t going to win, or even look good in the dri-tec t-shirt. I just did it, and I used to just do this, and I need to get back to it.

To be continued, really.

Things I Have Been Doing While Not Posting Here

Mon, 19 Jul 2010 16:19:00 -0400

Auditioning.
Reading “Sweater Quest: My Year Of Knitting Dangerously,” about which more later.
Traveling for auditions.
Shelling out $12 for in-flight internet, only to discover I don’t have much to do online, then Tweeting about it and telling myself, “That Tweet just cost $2.25.” And then doing it again on the return flight.
Thinking about the auditions I had, realizing I can’t affect the outcome with my thoughts, sighing wearily.
Staying at the Jane Hotel in a room whose surface area is smaller than that of my hammock, schlepping down the hall in flip-flops with my dop kit because you have to share a bathroom at the Jane Hotel.
Watching that Justin Bieber video that’s now the most-watched video in YouTube history, falling deeply in love with the dancer all the way to the right, Googling “Justin Bieber’s dancers,” figuring out his name is Nick Baga and he’s in a band called “The Futhamuckas,” watching their videos on YouTube, then saying, “Stop this, you are a 39-year-old man.” (But really, folks- brother is fly.)
Talking to Rob Tannenbaum for his upcoming oral-history book about MTV.
Having people over by the pool.
Reading the reply emails to the thank-you emails I sent out after recent auditions, parsing.
Rearranging my fridge to accommodate the beer brought over by people when they come to hang out by the pool.
Wondering when I’m going to hear about that audition.
Watching that Mark Ronson “Bang Bang Bang” video a billion times.
Having lunch with the adorable and brilliant Caissie St. Onge.
Realizing this is going to be more like “My Year And Two Months Of Everything,” and since almost none of these books really take place in a year, choosing not to worry about it.

Back to work. After I check my email and see if I heard anything.

Warped

Tue, 29 Jun 2010 13:41:00 -0400

In honor of “Sweater Quest: My Year Of Knitting Dangerously,” I put myself through my own endurance test last weekend by going to the Warped Tour twice.

There’s a selfish reason: my boyfriend’s Irish punk band The Mighty Regis is on the tour this summer, and not only do I genuinely like watching them, I love seeing people try them out and stick around. They’re taking off, and it’s a thrill to watch.

And then they get offstage and suddenly I’m a grown man at an emo festival, surrounded by thousands of people who were born in a year when I was legally able to purchase alcohol, and there is nothing to do but make observations. Here are some:

Just as the energy industry is reaching the stage of “tough oil,” we in the English-speaking rock world are just about out of band names. We’re using punctuation and text-speak acronyms (3OH!3, LMFAO*), we’re randomly putting our finger into the dictionary twice (Breathe Carolina and Breathe Electric!), we’re yanking whole lines out of our morning pages (Bring Me The Horizon, I Can Make A Mess Like Nobody’s Business)**. I propose an emergency stopgap measure: let’s hit the reset button and put all band names back in play. You want to be The Kinks? Great- that name is now available again. Maybe we’ll add an asterisk or a v2.0 to avoid confusion, but otherwise, the playing field is wide open. It is the ANWR of band-name scarcity: it will work just fine until we find ourselves in the exact same predicament 50 years from now, but by then we’ll be dead so who cares? Drill, baby, drill***.
There was a time when I was able to suppress my YEESH upon seeing an unfortunate tattoo or a painful-looking piercing, and apparently that time quietly ended sometime in May. Truly, there is a level of body art after which you can only be referred to as “wounded.”
It is crucial that we as a society re-evaluate our kettle corn portions. Kettle corn seems to come in two sizes, of which “king-size pillowcase” is the smaller. We all see the kettle corn cart, we all get a craving for something sweet and a little salty, we buy a bag, we have the requisite two handfuls, and then we all- young, old, white, black, tattooed or seersuckered- recoil at the sheer amount of kettle corn that remains. It’s what unites us, really. A man with a huge bag came up to Ben’s bandmate Brett in the beergarden and said: “I’ll trade you some kettle corn for a cigarette.” I replied: “You’re really trading kettle corn for the opportunity to carry around less kettle corn.” He shrugged and nodded. And then he dropped his bag because he was drunk.
Pretty blonde women in distressed denim micro-shorts are having a much worse time than you’d imagine, and literally thousands of them have formed bands so they can sing about it.
Ultimately, The Vans Warped Tour is very much like the Gay Pride Parade, in that you spend a whole day getting congratulated for being in a marketing segment. ”You’re extreme, and so are Cherry/Fruit Punch Wonka Kazoozles” is the same as “You’re fabulous, and so is the introductory APR on the Chase Freedom Card.” The kernel of truth (music is good, you should like who you are) is there, but it’s smothered by so much pandering, you have to dig for it.****

* LMFAO are not actually on the Warped Tour, but that “Shots” song was played at several of the corpo-tents. Wherever two or more youths are gathered, “Shots” will be there. Also you might not have known to come down here for a footnote, because unless you’re familiar with them, LMFAO* is just as plausible a band name as LMFAO. See? Problem.

** And if we can use whole paragraphs as band names now, how has nobody jumped on “Mother, May I Sleep With Danger?” Do I have to do everything around here?

*** Be sure to check out Drill, Baby, Drill on the Monster Energy Drink Stage at the Vans Warped Tour 2011.

**** To fully extrapolate the Warped Tour is Gay Pride analogy: tattoos are pectoral muscles, Monster Energy Drink is ecstasy, and Agent Orange is CeCe Peniston.

Tactical Error

Sat, 19 Jun 2010 14:37:00 -0400

I’ve made a big mistake here, folks. I chose to read “Sweater Quest: My Year Of Knitting Dangerously” on the iPad right at the beginning of summer, now that I’m doing most of my work outside. You can’t read an iPad on a deck chair, my friends. Plus my sunglasses are polarized*, so when I have them on, I can’t see the screen unless I hold my head at a 45-degree angle like a confused Jack Russell Terrier. Books on iPad must be read indoors or at night or in the shade, and I long to be in the sun.

Also, I’m a little disappointed with the production of this iBook. It looks like they just scanned the print version and sliced it into e-pages, so the effect is like reading a long .pdf file. I guess that’s fine, but I can’t stop expecting the book to do something, like that guide to the elements everyone’s talking about**. Knit or something, book!

PS: So far, “knitting dangerously” means “holding the ball of yarn in the non-dominant hand.” Sorry I just ripped your mind in half.

*which is undeniably better for some reason.

**which I am too cheap to buy.

Incidentally, I’m moving on with the books. “Yes...

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 22:33:00 -0400

Incidentally, I’m moving on with the books. “Yes Man” was breezy and British and probably mostly apocryphal, but still worth a read. Don’t watch the movie. I didn’t, and I hated it.

Next, I’m going to try something I’ve never done before, i.e. read a book on a mobile device. Adrienne Martini’s “Sweater Quest: My Year Of Knitting Dangerously” is my iPad test book. I wonder whether I’ll miss the physical heft of a book, the satisfying swoosh of an actual turned page. I also wonder what “knitting dangerously” entails. Barbed yarn? Hot needles? High fructose corn syrup? I’ll keep you posted.

And I’m moving my office outside for the summer. I’m more productive out here for some reason. Also, with the Perfect Push-up, the stationary swim leash and a jumprope, I’ve got a pretty nice gym going out here. What I’m saying is I’m a survivalist.

A THOUSAND TIMES YES

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 13:27:00 -0400

Let’s cut to the present day for a moment. In finally telling the “Wanna Be A VJ” story*, one thing has hit me in the face over and over: it’s been a long time since I’ve said such a big, stupid YES. It’s been ages since I’ve scared myself, since I’ve risked embarrassment for potential growth. Sure, I write a lot and I spend a lot of time on stage, but I tend to stick to the things I know I can do well. I’ve gotten comfortable, which has put me in the odd position of getting a vicarious thrill from my own story; each time I’ve hit “create post” on one of these installments, I’ve thought: I should be more like that guy.

So in the spirit of this project, last night I adopted the philosophy of Danny Wallace’s “Yes Man” and tried standup for the first time. I’d been wanting to do it for ages, but it scares me like no other thing ever, so I put it off and off and off. But last night, Rob Delaney and I did our first variety show at Upright Citizens Brigade, and in between acts, I went up and gave it a whirl.

And it was the most fun I’ve had in a very long time.

Did I stack the deck? Oh, heavens yes. It’s very difficult to fail when Jen Kirkman comes right before you, and Greg Behrendt, Kate Micucci and Jimmy Pardo are after. It was a well-primed audience, and they won’t always be that way, but I think I can handle it. Thanks to all who came out.

There is no better feeling than a fear conquered. If there’s something you’ve been meaning to try but have been afraid to- and it is legal and ethical- say yes to it**. Put it on your calendar right this second and stick to it. You will buzz with satisfaction, I promise.

* Which there’s plenty more to, and I’ll get back to it presently.

** If your thing is this, well… it’s a little on the nose, but I support you.

YES YES Y'ALL

Fri, 11 Jun 2010 19:59:00 -0400

Per the midnight phonecall by talent executive Amanda Schatz (who warned me right at the top of the call that I was not going to believe why she was calling, and I’ll be damned if she wasn’t right on the money), I reported to the MTV studios at a shade before 10am Wednesday morning. I was greeted by Caryn and brought into the green room where the other nine finalists were to assemble. We were a Benetton ad, a Real World cast, a spectrum of ages, colors and styles: charming, pixieish actress Kiele. Stonery red-head Ducci. Other Dave, clerk at the record store on St. Mark’s Place. Five other people who were much more fashionable than me whose names I don’t remember. And last, at the very stroke of 10, the messy-haired gamine in the denim jacket and the snakeskin pants, who turned out to be a young man by the name of Jesse.

Not one of us, not even Jesse was one second late.

Have you ever gone skydiving? There’s a moment the first time you skydive, when you look out the window of the plane, and you’re incredibly high up in the air, and you think: “Wait, it doesn’t make sense that I’m about to jump out into that. I’m not supposed to be out there, I’m supposed to be on the ground.” But you can’t turn around, you’re already attached to the jumpmaster, and your friends are watching, and you know it’s going to be fun, but right now your brain can’t process it because it’s nothing like the reality you’re used to. Five minutes ago life was normal, and five minutes from now you’re either going to fly or your parachute won’t deploy and you’ll die. One of those two outcomes has been fast-pitched right at you and there’s nothing you can do about it, and you’ve never been this high up.

And then you look at your altimeter and you’re at 4,000 feet, and you’re jumping out at 13,000.

That’s what this week was like.

Everyone felt it; as we went around the room and introduced ourselves, the bravado of the audition days had burned away. Not one of us could believe where we were.

And then Jesse introduced himself, with his malapropisms and Claymation voice, and we all looked at each other and shrugged. Either this guy will lock himself out of the building by lunch or he’ll run away with the whole thing.

The first part of the competition would cut the field from 10 to 5, and it was to take place on that afternoon’s “MTV Live,” a 90-minute afternoon embryonic “TRL” hosted by Carson, Ananda Lewis and Toby Amies. We’d tape some interview segments in the early afternoon that would be interspersed through the show, then we’d go through some challenges for a panel of judges that included John Norris, Kennedy and Chris Kattan, and, oh, also there’s a musical guest on today’s show: some new New Kids on the Block-type of thing from Orlando. In Sync? Something. They’re big in Germany.

The one thing that sticks with me from this day is the enthusiasm. I’d spent the last five years in an office, trying to muster up some excitement for my job, and here these people were- moving faster, doing more, and genuinely enjoying it. It shouldn’t have seemed to foreign to me, and it upsets me that it did, but it did.

And it’s not hard to see why they loved it. This was a place where a whole bunch of people who loved music and television could just get on the air and play for 90 minutes. You can’t do that anywhere anymore, not even there.

Anyway, the show started, and the plane continued its climb. We took turns pretending to interview a pretend-belligerent Chris Kattan. We talked music with Carson and Matt Pinfield. I said my favorite song was Ben Folds Five’s “Philosophy.” N’Sync waved to the four German girls in Times Square with “ICH LIEBE NSYNC” signs, and did backflips in their performance of “I Want You Back.” Justin Timberlake’s hair looked like Gary Spivey’s and Chris Kirkpatrick’s was worse. We lined up by the window during the final commercial break. I waved to the German girls. The VJs called the names of the five finalists: Jesse, then Kiele, then Ducci, then a gorgeous African-American woman whose name I can’t remember, then- after an endless pause that existed only in my head- me.

Geronimo.

Dude, you better post the next blog entry right now. I am sitting here at my media sales job thinking about CPMs and 3Q weights, and could really use the distraction. The suspense is killing me.

Fri, 11 Jun 2010 17:18:34 -0400

Oh, dear God. Coming right up. Though I hope you have summer Fridays at your firm, and you’re already tucked snugly away at a bar while your worst co-workers head Hamptonsward.

YES PLEASE

Thu, 10 Jun 2010 15:42:17 -0400

They told me the top ten finalists would be notified by midnight on Tuesday, so I called in sick Tuesday as well.

Here are some things that went through my mind in that two-day period:

What am I doing?
If I get this job, will I actually live in the MTV Beach House over the summer?
If I actually make it to the top ten finalists, and this thing actually is televised, how long will it take before the people at my job find out this is why I called in sick?
Will there be some kind of chore wheel at the MTV Beach House?
When do I get to meet Kevin Seal?
Jesus, no: obviously the MTV Beach House will have a cleaning staff.
Carson Daly and I are almost definitely going to be boyfriends.
Seriously, what am I doing?
Is there some kind of yearbook or phone chain or newsletter that connects the VJ community, like there is for the SNL cast in my fantasy world?

On Tuesday evening, my roommates were both away on business, so I ordered a pizza*, got a bottle of wine**, rented Wim Wenders’ “Wings Of Desire***” and waited for the phone to ring.

And at 11:55pm, I pretty much gave up hope. I finished off the red, opened my IBM ThinkPad and tapped out this journal entry, which I will save forever:

“Tuesday, April 14, 1998

11:56pm

They didn’t call. And I’m disappointed, of course, but I got a look through a window at the life that I want yesterday- all those people working hard at something they love- and I have to get in there. Maybe not there there, but closer. Life is short, and I can’t spend another day doing something I don’t care about. It’s time for me to”

And then at exactly 12:01am, the phone rang.

* And remember, these were the days before the Domino’s PizzaTracker, so we’re talking about 30 minutes of uncertainty here.

** A varietal I knew at the time as “red.”

*** Because even when you’re waiting to hear the results of an open call to be an MTV VJ, it’s never the wrong time to be a pretentious jackass.