Sadly, this Prince project has fallen so far off schedule that I don't know what to do with it now, most likely abandoning the project as I have only written about the first two albums and I was supposed to be doing at least one a day to lead up to this concert. I would really have to plow them, which you know, maybe, but we'll see. I was listening to his fourth studio album today, Controversy, which, in case you did not know, is amazing, the title track especially. I had only been familiar with the edited down version of this track that appears on his Hits CD. This expansive seven minute version is so beautiful, such an amazing funk song that I cannot get enough of.
Jacob's home. Just got home.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
917 LOKO
I have two Four Lokos in my fridge awaiting Jacob to wake up. I thought we should consume them given the news going around today that New York has strong-armed beer distributors not to distribute caffeinated alcohol drinks in the Empire State any longer. Senator Chuck Schumer, blowhard like most of his colleagues, gave comments about a dead girl and said he wanted the stuff banned. I want hysterical media trend pieces banned. I want people that would deny adults things banned. I want stupidity banned. I want people that encourage prohibition banned. Alas, that's not how things work. How things work instead is that major media outlets rather than talking about one of millions of things that actually matter have decided that this is a problem for the nation's youth, these BRIGHT and COLORFUL cans of alcohol with caffeine in them, that people are getting fucked up for only three dollars. Such a thing cannot be allowed. It should be more economically prohibitive for people to get fucked up. We don't want poor people and young adults able to buy these things. Think of the children.
Well, because of a confluence of stupid media and stupid politicians, the offending drinks are now not allowed in several states. Children can go back to huffing paint and aerosol sprays. Parents can breath easier.
I want to smoke cigarettes, which I don't really do anymore, as I drink these. Hopefully Jacob has some on him and will give me one or two or three. In a few hours, I will again attempt to go see Bruce LaBruce's LA Zombie. Right now, I am listening to Prince's first album, For You, and watching this beautiful sky outside of my kitchen window.
Today is beautiful. The weather is hovering somewhere around sixty degrees, the trees are still showing off their fall colors, and everyone on the streets I walked today looked beautiful and happy, their beautifulness probably a direct result of them being happy and it showing. There was a joy on the street, everyone slightly aware that this is probably the last hurrah, that the weather probably won't be this warm again until March or so, maybe even April, that winter and its chilly temperatures lie ahead for us, and that this was a nice holiday in which we were allowed to wear a hoodie or a sweater, in which we did not have to wear a jacket.
I am about to embark on a project now that I am really excited about. The Prince concert is a month away and I'm going to work my way through all of his albums in chronological order, making a zine about my reactions to them, about my experiences with these thirty some albums. Or I am going to try to. I'm going to see what these writings turn out to be. I could have just posted them here as normal blog entries, but I want to try something different, mix it up a bit, see what the results are if I think I am writing for paper and not computer screens. The travel guide is again being put on hold because you have to do what interests you, go where the steam is. And Prince is certainly where it is right now for me.
Well, because of a confluence of stupid media and stupid politicians, the offending drinks are now not allowed in several states. Children can go back to huffing paint and aerosol sprays. Parents can breath easier.
I want to smoke cigarettes, which I don't really do anymore, as I drink these. Hopefully Jacob has some on him and will give me one or two or three. In a few hours, I will again attempt to go see Bruce LaBruce's LA Zombie. Right now, I am listening to Prince's first album, For You, and watching this beautiful sky outside of my kitchen window.
Today is beautiful. The weather is hovering somewhere around sixty degrees, the trees are still showing off their fall colors, and everyone on the streets I walked today looked beautiful and happy, their beautifulness probably a direct result of them being happy and it showing. There was a joy on the street, everyone slightly aware that this is probably the last hurrah, that the weather probably won't be this warm again until March or so, maybe even April, that winter and its chilly temperatures lie ahead for us, and that this was a nice holiday in which we were allowed to wear a hoodie or a sweater, in which we did not have to wear a jacket.
I am about to embark on a project now that I am really excited about. The Prince concert is a month away and I'm going to work my way through all of his albums in chronological order, making a zine about my reactions to them, about my experiences with these thirty some albums. Or I am going to try to. I'm going to see what these writings turn out to be. I could have just posted them here as normal blog entries, but I want to try something different, mix it up a bit, see what the results are if I think I am writing for paper and not computer screens. The travel guide is again being put on hold because you have to do what interests you, go where the steam is. And Prince is certainly where it is right now for me.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
liquids consumed, bodily and otherwise
I was at Public Assembly. The party was Ohio-themed, and I went there with Erica, who is from Ohio and was really excited about the party. I wasn't sure what the Ohio theme necessarily was about. There were a lot of straight people drinking PBR and whiskey. I danced a lot to some interesting music that I don't always hear played at dance parties. There was a string of Afropop/jam songs that I was trying to connect to the state of Ohio, tried doing this for a bit, but it was distracting me from the movement, from the things I wanted to do with my body to this song, that my mind was too much at work here at the expense of my body and at the expense of a physical communion with the music. The thoughts were a hindrance, a roadblock to that. Another shot of whiskey please.
Everyone was about to go out to smoke and I was going to join them, but James Brown came on over the speakers, "I Don't Want Nobody to Give Me Nothing," and I stopped following the smokers and ran back to the dancefloor by myself and twirled around and danced like a crazy person because I love James Brown and I love this song and it was not the typical selection you might have expected if someone were going to choose a James Brown song to throw into their DJ set. Its newness in a dance setting was what made the encounter all the more thrilling.
I then did go join up with the smokers, quite drunk and wanting a cigarette, wanting twenty of them, one after the next, my non-smoking falling by the wayside to the whims and desires of a drunk Charlie. I headed back inside and stood in the line to pee. I ended up in line behind a certain celebrity that I think is insanely sexy and have a big crush on. I don't want to say his name in this age of Google, where it will appear in a Google Alert or search for him. Looking at the stats of this webpage, it is really odd to see how people end up on this page by searching this or that name or this or that random collection of words, and so we'll try to avoid that by saying that he is the star of Entourage.
I ended up behind him waiting to use the urinal. My mind was going crazy, kind of unable to believe that this sexy man was peeing a mere five feet away from me, that his dick was out near me pissing into a urinal that I would be pissing into. Maybe you know me well or have encountered me drunk and horny, and so maybe you know that I have a thing for piss, or used to a lot more than I do now, but it really came back to the surface last night while I was waiting to use this urinal. I was so incredibly aroused and excited, thrilled. He left without flushing. I checked to make sure no one else was in that part of the bathroom before I dipped my fingers into his piss. Someone else at this moment came into the bathroom and I quickly pulled my fingers back up before they noticed. I wanted to lick my fingers, was going to. The guy was busying himself at the sink while waiting for the urinal, his back to me. I licked the fingers quickly, one by one, wishing I could do more than catch these couple of drops of pee off my fingers, wanted to bury my face in the urinal. But that was not an option, at a straight party, probably not even an option at a gay party. I pissed myself, my pee joining this sexy man's. I flushed the toilet, sending our pee together twirling down pipes, dancing through this city's sewage.
I got bored, was horny now at this point, and my options for finding an outlet for this horniness were limited there. When Adam asked if I wanted to go to Metro, I eagerly said yes, and him, Kevin, and I walked there together. Once there, I drank more, things becoming more and more blurred. I think I asked a couple of people to have sex with me. I did say no to one person who was really creepy and told me to come home with him. He asked too early, soon after I got there. Had I encountered him a bit later, my answer might have been different.
I came home and made some potstickers, starving, those the only thing in my fridge. I went to sleep soon after, thinking about sex but not masturbating, drunk and tired, wanting seemingly competing things, sleep winning the competition easily.
Everyone was about to go out to smoke and I was going to join them, but James Brown came on over the speakers, "I Don't Want Nobody to Give Me Nothing," and I stopped following the smokers and ran back to the dancefloor by myself and twirled around and danced like a crazy person because I love James Brown and I love this song and it was not the typical selection you might have expected if someone were going to choose a James Brown song to throw into their DJ set. Its newness in a dance setting was what made the encounter all the more thrilling.
I then did go join up with the smokers, quite drunk and wanting a cigarette, wanting twenty of them, one after the next, my non-smoking falling by the wayside to the whims and desires of a drunk Charlie. I headed back inside and stood in the line to pee. I ended up in line behind a certain celebrity that I think is insanely sexy and have a big crush on. I don't want to say his name in this age of Google, where it will appear in a Google Alert or search for him. Looking at the stats of this webpage, it is really odd to see how people end up on this page by searching this or that name or this or that random collection of words, and so we'll try to avoid that by saying that he is the star of Entourage.
I ended up behind him waiting to use the urinal. My mind was going crazy, kind of unable to believe that this sexy man was peeing a mere five feet away from me, that his dick was out near me pissing into a urinal that I would be pissing into. Maybe you know me well or have encountered me drunk and horny, and so maybe you know that I have a thing for piss, or used to a lot more than I do now, but it really came back to the surface last night while I was waiting to use this urinal. I was so incredibly aroused and excited, thrilled. He left without flushing. I checked to make sure no one else was in that part of the bathroom before I dipped my fingers into his piss. Someone else at this moment came into the bathroom and I quickly pulled my fingers back up before they noticed. I wanted to lick my fingers, was going to. The guy was busying himself at the sink while waiting for the urinal, his back to me. I licked the fingers quickly, one by one, wishing I could do more than catch these couple of drops of pee off my fingers, wanted to bury my face in the urinal. But that was not an option, at a straight party, probably not even an option at a gay party. I pissed myself, my pee joining this sexy man's. I flushed the toilet, sending our pee together twirling down pipes, dancing through this city's sewage.
I got bored, was horny now at this point, and my options for finding an outlet for this horniness were limited there. When Adam asked if I wanted to go to Metro, I eagerly said yes, and him, Kevin, and I walked there together. Once there, I drank more, things becoming more and more blurred. I think I asked a couple of people to have sex with me. I did say no to one person who was really creepy and told me to come home with him. He asked too early, soon after I got there. Had I encountered him a bit later, my answer might have been different.
I came home and made some potstickers, starving, those the only thing in my fridge. I went to sleep soon after, thinking about sex but not masturbating, drunk and tired, wanting seemingly competing things, sleep winning the competition easily.
Friday, November 5, 2010
fall
The leaves are changing and I am aware of this fact in a way a bit removed from past years. I have spent little time amongst these trees but do occasionally see them from the windows of high floors down below, or notice them during the afternoons after work when I am walking somewhere and the light is already heading toward the horizon and is crisp and mellow in that fall way that inspires all varieties of thought, happiness to sadness and all the points in between, and the light is caught really lovingly by the tree leaves, these dying leaves, their last embrace of a light that is about to leave them, a tender embrace on a train platform, someone heading off to a different town and it the last time they will probably ever see each other. There is knowing that, that sadness, and then there is that other town someone is heading off to and an excitement about that fact.
I work too much in a job that requires me to get there too early each day, so that I am always, despite intentions otherwise, falling asleep by about ten o'clock most nights. I have been getting stoned a lot, watching episodes of 30 Rock, and waking up hours later on the couch, aware that I passed out, peeling out my contacts, and sleeping in my bed for a couple of hours before waking up at 5:45.
The other day I was talking to an out-of-town friend who was in-town, Brendan, about my life over mulled wine and pumpkin soup at Mud. I told him about my life and I wasn't too impressed with my narration of it, with the things available to me to narrate. I told him about this project I had intended to begin working on in November, that I really wanted to finish it by the end of the year, and two months of decent work seemed like a fair amount of time to get this thing done. I still intend to do this, but do find that November, much like this year and the past ten months are speeding by much too fast. I think I'm going to start writing in coffee shops, that the atmosphere seems very encouraging of that. When I am home from work, Jacob is often sleeping before going to work his overnights, and that makes me sleepy, makes me lie on the couch and take unintended naps and masturbate, things that are all well and fine, and which I am as big a proponent of as anyone, however things which are getting in the way of goals I have set for myself.
Tomorrow is my Friday. I am going to try to see some leaves and eat a burger and maybe put this new ZipCar membership to use on a trip somewhere, perhaps to see leaves, perhaps to Red Hook to visit Home Depot and Ikea. I really do love the new Deerhunter album and am listening to it now as I write these things, as I sip from this glass of red wine, a Cabernet, contemplating what it means to inhabit a body that is going to die.
I work too much in a job that requires me to get there too early each day, so that I am always, despite intentions otherwise, falling asleep by about ten o'clock most nights. I have been getting stoned a lot, watching episodes of 30 Rock, and waking up hours later on the couch, aware that I passed out, peeling out my contacts, and sleeping in my bed for a couple of hours before waking up at 5:45.
The other day I was talking to an out-of-town friend who was in-town, Brendan, about my life over mulled wine and pumpkin soup at Mud. I told him about my life and I wasn't too impressed with my narration of it, with the things available to me to narrate. I told him about this project I had intended to begin working on in November, that I really wanted to finish it by the end of the year, and two months of decent work seemed like a fair amount of time to get this thing done. I still intend to do this, but do find that November, much like this year and the past ten months are speeding by much too fast. I think I'm going to start writing in coffee shops, that the atmosphere seems very encouraging of that. When I am home from work, Jacob is often sleeping before going to work his overnights, and that makes me sleepy, makes me lie on the couch and take unintended naps and masturbate, things that are all well and fine, and which I am as big a proponent of as anyone, however things which are getting in the way of goals I have set for myself.
Tomorrow is my Friday. I am going to try to see some leaves and eat a burger and maybe put this new ZipCar membership to use on a trip somewhere, perhaps to see leaves, perhaps to Red Hook to visit Home Depot and Ikea. I really do love the new Deerhunter album and am listening to it now as I write these things, as I sip from this glass of red wine, a Cabernet, contemplating what it means to inhabit a body that is going to die.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Prince
I still kind of cannot believe it. I am going to see Prince play in a month and a half. Prince! I have never been this giddy to see anymore play before, except for maybe Bjork when I was 17 and she played at Capital Ballroom in DC, maybe then, or maybe when I was going to see Cake play on my birthday, 17th or 18th - I can't remember which - but I guess the theme here is not in a really long time have I felt this way. Prince means so much to me and maybe more than any other musician living wows me, absolutely astonishes me and makes me so wow sometimes when I contemplate all that he puts of himself into a song sometimes when I am listening to one, makes me go ohshitshitshititsallsofuckingtrue. The things this man does to me with his music! More than any other artist Prince gets longing, gets what it to want a person so badly that it consumes you, his songs are full of the most intense desire, that you can feel this man's pleasure in the erotic thrills and the attendant heartaches that go with them. It bleeds through in his voice and in his guitar playing, in his piano playing. This man is insanely good with his voice and with his fingers and with multiple instruments and he knows how to communicate so well through so many mediums, that you know he is a great lover, that he has to be given how good he is with his body to make this music, say these things.
He has such a large body of work and so much of it is so incredibly amazing. Even the stuff I don't necessarily go crazy over is still pretty great music, but I keep on developing new crushes on songs. The first one that brought me into this man was "Kiss." I heard it on the radio a couple times and thought it was such an amazing song. I bought the 3 CD Hits collection of his and fell in love and I have been totally obsessed with this man's music ever since. The two songs lately that I cannot get enough of and cycle through my iPod again and again are "17 Days" and "She's Always in My Hair," both so intense and heartfelt and sincere that they make me totally weak in the knees. And I am going to see this man play in person who has the ability to make me hold my hand up to my heart and want to pause in the midst of walking to catch my breath that a person is saying these things, making these feelings real, and this man, I am going to see play, this man who has the ability to break my heart while I am riding the subway and listening to music. And you have to be careful because there used to be a time when you used to listen to music on the subway because you wanted to listen to music, that Point A and Point B were really interruptions of your time with music, not bookends to it, and you have to be careful because you don't want the case to start becoming that music just becomes a way to make the travel between Point and Point B go by quicker, that it becomes just something to do, not something you want, not an intensity of feeling and a mutually giving relationship here, the listener offering his up their heart and attention for something that was created out of what you feel is an honest need.
I am climbing out of a hangover that I had been feeling most of the day. Listening to Prince has almost entirely erased how I felt during the earlier part of the day. I am again remembering how insanely excited I was yesterday when Erica, Tom, and I got tickets to see this person and I realized that I was actually going to see this person play! That feeling came back a short awhile ago when I put on this music. Prior to that I was in a stupor as my body worked on processing and expelling all the alcohol that I poured into it last night on my journeys around this city dressed as the bumble bee girl from Blind Melon's "No Rain" video.
Jacob and I went to the screening of Bruce LaBruce's "La Zombie" at Drom. The movie was supposed to start at eight and both of us had been hoping it would because we wanted to spend our Halloweens getting drunk and sloppy and dancing, had other parties that we were going to head to at 10 when the movie ended. Nearing nine o'clock, the movie had still yet to start and someone came on stage to announce that the bar would not allow the unedited X-rated version to screen and that we were awaiting an edited version to arrive to screen. The crowd booed and rightfully so. It's particularly outrageous that either the bar didn't know what they had signed up for or that they would change their mind last minute or that they would even care in New York City about what they hell they were screening and whether its content was too risque. It makes me very angry to ponder what this means that a bar in the East Village would do this, what this means if I were to make an analogy about the current state of New York compared to what seems like not that long ago, what this shift is due to and why we allow it to happen.
We decided to skip out on the movie since I'd rather see its unedited version first and it's screening during the MIX Festival in a week or so. We rode the L train over to Hiro Ballroom for the Butt Party. We were there for an hour or so, an hour of which time also was an open vodka bar. Already over having to buy expensive drinks after our time at the disappointing Drom, we were going to get our drunk on for cheap while we still could and pounded back perhaps too many drinks during that time window. At a certain point, we decided to head to Vandam, where I had wanted to end up, where I had wanted to lose my mind and dance among insanely dressed people. We took a cab down there and once we got out of the cab, Jacob puked on the street and we paused like it was nothing. Kept on going. It was that type of night - loud and wasted, and pushing on cause you are playing hard and rock and rolling or whatever it is - you are living and you can't let things like puke slow you down. At Vandam, we drank some more because logic and moderation are of no use to a drunk mind and we danced upstairs and downstairs. At some point on the dancefloor, I decided to take off my tights. I am not really sure how I did then, if I took of my leotard to do this there on the dancefloor, but I am more and more pretty sure I must have. I do know that without my tights on and dancing around in a tutu, I felt more and more horny, more dirty, more away of my penis underneath my tutu, liked the feeling of being in it, the idea that naughtiness could be hidden from view, skirted (if you will) by a skirt. And because really maybe I am an exhibitionist and horny, I found myself with a boner being jerked off by Jacob, jerking off with him (at Greenhouse? What, I said to myself this morning, soberly recalling my insane behavior). And because it you are going to go hard, then you are going to go hard, I got head from Jacob and some other boy, and I am not sure how obvious this was but I am sure it must have been.
We stumbled into a cab to take us home and on the way home, texted people and searched on Grindr for people that we could get to have sex with us. We sent dirty pictures to some people, so horny. We got home and, needless to say, passed out, did not have sex. This morning when we got out of bed, Jacob said that our room looked like a clown explosion had occurred, costume pieces all over the floor, clearly taken off in a frenzy to make it from the front door to our bed and to be naked by the time we got there.
And since waking up, the day has been spent watching trashy movies and reality television shows and being pretty brain dead. Jacob is asleep on our bed and I am awake now, feeling quite alive, this man Prince returning my spirits, giving me the blood that the vampires and monsters and myself consumed last night as we all danced around the fire, consumed by it, celebrating the madness, the deviltry, of this life.
He has such a large body of work and so much of it is so incredibly amazing. Even the stuff I don't necessarily go crazy over is still pretty great music, but I keep on developing new crushes on songs. The first one that brought me into this man was "Kiss." I heard it on the radio a couple times and thought it was such an amazing song. I bought the 3 CD Hits collection of his and fell in love and I have been totally obsessed with this man's music ever since. The two songs lately that I cannot get enough of and cycle through my iPod again and again are "17 Days" and "She's Always in My Hair," both so intense and heartfelt and sincere that they make me totally weak in the knees. And I am going to see this man play in person who has the ability to make me hold my hand up to my heart and want to pause in the midst of walking to catch my breath that a person is saying these things, making these feelings real, and this man, I am going to see play, this man who has the ability to break my heart while I am riding the subway and listening to music. And you have to be careful because there used to be a time when you used to listen to music on the subway because you wanted to listen to music, that Point A and Point B were really interruptions of your time with music, not bookends to it, and you have to be careful because you don't want the case to start becoming that music just becomes a way to make the travel between Point and Point B go by quicker, that it becomes just something to do, not something you want, not an intensity of feeling and a mutually giving relationship here, the listener offering his up their heart and attention for something that was created out of what you feel is an honest need.
I am climbing out of a hangover that I had been feeling most of the day. Listening to Prince has almost entirely erased how I felt during the earlier part of the day. I am again remembering how insanely excited I was yesterday when Erica, Tom, and I got tickets to see this person and I realized that I was actually going to see this person play! That feeling came back a short awhile ago when I put on this music. Prior to that I was in a stupor as my body worked on processing and expelling all the alcohol that I poured into it last night on my journeys around this city dressed as the bumble bee girl from Blind Melon's "No Rain" video.
Jacob and I went to the screening of Bruce LaBruce's "La Zombie" at Drom. The movie was supposed to start at eight and both of us had been hoping it would because we wanted to spend our Halloweens getting drunk and sloppy and dancing, had other parties that we were going to head to at 10 when the movie ended. Nearing nine o'clock, the movie had still yet to start and someone came on stage to announce that the bar would not allow the unedited X-rated version to screen and that we were awaiting an edited version to arrive to screen. The crowd booed and rightfully so. It's particularly outrageous that either the bar didn't know what they had signed up for or that they would change their mind last minute or that they would even care in New York City about what they hell they were screening and whether its content was too risque. It makes me very angry to ponder what this means that a bar in the East Village would do this, what this means if I were to make an analogy about the current state of New York compared to what seems like not that long ago, what this shift is due to and why we allow it to happen.
We decided to skip out on the movie since I'd rather see its unedited version first and it's screening during the MIX Festival in a week or so. We rode the L train over to Hiro Ballroom for the Butt Party. We were there for an hour or so, an hour of which time also was an open vodka bar. Already over having to buy expensive drinks after our time at the disappointing Drom, we were going to get our drunk on for cheap while we still could and pounded back perhaps too many drinks during that time window. At a certain point, we decided to head to Vandam, where I had wanted to end up, where I had wanted to lose my mind and dance among insanely dressed people. We took a cab down there and once we got out of the cab, Jacob puked on the street and we paused like it was nothing. Kept on going. It was that type of night - loud and wasted, and pushing on cause you are playing hard and rock and rolling or whatever it is - you are living and you can't let things like puke slow you down. At Vandam, we drank some more because logic and moderation are of no use to a drunk mind and we danced upstairs and downstairs. At some point on the dancefloor, I decided to take off my tights. I am not really sure how I did then, if I took of my leotard to do this there on the dancefloor, but I am more and more pretty sure I must have. I do know that without my tights on and dancing around in a tutu, I felt more and more horny, more dirty, more away of my penis underneath my tutu, liked the feeling of being in it, the idea that naughtiness could be hidden from view, skirted (if you will) by a skirt. And because really maybe I am an exhibitionist and horny, I found myself with a boner being jerked off by Jacob, jerking off with him (at Greenhouse? What, I said to myself this morning, soberly recalling my insane behavior). And because it you are going to go hard, then you are going to go hard, I got head from Jacob and some other boy, and I am not sure how obvious this was but I am sure it must have been.
We stumbled into a cab to take us home and on the way home, texted people and searched on Grindr for people that we could get to have sex with us. We sent dirty pictures to some people, so horny. We got home and, needless to say, passed out, did not have sex. This morning when we got out of bed, Jacob said that our room looked like a clown explosion had occurred, costume pieces all over the floor, clearly taken off in a frenzy to make it from the front door to our bed and to be naked by the time we got there.
And since waking up, the day has been spent watching trashy movies and reality television shows and being pretty brain dead. Jacob is asleep on our bed and I am awake now, feeling quite alive, this man Prince returning my spirits, giving me the blood that the vampires and monsters and myself consumed last night as we all danced around the fire, consumed by it, celebrating the madness, the deviltry, of this life.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Spotted Sex Pig
I am still recalling the moments spent eating a burger earlier tonight. There are some moments with food when I know that it is going to be a moment I will recall later on, that I will want to, that this is the burger I am going to cite later on down the line when someone asks me my favorite burger, and that I should try to recall all of the details. I was seated upstairs at The Spotted Pig, Jacob next to me, me already a bit tipsy on Whiskey and Cokes, taking in the scenery. The burger came and it was the most perfect burger I can recall ever eating. I asked for it medium rare, and it was actually cooked that way, unlike at most restaurants. The buns had cross hatches from being grilled and tasted slightly of butter. The patty was topped with roquefort cheese, and only with this - no onions, no lettuce, no tomato, no ketchup. It was perfect as is. I had no desire to put ketchup on it. Every bite was so insanely good. It was what good food should be, something approximating sex in your mouth.
Corner Bistro has now lost its crown to Spotted Pig. I have a new favorite burger in New York. I wish I had the means and time to eat this burger every single day. Afterwards, I smoked a cigarette with Jacob, even though I have quit and smoked only a few in the last couple of months, because it was that fucking good and I needed to calm down. This was a cinematic post-fuck scene and I had to puff on a cigarette, to both catch my breath and reflect on how I had lost it in the first place.
While puffing on these cigarettes and me talking about how much I loved this burger and how I was going to go home and masturbate to it, we walked up to PPOW on West 25th Street to go to a reading by Max Steele, Joseph Whitt, and Brontez Purnell. Each was amazing, particularly Brontez. I had never heard him read before and so it was a real treat to hear him perform, especially since he veered so much from what reading in my mind has normally meant. He had notes and what appeared to be stories in front of him, but rarely looked them, and instead seemingly ad-libbed these insanely comic monologues about shit on dick, barebacking, and white college-age lesbians that were amazing. They were raunchy and offensive, but more than anything true, and so quite lovely to hear. It was an inspiring moment, that the most affecting stuff, the things that listeners and readers will most respond to are true things, even if they make you sound like an asshole, that maybe it's not the best idea to encourage unsafe sex or to talk about how annoying white lesbians can be, that these things will rub people the wrong way, but that they will also rub some people the right way, that people will recognize their own feelings in your rants, that that is what writing is supposed to be, an attempt at honesty, and that what is true might not always be the most glamorous thing, might not be the way you want to present yourself. There are so many of my friends that I wish I had encouraged to come with me to this, that would have laughed so hard and taken so much from it, enjoyed it so much.
This burger was so insanely good.
Jacob and I fucked last night. Poppers and weed and noise were involved. It was seventy something degrees today in late October. I am going to be the bumble bee girl from the "No Rain" video for Halloween. I love avocados and sex and burgers and people reading and my new black shoes, vintage Stacey Adams, and I am reading Georges Bataille's "Story of the Eye," and of course I am reading that, of course I am.
Corner Bistro has now lost its crown to Spotted Pig. I have a new favorite burger in New York. I wish I had the means and time to eat this burger every single day. Afterwards, I smoked a cigarette with Jacob, even though I have quit and smoked only a few in the last couple of months, because it was that fucking good and I needed to calm down. This was a cinematic post-fuck scene and I had to puff on a cigarette, to both catch my breath and reflect on how I had lost it in the first place.
While puffing on these cigarettes and me talking about how much I loved this burger and how I was going to go home and masturbate to it, we walked up to PPOW on West 25th Street to go to a reading by Max Steele, Joseph Whitt, and Brontez Purnell. Each was amazing, particularly Brontez. I had never heard him read before and so it was a real treat to hear him perform, especially since he veered so much from what reading in my mind has normally meant. He had notes and what appeared to be stories in front of him, but rarely looked them, and instead seemingly ad-libbed these insanely comic monologues about shit on dick, barebacking, and white college-age lesbians that were amazing. They were raunchy and offensive, but more than anything true, and so quite lovely to hear. It was an inspiring moment, that the most affecting stuff, the things that listeners and readers will most respond to are true things, even if they make you sound like an asshole, that maybe it's not the best idea to encourage unsafe sex or to talk about how annoying white lesbians can be, that these things will rub people the wrong way, but that they will also rub some people the right way, that people will recognize their own feelings in your rants, that that is what writing is supposed to be, an attempt at honesty, and that what is true might not always be the most glamorous thing, might not be the way you want to present yourself. There are so many of my friends that I wish I had encouraged to come with me to this, that would have laughed so hard and taken so much from it, enjoyed it so much.
This burger was so insanely good.
Jacob and I fucked last night. Poppers and weed and noise were involved. It was seventy something degrees today in late October. I am going to be the bumble bee girl from the "No Rain" video for Halloween. I love avocados and sex and burgers and people reading and my new black shoes, vintage Stacey Adams, and I am reading Georges Bataille's "Story of the Eye," and of course I am reading that, of course I am.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Sufjan Stevens - Futile Devices
I had been looking for a pair of shoes, a simple pair of black dress shoes with a low heel, my problem with most new dress shoes is that they have too large of a heel that seems to be trying to compensate for something I don't want to announce to everyone that happens to look at my shoes. I found a pair I really liked a week or so ago sitting out on display at Urban Outfitters. After trying for too long to find someone to help me find a pair of these beautiful shoes, I found someone, not so helpful, but someone that worked there, and he stared me down before telling me that they didn't actually have any in stock. The shoes are nowhere to be found on their website and now they are not even in the store anymore.
There are two things I have decided my wardrobe needs right away, those being a pair of blue jeans (since my old ones no longer fit me (either me becoming larger or either my sense of how tight is appropriate or sexy shifting to something a little looser than leggings)) and a pair of sensible black dress shoes. The jeans I have found, the shoes I have yet to. I went to a couple midtown department stores this evening after work and felt overwhelmed and poor. I didn't find the shoes I wanted at any price. I did, however, find an amazing pair of purple suede boots at Bloomingdale's that I may return for and purchase next weekend when they are 30% off if I am still feeling their spell and also feeling the spell enough to drop so much money on such impractical shoes. But what are practical shoes? I don't have a job that requires them, but I am convincing myself that if I own sensible black dress shoes, aside from my own love of wearing dress shoes, my owning them will come in handy if I soon get a new job, which I keep on hoping will somehow manifest itself despite my failure to really apply for any, though tonight I did apply for a few, though these few are still at hotels, which is a world I would like to get away from.
So I didn't get shoes. I did go to Bloomingdales and Bergdorf's, which really terrifies me, the store such a weird throwback to Upper East Side haughtiness. Their shoes all sucked, though there were some other items I really did want to have in my possession somehow without paying the insane prices of everything there. I am thinking I'll just end up buying a pair at my favorite vintage shoe shop in the East Village since my searches have turned up so fruitless.
I rode the train home painfully aware of my white sneakers. I looked at everyone's shoes on the subway, some really nice pairs on display, and I wondered where they got them, really did not want to go another day wearing these white sneakers, that these pseudo-Keds are no longer appropriate given the change in season, given the change in my own mood, my desire to present a different image, to say that the lazy days of summer are over.
On the L train, I ran into Matt S., a boy I used to be obsessed with, that I used to sleep with, that I used to want to date. He lives in Philly now and is still making art, and he makes me feel like Ned, like a loser, like a sellout. He was wearing some crazy feather-like earring and a bright scarf. I still thought he was insanely beautiful and I want to be his friend and hang out with him. He is odd and beautiful and I see him about once every six months or year and it always makes me so happy. I am thinking about shoes, coming from Bergdorf's (which I did not admit when he asked me where I was coming from, only answered with a vague "looking for shoes"), and he had a stack of canvasses in his hands that he was moving and I was thinking about the Mexican food I was going to order when I got home. And I didn't always used to be so lazy, so complacent. I didn't used to be this way when I was sleeping with this kid, so many years ago. Different paths taken, paths crossed now. He got off at Bedford. I kept going. I was smiling ear to ear for a couple stops. The sadness set in not too soon afterward. It bounces back and forth. I bought a bottle of wine, a Cabernet, to try to get things to settle somewhere in between the two poles.
_________________
I am in love with this song tonight and have listened to it several times, the lyrics appropriate and Fall really killing me in the most beautiful way, making me feel everything terribly.
There are two things I have decided my wardrobe needs right away, those being a pair of blue jeans (since my old ones no longer fit me (either me becoming larger or either my sense of how tight is appropriate or sexy shifting to something a little looser than leggings)) and a pair of sensible black dress shoes. The jeans I have found, the shoes I have yet to. I went to a couple midtown department stores this evening after work and felt overwhelmed and poor. I didn't find the shoes I wanted at any price. I did, however, find an amazing pair of purple suede boots at Bloomingdale's that I may return for and purchase next weekend when they are 30% off if I am still feeling their spell and also feeling the spell enough to drop so much money on such impractical shoes. But what are practical shoes? I don't have a job that requires them, but I am convincing myself that if I own sensible black dress shoes, aside from my own love of wearing dress shoes, my owning them will come in handy if I soon get a new job, which I keep on hoping will somehow manifest itself despite my failure to really apply for any, though tonight I did apply for a few, though these few are still at hotels, which is a world I would like to get away from.
So I didn't get shoes. I did go to Bloomingdales and Bergdorf's, which really terrifies me, the store such a weird throwback to Upper East Side haughtiness. Their shoes all sucked, though there were some other items I really did want to have in my possession somehow without paying the insane prices of everything there. I am thinking I'll just end up buying a pair at my favorite vintage shoe shop in the East Village since my searches have turned up so fruitless.
I rode the train home painfully aware of my white sneakers. I looked at everyone's shoes on the subway, some really nice pairs on display, and I wondered where they got them, really did not want to go another day wearing these white sneakers, that these pseudo-Keds are no longer appropriate given the change in season, given the change in my own mood, my desire to present a different image, to say that the lazy days of summer are over.
On the L train, I ran into Matt S., a boy I used to be obsessed with, that I used to sleep with, that I used to want to date. He lives in Philly now and is still making art, and he makes me feel like Ned, like a loser, like a sellout. He was wearing some crazy feather-like earring and a bright scarf. I still thought he was insanely beautiful and I want to be his friend and hang out with him. He is odd and beautiful and I see him about once every six months or year and it always makes me so happy. I am thinking about shoes, coming from Bergdorf's (which I did not admit when he asked me where I was coming from, only answered with a vague "looking for shoes"), and he had a stack of canvasses in his hands that he was moving and I was thinking about the Mexican food I was going to order when I got home. And I didn't always used to be so lazy, so complacent. I didn't used to be this way when I was sleeping with this kid, so many years ago. Different paths taken, paths crossed now. He got off at Bedford. I kept going. I was smiling ear to ear for a couple stops. The sadness set in not too soon afterward. It bounces back and forth. I bought a bottle of wine, a Cabernet, to try to get things to settle somewhere in between the two poles.
_________________
I am in love with this song tonight and have listened to it several times, the lyrics appropriate and Fall really killing me in the most beautiful way, making me feel everything terribly.
Monday, October 18, 2010
"it's been pretty much one damn thing after another ever since"
I had just had lunch at an Italian place in Chelsea with Jacob. He was heading back to Brooklyn to do stuff for school and I was headed up to the E stop to take the train over to MoMA. I checked out Grindr on the walk to the train, exchanged a few lines of text with a pictures of abs, and soon was at this abs picture's house on 21st Street. He opened the door and I think there may have been something in his look that wondered if I was hot enough for him, that awkwardness of sizing someone up in person that you have only talked to online and seen pictures of, all of course self-selected to make them look as attractive as possible, and then you quickly try to take in the difference between how they represented themselves and the person that now stands before you, deciding whether that difference is small enough to be acceptable. That may have been the look but then there was also something about his look that made me think he had just done meth, an intense, sex-hungry, fuck-anything-outside-of-this-room look, slightly menacing.
There was a brief second when I was undressing that I wondered if this person was going to go all American Psycho and kill me. There is a thrill and it is reckless and it is putting yourself out there in weird situations and this I love, wondering how things will go, the not knowing. There's no real reason to do this. I can get sex from Jacob, can get it from the gym, but I wanted a thrill and something pulled me to this guy's house. Across the street from his apartment was what appeared to be an elementary school letting out, young kids, innocent, everywhere, and me feeling particularly dirty, a thrill in that contrast, that the block can contain both these things. He pulled down his shorts and I sucked his dick until I got really hard. This was in his kitchen. I had only taken about three steps into his apartment. He pulled me over to his couch, which had a white sheet over it for this purpose, our meeting, apparently, and there was lube and condoms set off to the side. He bent over the couch, his ass up in the air, and I fucked him for a while, and then he told me he wanted me to cum on him. He laid on the couch and I jerked off on to his chest, him cumming at the same time. The man was insanely ripped, probably the most buff person I have ever got it on with, and the entire time we were having sex, I was into it but also was not into it, was too self-aware of this person's porn star body, waxed ass, and cartoony six pack. It all very bizarre, a fog, a dream maybe, and ten or so minutes after entering his apartment, I departed it, out on to the street, my mouth tasting like lube, me attempting to spit out the taste.
I got a cup of coffee and got on the train towards MoMA to see the Abstract Expressionist New York show. It's a big show and like most big shows, I moved through it in spurts, landing in one room, moving past another entirely, thinking that I would return on some future date to take everything in, the things I didn't see, didn't talk to. I stopped in front of things that struck my fancy and glanced in passing at things that didn't. Most ab-ex art bores me, is a little too blank, too much of a Rorshach for you to project whatever you want on to it, some of it seeming like lazy or wild scribblings on canvas. But then there are pieces that explode that notion, that cut through all of my nay-saying about these paintings and really move me, sing a song that I recognize and like, that I will stop to listen to. There is a room of Barnett Newmans in the show and had I seen one of them isolated, I probably would have moved past it, but encountering a room of maybe six of them had an entirely different effect on me. They were really quite beautiful, a painting of solid color, a feeling, thrown into relief by a vertical strip of paint, another color, a figure in this space, man in this world, a moment where you catch your breath and feel all that is around you. They sang from every wall in chorus the same song, different voices, but the same song, and it was a gorgeous one. I hummed along.
I know it is possible to have moments with probably all of the pieces in the show, but perhaps not possible to do so in one viewing. I'll return and try to allow for other moments, other encounters, other rooms, other brief fucks, memories of which I'll hold on to for far longer than the act, the feeling inspired it, its life, extending far past the viewing, that physical encounter.
There was a brief second when I was undressing that I wondered if this person was going to go all American Psycho and kill me. There is a thrill and it is reckless and it is putting yourself out there in weird situations and this I love, wondering how things will go, the not knowing. There's no real reason to do this. I can get sex from Jacob, can get it from the gym, but I wanted a thrill and something pulled me to this guy's house. Across the street from his apartment was what appeared to be an elementary school letting out, young kids, innocent, everywhere, and me feeling particularly dirty, a thrill in that contrast, that the block can contain both these things. He pulled down his shorts and I sucked his dick until I got really hard. This was in his kitchen. I had only taken about three steps into his apartment. He pulled me over to his couch, which had a white sheet over it for this purpose, our meeting, apparently, and there was lube and condoms set off to the side. He bent over the couch, his ass up in the air, and I fucked him for a while, and then he told me he wanted me to cum on him. He laid on the couch and I jerked off on to his chest, him cumming at the same time. The man was insanely ripped, probably the most buff person I have ever got it on with, and the entire time we were having sex, I was into it but also was not into it, was too self-aware of this person's porn star body, waxed ass, and cartoony six pack. It all very bizarre, a fog, a dream maybe, and ten or so minutes after entering his apartment, I departed it, out on to the street, my mouth tasting like lube, me attempting to spit out the taste.
I got a cup of coffee and got on the train towards MoMA to see the Abstract Expressionist New York show. It's a big show and like most big shows, I moved through it in spurts, landing in one room, moving past another entirely, thinking that I would return on some future date to take everything in, the things I didn't see, didn't talk to. I stopped in front of things that struck my fancy and glanced in passing at things that didn't. Most ab-ex art bores me, is a little too blank, too much of a Rorshach for you to project whatever you want on to it, some of it seeming like lazy or wild scribblings on canvas. But then there are pieces that explode that notion, that cut through all of my nay-saying about these paintings and really move me, sing a song that I recognize and like, that I will stop to listen to. There is a room of Barnett Newmans in the show and had I seen one of them isolated, I probably would have moved past it, but encountering a room of maybe six of them had an entirely different effect on me. They were really quite beautiful, a painting of solid color, a feeling, thrown into relief by a vertical strip of paint, another color, a figure in this space, man in this world, a moment where you catch your breath and feel all that is around you. They sang from every wall in chorus the same song, different voices, but the same song, and it was a gorgeous one. I hummed along.
I know it is possible to have moments with probably all of the pieces in the show, but perhaps not possible to do so in one viewing. I'll return and try to allow for other moments, other encounters, other rooms, other brief fucks, memories of which I'll hold on to for far longer than the act, the feeling inspired it, its life, extending far past the viewing, that physical encounter.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
To The Measures Fall
In last week's New Yorker, there is a fantastic short story by Richard Powers, "To The Measures Fall." It gets at what it means to read in a really profound way and how one's relationship to text can change numerous times. It looks at one person's relationship to an obscure English book and by way of this also says really insightful things about the large cultural changes that have occurred in the last several decades with reading and the study of literature. Any lit majors will probably geek out a lot reading it. The full text of the story is now behind a firewall, but try to find it if you can. There are many parts I love and want to quote, but will quote this one part because it ties in with a string of thought I am trying to explore in some form about our relationship to life and text in this Facebook age.
"Overnight, the World Wide Web weaves tightly around you. A novelty at first, then invaluable, then life support, then heroin. It's a chance to recapture everything you've ever lost: college friends, out-of-print rarities, quotations that had vanished forever. Your online hours must come from somewhere, and it isn't from your TV viewing. You lose whole days on the roller coaster of real-time eBay auctions. "
"Overnight, the World Wide Web weaves tightly around you. A novelty at first, then invaluable, then life support, then heroin. It's a chance to recapture everything you've ever lost: college friends, out-of-print rarities, quotations that had vanished forever. Your online hours must come from somewhere, and it isn't from your TV viewing. You lose whole days on the roller coaster of real-time eBay auctions. "
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Too Much Water
"Ofcourse too much moisture in your lungs can cause problems, its called drowning..."
-strange words of wisdom, made stranger or wiser or funnier by their source, a conversation board on cannabis.com concerning whether ice in a bong is bad for your throat.
Ladies and gentlemen, my night, my life.
I am feeling good. I just smoked a lot of weed from my bong, which I had put a lot of cold water from my fridge in, thinking my lungs would like the feeling. And then I thought how good it felt, how great it would be with ice, remembered some stoners in college who were real serious about the stuff, I went to that type of school, and they had ice bongs, that is if I remembered correctly, and I wanted to see if I did, wanted to see exactly how these things worked, whether such products were sold, and if so, how much these things cost, wondered this cause I kind of really wanted one of these which I was more and more remembering or believing existed and thinking about how much pleasure this would give my life not only in this moment but also in so many future moments. The payday was seeming big, large - the potential returns vast.
I downloaded many albums illegally, though I hesitate to say that in these days of precise Google searches and logarithms, wondering if maybe I shouldn't tell you this, wondering if perhaps the RIAA might not have some program in place, technical thing, to scour blogs for sources of people discussing such practices, and then going after them, knowing who was infringing on these laws. "PARANOID!" A response said several times in that same earlier referenced thread, the commentators (so many!) occasionally responding to one of his questions posed, answers with that word: paranoid. Downloaded albums that I am so excited about listening to, drank wine, and wanted to acquire things, to be involved with them - this relationship between people and bands and the songs these bands sing and the things these bands may or may not actually represent - and whatever the feelings were, the things were, I was feeling really good, was feeling alive, interested in a way and with an intensity about current music, current art, that I haven't felt in a long time, and felt really good, that maybe I am not as old or as not as boring as I think old needs to be, that I do still care about these things, that art, despite a boredom of late with most forms of it I have had, still does have the power to rock me, to make me want to dance, to make me hold my hand close to my heart and mouth manohman like a drunk uncle might that's really into the blues, a white uncle. And I was really into these sounds, these feelings, these ways of presenting things. I was feeling rock and roll in a way that I hadn't in a while. Rock and roll, oh man, the things it does. It brings me to life and makes my dick slightly hard and also impossibly soft and makes me sad and insanely happy, always one of the two, always an intense feeling, that it was and is all do or die, that it all meant something, means something. There was always the feeling, the intense relationship with the present and the past and the future, really straddling the tip of a triangle perhaps the most you ever will, and the constant feelings despite their inconsistency and huge swings between faraway poles, that this is what rock and roll is, why it so much of a certain time in the lives of most people. The loudness simply amplifying in a way large enough to let you get off from the pain that this life causes and the pleasure we are granted when we recognize that pain and you can play it louder and louder and a feeling of catharsis can occur, you can expel it all, all the fucking shit, bringing all that stuff to the surface, limbs thrashing forward to a nonexistant stage, a nonexistant audience, as you dance in your kitchen, wanting to cry, but not knowing exactly why, except that it is all so fucking beautiful despite it all, so fucking beautiful.
-strange words of wisdom, made stranger or wiser or funnier by their source, a conversation board on cannabis.com concerning whether ice in a bong is bad for your throat.
Ladies and gentlemen, my night, my life.
I am feeling good. I just smoked a lot of weed from my bong, which I had put a lot of cold water from my fridge in, thinking my lungs would like the feeling. And then I thought how good it felt, how great it would be with ice, remembered some stoners in college who were real serious about the stuff, I went to that type of school, and they had ice bongs, that is if I remembered correctly, and I wanted to see if I did, wanted to see exactly how these things worked, whether such products were sold, and if so, how much these things cost, wondered this cause I kind of really wanted one of these which I was more and more remembering or believing existed and thinking about how much pleasure this would give my life not only in this moment but also in so many future moments. The payday was seeming big, large - the potential returns vast.
I downloaded many albums illegally, though I hesitate to say that in these days of precise Google searches and logarithms, wondering if maybe I shouldn't tell you this, wondering if perhaps the RIAA might not have some program in place, technical thing, to scour blogs for sources of people discussing such practices, and then going after them, knowing who was infringing on these laws. "PARANOID!" A response said several times in that same earlier referenced thread, the commentators (so many!) occasionally responding to one of his questions posed, answers with that word: paranoid. Downloaded albums that I am so excited about listening to, drank wine, and wanted to acquire things, to be involved with them - this relationship between people and bands and the songs these bands sing and the things these bands may or may not actually represent - and whatever the feelings were, the things were, I was feeling really good, was feeling alive, interested in a way and with an intensity about current music, current art, that I haven't felt in a long time, and felt really good, that maybe I am not as old or as not as boring as I think old needs to be, that I do still care about these things, that art, despite a boredom of late with most forms of it I have had, still does have the power to rock me, to make me want to dance, to make me hold my hand close to my heart and mouth manohman like a drunk uncle might that's really into the blues, a white uncle. And I was really into these sounds, these feelings, these ways of presenting things. I was feeling rock and roll in a way that I hadn't in a while. Rock and roll, oh man, the things it does. It brings me to life and makes my dick slightly hard and also impossibly soft and makes me sad and insanely happy, always one of the two, always an intense feeling, that it was and is all do or die, that it all meant something, means something. There was always the feeling, the intense relationship with the present and the past and the future, really straddling the tip of a triangle perhaps the most you ever will, and the constant feelings despite their inconsistency and huge swings between faraway poles, that this is what rock and roll is, why it so much of a certain time in the lives of most people. The loudness simply amplifying in a way large enough to let you get off from the pain that this life causes and the pleasure we are granted when we recognize that pain and you can play it louder and louder and a feeling of catharsis can occur, you can expel it all, all the fucking shit, bringing all that stuff to the surface, limbs thrashing forward to a nonexistant stage, a nonexistant audience, as you dance in your kitchen, wanting to cry, but not knowing exactly why, except that it is all so fucking beautiful despite it all, so fucking beautiful.
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