Glorious hair is ushering in the end times.

I spent one summer in Abilene, Texas between my junior and senior years of college. Each day I worked at a bakery from 5 am to noon. After work I would run the perimeter of campus in the midday sun, fall asleep on my living room floor for an hour or two and then attend rehearsals for The Tempest until 11 pm. On the Fourth of July I took my truck out on the Loop to fill up with gas, and at a convenience store I came across the local crowd preparing for the community fireworks display.

Never before had I seen such a rich and varied display of mullets, and I had lived almost my entire life in rural Texas. Long singular streams, practically rat-tails. Short explosive curls. Demure waves appearing from beneath the backwards-turned baseball cap. Men and women. In all the hues that one can buy in a box at the grocery store. It's not my intention to label all West Texans as the mullet-sporting type, but, on this day at the early evening hour, they were out in force buying 12-packs and bags of ice for their coolers and Smarties for their little ones. Perhaps mullet wearers acutely feel the call of fireworks and tailgating. Perhaps the extended locks of hair act as highly-evolved antennae for patriotism. Of such things, I do not have knowledge. I am not an initiate. In grad school I did try to simultaneously sport a fauxhawk and faux mullet (fauxlet). But both were half-hearted attempts, even by faux standards.

Mixed bathing is ushering in the end times.

Bathers from Wenceslaus Bible

Pool gives students a mixed choice.
And with this, the gates of hell opened wide.

The Destroyer of Bed-Stuy is ushering in the end times.

CONTENT ADVISORY: Please be advised that this video is of a very graphic nature. You should not view it if you are pregnant, think you may be pregnant, have liver disease, are in the advanced stages of HIV, or are a pre-op transsexual.

This frightening footage was provided to me by Woman as evidence that indeed the Apocalypse is upon us. It is worth noting that the disturbing attack occurred on the one-year anniversary of this very blog.

Dear readers, keep wearing those clean undies because you never know when it's going to happen.

My heart goes out to the families of all the individuals lost during Tuesday's noon massacre. A neighborhood-wide block party will be held this Saturday from 10:00 am to 4:00 pm to raise money in order to provide assistance with the funeral costs. There will be streetball, a "Walk It Out" contest, food vendors, choirs from various local churches, alcohol from various local liquor stores, curious but intimidated hipsters watching from 2nd-story apartment windows, grown men on tiny bikes, appearances by some of your favorite loiterers, a mobile police unit, and a 15% discount off all merchandise at Fat Albert's.

Happy Birthdays are ushering in the end times.

Our Lady of the Apocalypse

Exposed brick walls are ushering in the end times.

I became unemployed on August 3. Since then, with the exception of my week-long trip back to Texas/Kansas, I have been trolling for apartments here in "New City" (coined by my three-year-old niece). I'm tired. I'm discouraged. And my pits are sweaty. I can't handle another complicated train ride out to _____ Heights (fill in the blank with all the options) only to find that the apartment's bedrooms are railroad, something omitted in the ad. Thank you, but I'll pass on roommates sneaking through my bedroom for a midnight bathroom run. Or that as of now there aren't floors or walls. Or that the apartment doesn't have heat, and the current tenants had to deal with leaking holes in the ceiling and no hot water for three months. I've even resorted to walking up and down, around and about neighborhoods we actually like (and just might be able to afford), calling the numbers listed on For Rent signs and stopping at apartment buildings to see if they have availability. My six hour stroll through Woodside and Sunnyside in Queens may have shaped my calves but added nothing productive to the hunt.

See, last year we did a stink job of finding a place. We entered into the apartment search with two non-negotiable criteria: a neighborhood in which Little V felt safe, and three bedrooms roughly the same size.

We failed meeting both. Little V can't make it to our place in Bed Sty without receiving the special attention that only strangers know how to lavish on young women. And Little V beds each night in a storage closet with a window. Funny thing is, it was Little V and I who decided on the place. We saw the exposed brick walls, and our bodies went limp.*

We're really trying to be smarter this time around but know very well that we will not find the ideal. I had to inform my incredulous mother a few times that almost nothing we can afford will have air-conditioning. "Nothing?" "No. Put air-conditioning out of your head. Banish it!" In the end it will come down to what we're willing to give up. Quality neighborhood? Closets? Convenient subway? Late-night chicken joint?

"I've Been in the New City Real Estate Trenches" List

1) Want fictional neighborhoods? Craigslist has them. East Williamsburg - the less threatening name for Bushwick and/or Bed Sty. Upper West Side/Washington Heights. What? Where did Harlem and Morningside Heights disappear to? And Bushiburg?!?

2) Blocks from the train. How about 30. Close to all transportation. Close to nothing. In addition, a 7 minute walk to the subway is never 7 minutes. And that 15 minute commute into Manhattan? Dump that in the same rubbage bin where you abandoned Santa Clause, the Tooth Fairy, and the American Dream.

3) Up-and-coming neighborhood. You will be part of the initial wave in the gentrification process, so prepare to deal without a Starbucks until the second round of white settlers move in.

4) Brokers! Brokers! Brokers!

"Look at this view." I'm staring at the back of a warehouse wall. "You can see the Empire State Building from here!" Leaning. Leaning further out. Straining to see around the bulky, elevated subway platform. Leaning. Leaning... "And the garden's right below." The weed patch and chain-link fence.

"The neighborhood has everything." Not true. "Grocery stores." Shady bodegas that only sell Doritos, soda, and liquor. "The most beautiful park." Yes. Half-a-mile away. "Restaurants." Pizza and Chinese you order through a hole in the protective glass window separating the customers from the employees.

"Do you all have jobs? Look at this. Brand new! No one's used this stove top. No one's used the oven. You will be the first. You'll be the first to turn on the gas, place your head into its womb and end it all! Look at these ceilings! You could store a giraffe in here! A giraffe and it's mother! Is everyone employed? Why would you want a living room? You each have beautiful bedrooms. 1, 2, 3 beautiful bedrooms. You just eat in there. Close the door. It's your own. Yes, the bathroom's small, but all you need to do is get in and get out. Do you want a closet? I'll build you a closet. Oh, you want a door? I'll build you a door. I will make it out of dirt and spit. It will be ready by tomorrow. How many of you are there? Does everyone have a job?"

5) A liquor store must always been accompanied by a church and vice versa.

6) And, most importantly, if you're walking down the street on your way to an open house and you think to yourself, "Now, this is a cute block," don't worry - your apartment will not be on this block. It will be on the next block over. The one with the dilapidated row of disgruntled brownstones and apartment complexes with dime bags on the ground in front and entry doors with the street number spray-painted on them. (The same applies for apartment buildings. The cuter the building is, the more likely it will not be the one where your future hovel will be found.)

*Regarding those exposed brick walls, the mortar slowly and continually crumbles off onto our appliances, window sills, and floor. Even after we demanded that a second coat of shiny something be applied, the Great Shedding continues. At night I can listen to the tiny cement bits say goodbye to their loved ones and jump from the brick ledges, fatally landing on boxes and plastic bags far below.

New headshots are ushering in the end times.

After intensive elective surgery and colorization.

Before.

A wide-eyed innocent poses for the uber-talented Sylvia Renick and marvels at the wondrous instrument she holds in her hands, a magical contraption that can capture his image better than any tintype. This black and white boy knows nothing of the color spectrum and believes that sunshine and happiness grow in gardens alongside rows of bell peppers and okra. In a few months, this boy will somehow convince himself that George W should be reelected.

FLASH! BANG! CHA-CHA-CHA-CHOOEY!

Three years later I've realized that I had to stop buying relaxed fit jeans, that life takes a little seduction now and then, and that the only headshot I had limited me to playing the role of the 16-year-old preacher's son. Inspired by the teachings of Queen B, I decided to upgrade my headshots in order to give myself a little versatility. Here for your consideration, dear readers (if I haven't already driven all of you away with my glacial posting), are a few results from my sitting with photographer Laura Rose.

Now it's time for reader participation! Kick ass! Vote for your favorites. Help me decide what I should use for my commercial look (casual, open, endearing) and my legit (intriguing, more serious). Also, which shot is the most smug? And which look is most likely to get me into your pants? I'll post the results if anyone actually votes. How cool is that!

"Commercial" Look

1) 2)

3) WINNER (see February 25th entry)

4) 5)

6) 7)

"Legit" Look

1)

2)

3)

4) 5)

6) 7)

8) 9) WINNER (see February 25th entry)

10) 11)

12) 13)

Inactivity is ushering in the end times.

My former kingdom.

Oh how I'm not doing anything.

Remember my last post (way back in '88)? About me leaving my toy soldier position? Well, once again I'm saying adieu to employment. Honestly, I don't want to make this a habit, but I can't deny when a job is ending. I could if I wanted to. I could try and pretend I didn't see the inevitable finality of it all and continue to iron my button-up shirt, carefully select a sweater vest, and arrive every morning at 8-ish to 787 7th Ave. However, such willful oblivion won't produce a paycheck. So I must turn to unemployment and address him directly:

Mr. Unemployment, I welcome you as a temporary guest. Make yourself at home because I know this will only be a brief stay since you must soon leave to pay a visit to Dennis Hastert. Mr. Unemployment, I thank you for enabling me to return home to see my family and to spend more time apartment hunting. But, Mr. Unemployment, remember you are a guest in my home, and you will respect my rules. Please take off your shoes at the door if they are muddy. Do not leave food crumbs on the dining table nor hookers in my bed. And under no circumstance will you touch my bank account. I have hot water on the stove. Feel free to make yourself some tea.

Now some of you may be asking yourself, "Baby girl, what job is d.a.vid leaving?" Well, I was the temporary administrative assistant at BNP Paribas's Asian Equities desk. A position I acquired through eavesdropping, thank you very much. It all started when.....

It was a magical June day, the kind which gives you faith in God. David was meeting his friend for a night of theatre at Lincoln Center. As he stood at the railing of the lobby's mezzanine, he overheard a voice which sounded like sweet cherry blossoms. A woman spoke with frustration to her friend about the disappointing performance of her current temp. David was curious and continued to lend an eager ear to this conversation. According to the woman, the temp came in late and never stayed past 5. Apparently he was a thorn-in-the-side to all her coworkers too.

When David's friend arrived, he told her of the situation and asked if he should introduce himself. His friend replied, "David, you are a sparkling star in this night sky. Recognize your abilities and offer yourself to her like the human sacrifice you are." With those encouraging words and both of their respective friends momentarily absent, David approached this woman and attempted to initiate oral stimulation on her if she would only allow him to interview for the job. The woman demurred, but David insisted that she at least consider him for the position because he was capable and as gregarious as a chipmunk. The woman, named Grace (How wonderfully true!), said, "What the hell," and the two exchanged information. They then returned to their own friends and entered into the glorious world of Theatre.

All this occurred as described (more or less) on a Thursday evening, and by Friday morning David had a new job which did not require him to dress like the eroticized fantasy of a uniform fetishist.

So for four months I endured the pressures and enjoyed the benefits of the world of finance. But my tenure has come to an end. I have trained my replacement and thrown my fortune to the wind (and to Craigslist).

And as I sit here, jobless, and wait for my current lease to expire at the end of August, I like to pretend that I don't need to be looking for an apartment. This allows me to relax and do things like update my blog, buy new sweater vests from Daffy's with my credit card, and watch the glorious horror film, The Descent, jumping like a nervous school girl about to make it with a boy for the first time.

This toy soldier's final tour of duty is ushering in the end times.

All good things must come to an end. And other things end, too - like this job. I had made a promise to myself that I would no longer be a toy soldier by the time I turned 25, and my July birthday looms. Farewell, FAO. I will miss my employee discount.

The end times are ushering in the end times.

When major events happen in our lives, we’re always told that there are lessons of significance to be taken away, to be stored in our “now that we’re older and wiser” manila folder – vital lessons that will make us better people.

I guess so.

But sometimes the only truth I manage to retrieve from these rapidly passing days is a repetition of the theme: things happen. And how inspiring is that?

People are continually and feverishly analyzing situations and events, trying to decipher the clues in order to discover cause. The burden of the occurrence is placed on Time, God, Fate, Science, Karma, Butter, Satan, Stupidity, etc. And it’s quite a consuming pursuit. “Why do bad things happen to good people?” “Why do good things happen to shitty people?” “If God really loves me, why can’t I keep an erection?” And the like.

My apartment was burglarized recently (or burglered, if you prefer), and those enterprising thieves relieved me of my iMac and brand new Canon SLR camera and lens. Oh, the drama! And the horror! What’s most tremendously frustrating is all the thousands of pictures that were stored on my computer (which I hadn’t backed up on an external hard drive). Pictures I’ve been taking of the city since February and its mass of details. Pictures of random subway passengers, mannequins in the windows of Bergdorf Goodman, mosaics in Williamsburg, dusty church marquees in Bed Sty, the proud owner of the Jesus tire repair shop a few blocks from my home. Also gone are the folded hands of my grandmother as she lay in her casket and the shots of rooms in my grandparent’s home in New Mexico that were taken in an attempt to keep the reality of their everyday lives from retreating into indistinct past.

One friend wrote in an email: “I strongly believe that for every bad thing that happens to us, there is an amazing thing to match it. That being said, you have some great days ahead of you so brace yourself for goodness.” But this sort of viewpoint makes me wonder: Is there similarly an awful thing to match every good one that happens to us? If so, then perhaps my remarkably blessed life was due for some ass-kicking.

Another friend, in an attempt to be comforting (or dismissive), said, “It’s only material things. You’ll always have the memories.” Actually, the whole purpose was to capture what the memory cannot contain. With photography, I’m able to isolate and manipulate, to extract from the context or make the connection undeniable. I could highlight what my eye saw and allow others to see how I viewed the world, which is a combination of idiosyncratic skewering and common banality. And I’m not claiming the world has lost unseen masterpieces (though it has, though it has), but I have lost pieces of myself. I was leaving little markers on the ground as I wandered along, as I evolved, matured, and regressed. These markers allowed me to look back to see where I’ve been, what I’ve learned, what I’ve forgotten. Memories are treasures, but they’re often vague and can lose their once potent impact. A picture is a frozen viewpoint, evidence of a precision imposed.

As irritating as the whole thing has been, it’s only a crisis in a relative sense. And I can’t worry about assigning blame or about demanding recompense because life continues and things are still happening, and I want to be present in the middle of it all.

So, boys and girls, today’s lesson is remember that you must always never, ever take one single moment of…. No, that wasn’t it. The lesson is that if you trust with your heart, angels will stand guard of… No. That can’t be right. Ahhh yes! The lesson for today is that when food hits the floor, you have 10 seconds before it goes bad…or is it 5? Oh never mind.

My kimono-clad NYC stage debut is ushering in the end times.

David or Nono the doll? Click here to find out.

So it was bound to happen sooner or later. To be honest, I tried to delay it for an indefinite period of time by simply doing nothing, but, like all stories of greateness, mine too requires a beginning. And this beginning is the Morse code production of Aphra Behn's The Rover, which will be on stage this coming Thursday through Sunday (June 14 - 17) during the Looking Glass Theatre's Spring Writer/Director Forum. ! .

True to my word, my entrance into the world of NYC theatre is an inconspicuous affair of simplicity, grace, and refined taste. How else would you describe my appearance in drag as the handmaiden to a famous courtesan - complete with kimono and song? And to parade my dexterous acting skill before the rest of my castmates, the director also gave me the role of sidekick Frederick, whom I have turned into a fop of a fellow with wandering eyes and posing hips. Come to think of it, he'd probably feel quite at home in a kimono, too. So, for those of my readers in the tri-state vicinity (that's if I still have any readers - Oh Lord!), come on down to the Looking Glass Theatre on 57th St between 9th & 10th and witness history in the making. I can't promise you it's worth $15, but, if you have a student ID, you can sneak in for $12. And it's definitely worth $12. No question.

So instead of taking your hooker out for post-coital McDonald's in Times Square, drop her off early and spend that $15 on me. Follow this link >>>>>>>Looking Glass Theatre<<<<<<< to their website where you can follow another link to another website from which you can buy tickets - or undiluted joy, as I like to call it.

Tony Hoagland is ushering in the end times.

I've been listening to Garrison Keillor's reading of this poem by Tony Hoagland since January, and I think it's a phenomenal piece of writing. The construction almost tempts skimming, but its roots are entrenched and stubbornly complex. It manages to simultaneously reveal how the everyday is insignificant and undeniably extraordinary. Click on the poem's title to go to the Writer's Almanac website and listen to Keillor's drowsy-voiced infusion.

sky trail - solarider (great pictures throughout the blog)

A Color of the Sky
by Tony Hoagland

Windy today and I feel less than brilliant,
driving over the hills from work.
There are the dark parts on the road
when you pass through clumps of wood
and the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean,
but that doesn’t make the road an allegory.

I should call Marie and apologize
for being so boring at dinner last night,
but can I really promise not to be that way again?
And anyway, I’d rather watch the trees, tossing
in what certainly looks like sexual arousal.

Otherwise it’s spring, and everything looks frail;
the sky is baby blue, and the just-unfurling leaves
are full of infant chlorophyll,
the very tint of inexperience.

Last summer’s song is making a comeback on the radio,
and on the highway overpass,
the only metaphysical vandal in America has written
MEMORY LOVES TIME
in big black spraypaint letters,

which makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back.

Last night I dreamed of X again.
She’s like a stain on my subconscious sheets.
Years ago she penetrated me
but though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed,
I never got her out,
but now I’m glad.

What I thought was an end turned out to be a middle.
What I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel.
What I thought was an injustice
turned out to be a color of the sky.

Outside the youth center, between the liquor store
and the police station,
a little dogwood tree is losing its mind;

overflowing with blossomfoam,
like a sudsy mug of beer;
like a bride ripping off her clothes,

dropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds,

so Nature’s wastefulness seems quietly obscene.
It’s been doing that all week:
making beauty,
and throwing it away,
and making more.

"B" is ushering in the end times.

My doodles are ushering in the end times [4].

Grandma is ushering in the end times.

She was a spectacular woman. Determined and full of fire. She'd meet you at the porch door after the long drive into the country, and you knew that, if you were patient and played outside for a while, there'd be a Dr Pepper party coming along soon.

She'd tell you to stand up tall and be proud of your height, and she'd snap at you if you had your hand in your mouth or near your eyes. Germs were for the foolish and lazy.

When the food was ready, she'd ring the dinner bell and cry out in her singular manner. A cry that could also be heard coming down from the bleachers, over everybody and everything else, while you stood on the football field in the middle of the game.

She was proud of her heritage, of her family's past, but she was even prouder of its future. She made me laugh like no one else. She had feisty one-liners and sometimes they stung.

She'd hold you tight in her hug and start to tickle your sides, but then she'd squeeze your hand and, with a serious look, tell you how much you meant to her and how she was so proud of you, of all her bunch.

Her singing voice was direct and unflappable, and she'd take the bass line. She'd volunteer you for anything and have the utmost confidence that you would make it a smashing success.

She liked dogs and cared little for cats. She loved her great-grandchildren. She had no patience for whiners.

She had traveled the world but was more than content to be living in the sparse expanse between Sedan and Amistad. Come summer, she was moving into town.

She'd pat your friends on the behind upon introduction, and you'd expectantly wait for that look of surprise to suddenly appear on their face.

She loved a man fiercely for over fifty years, and they were a balanced pair. She loved him even after he died, and she tried to keep real flowers at his grave, but nothing stays alive in that summer heat.

Her hair was thick, and her eyes sparked. Her faith was strong.

She would always say how lucky she was to be in this family.

But we knew we were the lucky ones.

The hard truth is ushering in the end times.

So I've had some time to consider the (non)response to my last post. Frankly, I found it difficult to believe that my blog has had no affect whatsoever on whatsoanyone. That's crazy talk and utter paranoia. I've seen the dramatic reversals in your medical charts. I've been there when your slimy newborns reluctantly push out into the cold fluorescent light of the hospital room. I've witnessed you painstakingly sneak-up on and attack orphans and stray puppies. I know my words are not falling void.

But something was not right. I began to mull over the possibilities, and one glaring conclusion out-glared all others. I am sorry for not seeing the signs earlier, for not helping you out when your silent cries of silence tore through cyberspace in an attempt to pull me out of my inattentive slumber.

I know that you, my readers, are illiterate. Please, don't be ashamed that I have uncovered the "hard truth." We cannot hide behind social decorum anymore. Do not tentatively turn your face from me, little ones. Look me in the eye. Stay proud. Many people, for many reasons, never learn to read nor write and, therefore, are unable to join functioning society and post comments on spectacular blogs when the blogger requests a little reader response. It's not your fault. Let's blame your parents. Parents! Damn the parents! Oh...damn!

But today I make the pledge that you, oh reader, will learn how to discern an A from a Z and a Z from a Zed. I will not leave you impoverished and abandoned on the streets, feet feebly wrapped in yesterday's newspapers to ward off the approaching gangrene. No, no - my homeless shall beam with pride as they read to passerby the headlines running along their decaying soles. My heart aches to think of you straining to find meaning in the foreign characters and imposing symbols scattered across my pages. You longed for a simple picture and feared the appearance of a cartoon with a caption. Today I understand it all so well. I was a negligent friend and mentor. But no more. I am going to teach you the alphabet, beginning now.

I love you, and I want to change your life for the better. But I can't help you if you continue to resist me. Remember, I know what's best.

Repeat to yourself, "d.a.vid knows what's best. d.a.vid knows what's best. I like it when he puts his hand upon my thigh. d.a.vid knows what's best."

Milestones are ushering in the end times.

OVER 1000 HITS! And in only seven short months. I wonder how long it would take me to find a cure for Parkinson's disease if I really put my mind to it?

How has The Apocalypse & Me changed your life? Whose cancer went into remission? How many babies were conceived while reading these pages? How has your hate for kindness grown? I'd love to tell you how this amazing blog has changed my own life, how it has altered my entire existence, but - honestly - I don't read this crap.

My doodles are ushering in the end times [3].

My open fly is ushering in the end times.

I may have gained many things since starting my new temp job as an administrative assistant in the equities division of an international bank - great pay, lots of hours (even more great pay), a look into the frighteningly intense little world of finance, the pleasure of being a number of people's bitch, and bountiful opportunities to pair cardigans with skinny ties - but I have lost the ability to zip up my pants. (And this is not naughty, lecherous braggadocio.)

Four times I have left the bathroom with my zipper undone, and I have had just as many close calls. Once I was barely past the men's room door when I discovered I was playing peekaboo. Another time I had walked back to my desk and was heading to the elevator when I looked down to see if my shirt was lying flat and realized the barn door was swung open wide. And twice I've made it completely out the building, eight stories below, carelessly allowing my cows to wander, oh wander away. I've walked up and down a busy side street hunting for a car service, dragging two rolling suitcases with my unzipped zip. I've even taken this extroverted fly as far as the cafeteria/gourmet grocer across the street where I browsed the aisles for 15 or so minutes waiting for my pizza to finish baking - perusing the selection of hand-popped popcorn drizzled in rich caramel and dark, decadent chocolate, cocoa-dusted, milk chocolate-enveloped, organically-grown coffee beans, and tart, unpretentious bonbons in le plus parfait tins. I'm sure I lost the whole herd that day.

What the hell is going on? I was raised well. I'm not an exhibitionist. I always wash my hands (which is way more than I can say for most of you laughable, clueless manboys). I'm afraid I might get quite the reputation for myself. "That's the guy who's always flying low. What a dumbass." Or "There's the creepy kid who can never remember to zip up his fly. At least he's cute." Or "What is his problem? I bet he wouldn't be a good father - so careless. It's a shame because he's so pretty...even though his new short haircut isn't that flattering. Kinda looks like a ball. Maybe he's going to get it worked on again this Friday." I bet that's what they're muttering at their desks to their omnipresent 3+ computer monitors as I walk by.

At least I can take comfort in the knowledge that this whole time my penis has not been on display. It has been safely, decorously tucked away beneath layers of undergarments, chastity belts, and S&M gear. But, if I keep this up, who knows what will happen? how much in the end will be shamefully flaunted? how many lucrative promotions I will subsequently receive?

My absence is ushering in the end times.

I apologize to my readers (rough estimates place the number at either 7,000 or 3) for not updating in so many years. I mean, I haven't done shit. Not even an old cartoon or an extreme closeup shot of a natty shoe or potted plant. But to be honest, I'd forgotten I had a blog. Ok, ok - seriously - I'm tired. Trying to get pregnant is really taking all the energy out of me. We have so many schedules to balance, and we're always watching the calendar, keeping track of my ovulation. I really envy those of you for whom it came about rather effortlessly and/or accidentally. Whoops! I guess we're quitting smoking sooner than we thought, etc. It has been such a struggle for us, but I know that in the end, when all those other unused, unfertilized eggs are discarded, the few fertilized ones we chose to implant in my womb will bring about the happiness in our lives that we've never had and keep divorce at bay. (Fingers crossed.)

So, keep your eyes on this site. Big things are coming! Until then, go back in time with me and take a look at the readers' comments from "Housewives are ushering in the end times" (January) to help out with a couple of questions I have:

What is our biological instinct? And why should it be governed (if it should be governed at all)? I do feel that there is very good reason for its regulation, but I also believe that instinct can be overburdened by unnecessary, harmful, and possibly unnatural demands, expectations, and even asphyxiations. (Huh, d.a.vid? As opposed to what? Natural asphyxiations?) And if instinct is to be regulated, by what? whom? Just whose hands are jiggling that lever about?

Now go out there and make me proud! And if you've got nothing of value to contribute to the discussion, at least write profanities in the comment section, bitch.

My doodles are ushering in the end times [2].

The elderly are ushering in the end times.

Nothing is a more prescient warning of the impending apocalypse than the sight of a fragile octogenarian moving through the winding tunnels of the NYC subway system, confused, lost, and racist.

She is someone's bigot grandmother whose children have long since severed ties. He is the racist great uncle whose only son died in Vietnam and can no longer wear lace-ups because of his bigoty, arthritic hands. With each hateful, belabored step they slow down the progress of all the tolerant commuters. Their mere presence depresses the collective spirit of the youthful, enlightened passengers. Oh God! These old people are soul-crushing! I don’t know if my open-mindedness can take it!

Research has repeatedly shown that crow's feet and catheters, whether physically present or simply present as a barely-acknowledged yet troubling mental irritant, negatively impact the work ethic of the buoyant, optimistic Young Americans resulting in a loss of billions of dollars to American businesses each year. In fact, the extent of these financial losses dwarfs even those of sexual-harassment payouts and the under-the-table plastic surgery procedures for board members combined. This aggravation is so detrimental to American corporations that 80% of Fortune 500 companies have now established permanent young persons centers, or PDCs as they are referred to in-house (Pretty Damn Cool), to combat the mental anguish any association with America's elderly bigot population causes. Inside these PDCs are rooms specially constructed for Seven Minutes in Heaven sessions, private theatres in which The Colbert Report, That’s So Raven, and all seven seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer are played in a continuous loop, and dorm style duplexes complete with multiple refrigerators and pantries stocked with Pizzeria Pretzel Combos®, near beer, Juicy Juice®, ramen noodles, and condoms. These PDCs are intended to distract employees from their unceasing thoughts of dying and/or dying a bigot, from vomit-inducing nervousness brought on by fearful days spent wondering what embarrassing, un-PC, and inconveniently life-threatening situation their bigot mom, dad, grandparent, or even godparent is getting themselves into, and from the general discomfort felt after watching an old person cry.

It is this same population, the bigoted elderly, which is unable to find the acceptable humor in and acceptable setting for racist jokes. Their laughter is that of the ignorant - believing the joke to be funny and appropriate instead of funny and inappropriate. They simply are unaware that the correct environment for a tolerant, white person to tell a black joke is in the company of other tolerant, white people. And never forget that they are also closer to death.

It is also pertinent to consider the manner in which the racist elderly complain with clockwork precision about the general demise of things, about how the youth of today are disrespectful, lazy, going-nowhere, free-lovin’ whores. Excuse me, but who were our teachers? That’s right, our elders. Can you chide the burnt cookie when the inattentive baker is to blame? And I take offense at the notion that this nubile generation is burnt or even overly crisp. We are the Young America that popularized YouTube and gave you Paris, Britney, and *NSYNC. If anything, we are slightly doughy.

So what is their function? To make us sad? To make us less liberal-minded? If so, their success is comparable only to the astronomical ratings glory of American Idol, Season Six - off...the...charts. It is imperative that we sever ties with these hateful ghosts of America’s past and renew focus on the tween market and its hummingbird-like attention span and ever-more-revealing low-rise jeans. The sooner the members of AARP are placed out of sight, out of mind (feel free to read that both figuratively and literally), the better and funkier the lives of Young America will be. For ours is a new national anthem, one to supersede the hip-replacement dirge of yesteryear. Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the singing of the national anthem, "SexyBack." And ours is a new pledge of allegiance, a work of significance to erase from memory the bedpan ode of our forefathers. And remain standing for the pledge of allegiance, the lyrics to "SexyBack."

I’m bringing sexy back
Them other boys don’t know how to act
I think you're special, what's behind your back?
So turn around and I'll pick up the slack.

Jay Brannan is ushering in the end times.

shirtless (surprise!) pic from jaybrannan.com

While I was busy not posting anything, Brannan uploaded to YouTube a performance of the song I referenced in my January 8th entry, "Housewives are ushering in the end times." I've now included it as a link in that original post, but thought I'd add a special notice so those of who you don't methodically reread old posts for minor improvements/tinkerings (quite possibly not a word) could hear it as well. And the title, as it turns out - "Housewife."

UPDATE: So I've had difficulties keeping the video on my blog. It coyly disappeared when I added a new post. To listen to the song, click on the picture, and you'll be taken in a crystalline carriage to the magical kingdom of YouTube.

My doodles are ushering in the end times [1].

Now, don't worry. That title isn't scatological. (Sorry, Ashley.) Although, for those of you whose mind hadn't gone there, now it has. (Sorry, everyone else.)

If you know me, you know that I draw all the time or drew all the time - a frequent doodler. An eye here. A stiletto there. A lady adorned with tribal patterns (tribal patterns as stylized in the mind of a 21st century white boy) on the back of this English notebook. A bloated tableau of my high school classmates caught in various compromising positions and ridiculous constructions entitled "Physics Extravaganza" on the surface of that chalkboard. Do I remember the title correctly, Mr. Green?

Beginning my last year of undergrad I embarked on a somber series of single-pane cartoons which, for the most part, I alone found amusing. So encouraged by this tepid response was I that I continued to produce additional cartoons all through grad school until I had pieced together a trifling portfolio. With the scant adoration of my peers expanding the sails of my confidence, I submitted these cartoons to St. John's student-published weekly, The Gadfly. Here is a rough draft of the cover letter:

Not exactly a confident sell, is it. But I still had hope that at least one undergraduate in the editorial staff would respond warmly, and I would open the paper on a Wednesday in the near future and view one of my published cartoons with pleasure (immense) and surprise (mild). Perhaps it was the wound-licking cover letter or the quality of the cartoons themselves. Or maybe it was the inclusion of full-frontal nudity or the consistent reliance on gallows humor. But my little gems were not published, and my submission was never acknowledged. (In case you're wondering - and why wouldn't you be - "GI" is Graduate Institute not Government Issue. Oorah!)

However, your first mistake was assuming the past lies dormant. Your second, pairing those pants with that top. And your third, believing him when he said, "I love you." I will now use the immense power given to me by this new medium to rectify the oversight, the injustice and post highlights from this brilliant collection (or the whole damn thing - you won't know the difference). Take this into consideration: the humor, if present, is inappropriate and slight, and some are more observational than funny. But I still like 'em, and you just might.

Housewives are ushering in the end times.

May 1912 cover of The Housewife

No, this entry has nothing to do with those housewives of network television notoriety who on a weekly basis strut about from one melodrama to the next, requiring a costume change whenever they make a house call or pick up the telephone. However, let it be known that Nicollette Sheridan has the most frightening cleavage on TV. I wish wardrobe would stop putting her in anything low-cut. Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place. I continue...

No, this is not a diatribe against housewives. I'm not taking any position in regards to the "rightful place" of a mother. Let the mother decide what is best for her family and herself. On a personal note, I treasure the environment created by my stay-at-home mom - "stay-at-home" being a ridiculous misnomer; with four kids under her charge, she rarely managed to stay at home and never seemed to pull off anything resembling downtime. She was a constant for us, in a different way than my father. She was the center around which we whirled. We never needed to fear because she could always be reached - coming to our rescue, whether it be the minute disaster or the vaguely epic ("I forgot today was picture day! Mom! You don't understand! I can't wear my glasses in the yearbook photo! I need my contacts! Ohhh, this is worst thing that has ever happened under the watchful eye of God!). Additionally, I don't consider either option - housewife or working mom - to be emblematic of modern-day feminism. Both can be empowering or subservient roles, and I do think that it is possible that either position can be the wrong decision for the given situation and that ultimately the decision can be made for the wrong reasons. I continue...

This little post is about the wrangling over the term itself, about whom can be knighted "housewife" and who's been vested with the authority to bring the ceremonial sword tap-tapping down. And if it is the aim of some women to relinquish the title, is it acceptable for other groups to claim it?

Singer/songwriter/professional quirky girl Nellie McKay has a number on her debut album, Get Away From Me, entitled "I Wanna Get Married." In a clever, tuneful manner McKay rejects the once seemingly mandatory role of housewife relegated to women. Her position on the issue isn't cutting edge and probably wouldn't even make waves in Oklahoma. Women have been abandoning the housewife role for decades, ever since they began burning their bras and realized they'd need to get jobs in order to replace those crispy, smoke-infested, absolutely unwearable brassieres. However, the song is a charming journey into the tabula rasa life of a woman who wants no identity apart from husband and children. Life outside the framework of her picket fence is inconceivable. For women like McKay rebellion is found in the shedding of such a deadweight, ridiculous moniker as "housewife" and all the Brady-goodness it represents.

But now the twist: What happens when others wish to occupy the housewife role? when these applicants aren't quite so traditional?

A month or five ago I was at a club listening to singer/actor/annoyingly apologetic YouTube poster Jay Brannan who is part of the ensemble of John Cameron Mitchell's endearing new film Shortbus - if your lexicon is comfortable allowing "endearing" to include that which is sexually explicit. One of the songs in his set very well could have been titled "I Wanna Get Married" or "Please, Please, Let Me Be A Housewife." A few years back, when he was in a relationship in California (which resembles NYC in its percentage of obvious sinners, remember?), he wrote about his desire to be nothing more than a housewife for a husband to return home to. In a clear, easy voice he sang about wishing he could fix his man drinks and cook meals and various shit. For Brannan, as a gay male, rebellion is found in assuming the mantle of housewife for himself, the very one being cast off by a segment of its original wearer, the heterosexual female. Controversy results from a simple act of conformity, of emulation.

Poppa-Top Poppa from the Tracy O'Neal Photographic Collection at GSU

What a stir we have here! But in reality nothing new is understood about the larger cultural context from which the housewife predicament has been pulled. Under this ambitious social umbrella one can encounter fun, dinner conversation ready topics like gender, sexuality, structure of the family, gay marriage and gay adoption rights, and why Star Jones Reynolds is America’s favorite drag queen.

So often that which seems to offend our sense of what is decent may only be an affront to the current, culturally ingrained norm. In recent years I have been trying to pull together a comprehension of "natural" and the significance of its definition, considering both denotation and connotation. What does it mean when someone says, "That's just not natural"? Are we referring to the nature of the wild? the nature of the test tube? the nature of reason? of the airplane which gives man its unnatural wings? of the life-extending medical devices and modern-day magic potions? of life-extinguishing solutions? the nature of the biological family? of the extended family? the nature of tradition? of religion?

In light of what is "natural," are women the only ones who have the right to be so desperate in the abode? And does our familiarity with the comforting picture of a woman in an apron preclude us from allowing others to engage in families and in the home in meaningful, beneficial ways?

Untitled 96 - Cindy Sherman

NYC is ushering in the end times.

Now, for some of my readers hailing from or currently residing in America's midsection, a region whose moral pants are securely being held up by the dependable, panic-inducing constriction of its Bible Belt, the title of this post is an obvious and uncontested fact. Is the sky blue? Is New York the devil's playground? The Big Apple has been ushering in the end times for decades and will continue to do so until God torches it Sodom & Gomorrah style in order to provide lesson material for Sunday School classes across the nation. Because of this, one of the absolute worst insults to be smacked with in my hometown is the slanderous "East Coast liberal" label, and nothing says over-intellectualized, godless, effeminate, spineless-due-to-their-not-eating-meat, suspiciously French "East Coast liberal" like a New Yorker.

Last summer I was back in Texas working with my dad. We stopped by a local, family-owned meat processing plant, efficiently ran by a Mennonite husband-and-wife duo, for a service call. Dad looked over a new project with the husband, and, since my general ignorance regarding all things electrical would contribute nothing to the early planning stages, I was freed up to talk to the wife who was manning the storefront. She is a wonderful woman, quick to laugh, possessing a vigorous life energy and perhaps a slight bawdiness. She was bewildered and somewhat horrified to discover that I was moving to NYC.

"But there are so many sinners there...and in California."

"It's not like we don't have sin here in the Panhandle."

"Yes. But I guess there it's just more obvious."

And all this after she told me one of her sons could very easily be a Calvin Klein model. Could there be a secret stash of People magazines hidden behind those church cookbooks in the home of this particular world wise Mennonite?

Because today I picked up the first roll of film I've had developed in about three months, I thought I should post some of my favorite shots in a tribute to New York City, Home of Obvious Sinners. Disclaimer: I'm still getting to know my computer and all-in-one printer/scanner/copier - Why won't you print? Oh, why won't you ever print!? - and I'm not entirely content with the image quality here.

But don't feel neglected, Texas. I have close to twenty-five rolls of film waiting to be developed in a shoe box on my closet shelf, rolls containing nothing but pit barbecue, rodeos, tractors, Rocky Mountain jeans, and dirt roads.

New York City: Home of Obvious Sinners

This is a tight shot of the shop window for the Louis Vuitton store on 5th Avenue before the holiday exhibit went up. I like pulling a thing out of its contextual surroundings to make it appear unfamiliar, strange, abstract:

(Left) An autumnal view of Central Park as I walk from the N,R,W subway stop along Central Park South on my way to work.
(Right) From the same vantage point, The Sherry-Netherland and the GM Building side-by-side but with a palpable generation gap. The GM Building (on the right) is home to my glorious, bewitching, kinda tacky, debt-inducing FAO Schwarz:

Really love this one. I caught one of my more interesting coworkers in all his tightly groomed fierceness and showing hints of those unsettling and dangerous undertones which sometimes violently jerk out from underneath his pert, calculated composure releasing rushes of profanity and indignant anger.

These two Midtown shots were probably taken from Park or Madison Avenue. When the architecture is so similar, sometimes the divisional lines between buildings can blur in a mirage of reflective glass, concrete, steel, and upward motion:

A close-up of the floor levels for one of the elevators in the GM lobby. I couldn't get the picture to scan without the faint line crossing the upper half:


Windows at Bergdorf Goodman.
(Left) An unfocused look into a window at the men's store displaying clothing items by Burberry (on 2) and Jil Sander (on 3). I tried flirting with both the white lettering and the clothes inside, giving neither my full attention. The scan for this one isn't very satisfying.
(Center, Right): Street scenes reflected on windows at the women's store across 5th Avenue.

REAL LIVE NEW YORKERS!!!!!:

The Cascade Laundry facility on Myrtle Avenue in Brooklyn. I pass this everyday on the walk to and from the G line. I already associate the harsh smell of the chemical cleaners with those workdays which require me to wake up before even the Good Lord. If we were supposed to get up before noon, God himself would have created alarm clocks. Oh, you blasphemous hordes!:

And finally, meat...somewhere. It must have been a street festival. Definitely not a protest march:

Wishing everyone a wonderfully unnerving new year. I feel that mine can't be anything less than spectacular, but in what manner? Finding myself ringing in 2007 at an outrageous party attended by Michael Musto, Johnny Weir, Amanda Lepore, and both old and new friends must entail either fantastic success or unyielding doom. I wonder which one of these strangers next to me on the N train is Lot. It might do me some good to introduce myself. I hear he has connections you wouldn't believe.