21 October, 2002
Once upon a time.
This is my boyfriend Josh. We've been together for just over ten years (as of October 2002). He's a lawyer, but don't hold it against him -- he works for Neighborhood Legal Services, doing community economic development work here in Los Angeles that in a sensible country at least some of which would be done by government, and often just undoing damage that local entities inflict on people (eg. city, county, state; developers; rich(er) folks with profit agendas).
We met because he persued me (yes, I married my stalker) with some guile after reading my punkzine HOMOCORE. He and co-conspirator Dina Palivos came to San Francisco (where I was living at the time) and dropped in on Deke Motif Nihilson, HOMOCORE editrix, and then into our house at 666 Illinois St, where I rudely ignored this cute gothish punk boy because he was too quiet and from some damned faraway midwestern hellhole.
(It occurs to me also I had just dumped my oddly compelling but remote boyf Pope Crutch, with whom I'd done the long-distance thing (SF to Oly WA).
We actually met (like, mutually) in Seattle, on the street. I was there visiting a friend I'd met at a zine conference in Los Angeles, which wasn't working out as I'd hoped. As Josh tells it, I happened to walk by his apartment on Pine St. as he was talking on the phone to his grandmother, saw me, made some immediate excuse, slammed down the phone and followed me.
We crossed paths -- by his conveniently-arranged coincidence -- on 15th St (I think). I most definitely noticed him this time, and I walked into a goddamned shrubbery whilst looking over my shoulder at him. Tres cool. Yow. (He is still slightly miffed that I did not fall for him when he appeared in my kitchen in SF, but opposite his assertions, he (1) had totally changed his drag between run-ins (long hair, goth/punk, boots to shaved head torn sleeveless T-shirt, cutoffs, Converse) and wasn't so shy this time. Plus I'm basically a big bottom and need to be persued.)
Later, (same day? next?) about to have coffee in some cafe (Broadway/Pine), Josh walks by, we chat... within a few hours we're hot and naked in his apartment. Which didn't totally please Dina, since this was a studio, and we were in that annoying (to everyone but it's participants) woowoo mode, constantly mooning and making out. This was 19 June, 1992. I don't actually remember annoying anyone, eh. This went on for some days, until I had to leave for SF. He moved down shortly thereafter.
From '92 to '96 we lived at the 666 Illinois punk house, then moved to Rondel Alley. Josh worked mainly at Buffalo Exchange in the Haight, after a brief stint at nasty Pasqua Coffee, while I took over umm maintenance of a little internet share that grew into The Little Garden aka TLGNet, Inc. In 1996 TLG was sold; Josh and I went on a monster road trip (11,000 mile loop around the U.S. in my propane Rambler), he went off to UCSC to finish school, and I rented a tiny dumpy house in Hollywood to cool off my brain post-TLG and decide what to do next.
From then 'til 2001, when he graduated from Yale Law, we did the horrible, tedious, relationship-stress-inducing thing, he in Santa Cruz then to New Haven Conn., while I bounced around from Los Angeles, to Tucson Ariz., then San Francisco.
Around New Year's 2001 we started looking in earnest for a place to live in Los Angeles, having decided that (1) we liked it (2) there was no where else to go, SF having courted then fallen for Big Money, then found itself subsequently dumped, stupid and pregnant, by the side of the road. While simply checking out neighborhoods, not really looking for anthing in particular, Josh spots this rotted, abandoned commercial lot in the margins of Silverlake. We thought it would take oh a few months to renovate. The result went a little differently than we expected, but came out more or less as we wanted. We live there now with our lovely dogs/children substitutes Molly and Dart.
We've mostly recovered from the damage the long-distance-relationship thing did, and are now dealing with Josh's impending 30-year-old birthday doom, which will of course pass successfully just in time to worry about 40, which of course is the end of living as we know it (my life having ended in misery some seven years ago; we dance on my bones in three years for 50).
Happily ever after, the end.