B1ue

I'm sick, so screw proper diction. If it wasn't for the ever changing symptoms, I would be worried that I was simply staying sick, never actually beating it off completely. I also realized where I am picking up these little bits of joy. My second job involves interacting with people that come to Southern California from all over the country. I'm a lightening rod for illness, so it is little wonder that I am picking up a complete selection of this countries flu strains, one after another. College was so much simpler. We had dangerous periods near any three day weekend, but otherwise the entire town pretty much stayed put, isolated to a large degree from the rest of the community, all through winter. The real b*tch about this particular cold is that, if I call off sick tomorrow, they will think I did so because of the Super Bowl. I've watched a grand total of two football games in the last eight years, and I didn't sit through all of either of them. That I'd give up money to watch football on television, which in combination I rate somewhere around getting a root canal, is insulting. My book this week is Mr. Monday, by Garth Nix. Nix's "Across the Wall" series came recommended to me by one of my English professors, so I have high hopes for these books. At the very least, he's a great deal more mature, and faster, of a writer than Ms. Rowling, so I won't languish in agony for upwards of a decade waiting for the rest of the series to be cranked out. I have not finished it yet, so I won't break it down, but the premise, that the seven deadly sins are running the kingdom of heaven after the Creator (or, "Architect," as she is called in the book) is interesting. The trope he uses of a reincarnated Arthur is not as interesting, but I'll go with it for now.

A week or so ago, I was chatting with Mike about how I was a morning person, and quite happy to be one. Aside for a couple years (ages 15-19), I've been getting up earlier than my peers and enjoying that sort of existence. It was really great when I was going to college, and summer mornings it could seem like no one for about a mile was up at 7 am except for me. And now my work has switched me to a 7pm to 7am schedule, meaning I have now joined the dark side. Except I haven't, really. I've been trying to stay up later and later each night, and get up closer to noon, but my body wasn't having it. I, barely, managed to push myself so I only woke up at 5am instead of 4am like normal. In about an hour, I start my first twelve hour shift on this schedule. I'm still sick form a week ago, I haven't had a nap, and disaster is just looming. On the other hand, chances are awfully high I'll sleep straight through tomorrow, which means my second night on this schedule might not be as bad. A while ago, I decided I would not read any YA book that had the word "Confession" in the title, as they tend to drive me batty. They just tend to be so lame and self indulgent that I could no longer stomach them. Well, I've amended that little motto, and have decided that I will merely not buy such books. To that end, I checked out of the library The Noah Confessions. I finally finished it today. As an arguement against my earlier restrictions, it doesn't really measure up. Don't get me wrong, it is a fine book. A writer's book. By that I mean it is so obviously written by a former English major I want to shake my head at Ms. Hall and say, "There's this thing called subtlety," which is the last thing I can call anyone out on. I don't mind so much that she delibretely tweaks with standard story conventions to create this work. You know, "boy meets girl, boy gets girl, rival goes to prison." I like people who do that, as it makes otherwise trite set-ups a little more interesting. What I find inexcusable is that she calls attention to it in the course of the novel, as sort of a congratulatory pat on the back. I know, "the real world doesn't work like stories do." The author, in making that very point, seems to have forgotten that she was, in fact, writing a story. When I was in high school, I wrote a story composed entirely of letters. I thought it was terribly clever back then, but I was seventeen at the time, and not particularly well-read at that. Ms. Hall, presumably, knows better. INCORPORATING LETTERS INTO A STORY DOES NOT AUTOMATICALLY MAKE INTERESTING OR DIFFERENT. There's an entire genre of fiction for it, for crying out loud. What it does, is make something straightforward into something inapproachable, by putting another viewers eyes between you and the source material (even though the same person writes the reader's and the writer's thoughts). It is when you incorporate that level of disconnect into the plot (which, I will say, Ms. Hall does try to do, but doesn't quite pull off) that you can achieve anything. But that is true of all plot elements. Okay. Breathing normally now. Which is good, because it is time to earn my paycheck. I have a bottle of vanilla coke and some animal cookies, which saw me through many an allnighter in college. Wish me luck!

I try to be as open as Jesus instructed his followers to be, and all I can say is that I think I achieve it better than most, if only because I'm usually so self-absorbed that it wouldn't occur to me to judge someone on such arbitrary criterion as their gender or race. Seriously. Someone sat me down and explained to me that women and men were not inherently equal in all things, and that while there are exceptions to everything, not everyone wants to be such an exception. It's an idea that still makes me scratch my head. Kevin, I hope you find a path that is of comfort for you. Don't despair; it doesn't look good on you. Remember your teachings, and seek, as many have before you, comfort in prayer. It's not for everyone, but I can assure you that it does help. In fact, here's one that I wrote, some time ago. I dig it out on occasion, when I feel particularly lost. You can borrow it. I do not hold against others What I would not have held against myself. I hold no hatred in my heart So that hatred itself will not find me. I hold no anger in my heart For anger does nothing but destroy. I hold no grudges in my heart For I too will one day be judged. I hold no jealousy in my heart Lest what I love be lost. I hold no fear in my heart For I have been touch by the Lord, And have nothing left to fear. Most of all, I hold no doubt in my heart Lest heaven and host turn doubt on me. May heaven guide me, hold me, and fill my heart So that I

Hmm. I was born and raised here too, albiet for only about 24 years. From my experience, Fires continue well into droughts, as do floods with mudslides. I term mine based on that season's set of natural disasters, which is about the only way to tell the months apart, some years. @ Lucy. Power. Oy. Twice, the power failed on me while I was trying to log off and get away from work on Saturday. Luckilly, I learned form the first time and had been saving about once every other minute, so I didn't actually lose anything the second time, but I still had to wait for my computer to reboot so I could turn over my logs. If power had stayed out in a more prolonged fashion, I would have had to stay there until it came back on. Which was why I cursed a blue streak the entire thirty seconds we were "interupted" but before the generators kicked in. I think I shocked my coworkers with my vocabulary, to be honest. I don't quite remember what exactly I said, but I'm sure much of it was anatomically impossible.

A few entries ago, I identified California's seasons as being: Tourist, Fire, Holiday Shopping, and Mudslide. Lo and behold, a mere week after the last throes of shopping had faded, the sky opens up and drops more rain on us in two days than we've had in the last six months. I was supposed to go visit my parents this "weekend" (which, this week, was today and yesterday), but tmy parents live in a rural area. An area that is pristine in its natural beauty, and has roads that flood out at the drop of a hat. Not only that, but the snow level dipped well below their elevation, so if I did go up, there was no guarantee that I'd be able to head back down off the mountain. While I've no particular objections to that fate, my job might take exception. I have to be a good little boy right now, so no road trip. This week's book is Prom Nights From Hell, an anthology of horror stories written by teen and horror authors1. I'm just about through it, and I have to admit I liked it better than I thought I would, not only because I'm a guy and most of the stories are written from a female perspective. I didn't go to my own prom, since all my friends took the night off work, and someone had to take the short straw. Besides, working gave me a good reason to not bother finding a date, and all those complications. Since I was so ambivalent about my own prom, I thought I'd be a bit lackadaisical about this book, but apparently not. See, the each woman took the ball of anxiety that many girls feel in regards to their prom, and magnified it to grotesque proportions, exactly like a good horror story does. The only thing missing is a story about trying to find that perfect dress. It's their book, so it was their choice, but I can't help but feel this void was a misstep. Oh well. 1Technically authoresses, but I despise gendered terms.

Allowing for acts of god, tourists, and other synonyms for natural disasters, I plan to attend. Mike promised me cookies at some point, so June is as good a time to collect as any.

There are a couple reasons I tend to wear boots to clubs. One, because I'd wear them anyways, and two, because I've yet to meet someone that couldn't get with the program after two good stomps. Granted, that just means certain guys will hover just outside my range, but at least their hands are to themselves, and I don't have to leave the dance floor immediately.

I picked up today Lois McMaster Bujold's Paladin of Souls. Bujold is a favorite author of mine, so by page two I was grinning, enthralled with her words. I've been reading rapturous, for the last hour, but it just now hit me why I like this story so much. I wanted to write it. Well, not exactly this story, the details aren't all there, but a story I developed three years ago opens along the same premise as this. One woman, nominally mistress of her domain, feeling more like she's been clapped into the attic by very loving relatives. She was powerful once, one of her godess's chosen in her youth, but those days are long gone, and now her keepers have convinced themselves that such acts were greatly exagerated. In defiance of all that, with the keening of her ladies in her wake, she rides out, seeking new horizons to find herself. Essentially, it is fantasy's version of the midlife crisis, but damnit, I had the idea too. And now I can't write it, because someone else has written the story a thousand times better than I ever could. The lady's idle dalliance even gets caught up in a war for the very souls of her country. Bah. It's still a good book. I have no intention of putting it down. But now I have to rethink the set up. Granted, beyond the beginning the details were a little hazy, based on the closing couplet of Tennyson's Ulysses, but I shall still ahve to work on it. Or I can take the lazy way out, mentally change the main character from a fine lady to the abbess of a monastic order, and read the book as if I had written it. Edit: It occurs to me that not every has had the pleasure of as many English literature classes as I have. Therefore, I include as a footnote this extraction from "Ulysses" Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. Edit2: Book completed. It took quite a different path han naything I would have thought of, so that's good news.

I voted for Dallas, because I've been wanting to go to Texas for the last couple of years. New York has just never interested me that much. Granted, I was born and currently live in Los Angeles, so some of the "big city" wow factor is a bit lost on me. All that said, I'll probably attend no matter where it is located.

Life accelerates past the point where I can handle it. I've been talking online a lot to a fellow Gayauthorite (hey Mike), so I assume some of the creative bleed off that this blog functions as has been satisfied in that manner. Really, I write here because I need to write, constantly, and this gives me an excuse to do so without such considerations as characterizations and plot continuity. I work a second job now, minimum wage, but at least it gets me out of the apartment and into the world. I'm unsure how long I'll stick to it, as my fellow coworkers are....a bit intense shall we say? Which is ironic, since other people have said that about me, but here we are. I'm listening to Taylor Swift's "Teardrops on my Guitar" over and over. I think I can qualify it as a f**ked up love song, enough that I can use it as a title at some point. But in the meantime, it makes me somewhat sad and a bit nostalgic. You know, I really am over the first guy I had feelings for, I am, but I still ahve dreams of him on occasion. Not for him, I think, but because I miss the way I acted when I was head over heels for him. And the way I felt. Everyday was a bit brighter then, for some reason. I'm still friends with his current girlfriend, who I knew in high school. I'm jealous of her, of course, but not really. I never was able to make him smile like she does. On a more upbeat note, I love "Gossip Girl." I love it a lot. I cannot decide who my favorite character is, and the "behind the scenes" bit I just watched isn't making it easier. Margaret Colin as Eleanor Waldorf is fantastic. I've only seen her before in Independence Day, but if anything that recommends her. She's bringing the right amount of crazy, bitchy, and seriousness to the role, and every episode with her in it is a little better than the rest. I also like Chase Crawford as Nate, but he's more on the level of eye candy. Nice eye candy though, he's the whole reason I started watching the show in the first place. But they make him kind of dumb, and his acting isn't helping the impression. In the interviews, he's a total California boy; I can only hope they go with that in the future. Finally, there is Leighton Meester as Blair. This was my favorite character in the novels, the true main character I feel, and she's just as interesting in three dimensions. However, they've been a bit inconsistent with her character, portraying her as fun and down-to-earth one episode, and as a woman with an entire tree shoved up her behind the next (just like Momma). Well, laundry, work, haircut, and the post office calls, so ta.

Another point of niftyness: Everyone knows that females reach emotional maturity faster than males (on average). Part of the reason for this is that at early stages of development, boys tend to be allowed to run riot in the backyard, or play video games, while girls are expected to stay close to the grownups. The average girl is conditioned to be dainty, nice, and "mature" literally at her mother's knee, while boys tend to spend less time with adults, and so don't pick up on social nuances until much later. Taking a psychodynamic look at this theory, we can assume then that these behaviors are reinforced during the Latency ("boys have cooties") stage of development, when children more or less stick to groups defined by gender, until two completely different cultures are allowed to flourish simultaneously side-by-side. Also on Male/Female thinking, a friend of mine is convinced that if females had been in charge throughout the development of civilization, weapons as we know them would not have been developed, since there would not be such a phallic emphasis. She was unswayed by my pointing out that swords and other blades are basically wedges stuck on levers, and so would have come about regardless. Fighting styles might be different, to emphasize different muscle groups, but the tools would be similar. She also dismissed as irrelevant that guns are considered phallic objects because they confer power, they aren't supposed to be substitute organs.

Or maybe even It's okay to be a bit irrational about it all. Maybe not to the principle parties, since getting them to admit they were wrong won't actually do you any good, and will damage any prospects you'll have of being friends with them down the road. Yes, Andrew or FF should have given you a heads up, knowing damn well that it would bother you, as it would anyone. That they didn't means they're a bit cowardly, but as I said, forcing them to face that isn't going to do anyone any real good. So my advice is to move on from that moment. Remember it, especially if they want to be friends later, but move on. In the meantime, call up the biggest drama queen you know, buy a tub of blackberry ice cream, and spend the afternoon watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. You're rational, realist approach is probably healthier, but I have more fun wallowing in the feeling until feeling that way becomes completely ridiculous.

I finished the first draft of my anthology piece, tentatively title "Lovers Really Fell In Love to Stay." I'd been stuck on the same spot for weeks, trying six or seven times but unable to move the plot forward in a satisfactory manner. I finally decided that I couldn't go to Borders until I finished the piece. That was about two horus ago, so clearly this method of self-motivation has a bit of kick to it. The next step is to finish and edit all of the unreleased Khayyam stories, and one by one put them up on Efiction. That's a fairly ambitious project, so we'll see how long that takes me.

So. Mo. It has taken me this long to remember to bring the notebook up from my car. Note: This is the very first thing I've written for him. His character is not fixed yet, so some of the jokes may be different from how I sold him a couple weeks ago. ************ "List every priority you have, in order, of what you want in a job." It seemed simple enough, just too bad I couldn't list, "hot coworkers" as the primary consideration. I put down "large company" and hoped for the odds. "Missouri Weeks" was the name on the top of my sheet, though most people called me Mo. Yes, my parents did drugs during the eighties, but my Aunt Michelle says they were weird even before then, so they can

Oh, so its YOUR fault our freeways were knotted up all Thursday. I wondered. By the way, that was winter. In case you were wondering. It's now spring again, the sun is shining, and we've all been able to peel off our outer layers. Edit: Friday. I meant Friday.

1. Considered the coloring. I need to be careful, because I really, really like the shade of black I lucked out on. 2. Premature greying doesn't run in my family either. Well, possibly on my dad's, but we're not sure. My dad went bald before going grey, and his sisters approached the problem using your method.

I knew intellectually this time would come, eventually. I always thought that I'd be mature about it, accepting my fate with some dignity and perhaps a bit a levity. Actually, that's a flat lie. I was depressed most of my teenage years, and never really thought I'd live to see drinking age, let alone twenty-three. It didn't really hit me that I was going to have a full-fledged adulthood until I was standing there in the sun with my BA in hand and wondered, "Well f**K. Now what?" So worrying about how I was going to accept the slippery decline from my physical peak just wasn't a high priority for me. Until this holiday weekend, when I found four grey hairs. For those that missed it above and to the side, I AM TWENTY-f**kING-THREE. I'm not ready for this shit! I wanted at least another five years before these kind of problems started entering my life. But no, not my body. In fact I should have known my hair would turn traitor. It knows it is my best, most distinctive physical feature, which is probably the single most Hispanic statement I will ever make*, but it is the truth. And like it has been doing every chance it has ever been given, it's warped little personality has spawned a new way to drive me batty. On the plus side, though, in about two years I'm not going to be carded anywhere near as often. There were other events this weekend, shadowed other by this one, including a flight up to visit my sister in Washington state. The flight there and back was fantastic, as both airport and plane was filled with college freshmen, but once on the ground up there I noticed a certain something lacking. Apparently, in Washington horn blasting, creative swearing, and colorful hand gestures while driving are defined as road rage and penalized. This idea is perplexing to me, since you can scarcely cross an intersection, let alone change lanes on the freeway, without one or all three of the above actions taking place. Speeding is considered four miles over the speed limit and fined $75 dollars per mile. If California, hell just Los Angeles county, adopted similar practices, the state would be in the black within a month. And none of us would have our licenses anymore. *In order to illustrate the seriousness of this problem, consider the following quote from Project Rungay. Switch it to masculine terms, and this is pretty much me. My hair is that good.

There, there. I had an argument similar to this topic with a friend of mine, when she asked me why gay characters in books seemed to either have or crave sex 24-7. Not wanting to point out (admit) the obvious reason, I told her that since having sex is the only thing that separates a gay character from a straight character, if the characters aren't going to be having sex, then why not just make them straight and speed things up? It's akin to Chekhov's law.

Thanks. Work is just getting to me at the moment. But it'll pass, as all things do. I know lots of people like Mo. I'm like him at times, though not often. Hopefully often enough that I can capture what makes that an interesting quirk without him coming off as an idiot. Anyone that doesn't know quite what I mean...Evanna Lynch in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Elisa off this season's Project Runway is a pretty good example as well.

Oh yeah, I always go through them and dismissively sigh "eh, maybe next time" Wow. I mean, I've thought about that, but never actually followed through. I totalled my first two cars, and since then I've been VERY careful when driving. Especially since I live in Los Angeles, where normal streets + freeway trained drivers = crazymotherf**kerohmygodwhatthehell ishedoingohs**tohs**tohs**twe'reallgoingtodie!

I had a rather...bitchy rant posted here up until a few minutes ago, but I've decided to nuke it. It wasn't particularly healing or necessary. Instead, I'm going to introduce y'all to one of the characters floating about in my head. His name is Missouri Weeks. Mo for short. He's a bit of a loser, in that he sort of drifts through life in a happy daze most of the time. He is, in other words, what my mother calls a space cadet, only sometimes touching down on earth before his mind is off on another galactic adventure. He's the first character I've attempted to write with that quality, so he's both exhilarating and somewhat scary to me. For those that have read my anthology pieces, he's Khayyam's roommate for all of college. And as soon as I find the notebook I had written his story into, I'll post the first blurb I have on him.

For those that are desperately seeking Gentle Persuasions, the address I have for Matt is http://www.geocities.com/matpazcas/ It doesn't look like it's been updated in forever, but there you go. Gabe

In college I took a creative writing class, because it was an easy GPA boost, counted towards my major, and there was a chance I might actually learn something important. The story I wrote for the class was by no means life-changing, but I liked it. However, I noticed a trend among my feedback. "This sounds like a porn, but where's the sex?" "There's a lot of sexual tension between the characters. Do something with it." "Those two need to knock boots." By the time I was in the second round of edits, my class was unanimous in their desire to have a sex scene in the story. Even the straight guys, one of whom was so embarrassed that he turned bright red as he said "They should be screwing here." Even the professor got into this, but as he edited gay erotic fiction on the side, I could understand it from him. For a while, I didn't know quite what to make of this.

I am to visit my parents over the next couple of days, which are my "weekend" days this week. My mother in particular has been asking when I'm coming up for several weeks now, so I decided to just say, "the hell with it" and make the drive, which is about seven hours, one way. I know I don't visit them often enough, but it's a lot harder to break away from my obligations than it was a couple years ago. My job was through my college's housing department, so when I had no school, I had no work (and since I lived in the dorms for two years out of the three and half, I usually had no home either). That meant I had a solid week four times a year I could veg at my parent's place. Now though, with no break anywhere in sight, its more complicated, what with work and all. Plus, its a lot more traumatic. While I'm a fairly typical example of my generation's version of the Yuppie, my hometown has not quite made it out of the twentieth century as far as communication technology goes. So no email. My parents don't have broadband, because dial-up is the only game in town. My cell phone doesn't work, because apparently "All of California coverage" really means "All of California people see in movies." As my cell is the only number I have, and the only number people I'm not related to have for me, I'm getting no phone calls. Due to the number of trees surrounding my parent's house, radio reception is sketchy at best, and limited to two country stations. People have asked how I acquired my taste for country music. It was that or go crazy, and I didn't have too much of a margin to begin with. On the other hand, the water tastes a lot better, and I won't have to cook and do dishes, so its not a total loss. And they have satellite television, with 24 hour music video channels, so I can look forward to that as well. Most importantly, I'll be able to reclaim my copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, which my mother has had since July and told me I needed to reclaim in person if I wanted it back. She was apparently serious about that threat to find ways to force me to show up.

I nearly always get carded. For everything. I got carded trying to buy crazy glue once. I can sometimes buy a Rated M video game once in a while, or go to a Rated R movie, but not often, and only if I take pains to make myself look as preppy as possible. It doesn't help that my ID only sort of looks like me. I've changed quite a bit in the last eight years when that photo was taken, but, sadly, I honestly look older in that picture than I do in real life. I live in dread of the day when some bartender decides to confiscate it, telling me to tell my older brother to claim the ID in person. Last weekend, I got together with my aunts and cousins for a champagne brunch. There were five of us in the 18-25 age bracket, and only two of us were of age to drink. Guess who got offered alcohol without getting carded first. Guess who had to show proof even to get a glass set. I could take the twenty-year-old not being carded, as not only does he not possess the babyface which both sides of my genetics favor, but he also looks like someone you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley. I wouldn't card him either, without at least someone for backup and a knife my other hand. But the eighteen-year-old does have the baby face. Or, at least, he did. Seven years ago. But somehow he outgrew it by the perception of the general populace. We, his family, can still see it, and we are continually amazed that he doesn't get the same treatment that my two closest female cousins (who independantly of each other, and in completely different cities and times, worked in strip bars) and I regularly get. I sometimes look forward to my thirties, when there's a good chance I won't be carded everytime I want to buy wine. Then again, certain store policies may mean I'll not be safe even then. My mom was carded a couple years ago when we were at a target. When we all gave the poor cashier goggled looks, she explained that she had to card everyone that didn't look forty. As my mother had just hit fifty-five at the time, she damn near skipped back to the car. I, meanwhile, prayed this was not a sign of a coming trend.