Here's some free advice: Never assume that moving will be a perfect process. Not that it ever could be to begin with; by its very nature, moving bites. What I mean is, even when you think you're moving under the best of all possible circumstances, don't let that lull you into a false sense of security. Take me, for instance. I'm so thrilled, this time around, to be moving. And all seems to be going well and, mostly, according to the plan I never really actually laid out. Then today, as I'm busily packing boxes and moving them gradually to my car, Lady Voldemort informs me that the back left tire on my car is low. I'd noticed that too, but hadn't given it much thought. There just wasn't enough room in my brain, what with it being full of things from my recent trip and now with the task of getting myself moved.

I made one trip to my new place, then on my way to lunch, I decided to forgo the trip to the gas station to use the air pump, and instead headed to Discount Tire to have them take a look. The decision was based on a combination of laziness, incompetence, and genuine concern.

The tire guy, Dimitri, took a look at my tire and, in a matter of seconds, found the nail that had punctured my little Goodyear. It was exactly what I thought it might have been, only since the nail didn't reveal itself to me automatically, and I never heard any hissing, I couldn't be sure. Twenty minutes and $20.00 later, I had a freshly fixed tire and suddenly my car wasn't tilting dangerously to one side and getting terrible gas mileage. Funny how that works.

Compared to my last move, this one is like a walk in the park. Maybe it's because I'm only moving 3.5 miles away from where I'm currently at, instead of 800. Maybe it's because I get to take a few days to make the whole move, and can thus move a little at a time. Maybe it's because there's a whole lot less bitching at me for being a big gay disaster. Maybe it's because I'm almost free from the crazy lesbian roommate who may as well have "666" tattooed across her chest. Or maybe it's a combination of all of the above. This by no means gets me off the hook in terms of moving being a shit ton of work. I'm seriously wiped out. The only reason I'm awake to write this right now is because I took an hour-long nap earlier today. After carrying a box that I had mistakenly packed too full of textbooks and other large volumes, thus making it very fucking heavy, and actually managing to carry the thing into my new place, only to have the thing burst open as soon as I got it in the door, I figured I deserved the shuteye. Not to mention license to write lengthy and confusing run-on sentences.

I can't believe it, but I'm literally down to less than 72 hours left under the reign of Lady Lucifer. I was thrilled to learn, upon my return, that when I stopped my incoming mail due to my extended absence from LA, it stopped ALL the mail to the house; she actually had to be the one to go to the main post office and pick up all the mail. The fact that she made it a point to inform me of this occurrence the moment I walked in the door indicated that she wasn't too thrilled about the ordeal. I took it as a testament to my awesomeness. Aw, yeah!

Today was the big day when I flew back to Los Angeles. The whole thing was rather unceremonious, and not unlike pulling teeth. I've discovered that the more you love someone, the harder it is to part ways, even if it is just temporary. Everything seems that much more lackluster when that certain someone isn't there to share in the moment with you. Here's a quick and dirty list of some cool aspects of the trip:

• I ran into some Albuquerque friends at the airport, so it was cool to catch up with them.
• On the flight to Phoenix I sat next to a chatty female who talked a mile a minute and said "yes" when I asked if I could get a discount for talking to her before booking a stay at her pueblo's new resort.
• In Phoenix, I got a high five from the cutest pre-toddler ever.

Here's a quick and dirty list of things that, well, sucked:

• I had to sit next to one Mr. Business Card Strip-Club-Lover on the flight from Phoenix in to Burbank. Although he did provide for interesting text message conversation:

Phil: Not liking my seatmate... hetero businessman chauvinist. Ew. Robert: Butch it up a bit! Phil: Oh yeah, so butch in my musical* t-shirt. We'll knock a few back and talk about chicks, I'm sure.

• I had to return to the house of ill fame that, upon pulling up to at the curb, I realized I loathe with ever fiber of my soul.

Cool news: I got to see some of my friends tonight and we even went for dinner (a perfect excuse to avoid returning to my current place of residence). I also got to see my friend Letizia's one-week-old daughter! She's cute and fabulous, let me tell you.

Other cool news: the house was not burned down, as I was half-expecting. What I wasn't expecting was to arrive home and find my roommate home and back together with the girlfriend who, mere weeks ago, she'd tried to choke with her bare hands. Not that it's cool that they're back together, mind; I'm just thrilled that all my stuff is still here, and more than that, I can't fucking wait to get out of this hellhole. Bitch, I am so done with this place.

*I was wearing my brand spanking new Spamalot t-shirt. Strangely enough, as we were exiting the plane, the dude actually asked me about the show and said he wanted to see it because "I love Monty Python." Sure he does.

I've been the proud owner of a digital camera for something like nine months now. I really love it, and I've taken all sorts of pictures with it. What I'm bad about, though, is actually uploading the pictures onto my computer and then clearing out my memory card so I can start it fresh. Worse, every time we leave the house I always muse aloud about whether or not I should bring my camera. Whenever I don't have it, I always see something of which I absolutely must have a picture. Conversely, whenever I DO have it, I always forget to take pictures. I'll carry the thing around in my hand and talk Robert's ear off about all the fabulous pictures I can take, but it's rare for me to actually take any pictures.

What this all comes down to is that there are, in my opinion, some pretty snazzy pictures on my camera. But, because I'm so lousy when it comes to making full use of said camera, those pictures are currently restricted to the confines of the LCD display on the back of the camera.

We were at a friend's house today and it got all cloudy and started thundering outside. I was sitting there staring out the window, thinking about how I find thunderstorms uniquely relaxing, when it occurred to me that maybe I should whip out my camera and go take some pictures. And by "some" I mean three.

Well, it's a start. Next on the agenda: tackling Photoshop. My current skill level with that shit is "Prehistoric Cave Man", so I've got a long way to go.

Whenever I get a good idea for something to write about, I do one of two things. 1) Let it ruminate in my consciousness until I sit down at my computer and can let the words flow. 2) Write it down somehow, be it by writing on a post-it note, saving a little "note" on my phone, or texting myself an email. This little system of mine has proven effective probably about 50% of the time. And that's my current average, which means that in the past, all sorts of great things have occurred to me at one point or another, only to get lost in the depths of great thoughts that will never be thought again. Tuesday may well be a huge mark of change, however. I've long thought about getting a little notepad of some kind to jot things down, and for the last two weeks I've told Robert I wanted to get one every single time we left the house. Only by the time we got to any place that potentially sold such notepads, I'd totally space the fact that I wanted to buy one.

We went to the mall on Tuesday for a chance to escape for a bit and walk around. While there, we visited one of the evil giant corporate bookstores, Barnes & Noble, and lo and behold, I struck gold. Gold in the form of an old-style leather notebook that can fit in my pocket and even has lined paper.

I've currently got two notes jotted down:

Tuesday 6/24/08 I just bought this beauty of a notepad.

Wednesday 6/25/08 I just forged the Tuesday entry above. For no reason other than because I could.

I can't wait to see what sort of journey my new notebook and I take. I've never kept anything like it before, but I think I'm off to a pretty good start.

I picked up a copy of The Hot Zone today at Title Wave Books, one of my favorite Albuquerque bookstores. I was first introduced to the book nearly ten years ago. My freshman biology teacher had brought it to class and read us the first chapter. I remember sitting in class, riveted, listening to her read about the guy who picked up a tropical virus and went from health to doom in a matter of weeks.

I found a copy of it at the bookstore and pulled it off the shelves and started reading. Ever since, I've been hard-pressed to put the thing down. It doesn't matter that the explicit detail with which the author describes the affect of the viruses is terrifying. And even though the events covered thus far (I'm about 70 pages in already) all happened over twenty years ago, I'm still sitting on the edge of my seat, hating that no matter how fast I read, it's never fast enough to settle that burning desire to learn what happens next. Hello, Ring of Mordor. I never imagined I could be so morbidly fascinated. Holy shit.

While I’ve been in Albuquerque, I’ve been sort of quasi-working on several new ideas I’ve been kicking around. Some stuff involves pictures and some stuff doesn’t, but due to the fact that I’m working on my poor iBook (which isn’t functioning as well as it used to), all that must wait. Hence, I give you: a list of Monday mayhem.

• Today as Robert and I were driving around town, we narrowly avoided being broadsided by a big, ugly minivan. A minivan that was probably going 50 miles per hour, being driven by a guy who likes to break the rules, evidently. He decided completely ignore the light that turned red a full five seconds before he even reached the solid white lines approaching the intersection. I laid on the horn and Robert flipped him off. The bitch didn’t even notice.

• I’m on a quest to become a financial guru. Nothing is quite as motivating as an impending move and another semester of school to awaken the inner accountant. In order to receive any money through my university, be it via loans or scholarships, every student has to go through “financial counseling.” I completed it online today. In an effort to make it entertaining, the company running the show designed the thing to be loosely based on a board game. Basically, it consisted of raw information, in the form of text, against a green tree-scaped background that had a rainbow zig-zag path. Some of the spaces on the board had sayings, like “Graduate high school = qualify for financial aid!” and “Begin paying off loans early, move two spaces ahead!” So while it wasn’t much of an actual game, it ended up being pretty handy.

• I was so bummed to hear about George Carlin this morning. It was one of those things I never imagined happening, mostly because I never wanted it to. I will always admire that he never stopped thinking, and that he loved to push the limits. Like when he performed his version of the famous Aristocrats joke in that documentary? Holy shit. Here’s to you, George: SHIT, PISS, FUCK, CUNT, COCKSUCKER, MOTHERFUCKER, and… TITS.

Saturday, June 21, 2008, marks a special day in history. The original plan for the day was to hop on a plane and head back to Los Angeles. Instead, I opted out of traveling a couple of days ago by extending my trip through next Friday. One of the best side effects of this decision? I got to attend my first ever book signing. The author was none other than David Sedaris (whom I shall refer to as "David" from now on, since it's easier to type than his full name or Mr. Sedaris, and also since I got to shake his hand and talk to him for a few minutes, so we're practically old friends anyway; plus, all the employees kept calling him Mr. Sedaris, and since they got on my nerves, I'm refraining from typing anything that reminds me of them), the fabulous and observant humor writer who stole my literary heart with a short story called Go Carolina. I was in my second year of college when I heard this story, and suddenly, at the tender age of 19, it hit me that all those feelings inside that spelled "gay" should be met with humor instead of fear. Such is the power of the written word.

While waiting for the book reading to start, Robert and I took up residence near where David was to present. We had asked, when we arrived just under two hours early, where he would be standing: on the second floor, by a railing overlooking the first floor. Because Barnes & Noble has shit for lecture space. We were very nearby, and had a sort of side view from which to spectate. I found it odd that they were going to make the poor writer stand behind a table display of books, and mentioned that to someone when I was waiting in line to get my book signed before the official reading started. I was wrong though, and ten minutes before the event commenced, a flurry of B&N staff rushed to the area, cordoned it off, and went about setting up the microphone and podium. Which prompted me to butcher a famous butchered joke: "How many Barnes & Noble employees does it take to set up a podium and microphone?" The answer is: I don't know, I lost count of how many there were.

While we waited for everything to officially start, I found myself people-watching uncontrollably. I saw old high school classmates I never really knew, and wondered if they didn't recognize me on account of the fact that I now sport facial hair. The scariest person I saw, hands down, was this woman who was probably in her mid-60's. She had tall red hair that was more maroon than red, and curls that measured five inches in diameter each. My time in LA helped me pick out some evidence of plastic surgery on her face, too. (This made me proud at first, and then horrified.) And she also showcased a spaghetti strap top and shorts that read "US Body", which did nothing to help her.

As my first ever book signing event, I of course wanted to get a book signed. I've not yet purchased the newest book, When You Are Engulfed in Flames, but luckily I'd left behind my favorite one, Me Talk Pretty One Day, for Robert to read. So I snagged it and brought it with me, throwing caution to the wind for the whole "IF YOU BRING YOUR OWN BOOK YOU MUST HAVE A RECEIPT TO PROVE IT'S YOURS" rule.

Though the book signing was technically scheduled for after the reading, David Sedaris is awesome and showed up early to get a jump start. So I jumped in line and eagerly awaited my turn to get my book signed. I felt it especially appropriate that the book I was having signed was the first book I'd read by him. While in line, a silver-haired woman in black pants and a black-and-white designer top walked up and down the line handing out sticky notes. "Open your books to the title page and fold the dust jacket over to make it easy for Mr. Sedaris to find the page to sign." Then she'd take names and slap the stickies into the books. When she got to me, she stopped.

Silver-Haired Woman: What's this one? Phil: Me Talk Pretty One Day. SHW: I've never read it. Phil: What do you mean you've never read it? SHW: I don't know it. Phil: But you work for the guy. Surely you jest.

But she didn't jest. So I did the only thing I could do: I discredited her completely. Anything she said to me from that moment on was like it had never been spoken at all. And when I saw her later, sitting on the floor just behind David, I imagined I could see right through her and read the titles of the books against which she was leaning on the shelves.

I've not had many brushes with fame. Though I recently met some pretty well-known stand-up comics, I consider it a tad different because I had no idea who they were beforehand. David Sedaris is a writer I've long enjoyed reading. Hence, I was thrilled at the prospect of getting to say hello and have a book signed, and just generally be in the presence of such awesomeness for a while.

While waiting in line, I ended up chatting amicably with a very fun group of people in front of me. I say "very fun" because that's the only way to describe conversation with complete strangers that consists of colostomy bags, prostitutes, and illegal valet parking.

As I got closer to the table to get books signed, I could overhear bits and pieces of conversation between fans and David Sedaris. The writer had fun little quips and banter with everyone, it seemed. He'd ask questions like "Oooh, what's that you're drinking there?" or "What kind of sunglasses do you own?", and then he'd sign the book, shake the hand, and greet the next person in line. I wasn't having anything to drink and I was wearing a green polo shirt, so I presented no obvious conversation starters. Here's how it went:

David Sedaris: So, are you with this gang? Phil: I am now. They adopted me as their new friend. Group of new friends: He's ours now, yeah. David Sedaris: Oh. Okay, uh, well, what do you do? Phil: You'll either love this or hate this, but I'm studying to be a speech pathologist. David Sedaris: Okay. Phil: I'll be the gayest speech pathologist ever. David Sedaris: Well good. The world could really benefit from a homosexual speech pathologist. Phil: I thought so too.

And then he signed my book and sent me on my way. Mine says "To Phil," then has a stamp that reads "AKYPO" in red, and then he signed his signature. Looking at it now, his signature looks like an O with a handlebar mustache for his first name, and a fucked up Greek Epsilon followed by a vertical line and a strange cursive "m" for his last name. It's awesome. I asked him what the AKYPO was about, and he explained that it means "invalid" in Latin or some other dead language. Cool.

At 7 or so, David took to the podium and read a couple of stories from his new book. Then he read parts of his diary that he'd brought along to share, which was the real icing on the cake. And he ended with a brief question-answer session. Several of the questions asked were the same questions that had been used for an interview for a local publication, The Weekly Alibi. Original.

Though I'd gotten my book signed, Robert didn't yet have a book to be signed, and we weren't exactly keen to jump in line behind the mass of people who suddenly appeared in line and starting arguing about whose numbered ticket got to go first. So when David said that any grown men who were 5'6" or shorter could skip right to the front of the line, we had our ticket in. And it wasn't on account of my 6'1" frame.

To David Sedaris: thank you for being real, and for being an inspiration.

This entry is total mind-spew. I've got a million thoughts whirring through my head and nothing cohesive in there. In the spirit of lists (I'm on such a roll with these puppies), here's a list of things that I want off my mind. Hence, I'm chronicling them here so I don't have to think about them.

• I think the best way to describe my Thursday would be "confused." It wasn't a bad day, by any means; just a little bit off. I spent a good part of the day watching episodes of Kathy Griffin's My Life on the D List, while simultaneously trying to find ways to avoid going homeless. I'm eager to get myself moved into my new place, and know that it's not only awesome, but necessary. Things have deteriorated so much at my current California residence that I figure I would be forced out anyway by the warring lesbians.

• The good news is that once moved, I'll be way happy, and also employed once again. The bad news is that my next semester of grad school is looming ahead. And grad school costs money. Hence, I'm whoring myself out for scholarships, because I dread student loans and don't want to take out more than I already have. Scruples be damned, I say! L. Ron Hubbard Foundation offering scholarships for submitting original short stories? Sign me up, bitches! Dell Computers wants to know why I deserve a scholarship? Who cares that I'm a Macophile, I'll write that essay! Though I can't promise any of it will be good.

• I'm thoroughly confused by my folks at the moment, too. We've had pretty rocky times as of late. They say they're 100% accepting and that they love gay people! Then they turn around and talk about what a "pansy" that one guy is and that because he said "hello" he was hitting on them. Then I get accused of divorcing my family from me. And they shake their heads in complete and utter incomprehension when I say that I hate having to constantly defend my own nature to them and apologize for being who I am.

Hopefully it works and I can dream of sheep grazing in luscious green fields of wind-blown grasses. Hopefully.

I never really thought about it much, but it turns out I pay way more attention to bumper stickers I see on parked cars than I ever do when I'm out driving. If I had to figure out a reason why that is, I'd say it's because cars are usually moving when I see them out on the road, and even if we're at a stoplight, they move eventually. And things that move like that do not lend themselves well to memorization. Parked cars are a different story. Like that time I saw that bumper sticker that said "Sucking Gas, Hauling Ass". That one was plastered on the back of a big fucking Chevy truck that always parked in front of my old apartment building here in Albuquerque. It only took me a few months and the addition of prescription glasses to notice it.

At Robert's apartment complex, I've noticed a number of interesting bumper stickers displayed proudly throughout the parking lot. When we were leaving this morning, I noticed one that said "Your hair sucks; I'll fix it!" When I see bumper stickers like this, I try to imagine what the person looks like. Like, the one with the "hauling ass" bumper sticker on the truck is obviously male, a classic "man's man" with a big chest resulting from too much beer rather than working out, and he probably wears a cowboy hat whenever he needs to look nice. The one proclaiming that "your hair sucks" is probably a bitchy gay man who tries too hard and overuses the word like.

There's this one car that I've noticed always parks in the same area, and it has progressively gotten more bumper stickered. It's one of those big fluffy Jeep Grand Cherokees. At first, it had only a rainbow sticker. Definitely gay. Then it added a "Come out, come out wherever you are" sticker, also with rainbows. Certifiably gay. Then, on the back window, one of those images of two female silhouettes appeared, sort of like the famous mudflap girls. And they're rainbow colored. Hello, lesbian! At that point, I was certain that the owner of that car was a stocky, husky, butch lesbian with short hair who always wore blue jeans.

Then I arrived in town on this trip, and there's a new sticker added. Much to my delight, it's a plain what sticker that says "SEXUALLY", and it's hastily plastered right next to the "Come out" sticker. Then last week, we're getting back from the grocery store, and my wildest dream comes true: I see two women emerge from that Jeep, and the one climbing out of the driver's seat is is 5'4", wears her hair in a crew cut, and is sporting jeans and a gray shirt. And suddenly I'm laughing out loud and slapping my knee and congratulating myself for the sheer brilliance of my prediction. It never occurred to me that she might notice me, and fortunately she didn't.

I think she's got quite the game going too, though, because the other day I noticed another white bumper sticker, which incidentally also said "SEXUALLY", on the rear of another nearby vehicle. Only this one was a white pickup truck, and the new sticker was attached right next one of those American flag bumper stickers that says something like "These colors spell freedom." I guess the goal trying to be achieved there was irony?

*It occurred to me that maybe I should take pictures, because how fun would that be! If I remember to do so, I will. But before they get posted I'll have to hone my stunning lack of Photoshop skills so I can scrub out license plates and such. You know, so that my ass doesn't get sued.

Having grown up in the great state of New Mexico, I've not had much in the way of strong gay culture. Read: Broadway is a long way away from where I have always been. My partner, being from a good deal further east, is quite savvy in this area. (That's an understatement, by the way.) Last week, after confronting some of the issues I've been facing with my folks, I was musing over my own nature (as I am wont to do from time to time) whilst galavanting around town with Robert. I was well aware that I made every effort to not seem gay around my folks, but I'm still finding out, a year and a half after coming out to them, just how much I'd hidden even from myself. Slowly but surely, I've found new confidence in my own sense of self. And all the while, I've been delighted by many new aspects of gay life that I'd either long denied myself, or else just recently discovered. Mid-muse, Robert mentioned that he loves watching me, and that I'm "like a kid in a big gay candy store."

Sunday night I got to see a whole new aisle of that big gay candy store: The Tony Awards. Growing up, I was never allowed to watch television, least of all anything related to musicals. My family hates musicals. It probably comes as no surprise, then, that I've always loved them. I would have watched more, except I was always outvoted in favor of action movies or incredibly sophomoric comedies (*cough* American Pie *cough*).

Musicals proved themselves a part of my blood the other day, even, when I was telling Robert how I managed to stand up for myself and speak my mind in front of my folks, something I've never before been able to do. Caught up in the moment, I threw my hands in the air and declared "I'm doing this for me!" Turns out I was channeling Gypsy. I've never seen it, but got to see my very first song performed last night at the Tonys. "Wow," comes to mind.

This was my first time watching the Tonys (in its entirety), and I had a great time. I'll spare any intense overview (there's a nice list here), but suffice it to say that I was captivated by the performance from In the Heights, the new musical that took away the award for Best New Musical and also Best Original Score for music and lyrics. The show is about Latino life and identity in New York, and its style of infused rap, hip hop, rock, and pretty much every other brand of music, is refreshing, fascinating, and catchy. I can't wait to pick up the album, and am now itching for a trip to New York to go see it.

After seeing Rent last year, I was looking forward to the original Broadway cast showing up and performing. They had a nice tribute to the show, but as my friend Tipptalk pointed out, it was entirely too brief and didn't deliver quite enough for those of us eager to see a song performed by such an amazing cast and such an incredible show. Good thing I've got the DVD, but still.

In the space of three hours, I learned a great deal, and still left wishing I knew a great deal more. All in good time, I suppose. I just have to keep on living this big gay journey that is my life. Fabulosity awaits.

You know how sometimes you see something really good, and nothing will seem to compare, ever? And generally, nothing does compare, at least until a bit of time has passed and the high subsides, bringing you back down to Earth. First there was Wicked, and today brought the delightfully witty and hysterical Spamalot! Here's a quick synopsis of the show: Ever seen Monty Python and the Holy Grail? It's that, in musical form. And it's fucking brilliant. The Knights of the Round Table! The Knights Who Say Ni! The Black Knight! The coconuts! The French taunters! The Lady of the Lake, and her Laker Girls!

Sitting to our left at the theater: a formerly Amish woman with thick coke-bottle glasses. Judging by her white flower-print top, I'm guessing this was the first time she'd left her house since 1993. She attempted to share the armrest, and even tried to push the boundaries a bit. (She failed miserably, thankfully.) She didn't laugh at any of the jokes, unless I laughed first. Then at the end, when we all stood up and clapped like crazy, she followed my lead on how high I held my hands in the air while I clapped. I know this because I changed it up several times just to see what she would do.

Sitting to our right: two young (teenaged, perhaps) girls who were at the show with female relatives. Robert speculated after the show that they'll probably rush home to their friends and regale them with tales of sitting next to "those two gay men who kept singing all the songs during intermission!" Because nothing is gayer than knowing all the songs to a show before you've even seen said show. And you know what? THAT'S AS IT SHOULD BE. Those girls had better be home taking notes. Good ones.

Albuquerque, as a whole, is full of awesome people. It's funny, but being back home has really reopened my eyes to this place, and reminded me why I love it so much. It's not perfect, however, and has its share of people who have asses for brains. As Robert and I have made our way through the past week, we've encountered more than our fair sure of some pretty amazing jerks. Based on actual experiences, here's a short "how to" list for your reading pleasure. I call it...

HOW TO BE A TOTAL ASSHOLE (Part 1)*

1. Accuse patrons seated at the table next to yours of stealing your condiments. Eager for some high quality fast food, Robert and I stopped for lunch at a combination A&W Long John Silver's. Whilst consuming our delicious meal, a Registered Asshole walked over and sat down at the adjacent table. He left at one point, then returned and muttered "The least you could do is ASK" loud enough for us to hear. And then the bitch glared at us. When we finally asked, he accused us of taking the Malt Vinegar from his table. Because we have nothing better to do, right? And the idiot wasn't observant enough to see that we'd had one on our table the whole time he was there. I would have smacked him if it weren't for all the children present.

2. Turn your car around so you can drive the wrong way in the one-way lane AT THE HOSPITAL. We had to stop to pick up some medicine for Robert at the hospital. While walking to the building, we noticed a woman trying to turn around after just dropping someone off. I decided to be nice and shout "IT'S A ONE WAY, BITCH!" at the top of my lungs. She continued to turn, so both Robert and I started waving and pointing the one way the street was to go. She freaked and started pointing to the parking lot entrance, and we responded in kind by pointing our middle fingers at her. I would have thrown myself onto the hood of her car to make my point, but decided we were already making enough of a scene as it was.

*This could well become a recurring segment. Stay tuned for more in the near future.

It’s list mania! Today’s installment is a list of things from the road, so to speak.

• Today I got to break out my Bullshit Meter and polish and de-rust it. The one aspect of my trip I wasn’t looking forward to terribly much was the inevitable visit with my folks. Today was the first such visit, and consisted of an hour-and-a-half long lunch, after which I realized the following: the things one says when one thinks no one is actually listening are often the most telling about one’s character. Here’s the second lesson I learned from that: people don’t like it when you call them out on things they’ve said that they thought you didn’t know about.

• The Top Chef finale tonight was fun, but lacked a certain amount of drama I was craving. That darn teaser that showed Richard saying “he would go ahead and say it” was totally fucking misleading. I was hoping he would call Lisa a big gigantic bitch, but he had to go all cowboy and be the cool guy he is, damn him.

• I got the following spam message on my website today:

  see thru lingerie… One of the best places to begin your search is right here at Best Prom Dresses. You can find tons of formal prom dress options and then even be able to purchase them without leaving home. Part of the fun of formal prom dresses is trying them on though …

  Frankly, see-“thru” prom dresses sound pretty racy, but at the same time self-defeating. Like eating dessert while you’re still in the middle of the main course. But what do I know, right? Spammers know all. I’m wondering if the same people who spam my site with various messages about animal porn (horse sex! frog sex! zebra sex!) are behind the transparent undergarments.

I very nearly had an affair with a taco today. Due to my status as a mostly-kosher Jewish New Mexican, I don't really eat tacos. We headed down to a little New Mexican restaurant for lunch today. Feeling adventurous, and no longer like I was about to die from overdosing on eggplant parmesan last night, I decided to eat a form of taco the likes of which I'd never before seen. A CHILE RELLENO TACO. First, you have the brilliance that is chile rellenos. Take that fried sexiness and toss it into a crunchy taco shell, and you have, to borrow an overused aphorism, love at first bite.

If chile relleno tacos was money, I'd probably never want to buy anything. I'd more than likely be broke anyway because I would eat every single one in sight. A part of me was tempted to ask the server if she could just bring out a plateful of at least fifty of those puppies so that I could spend the rest of the week eating them. With that many to eat, the dilemma of choosing whether to take small bites and savor the whole taco versus taking large bites and experiencing that rich explosion of flavor, would be an issue no longer.

It's not every day you try on a brand new pair of shorts you recently purchased from Target and discover, much to your surprise, that someone who really cares about your soul has left you a little gift. I was the recipient of one such gift today. In fact, I was wearing a brand new pair of shorts I got at Target last week. Fancy that! I noticed that my front left pocket had a folded paper something inside it, and when I pulled it out, I had, in my hot little hands, an adorable little cartoon book aptly titled "In the Beginning." Depicted on the cover was a nature background filled with dinosaurs, and opposite the picture was the title "In the Beginning." Could it be? Was I the unsuspecting target audience of some religious fanatic who, in a hasty act of cowardice, slipped the little booklet into the pocket of a pair of shorts that I was destined to buy? Why, yes! It seems I was!

And so it was, I was entertained for five whole minutes by propaganda that was so poorly written and drawn that watching a cow defecate would have been better and more educational use of my time. I think I'd fire the editor for letting something go to price that starts with the introduction of dinosaurs, the rejection of the Big Bang theory, the chronicling of the seven days of creation that included the creation of water bringing forth both water creatures and (inexplicably) "winged fowl", the introduction of Adam and Eve, their subsequent eviction from the Garden of Eden, the death of one of Adam's children at the hands of his own brother, and finally, the culmination of all the bad by introducing Jesus, the bringer of good.

Clearly, I was destined to receive this book, because I am a godless, brainwashed individual who finds the evolution of life fascinating. Not to mention believable.

I must confess I was tempted to believe this pamphlet, and repent to the anonymous donor of said pamphlet that I had seen the error of my ways. Obviously, I was wrong to take all those anthropology classes in college and read all those text books. I was wrong to hold those fossils in my hand and marvel at the fact that they were, some of them, over a million years old. I was wrong to read so many different sources, and find truth in them. I knew, then, that a pamphlet of propaganda that quotes sources only from its own parent publishing company is clearly the authority here.

And yet, I found myself dissatisfied. Incomplete, if you will. Because despite the many plain truths set forth in the booklet, one thing was missing: what happened to the dinosaurs? They completely ignored the part of the story they opened with! And because no good story is complete without solid denouement, I have no choice but to give the propaganda a signature Roger Ebert TWO THUMBS WAY THE FUCK DOWN. Those would be my thumbs. The propaganda publishers thumbs, on the other hand, are no doubt shoved unceremoniously up their own asses.

Sorry, Chick Publications, but this gay Jew has determined, with little effort I might add, that you and each and every one of your writers, editors, publishers, and supporters are probably only sharing one brain cell, total. As in, the only reason your plumbing works perfectly is because you're all so full of shit, you never actually use the facilities. I can therefore only assume that all of you sit around all day discussing the fact that evolution is impossible whilst fawning over that cute new Puggle puppy who just cost you $1,000 to get.

My trip home this time around was not entirely vacation-related; Robert had surgery yesterday, so we've spent the last two days at the local hospital. All went well, and after spending the night there last night, he's back home and doing the one thing the hospital environment didn't allow him to do: sleeping. The two of us had experiences that were, to say the least, different. For one thing, all the good television was on before Robert even went in for surgery. We had the pleasure of watching Maury and Jerry Springer when we first got there, two shows that, if nothing else, make for amazing conversation pieces.

But then he got carted off to surgery, and during that time, I had to stay behind in the waiting room, wishing that they could share some of the happy juice he got for the surgery. First, there was the whole part of waiting. And waiting. And waiting. To the point that I was intimately familiar with the clocks in the waiting room.

Then there was the problem of some fellow waiters who decided to change the channel on the TV. You know, to something "light-hearted", like America's Funniest Most Fucked Up/Lame Home Videos and some other shows that showed people's pet hamsters eating food, replete with poorly conceived voice-over captions like "...And this hamster is hungry enough to eat a horse." And then they'd just loop the video and play a laugh track.

When we finally got a room all set, and hoped that it would be a good because that way Robert could rest, get some sleep, and speed up the whole recovery process. Only remember that sleep thing I mentioned above? I'd like to say, just for the record, that hospital rooms should all be individual rooms, or else they should invent some fucking soundproof curtains.

As luck would have it, Robert got set up with the perfect roommate: a poor guy who I learned (via eavesdropping) had just had stomach surgery. He was gaunt and thin, with long disheveled hair and a scruffy six-inch-long beard. I figured either he had decided to spend three months wandering the woods opting not to eat anything, or else he was perhaps an addict. To what, I don't know. But when he wasn't being swarmed by nurses drawing blood, he was either a) in bed groaning and wailing, b) in bed clicking buttons and changing his bed settings, c) standing up to walk around, or d) standing up and pulling off his hospital gown.

One of my favorite parts of the ordeal was the ice cream. It was fun walking the halls together and trying one of each of the chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry ice cream cups they had. It certainly was more peaceful than hearing the guy wailing in the hospital room, and helped pass the time too. It's amazing how tiring this all is, and as I'm typing this I'm fading quickly. And, this "Flower Power" infomercial isn't helping me any, either.

I've been back in Albuquerque for one day so far. It's amazing to be home, and I've found I've missed a lot more of the city than even I had realized. For instance, I love the way clouds form here. And it's amazing how blue the sky is. That's probably in part because I'm a mile closer to the sun than I am in LA, and partly because LA has SMOG. Not to mention twice as many cars as people. Staying up ridiculously late Tuesday night (until almost 3:30), and then getting up at 4:45, was proven 200% worth it when I walked through the door past security and saw my partner standing there awaiting my arrival. I got stuck walking behind a woman who couldn't seem to decide if she should actually risk exiting the area. She showed her indecision by shuffling constantly from left to right, thus making it impossible for me, bogged down with a bag slung across one shoulder and a suitcase dragging along behind me, to deftly football tackle her and leap into Robert's arms like a crazed cheerleader.

It's been great to run all over town. I've found it especially wonderful to know how to get around without once getting lost in the process. Sure I'm not driving, but I know this place like the back of my hand. (Funny side note: the first time I ever used the 'back of my hand' simile... I was probably 13 or 14, and thought I was being savvy beyond belief. Only since I said "I know [insert smart noun here] like the back of my HEAD," I proved to the world that I didn't know shit.)

What's one of the best things to do when you go home? If you answered "Go to the dentist!", you lose. That doesn't mean I didn't go. Because I did. No, it wasn't wonderful. My teeth are white and shiny now, but in order to get there I had to lay back in that dentist chair for a full hour. It probably wouldn't have taken quite so long if I hadn't been on the verge of falling asleep the whole time. That bright white light was shining in my eyes, so I was like, "Fuck this, I'm closing my eyes." Only I'm still kinda tired from all the lost sleep the other night, which means my hygienist had to tell me "Turn your head this way" and "Open your mouth wider" 3 or 4 times a minute. I don't remember, exactly, but I think most of my replies consisted of me either grunting or drooling.

Now, if you answered "Go see Sex and the City with your honey," please step away from the computer, stand up, and jump up and down and whoop a few times. Sure we were a week late, but it was well worth the wait. I wasn't sure how well the show would look in the form of a movie, but I was pleasantly surprised. It stood on its own well enough that someone completely unfamiliar with the show would be able to follow the movie. If you're a faithful fan and have seen every episode of the show, there's lots of gritty inside story and far and away enough new juicy gossip to complement the old. And if you're a casual viewer like me, you probably would have been like, "HOLY SHIT, I REMEMBER THAT EPISODE WHERE CHARLOTTE MET THAT GUY AND WAS HATING THAT SHE LOVED HAVING SEX WITH HIM BECAUSE SHE AT FIRST FOUND HIM SO UGLY." And you'll think it in all capital letters and bad grammar, just like me.

Here's a few things I found myself thinking about during the movie for no reason whatsoever.

1. Yay for tasteful use of nudity! One word: sushi.
2. You know that mole Carrie Bradshaw brandishes on her chin? I don't follow Sarah Jessica Parker enough to know if that's real or a character trait for the part, but I'm fairly certain that at one point during the movie it was on the left side of her face, while the rest of the time it was on the right side.
3. What on earth is going on with Chris Noth (a.k.a. "Mr. Big")'s chest hair? That one patch of hair in the middle of his chest seems strangely out of place. Just saying.

If you haven't seen the movie yet, hurry up and go see it. Whether or not you like it, or find it worthwhile cinema, it's well worth seeing because it offers something for everyone. It's smart and funny and catty and gossipy and emotional. Just don't buy a 75-ounce soda to share with your partner. Because you're not going to want to get up for one moment for fear of missing some really juicy gossip, and you'll end up doing like I did, clenching your legs together and then having to bunny hop your way to the bathroom once the movie is over, all the while fearing that your bladder will suddenly explode.

In about four-and-a-half hours' time, I'll be heading back to Albuquerque. It's only taken me the better part of two days, but I I'm finally ready. As with most trips I take, I didn't realize until about 10 o'clock this evening just how much shit I had still to do to prepare myself. In no particular order, here's a few signs you know I'm traveling:

• I didn't start packing my clothes until around 10:30. It took me about 20 minutes to get it all done, only to realize that damn, my suitcase is tiny.

• I organized my room, which included picking up miscellaneous items from the shelves and floor and returning them to their proper place. This also included cleaning my dusk.

• It's about 3am and I can't fall asleep. No doubt I'll fall asleep shortly and then when I have to get up at 4:45 it's going to be a bitch to rub the sleep out of my eyes. No doubt I'll be sleeping on the plane.

I'm all set to go now, though, and have only to pack the last bits of stuff once I get up in the morning. While I had intended to clean the bathroom at least a little bit, between packing, organizing, meeting friends for dinner, and shopping and acquiring renters insurance, I just didn't find the time. I suppose I should feel guilty, but considering that I got dragged into my roommate's recent bout of domestic violence, I pretty much figure any issue she takes with me is instantly absolved, whether she likes it or not. And boy howdy, does it feel good.

Albuquerque, here I come.

This is Cody, the sexually ambiguous puppy who, were he a bit tougher, would be the new man about the house. But since he belongs to my roommate, there's no chance he'll ever beat her out in terms of masculinity.

Despite his tiny stature, I feel a certain amount of kinship to the little fella. This is perhaps because Saturday night, he was evidently the cause of mass hysteria between my roommate, whose surname I'm convinced is Lucifer, and her now-estranged girlfriend. And given that I had previously unwittingly caused one such escapade before, I think that more or less cements us as kindred spirits.

I won't go into too much detail, other than that I've got thirty more days to call this place my place of residence. If before I thought of this place as Hell, and Hell was a bar... this place has now become such a dive that it's no longer the bar itself, but rather the toilet in the one bathroom stall where everyone goes to puke.

As I was saying, though, Cody caused quite the stir. To the point that the arguing extended beyond what was previously only verbal abuse, into physical abuse. Like, punch and scratch and try to choke each other physical abuse. As was the case with me, it wasn't so much that they were fighting over him, but rather that he was used as the scapegoat for all their problems.

I'm not exactly thrilled that Cody is in Beelzebub's care, to be perfectly frank. She already informed me that he would always be with her, everywhere she went. Which is her way of saying she doesn't want me around the poor guy. I have no problem with this, except that in her raging state of self-pity, she left the house yesterday afternoon and left him locked up in the utility room. And she was gone for hours.

I'm shocked she got the puppy for several reasons:

• She hates it when things get dirty.
• She's not as affectionate is she's been boasting of being for the last 24 hours.
• She thinks that saying "ow you're hurting me" will make the dog stop biting her.
• She thinks she can potty train a puppy by leaving him in the utility room for five hours.

I spent the better part of the day away from the house yesterday. I called the domestic violence hotline in the morning to see what I could do, as a roommate and not particularly loved person in the lives of the war-mongering lesbians. Then I left the house a little after 11 and didn't return until almost five in the evening. Upon my return, my roommate, nostrils flaring, left.

I puttered around the house, enjoying the quiet. It was a sharp and welcome departure from the yelling and screaming that took place from midnight until 2am Saturday night. I heard the dog whining at some point, so I went to check on him. As is the case every time I see the thing, I expect him to look me in the eye, cock his head to one side, and say "Yo quiero Taco Bell." But he just looked at me and whimpered, then jumped up to greet me.

I took him outside so he could run around and drain his little pea-sized bladder. He did, and then we ran around outside a bit before returning inside to play some more. He decided, mid-play, that he also needed to poop, and promptly made to do so on the carpet. I snatched him up and took him outside in an effort to stop him. I'm tough when it comes to potty training, and if you squat indoors I go right outside with you and won't let you in until you're done. Only Cody never went, and after 20 minutes I decided he either a) had cramps or b) became constipated when stricken with fear. The neighboring garage band was practicing on drums, and he was terrified.

I opted to let the dog roam the house and stretch his legs, because, call me crazy, I just couldn't bring myself to shut him back up in the utility room. That and I love having him around because he's hands down the most awesome resident, aside from myself, living at this address. He's skin and bones, though, so I ventured to his food dish to see if I could encourage him to eat. Old Cloots keeps his food and water dish in the utility room, only since Cody is terrified of the large silver dishes, he refuses to go near them.

I think she with the cloven hooves assumed that, if left long enough, Cody would become so hungry that he'd have no choice to but to eat. Apparently, she does not know this dog, because he would rather die than have to actually eat from the bowl. Satan inquired of me, when I reported this to her later, what I felt was the cause of said fear. My reply was, "Oh, I don't know, MAYBE BECAUSE THEY WEIGH MORE THAN HE DOES AND ARE ONLY SLIGHTLY TOO SMALL FOR GREAT DANES."

While in the middle of this heated debate about Cody's eating habits (or lack thereof--the picture above was taken while he was staring forlornly at the food in the dish from which he refuses to eat), 666 Woman paced the living room. And it was then she noticed what I had totally overlooked earlier: dog poop, right at the corner of the rug in her precious living room. Little Cody had managed to pinch a loaf right there on the carpet. First, I was miffed, because I thought I had caught him just in time earlier. Then I was bummed that I didn't get to chew the dog out for being such a bad dog! and all. Then I was filled with understanding about why he simply refused to go potty earlier when he had seemed so desperate to when I tossed him outside. And finally, I was thrilled about the whole thing, especially about the fact that he didn't get in the slightest trouble with his sadist of an owner. Because that means he's going to keep it up. Like, 'Oops, I crapped on the carpet, good thing she thinks I'm so cute because she'll just laugh and tell me how cute I am.'

I've checked off yet another item on my list of things to do before I die. Turns out I didn't really know it was on there, and had I known ahead of time that I would get to do it, I probably would have used good judgment and chickened the fuck out. Be that as it may, now that I've done it I can easily say I probably won't ever again feel like a repeat performance is necessary. Since moving here in January, I've been itching to do karaoke. The second I started making friends, I was like, "Hey! Do you guys like karaoke? We should go do karaoke." In retrospect, that probably wasn't the best way to introduce myself, but whatever. Apparently, my love of karaoke is rare in my humble part of LA. Or in my nice yet sort of lame circle of grad school groupies.

At long last, though, one of my friends here told me that the bar we had her graduation party at did karaoke twice a week. And last night we headed on down to go check it out.* She didn't want to sing, but I love singing, so I signed up immediately. The Killers' When You Were Young was my song of choice. The place had a little stage for people to sing on, so I got on stage and jumped around during the song. And thus proceeded to develop a following.

Afterward, crazy people were shouting "Encore!" One guy later said he'd give up his place in line to see me again, and some girl came up to me and said I was her hero for singing The Killers. And then she tried to touch my chest, which pretty much made things really awkward and ended our interaction. Apparently, people like seeing this big gay Jewish nerd on stage, and then wanted to feed my ego. Oh well all right, if they insist.

I signed up for another song, this time opting for Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. A must for karaoke night, obviously. After waiting another hour and a half or so, it was my turn again, and I headed back to stage. And being the glory hound I am, once I had the microphone in hand I told everyone to gather round and help me, because that song is not meant to be sung alone.

I'm pretty sure I was the world's worst singer on stage, voice cracking from yelling too much and singing too loud, but nobody seemed to mind. A bunch of people pulled out their camera phones, cameras, and started shining lights. Which was cool, but also leaves me wondering if there's going to be videos and pictures of me all over MySpace.

But what made the evening crazy was not my singing. It was that the crowd at the bar was much different than the usual crowd because there were a ton of gang members present from a pretty big LA skinhead gang. We learned this after the bar closed and we were standing outside talking to a couple of the bouncers.

Thinking back on it, there were an awful lot of large bouncer-looking guys who we knew didn't work there. Apparently, one of their friends just passed away so they were collecting money for his family. They were all extremely solemn, not to mention shitfaced. But they were also smiling and laughing with everyone there, and dancing and jumping around like the rest of us.

Given that I possess a number of qualities that a gang might not fancy, I'm glad the evening was such a success. They're just people, like you and me, and of all things, it was karaoke that brought everyone together. Which I take as proof positive that karaoke is one of the greatest inventions of all time, ever.

*"Are there pictures?" you're probably asking yourself. "Why yes, there are!" I reply. But they're on my friend's camera. I'll badger her to send them my way soon, and will post them once she has. Oh, and you're wondering, just for the record, what item I've checked off my list of things to do before I die. I'll label that one 'Singing and partying with skinheads from a notorious LA gang.' CHECK.

I went swimming today. Not an earth-shattering activity, unless you happen to be the one whose muscles are currently only barely working right now. It's been probably a year or so since I actually had a good swimming workout, which is saying something, given that it's generally my preferred form of exercise. I was very excited to get back in the water. Beforehand, I said 'screw you' to my ears' tendency to get clogged with water and decided to go for it. Then I went and got my day pass to the pool on campus. I broke out all my swimming gear, and while walking around was reminded that I'd forgotten how much the plastic mesh so common in pool locker rooms hurts your feet. Especially when the hardest surface my feet usually encounter is the cork on my Birkenstock sandals.

I jumped in the pool, feeling fresh and rejuvenated as I did so. Got myself set, started to swim some laps. And before I'd even made it 200 yards I was in agony. Muscles I'd clearly forgotten I had suddenly were quite noticeable. And all at once, I needed to stretch them. LIKE NOW. So I stopped and stretched, and started swimming again. I guess I wasn't swimming so much as splashing around in order to stay afloat.

It took me a good 45 minutes to swim the distance I'd established for myself: 850 yards. Which means I can pretty much kiss any shot of getting into the Olympics goodbye. I've lowered my standards considerably, and am now aiming to get some exercise, loosen up my muscles, and maybe make it from the beginning of each workout to the end without dying in the process. If I stop posting here without warning, you'll at least know what fate befell me.

I went to the grocery tonight for two things: juice and disposable aluminum mini bread pans. I walked out with both those items, but also some fresh cherries and, of all things, a newspaper subscription. You know the rule that you're never supposed to go grocery shopping on an empty stomach? Little did I know that the rule also applies for never stopping by a booth that offers a chance to win $100 in grocery money while you have an empty stomach.

As it turns out, when someone looks vaguely like someone I know and is just as gregarious as that someone I know, I become far less skeptical and suspicious about people trying to get me to spend money. In other words, I become a huge sucker for whatever is being pushed.

In this case, it was the LA Times offering up a special on a summer-long weekend newspaper subscription. They were having people enter into a drawing to win $100 for groceries (hi! sign me up!) and then were offering special deals on aforementioned subscriptions. Something about a $60 value being offered for only $10! I've never subscribed to a newspaper, so I was like "Shit! Sign me up for the newspaper! I've always wanted to have a newspaper delivered to my door."

Of course, the way it works is that you don't pay the $10 outright. Rather, you pay $20 and then they give you a $10 gift card for your groceries. Works for me. I wasn't planning on spending a whole $10 on food at that point, but suddenly I had that grocery money in my hot little hand, so I made a beeline to the produce department. I wasn't aware beforehand that they had cherries, maybe I was drawn to them by some combination of intuition and the gift card that led me to the $4.00/lb section that was cherries! Bing cherries! Delicious, succulent, ripe Bing cherries! So I immediately snatched a bag and then headed for checkout. And holy cow. The cherries are everything I imagined they would be, and more. They're heavenly. They're inspiring. And if my roommate thinks about even touching one of my precious cherries, there will be hell to pay.

Guitar Hero is officially kicking my ass right now. I'm currently on the "advanced" level, and all was going well. The other day I used my gig money to purchase Slash and then opted to use him as my lead guitarist. Then, tonight, I wind up in a guitar battle against Slash! I battled Slash versus Slash for like half an hour non-stop. Worked up a huge sweat in the process of all the jumping and hand-shifting fury, and even started flipping Other Slash off. Apparently, Slash can't beat Slash in this game. When I pick up my guitar next I'll have to take on a new character's persona and see if that works. Honestly. One week from tomorrow, I'll be heading back home for a couple of weeks. I'm very excited for a number of reasons, and dreading it for one very specific reason. Most importantly, I can't wait to see my partner, whom I last got to see in March, when we had the most amazing spring break of all time. I've also been missing Albuquerque itself. LA is an adventurous place, and there's all sorts of things to see and people to meet, but Albuquerque will always be home, and it's calling me.

The one element I'm dreading about the trip is visiting my folks. We spoke briefly this evening and once earlier this week. It's become clear that when I do see them, they're probably going to try to stage some form of "intervention" because I called them out on their homophobia. What makes it hard is that they're not outright homophobic: verbally, they're extremely supportive, and they make sure to tell me so. Actions speak louder than words, however, and they've shown me that what they say and what they mean are two very different things. Call me crazy, but telling your friends to tone it down on the gay-bashing jokes when your gay brother is around is not exactly love and support. And telling your gay son that the best way to make it as a gay man in a straight world is to bring a girl to social functions, and to make sure to keep separate bedrooms if he ever has a partner, is a far cry from challenging others who feel that us gay ones should not be allowed to marry the person of our choosing.

On the one hand, they didn't disown me and remove me from their lives. On the other hand, they play psychological games that deign caring when it's convenient, but it's expected that I not appear gay in any way when I'm around. And the second I'm out of earshot (usually out the door and running away in tears), there's a collective sigh of relief on their end because they can go back to being afraid that if they find out a guy is gay, he'll immediately start coming onto them despite not previously doing so. You know, when they thought he was straight.

It is in this one area of my life that I am currently uncertain. I've learned, however, to trust my instincts and that feelings are there for a reason. Love is something felt much more than it is something spoken. What I am certain of is that there is love in my life, and that without it I'm not sure I'd be able to face much of what awaits me when I return. But how I've changed over the years! I will no longer be brushed aside as I once was. I will no longer mold myself to fit others' narrow ideas. I no longer feel that sense of self-hatred that I once did. I have no idea what this will mean for me when I do make the obligatory family visit. I just hope I'm strong enough to face that music when it greets me.

I went to the movie theater today, for the first time since I moved here in January. I picked a good time to go, apparently. And all thanks to the ruggedly handsome character by the name of Indiana Jones, whose nerdiness and fondness for archaeology act as a serious bonus to his overall persona. And because I'm the kind of person who says "forget the action sequences, I want to know about the ancient secrets," it totally works for me. Let's just clear the air on a few accounts here. First, George Lucas can't write dialogue to save his life. He's always relied on his other qualities, like imagination and his knack for creating characters who, with the exception of Luke Skywalker, are interesting enough that nobody really cares if they sound at all realistic anyway. Second, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade is practically the best end to a trilogy ever, so trying to top it is an exercise in futility.

Regardless, I was eager to see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, and I wanted my big screen experience. I got it, and I got so much more besides. Overall, I was pleasantly surprised by the movie. After a somewhat rocky start, it managed to pull itself together and not take itself too seriously. I'm still not sure what to make of the rather science fiction-y approach to the story, but whatever. It was fun to watch Harrison Ford grapple for ways to make horrific single lines of repetitive dialogue sound new and interesting, and Cate Blanchett doing the Russian accent by pronouncing the /s/ sound super crisp even in words with a double /s/ sound was the icing on the cake. Like, instead of saying the word RUSSIAN as "ru-shin" she would pronounce both /s/'s so it sounded like "rus-see-un". I don't know any Russians well enough to have any idea how they themselves pronounce it, but something tells me that's not it.

When I went to purchase my ticket, the next available show time was an hour and a half away. I asked the lady at the ticket booth if there were tickets available, and she said "Yes but there's only 45 left, so only front seats and scattered seats, so you may want to go to the 4 o'clock." And I was like "What? We're in a part of LA that has enough hills that everyone buys SUVs to get around to their cookie cutter mansions. Oh, and everything in this part of town closes at 8pm, so yeah, I don't think it'll be a problem." And I made her give me a 3:30 ticket. She suggested rushing off to get in line so I could get a good seat because "people are lining up", so I said "uh-huh" and took off to go grab some lunch.

Upon my return to the theater, about thirty minutes before the movie was supposed to start, the line consisted of oh, maybe fifty people. I moseyed over to the back of the line and resigned myself to waiting. It didn't get interesting until this blonde-haired couple showed up behind me and started gaping. "I can't believe this line!" the woman said, and proceeded to gulp for air from the obvious shock of the situation. Within a minute, they opened the theater and the line began to move. The next thing I knew, crazy lady was shouting. "WAIT, TWENTY PEOPLE JUST CUT IN LINE IN FRONT OF US! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?" (The line was moving exactly as it was supposed to; she was just a bit delusional and insane; she must be related to my roommate somehow.) And then she tried to make a break for it, and kept shaking and practically poking me with her handbag the entire time.

By the time we reached the stairs to climb the stadium seating, it was on. She tried to do some little kindergarten sideline rush to beat me up the stairs, but I cut her off at the pass before she could edge her way through. The bitch got owned, big time. As I looked for a seat, I saw no less than five grown women catch my eye and then fling themselves on the seats beside them to keep me from taking their reserved seats. Regardless, I got a prime seat near the back of the theater, right in the center. That means I win, yo.