Tuesday, April 30, 2002

let the midnight special shine the light on me

I just really do not understand George McClellan. Why was he such an idiot? Is there any other historical figure that had so many opportunities for greatness literally handed to him, only to fumble them. And not in a small way. Like a playoff game, last couple minutes of a close game big nasty fumble for no reason. I just finished watching Part 3 of Ken Burns' "Civil War" documentary, and throughout I was utterally dumbfounded by McClellan's decsisions some hundred plus years after he made them. Thinking about history, legacy, and what it must be like to be such a historical laughingstock. McClellan is long dead, yet I still feel shame for his guffaws - his legacy, perhaps, means nothing since he, the one who would suffer embarrassment is no longer of this world. But yet it does, and I'm not exactly sure why. Honestly, though, what the hell was his problem?

Today, I talked to Bonnie on the phone and heeding her advice, decided to go apply at Best Buy. I drove there at about five. I sat in the parking lot, marveled at the blue sky, the afternoon sunlight, a bundle of cut, brown, curly hair that blew across the parking lot, and people - oh God, the people - walking with appliances of all sorts, computers, VCR's, DVD players, and other acronyms of this, our machine age. Machines hoisted in their arms, clutched to their chests - rockabye baby. And I sat there, feeling a feeling of idleness, contentment, and overpouring love for all things. The white painted lines on the asphalt were mesmerizing for all the sense of order they managed to create - cars, people operating them, human fucking beings, parking exactly how these painted lines dictated. Creating a strict order on this huge field of asphalt - but a moving, a tranistory order - which doesn't make sense, seemingly oxymoronic - but yes, order out of the transitoriness. A work by Alexander Calder - or a choreographed piece of vehicular performance art. Whatever it was, whatever it wasn't - it was part of the scene, which in turn was a small part of what I was thinking about, which in turn was what made me want to sit in the car for just a little while.

Which eventually extended into a long while. I turned my car off. Sat there, watching people come and go, and decided to read more of The Ice Storm, which I started reading last night. I have not been able to put it down, being somewhat of a pervert and so continuing to read and turn pages faster and faster to read more of the sexual hijinks, but continued reading it even after my libido subsided because of wild sentances which I ate up deliriously, hungry for more more more - who needs the sleep. The reading is the thing. Sentances, like painted parking spaces, creating a beautiful order, or at least, the sense of it. And really, if the two are different, would it matter? We'd never know, and that would be perfectly okay with me - finding comfort and life sustained in deft word choice. A world made coherent and containable - a front and back cover containing this sense of containment. Not constraint, however - just a comforting containment.

And so contained in my mom's minivan in a parking space in this shopping center's parking lot, I pulled out the book and read and read and read, noticed that it was getting darker out and would soon be too dark to read, so read faster and faster to finish the book. And at 7:30, I read the last page, then the last paragraph, the last sentance, the last word, the last letter, and then that period which possesses more finality then any other period anywhere else in the book for some strange reason. Or if you're Andrea Dimino, not strange, but simply because we (as readers) "privlege the ending." Well, duh, thanks a lot, I never knew that - but why? - "why?" is the question at hand. I sort of wanted there to be more, for that to not be the end, but it was, and so coming down from the trip, trying to put everything in some perspective. Pausing over that last bit, taking my time, and perhaps saying the last words out loud in an exhale of sorts.

And, well, after that, I did not feel like going to apply at wherever it was I had driven to, and instead drove home with my headlights on, feeling the feeling that I think CCR is referring to in "Midnight Special." And if that song moves you in a way where you think you could cry (but never actually do - you just believe that you probably could) - cry with the belief that you had encountered "the Midnight Special," too - that you knew what it was - then perhaps you know what I am talking about.

Saturday, April 27, 2002

buster bus

Okay, I am far too giddy right now. Whoo! And let's double that: whoo! What the fuck?, it's a good day - triple it: Whoo!

I applied for a job at the Kingstown Blockbuster since I know a few of the people that work there and I need a j-o-b. Job. Sarah and I then danced around in my car, listening to The Faint tape that I made. We then went to DQ - or for those of you not in the know - Dairy Queen, and I got a Buster Bar. And, the beautiful tall guy that rung me up was very much so smiling at me in a good way. And I couldn't help but have the biggest grin on my face. And we both had these huge grins on our faces as we checked each other out. And of course, I didn't try to talk to him because I am the biggest wimp in the world about flirting with people. And then, unprovoked, as soon as we left DQ, Sarah said that that guy was totatlly flirting with me. And so, yes, it was not all my imagination, as is normally the case. Whoo-hoo!! So DQ, I will be back for more Buster Bars - I am going to stalk this dreamy boy until I finally get brave enough to talk to him.

I came home, ate some really good cheese bread, and started to read about Islam in my room when the phone rings. And who is calling? William!!!! I jumped up and down in my room, and thought, whoo, the bitch called!!!! I just spent about an hour on the phone with him, having a conversation that was only occasionally awkward. I'm such a snob, and I realized this as I was talking to him - as he was talking to me - and with each statement he said, I realized how much I probably would not get along with this boy. He's 24 - he graduated from VCU two years ago, yet he's still living at home and taking art classes at Mason. And then, he told me how he doesn't like concerts because he thinks they are scary. But the worse was when he said that Sarah and him were going to have a "Trading Spaces" party tonight. Granted, I have never seen the show, but know what the basic premise is from my sister, and know that it is on TLC - my self-hating demon came out as I thought about how gay a thing that was to do. And, he was not watching the show mockingly. He really enjoys it. My sister has told me how dumb all the people are in her hall who watch the show, and so I am a bit worried. And he talks so slowly, blurring words together in a way that can only be characterized as a gay affectation, which I most likely also have, but just hearing it was annoying me so much and thought about how faggy this boy was - and shut-up you asshole, I know that by most deinitions (okay, all) I am a faggy boy. But whatever, the conversation went pretty well, save for the times when I got very manic speaking about some things, like my love of Brucie Bruce. Since he's a very slow speaking, sedate boy - he seemed slightly put offish by my rantings, but I guess not that much, because he wants to get together for coffee on Monday. And whoo-hoo!! Maybe the caffeine will get his heart pumping and make him more lively.

And as if that is not enough excitement, there is an almost empty bottle of Tequila and an almost empty bottle of Vodka that Mary and I will soon be trying to get drunk off on our way to The Faint concert tonight at the Black Cat. Whoo!!!!!!!

something in the genes

Yesterday, I picked up my dad from the train station. Not enthusiastically. I was dreading his return, knowing that my current buoyont mood would most likely come careening back down to Earth with all the stress he induces in me. Probably about an hour ago, he yelled at me and cried.

He had been asleep on the living room couch since he came home yesterday at about five in the afternoon until just about two hours ago. He had been in Florida visiting his sister for two weeks, but his medication was to run out today and so he needed to come home. Damn, stupid Kaiser and the HMO system for not prescribing him it over the phone, so he could stay in Florida forever.

Anyways, two hours ago he woke up, and asked what time it was. My mom told him. He, irratably made calls to the people that run the hospice, bitching them out on the phone, and then complaining to my mom and me about them. My mom and I were silent, keeping our attention on whatever we were each doing - "doin' our own thing," you might say, should you be inclined to speak in such a way. She, typing on the computer. Me, reading the paper at the dining room table. The hospice people give him trouble because they think something is sketchy about him. Which, there most definitly is. After he had his Oxycontin prescription "stolen" about four times, they finally wised up, got tougher with him, and switched his medication. Which, he bitched about forever. And so, my mom and I, didn't really respond to his rantings because we didn't feel too much sympathy for him and thought the hospice people were doing him a very kind service, which he fails to recognize, because he is quite possibly the biggest asshole on the face of the Earth.

So he was out of medication, going through withdrawl, trying to get his prescriptions refilled, and he made a doctor's appointment for today. He then asked, "What time is it?" dopily, and since it was the fourth time he asked in about ten minutes, neither my mom or me really payed attention to him. About thirty seconds later, he asks, "Charlie?" I look up from the paper, and casually ask, "What?"

Casually, at a lower then normal speaking level, I asked this. But, my dad somehow interpreted this as yelling and burst into tears, and started sobbing, "Don't yell at me! Don't yell at me! Why do you always have to yell at me when I ask you a question?" and on and on. I looked at the spectacle of him sobbing and yelling, and looked at my mom's annoyed face (who is getting tired of my dad's antics, too), and then picked up the paper and went upstairs to my room, leaving him to finish out his sobbing session by himself and to figure out the fucking time by himself. There's only four clocks all over the house, you whiny baby!

Anyways, I went up to my room, and I really wasn't even upset my dad. Stuff like this is just too routine for it to even affect me. Without break of thought, I went right back to where I was in the article about some five-hundred year old tree that had been cloned. Tree people, whatever their proper title is, were all excited about the feat, believing that oaks could be grown that would resist fungus and moss. They said that the reason that the one oak had survived so long, the Wye Oak - the biggest oak on the east cost - was because of the tree's genetics. "The secret to its beauty and longeivity? Scientists believe it's all in the genes."

It's always genetics.

Thursday, April 25, 2002

Big Brother is real as motherfucking real as real can be, and he's charging me fifty bucks

Okay, so today I was already thinking so much about how I need to not spend anymore money before I go to Wisconisn and that I need to come up with a plan for earning some money before I leave VA. I am kicking myself for not working at Yes, for being a lazy ass motherfucker and quitting when I knew very well that chances of finding another job in a month and a half were slim at best.

And so, fifteen mintues ago when my mom opened up the mail and yelled What is this? I looked, and I knew what it was. Stupid City of Alexandria. They sent me a photo of myself running a red light on 4/7/02 at 7:34 PM at the intersection of Patrick and Gibbon. Along with that, they sent me a ticket for fifty dollars! Fifty fucking dollars!!! And, I still have a $48 dollar parking ticket that I have to pay in the next week. This is making me really want to beat the shit out of a parking cop. I am just beyond fucking pissed right now about this stupid picture. How the hell is this legal? Where is the ACLU? They need to get off their fucking asses, quit defending KKK people, and do something to make it illegal to have cameras on the street.

I'm trying to think of some possible way to appeal this ticket but there really is none - too many other people have tried and failed. And then I'd have to pay court fees in addition. I wish I had money so I could fight this stupidity, but then if I had money I probably wouldn't care and would just pay the fucking ticket. Looking at this picture is making my blood boil. I seriously feel violated - like why the fuck is there a picture of my car on this piece of paper that has been mailed to me. I'm not a bad person, I didn't run a red light. It was yellow when I went through the intersection and it turned red once I got into the intersection. It's an insane street - it was Route One during rush hour and people always get stuck in the light. And goddamn, I hate the city of Alexandria. Fuck the world. I am going to go join a militia or something.

I'm sort of mad because I was watching Rosemary's Baby and it was a DVD, and it started skipping an hour into the film, once I really liked it, and wo

Okay. All right. So, I heard this story on All Things Considered this afternoon about this kid,Matt Savage, and I want to share it with the world. The kid sounds so cute in the interview. It's about this autistic 9 year old that is a jazz pianist, and it made me so happy.

Okay, so the sky was blue today. Blue-er than I, at the time, believed I had ever seen it. But now, I'm sure that I probably must have thought that a thousand times. Nonetheless, it was a splendid sight that made me feel alive. Just about everybody wears glasses or contacts. We are a nation of blind people, who all sat far too close to the television in the dark as kids, or whatever it is that now causes us Americans to depend upon pieces of glass and plastic that refract light just for us to see normally. So, most likely, you have some vague memorey of the first time you got glasses. When you placed them on after they were fitted, and you looked around the mall or the doctor's office and were completely and utterly amazed at how clear everything seemed. The lights no longer had trails. They were bright bulbs. How focused the world was - things became distinct and no longer were one big blur, tables blending into floors blending into walls. The slight of hand that made it seem that the world was one united mass with fluidity between objects, was revealed for what it was - a slick effort by those metaphysicalists (or your imagination (or perhaps they're the same)). Things looked brilliant through your new pair of glasses. The world, a cross-stiched beauty. It seemed new and you seemed alive. And, that is how today felt. Everything looked crisp. Perhaps blue skies and brightness refract the light in a certain way. Or, perhaps we are just chemical feinds and love the feeling of whatever hormone is secreted when we see lots of light and our pupils shrink to tiny dots.

Yeah, so spring is here and as a result, I am beginning to remember that I am too.

some ticket stubs from high school that i found in an old box in my room today

There’s Something About Mary 7/19/98 7:25pm with Elaine $7.50 Mount Vernon Multiplex
Switchback 10/31/97 7:30pm $4.50 Mount Vernon
American Beauty 10/11/99 9:55pm $7.75 Mount Vernon
Wild Things 3/21/98 10:30 pm $7.50 Mount Vernon
Psycho 01/15/99 9:25 pm $7.50 Hoyts Potomac Yard with Rachel
Wizard of Oz 11/7/98 9:30pm $7.50 Springfield Mall with Elaine
Armageddon 7/9/98 2:45 pm $4.75 Mount Vernon with Autumn
Star Wars 1/31/97 7:00 pm $4.50 Springfield Mall
Summer of Sam 7/3/99 10:30 pm $5.00 Springfield Mall with Joni and Cory
Full Monty 9/13/97 9:10 pm $7.50 Springfield Mall
Blair Witch Project 7/30/99 12:20 am $7.50 Shirlington with Joni and Cory
Bulworth 5/30/98 7:20 pm $7.50 Springfield Mall
Whales 11/02/97 Maryland Science Theater IMAX
Shakespeare in Love 1/30/99 9:50 pm $7:50pm Mount Vernon with Erin Ford
Gloria 1/23/99 10:10pm $7.50 Mount Vernon
H2O 8/5/98 9:45pm $7.50 Mount Vernon with Elaine
Titanic 12/24/97 7:20pm $7.50 Mount Vernon
Mulan 6/19/98 11:00 pm $7.50 Mount Vernon
U-Turn 10/3/97 7:25 pm $4.50 Mount Vernon
200 Cigarettes [date not legible – 02-26?] 7:20 pm $7.50 Cineplex Odeon [Dupont Circle?] with Robin, Mary, Jessica, and Cory
Out of Sight 6/28/98 7:40pm $7.50 Mount Vernon
Austin Powers 2 6/18/99 7:35pm $7.75 Mount Vernon with Cory and Joni
Saving Private Ryan 7/25/98 10:20 pm $5.00 Mount Vernon with Elaine
Mask of Zorro 7/26/98 1:00pm $4.75 Springfield Mall with Mom and Jamie
Blair Witch Project 8/1/99 9:50pm $7.75 Mount Vernon with Sarah
- [illegible ticket from Cineplex Odeon]
Pecker $7.50 8:00pm Cineplex Odeon Dupont with Robin, Mary, Jessica
How Stella Got Her Groove Back 8/28/98 7:20pm $5.00 Mount Vernon with family
Air Force One 7/26/97 2:15 pm $4.50 Mount Vernon
Dark City 3/7/98 7:50pm $5.00 Mount Vernon
I Know What You Did Last Summer 10/18/97 7:35pm $4.50 Mount Vernon
Life is Beautiful 3 times - once with Family, once with Sarah, once with Elaine
Go 04/09/99 9:35pm $8.25 Hoyts with Rachel
Lethal Weapon 4 7/10/98 7:45pm $7.50 Mount Vernon
Half Baked 1/17/98 8:45pm $5.00 Mount Vernon
X-Files 6/21/98 1:30pm $4.75 Springfield Mall with family
10 Things I Hate About You 3/31/99 9:50pm $7.50 Mount Vernon with Elaine
Muppets From Space 7/28 3:10 pm $4.75 Skyline with Mary
54 8/30/98 7:30pm $7.50 Mount Vernon with Elaine
Rushmore 2/12/99 9:45pm $7.50 Mount Vernon with Erin
Dick 8/5/99 9:50pm $7.50 Springfield Mall with Joni
Copland 8/16/97 2:30pm $4.50 Mount Vernon
Night at the Roxbury 10/4/98 12:30pm $4.75 Mount Vernon with Jenny Harris
Eyes Wide Shut 7/21/99 12:30 pm $5.00 Mount Vernon with Elaine
Good Will Hunting 1/9/98 7:15pm $7.50 Springfield Mall
Election 5/7/99 10:00pm $7.50 Springfield Mall
Wedding Singer 2/14/98 2:05pm $4.75 Mount Vernon
Star Wars 5/19/99 6:15pm $8.25 Hoyts with Cory, Joni, Mary, Jamie, Jamie, Chip, Chris, Sarah Powell
Grease 3/27/98 7:30pm $7.50 Mount Vernon
Patch Adams 12/25/98 11:30 am $4.75 Mount Vernon with family
One True Thing 9/20/98 3:40pm Springfield Mall with Sarah

City at Peace – “I of the Storm” – Lisner Auditorium 11/20/97 8:00pm seat L1
City at Peace – “Lockdown” – Lisner Auditorium 11/5/98 8:00pm seat PP17
97 HFStival – GEN ADM – 20.00 – May 31, 1997 – RFK Stadium
Tibetan Freedom Concert – June 13, 1998 – RFK Stadium – Section 305, Row 14, Seat 11
Cake – June 11, 1999 – 9:30 Club – GEN ADM – 20.00
Faded green wristband / ticket from Woodstock 99 – July 23-25 1999
Vanilla Ice – Jan 17, 1999 – 9:30 Club – GEN ADM – 15.00
Bjork – May 15, 1998 – Capital Ballroom – GEN ADM – 22.50
Dave Matthews Band – August 23, 1998 – Nissan Pavilion – 28.50 – sec 201 row N seat 31
99 HFStival – May 29, 1999 – PSINET Stadium (Baltimore, MD) - GEN ADM – 25.00
98 HFStival – May 16, 1998 – RFK Stadium – GEN ADM – 25.00

Tuesday, April 23, 2002

there is a cute sticker on the first page of the old Whitman kiddie book. two 1950sish kids, holding a book open that reads, "PLEASE WASH YOUR HANDS B

Today, I only did one thing on my to do list - taking my mom's minivan to get tuned up. At about five, I went to the library to return some videos, started looking around, and before I knew it, it was nine o'clock and the library was closed. I went out of control and came home with two armfuls of books that I will probably not even read and videos which I will surely watch:

  • Crashing the Party, Ralph Nader
  • The Assassin's Cloak: An Anthology of the World's Greatest Diarists, ed. Irene and Alan Taylor
  • One Stick Song, Sherman Alexie
  • Essential Sufism, ed. James Fadiman & Robert Frager
  • Islam, Karen Armstrong
  • The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde
  • Walt Whitman's America, a beautiful 1964 children's book, selections and drawings by James Daugherty
  • Walt Whitman's America: A Cultural Biography, David S. Reynolds
  • Rosemary's Baby DVD
  • Touch of Evil DVD
  • Ken Burns' The Civil War VHS, part 1

The books are due back May 14 and the videos are due back April 30. In other news, I thinkThe Osbournes may very well be the funniest televison show ever. I have found love perhaps. Listened to P Funk this morning, felt the same lazy high as yesterday morning. Drank coffee, buzzed, danced to G. Love and thought about nothing. And that is where happiness lies - when we can truely think about nothing.

Monday, April 22, 2002

this is what democracy looks like

A: My name is Charlie, and you know what I got?

B: What do you got?

A: I got a message and it's hotter than hot!

B: How hot is hot?

A: We're going to stop the World Bank and IMF, yeah!

B: Uh-huh! Uh-huh!

A: We're going to kick the green out of you!

A and B: Jump! Shake the sytem. Jump, jump, jump - shake the system! Jump! Shake the sytem. Jump, jump, jump - shake the system!

Then Rebecca would sing it. Then Abi and then we'd usually give our lungs a rest and chant something else.

This morning at 8:30, I met up with Rebecca at the Farragut West station for the IMF/World Bank rally and march. I got to the station first and was waiting eagerly for Rebecca, feeling awkward and out of place since I was wearing neither a black hooded sweathshirt nor a bandanna over my face. But Rebecca came up the escalator with some friend, and whoo! I could relax and quit being scared of all the anarchist kids.

The anarchist kids are silly, indeed. And I was so glad Rebecca was there to indulge my making fun of them. She thought the tendency to wear bandannas over their faces was also real silly. These seem like the same type of people that get all excited about war games. They just are self-righteous about it and tell themselves they are doing it for The Cause. But, it's all bullshit - it's just a bunch of little boys who like to run around in camo's and do covert stuff, yell out codes, and antagonize their enemies - the pigs - or, if you're not a 17 year old boy into Rage then maybe you call them cops or even police officers. It was fascinating to watch though, this one silly bandanna'd boy run around, jump over fences, and yell out codes, and act like he was at the local paintball or lasertag center.

Can you tell that I'm not the most dedicated member of the anti-globalization movement? That I think most of the people involved with it are completely stupid, privleged white kids who are living out some variation of the cops and robbers game?

But, of course, I didn't hate all of the people. Just the really visible ones in their bandannas. There were lots of cool hippy people at the rally, too. Rebecca, Abi, and I danced wildly to a drum circle forever and the split was very appearant between the hippys dancing in the street and the sweatshirted "activists" standing around on the grass looking tough and conferencing with each other. In addition to Rebecca and Abi, I saw Siggy, Dell, and that first year Sam boy. And even though I'm not really great friends (or even friends) with most of them, it was still just nice to see some people that I recognized - people from New College on these beautiful streets of DC.

After the rally, we marched down H Street to the Washington Monument, where a rally was happening against US military aid to Columbia. The march was so much fun just because of Rebecca and Abi who were so fun and positive, chanting their Radical Cheerleader slogans and dancing. Then Abi's friend, Jamie, got us all do to cheers for the people on the sidewalks who were just watching the march. It was a sad sight. Me. I knew probably about half of each cheer and so just tryed to improv my way through them and follow the body movements of the other three. But it was still so much fun.

I left once we got to the Monument, hungry and thirsty, and not feeling like listening to another day of speakers. I bought a hotdog once I was out of sight of all the good, progressive, probably non-meat eating protesters.

I came home and napped and read the paper and watched the Real World Marathon. I then watched School Daze, just to work my way closer to seeing all of Spike Lee's films. It wasn't all that good, but it's between She's Gotta Have It and Do the Right Thing, two awesome movies - so it was pretty surprising how not stellar it was. But, I now see the continuation between the last scene with "Wake up" being yelled and the beginning of DTRT where Mister Senor Love Daddy is also yelling "Wake up."

Wake up.

long live the intifada

This morning was the lazy sort. I woke up at elevenish, watched some porn and masturbated. Took a really long shower because I brought the boombox into the bathroom and ended up listening to practically the entire Use Your Illusion 1 album, singing along with Axl. Or okay, maybe not the entire album, maybe just a few select songs over and over again. Especially "Don't Cry," "You Ain't the First," and of course "November Rain." So yeah, I was in the shower forever ever ever.

I got out, made some food, drank some coffee, put on a facial mask, lied in my bed reading the CityPaper personals and listened to Zepplin's Physical Graffiti. It was a hard rock and roll kind of day. Except not really. Not at all. I was in the mellowest mood ever, burning incense and reading the "I Saw You" personals so so excitedly, sort of hoping that maybe one of them would be meant for me. I love reading the personals more than anything. I was reading all of them. The Women Seeking Women, Men Seeking Women, Women Seeking Men, Men Seeking Men, all of them, and of course, the I Saw You ones. I spent so much time lingering over each of the ads, trying to imagine the circumstances described and how cute each of the people must be, and wondering if the person that was seen will even read the ad, and how sad that would be if she or he did not. Something about unfilled, maybe even lost potential. Something that could have been. And I really wanted to place an "I Saw You" ad, but could not think of anyone real noteworthy that I saw and was just enamored with recently.

Such a good, lazy day. I then, at about five o'clock, left my house and drove to NW DC, to attend the pro-Palestine protest outside the AIPAC meeting. DC Police had pretty much all of NW on lock down, with just about every street shut down to traffic, so I spent forever driving around, and finally found a parking spot in this chi-chi embassy area. I had to pee so bad, and knew that I would not be able to pee anywhere at the rally, so I peed on the huge lawn that my car was parked next to. I then headed to the rally, and walked around the corner to see which Embassy's lawn I peed on. And all right, I could not have done any better: The French Embassy. Whoo!

Even though I went by myself, I had so much fun. I got to put my lungs to good use, believing that screaming could even be meaningful after some Arab woman pleaded with us protesters to yell really loud - that all we had to give was our voices. Not too much to ask, she said. And inspired, I yelled like crazy and started leading protesters in call and response chants. I was having so much fun yelling and clapping and dancing. The people / u-ni-ted /can never be / de-feat-ed! Chanting this with so many others and jumping up and down and again, this was the closest to oneness that I feel like I may ever feel. Shame Shame USA, funding Israel this way. Yelling with a bunch of other people in unison, completely exhausitng yourself, you lose your individual identity - your fears and quirks and second thoughts and all things cerebral are lost - lost to the mass of yellingness that you become. And it feels so good.Sharon and Hitler are the same - The only differnce is their name! And there was this friendly group of Hasidic Jews there, which made me so so happy since I was beginning to worry that perhaps I was an anti-Semite for thinking that Isreal does not have a right to exist. But here were Orthodox Jews who were even more anti-Israel than me. Whoo!!Sharon, Sharon, you shall see / Our Palestine will be free! And then, a little after nine, things slowly started to die down, and I was still savoring the high of physical exhaution and unity, but I decided to head home, and was about to start looking for my car, when I took one last look at the crowd, stared into space, and took it all in. I was brought back to "reality" by the touch of a gorgeous, gorgeous boy. I think he was blonde, and I also think he was wearing green. The details have all faded now. But, anyways, he placed his hand on my shoulder, looked at my face, but I was still sort of in a haze to think to make eye contact back or even realize what was happening, and he patted my shoulder and then he kept on walking. And then I came out of my haze, and wished I would have said something. Anything. And now perhaps, I have someone to place an "I Saw You" ad about.

A22 - AIPAC protest. You: the cute boy that I remember nothing about other than that you might have been blonde and also might have been wearing green. But you brought me out of one daydream with a kind pat on the shoulder and into new ones about what might have been. Coffee?

Ha-ha, that one's lame. I'll have to think of something better. Anyways, after my I Saw You encounter, I left in search of my car. Wandering closed down streets, trying to remember where I parked my car, looking up at houses that made me feel like Oliver Twist or some other Industrial England orphan. These were huge towering mansions and Embassies that reminded me that there is still an upper class. People with insane amounts of money. Anyways, I finally found my car and had to pee again, but easily could have held it. Just for good measure, though, I peed on the lawn of the French Embassy.


To Do List
-take minivan to get oil changed and tire looked at
-make an "I am a Palestinian" t-shirt
-return those DVD's to the Alexandria library
-buy plane ticket to Atlanta
-maybe call William
-return those shoes that don't fit
-apply for some jobs
-call Hour Eyes about picking up the rest of my contacts
-find out when my dentist appointment
-don't think about It
-get my paycheck from Maggie
-make something

Saturday, April 20, 2002

I am a Palestinian

And you are, too. And that is such a wonderful thought. I feel so so good right now. Today, I went to the Pro-Palestine rally and march in DC. Surrounded by 40,000 like-minded people. So many ages and races. All chanting and singing and dancing together, exhausting our vocal chords and bodies, knowing that we are all Palestinian - all "brothers" and "sisters" - and I really love the Muslim practice of referring to people as "brother" and "sister." And it felt so so good. And I got to use my recently learned ability to say "Peace be with you" in Arabic so many times today, exchanging greetings with so many wonderful people. All of us Palestinians. I believe the term is oneness.

And perhaps in a more pruient vein, I saw so many cute hippy and indie-looking boys everywhere that I wanted to jump on and smooch. How about you cute hippy boys make some love and not war to me, eh?

Friday, April 19, 2002

How many possible "the revolution will not be..." titles can I come with for this entry?

Comrades, I tried my hardest to be a good progressive today, but there was this thing called Nature. A Nature to bring out the god-fearing Puritan in all of us.

So, I planned on going to the School of the Americas protest today, which was advertised to be taking place from eleven until five. Well, I woke up at eleven. And, I had to go get an Emissions inspection for my car today. When I left the house, it was Hot. Hotter than a two-humped camel's toenail. And Outkast, please forgive me, I did not just say that.

Anyways, when I left it was eighty something degrees, and blue skies as far as far can be. So, after getting the car inspected, I was on my way to the Metro. At probably two-thirty, I was on the thing, heading towards DC when holy heavens, look up in the sky and no, nothing in a cape coming our way. But imagine some of those silly visuals from the Batman live action televison show. The "POW!" The "BANG!" And the always classic, "KA-POW!"

The sky was not blue, not gray, not cloudy, but motherfucking black. Pouring rain coming down hurricane party type hard. Thunder, lightening, and all that good classic storm stuff. Very conventinal in a post-ironic sort of way. And Outkast, yeah, just slap me.

So anyways, I am listening to Jill Scott sing "Gimme, Gimme, Gimme," and have been resisting the urge to just randomly write gimme, gimme, gimme. But, I sense that this entry is getting slighty non-sensical and feel the need to somehow justify it - to let you know that I'm not always this bad of a writer, but fucking hell, I am tired from the events which I have still yet to even tell you and goddamn, I am listening to Jill Scott, and loving it.

Okay, so here's what happened. At the Capitol South stop where I got off, there was a crowd of probably thirty or so business people just standing at the bottom of the escalator, refusing to go up, refusing to get wet. They would have melted and all, you know? So they waited there in a crowd at the bottom, and I pushed through them, thinking whatever you pussies, it's just fucking rain.

But, I got to the top of the esacaltor and realized that this was not "just fucking rain". This was fucking rain!!! The biblical shit. Streets were flooded from how quick it was coming down, and the streets were deserted of pedestrians. There was the occasional person running with an umbrella. But other than that, I was alone for probably for the first time on these downtown streets of DC. Had they ever been so empty? Were they lonely, or were they loving the lack of action, like a bunch of visiting family members had just left the house and you sunk into the couch, breathing out and whoo! But, what the hell am I talking about again. Go head, Outkast, you know what to do.

Anyways, I did not bother to find out where this protest is exactly located and am soaked to the I don't even know what. Slipping because my shoes are literally filled with water. My shirt is completely see-through and sticking to my non-existant chest. Wandering around the Capitol, seeing no one at all. Wet wet wet. Cars and office workers in windows are staring at me like I have lost my fucking mind. Which is very well possible, since during thisscary thunderstorm, in which a person was killed when a tree fell on them, I am skipping in puddles up to my knees and having fun amongst all this chaos. But, then it started hailing. It was okay for a while when it was little things of hail. But then, the big hail, like the size of a dime, started pounding me, beating my ass like it was eighth grade andlocker room time. The rain was hurting - that's how hard it was coming down. So please try and imagine how hard this hail felt beating me in the head, trying to poke my eye out, and making me want to cry. So, I ran and hid under a ledge at the Library of Congress until it stopped hailing. It was still pouring but not hailing and I decide to circle the Capitol, and I see a ragtag band of probably six Dell look-a-likes sitting under a tree across from the Senate and assume that that must be what is left of this protest. I decide that I am fucking cold, and am going to get hypothermia from shivering so much and should go inside the National Gallery. I make it inside, and the motherfucking place is air-conditioned, goddamnit, all to fucking hell. People were looking at me askance because I had my pants rolled up to my knees, had a tight, white, wet t-shirt on, and was dripping all over the place. Still shivering, perhaps shivering even more because of the a/c, I went in the bathroom, pissed, and then it stopped raining and I left for home. Tomorrow is the big IMF and anti-Israel protests though, and that promises to have more than six people so I am very excited. There's all sorts of anti-Israel protests this weekend, and I am beyond ecstatic that the Left is finally embracing the Palestinian cause. For years, I have hated Israel and it's so exciting that Sharon's stupidity is finally turning the tide of American public opinion.

And this entry was a lot better in my head while I was riding the metro home, thinking about how I would talk about my inability to find events and places even after spending hours looking for them has far too much symbolism in it. I was also going to talk about how there were about a dozen Navy guys, wrestling on the front lawn of the Capitol in the mud, and I was about to jizz my fucking pants.

Wednesday, April 17, 2002

"He says his name's William, but I'm sure he's Bill or Billy or Mac or Buddy, and he's plain ugly to me and I wonder if he's ever had a day of fun in

Today, I started drinking at three with Mary. I just got home from our afternoon drinking binge, which was far too fun.

The Big Sleep put me too sleep last night. Big time.

I am going to call a boy, William, tomorrow to ask him out on a date. I tried calling him when I was very drunk and O.O.C. this afternoon, but Sarah wasn't home, and she's the one that has his number.

Last night, I went to the Pride Meeting at Sarah's school and wowed them all with my feminist bullshit knowledge and my ability to cite Butler and Paglia. That stupid Language and Philosophy class paid off because after the meeting, the moderater, some professor, approached me all excited to ask me what professor was teaching Butler. And it made me miss New College and being in school and silly arguments that ignore our mortality and hence, fail to see the pettiness arguing over such things as the utterances of "bitch" and "slut," and whether they are "sexist." But, yeah I missed all that. And afterwards, I met William, a real geeky gay boy friend of Sarah's who likes me. He wanted me to come to his art show tonight, but I made up some lame excuse. But tomorrow, as I said, I am going to call him. Hopefully, I will still be as brave and motivated.

Oh, and yesterday I told my mom I quit my job. Yeah for honesty. Now, I'm off to watchChinatown.

Monday, April 15, 2002

Midnight Cowboy

Nick Carter is the American tragic figure. I am watching a rerun of SNL right now, and this one is probably from two years ago, and in it, Nick just has this look of sadness in his eyes - of death. He was a cute little teen, serving as good jackoff fodder for all people who were into such things (cute little blonde boys - the same type of people who like(d) J.T.T.) - but now, he has gained weight in his face somehow and lost that twink appeal. His current state, if we knew nothing else about him, is not that sad. It is merely sad because we do know stuff about him. We know what he used to look like and can still remember all the boundless promise that such a young little body seemed to possess. And that, my friend, is why it is sad. For God's sake, he is still what would be considered by most people to be a mildy attractive male. But he is another Macaulay. Another one of Bowie's Young Americans that in their not so graceful aging - actually, in just their aging - they failed us. They reminded us of our own aging, of our own unprettiness, and of our own mortality. All our projections of beauty and vivacity that we forced upon them because of their youth; their lack of facial hair; and their still visible cheek bones, came crashing down with the same ease with which they were manufactured - manufactured to fool ourselves into thinking that we were better than the excess of pubic hair around our ass. That "Backstreet's Back" would make us twinks, too - that we could have hairless fucking asses - we would shake our hairy asses to the catchy beat and smirk condescendingly when Nick's line came up and he asked, "Am I sex-u-al?"

And we, the Greek chorus, would hum back: "Yeah."

And as it neared the hook and the tempo picked up, we would sing along with the lyrics out loud, telling ourselves that they were the only things we needed, those carefully gelled blond hairs of Nicks:

"Am I everything you need? You better rock your body right. Everybody (yeah), rock your body. Yeah."


"Cause I don't want to get bit by no snapping turtle." - Tracey Morgan as Brian Fellows

The Brian Fellows sketch is by far my favorite SNL sketch ever. I go wildly insane laughing like the type where if I were in elementary school at lunch, drinking milk, I would laugh so hard, milk would come out my nose. Other people I have talked to her, describing my love of this sketch, have sounded real dismayed and said that they thought it was real dumb. Perhaps my sense of humor is juvenile. Perhaps that is a good thing. Perhaps if I ever laugh at any BBC comedy, I would want someone to shoot me. I will not understand Monty Python or AbFab ever. Loud British people make me want to grind my teeth. That's why the only British comedy I like is Mr. Bean.

Because he doesn't talk. At least, not much.


Today, I tried to suck my own dick for way too long, after remembering a Will Ferell SNL sketch, and then reading something online about it. I read the instructions of the How to Suck Your Own Cock page. I guess my cock is not big enough, because I could not get my cock anywhere near my mouth, and was very concerned that I was going to crack my back. If there is anyone that can really do this, I am so impressed, and I think that you are the coolest person on Earth.

This is me unemployed, with way too much time on my hands to sit around and seriously devote my time and energy to such childish tasks.

Tonight, I watched Midnight Cowboy, which was so weird. But, in a totally good way - not in a I-have-no-idea-what-the-hell-I'm-trying-to-say-but-really-really-want-to-be-an-artist-because-that's-what-all-the-hip-kids-do-and-so-since-I-have-no-brain-and-no-clue-I'll-just-make-something-really-really-weird-and-yeah-that'll-be-Art. No, this was good weirdness, not the aforementioned stick-a-feather-in-my-cap-and-call-it-macoroni-(or-art). No, this was such wonderfully meaningful stuff. It was such a pretty movie with good music and fascinating and fasinating and Texans who want to be hustlers in the Big Apple, and just all sorts of goodness that made me see how good a film could be.

I was transfixed by the opening scene, where he is walking and "Everybody's Talkin" was playing on the soundtrack. God, what a wonderful song. And loneliness - what a wonderful job the movie does with conveying it. And man, I really really loved this movie.

"Everybody's talking at me / I don't hear a word they're saying / Only the echos of my mind."

Sunday, April 14, 2002

just say no

To: smallgirllover@hotmail.com
From: seniorcitizendiscount@hotmail.com

hey maggie

i hope you are enjoying your stay in florida. um, i just wanted to let you know that i stopped showing up for work last tuesday, and have not called to tell them that i quit. i just hated working mornings, and was getting tired of yes and all, and so, i'm sort of hesitant about going in to pick up my paycheck and all since i feel like john and gary may yell at me and be scary, so when you go in to work next time will you pretty please pick up my paycheck for me (they are usually upstairs, tacked to the bulletin board). if you did, i would love you forever and ever (not that i don't already, but you know).

oh, and i applied to work at soho tea and coffee in dupont and am going to call them tomorrow to see what is up

keep rocking the sunshine state


Technically, it was real early Sunday morning. But, like most good Americans, I'm not too keen on technical details, and instead will simply refer to it as Saturday night to avoid unneccesary confusion. At 2:06 AM, heading south on Route One, aka Richmond Highway, we passed what I, at the time, thought was the most beautiful sight ever.

Sarah was driving us back from seeing The Panic Room at Hoyts Potomac Yard. I saw the roadside spectacle first, and astonished, said something like, "Whoa. Sarah look."

She turned her attention away from the road and the traffic ahead of us, risking her very own life, and possible costly damage to her motor vehicle, to see what I was talking about. And there, to our left, at a gas station on the other side of the street was the beautiful sight. Perhaps, the most beautiful one ever.

A big white, Oldsmobilish car was parked in front of one of the pumps, presumably filling up on gas. Now, the type of car is very important here to visualize this correctly. For a brief moment, we shall concern ourselves with the technical. Had it been one of those newer egg-shaped cars, it might not have been so cool a sight. But, this was an old-school car, back from the days when cars had edges and surfaces you could sit on when stuck somewhere. A huge flat trunk. And a huge flat front hood. Sometimes the term "low rider" is used to describe this particular style of motor vehicle.

Anyways, a woman was breaking it down on top of the trunk. And when I say breaking it down, I don't mean breifly standing on top of the car, shaking her ass for a few seconds, before losing her balance and jumping down. This woman was doing a pole dance without a pole. She was jamming out, oblivious to Route One traffic, to the bright lights of the gas station. She was just rocking and I was so amazed and in love with this sight, and I wanted my camera. She was dancing before we approached, and still dancing after we had passed, and she was no loner even visible in awed background glances. There is something so beautiful when someone dances and they just don't care what anyone thinks - dancing like no one in the world is watching. No one really dances that way, though. Everyone pretends that they don't care, but just about every one does, and here was one who didn't - someone special, having the time of her life on top of this big old car.

After passing the sight, I wanted to write down what time it was, so that I could remember this moment. Sarah thought that I was weird and did not share my opinion that that was the most beautiful sight in the world. After writing down the time, 2:06 on the back of the CityPaper, I thought I should write down some other details (type of car, name of gas station.) For the life of me, I could not remember the gas station. I asked Sarah, and she said it was a Hess. A Hess?, I said, like why-the-fuck-would-it-have-been-a-Hess,-those-things-don't-even-exist-anymore. Sarah said, "A Hess. Yes. It was a Hess. With the Green and the White. I know what a Hess is." I was sort of doubtful still, even after her bringing in the Green and White, but I wrote it down, and then said out loud the description of the car as I wrote it: "white boat pimpmobile".

"White?," Sarah said. "It was yellow or off-white. It definitly wasn't white."

Saturday, April 13, 2002

Adventures in Job Hunting

Right now, I am sitting at Gates Computer #2 at the Beatley Central Branch of the Alexandria Library. I have signed up for this computer for 3-4:oo. I will not be on this computer until the end of my time though, because I am supposed to meet up with Sarah at that end time, 4:oo, at the Kingstown Starbucks.

What a jetsetting life I lead, eh?

The answer unfortunantly is negative.

I am in the library right now, not because I had a hankering for the latest hardcover bestsellers, whatever they may be. No, I am here right now because I still have yet to tell my mom that I quit working at Yes, and I always work on Saturdays from 1-9. So, yes, I lied and am a horrible person. But, right now is really not the time to tell her, it is my cousin's baptism tomorrow and so my grandma and numerous aunts and uncles are staying at my house - and it would just be major trauma with uninvited questions from every single relative asking me about it. Thanks, but I will hold off on ordering that. Bring that back to your kitchen and tell the chef to fucking sit on it.

So, I went to the library. Actually, first I went to Fresh Fields, to buy some Veggie Booty for my aunt, who asked me to pick her some up when I went to work.

And I really am going to tell my mom about Yes - I am just waiting until an opportune time (aka when I actually have a new job.) Okay, so yesterday was Day One in our Adventures in Jobhunting:

I went to my interview at that bobo "market research firm," all the way out in the boonies of Dunn Fucking Loring Virginia. The drive was the first thing that made me hate the possible job. The second thing was the office itself. It was so empty and quiet and no one was in the reception area. I thought about fleeing, right then and there, just saying Fuck You to the world of employment, to our need for money to sustain ourselves, to air-conditioned, flourescent-lit offices that are always a couple degrees too cold. The human factor makes these places all the colder. So, I chickened out on my desire to go run with the animals in some idyllic dream of Natural Man, and walked into another room, looking for people. I found them and frankly, I wished I had not. They wore light kahkis, because it was after Easter, and you know, you can do that now. And they were aliens and I wanted to see them naked and wondered if they had ever been. If they had been born in these dreary clothes and bad haircuts? What do they look like naked? Fucking? Eating? Do these people even shit? They must, everyone does, but there is no way. They handed me the application to fill out and I filled it out, like the good little boy who wants to get paid, and then I was interviewed.

Oh, god. Interviewed is an entirelly inappropriate word. I watched one of those scary women perform a monolgue in a tiny office. That's what it was. It was performance art. What else could these surreal experience have been? That's why there were no people here. That's why her office looked a little to sparse. It was all a weird piece of performance art. She kept on saying The Company. No one in real life says that. I kept on daydreaming during her monologue, realzing that I would never work here, I could never do this, what the fuck am I doing? Why don't I just leave now? Break free - fucking get up and leave - who fucking cares? And, I seriouslly considered just saying I had to go to the bathroom and then running for my car. But, I didn't. And she finished yakking and asked if I had any questions. I said No. But, she somehow mistook that for a question and gave me a way too long answer to a question that I did not even ask. And, then when there was a pause, I stood up and extended my hand to shake hers, and what I really should have done was slapped her upside the head and asked What the fuck is wrong with you? - she shook my hand and told me that they would be in contact with me soon.

Whoo, thank god. And Martin, I'm sorry to possibly degrade and/or pardoy the seriousness and solemnity of your words, but as I was walking out to my car, I sighed, "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, free at last!"

I drove to Dupont Circle, straight from there, to apply at SoHo Tea and Coffee, a gay coffehouse in that gayest of neighborhoods, and it felt so good to be somewhere normal, to see men walking together, to see hipsters in Dark clothes, and punky high school girls in bright ones. Whereas, The Company was cold and air-conditioned, SoHo was breathable and perfect. They had their doors open to let in the wonderfully t-shirty spring air. I filled out the very short application. The last thing on the application asked me to list three of my qualities. Because I was in a good mood, perhaps too good a mood to be filling out employment applications, I wrote:
-can walk on stilts
-can laugh at even the worst jokes
-can say "peace be with you" in Arabic

And then I talked to one of the managers, and things went real well, and he said that he just had to talk to the owner, and that they would give me a call in a couple of days. And whoo-hoo! I have my fingers crossed so much, because I would love to work there more than any place in the world right now. Even you, you stupid Sarasota New's and Books, which will never hire me, no matter how many good interviews I have with you.

And now, I am about to go check-out and head to Kingstown. I will be checking outAmerican Skin by Don De Grazia, Summer in Baden-Baden by Loenid Tsypkin, and the following DVD's: Midnight Cowboy, Chinatown, and The Big Sleep. I'm not too excited about either of the books, but I have the hardest time finding books that I like. There is a certain type of book that I love, and if anyone has any good recommendations, you should let me know, because I will most likely be back at this library tomorrow. I like books that don't have lots of plot; that don't try to be hip and never ever have "postmodern" written anywhere on the back cover; that deal with notions of America; that are optimistic; that are somewhat sexual; that try to be really transcendant; and funky, if possible. Just good writing, basically. Why do all of these books I pick up and open to read a couple of sentances from have the most god-awful prose - trying to sound meaningful by writing in an ornate manner, but come off as gaudy and silly? I don't have time for examples, right now. I am a boy on the move. But, tomorrow, if I am here, expect a few samples.

Friday, April 12, 2002

one more time

"one more time - i got to cell-la-brate." and i think a year after it came out and i heard gina crash making fun of it on whfs' transmissions, i actually am not only liking and appreciating new daft punk, but fucking loving it. i really wish i had the album to listen to right now.

if anyone wants to be my boyfriend and has a copy that they want to burn for me, i would love you forever and ever. other things that will make you my boyfriend, or if you're not interested in all that commitment, i will "reward" you with sex:

-if you know someone that works at blockbuster, or even better, if you work at blockbuster, i will mail you my blockbuster card and you can erase the $12.20 fine that i owe.
-the same for someone employed by the fairfax county public library system you can erase my way more than $12.20 fines that i have racked up there.
-okay, those are the only two i can think of. but actually, i don't know what the fuck i am talking about since really i will be your boyfriend even if you don't do any of the above things, i am Lonely right now and very much just wanting a person to ameliorate my feelings of loneliness. whoo for "ameliorate" - in high school, some silly SAT prep company sent me two sample flash cards of their set, and one of the flashcards was "Amelia Earhart ameliorated the status of women in avaition." And, to this day, i remember that card and as a result remember the word "ameliorate."

i wish someone would also ameliorate my employment status. (okay, perhaps that is not the best usage.) today, i am without a job. one more time. celebrate. i am a big fat lazy slob. one more time. without a job. a lazy fuck. come on and celebrate. will have to hit the streets one more time and go jobhunting. all right, come on and celebrate. music's got me feeling so free, but then the song ends and economic chains reappear. come on and celebrate. got to work to gets paid. one more time.

today i didn't feel like going to work in the morning so i didn't go, and worse yet, did not bother to call. slept in. masturbated twice. watched julien donkey-boy, which i hated for way too many reasons. thought about paying to see a fat man at the minnesota state fair when i was a kid, and that this was way too similar an experience - just as horrible and exploitive - except worse - because it had artisitic pretensions up the wazoo. the fat man was better in so many ways, and there was a cheese curds stand near there. mmm, cheese curds - i wonder if i can find those in wisconsin somewhere.

went and played at mary's tonight. got drunk off of stolen wine, played trivial, read the citypaper, danced around to music videos, and watched real sex.

tomorrow, i have an interview at one at some "market research firm" aka telemarketing without balls. one more time. come on and celebrate.

Thursday, April 11, 2002

it was blue and i think it was a toyota - he had blonde hair

drinking valerian tea with the hope that it knocks me out soon soon soon so that i can sleep sleep sleep so that i can wake up at six to work work work.

my body looks like i have been attacked by a vicious cat. scratches everywhere. redness. little bumps. i rolled down a big hill with mary last night and have been itching horribly ever since. god, i hope this is not poision ivy. god, i am glad i wore my underwear, cause otherwise this could be worse. much worse.

saw amelie again tonight with sarah and it is still the cutest movie ever. made me want a boy even more than i already did this afternoon. which by the way, was a fucking lot, thanks to the fours hours of queer as folk i watched, checked out from hollywood video, where i also rented julien donkey-boy and managed to steal a dvd of mulholland drive, cause the shit cost forty bucks. but anyways, watched so much gay tv today, which made me sigh, "aww" a lot and "that's soooo cute," saying it at all of the romantic parts and boy oh boy i want a boy to wrap my arms around.

oww, i just took like a five minute scratching break, and i am in such pain. this is definitly poision ivy. or that grass had a scary amount of lawn chemicals on it that is now slowly eating away at my skin. by morning, i will have bled to death in my sleep. this will be so embarassing if this is poision ivy and i have to answer my mom's questions about how i got poision ivy on my stomach.

so yeah - amelie rocked. i was boy crazy. and afterwards, me and sarah stalked a car with a gay boy in it that i thought was real cute. the passenger of the car noticed that we were staring into the car and following them and hung out of the car to talk to us. me and sarah chickened out and drove past them only to slow down and stare some more. and then they went down a different road then us. and yes, i am still without a boy, but still boy crazy, and maybe tomorrow at work, some dashing lad will come wisk me away from my increasingly banal life, and goddamn - i have to go to bed and see if i can find anything to stop this itching. and apoligies to the few of you readers - i am itching like crazy and am not too concerned with writing well.

Tuesday, April 9, 2002


here's how it happened:

i woke up at six. went downstairs and ate some breakfast (puffed corn cereal with milk). i then took a shower. the most heavenly of showers. tense muscles eased and eased by scolding hot water. i entered the shower sometime around 6:15, spent so so long under that hot shower head, daydreaming of how nice a hot tub or sauna would be right then. and, no, don't do it charlie, you do not enough time to take a bath. oh, but it would feel good. just let your back and scalp be massaged by this hot water a little longer.

half an hour later at a little after 6:45, adorned in a towel, i went back to my room, closed the door, took off my towel and laid it out over my sheets so that i could lay down on my bed without getting it all wet and gross. my muscles felt so good, neurons were firing to all the right places, and i felt damn good, and did not feel like walking out the door at seven to go to Work. uh, who the fuck wants to work today? why work when you can just lay around naked and half-sleep and be the most content just powdered baby in the world.

i practiced out loud a couple of times, holding my nose, trying to sound as sick as possible, and then i called. and of course, john has to pick up. john hates me so much and thinks i am Grade A incompetent. holding my nose, i said, "this is charlie," when he answered the phone. who, he said? and about three more times, holding my nose, getting mad at his stupidity and almost laughing through my nose at the silliness, i made my name understandable to him. "yeah?," he says, in a not very nice way, perhaps anticipating what i was about to say. i told him that i was real sick and that i had already thrown up this morning, and that i had an appointment to see the doctor at 11:30, perhaps the worst attempt at lying i have ever done. "so, you're saying you're not coming in?" and i said, yeah, that i am real sick and really can't. his voice was full of disdain that doubted the credibility of my story. he then aggresivily said, "it's only seven o'clock, how could you have already made a doctor's appointment? what doctor is open at seven?" and i held my nose tighter and tried to sound real sick, and said that i had kaiser, and they had a 24 hour appointment line. and he was like, "i have 250 boxes here that need to be unpacked an i only have two people working." again, i repeated the fact that i was sick, and he said, "okay, whatever," and hung up. and yes!!!! i did it! whoo!!!

i climbed back into my bed and slept until noonish and ate another breakfast and am now about to go take another really long shower.

just say no to yes. whoo!! today is a day for dancing in my room, listening to bruce, filling out that wisconsin application, and finding someone to go drink lots of coffee with me.

Monday, April 8, 2002

written to the the sound of Maxwell's Unplugged album, with an awesome cover of NIN's "Closer"

at work they changed my schedule so that i now for the most part work the 8-4 shift, meaning i have to wake up at six.

today, after work and after walking around dc enjoying the weather, i got on the metro to go home and fell big time asleep even though the metro was packed to the brims. luckily, i somehow got a seat, cause otherwise i would have passed out. all i remember is an old woman talking to me to confirm that she was on the yellow line, she started reading her mary higgens clark paperback and then at the end of the line at huntington, with the train pretty much empty, some kind woman nudged me to let me know that we were at the end of the line. the sleep was a delirious haze of obliviousness to the facts, the reality, the world - to the lack of sheets. waken up by mommy. time for school. and just a little more sleep. please.

and she said, "end of the line." what a scary thing to be woken up to. some boys like grim reaper tattoos. these boys, from my own encounters with them, have tended to have long hair. but, the correlation could just be coincidence.

anyways, it is time to go rest up for more skirmishes between the world of sleep and awake that promise to transpire in a short seven hours, when i have to wake up for work.

Sunday, April 7, 2002

The heat of Bruce's fire is no Hell. No, if anything, it is Heaven.

My vision of hell is an inverse of the cartoon Hell. Some people like to use the phrase “hot as hell.” And I can recall a couple of Looney Tune cartoons in which Hell is depicted as a place full of flames and a little red devil. And didn’t Dante write something about it as an “inferno”? But, all of these are fucking bullshit. And if it is not, then goddamnit, Hell does not sound that bad to me.

When I was in Florida, I liked to romanticize Virginia winters, and the joy of seasons, and how great it felt to cuddle up in coats and scarves, to be able to see your breath in the frosty air, and to have red, blistered cheeks. But, fucking hell - enough is enough already. It is early April now and in the upper thirties! Cold as fucking balls. My vision of hell is freezing – a desolate, icy cold desert land. The cold is just so painful, and in a way that heat can never be. When it is insanely cold, you never get a hazy mind or faint – you are painfully, painfully aware of the cold. Your body becomes numb, fingers could fall off if you just accidentally hit them against a hard object like a telephone pole or a fucking laundry machine. Maybe even a chair. Fingers drained of blood and brittle and white and goddamn it hurts.

Death always seems just right over the next hill. Two more lights away. And a right at the Texaco. And there it is. So close when it is cold outside. (I’m pretty sure this is why all of those New England writers were so dark.) But with heat you just sort of meld into the heat waves and become one and the same with the fractures of light that steam over asphalt surfaces. With coldness, your mind does not become dopey or tired. You are Awake and aware of every single pore of your skin that is exposed to the wind. In the heat, we are completetly unaware of how are skin is not the air. In the heat, we absorbe those UV rays with love – a high. And, yeah, you’re right – it is something about the heat.

Today, thanks to this modern world we reside in, I connected with the Sunshine State, and I think caught some of the sun’s energy through the telephone lines. Dialed 1 followed by a 941 interrupted by a brief pause as I thought for a brief second about the $64,000 question that I find myself asking way too often – the story of my fucking life and a question that was posed mainly about who I was calling, but which really was a brief, existential dilemma – and anyways, I uttered what the fuck am I doing?, and then quickly remembered and dialed 359 with a brief pause because I always dial numbers like they are said - the first three numbers all together with a slight hesitation and then the final four numbers – and then the denouement: 3297.

And I asked Anne, who picked up the phone, if Bonnie was there and she wasn’t. I can pick up the phone a thousand some miles away from you and talk to you in real time and you are at the other end of this line and living in that Stevens House, and living your Sarasota life, and that is fucking awesome. So, I talked to Anne for about ten minutes before she had to leave for work and it was wonderful being able to talk to Anne in the living room. I was sitting on that couch, which was at one point in time, a white couch, sun filtering in through those curtains that we stole and dyed blue, living the lazy life to the max, and she was being the busy bee, getting ready for work, looking silly in her waitress uniform like she was playing dress up, and she was telling me about her life, and it was so comforting. I wanted to just go through the New College student directory and call up random people and Connect. MCI, Sprint, and VoiceStream – for the love of God, this is not a promo for you guys. I just really think telephones are so magical, connecting me to you and you to me, despite geographic distances. And Walt, would you cringe to know that I am using your “connecting me to you and you to me” shtick to talk about an appliance? We are evolved. Earth, we will surpass all your natural limitations. We are aliens, this human race of ours. And look at what I just said – “of ours.” It is ours. Yours and Mine. And that’s so capitalist to use possessive pronouns. But, whatever, we can do that. Remember, we are aliens. Cosmic beauties hurling through space, we have lost contact with Mission Control, and have long forgotten what our mission exactly was. It’s that damn lost memory disease our species has. Where exactly did I put those keys? What exactly are we doing on this planet?

Perhaps a better question is: Who cares? Perhaps that is the best one. And turn up that radio when you’re feeling lonesome and not feeling like engaging in conversation with whoever it is that keeps asking these questions. Fucking crank it, I say. Louder. Louder. Louder. Happiness through sensory exhaustion.

I’ve got a tape player in my mom’s minivan (my current mode of transportation), and it is getting so much Brucie Bruce action these past few days. Springsteen’s cock has been inserted in the always receptive tape deck since whenever the fuck I put it in a few days ago. I now know every word to Born in the USA, and Bruce’s kisses have been turning me inside out for days, for lifetimes, and do his kisses turn you inside out, too? I drove Maggie home from work last night and she was excited by Bruce, and we talked about Bruce and what we loved about him, and she knew most of the words. Last night, I saw Kissing Jessica Steinwith Sarah, and she too loved Bruce on the drive there. And today, I drove around with Mary because that’s what we like to do, and listened to Bruce, and Mary loves him, too. We all love him. I love that – when so many people love a singer and I can share a listening moment with them. Sharing is caring indeed.

Mary, Bruce, and I drove around Northern Virginia this afternoon and repeated I’m on fire, saying perhaps the most sincere thing we would allow ourselves to say all week. We sang it with meaning, almost trembling in our recitation. A low lament. Not a yell. Not at all.

We went to this hookah bar out in Falls Church that I went to once in high school with some girl from PIRG. It was an Egyptian cafe and in this shopping center where most of the stores had Arabic signs out front. We went in, sort of nervous, and were received to somewhat less than welcoming stares. Mary, the blonde, slutty looking white girl and me, the flaming (say some) gay boy were just a little out of place. But, after about the first ten minutes of feeling very stiff and out of place, and after smoking like dragons from fruit-flavored hookahs, we were in a much more convivial mood and realized that the unwelcoming stares were largely invented by our own slight nervousness, and the waiter was friendly and we sat for way too long, and tried to do to far too many smoking tricks. Neither of us could get down doing doughnets. And, then me feeling so lightheaded since I never ever ever smoke - we sat some more until I felt more clearheaded. And then we left the restaurant, joined up with Bruce, and watched the beautiful, beautiful star known as The Sun make its way closer and closer to the horizion, and darken gradually from a shade of yellow to a shade of orange to a shade of gold to a shade of red to dusk.

And last night I had the best sex of my life. And, I almost followed that by saying: Too bad it was just a dream. But, it wasn’t too bad it was just a dream. It was a fucking wonderful experience. It was this real weird dream, the setting was New College, and the boy was Chris Hollerhan, who was one of my obsessions, but who I haven’t even thought of in forever. Dreams are so weird and fascinating and great. And this morning, after waking up, I masturbated on my bedroom floor, taking pleasure in tensing up all my “muscles” as much as I could. Straining my legs and stomach. And it felt so good. And right after I came to half recollections of my dream, I curled up the toes of my right foot and rubbed them against the still tensed ankle of the back of my left foot.

And an hour will be lost tonight. Daylight Savings Time or some bullshit silliness. And what are we not advanced enough to not have to change clocks and shit? We can talk to people on the other side of the globe in real time, yet we’re still acting like druids with all this stonehedge clock business.

Friday, April 5, 2002

where is connecticut?

wow, jasmine has been talking about her banner in her diary and now i see her banner above the box that i am typing into and i think that that is so funny. little jamsime's diary is being advertised on the big ol' diaryland.

i got an application to live in this house in madison over the summer at least a week ago, with a note saying please return asap, and i have still yet to even start filling it out. i keep getting distracted. tomorrow morning i will do it. i will.

right now i am capital t tired. i went to mary's this afternoon at about seven and we decided to go see a comedy show at the improv on conneticut ave. that started at 8:30. drove around dc, searching frantically for conneticut, getting stuck in traffic circles, and just feeling lost and impotent. at nine, we decided that it would be too late to get into the show anyways, and tried thinking of another idea. somehow ended up back in va. dc roads didn't like us and spat us onto 395. turned around in shirlington, headed back to dc, and i suggested bowling. i really wanted to go to this new bowling alley, strike, in besthesda, md. more lostness. more tiredness. more carsickness. passed it big time. backtracked big time. spot it. run in so relieved. and godfuckingdamn it all to hell are you fucking kidding me? why do we have to be 21 to bowl? this is bullshit.

not even allowed into the bowling alley by the bouncer, mary looked like she was going to strangle me since she had to pee for the last two hours and now we were back in the car. she screamed and pulled her hair and i did too. and yes we got lost some more, and were thinking of going to wet to see naked boys cavort on stage but were too fed up with dc roads and decided to head back to good ol' va, but not before circling this one block a couple of times to stare in fascination at some really hot prostitutes who were standing on the side of the road.

back at mary's apartment, ty was watching softcore on hbo. dude, they have digital cable with 400 stations, and all these music video stations, that play GOOD music. bon jovi. heart. guns n roses. and paul simon's "me and julio down by the schoolyard." who even knew that that had a music video?

ty and mary are cartoon characters. they're so vain and insane and not even joking about acting like divas. and ty modeled his new prada shirt that he bought today, and kept asking if he looked good. he then asked me if i would be his boyfriend. but he's ty and wasn't serious even though he acted like he was. and i said sure. and he, (being vain remember) asked me if i thought he was attractive. i said sure again. and somehow this led to us wrestling and grabbing each others cocks and yelling real loud and sticking fingers up each other's asses. and mary was screaming, ty don't rape charlie. and me and ty were screaming and throwing each other around letting out our sexual aggression, both of us sexually aroused, but it was all okay because we were just joking and wrestling. and then mary called her boyfriend and the doorbell rang and rang. and i peeped through the peephole and some scary truck-driver type of dude was outside the door and we ran up the stairs and hid. and it rang again and again. and i ran and peeked again. and then me and ty ran upstairs to hide in his room. and i predicted something bad happening - something sexual between me and ty and no, no, no - that will never happen - so i ran downstairs to peep again, and yes the scary guy who was probably complaining about our noise was still standing outside the door.

and ty and mary then smoked and i lied around on their living room floor, which is still completely furintureless and marveled at modern technology that allows rod sterwart videos from the seventies to come into peoples living rooms for their viewing pleasure. and then tired and hungry and getting bored with mary and ty's conversation about some dance competition that ty and mary's boyfriend john are in this weekend, and which i am being forced to go to by mary as punishment for the four hours i made her suffer in the car today, i decided to leave the madness and head home.

and when i left their apartment, i saw a ticket under my windshield wiper cause i parked right in front, which i guess is a fire lane, but it was late at night and i was only there for an hour or so, and goddamn i hate traffic cops. a $48 dollar fucking ticket!!! $48 fucking dollars!!! shit, i don't want to pay that. am considering appealing it, but you don't even get to go to court in the city of alexandria, you just go to the parking office and appeal to some adjucator whenever you want in the next 30 days. and goddamn, how am i going to get off parking in a fire lane to some adjucator? fucking shit.

Tuesday, April 2, 2002

line breaks are for bad writers and self-described poets. oh wait - those two are the same thing.

since january i have been wearing glasses - that is up until about a week ago when i finally got my contact prescription refilled and now feel like a normal non-glasses wearing person. like a different person. glasses create such a persona. so many people at work have commented on the absence of my glasses and i tell them that normally i don't wear them. four eyes to two - winter to spring - green buds and blossoms on trees - also erections in jeans. and is your pussy wet this time of year? the life force is returning - trees are jizzing up little green buds of early spring life and things are looking wonderful. and can you tell that i'm really into henry miller right now?

what's your name,
i mean

don't i?
glasses with a cool blue tint around the lining
i hope you didn't think i was trying to look into your eyes

actually i don't care if you do
cause i was
-but the glasses were cool too.
you are thirty plus but such a fascinating seeming man
you asked me about a burt's bees ad
and i did my best to respond trying to sound intelligent
think think think
said some thing (possibly things) about marketing class and yuppies

and you didn't seem that impressed

you had a blockbuster video and i kept peeking to see
what video it was
and then i got a glimpse and saw:
queer as folk season 1

pit a patter a tad bit faster

and i got so nervous
and shook - goddman did i shake
like nothing else
my hands trembled as i handed you your change and i don't know why
i get so intimidated around people i find dreamy

but yeah

Monday, April 1, 2002

b83 or b84 - i can't remember right now

yesterday, i was in a morbid mood, acting like all good brooding 16 year olds of the world are supposed to, fearing the big d.

today, i say: brooding is for suckers! today, i am happy and happy.

quote that i read last night in tropic of cancer that i loved, but of course there was no pen to be found in the immediate vicinity (arms's reach) of my bed. but the quote really changed my mood when i read it, and is the root of this mood that i am feeling right now: "above all, never despair. il ne faut jamais despeserer."

i went to the doctor this morning to get some blood tests and i felt so alive on the way there - present tense living.

that is what being able to wear a t-shirt will do to you. feeling wind and cool grace over my skin.

i popped in chris isaak's "heart shaped world" tape, which i snagged from goodwill when i went there with mary.

it was the first time i listened to it. NEW music is always great. sometimes all the soul needs is a little R n' R. and no, not rest and relaxation. i'm talking about the rock and fucking roll variety - the kind of music that soothes the soul. right, bob seger?

maybe i'm so depressed at work because of Muzak easy listening songs which i know about all of the words to - songs which no one should know the words to

tedium of routine also - spririt numbing

Fresh AIR is also part of reason. same small store everyday.

tapes are wonderfully circular. you get to the end and you are right back at the beginning

giving blood felt great - it takes a cut to make you feel alive - blood into vial - my blood - it felt good - and is this the fetishization of death and near death that people critique popular culture for?