Archive for February, 2006
Tuesday, February 28th, 2006
Yesterday someone at work was on the phone being eerily cheerful for a Monday morning, and when he laughed a fake laugh I said, out loud, “why don’t you shut your mouth?” Last week I told him to “hang up or I’ll kill you.” This morning I accidentally punched a girl in the head by the fax machine.
Of all the horrible crap on my iPod, Madonna’s “Take A Bow” just started playing, and now I’m ready to slow-motion walk out of the office and sit with coffee in the corner Starbucks as people walk by barefoot over broken glass. There is something wrong with me, and I should not admit that this song is on my iPod. Nor should I recall publicly that in seventh grade ensemble, our director Mrs. Heidmann chose this song for us to sing at our year-end concert. I shouldn’t continue to the part where I ended up with a solo and she choreographed hand movements so that we were, in effect, a damn show choir. I blame Mrs. Heidmann for making me gay. And for my subsequent-to-current hatred of musicals, choirs, people who move their hands when they sing, and Oprah.
I’m not the only person who remembers Mr. Bogus, am I? At one point he was claymation and then I think he was animated. Bumpy head. Nobody believes me, and Kathy and her mom called me a liar. I may lie about a lot of things, but not about something as serious as Mr. Bogus. Back me up.
Thursday, February 23rd, 2006
Is MP3J an actual term that people use?
Being back in Ohio for a few days was like taking off roller skates. You know you were just walking not too long ago, but it still feels completely foreign to be using your feet. It’s more work, maybe. More work to do less.
Too much fast food. More driving than I’m now used to. The unnerving feeling that old friends were nervous with me. My brother is home-schooled now and doesn’t wake up until noon on Mondays. Pandora already wants a divorce. Miss my damn dog.
Old friends, some from elementary school, some from college. People with birth names like Falcon and Montana. And a new friend, another visitor from New York who knew people I know and may be about to put in four years in the ridiculous mile-long jailhouse that is Oberlin College. It seems that many of the people there that I still know and love are not very well-liked by the new people. But they all concur that Oberlin sucks. Especially now that Teryl died. God dammit.
Never again will I attend a Barbie party in the Masonic Temple with Martin Luther King watching from the front yard.
I have a theory about why my senior gay male friends at Oberlin hate it so much. There are about 2800 students at Oberlin College. I would guess that 40% (1120) are male. Of those 1120 guys, maybe 20% (224) are gay, despite what every straight girl at Oberlin would have you believe. An extremely generous grant might allow a senior gay male a rate of being attracted to 20% (45) of those gay men, and of those 45, perhaps 30% (13) are attracted back. And since a senior really shouldn’t date a freshman, 25% (3) are out. That leaves maybe 10 dateable people, 5 of which are too scared to say word one to anyone they like, 1 who turns out to be a secret racist, 2 who get used up in September, and 1 who becomes an ex by Christmas and then it’s the end of the world.
In Cleveland, I visited my coffee shop twice. The first time was upsetting because I thought I didn’t know anyone who worked there any more. But my favorite was there the second time, and even though I only stayed long enough to discuss the owner of the old theatre across the street and pay for my medium (not grande) coffee, I left feeling good.
Had dinner with Ray and Vicky and Kathy, and called Candace because there was a her-shaped void.
Saturday, February 18th, 2006
I’m visiting Cleveland/Oberlin/family/friends from today until Wednesday. Couldn’t say before because it was a surprise for my mom. Call me if you want to see me.
Saturday, February 18th, 2006
The guy who talked to us over alcohol was a 37 year old Republican war veteran who loved Slayer and my striped sweater. He said that if he ever touched Britney Spears his hands would catch fire. He told us the story of when he won $240 in a bar gambling machine in Pittsburgh, and the bartender Lisa recalled with great joy the time she called someone a fat fuck as she was being thrown out. He would like to write, like us, but doesn’t think he’d be able to get his point across in many words. This was the greatest bar conversation we’ve had all year. Many people in the next room danced to “Mony Mony” by Billy Idol and pumped their fists in the air on the Yeahs. They were old women in Sunday dresses and husbands who cleaned their glasses after each song. Can I do this every Friday?
HIM: It wasn’t mandatory… but it’s sucking up every hour I got. I had to shake fucking retard boy out of his bed and fucking get me over the bridge.
HER: Hey, quit saying that word! You know a better adjective. I know your vocabulary is better than that.
HIM: It would appear not right now.
Thursday, February 16th, 2006
This morning I textually discussed with a female friend who lives on Long Island the fact that I may or may not have found someone on Friendster who is kind of famous right now with young guys and suburban moms, and who I like a lot. And as I typed more and more ridiculous things, I realized that I am crazy. She’s crazy too, in all sorts of ways (see: “You’ll take pictures of me in my house and put them on your blog and say I’m fabulous and I show my boyfriend and he says ‘you guys are retarded…’ and I say I know!”), but her craziness gets her paid and mine would probably hinder that.
I said I was positive that there are going to be AA meetings for internet addicts in every church five years from now. People who huddle together and try to stay strong as a group and not give in to the temptation to check their e-mail, change their Myspace photo, find new reality TV stars on Friendster, and refresh gossip blogs to see if anyone’s yet left a comment in response to the comment they just left five minutes prior about whether Dakota Fanning’s nipple was airbrushed out of the Maxim cover. And I will be the one who leaves “to go to the bathroom,” pulls out my Video iPhone and loads Pinkismynewlife.com.
Like crackohol.
At least I’m not addicted to porn, like everyone I know. Seriously, everybody I know is addicted to porn. Except Kathy. And she may be addicted to porn, I don’t know, I only know that she’s the only person I know who I’m not 100% sure is addicted to porn. She probably is.
I guess I don’t really have a point. Here’s me and Adrian from the other night:
He did a whole series of writing on people and taking their photo, and though I was skeptical in the beginning, they turned out very well. “The photographer is always the most hated person at the party and the most loved the day after.” Someone more poignant than I said that recently, though I don’t remember who. Also, nobody hated him at the party, so I guess I still don’t have a point. Go take a look at all of his photos from the evening.
And here’s Mike Nouveau’s midsection, from Last Night’s Party:
Thursday, February 16th, 2006
Just released: Punk Bunny’s Happy Endings, featuring a remix by yours truly:
Go buy it.
