Cheering up Andrew on New Year's Eve

A New Year's Eve video feat. Andrew, who is sick and sad, and to whom I convince that doing laundry is exactly how we should be spending NYE.

MoSex and the City

When Thespian and I visited New York City earlier this month, I also finally got to check out the Museum of Sex on a solo adventure. It was late in the day and starting to drizzle; I was tired, hungry, thirsty and I had already spent too much time walking in circles and eating really good espresso stout chocolate in SoHo, took the subway to Brooklyn when I meant to head to Chelsea, marveled at the good nature of native New Yorkers all the while avoiding asking them for directions as they seemed to think I actually belonged there. Which I did. I just didn't actually know where there was.

So by the time I got to the Museum of Sex--or, MoSex--I had about an hour and a half before they closed. Considering the magnitude and scope of what was to, er, come, by way of exhibits, I decided a drink was imperative. And they just so happened to have a place in the basement called OralFix Aphrodisiac Bar, which was a modestly sexy if sparse sort of industrial dungeon--more Marquis de Sade than seductive. I ordered a "New Orleans Brothel" (whisky, brandy and bitters, with an absinthe rinse) from the two young men discussing the making of quiche (I love NY!) behind the counter. While two slightly inebriated women (I think it's fair to say "cougars" here--trust me on this one) loudly discussed what they hoped to find upstairs, I hurriedly downed my cocktail and ventured forth.

The museum is small but expansive, split between several rooms on three thematic floors (not including the basement bar). The first level seemed to cover the history of sex and the moving image, with many posted descriptions to read, photos to see and videos to gawk at. The second floor consisted of erotic comics and various sexual ephemera (mostly fetishistic, mixed media), which was a welcome respite after the interesting but didactic first floor. I really appreciated the layout and subject matter but it was actually a lot to, uh, take in. By the time I reached the top floor, I was exhausted again--and out of time. Which was a damn shame, because after "The Sex Lives of Animals" (blech!), I found the most fascinating exhibit of all: "Obscene Diary," a showcase of the meticulously self-documented sexual life of professor, erotic writer, pornographer, tattoo artist, mid-century gay-stud-about-town--and longtime Oakland resident! Holla!--Samuel Steward.

It was amazing to me the depth by which Steward recorded details of his erotic life (especially in that particular era), which became so beneficial to the sex research of Alfred Kinsey. Anyway, like I said, I ran out of time and the guard was kinda looking at me sideways so I had to go. But I'm definitely going to check out Samuel Steward a bit more by book and video...

Here's another snippet of this intriguing dude:

Empire State of Mind

"All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead." - the ever-so happy-go-lucky Samuel Beckett

Thespian also took random videos on his FlipCam, like when he was walking down the street or when we were getting ready to go see a Peter Brook-directed series of Samuel Beckett one-acts at the Baryshnikov Arts Center. And when we ate breakfast one morning in Central Park and listened to some dude on the saxophone playing "Careless Whisper." And the night I decided we should skip the crowds and check out Obama's Lighting of the Christmas Tree at Rockefeller Center way after it was lit.



And, of course, our closing shot...

I'll take Manhattan...

I'm dizzy. Not from the ubiquitous revolving doors in NYC but really, just the sublime existence of the city itself. So much of everything is here. It can be over-stimulating. And yet, it's also a place that oddly clarifies whatever is happening in your life, in the simple act of looking out the window at the hustle and bustle of perpetually honking cars and cabbies, or by walking down a rain-slicked Midtown avenue that houses a global composite of eateries and shops and people. A marvelous kind of kinetic, creative energy seemingly permeates every window display, street corner hot dog stand, and impromptu conversation. Lights sparkle a bit brighter than expected. People are more open and friendly than you'd imagine. It's a city draped in red velvet and asphalt, all mahogany and stained concrete, wrought iron and black rubber, steeping in an aroma of burnt coffee and freshly baked bread.

You'll have to excuse my overly romantic notions of Manhattan. There is ugly here, too, of course. And harshness, sadness, anger, corruption, decrepitude, blah blah blah. I prefer to focus on the profound beauty of this place. The tiny nooks of inspiration. I craved it for so long I forgot that it's all around me, whenever I really open my eyes and breathe...

Big Apple: The O'Reilly Factor UPDATE

Watch Thespian (@Andrew_DeAngelo) and his big bro (@SteveDeAngelo) on "The O'Reilly Factor" 8pm or 11pm ET/PT Wednesday on FOXNEWS!

The Big Apple, redux

The last time was just a little over five years ago. (And it was so great, I had to write about it not just once but twice!) And here I am, back at an airport bar (my favorite!)--this time, in a wine bar at SFO--contemplating my return trip to New York City.

It'll be yet another whirlwind adventure, for sure. I'm catching the red eye to meet Thespian and his bro (and his bro's assistant and publicity manager), who are conducting yet another media frenzy thingamabob for their upcoming TV series ("Weed Wars," premiering this Thursday at 10pm on Discovery Channel and Discovery Fitness & Health). They're doing a bunch of print and radio interviews, as well as a couple TV talk shows (including "The O'Reilly Factor"! Eek! Watch Monday night at 8pm and 11pm EST/PST!).

I'm going to provide moral support for Thespian. And, you know, check his wardrobe and hair. Give some final words of encouragement. Kinda like a fluffer! Well, not like... OK, yes, sorta like that.

Anyway, while he's doing his professional cannabiz media stuff, I'll be traipsing around NYC, gloriously consuming that city of cities while trying not to look too freaking happy about it lest my cover as tourista be blown.

Wish me--and Thespian, his bro, his bro's assistant and publicist--luck!

(I'll post pics for these, uh, posts, when I return.)

Sweet dream...or a beautiful nightmare?

So it's been four years since I left Maui. It was a hard move but one I felt needed to be made, in order to pursue--or continue pursuing--my writing career. But, like, on a bigger scale than sweet, small-island Maui could afford...

I should probably explain something first. When I refer to "writing," I'm not saying that my ultimate goal is to publish a factory of bestselling novels, which I pen from the balcony of my delightfully luxurious Manhattan penthouse suite, from the luxuriously delightful desk of a strapping young man's taut and toned and creamy smooth backside.

Although, of course, that would be fine, too.

Writing, for me--at least the kind that I enjoy most--means that I get to deepen my experience of living. It means that whenever I enter a situation, meet a person, eat a meal, have an emotion, think a thought, travel somewhere, get a new job, talk shit about my co-workers (I mean, er, WITH my co-workers), go out on a date, visit the parents, have sex (um, not in their house or anything), I have this format through which I can process and examine and share, sometimes appreciate, sometimes laugh at, sometimes cry over, these experiences. And what's important to me, I've discovered, is the possibility and hopefully achievement of connection. Such a hokey word, I know. But I want people to read something I've written and either relate to what I'm expressing, or be inspired to look at their own lives or to go out in the world and discover that thing (or restaurant or person or sexual endeavor) for themselves.

And so anyway, for whatever reason, the simple act of returning to Maui has elicited yet another checkpoint for me--reminding me of why I left, what I had there on that magicaldysfunctionalbeautifullazy utopia, how far I've come (or not) and where I'm at now--as far as the writing dream is concerned.

To review, the past four years:
- I spent the first three months broke, unemployed, cold, haunted and perpetually in my ratty bathrobe.
- The subsequent three months I worked in a big, corporate daily newspaper by day; by night, vulnerable to the vagaries of living with my parents and/or running into ghosts of my past in the Southern California desert.
- A couple more months of voluntary unemployment, albeit happily back in San Francisco, before accepting a return to alternative newsweeklydom in Marin County, home of the rich and environmentally progressive-as-long-as-it-didn't-interfere-with-pilates-or-Botox-procedures.
- Eventual selling of writerly soul in order to accept a higher paying gig (AGIRLSGOTTAPAYTHEBILLSOK??) in the medical cannabis industry.
- Soon after, newfound freedom in the form of paid unemployment--this time, happily, with an understanding and supportive partner, slightly warmer (in the East Bay), unhaunted, more than occasional freelance writing and editing gigs, but still with that damn bathrobe...

Not necessarily the "bigger scale" I set out to achieve. But still, with its own simple, cyclical blessings.

...

OK wait a minute... Did I really just quote Beyonce up there in the title? See what the mainland is doing to me?? Either way, I don't wanna wake up. Ahem.

My So-Called Life as a Reality TV Schlump

I am notoriously camera shy, to put it mildly. To be fair, it's mostly a vanity issue--and I am not very photogenic. It's not that I think I am unattractive, it's just that I don't think my special "charm" that makes me somewhat aesthetically pleasing gets captured in a two-dimensional frame taken from a split-second of time. Plus, it feels forced, shallow--unreal, really. And so I have developed this obnoxious phobia, whereby I see a lens and become horribly, painfully, sometimes angrily...um...anti.

And so, imagine my shock and horror when, because of Thespian and his family's prolific role in the medical cannabis industry, I find myself in the middle of ongoing filming for a documentary-style, reality television series.

Of course I watch some reality TV shows. The affliction started with The Real World and went on to Blind Date, Miami Ink, American Idol, LA Ink, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, Project Runway, So You Think You Can Dance, Top Chef, What Not to Wear, and yeah, okay, even America's Next Top Model, Rock of Love, Millionaire Matchmaker and The Bachelor. But I refuse to watch any bobbleheaded Housewives of... and Laguna Beach derivations--I have my scruples--because most of these shows play up to, as CBS News so aptly points out, "a hunger to watch people with no discernible talent, no discernible insights, but who are willing, eager to be seen and heard doing... nothing."

I have always said, there is no good reason for me to be on TV. I am a writer; I am mostly in my head, my wit and propensity for verbosity rarely comes out in public speaking situations, unless I am in a dive bar, amidst the slatternly good-natured drunks and creatively minded misfits with whom I comfortably associate. But none of that translates well for television. Not in a way that's suitable for the kids anyhow.

But, here we are. Because I am involved with a man who is immersed in a fascinating subculture that stirs up controversy, I, too, am getting caught up in the marijuana maelstrom...and over the next few weeks, I imagine that I will want to share with you (as I am wont to do) the process of having our lives taped, to find out what happens when people stop being polite, and start getting, um, medicated.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Embalming, racecars and Cirque du Soleil: Viva Las Looking for Love, Bachelor-style!

A texted conversation during tonight's episode of "The Bachelor"...


ME: "Shawntel: My kind of girl. Emily: *sniff*. Michelle: Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"

FRIEND: "Yeah Michelle is nuts!! Chantel is my fave."

ME: "She's all drunk right now. But still cute."

FRIEND: "Yeah... A little. They need to stop drinking."

ME: "No doubt. Ohmigawd women are craaaaazy!!!"

FRIEND: "It's soooo annoying, honestly in all the seasons I've watched the women on this one are the most dramatic!"

ME: "They've got it down to a science!

"I wish I could write about strains of pot in relation to various reality show characters. That would be TOO awesome."

FRIEND: "Seriously! Michelle would be Hindu Skunk!"

ME: "Hahahahaha! Ha!"

FRIEND: "Is Ashley O. even old enough to be in Las Vegas?

ME: "Oooh, our two ladies on the bed together, talking 'bout...ladies."

FRIEND: "This is f-ing stupid."

ME: "Yep, it's gonna take a whole bottle tonight, I think. Fucking show."

FRIEND: "Haha... So true! I'm enjoying some sparkling red wine."

...[LONG PAUSE, WHILE BRAD CONSULTS WITH HIS SHOW-APPOINTED PSYCHOLOGIST]

ME: "I think I want to be like Brad's therapist when I grow up."

FRIEND: "I missed it... I was too busy ordering shoes online."