I’m performing at WYSIWYG in three weeks. I’m kind of nervous, especially since I’ll be in such great company. And I’m spooked by last month’s show, in which every performer was hysterical. I have a harder time being funny than some other people do. But I guess “worst sex ever” is an inherently funny topic, whereas “New York stories” can be interpreted in any number of ways. I hope to write something funny and poignant. What’s most important, I guess, is that my piece be a reflection of me. I should be able to do that; after all, I’m me. So maybe I needn’t worry as much as I have been.

WYSIWYG’s on March 22. See you there!

The Times has a special section today on delivery and take-out meals, including a sidebar on the foods most and least amenable to delivery and a series of short pieces on delivery highlights by neighborhood. (Unfortunately for me and Matt, nothing on lower Manhattan or Tribeca.) There are also pieces about ordering meals online and about places from which some famous people order meals.

I’ve just finished reading How I Paid for College : A Novel of Sex, Theft, Friendship & Musical Theater, by Marc Acito (which Thom got me for my birthday off my wishlist a few months ago). It’s been a long time since I’ve let myself read something breezy and entertaining. It’s a totally fun, madcap read, and it makes me wish I were 17 or 18 again, except more in touch with my sexuality.

There are some recurring scenes in the book that make me wistful. The novel takes place in New Jersey, and the main character, a sexually confused teenage boy, frequents this gay Manhattan piano bar with his friends. I picture the bar being right near the Duplex and the Stonewall on Sheridan Square. Whenever our main character is in Manhattan, particularly at the bar, he’s told by one gay man or another that he’s totally cute.

When I was 17 or 18, there was nobody to tell me I was cute. Looking back today at old photos of myself, I think I was. But nobody ever told me so. Granted, I lived overseas during most of high school, and I didn’t come out to anyone until the end of my first year of college, back in the States; but still, nobody ever told me I was cute.

The main character in How I Paid For College also dreams of being an actor. He loves the theater. I, too, loved the theater when I was in high school, and I used to “get the acting bug.” I used to decide that the only thing I wanted to do when I grew up was be an actor.

Reality set in, though. I never got far with my college acting career. I was in a couple of shows with fellow first-year students, but when I tried out for college-wide productions at the end of my first year, I didn’t even make callbacks. So I decided I sucked, and I gave up.

Occasionally the dream of acting rears its head again. But I’m no longer that crazy teenager, out of touch with reality and susceptible to the whims of my dreams. Sometimes I wish I were still that guy, but I’m not. Today I’m in a nice, stable job, making a decent enough salary. I’ve learned that a life of lowered expectations is realy not that bad; it may lack a certain spice, but at least it’s comfortable. And how could I even break into any sort of acting these days? In New York City, of all places? I don’t know if there’s community theater in New York that’s open only to non-Equity people or something like that, someplace where I wouldn’t have to compete with the thousands of professional actors in the city who have taken drama and dance classes and know their Shakespeare backwards and forwards. Is there? Or I could look into taking an acting class? Maybe that would be fun.

It’s funny how you can read a book and it opens the floodgates.

It’s snowing. Again.

I’m sick of winter. It’s said that February is the month of doldrums, but at least February has Valentine’s Day. I think March is the most characterless month. It’s just a wasteland between winter and spring. It’s the only month that’s also a verb, which is odd, since it doesn’t do anything.

I’ve felt stagnant lately. I try to fight the temptation to eat junk. It would be nice to lose the 8-10 pounds I’ve gained in the past year. I might try the Abs Diet, which seems to have worked for Faustus. He and I are roughly the same height and build, so maybe it would help me, too. It’s just that I’ve never had discipline when it comes to exercise. I find it so boring. I could join a gym and ride an exercise bike, I suppose, which would at least be a cardio workout, and I could even read while doing it.

Now that I’ve finished How I Paid For College, I’m reading Leave Myself Behind, which my gay coworker gave me yesterday because he’d bought a copy without realizing he already owned it. It’s a slim gay coming-of-age novel and also sort of a mystery. Not as funny as How I Paid For College, but it’s diverting. Maybe after this I’ll finally read The Plot Against America or dive back into Neal Stephenson’s The System of the World.

Anyway. I want spring to get here. One of my favorite things to do in New York is go for long walks in unfamiliar neighborhoods. Once it gets warm, Matt and I can start doing that again.

Begone, stagnation, begone.

Someone came back from lunch with a box of Munchkins. The part of our office where people set out goodies is directly visible from my office door. It’s almost time to go home, and I’ve successfully avoided them all afternoon. Maybe this means I’ll have a good appetite for dinner.

Until recently, I used to have a candy bar almost every workday as an afternoon snack, usually sometime around 2:30 or 3:00. I’ve decided that cutting out that candy bar might make me feel better and hungrier, and now I’ve been having that daily candy bar much less often than I used to. Only once a week, sometimes twice.

The thing about food is that it helps stave off boredom, especially when you’re having a slow workday and you keep looking at your watch. I know, I know, the solution is to bring healthy snacks to work with you. I guess it’s better to overeat on healthy snacks than to overeat on chocolate. Not necessarily as much fun, though.

For some reason, “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk” by Rufus Wainwright is in my head now.

I was just reading an article online in today’s New York Times Circuits section about how nobody memorizes phone numbers anymore because we all have them programmed into our cellphones. The article is accompanied by a photo of a guy who looks kind of hot. It turns out that the guy accidentally dropped his cellphone a couple of months ago, and:

The only number he remembered was his parents’ home phone number, and for about a week or so he ended up sitting by a land line at their house, leaving an online message with his instant messenger profile urging people to call him at his parents’ home.

“Every time the phone rang I was jumping for it, and that hasn’t happened in so long, sharing a line with your family,” he said.

Perhaps the most frustrating part was that Mr. Gillis had been dating someone in Manhattan and couldn’t get in touch with him until he returned to the city. “I felt completely alone,” he said. What’s more, for those friends whose cellphones were their primary or only phones, he could not even resort to directory assistance.

I love how the article throws in the “him,” all matter-of-fact-ly. It’s not often you see something like that in a New York Times piece unless it’s an article in the Home & Garden section about a fabulous house that’s just been renovated by a gay couple.

Anyway, since the guy is gay and from New York City, I naturally assumed he’d have a Friendster profile. And of course, he does. He is not closely connected to my network, though.

I love the Internets.

Frank Rich is moving back to the Op-Ed page.

Good. As I wrote recently, he was never a good match for the Sunday Arts & Leisure section. He’s too cranky and opinionated. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being so opinionated — in fact, I encourage it — but the Op-Ed page will be a much better fit for him. He’s going to be part of an expanded two-page “Op-Ed package” on Sundays.

Still, I cringed for two reasons when I read these words: Bill Keller, executive editor, and Gail Collins, editor of the editorial page, said, “We all hope this expansion will create new interest and buzz.” One, did Bill Keller and Gail Collins actually speak those words simultaneously? How Stepford. Two, the word “buzz” evokes Tina Brown, not The New York Times.

This is why I hate press releases. Ick.

Last night we saw Doubt, followed by dinner at Zen Palate and then drinks with Jere.

Doubt is just wonderful. The script, the acting, the direction — all terrific. It’s a lock for Best Play this year. Go see it.

I think it’s interesting that there’s a play called Doubt and a play called Proof. One is about religion, the other mathematics. Unfortunately, I can’t remember the “big ideas” that Proof was about, so I can’t say anything more profound right now. But it would be neat to see both plays back to back.

An update on my New York Times delivery problem:

On Monday, I sent the following e-mail to circulation@nytimes.com:

To Whom It May Concern:

I am writing to elaborate on a complaint I sent yesterday via the New York Times Customer Care website. My subscriber account number is XXXXXXXX.

I have been a New York Times delivery customer since the fall of 2001 and my delivery has usually been flawless. Starting with the weekend of February 5, 2005, I signed up to have my weekend newspapers delivered to a new address: XX XXX Street, Apt. XXX, New York, NY, 100XX. Since moving to my new address, I have had New York Times delivery problems every weekend.

Simply put, my newspaper does not arrive on Saturday or Sunday mornings. In fact, there are several New York Times subscribers in my building, and none of our newspapers arrive on the weekend. None of our copies of the Saturday and Sunday New York Times arrive until Monday morning. In fact, one Monday morning, at 8:30, I actually saw the deliveryman deliver the weekend newspapers and then go out to his delivery truck and drive away.

This is unacceptable.

Except for one day, I have had to call the customer hotline, 1-800-NYTIMES, every Saturday and Sunday since the beginning of February to register a complaint. Usually a credit is applied to my account and I am told that the carrier or the distributor will be called. On February 26 or 27 I was told that the distributor would be told to get a new carrier, and I thought my problem was solved. On Saturday morning, March 5, I received the Saturday and the Sunday advance sections. (Curiously, it was only my newspaper that arrived; nobody else’s did.) Then, on Sunday morning, March 6, I did not receive any newspaper at all. I called the hotline and received a credit.

This morning, as I left my building for work, I noticed a stack of Saturday and Sunday New York Times newspapers. They had just been delivered this morning – Monday, March 7.

It is clear that whichever carrier is assigned to deliver Saturday and Sunday copies of the New York Times to XX XXX Street has utterly failed in its job. Weekend newspapers should be delivered on the weekend, not on Monday morning. I would guess that this particular carrier does not do business on the weekend. In that case, a new carrier should be assigned delivery of the New York Times — one that can handle weekend newspaper delivery.

Starting next weekend, I expect my Saturday and Sunday newspapers, as well as those of the other subscribers in my building, to be delivered on Saturdays and Sundays.

Please keep me apprised of developments in regard to this matter. Thank you.

Sincerely,

[me]

P.S. I was informed by someone on the customer care hotline that the proper mailing address for complaints is: New York Times, P.O. Box 70, Northvale, NJ, 07647-0070. I am sending this to that address as well.

So what happens? This weekend I receive FOUR copies of the Sunday New York Times.

Yesterday morning I went to the lobby to find the Saturday paper and the Sunday advance sections with my name and addresss handwritten on them, and I brought them upstairs. Later in the day, Matt and I went out, and waiting for me in the lobby was another Saturday paper with the Sunday advance sections, also with my name and address on them (in a different person’s handwriting). This morning, I went downstairs and found one copy of the Sunday regular sections with my name and apartment written on them in yet another person’s handwriting, one copy of just the Sunday advance sections, with my name and apartment written on them in someone else’s handwriting, and one delivery of the entire Sunday paper (advance and regular sections), with a printed out name/address label.

So, um, I’ve got four copies of the Arts & Leisure section if anybody wants them.

Oh, and there have been no weekend New York Times deliveries for anyone else in the building. I guess those will come tomorrow.

This is ridiculous.

I never thought I’d see the Cock written up in the Times, but I guess there’s a first for everything. Oddly, the article never mentions the name of the bar — it just says that it “sits on the corner of Avenue A and 12th Street and is named for the red neon rooster in the window.”

To complete my trifecta of New York Times-related posts today, here’s an entertaining thread on the NYT Wedding Announcements blog in response to a letter written to the blog’s author complaining that the New York Times weddings page has become too inclusive:

My point: we have morons editing the society pages for the Times. The announcements are awful. Rarely is anyone of true significance or social prominence mentioned… Sorry to sound so crazy, but we “true people of some significance and accomplishment” get annoyed when wannabe’s get presstime that should be ours.

The responses are fun.

Also, here’s a same-sex wedding announcement today for Andrew Kurtzman, a local CBS political reporter who I didn’t know was gay. He married a member of the New York City Ballet in Toronto. Cute photo.

Yesterday I discovered TV ARK, a treasure trove of TV network identification theme music and logos, including pages for local news stations. Those of you who grew up in the New York area will appreciate these News 4 New York clips, using the old early 1980s theme music and graphics. (Chuck Scarborough and Sue Simmons have been around forever!) And Matt went nuts at these Birmingham, Alabama clips.

Some of my other favorites on the site are this two-minute NBC “Be There” promo, with cameos by tons of early-80s NBC TV stars (Ricky Schroeder, Charlotte Rae, Mr. T, the Smurfs, and lots more – I could watch this over and over); the other NBC clips, especially the various “NBC Monday Night at the Movies” intros (this was back before everything on TV was steeped in irony); and the very famous and familiar “A CBS Special Presentation” clip.

There’s lots of other great stuff on there — have fun.

Every customer review of a product on Amazon.com is followed by the words, “Was this review helpful to you?” followed by “yes” and “no” buttons.

I’m never quite sure how to answer the question. If you take it as worded, the question is meant to be answered by a person who’s trying to decide whether or not to buy/consume a particular product. Did the review help the person make a decision? But in practice, I think most people who answer the question are those who have already bought/consumed the product, and they’re voting on whether or not they agree with the review. That’s a different question entirely. Or “helpful” could mean not just whether it helps someone make the decision to buy/consume, but whether, after the fact, that turned out to be a good or bad decision. But that would require someone to read the review, then buy/consume the product, and then go back and read that review again, days or weeks later. I don’t think most people are that conscientious.

The question is just too vague. It would be better for Amazon.com to ask, “Do you agree with this review?”, since that’s probably what most people use it for anyway, and its meaning is clearer.

I could very well have too much time on my hands.

Just a reminder that one week from tonight, I’ll be reading at WYSIWYG. The topic is, “The City That Never Shuts Up: New York Stories.” I’m nervous but excited. Maybe this will be my big break and Ellen DeGeneres will be in the audience and think I’m wonderful and invite me onto her show as a guest and put me in touch with other people, including a book publisher.

Or I’ll just have a really good time.

You can buy tickets in advance. Come one, come all. See you there!

We saw Altar Boyz last night. Very cute show, lots of fun. Tyler Maynard can dance.

Meanwhile, I’ve been having somewhat of an existential crisis. Oh my god, doesn’t that sound pretentious? All I mean is that I’m bored. With my life. Mainly with my job.

I took a sick day off from work yesterday — a sort of “mental health” day. I went to my own apartment back in Jersey City (where I rarely spend time anymore, since I’m usually at Matt’s place), did some laundry, had lunch at my favorite sandwich shop around the corner, did lots of reading. I’ll be losing my apartment once the lease ends on November 1, because I have a new landlord and she’s planning to either sell the apartments in my brownstone as condos or raise the rent about $300. (My old landlord was renting out the apartments at below-market prices.) And I’ll probably be moving in with Matt in the next several months anyway. But I love my apartment — I’m going to miss it. It’s so quiet and charming and soothing.

I’ve been thinking lately again about what I want to do with my life. About a year and a half ago, I reached a point where I decided I didn’t need a life goal — that I would just lower my expectations of life and be content. I’m very nihilistic about life; I don’t think there is any ultimate meaning out there, I don’t think there’s any afterlife, I think human life was something that just randomly happened. We’re… just… here. As long as I’ve got adequate shelter and food, I’m probably better off than at least 95 percent of the people on the planet.

But that’s not enough. Ever since New Year’s I’ve been stuck in a rut. Go to work on Monday, wait for Friday, then the weekend comes and goes in a flash and the next thing I know it’s Monday morning again. It’s so hard to get out of bed in the morning (though that’s been a problem for more than a few months). The alarm clock is next to my side of Matt’s bed, and he usually has to give me a couple of shoves until I realize it’s going off. Then I hit the snooze bar, and nine minutes later I do the same thing. Eventually I get up.

I used to have this routine I got from The Artist’s Way: morning pages. I’d wake up before 7:00, sit up in bed, and write in my notebook for half an hour before starting my day. I did it solidly every morning for several months back in 2002; it led to my taking a screenwriting class and writing a screenplay that I now feel is inadequate. (Maybe I should take a playwriting class instead — plays are easier to get produced than movies, right?) I eventually fell out of the practice of morning pages. But maybe it would help me to start up again.

I also feel like TV has gotten in the way. TV is an evil time-waster, but ever since I started dating Matt, I’ve watched more TV, because he does. He’s gotten me into “Alias,” “Veronica Mars,” and “The Daily Show.” And without Matt I probably wouldn’t be watching “Lost” or “The West Wing” right now. There’s this vignette from John Irving’s novel, A Prayer For Owen Meany, in which the main character’s grandmother is given a TV and curses it as this big societal evil. Several chapters later, she can’t take her eyes off the thing. Sometimes that’s how I feel.

It’s not as if all we do is sit around watching TV. We go to chorus rehearsal, we go to trivia night, we go to the theater several times a month. I just feel like if I wanted to sit down and write something, there’s no quiet place to do it. But that could be less a function of TV (because it’s not always on) and more a function of me just not being able to settle down for an extended time and write something.

I probably should start doing morning pages again. I can get out of bed in the morning and sit on Matt’s couch and do them. Maybe they’d help get me unstuck.

It’s worth a shot, I guess.

“Big Apple Circus”: A Guide to New York’s Mayoral Election. (password here)

Emdashes: a blog about the New Yorker. Cool.

Does it really make sense anymore for one theater critic at the New York Times to have the power to make or break a show? I read Mike’s remark this morning about Ben Brantley (jeez, Mike – 4:14 AM? do you ever sleep?) and it reminded me of something I thought about when Dirty Rotten Scoundrels opened a couple of weeks ago. Brantley didn’t like Scoundrels very much. His review, while it made some good points, was unnecessarily snotty. This morning he praises Spamalot more highly, although he doesn’t love that, either.

The theater critic at the New York Times, by nature of the position, has always had the most clout. But why should one person with such mean-spirited opinions have so much power? There is no such thing as oracular, objective truth when it comes to the arts. The Times has been expanding its arts staff and now has two main theater reviewers, Ben Brantley and Charles Isherwood, as well as a few other people. Why not assign high-profile shows to more than one critic and publish multiple reviews? It happens with books — one person might review a book in the daily Arts section, and another will review it for the Sunday Book Review. Why not for theater, too?

There are other newspapers, of course, and there’s also word of mouth (which is possibly even more influential). But a vast majority of New York-area theatergoers (particularly in the suburbs, where I grew up) probably take their cues from the Times. As media continues to evolve, the Times may have less and less clout in the theater world. I’m sure it already has less clout than it used to. But for now, the paper could benefit from including multiple points of view when it comes to theater criticism. There’s no reason why one person’s opinions, particularly those of someone as cranky as Ben Brantley, should count for so much today.

As a follow-up to last week’s New York Times article in the City section about The Cock, in which the name of the bar was not explicitly stated, today there’s this letter:

To the Editor:

In “Looking for Mr. Right Now” (March 13), you refuse to identify the subject of the article, a gay bar in the East Village, by its name. You coyly describe the bar, the Cock, as being “named for the red neon rooster in the window.”

As you know, the word “cock” has more than one meaning, only one of which might be considered inappropriate enough to suppress for fear of what your more tender-eared readers might say.

The owners of the Cock gave their bar an amusing name that can pass in civil conversation while carrying a more adult indication of the establishment’s nature. Your decision to exclude the bar’s name from the article reflects both a depressing lack of humor and a disturbing allegiance with the campaign against “indecency” that steadily threatens to turn our society into one big day care center.

Matt Larsen
Lower East Side

I’ve long been annoyed at the Times’s insistence on censoring profane language in its pages. What’s even more inane is that it’s okay to run a piece about cruising at a gay bar and print these words:

“I love it here, it’s so whorish,” he said. Like everyone else interviewed, he declined to give his full name for the sake of privacy. And a little discretion. “If you want to find sex, this is the place.”

But god forbid these same readers should be exposed to the word “cock.”

The Times needs to get over itself.

I’ve taken my own advice. Since Friday morning I’ve been doing morning pages again. I’ve done them four mornings in a row now, and I can feel the ice starting to break a bit. Mostly I’ve been complaining on paper, but my pen will sometimes lead me down interesting alleyways. It’s thought-by-writing. No solutions to anything yet, but it lets me vent, and at least I know that I’ve already done something productive before breakfast.

I’ve almost finished reading Cloud Atlas, one of the weirdest and coolest novels I’ve ever read. To describe it is to ruin it. Just trust me that’s it’s a great (and at times challenging) read.

I sometimes wonder if reading is just a distraction from writing. I tell myself it’s useful, that it can give me ideas and inspiration and fuel. But the truth is that reading is easier than writing. And it’s also more interesting. But it’s consumption instead of production. Last year there was a kerfuffle over a report by the NEA stating that reading among Americans is at an all-time low. That’s bad; reading trains the mind. Or does it? Maybe reading doesn’t cause intelligence and it’s just that intelligent people are the only ones who read.

I was trying to find this Ralph Waldo Emerson quote about how books are actually bad for you. With the help of Google (a brain’s best friend!), I found this, which pretty much says what I wanted to say.

Even the great books, says Emerson, fail to deliver on their promise. “Come, they say, we will give you the key to the world.” Each poet, each philosopher says this. But we never get to the center. What we must draw on is our own experiences. Write our own sentences. And read Emerson. …

… The golden sentences in Emerson should inspire us. They will help us understand our own experience. They may express it better than we ever will. But we cannot stop there. We must have our own thoughts, make our own sentences. …

This is why writers have a love-hate relationship with books. We read books looking for that sudden revelation of truth and by doing so delay revealing our own. “To put away one’s original thought in order to take up a book,” writes Schopenauer, “is a sin against the Holy Ghost.”

There you go. A love-hate (or at least love-annoyance) relationship with books. I’ll finish this book, and then, instead of finding another one, maybe the one that will solve everything, why not just sit down and write?

Instead of passively consuming, actively produce.

Regarding the Terri Schiavo matter: I think Scott Rosenberg says it well.

I’ve been fascinated by the case these last few days. Putting aside the political circus, I don’t understand why parents would want to keep a daughter alive who’s been brain-dead for 15 years. I’m not a parent and I can’t fathom the emotions and pain involved in such a decision, but it seems to me that after 15 years, now that “much of her cerebral cortex is simply gone and has been replaced by cerebral spinal fluid,” it’s time to let her go. Aren’t there any other family members or friends who can convince them of this? What’s the point in being technically alive if you don’t even know you’re alive? How does Terri benefit from this?

As far as who has the legal authority to make the decision, it’s clearly the husband. He is her next-of-kin.

It makes me wonder, though: imagine this is in Massachusetts. The brain-dead person has a same-sex spouse, who — reverse the roles here — wants to keep her alive. The parents, meanwhile, are suing to let her die. What would the far-right conservatives do? Would they support the legal right of the same-sex spouse to keep her alive? Or would they support the parents’ desire to let her die?

Eh, they’d probably find a way to have their cake and eat it, too. Still, one wonders.

One final reminder:

Tonight.
7:30 p.m.
P.S. 122.
150 1st Avenue at East 9th Street.

WYSIWYG presents:

With Eurotrash, Maccers, Ultrasparky, Giulia Rozzi, Joe Jervis, and me.

God help me.

WYSIWYG last night was such a blast. I hadn’t performed in front of people in years, but once I was up there speaking, I was less nervous than I thought I’d be. I miss performing — I’d gladly do WYSIWYG again, or something else, even.

Anyway — here’s what I read last night.

Continue reading →

The New England Journal of Medicine has posted two really good summaries/editorials about the Schiavo case on its website: Terri Schiavo — A Tragedy Compounded, and (somewhat longer) “Culture of Life” Politics at the Bedside — The Case of Terri Schiavo. Both provide history and perspective on the case and also discuss the 1976 Karen Quinlan case and the 1990 Nancy Cruzan case. Good stuff.

A WYSIWYG video montage from last Tuesday night is up. I’m last in the montage, and I cringed just now as I watched myself. Look up at the audience more! Speak more slowly! And do I always sound that faggy?

Oh, well. I guess you have to have an experience in order to learn from it.

So I’ve decided to finally get my ass in gear and try to write a piece for one of the local free gay newspapers, like the Gay City News or the New York Blade, which might start to get my voice out there. But I’m so frustrated. I can’t think of what to write about.

I tried to write an opinion piece, but by the time I got to the end, I’d changed my opinion. I was writing about how civil unions are not that much worse than marriage, at least on the state level, but I’ve decided they are. The piece came out sounding like appeasement of the anti-gay-marriage view.

So I’m going to try to write to my strength, which is those slice-of-life-type pieces with a personal bent. I was always good at writing those in college and law school, and I do it in my blog every so often. But now I can’t seem to come up with something. And I’m deathly afraid that whatever I write won’t be good enough and will be rejected.

I hate writer’s block. How the hell am I going to get a career going?

Sometimes I wish I believed in an afterlife, because it might make me happier in this one.

I was thinking about that last night. Things just seem pointless a lot of the time. In an existential sense, I think they are. As I’ve said before, I don’t think there’s a point to anything. I think we’re just here, and that’s that.

But I might be happier if I thought my existence were, in some form or another, permanent.

In my imagination, Heaven contains a big infinite library containing every book ever written. In my version of Heaven, you can travel through time and revisit any point in the Earth’s past, witness any historical event. Heaven for me is like a big intellectual vacation.

But I don’t believe in Heaven. The afterlife is a story I used to tell myself to deal with the awful, horrible reality that someday I will not exist. Since the beginning of time (except for the last 31 revolutions of Earth around the Sun) I have not existed, and in a few decades I will cease to exist for the rest of Time. I live right now between two huge Ice Ages that do not contain me. It’s such a scary thought.

Life seems so short to me. I always have this fear that death is just around the corner. But I’m 31 years old, so it’s like that my life isn’t even half over yet. In fact, I’ve lived just a third of my grandfather’s 94 years so far. And considering that I spent the first 17 or 18 years just getting the hang of things, I’ve done a lot in the subsequent 13 years. Possibly just one-fifth of my adulthood has passed so far. There’s so much time ahead in which to do stuff.

It just seems like stuff doesn’t happen, though. I can’t accept that I will live my life not having achieved anything. Sure, I could entertain myself for the next 50 or 60 years, seeing shows and reading books and doing crossword puzzles, but what about leaving something behind?

Matt and I were talking about this last night, and he said I’ll leave behind lots of great memories in the people who know me. But what about when they’re gone? This is why I sometimes think it would be reassuring to have children: to know that in a few hundred years I’ll still exist on some family tree as the progenitor of one of its branches.

This is all a way to make myself immortal, in some sense. I wish I could be the subject of a future biography. I want to be remembered by people outside my immediate circle.

I guess stuff only happens if you take steps. And that’s what I’m trying to do now — take baby steps. Writing an 800- to 1000-word piece that I could send in to some free local newspaper to be published. But I have so little faith in myself and my abilities, and I’m so afraid of being rejected. I don’t feel like I could write something that the gay newspapers would be interested in publishing. Nothing is coming to my mind. Maybe I just need to sit down and write whatever gay-related memories or thoughts pop into my head. Maybe I’m overestimating the quality of what they’d accept. Maybe it doesn’t have to be light and fluffy and gayishly humorous.

This just sucks.

Michael Chabon and Ayelet Waldman still have great sex. I don’t know why this piece creeps me out.

I’m feeling better than I was yesterday. After two attempts, I’ve hit on something to use for a newspaper column. My goal was to have a piece written up by Thursday evening. Nothing gets your ass in gear like a deadline. Once I’m done, I can move on to the next step. Breaking a bigger goal down into smaller goals is very helpful.

Incidentally, I learned yesterday that Marc Acito, author of How I Paid For College: A Novel of Sex, Theft, Friendship & Musical Theater, got his start as a writer due to reading The Artist’s Way after turning 30. (Yay! So I’m not too old.) The Artist’s Way is one of the best creativity-inducing books out there — I’ve used it several times, and the idea of “morning pages,” which I started up again a week and a half ago, comes from it. Writing in my notebook every morning has helped me remind myself of my deadline.

In other news, last night Matt upgraded my blog to WordPress 1.5. I (stubbornly, and to Matt’s consternation) insisted on keeping my visual design and layout exactly the same, so you shouldn’t notice anything different. But on the inside, things are much cooler now.

After three and a half years at my job, I was finally given a new computer monitor this morning. The old one was only a 13- or 14-inch screen; the new one is 15 inches, like my home monitor and Matt’s monitor. I can finally use 1024×768 resolution here instead of 800×600. And the new one is a flat-screen instead of a CRT. Woo woo!

I smell.

Once again (big surprise), the full Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals has refused to rehear the Schiavo case. (Give up, already! Let her go in peace.) One of the judges on the Eleventh Circuit, Judge Birch, wrote a concurring (and therefore not legally binding) opinion arguing that the law passed by Congress that sent the case to federal court is in fact unconstitutional, just as Matt P. said.

Here is the relevant excerpt:

If the Act only provided for jurisdiction consistent with Article III and 28 U.S.C. § 1331, the Act would not be in violation of the principles of separation of powers. The Act, however, goes further. Section 2 of the Act provides that the district court: (1) shall engage in “de novo” review of Mrs. Schiavo’s constitutional and federal claims; (2) shall not consider whether these claims were previously “raised, considered, or decided in State court proceedings”; (3) shall not engage in “abstention in favor of State court proceedings”; and (4) shall not decide the case on the basis of “whether remedies available in the State courts have been exhausted.” Pub. L. 109-3, § 2. Because these provisions constitute legislative dictation of how a federal court should exercise its judicial functions (known as a “rule of decision”), the Act invades the province of the judiciary and violates the separation of powers principle.

A dissenting judge disagrees, but this sounds correct to me.

Judge Birch also takes a nice dig at people who talk about “activist judges”:

A popular epithet directed by some members of society, including some members of Congress, toward the judiciary involves the denunciation of “activist judges.” Generally, the definition of an “activist judge” is one who decides the outcome of a controversy before him according to personal conviction, even one sincerely held, as opposed to the dictates of the law as constrained by legal precedent and, ultimately, our Constitution. In resolving the Schiavo controversy it is my judgment that, despite sincere and altruistic motivation, the legislative and executive branches of our government have acted in a manner demonstrably at odds with our Founding Fathers’ blueprint for the governance of a free people — our Constitution.

* * *

Should the citizens of Florida determine that its law should be changed, it should be done legislatively. Were the courts to change the law, as the petitioners and Congress invite us to do, an “activist judge” criticism would be valid.

Spring Forward Faster. Daylight Savings Time starts on Sunday. I love Daylight Savings Time — especially that first evening when you realize it’s 7 pm but still light outside. But isn’t it weird that we’re on “standard” time for less than half the year? It would make more sense for the seven-month period of Daylight Savings Time to be called Standard. Or maybe Standard Time can be called Moonlight Savings Time.

At any rate, I agree with the author. We should have more DST, and it should run from mid-March through early November. Actually, we could change the name of “Standard Time” to “Winter Time” and “Daylight Savings Time” to “Standard Time.”

Sure, this would make lots of old crossword puzzles obsolete, but whatever. Sunlight goooood.