Saturday, February 28, 2004

Okay, so there is this Cassavette's movie, Minnie and Moskowitz, and it shares a lot of the same themes as A Woman Under the Influence: characters that are unhinged, Gena Rowland being abused by men, awkward conversations, and concluding with a somewhat happy ending. A happy ending in the same way as The Graduate, not totally happy, but the guy and gal are together and they are going to try to make it work. I watched Minnie and Moskowitz last night and loved it so much. While it is disturbing to see Gena Rowland getting roughed up by various guys and then to see her fall in love with one of these abusers, there is something very oddly beautiful about how imperfect this love story is. That both parties are seriously flawed, and they are never going to have the cinematic ideal love, which is interpollated into the movie with clips of old forties movies. Things aren't always perfect, in fact, usually far from it, but it is about living in these imperfect spaces and trying the best you can, making beauty wherever possible.

And so yesterday, I talked to Matt a few times on the phone, apologizing for leaving instead of engaging in dialogue that night, and our last conversation yesterday ended in him saying, "Well I still want to hang out with you if you don't think I am a racist." And I said, "And what if I do think you are racist? I'd still want to hang out with you." And there was laughter and talk of REM and the battery lady. And so yes, thank you, all of you concerned friends for your advice. Compromise is necessary to acheive any sort of happiness, and this boy is really cool, and things are going to change. I am not going to look for any excuse to close myself up to feelings, to sensations that I only rarely get to experience. It is not an even trade. These feelings, this lightness in my stomach when I talk to him on the phone and bounce from foot to foot is something that I don't want to trade. And so again, thank you, and tonight, I am going to hang out with him again. And yes, be a little worried that I am seeing a boy for a third time. Something unheard of. Can I tell you that I have been listening to that Human League song, "I am only human, of flesh and blood I'm made..." on repeat for most of the day? God, being alive is so awesome.

Friday, February 27, 2004

Okay, so this boy I really liked asked me if I wanted to bounce or get another drink. This boy's name is Matt. He is the boy I went home with on Monday, Kevin's roommate, and the boy I have liked incredibly since Monday.

So tonight we met up at Metropolitain after I went to the Judith Butler talk, which was fucking amazing by the way, and we both got throughouly trashed, Morrisey was played twice, we debated the merits of criticism, he from the artist perspective, me from the critic and the lover of criticism perspective. It was fun. I started to hit on an old Italian man and started talking to him about the changes that have occured in Williamsburg over the past couple years and what he has thought of them. Somehow this led into racist ramblings of Matt about "the blacks" and the last neighborhood he lived in. He was appearantly robbed twenty or so times by black people there, which may be an understandable cause of generalizations, but not understandable enough for me, and when he made one too many comments about "them", I said I was going home, and he said he was going with me, and I said, No, no you are not. Prior to his slightly racist ramblings, I had my hand all over his ass and could not imagine going home with anyone hotter, but his comments disappointed me so much, I said no. When I was about to reach my house, I recieved a call from him, asking me what was going on, that he liked me, and I told him, I could not deal with his racist comments, and he said something about if I was there, and I told him I just did not find him attractive anymore, but told him that prior to opening his mouth I found him so fucking hot, and wanted nothing more than to go home with him, but he had to say those things, which made his body replusive. And am I am an asshole? A hot guy really liked me for the fist time ever, and I blew him off because I pushed him into this corner to discuss his thoughts on race, a test that no one could have probably passed, since no one would have been able to live up to my standards. And he called, and I told him, that yes, I was no longer into him because of what he said, and maybe I would call him, and I could hear the sadness, and the me not getting laid for antoher eight months when some hot homo wanted to be (perhaps) my boyfriend. And yes, don't ask what is wrong with me - you already know.

Thursday, February 26, 2004

Last night, I saw Gibson's The Passion of the Christ. It was a bloody spectacle that I shied my eyes away from during certain scenes, but those moments were brief because something somewhere inside of me was captivated by this display of pain, by the spectacular beauty of it, and the seemingly contradictory feeling of sadness that it inspired. I don't want to be the jackass that talks about every scene of a film that just opened, but oh boy, some of those scenes are haunting. Little satanic children, a demonic bird, a maggot slithering up Satan's nose.

I am also wondering, what, if anything, Gibson is saying about homos in this movie with his depiction of a decadent King Herod adorned by half-dressed young males. Gibson took lots of heat for his faggy gay prince in Braveheart whose gayness/sissiness prevented him from being anything other than a whiny little baby incapable of leading. Herod, not femme at all, but definitly into the dick, refuses to condemn Jesus and turns the case back over to Pontius Pilate. He is contrasted from the blood-thirsty Pharisees, as too concerned with the flesh and wine to think that this man, Jesus, did anything wrong.

And how exactly do we read that? Do we read that as Herod being too concerned with matters of the flesh and not enough with matters of the spirit to be concerned with the fate of Jesus? Or do we read this scene as evidence that the libertine lifestyle is not so different from the life that Jesus proposes? A life concerned with loving everyone, and Herod just cannot understand why these stuffy Jews have a stick up their ass about this man Jesus? But that is probably my own singular reading of that since I have far more liberating ideas about what to do with those teaching of Jesus advocating boundless love than most people. It's a difficult scene to examine, all the more so because of its shortness, but neccesary in light of Gibson's previous representation of gay royalty.

On an impulse, I bought the JC Chasez CD yesterday. Today, I am wondering why. I blew off Lamda Legal today because the thought of filing did not appeal to me, and I tried to schedule for tomorrow, but was unable to do so, so will pick up doing boring work for a cool orginization next Thursday. This afternoon, I am going to try to go hear Judith Butler talk at CUNY. And Matt is supposedly going to want to hang out later tonight, which makes me so happy. The message he left on my phone yesterday I played more than a few times and maybe have most of it memorized. "I just had a really lame day. I maybe want to get a drink. Maybe with you. I want to ruin all of your plans for tomorrow." If only my stupid phone did not crap out yesterday afternoon, I would have gotten that message before today and would have had good cause to blow off Lamda Legal today.

Tuesday, February 24, 2004

This morning, I shivered up and down my spine with each exhale that Matt did against the back of my neck in his near slumber, in my near slumber. To feel these things! Man, it has been an incredibly long time (eight months) since I have slept with anyone, and even then, there were not these things, these slight things, but important things nonetheless, in fact, some of the most important things, these gentle caresses, these soft breathings against my skin, these things creating happiness, an exhaustion of feeling, becoming aware of an entire body, of its sensitivites. God, how I love it.

The night started out with me calling Matt (Kevin's roommate) and Kevin to come out with my friends from work. Kevin could not make it. Matt did. And in the course of the night, I ate some old man's lamb, after he posed the question how much could I eat, and I retorted, however much lamb I am fed. Do with that what you will, but from somewhere emerged this big plate of lamb from some place or other. And it was so good and bloody. Then there was dancing, lots of laughing, making out with some random people, encouraging other people to do the same. Then there was Matt hopping the subway turnstile to get home, a police officer emerging from nowhere, wating around for Matt to get his summons. Then there was more laughing, not more, but a return to the steady stream of laughter that was the night. And then yes, following those Hollywood screen codes, cut to a shot of us in bed together the next morning.

I love being alive. But goddamnit, if fuckface Bush did not almost squelch my happiness this day. But I can contain both, the joy and the rage. It's a dangerous fucking combination, so stay on your toes.

Sunday, February 22, 2004

I love it when a boy that you like calls you and leaves a message, however banal, however message-like on your answering system. Today, while at work, I recieved two messages from Kevin, asking me to go to some film event with him tonight. I played the messages a few times, giddy, listening to his voice over and over again. My ear pressed to the phone as if that could possibly make the moment more exciting, while a grin that could never be suppressed spreads ear to ear, and I laugh, and don't notice the traffic, the city, its pedestrians, any of it. I am somewhere in this phone, imagining the message being said, him, his lips moving, and yes, giddy. It has been a while, too long, since I have had messages that I played over again, getting giddy about them. I love this feeling. Please God, do not ever let me get mature.

Besides the fact that someone cool wants to be my friend at a time when I have been yearning for more friends, today is noteworthy for the reason that I won this CD. About which, I am more excited than is probably mentally healthy.

Saturday, February 21, 2004

Of course tonight would be the night that I would run into a bunch of people I know at galleries, a bunch of people I have crushes on. Tonight is the night that the people I was supposed to meet at galleries all flaked out, and I ended up wandering around by myself until Joe made his way there an hour and a half later. At one the Robert Longo opening, I ran into Josh. Later, I ran into Kevin. I finally met up with Joe and ran into Kevin at another gallery. He told me to call him if I went to Broolyn galleries later. That a boy liked me made me so excited. You know that new Liz Phair single. I was fucking breathless.

I bought a pizza and some beers, went over to Peter's, conumed both with him and his roommate, Gina, listened to various radio classics, and then went out to Metropolitan with Peter, where I ran into Kevin for the third time tonight. Talked to him and his cute friends. Talked to his cute roommate Matt, who I think likes me. And both Kevin and Matt inflated my ego, telling me that I should hang out with them every weekend, that I am fun. I am superficial, and yes, like it a lot when "cool" people tell me things like this, make me feel also "cool". I left. They were both sad. That made me feel really nice to have people I just met (Matt, at least) care that I was leaving. Matt is really cool and I am about to develop a crush on him. I talked to him a lot about his art group and was a little critical. Kevin told me about two famous people he hung out with that I did not know about, some people associated with the Whitney. I did not tell him that I had no clue who these "famous" people were.

Tomorrow, two shows. Jaymay at nine, and then the motherfucking Gossip at eleven. Uh uh uh. Dance to this. I bought a carton of milk for one twenty five. It will go on my cereal tomorrow morning.

Thursday, February 19, 2004

I got home a short time ago to find that all of nick-nacks in the hallway outside our door had been moved out of the way and stacked in a pile at the end of the hall that says: "Do something with this stuff." This would have been particularly obnoxious on any day, but coming the day after I confronted my landlord about someone stealing our mail, it seems not only obnoxious but antagonistic.

About that stolen mail. I got two cards on Valentine's Day. The first one from grandma had tape sealing the envelope. The second one from my mom was an envelope without a stamp, without a postmark, and written in a handwriting that is not my mom's. I called my mom to find out if she sent it without a stamp and had someone else write the address. She wrote the address, put two stamps on it, and mailed it in a red envelope. It arrived in a white envelope. A little fishy sounding? Damn fucking straight it is, even more fishy when you know that we are the only tenants in the building. The only other people that have access to the mail is the family who lives downstairs, who we rent our floor from. Only someone that has access to the inside of the house would be able to go through the mail.

Dara said that she had not recieved two cards from her family when I asked her if she thought it was fishy, and that she had told her parents to start sending her mail to her work address. Now, this is totally fucked up that we can't even recieve mail at the house where we live without worrying about it being opened, or not even recieving it altogether. Never do we have trouble recieving our bills, Dara her parking tickets, or any of the other things you don't want to recieve in the mail, yet things that look like they might contain money have trouble reaching us. So, I called Iris when I got home from work last night, telling her that I needed to talk to her, that it was very important. She called me back, and I told that we had a problem. Told her what it was, and that I wanted to show her what I was talking about. Shortly thereafter, her and her elderly mom came upstairs. I showed them the envelope without a fucking stamp or postmark (come on, you idiot, obviously this did not go through the mail system) - and they distracted me with stupid stories about how occasionally they don't get their own mail, or how maybe the people across the street got it by accident.

While I was talking to them, I had the envelope in a ziploc bag. I think this freaked them out a little, and Iris offered to hold on to it and ask the mailman about it. I said no, that that was fine, if they did not know what was going on, that I would just take it to the post office and file a tampering complaint, and see if maybe they can figure it out. She made a couple more offers to ask the mailman with the letter. I rebuffed it more times, insisting I was going to go file a complaint, and she went downstairs, and I went back in my apartment to watch The OC without resolving the issue, but at least getting it off my chest, and opening a dialogue about the issue.

So you can understand why I was annoyed when today was the day they decided to stack up all our crap in the hallway. This would annoy me anyways because we live on the top floor, no one is marching through our hallway to get to their floor, who fucking cares if we have a couple mirrors and drawers in the hallway?

But, there are enough positives right now to distract me from this, or at least distract me for the most part. First, where I was coming home from when I saw the hallway shit was my first day of an "internship" at Lamda Legal. The internship term is theirs. I think it is more like volunteering since it is only four hours a week, but if they want to call it an internship, neither I nor my resume minds. It is basically just filing all their donor information. There was an insanley huge stack of papers that needed to be filed, I got through them all, and Sam was speechless (in a not kidding way) when I said that I finished filing everything and that I was going to go home. "You filed all of those?" And he looked, and I had, and he seemed genuinely shocked.

And to distract me further, I am leaving right now to go consume wine at galleries with Beth and Chris, and then after that I am going to go rock the fuck out to Breaker Breaker, Young People, and and and THE GOSSIP!!! And for free, no less! Look out world, here I go. PS- Don't fuck with me. I don't put up with crap anymore, not ever.

Sunday, February 15, 2004

Each and every morning as I cross the hallway from the shower to my room (which I enter through the apartment building hallway), I spell bacon being cooked. It is such a distinct smell, and so unique in its ability to make you fucking salivate. Not many foods have that ability to turn you into a dog smelling a bar-b-que on the other side of the fence, howling and howling, but bacon is one of those, and smelling it is torture because you don't have any bacon to eat, and the smell is something you can taste, something you must. The family downstairs must eat bacon every morning, because every single morning as I pass through the hallway, I smell it, and I turn into that tiny dog at the dinner table, can't see the food, but can smell it, and want to taste it so bad.

The salad I was planning on eating for lunch just seems so stupid when I smell that bacon. What am I thinking? Why isn't my fridge stocked with nothing but meat products that smell good when they are fried?

Friday, February 13, 2004

This week, I have come across two essays slamming John Currin. These are the first critical pieces I have read about his current show, and I am just glad that I am not alone in my dislike. I have been feeling a bit like a spoilsport talking to people about John Currin since no one seems to have so hostile a reaction to his show. First, there was Jerry Saltz. And then there was Jed Pearl, who is hyperbolic to say the least. Only a week left to go though, then show will be over, then my anger will have to move on to new subjects.

Wednesday, February 11, 2004

Seth Coen, yes, I still love you and think you are dreamy. In tonight's episode of The O.C., there was mention of his love of Death Cab, and he was talking about how good Chabon's The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay is. He's literate and cute! Even if it is a book that everyone and their mom has read. Seriously, is there another teen drama where characters talk about contemporary fiction? Forget teen drama - how about any sitcom at all? No, there's not, and that is why this show is so amazing. In addition to all the incestuous drama that we have come to expect from high school dramas since 90210, it also has references to fiction and "hip" music. Oh, it is so good!!! (Count 'em. That is three exclamation points to emphasize this show's goodness.)

Normally, I am prevented from watching this sinfully good show because of my work schedule, but today, I called in sick, did nothing, and spent my evening indulging in teen-oriented tv. For those of you keeping tabs, I am feeling better. My throat is still kind of sore, however.

TV can be so good and so bad. It has been a long time since I watched it, but there was a commercial for Axe cologne that involved reference to Spanish Fly, and it had a skinny lad getting lucky with two hot chicks, and an old dude scoring with a hot chick and then croaking, two worms in his grave forming a heart. That was bad. And appearantly minstrel humor is okay again?! What in the hell is Showtime thinking? Queer Eye is a show that I find mildy amusing but also find obnoxious for the way that gayness is camped up for humor. But this "Make Me Cool" is a totally different level of offensiveness. Can we stop it before it starts?

Tuesday, February 10, 2004

Shit! It is a weird feeling to check out the Voice online, fucked up on Dayquil and some as yet undetermined virus that makes your throat sore and you very tired, and to come across someone you know writing this week's The Essay.

Izzy used to work at the Strand and I spent the day of the blackout with her and a couple other co-workers who have also moved on to better things, downing forties in Union Square. Coming across this article makes me realize how stangnant I have been here in New York, working the same job, creating nothing, and watching other people tackle their ambitions without any hesitation or self-doubt.

Can I tell you much I hate being in this ill condition? I have been awake for a grand total of maybe three hours today between naps and am going to take a shower, drink some Nyquil and go to bed, and hopefully wake up all well.

Monday, February 9, 2004

Hopefully this will pass with the same quickness that it emerged. Last night: quick, happy. This morning: slow, tired, sore throat, and sore upper back. My glands are swollen. The passage in my throat has shrunk to a miniscule size, requiring effort to even drink water. I would like to call in sick today, but I will save this sick day for a day when either I am immoblized sick, or insanely happy and the sky is clear. Why not get paid for being like this?

Last night, I took a bath in the dark, lit only by the lights of Brooklyn coming through the bathroom window, by the stick of incense burning and by the lovely sounds of Frank Sinatra. It was really nice. I must do that more often. I stayed in the bathtub until the water turned cold, exploring my asshole, which I am just learning how to do. The last time I attempted fingering myself was back in high school, I believe, and then, I don't think I was too succesful. Last night, I was at least more so, touching weird muscles and insides that I definitely did not reach in high school. It was a weird sensation feeling the inside of my body. For a brief second, it made me scared, this fragileness being felt, and I thought about death, and the impermanence of flesh. This morning, I read about giant squids and I experienced a similar sensation, reading about their nervous system, about the mechanics of living things. The skin creates this illusory boundary, that there is something more than simple parts, than prostates and ink sacks. Illusion temporarily fades, flashes of something else, a hidden world, appear with swollen glands, massaged prostates, and knowledge of the squid's digestive system. Then flashes of something else appear when warm tea is consumed, or when the prostate is touched just so.

Saturday, February 7, 2004

Really, there was no reason to go out to Opaline after getting trashed at the Gen-R-8 opening, and really I am wondering if there is really ever a good reason to go to Opaline. There's a cover, there's silly music, and cheesy gay guys, but sometimes, in fact a lot of times when I am drunk, I want to do nothing more than dance.

So I danced all night long, talked to so many people and remember none of it, a blur of bodies encountered, lost Joe at some point, and then left to go home, walked to the L, only to find out that it is shut down again this weekend. So, insanely drunk, I hiked to Union Square to catch the 6 to the JMZ, and in the course of the hike, I got two slices of pizza (not at the same place) and bought a can of V8 that I dropped in Union Square. I ran into Bibi on the platform, talked to her, and hoped that I didn't throw up.

The two GAS openings that I have gone to have been insanely crowded. Last night, there was a line to get in the place, and then once in, there was really no way to look at any of the pieces since it was packed wall to wall with people waving wine glasses around, talking, and checking out the other people waving around wine glasses and talking. I really wanted to see Bill Morrison, to see what the man looks like, but I had enough trouble just finding his video in the mass of people. The show included Decasia, which I recently saw at the Maya Stendhal gallery, and it was right at the entrance, but no one knew this. An intern working there did not know anything about the video when I asked about watching it in whole, saying that she thought it was just a constant loop and did not matter where you started watching it. Before this conversation, I asked a few people if they knew where the video was, and no one knew. I asked the people selling catalogs and serving wine. They did not know. I asked a woman laminating bugles (the snack food) and she did not know. It's said that no one goes to gallery openings to look at the art, which is usually true to some extent, but last night was a pretty egregious display of this maxim. Don't get me wrong. I love hanging out with tres chic people and drinking nice free wine and eating fancy cheese. I'm just saying.

Thursday, February 5, 2004

I don't even remember what the joke was. I have no clue who was telling it, but I can clearly remember laughing about it, laughing hard. I know because while I was laughing last night, I felt my cheek muscles stretch to an insane degree because I was that happy, and the muscle tension felt great, made me happier, made me laugh harder. It was almost to the point where my cheeks hurt. The sides of my face were gathered about my ear, and man, that sensation, I have not felt in a really long time. I laugh a lot. It is how I get through this life, but a laugh like that, man, those don't happen that often these days. That's going to change.

Sunday, February 1, 2004

what's your take on cassavetes?

So last night, I finally got around to watching one. A Woman Under the Influence. And no, I don't know what my take is yet, other than I love this movie. I wish I didn't have to return it this morning so I could watch it again. It's so tense and ambigious about its message.

Do you really hate yourself that much that you would eat that and sit there? Get the fuck up, we have to move.