After that doozy of a story from my previous entry, I needed a good follow-up. And what's a better way to follow up something like that than by totally stealing someone else's idea? The lovely Erin has a history of writing hilarious tales based entirely on Google searches. ("Google Fiction: Searches Incorporated into Brief and Awesome Tales" is what she generally calls them.) Should you need clarification, it works like this: the punch line of the story is a google search that got a hit for your website. Got it? Good. It was barely five minutes into the meeting, and already Sandra was listing off statistics and figures about the company's current plight. Bob sat half in awe, half in a sleepy stupor, unsure of whether or not he should actually care about the discussion at hand. In the real world, it seemed trivial to worry about the tenth and hundredth decimal percentages Sandra was going on about.

Despite himself, Bob tried to pay attention, only to end up zoning out while staring at Sandra. She was wearing her usual attire: solid button-up long-sleeve shirt, sleeves rolled partially up her forearms. Business slacks she'd no doubt gotten at Sears. She looked menacingly about the room, barking out numbers in a voice that didn't quite mesh with her stocky, five-foot-five frame.

"We really need to push the sales in this area," she said, pointing to a pie chart on the overhead projector. "The market is there, we just have to milk it." Bob was startled by her choice of words and, before he could catch himself, started laughing. Sandra whirled on him, and the hair that stopped just short of her back brushed against the collar of her shirt.

"And if you can manage to ever focus, Bob, you might actually be able to be more than a cashier for this company."

"I'm sorry," Bob replied, "what was that? You said something about milking things and totally lost me."

Sandra replied by picking up her stack of data sheets and lobbing it at Bob, hitting him square in the jaw. Apparently, Bob realized, the HISTORICAL SUPPLY AND DEMAND OF BIRKENSTOCK SANDALS was no laughing matter.

Saturday night was the first night of Pesach (be sure to really annunciate that gargled /ch/ at the end of the word; if you want to say it in English, it's "Passover"). Given its first night priority, a Seder was in order. I was unable to find a Seder to attend, however. And by "unable to find," I mean that nobody sought me out and invited me. That was how it worked for tonight (night #2), so I figured if that didn't happen for the first night, it wasn't meant to be. Instead of going to a Seder, then, I stayed home and worked on the heaping pile of homework I've had before me, then went to what I had heard was a good rock 'n roll gay bar. Apparently, "rock 'n roll", to those people, means playing techno remixes of pop and dance songs. I heard a techno version of Pink's "Get the Party Started", for instance. Once I realized that that was the song I was hearing, I promptly made to pour my beer over my head then rush up to the DJ and yell "See what you made me do? This shit is killing me!"

It's not that I have an aversion to pop. I am gay, after all. I can do the pop and dance music, but dammit, it has to be done right. And really, Pink just does not go well with all the leather and studs. Get with it, people.

The highlight of the evening, aside from leaving that place behind, was what I saw on my way back to the car. The area was really quite homey and nice, so long as you're looking to graffiti up some buildings and then score some cocaine. I didn't score any coke, myself, but I did happen to witness someone else doing just that. It was all I could do to not burst out "Holy shit, I'm watching a drug deal go down at a bus stop!" as I walked past the people exchanging their goods. It was awesome.

But I digress. For this, the second night, I dragged my Jewish ass to a friend's house for the Seder. She'd invited me like two months ago, and since I'd agreed to it back then, my Jewishness made it impossible for me to back out at the last second. Even after finding out that I was to bring a bathrobe to the event, and also to wear a turban throughout the Seder. Apparently, my friend's dad ("He's really weird!", she warned me) likes to have everyone dress up so we can really feel like we're fleeing the desert for freedom. Wow.

My friend had given me very specific directions on how to get to her house. She didn't realize who she was trusting with said directions, however, and I still managed to get lost twice before actually finding the house. I would have gotten lost a third time, as I was straining to find the house numbers listed on the street in this most Jewish of neighborhoods (one house had a giant menorah in the front yard). While scanning, I noticed one house had a sign that read "FROM SLAVERY TO FREEDOM" posted on the wall, and thus I knew I was in the right place.

I conveniently forgot my bathrobe, and was relieved that none was offered for me to wear. I did get offered a turban (a pillowcase held in place by a stretchy headband), though, and being a good sport, I caved and put the thing on. But not before first rooting through the large cardboard box and finding the one pillowcase that best complemented my attire (read: didn't make me break any of the china because it clashed so much).

The ceremony was held on the back porch, which had a tarp/tent to enclose the area. Spanning the two sliding glass doors was a timeline, covering Jewish history in its abridged entirety. Also included on the timeline were various and sundry other important historical events. Turns out my friend's dad is quite the historian. Throughout the Seder, he lectured us on history and brought to life many aspects of the Pesach story, and the story Jewish history tells. Despite the many oddities before me, I found myself captivated.

Throughout the evening, I sat next to a fabulous Jewish grandmother who, with every glass of wine, got progressively more motherly. So much so, in fact, that when she learned (I'm not sure how; I was enjoying the wine very much as well) that I was living with a non-Jew, and at that a female and unmarried one, she suggested I immediately get in touch with the American Jewish University and see if I could find housing through them.

And of course, it wouldn't be a Jewish event if someone didn't ask the obligatory questions about getting married and having kids. Never mind that tattoo of mine, which instantly appeared on my forehead the second I came out. You know, the one that says "I'M GAY" in cursive rainbow letters. To dodge the question, I snatched up my glass of wine and gulped down the remaining three-fourths of it. Damn, that wine was good.

The whole affair was so Jewish, I can't even say. Announcing a 5pm start time but not actually beginning until 6:30. Everyone carrying on and chattering away, starting out the Seder properly and then being so worn out toward the end that the latter parts were totally rushed through or else skipped entirely. Siblings squabbling over who would do what, and older ones demanding that the younger ones get their butts to the front and sing the damned song already. And all the while I sat there, totally enjoying myself (and laughing uncontrollably at all the shit going on) because for once I was not a part of the all the family drama. And oh, how nice a feeling that was.

This isn't exactly what the doctor ordered, but I decided it fit well with the prescription. Let me first say that I'm not what you'd call an avid video gamer. I generally lack interest and/or patience to bother playing them. But there are certain games that were designed with me in mind, and I give them props. First, even though it always gets a bad rap, Dance Dance Revolution is one of the best games ever. It can be impossibly hard, but it's generally always fun, and even a good workout. Am I crazy about the music? Not always, but there's enough other cool aspects to the game that more than make up for that.

A year and a half ago (or thereabouts), I was introduced to the next soon-to-be craze: Guitar Hero. A friend of mine I was working with for acting class got me started playing it. But I never envisioned myself getting it, mostly because you had to have a video game system to play it. Having never owned one of those, and not really interested in owning one, I moved on with my life.

But then. BUT THEN! I discovered there was a computer game version of the game, and it was way cheaper than buying a whole system just for one game. And then once I got my new computer, I found out that, holy shit, I could actually get a video game that I really liked! But given its hefty price tag, I decided against it.

Until tonight, that is, when I went to Target and discovered something unbelievable: it was on clearance for 30% off! Which totally made it worth it and I had no choice but to take the plunge. Studying blues? No worries, I can now rock the stress away at the end of the day. Friends over? Hey, we can be loud and annoy my roommate! Bored? Not anymore!

It's literally a win-win situation. Speaking of which, it's high time I go rock out. Excuse me.

In accordance with the diagnosis I received yesterday, I decided it’s time to rid myself of some of the causes of stress in my life. The doctor seemed to think that being in school was cause for a great deal of my stress. Contrary to popular belief, school doesn’t generally stress me out. It used to, like crazy, but not so much anymore. If it did, I probably wouldn’t be fighting sleep in lecture by writing haikus. I thought up this one in my afternoon class: I’m falling asleep This class is way too boring Please just shoot me now

I also found myself somewhat distracted, having decided before class to cave and start seriously searching for a new place to live. I’ve put my time in here at the museum, and it’s high time I take leave of the place, given that I seem to keep breaking things, and the dyke who lost her bike (and is totally pissed off about it) hates fixing things because that costs money. (She’s generally willing to spend tons of money, but then never uses anything, presumably for fear of it breaking. Or something like that.)

For the first time ever, I’m paying for an online service to help me relocate. Thus far, it’s been pretty cool. I’ve gotten a few responses to my ad already, which is, mostly, a good thing. I say ‘mostly’ because it’s not 100%.

By and large, the emails seemed sincere. And then came “Ronaldo.” I’m not sure exactly what he’s looking for in a roommate. On the one hand, he comes across as very nice. But then I looked at his ad. All in one, somehow, he’s included a whole list of things he wants in a roommate:

• someone who might fill in for him in his job as a traveling DJ
• someone who is healthy, fit and likes to work out

At first, I found myself wondering why the hell someone would be that specific. But then I started thinking about how poorly matched my roommate and I are, and perhaps that means he knows something I don’t know. While I have no intention of responding to this guy (probably because in the pictures he posted, he has a picture of himself without a shirt on that says “I like to work out”; a little frightening, that is), I think he’s got a point. I need to have some specific criteria for my potential roommate(s). Here’s what I’ve got so far:

• must not have a problem actually using the furniture
• must keep magnets on the refrigerator
• must not obsessively clean the counters after having only set a plate there
• must let me hang my towel on the shower
• must not own decorative towels or decorative trash cans
• must not be a bitchy asshole

I spoke with one guy on the phone today, and holy shit, it was awkward to bring up some of these things. When he finally figured out what I was saying (I sort of listed them out, because I froze and didn’t know how else to talk about all that), he was like “I keep my home clean, but not like a [fucking] museum.” And then I knew instantly that this man was no anal retentive lesbian. And even if I don’t wind up rooming with him, he’s automatically listed as “pretty darn cool” in my book.

Emphasis mine. The man did not use this evil and vulgar word; I totally put words in his mouth there.

Today, I went to the doctor's office student health center at my school. I went there because I don't currently have a doctor (general physician) and needed some medical advice. Preferably of a mediocre variety, because that's what college health places are all about: mediocrity. My reason for the visit: I've been experiencing periodic bouts of dizziness for the last couple of weeks. It started while Robert was in town, and when I wasn't able to bounce off the walls in the middle of the day like I normally do, he suggested I go to the doctor and see what was up. I couldn't think up any decent counter-arguments (i.e. 'you're not the boss of me!'; it's been so long since I was five years old that I'm a little rusty on that one), so I concurred. Then proceeded to wait two more weeks before actually scheduling an appointment.

And today was the big day. I filled out all the necessary paperwork and all that jazz, did the obligatory waiting room bit, and then of course the usual doctor-ish stuff too. My initial feeling that the waiting room was super-cool on account of the fact that they play DVDs there was totally obliterated because they were playing Bruce Almighty, God Awful Piece of Shit.

The nurse who took my blood pressure was annoyingly bubbly, and way too eager to please. For instance, she took my blood pressure three times, the second and third times of which my esteemed doctor oversaw. Each time, the nurse exclaimed "Omigod! That's so good! Isn't it, Doctor?" "Omigod! That's even better, isn't it, Doctor?" And the doctor just smiled and proceeded to tell me that my blood pressure was a tad high, but actually was pretty normal, well normal, well kinda high, but well mostly normal. And when I tried to clarify on which it actually was, it just got more complicated, and since I figured their respective blood pressures would rise from the intensity of the exchange of such hysteric information, I decided to put that issue to rest.

Next on the agenda: talking about how frequently I sneeze. I answered her questions, but was miffed as to why we were having the conversation. I'm one of those annoying patients who always wants to know why we're discussing things before we actually discuss them. Hence, I probably felt like we were way off topic, and why don't you hand me the clipboard, lady, and I'll just be my own doctor, thank you very much. I delivered said message with only my eyes, evidently, because she suddenly noticed the way I was staring at her and attempted to explain. It was something about nasal passages needing to be clear for purposes of balance, which I totally understand; but sneezes? That one is still lost on me. Probably because I sneeze all the time.

Anyway, moving on. Ms. Doctor then proceeded to tap my knees and elbows, and peer into my ears and nose and mouth with the shiny light thing. All while questioning me and scribbling down copious notes on her clipboard. Then she left the room and returned with a stack of papers all about nutrition. The calcium paper. The avoiding salty foods paper. The calorie intake paper. Overall, I got a clean bill of health (and an answer of "I don't know" as to reasons for the dizziness), then was encouraged to schedule an appointment to see the nutritionist.

I didn't schedule that appointment, however. Not out of lack of interest or understanding its benefits, mind, but because I've come to the conclusion that college health facilities are working in cahoots with the nutritionists of the world. When I used to go get my ears checked and cleaned, they'd always conclude by trying to send me to the food police. Or I'd go in for a TB test and they'd be like, want a side of nutrition counseling as well? And then I'd have to run away and guiltily excuse myself because "I had a really important meeting with a teacher that I totally forgot about until right now."

In conclusion, it was determined that, even though the cause remains unknown, I should try using a nasal spray of some kind, in conjunction with some good quality OTC drugs like Claritin to treat things that weren't actually tested, all for someone who doesn't like taking medication of any kind to begin with. I suppose the nasal spray, since it's basically only saltwater, wouldn't be too bad. But my biggest fear is that I'll go to use it and totally misfire.

The current status of my nose, in case you wanted to know, is "overworked and underpaid." It was in perfectly good shape over the weekend, when the rest of my body was exposed to heat and sunshine and totally drained of all the life-giving sustenance that's normally present. Then came today. Over the course of the past fifteen hours or so, I've sneezed for a good quarter of that time. That's time I could have been looking at something in front of me. Time my eyes were forced shut and thus caused me to miss a potentially critical moment. Like my teacher's significant gesture at the projector screen. Never mind that I was half-asleep, that could make or break my grade! And what about that squirrel fight that was bound to break out by the tree? Totally missed it.

According to this website, the pollen count has actually decreased today. Which, since that goes counter to my bodily intuition (which tells me that it's increased), I'm obviously going to disregard the WeatherBug people as a bunch of know-nothing lunatics.

Just in case things weren't complicated enough between me and the she-devil, the garage door decided that yesterday would be an opportune time to break. Convenient, you know, considering I had to be the one to break the news that something in the perfect home is, um, less than perfect. It's actually more along the lines of 'totally fucked up.' (I suppose this is just another reason in a growing list of reasons for me to escape my current living situation, but given the hectic state of school and work, I have to bear with it for a little while longer. On a side note, we got to talking and hopefully soon we'll be having a huge margarita-drinking party. As in, a party for the sake of drinking margaritas. If there's anything I've learned in this life, it's that if you don't like someone while you're sober, you can at least tolerate them, and possibly even enjoy their company, with the help of alcohol.)

After putting my bike in its usual spot in the garage once I got home Saturday morning, I went to close the garage door and discovered that the portable opener wasn't working. And, neither was the one attached to the wall. I eventually lucked out and managed to close the thing, but not before inadvertently locking myself in the backyard.

In an attempt to cover my bases, I unlocked the side door of the house so I could let myself in after first ensuring that the garage door closed. I neglected to count for the side door getting blown closed by the wind, and thus locking me out against my will anyway. This meant I had to resort to reentry from the front door, a simple task turned nightmare on account of the side gate being padlocked (and, naturally, I don't have the key). So there I was, locked in the back yard, and it occurred to me that the only way for me to escape would be to jump the wall. Okay, I can do that. Oh, and in my work clothes. Okay, not so thrilled about that part, because 1.) work clothes are not meant for scaling walls and leaping to the ground, and 2.) see number one.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, however, and I was determined to escape the confines of the large yet desolate yard. I hope the neighbor kids were watching, because it's not every day you see something as amazing as me climbing a wall, butt-scooting along it to the edge, and leaping down to freedom on the other side. All without my getting so much as a scratch on my skin or a scuff on my clothes. The sheer skill involved in such a feat is indescribable.

What's made the whole broken garage door fiasco a whole lot better is this: I got some quality bonding time with my roommate's fabulous girlfriend. We were testing out the garage today and accidentally let go of the rope holding it, thus causing the door to go flying closed, nearly causing an earthquake right at the foundation of the house. We both jumped in surprise before laughing uncontrollably, and then we privately agreed to NOT tell The Clencher about that part. The shared secret allowed us to bond so much, in fact, that with the two of us complaining together about the heat, The Clencher finally caved and turned on the air conditioner. Which segues now into my newly formulated theory:

If at first you don't succeed, get your roommate's girlfriend on your side, and then you most definitely will succeed.

There's just no pleasing some people. My strict policy of laissez-faire home economics was called into question today by She With the Clenched Butt Cheeks.

Clenched Butt Cheek Woman: Um, Phil? Phil: ....

A minute later

Phil: Oh, did you say my name? CBCW: Yeah. Phil: What's up? CBCW: Could you take out the trash sometime? I mean, I find nine out of ten times that I take it out. Phil: Fascinating.

I wonder if it's maybe because she never seems to be around when I take out the trash? Given my status as "paying renter" here, I never really feel the need to call attention to myself when I take out the trash. Now that I think about it, though, maybe I should. Then I could write little notes that say "Hey look! I took out the trash! I'm so proud of myself, and I think you should be too!"

It seems that, these last few weeks, I've become something of a genius when it comes to the house here. Without trying, it seems, I've managed to throw things away only when the trash isn't entirely full. I don't actually produce all that much in the way of trash. When I lived alone, I only needed to take the trash out ever week to two weeks. Here, my constipated roommate's trash needs to be taken out oh, probably every three days or so. So when you think about it, it's really quite justified that the one who is responsible for 90% of the trash should be taking it out 9 out of 10 times. And heck, the complaint is quite unfounded, as the trash is by the door, which is in turn only a few paces away from the big bin outside. And, given all the shit I have to put up with around here, why not grant myself a few perks? It's totally worth it.

As long as we're on the subject of all things gay, let's discuss Russell Crowe. Many people know him for his tough-guy roles in one-time-is-all-you-need movies like The Gladiator. Everyone applauds his "amazing acting skill" but then is suddenly repulsed because he's "such a jerk." Back home, the straight people surrounding me all felt the same way: Gladiator was awesome not only because it was had great fight scenes; it was also incredibly historically accurate (seriously, the "historical accuracy" was a big selling point for them). And they all loved the amazingly boring and lamely contrived Master and Commander. Blah.

Tonight, I arrived home nice and late, as per my usual Wednesday routine. I made a light dinner and flipped on the television. I ended up checking Logo, of all channels. I usually avoid this station because, while it's kinda cool to have an all gay channel, it doesn't always have very good quality in terms of programming. For instance, let's take The Big Gay Sketch Show. A potentially fun show, especially since I enjoy sketch comedy. Sure, sometimes it's amusing. But the problem (and this is a big problem) is that it's all gay-themed and shit. Personally, I think just having an all-gay troupe would be enough for me; gay themes would arise, of course, but they'd be a whole heck of a lot more natural (not to mention funnier) than the contrived nonsense they usually have going on.

But I digress. Tonight they were showing a movie. An Australian flick circa 1994 (1995 in the US) I'd never seen starring the aforementioned Crowe, along with a delightful performance by Jack Thompson, called The Sum of Us. I didn't watch the whole movie, as I caught it in the middle, and turned it off because, even as I type this, my head is about to hit the desk. But I watched about an hour of it, and found myself drawn in quite a bit. I'm thinking now I'll have to go rent it just so I can see it properly (and without commercials).

A friend of mine recently made a video montage that used a song called "Kill the Lights" for the soundtrack. I got the song and have been listening to it repeatedly for the last few days, and the more I listen to it, the more the words haunt me. My friend Vina pointed out to me a few weeks ago that I listen to music differently than anyone she's ever met. I listen to words, and I don't simply hear lyrics to sing along to. I actually take away meaning from what I hear. And that's why, I think, this song strikes me as it does.

The band, The Birthday Massacre, has sort of a goth image. Heavy beats mixed with mellow vocals. Turns out, I quite like them. Here's a video for Kill the Lights that also has lyrics included. Basically, the song is about the superficial lives of a band. But as any good songwriter will tell you, this song isn't without its applicable metaphor.

The metaphor that applies to me happens to involve my own life before realizing that I was not even living as Phil. I knew full well that I wasn't letting myself be the fabulous person I am, but I wasn't aware, at the time, that I was a fabulous person. Nor did I allow myself to think that maybe, just maybe, while I thought I was saving others, I was hurting myself. Using the lyrics, here's where I was:

We kill the lights And put on a show It's all a lie But you'd never know The star will shine And then it will fall And you will forget it all

And then there was realization:

And after midnight We're all the same No glass shoe to bring us fame Nobody to take the blame We're falling apart

That idea of "after midnight we're all the same" was a pretty big turning point for me, and hearing the singer whisper those words sends chills down my spine. Mind, this is all very positive for me. I look back and see how far I've come in life. I think it was on my mind, and affecting me a lot today because, while working, there was a video presentation about people with differences, and I wound up having to interpret the part about gay and lesbian people. Let's just say it was powerful, and for parts of the video I may as well have been the one talking on screen. And then tonight I got my therapy in the form of Will & Grace over dinner, which made everything better.

I've noticed lately that even though I just had it washed a couple of weeks ago, my car is once again lacking its sparkle and shine. A part of me wonders if that's just a consequence of living in California. You know, a desert city right next to the ocean? Like, sand plus salt water equals brown car. I started noticing, however, that the dirt had a pattern: it only appeared on one side of the car. In the mornings, the humidity here rises, so it's very common to see cars' windows and windshields all dewy. But then there's my car. It's always got water droplets all over the passenger side of it, spanning its entire length.

I figured out one night that it was a result of where I had parked. Apparently, my roommate waters the lawn at fucking midnight. Which means that my car, given its proximity of being right alongside the lawn, got a nightly shower. Upon learning this, I changed tactics and parked on the other side of the yard. Only to find the other day that they run the sprinklers too.

So now I'm thinking I need to get the thing washed again, only this time I need to apply a nice thick layer of wax myself, in the hopes that my car might remain shiny and sexy. I used to not much care about the hip factor of my car, but now that it's always covered in dirt, I'm all self-conscious about it.

But then there was this moment yesterday when I was driving around town that made me realize that, filthy or not, my car is still awesome. I pulled up to a stoplight, and saw on the corner adjacent to me that a guy was outside holding up one of those gigantic signs advertising a business in the shopping center on his corner. Everyone I ever see holding those things always has some headphones on. A must, obviously, though it's probably more exciting than my class debates were today. Don't get me started; don't even get me started.

So the guy. With the headphones. Is standing there. Bopping his head in rhythm. Curiously, the same rhythm, beat for beat, to the one I'm car dancing to. A closer look shows me moving lips. Moving lips that match the movement of my own. (Moving to the words of this song.) He noticed my intense stare, and returned it, and seconds later, we realized we were both listening to the same bitchin' radio station. Thumbs up, he signals. Rock on, dude. And suddenly everything is cool again.

I'm a world-class champion procrastinator. While some people claim that they work better under pressure, I only claim to do so in a limited sense. The reason for the procrastination generally lays in how useful I deem something to be. If it doesn't seem like it has much point or purpose, and it's not pressing enough to make me think I'll die if I don't do it, then it's probably not going to get done until that near-death moment. I had an awesome weekend that ended up consisting of very little homework, until today. Today came, and while I worked throughout the day, I didn't plow through things like I should have. It's amazing how hungry you get when you're writing an eight-page paper about how a private practice files its clients' paperwork. And when you're learning about all the different ways there are to repair errors in conversation (self-initiated! or other-initiated!), that news story about puppies being more frequently assigned human names is hella cool.

I'm proud to report that in the space of four hours, I managed to churn out over fifteen pages of written homework. The quality itself is questionable, but the time alone should merit some kind of award because that's damn fast. And even though it's nearly 3am, it's okay because this is what graduate school is all about. I mean, if it wasn't written after midnight, then it wasn't written by a grad student, right? Right.

To say that the margaritas at the restaurant were good, at least in terms of good flavor, would be rather difficult. Difficult because they were packed with alcohol. Which is why I had only one, because damn. Last night, having headed out for a solo night on the town (wherein I had a great time but also got hit on by Don Juan's tall, dark, cousin), I decided that a day spent at home relaxing was very much in order. I was, ideally, supposed to be productive. Here's what I accomplished:

• Watched Sweeney Todd on DVD.
• Avoided my roommate.
• Didn't get enough homework done (so lots of that tomorrow).
• Went to see Tommy at the university theater. And loved it.
• Went out for a late dinner with some friends.
• Gorged myself and socialized, all while consuming one of the most alcohol-intense margaritas ever.

So although I had intended to be more studious, I'd say I was damn productive. It's all a matter of perspective, really, but I did a lot today. And it was awesome.

Thursdays lately are not my favorite days of the week. The street cleaner makes its way down my street, I have to be up and at work too early after a long-ass day Wednesday, etc. Today was actually good, for a Thursday, and it turned out to be one hell of a gay day, to boot. And so, based on the experiences of my day today, I've created a list of items that may, in fact, indicate that you're actually a gay man.¹

• Before I moved the car out of the way of the evil street sweeper (lest it get mauled and/or ticketed), I had to run and drink some water² and throw on a hat to cover the bed head. If you, too, feel you need to have a semi-fresh feeling in your mouth and also need to shield the world from bad hair, you might be a gay man.

• As just noted, I was running late this morning. I arrived at work in good time, but of course the parking lot decided to be full on this particular day, so then I had to rush to the room. I half-walked, half-ran all the way there, and made it exactly on time, bitches. And before walking in the door, I quickly and expertly made sure my clothes and hair looked fine and then strolled into the classroom with utter confidence. If you have the ability to transform yourself from 'harried and disheveled' to 'smart and confident' in mere seconds, there's a good chance that you're a gay man.

• I went to the grocery after work this evening. Upon arriving at he checkout line, I noticed they were having a deal for the latest fabulous trend in stores: two fabric grocery bags for only $3.00! I immediately snatched two bags and tossed them in with the rest of my groceries. I love the idea of abandoning the use of plastic and paper bags for the purposes of shopping, and what's better than using special bags with the store's name and/or logo on them? Nothing, that's what. So if you fancy the idea of sturdy fabric bags that hold way more than any plastic or paper bag every could and also minimize unnecessary waste of precious resources, you're more than likely a gay man.

• I finally got to relax this evening. Over dinner, I bit the hook that was Bravo's brand new reality series based on the same premise as Project Runway, Top Chef, and pretty much every other reality show on that station that doesn't involve housewives or matchmakers (or a certain fabulous comedian): Step It Up & Dance. And there's so much to love about it: bitchiness, drama, trash-talking, and of course, dancing. Sure, the standard $100,000 prize has sort of lots its glamour, and some of the dramatics of the show itself (i.e. voting people off the show) doesn't maintain the luster and newness it used to. But especially in this case, it's fun to watch the crazy shit people can do on the dance floor. I especially love anything that involves choreography, and this show has already delivered in that regard. If you love Step It Up & Dance, especially because its flair and quality choreography reminds you of some of your favorite musicals, there is no question; you're a gay man.

¹ I didn't exactly intend for this to be so Jeff Foxworthy-esque, but it sorta ended up that way. Only better. ²Usually I even brush my teeth, but I was running unusually late this morning.

My two-week spring break of fortitude and awesomeness is now over. Thanks to my proper Jewish upbringing, I've never before taken an extra week off from classes, but if there's any occasion that warrants the extended break, it would be the visit of someone special. In my case, it was my wonderful partner Robert. I was pretty much ready to execute a plan to have all atomic clocks and satellites that keep time destroyed, or else do whatever it took to stop the hands of time so that the week would last forever. Translation: it was pretty much the best week ever. Unfortunately, I had neither the means nor the man-power to execute said plan, and he's had to return home. Naturally, I'm eagerly awaiting our next chance to be reunited. In the meantime, though, it's been back to the grind for yours truly. Today was my first day back to classes, and I wasn't exactly motivated. It wound up being fine, and now I'm starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. My first semester of graduate school is only six weeks away from completion! One thing that certainly helped was returning to a certain man-hating class and discovering that I rocked the shit out of my first exam.

This particular class is three hours long, and my teacher has a distinct proclivity for forcing us to stay the entire time. That is, she likes to keep us those last two minutes, even when she's already covered everything she intended to cover.

As a grad student, it's obviously my duty to take the best notes possible. Having gotten this far, it's a given that I'm an expert note-taker. And I'm always prepared for class. Hence why I'm never prepared for class (such as tonight, when I showed up to class without the current handouts we were to cover, made available to us on the inter-web). And also hence why my notes look like this:

That's a view of my notes from class today. I like to think that the doodles are topically inspired. The mountains on the far right were drawn while were discussing sense of direction. The hot dog on the top right was my stomach talking. The horned skull in the middle of the page on the left probably reflected how I felt at that point in class. And Lobster Man is pretty self-explanatory.

A stunning night of revelations, post margaritas.

• Tonight I had to fill out my time sheets that I didn’t realize were due last week. Hopefully they forgive me and still give me my money on time.

• It turns out the girl who asked me to the eighth grade dance is not, in fact, as straight as she claimed to be all those years ago. She’s fabulous as can be, and what a delightful time it was instant messaging all gay style. But she’s not my secret closet girlfriend, because not only did I never have a girlfriend, but she had a boyfriend post-middle school who was also gay.

• It’s almost 2am and I’m finally thinking about going to sleep. You’d think that all the tequila would have put me to sleep by now, but I’ve been wide awake. And at a total loss for any good practical website jokes for this most auspicious of days. Bah humbug, April Fools.

My roommate approached me just now with yet another "issue." I like how she waited until after Robert went home to spring this new assault on me. Actually, in that regard, I am genuinely grateful. I'm starting to think that she's making things up, or else planting evidence to attempt to use against me. The knock came. I opened the door. And there's the Mistress of Terror herself, holding the frying pan up.

Mistress of Terror: Um, Phil? Phil: Yeah? MoT: I pulled the frying pan out of the cabinet and found it like this (holds up pan to show a mark and a speck of dust). Phil: Uh huh. MoT: Generally, when you clean it with soap and water, this sort of thing doesn't show up. Phil: ... MoT: ... Phil: What do you want me to do about it? I can go clean it? MoT: No, I just went to go cook with it and found it like this.

I'm convinced she's making this up for further excuses to gripe about me. I'm pretty sure I wasn't the last person to use it, either. But how would I know, right? Because every time I take out the rack to put the dishes in to dry, she takes it down and puts it away.

I suppose that the one good thing about no longer having company is that I'm free to look for that elusive new place to live. I'm so getting on that. Like, now.

Here's hoping that no helicopter comes flying around my neighborhood in oh, say, the next hour or so. I could do without the whirring sound of chopper blades. And without peeking out the window to see the thing flying low with a giant search light glaring down into my neighborhood. And flying in circles. And neighbors shouting and scurrying through the streets to their cars. I could do without all this because I had the thrill of experiencing it all last night already. I was stuck there in bed, wondering vaguely if flashing lights would appear, cops would surround the place, and I would be arrested for something I obviously didn't do, man. And yet I'd still feel guilty about it, because that's what happens to you when you're half asleep already and, despite working to overcome guilty feelings that have no basis, it's so ingrained in you that it surfaces and mocks you and your now-messy hairdo.

And just now, as I was typing this, I heard again the rumbling sound of a helicopter overhead. "Fly away from me, bitch!" was what came to mind to say. So I did. And, mercifully, it listened to me. And now, iTunes decided to put in its two cents and play Pink Floyd's The Happiest Days of Our Lives. You know. The one that starts out with helicopter blades whirring. Seems I can't win after all. Dammit.

It's not every day you get to see a show that can captivate and thrill you to the point of no return, as was the case for me tonight. Since finding out my first week here (in January) that Wicked was playing (its second run in LA, but the first since I've been here, obviously) at LA's historic Pantages Theater, we've had tickets to see the show. And damn. They were worth every penny. Having spent my youth never actually seeing shows (the musical genes only shine in the gay one in the family), and then also being in Albuquerque, no show ran for more than eight days, or two weeks if we were lucky. So it was (and in some ways still is) difficult for me to fathom the fact that Wicked, here, was set to run from February through June, but that they were pushing it to run all the way through January of next year. How do you sustain audiences? How do you maintain interest? And the answer is: put on the most amazing production you'll ever see in your entire life.

I'll try to sum up what it's like to see Wicked in two words: FUCKING INCREDIBLE. (Note: that first word is necessary because no other word in the English language can function as such a powerful adverb.) Aside from times when I'm sick, I've never breathed so much through my mouth in my entire life. My jaw simply refused to say put, opting instead to drop in incredulity about twice a minute.

The LA cast is amazing. A powerful ensemble traverses the stage throughout the show in a variety of roles. A live orchestra fills the place effortlessly. Characters flit about an elaborately decorated stage full of killer sets and lit by lights that, let's face it, may as well be magic. And through it all, a delightfully girly Galinda ("GAH-LINDA") (played by Megan Hilty) antagonizes a brilliantly honest and bitter Elphaba (played by Caissie Levy, who has one of the most amazing voices I've ever heard sing). The two witches played wonderfully off one another, and had the show gone on all night, I doubt very much that I would have noticed.

What's great about Wicked is that first and foremost, it's a fantastic story. Then, as a musical, the music is catchy, the lyrics are smart, and the sets are breath-taking. The Clock of the TIme Dragon? Awesome. The bridge outside? Beautiful. The school grounds? Perfect. Elphaba's castle-esque Wicked Witch Hideout*? Genius.

And costumes! My god, COSTUMES!!! Lovely, the lot of them. Having only listened to the soundtrack and read about one-third of the book (I'm still going on it, and will finish fairly soon, I'm sure), it was a treat to see it brought to life so spectacularly. I was so pulled in to the show that I may as well have been sitting on stage hanging out with everyone there. Is it any wonder, then, that as we left the theater when it was over, I waved the theater goodbye and promised to see it again soon? Yeah, didn't think so.

*I'm not sure if it's a "lair" or "castle." It always looked dungeon-y to me, or else castle-like.

In the middle of Los Angeles, as luck would have it, there are fabulous pits of tar. Pits of tar that trapped helpless animals who were not fortunate enough to realized that the liquidy substance they were traipsing through was actually tar, and that they would get totally stuck and then die and then be doomed to be eaten by predators (who not only ate you, but argued over who ate what part of you), who in turn occasionally got stuck and died, only to have Darwin come along and decide that none of you were the fittest of creatures, so too bad too sad you're dead, and then other humans would come along and ogle at your remaining skeleton. That's pretty much the low down on the La Brea Tar Pits (translation: "'The Tar' Tar Pits"). The tar pits hold preserved bones of many a mammal and insect and tree that existed about 40,000 years ago, up until about 10,000 years ago. Or, roughly, a time span that appeals to yours truly a great deal, because in my spare time, I'm a huge anthropology nerd. In a limited sort of way. I wasn't even aware of these tar pits until Robert brought them up as we drove by the street named after them. But that doesn't mean I liked them any less. Maybe I'm just like Marcus Brody from Indiana Jones, all full of knowledge but otherwise clueless about the world around me.

But how could you not love looking at giant sloth skeletons? And birds? And dire wolves? And mammoths whose teeth, when put all together, form an area larger than your skull? And camels? And saber-toothed cats? The list goes on (no dinosaurs, though), and it's all fantastic (even without the dinos, imagine that).

There was also a movie being shot while we were there. So I've now added to my resume "witnessed production set for a movie" and checked it off the list. I guess it's some movie that installs occasionally interesting and funny but otherwise one-trick-pony Will Ferrell. The movie, called Land of the Lost, involves some park ranger stumbling back in time with his two kids. And it involves the tar pits. And dinosaurs. Of course. Yawn. It's more like "The Land Before Time: 20-year Anniversary Remake of the Original Yet Stunningly Beaten to the Bush By Sequels Edition."

Every now and then, a little confidence gets thrown in with all the doubt. In many areas of my life, I'm full of doubt. In LA, mostly the doubt involves knowing where I'm going. I've gotten lost a number of times, though because I've mostly been on my own in such incidences, it's not been a huge problem for the main reason that no one was really relying on my knowing where I'm going. When I go out and about, I generally write down the directions to wherever it is I'm looking to go. Then to come back, I just follow said directions in the reverse. And then came tonight. I took Robert out to a fabulous little gay piano bar I'd discovered shortly after moving here. And in all my excitement, I remembered exactly how to get there (sort of--I thought I had missed the place but we miraculously found it immediately after I said so), but didn't know quite how to get on the freeway home (thereby avoiding the long drive down Sunset Boulevard we had enjoyed on the way over).

But it was night time, and after my delicious and long island ice tea, I was perfectly confident that I could get us back to the right interstate in a jiffy. And by "jiffy", I apparently meant the following: a.) I would first drive down some streets I didn't even recognize the names to, b.) I would turn down more streets I didn't know the name to, and c.) I would jump onto a highway I had only ever before driven when I was lost. If that's not a winning combination, then I guess I'd better quit gambling before I ever actually try it.

And while I was feeling all up for an adventure, and thus taking said roads rather than back-tracking the way I had come, my passenger was a bit apprehensive. Which is understandable, given that I had been thinking out loud something to the tune of: "Well... I'm not sure where this'll take us, but I think it'll get us to someplace I recognize." And then it totally didn't. And then we ended up in the hills somewhere between Glendale and LA, and it looked all dark and shit, and I was like "hey this is a nice drive."

Very fortunately for me, I finally DID find some interstate signs I recognized as belonging to one I had driven at least twice. (LA has at least five hundred different interstates crossing through the city. When I get directions to someplace that involves my driving on more than three freeways, I basically consider myself fucked and give up without trying to get there. It saves me the hassle of getting lost along the way, and I figure I probably didn't want to go that that place badly enough anyhow.) And for once in my life, I felt proud for having thrown caution to the wind and trying something new. Sure it was just a bunch of lucky guesswork, but I like to think that I somehow displayed some fabulous and unknown form of navigational intuition. Call it wishful thinking, but I've always fancied being a pirate, and this is the closest I've ever come to actually fulfilling that dream. The only thing missing was the parrot on my shoulder. Next time, maybe. Next time.

Twenty-four hours ago, Robert and I were sitting in the middle of a historic theater in downtown Los Angeles, eagerly awaiting the amazing and beautiful Margaret Cho. (We're currently sitting in my room, which is crazy fucking hot, and my psycho roommate won't turn on the A/C, apparently, until August. Yes, she's a bitch. But I digress. Back to the more important topic at hand.) Margaret Cho delivered an amazing performance, as we knew she would. We had the added bonus of being present on a night the show was being recorded. Hence, the day the DVD is released, you can bet I'll be canceling any important appointments for the day and going shopping.

I love live shows. Margaret was my second stand-up show to ever see (the first being Kathy Griffin last summer; what can I say, we love our fag hag comedians, and even though we've never met them in person, we're still on a first-name basis). And each time, we've managed to get what we think are great seats, only to find that someone loud and super fucking obnoxious ends up sitting directly behind us. For Kathy, we had to sit in front of this huge queen who kept shouting "HELLO!" to everything Kathy said. Lucky for us, he passed out drunk half-way through the show.

Then last night, we're sitting there, thrilled to death, when three already drunk crazy women waltzed up the stairs and plopped down right behind us. From what I could gather, it was one of the women's birthday, and apparently she was also a newly out-of-the-closet lesbian. Who was trashed. And kept on drinking. And shouting "Take your shirt off!" at first and then later replacing that with "Take your top off!"

The ladies wound up getting more subdued later on in the show, which was a huge relief. I think it was a combination of the fact that they seemed to be getting progressively more drunk, and also that the jokes were not ones that the partying lesbians could actually understand. I could hear the woman directly behind me laughing this totally fake guffaw ("haw! haw! haw!") that was generally coupled with "that's hilarious." Or "she's hilarious" just to add variety to it. And then, because she was so drunk that she could only self-censor the 't' at the end of the word, an occasional "oh shi--". Then followed by a "that's so funny." The three crazed lesbians, interestingly, laughed hardest at what they said to each other. Every "Take your top off!!" was followed by fits of hysteric giggles.

But Margaret! What to say about Margaret! She's fabulous, she's funny as hell, she's got great tattoos, she's a wonderful person and fighter for equality, and did I mention she's fabulous? She is. Robert decided that he and I, while gay, cannot just be any regular Ass Master for Margaret. Oh no. We are Cho Ho's (spelled with apostrophe because we're not gardening tools). Robert, for creating the name, is the Chief Cho Ho, and I am General Cho Ho, a.k.a second-in-command Cho Ho. Now all we need is some shirts declaring us so. And just for shits and giggles, we'll write "take your top off" on the backs. Because there's no funnier sentence in the world. Ever.

Because I got totally distracted thinking about how my partner was going to come to town, I completely forgot to add one item of distraction to my list yesterday. How appropriate.

• Parents with little children distract me. Sometimes. As was the case last night at Costco. The craving for a Costco Hebrew National hot dog overcame me, so I stood in the mass of people vying for a chance to order some food. WHen I finally sat down to eat, it was delicious. And all of a sudden, a family of four arrived: mother, father, son (age 4), son (age 2). Though I know of several people who are much better much better mothers than I am, I couldn't help but wonder about the 2-year-old with a pacifier in his mouth. On the one hand, I think to myself, "two isn't all that old. But then I see the kid, who's sitting in the main body of the shopping cart, climb out of the thing and leap to the ground, a process that took him less than a minute. Which is faster than I could do it, especially without first tipping over and crashing and destroying myself completely. So I guess what I'm wondering is this: why is he the one with the pacifier?

Okay, so that's the last of the distraction list. For now. Robert arrived right on time, and despite our totally standing and staring at the wrong baggage claim for half an hour, we got his stuff and he's officially here for the next week. A week whose hours and minutes need to pass as slowly as possible, for me to completely max out every moment I spend with the poor man. Tonight was "Welcome to Los Angeles" night. We got to play in traffic (which consisted of nearly getting hit only half a dozen times), eat some delicious California Pizza, and generally galavant around town shopping and doing whatever we pleased.

I've been full of energy all day, and Robert has travel weariness mixed in with a time zone shift. Which will totally be cured by tomorrow, when we'll take LA by storm. Margaret Cho, we're coming for you!

Because I’m on spring break, and because I’ve been inundated with totally awesome company, let’s do another list of things that distract me.

• California drivers distract me. It’s not really that there’s a whole bunch of beautiful people around. It’s more the driving “culture”, if you will. Tonight I’m driving home from the store. I turn right onto the main street home, and someone turns left at the same exact time. A someone who I couldn’t see because, well, it was 9:30 pm. And the giant extended cab pickup truck didn’t have any lights on. Bitch turned on his lights when he almost hit me. Thoughtful of him, I know.

• Bravo Reality TV shows distract me. First Kathy Griffin’s Life on the D List. Then Project Runway. Now America’s Next Top Model. And hi, Top Chef Chicago. I love how Top Chef always has to have some short, spiky-haired butch lesbian on the show. I love that show because I took chef classes for a year, and damn, it’s hard to try new things with food. It makes me harken back(I originally typed “bake”; I must be hungry) to days when I didn’t live with the Passive-Aggressive OCD Roommate of Destruction.

• There’s these posters and billboards going up all over LA that are totally distracting me. They say super creative things like “You suck Sarah Marshall” and “My mom always hated you Sarah Marshall.” The ads point you to a website, www.ihatesarahmarshall.com, which is a “blog” written by one Peter Bretter. Naturally, it’s not anything real. It’s for an upcoming movie. So instead of using standard previews, you get a glimpse of the movie via the dude’s blog, and also the devoted fan site to the dude’s estranged ex-girlfriend. It’s an interesting advertising tactic. And a distracting one, that’s for sure.

• My partner is coming to town tomorrow. I haven’t seen him since I moved here in January. I’m so excited that it’s taken me over half an hour to type this out (because I’m so distracted, obviously).

It's currently my spring break, and much fun has been had for yours truly. My friend Vina has been in town and we've done all sorts of things: walked the beach on the windiest fucking day in the history of California, drove 200 miles and nearly saw some amazing sequoia, flew to the moons of Endor and were shrunken and then blasted into outer space and accosted by pirates and rescued by Indiana and photographed with a giant mouse (we went to Disneyland), made many enemies (bitches with the "fast passes" at Disneyland), visited Body Worlds, and more. I've taken pictures like they're going out of style. I've driven over 800 miles in the last five days. And then, there was today. Having run ourselves ragged, Vina and I decided to chill in my ROOM, because that's all I seem to be renting at the moment. How do I know? Well, let's see. Perhaps it's intuition. Perhaps it's the fact that that's the part of the house I use that is snooped in the least (sort of). Or, maybe, the way all my items of daily use in the bathroom were shoved unceremoniously into the cabinet, to go along with a nasty handwritten note slipped under my bedroom door. The note opened like this:

"Phil, As you can see I did hang your towel where it belongs, behind the door. The towel arrangement was not an option...."

Apparently, even though I'm renting a room (and bathroom, according to the original ad), I'm only a guest when it comes to USE of the bathroom. I can do whatever I want in my room, as far as aesthetics go. As in, I can hang up whatever shit I want to and the worst I'll get from the Roommate of Death is a look of disdain. HOWEVER, the rest of the house is her domain. Including the tub of margarine that I got chewed out about for actually eating from (she confided that she never really uses it, but when she does, it better damn well be FULL). Maybe I should strike back by throwing away her jar of Mayonnaise that expired last September. For all her issues with me, I'm shocked she hasn't noticed by now. I suppose if she did though, she'd go all crazy and throw out the entire refrigerator, so I'll know when she does notice.

I remain optimistic, however. We had a cordial chat about the whole thing, wherein she told me I'm like a Caveman (capitalization mine), mostly because I know nothing about decorative towels. And I'm a total wimp because I don't like using the special hook behind the door to hang my towel, never mind the fact that my towel never actually dries when I do use the fucker. Though I tried to set up my special palm tree toothbrush holder, that was rejected, too. It apparently doesn't fit the "decor" (which is basically nondescript). I pleaded my case on a bullshit argument of preferring a toothbrush holder for sanitary purposes. I still lost, but not before she offered to buy me a new toothbrush container, just to fit the decor. I told her not to buy anything on my account, but I'm secretly hoping she does, because then that means my rent money is at least going toward something on my account.

But wait, I mentioned optimism and haven't gotten to that part yet. The optimism is that I'm now actively searching for a new place to live. Because for all its perks, living with this Roommate of Death is driving me nuts. And I'm pretty sure SHE'S the one who's crazy. Not to mention bipolar. An angry note in the morning, and then a fairly genial exchange about the whole thing in the evening? Wow.

Time to join the roommate finder websites again. Only I'll have to assume a different identity/screen name because she's probably still on there (soon to be wondering why she can't hold onto any roommates). Good thing I deleted my profile once I moved in here. Sort of. Strike One, meet Strike Two. Maybe third time's the charm.