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Today in Page Six, the totally skeevy Wilmer Valderrama was ickily quoted as saying “taking Mandy Moore’s virginity was good…real good.” And while the fact that anyone would go leering about like that with the justification that he “doesn’t want to lie to [his] fans,” is just the stupidest shit ever, it also made me wonder what the hell he could have been talking about. Losing one’s viginity is a lot of things. A surrender to the primal alarm clock clattering away inside. A poignant rite of passage at best. A painful loss of innocence at worst. But rarely ever the kind of expert porno-fest he seems to be eluding to. Even for the de-viginizer, does the experience ever really justify that kind of locker-room hype for anyone? Maybe I just don’t understand cause I’m a chick and stuff, and all my impressions of that particular event come from a more emotional than physical place, but isn’t the point of being a virgin that you’re not “good…REAL good” yet? I mean, isn’t that the supposed novelty of it? I dunno. I’m not really sure where I’m going with all this, I just know that reading it made me mad and also made me laugh that anyone would describe ex-sex that way in public. I’m not so naive to think that every first-time experience happens in soft focus with all kindsa caring and sharing, but I do think that either A) that douche bag Valderrama is lying to cover up the fact that he’s the worst lay ever and doesn’t even know enough about women to lie convincingly, B) that douche bag Valderrama is an inarticulate psycho who’s getting revenge on his ex by bragging about her virginal goodness, or C) All of the above. Oh, and did I mention that he’s a douche bag? Well, he is. A douche bag.

Yesterday was a day of weird, sad synchronicity. I got a message early in the morning from A that her friend from High School had been among the raver kids killed on Saturday when a gunman opened fire at a house party in Seattle. She had been very close to him in school, so obviously it was a major blow, and I did what I could to comfort her. Then later that day, I found an old ignored message in my Myspace in-box from someone named Jill. I rarely ever log in to that site and never pay attention when I’m notified that I’ve received a message from someone I don’t recognize, so this particular message had been sitting there since November. When I opened it though, it turned out to be from the little sister of my friend E. E and I had been thick as thieves in Junior High. As cohorts at the bottom of the social food chain, we comforted, sheilded and supported each other through a lot of cruel shit. We even kissed once in my parent’s dining room. But then I moved away when I was 15, and that summer he died. His death has always been like embedded shrapnel for me, a shard left inside a healed-over wound that itches and makes it’s presence known whenever it rains. Not exactly on the surface, but never really gone. So to hear from his sister was a shock, and an unexpected joy. I have often wondered about E’s family over the years, and even considered contacting his siblings to let them know I’m still around, and that I still care. Ultimately I decided that would be creepy, so I left it alone. The last time I saw his sister she must have been about eight, so I’m surprised she remembered me at all. Her message was simple and direct. She asked if I remembered her. She said she liked the mag. I of course wrote back immediately, letting her know how glad I was to hear from her, but considering she sent the message to me four months ago, I ‘m worried I missed my chance. So I guess for both A and for me it was a sad, nostalgic day. A reminder of how suddenly things can change.

OK, so I’m not always the best at getting what I need. I get so freaked out by conflict sometimes that I just swallow every little dissatisfaction until I burn a hole in my guts or just start crying for “no reason” which in reality is 100 reasons all smushed together. This being the case, I guess it’s not surprising that I blew a gasket last night on the street (just like a troubled teen!) because I couldn’t resign myself to a birthday with no cake and candles and fuss made over me. LCF asked why I hadn’t just asked for that last night, and I just kind of stared at him through my swollen, puffy eyes, with an expression that conveyed something along the lines of “Uhhh…ummm…uh.” Seriously. WTF? After the gym, we totally got our cake on at Cafe Orlin with candles and singing and everything, and I felt all special and not hysterical anymore. So, for those of you playing along at home, the score is now, AGE: 31, MATURITY:0.

Woke up this morning bunched up in a painful little ball with a stiff neck that just won’t quit. I guess once you reach 31, a little plastic timer pops up somewhere like in a Perdue Oven Stuffer Roaster to let you and the entire freakin’ world know that you are officially DONE. Whatevs - I’m just grumpy-grumpstein because my birthday involved no semblance of dinner or cake or candles or wishes this year, but in the garish light of day that seems more than a little spoiled. I guess in these enlightened times, if a gal wants cake, then she best be gettin’ off her 31-year-old ass to find one herself.

It’s my Birthday! Birthday, birthday, birthday! This is what 31 looks like, bitches!!! To commemorate the solemn grandeur of this infamous day, I shall endeavor to battle through my Beauty Bar hangover and take a little personal inventory with the help of this meme poached from PZB’s blog. Join me won’t you?

lasts:

-last place you were: Beauty Bar
-last beverage: Stoli and Ginger Ale (Ouch…)
-last kiss: This morning as LCF was heading out to work at the butt crack of dawn and I was just stumbling back in
-last movie seen: Dave Chappelle’s Block Party (Whazzup with Lauryn Hill’s weird lil’ hat??)
-last person you saw in person: LCF
-last bubble bath: Years ago at my parent’s house. They have this huge tub, but the hot water heater doesn’t work well enough to heat all the water it takes to fill it. For a while I valiantly kept trying to fill it with bubbles so I could live the decadent bubble bath lifestyle, but I would always just end up shivering pathetically in there like Demi Moore at the end of St. Elmo’s Fire.
-last time you cried: A couple of days ago. I don’t remember why. I was in the PMS zone.

8 have you evers?:

1. have you ever dated someone twice: Uh huh
2. have you ever been cheated on: Yup
3. have you ever kissed somebody and regretted it: Totally
4. have you ever loved someone: You betcha
5. have you ever lost someone: You know it
6. have you ever been depressed: Duh
7. have you ever been drunk and thrown up: Actually, I don’t think so. When drunk I can usually be found either dancing, sweating, sleeping, or some combination thereof.
8. have you ever watched someone die: Yes. A couple of months ago a girl got hit by a car outside our apartment while LCF and I were a few feet away. I’m pretty sure she was dead by the time they put her in the ambulance. There was blood all over the street.

7 cities you’ve been to:

1. New York
2. London
3. Paris
4. Rome
5. Amsterdam
6. Berlin
7. New Orleans

6 things you’ve done today:

1. Shook my ass at the Beauty Bar
2. Picked up breakfast for LCF and I at the deli at 5 AM where I bragged about my birthday till they gave me free candy
3. Read a chapter of the novel Prime
4. Napped for four hours
5. Talked on the phone with LCF, Han and Chris
6. Cleaned and refilled the kitty’s water bowl

5 favorite things (Not people):

1. Brunch
2. Swimming in the ocean
3. Cult movies
4. Singing along to the radio obnoxiously loud
5. The Coney Island hoodie I stole from LCF

4 people you can tell pretty much anything to:

1. Han
2. LCF
3. Mom
4. After seeing blues singer Bettye Lavette at BB King’s last week, I’ve been having fantasies about confiding in her and becoming a better woman by reaping the benefits of her worldly blues woman wisdom. I haven’t had the chance yet to test this out though. Not yet anyway.

3 favorite colors:

1. Black
2. White
3. Red

2 favorite bands/musicians:

1. The Beatles
2. Morrissey

1 thing you regret:

Not being braver sometimes

Last night as LCF and I were walking east on 9th street between 1st and A, we passed a veritable GAGGLE of teen girls clustered protectively together on the stoop of a brownstone, and they appeared to be in the midst of some kind of cataclysmic freak out. The blond star of the show was curled against the rail on the second step, and was wailing at the top of her lungs, “But I don’t WANT to go home! I’m SCARED of my MOM!!!” All around her, deeply concerned faces crowned by lush ponytails bobbed and weaved, consulting each other gravely and offering empathic advice. Clearly I was riveted. I remember so well how hungrily I fed off of drama like this when I was their age, how all of us did. I remember both the rush of being the center of all that burgeoning maternal attention when I was the one with hot probs, and how grown-up it felt to have to deal with a “friend in crisis.” In retrospect I can’t remember any of the actual circumstances, but I can still play back impressions of it like my very own Lifetime Original Movie, complete with commercial breaks so everyone can enjoy a round of General Foods International Coffee. I know I shouldn’t make light of the fact that a girl was freaking out on the street. Maybe her Mom really is a violent monster to be feared and protected from. But in my experience, kids in really abusive situations tend to be a bit more hush hush about it, even when they are reaching out for help. No, I’m pretty confident that this was a genuine teenage pity party supreme, and I can tell because I’ve been there. Part of me wishes that adult friendships could still be like that, even though I know it would be totally weird an inappropriate for my friends and I, even the ones I’ve had since I was a teenager, to act that way. Back when I still roamed in packs though, turbulent emotional catharsis was as natural as breath.

The big 3-1 is drawing nigh, and while I don’t have any specific plans to mark the occassion, I’ve been preoccupied with the sense that it’s all speeding by. It’s getting hader and harder to answer when friends and relatives inevitably ask “So, what’s up? You must be living a very exciting life there in NY…” Usually these days I come up blank, or lazily rattle off something about work since that’s my most immediate reality. It’s not that my life isn’t exciting…surreal, bizzarre, unexpected crap happens to me all the time, but for some reason, as soon as I experience something these days, immediately it becomes subsumed by worries about deadlines and phone bills and dental appointments, and whether or not my bangs need a trim. I guess I want to keep this journal to slow things down a bit, and to remind myself of what my life is actually about. I’ve been voyeuristically fasinated by other blogs by Poppy Z.Brite, Wendy McClure and Mike Doughty for the last year or so, but never bothered to give it a try myself, for fear of “not doing it right.” I guess that’s true about a lot of things actually, but that particular fear has definitely begun to wear out it’s welcome as of late. So fuck it, here’s my first of possibly many posts.