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There is not much I enjoy less than bus travel. I’ve tried to find a fraction of delight in being rolled from city to city in a giant Tupperware full of smells and sounds, but I can’t.

It’s the actual getting on the bus that I find to be the most stressful. Where to sit? Who will fully recline their seat into the next three hours of my life? First I try to identify everyone with fried chicken on their person. Then I look for children who’ve been hugged too much and couples who are still in the honeymoon stage — my chair’ll get kicked either way. I zoom right past anyone with anything hanging from a lanyard around their neck — they will, without fail, clip their fingernails once we’re on the turnpike. And, oh my god, I’d rather sit anywhere than next to a girl in a Barnard hoodie with a laptop — I promise you she brought food from fucking home, she brought fucking apple slices in a baby Ziploc bag. A baby Ziploc bag, to match the baby voice in which she talks on the phone to her boyfriend during thesis breaks every fifty miles.

I try to find the quiet people — observant monks, humorless children from Ingmar Bergman films, fresh inductees into the Witness Protection Program — but I can only assume they’re all traveling by rail, glorious rail.

This most recent trip I sat amongst a punk rock band. The lead singer leaned over me to flip off the Sallie Mae headquarters we passed in Delaware, and one of her dreadlocks curled in my palm. It upset me; it felt like a bendy bone. I swear to god, if I could travel in a cushioned, single-occupancy, sandalwood-scented pod that played rain sounds and gently rocked while it hurtled me through the air, I would be thrilled, and I leave it to the Japanese to design such a method.

I hadn’t heard of Gotye until today (thanks, Brigham). These two songs (and videos) are particularly good:

What’s a two-letter word for
someone who loves you?
“Me.”

I do crosswords, too –
albeit the free ones on my
discontinued phone
where “abortion alternative”
is a clue in every other puzzle,
but crosswords nonetheless.

My god, you’re doing the Times Thursday
in pen?
While you’ve got that pen poised,
here’s our marriage license;
I want that mind in my house.

I can see it now,
you and me and the dogs
all wrapped up in afghans like mummies
at our house up in Maine –
tree branches leaning on the moaning eaves,
winter stew simmering on the stovetop,
raccoons burning to death in the chimney.
You’d put your pen down, look up at me
and say,
“Hey, honey, what’s a three-letter
suffix in taxonomy?”
and I’d say,
“How the fuck should I know,
I went to school for theater,
but let me know if you need an
eight-letter abortion alternative,”
and then we’d hold hands
and watch British television
while outside
our taps collected maple sap
and the wolves circled and howled
at the aurora borealis.

Look:
I’ve never been to Maine,
I’m only guessing at what goes on there,
not to mention
I’ve got three tubs of recently-purchased hummus
in this bag
and I’m not expecting guests.
Most people would feel confident
answering in pen
that you would improve my life.

I was recently on a farm. It’s true. I was at Fishkill Farms, with Cassie — she’d invited me for a drive in her convertible up through the Hudson Valley. I didn’t quite know how to dress for a farm; I didn’t want to incite a bloodrage in any loose bulls. Here I am, stroking a cock:

Here I am, regretting stroking a cock:

All I wanted out of the day, besides apple cider and Cassie’s company, was to see a waterfall and a shirtless farmhand. We were driving through a valley to an organic apple orchard, so I figured this would be no problem, that we’d be like, all right Hudson Valley, enough with the waterfalls and shirtless farmhands.

This was not the case. Not only was all of the water we saw on the way up tranquil, but there did not appear to be any men working at the farm – and certainly not a golden glistening lug with one of his overall straps undone, slowing his tractor as you cross his path on your way to the blackberry brambles. There were only teenage girls, with their short sleeves rolled up to their farm-shoulders, glaring at my credit card as if it was a non-organic apple.

OK, fine, we did encounter a cheerful hayride driver (pictured above) who sang the opening of “Hey, Soul Sister” to every car that passed and an entitled city dad who asked the girl grilling burgers to shuck his kid’s ear of corn for him. They were men. And the hayride was fun, the cider delicious, and the farm outrageously scenic. I wasn’t asked to assist in the birth of a foal, but I did use a port-a-potty.

Afterwards we left the farm and drove around. We stopped at an estate sale run by two gay guys with an art barn out back, where I added furniture preservationist to the list of careers my dream husband might have, right after sensitive chemist. Eventually we wound up in Beacon, a lovely town right on the Hudson with lots of art galleries and places to do yoga and get a massage and fall into a raging creek.

Yes, that’s right, Beacon has a raging creek. I heard the rushing water before I saw it, and I ran into traffic towards it. It may be man-made, but goddammit, it’s water and gravity. Waterfall, found:

As for a shirtless farmhand, we never did see one, but when we stopped in a coffeeshop before heading home the slim-hipped artist working the counter was wearing a Hanes t-shirt with a generously gnarled v-neck. I don’t know for a fact that he was an artist, but I waited so long for my coffee that I can only assume he was painting it into the cup.

(Sunday morning.)

HANGOVER: May I join you?
ISAAC: Oh, no, I just woke up, I don’t –
HANGOVER: Where to sit, where to sit –
ISAAC: Oh! That’s my, that’s my head, you’re sitting on my head.
HANGOVER: It’s Sunday. I love Sunday. What are we doing?
ISAAC: We aren’t doing anythi — sshhh, too loud.
HANGOVER: You’re getting older. You used to be able to shrug off the three-martini nights better. Of course, I was younger then too, less sure of myself; I fumbled, had acne.
ISAAC: (biting into a bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwich) Please shut up.
HANGOVER: Could I have a bite?
ISAAC: (obliges)
HANGOVER: Oh, yum: the grease.

(Sunday midday.)

HANGOVER: Where are we going? We’re getting on the train? I love the train.
ISAAC: (on the train) I am going to the movies.
HANGOVER: Ah, sweet, the movies? I love the movies. What are we seeing?
ISAAC: Something gay. You probably won’t like it. You should probably get off at the next stop.
HANGOVER: Are you kidding? I love gay. I saw Brokeback Mountain in the theaters, on a date. What are you doing, you’re doing a crossword on your phone?
ISAAC: Yes. What’s a six-letter word for “philosophies” that starts with a C?
HANGOVER: ”Credos.”
ISAAC: Oh, huh, that’s right.
HANGOVER: (at the movie theater) Holy crap, is this huge line for our movie?
ISAAC: Judging by the nautical-striped tank tops, the Joe Jonas fades, and the PDA being documented with Hipstamatic, I’d say yes: this line is for our movie.
HANGOVER: Your whole tribe is here. You probably should have shaved.
ISAAC: I thought I could just, you know, slip into the dark movie theater; I didn’t know there’d be a sunlit cruising queue.
HANGOVER: That guy reading Mother Jones just gave you the stink-eye.
ISAAC: Oh, no, he did? (glancing back at him) Fuck, I bet he makes a great third-date paella, too. My kingdom for a shroud.

(Sunday late afternoon.)

HANGOVER: (stumbling out of the theater) Oh my god.
ISAAC: That was so good.
HANGOVER: My heart aches.
ISAAC: (clasping hands with HANGOVER) Mine too!
HANGOVER: Oh, man. You got your gay Before Sunrise all right.
ISAAC: Now all I need is my gay While You Were Sleeping.
HANGOVER: Well, look. I know you took a Vitamin B and two Ibuprofen.
ISAAC: (small laugh) Yeah.
HANGOVER: Plus there wasn’t any sunlight in there and the characters mumbled a lot, so by now I’d say you’re on the mend. I take my leave.
ISAAC: I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.
HANGOVER: Thank you for the lovely Sunday afternoon at the movies. It’s a touch humid, but I think I’ll walk to my next appointment instead of taking the train.
ISAAC: And I’m going to go wherever all these gay couples aren’t.

(Monday morning.)

HANGOVER: Wow. I was just here yesterday.
ISAAC: (face in pillow) I know. Please don’t rub it in.
HANGOVER: (reading from a clipboard) It says here you had wine.
ISAAC: I was feeling so melancholy after that movie.
BOXED WINE: He put his glass under my spout more than once!
ISAAC: Oh, come on –
BRIDESMAIDS: He watched me. He only meant to watch thirty minutes, but he couldn’t help himself. (shudders) He watched all of me.
ISAAC: You liked it.
BRIDESMAIDS: He wanted me to show him my special features.
BOXED WINE: He kept shaking her DVD case –
BRIDESMAIDS: – asking where his Officer Rhodes was!
BOXED WINE: He got tears on my box!
ISAAC: I’ve had better nights. (to HANGOVER) What? Where’s your enthusiasm? I thought you loved everything.
HANGOVER: Not Mondays. Today’s going to suck. You know this means I have to go to work with you, right?
ISAAC: I’m sorry. Please don’t sit on my head? Think of our magical Sunday!
HANGOVER: (sighs) OK, just this once.
ISAAC: Thank you.
HANGOVER: I will need to sit on your shoulder, though.
ISAAC: Ow. OK.

This interview is incredibly moving. I’ve never heard anything like it. Click here to listen, if you haven’t heard it already.

I waited outside the IFC Center with every other gay guy in New York to see this today, and it was completely worth listening to the couple in line behind me chomp on farmer’s market apples. I really loved it and have been thinking about it all day, my heart slightly aching. Very well-done — I recommend it.

From a profile of Jean Paul Gaultier:

“I saw someone, very poor, he put a big pullover over his coat, and I thought it was super-beautiful!”

From a profile of Daphne Guinness:

Guinness has a rich person’s obliviousness about money. When asked if she has ever had no money, she said, emphatically, that she had. “Oh, God, yes,” she said. “You know, it happens often that you forget your wallet or something. But you just make your way back. You find some way to do it. You walk.”

and also:

Even before J.K. Rowling came up with the idea, Guinness dreamed of wearing a cloak that would render her invisible. For years, she has been on the lookout for a fabric, of which she has heard rumor, that is made from L.E.D.s.

How fucking OFF THE RACK of us to be fucking VISIBLE.

(But if you do find that fabric, girl, let me know.)

Supportive evidence: tonight, this delicious hummus attentively listened to me go on and on about Connie Britton being robbed of her Emmy.

If you have a sec, you should read this article in the Times about the fucking incredible sound design in Elevator Repair Service’s The Select (The Sun Also Rises) at New York Theatre Workshop, and then go see it. I saw it the other night and loved it, against all odds — it was three hours long and I’d only had coffee, a few almonds, and a disgusting espresso fiber bar that day.

In this moment, the one on the left wondered aloud, “What time is it?” and looked at his wrist, which did not have a watch on it:

Gwyneth Paltrow literally makes the entire world sick. And I always forget how attracted to Matt Damon I am. Good previews, too: The Iron Lady, The Dark Knight Rises, Drive, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

I had vacation days that were about to expire so I took this week off lest they go to waste. Being of meager means and indoor proclivities, I thought I’d have a staycation, my very own writers’ retreat, without the communal granola and the other writers in summer scarves. I envisioned a regimen — waking up early each day and writing for hours even if it’s all shit, cooking my own meals even if they’re all shit, and so on.

Now, keep in mind that I still had a box of hurricane wine left over. On the first night of my staycation I had some. The first glass was for heart health, and the second and third were for heart expression. I Hemingwayed back and forth from wine box spout to legal pad and did what I thought was some fantastically raw writing, but in the light of day it all looked like the hieroglyphs of a particularly mordant Egyptian girlyboy.

And at that point the sleeping schedule was shot — I’d gone to bed at four and woken up at noon — but I ruled on a technicality that output at three-thirty was still morning writing, just really early morning writing, and forgave myself with a mug of coffee and Working Girl.

I went for a walk in Fort Tryon Park and listened to the I Am Love soundtrack until I felt unhinged and went home. There’s an attractive new neighbor directly across the alley, but he put up curtains after a couple nights. The second season of Friday Night Lights is ridiculous, but I’m in it for the long haul.

I think this is particularly beautiful:

I’ve never been to the Frick, never been to the Whitney, never taken the train up to Dia:Beacon, and I thought this would be a great week to do those things, but it’s rained every single day so far. So instead of French turquerie and Picasso’s drawings there’s been gay porn. Lots and lots of it, and let me tell you: I am so sick of watching cheeks accommodate dick.

Speaking of dick, Darren Criss went commando in sweatpants:

I may or may not have squeezed a final glass’ worth of hurricane wine from the bag in the box. Staycation: halfway through.

Kudos, Friday Night Lights, on this beautifully-realized marriage. I’m jealous, as someone who writes and as someone who longs to be kissed in a cow pasture.

MICAH: I’ve started daily meditative prayer practice.
ISAAC: Oh good grief. Really?
MICAH: I know you have some daily practices of your own.
ISAAC: Well, they are meditative, my practices, and you could argue that prayers are being voiced.
MICAH: You could, yes.
ISAAC: So what do you pray for in these practices?
MICAH: You.

Ewan McGregor and Chris O’Dowd:

If Andrew Garfield is to be had by anyone, it might as well be Emma Stone. Do they need a pale gay friend in the backseat?

I spent the past weekend out of the city and in Marion, Massachusetts, where Marianna’s family has a house. I’d hoped, being so close to Cape Cod and Martha’s Vineyard, that I could at least have a maid to fire or a husband to resent as I vigorously hand-washed some organic grapes, but no such luck.

Marianna’s family was warm and welcoming, and their house beautiful. We swam in the harbor, and I remembered how fucking hard swimming is. Luckily there was a lifeguard on a nearby dock, and even though my glasses were ashore I could make out a blur of hair on his chest, and I was kept afloat by my buoyant lust.

In the mornings we had flaxseed pancakes and kale-kiwi smoothies, and in the evenings we had gin and tonics and cardigan weather. Each night after dinner we drove — Marianna, her cousin Viv, Viv’s husband Pablo, and I — to a place called Kool Kone, where we’d stand in the parking lot and put rainbow-jimmied soft-serve down our throats. On our second night there we watched a family of four and their dog all share fried cod, hot fudge sundaes, and onion rings, al fresco in their convertible.

We went sailing, a first for me. My nautical duties included switching sides whenever one side of the boat needed more weight (a hard pill to swallow, especially with all that Kool Kone in my mouth), waving to every boat that passed (mariners’ feelings are easily hurt), and taking gallons of saltwater to the face every thirty seconds (I swear we were in a white squall). I shrieked a ton until I realized someone might call the harbormaster and report a kidnapped girl.

We rode bikes into town. I rode a tandem bike with Pablo and it was as if I’d never ridden a bike before, so there was more shrieking. The back seat on a tandem bike comes with far more control than I was expecting (I was hoping for more of a sidecar situation), and I was causing the bike to swerve. “Relax your hips,” Pablo said to me, but he was just getting to know me and didn’t know how lost a cause that is.

On the bus ride back to New York the driver sang loudly to himself and the girl next to me burped up Arby’s. I was burping up Kool Kone, though, so I didn’t judge.

Heather and I realized on our way back from lunch that the woman walking in front of us was topless. (Yes, we checked, she was.) Just another day on 42nd Street.

The other night, bloated with wine, fried cheese, Joni Mitchell, and valerian root – a consumptive chain that left me sleepy, melancholic, and gassy – I lost my shit watching videos of soldiers coming home and surprising their families. Unbelievable, unadulterated displays of emotion. Loved this one especially:

More here.

I’ve been fortunate enough, in my humble opinion, to have seen two actors onstage communicating with the gods — Fiona Shaw in Medea and, tonight, Mark Rylance in Jerusalem.

… is that you then can’t help but watch it in its entirety. Attention must be paid.