I Made a List.

It's true, making a list is a good way to see a problem clearly.

A friend told me that I should make a list of all the things I am looking for in a job. I can't remember now what she said I should do with this list -- I have trouble with multi-step processes. Making the list was edifying, but also depressing, because I see now why it's so hard to get a job:

1. Part-time (20-30 hours/week, so I have time and energy for the other things I do)
2. Flexible hours (because things come up that I need to be available for)
3. Time off when I need it (for instance, 2 weeks off in October if my show gets into the musical theater festival in New York we applied for)
4. No dress code (because I don't want to buy a bunch of stupid clothes, and because it's hot as hell half the year)
5. Right livelihood (I won't work for anyone whose products or business practices are harmful -- there's a lot of leeway here, but there are certain things I won't be a part of)
6. Preferably something in the arts or non-profit or queer realm, because the people are more interesting.
7. I have to make enough to live on. I have a simple life, low living expenses, but I have student loans and credit card debts. So, for instance, I could work at a book store or coffee shop full-time and still not make enough to meet my expenses (which is a sign of how fucked up the world is, but that's what I've got to work with).

1, 2, 3, and 5 (and 7?) are pretty much non-negotiable. I fret about 2 and 3, because I know nobody is going to hire me if I say that I might need to take time off here and there for my work. People tell me, "Just don't tell them that. Work it out when it comes up." It's not that I'm so morally pure, but that kind of deceit is just ... stressful for me. It's a headache.

My friend's advice was basically that it's easier to find a job if you know exactly what you want. What I want is not to have to find a job. What I want is to get on with my life. A job is an obstacle, a distraction, a pain in the ass.

Jane Olivor.

I just watched a movie called Saturday Night at the Baths. It was made in 1975. The central character is a straight man who takes a gig playing piano at the Continental Baths in New York. The story revolves around this guy, his girlfriend, and the manager of the bathhouse, with whom this couple become involved. There was some awful acting, some scary dialogue dubbing, and jarring music edits (which I think might be a preservation issue) but the script and editing were good, very tight and clear, and the actors who play the two main characters give really wonderful, natural and affecting performances. It was a much more complex, interesting film than I expected.

1975! It looked like my New York. I didn't move to New York until 1981, but I don't think the appearance of the city changed much in the 70s except to get dirtier and more run-down.

An extended section of the film is the actual floor show at the Baths, with wild modern dancing by boys in tighty-whiteys, a gorgeous performance by Jane Olivor (the cabaret singer who shot to stardom in the late 70s and then disappeared), drag queens impersonating Diana Ross, Carmen Miranda, and of course the immortal Miss Garland.

My grandmother turned me on to Jane Oliver when I was 15. Did the whole world know I was gay before I did? I love this so much.



Working on this high school diary project has me listening to and thinking about music I loved at that age. Steely Dan, Moody Blues, ELO, Led Zepellin, Joan Baez, Judy Garland.

I had these records on vinyl, and I sold all my vinyl on the street for $1 an album in front of J's and my 10th St. apartment when we moved to Nashville in 1998. I just downloaded Jane Olivor's version of Don McLean's "Vincent." It has as much power tonight as it did back then to tear my heart out like only a 15-year-old gay boy's heart can be torn out.

Come Back Like Water.

I started a Tumblr blog today for sharing random images I come across.

Sprung.

I guess I left everyone hanging. Sorry about that! I caught a nasty cold Monday, and, strangely, M got sick too around the same time though he had something different (very sore throat and fever), so instead of that steak dinner I made a big pot of chicken soup and we've been convalescing together. We finished the last season of Mad Men, and watched a movie last night.

My food stamps kicked in while I was in the study -- it's actually now called SNAP, for Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, because it's not stamps any more, it's a debit card. I used the card to buy the stuff for chicken soup at Wheatsville, our local food co-op, which I've always loved but love even more now since it expanded and has more stuff. I think I've mostly gotten over the unexpected shame I felt about public assistance, but still, as I was shopping I had an internal monologue running about what I was buying. It was mostly about whether I deserve organic chicken which costs 3 or 4 times as much as factory chicken. I think, even though I spend more on produce and meat than the average shopper, I think I must still spend less overall because I make everything from scratch. With that $18 chicken, a few carrots and onions, some celery, and a bag of egg noodles, I made a pot of soup that has lasted for several meals and there's enough chicken left for chicken salad. I'm guessing most people would have bought cans of chicken noodle soup, which can get expensive when they add up.

When I was checking out, I swiped the card like a debit card -- they say "Use it like a debit card" -- and it didn't work. The cashier asked me what kind of card it was, and (I guess I haven't totally gotten over the shame) I said, "it's a debit card." She tried it again and still no luck. She said, "Is it a Lone Star Card?" I told her yes. She said, "You have to tell me ahead of time, because it's a different button I have to push." I told her it my first time using it, and she said very sweetly, "I think most places, you'll have to tell them ahead." But I used it last night at HEB and told the cashier, but she didn't need to know. When I swiped it, a menu came up asking me to select "Lone Star Card."

Oh, two other things. When we were checking out of the study, and everyone was hugging and making plans to meet at Kerbey Lane for breakfast -- I couldn't wait to get away from these people, and they were making plans to meet for breakfast -- the Jesus Guy (the one I had the little confrontation with early on) asked if everyone would like a prayer, and a few people said yes and nobody said no. He turned to me and said, "Steven would you like a prayer?"

I said, "No, thank you." He said, "Oh, c'mon." I said, "Really, no. You go ahead and pray, I don't mind, I'm used to it." So everyone bowed their heads and he asked the Lord's blessing for everyone's safe journeys home. It struck me how sad it is that we're so bullied by a certain kind of Christianity in this place that I can't be open to a simple and heartfelt travelers blessing.

The other thing I wanted to mention is that M and I watched The Boys in the Band last night. I hadn't seen it in many years and, after reading The Celluloid Closet, I want to see some of these landmark films again. It's a wild movie, full of stuff to chew on, much more complex and nuanced than its reputation, I think. Maybe some day soon I'll write more of my thoughts about it. I expected to scoff, but found it really thought-provoking and moving at times. And surprisingly relevant to "gay culture" still. Tonight is The Killing of Sister George. Equal time for the ladies.

Day 14.

I have a cold. Church Lady started sniffling a few days after we got here and her bed is right next to mine, so I was pretty sure I’d catch whatever she had but hoped I wouldn’t. Today is a very light day as far as procedures, so I’ve spent my last morning here sleeping and getting up to blow my nose.

Speaking of Church Lady, yesterday the little cluster of people who sleep near me -- who have all become, if not friends, at least familiar enough to spend a lot of time together playing games and watching movies and sitting together at meals -- were discussing which movies they wanted to watch before our time is up, and Church Lady said, “and I’ve got a movie I’d like to show everyone tomorrow. It’s only about 30 minutes.” Chatty said, “I never heard of a movie that’s only 30 minutes. Is it a documentary or something?” Church Lady said, “Yes, it’s a documentary.”

It all comes together. From the beginning, I was suspicious of the little magazines she reads alongside her Bible. Once, she set one down and the cover was mostly masked by the Bible on top of it but the last few letters of the title were visible: “ower.” But I thought she had said she was Catholic, so I forgot about it. But she must have been feeling bold yesterday because right after the conversation about her “documentary,” she left one of the magazines sitting right there on the bed, face up. The Watchtower. Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!

Everyone is in good spirits, jittery, making plans for their first meals on the outside. There’s a little sadness in the air, too. People really do make friends here, and I’m a little envious. I remember a couple times, when I was a teenager, going to an Episcopal youth group retreat for a week in the summer (I was a dabbler at that age), how quick and intense the friendships were and how sorrowful the goodbyes.

We get out tomorrow at about 8:30 a.m. M and I had plans for a reunion dinner tomorrow evening, and I was getting a group of friends together for a movie on Thursday night, but I chatted with M this morning and he’s sick too, has a fever and a sore throat, so I don’t know what either of us will be up for. I guess we’ll wait and see how we feel tomorrow. Abandon any hope of fruition.

Day 13.

Things that grate on my nerves when I hear people talking about them at any length: Jesus, sports, celebrities, their children (unless I know them -- an update is fine, but people go on). On the other hand, some people hate small talk about the weather, but I’ll talk about the weather all damn day.

Nearly every conversation here, after about 5 minutes, if it’s a group of men, turns to sports talk. If it’s women, they end up talking about their children or gossiping about their friends and families. If it’s a mixed group, they talk about the ways in which men and women are different. Now that could be an interesting conversation, but -- sorry, I know how condescending this is to say -- they are adding nothing new.

M asked me the other night if there were any other artists here. There must be, but I haven’t met them. It surprises me that that isn’t one of the types you find here, seeing as how artists can be just as broke as anyone. I wonder if it has to do with class and shame. I think a great number of the people doing these studies are what you’d call working poor, people who are more familiar with and inured to the stigma of things like free clinics and food stamps, and I wonder if maybe a drug study falls into that category. These things are under the radar of the middle class. (The exception to that seems to be college students. This company advertises heavily in student newspapers and a lot of students do these studies during breaks and summer.) Even though a lot of artists are impoverished, they travel in pretty middle class circles. Just a theory. There’s more to it than class, though. I suspect that if there was anything like this in New York, there would be long waiting lists of young artists clamoring for the easy cash.

Speaking of shame and lack thereof, Church Lady is tweezing her mustache in bed right next to me.

A group of my wardmates have been playing Scrabble to pass the time. I’ve been tempted to join them, since I’m pretty good at Scrabble, but I’ve resisted because, well, basically I don’t want to socialize with them any more than I have to. It’s like mealtimes, almost every meal there’s a conversation that makes me very uncomfortable because everyone agrees on something that I find abhorrent. Like the virtue of beating your children. Or supporting the “troops.” Or whatever.

I did voice an opinion a couple nights ago at dinner when Bible Guy was going on and on about how much better things were 50 years ago (his favorite topic, after the Bible). I interjected with the standard liberal critique of that view, something along the lines of, “Things were better for some people, but maintaining their better life depended on things being pretty shitty for a whole lot of other people, like blacks and other minorities, homosexuals, a lot of women, the disabled, etc, etc. He conceded the point, and as I drew him out I saw that we agreed on some things. Like the fact that our economic system brings out the worst tendencies in us. And that one thing that may have been better about America 50 years ago was that people were more community- and family-minded, which I think is a virtue, if we could only expand what we mean by community and family.

I think my brain is only half functioning. I’m so lethargic. It’s difficult to work up much enthusiasm for writing down what happens here. Sorry for that. It’s all become a sleepy blur. I’ve never spent so much time in bed, ever. There are other places to be, other things to do, but none of them appeal. There are a couple rooms with big-screen TVs where people watch movies, but with all the procedures it’s hard to time it so you see the whole thing and I’m kind of neurotic about missing the beginning of movies. They watched Avatar the other night. There’s also a pool room where guys play pool and watch basketball. Um, no. Until a couple days ago, I was fairly content here in my hospital bed, reading and writing, blogging and emailing. But I turned a corner and now I’m just sick of it and want out. I need to have a talk with myself -- I still have 2 more days!

Day 11.

Why is it, when there are 3 people putting the ECG stickers on people, one of whom is, say, a plump matron who could be someone’s beloved grandmother, one a loud woman with really long fingernails, and one a handsome young man with nice arms and a wicked smile, I never get the handsome young man? Is it wrong to want the cute boy to put the stickers on my chest once or twice?

One of the techs last night was saying that they have an easy job. He feels like he gets paid to socialize. It is kind of impressive how they're usually cheerful and relaxed and seem to enjoy each other’s company. But they don’t just socialize; they have to be skilled. They move from task to task, doing blood draws, glucometer readings, ECGs, urine collection, vital signs, and all the various auxiliary tasks involved in those procedures. And because everything is timed so precisely, they have to stay very focused and alert. They don’t ever seem really rushed, but they have to keep a steady, brisk pace. It’s not brain surgery, but it takes some skills.

The skill we as subjects notice most, of course, is the ability to do things like the blood draws and finger sticks painlessly -- well, the finger sticks always hurt, but sometimes they hurt more. I’ve noticed that the techs who are socializing the most, laughing and joking with their co-workers or embroiled in an intense conversation about someone’s obnoxious roommate or new boyfriend while they’re sticking a piece of sharp metal into your body, are the ones who make it hurt.

Spaghetti again last night -- third time. It’s not so bad. The pasta is overcooked, but the sauce isn’t terrible. To be honest, though, it’s all crap and I’m beyond caring which crap it is. They woke us in the middle of the night last night for a procedure and then again before 6 to start the whole song and dance again. I feel like Karen Quinlan today. Somebody pull the plug.