ALSO, I HEART EDDIE IZZARD

In middle school, while my friends were dissolving into pudding over whatever teen idol had been pasted to the current week's cover of Bop or Tiger Beat, I was too caught up in reading Robert Heinlein novels to care. I strategically picked out boy TV stars to name when the inevitable "Who are you totally in love with this week?" conversation rolled around, because heaven forbid any middle schooler should display a lack of interest in the opposite sex. That would make you gay and, therefore, friendless.

Now that I'm old enough to actually have romantic interests (see: husband), as well as schoolgirl crushes (see: Colin Meloy), I end up developing the strangest, most dorky infatuations. For example, John Malkovich, but only as the Vicomte de Valmont in the movie Dangerous Liasons. Forest Whittaker, who has a lazy eye. Buster Keaton, who is dead. And Eddie Izzard. To quote our friend Adrienne, I would totally have his babies. There is something incredibly sexy about a straight man confident enough to dress in drag. Add to that the fact that he rolls out hilarious, quirky riffs on history and religion, sometimes delivered in French, and you have a perfect storm of nerdy hotness. Also, the world would be a better place if more men wore eyeliner.

If you're wondering what this bizarre demonstration of pseudo-lust is leading up to, it is this: Eddie Izzard is beginning a live stand-up comedy tour. Alas, he's coming nowhere near here, and I won't be able to drive to see him on in Nashville or Atlanta, as he'll be playing those cities on week days. But if you live close to a major metropolitan area, or plan to be near one this summer, you should take the opportunity to see Eddie Izzard, even if you don't find him drop dead handsome.

Barring that, you should go out and rent the DVD of his stand-up shows Dress to Kill or Glorious, or investigate his newish TV show, The Riches. Here's a bit from Glorious about being Covered in Bees!

ALOHA, FROM THE GENRE GHETTO

I was going to post about my latest attempt at gardening, but then this came in the mail:
It's the latest issue of Rosebud magazine, which features, among many other weird and speculative stories, my own "Kinderkochen."

Despite wishing I could revise the thing one more time (and that the editors had left in my spacing between scenes), I was pretty pleased with the finished product. Right now I'm in the middle of reading "Living with Creely," the short story that won Rosebud's biennial Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley Award for Imaginative Fiction. There's nothing like a telepath with a substance abuse problem to get those pages turning.

I really appreciate magazines like Rosebud treating "genre" fiction seriously. If we didn't have mystery, science fiction, or horror, the literary world would be a tepid place. That isn't to say I don't enjoy some kitchen-sink realism from time to time, but I think literature in general benefits from a healthy cross-pollination of genres.

And since there isn't a lot of money to be made in writing any kind of fiction, I might as well try to write the kind of stories I love to read. I'll just have to set my sights on Weird Tales or Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet instead of The New Yorker.

EVEN THOUGH I CAN'T SING

Last night we took my sister Rachel to see Colin Meloy, the lead singer for The Decemberists, perform a solo show at The Orange Peel. Rachel is a naturally reserved person, something being 16 only accentuates, but we think she had a good time, because we caught her smiling and singing along several times last night.

I can't blame her for singing. I, myself, can only manage a tuneless, frequently cracked sort of rhythmic talking that no one on earth would call singing, but I danced and clapped and sang all the same. The Decemberists - and Colin Meloy - tend to bring out a warts-and-all enthusiasm in their fans. We've gone to see the entire band play both times they came to Asheville in the past few years, and both times we've been right in the thick of the friendly, "too bad for you if you're too cool to stomp" vibe they generate.

Laura Gibson, a singer-songwriter from Portland, Ore., opened with several soft, sweet heartbreak songs. Her voice was flawless, but she couldn't help looking shyly at her shoes when she spoke between songs. I wanted to hop up on stage so I could give her a hug and tell her, "It's okay, we won't bite you." Rachel liked her a lot, and informed us after the opening set that Gibson was a brand of guitar.

I liked her, too, but I thought she could use some lessons in confidence and showmanship from Colin Meloy, who strode out on stage with his guitar and told us, "I'm Colin Meloy and I'm going to entertain you" in a way that gave me the utmost confidence he would do so or die trying. He joked with the crowd and came back with snappy retorts when the crowd fell prey to fanboy catcalling. For the most part, Meloy played Decemberists songs, with the crowd cheerfully offering backup, rhythm, and mock guitar riffs. We heard two new songs, one of which was upbeat and forgettable, and another, possibly titled "Hazards of Love," which was a kind of prog rock ballad/fairy tale that left me sockless (said socks having been rocked off). Meloy also covered Sam Cooke's "Cupid," with backup from Laura Gibson, and Morrissey's "Every Day is Like Sunday."

I became keenly aware that I was surrounded by people much younger than myself when I realized Jeremy and I were the only people in our immediate vicinity who knew the words to the covers. The crowd was a little younger than usual last night , since the show allowed ages 16 and up, rather than the usual 18 and up. I understand how people born in the '90s could easily have missed out on late '80s hits, but is a six to eight year age gap enough to leave people unacquainted with Sam Cooke?

The crowd wasn't as thick last night as it has been for Decemberists shows, but it was hardly sparse. Of course, there were the full compliment of asshats who lurk around whenever a band plays: the girl who answered her cell phone in the middle of a song ("Oh, nothing much, I'm at the Orange Peel to see a band."), the drunk people who won't stop shouting out ridiculous requests (Play "Mariner's Revenge"!), and the couple who talk over the opening act about their plans for the weekend, then cut through the crowd to the front of the stage (Why?).

We had a great time, despite the usual jerks. The tone of the evening dimmed a little toward the end when a woman passed out from dehydration in the center of the floor and security took forever to make their way through the crowd to her. But she was back on her feet soon, and Meloy played a few more songs for us before calling it an evening. I can only hope Colin Meloy wasn't so put off by last night's crowd that he (and the band!) won't come back.

AS THE GOAT MAN GOES, SO GO WE

Less than a week after our goat-herding neighbor was unceremoniously rousted from his compound, Jeremy and I got word from our landlord that he was moving back from out of state and wanted to move into the apartment we had been renting from him. After several weeks of panic, nearly a dozen house or apartment tours, more credit applications that I've ever filled out before, and the help of some incredibly generous friends, Jeremy and I have moved into a new house. I have to say, we lucked out. Our new view is just as interesting as the goat man's yard, and much more awe-inspiring: The house is large and drafty, and at night we can hear train cars connecting with a rumble like far-off bombs. The river winds around almost out of view at the foot of the hill. On the other side, the warehouses and art studios of the arts district stretch out until they meet the city proper and the mountains beyond. The first time I stayed the night, I felt I was standing at the edge of the world, looking out at some post-apocalyptic landscape. I only hope it isn't so beautiful it distracts me from writing.

I think both the animals will be more happy in the new house, if we can keep Pyewackett from running out into the street and getting flattened like a furry pancake. He's taken to hanging out on my writing desk, where he has an excellent view of the birds and whatever else is living down by the river. --->



And Renfield has a bit more living space. He's hanging out in the living room with us, now.
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