Dear Cancer: I Quit

I know you guys are dying; on the edge of your seat awaiting my brilliant recollection of the port removal and the subsequent end of my tenure as a surgical patient. Well, wait no more. Wednesday at 5:30 a.m. mom and I headed to the Mount Sinai Gummenick Ambulatory Center for (what better be the) final time.

By 7:30 I was going under—Vercet and something else that equals 'twilight'—and by 8:30 I was awake. And, unfortunately, talking. Some people cry when they wake up from anesthesia; I talk. In this case, about a family friend who's moving here and looking for an OBGYN practice to join. Even under anesthesia I'm a connector. So not normal.

"Are we done?"

"Just finished."

I think you're basically 'awake' when you're in twilight, but the Vercet gives you retrograde amnesia and the other stuff makes you not feel anything, so where does that leave you? Completely fucked-up for about an hour. As soon as I was in recovery, I was ready to go. I would've run out of that room with the fucking IV pole attached and my plump ass showing if it had been up to me. By the time I got into the room where you sit in chairs, change your clothes and get the IV out, I was operating at 100 percent. I was a lot more sober than I thought I'd be, unfortunately. Mom and I drove home, stopping at Epicure first, natch, chilled out for a while and then Lynn arrived from Palm Beach.

So we were sitting around my apartment for a few minutes, wanting to just "relax," since I did just have surgery after all.

"What do you want to do?" I asked them.

"It's up to you. What do you want to do?"

"I don't know—you decide."

"We-elll," mom says, "what are our choices?"

"I don't know! Bal Harbour? The park? Neiman's outlet?"

"Steph, I will do whatever! You decide!" Lynn says.

After about two minutes of internal debate: "Oh, fuck it. Let's go to the Neiman's outlet. It's our cancer tradition. I think we have to go." We don't want to piss off the karmic cancer Neiman Marcus gods after all.

So we headed for the Dolphin Mall and spent an hour or so at NM Last Call. (Good prices now FYI.) I picked up a frilly little DVF mesh sundress and mom snagged a cute pair of Manolo flats. Blue patent leather—"I don't have any blue shoes," she reasoned. We need every color on the Pantone chart, you know?

We headed home, chilled out for a few minutes and headed for a celebratory dinner at Smith and Wollensky with Ben and Laura. I've never had issues with Wollensky's—in SoBe it's on the water and is quite lovely. Wednesday night though as the four of us vegetarians dined—I like steak house sides, okay?—a stray cat strutted his stuff all along the patio, waiting for scraps. Our waiter was a real prick, and I bit into and then spat out a big hunk of bacon that looked like a crouton in my chopped salad. It was kind of a ridiculous scenario. I'd had four hours of sleep, a surgery, a shopping excursion and a big dinner. I slept for 12 hours afterwards.

So what're the post-op effects? I have steri strips over the port site. My right boobie is verrrry swollen and the area around the tape is really fucking itchy. (The really cool thing though is that because the port was basically invading my right tata for more than a year, now that it's out my uppermost right rib will shift back to its normal position and consequently the right boob will drop, according to accupuncturist. Once he told me that, I could feel the difference between the left and the right girl; I could actually feel the right rib laying higer than the left.) I have to wear the strips for a week or so, and then go back to Mesko next week. Which reminds me the nurse didn't call me back yest and I must get in before he goes on vacay. Photos below and more later. xoxo

One last surgical smile


After a long day, I didn't feel like wearing the Ralf.



Ben and Laura, our Bradgelina




Ben's alter ego—Jewlander

Just Another Manic Monday

No shortage of drama over the last week and it looks like I'm not the only one. Longtime readers may remember a fellow blogger who was briefly obsessed with me and this blog. (God, I was definitely in my skinny jeans in that photo. Motherfucker.)

I suppose it turns out that he's just a little obsessive in general according to a story in today's NY Daily News. I suppose I shall un-Facebook-friend Scott.

Is it just me or does drama flourish in the spring just like pollen? Drama amongst the friends, career drama, social drama—you name it. I find myself looking forward to the end of season when South Floridians can just chill again.

I had a spy in the "audience" at the barf-tastic "wedding" of Heidi & Spencer Saturday in Pasadena. I'm not at liberty to discuss the details of the event, but suffice to say that I will never get those 30 minutes back I spent on the phone discussing the minutiae of the hot mess that is Spidey. Natch, the whole thing is such a train-wreck that I lapped up every last detail. You're not missing much.

Wednesday I got a phone call from Dr. Laura: "Stephanie we're 10 minutes into the hour and I haven't heard from you."

I forgot my therapy session; what does that say? I'm stocking up on therapy sessions this month and next, as Dr. L is off to the South of France for a month. Last summer it was three months I think—the recession vacay. Dr. L actually read my blog about her during our session and she informed me that she actually did not charge the VIP chemo patient for time she spent at chemo with him. I didn't assume she did as a negative thing—I just pictured this bigwig paying for her time. And interestingly enough, on last night's second episode of In Treatment, Gabriel Byrne's character accompanies one of his patients for chemo as well. (Brilliant show; watch if you haven't.)

In other, more-exciting-for-me news, I found a fabulous college student willing to be my editorial assistant, primarily to help me with my video logging. How amazing is that? When the hell did I become the teacher as opposed to the student? I simply cannot believe that it was eight years ago when I was an NYU graduate student and intern myself. I will be a much cooler boss than Jason Binn though, let me tell you. I'm uber-psyched about this turn of events, as he is proficient in all things I'm not; e.g. iMovie and screenwriting. I'm looking forward to having help—clearly I need it.

And our meeting at Ben and Laura's qualified as his funnest interview ever, which was definitely my intention when I brought a bottle of bubbly to toast the occasion. However, as I found him via Craig's List, my mom has been a little obsessive.

"How do you know the people you find on there aren't murderers?"

"Huh? Calm down, mother."

"MAKE SURE YOU CHECK EVERYTHING!"

I did not put together the fact that my one time using Craig's List coincided with "The Craig's List Murder." Natch, brill timing as usual. First the Natalie Holloway Bermuda incident and now this.

Mom arrives tomorrow and the port removal surgery is scheduled for 7:30 a.m. Weds. I have to be at the hospital at 5:30 a.m. Gah. The doc better be on time; he has a rep for running late. There is nothing worse than delayed surgery, where you're in limbo on a gurney, not yet anesthetized and just wanting to get the operation over with already.

Today I awoke to an empty bed and was wondering where Wally had gone. My bed is too high for him to jump onto, but he jumps off during the night sometimes. Thought he was under the bed; walked into my closet to find him curled up sleeping soundly in my lingerie drawer. Okay. I may be getting paranoid cause I'm a neurotic Jewish dog owner, but his behavior is definitely changing as he ages. He's never crawled into a drawer before, but it was perhaps the cutest thing I've seen in a long while.

Chemo Tour

Yesterday—last Herceptin infusion, meaning LAST DAY in chemo ward. Follow-up protocol is a visit with Doc Schwartz every three mos for blood work, and "thinking about having your ovaries removed before 40."

I have seven-plus years to think about that.

I thought a photo tour of the building I've spent the last year+ would be appropriate as I'm pressed for time. One week from today, my port gets removed.

This is what the port looks like after they've drawn blood to send for lab work:


I go fr chemo ward where they draw the blood, to Schwartz who checks the blood work, back to chemo where they hook up the dangling cord to the IV.

Dr. Michael Schwartz, one of my favorite people in the world:


The trusty IV pole:


Schwartz's exam room:

The Herceptin, or "Vitamin H." I strongly encourage you to watch the amazing movie, Living Proof, about the amaaaazing doctor, Dennis Slamon, who invented this drug.

The machine as it beeps and blinks, indicating that the infusion was finished. Done! "I'm done, I'm done, come unhook me," I exclaimed walking out of the room doing a dance with the IV pole.



A fond farewell to the chemo suites with arguably the best views of any chemo ward in the country.

Good-bye to the building of life, death and rebirth. I will see you again in three months! Ta.

4/20 is the new 1/1

Did ya'll really think I'd let 4/20 go by without notice? Ahhh. 4/20—what a fabulous date. Maybe sometime in the near future we'll actually be able to celebrate this date in a legal fashion, no?

Well, whatever. I so wish I could share with you all the ultimate Pineapple Express episode I had last week with my, er, pharmacist. (Green Crack was the varietal if you must know.) But it's a little too illegal, so I think I have to save that one for the book. What can I say? It's another absolutely beautiful day in Miami and I have no complaints. I'm on a strict work schedule per L.A. shrink; the same work sched that she imposed on one of her uber-big wig clients who also went through cancer last year.

Therapists strictly abide by the confidentiality clause, however, that doesn't mean they can't share other patients' experiences with you. The patients just remain anon. Dr. L has been based in Beverly Hills for 30+ years and treats many of Hollywood's most influential people. (If I told you who I've seen in the elevators I'd have to kill you.) Anyway, last week I was despondent.

My first words to her were, "I think I need to be sent away. Go to rehab somewhere in Costa Rica. Lots of my friends are doing it."

It's the easy way out and natch, she wasn't having it. The crux of my issue is: How do you get back to a normal, working life after Cancer has been your full-time job for a year+?

I'd asked her this many times and she'd told me how many times. But I'm one stubborn old horse; one that needs concrete lists, deadlines and schedules. These are hard to impose on yourself, especially when you live on South Beach where it seems nobody works. The water beckons you, the pool is always there, the beach is blocks away, as are your work-from-home friends.

Long and short of therapy session: "Do your other cancer patients feel the same way? Did they have issues with how to pick up their lives after?"

She told me again about her most stunning example of both perseverence and despondence with regards to pulling oneself out of the black hole of post-Cancerness. This big-time patient of hers, "so big you have no idea. Custom made suits, alligator shoes, Adonis looks—this man is made of cashmere."

He lost his looks, his hair, brows, lashes, everything. He gained 20 pounds. His Italian bespoke suits didn't fit. His alligator shoes sat dormant because of his swelling. Hollywood is a town about appearances. This man lost his professional life and didn't know how to crawl back up. He had an A-list support system. God only knows the bold-faced names who showed up to his chemo treatments. One of them was Dr. L herself. She put him on a strict schedule; with to-do lists every day. For a year, she spent chemo days in the hospital with him. ($2,000+ days accdg to my calculations.) Holding his hand while he checked off the items on his lists. She gave him homework. She's given me homework for years. Often I excell; sometimes I slack. I'd give myself a B+ in the homework assignments I've completed in the 10 years—holy fuck, 10 years—I've been her patient.

"So, it worked for this studio head?"

"Wait a second now, I never said he was a studio head!"

"I know, that's just an archetype I'm picturing." Studio heads typically are at the top of Hollywood's pecking order.

"Yes, okay, an archetype."

"So this guy? Did it work?"

"Yes, he's back. In fact, just the other day he got a check for $500,000."

"Okay, I want that plan."

So she gave me the best homework ever and now I have structure to my days and will bang out my proposal in the next month or so. I've found an intern. How fantastic is that? Now I don't have to watch the videos myself. And I've gotten my Filofax 2007-2008 notes in order. Which brings me to this time last year. Now you'll see why this week has indeed been blessed for me.

April 21st was the 4th and last chemo cocktail of Adriamycin and Cytoxan. This cocktail was the most potent of my four-month chemo regime. The following four Taxol treats would be easier. You guys know that chemo wasn't all that bad for me—until April 21st. Brother—unfort for him—was in town. That night, I hit the wall. I tried ginger ale, fresh ginger tea, Zofran, Emend, weed, etc. and nothing rid my body of the nauseau. I barely left the house for more than a week. Michael had to take a cab to the airport. It was awful. Really, really awful. (Not to mention that was the week I realized I had rats. And the week a rat crawled into my fucking apartment. I was so drugged up that I just threw my remote at him and chased him out.) My Filofax calendar for that week is empty, meaning I did nothing. (Thank God for this blog—thank God I had the good sense to write so much during treatment.) I, for the first time in my Cancer journey, lay on my couch most days and nights. Was forced to. I could barely walk Wally. I remember my big outing after these cabin-fever days was a walk to Walgreen's, where the A/C was off and I was sweating like a pig in line.

Cut to a year later. Whereas last year I was literally crawling around my apartment, cut off at the knees by the AC chemo, this year here I am. Writing this in my clean, rodent-free, cheap-because-it's in foreclosure apartment, in a sundress, with a Jewfro. This week instead of being couch-bound, I lived the life I'd always lived pre-cancer or no cancer. Wednesday I had dinner at Bal Harbour with Joni, Thursday Channing and I went to ESPA for a spa girls' night. Friday was cocktails at Smith and Wollensky, Saturday was the park with Wally and a pool party with the gays. Whereas last year walking Wally was a chore. Saturday it was an hour of joy with him at the gorgeous new South Pointe Park.



This time last year, this was me:


And here I am now:


Alls I have to say is thank God for Pucci scarves. And yes, I still wear the wig at night. Shut up.

Whenever I think I haven't accomplished anything in my life, I suppose I can just look at those awful photos of me with my bald head, which seemed so normal at the time. I am so grateful. I have nothing substantial to complain about. I am one of the lucky ones. I truly am. Okay, I'm getting all verklempt. There's no crying in fashion.

Happy 4/20. Light up a fattie in my honor and in honor of all of us Cancer patients and survivors. Legalize it! Enjoy nature's bounty! Life's way too short.
xoxoxo

This seems tailor-made for me. If you haven't watched anything with Tracy Jordan, you are seriously missing out. Esp his performances on 30 Rock (follow above link).



And check out my pics from today for a tour of my hood—the nice part; not the aforementioned cracked out part. Though we're only talking about a one-block separation.

Crackheads, Potheads and Models, Oh My!

I've told you about the colorful characters in my hood, no? There's the Scary Tranny at Walgreen's who terrified me until he said, "Girl, your hair is fierce! You look like a rock star!"

The whacked-out, turban clad shaman/homeless man who sages the four-block radius around B&L's house. (I think there is good reason for this; there's some seriously weird energy around there—they're always having electrical problems and shit. One day their oven turned on by itself and nearly scorched their pad.) And the crackhead across the street at 7-11 who often benefits from my fancy dinner leftovers.

In short, people-watching in South Beach is always an interesting sport. Now it seems that one of my very good girlfriends has fashioned herself into one of these characters.

Tuesday night Miss X was set to come over to my place where we'd chill and watch The Biggest Loser and Real Housewives of New York—don't even get me started on that crazy psycho Kelly, whom I used to work with at Gotham. Miss X arrived carrying a black DVF dress of mine that she'd borrowed for a commercial, (she's a commercial model in her spare time), a CVS bag and her large handbag. Miss X is one of those lucky girls who, with her long legs, sick, lean body and gorge face, looks good even in a schmata and house slippers, which she's been known to walk around the nabe in. She sits down on my couch and puts a roach on my coffee table.

"What the hell is that? I rolled a new one for us."

"I smoked this on the way over. You should have seen me on my bike."

"You did what? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Well, I thought it would be a nice, peaceful bike ride and I could smoke a J and relax. But then it turned into me on my pink bike, holding your dress on a hanger and trying to shove my shit into my basket. And then I couldn't really light the joint, but I was sort of smoking . . . "

I am dying by now, doubled over in laughter at the sight of this beautiful model, peddling down our street carrying a dress and two bags, smoking a J. (Marijuana is totally de-criminalized on the beach. We smoke at bars, in our yards, outside, on the beach. The lazy Dade County PD couldn't care less.)

"So there I am peddling and smoking a joint and of course as I pass 7-11 [directly across the street from my bldg.] I see two cops pinning down this crazy guy."

"The crazy eyes killa crackhead?"

"No, a new one. Some dirty ol' white guy. And here I go peddling by the cops smoking a joint. Or trying to."

I am dying.

"Oh my God!!! You've turned into one of the cuckoo neighborhood characters!!"

"Oh. My. God. I totally have!!"

We chill, smoke a lot—sorry mother, but I know how ya'll did it in the '60s; I know 'lids' cost $40 back then blah blah blah—and then get the munchies. Of course, I walk her out with Wally and we hand him off and take turns going in and out of 7-11.

"You have such a better selection of ice cream than we do at our market!"

"Yeah, fucking terrible for potheads. Junk food stores that are open all-night."

So Miss X and I are, well, really high. We walk back to my building where her bike is parked. I'm concerned about her getting home.

"Are you sure you're okay to drive? Er, ha, I mean pedal?"

"Hahaha! Biking Under the Influence, do you think they have that?"

"Shit, probably. Text me when you get home!!"

She did, but the text read: "This caramel cone crunch ice cream is un-fucking-believable."

Yikes, it's been a while, again! April is an insanely busy month for everyone it seems. Our weather is on the precarious precipice between spring and summer, so we're scrambling to pack everything in while the sun is still our friend. Yesterday it was 90+ and today it's 66. Ca-razy. Tomorrow I'm heading up to Jax for Passover and a few decompression days.

Lest you all think that I've been slipping in my Gossip Girl duties, I managed to make up for the P. Diddy encounter.

Yes, I was the gawker this time, and the P. Diddy Equinox spotting made it into this column too. Phew.

Lesley's Scene in the Tropics is the place to read about Miami scenesters. Saturday night I went to Casa Tua with a girlfriend who's a member. Casa Tua is a chic private club that offers a refreshing respite from the call-girl-esque crowd that takes over most nightlife destinations on the beach. Anywho, from our perches at the best people-spotting table, we had the best view in the house. My partner in crime, however, gets credit for the initial sightings. I'm just the conduit:) And I didn't even know it made the column until my friend texted me this a.m.

"Alexandre von Furstenberg, image director of DvF, the clothing label founded by former mother-in-law Diane, and fiancée/designer Ali Kay were seen upstairs at Casa Tua on Saturday night. Says our blinded spy, ''She was wearing enough carats around neck and ring finger to open her own Graff store.'' Also at Casa Tua: Owen Wilson in trademark jeans and baseball cap, ``spending the entire time outside so he could smoke.''

And even though almost nobody in this town would notice the confusion, Alex von F. is Diane's son. His ex-wife, Alexandra Furstenberg, nee Miller, was also referred to as Alex—as in, when they were together it was Alex and Alex—so it's an easy slip.

Anywho, the P. Diddy sighting also made that column.

Sean ''Diddy'' Combs was spotted at Equinox South Beach last Wednesday, the same day he played an April Fool's joke on Twitter, announcing his engagement and marriage to his high school sweetheart."

Okay, so onto more important matters—me. The best news? I think I've found an intern to log my memoir/cancer videos for me, woo-hoo! There are about 20 hours of tapes, so this is a HUGE relief for me. It's way too emotional for me to watch these tapes; to see myself as I really was. Drugged up in the chemo ward, slurring a little from the Ativan and Benadryl they mixed into my chemo cocktail. Me being wheeled off into surgery, driving to the hospital with Dana, Mom and Lynn, acting like everything is normal. I just can't handle watching these tapes. And though my friends and family have volunteered to watch for me, I don't think they could stomach this either. It's one thing to remember—our memories are always edited by our brains—it's an entirely diff thing to actually see verbatim what was going on.

From the first tape (the lumpectomy) where you see and hear my mom saying on camera: "The good news is the doctor said it's absolutely nothing."

"Snapple and water, I need drinks!" My first concern after a surgery that required me to be liquid-less for 24 hours.

"It's absolutely nothing." Famous last words that would come back to haunt us—and probably that fucking moronic surgeon—for a year. I wonder if that surgeon ever thinks about me, wonders how I'm doing and feels the slightest bit guilty about him giving us all false hope.

From that to me in Lynn's car on our way to our first consult with that bitchy oncologist I dumped for Schwartz, telling Dana, Mom and Lynn: "I don't care what they say, I'm not chopping off my boobs."

It's heartwrenching to relive these episodes and to really see the emotions that play out on my friends' and family's faces.

So an intern will save the day. After these tapes are logged, it's a simple matter of editing and copying and pasting. I will have to read, but not watch, the story of my life over the past crazy fucking year.

Stay tuned for a review of my Facebook friend, UK writer Meg Sanders' new tome, Busy Woman Seeks Wife—a smart chick-lit read. It's available now in the states. She kindly sent me an advance copy to read. Moi? Very flattering, no? Ta for now.

P. Diddy Don't

Ironic that an hour after I write my first hip-hop related post in like a year yesterday, I go to Equinox and have my first-ever (I think) P. Diddy encounter. I need to wear contacts or glasses to see far. If I'm just working or at home during the day, I wear prescription sunglasses. If I'm at home at night I wear glasses. Translation, sans-prescription I can't see details from very far. So I walk in to Equinox around 3:30 yesterday and head straight over to where the Cybex Arc ellipticals—my fave—are. There are only three of them in the gym. Two were occupied and the third had a drink and something else in the water holder. I tried to get the attention of the dude in the adjacent machine to see if anyone was using it. Walking over I thought he looked a little like P. Diddy, but I wasn't wearing glasses or contacts.

"Excuse me? Excuse me?" (I so didn't want to tap him if it was Diddy.)

He turned around and still not quite realizing it was indeed Diddy I asked him, "Is someone using this?"

"Nah that's mine, is it in your way?"

By now I realize it's him and politely ask him to remove it. I use every part of any machine I'm on. I can't go without at least a 20 oz water bottle, and at Equinox, where they don't have individual TVs—ridiculous when membership is $100+ per month—, a book. That is the worst punctuated sentence ever but whatevs. Anywho, I needed that water holder is all I'm saying and it's really annoying when people leave their shit on machines they're not using. I mean, I feel like I'm back in that episode of Seinfeld where they're at a gym and Elaine likes the guy who doesn't wipe down the equipment after he uses it. I'm reading Shantaram at the moment; it's 933 pages. Since the TVs suck, I read at Equinox, which I prefer anyway. So my elliptical looks like this: water bottle in cup holder, the 900-page dog-eared, India-bought Shantaram on the console, clipped in the middle with a hair clip to keep the pages down, and Wet Wipes. Okay, so I asked Diddy to move his stuff, he was cool about it.

The place was empty but everyone from the trainers to the older, frumpy white woman next to him was talking to him. My celebrity MO is leave them the hell alone, unless it's someone you really love and just can't help yourself or you actually know them. So I'm reading my book, going about my bizness. He's making some phone calls, talking about meeting up with the person on the other end for a drink, saying he's still recovering from WMC, wants to either get out of the house or chill at the house (I wasn't eavesdropping that carefully.) He gets off the elliptical and doesn't wipe it down despite the fact that he was sweating a lot. His trainer or bodyguard or whatever is hanging around in the weight area actually lifting weights while Diddy is sitting on the bench using the phone more than the weights.

So he leaves. I notice how short he is and how he has really scrawny legs. It's a funny episode and whatever, but I legitimately thought his star had really faded and therefore didn't even think to write about it. And I briefly thought about tipping off my friend Lesley Abravanel at the Herald, who's the funniest gossip girl ever, but again thought, 'Eh, who cares if Diddy is at Equinox.'

The one entertainment show I am obsessed with is TMZ. Obsessed. I DVR it and swear I'd move out to LA to work for Harvey Levin. Well, I get home today, play TMZ and what the fuck is on? Diddy outside of Equinox!? They're speculating on whether he shaves his legs. (Not that I saw.) Fuuuuuck! I cannot believe it made TMZ and I didn't tip off anyone. What kind of gossip gal am I? I'm an accomplished tipper-offer and I really dropped the ball on this one, folks. But y'all are the second to know and TMZ wasn't on the machine next to him.


Man, I probably could've gotten paid for a camera-phone photo! Aaargh!

I've Been Wondering . . .

What the hell ever happened to Afrika Baby Bam, remember him? The then-married ex-hip-hop star I shacked up with post-diagnosis? (I can now identify this 'relationship' as part of my Cancer-induced post-traumatic-stress disorder. )

It probably would've been easier on my nice, Jewish parents had my PTSD taken the form of uncontrollable anxiety, depression or isolation. My Sept. 11 PTSD was perfectly socially acceptable—anxiety, fear, eschewing of public transport and avoidance of both AA and United for years. Plunging into a scandalous affair with a black, penniless, uneducated man-child—oy. In hindsight, I get the heebie jeebies thinking about this affair. Yeah, I was completely batshit and my friends and family were afraid to tell me, not wanting to add any stress to my then-Cancerous life. My dalliance was psychologically comprehensible though—I'd just been diagnosed with Breast Cancer and was taking any and every distraction I could get.

And my family and friends were perfectly lovely about him, seeing as they saw me smiling and having fun despite my diagnosis. Well, the happiness was definitely mania that led to this uncharacteristic, risky behavior. Ugh, my poor parents.

Anyway, ocassionaly people ask me what ever happened to him. And the truth is I have no idea. He has become un-Google-able. Removed his mySpace page etc. (Isn't a musician taking himself off mySpace the kiss of death?) The reason he's popping into my mind of late is due to this popular song on the radio called 'Day and Night,' which I just discovered is by an artist with the proper name of Kid Cudi. It really sounds like Bam, so I Googled him. It's a morbidly curious sort of Googling I'm doing—did he kill himself? (He had bouts of suicidal ideations and is bipolar.) Did he pack up and leave Into-the-Wild style? (After I made him watch that flick, he had fantasies of doing the same thing.)

It was also the Winter Music Conference last week; the largest gathering of dance music professionals in the world. Yet he was—as I deduced from the handful of advertisements I paid attention to—nowhere.

Alas, I admit that I like that he's evaporated, easier for me to gloss over that whole episode. In my PTSD mania, I was convinced our affair would comprise a large chunk of my memoir. Now, I don't even think it warrants a chapter; perhaps a graf.

If anyone knows anything about this dude, lemme know cause I feel like I may become obsessed until I get to the bottom of this.

Update! Emily pointed me towards this. Priceless. Though now I'm at the mercy of my new friends who didn't know me back then and are DYING. All that makeup cross-dressing stuff started with me, I'm afraid. I obliged him one night when he asked me to paint his face a la Ziggy Stardust (below) and it seems I've created a makeup-wearing straight man.