Exhaustion has a way of making you unsure. Am I here? How did I get here? Did I do that? Memories cut you off as you walk briskly, in a fog, up 51st street. I said I would never return here, but things keep dragging me back. When I'm away I don't feel like I'm in a relationship. I know she's out there - floating, living her life - but when I'm away my life has nothing to do with hers. That's how she wills it. Her life gets really positive when I'm away... Yesterday I tried to explain to someone what it was like being back here again - the familiarness like you're coming into your mother's living room - but he looked away mid-sentence, too excited by his first time here. NYC is happy that I'm back this time. She's being very welcoming. What a love. And what a sucker am I. She knows how much I love her... I had almost completely forgotten that my ex-friend was here. For the record - mine, you don't know either her or me - she was never my best friend. Mom was. My 4am phone call. ... When I'm away she is single, independent, vibrant, positive and productive. When I am away from her, or she is away from me, I feel her happy distance. ...

Packing is always fairly stressful for me. I never know what to wear and always feel I look like shit. I always seek the help of a knowledgeable family member and that usually does the trick, but I don't ever feel comfortable until after the first day of any trip is over. I've worn the clothes, then, for one day, worn the jewelry, and generally start feeling more comfortable in my skin. Part of my problem with packing is that I have no sense of fashion. Seriously. I need people to TELL ME that orange and red don't go together. And I can't accessorize for shit. I have all this great stuff from my mom and no idea how to honor it. See, I grew up as a little boy. My brother is only one year and one week older than me and so I always felt more comfortable hanging out with him and his friends than I did with other girls. I was the typical Tom Boy: played sports, rough-housed, preferred tractors to dolls. I also loved playing in water, with or without clothing, but that's a story for another time... Anyway, so I didn't get the kind of formal, "I can braid my own hair"-type of girl training. My mother tried giving me dolls but I would always look at them, smile and ask: "who's that for?" All this, I feel, served to set me up to become the current fashion disaster I am today! It helps a little that I'm getting my figure back through working out, but I still need someone's help before I set foot outside. Otherwise all anyone would ever see me in are khakis and a sleeveless v-neck tee.

So, packing... I'm going to New York City. My old haunt... although I'll be in a neighborhood that I never spent much time in at all: Midtown. Actually, I hate it. There's no "there" there. Just straight, clean streets with corporate offices or upscale residences. There are few delis, no parks, the subway entrances are all a mile away.... Oh god.... I'm complaining... Okay, fuck it. I'm going to NYC and I'm going to have a good time. There it is.

First Post on my first blog: beer and paranoia

What's important today?
-Contacting Ray Nagin's office to see if there's an official response to Sen. David Vitter's (R-LA) declaration that gay marriage is the most important issue in the U.S. today.
-Continuing to transcribe the interviews for my film, "Jimmy Mazzy & The Last Minute Men."
-Going to the gym.
-Trying not to think too much about beer.

It's so hard keeping up with the news. I always start my day with thehuffingtonpost.com then check the mainstream media sites for their takes (if they have any) of the same stories. I check the liberal press, the fringe liberal press, local press (media outlets in the area where the story is happening), blogs, and neighbors. This last one is a sort of community test. How many of my neighbors read the news? What news do they read? Are they Republican, and, if so, are they insane and wanting to kill me, or can they be reasoned with at arm's length? These are, if you don't already know, serious considerations in my Southern Californian upscale community (I'm renting). For all of my outward strength I'm really a fraidy-cat. I hear conservatism, fanatical religiousness, and racism and go running for the hills. I'm no champion. Those folks could be nutty enough to carry guns, ya know?

Now, on to beer. I used to drink it a lot. A. LOT. So much so that last year I gained 20 pounds. Yah. From beer. Love the stuff. So, okay, I have a hot-n-sexy, 26-year-old, rockstar girlfriend who I don't want to look like shit standing next to, ya know? So, I hit the gym. Start training at Gold's with "Emma." Emma is great, but she's a little distant and after 3 months I'm not showing many signs of improvement beyond feeling good about exercising again. But Emma is really smart and answers all my questions about the science of the body/nutrition/exercise, etc., so I let it go. Then Emma signs me up for another 12 training sessions. I don't know any better so I go along wth it. What's $800 when I'm on my way, right? Well, 2 days after she signs me up, she bails. Takes a job in another state. Now I'm $800 in the hole, haven't lost any weight, and have no trainer. Cut to: two months later. Gold's Gym, who was supposed to call me after Emma left to "assign" me to another trainer, is still doing fuck-all to help me spend my hard-earned, "I really need this to help pay down my debt" $800. So, I take matters into my own hands - I walk into the trainer manager's office and put my foot down. A little bit scared he runs out onto the floor of the gym and comes back with.... Alex. Alex is a guy and I like my biological concerns (internist, GYN, accupuncturist, trainer) handled by chicks, but the trainer manager is a little freaked and Alex seems cool and like a nice guy, so I say: "great." Alex and I make an appointment. Cut to: two weeks later. I'm stronger, leaner, and happier. Alex is The Answer. Where Emma was working isolated areas of my body, Alex works everything all the time. I come home exhausted, sore, and... thinner. Long live beer.