“The Gay Dave Barry” is what Marc Acito calls himself because some notable publication somewhere said he was and it’s a nice hook. Personally, I think he does himself a disservice. Marc Acito would do better to fashion himself the “The gay Marc Acito.” Dave Barry is an amusing mortal while Marc Acito, well, he may just be divine.

Marc Acito is gay man cute, in the way that all gay man look 25 even when they’re really a decade or two older. And when he speaks, he’s kind of adorable. I started to fall for him around minute 2 when he announced that he’d soon be skipping into PG-13 territory and then, as he progressed through his talk, running full boar into R. The truth is I adore people who swear. My husband says I swear like a truck driver, or a sailor, or maybe my dad. I’ve come to realize that I don’t trust people who don’t swear and I always assume they’re Republican. The well-placed, calculated cuss word provides emphasis, context, flavor in otherwise bland language, and if done well, is disarmingly welcome, like a cold Slurpee on a hot day. It says, “I’m going to be myself and you be yourself too.” We’re all friends here. Fuck yeah.

The self-deprecating humor, the admission that he had always battled with his weight, the short, concise syllabus free of any spelling errors, these were hooking me too. And then it happened. Somewhere around minute 5, Marc launched into a spiel about one of his all time favorite examples of good comedy, ie, “The Aristocrats.” I nearly fell out of my tinny, uncomfortable chair. “That’s the film!” I whispered to Santa as I elbowed him in the rib (Santa’s big-toothed smile told me I hadn’t hurt him). The Aristocrats was the very film whose name I couldn’t recall, the one I had, twenty minutes before, described to Santa (see earlier post) in great detail. And with Santa’s mouth still open, Marc then mentioned another film, the very same film Santa had described to me as his counterpoint to The Aristocrats. So there we were--me, Marc and Santa-- hanging out having some beautifully weird psychic conversation while everyone else faded out of scene. The energy was palpable, like a great planetational alignment, or déjà vu and kismet combined.

So as Marc Acito, an intelligent cusser, entertained the blue hairs and me with his bawdy tales of this comedian and that, I found myself slipping into a warm, gooey daydream in which my longstanding fantasy had finally, inexorably, come true: I had at long last found my darling, a fellow kindred spirit, a lover of all things on Bravo, a connoisseur of the darkest of comedy, and the one person to whom I might confess my secret fondness for Christina Aguilera. Yes, here he was, my one, my only, my Ultimate Gay Best Friend.

I was smiling and purring and pushy-pushing into the cozy blanket that was this delicious fantasy as Marc deftly segued into an aside about writers. He was explaining how, on book tours, it’s always dicey when you place the authors in a room together and ask them to name their favorite film. As Marc relayed this little non-sequitor I smiled knowingly. Marc explained it this way: “Someone will say ‘Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind’ and some other guy will name a brooding German film that no one’s ever heard of, one of those arty films, and then there’s me.” His favorite movie, it turns out, is that provocative tour de force, that cinematic masterpiece, “Mean Girls” with Lindsay Lohan. This speaks volumes about Marc. First, we are, yet again, kindred spirits. Not because we have the same favorite film, (We don’t--I’d say “To Die For”) but because I’m also the pretentious writer who thinks she’s an artist type who would have probably named Eternal Sunshine as a knee-jerk reaction. Yes, I’m her. But then, having heard Mean Girls, would have been forced to change my answer because Mean Girls rocks. You have to really work to watch Eternal SunshineOTSM and you better have some serious alcohol on hand, a strong port or an expensive Syrah and at the very least, a huge bar of expensive dark chocolate. And you better be prepared to stop the DVD so your husband can analyze the use of that trick camera angle in the last frame or because you have to share your insipid deep ponderings given that now, watching the hallway scene for the third time, you see yet another layer to the already heavily layered allegory on the nature of true love and besides, you missed Kate Winslet’s last line as you were too busy nursing an inner debate on whether or not you could, indeed, pull off her festive Ronald McDonald fiery red hair. Where ESOTSM is tedious, Mean Girls is effortless. You don’t need a damn thing to watch Mean Girls, even tap water will do. I suspect that a fondness for Mean Girls is just about as rare for a gay man as loving Valley of the Dolls or Cher, but at that perfect moment, sitting eight feet away from Marc, with all those happy whiz-bang energy currents flying by, I will admit it: I was entranced.

Suddenly, I am wrenched out of my haze when a woman in the front row to my right readjusts her large buttocks causing her chair to squeak noisily and some old guy behind me laughs at precisely the wrong moment, a large, throaty guffaw that I find more amusing than the joke's now-deflated punch-line. (I find most social improprieties amusing). I am jolted awake and must focus. Marc is reading aloud from a book with pink script decorating the lower third corner of the front cover, the only part I can see. I bend forward casually and pretend I’m brushing off imaginary lint from my shoe and yes, he is reading “Hypocrite in a Pouffy White Dress”by Susan Jane Gilman, the very same memoir I started to read a month ago but got derailed when my book club chose the truly awful Amy Tan novel, “The Bonesetter’s Daughter.” Marc seems to think “Hypocrite” is pretty good writing. Hmm, must get back to Hypocrite, give it another try. Hey, maybe Marc and I could form our own bookclub. I must talk to Marc, must ask him out for a drink, but how best to do this? It is while Marc is discussing the power of exaggeration and as I’m forming my buy-you-a-drink strategy that I realize I’m way out of practice. OK, 6 years ago it was the cosmopolitan—so done—then 4 years ago, it was the mojito right? I’ve noticed people drinking margaritas, but that option seems boring. But wait, maybe I’ve got this all wrong. Are cosmos retro cool, everything-old-is-new again? I have no idea. I’ve been out of commission, in writing school, pregnant and therefore ineligible for hard alcohol, had a baby and then was desperate for alcohol but with no time to drink it. What the fuck is the drink du jour? Must think. Must wow Marc. Must appear to be a fun, rare, tasty morsel, a chantrelle mushroom in the dunghill that is this poorly dressed town.

My time is up. Marc has finished speaking. I look around and because the old people are slow to move, I have a clear path. I rush him, my hand outstretched like I’m greeting a US Senator (the graceful maneuver and strong grip simultaneously connote polite deference to the handshakee and inner confidence—I used to work for a US Senator so I’m well practiced :-). In the two seconds that it takes me to reach the podium, he’s checked me out in the way that every gay man will give you a quick once over if you are under 80 and a reasonably attractive woman. Thank God I wore the nice blousy number with my cleavage sufficiently prominent. Too bad I opted for the baggy-assed jeans.
“Hi, I’m Emily Rose and I just have to tell you that I love you,”I say. It’s not a gush. It’s like the handshake—purposeful and firm.
“Thanks, Emily Rose.” I like how he says my name. He makes it lilt.
“I wanted to ask you . . . So what do you think of Sarah Silverman?” I’ve had this question since about 11 minutes into his speech. I luuuv Sarah Silverman. She’s just so damn edgy.
“Love her” his eyebrow raised and his octave a tad higher. “But she’s very edgy. Walk with me, Emily Rose.” (Only gay men can say “Walk with me” and pull it off).
We glide past the blue hairs while briefly discussing “Jesus is Magic,” Sarah’s movie. We both agree the film was disappointing and I nod when he opines that she’s much better at standup. And then Marc and I have finished walking and we’re standing at the back table. Festively decorated copies of Marc’s book, “How I Paid for College”are laid out before us and a throng of hungry fans stand ready to lick and paw at Marc, or at the very least, have him sign their copies.
“I’ll let you do your thing,” I say, stepping backwards and to the side of the table. Marc busies himself signing autographs. He stops in mid conversation with a fat woman to ask me to sign my name to his mailing list and I do this and wait while a middle-aged man—his hair and vibe says blowhard—attempts to regale Marc with tales of meeting Dave Barry. Marc feigns being impressed but I like that he doesn’t put too much effort into it. I can tell he’s waiting for blowhard to step aside. In the meantime, I have purchased Marc’s book. Soon, the table is clear of hangers-on. All except me. Marc smiles as I hand him the book.

“Emily Rose. Is that your full name?” (Again with the beautiful lilt).
“First and middle” I say and then we launch into a conversation about “Hypocrite.” I do not tell Marc that the book has yet to move me. I stopped at page 42—nice stories but no real cohesion. But Marc, my Ultimate Gay Best Friend, is psychic. We always agree, implicitly. He says something like, “I wasn’t completely blown away by the beginning, wasn’t sure where she was taking me. But do put in the effort. At the end there’s a nice payoff.” I lean in and with my best casual voice ask him if he’d allow me to buy him a lemon drop. I have a certain bar in mind—the bartender makes the best lemon drops in the state and the deep mahogany wood and soft-glow lighting reminds me of a European bistro. Marc tells me that he’s driving home to Portland immediately following the reading and when he says “Otherwise, I’d love to” I kind of think he means it. Then he hands me the signed copy of his book. It reads,
“For Emily Rose. A kindred spirit. Be splendid! Marc Acito.”

A Very Good Day

Yesterday was a very good day. My husband took a personal day off from work for his wife’s “mental health.” He was Dada for the day, and I was writer chick first, Mama second. This meant I could go to the Lucille Clifton 10AM poetry reading and feel smug and slightly agitated as a little girl, two years old I imagined, babbled incoherently in the back of the auditorium. Can’t her mother remove her for the 45 glorious minutes wherein Lucille has the floor? Lucille, a woman of far more patience and grace than I, used the tiny heckler to launch into yet another sweet, yet quietly subversive poem. I took a deep breath and was transported . . . until the little fucker shouted “blah.”

Lucille rocked the house and that was just the beginning of my day. Cut to the near end. . . I grabbed a front row seat at a Willamette Writer’s craft lecture and busied myself by reading the little pamphlet the snarky woman at the greeter’s table had given me--after she tried to bilk me out of an extra $5. I handed her the ten, smiled sweetly and said, “Isn’t it $5?”
“Wellllll, there is a sliding scale.” Yes and that sliding scale means 8 more tins of applesauce for my baby, bitch.

Undaunted, I lunged for the thick pamphlet she held hostage under one elbow. “Are those free?”
“Oh yes, please do take one.”
So there I was sitting in the front row, skimming the free pamphlet, the very boring free pamphlet detailing the workshops at this year’s very boring Willamette Writer’s Conference. Will it be “Mindfulness practice and the writing process” or “Yes, you do have a voice?” Arghh. But wait, hark, the dates are August 4 through 6 and I’m scheduled to be touring wineries, riding horses and eating lobster with my husband, baby boy, sister, mother and a bevy of her friends for my mom’s festive 60th birthday at the always lovely Skamania lodge on the Oregon/Washington border. Gorgeous. Crisis averted.

So there I sat, pamphlet read, wondering why it was that I had chosen to wear a bright blue low-cut fake silk blousy number with 3/4 sleeves when the room temperature was 82 degrees. Why tonight when Dr. Scholls and old man shorts abound behind me? And did I camp out in the front row because I was thrilled to be within 8 feet of the keynote author, Marc Acito? Or was it because sitting further back and staring out into the sea of white, blue, silver and pewter haired heads one more time might be so overwhelmingly depressing that I’d be forced to chuck the evening’s syllabus, sprint back to my Volvo and speed home to my husband and this week’s Tivo’d episode of House? So there I was mulling over the evening’s potential suckage factor when an older gentlemen motioned at the seat to my right. Was it taken? he asked. No I said, smiling sweetly as I thought to myself, Christ, there is no escaping. But I am, despite my sharp, critical nature, an optimist at heart and a bored one at that. I chatted up this gentleman and soon we were like old friends. He had kind eyes. (Writers overuse this line but in this case, trust me, they were the kindest—light green, twinkling eyes like Santa).
The evening’s topic was comedy and how to make your writing funnier so we talked comedy. He opened with Lewis Black and I countered with love him and did you know that despite his acerbic humor, he’s beloved by other comics for his quiet, generous nature? No, older gentlemen did not know this. Oh yes, I said, you must must must rent this little documentary where I think I heard this about Lewis. Yes, a great film, the name of which I can’t recall right now. Shoot, Mr. Gentlemen sir. You’re so very nice and I sense you possess a truly youthful funny bone, and this film, while naughty as hell, I do think may afford you a few chuckles. The film is about the dirtiest joke in the business, a joke I’m not going to say partly because it’s so filthy even I won’t say it, partly because I’m hormonal and can remember neither the fucking film’s name nor the punchline but mainly because the punchline constantly changes. It’s the joke that comics twist and contort in an effort to amuse each other backstage, the profession’s in-joke with infinite versions. Do rent it, Santa. Santa, for his part, dutifully scribbled down the description and volleyed back with yet another comedic moment. Santa and I were in the zone and Marc Acito hadn’t even taken the floor.

Did I mention I’m in love? No, not with Santa, silly (although he’d make a great rent-a-Grampa for my son). No, I’m in love with the gay Dave Barry, Marc Acito. More to come on this later. . .

Obviously I'm a hypocrite.

A few summers ago as we sipped strawberry lemonade beneath a warm Oregon sun, I announced to my husband in that matter of fact, willful Emily voice, "I will never write my own blog." When pressed why, I muttered something about bloggers being navel gazing narcissists, and besides, "too expected." (I was in my second year of grad school for nonfiction and feeling haughty). So here I am, one baby later, no gainful employment to speak of (who has time when there's always banana to scrape off the floor?) and too many postponed essays to count. Hell, I need an outlet and this will suffice.
I am currently reading a book about failed friendships called "The Friend that Got Away." These are riveting philosophical "how was it that we could confuse friendship with obsession" type essays exploring the ways we bend and break in our girl on girl relationships. Whatever. None has really grabbed me and I've read 5 or 6. I am reading this book because I wish my best friend would softly, whisper-like, tip toe off-stage and never return again. She needs to go away and I need a vacation. I don't know how to tell her this. She's lived in my house for the past two months--making out with my husband's best friend on our living room couch while my one year old takes his afternoon nap, leaving cigarette butts on our back deck. Her stench is slowly, steadily creeping into the crevices of my life. I can no longer locate my salad spinner and suddenly there's shitty low calorie beer in the fridge. We were her first stopping point in her pending divorce so I've certainly had the opportunity to have the discussion and ever so gently kick the bitch out. But each time I've tried, she's preempted me with another physical ailment. Another headache, this time radiating from the neck, another trip to the physical therapist, this time to fix a floating rib. She has been working solidly, triumphantly to rid herself of her addiction to prescription painkillers but in this tortured process, has morphed into a hypochondriac, a Munchausen's patient, or much worse, a self-pitying, nonresponsive stranger. And I don't care. She is, no, was my best friend and I want her gone.
This gaping hole where lazy days spent in bathing suits and naughty jokes used to be has screwed up my sleep and made me surly for weeks. My lungs grow tight and my butt scrunches every time I think of her. That's her saying by the way, as in "that stupid saying just makes my butt scrunch." But in the end, this best friend break-up is but a pinprick in the otherwise glossy silk fabric of my life. Up next could be anything: Packing for Mexico (thank God Monkey Boy loves the tiny matchbox cars), Am I pregnant? (It would appear Seasonale birth control doesn't work) and just how does one convince Grandma to wave bye bye to the Bay Area and hello sleepy Oregon so Mama can have a few hours to write and maybe grab a mojito now and then? Currently we're thinking the soft sell/cheeky power point presentation is the way to go. Smiling Monkey Boy in front of our quaint little bungalow, pensive MB propped up in his first apple tree, or pajama'd MB pointing gleefully at this year's one and only snowfall. (This kid blows me away, he's such a freakin' ham in front of the camera. It's kinda scary. Old soul scary.) But don't let the idyllic settings and grinning, photogenic baby fool you, Grandma. Oh no. Monkey boy may be happy, but he still loves and misses his favorite Grandma. The one who brought "Doggie" into our lives, Doggie, the soft, blanket-like stuffed animal whom MB clutches lovingly, desperately as he peers up at us from his crib moments before he emits that death screach howl. Doggie is, out of 2,612 plastic ducks, plush bears and annoying turtle flutes, the only inanimate object that MB truly adores. Doggie quells the beast that is my child at bedtime. I think Grandma could be the human version of Doggie. He's a calmer, more serene version of himself in her presence. Less crack monkey and more sweet, cherubic boy. If the slide show doesn't work, I'll be forced to resort to outright begging. I can't believe I'm admitting this, but I want to live near my mother. It's taken me 32 years to say this but my name is Emily and I do love and need, really need, my mother.
In short, this best friend break-up trauma is keeping me from focusing on more important issues. For example, why don't we have rent-a-Grandma? There's got to be a market for that. Maybe not rent, why not Adopt a Grandma, a nonprofit that partners sweet, goodnatured people over sixty with a lot of time on their hands with adorable babies and precocious toddlers that have parents who are too cheap to hire sitters. We could cook them dinner. It's win, win.