Neon Yarn

Hey all!
I have just updated www.angelcitysdevil.com with a little movie i made at a recent oscar party in hollywood. the movie features shots of me and my guy, jennifer hudson, jenna elfman, jeremy sisto, beck....

check it out!!!

www.angelcitysdevil.com

is a new, hilarious blog posted on www.AngelCitysDevil.com

Check it out!!

-jonathan

hey everybody-

thanks for reading my few entries here at livejournal. I appreciate all the feedback and comments. Lately I haven't been updating the journal, but I have been blogging at a new and permanent address. Please follow me over there. It's worth it, I promise!

www.angelcitysdevil.com

Drag Queen performances are hilariously entertaining no matter which urban gay ghetto you are in. They love making fun of shit, so their humor is often at the expense of those in the audience. Kansas City, L.A. - there is no difference. This is why when we decided to catch a drag performance in KC, I demanded that we didn't sit in the front row of tables.

"They're not going to say anything to you." Justin chuckled while gesturing me into a stage-side chair.

I answered, "Of course they are. They're all bitches." I brushed him briskly as I headed toward the furthest table.

"You're so shy!"

"Yeah. I know. That's why I wanna sit in the back, Justin."

We threw our jackets on the tabletop and I took a seat. Without missing a beat, Justin walked away from the table.

"Be right back. Bar."

He turned his head back to me and smiled without stopping his B-line towards booze. I realized I was rolling my eyes. That must annoy Justin.

I decide to play with my Helio while Justin orders and Darren is in the bathroom. Darren is my cousin and has been a friend since birth. I always enjoy our time together, and thoroughly love how open-minded he is. Though not a full-fledged metrosexual, Darren is definitely a bi-metrosexual. His emotions and demeanor could easily pass for pansy while his style and voracious appetite for pretty girls are unmistakedly and boringly straight. He's roughly 6'3 (same as Justin), skinny and fare-skinned. He has a baby face, I think it runs in the family. He wears baggy pants with smaller fitting shirts - very straight Midwestern guy. And the odd thing is, he wears glasses despite having received Lasik eye surgery a few years back (if I had a doctor utilize a laser to cut off part of my eyeball, I wouldn't mind it if the sci-fi sounding procedure worked). I thought it was very cool for Darren to join Justin and I out at the gay bar, and anxiously waited for him to get back to the table.

Flo (host of The Flo Show, which we were watching) came on stage in her trademark red beehive wig. Her makeup was 60's housewife and her voice was pure menthol. Justn and Darren joined the table as Flo began her act.

"I'm having a great night." She immediately sounded high. "We are going to have a great show and you faggots are going to love it."

I nervously giggled and darted my eyes back and forth in the room. I sensed something bad.

Then I heard Justin scream.

"Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh"!

The spotlight left Flo and immediately lit up Justin. I instantly turned red, either from the spotlight's heat or embarrassment.

"What's your name?" she demanded.

"Justin. What's yours?"

I could tell he was atleast a little buzzed.

"Where are you from sweetie?" She asked with a slight drawl, something sounding in between Southern and Bitch.

Justin screamed "L.A.! Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" and corked his arm in the air.

"Woah honey you're a little much." Flo determined and walked away.

She continued on with her show innocently believing she encountered the last of Justin. I find time to catch a breath and I immediately begin to pick at my fingernails. Flo is going on and on about which drag girls are performing tonight when I see Justin quickly leave our table. Suddenly he is on stage and waving a seasoned-curly fry in her face.

"I don't want that." Says Flo, slightly nervous.

"C'mon!" Justin whines.

He wiggles the fry in front of the drag queen a few more seconds, like he's taunting a poodle with a milkbone. She doesn't take, so he decides to wrap his lips around half the fry like he's about to smoke it. I realize he is going for a Lady and the Tramp moment with her but the best he'll get is a Mommie Dearest.

"Go over there!" She yells and points toward us.

At this point, I consider my fate. Either I can stand up and walk to the bathroom right now to avoid the drag queen's wrath, or I can sit here quietly and pretend I don't know Justin. The first option would be too obvious, so I stay put and try not to pee.

Justin and the spotlight return to the seat next to me.

"Ugh. L.A. boys suck." Flo ranted as sweat began to form in a thin layer on her wrinkled forehead. Her makeup was slightly running from all the excitement.

"It's not my fault you're on a diet." Snottily replied Justin, again with the fry in the air.

Flo's jaw dropped and the arm she held the microphone with dropped straight from her mouth to her side. It actually dropped fast enough to make a "whooshing" noise. Shocked Flo came with her own sound effects.

"D.J., put on some ghetto shit," Flo spit out towards the DJ booth,"I'm gonna tell this bitch off."

She stepped back into a darker part of the stage and sat the microphone down. I decided to run as far away from the Midwest as possible, but was in such a stage of shock I actually was paralyzed. I wasn't going anywhere. Worst yet, Justin was actually having fun with this and not realizing how badly I was dying. Darren was getting a kick out of it too. But his boyfriend wasn't the one about to be murdered by a man in a 60's style dress and makeup.

The DJ finally found some ghetto ass gangsta shit. "Smack Dem Hoes" was blaring thoughout the club and Flo was getting ready to attack. She took off her earrings, and then lifted up each foot so she could remove her pumps. With a quick glance at her nails, Flo stomped over to our table.

Flo sneered as she asked "how old are you?" She seemed to talk only out of the left half of her mouth.

"Guess." Justin replied, egging her on.

"Hmmm. Eleven."

A chuckle washed over the audience and without missing a beat, the DJ loaded and played the theme song to Sesame Street.

Justin then quickly admitted he was 29.

"Gosh. You are so immature and out of control! Do you have a boyfriend?!" She said, getting no response.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

Justin shot a quick glance at me and must have noticed me in a catatonic state.

"No."

"No wonder shithead. You couldn't be in a relationship."

I thought to myself, "this can't get much worse," though I knew she was going to interview me. I could see it in her face. She knew I was there with Justin and that I somehow knew him.

I could see her thinking "he would be on my side" as she moved the microphone toward my face.

She asked me, "Are you from L.A. too?"

She pointed the microphone at my mouth and I heard myself taking a deep breath over the club's speakers.

"Yes." I decided.

"Is this your boyfriend?" she asked as she made a face which looked as if she just smelled the worst shit you could imagine.

I looked straight at Justin. I love him too much to ever deny being with him.

"Yes." I said.

I hung my head in shame, seemingly saying "do what you must, I accept my fate."

"L.A. boys suck!" L.A. boys suck!" she screams, demanding a chant from the audience.

The audience responds and it snowballs into pure and hateful enthusiasm.

"All us KC fags could kick the shit out of any L.A. boy!" Flo screams.

The local KC gay crowd cheers her on.

My body is shocked beyond being paralyzed at this point and allows me to leave. I get up and jog towards the bathroom. Justin and Darren stay at the table.
On the way to the bathroom the bartender stops me.

"Flo can be a bitch. Just chill up here and she'll leave you alone." he says.

The side of the bar he is on faces The Flo Show, so I decide she could possibly come out to the bar area to continue her tirade. I notice a spot on the other side of the bar hidden by the trivia machine. I run to it, grab the stool and calm myself down.

After a few minutes, the bartender sets a bottled water in front of me and asks again if I'm okay. I nod and start to wonder if I'm a little crazy for being embarrassed. I quickly assure myself any sober person in their right mind would have ran away the second it smelled of trouble. I chose to wait for the guys to find me in my hiding spot.

Five minutes later, Justin and Darren find me.

"Baby I didn't want her to think she won." says Justin, referring to why it took them a bit to join me.

"Whatever. I'm ready to go." I said.

This is our usual 12:30 AM bar script. The characters are always the same. Justin plays a drunk and wide-awake hot boyfriend who will never leave before a bar closes. I play the sober, tired and bored grandma who didn't want to go to the bar to begin with. Though the actual lines in the script vary, tonight's was fairly typical. Oh yeah, Justin's character always wins and makes the grandma stay past 1 Am, thus missing her meds. and turning into a raging bitch.

Justin and Darren are treated to more rounds of shots by the stalker/bartender. I realized he had a thing for us after the fifth energy drink he handed me. He's been hooking my boyfriend and cousin up all night, and is at fault for their saucy states. I continue to pout and think of all the ways I could get Justin to leave. Finally, it rushed over me. I suddenly had a tremendous urge in my belly to use the restroom. Energy drinks always mess up my bowels, and I was working with 10 minutes at best.

I pleaded, "dude, we gotta go."

"No baby, not yet."

"Seriously Justin I've been ready and I'm not having any fun."

"C'mon baby we won't stay much longer. Darren wants to find a straight girl here and I'll get another drink."

I paused and scanned his face for any sign of changing his mind. Nada.

I gave up. "Justin, I really have to go to the bathroom but I can't go here."

"They have a bathroom here." he responded.

"I know, but they are scary and have no doors."

Any bar bathroom is bad enough. A gay bar bathroom is worst. This one in particular had shower curtains mimicking doors to the stalls. I had only used the toilet to pee once, and I could have sworn there was a glory hole cut out in the stalls. I imagined myself bent over the toilet seat, sweating out the nervousness. All of a sudden a random, ugly cock pokes me in the idea. Though it sounds hot, I imagined it definitely wouldn't be.

I continue to beg Justin (and now Darren, too). They are laughing at me and trying to get me to give up and use the public restroom.

"We can't leave cause you have to poop, Jon." says Darren.

"But I gotta poooooooop!" I say, reverting to a childhood like state with the realization of how little time I had left.

Justin takes my hand in his and says, "C'mon. I'll go with you and guard the door so nobody comes in."

I resist, but he is stronger. The last thing I want is a guard positioned outside the restroom, letting each patron know "he's shy and shitting" as he blocks their path through the doorway.

He and Darren get me close to the bathroom when the prettiest drag queen there stops him.

"I just wanted to say my friends thought you were hot." she says, tracing his shirt button with her finger.

"Awe. Thanks."

"Yeah no prob- Is this your boyfriend?"

"Yeah, this is Jonathan."

I winced. "Hi."

She gave me a seductive look and tossed her long red ponytail extension over her shoulder.

"You are much more my type."

I said "thanks" and pushed Justin towards the bathroom.

She stuck her hand out in between us.

"I'm Madison Avenue. Pleasure."

Justin remembered my predicament and asked her to excuse us following introductions.

"He's really gotta go but is scared of the restroom her." he said.

"Oh sweetie, I am too. Here, let me take you to the private bathroom backstage."

She took my hand and lead me away from my guy. Her hand was small and dainty. She was born to be a girl.

She lead me through the crowd. The closer we got to the stage and to Flo, the more I turned my head away and then covered it. I didn't need Flo seeing me lead into her private bathroom. I couldn't even imagine what jokes she could make of that. Luckily, we made it without problem.

Madison unlocked the door and I noticed drag queens out of drag and getting ready in front of mirrors. What is a drag queen without her drag? Scary, I learned.
I love the illusion of a great performer, but seeing one get ready is not sexy. A grown man applying cover-up to the razor bumps on his neck truly ruins the feminine image.

I thank Madison and God and close the door behind me. It's clean, lockable and has no glory hole. It's perfect. I throw down the paper seat cover and feel better. Energy drinks really do fuck my stomach up. Gross.

I am satisfied and proud of my accomplishment. And I have wiped and cleaned myself up and I am ready to face the gays again. I do partly pray that Flo isn't in the dressing room waiting to see me exit a foul smelling toilet. I could see her going back on stage to talk about how "stupid L.A. fags shit and stuff," while pointing me out and encouraging audience members to check out the smell I left.

"Impossible." I told myself.

I am ready to leave to make my stay in the drag queen's restroom as efficient as possible when I try to flush their toilet. Nothing. I let out a nervous chuckle as my mouth fluctuates between a smile and a frown. I try to flush again. The water gurgles and swishes for a tenth of a second and then nothing. Everything is still there, out for anyone - even a drag queen about to go on stage - to see.

I panic. I'm at orange alert level (that's our highest, right?). I see a plunger next to the toilet and dive towards it. My whole body is sweating and it seems my hearing turns superhuman as I can suddenly hear any footstep outside the door. I slush around through the toilet and find the drain with the plunger. I plunge my little heart away. I am on my knees praying to God with the plunger to either get rid of my shit or to strike me dead. The drag queens were sure to discover me and make fun of my openness.

I am too exposed, vulnerable. It all needs to be flushed and sanitized, so I keep plunging. I break the sweaty manual labor to try the lever. It flushes. I stay for a moment, bent over the drag queen's toilet with the plunger in both hands above the water, catch my breath, and stare down the drain to make sure it doesn't return.

It doesn't.

I sneak out of the drag bathroom fifteen minutes later and successfully avoid any direct eye contact with anyone. I run as far away from backstage and rejoin Justin.
We stay a bit longer and I have a better time.

I hate being exposed, and our visit to the drag show had made me face my fears. Though I tackled the scorn of a pissed off geriatric drag queen and was able to flush it all down the toilet, it wasn't easy. For now, though, my shit stays underground.

(a drag performer in KC)

We are back. Justin and I landed at LAX a few nights ago. An absence of snow and cold temperatures were fresh on our minds as we drove back to our home. It is nice to be home and we had a nice trip.

For Justin, the trip was emotional and partially burdensome. He had almost non-stop family exposure which I'm sure was exactly like a four day stay at a mental hospital, only the hospital would have been cleaner. He met nearly my whole family during four days of activities and somehow kept his charm at full blast the whole time. Though he has family and friends in the area, he was only able to spend a few hours of one night with his best friend. He was upset and I don't blame him. Most of our trip was tightly planned, a safari full of curiously interesting creatures not found in LA.

Cousin Drew's guest room was perfect. Our pillows greeted us with the best chocolates Justin and I had ever enjoyed (christopher elbow chocolates, KC). Our place was clean and bathroom full of new toiletries. Drew really went above the line. I was happy Justin's first glimpse into my family would be the impression he received from Drew's place. Unlike my immediate kin's, Drew's house was roomy, dust free, complete with working sinks and toilets, unstained from 30+years of nicotine and free of some sort of stomach virus which had plagued my parents while we were there. Justin displayed amazing traits as he toughed through a house and long visits which I'm sure nearly drove him nuts. Better yet, he still loves me, even after seeing how my immediate family lives.

AS dirty and broken as my parent's house and health may be, love overflows from their being. They may be barely able to stay afloat and survive, but they sure keep the love nearly exploding. Justin noticed it and commented on it. It's the one thing they've got going for them.

I have many stories from our visit: Taking my straight brother to a drag bar for his first time, plunging the drag queen's dressing room toilet in a nervous sweat, Justin enduring hours of embarrassing stories from mom (including one of a pap smear and cervical scraping), Justin and I disagreeing on some major issues and then coming out better than before....
but those will have to wait for the weekend. Right now, I am on a double shift at work (welcome back from vacation, right?) and I need to get back. I''ll have tons of great updates and even more pictures this weekend, so check back often!!!

Justin and I arrived in Kansas City yesterday around 3pm. I was nearly in a coma from taking two xanex on our flight (turbulance scares me). We landed at just the right moment. If our arrival was scheduled any later it might have been cancelled due to a nice winter storm over the KC area. We walked out the automatic airport doors and snow flurries coated our eyelids as they seemed to say "Welcome back to the Midwest." It's fucking cold here, but I'm happy to be out of LA and with the family.

I apologize if I am updating the blog at a slower pace. Family time is precious to me, and this visit is a bigger occasion than most. The introduction of Justin into the family is fun and going smoothly. I had a few stomach butterflies earlier today before we drove to my parent's house, but everything has been great. Justin is a great sport and my parents love him. We are here in their cozy home now visiting with my mom and dad and brother. I found time to escape and left Justin in the living room to charm his way into their hearts. He's such a charming guy, that's one of my favorite things about him.

Tonight we are going to a fun drag show that I try to check out whenever I spend a Sunday night in Kansas City. Smaller town drag shows are the best. They are much more campy and less produced than the one's the ladies in LA put on. I hate that KC allows smoking in bars though. Twenty minutes inside and my eyes are scorched and red and I become physically uncomfortable. My sight usually gives out and forces me to squint right around the time the larger and lazier drag queens take the stage. At the point in the evening when I am overwhelmed by the gay Kansas Citian's collective nicotine addiction, a bearded and hairy-legged man with a wig on will take the stage to lip synch Celine Dion. My sight goes out at the pefect time, knowing exactly what it's about to witness.

I am happy. Family is my first priority. Being here with them and Justin is like nothing I've ever felt in the world. It's great to be lucky enough to have open-minded and supportive parents. Though many small town families might ignore (or worst) their gay children and their partners, my family embraces Justin and recognize us as a serious couple.

We are staying with my cousin and life-long best friend Drew. She and her husband and fucking adorable 3 year-old, Sarah, are keeping us warm and fed and loved and entertained. Ill have plenty of stories about staying with them to come.Playing with little Sarah makes me want a baby as soon as possible. Justin and I keep trying but nothing yet. One day.

I'm going back in to save Justin from embarassing stories of me (from mom) and football talk (from Dad and my brother). More later......

I am at work now, four hours into a twelve hour shift. For lunch I am a delivery boy and for dinner I am managing the Pick-Up and Delivery area. It's been a slow lunch which is bittersweet. I'd like to make good money so Justin and I can spend with less guilt in KC, but I am feeling lazy as fuck and not wanting to move. The weather is definitely inspiring though. Hollywood is flirting with 80 degrees and an ideal Southern California day is once again reality.
For my most recent delivery, I drove down Sunset Boulevard with the windows down and forced myself to not keep driving all the way to the beach.

"I must focus... keeping your job is a good thing. keeping your job is a good thing," I repeated over and over, my warm-weather-workday mantra. LA's climate is the apple of it's Eden.

Being able to drive through the Sunset Strip with the windows down gives me a false sense of accomplishment. I wonder how I got here and if it will all be taken away. I sometimes feel as though I am undeserving of nice things, even sunshine in January. I've fucked up a lot in my life and feel guilty for driving with the windows down. But I still enjoy it.

Every day that I walk outside and am welcomed by perfect temperatures and a crystal blue sky (99% of the year in LA), I remind myself why I came in the first place. Dreams. My whole life, the only time I ever felt the weight of shyness absent from my body would be when I was on stage. Something about portraying a character and being so vulnerable really made me feel alive. When I wasn't performing with the local children's theatre, I was a shy boy who bit his fingernails to the bone in fear of anyone noticing me. Acting was my escape.

Naturally, I followed the dream to LA. I felt it was my only option in life. There was nowhere for me to be at 17 except for here and I had never surer of anything. Determination got me here, and helped me survive the end of my teenage years on my own. LA will strip you like bark and turn your pulp into a blank sheet of paper if you're not careful. Millions of people put up with being treated like cattle in the streets, auditions, bars...all for their dreams. Most either move back wherever they originated from with a frail sense of self, or live out their dream for stardom in the porn-world with a nasty drug habit. LA will change you no matter your strength, conviction, morals. But as long as you have dreams, the wonderland that is LA will keep you enthralled.

There was a point when I became very disillusioned with the movie industry. As a naive 17 year old, I relocated with an assumption that acting was about talent and passion. Six months into it, I learned that acting in Hollywood is about who you fuck, how you look, and who you know. Two years after tolerating it for the sake of my dream, I was broken. I had entered a world with passion and hope, and came out the other end cynical and doubtful of myself. I decided to enroll in the local community college to find myself again. After focusing mainly on English courses, a deep passion for writing was uncovered.

Here I am today delivering food to the successful residents in the hills of Hollywood. My offices are the streets of LA. Though I get to enjoy the weather and I am not confined within walls, my office has the downfall of a glass ceiling. The glass ceiling I encounter at work is constantly reinforced through multi-million dollar homes and fleets of luxury cars. I am greeted by accomplished souls with tips of $5 waiting in their hands - a visual reminder of the life I'd love to live.

After years of college I realized I was sleepwalking. Acting was my dream and by putting it on hold for school, I was without a dream. I was left to drift through life hoping to be picked up by something special and significant. Then I was.

Justin found me shortly after I had an epiphany. Dreams change as you grow. They are layers of skin which we shed as we rub on the rocky edges of experience. Justin is my dream. I want a family with him. Everything else is icing.

Writing is becoming important to me as well. I love experiencing life, but I love sharing the experience with others more. Thanks to writing and my future with Justin, I don't feel I'm sleepwalking through life anymore.

Sometimes I wonder what really keeps me from flying from the Earth at radical speeds. Technically, I guess I would really be falling from the planet into space. However my fears define it, I sat in my car today, parked in our driveway, and wondered just how easy it would be to be sucked into the heavens.

I guess I am just feeling a little anxious.

Justin got in a small and insignificant fender bender yesterday. He was in front of his work in bumper to bumper traffic when he accidentally tapped a girl's car in front of him. No damage was done and they both left in good spirits. Today, however, it seems the girl is attempting to make a bullshit claim on the tap. Justin feels horrible and I am sure it's the last thing he needs on his plate. Last night I passed him the bowl and rubbed his head in efforts of support. Our insurance is recently acquired and we have out of state licenses, raising the importance of the insignificant incident in my perpetually nail-biting things to worry about mental list. I am assured though, mainly through Justin's deep, soothing, voice, that it will all work out.

We leave early Saturday morning for Kansas City. Thanks to waking up at noon today and only accomplishing a mildly-satisfying brunch at Fred 62, we didn't get as much done for our trip as I had hoped. I need a scarf, gloves and other cold-as-fuck clothing items which, when worn in LA during winter, make you seem infinitely contrived. Yet these winter-clothing musts are items I grew up on, and I look forward each winter to busting them out in KC. Didn't get them today. We did make it to the ol'-reliable 99cent store for spray air-freshener. Both Justin and I work tomorrow - I open and close the restaurant - and it will be a day we have no time for errands. Going to KC scarf-less isn't the end of the world, but I am pussified after my blood has considerably thinned due to 8 years of LA warmth. Oh yeah, at Fred 62 we ate near Betty's stalker from Ugly Betty, Kevin Sussman (http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0839934/). Ugly Betty is my favorite show on any TV right now, and I adore Kevin's character. He was with a cute girl seated at the counter a little behind us. I would never have guessed he was on a Golden Globe winning hit show if I didn't watch it faithfully. Let me have my cheesy Hollywood moment even though they occur endlessly in this town.

Now, Justin is watching Tivo and we have just finished a bowl. I am only half-present as I write, the other half of mind is fully-employed in making mental lists of things needing to be done. I love lists. I write lists both psychically and in ink a few times through out the day. Some days, the rare ones in which Justin and I don't convert the living room into a sex-cave, the most thrilling moment I have will be when I check off a completed task from a list. Those are called Wednesdays.

Tonight we should go to the gym, and I am keeping my fingers crossed that I didn't burn that bridge when I suddenly found myself inhaling a bowl's worth of weed. We have been lazy with the gym since November, and I have lost the nice little body of work I claimed last summer. Ugh, marriage and weed are a fattening combination.

Speaking of body-issues, I am considering posting a report I wrote on male-body image and the media. Living in West Hollywood has admittedly created an unhealthy and persistent body-awareness I have struggled with for about 5 years. Looks are currency in LA, and you are constantly reminded of your balance.

I'll be back to write more tonight.

It snowed in LA today. It hasn't since 1986. We also had the warmest summer on record. Now this. As much as I'd like to blame the media, I am a little nervous about weather. While I am bombarded with messages every day of the impending apocalypse, I am reminded by mother nature herself that she's feelin' a little frisky.

If you believe in karma then you won't be surprised when global warming decides to punish the City of Angels with his worst. LA's public transportation is the worst in the country. Transportation in general seems to be the city's worst civic problem. Every day, the traffic increase is actually, literally noticeable. The sheer amount of cars added onto LA's freeways on a weekly basis must be somewhere near a 15% increase. Nobody utilizes the embarrassing bus and rail system because it really doesn't go anywhere convenient. The subways are getting better but I can't yet name one person I know who uses public transportation on a daily basis.

I have used it a few times. Justin and I moved near a stop and it will be really convenient to get between our house and downtown. But almost everyone on the Westside stays as far away from public transportation as possible. These same people commute to work, and consider carpooling to be low class. Our freeways are nightmares 24/7, and our air is nearly toxic.

But for as many people contributing pollution there are half as many that know what's up. Toyota's Prius was the trendiest car of the year. Angeleno's are becoming better at recycling and are being more supportive of political bills helpful to the environment. It's a start.

I read on lifehacker (www.lifehacker.com) 10 great tips for a greener 2007. I have begun to attempt their suggestions and have found it very easy and clearing of the conscious. At Home Depot I found some great energy efficient light bulbs. You know, the ones that spiral like pig's tails...they were selling 6 in a pack for $9.99. Amazing. They'll last forever and save money over time on the electricity.

The other green tip I am beginning to try is utilizing a surge protector on every outlet in the house. I simply turn the "power" button on the protector off whenever I am gone or not using electricity. I leave the house feeling a little better about myself.

Well, Justin is home and we are in serious need of smoking some weed and catching up on Tivo.

Die Mommie Die is on Logo in the background. My feet are numb from the deep chill California has been throwing my way, and also because our 2 bedroom house has only one, small, inefficient heater. I can't wait until we get wi-fi so I can bring the laptop into the living room (heater room) so I can blog away in the warmth. Until then, know that I'm slightly distracted as I patiently await frostbite's kiss on my big toe.

Justin went out to the bars again tonight. Last night, I accepted his invitation to the drag show and had a blast. However, my blast was more like a rocket ship using blow as fuel. Tonight, I am just not in the mood and frankly I am sad that he's out to the gay bars for the fourth time since last Tuesday. I can't nor do I want to control Justin. He is an adult and needs to be happy and not bored. But we are practically married, and going out to gay bars every other night is not my idea of what someone in a serious relationship does. That said, I know that I can trust him. He loves me and I believe with all my heart his intentions are good. He just likes the drinky-drinky and the getting-out-of-the-house-to-avoid-the-wifey. We are totally based on Homer and Marge Simpson. I even like the casino a little too much.

We have a bit of an exciting week coming up. I wasn't able to go home to KC over the holidays which was really shitty. I go every year for Christmas. Staying in Los Angeles for Christmas in a home we had just moved into three weeks prior was utterly depressing. Yeah we had our first cute Christmas together and it was all very Hallmarky, but being away from the family for over a year has been difficult. To alleviate this pain Justin and I decided we would visit my family for my little brother's 21st Birthday on January 22nd. It will be the first meeting between Justin and my family. This could go either really, really well or it could bomb so badly I will never be able to bring home another boyfriend. I'm hoping for the first option.

We leave this Saturday and comeback the following Wednesday. That is more than enough time with the folks. Though because we are staying with my cousin, Sandra, the time I would have normally spent with the parent's will be cut in half. Typically, I always stay in my mom's craft room in the house I grew up in. However, the point of this trip is to fold Justin deeper into my life and not push him away, so I'm not taking any chances by forcing him to sleep in near-squalor.

Staying at my parent's house might scare-off even the most die-hard of Jonathan enthusiasts. With no working sink in the entire house, my father (a hospital janitor) has ghetto-rigged the kitchen sink to pour water whenever it wants to, at a temperature determined by a mystical creature living throughout the house's plumbing. Most of the time, moans and grunts of this creature can be heard as various knobs are turned within the home. The bathroom sink hasn't worked since my Grandma passed away in the 90's. The shower will only spray if you bend over and assume doggie-style position while tightly grasping the nozzle around the bath faucet If successful, you will be rewarded by a tiny trickle of water. Tile is held on in the kitchen and bathroom via ductape my Grandfather had masterfully attached over 5 years ago. Despite these dilapidations, my family is comfortable, and so am I every time I visit (my threshold is about a week's worth of time though). I know that deep down this shit doesn't matter. What matters most is whether or not you got love in your heart and passion in life. In fact, these annoying domestic factors just add character. Unfortunately, character isn't easily noticed upon a first impression, and I know that if Justin's first impression of my family is a run down shack they can't afford to fix, his impression of my family will be misconstrued.

Perhaps I am thinking too deeply of something small. Maybe my fear of Justin being acquainted with my family has nothing to do with them or him. Maybe it is solely an issue I have with my family. Yes, I am embarrassed. I also feel guilty to admit being embarrassed. Whatever it is I am feeling, I am sure it'll grow closer to the surface when Justin and I travel to Kansas City this weekend, and then I'll give a try working on it. (Can't wait to see Mom....)

It's too easy to get blow at 3 AM in Los Angeles. I wish it wasn't.

Justin and I went to a drag show at Here Bar in West Hollywood. Jackie Beat is my favorite performer in West Hollywood, and I had no idea it was her show I was going to. At first I was apprehensive (I've written about how bar culture is not my favorite), but I walked in the door and saw big ol' fat Jackie in all gold lookin like the cowardly lion and I was ready for a riot.

Before I left I had taken two double-strength Vicodin's to enhance my bar experience and keep me entertained long enough for Justin to have a few drinks. Vicodins help well enough, and I have plenty of friends with endless supplies. Which brings me to an addendum to my Galapagos posting: Not drinking in Hollywood will lead you to other avenues for entertainment. Sitting around bored to death in a bar watching friends lean more and more south will drive anyone to experiment regularly with contraband.

My Galapagos entry wasn't intended to be an anti-escapism piece. That would be hypocritical. The majority of my life has involved drugs. And my typical drug-enjoyer excuse would be "its not my fault."

My family sent me away when I was 14 to be raised by my uncle in Michigan. Uncle Aaron was always my favorite. He came to visit every Christmas, and brought the best presents. He had other redeeming traits, too. At the time I wasn't very upset about being given away. I was having trouble in high school after coming out, and hoped that moving outside of Detroit would offer me an easier time being open about my sexuality.

Uncle Aaron had his own Computer System Consultation company and made vastly more than my parents in Missouri. He was always the "successful" family member, and every visit was prepared for by a week of cleaning and primping in our home. Though he did well, Uncle Aaron still retained charm and kindness from his hippie days. If my parent's didn't want me, at least someone I admired and enjoyed as much as Uncle Aaron did.

I was sent to live with him two days after Christmas. My belongings had been boxed and sent ahead of me. This would be my first time riding on a plane. As I entered the clouds, I looked down on Missouri and saw just how small it was.

We arrived in a much colder and busier place. People were in such a rush. Their faces were worn and their breath clouded around their faces not wanting to escape into the cold air. Everyone seemed to dress in black. We piled into Uncle's navy work van, three of us in the front seat. The whole way back to my new house I didn't blink once, too much to see.

The first time I ever in my whole life realized my family was poor was when I pulled up to my new home in Roseville, Michigan. Three stories with a basement/apartment below, the Roseville house made me feel like a Brady. In fact, my first night at home, I practiced walking down the stairs as if i had lived in middle-class splendor my whole life. I had never lived in a house with stairs. I wanted my bedroom to be in the stairwell; they were my ideal of luxury.

I had my own room, to the left of where the stairs spilled out. All the space, I wasn't used to it. It was almost suffocating not knowing how to live in such an area. I was used to a cramped space shared between 7 people, and now I had nowhere to turn to for entertainment. Uncle Aaron was always working, sometimes I would even go 3 days without seeing him. He had a son, Jacob, who would only visit every other weekend. Mostly, I was left to babysit. Other than that, this was my mansion. Boy did I learn how to treat it.

Uncle Aaron taught me how to party. In an effort to become close with me (and whatever other agenda my mom had assigned him), he would call me downstairs to talk with him late into the night. After awhile, I opened up and trusted Aaron. A month into my new life and new family in Michigan, Uncle Aaron decided to open up a little more. I had told him that I had been experimenting with drinking and smoking pot with my friends. He thought it was okay and recommended being careful. During one of our late-night chats, Uncle pulled out a small, shiny black oval case. He opened it, exposing a white powder which I thought was make-up.

"Shit he's gonna tell me he's a cross-dresser." I thought while he pointed into the cannister.

"This is cocaine. I've been doing it for awhile and I thought it was best if you learned about it from me before any of those punk friends of yours bring it around." He said, sifting some onto our kitchen table.

"Yeah I think I've heard of that but I don't really know," I said with implied curiosity.

"Well you sniff a bit of it or rub it around your teeth, on your gums. It numbs the shit out of your mouth, and if you sniff it you get pretty high," he informed me.

Uncle Aaron layed out a line for himself. I watched him sniff it up with one inhalation.

"This is why I have all the Vick's Vapor Inhalors around the house, my nose is always fucked up!" He laughed.

"You want some?"

"Uhm. Sure, I'll try."

"First rub it on your gums, then sniff this line I'm gonna lay out."

"k."

I rub and I sniff. It smells like dollar bills to me. I immediately notice the numbing and it makes me laugh.

"Wow I can't feel my teeth," I say as I tap my two front ones.

I am not feeling any altered in any way, so I kick back and wait as my uncle blabs off about his past with blow.

"Yeah, I've been doing it since the 70's." He says.

"Don't let it be a problem, Jonathan. It can take over."

Ever since then I have never taken a break from blow. I have quit everything else I have experimented with, and started most back up again. I go through phases with pot and vicodin, but I am always able to stop for long periods of time- years -before deciding its ok to play agian. Blow, however, has always been with me since my uncle cut me my first line at 14.

I have gone through really, really low points and I've gone through periods of only doing one line in 3 months. At whatever capacity though, I have been able to keep my responsibilities in check. I do hope that one day, especially if I'm going to have kids, my experience with blow will only exist in my memoirs. Tonight is not the night though. At the drag show, I saw an old friend I hadn't seen since summer and he gave me some. I obliged.

We came home after the bar and I didn't share. Blow grabs me, enthralls me. It's the only thing I have while everyone else can get drunk and smoke and not be thought any less of.

"Just let me have this." I plea as I snort the rest of my blow as Justin comes back into the house.

I was at work yesterday and it was a busier Sunday than normal. I was left alone to deal with the pick-up orders - I was being buried in a pile of brown bags and white plastic forks - because my employees were hand-squeezing orange juice to keep up with the demands of LA's collective hang-over. After a line of impatient, disheveled, sunglass-wearing (it was cloudy) grumps started forming at the to-go window, I decided to allow myself a break.

I had had a few espresso's to numb myself to the boring shit working at a restaurant really is, and I often drink soda water after the coffee because I've made myself believe it somehow cleans my teeth. Neurotic tendencies aren't really my thing (I'm pretty lazy about everything), but clean teeth is the one exception. I don't drink soda. Mainly because of it's negative impact on every single health aspect of your being, but also because it's caused both of my parents to lose most of their teeth (they are hardcore coke addicts, which I want scientist to study which form of coke is worse- blow or cola...). So, yeah, I refrain from drinking any soda, except for soda water. Because I never drink cola, when I drink soda water, I notice the carbonation, and deluded myself into thinking it has cleaning action on the teeth. Don't tell me Im wrong! It comforts me :)

So yeah, I walked over to the soda fountain which is positioned by the front door to our restaurant. I always scan the restaurant for people I know, people who can give me 5 minutes of conversation and therefore steal 5 minutes away from what I owe to the restaurant. Upon my visual plea for rescue, I see T.R. Knight from Grey's Anatomy walk in the door. I immediately recognize him - I love the show - and cross my fingers that his cutie boyfriend is right behind him. His boyfriend is.

Our restaurant is full to the brim which pisses me off. I like it when it's nice and quiet and I can hear the loungey music and not worry my employees are going to be taken from me to squeeze fucking oranges. Noticeable on T.R.'s face is an immediate sense of worry and fright. Like he is some big celebrity and will be hounded by paparazzi and press and for autographs from mere mortals like us. He sees that he will have to wait for be seated in an area that is like a stage and I kinda feel for him. I see the waitress tell him how long his wait will be and T.R.'s eyes dart back and forth from table to table, hoping for a quick seat. His boyfriend never takes off his sunglasses and appears more relaxed. I know that they are not going to wait for a table, T.R., after all, IS a star and star's don't wait. I have little time to work with.

I recall from fat Perez Hilton's blog many pictures of T.R. and his boyfriend. I need money and happen to have a nice little camera on my Helio. I hate working at a restaurant and want nothing more than a nice, easily made few thousand bucks. Could I take a quick photo of a sweaty, panicking gay TV star T.J. Knight and his cute boy toy? I might be fired but who the fuck cares.

Yeah, I guess I do. It's not right, it's not cool, and as much as I get the vibe that T.J. is feeling "too good" to be waiting which annoys me, I respect him as a person. Plus, I think photos of him and his boyfriend together aren't worth shit now that T.R. made the jump out of the closet (which I completely fucking applaud).

I decide to leave them alone to head somewhere that sucks the ass of stars for tables, and I retreat back to customers screaming at me because we their egg whites weren't at the desired temperature they had barked at me earlier.

Being a 25 year-old non-drinker in Los Angeles makes me feel somewhat like Helen Keller. I am a curiosity and freak show to most, and I am incapable of existing in the same worlds as those around me. I know they are there. I can sense their presence. However, I have a different set of tools to get me through life than they. With the companionship of a few, my dark world isn't all alienation and silence, but it is still noticeably a place in which I am the only one present.

Alcohol has been a part of my life as far back as I can remember. When I was 5 or 6 and about to meet my birth father for the first time, my mom took my hand and led me into our closet-size bathroom. She gracefully put the toilet lid down (as graceful as that act can be), took a seat and gently sat me on her lap. I stared into her turquoise lined eyes and grabbed a wisp of her feathered bangs. She gazed at me with a fondness which cascaded over my being as a feeling of comfort. She took her time, and after much contemplation over sentence structure and word content, lent her voice out to me.

"Jonathan."

She said in almost a whisper, both lullaby-ing me into near-sleep and alerting me to her.

Again, "Jonathan."

"We are going to go meet somebody. You know, I have told you your whole life about your father, and, well, he is here in town and would like to meet you."

She paused again and concentrated on my face, slowly caressing my cheek with an air of importance I didn't quite understand as a 5 year old.

"I want to make sure you are okay with this before we all go down there, but I really think you should meet him. You should KNOW him."

Everything was too much for me. She had been married to my step-father, Ray, for a couple years now and he was all I knew as a father despite her regular reminders that my father was absent and not in my life. I didn't quite understand the social implications and strains and dynamics, but I knew that my real father was a dick. Why should I oblige this man's fleeting desire to meet his offspring when he never cared enough up to this point? With all these rich undertones playing in my subconscious mind, all I could really pay attention to was the fragrance that seemed to spill from my mother's lips when she whispered to me. It smelled slightly fruity and was a scent I had yet to encounter anywhere in my innocent years. I had known my mom to drink lots of beer and fruity drinks. The refrigerator's bottom shelf was the permanent home to a case of coors light. Every time we took out the trash, the tin cans clicked and clanked together in a cacophony of sound that made me giggle. However, tonight, our talk on the toilet has been the first time I associated all those drinks only adults were allowed to have with the fragrance my mom's words carried with them. I realized that these drinks affected her.

We of course went on to meet my real father in a hotel downtown. It was a meaningless encounter and just reinforced thoughts already forming in my head that he wasn't going to be a part of my existence. Mom, and my step dad, and Del (let's stop calling him birth father) all sat around and drank and talk while I played with a few little army guys that were always in my coat pocket. Del, smelling of leather jackets and booze (my mom told me she was into him because he used to be a biker), and mom and dad, smelling of booze and relief of the meeting being over, said their "goodbye"s and placed me in the car. I left that night with less memories of an irresponsible man, more realization that my parents drank.

Over the next few years my mom and step dad continued an ever-increasing alcohol consumption. Beer-fueled arguments and constant deep-emotional talks with young children blurred the late 1980's. Just when I was really starting to understand alcohol and my parent's, my mom stopped drinking and my father began to control his. Late night screaming matches and name-calling sessions were replaced by "Full House" and whatever else was on prime time television. Dad started working nights which helped their new found cause out immensely, and mom decided she would rather be depressed and sober than emotional and wrecked. For a few years of my life, I thought I wouldn't have to worry about alcohol again. Then, high school came.

Right smack dab during the first week of Freshman year in high school, I was introduced to a group of friends who would then introduce me to my new group of friends, drugs. Like our own after-school special, we all got fucked up on whatever we could forage. Weed, alcohol, random herbs from the herb store, meth....we even went as far as making ourselves pass out in the middle of drama class by hyperventilating and then choking ourselves (I really liked this high, I actually ended up doing it for a few Sunday's during Mass with the family). Though we had plenty of creative ways to get buzzed, my group of friends mainly enjoyed drinking. Of course I would drink with them, but I could never keep up. After just a few drinks or shots, I would descend into the darkest, loneliest place in the house and throw up wherever I could find. If I was successful in my endeavor to endure my personal, painful drunkenness, I would have friends ask me the next day, "Do you have any idea who puked in my basement?"

"Ewww. That's so gross, I don't have any clue who would do something like that." I would lie.

I hated drinking. I faked it for a few years so my teenage friend's would include me and refrain from making fun of me. Whether I was with my friends in Missouri or my friends in Michigan, they all drank like fish and I found it comforting. They were all interesting, smart and colorful to me, and wherever they were drinking, the party was sure to be nearby.

A friend from Michigan, Kristy, and I ended up moving to Los Angeles. She brought a hefty thirst with her, and we quickly learned we had moved to the city to quench it. Alcohol is THE culture in Los Angeles. Deals are formed with it, names are made from successful bars; your chances of making it in Hollywood are drastically cut if you do not go out to bars and clubs to socialize with a perpetual cocktail in both hands. Your press packet is obsolete without a DUI mugshot in this town.

The first couple years I was able to fake any social drinking skills. Being under 21, it was easy since I couldn't get into most bars. House parties were difficult territory but somehow I got through it with no more than two drinks. On heavier drinking nights when I would try to keep up with my friends, my reasons for being uninterested in alcohol would be re-enforced. After the third drink my thoughts would focus onto one single, depressing or offensive act which had occurred sometime in the night. This could be a guy turning me down or a friend hitting on my date or something. Whatever the small nuance was, drinking would be the magnifying glass to turn all the light in the world into one small, specific spot I couldn't get my mind off of. It never failed, everytime I drank I instantly became lethargic and mopey. The only energy I could conjure up would be to scour the immediate area for anything to support my body which immediately felt lumpy and deformed. As troubling as these experiences themselves were, I was more concerned about the very obvious difference in the way drinking had affected my friends. For the most part, they were all jubilant, social, energized....and would pester me to drink more to "feel better". I didn't feel better.

After years of experimentation, years of faking it, years of going to bars with friends and forcing myself to drink, I decided to be honest and give-up. The year I turned 21 was the year I stopped. An American institution of partying and near-death alcohol gluttony, my 21st year was my first (mainly) sober. I smoked pot a few times and it was okay. But no longer was I accepting presents of drinks.

My friend's didn't get it. I told them how alcohol reacted with me and how I was much better - and had more fun - without it. People I had just met tiptoed around the subject, guessing I was a recovering alcoholic only to laugh to my face when I informed them I "just didn't enjoy drinking."

"What's wrong with you!?" They would say with a frightful look on their faces.

I would immediately think they were joking, however after an awkward pause of a few seconds I realized they had genuinely found something wrong with me.

And that is my general experience as a non-drinking twenty-something in Hollywood. Mostly I am met with non-believers, but typically I am met with a mixed concoction of disgust and intrigue.

My whole life I have been fascinated with the concept of Pangea. As I endure an LA nightlife these days, a new Pangea comes into mind. During my younger years I shared the same land as my brothers and sisters, enjoying life in a communal world of innocence and attachments. As the ravages and stresses of responsibilities and experience erupted between me and my kin, the area of land I stood on split from the rest. Alone on this land I grew and changed, becoming increasingly isolated from the closest soul by a cold and dark ocean. On my island I am left to my own devices for comfort and consolation. Occasionally, others come to visit. However, it is more of an anthropologic study rather than a joyful reunion. They stay, observe me in my habitat, take notes, and it soon becomes apparent they can't wait to get back to their lives across the sea.

Justin drinks a bit more than anyone I have ever been this close to. It has caused us problems on more than one occasion, and last night was no different. I begged him to stay home with me (I had a difficult day at work), and he promised he would only go out for a few hours, then be home to cuddle me into a relaxing sleep. I fell asleep waiting for him to return, then awakened from a sweaty nightmare to find a lonely pillow next to me. A quick glance towards the clock said 5:30 AM, so with a sense of panic I fumbled with my phone and somehow made it call him. With a ringing phone as a soundtrack, I was treated to horrible images of Justin in a horrible car wreck. He picked up after a few rings and relief set across my mind, giving itself to anger.

"Hey Baby." he said, sounding more alert than I would imagine for that early in the morning.

"Where are you?" I mumbled.

"At a friends house, sleeping on the floor. I thought it would be better to stay here than to drive home drunk." He admitted.

"Yeah I guess so." I forced out.

I was up for another couple hours fearful of how alcohol had once again made it's way back into my life. This, I told myself, was it's cruelest attack yet. I love Justin, but yet again I am competing with alcohol and its victims. I am alone, on my island, and the rest of the world doesn't know what to make of me.

I feel myself becoming a man. It's noticeable and unsettling. I once was a boy in the Midwest who came out to California to follow boyish dreams. Now I feel the sharp awareness of responsibility acquiring real-estate in my head. Dreams I had always dreamed are turning into childish naivety I look back upon with an "awe, i was so cute" sort of mind. I'd like to write words and music and be able to support a family nicely off of it. In the meantime I do the restaurant thing and worry every day that it is my destiny. Luckily, I have a great boyfriend to take my mind off the mundane bullshit it takes to survive in LA.

On second thought, having a boyfriend is great for getting your mind off of many other great nuances that are Hollywood-specific. Working a service job (cashier / delivery person at a restaurant in my case) in Hollywood can obviously be stressful and busy, but it also is more in-your-face depressing than in other cities I have lived in. When I was a restaurant host at The Cheesecake Factory in Kansas City (I'm from the suburbs around there), the guests who would come in to enjoy the 30-page, add-ridden menu were basically n the same income bracket and class as me. Therefore, though I knew I was making $9 an hour doing a job meant for students, it was rarely re-enforced by the over-fed Midwesterners I was seating. Everyday that I work in Hollywood, I am constantly reminded my class, my wage and of the horrifying possibility that restaurant work is the end-all for me. Just the other day, after serving Simon Rex his pasta and pellegrino, I had a vision of me in 40 years with a cigarette barely clinging to my lips and a name-tag reading "Doris". I was working at Denny's on Sunset Blvd. and serving Maddox Jolie-Pitt his stupid soy-pancakes. I am petrified. I need to change something. Luckily, I have Justin to come home to and love me. But, still, I'm not getting any younger.

I am 25. I've lived in Hollywood for almost 8 years. Before that it was Detroit, before that, KC. Yup, if you do the math correctly, I was 17 when I moved to LA. Every time someone learns this, their jaws drop and eyes widen and utter something like "How did you move here at 17?!"

At first, I had no clue why they were shocked. I had been living on my own and supporting myself since i was 15 1/2. I had been traveling around the country with friends and visiting big cities and paying bills and carrying mace and working and all that. Moving to LA was a cinch by 17. However, as the years have passed and as 30 (30 is the new 20 and all that) and "adulthood" have shown themselves on the horizon, I realize how fucked up it is that I moved ANYWHERE on my OWN at 17, and, more importantly, that I didn't get all messed up or had to move home or any shitty, unfortunate thing. In fact, my therapist encourages me to pat myself on my back once in awhile for just plain surviving. So, Yay Me!

But how boring is "just plain surviving"? Very, in my opinion. Thankfully, life in Los Angeles, though it hasn't killed me or made me go back to ma and pop with my tail between my legs, has been very colorful and educational. I have many good stories and entries in me, all of which I am very excited about.

Yes, I'm practically married. It's hard in LA, but I am one of the lucky ones because my guy makes it easy. My boyfriend is Justin. He's a fellow Missouri boy, which I owe part of our success to. Justin is 29 and moved from the Midwest in September of 2006 to be with me. Actions speak louder than words, and he left his job, family and life back home to begin his journey with me. He loves me and I him. We are sickening and gooey together and have talked about having the sickness bags they give you on airplanes available to all guests who enter our home/love/sex nest.

Speaking of our nest, we have recently moved into a 1 1/2 bedroom home in the Silverlake neighborhood of Los Angeles. We moved from a studio in Hollywood which we shared for 3 months, and I lived in for 4 years. Having all the space is great, but it freaks me out. For years I've been used to having one room with all my shit in it. Now, I am constantly losing shit and it exaggerates how old i feel in my mind. No fun. Also, there is more crap to clean. Blah. I am not the cleanest person around, not the dirtiest either, but cleaning is something I do not enjoy. Justin is my perfect match, and one reason is his neurotic-cleaning tendencies. Though slightly crazy, they match my laziness perfectly. LOVE :)

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