We just got in from seeing the flick Capote. Interesting and pretty intense. I was expecting more cocktail party witty barbs and less Jesus life is fucked up moments of reflection.

Given that it’s a couple of degrees removed from reality, like any biography about dead people, where one of the deceased was writing about dead people, it got me thinking about the nature of writing. Unfortunately, it got me thinking about some of the reasons I have been far too lazy and not the least bit hard core.

Sometimes I wonder what it takes to really succeed in such a lonely, self-involved task as writing. Capote threw himself into and was pretty consumed by the whole murder story of which he wrote in In Cold Blood. And, as M. pointed out afterwards he was simultaneously incredibly empathetic to the murderers and the law enforcement with whom he connected and completely manipulative.

I don’t know that I would ever or will ever have the singularity of purpose shown in that empathetic/manipulative seesaw.

Kind of reminded me of one of the saddest times in my life when I personally witnessed the cliche of a journalist asking someone after a tragedy “How do you feel?” That moment was high among defining reasons for my never becoming a reporter myself.

Yah, man, my peeps is living in Delaware. Or at least, I’m digging
the Supreme Court there.

In a defamation case involving an anonymous blogger and a thin-skinned
Smyrna Town Councilman, it was decided that what with free speech and
all, the ISP didn’t have to expose who the blogger is. Come on,
Councilman Patrick Cahill, how do you figure mental defective and
“Gahill” (as in he’s so gay) was defamation and not just fucking goofy
name-calling?

I particularly love the Gahill thing, because it kind of begs the
question when is being called a homo going to cease being defamatory?
Plus it’s so wicked junior high.

My favorite part of the story, though, is this quote from one of the judges:

“Blogs and chat rooms tend to be vehicles for the expression of
opinions; by their very nature, they are not a source of facts or data
upon which a reasonable person would rely,” wrote Chief Justice
Steele.

I only wish he had said that before I had the circular Human Resources
conversation involving my repetition of “I’m a writer; It’s not real;
It’s comedy; I’m a writer…” ad nauseam (well at least my nauseam).

The other notable point was the thing about the fun, fun, fun part of
publishing on the web is the do-it-yourself element. Someone slagging
off on you in his weblog, publish one of your own and call him a
cock-sucking liar, if you must.

Which reminds me, my buddy at hbeeinc.com wrote something about the
Fuck Bush T-shirt crowd. It hit close to home, because I weep and
lament for the fact I lost my very own Berkeley-purchased “Fuck Bush”
T-shirt in the big move west. (Sadly, I haven’t seen that vendor
again on Telegraph Hill.)

Basically, Hbee is stating why he doesn’t like that kind of shirt
himself as a parent and a liberal who fantasizes about a free and just
society. If my current IP address wasn’t blocked on his weblog I
would be commenting back:

Hey, I wear it to piss off people just like you. That’s the fun part.
Seriously, though, when I wore it I realized the language was
offensive, and to me that’s part of the activism of it. I also fully
accepted that some people would be completely turned off by it.

I think the more interesting point is now people have T-shirts (or
whatever) that say offensive or strong or political or whatever things
(or, I dunno, carry placards with oozing aborted embryos) and get all
shocked and surprised when someone finds them offensive. If you do
something intentionally to piss people off, you have to suck up the
consequences of pissing somebody off. That’s not about free speech,
it’s about your right to be an asshole and having to hear about it.

Some of us revel in our assholic behavior. I think if I were tossed
off a plane for wearing a “Fuck Bush” T-shirt, assuming I’d be that
fucktarded to wear it in that setting, I’d have to embrace the story.

By the way, after buying that T-shirt here and then going to the
Folsom Street Fair, I gotta report that the Bay Area is magnificently
and crazily more liberal than even the imagination of the wildest
Massachusetts liberal. Nothing, nothing, nothing in Boston comes
close to Nancy Pelosi’s city.

Also, by the way, if ever you want to boost traffic to your website,
publish pictures from the Folsom Street Fair. Them fetish and leather
loving rascals do love the photos, I have found. The hit rate of a
leather-clad ass grab is off the charts.

Don’t have much to write. Better, don’t want to write much.

Lately, a little whisper of homesickness has crawled in. Not really, though, because much is comfortable here. It’s still a work in progress this moving your life thang. Still something I haven’t quite mastered. Still a bit rough around the edges.

For years, I worked at making myself comfortable with myself. Some of that involved walking away from people who I just didn’t like much. Life being short and all, and so many reminders in the form of mortality cropping up, I just wanted to stop wasting time. Why sit and listen and be chatty and try to accommodate shit that made you unhappy or uncomfortable or nervous or angry or whatever fucking negative energy could crop up, right? Life = short, so assholes must not be tolerated.

It’s a great theory, anyway. Cut back on wasting time and spend time with folks you like. Bring positive shit to yourself, you know, by seeking out the ones who understand. I tried comedy and writing publicly to try to find those folks. Mostly it worked.

Now, those people are there and I’m here.

I knew when I moved making friends might be one of the hurdles. Mostly, I understand. On occasion, though, it just gives you the old kosmic blues.

When I thunk out the grand plan, though, the one in which I grabbed some gusto and eschewed idiots, it was kind of a solo vision. The natural course being the natural course, I met a cool guy, probably and precisely because I deliberately changed my path.

(A friend once warned me, on the occasion of her wedding, no less, the minute you decide–that’s it, fuck it, bad boyfriends and all, I’m taking charge here and now and living my life alone and on my own, no terms, not prisoners, not regrets, the capital THE man would show up. At the time I scoffed.)

Anyway, in the great grand plan, it was easy to figure out what I wanted (relatively) and what (and who) I’d avoid. Yeah, easy. If you don’t like peas, just don’t buy them, eat them, cook with them or look at them. Same with racists, for example. But, fucking hell, what do you do if your man, your guy, the person you like hanging with the most really likes peas? Or racists?

Maybe my future feels bright, or maybe I’m just giddy from the teensiest weensiest bit of hope a judicial nominee who once wrote a check to the DNC gives me.

I don’t know. Or maybe it’s just sunshine and jelly beans. (Did you know the clever elves of marketing at Jelly Belly have now come out with “energy beans?” Fucking brilliant, I say. For us candy folks who see through the yuppified health chocolate of energy bars and like chewy, fruity sugar better.)

Anyway, let’s not get off tangent. I’m living in bright world. I came home to the boy-o deciding to saute up some shrimp and pasta after a marathon session with the new boss lady. I swear this job takes place in Bizarro land. They like me, they really like me, dig? OR at least, no one seems to want to send me to the principal’s office for my sharp wit and tongue. Nope, they be looking for me to take on some more reading and writing.

Funnier still, I even threatened to stab someone at work today. But, for christsakes, man, she fucking deserved it. I mean a native New Yorker bragging to the likes of me that she spent the weekend cheering on the Cleveland Indians. What kind of bullshit provocation is that?

It’s actually pretty fun to be a native of the land of the 2004 World Series Champeens, whilst living 3,000 miles away. But, them Yankee fans, some of them done moved out here too.

When it comes to pain, I am delicate and whiney and about as far from the hard-gal, I can take anything, worldiness I fancy as a posture upon ocassion. Nope, I’m a deep down girly girl when it’s all ouchy and it hurts, it hurts.

I’ve had a headache for days. Days and days of wanting to whimper and whine. I almost have willed myself to tears, but then I got afraid that the act of crying would hurt. Oh, me, oh, my, it hurts, mommy, make it stop hurting.

Tynelol is fucking useless. Ibuprofen in horse doses is passable, but some pain lingers. And, when I max out on ibuprofen I start looking for the trickle of pink in my pee or whatever other harbinger of bleeding ulcerous guts. It’s kind of a coin toss on seeing how many Motrin I can stomache versus the brain splitting pain.

I ain’t never had migraines, and I don’t have that dark, gray, despairing cast I’ve seen on faces of migraine suffers. At least I don’t have that look yet, but the desparation is fucking mounting. Uncharacteristically, I finally broke down and called a health care provider. Now, because Marcus Welby, MD and other signs of a caring medical community are dead, I’m waiting by the phone to see if anyone will deign to see me.

Someone at work mentioned that someone else at work was getting headaches and met with a doctor. She was told that some people during periods of intense seismic activity experience headaches.

So, now, while not internally debating on how many ibuprofen tablets should I, could I, take right now, I’m imagining myself a sensitive. A diviningg rod. A delicately calibrated instrument. A canary in a coalmine. The frail and in-tune human able to feel slight breezes of activity, detecting the unseen proof that terra firma ain’t actually firma.