We've spoken at length about the Freudian theory of Forgotten Things (actual clinical name). So the theory goes: you never really truly lose anything. Your brain is too smart to forget things like that. Rather, your subconscious mind, out of desire, chooses to hide things from your conscious mind. Somewhere in your brain, you know where your keys are, but you don't want to leave the apartment, so your subconscious mind hides your keys from you. And, really, it makes a whole lot of sense.

"Where's my wallet?"
"Jesus, you and your wallet this weekend!"
"I never lose it!"
"I know!"
"This blows! Of all the days--I was gonna go to the laundromat and the bank before work."
"Well, I can't find it."
"Shit."
"This sucks."
"This does suck."

*****

It has begun. And it's a whole lot harder than we ever thought it would be.

Of course, we kind of suspected it would be so much harder in practice, once theory was swept to the side, but this is outrunning even my more outrageous predictions. This sucks.

Five years of our life together are being slowly ripped apart into two piles, pink and blue, boy and girl, sun and moon. I laughed a few times because it, like most things that are extremely serious, felt like a parody. It felt passe.

"Is this your copy of 'Yankee Hotel Foxtrot' or mine?"
"Oh, that bit is so done."

We almost came to blows over the Charlie Brown DVD. We know what's important.

*****

It all started innocuously enough. Somewhere, about a thousand years ago, I promised Devon I'd call her on Saturday and we'd hang out. But when Saturday rolled around there was my ex-girlfriend in the room, and she looked devastated by the whole thing and so did I.

"Let's go paint my room, huh?"

It was a distraction, and it worked heroically. We walked down to our beloved neighborhood paint store and picked out a nice semi-gloss West Coast Blue for three of my four walls (plain white for the one facing towards Mecca, I think). Before we knew it we were in Harlem. She got to see my new place and we had a lot of fun slapping paint everywhere while my new roommate, Ashley, prepared for her Rollerderby fundraiser. The theme was "Dress as your favorite TV star." She chose Krystle Carrington from "Dynasty".

"Strangely," she said, "Getting ready for this thing I feel like a drag queen, even though I'm a woman." It was true, and it owed in part to the silk robe she wore as she applied a quarter-inch layer of makeup. "I'm Nathan Lane dressing up as Krystle Carrington!" The end result, we all decided, was closer to Carol Channing.

We finished painting and collapsed on the couch, eating a dinner of Slop (rice pilaf, ground beef, and cheese) that I threw together in my filthy new kitchen (Ashley and the other two are not really cooking people). "Ocean's 11" was on, and we got sucked in deep until one o'clock rolled around and we finally peeled ourselves off the couch. The fun had melted away. Bina started to realize where she was. In an instant she had to leave, and I didn't blame her.

I ran downtown to meet Junebug in Union Square and head over to the Rollerderby benefit. It was, as predicted, spilling over with weird punks and tough girls and Ashley's outfit had long ago been thrown to the pyre. She introduced me around, but we were anomalous in this weird dress-ed up group of punk rockers, bohemians and freaks. Junebug, in a full suit from just getting off work, said he was Alex P. Keaton. I was wearing a white t-shirt and paint-stained jeans, so I said I was Jackson Pollock. I, at one point, rambled on about the short-lived sitcom "Pollock's Place" where his catch-phrase was drunkenly throwing a typewriter through a window in the barn.

Not that it mattered. Things were unraveling even as we walked in the door, and while we chatted outside the bar nothing much seemed to be happening (we did however, get to witness the pure natural beauty of the bartender, dressed as a diner waitress, lift up her skirt to show that she wasn't wearing underwear and then drop her cigarette into her bra).

Grab an Onion. Head for the subway. Junebug says, "You can come uptown if you want. I'm paying for the cab either way." So I get in the cab, and we call around for the latest dirt on Ricky.

*****

Finally back home at 5:30. The apartment stinks and feels like a bus terminal. An impromptu party broke out two nights earlier, with Nicole, Junebug, and I drinking ourselves rotten with Kelly from The Art of Shooting and a friend of hers who was apparently Somebody Important but I could give a shit. There was a great noise (when Bina finally came home she reported that we could be heard from the street). Nicole is a traveling disaster, and evidence of her was everywhere: crumbs and bacon and clumps of cheese and ash. Even in college, I used to find her by following a trail of crumbs.

Saturday morning: Junebug sprints away. Nicole and I stumble out to the grocery store for breakfast. Nicole prepares it for three: herself, Bina and I. It, for some reason, does not occur to me how absurd the situation is until Nicole points it out. Then my college girlfriend served eggs to my most recent girlfriend, and I sat between them and put on a Simpsons DVD. Without warning, and without much of a goodbye, Nicole jumped up and rappelled out the window. We sat in silence, listening to the Simpsons.

"Did Nicole just leave?"
"I think so..."

*****

Sunday night. We've been drinking all day with the Indispensable Scotts, first at The Last Brunch Ever and then at The Mark while shooting pool. It feels good, our best friends, our couple friends, our two's and four's; nature's strongest design. But it's a lie. Those days are gone. We're two and one and one. But that never really gets said.

We chit-chat about old times, new times, the improbable re-emergence of Esther Ellesworth (how did you find us, anyway?) and old flames. It is dangerous, this talk of love. There are many land mines strewn about and I step on a few. So it goes.

We go upstairs and have Drunk Sunday Sleep. She comes down to the living room and wakes me up because she's hungry. I make more Eggs A La Matievic and we watch Fox Sunday. Finally, at 10:00, we begin packing.

I put on a Friends DVD for background noise. Soon we are out of boxes and just sitting on the couch watching Friends. The floors have been scrubbed, the CD's sorted and separated, Bina's books packed away. Three bags of Goodwill clothes.

Devon calls. "You sound really stressed out." "I am." "I'll let you get back to packing." When I hang up the phone I notice that Julie has called (finally returning about 7,000 phone calls I've put in). I want to call her back, but all I can think to talk about is moving and I know that this is a story she's heard enough for one lifetime. It's a story that I told her would end in April. But instead it's dragged on into what Bina has called The Longest Breakup in the History of Mankind. This is how sloths end a relationship.

We watch two full DVD's of Friends Season Four (for my money, their most well-written season with James L. Brooks really forging a rhythmic groove). Sometime near the end one of us, it doesn't matter who, says it first.

"I think we're making a really big mistake."

We discuss this from all angles.
Perhaps we are making a mistake, we decide, and perhaps we're not. Perhaps we're just panicking.
Perhaps once we're in our new places we'll settle into our new lives and look at our relationship with some perspective.
Perhaps we're just being nostalgic because the dust and cat hair is being kicked up with all the photo albums,
all the pictures of
five Halloweens,
five Christmases,
five birthdays,
five New Year's,
twenty shows,
millions of gigs,
thousands of dinners at home,
millions of embraces,
two years in Austin,
two years in Williamsburg,
one year in Greenpoint,
four anniversaries.
One catalogue of engagement rings.
One stuffed bear in a wedding veil, watching us from our window.
Perhaps...

Oh God who knows?

Nothing much to do about it now. "Emily" will be moving into our place on Sunday. Must get out of the way.

*****

In the back of my mind are visions of what it will be like in my new place. Of my room. Of my new life. Of the improvements I'll make around the house.

Of the things I did that created this.

Of the ways that this, really, will eventually be better for both of us. Of the reasons why we decided this was the best thing and how they make perfect cognitive sense.

As soon as I got into work I called her. I called her cell and I called our home.

I was scared. I knew she was sitting in that apartment, amid a forest of boxes, and I knew she was crying.

She didn't answer the phone.

Remember our Radiohead night where I played with a band that did OK Computer all the way through? Remember the drummer John, and how awesome he was and nice and stuff?

Well, he's playing for a very good cause this Thursday and you should go since I can't. Like so:

When: Thursday, July 29, doors at 7 p.m., music starts at 7:45

Where: The Baggot Inn, 82 West Third Street (between Sullivan and Thompson streets)

What: An Evening of Music to Benefit The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society and The Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. 5 talented local bands (all original music) will perform to raise money and awareness for blood and breast cancer research and patient treatment programs. Performer list (with expected stage times):

The Paul Cox / Adam Roberts Duo (745)
Michelle Vecchione & Vintage Blue (845)
Miguel Yannuzzi-- with JV drums (945)
Chester White & His Orchestra (1045)
Pat Mcgrath (1145)

Suggested donation of $10 at the door. 100% of door proceeds to be split evenly between the two charities.

Also, not for a good cause whatsoever, there's this, which I found whilst doing PI work on my new roomy, pictured below:

THRASHER TAKES ON MTV

GGRD's own Margaret Thrasher, winner of the first Roller Rumble street race, enjoyed yet another taste of the spotlight just two days after she took home the tiara. Thrasher fell prey to MTV's newest hidden camera series, Boiling Points — a show designed specifically to try the patience of its victims to the breaking point while the clock ticks. Thrasher, who was buying a slice of pizza, tangled with an "employee" of the pizzeria when she was overcharged, hassled, and generally disrespected. Had she just hung on a little longer, she might have gone home with $100 for her patience. But you know our Maggie — she's not about to take crap from anyone. According to rumor, once the cameras were turned off, Maggie went to work on the MTV actors with elbows flying. We didn't even try to reach MTV for comment on the matter.

So there's an upside to all of this depressing nonsense. I'm moving in with an American Bad-Ass.

So a few years ago I got published in this book, "Monologues for Men By Men." The editor, a professor who I'd worked with, had read a few of my plays and, after seeing In The Middle of the Ocean, asked me to write something on the subject of modern manhood (Skipper is also in this book). I wrote a little thing I'm fairly proud of called "Ditter's Primal Scream" (in which this immensely whipped guy loses his shit while yelling at his girlfiend, who is just sitting there laughing at him).

As I've written before, I every once in a while get an e-mail from an acting student somewhere searching for advice on the character (my contact info is in the back of the book).

Anyhoo--I was Googling myself (and a lot of you, too, dammit...) and I found this, which has made my fucking millenium. It's from the blog "WhAtCha THoUGht Yo!", written by this Napa Valley high schooler named Mike. Here are excerpts, first from his intro, then from stuff that's more relevent:

WhAtS CraCkin'..My NaMe Is MiKE..WutCha THoUght..LOL..I'm Movin to L.A. cuz I HatE the Bay aReA..(No BaY LuV FroM Me)..WeLL aLso L.A. N' S.cAli Just SeeMs bEta Den Up HeRe..Im A Full TiME stuDeNt and I aLsO Just got In2 Sum DraMa CoUrSes and It'S HELLA FUCKIN fun! I LiKE TO ClUb HoP aND GEt DrUnK AS fUcK..I'm a NICe PeRsOn But If Ur MeaN to me..I'll FuCKin SpIt In UR FacE and LAugh..O Yea!

Just as an intro. Then, further down:

I just finished practicing my MONOLOG..it's called DITTERS PRIMAL SCREAM...by CHRIS ALONZO...but yea it's coo. It's coming along i just hope i don't fuck it up in class tomorrow. Today was boring as hell! Nuttin much went on and yea thats Napa for ya!..

!!!!!!

I quickly pored through the (yeah I'm at work, Fuck off!) rest of the site to find more references to his progress.

IT'S PRETTY LATE AND I NEED TO TAKE A BREAK FROM PRACTICING MY MONOLOG...I REALLY WANT TO DO GOOD ON IT AND I'M JUST STRESSIN OUT...U KNOW WUT I MEAN..I GET SHIT TWIST ON MY LINES...EVERN THOUGH IM YELLIN IN MY ROOM..( THE MONOLOG ABOUT A GUY YELLIN ) I STILL GET NERVOUS..???? Y?????THERES NO ONE THERE BUT ME,....O WELL..I JUST HOPE..I MEAN I KNOW I'LL DO GOOD ON IT TOMORROW!!! PRAY FOR ME...ONE LOVE...ONE KISS...IM OUT LIKE THIS...PEACE~!

*****

TODAY I DID MY MONOLOG..MAN I WAS GREAT..I MEAN I FELT RAELLY GOOD ABOUT IT AND I WAS HAPPY WITH THE OUT COME..I REALLY GOT INTO IT AND MAN AFTER I DID IT I WAS SHAKING AND NEEDED A SMOKE...AWWW WOW THAT SOUNDS GREAT RYTE NOW!..

That's frikkin awesome!! I need a cigarette when I do that monologue, too. It's really, really fucking hard. Like a mini play crammed into 120 seconds of dialogue.

I HAVE TO DO A MONOLOG FOR MY ACTING CLASS AND YEA IT'S GOIN GOOD AND ALL BUT EVERYONE THAT WENT TODAY WAS GREAT! I MEAN REALLY GOOD..AND I HOPE I AM AS GOOD AS THEM...BUT YEA...WELL TODAY I WENT TO SELL SUM OF MY ANGEL FISH ..I MADE $60..HOLLA..

And then, of course, this:

I HAVE TO TAKE A SHIT- A BIG SHIT- THE KIND THAT FORMS AN ISLAND IN THE TOILET..I ALWAYS CALL IT MIKE..THE ISLAND OF MYSTERY..!!!!

Somebody get this kid a Ghost Runner CD. He's alright people by me.