P.S. Before I even start – I DESPISE April 1. In a world gone as mad as this one, who the holy hell knows when outlandish claims and ridiculous stories and the profession of idiotic beliefs and commission of acts of hate are supposed to be a joke or put-on or joke? So, I do NOT do April Fool shit. There are too many fools on every day of every month – I only wish we COULD reduce it to one day.
The personal is … I wish I knew. Is it political? Is it didactic and dull? Is it pornographic TMI? Is it pointless to go on?
I want to be KNOWN as a writer. I want to be
Joan Didion Edmund White Charlie Smith. Yes. But, who is Charlie Smith?
Unable to get anyone to pay any attention to my novel – okay – maybe it does stink – I’ve been struggling with the contour and tone of this blog for more than a year. I needed an outlet once I’d lost my paid gig as weekly Ranter and Raver and theatre reviewer at the late, lamented Want to Dish, and HereWeAreGoing was meant to be that. It has morphed repeatedly. What began as hubristic on-line diary with appeal only to the approximately five people who gave a fuck that I’d lost my regular gig and killed my Facebook account, grew into a more gay-centric-pseudo-activist-political mish-mash combination musical theatre-esque fansite, from which it segued into long-form, long-term suicide note, the natural next step of which became a semi-nude celebrity worship/half-naked model-type with the occasional dick-pic adventures in the life of an aging, lugubrious gay man with sharp tongue site, and now, finally — or, rather, currently — it has become a literary leaning, book reviewing, author and agent stalking site – which still sometimes has pictures of half-naked men and bits and pieces of all the sorts of things my blog and I have been up until now.
It is, HereWeAreGoing, finally, the record and memory and shades and shadows (and pseudo-long-form suicide note) of my own personal Zeitgeist.
Thus, the Zeitbites entries. I see so much other really interesting stuff each morning as I troll sites, Zeitbites I think ought to be shared with a wider audience, with those people whose sensibilities intersect with mine. I assume that if you are reading my blog, there is some connection to something about me, some identification of mutual or like interests. My hits and visits continue to rise, so, I must be appealing to someone — well, in my virtual life anyway — but enough about me, here’s MORE about me, in that, it’s the shit that appealed to me today . . .
- First, brought to my attention by author, Elizabeth McCracken [Follow here HERE on Twitter, as do I] this piece in PublishersWeekly by Leslie Jamison about — imagine that — How To Write A Personal Essay [CLICK HERE] in which the author of the just-released The Empathy Exams [CLICK HERE for GrayWolf Press site for book]discusses – well, just what I was thinking about above. I’ll wait while you read it. Go ahead.
Good, right? But if I could GET A LITERARY AGENT (Alice Tasman – HERE is her Twitter, she tweets about a lot of cool, add to your TBR pile books] or anyone at JVNLA LITERARY AGENCY [Click Here for rejection letters] – are you reading this? Of course not, why would they?) they would — no doubt — tell me that leading with my own 300 word precis into an essay on the same topic is NO WAY TO GET HITS. I was, when still Dishing, REPEATEDLY told about myself by a former New York Times editor that ANYTHING LONGER THAN 300 WORDS WAS JUST MASTURBATION. Hmph. Apparently I have a rather prodigious gift for lit-jacking-off. Again, I say, HMPH. But, to prove that I CAN INDEED TAKE ADVICE – here is something short and sweet and freaking hilarious.
- CLICK HERE FOR “I DON’T SING IN THE SHOWER – I PERFORM” A Vine by Alexander Holtti. REALLY. WATCH THIS!
He’s a funny kid. A seventeen year old funny kid. A seventeen year old funny kid who knows what sells.
- Speaking of which, here is a link to Andy Towel’s Towelroad item today about now 43 year old author, Marcus Ewert, [CLICK HERE] who, at 17, stalked and bedded Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs. I wish that I – at 17 – had had balls (and looks) enough to have taken off in pursuit of my gay-lit-icons. I can’t really remember what I was doing at 17 in any detail – although I have journals and folders and boxes full of shit I wrote then somewhere in storage. Pretty sure that at 17 I had run away to California and was being rejected by flannel-shirted men in San Francisco and fucking “straight” marines I’d found eating alone in restaurants over Thanksgiving – a bad habit, that. Not eating alone, I actually miss that, but, rather, the whole “straight” marine thing. Ah well . . . seems I should have been like Marcus and been stalking Edmund White and such.
But, I didn’t. In fact, much of my life was spent surrounded by very few members of my own “gay” cohort and far too many seventeen-year-olds — who most certainly did NOT stalk me — and far too many “personal essay” types, if by personal essay one means people whose self-interest and selfishness and myopic sense of right/wrong/compromise had all to do with the world revolving entirely around their needs and wants to which all others must bow … yeah. That.
But, as my blog has morphed, grown, changed, segued, so has my life. For example, my birthday month has begun – it is now April 1, and last night I went with some dear ones to dinner at one of my favorite boites in downtown Frederick (people use the acronym DTF – but for reasons I should think perfectly obvious, I just can’t), Olives [click HERE to visit] which is usually deserted on a Monday night but was SLAMMED last evening because Roseanne Cash [click HERE for her website] was in concert at the Weinberg Center down the street. Luckily, thanks to the MANY hours and MANY Mondays my DB and I have spent
falling off renting space on barstools at Olives, I and my friends got pretty fast service – and it didn’t hurt that my favorite bartender was working AND my favorite “I am stalking you” twenty-something waiter took care of our table. I would like – someday – to type another sentence about something that sweet, young, barely-bearded one took care of for me – but, I wouldn’t, because my specialty is discretion.
- What? Right, after dinner we went to the Roseanne Cash concert. Have to say, loved it. Her rendition of Ode to Billie Joe is just EVERYTHING one wants it to be.
I want – so much – before I die (personal essay time again) to do ONE MORE cabaret, and I am including Ode in the set list. In any event, great night. And she did an encore of 500 Miles which – for some reason – moved me to tears.
I was moved to tears again after I got home. Minding my own business, catching up on episodes of Bates Motel, about which I am unsure how I feel, and I am assaulted by an ad for an upcoming program at the Weinberg Center, from whence I have just come. No details and no worries, but the ad pushed memory buttons – some of which were unpleasant – which is what upset me. Let me clarify without clarifying – it wasn’t so much the content or the acts behind the content, but, rather, that I thought I had cleaned all that up and it makes me feel “less than” to realize I still have some residual infection. So, I cried.
But, EVERYTHING moves me to tears. I, who don’t even like basketball, somehow got caught up in the NCAA Sweet Sixteen thing (and wouldn’t this have a much sweeter, cooler flow if that was SWEET SEVENTEEN and I could tie it all together? But, alas – as usual – sports are NOT my friends.) and on Sunday, when the Kentucky team won with that final shot by one of the Anderson (I think) twins and the camera caught his Mother in the stands . . . yep, I wept. I’m not a “straight” marine. I’m a weeping fool. No bro, all homo, here.
- Speaking of which . . . this VERY FUNNY and TONGUE IN CHEEK piece from Brian Moylan [who I also discovered has a CRAZY GOOD backlist – CLICK HERE] at VICE.COM called In Defense of the American Bro [CLICK HERE TO READ]. You HAVE TO READ TO THE END. When I started it I thought it was a defense of misogynist assholes. I was wrong. READ TO THE END. And follow Mr. Moylan on TWITTER – I did – click here: BrianJMoylan.
Like I said, ALL HOMO BRO. Or, at my age, really more ALL BROMO, HO.
In any event, this post is WAAAAAY-OVER 300 words — in fact, it is OVER 300 WORDS TIMES 4 — which I guess means I have a chronic multiple masturbation problem? Or, at my age – a gift? No. Not really, maybe when I was a seventeen year old and lacking the sense to actually search out Ginsberg and Burroughs and do something about it. Damn that was a long time ago.
Like the beginning of this entry . . . so I guess I ought sign off and do some living so I have something new about which to write. Later. Much love,