John Cameron Mitchell

       It’s my day off from Hedwig, but I’m sick and delirious. Ingesting an endless round robin of remedies: expectorant, cough medicine, echinacea, goldenseal, garlic, zinc lozenges, herbal tea, chicken soup–covering all philosophical bases. Feeling isolated. Comfortable and yet not. Every iota lately is spent in preparation for or recovery from my show. I haven’t had sex … this year. Sort of seeing someone, or looking at him, really. He’s cute (in a giant puppy dog way), crunchy (in a sensible Vermont way), smart, and maybe too young (24 to my 34). He’s a filmmaker, plays in a rock band, and doesn’t buy into gay culture. A dreamy mix. But he just got dumped by some petulant young thing and seems distracted. Or maybe that’s just him. Or maybe I’m tired. We watched the only New York video store copy of Nick Cassavetes’ Minnie and Moskowitz. We got stoned–a dicey proposition with someone you’re starting to date. You bond, or you freak. Well, he was distracted, and I was tired. We loved the movie, but separately. The movie is Cassavetes’ idea of a romantic comedy–insane, moving, naturalistic, and improbable–with probably the best bad date scene in cinema history. I laughed myself silly. I think he cried.
       I’ve been having sex dreams lately. Or, actually, trying to have sex dreams. Last night, I dreamed that my loft (already clearly a dream) was being burgled by a very sexy Asian guy (he looked like the one well-adjusted character in the recent Hong Kong movie Happy Together). I was his hostage, but he ignored me, packing things up while I hovered around trying to get his attention. For some reason, I thought he might want to kill me, so I secreted a steak knife in my hand. I guess I thought if I could make him fall for me, I would be safe. Story of my life and career. I’m embarrassed by easily interpreted dreams. Once I needed a haircut and had a dream about getting a haircut. Hey, this diary idea is so fun and liberating. I don’t know anyone who subscribes to Slate. I don’t know from the Net. My computer screen is black-and-white. I’m faxless. It’s unreal. It’s bottled messages. It’s therapy. But I get paid. What did Bill Gates do with his diary money? You know, two years ago, my ex-shrink borrowed a lot of money from me, and I haven’t heard from her since. I need to talk to someone about it.