I lost a friend today. Really lost a friend – not through misuse, abuse, or long-term seperation. I lost this friend because she died today.

I’ve not much experience with this kind of thing. Family members and acquaintances, yes. But a friend – someone who wants to come to your party, even if it is in Sicily, someone who covers your back when it is needed, someone who will have an 11:00 A.M. prosecco with you – this I have not lost before.

So I am having a bit of a hard time even knowing what I am feeling, or feeling what I am knowing. For sure, there is a section of my gut that feels kicked in, deflated. And there is an emptiness where my friend once was, but not totally, because I have this crazy feeling she’s hovering, waiting to make sure there are plenty of cocktails at her memorial. Cocktails and maybe some serrano ham or good gorgonzola. She’ll want people to eat, to drink, and to raise their glass to the New Mexico sunset while a fire burns and her kids smile through their tears.

I’d like to write a bit about my friend Nancy. We meet lots of people in our lives. Some stay a couple of years, some split right away. Some are lifers. Some ease in softly, and ease just as softly out. Not Nancy. She barrelled her way into my life fueled by Italian cigarettes and Spanish brandy and a deep and primal love of life. She was a giant with a huge heart and a deep love of the space around her. I knew her in Florence, when she was a part of Florence and the life there, when she knew all the guys down at the San Ambrogio Market, like the guy with the best gorgonzola, or the guy who could maybe get her a big turkey for Thanksgiving, or the old man with the tastiest sausages. After, she’d head on down to the bar San Ambrogio, or one of the cafes in Piazza Santa Croce, for a glass of white wine or a Mojito. I bet they are still wondering where the hell she went, in the Florence neighborhood she loved.

Yeah. She blew into my life in Venice, blown by Botticelli’s winds and unseen forces, and immediately asked me to come down to Florence to stay with her cats while she went off to Sorrento, something I was more than happy to do. It was the beginning. When I met Nancy it was like I’d known her forever. Longer than forever. Even though she is not here now, that hasn’t changed. She was part of the fabric of my life – a friend of my best friends, a friend of my mothers. She was part of their fabric, and we were part of hers.

Just as she blew her way in, she blew out. In a heartbeat, she was gone. No real goodbye, just a wha-the-fa. Somehow, it’s how I knew it would happen, though that doesn’t change the shock of it all.

I’ll be there, come Saturday, with the biggest Mojito of all, raising my glass to that New Mexico sunset, raising my glass to Nancy. Crazy, fierce and totally unique Nancy. Smiling, through my tears.

Thought ya’all might like to check out some of the search engine requests that drive people to my blog (besides super sexy and sexy blog – those are the heavies.)

willie aames mullet (So I am not the only one who searched!)

women love when i grope them in crowded trains (DUDE!)

whitney houston strung out (OK, this we all know.)

britt daniel sexy. (Again, I am not the only one. Sigh.)

And that was just yesterday. Happy Sunday everyone.

There have been many people and events that have shaped me and made me into the person I am. My parents, obviously, and my brothers; my 10th grade English teacher, Mrs. Elder shaped me in a good way by encouraging me to write, and my newspaper teacher Mrs. Radcliffe in a bad way by chopping my very first newspaper article cleanly in half, making it look totally weird and stupid. That was in 1981 and the article was about Punk Rock. My school just wasn’t ready yet I guess, even though Punk Rock was practically over at that moment in time, for a while, anyway.

The question is, what made me write about Punk Rock? What got me to that point where I have remained ever since? People never really advance past the age of fifteen. Of this I am convinced. Fifteen or even younger.

I had an uncle, his name was Mark, he was nine years older than me, and he was a lot like me. He wore purple pants and wrote crazy stories. He was wild, reckless, bisexual, and creative. He liked to party. And more than anything, he loved music. He had a tattoo that said “Janis Joplin Lives in Me.” She was his dead muse.

Well, I wasn’t TOTALLY like Mark, but there are many similarities there. At a younger age I listened to my mom’s Beatles and Elton John records. But the defining moment of my teenage years – maybe even the defining moment of my life up till now – was sitting in a room at my Grandma’s house with Mark. I was thirteen years old and he put a record on the turntable. It was David Bowie’s Space Oddity. I will never forget how that first line, Ground Control to Major Tom, sounded to my pop radio listening ears. After a steady diet of the Bee Gees and the Grease soundtrack, it was like a whole new world to me. All the while Mark is telling me about David Bowie, about the New York Dolls, about Iggy Pop. He played me Cheap Trick and Blondie and we looked at the album covers together. We always had a bond, but we were bonded that night in a way beyond uncle and niece. It was musical, it was spiritual, and it was religious. That was my entry into the church of rock ‘n’ roll. He was my brother, my mentor, and my friend.

Then, exactly 25 years ago today, we lost him. And I just happened to be visiting at the time.

Every summer I would visit my grandparents at their townhouse in San Juan Capistrano for a couple of weeks. Mark was living in Laguna Beach that summer, renting a room from a famous rock star in a three story house on the cliffs. We had plans to go to the Sawdust Festival together, but Mark had an accident and couldn’t go. Someone was lowering a phone from the top balcony of the house to the bottom, and he dropped it on my uncle’s head. Mark was OK but had to get stitches, so he postponed us hanging out for a couple of days.

The next hours and days were a painful experience that even today is hard for me to think about. The following day, after going to the Del Mar racetrack with my grandparents, I called Mark to make our new plan. There was no new plan, because he was dead.

The rock star was on the phone, asking to talk to my grandparents. I knew something was wrong when my grandma started wailing. I ran to my room, then back down, where my grandparents were walking out the door. They had, understandably, forgotten about me. They looked at me, and at each other, and then my grandfather said, “Mark is dead.”

I went with them to Laguna Beach. It was the hardest drive I have ever taken. My grandma was rocking back and forth in the front seat, moaning and crying. My grandfather was silent. When we got to the house, they told me to wait in the car. I sat in the back seat wondering why I could not cry. I tried to cry, but nothing came out. Two guys pulled up at the cliff in a Blazer, listening to Van Halen. All I wanted was to be in that Blazer and not in the back of my grandparents car trying to cry.

The next few days revolved around the funeral, my grandma’s tears, and alot of casseroles. I remember telling my mom “please don’t cry” and her saying “I have to cry.” Finally, at the funeral, I cried, in the arms of the guy who dropped the phone on Mark’s head. Even though in the end it wasn’t his fault, he felt responsible. For some bizarre reason, I reached out for him in the end.

So what killed Mark in the end? The pain medication. It wasn’t much, but after years of abuse combined with a soul not-of-this-earth, it was enough.

Mark dreamed of his death. He wrote it down several times, and I know because I have read it. In the dream he is laying in his bed listening to his stereo. A dark figure enters the room, and Mark is scared of it. While the figure walks toward him Mark looks at a red light on the turntable. If the light stays on, he will live. If the music keeps playing, he will live. But if figure touches him, he will die.

The turntable was still playing when they found him the next day.

It took a long time for me to cry. But Mark is with me, and will always be with me, because our connection was so strong. Every time I buy a new record, get a crush on a musician, or fall in love with a song, Mark is there. Twenty-five years later, he is totally there. He is my dead muse.

Back in the 1990’s my brother Tom was in a killer blues band called the Mississippi Mudsharks. They won all kinds of awards, toured Germany a few times, and were a very popular local band. I have all their CDs and whenever I play them, people always ask who they are.

They totally rocked. Then they broke up something like six years ago.

On the first Tuesday of every month, bartendress extrordinaire Sooty Hendricks hosts “Talk Dirty Tuesday” at a bar in the middle of nowhere called Desi & Friends. Last night, the Mississippi Mudsharks reunited for Sooty and Talk Dirty Tuesday.

What can I say? After all these years, the Mudsharks still TOTALLY ROCK. It was so awesome. Is there anything better than watching your little brother totally SHRED on the drums? I could not wipe the grin off my face the whole night. These guys could have been famous had they stayed together.

All kinds of people came out for the event, and everyone was way into it.

Ace goes anywhere there is dancing and dances with all the women. He has danced with thousands of women. He is a cool guy and here he is with my brother.

I need a better digital camera. The bar was too dark and none of the pictures of the Mudsharks shredding came out very well.

That’s Scottie Blinn on guitar, Tom Essa on drums and Tim Butler on bass. Tim did not play in the original Mudsharks, but he is definitely one in spirit.

It was a super fun night, and almost felt like 1996 all over again. Plus it took my mind off Britt Daniel for a couple of hours. Today though, I was back on my current obsession. It is so easy these days with the internet. I can watch the man live, at any time, HERE.

My god. It’s just a bit too much sometimes.

Anyhow here’s one more for the road – Little D and Joe Peters after they won the wifebeater shirt contest last night. Way to go, Danielle and Joe!

Tonight I am taking it easy, if you can call it that.

Yesterday I wrote about a dream I had about Britt Daniel. That dream has messed me up bad. I can’t stop thinking about Britt Daniel now. I was listening to Spoon constantly as it was – now I am totally obsessed. All because of a dream.

Though I love music I have never been one to fantasize about musicians. Well that’s not exactly true – I do fantasize about Radiohead just happening to be staying at the same hotel as me, stuff like that. But I don’t have SEXUAL fantasies about musicians. I love Jeff Tweedy but the last thing I think about is sleeping with him (Glenn Kotche is so much hotter, anyway.) Then along comes this dream, which was not really about sex. It was more about love and comfort. Who knows what it all means.

I am kind of in love now. I wish I had known this in June, I would have had a whole different thing going on at that Spoon show at the Avalon. All because of a dream! If I had control over my dreams, I think I would dream about Britt Daniel every night for a while. He does all these crazy moans on the records. It’s driving me totally insane.

Oh well. A dream in sleep, a dream while awake.

Last night I was hanging out at the Vine and my brother called there (guess he knows how to find me these days.) There was a B52s show at Humphries and the bass player, Sara Lee, gave my brother passes. We met Sara Lee a couple of years ago, my brother fell in love with her, and she wanted to go out on a boat so he found a boat and took her out. (It was totally platonic – he loves her way too much to do anything stupid.) We partied with the band back then, so I was pretty excited to hear about the show and the after-party. I got in a cab and got down there pretty fast but only managed to see the last few songs. The place was full of drunk, aging yuppifieds dancing like maniacs. It’s always nice to go to a show where you are one of the youngest people there at the age of forty.

The B52s are so fun. It’s pretty hard not to get into “Rock Lobster” or “Love Shack.” These are American classics, and the band really gets into performing them, after all these years.

The after party was kind of boring. The last time, my friend Kim Martin was doing lights for the band so we went dancing with them after the after-stuff. But it was fun to talk, even briefly, to Kate Pierson and Keith Strickland. They are really, really nice, down to earth people. Some dude asked Keith Strickland “how long have you been with the band?” and I was like “DUDE. Since the beginning.” What a dork! But it is easy to make that mistake because Keith Strickland looks really young… he looks like my age, but he is twelve years older. If I was a gay man I’d be so in love with that guy.

So this whole time I am thinking about Britt Daniel. I am trying to figure out a way to talk to Kate Pierson or Sara Lee about my little dream problem. But of course I didn’t – there wasn’t time and I didn’t want my brother hearing what I had to say. Oh well.

One more thing and then I’ll shut up. Spoon has this song called “10:20 A.M.” I am pretty sure this is when I dreamed about Britt Daniel. Isn’t that weird?

10:20 A.M., 10:20 A.M.
When will I ever see you again.

Tonight, in my sleep. PLEASE?

Sigur Ros tickets are on sale. Get them before the scalpers do.

I will be at the Avalon show and the Copley show. I got presale tickets for the Copley show, and have no idea where my seats are. Guess I will be surprised when I get there… but since I’ll be close enough for shoe-licking at the Avalon, it won’t matter so much if the seats at Copley aren’t so great. The sound will be good.

It’s going to be awesome.

July has been a crappy month. Rent hikes and pay cuts, sickness and what seemed like a decade of fog. Every high must be balanced by a low, and June was so much fun I guess I had to pay for it somehow.

Last week I got the flu on the first really hot day of the summer. I was flattened on my couch with a fan blowing on me, too tired to even watch TV. It was the kind of heat where sweat drips on the backside of your knees. With a fever, well, let’s just say that was kind of knarly.

Whenever I get sick I get really freaked out about my mortality. I don’t know why because I believe in reincarnation and I am not so much scared of death as I am of my body failing. The day after the worst of it, when I was able to sit up again, I spent the whole day angsting out about all the horrible things that could be inside of me waiting to come out. It’s so hard to live in these times, when there are so many physical things to be frightened of. I thought myself into a corner, convinced I had a really scary disease. Sickness does bizarre shit to my brain. Especially when it happens in the middle of the summer when you aren’t suppose to get the flu. It must be something worse, but just SEEMS like the flu…

But of course it was not something worse and it was just the flu (I think.) It’s strange how being physically unbalanced can make your mind go a little batty.

During my temporary insanity, while I was looking for symptoms of all my new diseases, I found the Death Clock. According to the Death Clock, I will live until 2044. I have a lifetime subscription to Rolling Stone magazine, and they seem to think I am going to be around until 2054. While I’m not sure that is possible, it’s nice to know statistics are on my side.

It’s almost August, and believe me, I’d rather be writing about shows at the Hollywood Bowl with drag queens dressed as cheerleaders and quaking walls of sound. August, though it won’t be the killerfest June was, will definitely be better. Already, as I pet my new iPod my brother gave me today, things seem a little better. And for the moment, all thoughts of dying have gone into the fog at the back of my head, until the next time I can’t get off the couch.

When I was in the 7th grade, I had a big crush on a boy named Alex. He was blond and had the face of an angel. If I’d known Botticelli paintings in the 7th grade, I’d say Alex resembled something out of one. But I didn’t know Botticelli, yet.

In the perfect 7th grade world of 1977/1978, if you liked a boy, you would go to the dance and slow-dance to “Stairway to Heaven” with him. This was the be-all end-all of the romantic junior high school mind. I spent way too much time obsessing on this in the Fall of 1977. Me, Alex, colored lights and “Stairway to Heaven.” If only it would Really Happen.

But the 7th grade is a hotbed of gossip and scandal. And there was another girl after Alex. Her name was Toni. Neither of us was particularly pretty, so the fight for Alex was fairly even, except that Toni had one thing I lacked – claws.

I don’t even know how it came about that the whole school, it seemed, knew about me, Toni, and Alex. How did they know? I certainly wasn’t talking about it. It was a whisper, then a shout – who will dance “Stairway to Heaven” with Alex? Then, the day of the dance, during gym, Toni came with her friends and starting yelling at me. I yelled back, though I was absolutely terrified. It almost came to blows. I can still see her Filippino face, turning all pink and twisted as she yelled. It was pretty fucking scary. Then she walked away.

Shortly after, still shaking a little, I was approached by my own set of best friends. Their faces were grim. They led me solemnly to the girl’s bathroom, where, they told me, Toni had left a little something for me.

I entered the bathroom and almost died. All over the walls, doors, and mirrors, Toni had written every possible slur she could think of, with a thick, blue marker. My name and a thousand cliches swam at me from all directions. It was a brutal and heartless thing to do, and for no real reason, because Alex would choose who he would choose with no help from us. You’d think only a 7th grader could be so brutal, but then you grow up.

Though the ink was permanent, I don’t think it remained on the walls very long. I never went to the principal, because that was just not done. I spent the rest of the day with my stomach in knots. Then me and my friends got dressed and went to the dance.

I wish I could tell you it was romantic, that the scorned child got her revenge through love, but it didn’t happen that way. An 8th grader named Michelle swooped in like a hawk and Alex was history. I watched her dance to “Stairway to Heaven” with him from the sidelines, barely able to control my angst. I am sure Toni was doing the same, from another part of the room.

The youthful heart recovers quickly, and I learned a great lesson from Michelle that night. Within a couple of weeks I had a cute, blond, 6th grade boyfriend named Kregg. And in the 8th grade, I had a 7th grade boyfriend (though, as my brother will tell you, this one was the biggest, scariest guy in the school. Take that, Toni.)

I guess that these incidents from our youth are necessary to give you the defenses you need to survive as an adult. It would seem that way, since though they might slip to the back of your mind, you never really forget about them. They pop in to your mind when you need them. Yeah, today I want to die. But tomorrow I’ll wake up and it’ll be better, and maybe I’ll have a cute blond boyfriend. Tomorrow, is another day.

Sorry for the lack of posts… sometimes it’s just not there.

Full moon tomorrow, and of course today was full of bizarreness and angst. The freaks always come out at the full moon. You know what I’m saying?

On a more pleasant note, I heard from my dear friend Prentiss Smithson today. I have mentioned him a couple of times on my blog, but we did not have contact for a couple of years. Guess how he found me? That’s right, The Blog! Maybe I can also search for my 4th grade boyfriend this way (Richie Arambula, where are you?)

Just kidding.

It was so great to talk to Prentiss. There are some friends you meet in life that, no matter what happens, will always be like family.

Prentiss told me a couple of other friends I haven’t talked to in a long time also read Poptarticus. Sneaky devils! Hi Bill, hi David, maybe I can come to Portland, Maine and Palm Beach or wherever and visit you sometime!

Today, out of nowhere, it rained. With the freaks comes the earthquake weather. No sweat, when one hooks up with a lost friend, all else can be forgotten.

“I like to order a lot of food because, I got different tastebuds.” – Bobby Brown in a fancy London restaurant.

I hardly ever watch TV except for movies from Netflix. There is the occasional Saturday when I will watch Turner Movie Classics all day, but for that occasion I think I am paying about $90 in cable fees. I usually just watch movies from Netflix.

But Netflix is, all of a sudden, really slow. They used to ship and receive everything lightening fast. I don’t know what happened, but now there are times when I just don’t have a movie to watch, or if I have one I want to save it for the weekend.

So last night I turned on Bravo to watch Being Bobby Brown. OH MY GOD. Do you want to watch two whacked out ex-popstar ghetto freaks say some of the most bizarre shit you’ve ever heard? Then turn on Bravo this week because they are showing the first few episodes over, and over, and over.

It’s sort of hard for me to believe, but Whitney Houston is only two years older than me. I can still see her, dancing around in those bad 80’s clothes in the early days of MTV. She was squeaky clean when she was in movies like “The Preacher’s Wife.” But then she swan dived into crackdom. Everyone said it was because of her husband, but after watching this show, I think she was just a freak the whole time. Even alcohol, cocaine, and an endless supply of downs can’t make you THAT freaky. You’ve got to have acid, peyote, and maybe some ‘ludes unless you’ve got that freak gene going on from the get-go.

I guess Whitney just got out of rehab, but she still exhibits many of the signs of ex-crackdom. In one episode they are at the bar of a Chinese restaurant and she looks like she is about to start convulsing from withdrawals, but one minute later she is all happy and joking. I mean, the woman looked positively strung-out and then she is all of a sudden all happy. Hmmm… rehab, or did someone get her a little something to take the edge off?

I guess it must be hard for her, since Bobby Brown drinks heavily and constantly on the show. At one restaurant, when the entourage is leaving, he pounds a vodka on ice, and then puts down a beer, in about 45 seconds. How the hell is she suppose to kick her demons when he is still totally into his? That man would make me insane without some substance to ingest. I am serious.

The first episodes are Bobby getting out of jail and then going to court for hitting Whitney. Whitney is standin’ by her man. Bobby takes Whitney to a spa. There is a whole bizarre exchange between Bobby, Whitney, and the people massaging them (he gets a girl, she gets a guy, he don’t like that, but then they are in the same room getting massaged and it is just really, really weird). Half the time you can’t understand what they are saying, but Bravo has provided subtitles. This way, we get to know lines like “don’t smother my food with your boogies” and “can I impregnate you tonight?” Without those subtitles, those words would be lost forever.

In the third episode, Bobby and Whitney and a couple of their kids go to England. Bobby and Whitney love England “for the culture and shit” and they arrive screaming “ENGLAAAANNNDDD! ENGLAANNNDDD!” They go to Harrods and spend buttloads of money. Bobby has a fit when Whitney drags him to the children’s section to buy their daughter some clothes. “These ain’t gonna fit me!” he complains. When Whitney picks up a pair of tiny pants for their plump daughter, he says “they ain’t gonna fit her! Baby’s got BODY. Baby’s got BODY.” That kid is going to be scarred for life. She looked so sad and messed up…

Later Bobby runs into the Dalai Lama in front of their hotel. “Mr. Lama! I’m Bobby Brown!” The viewer sort of sits there and thinks, “he did not just call him Mr. Lama.” But he did!

I managed, when Netflix was operating a little better, to avoid Britney Spears reality show, and a lot of other bad TV. But I must admit that I was somewhat riveted watching Being Bobby Brown. One thing I can’t figure out though – how do they still have so much money?

After that Queer Eye for the Straight Guy came on and the straight guy was a NUDIST. Seriously that was some of the most hilarious shit I have ever seen. Carson decides to be nude too and runs around the guy’s house with him, one hand on his crotch and one hand on his breast. Then when of the other guys says, “you see, James, Carson does it right. His hair is good and he has an accessory!” Later the nudist can’t wait to strip out of his tuxedo at a party with a lot of other nudists. They all get naked and dance and the Carson and the guys are practically doubled over from revulsion/laughter. It was a good night not to have a Netflick. Seriously, if you can stomach it, turn on Bravo and you’ll be bound to see at least one episode of Being Bobby Brown.