Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Gregor Samsa's LiveJournal:

[ << Previous 20 ]

Thursday, November 16th, 2006
12:29 pm	Feral child of the day: Genie Once upon a time there was a little girl whose nom de plum was Genie who lived in a small town in California. When she was a year old her abusive, unstable father was told that she might be mildly mentally retarded, and he dealt with the information by chaining her to a potty chair for 12 years, refusing to let his wife or son go near her or talk loud enough to be heard, beating her severely for making noise, and occasionally putting her in a restraining device and letting her sleep in an enclosed crib with wire mesh above it. In 1970, when Genie was 13, her mother fled with her to protective services, where the malnourished child- appearing 6 or 7 years old- was taken into custody. Both of her parents were charged with criminal neglect, and her father shot himself the morning of his trial, leaving a note saying "the world will never understand". Genie became the center of a scientific frenzy, as she was a near-perfect incarnation of "the forbidden experiment" wherein a human being is withheld from learning language during its most formative years and then educated intensively in order to discover developmental truths about language acquisition. While Genie went into care knowing only two catechismal phrases- the haunting 'nomore' and 'stopit'- she quickly learned a number of words and within several years was able to string together three-word sentences such as "glass big empty" or "clear box corner". It was discovered that while humans process almost all language with their left brains, Genie used her right brain almost excusively- indeed, in several spatial tests given her by the institute in which she was residing, she performed better than any adult or child who had taken those tests. Nonetheless, her language skills did not progress past the rudimentary stage. Genie was taken in by several foster parent scientists ("Team Genie") in the early years whose motives were often cloudy- they seemed to have some love for the inquisitive child, who would often run to a stranger's door while on walks in the hopes of being admitted to a new house to be shown new objects, but they made no mystery that they hoped Genie's study might make them famous. Ultimately, all of these parents proved unwilling to deal with Genie's more serious social problems, chief among them a propensity towards excessive salivation and spitting and, most problematically, near-constant masturbation; she would often ask for a series of objects to be handed to her, only to attempt to masturbate with them. After she was given up by Team Genie, the government lost interest in her case and suspended funding, and she was sent to a series of foster homes where she was subjected to further abuse, at one point being beaten severely for vomitting; she refused to open her mouth for weeks afterwards. Eventually, she was returned to the care of her mother, who sued the Team for trauma she claimed was incurred during their extensive testing. Numerous books and made-for-TV or otherwise independent films were made based upon Genie's case, each taking advantage of her situation as Tabula Rasa to make broader statements including those referencing heartless science dealing with a wounded girl, helpful science in the face of abusive parents, the wonder of the human brain, the indifference of society, or the difficulties of dealing with government beaurocracy. Genie's mother died in 2002, and she was moved to a home for retarded adults, where she lived happily ever after. (7 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, June 24th, 2006
6:08 pm	Celebrity Ether My goodness, that was weird. So the Buspar seems to be helping my anxiety, even if I get a little light-headed about half an hour after I take it, although a stiff drink seems to take care of that. But the dreams have just gotten more and more vivid, even if their focus has shifted from horrific anthropomorphic animals that bear a slight resemblance to my parents' very real new cat, and onto famous people. I know there is absolutely nothing, nothing, nothing worse than listening to other people's dreams, because once you get to the part where they say "So my ex-boyfriend said to me that purple represented honor and that I was not allowed to wear it on Sunday because that was the day that honor should be God's and then my mother screamed for me from upstairs that my bat was molting?" you are totally drowsing off and just trying to anticipate the key questions that will result from the expectant analysis ("I think the velvet represents your fear of death"), while also ticking off your grocery list and realizing you totally forgot to mail in your insurance check. That said, I think-as do all people, truth be told- that my dreams might be different right now, if only because they're so... NORMAL, but they're all with goddamn celebrities and I don't understand. So yeah, two nights ago in my dreams, Cameron and I were introduced to Lilly Tomlin at some big party, and she was entertaining our circle with really amusing anecdotes about working with Robert Altman, and we were all cracking up, and then there was a lull in the conversation, and we all overheard Anne Coulter, at the next group over, start ranting about how George Clooney was "a big, stupid Hollywood blowhard" because of his anti-McCarthyist "Goodnight and Good Luck", and Lilly Tomlin marched right over and loudly told her off for all of her anti-Hollywood bluster, and any pro-McCarthyist standpoint. I can't do justice to her tirade now, is the thing, because in my dream Lilly Tomlin was a lot like Lilly Tomlin actually IS, and so Cameron and I just kept turning to each other saying "God, she is SO AWESOME", because that's sort of the only thing one can say about Lilly Tomlin, but I noticed that she was really on point with her anti-Coulter tirade, because there's a lot of things you can say against Anne Coulter, like she's a horse-faced, willfully stupid fucking evil kabuki demon whore who is hurting America, but that's not the point, you know? Because Anne Coulter. But Lilly Tomlin kept on point, and explained why celebrities have the right to express opinions in a public forum, and moreover how everything Coulter believes about celebrity culture is a vapid lie. Then I woke up and thought "Is anybody cooler than Lilly Tomlin?" I doubt anyone is. Then last night, in the first dream I had I was being attacked by thousands of scorpions, but I woke up screaming and had a stiff drink and went back to bed again, and there I was, watching Larry King Live, and Al Gore was on, and Larry King said "So is the release of your new movie supposed to coincide with a return to entering politics?", and Al Gore said "I hope that thought wouldn't try to negate anything I had to say in the film, I truly stand by all of the science", and Larry King said "Not at all. Truthfully, I hope that I am talking to the next president of the United States" and then the studio audience- this was a dream- applauded, and Al Gore looked abashed. And I woke up and wondered if Larry King was really allowed to be so blunt about his personal political preferences, although in this day and age maybe the rules are changing, because W, and he's evil and we all need to take sides. And then I just took a nap, and I was talking to my friend- also named Charlie (with the convenient last name of 'Tu', pronounced '2' and establishing a certain social pecking order without us even having to, like, butt heads or anything), and I had the song 'Amazon' by M.I.A. stuck in my head- in pretty impressive lyrical intactness, I might add, considering I can't understand a goddamn thing she's ever saying- and I said so to Charlie2. And he said "That song is awesome, I think it's my favorite M.I.A. song" and I said "Yeah, me too, but I love that Hombre song too" and Charlie2 said "You know they denied her a visa, right? Like, she can't come into the U.S.? She was supposed to be making a new album produced by Timbaland and she can't come here" and I said "I know! They aren't giving any reasons, but I'm totally sure it's because of some stupid terrorism thing, because her dad's a Tamil Tiger" and Charlie2 said "Yeah, because the U.S. government has some fucked up sense of terrorist equivalence, wherein being part of a hunted Sri Lankan minority that has formed a resistance army is somehow in some way like being Osama Bin Laden, because terrorist." And then I said "I mean, is she even all that political? I feel like most of her songs are like 'minga pinga numero Bucky Done Gone Galang Galang Galang', and maybe that means something in Sri Lankan, or whatever, but it's not translating as well as her infectious beats and rhythms", and Charlie2, who had by this time shape-shifted into my friend Dave, was like "You like her, right?" and I was like "Dude, I think she's fucking amazing, I just don't understand her lyrics. But God, that Amazon song? Stuck in my head", and Dave was like "Yeah, I read this hilarious thing in Pitchfork that was a myspace comunique that she wrote that looked like a weird text message and ended with her saying 'whatcanudo i m just gonna get drunk with my turtle", and we laughed and I asked him if he'd heard of Beirut. Astute readers will know by now that everything I have just said about M.I.A. and my own opinions is absolutely, 100% true. I think I'm quoting my dream directly, moreover, because I've been remembering them well. And I realized this in the dream just then. And I turned to a person who was now, predictably, Cameron, and said "Jesus, why am I thinking so much about personalities in my dreams lately? I mean, I've been dreaming about Al Gore, Lilly Tomlin, Jon Stewart, Lindsay Lohan, David Eggers, M.I.A., Anne fucking Coulter, and even Cyndi Lauper- and what's that all about, anyway?- and all of these dreams seem to really involve real things about their personalities. Is Buspar really just a crazy drug to make you totally in tune with media? I don't get this." Well, who better to explain the answer to that question than Don Delillo? So it's a good- if startling- thing that Cameron suddenly turned into him (and I haven't got a goddamn clue what he looks like, so let's say it was a Noam Chomsky look-a-like who I understood to be Don Delillo), and explained the entire situation to me: "It's not you. It's everything in contemporary culture has come to revolve around a personality. It is a phenomenon that has gotten ever much more marked in the past 10 years or so, with more and more cable channels popping up while simultaneously new reality shows spawn off, creating thousands and thousands of personality that cloud the psychic airways. And since each personality is NOT a person, but instead a cottage industry which must encourage more and more exposure in order to survive, one cannot engage in any aspect of American culture without receiving a heavy and possibly fatal injection of these personalities, and it is inevitable that eventually they will obscure all other aspects of life- romance, job, sense of self- and leave it with piles and piles of celebrity recognition." "So it's not the Buspar?" I asked, somewhat horrified. "It's not the Buspar," said Don Delillo. "It is life". I woke up and wondered if I really liked anything that Don Delillo had written other than White Noise- which is sort of almost too on-the-money to really be rematched by anything else he could write, when Cameron gasped in horror. "Oh my God!" he said. "Carla just texted me! I think Tori Spelling is dead!", and I said "what?" and he's like "she just said that 'so sorry for loss of your beloved Tori" (because Cameron has a deep love of Lifetime movies that feature the actress), and so we turned on CNN, and found out that, thank God, it was Aaron Spelling that was dead. There was a loving tribute already underway, so we assumed they must be playing the story of his death in heavy rotation, and it included tearful statements by Farrah Faucett and 7th Heaven's Beverly Mitchell. I wondered if I was dreaming and realized I was totally awake. "Good God," I thought. "Don Delillo was right." (6 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, June 16th, 2006
6:34 am	The Buspar Cat I wonder if Buspar can trigger a psychotic episode in one's superego. I started it on it a few days ago, as it was billed as a mild, non-Stevie-Nicks-attacked-for-severe-addiction-potential medication for anxiety with the twin advantages of not making one fat and not making one a eunich, both of which seem to be things a lot of people willingly accept in the hopes that maybe their pill will make them happy. I am on Team Brooke Shields when it comes to psychiatric drugs, for the record, and believe they have helped a lot of people a good deal, the whole fat eunich thing notwithstanding. I suppose the eunich thing wouldn't be as much of a problem for me if I was a woman, because I could tell my partner "Hey, my cooz is dry, but here's some lube and you can fuck me and I'll pretend I'll enjoy it, if it will keep our relationship healthy enough that I won't be single", but as a man it's hard to make the illusion work. I suppose I could just pretend to become a raging bottom with a coke addiction, but I feel like Cameron wouldn't buy it, and our sex life is one of the things that keeps me coming back for more, for one, and for two, while the name 'totalvirility' is a joke, and all, 'pretty virile for a gay guy who doesn't care about being str8 acting' is certainly something I aspire to, and maybe a reason I've been working out all the time lately- and that's another post altogther, considering I never post anymore- which would also make it hard for me to accept getting fat, also, which was problem number 1 with, say, Paxil. Also, any time I've ever tried an antidepressant they have made me raging crazy. Which, I fear, is what's happening with Buspar, although I have only been on it for 4 days, and I hear 'crazy' is a side effect that can last for a week or two, before fading into 'not-at-all crazy with a side of you can stop drinking so much and taking those pills Stevie Nicks shits on', which is the end result I'm looking for. But I've had a serious, serious case of the crazies since starting on it on Monday. Can you tell how crazy I am right now? It's 6:30 in the morning, I don't have to be at work today because Cameron and I are going to Virginia (even if he appears to be dying from food poisoning at the moment- and don't look at me, I didn't do it) which means I should be sleeping in, and I am posting something on Live Journal, which, granted, is something I keep meaning to do, but I always feel like I'll think it out more beforehand and not do it while half asleep and waiting for the klonopin to kick in. But I got so scared by that cat! I had to do something. I was not the one who named the cat Buspar, for the record. That was my parents, or at least their representation in my dreams, courtesy of my unconscious mind. My parents are in my dreams a lot, I feel like, considering I don't call them nearly often enough, but I always love seeing them there, even if their primary purpose is to tell me how disapointed they are in me. In the dream I was in college, which is also pretty Standard Operating Procedure for Dream Me, as Dream Me is typically aged 10-20 years younger than myself and is still dealing with high school cafeteria humiliations, which you think he'd be over by now. But these dreams, the last few nights, have felt really goddamn real, and the worse for it because they suddenly become nightmares when they have been almost mundane beforehand. In this one, I am home for spring break, and in my house my parents are surrounded by a cadre of 4 walleyed ragdoll cats, who all have a ragdoll flexibility and the eyes of those clocks that were inexplicably popular way back when. They are a curious mixture of repulsive and adorable. They are a new breed, my mother explains, called "Ospars", all cloned from a single original. My parents interest in them started after a die-off commenced in all of their old cats (apparently they owned 4 cats before- in real life they have 2), and now the transition is complete. Here is the first one we adopted, my mother says, brandishing the cutest one in my face. He is hypoallergenic (in Buspar dreams, I am still concerned about these). He is named Buspar. None of the others have names yet. "Look how cute you are, Buspar!," and Buspar purrs while I scratch under his chin. "He was really, really upset when [my real cat] Abby died", mentions my father. I meet each other cat individually, and they all have those huge freakin eyes, and ragdoll bodies, and I greet them each. "You are so adorable", I say to the last one, and am floored when he responds "you look good lately, too. Have you been working out?" "Oh!" says mom. That's the new cat monitor! He must have grabbed it. It lets cats speak- isn't that cool? I see in his mouth something that looks like a blunted kazoo, and I decide I want to hear what Buspar has to say, so I put it in his mouth, first. "This asshole killed Abby," says Buspar, which isn't really the adorable sentiment I was hoping for. Buspar has now cornered the other cat, who looks horrified. "This asshole saw a plastic fork tong on the ground, and you know what this asshole thought it was? He thought it was food! This asshole thought it was food! So he put it in his mouth, and he spat it in her throat, and she choked to death! I loved her, and this asshole here killed her! And now I'm killing him!", and with that, Buspar spits out the kazoo, and begins biting on the other cat's neck so hard that blood begins shooting out of its jugular, while it screams, horribly, before its head pops entirely off. Horrified, I try to remove Buspar, but his grip is just to good. When he has finished with his quarry, he gives a great yowl, spits blood on my lap, and then turns on me. I wake up screaming, run out of the room and take klonopin. Which I think has kicked in. Stevie Nicks might not be happy about that, but I sure am. There's a reason the fair maidens at Glaxo Smith-Klein have such well paying jobs, and I don't want to stop them. But will Buspar make the anxiety better? Or just make me crazy? I don't want to see that cat in my dreams again, ever. Sheesh. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, June 7th, 2006
3:54 pm	Request Men, if you fart while you are using a urinal, please do not turn to the person at the next stall and mutter "excuse me". It just makes the whole thing that much more uncomfortable. (6 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, July 21st, 2005
3:30 pm	Important maxim: Never trust a writer who is also a go-go boy. Do not trust him as a writer, and do not trust him as a go-go boy. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, July 15th, 2005
2:25 pm	People... People who need functioning gastrointestinal systems... Aren't the luckiest people First off, I know it's not normal for people to vomit blood, especially people who are generally completely incapable of vomitting. People who haven't vomitted since they were 11 years old at summer camp and Doug Lagally pushed them on a swing in ever increasing circles and then let it spin back again until their equilibriums were so off kilter that they had to jump off and vomit in the grass next to the swing. People who could even stick their fingers down their throat and not manage an effect. People whose own disbelieving boyfriend even tried sticking his finger down their throats and were still unable to vomit. People who had laparascopic fundometries wherein their stomachs were tied off around their esophogi, and so whereas before they could claim they simply had the TENDENCY not to vomit, now they literally can not. So yes, first off, I know that's not normal. Second, I know it's not normal for people to spend a day of work primarily by lying under their desks in a fetal ball, crying and moaning and generally freaking out their coworkers who have no idea what to say, occasionally jumping up to go vomit blood in the bathroom, which, as stated above, is the first thing that's not normal for people to do. It makes people feel like the zombies from 28 Days Later... Third, I know it's not normal for people to refuse to go to the hospital when this is happening to them, but at this point, people feel that it's important to defend their decision(s). Here's the thing: first off, this isn't neccessarily the first time people have vomitted blood, although the first time that happened was only about a month or two ago and people haven't exactly been to the doctor since that happened, and so maybe that's not an excuse, but hey- people haven't lapsed into a coma or anything, either. Then, people don't have a fever or anything, and the internet suggests that's the first sign that something's severely wrong with them, at least if the symptoms were the fault of their crohn's disease, which seems like a giveaway. Third, people have to move to their new apartments this evening, and people don't feel comfortable letting the people they managed to coerce into helping do all the moving for them, because people are control freaks who need to direct the migration of their worldly posessions and also want to make sure none of their friends break onto their computers and look at their extensive collection of downloaded porn (people, by the way, have lately been favoring Sean Cody, the world's luckiest Mormon faggot). And fourth, well... unless it's an emergency, people have really developed an aversion to hospitals and the medical profession, because, well... people don't want to lose their colon. The funny thing is that people used to get off on medical attention in a psychologically (if not physically) unhealthy way. For instance, after Doug pushed people on the swing and they vomitted, they went to the camp infirmary and insisted they had stomach flu even though they knew they were totally healthy. People liked lying in the infirmary beds, eating chicken noodle soup and reading back issues of People Magazine. It's not that people were lazy. It's more that people were really intense children who occasionally needed to get a break from Other People and recharge in total solitude, a luxury not generally afforded 11 year-olds on demand. Even as people grew older and saner, people still were fine with hospitals. People liked being reassured that if anything happened, they would be OK. People liked getting prescriptions for things. People liked having new bandages, casts and/or scars to show off as badges of glory. And then people's stomachs failed and people started freaking out. People were wondering if they had stomach cancer, and people were told they had ulcers, and people still did not get any better. People were diagnosed with Crohn's disease, and it's funny, because people once made an excuse in college that a paper was not done because they were with their sister, who was dying due to complications from- of course- Crohn's Disease; people showed up at class a week later, and people said their sister made a miracle recovery after doctors removed 17 inches of her intestinal tract. Now people have that disease, which is better than stomach cancer, and which is better than a lot of things people could worry about having. For instance, people are happy they don't get kidney stones, because some of people's friends and relatives get them, and they seem like a total fucking nightmare. People are glad they do not have a progressive nerve disease, or lupus, or AIDS, or Lou Gehrig's, or anything like that. But people are freaked out about their chronic disease, if only because they feel like they are in acute pain more often than they are not. They stay home more, even when they'd intended to do other things, because they are in too much pain to move; they avoid a lot of things they used to love to eat and/or drink; they quit smoking. They vomit blood, they lie down under their desks and are in too much pain to really care if anybody is freaked out by it. And they don't want their colons removed so they don't go to the hospital. And it's not an irrational fear. Other People get their colons removed all the time for the same problem, and... people don't really want to think about it. Besides the fact that such a thing can really be disruptive to their sex lives, as people are gay men, there's the fact of the colostomy bag itself. People have heard there are revolutionary strides made in the shit-bags, but people would still have to have a shit-bag. People don't want a shit-bag. People want no shit bag. People aren't sure if they'd rather die before they got the damn shit-bag, but people feel like if they avoid doctors and hospitals, they won't ever really have to make that decision. People get light-headed after their episodes. People, for instance, are currently feeling depersonalized. People aren't sure if it's Vitamin B-12 deficiency, because people aren't sure if its their illeum that's affected. People also heard something about anemia due to blood loss, which would make sense if people are inexplicably vomitting blood. By the way? People are really pissed off they had to sort of piece together all of the information for themselves about Crohn's, because their gastroenterologists were so withholding on information. People are just rambling now. People have no big finish planned. People aren't looking forward to moving tonight. People probably should have hired movers. (12 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, July 9th, 2005
6:09 pm	So wha ha happen was... There's some bar our friends Nickee and Paula went to in Harlem where all of their drinks have ghetto names, like "Baby Mama Drama" and "Move out the Way".  Our favorite name was the "Wha' had happen was...".  "Wha' had happen was..."-- what does it mean, exactly?  we all had different theories, but loved it-- wha had happen was... I think every one of Shakespeare's tragedies would have eventually become a comedy, or at least just a pathetic farce if it was allowed to continue, and the characters didn't die. Just like life. Take my boyfriend, Cameron, and his ex, Justin, for whom he left me last year in what at the time seemed like such a powerful force of tragedy. Fast forward to present.  We go to the Cock for the Monday night party with a few friends immediately after the fireworks on the fourth of July. I'm not really drinking, but I am very stoned. We move into the bar a little bit, and I see Cameron point something out to his friend Ivan. "What is it?"  I ask. "I think that guy might be Justin", says Cameron. "Holy shit!" I say, "which one?" "That guy.  The shirtless one wearing the tie." "Holy shit!" This isn't going anywhere good.   A second later, Cameron decides it isn't Justin after all, but just someone who looked like him.  Then the shirtless tie guy comes up and says "Hey, you" to Cameron, thus making it clear.  My first impression?  Shirtless, tie.  Very, very drunk and sweaty.  Facial hair that has gone one day past being technically 'stubble', and yet not quite at 'beard' length yet.  Very tanned.  Maybe sort of cute? Not my type.  Drunk. Maybe cuter than I'm giving him credit for.  For some reason, I can't see straight.  My vision is vibrating. I start shaking, and take a swig off my flask. Cameron says something inaudible and shirtless tie guy says something inaudible.  Or I just don't absorb what they said; the kid turns his eyes on me. "Uh, Justin, this is, uh, [Totalvirility]," says Cameron, completely inadequately. Trying to turn on some semblance of laid-back "oh, isn't this a hoot?" whatever-ness, I sort of smile and say, "Oh, I think we talked on the phone, once," refering to the time after I first found out about it, went through Cameron's phone records, and psychotically called him, a little Glenn Close moment which I'm allowing myself credit for, due to circumstances and whatnot.  Justin giggles, "That's right, you called me a nigger." Um. What? "Ha ha, um. OK," I say, because I really don't know what to do with this. Justin, by the way, is white. Justin is also now about three inches from me, holding onto my shoulder and swaying, staring at me so intensely I can't believe he's not actually burning a hole in my head.  He is obviously wavering in the balance between whether he wants to try to act cool with everything or be a needling bitch;   I had been in a somewhat commensurate balance earlier, but having already decided to play it cool, I have a hard time wavering. "So," I say, again trying for some lighthearted, 'can you believe it?' sense of hatchet burying, even after it failed so utterly the last time, "I certainly have heard a lot about you. Uh, good to finally meet you!" "Oh my God, his voice!" shrieks Justin.  To me, he says, "Honey, you have a very pretty face, but your voice is making me nervous." Okay.  "Okay," I say, again at a loss. "Am I threatening to you?" "Oh my God," he peels to Cameron, "why didn't you tell me he sounded so GAY? Honey," to me, pulling a big fake grimace, "I think it works better if you just shut up and look pretty, it suits you well." I take another swig off my flask.  And decide that I am absolutely okay with what he's just said.  Cameron looks like he's about to shit his deisgner boxer briefs- and is obviously not sure that I won't be trying to hit Justin over the head with my flask and then plunge the jagged glass into his face, something I'd threatened to do (with true intent) if Justin ever met me and tried to fuck with me.  But right now it's clear what is happening, if anything from his nervous stare more than anything: he is in attack mode, and hasn't been able to find anything,  and has gone after my voice.  I've never been self conscious about my voice.  I'm cool with my voice.  I have a million other insecurities that have nothing to do with my voice.  Honestly, I'm kind of cocky about my voice.  I like my voice.  So I assume if he's going for the voice he's missed all of my actual weaknesses and just gone with whatever came up first in his head.  Advantage: Totalvirility. I put my arm back around him and heartily say "Well, New Friend Justin, you'll find it's hard to shut my mouth," and he uncomfortably tries to look smug, and then he changes, like he's decided the attack won't work. "Oh my God," he says, now putting his hand on my stomach, under my shirt, "we should make out.  Come on, wouldn't that be funny?  You know, just don't talk", and puts his face dangerously close to mine.  Cameron, mortified, intervenes, saying "SO! JUSTIN! How are you doing?" Justin drunkenly lolls his head towards Cameron and says "Cameron...  Cammmmerrroonnnnn....I can't belieeeeeve it... You turned 25...  You're olllllld.  Give me a kiss," and Cameron looks at me, and I nod OK, because what the hell else am I going to do?  Cameron gives him a quick, severely awkward peck, and Justin looks at me and says "You too, give me a kiss" and I sort of half-heartedly do it, totally at a loss for what else to do, and he says "no, no, on the lips", so I touch my lips to his for approximately a nanosecond, which seems to be enough to make Cameron apoplectic, though still silent. "Wait," Justin says, "can we have a private conference?  Here," he says, and pulls us a little distance from our previous cluster. He then proceeds to tell me, for ten minutes, how much I have to promise never to break Cameron's heart, because he loves Cameron, and he always loved Cameron, and he's totally over him now, of course, he's not going to try anything, you know, because he really loves Cameron and the thing is?  Cameron needs me.  He tried to get Cameron away, he should know, but Cameron?  really, really needs me.  Like really needs me, and really loves me, and I have to promise not to break up with him ever because he really needs me and I better not ever attempt to break his heart ever or Justin will come find me and hurt me because he really loves Cameron, but you know, not in that way, and oh, he hears we're moving in together, and that's just great, because cameron really needs me, and he saw on Friendster I put a picture up of Cameron and I and that made him really happy, no really, no really it did, it really did, he liked the picture because he finally saw that we were good together and he really is happy and on and on and on and on. I manage to maybe say "uh," or "no" or "huh" a few times during this 10 minute long thing.  I glance over at Cameron, who can't hear what Justin's saying and looks like his head is going to explode in rage.  At some point, I feel my phone vibrat, and while Justin is distracted, saying "I mean, I really do think I loved Cameron more than I ever loved anybody else and I have had so many boys, I'm such a slut, I've had SO many boys and they all fall in love with me except Cameron never did because he loved you so you can't hurt him because I love him even if he never loved me", I try to go unnoticed as I check my text message, which is from Cameron- still only 5 feet away- and reads (exact quote) "FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! GET AWAY FROM HIM!!", and I give Cameron a half-hearted little grin (to which he responds with the finger) as I try to pull Justin- who is now wholly draped over me, and nearly has his hand down my ass- just a little bit further from me. Finally, Justin unpeals himself from me, leaving a layer of some amount of sweat, asking if it's OK with me if he just goes and says goodbye to Cameron?  "I don't want to do anything, I just want to say goodbye, is that okay?" he asks.  I concede; he goes and does that, as Basil approaches and asks "uh, what was up with that?" I'm still shaking, and can't quite respond. As soon as Justin moves away from Cameron, I go up and say "We're leaving. Right now." Cameron objects, saying "I don't want him to think he chased us off."  "He won't.  He didn't.  But we have to go.  Right now.  Trust me." So we did.  We got in a big fight outside, because Cameron didn't understand what was being said during the conference, all he saw was Justin leaning on me and putting his hand down my ass and looking crazy; I tried to argue that I think the hand down the ass? Is just sort of a rote, unconscious physical action for someone like Justin.  I doubt he even realized it was there.  I'm totally serious.  And now, I feel weirdly better about the whole thing.  Except one thing: I still could not tell you what he looks like.  I was staring directly into his face for 20 minutes, and I don't have a clue.   Coda: We are now Friendsters, and I have left testimonials. Crazy. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, July 6th, 2005
3:29 pm	I have had approximately zero time to update my LJ in the past week, but I don't want to lose that momentum that I've gained, so I will say only this: Johnny Depp looks decidedly irritating in the new Willy Wonka film. oh, and this: on July 4th, I finally (and unexpectedly) met Justin, the boy with whom Formerly Erstwhile Boyfriend trysted back around this time last year, and who has ever since supposedly harbored an equally obsessive love of him and hatred of me. It was interesting. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, June 20th, 2005
10:00 am	Backstreet's Back- ALRIGHT! So I was back to Cameron's house in Virginia this weekend, and I spent all of yesterday morning and afternoon sitting in front of VH1 with Cousin Jenny. Oh, yeah, since I last wrote, Cameron and I got back together. Now Cousin Jenny and I had spent a little while flipping around their satellite TV looking for quality reality television programming- specifically, we were hoping "Britney & Kevin: Chaotic" would come on, because we'd spent all weekend talking about that one moment in the first episode where Britney focuses the camera and says "Boob, guys! My boobs! Those are my boobs! JUST KIDDIN', Y'ALL!!! IT'S KNEES!!! IT'S KNEES!!!". This pretty well summed up the entire damn show, as Britney chain-smoked and exposed her deepest heart, which consists entirely of Doritos and ranch dressing. We landed on VH1 and agreed that one doesn't necessarily need to ever change OFF of VH1, as their programming line-up has gotten so first-rate lately. It wasn't 10 years ago that VH1 was the way older half-brother of MTV, where young upstarts like Des'ree or Hootie could finally get their shot. Nowadays, the network has moved on to inventing and improving some first-rate shows with third-rate celebrities, and Cousin Jenny and I began recounting all of them, starting with that one surreal life where Verne Troyer rode naked on his scooter through the house moaning 'nnnnnnnnnnggggggggggggg' in order to urinate in the corner, moving to the Celebrity Fit Club where a totally fucked up Danny Baldwin stumbled his way through an egg-and-spoon race, and ending up on the Stripsearch where Team Britney had a triumphant routine while Team O-Town succumbed to infighting and treachory. Then there's also the whole slew of shows wherein actual 1st-rate celebrities are commented on by 8th-rate comedians; it all started with loving various decades, but now the airwaves are so thick with "Best Week Ever"s and "Most Awesomely Bad Fashion Ever This Week"s and "Most Brown Celebrity Turd"s that they may as well just spin off a separate network and call it "Bitchy Bitches Bitching About Bitches". The demand for celebrity antics has grown so substantially that poor Lindsay Lohan can't even take a shot of Jager without Ant braying "Lipo!" I still can't stop watching this shit. As we talked about all of this, Cameron came out and informed us that he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to have cable at our new place. Oh, I forgot to mention, his Dad bought us an apartment and we're moving in together. So anyway, when we flipped to VH1, we got to see the end of the latest Kept, wherein Jason got kicked off for making out with the actress and Ricardo made an ass of himself, and suddenly "VH1: Behind The Music" came on, which we didn't think we'd watch. Frankly, I wasn't aware they even still made them, as after its Pop-Up Video-concurrent heyday it had been imitated and derided by so many Lifeline/ BioRhythm/ A&E Biography type shows that there wasn't much vitality left in the franchise. But here it was again, with The Backstreet Boys story, and we figured "fuck it"; there was a Pimp My Ride marathon on MTV that we certainly wouldn't be watching, and we didn't have enough energy to turn the channel further. So after Jenny took a brief break outside for a cigarette while I watched her- oh yeah, I quit smoking 4 months ago and it was the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my life- we were on to the full story of Nick, AJ, Kevin, Brian and... uh, Howie? yeah, there was that song where he went, like, "Hey, I'm Howie. How we doin'?", so it's Howie. Anyway, it was a.mazing. It started out with the flaming faggot-ass childhoods of two of the band members, AJ and Howie. First off was AJ, a deformed looking little kid whose initial schtick consisted of- wait for it- puppets. Ugh. "Oh my God, I HATE people are into puppets," said Cousin Jenny. "Truth be told, I don't think I KNOW any people are into puppets," I responded. "No, I guess I don't either," conceded Cousin Jenny. "But I hate them anyway." Then he teamed up with 10 year-old Howie, who liked to dress up in floral-print rayon blouses and flame the fuck out on stage by crooning unpopular ballads to audiences at Disney World. Eventually, Lou Pearlman- whose name is barely even mentioned- decided to manufacture a band and used them, along with the other three. It's weird they don't mention Lou all that much, but I'm guessing he's a little too litigious and/or unstable for them to go fucking around with his shit, so they left him well-enough alone. They DID focus on some guy who was their other manager, who had apparently created New Kids on The Block and whose moustache, hairdo, and creepy-face make-up all shriek "Child Molestor!", but whose name I really can't be bothered to remember. Anyway, some shit happened, blah blah blah, they made it big in Europe but America wasn't ready yet what with grunge and Gangsta Rap blah blah blah, then they hit gold blah blah blah. Cousin Jenny took a break to go grab some coffee, saying "It sucks you can't have coffee", refering to the fact that the stomach problems I have been having for the last year and a half were diagnosed as Crohn's Disease this year. "What sucks is that I can't really drink carbonated beverages any more, ever since I had to have my esophagus resectioned this fall", which, by the way, happened. -"Hey," said Cameron. "Whatever happened a few months ago when your best friend from high school asked you to donate your sperm for her new baby?" Ignoring him, Cousin Jenny and I continued to watch the VH1: Behind The Music, because it was getting to AJ's problems. First off, the boy got about 8 more kinds of weird, as he tried out performing solo as invented character "Johnny No-Name", a bizarre act that AJ's iced-out floozy of a mother described as "like a pimp, but to rock music". The show sort of suggested that this led directly to his sort-of addiction problems, which was right about the point that Backstreet member Kevin Richardson (the really, really ugly one, tall with a goatee and full-fledged AIDS-face facial wasting) took center stage in commentating, and the show stepped up a notch. "The first time I really realized AJ had a serious problem was this one rehearsal when he showed up late. When he came in, he said he had stopped off at a BOWLING ALLEY down the road to have two shots, to 'loosen up his throat'. I was like, 'what are we?'"- wait for it- "'Guns 'n' Roses?'" Cousin Jenny and I screamed with laughter and immediately nominated him in our "Lamer Than Jimmy Buffett" game, which we invented since last time I posted, which is pretty self-explanatory: name people who are lamer than Jimmy Buffett, but before you go out of control, remember- they have to be lamer than JIMMY BUFFETT. It's harder than you think. So the story continued, as did Kevin Richardson, who completely lost his shit when AJ offered him cocaine. "I knew then I could never even begin to fathom his personal nightmare," said the diseased Kevin. AJ stepped in himself at this point, to say that during the worst of it, "All I had on the tour bus was Jack Daniels, drugs, and-" wait for it- "porn". Aw man, AJ, you fucked up. Shouldn't you have said "Girls?". Because saying "porn" just sounds depressing and creepy, rather than gloriously wasted. You want your fans to imagine you doing coke off of one set of breasts while another one bounces off of your powerful manhood, not sitting in a corner, looking at a "Hustler" and furtively masturbating. "God, at the darkest period, I was jerking off 6, 7 times a day". Maybe even lamer than Jimmy Buffett. At this point, I had to dodge a phone call from my sister, who since I last posted has gotten married, gotten pregnant, had a baby, and started full-speed back up the aisle again, towards divorce. Then the special ended and I finally got to find out the words to their first single, which are "Jam on now, Backstreet's got it. Come on now everybody, we've got it going on for you". They've eluded me for years. So all in all, yesterday was a good day, except the car ride back where Cameron and I got in an argument about threesomes, which we've started having. (25 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, August 30th, 2004
1:23 pm	Oh heavens, yes Read this and tremble: http://story.news.yahoo.com/news?tmpl=story&cid=857&e=13&u=/nm/oukoe_odd_china_chimpanzee (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, July 28th, 2004
12:34 pm	Sexual Healing Even in my xanax-ed state last night, I managed to remember to set my alarm for 6:30 AM this morning, giving myself ample time to press snooze a few times before doing the bare minimum in preparation for heading out to the free clinic in Brooklyn and arriving around 8:00. I figured I'd have had enough sleep, what with being passed out in a drugged stupor on the plane from Wisconsin, where I'd spent a long weekend, and then subsequently passed out on Airtrain, NJ Transit and the New York subway before hitting my bed, and thus this would be a perfect morning to undergo the full battery of STD testing. I'd heard that one should arrive at the clinic before 8:00, even though it doesn't open until 8:30, to avoid the long lines and long wait-time, if one would like to get to one's 9:30 AM scheduled work-time only slightly late. When I arrived at the building, there were already 3 people in front of me in line, whcih didn't seem too bad- except the rain was driving everybody out of the appointed unsheltered line. More people began showing up and I grew concerned about keeping leibensraum on my 4th-place-in-line status, a concern that proved justified when a taciturn woman finally opened the doors at 8:40 and a mad rush forced me into the #8 spot. Infuriating. I was given a card to fill out (with '#8' written on it), asking if I had sores, cuts, blisters, discharge, or had been refered by a previous sexual partner. I checked 'Other' and waited my turn. And waited. And waited. My number was called into the reception area around 9:20, and an extremely agitated woman took my card, and- looking at me seriously- pracitcally shouted 'HAVE YOU CHECKED **ALL** BOXES THAT APPLY, SIR?!!'. I assented that yes, I had, and started to continue when she cut me off by screaming 'REALLY?! ***ALLLLLLL*** BOXES?!!!!'. I said I was merely here to get the full battery of STD tests for my own peace of mind when she cut me off by saying 'WE ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO *HAVE* THIS CONVERSATION, YOU TALK ABOUT DISEASES WITH THE DOCTOR!!! THAT'S WHY YOU NEED TO MAKE SURE TO CHECK ***ALLLLLLLLLLLL*** BOXES THAT APPLY!!!!!'. I said I had. "WELL, THEN, WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR TODAY?!!!" Confused, because I thought that this was the very conversation that we weren't supposed to be having, I said "I had an HIV test last week; I'd like to get tested for everything else." "YOU WANT AN HIV TEST?!! HAVE YOU BEEN EXPOSED?!??" No, I said, I'd just HAD an HIV test. I wanted the other tests now. For free. "WE USUALLY DO HIV TESTS!!! HAVE YOU BEEN EXPOSED TO ANYTHING ELSE?!! THAT'S WHY WE USUALLY DO TESTS FOR OTHER DISEASES!!!!" Feeling that this was some subtle code for 'claim you've been exposed or else you won't get any treatment', I said "yes, I think I've been exposed to, uh, everything," and held myself back from inventing a sexual partner who had just tested positive for syphillis, gonnorea, chlamydia, herpes, HPV, and hep A, B & C. 'And he never told me!' I imagined myself saying. I went back to the waiting room imagining everybody was looking at me after that very loud exchange when I noticed a beyond-adorable and definitely gay guy around my age sitting across the aisle. We exchanged a few glances, both imagining what the other was in for, when he was called into registration and the answer became mortifyingly clear. 'DO NOT TELL ME HOW MANY PARTNERS YOU HAVE HAD UNPROTECTED SEX WITH!!!!!!' bellowed the receptionist's voice from the next room. 'THAT IS CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION FOR YOU TO SHARE WITH YOUR DOCTOR!!!!! IS THERE STILL DISCHARGE?!!!!!'. I avoided his gaze when he returned to the room, instead choosing to watch the instructional video- insultingly geared towards an 'urban' market- that had just started playing in the office. --"There is some risk of HIV", said the woman doctor in the video. --------"HIVE?!!" said the comical black man. "What you mean by HIVE?!?" Around 10:30, the doctor finally called me in. I immediately tried to be charming and bashful, as well as to display my vast knowledge of sexual health, culled from a few years in college as a sexual health counselor. She cut me off- "So, you want an HIV test." I explained that no, I wanted the tests for everything else, because- "You know, you should really get an HIV test while you're at it, I understand it's difficult, but it could save your life." But I just HAD an HIV test last week, and it came out negative- She was suddenly suspicious. "Well why didn't you get tested for everything else, while you were at it? Did you FORGET everything else that's running around out there?!" "No," I said. "I went to a place that had next-day results, but it cost a lot of money, and I-" "Next day results?" she barked. "Did you have reason to worry?" I explained that I had recently broken up with my long-time boyfriend, and had a few sexual partners since then, and was just getting the first test for a long time- and would prefer not to wait and agonize over the results. The word 'boyfriend' seemed to set in her mind. "Have you had unprotected anal sex?" she asked me. Well, yes, with the boyfriend, after we had been together for 6 months and had the full battery of tests and- "NEVER HAVE UNPROTECTED ANAL SEX!!!!" she squeeled. "The rectum is really, really dirty! Do you know how easy it is to get a bladder infection? I mean, there is still SHIT right in the RECTUM! and, and," she was really worked up now, "You just CAN'T have unprotected anal sex! I don't care if you're faithful for the rest of your lives! USE CONDOMS!" I explained that for five years, neither of us had ever had a bladder infection, and besides- bladder infections? Acceptable risk. Totally acceptable risk. I wasn't going to back down-- no, I would NEVER have unprotected sex with somebody I hadn't been with for a good chunk of time, and hadn't gotten tested with, but after that? Free-sailing all the way. She moved on. "Do you know about syphillis?" she asked me. "It is REALLY rampant among gay men right now," and she had that tone in her voice that was more than just gently chastizing- it was accusing me of being just another irresponsible child, creating all this mess that she'd have to clean up. I insisted that yes, I knew all about syphillis, this was why I was here, and- "Let me show you some pictures," she said, pulling out a book and opening up. "This is the long term of effect of syphillis!" Well, OK, let's just get me tested, then- "And Gonorrea, and Chlamydia- all of these are really on the rise in the gay community!" This again. It's crazy the way I forget why many gays choose to go to gay health centers. The only two places still rampant with culturally-sanctioned homophobia these days seem to be morning radio and the medical profession. Norm doctors tend to treat you as if you spend all of your recreation time oscillating between wild bareback orgies and snorkeling in raw sewage, you repulsive, filthy creature. If you're not swallowing load after load of jizz while getting your ass double-penetrated, you're letting 4 guys shit in your mouth and making snow-angels in mounds of discarded IV needles and smoking crack. I remember going to the hospital once, extremely feverish, when the doctor caught one glimpse of my erstwhile boyfriend holding my hand and decided to screen me for every single STD known to man before informing me he thought it might be AIDS. Who knows? Maybe it's just me. The doctor finally got around to drawing blood, swabbing a throat culture, and grumbling her way to a rectal swab. Then it came time for the urethral culture, and I balked. "You know what? I think I'll skip the herpes/HPV test. I mean, there's nothing I can really do about them if I have them....", and the doctor was livid, failing entirely to understand what freaked me out about getting a q-tip stuck up my urethra. "Besides," I added unwisely. "I already have some random Valtrex at home". Wrong move. The doctor started on another harangue, assuming I'd already had herpes, and began to 'educate' me on the fact that herpes aren't curable; I interrupted her and explained to her the story. "No, you see, it's because my Dad is paranoid, and he thought there might be a bio-terrorism related outbreak of smallpox, and thought maybe Valtrex would help. I also have a store of cipro, levaquin, tamiflu and a whole stack of surgical masks. I haven't ever had a herpes outbreak", but she wasn't buying a word of this (very true) story, and I realized that her harrangue would not end until I consented. It fucking killed like nothing else-- "ow ow ow!" I screamed, involuntarily, and the doctor just sort of rolled her eyes, like "Well, it serves you right, you nasty thing". She gave me a jar for a urine sample, and told me to go to the bathroom to fill it. Where is the bathroom? Why, right out the door and through the waiting room! Fuck privacy! I put the jar/baggie combination in my pocket and ventured through the room, as bored patients-in-waiting all looked up at me. When I entered the men's room, there was the hot guy from earlier, modestly trying to hide his own half-full jar of urine from me. We exchanged shame-ridden smiles, and I proceeded into the stall, did my business, and suddenly faced a dilemma. While I had been able to hide the jar in my pocket before, there was no way in hell I was going to stick a vial full of urine back into there, even wrapped in a zip-lock bag, and even when the urine it contained was mine. So I tried to disguise it in my palm, and headed back into the waiting room, urine in hand, to be stared at by the waiting clients. When I returned back to the examination room, the doctor fumed "Put it in the box outside the door!" as if she had been telling me to do that for years, and I had never taken notice. Unsure what she meant, I retreated back to the hall, where some searching unearthed a cardboard box, covered with wrapping paper, with 'Urine' written on the front, in marker. There was already one vial in there, and I wondered how they would tell the difference, when I noticed that my name was written on the label. "Hmmmm," I thought to myself, looking at the other jar. "That hot gay guy must be named Scott A_______." I returned to the room to be given one last dressing-down from the doctor, who told me I really should be more careful in the future and to call in two weeks time for the results of everything, and in the meantime not to have sex. I thought she might be done, but she stared at me for a good long while, full of righteous anger, and said "I mean, REALLY, you have to be CAREFUL," as if I had just told her I enjoyed dipping my dick in buckets of AIDS-infected blood. She then, out of nowhere, handed me a flyer about crystal meth abuse, and bid me good day. I got to work 2 hours late, where I immediately found Scott A______ on Friendster. "Hello," I wrote. "We met a few hours ago at the STD clinic. I found your name on a jar of your urine. You are cute." I wonder if he'll write back. (33 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, June 9th, 2004
10:55 am	Is everybody else getting spammed on Friendster in the past 24 hours? I have received 18 messages in the past 15 hours, and while the system still will not let me into my mailbox to check them, I am loathe to believe that they are all from potential friends[ters], especially as the majority are from names like 'Crystal', 'Cherine' or 'xbj24kl'. I suppose I may be surprised to discover that everybody simply needed to write me yesterday, but I really don't think I know any Cherine. It's killing me, too, because I'm well aware that Cherine is probably an uprigged IBM capable of sending 500,000 Friendster messages a minute, but until I can open my mail and see for myself, I will wonder--who is this Cherine? Is she an old childhood friend? Is she simply somebody who was curious about something on my profile? Or is Cherine a helpful coworker who wants to inform me that the girls at work are talking about how small my penis is, and she has some miracle pills to recommend? The mind boggles. It's 90 fucking 1 degrees out today. 90. Fucking. 1. (9 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, June 3rd, 2004
9:47 am	The Singles Scene How I loathe the boy I'm with I loathe the boy I'm with And when I'm not with the boy I loathe I loathe the one I'm with. (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, April 26th, 2004
12:06 pm	Hot Button Issue Meme (waxwing's shadow) # Abortion?: Is that the only option? To abort all contact between us entirely? I can't think of any other way, that's why I did what I did. It doesn't mean I don't love you, it means that I love you TOO much- you need to let me get over you, or else I'll be stuck here in this hell. # Death Penalty?: if anybody dies, please call me- I mean it. Or if you're thinking of killing yourself, just call, I'll get there before you can figure out how to shut off the pilot light in your oven. No, this ISN'T a penalty for what you've done to me, I'm NOT trying to punish you. No, I'm NOT trying to punish you! I mean it! I know this is punishing myself, but it's not punishment! I need to do this! We can't be friends! # Prostitution?: Do you know what I was going to do this morning, while you were in the shower? I was going to take all 30-some-odd hours of video you shot with that prostitute in New Orleans, all of the footage for you precious documentary, and I was going to throw it in an enormous tureen of boiling water, that's what I was going to do this morning. Would you still have wanted to be 'best friends', then? If I destroyed the one thing you now have going, besides that little idiot in New Orleans? # Alcohol?: I drink to get over you, but it just makes me more upset. # Marijuana?: I don't know why I was avoiding weed for so long. Because I smoke weed now, and it actually makes me happy! Can you believe it? It makes me happy! Something makes me happy! # Smoking?: I'm back up to 2 packs a day, and it's hell on my ulcers. I can't stop smoking. I need to do this! # Other drugs?: I think you need to go on antidepressants. I KNOW you hate it when I say that, but it's TRUE. You're ALWAYS depressed- you're always so NEGATIVE about EVERYTHING. You're ALWAYS escaping. You get back to New York for two weeks and you say how much you need to get out again. I don't know, maybe if you got a job and stopped living off your trust fund, if you stopped making single-person documentaries when you still don't know how to do it, if you stopped insisting on yourself as 'an artist' when you don't have a fucking ounce of creativity in you- maybe that would help matters. But as it is, you just sit around the house feeling depressed and trying to figure out which prominent figure in the documentary industry you should try contacting, lying your way into their good graces. # Same-sex marriage?: I know, I still feel it too babe, there's still the part of me that fantasizes about going up to Massachussetts at the end of May and getting married- having a big party for all our friends, even possibly doing a traditional wedding. I still think about it too... but you know what? You know who fucked it up? You fucked it up. You fucked it up royally, you son of a bitch fucking asshole DIPSHIT, and now you're crying to me because I can't be friends with you, because I can't go with the assumption that we'll get back together as soon as you're done having your little adventure with some kid you keep describing as 'vapid and shallow'. It's YOUR fault. # Cloning?: Well, we're not the same person. If you really think that you'd forgive me under the same circumstances, that you'd try to wait and work everything out when *I* was ready for it, you're a fucking moron, honestly. I'm not the same doormat you are. # Racism?: That's what I get for dating such a fucking WASP. # Premarital sex?: There's a point where honesty has to stop, and good taste has to win out. Yes, I want to know why you keep hanging out with this kid when you say you can't stand him, when you say he's stupid, and tell me he's not even all that cute. No, I don't trust you when you say he's not all that cute- you have that unreliable sound in your voice, I can always tell. So why do I believe you when you say he's stupid, when you say he gets on your nerves? I think you're telling the truth... oh, for Christ's sake, shut the fuck up- just out with it like that "I still want to have sex with him, is that what you want to hear?". Is that why you're sacrificing this? Because you still want to have sex with him? Have sex with somebody else, for God's sake. No, I'm not the one sacrificing this. No, I'm not. It's you. Yes it is! # The war in Iraq?: I don't want this to become a constant war between us. We need to stop talking, stop emailing, stop phoning, or else it'll just escalate. It's over. It's done. We're finished. # Bush?: Don't beat around the bush, what makes the sex so good? He can't even get fucked, and lately you can't get fucked, and the two of you can't, consequently, fuck, and lord knows how much you love fucking. Why do you want to know if Andy was better? Andy was different. OK, you want the truth? Andy was better. Is that what you want to hear? Well, it's true. Maybe because I could actually fuck somebody without them screaming bloody murder, alright? # Downloading music?: I want my CDs back. And I want half the CDs that people gave to the both of us. That's bullshit, Cameron, I'm taking them. No, that's MY Kings of Convenience album. Yes it IS, just because you liked it doesn't mean it's yours. No, there's no time to burn it. Give it. Now. # The legal drinking age?: He's barely 21, you know that? He's stupid, and young, and he thinks this is a game of cruel intentions. Well, just let him know he won. I know there isn't any winning, but he won't know that. # Porn?: I want my porn back, too. OK, fine, it was an anniversary present. I was bored with it, anyway. # Suicide?: On second thought, don't call me if you're feeling suicidal. Just take a lesson from your brother. You'd look good with a bullet lodged in your brain. (35 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, April 20th, 2004
12:05 pm	I want in OK, now it's my turn. Everybody ask me three questions and I have to answer them. C'mon. (22 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, April 14th, 2004
4:47 pm	Glamour Everybody needs to have a reality TV show idea, and this is mine. It's called "Damaged Goods", and it's a dating show. Here's the idea: a couple goes on a blind date, as usual, except they are hooked up to two machines- one is a polygraph machine, and the other is a stress-level tester, much like they used on that one show 'The Chamber' a few years back, to sense whether the participant is getting freaked out. Now the date becomes a competition as such: it is the object of each of the daters to try to freak the other one out by telling truthful statements about themselves and their pasts. Whoever's stress levels exceed a certain point first loses. If the date continues for 3 hours without such a thing happening, a stalemate is declared. There's an open bar. So this is how I envision it; two daters have a lovely date in a romantic ambience, except for the wires coming from them, as they sit there and reveal all of their deepest and darkest secrets to one another. After the date is over- regardless of whether or not anybody won- they are disconnected from their wires and forced to go sit in a private room together for half an hour (with a hidden camera), so that the audience can see how they get along after the game. Often times, I expect, they will be so freaked out by each other, and so ashamed of their own revelations, that they can hardly look each other in the eye. But they DO have the option of going out for another date, which the show will pay for. Wouldn't that be great? (7 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, April 9th, 2004
7:41 am	I've become That Guy It is all about my pain. After his tryst in New Orleans a few months ago, Erstwhile Boyfriend and I decided to work things through, with the assumption that no work actually need be done as long as things kept going through. When we were increasingly resentful of one another's presence as time wore on, we decided to 'take a break' during the month that he would be returning to New Orleans. My one request? - "Please don't see that guy again". I went to see my parents on Sunday in DC, and then- in plans heldover from better times, and never revised due to the hesitance on both of our parts to tell our parents are personal lives- I accompanied them to Virginia to meet his parents. The meeting with his father was strained and awkward, and matters were not helped any when the following conversation ensued: His Father: Yeah, I just talked to [Erstwhile boyfriend] yesterday. I guess he was going to Pensacola for a few days with his friend, Jesse, or Justin or something. Me: Justin?! His Father: Yeah, I think so. You know, the friend he's been staying with, after Adam's place turned out to be too small. Me: What?! My Father: You know, this is a lovely view from here. There's probably a lot that we can fast forward at this point, because the type of conversations that resulted between Erstwhile Boyfriend and myself can only be familiar to everybody, if only by proxy. Needless to say, that have alternated between extremely mature and helpful discussions and absolute balls-out desperation and anger, the latter mostly on my end. The pattern tends to be, at this point, that every night brings a horrible phone call or email, and ever morning brings another apologetic one to retract it. Hideous things are said casually (the one I'm most proud of is 'You know what? It's such a tragedy your brother had to die in order for you to justify everything you do'), then forgotten, then seized upon when conversationally convenient and wrung for all they're worth. And now it's the only thing I can think about- that and the fact that I hate being the one getting the shit end of the deal. I've been having an awful time of it, and he's been having his Special Time of Erotic Adventures, broken up by the occasional confusing and/or hostile phone call from me, his boyfriend of 5 years. Friends try to have any sort of conversation with me, but I'm in that miserable solipsism of self-pity. "Did you know the next Kill Bill is coming out in a few weeks?" they might ask, and I'm apt to respond "Did you know that I wasn't ever the one in favor of monogamy? That was all him! And now he's doing this! Can you believe it?" So now I'm wondering what on Earth to do to distract myself for the next week, until he leaves his alternate reality and comes back to New York to presumably face reality and be horrified by it. I never wanted to be That Guy, the one who can only talk about his romantic problems, and yet I am smack dab in the middle of That Guy-land. I've tried to going on dates thing, and that hasn't really worked out, and now I have this great guy who has a great sense of humor and looks amazing naked who wants me to come over for wine and candlelit dinners who quite frankly scares the shit out of me. I've tried drinking- a fair amount, truth be told, but after the first drink it seems to be a worse idea than staying sober. I've tried xanax, and damn if that didn't do the job, but my supply is nearing nigh, and I don't really have backup for it just yet. Painkillers, maybe? Should I get weed? Skydiving? What? I'm sort of at a loss. Current Mood: crushed (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, March 8th, 2004
9:44 pm	A little late on this one- -OK, I know it's passe by now, but I was sunning myself into a lovely shade of red down in the Carribean when it came out. My thoughts on The Passion of the Christ, which I saw while experiencing a bad fever this evening. Oh, and I was stoned. (Note: I paid for Starsky and Hutch and snuck into the Passion. Mel Gibson doesn't need any more of my money). So heregoes: booorrr-innnnng. I had no fucking clue what was going on except when Christ was being shredded. I know Mel must think everybody has the story memorized by now, but a little backstory on the tertiary characters would be helpful to those of us in the audience who are Jews (although I suspect we are not so much the intended audience as the intended targets; yes, the movie is every bit as antisemetic as you have heard, although it's main offense is being dull). Christ makes more pratfalls than Chevy Chase, except I think they were actually part of the 12 or 14 stations of the cross, or whatever, so that wasn't really Gibson's decision. They were Holy Pratfalls. A lot of them. Also, Jim Caveziel's Jesus was a simpering, passive-aggressive sanctimonious asshole in the few little flashbacks they have. Again, though, this is probably due to Gibson's adherance to the text. The bible's Jesus isn't exactly the most likable of God's creations. After his little spin with the sermon of the mound, I was ready to get up there and drive a few nails into him myself, if it wouldn't have proven Gibson's point. Oh, and I've come to the conclusion that Monica Belucci isn't really all that much of an actress when she isn't getting raped up the ass. She should have stuck to her schtick, because I think you could have put a scene like that in this movie and then claimed you got it from the Dead Sea Scrolls. If I remember the Da Vinci code right, they were all about Mary Magdalene, but they've been supressed by the church or something, so who knows if there wasn't an anal rape stuck in there? Next time, Monica. So to sum up, this was my chronological reaction while watching: Confused, bored, bored, confused, offended, bored, offended, grossed out, confused, bored, bored, bored, offended, bored, grossed out, offended, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, totally fucking grossed out, bored. And then some bitch stole my sweater and the movie was over. By the by, here's an amazing article which sums up the 'blooper reel' for the Passion (all real), which isn't really going to find widespread release- http://www.themorningnews.org/archives/stories/the_passion_of_the_christ_blooper_reel.php I included my favorite segment below: Jesus hangs on the cross, bloodied, in agony. Take 3 Jesus: My God, my God, why hast thou – [laughing] Off Camera: [laughter] Forsaken! Take 4 Jesus: Thanks! Okay. My God, my God, why hast thou – [starts giggling] Off Camera: [laughter] Take 10 Jesus: I got it. I got it. Hold on. My God, my God, why hast thou – argh! [takes breath] Forsaken. Forsaken. Forsaken. Forsaken. Forsaken. Sabachthani, sabachthani, sabachthani. Okay. Take 12 Jesus: Hey! I can see my house from here. Take 14 Jesus: My God! Why have you – [Caviezel is struck by lightning.] Off Camera: Cut! Take 35 Off Camera: Come on, Jim. Jesus: [in terrible anguish] My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? Off Camera: [Applause] Off Camera: We got it! (14 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, February 18th, 2004
3:46 pm	You know what? It's a lot easier to start a gay orgy than you'd figure. My friend J managed to pull it off last night in the bathroom of the R bar in Williamsburg, and while I haven't personally been the one to instigate any 10-man-on-man suckfests out of thin air, as he managed to do, I've certainly been the cause of a few make-out frenzies, and felt confident that if I'd wanted to take it further, it wouldn't have been difficult. I've read a lot of Klingrap's posts, and think that, while this is not true of Klingrap herself, women tend to make things a lot more difficult as far as the straight sex orgies go, as it's usually harder to make them comfortable. Now, there are certainly gay prudes, as well as gay men so ugly that not even a really drunk person would want to make out with them, but in a room full of, say, 50 gay young urban types, there should be at least 10 individuals who pass the Gay Orgy Ratio of hotness to prudishness, where you scale them on both from 1-10, 10 being hottest or most prudish, and then figure that Hotness/Prudishness > 3. So grab an accomplice- in last night's case, J had his friend L in from out of town, and they tend to have sluttish effects on one another- and start making a big show of chatting up the hot guys. Sometimes you may have to admit a not-as-hot guy into the circle in order to include his super-hot friend, but hell, get yourself drunk enough that you can make out with the lowest common demonator of whoever is surrounding you. Besides, for a successful impromptu bathroom orgy, you'd rather have 10 guys who weren't quite-as-hot but were all really raring to go than a few really hot guys who won't hook up with anybody but you. Get a little party going in the bar, and then at some point suggest body shots, which might incite some of the guys to disrobe. Now you're all festive, so you and your accomplice- whose importance I cannot stress enough- need to each more-or-less simultaneously just grab one of the hot guys and start making out with them. Let it last long enough to be sensual, but no more than 30 seconds-1 minute, or else the other guys might start thinking you've started a monogamous makeout rather than a free-for-all. Then grab another guy and repeat, and by this time, all members should have gotten the picture that their nights have just stepped up a notch, and will hopefully start working among themselves. Does that one guy look like he feels left out over there? Go grab him quick! Before he gets disheartened! Make out with him, but then bring him back to the guy you broke off making out with in order to have some triple-kiss MTV Spring Break action happening. Now you have 10 men making out with each other in the middle of the bar, and hopefully all of you will have roped yourselves off to some extent of exclusivity to make the absolute trolls realize they're still not invited. This can go on for quite awhile; hopefully, one of the orgy party will have been drinking beer, and there will be a bathroom in the bar that offers some slight degree of privacy, but has room enough for 10 people. Once the first person heads over to the bathroom, grab the closest guys to you and start scuttling yourselves their way. Oh! I forgot to mention, you should figure out who in the group, besides your accomplice, seems like they're the most down with what's happening, because at some point, you're going to want to make out with him and then start making grazes towards his crotch. If he reacts well, or grabs for you, you're golden! Start stroking him over his pants more ostentatiously and see if other guys look like they'll follow suit or turn tail. Will they follow? Great! Now back to the bathroom. Grab your accomplice and the guy who you started stroking off, and maybe one or two more to be the first initiates into the bathroom in which you are surprising the guy who took a break. All laugh and smile when you see each other, and then start making out with with the break guy while your accomplice lets the other guys into the bathroom. Now! All 10 of you should be in the bathroom while making out and stroking each other through your pants, and by this point, even if you are not the first guy to whip it out, somebody is bound to. But why don't you start the trend and save everybody time? Better yet, you can always grab the down guy and start pulling HIS out, and then start going down on him, before getting up and letting him return the favor. Now it's all over. You have an all-oral orgy in the bathroom, and there is no more controlling it. If there are easily accessible condoms and lube around, you may still be able to push it one notch further, but I wouldn't really try it, honestly, due to more complicated processes. So there you are: a gay orgy in just a few easy steps, in a location you didn't have to prearrange and didn't have to pay for, and 8 or 9 new friends, to boot. No play spaces, no scheduling, and no New York Times articles needed. It's super-easy to start a gay orgy! (12 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, February 11th, 2004
6:31 pm	Silver Linings- My Magical Ulcers OK, so while I was at Sundance (I never tire of saying that), I saw this fucking awesome Guy Madden movie called The Saddest Music In The World, in which Isabella Rosellini plays a German Beer Baroness during the great depression who throws a competition in Winnepeg to see which country can make the saddest music in the world, and also she has no legs due to a tragic accident until her ex husband makes her glass legs filled with beer that she tap-dances on. Oh, it was great. Anyway, there's this character in the movie played by the chick from Pulp Fiction who had the line about "I want a pot bellie-like Madonna" who was dating Bruce Willis, and in this movie she has a magic tapeworm that gives her psychic advice that she always follows. Well, this tapeworm sure is a rascal, because it keeps giving her bad advice and getting her into nasty situation, until it up and dies on her when she needs it most. Hopefully, my ulcers will go the same way. They have been a veritable Greek Chorus today, pointing the way to God Knows What deus ex machina. I woke up this morning, and thought "Oh, I can't believe I actually broke up with [erstwhile boyfriend]," and BANG- PAIN!- the ulcers were angry. I sat and checked email and thought "I can't believe it, I'm so mad at him for fucking this up", and BANG- PAIN!- the ulcers were angry. The radio edit of 'Back That Ass Up' came on Z104 as I was driving, and I thought "This was going to be our wedding song in Massachussetts", and BANG-PAIN!- the ulcers were angry. I sat on a bench and thought "Well, this is really it, I can't keep seeing him anymore, this is really really really it," and BANG BANG BANG- PAAAAAAIIIIIIIN!!!!!!, the ulcers were FURIOUS at me, all booming out in dissonant tones 'glurgle brop! glurg!', because that's the noise ulcers make. So then, after a few hours in the bathroom, I sat on the floor holding my stomach and thought "maybe I'll just ignore it and it will go away", and suddenly, the pain started to ease up. I tried again: "I'll just ignore this and maybe it will go away!" I heard the ulcers giving their blessing. "I will ignore this and it will go away! I will ignore this and it will go away!", and now the ulcers were not only managing to sing in dulcet harmony, but had also managed to convince my brain to release a whole lot of endorphins, such that I bounded around the house screaming "I'M IGNORING THIS AND IT IS GOING AWAY!!!". Then I took an hour long shower and sang the "I'm going to ignore this and it will go away" song, which is the best song ever written. My mother came home and asked "So if [erstwhile boyfriend] is not coming on the cruise, can we invite your brother?" "No!" I screamed. "I'm ignoring this and it's going away!" [Erstwhile boyfriend] calls. "Hi!" I chirp. He is sobbing something about going into counseling and something about his brother and on and on, and I finally cut him off and say "Listen! Don't worry! I'm ignoring this and it's going to go away!" pause "What?" "Why is everybody having a hard time with this? My ulcers told me to ignore them, and I'm following their advice from here on out. My doctor already told me they'll know what foods I can eat and what foods I can't eat. It turns out they give relationship advice to! They told me to ignore it and it will go away! My adrenal glands TOTALLY agree!" [Erstwhile boyfriend] didn't really know how to take this, so we'll talk when we get back to New York. Although my ulcers are not thrilled at the idea of me taking a plane, but I think I have them convinced with the idea of Xanax, which they love. It's all about compromise. (4 Comments |Comment on this)