These are my recollections of September 11th, 2001. Originally posted on “Clever Title Goes Here” on September 11th, 2006.

803 N. Van Dorn Street is approximately three miles as the crow flies from the Pentagon, and that was my address in the city of Alexandria. My birthday evening was spent at a tapas bar, where five hours later I was projectile vomiting from eating bad mussels. The next morning, I didn’t go out to Fairfax, where I worked. I was home, in bed, three miles from the Pentagon with no idea that my entire existence was about to change.

 When I woke up, I went to my computer (always) to check e-mail and to talk to friends in Houston. My Republican friend, Jim, instant messaged me frantically. “Leslie, a plane has just hit one of the towers at the World Trade Center. TURN ON THE NEWS. As I went to the television, I heard a sonic boom that sounded like it was just across the street. The walls rattled. My neighbor told me that the noise was so loud that one of the pictures had come off her wall. Because of the distance of the Pentagon from my house, I didn’t suspect what had happened until I saw a feed of it on CNN. It was then that I went into complete and total shock.

The phone lines were jammed, and my panic grew as I couldn’t reach my wife, my parents, my sister… anyone. I sat alone in my house and wondered how long I personally was going to be under attack. I was so numb with shock that it didn’t occur to me to think of anybody else, because survival mode had taken over. I am not kidding when I say that the federal air space above my house was flooded within the hour. Fighter jets flew above my head for the next 54 hours- one every ten minutes.

Finally, my wife was let go from work and sent home, and when she came through the door, we held each other so tightly that we each thought we might suffocate, but neither wanted to let go. The feeling in the room was that we didn’t have to go back to Houston, but we wanted to get the hell out of DC. The only thing that stopped us was that we didn’t know which city would be under attack next, and it was probably better to stay in the house with the fighter jets over it than no fighter jets at all.

My parents and my in-laws had no idea what was going on, and they couldn’t reach us by phone. I don’t remember if they contacted us by e-mail, but it was several days before we could talk to them. By the time we were connected, we were overcome with emotion at hearing their voices. My in-laws wanted us to pack up and move immediately. My dad was the voice of calm in the situation, saying that Houston was under just as much threat right then because of the massive amount of refineries in the area, and we might as well stay put.

The end of the day was terrifying. We didn’t want to go to sleep. We sat on the kitchen floor and cried so hard that we were shaking with grief. We prayed for all the people who had been lost, and their families who had to really experience it. Oh, wait- no. We weren’t really that selfless. We were scared out of our minds, and even though we could see past ourselves into the lives of others, at least a good hour of the shaking was not knowing what the hell to do. Analyzation made us paralyzed.

The months afterward were tough. The part of the Pentagon that had been hit was visible to the freeway, and getting into DC took hours for those first few days because so many people stopped to cry and gape.

At Christmastime, we flew home through National Airport. There were little boys, 18-year-olds, with fully automatic weapons at every turn. People were getting frustrated and loud as they had to unwrap all of their presents, and to me it was a little bit silly. Why get upset when we were practically at Defcon OH MY FUCK? For the first time, I had a woman probe the zipper on my jeans and the underwire on my bra. At that time, we did not have to take off our shoes… but we did wish that we’d booked through Dulles.

Slowly, things got back to normal… though lots of sermons at church were about the tragedy and the rebuilding plan. I’m not sure that you ever get over it, nor do you learn to live with it- as I so eloquently heard on the news yesterday. You just live it.

And tell it. And retell it.

I found this in the Web Archive  of my old blog, “Clever Title Goes Here,” and thought you might like to read it. Originally written in 8/2003.
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What is the first semi-major purchase you made with your own money, why did you decide to purchase that item, and how did you raise the money to buy it?

Even now, but especially as a child, I was a sucker for those “AS SEEN ON TV” products. I didn’t realize that people in infomercials were allowed to stretch the truth, and sometimes even LIED. So, anyway, I was watching this infomercial for the SCANDINAVIAN SNOWBALL RING- a huge pearl ring that, for some reason, captivated me. I thought it was so beautiful that I watched the infomercial over and over again. I started saving up my money. It was only four payments of nineteen ninety nine plus tax, shipping, and handling. It didn’t matter. I didn’t mind. With a SCANDINAVIAN SNOWBALL RING, I would be glamorous. Beautiful people wore SCANDINAVIAN SNOWBALL RINGS.

Eventually, my parents noticed that I was working so hard to buy this ring and getting frustrated because four payments of nineteen ninety nine was a lot of money for a six year old. They decided to order it for me and have it under the tree at Christmas.

On Christmas morning, my mother presented me with a small brown cardboard box. It had been mailed from somewhere in California. Could it be? Could I possibly be getting the SCANDINAVIAN SNOWBALL RING that my heart so desired?

I opened the box. There, nestled in cloth, was the most beautiful ring I had ever seen in my entire six years of life. It was even more shiny, more brilliant than it had been on television. I was so overwhelmed that I didn’t even know what to say. I could only stare at the box and wonder how Santa knew I had been trying so hard.

Forty five minutes later, sounds that could only be identified as six year old broken heart were coming from my bedroom. The SCANDINAVIAN SNOWBALL had rolled off of its perch sealed with cheap glue, never to be found again.

Dear David,

I had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting you at the end of a reading in Portland, Oregon. I say “unfortunately,” because it was not pleasant. I have read every one of your books and I love the face you present to the world so much that I didn’t want time to slip away and the chance to thank you vanished.

So I’m standing in the top balcony trying to ask a question and it’s too loud for even me to hear me. All of the sudden, it was quiet enough and I yelled, “DAVID! LOOK UP HERE!”

You put your microphone to your mouth and you said, “ohhhhhhhh, we do not yell.”

I am so sorry, I acted like a jackass. But it was for a very good cause.

You are one of the people that’s helped me make sense of my life. Hearing your Southern drawl talking about growing up gay in North Carolina takes me back to my own childhood in Northeast Texas. We are kindred spirits, and yet not. I know you on the page. I won’t say that I love you, I will say I love “that you.”.

We both know what that means.

I am in the infant stages of launching a huge web site. It’s one of the best things I’ve ever done in my life, because I feel open and free instead of closed and stupid. Writing is definitely the best job you’ll ever have if you write about yourself, because not only do you figure out the times in your life when you’ve been a dickhead, you have an ever-present reminder in the faces of others.

Tears rolled down my face as I listened to your interview on Q with Jian Gilmeshi. We shared a moment through transparent waves. For the first time, I had words to express what I was feeling, and I broke like a dam.

Thank you, David. It is a moment that has divided time, kind of like dropping to the floor and praying in the bathroom launched Elizabeth Gilbert’s career.

Speaking of praying, this is what I wanted to tell you at your concert that night.

I love Christianity again, and one of the reasons why is that I read “Jesus Shaves.” I learned why it was important. God is always going to be around because it has been argued to death- there is simply no way to prove God is not real. And there are always going to be things we can’t explain on earth, so we all turn to our respective religions and talk to our gods, even if it’s money or drugs. What if there’s no God? Just sit with that for a minute. If there was no God, would you regret one second of the time you spent praying? I’m guessing not, because for a lot of people, that’s the only time of the day when they get quiet enough to hear what their consciences have to say.

I choose to believe that the voice that talks back to me is God, even if it’s completely ridiculous. As C.S. Lewis famously said, “I pray because I can’t help myself. I pray because I’m helpless. I pray because the need flows out of me all the time, waking and sleeping. It doesn’t change God, it changes me!” It is the most eloquent quote about prayer I’ve ever heard. I got that feeling again in “Jesus Shaves” because of the denouement- basically, and I’m paraphrasing, “would this conversation have gone any better if we’d had the right words?”

Probably not. The words of faith are as sacred as your heartbeat. There’s no way to bring them up to the surface. They don’t live there.

A great example of this is Pope Francis declaring that if you do good works, you are redeemed… including atheists. Atheists don’t give a crap about redemption, but I give a crap about treating atheists with kindness. God is just my opinion. Not God is just theirs. Christians are not responsible for how atheists react. Christians are responsible for not treating people like crap just because they’re not “one of us.”

There’s just so much “one of us” in the world, David. Even if we don’t believe in God, we still believe we’re chosen. Everybody’s culture is better than everybody else’s. It never stops.

Until people run across your short story and preferably, your voice reading it. Your care coming through as you think about how you can explain something in French for which you’d have trouble in English.

You show your vulnerability, and they show theirs. I especially love the bit where you are speaking the English equivalent of what you said in French, because that’s exactly how I speak Spanish. When I was 17, I went to Mexico on a mission trip, and I gave my testimony. It was something like “thank you for the day to speak with the children. We went to church, we read the Bible…” At this point, I am utterly terrified. That’s pretty much all I know. The best part of that trip was that I only knew how to speak Spanish in the present tense, so I couldn’t express what had happened and what was coming. I could only live now, ahora mismo. In those ways, I see the similarity of our hilarity.

“But a bell, though… that’s fucked up.”

It’s interesting. Dana and I both ran into people from our respective bus rides within a week. Today I walked to the convenience store across from our apartment building because I’m a member of the coffee club- and I’m a writer- so there’s never a moment when I don’t need a cup (Don’t worry. I see how that sounds. I just can’t fix it. The tenth one’s free). I see this guy as I’m leaving and we recognize each other. I remember him from a bus ride a few months before. He asks me how I’ve been. I tell him that I’m great. I’m unemployed for the moment, but I’m writing a ton and my blog is in the infant stages of success. I ask him how he’s doing, and he says, “I don’t want to tell you, because your story is so happy and mine is so sad.” For once in my life, I realized that God was working through me. I didn’t just feel it. I knew it. I said, “I’m unemployed and I’m a blogger. I think I can JUGGLE SOME STUFF AROUND. I have time to listen, but I can totally understand if you don’t want to talk.” He pulled out his Gatorade and sat down.

I don’t want to endanger his privacy, but a long story short is that he’s an Australian chef looking for a job. He was born here, but he hasn’t lived here in a long time. He told me that even driving was different, and I understood that to mean that he thought it was intimidating. Don’t worry, that’s normal. Portland traffic only has two kinds: the ones that are patient and accommodating, and the ones that would run you over even if they saw their mother in the back seat. It seems as if there is no happy medium. His father is dying, and he has trouble keeping his composure.

When I saw his need, I physically reacted. I listened to his story, about being a Chef but because he hasn’t been a Chef in the United States for so very long, people aren’t exactly forthcoming with work. But he’s brilliant. He wants his space to succeed. I looked at him, and I said, “I trust you. I’m going to tell you something I don’t tell very many people (editor’s note: in real life, I mean. When I talk about “work stuff” to my wife, or to anyone else, really, they tend to get a very glazed look in their eyes.*). My web site has had over 2,400 views in the last 30 days. It’s growing at a rate of 50 to 100 viewers every single day. I’ll tell you what: you get a chef gig and I’ll promote you on my web site and direct customers toward your restaurant. If I get famous before you, I’ll take you with me. You get famous before me, you take me with you.” I meant it, too. There are few people in this world as beloved as food columnists.

The light returned to his eyes and he started to smile.

He looked at me, and I said, “do you feel better?” He said, “I feel amazing! Thank you so much!”

He took my cell phone number and promised to call.

I wanted to pray with him, just to get inside his energy space to assure him that no matter how things work out, he’d have the strength and vision to move on. I resisted that temptation because I didn’t want to look like a religious zealot. It didn’t matter. I didn’t have to pray with him to lift his spirits. I didn’t do it with money. I did it with hope.

Amen.

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*I feel Jesus’s pain; It’s that whole “can anything good come out of Nazareth? thing all over again. It’s Haterade, Jesus. Remember, you drink Starbucks!

Jesus: I drink Starbucks now?

Me: Yes, dear one. The Vatican got in on the ground floor with Pepsi. They’re giving it to us at cost.

Jesus: Meaning that I can I have all the bottles of coffee I can drink?! This is GREAT! I can do amazing things so much faster!

Me: Yes, and the plain sweetened coffee is only 50 calories per bottle!

Jesus: But the best part of heaven is that I can have anything I want and never gain any weight. I will always look like the famous artists painted me. All beautiful and gorgeous and white. What a laugh! Don’t they know I was born in the Middle East? I look more like Aziz Ansari!

Me: And you’re just as funny, sir.

Jesus: What’s that “sir” stuff? Haven’t we been friends your entire life? Wasn’t I there when you got drunk and told a deaf guy, “I think it’s so cool that you’re deaf?”

Me: Nevvvvver going to let me forget that one, are you? Did you not see my real intention? He got to sit in on the forefront of cochlear implants. He got to WITNESS HISTORY IN HIS OWN HEAD!

Jesus: I did, and you’re awesome, but I can’t help giving you shit when it’s just so easy.

Me: Thanks, Jesus. I do what I can. Tell the old man I said hello, would you?

Jesus: Mom thinks you’re a bad girl. (editor’s note: I am instantly frozen in terror.)

Me: What is it now?

Jesus: Kidding, she just wants you to send Francis her regards. She loves him like she loves me.

Me: Of course I’ll do that, Jesus. Francis is the best thing that’s happened to the Catholic church in a long time. Have you listened to The Moth? That story about the guy barely out of medical school who saved Mother Theresa from dying eight years before she actually did?

Jesus: You’re kidding ME! I was there!

Me: I keep forgetting that you have this whole timey-wimey thing going on.

Jesus: I keep forgetting that you don’t. I know your whole life. I wish you could see mine.

Me: I could’ve if your father had had one ounce of insight that we were going to want to know everything. We only get the highlights. You’re such a hero, but you’re so much more attractive when you’re flawed. I prefer you not as Jesus Almighty, but Jesus, that dude who tried to learn everything. Literally! Everything! What did you see after you left the temple at 12? Did a spaceship land and little burritos walk out? Did you have to bum enough money for a Middle Eastern breakfast- impossibly strong cigarette, muddy coffee that leaves the top of your hair buzzing, and a newspaper that you probably can’t read- not because you don’t know the language, but you don’t know the slang.

Jesus: True. It’s hard to keep up. But at least I have your blog.

Me: You say that to all the writers.

Jesus: Are you offended?

Me: No, we need you more than most.

(really must buy the url “slangforjesus.com.” It would be a way to categorize slang so that Jesus would know what the fuck we’re talking about when he comes back. Kind of like Urban Dictionary, but for the Savior of the world’s sins. Instead of having $80 used t-shirts, it would have $10 towels monogrammed “I said wash, dude.”)

Ok, Fanagans. I told you that I would tell you the truth about myself, good or bad. Today I don’t have good or bad news. It just is what it is. I’ve had a few friends tell me that I sound like I’m going into hypomania on my blog, and these are the kind of friends that I trust. I feel that they could be onto something, but at the same time, I also see the flip side of the coin. Because I trust my friends enough to know that they’re probably right doesn’t mean that my story isn’t emotionally valid. Feeling both sides of the equation doesn’t give me the perspective that it does to others, so I just thought I would take a minute and address what’s going on.

First of all, Dana and I are struggling financially. This is important if you’re thinking about giving the web site a donation, but not in the grand scheme of things. I’m not saying anything one way or another, it just is. Because we’re struggling financially and I don’t have a job, I don’t feel productive when I’m not writing. The impulse to take care of Dana and to get noticed as fast as possible has very little to do with my current state and everything to do with feeling panicky about how to make ends meet. Publishing comes from my drive to show everyone that I’m worth their time. I have the experience.

I have been involved with writing and coding for the web since I was 19 years old. The first time I put up a web page, it was to impress my first love, Meagan. I don’t think she gave a rat’s ass that I did the web site, but it did give me a marketable skill. There wasn’t a single class that I flunked at University of Houston, because every time I thought I was going to get an F, I offered to make the professor a web site. It worked every time.

Or, at least, it did back then. Now there are content management systems as easy to use as Microsoft Office. Back then, though, you couldn’t just type. You had to know your strong from your em (Webmasters HOLLA!). I learned everything I could get my hands on, because the Internet was a way for me to communicate.

I am an introvert. I have always been an introvert. That doesn’t mean I don’t like you, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to spend time with you, but it doesn’t add energy to my mood. It drains me. Extroverts have extra energy in public and have trouble reflecting in private. I’m reading this great book, Introvert Power, and it’s teaching me all sorts of stuff that I didn’t know about myself before. For instance, I didn’t know that I didn’t want time without people, I need it to function in the world.

This blog has provided me with a way to dream bigger than I ever have before, because the way the publication cycle goes, I can work anywhere and everywhere. The drawback to this enormous job is that I don’t get paid… but that doesn’t mean it’s not important. There are women all over the world that support a partner and kids off of a blog like mine. I need a solid body of work before the web site can sustain on its own. I am the restaurant owner watching his kitchen a hundred hours a week.

Part of me is manic, and part of it is the web itself. In a 24-hour news cycle, you have to move fast to keep up. Why do I post the amount of times that I do in a day? Blogs are connected with something called a ping. A ping is a notification that a blog has updated. As you can imagine, people that use RSS readers or similar aggregators get thousands and thousands of notifications every week. In order to stand out, you have to make your blog appear in someone’s feed more often. My Facebook profile is connected to my WordPress account, so it posts a notification in your news feed the time the server added it, not the time I wrote it.

It’s kind of like wanting attention from David Sedaris and knowing you’re in the top balcony. You have as much to say to him as the people on the front row, but he would never hear you unless you jumped up and down and screamed his name (I know because I did this).

Activating the ping to go off or the Facebook notification to appear is the equivalent of jumping up and down, hoping that somebody sees you. I am driven and passionate about making this web site succeed, and it comes across as hypomania because of the way I juggle the production.

I generally only write for three hours a day, longer on Fridays and Saturdays because those are Dana’s long nights at work. However, I publish all the time because I have an automated job that posts them for me when I’m not at my computer. I also have Pidgin Messenger, so if it looks like I’m on Facebook all the time, I’m really not. It just means that my computer doesn’t have a screensaver so Pidgin won’t tell you I’m away.

I’m not saying there’s not a problem, but I think it is minimal at best. The biggest thing that this burst of creativity is giving me is a sense of purpose and direction toward the life I want instead of the life I currently have. I have to believe that one day, I’ll be a household name. I’ll be a question on Jeopardy! You know what gives me the courage to keep going toward my dream? The fact that I already write to almost every country in the world. The only continent I haven’t touched is Antarctica.

I will slow down when I either have a stable of writers to pool the work, or a charming and very rich patron (that was a joke).

(enter stream of conscience)

A long, long time ago…

This is what we’re doing? This? Right now?

You’re a hack.

You’re a wanker.

Let’s move on.

Agreed.

Star Wars is a good movie, though.

YES. Thank you, Leslie. There’s probably a hundred people on earth that disagree with you. What earth-shattering revelations do you have for us today?

You’re fat. Come to think of it, you need a dye job, too.

I deserved that, didn’t I?

Yes, because that was a dick move.

Dick move, guys. Dick move.

What’s that from?

I don’t remember. It’s just a think we do with Volfe?

Yes, we’re pack. We have a language just like the McLanemys (editor’s note: my dad, my stepmom, and all blended sisters. Hey, wait… new band name).

Why do you think that?

Why don’t you? We have standard responses to everything known to God and man. Knowledge is power, and knowing is half the battle. Hail Cobra. 70-inch plasma screen TV… with Netflix. Kevin Got Bored.™ I’m tweeting this.

Describing our family is so weird.

Are you off on a tangent again?

No, I’m talking about our sitcom. Who we’d pick to star in our own Friends episode. The friends that sustain us when we’ve forgotten to take care of ourselves, keep us honest emotionally. You’d take a bullet for them every time you hear the gun fire, but they’re not related to you. Society does not know how to interpret deep friendship anymore because all of the words used to describe it have long been associated with homosexuality. However, my pack has both men and women, small in number but fiercely close. So close that I proudly wear my pack’s number, painted with a stencil on the back of my truck. We’re nerds, so the pack number is 42. My bumper number is 11. If you know the first thing about science fiction, you’ll get those references.

Alex, I’ll take “Famous Science Fiction References” for $2,000.

“How many actors have played The Doctor before Matt Smith?”

“What is 10?”

Correct!

“$1600”

“In Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams, the computer spends years calculating the answer to life, the universe, and everything into what number?”

“42”

Oh, I’m sorry. You didn’t phrase your answer in the form of a question.

This is a stupid game.

So, tomorrow then?

I love men’s clothes. I have since I was a little girl. I don’t think it has anything to do with being queer, but it might. However, I doubt it. Women’s designers just don’t appeal to me as much. As a general rule, and there are exceptions, I do not like women’s clothes because they’re not designed to be inclusive. There’s a certain palate and a certain look, and if you dress outside that image, you’re on your own.

To me, that image is “I’m for sale! Come talk to me!” I find it easier to move in the world if I dress to accentuate my mind instead of my boobs. But don’t get me wrong. I have a great rack. The girls just aren’t the point. I dress so that the world allows me to be married, if that makes any sense. I want to look nice, but I want to look like your friend instead of someone you hit on. However, I was such a shy single person that I dressed like I was married then, too. I kind of was. Having Dana be my best friend and then transition to my wife is unsurprisingly NOT. THAT. DIFFERENT… at least 70% of the time (wink, wink nudge, nudge “know what I mean?”). In short, I don’t dress to impress others, mostly because I don’t have the funds. If I did, though, I think I would look like some version of Dickie Greenleaf from The Talented Mr. Ripley. His style is just formal enough to show up anywhere, with just enough whimsy to make conversation.

Men’s fashion is my favorite way to make conversation with strangers. I see colors and patterns that I love all over the place, and guys aren’t as catty when talking about their clothes as in many of the conversations I’ve had with women. Here’s something you don’t know about your boyfriend, ladies. He really does care how he looks in front of you, but you often steamroll him before he has a chance to explain why he likes the shirt he picked instead of the one you did. Ladies, you know you do it. You pussy whip your boyfriends into being your clothes horses and you don’t even ask if you’re leading him where he wants to go.

Guys don’t see as well in color as women do- I think it has something to do with cones or rods or something (ask a doctor). All men are color blind to the degree that they don’t see as many shades as women. That’s why you can pinpoint espresso, mauve, and cornflower while he just says “brown, pink, and blue.” Men and women don’t dress differently, they have different frames of reference when picking out clothes.

The next time you’re shopping with your boyfriend, stay out of the way and just watch. No matter which shirt he picks, ask him why he likes it. You are free to berate him for his fashion sense in your head, but so help me God, listen to him until your lip is bleeding in anticipation of telling him what’s wrong with his choice.

It’s in those moments that men reveal themselves, and you’ll miss it if you take your eye off the ball.

You’ll stand there while he’s holding a shirt, and sometimes, it’ll just be a shirt. He just likes it, that’s all. But wait for the surprises, like “my grandmother used to have flowers on her window sill, and this shirt reminds me of them.” Men don’t connect to clothes with their eyes, because they don’t see the hues as clearly. They connect to clothes with emotions.

Think of how much it would mean to your boyfriend if you found a way to memorialize his favorite college t-shirt. He remembers that shirt. It carried him through frat parties, video game and Mountain Dew benders, and practicing until his fingers bled for his audition at Juliard. That shirt isn’t just a shirt. It’s a memory.

Every time he puts on that shirt, he stands in the hard-won victory of finishing school.

If you’re really into fashion, you probably think it’s a way to make you look good. Some men, and they are called metrosexuals, agree with you. But for most men, they don’t care as much about advancing forward with their clothes, but remembering the good times they’ve already had.

I feel the same way about my clothes, which is why I’m so happy with Banana Republic, Gap, Old Navy, Express Men, Target, Ross, TJ MAXX, etc. These are the stores that sell classic clothes that never go out of style, so that you can wear them long enough to attach memories to them.

There are only three things which you should absolutely spare no expense:

• Watch
  • A man’s watch is his word. As my sister told me, “you should never trust a man that doesn’t wear a nice watch, because it means he doesn’t value time.”
• Shoes
  • Shoes are not a one-time purchase. They are a lifetime investment. Spend as much as you can possibly afford on two pairs of leather shoes, one brown and one black. If you can afford shoes in the one to two thousand dollar range, you will never have to buy shoes again in your entire life. Since you’re a man, I know I’ve just said the magic words. Expensive leather shoes gain character over time, and they look better as they wear. Polish them at least once a week to keep the leather pliable and watch the patina develop. On my own leather boots, I alternate between waxing them with brown, black, and cordovan. As the colors have mixed, I’ve just loved my boots even more.
• Bag
  • I’m going to stand up for your girlfriend and say that everyone needs a purse. Everyone. You know why? Because if you carry bags of your own, when we pull up to the bar, you won’t ask us to put all your shit in ours. We know you want to be smooth with just an ID and a credit card so that your pockets don’t grow tumors, but we’re not the fucking crap wagons, you know? When you go to buy your bag, spend as much as you can and get leather. Again, you will only have to buy one bag for the entire run of your existence, because if you polish it once a week, a patina will develop on your bag in the same way it does on your shoes. The way my own bag wears, I polish it with cordovan and pink stars are starting to develop in the creases.

If there is a fourth thing, it’s a belt, but it is not in the same league as the other three, because you can get by with a cheap leather belt as long as you change them often enough that they always look new. However, the same thing with shoes and bags also rings true here. If you can afford two leather belts (because polishing them is easier when they’re not reversible- trust me on this one), you’ll also be able to care for it like a child and let it grow with you. I never forget that leather was once alive, and that it needs to be nurtured in its old age.

That makes me think. My bag is named Cassandra now (you’re welcome, Doctor Who nerds).

To go with your classic shoes, belt, and bag, you need a series of button downs ranging from casual to quite formal. If you’re more fashion adventurous, go for it. But very few men escape the natural uniform of shirt, pants, and jacket. My favorite place to get a classic wardrobe is Goodwill. They have plenty of gently used shirts (and some that have never even been worn) for about $7.00 apiece. In my closet right now, I have Eddie Bauer, Van Heusen, Doc Marten, John Fluevog, Tommy Hilfiger, Isaac Mizrahi for Target, Brooks Brothers, London Fog, Armani, Abercrombie & Fitch and the Gap.

It’s all there, but it’s not in plain sight. Guys, you are going to hate this, and I’m pretty sure about it because I do. Think of it as the spoils of war, because it takes intestinal fortitude to stay at Goodwill long enough to find a $700 trench for $24.

If it’s good enough to sell on e-bay, it’s probably good enough to wear on a date.

Words for the ages.

Good luck, guys!

 

 

 

 

I just looked at Dana, and said, “tell me where to start.” She was playing Candy Crush at the time, so she didn’t say anything. I said, “it could even be a noun.” She turned to me and said, “food.”

Let’s start with the Chef Game. What’s your last meal on earth?

(enter stream of conscience)

chicken biryani

rogan josh

peshwari naan with peanut butter

This Indian restaurant in Sugar Land used to have peshwari naan, which they took to mean fruit and nut. I didn’t have any white bread one day, so I used the naan for a peanut butter foldover. It was one of the best things I’ve ever put in my mouth. The only thing that would have made it better was Sriracha and roasted garlic to fuse Indian and Thai. Top it with cilantro and call it a “naaco” or “naan taco.” It will hit your umami hard core.

naan tacos. The mere thought is giving me goosebumps. I should make them for supper if we can find peshwari naan at Trader Joe’s. I wonder if there’s a way Dana will go to the store so I don’t have to. She’s sitting right next to me as I type this. If she looks over here, she will totally punch my proverbial nuts. However, for now, we’re safe. She’s playing Candy Crush, remember? If I was bleeding and she was about to mix a dotted candy with a striped candy, it would take her a few seconds to help me.

But the best thing about our relationship is that I give Dana so much crap and she takes it. Then she throws it back in my face with something even more funny and more creative. I’ve always known she was smarter than me. Dana would rather speak than type, so that’s one of the reasons I’m doing the podcast. I want her to participate in this web site to the extent that she feels comfortable, because I don’t want to feel alone as the web site gets bigger. I want to be able to explain to Dana what I do with the majority of my time and why it’s important. Because the web site is taking off so fast, I want her to see what’s possible.

Speaking of which, we’ve gotten our first sponsor. Kumi is easily the most talented chef I’ve ever met. The mis en place is precise. The plating is beautiful. Every bite, to me, feels like home. Living in Houston, I had plenty of opportunity to enjoy Indian food, and I love it. If I could afford a personal chef, Kumi would fit Dana and me perfectly. I would never tie her down to a genre, but she does what she loves. She’s fanatical about her standards and the results are beyond the imagination. If food is art, Ruchikala is the Louvre. If you think that I’m raving about her because she’s my sponsor, first of all, she’s paying me in trade, so no actual money is changing hands for endorsement. Second, just take a look at her pictures. She has the ability to make you cry with joy at the sight of fresh vegetables. I went to a party at her house and I can think of three specific times at which I almost fainted, all of them having to do with tasting something she was actively cooking. Since it was a party, all of the women in her family were quietly attending to her. Kumi is so young, and yet, she commands the kitchen like a matriarch, with her family just accepting that in the kitchen, she’s the boss. She would probably disagree with me, but Kumi has a rare trait in a chef. She believes in soft power. I take that to mean she assumes power without even knowing she has it, because everyone has slipped into their own roles around her. She never even has to raise her voice.

The way I think of Kumi is similar to what I felt for Dana when we worked together at Biddy McGraw’s. In the kitchen, I absolutely knew that she was the boss, and I remained committed to that idea the entire time we worked there. I allowed her to tell me I was right, instead of assuming that I was and thinking she was nuts if she corrected me. I have the same respect for the way Kumi works, and you will, too. Please taste her food. You will never forget the first time you did.

Stories That Are All True- All Time Views by Country
 

I’m in such a funny mood that I thought I’d keep going. There was just no way to keep going on the first episode because the punch line on the last joke was so fantastic that I needed to end it there.

(enter stream of conscience)

I’m still in a great mood, the thing a comic writer needs. It doesn’t matter how painful their lives are, it takes a good mood to bring out the need to laugh at it.

People keep writing to you that that your writing has a lot of pain in it.

Writing about pain makes me remember how I felt in the moment, so when I go back to analyze it, psychoanalysis brings out the funny. You separate them in your mind?

Yes. Those are different posts.

Do you have a favorite?

Probably death and loss. I’ve gotten a lot of great feedback.

I know. It’s more than we’ve ever dreamed together. Why didn’t we start sooner?

We had to grow the proverbial balls to “go big or go home.”

You mean hurting people you love?

Of course. It’s transparent that way. People see right through you when your heart is on your sleeve, but sometimes a true apology is hard won. You lose some, you keep some, and the ones you keep are the ones that inspire you.

Speaking of which, bloggers that you love. Go!

Dooce

My hero, mentor and muse… even though we’ve never met. I just feel like I know her because I’ve been reading her every week for almost the entire run.

The Bloggess

The funniest woman to bitch slap Texas culture since Molly Ivins. I’m reading her current book, Let’s Pretend This Never Happened, on my Kindle.

Fussy

Mrs. Kennedy is one of the best parts of my day. She’s hilarious, and I’ve loved her for a long time. I’ve watched her kid grow up, her hair grow out, and her soul ignite on the page. A do-not miss.

What, are we interviewing each other right now?

Sort of.

James Lipton: If heaven exists, what would you like to hear as you walk through the pearly gates?

First of all, traditionally God isn’t at the gate. That’s St. Peter.

Oh, for the love of Pete.

Who is Pete, anyway?

Dad and Angela see a lot of themselves when you show them how your mind works.

Sure they do. I have the McLanemy standard response system encoded in my neurons. They fire before I have a chance to come up with something new. Besides, don’t we McLanemys have a motto: “if it’s funny once, it’s funny a million times really close together. You should tell the Indian brothers story.

Who? Aziz & Diziz?

Set it up.

I don’t remember where my dad and Angela were going (I think it might have been a car dealership). Anyway, the guy they worked with, Aziz, said “I know dis shit like the back of my head.”

This has led to a family monologue that any family member can recite it in their sleep.

I told you to set it up. You just told it.

That’s because I don’t remember it.

You jackass. You’re sure you’re not a stoner?

I think if I were a stoner, you would know.

Because pot and writing don’t mix?

No, it takes my senses to a level that I can’t connect to my body anymore. Can’t feel my reactions naturally. Can’t live my life in an alternate reality. Can’t afford it, anyway. Too straight laced to wake and bake. Because, you know “it is one thing to spark up a doobie and get laced at parties, but it is quite another to be fried all day.” Get over it, parental units. The West Coast is crawling with it and I’ve been living here for off and on for forever. You cannot live on the West Coast and not just accept that weed is a part of life here. Otherwise, you will live in a state of panic as your entire block is turned into medical marijuana dispensaries. The state of California looks like one big mary jane mall.

But you stay relatively sober. Why?

Because there’s nothing that means more to me than telling my truth, and I don’t trust anything that alters my judgment in a more-than-occasional way. The further I’ve come with my writing, the more my complete and informed decision is necessary.

Do you feel the same way about drinking?

No. But I drink for flavors and textures. I’m very serious about it- spirits, beer and wine are part of not only my palate, but the customer’s palate when I’ve worked in restaurants.

Have you ever been a big drinker?

In my twenties, I drank to forget with everyone else at the bars after work. But not only do I physically recoil at the thought of being hung over, if that weren’t enough to change my mind, the soul-crushing thought of the hours I’d have to put in on the porcelain god just isn’t worth it.

Can Dodger roll and smoke his own doobies?

Stop stealing from SNL, jackass… but… yes.

I didn’t steal. People will know it was a quote.

AP Style Mothafucka! Didn’t Mrs. Steed teach you anything?

Yes. My first girlfriend was in that class. So it taught me to (weimariners reference) dream big.

She was pretty.

I suppose that’s it, huh?

I’ve never let my schooling interfere with my education.

Before you say anything, MARK TWAIN FTW!

I’m in this crazy-good writing space, but I have no idea what to write. The blank page is staring at me, so I just started typing in order to stop seeing so much intimidation. The house is empty and quiet, save the occasional request to act as cat staff.

(enter inner monologue)

Cats. Let’s write about cats.

You’re hilarious when you talk about cats.

Am I?

Well, we’re about to find out, now aren’t we?

I suppose so. What is there to be written about cats that crazy ladies haven’t already plastered all over the Internet? And I’m not talking about the superb ones. I’m talking about the ones about the cats themselves, as if they are the most beautiful specimen out of about, what? Sixty million on earth? They’re not even funny. They’re just humble brags.

You do that a lot.

I know.

You don’t have anything to say about it?

No, I’m choosing to ignore your premise entirely.

Seriously, you are appearing for a possible audience much bigger than national television, and this is what we’re doing?

Yes, this is on the Internet right now.

You’re not a very good show.

Change the channel, bitch!

 

Back to cats.

Dodger came from the Oregon Humane Society. I got him on my birthday. He was a gift from my mother (I asked her for a cat, she didn’t just surprise me).

Geez, that’s handy. You have to get ready for a pet. Otherwise you might forget you have one, you jackass.

I’m not the typical cat owner. They exist for my amusement and they are not my children. They are cats.

You mean, like, dress them up?

You’re giving me ideas.

They’re total assholes. They kind of deserve it.

Dodger is the only cat chill enough to sit still. In fact, he’ll just lay there like a stoner on a two-week bender.

That’s because he’s The Dude.

The Dude abides.

In your cat?

Yes.

Put him in a bathrobe and take a picture of him next to a White Russian.

That’s not new. We thought of that last Halloween.

I’m recycling material.

You do that a lot.

Don’t start.

Ok, then back to cats. We haven’t talked about Minerva.

Ohhhh, yes. What do we say about Minerva?

She is the evil bitch queen and we hate her a little bit.

For the love of God, why?

Her litter box can’t even be used once before she starts shitting on the carpet next to it.

You’re about to get a lot of mail.

You’ll probably get Dooced™ from your own effing blog. Am I right or am I right?

This aggression will not stand, man.

Are you high?

No. That’s the crazy part. I’m just like this.

Seriously?

Seriously.

See, we just did that thing from Grey’s Anatomy.

I love Grey’s Anatomy?

Why did you put a question mark on that?

Because I watched it until it got boring and I didn’t know anybody, anyway.

A few are still there.

Did you know Chandra Levy went to HSPVA?

No she didn’t. You were just talking about Grey’s Anatomy and you confused Chandra Levy for Chandra Wilson.

Who’s Chandra Levy?

You are fucking kidding me. Chandra Levy was that girl linked to Gary Condit.

Remember when we lived in DC and we walked by Tryst?

Yes, I’m an idiot.

Constantly.

Well, excuse ME, your highness. Anything else I can get for you?

Beulah, peel me a grape.

Go fuck yourself.

 

 

 

My friend Kristie brought it to my attention that if I am living in Portland, Oregon and still drinking Starbucks coffee, I’m doing it wrong. Here’s my solution: send me some!

Option A (preferred)

Contact me for a shipping address. I love mail, especially packages with interesting stamps. If you send me something, you will get a handwritten thank you… unless a thousand of you send me coffee at once. Because then I wouldn’t be able to sit down anywhere in my apartment. I’d just have to lie down close to the ceiling.

Option II

Click the PayPal link to the right and make a donation large enough to buy the coffee or caffeine edibles you’d like to see reviewed. Then, either e-mail me or put a note in the subject line of your donation what it’s for. I will then ingest said caffeine and tell you whether I like it here!

Note: it may take me several weeks to process reviews, as there is only so much my heart can take on any given day.

We have been waiting at least five seconds to tell you this, but ladies and gentlemen, Dana and I are having a podcast.

Look here for the inaugural edition of “Dana and Leslie Love Media.” We are sponsored by absolutely no one, so feel free to get in on the ground floor!

In it, we’ll talk about the things we’ve watched, and we’ll take suggestions on shows to promote. We can also use Facebook to talk about media in general. Here’s what I mean by media:

• Web sites
• Magazine articles
• Movies/online videos
• Books
• Albums
• Video Games
• Table top games

We think we’re hilarious enough to be “on the radio.” We hope you’ll think so, too. Please comment and give us suggestions!

I am preaching at Bridgeport UCC (one block north of 76th and Glisan in Portland, Oregon) on PRIDE SUNDAY! I am in fits trying to think of ways to be both funny and poignant, because I want it to be a service that people will remember for a long time afterward. Preliminary ideas include staying in the back until it’s time for me to preach and coming out dressed like Boy George. My dad did that once for his youth group back in the ’80s, and there are still people recovering, I assure you.

There are so many people that will read this article and their cheeks will start flaming (as it were). When steam starts coming out of their ears, you know what’s coming next. What could gay pride possibly have in common with the Bible? I can see the conservatives lining up around the blog to tell me what a horrible idea this is (speaking of which, “around the blog” is a typo, and I thought it was so funny I left it in).

Here’s what I have to say to people who will argue with me that gay pride and Christianity are incompatible. Strap in:

You don’t know the first thing about the God of love, the God of promise, and the Son, through which all people on earth are bound together. If you are as giving as you say you are, that includes non-Christians and gasp, queers. Here is my go-to Bible verse, taken from Galatians:

We ourselves are Jews by birth and not Gentile sinners; yet we know that a person is justified not by the works of the law but through faith in Jesus Christ. And we have come to believe in Christ Jesus, so that we might be justified by faith in Christ, and not by doing the works of the law, because no one will be justified by the works of the law.

Do you see what I did there? Look at it closely… “because no one will be justified by the works of the law.” Where is homosexuality mentioned most often as sin in the Bible? It was an old Jewish law, designed to keep Jews making more Jews. There was a similar law banning masturbation, again because sex needed to lead to procreation. The Jews were a small group, trying to multiply.

Jesus freed us from strict rabbinical exegesis. Our task is to be Christ in the world, not to harp on laws that people have broken. If people become that nit-picky, no one, gay or straight, will deem themselves worthy of doing so.

What does it mean to be Christ in the world? Mostly it means noticing things. Notice when people need help, notice when there’s something that needs to be done, and try to live in a community where you receive those opportunities to see people in need. For some people, this is church. For others, it is brunch (it’s Pride Sunday. HELLOOOOO).

Go ahead and live dangerously. Be more giving than you can imagine, and let that feeling wash over you, as cool as a fine silk pillow. When you’ve given all you can, give some more. But at the same time, find a way to fill yourself back up. You won’t be able to give to anyone if you’re so strung out you can’t see that far.

What will happen is that you will create a network of generosity that begins and ends with you.

May it be so.

Amen.