I got my first computer, a Commodore VIC-20, when I was in the sixth grade. Back then, all I wanted to do when I grew up was be a computer programmer. I got pretty good at BASIC, writing a few space-invaders type games that were really not that much fun to play, but I spent hours, days, weeks, writing them and having a damn good time doing it. After that I graduated to the Commodore 64 and Simon's BASIC, and then got further along in school, and college, where I ended up instead studying things like philosophy, and journalism and kind of forgot how much I enjoyed speaking to computers in their language and getting them to sit up and beg, a little.
I want to start learning this again, but it's been so long I don't know where to start, or what to start with. I want to learn the basics of object oriented programming and maybe, eventually, go back to school. But for now, I was wondering if anyone could give me some pointers. Where should I start? Java? C++/#? .NET? HTML or XML?
I was pretty good with BASIC, back in those days, I picked it up pretty easily and was 100% self-taught. I just don't know where to start now, to get back into it.
I'm looking for recommendations--if you had to choose two or three books to start with, what would they be?
I appreciate any advice any of you pros out may have.
Thanks!
-=S
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Monday, September 12, 2005
Goodbye, Danny.
Dan Beaudette was the first gay friend I ever introduced to my parents. When I got back from Europe, where my coming-out journey had played out, he had been introduced to our little gang by, well, I'm not sure who, but there he was. He was witty, charming, successful, and good-looking and we became instant friends. Having moved to Salt Lake City from Palm Springs he's the reason any of us went to our very first White Party all those years ago.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Dan was estranged from his parents and so mine more or less took him in--the last couple of years I lived in Salt Lake, Dan was a fixture at mom and dad's house for all big holidays--Christmas, Thanksgiving. He was as much a part of our family as any of my friends have ever been.
I lived with Dan for a year right before leaving Salt Lake, in a restored Victorian off Liberty Park. Danny was the reason I had my first big birthday party with my family where my gay friends were invited--including one or two drag queens--who showed up in full regalia. I guarantee you that is the first time my dad ever shared a meal with guys in dresses; with Dan over to the side going "See, I told you this would work!"
Danny and I became road-tripping buddies, taking a day or two off work here and there and packing some shit into the back of his convertible and just driving--usually to California, stopping for various misadventures along the way. We stopped in Vegas once to visit this friend of his who was a showgirl, ok well no she wasn't she worked in a topless bar--as a waitress only, they both reassured me. We had been driving all night and it was 4:30 in the morning and Jenny, or Cassie, or whatever her name was--seated us at one of the lap-dancing tables and fed us drinks. We marveled as the hot, silicone-filled dancers stepped down at the shift change and were replaced by less, um, polished versions and half the patrons in the club got up and left. "The Five-O'Clock Girls," Jenny-Cassie told us. Untested talent was only allowed to work the 5 AM shift until they proved themselves. Being called a Five-O'Clock Girl in certain segments of the Las Vegas entertainment community is not a compliment. Whenever Dan and I would come back from a club or party looking a little less than fresh, there was almost always a comment: "Wow, is it five o'clock *already?*"
The year we lived together we decided to do up our Victorian sitting room all proper-like for Christmas--so we got a tree, a bunch of ribbons and bows and candles and all that stuff that if you have the gay gene you're supposed to be able to just toss up in the air and have it land like fabulous. After several hours, we had an *almost*-fabulously decorated sitting room and then Parker and Jim came over. They were diplomatic, if not honest--"it needs, *something.*" Parker demands, "Bring me a teddy bear." What? "A teddy bear. I know someone here has one." Jim needs floral wire. What? "Floral wire." We don't have any floral wire. "Every gay household has floral wire now go find it." Turns out there was indeed floral wire in the kitchen drawer. Parker and Jim set to work on our sitting room--"Martha Stewart, on crack," Danny observes--and in 15 minutes we suddenly had House Beautiful Christmas, as well as the realization that some of our friends were WAY gayer than us.
One night the power went out. Again. The drafty old house got colder and colder. By midnight both of us were huddled with his dog in front of the fireplace (good thing the gas still worked) and smoking too much weed. We watched the snow fall outside and talked all night and solved all the world's problems.
"You're the only person who gets me, Scotty," he said.
Dan drank too much, partied too hard, took too many pills and was a bit of a mess--a big, fun-loving goodtime-girl mess who loved pets and children. Which means he was exactly like th rest of us. I don't feel bad saying this since I imagine when I go, if people say things half as delicately about me I'll be happy.
He moved away to Tampa after I came to California and we lost touch, then he moved to L.A. after his mother died and from day 1 it was as if we hadn't really spent six years apart. All the old jokes and all the old stories came roaring back as if it were just yesterday.
Lately, we hadn't been seeing each other as much as usual, missing each other's calls, checking in on voicemails--"Hey gurl, how you doing?" You get busy and you're doing your thing and friends who don't figure so prominently in your day-to-day tend to fade into the background if you're not careful and suddenly you're listening to that voicemail that says "Hey, Scotty, it's Dan--where are you? We haven't talked in awhile, it would be nice to catch up, call me..." and thinking, yeah, I should call him.
Dan's workout partner found him Wednesday morning alone in his apartment.
If I do nothing else today it's going to be to call all those people I've been meaning to call, and missing, and tell them as much--because you never know when you might not actually get to. I still have Dan's unanswered voicemail in my inbox.
Good luck, Danny. You never found what you were looking for in this life; I hope it was waiting for you in the next.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Dan was estranged from his parents and so mine more or less took him in--the last couple of years I lived in Salt Lake, Dan was a fixture at mom and dad's house for all big holidays--Christmas, Thanksgiving. He was as much a part of our family as any of my friends have ever been.
I lived with Dan for a year right before leaving Salt Lake, in a restored Victorian off Liberty Park. Danny was the reason I had my first big birthday party with my family where my gay friends were invited--including one or two drag queens--who showed up in full regalia. I guarantee you that is the first time my dad ever shared a meal with guys in dresses; with Dan over to the side going "See, I told you this would work!"
Danny and I became road-tripping buddies, taking a day or two off work here and there and packing some shit into the back of his convertible and just driving--usually to California, stopping for various misadventures along the way. We stopped in Vegas once to visit this friend of his who was a showgirl, ok well no she wasn't she worked in a topless bar--as a waitress only, they both reassured me. We had been driving all night and it was 4:30 in the morning and Jenny, or Cassie, or whatever her name was--seated us at one of the lap-dancing tables and fed us drinks. We marveled as the hot, silicone-filled dancers stepped down at the shift change and were replaced by less, um, polished versions and half the patrons in the club got up and left. "The Five-O'Clock Girls," Jenny-Cassie told us. Untested talent was only allowed to work the 5 AM shift until they proved themselves. Being called a Five-O'Clock Girl in certain segments of the Las Vegas entertainment community is not a compliment. Whenever Dan and I would come back from a club or party looking a little less than fresh, there was almost always a comment: "Wow, is it five o'clock *already?*"
The year we lived together we decided to do up our Victorian sitting room all proper-like for Christmas--so we got a tree, a bunch of ribbons and bows and candles and all that stuff that if you have the gay gene you're supposed to be able to just toss up in the air and have it land like fabulous. After several hours, we had an *almost*-fabulously decorated sitting room and then Parker and Jim came over. They were diplomatic, if not honest--"it needs, *something.*" Parker demands, "Bring me a teddy bear." What? "A teddy bear. I know someone here has one." Jim needs floral wire. What? "Floral wire." We don't have any floral wire. "Every gay household has floral wire now go find it." Turns out there was indeed floral wire in the kitchen drawer. Parker and Jim set to work on our sitting room--"Martha Stewart, on crack," Danny observes--and in 15 minutes we suddenly had House Beautiful Christmas, as well as the realization that some of our friends were WAY gayer than us.
One night the power went out. Again. The drafty old house got colder and colder. By midnight both of us were huddled with his dog in front of the fireplace (good thing the gas still worked) and smoking too much weed. We watched the snow fall outside and talked all night and solved all the world's problems.
"You're the only person who gets me, Scotty," he said.
Dan drank too much, partied too hard, took too many pills and was a bit of a mess--a big, fun-loving goodtime-girl mess who loved pets and children. Which means he was exactly like th rest of us. I don't feel bad saying this since I imagine when I go, if people say things half as delicately about me I'll be happy.
He moved away to Tampa after I came to California and we lost touch, then he moved to L.A. after his mother died and from day 1 it was as if we hadn't really spent six years apart. All the old jokes and all the old stories came roaring back as if it were just yesterday.
Lately, we hadn't been seeing each other as much as usual, missing each other's calls, checking in on voicemails--"Hey gurl, how you doing?" You get busy and you're doing your thing and friends who don't figure so prominently in your day-to-day tend to fade into the background if you're not careful and suddenly you're listening to that voicemail that says "Hey, Scotty, it's Dan--where are you? We haven't talked in awhile, it would be nice to catch up, call me..." and thinking, yeah, I should call him.
Dan's workout partner found him Wednesday morning alone in his apartment.
If I do nothing else today it's going to be to call all those people I've been meaning to call, and missing, and tell them as much--because you never know when you might not actually get to. I still have Dan's unanswered voicemail in my inbox.
Good luck, Danny. You never found what you were looking for in this life; I hope it was waiting for you in the next.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Blog, Resurrected
Out on the town with me partner-in-crime, featuring the heart surgery scar. I usually forget that it shows--it doesn't really bother me (much) (anymore).
In that the last entry was my half-finished heart surgery story, I figured I'd lead off the re-birth of "I Fierce" with a follow-up on that topic--photographic evidence that yes, that really happened and yes, I'm still alive. I remember The Scar being a big deal, heading into the hospital. I dreaded it--people around me were concerned--will there be a big scar? What will it look like? Will it go away? Will you hate it? Scar! Scarscarscarscar!
Well. I am happy to report that it bothered me almost not at all--even before the bandages came off I didn't care that The Scar was now a permanent part of the man in the mirror. I was so glad to still be alive and healthy that The Scar now shows up in public mostly as a badge of courage and a great conversation starter. At first, there were other things occupying my mind whenever the topic came up--the replacement for my bad heart valve is a human tissue graft from a donor. Far more disconcerting than the slender pink line bisecting my chest were bigger questions--who was he? What was he like? What happened to him? Finding out along the way that the donor was most likely someone of my same general age and weight, I could only assume he had met with an untimely demise; and that my first order of business would be to live each day to its fullest, to honor this most generous of all gifts. It can't help but make you a better person--sometimes I wonder, when I'm having a moment that's not one of my finest--what would my anonymous donor think of the life he's now a part of--is he somewhere looking at me going "wow, what an *sshole," or is he pleased with the man his past life has merged with... Even if none of these questions matter, the fact is, it does give me an ideal to live up to, more tangible than ever before in my life.
So anyway, yes, alive and kicking. I don't really recall what my purposes were in creating this blog almost 2 years ago; at this point it's still a concept in development. It may one day end up a major player on the world stage, or it may remain of interest only to those who know me. Kind of like my life itself.
Stay tuned.
Monday, January 19, 2004
Adventures In Painkilling
[I have been told I should warn people who are facing the prospect of cardiothoracic surgery themselves and/or who are squeamish about the miraculous, life-saving but ultimately still pretty barbaric and gruesome world of modern medicine, NOT TO READ ANY FURTHER. You have, then, been warned.]
It happens sometimes, and it happened to me--I emerged from the anaesthesia, not quite completely sedated. I was rapidly becoming ever more aware of my surroundings, and yet still completely unable to move even the smallest of muscles, not even my eyelids. I wasn't sure what to make of this at first--was I dead? Was I in hell? Had I not survived my operation and I was somehow just not figuring out how to get out of this useless corpse of a body?
After awhile, rational thought returned, and as I listened to the beep! beep! beep! of the heart monitor and the hiss of the ventilator, I realized I couldn't be dead if they still had me on life support. My suspicions were confirmed when a nurse came in, stuck me with a needle, and drew some blood. I couldn't see her, of course, but by now I was feeling every touch sensation, but still not able to blink, or otherwise signal to anybody that I was waking up. With my increasing awareness, the distant hiss of the ventilator had moved closer--right down my throat, in fact, and every two seconds when the machine hissed, I felt what can only be described as a kick to the ribs--from the inside.
And my ribs! Open heart surgery requires they saw you open up the middle and pry you apart. I felt like I had been crushed by a Mack truck and stapled back together. Each nauseating kick from the weather balloon inside me felt like it was going to splay me wide open again. And every few minutes, fluid would back up my esophagus and collect in the back of my throat. Unable to swallow, talk, or cough, the only way anyone became aware of this was a sickening gurgling sound from the ventilator hose, and involuntary gag reflexes from me. Then a nurse would come in, stick another hose in my mouth and vacuum it all out.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Hisss. KICK! Gurgle. Beep! Beep! Beep!... Eventually, one eyelid fluttered open and I was able to see a clock--it was 5:00 PM.
Then 6. Then 7. Then 8. Then 9:00 PM. Somebody had turned on the Lakers game in my room. I don't know if it's because they figured I was still out cold, or maybe if I wasn't, I'd like to listen, but of course they had no way of knowing that I hate televised sports and they could not possibly have chosen a more annoying irritant to blast into my room. It was apparently a very exciting game, since there gathered a very noisy gaggle of clucking ICU staff around my doorway, cheering at the TV and gossiping loudly when the commercials were on.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Hisss. KICK! (oooph!) Kobe shoots! He scores! YAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYY!!!! Dawn takes grease, out of your way! KICK! (oooph!) Beep! Beep! Beep! Did you hear about Doris? Beep! Beep! Beep! I know, can you believe it? KICK! (oooph! ow!) Oh my GOD, NO!!! The crowd goes WILD! Gurgle. Cough. Beep! Beep! Beep! KICK! (ooph! ow!) BEEF! IT'S WHAT'S FOR DINNER!!! Beep! Beep! Beep! All the while, the painful throbbing around the front of my ribs growing more insistent by the minute.
Eventually, the Lakers and their noisy fans went away, and I was left alone in my room with the rhythmic Beep! Beep! Beep! and the ventilator and my throbbing chest which, absent the ESPN Sports Desk operating out of my room, all seemed weirdly tranquil now. I didn't actually sleep, but I did fall into sort of a half-waking trance, as I started to count the beeps and the kicks to my ribs.
I don't know what time it was, early morning--when I discovered I could wiggle my hands, and I found they were taped around padded wooden blocks and tied to the bed rails. I knew immediately what that was for and it's a damn good idea they were there--otherwise I'd have yanked that dreadful hose out of my throat myself in seconds. So instead I just started to bang the wooden blocks on the sides of my bed. A nurse comes in and says, as if I were a misbehaving toddler: "Not yet, honey, you need to settle down--you're not awake yet!" Sigh. ARRRGH!!! "Bitch, you have NO IDEA..."
I began to get my muscle control back, and this was not the blessed relief I had been fantasizing about--the fluid backing up in my throat was now making me cough harder, the hose seemed to be getting bigger by the minute, and sometimes while I was still coughing, the ventilator would pump downward against the cough coming up, which was every bit as unpleasant as it sounds. The machine would honk and beep in protest and a nurse would appear in my doorway.
Eventually, and it must have been 6 AM by now, about 13 hours since I realized I wasn't dead, a nurse who heard me in the midst of an all-out power struggle with that damnable ventilator, came into my room and said, "OK, I'm going to put the vent on standby--we have to leave it in for a little while until we're sure you can breathe on your own. If you stop breathing, the machine will give you a little 'reminder.'" I had been in the hospital two weeks already and was no longer amused by the fiendishly cruel gift for understatement possessed by everyone in the medical profession...
Breathing with what feels like 2,000 lbs of ventilation equipment inside you is an odd sensation--it feels not unlike sucking on an underwater snorkel--you can't use your nose, and your mouth is blocked, and even though you ARE moving your own lungs and air is coming in and out, it's not coming in and out of YOU, but you can hear it coming in and out of the machine next to the bed. I couldn't decide if it was better or worse than the thing DEMANDING you breathe when IT wanted you to...
I was, of course, determined to pass the test, so even though I was (finally!) starting to get groggy again, I forced myself awake. One, two, BREATHE. One, two, BREATHE.
[to be continued]
It happens sometimes, and it happened to me--I emerged from the anaesthesia, not quite completely sedated. I was rapidly becoming ever more aware of my surroundings, and yet still completely unable to move even the smallest of muscles, not even my eyelids. I wasn't sure what to make of this at first--was I dead? Was I in hell? Had I not survived my operation and I was somehow just not figuring out how to get out of this useless corpse of a body?
After awhile, rational thought returned, and as I listened to the beep! beep! beep! of the heart monitor and the hiss of the ventilator, I realized I couldn't be dead if they still had me on life support. My suspicions were confirmed when a nurse came in, stuck me with a needle, and drew some blood. I couldn't see her, of course, but by now I was feeling every touch sensation, but still not able to blink, or otherwise signal to anybody that I was waking up. With my increasing awareness, the distant hiss of the ventilator had moved closer--right down my throat, in fact, and every two seconds when the machine hissed, I felt what can only be described as a kick to the ribs--from the inside.
And my ribs! Open heart surgery requires they saw you open up the middle and pry you apart. I felt like I had been crushed by a Mack truck and stapled back together. Each nauseating kick from the weather balloon inside me felt like it was going to splay me wide open again. And every few minutes, fluid would back up my esophagus and collect in the back of my throat. Unable to swallow, talk, or cough, the only way anyone became aware of this was a sickening gurgling sound from the ventilator hose, and involuntary gag reflexes from me. Then a nurse would come in, stick another hose in my mouth and vacuum it all out.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Hisss. KICK! Gurgle. Beep! Beep! Beep!... Eventually, one eyelid fluttered open and I was able to see a clock--it was 5:00 PM.
Then 6. Then 7. Then 8. Then 9:00 PM. Somebody had turned on the Lakers game in my room. I don't know if it's because they figured I was still out cold, or maybe if I wasn't, I'd like to listen, but of course they had no way of knowing that I hate televised sports and they could not possibly have chosen a more annoying irritant to blast into my room. It was apparently a very exciting game, since there gathered a very noisy gaggle of clucking ICU staff around my doorway, cheering at the TV and gossiping loudly when the commercials were on.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Hisss. KICK! (oooph!) Kobe shoots! He scores! YAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYY!!!! Dawn takes grease, out of your way! KICK! (oooph!) Beep! Beep! Beep! Did you hear about Doris? Beep! Beep! Beep! I know, can you believe it? KICK! (oooph! ow!) Oh my GOD, NO!!! The crowd goes WILD! Gurgle. Cough. Beep! Beep! Beep! KICK! (ooph! ow!) BEEF! IT'S WHAT'S FOR DINNER!!! Beep! Beep! Beep! All the while, the painful throbbing around the front of my ribs growing more insistent by the minute.
Eventually, the Lakers and their noisy fans went away, and I was left alone in my room with the rhythmic Beep! Beep! Beep! and the ventilator and my throbbing chest which, absent the ESPN Sports Desk operating out of my room, all seemed weirdly tranquil now. I didn't actually sleep, but I did fall into sort of a half-waking trance, as I started to count the beeps and the kicks to my ribs.
I don't know what time it was, early morning--when I discovered I could wiggle my hands, and I found they were taped around padded wooden blocks and tied to the bed rails. I knew immediately what that was for and it's a damn good idea they were there--otherwise I'd have yanked that dreadful hose out of my throat myself in seconds. So instead I just started to bang the wooden blocks on the sides of my bed. A nurse comes in and says, as if I were a misbehaving toddler: "Not yet, honey, you need to settle down--you're not awake yet!" Sigh. ARRRGH!!! "Bitch, you have NO IDEA..."
I began to get my muscle control back, and this was not the blessed relief I had been fantasizing about--the fluid backing up in my throat was now making me cough harder, the hose seemed to be getting bigger by the minute, and sometimes while I was still coughing, the ventilator would pump downward against the cough coming up, which was every bit as unpleasant as it sounds. The machine would honk and beep in protest and a nurse would appear in my doorway.
Eventually, and it must have been 6 AM by now, about 13 hours since I realized I wasn't dead, a nurse who heard me in the midst of an all-out power struggle with that damnable ventilator, came into my room and said, "OK, I'm going to put the vent on standby--we have to leave it in for a little while until we're sure you can breathe on your own. If you stop breathing, the machine will give you a little 'reminder.'" I had been in the hospital two weeks already and was no longer amused by the fiendishly cruel gift for understatement possessed by everyone in the medical profession...
Breathing with what feels like 2,000 lbs of ventilation equipment inside you is an odd sensation--it feels not unlike sucking on an underwater snorkel--you can't use your nose, and your mouth is blocked, and even though you ARE moving your own lungs and air is coming in and out, it's not coming in and out of YOU, but you can hear it coming in and out of the machine next to the bed. I couldn't decide if it was better or worse than the thing DEMANDING you breathe when IT wanted you to...
I was, of course, determined to pass the test, so even though I was (finally!) starting to get groggy again, I forced myself awake. One, two, BREATHE. One, two, BREATHE.
[to be continued]
Saturday, October 11, 2003
What in the hell is "I Fierce?"
I wish I could take credit for the statement, "I fierce," but I can't. Like so many of the best lines people use on each other at parties, I also overheard this one at a party. Not entirely sure what it means, I adopted it immediately as a welcome new energy in my life, which is why it's also the name of this blog.
Following is an account of said party, written to friends last summer after it happened. The difference in mood between this post, and the "city lights" one I wrote yesterday is kind of jarring--I really need to get over myself. Anyway:
**********
Yet another lost weekend. Where do they all go? This past one
happened to be a milestone birthday (one of those ending in 0) of a
dear friend in San Francisco. Combine that with our pal JJ's recent
purchase of brand new wheels and it seemed to us anyway that a road
trip was definitely in order. (My usual aversion to the use of ground
transportation for distances over 100 miles could be ignored, just this
once.) The birthday boy in question's real name is actually Jeff,
though I've only ever known him as Bette, (yes, as in Davis). This
nickname was bestowed long before I was adopted into the
Bette/Andrew/JJ family tree, and I am not sure of the exact details,
though I know it does involve him attempting a grand entrance into a
room, only to observe, "what a dump." The nickname has stuck so
firmly, I find myself introducing him as "Bette" to new people and
wondering why they have that look on their face. I am not certain what
it is, exactly, that Bette does, other than check into hotels in
glamorous locales around the world and call his friends with reports on
the acceptability (or lack of) of the lodgings.
After what seemed like a remarkably brief trip in the car (it turns out
these drives seem much shorter when you're not the one behind the
wheel) and a few minutes to refabulize in Andrew's hotel room, we
headed over to the Clift hotel, site of the party. My first
observation was that sometime in the last five years (and ACK!-had it
really been five years since I was in San Francisco last? How could I
let that happen?), somebody has taken Union Square and made it
*pretty!* The difference between this time and five years ago was
striking enough to make me think that all this talk of wanting to
refurbish L.A.'s downtown might actually be more than just talk...
Entering the hotel, JJ and I gave a *very* brief tour of the lobby
areas and the Redwood Room to a couple of folks with us who had never
been, (philistines.) Passing the front desk, we heard the woman warn
some possible rowdies that the hotel has a "strict NO PARTIES policy."
Her remark fell on our 10 deaf ears and we got in the elevator headed
to the birthday suite, room 1128, at which point JJ practically
shrieked in horror as he pushed the button, "There are floors ABOVE 11! Who made this reservation anyway?"
The "no parties" policy was obviously being ignored all up and down
floor 11, as when we got off we were greeted with the not altogether
unwelcome fragrance of Code 420. "How very Frisco," I say, to no one in particular, and only
because the locals hate it so much when you call their city that. As I
expected, the suites at the Clift are a lot like the ones at the
Mondrian, but with more color.
White-on-white-on-lavender-on-day-glow-orange; though I did end up
giving the room a final thumbs-up, in spite of that dumpy stuffed chair
that would have been WAY more at home in front of some cheap wood
paneling and a velvet Elvis. Who am I to question Phillippe Starck?
I noted the daring maneuver on the part of those planning this
particular fete, to stock the bar with mostly red wine and cosmos, in a
room overwhelmingly decorated in white.
Andrew and I ended up holding court in one of the back rooms, and spent
much of our time attempting to overhear what others were talking about.
At one point, someone asked the man standing next to us, "so what is
it you do?" His answer, "I fierce." Andrew and I nodded to each other
an immediate approval of this answer even though we both admitted later
we had no clue what he meant by that, and it probably wasn't even what
he said anyway. Until a third eavesdropper, (a kindred soul!) came
over and asked us, "what did that guy say he does?" Andrew deadpans,
"He fierces," and I nod in assent as I sip my cocktail, as if that were
not at all an unusual answer. "That's what I thought he said..." The
three of us look at each other, all wanting to know what exactly that
is, without giving away that none of us knew. "That's interesting,"
said the woman, as she disappeared into the crowd.
That was all it took. Within seconds, Andrew and I were on a roll--and it didn't matter one
bit that maybe that wasn't what the man said--it was now. We decided
immediately that one would probably have a fiercing salon or a fiercing
studio (or perhaps a fiercing practice) more than a fiercing shop.
(And never, EVER, a fiercing franchise.) And the comedic possibilities
came in a flood, "Oh I can't make it on Tuesday, hon, I have that
fiercing at 2," and after a bit of practice (still, without even
hinting at what it might mean,) including eliminating the more
obviously fake ones ("I'm director of accounts fierceable,") we began
to drop it into all subsequent conversations we had with everyone else.
At no point did ANYBODY ask us what that was.
I was actually over the word "fierce," quite possibly THE most annoyingly overused word in the gay lexicon (next to "fabulous...") but it is DEFINITELY back now--as a verb. What does it mean? I don't know exactly. Probably whatever you think it sounds like it does.
Following is an account of said party, written to friends last summer after it happened. The difference in mood between this post, and the "city lights" one I wrote yesterday is kind of jarring--I really need to get over myself. Anyway:
**********
Yet another lost weekend. Where do they all go? This past one
happened to be a milestone birthday (one of those ending in 0) of a
dear friend in San Francisco. Combine that with our pal JJ's recent
purchase of brand new wheels and it seemed to us anyway that a road
trip was definitely in order. (My usual aversion to the use of ground
transportation for distances over 100 miles could be ignored, just this
once.) The birthday boy in question's real name is actually Jeff,
though I've only ever known him as Bette, (yes, as in Davis). This
nickname was bestowed long before I was adopted into the
Bette/Andrew/JJ family tree, and I am not sure of the exact details,
though I know it does involve him attempting a grand entrance into a
room, only to observe, "what a dump." The nickname has stuck so
firmly, I find myself introducing him as "Bette" to new people and
wondering why they have that look on their face. I am not certain what
it is, exactly, that Bette does, other than check into hotels in
glamorous locales around the world and call his friends with reports on
the acceptability (or lack of) of the lodgings.
After what seemed like a remarkably brief trip in the car (it turns out
these drives seem much shorter when you're not the one behind the
wheel) and a few minutes to refabulize in Andrew's hotel room, we
headed over to the Clift hotel, site of the party. My first
observation was that sometime in the last five years (and ACK!-had it
really been five years since I was in San Francisco last? How could I
let that happen?), somebody has taken Union Square and made it
*pretty!* The difference between this time and five years ago was
striking enough to make me think that all this talk of wanting to
refurbish L.A.'s downtown might actually be more than just talk...
Entering the hotel, JJ and I gave a *very* brief tour of the lobby
areas and the Redwood Room to a couple of folks with us who had never
been, (philistines.) Passing the front desk, we heard the woman warn
some possible rowdies that the hotel has a "strict NO PARTIES policy."
Her remark fell on our 10 deaf ears and we got in the elevator headed
to the birthday suite, room 1128, at which point JJ practically
shrieked in horror as he pushed the button, "There are floors ABOVE 11! Who made this reservation anyway?"
The "no parties" policy was obviously being ignored all up and down
floor 11, as when we got off we were greeted with the not altogether
unwelcome fragrance of Code 420. "How very Frisco," I say, to no one in particular, and only
because the locals hate it so much when you call their city that. As I
expected, the suites at the Clift are a lot like the ones at the
Mondrian, but with more color.
White-on-white-on-lavender-on-day-glow-orange; though I did end up
giving the room a final thumbs-up, in spite of that dumpy stuffed chair
that would have been WAY more at home in front of some cheap wood
paneling and a velvet Elvis. Who am I to question Phillippe Starck?
I noted the daring maneuver on the part of those planning this
particular fete, to stock the bar with mostly red wine and cosmos, in a
room overwhelmingly decorated in white.
Andrew and I ended up holding court in one of the back rooms, and spent
much of our time attempting to overhear what others were talking about.
At one point, someone asked the man standing next to us, "so what is
it you do?" His answer, "I fierce." Andrew and I nodded to each other
an immediate approval of this answer even though we both admitted later
we had no clue what he meant by that, and it probably wasn't even what
he said anyway. Until a third eavesdropper, (a kindred soul!) came
over and asked us, "what did that guy say he does?" Andrew deadpans,
"He fierces," and I nod in assent as I sip my cocktail, as if that were
not at all an unusual answer. "That's what I thought he said..." The
three of us look at each other, all wanting to know what exactly that
is, without giving away that none of us knew. "That's interesting,"
said the woman, as she disappeared into the crowd.
That was all it took. Within seconds, Andrew and I were on a roll--and it didn't matter one
bit that maybe that wasn't what the man said--it was now. We decided
immediately that one would probably have a fiercing salon or a fiercing
studio (or perhaps a fiercing practice) more than a fiercing shop.
(And never, EVER, a fiercing franchise.) And the comedic possibilities
came in a flood, "Oh I can't make it on Tuesday, hon, I have that
fiercing at 2," and after a bit of practice (still, without even
hinting at what it might mean,) including eliminating the more
obviously fake ones ("I'm director of accounts fierceable,") we began
to drop it into all subsequent conversations we had with everyone else.
At no point did ANYBODY ask us what that was.
I was actually over the word "fierce," quite possibly THE most annoyingly overused word in the gay lexicon (next to "fabulous...") but it is DEFINITELY back now--as a verb. What does it mean? I don't know exactly. Probably whatever you think it sounds like it does.
Friday, October 10, 2003
City Lights
They say that Los Angeles doesn't really have a skyline. And that's true, I suppose, if you compare us to New York or Chicago with those fortress-like walls of skyscrapers domnating both the day and the night sky. L.A.'s downtown rises much more subtly up out of the middle of the city's expansive sprawl, looking a little like Emerald City on approach from the yellow brick road. And it's not always easy to see. Sometimes obscured by hills, smog, or simply distance, catching a glimpse of the colorfully lit towers, especially at dusk, can be an unexpectedly pleasant surprise. But I had a view of it from my first apartment, when I moved here, six years ago this week. Not from my living room, but from the pool and hot tub on the roof of my building. It was a favorite ritual of mine to go up there after work and just stare out over Hollywood, downtown, and the endless concrete slab it all sits on. Following 45 aggravating minutes in traffic, watching the sky, and that skyline, as the sun set behind me, was strangely therapeutic. It was all so very glamorous, you know--those hills, the pool on the roof, the gentle breeze of the night air as you looked out over downtown, the Hollywood searchlights, and 10 million people winding down their day.
I've hardly ever had any reason to actually GO downtown--much like almost everyone I know. Unless you work there, the twinkling downtown lights seem to be best admired at a distance, from the terraced neighborhoods in and around West Hollywood. There are occasional loft parties and art gallery openings, club nights or operas at the Dot Chandler, and as you arrive at these places, with the skyscrapers looming brightly overhead, it always seems a bit strange that the buildings actually EXIST. The symbolism was not lost on me, when I first noticed it, and this image that L.A. has--all form and no function. Lots of style in a complete absence of substance. A set of beautifully white, capped teeth smiling warmly as the person behind them admits right up front they aren't really going to remember your name, not even 30 seconds from now. Los Angeles, entertainment capital of the world, land of sound stages and fake sets, only comfortable with makeup on and the camera rolling--otherwise, a vapid, cultural wasteland populated by a bunch of phonies and freaks.
I am happy to report that I have found these accusations to be patently untrue. While I continued to be fascinated by those glittering downtown skyscrapers viewed from my fabulous hilltop perch, I found a very unique brand of real behind the city they represent, and the people who live in it. It was the very sort of thing I had hoped I'd find here. I have found in L.A. a city full of people chasing a dream, or running from a nightmare, or settling down, again, to start over. Nobody questions this. You are absolutely free to be whoever you want. Do your thing. As long as it doesn't impinge on anybody else's thing, you are absolutely welcome to go for it. I know many people who came here because, after coming to terms with being gay, they no longer felt welcome in the small communities where they grew up and they're here because they're less conspicuous. I know people who, in spite of the odds, are here to make it big in the biz. There are people who were tired of their job and are looking around at something, anything, at entry level, at 35 years of age, just as long as it's different and interesting. These three rationales represent, in some way, my own reasons for coming here. Almost nobody is just here by accident. The fact that pretty much everybody I meet has a plan, an agenda, a dream or even some outrageous delusion about their own life which they live out with gusto all the same, is a remarkably refreshing change from other places I've been where people seem to have simply remained because that's where life dropped them.
I have found people who will take at face value, whatever it is you tell them you are. There is a dynamic, vibrant energy being constructed by people who are here re-inventing themselves, building their dreams, free of any expectations. Maybe it's because I grew up in a town and an environment where your life path was pretty much laid out for you the moment you were born; and if you committed, say, the unpardonable sin of still being unmarried past the age of 25, people would wonder what was wrong with you. The L.A. thing can be a dangerously subtle energy, though, one that gets misunderstood by amateurs, in the same way that exquisite acquired tastes are very often dismissed by those who try them only once and refuse to see what all the fuss is about. The energy of everyone running around constructing their own realities and painting their own facades based on who they believe themselves to be, may sound to an outsider like a blatantly shallow way to live. Viewed differently, it seems to me, a much more genuine way to be--people wearing their souls on their sleeve and asking only that you take them at their word and deed.
The source of all this musing is a walk I went on the other night, with my friend Steve's dog Cooper. Heading down a particularly hilly Silver Lake avenue, we passed an empty lot, which exposed those downtown skyscrapers in all their glittering mystery. My six years in L.A. have been very different from what I imagined they would be. There have been periods of abject poverty punctuated by bursts of world-class fabulousness. I have rubbed shoulders at parties with international A-listers, and ridden the bus with people who looked liked they hadn't had a bath or a real meal in weeks. And as this last year has proved to be a trying one for me, I find myself relying at the moment on a wonderful family of friends, who have been nothing but generous with their time, resources, couches to crash on, with nary a word of disapproval, nobody asking, "how in the hell did you get yourself into this mess, anyway?"
I noticed that the view Cooper and I were enjoying was courtesy of an empty lot, a steep hill, between two houses built on either retaining walls or stilts. I looked down to the bottom of the lot and sure enough, wreckage of a house, knocked off its foundation during the last big earthquake. I was again grateful for the real and wonderful bonds between people, flourishing audaciously even here, a place where even the ground you stand on has the nerve to just completely dislodge, once in a while.
My life, at the moment, feels completely dislodged. I believe now that it is possible for earthquakes to happen inside individual people. "Change looks like failure, in the middle," a friend told me once. I thought about this as I looked at my skyline skyscrapers, which looked different now. No longer did it feel like I was looking out over my own kingdom, lord of all I surveyed. At the moment I've been knocked down a few rungs, if not completely off of the ladder. But tonight, the twinkling city lights reminded me again why I came here, and that I have dreams, and that there's really no reason not to chase after them, seeing as how everybody else around me is. I decided to be excited, instead of daunted, by this change, this earthquake that seems to have rocked me off my foundation and given me the opportunity to start over. I'll be even more excited just as soon as I figure out what it is I want to change inTO...
I've hardly ever had any reason to actually GO downtown--much like almost everyone I know. Unless you work there, the twinkling downtown lights seem to be best admired at a distance, from the terraced neighborhoods in and around West Hollywood. There are occasional loft parties and art gallery openings, club nights or operas at the Dot Chandler, and as you arrive at these places, with the skyscrapers looming brightly overhead, it always seems a bit strange that the buildings actually EXIST. The symbolism was not lost on me, when I first noticed it, and this image that L.A. has--all form and no function. Lots of style in a complete absence of substance. A set of beautifully white, capped teeth smiling warmly as the person behind them admits right up front they aren't really going to remember your name, not even 30 seconds from now. Los Angeles, entertainment capital of the world, land of sound stages and fake sets, only comfortable with makeup on and the camera rolling--otherwise, a vapid, cultural wasteland populated by a bunch of phonies and freaks.
I am happy to report that I have found these accusations to be patently untrue. While I continued to be fascinated by those glittering downtown skyscrapers viewed from my fabulous hilltop perch, I found a very unique brand of real behind the city they represent, and the people who live in it. It was the very sort of thing I had hoped I'd find here. I have found in L.A. a city full of people chasing a dream, or running from a nightmare, or settling down, again, to start over. Nobody questions this. You are absolutely free to be whoever you want. Do your thing. As long as it doesn't impinge on anybody else's thing, you are absolutely welcome to go for it. I know many people who came here because, after coming to terms with being gay, they no longer felt welcome in the small communities where they grew up and they're here because they're less conspicuous. I know people who, in spite of the odds, are here to make it big in the biz. There are people who were tired of their job and are looking around at something, anything, at entry level, at 35 years of age, just as long as it's different and interesting. These three rationales represent, in some way, my own reasons for coming here. Almost nobody is just here by accident. The fact that pretty much everybody I meet has a plan, an agenda, a dream or even some outrageous delusion about their own life which they live out with gusto all the same, is a remarkably refreshing change from other places I've been where people seem to have simply remained because that's where life dropped them.
I have found people who will take at face value, whatever it is you tell them you are. There is a dynamic, vibrant energy being constructed by people who are here re-inventing themselves, building their dreams, free of any expectations. Maybe it's because I grew up in a town and an environment where your life path was pretty much laid out for you the moment you were born; and if you committed, say, the unpardonable sin of still being unmarried past the age of 25, people would wonder what was wrong with you. The L.A. thing can be a dangerously subtle energy, though, one that gets misunderstood by amateurs, in the same way that exquisite acquired tastes are very often dismissed by those who try them only once and refuse to see what all the fuss is about. The energy of everyone running around constructing their own realities and painting their own facades based on who they believe themselves to be, may sound to an outsider like a blatantly shallow way to live. Viewed differently, it seems to me, a much more genuine way to be--people wearing their souls on their sleeve and asking only that you take them at their word and deed.
The source of all this musing is a walk I went on the other night, with my friend Steve's dog Cooper. Heading down a particularly hilly Silver Lake avenue, we passed an empty lot, which exposed those downtown skyscrapers in all their glittering mystery. My six years in L.A. have been very different from what I imagined they would be. There have been periods of abject poverty punctuated by bursts of world-class fabulousness. I have rubbed shoulders at parties with international A-listers, and ridden the bus with people who looked liked they hadn't had a bath or a real meal in weeks. And as this last year has proved to be a trying one for me, I find myself relying at the moment on a wonderful family of friends, who have been nothing but generous with their time, resources, couches to crash on, with nary a word of disapproval, nobody asking, "how in the hell did you get yourself into this mess, anyway?"
I noticed that the view Cooper and I were enjoying was courtesy of an empty lot, a steep hill, between two houses built on either retaining walls or stilts. I looked down to the bottom of the lot and sure enough, wreckage of a house, knocked off its foundation during the last big earthquake. I was again grateful for the real and wonderful bonds between people, flourishing audaciously even here, a place where even the ground you stand on has the nerve to just completely dislodge, once in a while.
My life, at the moment, feels completely dislodged. I believe now that it is possible for earthquakes to happen inside individual people. "Change looks like failure, in the middle," a friend told me once. I thought about this as I looked at my skyline skyscrapers, which looked different now. No longer did it feel like I was looking out over my own kingdom, lord of all I surveyed. At the moment I've been knocked down a few rungs, if not completely off of the ladder. But tonight, the twinkling city lights reminded me again why I came here, and that I have dreams, and that there's really no reason not to chase after them, seeing as how everybody else around me is. I decided to be excited, instead of daunted, by this change, this earthquake that seems to have rocked me off my foundation and given me the opportunity to start over. I'll be even more excited just as soon as I figure out what it is I want to change inTO...
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