Pen and Ink

Pieces of yarn.

When does the mourning of an ended relationship stop?

While packing my suitcase to return home yesterday morning, my eyes settled on the clump of yarn attached to the handle, one of those things people do to distinguish their bags from the hundreds of others on the airport baggage carousel.

With their varying shades of browns, oranges and creams, the yarn instantly reminded me of Mike. The yarn came from his mother. I don't know why I know this, but it's just one of those things that seeps into your memory when you are not looking over the course of a 17-year relationship.

Even now, two and a half years after officially ending the "partner" part of our relationship, little insignificant things like yarn on a suitcase make me mourn. I'm drawn into memories of all of the other seemingly insignificant things that, when taken together, comprise a life. The mother-in-law who provided the yarn, the trip to San Francisco for which this particular piece of luggage was purchased. That leads to the quick photos we took of each other hanging off the side of the cable cars. Sitting in the grass in Alamo Square, taking in the Painted Ladies.

Pondering this from the chair of my hotel room, all these memories started to spiral around in my mind, drawing me down as water in a drain. Simple pieces of colored yarn can have a not-so-simple effect on my mood.

These memories bring to the fore all that I have given up by ending the relationship. Even as I sit in the library of the hotel, handwriting the first version of what you are now reading, I am on the verge of tears. Tears for the life that I chose to alter so dramatically.

Will this ever stop?

Dispatch from Los Angeles.

I woke up this morning in a bit of a funk. My next post will elaborate.

After packing my bag, I went downstairs to the conference area for breakfast. Feeling rather anti-social, I pretty much kept to myself. I was really feeling over it and just didn't feel like small talk or shop talk.  The opening plenary session was engaging, but didn't really offer any new ideas. The final breakout session was different. I expected it to be boring, but it really stimulated some thinking.

Despite feeling anti-social, I was very happy when a guy came up to me and told me that I was "dead-on" in some remarks I had made in a session yesterday. That made me feel good.  A bit later a woman with whom I talked yesterday saw me and asked me for my business card. She said that I was doing some really interesting things in my shop and she wanted to stay in touch. Again, nice gratification.

* * * * *

With the conference behind me, I started to head north. Before hitting the 405, I meandered around Newport Beach. The beach area, that is. It was nothing to write home about, but at least I can say I did it.  I traveled north to Santa Monica. The pier was cool, but quiet. Then I hit the Third Street Promenade. It was pretty much the same as any mall in the country.

Here's a few pics I took.

Back in the car, I checked my Blackberry to find a cranky email from my boss. That set me back into a funk. He wasn't wrong with his complaints, but he was partly to blame. 'Nuff said.  The bad thing about traveling is that sometimes things back in the office can unravel. There was some of that going on.

* * * * *

With tons of time to kill, I went back to West Hollywood. Ho hum. Checked out A Different Light Books, but didn't get anything.  Bored, I decided to just go to the airport, which is where I sit writing this. The place is dead. At the security gate there was just one guy ahead of me. That's it.

So now I'm sitting here, writing this, and finishing off some pizza from CPK. There's a cute guy a few tables away, so I clandestinely snapped this photo.

I have three and a half hours to kill before my flight leaves. Maybe I'll do some work. I want to tire myself out so maybe I will be able to sleep through most of the flight. It gets in at 8 a.m., and I have to go to work at least for a little bit.

I'll be zonked, but will be very happy to be home. I hate traveling alone.

Dispatch from the OC.

So here I am, out in Los Angeles. Or, to be more exact, Newport Beach in Orange County. I'm here for a conference, otherwise I wouldn't come to this part of the country. LA is not really my kind of town. But I can always make the best of it.

* * * * *

The flight out was great. I dozed part of the way, because I had barely five hours of sleep before getting up at 4:30 a.m. to leave for the airport. As I sat waiting to board, I heard the gate agent talking to another passenger. The words "own row." perked me up.

I went up to the counter and said to the guy, "Did I hear the words 'own row'?" He replied that I had heard correctly and then proceeded to reassign me.  Oh, praise be to the airline gods.

Things got even better as I started to watch the movie, The Jane Austen Book Club.  I think I remember hearing about this when it was released in theaters last fall, but never paid any attention to it. It had a great cast including Kathy Baker, Amy Brenneman, Jimmy Smits, Emily Blunt (the nasty assistant from Devil Wears Prada), and Maria Bello, whom I loved in Coyote Ugly.

Well, what a delightful, touching film. It's one to own on DVD, that's for sure.

Once I got to my hotel, I decided to relax for awhile before driving the 45 miles back north to LA. I flipped on HBO and found another film just starting: A Good Year. It stars Russell Crowe, which is enough reason for me to turn it off. But for some reason, I let it go. Glad I did. It was another really nice film.

* * * * *

After resting for a bit, I trekked back up to Los Angeles. It really is spread out. For me, the best way to experience a city is on foot, but this just isn't one of those towns.

I thought maybe I'd wander around West Hollywood, but frankly, there wasn't much to see. It's not like gay ghettos such as Chelsea in New York or Boystown in Chicago.  With no good place to park anyway, I kept driving around, eventually making my way to Hollywood.

Driving through the intersection of Hollywood and Vine, I decided to park and take some pictures. The magnificent Pantages theater caught my eye.

With camera in hand, I headed to Pantages first. That's when plans changed rather impulsively. The marquee had a single word: Wicked.

Gee, a theater queen alone for the night, bored with nothing much to do. What's a gay boy to do but buy a ticket? 

The show, of course, was great. I'd seen it before, so a second time out gave me the opportunity to focus in on things that I might have missed the first time...detail on sets and costumes included.  The performances were good. John Rubenstein, who originated the role of Pippin on Broadway, played the Wizard. And JoAnn Worley, just off her run as Mrs. Tottendale in Drowsy on Broadway, just took over the role of Madame Morrible. She's very funny, but really not much of a singer. Nonetheless, the whole thing was just terrific.

The downside to the evening was the downpour I had to endure leaving the theater. Stupidly, I left my umbrella in the car, despite the forecast of torrential rains. Half soaked to the skin, I made my way to a bar for a drink before heading back to my hotel.

All told, I was up for about 24 hours. Thankfully, the conference didn't start until 1 p.m. on Sunday, so I was able to sleep in.

* * * * *

I really don't like traveling alone.

The conference I'm attending is interesting, but by the time tonight's cocktail reception was done, I was  done with shop talk and small talk.  That ruled out going to dinner with nearly all the people here. But still, I didn't want to be alone.  (I wouldn't have minded sharing a meal with the guy organizing the whole thing who I am 98% sure is a friend of Dorothy, but that didn't happen.)

So me, myself and I headed off to South Coast Plaza, which is an astoundingly large mall. After a bit of quiche and salad at a French cafe, I wandered through Crate & Barrel, Pottery Barn, and Restoration Hardware, which are all pretty much right next to each other. Lots of fun things, but thankfully, I'm traveling by plane. So my wallet stayed in my pocket.

* * * * *

The conference ends tomorrow at noon, but my flight isn't until 10:30 pm. (Can you say "red eye?")  So I'll have a chunk of time to myself. I think I'll explore Newport Beach a bit and then maybe head back into LA for some photo taking, if it's not rainy.  Maybe I'll hit Santa Monica too. With luck, I'll have some pics to share.

It didn't take long.

Well, you know it had to happen. The whack jobs are starting to crawl out of their caves to bash Heath Ledger for his role in Brokeback Mountain. It's no surprise that one of those caves has "Fox News" scratched into the stone above the doorway. Consider this call to action posted on the GLAAD website.

In the wake of Heath Ledger’s death, people around the world are mourning the gifted actor’s passing and are expressing their appreciation for how he changed hearts and minds with his Oscar-nominated role as a gay cowboy in 2005’s Brokeback Mountain.

In a stark and disturbing contrast, Fox News Radio host John Gibson cruelly mocked Ledger’s death and his role in Brokeback Mountain during his Jan. 22 John Gibson Show radio broadcast.  During the show, Gibson played an audio clip from the film of Jake Gyllenhaal’s character, Jack, telling Ennis (played by Ledger), "I wish I knew how to quit you." Gibson then coldly quipped, "Well, he found out how to quit you."  Then, after playing another audio clip from the movie of Ledger’s character saying, "We're dead," Gibson mockingly said, "We’re dead" and played the clip again.

“Gibson’s remarks are vulgar and disgusting,” said Rashad Robinson, GLAAD’s Senior Director of Media Programs. “It’s sickening that Gibson would exploit Heath Ledger’s tragic death to promote such hurtful intolerance. And to do so at a time when family and friends are grieving shows a level of insensitivity that is beyond the pale.”

  Beyond his mockery of Ledger’s role in Brokeback Mountain, Gibson called the actor a "weirdo" with "a serious drug problem," and callously speculated on the reasons Ledger might have committed suicide.  Gibson had previously mocked Brokeback Mountain--calling it a "gay agenda movie" on his Fox News TV program in 2006.

Random Thought Thursdays is back.

I haven't posted one of these in awhile, so here goes.

Picky, picky, picky: Ever have one of those days when nothing you do is right? That was yesterday. My boss had lots of complaints...some things that I should have done differently, some things that my staff should have done differently. He was right, as he usually is, but still.  Plus it came after an especially annoying commute.  I was so tired and worn out when I left the office, I wanted something relaxing in the way of music for the drive home. I selected the cast album for Light in the Piazza, which is one of the most beautiful musicals I've ever seen. It helped.

Close by: I love it now that Cary has moved from Miami Beach to Wilton Manors. He's just five minutes away. We were both looking forward to his move so that we could be a little more spontaneous in the things we do together. Like yesterday. We were texting by phone and he offered to cook dinner for us. It was so nice after my stressful day.

RIP Heath: I mentioned Heath Ledger in Tuesday's post, but I've been thinking about him today. In his blog post yesterday, Martin mentioned an early film: 10 Things I Hate About You. That was my first notice of Mr. Ledger; I really enjoyed his performance. I keep thinking how sad his death was. Obviously it was an overdose. Depression -- assuming that was the root of his demise -- is such a powerful illness. I have known a number of people who suffer from this to varying degrees. It is such an devastating disease and frustrating for friends and family, for no matter how hard we try, there's little we can do to help the person suffering.

LA-LA Land: I'm headed out to Los Angeles early Saturday morning for a conference. I'm not a big fan of LA, but so be it.  I'm going to have some time to myself on Saturday afternoon and evening, and am looking for things to do. LA is not a big theater town and there's absolutely nothing going on in that arena this weekend. I may just wander, perhaps park myself in a cafe in West Hollywood Saturday evening and people watch.  I'll take the laptop and live blog about the people who come in. That could be really cool.  I'll take pics too and post them as I blog.  If anyone has suggestions about other cool things to do, let me know.

More freakiness.

With the passing of Allan Melvin (Sam the Butcher from Brady Bunch) and the wonderful Susanne Pleshette over the weekend, John and I were speculating who would be next.

"Celebrity deaths happen in threes," I reminded him.

We speculated who might be next.

Who knew it would be Heath Ledger?  John freaked when I called and told him.

Sam the butcher.

How freaky is this?

John and I were in Borders tonight. Perusing the DVDs, I found the first season of the Brady Bunch. No, I didn't buy it, but the theme song stuck in my head.

While driving home, I started humming it and John and I made up new lyrics. You know, the obvious jokes about a man named Brady, three boys and a dyke. I asked John if Ann B. Davis was still alive and that led to a conversation about who from the cast had died. We agreed that it was only Robert Reed, who played the father.

Here's the freaky part. We're sitting in bed with the laptop. John signs on to AOL to check email and finds a news report that Allan Melvin, who played Sam the Butcher, died at age 84.

Weird coincidence, huh?

Sniffle, sniffle, snort.

Yuck. Another cold. I don't get them too often, but this is the second one in less than 12 months.

I felt it coming on with a scratchy throat and general dizziness on Thursday (there are those who would say that I'm always dizzy.)  I spent most of that evening dozing on and off, and took yesterday as a sick day. By last night, I could feeling it moving into my head.

John came by with a jar of matzoh ball soup and some mac & cheese. Those two things seem to make everything better. Eric, my hair guy, swears by Zicam, so I'm trying that now.

Today's agenda included a haircut and highlights, so I kept that appointment, and then stopped by Cary's to see his new rugs and dining room furniture. That turned into lunch with he and Michael, and then shopping at Target and BB&B.  What I should be doing is enjoying the sunny day reading three days worth of the NY Times, the new issue of Newsweek with Hillary on the cover, and one of the dozens of books that sit, unread, on my shelf.

Thankfully, it's a long weekend. I have Sunday and Monday to do that, and rest. I'm leaving for California in a week, so I want to be fully healthy for that.

There, I said it.

At lunch with Susan and one of my colleagues the other day, we had a great conversation about the arts, and the kinds of jobs we'd all like to have in the arts if we didn't have to worry about how much money we made and the amount we were contributing to retirement plans.

Susan is someone I've known for a bunch of years, back when both of us were living and working in Boston. We're in the same business and served on a board together, so our relationship was on the professional level. She called me about three years ago to tell me that she was planning to move to Miami. So I helped her network when she arrived and have even hired her as a consultant on some projects. As we've worked together the past year, our relationship has moved from the strictly professional to the personal. I'm happy to call her a friend now.

After lunch she came back to my office with me. We kept talking about the future. I told her that I had recently posed a question to my financial advisor about what age I might be able to stop worrying about retirement contributions and salary level and take a fun job raising money for a theater company or some other arts organization.

She's at the same age that I would like to be able to make that transition, so we had a good talk about then.

She said, as she often does, "well help each other achieve our dreams."

That's when I said it.

"You know what I'd really like to do?  I'd love to try New York."

"Really?  You'd have to be making a ton of money to live there. Why do you want this, the connection to the cultural scene?"

I admitted that yes, that was a large part of the reason.

"You should just plan to get there enough, maybe once a quarter, to get your fix."

Ever since Christmas, I'd been thinking about what it would be like to live there and could I actually make that happen?  I believe that most of us have the innate ability to do whatever we set out to do. If you want something bad enough, you can make it happen.

Who knows if it will happen or if I even really want it to happen. If it ever came to pass, it will be at least five to 10 years from now.

But still, I said it out loud.  Hmmmm....

Attack of the cleaning people.

Despite P-Boy's text message at 5 a.m. today, I couldn't drag my ass out of bed to go to the gym. Instead, I repeatedly hit the snooze button.

The bad thing about that, aside from not working out, is that I had to deal with traffic. My 30-minute drive to downtown Miami turned into about 90-minutes, just because I left two hours later. The long commute was compounded by a worry that I wouldn't make a 10 a.m. meeting in Kendall.  Rush, rush, rush.

To make matters worse, I had to go.  You know..."go."

So I parked the car, raced into my building and into the men's room on the first floor. No go; it was being cleaned.  I went up to the third floor and same thing. On the fourth floor where my office is?  Ditto.  By this time, I'm pretty annoyed, especially since the cleaning people usually hit the 4th floor around 10:30. Why the fuck are they there more than an hour early?

At this point, I'm getting pretty uncomfortable. I raced to my office, picked up a notebook, found my assistant and got the directions to the meeting.

With cleaning folks still out in force, I thought I'd be smart and go to another building, the one where my office used to be. So I walk to the men's room there and whaddya know? The cleaning lady is there?  Jesus H. Christ! When the hell did we get so many cleaning people?

Finally, at long last, I found a men's room on the second floor that was open and with no cleaning people in sight.

Right now, nearly 12 hours later, it's all rather amusing. But at the time, let me tell you...when you gotta "go" and the same time you gotta go...it's not a pretty thing.