Art of the Odd

Just to make it clear what we’re watching tonight. George C. Scott looks nothing like Angelina Jolie.

Last night was the West Hollywood Halloween crush. NovySan’s daughter hadn’t ever been, so off we went. We had to park a good two miles away (and unfortunately, the daughter in question was wearing heels), and even though we walked right by 8 Oz. Burger, we decided it would take too long to sit down and eat. So, we found an excellent taco truck in front of a gas station, and fortified with burritos and tortas, forged on to La Cienega.

If you look at the video closely, you probably still can’t make out the protesters in front of the laser show. They weren’t protesting the lasers - they were protesting fun. Homosexuality, yes, but also a long list of other sins, all of which would be punished in fire and vengeance. They were quiet, though, and the crowd seemed to be leaving them alone. At the end, some of you will recognize NovySan, as a Chaplin impersonator (a very specific Chaplin impersonator - his great-grandfather, in fact), and his daughter (who morphed during the course of the day from an undead pin-up to a vintage Bond girl).

And me? I was Caribou Barbie.

(I did manage to get that left antler bent into a more natural shape this morning. The basic shape cam from Crafting for Cheapskates.)

John, calling to tell me that Shawn’s friend Linda (who I believe took him to the doctor a few months ago) was with him, and said he was dying.

He called again at 2:59 to confirm — liver failure, kidney failure… While he was still conscious, he said he didn’t want life support, but he’d let John decide. John made the same decision I would have — he had them remove the breathing tube.

I decided I was flying up there, and called NovySan to tell him. He suggested I wait until I knew whether there was anything I could do — whether there’d be a memorial — whether the family was coming. (The family… John had already called one sister, and left a message. She hasn’t called back. I asked if he’d called Shawn’s brother. He didn’t recognize the name. So I found the number and left a message with Scott’s wife. She hasn’t called, either.) I called John at 3:37 and said I was going to wait. He said it didn’t look like I’d be able to get there before Shawn passed; I said I thought as much, so anything I could do up there, I’d be doing for him. Then he put the phone to Shawn’s ear, so I could tell him I loved him. I hope he could hear me.

At 4:21, I called my mother. I had to tell someone who knew him.

John called again at 6:02. He said, “He’s gone.”

At 6:06, Mom called. “I had a feeling,” she said.

She was right.

I hadn’t talked to him in more than four months. I hadn’t even told him that Lindsay, my parents’ friend, my mentor, someone he knew too, died before Burning Man. I keep asking myself why I didn’t call — and whether I would have known how sick he was if I had called. I wonder why I didn’t realize… And I feel even worse for John and his friends in Portland, who were there and still didn’t know.

I feel hollow. When I say, “Shawn’s dead,” I start to cry. But then it drifts away, because it’s real yet.

And I’m angry, too. With him, for apparently drinking himself to death at the age of 36. With myself, for not figuring out that that’s what he was doing.

Really, though, he joins my grandmother on my list of people who’ve died of depression. She treated hers with pills. He treated his with booze.

(And I hesitate to say for sure it’s the alcohol that killed him — but when I asked John, he said that was it.)

I don’t know how to say goodbye to him yet.

I almost never pick up my landline. Usually, if it rings, it’s someone trying to sell me something. But it rang around noon, and that made me wonder — when did I last check my answering machine? Before Thanksgiving, at least… So I wandered in to check the machine, just in time to hear, “Hi, Chia. It’s John — Shawn’s boyfriend. Shawn’s in the hospital. ICU, actually.”

Of course I picked up.

His liver is failing. They don’t know why yet. He went to the hospital yesterday. They put him in ICU when his blood pressure dropped dangerously low.

John called again later. He said Shawn’s stable, but unconscious. He’s on a respirator, because he didn’t react well to something they did to him. His esophagus is badly damaged. But, they expect he’ll make a full recovery.

I’m irrationally angry at myself, because I haven’t talked to him since before the wedding, in July. It must be worse for John, who lives with him and didn’t know how sick he was.

All I can do is wait to hear more news. And pray.

Maybe I should give the PonyShow its own category, too.

Tonight’s PonyShow’s was all about raising money for Hillary’s campaign. We had Hillary volunteers, Hillary’s state field director, Hillary buttons and signs and balloons. I danced to Natacha Atlas’s cover of “It’s a Man’s World,” and NovySan offered to stalk the candidate. All in all, a good night.

Actually, I think it was time for bed about an hour ago. I’ve got more work I should be doing, but I can’t face it. I’ve got a headache, I’m cold (the cat is, too — she’s gotten quite aggressive about trying to be in my lap), and I need sleep.

Because I was working, I didn’t go to Melanie’s class tonight, which left me a bit of time to cook dinner — we had deer chops with garlic, leek, bell pepper and sweet potato, plus salad. Took about half an hour to make (I just sauteed everything in the oil left over from the sausages we had Sunday night, then simmered it in a tiny bit of vegetable broth), and between the garlic and the Italian sausage oil, didn’t require any other seasoning. I’m very happy with it.