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Payday. I remember when that used to mean something. Sort of mean something.

I now tweet. I am not altogether sure why. It remains to be seen if any of the friends and family members I've invited to join me at Twitter will show up (what..? you don't love me anymore?) and I don't know how chattily "intimate" I really want to get with strangers. At the moment I have a few Twitter followers but what does that mean really? Who are they and what's their interest in the arch haiku scribblings of Little Me?

I am looking about me as I type and thinking with a sigh that it's time to do a bit more spring cleaning. More than a bit. Awhile back I read a book (okay, I read part of a chapter of a book) on feng shui, and I'm thinking now it did make its point about how psychologically oppressive clutter can be, and also how the placement of furniture can make a room more inviting or make it a place you find yourself wanting to avoid. It's about Chi, the energy that, according to feng shui philosophy, permeates everything in and around us. I do not have a smooth Chi flow. There's too much stuff in the rooms I live in, blocking the kind of vibrant energy--Sheng Chi--that makes fresh thinking and a more creative life possible.

And look at all these books overflowing the bookcases--do I really want or need them? All of them? Am I going to be reading again the ones I read twice long ago? Will I ever get around to reading the ones I bought years ago that have been sitting collecting dust? Who am I trying to impress by hanging on to them? They should go. Most of them should go.

On the other hand...

I've always felt more than a little queasy about getting rid of books. Books aren't old clothes or old shoes or broken toys, after all. A really good read can open worlds previously unknown to you or console and uplift you in ways even people and pets can't. You shouldn't be careless or cavalier with books like that, you'll wind up regretting it. There are books I've boxed and donated away that I later wished I'd kept; I wish especially that I hadn't given away (or sold)books I'd bought when I was just getting into my teens and easing into my twenties. I'd love to take a look at them now to glimpse what I was into and curious about at that time of my life. Did I jot any precious little notes to myself in the margins of the pages? Did I write my name and the date and place of purchase on the inside cover?

But you know, then again...

There's something to be said for knowing when to move on and let things go. You can hang on to a thing, even a book, past the point that's it healthy or necessary to do so. Sometimes taking a deep breath and just getting on with it has a cleansing effect. And--mostly by accident, admittedly--I've discovered that sometimes letting possessions go can be a boon to someone else who needs them more.

For example, just before and shortly after moving into this apartment I boxed a fairly large collection of books, including some queer-centric bios, novels and self-help stuff, sending many of them to my building's common floor reading room. Later I had second thoughts about a few of the titles I'd given away and decided to retrieve them, only to find in my search that all of the LGBT themed books--every single one of them--had disappeared. There were maintenance and cowboy-booted construction guys all over the place during this period, as the building was being rehabbed top to (no jokes, please) bottom, and as I'd walk through the place I'd observe many of these guys trying, in some often crude form or fashion, to out-macho one another.

Well, you know how it is. Heteros generally like to assume that everyone around them is just like them, but one of the first and most gratifying lessons you learn when you're queer is that that's just so much horseshit. If you're "different" so is someone else in this room, on this floor, in this building. That's the law of averages, honey.

At first I was disappointed, even upset, to realize that my gay books had vanished; briefly I toyed with the idea of putting up flyers imploring their return, but I reconsidered. Even if I could have gotten them back, maybe it was better not to, better for someone else. Somewhere in that collection of sweaty, strutting, power tool wielding dudes beat the heart(s) of a fierce Pride queen (Alright, that's an obnoxious stereotype, but you get what I'm saying) who maybe hadn't the confidence or courage to purchase those titles (even online) but needed them nonetheless. And really, what was I doing with The Gay Kama-Sutra?

How do you tweet all that?

That Father

This is crazy-making.

Okay, look--I liked this show a lot in its original run when I was a grammar-schooler, and I continued to like it in reruns during my growing up years, and here, deep in Middle-Age Land, as I watch a Season One DVD on my desktop, I find I still like it. A lot. That Girl (both the Girl and the show) still has real appeal. I still love the popping, vibrant colors, Ann Marie’s kicky sixties wardrobe (Oh, God, I wanted that girl’s closet!), the truly wonderful exterior shots of a vanished New York, Harry Geller’s (or was it Dominic Frontiere’s?) spritely-sweet and evocative incidental music—especially Earle Hagen’s now iconic opening theme and its seasonal variations--and even the charming innocence of Ann and her boyfriend Don’s improbably chaste romance.

But her dad. Lew. Lew Marie. Criminey, what an obnoxious ass!

On the commentary track for “What Are Your Intentions?”—along with the crisp, beautiful audio and video transfer, the great pleasure of classic movies and television series in DVD format are the bonus features, especially the cast and crew commentaries—Marlo Thomas and series co-creator Bill Persky discuss with great amusement their memories of the making of the show and the episode’s storyline about overprotective fathers. The two laugh heartily at Lew Marie’s sarcastic distrust and endless jibes at Donald, comparing aspects of Lew's behavior to Thomas’s real-life dad, Danny Thomas (Make Room For Daddy) and Persky himself with his own young daughters. This was how dads were, they recalled fondly, back in the era when dads were really involved in their kids’ lives.

Um, okay.

As I consider it, Lew Marie’s ferocious desire to guard his only daughter’s health and well-being, by which of course I mean her virginity, is understandable given she’d insisted on leaving home to make her own way in the world at a time when daughters generally didn’t do such things, and he and the Mrs. didn’t know this Don Hollinger guy very well.

What isn’t so understandable to me is Mr. Marie’s continuing abrasiveness toward Donald as time (and the series) went on. After all, this was the man his daughter loved and would eventually marry (in the series finale). Couldn’t he have given his daughter’s judgment the benefit of the doubt? Couldn’t he have respected her feelings enough to reign in his worries and stifle his impulse to pick apart Donald? What was that about, anyway? First Mr. Marie is upset at the prospect of his lovely and naive young daughter leaving home to move to the big bad city and live and work in it alone; then he’s pissed off because she’s found herself a handsome, successful, good-hearted guy who’s every bit as loving and protective of her as he is. I mean, what is that?

And what’s up with Ann allowing her father to be so disrespectful and so relentlessly, well, mean, to her man? Sure, she’s young and her dad’s authority still has some sway, but as she would (gently, pleadingly, and more than once) point out to him, she’s not a child anymore and it’s really not okay for him to treat her like one. So why did she so often let him? Why didn’t concern for Donald’s feelings compel Ann to object more forcefully to Lew’s insensitivity? ("Oh, Daddy...") Did Marlo let Danny get away with that shit?

I meant everything I just said. I’ve always thought Lew Marie (played with pugnacious gusto by character actor Lew Parker) was an abrasive jerk to every male above the age of 12 who ever smiled at his daughter, most particularly the man she adored, and it really bugged me.

But can I tell you something else? Right alongside my annoyance I’ve always felt a twinge of jealousy of Ann Marie; more than a twinge, as finally I became Ann’s age and was faced with navigating a world of make-believe and machismo. I mean, just imagine. Imagine having a father for whom you are the center of the universe, who loves and fears for you so much that he’s willing, with no apologies and above your objections, to step over the line time and time again to safeguard your health and well-being.

And, okay, your virginity.

Sunday Purgatory, Volume One

Do you want to know what I wrote in one of my notebooks the other day?

Almost walked to the park today but it looked like rain, the kind that can go on for hours, the kind that drenches you cold. Maybe later if the sun comes out.

That was it, kids. That was all. Isn't that the most boring, nothing drivel you've ever wasted a moment reading in your life? I mean, what was the point? Why did I bother?

Look, I know what I'm supposed to be writing in these notebooks, but it's too often an exercise in tedium so screw that. I'm going to scribble whatever the hell I want to even if doing so is counter-productive to my learning to be a "real" writer, whatever that is. Fuck. So frustrating anyway. In bed, in that twilight zone between sleep and wakefulness, on the toilet, on the walk to work, shopping for produce, shelving books--I get all these intense stream-of-consciousness thoughts in my head that I know I should be putting on the page, but in the moment it's just not possible to do that. Even if I could, somehow the very act of reaching for a pen and grabbing for a notebook alters something, changes the mood and the moment, interrupts the psychic flow. I can't explain. As I grab it and try to get it down it dissipates, or comes out all stiff and artificial, not like it was in my head at all. Maddening. For a while now I've thought I should be investing in a mini-recorder so that I could just transcribe everything later, but again I feel like my hyper-awareness that my ruminating is being recorded "for posterity" will simply ruin everything; again I'll get all self-conscious and edit and censor myself right out of any original or interesting commentary.

So what would you do?

Right.

Maybe I'll just go back to watching television. On my computer.

Streaming Consciousness

Just caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. Amazed--and a tad disconcerted--at how much (sans makeup) I resemble my brother when he was a teenager. A really sullen teenager.

Glad I got off my ass and got out and power-walked this morning. Such a be-you-tiful day too; sunny, warm, cool and breezy. Got all the way to the tennis court in the park before finally turning around and heading back to shower, breakfast and watch Frasier (the "I.Q." episode, then the one guest starring the fabulous Christine Baranski as the Dr. Laura-like radio shrink from hell.) Nothing like a civilized start to your day!

Shopping later:

• fresh strawberries
• bananas
• maybe watermelon if sweet and not too damned expensive
• check out the cherries--only if they're firm and sweet
• green tea
• vine tomatoes
• white potatoes, red onions, green pepper, celery, etc for potato salad
• chips? shouldn't. probably will. undecided.
• a nice dessert of some kind. maybe ice cream, or I'll make a pie (fat chance)
• and I'm sorry, but I want a steak this time, and some hot dogs too. Sick to death of chicken. The Cook Yourself Thin ladies made a mouthwatering-looking flank steak a week or so ago, but I'm not sure I could pull that off. May just try to find a good sirloin.
• hot dog buns
• 100% whole wheat bread (see? see? I'm not totally hopeless)
• paper products: napkins, toilet paper, foil
• whatever else

Note to Self:

• Call Mike M. back
• And, Jesus, Email Michael R. again--it's been way too long; hope he's not mad at me for letting so much time go past without following up.
• Buy the Michel Legrand box set (Le Cinema de Michel Legrand)? Dusty Grooves has it for an excellent price, much better than Amazon.
• Keep trying to find the British CD release of the Tess soundtrack, one that more closely matches the 1981 U.S. LP release, or that at least includes Larry Butler's elegant love theme instrumental.
• Check the mail for the new Netflix stuff!

Arggh. The day is getting away from me (why does it do that? annoying); I should have started this earlier. The store is going to be busy tomorrow, a madhouse by Saturday--I should have done the shopping this morning, especially since I have to work all day tomorrow. Maybe I can shop on my lunch hour tomorr--no, girl. Don't do that. Don't even go there.

What is it now? 82 degrees? Lovely. All those white sails dotting the lake's blue water. I should definitely head back out and get more of this, whether to shop or not. This was a wonderful time to be alive when I was school age, especially the elementary school years. Everything was green again, the weather was nearly perfect--not as cold as it had been, not as hot as it was going to be--classwork was winding down, and my teachers, happily anticipating their summer vacations (or so I surmised), were mellowing and becoming almost human again. Most of them.

Field trips were on the rise, the zoo, the museums, as everyone was restless and eager to get out of doors. No homework, or damn near. I remember how strange and dusty and forlorn the third floor hallways looked on the last day of school, especially with all the classroom doors closed shut. Abandoned and forgotten. The long stretch of floor, that had looked so shiny in the morning, was now streaked and mottled with hundreds of sneaker and sandal prints. I'd look back and around, and, momentarily, feel a deep pang of guilt and a kind of regret...

Then I was out the door like a shot. See you in September, Charles Kozminski. You and the custodian--you're on your own now.

• eggs
• bacon? (really shouldn't)
• 2% milk, a gallon
• nonfat milk, a quart
• bath soap

It was a late spring summer-ish day like this one. There was this girl I'd known in school. What was her name...? Cynthia? No. Yes. I think, Cynthia. We'd stopped dead in our tracks, right in the middle of the sidewalk, upon suddenly, unexpectedly, encountering each other in the street after years of seeing each other in Miss Westmore's class every single day followed by years of not seeing one another at all. This was somewhere in the Reagan eighties, a good dozen-plus years or so away from our elementary school lives. We had not really been girlfriends then, not close-close friends anyway, but I remembered she had been nice, not a bully, had had a certain unassuming charm, and I'd liked her. Well enough.

I was disappointed to realize she seemed delighted to see me. Disappointed because I'd wanted to return the feeling but was instead uneasy and immediately on my guard.

"Lorraine. Lorraine?! Hiiiiii!!" She rushed up to hug me, grinning big. A little awkwardly I hugged back, then stepped away. "Hey, Cyn."
"How you been, girl? How long has it been?!" Swinging and shaking my hand like we were kids. She looked so happy, and... and young, still so much like the skinny little girl she used to be, even more petite than I was. Had once been.
"Um, okay I guess; yeah. Been awhile--how are you?"
"Me, I'm fine, you know. Hangin' in there, trying to raise my kids--!"
"Wow--kids? Get outta here, you're somebody's mom?" She laughed a sheepish little laugh, rolled her eyes. "Girllll, yeah! You know how it is." She looked at me again, a penetrating, right-into-the-eyes kind of look, and took a deep breath.
"So--?" She said expectantly. I braced for it.
"--you? Got kids? You married?" Still that searching look. What the hell was she looking for?
"No. No, I'm not. And no kids, no, not me." Careful.
"No? So what do you do? Are you working, or..?"
I took a deep breath. "I--I'm--I write. I'm a writer."

I shrugged and took a step back. And then Cynthia surprised me. She looked--I'm still not sure this is the right word, but it's the one that comes first to mind--she looked relieved. Pleased, but also relieved. Like one of us had dodged a bullet or something. For the barest second I was puzzled, and then all at once I understood, and as her words came out in a rush of praise and breathless enthusiasm, I felt bottomless sadness for us both.

"Yeaahh, I remember you used to draw all the time! I used to wish I could draw like you! And now you write? You're a writer??"
I swallowed, smiled tightly. "Well. Yeah, trying to--"
"That's great. That is great, Lorraine! I knew it, I knew you'd be something! You were always so smart when we were in school--you used to get really good grades I remember that (laughter)--I used to love the way you draw--do you still draw?--I'm so glad to hear this--I'm so glad one of us made it..."
We stood right in the middle of the sidewalk, oblivious as the errant passerby pointedly walked around us, eying us. And Cynthia went on a little longer like this, animated and gesturing, almost pathetically eager to congratulate me on escaping poverty and routine, celebrating me my many accomplishments.

My many bogus accomplishments.

Because the truth was, I was not a writer, except in spiral notebooks and my daydreams. I'd been a good student, yes, but not an exceptional one, and I did used to draw because I liked to and because I could. And I was lying to Cynthia now because the truth, that I was working a series of hourly wage administrative jobs for a downtown temp agency, was too mundane and bleak and comedown to share. Because I could see in her eyes she wanted--no, she needed--me to be special, a success, and I couldn't bear to let her down or let her see how much I'd let myself down.

I laughed, shaking my head. "Yeah, well. It's hard, you know..." Cynthia nodded vigorously, as though she could well imagine. "Oh, but you'll make it, Lorraine! Just keep it up, girl, keep doing it, you'll make it--I know you will--"

Then we chatted briefly about other schoolmates--who was now driving a bus, who had gotten married and divorced and re-married, who had had to leave town, who had had twins, who still looked just the same as back in the day--and finally we hugged once more and parted, moving again in our separate directions, each of turning around to wave. I couldn't get away from her fast enough. Her and her touching pride and hopefulness; me and my pack of lies.

And Cyn, if you're reading this now, try not to hate me too much. I was wrong for that, I know, but I wasn't playing you. I was just scared. You had come floating up out of my past, the girl who had known the girl with all the potential, and--for a moment, for a little while--I was desperate to see in someone's eyes the me I wished I was, would like to have been.

• mild cheddar cheese
• laundry detergent
• bag of ice
• frozen spinach
• soda pop.

Diary Pages -- May 2003

Ahhh, the familiar terror of the blank page.

Welcome, torture.

Still thinking about the e-rants of Miss White Disgusted--who made it quite clear that she's had it up to HERE with the snide remarks, evil looks and general disapproval from black women about her relationship with a black man--and Mr. Black Royalty, who had a thing or two to say in reply to Miss White Disgusted. Both of them angry, both fed up, about the other's clueless attitude. Or something like that.

Very interesting reading indeed.

I can't decide what fascinated me more, Miss Disgusted's insulting ignorance about black female anger or Mr. Royal's sardonic reply--which, for all its loyalty and impassioned righteousness, rang slightly false somehow.

I mean, he made his point, Mr. Royalty did, about the strict upbringing of young black women and how this made the sexual "availability" of willing young white women an appealing option for young black males on the make. ("You're no goddess, baby--you're just easy!")

I have to admit I liked what he Mr. R had to say about the resilient strength of African-American women through the generations, the way generations of us have taught white women how to cook, how to dress; how we've raised white women's babies even as our own were ripped from our arms forever.

And let's give Mr. Black Royalty points for his willingness to acknowledge black male fear of black women, and the worry that she will leave him behind as a higher wage earner--better educated, better motivated to succeed, more socially sophisticated--enters her life (or as she becomes all of those things).

Yeah, I liked all of that. Until I slowed down to

First Sunday In May

Beautiful, sunny and everything's popping green (at last). I should be outside today.

Can't. Too much pain. Will have to take it easy today, maybe finish the Paul Krugman book. But there's a cooling breeze coming off the lake--damn, wish we had a patio.

Bolero is playing in the black and white background of Secret Agent/AKA Danger Man. A petrified middle-aged businessman type is about to get offed by the doughy, steely-eyed blond guy holding the pistol. Always loved the theme of this show--not the Johnny Rivers vocal, which is swingin' finger-poppin' fun alright, but the spritely, organ- and trumpet-driven incidental music or whatever it's called that always opens the episode. You see the "Series Devised and Edited by Ralph Smart" and other credits over the action as it plays. Remember?

Max was so pissed off last night she pissed me off. Can't get that out-of-left-field phone call out of my mind. I guess Mom is right that it's likely a control issue. Max has been the family free spirit for such a long time, it's hard to watch her slowly becoming a cranky old lady with ever diminishing capacities. She hates the new apartment--totally understandable where the kitchen and bath are concerned--and she's lost her pretty view of the boats on the lake. But mostly she hates her increasing vulnerability, the way she's become so dependent on the rest of us for almost all the things she used to be able to do herself.

I understand that, I do. I watch Maxine's decline and am swept with sadness at the change in her, and worry what's coming for my mother, my Aunt Mary, my Uncle Bob and Aunt Vera. And Michael.

And me.

When we were living in California, some--Jesus!--25 years ago, Max and I would often get in the car and just go. Sometimes shopping, sometimes sight-seeing, sometimes just for the ride up the Pacific Coast Highway and the breathtaking views of sparkling water and distant mountains. We'd roll the windows down, turn the radio up and laugh like maniacs at jokes nobody but us would get. We'd find the best restaurants and sweet shops, if we were lucky a combination of the two, and bring home mouthwateringly fresh peach pies, strawberry pies, lemon lush pies and (this absolutely floored me; still does) the most delicious french vanilla ice cream--a local drug store brand, as good or better than Haagen Daz, Baskin Robbins or Breyer's. Don't smirk. If you'd been there you'd know what I mean.

I miss El Pollo Loco, Marie Callendar's, Jongewaard, and Jim's Hamburgers--far and away the best greasy spoon burgers I've ever had. Mostly though I miss going to all those places with Max. She was then the age I am now, and I was a little girl with big, grown-up hips thinking lipstick, summer dresses and high heels made me her equal. We were such great friends. We're still friends. But everything's so different now.

Everything is so dfferent now.

WTF??

Two blogs--or was it three?--posted in January, one in February (something about Rita Hayworth? Where was I going with that?), and nothing at all last month. Nothing really this month either, as this is the last day of April '09.

What is going on? I so want to write... but when I sit down to try to do so all that comes is nothing. Nothing, nothing and more nothing. It's hideous. And the reading is not going all that well either come to that, even though I'm steadily buying books and borrowing books and people are giving me books. I just can't seem to concentrate, to focus. It's almost impossible to relax and just give myself over to the whatever--the page, the pen. Maybe I need to get out more.

Do you think I need to get out more? What do you think?

PS: Carrie Prejean is a fucking idiot. Nice teeth, though.