Happy 4th of July from All Things Phil!

As you can see, I’m celebrating my own newfound freedom for this July 4th. I’m free from my psycho bitch roommate from Hell. And the freedom feels damn good.

What better way to commemorate the Fourth of July than by doing a list of four things that may or may not be related to the holiday? Nothing, that’s what.

• I’m adjusting pretty well to my new place, especially the part when I can cook all I want and use my kitchen properly. My humble abode hardly feels like a place in the city, given that there’s tall trees all around, and that my landlord is a contractor and thus the place is full of partially-constructed materials. I seem to be sharing my space with a few insect populations, namely small spiders here and there, and at least for the first couple of days, some sugar ants. The sugar ants took a liking to my iMac, which now has fingerprints all over the monitor because I had to squish the little things as they crawled across the screen. I don’t mind these critters for two reasons: 1) They’re not Black Widows. My ex-roommate never sprayed for bugs, and her garage became home to several of the little beasts. I noticed them when I went to retrieve some boxes I had stored in the garage. I decided to leave said boxes behind, however, for obvious reasons. and 2) They’re not stinging arthropods that drop from the ceiling into the kitchen sink.

• I find it fascinating how many people think that July 4 is the day the United States gained independence from England, rather than what it actually is: the day the Declaration of Independence was adopted by Congress. The document wasn’t actually officially transcribed until July 19, and it wasn’t actually signed by anyone until August 2, 1776. (See a more completely chronology here.) And then another seven years or so of fighting took place before the States were actually fully free.

• I’m not sure how many readers I have in California, but here’s a shout-out to all of you fine folks: it’s probably a good idea to go easy this year on the fireworks. Because we’ve got 1,500 fires burning around the state, I vote we don’t add any more to that number, and leave the fireworks shows to the pros. If you’re in the Los Angeles area, maybe consider hitting the Rose Bowl, Disneyland, Fisherman’s Village, Exposition Park, or another venue. Check out a list of some of the festivities.

• Though I searched for a party to crash for the big day, none has come my way. It’s just as well, really. I imagine that LA traffic on July 4 is bound to be pretty damn shitty. As of now, my plan is to sport a fabulous festive shirt, relax at home for most of the day, and maybe enjoy the pool in the evening. Who knows, I may even mix up a margarita or two for myself, too.

Five days, five trips back and forth between the old place and the new one, and five dozen or so boxes worth of worldly possessions, I’m finally to the point where, between the time I get up in the morning and when I go to sleep in the morning, I don’t have to unpack any boxes.

It’s amazing how liberating this is. Things I’m so not going to miss about the old place: EVERYTHING. I love not having to worry about making sure nothing looks like it’s been used, especially the damn bathroom. I love that I can use my own dishes now (I bought some!), and I don’t have to worry about some crazy woman holding up a frying pan like some freaky Jason. Wait, I can put a loaf of bread on the counter? What? You can do that?! YES YOU CAN, MOTHERFUCKER. And I am, it’s on there right now.

One of the perks of living in this place is that it comes with a dog. A dog that’s not abused by being forced to live in the utility room with a little square blanket it’s supposed to poop on, no. (If there’s anything I feel bad about from moving, it’s that the damn dog doesn’t have a decent owner; at least when I was there I could take him out and play with him and try to improve his poor doomed puppyhood. But I digress.) This dog is a genuine big dog, the biggest dog with whom I’ve ever gotten to share the same plot of land.

When I went swimming to cool off this evening (hello, pool!), the dog decided to join me. First it was a game of fetch, and then he got hot and decided that jumping in the pool was the perfect way to cool off. Wait, let me rephrase that: he decided that jumping on me was the perfect way to cool off. It just happened to be convenient for him that I was in the pool when he decided to take that plunge.

That’s Dylan, the best new friend I could possibly ask for. He’s cute even when he’s all soggy.

Today is the day of the great 20SB Big Blog Swap! The entry below is written by the Dutchess of Kickball. Just as the word “swap” implies, she’s posting here, and I’m posting on her blog. Should you be interested in reading my post, follow her link, and be sure to check out more on her site.

For years I’ve yearned to sit down and tell this story but for some reason I never fully did. Part of me was always a little embarrassed that I got myself caught up as deep as I did. Part of me just couldn’t explain the gut wrenching pain these life changing events brought to my world. And I’m not entirely sure I’ll be able to delve into as deeply as I would like…

When I was 22 I fell madly, deeply in love besides all my better judgment. He was kind, sincere, enthusiastic and a drug dealer. I used to think that the beginning of our tragic love story was the worst part. That nothing could get worse than three months into our relationship when he was busted be the DEA. I assumed that once we got over that aspect then things would be smooth sailing, because really, how much worse could it get.

The DEA entered his apartment about twenty minutes after I had left under the guise of an AC technician. He learned an old friend had narced him out. His phone had been tapped for two years. The agents said I sounded nice on the phone. I felt raped. But the cops were actually pretty lenient on him, well, if you consider getting yourself into a situation that will get you killed lenient. He was given the option to get off scott free, just wear a wire and buy from his supplier… with mob connections.

He made the buy, and never returned to his apartment.

He spent five years in Oregon after that. His parents and I were the only ones who knew where he was.

Every six months or so one of us would contact the other. Sometimes we acted like nothing ever happened and we were together again if only for a few weeks. Other times it would only be a one off phone call, just to make sure we were both still alive. Every time we spoke he seemed to have fallen deeper and deeper into a depression. He was on the top of the world with $80,000 in cash and now unable to pay the rent. He was somber and melancholy. His once exuberant spirit was broken. He was a different person and yet my heart couldn’t give up on him.

At some random six month period I called and heard the news I had secretly been waiting for, he had come back home. While he was still miserable he was seeing a little light at the end of the tunnel, he had a glimmer of hope for the future. And I was going to be in it. It had taken five years, but it seemed like love does conquer all. It was our hearts that had pulled him through his dark years and brought him back where he belonged. I had helped him.

And then he panicked.

We broke up (again) in a thunderstorm of words. I was terribly angry. I had stood by him through all of his terrible times, all of the horrific situations that ultimately could have gotten me into a world of trouble. I had never wavered from my love and devotion to him. And he throws me away as quickly as he did for reasons I will never understand.

The fight made us say evil, stinging things. But as I couldn’t take it anymore I told him “Your just going to get drunk and high until you get arrested or fall off a cliff” and I hung up. (Important note, he was working at a mountain top resort, hence the falling off a cliff.)

A year and a half later I got an email from an old mutual friend informing me that he had died. Phone calls to his boss and friends confirmed this, and that he had in fact, fallen off a cliff. I will never forgive myself.

Had I put the idea in his head or was it a coincidental accident. I’ll never know.

I used to think he was the love of my life but I haven’t thought that for a long time. He definitely was the great tragedy of my life. But more importantly he unknowingly taught me so much about myself. He taught me how to hold on to what’s important, and to let go of what isn’t safe for myself, physically and psychologically. He taught me to recognize depression, and I did realize that I had been in those mental places in my life, and I got help.

But most importantly, he taught me to live life to the fullest; every day really could be your last.

Here’s some free advice: Never assume that moving will be a perfect process. Not that it ever could be to begin with; by its very nature, moving bites. What I mean is, even when you think you’re moving under the best of all possible circumstances, don’t let that lull you into a false sense of security.

Take me, for instance. I’m so thrilled, this time around, to be moving. And all seems to be going well and, mostly, according to the plan I never really actually laid out. Then today, as I’m busily packing boxes and moving them gradually to my car, Lady Voldemort informs me that the back left tire on my car is low. I’d noticed that too, but hadn’t given it much thought. There just wasn’t enough room in my brain, what with it being full of things from my recent trip and now with the task of getting myself moved.

I made one trip to my new place, then on my way to lunch, I decided to forgo the trip to the gas station to use the air pump, and instead headed to Discount Tire to have them take a look. The decision was based on a combination of laziness, incompetence, and genuine concern.

The tire guy, Dimitri, took a look at my tire and, in a matter of seconds, found the nail that had punctured my little Goodyear. It was exactly what I thought it might have been, only since the nail didn’t reveal itself to me automatically, and I never heard any hissing, I couldn’t be sure. Twenty minutes and $20.00 later, I had a freshly fixed tire and suddenly my car wasn’t tilting dangerously to one side and getting terrible gas mileage. Funny how that works.

Compared to my last move, this one is like a walk in the park. Maybe it’s because I’m only moving 3.5 miles away from where I’m currently at, instead of 800. Maybe it’s because I get to take a few days to make the whole move, and can thus move a little at a time. Maybe it’s because there’s a whole lot less bitching at me for being a big gay disaster. Maybe it’s because I’m almost free from the crazy lesbian roommate who may as well have “666″ tattooed across her chest. Or maybe it’s a combination of all of the above.

This by no means gets me off the hook in terms of moving being a shit ton of work. I’m seriously wiped out. The only reason I’m awake to write this right now is because I took an hour-long nap earlier today. After carrying a box that I had mistakenly packed too full of textbooks and other large volumes, thus making it very fucking heavy, and actually managing to carry the thing into my new place, only to have the thing burst open as soon as I got it in the door, I figured I deserved the shuteye. Not to mention license to write lengthy and confusing run-on sentences.

I can’t believe it, but I’m literally down to less than 72 hours left under the reign of Lady Lucifer. I was thrilled to learn, upon my return, that when I stopped my incoming mail due to my extended absence from LA, it stopped ALL the mail to the house; she actually had to be the one to go to the main post office and pick up all the mail. The fact that she made it a point to inform me of this occurrence the moment I walked in the door indicated that she wasn’t too thrilled about the ordeal. I took it as a testament to my awesomeness. Aw, yeah!

Today was the big day when I flew back to Los Angeles. The whole thing was rather unceremonious, and not unlike pulling teeth. I’ve discovered that the more you love someone, the harder it is to part ways, even if it is just temporary. Everything seems that much more lackluster when that certain someone isn’t there to share in the moment with you.

Here’s a quick and dirty list of some cool aspects of the trip:

• I ran into some Albuquerque friends at the airport, so it was cool to catch up with them.
• On the flight to Phoenix I sat next to a chatty female who talked a mile a minute and said “yes” when I asked if I could get a discount for talking to her before booking a stay at her pueblo’s new resort.
• In Phoenix, I got a high five from the cutest pre-toddler ever.

Here’s a quick and dirty list of things that, well, sucked:

• I had to sit next to one Mr. Business Card Strip-Club-Lover on the flight from Phoenix in to Burbank. Although he did provide for interesting text message conversation:

Phil: Not liking my seatmate… hetero businessman chauvinist. Ew.
Robert: Butch it up a bit!
Phil: Oh yeah, so butch in my musical* t-shirt. We’ll knock a few back and talk about chicks, I’m sure.

• I had to return to the house of ill fame that, upon pulling up to at the curb, I realized I loathe with ever fiber of my soul.

Cool news: I got to see some of my friends tonight and we even went for dinner (a perfect excuse to avoid returning to my current place of residence). I also got to see my friend Letizia’s one-week-old daughter! She’s cute and fabulous, let me tell you.

Other cool news: the house was not burned down, as I was half-expecting. What I wasn’t expecting was to arrive home and find my roommate home and back together with the girlfriend who, mere weeks ago, she’d tried to choke with her bare hands. Not that it’s cool that they’re back together, mind; I’m just thrilled that all my stuff is still here, and more than that, I can’t fucking wait to get out of this hellhole. Bitch, I am so done with this place.

*I was wearing my brand spanking new Spamalot t-shirt. Strangely enough, as we were exiting the plane, the dude actually asked me about the show and said he wanted to see it because “I love Monty Python.” Sure he does.

I’ve been the proud owner of a digital camera for something like nine months now. I really love it, and I’ve taken all sorts of pictures with it. What I’m bad about, though, is actually uploading the pictures onto my computer and then clearing out my memory card so I can start it fresh.

Worse, every time we leave the house I always muse aloud about whether or not I should bring my camera. Whenever I don’t have it, I always see something of which I absolutely must have a picture. Conversely, whenever I DO have it, I always forget to take pictures. I’ll carry the thing around in my hand and talk Robert’s ear off about all the fabulous pictures I can take, but it’s rare for me to actually take any pictures.

What this all comes down to is that there are, in my opinion, some pretty snazzy pictures on my camera. But, because I’m so lousy when it comes to making full use of said camera, those pictures are currently restricted to the confines of the LCD display on the back of the camera.

We were at a friend’s house today and it got all cloudy and started thundering outside. I was sitting there staring out the window, thinking about how I find thunderstorms uniquely relaxing, when it occurred to me that maybe I should whip out my camera and go take some pictures. And by “some” I mean three.

Well, it’s a start. Next on the agenda: tackling Photoshop. My current skill level with that shit is “Prehistoric Cave Man”, so I’ve got a long way to go.

Whenever I get a good idea for something to write about, I do one of two things. 1) Let it ruminate in my consciousness until I sit down at my computer and can let the words flow. 2) Write it down somehow, be it by writing on a post-it note, saving a little “note” on my phone, or texting myself an email. This little system of mine has proven effective probably about 50% of the time. And that’s my current average, which means that in the past, all sorts of great things have occurred to me at one point or another, only to get lost in the depths of great thoughts that will never be thought again.

Tuesday may well be a huge mark of change, however. I’ve long thought about getting a little notepad of some kind to jot things down, and for the last two weeks I’ve told Robert I wanted to get one every single time we left the house. Only by the time we got to any place that potentially sold such notepads, I’d totally space the fact that I wanted to buy one.

We went to the mall on Tuesday for a chance to escape for a bit and walk around. While there, we visited one of the evil giant corporate bookstores, Barnes & Noble, and lo and behold, I struck gold. Gold in the form of an old-style leather notebook that can fit in my pocket and even has lined paper.

I’ve currently got two notes jotted down:

Tuesday 6/24/08
I just bought this beauty of a notepad.

Wednesday 6/25/08
I just forged the Tuesday entry above. For no reason other than because I could.

I can’t wait to see what sort of journey my new notebook and I take. I’ve never kept anything like it before, but I think I’m off to a pretty good start.

I picked up a copy of The Hot Zone today at Title Wave Books, one of my favorite Albuquerque bookstores. I was first introduced to the book nearly ten years ago. My freshman biology teacher had brought it to class and read us the first chapter. I remember sitting in class, riveted, listening to her read about the guy who picked up a tropical virus and went from health to doom in a matter of weeks.

I found a copy of it at the bookstore and pulled it off the shelves and started reading. Ever since, I’ve been hard-pressed to put the thing down. It doesn’t matter that the explicit detail with which the author describes the affect of the viruses is terrifying. And even though the events covered thus far (I’m about 70 pages in already) all happened over twenty years ago, I’m still sitting on the edge of my seat, hating that no matter how fast I read, it’s never fast enough to settle that burning desire to learn what happens next. Hello, Ring of Mordor. I never imagined I could be so morbidly fascinated. Holy shit.