Wednesday, April 28, 2004

and yet how many times have i seen swingers, and cringed at that scene where mike calls the g

I woke up at eleven today - the latest I have woken up in a really long time, even though I went to bed sober and early last night. I woke up after having a really bizarre dream about riding a scary five floor tall escalator with my mom that just dropped you off in the middle of the sky and you sort of had to jump down to saftey. It was very weird and I don't really even want to begin to think about possible ways to read that dream - I don't think there is one positive way to do so that would comfort me. I noticed the sky when I woke up from this dream, how beautiful it looked outside and thought whatever, I've slept too much of the day away but it is a lovely day and I am going to make the most of it.

I logged on to my e-mail to see that there was a new Friendster message from Matt. Ahh!, is what I yelled. And I was so scared to read it, wondered if I should wait until tonight, but nervously clicked ahead to Friendster, shaking with frieght about what he would say, and then officially started this otherwise lovely day by reading this:

Umm...I will respond by asking you to not
come in contact with me in any way ,especially
in public. That is all since anything else I
would have to say would feed your need for
negative attention.


Ouch. Right to the gut. And for some stupid reason, I then took a shower listening to Morrissey. The other day, Peter called me an emotional exhibitionist. And he is right. This can be Example A. And I do have some sick "need for negative attention." It is no lie. A very spot-on critique, in fact. Morrissey had to go. I put in Tribe Called Quest danced around to them before putting in the Beatles, and seeing this happy day, and resolving to myself to not do these pleas for negative attention anymore, to say Fuck You to people who don't like me instead of throwing myself at them. And about being an emotional exhibitionist - that is so intertwined with a hunger for negative attention - this is so intertwined with that, this right here - I want your sympathy, your pity - I am going to try to correct that too, starting now. Let's call this a temporary hiatus until I learn to live better. I will be lonely for a while, but I usually am anyways. Maybe I will write about other things this way, like I am always resolving to. See you later first person.

Tuesday, April 27, 2004

1. Yesterday, on my lunch break, I turned on my phone and right away, it started ringing. A number I did not recognize. I answered it. Some Latino male from [incomprehensible orginization name] telling me that they had kept my application on file for the peer mentor/internship position and were wondering if I was still interested. Imagine if someone called you and said these same things to you, because I don't remember applying for whatever internship this was, was not even sure what orginization this was - and was beyond confused. I am sorry, I said, What orginization is this? Escasomething Dominicasomething. Oh, okay, I said, not wanting to sound like I had no clue what I applied for, and told him, that no, at this point in time, I was too busy with other things to intern there. I still am not sure what that was, but if I cannot remember, obviously, I did not want to volunteer there too bad. I think that must have been from my I need to volunteer somewhere phase, where I was about to volunteer at Housing Works, but then did so at Lamda Legal, which lasted for two weeks?

2. This morning, after taking a leisurely shower and dancing around in my bathroom, singing along really loudly to some Michael Jackson mix CD Dara has, I heard a pounding on the door. Clad in a towel, since my clothes were in my room down the hall, I answered the door very embarrased and it was the burly dad of the household below along with a burly surveyor to do an estimate on how much their house is worth. Great. Michael Jackson is still squealing in the background. I throw on some clothes and let the guy come in poke and around our apartment and take notes.

3. Summer is coming and I might have a nervous breakdown. Honestly. And only because of those fucking ice cream trucks. I was reading on my couch a short while ago reading, and could not concentrate, could only hear that never ending irritatingly chipper ice cream truck music. The stupid trucks park all over my neighborhood for hours at a time and play that looped chipper sample over and over again. It is all I can think about - how much I hate that noise. I remember reading some item in the NY Post about an old man who sued them last summer because of mental suffering or something. It puts so many people on edge. The worst type of public nuissance. What if all stores were allowed to blare the same sample over and over again all day long into the street. People would smash their fucking windows in. I get violent fantasies about torching those motherfucking ice cream trucks. And there is nothing you can do about this distracting, grating noise - nothing but clench your teeth in impotent rage and try to tune it out, try to focus on the book you are reading, but finally giving up, shutting your windows and blasting music - but yet still hearing that inescapable noise in the quieter parts of songs and in the silence between songs. I seriously need to get a pair of earplugs if I am to survive this summer.

Monday, April 26, 2004

Yesterday, following Niki's good advice, I took Matt's number out of my phone. This should hopefully prevent any future drunken calling of him. Now, I just hope I don't run in to him for a long while so I don't have to hide out of shame.

It is a gray, rainy day - and I don't know if I have ever thought a gray day looked so beautiful, but honestly, I say this out of sheer joy, not any maudlin sense of depression - today, its grayness, and its mist of rain is fucking lovely. The relections in the puddles outside my building, the sound of soft rain through our open windows - these things wow me.

Sunday, April 25, 2004

Shit! I totally forgot that yesterday was my one year anniversary of moving to NY. A year and a day now. All last week that thought had been in the back of my head, that on the 24th, I had to do some exciting and New Yorkish to celebrate. And well, I don't think last night should count.
Dear friends, I do not think many of you are aware of exactly how drunk I was when I composed that last entry, or maybe you had some clue by the large number of spelling and grammer mistakes. It's a story with many twists and turns, and why I feel the need to share my humiliation I don't know. I am American. This is the internet. What else am I going to do? Write a song about my dream of horses? Ha!

I was having a really good night, attending the Deitch openings with Joe who I haven't seen in a week and a half because his family's been in town. So there was lots of catching up, looking at pretty good art, and then hanging out in front of the Wooster Street space marvelling at how bright it still was at 7:30. And then I see the two figures when they are too close, right next to us, and I had sort of forgot that one day I would run into Matt. I just assumed that it would probably be at our neighborhood homo bar. Kevin and Matt are both really friendly, asked if we had seen Matt's work next door, and said they had to get some wine and went to get it. Joe and I left to go next door to look at Matt's two watercolor pieces of shantytowns in the show, really two very boring pieces that were shockingly selling for 600 and 800 - and later in the night, the gallery owner told Matt that lots of people seemed interested in his stuff, which sort of blew me away. Anyways at this gallery, after looking at Matt's stuff, I wanted to go back to the last gallery, maybe to talk to Matt and Kevin, and Joe says he is going to hang out in that gallery and try to find PBRs, even though they were out of them. I think he knew he was leaving and did not want to tell me for whatever reason that I let him know was fucking rude to leave me alone in SoHo having to talk to Matt and Kevin.

So yeah, back outside the gallery, I talk to Matt and Kevin about something or other. But as I am approaching them, Kevin tells Matt who is talking to two other people, "You should stop talking now." And I sighed and said, "About what? About the dog?" Kevin and I laughed, Matt seemed a little ill at ease. I talked to them about something or other. What the hell did I talk to them about? I talked to them a couple more times throughout the evening, while I hunted for Joe, wondering where he was. I at some point talked to just Matt and something said referenced the dog in passing, and I asked because I am way drunk by this time. I have bruises I don't know how I got - that is how drunk I was. And so I ask him if the dog was really the only reason. And he did that Matt shocked huff of my name, "Charlie!" said real fast in shock. And I pressed him again because I was really curious, I had him cornered and I was drunk. Laughing, he said, "Do you want me to reconsider?" And laughing is so cruel sometimes even if is done out of nervousness or the humor of the situation, it sounds derisive when you are on the recieving end of it. And then more blurs, I tried to find Joe once more, called Peter, told him what a maniac I was being, and then left, walking past Matt yet again on my way to the subway.

I get on the subway, way too drunk and way too sad to even notice what I am doing. And I look at the station names we are stopping at, places I had never heard of - and quickly I look at the map, trying to figure out where I am heading. I can't even figure out which line I am on, what are these names we are passing? I want to ask someone what line this is, where I am going, but I don't because I am too embarrased to ask which line I am on. I finally figure it out and see that I can walk a block to the JMZ at the next stop and take that to Brooklyn. I get off at the stop in the very bottom of Manhattan, wander around down by Wall Street trying to find the JMZ, get directions from quite a few police officers, since police are the only people who are on the streets in the financial district after business hours. Lost and lonely, thinking back to my interactions with Matt - I decide I am going to leave him a message. I did not even think that someone might pick up the phone. This is drunk thinking. Someone picked up the phone, I don't think I was Matt, and I said "No, no, I want to leave a message. I 'll call back." I called back, and the person picked up again, and I tried to explain how I wanted to leave a message and Matt grabbed the phone saying, "Charlie, you're talking to me! What do you want to say?" And what did I say, what did I want to say, what was I doing?

Eventually the phone got passed off to Kevin who was pretty cruel while Matt laughed in the background. I said, Fuck the JMZ and walked the thirty or so blocks up to 14th Street to catch the L, feeling miserable and knowing that it was all my fault, that if I had some self-control, I would not be feeling like a total idiot right now, and could possibly be thinking of how gracefully and cooly I acted seeing Matt for the first time, could have patted myself on the back. But I was not thinking this on that long walk. No, no, no, I was not. I was also cursing Joe for leaving me there alone to my own bad devices.

I got off at Bedford, ate some pizza, and then walked home, finally getting a hold of Joe, finding out that he just left without calling me, without saying good-bye, and told him how mean that was, told him about all the stupid things I did that evening. And then just talking about them, I wanted to talk to Matt again - yes, drunk thinking at its worst - I get off the phone with Joe quickly and call Matt and tell him that blah blah blah, and if you ever want to make out, you should let me know. He sounded surprised, of course, and was like, Um, yeah. This was around twelve. I passed out in my bed shortly after this, luckily to drunk to stay awake and brood about my stupidity. This is the good thing about getting really smashed, cause when you do really stupid stuff, which you always do when you are really smashed, instead of thinking about them long into the morning, your silly actions, you instead pass out drunk in your bed, or if you're lucky, someone else's.

Shortly after three this morning, I was woke up by Matt calling me. I was asleep, still drunk, and very confused. I answered it, and he said he was going to Metropolitian. He was some place loud and could not hear me, but he just kept saying Metropolitian. I lied in bed, really tired, weighing this option. Should I get dressed and go down to Metropolitian in the hopes that Matt is actually going to make it out there? I did not. Sleep seemed too nice an option, but I was glad to fall asleep with my self-esteem not as competely smashed as it was the first time I went to bed. However, I woke up this morning, regretting not going to Metropolitian, because dude, I want sex. I want sex with Matt. And if that had happened last night, I would be a very happy boy today. Or would I? Would I, intead, be racked with guilt?

And then I remember that stupid Frienster message, and had to send one apoligizing for being an ass. Again free unlimited booze = no self control on my part = bad news = embarrasment. Simple math.

Other things learned in the night: Kevin and Matt were indeed scared of Niki and her overzealous writing to them about their apartment. And remember how I am reading The Alexandria Quartet because it is Kevin's favorite book - well it is not. I was like, "Guess what I'm reading?" And I told him, and there was a blank look on his face. And I reminded him that when we met for pancakes he told me it was his favorite book. And he said, No, no it's not. He was reading it at the time, is what he claims he said. I remember differently. He never even finsihed Justine - the first novel in the series. The book suddenly lost a lot of its appeal. This must mean something. What? I am not sure.

Saturday, April 24, 2004

Gee, what really is there to say? I just ate a slice of bbq chicken pizza and could tell you more about my night except I very well might cry. I went to galleries in SoHo with Joe, mainly the Deitch Projects spaces, got thoroughly trashed, and eventually ran into Kevin and Matt - Matt, who asked me if I saw his stuff at the gallery next door - did not, went and examined the two pieces, which were selling for 600 and 800, and felt like the worst possible shit imaginable seeing and ex's mediocre art selling for so much.

Later in the evening, after he basically blew me off for making too big a deal out of God knows what - after I approched him and Kevin and Kevin said, "You should stop talking now." And I asked him what he should stop talking about - was it the dog? And it was. I tried to ask him if the dog was it - the only reason - and irratably, he said yes. Did he want me to reconsider, he asked as if I had asked him to sipp piss. I eventually ran away - Joe had ditched me - and later on - lost in downtown NY, I called him, hoping to get his machine. I told him this and called back - this time getting Kevin who laughed at me, and told me I just wanted to sound cute, and that Matt did not like me - and all the while Matt was laughing heartily in the background, and I really wanted to throw myself in front of traffic - I have never felt like such a piece of shit in all my life. And so yes, why, oh why, did I just send this to Matt:

dear matt:

si, is what nora said.

and yes, yes - i should not be writing you - this
is uncalled for, especially after the strong
signals, so strong, of tonight with you asking
me, "reconsider?" and then laughing heartily
while i talked to kevin on your phone.

so yes, why am i writing you? i don't know.
horny? very possibly. but yes, yes. nora and
james know. maybe i had been waiting to run in
to you, and yes, maybe i still do like you - yes,
yes, all wrong - i know - fuck notions of right
and wrong. i get excited when i see you - saw
you tonight - and if you ever want to make out,
you should call me (917-XXX-XXXX). yes, your art
sucks big fat balls, was the worst pieces in that
show, of the night - but i still like you -
desire to suck those lousy balls - and if you
ever change your mind - yes, you should contact
me. basically, this is what i would have said on
your machine. now i have had some pizza and am a
little less loquacious - am more hesitant - but
you get the idea, i am sure you do, you are
slighly intelligent - and yes, yes yes.

Even though it was just yesterday that I resolved to myself, Never, never again will I drink coffee, just a short fifteen minutes ago, probably less than twenty-four hours after I made that resolution to myself, I was drinking coffee. However, it was only one cup - and I am going to try to limit myself to just one cup a day, as opposed to the usual three or four.

I could not give it up cold turkey. I had a raging headache that I knew was from the lack of coffee, and sure enough, as soon as I had that cup, headache gone.

Right now, I am reading the first novel in Lawrence Durrell's The Alexandria Quartet, Justine. I alternately like and dislike it, both usually for the same reason - the tone that ex-pat literature tends to take, an outrageous self-absorption with one's own social circle in an alien setting. There are obviously problems of how the Other is regarded, which I try to ignore, try to remind myself that I don't have to stomach everything the narrator says, and that bad politics does not a bad book make. This after reading Lionel Trilling's essay, "Hemingway and his Critics," which reminded me of this point that I sometimes make secondary to concerns of the politics of a novel:

One almost wishes to say to an author like Hemingway, "You have no duty, no responsibility. Literature, in a political sense, is not in the least important. Wherever the sword is drawn it is mightier than the pen. Whatever you can do as a man, you can win no wars as an artist."

Very obviously this would not be the whole truth, yet saying it might counteract the crude and literal theory of art to which, in varying measure, we have all been training ourselves for a decade. We have concieved the artist to be a man perpetually on the spot, who must always report to us his precise moral and political latitude and longitude. Not that for a moment we would consider shaping our own political ideas by his; but we who of course turn for political guidance to newspapers, theorists, or historians, create the fiction that thousands--not, to be sure, ourselves--are waiting on the influence of the creative artist, and we stand by to see if he is leading us as he properly should. We consider then that we have exalted the importance of art, and perhaps we have. But in doing so we have forgotten how complex and subtle art is and, if it is to be "used," how very difficult it is to use it. (14)

While it is very easy to see Harold Bloom making the same argument, something that makes me hesitant about embracing this totally, Trilling is so thoughtful and deliberate in what he says. Lately, I have really come under the sway of Trilling and his mode of literary criticism. He writes really lovely essays that from criticisms of specific works sprawl out and make these really intelligent observations about life, society, and art's relationship to both. And now I see what people are mourning when they are complaining about the absence of something from current literary criticism. So much of it is incredibly banal and couched in academic parlance to hide that fact. Maybe this is just because I read a book of essays about Portnoy's Complaint, not one of which was not terribly flawed.

But anyways, even though the narrator does make the occaisonal comment about the Orient to induce cringes, there are remarkable instances of beauty in this book. In ex-pat lit, you see this loneliness in a vibrant society that is human loneliness magnified to a greater and more visible extent. These characters are the gay kids in the country, the punks in the suburbs - they don't fit into their surroundings (or they choose not to be viewing themselves as distinct from these Others), and go about creating their own community. And so there are some really touching moments when they talk about love or engage in it.

And really, can I let you in on a little secret and let you know the reason I started to read this book in the first place? It is because many moons ago, when I first met Kevin he told me that The Alexandria Quartet was his favorite book, and I had not heard of it and was a little embarrased by that, as I usually am when I am not familiar with books someone is talking about. And more often than not, when it is someone I think is cool and/or intelligent, I will usually end up eventually picking up this book just to erase my unfamiliarity with it. But also, I really like reading the favorite books of boys I have or have had crushes on. Sean's favorite writer was Raymond Carver, who I then read, and then came to love, and came to like Sean all the more because he liked this writer. And with this book, during those poetic meditations on human relations, I think that wow, this is what Kevin said was his favorite book, he read these same pages and liked them. And maybe the book is sort of re-sparking an interest in Kevin, as if he wrote the book himself. And yes, this is silly, to feel like you know what type of person someone is better after reading their favorite book, but hey, when did I ever claim to not be silly?

Friday, April 23, 2004

So last night, I went to Metropolitian with Peter, hung out on the patio, drinking beer, talking about wanting to go places other than Brooklyn, and looking up to see the beautiful grapevine that hangs over the patio start to sprout flowers. I started to gush to Peter about how I had talked to my crush, Evan, the day before. Then we go inside to get more beer and who is at the bar, shimmering in sparkly eye shadow? None other then the just discussed Evan, a boy who I have never seen out at bars, let alone my neighborhood homo bar. I was more than a little excited and gushed to Evan about God knows what.

While talking with him, I found out some really sad news though. Yesterday, one of my favorite co-workers, Jessica, was fired. I was sad and said soemthing like this, "Oh, that's really sad - she was my favorite person there." And Evan said something similiar and then scratched it, saying except for me, of course. And oh my god, I am so obsessed with this boy. But, Jessica. This breaks my heart - she was a short five days from being unionized - and moments like this, I really hate the Strand. Last time at work, one of the managers, MS, kept telling the other managers how they needed to write more employees up. This is also the same anti-union manager, who has been trying to convince people that it is because of the union and people's feeling of job security that merit raises aren't given out anymore. Er, what? I so want to punch this little man. I have yet to learn the circumstances of Jessica's firing, but I feel like this little imp must have been involved. I really don't feel like inflicting violence on people often, but this person is so deserving of it, and violence seems like such a nice fantasy when you are stuck in a powerless position (i.e. being his subordinate) and can't tell the person what a fucking douchebag they are and how stupid their facial hair looks. And yes, I did just say douchebag.

But, back to Evan and nice crush fantasies. When he was leaving, I talked to him some more, this time about what homo bars he frequents - and told him he should go to the Cock with me on Monday, and he said yeah and seemed excited. I am going to make this boy my friend. I am so excited. I heart new gay male friends. I crotch Evan. And that is a Jessica phrase - that is why I will miss her. I once asked her if she hearted a boy, and she said, No, I crotch him. How fucking cool! But yes, even though I had a shitty morning and day yesterday, due to nothing so much as my own lethargy, my night turned out all right - I read lots of The Waves, saw Kill Bill v.2, almost finished The Waves but then went out and got hammered and talked to a boy that makes me giddy.

Wednesday, April 21, 2004

some lines from whitman

I left work early this evening so I could come home and watch The OC, and watch it I did, curled up on my couch, a cliche, stuffing my face with chinese food and sighing in sympathy as Seth Coen was dumped for some petty reason.

I don't think Screech counts, but this is one of the first instances on the television I've seen where there is such a sensitive guy that you are supposed to feel sympathy with - that is actually cool. So Seth Coen sat there on his bed at the end of the show listening to really sappy indie rock and I think a sympathetic "Oh" may even have left my lips.

Today at work, I talked, finally, to the crush who may or may not have been mentioned in here, and if he hasn't then that is a shame. His name is Evan. He has red hair. He is strikingly beautiful. I can only think of one more beautiful boy in this city. And this is a city filled with them so that is saying a lot. He has an outrageously blue pair of eyes and he is so skinny, dresses really sharp - tonight, he was wearing a pinstripe jacket, a partially unbuttoned shirt with a loose tie, and a pair of brown pants. I saw the little orange hairs on his chest while we were talking tonight in the poetry aisle. I was basically staring into space, killing time, and he appeared asking me if I had seen a book by Rene Char. I hadn't. But I asked him about this poet. He told me about him and then we talked about others. He really likes French poets. I laughed at this because it is eating chinese food while watching sappy teen shows - it is cliche. Basically, I've never read any of the people he's loves, nor has he read the people I love save Whitman and Stevens. It was so cute, talking to my crush about poetry of all things.

And my god, his voice - I think it may be the most beautiful thing about him. Lately, I am realizing I have a fetish for beautiful slightly femme voices, or just voices that crisply accent each syllable they say. And each time he was talking, I kept on trying to figure out whose voice his sounded like, and really, I am not sure if it is anyone specific - it just be some of these same patterns of speech that some gay males have. He sounds a bit like David from Mirror Mirror. And nothing is ever going to come of this crush. The Strand rumor mill told me he has a boyfriend and I am so fine with that - it makes this such a pressure-free, pure crush - not wanting anything, just to gaze and peek at him from across the store and occaionally to talk to him, and feel that giddiness. Because there is something so satisfying about that. The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and broadcloth,/ To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more,/ You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.

And I am like Whitman, a voyeur if you want to make it crass, but I just love feeling that there is something so beautiful, something so lovely, and that it is human like I, and to feel the giddiness that life can be so magical, that the sight of something, another person, can stir these things in me.

Tuesday, April 20, 2004

jumping through hoops

Walgreens called me yesterday after I dropped off my prescription. They need my doctor to call Aetna and expaling why it is medically necessary and pre-authorize the prescription. So this morning, I made calls to Walgreens and my doctor. I am still waiting to see how that goes.

I called Hunter today since I have not heard from them to check on the status of my application. There is a hold on my application. Oy, here we again. Doesn't this sound familiar? But wait, it gets better. The reason for the hold this time around is not because they don't know how to evaluate my transcript without grades, but because appearantly, unbeknownst to me, I attended four classes at Hunter in the Spring of 2002 and have not paid tuition for that semster. Well that is just great, considering I don't even think I stepped foot in the state of New York in the year 2002. I was utterly shocked when the admissions woman told me this. Then, I remembered that abandoned plan to go to school to Hunter that semster through National Student Exchange but deciding not to months before and taking that semester off. So then I had to talk to about four different offices, Registrar, Bursar, someone else, and then finally a helpful woman with a clue who explained to me that I was going to have to get the History and English departments to say that I was not in the classes that Hunter is trying to charge me for.

Then she collects those official letters that I still have to get them to write for me, mind you, and sends them to the Bursar, who then does something, who then sends that info along to the Registrar, who then does something, who then sends that along to Admissions, who then lets me into school - a process that the helpful woman estimated would take four to six weeks. So this Thursday, I plan on making as ass out of myself to the English and History departments at the school I hope to attend this fall, trying to explain to them this situation, and trying to get them to write these letters. But the good news is that the woman told me that I would be admitted after all this was taken care of - that all I needed to do was fill out a readmit form since appearantly I was already a Hunter student. Yeah, how about "The Swan", eh? Is that show sad or what?

I just ate a whole bag of M and M's.

Sunday, April 18, 2004

This is how I spend my mornings before work. I wake up around nine or so and check my e-mail, Friendster, and Livejournal while eating a bowl of Raisin Bran. Then in varying order, I will either take a shower and then read a book for an hour or so, or lie back in bed and read for an hour or so, then shower. Then I will make a pot of coffee and drink it while reading gossip blogs and the book reviews in the NY Times, and those linked in Bookslut and Maud Newton. Then I will usually wash my face, brush my teeth, and run to work, always late, even though I don't have to be there until one thirty and there is all this wasted time in the morning. Could you imagine the things that I could do in the morning if I wanted to, if I could get off the internet? But would I want to do these things? Is my routine so horrible now? Is it a problem that while reading a review of Bergdoff Blondes, I recognize the byline of Choire Sicha as the person who writes Gawker and think that it is too appropriate that he should be writing this review of a trashy beach read, a review that seems to be really informal for the Sunday Book Review? I mean, is this wrong, that I think this and know these things and spend my mornings this way? Is it that much differnt than spending the morning lounging on the couch reading all the different sections of the paper? I don't have a paper subscription. Should I be out in this beautiful spring weather doing things? I have my windows open and the sun is on me, on the walls of my living room, the wind will occasionally blow in, bringing it with indistinguisable scents that even though they cannot be named, bring me an outrageous sense of joy, and of familiarity, wifting memories I couldn't even begin to verbalize to you, or to myself for that matter.

Saturday, April 17, 2004

I had a customer ask me, "Is there a problem?" while I was working at the information desk, where I was stuck all day today. I was honestly confused, not trying to be a smartass, and asked her: "A problem with what?" And then something about Well, your attitude. I didn't realize I was being such a bitch to people today, but interactions like this made me realize I was. My mind was elsewhere and I wasn't smiling and making small talk and all of a sudden I am really mean. I was not in the mood to deal with stupid people today and got short with more than a few people, practically got in a shouting match with some asshole about the meaning of If, because he asked me if we had a specific book where it would be, and I said If we had it, it would be blah blah blah. He took this to mean that yes, we had this book even though I prefaced that If by saying we didn't have the book, but if we did. . .

And you don't care. I really don't either. So instead, I will tell you that I saw Robby from New College today. But this is while I was stuck behind the info desk and could not talk long, nor could I show real enthusiasm like I would have had I not been interacting with idiots all day. Perhaps in even more exciting news, I got paid two personal days last week even though I have already used all my personal days. I was worried my check was going to be teeny tiny, but by some graceful act of God, the payroll people did not check how many sick days I've taken already or just didn't care. I don't know. I am not planning on bringing it to their attention. This makes me really happy. I am reading Virginia Woolf's The Waves right now. That also makes me really happy. And then the weather, of course. Seventy degrees today. In heat, I smell people's bodies, smell sex, want to take part in all of this spring loving I see around me, birds chasing each other through the air, people kissing everywhere. It is the weather, and I am infected also.

Friday, April 16, 2004

When I was getting off at the West Fourth Street stop, there was a man making the most beautiful noises come out of his steel guitar. He wasn't on the platform where people could listen while waiting, but instead was playing on the opposite side of turnstiles, in the stairway leading out. So it was just for a brief moment, a transitory listening that people experienced this. I, the same. It was a gorgeous noise that for whatever reasons reminded me of places other than the one I am living in right now, perhaps all those Southern associations with steel guitars. But it was a fleeting moment that I could not linger and enjoy too long, even though I wanted nothing more than to sit there all night, because I was already running late for this date with Chris, Friendster boy.

I was running late because I had to go to the post office on 32nd Street and mail my taxes in that circus atmosphere, packed with other late filers, with protestors, Billionaires for Bush, an insane amount of police, and people passing out Rolaids. So yeah, running from there to meeting up with Chris. Hectic hectic hectic, and then that one moment of beauty that made me pause for the slighest of moments before I am rushing up those subway stairs, calling Chris and finding out that he is over at Astor Place. We agree to meet at the Cube, and I speedwalk across town. I am bit of mess, hyped up on way too many cups of coffee and a little stressed with just having to deal with taxes and when we meet at the Cube, I am more than a little wired and all over the place. He keeps on giving me those "Are you all right?" glances because I am pretty manic at this point, pretty damn hungry too because I have not eaten since I can't even remember and I say, Pizza, I need it now. We go get some, making stilted small talk along the way. I am so hyper/nervous, I can't even really eat even though I am so hungry.

And then, Strike #1 for Chris. Probably a short five minutes after I met him, he asked me about Matt. He had just come from a talk that Kevin was at also, told Kevin he was going on a date with me, and asked for any gossip. Kevin replied that I used to date his roommate, and I made out with a talk for forty-five minutes and then we broke up. Chris asked me if this was true.

Forty-five minutes?! I said something like that, because it was more like one minute, and now I wanted to know if Matt really thought that it was forty-five minutes. And the reason I went out on this stupid Friendster date is because I wanted to move on, forget about other boys with a new boy, and yet I am prevented from that because this nitwit decides to ask me about my ex-boyfriend and the circumstances that led to that ex prefix a short five minutes after meeting his tactless ass. I start the dog story to explain what really happened and right at that moment, Josh Sparber - the boy whose bedroom window I puked out of many moons ago - comes up because he was walking by. I talk to him for a bit, so excited that someone is here that I can easily banter with, someone that can put me more at ease, and Josh asks if he's interuppting anything, I say no, no, no. And he sits down with us and gets a slice of pizza. Josh right away says he heard I made out with a dog from David. So, I laugh because this is really funny that two people ask me this within minutes of each other, and so then I start the story again and tell both of them. Josh thinks that it is really cool. I like Josh so much at this moment. He is insanely funny, does not make bad jokes (er, like a certain Chris), and during this moment I am wondering why I am on a date with this nitwit when there is Josh, who I am not really that attracted to, but think is an amazing person to hang out with.

Josh was telling funny story after funny story while Chris sat for the most part quietly. At some point it came out that Chris and I had just met, and were on a little Friendster meet-up. Josh then left and I was back alone with Chris. We then went to Nowhere where it is normally country night but last night was the first night that it was not country night. Country night is now officially over. We drank beers and talked. First about Kevin, and Chris told me intimate details about him hooking up with Kevin that I did not ask for, nor did I really want to hear. I sort of really hate it when people talk about sex specifics, and even more so, when they are complaining about how the other person kisses or whatnot. It just seems incredibly tactless and unmagical. So that was #2 for Chris. #3 would be shortly thereafter when he was asking me about theater and I confessed that I hated it more than anything. This led into a discussion about the merits of theater. He really likes it. Some people just like these things, I guess. #4 is in this discussion when he complements himself, after going on about Brecht's ideas, and then complementing himself on how eloquent he was being. I like people that are able to hold their own in a conversation without having to pat themselves on the back like it is something out the ordinary.

We eventually rode the L back to Brooklyn together, and he was already making references to some second date. I did not say anything. He got off at Bedford, I waved bye, and he seemed sort of disgusted by my waving hand like I should kiss him good-bye or something. So there was an awkward good-bye hug and then I was free, free to think about that forty-five minutes comment and about Matt and Kevin, about the things that I was hoping this date would help me to totally forget, but which in fact, made me realize how many people I do not like, how few boys I actually am attracted to and think are cool human beings, and made me long all the more for an imagined happy past to represent itself.

Thursday, April 15, 2004

New York residents, when picking a dentist, do not, do not under any circumstances choose East Village Dental where Jeffrey Krantz works. I just got home from a mind-blowingly unprofessional visit to Dr. Krank. I arrive about a few minutes before three, my appointment time, fill out the requisite forms, and wait as patiently as one can wait in an office with the heat on even though it a gorgeous spring day. In the oppresive heat, I flipped through Prevention magazine, looking at ab exercises and vitamins that are supposed to be good for your skin. Dr. Krank keeps on leaving the patient he is working on to come out and yell at the receptionist about some company that is stiffing them money. He talks to these people on the phone in the reception area, berates them, they hang up on him, and he yells at the receptionist some more. I wonder if I can just run away at this point but notice the sign saying patients will be assesed additional fees for canceling prior to 24 hours notice. I want to avoid these fees. I sit nervously.

Another guy comes in to wait. He has headphones on and is singing way too loudly. He sits next to me, unembarrassed, as if he was unaware that anyone else was around and sang along loudly to whatever he was listening to, something with lines like: I want to get you naked, take your clothes off, throw you on the floor, naakkkeeed, naaakkkkeedd. I wanted to cry. Don't forget how hot it is in here and I have already been waiting about half an hour, and now I have to listen to someone that has no singing capabilities at all, sing these lewd lyrics. He flips through some magazine before tossing it back in the pile, saying, "Man, I should have brought my Playboy to read." I kid you not, folks. And all the while, Dr. Krank is still yelling at his receptionist. Could I run away? What would happen?

I sat still, and finally after waiting forty-five minutes was called in where his assitant started to do those things, alligator clip bib, x-rays, etc. Then he came in, put that spit-sucking tube in my mouth and was about to take a look at my mouth before the receptionist said something, yelled it across the office about whatever company, and he stormed off to go yell some more at this company, and then of course at the receptionist again. Meanwhile, the dental assistant kindly takes the spit-sucking thing out of my mouth before it totally dries my gums, and rolls her eyes, telling me this happens everyday, how there are three people in the waiting room and he can't be doing this. Dr. Krank finally comes back, but leaves shortly again to yell some more while I wait in the dental chair. At least I am away from that scary singing guy though. Finally he comes back exclaiming how everyone is an idiot and sends his assistant off to answer phones while the receptionist deals with this company. He then makes some joke to me about how everyone must be taking stupid pills or something today. This is the obnoxious uncle that always berates waitresses proudly. I hated him so much and could not wait to get out of there. I have one cavity that I have to go back to get taken care of, and after that I am getting a new dentist. It was such a painful experience, not the actual dentistry, just the office.

I came home and cracked a beer and now feel so much better.
So, I am running late for my dermatologist appointment this morning, leaving myself about fifteen mintues to make it into the city and uptown, which is really not enough time at all. I am hurried, literally throw my discman, phone, and wallet into my bag and start trucking towards the subway. On the way there, I take out my discman and press play, and If You're Feeling Sinister starts playing. So not what I thought was in there, so not what I want to hear first thing in the morning. I resign myself to it and run towards the subway. I get to the subway turnstiles and reach in my bag for my wallet. I am hurried and can't find it. It is not there. Great. It is not there! My wallet is not there! I must have dropped it on the street fiddling with my discman!

I run out of the station, a total mess, way late for this doctor appointment and now retracing my steps, scanning the sidewalk, looking for my wallet, looking at all the people walking past me, wondering if any of them have already picked it up. A wallet just sitting on the street. Who wouldn't take it? So I am hurrying back towards my house, nervous that all these people have already walked past it, wondering if it will still be there, thinking it won't, worrying about calling all those credit cards, my bank, being without my metro card, my money. Life seems like it will be way difficult for a while. And then right on the corner of Keap and Grand, sitting blatantly open in the middle of the sidewalk is my lovely wallet. I ran towards it, so happy it was still there. Checked and all of its contents were still there also. Elated and really late at this point, I hear a ringing coming from my bag. I have a message. The doctor's office says that my test turned out fine and that I need to schedule an appointment to come in and start Accutane.

I look in my wallet and find the appointment card with their number on it that also says I have an appoinment today at 10:30. I call them. They don't have me scheduled they say, which I am fine with me since I would not have ever made it on time by this point and instead schedule an appoinment for Monday. And now I want to go back to bed, but have a dentist's appointment at three, have to find these stupid state tax forms and fill them out, and I supposedly have a date tonight with Friendster boy. We'll see how today actually turns out.

Wednesday, April 14, 2004

My favorite band from when I was 17, Cake, is playing a show on the 24th with another one of my favorite bands, Mates of State. Is that going to be the most awesome show ever? Well, I just found out about it today and it is already sold out. I want to cry so bad. I have been wanting to see Cake play again so bad. I need to go to this show somehow. Who has connections at the Bowery Ballroom, huh?

And yeah, those of you real perceptive may be wondering how I am writing this if I am supposed to be at work. I called in sick today again, honestly not caring that I am only going to get paid about fifty dollars this week, because not eating seemed like a better option than going in to work today. So, I probably would not have had money to buy tickets anyways. Again, who has connections at Bowery? See you tonight at Hunter tonight?
"Some of the debate really centers around the fact that people don't believe Iraq can be free; that if you're Muslim, or perhaps brown-skinned, you can't be self-governing or free. I'd strongly disagree with that." -Our President, G.W. Bush, in his speech tonight.

In a gross attempt to evoke sympathy against racist sentiments when these sentiments don't really exist, or if so, not nearly as strongly as they do in the military actions the Bush administration is trying to evoke sympathy for, our president manages to conflate being Muslim with being brown-skinned. Who in this imagined debate argues that "brown-skinned" people "can't be self-governing"? It was at this point in the transcript that I stopped reading, slightly satisfied that Bush is getting put through the wringer finally, and more than a little disgusted that these are the times we live in. This is why I read the book reviews and art criticism in the paper. This is why I have retreated into my own world. Honestly, there is nothing wrong with it. I would in my earlier years get red with indignation whenever anyone uttered such things as I just uttered, lamenting how apathatic people were. But there are so many amazing things that this stuff distracts me from, and so I tune out. It has been rainy here the past couple days. For a while, this depressed me, but then I was comforted by it, knew that it was sign that green would soon be sprouting - that this water is necesary for my happiness, this constant dreariness will bring about a beautiful spring world in these next few weeks. There are little green buds forming on the ginkgo tree outside my window. I cannot wait, am honestly giddy about the days when those funky leaves will be outside my window, will be visible, part of this world again.

I called in sick to work today and spent the day playing around on Friendster, cleaning my kitchen, and reading Joan Didion's The White Album in one long sitting. It was really good, mildly depressing, and forced me to look up a couple words online. Some people groan when they come across words they don't know, exclaiming arrogance on the part of the writer or speaker, but I really get excited about it. Especially when they don't look garish in the context, when they seem like the best word choice, the only thing that could have possibly been used, and with Didion, those three words I looked up were so. Inchoate, somnolent, and analgesic. The essays are all elegies for sixties California life and are both beautiful and depressing. It was really nice to read this book also about California after finishing Fante, to read a writer who does not write short declarative sentance after short declarative sentance. Didion has a beautiful rhythm, and so I spent all day on the couch listening to her, soaking up her astute observations. I am reading another book about California now also: Rebecca Solnit's River of Shadows: Eadweard Muybridge and the Technological Wild West. I got about ten pages into it last night before falling asleep. So far, I am not that taken with it, and may give it up - but it is about Muybridge, whose motion photos I am in love with, so I may try to love it. These three books in sequence are allowing me to see all these various mythologies about California, and how they all have their roots in the mythology surrounding manifest destiny.

But if you want actual gossip, here goes: I called Chris (Kevin's friendster friend) and left a message on his phone saying we should hang out.

Kevin and Matt are looking for roommates and since Niki is looking for a room, I told her to write Kevin. She did, and in the e-mail she joked how if she lived with them, she wouldn't make out with any dogs. Thank you so much, Niki.

Min, the third roommate who has not slept here since Christmas time, has announced her intentions to move out and Jillian will be moving into our house at the beginning of June.

I still have not filed my taxes. I need a NYC form before I can finish my state tax form, and I was way stressed about this a short hour ago.

What's new with you?

Monday, April 12, 2004

I do not have skin cancer. That is one thing I have going for me. I smell awful and I don't know why. That would most likely be a strike against me.

Yesterday, even though I took a shower, I could smell my b.o. very strongly on the bus ride back to New York. I wasn't sure if it was actually me or one of the items of my clothing. I smelled myself a little, arm to nose, but quit because the guy next to me was kind of cute and reading JT Leroy, which I thought might be evidence that he was a homo. This morning, I woke up naked and could still smell it, so I know that it is me and not some item of clothing. Today calls for some extra suds in the shower.

While at home, I did absoluely nothing. I watched the first two seasons of Sex and the City. That is probably about 15 hours worth of Sex and the City. It was so addictive. I could not, did not want to stop. And it made me feel so good, all the talk about boys and dating, and being dumped. It was such a guilty pleasure. On the bus, I finished Close to the Knives, and read through John Fante's The Road to Los Angeles, which I hated so much but read because it was a gift and was highly reccomended. I really wished I had JT Leroy on the bus. I sort of wanted to ask the possibly gay guy if he wanted to trade books. I didn't. I can't describe to you right now how beautfiul parts of the bus ride were, the streetlamps gliding past the fogged up windows, seeing New Jersey become filled with nothing but power plants, big hulking, steaming things, and knowing that you are almost home, almost back to New York. When I went home to Virginia, everything looks so alien, so ugly, so suburban. I am so happy to be back here. Riding through the Lincoln Tunnel, the tiles glittering as we sped past them, I was so happy, I wanted to cry.

Did I mention I don't have skin cancer? Hot.

Tuesday, April 6, 2004

So, you know how I predicted it was going to be a good day earlier this morning? Well, I am shelving books shortly after arriving at work, a big handful of these Marguerite Yourcenar memoirs, too big a handful to hold in my hand. The books drop to the floor. I pick them up and notice something has fallen out on to the floor. I start to ignore it, thinking that it was just dump crap, a bookmark or a postcard that had fallen out. But then I realize what I am glancing over. I spy a crisp twenty lying on the floor. The other man in the aisle is not paying attention at all and is absorbed in some book. I reach down and pick it up, and see that it is a few twenties. I count through them. One. Two. Three (outrageously excited at this point). Four (Shut the hell up - This stuff does not happen to me). And Five. One hundred dollars literally falls right at me, right during this time when I am wondering if I would be able to pay all my rent this week. I pocketed the money that some rich fan of Yourcenar left lying around in the books they sold to the Strand and was so happy. So many things aligned for that to happen. I am just imagining how had I not dropped that book, that money would just be sitting on the shelf forever, clamped in some book. What a struck of luck!

I found my nail clippers. I found money. And one of Kevin's homo friends wrote to me on Friendster. All in all, today has been a great day.

a sign portending good things

I found the nail clippers! Right in the medicine cabinet where I had looked ten hundred times before. They were just sitting right there. Today is going to be a good day. This must mean something.

Monday, April 5, 2004

Considering that we were not even together that long - a month, a month and a half? - it is funny how adapted I became to certain things, that it only took me a few weeks to get in the habit of doing something or expecting something, and now, I feel how my routine has been disrupted. Tonight, getting off the subway, walking up the stairs out of the station, I reached for my phone with thoughts of Matt.

I did the same thing the past couple nights and thought that it was funny, odd, but tonight, it happened yet again. In such a short amount of time, I developed this habit of talking to Matt as soon as I got off the subway coming home from work. Needless to say, I was sad at this moment. These moments, they are few, are when this situation strikes me as sad. Honestly, I don't really think about it except in these moments where something reminds me of time spent with Matt, but man, in those moments, like just a short while ago - I thought What the hell happened? How did that end so quickly?

Today, I went to the dermatologist and she looked at my back to see if I had any acne there, and while looking at my back, she asked in a concerned tone, "Have these moles gotten darker lately?" And well, basically, I may have skin cancer. I find out in 7-10 days. I am also going to go on the scary drug with eight million scary side effects and that you cannot even get at the pharmacy, that only the dermatologist can distribute, this after a few kids killed themselves while they were on Accutane. She is going to wait to start that to see if I need to be operated on for skin cancer beforehand. Doesn't my life sound great? Casually dumped, severe acne, possible skin cancer, will soon start taking a medication that will make my skin even dryer than it is now and occasionally causes severe depression. Let's see what else: I am still working at the Strand, making a shitty hourly wage. I am insanely broke this week and trying to put various puzzle pieces together to see how I can pay my rent (already late) and go home to Virginia for the weekend. I am going to be turning 23 in a couple months and that seems like the point where you should be doing something with your life. I doubt I will be. I have a scab on my ankle that has been there since the summer. It will not go away. I don't even remember how I got the scab. I don't know where our nail clipper is, I haven't for two weeks, and I refuse to buy another one. I chew my nails. I don't make good conversation. I have bad posture. Our apartment is infested with roaches. Roach motels seem like money I'd rather spend on other things. My bike still doesn't have a bike seat. I haven't danced since god knows when. I hate doing dishes and let them pile up. This probably contributes to the roach problem. I know this and I hate the roaches, but I still don't do the dishes often.

I am listening to Belle and Sebastin's If You're Feeling Sinsister, just in case you were wondering. Now what if I had put on Pizzicato 5 or Beyonce when I got home, what would this entry say instead? It's probably better this way.

Sunday, April 4, 2004

an exercise in ethics i failed

Matt left a bag of tobacco here the last time he spent the night at my house. Friday night, when I was cleaning up, I thought about throwing the bag away, glanced into it, and saw a full bag of weed stashed in there. Now, was the ethical thing to do, to call Matt and let him know that he had forgotten that at my house and offer to return it, giving me a vaild reason to talk to Matt, in which I would have been making a kind gesture? Or, should I have instead got stoned off my ass with friends who did not dump me for kissing a dog?

Do I really need to tell you which one I did? That I spent Friday night getting fucking wasted with Peter and Joe? That yesterday, I woke up and got weak-in-the-knees stoned before I went into the Strand, and did the same thing when I got off work? And I do feel slightly guilty about it, that I have done something wrong, something unethical - maybe even mean-spirited. But he never called to ask about it, never in fact, called at all, so his loss.

Friday, April 2, 2004

thoughts on wojnarowicz, dogville, matt, site specific room installations, and you

Keeping some form of journal is important for both the practice of writing and the slow articulation of thoughts. You grow so much over a period of time in writing things down, you don't have to necessarily keep a daily journal, it can be composed of ideas, plans, future projects, emotions, things on the mind, places to visit for the purpose of photography, what in certain photography excites you (when you get into this it becomes very helpful for learning how to articualte your senses and also creates a definition of what you are trying to do or what inspires you and from there more ideas spring), what mannerisms and qualities people have that you respond to, why this kind of light as opposed to that kind of light is more appealing. Continually define for yourself what you sense. Most of us respond to or are struck by things first on an intense emotional level and though that is important still it is better if we try to define these senses, for then we learn what our critical outlook is composed of, why it responds to certain things rather than others. We in effect learn so much more about ourselves and also map our elusive selves . . . and a sense of groundlessness, of diverse chance. I try to accustom myself to this sense: trust it and accept it without resistance, as change keeps our senses alive, keeps us coasting and viable human beings...
-David Wojnarowicz, In The Shadow of the American Dream (70)

I just finished taking a long shower, am now drinking coffee for no real reason since I really don't have any plans for this evening and don't even know if I feel like leaving my house, but just like the alertness that I feel when I drink coffee, the engaged sense of living. Today, I finished reading the above book, could not stop to even eat or take a shower. Read it all and then did those things. Diaries are always so fascinating to read, to see people stript bare, and to see how other people encounter the world, how they think about things, what they consider beautiful, and by doing so, by reading their perceptions of the world, it allows us to perceive things a bit differently, to look at noses differently, at sexual encoutners differently -- that there are not only all these ways of seeing available to us, but all these things to see, things we never would notice about people's behaviour or streets, but which, we are made aware of by someone else's fascination with them.

Matt would constantly call things beautiful and try to feel them, to touch the texture of them. That habit of his made me notice a lot of things I otherwise would have just glanced over - it has also made me less hesitant about declaring things beautiful publicly. It was such a lovely habit of his, it was really perhaps my favorite quirk of his, seeing that sincere smile, wide eyes, and hearing the word beautiful intoned like a magic word. Right now, at this very moment, he is having a show opening at Cooper Union. I had been excited about this show of his, about seeing his work for the past couple weeks, and now, I am not there, I will not see these things. But Wojnarowicz says "change keeps our senses alive," and yes, it is true - my senses have been jolted in the past few days by this. I am made sad by the slightest things, I am elated by even slighter things. I am reexamining, perhaps thinking for the first time actually about what it is I want from another human being, what it is I would like to get out of a relationship, whether or not I want one, and how to go about getting it if I do, and from whom? What is happiness and what prevents me from realizing it (if indeed I am not living in that state all the time)?

And I know, I promised to myself and to you readers that I would not think bitter thoughts, and for the most part I have not, but I cannot lie to you and tell you that I have not had some wickedly acidic thoughts about Matt. But those have been counterbalanced by about two to one of pleasant thoughts about Matt. I have composed e-mails, cards, and letters to him in the shower, on the subway, in those late hours right before sleep. I have imagined kind things to say, knowing that perhaps I appear most charming on paper. I can say cute things and make you like me. But the letters not only never get sent, but never get put down on paper. I know that it is a bad idea, that cards and letters have never worked for me in the past, that they have been met with silence, and really, that would be too much. So maybe one day soon I will run into Matt at the Metropolitian, maybe by that day I will no longer want to talk to him, or maybe that'll be one of those bitter moments where I won't let myself, or maybe I won't run into him and we'll instead just drink and dance like I have done a million times before, like I do.

Last night, walking back from Peter's house where we watched Dogville (which is for rent at Kim's video!), I walked past Matt's house and could not help but look up towards his window as I was passing by, and his light was on. That made me sad knowing that he was in there, so close, doing things unkown to me. In Dogville, all the houses are just chalk outlines on a stage and you can see all these people so close to each other but acting as if there are house walls seperating each other, but all of this stuff occuring in such close vicinity and no one knowing. Him, not knowing I was probably within thirty feet of him. It is interesting.

Speaking of bitter though, Dogville is some acidic crap. I mean, I actually cannot lie and say that I did not enjoy the movie, nor can I say that it was not pretty amazing, but goddamn, if it did not make me annoyed with its ridiculous caricature of America. When I got home, I scrawled "Fuck you Lars von Trier! What do you know about my life?" before I passed out in my bed, and I really did intend on writing more on the subject. Now my anger has subsided and I don't have the energy despite the coffee. But honestly, Mr. von Trier, can you get a little more ham-fisted? The mammy portrayal of black women in the movie is particularly outrageous, and I am surprised that I have not heard anything concerning that yet. I was literally mouth open shocked when the mammy started talking at the town hall meeting, "Master, yes, Master this..."

There are some ugly truths in the movie about American behavior, but there are also some insane exaggerations also. "Young Americans" playing over the closing credit imagery of WPA photography and then later photos of the American poor is more than a little over the top. And the fact that its by a Danish dude who has never stepped foot in America perhaps should not be an issue, but for me it is, and again, What do you know about my life? About walking past houses, seeing a light on, and getting sad? About rock and roll and beer, Mr. von Trier? Go fuck yourself with your smug theories about film and about what you think I do here in this land! Okay, maybe my anger has not totally dwindled.

Prior to that, I saw three amazing art shows. Jim Lambie at Anton Kern! Wow, wow, wow! There seems to be a trend of site-specific room installations recently. Or perhaps I am just starting to take notice of them now and starting to think about what exactly they mean, and what the appeal of them to me is. But there is Yayoi Kusama, Assume Vivid Astro Focus, and Virgil Marti at the Whitney right now. There is Sabine Horning at Tanya Bonakdar, and also this trippy Jim Lambie show now. I have to think about these shows more. There is something going on with all of them, some one thing that strikes me as awesome. I have yet to figure out what this is.

There were also really lovely paintings by Joe Andoe at Feigen, and either heartbreaking or funny photos by Stuart Hawkins at LFL. The photos are all of Nepali citizens in grotesque parodies (are they though?) or commerical Western culture. There is one of a guy in some barren landscape sporting a Nelly band-aid and doing a thugish pose. Too many issues of globalization and colonialism to sort out what is being said by these photos. There were lots of cute boys at the LFL opening that Joe pointed out, but I was not feeling it, the desire for other boys. Being dumped has taken a toll on my self-esteem which in turn has had its effect of my sex drive. Right now, I don't have the confidence or the energy, and am realizing that the two are perhaps the same. Confidence and energy. Perhaps this is why when I was with Matt and confident, I was having so much luck talking to boys. It's so funny that when you are alone and lacking in confidence that that is when you are going to have the most trouble finding a person, when you probably most need it. Or maybe it's good that way, cause maybe that is when you least need it, that there are things you and I need to learn first before that can happen.