I left the apartment today. And not just to the hallway to gather up the newspapers this time. I got my haircut this morning, and I stocked up on groceries, and now . . .

I'm about to take the night off! Having been clubbing since the last weekend of June. Normally I get out a lot more, but I got two big assignments this month and I've just been hunkered down here in my cave. Plus I can't stop the blogging.

I had a big letdown last night, though. Last month, a couple really nice guys from Albaquerque who were visiting asked me to join them for San Diego pridefest the last weekend of this month. I hemmed and hawed, but mentally I decided to do it a few weeks ago. I really deserved a break and it was going to be the highlight of my summer. Last night I finally got around to checking into flights on Orbitz. A full 24 hours before the 7-day advance cutoff--I was so proud of myself. Until I checked the calendar to plug the correct date in. Many times I had noticed all these days trailing off for next week on my calendar, but I hadn't looked close enough to recognize the absense of a Friday or Saturday. This is going to be the last weekend in July.

Crap. The good news is, I get to have extra fun this weekend. I had already given myself Friday night off, and the one hot danceclub in Denver at the moment has a guest dj every Friday night. They actually have a pretty lousy track record with them--I don't know if these guys think Denver is going to be a few years behind, so they bring the old crap and play it conservative or what, but there have been quite a few stinkers. Doesn't matter. All the boys come out to see them anyway, so there should be a great crowd there, and lots of spillover to Amsterdam, the afterhours club from 2 to 5.

Soon, it will all be underway. And a nice sendoff. I needed one last think to make my story work, and I called back a source, spent another hour and a half on the phone with her just now, but eventually stumbled into what I was looking for. Going to pull it all together perfectly. So now I can go out get drunk, dance my little rump off, and feel good about the rest of the world while I'm doing it. But will I have time for the gym first? Hmmmm.

OK, gotta go. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow, whining about my hangover. It will be worth it.

It's Friday, so I'm now four days late on feeding your Navokov habit. And not one complaint. You people. You really need to stay on me.

And it turns out Vladimir is still on vacation, so Denis Johnson has agreed to guest blog. Don't be put off by the title of Denis' incredible novel (or linked short stories if you prefer to view them that way). It's called "Jesus' Son," but the title comes from a Lou Reed song, and the protagonist narrator is a heroin addict. In today's passage, from the wistful "Beverly Home" chapter/story, he has settled into a part-time job at the Home as part of his recovery process:

There was a guy with something like multiple sclerosis. A perpetual spasm forced him to perch sideways on his wheelchair and peer down along his nose at his knotted fingers. This condition had descended on him suddenly. He got no visitors. His wife was divorcing him. He was only thirty-three, I believe he said, but it was hard to guess what he told about himself, because he really couldn't talk anymore, beyond clamping his lips repeatedly around his protruding tongue while groaning.

No more pretending for him! He was completely and totally a mess. Meanwhile the rest of us go on trying to fool each other.

Ah, to write just one paragraph like that, ever. Brings me to the verge of tears every time. Not out of sadness, awe.

I find the world such a delight to participate (frolic? what's a less queeny term for frolic?) in because we're all so freaking comical at our attempts to fool each other. The real joke is watching people convince themselves they're succeeding. (Please don't mistake this for bitterness. It really brings a smirk to my face, nearly every time.) But nothing is funner than seeing Denis Johnson, stumbling around over by the curtain like a derelict, suddenly grab hold with both hands and rip the thing right off the rods. He's so deceptively sloshed over there getting ready to yank, you barely even notice him except to avoid accidental eye contact.

Go buy this book today. Great movie, too. Billy Crudup plays him perfectly. And you can see it first without spoiling the book, because the language is everything and there's no way to prepare you for it.

This is a week old, but I just came across it and can't resist. From Reuters (in the Washington Post and elsewhere):

Masturbating Lowers Prostate Cancer Risk - Study

Wednesday, July 16, 2003; 3:04 PM

LONDON (Reuters) - Frequent masturbation, particularly in the 20s, helps prevent prostate cancer later in life, according to new research.

Australian scientists have shown that the more men masturbate between the ages of 20 and 50, the less likely they are to develop the disease that kills more than half a million men each year.

They suspect that frequent ejaculation has a protective effect against the cancer because it prevents dangerous carcinogens from building up in the gland.

"The more you flush the ducts out, the less there is to hang around and damage the cells that line them," Graham Giles, of the Cancer Council Victoria in Melbourne, told New Scientist magazine on Wednesday.

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