Tag Archives: Margaret Cho

Margaret Cho’s Blog: my addendum to her post ‘Lost’

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I just got through reading the latest post on Margaret Cho’s Blog, It is at margaretcho.com. The post is titled ‘Lost” and it is just her thoughts about people who are missing, lost, and how that makes her feel. She mentions ‘In Search Of..” the old Leonard Nimoy series on creepy things, including people who are lost. I’m not conveying the feeling of that post very well. You really need to read it. Margaret Cho is one of the most honest individuals I have ever encountered. She is beautiful, and powerful. She served as the inspiration for this blog. I wanted to produce a blog as brutally honest and wonderful as hers. She is generally thought of as a comedian who focuses on gay, lesbian, transgender issues. But there is a lot more to Margaret Cho than that. I hope that she realizes that herself, because as I read her blog it seems as though she hasn’t come to terms with herself and her incredible power and ability to influence others. She just wants to be an ordinary person leading an ordinary life. That fact alone sets her apart from a lot of people involved in show business. When I first became aware of her by watching her on youTube back in November I was mesmerized and kind of fell in love with her. That infatuation has since cooled down, although she can still touch my heart and does frequently. I fell in love with her truth telling, her vulnerability, her fearlessness. Yes, she is both, therein lies much of the fascination. So check out her blog! If you like me, you will like her, I guarantee it! I have no idea if she is aware of this blog, but I often leave comments on her blog. Perhaps someday I will meet her. I guess you could say I am a bit starstruck, except she isn’t (according to her) a star. So I guess I am personstruck. Oh! and I almost forgot! She’s funny too!

Now I’d like to add my bit to what she wrote. There are people, a lot of people, actually more people than I care to think about, that are lost. Forget the milk carton kids, that is just the tip of the iceberg. It is shocking how many people are unaccounted for in this vast forsaken world. Where are they? They may be dead, or living a different sort of life under different names. They could be sex slaves, or something even more horrible could have been their fate. Who knows? Although I am quite visible, not at all difficult to find, I nevertheless feel lost. How many people really know that I am here. They get a glimpse, nothing more. I am a ghost. So much of me is lost. My hold upon my nearly empty shell is tenuous at best. A few people know my mind, my emotions, and perhaps a slight hint of my soul. But it is temporary. Seventy years or so is only a moment, one flash of light within an ocean of eternal darkness. That is lost. That is what lost means to me. Margaret Cho was right to feel scared as she contemplates the lost, for it is terrifying true. We are all lost to a degree, separated from each other and our world by something we feel but cannot understand. But it does seem to be of our own making, this lostness. The literally lost serve as a metaphor for our unbearable loneliness. Elvis Presley once said he felt lonely even in the middle of a crowd. It’s that kind of lonely street upon which we all dwell. I can understand why this affected Margaret Cho so much. She wants to love everyone in a direct, physical, overpowering way and is stymied by this loneliness. Now there are those who would describe this lostness as our unbearably painful separation from God, but I don’t feel qualified to offer an opinion about that. I prefer to stick to my own experience, than to philosophize with my keyboard. In my own experience I am plagued by ghosts. I see them in my dreams and sometimes they appear suddenly and shock me into lucidity. The past is lost, and this is where these ghosts dwell. As I grow older an entire world is lost to me, and becomes a poignant memory. Lost? Ask any elderly person about lost. Ask the mentally ill about lost. They know lost. They have lived lost. While I am frightened by lostness, I am also drawn into it. This is the essence of my nostalgia for a time before I was born. I would have loved to have been practicing magick with Aleister Crowley or painting with William Waterhouse. I’d have had a grand old time with Mark Twain. When contemplating the past, the distant past, like that of ancient Greece or Rome, I can be overwhelmed by what has been lost, and filled with a deep sadness. Lost is an inexhaustible subject for it’s depths lie beyond our reach. We can only shine our feeble torch into this abyss and report our meager findings.

In my comments on her post, I told Margaret that I was listening to a very powerful piece of music by Leyland Kirby entitled “Don’t Sleep I Am Not What I Seem, I Am A Quiet Storm” (which I have been listening to while writing this post as well). It captures perfectly the feeling of lostness, that unbearable loneliness. If I succeed in finding it on youTube I will include it here. I haven’t figured out how or if I can post a song from my iTunes library. If you don’t find it here, look for the album “Sadly, the Future Is No Longer What It Was” by Leyland Kirby. This post by Cho came at just the right time for me, for I had been feeling particularly lost today. I still have no job, although I have an interview Monday. I feel adrift on the sea of the unknown. My thoughts are of long ago. I posted about the pre-Raphaelites and Oscar Wilde. I feel at home in their world. They certainly understood what it meant to be lost. I have also passed into and out of an entirely imaginary relationship and am at a loss where to take this story now that the romance is no longer really there. I am haunted by my own creations. Margaret Cho however is very real. I hope she continues to produce thought provoking pieces for her blog for many more years. A part of me is frightened for her. I don’t want anything to ever happen to such a talented woman. Not that I think she is in danger, I’m just feeling unsettled in general and this spills over into how I feel about people I care about. Lost. Unsettled. Plagued by Ghosts. Sadly, the Future Is Not What It Was.

The Vagina

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If you are offended by sexual matters, especially when it comes to a frank, or humorous account regarding the vagina, don’t read this post.

There! I have fulfilled my obligation to an imaginary sea of ultra conservative readers. While it is true that nobody seems to like the penis, even fewer people like the vagina. They like the idea of the vagina, but the real deal, the actual orifice? not so much. Many women are embarrassed by their vagina, and cannot be persuaded to talk about it. It’s a shame. When you take a look at our insults, our slang, it is clear that we have extremely distorted ideas about our sexuality. Why is ‘fuck’, which of course refers to sexual intercourse, a derogatory term? It actually refers to the power politics of sex. Men having intercourse is viewed as a conquest. Women are made to feel degraded. If you are ‘fucked’ it is bad thing. I don’t think this is a healthy attitude. We associate sex with filth in many cases. I can recall my first encounter with pornography. I came across some cheap men’s magazines that had been tossed out, lying in the garbage behind the junior high school I attended. The stench of mildew, and the garbage reinforced the idea that sex is filthy. This is a bizarre idea. Sex is obviously the source of life, and should be considered sacred. In many other cultures, the vagina is held in high esteem. In western culture, we are beginning to see a bit of a change. Slowly.

One curious development in recent decades has been the shaving trend. Today many young women prefer to shave their pubic hair, and in some cases have pierced jewelry for their vagina. This is known as body adornment. I don’t necessarily have an issue with this, but I prefer women to be natural, unshaven. Pubic hair is erotic and I find it attractive. Why shave it? It leaves the vagina exposed and vulnerable. I have also noticed that pornography gives an unrealistic idea of how female genitals should appear. The idea is for the vagina to appear as unobtrusive as possible. You are left with something bearing a closer resemblance to a plastic doll than a human being. It makes it much harder for women to accept their genitals as they are. Men don’t make things any easier. (notice the similarity between women’s feelings about their vagina, and men’s feelings about their penis?). I would suspect that most women are reluctant to engage in oral sex with their boyfriend or husband, and only do so after considerable persuasion. I think the same is undoubtedly true for men. They are reluctant to engage in oral sex with their girlfriend or wife. They are repulsed by it, while also being attracted to it. Many people consider such behavior to be perverted. I think it is natural for us to want to enjoy each other’s bodies. The idea is to do so in a responsible, unharmful manner.

It is very difficult to get past our cultural conditioning. Somehow sex occurs. Obviously. But we behave as if we would never do such a nasty thing. Conversely, we may brag as though we have sex all the time, when actually we are freaked out by it. We are a sex obsessed culture because we don’t have much healthy sex. We are sexual beings and need to be able to express ourselves sexually without shame. I am fascinated by the vagina. It is a mysterious realm. This is where the strange event occurs. How is it that sperm and ovum produce a human being? I know we can explain all the biological particulars, but not the essential mystery. The vagina reminds me that we are a bundle of chemicals with funky smells, squishy, squirmy, and giggly. That is the joy which lies within the vagina. I think it is interesting how the vagina, when divorced from it’s context, and viewed by itself, looks very much like a cave, a natural formation. If you change the colors and add some bushes, maybe some cave explorers, it totally fools your eye. I hesitate to post a picture of a vagina, even in disguised form. I prefer to be cautious, but it also helps to have a sense of humor. You don’t come across nearly as much humor regarding the vagina as you do the penis. But I have included here a video of Margaret Cho’s “My Puss”, which is hilarious. It should be regarded as more of a celebration of the vagina, even though they brag about their puss and put down other pusses. We don’t need to be politically correct every moment of our existence.

I wish I could have written about the vagina with more humor, but I lack the depth of experience which provides that humor. Not that I lack experience (Ahem!), but I don’t happen to have a vagina, so I lack that insider’s view. Enjoy the video, but I warn you, it is pretty hard core!

Romance of the Motorcycle

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James Dean with his motorcycle

Today motorcycles are common. It has become a common mode of transportation for young people, and middle class families. It is no longer the exclusive domain of biker gangs and misfits. Of course, this has always been the case outside of the United States. But this post isn’t about the business executive who takes rides on his motorcycle on the weekends. This post is about the motorcycle as a romantic icon. A symbol of American independence. A symbol of the American male mojo. The motorcycle of the Hell’s Angels and Marlon Brando. I mainly wanted to share some great photos with you, that give you a better idea of motorcycle lore than any words I can type. My brain hurts lately, and my well of inspiration has dried up a bit, so I am allowing other media to tell the story. My first photo is a wonderful moment in American cultural history. This is Hunter Thompson long before his gonzo days. He is gazing out at the unforgiving sea at Big Sur with his motorcycle. For me, this captures some of the mystery and romance of the motorcycle. Of course, it helps to know who the kid is.

Hunter at Big Sur

The romance of the motorcycle began after WW II, when so many veterans came home and needed something exciting and somewhat dangerous to do. So they formed motorcycle clubs. It didn’t take long for these clubs to develop a seedy reputation. “The Wild Ones” established the idea of the motorcyclist as a rebel. Someone asked Marlon Brando’s character what he was rebelling against and he said “Whadda ya’ got?” The motorcycle reinforced the loner image. One man and his bike. This was the message of ‘The Wild Ones’. It was not a celebration of gangs, it was a celebration of individualism. The combination of the mysterious and virile Marlon Brando with the motorcycle was magical. I don’t think there has been a more perfect marriage. Although ‘Rebel Without a Cause’ focused more on daredevil car racing, the same spirit of individualism pervades that film. Of course, James Dean had his bike, and so did Elvis Presley after him. It is interesting how that image changed as Elvis’ image changed. In the beginning Elvis had a Harley, but when he needed to be more family friendly he rode a smaller, less controversial motorcycle. But check out the road hog he has in his final years! This is an icon of a different sort, and the subject of a different blog. I managed to find a photo of Natalie Wood on a motorcycle but it isn’t entirely clear to me what brand it is. Is it a Harley? And while I am on the subject of Natalie Wood, I found this adorable picture of  her and Sal Mineo that I wanted to share even though it has nothing whatsoever to do with motorcycles. It just captures some of what made those two so special.

Natalie Wood on a Harley?

Steve         McQueen redeemed the image of the motorcycle in The Great Escape. It became wholesome again, and associated with good old American virtues. Michael Parks revived the loner image for the motorcycle in the seventies. He was kind of a James Dean Light. Arlo Guthrie made the motorcycle seem harmless and fun with his ‘Motorcycle Song’. Thankfully, we had Steppenwolf to remind us of what motorcycles should be about. ‘Born to be Wild’ became

Elvis gives her a ride on his hog

the motorcycle anthem, although I really liked their much more obscure motorcycle related song, ‘Screaming Night Hog’. You can see in the videos I posted,  the transformation in just one year of Steppenwolf, from hippie band to a biker band. John Kay didn’t just wear those shades to be cool, he had severe vision problems. But he also looked totally cool!

Steve McQueen in The Great Escape

 

 

 

 

 

 

I found three photos of famous icons with their bikes. Brando, Elvis, and Springsteen. Nuff said.

 

 

Hunter Thompson with his bike

 

Michael Parks as Bronson

James Hurley in Twin Peaks

Margaret Cho keeping the spirit alive

 

 

 

 

 

Hunter Thompson made motorcycles dangerous again, by  writing about his misadventures with the Hell’s Angels. Here he is with his bike.  And it comes full circle with James Hurley in Twin Peaks with his bike, echoing Marlon Brando. So today, although motorcycles are everywhere, there still remains a romance attached to the idea of the motorcycle. That spirit continues with Margaret Cho’s blog about her motorcycle adventures.

Nightmare Castle by the Bay

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I had the wickedest dream last night. I had been captured along with a couple of other guys, and being held in this old, decrepit, castle. The castle was right where the SF Marina is now. Right next to the long pier that curves out into the bay. It wasn’t clear who had us, but they had guns, it seemed like maybe we were hostages. These guys opened fire on some people inside the castle. We were going down these horribly dirty yellow hallways, with incredibly high ceilings. There was some kind of central control office or something up ahead. It was protected by very heavy glass. We were ordered to lie down as they shot over our bodies. I was terrified! I was sure I was going to be hit. I pressed as close to the floor as I could. I can recall the cold hard surface under my face. The shooting stopped, I could hear the men cussing. Their guns had jammed or something. I got up and ran as fast as I could, down more filthy, putrid yellow hallways. It seemed the building was made of this yellow stucco. The walls were rough, like stone. Other people, women, men, and children, joined me as I ran. We were being pursued by what seemed to be an ever increasing army. We never saw them, but could hear them, sense them approaching. We dodged inside an unbelievably rancid bathroom, with graffiti everywhere, and a long trough as a urinal. We could hear them pass us by, outside. I remember how my heart beat, afraid they would enter. We slipped out and made our way down another hall which was darker and more sinister than the rest of the castle. High up on platforms were all these large stuffed toys that were filthy dirty, missing eyes and things. Very creepy. We entered a large warehouse filled with boxes and boxes of old artifacts, old toys, paintings, moldy old books. Everything was dirty, damaged, and very old. There was a musky odor to the warehouse, and there was very little light. It seemed that I had been leading this group of people. We knew it wouldn’t be long before the horrible monstrous army would find us. Our pursuers had taken on a much more ominous quality by now. They were more like these inhuman robotic monsters, than men. I was trying to think of a strategy. I remembered thinking that if only I could get these toys to help us, we might have a chance. As if they heard me, an army of old-fashioned Napoleonic toy soldiers, (or maybe they were Cossacks, because they wore heavy fur jackets.), showed up. They had wooden, painted faces, all of them identical. They had formed ranks, awaiting my orders. Other odd toys, and dolls, and whatnot had also assembled nearby, expectantly. It was like a scene from Toy Story, except this was Toy Story from Hell. Because these toys were filthy and stinky, many broken, paint worn away. This was my army. Then things started happening fast. Gunfire, bright light blinding us in the darkness. People were getting shot, maybe dying. It seemed the toy army was fighting, but getting torn apart, literally. I climbed up onto one of the platforms, where there was a huge blue stuffed dog, very dirty, but friendly. I picked up the surprisingly light toy and hurled it at the invaders. There was a loud explosion. Soon all the stuffed toys had come to life, and were hurling things down on the enemy. Lots of explosions. It was very surreal, and vivid. Huge stuffed toys with happy faces wreaking havoc and carnage. I was glad they were on my side. Everything quieted down. The warehouse grew dark again. There was a smell of smoke. My ragtag army, what was left of it, stood before me. I was filled with gratitude, but also horrified. I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of this horrid place. So Elvis Costello (!) and I made our way out of the castle. I could see the Marin headlands and the Golden Gate bridge through the end of a hallway. There’s the way out! I said to Elvis C. But everything looked very weird outside. There was a lurid white light, very hard to look at, which washed out almost everything. There were huge tidal waves crashing over the pier. Very surreal, once again, and in black and white. But I was still glad to get out. I was exhausted, and could barely walk, but I made it across wet, muddy ground, everything around me in a bright white glare, like an overexposed photograph. Some tourists were nearby, a big fat guy wondered if he could get some lemonade at the snack bar. I glanced behind me, and the castle stood dark and smoking,  It had been on fire, and was now smoldering, burned out. Can’t get any lemonade there, fella, I thought. I swear! It was like I was stuck inside a Stephen King novel. I slowly made my way up the slope and over a stone fence. I thought about Alice in Wonderland, and a vision of the Mad Hatter flashed in my mind for a moment, all in black and white. Then as that mostly white world suddenly faded and I woke up, I thought, boy am I glad I made it out of that castle! That was really a nightmare!

In retrospect, I think this dream was inspired, in part, by Margret Cho’s blog post which I read before going to bed. She mentioned watching black and white Twilight Zone episodes and then dreaming of the episode. She also mentioned her hatred of dolls, creepy dolls, and puppets. So this played on my subconscious. But this was one of my more vivid dreams. Scarier than it sounds. I was really scared in that dream. It made me think of a Photoshop collage I did, to accompany a quote by J. G. Ballard. It was about how our American Dream personified by Disney, was transformed into a nightmare by the deaths of the Kennedys and Martin Luther King Jr. It relates in some ways to the dream I had, I think it was the castle where you abandon all hope when you enter. The photoshop collage is below.

Am I Beautiful or What?

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This quick little post is inspired by what I just read on Margaret Cho’s blog. (margaretcho.com check it out) regarding the twitter war between her and the couple of jackasses who said she had a fat ass. Being the insensitive asses that we are, we often make stupid remarks without realizing the incredible pain that can cause for someone who has had a lifetime of insults, and assaults on her self-esteem. I am guilty of saying things to my friend David that are crass, thinking it is harmless. But now I intend to stop that nonsense. It just isn’t funny anymore. Even if he says it doesn’t bother him, I just don’t like it now. Margaret Cho opened my eyes to my own unthinking crassness. Of course, unlike the assholes that attacked her, I have never deliberately (wait! hold it! let’s be honest now) perhaps I have been deliberately hurtful, it hurts to realize that. But no more!!!

I can see why I like Margaret Cho so much. I was also teased and bullied, and made to feel ugly at every opportunity. Even now, as I write this, I think, “the difference between us is that I really was ugly,” I developed a rage that came out in various ways. I was always confrontational, and used my mind as a weapon. Sort of a “I may be ugly, but you are stupid”  kind of approach. My thinking I was ugly scarred me for life. I still look in the mirror and cringe. It totally ruined my relationship with women. I could not hear that I was sexy, or attractive. I could not bear to be complimented. To me, I appear damaged, full of pain, a walking corpse. I decided that if people were going to regard me as ugly, I would be the ugliest son of a bitch you ever saw! In that way, it is easier for men, especially straight men, to deal with ‘ugliness’. In a way, for us, it is cool to be ugly. Women dig ugly men, etc. But there is a difference between rugged ugly, and scary ugly. I am scary ugly. I can imagine Margaret Cho screaming at me to stop saying I am ugly! I am sorry, Margaret, but every time I begin to say that I am handsome, or beautiful, I laugh. I just can’t take it seriously. That’s sad.

Which brings me to an observation about our fucked-up culture. We are trained to consider one thing beautiful and another ugly. And it is totally arbitrary, and nonsensical. When you can manage to get past your mind, you can see that everything is what it is, without qualification. I suppose you could say it is beautiful, but beautiful implies it’s opposite, ugly. Maybe we could think of it as BEAUTIFUL in all caps, that exists outside all categories. When you truly love, that is how it is. When you are in the arms of someone you love, or better yet, lying with your body literally inside hers, how can she not be beautiful? But you know what? We treat each other like shit generally, don’t we? There are some horrible things going on, folks, and we are sitting around watching some crap on tv. If we allow ourselves to treat one another with the love and respect we deserve, there would be no homeless, no insane, no more mindless bullshit. But I am human like you, I doubt that this little speech is going to transform my life. Never has before. But I thank Margaret Cho for waking me up once again. She isn’t just a comedian, she is a revolutionary of the spirit, fiery in her rage! I recommend her blog to anyone who wants to have their bullshit values challenged, for those who want to be real, and true to their true selves.

House of Mirrors

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This post is inspired by a comment left by one of my many followers (I think I have three, maybe four). He had read about my receiving a gift and dinner from a friend for Christmas, and commented something to the effect of “Must be nice. Me? no gift. no lady.” I assured him that my life isn’t one long party. That I spent Christmas and New Year’s alone with my cat. Blogging, no less. And furthermore, being alone is pretty much how things are for me, the vast majority of the time. But this got me to thinking, when you are sad, feeling sorry for yourself, it always feels like other people are having the time of their lives. What an incredible distortion! I think most people are discontented with their lives, and yearn for something better. And, for sure, people love to complain. It is stating the obvious to say that there isn’t enough love in our lives. Sometimes our need for love can lead to those incredible distortions. Actually his reaction to my pleasant time with a friend, resembled my reaction to Margaret Cho, imagining that she was this rich, hot-shot celebrity who didn’t read the comments on her blog. Then discovering that she isn’t rich, isn’t really a celebrity, certainly no hot-shot, and she definitely reads the comments. In my lonely apt. I conjured up this distortion from what I imagined she was like. I feel like an asshole, but hey! people do that all the time, that’s why the National Enquirer does so well. People want to think all kinds of crazy things. But my point is about the distortion which warps how we relate to one another. That’s what I’m calling the House of Mirrors. Because it is all you, being reflected back in all kinds of crazy ways.

It is really difficult to step outside of the ego and see people as they are. We make assumptions on very skimpy evidence, or even no evidence. Once again, this same gentleman who commented before. (I assume he is a gentleman. He hasn’t yet confided in me about the human body parts stored in his refrigerator.) commented on my way too revealing blog post Why am I sad? I regret that one somewhat because I was in pain when I wrote it, and I do think that the internet probably isn’t the best place to pour your heart out. But I posted it, and so it stays! Besides, after I read it again, it isn’t quite so bad as I thought, some people might actually understand it and relate to it. But all my follower had to say was “I think I saw her on tv. The program with the guy showing all the old pictures?” Despite this less than erudite comment, I knew what show he was referring to, and yes Margaret Cho was on it. But that was all this guy had to say about an emotional piece of writing. So, my first reaction was “what an asshole! he probably has a beer in his hand as I speak” but this reaction is unfair to him. It could be that he had decided to follow my blog, and came across this screed not knowing quite what to say about it. You know how men are when it comes to feelings, at least he didn’t just ask me “So? Do ya think you’ll ever get to bang her?” But in any case, this is a classic case of distortion, getting my feathers ruffled based on very little evidence. He wasn’t rude. He just didn’t have much to say, but felt like he should say something. Sort of like the guy who asked Mrs. Lincoln after her husband was shot, “So how was the play?” He meant well, it was just an awkward moment. But this is one of the pitfalls of confiding feelings on the internet. You may get your feelings hurt by well meaning people. Not because of what they write, but because of that House of Mirrors which distorts communication. No hard feelings to my follower. You meant well, and no, I don’t think I will ever have the opportunity to bang her.

Given the insidiousness of this process, it is a wonder that we connect as much as we do, as a species. It is so screwed up when it comes to star-struck fans that it is practically impossible for a “celebrity” to really connect with a fan. The fan isn’t really listening to a word, instead it’s OMG I am really standing here talking to so-and-so, I can’t believe it. And then they probably can’t even remember what the “celebrity” said to them. Big time distortion. So I am learning a lot about how to use this blog, basically my primary purpose is to help in my own little way to get people to WAKE UP. Naturally I should start with myself. That is why I am not going to withdraw, but I may be a tad bit more cautious. I may not do any more blogging while I’m upset. Wait until I cool down to write. That would be smart.

I will finish this post with a little story having to do with “celebrities” and how I relate to them.

Back in the early eighties I was working in a small grocery, and one day Bill Murray strolls in. I don’t say anything to him. I had the attitude (and still do) that celebrities are no big deal and I am a celebrity who hasn’t been discovered yet. I refuse to be some stupid fan asking for an autograph. It just felt demeaning to me somehow. So Bill cruises around the store, and keeps coming over to me to ask where various items are. Items that are sitting in very plain sight, right in front of his nose. And I point them out to him and he thanks me. All this time, I’m thinking, “He can’t understand why I’m ignoring the fact that he is Bill Murray. Doesn’t this kid know who I am? Doesn’t he watch SNL? What’s this kid’s problem? I’m Bill Murray!” It was like he kept pestering me hoping that I would finally say “Hey aren’t you Bill Murray?” and ask for an autograph. He was probably used to that. My coworker whispers to me “that’s Bill Murray!” and I say “Yeah. I know.” Of course I don’t know if that was what was going on, maybe Bill just didn’t want to find these items himself, but it’s kind of a funny story. There was another time when I did approach a “celebrity”, Jimmy Page walked into the store where I worked, buying up all the Aleister Crowley books he could find, and I struck up a conversation with him about Crowley and asked about his concert that night. He was a very ordinary down-to-earth guy, and we had a fun conversation. The people I worked with were flipping out, “I can’t believe how you just talked to him as if you’d known him for years!” Well, in a way I had. I knew his music pretty well. But I just wasn’t starstruck. I’m not like that. At least I’m not like that when I encounter “celebrities” in person. One time I had a chance to talk to William S. Burroughs and didn’t. I have regretted that. I was pretty young though. I wish Bill Burroughs were still alive. I think he and I would have some interesting conversations. If I ever meet Margaret Cho, I am sure we would enjoy each other’s company.

Oh, and you know that post “why am I sad?” I might go back and rename it “why do I cry when I go potty?” just to lighten it up a bit.

Why do I feel sad?

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I will never, even if I live to be a hundred, figure myself out!!

I checked Margaret Cho’s website just now, to see if she had posted anything about the celebrity=fan relationship. Her response to that was surprising (well, not that surprising), but oddly disconcerting to me. Why the hell would a nice, honest, positive, response from someone I admire, upset me? She said I was supportive, but that she didn’t feel like a celebrity at all, and felt she led an ordinary life, and considered her fans her friends. So, does that mean I am a friend? That feels strange to me, given that we have never met. And it makes me uncomfortable. In fact, I am uncomfortable writing about it. There is a part of me that wants to stop checking out her website, and just move on with my life. I don’t want to care about her. I want to regard her as a celebrity, not a human being. If you are reading this and thinking ‘I think this guy is fucked up’, I couldn’t help but agree. But here’s the deal, like I wrote before, it is a mistake to get hung up on Margaret Cho. In spite of what she wrote, there is no way that she and I are ever really going to be friends. Her response gave me hope, and I don’t want hope. Clearly, I need to create some distance, because it is fucking painful to care about someone. I’m sure if she were here right now, she would say “I don’t understand why you are making such a big fucking deal out of all this? Why is caring about me a problem? Why can’t it be wonderful?” Damn good question. It’s not like I think we could ever hang out together. That is what upsets me about her saying her fans are her friends. I am cynical about that. I am sure that there are people you hang out with, and those you don’t, I can’t believe she invites everybody into her life. Nobody could do that, even if they wanted to. You see how crazy I get? I don’t want to be liked, or considered a friend by someone I have put on a pedestal. This actually has to do with how I relate to people in general, not just Margaret Cho. I write about the illusion of intimacy, but the truth is that I prefer an illusion. I am afraid of real relationships. Margaret Cho’s response should have pleased me to no end, instead it brought out my insecurities. So I feel sad. I can’t really account for it, although I have certainly tried in all that verbiage you just read.

It is definitely possible to let someone get to you too much! This is an opportunity for me to more honest and brave. I am not really sure of what I am trying to write about, except as a warning to other lonely men out there who might become attached to someone like her, because of her honesty, bravery, and ordinariness, I guess the challenge is to not keep looking for something from her to make you happy. You have to open up to yourself, and come from a place of friendship, instead of skepticism, in your daily life. All of this really isn’t about Margaret Cho, it is about myself.

Like I said, sometimes I discover that I really don’t know myself very well at all.