tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31790372011-04-21T14:21:58.526-07:00The Pennylane JournalsThe Pennylane JournalsA.Nnoreply@blogger.comBlogger2711100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1099475722821737212004-11-03T01:51:00.000-08:002004-11-03T01:55:22.820-08:00I am so incredibly depressed I think I lost two pounds.
I'm trying to look on the bright side of Bush's potential reelection, so following in this vein, I've decided to (a) never leave my house, (b) devote the remainder of my life to livingroom pilates, and (c) begin blogging again.
Republican turnout, it seems, can do this to a person. A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1074017069393882142004-01-13T10:04:00.000-08:002004-01-13T14:26:59.140-08:00Three Minutes of Wonderful
Last night I did something that no gay man should do past two a.m.
I ate pasta and then watched Steal Magnolias.
I was so depressed and sopping with grief this morning that I could barely see straight. Luckily, I remembered that I would be picking out a new color for the bathroom today and somehow managed to raise myself from among the bedsheets, take a long hard A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1073392321288750352004-01-06T04:32:00.000-08:002004-01-06T14:07:28.170-08:00I'm a fat beast that deserves to die.
Is what I thought to myself as I shoved the remaining pieces of an entire loaf of bread I managed to consume a few minutes ago in the kitchen.
Mouthful after greedy mouthful, I saw myself consume enough carbohydrates to sustain an entire village in Bosnia, but I was incapable of intervening, as if my mouth had somehow become an erupting volcano and each A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1072742614181531622003-12-29T16:03:00.000-08:002003-12-29T16:09:28.593-08:00Right Now
Every once in a while I will be convinced that I have stumbled onto the most nauseating thing on the web, and then I am proven wrong.
Speakers required.A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-107253925326903742003-12-27T07:34:00.000-08:002003-12-27T07:38:24.843-08:00Lightness
After a rather long nap last night, I've spent a considerable portion of the night and, now, early morning suffering from a bad case of unexplained sleeplessness, and to make matters worse, I've begun smoking cigarettes again. A handful of cigarettes and I can already hear my lungs protesting like underpaid workers.
Well, it's somewhat untrue to claim that tonight's insomnia is A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1072402201074012192003-12-25T17:30:00.000-08:002003-12-25T17:45:23.903-08:00When Festivus Ends with You
For Christmas I recieved an email from go-go boy informing me of his departure for Tokyo for a three-week stay. Naturally, I slipped into my favorite Elizabethan gown and, with the aid of Kirin, penned an appropriate response. It reads:
Dearest S---,
I am eternally saddened to hear the news of your imminent departure. I'm likely to miss you the way deciduous trees A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1071733979138967852003-12-17T23:52:00.000-08:002003-12-17T23:57:16.560-08:00Intentions
I was going to write about my third day in retail hell, working the seasonal, six am stock shift at Bath and Body, the geriatric mall pacers, as we call them, who will sneak into the mall hours before opening to make laps around the stores, occasionally pausing to mouth a "That's cute" at one of our displayed items and them merging back into formation, that sea of white hair and dry A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1070622773321651922003-12-05T03:12:00.000-08:002003-12-05T03:16:22.450-08:00It's 3 am and I can't sleep because there's a George Michael Best Of marathon going off in my head.
That makes me either really gay or really on the verge of killing myself, of course only after ensuring Pottery Barn's acceptance to custom make my coffin.
You do the math.
A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1070412062053335922003-12-02T16:41:00.000-08:002003-12-02T16:41:39.640-08:00I want to shoot myself in the face.
I've managed to get six hours of sleep last night, spend over four hours in the library studying for a final in Personality Psychology, and eat two hot dogs.
You'd think that I wouldn't require a nanosecond of studying time for this final, considering that I'm drowning in personality, which was the main rationale for my taking the class, thinking that my A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-106915305892109222003-11-18T02:57:00.000-08:002003-11-18T02:58:01.826-08:00Question:
So, let's say you meet a guy, and you end up kissing this guy the first night you meet him because (a) you're very drunk and (b) in a sailor suit because it's (c) the night before Halloween, and weeks later he asks you out on a date, to which you of course agree to, and spend the night having great Mediterranean food and surprisingly pleasant conversation with, and, of course, you A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1068787447161205872003-11-13T21:24:00.000-08:002003-11-13T21:24:26.466-08:00Designing (Wo)men
Html-ling a new, austere template to match my new, simpler spiritual self is as straining as, I would imagine, childbirth.
I feel bloated already.
Things are coming along nicely, I would say. There are a few minor changes, like that perfect mirror above the sofa or casually tossed silk throw, that could make me step back, take a long meditative pause, and sigh in A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1068634107808383092003-11-12T02:48:00.000-08:002003-11-12T02:49:31.250-08:00Emerging
So, I had thought that I would give this blog thing a rest, but two events have occurred that forbid me from doing so.
(1) I lost five pounds.
(2) I ran across this (click Watch It Now).
How could I not run to the nearest mountain and yell my trembling heart out?
A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1064737912846191262003-09-28T01:31:00.000-07:002003-09-28T01:33:56.503-07:00I ain't no psychiatrist; I ain't no doctor with degree
I’ve been listening to Aretha Franklin for the past hour and wondering where the hell my social life went.
Cause I need you by my side;
Can’t you see that I’m lonely?
Come on and rescue me? I feel like a blind, deaf, mute child left in a burning building. It’s a Saturday night and I’ve been stuck in the kitchen steaming broccoli.
A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1063867283051869382003-09-17T23:41:00.000-07:002003-09-17T23:41:22.630-07:00Shoot Me: I'm Single
And apparently more afraid of the dentist than I had originally thought.
My dentist, knowing of my fear of him, had his secretary leave three voicemails informing me of my six month cleaning today. Of course, I dodged all three calls and would have continued to dodge the fourth call had she not, in her ingenuity, blocked her number, which by then I had memorized the way A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1063609895513608662003-09-15T00:11:00.000-07:002003-09-15T13:15:33.713-07:00Gasp
I think I may have died and resurfaced in the innermost circles of hell.
During these past few weeks I've had the motivation of a paperclip, which is evidenced by my lack of posting.
Actually, my lack of posting might be a symptom of a greater problem: my desire to sprint through a minefield, hoping to dear God that shrapnel isn't as painful as it sounds.
I'm debating whether or not A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1060530495885048382003-08-10T08:48:00.000-07:002003-08-10T08:48:15.790-07:00First, I'd like to apologize for my extended silence. Second, I'd like to thank everyone who commented on the status of my ass. It, likewise, thanks everyone too and sends its regards.
It seems I've been involved in a surge of strange events, ranging from riding donkeys and being slightly attracted to a second cousin. As I type, I am in Santorini, a volcanic island, where it is rumored Brad A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1059124618528873122003-07-25T02:16:00.000-07:002003-07-25T02:16:58.583-07:00Last night I spoke to Bono of U2 on the telephone, and then I lost my virginity as a bottom.
I don't know which is harder to believe, but both, nonetheless, are true.
A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1058991001331471082003-07-23T13:10:00.000-07:002003-07-23T13:20:47.933-07:00STD and the City
Last night, I first met Yence, a Dutchman leaving in New York, who incidentally has a Puerto Rican boyfriend nonsensically named Arnold. Then we met Dimitri, Greek, by the rocks. He didn't speak a lick of English, but we somehow managed.
Alone again, I met Kevin, Alan, and Justin, all three Brits, who knew Richard, Australian, and Petro his Greek boyfriend. The Italians, A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1058874625394847852003-07-22T04:50:00.000-07:002003-07-22T04:50:25.290-07:00Pierre
Last night I officially cruised for the first time.
I mean, sure, I've cruised before in that commonplace kind of cruising all gay men eventually succumb to during closing hours, our eyes, hawk-like and attentive, scanning the dwindling crowds for anything not frightening.
But last night I cruised.
I don't know how it all happened actually, as always. I docked in Mykonos at around A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1057746127231830322003-07-09T03:22:00.000-07:002003-07-09T03:24:34.296-07:00Rocket Man
My flight to Greece is in ten hours. You'd think that my suitcase would have been packed and ready by now. Instead, I've decided to hold off on the packing and wax certain body parts. I hear the prepubescent look is way hot in Europe at the moment, and who am I to rebel against current trends?
At any rate, I doubt I'll be doing much blogging since I'll have limited internet access. A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1057657622662872712003-07-08T02:47:00.000-07:002003-07-08T02:49:54.050-07:00Flying
I leave for Greece this Wednesday, and the neuroses are in full alert.
Typically, I have no fear of flying considering that I have done so since an infant, but for some reason I feel as petrified as a fat kid at summer camp forced to undress and take swimming lessons.
So, beyond all better judgment, I visited air safety online to view the number of fatal accidents my particular A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1057574834014031892003-07-07T03:47:00.000-07:002003-07-07T03:47:14.053-07:00The Meeting
As a young child, my parents favored having me loiter around our restaurant than be trusted with a babysitter, arguing that molestation occurred only among Americans and their insistence that strangers were more than qualified to care for their young. Thus, most of my childhood was spent irritating our chef, Chilo, being scolded by my father for unscrewing saltshakers, or, more A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1057440355234884132003-07-05T14:25:00.000-07:002003-07-05T14:25:55.290-07:00And prospective date number two never called.
I might as well donate my penis to science.
A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1057308264459430072003-07-04T01:44:00.000-07:002003-07-04T02:47:40.963-07:00So, date number one, to mirror my date’s immaturity, sucked ass.
Perhaps I could have overlooked the fact that he left me waiting at the bottom of his building for over fifteen minutes, barred me from having the vodka tonic I had been craving since the nanosecond I saw him since, as a nineteen year old, he was not allowed into any bars, and possibly overlooked his two diamond studded rings thatA.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1057131218682920672003-07-02T00:33:00.000-07:002003-07-02T11:35:52.550-07:00Isn't it the worst when you're studying at Starbucks and you meet eyes with an incredibly adorable boy with Camus' The Stranger propped in his hands and, beyond all laws of nature and probability, he actually meets your stare with a generous smile, so you hurriedly bury your head back into your psychology text book attempting to concentrate on images of ambiguous genitalia occurring in female A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1056835120411044612003-06-28T14:18:00.000-07:002003-06-28T14:18:40.466-07:00My high school prom date, Katie, is visiting me this weekend.
Katie, whom I refer to as Kates, has managed to (a) go to prom with a gay man, (b) graduate from high school and become a Mormon, (c) be a phone solicitor for prop 22, the Don't Let Fags Marry Campaign in California, (d) eventually become an apostate, finding even the 12 year old girl with a Jesus Saves shirt as suitable target for A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1056677299500787702003-06-26T18:28:00.000-07:002003-06-26T18:38:51.653-07:00Save for my throbbing ears due to new piercings, today was a grand day.
(1) I successfully, after spending the entire morning running around downtown from office to office, secure my new passport's arrival days before my departure for Greece, (2) mopped and vacuumed and dusted and rearranged the apartment like the good housewife God clearly destined me to be, and (3) found out that I can now A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1056343199372672652003-06-22T21:39:00.000-07:002003-06-23T01:56:24.823-07:00Cooling
I had to leave the apartment today because its silence, along with my thoughts, that dripping faucet, had the potential to drive me mad.
A coffee shop, I thought, might make it go away, that feeling of being broken— misaligned even. I thought that a room full of faces, the sound of a turning page, the espresso machine, the woman to my right detailing her day trip to Santa Cruz to a A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1056103973925755612003-06-20T03:12:00.000-07:002003-06-20T03:14:00.400-07:00Note: Written some five hours ago.
Stronger
It's taken me two glasses of wine to convince myself to leave the apartment tonight. I am only writing this in order to afford myself a few minutes for a third.
So it seems I'm suffering from a case of existential blueness (translation: I feel unattractive and undesirable; further translation: I feel bloated).
Going out to the bars just seems A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1055480157799761622003-06-12T21:55:00.000-07:002003-06-12T22:18:39.290-07:00Like the Sun and the Moon (Idiot)
When you're right smack in the middle of what's been called June Gloom, wherein the sun will occasionally make its appearance for a scant few minutes, all the while knowing God damn well that a few hundred miles south of here other free-spirited college students are plastered underneath the sun doing things like sipping on Pina Coladas and worrying about such A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1055388472418213932003-06-11T20:27:00.000-07:002003-06-11T20:30:59.270-07:00Not Really a Revelation
After taking my midterm for my Human Sexuality course, I was feeling somewhat suicidal, so like any well-adjusted gay man I headed out to the gym to sweat off my sorrow on a treadmill. Tragically, this didn’t prove to have the therapeutic effect I was hoping for. So, again like any well-adjusted gay man, I stopped in at the IKEA on my route home, thinking that pillows or A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-1054885217905084572003-06-06T00:40:00.000-07:002003-06-06T00:40:17.926-07:00I feel as anxious as an ant.
One of those ants scurrying off in the grass, lost, and looking for the other pack—the others who got away with a quarter of an Oreo. I’m that ant.
I can see myself forlorn, my six legs stretched out underneath the sun—my antennae desperately scanning the air for a clue, a pheromone, to lead me in the right direction, to lead me home. I’m that desperate ant.
I’mA.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-951841022003-06-02T02:13:00.000-07:002003-06-02T02:24:20.000-07:00Kind of Blue
It’s been a while since I’ve been here, and I don’t know exactly why that is. It could be the frenzy and alcoholism and trips and surge of excitement that comes after finishing final exams that’s kept me from documenting my thoughts. I don’t know.
The carnival is in town this week, and I pass it on my way to the gym, it’s gold and red and green lights flashing from beyond the A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-945924052003-05-19T11:35:00.000-07:002003-05-19T11:35:54.246-07:00Quickly:
I’ve had three hours of sleep, taken two caffeine pills, crammed everything dealing with consciousness into my brain for last final exam, which is in less than half an hour, and all the caffeine—in both liquid and pill form—have given me a most horrible case of diarrhea…
I feel as if I am losing my mind—confessing to having the runs being only the first of many symptoms to come.
A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-943148322003-05-14T00:02:00.000-07:002003-05-14T13:54:17.000-07:00Update
It's been three days since my last cigarette, and I have the uncontrollable urge to shoot myself and have someone hurl my lifeless body into the bay, having it discovered, three months later, by a six year old who, after tiring from his father's recommendations as to what constituted proper fishing, in his boredom decided to prod the murky water with a long, inquisitive stick.
And to addA.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-941875132003-05-11T22:53:00.000-07:002003-05-11T23:00:26.000-07:00Gone with the Smoke
This afternoon as I left my apartment and walked toward the Deli for cigarettes, I decided to quit smoking.
It wasn't so much the risk of developing lung cancer or the fact that each cigarette, as my grade school teacher once informed me, took away five minutes from my life that made me stop a block before the Indian who sold me my cigarettes every day. Instead, as I made A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-939632792003-05-07T19:01:00.000-07:002003-05-07T19:17:35.000-07:00The Third Sense
It’s strange how certain smells can grab a hold of you and make you close your eyes, leaving your nose to search the air, leaving it to search for that memory to go along with it.
Memory has always been a mystery to me, the way memories are somehow compacted into tiny readable units and stored in the brain as if they were index cards you store away long after an exam. What A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-933875482003-04-28T01:13:00.000-07:002003-04-28T01:13:51.330-07:00This weekend I’ve managed to somehow do nothing but (a) sleep well past noon, (b) drink way too much every night, and (c) dance and sing to I Will Survive, the quintessential gay song, during closing hours in a diner in the company of other drunks, each of us using a ketchup bottle as a microphone, swirling in our booth chairs, our arms flailing about in joyful abandon, and the bus boys, in A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-931474612003-04-23T18:15:00.000-07:002003-04-23T18:15:09.886-07:00When the Alpha Waves Hit the Fan
For some reason my brain has refused to work today. Like a stubborn sweatshop worker finally realizing his exploitation over a half-hemmed pair of Diesel jeans, it's switched off, crossed its arms, turned the neuronal activity on low until its needs of an ergonomic working environment, paid vacation leaves, and an efficient water cooler are met.
I feel as A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-929249092003-04-20T00:55:00.000-07:002003-04-20T00:57:00.000-07:00Quick Observation
You know you're terminally depressed when you've got both Bette Midler and The Smiths playing on repeat on your computer and you've barely the strength to raise yourself from your bed to lower the volume because Unloveable just seems to hit a little too close to home.
It took Unloveable x 3, coupled with The Rose, to motivate me to do as much as throw a pillow at my laptop.
A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-927052772003-04-16T02:06:00.000-07:002003-04-17T16:53:09.000-07:00Two for Tuesdays
This afternoon I received the California DUI News: The Official Publication for Arrestees in my mailbox which informed me of pressing issues regarding DUI cases such as proper courtroom etiquette and dress code. A suit, it seems, is suggested as proper attire for such formal court appearances, but I’m somewhat wary of their suggestion.
It appears to me that only rappers facingA.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-924085542003-04-10T21:57:00.000-07:002003-04-10T21:57:59.123-07:00Takin' it in Stride
Today I bought a bottle of self-tanner under the assumption that it would transfix me into a bronze beauty. I lathered myself up in the bathroom, sat on my sink, and watched five minutes roll away on my cell phone.
I am orange.
I am as orange as the caution sign the Vietnamese woman at McDonalds uses to mark off her freshly mopped tiles.
I am as orange as a tangerine, as A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-922795652003-04-09T02:05:00.000-07:002003-04-09T02:09:44.000-07:00Under the Influence of a Sober Heart
I had thought that an extended period of silence would rid me of any feelings of embarrassment and disappointment that ensued after last Friday night, but three days later I’ve painfully decided that not even a decade of silence could accomplish such an impossible feat.
In short, after a night of half-dancing and half-gawking at go-go boy on his go-go A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-920119842003-04-04T15:48:00.000-08:002003-04-04T15:59:56.000-08:00Emotional Counseling on the Golden Gate Bridge
What do you mean there's still life after love???
A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-918061522003-04-01T16:40:00.000-08:002003-04-01T16:40:14.123-08:00A Question:
When go-go boy yelled after me, "I want you to meet my girl," as I was walking to the liquor store, did he mean my girl as in "hey, she's my gurl from back in the day," or my girl in more of a Macualay Culkin gets stung by a squadron of bees and dies kind of a way?
I just want to know if my buying a large bottle of rum, an equally needed bottle of Diet Coke, and pretending not to A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-915993502003-03-29T04:14:00.000-08:002003-03-29T04:24:32.000-08:00I felt as ordinary as a toaster today.
Did nothing spectacular. Ate sushi with mom. Watched The Core with mom, all the while thinking why the hell Hillary Swank wasn't in Wranglers and having earth-shattering, leg-entwining, lesbian love in every scene.
Speaking of suicidal, during abovementioned train wreck of a movie, I received a call from go-go boy. Obviously I couldn't get out of my seat,A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-914061242003-03-26T03:57:00.000-08:002003-03-26T04:01:14.000-08:00Diamonds and Frills
Maybe it was my Mexico plans going awry or the past few drab months that left me feeling colorless and as dead as a cold fish, but I excitedly agreed to meet my high school friend Manali for cocktails at the beachside Marriott in Dana Point last Sunday.
And maybe it was the sight of elderly White women laboriously sipping on Blood Mary’s in all white jumpsuits discussing theA.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-913356162003-03-25T01:11:00.000-08:002003-03-25T01:16:23.000-08:00Isn't Technology the Darndest Thing?
audblog audio postA.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-911914022003-03-22T11:58:00.000-08:002003-03-22T11:58:56.043-08:00Last night I made the terrible mistake of staying in and watching One Hour Photo.
This alone would make one want to swallow gallons of arsenic. However, after having spent the entire day cleaning the apartment, I found myself in dirty jeans, the pant legs rolled up, and in a t-shirt I've been wearing for a couple days, eating a salad in my sparkling yet silent kitchen. And it was in this way A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-911549752003-03-21T16:51:00.000-08:002003-03-21T16:51:03.716-08:00A Quandary
What does it mean when someone tells you, "I bet I could have sex with you right now," but proceeds to not have sex with you?
Call me stupid, but I'm perplexed by this.
A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-909541832003-03-18T15:40:00.000-08:002003-03-18T15:43:15.000-08:00Like a Tattoo
Against my better judgment and basic carnal needs, I've decided to just be friends with go-go boy, considering that while the possibility of something physical occurring is likely, the possibility of emotional involvement, more so on his part, is as feasible as peace in the middle east.
While having him drive my car on the Bay Bridge on our return home from our third night out, I A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-907756562003-03-15T12:54:00.000-08:002003-03-15T19:05:55.000-08:00Note: For some reason my comments have been both disappearing for a time or altogether deleting themselves. This, in no way, should be construed as an attempt on my part for censorship. Mrs. Gore’s already got that covered for me.
Good Vibrations
I bought my first sex toy yesterday.
It's called the P-Spot Vibro Plug, and, though it came in a variety of colors, I chose a purple one. The A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-906969372003-03-13T23:26:00.000-08:002003-03-13T23:34:36.000-08:00Three-Day Update
Tuesday:
After a grueling day of teaching poetry to children in Oakland, I came home and received a phone call from Go-Go Boy. I was a bit confused, wondering for a moment whether I had left him a drunken voicemail recently and whether he had phoned to deliver me a tele-restraining order. Much to my surprise, however, he invited me to his twenty-seventh birthday party. Being aA.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-905073972003-03-10T22:38:00.000-08:002003-03-10T22:49:37.000-08:00Family Knots
Coming from a generally backward Greek family, I had always thought that I was somehow condemned to a life of disorganization and inadequacy. Both my parents are chronic smokers, are oblivious to the numerous postcards sent from dentists with animated, taking teeth that pile in our mailbox month after month, and both are equally convinced that garlic can cure any ailment ranging A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-901985242003-03-05T14:13:00.000-08:002003-03-05T14:15:29.000-08:00An Experiment:
Enter What is spooning a salad in terms of sex act (no quotation marks) into your google search engine and observe who's ranked number one in terms of relevancy...
God help that bastard who, seeking knowledge on how to spoon a salad, happens to stumble onto me.
A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-901724312003-03-05T04:45:00.000-08:002003-03-05T04:45:25.233-08:00After crashing into a parked car in the parking lot of Dennys, Danee, Ani, and I decided to splurge for the two dollar Bay Bridge toll booth in order to find an after-hours club in the city, only to find out, to our dismay, that there are NO after-hours clubs on Tuesdays.
Which leaves me back at the apartment at almost five in the morning, realizing that in five hours I will have to sit through A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-900404182003-03-03T00:44:00.000-08:002003-03-03T00:46:10.000-08:00Lean On Me
It all began with Pier 1 Imports guy: someone who had caught my eye one lazy Thursday as I was perusing through the aisles of scented candles and martini glasses but didn’t have the courage to approach but, after a coincidental meeting online, eventually had coffee with. So, after gulping my non-fat iced mocha, exchanging a few rushed goodbyes with Pier 1, and bolting out of café A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-896956172003-02-24T22:04:00.000-08:002003-02-24T22:10:38.000-08:00I used to think that Margaret Cho was the best thing to happen to gay men since butt plugs and affordable do-it-yourself waxing kits, but after seeing this I'm not quite as sure.
I only have one question: Why, Margaret, why?
Suddenly, being the only gay man in the bay area not in attendance at her show in two weeks time doesn't seem as catastrophic as it initially did.
A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-895464502003-02-22T02:57:00.000-08:002003-02-22T02:58:26.000-08:00Where the Bacardi at?
God, I'm so drunk at the moment.
I don't know exactly how it happened. One moment I was in a dorm room talking with German exchange students, and the other moment I was freaking some girl named Leah to Missy Eliot (i.e., I'm not a prostitute, but I can give you want you want!)
This always happens to me.
In a room full of straight men, what else is there to do but grab A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-893626052003-02-19T01:32:00.000-08:002003-02-19T01:33:06.000-08:00On Repeat
I've been listening to Tori Amos' Baker Baker over and over and over again for no particular reason other than that it makes me gaze out my bedroom window as if expecting a tidal wave to come crashing down on me with the force and destructive power of a hundred atomic bombs.
I suggest everyone rush and download this particular track so that you, too, might experience the feeling of A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-890856432003-02-14T03:24:00.000-08:002003-02-14T03:32:50.000-08:00My Absent Valentine
“I’d gladly trade in my wit for a body that made men weep,” is what Kirin said tonight that got me thinking about whether a Herculean body would have made the Jew agree to come up to the apartment for, as I put it, a good shtupping rather than offering me a blow job as a consolation, as if we were somehow negotiating the price for a condo in Tampa, Florida, both of us stuck A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-888863602003-02-10T18:17:00.000-08:002003-02-10T19:38:58.000-08:00The most embarrassing thing happened to me today.
Having decided that life isn't worth living if I'm unable to wear muscle tees, I went to the gym with the mantra Must Look Good Naked, Must Look Good Naked going off in my mind like a Kylia Minogue song you know better than to sing in public.
So there I was doing my thing on the ab machine, entirely absorbed with thoughts of looking good nakedA.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-885616872003-02-04T17:10:00.000-08:002003-02-04T17:10:58.453-08:00Though I often can find humor in jokes relating to starvation in third world countries or diseases that render one unable to sustain proper bowel moments, I've always considered myself a pretty loving and compassionate individual.
But I've had enough of it.
I would like to make it publicly known that I hate everyone. No one is spared from this statement. This includes the bastards who towed A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-883977282003-02-01T16:04:00.000-08:002003-02-01T16:05:48.000-08:00Last night I neglected the cardinal rule of drinking: Never combine wine with hard alcohol.
It wouldn't have been so bad if (a) I hadn't ripped off my sweater and danced around in a low-cut army shirt, (b) announced "I need a dick in my mouth" at a party wholly comprised of Oakland Raider enthusiasts, or (c), two some hours later en route to the city, deciding that the two dollar price for the A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-880330742003-01-25T20:36:00.000-08:002003-01-26T03:20:13.000-08:00Potential
I could write about my horrible date with candidate # 1, my jokes he didn’t have the courtesy to laugh to, or the Pad Thai he swallowed fork-full after fork-full, the noodles leaving red imprints around his mouth as he spoke about his childhood, boarding schools, and graduate work, all the while unaware of my obvious disinterest.
I could describe last night, the drinks I consumed A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-878345162003-01-22T02:56:00.000-08:002003-01-22T02:56:23.313-08:00Another Cosmo on my Tab Please
It's his smile that I think most about when in the presence of others. It's the way he laughed at my jokes while not understanding them but acknowledging that they were funny and that laughter was the proper response.
I get this way when I'm in a bar and, save for my rum and coke and few friends in proximity, feel lost and helplessly lonely. I guess thinking of A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-877533572003-01-20T16:03:00.000-08:002003-01-20T16:07:53.000-08:00The fog that seems to have clustered itself around my apartment building like a colony of mushrooms has officially manhandled me into a state of gloom, and I've done nothing but sulk around in my sweats, shifting my weary body from couch to couch, bed to bed. I really should be more proactive, I say to myself on days like these, but I eventually surrender, play a Nora Jones mp3, and decide that IA.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-874071602003-01-13T23:47:00.000-08:002003-01-13T23:47:34.296-08:00It's been two days since I've been to the gym, and I want to hang myself.
To add to this, I've been reading A Farewell to Arms, which makes me want to do nothing but drink red wine, eat cheese, and gripe about the Austrians.
I'm at the point in the novel where Lieutenant Henry is about to make love to nurse Catherine Barkley, where she will most likely languidly brush your bangs from her browA.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-872595752003-01-11T02:27:00.000-08:002003-01-11T02:32:41.000-08:00While painting my mother's bathroom this afternoon, I had the most shocking revelation:
My mother is my ultimate faghag.
For instance, she's plump and heavy-chested, never gets laid, hates my boyfriends and any that might follow, and is always quick to call anytime there's a lamp or faucet in need of installment. Furthermore, as far as my memory travels, I can remember by mother prancing into A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-871398692003-01-08T17:12:00.000-08:002003-01-08T17:14:31.000-08:00A Soliloquy
I love the gym.
I love the gym.
I love the gym.
(This reminds me of the time I tried to convince myself I wasn't an alcoholic.)
(It didn't work.)
Love the gym. Love the gym. Love the gym.
(I am Faye Dunaway with a wire hanger up my ass.)
Gym! Gym! Gym!
(Can't I just take Christina Aguilera's word for it, concluding that I am both externally and internally beautiful, A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-870541402003-01-07T02:45:00.000-08:002003-01-07T02:45:35.640-08:00Hamburger Hill in the Suburbs
I had the most frightful experience of my life the other day.
These past few weeks I've been taking to the gym every day in hopes of joining the ranks of Olympic water polo players, and I would have spent my usual two hours on the treadmill tonight were it not for my bad habit of not paying attention to business' hours of operation. This character flaw extends A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-868235942003-01-02T02:46:00.000-08:002003-01-02T02:46:24.863-08:00Gay Man Out
Seeing that I was the only homosexual at the Ontario Convention Center last night drinking a make-shift apple martini poured in a Dixie cup and being generally bored out of my skull, I was asked by Father Dimitiri, our Greek Orthodox priest, to be in charge of the balloon dropping at midnight. Why he bestowed this honor upon me is a mystery considering that I haven't been seen in A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-867725032002-12-31T19:43:00.000-08:002002-12-31T19:55:08.000-08:00Brave New Year?
I should be hating life at the moment considering that everyone I know is doing something fabulous tonight except me. Whereas John is in New York, the lesbians in Seatle, and Danee back in San Francisco where she presumably is NOT having sex on my bed, I will be spending the remaining hours of the year with my family at a Greek Convention type gala: a rented, large dining hall, A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-866211272002-12-28T02:21:00.000-08:002002-12-28T02:22:40.000-08:00Road Trip Meets Ani Difranco
I'm going to Mexico tomorrow with the Lesbians. It'll be a fun-filled day of buying colorful sombreros, sampling tequila, and eating fish tacos, they said.
Last time I was in Mexico I smoked weed despite the fact that I never smoke weed, and I found myself in the morning sprawled on the beach spooning a transsexual named Aurora Gayheart.
Either way, something A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-865087292002-12-25T00:00:00.000-08:002002-12-25T00:35:31.000-08:00The Youth in Asia
I'm contemplating sending this to the Dutch Voluntary Euthanasia Society.
Ten Reasons Why I Should Be Put To Death Like a Thoroughbred Who's Lost His Livelihood:
(1) I'm back in Los Angeles.
(2) I'm selling lavender scented candles at the mall to elderly women sporting Americana pins the size of Delaware on their crocheted sweaters.
(3) The San Francisco Humane Society A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-862628772002-12-19T01:26:00.000-08:002002-12-19T01:29:48.000-08:00In Search of my Other X
Before moving into my current apartment, I thought long and hard about the ramifications of living with three women.
I didn't think much about it when I took to sitting down each time I had to pee. I thought I'd just follow common practice in the household, and besides, sitting while peeing has its perks, namely not having to wash your hands when done.
However, A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-861564772002-12-17T00:06:00.000-08:002002-12-17T22:49:49.000-08:00The Update:
From the beginning, I knew something strange was in the air when we walked into The Eagle Tavern, a biker bar, and noticed men in leather chaps embracing in dark, anonymous corners. At any moment I expected them to assemble and sing anything from The Blue Oyster Cult in unison, their baritone voices filling the room along with the smell of Johnny Walker and Old Spice.
Once at the A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-860197322002-12-14T22:11:00.000-08:002002-12-14T22:11:38.706-08:00Guess who Stephan's taking to a sex club tonight???
Raises hand. Me! Me! Me!
Adam is SO out of the picture. A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-859877832002-12-14T03:41:00.000-08:002002-12-14T03:43:31.000-08:00Meet Adam
Since things with Stephan aren’t going as I hoped they would (i.e., him calling with adoration on his breath), I decided to pick up another boyfriend en route to the movie theater with Danee.
He was resting face up on a newsstand when I came across him. The rain had caused him to curl along the edges; his face was soaked and glistened like the skin of a dolphin. I couldn’t help A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-859370892002-12-13T00:49:00.000-08:002002-12-13T00:51:23.000-08:00karma is a bitch.
angelo owes me three drinks. he said he'd pay for two rounds and then his card wouldn't go through, so i, of course, had to pay for everything! then the dumbass left his account logged on, so i can write in his blog. this is danee, by the way. A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-859325912002-12-12T22:04:00.000-08:002002-12-12T22:20:59.000-08:00
Slim Pickings
After wrapping up my Anthro final this morning which dealt with hegemony and globalization, I went down to the Berkeley Humane Society to be in the company of four-legged creatures.
There, with Sweetie Pie, a five year old female Tabby, curled in my arms, I couldn't help but wonder whether I had pilgrimaged to some oracle and had witnessed my future: litter boxes, cat nip, and A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-857704802002-12-09T22:48:00.000-08:002002-12-09T23:15:58.000-08:00More pictures of Halloween night have surfaced, each being valid evidence for why I should leave alcohol and military regalia well enough alone.
You can view these here.A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-857183542002-12-09T00:28:00.000-08:002002-12-09T00:33:11.000-08:00Call Me Josie Grossey
The premiere at The Parkway Theater and reception/spoken word performances at The Black Box went well tonight.
I had invited Stephan (i.e., Gogo boy) to come, but I had not expected that he, seconds before I rose to the stage to read my "I hate being single" poem, would plop down beside me, pointing out the obvious with a "I'm here."
Everything would have been honky doryA.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-856513042002-12-07T12:57:00.000-08:002002-12-07T12:57:17.556-08:00In a few minutes I will be heading out to the city and to a vintage expo appropriately dubbed "Deco the Halls". This, as I try to convince myself, is an attempt to prove to my roommates that I very well capable of detaching myself from the telephone, staring at it as if it were a comatose patient about to resurface at any moment.
I could do it, really. But like removing wisdom teeth or hugging A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-855874902002-12-06T03:55:00.000-08:002002-12-06T03:55:39.226-08:00GoGo boy called tonight, and we went dancing in the city. He told me he was bringing a friend, Christina, but I had no idea that this "friend" would prove to be so hostile towards me.
Like a nuclear plant on overdrive, she was sending out negatives vibes specifically aimed towards me (and not Marl). I had to remind myself that it would look very uncouth of me if I were to trip her on the dance A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-854747602002-12-04T02:05:00.000-08:002002-12-04T02:05:43.346-08:00I'm so tired, tired, tired...
After spending six hours in Oakland perfecting my Digital Poem for the premiere on Sunday, I ate a meal for two which the man who sold me my Thai food tonight was kind enough to indicate by placing two forks in my container.
Tomorrow I will have to flirt with my bank teller in an attempt to rid myself of fees I'm constantly racking up for overdrawing on my accountA.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-853262702002-12-01T01:51:00.000-08:002002-12-01T01:51:24.250-08:00Home is Where the Lube's At
My week home has not been altogether uneventful; instead, it’s been particularly draining.
To begin with, since my parents have converted our home to post A-bomb Nagasaki due to renovations, I've had to spend my nights sleeping in the living room. This is disconcerting for two reasons: (1) I've discovered that my father will steal into the kitchen at odd hours of A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-851251242002-11-26T12:41:00.000-08:002002-11-27T01:15:34.000-08:00Walls
My mother woke me at 10 this morning to notify me that my old room has been remodeled. Not only has the carpet been removed, the stucco rubbed off the ceiling, but my ash gray walls--the ones I had painted with much gusto when I was 17 with Morrissey playing in the background--have been painted a drab white.
There are only three things in life that are unacceptable by my standards:
(1) A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-849994492002-11-23T23:25:00.000-08:002002-11-23T23:26:12.000-08:00I'm in a bad mood tonight.
The kind of mood that has me listening to Greek love songs.
I don't know what it was. Maybe it was the cable cart ride earler tonight and not having someone's careful arm around me as I almost flung out during a sharp turn.
Maybe it's the straight people in my livingroom playing the adult version of operation right now.
Either way, I'm depressed and I hate my lifeA.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-849518172002-11-22T18:04:00.000-08:002002-11-22T18:29:00.000-08:00MORE PICTURES
For God Hates Fags and more... click here
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A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-847517692002-11-18T23:35:00.000-08:002002-11-18T23:38:46.000-08:00I called Garrett's pager today for pureley sentimental reasons and, instead of the usual greeting, I recieved a computerized voice telling me that this particular pager number was invalid.
It's funny how things work out like this--how on my "date" with Stephan my past has become invalid. I should be sad. I should feel some sense of loss in that my only connection to my past, a pager number, is A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-846573142002-11-17T03:49:00.000-08:002002-11-17T03:51:46.000-08:00Hi, My Name's Horny and Ready to Go
Stephan, the insanely gorgeous gogo boy from last night with the demon blue eyes, called me tonight.
He said that he's got a man, a SWISS man, for Danee and would like to meet up with us sometime this weekend. Of course, Kirin sings almost every Monday at the university pub, the Bear's lair, and I've used that as a convenient place to meet.
Of course I A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-846408992002-11-16T17:20:00.000-08:002002-11-16T17:24:06.000-08:00Crossing Out Hate
After having a somewhat adventurous night with Danee at gay club in Berkeley, which included meeting insanely gorgeous gogo boy who decided to come with us to a party after wrapping up his final fifteen minute dance, Danee, Marl, and I woke up at nine this morning and, determined, steadfast, somewhat hungover, headed out like troops in Operation Desert Storm.
Keeping with A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-846028772002-11-15T17:55:00.000-08:002002-11-15T18:19:34.000-08:00MORTIFIED
Everything was going fine today until I happened to bump into Melina on the bus who, after rummaging in her bag, handed me an issue of The Daily Cal.
I am on the cover in all my peace-signing glory. I wouldn't mind being on the cover of a newspaper if (a) I didn't have that stupid grin on my face, (b) I didn't look like an Asian tourist by the dolphin aquarium at Sea World, or (c) IA.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-844969092002-11-13T16:03:00.000-08:002002-11-13T16:16:17.000-08:00Enough with the tortured soul, emotional turmoil, he left me and my life's gone to shit stuff; there are much bigger fish to fry.
Mobilization of gay troops against Topeka, Kansas bigots began today. I stood in front of Sather Gate with a large banner reading God Hates Fags. Evidently, not everyone noticed the large red X I've put through the slogan. So, initially, I got my fair share of A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-844120172002-11-12T03:12:00.000-08:002002-11-12T15:57:57.000-08:00Maybe it's the double latte you had, that after-nine-pm peppermint patty, the caesar salad with too much balsamic vinegar that didn't sit too well with you at lunch? my inner voice hypothesizes as I lay on my bunk as alert and cow-eyed as an owl strung up on speed.
Maybe it's the gas pipes leaking again, the moon screwing with your internal, circadian rhythms--maybe the walls are reverberatingA.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-843587942002-11-11T04:25:00.000-08:002002-11-11T04:25:00.293-08:00I have a lunch date with Omar the homeless man tomorrow.
You might rightly wonder why it is I am having a lunch date with a homeless man, and for this I do have a valid answer.
In my Cultural Anthropology class we were given the assignment to diagram the genealogy of a person. My professor also added that we might want to find an interesting character to base this genealogy on. So, in an A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-843111852002-11-10T02:44:00.000-08:002002-11-10T02:48:43.000-08:00I feel the need to warn people of Punch Drunk Love.
It was a loss of two hours from my life which I will never be able to regain. In those two hours I could have read a book about AA Meetings in Mexico, learned how to fold origami, or even taken an online crash course on how to speak MANGKONG, an Austro-Asiatic Vietnamese dialect.
Anything would have been more productive and entertaining.
A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-842159192002-11-08T00:39:00.000-08:002002-11-08T00:39:39.266-08:00Forgot to Mention
To add to my list of embarrassing and unbelievable-but-horrifyingly-true occurrences in life, a homeless man in a Counting Crows circa 1992 t-shirt propositioned me for sex the other night.
Imagine scene:
Me: Lugging grocery bag with grapes and bananas (on Hollywood juice diet) and with a cigarette in mouth (not part of Hollywood juice diet but very Hollywood nonetheless).
A.Nnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3179037.post-840485172002-11-04T23:31:00.000-08:002002-11-04T23:55:56.000-08:00Weekend at Home
My mother bought be a liter-sized bottle of KY lube.
She presented it to me after dinner saying, "You might need this for all those dirty Oakland children you deal with."
I didn't know how to respond. Maybe she was finally accepting me and was revealing this acceptance through her concern for my anal sex practices, I thought. But where were the condoms? Surely, if I were A.Nnoreply@blogger.com