me’s blog

Okay folks, forgive me for geeking out a little bit on this post.  I guess I’ve given up any illusions I may have had about ever writing a short blog entry, so I apologize in advance to those of you who sadly will not be able to relate to today’s topic.  To those of you who DO know what I’m talking about, please leave a comment below and back a brotha up.  To those of you who know not of what I speak, I hope you’ll read anyway, and know that it’s never too late to get in the game.  I mean it.  Let me know if you wanna come over and get started catching up.  I won’t name any names, but a certain recent convert caught up on all 6 seasons in the past 2-3 months (and yes, he has a life), and another friend of mine who used to claim the show was too "white-girl" for his slightly UPN tendencies has now succumbed too, so believe me when I say there’s hope for the rest of you yet!

Let me begin by saying that I’m an unapologetic sucker for good tv.  It’s comforting to know that at some point in the day, I’ll have the opportunity to rewatch an episode of Law & Order: SVU or Golden Girls for the 3rd or 57th time (respectively).  Though now that Lifetime has moved Dorothy, Blanche, Rose, and Sophia to some ungodly hour like 1:00am, I am increasingly grateful that I can watch them on DVD whenever I choose, along with the brilliant improv of the inept cops on Reno-911!, or the highbrow-meets-slapstick hijinks of the sadly underappreciated Arrested Development, which was prematurely given the ax last year while in its third season.  I’m almost caught up on the second season of Lost, and I’ve basically ditched my Sunday night appointments with Desperate Housewives for their glammier, trashier, British-er Sunday night counterparts on BBC’s Footballers’ Wive$.  [If Desperate Housewives really does get good again this season, somebody out there please let me know.]  But there are only two "can’t miss" shows currently on my list right now.

Gilmore Girls has been on my must-see list since the beginning of its second season back in 2001.  Those of you who know me already understand that this show is my favorite ever - well, let’s call it a tie with Golden Girls.  To help put my devotion to Gilmore Girls into perspective, let me point out that even when I was high and homeless in Los Angeles, I would ALWAYS find a tv to watch on Tuesday nights at 8:00pm.  And before my eviction, when I actually had an apartment in LA, my Tuesday nights were sacred.  My apartment was in one of those Melrose Placeish two-story U-shaped buildings with a courtyard, and from my apartment on the second story I could look down across the courtyard and into the apartment of a cute young gay guy named Tom Lenk.  In the fall of 2001, when Buffy the Vampire Slayer moved from WB to UPN and began airing opposite Gilmore Girls, Tom scored himself a recurring role on Buffy.  Despite his numerous attempts, I had to repeatedly respectfully decline invitations to Buffy viewing parties at his apartment, because I could not miss an evening with my Girls.  If that ain’t devotion, I dunno what is.

For those of you unfortunates who have never seen it, Gilmore Girls is an extremely well-written, impeccably acted dramedy spanning three generations of women - and the men in their lives - which mostly takes place in the fictional small town of Stars Hollow, Connecticut.  The story centers around a very cool single mom who had her daughter when she was soooooo young that they’re really more like best friends.  But the main element that has always elevated the show out of the typical chick-flicky muck is the quick and expansive wit of the well-educated, over-caffeinated characters, and the fine line between comedy and drama which has been deftly toed since day one. In fact, it’s a widely held belief that the only reason Gilmore Girls has not been showered with awards is because it’s too dramatic to fit neatly into the comedy categories, and too comedic to fit neatly into the drama categories.  The show’s trademark rapid-fire dialogue is always peppered with current pop culture items, obscure literary references, clever-to-silly wordplay, and everything in between.  I almost always feel smarter and funnier after getting my wit refreshed by spending some time with these Girls.  And Lauren Graham is perhaps the finest actress EVER to appear on television.  (Yeah, I said it.)

However, after a rocky sixth season plagued by tediously drawn-out conflicts and some rather hackneyed plot contrivances, the majority of the characters we’d grown to love had been backed into rather unlikable (and, more importantly, uncharacteristic) corners, and fans were not quiet about their displeasure with the direction the show had taken.  There were a few shining moments interspersed throughout the season, but for the most part, the brilliant mastering of the comedy/drama balance which had always kept us laughing and thinking and caring had become buried by the increasing unpleasantness of nearly every character.  Somehow the elder Gilmores and the sorely underutilized Paris managed to escape this dark cloud, but major players like Lorelai, Luke, and Rory became exhaustingly one-note by the end of the season.  Lorelai has always been admired - and occasionally admonished - for her cojones, but she was written as such a friggin’ wuss for most of the season that by the time she finally regrew a pair and stood up for herself, it sort of seemed that she didn’t deserve what she was demanding.  And Luke - pout, whine, grump, complain, hermit, poopy… and either cruelly insensitive or just plain blind to Lorelai’s obvious discomfort for the majority of last season.  Rory simply needed to shut up for most of season six.  I could barely understand a word she said 95% of the time, and during her time off from school she turned into a majorly snobby spoiled brat, which made the comprehensible 5% of her dialogue gratingly unbearable.  I’m still not entirely sold on her Richie Rich boyfriend Logan, ‘cuz I think he sorta helped her turn into this person I don’t like.  But at least he can enunciate and looks good shirtless.

So, this past Tuesday night was the seventh (!) season premiere of Gilmore Girls.  By the end of season six, the show’s creators couldn’t reach a satisfactory deal with the network, so they handed the reins over to another of the show’s producers and walked away.  This Tuesday night I sat with mom, dad, my sister, and Jackalyst and watched "The Long Morrow", the show’s first episode under the new regime.  I have to say, I was THRILLED with the results.  The episode felt like old-school Gilmore Girls to me.  I laughed out loud several times.  I almost cried at least once.  I was on the edge of my seat holding my breath multiple times.  And of course there was some shouting at the tv.  ["Don't tell him!  Don't do it!... NOOOOOO!"]  Luke was being characteristically awkward but also characteristically sweet when he showed up with his truck packed and ready to go.  Lorelai quietly asked him to stop, until eventually her guilt and self-disgust forced her to resort to extreme measures to shut him up.  As for Rory, well, her stuff with Logan was really kind of touching and old-school-Roryesque.  And hey, I understood nearly every word that came out of her mouth that night.  Makes me wonder if the new writers prefaced every line in her script with "RORY: (speaking clearly)…"

But most importantly, the characters felt like the characters I fell in love with years ago and have been rooting for ever since.  The unlikability that was written for the actors to grapple with last season was not washed away with one episode, but we did begin to see the show dealing with the ramifications in a way that felt like responsible storytelling, the kind that’s grounded in the hyperreal world of these likable, if flawed, characters.  I realize that the reviews of the new season thus far are understandably mixed (due in no small part to some fans’ unflinching loyalty to the show’s creators), but as far as I’m concerned, my Girls are back, and I cannot wait to see where they are headed next.

And also, let me just say this, I should totally get some kind of commission or something for the number of people I’ve gotten hooked on this show.  Like I said at the beginning, if you’re reading this and you watch Gilmore Girls (whether or not I was the one who got you addicted), leave a comment below just so that any readers who remain uninitiated don’t think I’m some cracked girlie-man with questionable taste in programming.

Or at least they’ll know I’m not the only one.

[Note:  I'd also planned on discussing my new, most recently discovered must-see tv commitment, but I'll save that one for another time.  Perhaps next week, after its reunion show airs...]

Earlier this week I had my first HIV test since my random hospitalization in a London hospital during the summer of 1997.  My first test in NINE YEARS.  My first test since BEFORE I began using drugs and engaging in countless other reckless behaviors.  The palpably paralyzing power of my silently internalized fear - that goddamn fear of the unknown - cannot be sufficiently communicated in words, but perhaps can be most clearly evidenced by the very fact that it kept me from learning the truth for so many years.  Fortunately I didn’t have to wait a few days to find out the results like my dear friend Rose Nylund did.  No, five minutes after pricking my finger, the doctor walked out and handed me a card with the word "negative" circled on it.

Never have I found such relief in negativity.

Of course, as the day of the test grew close, I really started thinking about what it was that had kept me from getting tested for so long.  Obviously while I was in LA, getting tested was the LAST thing on my mind.  I didn’t even have a doctor out there.  And when I think about it, that fear of the unknown is probably one of the major contributing factors that kept me from becoming positive all that time.  While I’m sure I wasn’t always 100% careful, I was definitely aware and afraid of the risks and, well, let’s just say I was far more careful than a lot of people I knew during that time.  Thank God I’m such a pussy!

I know many people with HIV these days live perfectly healthy lives for many years, but a large part of me was just not ready to find out that I had yet another fatal disease.  I’ve already got the disease of addiction which, if untreated, will be the death of me.  Fortunately, I’ve learned how to keep that threat at bay.  But HIV is not something I know how to live - or die - with.  I see my mom, with her incurably advanced breast cancer, strongly soldiering through day after day with a big-ass smile on her face.  She’s still up and around 7 years after the doctors gave her a prognosis of 3-5 years tops.  I see her and I think, do I have that in me?  That awe-inspiring "I Will Survive"-ness?  Were I to find out I’m HIV-positive, would I surrender to it and let it consume and destroy me, or would I fight it and deal with it and take care of myself while I keep on living this gift of a life?

With the combined comforts of Monday’s test results and God-given genetics on our side, feel free to hedge your bets. 

Mom and I ain’t goin’ nowhere.

Five years already?  Seems like only yesterday.

It was September 2001, and I was visiting DC for the first time since moving to Los Angeles one year earlier.  The trip had been planned in advance, but unfortunately it ended up happening just as things really started to fall apart out there.  The straight-laced, reliable roommate I’d lived with since I got my two-bedroom apartment in LA had moved out a couple months earlier because he couldn’t live with a drug addict anymore.  An acquaintance of mine named Byron had moved in, and he was almost as sketchy as I was.  He’d paid for his part of the July rent, but it was the beginning of September when I came to visit DC, and by this point he hadn’t paid for his part of the August or September rent.  I don’t remember the specifics, but somehow I’d arranged for a relatively reliable girlfriend of mine named Jovette to go to my apartment while I was away, pick up at least one month’s rent from Byron, and deliver it to the realty company, in the hopes that this would keep things cool until I got back in town.

So I was in DC, staying at my sister Amy’s apartment in Arlington, and the plan was for me to fly back on Tuesday morning.  She wanted me to get an early morning flight so that she could drop me off on her way to work.  Being the self-centered irresponsible drug addict I was at the time, I told her there was no way I was going to be awake in time to catch an early morning flight.  I booked a flight for Tuesday afternoon, and she agreed to leave work early to get me to the airport.

I woke up Tuesday morning in her apartment to the sound of her phone ringing incessantly.  I saw it was Amy calling from work, so I rolled out of bed and answered the phone.  I remember her first words were "Um, you’re not going anywhere today."  I was all, "Whatchoo talkin’ ’bout, Willis?"  She told me to turn on the tv.

Something like a dozen or so planes were missing.  Missing?  What the fuck?  Then I think one of the planes hit one of the towers, and then the Pentagon, and then Randomsville, PA, and while I don’t remember the exact chronology, I do remember being completely terrified and being glued to the somewhat comforting tones of Peter Jennings pretty much 24/7 the following week.  The Pentagon was only a couple miles from my sister’s apartment, and I remember everyone being kind of paralyzed, not wanting to leave their houses, not knowing what had just happened, or what was going to happen next.  It was as though time stopped for a week.

I have a very distinct memory of one night when there was some sort of planned vigil or something where everyone went out on their balconies, hung a flag, and lit a candle.  I remember feeling that it was the first time I’d ever felt the word "patriotic" actually held some sort of significant meaning to me.  That feeling has since faded.  I also remember (and doubt I will ever forget) that the initial plan was for me to be on a cross-country flight on the morning of September 11 from Washington Dulles to LAX.  Two such flights were among the ones that crashed.  If making my sister’s life a little bit easier had actually mattered to me at that point in time, and/or if I had been one of those drug addicts who’s also a morning person (do they exist?), I most assuredly would have been on one of those flights.

Oh that’s the other thing.  Since all air transportation was halted for over a week, I was stuck in DC for a while.  That was okay with me, because it wasn’t as though I had a job or anything to get back to in LA.  However, because I hadn’t exactly foreseen 9/11 occurring when packing for my little east coast visit, by that point my drug stash had been depleted and could not easily be replenished, especially since the whole city was basically shut down and I was at my sister’s place in nearby Arlington.  Not catastrophic, ‘cuz I’d run out of drugs before, but it definitely added to the already uncomfortable weirdness in my world that week.  Then once air transportation finally started back up again, I - like most Americans - was understandably terrified to get onto a plane and fly across the country.  Back then, it seemed as though every flight could be the last.

Eventually though, I did manage to muster up enough balls to return to my own private hell in LA.  I remember Al Gore was on my flight.  That was definitely reassuring.  And we all cheered passionately upon touching down safely at LAX.  If only I’d known what I was returning to…

First of all, the one job-ish thing I had going for me in LA was that I would play piano a couple nights a week for tips only at a poorly-attended restaurant on Santa Monica Boulevard.  Well, somehow they’d gotten word that I was supposed to be flying back to LA from DC on the morning of September 11, and since they hadn’t heard anything from me for weeks after, the alcoholic owner of the restaurant had gathered the staff together to announce to them that I was dead.  I will never forget the range of emotions that greeted me when I showed up at the restaurant a few nights after my return.  It was as though Elvis had entered the building.  People burst into tears when they saw me, one guy even handed me a poem he’d written about my death.  These were people I didn’t even know that well.  That felt amazing.  Weird, but amazing.  But of course, I was returning to some not-so-amazing stuff as well.

I’d spoken with my friend Jovette a few times before leaving DC, and she’d told me that she had gone over to my apartment a few times to try to get some rent from my sketchy roommate Byron, but the door had been locked from the inside (which meant he was there) and he wasn’t responding to her repeated knocks and phone calls.  When I finally arrived back in LA and walked into my apartment, I saw that Byron and all of his belongings had disappeared.  He hadn’t taken anything of mine, but I did find something sitting on the floor by the door.  It was an eviction notice.  It had been left there during the first week of September, and by the time I was able to get back to LA, the time period during which I was allowed to respond to the notice had already expired.  Bad news.

Somehow, perhaps because of the heady brew of my undeniable charm, my persuasively pathetic begging, and yet another bail-Matt-out check from the aptly named Bailer family (plus the rather extraordinary circumstances surrounding 9/11), I managed to finagle my way out of that eviction.  I found a new roommate - an even sketchier mess named Todd who disappeared without paying rent just before November 1.  There was no way I could come up with the other half of the rent this time.  All my cards had been played.  That next eviction notice stuck.  I was in eviction court on Christmas Eve 2001, and the cops came to remove me from the premises on Valentine’s Eve 2002.  That’s when I moved into my car.  Wake up call?  You’d think.  But it took almost another whole year until I hit rock bottom, got arrested, and started getting sober.

At some point during the eviction process, I learned that several hundred dollars in phone calls from pay-phones had been charged to my home phone using some calling card that Byron had set up before he disappeared.  And Todd had found a checkbook that I’d hidden in my room and, shortly after his own disappearance, he’d written a few checks from my account for a couple hundred dollars each, all of which bounced - DUH!  That was my choice of a roommate.  Someone who didn’t realize the impracticality of stealing a checkbook from a jobless, penniless drug addict who was basically living from eviction notice to eviction notice.  Me, I was bankrupt on the inside and decaying on the outside.  I hope that I never forget that feeling.  Writing this has helped me remember a lot of things I’d tried to forget.  Because my oh my, how the times have changed…

Only five years?  Seems like a lifetime ago.