Super Massive Black Hole

I am hardly a victim of the writer's strike, as I neither write for the film industry nor am fiending for new material (Well, I must say I do miss the Colbert Report and The Daily Show). But, thanks to a massive store of unwatched programs, most of which are documentaries, I'm not too bothered by any of it. (This is not to say I don't sympathize with the strikers, though.)

One show I like to watch is The Universe. It's a fun show, although in order to make principles of physics and astronomy more understandable, the writers will come up with an analogy and run with it as far as it can go. Usually these analogies seem to pertain to some hobby of the astronomer being interviewed. Say one astronomer really likes fishing. The programmers will then show the astronomer casting the reel, all the while explaining some concept. "Landing on the surface of Venus would be a lot like fishing for trout." And you're sitting there and listening to this analogy, and thinking, "Huh? What? Well... maybe a little... I guess."

But, it's a good program and fairly spot on.

Now to the subject at hand. They did a bit on black holes. Apparently there are two classifications. There's a Stellar Black Hole (which is just a collapsed star...ho-hum). And now they've discovered a new classification that lies at the center of the galaxy. It's enormous, so logically, it's called the "Super Massive Black Hole".

I don't know. It just sounds so ridiculous. It reminds me of South Park for some reason. Like when someone is making up some new name for an organization that's an obvious cover-up for something else--like the Super Adventure Club that Chef joins, which is really an organization for pederasts.

Anyway, I can't understand lack of creativity some physicists display when the naming new things. I mean, isn't there someone they can name it after? A Steven Hawking-class black hole (since he wrote the book on the subject)? Or couldn't they give it some silly child's name, like "google" or "quark" or "charm" or "strange"? Something a little more creative than "Super Massive".

It's like the "Great Barrier Reef." Sure, that's what it is, a great barrier reef, but certainly you could give it a prettier name, like "Giovanni" or "Rice Pudding".

A clever comic I found

I found this the other day and love it. It's so New Yorker Magazine, but also very 1950s Charlie Brown-ish.

It is emblematic of something. It shall be a representation of my personal philosophy, to be emblazoned upon my coat of arms (which happens presently to look like an actual coat made of human arms...our ancestors were cannibals).

No more work!

I am on strike.

I have very little desire to grade papers, teach, or prepare food. Instead, I want to do the following:

1. Nothing
2. Sleep
3. Toss and turn
4. Write a bit
5. Have a drink or ten
6. More nothing
7. Take a long aimless walk until I'm sick and tired of walking and my feet can't carry me any further
8. Sleep
9. More tossing and turning
10. More Drinking
11. More writing
12. Pacing
13. Pick up a nasty habit

But under no condition do I want to work. Oh, the kids I teach are fine and all that. That's not the problem, but where is the time for me? That's what I want to know. And I've been sick for nearly over a year, and hopefully if the doctor is right I'm all better now and can have a life and maybe even a sexlife.

I correspond with a guy online. But he lives in Brooklyn! Oh, he seems so clever, and flattering (and I love being flattered), and he loves the way I write (which I love), and intelligent, but not stuck up the way intellectuals can be. And I imagine myself not so much with him (I'm not in love with him, per se), but with someone like him, and how wonderful it might be.

Right now I'd like to live in Berlin. So does he. I could imagine ourselves (or someone like him and me) at the cafes, chatting over coffee, doing whatever it is that Berliners find themselves doing, and I don't know... not working. We wouldn't work. Just sex and cafes and the city and maybe some writing or something like that. But no work. I'm fed up with it.

I want money with no strings attached. I want to be an aristocrat. I'd like to teach, but only for pleasure. Not for pay. And not so many classes, please. And I want to write some more. It drives me nuts when I'm not being creative. I feel so pent up. So bloody annoying. My system shuts down. It's horrible.

Oh, I feel so pathetic when I compare myself to factory workers in sweatshops who do this day in and day out. How do they do it? How can they do it? I can't keep a regular job without complaining.

"How to Properly Fold a Cat"

It is now nearly a month since Tracey's (my friend) birthday has passed, and I had promised to send her a birthday card, having already explained how I would be unable to attend her birthday party because I was teaching. In truth, I suppose I could have made it to her party. I've made it to her parties before and had a not-so-bad time. But, to be quite honest, we're both not very much alike, but having attended the same school, having spent time going to the same bar, socializing with the same group of friends, having made similar drunk confessions to one another, I suppose we're connected in some ways as friends.

Tracey was also one of the first persons I came out to (Not really, though. Actually, I came out to another friend, Sue, but being aware that it is impossible for Sue to keep a secret, I figured that by telling her I was pretty much telling everyone I knew that I was gay). And, I suppose by associating with one another, each of us is sort of borrowing the image of scandal and decadence that each of us supposedly possesses, she because of her fabulous inheritance, her cocaine-snorting boyfriend, and her ability to go on couples' cruises at a whim and really live it up. I, on the other hand, have my sexual preference to offer her.

The latter bit has always puzzled me because, really, between the two of us, she is by far the more adventurous. Moreover, if I was straight and was dating a girl, she'd merely say, "Oh, that's interesting," but because my interest is in men, she finds the need to speak in a conspiratorial tone, adding "oohs" and "ahs" to the end of every statement I make. As it is, I'm not a particularly fascinating study of the gay male and fag hags could probably do better than to mingle with me. All the same, I am flattered by this and the occasional "Hey, sexy" she'll throw out to me.

Anyway, the birthday card..."

Part of the reason why I have not gotten her a greeting card is because I accidentally put it off. This is true. I have procrastinated and forgot. But, the other, and more significant and hopefully excusable reason is that I tend to be fairly obsessive about the greeting cards I pick out. I tend to either pick them out at bookstores (where blank cards are sold at an abundance), Papayrus (not because the cards are that hot, but the store gives you these cool gold hummingbird stickers you can put on the envelopes), and Hallmark, just because it has a huge selection. Sometimes I'll go to a drug store because every once and a while, there'll be something pithy and ironic worth buying.

Searching for the ideal greeting card is a task and a half and usually takes about an hour of staring at the wall of cards, reading each message, and quietly mocking the sort of person who might purchase each ones. "The fire department has been alerted that its your birthday" reads one with a picture of a cake ablaze with candles. I imagine this being purchased by the same people who make clip-art posters that read "It's time to get on the choo-choo express to success!" Then, there are the cards that bitchy women send one other, usually featuring pictures of Cosmos, shoes, or sepia-tinted photos of little girls who even at a nubile age possess remarkable fashion sense, etc. I imagine if I was more of the Sex in the City type of fag I could see myself purchasing these for someone. Then, there are the religious cards, the inspirational cards, and the ethnic pride cards. I've often considered purchasing these for family members, but restrain myself because I doubt they'd see the irony, instead believing that I suddenly became deep and found Jesus.

I've managed to memorize most of the cards. I can't cite any of them off the top of my head, but I can recognize them instantly and know which store to go to for each occasion. I'm a hunter and I know where to seek my prey.

This time around, because I got a cat, I thought it'd be clever to announce this fact and say happy birthday all at the same time, but short of getting a card with googley eyes (which, I admit, can be fun), I am forced to buy something cutesy. But, I remember seeing this card a long time ago:


I remember seeing this card at a Sav-on (now CVS) and thought it was the funniest thing in the world. Part of the reason was because I had been on the hunt for two hours and hadn't eaten anything and my blood sugar was low. Today, I look at it and think: "Hmph. This is kind of funny, I guess." But, at the same time, there's the larger part of me that believes in this card and sincerely thinks it's the best card in the world (that is, for this particular occasion). I mean parents go on and on about how much more valuable a homemade card is than a store-bought one, but I disagree. Considering the expense of time and energy I put into searching for these cards, and considering that I choose them not only with myself in mind, but the person and the occasion, I think my cards are just as meaningful--if not more--than anything some six-year-old could construct with dry macaroni and glue.

This card is the card. I know it. I can sense it. And when I finally find it, either tomorrow or two years from now, I'm going to buy two. One for me. I'm going to frame it and hang mine on the wall and claim it as my personal philosophy. The other, I'll purchase for Tracey and tell her how long and hard I searched for it and prey upon her sense of guilt and gratitude. After all, this is not just any card, but my card. The best card. When you think about it, she should send me a thank you card for it. And, if she doesn't know which thank you card to buy, I have a few in mind that I could suggest to her.

Saturday Night at Akbar

Saturday night, in lieu of Halloween parties, my friends and I (featured in the next two pictures), decided to go to barhopping in Sunset Junction, stopping off finally at Akbar, a gay hipster hangout.





I'm in the bottom photo dressed as P.T. Barnum. I was fooling all of the people all the time. Under the big top. Where there's a sucker born every day (and for that matter, quite a bit of sucking going on in the men's room that night...disgusting when you consider that the Akbar's bathroom is a tiny urine-spattered room with a perennial line in front of it).
Halloween is probably my favorite time of year. Part of this has to do with the fact that everyone is encouraged to dress up. Something about a costume always immediately conjures a new persona. Especially props. Something to hold. They sort of take over you. I remember this experience in theatre. Dress rehearsal was always my favorite time.
New personas are always welcome, of course. I become more sociable as a result. Anytime, really when I don’t have to be me is good. Like when I’m teaching. I’m never really myself, but feel more like a secondary version of myself and “I’m” doing all the talking while I sit back and watch this person basking in the limelight and enjoying all the attention.
The same can said for my experience writing... or anything vaguely artistic, for that matter. I become a veritable extrovert in my writing. You'd never know me.
Of course, when I have to be myself again, it’s always a bit tricky. Small talk, I’ve found, is impossible. Once, for example, I was riding along with a Rotarian. I was a candidate for a grant that would fund my education in some other part of the world. We were traveling back from the meeting, and he was telling me who everyone was. One guy owned a block of shops, another owned the parking garages located near the LAX airport. I’ve no interest in business, really, and moreover, neither of these businesses were very sexy industries, to say the least. I mean what are you supposed to say when someone tells you he owns a parking lot? “Oh, really? Do you find that those guys waving red flags in front of the parking lots attract more drivers? Don’t you think someone might mistake them for communist instigators or something?”
Anyway, we were running out of things to talk about. He had already finished talking about how much he enjoyed spoiling his grandkid, which was fairly apparent because of the giant television console in the middle of the car, and the fact that the sole reason he drove a minivan was for the kid. I had remembered the fact that he mentioned he had cancer, and at the time I didn’t know what to say. “Oh, that must be pretty scary,” I think I said. So, with nothing else left to talk about, I brought it up again, figuring that he was probably hoping I’d discuss it. Why else do you tell someone you’ve got cancer?
It was quickly apparent that this was the wrong thing to do. His gregariousness quickly vanished, and a fatalistic pallor hung over us. But with little else to discuss, I kept asking him questions.
“Do you think it’ll stay in remission?”
“What kind of cancer did you say it was again?”
"I've heard a lot of talk about chemotherapy. Do you think it actually works?"
“How long have you known about it?”
“The doctors probably don’t know what they’re talking about anyway when they say six months left to live, right?”
So, after some reflection, I decided that it’s generally best to remain silent than trying to pass the time with discussions of weather and fatal diseases.
But, anyway, this hasn’t anything to do with Halloween, except to say I love the holiday because I love to perform. I can talk to people if I’m in a performing mindset, and I’ve sometimes shocked myself when I realized I could schmooze or talk shop, but again, this is because schmoozing and shoptalk isn’t real conversation.
Anyway, here are the pictures. I was amazed with how receptive people were when I asked to take their photos.

Here's Amadeus (I've always wanted to dress like him):



A Barbary Coast Pirate. How awesome is that?



Here's Bob's Big Boy. There's something sad about his eyes, like he's lost the last friend he had. Then again, there was always something sad about the Bob's Big Boy statue. At first, when I was a kid, I didn't think that. I was terrified of him because he had an enormous hamburger in his hand that looked like it was big enough to have been made from ground children. But, later on, thinking about him, I came to the conclusion that he was very sad indeed. It's as though he's saying to you, "Go ahead. Take my burger. I know that's why you've really come. It's never about me, though, is it? That's ok. I'm used to it."



Here's an alt-punk/Britpop type, for whom I always go for against my better judgment, because in the end I'm rarely compatible with them.



That Fantastic 4 guy (What's-his-name Man)



Some footballers going for a tackle.



These guys didn't come in a costume, but wanted their picture taken anyway (one of the guys said he used to write for a fag mag and must have thought I did, too). Still, the "half-naked clubber" is always a great costume by default.



Here's a ninja bee, I guess...



Here's Robin, lurking in the shadows... like The Shadow.



Rosie the Riveter was awesome.



Ahh... Where's Waldo. When we're through finding you, I know of some other games we can play.



Here's an odd couple. They came up to talk to us, saying we were the friendliest group they had met all night. But then the big guy kept talking to us and wouldn't leave us alone, and it became apparent why everyone was rude to them. The tall guy claimed to be a Venetian reveler. I'm not sure what his partner was. Probably the guy who gets shot out of cannons or something.



Outside the Akbar. Note Bob's Big Boy on the cell phone in the back. Oh... how I miss the smokers' circles.



And that’s it.

But before departing, we must always remember to say…


By chairmanmeow

Something I thought of over the summer

I think I can identify pretty well with Zach Braff's character in SCRUBS. Today, the brain movies were particularly good, and the moments of self-narration were absolutely profound.

For instance, right before entering the gym, I was imagining my life as a world famous literary raconteur who entertained all the great courts and salons of Europe. I'd finally come to New York City where floods of reporters would come by and ask in a very 19th century way: "Whadya think of America?" I think it would be hilarious for an American to be asked this question and be forced to answer as though he was a cultured European who was visiting America for the first time.

I was smirking at this point as I handed my LA Fitness card over to be scanned. It's always embarrassing to suddenly burst out in seemingly-unprovoked laughter.

"How about American women?" would be the next question. At this point I was in the men's locker room where I had to self-consciously remind myself not to make overt direct stares. The trouble is that I have a tendency to stare at every single person that I walk past. It must have to do with some form of obsessive compulsiveness--a project my brain gives me.

When I was much younger, I had even more mini-projects. One was stealing other students' pencils and pens. They'd have asked for them back, except that it was a well-known fact that my teeth marks would be all over the pens and pencils. My chewing didn't just involve nervous nibbling, either, but I'd actually devour my writing implements. This was especially embarrassing when I would bite into a pen and the ink would suddenly explode and ooze over my face, generally right in the middle of a timed exam. Kids laughed and the teachers thought I was doing this deliberately to disrupt the lesson (Especially my fourth grade teacher, Sister Noreen. She was a horrible old hag. She made us clean our desks with rags she made out of men's underwear). Sometimes, this was the case, but it was unfair for them to think I was always trying to play the roll of class clown. When I wanted attention, I'd be more overt and blow my nose like a foghorn or chirp like a bird. But chewing pens was actually a way to calm myself so I could concentrate. Another thing I did was walk around the classroom. When puberty came, blackheads would become a new obsession. Double-checking everything is still a problem, which is one of the reasons I'm always late. On the other hand, when I don't double-check, I end up forgetting something, which only reinforces the compulsion. I should make checklists like my former roommate and my sister do, but I think that's just anal-retentive.

Yet, I'm still sloppy. Go figure. Well, not entirely sloppy. I actually keep things in individual piles. I try to be artistic about these piles, too, if I can help it, arranging things around the way museum curators might arrange the workspace of an important historical figure like Thomas Edison or Henry Ford. My mess has to look distinguished, in other words. I figure if Shirley MacLaine believes she had important past lives, then why can't I also dream big?

So, staring must just be one of those things that lasted. At any rate, it doesn't pay to have a staring compulsion, be gay, and stand around in an all-male locker room, so I keep my head steadfastly on the floor at all times.

I was still trying to come up with an old-timey response to the reporter who asked what I thought of American women and I actually took the time to write a few of them down in my notebook while guys in the locker room excused themselves to get around me to their lockers (The excuse I came up with if one of the guys asked what I was writing was: "Just trackin' my workout progress, bro." Saying "bro" in a gym-like environment helps, I think.). The first response: "I must compliment American women for providing such a ready compliment of American men." And the second response was: "I can assuredly tell you that there'd scarcely be a virgin remaining in your country if American women were more like American men."

Neither of these responses are particularly hilarious to our 21st century ears, but I'm convinced that people in the 19th century would be howling and saying things like: "Oh, there's a fellow for you!"

Driving back home, it occurred to me that I've remained essentially the same person I've always been. Somehow, I had always hoped that after visiting the therapist, or beginning a new workout regimen, or graduating traffic school for the billionth speeding ticket, or starting a new project, or ending an old one, that an epiphany would occur and I'd have unconsciously reinvented myself.

So, I'm not exactly sure where reform or redemption or even progress fits in. None of these seem possible, which I had begun to realize as I neared my house, imagining myself in the back of a Maybach, leaning over the front seat to tell the chauffeur: "Home, Other James" (that'll be his name, "Other James." It's probably sounds insulting, but really, he shouldn't take it personally since its not every chauffeur who gets to drive a Maybach).

In the daydream, I was also imagining myself daydreaming, trying to distract myself from the inevitable moment I'll have to tell my fabulously wealthy lover that I somehow managed to max out his supposedly limitless Centurion Card.

But, the reverie wasn't about trying to distract myself from the fact that I don't have any money, but the fact that eventually I'd have to engage in a real-life conversation with somebody. In this case it was my family, whose conversations I always fear for their tedium. Today's visit was no better: instructions were given on how to care for the pets while they're gone on vacation.

I'm really hoping that the pet instructions are written down somewhere, because during that time I was supposed to be listening, I was actually trying to imagine what it would be like to be Abelard and have my balls chopped off by my lover's uncle.

A repost of an old post on Bernard the Cat

I have to figure out why I should use Blogger, so I think for now I'll just fill it up with things I've already said somewhere else.

Here's the one on my new cat:

Here are a few photos of my new cat, Bernie. Or Bernard, if you like. Actually, Bernard may be a better name, because if you add my last name to it, his name ends up becoming a pun off of the very famous musician, Bernard Hermann, who wrote and conducted scores for films such as Psycho, The Man Who Knew Too Much, Midnight Cowboy, and Citizen Cane. So Bernard Harmon may have to be his official name.

Anyway, I picked up Bernie at the San Gabriel Humane Society. The whole adoption process was very odd. To begin with, I discovered him by doing an online search for Burmese cats, because from what I understand, these are among the most personable and intelligent cat breeds. I called the person up who was supposedly Bernie’s caretaker, and she left me a message saying that I would have to be interviewed before adopting him.

After playing phone tag for two days, I was finally referred to the San Gabriel Humane Society. I was not interviewed at all (Will, the one question they asked was: “Do you plan to dissect him for scientific experiments?” Wow. How do you answer that one? “Um, just a little and only from time to time.”). The cat’s original name I learned was Tango. He is actually considered Siamese Seal Point Shorthair mix.

"Tango" had originally lived with a woman who rescued border collies, and apparently he got along very well with the entire household, is very much a dog and people oriented cat, but at the same time, he did have to put up with the dogs’ tendencies to herd him into corners.

Bernie turns out also to be about seven years old, not one year old as the website informed me. “Do you still want him?” the Humane Center official asked me. I told her I did, and then she explained how typically these cats are born in the system and tend to get shuffled around a lot and then end up dying in the system. So, they end up becoming institutionalized. Like Shawshank Redemption, I suppose (although, I hope Bernie turns out to be more like Morgan Freedman’s character than like that guy who hangs himself after gaining his freedom).

I took him home in his comfortable carrier and the cat wouldn’t stop yowling. He has a very distinct meow. Almost like an infant’s cry. He wouldn’t stop crying so I opened his carrier a bit so he could have a look around, but he escaped and wet the car seat. I still am trying to get the smell out. So I haven’t quite forgiven him for that, but at the same time, I suppose I only have myself to blame.

Bernie, as his profile indicates, is very attached to humans. He hates to be left alone. But, on the day of adoption, I had to leave him alone to get my car cleaned. He cried a bit and when I came back, I found him behind the shower curtain.

He is still getting acclimated and spends a lot of time hiding under my bed. Slowly, but surely (I think, I hope) he’s getting used to the place. Last night, for instance, was the first night that I recall that he actually started exploring my apartment, jumping onto the bed first to make sure I was asleep. Then, he started jumping on the dresser, and then ran out to use the scratch pad, and who knows what else.

So, I’m glad he’s getting acclimated. He’s very much a nocturnal creature, and even now, he’s asleep in his little tent waiting for midnight to roll around (he’ll sleep in it if I put him in there, but it’s not his place of choice). I’m hoping that in no time he’ll be the same cat I saw in the adoption paper, running and jumping all over the place, or at least return to his old self again. It’s a bit disconcerting to have him hiding day and night under the bed in fear, although, I suppose that’s what cats do.

Interestingly, if I hold him, he’s ok with that. Sometimes he’ll even fall asleep in my arms, which is kind of nice. But, as soon as he wakes up, he panics and runs away again. In addition, he’ll eat in my presence, but again, he’ll dart away once he’s through eating.

I’m not sure what’s going through his mind, nor am I sure you’re expected to understand cats’ minds. Other times, I feel as though I’m able to read him. In some ways, I think that's why I favor cats a little more over dogs. It's easy to become a dog's best friend. A cat is a little more challenging.

But, it’s a bit exciting having him. In a way, he’s my first pet, or rather the first pet that I’m wholly responsible for. So, the fact that he hasn’t died on me, and that he seems fairly housetrained, and even the fact that he’ll occasionally condescend to be held is a big deal to me.

Another thing... it’s common for people to project themselves onto their pets. The Onion even wrote a funny article on this. Well, whatever. It’s amusing to see myself doing this with my own cat, though. I do hope, though, that my own neuroses don’t end up rubbing off on him or it’ll be impossible for the two of us to live together. At the moment, I feel a bit like Jack Nicholson from As Good As It Gets.

Anyway, I promised pictures, so here they are (I’ve yet to get one of him at play, especially because he’s mostly active when I’m asleep):