xtcian

AHHHH HAH HA AHAHA AHAHAHHAAAA!!!!!!

AHHHH HAH HA AHAHA AHAHAHHAAAA!!!!!!

Finally, it has fallen to me, Ian's brother SEAN. Many times, the torch has passed me by, many times it should have been *I* who has written this damn blog, and always I have been thwarted. I even shut down the power everywhere on the eastern seaboard, but dammit, Ian escaped me, that sonofabitch. And now, finally, I, like Jacob, *I* have taken the birthright that is mine! I have presented an hairy arm to my father, and now the blog is mine! I shall talk about whatever I damn well please, and you're gonna keep reading.

A couple of things. First, Ian, a womanizer? Seriously? What kind of 19 year old idiot are you? This is the most hilarious myth about Ian ever. Sure, he has dated more than, say, five girls in his life. And there was a stretch in his twenties when he tried to meet girls and date them, which I know is just *shocking*. But a womanizer? You must have been there in '84 when every tee-shirt was a mass of blood stains and acne medicine bleach spots.

Just like mine. I wear my scars like badges of honor. Plus, I read today that fat is the new Black, but that's a whole nother can of worms.

Secondly, perhaps you haven't heard, but even bad publicity is good publicity. The fact that you are still talking about Ian after all these years is hilarious.

Speaking of publicity, go see The Lucretia Jones Mysteries at the Gershwin Hotel, starting September 20th.

Seriously.

Anywhooo, I've always felt that blogs were less about talking about what you have done that day and more about how you feel about stuff. There also should be links, and pictures. Pictures of attractive women. Ian always screws this part up. Sure, there are attractive women, but it's usually his damn wife, and seriously, what am I supposed to do with that?

I also think that you should drink at least a bottle and half of wine before you write a blog, especially if its Ian's. The wine, it should be said, is part of a case that I stole from his wedding party. So, if you figure in how much the bachelor party cost and the wedding gift, and then you figure I got a bunch of awesome meals and a case of expensive wine out of the deal, I'm actually ahead.

Which is what is important.

So, here's what I feel about stuff. I think stuff is important, but not as important as feeling good about having stuff. Y'know? You gotta like stuff, or there's no point in having it... etcetera. I also like the way the young ladies in the videos shake their cans. I feel strongly about the can-shaking.

Man, Ian called from a wedding, and he's probably sitting with the cast of The West Wing, and if he isn't, he'll tell me he was and then he'll be all, "Yeah, I was gonna get a picture with Martin Sheen, but then we got all fucked up and were playing pool and he was all, 'Ian, you so cool,' and I was all, 'Yeah, man, you cool too.' and then he left and I couldn't really get his picture, 'cause we're, like, friends now."

So, there you go. Ian's always been jealous of my writing, so don't go writing him and being all, 'Sean's better than you.' Some things are just self evident.

Michelle, Ian's little sister here.

Michelle, Ian's little sister here. Ian just called me from the top of a mountain outside of Milford, Pennsylvania, and before his cell phone cut off, he said that "Nell's rehearsal dinner was great". After that I was left with buzzing silence, so we're on our own here.

Ian and my brother Steve have shown great restraint and decorum regarding the recent complaints regarding Ian's blog. Well, I got Ian's approval to use the "F" word, so all you people who have a problem with my brother can Fuck Off. And I mean that in capitals. Seriously? You are taking the time and effort to say a blog is self-involved? I pity you, with the free time on your hands, and particularly feel you all must be simply pathetic to not realize the grace, generosity, talent, goodness and fun in my brother's writing (and in his life) that you get to witness for free. There are few living writers who can turn a phrase like Ian, and you should count yourselves lucky that you don't have to pay a dollar a word. Cuz he's worth far more that that. So get the freak over yourselves, and spend five minutes looking at what your president is doing. Complain about that, voice your opinion about that, but don't waste precious minutes and brain cells on being concerned with my brother's wedding tux. His tux, and his wedding, are things I will remember forever for how simply amazing they were. Go stick your head down a hole. You might get more accomplished.

Okay. My rant is over. I'm typing from Ian and Tessa's apartment in Park Slope, where I am taking refuge from a Saturday night party in my own buidling. I'm also half looped from a wine and cheese party. I've already raided the Pop Tarts and am about to go abuse the cable TV. Someone else from my family will be writing tomorrow night, and hopefully, someday soon, my brother will return to where he rightfully belongs.

Steve, here, again. This time

Steve, here, again. This time writing from back home in California, having dropped Chopin at the kennel and flown home from Columbia County earlier in the week.

Ian, meanwhile, somehow sprung unexpectedly directly from Acadia on the shores of Maine to a remote Pennsylvania hilltop above the Delaware Water Gap, whence he called weakly on his cell to ask me to fill in again. If Ian and I were attached with a long bungee cord, we would fly past each other and be flung from the world altogether.

A word about blogs: Blogs are neither diaries, nor columns, nor serialized novels—and yet blogs are all of these things. A blog is whatever each blogger makes it, whether purposely or not. A blog is expression without obligation. Each blog, whatever its character, has an audience. If a blog doesn't speak to you, there are millions more to try.

When Ian began blogging, I urged him to blog like '01 bloggers did, in pithy, one-line comments linked to interesting finds. Fortunately, he ignored my advice and made his blog his own medium. It serves him. It often serves us family members and, I think, a fairly wide circle of friends. It is worthwhile whether or not it serves anyone outside of that circle, as is every other blog, whatever its form.

Finally, and for no particular reason, here is the ticket stub from the movie we saw in Great Barrington, which for some reason I can't find in IMDB.

8/20/03 Portland, ME Well, this

8/20/03 Portland, ME

Well, this blog just got more hits yesterday than ever before, which shows what a little controversy will do for you. I'm afraid that makes me feel like Lewis Carroll following up "Alice in Wonderland" with a math textbook, but I'm still on my honeymoon, and would prefer to keep my head in those lofty clouds, thanks. But I will address one point: certain detractors seem to think a diary and a blog are different things. I suppose it all comes down to semantics, but that wasn't really my point. I said this: calling a personal blog "self-involved" is a poorly-thought-out, un-nuanced and ultimately specious way of re-stating the obvious. If someone's blog is bothering you because "it's all about them," then perhaps you should go surf porn, where the intentions are better spelled-out for you.

Speaking of which, the new Harry Potter book is providing some real difficulty for both Tessa and me. We've never purchased any of the five actual books, opting instead for the incredible performance of Jim Dale on the audio tapes. We listened to the first three books during our massive post-9/11 road trip, the fourth on a cross-country Thanksgiving jaunt, and this new one will dominate the honeymoon driving. It's a really fabulous way of hearing the story, even if we don't know how anyone's name is spelled.

Anyway, we're about a third of the way through the "Order of the Phoenix" - and the behavior, speech and philosophy of Professor Umbrage (and the Ministry of Magic in general) is reminding us so much of the Bush administration that we have to turn the tape off every once in a while and seethe with rage. When Umbrage cancels all student groups, sports and gatherings (because of Harry's proposed secret Dark Arts class), the self-impressed, smug, mind-numbing monkey face of Bush, Ari Fleischer and John Ashcroft flitted into view, and made it all too real. I know self-convinced righteousness has been in books since man begat characters, but I'd truly like to know if J.K. Rowling - who delayed this book several months after September 11 - had any current events in mind.

Oh, we hiked to the top of the Beehive in Acadia National Park today, and it was rough but beautiful. I'd like to make one request to all the white folks in New England: can you PLEASE untuck your polo shirts out of your pleated shorts? It's driving me batty. Thank you.

8/19/03 Northeast Harbor, Mount Desert

8/19/03 Northeast Harbor, Mount Desert Island, Maine

In sporting events I always root for three kinds of teams:
a) us (meaning Carolina)
b) anyone playing Dook
c) the underdog.

In Canada, it seems like New Brunswick is the underdog; all guide books begin with "The much-maligned New Brunswick..." or "The province everyone seems to ignore..."

So, of course, I engineered that we should swing over the Confederate Bridge from Prince Edward Island and see a little slip of New Brunswick, just so we could pay our regards. And it wasn't half bad:

Having read an article about digital cameras in MacAddict, I've tried a few shots by sticking my polarized sunglasses in front of the lens for effect. These particular sunglasses are rose-colored (with a silver lining, in fact, O! The poetry!) which made for a nice New Brunswick stew. By the way, N.B. has the "highest tides in the world," which means the water on the Fundy Coast ebbs and flows the height of a four-story building every day. I mean, you gotta give a country something, right?

The maritime provinces have been a blast, especially given we were here during the Nicest Day of the Year. Every single Nova Scotian and Prince Edward Islander was outside today doing their laundry, walking around in a pheromonal haze, swimming in public pools and chatting with like-minded fellers basking in the blessed sun. In Charlottetown, the tourists lined up for the local musicals, despite the fact that the promotional posters were among the worst I'd ever seen in my life:

That picture of Anne of Green Gables was so hauntingly awful that I stared at it for hours this morning. P.E.I. is pretty gaga over Anne; she appears on jam, cordials, books and places like the Anne of Green Gables Chocolate Store. I went to a rugged elementary school in Iowa that would have disemboweled me if I'd read "Anne of Green Gables," so I don't understand her thing for cherry drinks and getting ice cream all over her face, but I'm sure it's relevant to the text.

We'd planned to stay in Nova Scotia for the night, but found ourselves in time for the Cat - the high-speed ferry to Maine that is the largest catamaran on earth, going a jillion miles an hour, serving up hot chili and slot machines (and apparently slicing through the occasional sperm whale). So here I sit back in the U.S.A., missing the Canadian play money and the gas measured in litres.

Here's the one thing I can bring to Our Northern Neighbors: I read today that Canada is waiting for a partnership with XM Radio in order to start beaming satellite radio to the provinces. Let me share a secret with you: you don't have to wait. Our satellite radio worked fantastic all up and down the maritimes. Just go to Maine and buy one. Yes, it has Fox News, but it also has a ironic lounge channel!

And in the Cool Stuff About Canada Dept:

- the green stoplights are round, the yellow is a diamond shape, and the red is a square. Just like a tape deck, sorta.

- Canadians stop their cars whenever a pedestrian even thinks about crossing the road.

- they have Cadbury bars and Bounty chocolates (think Hershey and Mounds, but twice as good)

- and my favorite... on Canadian warning signs, the outline of the driver wears a very nice hat.

8/18/03 Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island,

8/18/03 Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, Canada

Before I get to how great this place is, I must take a little sojourn back into the land of mean-spirited snarking. Like any weblogger with an ounce of curiosity, I occasionally check the "referrals" page to see how people are getting here. Many times it's through cool people like Ev or Alan or Diane, but occasionally it's the sort of judgmental hoo-hah that attempts to belittle the political views expressed on here, or perhaps just tell me that I'm full of shit one way or another.

I had not, however, had to deal with people talking shit about what I look like and the perceived inequality of my marriage until I began getting referrals from The Perfect World message board, where a fairly mean thread was started about me and my wedding. Now, before I say anything else, let me add that the person who started it has very nicely apologized for the way it devolved. I won't link to the actual page here, because it'll bum Tessa out, but since it's now a matter of public record, I'll paraphrase it for you:

a) apparently my statement of a few days ago - "I am so happy to be free of the burden of finding other women attractive" - is so stupid as to "make one's head explode"

b) that I am apparently so unattractive as to warrant serious sociological theory as to why someone as pretty as Tessa would deign to marry me

c) paradoxically, that I was also a "massive womanizer" and picked Tessa because she had cash

d) my blog is hopelessly, hopelessly narcissistic

e) AND MY WEDDING TUX WAS UGLY!

Now, the first four I can handle, but the last is below the belt. My tux rocked!

Seriously, though, why do people have a problem with someone's blog being self-involved? It's a DIARY, for fuck's sake. It's not about anyone else. It's certainly not the way I talk in public, and it's not even necessarily how I feel at any given moment, but it is necessarily about ME. Reading someone's blog and complaining that it's self-obsessed is like going to a whorehouse and complaining that you didn't feel loved.

As for my comment about being "free of the burden of finding other women attractive," maybe I should flesh out that thought a little more for public consumption. I simply mean that all of us, when we were in the dating world, were held captive by the tyranny of other people's beauty. At least guys are - obviously, I can't speak for women. When you're at a social function, at school, talking to someone who is charming, attractive, sarcastic, funny - you long for them, you try to find ways of being with them, and it can haunt you. You walk around with this sensory application on overdrive, trying to parse through all the people you find alluring one way or another. I had a problem with it - as did a lot of us - hence my "massive womanizing."

But time passes, you find you get older, your energy for this sort of tomcat bullshit wanes, and best of all, you find someone who utterly erases all these omnidirectional desires, and concentrates them, redirects them into something positive and constructive. Men are rotten; I think most women forget that, or are lulled into complacency by the great man they are with. Men have to be taught to be decent creatures, and it took some of us longer than others. I'm not being precious or gloating about the "burden of finding other women attractive" - I consider it desperate and pathetic that I was ever like that.

Now, about this thing about me being "goofy-looking." All I have to say is "no fucking duh." There are a trillion pictures of me all over this blog, but if you need it spelled out for you: I'm about 10-12 pounds over my target weight, I never had braces, I have acne scars from the Duran Duran years, and I have the neck of a bloated sea lion post-afternoon feeding. I get by on a certain Welsh ruddy charm, and the rest is conversation.

But there is one thing I have never done in my life: I have never talked disparagingly about another person's looks. I may have used heavy descriptive phrases while describing unnamed groups of people in general, but having grown up feeling uglier than sin, I made a point to never refer to anyone's unappealing physicality in particular, especially someone you know. It's a rule. Another rule I'd suggest is that "you're not allowed to say anything about the way someone looks on the internet unless you have a picture of yourself next to it." As for me, I've anted up.

I gotta tellya, blogs are a really shitty way to get to know somebody. Don't any of you understand that I get it? The blog, despite my valiant efforts, seems to exude the idea that I am a navel-gazing, latently misogynistic, whiny twit so lost in a prep-school, money-induced fever that I have no idea what a buffoon I look like. Don't you know that I know? People on that message board seem to think I have no idea that I look like Philip Seymour Hoffman, or that Tessa and I first met at a Public Ivy, or that we're both hopelessly white - I mean, what the fuck, do you think we possess ZERO self-awareness? I have half a mind to rename this blog I Know What This All Must Look Like To You But I'm Continuing To Write Anyway.

The only difference is that I DON'T CARE ANYMORE. Sure, I care enough to make it a blog topic, but that's about it.

the Nova Scotia coast - never visible

But on to happier news: Canada rawks. Nova Scotia was a happy place, made even better by a visit to Lockeport, the summer getaway of our friend Jace - the place is windswept, socked-in and gorgeous, reminding me of what I thought Wuthering Heights might look like.

We got to Prince Edward Island last night, and stepped right into the four week-period when it truly springs to life. Men wearing heavy sideburns, 1847 morning jackets and top hats walk around giving tours in incredible Maritime accents, and the drawing rooms of local inns are bursting with merriment. According to Peter Rukavina, this sort of thing is short-lived, and soon the island will go back to hibernation.

Dinner with Peter and his partner Catherine was a blast, one of my first ventures into a face-to-face meeting with a longtime blog correspondent. He asked a lot of questions about the artistic side of the movie business, forcing us to exercise muscles that have been dormant since Bridezilla and GrotesqueGroom® took us over. I highly recommend his site for chit-chat both idle and relevant.

Tessa, Peter, Catherine and me in front of the Province House

Tomorrow, we take a jaunt over the highly controversial Confederation Bridge and dip, for a few precious miles, into the oft-maligned province of New Brunswick! Yay!

8/17/03 Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island,

8/17/03 Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, Canada

Wow, so much to say - and yet I'm stuck in a car on a deserted street in Charlottetown, P.E.I. stealing wifi internet from a bank three floors above me. Suffice to say this: I have never been stunned by the graciousness, affability and overall kindness of any nation on earth as I have been by Canada on this trip. These people don't need Prozac, these people are Prozac. Every single human being - from the gas station attendant in Yarmouth to the pharmacist in rural Nova Scotia - has gone out of their way to make this trip better for us.

The landscape is like a Scottish dream with a smattering of the Berkshires and Eastern Iowa thrown in for good measure. I will post more tomorrow; I'm running out of petrol.