Man, I love being an adult. Living on my own, working a five day a week job, having days off, and doing nothing on them. Causally playing with my pubes after masturbating, glancing at the snowy outside world through the slits in my blinds. Listening to New Order's "Temptation" on repeat for hours, that "You've got green eyes" song that I love so much. There is no one home to get annoyed about it playing on repeat, and so it gets repeated and repeated and I sing along and dance. I do this while eating half a pint of ice cream for breakfast. The same song on repeat. I turn up the volume. And man, there is nothing that comes close to this. Do you know how much freedom we have? I can eat whatever I want, no matter how bad it is for me, at whatever time I so choose. And this power to eat ice cream for breakfast, if I think about it long enough makes me so ridiculously happy. Happy, not only because I am doing what I want regardless of what I "should" be doing, but because - and this is the kicker here, the ephiphany for today that's got me coasting right now - the ability to do this thing, small as it is, is knowledge, a whispered hint that I can do whatever I want with regards to anything. That each day is filled with these potentials, these opportunities to eat ice cream fcr breakfast and listen to That Green Eyes song on repeat. And all I have to do is to do these things, to do things that give me joy, to not do things that don't, and to take control of this life, to have as much fun as possible. And with this knowledge, I think I will take a shower and kick off this day.

A week or so ago at work, I got into a discussion with a few of my co-workers about the merits of the Village Voice, and was fairly shocked to find out that so many people had a low opinion of it. In the Voice's defense, I kept on citing the names Jerry Saltz, Nat Hentoff and Ricahrd Goldstein, as examples of the paper's frequently awesome articles. More proof with the latest issue. Here is the latest Goldstein piece, another well-written queer reading of recent events in popular culture.

it's the joke that has lost its humor at the Strand: I am Stranded

Some days, I have the joy. Today was not one of them. The day started out well. I listened to Bjork's Post on the way to work, an album that I have not listened to in an insanely long time. Bjork used to be such a source of joy for me in high school and my first year of college, but like everything, she was subject to the whims of time, and she was no longer the sure source of joy. But today, this morning on the subway, that unrestrained happiness in her voice, the burps and squeaks of joy - it had its effect.

I went into work so happy. I am not sure how long this lasted, or exactly at what point it switched to something else, but I was cranky and irritable later at work. I find myself constantly tired unless I drink six cups of coffee a day, which I should continue to do because it makes me happy and productive. There are a couple of factors at work in the unhappiness of today. Let us examine them in turn:

1. My Job: Today, I dealt with a few unpleasant people. I had to do some unpleasant chores at work, and I realized that I am tired of working at the Strand, some days it is fun, but days, like today, unstimulated, I know that I need to find a new job, or at least some activity on my days off to keep me coasting through my days at the Strand. My new year's resolution was to find a mentally stimulating and satisfying form of employment. I have been negligent in searching for jobs. This will change because my job is contributing to my unhappiness.

2. My Diet: A co-worker randomly asked me, "What do you eat?" And I replied, "Cereal, coffee, pizza, beer." This is my diet and I am putting not only bad things into my body, but nothing good. When I eat healthy, I feel it in my spirits. I want to cite my especially outrageous diet these past couple of days as one of the reasons of my unhappiness. I am going to eat healthier.

3. My Finances: Oy. Thinking about all of the various bills I have to pay makes me stressed. This is problem is slightly related to Factor in Unhappiness #1. I need to get ahead of the bills curve.

4. My Lack of Physical Movement: It is cold outside, so I don't really do much walking, don't really do anything outside. I cannot afford a gym membership now (see Factor in Unhappiness #3). I haven't been dancing in way too long. The only exercise I get is at work, and that, is not enough to keep those happy chemicals flowing through my body.

And I am sorry for whining, for being one of those people. Trust me, I am not. I am going to work on things to make sure of that. Thank god for music. Thank god for headphones, and yes, Bjork does sing a similar ode on Post, and yes, she is right, music is my one sure source of happiness these days, that and too much coffee. I will work on combining the two. It will be beautiful. Tomorrow, I will be. Maybe a colon cleanser will help things? Maybe if I chop off my hair?

I called my boss this morning, said, "I am not going to be able to come into work this morning." Annoyed, she responded, "You just asked to come in and work this morning."

"I know," I said, very well aware that I had indeed done so, but today I just could not come into work. "My apartment is flooded. The boiler exploded last night, and I have to clean it up today."

"Okay," she said annoyed, probably believing that I was lying.

I was not. Last night, I got home from work, saw a puddle on the living room floor, and heard a jet stream of water splashing around in Min's room. The heater in Min's room was shooting out water onto the walls. I realized that the plot of horror movies is just a more exaggerated version of the homeowner's nightmare. Water/blood shooting out everywhere. The domestic space spiraling out of control, turning into a haunted house, something we cannot control. I put a towel over the source of the water, threw a towel on the living room floor and ran downstairs panicked in search of my landlord, Iris. She was not there, but her tiny old mother was, mopping up water that was way worse on their floor and was streaming through the ceilings. She also does not speak English. The rest of her family was in Pennsylvannia. With many difficulties communicating with her, I found out tha tshe had contacted the heating company, and that they were on their way, but it would take a while since appearantly lots of boilers could not handle the coldness of yesterday. I said okay, and went back upstairs to fret about the situation some more even though there was really nothing I could do. I eventually went to bed, only to be woken up at six, by a violent pounding on my door. It was the little old grandma, screaming for help, that I needed to call the heating people for her since she doesn't speak much English. Appearantly the guy came at three, and it took little grandma a while to get to the door since she was upstairs, and she yelled after him but he was already leaving.

So I called, talked to a very confused heating guy who didn't understand why the owner wasn't calling. I explained. And he said he would send someone but it might take a couple of hours but to turn off the main water. I went downstairs with grandma to look at the pipes. She let me borrow a pair of her tiny flip flops. We went down into the wet basement, stood in freezing cold water and tried to figure out the pipes. She said that she had already tried but that the water didn't turn off. And true enough, I found the same thing. I was no handyman. My father tried to get me to help when he played around with cars, when he did mechanical things, but I didn't, and now, times like these, I pay the price, standing in ankle deep ice water, twisting a pipe handle grudingly and finding it does nothing, that I don't know what I am doing. I am dependent on some heating guy to come resue this apartment building, feeling impotent.

I gave her back her flip flops, her tiny flip flops, which I wore anyways, told her that the heating guy should come soon, apoligized because I didn't know what else to do, saw that the ceiling on the main floor had come off, and water was streaming through, went back to the top floor, wrapped towels around my feet, hoped that the buidling did not collapse, and went back to sleep. So, no, I was not lying about the flood.

ny times weather, for real, is this a joke?

The current temperature (not including wind chill) is 5 degrees. If we are lucky, we will make it to that predicted high of 15 today. Florida, Florida, Florida, I miss you.

My reflection in the bathroom mirror this morning was not a welcome sight. Few sights were probably going to elate me in my hungover state, but looking at my dry, chapped face, at the pimples that made their secret appearance during the night, made me groan. The promises of youth and happiness seemed unfulfilled. I rested my leg on the rocking horse, sat there naked on the chair, a bored expression on my face wondering what happened, where it went, and my sagging breasts told the answer too explicitly. Time happened. The aging process. This morning I was a Philip Pearlstein painting.

Last night, I went to the Philip Pearlstein opening at the Robert Miller gallery, and empathized with artwork for the first time in a long time. There has been work that I liked, that had a message I could nod my head in agreement with, but not something that I could feel. Enter Pearlstein. The large paintings were all of naked middle-aged people (usually women) with either bored faraway looks in their eyes, or eyes closed for what looked like similar reasons, because they did not want to see where they were. The pieces were all adorned prominently with props of youth, the detritus of our childhood memories. A rocking horse. A mickey mouse puppet. A toy lion. And these childhood props, these objects symbolizing youth stood there in stark contrast to these sagging bodies, these unhappy bodies. So much was evoked for me by these paintings. The promises made us to in our youth never seemed to pan out like we hoped, like we were promised. Reailty never seems as much fun as its representation. We age, our skin is dry, chapped, and pimply and the Mickey of our youth, the rocking horse of our youth is still in the same ageless condition. For eternity, or at least for the span of our own lives, as we age, these fetishized objects will remain in the same state, unwrinkled, maybe dusty, but still there promising the same things, and fooled too many times now, we look at the objects differently, but still with hope that ennui can be overcome, thinking back to those days before it existed. The mood of these paintings for whatever reason seemed similar to the mood of Lost in Translation, and during the show, I could hear Jesus and Mary Chain's "Just Like Honey." Can you tell that I loved this show? I encourage anyone in New York to check in out. 526 W. 26th Street.

This show was especially pleasant to see after having seen John Currin's show at the Whitney last week, who also has a similar subject matter: suburban middle-aged women. However, the Currin show infuriated me. I am still a little undecided about it, whether the offense it provoked in me is a good thing or a bad thing. I went through the show backwards chronologically, starting with his most recent paintings, which I liked, to his smarmy depictions of suburban women, to his female nudes, to his obnoxious paitings of absurdly buxom women, to crap. His work is rife with insincerity and condescenion. I hate it so much. It rubs me in completely the wrong way. I think a Currin's a jackass.

After that scary encounter with the mirror, I shaved, showered, applied moisturizer and with the passage of a few hours and the consumption of a few cups of coffee felt better, could still believe the promises.

---------------
In celeb spotting news, Ryan Adams was at the Pearlstein opening. And Chuck Close (!!!) was at the Joe Zucker opening. Megan spotted both of them. Just about every time I am with Megan, she spots celebs, people that I would never have noticed. It can't just be that everytime I am with Megan, there are celebs, it must be that I am oblivious and probably pass them all the time not noticing. Tonight, I am going to check out the Stay Gold gallery across the street from me, and then hopefully finish this tranny memoir, She's Not There: A Life in Two Genders.

I just finished reading How Soon is Never? by Marc Spitz, a fairly mediocre work of fiction that was only read because it is all about a kid who is obsessed with the Smiths. I read most of it listening to Bona Drag which is the perfect soundtrack to these cold, lonely days. And I want to emphasize that cold part. High of 28 today! That is painfully cold.

I bought a five dollar hat so my ears wouldn't fall off today. My face gets dry and requires constant moisturizer. I do not like being outside. The sky is clear on these cold nights, but I never want to linger too long staring at it, thinking about all those little suns out there. Full moon tonight. And I am here in my bedroom alone, right next door, Dara is in hers with some boy. Thank god for headphones and Morrissey. I dream about hugging people, cute moody boys with pompadours, holding them close, feeling less lonely. Again, it is cold. Again, I am listening to Morrissey.

Today's mission: Smile at ten strangers on the street. Observe the results.

Yesterday, I did exercises in participating in conversations with strangers. Rather than just directing people towards books, I asked them questions. Some guy asked me, "Do you have Gay Street?", and I followed with "Let me check, what's that about, is that the one they had a big write-up in the Times about?" When a female asked for Samuel Delaney and Judith Butler, I talked to her about both of them, and talked to her about her thesis, and she asked me what I was doing, and then gave me encouraging advice when I said that I did not really know, that I need to figure that out. I was screaming about Whitman (who else?) to Will and Allison when some old Jewish man interjected, "Whitman was a patriot!" And then I entered into a twenty minute talk with this old man about Whitman, Frost, current "American" poetry, terrorism, Israel, and listened to him explain why "every Arab" hates the Jews. It was definitely an encounter. I am trying to make myself as open to these encounters as possible, that this is where life is, here in these interactions. Today, I am going to chase it. You can participate too. You should. At least ten strangers.

I woke up yesterday, on the first day of this new year at 2004, reasonably bright and early, considering that I went to bed late and drunk on New Year's Eve, and I put on good music, looked out my kitchen window at the first light of this year and rejoiced. Rejoiced because two of my good friends were asleep on my living room and I woke them up, brought them into 2004.

One day before that, on New Year's Eve, I was at work so happy, high, literally high on coffee and could not hold in my sense of jubulation that time was moving, we were on the cusp of something new, and man, imagine all the things that could occur, all the amazing things that had. So hold on tight, tight, and grasp at every object of beauty. The sun sets really early up here during this time of year, and during my lunch on the eve of 2004, I could already see the sun setting behind office buildings, high rises, apartments. I grasped at it, told a couple of my co-workers to be quick, to catch those last rays of this year. Things are constantly ending, we recieve news that people we have known have died, one year closes, and all we can do is grasp at the beauty that does surround us before it fades, before it scatters off to other states and counties.

This year, I cut off ties with my dying father for the most part. I was kicked out of school, and I moved away from my closest friends in this world, I moved away from the best community I ever lived in, moved from the Sunshine State to New York where I knew one person. I moved for no real reason in particular other than I knew that it was time for something new. And each one of those fucking moments, and all the moments in between them, the downtime, I loved, I fucking loved so much. And in nostalgic moments (the start of a new year, for example), I think back on those things, think of biking on my crappy bike down 41 to the Best Western, which was the easiest job I ever had, and where I encountered so many people, new people coming in every day from all over, occasionally giving me glimmers of wisdom. Stealing subs from Publix, glossy magazines from Barnes and Nobles, and taking the loot to the beach where they were consumed under a gorgeous sun, on white sand next to clear, warm water. Dancing under stars to music I liked. Living room sing-a-longs to Jamie's guitar. Citrus trees. Starfruit.

And I arrived here with all my worldy possesions stuffed into two bags. I have lived in Red Hook, and three apartments in Williamsburg. I have a job, health insurance, and am going about the process of creating a community of friends here in New York. I have seen shows that made me excited about visual art, about music, and even more importantly, these works, these performaces, have also got me excited about the process of life, have made me thrilled at the sight of sunrays, of someone singing along to their headphones as walk down the street, as they pass me in a state of bliss, making me see the possibility of my own bliss is never that far away as I will sometimes imagaine on days where I am feeling lethargic and do not do enough activities, do not take this project of life as seriously as it demands of us.

December 30th, I was too tired to go out with Beki. Inspired by a story Peter told me, I have resolved to not to not anything because I am too ired. I am in Brooklyn, yes, but sleep can wait. And so after partying all New Year's Eve at Sterling's, kissing a boy briefly, seeing firewords from a rooftop, and dancing, I woke up with a few hours of sleep and a smile on my face, and headed off to Coney Island with Rebecca, Beki, and Christy for the New Year's day Polar Bear event. We got there after the big jump but Beki, Rebecca, and I still jumped into the freezing water. And it was fun. The March Band, a ragtag marching band, played and danced. It was an awesome sight. The sun was already lowering. People were fishing. A homeless sage in the public bathroom wished me a happy new year and told me I was a good guy. And I loved it. There are all these things to do. So many moments that I am going to live through.

Resolutions:

1. Never not do anything because you are tired.
2. Sleep less
3. Apply for new jobs
4. Go to school
5. Get a part-time internship on days off or volunteer
6. Write gorgeous things
7. Make friends
8. Smile and be kind

I rode the subway home with my head on Peter's shoulder, drunk, tired, and sad, terribly sad, while Joe and Peter were having some discussion that I really did not care too much about. I might have some other time, but tonight I just wanted to mope. I went out to the Cock (yes, again), and so many of my crushes were in attendence. Josh. Who I talked to, and who is not interested in me. Jonathon's friend, who I talked to about Jonathon and his 32 year old boyfriend. Jonathon's friend may have liked me I think, but I just wanted to talk to him about Jonathon.

And then David was there. I slept with David at the beginning of the summer, and was obsessed with him before then, and still am. He is into queer theory, sex work, and works for Routledge. I think he is so fucking cool. Tonight, I found myself talking with him about this Judith Butler essay I am reading, "Global Violence, Sexual Politics," about 9-11. I think he thinks I am an interesting person because he sincerely complimented me, saying he was glad that I read this stuff, and that I let things affect me. He was actually really nice to talk to. But I do not think he is into me in a physical sense. But it is nice, really nice, to get that impressed look from someone's eyes, where you can tell they think you are a neat person.

Later, after exchanging glances with this one boy all night, I finally started dancing with him, and he did not touch me, he did not grab me, did not pull me toward him, did not desire me. I found myself touching him, and wanted so badly for him to grab me back, to touch me. It did not happen. We danced more, he talked to me, asked me the what's your name and what do you do questions, and then I ran away, ran to Joe and Peter, ditched the boy because he either he did not desire me or was too shy to act on it - and either way, I would not have been satisfied. And really, this all relates back to this Butler essay, because in it, she goes on and on about the vulnerability of bodies, a really beautiful essay, and it had me thinking about my own vulnerable body, and I just want to be touched. I want someone to desire me.

"The body implies mortality, vulnerability, agency: the skin and flesh expose us to the gaze of others, but also to touch, and to violence; the body can be the agency and instrument of all these as well." (185)

"I also suggested that the way in which the body figures in gender and sexuality studies, and in the struggles for a less oppresive world for the otherwise gendered and for sexual minorities of all kinds, is precisely to underscore the value of being beside oneself, or being a porous boundary, given over to others, finding oneself in a trajectory of desire that takes one out of oneself, resituates one irreversibly in the field of others. The particular sociality thtat belongs to bodily life, to sexual life, and to becoming gendered (which is always, to a certain extent, becoming gendered for others) establishes a field of ethical enmeshment with others." (189)

And I wasn't touched. My body was left vulerable. I was terribly sad, and rested my head on Peter's shoulder. Tomorrow, Beki is coming. The next day, Rebecca. My room is a shithole with used tissues all over the floor from when I was sick and too lazy to throw my snot rags away. Also, I am pretty sure that I do not have one towel that has not been used to clean up cum. Oh well, I doubt that I will wake up early enough to do laundry tomorrow morning.