A Year In Asheville

Salad Rage

2009-09-17T15:16:00.000-07:00

One of the admittedly guilty pleasures we missed when we moved from Los Angeles to Asheville was Gelson’s salad bar. Gelson’s is a grocery store chain in Southern California, and we had one a few blocks from our old house. Since I’ve been back in Los Angeles, I’ve hit the Gelson’s salad bar a couple of times a week. I don’t know how to explain it, exactly. It’s not a huge selection. It just has everything I want, in the size, quantity and combination that I want it. The only problem is you have to pay by weight. My beloved grilled tofu cubes are surprisingly heavy and make for an expensive salad.

But there’s a funny sort of phenomena around the salad bar, and I was aware of it before we moved. I’d just forgotten about it, until I returned and started building my favorite salad again. I call it “Salad Rage.” It’s similar to road rage in that someone gets behind you, follows you very closely, in a very aggressive manner, then does something crazy and hostile. Believe it or not, this happens at the salad bar on a regular basis. I’m not slow. I get my container. I know what I want. I get the same thing every time. But no matter how fast I move along the line, there’s ALWAYS someone behind me who simply must get through the salad line faster.

Often, if there’s a line, I’ll go pick up other things I need, then come back to the bar. But even when there’s no one in sight, someone inevitably gets in line right behind me. I’ve been non-gender specific in my descriptions so far, but in the interest of full disclosure, I have to confess: It’s always a woman (or women). And it’s a very specific kind of woman. She’s in her 40s, well-dressed, alone, and I am in her way, an obstacle or symbol of everything she despises. She will shake her head and reach across me to snatch the tongs. She will sigh and stamp her little designer shoes. More often than not, I take a step back and let her pass, which only serves to enrage her more. The other night, I did that, and one of the angry salad ragers barked, “Am I in your way!?” Completely missing the fact that I was moving for her benefit.

I don’t know who these angry salad women are, or what’s happened in their lives to make them in such a hurry at the salad bar, resentful of anyone they see as blocking their access to the baby corn. I smile, I stand back, I get out of the way, all the while dreaming of picking up the vat of honey mustard dressing and dumping it over her furious, but well-coiffed head. I never encountered any salad rage women in Asheville. I wonder if it’s just an L.A. thing? Or maybe we just didn’t go to the angry salad bars there. There were never any women at all around the Ingles salad bar, but that might be because it was mostly a meat bar.

Around 4 or 5 o’clock in the workday, I start thinking about dinner and my Gelson’s salad. Are the angry salad women there already, waiting for me? Wondering where the jerk who takes all the grilled tofu is? Do they wait in the parking lot, texting each other on their BlackBerrys and Sidekicks, announcing my arrival? And could attacking someone with a vat of salad dressing really be considered assault?

On the Arkham Express

2009-08-22T20:38:00.000-07:00

Since I've been back in Los Angeles, I've spent a lot of time on public transportation. And public transportation in Los Angeles is something you have to commit to. You can't be half-hearted about it. When I first moved here, I relied on public transportation for years. And if you've ever done the same, you know it's an adjustment. It changes the way you do things. You have to plan errands more carefully. You can't buy more than you can carry. And there are some places that you just can't get to.

Since returning to L.A. and public transportation, I've noticed a dramatic shift in the demographic on board. I'd estimate that it's about 40% working poor and students, 20% foreign tourists and 40% mentally ill. And it's this rise in the number of mentally ill people riding the rails that has me concerned. How does it happen? How has this become the only option for people? I'm left to wonder where their families are? Do the families not know how to care for them, can't afford to, or simply don't want to? So they give them bus and rail passes and send them out every day to become the responsibility of bus drivers and fellow passengers?

I'm certainly not suggesting that mentally ill people shouldn't be allowed access to public transportation. But the people I encounter on a daily basis, on every single vehicle I'm on, need help. They rave, they shout, they threaten, they cry. Those with lesser maladies insult, provoke and mock those around them or carry on one-sided conversations with themselves. I've witnessed enough of these conversations to know they always end in shouting matches. It's best to move away before they get too heated. My fellow passengers are enormously patient. The turn away. They ignore the shouting, the insults. They seem to recognize when people are ill, and they let it go.

Or maybe I've got it all wrong. Maybe the people I think are mentally ill are really highly functional people who go to jobs or outpatient services, and only lose it once they find themselves in the confined space of a subway train or a bus. I just read a great graphic novel called Arkham Asylum: Living Hell, which is all about the mental institution where Batman drops off his enemies. This particular story is about a perfectly sane (if not altogether nice) guy who cops an insanity plea instead of doing hard time. Once he's in Arkham, it doesn't take long for a white-collar criminal to turn into a raving supervillain.

Which makes me wonder. How long before I turn into one of the inmates on the Red Line? Will it happen gradually? Or will I just snap one day? Not long ago, a guy got on the subway, dressed head to toe in black, with a black trench coat, black hat and sunglasses. He strode up and down the aisle, yelling, "I wear a disguise so I can insult women without fear!" Then a couple of weeks ago, a woman got on and began describing in detail (at the top of her voice) the sexual prowess of all the different races of men she's slept with. I couldn't help thinking those two might hit it off, if they could just get on the same train.

MTA has finally started installing turnstiles in the subway stations. Boarding has always been on the honor system, believe it or not. Part of me is relieved, because it might cut down on the number of transient and mentally ill people who just wander on and off the trains. But it worries me, too. If public transportation has become a safe refuge for the frightened and disenfranchised, where will they go if their access is blocked? And why do I seem to be the only one who cares?

Right Back Where I Started From

2009-06-20T15:11:00.000-07:00

It all happened very fast. It took less than two weeks total, and here I am. Back in Los Angeles. Back at work. It was a difficult decision, fraught with emotional pitfalls and uncharted territory. In the end, practicality won out. Let's face it. Despite my obvious brilliance, I don't get many job offers, so I couldn't really turn this one down. Three to six months. Which doesn't sound too long, really.

Plus, it will be interesting to experience the other side of the story now. I left Los Angeles, moved to Asheville. Now what? Have I changed? Writers have always written about their locations and attributed great power to sense of place and environment. Did I take a bit of Los Angeles to Asheville? And now, will I bring a bit of Asheville here?

In a stroke of universal synchronicity, it was 15 years ago this month...this week, actually...that I first moved to L.A. Miraculously, I only aged 5 years in all that time, but my circumstances have changed considerably since I showed up here, so happy to have finally made it to the promised land. So all the elements are in place for a surprisingly layered homecoming. Yet...

If home is indeed where the heart is, then I am, in all regards, homeless, because Michael's not here. We've actually never been separated for more than a few days at a time. That's the hardest part. And whenever I allow myself to think about it for very long, this whole thing just seems crazy. So I can't let myself think about it. There's work to keep me occupied and lots to do in Los Angeles. And friends to see. And comic cons to plan and attend. And blog posts to write. Time will undoubtedly fly by, as it always does.

Now, to celebrate my return, I'm going to Leonor's Vegetarian Restaurant in the ShOaks for my favorite fake pizza. It's completely vegan, and I have no idea what's in it or how they do it, but it's delicious!

A Whole Year in Asheville

2009-05-19T06:44:00.001-07:00

Today marks our one-year anniversary in Asheville. When we left Los Angeles last year, friends assured us that a year would fly by, and it has. We had a long list of trips, adventures and goals on our agenda when we started, and we've done a pretty good job of getting through them. Going in, I thought we'd do everything we wanted to do within the first couple of months, then be bored for the rest of the year. What I didn't expect was how completely the people here would accept us and integrate us into their lives.

I've learned a lot about myself over the past year, some good and some bad. I've always been an outsider and an observer. Part of that comes from being a writer and part of it is a protection device. Michael is the kind of person who jumps into any situation, eyes wide open, arms outstretched. I tend to hang back, watch for a while, figure out who the players are, what dangers are in store, then slowly ease into the situation. This fundamental difference has always been there, but didn't become so obvious and so, well, problematic, until every situation we were in was brand new.

I have made an effort over the past year to be less reserved and more open in new situations. But I know I'll never be the sort of person who just vomits myself all over new people, and I've come to forgive myself for that and own it. If it takes you a year to get to know me, that's fine with me. If you give up an hour or so into it, that's fine, too. I understand.

The people we have met here, those who have befriended us, have been incredible. While I always view new people with suspicion, the people of Asheville embraced us right away and welcomed us into their homes, their families and their lives. While our novelty as the new guys in town has worn off, their friendship has remained, and I am humbled by that and grateful. It makes me wonder how I would even begin to do the same for someone new to Los Angeles. We would get new neighbors from time to time back in L.A., and I realize now that the most I ever did was nod to them on my way to and from work.

When we were back in L.A. recently, a friend stood us up for dinner and wasn't answering his phone. We sat in the restaurant, trying to figure out what to do. A year ago, I'm sure I would have just shrugged and ordered without him. After months in Asheville, though, where neighbors check on each other and bring over cake, I decided we needed to go to his house and check on him, to make sure he wasn't hurt. It was an unexpected practical application of what I've learned here, in the land where hearts are on sleeves most of the time.

(But just a word about the cake. The first time a neighbor brought over baked goods, we couldn't bring ourselves to eat it, convinced a stranger bringing us something must have some sinister intention. "Clearly, she wants to poison us, so some nice heterosexual family will move in when we're gone." We got over that quickly, though, because, you know, it's cake.)

One thing I didn't learn here, because I knew it all along, is that I'm not the outdoorsy type. The scenery here is gorgeous, and I love looking at it...from a distance or from the car. I don't want to be in the scenery. I don't want to camp or hike or splash in waterfalls or swimmin' holes. A lot of people move to Asheville to do all that stuff. I did not. I've given all these things a try since being here, and I didn't experience any sort of epiphany, except the confirmation that, no, I'm not the outdoorsy type. I know it's like moving to L.A. and proclaiming you don't like sunshine. But that's the way it is. Plus, my misery makes everyone else miserable, and that's no fun. The big drawback to my refusal to be in the great outdoors is that there's no one to look out for Michael and to tell him not to jump off cliffs or pick up rattlesnakes. So, he's on his own. I will make sure his insurance card is tacked to his shirt before he goes out, though.

Right now, the immediate future is clear. We're staying in Asheville a while longer. The non-immediate future is less clear. A year ago, that would have bothered me more than it does now. Whenever people ask me why we moved, I always say we wanted to have an adventure. How many people get to just take off and try something so completely different and new? It sounds grand. But what do you do after the adventure? Go back home? Go somewhere else? Stay where you are? What happens next? I guess that's the next adventure.

Somewhere That's Green

2009-05-15T07:56:00.001-07:00

We returned from our vacation in Mexico and our trip to Los Angeles to find Asheville transformed. When we left, there were but a few signs of spring. When we awoke the morning after our arrival, we found a green canopy covering the yard and mountains that can only be described as lush. (Which, coincidentally, is how I'm often described, as well.)

Somehow I don't remember it being this green last year. We had just gotten used to seeing the other houses across the lake, and now they're completely obscured by the trees again. All the rain we've been getting has helped, I'm sure. Though Henry doesn't like it. The low rumbling sounds of thunder just send him over the edge. Poor Michael was up with him most of last night, because the thunder makes Henry so anxious and nutty, which then makes us anxious and nutty.

They're both asleep in the living room now, no rainclouds in sight. Though, I'm sure that will change by this afternoon.

I'm not sure if it's spring fever or post-vacation malaise, but I'm finding it hard to get motivated and do everything I need to do. I'm not only walking by the empty suitcases every day, saying, "Eh, I'll put 'em away later," but I seem to be walking by everything else, as well. I'm sure I'll snap out of it sooner or later.

This afternoon is the first Downtown After Five of the season, which is a monthly street festival during the summer. Maybe some music, drinks and social activity will snap me out of my doldrums.

I have a zillion photos to upload, so I'll try to get to work on that this weekend. If not, you'll at least know that I'm very earnestly thinking about doing it.

Pearls Before Swine Flu

2009-04-28T08:58:00.000-07:00

Greetings from Mexico! Really. As is often the case, we booked our vacation to coincide with a disaster. We're in Cancun for a week, before heading to Los Angeles for a couple of days. It is beautiful here and (fingers crossed) we're all safe and healthy.

What is particularly striking about this outbreak is that there are just no reliable numbers yet. The media would have us believe it's the end of the world, but the World Health Organization has really only attributed 20-some deaths to the swine flu virus here in Mexico. And none in the US.

So, we're going to continue to enjoy the sand and the sun, until we're told to evacuate or that we've been quarantined.

However, since it's a resort full of gay guys, I'm looking forward to the quarantine drink specials and theme parties.

Hasta luego!

A Long, Strange Week

2009-04-13T20:14:00.000-07:00

Last weekend was sunny and 72, and I got a sunburn. Not while hiking or working in the yard, but while having brunch. We went to Sunny Point and decided to sit outside. I wasn't expecting to sit outside or I would have slathered on my usual dose of SPF 50. Despite my Native American heritage, I am a white, white person, and burn like flash paper in the sun. So that was Saturday.

On Monday, it was snowing.

Locals kept telling us to expect one more freak snowstorm to kill or stunt the Spring growth. I thought they were crazy. Well, I was wrong. It snowed for two days, then melted. By Wednesday, the rains began. In the midst of all this, I was also trying to do the aforementioned yard work. We still have leaves to rake and bag, and somehow actual limbs have fallen out of the trees over the winter and are scattered all over the yard. In between the snowing and raining, I attempted to cut up some of the limbs with a saw I pulled out of the garage. That's when our elderly female neighbor informed me I was using a drywall saw on the trees. I didn't even know we owned a drywall saw. We've never cut any drywall.

Luckily, it started raining again, so I was spared the embarrassment of further sawing. Cut to this past weekend, which was sunny and 72. Brunch rolled around again, and I slathered on the SPF 50 to protect my pink and now-peeling face.

We sat inside.

Figures.

Phoneless in Los Angeles

2009-03-24T08:39:00.000-07:00

The week in LA went by in a flash. My cell phone died on day two of the trip, which left me feeling strangely lost and isolated. No one could call me; I couldn't call anyone. All I could do was text. The friend I was staying with had no land line, and my attempts to find a payphone I would be willing to touch without gloves proved impossible. So I was in Los Angeles, but cut off from the rest of the world.

Besides the communication problems, I had a blast. I was worried that I would experience some sort of culture shock coming back to the big city, but I slipped right back into the groove of things. I didn't even mind the traffic, which was actually a little light, thanks to a combination of spring break and soaring unemployment.

I spent a day at the Getty, which was beautiful as always. Then spent most of the rest of the trip shopping and going to dinners. I finally got to go to the Americana in Glendale, but was a little disappointed. It's a beautiful development, but I found the store selection lacking. I did get to spend a day at my beloved Fashion Square and happened upon a shoe sale at Macy's. I'm wearing my new shoes right now, and they are fabulous. I didn't get to catch a movie at Arclight, and I never made it to Chin Chin for their Noodles in Peanut Sauce. I did have dinner at Beso, which is a gorgeous restaurant owned by Todd English and Eva Langoria. Lovely food, lovely atmosphere. It's amazing how much Hollywood has transformed, thanks to a string of trendy restaurants, yogurt shops and high-end retail stores.

So, the big question is how do I feel now? I love Los Angeles. The weather was perfect and I had a great time. I'm also aware that I was in vacation mode. It's not like I was going to work, picking up dry cleaning and shopping for groceries. I was relaxing and enjoying the best parts of the city, without the pressure of the daily grind. I do miss it, though. It's hard to leave. But I miss Michael and Henry and Asheville, too. What happens next is not a question that will be resolved easily or soon. But it was good to be back in L.A. It felt like home. I felt like I still belonged here.

Back to La La Land

2009-03-16T08:02:00.000-07:00

Couple of quick news items. First, I missed the biggest snowfall of the year in Asheville, because I was in San Francisco for a convention. My flight back even got delayed a day because of ice in Atlanta. Which was nice because I got an extra day in SF, but then by the time I got back, all the snow had melted.

A week after the snowstorm, it was Spring. The temps were in the 80s, I was wearing shorts and putting away all my sweaters. Now it's cold and rainy. So I'm going to Los Angeles.

I was originally supposed to be going to a convention, but it got canceled, so now I'm just going for fun. This is momentous because it will be my first visit back since moving to Asheville. Michael's been back twice now, but this will be my first return, and I'm going alone. I am excited and nervous and anxious. Will LA have passed me by? Have I changed too much to fit in now? Are all the after-school specials right? Can you never go home again?

I'm looking forward to seeing friends and catching up on everything I've missed. But I'm also looking forward to re-immersing myself in my old routines and hang-outs, to see if it makes me long to return to Asheville or unpack and stay in LA. I want to stroll through Fashion Square (the most underrated mall in Los Angeles), have terrible service at Jerry's Famous Deli and catch a movie at Arclight (where latecomers don't ask your whole party to move over so they can sit wherever they want). I want to walk down Ventura, humming "Valley Girl" and see if my favorite toy stores have closed because I moved away. I want to go shoe shopping. In fact, I may get off the plane and go straight to the Kenneth Cole store and stay there for a week. And I want to horde boxes of See's Candies like a Russian grabbing Levis.

It'll be a fun week.

Beauty Shop Blog

2009-02-25T07:39:00.000-08:00

There's something about a small-town beauty shop. I've been going to big-city salons for years, in my never-ending efforts to tame my wild and woolly hair. In Los Angeles, if there's gossip or news going around the shop, it's usually about a celebrity. Or if the topic of discussion happens to involve regular folks, there's almost zero chance that you actually know them. So it's sort of exhilarating when you've got your head stuck in a sink and you hear, "So-and-so got a new refrigerator" or "So-and-so went camping last weekend" and you actually know who the so-and-sos are!

The gossip isn't particularly scandalous, but it's still an interesting reminder of how much we've integrated into this new environment. If I don't know someone, it's usually clarified with "Oh, you know, she's so-and-so's friend" or "You met him at so-and-so's birthday party." The degrees of separation here are much closer together. It also makes me wonder what's being said once I leave. "Chance got his first gray hair and freaked out right here in this chair. He made me yank it out. Oh, you know Chance. Michael's boyfriend. The quiet one."

It's true. Just as I was starting to feel that I had purchased and applied enough anti-aging products to send me back to infancy, my stylist found a gray hair. She pointed it out, and I said:

"No, that's blonde."
"But you're not blonde."
"Sometimes I'm blonde."
"It's almost white."
"Platinum blonde."
"Um..."

That's when I fell apart and made her yank it out. It was more white than gray, which gives me some hope of being a dashing silver-haired dandy, rather than the creepy old guy down the street with all the action figures. Honestly, I've never shied away from pouring chemicals on my head, so I'm not about to go gray without a fight.

Then the small-town gossip and big-city gossip will meet. "Chance is still dyeing his hair? Even William Shatner finally gave up that fight."

Over There

2009-02-21T21:24:00.000-08:00

I haven't written in a while, and I have no reasonable excuse. I've been doing a lot of other writing lately, plus life has been busy. I try not to beat myself up for not writing because of interference from life, because living tends to give me more to write about. Still, when I return to this blog, it never fails to bring up a few issues, both big and small.

As I get older (and older), I've started to question the linear nature of life's timeline. More and more it seems that life is actually circular. Instead of a series of chronological events, I feel like I've been experiencing some sort of spiral or interlocking rings. Or some intricate, but lovely design I might have concocted with my Spirograph as a child. I find my circular travels intersecting with people, places and feelings from other times and other adventures. Perhaps I've never truly left anything behind.

Enemies I loved and friends I betrayed. Lessons I either neglected or refused to learn. Memories I locked away, hoping to unpack someday when the shine was off them, when they were dull and colorless and less painful to look upon.

The circles bring second chances, too. Opportunities to try again, to improve upon history or to make grander, more elegant mistakes. All the opportunities and choices that passed me by or that I let slip through my tentative or tyrannical fingers. Will they present themselves again? And will I recognize them through older, jaded eyes?

A quote from Carrie Fisher echoes in my mind, where I clearly spend way too much time: "After all, nothing is ever really over. Just over there."

Groundhog Day Forecast

2009-02-02T20:50:00.000-08:00

I was just beginning to warm up to being cold when the weather changed, and it was suddenly spring. For a few days, I put my winter coat back in the closet and started running around in short sleeves again. I was somewhat disappointed, though. Even though I've been complaining about the cold weather and have taken to singing "California Dreaming" through chattering teeth, the cold weather has been rather fun. The bundling up and the sharp wind that takes your breath away. Plus the hot chocolate. So when it suddenly turned warm again, I was a little sad it had all ended so quickly. Just another reminder that this year-long adventure has practically flown by.

Then this morning, for the first time in years, I read about the annual Punxsutawney Phil Groundhog Day ceremony. I remember taking this ceremony very seriously as a kid. I was always hoping for more winter weather, because that meant more snow and more snow days. Plus the hot chocolate. So I was very pleased to read that Phil saw his shadow and thus predicted six more weeks of winter weather. Then, as if by groundhog magic, yesterday's warm weather turned into today's rain and snow. Both. First it would rain a little, then it would snow a little. So hopefully the winter weather will continue and I'll get to wear more of the sweaters I bought on sale after Christmas.

Hush

2009-01-11T22:55:00.000-08:00

It's almost 2:00 in the morning, and the sounds of winter surround me. A cold, fierce wind is blowing through the mountains of Western North Carolina tonight, and I can hear it first gusting through the big oak tree in the front yard, through the stubborn leaves still clinging to the branches. From the rustling oak tree, it then whispers through the white pine trees all around us. It's soothing and relaxing, and yet I'm wide awake.

I own a sound machine, and every night for I don't know how many years, I turn off the lamp on my nightstand and flip on my sound machine, choosing either a rainstorm or the wind sound to lull me to sleep. I can never sleep in total silence, which is why I subject poor Michael to a fan all year round. The hum, the white noise and my sound machine help me battle the insomnia that seems to overtake me on a seasonal basis.

But here, there are real sounds. Real thunderstorms and wind. Not to mention the quaint and comical rattle and hum of our furnace and the soft snoring of dear Henry the dog. Henry follows us to bed every night, dutifully lies down on his pallet on the floor, takes a short nap until we fall asleep, then he leaves for a cooler (and probably quieter) place to spend the rest of the night. Our bedroom gets surprisingly warm, and now that he's had a taste of the cold weather, Henry prefers the frostier corners of the house. All those years in Southern California...and he was longing for a cold snap.

When I was a kid, my Nan-Nan would take me outside on a windy day to stand underneath the pine trees in her yard. "Listen. Do you hear them whispering to each other?" Hearing the pine trees now, I can't help but think of her. She passed away during my freshman year in college, and it's profoundly unfair that her knowledge of me stopped then. I was such a mess. I got better, really. Smarter, more presentable. But she didn't know me past 18, and 18 is not the best I could do. She would have liked Michael, I know. She would have been proud of my education and travels and adventures. But these are silly suppositions in the middle of the night. She might just as well have disliked, disowned and disavowed me. But I'll never know. 18 is frozen in time. But the wind blows through the pines, and they whisper to each other, and I imagine it's a language I'd understand if I just listened hard enough.

I had an irrational fear about living in a cold environment again. I have this theory that cold weather ages you prematurely. I know it seems that cold weather should preserve you somehow. But I imagine the cold, gray weather turning hair and faces cold and gray and wrinkled. I remind myself that in California, people spend the whole year in the summer sun. The sun ages you more than some frigid winter wind blowing around. But like I said, it's irrational. I've been trying not to go outside unless I'm wrapped up and moisturized. I'd hate to return to Los Angeles after a year and hear, "You look so old. Asheville really aged you." Hopefully all the alcohol I've been drinking will counteract the effects of the cold.

You know, I really want to give a shot out to whoever invented the flannel robe. I've never been much of a robe person. I always liked the idea of them, but would always forget to wear them. Here, and especially since the weather turned chilly, I'm apt to wear my robe all day. I'll get dressed and go about my day, but I can't help but put my robe on, too. It's lightweight flannel, but it's warm and comfortable. I'm starting to think about researching smoking jackets, too. Maybe this is who I am now. I'm the guy who comes home and puts on his smoking jacket, but doesn't smoke. Maybe I'll get a pipe for the full effect, and just never actually smoke it. Or maybe I'll blow bubbles with it.

Henry wakes and looks at me with a frown. "Why are you still awake?" He asks. "I should have retreated to the drafty area at the top of the stairs by now." Sorry, Henry. I will go to sleep now, listening to the wind, the furnace, the fan and dreaming of Los Angeles, Nan-Nan and flannel robes.

Good night.

The Nog Test

2008-12-25T06:53:00.000-08:00

"Happy holidays!"
"Have a nice holiday!"

Over the years, I've made a concerted effort to wish people "happy holidays" instead of "merry Christmas" because in a multi-cultural environment, you never know who celebrates what, if anything. The other thing is that I love political correctness. I do. Political correctness rose to prominence when I was in college, and my friends and I were very excited about the idea of communicating with others on their own terms, instead of what we'd been taught by the previous generation.

So, truly, I prefer to hear "happy holidays" because it encompasses and embraces everyone. Now, Asheville is a very diverse and accepting community. And I've heard a sprinkling of "happy holidays" around here. But the overwhelming sentiment I've heard from store clerks, waiters, waitresses and the average person on the street is "merry Christmas." And I've honestly bristled each and every time I've heard it. But since it came from such a sincere place, I couldn't help but reciprocate. And I couldn't help be feel a little naughty every single time I said it. So, it's with that tingling feeling of doing something I'm not supposed to be doing that I wish you all a very merry Christmas. Hee hee.

Michael and I are feeling just a little under the weather this Christmas morning, and I can't remember ever being sick on Christmas morning. I think I just need a hot toddy or some nog. Which brings me to the true reason for the season: egg nog.

Because I'm always on a quest to capture the picture-perfect, quintessential Christmas promised to me by Currier & Ives and countless Coca-Cola commercials, a few years ago I decided I really should be making and drinking egg nog. So I went where I always go for instruction...Martha Stewart. Martha has an amazing egg nog recipe. It's rich and creamy and highly flammable. Yes, Martha douses her egg nog in three cups of bourbon, two cups of cognac and half a cup of dark rum. Then, a couple of years ago, I decided to add a half a cup of white chocolate liqueur to the mix, with terrific results. But here's the thing. I made my nog in Los Angeles every year, sometimes for our parties, sometimes for other people's parties, sometimes for family. But no one drank it.

I don't know if it was because it looks just too decadent. Or if people are intimidated by the alcohol content. But every year, I'd make a huge punch bowl full of egg nog, and besides what Michael and I would drink, I'd end up with a full bowl of nog. I think people like the idea of it. Like the look of it. Like the feelings it inspires and the idea that it adds something to a traditional Christmas event. So I made it every year, because not only is it delicious beyond words, but it's also festive.

So when Michael and I decided to have a party here in Asheville for the holidays, I knew I wanted to make my egg nog. In years past, I've tried cutting the alcohol down by half, then by three-quarters, to make it more appealing to revelers. But this year I decided to take a chance and go full strength. I even made this announcement to Michael the night before the party, when I was whisking together the mix. His eyes widened. "Just in case people actually drink it," I reasoned, "I want to extend it a little." Michael shook his head. "You don't usually add alcohol to extend something," he explained.

The guests were arriving while I was still beating the heavy cream into fluffy white clouds to float on top of the nog. Then with a sprinkle of nutmeg on top, it was ready. I ladled the first cup of it for myself, and I thought, "If I'm the only one who drinks it, at least that means more wine and champagne for everyone else." But then, a Christmas miracle occurred. I started noticing several people holding and drinking goblets of egg nog. Then when I went back for more, I noticed a drastic reduction in the contents of the punch bowl. Then not much later, someone told me that if I wanted another cup, I'd better hurry, because it was almost gone. What?! Could this really be possible?

Someone even sloshed a couple of more cups of rum into the empty bowl to get the last remnants of whipped cream. For the first time ever, the egg nog was a huge hit! I don't know if it was the atmosphere or the chill outside or what, but I had an empty punch bowl only about halfway through the evening. I had found my egg nog crowd. Next year: chocolate shavings on top.

Haul Out the Holly

2008-12-22T17:20:00.000-08:00

If you're like me (and why wouldn't you be?), then you spent every free moment over the past couple of weeks making bows on your Bowdabra. If you don't have a Bowdabra, then I truly feel sorry for you. Basically, you know when you're making a bow and you ask someone to put their finger in place, so you can tie it? Well, for $14, the Bowdabra will do that for you, with almost no attitude.

With bows made and presents wrapped, we put up our lovely silver tinsel tree and used our black ornaments and black trim again this year. Usually we do a different theme from year to year, but when we were packing to move, the black ornaments were closer to the door of the storage unit. So they got to come along with us. Plus, I'm finding there's a lot of value in the fact that our Asheville friends have never seen our old bag of tricks. So we've been able to recycle and reuse everything from party themes to dinner menus to stories, and improve upon them for a new audience. Of course, we can only do that for so long here, then we'll have to move someplace new and start all over, like con artists fleeing from town to town.

Seeking some inspiration for our "Old-Fashioned Southern Christmas," we decided to make the trip to Gatlinburg for the Fantasy of Lights Christmas Parade. Now, this was right after the Asheville Holiday Parade, so I think my expectations were higher than they should have been. I don't know about you, but a bunch of freezing, sullen teenagers stomping down the street don't exactly inspire warm feelings of holiday spirit. A nighttime parade with lots of lights can't make up for a noticeable lack of "sparkle" amongst the cast. Luckily, we were providing our own "sparkle" thanks to our flasks and mini bottles of booze.

The next morning, we headed off to Dollywood to check out their idea of Christmas in the Smokey Mountains. As you know, before I became an international country music star, I grew up in the Smokeys. Wait, that wasn't me. That was Dolly. And Dollywood didn't disappoint, at least where decorations and festivities were concerned. The whole park was festooned with lights and holiday merriment. It was lovely. All the rides were closed, because of the cold, so we spent most of our time walking around shopping, eating and wishing everyone a "Gary Christmas." We did this, of course, because our friend Gary was with us, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Since it was so cold, we ducked into one of the theaters and enjoyed a live holiday concert, which was surprisingly secular up until the very end, when the angel and the fog machine showed up.

I came home inspired, but not from visions of an "Old-Fashioned Southern Christmas" in my head, but from the growing feeling that with our tinsel tree and black ornaments, we should probably just be ourselves and let the sugarplums fall where they may. Several years ago, one of our rejected party themes was Cirque du Snowflake, which Michael hated, but I thought was just horrible enough to actually be good. So, stealing a little from that theme, we decorated the outside of the house and our driveway with snowflake lights, then added snowflake touches here and there around inside.

The retro house, the silver tree and the glittering snowflakes have given our little mountain home a cold, sterile and soulless feeling, so I couldn't be happier!

We were ready for a party.

More to come...

The Holidays are Busting Out All Over

2008-12-04T06:15:00.000-08:00

I haven't written in ages, so I have lots to catch up on. It's so easy to get swept up in all the preparations and tasks preceding and during the holidays that you forget to stop and write it all down, so friends, family and strangers can read about it.

First up is the Asheville Holiday Parade. We've been hearing about this thing since before we even moved here. Friends here promised us that whatever it lacked in sophistication, it would more than make up in drunken debauchery. How could we refuse? The key, we were told, is to station yourself on the patio of a bar, so you can start drinking as soon as they open. (And after 12:00 noon, because of the crazy alcohol laws.)

In an effort to subvert this tradition, the town decided to have the parade earlier this year. Undaunted, our little group arrived bearing thermoses of bloody marys, mimosas and, our contribution, hot buttered rum. Since the morning started with frigid temperatures, I'm glad we had something to warm us up a bit. Here's a helpful hint, though. Hot buttered rum tends to separate, so be sure to give your thermos a good shake before you pour.

What had been described as "heckling the parade," actually turned out to be no more than good-natured chanting. Our group grew to over 20 and would dutifully cheer and applaud for each float and group that went by. But on top of that, we'd start chanting helpful suggestions or demands for action. For instance, we had no patience for bands taking a break. So our crowd would start chanting, "Play! Play! Play!" and the bands would always comply. We got similar responses from dancers and all the martial arts kids. During lulls, the group would break out in Christmas carols, or failing that, TV theme songs. It was all extremely silly.

I used to be highly critical of my own hometown holiday parade. If only I had been drinking and surrounded by a group of funny and outrageous friends. Even the inevitable appearance of the town's garbage trucks would have been more enjoyable. There were no garbage trucks in the Asheville parade, but they did have tractors and horses and lots and lots of churches and competing manger scenes. And actress/model Andie MacDowell, who happens to be a resident of Asheville. Here's a photo:

She's unbelievably beautiful in person. In fact, she's so beautiful, I didn't even start shouting "Murder! Murder! Murder!" at her fur boots. Though I'm going to assume they're faux fur, since she was on the Humane Society float.

We had such a good time at the parade, that I really was sad when it came to an end. Our hosts told us it was a better experience when it was later in the day, because you had more time to drink before hand. True to form, they started making plans to meet earlier next year. At the risk of sounding too treacly, I'm really grateful for the people we've met here, who have embraced us and always include us in their plans now. It's humbling and very sweet.

We have one more parade to attend before the holidays end, though. This weekend we're off to Gatlinburg, Tennessee to witness the Fantasy of Lights Christmas Parade. The name alone makes me giddy.

More soon!

Be sure to check out my parade photos on my Flickr page!

Official Drink of 2008

2008-11-21T06:42:00.000-08:00

I know it's late in 2008, but with the holidays coming up and all the turmoil in the world, people are going to be drinking more than ever. Since moving to Asheville, I've been on the hunt for a drink to order when we're out or something easy to make for friends who come over. For some reason, my standard cosmo or lemon drop that I made and drank so frequently in California just didn't feel right in North Carolina. I tried various other concoctions and have gotten by the past few months ordering a simple Mandarin & 7-Up. Except at Jack of the Wood, who informed me they don't have any of that "fancy stuff."

As with most culinary and mixology delights we've discovered here, this one was introduced to us by a wonderful fellow named John Fisher. John is an extraordinary cook and the unofficial Mayor of the UNC-Asheville Farmer's Market. So, without further ado, I offer, for your consideration, my new favorite drink:

The Whiskey Sour

1/2 oz bourbon
1 1/2 oz lemon juice
3/4 oz simple syrup
1 tablespoon of cherry juice, plus one maraschino cherry for garnish

You can also use a sour mix instead of the lemon and simple syrup and garnish with an orange slice, instead of a cherry.

Enjoy! Hopefully, all our friends back in Los Angeles will order one the next time they're at a bar (or now, if they're currently at a bar) and think of us!

Retail Therapy

2008-11-19T22:16:00.001-08:00

So the second trip to Charlotte this week was the realization of an obsession that began on Saturday. The mysterious and tantalizing name "Southern Christmas Show" called to me. I've been telling Michael and everyone who will listen that I intend to have an old-fashioned Southern Christmas this year. The only problem is that I have no idea what that means. So I was hoping an event called the Southern Christmas Show would illuminate things.

I read in the Sunday paper that a local church group was taking a busload of folks to the event on Tuesday, and I was very, very tempted to hop on board. After all, they were offering a continental breakfast on the bus! But part of my reason for going back to Charlotte was to stop at Trader Joe's and stock up on Black Mountain Vineyards wine, and I didn't think a busload of people would take a detour just for me. If you haven't discovered Black Mountain yet, it's the best $5.99 wine you'll ever taste. We took it for granted when we had a dozen Trader Joe's stores in our backyard. Now, when the closest is two hours away, we stock up like crazy people preparing for a blizzard.

Before I could go wine hoarding, I was anxious to explore the Southern Christmas Show. It cost $9 to get in, and the demographic was clearly elderly and female. But I didn't care. I was there to learn, to absorb and observe. It did not disappoint. I happily stood in line to buy ornaments and cheerfully studied tree after tree of carefully themed designs. There were loads of vendors offering the latest in Christmas crafts and decorations and lights and holly as far as the eye could see. However, there were a few missteps. There is a fine line between festive and garish, and the line was erased and redrawn many, many times. I tried to imagine incorporating peacock feathers and cowboy hats in my decor, but decided to stay focused on our mid-century meets Edward Gorey theme in all black and silver. I found a handful of black ornaments to add to our collection and some potpourri so strong it made my eyes water. Everyone was very friendly and full of holiday spirit, and it wasn't difficult to start humming along with the carols playing everywhere.

Flush with the Christmas spirit, I decided to go to the mall for a fix. Asheville has a lot of shopping, but I miss my Macy's, Restoration Hardware and Pottery Barn. Luckily, I have this weird navigational sixth sense. I can enter any strange city and find a shopping mall almost instantly. I first discovered this gift with toy stores. I could stand in the street and know which way to go to find Toys R Us. I'm like a superhero. So I quickly found the fabulous South Park Mall and was thrilled to discover they had a Nordstrom's and a Crate & Barrel. I had a great time just strolling around, window shopping and feeling like I was back in a big city again. In Los Angeles, you all walk by Sur la Table, never imagining what life might be like without one! When I saw it listed on the mall directory, I almost wept.

I finally made it to Trader Joe's and filled my basket with cheap, but delicious wine. Then, trying not to look like a gigantic lush, I threw in a box of crackers before veering noisily towards the checkout. It was a beautiful and festive day, and it was nice to get away and not think about anything more serious than finding a black cow ornament. It's not difficult to throw myself into the holiday season and turn it into the sort of out-of-control mess they make holiday specials and movies about. I mean, I always sided with Lucy in the Charlie Brown special. Why not have a big pink aluminum Christmas tree, Charlie Brown? Who wants a stupid little twig? I think the people at the Southern Christmas Show would agree.

We Need a Little Christmas

2008-11-16T07:01:00.000-08:00

Two trips to Chartlotte in one week. The first trip was on Saturday. We wanted to take part in the national day of protests against Prop 8 and the continued discrimination against gays. I had actually been dreading this. The whole Prop 8 thing has been so emotionally overwhelming and I just get angry and physically ill when I think about it or read the news or hear the latest wacko lie about the dangers of gay marriage. Massachusetts is about to celebrate five years of legalized gay marriage and guess what? It's not being taught in schools. Churches are not being shut down for refusing to marry gay people. The world didn't end. See, I'm angry again. It doesn't take much these days.

So I wasn't really looking forward to carrying a sign and marching down the streets of Charlotte, North Carolina. But then, I couldn't imagine staying home and sending Michael off on his own, either. So I went out sign shopping on Friday. While deciding whether or not to get the really pointy stakes or the less dangerous squared-off design, I strolled over to the Christmas department at Lowe's. You wouldn't think an angry, gay atheist would have a soft spot for Christmas, but I do. There's something about the lights and the decorations and the traditions that still provides a sense of comfort and warmth. As I was looking for a three-foot silver wreath to match our tree, I was suddenly inspired. I don't care if it's still two weeks before Thanksgiving, I'm going to put up our tree, decorate the house and start celebrating Christmas now!

This wore off as soon as I got home and decided to drink instead.

But the Christmas thing didn't go away that easily. On our trek to Charlotte the next day, we got off at the wrong exit and ran right into something called the Southern Christmas Show. A friend explained that it's a yearly event/showcase, promising six acres of Christmas decorations, crafts and food guaranteed to melt even the coldest and most cynical heart (aka mine). We found the protest, and I'm glad we did. It really was cathartic, joining in with hundreds of others, not feeling so isolated and alone, sharing the emotions with a sympathetic crowd. I had been worried that we'd see a lot of anti-gay protesters, but none showed up. The local media covering the event kept asking if we'd seen any. I guess it's not a news story unless you can get the haters spouting their poison. Well, fuck the media. You'll notice that in any coverage of the protests, they refer to us as "activists," "protesters" and "demonstrators." If you had been there you would have seen we're families and friends and people from all walks of life, ethnicities and backgrounds. But describing us like that would only humanize us. And now I'm angry again.

It was a good day. I'm glad we went. I needed to do something, and it felt good to be involved. Before we left, I gave my sign that said "Love Conquers All" and "You Can't Outlaw Love" to someone who didn't have a sign. We drove away knowing that come what may, we were here. And as we left Charlotte, I made a mental note to look up the details on this Southern Christmas Show.

To be continued...

On the Boards

2008-11-09T05:22:00.000-08:00

As you may have read on Michael's Twitter log, we made our Broadway debut yesterday after seeing Hairspray...sort of. The impetus for this trip was to see our friend Susie in the show, and she was great. Her comic timing and command of the audience really stole the show. So afterward, we got to go backstage to say hi and meet some of the cast. I say backstage, but we were actually onstage. Waiting along with us was actress/comedienne Mo Gaffney, which was a special treat because we're both big fans of hers and have just missed meeting her a few times back in Los Angeles. We chatted with her and took pics and indulged in our own little fantasies of traipsing the boards on Broadway. When Susie joined us we also got to meet cast member Kevin Meaney and saw, from just a few feet away, George Wendt, who's currently playing Edna in the show. Overall, really a fun and exciting experience!

Then, last night we got to have another one of those once-in-a-lifetime theatre experiences. We got to see Patti LuPone in Gypsy. Michael got the tickets, but it was 100% for me. Michael was not a Patti fan. He used to cringe whenever one of her songs came on the Broadway channel on Sirius. My theory is that you really have to become a Patti fan early on. You have to be a 10-year old gay boy who saves his allowance for a month to buy the dual-cassette cast recording of Evita with Patti and Mandy Patinkin. You've got to listen to it until it wears out and stand on your bed, arms outstretched, belting "Don't cry for me, Argentina!" That's where and how life-long Patti LuPone fans are made. Michael didn't do any of that. Crazy.

I'd never seen her perform live before, so I was pretty much a trembling mess when the orchestra started the overture. I wasn't the only one. The audience went nuts as soon as they heard that distinctive voice yell from the back of the theatre, "Sing out, Louise!" She was phenomenal! Even Michael admitted admiration for her when all was said and done. The whole show was great, really. The staging was simple, but very clever and evocative of the time period. I'm glad they saved money on the sets, because they splurged on a full orchestra and put them right on stage behind the scrim. It was thrilling to hear that score and that voice with a full orchestra! So many shows now are skimping on the music, using smaller and smaller orchestras to try to save money. Ask before you buy your tickets!

Above and beyond her vocal prowess, Patti gave a raw, complex and sometimes sinister performance as the mother of all stage mothers, Mama Rose. It really was thrilling being that close to that much talent. Which brings me to my final thoughts on not only Gypsy, but all the theatre we've seen this weekend. Namely, I'm jealous. Why couldn't I have been born talented instead of just a smart ass? Why can't I dance and sing? It's completely unfair that instead of leaping and spinning and belting B flats, I'm sitting in the audience trying not to mangle my Playbill. It doesn't help that Gypsy is all about someone with no talent who makes it to the top (of the bottom). But it's especially cruel that she's played by someone with talent! Why couldn't they have cast someone with no talent to play the untalented daughter?

It's a personal injustice that's right up there with my height. My father is 6'3" and I'm 5'9". What the hell? My whole life would have been different if I could have just been a tall dancer. Stupid genetics.

So today we're off to see the sights, do some shopping and have vegetarian Dim-Sum before going to see Susie's cabaret show tonight. People from Los Angeles may remember us dragging them one-by-one and in groups to see CA$HINO. It'll be fun to see it in its New York incarnation.

And still have to try to make it to FAO Schwarz.

Oversleeping in the City That Never Sleeps

2008-11-08T08:24:00.000-08:00

Greetings from New York! Specifically, from the Muse Hotel, just a few steps from Times Square and Broadway. We decided to do a mad dash to New York City this weekend in order to see our friend Susie in Hairspray before it closes. Since we're here, we're also seeing Equus and Gypsy, with legendary Broadway diva Patti LuPone.

We saw Equus last night, starring Daniel Radcliffe from Harry Potter fame. It's a very intense play, and Mr. Radcliffe was very good. I completely forgot about Harry Potter after a few minutes. And for those of you who are curious about the full frontal nudity, let me just say that the play is of average length, but very thick with subtext.

:-)

We're off to brunch now, then to the Hairspray matinee. We managed to squeeze in a trip to the Times Square Toys R Us, and I'm hoping to make it to FAO Schwarz, too.

Will post more tonight!

The More Things Change

2008-11-05T14:03:00.000-08:00

Spoiler warning! If you haven't read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, you might want to skip this blog entry, because I intend to discuss a pivotal scene in it.

It is the most desperate hour for Harry and his friends. They have been captured by the Death Eaters, and Voldemort is on his way to kill them. With only moments to spare, Harry calls upon his old friend Dobby the House Elf, who is able to rescue them from their dire circumstances. However, in the thrilling, climactic moments, just as Dobby is about to escape with his friends, Bellatrix Lestrange throws a dagger and fatally wounds Dobby in the stomach.

That, my friends, is how I feel today. Obama's win was nothing short of thrilling. We jumped up from our seats, we cheered, we shed tears of joy and relief and hugged each other and the people around us. Then, as is so often the case these days, bad news announced itself with a beep from the cell phone. The polls in California had closed, and Prop 8 was way ahead in numbers. Suddenly, the elation and joy I had just been feeling disappeared, and I felt like I took a knife to the stomach.

So as the room around us exploded into cheers and celebration and promises of change and hope and a new beginning, a voice in my head whispered, "But not for you." Suddenly, it felt like the whole world was on a train departing towards a grand and exciting destination, only I was left standing on the platform at the station, waving goodbye. But I'm not alone. Thousands of married gay and lesbian couples and millions of my gay and lesbian brothers and sisters stand with me, still waiting for equality, still waiting for justice, still waiting for the "land of the free" that we were promised in the storybooks we read as children to materialize for us, too.

But storybooks are just storybooks. "Justice for all" and "equality" come with footnotes. Sometimes the bad guys win. Sometimes your friends escape danger and find happiness, and you get a knife in the stomach.

It is a new world today. For that, I am grateful. There will be change and hope and renewed sense of possibility.

But not for me.

Halloween in Asheville: Smothered, Covered, Peppered and Capped

2008-11-02T20:23:00.000-08:00

Is it possible that I now look forward to Halloween more than Christmas? I love all the planning, preparation and shopping. I love the camaraderie and fellowship and goodwill. I love the candy. So Halloween is a lot like Christmas, except I get to dress up and scare people. And I almost never do that on Christmas morning.

Halloween in Asheville was brilliant. Because a few of us needed time and help with makeup and costumes, Michael and I decided to have an impromptu Makeup, Dress Up, Drink Up party. So some friends stopped by to get ready and enjoy a few cinnamon apple martinis before heading out to other parties. It was one of my favorite parts of the evening. To me, the prep work is as fun as the final result. Plus, my greatest Halloween fantasy came true: people showed up in need of costumes. So I got to pull some things out of our trunk and help them transform for the evening.

On the trick-or-treating front, we only got two. We had decorated the canopy of trees along our driveway with ghosts and lights and fog, so I was hoping we'd attract a little attention. Luckily, a neighbor brought his girls by, and I was so grateful, I gave them extra helpings of candy. I know people have convinced themselves that trick-or-treating is dangerous, but I really think we need to bring it back. I hate that it's been co-opted by malls and churches. I really think I need to organize our neighborhood into a must-see Halloween destination next year. I'll have to give that some thought.

So after we donned our costumes, we set off for the first party of the night. Michael, Mallery and I dressed as...Waffle House Vampires. It was a little high concept, I admit. And if you don't have a Waffle House in your town, you may be even more confused right now. But not all vampires are counts or wealthy plantation owners or Vice Presidents. Sometimes they work the late shift at Waffle House. So we were representing them.

The first party was fun, and it was great to see so many people dressed up. People in L.A. have a tendency to be "too cool" for Halloween. But I always enjoy seeing what other people come up with. Strangely enough, we only saw one Sarah Palin all night. And she was in a straight jacket. So it could very well have been the real one. Needless to say, we saw lots of other vampires, but we were the only Waffle House Vampires out that night. We then moved on to Scandals, which was hosting a big party with the worst layout and bar set-up in the world. Luckily, the music was great, so we got to dance and show off our fangs to lots of cute guys in sailor and soldier costumes.

The last stop of the evening was almost a dare. Mind you, were were dressing in real Waffle House uniforms that we bought off of eBay. Everyone said we had to go to Waffle House in costume, that it would be hilarious. Well, here's what I learned. No one really wants to see other people dressed as them for Halloween. After the whole restaurant grew quiet and turned to look at us, first confused, then unamused, we backed up right out the door and went home!

A couple of final thoughts:

1.) We really missed Laura and Paula's annual Halloween bash back in Los Angeles. It just didn't feel like Halloween without them.

2.) A friend of ours came up with a clever idea for trick-or-treating. He filled a paper bag with assorted miniature bottles of booze, then offered the grab bag to fellow revelers. You could probably use a traditional plastic pumpkin, too. Though the fun part was not knowing what you were reaching for. I think I'll steal this idea and rework it for the Christmas stocking concept.

Hope you all had a Happy Halloween! Pics will be up this week.

Square Dancin', Two-Steppin', Apple Pie Eatin' Weekend

2008-10-28T06:42:00.000-07:00

When someone asks you to come along to watch gay square dancers in Halloween costumes, how can you say no? We had been dying to see our friend Gary call a square dance, so we tagged along to Atlanta for the weekend.

The drive from Asheville to Atlanta was beautiful. The leaves are still changing colors and reaching their peak in the mountains and the lower elevations, so we left cold, rainy Asheville and drove down into warmer, sunny parts of North Carolina and Georgia. We stopped at the Tallulah Point Overlook and took in the sights of the Tallulah Gorge, which the Great Wallenda crossed on a tight rope in 1970. Then we stopped at Jaemor Farm Market, which was surrounded by an apple orchard and fields of corn. A corn maze beckoned, but we were there for their fried apple pies and apple fritters. I went one step further and had the apple cider. You know what they say: "A fried apple a day keeps the doctor away." Or something like that.

We stayed at the beautiful W Hotel in Atlanta, which is hip and trendy in the phoniest way. It made me miss L.A. No one does hip, trendy and phony like Los Angeles. We checked in, then headed off to dinner, a costume change, then the square dance. Michael and I wore our western shirts from Drysdale's in Tulsa, so we felt appropriately attired to watch a hoe-down. Gary was decked out as a pregnant nun, and a good number of the dancers were in costume as well.

How to describe the square dance? Michael can attest that once it got started, I actually got a little choked up. Maybe because it had been such an oppressive week politically and economically, with the whole world seemingly lining up to hate the gays. But the wild abandon and the camaraderie of the dancers really got to me. It was a mixed crowd of gays, lesbians and straights, so sometimes men were leading and sometimes women were leading, and when Gary called for the girls or boys to do something specific, you always got a mixed bag of genders. And everyone was smiling and hugging and having such a good time, I totally lost it. Why can't the world just get along and square dance?

Michael was completely disgusted/baffled by my emotional meltdown, but I chalk it up to just about the only thing that can make me cry: triumph of the human spirit. Sure, the world is crumbling down around us, but you can't crush the human spirit. We will dance and we will sing and we will triumph.

Clearly, I needed a drink. So after the square dance festivities, we headed out to a bar called the Three Legged Cowboy. Yup, it's a gay country and western dance bar. So Michael and I got to watch everyone line dancing and two-stepping. I've actually seen this sort of thing before at gay bars in Dallas and even Los Angeles. In fact, I think I've only ever seen men two-stepping together. I should watch mixed couples do it some time. Anyway, it's really fun to watch. I particularly like the fast, centrifugal force kind of spinning and the death-defying fancy footwork. Plus, it's hard not to enjoy watching good looking guys in jeans, boots and cowboy hats. Gary has promised to teach us how to do it. Which, to me, means one thing: shoe shopping.

On Sunday, we headed back towards Asheville, but stopped first at an outlet mall outside of Atlanta. I've been needing a Restoration Hardware and Kenneth Cole fix, so it was nice to be back among familiar shopping venues. Then we headed off to Helen, GA, which we had read about a few weeks ago as a town that celebrates Octoberfest all month long. Well, how could they not? Helen is a little German town in the mountains. It was really adorable, with all the chalet and village style of architecture. It was touristy with a capital T, but it was still cute and I was kind of glad that such a place exists. It was very similar to Solvang in California, but on a bigger scale. We shopped a little, had dinner, then began the final leg back to Asheville.

It was a fun weekend. And I sort of like tagging along with locals doing their thing, instead of trying to plan my own experience. It's somehow more authentic. Now, everybody bow to your partner!

Of Leaves and Birds

2008-10-22T07:28:00.000-07:00

The air has grown colder and now carries with it falling leaves and the aroma of chimney smoke and an intangible, yet unmistakably autumn crispness. The trees surrounding our house and the lake have burst into gold and crimson flames one by one. The main holdouts seem to be the massive oak tree in the front yard and all the white pine trees, of course.

We received a note from the landlord informing us we can't just let the leaves lay around on the ground; we have to remove them. I've been finding the leaves piling up around the driveway rather charming, as they flutter and crunch as we drive in and out. In Los Angeles, leaves are systematically removed by an army of gardeners carrying leaf blowers. Even if you didn't employ a gardener, I think the city would just send them around to blow away your leaves. Here, the leaves are going to keep falling for at least another month. So I'll either be outside raking every day, or we're going to have to fly in a leaf-blowing battalion from Los Angeles.

Nature requires a lot of attention. Yesterday, we discovered a fat, puffy little robin hanging out on our balcony, hopping around and ruffling his feathers. Our best guess was that he flew into the window and bonked his head or something. He didn't seem injured, just disoriented. Nonetheless, I became fairly obsessed with his well-being for the rest of the day. This is another reason I like to keep nature at a distance. Sooner or later, it shows up injured and wants you to put it out of its misery.

Michael offered him a pile of birdseed, but the robin chose to sit in the corner of the balcony and enjoy the view of the lake. We had a nice breeze yesterday, so the fall colors of the trees reflected beautifully in the rippling waters below. So maybe he just needed to take a break and enjoy nature from the human perspective. I should have offered him a cocktail, which is how I view the world most of the time.

I checked on him every few minutes over the course of the afternoon yesterday, each time dreading the scenario playing out in my head. What if we have to take him to the vet? Will they laugh at us? Do people living so close to nature have some nonchalant method for executing wounded animals? I was nearing a fever pitch of worry when I looked out again and he was gone. I had told Michael, hopefully, that maybe he was just disoriented and would fly off when he felt better, not really believing with I was saying. But, for once, my false optimism came to fruition!

I suppose I need to put some sort of sign up on the sliding glass door to prevent future collisions: "Please don't crash here. We're from L.A." Or maybe I'll just bring all the falling leaves up to the balcony to create a big soft landing pad for wayward birds, thus solving both the leaf problem and the bird problem all at once.

Vote Early, Vote Often

2008-10-15T20:18:00.000-07:00

I voted today. Did you? Since I'm maintaining my California citizenship, I voted by absentee ballot and mailed it in today. I was so nervous about it getting to its final destination, that I didn't trust putting it in our mailbox or in the big blue US mailbox down the street. I went to the post office and handed it over in person. "Get this to California! Pronto!"

California needs me. I'm not worried about the presidential part of the ballot, though. The issue that's on my mind on a daily basis is Proposition 8, which threatens to write discrimination clearly and permanently into the state constitution. If passed, on the evening of November 4, or perhaps in the early morning of November 5, thousands of married gay and lesbian couples will be told their marriages are meaningless. Can you imagine the pain and despair and the injustice that will be unleashed onto the world as thousands of voices cry out in despair? That anyone could stand in a voting booth and say, "I don't want you to be equal...ever" is mind-boggling. It is despicable and cruel, and yet it is a very real and looming possibility.

So California needs me to vote no on Prop 8. No matter what happens, I need my vote to be counted. Whether this is a final solution or if there is more discrimination to come, I want to make sure that history shows I voted no. But what the proponents of Prop 8 don't realize is that no matter what laws are passed or what insidious words of hatred are written into the constitution, they will always fail at their ultimate mission. For no one, no matter how wealthy or powerful or bigoted or ignorant, will ever erase the love and dignity I and millions of other gays and lesbians share with our partners. We will not go away. We will not disappear. We will only grow stronger.

No matter what the polls say, and that includes the hourly presidential election polls, make sure you vote. Don't be complacent. Don't think that your vote doesn't matter, because it's never mattered more.

Thank you. I approved this message.

Haunted by Halloween

2008-10-10T07:44:00.000-07:00

In preparation for our move across the country, I did my best to edit our possessions down to the absolute essentials. The non-essential items that made it through did so because of purely sentimental reasons. For example, Michael brought his life-sized cow yard ornament that his father made for him. And I brought Castle Grayskull.

Now that October is in full swing, and fall surrounds us on every side, I decided it was time to start planning for Halloween. So I pulled the three crates of Halloween stuff we brought with us out of the storage room. Yes, three. How is that an "absolute essential," you ask? How is it that we have two boxes of Christmas stuff, but three for Halloween?

I was never terribly interested in Halloween in college or early single life. I never had the foresight to plan ahead, then dreaded trying to throw a costume together at the last minute. So I would avoid Halloween altogether, or I would be that guy who shows up at a party sans costume. Then, when Michael and I met, Halloween started getting fun. We would plan ahead, think of clever or funny costumes, then spend time gathering the materials and putting everything together. After a couple of years of this, I realized I had this long-dormant dream of having a trunk full of costumes at my disposal. So I started gathering and preserving our costumes and accessories from year to year.

Maybe it's from watching too many episodes of I Love Lucy or The Brady Bunch, but I find it very satisfying to say, "Let me check the trunk. I'm sure we have some pilgrim costumes."

The other fantasy I have is being the go-to guy for last-minute Halloween help. Like, it's Halloween night and the doorbell rings. But instead of trick-or-treaters, it's a friend who's on his way to a costume party, but doesn't have a costume. "Wait here," I'll say. "Let me get you a cape." Somehow, I sleep better knowing I can do that.

Looking through the contents of our Halloween trunks, I get as nostalgic as I would looking through family heirlooms or Christmas ornaments. Aw, remember when were were obsessed with Iron Chef and went as Morimoto and Chen Kenichi? Remember when we were Amish? Remember how unpleasant the make-up and prosthetics were for Snow Miser and Heat Miser? Oh look, my crown of thorns!

This year, we won't be parading down Santa Monica Boulevard or going to Laura and Paula's annual Halloween bash. Instead, we'll be dressing up and hitting the local events and soirees. I'm particularly keen to find out if we get any trick-or-treaters in this area. I'll have to ask the neighbors. Our driveway and carport are begging to be transformed into something haunted.

It's funny how a year can fly by, defined in picturesque terms by holidays and seasons. Like the title cards in Meet Me in St. Louis that tick off the passing of time with Norman Rockwell-like paintings of summer, fall, winter and spring. It makes me wish I had some Meet Me in St. Louis costumes.

When Autumn Leaves Start to Fall

2008-10-07T21:49:00.000-07:00

It's been many years since I've experienced a real fall season. I'd forgotten how lovely and evocative this time of year can be. There's just something so genuinely authentic about it all. The chilly mornings, the warms afternoons, the early sunsets. The unmistakable feel of Halloween in the air. The trees in our yard are quickly exploding with reds and golds, and I'm looking forward to driving along the Blue Ridge Parkway to take some pics of the big leaf color exchange across the mountains.

I still feel somewhat unprepared for the chill in the air, and I'm not the only one. The crisp mountain air seems to have irritated Henry's arthritis. So when Michael gets up in the morning and invites me and Henry to do the same, we just roll over and ignore him. For me, it's too cold to venture out of bed. For Henry, he needs one of us to help him lift his butt off the floor, before he can stand. He has his good days and his bad days, but don't we all?

I'm in the midst of having my own senior moments, anyway. I decided to grow a goatee again in preparation for Halloween. I've been shaving for well over a year now, so imagine my surprise when I discovered that my goatee is now partially white. At first I thought, "Wow, look at all the platinum blonde hair..." But no, it's white. I guess it's cool that I'm going to skip the whole gray thing and just go straight to Santa Claus white. As you know, I just returned from a visit to Oklahoma, where I found my 69-year-old father still had his full head of jet black hair, with only a few strands of silver at the temples. And here I am. White beard. Bald spot. Still only 5'9", while he towers over me at 6'3". Aren't old people supposed to shrink? I'm afraid to measure myself, in case I've dropped to 5'8".

Rolling Stone just published an article about John McCain that said his insecurities about his short stature ultimately turned him into an unstable and abusive monster. He's 5'9", too.

Anyway, I'm way off topic now. I was talking about the fall season. I was craving some good, old-fashioned, fall-appropriate homemade comfort food this evening, so I decided to go to the store and buy some. I hopped in the Smart Car, drove to the vegetarian grocery store with my canvas grocery bags, and bought some tofu pot pie. Even I realized I'd crossed over into caricature territory. So be it. It was yummy and hit the spot and reminded me I need to start looking for a big fake turkey for Thanksgiving.

Coming from the land of the Endless Summer, I can't help but feel a certain yearning for the perpetual golden glow of California. But a real fall season, with all its visual and sensory treasures, will keep me scribbling my pseudo-philosophical musings for a couple more months now.

Sunburned for Obama

2008-10-05T16:12:00.000-07:00

It was sort of a political weekend for our little household. We spent the day today at the Obama rally at Asheville High School. We overslept a little this morning, then dashed off to the high school at 10:00AM for the 2:00PM speech. It was a huge crowd, estimated to be about 28,000, and Mr. Obama was a powerful and eloquent speaker. My only previous experience with this sort of thing was in college, when Heather and I stood in line for hours to hear Hillary speak. (That was back when Hill was campaigning for Bill, not the other way around.)

In our mad dash to the event, I neglected to apply sunscreen, which is a rare oversight for me. Usually, I have SPF 70 with me at all times. I am a fair-skinned, ruddy, freckly sort of fellow, and without protection, turn a brilliant shade of red, get all kinds of 4th-grade-level freckles and develop instant wrinkles. So after approximately six hours in the sun, I am now a bright red disaster. But, frankly, it was worth it. It felt like something historic was happening, and not just because Obama is the first presidential hopeful to visit Asheville since Nixon. It felt like change and hope and equality were actually within reach, actually possible.

However, I couldn't help but be acutely aware of my recent epiphany from my Oklahoma trip, when I realized that people long to be told only what they want to hear, whether from politicians or pop stars. I was definitely in a crowd that cheered at all the right places and booed whenever the bad guys were mentioned. People want to be told someone is going to look out for them and take care of them. To his credit, Obama warned that his campaign promises were not going to be easy to fulfill, and that vast, powerful and wealthy forces stand in the way. I appreciated the dose of reality, frankly. But still cheered along with everyone else. Obama's catchphrase is "Yes we can" and the crowd chanted it throughout his speech. "Yes we can! Yes we can!"

After the rally, the crowd of 28,000 was funneled through one set of stairs, so it was taking a while. Michael and I got separated, but I saw him make it up the stairs. Just after he ascended, a little old lady collapsed on the third or fourth step, thus bringing the exit to a halt for everyone. I confess that I found this a little annoying. She had plenty of opportunity to collapse before she got to the stairs. A nurse appeared from the crowd, the police rushed over. People handed over bottles of water and tissues to wipe her brow. The cop told her help was on the way, but she waved him off and said she could make it. So as the little old lady pulled herself to her feet and began climbing the stairs again, the crowd began chanting, "Yes you can! Yes you can!"

How could I stay mad at the little old lady after that? So, even while intoxicated with political promises, people still managed to be kind, generous and even funny. And that gave me more hope for humanity than a thousand speeches. Or maybe I was suffering from sunstroke.

"I'm cold, and there are wolves after me."

2008-10-02T07:03:00.000-07:00

I'm writing this from the safety and warmth of my bed. Apparently, while I was away, summer ended abruptly and fall began, bringing with it falling leaves and falling temperatures. I had forgotten that a cold snap could happen in, you know, a snap. In Los Angeles, summer lingers on and on, and you may not notice it's fall until you realize all your trees are bare.

There's always a heat wave in Los Angeles in October, followed by the dry Santa Ana winds, then an outbreak of fires everywhere. Then around Halloween, when it seems there's no relief in sight, it will rain for a few minutes, help the firefighters, and fall officially begins. Sort of. Until the big February heat wave.

Apparently, our house here in Asheville is heated by a big tank of oil buried in our front yard. Thankfully, oil is cheap and readily available. Wait, it's the opposite of that. So I might as well stay in bed until spring.

P.S. Happy birthday to Michael! And a belated happy birthday to his lovely sister Mallery! Yesterday was her birthday. I shall eat a whole chocolate layer cake in their honor. But I'm still not getting out of bed.

Ohhhhhklahoma

2008-09-30T15:29:00.000-07:00

So I've been in Oklahoma for a few days. The original plan was to fly into town and take my precocious niece to a concert featuring popular country music boy band The Rascal Flatts. Coincidentally, my father required some minor surgery, so I extended my trip a couple of days to stick around and read all the magazines in the hospital waiting room. And in between these two big events, I played with the kids, chatted with the folks, read the local paper and tried to ignore the Fox News Channel that seems to be broadcast to every TV in the state at all times.

I have a complicated relationship with Oklahoma, and especially my hometown. I always say that the best thing about visiting my hometown is leaving my hometown. But it's where my family insists upon living, so it's like they live on Main Street in Hell and I have to go there a couple of times a year. My tiny hometown was dying when I was a kid, done in by the disappearing oil industry and the insidious Wal-Mart takeover. Tired of seeing my hometown turn into a new dust bowl, I gathered some civic-minded kids together in high school and we asked the Chamber of Commerce if we could plant flowers and trees on main street, to help beautify the town. We offered to raise the money, plant the flowers and take care of them. The Chamber of Commerce said no. So I gave up. Giving up is all there is to do there.

If my hometown was dying in the 80s, now it's a moldering corpse of a place, full of junk stores and houses rotting into the ground right where they stand. It is depressing. My niece just loves it and never wants to leave. She has a horse, after all. I have long believed the whole town should be bulldozed and paved over, or ritualistically burned to the ground. But that's just me.

The Rascal Flatts put on a pretty good show at the new BOK Center in Tulsa. And it was kind of funny to hear them tell the crowd they'd just been in Los Angeles and to hear the crowd actually boo. I recalled a few times I'd heard performers tell crowds in Los Angeles they'd just come from Oklahoma or Texas, and the crowd just laughed. Anyway, the Rascals played up to the crowd quite a bit, assuring them that Tulsa had the best parties, the prettiest women and the most sensible, down-to-earth, yet fun-at-parties group of people in the world. The crowd believed them, never dreaming they probably tell every town that. And I suddenly had a major realization. Like, major.

I suddenly realized that people like to be talked down to. Enjoy being patronized. Love being condescended to. People want "aw shucks" celebrities and politicians to tell them what they want to hear, instead of the truth. It's bizarre, but I suddenly understood a lot more about human nature than I did before. People are comforted by familiarity, lies and country music philosophy. Anything more complex is viewed with suspicion. People not only want to be ignorant, they want their leaders and idols to just presume they're ignorant. We live in a world where there's no hope for truth or rational thought.

Aw shucks.

P.S. Sorry this was so depressing. I'm always like this after a trip to Oklahoma. It'll wear off in a couple of days.

A Weekend in Virginia

2008-09-21T16:30:00.000-07:00

Alan has been cutting our hair in Los Angeles for years. Michael's been going to him for 14-15 years, then I hopped on the Alan bandwagon about 9 years ago. One of the hardest parts about leaving Los Angeles was the prospect of being without a fantastic hair stylist for a year. So when Alan told us he'd be visiting his family in Lynchburg, Virginia for a month, we agreed that 5 hours was not too long to drive to get a haircut. So this weekend, we hopped in the car, bought the last drop of gas in Asheville, and headed to Lynchburg.

We had been warned that Lynchburg is Jerry Falwell territory. His university is there, plus there's a highway named after him. But since he's dead, I wasn't too worried about it. Conservative scariness aside, Lynchburg is a beautiful little community. We found Alan, he performed his magic on our shaggy noggins, then we went out to dinner at a fabulous wine and cheese restaurant called Dish. It's very gratifying knowing that I can get a nice Pinot Noir and some manchego cheese, even in Falwell land.

If you are a straight person reading this, you may not realize that gay people are everywhere. No matter how oppressive or conservative an environment, we're there. And everywhere. There are no gay bars in Lynchburg, but that doesn't mean there aren't gay people there. We saw them. We nodded, and with a smile let each other know that no matter where we travel in the world, we're not alone. Family is close by. It's a nice feeling.

The other nice surprise was what a historical place Virginia is. Appomattox, Colonial Williamsburg, Thomas Jefferson's Monticello. You hear about these places and file them away in your memory and never think you're going to be driving by them one day. We've definitely decided to return for a longer visit, so we can get a big dose of history and culture.

The drive home was gorgeous, as we headed down through Roanoke, then east towards North Carolina and Asheville. Lush, green forests and mountainsides dotted with little red barns and small herds of cattle. The whole weekend was a lovely reminder of what this whole year-long experiment is about. Seeing new things, exploring a different part of America and a different way of life. Oh, and driving 300 miles for a haircut.

A Long Time Ago, In a Bedroom Far, Far Away

2008-09-17T20:27:00.000-07:00

Whenever Michael returns from a trip, he looks around to see what I've changed. When I'm alone and the OCD kicks in, I tend to clean out closets or cabinets, throw away or donate stuff, move furniture around or re-organize everything. This time, I really only made three changes:

1. I bought a new fall-themed welcome mat.
2. I moved a side chair from one side of the room to the other.

And what was the third thing? Oh yeah!

3. I put Star Wars sheets on the bed.

When Michael saw the sheets, he confessed that he'd never slept on Star Wars sheets before, which is crazy, since I spent much of my childhood in bed with Darth Vader and Chewbacca. So when I saw that Pottery Barn was offering queen-sized Star Wars sheets, how could I resist?

May the force be with you!

Night Terrors

2008-09-14T17:48:00.000-07:00

In a funny bit of irony, Michael has gone back to Los Angeles, leaving me here in Asheville. Well, it's only for a few days. Still, it's enough time to remind me of what single life was like. Namely, lots of solitude and bad eating habits. While Michael has been away, I've been bad. And by "bad" I mean that I've been reading comic books, playing video games and drinking...Wild Cherry Pepsi. I'm not even supposed to have caffeine! I'm out of control!

Another problem I have with single life is sleeping alone. I'm prone to little nighttime anxiety attacks and nightmares, and when I met Michael I warned him that I wake up screaming with some regularity. Luckily, I also wake up at almost every noise, which is helpful at times, like when Henry was sick. The downside is that every noise makes me think we're under attack. The night is not my friend.

Anyway, despite having absolutely no talent in sports, I do swing a pretty mean baseball bat thanks to years of light saber practice. I told Michael that I was going to write about my anxiety in my blog, but then changed my mind because I didn't want the general public to know that I was alone, thus inviting them to come attack me in the middle of the night. Michael told me to be sure to include that reasoning in the blog, so people understand what he puts up with. In my defense, a friend of ours here recently informed me that we actually live in a bad part of town with a high crime rate. Oy.

But I have Henry. And I have my bat. And, if necessary, I have a very expensive light saber prop replica that I'm willing to take out of its box in the event of an emergency. Or if I consume enough Wild Cherry Pepsis, I'll just stay up all night until Michael gets back or I go to Wal-Mart and buy a machine gun.

All's Fair

2008-09-09T05:55:00.000-07:00

I can hear my mother's response to this post now. "Why can't you just go and have a good time?" Well, I did go. To the North Carolina Mountain State Fair. And I did have a good time. But because I'm never able to fully turn off the analytical part of my brain, I couldn't help but go into the experience with an anthropologist's eye. Hey, I took two courses of Anthro in college, so I think I'm qualified.

We had been warned beforehand that there would be a larger religious presence at the fair than we're used to. We're used to the Los Angeles and Orange Country state fairs, which are pretty secular as fairs go. I didn't give the warning much thought until we entered the vendor exhibit tent, innocently looking for a new veggie chopper. (Tangent: We bought a veggie chopper thing a few years ago at the L.A. fair and used it constantly. It broke recently, and since we bought it at a fair, we thought every fair would have them.)

Sadly, we didn't find our veggie chopper. Instead, in between the homemade soap and the Ginsu knives, we found the anti-abortion people. Then the various churches and ministries. Then the Sons of the Confederacy. Then the Republicans. I lump them all together, because they all find justification for their extreme behavior in the Bible. I've reached the point in my life where I physically cringe and shudder when I see any depictions of Jesus or see any religious icons. It's like I've become a vampire and recoil at the sign of the cross. Though it would be easy to blame my reaction on my demonic bloodthirst, it's actually much more simple. When you're bludgeoned with a hammer all your life, you tend to cringe when you see a hammer. You avoid trips to hammer conventions. You stay away from Home Depot.

As if the vendor/revival tent wasn't enough, there were scriptures dotted around the fairgrounds. Scriptures don't bother me so much. I'm usually sort of interested in how people quote them. I quote Shakespeare and The Simpsons all the time, so I am a student of context/quotation strategies. But I'm still puzzled by John 3:16 posted at the pony rides. It's like saying, "Hey kid. Hope you're enjoying your ride, because Jesus died for your sins." It seems a little drastic, when the Golden Rule would have sufficed.

In most all aspects, it was like any other fair. Animals, food, rides, games, etc. The religious and racist elements were jarring, to say the least. Like the attendees are dreamily eating their cotton candy and thinking, "This would have tasted better if it had been made by a slave. Ah, the good old days." I don't know. I was heartened by the surprisingly mixed crowd. People were there of all colors, origins, sexualities, economic backgrounds. It was the perfect picture of a melting pot society. Much more diverse than, say, the Orange Country fair, which can be blindingly white. So in the midst of all this diversity and seemingly harmonious co-existence, a family walks by all sporting Confederate flags and the Jesus people hand me a stack of mini-Bibles that promise comfort on the cover, but deliver the dreaded "God is angry" on the inside.

Admittedly, everyone we were with had a great time, laughing, eating and screaming on the rides. I seemed to be the only one looking over my shoulder and wondering if I could use a corn cob as a weapon if suddenly attacked by the Christian puppet show people.

"Why can't you just go and have a good time?"

Okay, okay. I will try.

Not Quite a Year in Asheville

2008-09-06T21:37:00.000-07:00

Before we left Los Angeles and moved to Asheville, we were warned about the struggling economy here and the lack of industry and job opportunities. But we're adventurers, so we decided to take the risk, hoping we'd find some way to support ourselves. Luckily, Michael has been able to retain his clients in Los Angeles and has carried on with business as usual since the move.

I'm a freelance writer and editor, so jobs, especially consistent jobs, are always a challenge to find no matter where I am. Here, it's been especially difficult. Asheville seems to be the land of opportunity for engineers and medical professionals, but I'm afraid I'm too old to go back to school now. We knew the risks, and I have no regrets about coming here. I'm going to give it a few more weeks and see what happens. Then I'll be heading back to Los Angeles to drum up some short-term contract work there. The plan would be to come back to Asheville for Christmas, then again next spring to help pack up.

I certainly haven't given up, and I'm not through with my Asheville experience just yet. If only I had kept up with my guitar lessons, I could be a street performer. Or maybe it's time to put all those years of theatrical training to the test and be a mime. There's nothing people love more than mimes. Plus, I hear they laugh silently all the way to the bank (when not trapped in a box or walking against the wind).

Next week we're going to the North Carolina Mountain State Fair! I've been promised the splendor of a genuine Christian puppet show, so I wouldn't miss that for anything! Stay tuned.

Hurricanes Blow

2008-08-30T08:14:00.000-07:00

As you may or may not know, I am in New Orleans right now. And as you may or may not know, there's a big ol' hurricane named Gustav heading this way. My main goal for this weekend was to make it to Friday night. The group I'm traveling with has a big party every year on the Friday night before Labor Day. This year, I did a little help with the planning, so I was especially invested in seeing it succeed.

Thankfully, the party was a big success and the majority of our group members made it. (Almost 300 people!) Additionally, we raised over $1,500 for a local AIDS charity, so I'm very happy about that.

Then this morning, the hotel slipped a letter under my door advising me that the city had called for voluntary evacuation of visitors today and mandatory evacuation tomorrow. Thankfully, Ben and Gary drove down from Asheville, so they will heroically whisk me out of harm's way and back to Michael and Henry. Henry is recovering nicely, by the way. He had a few scary hours on an operating table, and we almost lost him. But the amazing doctors and nurses stitched him up, gave him a blood transfusion and now he's resting comfortably at the feet of his beloved Michael.

So now I'm packing up, grabbing a few more photos and souvenirs and will start the trek home this afternoon! New Orleans is a city of very strong, very resourceful people, and I know they're going to be fine. I love this place and look forward to coming back again next year.

Gotta go! Wish me luck!

The Kindness of Strangers

2008-08-26T11:03:00.001-07:00

Poor little Henry. He may be 120 pounds, but when he's cradled in Michael's arms with his nose buried in a towel, he looks so small and fragile. It was a rough morning, so we decided we'd better take him to the hospital for some help. In the lobby of the hospital, he decided he wasn't going to move anymore willingly. So Michael, a nurse and I pushed and slid him into an examining room.

After two hours, some epinephrine, a tranquilizer shot and some acupuncture, Henry was subdued and no longer bleeding. We decided not to wait and see if it gets better on its own. Instead, we're taking Henry to South Carolina tomorrow morning for a CT scan. Everyone thinks it's most likely a nasal tumor, which will probably require chemo and radiation treatment.

Luckily, we've had several opinions all pointing to this same diagnosis. Which is good, because like I told Michael as we sat on the floor of the hospital, I don't entirely trust our doctor. "She's too pretty," I told him. "You can never trust pretty people." You know those beauty pageant candidates that always say, "I want to be a veterinarian, because I love animals!" And you think, "Sure, honey. Who wants a modeling career when you can be taking a cow's temperature?" Well, apparently sometimes they really do become veterinarians. Still, pretty people will kill you where you stand, especially if you're blocking a mirror.

The confusing part is that she seems so nice. In fact, everyone at the hospital has been extraordinarily kind to us. Technicians who weren't even involved in Henry's case popped in to see how he was doing and to ask if we needed anything. The tech who was helping us couldn't have been sweeter. She helped shove gauze up his nose, which is something we haven't been able to accomplish. Plus, she didn't even blink when Henry bled on her shoes. The guy who came in to twist the acupuncture needles spoke softly to Henry and stroked his fur. Even the pretty doctor, who first told us there was nothing else we could do, came back a few minutes later with the acupuncture needles and said, "We might as well give it a try!"

The tranquilizer shot and the acupuncture did the trick, but left him pretty much immobile. So we loaded him onto a stretcher and carried him back to the car for the ride home. Just as we were loading him into the back, a woman who had been in the lobby when we left stopped by the car and handed us a bag of M&Ms. "I keep extra bags in my car," she said. "You look like you could use some cheering up." Of course, I'm thinking, "Great. Some crazy serial killer drives around looking for gay guys taking their dogs to the vet and gives them poisoned M&Ms," but I just said, "Thank you."

People are nice here. They're nicer than I am. If I walked into a room and saw two tired, frazzled guys, splattered with blood, holding down a monster of a dog, I think I would just say, "Sorry, I must have the wrong room" and keep on walking. But here, they come in and try to help. It's humbling. It makes me think of The Color Purple, when Miss Celie helps Sofia in the general store, and Sofia tells her, "I want to thank you, Miss Celie, fo evrything you done for me. I 'members that day I was in the store with Miss Millie - I's feelin' real down. I's feelin' mighty bad. And when I see'd you - I knowed there is a God."

Clearly, I need some sleep.

A Boy and His Dog

2008-08-24T07:18:00.000-07:00

Though Henry made it through the rest of the day yesterday with no further incidents, he had a very rough night. Like an idiot, around 11:00PM, I told Michael, "Everything's going to be okay." As if on cue, Henry sneezed and his nosebleed started again. For the next few hours, we managed to stop it, then it would start again, then stop, then start. I say "we," but "we" all know that it was Michael. My main contribution was handing Michael the medicine and stroking Henry's head.

Even I couldn't be insensitive enough to take a picture, but I wish you all could have seen the tableau taking place on the floor of our bedroom. Michael sitting cross-legged, Henry's head resting on his knee, while he applied pressure to Henry's nose. It was one of those rare and pure moments where you understand what love is. I had been wanting to take him to the hospital and let them do all the work. But they couldn't have done it with such love and compassion. Henry trusts Michael completely and I couldn't help but remember our second trip to Asheville back in December. We managed to pick up a nasty flu on our flight and got off the plane feeling miserable. Our illness worsened every hour that we were here. At one point, I was just lying in bed, too sick to move, too nauseated to throw up, too feverish to sleep. Michael wasn't in much better shape, but I said, "Will you just rub my head?" He didn't hesitate. And strangely enough, within a few minutes I was feeling much better and fell asleep.

Michael stayed up all night with Henry. I finally went to sleep on the couch in the living room, forgetting that we have two other beds in the house. At 7:00AM, I woke up and found them both asleep, only a few feet from each other. Just last week I was joking that Henry only sees the world as "Michael" and "Not Michael." Which means that maybe Henry and I have more in common than I thought.

Blood and Milk

2008-08-23T05:15:00.000-07:00

"So," I said out loud to myself. "I'm mopping up blood at six o'clock in the morning." Poor Henry woke up this morning with a nosebleed. Like with people, it's not terribly serious, but there's just so much blood that it looks like a crime scene. As Michael whisked Henry off to the emergency animal hospital, I did what I always do in a crisis. I cleaned. I find the smell of 409 strangely comforting in times of trouble.

I don't come in contact with blood very often. Sometimes I cut myself shaving or lose control of a serrated knife while trying to saw cans in half or slice tomatoes. And I most certainly do not see buckets of dog blood spilled across the house all that often. A guy in a bar once told me that the only two words that exist in every known language are blood and milk. It's bar information, so who knows if it's true. But I always thought Blood and Milk would make a good title for something.

Henry is home now and resting comfortably. But then, he's always resting comfortably. I tossed the bloody stair treads into the washing machine. I searched the world over for those treads, so that Henry could climb easily up and down the stairs. I moved his fan, so I could spray his rug with cleaner. He likes to sleep with a fan positioned just right on the floor, so he can move around and cool off whatever needs cooling. And the rug is there because he had a hard time getting his bulk up off the hardwood floors.

So add "blood mopping" to the list of things I never thought I would do for a pet. Once my last childhood pet died, I swore I'd never have another. So here I am. Watching his every move, monitoring his breath. Clutching a bottle of 409 and my breaking heart.

A Weighty Issue

2008-08-22T16:17:00.000-07:00

As a rule, there are three things I try to avoid talking about: money, religion and weight. You thought I was going to say politics, but the truth is that I don't mind talking politics. It is much more awkward and horrifying to talk about dieting than who you might be voting for. But I'm going to break my own rule here, and I won't do it very often, I promise.

Before we moved to Asheville, I admit I had a stereotype in my head that people in the South were probably overweight. I thought, "Finally, I won't be the fattest person in town." In Los Angeles, everyone is a fitness model and everyone talks non-stop about what they're eating or not eating or what diet they're trying or personal trainer they're doing. Imagine my disappointment when I realized that the people here in Asheville are really in very good shape. They're active and physically fit, and I'm still the fattest person in town.

If you are overweight in Los Angeles, people will avoid eye contact and turn away. It's not unlike the Amish practice of shunning. I thought that was bad, but didn't realize how good I had it until I moved here. In Asheville, people want to poke my stomach. I don't know why. I guess they think there will be some sort of Pillsbury Doughboy reaction. Or maybe they've seen people rubbing the bellies of Buddha statues for luck. For whatever reason, people here have a compulsion to poke the fat guy.

It's gotten so bad that I've developed a whole system for heading it off. I can usually detect when someone is coming towards me for the sole purpose of poking me. They come at me, arm outstretched, finger pointing, eyes transfixed on their target. I've learned that if I turn quickly and catch the poke in the ribs, it will deter them or give me enough time to get away. Anyway, it's extremely humiliating. It's like they're saying, "I don't know if you've noticed, but you're fat."

I've noticed, thanks. But who knows? Maybe my weight is as novel to them as my being from Los Angeles. Or maybe it's an old Southern sign of respect. In either case, at the next social function, I'm wearing a suit of armor.

A Weekend in Chattanooga

2008-08-18T08:11:00.000-07:00

Ben and Gary decided it was high time we visited Chattanooga, Tennessee. Since John and Heather had just been here and had just passed through Chattanooga unharmed, it seemed like a good idea to go check it out. Of course, we had to stay in the Choo Choo:

It was cute and definitely a novel way to spend the night, but I wouldn't stay there again. Not when a shiny new Marriott and Hilton loomed over us a few blocks away. The hotel boasted that the train cars had been restored to their Victorian era splendor. That also appears to be the last time they were cleaned.

On our first evening in Chattanooga, Gary took us to Rock City, a local attraction with towering rock formations and stunning views of the Tennessee River Valley and Chattanooga. It was a beautiful sight and a gorgeous way to experience the sun setting over Chattanooga. It didn't start getting weird until we were exiting the park and they route you through a series of caverns where they've installed these creepy neon-painted statues depicting various fairytale scenes. Under black lights, they glow ominously in their frozen positions, mouths agape, almost as if in mid-scream. It was truly a bizarre end to a beautiful natural setting. Gary says it's much improved over what was there when he was a kid. I wonder if he brought us here to share this nightmare, like the victims in The Ring had to make other people watch the videotape in order to escape the curse. In that spirit, take a look a this:

When we finally left, we encountered a young man who had just proposed to his girlfriend during their tour of Rock City. I sincerely hope he did it during the scenic part and not during the neon cavern of horrors.

On Sunday, we headed downtown to the Tennessee Aquarium. I had never been to an aquarium before, so it was a valuable reminder that nature is best when it's organized and labeled. After the Aquarium, we stopped at Ross's Landing, a strangely sterile piece of waterfront property marking the beginning of the water route used to remove Native Americans from the East Coast and set them on the Trail of Tears. Part of the property was closed, though the signs didn't promise renovation. Hopefully, it will be reopened soon. Since some of the signs were in Cherokee, Gary asked if I had been making good on my promise to learn Cherokee this year. I informed him that I had indeed recently found my Cherokee language books and put them in a spot where I would be sure to see them every day. I think that's progress.

Driving back to Asheville from Chattanooga, we took a more scenic route. It's beautiful countryside, but I couldn't help feeling melancholy. Much like our drive across the country, we encountered a series of little ghost towns where better times and the highway had since passed them by. Then we spotted a group of cute, shirtless Christians with tattoos lugging rafts into the river, so that cheered me up. Braving the rapids for Jesus. I wish I had taken pictures.

We got back to the house in Asheville and collapsed. It was a lovely weekend and I'm glad we've started planning these little trips around the area since that was part of the grand scheme plan in moving here. America is a vast and diverse place, with a lot of beautiful, historic and kooky sites to see. In fact, beautiful, historic and kooky sums up a lot of what we've experienced in the South so far! So maybe I'll start providing pie charts illustrating each adventure and where it falls on the beautiful/historic/kooky scale.

Wild Kingdom

2008-08-15T07:13:00.000-07:00

This morning we woke up to find 20 Canadian geese strolling through our back yard. We also had one of our bunnies scampering around, a squirrel, a white egret and the blue heron. Just another morning in the mountains of North Carolina.

We grabbed our cameras and snuck around, taking pictures, until we realized they had no interest or fear of us. So we made breakfast, sat on the patio and watched them waddle around and honk at each other. After about half an hour Henry emerged from his morning nap and sauntered outside. He went down in the yard to investigate and 20 geese took to the air and plunked down in the lake. Henry seemed pleased that he protected us and his territory, but it's often hard to tell with Henry. With his bad eyesight, he may not have seen them at all.

Our neighbors tell us that the geese and ducks on the lake will be using our yard frequently as a resting and meeting place. Right now it's a delightful novelty and lends credence to this whole adventure. But I wonder if it will ever get old. Will I ever look out in the yard and say, "Ugh. The geese are back." It's all so surreal and beautiful right now. There were 20 Canadian geese in our yard this morning!

That almost never happened in L.A.

"U-S-A! U-S-A!"

2008-08-12T08:06:00.001-07:00

I don't know anything about sports. I never played sports. I never watched sports. A few years ago, I inadvertently got swept up in the Winter Olympics and became fairly obsessed with it. And it wasn't so much the sports angle, though the feats of athleticism were impressive. It was the little mini-documentary profiles they show about the athletes that manipulate you into caring about them. I'm a total sucker for that crap. Triumph of the human spirit and overcoming impossible odds and all that rot.

I still prefer the Winter Olympics over the Summer Games because I like my Olympics cold with a cup of hot chocolate and a chenille throw on the couch. But I give the Summer Games a chance, too, and usually get swept up in the drama. So far, we've mainly been watching swimming and gymnastics which, besides wrestling, are the closest things to figure skating available. I'm happy for Michael Phelps and all, but now he strikes me as just greedy. Plus, his mini-documentary was mostly about no matter how much he eats, he can't gain weight. Sorry, that never elicits sympathy from me. So I've been rooting for whoever is bucking the system and refusing to wear those crazy full-body swimsuits.

The gymnastics have been pretty amazing, too. And I couldn't help but get wrapped up in the story of the 33-year old Russian gymnast who defected to Germany to save her son's life and ended up on the German team. Take that, you little 16-year old bitches. Then we watched the men's gymnastics team win the bronze last night. The big tear-jerker was the guy that didn't make the team and was put on the alternate list, then some other guy got injured, so they let the alternate guy on the team, but only in one event. Then all the team members screwed up their events, so it came down to the alternate guy (who was going last, of course) to save the scores and win the medal for the team! It was like an 80s teen sports movie with Emilio Estevez and Rob Lowe and I couldn't get enough of it.

So what does any of this have to do with my year in Asheville? Nothing, really. Except we're watching it for the first time in HD, which is very cool, except it proves once and for all that concealer isn't fooling anyone. Sorry, Bob Costas.

Lazy Southern Summer Days

2008-08-10T17:47:00.000-07:00

Ever have one of those days you just want to fold up and put in your pocket and save forever? When weather and people and activities join together in the loveliest of combinations. This week, our friends John and Heather and their 9-month-old baby Django visited us from Memphis. We strolled through the farmer's market, went hiking at the NC Arboretum and took in the Friday afternoon drum circle downtown. Then on Saturday, we put them to work and welcomed our Asheville friends over to the house for the first time for a backyard BBQ and party.

The early part of the week was pretty brutal in terms of the temperatures. Mid-nineties, no breeze, no relief. I was beginning to worry that the party was going to be sticky and uncomfortable. Then suddenly the heat broke and Friday brought a slight chill in the morning and a lovely cool breeze throughout the day. Then Saturday couldn't have been more perfect. In an odd clove of events, I was busy sight-seeing and catching up with John and Heather and never got around to obsessing about the party. I didn't even make a list until I dictated one to Michael the night before the party!

It was a relatively painless lesson in letting go of some of my control issues. Michael handled just about everything and delegated chores and tasks on the day of the event. Normally, I would have a well-worn, highlighted and criss-crossed spreadsheet leading up to a party, but I just followed orders, supplied the manual labor and had a blast. So Saturday materialized as a perfect summer day. We set up the ping pong table outside, horseshoes and this new (well, new to us) Southern sensation called "Cornhole," which is an addictive bean bag tossing sort of game. Our neighbors paddled over in their pedal boat and canoe, then generously let our guests take them out on the lake throughout the party. Michael blended up his famous peachies and the peachie fan club took root in North Carolina.

We've been tremendously fortunate here, meeting a group of warm and welcoming friends. Add to that the perfect kind of summer's day you usually only see in movies or read about in books, and you've got a couple of very content, very grateful guys from California in the mountains of North Carolina.

Pass the Puffs Plus, Please

2008-08-03T06:46:00.001-07:00

Well, I'm sick. Actually, it's just a cold. I hate being sick in the summertime, because I'm already uncomfortable from the heat, so who needs to be hot and sick, too? I feel a little better than I did yesterday, so hopefully I will be well again tomorrow. The cold medicine, however, has given me new clarity and I've realized something.

This is the first time I've actually rested since being in Asheville.

Yesterday, I stayed in bed and read comic books, watched TV and played World of Warcraft all day. I've done each of those things since moving here, but usually only in 15- or 20-minute bursts here and there. Somehow, we are just always busy here. Always going somewhere. Always doing something. We really haven't watched more than an hour of television or a single movie at a time. Yesterday, I watched a movie, two episodes of the "so bad it's good" series Dante's Cove, three episodes of Doctor Who, two episodes of stupid Bobby Flay, then a documentary on how much life sucked in 10,000 BC. I promised my World of Warcraft girlfriend that I would level up to at least 35 by the end of the weekend, so we can go on a quest together. But even after playing all day, I'm still at level 32. I can't help it. I'm much better at shopping in the villages, than I am at fighting orcs.

Where was I? Oh yes, cold medicine and clarity. And forced relaxation. There's lots to do around the house. And I have lots of other various projects to work on, including retouching about a zillion photos. But here I am. Still in bed. Headache, runny nose. Comics books. Orcs. Poor Michael. I'm the worst sort of patient to take care of. I'm demanding, moody and emotionally unavailable. And that's when I'm not sick! So now add a fever to that and you've got me throwing glasses of tepid water at him and demanding more ice. Pray for him.

I'll be better tomorrow and all this resting will end. I will try to use this time today a little more wisely. Maybe I will read a book. Or try to do some writing. Or just sleep. When Michael asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday, I said I wanted to read comic books, play video games and maybe watch a movie. If I had known my birthday wish would come true, I would have added "but no cold." Learn from my mistake, and add that little caveat the next time you're blowing out your candles.

A Nice Day to Be Alive

2008-08-01T06:12:00.000-07:00

Back in Asheville! I arrived back in time to spend a couple of days with Michael's parents and join in the sight-seeing. We went to the NC Arboretum off of the Blue Ridge Highway, and it was beautiful! It was the best kind of nature: neat, tidy and well-organized, with a snack bar. There's a quilt show there this weekend, so I might go back and enjoy the air-conditioned hiking through the exhibit hall.

Our next guests are our friends John, Heather and their brilliant little baby, Django. We've never had a baby visitor before, so it will be fun to learn how truly dangerous our house and yard are. Though I don't think he's crawling yet and is probably rarely unsupervised. I wonder if I should get some blocks, or if he'd prefer the Wii.

It's fun having people visit us, and I'm feeling less pressured to convince everyone why we did this crazy thing in the first place. On a personal note, we weren't going to exactly publicize the fact that we're only staying a year to the locals. We didn't want people to dismiss us as tourists or be afraid to invest time in us. But the cat is out of the bag. I mean, this goofy blog is called A Year in Asheville. But it's still a touchy subject and we've only been here three months! As someone who likes to catastrophize, I'm not looking forward to the eventual painful departure. I thought a year was a long time, but the past three months have gone by in a flash. We'll cross that rickety bridge when we come to it.

Speaking of rickety bridges, we're off to Old Forte this morning to pick blueberries. I kid you not. It's blueberry season! I'm going to make Michael bake a pie and then let it cool on the windowsill for some Huck Finn-type ne'erdowell to come by and whisk away, while I chase him with a broom and yell, "You come back here, you ragamuffin!"

What Southern Gothic treasures are you re-enacting today?

The Golden State

2008-07-28T13:34:00.000-07:00

It's been a very busy week. As I mentioned in my previous post, I've been in San Diego for a week for Comic-Con 2008! It was tremendous fun. I did a lot of networking, attended a lot of panels and parties and picked up a few nice pieces of plastic happiness (i.e., toys). Like the exclusive King Grayskull figure from Mattel:

Oh, he is a handsome fellow. I also got to meet Sam Jones, who you may remember from the 1980 Flash Gordon movie. I loved him deeply as a child, so I quickly turned into a starstruck goofball upon meeting him and getting his autograph on my exclusive Flash Gordon action figure:

San Diego was beautiful and the weather was perfect. So perfect that I walked around all day one day and got a sunburn. California is bathed in golden sunlight and you can't help but feel like a movie star. Just don't forget the 70SPF. I fly back to Asheville tomorrow and will resume my new life in the mountains of North Carolina. But thanks to my sunburn, I'll be taking a little of Southern California back with me.

It's been a fantastic week, but I miss Michael and Henry and worry that they're not taking care of themselves. Hopefully, they've missed me a little, too.

For no reason, here's a picture of Red Fraggle, who had more security around her than the President:

See you next year, San Diego!

A Week in San Diego

2008-07-22T04:42:00.001-07:00

For my first trip out of the wilds and back to the West Coast, I'm heading to San Diego for a week for the International San Diego Comic-Con. It's a gigantic geek fest and I go every year. This year, however, I'm on my own. Michael is staying behind in Asheville, because coincidentally, his parents arrive today for a visit. Believe me, the timing was purely accidental! I will be back and will get to see them before they go, but I will be missing most of their visit. While I'm mingling with people in Stormtrooper costumes, they'll be seeing the sights of Western North Carolina.

I am comforted by the fact that Michael will be in good hands while I'm gone. As friends said goodbye, they promised to look after him, and I told them where to find his insurance card and where to reach me if he broke any other bones. But then I remembered that his own parents will be protecting him while I'm gone, so that made me feel a lot better. They will hide his skateboard and make him wear a helmet when crossing the street.

I'm curious to see how I feel by the end of the week. Will I be missing Asheville, or will I be longing to stay in the Golden State? Maybe it was too soon for a trip like this. Too soon to face Vader and risk being turned to the dark side.

To be continued...

Are You Sitting Down?

2008-07-18T22:15:00.000-07:00

In the old days, people only had phones in their homes or at work. So, if you needed to convey bad news to someone, you'd most likely wait until they got home from work (unless it was an emergency), tell them to sit down, then deliver the bad news.

Now that everyone is on a cell phone, I've noticed that bad news can be delivered anywhere, anytime. For instance, today Michael and I went to Target because, well, because it was a day of the week. We love Target. Not the point of this story, though. So, we pulled in to Target and a dear friend from Los Angeles called to let me know he was being deported. I ushered Michael into the store and I sat down on a bench outside Target and started talking over this bad news with my caller. I sat down, adhering to the custom of receiving bad news.

A few moments later, a woman exited Target, with a cell phone held to her ear. "What are you telling me?" She said. Then tears began to roll down her cheeks and she asked for more information as she walked off to her car.

Yes, yes, cell phones have made our lives better and isn't it great that you can reach me at anytime of the day or night? But have we become so used to using the things, and so accustomed to 24-hour news and communications, that it's okay to tell someone the dog died while they're holding a carton of eggs at Safeway?

Now that I've noticed this phenomenon, I'm going to be on the lookout for people getting bad news on their cell phones in public. Will they sit down? Will they cry? Will they still reach for the low-fat salad dressing, or will they make a beeline for the cookie dough aisle?

I, for one, don't want to be on the dance floor, getting my groove on and have to yell into the phone, "My mouse burned down? What?!"

Let Me Entertain You

2008-07-17T07:58:00.000-07:00

Our very first visitor from the outside world left on Tuesday. It's hard to judge how it went. It's challenging playing tour guide in a place where you're just a step above tourist yourself. But I think it went pretty well. A few wrong turns, a few closed restaurants and attractions, but overall I think we managed to present Asheville in a positive light.

I do enjoy having visitors and entertaining and having parties and such. I don't know where that comes from exactly. I'm tempted to blame it on Martha, but even in my pre-Martha days, I was hosting little get-togethers in my college dorm room. I think it's because when people take the time to visit you or attend your party, they're validating your place in their lives and saying, "Yes, I like you enough to spend this time with you." In its most basic and primal form, it's proof of existence. "I exist. I'm here. Someone came and visited me." That validation plus a good party theme and cocktails makes for a very potent mixture.

Besides our recent visitor, we haven't had any parties or gatherings yet. I'm at odds with the house at the moment. I haven't succeeded in bending it to my will yet, and that's proving to be a big obstacle on the road to entertaining. At a glance, the house is attractive and nicely situated in a big yard on a small lake. Maybe it's because of the age of the house, or maybe it's just been used as a rental for too long, but the house itself seems to have given up hope and now just wants to jump into the lake and end it all.

No matter how much I scrub, the house still looks dirty. No matter how many lights I turn on, it remains dark. We can't put holes in the walls, so the walls are bare and cold, lending a spartan air of domestic ennui. Every day is a battle to keep the surrounding natural environs from reclaiming the whole lot. Still, I persist. If bleach won't clean it, I'll put a nice rug over it. If it's too dark, I'll get some high-powered flood lights to brighten it up a bit. And I can always prop our artwork up on bookcases or easels for a South meets SoHo kind of look.

"What would Martha do?" I ask myself. She'd tear down that bitch of a bearing wall and put a window where a window ought to be. Wait, that was Joan. I get them confused sometimes, especially when I'm holding a can of Comet and an axe.

Y'all come visit real soon, ya hear!"

An Asheville Kind of Day

2008-07-14T20:09:00.000-07:00

Friday morning we had breakfast at the Over Easy Cafe with Ben and Gary. We were chatting about what to do that evening with Mike. Gary and Ben suggested we see Plays from Li'l Nashville which is playing at a local playhouse. We were weighing our options when a handsome and dramatic-looking sort of fellow swept into the cafe. Of course it was the author of the play we had just been discussing. Ben and Gary motioned him over and he joined us for breakfast, regaling us with tales of Asheville theatre people. Nothing beats a good theatre story. Naturally, we decided to go to the play.

Later in the day, we took Mike to the Friday afternoon drum circle in the center of town. It is a wildly fun and eclectic crowd of professionals and amateurs. Drums ranged in size and quality, from bongos to barrel drums to plastic bottles. We were sitting at the edge of the park, and I scanned the crowd, thinking it would be fun to see if we've been in Asheville long enough to recognize anyone. Of course that's the exact moment our friend Luke happened by. After a quick chat, he was on his way to dinner and we were on our way to the play.

Entering the lobby of the theatre, we saw Scott and Terry the owners of Sante, our favorite little wine bar. We introduced Mike as our California guest for the week. They then introduced us to a friend of theirs, a woman from San Diego, who was their California guest for the week. After comparing our sight-seeing and activities agendas, we went into the theatre to see the play.

At this point, it should have been no surprise to us (or you) that one of the stars of the play was our new hair stylist. It's part of the charm of a small town, I suppose. But there's something else. Something that's distinctly Asheville about it all. Everyone is so happy to see each other, to catch up and then tell the next people they run into about who they happened to run into that day. There's something old-fashioned and quaint about it, yet somehow also synchronistic.

Luckily, it's still more on the sweet side than the Twilight Zone-y side. But I'll keep you posted.

Special Guest Star

2008-07-09T22:08:00.001-07:00

No one in Asheville watches TV. It's very odd. I was raised by television and I lived in a city where it's a major industry. I've encountered people who don't watch TV before. They talk about art and literature and theatre, which are all things I enjoy as well. But I wouldn't trade all the time I spent watching Alf for anything. I quote The Simpsons on a daily basis. They are just part of my vocabulary. A comedian once joked that Generation X could be defined by one phrase: "Oh my God, this is just like that episode of Bewitched." I find myself saying that a lot, too, because life is just like that episode of Bewitched!

Since moving to Asheville, we're watched almost no television. First, we didn't have a TV set. Then we didn't have cable. Then we were too busy. I've missed countless episodes of Battlestar Galactica, Doctor Who and The Venture Brothers. Maybe that's why I've been on edge lately. Maybe television, in all its scripted glory, brings me comfort on some level. A frequency or wavelength from childhood that calms and subdues, like a mother's voice or a bowl of soup.

My mind works in TV terms. We have our first houseguest visiting us at the moment, and I can't help but feel that Michael and I got a spin-off with a new story and a new setting, but a character from the old show is popping in to boost ratings. It's like the Fonz visiting Joanie Loves Chachi. Well, not the Fonz. Mike's not that cool. But at least Doctor Huxtable visiting A Different World, even after Denise left the show. I mean, why would he visit his daughter's roommates after she dropped out? Ratings.

So, I'm keeping an eye on our ratings and on the studio audience. And if you didn't get the Joanie Loves Chachi reference then, truly, I pity you.

I Was Once Crazy

2008-07-08T18:08:00.000-07:00

Every town, city or village I've ever lived in has had its local crazy people. I know "crazy" is an insensitive term, but the people I'm calling "crazy" represent such a wide variety of mental disorders and charms, that it's easier just to use the blanket term. I'm talking about the local eccentrics, the raving lunatics and the harmless or dangerous folks who walk the streets talking to themselves or to God or to aliens.

Today, I passed a woman who was talking to herself, occasionally yelling at the sky or at cars going by. During the fireworks on the Fourth, a woman walked by and demanded to know why I was polluting the air with sulfur. Whenever I encounter these folks, for as long as I can remember, I've always thought to myself, "That's going to be me in ten years." Now, I've said this since I was a toddler, so really, I'm long overdue.

It never fails, whenever I see crazy people, I immediately begin to wonder how they got to this point in time. Were they always crazy? Are they suffering, untreated, from some mental disorder? Or did something happen? One day, did it just get to be too much for them? Did they just snap? This latter scenario intrigues me, and it's the reason I mutter, "That's going to be me in ten years." My mind starts to ponder what could push me over the edge someday. Will it be a huge, cataclysmic event, like in the movies? Or will it be some little thing. Some little thing that tips the scales and finally breaks whatever tenuous hold I still have on reality.

In my hometown in Oklahoma, we had a whole cast of characters who the townspeople alternately scolded and watched over. In college, there was a guy named Ludwig Plutonium, who always wore bright orange hunting gear and submitted full-page ads to the paper describing his latest discoveries in physics and time travel. In Los Angeles, any evening on Hollywood Boulevard reveals a wide array of the oddball or the forgotten. Here, too, I'm sure there are local characters who everyone knows by name and condition.

So why do I do it? Why do I look into the face of crazy and see a crystal ball? What could transform me from my safe life as a mild-mannered blogger to an unofficial, unsanctioned town crier?

I don't know. But undoubtedly, it'll be because of something you did.

Mother Nature is a Bitch

2008-07-07T14:12:00.000-07:00

So it turns out that Michael broke a rib during his waterfall fall. And a week before our 2-month mark, I failed at the promise I made to his mother before we left. "Don't worry," I said. "I'll take care of him." Of course, Michael could easily have broken a rib in Los Angeles doing any number of crazy things. We are talking about the guy who managed to break his foot getting into a hot tub. At least his cell phone survived this time.

Still, it reaffirms my growing concern about the sinister forces of nature that surround us here. Around every corner, lurking in the shadows, nature stands ready to maul us. In addition to keeping Michael indoors from now on, I'm poised to wage my own war on nature. I'm calling the Orkin man.

One of our friends delighted in telling me about the horrors of various spider bites one can get in North Carolina. Then that same friend showed up later with a swollen arm where he had just been stung by a yellow jacket wasp. I don't care what it takes, but I don't want a single living thing to survive the mushroom cloud of toxins I intend to dump on our house and yard. Generations of bug witnesses will pass down tales of the holocaust at 157 White Pine Drive.

I know I'm supposed to be cutting down on the number of times I shake my fist at the dawn and make some solemn vow, but I'm not going to let nature break us, sting us or bite us. I'm going to keep Michael off the rocks and our lives free of bugs and bites and blight. Our first visitor arrives on Wednesday, which gives me plenty of time to fix everything, even a broken rib.

The Fifth of July

2008-07-05T07:11:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we went on a hike in Dupont State Park to see a few of the many local waterfalls. It was truly a beautiful and extraordinary experience. In fact, it was so singularly special, that I feel compelled to vow never to go hiking or camping or attempt anything outdoorsy again for fear that any future forays into the wild would only pale in comparison to this perfect day.

After being chastised by a park ranger, chased by bugs and exhausted by the near 90-degree climbs, Michael slid on some moss and face-planted onto the rocks, simultaneously getting a nasty bump on the head AND hurting his back. Once we made it out of there, the downpour began. Soaked and injured and fatigued, we finally made it back to the car and back to civilization. Our picnic lunch was very tasty, though.

That evening we headed downtown to take in the local fireworks show. The main square in town was packed, and the entire crowd looked skyward to the huge, open expanse of North Carolina sky. North Carolina is called "The Land of the Skies," you know. As we heard the first explosion, we waited in anticipation for the burst of color, only to discover they had somehow managed to arrange the fireworks display behind one of the only tall buildings in town. So the whole crowd moved from the square to the other side of the building, in order to see the show. We managed to push in enough to see a few errant explosions of light through the windows of the building.

But it all makes me laugh. Human error, human miscalculation, any attempts of humanity that turn into high comedy amuse me greatly. Especially when Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the USA" is playing in the background. It's really an apt metaphor for this country. We are blessed with liberty and freedom and justice for all, but you really have to crane your neck to see them sometimes.

I was also amused to hear Martina McBride's song "Independence Day" played during the show, though they thoughtfully edited out the part where the mom burns down the house to kill her abusive husband.

All in all, an adventurous, death-defying and silly Fourth of July.

P.S. If you check out our Flickr page, you'll get to see my photos of the waterfalls with Michael falling down in the bottom right corner of the shot! Poor Michael.

Into the Wild

2008-07-03T05:52:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow, some friends are taking us hiking. We're going to see a few of the many waterfalls that dot the landscape around Asheville and Western North Carolina. Since I'm the suspicious one, I think it could also very well be a trap to lure us into the hills where we'll be hunted for sport by the locals. Either way, I needed new shoes.

So Michael and I went to the Mast General Store in downtown Asheville to look for hiking boots. My immediate reaction to this whole hiking business was to go to LL Bean's website and order up some Gore-Tex. Having spent a few years in New England, I learned that if you're going outside, you need to go to LL Bean first. But here we have Mast. When we found the outdoorsy section, there was a helpful list posted of essential hiking items, like a compass, rain gear and a helicopter to airlift you to the nearest hospital. This part troubled me. I've seen Blair Witch and Deliverance and Harry Potter. I know that no good can come from outsiders traipsing off into the woods on an adventure. Luckily, we have our friends to guide us. That is, if they're not hunting us down like animals.

Michael and I ended up getting matching hiking boots, which wasn't our intention. Hopefully, the bears and mountain lions will be too busy laughing to eat us. Besides some socks and a new bandanna for Henry, we didn't get anything else from the essential hiking list. I decided I wanted a survival knife and my first instinct was to turn to LL Bean and order a Leatherman pocket tool, but then I found this:

Couldn't you just squeal like a pig? Of course, my online search for knives and swords also turned up another option:

Trusting that after all these years, I'm better with a light saber than a knife, I decided on the Luke Skywalker blue model from Episode IV: A New Hope. You just can't go wrong with a classic.

If we don't return, I want Matthew McConaughey to play me in the movie. And make sure he takes his shirt off a lot. I want the audience to see his/my abs.

Air Supply

2008-07-01T08:17:00.000-07:00

The other night we went to nearby Flat Rock, NC to the Flat Rock Playhouse to see a production of Meet Me in St. Louis. Michael was, of course, horrified, but I couldn't wait. The play was great, though the woman playing Esther could have sassed it up a notch. But I'm not here to talk about the show. I'm here to talk about the air.

The playhouse was set back in a very picturesque campus in an already picturesque village. Towering above the theatre and admin buildings were all these fir and pine trees. It had been raining off and on throughout the day, so when we stepped out of the theatre, we were hit with the most amazing fragrant mixture of pine and rain and fresh mountain air. It makes you just want to stand around outside, taking deep breaths.

In Los Angeles, the air isn't as bad as you might think. True, you can still see it, but it's much better than it used to be. But you'd never want to stand outside and just breathe it in. Except maybe at the beach. The point is that the air here is so fresh and clean, it makes me a little dizzy. You just want to bottle it or inject it or hoard it somehow.

This morning, Michael and I had breakfast on the patio overlooking the back yard and lake. One of our bunnies hopped through the yard, while various birds flitted from feeder to feeder and the squirrels and chipmunks began their daily games. A cool breeze blew through, carrying with it the clean, fresh smell of morning dew and woodsy bark and pine.

It's enough to make you a little sick.

A Coat of Many Colors

2008-06-28T19:56:00.000-07:00

I'm about to write a sentence that I'm sure I've never written before: We went to Gay Day at Dollywood today. The annual event is similar to the unofficial gay days at other parks, like Disneyland, Disney World and such. It's an unofficial, word-of-mouth event where gays and lesbians show up en masse to a park, wear red shirts and spend the day having a blast and raising visibility of the gay community in a fun environment.

We've been to gay days at Disneyland and Disney World. Both are huge events bringing in thousands of attendees. Dollywood's crowd was quite a bit smaller, which made it seem all the more important for us to be there. This is Pigeon Forge, Tennessee we're talking about here. Being out and visible here is very different from being out in Orlando or Anaheim. We went with a couple of new friends, rode rides, enjoyed junk food and basked in the down-home glam of Dolly Parton's world.

We had just finished up lunch and were chatting about what to do next, when all of a sudden, an employee was standing next to our table. I only noticed him out of the corner of my eye. Then he spoke, "You gonna be a hairdresser?" We are four gay men from wildly different backgrounds and experiences, but we all had the same reaction. Eyes narrowed. Fists clenched. Backs straightened. It's the gay "fight or flight" reaction. What was this guy trying to pull? Was this lame attempt to bully a group of gay guys really all he could come up with? We all focused on him. There was safety in numbers. We had each other's backs. Plus, we had brothers and sisters all around us. He picked the wrong day to make some Archie Bunker era joke about gay hairdressers.

That's when we noticed the little girl at the table next to us...braiding her friend's hair. She smiled at the employee and shrugged, and he went on his way. We all exchanged glances and broke up, laughing.

"I thought he was talking to you!"
"No, he was talking to you!"

It never goes away, that survival instinct we develop as gay children, then pretend we don't need as out and proud gay adults. But it's there, just beneath the surface, waiting to make fists, put shields up or tell us to run, run as fast as you can. A shared moment among comrades, each willing to take on the perceived enemy, willing to raise holy hell in the middle of the food court in Dollywood.

We decided to ride the roller coaster again.

Are You There, Vodka? It's me, Chance

2008-06-27T21:58:00.000-07:00

I don't know where to begin. Let me try to explain this...as I understand it...to the folks back in Los Angeles. In North Carolina, you can buy beer and wine at grocery stores and specialty stores, except on Sundays before noon. Hard alcohol is only available at government-run stores called ABC. That's the only place you can buy the hard alcohol. The government sets the price and that's that. You have to pay what they ask and buy it where they tell you, or you're out of luck.

Okay, okay, so try to wrap your head around this. In Los Angeles, you can go to any number of liquor stores and grocery stores and get any kind of booze you want any time of day. So how is this affecting me, exactly? I'm used to going and getting my Ruby Red Absolut any time and any place I want. Sometimes it's cheaper at BevMo, sometimes it's cheaper at the Russian Jon's down the street. The point is that it's the perfect summer beverage and I love it in lemonade, iced tea, orange juice, 7-Up, cereal, tooth paste, you name it.

So now...it's summer...temperatures are climbing...I'm throwing lemons into the Lemonator and I need some Ruby Red! Well, sorry kids, I have only one choice as dictated by the government. This must be how the Russians felt in the Soviet Union, standing in line for their government-issued vodka.

We may live in a red state, but it's not a ruby red state. It's going to be a long summer.

Culture Shock: Part 3

2008-06-26T05:25:00.000-07:00

Except for the smoking, I've really enjoyed all of my Asheville dining experiences. And we're learning which of the smoking restaurants to avoid. I'm looking at you, Flying Frog. The other night, we went to yummy Rosetta's Kitchen for dinner. We sat on the patio, which was really more of a balcony overlooking the street below. There were "No Smoking" signs up everywhere, so I thought we were probably safe. Then, lo and behold, an employee sat down and pulled out a pack of Camels. Luckily, we were almost through with our meal, but I still felt a surge of annoyance as he spent about five minutes tapping first one end of the pack, then the other on the table. Smoking rituals are so bizarre to me. Can anyone tell me what that's supposed to accomplish exactly?

Finally, he pulled out a cigarette, lit it and took a long drag. Then, miraculously, he carefully stamped out the cigarette and placed it back in the pack, before heading back to work. I don't think I ever even saw him exhale. Very bizarre, but better than sitting in a cloud of tar all night.

The other big dining culture shock here is the check ritual. In Los Angeles, part of the glittering Hollywood culture is the big grab for the check at the end of the meal. Michael and I have even made elaborate plans prior to a meal for the best way to get and pay the check to avoid any debate.

"They paid last time, but they won't remember. So we have to get that check!"
"I know. I'll create a diversion and you grab it."
"Better yet, I'll pretend to go to the bathroom and head the waiter off."

So imagine our surprise here, where everywhere we go, they offer separate checks. They even ask you prior to ordering or at the end of the meal if you want separate checks! Even when it's just me and Michael, waiters and waitresses always ask. It's totally bizarre! In Los Angeles, it was very, very rare to get separate checks. Most restaurants put it in their menus: "No separate checks. Don't even ask." And the rare occasions that you do get separate checks in Los Angeles, they're always wrong. So I end up paying for my salad, your steak and someone else's wine. So you learn not to even ask.

Here, it sort of forces you to announce to someone up front if you're planning to treat them to dinner. It completely ruins the grab for the check and the "Please let me, it's your birthday, after all!" surprise of the dining ritual. Plus, if people know you're paying for them up front, will they still order what they want? Or will Southern manners dictate they follow your lead in terms of entree price range. It's a world gone mad, I tell you!

I suppose this will simply force us to come up with brand new elaborate plans for dining.

"Okay, when the waitress asks about the separate checks, just tell her, 'No, we're paying.'"
"Better yet, call ahead and tell her not to ask, just bring it to me. Tell her I'm the blonde wearing the blue shirt."
"Blonde?!"
"Shut up!"

Okay, that could work.

A Decade

2008-06-23T04:59:00.000-07:00

Yesterday Michael and I celebrated our ten-year anniversary! Tin or aluminum is the traditional gift for the tenth anniversary, so we bought some patio furniture. I know I've been putting a lot of focus on our shopping lately. I don't want to sound obnoxious and ostentatious, so let me explain. In Los Angeles, we were in desperate need of new furniture and furnishings for the house. But about four years ago, we decided not to buy or replace anything, because we were planning to move. Of course at the time, we thought we'd just be moving down the street. So for four long years, we waited patiently while the curtains faded, the rugs became thread-bare and the furniture slowly fell apart. We really didn't bring much with us in terms of furniture. We either sold it for scrap or threw it away.

So hopefully you'll forgive me for being a little giddy about getting new stuff after all those years of waiting. It's so nice to have a couch that doesn't stab you when you sit on it.

The past ten years have flown by. I never imagined I would be able to stick to anything for ten years, considering all my hobbies and kooky projects that have fallen by the wayside, like the guitar and glass-blowing and the whole Wicca thing. But somehow, we made it to this landmark anniversary. We met in the idyllic decade known as the 90s. Gas was cheap, the economy was booming and you could see a movie and get popcorn for a nickel. It was a simpler time. I was working in a factory and Michael was an officer in the Navy.

I was a fiery redhead and he was a Cuban bongo-player.

We were both sheep-herders, spending the summer up on the mountain.

Close enough.

However we met, times have certainly changed. One of the first movies we saw together was the re-make of The Parent Trap, featuring a precocious ten-year-old newcomer named Lindsey Lohan. That pretty much sums up what ten years can do to a person, a country, a couple. But here we are. On our first date, Michael told me he had never seen Star Wars. It was almost a deal-breaker, since I can't go a day without talking about Star Wars. But I thought maybe he had been in prison or a sanitarium all those years, so I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. But if he had told me, "You know, in ten years we'll still be together, living and laughing it up 3,000 miles away in North Carolina" I might have given the second date a little more thought. Because that just sounds crazy.

Gayberry, USA

2008-06-21T07:10:00.000-07:00

Asheville is a very social town. I'm trying to figure out how it got that way, and if that's typical of smaller towns in the South, or if it's specific to Asheville. I grew up in a small town, and about once a year the townsfolk would come together, smile and nod, then go back to minding their own business for another year. Too many town gatherings usually meant some sort of fight would undoubtedly break out. Or a stoning.

I'm told we arrived in the middle of the busiest social season here, and that things calm down considerably in the winter. I'm starting to understand how we've been to so many fundraisers so far. People here like to drink and socialize and have a good time. At some point, someone must have realized that since people were going to be getting together to do these things anyway, they might as well throw some money in a pot for a good cause.

Last night we went to Downtown After Five, which is a monthly street festival with live music, food and beer. It was packed! But I was heartened to find that we've met enough people now that we see familiar faces everywhere we go. It's such a novelty when you run into someone you know in Los Angeles. Here, we see people we know every day. Too sophisticated to be classified as Mayberry, yet small enough to allow for this kind of social scene, Asheville seems to have the right size, climate and elements to make this sort of interaction possible. Like the planet Earth is uniquely situated to sustain life in the solar system, so is Asheville.

Speaking of Mayberry, I was informed last night that Andy Griffith is gay. This I did not know. Internet research has turned up no hard evidence, only speculation. So I will hold onto my skepticism until Jim Nabors writes a tell-all.

The List is Life

2008-06-20T05:57:00.001-07:00

Moving across the country is hard. Well, let me clarify that. Moving across the country is easy if you don't have anything and don't need anything or don't want anything. I have four boxes of books that I haven't unpacked yet. They are sitting in the corner of my office-type space. I would release them from their cardboard prison, but I have no bookcase for them. Since I've lived a whole month without what I had designated as the very most important books I own and couldn't live without, I'm tempted to push the whole lot into a closet. Or the lake.

But what did I put my books on in Los Angeles, you ask? Well, we lived in a tiny village called Valley Village, and just a hop, skip and a jump away was a little hamlet called Burbank, where there resides a big general store called IKEA. If you've ever had IKEA furniture, you know there's more structural stability in the box that the furniture comes in than in the actual furniture. So after many years, my IKEA bookshelves were a big mess and really depended on the books for support. Sort of like how I depend on Michael. IKEA furniture can barely move across the room, let alone across the continent. It disintegrated and we left it behind.

So a new bookcase goes on the List. In case you didn't know this about me, I am a list maker. This goes way, way back. I've always made lists. Sometimes I make a list of the lists I need to make. Since Michael and I have been together, I now separate every list into two parts: Normal List and Crazy List. My Crazy List is fabulous! For instance, if we're getting ready for a party, I will put "beer" on the Normal List. Then on the Crazy List, I'll write, "Make our own beer from scratch; take a class and learn how...by Friday." I blame the Crazy List in equal parts on Martha Stewart and my best friend Andrea, who taught me that no amount of crazy is too crazy. Usually, everything from the Normal List gets done and then Michael lets me choose one or two things from the Crazy List to throw in. That system has worked pretty well for us thus far.

Since I've been in Asheville, I haven't made any lists. That's a whole month of being list-less. And listless is a pretty accurate description of what's become of me after a month of unpacking. I've never moved on this scale before. I've never needed (or thought I needed) so much stuff just so I can put other stuff on it, in it or underneath it. So last night we had dinner at Chorizo, a local Latin restaurant that was very tasty except for the woman next to us who decided to smoke throughout her entire meal and ours. Come on, Asheville! Ban smoking in restaurants and bars already!

Anyway, at Chorizo, I got out pen and paper and made a List. My first official list in Asheville. Surprisingly, almost everything was on the Normal List: bookcase, rug, lamp. At this point, I'm not going to bother with "smelt copper; make antique lamp." I just want to go get one, so I can read at night. So this weekend, we are going to finish unpacking, move the furniture around for the last time, and really settle in and start to feel at home.

Michael is going to bake cookies. I'm going to make a list of things to do next.

Moonlight and Magnolias

2008-06-18T06:10:00.000-07:00

Okay, I have this problem. Maybe it's because I was in speech therapy for so many years, or maybe it's because I tend to be a little dramatic, but I'm a pretty good mimic when it comes to accents and voices. Though Michael would argue that my Tim Gunn impersonation still needs a lot of work. So what's the problem?

You know how Madonna moved to England and suddenly started speaking with a Michigan/British accent? And how people hate her for it? Well, when I'm around accents I tend to pick them up really quickly. I mean, really quickly. I can go from zero to Scarlett in about five seconds. This has been a benefit before, like when I lived in the Northeast and needed to hide my Oklahoma accent. To this day, traces of the clipped tones of New England mingle in with the surfer dude drawl of Southern California.

Now I'm in the South and I'm a big old mess. I am not mocking anyone with this little "talent" of mine. It just happens. Plus, I've read too much Tennessee Williams and watched too much Designing Women in my lifetime. Just the other day, I accidentally found myself offering someone a nickel to help bust up a chifferobe. Plus, I'm always shaking my fist at the dawn and vowing never to be hungry again. But then, I did that in Los Angeles, too.

I'm going to do my best to keep my accent in check while I'm here. I'll have to listen to "Valley Girl" on a loop while I sleep, so I don't lose my dulcet Valley Boy tones. Like, oh my God, y'all.

Damn it!

"I'm at the mall on a diet pill!"

2008-06-17T13:27:00.000-07:00

So much to catch up on. Saturday night we went to the Purple Ball, which was five parties in a row, raising money for the Arts Council. It was loads of fun! Then last night we went to Atlanta for the True Colors Tour 2008, featuring the B-52s and Cyndi Lauper. It, too, was loads of fun, and I can't wait to get back to Atlanta when we have a little more time to explore the city.

In fact, I've been having so much fun that people are beginning to question my fun authenticity. As an odd byproduct of the "you're so quiet" puzzle, I'm finding that the more demonstrative I am in having fun, the more people become concerned about my state of being. For instance, during the five parties on Saturday night, I was drinking, laughing and dancing, but found that people would take me aside or tap me on the shoulder and say, "Are you okay? You look so unhappy. Are you not having a good time?"

I guess when I'm just talking and being social, people think I'm quiet. And when I'm in the throws of a party, people think I'm miserable. Of course, it could have been the purple polyester jacket I was wearing all night. Michael says that my beady, rat-like eyes make people uncomfortable. Well, I can't help my beady, rat-like eyes. It's so unfair, because both my parents have lovely, open, Disney movie eyes. When I was in college, I could get away with putting a dot of white stage makeup in the corner of my eyes to make them look wider and more open. But, then, I could get away with a lot in college, like wearing Capezios, a beret and a denim duster...at the same time!

Or I wonder if after all those years in L.A., when I thought I was railing against the superficial culture, I accidentally became phony. And now non-L.A. people are picking up on my phoniness. But I don't think I'm being phony. I think I'm being as genuine as I know how to be. I mean, I'm trying really, really hard to pretend to be effortlessly genuine.

When you're dancing to "Rock Lobster" by the B-52s, and you've just jumped up from the crouching position you've gotten into during the "Down! Down! Down!" part of the song, and the little Brazilian woman next to you says, "Why you have no fun?" Well, gentle readers, something is amiss.

Me First

2008-06-13T16:32:00.001-07:00

Today brought a relief from the heat and a list of firsts for this new life in Asheville. First on the list of firsts was my first haircut here. I was a little nervous about this. As most of you know, I have curly hair and have been on the receiving end of many a clueless stylist. Trust me, it's no fun having big, frizzy Bozo hair. Alan, my hair guru in Los Angeles, did such a competent job, I was considering holding off on the haircut until my first visit back to Los Angeles. But we're going to a ball on Saturday night, so I felt I was overdue for a little trim. I was sent to a salon downtown and met with a really sweet (and young) hair stylist. The result was not so bad. While taming my unruly locks, she told me stories about life in Asheville, the arts scene and the jack-o-lantern skills I would need to acquire to take part in my neighborhood's annual Halloween event.

Next, it was off to the comic book store. I've been searching for a friendly place where I can get my weekly stash of comic books. Of course, nothing could replace House of Secrets in Burbank, but Pastimes in Asheville comes pretty close. If you've ever seen the Comic Book Guy on The Simpsons, you have a pretty good idea of the characters one encounters at comic book stores. Luckily, the proprietor of Pastimes was delightful and extremely helpful. I'm setting up an account, so I won't miss a single issue of Thor or Wonder Woman. So you can all rest a little easier now, knowing I'm getting my fix.

In the evening, we met friends at a local pub for cocktails and pitchers of tater tots. Really. Then it was off to see our first Asheville drag show. I don't know if anyone has ever used the word homespun to describe a drag show, but there was a fun, down-to-earth quality to it that was thoroughly enjoyable. The writing was crisp, the jokes hilarious and the music choices delightful. You just can't beat a drag queen crooning "Memory" while doing her best impersonation of a cat. Plus, the bartender made a really tasty cosmo, which is my litmus test for any bar or venue.

So I guess what all of this suggests is that we're slowly, but surely being absorbed into daily life in Asheville. I'm particularly looking forward to the aforementioned ball. I've never been to a ball. But I do like saying the word a lot. I intend to slip into full Cinderella mode as I get ready for said ball. Hopefully, my fairy godmother will show up and perform a little magic on my wardrobe. Or maybe turn Henry into a horse-drawn carriage or stretch limo.

So as my day of firsts ends, I realize we're also coming up on our first month here. Time flies, even in relaxing, slow-moving Asheville.

"They Keep the Yuppies Out"

2008-06-10T21:53:00.001-07:00

One of my primary concerns about moving to the South was...how shall I put this? I was concerned about a certain element of the population... Basically, I was worried about rednecks.

It's an unfair stereotype, I know. And it's a difficult distinction to make. Some would classify anyone living in the South as a redneck. But I don't believe that's true. I grew up in Oklahoma, so I know a thing or two about rural life. There are good people everywhere. Honest, hard-working, God-fearing, country music-listening people who may not know anything about me or my life, but also wouldn't join in a posse to hunt me down.

Before we moved here, I asked everyone we spoke to about living as an openly gay couple in the South. One fellow told us that neighbors help and look out for each other and don't care about anything else. But there was a caveat, and it's one gay people hear all the time: "as long as you're not throwing it in their faces." This is also often expressed as "as long as you're not flaunting your lifestyle." And therein lies the fear and panic. Because it's just normal behavior to me, so how do I know what will set someone off? I don't want to be helping Michael carry in the groceries one day and suddenly have angry mobs and burning crosses on my lawn.

So I guess I define a redneck as being intolerant and violent. And really, that could describe any bigot anywhere, not just in the South.

Michael and I had dinner last night with a terrific couple of guys we met way back during our karaoke bowling experience. They made some joke about "the rednecks coming down from the mountains," so I thought I would get their take on the subject and whether it was a geographical phenomenon or not. One of the guys explained that, just like in Los Angeles, there are probably some neighborhoods where you don't want to go for a walk by yourself. "You have gangs. We have rednecks," he said. His partner had a different take. "I'm glad we have rednecks," he said. "I'm glad there's a ring of them all around us. They keep the yuppies out."

I used to think it was easy to identify gang members in Los Angeles, but that was before it became fashionable for everyone to wear their jeans around their knees.
Plus, I'm not willing to try to categorize possibly hostile residents by what they're wearing. However, if someone who lived in another part of the country told me they wouldn't live in Los Angeles because of gang violence, I would probably laugh, because for the most part, you really have to go look for it. We lived in the Valley for God's sake.

None of the gay people we've talked to here have had any violent encounters with local residents. So maybe the Southern redneck is more myth than reality. Plus, I'd like to believe that as long as you're polite and friendly with people, no matter who they are or what they're wearing or where they live, you're going to be okay. They may turn around and tell a friend about the crazy fag they met that day, but they're not going to kill me.

Politics and religion are definitely big parts of it, too. Over the past eight years, people have been whipped into a frenzy and told by their own government that they need to fear and subjugate gays at all costs. So at this point, there's really no telling who might snap and try to hurt us. It could be anyone, anywhere, at any time.

Well...have a nice day!

Asheville Arts

2008-06-09T06:19:00.000-07:00

When it comes to theatre, I do like spectacle. I have been known to cheer and applaud when a big, crazy set piece rolls on stage or a particularly brilliant light cue comes up. But my favorite kind of theatre is a little more organic. You really only need three pieces to make theatre of any kind: space, performer and audience. So the plays or performances I see that stick most closely to those three elements, yet still manage to create a world and move an audience, are my favorite experiences. I particularly like seeing performances that feel like Mickey and Judy decided to round up their friends and put on a show in the barn in order to save the farm.

Saturday night, Michael and I attended a performance benefiting the Asheville Community Theatre (ACT). The show was called Divalicious and featured eight local Asheville personalities competing for the title of ACT Diva 2008. The contestants ranged from seasoned performers to a local restaurateur and a city councilwoman. It was loads of fun, with a wide variety of wild, campy, touching performances from each of the participants. It was a well-produced show, but still managed to feel like a bunch of friends who got together to save the farm.

Seeing all the talent Asheville has to offer, I wonder why anyone who can sing and act and dance would be in the mountains instead of in Hollywood or New York. Then again, Asheville is developing a reputation as a music and cultural arts center. The guy who is fixing our fence told me that musicians from all over the country are coming to Asheville to play the club and festival scenes as a career starting point. And if the fence guy knows that, there must be something to it. There are lots of street musicians and performers on the weekends, which also follows the three basic elements of theatre: space, performer, audience. A sidewalk is just as viable a stage as the Staples Center. You can get better seats on the street, too, and don't always have to go through a broker just to get a floor seat. Stupid Ticketmaster.

I'm looking forward to seeing more theatre here. The Montford Park Players are having their annual Shakespeare festival this summer, rain or shine. And ACT's next offering is I Hate Hamlet, which is one of my favorite Paul Rudnick plays. Next weekend, we'll be attending another fundraiser for the arts, which brings our tally up to:

Arts Fundraisers Attended: 2
Arts Performances Attended: 0

So we need to get some tickets to stuff soon, before all our money goes to fundraisers and we can't afford to see the arts we're supporting.

Mommie Dearest

2008-06-06T10:21:00.000-07:00

I thought I would take a moment and tell anyone who happens to be reading this that I have a good mother. She's concerned that my blog entries could be construed as a daily treatise on her failings. Nothing could be further from the truth. If I am philosophical or self-critical or overly analytical, it's because that's part of what this whole year is about.

I'm taking a good look at my life and trying to decide what to do next, and that includes examining where I've been and the mistakes I've made along the way. This is a rare opportunity to stop, take a breath, get out the microscope and really look at things and figure out what I need to learn and do to be happy and fulfilled in the next chapter of my life.

So please keep in mind that if I start droning on about areas I'd like to improve in my head or body or life, it's NOT my mother's fault. More likely it's all my father's fault.

Speaking of my father, he'll be happy to know that I went to a sporting event last night. I believe they call it "the base ball game." The Asheville Tourists were playing the Hickory Crawdads. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. I'm told that people enjoy the base ball game along with their moms and apple pie. Though I didn't see any apple pie last night. Luckily, the Asheville Tourists won, 5-4! Funny story, during the game, I had a long conversation with another attendee, and had to fairly shout to be heard. After our conversation, she turned to me and said, "You're so quiet." So I'm learning that volume isn't really a piece of that puzzle. The enigma continues.

Incidentally, I do know what baseball is. I was kidding about that. In fact, just to bring this thing full circle, when I was a kid, my mother made me sign up for little league in a last-ditch attempt to impress my father. I threw away the practice and game schedule and made up alternative times, so that when she took me to practice or a game, no one else would be there. She finally figured out that ruse and I was forced to play in an actual game. Where I promptly broke my little finger, disfiguring it for life and ending my dreams of being a hand model.

So, I guess in this case, I do blame my mother (and by extension my father) for this particular shortcoming. I can't wear a ring on my ring finger next to my broken pinkie, and I can't do any sign language with my right hand that involves that finger. In fact, now that I think about it, my deformed pinkie could be the root of all my problems. Hmmm.

You can see photos from the game here.

Thoreau It Away

2008-06-05T05:19:00.000-07:00

Still unpacking. My joy at finally receiving all our stuff has quickly turned to despair. As I predicted while packing back in Los Angeles, I'm now opening boxes and thinking, "I can't believe I moved this across the country. Now what am I going to do with it?" Thoreau said, "Simplify, simplify." So now I'm faced with the prospect of downsizing after the move, when I should have done it before and saved about a thousand pounds.

With Thoreau shaking his head at me, I decided to stroll down to the lake, our own little Walden Pond, and cool off a little bit. I've always had a huge respect for nature. I'm a card-carrying tree-hugger from way back. But I've always kept nature at a distance. I don't hike. I don't camp. I love viewing fall foliage, especially from inside a car. Maybe I'm rebelling against my rural Oklahoma upbringing, or maybe I just like things to be neat and tidy, and nature has a tendency to be a big old mess. Either way, I'm now completely surrounded by nature and would very much like to organize it a little.

Sitting on the dock, enjoying the cool breezes and watching the ripples in the water, I kind of got it. You know, got it. Like, I see why people love nature. I see why people want to spend time in it. It's refreshing...but more than that, I can see how it holds a promise to make you better...to cleanse your soul somehow. Since I have more than a drop or two of Cherokee blood in my veins, I tried to look at the surrounding mountains and imagine them devoid of human life. What must it have been like for the Cherokees who decided to flee the Trail of Tears and hide out in the North Carolina mountains? You don't get much closer to nature than that.

Thoreau also said, "Still, we live meanly like ants." Man's true nature may not be so far removed from the wilds he tries to conquer after all. That Thoreau, he said a lot of stuff.

The problem with nature is that once you become part of it, you're fair game. And by game, I mean food. Nature is always waiting for you to fall in a lake or stop to tie your shoe, so it can pounce. Which is probably why rolling over it all with concrete and steel probably gives us a feeling of safety and victory. We've conquered nature. We won't be eaten by bears or moose today.

As I sat on the dock, I looked up at the house and saw Henry step out on the porch. He looked and me, so I patted my leg for him to come down and join me. He stayed where he was, surveyed the scene, then turned around and went back inside. He's a city dog, after all. So I packed up my thoughts and my Thoreau and joined him.

Something Good

2008-06-04T06:24:00.000-07:00

I know I quote show tunes a lot. But besides English, it's really the only other language I know. So today we're quoting from The Sound of Music. "Somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good." It's easy to look at my life as a long series of failures. Career, weight, personal relationships, that whole Debbie Gibson era. I've made a lot of mistakes, a lot of crazy choices and failed. A lot. But somewhere, somehow, I got Michael. Completely undeserved and unexpected. A shining, gleaming success.

Admittedly, I've been enthusiastic, but skeptical about this whole adventure. I'm a skeptical person. Pessimistically, reservedly skeptical. And it's just in my nature to expect disaster around every corner. Somehow, Michael is optimistic, open-minded and expects the best outcome in any situation. I suppose there's a lesson to be learned there, self-fulfilling prophesy and how we make our own luck and good fortune and all that. To be fair, I do bring a little helpful pragmatism to the relationship. Like when Michael's standing in a puddle of water and about to stick a fork in the toaster, I tend to say, "Please don't do that."

So somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done some little thing, some act of kindness that the universe noted and said, "We'll give him Michael later on, that'll shut up all his complaining for the rest of his life." Whatever it was, I'm glad I did it. Though if it was nice, I'm sure I probably did it by mistake. But I'm not complaining.

Culture Shock: Part 2

2008-06-02T06:28:00.000-07:00

I never thought I lived life in the fast lane back in Los Angeles. In fact, I often became annoyed with people who exhibited impatient behavior, whether on the freeway or in line at the grocery store. Really, does the five seconds you save by barking at the cashier really make that much of a difference in your day?

So I didn't think I would have any problem adapting to a slower pace. We were warned, after all. On one of our initial trips to Asheville, we met a woman who had moved here from a big city and ominously told us not to expect a quick meal at any restaurants in the South.

People here aren't in any hurry, it seems. And apparently, I am so used to rushing around, part of the big Los Angeles machine, always set to high speed, that I didn't even realize it. So now the wait in any line seems interminable to me. Oh my God, when someone asks "How are you?" here, they really want to know! And people will respond and tell them! At length!

Restaurants in Los Angeles want you in and out as soon as possible. No time to dilly-dally! But here, they seem to expect you're going to take your time and stay a while. The other night, our dinner of wine and cheese took two-and-a-half hours! No one seems in any hurry to bring or take your check, either. It's as if they think dinner should be relished and enjoyed and that conversation is more important than turn-over. What the hell?

I'm doing my best to take a deep breath and relax when I start to feel like blowing a whistle and hustling people along. "Move it! Move it! I don't have all day, people!" We came here for a change of pace, so I know I need to try to fit in and enjoy that. Maybe more wine will help. I'll start having an extra glass or two with breakfast. Don't worry, it'll be 5:00 by the time the check comes.

As God Is My Witness, I'll Never Sit on the Floor Again

2008-05-30T15:50:00.000-07:00

Our stuff arrived. Thank the fates. I just...I just want all of you who read this...I just want you to go home tonight and before you hug your children and before you hug your spouse, I want you to hug your stuff. I know we're not supposed to be materialistic and prize objects over anything else, but damn it, stuff just makes life better. So, hug your chair and hug your bed and hug your silverware. Do it!

It's been a looooong day. And our movers were great! Our driveway is a steep and narrow tree-lined pathway, so the moving truck couldn't come down to the house. They had to park up on the street level and carry everything down the steep hill, drop it off, then climb back up the hill for more. They were such troopers. I think I would have taken one look at that hill and just kept driving. I drive up the hill to get the mail every day.

So now, we're going to be unpacking for a while. Each box I open feels like Christmas. We haven't seen our stuff since the beginning of May, so I had forgotten how fabulous all my shoes are.

Tonight we're going to Sante, a wine bar, to relax, have some wine and cheese and take a deep breath. We'll finish unpacking tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day.

A Little Fall of Rain

2008-05-28T09:01:00.000-07:00

During my sophomore year in high school, I fancied myself a poet and spoiled reams of paper with my truly terrible poems and song lyrics. Most of which chronicled my unrequited love for my guitar teacher. Here's a sample:

The clouds hover over
Dark and billowing
Like my feelings for you.

I am held back
Restrained
My feelings like the rain.

Yes, I somehow managed to express that my feelings were both out of control and yet restrained, all in one poem. This is just the beginning of this epic tome, by the way. I only bring up this embarrassing literary episode, because whenever the skies are overcast or storm clouds roll in, my brain immediately coughs up my little poem. Carrie Fisher recently said that until the day she dies, the words Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you're my only hope will be stuck in her head. I guess the same is true for me and my meteorological poetry (though I will also have the Princess's plea stuck in there, too).

As you might have guessed, it's raining here. But that did not stop me from putting up my squirrel feeder. We had friendly (and hungry) squirrels in our backyard in Los Angeles, too. They were loads of fun and Michael even taught them to take peanuts out of his hand. But those were L.A. squirrels and probably had some prior training and SAG cards. Here, the squirrels are a bit more...well, squirrelly. But like their Los Angeles brethren, they quickly fell in line once I put up the feeder.

It took them no time at all to figure out how to get the food, and three of them spent the morning feasting, barking and running up and down the tree. Don't worry, I placed the feeder far enough from the house to protect us just in case they're rabid or have the plague.

My next project will be the birds. It's a diverse group. Then there are the chipmunks, but they spend most of their time in the front yard singing pop songs. The one food that seems to enthrall the entire animal kingdom (and humans) is peanut butter, so I will give that a try. As soon as the dark and billowing clouds (and my metaphoric feelings) clear up.

Quiet Riot

2008-05-25T19:11:00.000-07:00

Making friends has always been difficult for me. I am what you might call "anti-social." I don't know if I couldn't make friends because I was anti-social, or I became anti-social because I couldn't make friends. In either case, I am now a cold, humorless, unapproachable adult. And that is why we use Michael as our front man when meeting new people.

Michael is warm, friendly, larger-than-life, and people gravitate to him. Luckily, I have been able to harness his genuine, sweet personality and use it for my own sinister purposes. We put Michael out front to lure people in, butter them up, get their defenses down, then we spring me on them and see if they stick around or run. Those that stick around tend to become our friends. Those that run tend to warn others.

Since my birth, the most common phrase used to describe me has been "quiet."

"Oh, he's so quiet."
"Chance is so quiet in class."
"We would have taken him to the hospital, but he was so quiet."

In recent years, I have actually attempted to be whatever the opposite of quiet is. Loud? That seems to be what people prefer. But no matter how gregarious I am or silly or obnoxious, people still call Michael the next day and say, "Chance is so quiet." Since we're starting this new adventure here, I decided that I was going to try to be a "new Jan Brady" and change my ways. I was going to be the warm, friendly one. I was going to smile at people and answer them when they spoke to me and offer to throw water on them if they happened to catch on fire. I was going to be Marcia.

So we went to dinner with some new people the other night, and I decided to try on my best smile, small talk, chatter and charm. I asked people questions, genuinely laughed at their jokes, told funny, self-deprecating stories about myself. I knew I must have finally broken down that door and proved myself engaging and worthy of friendship. But as dinner came to a close, one of our new friends turned to Michael and said, "Chance is so quiet."

I have now reached the conclusion that I am not actually quiet at all. The truth is... people just don't listen to me. Socially, I am invisible. I suppose there are worse things to be. As a writer, it's nice to be an unnoticed observer, even when I'm telling a story or hanging from a chandelier or bleeding. It's probably good that no one remembers anything dreadful I said or did. I get a clean slate at every party.

So we'll keep using Michael as bait to lure in unsuspecting potential friends. And I will slink back into the shadows, my frigid, alabaster skin and milky, sightless eyes recoiling at the warm, golden radiance of his popularity.

Weekend Wrap-Up

2008-05-25T09:57:00.000-07:00

Click image above to enlarge.

Funny how I can feel disorganized and scattered even when there's absolutely nothing around me. It must be the OCD. Hopefully, I will feel better once I really do have something to organize and arrange. I've learned a couple of things this past week. You really can live without all the material trappings and possessions and things that we all cling to. The other thing I learned is that I don't want to. I can't wait for our stuff to get here. As an experiment, try getting through the day without a chair. You don't realize how much you depend on the lowly little piece of furniture called the chair until you don't have one. My favorite part of furniture shopping has been just sitting in all the chairs in all the stores.

We've been here a week now, though it seems longer. I don't mean that in a bad way. It's just that the local people and the friends we've made have been so nice to us and we have been so busy, that it seems like we've been here for ages.

Quick tragic childhood story: When I was a kid I had terrible allergies. Then when I was 9, I started allergy shots and they helped immensely. On one camping trip, the family and I found ourselves in a campground surrounded by cottonwood trees. The little white tufts drifted in the air like magic, and it was beautiful. But within a few seconds, I was having the worst attack of my life. The parents grabbed me, packed up our stuff and we got the heck out of there. From then on, we stayed away from cottonwood trees. You see where this is going?

Yesterday afternoon, I walked out on the balcony overlooking the backyard and the air was full of tiny little whispy, cottony plumes, like someone had blown the fluff off a giant dandelion into our yard. My allergy attacks have been mild here, but pretty steady. There's definitely something in the air. Somehow, the smog and absence of nature in Los Angeles had dulled my allergy problems over the years. Here, it's like a brand new world of sneezing! I'm going to try some homeopathic remedies, then head off to an allergist, if necessary. Even Michael has been sniffling and sneezing. Damn nature. It's enough to make you want to bulldoze some of these trees and put up a couple of Starbucks.

Culture Shock: Part 1

2008-05-23T04:40:00.000-07:00

Funny how the little things that are different about a new location can creep up on you. For instance, I went to Lowe's yesterday, and for a while, didn't know if I was ever going to make it back out. Get this! The layout at Lowe's is completely opposite to the layout at the stores in California. Why? Is it because it's the East Coast, so they flipped it? It's lawn and garden on the right, tools and lumber on the left, people! I spun around in circles for an hour.

If you're in Los Angeles, you are going to freak out at this next part. The cans of spray paint...are just out there in the open! Unlocked! They're not in a cage, and you don't have to get an employee to help you! If you're not in Los Angeles, let me explain. Even the spray glitter at the craft store is behind a big iron gate, and you have to explain to an employee just what you plan to do with the spray glitter once you have it! But here, it's all out in the open! I can gather up all the cans of paint and glitter I want and throw them to the starving masses like they're loaves of bread.

Next on the list is movie theaters. We went to see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull last night. I haven't been to a normal movie theater in years. In L.A., we always went to Arclight, where you get reserved and comfy seats, lots of legroom, no commercials, movie introductions by ushers, and most importantly, a bar. Maybe it was because the movie was showing on 10 of their 12 screens last night, but we somehow got the smallest movie screen in the world. And commercials. Lots of commercials. But I have to give props to the audience. Well-behaved and respectful, they even stayed for the credits, which is a hallmark of serious moviegoers. So kudos to Asheville movie fans! I'm just going to miss my assigned seat and my cosmo. Luckily, I'm still on the Arclight mailing list, so I can live vicariously through the weekly newsletter.

I'm off to Home Depot and a few comic book stores today, so we'll see what other cultural differences are in store. Maybe Asheville's Superman is a villain instead of a hero! I will let you know.

Food, Glorious Food

2008-05-22T05:42:00.000-07:00

Everything we shipped, ordered, ferried or sent by carrier pigeon is scheduled to arrive at the exact same time, approximately 10 days after we actually arrived here. I don't know how it happened exactly. I thought we planned so carefully. But that's the way it is. So we've been sitting on the floor, discovering back pains we never knew existed. We've also been eating off of plastic plates and using plastic utensils. Our breakfast and lunch consist of anything that doesn't have to be cooked, since we don't have any pots or pans yet. Frankly, it feels like I'm back in college or in my first apartment where the contents of my refrigerator included water and Slim Fast and nothing else.

For dinner, we've been exploring the foodie offerings of Asheville. Asheville boasts some really fantastic restaurants. The people here seem really excited about food, and you'd be surprised at the diversity and creativity of the menus here. As Michael mentioned in his blog, we went to a place called Scully's on our first night to try their onion rings. I had the black bean veggie burger, and it was delightful. I also indulged in a special vodka and lemonade concoction that was both sweet and refreshing. I was too embarrassed to order the drink I really wanted, which was called The Freddie Mercury and was described as "fruity."

Monday night we revisited our favorite vegetarian restaurant in Asheville: The Laughing Seed. As vegetarians, we're used to going to restaurants and having maybe 2 or 3 choices. So when faced with an entire menu of choices, we are practically paralyzed with indecision. After reminding ourselves that we'll be here for a year and have plenty of time to try everything, Michael had the mushroom risotto cakes and I had the yellow curried Napoleon. Both were sublime. We sat outside on the patio and took a moment to breathe and relax and contemplate what exactly we think we're doing with this whole kooky project.

Last night, I Googled "the best pizza in Asheville" and found a place called Marco's Pizzeria. It's a family-owned restaurant with a warm and comforting old-school Italian restaurant feel to it. Michael had the pesto pizza and I had the white pizza with fresh mozzarella, ricotta and garlic. Lots of garlic. We had a 2004 Monte Antico red wine, which was a blend of sangiovese, merlot and cabernet from the Tuscan hillside. I described it as caustic, but in a good way. Michael described it as red and drinkable. Really, it was very good and much better than either of us has described here.

When our cookware, dinnerware and cutlery arrive, these nightly restaurant jaunts will probably slow down quite a bit. There are still so many places to try and quirky little specials to discover. So when the moving truck finally arrives, I might just wave them on and tell them to keep going.

The Rest Is Silence

2008-05-21T04:46:00.000-07:00

Since arriving in Asheville, when I've woken up in the middle of the night, I've had to remind myself where the heck I am. And I've only been waking up because of all the noises. Michael doesn't hear the noises, of course. Nor does Henry. I heard similar noises back in Los Angeles, but I had lived in that house long enough to identify and classify all of them. The medieval creaking of the heater. The floor boards settling. Henry getting up and turning around before settling back down for the night. They still woke me up, but I knew them all.

New house. New noises. I've identified the heater and floorboard noises here. I've also identified the refrigerator noise, which I can hear all the way from the kitchen downstairs. But there are all these other noises which will need to be investigated and cataloged so that when I wake up, I can tell myself, "Oh, it's only the refrigerator," then go back to sleep.

Then there are the morning sounds. A cacophony of nature in surround sound. In Los Angeles, sometimes we'd get a bird or two in the tree outside our bedroom window, but we were much more likely to wake up to the sounds of passing traffic or construction from down the street. Here, there is nothing but trees all around us. So we have chirping and tweeting and whistling and warbling, as well as a little honking and quacking from the lake. There's also this bizarre twanging sound coming from the edge of the water. It's like the strumming of a banjo string. Before you start thinking of Deliverance, let me assure you that it's not "Dueling Banjos." Just an occasional twang, twang, twang.

Before, I might have told people, "We moved to a small mountain town in North Carolina. It's so quiet here." And it is quiet here, if you consider the absence of big city noise. But all the other sounds are practically deafening. It will be interesting to see (and hear) how soon I get used to it all, and it just becomes white noise to me. For now, though, Michael and Henry are both in a deep sleep, while I'm wide awake and blogging about sensory overload.

Tomorrow Is Another Day

2008-05-20T05:33:00.000-07:00

Sunday morning in Knoxville was overcast and blustery. We could have left early and been in Asheville by 10AM, but I needed to stay at the hotel so I could record a podcast for my other website. With that out of the way, we were off around noon. By then the storm clouds had rolled in and soon the light rain turned into a pounding rain. If one were to believe in omens, one might turn around and go back to sunny California.

The drive through the smoky mountains was gorgeous. Even in the rain. Or especially in the rain, since the overcast skies seemed to imbue the foliage with a rich, dark emerald color. A thick fog rolled through the mountains and the rain washed away the California sand, the New Mexico dust, the red Oklahoma dirt and all the rest of the evidence of our journey. Instead of a bad omen, maybe the rain just served as a metaphorical baptism into a new life. If one were to believe in those sorts of things.

Michael was nervous about showing me the house. I told him I would try to hide the crushing disappointment and horror on my face if I hated it. But we both know I'm a mediocre actor at best. My college newspaper described one of my performances as "convincingly banal." I still have the clipping! But I needn't have worried. As soon as we turned down the tree-lined driveway leading to the house, I was relieved. It really is a beautiful area. The house is a mid-century modern design, and if you know Michael, you know it's no accident that he managed to find the one mid-century house in North Carolina. The backyard slopes down to the lake and a small dock where we can feed the ducks and geese and breathe the fresh mountain air.

The house itself is a little old, a little quirky, but should be a warm and fun hideout for the next year. I should probably think of something philosophical to say as we begin the net phase of this adventure. All I can think of is that after months of planning, we're finally here, and I'm not horrified. Which is a good omen, I think. If one were to believe in those sorts of things.

Check out the latest photos here.

Walking in Memphis...Literally

2008-05-18T06:16:00.000-07:00

From Branson we decided to skip Little Rock and drive on to Memphis. Little Rock was heartbroken, but we had to soldier on. We arrived late Friday night and checked into our hotel. On a side note here, we've been really lucky with all our hotel choices during this trip. We only had one hiccup back in Oklahoma City, but were able to find a better place right away. I judge a hotel by the water pressure in the shower. So far, I've been pleasantly surprised every step of the way.

Anyway, Saturday morning we got a little bit of a late start, but finally got showered, packed and navigated, so we could spend the day with our friends Heather and John and their new baby Django, who has the genetic promise of being talented and gorgeous and thin. Heather and I went to college together. We met in Modern Drama class, where she would invade my personal space by reading my Entertainment Weekly over my shoulder. It took another year, but we finally became the best of friends, terrorizing the Drama Department and our fellow students along the way.

Heather and John just relocated to Memphis from New York, so they had lots of knowledge to share with us about moving to the South. Just as we've noticed about the people in Asheville, Heather and John commented on how nice everyone is. It's very sweet, if not a little disarming. I plan to keep my guard up, though. I've seen enough movies to know that the nice town folk will probably end up eating me or turning me into a robot.

We walked to their favorite breakfast place and had our first biscuit and sorghum of this adventure. Sorghum is sort of like molasses, sort of like honey, but has a really unique flavor. It was yummy. Everyone back in California gets a bottle of sorghum for Christmas! Woohoo! The visit with Heather, John and Django was fun, and I wish we could have stayed longer, but we had lofty ideas about driving from Memphis to Asheville in one day. We could have done it, too, if it hadn't been for me. In Knoxville, I decided I didn't want to creep into Asheville in the middle of the night. I wanted to take more pictures of the journey and see Asheville in the daylight when we arrived. So Michael agreed to spend the night in Knoxville.

So today the trek across America ends. We will be in Asheville this afternoon and a whole new adventure will begin. It's exciting, but scary. I'm going to do my best to make the most of this year and this opportunity. And I'm going to do everything I can to avoid becoming food or a robot. Wish me luck!

Hillbillies, Has-Beens and Fudge...Oh My!

2008-05-17T05:31:00.001-07:00

If you grew up in Oklahoma and spent most of your family vacations in Branson, Missouri, then you definitely know the difference between a jubilee and a jamboree. Branson is part Nashville and part Las Vegas. Perched atop the Ozark mountains, Branson is all about country and bluegrass music, old-timey attractions and hillbilly haute couture.

Like Vegas, Branson exists primarily on a single strip, littered with theaters and hotels. Each of the theaters boasts a different country music review show. When I was a kid, some of the acts included the Presley family, the Baldknobbers, the Bobolinks, Ozark Country Jubilee and Hee-Haw. We saw all the shows, but they were all basically the same. An extended family of talented singers and musicians put together a variety show of country music hits and standards, then broke it up along the way with antics by a rodeo-style clown, usually a stereotypical hillbilly character. Still with me? Think of Cirque du Soleil, but with banjos.

Driving through Branson today, it was almost unrecognizable from the hokey little Ozark resort town from my youth. Extending way beyond the main strip, Branson now has a convention center, Hilton hotels, outlet malls and Dick Clark's American Bandstand theater. I was kind of happy to see that the Presleys and the Baldknobbers had still managed to hang in there all these years. Other than those, all the theaters feature new acts, old has-beens and, inexplicably, Yakov Smirnoff. Luckily, we also found the shop selling the same fudge I used to always get when I was a kid.

Still, it was a beautiful drive, and it was bizarre sharing something so silly and specific from my childhood with Michael. I keep expecting him to make fun of it all, or at least grab me and say, "Thank God you got out of this crazy place!" But you know Michael. He just smiles and goes with the flow, making friends along the way, doing his best to put out the fires from all my burning bridges.

P.S. The difference between a jubilee and a jamboree? Seven.

Equality for All

2008-05-15T21:55:00.000-07:00

Today's instant methods of communication are amazing. There we were, in downtown Tulsa, enjoying the Mayfest street festival, when Michael got an email about the California Supreme Court ruling on gay marriage. Being the cynical one, I kept pestering him with questions, looking for clarification. It couldn't be true. Could it?

Michael's thumbs flew across the keyboard of his Palm Treo. It was true. But what about the anti-gay amendment to the constitution that's going to be on the next ballot? Yes, the opposition is going ahead with that. But in 30 days, gay and lesbian couples will be legally allowed to marry in California. The battle isn't over, of course, but for today, I'm proud to be a Californian. And although I am many, many miles away at the moment, and will be for some time, my heart is with those celebrating in the Golden State right now.

To learn more about the ruling and what you can do to help with the next steps toward protecting our newfound equality, please visit Equality for All.

Back on the road tomorrow. Tune in for our adventures in Branson!

A Proud Nation

2008-05-14T22:20:00.000-07:00

Native American casinos in Oklahoma are very different from the Native American casinos in Los Angeles, and even more different from the casinos in Las Vegas. Michael and I went with my parents for a little mid-morning gambling at the Osage Million Dollar Elm Casino in Bartlesville. Unlike the campy/sleazy/over-the-top atmosphere of Vegas, this casino had a cold and determined all-business feel. I think I understand. It's as if the corporate mission statement is: "Well, this is what it's come to. So let's make the best of it." It was a beautiful building in a beautiful area of the rolling Osage Hills. But there was still that feeling of single-minded ruthlessness that made me feel slightly uncomfortable being there. And I'm Native American! I lost about $30, even on the Star Wars slots, which seems totally unfair considering how much money I've spent on Star Wars in my life. I always feel like I should get a little something back when I play those things.

In a moment of familial pride, I told my dad that I would take this next year in Asheville and learn the Cherokee language. My grandmother's language and the language of my heritage. So let's add "learn Cherokee" to my list of goals for the next year. Oy. Wait, that's Yiddish. So I'll do what I always do when I start one of my kooky projects...go buy a book. Maybe a year from now I'll be writing this blog in Cherokee, thus alienating the three people who are reading this thing. Ay dios mio! Wait, that's Spanish.

Thursday we're off to Tulsa for Mayfest. I will take more photos then. I've been giving my camera a rest the past couple of days because you can only terrorize your family with your camera for so long before they smack you.

Ohhhhhhh-klahoma!

2008-05-13T21:04:00.000-07:00

As mentioned in the titular song, the wind really does sweep down the plain here in Oklahoma. For comparison purposes, it's similar to the Santa Ana winds, but more consistent and somewhat more forceful at times. We spent the night in Oklahoma City and indulged in a childhood favorite: Mazzio's Pizza. It's a regional pizza restaurant best known for its greasy deep pan pizza. Mmmmm...greasy.

This morning we woke up to the wind blowing through the streets of OKC, making packing the car a little difficult, since every time we set something down, it would blow away. We headed out of town and drove straight to Tulsa, where we picked up my car. We decided to ship my car to Tulsa and give it to my mother. It made it safe and sound, thankfully, and I'm going to miss it, since it was the first new car I ever bought and even paid off!

I have a complicated relationship with Oklahoma. Around the age of two, I was already plotting my escape from the place. Yet, there is a lot of beauty here. If you can look past the crucifix skyline, you'll see a stunning sky of azure blue and white fluffy clouds. Plus, since Oklahoma is so flat, you'll never see a more picturesque sunset as the sun literally melts into the straight line of the horizon. As expected, my house feels smaller than when I was a child. And now my parents' big yard feels smaller, too, since they lost almost all of their trees in the ice storm earlier this year.

My 12-year old niece informed me that she saw my name on the alumni panel for my class at the high school. Yup, the graduating classes are so small that you can fit everyone's pictures on one panel and then hang them in the hallways. She noticed my name was listed, but no picture. For me that pretty much sums up my youth in Oklahoma. I was here in name only. My heart and soul were already long gone. We're here until Friday, so I'm sure we'll be encountering more ghosts from my past. Michael's just happy mingling with all the cows. I'll have to check and make sure one doesn't end up in our car before we leave.

This Land Is My Land

2008-05-12T21:30:00.000-07:00

Since I've lived in Los Angeles for so long, I've gotten used to being in a crowded city where space is at a premium. So naturally it's very startling to drive hundreds of miles at a time with nothing around but land, land, land. My first thought was, "Wow! You could fit about a zillion Target stores out here." Then I got more serious in my analysis of all the empty land. Couldn't we just move the state of Israel to the US Southwest or Midwest, thus solving the whole Middle East crisis? Andrea, if you're reading this, please let me know if this is a viable option and I will look into it.

The other thing I noticed today is that Texas sucks. I was extremely nervous entering Texas. We mapped out our route so that we only had to cross a small portion of it. But even then, I was sure we were going to end up being chased down, then drawn and quartered. We are both pretty easy-going and tend to get along just about anywhere we travel, but there was just something about Texas that scared me. I never thought I'd be happy to enter Oklahoma, but when we finally crossed the border, I was so relieved. I know Oklahoma has its problems, too, but I felt like I could talk us out of trouble with my native knowledge of the state. I did take Oklahoma History in high school, which sounds odd, I know, since I've told most of you I grew up in London.

My final thought for the day is about ghost towns. It's very eerie and sad to see the skeletons of once-thriving towns. What was it like there? What happened to the people? What must it feel like to see a highway built to bypass your town and businesses? There's something comforting about living in a thriving city, full of life and commerce and humanity. Let the critics make fun of Los Angeles, but it's alive.

One more thing...Texas suuuuuucks.

Exterminate! Exterminate!

2008-05-12T08:03:00.000-07:00

I should have known it was only a matter of time before our new onboard computer/navigation/entertainment system became sentient and tried to kill us. I've seen 2001, Alien and The Sound of Music. I know how this stuff works.

After surviving the computer's failed attempt to strand us in a forest, Blair Witch style, we made our way through Monument Valley, Utah, which is this otherworldly series of rock formations jutting up hundreds of feet into the sky. Most impressive.

Then we stopped in Four Corners to get our daily fix of goofy Americana. Then it was off to Santa Fe to crash for the night. Hopefully, the computer has not formulated a new plan to get rid of us. If the computer takes over this blog, please send a search party!

Check out the photos from the trip so far on our Flickr page.

A Modern Stone Age Family

2008-05-11T07:28:00.000-07:00

Nothing I've seen or read could have prepared me for the sheer size and beauty of the Grand Canyon. I had never been, but thought I knew what I would be seeing. It's truly a natural wonder. I was reading the park map when it first came into view. Michael sort of whispered a reverent, "Ohhh." I glanced up and did a genuine, real live double-take. All I could say was, "Are you kidding me?" It was magnificent.

I'm impressed that it appears to have suffered little interference from mankind. I understand that humans control the flooding of the river that still winds its way through the canyon, but for the most part I was relieved I didn't have a cell phone signal and there didn't appear to be a Starbucks perched on the edge. There were, however, lots of signs warning people about perching on the edge and that most deaths at the Grand Canyon were due to people falling off cliffs. Most?

Like I said, the Canyon was beautiful. A woman standing near me said, "You can't come here and still be an atheist." Ugh. I wanted to say, "Lady, this is the prime example, Exhibit A, of natural age and processes on the Earth. This ain't 6,000 years old." But I didn't feel like getting pushed off the cliff by an angry mob of Christians. There's still so much to see of this beautiful country. And as much as I get annoyed at America in terms of politics and social issues, America...the actual country...is so beautiful, it hurts to look at it.

Henry, our gigantic dog, seems to be having a blast. When I met Michael, I thought for sure the dog issue would be a deal-breaker. I didn't have dogs, didn't like dogs and avoided dogs at all costs. But here I am, almost ten years later, hugging the crazy dog, taking pictures of him and making Michael buy him a bandanna to wear, so he won't scare people so much. I forget how big he is. Then I see how people jump, gasp and recoil when he comes loping towards them. It's like we're walking our pet T-Rex. And speaking of pet dinos, we stopped ever so briefly at Bedrock, a Flintstones-themed park, diner and souvenir place. It was as kitschy as it sounds and the lone store attendant was divine. She asked trivia questions about the characters and gave us 10% off, even when I didn't know that Fred only has three toes. Yes, three. See, another example of evolution at work!

Global Cooling

2008-05-10T06:39:00.000-07:00

I had a lot of expectations for moving day. I sort of had a whole script in mind of how it would go, how it would feel and how I would act and react. But ultimately, it was completely different from anything I expected.

First of all, it was dark and cold and gloomy. And when you're trying to feel sad about leaving sunny Los Angeles, a cold and overcast day doesn't help that much. Next, the movers were clearly very experienced and professional, but they were quite possibly the slowest operation I've ever encountered, which only succeeded in making me nervous. Finally, I imagined walking through the empty house and yard as the soundtrack swelled and a montage of happy memories played. But, ultimately, I just wanted to leave.

I guess I didn't need all the drama and sad goodbyes and tearful strolls down memory lane. I think I did all that while packing, so the empty house just felt...well...empty. Paul and Andrea stopped by to say goodbye, which gave us another opportunity to say, "Here, take this" and hand them stuff we wanted to unload. Mallery spent the day with us, helping direct the movers and organize the whole show. And, of course, Philip was there. Whenever I mention having a housekeeper, I always feel ridiculously pretentious, because, growing up, housekeepers were only fictional characters on TV, not anyone I'd ever encounter in real life. But now I've encountered a lot of them, because they all tend to quit after I drive them crazy with my demands. But Philip was a treasure and somehow managed to put up with all my over-the-top OCD requirements. He even survived the 4-page Excel worksheet detailing how to clean each room.

Now that we're on our way, I hope I can stop being so philosophical and start having some fun. Even I have a low tolerance for my existential bullshit.

Manifest Destiny in Reverse

2008-05-02T10:24:00.000-07:00

Way back in the Nineteen Hundred and Nineties, a fresh young composer named Andrew Lloyd Webber wrote a little musical called Sunset Boulevard. Back then it was still unusual to turn a movie into a Broadway musical. Now, it's required, with disastrous results. I'm looking at you, Legally Blonde. But I'm not here to discuss the decline of the American musical. Though I just did. And it is. Instead, I bring up Sunset Boulevard, because for the past two weeks I haven't been able to get the title song out of my head.

Odds are you don't remember it, or have never heard it. To sum up, Joe Gillis sings of his dreams of moving to Los Angeles, then describes the harsh and bitter reality that greeted him, essentially justifying his decision to move in with a crazy silent film star and live off her money and mental instability. So what does that have to do with me? I love Los Angeles. I've found friends and family and love and success and a home here. And yet, by leaving it, I feel a little like Joe Gillis when he decides to give it all up and leave town. Then, of course, he ended up floating in the pool with a bullet in his back. And I'm sorry if I just spoiled the end for you, but the movie has been out for 58 years. Almost as long as I've been out.

Fighting for space in my brain with Sunset Boulevard is my high school history book. The one that described manifest destiny and "go west, young man." I don't remember anyone saying, "go east, young man." Or even, "once you reach your destiny, turn around and go back." I've heard California described as the end of the rainbow. Why would anyone leave the end of the rainbow?

You don't regret the things you do; you regret the things you don't do.

So here comes this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to leave home for a year and experience an entirely new and different way of life. The mountains of North Carolina are a far cry from the streets of L.A. But why do it? Barring any earthquakes, fires, mudslides or governors, California will still be here in a year. But this opportunity won't be.

We are going to miss our friends and family, our home and the crazy world of Los Angeles living. I mean, I love a city where the local news leads with what's happening in entertainment. But we'll be back. With stories to tell. And an exciting chapter to add to our lives. Unless of course we're chased out of town by an angry mob with pitchforks and torches...which is always a possibility when I'm involved.