after waking up, taking a shower, and playing around online looking for an apartment, i realized that i should eat something so i wouldn't be hungry at pat buchanan's talk. i did not want a repeat of yesterday - so i decided i would leave at five to get there ealier and actually get a seat. i took some st. johns wort and kava kava so i wouldn't be such a grump today. and so i wouldn't be so damn tired, i made myself a pot of coffee. i pretended to be a barista and made myself some not even good coffee concoction. two big scoops of vanilla ice cream, some milk, some chocolate syrup, and half a pot of coffee all mixed together in a huge motherfucking cup filled to the brim. stirring it proved a little difficult, and i got crap all over the kitchen counter.
i heated up a plate of lasagna to accompany my coffee drink and sat down to eat it. my sister was sitting across from me and told me that i was digusting. a pig. gross. going to clog my arteries. so unhealthy. -- chewing with my mouth wide open, making exaggerated sounds of delight. my sister made a face of utter disgust. i decided to wash all this down with a plate of nachos and cheese, followed by some chocolate. my sister was disgusted to say the least, and not at all reticent about expressing her disgust. she told me how sick i was going to be. i ignored her, grabbed my coat, and left for the metro.
the power of influence. as soon as i started driving, i did feel sick. damn my sister. my stomach was in pain. the half pot of coffee was not settling so well with all the dairy products. there was lots of action going on in my stomach. i tried to ignore it, thinking that it would pass. a while later, riding on the metro, it had still not passed. bowel movement is a little too tame an expression. bowel dance party/street riot seems a little more accurate. oh dear god. well, just don't think about how much you have to go the bathroom because there is not one here on the metro car and i am going to get a fucking seat at this buchanan thing.
i do a pretty good job of forgetting about my stomach's moodiness, get off at metro center, and ascend the escalator to somewhere other than heaven. at least i hope. my ascent took me to the door of olsson's where scary pat buchanan fans were already waiting for their grand dragon's arrival.
not many people had shown up an hour early, and so i was able to grab three seats in the fifth row of just set-up folding chairs. i placed my coat on one chair and my hat on the other to save them. people kept filing in and soon most of the chairs were filled up. save, of course, for the two that i was saving for maggie and rebecca. scary people keep asking if someone's sitting in them. yes, they are, they just went to go get coffee. the scary people give me a disgruntled look and then when i refuse to bend, they move on to harrass the next person that is saving an empty chair for someone. god, i hope rebecca and maggie get here soon, people are starting to get real scary.
my prayers were answered, and rebecca enters the door. i yell her name, and she fills up one of the empty chairs. we gossip for a while, we both doubted that maggie was going to really bring an egg to throw at pat, and then as time wore on, we doubted that she would show up at all. we then talked about all the people in the room, trying to figure out how many of them actually liked pat. we guessed probably half of them. pat finally took the mike, and we saw that we had greatly underestimated. practically the enitre bookstore was hooting and hollering chanting go pat go!
we gave up our empty seat to some crotchety old man, pretty sure that maggie was not going to show. and then the spectacle started. pat, always the showman, did not let us down. he was discussing his new book, "the death of the west." redux version of his book's thesis: "our culture" (really his culture) is under seige from immigrants. he mourned the death of european / christian / white / patriarchal traditions, and blames it all on communists, feminists, and mexicans. it was real crazy stuff. but, pat is so yee-hah in some respects. one thing that i do like about pat is his personality. he is one firey old man, who is smart as hell, very articulate, and does not back down.
you would think that he might be slightly intimitaded about making such un p.c. talks in public. but he is tough as nails, takes the mike, and takes no shit from the people that try to call him a racist in the q & a session.
now the bad parts of pat: he is insane. he says the third world without quotations. he rails against mexican immigrants. he says western women need to have more babies, but feminism has screwed up society. he said that the third world's population (without quotations) would increase by some insane number in the next fifty years. too put this into terms that his xenophobic fans could understand, he said, "that's thirty to fifty more mexicos!"
he then gave his command for immigrants to assimilate or else. when his ancestors came to america, they didn't speak gaelic, they spoke english. but these mexicans, they come here and they speak spanish and they play soccer and they celebrate cinco de mayo. pat was pretty audacious - even more so than i expected. and another silly thing that he said was that gramsci's communist ideas killed off christianity and that's the reason america has run amok. but then, he also (this is the point i agreed with him on) cited the excesses of capitalism as another cause of "western culture's" decline. but, then he has to extend that thought by saying that the media's morally bankrupt images are to blame -- that there are too many ally mcbeal shows and not enough shows that depict a woman with five or six kids. i kid you not, he actually said this.
he then was defending western culture from a critic in the audience, by saying that western culture created human rights. something, i probably would have agreed with. but, then in the midst of his rant about the west creating human rights, he rhetorically asks, "who ended slavery?" needless, to say i was apalled, and was very curious to know, "who started slavery, and made an industry out of the slave trade?" this was one of the many moments where i thought that patty pat was being a little contradictory.
his talk ended and then the real fireworks started. pat critics thought that they would one-up pat and point out the lacunae in his argument. but they didn't, pat was smarter, and no one in the audience wanted to hear the critics. the audience overshouted the critics by booing. the first man to ask a question was a recent immigrant who was muslim, and still had a thick accent. pat did not really respond to the criticism - he just said something like: see you speak good english, i'm not talking about you, you have assimilated. then an african says something. then an af-am dude. then a woman. all sounded real lame even though they had vaild points - pat whooped ass. they all started out by stating their credentials. i am a recent african immigrant. i am an african-american. i am a woman. stating why they could disagree, saying it for their own ears, reasserting themselves, or at least trying to in this hostile environment.
one really cool mixed girl said "i am a hybrid and i love it." the evil audience shouted over her as she was trying to talk, demanding question! question! question! so many people would just state their thoughts and not ask a question. this girl was guilty of that too. she had the floor, was talking, rambling, working out her thoughts to herself along the way, trying to somehow connect with pat, declaring that she is hybrid and loves it. i really loved this girl since she was mixed too, and she was sort of voicing my own thoughts as well.
perhaps i should have actually read that bhaba essay for postcolonial lit. i really love hearing other people talk about the mixed experience because it's something that is not often talked about. people talk about blacks, whites, latinos, etc. as if there can be no overlap. but, here is not there or there. it's somewhere in between. and i am not motivated enough to write a mixed experience entry tonight, but that is another thing that is being added to my ridiculously long list of things to eventually get around to doing.
anyways, after the credits had rolled on the pat buchanan show, i boarded the metro to return home, and became increasingly aware of the fact that i had to go number two. okay, i'll be home soon, it's okay, just chill out, think non-feces centered thoughts. think about pat some more, and about that cute boy who was sitting ahead of us, who looked gay but cheered for pat and nodded his head in agreement throughout the talk. don't judge a book by its cover. don't assume that cute, hip looking people are not closet fasicts.
so i get home and make for the bathroom. release of something you've been holding back for so long. the longer you can hold it (urine, feces, semen, baseball cards, etc.) the more pleasurable the release. the toilet is my bo tree. it is my s and m chamber. it is my pot of gold at the end of the metro rainbow. my expelled crap will walk into your waters, cleanse itself of its sins, cleansing me in the process. fuck yeah, this feels so good. maybe it's cause i'm a gay male and am comfortable and aware of the possible pleasures of the anus and prostate. but yeah yeah yeah, i feel so good after taking a crap.i wipe my ass and look down into the toilet, and wow, i guess my sister was right - i was sort of sick - my poop was basically liquid. the toilet is not filled with chunks of poop floating like dead fish in the toilet, but is just a brown, opaque soup -- looking very much like the coffee concoction i made and drank earlier. i am a conduit taking in and pooping out - a machine that eats, goes and sees pat, and then converts it into shit and shitty writing. the way of the world, i guess.