Justine Saracen

Justine Saracen surprised me. Not an easy task. She didn’t surprise me by taking all the abuse I threw at her in Palm Springs (and there was a lot) because somehow I knew it wouldn’t phase her. She surprised me by upping my own game when I least expected it.

Like the panel we both were on. The one where I convinced Kim Baldwin to let me rewrite all the bios. Justine was my first victim.

“Justine Saracen is an older author.” I began all the bios that way, but Justine didn’t know that. She was definitely shocked. Maybe a little upset. Understandable.

“She’s totes academic, which is nice.” Such an understatement. The woman has degrees that I can’t even pronounce. And she speaks languages that I can’t spell. When she reads she flows between various accents without a hitch. Her voice is smooth, calm, steady. Strangely assertive. In a good way.

“She also looks bomb naked.” I don’t think anyone really appreciated my ironic use of “bomb.” Probably because we were at the Palm Springs Library, which (Trinity Tam informed me) is where the intellectual readings are. The name of the panel was Beyond the Rainbow: LGBTQ Literature and Today’s Audience. Very lofty. And I had just announced via Kim Baldwin that Justine Saracen looked bomb naked.

I will forever hold in my heart the look on Justine’s face when she heard that. Surprised, confused. Sort of like she wanted to hit me (not that Justine would ever lower herself to violence), but also like I was the most curious thing she’d ever seen (because who would be insane enough to say such a thing). Strangely complimented. And slightly disturbed that I had just made everyone picture her naked.

Of course, Justine just had to go up to the podium and announce, “Look I’m wearing my tiger shirt.” She was reading from her new release Tyger, Tyger Burning Bright (It’s amazing. You need to read this book, like now).

So I just had to shout, “Take it off.”

And even then she kept her cool. The woman isn’t ice. No, she has a lot more going on than that. A warmth just below the surface that she keeps under serious control. She is simply very, very patient. She also has a well-hidden humorous side. Don’t let her fool you.

I spent the rest of the weekend telling her to take it off. Which made it really hard for her to go swimming. ‘Cause I spent the whole time poolside watching her. Wow. That makes me sound super creepy.

But every time I shouted inappropriate things at her she would just hold her head a little higher. Fight the grin that wanted to come out. Twitch her towel in an overly decorous manner so it would cover her bare legs.

It didn’t fool me. She was diggin’ her role in the joke we were playing. I was the obnoxious, boundary-less child. She, the dignified academic, immune to my taunts.

So how did she surprise me?

When it came time for me to drive home I went around to hug everyone and I demanded Justine get out of the pool and hug me, knowing full well she wouldn’t. Instead she demanded that I get down on the cement and hug her in the pool. Minor shock. The woman wanted to hug me after all of that? But I wasn’t going to say no. So I leaned down and hugged her.

She even kissed my cheek. Very European. I kinda liked it.

As she pulled away she said, “You smell young.” There it was. What an odd thing to say.

I said, ever so eloquently, “Huh?”

“Yes, you smell young.” Her chin went up a little. “Believe me, I have half a century on you, and you smell half a century younger.”

Something about the way she said it was vaguely taunting. In the vein of silly kid, I’m so much more worldly than you (and she is). And at the same time, complimentary. Like she really thought I smelled good. She was raising the bar. I might have stripped and sexualized her when she least expected it, but she could do it better and more sincerely.

So here’s to you, Justine Saracen. You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to next year.

first time

My first time was with Lee Lynch’s wife. Swear.

I was on the streets of Provincetown when this chick came up to me. She seemed familiar. Something about the smile. Not even the smile, really. The eyes. The way her eyes smiled. People say that. Especially authors. I don’t think I ever knew what they were talking about until right then. Her eyes caught mine and it was like a smile I could feel. Like my blood had been turned to melted chocolate. Serious. The kind of warmth that slows you down and forces you to enjoy it. And real kindness. I knew the second her eye caught mine that, given the opportunity, she would make me chicken soup and grilled cheese, or buy me a beer, or tell me I was an asshole if I needed to hear it, or hug me even if I thought I didn’t want it. All that. One look.

That’s when she asked me. I felt a brief moment of sheer panic. Okay, it was a long moment of panic. ‘Cause I’d never done it before. And this woman with bright, kind eyes wanted me to do it. Just like that. On a street corner. With witnesses no less.

That’s when she introduced herself. I couldn’t decide if that made it better or worse. Lee Lynch’s wife, I figured, had experienced this scene countless times. Would she be appalled at my inexperience? No, a woman with a smile like that wouldn’t judge my shaking, fumbling hands and slow mind. So I asked her to walk me through it (with my most charming smile). She did. In detail. Pointed to the right place. Told me how it was supposed to go. Used those eyes to seduce me into believing I could do it.

I knew I’d have to go for it some time. Probably sooner rather than later. But I thought I would have time to practice. Preferably by myself in a dark room. Maybe I could have watched someone else. Gotten a few pointers. At least then I would have been prepared. At least then I would have known what to expect. But, no. It was time to step up. I couldn’t very well say, “No, I’d like to practice on my own first.”

So I did it. Heart pounding, hands shaking, trying to breathe around that nervous fist in my throat. Right there on Commercial Street in the center of Provincetown. I wanted to be witty, but I was probably inane. She was waiting patiently. So I wrote “Elaine and Lee,” and then something about Provincetown (just like she told me), and the date (also as instructed) followed by a little heart and “Ashley Bartlett.”

And that’s how I signed my first book.

shark fishing

I went to Cayucos this week. Which is weird now. Since I’ve finished Sex and Skateboards I’m always kind of expecting Alden or Wes to just pop out somewhere and say hi. Except they’re fictional. They are just so a part of the town to me now that I can’t really separate the book from Cayucos.

I’m also overcome with this irrational urge to go back and add a line here or there. To the book that is currently sitting on the printer’s docket. Like, I don’t think I mentioned anything in the novel about the pier at night. The way, if you’re standing all the way at the end, it sways and moves with the waves. And if you stand too close to the rail and the waves get really big they can splash you. The small details that seem so insignificant, but that’s what makes a place real, those details.

A few days in my girlfriend and I made our nightly pilgrimage to the pier to watch shark fishing. I should back up a little here because shark fishing at night on the pier sounds seriously cool. Or at least it does to me. But usually shark fishing is boring. And cold. And boring. And just when your feet go to sleep and your hands go numb from the icy wind…nothing happens. Seriously. It’s a bunch of hick type dudes from Paso Robles getting drunk and catching seaweed. Sometimes a group of drunk teenagers wanders up the pier. Always about ten guys and one girl and all you can think about is where the hell the girl’s parents are.

That’s what we do in Cayucos. Watch people. Sometimes we silently judge them. That night there was kid with a baby face who wore a headlamp. We mocked him for a while about that. For the first fifteen minutes we were trying to figure out how old this kid was. The baby face indicated between fifteen and twenty five. His feet were gigantic, but he was kinda short. Like half his body hadn’t caught up yet. And he had a wagon for all his gear. Which told us he was smarter than most the guys on the pier.

At first he seemed normal. Most of the young guys out on the pier who are alone bounce around talking to…everyone…anyone. They want to show how much they fit in so they talk about line weight and poles and the one time they were at (fill in river/lake/beach here) and their brother’s uncle’s girlfriend’s step-dad who caught a (fill in impressive fish here). The usual bragging. In fact, this kid was so into his fishing stories he didn’t notice the tip of his pole dip. And dip again. And jerk around in a circle. Followed by some more dipping.

Finally my girlfriend says, “Hey, kid, you’ve got something on that line.”

He turns around, looks at the pole, and runs to it. This is where he became very different than everyone else we’d even seen. He looks away from the pole and profusely thanks my girlfriend. Gives her credit. Thanks her again.

By this time every dude on the pier has sprinted to participate in catching the shark. You might think hauling up a big fish is a solo thing. It’s not. Three massive lights appeared from nowhere, which was good ‘cause that headlamp wasn’t doing much. Another guy lowered his crab net into the water. Baby faced headlamp boy expertly reeled the shark into the net. They hauled it up. All ten guys watching rushed forward, then jumped back. It was a dog shark. Small, like three feet. But a three-foot shark can still take off a chunk of your leg or relieve you of a couple fingers. The shark hit the pier. One dude stepped on the head. That’s standard. It’s not a dominating small animals thing. It’s a humane way to keep it from biting shit. The kid who caught it squatted down, all business. He used his pliers to pull out the hook. When it came free he kind of grunted and fell back.

And again, shit got weird. I’ve seen guys kick sharks around. I’ve seen them poke sharks with blunt instruments. I’ve seen a lot of sharks left to twitch and suffocate. Even the guys who throw their catch back like to pose for pictures while the shark jerks and gasps. They don’t care about the dying animal. They just want to look cool. For the record, torturing an animal isn’t cool. Even one with sharp teeth. But this kid didn’t do that. He didn’t call his dad and brag. He didn’t text photos to his friends. He just grabbed the tail, leaned over the edge, and dropped it back in the water. Then he borrowed a light and watched while muttering to himself.

“Come on, swim.” He’d glance around. “I think it’s just stunned.” Back to the water. “Yeah, just turn over. Like that. ‘Kay, go under. You’re good. Yeah, you’re good.”

I’m not sure what his plan was if the shark didn’t dive back under. But in my years at Cayucos I’ve never seen anyone check to make sure the shark swam away unmolested. And I sure as hell have never seen someone talk their shark through it.

But I thought it was pretty damn cool.

totally graduated

I’m all graduated now. Yep, English major and I’m graduated. Oh, sorry. I am a graduate. So once I finished my final final I did the logical thing. Drove home. Sat on my in-law’s couch. Someone cooked food for me. Someone else did my laundry. And someone else got me a beer. Welcome to my life. It’s pretty much awesome.

But it wasn’t all about people doing things for me. It was about family. Our nephews came to stay with the grandparents while we were there. They got bored (‘cause, let’s be honest, they are 14 and 17 and the grandparents aren’t always exciting) so we took them to midtown Sac. Met up with my BFF (who offered to buy the elder one beer). Watched my BFF try to kidnap the boys. Threatened to call in an Amber Alert. Got the boys back. My friends suck. Took the boys to what they called the Castro of Sacramento. All two blocks of the gay district. Do we know how to show teenagers a good time or what?

What was really exciting though, was the welcome we got from our niece. She’s 7. Make that 7 ½ (you gotta remember the ½). She drew a gigantic chalk mural for us on the street. Misspelled welcome. Which made it cute. Because she’s really good at spelling. And reading. Which I found out earlier this year when I was choosing covers and I’m scrolling through them and she comes up, glances at my computer, and says “Sex.” Oh, fuck. I’m like “and Skateboards, honey. See, and Skateboards.” But she’s smarter than that.

So this mural she drew. It had pictures of our favorite things. In my case, a stack of books. How sweet. I took a picture. Check it out.

You’ll notice something special about that stack. The third one down is my book. “Skateboards” is still a tricky word so she just drew a skateboard. But she remembered how to spell “Sex.” I’m going to go now. My sister-in-law is holding a knife. I don’t think she is nearly as impressed with her child’s spelling as I am.

graduation and coffee

I am fast approaching graduation. So if there is someone driving this ship, could you please make time stop. Or speed up. I don’t care which. I would very much like to be done. I can’t say I care too much about the degree, but I’d really rather not write any more essays. I’d also like to stop going to class. I don’t even mind taking the finals. But the five more class sessions I have to attend, is there any way I could skip those? No? Damn.

Actually, I take it back. My Romanian literature class is pretty cool. And the professor is amazing. She’s the first professor I’ve ever had (and I’ve been in college waaaayyyy too long) without a single trace of arrogance. I’m arrogant so I appreciate a little ego, but it’s nice to know that there is at least one who isn’t quite as enamored of herself. Even though she should be.

And my Shakespeare discussion, it’s pretty cool too. Mostly because I can monopolize it. Last class we were doing As You Like It and another student and I turned into a lecture on queer theory.

 

I won’t tell you about the class I don’t like. Grades aren’t in yet.

 

This is what really freaks me out. What the hell happens after graduation? Yes, I know the correct response is get a job. But I don’t do well in cubicles. Nor do I play nice with others. Which of course leaves me with one option: barista. Yep, I went to UCLA, got a BA, met a lot of great people, made good connections, and now I’m going to go back to working in a coffee shop. My mother will be so proud.

Since I am drinking my morning coffee (at one in the afternoon) and talking about making coffee, I will leave you with this piece of wisdom. It may be the most important thing I learned in college. And, yes, it’s a direct quote.

If it’s too fuckin’ hot for your hands, it’s too fuckin’ hot for your mouth, it’s too fucking hot for your stomach.

So please, darling reader of my blog, let your coffee cool before you drink it.

so many problems

I have a problem. (That was a lie. I have many problems. Ask my girlfriend.) Admitting it is the first step though so good job me. What’s my problem? Oh, just this small, tiny, addiction to reading. Okay, it might be a big problem.

I go on benders where I read for days and nights on end until I finally look up and the entire world is blurry because my eyes can’t adjust. This, and the accompanying headaches, worried my girlfriend. She made me go to the optometrist. He assured me that my vision was still perfect, but I simply couldn’t read for such long periods of time. Either that or I should get reading glasses. No thanks, I’ll take my headaches.

But it’s not just the benders. No, I also sneak little paragraphs. My girlfriend will go to brush her teeth in the morning or start the coffee maker or pack up her backpack and I’ll snatch up whatever book I’m reading so I can have just one more paragraph. Just one. Then, of course, she comes back in the room and I slam the book back down and pretend I was just picking out my socks, clearly an important decision for the day. She has now cultivated a look that is equal parts pity, anger, and disappointment.

Obviously, this is not a recent problem. In school most kids had normal things confiscated. My teachers’ desks were always filled with CDs and Discmans and gum and cigarettes and nail polish, normal things that normal kids play with in class. Not me though. I was only kid to have books confiscated during English class. You know that trick where you hide one book in another? I was a master at it. Except I’d get so into it the textbook would slide down and the novel would slide up and I’d get detention.

Since then I’ve gotten older and wiser. Also eBooks are more readily available. This leads to a whole new host of problems. Or maybe the subject matter has lead to the problems. You decide.

I recently was enrolled in, I kid you not, the most boring class ever. I haven’t fallen asleep in class since high school, but this one was seriously testing me. It was like every day I just went and listened to the same lecture. Again. And again. I’m sure there was new information presented each day, but I didn’t hear it. Maybe it’s because I began to be fascinated by the ceiling tiles, the trees outside, the way my desk squeaked ever so subtly, therefore only tuned in to lecture every five minutes.

I got to the point where if I heard anymore about Mont Blanc, the sublime, sacrifice, or deism I was going to drop out of school and live in a box. Like senile women, any decent homeless person should have a hook. When I’m old I want to be like Mrs. Dubose, addicted to drugs and swinging weapons at small children, but as a homeless person I figure boxes will be my thing. I’ll live in a box, drink boxed wine, and eat bento boxes (which I’ll be able to afford due to the cheap wine).

So I figured there was only one thing to do at that depressing, horrific moment of boredom. Read Colette Moody. Perfectly logical. I could read my eBook, pretend to take notes, and pull off a respectable C (okay, a C is never respectable, but the class was that bad). About ten minutes in I realized there was a fatal flaw in my plan. Colette is fucking hilarious. At first, I was able to pass off grinning at my laptop like an idiot as excitement for Mont Blanc. The laughing, however, was inexplicable.

This is me admitting I have a host of problems. The reading, the inability to chose an appropriate time and place to read, the poor choice of novel to read in class, an apparent disregard for my education. I want you, dear reader, to know that I have come to a decision. Here it is: I don’t care. I’ve gotten this far as a functioning addict. Hopefully I can keep it together until graduation.

Momma’s Day

This weekend was Mother’s Day, one of the few days a year when I play the dutiful daughter. As such I called my moms to wish them Happy Mother’s Day. Of course, I forgot to make the cards I was going to send them (I hate store-bought cards) and I didn’t send flowers and I’m seven hours away so I didn’t go visit, but, hey, I called. This provided a rare opportunity. I actually got to speak to my step-mom. Normally when I call she has about 400 things going on and I’m not arrogant enough to think I trump them. Either she is dealing with a hungry six year old, my baby sis, or she is dealing with fifteen year olds in crisis. She’s a high school vice principal. Actually, she was my vice principal in high school.

You’re probably wondering why I let the high school kids trump me. One reason. They need her more than I do. You see, she’s the cool VP, the hot VP, the young VP. She’s the one they go to when they’re being bullied or their parents are being sketchy or their being expelled and need a little sympathy. When I was fifteen I had countless kids come up to me a say things like, “Dude, I just got suspended by your mom. She is soooo awesome.” Serious. It was an honor to have her suspend you. Because if Mrs. Bartlett suspended you then you knew you’d had a fair hearing even if you did just light the girls bathroom on fire.

So I’m talking to my step-mom on Mother’s Day and we hit the usual points. When’s your book coming out? Still September, just like last time we talked. Can I pre-order it yet? Soon. How’s school going? I’m still showing up. That’s gotta be a good sign. When’s graduation? You know I’m not walking so it doesn’t matter. Well, then, when are you going to finish? Beginning of June.

Finally, I cut in. How are you, darling stepmother mine? She likes talking about me, not herself. She just sighs. Tired, prom was last night. I laughed. That just seems like a recipe for a bunch of debilitatingly hung over, recently de-virgined teenagers to stumble home at ten am to wish their mothers a happy day. What a way to say I love you, mom, thanks for bringing me into the world. I told her as much and she insisted it wasn’t all bad, though she couldn’t disagree with my assessment.

Why the fuck am I talking about prom? Well, something cool happened this year. About five kids in the senior class are queer and out and every single one of them brought their significant other to prom. Serious. That’s insane.

Of course, that reminds me of the formals I took my girlfriend to when I was a senior. It was a little different. No one beat us up or gave us shit. Who would be that dumb? I was the VP’s kid. But we were still the only queer couple. Which meant my poor baby brother had to spend half the night listening to people tell him that his sister was making out with some chick on the dance floor (I wasn’t the classiest teenager). I also found out the next day that I almost didn’t get in to the dance wearing my little suit and tie. My step-mom wasn’t working that night (she did her best to not cramp our style). However, another VP was working. This chick saw us taking pictures and called my step-mom to say she wasn’t letting us in if I was dressed like that. I have no idea what my step-mom said to her, but I know I was let in with a smile so it had to be good.

I’m gonna go all Dylan and say the times are changin’.

I’m also gonna say Happy Mother’s Day again because my moms are awesome. If not for them I wouldn’t have been able to take a girl to a dance. Not just ‘cause they always remembered the corsage when I forgot. And not ‘cause they made me safer at school then most kids. But just because they let me be who I was.

And don’t worry, Dad. Your day is coming soon. I’ll probably forget the card, but I’ll write you a blog.

for real

It’s official. I’m an author. For real. I used to be an English major who worked in a coffee shop and talked about writing (‘cause apparently I like to be a cliché), but now I’m an author. Mostly this just means when I sit around staring at blank walls I’m actually working. Really. There are full conversations happening in my head, action scenes taking place, and a whole lot of sex. And this means I’m accomplishing something instead of having dirty daydreams. Well, most the time I’m accomplishing something instead of having dirty daydreams.

So in September look for my first novel Sex & Skateboards from Bold Strokes Books. That’s it for now. More to come soon. Promise. In the mean time start making your paper chain to count down ‘til September. Mine’s made out of first, second, and fourteenth edits, but I suggest you use old copies of Playboy for yours.