Where's Che?

For a good couple years now, Astrid, DJ, and I have been playing a game called "Punch Che," in which we get to hit each other in the arm whenever we come across someone wearing the iconic image of Che Guevara. It's basically like "Slug Bug" 'cept the entire point is mocking people for buying into the unintentionally ironic marketing frenzy around one of history's most notorious leftist revolutionaries. I'm not a Che-hater, though being a pacifist, it's hard to get me behind the tactics of guerilla warfare (okay, a punching game doesn't count as violent; we're all consenting to being slugged.) It's not a criticism of Che, it's a game making fun of the absurdity of all the lily-white hippy kids who have no fucking idea what Che did or what he stood for wearing his image. Extra points for Che-wearing white kids with dreadlocks.

OK, so, on Sunday, during the insanity of Pride on Market Street right outside the posh Zuni Café, where Astrid, Giddy Girl, and I stopped for a very bougie bloody mary, and after running into my high school English teacher, who is a dyke, no less, at the bar, I spotted someone in a run of the mill Che t-shirt, and got to punch Astrid.

Then not five minutes later, another dude walks by with a Che t-shirt, this time the Argentine agitator emblazoned, tattoo-style, on the bicep of the equally recognizable popculture icon Homer Simpson. My brain broke, and I burst out in uncontrolled, tearful laughter at the sight of it. I'm sure many of you have seen Che's image mashed up with Homer before, but I guess I'd been under a rock. The brilliance of that many layers of irony packed together into a gimmicky t-shirt was just overwhelming to me.

A very Santa Cruz weekend

Ah, Santa Cruz. I miss it so, but it's always such a treat to get down there for a day or two. It was a fairly spontaneous plan. My old friend Vnes, who I hadn't seen in at least a couple years, was celebrating her 40th birthday, and I decided getting down there for the party would be a good excuse to make a weekend of it in the old stomping ground. Astrid and I met up with V and friends at Coaster's, a music/karaoke bar inside the Boardwalk Bowl where the ticket included three bands: Santa Cruz locals Beaver Fever and Fainting Goats, and the SF-based Slow Trucks. We rolled into town at 11:30pm, so only caught the Slow Trucks, who I really enjoyed - they've got an indy, Pixies-ish appeal, and the girl drummer had a charmingly removed-concentration that made the dykes in the house all swoony. It was priceless to see V's face when we arrived - a really lovely birthday surprise.

Astrid and I then went to Exene's new digs to spend the night, where we were joined by other San Francisco interlopers, Raquel and Juju. The next morning, we all met up with V for the mandatory breakfast at Zachary's (sourdough pancakes! artichoke frittata!) and then Astrid and I had some relaxed alone time. Strolled around Pacific Avenue, got a nibble at the Bagelry and then went for a soak at the Well Within. Saturday with Astrid was the second monthly "Luxuriate Day" in which we are committing to a full day of intentional, relaxing alone time together, an unplugging from the internets and the daily grind and a turning on to only nourishing, de-stressing, and healthful activities for our bodies/minds and togetherness. Hot tubs most definitely fit into all the above categories. Astrid's back was feeling particularly tweaked as well, so she scheduled a massage directly after our tub, during which time I walked back up to Exene's and lounged with the ladies on the upstairs deck, where they had arranged a mid-afternoon snack of olives, gouda and manchego, rice crackers, almonds, and tequila for sipping. I opted for water at this juncture, but alcohol was to figure prominently in the evening hours to come.

After break time with the girls, I drove back downtown and picked up Astrid, and we set a course for West Cliff Drive* for a more brisk walk filled with sea air and beautiful vistas. We hung out at a couple special spots on the cliffs, holding each other and appreciating the hell out of our amazingly connected and yet freeing relationship. It was a perfect cap to the Luxuriate portion of the day. Time to party with the ladies and meet Exene's new beau, Caleb.

So we got back to Casa Exene, and Caleb was dude-ifying at the Weber, in the most non-dudely dude way. Juju was in close tow, making sure the grilling operations were running smoothly. We grilled veggie skewers with onions, red bell pepper, and crimini mushrooms; huge portobellos brushed with olive oil and a little s&p, zucchini, fresh corn, and various varieties of chicken and turkey sausage. For sweets, we had brandied cherries, and we grilled up some pineapple slices and halved peaches, serving 'em up with Raquel's hand-whipped cream. The word is decadent.

All the while, the lot of us were getting nice and sauced on various drinks of choice. Exene's housemate Fela blended up fresh-frozen strawberry margaritas, which were as tasty as they sound, but several of us, including yours truly, opted for the icey comforts of locally-distilled Sarticious gin. There may have been some wacky tobacky involved, but I'm not naming names. And as it happens when in the company of wonderful friends old and new, fantastic food and drink, and a bit of stoney energy, the evening and conversation eventually devolved into glorious and giggly repartée, covering any number of topics from singing-drummers to trying to articulate to each other, drunkenly, our personal most passionately geeky areas of interest. The population of the room, being filled with both academically-oriented geeks as well as students of the live-life-to-the-fullest school, came up with personal-project callings as related and disparate as sex and polyamory, to memory and the operation of narrative and story, to death anxiety, to semiotics, to literature, to Looney Tunes. And then the weekend concluded with a lovely brunch with old pal Oliver at the Other Must-Go Santa Cruz breakfast eatery, Café Brasil, where I devoured perfectly poached eggs on a bed of sautéed spinach and mushrooms, covered in a rich brown cocota sauce. My mantra for the weekend: good shit.

* West Cliff photo by Astrid; Link goes to Scott Haefner's site for some awesome coastal shots.

Light Speed and yet Glacial

It's been just about three weeks since this mutual crush was revealed between Myna and me. Over this three weeks, we've managed to spend time together, dream of one another, and continue to hold off on the kissing, on the sex, but the groping is something else entirely. There is something both glaringly wrong with, and completely organic to, our situation in all the grabbing, holding, hair pulling, nuzzling, clawing, intense squeezing, very nearly humping that we're doing together without having kissed on the lips, without removing a shred of clothing. It feels complete in itself, and also unfinished. We agreed this week that we are doing something very odd and awkward in a space that falls somewhere between friendship and dating. I wonder if calling it "dating" would make some sort of psychic difference, as I'm finding it hard to capture, and in essence, to comprehend what this is that we're doing. I asked her if I could call her my "potential future-lover and current clit-tease" and she was game. It's now morphed into just "clit-tease" for brevity's sake.

Why don't we get it over with and fuck, you ask (knowing as you do that Ms. Bree never holds off if it can be helped)? There are two reasons at present for us to be cautious, even though heavy groping is not really the most cautious m.o. on the books. One is that we know each other professionally. Our working relationship will end in about two and a half months, so that won't be a problem for much longer. The other, much more salient factor is that Myna is attempting to sit with the concept that I have a main squeeze, and that I'm not available for a full partnership with her. She doesn't have any experience with open relationships, though she's keen at the very least on talking about it, perhaps reading about it, and mulling over what this might be like for her. Meanwhile, Astrid has been completely amazing in holding all this, and our communication has been excellent—sticky in moments, but once we get to talking about real feelings that are emerging, we are tender and real with one another, and we give each other the spaciousness to work through it all. Although Astrid and Myna have met briefly a couple times, they haven't spent any time together since all this energy has coalesced and been revealed between us, so that will probably be one of the next steps that we pursue. Exciting, anxiety-inducing, and compelling, all.

Nipple-portrait of Lincoln

Wanda Sykes at the White House Correspondents' Association Dinner. Some pretty great material. It's interesting to notice the moments when the audience is really uncomfortable. The crowd bristles at the idea that she would encourage her kids to ride in a car with a stranger instead of Dick Cheney since he's such an avid defender of torture tactics. She's right on the mark.

Eyes and Hugs

We are eye contact and vivid embraces and desire. As awkward as it is to hug someone intently while embracing over the emergency brake, somehow it's working. We're holding off for now, from kissing, from groping, from fucking. But the gazing at one another, the hugs; it's like we're lovers already.

Writing With Eyes Closed

I wrote these short pieces in two sittings. I've spellchecked since then, though.

Part One

As an exercise, I guess I'll just begin typing and see what happens. Nothing in particular is emerging yet, but I'm sure that's because I know what it is I have to write, and I'm simply afraid to write it. I'm afraid that I am selfish. I want to use people for my own purposes, which are not noble. They are base at worst and trivial at best, or maybe trivial at worst and base at best.

For no reason, at least that I can discern, it felt like the right time to begin a new paragraph. The drone of commercial television is filtering through the window to my right. I've noticed in the last couple days that the neighbors are listening to the television louder than usual, or I've noticed maybe for the first time that they actually watch television. I've wondered if there is a new housemate, or maybe the neighbor went deaf in the last two days, and now has to listen at full volume. I wonder how many typos I'm making. I wonder whether it matters.

There will be more time to write again. That is, if I make it. "If I make time," as if time were a product I could shape from raw materials.

Part Two

Okay, so I'm selfish. We all are. This simply means that I have needs. I have desires that I blame society for squelching, but I'm doing the squelching all on my own. Whether it's the internalized Father of Freudian mythology, or the paternal imago of Jung, or the conscience or the soul or God or Rama or Krishna or Moses or my mom or my sisters or my guilt, it's all of these, none of these, it's me. It's me, it's me. I am my own superego, I am my own stumbling block, and I guess it all comes back to "it's my fault." And who's blaming the victim now?...oh yeah, it's me.

Andy Hallett, In Memoriam

Andy Hallett, who played Lorne, part of the Angel Investigations team, died on March 29, 2009. He was only 33 years old. He'd had known heart disease since the series wrapped, and he hadn't been acting much in the last five years. Check out the Boston Globe obituary. Rest in peace, Andy.

Joss Whedon with Andy Hallett as Lorne.