the dark side of change for the better

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i can't write anymore.

while i've rarely been able to write sober--all my self-defeating, overthinking, second-guessing inhibitions come into play and paralysis sets in almost immediately--i could always at least count on being able to write drunk.

until now, anyway.

one of the timeworn cliches of self-improvement is that you have to let go of one side of the pool before you can get to the other, and in the midst of my most recent carefully-constructed quest for something better outta life, i've apparently begun that painful process of letting go.

and it looks like we're starting with alcohol.

the good news is, as a result of recent and ongoing therapies and treatments, i'm growing demonstrably sounder in mind and body--yay for me. the bad news is, said new-found health is seriously getting in the way of my drinking (and thus, my writing--and thus, this blog).

it's weird; the desire to get shitfaced is suddenly not there anymore--apparently, my improving physiology is literally shrinking away from the alcohol and, hard as i try, i can no longer drink with my former wanton fluidity.

it's funny--i still look forward all week to the theory of friday night, that magical time when i can cast all cares of the week aside and start drinking. these days however, when the actuality of friday night arrives, instead of racing for the freezer and grabbing the vodka as in days of yore, i now tend to delay mixing that first drink and then, when finally mixed, let it sit there and sweat for awhile before i force myself to take that first swig. and in the last two weeks i've allowed my work to get in the way of my weekend drinking, a prospect that even recently would've been unthinkable.

in other words, i guess i've let go of one side of the pool; problem is, between letting go of one side and successfully reaching the other, there's this big, scary, seemingly insurmountable stretch of shark-infested water in between, with no life-preservers to be found.

another way of stating the problem? nothing positive has come along to take alcohol's place yet, which is why this blog (among other things in my life) sucks so bad right now.

and it's also why this post is so painfully awkward--i mean, what would you expect from something written on less than one mkf cocktail [look it up--i really don't feel like digging up the original reference to link to], which, in days of yore, woulda been a mere warm-up to the real drinking--and, consequently, to the real writing.

will i turn tail and swim madly back toward the dark safety of the side i know? time will tell, i guess.

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i remember back in the eighties all the rich-bitch wives of my uncle's high-living, hard-drinking petroleum-club buddies sitting around twirling their diamonds and complaining incessantly about their husbands' drunken excesses. and then, when after their first heart attacks and/or dui's said husbands dutifully sobered up, leaving them because they weren't fun anymore.

another one of those things i didn't understand then, and totally understand now.

trust me, you'll score a lot better if you don't waste half your alloted time tryin to spell shit like "kyrzykstan"

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someone who knows well my (a) current state of ennui and (b) fondness for ego-boosting time-wasters sent me this link; i have no doubt that at least one of my readers will be able to break 100 (like i damn sure shoulda).

oh, and the time starts counting down the instant the link opens, so don't dawdle.

the night the cynic realized that, deep down, everybody's a romantic

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[yeah i've been gone for awhile and i don't post very often anymore and there's all kinds of stuff i should write about these days but tonight this old story is the best i can come up with, sorry]

so i push my way into spike, drunk and full of my usual dark intent, but before i can even get my bearings i'm hijacked by this tall-dark-&-handsome type decked out in scuffed leather and torn denim who without warning shoves me into a dark recess and launches an assault upon my stunned and unsuspecting person with his hands and his tongue--and in the face of such a concerted attack, what could i (or anybody else in the same position of helplessness) possibly do but leave with him five minutes later?

he wants to go to his place [good], which turns out to be a hotel [even better--he's a transient and i won't have to dodge his calls later]. once there, we pile into the elevator and grope our way up four floors and down the hall to his room, where he fumbles with the keycard as we shove our tongues down each others' throats.

once inside--it's actually a mini-suite--he pushes me down onto the sofa and, instead of immediately piling on top of me, says, "hang on, i wanna put on some music."

he turns to his portable sound system [a cambridge soundworks model twelve--i remember this because i couldn't believe the incredible sound that came outta that small, inauspicious package] and, instead of the typical dance-crap i'd braced myself for, out comes this...calypso music.

he comes back to the sofa, settles down next to me and, in response to my inquiry, replies, "a friend of mine is in this little show that just hit the jackpot, and he sent me this bootleg cd yesterday--isn't it cool?"

i nod "yes" because it is indeed cool, at which point he proceeds to pull my head down onto his lap, look deep into my eyes and, to the background accompaniment of the cd, sing, tenderly and from memory, and in a soft, clear, resonant voice, the entire score of the show--called once on this island--to me, and only me.

do i completely and totally melt? well, what the fuck would you do if some hot, talented guy sang the entire score of a new broadway musical to you while he held you in his arms?

[turns out my levi/leather boy from spike is in actuality not only a musical prodigy, but the orchestra conductor for the road company of les miserables which is currently in town and playing at the pantages theatre.]

eventually the cd ends and he goes from crooning into my ear to wanting to be face-fucked, and i rise to the occasion with my usual panache.

and then for days afterward [what can i say, i was new], i await his promised call, and the promised ticket, and the promised view from third-row center of his tight butt in the tuxedo he'd modeled for me, and the promised toss of the carnation from his lapel...

needless to say, that call never came, but whatever--how many people can say they were given the opportunity to grow more romantic and more cynical on the same night?

preferably moist and sweet, with thick cream-cheese frosting

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a common belief in our culture is that people can change for the better; this notion has served as the foundation for countless stories, books, songs, plays and movies that have nourished our collective psyche over the millennia.

me?  i believe the idea that people can change is mostly bullshit--and understand, i haven't come to this belief because i'm a cynic (although god knows that's true), but because, having been a steadfast, careful observer of human nature for most of my life, most everything and everybody i've observed in the course of said life has served to reinforce this belief.

for instance, i believe that if you're a go-getter early in life, chances are you'll achieve your goals later in life; on the contrary, if you're lazy early in life, then--unless some major external influence comes into play before it's too late--you'll probably be a loser when you grow up.

and to take it a step further, if you're also emotionally stunted, then chances are no matter how much "success" you achieve later in life you'll always be unhappy, no matter how hard you try to be otherwise.

basically what i'm trying to say here is, i believe that your cake is baked relatively early, and if as an adult you turn out as, say, a chocolate cake, then trying to transform yourself into a carrot cake is probably gonna be an exercise in futility.

nevertheless, and even having said all that, i periodically throughout my life engage in an epic, exhausting struggle to transform myself into the carrot cake i've always wanted to be.

i now find myself in the midst of one of those struggles--and who knows, maybe this one'll be the last before i give up and once and for all and surrender to my dark, solitary nature.

in any event, that's why i'm not posting much (or doing much of anything else) these days--i'm preoccupied with other things.

wish me luck.

i couldn't make this stuff up, folks

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so last night i'm in an apartment in silverlake.  there's a knock at the door and since i'm closest i open it and i can't believe my eyes, because standing there is the last person i expect to see.

i probably shouldn't be that surprised, though--we always seem to run into each other in weird places, but it had been awhile.  and besides, the timing....i mean, talk about uncanny.

he hasn't changed at all since last we met--sleek, darked-eyed, handsome as ever--hell, he's barely changed since the first time i laid eyes on him almost fifteen years ago.  unlike me, he evinces no surprise, merely flashing that knowing grin and saying, "big mike--long time; how are ya?"

after i get over the initial shock, i pull him into the apartment, give him a hug, tell him, "you're not gonna believe this," and launch into my tale.  he laughs, remembering along with me, filling in details i'd forgotten.

as i leave, i tell him to make sure to pay a visit to my blog to read the story i'd written about him just the night before--and, of course, to give my best to mario.

because the statute of limitations has expired

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[this one's from shortly after i came out, which is the point i want you to remember as you read the following.]


hot august night, after-bar and we're all out back in the parking lot, when who should approach me but two of the cutest lil' buzzed-headed cholos you or i have ever seen, decked out in identical blindingly-white wifebeaters tucked into identical, impeccably-pressed khaki work-pants complete with identical fat leather belts, chain-wallets and highly-polished doc martens.

picking out the one i want is tough, but i finally settle on mario, only to be told that they only come as a pair; i.e., if i want mario, i gotta take cousin luis as well.

this throws me for a minute, because what the fuck am i supposed do with two of 'em? [again, sorry--i was new]

we walk back to my place, where we commence to get naked and those two sweet-faced boys teach me tricks i never knew.

later, i'm laying in bed, trying to recover. mario's getting dressed while luis showers.

realizing i'd like nothing more than to fall asleep between 'em, i ask him if they wanna stay the night.

"nah," he says, "school tomorrow."

"oh yeah--you in college?"

he snorts as he pulls on his socks and says, "college--are you serious? high school."

high school. jesus fucking christ almighty.

"um, can i ask how old you are?"

casually, without even looking up: "sixteen."

"sixteen?! i thought--i mean, if you're sixteen how the fuck did you get in the bar?"

he laughs, ties his laces. "dude, we weren't in the bar--we met you in the parking lot, remember?"

i grope for some lifeline that'll redeem me from hellfire and prosecution. all i can come up with is his cousin, who's presently in my shower.

"luis--please tell me he's not sixteen, too."

mario finally looks up, flashes that smile. "nah."

i relax a little.

"he's fifteen."

i don't know about you

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but nothing pisses me off more than to get invested in some blog and then have the motherfucker drop off the radar for no other reason than because its author suddenly finds better things to do than post regularly.

that's not the the case here; the truth is far different (and far less interesting, trust me).

i'll get back to you soon, i promise.