IN SICKNESS AND IN HEALTH

This is getting so out of hand. Now, my hypochondria has been well documented (for proof, see several posts below), but I've never been much of a germaphobe. I'm not afraid to shake hands with strangers (though I'd rather not kiss them on the cheek, Argentine-style), I don't always wash my hands before leaving the bathroom (admit it, neither do you), and I wouldn't be caught dead walking around with a surgical mask on my face.

But here in Buenos Aires, everyone is in a state of panic -- at least the government would have you think so. Public enemy number one: swine flu. I've been casually following the story, and I'm well aware that there was a bit of flu fever in the U.S. a couple of months ago. The first sign that the hysteria had hit these shores was when I went to the hospital last week to pick up the results of my blood work, EKG and thorax X-ray. Almost the entire staff was wearing surgical masks -- outside of the operating room! -- to cover their mouths. At first, I though that perhaps it was some kind of subversive tribute to the late Michael Jackson, who had used surgical masks as a fashion statement. Then I thought that maybe I had fallen through the looking glass into some sci-fi B-movie, like Virus. Only where was Jamie Lee Curtis and Billy Baldwin?

Things have quickly gone from bad to way downhill. Schools have shut down. At my pilates studio, there are warning signs everywhere as well as bottles of that icky anti-germ lotion. (Sorry, but despite my occasional failings, nothing says clean like good old-fashioned soap and water!) Hoping to better circulate the infested air, the management at my gym has been keeping the windows open despite near-freezing temperatures outside.

The epidemic has even spread to criminal proportions: In Mar del Plata, a beach community several hours south of BA, two surgical-masked men approached a woman outside of her home asking her for money to buy medicine. They then managed to enter her home, assault and rob her. Club kids are getting in on it, too. Last week, there was no line to get into my favorite club night, Ambar la Fox. Inside was packed, yes, but hardly the wall-to-wall mobfest that it usually is. And this week, the hottest gay club night in town, Friday's Rheo party, is holding a special Anti Swine Flu Vodka night, with the assumption, which I've always believed to be true, that nothing combats illness like a bottle of booze.

Yesterday, July 9, was Argentina's Independence Day, but the government declared the day after, today, a second national holiday, urging all citizens not to use it as an excuse to goof off, but rather to solemnly stay indoors and not hit the streets unless it's absolutely necessary. Thankfully, not everyone is heeding the government's red flag, and Buenos Aires, though considerably less congested, has not turned into a ghost town. But thanks to an alarmist government and media, the warnings are everywhere.

All the fuss -- as well as the we're-in-this-together bravado -- is so typically Argentine. Here in BA, they do everything with gusto, in unison. I don't know much about modern medical science and particularly flu prevention (I, thankfully, haven't had it since I was a kid), but I'm pretty sure that surgical masks and open windows are probably as effective an antidote as that aforementioned bottle of booze. Perhaps the government should spend as much time promoting safe sex and a healthy diet as they do swine flu prevention, as many of Argentina's gay youth appear to be clueless about the still-very-real threat of HIV infection and heart failure.

Hopefully, the swine flu hysteria will pass soon, I can go back to not washing my hands guilt-free, and my fellow porteños can find something new to obsess over. As surely as they'll all have some mandatory cumpleaños to attend this weekend or a high-cholesterol asado, there is already some new public enemy looming around the corner.

HOLLYWOOD IS RUNNING OUT OF FRESH IDEAS: EXHIBIT Z

And I'm not just talking about recycled movie-poster designs and generic, interchangeable film titles. How many more sugary boy meets girl, boy hates girl (and vice versa), boy grows on girl (and vice versa) retreads can we digest before we're all barfing, totally sour on romance -- or at least color-by-numbers romantic comedies?

All that said, after finally watching the Grey's Anatomy finale, in which her character apparently flatlined (look for a magical resurrection in next season's premiere -- just my opinion), and falling for her red-hot pose on the above poster, my love affair with Katherine Heigl has officially begun. I never really expected that she would be the breakout Grey star -- partly because I hate her character, Izzie Stevens (too too precious), but also because she initially received far less fanfare than some of her costars. Then came her surprise Emmy win and box-office hits like Knocked Up and 27 Dresses. Patrick Dempsey and Ellen Pompeo must be green with envy.

I probably won't be able to resist a trip to the multiplex when her new romantic comedy hits BA (it's out in the U.S. in two weeks). And that's the ugly truth.

GOOD TIMES

There's nothing like a grueling run followed by comfort food (spaghetti con salsa rosa) and a fun night out with friends to chase away the blues. Saturday was one of those nights, filled with great friends, strong booze, excellent music, lots of dancing and a few boys on the side. I may have woken up a little worse for wear on Sunday afternoon, surrounded by the damage from Hurricane Jeremy (with a little help from Tropical Storm Matias), but at least I had a great big smile on my face. After spending nearly two months worth of Saturday nights waxing romantic in hibernation mode (yawn!), it was nice to get out and live again.

My one burning question: When did the boys of BA become so omnisexual. Suddenly, my straight girlfriends and I are both competing for the same guys -- and both getting lucky! Call it equal opportunity scoring. In this game, everybody wins. Can't wait for the next match. Let the games begin -- again!

QUOTE OF THE DAY

"Long distance is the wrong distance. Deal breaker!"
-- Liz Lemon (Tina Fey), 30 Rock

Speaking of 30 Rock, as a former Teen People editor, I know how hard it is to get a bunch of music stars assembled in the same place at the same time. So I'm pretty impressed that the 30 Rock powers that be (Lorne Michaels and Tina Fey?) managed to get all of those hitmakers -- Sheryl Crow, Adam Levine, Elvis Costello, Mary J. Blige, Clay Aiken, Moby, Beastie Boys, Cyndi Lauper, Michael McDonald -- to appear in the "Kidney Now!" season finale (which just aired tonight in South America), making fun of celeb-choir benefit singles like "We Are The World." Outrageous! Especially when Cyndi Lauper, who looks awesome, mimicked her over-the-the top vocal and physical antics from the "We Are The World" video. I wonder if everyone checked their egos at the door.

SHUT UP AND KISS ME!

Last week, I was talking to my friends Cara and Mariem about sex talk -- both dirty and otherwise -- and I had the strangest feeling of deja vu. Where had I had this conversation before? Bingo! I'd heard the very same conversation twice before, on episodes of two of my all-time favorite TV shows, The Golden Girls and Sex & The City. I'll never forget Golden Girl Dorothy Zbornak's declaration that she always felt talking during sex was "unladylike."

I kind of agree. And I don't think it suits gentlemen very well either. Now, I'm not above a little sexy small talk pre- and post-coitus, especially post-, when total silence would be, like, totally awkward (unless, of course, you are as gorgeous as Juliette Binoche and Daniel Day-Lewis -- above -- then it just increases your movie-star mystique). But during -- and doing -- the act, words should be used sparingly. I've been known to insert the odd grunt here and there to let my partner know that I'm still awake -- and alive. And occasionally, I'll "ooh" and "aah" as a kind of verbal instruction manual: Yeah, yeah, keep it right there. Unfortunately, not every guy catches my drift.

But mid-coitus, actions speak louder than words. One sweet and tender "I love you" right before The Moment is worth a thousand words at any other coital point. Once I was with a guy I was kind of crazy about, and he kept exclaiming, "Me encanta! Me encanta!" over and over, louder and louder, while we were "hacer el amor." (Oh dear, the phrase "making love" sounds corny in every language.) I thought to myself, Okay, I'm glad you love it, but please stop saying it. He didn't. I knew right then and there that we would never pass that way again. We didn't.

Before you all start giving me strange looks, I didn't break up with him over his bedside manner, but perhaps my inkling played a role in things going from sweet to sour in seemingly record time. Next time, I'll be ready with the perfect comeback: "Me encanta también! Now, shut up and kiss me!"

SICK & TIRED, PARTS I & II

My name is Jeremy Helligar, and I'm a hypochondriac. This particular psychological malady has afflicted me for as long as I can remember, but it wasn't always such a powerful force. Since I was around 8 years old, my frequent headaches had me predicting my own impending doom, death by a brain tumor that was sitting idle in my noggin just waiting to invade my entire body, or worse, a deadly aneurysm preparing to strike and knock me dead. Instantly. But back then, my gloomy doomy health outlook seemed almost as ridiculous to me as it did to everyone around me. Every time I had a little pain in my head, I became a royal pain in the neck.

Now that I'm 40, the reality of death by tumor, aneurysm or any of a host of destructive maladies seems all too possible. Especially with celebrities, like Michael Jackson, dying young. And in this golden age of the internet, all the tools for self-diagnosis (and prognosis) are just a mouse click away. Got a little scratch in my throat? I do a Google search or log on to Wikipedia to find out what deadly form of cancer is about to do me in.

I know it sounds silly, but I also know that there are millions of people out there who are just like me. I can't speak for them, but for me, it's not so much a fear of death that has me living with black clouds moving in and out of the space over my head like a temperamental weather front. It's a fear of a slow, painful death, or dying alone in my apartment, where my body will be discovered days later, decomposing and smelling up the entire floor of my building. Come on, you single folks who live alone: The thought has crossed your mind too.

Today I went to my doctor with the results of a battery of tests I'd had done about a week and a half ago -- blood work, an EKG, an X-ray of my thorax. (I still haven't figured out the point of the latter, but here in Buenos Aires, doctors order X-rays, like U.S. docs prescribe antibiotics.) Dr. Kaip's verdict: My health is impeccable. I left his office psyched and ready to swim the Rio de la Plata. Unfortunately, it's winter in BA, and I don't know how to swim. Still, I walked home feeling relieved and invincible.

But I knew it wouldn't last long.... Oh!... What's that?... What's that little twitchy feeling I just had in my temple? Oh, no! Here comes that sinking feeling again.

THE BREAK UP

"So let's leave it alone, 'cause we can't see eye to eye.
There ain't no good guy, there ain't no bad guy.
There's only you and me, and we just disagree."
-- Dave Mason, "We Just Disagree"

What a break-up song! And today particularly, it resonates with me. Big time.

Love is a battlefield. Love is strange. Love is a many-splendoured thing. It has as many meanings as there are people too fall into it. For some, it's enough to know that it's out there. It's enough to know that there is someone, somewhere out there who cares. But for me, that is not enough. For me, the point of being in a romantic relationship is spending time together, sharing experiences, actually logging face-to-face time. I've tried the long-distance thing. It doesn't work.

Unfortunately, he didn't see things my way. Although he lives 30 minutes away by car (with his family, of course -- this is, after all, Argentina, where no one leaves home until they qualify for Medicare), he was fine seeing me once a week, or once every other week. In one and a half months, we saw each other exactly five times, although cumulatively, we spent days talking online. My friends thought I looked kind of sad. A man in love should not look kind of sad. But there I was. My poker face wasn't fooling anyone.

Saturday nights were supposed to be for us. It was our date night. He'd always have to leave before sunrise in order to avoid his mother's nagging questions about who he was with and what he'd been up to. But Saturday nights were ours. Unless something more important came up. Tonight it did. Do I spend my only free night of the week with Jeremy, or do I go to see Transformers 2 with my family? Tough choice? Hardly. Jeremy can wait until Wednesday. Or next Saturday. Transformers isn't going anywhere, but better to disappoint Jeremy, my boyfriend whom I haven't seen in a week, than to disappoint people I see every day.

Two weeks ago, when he told me that he was be going to see Transformers with his family on date night, I was disappointed, but I played good sport (here it comes again: mum mum mum mah poker face, my poker face). I hoped that he'd do the right thing and come up with an alternate day or night to get together. He suggested Friday. But I knew it wasn't to be. On Friday morning, he complained about lingering flu-like symptoms from Monday that hadn't been mentioned again all week -- until now. I got the picture. We wouldn't be seeing each other tonight. He had better things to do: helping his best friend set up her wireless connection at home.

I'm not sure whether it was the result of a lack of interest (despite all of his pretty, ultimately hollow, words, like "I love you with every cell in my body"), or if he just wanted to maintain the status quo at home. Maybe it was both. As important as he said I was to him, I wasn't important enough for his parents, who are well aware of his sexual preference, to know about me -- although he had no problem brazenly referring to his "mum" as "my mother-in-law"). So he sneaked around, making up excuses to come and see me. Who knows if one night a week was enough for him? Maybe he was happy racking up hours of MSN time, talking about how he loved me more and how much he missed me but not actually seeing each other.

But for me, it wasn't enough. I needed to be in an adult relationship (which I now realize was a ridiculous thing to expect with a 21 year old living at home and working for his parents, regardless of his level or maturity). I wanted walks in the park, romantic dinners in restaurants, mornings spent in bed reading, eating breakfast, kissing. I wanted to be with the person I loved, the person who said he loved me. I wanted a grown up, an independent man. But what I got was a little boy with an admittedly beautiful mind.

My life in a couple felt a lot like my life as a single person, only with less company. I couldn't even go out and look for what I was missing at home. So I had to let it go. Sometimes love just ain't enough. Sometimes saying you are in love just ain't enough. Sometimes it's important to show, not tell.

Tonight I needed to see him and told him so. But it was all "arranged" (his word, not mine). He had to see Transformers with his family, and apparently, no other night would do. And no alternate plan was suggested, by him, or by me (who, by this point, had kind of lost interest anyway). He made his choice. I, in turn, made mine. Now, he's just another page in my diary.

THE "KING" IS GONE

Yesterday morning I had death on my mind. It was this unshakable feeling that something big and terrible was going to happen. When I returned home from my pilates class, holding my breath and fearing the worst, I checked the internet for news on Farrah Fawcett, who long had been reported to have terminal cancer. Aside from a story about the shooting death of a high school football coach, there was no grim news about the death of anyone whose name I recognized. A few hours later, I logged onto Facebook. The first status update I saw: "RIP Farrah Fawcett."

I immediately told my boyfriend, via IM, about my scary premonition and its outcome. It wasn't the first time one of my death or near-death premonitions have become a reality, and unfortunately, it wouldn't be the last. A few hours later, again talking to my boyfriend via IM, he brought me more bad news: "Michael Jackson has died."

My first reaction was disbelief. Surely this must be one of those celebrity death hoaxes, or worse, the ultimate publicity stunt to drum up excitement for Michael's in-the-works comeback. Sadly, it wasn't. After going into cardiac arrest earlier in the afternoon, the "King of Pop" had died at the age of 50. I'd always figured that Michael Jackson would die relatively young. For some reason, I could never picture him as an old man. But still, I was shocked. Not only because it was the second celebrity death of the day, following my earlier premonition, but because somehow we all tend to think of our icons (Elvis, Diana and of course, Michael) as being invincible. My heart goes out to his family, particularly his mother, Katherine. I hope that Michael was able to mend existing rifts with various family members before his passing.

Although he's gone, I'd like to remember the vibrant life that he brought to pop music with Thriller, as well as his mostly-overshadowed work after that seminal record-shattering 1983 album. I have never been a big fan of the Jackson Five. I recognize the quality of the work, which is notable mainly for the strength of Michael's preternaturally agile vocals, but Michael's truly creative period began when he went solo. Without his post-Jackson 5 work, his death probably wouldn't have totally pushed Farrah's into the background yesterday.

And it's not all about Thriller. Yes, "Bille Jean" rocked, but there was life after Thriller -- lots of it. For me, some of his post-Thriller work, especially 1987's Bad album, is his best. Here are my favorite Michael Jackson moments (on record).

• "Blood On The Dancefloor" Remix CDs are generally a waste of time, featuring superfluous reworkings of overplayed hits and throwaway bonus cuts. But Michael's Blood On The Dancefloor: HIStory In The Mix (1997) is essential for a handful of new songs -- "Morphine," "Superfly Sister" and particularly this, a No. 1 hit in the UK -- that are as good as any of his post-peak work.
• "Ghosts" Another brand new jam from HIStory In The Mix that is better than anything on his next and final studio album, 2001's Invincible.
• "Human Nature" Michael's ballads generally make me cringe -- way too saccharine -- but this one never fails to bring out the romantic fool in me.
• "Leave Me Alone" Britney's "Piece Of Me" aside, pop's media indictments rarely work, but this does on the strength of Michael's bile-filled delivery and a dramatic musical backdrop that matches his barely contained rage note for bitter note.
• "Smooth Criminal" Bad, thrilling, dangerous and invincible, it features a complex, tongue-twisted vocal that's as dexterous as his moonwalk.
• "State Of Shock" Go ahead and cringe, but Michael and Mick Jagger making googly eyes at each other (only on record, of course) is far more intriguing than anything he ever did with Sir Paul McCartney.
• "Wanna Be Startin' Something" I've never really figured out what he was going on about for most of the song, but for me, this remains Thriller's most thrilling moment.

PAPA, CAN YOU HEAR ME?

Today is Father's Day in both Argentina and the United States. It's a rare instance of identical non-religious (and non-market driven) holidays being synchronized in both countries. Always second class to the more A-list Mother's Day, Father's Day is usually off my radar (and in the U.S., most everyone else's), but for some reason, this year it's somehow sneaked on. It might have something to do with how porteños make such a massive deal about every holiday, no matter how D-list it is. This morning at the panadería, the cashier even wished me a "feliz dia de papa." Imagine that! I've never considered myself a particularly paternal-looking (or acting) guy, but if I already look the part, perhaps some day I'll learn how to act it as well.

In honor of the Day, here are five of my favorite onscreen dads (in chronological order -- and note the emphasis on my favorites, not on the best). Keep in mind that I'm far more interested in actresses and female characters, so cinematic dads are generally as second-class to screen moms as Father's Day is to Mother's Day.

• Dustin Hoffman as Ted Kramer in Kramer vs. Kramer The incredibly selfish and self-involved mom played by Meryl Streep only serves to make Ted look far better than he might have otherwise, but watching him slowly bond with his son (Justin Henry) is thoroughly satisfying, cinematically and emotionally.
• Jack Nicholson as Warren Schmidt in About Schmidt Granted Schmidt, one of my all-time favorite Nicholson characterizations, is a hot mess. But I'd say his reservations about daughter Hope Davis' choice of husband (a for once memorable Dermot Mulroney, memorably white trashy) are more than warranted.
• Bill Murray as Don Johnston in Broken Flowers My dad never calls me on my birthday, so it's hard not to admire the tenacity with which Don Johnston searches for the 19-year-old son he never knew he had and possibly might not actually have.
• Felicity Huffman as Bree in Transamerica I don't care much for the film as a whole, but my favorite thing about it (besides eye candy Kevin Zegers, above, with onscreen mom/dad Felicity Huffman) is how even as pre-op transsexual Bree begins to warm up to the son she never knew she had (yes, that again -- tellingly, a recurring theme in Hollywood fatherhood), Felicity Huffman's thespian approach never lapses into anything resembling sentimentality.
• Mickey Rourke as Randy "The Ram" Robinson in The Wrestler Yes, he totally sucks as a paternal figure, but despite his shortcomings, it's obvious that "The Ram" truly cares about his estranged, possibly lesbian daughter. (The lesbian part is not explicit, but that is how I interpret Evan Rachel Wood's subtle, delicate performance of an under-written role.)

CATWOMEN: COUGARS ON THE PROWL... PURR!

Last night I was watching As Good As It Gets on TV and cringing. Not because it's an awful movie -- although it's certainly no masterpiece. As entertaining as the 1997 film may be, I still can't believe how successful it was, or that Helen Hunt actually won an Oscar (over Judi Dench, Julie Christie, Helena Bonham Carter and Kate Winslet, no less) for playing a shrill variation on Mad About You's Jamie Buchman, a role that inexplicably won her four straight Emmys. Equally unbelievable (still): Jack Nicholson and Helen Hunt, who are 26 years apart in age, as a couple.

Yeah, yeah yeah, I should be used to older men with younger women. It's been commonplace since the dawn of time. At least, 12 years later, women are finally turning the tables. In films and on TV, cougars rule: Sisters aren't only doing it for themselves; they're doing it with much-younger men. Twelve years separate Sandra Bullock and her The Proposal costar Ryan Reynolds. On 90210, Kelly (Jennie Garth, 37 and more beautiful than she was 15 years ago -- above photo, right) and Brenda (Shannen Doherty, 38, center) tussled over Ryan Matthews (Ryan Eggold, 24, left). On daytime TV, perennial One Life To Live supercouple Todd and Blair are played by Trevor St. John, 37, and Kassie DePavia, 48. Meanwhile, Robin Givens, 44, as Robin Givens, wed football star Malik Wright, played by 27-year-old Hosea Chanchez, on The Game (one of my favorite TV shows, featuring a mostly black and beautiful cast). Earlier this year, thirtysomething Kate Winslet won an Oscar for romancing a teenager, even daring to join him in the bathtub, much like Nicole Kidman did with Cameron Bright, then 11, five years ago in Birth.

Legendary TV producer Norman Lear must have been on to something. On both of his seminal '70s TV series, Good Times and The Jeffersons, the central couples were played by actresses who were some 20 years the senior of the actors costarring as their TV spouses. Sure Isabel Sanford and Esther Rolle looked great for their age, while Sherman Hemsley and John Amos didn't (yes, folks, black does crack), but the casting was nonetheless groundbreaking -- though most viewers weren't even aware of the age differences.

Nowadays, it's hard to miss. Demi Moore, the ultimate cougar, might be an incredibly sexy 46, but she still looks old enough to be Ashton Kutcher's, um, aunt. Ditto Madonna versus Guy Ritchie, and every guy she's been with since -- and, for that matter, before (excepting Warren Beatty and Sean Penn). I'm not sure what this all means, but I definitely get it. Younger guys rock. Not only do they drag around less baggage than boys twice their age -- they're fearless, enthusiastic, ridiculously pretty and, as a huge plus to successful women, less prone to ego tripping. Burned by love over and over, vintage guys play it cool. Too cool. Twentysomethings dive right in. I should know. My guy, more mature than any man I've met in years, just reached legal U.S. drinking age three days after I turned 40.

Does that make me a panther?

FOOLED BY A FEELING?

I'm prepared to eat my words -- with a little humble pie on the side. Para llevar! To go, please!

One hour before I wrote the post "An 'Indecent' Proposal" a few days ago, I'd never even heard of The Proposal, the new Sandra Bullock/Ryan Reynolds romantic comedy, which opens today. Since then, I can't seem to escape it. It's all over the internet, and many of the stories about it don't fail to mention Ryan's rather impressive six pack. Hey, if it gets people into theaters. The reviews are coming in, too, and they aren't terrible. The Chicago Sun-Times' Roger Ebert calls it "cheerfully done," without mentioning Ryan's abs, while the Washington Post deems it "as predictable and comforting as a Happy Meal" (like Ryan's abs?). Will it break $20 million this opening weekend? My money's on it (though I won't be actually spending money on it -- it's not out in BA yet). And if it knocks Kate Hudson (last seen in Bride Wars -- see the connection?) off her rom-com high horse in the process, more power to it!

IN FLIGHT

"We talk about our flight
In this queer dimension
And how we're afraid
To carry on our own
And finish our direction
Flying home"
-- Linda Perry, "In Flight"

The other day I had one of those increasingly frequent deja-vu moments -- where else? -- on Facebook. This particular blast from my past had "befriended" me there awhile ago, and since then, we had exchanged occasional words, but nothing significant. This was our first extended conversation in 10 years.

At first, I felt somewhat awkward, as I often do when reconnecting with someone for the first time in years. Mostly because the person I am is not quite the person I was. Many of my friends my age go on and on about how age is nothing but a number and how they feel the same way that they felt 20 years ago. I've always begged to differ. No one feels the way they felt 20 years ago. Personally, I'm changing every day. I am not even who I was on Sunday.

To quote the opening track on Sinead O'Connor's I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got CD, I feel so different now. Twenty years ago, I did not have to worry about borderline high blood pressure or, for that matter, my waistline. Twenty years ago, I had never had a boyfriend, never been kissed (by a boy), and was still safely tucked away in the closet, far from the maddening gay crowd. Twenty years ago, I had never left the country, barely ventured outside my home state of Florida, and moving to New York City and launching my journalism career there was still two years away. Twenty years ago, I was probably closer to my mother than anyone else, and I couldn't imagine life without us talking all the time. In my mind, anyone who says they feel the same way that they felt 20 years ago must have spent approximately two decades living under a rock.

Any life worth living is about change -- spiritual change, emotional change and physical change. Turning 40 was a kind of scary (I've grown to love it), but I was not one of those people who lied to myself, saying that it's just a number or that you are as young as you feel. You are as young as you are. I challenge anyone who claims to feel, physically, at 40 the way they felt at 20 to pull one all-night party and call me in the morning -- if they can get out of bed. I've changed, and although the blast from my past said that I look exactly the same (I appreciate the ego boost!), I know that I don't. Physically, I haven't changed as much from 30 to 40 as I did from 20 to 30, but now I know that whenever I get carded, someone is simply following the rules.

I was surprised by how much he remembered and by how different he seemed -- older, wiser and maybe just a little bit sad. Perhaps the latter was due to very specific recent circumstances (the death of a close friend), as he is now married and apparently, happily so. I was touched by his generosity, his view of how things went down between us. I'd never felt quite right about it and have spent the past 10 years feeling somewhat guilty for not handling things in the best possible way. I'm not sure that I'm ready to let myself completely off the hook. It could be the perfectionist in me, needing everything to be just right. Perhaps it's the people pleaser in me, never wanting to leave anyone with a bad impression. Maybe his recollection was dead on, and his owning his role in the denouement was a sign of maturity.

It's all water under the bridge now. He seemed genuinely happy to see me doing so well in my life and in my new relationship. I'm happy, too -- in my life, in my new relationship and, at long last, with my memories of the past. The last significant relationship of my twenties finally has its happy ending.

Incidentally, between making my last post and finishing this one, I received a message from my old friend. He had just read "The Violets In The Mountains Have Broken The Rocks," and he quite astutely related the sentiment of the title, an old Tennessee Williams quote, to my new relationship. He advised me to hold on to love, don't let go and enjoy the ride. And he's right.

A happy ending indeed -- and a great new beginning.

THE VIOLETS IN THE MOUNTAINS HAVE BROKEN THE ROCKS

I loved her in High Art, Far From Heaven, Vicki Cristina Barcelona and on TV's Frasier and Six Feet Under, and I'm praying that the Oscar prognosticators are correct about her performance in the upcoming Woody Allen film Whatever Works (that's her, above, at the June 8 Los Angeles premiere). Now I adore the Oscar-nominated and Emmy-winning actress Patricia Clarkson even more for something she said two days earlier. Perhaps I'm too close to the gay-marriage issue to really see or speak with 100% clarity, but in her recent speech at a Human Rights Campaign event in New Orleans, Patty said everything I've wanted to say but didn't quite know how to. If you've got 15 minutes to spare, watch this video, which I discovered yesterday on Film Experience Blog, one of my favorite online destinations and required daily reading.

If you think you're too busy, make time (or read the speech here, on The Huffington Post). This is important. My future and the future of so many people I care about depend on the only acceptable resolution to this issue. Former U.S. President Bill Clinton, whom I always misguidedly supported (along with his wife), failed us in so many ways, particularly in the insane don't-ask-don't-tell policy regarding gays in the military and by signing the Defense of Marriage Act, which defined marriage in the U.S. as being strictly between a man and a woman. Now it's time for President Barack Obama to right his Democratic presidential predecessor's wrongs and follow through on his own campaign rhetoric and his promise to unite, not divide. As Patricia so eloquently and humorously says, if the former Vice President Dick Cheney (a man she accuses of being "to the left of Vlad the Impaler," who for those of you not in the know was the Romanian sadist who is said to have inspired the character of Dracula) can come around, it's time for everyone else to.

AN INDECENT "PROPOSAL"?

My how far the stars of the '90s and the early '00s have fallen. Reese Witherspoon, this could be you some day. Anne Hathaway is hot on your tail. While it's nice to see 44-year-old Sandra Bullock romancing 32-year-old Ryan Reynolds onscreen (if guys can do it, girls can too), is a Green Card rehash the career rehabilitation that Sandra desperately needs? At least it's got Betty White, which is always a plus. But what will it do for the always slightly B-list Sandra (forever in the shadow of Julia Roberts, who could use some good luck of her own)? We'll find out after this weekend, when the film opens wide in North America.

I think Sandra needs to stretch a little, go the Marisa Tomei route and take a supporting role in an indie film, something that challenges her and changes the way everyone perceives her. It worked for Marisa in The Wrestler. I'm not convinced that Sandra could pull off such a subtle, devastating performance (her dramatic changes of pace in Hope Floats, 28 Days, Divine Secrets Of The Ya-Ya Sisterhood and Crash, while hardly embarassments, were more wooden than golden), but if she continues playing cute as she heads into the second half of her 40s, she might find herself as under-employed as former American sweetheart Meg Ryan, who is probably a flop or two away from a guest arc on Grey's Anatomy.

If it could happen to Oscar winner (and three-time nominee) Faye Dunaway, it could happen to anyone.

FLESH FOR FANTASY

I always feel so left out, totally out of the loop, every time a new fantasy or action Hollywood event movie comes around. Harry Potter. Iron Man. Batman. Superman. Spider-Man. X-Men. Wolverine. Twilight. Lord Of The Rings. Oy vey! I tune out and pretend that I live under a rock, or on another planet, an dream of a holy land dominated by prestige dramas, all starring, among a few select others, Meryl Streep, Nicole Kidman or my beloved great K/Cates.

My former colleague Mara and I used to dread the arrival of the latest in the Harry Potter and Lord Of The Rings sagas with a vengeance, like one dreads the arrival of a particularly annoying house guest. We grinned, beared it and waiting for them to go away. For us, the three years when Lord Of The Rings was Oscar bait was a particularly challenging time. We knew that it would eventually win Best Picture, and that Oscar season when part 3 was the surest thing since Titanic was pure agony. I knew that it would end in tears.

Wake me when it's over.

After moving to Buenos Aires, I figured that I could finally put my fear of event movies behind me. Surely no one down here cared about a bespectacled British boy fraternizing with witches and goblins (or whatever fantasy creatures go mano a mano with Harry Potter?), or a guy in blue and red Spandex climbing up the side of buildings. Wouldn't they all be obsessed with Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem? Wrong! The event movie is alive and well and kicking in BA.

Now I've even gone and fallen for an Argentine guy who is as obsessed with them as anyone I've ever met. He's read every Harry Potter book, each Twilight tome, in Spanish and in English, and usually in just a few sittings. Last night, I saw a trailer for Transformers, and I just knew that somewhere in Ciudad Evita, a very sweet young man was jumping for joy. I thought I was in the middle of a flashback: Didn't this movie come out a couple of years ago? As I soon found out, this is a sequel (Transformers: Revenge Of The Fallen, or as it's being called in BA, Transformers 2) that only looks and sounds and is being marketed exactly like the original. (That Shia LeBeouf makes my heart skip several beats -- see the photos above to understand why -- although not enough to inspire interest in the film).

But I was right about my boyfriend. No, he hadn't been watching the trailer, though he was, as I had suspected, practically drooling in anticipation for the next event movie of the summer (winter in BA). His younger brother long ago made plans for a family night out to see the movie on Saturday, 27 June. I smiled when he told me this, thinking it was the sweetest thing I'd heard in the longest time (even though it was going to conflict with our date night). I smiled even wider when I realized that I was off the hook. He has so many people in his life who are into these movies (and aside from Mara and me, who isn't?), that he'll probably never try to drag me kicking and screaming to any of them -- not that I could ever say "no" to him (but shhh, don't tell him I said that).

Come Oscar season, I'll have my day. That's when all of the prestige dramas will finally arrive, peppered by the occasional Harry Potter and Twilight sequel. But as long as I get to watch Meryl Streep and Helen Mirren angling for their next Oscar nomination, all will be perfect in my world. Also on the plus side, my guy does have his limits. I can go on pretending that Kirk, Spock and company never came back to haunt us. He hates Star Trek, and that makes me love him even more.