I’ve checked off yet another item on my list of things to do before I die. Turns out I didn’t really know it was on there, and had I known ahead of time that I would get to do it, I probably would have used good judgment and chickened the fuck out. Be that as it may, now that I’ve done it I can easily say I probably won’t ever again feel like a repeat performance is necessary.

Since moving here in January, I’ve been itching to do karaoke. The second I started making friends, I was like, “Hey! Do you guys like karaoke? We should go do karaoke.” In retrospect, that probably wasn’t the best way to introduce myself, but whatever. Apparently, my love of karaoke is rare in my humble part of LA. Or in my nice yet sort of lame circle of grad school groupies.

At long last, though, one of my friends here told me that the bar we had her graduation party at did karaoke twice a week. And last night we headed on down to go check it out.* She didn’t want to sing, but I love singing, so I signed up immediately. The Killers’ When You Were Young was my song of choice. The place had a little stage for people to sing on, so I got on stage and jumped around during the song. And thus proceeded to develop a following.

Afterward, crazy people were shouting “Encore!” One guy later said he’d give up his place in line to see me again, and some girl came up to me and said I was her hero for singing The Killers. And then she tried to touch my chest, which pretty much made things really awkward and ended our interaction. Apparently, people like seeing this big gay Jewish nerd on stage, and then wanted to feed my ego. Oh well all right, if they insist.

I signed up for another song, this time opting for Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody. A must for karaoke night, obviously. After waiting another hour and a half or so, it was my turn again, and I headed back to stage. And being the glory hound I am, once I had the microphone in hand I told everyone to gather round and help me, because that song is not meant to be sung alone.

I’m pretty sure I was the world’s worst singer on stage, voice cracking from yelling too much and singing too loud, but nobody seemed to mind. A bunch of people pulled out their camera phones, cameras, and started shining lights. Which was cool, but also leaves me wondering if there’s going to be videos and pictures of me all over MySpace.

But what made the evening crazy was not my singing. It was that the crowd at the bar was much different than the usual crowd because there were a ton of gang members present from a pretty big LA skinhead gang. We learned this after the bar closed and we were standing outside talking to a couple of the bouncers.

Thinking back on it, there were an awful lot of large bouncer-looking guys who we knew didn’t work there. Apparently, one of their friends just passed away so they were collecting money for his family. They were all extremely solemn, not to mention shitfaced. But they were also smiling and laughing with everyone there, and dancing and jumping around like the rest of us.

Given that I possess a number of qualities that a gang might not fancy, I’m glad the evening was such a success. They’re just people, like you and me, and of all things, it was karaoke that brought everyone together. Which I take as proof positive that karaoke is one of the greatest inventions of all time, ever.

*“Are there pictures?” you’re probably asking yourself. “Why yes, there are!” I reply. But they’re on my friend’s camera. I’ll badger her to send them my way soon, and will post them once she has. Oh, and you’re wondering, just for the record, what item I’ve checked off my list of things to do before I die. I’ll label that one ‘Singing and partying with skinheads from a notorious LA gang.’ CHECK.

I went swimming today. Not an earth-shattering activity, unless you happen to be the one whose muscles are currently only barely working right now. It’s been probably a year or so since I actually had a good swimming workout, which is saying something, given that it’s generally my preferred form of exercise.

I was very excited to get back in the water. Beforehand, I said ’screw you’ to my ears’ tendency to get clogged with water and decided to go for it. Then I went and got my day pass to the pool on campus. I broke out all my swimming gear, and while walking around was reminded that I’d forgotten how much the plastic mesh so common in pool locker rooms hurts your feet. Especially when the hardest surface my feet usually encounter is the cork on my Birkenstock sandals.

I jumped in the pool, feeling fresh and rejuvenated as I did so. Got myself set, started to swim some laps. And before I’d even made it 200 yards I was in agony. Muscles I’d clearly forgotten I had suddenly were quite noticeable. And all at once, I needed to stretch them. LIKE NOW. So I stopped and stretched, and started swimming again. I guess I wasn’t swimming so much as splashing around in order to stay afloat.

It took me a good 45 minutes to swim the distance I’d established for myself: 850 yards. Which means I can pretty much kiss any shot of getting into the Olympics goodbye. I’ve lowered my standards considerably, and am now aiming to get some exercise, loosen up my muscles, and maybe make it from the beginning of each workout to the end without dying in the process. If I stop posting here without warning, you’ll at least know what fate befell me.

I went to the grocery tonight for two things: juice and disposable aluminum mini bread pans. I walked out with both those items, but also some fresh cherries and, of all things, a newspaper subscription.

You know the rule that you’re never supposed to go grocery shopping on an empty stomach? Little did I know that the rule also applies for never stopping by a booth that offers a chance to win $100 in grocery money while you have an empty stomach.

As it turns out, when someone looks vaguely like someone I know and is just as gregarious as that someone I know, I become far less skeptical and suspicious about people trying to get me to spend money. In other words, I become a huge sucker for whatever is being pushed.

In this case, it was the LA Times offering up a special on a summer-long weekend newspaper subscription. They were having people enter into a drawing to win $100 for groceries (hi! sign me up!) and then were offering special deals on aforementioned subscriptions. Something about a $60 value being offered for only $10! I’ve never subscribed to a newspaper, so I was like “Shit! Sign me up for the newspaper! I’ve always wanted to have a newspaper delivered to my door.”

Of course, the way it works is that you don’t pay the $10 outright. Rather, you pay $20 and then they give you a $10 gift card for your groceries. Works for me. I wasn’t planning on spending a whole $10 on food at that point, but suddenly I had that grocery money in my hot little hand, so I made a beeline to the produce department. I wasn’t aware beforehand that they had cherries, maybe I was drawn to them by some combination of intuition and the gift card that led me to the $4.00/lb section that was cherries! Bing cherries! Delicious, succulent, ripe Bing cherries! So I immediately snatched a bag and then headed for checkout. And holy cow. The cherries are everything I imagined they would be, and more. They’re heavenly. They’re inspiring. And if my roommate thinks about even touching one of my precious cherries, there will be hell to pay.

Guitar Hero is officially kicking my ass right now. I’m currently on the “advanced” level, and all was going well. The other day I used my gig money to purchase Slash and then opted to use him as my lead guitarist. Then, tonight, I wind up in a guitar battle against Slash! I battled Slash versus Slash for like half an hour non-stop. Worked up a huge sweat in the process of all the jumping and hand-shifting fury, and even started flipping Other Slash off. Apparently, Slash can’t beat Slash in this game. When I pick up my guitar next I’ll have to take on a new character’s persona and see if that works. Honestly.

One week from tomorrow, I’ll be heading back home for a couple of weeks. I’m very excited for a number of reasons, and dreading it for one very specific reason. Most importantly, I can’t wait to see my partner, whom I last got to see in March, when we had the most amazing spring break of all time. I’ve also been missing Albuquerque itself. LA is an adventurous place, and there’s all sorts of things to see and people to meet, but Albuquerque will always be home, and it’s calling me.

The one element I’m dreading about the trip is visiting my folks. We spoke briefly this evening and once earlier this week. It’s become clear that when I do see them, they’re probably going to try to stage some form of “intervention” because I called them out on their homophobia. What makes it hard is that they’re not outright homophobic: verbally, they’re extremely supportive, and they make sure to tell me so. Actions speak louder than words, however, and they’ve shown me that what they say and what they mean are two very different things. Call me crazy, but telling your friends to tone it down on the gay-bashing jokes when your gay brother is around is not exactly love and support. And telling your gay son that the best way to make it as a gay man in a straight world is to bring a girl to social functions, and to make sure to keep separate bedrooms if he ever has a partner, is a far cry from challenging others who feel that us gay ones should not be allowed to marry the person of our choosing.

On the one hand, they didn’t disown me and remove me from their lives. On the other hand, they play psychological games that deign caring when it’s convenient, but it’s expected that I not appear gay in any way when I’m around. And the second I’m out of earshot (usually out the door and running away in tears), there’s a collective sigh of relief on their end because they can go back to being afraid that if they find out a guy is gay, he’ll immediately start coming onto them despite not previously doing so. You know, when they thought he was straight.

It is in this one area of my life that I am currently uncertain. I’ve learned, however, to trust my instincts and that feelings are there for a reason. Love is something felt much more than it is something spoken. What I am certain of is that there is love in my life, and that without it I’m not sure I’d be able to face much of what awaits me when I return. But how I’ve changed over the years! I will no longer be brushed aside as I once was. I will no longer mold myself to fit others’ narrow ideas. I no longer feel that sense of self-hatred that I once did. I have no idea what this will mean for me when I do make the obligatory family visit. I just hope I’m strong enough to face that music when it greets me.

I went to the movie theater today, for the first time since I moved here in January. I picked a good time to go, apparently. And all thanks to the ruggedly handsome character by the name of Indiana Jones, whose nerdiness and fondness for archaeology act as a serious bonus to his overall persona. And because I’m the kind of person who says “forget the action sequences, I want to know about the ancient secrets,” it totally works for me.

Let’s just clear the air on a few accounts here. First, George Lucas can’t write dialogue to save his life. He’s always relied on his other qualities, like imagination and his knack for creating characters who, with the exception of Luke Skywalker, are interesting enough that nobody really cares if they sound at all realistic anyway. Second, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade is practically the best end to a trilogy ever, so trying to top it is an exercise in futility.

Regardless, I was eager to see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, and I wanted my big screen experience. I got it, and I got so much more besides. Overall, I was pleasantly surprised by the movie. After a somewhat rocky start, it managed to pull itself together and not take itself too seriously. I’m still not sure what to make of the rather science fiction-y approach to the story, but whatever. It was fun to watch Harrison Ford grapple for ways to make horrific single lines of repetitive dialogue sound new and interesting, and Cate Blanchett doing the Russian accent by pronouncing the /s/ sound super crisp even in words with a double /s/ sound was the icing on the cake. Like, instead of saying the word RUSSIAN as “ru-shin” she would pronounce both /s/’s so it sounded like “rus-see-un”. I don’t know any Russians well enough to have any idea how they themselves pronounce it, but something tells me that’s not it.

When I went to purchase my ticket, the next available show time was an hour and a half away. I asked the lady at the ticket booth if there were tickets available, and she said “Yes but there’s only 45 left, so only front seats and scattered seats, so you may want to go to the 4 o’clock.” And I was like “What? We’re in a part of LA that has enough hills that everyone buys SUVs to get around to their cookie cutter mansions. Oh, and everything in this part of town closes at 8pm, so yeah, I don’t think it’ll be a problem.” And I made her give me a 3:30 ticket. She suggested rushing off to get in line so I could get a good seat because “people are lining up”, so I said “uh-huh” and took off to go grab some lunch.

Upon my return to the theater, about thirty minutes before the movie was supposed to start, the line consisted of oh, maybe fifty people. I moseyed over to the back of the line and resigned myself to waiting. It didn’t get interesting until this blonde-haired couple showed up behind me and started gaping. “I can’t believe this line!” the woman said, and proceeded to gulp for air from the obvious shock of the situation. Within a minute, they opened the theater and the line began to move. The next thing I knew, crazy lady was shouting. “WAIT, TWENTY PEOPLE JUST CUT IN LINE IN FRONT OF US! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?” (The line was moving exactly as it was supposed to; she was just a bit delusional and insane; she must be related to my roommate somehow.) And then she tried to make a break for it, and kept shaking and practically poking me with her handbag the entire time.

By the time we reached the stairs to climb the stadium seating, it was on. She tried to do some little kindergarten sideline rush to beat me up the stairs, but I cut her off at the pass before she could edge her way through. The bitch got owned, big time. As I looked for a seat, I saw no less than five grown women catch my eye and then fling themselves on the seats beside them to keep me from taking their reserved seats. Regardless, I got a prime seat near the back of the theater, right in the center. That means I win, yo.

Step aside, Jenny Craig. Weight Watchers, you too. I lost ten pounds in one day. All by getting a haircut. The last week has proven to me exactly why long hair will never work for me; ergo I could never make it as a hair metal rock star. Because what happens when my hair gets long it becomes a magnet for pollen (hello, allergies!), and at that an unruly magnet that curls and furls everywhere.

Forgive the poor quality of this segue (and the poor quality of this entry), but speaking of hair metal, I took a trip down to LA Connection Comedy Theater Friday night. While there, I got to see two improv troupes perform: Stranger Than Fiction and 2 Drink Minimum.

The poorly thought up hair metal reference goes out to Stranger Than Fiction’s very awesome sketch about two guys who always express emotions “the only way they know how–through song”. The players are a band called Phöenyx, and they sing songs they create on the spot per suggestions from audience members.

My only complaint about my evening was that during 2 Drink Minimum’s performance, a certain nameless audience member just about killed my sense of smell with his excessive use of cologne. Because of this, I’ve developed a new rule of life (aimed at heterosexual cologne-wearing males, in this case, but it can apply to anyone): if your cologne trumps the shit out of your date’s perfume, you should not get any action that evening.

That said, the theater is a fantastic time and is an LA institution, so if you live in LA, get over there and check it out. And if you’re visiting LA, or planning on visitng, be sure to add it to your list of places to go. Do it.

I spent nearly an hour today talking to my roommate’s partner. It was pretty much the best hour of my entire week. Over the course of our conversation, it suddenly became clear that my experience living in this place was not Hell, or any of its seven circles. Nay, it was more like Purgatory.

It turns out that that big fight that happened last month was in part started by yours truly. Here’s how it played out: Satan was complaining about me to her fabulous partner, who in turn took it upon herself to come to my defense, bless her. Apparently, my “lack of cleanliness” was causing The Evil One great pain. You know, the towels were wet because I had used them to dry my hands, and I had thus upset the delicate balance of cleanliness she strives so hard to achieve.

Long story short, it seems that I drive my snarling poodle of a roommate a whole hell of a lot crazier than she drives me. Which fills me with such a sense of pride I can barely stand it. I mean, just knowing that when she spent those three solid hours cleaning the bathroom, it was on account of my having driven her to it. You know the feeling of eating the most delicious chocolate cake coupled with the best chocolate ice cream ever? This feels almost as good.

And it gets better! Oh, does it get better! It turns out that the whole issue of the bathroom “looking nice” comes from the boyfriend she had in high school (he’s gay) making some crack about it. He also, apparently, asked her why she lets me live here, because I’m “weird.” This is awesome for two reasons: 1) The idea of evicting someone not on account of not paying rent or maybe being consistently loud or invasive, but on what a guy who buys a 15-foot tall mirror for his living rooms simply because he can considers “weird”, and 2) The concept of my actually paying to live here is not even considered in said argument.

But as things go with roommates, so too might they go with partners. I was right when I thought that that argument was the breaking point of the dysfunctional relationship of my roommate and her partner. I was wrong, however, when I thought they had gotten over the argument and were back together. Girlfriend told me everything, and it seems my pending move couldn’t have come at a better time. Because the drama of my household is about to surpass that of Passions. And just as it does, I’m going to be flying free at last.

My friend Renee likes to write letters to life’s editors. I was inspired to write tonight, and writing letters seemed so perfect I had to steal her idea, only in the form of love letters.

The Good

Dear Togo’s,

You came into my life at the exact moment I needed you most. There I was, driving around, pangs of hunger shooting through me. And then there you were, shining like a lighthouse beacon in the dusty haze, guiding me through your doors less than ten minutes before you closed. How lovely it was getting acquainted with your egg salad sandwich, and with mustard! I simply must see you again soon!

Love,
Hungry But Too Lazy to Go to the Grocery

The Bad

Dear Cold Stone,

For the first time in my life, you nearly let me down. Normally, your “auditions” turn up very talented staff. But oh, tonight! Your guy mixing my ice cream dropped my first mouthwatering creation right onto the ground. And he almost did it a second time, no less. You’re very lucky he didn’t, and that the ice cream was so amazing, but next time I think it best we rendezvous elsewhere.

Love,
Sweet Tooth

Dear Los Angeles,

You seem very upset. First, days on end of hundred plus degree heat plus humidity. You hurt me, you really did. And now, non-stop winds throughout the valley. I think we need to take a break from one another. New Mexico is calling, I must be away. It will help, I know. And I see that you see the bright side, too. You showed me the sun through a haze of dust, and I got to see the beauty that is the perfect orb of the sun, without having to worry about going blind. For whatever it’s worth, thank you.

Love,
Homesick

The Ugly

Dear Roommate/Landlady of Death,

I tried so hard to love you, but my intense dislike of you, and your hatred of my relaxed and “lived-in” lifestyle, just made love impossible. I love that you said “Thirty days notice would be nice” without batting an eye when I broke the news to you. I love that you said that because it confirms everything I ever thought or said about you. I love that all the problems you have and all the things wrong with this house will remain, and I will soon be free. I love that, should we ever meet again once we part ways, we may actually be glad to see each other, if only because we can say goodbye and know that we don’t have to see one another at home. We took dysfunction to a new level, you and I, and unbeknownst to you, I have every intention of using that to my advantage. No hard feelings, on the condition that you return my deposit in full.

Love,
Soon-To-Be-Ex Roommate

I’ve been surprised at how much work I’ve actually had to do this week, even though I’m on break. My way of handling said work is to goof off all day and luxuriate in the total “lack” of responsibility, and then realize at about 11pm that I have a whole bunch of things I need to take care of. And what the heck, that’s as good a time as any to get started, right? Which is why it’s 2:15 and I’m still awake. Let me just emphasize that the last three hours have been so productive that even The Bobs from the movie Office Space would have been proud.

I”m currently on break. Which means that, while I don’t have to study at the moment, I have to figure out how to arrange everything so I can get back into another glorious semester of school. Because that’s all boring and uninteresting, here’s a list, in no particular order, of things currently taking up my time.

• While walking through a parking lot after lunch today, a station wagon nearly ran me over. My first instinct was to shout at the person for being such a dumbshit motherfucking idiot, but then I saw the lady behind the wheel and suddenly felt sorry for her. She had a neck brace on, so of course I should be the one apologizing. I waved her through and smiled benignly, but wound up flipping her off anyway because really, what’s a person wearing a neck brace doing driving? Idiot! I can see her talking to the police after causing some huge wreck: “I know that other car had right of way, but I couldn’t see them so I figured there was nothing there… How’d I get this brace? Oh, I was in a car accident a month ago.”

• Unsurprisingly, I’m peeved at my Dancing With the Stars-loving roommate. The garage is still broken; she’s not bothered to even think about getting it repaired. And now she keeps locking the gate, so I can’t get my bike out of the backyard. She said all I have to do is let her know when I want to ride my bike and she’ll unlock the gate. I told the bitch to shut the hell up and get me a key.

• I recently beat the medium level of Guitar Hero III. It turns out that the jump from medium to hard is sort of akin to finishing kindergarten and jumping right to college. My fans keep booing me off the stage and I’ve broken countless guitars in frustration. Also, what’s up with the songs switching between first and second guitar? I hate having to stop mid-riff and jump to a new riff. It makes no sense, and clearly I just proved that I’m also a music nerd.

• Thanks to the lovely Dooce, I’ve taken to listening to The Bryant Park Project. They’re an NPR show whose podcast I’m now subscribed to. The show is fantastic, and in addition to reporting and discussing news, they have all sorts of interesting stories and interviews. Over the last week, I’ve learned about the physics of bowling, a British band who made a music video using closed circuit cameras, and the popularity of computer solitaire. It’s quickly becoming a part of my morning routine. For one thing, it’s way better than waking up and smelling my roommates pot of coffee.