shades of gray

Some lazy afternoon when most people are at school or work, I was home. Maybe I was sick or maybe I just didn't have anything to do that day. My mother and I ended up watching some guy behind a desk giving a monologue about the trials and tribulations he faced trying to cure his macular pucker. We both really enjoyed it, and it seemed that every time I was at home when most people are at school or work, the film starring the fast-talking, paranoid-delusional and poignantly insightful gray-haired man was on IFC. It was sure better than sitting in the class room.

The movie was Gray's Anatomy, and it introduced me to one of the real treasures of New York City, Spalding Gray. He was an actor and a writer--he had roles here and there in movies like The Killing Fields--but he made a name for himself with his monologues, in which he talked candidly about his life as a writer, actor and later husband and father. I liked his sardonic sense of humor and how he blew up even the most mundane things into bigger-than-life experiences. His voice was very expressive and still bore the remnants of his New England upbringing. Other than Gray's Anatomy, two other films of his monologues are available: Monster in the Box and Swimming to Cambodia. A few years ago, he killed himself by jumping off the Staten Island Ferry. He had been missing for quite some time. His body was found washed up on the shores of Brooklyn.

Gray had a tumultuous life. His mother committed suicide. He cheated his wife and longtime collaborator with the woman who survived him and is the mother of his children. On a trip to Ireland, he was in a car accident that almost killed him, but left him scarred. Unable to cope with his injury and suffering from complications, he fell further into depression and eventually took his own life.

Monster in the Box is probably my favorite of the three. I just saw it again this evening. It's about his journey as a writer to complete his book Impossible Vacation, a mammoth 1,900 page manuscript about a New England man whose mother commits suicide while he is away on a trip. The monologue recounts Spalding's travels from New York City to Los Angeles to Nicaragua to the former Soviet Union and back to New York where, while playing The Stage Manager in a production of Our Town, he finally finishes his manuscript. (The published novel is only around 230 pages, though. I would've hated to have to edit that down.) Through out, Gray chronicles the internal and external distractions that impeded his progress on the book, and since at one time I foolishly tried to write a book, I guess I can relate to some extent.

Considering trying to figure out how to wrap this up, I've spent the last half-hour watching videos on YouTube, I guess the distraction thing really hits home. I wanted to find a quote from the movie; it was his description of his Los Angeles apartment and the ever-present California sun, but Google betrayed me. You can blame technology. RIP Spalding.

counting backwards spirit totem

You know you've hit rock bottom when you're sending out MySpace bulletins about needing room mates. I've officially run out of people I know in town. Luckily, the response has been mediocre. If this fails, I'm hoping there's a comfortable place to squat nearby, or at the very least, I can live in my cushy new car. Less expenses would be welcome, though I'm not sure how one goes about living in a car. I would ask the dudes who used to live in the van at the end of my cul-de-sac, but they've moved on. Such is the life of the nomad. Work sucks, my personal life is in turmoil, I'm not sure what my next step is. Right, you've heard it before. Like most people, when things get tough, they turn to the spiritual world, but even the picture of my boy Jesus that lives on my key chain's even giving me a look like, "Dude. It's summer. Grab a beer and chill out." He's probably right. He always is, but that's not what I need right now. Thanks to sites like Icanhascheezburger.com, I've found comfort in the animal kingdom (but not in a dirty way) and it made me think about my spirit animals, of which I have three, and I thought I'd share them.

The Owl. I've always been something of a night owl. Being active in the daylight hours really fucks my chi. Even as a young pup (there's no doggie in my totem, but I am a friend to all dogs), my parents never could get me to go to sleep. I remember laying awake in my bed thinking of all kinds of crazy shit like the Satan under my bed and the ghost in my closet. I don't think I really believed in these things, but I thought about them enough to convince myself of the possibility. Ever since Bubo from The Clash of the Titans, I've always been a friend to the owl, though only in the same way you're friends with someone you'd like to be friends with but have ever actually met, which is to say you're not really friends with them. But I'd like to be. If I ever met an owl, I'd say, "Yo, guy. How are you?" and I figure we'd hit it off from there. According to the Holistic Shop Dictionary, which I hold in the highest regard, owls represent wisdom, clairvoyance and magic. Clearly, a perfect fit.

The Turtle. When I was younger, I had a turtle. I named him Raphael after the Ninja Turtle. I didn't know how to take care of a turtle so it died. I killed Raphael, and I hate myself. His remains are buried in a shoe box (pet reptile coffin of choice) in my back yard beneath a pear tree. I think he would've wanted it that way. Holistic Shop Dictionary says turtles represent completion and protection, but for me, I think of poor Raphael and feel only remorse and regret. I am a terrible shabby person. But mostly, I kinda look like a turtle. Especially when I'm sitting down.

The Koala. You won't find him in the Holistic Shop Dictionary because Native Americans probably never seen one of these noble beasts. They live far from America, but thanks to Outback Steakhouses, I can eat myself into a stupor and gaze upon pictures of their contented visages. I used to watch a cartoon called Quickie the Koala, or something to that effect, and I even had a stuffed koala toy that I'd gotten at a flea market who I called by the same name. I like their fluffy ears and their weird noses and that every time you see a picture of these things, they're always asleep or eating, which are just about two of the most pleasurable things one can do with their free time. I guess this is what I aspire to be: small, gray, fuzzy, lazy. Godspeed, brave koala.

I get the feeling I did one of these before, but maybe with different animals, or all the same animals except one. I don't know. I just felt compelled to write something and on my way to get a tuna melt sandwich for lunch this afternoon, I couldn't stop thinking about owls. I don't know either.

our friend, meg white

I've spent just about all the work long day listening to the new White Stripes album, Icky Thump, and except for one song, I'm thoroughly pleased. Elephant ruled, the one after that I was pretty eh about, but this one may even be better with than the former, which kinda caused me to fall in love with The White Stripes, and also, Meg, who has been bestowed with the best ta-tas in rock.



I'm tired of hearing smarmy indie rock nerds scoff at the group because they make simple music and say that Meg's a shitty drummer. First off, it's rock music, and you don't have to be Bernard Purdy to make rock music. It's all in 4-4 time. All you've gotta do is look cool and keep the beat, and she does both of those things just fine. The new album's the rock, so if you're lame enough to think music should be fun, you'll probably like it. If not, put on some more of your boring ass Tortise albums and watch your fingernails grow.

Party @ the Thunderbird!

Party @ the Thunderbird!
Originally uploaded by mutant moth.

Act like you know.

the star

The days since taking home my car (I still haven't named her; I liked the Esme suggestion, though I prefer the full Esmerelda, but it just doesn't seem right) have been difficult ones. One of my best friends in town moved away, another is leaving, and another still may be leaving the office (and maybe even more). On top of that, my godmother died back home, and on the same day, a cousin out here in California also died. They passed within hours of each other. My first trip in the new car was to drive to a wake. I was there when the family first saw the body. The husband nearly collapsed on the coffin, the children wailed and cried. They hugged each other almost as if to keep themselves standing. I left the room.

I called my cousin "aunt," which is pretty common in my family if the cousin is older. I never spent a whole lot of time with her, but the time I did was great. She had a great sense of humor, and she was really kind. My godmother--my mother's sister--was very important to me. She went into a coma and passed away a few days later. She was one of the few who still called me. She even sent me birthday cards. The last time I saw her was at my sister's wedding, and I also called to wish her a happy mother's day. She'd been in and out of the hospital for a while. At my cousin's wake, the family expressed their sympathy for me. I wasn't able to get a flight back east. My mom asked me to go to Napa to pay respects in her place. I probably would've gone even if she hadn't asked.

I've been pretty out of it the past couple weeks. Everything that's been going on has been pretty overwhelming; it was just a whole lot at once. I've been mailing it in at work... I haven't been able to concentrate. I watch a lot of baseball scores and blog on my magazine's site and send a few e-mails or make some phone calls. I feel like I'm slacking--probably because I am.

But tonight was good. My roommates, a couple of friends and I drove about half-an-hour south of here to grab Indian food at this smaller town with a large Sikh population. I'd never actually had Indian food before, but everyone up here has a pretty big hard-on for it. Telling people I never tried it before was met with the same fear and suspicion as my admission that I hate avocado (I mean, really, it's gross). But I like Thai cuisine a lot, and I heard Indians use a lot of lamb, so I figured there was a good chance I'd like Indian. Plus I'm always down for a road trip.

The restaurant we went to was called Star of India, not to be confused with Taste of India, which was also in the same town. A couple of things tipped me off that the place would be good. First, an Indian friend of one of my dinner buddies said the place was the real deal. Second, the parking lot was packed. Third, we were the only white people in the restaurant. To top it off, they were hosting a party for a couple of high school graduates, so not only were we the overwhelming minority, but everyone there also knew each other. I would've felt really out of place if the owner of the restaurant--a man who looked kinda younger than I imagined his true age would dictate--wearing a red turban and dark bushy beard, came to greet us at the door with firm handshakes. He said he had a table for us, and gave us menus and water.

I drank two Dansberg beers, which the bottle claimed were made with Himalayan water, and they were really good. Then my samosas came out, and they were awesome. Later came the main course--lamb korma--along with steaming plates of basmati rice and naan. The sauce was so rich, and the level of spices were so complex, they kinda confused me, but god it was good.

Meanwhile, the party was reaching its peak. After the graduates gave a speech, the music began to blare. It was loud the whole time we were there, but now it was amazingly so. A DJ cranked music with male and/or female vocalists hollering passionately in a language I don't understand and dudes with drums, who were there at the party, pounded out infectious beats. When I walked past the party, women in bright colored dresses whirled together in a tight-knit group, and the men danced outside their circle. There was drums, whistling, screaming, stomping, clapping. At one point the partition that separated the general dining area from the private party rattled loudly. We turned to see a man peek over the top.

"Sorry about that," he said. "We're just a bunch of drunk Hindus."