2011: You Snooze, You Lose

The week before Christmas, somebody stole my bitchin' Camaro cruiser. Or, I should say, that week I discovered that it was gone--in all fairness, the evil thieves could have stolen it weeks ago and I'd just been too busy to notice. Although beloved, it was a rusty old bike that I secured with a cheap chain lock since I couldn't imagine anyone wanting to steal it. So when I came upon its now empty space on the rack, I was surprised--and also, not.

Aside from the loss of a stylish yet not too valuable ride (and the obvious pain of having your stuff taken by greedy, hell-bound strangers), the theft struck me a bit deeper because of the realization that I hadn't actually ridden my bike in months. And that for weeks I'd stopped even looking at it on my way to and from my car, thinking that I should go somewhere with the thing that I once so enjoyed.

Naturally, it made me think about my relationship with something else that I had let lapse: the writing. Ever since I left my full-time reporter gig at Pacific Sun--and probably, if I'm being really honest with myself, since I left Maui Time Weekly and days of Holoholo Girl columning four-and-a-half years ago--my writing has waned.

The desire to write has always been there, as I continue to observe every moment with a writer's eye, contemplating the right descriptive words and narrative angle. But when it comes time to the regular documenting of said moments, I've distracted myself with other things I felt were more important. Like, laundry. And walking the dog. Also, shopping. And watching really bad movies recommended by friends. And online research--lots and lots of research--about men's shoelaces and proper blush application and new restaurants in New Orleans and how to poach an egg and the latest celebrity gossip and who is this Tim Tebow person anyway?

I chalked it up to a lack of self-discipline. I suffered endless dinner parties and cocktail hours with friends and family expressing genuine interest in my writerly pursuits, only to provide them with an embarrassed shrug and downcast eyes, some mumbling about being busy doing research...

I've had consoling writer friends suggest that perhaps this is part of the writing process, that sometimes it takes a period of non-writing (and the living of life!) before you can pump out prolific pages of prose yet again. I even went to a tarot card reader, who advised that instead of waiting I should "make room" everyday for "the muse"--that she isn't going come on her own--and that perhaps the topical matter I've written about previously (I didn't tell her I was a reporter! Ooh, damn!) is no longer serving me now. Thespian proposed that we instigate a new "pre-dinner cocktail writing hour" at home, which worked well a couple of times...until the onslaught of attention his own career demanded (and new TV show) took over most of our together time.

And so. Here I am, after 10 months of unemployed freedom. While other friends have written books, relocated for exciting career developments and had babies, I had a book deal that fell through shortly after the second chapter was completed. I had a handful of freelance writing assignments and copyediting work, and helped Harborside Health Center launch their company newsletter. And while it's been its own kind of sloth-like fun, I wasted a lot of time--mostly, a lot of good writing time.

Writing is the most satisfying, mind-opening, soul-expanding, creative thing I've done with my life. And I don't want to one day wake up and realize that, like my bike, it's gone forever.

Complacency is soooo 2011.

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.)