Fuck me! Yet another hard reminder of the lesson life will never let us forget that you shouldn't put off til tomorrow what you can do today. Since I have moved to NY, I have been wanting to go to the Gaiety Theater and in recent weeks, I had been seriously considering spending the twenty dollars to go rather than paying my rent in full (which I didn't end up doing anyways).
Motherfuck, it is now closed, the last old timey male strip club in NY. Motherfuck.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
the human stain
I read these two quotes last night in The Human Stain, in love with both of them. Roth writes horny old men so well. This first quote struck me so much for its trueness, that that is the test of a good male friend, someone you can talk to about sex without the appearance of bragging. The second one struck me just for its joy, that feeling of having sex often. After I finished that second quote, I put the book down and masturbated so well that I fell asleep, but soon woke hours later, jolted awake by coffee I had drank hours earlier in the evening, but yet still in my system, had horrible paranoid nightmares, and was on edge, having trouble sleeping. My sex drive is so low these days despite recent actions of mine. I rarely masturbate. I have resolved to masturbate morning and night to keep myself in this habit because it is a good thing. I was so stressed yesterday and for no reason, tense, and then last night when I came and with that quote still in my head, I knew why.
I thought, He's found somebody he can talk with . . . and then I thought, So have I. The moment a man starts to tell you about sex, he's telling you something about the two of you. Ninety percent of the time it doesn't happen, and probably it's as well it doesn't, though if you can't get a level of candor on sex and you choose to behave instead as if this isn't ever on your mind, the male friendship is incomplete. Most men never find such a friend. It's not common. But when it does happen, when two men find themselves in agreement about this essential part of being a man, unafraid of being judged, shamed, envied, or outdone, confident of not having the confidence betrayed, their human connection can be very strong and unexpected intimacy results. (27)
I know that every mistake a man can make has a sexual accelerator. But right now I happen not to care. I wake up in the morning, there's a towel on the floor, there's baby oil on the bedside table. How did all that get there? Then I remember. Got there because I'm alive again. Because I'm back in the tornado. Because this is what it is with a capital isness. (35)
I thought, He's found somebody he can talk with . . . and then I thought, So have I. The moment a man starts to tell you about sex, he's telling you something about the two of you. Ninety percent of the time it doesn't happen, and probably it's as well it doesn't, though if you can't get a level of candor on sex and you choose to behave instead as if this isn't ever on your mind, the male friendship is incomplete. Most men never find such a friend. It's not common. But when it does happen, when two men find themselves in agreement about this essential part of being a man, unafraid of being judged, shamed, envied, or outdone, confident of not having the confidence betrayed, their human connection can be very strong and unexpected intimacy results. (27)
I know that every mistake a man can make has a sexual accelerator. But right now I happen not to care. I wake up in the morning, there's a towel on the floor, there's baby oil on the bedside table. How did all that get there? Then I remember. Got there because I'm alive again. Because I'm back in the tornado. Because this is what it is with a capital isness. (35)
Monday, March 28, 2005
i married a communist
This evening, I finished Philip Roth’s I Married a Communist and I know, I say everything wows me, and perhaps most writers do, but wow, wow, wow – this is the sixth book of his I have read and I am still not tired of him, still impressed so much. I have said that I think Roth is the most talented American writer alive before. I think I am going to stick with that, maybe even get rid of that national qualifier. I cannot think of any novelist that is more talented. His books aren’t flawless, not at all, but those heights he is able to sometimes reach, so high, the weaving of stories, his Zuckerman persona – I am just baffled that this old man is able to still produce book after book, amazing books that contain so much. I can think of many better stylists, people with the most elegant sentences. But Roth’s sentences sometimes have an outrageous elegance that seems all the more wow because they come in the middle of these breathless pagelong monologues. Seriously, throughout this book, I kept exclaiming, “Philip Roth, are you kidding me? How are you doing this?” I can’t get enough of him and am probably going to start The Human Stain tonight even though I had resolved to myself to write some cover letters and a sex story, but later, maybe, who knows, we’ll see what, if anything, gets accomplished after I do some dishes. Below are three passages I loved so much I got up to find a pen even though there was one nowhere near me.
*****************************
I shouldn’t have been surprised by his mental energy, even by his enthusiasm for the three-hundred-word writing assignment—discuss, from the perspective of a lifetime, any one line in Hamlet’s most famous soliloquy—that the professor had given his elderly students. Yet that a man so close to oblivion should be preparing homework for the next day, educating himself for a life that had all but run out—that the puzzle continued to puzzle him, that clarification remained a vital need—more than surprised me: a sense of error settled over me, bordering on shame, for living to myself and keeping everything at such a distance. (151)
*****************************
Occasionally now, looking back, I think of my life as one long speech that I’ve been listening to. The rhetoric is sometimes original, sometimes pleasurable, sometimes pasteboard crap (the speech of the incognito), sometimes maniacal, sometimes matter-of-fact, and sometimes like the sharp prick of a needle, and I have been hearing it for as long as I can remember: how to think, how not to think; how to behave, how not to behave; whom to loathe and whom to admire; what to embrace and when to escape; what is rapturous, what is murderous, what is laudable, what is shallow, what is sinister, what is shit, and how to remain pure in soul. Talking to me doesn’t seem to present an obstacle to anyone. This is perhaps a consequence of my having gone around for years looking as if I needed talking to. But whatever the reason, the book of my life is a book of voices. When I ask myself how I arrived at where I am, the answer surprises me: “Listening.”
Can that have been the unseen drama? Was all the rest a masquerade disguising the real no good that I was obstinately up to? Listening to them. Listening to them talk. The utterly wild phenomenon that is. Everyone perceiving experience as something not to have but to have so as to talk about it. Why is that? Why do they want me to hear them and their arias? Where was it decided that this was my use? Or was I from the beginning, by inclination as much as by choice, merely an ear in search of a word?
“Politics is the great generalizer,” Leo told me, “and literature the great particularizer, and not only are they in an inverse relationship to each other—they are in a an antagonistic relationship to each other. To politics, literature is decadent, soft, irrelevant, boring, wrongheaded, dull, something that makes no sense and that really oughtn’t to be. Why? Because the particularizing impulse is literature. How can you be a politician and allow the nuance? As an artist the nuance is your task. Your task is not to simplify. Even should you choose to write in the simplest way, a la Hemingway, the task remains to impart the nuance, to elucidate the complication, to imply the contradiction. Not to erase the contradiction, not to deny the contradiction, but to see where, within the contradiction, lies the tormented human being. To allow for the chaos, to let it in. You must let it in. Otherwise you produce propaganda, if not for a political party, a political movement, then stupid propaganda for life itself—for life as it might itself prefer to be publicized. During the first five, six years of the Russian Revolution the revolutionaries cried, ‘Free love, there will be free love!’ But once they were in power, they couldn’t permit it. Because what is free love? Chaos. And they didn’t want chaos. That isn’t why they made their glorious revolution. They wanted something carefully disciplined, organized, contained, predictable scientifically, if possible. Free love disturbs the organization, their social and political and cultural machine. Art also disturbs the organization. Literature disturbs the organization. Not because it is blatantly for or against, or even subtly for or against. It disturbs the organization because it is not general. The intrinsic nature of the particular is to be particular, and the intrinsic nature of particularity is to fail to conform. Generalizing suffering: there is Communism. Particularizing suffering: there is literature. In that polarity is the antagonism. Keeping the particular alive in a simplifying, generalizing world—that’s where the battle is joined. You do not have to write to legitimize Communism, and you do not have to write to legitimize capitalism. You are out of both. If you are a writer, you are as unallied to the one as you are to the other. Yes, you see the differences, and of course you see that this shit is a little better than that shit, or that that shit is a little better than this shit. Maybe much better. But you see the shit. You are not a government clerk. You are not a militant. You are not a believer. You are someone who deals in a very different way with the world and what happens in the world. The militant introduces a faith, a big belief that will change the world, and the artist introduces a product that has no places in the world. It’s useless. The artist, the serious writer, introduces into the world something that wasn’t there even at the start. When God made all this stuff in seven days, the birds, the rivers, the human beings, he didn’t have ten minutes for literature. ‘And then there will be literature. Some people will like it, some people will be obsessed by it, want to do it…’ No. No. He did not say that. If you had asked God then, ‘There will be plumbers?’ ‘Yes, there will be. Because they will have houses, they will need plumbers.’ ‘There will be doctors?’ ‘Yes. Because they will get sick, they will need doctors to give them some pills.’ ‘And literature?’ ‘Literature? What are you talking about? What use does it have? Where does it fit in? Please, I am creating a universe, not a university. No literature.’” (222-224)
*****************************
I blew out the candle’s scented flame and stretched myself across the chaise on the deck and realized that listening in the black of a summer’s night to a barely visible Murray had been something like listening to the bedroom radio when I was a kid ambitious to change the world by having all my untested convictions, masquerading as stories, broadcast nationwide. Murray, the radio: voices from the void controlling everything within, the convolutions of a story floating on air and into the ear so that the drama is perceived well behind the eyes, the cup that is the cranium a cup transformed into a limitless globe of a stage, containing fellow creatures whole. How deep our hearing goes! Think of all it means to understand from something that you simply hear. The godlikeness of having and ear! Is it not at least a semidivine phenomenon to be hurled into the innermost wrongness of a human existence by virtue of nothing more than sitting in the dark, listening to what is said? (320-321
*****************************
I shouldn’t have been surprised by his mental energy, even by his enthusiasm for the three-hundred-word writing assignment—discuss, from the perspective of a lifetime, any one line in Hamlet’s most famous soliloquy—that the professor had given his elderly students. Yet that a man so close to oblivion should be preparing homework for the next day, educating himself for a life that had all but run out—that the puzzle continued to puzzle him, that clarification remained a vital need—more than surprised me: a sense of error settled over me, bordering on shame, for living to myself and keeping everything at such a distance. (151)
*****************************
Occasionally now, looking back, I think of my life as one long speech that I’ve been listening to. The rhetoric is sometimes original, sometimes pleasurable, sometimes pasteboard crap (the speech of the incognito), sometimes maniacal, sometimes matter-of-fact, and sometimes like the sharp prick of a needle, and I have been hearing it for as long as I can remember: how to think, how not to think; how to behave, how not to behave; whom to loathe and whom to admire; what to embrace and when to escape; what is rapturous, what is murderous, what is laudable, what is shallow, what is sinister, what is shit, and how to remain pure in soul. Talking to me doesn’t seem to present an obstacle to anyone. This is perhaps a consequence of my having gone around for years looking as if I needed talking to. But whatever the reason, the book of my life is a book of voices. When I ask myself how I arrived at where I am, the answer surprises me: “Listening.”
Can that have been the unseen drama? Was all the rest a masquerade disguising the real no good that I was obstinately up to? Listening to them. Listening to them talk. The utterly wild phenomenon that is. Everyone perceiving experience as something not to have but to have so as to talk about it. Why is that? Why do they want me to hear them and their arias? Where was it decided that this was my use? Or was I from the beginning, by inclination as much as by choice, merely an ear in search of a word?
“Politics is the great generalizer,” Leo told me, “and literature the great particularizer, and not only are they in an inverse relationship to each other—they are in a an antagonistic relationship to each other. To politics, literature is decadent, soft, irrelevant, boring, wrongheaded, dull, something that makes no sense and that really oughtn’t to be. Why? Because the particularizing impulse is literature. How can you be a politician and allow the nuance? As an artist the nuance is your task. Your task is not to simplify. Even should you choose to write in the simplest way, a la Hemingway, the task remains to impart the nuance, to elucidate the complication, to imply the contradiction. Not to erase the contradiction, not to deny the contradiction, but to see where, within the contradiction, lies the tormented human being. To allow for the chaos, to let it in. You must let it in. Otherwise you produce propaganda, if not for a political party, a political movement, then stupid propaganda for life itself—for life as it might itself prefer to be publicized. During the first five, six years of the Russian Revolution the revolutionaries cried, ‘Free love, there will be free love!’ But once they were in power, they couldn’t permit it. Because what is free love? Chaos. And they didn’t want chaos. That isn’t why they made their glorious revolution. They wanted something carefully disciplined, organized, contained, predictable scientifically, if possible. Free love disturbs the organization, their social and political and cultural machine. Art also disturbs the organization. Literature disturbs the organization. Not because it is blatantly for or against, or even subtly for or against. It disturbs the organization because it is not general. The intrinsic nature of the particular is to be particular, and the intrinsic nature of particularity is to fail to conform. Generalizing suffering: there is Communism. Particularizing suffering: there is literature. In that polarity is the antagonism. Keeping the particular alive in a simplifying, generalizing world—that’s where the battle is joined. You do not have to write to legitimize Communism, and you do not have to write to legitimize capitalism. You are out of both. If you are a writer, you are as unallied to the one as you are to the other. Yes, you see the differences, and of course you see that this shit is a little better than that shit, or that that shit is a little better than this shit. Maybe much better. But you see the shit. You are not a government clerk. You are not a militant. You are not a believer. You are someone who deals in a very different way with the world and what happens in the world. The militant introduces a faith, a big belief that will change the world, and the artist introduces a product that has no places in the world. It’s useless. The artist, the serious writer, introduces into the world something that wasn’t there even at the start. When God made all this stuff in seven days, the birds, the rivers, the human beings, he didn’t have ten minutes for literature. ‘And then there will be literature. Some people will like it, some people will be obsessed by it, want to do it…’ No. No. He did not say that. If you had asked God then, ‘There will be plumbers?’ ‘Yes, there will be. Because they will have houses, they will need plumbers.’ ‘There will be doctors?’ ‘Yes. Because they will get sick, they will need doctors to give them some pills.’ ‘And literature?’ ‘Literature? What are you talking about? What use does it have? Where does it fit in? Please, I am creating a universe, not a university. No literature.’” (222-224)
*****************************
I blew out the candle’s scented flame and stretched myself across the chaise on the deck and realized that listening in the black of a summer’s night to a barely visible Murray had been something like listening to the bedroom radio when I was a kid ambitious to change the world by having all my untested convictions, masquerading as stories, broadcast nationwide. Murray, the radio: voices from the void controlling everything within, the convolutions of a story floating on air and into the ear so that the drama is perceived well behind the eyes, the cup that is the cranium a cup transformed into a limitless globe of a stage, containing fellow creatures whole. How deep our hearing goes! Think of all it means to understand from something that you simply hear. The godlikeness of having and ear! Is it not at least a semidivine phenomenon to be hurled into the innermost wrongness of a human existence by virtue of nothing more than sitting in the dark, listening to what is said? (320-321
I have a new favorite tv show. A Current Affair. It is the most amazing thing I have ever seen. I love everything about it. Those zoom sound effects. The narration. The method of storytelling. The choice of stories. I cannot get enough of it. It's almost too much to believe. I almost think it is a parody of itself. I wish I could write for that show.
In related news, tonight I am writing cover letters for jobs I am underqualified for and so fibbing a little at Seventeen, the Harlequin imprint, and National Enquirer. I cannot tell you much I would love to work at that last place. I would cream my pants.
In related news, tonight I am writing cover letters for jobs I am underqualified for and so fibbing a little at Seventeen, the Harlequin imprint, and National Enquirer. I cannot tell you much I would love to work at that last place. I would cream my pants.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Easter Sunday
Because these things always collide, the phone bill, the need for a new subway pass, rent, and you know, things like eating food, and I had all of twelve dollars to my name since this Friday's paycheck is going to just pay my April rent, I found myself pissing on the art owner guy in Chelsea again. He asked me what I did for Easter. I told him nothing. He asked if I celebrated it, and there were images of me as a kid, photographs from around our house, me in Easter best, and fast forwarding to this, to standing naked in this guy's living room about to piss on him. And I could hear the voiceover from one of those dramatic tv shows, showing the childhood clips, telling what it had come to now, wondering how these positions are arrived at in life, but in a way free of nuance. He paid me money and now after buying a new monthly card, buying various bath products, renting a movie, and getting Chinese food, I have about four dollars left. I rented more of Six Feet Under. I think I vaguely smell like urine even though I took a shower because I was worried about this smell.
you've got to set them up
Remember how earlier today, I was recommending to you LCD Soundsystem's "Daft Punk is Playing at my House"? Well, tonight I was at a place I have done good to avoid: "Misshapes" at Luke and Leroy's. I had avoided the place thinking it was the hipster/asshole place it turned out to be, but after spending most of the night outside on a curb drinking bodega beer out of a paper bag and talking with Bonnie on the phone, I went back in, and soon after, this awesome song that I was telling you about came on. I danced like an explosion, hitting anything even semi-near to me and was pushed from direction to direction, into person after person, all the pretty little scum pissed that someone bumped into them, pushing me one way to the other, and I did not give one shit because I was dancing to this noise, this sound that fills me with (yes, I am going to say it) the spirit of God. Like someone possessed, I cannot keep it in control when I hear this, my body, my limbs move in totally opposite directions, unrestrained, all over the motherfucking place, other people, especially people with asymmetrical haircuts, beware! Because I cannot be tamed and was not and am not now as I listen to it via illegal MP3 technology. After I left the bar, after LCD Soundsystem was over and everyone I was with was ready to go, I smoked lots of pot on the street with this man with a Jamaican accent. Lots and lots. I talked to him more, tried to get Ben to come with us to some bar and then after Ben said no, left with Ben's posse toward the subway. I kicked a cab on the way and I think his posse was stunned, silenced, and all hating me. I have this song in my head and I could feel that they didn't, that they thought I was an asshole, but I wanted them to all hear what I was hearing, these delirious sounds - not only that, but to feel the things, the joy I was feeling when I heard these sounds, this song. I walked home, saw things that I shouldn't have, and didn't really care so much about perceived silences. The LCD Soundsystem was playing. Also, there was that combination, there is, of substances in his system.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
daft punk is playing at my house
At my house! I saw the video for this on one of those many cool public NY stations, and I have since downloaded this rocking LCD Soundsytem song and I am playing it right now and am rocking away here on my computer. Dusk is setting in outside the window next to my desk. The sky looks gorgeous. This stuff vibrating through my ears makes me so happy, and why? Why do certain sounds make us happy? Isn't that awesome? Something so simple, sounds?
I sometimes reach to adjust my glasses out of habit, to push them back up the bridge of my nose. I have not had glasses for about a month since I lost them but my hands are still used to this habit, longing for an object no longer here. I could make an analogy of some sorts here, but you know what that analogy is, you know what I did.
I went and checked out a few galleries this afternoon. Damien Hirst has nothing to say and so he says things really loud. The opposite to his show was Robert Gober's show at Matthew Marks. Gober dealt with 9/11 but in the most muted and elegant way. Well maybe not the most muted, that crucifix fountain was a little much, but the symmetry of the show's drawings was so elegant and I really loved this show. Emily Jacir's show also showed some restraint in dealing with political matter. I went to Hirst's last and was like, "So loud, so loud, Damien, you don't have to shout!" I am over him. When did I start saying "I am so over..." or even dismissing things as "over" or "passe"? I am finding myself doing this more and more often. The snob I sometimes keep in check is breaking loose, throwing off the chains and calling your painting derivative.
I sometimes reach to adjust my glasses out of habit, to push them back up the bridge of my nose. I have not had glasses for about a month since I lost them but my hands are still used to this habit, longing for an object no longer here. I could make an analogy of some sorts here, but you know what that analogy is, you know what I did.
I went and checked out a few galleries this afternoon. Damien Hirst has nothing to say and so he says things really loud. The opposite to his show was Robert Gober's show at Matthew Marks. Gober dealt with 9/11 but in the most muted and elegant way. Well maybe not the most muted, that crucifix fountain was a little much, but the symmetry of the show's drawings was so elegant and I really loved this show. Emily Jacir's show also showed some restraint in dealing with political matter. I went to Hirst's last and was like, "So loud, so loud, Damien, you don't have to shout!" I am over him. When did I start saying "I am so over..." or even dismissing things as "over" or "passe"? I am finding myself doing this more and more often. The snob I sometimes keep in check is breaking loose, throwing off the chains and calling your painting derivative.
Friday, March 25, 2005
Our interactions were becoming more and more friendly and I was excited about that, about being able to talk to Matt like a normal person, but I think I have blown up the tracks of that course completely. You see - and that prefix is one that should always give you pause because what you are about to hear is going to be a long attempt at self-justification, at evasion. I have been picking up on this a lot lately because my landlord says it so often - but you see, I had started off the night at six with only a burrito in my stomach and started downing beers at Elizabeth Dee gallery with Gabriel, Ben and his friends, Sky and Wyatt. There were more galleries, already things are blurring together at this point with just a couple beers and a couple cups of cheap white wine. I don't remember all the galleries. I remember some being bad and some being mediocre, which might be even worse than bad. The only thing I thought was excellent that I saw was Angela Strassheim's creepy photos at Marvelli.
I smoked lots of Canadian cigarettes and got on the train with these boys heading back to Brooklyn and this is where a change of plans can affect so much, so many other things. I was thinking about not going out with them to the Fischerspooner salon at Deitch because it was Fischerspooner and because I am becoming that person that looks forward to a night's television line-up. The O.C., American Idol, and the American Office were all on. And luckily, I put my transformation into that type of person on hold otherwise you would be reading a far different narrative, perhaps a better one in some sense, but a far less exciting one. And really, I am wondering if it was the drunkenness so much as the boredom with aspects of my life and trying and succeeding at giving me life a little shot of adrenalin, despite the costs.
There the boys met up with some girls, Robyn, Beth, and Colleen. Lots of Red Stripe was drank. Lots of Canadian cigarettes were smoked and just as the event was starting to take place we left for Manhattan again to go to Morrisey Park (formerly Open Air) where there was to be more free drinks. And I am listening to Morrissey right now and it is a gray day and I called in sick to work today because of all those free drinks. I feel like crap and keep on exclaiming to myself, "Ah, I slept with Matt!" Cue to shot of Macauly Culkin in Home Alone pressing his hands to his cheeks and screaming. I kept giggling to myself when I was taking a shower, going over these things, wondering why I do them. Last night, Matt, who I never told about my father, said I do them because of my father. The comment scared me and I asked him what he meant, tried to get at what provoked the comment and he said it's why people do everything, because of issues with their father. And the slightly skewed Freudian talk seemed perhaps true last night.
So now there's a third possible reason. So far, Alcohol, Boredom, and Father Issues. I am almost ready to give up reasons, that they say too much and yet say nothing, that it is far more simple, that these things are what I want to happen and that I will them, sometimes my will, my desire being freed or excited by these reasons. After Open Air, we stopped at the Cock where I showed my sluttiness to a scandalized Wyatt while I groped some hairy old man's chest. I think this is the moment all self-control may have been lost if I had to pick one, if I had to point my finger at a map of last night and tell you where exactly it was the car veered off the road, it is right there, at a trashy gay bar on A and 9th, me with my hands in someone's hairy chest, ocassionally groping their cock.
I was talking with Niki the other day in her store and we were sort of talking about this subject, about why it is that Niki, Bonnie, and I exhibit behavior that other people don't exhibit when they are drunk. Other people get just as drunk but most people don't tend to veer of the road and get so sexually brazen. Anyways, the car is already heading straight for that tree when I get on the subway and end up at the Metropolitan with Gabriel and Wyatt. I grabbed a beer and spotted Matt and my targets were set and there was one thing on my mind, his cock in my mouth. I sat next to him, chatted, and smooth as I am, spilled my beer down his back. I think I talked to some other people there throughout the night, I don't remember. I do remember finding my way back to Matt again and again throughout the night becoming more and more brazen, telling him that I wanted his cock in my mouth, playing with his chest. And I remember talking with him about a couple things, father issues, being dumped, and I was so smitten last night and so out of control about admitting it. Matt told me that it was not going to happen, that that would not ever happen again. I played with his chest more. Why was I all about chests last night?
Finally, drunk and out of cigarettes, I decided to go home. I said bye to Matt and walked out the door, looked behind me as I walked to the corner, hoping that he would come after me. I rounded the corner and headed toward home and was walking home in a daze when I heard my name called behind me, back at the corner. I thought it was Gabriel at first and then saw his shape at the end of the block and ran back to the corner, met Matt and walked home with him.
It was stupid and unnecessary, but it was fun. His body is what I hold up to be the ideal and I sucked his cock and played with his little perfect tuft of hair in the middle of his chest. It was wordless and kiss free. When it was over, I got dressed and left, walked home totally shocked that that had just happened. I know that it was not in my own interests to do that but now I am hesitating about calling it unnecessary. The thing that most amazed me was how good it felt just to see and touch his body, that really, that was all I wanted, that it had been so long since I had and this act just sharpened the details of that memory whose details were starting to blur, that that was the point and now I am good, have this memory to last until the details fade again.
I smoked lots of Canadian cigarettes and got on the train with these boys heading back to Brooklyn and this is where a change of plans can affect so much, so many other things. I was thinking about not going out with them to the Fischerspooner salon at Deitch because it was Fischerspooner and because I am becoming that person that looks forward to a night's television line-up. The O.C., American Idol, and the American Office were all on. And luckily, I put my transformation into that type of person on hold otherwise you would be reading a far different narrative, perhaps a better one in some sense, but a far less exciting one. And really, I am wondering if it was the drunkenness so much as the boredom with aspects of my life and trying and succeeding at giving me life a little shot of adrenalin, despite the costs.
There the boys met up with some girls, Robyn, Beth, and Colleen. Lots of Red Stripe was drank. Lots of Canadian cigarettes were smoked and just as the event was starting to take place we left for Manhattan again to go to Morrisey Park (formerly Open Air) where there was to be more free drinks. And I am listening to Morrissey right now and it is a gray day and I called in sick to work today because of all those free drinks. I feel like crap and keep on exclaiming to myself, "Ah, I slept with Matt!" Cue to shot of Macauly Culkin in Home Alone pressing his hands to his cheeks and screaming. I kept giggling to myself when I was taking a shower, going over these things, wondering why I do them. Last night, Matt, who I never told about my father, said I do them because of my father. The comment scared me and I asked him what he meant, tried to get at what provoked the comment and he said it's why people do everything, because of issues with their father. And the slightly skewed Freudian talk seemed perhaps true last night.
So now there's a third possible reason. So far, Alcohol, Boredom, and Father Issues. I am almost ready to give up reasons, that they say too much and yet say nothing, that it is far more simple, that these things are what I want to happen and that I will them, sometimes my will, my desire being freed or excited by these reasons. After Open Air, we stopped at the Cock where I showed my sluttiness to a scandalized Wyatt while I groped some hairy old man's chest. I think this is the moment all self-control may have been lost if I had to pick one, if I had to point my finger at a map of last night and tell you where exactly it was the car veered off the road, it is right there, at a trashy gay bar on A and 9th, me with my hands in someone's hairy chest, ocassionally groping their cock.
I was talking with Niki the other day in her store and we were sort of talking about this subject, about why it is that Niki, Bonnie, and I exhibit behavior that other people don't exhibit when they are drunk. Other people get just as drunk but most people don't tend to veer of the road and get so sexually brazen. Anyways, the car is already heading straight for that tree when I get on the subway and end up at the Metropolitan with Gabriel and Wyatt. I grabbed a beer and spotted Matt and my targets were set and there was one thing on my mind, his cock in my mouth. I sat next to him, chatted, and smooth as I am, spilled my beer down his back. I think I talked to some other people there throughout the night, I don't remember. I do remember finding my way back to Matt again and again throughout the night becoming more and more brazen, telling him that I wanted his cock in my mouth, playing with his chest. And I remember talking with him about a couple things, father issues, being dumped, and I was so smitten last night and so out of control about admitting it. Matt told me that it was not going to happen, that that would not ever happen again. I played with his chest more. Why was I all about chests last night?
Finally, drunk and out of cigarettes, I decided to go home. I said bye to Matt and walked out the door, looked behind me as I walked to the corner, hoping that he would come after me. I rounded the corner and headed toward home and was walking home in a daze when I heard my name called behind me, back at the corner. I thought it was Gabriel at first and then saw his shape at the end of the block and ran back to the corner, met Matt and walked home with him.
It was stupid and unnecessary, but it was fun. His body is what I hold up to be the ideal and I sucked his cock and played with his little perfect tuft of hair in the middle of his chest. It was wordless and kiss free. When it was over, I got dressed and left, walked home totally shocked that that had just happened. I know that it was not in my own interests to do that but now I am hesitating about calling it unnecessary. The thing that most amazed me was how good it felt just to see and touch his body, that really, that was all I wanted, that it had been so long since I had and this act just sharpened the details of that memory whose details were starting to blur, that that was the point and now I am good, have this memory to last until the details fade again.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
I am just getting back from the Metropolitan and a really crazy trip it was. God, my heart is still beating so fast from all the excitement. You may think I am petty because it was nothing more than encountering crushes, my oh my God, the crushes encountered was crazy. This evening I went to Matt's show with Gabriel. On my way there I encountered Paul, who showed me a mock-up of this photo zine he had made. It was awesome. Matt's show was awesome. He was dreamy. I then went to Niki's store! Um, yeah Niki has a store and I went to that. And this was one, two, three, pow! Three of my peers in a row all going after thing and reaching what they were grabbing for, being really successful. Today has inspired me so much and I don't really know if I can talk about too much now because I am really drunk and still giddy and typing quietly for fear of waking my roommates, me out here in the living room typing loudly away past three in the morning.
Tonight, I signed up to sing karaoke, Billy Joel's "Tell Her About It," because I really like the song, but Charlie, my crush, was there and I was so nervous after I signed up, so worried about performing in front of him. I didn't talk to him, of course, because I was way embarrassed about that last message I wrote to him about wanting to make out with him. He came up to me while I was engaged in conversation with Joe, went out of his way, and said "Hi CHARLIE!" It blew my mind. I said hi back. But my crush who I told I wanted to make out with, went out of his way to say hello to me and it is probably a sign that he is rececptive to the making out, but he said that as he was leaving and that made me a lot more sane that I would not have to perform this song I didn't even know they lyrics to in front of him. But really confused as to whether he liked me or not.
Enter Matt and Kevin. I talked to Matt throughout the night, later with the assistance of Gabriel's friendliness, and really, I am so obsessed and am probably going to go masturbate right now to thoughts of this boy. I will not lie. I would sleep with him in a half second and probably bark like a dog at his command. I am so infatuated with him still. I don't think it is sick. You should have seen him in this tight t-shirt. I smoked lots of Canadian cigarettes tonight. I have to work tomorrow, my first time going back after being demoted. Maybe tomorrow, I will write something that I proofread, something that makes sense. Maybe.
Tonight, I signed up to sing karaoke, Billy Joel's "Tell Her About It," because I really like the song, but Charlie, my crush, was there and I was so nervous after I signed up, so worried about performing in front of him. I didn't talk to him, of course, because I was way embarrassed about that last message I wrote to him about wanting to make out with him. He came up to me while I was engaged in conversation with Joe, went out of his way, and said "Hi CHARLIE!" It blew my mind. I said hi back. But my crush who I told I wanted to make out with, went out of his way to say hello to me and it is probably a sign that he is rececptive to the making out, but he said that as he was leaving and that made me a lot more sane that I would not have to perform this song I didn't even know they lyrics to in front of him. But really confused as to whether he liked me or not.
Enter Matt and Kevin. I talked to Matt throughout the night, later with the assistance of Gabriel's friendliness, and really, I am so obsessed and am probably going to go masturbate right now to thoughts of this boy. I will not lie. I would sleep with him in a half second and probably bark like a dog at his command. I am so infatuated with him still. I don't think it is sick. You should have seen him in this tight t-shirt. I smoked lots of Canadian cigarettes tonight. I have to work tomorrow, my first time going back after being demoted. Maybe tomorrow, I will write something that I proofread, something that makes sense. Maybe.
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