Trying To Get An Agent (part one)

I started soliciting literary agents when I was back in Los Angeles in July. I used the e-mail at the bank where I was working to send them out when I had spare moments. Then in August I made the move to Indianapolis-- I was in the Midwest by the 16th, having traveled almost 3,000 miles by land in my pickup truck.

I was worried that the one agency that asked for a submission would not be able to get back to me due to my not being at the bank anymore (since I was using their e-mail it would no longer exist when I left the company) but I also did not want to spoil anything by asking about it before the allotted period of three months passed.

So I sent an e-mail in September updating my e-mail address and waited until October to officially inquire as to whether it was a 'pass' or a 'go'. When October came, I sent the inquiry follow-up and waited some more.

Meanwhile, the latest and so-far-the-best edit of my novel has been trapped on the hard drive to a dead laptop. I haven't had the time to retrieve the manuscript from the hard drive, but to be honest I wasn't too thrilled about the submission I'd been sending to agents: I kept rewriting it as I e-mailed them, and that's not a good sign.

Mind you, I've only solicited about 50 or so agents. The sole reply that asked for a submission is merely one agency. The rest either didn't get back to me or passed. But there's still hundreds and thousands of agents out there. I've barely begun the process. However, I am still not satisfied with what I have to offer.

I decided that, no matter what happened with this one agent, I will send a stronger chapter of my novel when the next round of solicitations begins. I imagine that I will have something ready to send by the end of the year, because the holidays are upon us and I don't know if any agents will be in their offices from now until the new year.

And just when I decided to take this tack, I received a pass letter from the agent in question... dated August 13, 2011! I guess they replied to me sooner but I was en route to Indiana when it was sent. The September e-mail update must have gotten buried in the mix, and my October follow-up was probably confusing to them until they realized that I'd never received the August reply.

So, in other words, I was passed on almost three months ago and I've been twiddling my thumbs doing nothing about it. But now at least I know what's up, and I can go forward with a better query and better material to back it up with if I get another request for a submission.

I do feel a little dumb, but then again my strong suit has never been the business side of things. I'm learning this as I go. It will probably be a long long time before I see anything worthwhile coming my way. I am not daunted, however-- this is only the beginning. I should've taken this seriously in the past but I was too busy writing and loving it.

But there's no rush, is there?

"The King Of Politics"

Watching Martin Scorsese's The King Of Comedy on DVD reminds me of the time when I was working in the Network Operations Center of the corporate radio network owned by that behemoth of media conglomerates, Clear Channel.

In the movie, Robert De Niro plays aspiring comic Rupert Pupkin, who kidnaps a late-night talk show host (modeled on Johnny Carson but played by Jerry Lewis) in order to get his big break on the airwaves. The movie wasn't a big hit but in terms of foresight it is extremely prescient. Forget Andy Warhol's 15 minutes, this movie practically guarantees that the criminal class will inherit the media of the future.

It reminds me of my job in radio because there was one moment in time when I had the idea to switch the feed that sent Rush Limbaugh's show from West Palm Beach (where he broadcasts) via a satellite connection that ended up in Denver and scattered all over the network, which was nationwide at the time.

I wanted to switch the feed with a filthy comedy routine by the late Bill Hicks, wherein he wondered aloud if Rush Limbaugh and some of the Republican ex-presidents (with Barbara Bush in tow) engaged in kinky coprophilia. I had the CD in my travel bag, and my position was such that I could've done it easily, and by the time anyone was the wiser the bit would've ended... along with my career in radio.

I often wonder what would have happened had I done that. First of all, I would've been fired and probably fined for violating FCC standards and practices. But the prank would've made the news, and people who hate Rush Limbaugh would've picked up on it and had me on their shows and I might have become some sort of low-level celebrity in left-wing circles. Maybe I would've ended up working for Air America.

But I also would've incurred the wrath of neo-conservatives and right-wingers. Not that it bothers me, but then again they can be a hateful bunch, and the quiet solitude I enjoy now with my wife and son would not be possible due to never-ending torrents of hate mail and death threats. I mean, this would have happened in late 2000 had it actually been carried out, long before I ever entertained the thought of settling down. But I don't think I would've found the kind of peace I enjoy now. Some people have long memories, and the ones who I would've angered tend to carry guns and shoot abortion doctors, so someone like me would be fair game.

Still, I wonder what might have been, as we all do when we think about the paths we didn't take in life. And I don't regret not doing it, because ultimately such an event would only make Rush's supporters more defensive-- after all, they do refer to themselves as 'dittoheads' so there's really nothing a prank like that would've done to convince them otherwise. In fact, it may have only fanned the flames of their devotion to such an extent that maybe it would've made today's current political climate --replete as it is with Tea Baggers and Occupiers and the whole lot --much less tolerable.

Part of me does wish I could've socked it to the right-wingers in such a spectacular fashion, but I think someone like me does it every day here in Middle America, where sometimes my mere presence in a public market stands as an affront to any white upper middle-class American who thinks that minorities are inferior. I think the fact that I am here and raising a son and living the Dream with a capital D can sometimes be more of a 'fuck you' to the dittoheads than any rhetoric I can espouse.

I dunno, maybe I'm just rationalizing a missed opportunity. Or maybe I just have a hankering to do something along those lines again. I look at the papers and the blogs and the news websites and see so many people taking it to the streets, I wonder if I ever did enough. But there's no answer to that, because even if I had hijacked Rush's radio show for a minute in the post-election turn-of-the-millenium, there's no way I could ever top that. I'd have to live that down, or outdo it. And that's the consequence of such an action: once you pick a side of the fence to be on, you have to stay there.

Believe me, it's much more enjoyable being here, in the Heartland, the Crossroads of America, where no one knows my name and yet I can still sympathize with those who believe what I believe as I send my son to a decent preschool and my wife wins Halloween contests by dressing as the leg lamp from A Christmas Story. I don't think I'd want it any other way, the more I think about it.

Back to blogging.

Last night as I watched my son, I went through my Facebook profile and did a little editing, mostly just un-friending people that I once thought were cool but suddenly realized I didn't actually have any connection with; it wasn't a prerequisite that I actually know them in real life, because a lot of my favorite people are online-only friends whom I have yet to encounter in the real world. Rather, I decided a little pruning was in order, simply because I am sick of going onto Facebook and seeing updates from pages I once deemed (for a few seconds at that) funny and clever. I am not alone in this, I am sure. I have noticed the times when I have been un-friended and thought to myself, "Maybe I post too many You Tube videos that are random and meaningless."

I put on Blue's Clues in the Netflix queue for J.R. and got around to reading a book about Charles Manson. The book is not a rehash of the Tate-LaBianca murders but dwells on what Manson is doing now. As you can guess, he isn't doing much save for rotting in jail and rambling nuttily at length about the most whacked-out shit ever conceived by a madman.

Then, my wife came home from a fashion show. It's Midwest Fashion Week, and she works in fashion, and we're in the Midwest, so it all makes sense. She had a ball, and she even got offers to model from other designers. I was happy for her, but that happiness was tempered by J.R.'s excitement at seeing her come home, even if it was almost midnight. (Yes, I know, he should've been asleep earlier, but I worked late and he wasn't tired in the least) Little Man went into hyperdrive as we labored to calm him down.

My, how things have changed since those heady days when I wrote in this blog several times a day, searching for a connection in the vast cyber-wasteland of the (ack) blog-o-sphere...

*/*

I had a dream that my co-workers and I were giving a going-away party to our manager at the bookstore. It was one of my "big house" dreams: If I ever could claim that I had a recurring dream motif, it is the Big House. I often have dreams that take place in a huge mansion with multiple rooms. The house never belongs to anyone in particular, and the people living in the rooms are often just friends and acquaintances. Thus, the going-away party took place in a Big House. I invited everyone I ever knew -- or, more to the point, everyone I am friends with on Facebook, which goes back as far as my grade school days. I was so wrapped up in planning the party that when it actually started and people began to arrive I greeted them cursorily and went about my business of renting recording equipment for some big jam I had planned.

The dream then skipped to the next day, when most of the people had left and only a handful of us from the bookstore were busy cleaning up. And that's when Manson showed up. He was the one who rented us the recording gear, and didn't want us to record over some of his songs that were on the 2-inch tape. We listened to the jam and decided to forward the tape past Charlie's tunes so we could record another post-party jam, mostly because I had not been included on the first jam and I needed to be a participant. So I grabbed a microphone and sang, improvising words and the musicians played, and at the end (when the music suddenly turned violent and thrashy) I handed the mic to Manson and he finished it off.

As the dream neared its end, I was helping my co-workers get the gear loaded so we could return it to the rental place. One co-worker made a snide comment about Manson, and we were shocked to discover that Manson overheard it, as he was standing behind a hedge only three feet away from us, undetected. He was a little pissed, and the co-worker who'd made the comment instantly became frightened and walked back into the Big House. Manson assured me he wasn't going to seek retribution, but after giving me a bear hug he slinked away and headed towards the Big House. Concerned, I followed suit.

When I got to the Big House, it was completely empty. My co-worker had a sawed-off shotgun in his hands with the barrel in his mouth. His aim was to commit a murder-suicide, aiming the shotgun in a manner that would allow him to also kill Manson as he killed himself. But when Manson entered the room, my co-worker pulled the trigger and MISSED Manson (not surprising, seeing as he had to face the opposite direction in order to send any buckshot in Manson's path) and also failed to fully kill himself.

The big irony was that Manson was holding a pipe and a bag of weed. He had intended to offer a peace treaty to my co-worker instead of vicious revenge. But the look on Charlie's face made me wonder if he hadn't "mind-controlled" the kid into blowing his own face off.

And that's when I woke up, and I swore to never browse Facebook and read about Charles Manson in the same evening ever again.

He's Outta My Life

Of course I made a joke when I heard the news about Michael. I sat there watching Fox News Channel at a friend's house, holding my little boy on my lap. I looked down at him and said, "It's okay, you're safe now." That one got a laugh. So did the next one: "I'm not sure if he's really dead... I mean, we are watching Fox News."

But after the jokes subsided, the reality set in. And no amount of conspiracy theorizing or joking or analyzing can take back the fact that Michael Jackson, the self-proclaimed King Of Pop and an extraordinary performer, is now dead.

I'm glad he's dead, because now he is at peace. Never had there been so restless a personality as his. I doubt he ever felt like what he'd accomplished was good enough. I'm not saying he was unhappy, although the amount of plastic surgery he foisted upon himself might point that way. I'm just saying that he wasn't at peace. Even as he died, he was on the verge of another comeback.

I mean, was Ed McMahon or Farrah Fawcett as deeply troubled and as endlessly fascinating as Michael? Believe it or not, there are people who do not know who those other two people are, or didn't know until earlier this week. But everyone knew Michael. Everyone.

And that's what I'm wrapping my head around right now. No other artist has permeated my life or the lives of so many people like he has. Even Prince, whom I prefer musically and whom I defended against Michael fans back in the '80s, does not inform my every memory as pervasively as Michael.

He was there when I was a little boy, as the Scarecrow in The Wiz. He was there when I was watching the breakdancers cop his moves in the early '80s, alongside Kurtis Blow and George Clinton. Eddie Murphy did a spot-on impersonation of him, both on SNL and in his own stand-up. He was an uncredited voice cameo on The Simpsons, and I didn't learn until decades later that he really did do the voice and it wasn't an impersonator. He gave Alfonso "Carlton on The Fresh Prince" Ribiero his big break in a Pepsi ad. His songs were the soundtrack of my childhood, and were parodied by cult heroes like "Weird" Al Yankovic. His sister was on two TV shows that I grew up on, and I had at least three vinyl copies of Thriller at one time in my life. I saw Captain EO at Disneyland in 3-D. I remember watching the full-length version of the "Thriller" video on Friday Night Videos (we didn't have MTV at my house yet). I've seen countless comics pull off his moves, from Eddie Griffin to Tommy Davidson. I remember my best friend doing Michael's dance routine at the after party of our prom night while my girlfriend and I watched and laughed. I also remember watching Michael do the Moonwalk for the first time on TV, for that Motown anniversary special. I remember in high school a guy on the bus singing "The Way You Make Me Feel" with his headphones on, singing very loud and snapping his fingers as if he was in the shower. Even as recent as Monday, I overheard someone describing the "Say Say Say" video with Paul McCartney to someone who had never seen it.

He was everywhere, and now thanks to the fact that he is dead, he will live forever in the public's mind.

My conspiracy theories are in full effect: He faked his death to get out of debt, for example. If there was ever an artist that could pull that one off, it was Michael. I mean, he's the one who started all the weird rumors about himself because he knew it would keep people talking about him for years; the oxygen chamber, the Elephant Man's bones, Bubbles the Chimp... he was the source! He was a master manipulator and probably wasn't half as weird as everyone thinks.

I also had a theory that the REAL Michael died in that aborted Pepsi commercial that burned him up, and that the Jackson family dug up and dusted off an extra Jackson brother that wasn't doing anything other than buggering little boys and living under the sink. They gave him plastic surgery and taught him how to sing and dance, but he couldn't break that one bad habit...

Sorry, I know it seems disrespectful... but Michael is now at a stature similar to Elvis, perhaps beyond. Nothing I can say or do would take away that stature. And to all the talk-show hosts and hack comics and snobby music critics, you won't have Michael Jackson to kick around anymore.

But that's the irony: He isn't going anywhere. Like I said, he's going to last forever. When I'm dead and buried, they will still be listening to him in Liberia.

As for me, I am listening to my all-time favorite MJ track, the last song off Thriller, and also the last time Michael made any sense to me. It's "The Lady In My Life" and I never EVER get tired of that song because it's one of the few Michael songs where he's begging to get some from a girl at the end. It was the finest song he ever did, if you ask me... and this is a guy who sang "I'll Be There" and "Never Can Say Goodbye"!


"And I Will Keep You Warm
Through The Shadows Of The Night
Let Me Touch You With My Love
I Can Make You Feel So Right
And Baby Through The Years
Even When We're Old And Gray
I Will Love You More Each Day
'Cause You Will Always Be
The Lady In My Life..."


That song reminds me of my wife. And as I look at my son, who is asleep, I realize that he is growing up in a world that is missing a few things, such as the World Trade Center, or cassettes and vinyl albums and VHS tapes... or like The King Of Pop.

baby

So here we are in the middle of July or somewhere roundabout, and in two months I will have been married for an entire year, and I haven't blogged in five months (which is a world record for me) and life has continued in its own slow way...

...and my wife is pregnant, and I'm going to be a father.

And there is so much to say, so very much to say.

And blogs just don't cut it anymore when it comes to my feelings.

And yet, I feel that this is something worth blogging about.

And I'm going to try and document as much as I can before the inevitable crunch of hours and weeks and months and years spent raising a child descends like cloud seeds upon what is left of my free time.

And I think that one day I'll blog regularly again but with a different goal in mind, that goal being a true need for communication born out of genuine desire to be expressive and not just some hollow trumpeting used to back up my claims to literacy and all.

And when my child can read, they might see these pages, and laugh, and cry, and wonder why.


*/*


My wife is entering into her second trimester. She is starting to show. Her womb is transforming and altering itself, tailoring itself to accommodate the impending arrival.

She has slight aches and minor pains. Her nausea is waning. She forgets things and her moods swing like a suspension bridge in a stormy wind.

I have never seen anything more beautiful than the sight of her sitting upright in bed, her mousy librarian's glasses perched upon her pointy dainty nose, her eyes aglass* with expectancy...

(*= A combination of "aglaze" and "glassy")

I rub her paunch every chance I get.


*/*


Now that my own father and I have buried the hatchet, I find that the wardrobe of fatherhood feels good and slinky when I slip its tender robes upon my rough, flabby skin.

We never argue anymore. I harbor no hatred towards him. We don't even get into religious debates the way we used to, and it is a pleasure to hear from him when he calls me up to talk.

I will never forget his sins, what he did. I cannot, I will not.

But I never thought I'd ever forgive him either, and yet that is exactly what I have done.

I can keep vigil, as a reminder to myself and to my child, a way of making sure that history does not repeat itself, that my child does not become first a victim and then the victimizer of a similar offense to what befell my father when he was only a young boy.

I can keep a diligent eye. In that respect, I won't forget.

But I forgave him finally, and that lifted the heaviest burden from my shoulders at a point when I could no longer carry it.

I don't care if you believe in God or not. The fact is, forgiveness is good for the soul.

Yes, it is.

Make sure you forgive someone before you have kids of your own.

take care

Happy New Year. Happy 2008.

It's amazing how the urge-- no, the compulsion --to write has waned in me since I got married. It is as if I never possessed it in the first place, like I have always been indifferent to any literary aspirations.

I cannot blame it on being busy or preoccupied with other things, because in the past I always managed to make time even for the most trivial blog entries or notebook scribblings. There is so much to write about in this new life I am living: My wife is quite simply the most amazing person I have ever met, and every day she and I grow together as well as individually. One day I will find the motivation to translate our relationship to the written word, but for now I am basking in the glow of our love.

Sentimental words for the likes of me, yes? I don't deny this. I am not ashamed to be in love and committed to one person. I guess it's all I ever really wanted and needed. Not that everything else I used to fill my life with was unimportant or meaningless-- rather, I feel like it all led up to our meeting. All of it-- the joy, the pain, the laughter, the adventures, the sorrow, the outrage, the lessons to be learned either easily or the hard way --was a prelude to this moment that I exist in currently.

I think of times when I had Writer's Block or I didn't have the focus to sit down and write/type something out, and they were always desperate periods in my life. They were informed by depression or sadness or anger, even frustration. I sometimes forced myself to write, to purge it all like some kind of paragraph bulimic. I find that on those forced occasions a metaphor such as bulimia is apt: I thought it was doing some good, based upon distorted preconceptions that I had about myself. Like an 80-lb waif with an eating disorder, I never seemed satisfied with my current state of affairs, no matter how emaciated and undernourished I was in reality.

But in this case, my sickness was spiritual, not physical. I did not look in a mirror and project the image of fat onto a skeletal frame; instead I looked into my soul and found malaise while ignoring the beauty that was struggling to rise to the surface.

To bring the metaphor full circle, I guess you can say that I am eating right for once in my life. My appetites are healthy and my attitude towards myself is one of respect and acceptance.

I think about the times when I vented my fury in this blog. I chastised readers for not commenting; I changed the names of real people then proceeded to detail their lives in accusatory tones; I engaged in feuds with people I had never even met in real life. It all seems pathetic and sad in hindsight, but each blog that I composed-- for better or for worse --was necessary for my mental health. I bared my soul in these blog entries. Sometimes I held back, but more often than not I let loose in a way that I had rarely done in my private writings.

Overall, I am proud of this minor achievement. I am not done with writing, nor am I done with blogging... but if there's anyone out there that still stops by here to read what I have to say, let me just state for the record that for the time being I am taking the time I normally spent slaving away at a keyboard and putting it toward another use. It's not a better use of my time, and it's not a lesser exertion of energy either. It's just something different, a change of pace if you will.

I think that I have found something more important than a blog.

Writing is still important to me, and my new wife sees nothing wrong or inappropriate about the blog or my novel (which I am also lagging on, for the same reasons that I have neglected my blog). She would never stand in the way of my pursuit of enlightenment via the written word, whether it be in print or online. But she is not as consistent with her internet browsing, so in a way I find myself blogging less because the one person I would really like to read it doesn't devote as much time as I do cruising cyberspace. And that's okay with me, because she is really the one person in my life now whose opinion matters to me the most.

So I am not calling it quits or throwing in the towel. Instead I am taking a semi-break from this. I will try to do it once a month, so as not to get rusty or find myself without an occasional outlet. I cannot predict what kind of content I will focus on in the future, whether or not it will be personal or impersonal or a mixture of both, but I can say confidently that my life right now is functioning fine... and maybe it will take time for me to get back into the swing of things.

I have been convinced for most of my life that I could not write unless there was pain or trouble in my heart, so I will look upon this new path I am on as a challenge, to see if I can write in the absence of misery and turmoil. I think I can, but it will be like starting all over from scratch. Forgive me if I get sappy or maudlin or sentimental or even mushy. I will make an effort to not sound like a lovestruck freak gloating over how he won the romance lottery.

I will end this entry with this: When I was beginning my adolescence, I started to take writing seriously but I hadn't learned anything yet. My first forays into writing were plagiarizing and embellishing on my favorite song lyrics and passing them off as love poems. But after a while, I made a promise to take a different tack when composing odes to whoever was my beloved at the time. I told myself that if I ever wrote a love song, I would refrain from using the word 'love' so as not to fall prey to cliches and pat pronouncements. I did a pretty good job of it, but now is the time to explore the public domain of pop cultural consciousness.

In other words, I think it's alright if I use the word 'love' from now on. I give myself permission to do so, and I hope that I can find a way to do it without succumbing to cheese and schmaltz.

I hope that any readers I still have will enjoy this new year as it unfolds, and if they don't have any comments to leave then that's just nifty. I can finally leave well enough alone and not make unrealistic demands. I know you all have your lives to live... and I have mine.

Take care.

crash

I got into a car accident this morning as I was coming home from work.

This is the biggest accident I've ever been a part of: I was at fault, being groggy from the graveyard shift; I failed to stop and rear-ended a man and his teenage duaghter in their Mazda in front of her school. The airbags deployed, and the damage was considerable (my front bumper is caved in and his back bumper and trunk are sizably dented) but no one was hurt and we were both insured.

It happens all the time in L.A., right? But you know me-- I feel stupid for losing control and not being on the ball.

It also made me think about how much I have to live for now, and although it wasn't a life-threatening situation the sheer violence of the impact adrenalized me and had me in fear. It was terrifying. The man's daughter was hysterical. Fortunately, he was good-natured about it and I went out of my way to get all the proper info and offer my apologies for my blunder. But I couldn't stop thinking about my wife. I wanted to be with her at that moment. I needed her to comfort me.

When I got home, she was there waiting for me and I told her about my ordeal. She held me and reassured me that it was going to be alright, and she was glad I wasn't hurt, and since we were insured it would turn out fine, even in light of the inconvenience that will definitely arise from the whole insurance process.

I needed to get it out of my system, so here I am-- blogging for the first time in over a month. I haven't been tending to it because I've been so busy, and to be honest I am too exhausted to really give it my all so I will keep it brief. But I needed to get it out of me, and writing has always proven to be therapeutic for me so there you have it.

Have a Happy Holiday. When you are with your respective families and friends, remember how precious this life is, how it can all go up in smoke in the blink of an eye. Give thanks that you have a warm place to go and people to see and a computer to read this on in the dead of winter.

See ya next year,

J Drawz

sweet jane

Yes, I know...

No, I don't have Writer's Block in the classic sense-- I'm not frustrated as I sit at this desk, furrowing my brow trying to drum up some verbiage for what few readers I have left. But if you define Writer's Block as being any event or situation or activity that takes up the time you would normally spend on writing, then yes-- I'm blocked up in a mighty way.

I've been busy furnishing a nest for me and my wife. It's a temporary domicile, to be sure-- basically, she's moving in with me and my current place was never more than a rest stop until either I saved up enough cash or the prices on rentals dropped. But now that I am married, who knows-- maybe my wife and I can scoop up some poor bastard's foreclosure and get ourselves a real home, complete with a mortgage and neighbors and a front lawn and a garage and property tax and the whole nine.

All we'd have to do after that is have some kids, and then that's it: we officially become old.

Knowing this, she and I agree that we need to spend a lot of time being a couple before we decide to have kids. We should enjoy being married for a while, because once we have kids it's close to two decades (at the least!) before we get that much alone time ever again.

Besides, talking about kids is getting way ahead of ourselves. Shit, we still haven't finished making the announcement!


*/*


And speaking of making the announcement...

My wife has an older sister-- 14 years older, in fact. They had different fathers but share the same mother. Since I am a full ten years my wife's senior, it now makes sense to me how she shares so many of my interests such as music groups and movies: she followed in her big sister's footsteps, influenced by her tastes and shaped by her mentality. My wife is her own person nonetheless, but her sister (whom I will name "Jane" here in this blog) had an enormous impact on my wife, to say the least.

Jane and my wife had a typical sister relationship when they were growing up, filled with your average rivalries and various ups and downs. Jane was something of a wild child, and my wife followed in her wake. However, because of the age difference and the different father figures raising each girl, it's safe to say that there were marked contrasts in their respective upbringings.

Being the youngest, my wife was a tad more spoiled than Jane. Owing also to this was their mother's accumulated maternal experience: when Jane was born, their mother was learning the ropes; when my wife was born, their mother had some background on what to do and what not to do, tempered by the wisdom that such undertakings bequeaths upon a woman who desires to decently rear a child.

In short, Jane and my wife were treated differently, even though each was equally loved by their mother.

When Jane grew up and moved out and got married and settled down with kids, she underwent a transformation. In addition to giving up on her hard-living ways and partying ethic, she began to feel pangs of guilt about what kind of role model she was to her baby sister. This is a normal phenomenon for older siblings to undergo-- my older brother, for example, often felt that he had failed me as an example to follow; it wasn't until we talked one day that I informed him that he was, in reality, the best example I could have had, despite (or lieu of) his own adolescent indulgences.

My wife and her older sister hadn't spoken to each other much in recent years, so it was definitely an issue for her to consider when it came time to tell her family what we had gone and done in Las Vegas.

The last time my wife saw her sister was when she flew out to visit my wife only a year after she'd moved to Los Angeles. Jane got off the plane, drove over to my wife's apartment, and stayed for less than three hours before they had gotten into such a row that Jane packed her bags and got on the next plane back to Indianapolis, which is where she moved when she left her home in D.C.


*/*


My wife managed to talk Jane into flying out here again without letting the cat out of the bag. Out of a misplaced semi-maternal guilt, Jane agreed to come out and see if her little sis was doing OK or if the big bad world of L.A. was eating her up alive.

As older siblings are wont to do, Jane expected to see her sister living in abject poverty, in need of guidance and way in over her head.

Meanwhile, the plan was as follows: I was to pick Jane up from LAX and bring her back to the apartment so that I could get a chance to meet her. As far as Jane knew, I was just the boyfriend-- I was not to let on that we had gotten married at all. My wife reasoned that she wanted Jane to get to know me as a person first.

As fucked up as it sounds, I had to agree with my wife: just springing the news on your family can be a horrible mistake if there are hard feelings or past grievances still being harbored. In my case, my family handled the news just fine because they were convinced that I would never marry and yet they held out hope for some sort of "miracle" to occur; it goes without saying that their prayers were answered.

Anyway, after the visit was over, when Jane was safely back at home in Indiana, my wife was going to tell her the truth... this was the part of her plan that I was skeptical about, but I understood her logic. My wife, unlike me, is not one for confrontations. She hates them, and would feel safer if she could have as much distance as possible between Jane and her, so as not to get too upset when the inevitable blow-out happened.

I drove my wife's car and parked in a spot near Jane's arriving terminal. My wife called and described Jane to me. I figured she would look something like my wife, but to my surprise Jane looked nothing like her sister: dark brown hair instead of my wife's lighter shade (my wife dyes it red so I am referring to the root color), tall and leggy, attractive but in a totally separate category than my wife's attractiveness. It was clear that, in her prime, Jane was a heartbreaker.

I met her, helped her with her bags, and drove her out to meet up with her sister. I talked with Jane along the way and found her to be engaging, smart, and witty. When we spoke of her sister there was an apparent love and care, but also present in her tone was that annoying and patronizing manner in which most older siblings refer to their younger charges, as if they and only they knew what their younger brothers or sisters were truly like and that if only they would follow the advice of Big Bro or Big Sis (because they're older, and therefore they know better, right?) then their lives would be stable and fulfilling.

I could immediately see why my wife had to do it this way, and yet I could also see Jane's point of view. I'd only known my wife for less than six months by that time but already I surmised that she could be stubborn, spiteful, hypersensitive and judgmental (just like me-- no wonder we got married!) and that it didn't mesh well with Jane's in-your-face sensibilities.

Jane was only in town for four days, from Thursday to Sunday. By Saturday night, she would find out about us prematurely.


*/*


Jane didn't flip out at first. When my wife ended up spilling the beans during an excursion to the beach to bury my wife's roommate Mitch's belated chinchilla (aptly named Mr. Chin) it was because she knew she could no longer continue the ruse and felt that Jane should know the truth about us.

Without a doubt, Jane was surprised. Shocked? I don't know, I wasn't there. All I know is that while I was working on my web comic strip at home, I got a call from my wife. I picked it up, and my wife explained to me that she told Jane about us.

"You did? How'd she take it?"

"She wants to talk to you," she said, smiling as she talked.

Jane got on the line. The three of them had been drinking, and I could tell by Jane's delivery that she was (at the very least) somewhat tipsy.

"Hey, you. What's the big deal, marrying my baby sister without getting my permission first?"

I laughed nervously. "So she told you, eh?"

"Yeah. You lied to me. Both of you did."

"She asked me to, and I do whatever she asks me to do. I didn't agree with it, but I respected her reasoning, and she's my wife so..."

"I've got a mind to knock you flat on your ass, you know." I could tell that she was half-serious, half-joking, and 100% inebriated.

"And I wouldn't blame you. I will gladly accept whatever treatment you see fit." I meant what I'd said to her-- as much as I wanted Jane to give us her blessing, she had every right to be upset.

"I'm serious," she said. "I'm still in shock. This is no way to spring it on me."

"I know, Jane. But your sister felt that it would be worse if she told you first thing off the plane. That's why she sent me by myself to pick you up. She wanted you to get to know me as a person first." I didn't mention that my wife's original plan was to wait until Jane had made it back to Indiana.

"Look, it's not that I don't like you. I do, James. I think you're a nice guy. So far throughout this trip you've been nothing but great, both to me and my sister. But this has nothing to do with you. It's a family thing. I hope you know that."

"I do. I honestly do. I am not offended in the least."

"Good. But I'm still in shock. I don't know whether to be happy or pissed."

After a few more exchanges similar to those last lines, my wife got back on the phone and asked me to meet the three of them at Barney's Beanery later on in the evening for drinks and dinner. I agreed, and hung up the phone.

I finished my web comic work and jumped in the shower. After that, as I got dressed to meet them, I wondered what the night would evolve into, because I knew even though the cat was out of the bag there was still the rest of the evening to go.

Next Week: The Second Part

wheels go 'round and 'round

Today is John Lennon's 67th birthday.

Yes, he's dead... but it's still his birthday.

Here's a You Tube clip of the song "Watching The Wheels", with home videos of the man with his wife Yoko spliced against what has to be one of the loveliest Lennon compositions he ever recorded.



You'll probably hear 5 million plays of "Imagine" today, so I figured I'd do one of the lesser requested ones. "Watching The Wheels" has its share of fans, to be sure, but when you think of how many solo hits Lennon had (plus all the stuff he did with that one group... you know, the one that starts with B) it all tends to get lost in the shuffle.

Personally, my all-time favorite from John's solo output is "#9 Dream" because it is so weird and mystical and surreal and happens to be one of the few pop songs with the word "dream" in the title that actually does sound like a dream. But "Wheels" has gotten me lately because... well, because I relate to the lyrics more now than I did when I was younger.

Settling down and getting married has done more than just mellow me out: it has practically caused me to change my outlook on life. There's a lot in my outlook that doesn't need changing, however, so I guess I am really just accepting the things I need to accept and discarding the things that I never needed.

I'm modifying my behavior rather than mellowing. I say that because I am still a crazy loon with the mind of a dirty old man and the heart of a reckless child. But I'm also more focused.

The blog has suffered, but my writing continues... this time in private, the way it used to be when I was a teenager scribbling into personal notebooks that no one ever read unless I allowed them the privilege. The novel is coming along slowly but surely. My patience for it is larger and wider, thanks to my wife's inspiration and input.

The music always bodes well. It has evened out for me-- staying with one (and only one) band makes it easier for me to do what needs to be done, and also makes it more enjoyable. I still collaborate here and there but not with the urgent desperation of other endeavors. And in a few weeks I might be ready to start setting up for my third solo acoustic set this year, which is exciting and fun for me.

My forays into graphic art are limited to the "Studio Reader Stan" web comic, but that's just fine. I am creating an animated version of the strip, so I cannot complain about anything.

Certainly, this has been a most productive and radically transitional season for me. It has also been a relatively sober period in my life, similar to my teen years when I was straight-edge and didn't need drugs to make me weird and creative. I won't lie, however: I do them when they're around... but the cool thing is that they really aren't around that much anymore. I can't remember the last time I smoked pot, and saving money to get a new place for me and the wife has all but eliminated cocaine from my everyday existence.

The Mrs. and I did take mushrooms a while back, when we went camping with my family up in Carpenteria. That was a fine weekend, because our trip was pleasant (big caps on the shrooms = less visuals, more of a body high) and we drank it in tea instead of eating the foul-tasting fungi.

I wouldn't count that as a drug experience, though. It was too nice and gentle to be considered a "trip". It was more like a vacation that turned inward for the both of us. We laughed our asses off and made love in our tent to the sounds of waves lapping against the shore.

I have many stories to tell, but for the time being they have to go into the novel. I will keep blogging but right now I need to get this book done, and I'm on a roll. I just wanted to check in and let you all know I haven't fallen off the face of the planet.

Or, to paraphrase the birthday boy, I wanted to let you all know that I'm doing fine watching shadows on the wall.

PEACE

husband and wife

The last night of the month of August: a humid heat in the triple digits that trickled into the night and gave no quarter or shelter or relief. The night was supposed to be airy and cool but that was not the case as I played a show with my band and watched from the intensely-lit stage as my girl sat and sipped her drink and waited for me to be done.

She waited because she knew what was going to happen after the show. She knew the journey we were about to embark upon and she was as excited as I was, maybe even more so. But I was dealing with suppressed emotions that had no outlet.

The show went over well, and when it was done she and I made our escape amid suspicious eyes and furrowed brows. Some of them knew instinctively what we had planned to do, even if we had not been explicit about it.

It wasn't until she and I were at my place, almost ready to hit the desert road out to Las Vegas, that I finally broke down and cried as I held her, explaining that these were not doubts that I was feeling, but rather the overwhelming joy of finally having found the one person I seemed to have been waiting all of my life to meet, through the darkness and the pain and the elation and joy of my entire existence... it was impossible to believe that there standing before me was the woman I was going to spend the rest of my days loving, but I had no choice but to accept that fact, even as my wounded self-esteem resisted the happiness that caused tears to well up in my eyes and my voice to tremble under the weight of this decision.

She patted my hair and told me that if I didn't want to go through with it she would be OK, but I insisted that it wasn't a big deal-- it was just me resorting to an old coping mechanism, the involuntary impulse to hide my emotions until they cannot be held any longer and then deluge from me like a levee breaking open and flooding my heart.

By the time we were an hour outside of Los Angeles, my mood was considerably improved. I held her hand as we drove our machine over clean asphalt laser beams.


*/*


Before the sunrise, we entered the garish Nevada city of lights, the unofficial capital of casino towns. With no sun to greet us, we stopped to get a bite to eat at an IHOP (Denny's was open but they were re-stocking and told us it would take 20 minutes before we could order).

The waiter told us that the chapels didn't operate under 24 hour schedules anymore, mainly due to the Las Vegas courthouse's new hours. Since the courthouse now closed earlier, there was no need for the chapels to work around the clock. We would have to wait until 8am if we wanted to do anything, he told me.

So we hit the Strip and smoked our cigarettes with style and flung them out of the windows almost simultaneously... which attracted the attention of a state trooper car that I had not seen following me. He pulled us over and walked over to my side of the car.

"Good morning."

I tired to smile. "Good morning, officer."

"Driver's license?"

"Yes." I pulled my license out of my wallet and let the wallet fall down between the seat and the center console, fearing that he would somehow come across the small amount of cocaine I had stashed in between my ATM cards.

He looked at my license, then said, "I pulled you over for littering."

"Yes, I know."

His nostrils flared, having smelled something coming from the car.

"Where are you coming from?"

"Los Angeles."

"Have you had anything to drink while you've been driving?"

"No sir."

"Please step out of the car."

After some questions, it became clear that the two cops thought that I was drunk, because of the strong smell of an open container of rum that my girl was carrying. The first cop was talking to me, trying to determine if I was tipsy, while the second cop walked over to my girl and grilled her on her bottle.

"Ma'am, we smell alcohol coming from the vehicle. Has he been drinking?"

"No sir, I have." She smiled, her red heart-shaped Lolita sunglasses framing her girlish cheekbones.

"What are you guys doing up so early?"

"We drove from L.A. all night. We're getting married."

"Married, eh?" The second cop smiled. "Well, congratulations!"

"Thank you."

"So, is he the love of your life?"

"Yes he is, sir!"

"Nice."

Meanwhile, I was talking to the first cop about our business at such an ungodly hour of the day.

"We're here to get hitched, then turn right around and head home. We didn't even reserve a room."

"All the chapels are going the other way. Why were you driving north on the Strip?"

"The IHOP waiter said there might be another chapel in the north part of town, near Russell."

"I'm not sure if there is one... let me ask my partner."

Just at that moment, the second cop walked up to us.

"Man, how much did she have to drink?" He laughed.

"Yeah, she puts 'em away alright." Then I proceeded to lie for no reason. "It's her car, so she was driving up until we hit Prima Donna, then she had a drink and I decided to take over."

"And you had nothing at all?"

"Correct. I'm allergic to alcohol anyway."

"Well, I can tell you haven't been drinking. After I asked you to exit the vehicle I was sniffing around to see if it was on your breath, but you're checking out fine. Sorry to inconvenience you and your girl."

"No problem, officer. You're just doing your job."

"Hey, is there a chapel up near Russell?" The first cop asked his partner.

"I think there is... but it's the only one around those parts. The majority of them are near Old Town, Fremont Street."

"You think the one near Russell is open right now?" I asked.

"Maybe. They don't really do that 24 hour thing anymore, but you can try it out."

"Why not? We got a lot of time to kill," I said, smiling.

The cops didn't ticket us, and as we drove away the cruiser followed us up the Strip. At one point I became disoriented and ran a red arrow light (not a red stop light) and then I hit the brake while in the middle of the right turn intersection.

Assuming that they were going to give us more trouble, I winced visibly. My girl was laughing at the whole absurd incident as it played itself out in front of her.

We both heard the troopers over their loudspeaker: "Make a left!"

All the other cars in traffic, stopped at the lights in back of us, were befuddled and confused.

By the time the troopers passed us and I gathered my bearings again, she and I were laughing at our luck. We both spoke aloud about how this must be a sign that our marriage was meant to be.


*/*


As the time was nearing, she and I stopped at a chapel and asked a woman who was tending to the plants when they would be open for business. She asked us if we had gotten our marriage license yet. I pleaded ignorance, and she promptly gave us directions to where the courthouse was located. She also warned us to stay away from one particular chapel with a shady reputation.

We drove to the courthouse and waited outside along with at least five other couples who were in a rush to get their nuptials taken care of as early as possible. My girl and I smoked more cigarettes, and kissed and held hands and giggled with excitement.

The moment was almost upon us.

As we waited, a man handed out flyers advertising the notorious chapel that we had been warned about prior to our courthouse visit. Prices on their wedding ceremonies had been marked down drastically. I folded the flyer and slipped it into my back pocket.

Five minutes before 8, the African-American courthouse security guard came out front. He turned to all of us and made an announcement:

"Sorry folks, the courthouse ain't giving out licenses today. Building's closed for the Labor Day weekend."

Our collective jaws dropped as we heard the news. I was about to say something when the guard suddenly reversed himself.

"Psyche!" He began to laugh, as did everyone else, along with relieved sighs. The guard then proceeded to poke fun at the man standing nearest to him.

"Damn, man, you shoulda seen the look on your face..."

My girl, laughing riotously, commented that it was a good thing he was kidding, otherwise he'd have to run away or else face the wrath of half a dozen unhappy couples, to which he replied:

"Hey, I'm black. Ain't none of y'all catchin' a brother. In fact, I saw an episode of COPS the other night where this cat straight up eluded the police, the dogs, even the infra-red. No shit. That motherfucker was home so fast he was able to check his ass out on TV the same night! He was probably sitting there, eating dinner, sayin' 'Look, mama, that's me. And there I go...'"

Needless to say, the ice was broken, Within fifteen minutes of entering the courthouse, we had our marriage license in hand. Now all we needed was a chapel.


*/*


She and I starting walking down the street, unsure of which chapel to go to, when suddenly a limousine pulled up beside us and a Hispanic man stepped out from behind the driver's seat.

His name was Ernesto and he had a tattoo tear on his face. He asked us if we had just gotten our license. I tried to ignore him because I thought he was affiliated with the man who was handing out flyers for the shady chapel.

"Naw, man. This one's different. Here, check it out."

He opened up a brochure. The cheapest deal offered a drive-through ceremony, including pictures and free rides to and from the chapel, for an unbeatably low price.

"Sorry, man," I said, "but she don't want a drive-through wedding."

"Okay, I'll waive that. You'll get everything else though. The ride is free. I'll take you right now, and drop you right back here where I found you. And you don't gotta tip me or anyone except the pastor. For real."

"Whatta you say, babe?" I asked my soon-to-be wife.

"If you wanna do it, then let's do it."

"Okay, man, take us there."

The limo ride took only a few minutes. We arrived at the chapel and walked inside, where an elderly woman greeted us and began processing our nuptials, but not without first scolding Ernesto for poaching us from off the street.

"I thought you were just going to the store," she intoned. Ernesto said nothing as he walked into the back room.

She turned to us and introduced herself as Louise. She processed our fees and had us fill out forms and watched as we signed them, then she signed a few herself; she proceeded to inform us that the pastor and the photographer were running late, seeing as we were her first customers of the day.

My girl went into the restroom to prep herself for the final step we were about to take. I made small talk with Louise, regaling her with the story of our trip to Las Vegas and all the crazy happenings that went on since we blew into town. I also asked her about the shady chapel down the street, the one we'd been warned about; she made no bones about that chapel's bizarre operational policies and unkempt health conditions, adding that she knew the proprietor of that chapel and therefore knew the level of corruption and greed that was possible.

When my girl returned from the restroom, Louise asked us if we had any wedding bands.

"No, we didn't buy a ring yet," my girl replied.

"No rings? What about flowers?"

I turned to my girl and asked, "Do you want flowers, babe?"

"It's not necessary," she said.

Louise then picked out a white rose and gave it to my girl. "Here, it's on the house," she said.

Half an hour passed, and our pastor arrived. She was a good-looking young blonde with a spray-on tan and immaculate teeth, the kind of girl I might've leered at once upon a time. She escorted us into the large room and began to conduct the service from the altar.

She asked me and my girl to face each other as we repeated the vows. I was choked up with emotion once again, just like the night before in my room, only this time I was able to keep the tears from streaming down my face as I promised to honor, love, cherish and obey my girl until the day I die.

Never have there been words so potent and strong as those vows. As many times as I have heard them in my life, and as many times as I have ridiculed them or spoofed them or satirized them, I could not help but suddenly understand their power and impact as I stared into the ebony wonder of my girl's eyes and swore to her with all my heart that my aim was true and that she was mine forever and that I was hers forever... and I meant it.

I meant every word, and she did too.

We kissed, and then the photographer finally showed up and posed us this way and that, and a nervous energy flushed through my bloodstream as I realized what I had just done.

It was the one thing I had always sworn I would never do, and yet there I was, married on a bleary Vegas morning after a sleepless night spent driving through the desert.


*/*


I held her hand almost the entire way as we drove back to Los Angeles.

Towards the end of the trip she fell asleep, still wearing the white dress she donned for her special day.

I was still in shock, in utter disbelief. The entire drive was unreal. I was at peace, at one with my soul, with my heart, with my mind.

Nothing seemed impossible anymore. Everything in my line of vision appeared bright and new and shiny. There were no more questions, only answers to queries I had long pondered.

I wondered how much our lives were going to change after the honeymoon was over and reality set in... and then it dawned on me that this was reality, and that it wasn't going to set in because it was already settled. The moment we made up our minds to be husband and wife, it was settled. Like the dust on the interstate after our machine zoomed over the surface of hot Nevadan blacktop, it was settled. Like my stomach after an arrow of an evening spent careening toward Sin City and ending at a breakfast franchise over some eggs and coffee, it was settled.

There was nothing else to say.

She and I got married on September 1st, 2007 at approximately 9am.

That day was the beginning of the rest of our lives, and I will never ever forget it for as long as we both exist.

something to write about

This past year has seen a significant drop-off in my blogging regularity. It was intentional, by all means, but also there was a personal dissatisfaction with the whole blogging process. Bloggers are mostly viewed in the court of public opinion as either savvy online go-getters or lifeless losers who pine to be published writers but lack the necessary skills to get their foot in the literary door.

While I probably would be viewed in the latter category rather than the former, I have never had a problem with being seen by the public at large as some sort of weird loner ranting against a seemingly unfair societal system. In fact, I tend to encourage that perspective because it's not that far off from the truth.

I think the main reason why I reduced the amount of time and energy spent blogging, however, is simply because I ran out of interesting things to say on a consistent basis. Whereas before I could blog endlessly and rapidly about any topic at length, I found myself at the beginning of last summer scraping the bottom of the barrel when it came to finding things to write about, and it was showing: people who used to frequent my blog lost interest; I was repeating myself in numerous ways; and the tone of my writing became hard, sullen, angry without the benefit of any genuine humor to sweeten the bitterness.

In short, I was in a bad place during a bad time, and it was reflected in my blog.

Much has changed since last year, and even more has changed in the past two or three weeks since I last posted an entry here. I know I've spoken of serious life changes in this blog many times before, but this time I am pretty sure that what I've got to say to anyone reading this will qualify, without a doubt, as a truly major step in not only my writing but in my life in general.

I've been writing about My Girl for the past six or seven months, and it has been a pleasure to do so... but she is no longer My Girl.

No, instead she has become My Wife.


*/*


It began innocently enough with a comment I made to My Girl sometime after her bicycle accident.

"I'm just gonna start calling you my wife from now on," I said to her as I smoked a cigarette while lying on her bed. "I'll introduce you as my spouse to anyone and everyone."

I can't say for sure if I was serious or joking. All I know is that I meant it when I said it, even though it was delivered with my trademark flippancy. Whatever the case, I threw it out there for her to devour. She didn't seem to mind my resolution.

Two days passed. We saw each other during those days-- sometimes at the coffee shop where she works part-time, sometimes at her townhouse in Hollywood, sometimes at my place in Reseda. It's a given, because ever since the start of this summer she and I have been virtually inseparable, making sure to hang out for at least a few hours each day. Even when we were not dating and still platonic friends, we were spending the vast majority of our time together.

Then, two days after I announced that I was going to refer to her as my wife from now on, the subject came up again while we were bedded down in her room.

"You know, if you asked me to marry you, I'd probably say 'yes', and I would mean it," she said to me.

"Really?" I was a little taken aback, only because for the first time in my life I was not trembling with fear and dread at the prospects of marital bliss with a girl I was dating... and what's more, I felt excited and exhilarated by her bold admission.

"I've been thinking about it since you brought it up the other day," she said, "but I didn't want to say anything because I was afraid you would say that you were kidding. I've been wanting to tell you how I feel, and I guess now is the time to do it."

"You've been thinking about it for the last two days?"

"Yeah. Seriously."

Oh my God, I thought, she really wants to marry me!

"Well, I would marry you if you wanted to marry me. No bullshit."

I couldn't believe what I was saying to her, and yet I was not scared or pensive. I found that I was actually quite confident that what I was telling her was my true feeling on the matter.

"I want to marry you," she said, her doleful eyes fluttering softly behind her oh-so-cute nerd-glasses perched delicately above her nose. "I want to be the mother of your children. I want to take your last name."

Upon hearing this, I figured I may as well do it right.

"Okay then... Will you marry me?"

"Yes."

"When do you want to do it?"

"Right now!" Her face beamed with energy.

"That would be cool, but you know we can't... you've got work, I've got a million things to do... but I agree that eloping would be the best course of action."

"Yes, let's elope! In Las Vegas! Either this weekend or the next!"

"That's a deal."

She smiled, and we kissed, and then she looked at me with the utmost seriousness and said, "You're not gonna chicken out on this, are you?"

"No, I'm not. Are you?"

"No way."

"Alright. Then it's settled. We'll play it by ear, but by the end of August we will be husband and wife."

A chill ran down my spine. It was not the kind of chill that signals impending catastrophe. This particular chill was like a jolt of electricity coursing through my body and rejuvenating parts of me that I had dismissed as dead.

We kissed. We made love. We slept.


*/*


My Girl and I were married at a chapel in Las Vegas on Saturday, September 1st, 2007.

It was a tough ordeal resisting the urge to inform everyone within earshot of our plan to elope. Obviously I am someone whose life is an open book, and I am very good at broadcasting my intent no matter where I am or what I am doing.

I wasn't 100% successful at keeping it a secret, but I did manage to avoid telling my family and closest friends about it until after it was done. She laughed at me every time a not-so-intimate acquaintance of mine congratulated her on something she had not done yet. She understood that I was bursting at the seams, eager to proclaim to the whole world how much she means to me.

Reactions to the news have been positive. My family was unanimous in their support and were not offended that we eloped. My mother was especially happy, because she has always wished and prayed that I would find the right woman and settle down.

And she is the right woman, by all means. It may seem rushed, considering that we only met about half a year ago, but I have never been so sure of something as I am with my decision to make her My Wife.

Some of my closest friends-- the ones who know me pretty damn well, the ones who have seen me go up and down throughout all of my peculiar phases --wanted to make sure that this wasn't some misguided flight-of-fancy on my part. Once they heard the conviction in my voice or saw the stinging certainty in my eyes, they had nothing but loving sentiments to convey to the both of us.

So much to take in, so much to tell. There isn't enough space in this post to cover it all.

Only now have I felt stable and grounded enough to sit down and write it out for people to ingest. The whole affair has been simultaneously simple and complex, with an extreme array of emotions threatening to spin out of control at any moment. But through it all, I never lost faith in what we set out to do, and I know for a fact that her faith was just as devout (if not more).

In my next post I will tell the story of the actual wedding day, a surreal mini-adventure that (true to form) seems stranger than any fictitious scenario I could ever concoct. And after that, there's the emotionally-charged story of how My Wife's older sister (my new sister-in-law) reacted to the news of our marriage.

Those are just a smidgen-- a mere fraction --of the events and episodes that I have yet to commit to this blog. And let us not forget the stories that have yet to be told because they haven't happened yet-- there'll be plenty of those, for sure.

I guess I finally have something to write about again, something worthy of my time and effort. Not that the past year has been uneventful or bland. On the contrary, I purposely refrained from writing about a whole shitload of things that I went through. I left them out because they did not break any new ground and served no purpose other than to give me a vehicle for my self-pity.

But let me make one thing clear: I did not marry her because I needed material for my blog.

I married her for the only good reason there is: because we love each other.

Now I'd like to share it with all of you.

deep love

My girl and I have a lot in common.

We both like the same musicians/bands: Beastie Boys, Dead Kennedys, Prince, Guns 'N' Roses, Cypress Hill, David Bowie, Pearl Jam, X, DEVO, Silversun Pickups, The Clash, etc... There are a few disagreements here and there (she loathes Phish, for example, while I find them to be splendid) but they are as I said: few, and far between as well.

We both share the same absurd outlook on life, only she tends to shy away from the label 'absurd'. We also have closet romantic tendencies lurking beneath our cool, steely exteriors. We both have demented senses of humor and enjoy nonsense for nonsense's sake.

We both think that life is beautiful despite the pain and tragedy that befalls everyone. We both see the value of all things great and small, choosing not to merely glance at The Big Picture but instead to stare wildly away at its expansive panoramic vastness.

We both believe in God, even if we aren't textbook Christians in any sense.

And lastly, we both have experienced deep love with someone from our past, and we are both striving to get out from under the shadows those loves cast.


*/*


One of our first nights together was in March of this year, when I invited her back to my apartment in Burbank to watch a movie and eat popcorn. I had no idea what to expect, because as much as I wanted to seduce her in my own idiosyncratic fashion, I also was aware that I was putting too much emphasis on having this evening actually go somewhere for a change.

What I mean is: Instead of just trying to get into her pants, I wanted to get to know her as a person. Too many times I switched gears from 0 to 60 in less than 2 seconds, and even if I got what I thought I wanted I still didn't realize, until much later on, that I had actually short-changed myself.

For you see, if a man is only intent on scoring some action, it doesn't matter if he gets it or not: he loses in the end, because life is full of variables that mix-and-match to complement the outcome of any given event. So, if a man tries to score and succeeds, he may end up never seeing her again after that, which could be a relief if she is horrid-- but then again, what good is scoring with a horrid girl anyway? If it is not a relief to see her fade away into the night, never to return, then he ends up feeling cheated, as if a taste of honey was worse than none at all (to quote from Smokey Robinson).

If he does see her again, is he any more relieved than if he had not seen her again? Hard to say, for maybe that man will end up somewhere down the line not wanting to see her again despite her insistence that they continue seeing each other. If it is not a relief to see her again, then the whole episode was merely an exercise is animal carnality.

In other words, if the man started off from the get-go trying to court the girl instead of fucking her brains out, then by the time the nookie enters the picture he ends up winning.

When March 2007 rolled around, I was tired of losing. So when she showed up at my door at 11 PM on a Friday night, I decided to take the long-term investment and court her instead.


*/*


It wasn't easy.

She told me she was going to change into her pajama bottoms as I placed the DVD into the tray and gently pushed it closed.

This aroused me to no end.

As she walked into the bathroom to slip into something a little more comfortable, I held an informal debate with my good and bad sides, muttering under my breath so as not to give off the impression that I was insane.

"That's the green light, buddy," my bad side said. "Do her! She's asking for it!"

"Now let's be reasonable," my good side said. "Perhaps she feels safe around you, and doesn't fear that you will make any advances upon her. If you cross the line, so to speak, the whole enterprise will be placed in peril."

"Dude, if she feels safe around you, that's bad! You'll end up in the Friend Zone... unless you do something real bad-ass to show her that you've still got a libido!"

"Yes, but you could also end up in the Creep Section, which is worse than the Friend Zone."

"Hey, Good Side... whose side are you on anyway? The boy wants to get laid, for Pete's sake!"

"Funny, I thought he was trying to do things differently. I guess all that talk about getting to know her and having something meaningful for a change was just a lot of game..."

I finally interrupted their exchange. "Wait a minute! Let me decide what to do, okay?"

They both nodded grudgingly.

When she walked out of the bathroom, she was wearing the same outfit except for now she had on candy-striped pajama bottoms. I handed her a bowl of freshly-cooked popcorn and sat down on the love seat.

"Come on over here," I said, motioning to her.


*/*


We talked through the entire movie (Waking Life, I believe it was) not because it was bad but because it sparked much philosophical discussion between us. These discussions lasted well past the ending of the movie, and by the time we we talking about dating life as opposed to waking life it was almost dawn and the DVD menu page was looping over and over due to my unwillingness to interrupt the conversation just to turn the damn DVD player off.

She told me about the love of her life, a boy who was seven years her senior. Back in D.C. he was a local legend: a sponsored skateboarder, an accomplished drummer in a punk rock band, a huge part animal who broke the rules and got away with murder, a military brat who traveled the world and lived in the Middle East for much of his upbringing...

"I will never have a love like that ever again," she said, as she dragged on her cigarette.

"How can you say that?" I asked.

"He was my true love."

Before I could say something cynical to kill the mood, she continued.

"But that doesn't mean I can't have another love that is deeper or greater than that with someone else. I just won't have what I had with him with anyone else, ever again."

This was interesting to me. "I know what you mean," I said. I then told her all about Eve: the two-year-long high school romance, the years spent apart, the reconciliation and troubles that finally broke us apart... I told her how Eve had cut me off and wouldn't take my calls, wouldn't write me back, wouldn't even acknowledge that I was alive...

"That's what I had to do in my case," she said to me. "I had to totally cut him off from my life. And it sucks. I know that. But not a day goes by when I don't think about him. I miss him so much, and I want to call him but I know it's never going to be right. It's just torture if I give in and call him. So even though I am miserable, I have to stand my ground and not fall back into it. The hardest thing in the world is to start again, and I know because I've been there."

"So what you're saying is that you cut him off because it was necessary?"

"Yes. And that's what your ex is doing to you. From what you just told me about her, she probably cares so much about you, and yet it hurts her to be with you. That's exactly what I am feeling in my own life right now. I bet you that she'd love to just take you back and pretend that nothing is wrong, but she probably feels like she has to move on and that there's no way that you two can be together right now. She's not doing it to hurt you-- she's doing it to save herself."

Suddenly, I understood everything that was happening between Eve and I, and I also became very ashamed of my behavior towards her. I was mean and cruel to Eve because I felt like she had hurt me. I called her names, insinuated horrible things about her character, and left her incessant messages demanding that she give me at least one chance to speak my mind.

"Wow, I never thought about it that way. I've been so selfish, not thinking about how much this whole thing has affected her. I'm a scumbag."

"Well, you probably have every right to be upset at her too. Don't forget to own your anger. It's okay to be mad at her for what you feel she did to you, but just remember that it might not be as easy for her as you think. I know my ex is mad as hell and obsessed with me-- hell, he moved from D.C. out here just to be near me, even after I told him it was over. I didn't ask him to do that. I don't blame him for wanting me back, but it just can't work. I can't put up with the drinking, the cheating, the jealousy... it wore me down. This is the way it has to be. And you know what? The last three relationships I had were ruined because I couldn't stop talking about him to my new boyfriends. They got sick of hearing me bring him up. That's how bad it is for me."

I thought of how Eve would tell me about Dick, her ex, and how he hated my guts-- not because of anything I did to him, but because she incessantly brought me up to him when they were together. I also thought of how Eve would bring him up to me, as if to test my patience concerning him.

I also thought of how I often did that to girlfriends, exhuming the ghosts of my romantic past and unwittingly driving them crazy.

And then I felt good. I was glad that she had told me about her true love, and I was glad that she helped me to understand my own situation with what could be considered my own true love.

"Thank you, " I said. "Your story has helped me to finally get it through my head."

I hugged her. She hugged me back.

Both my good and bad sides were equally perplexed.


*/*


Like I said, my girl and I have a lot in common.

Since we met on the last day of February 2007, she and I have taken a long, slow but steady journey into each other's lives, minds and hearts. The courtship ended up being worth every minute of my time, and now she and I have found a love that neither of us has ever experienced before with anyone else.

Just as I will never stop loving Eve, so will she never forget the impact her own version of Eve had on her.

But that does not mean that we are lost, or that we are ruined for others.

No, what it means is that now that we have undergone a deep love affair that failed with someone else, we both have the wisdom and the strength to try it again with someone new.

Not everyone gets that second chance, that rare opportunity to get it right, the way it should've been done the first time.

We've paid our dues. It's time for the both of us to collect on our investments.

love is pain

"Have you ever wanted to join the circus? Now's your chance. The Midnight Ridazz Circus is back in town. Los Angeles' monthly traveling group of clowns will be taking over the streets and showing the city how to have some fun..."


Or so the website promised.

My girl works at a coffee shop in Hollywood where hipsters like Leonard Cohen have been known to stop and get a cup of joe, and among the various regulars that inhabit the shop are people who invite her to participate in activities such as the above-mentioned urban sojourn.

On paper or in theory, these events sound cool. Really cool. However, being the jaded Angeleno that I am, my feelings about such endeavors is as follows:

1) I very rarely get in on the ground floor of anything worth doing early on, and therefore by the time I've heard of things like the midnight bicycle rides they have already reached a critical mass or some sort of peak; in other words, I'm always a tourist or a Johnny-Come-Lately. It's the main reason why I never got around to going to Burning Man: it was just too late for me to get on board that bandwagon.

2) As the word gets around and the buzz grows, these types of events take on a weight of their own. I fear the collective unconscious of the mob in any incarnation, whether it be a rock concert or a Nuremberg rally or a midnight bike run totaling over 1,000 riders... especially in Los Angeles, the birthplace of Road Rage.

In short, I didn't think it was a good idea to ride bicycles at night while dressed up like clowns and pissing off motorists in a city where people live and die by their automobiles.

Don't get me wrong-- it sounded awesome. It probably was awesome the first few times it was accomplished. But it's not a well-kept secret anymore, and the anarchic novelty seemed to have worn off even before I became enamored of it.

But who am I to spoil her fun? She asked me to go, I declined (citing musical obligations and my lack of a working bicycle as reasons) and she went ahead anyway.

I wished her well, told her to drive safe (as I always say to anyone I see driving away from me) and instructed her to call me as soon as she was done or if she decided to change her mind.


*/*


I received a call on my cel phone around a quarter past midnight.

I was busy recording vocals with some friends, and so the phone was turned off. When the session was done, I turned on the phone and heard one of my girl's coffeehouse patrons leaving me a voice message:

"She's OK... she had a nasty fall... very aggressive vibe out here tonight, I think she bit off more than she could chew... we're at the hospital right now... I'll try calling you later and let you know what her status is..."

He didn't leave a callback number. I began to panic. I called around, looking for anyone who might have her friend's phone number. I called her cel phone a few times but no one picked up.

Finally, she answered the phone. She was indeed OK, but she was going to require a few stitches on her chin. When she fell off the bike, she landed face first on the pavement. Her chin was cut wide open, and she had to be forced by her friend to visit the ER at Cedar-Sinai for treatment.

I raced over to the hospital. I was so glad she was alright. But before I left, she said to me over the phone that she hoped this wouldn't ruin our plans for the next day.

It was Friday night, and sometime on Saturday we were supposed to attend my little sister's wedding in Santa Barbara. I was going to introduce my girl to my family for the first time.


*/*


I was late to the ceremony.

I arrived at Butterfly Beach in Montecito just as the vows were finished. I caught the wedding procession as they walked on the sand of the shore.

I saw my niece, the flower girl... she was crying. She is such an emotional little 8 year-old.

I mingled with the guests, most of them close friends and immediate family. I went over to my sister and hugged her and apologized for my lateness. She asked me where my girl was, and I told her (and everyone else repeatedly throughout the evening) the story of her bike accident.

My mother seemed disappointed that my girl was unable to make it. But her disappointment was nothing compared to the complex emotions I was feeling at that moment.

I was angry at my girl for going on the ride and effectively taking herself out of the wedding plans, denying me the chance to show her off to my family.

I was angry at her coffee shop friend for taking her along when she was clearly in over her head-- she didn't even own a bike! The vehicle she crashed on was a loaner, totally not suited to her petite frame.

I was angry at my sister for marrying a man who I disliked, even as I had to grudgingly respect his work ethic and good intentions.

I was just angry, but more than that-- I was confused. And maybe my lateness was an unconscious attempt on my part to somehow gain control over a situation-- no, situations --that went far beyond my grasp.


*/*


The night before I had a strange dream whose meaning was not lost on me.

I dreamed that I was in a church, walking my sister down the aisle... only it wasn't my sister-- it was my girl. And not only that, but I was giving her away, as the father of the bride does in traditional ceremonies.

Who was I giving her away to? Me, of course. I was the groom as well.

I don't think it takes a scholar to interpret the anxious meaning behind that particular dream.


*/*


By the end of the night, I was happy again.

My girl was OK, at home with pain meds in her system; My little sister, whom I helped raise as if she were my own daughter, was ecstatic as the two respective families became one; my mother was happy to see me in attendance, and I had forgotten about the intensity of my irrational emotions earlier in the day.

There are some things in this life that we cannot control, obviously. I have always had a problem relinquishing control of certain things, and this past weekend was the culmination of my deepest fears regarding the important women in my life.

I told my girl about my strange dream, and she found that it wasn't so strange at all.

"I'm your friend, so that's like your sister. And I'm your lover now. Sometimes I'm like your mother, but I'm like a daughter to you also. I can see why you had that dream. It must be hard for you to let go of so much in such a short time."

Here she was, telling me how hard it must be for me... as her wrist was wrapped in a sling and her delicate chin was bandaged and bruised and her body ached from the impact of her dismount.

I hugged her and kissed her head, and whispered, "I'm just glad you weren't seriously hurt. You don't know how badly I freaked out when I got that message. You could've been killed."

"Yeah, but I'm fine now."

"I know... I know..."

I did not let her go. I held her in my arms until we both fell asleep in her bed.

my girl

Not to sound chauvinistic, but I was ready to go to San Francisco at 7pm on a Friday night while she was hardly packed. But it really wasn't her fault: she had an unexpected visit from a friend of hers.

A tall, skinny guy named Gibby showed up out of the blue, bemoaning his lot in life: the place he'd been staying had been raided, and although his father had recently passed away and left him a sizable inheritance, he had no means to cash his check. He was also trying to kick a bad glass-smoking addiction.

Gibby looked me over jealously. He didn't know she'd been seeing me. I, in turn, sized him up and down and got a decidedly bad vibe from him. There's an old saying: "You can't con a con man." However, I didn't say anything because I knew it would sound as if I were merely jealous instead of aware of this guy's bullshit.

We finally got on the road close to midnight. I had to call Rose, my friend up north, and tell her that we would probably make it into town by the morning. This gave us time to drive at a leisurely pace, stopping every now and then to eat, use the restroom, and gaze at the night stars as we made our journey to the Bay Area, a part of California that my girl had never been to before.

We arrived around El Cerrito by the sunrise. She and I were so excited to be out of Los Angeles that when Rose gave us a bed to rest, we only slept for two hours.


*/*


Over breakfast, she and I were loopy and delirious. Rose was as accommodating as she could be but I could tell she was sort of put-off by my girl's distracted manner of conversation.

As we waited for my girl to finish up in the restroom, Rose (whom I'd had a short-lived crush on when I first met her the previous August) said to me with a brave face, "She's... nice."

"I know she seems a bit odd," I said, "but I really dig her."

"Have you two... you know... have you--"

"No, not yet. And to be honest, I'm in no hurry."

"Wow, I guess you do dig her then!"

"Absolutely."

After breakfast, we all took the BART out to the city. We had lunch near the Embarcadero at a diner named Fog City. Then Rose took us to the COIT Tower by way of The Steps, a long and circuitous stairway with quite a scenic view of the Bay. We marveled at the mural painted along the inside of the tower, and it was while I was taking photographs for posterity that I noticed Rose and my girl were getting along, having a normal conversation based on art and beauty.

We made out way to City Lights, the famed Beat bookstore formerly owned by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. I was astonished that, in all my past visits to SF, I had never paid a visit to this remarkable historical monument: after all, this was the location of the first public reading of Allen Ginsberg's legendary epic poem "Howl".

I looked all over for a book by Alfred Jarry-- not a play or a biography, but a work of fiction, something very rare by my normally obscure standards. Just when I had exhausted all hope of finding one, I spied a column of books in the "Surrealism" section that I had not perused. Sure enough, there within its volumes was a slender tome by Jarry entitled The Supermale, a richly comic science-fantasy concerning Perpetual Motion Food, bicycle racing and alcohol imbibing.

To celebrate, we stopped in at Spec's, a hip bar across the way from City Lights. The atmosphere was downright "writerly": An argument between the barkeep and a patron was the first thing I noticed when we walked in; a man looking like a cross between Guns 'N' Roses guitarist Slash and Gary Oldman in Bram Stoker's Dracula (top hat and all) sat by himself in the far back, nursing an ungodly concoction; an old bluesman played for tips outside the front of the establishment, hitting every note and making his axe cry with ecstatic tremolo.

I bought the ladies a round and poked my nose into the Jarry book, as Rose and my girl giggled at my boyish enthusiasm for my rather extraordinary find.

Before we ventured back to Rose's place, we stopped off in Chinatown and ate a sumptuous meal. It was a bit on the expensive side, but we were all feeling very decadent and figured that life was too short to squabble over petty monetary restrictions.


*/*


The next morning, my girl and I joined Rose for one last breakfast before we made the trip back to Los Angeles. I dropped her off in time to get to work, then I went home and slept.

The following week was filled with passion and intimacy, fueled on by the success of our SF getaway. Before the end of the week, she and I consummated our love with an evening spent at my flat. We painted on a canvas and smoked and drank and I wrote some of my novel as she washed loads of her laundry for free in my washroom.

Then she spent the night with me, and it was everything I ever hoped and expected.


*/*


Gibby, meanwhile, was trying to weasel his way back into her graces. But she had already caught him in two lies: one, his father had not really passed away; two, his former home had not been raided. By the time she figured these out, however, he absconded off with her Mac laptop computer.

This would not stand, not with me nor her roommate Mitch nor Brotherman, who immediately accompanied Mitch and I as we made a trek to retrieve the laptop from the place he was staying at in the hills of Los Feliz.

We didn't get the laptop back that night, but we put such a scare into the owner of the place that he contacted Gibby and urged him to return the computer to its rightful owner.

Within 24 hours, the laptop was back in her possession.

My girl could not thank the three of us enough. She had learned a hard lesson, but it was something she had to find out for herself. It would have made no difference had Mitch and I voiced our opinions to her, because she would've merely dismissed them as overprotective ramblings from the two most important men in her life.

I have to always remember that she is ten years younger than me, and although she possess much wisdom she is also headstrong and fiercely independent. I have to learn to be patient, and to not judge her or make her feel badly when she uses bad judgment, such as in the case of Gibby.


*/*


Last night, as I held her in my arms and watched A Clockwork Orange on DVD with her in her bed, I told my girl that I loved her and she told me that she loved me too.

We marveled at the short time we've known each other.

It is marvelous because we feel like we have known each other all of our respective lives.

I feel like I have waited for this girl to arrive ever since I was a young boy.

She said to me that I make her feel like a young girl again.

Never in my life have I felt such passion, and yet I also know that she is my best friend, and my partner in crime, and my perfect mate.

She is my girl. I am her man.

We are going to be together for as long as it takes.

I have a feeling it will be something close to forever.

Or am I just being silly?

Whatever. All I know is how she makes me feel, and how I make her feel.

That is all I want to know.

partner in crime

We're getting out of this city for the weekend.

I proposed San Francisco a few weeks back. She asked me why and I replied, "Just for the fuck of it."

Likewise, when I asked her earlier today if there was anything in particular she wanted to see or do in SF (a city to which she, a D.C. transplant, has never been) her reply was, "Yeah. Get the fuck out of L.A. for a few days."

I nodded in agreement.


*/*


You know that annoying little thing that couples always bring up about how they finish each other's sentences and think each other's thoughts at the same time?

Well, I'm afraid that she and I are a part of that annoying club. I noticed it from the first few multi-hour phone conversations we had after we first really met and chatted. I didn't want to say anything about it at the time, but she ended up bring that fact to the light after the first phone talk anyway.

Her comment on the phenomenon was one of surprise and astonishment. It wasn't a cheesy observation but rather a stark matter of fact. We both acknowledged the weirdness of it all, but we didn't let it dictate our budding friendship.

I love talking to her. One on one, our talks are easy and simple and yet disarmingly ornate. When the two of us start talking with others, though, we tend to get more intense: we laugh too much, or skip tangents too much, or rant too much. We end up scaring people. This makes us smile at each other because we both see it in the other and instead of letting it overwhelm us we decide that it would be better if it exhilarated us.

I can see how this would seem annoying to outsiders. But I don't care. Neither does she. And that settles it.


*/*


The truck I am driving belonged to my father before it ended up in my care. It's great, except the stereo needs to be swapped out. Right now only the radio tuner works. It used to have a working tape player but that is busted.

Music is a big factor for me as a driver. Hell, the only thing that kept me attached to my old car was that, despite its age and condition, the stereo kicked ass. Towards the end, though, the speakers blew and the CD player started to skip my albums more frequently. But it was loud, and I had a choice of what to listen to, so it made up for its drawbacks in spades.

As she and I planned our upcoming trip, she asked if we were taking the truck. When I confirmed it, she stared off into space for a second then said, "I'm bringing my boombox." I nodded in agreement, as I often do in her presence.

She looked at me again and said, "Sorry, I know you're a fabulous conversationalist, but after a while we're gonna need some fresh tunes. No offense."

I grinned. "None taken. It's an excellent idea. I would've done it had you not just pointed it out. You're on top of it, kid."

She smiled. She likes it when I think her ideas are sound. And I like her ideas because most of the time they are sane and sensible.

And the times when her ideas are totally insane and nonsensical? I like those too.


*/*


She was the one who coined the phrase "partner in crime".

Obviously, I don't mean that she was the first ever person in the history of persons to use that terminology. Rather, I mean that (in regards to what it is that we have) she was the first of us to say that designation out loud.

I thought about it often, but she gave voice to it first. And once again, I'm nodding that big ol' head of mine like a worn-out Bobble Head. But that analogy paints a despairing picture, when the reality is that I'm more than happy to go along with what she says. She doesn't boss me around or force it on me. I accept it all because (as she stated a while back) I am finally ready for all of it.

So that's what we are: partners in crime. And sometimes we kiss and snuggle, but mostly we just make each other laugh and seek out adventures.

That's cool with me.

I'm nodding in agreement as I type this.

And that settles it.